My mind has lost its stickiness, my thoughts are stalling out. Questions I have no answers for are good for rewiring my brain, they say, weaving it through with logic. So why did I send some drawings to my blind friend? She said, “I can’t see, remember?” “Can’t someone look at them for you?” “Their ability to see doesn’t make me less blind.” I didn’t get whatever it was she was getting at, so I hung up. Maybe I should call her back. I could tell her about the new show at the Drawing Center. She might want to come.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl’s books include several collections of poetry, and a series of novels called Bombay Trilogy. Recent work has appeared in journals from India, Ireland, UK, Canada, Greece, and the US.. Look her up on Facebook

As I pass through the automatic doors into the library, the smell of musty books fills the air. I browse the shelves for what seems like hours until I come across a fantasy novel with magic and fire breathing dragons. My favorite.

All my worries fade away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She can feel it slowly growing. All in existence is born of thought. It starts slow and deep, pounding, hiding somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Expectations lead to disappointment, which inevitably gives birth to resentment. Everything buried from years past mutated into fertile embryonies, vibrating, taking on a life of their own.

As March’s end nears, thoughts of isolation waver. A new world awaits those who are willing to embrace its damp offerings. Fruitful grounds to transplant the seeds vaulted away, protecting them from winter’s crystalline grasp. New vessels to transport thoughts. Pollinating all those she will touch.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sounds of breaking ice awaken her mind as she settles back down upon the thawing earth, with its cracks and pops as faults move forward at increasing speeds revealing hibernating secrets.

The heat she now feels comes from within.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Peggy is a piece of work. Only Joanie knows. While she would be happy to talk, she’s not about to volunteer just how big a piece and what kind of work. So Joanie shoves it to the back corner of her mind so that it only appears when Peggy does. Then it explodes and she has to cheek her tongue—Peggy is a piece of work—and shove it back. It was Peggy that sicced them dogs on Marianne. That was some job. It was Peggy that sicced them girls on that young SOB. So sicced, Joanie catches her breath.

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry

Rick’s most recent? “The Other Daughters,” an audio production a performance poem featuring 120 contributing voices.

Our daily newspaper when I was growing up would publish on Saturdays a page of commentaries, advice columns, comics, etc., by teenagers. Although I can’t remember the exact subject of my commentary – the unfortunate phrase “the rising tide of communism” sticks in my mind – I do remember my intense pride of authorship. For the first time, I felt avenged on all the adults who had ever undervalued me. I deliberately showed the clipping, with my name and age, 13, in boldface at the bottom, to Mr. Eakely, my eighth-grade English teacher. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at the number. “Your IQ?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

When I write, I look above my screen and think. When I write, I ponder the entertaining events a published book may possess. When I write, I revere the marvelous feeling of finishing a book. When I write, I envision what I’ll do with my upcoming chapters. When I write, I imagine the extravagant scenes I can conjure up in my mind. When I write, I realize all I’ve been doing is daydreaming about moments of a future not yet known. Watching the clock tick, I look down at my screen and notice I’ve still not even begun to write.

From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.

“Trespassers deserve to be punished,” Ralph stated. “They have no business being on property they’re not entitled to.”

With the sweet taste of sugar, the ants entered their underground home.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

“This abandoned road looks really creepy. Are you sure we’ll be safe camping out here?”

Duke yelled “It’s coming from under the tent and it’s bloody huge!”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Silence.

A dark empty void encompassed him. Helpless, he hurdled in an endless tumble towards infinity. In the lonely darkness the unending quiet pulsed in his head. The terror of the inevitable quickly found his thoughts. Alone he fought to control his mind as he drifted aimlessly in space. His only partner the broken umbilical from the shuttle. The debris scattered around him a vivid reminder of the devastating meteor storm. An emergency alarm sounded though his visor. Fifteen minutes of oxygen left. His life now measured in minutes. Alone, he awaited his cruel fate.

From Guest Contributor Stephen Johnson