My world consisted of captivating sunshine, the kind that seeps into your skin and leaves your soul hopeful. Fresh mountain air, fresh rain on the pavement where my glory days still reign. The leaving hurt. The remnants of you mark my eyes with devastating longing. The sun went into hiding and the blue birds no longer flutter past my window. Leaving hurt. I no longer see the serenity of tomorrow in a golden haze, but dark. Destined for loneliness. The hope of loving you has become yet another long lost dream that the sandman refuses to leave at my door.

From Guest Contributor Courtney Alvarez

Courtney is a student at Pikes Peak Community College who loves writing, reading, and photography.

The Knight is known for fire and might. Day after day he proves himself worthy of his sword. His title. His name. Out into the world he rides, his demeanor like an armor around him. Many dragons he has slain, yet some refuse to die. His sword is covered with the blood of both his enemies and his own heart. He seeks to be noble, but in doing so becomes pathetic. He is invincible in battle, but hopeless in everything else. His armor is impenetrable, but forever clings to him. No dragon can hurt him. Only the soft flower can.

From Guest Contributor Richard Snow

Richard is a student of creative writing and journalism at Pikes Peak Community College. Currently writing a fantasy trilogy set in the early 20th century.

Lucille you can Keep A Knockin’ but you can’t come in. You’ve been Slippin’ And Slidin’ with Miss Ann By The Light Of The Silvery Moon and that ain’t right. Now I’m Ready Teddy to Rip It Up with Long Tall Sally because She’s Got It. If she isn’t ready to be my True Fine Mama, maybe Cherry Red will Send Me Some Lovin’. I will look All Around The World to find the Girl That Can’t Help It giving me the Heeby Jeebies. Lawdy Miss Clawdy, can’t find the girl for me. I’m Going Home Tomorrow to Kansas City.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

I see you and think of stars but they are just stones. I think of you as Moon but it has scars. Maybe Sun but it is just a fireball. A stream of water is what you are off course, your fun never ends. A flower at times, I know your trace is always here and like a flower shall have a small life. You are like my guardian always helping me in this nonsense world, insensitive to blind. You fly, run, cry, have fun. Let me tell you once and for all, you are one of a kind, Bitch!

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Manmeet is an Alumunus from the London School of Economics & Political Science. He works in India as an Economist & Writer. He can be reached at http://linkedin.com/in/manmeet-chadha-8b606924

If we could only look deeply into the eyes of strangers, we’d see not a stranger at all, but a piece of ourselves.

The knowing inside me is too big. I’m surrounded by the noise and lights of the world, seemingly unchanged from before. My heart aches. I see you, but do you see me?

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

It was the season of mists. He had been forced by necessity to pawn his one good pair of pants. Now that he couldn’t confidently appear in public, he sat sulking in his underwear at the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember, Josephine wasn’t there to remind him, what it was like to live in anticipation of making love. Adversaries swooped around him like moon-crazed bats. If he had had a suicide pill, he might have taken it. The world only ever really pays attention when there is a panic or a traveling guillotine or when all the soldiers have syphilis.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collection Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

The showerhead above rains hot water hitting the skin hard with maximum strength, like it means it, sending a tingling current that pulls through every fiber. Having a powerful drowsing effect, these watery sounds mingled in heater noises fill the room like a warm blanket. A comforting scent of the body wash lifts the spirit up to a momentarily lightness of serenity. Back against the wall, I stare emptily at the floor as if I can see through it to the scornful world beneath. I think I still have some time to go…or do I?

“May I come in?”

From Guest Contributor David Chek Ling Ngo

David Chek Ling Ngo is a professor at a Scottish university in Malaysia.

The swarm arrived at the beginning of the week, their language that of war, and humanity the patient listeners.

After all this time, I had guessed the shape wrong.

From Guest Contributor S.R Malone

Blinking like a stunned mole against the harsh white light of the desert sun, the last of the angels steps out of his winged chariot onto the hot tarmac. Little girls in braids present him with bouquets. Jeers erupt somewhere among the hundreds of people solemnly watching the ceremonies from behind a security fence. The plainclothes police officers mixing with the crowd club everyone within reach rather than try to identify the actual culprits. On the tarmac, meanwhile, a military band strikes up a brassy tune that has long been a favorite of dictators around the world. Birds hum along.

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

The ozone scent of the ocean reminds me how much I have sacrificed to be here: friends, family, home, heritage.

I lose myself in the roaring of the waves: a world I can no longer enter.

From Guest Contributor Iqbal Hussain