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

Yes, Dr. No

I’m told to go sit in the waiting area while “the laser heats up,” and for an instant, I’m not at the clinic or some anxious old man unable to see out his left eye, I’m with Sean Connery/James Bond in Dr. No, the scene where he’s tied spreadeagle on a steel table, and even as the fiery red laser beam that cuts through metal creeps closer and closer and closer to his, you know, “junk,” he banters with the archvillain, demonstrating to each of us caught in our own desperate straits the art of living bravely under imaginary circumstances.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

The Natural In Nature

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“It’s all natural,” Kathy tells Gordon, her teenaged son. “We don’t use pesticides.”

She tears lettuce into bite-size pieces. Radishes lie on the chopping board next in line for the salad.

“But chemicals can fall from rain,” replies Gordon. He fills a glass with filtered water.

Bruno, seen through a window, is crouching between rows of spinach and lettuce in the garden.

Gordon cringes. “So much for natural. Think of all the junk that dog picks up along the way in his daily romps.”

“That’s nature,” says Kathy. “Can’t help what one is meant to do.”

“Certified organic?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

Junk

There’s so much still to suffer that even tediously waiting for a train that’s hours late would be a grateful interruption. People are digging in the burning soil with bare hands. My wife’s there. My mother, too. I was going to join them, but now I can’t. It’s as if I’ve become, without my consent, a junk collector. Strange items keep appearing outside the door: a pamphlet, “Human Beings against Music”; rusted bedsprings; a bundle of pencils with broken points; feathers from random birds. Someday, I suppose, children will ask me, “What was it like, the end of the owls?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Writing Over

I hadThis poemThat was likeRe-FusingTo beLike junkRunning lateIn your veinsRe-WiringMemoriesBefore theyare madeOkay, theyare notsunk inThat deepBut narrativeAbout thisIs on itsWay butits latejust likeThis feeling-Passing-FeelingRe-LivingScreens toSublimatedDreams

I'm walkingAnd the sunHits meEveryone wantsTo haveSomethingThey don’tSee, in youthis poetryConcealed inA voiceBut they will keepWriting yourStory overBefore it isOneBefore onceEven notingThat your poemIs already

From Guest Contributor Wyatt Martin

Value

No one understood the value of something as well as Mr. Henderson. He pushed his shopping cart up and down Jamaica Hills, watching everything with the eyes of a raven. He could spot a scrap of discarded metal from 200 yards away.

Mr. Henderson would never let you litter. He'd eat your bread crusts or use your cigarette butts to line his jacket. And he could fix anything. Nothing was ever too broken for Mr. Henderson.

I always wonder what happened to Mr. Henderson. The last time I saw him, he was unconscious in that storm drain, surrounded by paramedics.