His Stuff

Junk: garbage to some, treasure to others, clutter at best, navigational obstacle on flooring, the cause of falls and injury…

Antonio learned firsthand. The architect of his own disaster, he sat idly on an easy chair, arm in cast, pondering what to do with all his stuff.

Quite unexpectedly a lightbulb lit up his mind, showing him the way. Creativity reawakened. His heart warmed with new purpose. He sprung to work.

Praises from the artistic community accelerated his mission. Photos of his unique collages went viral. He was crowned ‘artist extraordinaire’.

…all because of the ‘junk’ in his humble abode.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Time Tells All

The CIA flying the planes in 9/11 is awkward. To realize 6.5 trillion dollars spent to kill five hundred thousand terrorists at a cost of 8 million dollars per person is a lie? Making the question why pay for war when it's all a lie? RMS Lusitania 1982 documents revealed it carried ammunition. Remember the Maine 1976 investigation cleared Spain with the boiler being determined the cause of the explosion. Two million Vietnamese people died because of the Gulf of Tonkin event which never occurred. To realize Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction. Syria did not gas people.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

An Empire At War

The empire went to war the same way an insecure dog picks fights, erratically and for unknown cause. Was it to assert dominance in an uncertain universe? Or maybe to protect resources of little worth and questionable appeal to her adversaries? Who can say? The whims of the empress were unpredictable and perhaps more than a little self-destructive.

The reasons mattered little to the soldiers of the empire. They were just unfortunate strays caught up in affairs beyond their ken, with only one concern: hope that their lives, and their deaths, would somehow satiate the inscrutable monarch.

They rarely did.

Three Seals

With muzzles lifted towards the sky, they gather on rocks long dry. The sun touches down where water no longer passes by. Sable tips wash to marbled tails that tell of a time in the distant past. As wind sifts the sand nearby, it slowly edges them away. A golden plague bears their memory with a single name and details of their cause. For now, they pause as a simple thread meant to knit its way into today. When clouds darken the light, rain falls and remembers the familiar trails. It brings with it a mending unearthed by the dawn.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it's brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.

The Do-Gooder From Beyond The Grave

Shit! Here he comes.

“I’m running for cancer research on Sunday.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say looking at the gaunt face, an over-achiever in athletics as well as the office.

“Will you sponsor me? Most are pitching in a pound or two per mile.”

Christ, a fucking half-marathon.

I pledge a pound.

“Thanks, it’s a good cause.”

Monday morning. He’s late, he’s never late.

“Bad news,” says the boss. “Mike collapsed and died after the race.”

Thirteen quid saved, I think amidst the office tears.

“I suggest we all double our contributions to show respect,” says the boss.

God damn him!

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had short stories and poems published in Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Dead Snakes, 1947 A Literary Journal, and in various anthologies. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.