He’s seeking to please, down on his knees, when everything freezes.

It just goes to show: nothing truly matters, when nothing ever lasts.

It was a once-in-a-221-year-event, the simultaneous emergence of two different cicada broods. One was the 13-year group. The other, the 17-year variety. So, as predicted, a trillion cicadas emerged, one-by-one, from the warming soil. Sam and Waldo were two such cicadas.

“I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU…BUT AFTER 221 YEARS, I THOUGHT IT’D BE A LOT BETTER THAN THIS.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

He remembers hating the formal dress of Sunday morning. Khakis and a button-down shirt felt so constrictive, especially compared to his Saturday uniform: shorts and a t-shirt. Even worse, no one ever gave him a satisfactory answer as to why they must dress so formally, when the Bible made very clear that God actually prefers the poor and the ragged over the richly attired.

Now every Sunday morning he spends much longer than he should selecting what to wear.

The first thing I did last night was set the alarm for seven o’clock in the morning. I didn’t know the snow the weather forecaster predicted was going to start so early.

When I awakened later that afternoon, the snow ceased, and the sun shined.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Grampa used to warn that if we weren’t fast coming home, wolves would eat us. I knew he must be joking, yet I still hurried to beat nightfall just in case.

Now that I’m a father myself, I understand he wasn’t joking. I mean, there weren’t literal wolves. We lived in the suburbs. But he knew the dangers that only come at night, the dangers of the heart. When you truly love someone, would sacrifice your own life to save theirs, you want them to hurry as fast as they can because you won’t have peace until they’re safely home.

It wasn’t your lifeless body accompanied by sympathy cards and my childhood stuffed animal, not your workplace name tag displayed in your shirt pocket, not the sermon praising your altruism, not the incense that uplifted our prayers, not as a pallbearer guiding you to your resting place.

It was the blasts of a three-volley salute followed by the silence of two soldiers that lifted the flag off your casket and with precision folded it into a perfect triangle, and my realization that if you didn’t survive war and didn’t start a family, I wouldn’t be standing here missing you, Dad.

From Guest Contributor Charles Gray

Beware, murderer. I know widows. I watched my mother become one, imagined how my face would bend and darken in the shadow of the word that means shroud, dusk, ash. What lies inside the bones of a woman who does not crumble before you—who wears this word to war, vowing not to yield? Something heavy: iron, redwoods. Oak, like him: an oak among reeds who knew he would be uprooted, just as she knows she will be. No, it is light, hydrogen fusion in the belly of a star, howling life, dawn, freedom. Beware of this widow on fire.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat (she/her) is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won or placed in the top two in contests at Loud Coffee Press, A Story in 100 Words, and most recently, the Pikes Peak Library District 2023 fiction contest. It has been published in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and elsewhere. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

First, there’s a moment when you are just crossing the threshold from complete oblivion, wrapped in blankets and darkness, to reemerge into the light of the living. You are not a person yet. You have no recollections or anxieties. This is probably what it was like right before you were born.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and promise you’re never going to drink again.

When he first started pushing barbells, he did it to get his anger out, throwing the weights from his body, stressing his tendons as he exhaled sprays of spit with every red-faced repetition, every sweaty pump. He realized his joints wouldn’t last long hurling metal, so he calmed his approach, traded manic intervals – of fighting gravity with fury – for calculated precision, and he’d demonstrate, lying down on a chair with an invisible bar connecting his fists, showing us the proper form of a barbell press, his big forearms and biceps flexing and twisting slowly as his muscles contracted, then extended.

From Guest Contributor Parker Wilson

Instagram:@parkerreviewsbooks

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher