One day a few years back I accompanied spouse and editor (same person) while she went shopping at the Albertsons a few blocks away. I would wander aimlessly if I went with her, so I sat in a chair outside. An average looking and dressing man walked up and sat beside me. I feared he would talk religion or politics, but the conversation was banal to the point that I don’t remember it. He walked away. It seemed that he disappeared, but he probably entered the store or turned a corner. I wonder why he chose to sit beside me.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

I clutched her glittery pink butterfly pencil in my left pocket. She wrote with it every day; it’s her favorite. When she dropped it at recess, I knew it was finally my chance to talk to her; to be noble, and return it. I watched her turn the corner towards her 4th-period class. Now’s my chance! Rounding the corner, I bumped into the captain of the football team. Startled, he turned towards me mid-kiss. On the other side of his lips stood Macy, with a brand new butterfly pencil in hand. Engraved were the words, Will You Be My Girlfriend?

From Guest Contributor Molly Fay

Molly lives in Buffalo, NY. Currently, she is studying Psychology at SUNY Brockport. In her free time, she enjoys baking, taking long walks by the water, and listening to music.

The chipmunk that lives outside my dog’s window has been avoiding me lately. He says his name is Tony Fauci, but I don’t believe him. Today he’s hanging out with a squirrel in the front yard. The squirrel freezes like a statue when I see him. He thinks this makes him invisible because the trick works on my dog; it doesn’t work on me.

I tell Tony his rent check is late, and both Tony and the squirrel scamper away like a couple of bandits. I’m not mad, though. Tony never pays his rent. These are challenging times for everyone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

It’s been years since I could feel my wife’s hands on my body, and I can’t wait to lay next to her in bed caressing her soft skin.

The three of them are here, smiling, anxiously waiting.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“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