He’d never told a girl that he loved her before. The anxiety was far worse than a first kiss, his teeth chattering as if he’d been blasted by cold air. Although the June night was hot, she rubbed his arms, to warm him.

She responded by kissing him and holding him tightly, but that summer she would never say the words he craved to hear.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 24 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

It was coming home and it had to pass through the (Gareth) South Gate.

This really was a (Jack) grealish day.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Positive and quarantined at home, my days edge along like a snail. Immersed in social media and Netflix, suddenly, I gasp for oxygen. Panting for a breath, I’m rushed to the hospital. Tethered to oxygen, I yearn to hug and cradle my child. I have to bake her birthday cake. I want to see her victorious smile when I lose at UNO. I must leave a lingering kiss on my husband’s lips. Flustered by my thoughts, I inhale into darkness.

Cool air blows as the blanket is snatched off me. “Mom, the Zoom password is incorrect.” I breathe in relief.

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

I scramble the room for the file. Many lives depend on the information, including mine. When I accepted this job, I knew the risks involved and didn’t care. Now I just want to go back to my life.

The Nazi’s didn’t catch me. Not this time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Run.
Feet crush the leaves; waves of terror crawl your spine.
Slide.
A tree – a savior! Red drops drip down from your ears to the ground.
Crack!
Terror returns like an old friend. It seems now is your end.
Look.
A challenge beckons you. Leaning around the bark, you peak into the clearing.
Empty?
Before you can contemplate, a hand wraps around your throat.
“Missed me?”
The version of yourself you keep locked away smirks at you.
“I’m afraid of the dark.”
The clearing dissipates as you are released.
Clink!
Chains now hold you down.
“I don’t want to disappear.”

From Guest Contributor Sydney Clark

“Trespassers deserve to be punished,” Ralph stated. “They have no business being on property they’re not entitled to.”

With the sweet taste of sugar, the ants entered their underground home.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

It was the season of mists. He had been forced by necessity to pawn his one good pair of pants. Now that he couldn’t confidently appear in public, he sat sulking in his underwear at the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember, Josephine wasn’t there to remind him, what it was like to live in anticipation of making love. Adversaries swooped around him like moon-crazed bats. If he had had a suicide pill, he might have taken it. The world only ever really pays attention when there is a panic or a traveling guillotine or when all the soldiers have syphilis.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collection Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

On night three of a four-day meeting, four of us drank in a bar. I played up to Jim, who was 20 years older, the boss, and buying.

“She shanghaied me,” Jim said, “to dance with her mother.”

From Guest Contributor Tom Snethen

Tom is an Oregonian writing about the scoundrels he met in the chemical industry and being alone and scared as a widower at fifty.

Honey, it’s time to go, Dad said. It was dark by the time they arrived home. Of course, he was right. He was always right. Had been 50 years ago, and every day of her life. It used to be frustrating, but now it was calming and reassuring. Rock solid, steady and consistent, never flashy. Feeble now, he spent most of the day in bed, save for an hour phone call every day. She cherished those calls ending with gotta go and a dial tone. His last call ended with Honey, it’s time to go. Goodbye. And he was right.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

My clammy palms drip sweat and my icy feet shiver. I barely fit on this stiff, creaky bed. From the haunted murkiness, a shadow emerges and creeps around.

Moments later, he tenderly pulls it out and smiles. “Your baby is healthy.”

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.