I was about to toss you out. End our years of coexistence.

Lamp I’ve owned for countless years, we belong together.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has
been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word
story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted
Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso
Stories.

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She rarely lied. Sure, there was the occasional well-intended compliment to spare someone’s feelings. She might make a prevarication of convenience when the full story would take too long to explain. She didn’t consider these lies.

But she rarely lied.

It was a brisk autumn afternoon, with variegated leaves cascading over the pavement before congregating in the gutter. A penny caught his eye, resting Lincoln-side up in the middle of the sidewalk. He wanted to ignore it, but rather than speed past, he reflexively slowed and glanced behind him. The closest pedestrian was a block behind him.

He tried to bend at the knees, reach down for the penny, and place it into his pocket in one sweeping motion. He didn’t need to be pinching pennies, but he wasn’t really in a place to leave money just sitting there either.

Because you can see. It is other people who have the problem–flies cannot understand singular vision; pros and cons blink in unison. Suits and snoots on the train and even the grubs on the street shoot sideways sneers and whispers, feary scowls and snickers. The nothingness bothers them, the absence of the right, smooth as burned-off fingerprints. They are not convinced by your best prosthetic and toss you pity, a reward for your emulation of their normalcy. Dark glasses and patches insult the blind and pirates. Your final answer is the biggest lie by the bluntest knife: a wound.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Wednesdays, post-second shift, bone-marrow tired, Kyra grocery-shopped. To stay alert, she categorized customers, itemized their purchases.

Pulled leggings, smoothed hair. Double-take: her mirrored reflection! She’d best snap out of this, load check-out counter. Be on her way.

From Guest Contributor Iris N. Schwartz

Iris is a fiction and nonfiction writer, as well as a Pushcart-Prize-nominated poet. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such journals as Bindweed Magazine, Connotation Press, The Flash Fiction Press, Jellyfish Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Random Sample Review.

The tall caped figure dismounted the midnight horse and negotiated cracked paving to knock on nondescript door.

He raised the scythe.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

When I was twenty, I had a friend who worked as a bartender. I remember that he hated sports, but that he learned to talk sports in order to get through his nights behind the bar with some civility, and of course to earn tips. And that is how I get through my life, by acting like I give a shit about things that I could care less about, by going through the motions. It generally works pretty well for me. People think that I’m a nice guy. Some have even gone so far as to think that I’m happy.

From Guest Contributor Les Bohem

The crack begins in the center of the mirror, spreads out, and creates four distinct sections. Each one reflects a different period of his life: childhood, young adult, middle age, old age. He sees the past and the future all at once. Like the mirror, he is shattered, torn in different directions. He has regrets, sure, but he wouldn’t be where he is today without those regrets and where he is isn’t so bad. Still, what if he could do it all over again? He reaches out and falls into the mirror and finds himself back at the beginning again.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten