raise it as if your life depends on it. Your future too.

Shout until you are heard.

From Guest Contributor Marzia Rahman

Marzia is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in several print and online journals. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022.She is currently working on a novella. She is also a painter.

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

The wind in the woods sounds like a river. It whispers across my face, soft and sweet and holy.

The day warms. A robin twitters. Cicadas hum in the pines. Dave whistles the Happy Trails tune as we start down the path. And so the end begins, and I clutch this small, quiet death in my soul.

From Guest Contributor Jayna Locke

In a rapidly gentrifying London suburban apartment by the park, where the people are cold and the weather is colder, I overhear a nascent rumor in the making, about myself from the overfamiliar voices, and for a long second, I wish my life was as interesting as my thriving geriatric grapevine conjures it to be and believes in possibilities over probabilities. I move on, wondering why those so close to death remain so inquisitive about the lives of others who are busy living, and I tell my friends that if I ever become that bitter old cat lady, stop me.

From Guest Contributor Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

My heart aches when I look at the faded photo of my wife. I place it back in my pocket and lean over the trench, rifle in position.

With the photo clutched to my chest, I take my last breath.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Too small, too tough, the forever stuff. Five millimeters to a nanometer, all recycle cheaters. Polyethylene is not green. Debris in the sea, in the sand, on the land, in the air. The minuscule plastic molecule – drink it, breathe it, absorb it. 200 thousand microplastic molecules in you every year. Perfect hair, revolutionary skincare – just vain dreams ruining streams. All the sales promotions on lotions and potions, laundry soap, shopping bags, and tags. So much trash; it’s the sin of the bin. It’s hard to be a container abstainer, a nature campaigner. This is the mess we’re in.

From Guest Contributor K Mayer

The sky has turned a hazy orange from wildfires capable of creating their own weather. Pages are torn out of books to further feed the fires. Birds wildly flap their wings to escape, only to go round and round in circles. Everything that isn’t predator is prey. Sisters of Mercy are forced to strip naked on the edge of a burial pit, folding their arms over their breasts in misplaced concern for modesty. Today is without a tomorrow. The roof burns, and we let it. My eyes fill with tears from the smoke, but I have never seen more clearly.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

Everyone but Hampton looked down, eyes locked on tiny screens. Hampton’s expensive artisans of optimistic speculation could no longer sustain nervous conversation.

Certain of nothing but his surreal limbo ending, Hampton stood, then vomited.

From Guest Contributor JD Clapp

Pastor Franzmeier was disturbed. For his upcoming Sunday sermon, he’d chosen the Book of Genesis. Why not start there? “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.” But then the nagging questions occurred – Could it have been different? Had the Almighty blown it?

He sat back in his chair, placing his third cup of coffee on the table beside him. How many more would he need? As he massaged his temples, a booming voice from the heavens above shook the room, overturning the cup. “YOU CALL THAT BLOWING IT, FRANZMEIER? LET’S SEE HOW YOUR SERMON GOES THIS SUNDAY…”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

I am still looking for you. I wish you hadn’t left. Our hearts still hurt badly.

I remember your words, and I will do my best. As I am struggling to learn to continue on without the greatest.

From Guest Contributor Hope Scippio

Hope is a student of journalism, graphic design, and broadcasting at Pikes Peak State College.