The woman who has been known only as Grandma for most of her life holds the baby in her lap tight and points to different pictures in the photo album. “That’s my father in that picture right there,” she says, pointing to a black and white image that seems almost ghostly.

Grandma watches the baby’s eyes pour over the pictures, and she wonders what will happen to this generation that won’t be preserved in faded photographs. Will they live forever on social media timelines, or will their digital afterlife be as fleeting as the breaths one takes in a lifetime?

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

She walked along the deserted beach, cold wet sand hard underfoot, leaving her well-formed arch, her heavy heel dug-in tight, her human track. She scanned the choppy grey ocean, a seagull skimming along ready to dive. Looking ahead, an outcropping of massive black boulders stumbled together into a makeshift Henry Moore sculpture. The solid blocks of granite, columnar or reclining, soft-edged or angular, were reminiscent of her mother. The stoic strength, the impermeability, the dense solid weight of judgement. She had framed her adult life accordingly, with a negative imperative: I will not be like my mother.​

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb

You leapt forward with clear resolve. Left me standing in the dark.

I’ll open the door. Be on my way. Knowing you won’t travel with me.

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.

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com

Tears flowed down her face.

She nodded. “Death.”

From Guest Contributor Larry Sells

Beth became chilled from the eerie black and white photo. A picture of supposed birds, looked like three monsters from a low-budget horror flick. Still, she stared at it wide-eyed. What did it mean? Why was she fascinated? She turned the picture upside down and sideways studying it, hoping to find meaning. It was useless. After all, in the digital world, anything could happen. She decided to let go of her obsession and tossed the unpleasant picture into the garbage can. After she left the room, that same photo appeared on the coffee table waiting for the next family member.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Jimmy is nervous. His relationship with Susan has developed into something serious. Susan notices Jimmy is shaking.

“Humans,” replies Jimmy.

From Guest Contributor Denny E. Marshall

Every time that bastard comes home, he sweet talks me and tells me things will be different and like a complete fool I take him back and then I get pregnant and he takes off again for a year or two.

I swear to God the next time he shows his face around here I’m going to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, knock him out long enough to pack a bag and clear out for a couple of years myself, leave him to take care of three kids with no help, see how he likes it.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Keep your footing steady, prepared for the slick, the slide, your
flight, your footlessness, your unexpected sky view. Run towards the
hazy white clouds, the early sun’s pinkish fire, the black ice–a
lake, a mottled mirror. You know the quiet sidewalk, the barren apple
tree, the forgotten field. But this sea yearning, this siren call to
dive deep, feet first, into the glass, the shatter–is undeniable, an
immersion, a full body baptism. You suddenly find yourself splayed and
shaken, flat on your back, laughing at your air walk, your feet now
hesitant, dull–the morning light cool, the day transparent,
expectant.

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb

It was a perfect setting for a murder. The characters leapt to her mind’s eye: two brothers suavely lounging in the large padded oval back armchairs.

Agatha scribbled.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid