Mother waters her garden at midnight, with tears of the moon, she says. I can sometimes hear her crying, but I don’t tell her. Her garden is beautiful, with pale petals on willowy stems and dew clinging onto their souls, she says. I asked her once to see her budding seeds, but she insists that she must tend to them alone, fragile blooms. I nod because I know she is right, and because I am scared that if I don’t, she will find out, and my heart is too fragile.

Mother’s garden has no flowers, and I am still wilting.

From Guest Contributor Zeyneb Kaya

The traffic light turned amber. On any other day Geoff would have braked, but today something compelled him to floor the accelerator.

Glancing in the mirror, his jaw dropped as he watched a jack-knifing lorry careering into stationary cars at the intersection.

From Guest Contributor David Lowis

Saunders S. Saunders liked his name and the way it confused people. He liked tantalizing the public, and even though his middle name was Samuel, he thought from time to time about changing Samuel legally to Saunders. Then he would have a totally unusual name. Somewhere, someplace there might be a Saunders Samuel Saunders, but he doubted that a Saunders Saunders Saunders existed anywhere else in the world, or possibly in the entire universe. There was only one problem: Saunders S. Saunders had no other claim to fame, and that, he thought, was a problem, a major, major, major problem.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

“Hi darling,” the young man giggled, noticing a pretty woman leaning towards him. “Which one are you?”

“You’re in Spain, recovering from an all-nighter at an Irish Pub,” explained the doctor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Nadia rushes through the streets. Gunfire and bombs go off in the near distance and people are scrambling, and screaming, knocking into her while sweat drips down the nape of her neck. Her breath is shallow from the heat and clouds of black smoke fill the air. She uses her sleeve to cover her face from breathing in the toxic fumes, but she coughs heavily. She prays her husband is safe, but she hasn’t heard a word since he left to fight for their country.

A bomb explodes creating darkness and the bridge collapses beneath her.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“Does my ass look OK in these jeans?” she asked me.

“You just can’t get in the mood, can you?”

From Guest Contributor Edward Voeller

The ruler of the rubble sits at the end of a table that reaches around the world. Who will live to see his reign unravel? The babies, who grow up somewhere else? Will they return middle aged, full of stories from their broken parents, and older brothers and sisters who went to school in their own country, saluted their own flag, played in the sea that belonged to everyone? Surely they will come, full of sadness and anger, looking for remnants of family left behind. Grownups, who pick up handfuls of rubble and say, this used to be my home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

“Do you have the time?”

“Judging by your answers, you are not the one who has the time. You’re the one with the watch.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

In her dormitory room, Evangeline examined the ‘Special Romance Candle”, which she bought today from Madame Laveau’s House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

She slipped out of all her clothes, climbed under the covers, and eagerly waited for a knock on her door.

From Guest Contributor Don Kirksey