You tell them you don’t want to hold her, you tell them this four times, then you fade, replaced of self by softness, sudden. When you wake, they are placing her on your chest. You cannot see her face, rather one primitive, pink hand, waving something uselessly away. But you can smell her. Her smell is yours, as if your body were turned in, then out, as a glove worn far too long, the wax and weight of you heavy, older, and they have made a wick of that youness and it has been lit for the first time now.

From Guest Contibutor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Buzan was an idiot-savant. His memory was prodigious, but he could not make use of the information he could recall. His parents discovered that he was an extraordinary pianist. He would play a piece through, having only heard it once on the family phonograph. He often “composed” pieces on the spot, some derived from the tones generated by the appliances in his mother’s kitchen, or his father’s shop. Most of his day was spent in the corner of the front porch playing rock, paper, scissors, by himself. The hours would fly by, and Buzan would nap on the porch swing.

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre

Seagulls arced lazy turns as an angry ocean pounded my listing fishing boat. Separated, the submerged boat lights cast a green glow around me, making the ocean even darker as the light trailed into abyss. Floating, my thoughts went to all life in the ocean, reacting, surviving, inching slowly along the ooze and undulating mid-water with goals ingrained. Ocean smell, thick with sea spray and sargassum, cradled me like a childless mother. Dipping below the horizon, the boat disappeared, sunset style, leaving me with only the immensity of space. Gazing at weightless gulls, the blue mire pulled me gently home.

From Guest Contributor Wes Keller

We hit a fork in the road after about ten miles. She looked at me with a half-crescent smile but I pretended I didn’t notice. I just kept lookin’ forward, as if I knew somethin’ important was coming my way. But it wasn’t; I knew that. I knew we’d probably make a wrong turn and be walkin’ here for ten more miles. She ate the raspberries and licked her fingers and giggled. We’d been walking all day and all she could think about were her damn berries. Her hair smelled nice. Your hair smells nice, I told her. She knew.

From Guest Contributor Cara E. Schulte

“Roses or Lilies?”

Eight months and a few days and he would be able to put faces to the voices he’d been hearing.

From Guest Contributor Shruti Verma

He used to be a loving husband and father, a fact so known it was written on his tombstone. His wife knew every night as he was loving her. Once, he loved her so hard she hurt and asked him to love a little less.

Stephanie stopped his loving heart forever.

From Guest Contributor Emily Aledort

I remember being hurriedly pushed toward the flying ship by panicked voices howling peril. They spoke of a great heat inside me.

And, all the blast lines point to me.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Wells

Hop. Hop. Hop. He was always hopping. Carl’s favorite thing to do was Hop. Sometimes he liked to swim. Or get food. But he was tired of living his life without meaning. He wanted to get a job.

Little did they know, Carl was really a frog.

Guest Contributor Zoey Zozo

Later, he explained the solitude was good for him.

He grappled with what to do next, but everything made sense. The police scanners were quiet, news was normal. He was safe. Tonight, nine days later, he could kill again. The cycle continues.

From guest contributor, Kevin Reitz