CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Sir Francis Bacon, an educated beagle, wondered about his name, did some research, and learned that his namesake was a statesman and writer who lived at the same time as Shakespeare. Some people thought that Bacon was the real writer of Shakespeare’s plays. This puzzled Sir Francis Bacon the beagle.

“I prefer eating bacon. And answering to Bacon.”

From Guest Contributor: Anita G. Gorman

The rain pelts my face, the umbrella useless. I walk quickly, but not enough to draw attention. I must get to my destination and back before curfew.

I leave and make my way home before curfew.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

To not be alone is to be in a constant state of questioning. You question who you are. You question who they are. You question why you are with them. They question why they are with you. You question how to be with them, as they question how to be with you. But we all know that it isn’t just you and them. There are things that haunt you. There are things that haunt them. So is it now that you are not alone, or were you always questioning? Were they always questioning? Truth is, now you are questioning together.

From Guest Contributor Ina Rose

Ina is a student with a passion for writing.

Music is flowing around me, thought a little flower bud as it shyly opened its dewy new petals. A quiet, peaceful melody of streams of gray pouring from a cloudy sky, framed by cooling rhythm of beads of water hitting cement nearby, thrumming on rooftops of homes around its garden, drumming against wooden walls, staccato taps on glass panes. Wavering patterns of drizzle and downpour, whispers of gentle wind through branches of trees, and drips from pools of water on lush green leaves, add a dulcet cadence, forming a tender harmony to welcome this year’s refreshing renewal of mother nature.

From Guest Contributor Sara Light

Sara lives in Chicago and writes poetry, fiction, and children’s stories. In her spare time, she likes to paint and read. Find her on twitter @SaraLight19, and on her website, saralight.blog.

He: I know I’m a Midnight Rambler, but I can come to your Emotional Rescue. Won’t you Tell Me you want to Live With Me? I am through with Honky Tonk women.

He: I can’t get no Satisfaction. I thought that we could have a rosy future, but now I will just Paint It Black. Won’t anyone Gimme Shelter? I don’t have a Heart Of Stone.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Doug lives in Oregon (spelled wrong / pronounced right) and escaped actuarial work to hike, snowshoe, volunteer, and string words together.

Three miles, under moonlight, over the dark bay, a long bridge over troubled water. Aside the Sawgrass swamps. The Doors’ low groan hypnotic. New Orleans is waiting for you. Look, I’ll drive, your friend says when you start swerving sideways. You’re slipping under, you are fading down to dreams. Yes, you say, stab your fingers into the packet of American Spirit, wave them at the pale pomelo half-plate in the sky, the sliver of moon that is lighting your way. You are on your way to meet the Devil you don’t believe in, but neither of you know it yet.

From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry, with recent or forthcoming appearances in Tiny Molecules, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Dillydoun Review, and more. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art.

An airplane soars into the mammoth building, leaving a gaping hole. Blackness, dust, and papers fill the air.

The World Trade Center is no more.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“There’s, like, a huge pile of packages out here, did you know?”
“Get out of the way!” I shout, toppling my children like bowling pins.
“What’s in there, Mom? Is it for us?” ask my mosquitoes.
“None of your business!”
My stomping covers the clamorous clattering of toys as I drag the heavy stack upstairs. I cram the boxes in my closet and hide them behind rarely-worn dresses. An old blanket covers the teetering mountain.
“Can we see?”
“No! Don’t come in here!”
Slamming the door shut, I wonder if they might have guessed that their Christmas presents had arrived.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Czarnecki

Sarah is a dog-walking, fast-knitting, list-making Sconnie who sometimes writes.

I recently lost my job. With nothing much to do, I sneaked the other week into an exhibition at the Galerie der Moderne. The walls were hung with paintings by people who didn’t seem to know how to paint. However, I did enjoy the complimentary wine and the cubes of cheese on frilly toothpicks. I would have stayed longer, only there were these police around. In the old country, my great-grandfather went to fetch a ration of bread, and the loaf was sticking out of his coat when the SS officer who shot him for sport rolled his corpse over.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Famous Long Ago, a forthcoming prose poetry collection from Laughing Ronin Press.

If we could only look deeply into the eyes of strangers, we’d see not a stranger at all, but a piece of ourselves.

The knowing inside me is too big. I’m surrounded by the noise and lights of the world, seemingly unchanged from before. My heart aches. I see you, but do you see me?

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer