Once upon a time, an orange man became president. He dressed in red, white and blue, but he liked white more than black and brown, and he loved orange most because he was orange.

The end.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. He has written poetry for The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling and has been published in Vital Christianity. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by a number of contemporary Christian music artists, including the Gaither Vocal Band.

It was about 2 am. I was on my way home. Again, as expected, I heard the same old sobbing of a lady that I have been hearing for a month on that particular road. I know it’s creepy and haunting, but I’m pretty used to it and have nothing to do. This is the only path I can take. No shortcuts, long routes, nothing! I couldn’t even tell anyone. After all I was responsible for all the things happening to me. Yeah, I was the one who ran her over with my truck and killed her a month ago.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

They’re traveling incognito, George Washington with a moustache and Abe Lincoln without a beard. Time is like a river that has jumped its banks and carved a brazen new course through the ruins of fabled industries. They follow its many twists and turns, only to find themselves weeks later cold, ragged, and hungry, and under perpetual ban. Meanwhile, killers walk around free if they’re white and have a badge. It’s as though the laws have been rewritten by malignant algorithms. A night of solid sleep is impossible. The moans that keep waking me up, I finally realize, come from me.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

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

There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe’s stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.

The force of the sword against my shield knocked me to the ground. As the sword came toward me, I turned and pushed myself up. I could barely see through my protective head shield and the sweat dripped down my face. The man, large and fierce, came at me again, and the clanking of our swords filled the arena.

I raised my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Doubled-masked and leaning into the pharmacy’s window, you answer questions that will later identify you immediately. It’s 11:59 a.m. and the Know-It-All Tech, with a bar code label on her wrist and seascape nails, is already sick of the routine: Fill out these papers, sign here and here; take papers around back & sit with arm exposed; face turned to the left, as a cool alcohol swab cleans an invisible bull’s eye. The outgoing pharmacist chats about snow & cold and you barely feel him stick you with the needle. Done, he says, pressing a circle band-aid over your future.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of lake Ontario. Her 100 word stories have appeared in 100 Word Story, Eunoia Review, Otoliths, Jellyfish Review, A Story in a 100 Words, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Drabble Review, Milk Candy Review, Lost Balloon, and others. . Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Alright, I’ll tell you about the dream I had last night.

So, that’s why I don’t want to see that movie tonight.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury. He generally writes them barefooted and hatless.

Today is a very special day for my mom and me. Today we are going to meet with our father after a long time. I am very excited for it. But the meeting period is very short, just 10 minutes.

It’s really a special day for both of us.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.

From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.