Through the fog and overgrowth that chokes the front yard, an eruption of tulips grows on either side of the doorway, an invitation to visitors that stopped visiting decades ago. They are the only splash of color on the otherwise gray facade of the crumpling structure that used to be a house.

Tulips once required cold weather to survive. Somehow these plants learned to adapt, and are now in flower nearly year round. A stark contrast to the failure of civilization all around them. Were anyone still alive who could understand, there’s a metaphor to be found in those plants.

I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,
staring at the painting above the mantel.

The young woman in the painting is me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He had been marked as a criminal as a young boy. The branding itself was not especially painful, not physically at least. The stigma that he now bears has, however, made life nearly unbearable these past 20 years.

Yet there is nothing relative about the brand on his face.

Blue is a breeze blowing wisps of hair across my cheek. Red is juice running down my chin as I bite a sun-ripened strawberry. Green, the scent of freshly cut grass, blades rippling and tickling the soles of my feet. Purple is the fading warmth of a summer’s evening. White, a smooth window pane on an icy winter morning.

I feel these things because I was born deaf, and my vision melted away soon after. I sometimes imagine fleeting specks of color from my first glimpses of life, but those memories exist only in the moments between sleep and waking.

From Guest Contributor Megan Cassidy

Megan is an author and English professor currently teaching at Schenectady County Community College. Her first young adult novel, Always, Jessie will be published by Saguaro Books this spring. Megan’s other work has been featured in Pilcrow & Dagger, Wordhaus, and Gilded Serpent Magazine. For free excerpts and deleted scenes of Megan’s work, check out her website or follow her on Twitter

I paint you by numbers, capture your features one by one… from the fair Irish skin; to the coal-black hair; to the rich, ruby lips; and the fiery-, emerald-green eyes.

Betrayed, my grip clenches. I see, I know your colors. I see, I know your lack of them.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

Back to school shopping.

Where was I? In the elevator with the family, hearing their conversation as it unfolded to the public.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and Espresso stories.

Astronaut Eric Shaffer sighed as he looked out the window. Venus was rapidly receding away, its surface invisible beneath the yellowish cloud layer that gave it that distinctive color. How he longed to see the blue of Earth again.

Shaffer gave a sad smile. It was time for the long journey home. A journey taken for nothing but a short glimpse. Yet, he decided, it was worth it.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Kresal

A young girl and her father sit on a bench and stare into the lake. They are stuck this way forever. From here on out, they must focus unblinking on the way it does not ripple, how no stone may enter and how no fish can leave. Across the park, a squirrel clings to a tree, his heart always exploding, a white dog snapping at his tail. The water reflects the moon and calls down the night, pocked with clouds– the sky split in two, half of it black, half of it blue; there is no color where they merge.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin

Mr. Jamison spittles at the slightest outrage until his face turns red. Mrs. Hathaway displays a particular shade of pea green–reminiscent of the Sunday soup–every time her medication’s late. Mr. Dunn has lived so long in the grips of his melancholia that even his clothes radiate the same empty shade of gray.

However, don’t mention these harlequin insights in the presence of Dr. Straithorn. She would never admit to her color-blindness, but it’s really the only explanation for all the torture. Even the idea of color is abhorrent to her. The patients all suffer for her jealousy.