The soldier’s leg is broken in two places, but he’s courageous and doesn’t scream. As I’m cleaning the wound, he grabs my arm.

The sepsis will soon kill him, and he’ll return home in a coffin.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

As nightfall descended, a feathery latecomer gathered crumbs from Vi’s patio. Lights in a nearby house turned off, except for one.

Vi wondered if her imagination played tricks. Since their conversation, that bedroom light no longer lit up.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, primarily residing in Edmonton, Canada.

“I’m sorry, Number Six,” Death said to his probationary assistant, “but I’m going to have to let you go. Even though business is booming, and I need all the help I can get, you’ve just made too many mistakes. You’ve ended the lives of three people who were not supposed to die…just this week!”

“Enough!” Death barked. “No excuses! There is just no place in this organization for a Dim Reaper!”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own and It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

This is a country you only hear about when there is a failed coup or a 7.2 magnitude earthquake or all the whales have syphilis. Most days I feel as if hundreds of tiny worms with razor teeth are whittling my bones. People who have seen me grab onto a wall to keep from falling down in pain sometimes suggest I try heat or special creams. I thank them just to be polite. Meanwhile, a figure in a long black coat lurking nearby sucks on a cigarette, then expels a mouthful of smoke like the monster in a fairy tale.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s chapbook Famous Long Ago is forthcoming from Laughing Ronin Press.

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

“Your move,” Death said.

Death roared, “Checkmate.”

From Guest Contributor Amberstar Rosette

Amberstar is a writer who lives in the Czech Republic

January 18, Jack told his wife Jan that she had gained a few pounds. Why couldn’t she be skinny like her younger sister Jean? February 10, he stayed out until after 2AM, came home drunk and drove the car into the garage. March 3, Jan found her sister in bed with Jack. The jury of twelve women ruled Jack’s death justifiable homicide on December 2. Five days later Jan married her brilliant lawyer, Frank Webster. When asked what he was doing, Frank said “Sure she’s a murderer, but look at that body. Anyway, now I know what not to do.”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The little old man has published four hundred or so things in the UK, USA, Canada, Iran, Germany, Australia, the Netherlands, India, and Spain without ever exhibiting any skill or ability. https://sites.google.com/site/aberrantword/

When Franz K. was taken off the train in the middle of the night, he came to on a street of futuristic glass towers that, from an architectural perspective, were already passé. “What are those buildings?” he asked his keeper, a tall, thin, priestly figure who emanated an aura of gentle authority. “You’ll find out,” the keeper said, smiling. He never did. By the time the sun rose, he was tied to a post, watching in terror the firing squad assemble. It was sort of like avant-garde cinema where a series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from 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.