“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.

More than spirits, ghosts are the chill of a finger tracing your spine, a whisper only loud enough for you to hear, a memory of something long gone. What happens when the ghosts I’m afraid of are the ones that are alive? Will they continue to feed on me until there is nothing left? Will I join the other ghosts then? Piece by piece, they keep picking away until I am nothing. Will they pity me? The girl they once knew was full of life; and now, she is no better than the rest of them. A bag of bones.

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.

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

The sliver of moon that hung in the dark sky was the only source of light on that cold evening. It had been raining for hours, and the parking lot was now a collection of puddles. Exhausted after a long day, the woman trudged across the lot to her car. She despised leaving work late, since she was still adjusting to her new life in the city. Preoccupied with thought, she didn’t realize that her new life was already over until she reached her car and found a note tucked under her windshield. “Found you,” it screamed in his handwriting.

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.

Walking through the park’s garden, the fresh scent of grass and flowers soothes me. The leaves are slowly blowing in the breeze and the chipmunks race around the path.

This is why I’m thankful for the beauty of life.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Rachel’s hands icy cold and legs so frail she could hardly stand, she gagged from her own body odor. The babbling of the malnourished became constant and she tuned them out. Her skin was riddled with bug bites, her teeth loosed from lack of nourishment, and her lips craved water. Rachel’s crime was being Jewish, and the suffering had only begun. She didn’t know where the train was going, but knew it was bad.

In the last minutes of her life, when she and the others breathed in the noxious gas in the dark enclosed chamber, she adhered to hope.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He doesn’t remember me. I used to be someone who was close to him. At least I thought I was close to him. He’d look at me as if I were a friend. He’d look at me as if I were a stranger but what exactly was in those eyes? In those sparkly eyes, was that affection, sympathy, or simply pity?

Seeing him walking down the street were the only happy moments of my life. Doesn’t he remember he saved me once and every day since then from all my misery. Well, the truth is I don’t remember him either.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Almost exactly one year later, John’s film premieres to universal vilification.

From Guest Contributor Eduardo Felin

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

NATURE SUBMISSION:

Nature wants nothing to do with Alicia’s existential crisis. It doesn’t care that it’s meaningless. It just wants to start recomposting her as soon as possible.

From Guest Contributor Laura Stacks