Eric got up from his table, leaving his philosophy books sprawled across the surface. Cramming for the test at this juncture was a futile gesture. He was certain Paul Nystrom would agree, but it wouldn’t help him ace this test.

He’d heard of one student from several years back who aced his finals with a single sentence. “What’s the point?” He’d gotten the only A in his class.

He also knew of at least two students who tried the same trick last year, and they’d both failed.

Philosophy professors love all ideas, except the one that questions their own validity.

Maybe they were tears or could be a shining in the eye. He was weak and had a fragile walk, while waving at his daughter. His ex-wife looked on with a miffed face. Her long-time affair waited for her, across the road in his Ferrari. She pushed her daughter towards the car. The poor child kept on looking at her father till her last gaze. Both of them separated by destiny and bound out of pure love. She was a gold digger and he a humble professor. Why didn’t he give her some life lessons? She looked deprived of learning.

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

It got to the best of them.

“Yes, I went to that movie, have those boots, test-drove that car just the other week,” Sophie would yipe.

There was nothing she had not lived, owned, eaten, worn, dated, or experienced by association: no conversation – however private or surreptitious – she didn’t inveigle her way into.

They decided to invent something to teach her a lesson.

“Went to that gig you recommended, Gloria. Buttinskis? Wow!!”

“Nosey can fairly play that bass, eh?”

“Oh yes, I went to their debut last month,” Sophie interjected.

Their shared smirk soured at her gormless need to belong. 

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Today the mailman came with a special delivery package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and bore no return address. I was required to sign for it, which I did, and watched the mailman jump in an unmarked black van and speed away. I took the box inside and set it on the kitchen island. I wondered who might have sent it. I have no friends or family. It’s a peaceful life. Then I heard the screaming—a man’s screaming. Hard to make out at first, but once you keyed into it, you couldn’t stop hearing it for anything.  

From Guest Contributor Meeah Williams

“O ugly ducklings grown into beauty, are ye homesick too?”

Thus I, standing in the shadows of the House of Quasimodo, watching you glide upon these placid waters, O snow-winged sisters of my soul!

“Swans fly south for the winter” You, of whom I first read in the sun-baked plains of my homeland, a world soaked in the scents of masala and mangoes – in this city of eternal Autumn, you have made yourselves a second Spring.

You know not my home, O Daughters of Winter. I know not yours. Yet here the twain shall meet, Once Upon a September.

From Guest Contributor Hibah Shabkhez

Hibah is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

Abandoned… Alone!

Sabre Tiger the children named him. The apartment manager said, No!”

Dad said, “Ask Grandma,” Grandma said, “Ask Grandpa.” Grandpa was reluctant. The children loved him, the boy said, “Take him home,” the girl said, “Please!” Grandpa relented.

The vet said, “He’s healthy, but overweight at 13 pounds,” Sabre swished his tail severely, “Might not get along with your cat.”

At home, Sabre was content; on his back, trusting, paws in the air, asleep.

Now, at 19 pounds plus, he’s Sabre Tiger; struts, ruler of the household. Grandpa reminds him daily. “You’re a cat, remember, you’re a CAT!

From Guest Contributor Ted Duke