My Purpose in A Single Gasp By Dylanna Fisher For The Edmonton Story Slam My first time reciting a short piece of fiction in front of an audience was nerve-wracking and exhilarating all wrapped into one. I had shared a story before but never in front of strangers. Never had I shared a story in front of people that I couldn't gauge their reactions. Yet there I was with my hands sweaty, but my mouth so dry I couldn't swallow. Standing on stage in a darkened café, I stood there telling a tale about a simple camping trip providing a deeper glimpse into what life is and that it one day ends. It started with the death of a deer. Being hit by a car means that it didn't have much of a chance. The deer was dead and alone while I was going camping to be surrounded by life and love and light. And that moment impacted me so much, I felt the need to share it with strangers. I couldn't see the audience, not because of the darkness but because I couldn't see past my knuckles growing white from gripping the paper. At that moment, there were only the recounts of the story; A story of death, and of death being so close yet so unfathomable. I spoke with a clarity that I didn't know I possessed. "As I returned my focus to my family, I heard my uncle chastise my cousin, Brody, for getting too close to the fire. Brody was the youngest of the campers still awake. youngest of the ones sleeping too, come to think of it. Seconds passed and like many young kids, he did it again. I said, pausing to catch my breath and the audience's attention, "This time he went too far and fell forward." I paused again. But something other than my heartbeat filled the silence. Without being able to see her reaction, I could hear one of the audience members gasp while leaning forward in her chair. Her gasp was so audible, I swore I could feel her exhale against my cheek. The chair legs scraped against the concrete floor proving that she wasn't the only one on the edge of her seat. Her gasp is the best inspiration and advice, I've ever gotten because it's always stayed with me. I'll never forget that moment, that connection with my audience. That's the point of all of this, of all my writing, of all my content. Connecting with people is why I write and why I love to write. Writing is subjective. Everything is different for each writer and each specific work. The ways we get inspiration, the ways we maintain inspiration, the ways we construct prose, the ways we proofread, the ways we publish, the ways we maintain ourselves as writers are different. The ways we continue as writers differ with each word, with each sentence. What works for James Rollins won't work for Ross Campbell and vice versa. The advice given to writers is amazing and helpful but isn't universal because writers aren't universal because writing isn't universal. That's the point of literature. That single gasp is one of my proudest singular moments as an author. I was able to make someone feel something. My words brought forth more than just a logical reaction but an emotional one. One that's more than a facial expression but an expression through her entire body. I connected with my audience that night, and I want to do that every single day.

Pigs by Dylanna Fisher for The Edmonton Story Slam Here’s a story about one of God's creatures that in its lifetime goes from cute to cuisine. From Stuttering Porky Pig to pink pork sausages too quickly. When one thinks of pigs, images of Miss Piggy, Piglet, holiday ham, and back bacon flood to their mind. They ponder the differences between Canadian bacon and American bacon, between a pet pig, and a not pet pig. I remember the day when the word pig was no longer innocent. I was seven. I was seven the first time somebody called me a pig and I knew they were not referring to a cartoon, home cooking or anything I could be proud of. Instead, they shot me at point-blank range with a single bullet, a single word, pig. It left an entrance wound to my heart, rattled up my throat-choking me until finally planting itself in my brain. Without an exit wound. From there, they watched my tear-soaked face mimic a draining carcass of pork. The tears ran red as it filled the empty tray in my chest. The pig carcass looked as if it were crying but it was only meat meant to live then die. It's funny how the flesh of a pig and the flesh of a little girl look the same sometimes. I began to see myself as a pig’s peer. I sympathized with porky pig and his stutter. I flinched every time someone commented on the amount of fat on an Easter ham. Every picture of a wild boar being roasted over a spit made my skin burn as if licked by a campfire. In their mouths sat an apple to keep its squeals internal. I felt myself choking on that apple unable to cry out, unable to squeal. Always the boar became to look like a mirror. The mirror I look in every day shows Wilbur without Charlotte's webs. I looked into that mirror and it was clear. A Sow's ear can’t make a silk purse and neither can pork make a princess. The clothes I put on my body, this body suffocates me like a pig in a blanket too tight. My feet seem like hooves being forced into ladies fashion. As the seeds of the apple cut my throat, I continue the persona of the pig. I remain silent and seemingly ignorant. To this day I can’t talk to a doctor without hearing them mocking me. I fake a smile as my teacher mutters to themselves, a confirmation that the torture of my childhood never left. I pretend that I don’t notice how people look at me as I walk past them. That I don’t see how she looks at the body hidden under these clothes. I’ve seen the mixture of disgust and pity so often, they are inseparable, combined in my mind forever. To this day that word, pig, has never been delicious. My stomach churns as I even think of placing it on my tongue. I can’t take another serving, I refuse to get force-fed this holiday ham. I rip at the label on my jacket. It reads a fully cooked boneless smoked ham. It doesn’t say anything about less fat but it says 25% less sodium. Fuck that. Fuck what they say. I’m still raw. The blood pumping through these veins hasn’t been spilled yet and my spine. I try to reject the persona of a pig placed upon me without my knowledge. I am not a pig. I am not a bacon trend. I am not a helpless piglet being slowly led to your slaughterhouse. I am not something to come out at your beck and call when you want something to roast over an open fire. My flesh is not for your consumption or amusement. I am not a pig. I am a human being, not Wilbur, not piglet, not bacon, not ham. I’m not a pig. Oink oink.

Business Cards created by Dylanna Fisher for Starria Roe As a marketing graphic designer, it is my responsibility to help Starria Roe launch their freelancing enterprises with eye-catching branding. The project includes The Domestic Diva, and the Divining Diva. Every company needs a distinctive visual identity since each serves a diverse audience. Starrio Roe's portfolio is meant to attract new customers and build a solid freelance business presence by showcasing her skills. 1. Starria Roe, the Divining Diva: The Divining Diva, Starria Roe, specializes in divination services such as pendulum readings, esoteric charting, tarot readings, and spirit guide consultations. The mystical and intuitive quality of divination will be reflected in Starria Roe's graphic branding. The elements will entice potential customers by convincingly communicating Starria Roe's expertise in prophecy. 2 . The Domestic Diva: The Domestic Diva specializes in clutter reduction, cleaning, sorting, and organization. These successfully convey The Domestic Diva's capacity to design aesthetically pleasing and well-organized living areas, attracting potential consumers seeking help with home organization.

The Last Life Is Blood Red By Dylanna Fisher For Story Inkorporated I am Mario. I was a plumber, a hero on a grand noble adventure. Not really. I lived in a different world, an endless galaxy. Everything was so simple. I knew what I had to do and how to do so. The mistakes I made never hurt me. Upon any level, I could try again. I wondered intensely but rarely if there was something more. I quickly ignored my subconscious and soon found another distraction. I triumphed over levels, fights, and foes. I was unstoppable. With the help of a star, I was invincible. I thought that my life was complete. Then I found a purpose; a gorgeous princess to rescue. The levels now meant nothing. Even though she wasn’t at the end of each level, I fought for her and her alone. The princess peach was the fruit to my Yoshi, my damsel in diamonds. Rapunzel had nothing on the lovely locks of my dearly beloved. Ariel’s melody wavered to noise when the charm of my princess spoke but a word. And forget Snow White, the apple of my eye is and only is Princess Peach. Oh, I should add that it wasn’t an apple that caused Snow White’s beauty to whither. It was a peach, my peach. The only princess that could even compare to mine was Cinderella—compared to her grace and elegance, Cinderella had nothing. Only in aloofness are they similar. Like my princess, Cinderella evaded her prince, taunted him, and left him wondering and yearning and swooning with nothing but a fleeting glimpse of her beauty fading away into the night. This gave me hope that, eventually, the prince won her heart with the return of her shimmering glass slipper. He proved to her that he loves her because he fought not only to reach her but brought her that which she lost. She fell into his arms with such grace and admiration. I would lay at night dreaming about the moment. The moment that I would finally have Peach in my arms. But I didn’t have a glass slipper. Though I came to learn the contrast between us and them, between me and him, between a plumber and a prince. The fact that he was a grand prince, and I was a lowly plumber hit me like a grand piano from the fucking sky. It hit me and hit me hard. Not to mention that all the wealth, stars, and powers I could muster would never amount to a glass slipper enchanted in the moonlight. Not only did the elegance of my offerings falter, but the romantic notions behind them. Those attempts combined almost killed me. No matter how hard I prayed or cried, how hard I forced myself, it was never good enough. I was never good enough. I sometimes felt as if she was toying with me. I no longer celebrated a successful level at the end of every level. I was mourning another failed attempt to gain the love, nay even the warm acknowledgement of Princess Peach. The only times I would see her were the images of her going away. I knew she saw me. At first, I thought it was the timing of it all, as if the cosmos and their grand design would reward me for my patience. But it wasn’t timing. Was it? She saw me. She knew I was there. She knew everything. And she still left. At least Cinderella had a curfew to explain her chase. What was Peach’s excuse? I thought it wouldn’t get worse. I pictured myself as a dying mouse and her a sadistic cat without mercy. She reached in and worsened my agony by gripping my heart. It stayed in her palm for a moment, sometimes hours, as she watched it pathetically attempt to circulate blood through a body lying two feet from it. My princess didn’t even have the mercy to rip out the traitor organ away completely. She left it and placed it beside me on my sleeve. I bared my heart on my sleeve to her, and in a cruel twist of fate, she did the same. She laughed as she walked away. As I watched her, my heart pumped blood into the ground. It poured out as my fingers went numb, and my eyes wept. This didn’t even end the pathetic suffering. No, I patched myself up and carried on. After this, I tried once more. My mistress of misery, I owed it to my muse to try once more. I continued to the next castle, praying she would see how I care and love her. I’m begging that it’ll all change. I sobbed as I continued realizing that I couldn't save her. That was never how it was supposed to be. I realized that she could save me, but she never will. I reach the castle. I reached my princess. But this time will be different. This time I’m not going to save her. I’m going to save myself. I arrive, and the door shuts behind me. There is no going back now, but I don’t think there ever was. I put up no resistance to the blows. The first blow stung a bit. Soon it all became numb. I looked up pitifully as the giant fist crushed me for the last time. Goodbye, my princess. If I can’t have you, I will have nothing, not even life.

Anna Grunduls' Designs are beyond gorgeous. She invites you to delve into a thrilling world of adult colouring books. Immerse yourself in her beautiful masterpieces, thoughtfully created to provide adults with a relaxing and motivating colouring experience. Dylanna Fisher had the joy of creating some product photography for her and her amazing work. Anna Grunduls' hand-drawn artworks display her attention to detail, beauty, and elegance with elaborate mandalas and lovely sceneries. Each page in the colouring book has been carefully designed to let you relax, let your imagination run free, and find moments of peace amid your busy routine. Learn to enjoy colouring her beautiful drawings right away. Check them out at annagrunduls.com .

It was a blast capturing furry community essence in this photoshoot. As you might have guessed, Bubbles is the main character of the shoot, a fantastic blue angel dragon fursona with a vibrant personality and a lot of energy. Trust us, Bubbles brings an incredible spark to every single shot. Get ready to dive into a world of whimsy as we explore the furry community and celebrate their creativity.