There she goes again, completely absurd. Nothing she says is true or worthwhile. But she’s livid, wreaking havoc on all of us, destroying our mood and self-worth over invented situations; she, the perpetual victim.

Tomorrow, she won’t apologize, or even remember this madness. But it’s real and I must stay to protect them.

From Guest Contributor Henry Eutaw

There was an old man who never slept at night. I saw him often from my room, I recognized him but didn’t know him.

My sister got married and I shifted to her room. I never saw him again; now all I get to see is a closed window with broken glass. I wonder where he’s gone? Previously, the open window disturbed me and now it’s the closed one.

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a french language interpreter and a media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series.

She consoles the dust for being lonely. The rust for being needy. The rot for becoming unstitched by rain. It is easy to whisper these things on the day of rest. When even birds decline seeding and bees stay inside hives. There was little moving in the sparse outside, save a cat prowling between an empty peach bucket and a splintered fish pole leaned against fence rails, its frayed point vanishing in the tale’s middle.

She sits with tears on her cheek. Cheek on her hand. Pinkie finger tracing glass. Watching her three level acres all forlorn, infertile, sour, outworn.

From Guest Contributor Catherine Moore

Catherine is the author of three chapbooks including “Wetlands” (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her fiction appears in Tahoma Literary Review, Illinois Wesleyan University Press, Tishman Review, Mid-American Review, and The Best Small Fictions of 2015 anthology.

Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as “mental/alcoholic.”
Escaped punishment by suicide.
Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.
Hung to death.
Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.
Death sentence.
Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of “rarest of rare.” Raped so hard; intestines bled.
Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.
Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.
Death penalty.
Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.
Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.

Fuck Justice.

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.

Three-year-old Hannah placed a reindeer ornament on the Christmas tree while her mother put on the sparkling red star topper. The tree with its colorful lights lit up the room.

Hannah’s mother touched her face and smiled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.

In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Did it again! He never puts his grubby fingers on the older ones. No, just me and the few new arrivals. If I’m to be honest with myself – we’re less curvy than they. Maybe that’s it? Maybe he thinks we have less grounds for complaint?

“Excuse me, is this touchscreen supposed to be pink?”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

“There are no Absolutes in intelligence — rather, there is collaborative education to share the flow of stock, (the durability, and woodiness of our external, noumena-phenomena: that is, the definiendum we “usually” perceive in itself, vs., the definiendum — or object in question for definition — perceivable by an outward projection of appearances) omni-interactions like a launchpad within our Activision concavity). Perhaps, the boundless spectra of profoundly vague, all possible worlds Finnegan’s Wake sempiternities “n-gon-like;” lopsided, (and sew) “imprecise” Syracusian-moona-aquifer impassible linearity akin to all of us — will thus, liberate ex-communicators in the dogmatic chapel of all intelligence testing.”

From Guest Contributor Tiana Lavrov

My stepfather had Parkinson’s disease. Before he died, he was one percent of the person he had been. It’s cruel to say that at fifty percent he was a kinder person.

Four years on, at his funeral my lie became true.

From Guest Contributor Alice Kibbe

Every second changes everything. Even in a padded room with nothing but white walls, a locked door, and himself, he knew this as truth.

His left toe twitched.

From Guest Contributor Patrick Winters