Today the mailman came with a special delivery package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and bore no return address. I was required to sign for it, which I did, and watched the mailman jump in an unmarked black van and speed away. I took the box inside and set it on the kitchen island. I wondered who might have sent it. I have no friends or family. It’s a peaceful life. Then I heard the screaming—a man’s screaming. Hard to make out at first, but once you keyed into it, you couldn’t stop hearing it for anything.  

From Guest Contributor Meeah Williams

“O ugly ducklings grown into beauty, are ye homesick too?”

Thus I, standing in the shadows of the House of Quasimodo, watching you glide upon these placid waters, O snow-winged sisters of my soul!

“Swans fly south for the winter” You, of whom I first read in the sun-baked plains of my homeland, a world soaked in the scents of masala and mangoes – in this city of eternal Autumn, you have made yourselves a second Spring.

You know not my home, O Daughters of Winter. I know not yours. Yet here the twain shall meet, Once Upon a September.

From Guest Contributor Hibah Shabkhez

Hibah is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

Abandoned… Alone!

Sabre Tiger the children named him. The apartment manager said, No!”

Dad said, “Ask Grandma,” Grandma said, “Ask Grandpa.” Grandpa was reluctant. The children loved him, the boy said, “Take him home,” the girl said, “Please!” Grandpa relented.

The vet said, “He’s healthy, but overweight at 13 pounds,” Sabre swished his tail severely, “Might not get along with your cat.”

At home, Sabre was content; on his back, trusting, paws in the air, asleep.

Now, at 19 pounds plus, he’s Sabre Tiger; struts, ruler of the household. Grandpa reminds him daily. “You’re a cat, remember, you’re a CAT!

From Guest Contributor Ted Duke

When Matt Dobson teed off for the tenth hole, he drilled Brian Witherspoon, who weighs about 350, as he bent over to pick up what he thought was a quarter but turned out to be a gum wrapper.

“Well damn,” Brian yelled, “Dobson’s ball hit me square in the ass!”

Everyone got real quiet and we thought a situation might develop, but Lawson jumped off the bench and yelled, “Oh come on, he missed your asshole by five inches.”

Then everyone started laughing and so Brian walked over and shook Dobson’s hand and we all got on with our game.

From Guest Contributor Andrew Miller

Andrew retired from a career that included university teaching and research. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Check out some of his publications at: http://www.andrewcmiller.com/

She’s walking home when she sees the most beautiful sunset she’s ever seen. Her phone is already in her hand. For some shots she aims low, including both the sunset and the winding tree-lined path that stretches across the park. For others, she aims high, capturing only the yellows, oranges and reds of the evening sky. There is no pleasure in the moment, only later after she arrives at her apartment, after she sits on her bed, after she looks through the photographs, after she decides which she likes best, after she uploads it, after she starts counting the likes.

From Guest Contributor Spencer Chou

She replayed his voicemail message. ‘Sorry I missed you, I’m just catching the plane now.’ Then an airport announcement sounded in the background and almost drowned out the next words. ‘I left a note on the kitchen table. Read it when you get home.’

Now she picked up the note and read it for the umpteenth time: I love you. See you next week. I’m counting the seconds.

It may have been only words, but they were important. Especially now. How she wished she had gone too, then she would not have had to listen to news of the crash.

From Guest Contributor Henry Bladon

Henry lives in Somerset in the UK and writes all types of fiction. He has a PhD in creative writing and runs a writing support group for people with mental health issues. His work can be seen in Writers’ Forum, MicrofictionMonday, FridayFlashFiction, 50-Word Stories and Writers’ Forum, amongst other places.

Speeding through town, the traffic light signals me to stop. I sit. Idle. Stone faced. I’ve been stuck here many times. On my way to the wedding. On my way to the police station. On my way to the hospital. To the hospital again. Even in the ambulance, I assume. On my way to court. Now, here, I’m stopped again. Alone. My right foot yearning to push the gas. I always obey the traffic light. Red light. Red blood. My blood he committed to spilling one soul-crushing punch at a time. Stupid traffic light. Suddenly, I get the green light.

From Guest Contributor Nancy Geibe Wasson

The next time you’re caught in a really bad place – the kind of place where people are always asking each other, “Oh why can’t they get that baby out of the ground?” – take some frequently used verbs and combine them in a bowl with Hindu magnet incense, a bit of forgotten history, brain fluid, and warm dog’s breath, and then let the mixture sit for 20 minutes, after which you should be able to see a faint glow up there, see it coming over the hill, women wearing sky blue T-shirts that say “Quaker” and waving signs that say “Love.”

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.

It looked like the kid in the black hoodie had a gun in his hand. And, we all knew that the officer, who was coming around the corner, couldn’t see him.

The priest raised the Glock and fired, hit the kid square in the chest, knocked him flat.

The guy in charge whistled. “Why’d you shoot?”

“Thought he had a gun.”

He reran the video. “It’s an axe—he’s splitting wood.”

Everyone could tell the priest felt foolish. No matter. We got on the bus and rode to the shooting range. We wanted to see them shoot the 50-caliber rifle.

From Guest Contributor Andrew Miller

Andrew retired from a career that included university teaching and research. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Check out some of his publications at: http://www.andrewcmiller.com/

Last summer it was warm with sun drips. The rain would pour and pour, filling my yard to a pond. When one morning I had a visitor inside this blue and ceramic bird feeder a little creature peeking his head out with excitement. I peeked in not knowing what to expect. It was a tree frog with little suction cups on his feet, so cool. He leaped out and climbed onto the tree so fast looking for something. I guess he was trying to find a huge raindrop to drink from. He was snatching magic, a raindrop with a rainbow.

From Guest Contributor JoyAnne O’Donnell