It had been raining 40 days and 40 nights. What a soggy mess.

“Would you stop looking out the window, Mel. It’s depressing.”
“I just want to see what’s going on.”
“See? Who can see anything. It must be raining cats and dogs, if I know Jehovah.”
“No. Not so many cats. But it’s amazing the number of Chihuahuas falling from the sky, Harriet.”
“My God, Mel. And floating everywhere?”
“Exactly…”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Not another sensitivity seminar! The professor already kept his door open when he was with a female student. What more did they want? And who else had been sent this message from the dean? Nobody had been cc’d, so the professor forwarded the message to the entire department, the colleagues scratching their heads when they got it. Why had the professor sent them the dean’s message about sensitivity training? Each colleague checked the skeletons in his closet before flinging their doors open to the punishment of pizza stacked up against the professor’s office. One good prank deserves another, they agreed.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl’s recent fiction has appeared in Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.

The snow covered the land, as it had all winter. He picked his way to the rocky shore and looked longingly to the foggy sea. His sea, his love. He knew it; she should have known it.

His mother always said that snow covers sins. It was true; a blanket of white hides everything. But the snow had started to recede from the shore this past week. Today’s snow-eating fog will make short work of the rest of the snow. His sins would no longer be covered; her shallow grave will be exposed. He should head out to his love.

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.

After a lifetime of deception, a sense of purposelessness persisted. Trapped in darkness, Sarah faced tests, time lost all meaning, hunger gnawed, and survival was vital. Guilt spiraled into self-blame. A presence loomed, with fear gripping her. A hidden cave, a reward, reality slipping, and power and control are beckoning. Uncertainty and choices lead to dark paths. Sarah complied, fearing the unknown. Urgency and the cave’s depths awaited. A dangerous allure, dread mounting. Unease, an invisible stalker, the crunch of footsteps. The weight of a gaze, fear, and defiance entwined.

“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win!”

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

raise it as if your life depends on it. Your future too.

Shout until you are heard.

From Guest Contributor Marzia Rahman

Marzia is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in several print and online journals. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022.She is currently working on a novella. She is also a painter.

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

The wind in the woods sounds like a river. It whispers across my face, soft and sweet and holy.

The day warms. A robin twitters. Cicadas hum in the pines. Dave whistles the Happy Trails tune as we start down the path. And so the end begins, and I clutch this small, quiet death in my soul.

From Guest Contributor Jayna Locke

In a rapidly gentrifying London suburban apartment by the park, where the people are cold and the weather is colder, I overhear a nascent rumor in the making, about myself from the overfamiliar voices, and for a long second, I wish my life was as interesting as my thriving geriatric grapevine conjures it to be and believes in possibilities over probabilities. I move on, wondering why those so close to death remain so inquisitive about the lives of others who are busy living, and I tell my friends that if I ever become that bitter old cat lady, stop me.

From Guest Contributor Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

My heart aches when I look at the faded photo of my wife. I place it back in my pocket and lean over the trench, rifle in position.

With the photo clutched to my chest, I take my last breath.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher