When the bombs exploded, I veered the plane sideways.

I landed on enemy territory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The fresh scent of flowers fills the air with sweetness. Diana takes a deep breath and relishes the moment, strolling through the park listening to the children play and the birds sing, the warm breeze against her face. She finds a bench, sits, puts her reading glasses on, and takes out her book. She takes a sip of water and begins reading, enthralled in the story, content with the sun on her face, when the cell phone rings.

Diana closes the novel, rushes to the car, and drives to the hospital to say goodbye to her father, her only family.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Innocent civilians taken hostage. Families plead for their loved ones’ safe return, helpless and fearing the worst outcome. All they can do is weep and wait.

These are the horrors of war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Howard entered the school’s front office Monday morning following his Saturday wedding. The head secretary smiled at him and cooed coquettishly, “Ooh, Mr. Morgan, how’s married life?” The other secretaries smirked, eager to hear his reply.

Grinning madly, Howard walked out of the office thinking, What a great start to the day.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa’Mya Hall

The fish hook didn’t stir in the stillness of the water.

No fish today.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A boy I knew killed a man. Lost his mind. Shaved his head. His face on the news was an open-mouthed scream, soundless. His eyes so round, searching. I whispered to the screen: please blink. I said it like ice in his mouth, like the way he’d look up at stars puncturing the still night sky, the cold air, too many angles of his body pushing out, knees and elbows and chin. I said it without hope. When this boy was mine, he danced and wide-smiled and kissed and laughed. His voice rang out, ethereal, hit the earth like rain.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

Too small, too tough, the forever stuff. Five millimeters to a nanometer, all recycle cheaters. Polyethylene is not green. Debris in the sea, in the sand, on the land, in the air. The minuscule plastic molecule – drink it, breathe it, absorb it. 200 thousand microplastic molecules in you every year. Perfect hair, revolutionary skincare – just vain dreams ruining streams. All the sales promotions on lotions and potions, laundry soap, shopping bags, and tags. So much trash; it’s the sin of the bin. It’s hard to be a container abstainer, a nature campaigner. This is the mess we’re in.

From Guest Contributor K Mayer

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The air is ominous, and lightning brightens the sky. I hold onto the mountain with both hands. I’m an avid climber, but the weather forecast is wrong. The sky is not abundant sunshine.

I wave my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher