I moved into my workshop, with a gas-ring and pair of chickens in a cage. I needed no assistants. I watched the sky from a hilltop laboratory, harnessing the lightning.

In reality I sleep under the stairs in my friends’ flat. He’s a motorcycle courier, she’s a receptionist. I work where I can, wherever the agency sends me, seven days a week. If I’m ill I rely on her noticing and bringing me soup or something. I have a notebook to record my dreams. Huge flights of geese turn furrows through the red November skies. Worlds can barely contain me.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

Scott retraces the events of that evening to understand what went wrong. Candles were lit. Dinner reservations at Jen’s favorite restaurant. A dozen red roses.

A single broken rose is all he has left to remember her by.

When my parents told me the news that I was adopted, it didn’t shock me. I knew that I was different. I have black hair and deep brown eyes, and both my parents have hazel eyes and blond hair. I was told I took after my grandfather who died before my time. Conveniently, no one had pictures.

I turned and left.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“The city is breaking up the encampment, clearing us out,” Olivia said. “I’m leaving.”

Simone watched Olivia walk away and tried to ignore the hunger growling deep in her belly.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Robert, a US Army veteran and former Biology teacher, lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

1. Power down the flip phone (V2.0) hidden in your black loafers.

10. Avoid divulging important state secrets while sedated.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

I know things look bad. I can explain the blood. I was playing with my dog and he scratched me pretty bad. He can be rough.

Very good. That just leaves the matter of the security camera. How do you explain that someone who looks remarkably like you was recorded beating your ex to death with a field hockey stick?

The pulse of the city is becoming my own. I woke up with a thrumming headache this morning. The night and the dawn are a patchwork in my aching head. When I walk down the street, steam ripples off the pavement, as intangible as my disintegrating memories. How is my stranger? I wonder. The one from last night’s club. Gone now. He’s returned back to his own life after our brief collision: my drunken frame hung off his neck. His glassy brown gaze still holds me. Power lines cross my heart. My eyes swim in the summer sweat and rain.

From Guest Contributor Siri Harrison

How many years since your hand found her knee? She will never leave you. Your voice is her background music, her dance. Smile at her from across the kitchen, her hands sorting knives and forks. Her smile is for you, but her thoughts are there, with him. That day. Cold wind pulled them close. Her hand on his neck, his hands in her hair. She knows by now she’d have tired of him as well. Forgotten how she spent afternoons in his freckled arms. She’d gaze across a room not seeing him, not feeling more than this slow, quiet day.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

People stared as my white wedding gown dragged along the pathway to the motel room, my head piece barely hanging on. I shut the door and removed the pins from my hair shaking the curls loose. That snake cheated on me with my best friend on our wedding day. I snuck to the house and packed a bag as soon as I saw them together. Now I’m in this dumpy motel, my wedding gown thrown on a chair that has cigarette burns, while staring blankly at the television.

They’ll find that out soon.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher