With his apartment empty and no sounds other than the ticking of the clock, Timothy took a walk in the cold night air until a bright sign caught his eye. Psychic Reading. Reluctantly, he went inside.

Still on the ground, her eyes open, Tianna was dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Unknown amongst them,
she sits; awe and wonder.
Blazing eyes searching,
surrounded, glorious banquet,
wondering of the occasion.
‘Where is your father?’
Calypso forbidden his return!
Wanting the strong man herself,
locked away, a vaulted cave;
awaiting his love.

‘What is the meaning of this banquet?’
Men of Troy had heard of the banishment,
their behavior animalistic.
Seeking the love of the ‘widow,’
leaving the son belittled,
doomed to an inglorious future.

From Guest Contributor Melissa Land

I had
This poem
That was like
Re-
Fusing
To be
Like junk
Running late
In your veins
Re-
Wiring
Memories
Before they
are made
Okay, they
are not
sunk in
That deep
But narrative
About this
Is on its
Way but
its late
just like
This feeling-
Passing-
Feeling
Re-
Living
Screens to
Sublimated
Dreams

I’m walking
And the sun
Hits me
Everyone wants
To have
Something
They don’t
See, in you
this poetry
Concealed in
A voice
But they will keep
Writing your
Story over
Before it is
One
Before once
Even noting
That your poem
Is already

From Guest Contributor Wyatt Martin

“How many years do you think we’ve known each other?” Zoey asked.

“I do them because I love you.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

He’d risen early this morning to plan the house his wife had dreamed of, but the hilltop’s stark beauty had rooted him to the spot.

He reflected on the nature of sirens.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Perhaps it’s the abundant sunshine, or the bees pollinating the flowers, or even the birds flying from tree to tree. Or, it could just be that Max is a happy man. Yes, happy. He walks around the neighborhood listening to his favorite group U2 on his iPod. His stride quickens to their song, The Streets Have No Name. He waves to his young neighbor Tammy, who is riding her pink striped bicycle.

Max turns, but it’s too late. The last thing he sees before the car strikes him is birds soaring above, and feet approaching.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The drive was rocky. Hanging out of the window of the car speeding past pine trees, barely clinging to the edge of a degrading dirt road, she felt free. Sitting on the edge of her seat, she stuck her hand out the window and played with the wind whipping past her fingers. Up and down up and down her hand went. As the road got rougher she tightened her seat belt, the last vestibule of safety in a spiraling series of events. She tucked herself in as if waiting for the kiss that never came, that hug that never happened.

From Guest Contributor Noah Bello

At first I thought it was a barrel of whiskey strapped to the back of the gangly old man, stooping him over to half in the parking lot. Snow swirled in orange light clouds. As he shuffled closer, I realized it was an egg, yellowish, enormous, bound with dirty ropes. There were scratches on it as long as my arm, and I wondered whether they came from the inside or the outside. I loaded the groceries into the car and pushed my cart at him.

“That’s not how it works,” he muttered, head down. “I have to carry it myself.”

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Niamh clambered down the rocks, grasping grass to ensure balance. Her eyes widened with adoration each time she peered over her shoulder espying tides crashing carelessly against bustling coral. To others it was an empty beach clinging to the base of Irish pastures, but to Niamh her struggle over the roughened pebbles opened the gates of Eden.

Her lens captured what she saw; pulsating amber beasts clinging to years of compressed life, silvery fish darting around with grand families and crabs working hard, hunting. Emerald weeds flowed through natural pools capturing the life of the sun. Images she trapped forever.

From Guest Contributor Kerry Kelly

“Sit down!” someone yelled.

No one stopped me.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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