Simon woke up in the sand, waves lapping against his legs. For once his pants weren’t soaking wet from urine.

Maybe running away from his intervention had been a bad idea.

Alice had always known she was special. That knowledge had kept her strong before she could leave her toxic family, and supported her through subsequent poor relationship choices and lousy jobs.

She was seventy when the aliens arrived, bringing with them the secrets of a rejuvenation process that they promised would work for the great majority of Earthlings. She, however, was one of the unlucky few, doomed to a remaining lifetime of being condescended to by those who looked younger every day because they actually were. Being special, she belatedly realised, wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Stephanie walks from her apartment to the subway every morning on her way to work. During the summer, the sidewalks are crowded with fellow commuters and hawkers and a general hustle and bustle smelling of sweat and petrol.

It makes her wonder why so much of her life’s been given over to strangers and people she doesn’t care for.

All I must do is deliver the package. I am told he’ll use the code “flowers”.

I slip the paper in his jacket pocket.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The carcass on the shoulder buzzed with flies and other insects feeding on the rotting flesh. The process of decay started the moment the vehicle, probably an SUV or pickup truck by the amount of damage, rammed into it.

In a way, we’re always rotting, from the moment we’re born. It’s thanks to the magic of cellular technology we’re able to keep regenerating through the decades, sloughing off the dead skin and useless morality as we go.

When Mother abandoned our family, I was ten and I was bereft. Why would she leave? Dad said Mother didn’t love me, like he did. But, Dad’s love was accompanied by belittlement and backhanded smacks. When Dad died in that crash, six years later, relief mixed with my self-pity.

I reunited with my boy at the funeral. He stood dumbfounded while I rushed to describe not feeling safe, fearing he’d turn “nasty” (like Rick), watching from afar, and all my regrets. I left when he started to look like Rick. I returned only when convinced he wasn’t becoming his father.

From Guest Contributor Bob Gielow

She first hit the big time in the musical Binary System. It was a righteous indignation among the bikers. “You’re right about the party- it’s awful,” Fly Wind said single-handedly. We were all looking at her in her akimbo position. Her shirt was on back to front.

She raised me as she was wrong. We played billiards a long time before I came in.

From Guest Contributor Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

Jacob is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, etc. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.

Amid labyrinthine alleys and neon-lit streets, a small cafe beckons. Inside, a lone figure cradles a lukewarm coffee, eyes weary yet searching. Across, a young couple laughs—a fleeting yet beautiful symphony of joy.

The coffee, bitter; the rain, demanding. He catches someone staring back—unspoken stories, quiet regrets. He reaches to comfort the other, feeling only glass. No one searches but himself.

From Guest Contributor Chinmayi Goyal

Tom was an alcoholic. First thing every morning he made himself an extremely dry martini: straight gin, but in a martini glass to feel classy. In the evening, he put on a tuxedo and drank champagne. Not sparkling wine. The French stuff.

His ex-wife and her phalanx of lawyers considered Tom a threat to harm himself and those around him.

When I stepped into the cold of the night, the wind against my face, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I walked the streets in desperate need of an answer. Those files I found would ruin the company and probably cost me my job but inevitably save lives. I wish I hadn’t come across those documents. At least I wouldn’t have insomnia.

And that’s the right thing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher