On the television, the ball in Time’s Square dropped. “Happy New Year,” the crowd shouted. I gulped my wine, not a fan of champagne, and shut the TV. After all, I detested New Year’s Eve. It’s a lonely holiday for some, myself included, and I’d rather get drunk on wine in the comfort of my own home, warm by the fire.

Instead of spending the first day of the new year relaxing, I typed my resignation letter.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Auntie asks my mother and I to move out of her house. She says I make too much noise when I sleepwalk and my rock albums are causing Uncle Herman more brain damage from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Upstairs, I take down my posters of Geronimo, John Lennon, and James Dean from the finely cracked yellow walls. Exhausted, my mother sits on my bed and breaks down. “It’s all your fault,” she says. As if I had the power. At night tiny policemen march into my ears. I’m not sure it’s a dream. They say come with us.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Kyle’s latest collection of text and art is Amnesiacs of Summer published by Yavanika Press. He loves street photography, French Impressionism, and 60s garage bands that never made it big.

I opened my eyes and spoke with the angel at the foot of my bed.

“You were texting someone, apparently.”

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

She’s walking home when she sees the most beautiful sunset she’s ever seen. Her phone is already in her hand. For some shots she aims low, including both the sunset and the winding tree-lined path that stretches across the park. For others, she aims high, capturing only the yellows, oranges and reds of the evening sky. There is no pleasure in the moment, only later after she arrives at her apartment, after she sits on her bed, after she looks through the photographs, after she decides which she likes best, after she uploads it, after she starts counting the likes.

From Guest Contributor Spencer Chou

Steve wasn’t one to believe in miracles. He understood too well the depravities of the human heart. More often than not he was victim to the world’s machinations. That’s how fate had led him to the streets.

So when the woman offered a hot meal, he expected some sort of catch, likely in the form of a lengthy sermon. When she offered a warm bed, he called to mind images of harvested organs and sexual servitude. When she claimed through phony tears to be his mother, he fled at the first opportunity, certain it was another conspiracy plotting against him.

I opened my eyes and saw everything in a new light. The worries of the past few months seemed to have just vanished into thin air. The constant throbbing pain in the back of my head was now gone. I felt like dancing and singing at the top of my lungs. Suddenly I heard some raised voices and the sound of weeping. Intrigued, I walked a few paces and entered the room from where the sobbing came. There was a woman in a blue dress crying, looking at something on the bed. I glanced at the bed and saw myself.

From Guest Contributor Madhavi Agnihotri

“Eat this, Mom,” she said, handing me a plastic donut.

The FBI waited below.

From Guest Contributor Bethany Cardwell

The mist glistens with false promises. The canopy drips blood of myriad misled bards vanquished by the Mediocre tribe.

Cathbad rises from the straw bed. “No, Carolan, a warning of ignorance.”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Debra sat beside her husband’s hospital bed, the click of the monitor a regular tune in her head. Barry laid there, his breathing calm and steady. Seeing him hooked up to tubes and unconscious was an unbearable sight. Still, she read to him daily and hoped he heard, but his eyes never opened. It had been one year since his car accident. Trauma to the brain was what the doctor called it.

As the doctor unplugged the monitor, Debra watched Barry’s chest stop moving.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

In the weeks after her mother died, Pamela had no skin. Everything was surface—every twitching nerve, every gush of bile. When Creepy Carl told her to smile as he dropped off his rent check, her lips peeled back to the bone.

But it was. She wouldn’t have her raw insides sheathed in lies. She slept in the guest room, on top of the blankets, oozing resentment.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.