A city thrives and a city dies, from village to metropolis to graveyard. Now, the desert rocks hide secrets of millennia past, lives long forgotten, dreams of glory faded to black.

The city endured longer than the man and woman. It endured longer than the grandchildren. But the city didn’t live forever. The family still endures.

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Thanksgiving. A time to appreciate loved ones.

George’s aide helps him to the table. He sits and savors every moment, knowing this is his last Thanksgiving.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Once the lawn chairs have been folded and stacked inside the shed, the plastic wrap stretched across rows of cheese glistening with sweat to be stuffed into the fridge and forgotten, the shrieking of grandchildren and boozy chatter of distant relations swept out the front door and down the driveway, and the candles—slabs of wax carved into a 7 and 5 and crusted with cake—tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, the man lifts legs snaked with purple veins onto the recliner and makes his annual wish: that he won’t be here this time next year.

From Guest Contributor Doug Koziol

Doug is the Fiction Editor for Redivider, a journal of new literature and art. His work has appeared in CounterPunch, Driftwood Press, and theEEEL.

It’s my favorite time of year, holiday season on the coast. The weather is nice, the days are long, and everyone is happy. The tourists are everywhere. Children, grandchildren, dogs; they’re all waiting in lines at the jewelry shops, the coffee shops, and the gift shops. Especially standing in lines at the ice cream shop where I work every day. Flashing their cash around once and a while, but mostly credit cards. So carefree and careless. And so clueless. They’re all ripe for the picking. Skimming credit card information is how I can live comfortably the rest of the year.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

He found it long ago, in his grandfather’s attic. The cover said Dictionary, but it looked more like an old journal: yellowed, desiccated, stained and crumpled. It contained a list of words, one to each page, words he had never seen before.

Once the word was scribed into the book, however, it escaped from the language, never to be uttered, written, thought of again. His dictionary that consumed words.

They always want the same story. I’ve more grandchildren than I can count, so I’ve told it who knows how many times. Spent most my life in married bliss, managing the estate bought with that black wyrm’s treasure horde.

But I can’t help feeling that life has never been that exciting since slaying the dragon.