Seasons

I face the storm as hail pelts my already-weathered brow, reminding me of the life I once lived, traveling at a hundred miles an hour with my soul on fire. My eyes closed in anticipation of the impending crash.

As spring approaches, the mourning of winter's end has begun. In summer, I stand alone naked, allowing the burn to continue unabated.

Spotting my image in the water, washed in its divine glow, my eyes meet my reflection, and we both take a step backward.

The epitome of life and death, or a reminder of the most graceful and majestic journey?

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sofa Of Cycles

The sagging couch cushions are a trophy–evidence attesting to her self-discipline to stay situated.

She’s a chameleon in her contradictory custom office. An extension cord slithers around wooden legs, dressed with a black and blocky laptop vitalizer. The coffee table has been repurposed into a feet-book-pen desk, crowded with sacred guides to creation and the honing of creative crafts. No clocks tick, as time gives no counsel. Silence rears its head to the ears of the beholder, mouth perpetually packed by scribbles and click-clacks.

She forges life and death. A prolific puppet master.

Stay at home God of worlds.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.