I bring her diamonds. My hands are full of them.

Every full moon I come to her porch at midnight, to show her how they shine in my open hands. But every time she only holds her head and softly cries.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

“Do you love me?”

When his love was gone, the reality hit him and it was very harsh. He wanted his love back in his life but it was impossible. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. He had lost everything. His love was gone forever. When things became unbearable, he lost his mind. He could feel those eyes staring at him. He could hear them laughing and screaming. When things went beyond the walls he tried to resist but failed. His dreams turned wet and became an illusion.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Elsie opens the window and the warm breeze enters the room. She sits next to William holding his hand, remembering.

Elsie’s eyes begin to water, and she wonders why dementia has taken her young love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

We have class together ninety-nine times. Four times a week she sits at the front, eyes bright, hand shooting heavenward. She is always in a group, no space beside her. She never sees me.

Class one hundred. She is late. The front is full. Flustered, she moves to the back, beside me. Seizing chance, I smile, and choke out a word I can’t remember. She smiles. She sees me.

From Guest Contributor Bronwen O’Donnell

Here is a secret–it’s not about the pain. Rather, it’s about prolonging the discomfort.

…and you might just catch when my eyes roll back.
Mmmmmm.

From Guest Contributor Jeff H.

Jeff is a high school English teacher. He blogs at https://batchandnarrative.com/ with his wife, a dietitian, about writing, food, and everything else.

Given the choice, I would want to be the sort of shrewd, goatish old man it’s said Rodin was, strolling the broad boulevards and ornate arcades of Paris after a productive morning in the studio, a young Russian-born French lady leaning lightly on his arm, and if her eyes were too wide apart for her to be considered a classic beauty, or if she didn’t actually read any of the books he recommended, he wouldn’t care, because it had just turned fall, and the air was like a crisp white wine, and they always felt at least a little drunk.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The most impressive thing Jesus has done recently other than walking on water and dying for everyone’s sins is buying that used turntable at a yard sale. From the moment his fingers graced the platter, he couldn’t stop himself from shredding sweet jams, morning, noon, night.

The evening he stood on that stage holding the Cincinnati DJ Superstar rhinestone-encrusted first place trophy, a tear streamed down his cheek. This one’s for me, Dad. This one’s just for me.

From Guest Contributor Ashley Jae Carranza

The town plow thunders by with its single headlight. You listen with your eyes squeezed shut, imagining the snow that touches everything—sliding under your mudroom door—powder dusting the floor. You’re warm, curled up in an igloo of quilts; yet, your nose feels cold. You know the woodstove burned out after the late news—only a lingering scent of smoke drifts up the backstairs. You wake, uncertain of the hour’s shade of blue, and look up at the white ceiling where a teensy black speck of a spider scales a silver thread, finding its way in this uncompromising dark.

M.J. Iuppa

A jar of coconut oil sits on the sink. These days, she oils all the rough parts of her body: elbows, knees, and everything in between. Beneath her fingertips, the white glob melts quickly and glistens as it glides head to toe, her whole body suddenly pink before the mirror. She looks into her cunning eyes, searching for the humor in this beauty care. She smirks. The smell of the coconut makes her think of Paradise. What is she waiting for? The day unfolds. When she passes her hand over her head’s short silver hairs, she hears that funeral tune.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa