So I happened to mention to Colleen Anderson that I was hosting a dinner party and she sent over this recipe How To Cook With Children. Sounds quite tasty but unfortunately our guests are vegetarians!

Colleen Anderson's poetry has been twice nominated for the Aurora Award and won second place in the Crucible and Rannu competitions. She is currently editing the Alice Unbound anthology due out in 2018. Some new and forthcoming poems are in Eternal Haunted Summer, Polar Borealis, Eye to the Telescope and the HWA Poetry Showcase. Her speculative poetry collection Ancient Tales, Grand Deaths and Past Lives is available through Kelp Queen Press. https://colleenanderson.wordpress.com

HOW TO COOK WITH CHILDREN
by Colleen Anderson

I.
First you must set the lure
The lingering promise of the candy mountain
a land of perpetual play

Lace with sunshine fields
and gooey chewy treats
scarier than anything you ever dreamed

Leave a trail of cartoons
strange characters of two dimensions
fuchsia, lime and lemon skin, a species far removed

II.
Once the trap is sprung
reel them into a game
pretend you're playing pirates or war

The cage will be of their own devising
Check the lock at least twice a day
the only true fairy tale is “child-proof” 

Fatten on cookies and ice cream
Keep cackles subdued as coughs
or they’ll toughen from the fright

III.
Add rosemary and bay leaf for depth
where none has yet to sprout
Parsley is fine if they’re too sweet but watch rue

The finest soda pop helps with basting
deny them bedtime tales and TV
and they'll stew in their own juices

Give in a little, then withhold
a gradual increase until they succumb 
become tender as a well-boiled turnips 

IV.
Once roasting, skim off whales, snails, puppy dog tails
Everything nice and extra fat
Trim make-believe and imaginary friends

Add shallots and chilies for spice
Caution is required for proper consumption
Use as a side dish with a good cabernet 

If done to perfection the taste is robust
flavors of carefree days, lost youth, eternity 
Small portions only or childlike behavior may ensue
Digest well, don't over-indulge

What if street graffiti is not made of paint but of monsters? In these two linked stories – they are in search of a lonelier planet and soul mate, soul meet – Theresa J. Barker explores this idea. Theresa J. Barker has always longed to live in other worlds, which she accomplishes through her writing. Theresa writes science fiction.
Website: http://www.theresabarker.com
Blog: https://theresabarkerlabnotes.com
Twitter: @theresajbarker


they are in search of a lonelier planet . . .
by Theresa J. Barker

The homeless who are monsters hang out in the graffiti wall by the mall. There is plenty of scrap food for them to munch on. The street musicians like to set up in front of the wall and play for tips from passing shoppers. Monsters in the wall sometimes hum along. They've lost much of their natural habitat in the 21st century through deforestation, so the graffiti wall gives them a welcome respite from having to prowl nasty places like street sewers and waste treatment plants and filthy dumpsters.

Monsters are, on the whole, a clean lot. They are like the sharks of the ocean, in that their intended prey is the weak or the sick. Only rarely do they feast on the fears of humans, and only when they cannot find sustenance elsewhere. Feeding on fear often gives them gas. Next time you're at the mall, if you take a close look at the street graffiti mural, you may see them blink. Toss them a cupcake or some french fries if you're feeling generous.


soul mate, soul meet
by Theresa J. Barker

You meet the monster who lives in the graffiti wall on a Thursday evening, just when you were planning to go slalom skating on the pier with the group from work. You went around the corner to rent your skates and suddenly he was there. Huge blue head, eyes of dark anger, gritted teeth of fierce hunger. But somehow you liked the look of him.  

You asked him if monsters often live in graffiti walls, and he replied “Only when we’re on tour.”  

Then you ask him “What’s ‘on tour’?  I didn’t know monsters go on tour,” and he says, “Oh yeah.  It’s a Lonely Planet thing. We get hooked up with a local guide, visit all the graffiti walls.”  

“Don’t you like to hang out in other places, too?” you ask.  

“Like what, maybe a museum?” he answers, guffawing, and you notice his laugh sounds like a thunderclap. Everyone runs for cover but you. You stay, and your hand caresses the monster’s cheek. Before you know it, you’re making plans to go see the graffiti’d train cars out in the rail yard by the soccer stadium, and years later you’ll write a book together on the excellence in graffiti art, sold on Amazon as a coffee table book, with an average reader review of 4.5 out of 5 stars.

New poetry now on the Grievous Angel from Christopher Hivner, Julie Bloss Kelsey, and Larry Lefkowitz – and all have a strong science fiction vibe...


Theoretical Humor
by Christopher Hivner

Waiting for the next shuttle,
neutrinos pass through me
and I laugh uncontrollably.
I've always been ticklish.


Two by Julie Bloss Kelsey

the doctor says
it's ringworm
but I know
the truth
... alien kiss

<<<>>>

listening to you 
I nod and smile
while inside my head
I'm still rolling 
my third eye 


Cyborg
by Larry Lefkowitz
                
The humans say         
I am not one of them
The machines say
You don't belong to us
In short a kind of monster
And yet I feel time
Is on my side
As I lurch toward Dystopia
To be born in Utopia


* Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Yellow Mama, Dark Gothic Resurrected and Creepy Campfire Quarterly. A collection of short stories The Spaces Between Your Screams was published by eTreasures Publishing. You can find him at http://www.chrishivner.com & Twitter @Your_screams

* Julie Bloss Kelsey enjoys iced decaf lattes and staring into the night sky. Connect with her on Twitter @MamaJoules and Facebook facebook.com/julieblosskelsey

* The stories, poetry, and humor of Larry Lefkowitz have been widely published. His novel The Novel, Kunzman, the novel! is available from Lulu.com and Amazon and his humorous fantasy and sci-fi collection Laughing into the Fourth Dimension from Amazon. 

What if you were trapped in a world of stop-motion animation asks Adam Millard in our latest dark fantasy flash fiction story The Animator. Adam Millard is the author of 26 novels, 12 novellas, and several hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections, magazines, and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic and comedy-horror fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for children, as well as bizarro fiction for several publishers. His work has recently been translated for the German market. You can find him at http://www.adammillard.co.uk and on Twitter at http://twitter.com@adammillard


The Animator
by Adam Millard

He wakens to the sound of screaming and, before he knows it, he is joining in. After a while it becomes clear that the screaming has stopped; it is now only he who is screaming, though he forgets why. Then it occurs to him that the scream which had unceremoniously stirred him was his own, and it all comes flooding back in technicolour terror. 

A terrible dream. That’s all it was. A dream in which he was chased by giant hands. Hands covered in clay and water and paint, pursuing him through shadowy, monochromatic corridors, crawling after him on clay-caked fingertips like horrible pentapedal beasts, growling as they hunted him down. 

The dark corridors had all at once given way to a moonlit forest, and he had hurtled through the trees, leaping logs and roots, occasionally tripping and falling into the undergrowth. The hands continued their relentless pursuit. He had stopped to catch his breath, his body wrapped around a giant oak as he sucked fruitlessly at the air around him, but the hands were in no mood to stop, for they came through the trees, careening through the glade, grunting and howling like wild animals, stopping only to sniff at the air. An incongruous act, he’d thought at the time, but he’d started running once again. What did he know of these creatures or what they were capable of? 

​Nothing.

It had started to rain then, the ground turning to mulch beneath his feet as he hurried away from the beasts on five legs. Dreams have a strange way of providing for you when you least expect it, and this had been no exception, for at the edge of the forest stood a dilapidated church. One section of the church had been destroyed by fire, but the main body of the building had seemingly survived.

He had hurried towards it, the huge wooden door flying inwards as he barrelled into it. He’d thrown the door shut behind him and slid the wooden draw bar across. A moment later, the hands had crashed into the door on the other side with an almighty thump, and he’d fallen into the aisle, scrambling away on reverse all-fours.

“May I help you?”

A priest, surrounded by flickering candles, stood at the altar. He looked kindly, if a little disconcerted.

“Hands!” he had screamed as he crawled toward the priest. “Hands… after me!”

That was when the windows had exploded inward, and the church door had become so much splintered wood, and he had screamed –

And he had wakened to find it had all been a terrible nightmare, and how foolish he feels now. Oh! How very foolish!

He brings his hands up and places them behind his head. Slowly, frame by frame, he animates himself into a sitting position. Once there, 1/24th of a second at a time, he makes his way into the kitchen, to where he will, for the next six hours, prepare breakfast. It is an arduous process – some days he just lies in bed, stomach rumbling and mouth dry, fitfully sleeping as his bladder screams for release –but he is the animator, and this is how he has been cursed to exist.

One.

Frame.

At.

A.

Time.