Do it well, honey. My lover’s voice echoed inside me as I stabbed my wife repeatedly. Fear flashed in her doe-like eyes. She fell to the wet forest floor and crawled away. I grabbed her ankle and pulled. On my umpteenth attempt, my knife struck through her neck, severing her jugular vein. Blood splattered. The light faded out of her eyes. I rolled her up in a plastic sheet and buried her. Later, I stumbled into my home, choking on her perfume. There she stood in front of me. “What?” I gasped. She brandished a knife. Sharper than my own.

From Guest Contributor Fusako Ohki

Fusako Ohki is a Japanese writer from Tokyo. She obtained her master’s degree in Japanese literature from Hosei University. Her debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming in 2021.

Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I hurried into the door of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. People gathered at one painting, “The Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels,” by Jean Fouquet.

That was all the inspiration I needed to begin painting again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda’s stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

A red-tailed hawk screeched as it circled above. Grandfather pointed and said, “That is your spirit animal, my little one. You are a chosen one. It carries a message for you.”

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT 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.

A knock at the door jolts me off the sofa. I peek through the blinds then rush to the bedroom to throw on my favorite dress, hoping he’ll wait.

I dash to the door, but it’s too late. As he drives away, I feel sadness overtake me for a minute. Then I remember his purpose. Smiling, I look to the ground. My Amazon order has arrived.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Other residents would cradle baby dolls, designed to match the heft of a newborn. But for Grandpa, who’d been one of America’s top reporters, only a typewriter would do. It didn’t even need paper; as the nurses discovered, simply sitting at the antique Olivetti was enough to quell his nightmares. Though his mind was gone, his fingers retained echoes of his memories, shaping them into the staccato sound of clacking keys.

He would sit there, morning to night, at his little utilitarian desk. And while he never produced a single page, we still cherished each and every word he wrote.

From Guest Contributor Keshe Chow

It’s New Year’s Eve and Chad is in quarantine. His Covid-19 test came back negative the first time and he’s waiting on the next one. He doesn’t feel sick and he’s confident the test will come back negative.

The next afternoon Chad’s test is positive.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

The guests looked on with complete bewilderment as my future parents exchanged what sounded like ironic wedding vows. Afterwards at the reception, a farmer sang about his favorite crop and then it was the best man’s turn to speak. He had barely begun when my father interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” The wailing that arose might have been especially invented for the end of the world. Everything was burning. People, drapes, carpets, tablecloths – everything. In years to come, my brothers and I would pick through the blackened ruins. Haven’t you ever noticed that only the poor have dirty hands?

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest full-length poetry collection, Gun Metal Sky, is due in early 2021 from Thirty West Publishing

Ever since he switched hairdressers, his wife always made remarks about the result.

She started handling scissors and trimmers as if she were a pro, until finally she stepped back, bent her head to the left, then to the right, and said: “Ever considered wearing a hat?”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren’t enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn’t float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed