The headlights shine into the speckled misty darkness and my tires shoosh me along the Interstate, still late and many miles from the warehouse. How many hours have I been on this road?

I roar past the billboard that urges me to arrive safely, before I pass one that tells me to drink and drive. Then comes my favourite: the cute white Nivea girl, her frilly chest lit up like cat’s eyes. I would love to think about that chest as I close my eyes and drift to sleep, but this vague honking will not let me sleep, just sleep

From Guest Contributor, Garreth Keating

100 seconds to detonation. All crew evacuate immediately.

10, 9, 8-

but all I can see is stardust.

From Guest Contributor, John Murray Lewis

“Have you been scammed? Call now!” the billboard said. A man in a suit crossed his arms in defiance. She wondered if he could see her somehow. When she got home, she followed him online, looked at photos of his family. She explored the website of his alma mater and pictured him walking through the imposing, wooden doors of the library. She found his address, learned the square footage of his home.

At their first appointment, he stood up from his desk chair to greet her. “Nice to meet you,” he said. She stifled a giggle. How could he forget?

Sarah Vernetti is a freelance writer. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.

A young girl and her father sit on a bench and stare into the lake. They are stuck this way forever. From here on out, they must focus unblinking on the way it does not ripple, how no stone may enter and how no fish can leave. Across the park, a squirrel clings to a tree, his heart always exploding, a white dog snapping at his tail. The water reflects the moon and calls down the night, pocked with clouds– the sky split in two, half of it black, half of it blue; there is no color where they merge.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin

You remember: a blurry red light darting across the sky; the glossy road and its skewed mirror of your forehead; flashes of light into the eyes of a man in a hat, crossing the street. He remembers: two tons of steel collapsing from a rooftop, crushing his best friend flat. All that was left were two blue fingers and the smell of dust. The building remembers: the bones and bricks who made it strong, the lightning and rain licking its sides; burst out windows, a fire devouring from within like a disease. The fire remembers being the thing that burned.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin

Jeb thought he was safe for the time being; then he heard something:

“Life’s too precious for that.” They leaned forward, and then kissed.

From Guest Contributor, Dycen Alexander

“There,” she said as she quietly used me. Etching away with her instrument of pain, a black pen. It was supposed to be pressure sensitive but it was I who was forced to feel it. I always knew in my heart that it would stop, eventually… She would either tire of me or I would fall into the deep darkness of sleep. The only question left is which would come first? Could I manage to hold out? Or would some kind soul save me from this hell, distracting her while I drift off? This is my life, I endure, iPad.

From Guest Contributor, Erik Menches

Road curling up the mountain. In the rearview a city smears towards a gunmetal ocean. Escaping its saliva slip is rebirth.

A stretch opens up. Open road. Serpent ropes reach out, a single newspaper sheet escapes, rises up; twisting, turning, laying itself flat, across his windshield. Centre fold, it’s her, smiling sweetly at him. The heavy saloon hurls itself into space.

From Guest Contributor, Matthew Evans

My toes wrap precipitous edges. Points of shale and limestone gouge my feet, painting blood trails. Struggling to stand, I traverse the narrow path. Black canyons rise below– inviting me to swim in their depths. Immense. Cold. My hands flutter through gray smoke, displacing sacred dancers who vanish in gasping silence.
Our last meal rustled as we pulled cardboard food from tattooed paper bags. You scrawled the plan across my brown napkin, freezing me.

I thrust myself into blankness, crystal ice. I discard hope, the weak’s weight. Growing lighter, I embrace your last etching, scratched upon my fading horizon. Goodbye.

Karen Burton recently received her MFA from Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. She currently serves as the managing editor of The Lindenwood Review.

It begins innocently. His eyes meet hers from across the room and suddenly everything feels different. The blue and green lights swirling overhead seem brighter somehow, the bass booms deeper, and the voice escaping from the speakers is now the voice of an angel. The crowd weaves back and forth, splits open, then creates an unencumbered path between them.

He is mistaken about all these things, of course – a glance is sometimes just a glance – but he won’t realize this until it is far too late to save his heart from the inevitable crushing pain that accompanies first love.

From Guest Contributor, Dan Slaten