Nancy Botkin loves midnight. She stands on the porch, wind whispering. She watches moon drifting. Luminous, motherly, never leaving. A new day awakens. Possibilities rise.

She hides pieces of dreams, waits for the next night.

From Guest Contributor Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State’s MFA program in fiction. The recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. His work has been published or is forthcoming in journals such as 50 Word Story, Molecule Lit Mag, The Write City Magazine, and Agony Opera. He lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.

His little girl called and said that she was getting married.

“Beautiful, Baby.”

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Five naked women had been lined up against the wall. Something about the one in the middle caught the captain’s eye, whether a tattoo or the way she shyly covered her breasts with her hands. “May I offer you some candy?” he asked. It was only then she remembered that Kafka was buried in a plain wooden coffin, a stray fact that under other circumstances might have been interesting to share. That’s just the sort of place this is, no time for a chat, not even about who it was that tracked in blood on the bottom of their shoes.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Retreating from Leningrad respect for the Soviets had grown amongst SS Totenkopf, elevated from Untermensch – ‘suhumans’ – to Bolsheviks.

Yes, this was what he existed for.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

“Are you going to die soon?”

He was in search of true love. His search wasn’t easy. He searched everywhere but never realised how close his love was to him. He had been looking for love at all the wrong places. His quest for love only got longer. He stayed up all night and dreamt all day. The sun went down. The night deepened and darkness hid everything. He thought what could be more mysterious than night when you have secrets to bury.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Elsie opens the window and the warm breeze enters the room. She sits next to William holding his hand, remembering.

Elsie’s eyes begin to water, and she wonders why dementia has taken her young love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Linda bought it for me at the museum gala. “So many wonderful things for a donation.” she said, “You should have come, my dear! Meet new people.”

I call it Maxine. Sits brooding under a lamp on my desk. We keep each other company.

From Guest Contributor Karen Walker

I walked for eight months, following a man who was carrying books on a donkey. I thought of it as my way of creating memories and putting them in my diary, except I don’t have a diary. So, yes, it’s ironic. Now as I go around the city, I see cigarette butts and chewing gum on the pavement, and people clipping their fingernails in the subway. I mean, who would do that, leave their DNA all over the place for others to collect and store? It’s like the secret to keeping a secret is the only secret still being kept.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

We have class together ninety-nine times. Four times a week she sits at the front, eyes bright, hand shooting heavenward. She is always in a group, no space beside her. She never sees me.

Class one hundred. She is late. The front is full. Flustered, she moves to the back, beside me. Seizing chance, I smile, and choke out a word I can’t remember. She smiles. She sees me.

From Guest Contributor Bronwen O’Donnell

She was always staring at him, even in the eighth grade when I sat behind him, green with envy.

Tonight, I finally have her to myself.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes