The bright light of the dawn greets him with a cheerful glow, sneaking lies between the buildings.

Children laugh in the distance. The rumble of snowploughs begin, pushing the salt-weakened snow into heaps of black slush.

From Guest Contributor T.W. Garland

A stillness descends on the empty beach. The children are asleep in cottages. How many of you stepped on shells and hurt yourselves? How many of you were stung by jellyfish?

It’s time to go home. Are your parents going to miss you, kids?

From Guest Contributor Natsumi Tanaka

Natsumi Tanaka is a writer living in Kyoto, Japan. Her short stories have appeared in journals such as Anima Solaris, Kotori no kyuden, and Tanpen. She is the author of the short story collection Yumemiru ningyo no okoku (2017). Translations of her short fiction have appeared in Fanzine, Star 82 Review, and The William & Mary Review, among others.

Our 5-year-old daughter, Celeste, was singing to herself. She suddenly stopped and said, “Why do I always fart when I sing?” Then a French farmer while plowing on a hill uncovered a rusted revolver that may be the very one Van Gogh used to shoot himself. I looked at my wife, who was looking back at me. I can’t keep drowning, I can’t. There are little children living without parents in freezing tents in detention camps. The ancient Greek stoics maintain a complicit silence. I just want it to end. Every kind of music is meant to be played loudly.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Timothy wants a brother for Christmas.

In Bangladesh, a little boy has a happy holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You’re moving away rather than moving toward something. I can’t be sure if you’ll ever come back. The sky is dotted with clouds that resemble ominous black eggs. You want to scream for help, but you’re out of breath. You’ve no idea at all what you should do next. “Fuck the clown!” you confusedly think. “Where’s my clock?” Just as someone is saying it’ll be OK, you feel a bone break. You see buildings toppling over, trees melting back into the ground. You hear angels approaching at full speed in chariots. There aren’t even parking spaces big enough for them.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press.

Ten-year-old Theodore sat in front of the window and watched the trick or treaters. A boy dressed as Dracula flapped his black cape and his fangs glowed under the streetlight. Theodore took a sip of cocoa and listened as his mom wished the children a ‘Happy Halloween’ while they chortled and chose their favorite candy.

Theodore finished his hot cocoa, pushed his wheelchair in front of the television and stared blankly at the screen until his mom called his name for dinner.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I’m walking along the parks path and the sun is so hot, sweat drips down my neck. The trees are full of sparrows chirping in unison, and the benches are full of elderly men reading the newspaper or just staring ahead. One man is eating chips and crumbs stick to his mustache. I chortle and move along. Mothers with children, some eating ice cream, drop sprinkles on the ground and the ants come in droves.

It’s days like this I don’t take for granted. Life is full of surprises and I never know what will be, once I start radiation.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

On her death bed, Jennifer’s thoughts don’t dwell on her husband, despite several decades of marriage and two children together.

It was only two weeks, but that was enough time to know Mateo was the love of her life.

Amusement Park. Strange name. Bet there are more unamused adults than young children. Heard Uncle Max scream. Saw him vomit on the Ferris Wheel, again. After he said he couldn’t stomach it. Cousins bashed themselves manoeuvring bumper cars. Their dads were not amused. Neither was the ride operator. Too much cotton candy caused my sweet tooth to sour at the dentist’s. We tried the Swing Carousel. I sat with Dad. The swing in front of us was empty. Would’ve been filled if the father of a toddler didn’t have a tantrum. They relocated at the merry-go-round. I preferred the Pendulum.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and many friends.

There’s so much still to suffer that even tediously waiting for a train that’s hours late would be a grateful interruption. People are digging in the burning soil with bare hands. My wife’s there. My mother, too. I was going to join them, but now I can’t. It’s as if I’ve become, without my consent, a junk collector. Strange items keep appearing outside the door: a pamphlet, “Human Beings against Music”; rusted bedsprings; a bundle of pencils with broken points; feathers from random birds. Someday, I suppose, children will ask me, “What was it like, the end of the owls?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good