This guy keeps introducing me to people, which is really embarrassing because none of them can see me, and he says I’m a rabbit, which is a load of bullshit because I’m well, I’d rather not say, but I guess he’s ashamed to be hanging out with a rather-not-say, and if he did tell the truth, they’d just think he was crazy for thinking there was such a thing as a rather-not-say, which they do anyway because no one can see me, but if they could somehow escape their blindness, they’d know I can pass pretty well for a rabbit.

From Guest Contributor Max Harris

I freeze at the crossing, not because of the cold, but at how a stranger walks.

I set off alone, annoyed when her name escaped my lips; and admonished myself that I never really knew her.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

There she goes again, completely absurd. Nothing she says is true or worthwhile. But she’s livid, wreaking havoc on all of us, destroying our mood and self-worth over invented situations; she, the perpetual victim.

Tomorrow, she won’t apologize, or even remember this madness. But it’s real and I must stay to protect them.

From Guest Contributor Henry Eutaw

There was an old man who never slept at night. I saw him often from my room, I recognized him but didn’t know him.

My sister got married and I shifted to her room. I never saw him again; now all I get to see is a closed window with broken glass. I wonder where he’s gone? Previously, the open window disturbed me and now it’s the closed one.

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a french language interpreter and a media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series.

She consoles the dust for being lonely. The rust for being needy. The rot for becoming unstitched by rain. It is easy to whisper these things on the day of rest. When even birds decline seeding and bees stay inside hives. There was little moving in the sparse outside, save a cat prowling between an empty peach bucket and a splintered fish pole leaned against fence rails, its frayed point vanishing in the tale’s middle.

She sits with tears on her cheek. Cheek on her hand. Pinkie finger tracing glass. Watching her three level acres all forlorn, infertile, sour, outworn.

From Guest Contributor Catherine Moore

Catherine is the author of three chapbooks including “Wetlands” (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her fiction appears in Tahoma Literary Review, Illinois Wesleyan University Press, Tishman Review, Mid-American Review, and The Best Small Fictions of 2015 anthology.

Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as “mental/alcoholic.”
Escaped punishment by suicide.
Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.
Hung to death.
Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.
Death sentence.
Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of “rarest of rare.” Raped so hard; intestines bled.
Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.
Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.
Death penalty.
Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.
Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.

Fuck Justice.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.