Philip, my husband, gently massages the knot in my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

With Philip smiling and watching from the sidewalk, I feel confident our voice will be heard.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Do you remember last year, Platero? We were heading off to Señora Jiménez to bring her some deadwood.

Juan sends his greetings: “Tell your donkey that thanks to his stubbornness I’m a grandfather now.”

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.

I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a minute, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey my sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, yellow daisy-like flowers that shut at night as though sleeping or even dead open at the touch of morning, bodies exploding from coffins.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.

From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The house whose elderly owner didn’t believe in staging finally sold, for way below market value. The old man called Jane twice to back out, overcome by nostalgia. When it sold he moved in with his daughter. She lived nearby.

The buyers threatened to call the police if there was a fourth time.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Todd writes Fiction and Poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His collection Ingenue was published in 2020 by Celery City Press. Recent work appears in Praxis, The Lake, Literary Yard, and Star 82 Review.

He’d become accustomed to his trifocals and dentures; took his half-dozen morning pills religiously; prayed for just one more upright day, another day to deal with his rapidly advancing age.

His grandson’s youngest daughter (almost half-way through her troubled, rebellious teens) said, “Don’t worry, Pop-Pop; I can fix you up real good,” and before he knew it they had matching blue hair.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron’s many published works, including his debut chapbook, Fallen Away, can be found HERE.

Hannah clutches the picture close to her chest and closes her eyes, a smile on her lips as she envisions her young daughter dancing, her steps light, and the sunshine gleaming on her golden blond hair.

The air is filled with a snowy substance.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake, stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

From Guest Contributor Anuradha Dev

Memories surfaced as the woman on the balcony leaned against the balustrade, her young daughter beside her.

She gently hugged her daughter and watched the young girl’s red hair blow in the breeze. The same color as his.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher