FEATURED ARTISTS- May 2026
A sample of the incredible work from our May artists.
For additional artwork and in-depth artist profiles exclusive to print, please visit our “Support It” page and consider purchasing the issue.
In the May issue, we explore the enigmatic. Artists examine societal pressures and human complexities through fantastical expressions and imaginative forms.
*Clicking on the artist's name will lead you to their site or their socials can be found below.
Brooke Johnpier
Goodreads: Brooke Johnpier
Insta: @brooke.johnpier22
"The house was a mile back from the road, surrounded by thick, dense woods. The pines grew so close together that you had to go through the space between them sideways. But that was part of the appeal; you were away from everyone.
Built in 1940, the house loomed ominously as you walked up on it. You couldn’t see it until you practically stumbled into it, and when you did you were just in awe. It was everything you could possibly dream of in a home: big, spacious, elegant, while still holding the charm of being a place where you could raise a family and live out your dreams. "
excerpt from Alabama Rain
Built in 1940, the house loomed ominously as you walked up on it. You couldn’t see it until you practically stumbled into it, and when you did you were just in awe. It was everything you could possibly dream of in a home: big, spacious, elegant, while still holding the charm of being a place where you could raise a family and live out your dreams. "
excerpt from Alabama Rain
Chava
insta:@chavaarts
Eye of Eden
I know this one
Claire Flath
insta: @claireflath
Rub Your Eyes
Circle the Flame
Christian Crane
@christian_crane_productions
One Horseman
Angeltongue
insta: @portraitsofmyself
insta: @waitertheresatumorinmysoup
insta: @waitertheresatumorinmysoup
DAY 113
DAY 114
kxi
insta: @artofkxi
Shari Lujan
insta: @scarysharicollage
Moments Of Solitude
The Final Show
Shell Walsh
insta: @philomenas.rising
The Heretic
I never feared “God”
the way I was supposed to.
A foul mouth full of questions
my father could never answer.
I didn’t understand the impiety
in asking.
I wore the brightest shade
of blasphemy
and tried to gulp down
Catholicism,
but I spit it into napkins
with the salmon casserole.
There was never enough
sugar in the kool aid
to balance out the bitterness,
I even tried to feed it
to the dog.
I regurgitated guilt
along with all my “sins”
at confession.
the way I was supposed to.
A foul mouth full of questions
my father could never answer.
I didn’t understand the impiety
in asking.
I wore the brightest shade
of blasphemy
and tried to gulp down
Catholicism,
but I spit it into napkins
with the salmon casserole.
There was never enough
sugar in the kool aid
to balance out the bitterness,
I even tried to feed it
to the dog.
I regurgitated guilt
along with all my “sins”
at confession.
Until one day
I wandered further into
myself
than I had ever dared,
and my thundering heart
quieted enough
that I could hear
my guardian angel whisper,
“You will not kneel for anyone.”
I wandered further into
myself
than I had ever dared,
and my thundering heart
quieted enough
that I could hear
my guardian angel whisper,
“You will not kneel for anyone.”
(This poem was self-published in the poetry collection “Hallways” A Journey through Grief, Trauma, and Love by Shell Walsh.)
Thea Nettleton
insta: @unicorn_shaped_bubbles
insta: @unicorn_shaped_bubbles
Museum
Museum
Teege Braune
excerpt from The Promethean Conduit
"Prometheus
Has the hour grown so late?
Her form, a disfigured speck on the distant horizon, approaches, laboring with her burden, achingly slow, but forward always, steadily over the crests and through the desolate valleys.
How is it then that I Prometheus, who has seen all that has or will come to pass could not speak the year?
Gods and mortals do not keep the same calendars. Once each nation marked its own time and as they began to circumvent the globe, they united under the death of a single mortal who died beautifully, though in his name such nightmares were executed
That I cannot think but his shade would weep if indeed shades shed tears,
And then again much later at what they called the singularity, long after the gods had abandoned their audience of the mortal theater,
When these made of flesh, blessed with mind, rather than we who are mind projected like holographs onto flesh,
Did believe themselves gods and traded flesh for polymer and adamantine shells, though smote by their own excess, immortal indeed they were not."
Her form, a disfigured speck on the distant horizon, approaches, laboring with her burden, achingly slow, but forward always, steadily over the crests and through the desolate valleys.
How is it then that I Prometheus, who has seen all that has or will come to pass could not speak the year?
Gods and mortals do not keep the same calendars. Once each nation marked its own time and as they began to circumvent the globe, they united under the death of a single mortal who died beautifully, though in his name such nightmares were executed
That I cannot think but his shade would weep if indeed shades shed tears,
And then again much later at what they called the singularity, long after the gods had abandoned their audience of the mortal theater,
When these made of flesh, blessed with mind, rather than we who are mind projected like holographs onto flesh,
Did believe themselves gods and traded flesh for polymer and adamantine shells, though smote by their own excess, immortal indeed they were not."
