An airplane soars into the mammoth building, leaving a gaping hole. Blackness, dust, and papers fill the air.

The World Trade Center is no more.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“There’s, like, a huge pile of packages out here, did you know?”
“Get out of the way!” I shout, toppling my children like bowling pins.
“What’s in there, Mom? Is it for us?” ask my mosquitoes.
“None of your business!”
My stomping covers the clamorous clattering of toys as I drag the heavy stack upstairs. I cram the boxes in my closet and hide them behind rarely-worn dresses. An old blanket covers the teetering mountain.
“Can we see?”
“No! Don’t come in here!”
Slamming the door shut, I wonder if they might have guessed that their Christmas presents had arrived.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Czarnecki

Sarah is a dog-walking, fast-knitting, list-making Sconnie who sometimes writes.

I recently lost my job. With nothing much to do, I sneaked the other week into an exhibition at the Galerie der Moderne. The walls were hung with paintings by people who didn’t seem to know how to paint. However, I did enjoy the complimentary wine and the cubes of cheese on frilly toothpicks. I would have stayed longer, only there were these police around. In the old country, my great-grandfather went to fetch a ration of bread, and the loaf was sticking out of his coat when the SS officer who shot him for sport rolled his corpse over.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Famous Long Ago, a forthcoming prose poetry collection from Laughing Ronin Press.

If we could only look deeply into the eyes of strangers, we’d see not a stranger at all, but a piece of ourselves.

The knowing inside me is too big. I’m surrounded by the noise and lights of the world, seemingly unchanged from before. My heart aches. I see you, but do you see me?

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

He’d never told a girl that he loved her before. The anxiety was far worse than a first kiss, his teeth chattering as if he’d been blasted by cold air. Although the June night was hot, she rubbed his arms, to warm him.

She responded by kissing him and holding him tightly, but that summer she would never say the words he craved to hear.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 24 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

It was coming home and it had to pass through the (Gareth) South Gate.

This really was a (Jack) grealish day.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Positive and quarantined at home, my days edge along like a snail. Immersed in social media and Netflix, suddenly, I gasp for oxygen. Panting for a breath, I’m rushed to the hospital. Tethered to oxygen, I yearn to hug and cradle my child. I have to bake her birthday cake. I want to see her victorious smile when I lose at UNO. I must leave a lingering kiss on my husband’s lips. Flustered by my thoughts, I inhale into darkness.

Cool air blows as the blanket is snatched off me. “Mom, the Zoom password is incorrect.” I breathe in relief.

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

I scramble the room for the file. Many lives depend on the information, including mine. When I accepted this job, I knew the risks involved and didn’t care. Now I just want to go back to my life.

The Nazi’s didn’t catch me. Not this time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Run.
Feet crush the leaves; waves of terror crawl your spine.
Slide.
A tree – a savior! Red drops drip down from your ears to the ground.
Crack!
Terror returns like an old friend. It seems now is your end.
Look.
A challenge beckons you. Leaning around the bark, you peak into the clearing.
Empty?
Before you can contemplate, a hand wraps around your throat.
“Missed me?”
The version of yourself you keep locked away smirks at you.
“I’m afraid of the dark.”
The clearing dissipates as you are released.
Clink!
Chains now hold you down.
“I don’t want to disappear.”

From Guest Contributor Sydney Clark

“Trespassers deserve to be punished,” Ralph stated. “They have no business being on property they’re not entitled to.”

With the sweet taste of sugar, the ants entered their underground home.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.