We stopped by a lake. Saw the sky stratified in blues, greys, and white. Felt frosty air thicken.

Night approached with spirits of the past watching.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

James and April had just moved to their new apartment. The walls were freshly painted and the appliances were new.

Later that night, the complex was engulfed by flames. James and April escaped.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Tim read his sister’s winning entry through, comparing it with listed runners-up. He reflected on the superficial ditties with which building society advertisements were enamoured to the point of misidentification as poetry. Perhaps that ill-timed reflection jaded him, for he was not gentle with his critique of Martha’s literary infant.

Martha cashed the cheque anyway.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Bobby carted the bin out by the hose and sighed.

No one would find this enjoyable, he cackled, no one.

From Guest Contributor Joseph S. Pete

Joseph is an Iraq War veteran, an award-winning journalist, an Indiana University graduate, a book reviewer, and a frequent guest on his local NPR affiliate. He was named the poet laureate of Chicago BaconFest 2016, a feat that Geoffrey Chaucer chump never accomplished. His work has appeared in Chicago Literati, Dogzplot, shufPoetry, The Roaring Muse, Fictitious, The Blue Collar Review, The Five-Two, Lumpen, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Pour Vida, Pulp Modern, Zero Dark Thirty and elsewhere. He once Googled the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. True story, believe it or not.

Combined their ages were 106; they decided to celebrate their birthdays straight after her youngest sister’s wedding in May. They would drive from Boca Grande, Florida all the way to Tampa and hop the first flight to London available. Only a few would be privy to their plan. The mother of the bride and her eldest daughter, whom many despised. They would celebrate the sixties and the end of thirties with the same trials and failures that they marked the twenties, fifties, forties, and tens. The zeros were so distant; neither woman could remember them. “Happy 106, us,” they smirked.

From Guest Contributor E.B. Morrison

I bought my movie ticket a week ago, to see Rogue One. Now the day of, a heavy rain storm caused flooding and traffic. I had to make it there. I sat in the car stuck behind honking car horns thinking of last year’s Star Wars film and Princess Leia’s recent death. A tragedy. Okay, the traffic started moving. I had fifteen minutes to get there, park, and buy popcorn.

The parking lot was unusually empty. I found a spot close to the theater. After I ran through puddles, the sign on the door read closed due to inclement weather.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd

The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.

I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can’t hoard me.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

I helped move your walker over the curb. You listened as I shared my emotional grief. We became friends.

I read your obituary. Memories touched with an afterglow.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

It was late evening of my birthday dinner, and we were having a nice time watching our favorite TV show. In between the commercial breaks we had some small discussions. My friend shared a video. She was narrating the story to me and told me that in the story there is a small boy flying in the air with a bow and arrow who makes people fall in love when they get struck by his arrow. Smiling at the innocence, I said, ‘We call it Cupid’ and she replied back with the same innocence, ‘Oh wow, cupid is so stupid.’

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a French language interpreter and media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series. You can get in touch with her at http://languages-consult.com/