She gasped as he removed the scarf from his face.

“You wear his face but he is not you, you are not he.” She turned to the door, her lip quivered, her voice shook as she softly uttered their final exchange, “Goodbye darling, you’re free now.”

From Guest Contributor Jodi S. Ivers

I once thought I heard my father listening to Santana on our back patio. He never listened to music. The only soundtrack to his workaday life was the eight cylinders rumbling at his foot’s command. A kick drum reverberating in his chest that echoed his life. A violent explosion shrouded by modernity, reduced to a drone. I eased through the sliding glass door and found him staring at the beyond the lower pasture in silence. “Be still,” he said. His words hung thick in the mid-summer air. I still don’t know if I wanted the music for him or myself.

From Guest Contributor J. Andrew Goss

When they jitterbugged with lithesome feet and flirted, Daniel gave Elizabeth a string of pearls. She wore them on Saturdays with plunging necklines and on Sundays with flowery dresses and nonsensical hats. After the divorce, she stored the pearls in a cotton drawstring bag for safekeeping. When her hair turned gray and she fell ill, Elizabeth presented the pearls to her daughter, holding them out with her reedy arm, hesitant to surrender them, even then. Her daughter preserved them in the cotton pouch, and took them out now and again, grateful her mother never knew the finish had chipped away.

From Guest Contributor Dana Shepherd Morrow

The man who brought hope amongst the riots: whom bitter losers rushed to associate with terrorism; rather than defence of very frightened people who were let down by establishment they had long trusted. Scum associated him with terrorism, when all he strove to protect family and neighbours.

I was there at the burial of a man who loved people, no matter who they hated.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

where I see this beautiful creature’s frayed leash, the far end trapped under a great stone. So great I assume she cannot lift it. She tells me how time is consumptive, and while consuming us, so it must erode the stone. But the longer she or I stare, the slower it seems to weather. Is it any wonder her running throat is yanked taught? The urge to break the circle is the legacy of choice. Look at her and promise, “I cannot lift that stone. But I can sit here and wait until you do. Your wings, they’re pinned beneath.”

From Guest Contributor Nick Scott Christian

Nick’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. He lives in St. Louis and currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.

He held the rifle tightly. Looking through the scope, his target was approaching. Should he take the shot? The target was approaching slowly, allowing the opportunity to fire multiple shots before anyone would react.

With that thought, Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Kresal

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain’t gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

Kahea thought pensively about her college days as she made her way to the coffee table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her spoon making soft clinking sounds against the glass cup.

“Hmm…I look good”, she said, gazing approvingly at her photo next to the article that read: Kahea Sanders becomes the youngest writer to bag a Pulitzer.

From Guest Contributor Drishika Nadella

Drishika is a 15 year old from India. She seeks comfort in words, tunes, and nature. Her blog Desolation And Delectation will be happy to see you.

You talk in your sleep. At first I thought it was adorable. I’d lean my ear closer to your head on my chest and catch things like, “Silly penguin doesn’t even know!” or “Better take that milk back to Saturn tomorrow.” I’d laugh and go back to reading and hold you closer. Then things changed, starting with when you arched your back away from me and hissed like a demon cat from hell. I didn’t hold you closer after that, and it’s gotten weirder since. Now I lay awake on my side of the bed, wondering what you’ll do next.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer who spent ten years learning the hard way in Mississippi and she will always be grateful for that state’s ability to give a body the blues. She is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO. Her work has previously been published in The Local Voice, Salt Zine, Cattywampus Magazine, and the Mid-Rivers Review.

The house-bricks were as red as the little squirrel which inhabited the tree just outside.

The blow rattled his eyes.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid