My family sings and we eat ice cream cake, the crunchy bits dancing across my tongue. We shovel sugary forkfuls into our mouths, laughing and sharing kindred stories. We are warm. We are comfortable. We are sheltered.

Whistles for justice pierce the air before biting clouds of pepper spray surround the faces of protestors fighting for their neighbors. There is a shove, and all the world sees a cell phone raised in a clenched fist; a lifeless body sprawled in the street.

From Guest Contributor Brigitta Scheib

The fire blew the windows into the street, and pedestrians ran from the area. I entered the house with my fellow firefighters, and the intense heat hit me like a weight. In the distance I could hear someone yelling for help.

I went back inside, and we extinguished the fire.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

It’s one of those days when the pollution’s so thick, you can stare directly at the sun and it looks like the old Japanese flag. We call it the smog moon.

Now, most of the gang are either dead, in jail, or under contract, and smog moons make me sad remembering.

Autumn evenings hit different. You know the season because of how the air cools your sun-burnt skin, and you crave melting into the breeze. Insect music dances across the same wind as your smile. The scent of decay tantalizes with its promise of the most peaceful hibernation. Surrounded by abundance, knowing there’s more than you can ever hope to enjoy.

I fall asleep, a big spoon in a drawer with just enough silverware for a single meal. Remember to wash it after every use and one spoon is enough to last a lifetime.

I turn aside before Everest’s summit. Hobbling to a low drift, I scoop away the snow. I have found her, still lying where she had collapsed on her fateful ascent years ago. I peel off her goggles. She stares at the cobalt sky, as if daydreaming. Her ivory skin remains unspoilt, despite the passage of time.

I wrap my wife’s stiff hand in mine and gaze up at the heavens, waiting to see what she sees.

From Guest Contributor Christopher Mattravers-Taylor

His writing is coloured by his experiences as a ME sufferer, particle physicist at CERN, property developer, core driller, disability benefits claimant, Dalmatian breeder, traveller, and more besides. One thing has remained constant in his chaotic life, however: his love of Encona Hot Sauce.

You’d think it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was filled with puffy clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm, perfect for short sleeves. The air had just a hint of pollen, so that anyone with allergies needed to worry. Colorful buds were starting to pop, and every creature, from squirrels to songbirds to rabbits, believed winter was no more.

George would need to hurry if we wanted to bury my corpse before the soil froze over.

Robert repeats his mantra as he tries to concentrate on nothing but his breathing.

This is not a paradise. This is not a paradise.

The stillness of the air weighed heavily on the landscape. The lake, melted during the false summer, was paved over again.

That night, they all bristled at the injustice of their punishment. After all, they’d been right.

As the helicopter approached the storm-ravaged town, hundreds of people desperately watched and waited for food and supplies. I started to make the first drop and joyful screams filled the air.

I buckled my seatbelt and said a silent prayer, thanking Him that I had a place to go home to.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Nazis arrived in Poland stomping down the street showing their authority. My mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner, the smell of vegetables wafting in the air, and my father had the radio on listening to the broadcast of the invasion. I sat next to him and stared out the window. For no apparent reason, one of the soldiers kicked a man that stood on the sidewalk with I’m assuming his young daughter. The girl screamed when the man collapsed in a heap. Was this the world now? No one was safe.

The next day I joined the resistance.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher