The Knight is known for fire and might. Day after day he proves himself worthy of his sword. His title. His name. Out into the world he rides, his demeanor like an armor around him. Many dragons he has slain, yet some refuse to die. His sword is covered with the blood of both his enemies and his own heart. He seeks to be noble, but in doing so becomes pathetic. He is invincible in battle, but hopeless in everything else. His armor is impenetrable, but forever clings to him. No dragon can hurt him. Only the soft flower can.

From Guest Contributor Richard Snow

Richard is a student of creative writing and journalism at Pikes Peak Community College. Currently writing a fantasy trilogy set in the early 20th century.

The beggar standing on the corner was holding up a cardboard sign I drove past too fast to read. I heard a red alarm bell ringing when one of my students, a college junior, spelled “toxin” “tocsin” in an essay. In the surviving fragment of his book, On Analogy, Julius Caesar tells us to “Avoid strange and unfamiliar words as a sailor avoids rocks at sea,” which, I admit, seems like sensible advice. But even so, I’m not about to take writing tips from the man who started the fire that in 48 B.C. destroyed the Great Library of Alexandria.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

Pig, of brick house fame, smelled something burning. Was it a weasel? Then he heard cursing coming from next door. Witch again! After countless warnings from the city, she’d refused to clean up the candy bits and cake that littered her yard, refused to cease and desist in the eating of children. But what if she was on fire? What about the Good Samaritan Law? A law that he and his two brothers scoffed at years before, when they thought taunting a wolf caught in a trap was amusing, almost as enjoyable as the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

I found her in the rust climbing over shower tiles, red-brown on sea-green. She began as spots, then shapes—a rabbit? A snail? A man, then a woman. She was a mermaid with me for five years, singing pirate songs of lost souls in fishbowls and other Pink things; then she grew out of her skin, became an unnamed creature, alive without lines, her hair like fire. Now only one wisp of her tail holds on to the faucet, for me. She floats free in the glossy turquoise beyond, laughing above the rusty piles of what she used to be.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com.

NATURE SUBMISSION:

We had come out of the root cellar, its door fortunately hidden by an overgrown raspberry patch, where we’d hidden from marauding mobs that had fled the cities, and hidden again when the pursuing troops began shelling. Our house and outbuildings were charred skeletons, the animals gone. We were still holding hands.

From Guest Contributor F. J. Bergmann

Oksana pounded the door of Zoya’s wooden house. She screamed.

Zoya embraced her daughter. She heard a crashing sound. When she realized the smoke was coming from above, she said, “I love you Ekaterina. We’ll be together in Heaven.”

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

From Guest Contributor Chris Thompson

I held the charred remains of something dear to me. Last glowing sparks from the fire catapulted towards the night sky, disappearing upon impact.

Toasting marshmallows over a campfire need not be complicated.

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.

He thinks he sees her again and he’s mesmerized by her perfection.

These are the benedictions of age, he thinks. Even when the fire burns low, there is memory and imagination; even in an empty room I am never alone.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Find Ron. Lavalette’s work at: EGGS OVER TOKYO

“Mother is upset,” a Wiradjuri tribal elder said. All heads nodded in agreement. Elders from the Ngungawal and Walgaulu tribes had traveled days to be at this meeting of Aboriginal peoples.

Meeting was over and nothing was resolved. The elders returned to their burned-out bush.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin