“Have I met you before?”

‘Drat.’ He left. She got home safely.

From Guest Contributor, Joey Harlow.

There’s not a lot you can say about Patty Kerns that hasn’t already been pontificated on at length. But there’s one story about her that belongs only to me.

Jesse saw his blood staining the grass behind him as he was dragged across the lawn. At least he thought it was his blood. He’d taken such a beating that he was starting to worry about Mr. Jordan’s fists.

Tonight, Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods.

“Have you been scammed? Call now!” the billboard said. A man in a suit crossed his arms in defiance. She wondered if he could see her somehow. When she got home, she followed him online, looked at photos of his family. She explored the website of his alma mater and pictured him walking through the imposing, wooden doors of the library. She found his address, learned the square footage of his home.

At their first appointment, he stood up from his desk chair to greet her. “Nice to meet you,” he said. She stifled a giggle. How could he forget?

Sarah Vernetti is a freelance writer. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.

It has been over two hundred years since any citizens of Sleepy Hollow, NY, have stepped outside at night.

He no longer rides a horse, though he’s still called the Headless Horseman, and with the continuing advances in vehicle technology, no one dares try to outrun him to the bridge. But with property values in the neighboring vicinity so expensive, no one cares to move to another suburb either.

If the bear sits next to the wombat, and a stinkbug bats his lashless eyes at some roundness near a deer, how do I tell you about longing? The robin is silent, the rooster’s belly is a curve under fog, and I am too timid to explain what I want. If the same bear drops his fat genitals onto the pond, water too still, no one wants to look. Your patience is a woman with her voice down low, as if lined in wet fur. And this? This is me practicing, wide-eyed, my mouth a dusty O, palms spilling candy.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

At the start of every year, the Kingdom of Urbania elected a new monarch.

Farmer Putnam deposited his charges on the outskirts of the city where they would live out their remaining days. It was at this point he informed them that his transport fee was exactly one royal scepter.

Gareth and Melissa knew they were lost when they reached the gas station. It seemed abandoned, with the rusted pump and the crooked sign and the station house that had collapsed years previously.

The station pump was well over 3 meters tall. They couldn’t be sure when it had happened, but sometime during the night they had crossed over into the land of giants.

Rachel held herself tightly and rehashed all the bitter memories. The water soaked into her skin and she wished the gentle lapping would wash away her regrets and better-left-unsaids. Yet her mood only darkened as the wrinkles formed.

She’d rather claim the responsibility. At least then there is hope.