Moon Swallows Head of Barking Dog

A young girl and her father sit on a bench and stare into the lake. They are stuck this way forever. From here on out, they must focus unblinking on the way it does not ripple, how no stone may enter and how no fish can leave. Across the park, a squirrel clings to a tree, his heart always exploding, a white dog snapping at his tail. The water reflects the moon and calls down the night, pocked with clouds-- the sky split in two, half of it black, half of it blue; there is no color where they merge.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin

Smashed Glass

You remember: a blurry red light darting across the sky; the glossy road and its skewed mirror of your forehead; flashes of light into the eyes of a man in a hat, crossing the street. He remembers: two tons of steel collapsing from a rooftop, crushing his best friend flat. All that was left were two blue fingers and the smell of dust. The building remembers: the bones and bricks who made it strong, the lightning and rain licking its sides; burst out windows, a fire devouring from within like a disease. The fire remembers being the thing that burned.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin