Kneeling on the hard ground making textiles is an arduous task when the sun is beaming, but the heat is worse indoors. The brick wall of my home blocks the air flow and sweat trickles down my forehead.

My heart is full of love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren’t enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn’t float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed

“Love from my heart to yours, always,” Christopher’s mother cooed, cradling his young body.

Hearts continued to surface the rest of his life.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The naked model sits, head bent, arms and hands relaxing. Her beauty is undeniable with pure white skin and long toned legs.

My love. The lady who stole my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I’m not an idiot; I know that we are young and there’s a chance he can shatter my heart, but the difference is that I don’t care. Falling for him isn’t a choice; I can’t stop it even if I try. It’s taking a leap of faith, hoping to swim instead of sinking. I dive in, head first, not caring if I drown. At least I’d drown knowing that I found the love I always wanted, one greater than any love story ever told. And so I dive, falling deeper in love with him, hoping he wouldn’t break my heart.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well.

He was a short chapter in my story, merely a page turn, but, in his story, I was the witch who broke his heart, and that bothered me. Knowing he would always view me as the wicked witch I didn’t want that part, I didn’t ask for it. I just could not love him the way that he wanted, and he couldn’t give me the love that I craved, no matter how hard he tried. Years later, when he calls me a whore, I pretend it doesn’t bother me. It’s just his way of coping, and I accept that story.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her master’s degree in English as well.

Cold and hungry, I shivered on the platform.

I lowered my head and pressed my hand against “The Star of David,” sewed onto my fraying coat.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I listened to the sound of the waves smack against the giant ship, closed my eyes and pictured my wife’s face. Her radiant smile and long blond hair made my heart pulsate. Soon we’d be together once we docked in New York, and she’d be waiting for me with open arms and our son. I relished the thought.

Titanic wouldn’t sink.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

is custom made to look like my house, our house. My new wife’s idea—for Sarah. Same front elevation. Duplicate floorplan. But my step daughter’s attempt to match furniture placement is off. I nudge the miniature hutch to its true location. She frowns, pushes my hand away, makes me move to the front yard, so to speak. I look at her through the windows. She appears as if a Goliath child. My sling: empty after repeated attempts to penetrate the four walls of her heart. I lean low, peer inside the front door. “Knock, knock,” I say. She never answers.

Keith Hoerner lives and pushes words around in Southern Illinois.