Roses

Apprehension accompanied me to my car. How would they react? With sadness? Indifference?I placed the bouquet lovingly into the trunk, holding back tears.

The intended beholders knew nothing of its history. Nor of the person who presented it to me. Roses, once of warmth and vivid pink, had crumpled to shades of aged dryness. Like his love did, when he left for another and I didn’t realize he meant it for real.

I set the vase onto my desk in the classroom, for my art students to observe, interpret and present their creativity onto canvas—of a life stilled.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

Unbiased Creativity

Unbiased creativity.

“No robots.”

Mewrit paced the floor, glaring at the screen, head compensating by swiveling as he passed the desk. Automatic lubrication valves at his joints activated at the detected squeaking.

“So,” he addressed the offending website, accessing his core library and extrapolating. “Don’t we have eyes?”

The visual sensors remained unblinking. “Sort of. Hands?” He held them up, somewhat more confident. “Er...organs...”

The hydraulics whined. “After a fashion.”

He quietly analyzed the remaining quote. “Skip that. If you prick us, do we not...whirr...leak?”

It was a tired ending to a useless tirade.

“Stupid competition anyway.”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid