The crows gather from miles around, blanketing the sky in a murderous patchwork of feathers and claws. The cacophony sends shivers in every direction, and the people wonder what calamity is portended. Something primeval is at work.

Lena watches from the balcony, wondering why the grownups are so frightened. Can’t they see the crows are simply giving voice to their sadness, just like Daddy does when he’s had too much to drink? Perhaps grown-ups run out of pity when they reach a certain age. They’ve learned their emotions are only worth sharing when you get something you want in return.

The rain pelted the window as I typed the last few pages of my manuscript. It was past midnight, and I had been working for hours with a cold cup of coffee on my desk. My agent advised that it would be in my best interest to have it ready by tomorrow morning, my first novel.

I didn’t have a chance to hit save before the power outage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The twilight sky blazed with attitude, warning everyone to speed indoors. The clouds hung ominously low on the horizon, pink, black, orange, and grey clashing together as darkness settled over the town. Rain, lightning, and even tornadoes were all possible tonight, like a sleep-deprived toddler on too much sugar.

Ben turned his collar up and sank his hands into his coat pockets, but otherwise meandered on, his attention entirely concentrated on the argument he was running away from. Rather than confront his wife with what he knew, or thought he knew anyway, he’d just keep walking towards the sun.

I dreamt my mother’s voice became a flood in the hallway, walls bowing to her words. I held a paper bird to shield myself, and it tore in my hands, scattering wings across the shallow floors. Waves of her lullabies chased me through rooms that stretched into the sky, where I ran barefoot over glass clouds, each step echoing familiar fear. When the storm softened, I found a small window of light, where I could breathe without drowning. I reached out, and it grew until it swallowed the echoes, leaving only the warmth of my own hand on my chest.

From Guest Contributor Taylor Brann

Taylor studies sociology at Pikes Peak State College and writes poetry that traces the landscapes of memory, family, and the human heart.

The scale of the world is different here. Distances become impossible, the sky so expansive the Earth no longer fills it, the fence posts that line the highway fly by until they blur into a constant.

But no matter how long I keep driving, I never touch the horizon.

It’s “Independence Day,” and I’m excited to see the fireworks show at the beach with my kids. I’ve packed a small picnic of chicken sandwiches and soda, nothing fancy and we’ll sit on the sand watching the sky light up. I want to make this day special for Charlie and Kenny since the divorce has been tough on them.

The sky bursts into red, green, blue and white and the look of joy on my boys’ faces is all I need.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I moved into my workshop, with a gas-ring and pair of chickens in a cage. I needed no assistants. I watched the sky from a hilltop laboratory, harnessing the lightning.

In reality I sleep under the stairs in my friends’ flat. He’s a motorcycle courier, she’s a receptionist. I work where I can, wherever the agency sends me, seven days a week. If I’m ill I rely on her noticing and bringing me soup or something. I have a notebook to record my dreams. Huge flights of geese turn furrows through the red November skies. Worlds can barely contain me.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

As Henry steered the plane toward the bombing area, he said a silent prayer and kissed his wife’s picture. Bullets filled the air and planes dropped to the ground crashing into enemy lines.

Henry grabbed the picture of his wife Maggie, attached the parachute and together he and Stan jumped into the air just in time before the plane exploded into pieces, creating fire in the sky.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I turn aside before Everest’s summit. Hobbling to a low drift, I scoop away the snow. I have found her, still lying where she had collapsed on her fateful ascent years ago. I peel off her goggles. She stares at the cobalt sky, as if daydreaming. Her ivory skin remains unspoilt, despite the passage of time.

I wrap my wife’s stiff hand in mine and gaze up at the heavens, waiting to see what she sees.

From Guest Contributor Christopher Mattravers-Taylor

His writing is coloured by his experiences as a ME sufferer, particle physicist at CERN, property developer, core driller, disability benefits claimant, Dalmatian breeder, traveller, and more besides. One thing has remained constant in his chaotic life, however: his love of Encona Hot Sauce.

You’d think it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was filled with puffy clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm, perfect for short sleeves. The air had just a hint of pollen, so that anyone with allergies needed to worry. Colorful buds were starting to pop, and every creature, from squirrels to songbirds to rabbits, believed winter was no more.

George would need to hurry if we wanted to bury my corpse before the soil froze over.