When the old man stopped and wiped his brow, the echo of his shovel continued for a beat. The grave wasn’t deep enough yet, but it was getting light. Every year for the past ten years, he was at the same beach, digging a grave. The digging took longer each year, but he never missed the day. Every year he buried a part of her. It became easier each year; piece by piece, he was healing. The ocean took the love of his life and each year he buried a piece of her favorite jewelry he knows she would want.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The black clouds rolled in at a frightening pace, so close now that the lightening and thunder arrived simultaneously. His boat pitched up and down with such force, the hull strained at the seams and might break apart at any moment.

His remarkable life deserved something more than such a futile end.

Marlee couldn’t sleep, what with all that worry over her mother moving into the senior home down in Florida. So she sat on her Maine back porch, sipping hot cider in the wee October hours, watching falling stars while Bill slept. She stopped thinking about her mother when she realized that way more stars were falling tonight than other worried nights. And then she noticed many of those falling stars changing direction, hovering over the woods, and slowly descending. Then she yelled for Bill and grabbed her fancy new camera phone. The next day, of course, we all found out.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of building a life together. Buying houses and cars. Now she is gone.

One episode of indiscretion, it wasn’t such a big deal. Deal breaker, she said. She is never coming back.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The whispering grows louder after exiting the shaman’s hut. If her words are true, the voices following me are not of my own making, but rather the lost souls of the long dead, clamoring for attention.

I do, however, regret killing all those people now.

The diner, Elmer’s Pitstop, recalled a simpler time, when coffee refills were always free and quarters were collected for eventual use in the jukebox. The server, Gina was her name, enjoyed the work and could actually raise a family on the income.

He sighed as he surveyed the chaos. The outlines on the floor, dark red shadows marking where six people had died, were more gruesome than bodies would have been.

“Eat this, Mom,” she said, handing me a plastic donut.

The FBI waited below.

From Guest Contributor Bethany Cardwell

Nothing was as he remembered. Not the walk, with the chipped and uneven flagstones, nor the dusty, desiccated garden, nor the house itself. The two decades had ravaged the property and Stephen immediately regretted its purchase.

The Packards had long since moved on to a much more modern estate. It seemed he was still trying to catch up in a race only he knew they were running.

The night sky was red and the grass was a deep green. Kerrin and Jobe were walking.

“People have trouble forgiving but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori