“What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

“If you don’t let go of my handbag immediately, you’d better start praying. Let your undoubtedly very rare little grey cells do their work.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. To impress wife, kids and closest friends, he does this barefooted and hatless.

A young boy shaped sand sculptures. His parents combed the beach with a metal detector. When clouds rolled in, mother rose, balancing on the only leg spared in a shark attack.

As he imagined newly acquired wealth for his family, the sea tossed out a bottle. Nestled inside was a folded note.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. She resides in Alberta, Canada.

“He took me for ten grand. Hustled me when I wasn’t in my right mind,” Demar mentioned. The waitress turned back, having forgotten a glass of water.

“I knew this day would come. I didn’t know I’d feel sorry for him.” The water arrived. Demar took a sip, and the coldness of the ice sent a shiver down his spine.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

The greatroom was full to bursting, ghosts everywhere: playing charades, talking, resting, dancing, darting between clusters of spirits engaged in various means of whiling away time.

Just one, the young ghost said, voice wavering: “When do they notice you’re gone?”

From Guest Contributor Melissa Ridley Elmes

Melissa is a Virginia native currently living in Missouri in an apartment that delightfully approximates a hobbit-hole. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Reunion; The Dallas Review Online, Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Gyroscope, In Parentheses, and other print and web venues, and her first book of poetry, Arthurian Things: A Collection of Poems, was published by Dark Myth Publications in 2020. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MRidleyElmes

The soldier’s leg is broken in two places, but he’s courageous and doesn’t scream. As I’m cleaning the wound, he grabs my arm.

The sepsis will soon kill him, and he’ll return home in a coffin.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There is a breeze blowing west. At the top of the biggest tree there is a blue jay bracing in the wind. In my peripheral vision I see a black and white figure below me walking towards the bird. As I realize it is my tuxedo cat, I hear the sound of an engine struggling to drive up towards us. I look to the East and see a truck, I look to the North and see my cat. Then there is blood on my face. As I wipe it off to make myself recognizable, my cat is no longer recognizable.

From Guest Contributor Ina Rose

Ina is a student with a passion for writing.

The pills I take at night to get to sleep leave me feeling dazed all morning. I stare stupidly at the white screen of my laptop while rubbing my head in a forlorn attempt to stimulate the language center of the brain. I think once again of Bruno Schulz. Only the first sentence of the novel he was writing when he was murdered survives: Mother awakened me in the morning, saying, “Joseph, the Messiah is near…” A Gestapo officer shot him down in the street in broad daylight. It was a kind of hobby, to be honest.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

As nightfall descended, a feathery latecomer gathered crumbs from Vi’s patio. Lights in a nearby house turned off, except for one.

Vi wondered if her imagination played tricks. Since their conversation, that bedroom light no longer lit up.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, primarily residing in Edmonton, Canada.

The Knight is known for fire and might. Day after day he proves himself worthy of his sword. His title. His name. Out into the world he rides, his demeanor like an armor around him. Many dragons he has slain, yet some refuse to die. His sword is covered with the blood of both his enemies and his own heart. He seeks to be noble, but in doing so becomes pathetic. He is invincible in battle, but hopeless in everything else. His armor is impenetrable, but forever clings to him. No dragon can hurt him. Only the soft flower can.

From Guest Contributor Richard Snow

Richard is a student of creative writing and journalism at Pikes Peak Community College. Currently writing a fantasy trilogy set in the early 20th century.

The ghosts came and went.

Then with my heart beating fast, I woke up and the ghost was gone.

From Guest Contributor Kaia Gallagher