The scorching July sun beat on our already crimson backs as we stood to our knees in the creek. The refreshing cool ripples were a short-lived relief from the burning sun above, as we positioned ourselves under the shade of trees and waitedーquietly. Our laughter stifled in the moments of silence before they came. Springing from the water right into our open and ready hands while squeals of excitement and restrained laughter filled the thick summer air. As we began our trek home, giggling with pride at our success, we barely noticed the burning pavement under our calloused, bare feet.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

“No!” the vacation condos manager barked, his stink-eye getting stinkier by the second. “You cannot borrow a screwdriver to repair your drone. Drones are strictly forbidden on the property!”

“Yes. No drones, no tools, no frets…and you don’t get no cigarettes!”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collection, A Hole Of My Own. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

The sun was just a faint red ember in an ashen sky when I stepped onto the swaying boat. “A poet,” as Paul Celan observed before his second suicide attempt, “is a pirate.” I felt a kind of guilty freedom to be maneuvering the boat above the rush-hour streets. If only I had had a Jolly Roger! Behind the boat, I pulled a net that was soon full of strange new words for things. My pursuers cursed and cried and complained bitterly of fatigue and stress and vast distances. “Oh yeah?” I said. “Try going through life as a Howard.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Fishel sent his wife and two boys away even though Adella insisted they stay until his fever broke. He wouldn’t hear of it. The “Wolves” could arrive at any moment, and he didn’t want to risk his family.

He obeyed and left a river of memories behind.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

My mother’s hands frail and worked. Her crepey paper fingers and running rivers of lines pass along the hilly blue mounds of veins. Many cultures stand proud of ages proof as it displays wisdom, strength—a life lived. Honored one should be of the achievement—living.

I watch as these hands perform tasks, ones they always have, no longer recognizing them. They are not my mothers anymore; they are mine. The words wisdom—a life lived whisper at my ear, and I try to catch them in the wind. These hands—I want to obliterate them.

From Guest Contributor Dianne C. Braley

Dianne is a nurse freelance writer and blogger from Hamilton, Massachusetts.

Danny watched Roberta carry an armful of her clothes and drive away. He watched until she was out of sight, then turned to look at the shoddy living room of his trailer and shrugged. He hadn’t hit her this time, just pushed her around a little. Maybe yelled and cursed her out.

Not that young or pretty anymore, he assured her no one else would have her and she was lucky he would. Three days was the longest she’d stayed away before. She’ll come back. Always did. Even so, something was different this time. She wasn’t crying when she left.

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.

Todd had always put others before himself, which had brought a sense of well-being and worth when he was young.

Sunlight glinted off steak-knives.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The brick walls of the house resembled a suburban castle, with all the promises of a happy life inside. Meticulously decorated, with ornaments on every wooden door, and treats always on the counter. To the naked eye it was nothing short of a dreamーbut no one knew the truth about that house and all who lived there. How it destroyed everything within, chewing up and spitting out any possible happiness, leaving everything and everyone broken. That house was barely a home, let alone a castle, where a piece of me, like so many others, was left behind…and died.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a minute, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey my sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, yellow daisy-like flowers that shut at night as though sleeping or even dead open at the touch of morning, bodies exploding from coffins.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

The swarm arrived at the beginning of the week, their language that of war, and humanity the patient listeners.

After all this time, I had guessed the shape wrong.

From Guest Contributor S.R Malone