A boy I knew killed a man. Lost his mind. Shaved his head. His face on the news was an open-mouthed scream, soundless. His eyes so round, searching. I whispered to the screen: please blink. I said it like ice in his mouth, like the way he’d look up at stars puncturing the still night sky, the cold air, too many angles of his body pushing out, knees and elbows and chin. I said it without hope. When this boy was mine, he danced and wide-smiled and kissed and laughed. His voice rang out, ethereal, hit the earth like rain.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

Too small, too tough, the forever stuff. Five millimeters to a nanometer, all recycle cheaters. Polyethylene is not green. Debris in the sea, in the sand, on the land, in the air. The minuscule plastic molecule – drink it, breathe it, absorb it. 200 thousand microplastic molecules in you every year. Perfect hair, revolutionary skincare – just vain dreams ruining streams. All the sales promotions on lotions and potions, laundry soap, shopping bags, and tags. So much trash; it’s the sin of the bin. It’s hard to be a container abstainer, a nature campaigner. This is the mess we’re in.

From Guest Contributor K Mayer

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The air is ominous, and lightning brightens the sky. I hold onto the mountain with both hands. I’m an avid climber, but the weather forecast is wrong. The sky is not abundant sunshine.

I wave my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Standing here on this frigid night, I look out over a frozen landscape, and I can’t help but wonder why?. There is still hope. Maybe one day, this land will come back to life, the trees will grow, the water will flow, and the air will smell fresh and clean.

But the land is not dead. It’s only sleeping, waiting for inspiration or something green to grow the days away.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

I slip through alleys to get to the resistance and relay the information I have learned. The black out starts and the only sound is the rustling of my dress.

See you soon, Papa.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There is only one road from here to there, cutting through the hills of rolling greens with the occasional grove of trees breaking up the monotony. Soon, this too will be gone, in its place, parking lots and strip malls, housing offices that employ free thinkers selling ethically sourced products from other once beautiful patches of green.

“You know, that boring stretch between there and here.”

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

We sit on the beach watching a summer sunset, foamy saltwater encroaching upon our bare toes. Distant mountains cut jagged lines in the sky. We’re laughing, your warm arm around my shoulders. I glow in your rare happiness, believing you’ll stay with me always.

My soul aches as the sun vanishes.

From Guest Contributor Katla Watersin

Frank stumbles down the street in broad daylight. The crisp air helps dull the pain in his wounds. Lightheaded and off balance, he is reminded of late nights in college, wandering drunkenly back to his dorm room. His vision now has the same tunnel focus that causes him to lose sight of his surroundings.

What a weird thing to remember as he is about to die.

My head rotates like the Earth around the sun, except at excessive speed.

As I walk onto my front porch, I remember what it’s like to feel the air against my face.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher