The Duke of Westland stared down from his portrait. Walter studied the painting, admiring the duke’s powdered wig and frilled cravat.

Walter called out and raised his hands but his glittering rings thrashed against the inside of the canvas, causing his powdered wig to slip.

From Guest Contributor Cate Vance

Cate Vance writes from the mountains of Montana where she is inspired by misty mornings, brilliant days, and starry nights. Her short fiction has been featured in Sky Island Journal.

I rummage through drawers and cabinets before placing everything back. It hits me then. There must be a hidden key somewhere. I look under every piece of furniture and there it is under the desk chair. I scan the room and come across a painting of the Fuhrer that is askew. I remove it from the wall and find a safe. The key fits.

Outside, I breathe a sigh of relief.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He had become a master in the arrangement of all her beautiful pieces.

Opening the door as the sun burnt her eyes, but the pain only lasted a moment.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The art of manipulation or being a spy is something. To be a double agent or triple agent even is more interesting than one would expect.

To get into a government or corporation and manipulate it towards good? Something very few can do. The intentions of corporations along with the state is to control the minds of the people the system of things enslaves. To change the doctrine even a bit can cause pain. Free humanity.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Clinton is an expat, filmmaker, and story teller

He said he was blown over, that the breeze from the kitchen door had left him defenseless. But our Lord sees only in black and white. The laws are clear: no dust bunny shall enter another bunny’s land–no exceptions. A silent crowd awaits as the trespasser is dragged into the dimly lit square: thrashing, kicking, pleading. It is pointless. Laws are laws, we must simply obey. He is tied to the base of a pink cocktail umbrella. We all turn our heads to our Lord expectantly. He gives a simple nod. The match is struck and the pyre lit.

From Guest Contributor Skyler Bath

Ten, nine, eight jumps to go. Nick meets my gaze. Seven, six, five, four.

Grown-ups shouldn’t keep diaries. It’s not like I’m Anaïs Nin for goodness sake!

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.

Meanwhile, Franz Kafka sells another piece of his dead mother’s jewelry to pay for his brothel visits. Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse go horseback riding together. Alma Mahler has just aborted their child. The police question Picasso, but he has an alibi and they release him after slapping him around. Summer is fading, and Rainer Maria Rilke feels it as a wound in his chest. Using an alias, Adolf Hitler boards a train for Munich to escape conscription in the Austro-Hungarian army. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is missing from the Louvre. Museumgoers lay flowers in front of the bare wall.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collection, THE HORSES WERE BEAUTIFUL, is forthcoming from Grey Book Press.

As I pass through the automatic doors into the library, the smell of musty books fills the air. I browse the shelves for what seems like hours until I come across a fantasy novel with magic and fire breathing dragons. My favorite.

All my worries fade away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Christos and Lieberman, veteran development engineers, played chess every lunch hour. Watson, a young engineer, joined the project, watched them play and immediately starting making unwanted comments. They put up with him for two weeks.

“Mate,” Lieberman added and did likewise.

From Guest Contributor Ronald Larsen

There is an island floating above a shattered and charred plane of earth. It’s a little black island, untouched by the sun, hovering above with an unsettling presence. It is awaiting something.

This pit is the only law. It will not be content until it has devoured everything in the world.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster