Our 5-year-old daughter, Celeste, was singing to herself. She suddenly stopped and said, “Why do I always fart when I sing?” Then a French farmer while plowing on a hill uncovered a rusted revolver that may be the very one Van Gogh used to shoot himself. I looked at my wife, who was looking back at me. I can’t keep drowning, I can’t. There are little children living without parents in freezing tents in detention camps. The ancient Greek stoics maintain a complicit silence. I just want it to end. Every kind of music is meant to be played loudly.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

You can open your eyes now. The walls are covered in scribbled physics equations. Nothing wrong with that, but someone has to get on that rocket and get blown up, maybe. Take it from me, you don’t want to overlook product warnings (“Do not insert in rectum or vagina using fingers or mechanical device.”). Awareness is just so important. Everything happens too fast, as if hurled in irrational anger by the hand of God, though it’s really fluid dynamics. Even a momentary lapse in concentration can result in the sky cracking, dripping, burning, and the blue of night remaining unsolved.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

You’re moving away rather than moving toward something. I can’t be sure if you’ll ever come back. The sky is dotted with clouds that resemble ominous black eggs. You want to scream for help, but you’re out of breath. You’ve no idea at all what you should do next. “Fuck the clown!” you confusedly think. “Where’s my clock?” Just as someone is saying it’ll be OK, you feel a bone break. You see buildings toppling over, trees melting back into the ground. You hear angels approaching at full speed in chariots. There aren’t even parking spaces big enough for them.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press.

Yesterday was scheduled to be a holiday. Then shoals of fish came creeping over the hill, having grown rudimentary arms and legs. “What the fuck?!” you said as you watched them begin to blend in with the surroundings. Despite the invasion, no one was coming to save us. Some people panicked and, in their impatience to escape, broke out windows or jumped from moving trains. Others were climbing up to their roofs. I think this might be the way of the future, and just in case it is, maybe you should be standing over there helping hold the ladder steady.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Our 93-year-old dad, without his hearing aids or even his three-pronged cane, still managed somehow to give everyone the slip, sneaking off to Monte Carlo Night down in the cellar of the dream factory, where he coolly turned over his hole card and won the pot, after which he started back upstairs, but on the way, and despite struggling for breath, charmed a roller derby queen on a royal visit out of her skates, so instead of ever returning to his rooms at the assisted living boarded a ship they say was built in the same shipyard as the Titanic.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

We were invited to a silent room filled with melting glaciers. I just stood there, part of the system, but vulnerable in a way peculiar to men who are naked except for their socks and shoes. I’m constantly creating problems that never even existed. I have to walk really, really carefully or there’ll be more cats than people around. After we’re dead, it’s another story: Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo said, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So, that’s what you look like!”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press.

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

A 9-year-old girl trick-or-treating in a black-and-white Halloween costume got mistaken somehow for a skunk. The lead detective on the case is borderline Asperger’s. Covering an entire wall of her grubby office is one of those conspiracy theory maps, with all the pins connected by strings. “I’ll break anything in order to figure out how it works,” she’s famous around headquarters for saying. Her brisk confidence irks male colleagues. “Go away,” one shouts, “and take your shitty forest!” She can’t hear him. She’s out in a far corner of the city collecting evidence of the refulgence of pearls of blood.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Two Scandinavian dudes set out in a vintage VW microbus to prove the secretary-general of the United Nations was the victim of assassination. But then, by accident, they discover an attempt to eliminate entirely the smoking of cigarettes after sex. The Scandinavians meet a leader of an underground militia who says that while that’s his signature on the document, he didn’t write the signature himself. I got to be honest, I was expecting more: maybe a “crime wall,” with photos and red strings and so on; maybe the angel of death promising in a mocking tone to stay in touch.

Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.