Armed agents conceal themselves in doorways and behind lampposts and newspapers. You just passed by one and didn’t even know you had. Time to electrocute your thinking. They’re paid to spy, and they spy on people like me – an old man walking a dog on a rope – who’ve done nothing wrong. I can’t sleep through the night for worry that they’re building a dossier against me by twisting something I said. Is it becoming a grass armchair? A black wall? A crying mirror? If it is, I’m finished. One day I’ll squeeze into a crowded elevator that’ll disappear between floors.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest collections are I’m Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press. 

Cindy sipped her hot cocoa and let the warmth hit her stomach, as she listened to the serene crackling of the fireplace. She opened her book, and cuddled on the couch with her dog Bree, until the phone rang.

Her planned relaxing day became a hectic day at the office.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O’Briant

Morning. Walking to the shops in a daydream, hungover. My mind wanders and takes me somewhere else….

‘You alright?’ She asks assuming that I am mad.

From Guest Contributor Declan Kelly

Declan lives in Mayo, Ireland. He is a big fan and follower of Irish heritage, culture, and beer.

I sit in the beaming sunlight reading Tim’s postcard from France repeatedly.

Before I have a chance to answer, I look at the postcard and chortle. It’s full of bird excrement.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sally sits at the dining table, scooping a spoonful of cheerios.

Sally is free, but bleeding heavily.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Findlay

Alexa spends most of her time writing fiction and poetry. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of three online literary magazines. She is obsessed with Disney and Jurassic Park. Her work has been featured in Pomona Valley Review, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Halcyon Days, Grotesque Magazine amongst others.

The dog and I had a disagreement over where my hands belonged. She had a name, but I’d reached the point where I rarely used it anymore.

It seemed we were at an impasse. I just wanted to read my book after a long day at work, and the dog just wanted to be loved after a long day of solitude. First world problems indeed.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

A sweep of peach graced the western sky…maybe. Sleep deprived, he couldn’t really be sure. Vision might be compromised, eyes too bloodshot to discern the ambiguous purity of grey dragging the downpour along the horizon.

Duty called.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Polystyrene-on-glass calls pause. Unknown bird waits. Magpie’s hoarse rattle bobs upon chill breeze, followed by one clipped caw. Wind and distant slumber.

Bleakness prevails, yet wind chimes sound.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

We named our new bulldog pup, Drooley, in honor of never-ending slobbering. As he matured, Drooley’s slobbering grew worse. Navigating through our house was like running a gauntlet of huge slime spots that Drooley slung on floors and walls every time he shook his head.

A week later, we celebrated our brilliant discovery by giving Drooley a new name, Pucker.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave is a recovering software developer who now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.