Their art combined gibberish with colour. Exterior walls and street recycling receptacles became graphic spectacles.

“No, I only watched,” I answered, careful to not disclose that they asked me for my artistic advice and I obliged.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She
resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and
many friends.

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.

Auntie asks my mother and I to move out of her house. She says I make too much noise when I sleepwalk and my rock albums are causing Uncle Herman more brain damage from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Upstairs, I take down my posters of Geronimo, John Lennon, and James Dean from the finely cracked yellow walls. Exhausted, my mother sits on my bed and breaks down. “It’s all your fault,” she says. As if I had the power. At night tiny policemen march into my ears. I’m not sure it’s a dream. They say come with us.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Kyle’s latest collection of text and art is Amnesiacs of Summer published by Yavanika Press. He loves street photography, French Impressionism, and 60s garage bands that never made it big.

The creature basked in the sensory experience that was home, almost oblivious to the otherwise hypnotic aroma of clover which wafted in from beyond the hive’s entrance each summer.

Its world ended when a great hairy paw collapsed walls, mashing bee with wax and bark as the bear claimed honey.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

“Do you love me?”

When his love was gone, the reality hit him and it was very harsh. He wanted his love back in his life but it was impossible. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. He had lost everything. His love was gone forever. When things became unbearable, he lost his mind. He could feel those eyes staring at him. He could hear them laughing and screaming. When things went beyond the walls he tried to resist but failed. His dreams turned wet and became an illusion.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Piano sounds drift muffled through the walls. I inhabit a dark little corner. Like every other space I’ve inhabited, it’s become utterly cluttered. My work involves a lot of sharp edges and loose ends. Sometimes cheating is required. That explains being strict about wearing a mask. I travel to many different places looking for roses: handmade, bought, fake, and real. The ones hanging over my head have recently been cured. I like having my history nearby. But what you don’t see is just as important as what you do see – for example, that the tree outside the window is dead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest collections are The Titanic Sails at Dawn from Alien Buddha Press and What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press.

There was a guillotine in the basement. People in the surrounding buildings reacted by hurling rocks and bottles. The whole thing felt suspicious, like someone was trying to send me a message. So I started cutting out images of crashes and mass shootings from the newspaper and transferring them onto the surface of prison-issued soaps. Then I figured out a way to do that onto the prison sheets. The residue that accumulated on the floor and walls took on a life of its own. Now what do we do? The window provides enough natural light to keep the snake alive.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

“Why do you think you’re an expert on me?” I asked Jim. We were on another construction job together doing some demolition. It felt good sledge hammering the walls.

Jim pulled the pistol cautiously. Fumbling it in his hands he–– POP!!!!

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Her mind acts as warden, keeps her in her room most days.

I ask what she will need if she comes home. She cannot answer, and so I build a table with layers of blankets both over and under it, where, like the Princess, she can feel despair creeping in even if it is the size of a pea.

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

One hundred years in the future a time machine is built. Scientists send the machine back to get Native Americans, cowboys and dragons.

The President’s last personal, best fighter is promoted to General.

From Guest Contributor Bayley Kelly