The slave driver’s eagles squawk and shift violently in the wind to dodge the endless barrage of waves crashing against the rocky cliff’s edge. By our scent, they know we are close, but they can’t see us.

I struggle to speak and strain through the invisibility incantation I have surrounding us and our boat, “Row boy! It was no illusion. It’s our only salvation.”

From Guest Contributor John Martinez

‘Can you please complete your homework?’ the frustrated dad nagged his uninspired child, for three consecutive days, rather the Sony PlayStation grasped her attention.

‘Dear Mr. So and So, it saddens us to summon you to school like this,’ the Headmistress began to berate him, ‘your child has complained to us regarding her inability to complete her homework due to you occupying her time after school.

From Guest Contributor Imraan Ganie

Imraan is a seasoned technologist, father of 3, and a lyrical addict who writes short stories, poetry, and limericks in his spare time. His quirky take on life, inspired by his curiously unconventional life experiences lead to twists of humour and tales that are always entertaining. Imraan lives on the Southern Coast of KwaZulu Natal in South Africa. Imraan has two short stories published in 2021 in an anthology called Taxi through Mzansi featuring short stories by twenty of South Africa’s finest authors.

There is El Boncalo, Platero. It is too late now to turn around without insulting him.

Apparently.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.

Little by little, she slept. The world had become rather too much. She began, in the night, when no one was watching, stealing away to where she couldn’t be found. Her great disappearing act. But before long, she’d be pulled back to the incessant waking wants, needs, demands. So she honed her skills. Cut social ties, snuck off earlier. Worked from home, held out longer. Staked claim to a full half of each day. And of what did she dream? Every night, the greatest dream of all. A world without work, without demands, where she could sleep as she pleased.

From Guest Contributor John Villan

On the borders of this serene land lay a dark shadow formed from a massive structure built on the ruins of another once-great civilization. It often feels like an ominous storm cloud in an otherwise starry sky.

On this glorious night, as the sun sets, dark clouds dissipate; the moon rises on the horizon, filling the entire night sky with dangerous possibilities as they come one step closer to the stars.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

My head rotates like the Earth around the sun, except at excessive speed.

As I walk onto my front porch, I remember what it’s like to feel the air against my face.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There was a man I knew. He thought himself very clever and asserted he was better than me. His wrongs were a count of never (despite his relations often severed), and he swore he despised all lies. He would never show his heart, for if he had, we would plainly see a cruel and twisted thing failing his acclaim to measure. Many shared his only aim was to play people as pawns in his game. Misery was all his company could bring. Now he calls, and I neglect to answer. If perfection is his alone, I’d rather not the pleasure!

From Guest Contributor Jessah Rutledge

Jessah is a Marketing and Admin Assistant for a Realty Company and a Pikes Peak Community College student studying Fine Arts and Writing.

“Hola! Anyone inside?”

“Na, not angry, gramps. Now what would you like for lunch today?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Iago dreamed he was a man who rescued kittens from tall trees, and children from the clutches of characters like him. He bought girl scout cookies, he sang in church, he harmonized, he eulogized, he gave away his possessions and passed through the Eye of the Needle. He gave up his part in “Othello,” but there was no giving up his raison d’etre, and as the dream dragged on, Iago’s essence slipped in and swept away his girl scout cookie goodness, and so he couldn’t help but swipe a few boxes, as he marauded through the rest of the night.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

At that late hour, the streets were deserted. I wandered the dirty sidewalks in a kind of amnesic daze. Somehow I had gotten lost in a part of town I thought I knew well. Familiar landmarks had simply disappeared. I didn’t recognize the faces of buildings or the signs on storefronts. My own footfalls sounded weirdly detached from me. After only twenty minutes of this, I felt as though I had been running, falling, flying, floating, crawling half the night. I sat down on the curb exhausted. Clouds shaped like vague suspicions of vast conspiracies were just starting to pinken.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry book is The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press.