I have chips and salsa ready for when the family arrives for Super Bowl Sunday.

Looks like I’ll be heading to the store and watching the game on DVR.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“What’d you expect? I am who I am.”

I’m gonna be somebody, he thought. I am.

From Guest Contributor Fred Miller

Fred is a California writer. Over fifty of his stories and poems have appeared in publications around the world in the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog.

Special trains departed every hour on the hour for labor camps and reeducation centers. Hatchet-faced men in leather trench coats would grab people right off the street. I struggled hard to keep the look of the panic-stricken out of my eyes, the hitch of the guilt-ridden out of my step. It wouldn’t even be noon, and the sun would already be a dying ember in an ashen sky. There was no specific end to the workday. Steel bars had been installed on factory windows and suicide nets on the roofs. Manufacturers knowingly sold baby food contaminated with the devil’s tears.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing, 2021).

The desirable and exquisite souls always come at night—when the crescent moon shapes a bent halo around their stiff, floating bodies illuminated by the stars. Beautiful people are tough to kill, yet so impossible to resist. Their calm spirit invites the monster to the forest. Mothers hiding from their tormenting infants; lovers exploring their wild, rupturing hormones; broken people just seeking a place to sing along with the birds and dance to the tune of the wind—Everything leads to when the monster crawls out of the dim and spiny bush to say, “Do you want to play, Kitten?”

From Guest Contributor Annabelle Torkwase Ulaka

Annabelle lives with her mother and two siblings at a little town, north of Nasarawa state, Nigeria. She believes in the magical bond of family. Her days are spent reading anthologies, watching movies and writing stories and essays. She’s a final year student in Benue State University, studying for a bachelor’s degree in Biology. Writing comes naturally to her, and her greatest aspirations have always been to become a respected writer, own three black cats, and finally learn how to dance. You can always find her on Twitter with the handle @Annyball1.

Sarah awakened from a frightening dream, her nightgown pasted to her body in sweat. Her husband, Mark, was still asleep, so she gently lifted the covers, went to the bathroom, and splashed cool water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and remembered every detail.

Under the bed, rested a wilted lily.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

It is never quiet in the engine room of an ocean liner. I am on the night shift; the lights are bright and the boilers noisy. Suddenly I feel the ship shudder and hear a grinding noise on the starboard side. Something is very wrong. I make my way to the telephone to call the bridge, but no one answers.

Now I notice that water is beginning to flood the engine compartment. I order the bilge pumps activated but they cannot handle the incoming sea water. The sea is a fearsome master; I elect to remain with the foundering ship.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

“Stop it, Sis. Mom and Dad can’t even hear you and there is no one else around. It’s just you and me. You’re making a fool of yourself…again. Get real, it would do you some good. You’re a pretty lousy actress. Stop pretending you’re having a cramp because you are definitely not. I am waiting, missy. Nobody will believe you, you know. In fact, come to think of it: you slipped, I did not push you in the pool at all. Anyway, you can keep your head under water as long as you want to. See if I care.”

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.

This feels like the worst place one could possibly be – insurrectionists on the front steps, an unkindness of ravens in the yard, a side door that requires a sign explaining how to open it. I’m leaving for. . . I don’t know where. Maybe somewhere bombs would only ever kill the bomb makers. You can come if you wish. I can’t promise there’ll be roads and buildings made of spider silk or that lakes will gently bubble to the dreams of sleeping fish, but light will reach us even a million years after the source of light has gone out.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collection, Gunmetal Sky, is due in February from Thirty West Publishing,

Tina hated the outdoors. But there she was, Saturday morning­—hiking with mom.

Tweet.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

I found her in the rust climbing over shower tiles, red-brown on sea-green. She began as spots, then shapes—a rabbit? A snail? A man, then a woman. She was a mermaid with me for five years, singing pirate songs of lost souls in fishbowls and other Pink things; then she grew out of her skin, became an unnamed creature, alive without lines, her hair like fire. Now only one wisp of her tail holds on to the faucet, for me. She floats free in the glossy turquoise beyond, laughing above the rusty piles of what she used to be.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com.