By Aidan Ashton in the deepening grey of a solitary winter the house waits by the water holding us within its teeth. it is a cruelty to call it a house; it is a hulking shadow torn from bones of the world and forced into the falsehood of a home; slate excised from fractured mountains; beams dragged from mutilated forests; all laid to rest beside the drowning darkness of the lake. it is not meant for us. the wilderness lingers still within its halls like the scent of blood on

By Salem Youngblood I slit my skin to keep myself alive. Pain was a promise. The blade, a language. Every slash a prayer that said, I am here. I am here. The metal became fluent when my tongue failed. Its whisper held my trembling hands. Its sting reminded me that I had not yet faded away. At first, it was only blood— that faithful flood, warm and certain. But then, petals. Pale and trembling. Blooming through the red, as if grief could flower. They smelled faintly

By Rosa Christian Do you ever ponder the evil things we see on the tele, hear on the radio? Recoil from the horror image they bring declare, self-righteously, 'I could never do that.'? Couldn't you? Are you really sure? Look inside au fond primitive instincts endure foul things hide on the haunted, oozing floor of a darkling well we keep hid from luminance our own private hell. Where animal essence still rules supreme impulse crie