The healing came slow. A damaged psyche doesn’t show like a bruise. Her little boy needs her; she is everything to him and he is the world to her. But she needs to be whole for him.

More than a month of repair to start the recovery. Participation in daily activities was the first sign. A faint light at the end of the tunnel, but a light nonetheless. Her posture showed confidence. Then her gait picked up a bit. A twinkle returned to her eyes. Her journey would be long and arduous, but she was on her way to recovery.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

“We’re detectives,” said the teenager in Greta’s doorway. “Like Nancy Drew. But guys.”

“Certainly,” Greta said. “I was just setting up my new TV.” She ushered them into her immaculate foyer, a sea of diamonds sparkling unnoticed atop her head.

From Guest Contributor John Adams

John (he/him/his) lives near Kansas City, where he produces comedy shows and writes about teenage detectives, robo-butlers, and cursed cowboys. Twitter: @JohnAmusesNoOne.

You stare into the void but all you can see are ashes of human softness. The stars have succumbed to the flames and fires of an unnatural world you tried to hide from. Hell smells like spices, smoke, and sweetness. It welcomes you. Like the stars you stand at the edge, riveted by the darkness, knowing it is now time for you to join them. Heaven is but an illusory dream, and you know its false promises no longer hold grandeur. There will be no time to wish for a way out. You too will succumb. You too will fall.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Grace

Sometimes, words were just not enough. She took

pst, pst— this secret joke exploded in her head.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 32 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

I have chips and salsa ready for when the family arrives for Super Bowl Sunday.

Looks like I’ll be heading to the store and watching the game on DVR.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“What’d you expect? I am who I am.”

I’m gonna be somebody, he thought. I am.

From Guest Contributor Fred Miller

Fred is a California writer. Over fifty of his stories and poems have appeared in publications around the world in the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog.

Special trains departed every hour on the hour for labor camps and reeducation centers. Hatchet-faced men in leather trench coats would grab people right off the street. I struggled hard to keep the look of the panic-stricken out of my eyes, the hitch of the guilt-ridden out of my step. It wouldn’t even be noon, and the sun would already be a dying ember in an ashen sky. There was no specific end to the workday. Steel bars had been installed on factory windows and suicide nets on the roofs. Manufacturers knowingly sold baby food contaminated with the devil’s tears.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing, 2021).

The desirable and exquisite souls always come at night—when the crescent moon shapes a bent halo around their stiff, floating bodies illuminated by the stars. Beautiful people are tough to kill, yet so impossible to resist. Their calm spirit invites the monster to the forest. Mothers hiding from their tormenting infants; lovers exploring their wild, rupturing hormones; broken people just seeking a place to sing along with the birds and dance to the tune of the wind—Everything leads to when the monster crawls out of the dim and spiny bush to say, “Do you want to play, Kitten?”

From Guest Contributor Annabelle Torkwase Ulaka

Annabelle lives with her mother and two siblings at a little town, north of Nasarawa state, Nigeria. She believes in the magical bond of family. Her days are spent reading anthologies, watching movies and writing stories and essays. She’s a final year student in Benue State University, studying for a bachelor’s degree in Biology. Writing comes naturally to her, and her greatest aspirations have always been to become a respected writer, own three black cats, and finally learn how to dance. You can always find her on Twitter with the handle @Annyball1.

Hi Dad, it’s me again. Still here on Earth. Still wishing to be where you are, engulfed in the brilliant light of peace and tranquility, behind gates guarded by ancestors from times never known to us. Still waiting for a sign, a rainbow, a white dove, anything that tells me things are better out there in the universe than they are here, right now. Still missing the opportunities that passed us by when we thought there were an infinite number of opportunities left. Still whispering unheard, unanswered prayers into the night sky. Still hoping the moonlight carries them to you.

From Guest Contributor Rhiannon DeCambra

Sarah awakened from a frightening dream, her nightgown pasted to her body in sweat. Her husband, Mark, was still asleep, so she gently lifted the covers, went to the bathroom, and splashed cool water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and remembered every detail.

Under the bed, rested a wilted lily.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher