The Beer Has Two Inches Of Foam, Not One.

Pushing too hard. Pushing too fast. Wanting something with such veracity that the world disseminates into popping bubbles. I have poured myself into us with too much speed; I am breathless. You are smothered. As the air escapes into a toxic atmosphere, I gulp your aroma into my lungs. I clutch your being until the oxygen releases into the air, and you die beneath my affections. My sorrow does not reconstitute you; my grief does not call you from beyond. Can you hear the lack, the absence of hope? Slow is not for the desperate. I drown in your absence.

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton

Karen Burton is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO

The Messiah Complex

They had him taped to the floor. When they were holding him down and placing one piece of tape after the other, he'd smiled. Faintly so as not to be noticed, but a smile nevertheless. They didn't have enough tape to hold a person flat to the ground.

But when they'd left him there, try as he might, he couldn't move.

Now the water was drop-by-drop filling the small room. In a few more hours, the water would reach his nose and mouth and he'd eventually drown.

This would certainly be one of the worst ways he'd ever been killed.