It’s election night and everyone is on edge, waiting to hear if the candidate they voted for wins. I don’t discuss politics with friends or family since it only leads to arguments. In some cases, I blocked friends on my social media page because they’ve become too involved discussing politics and arguing.

Bless this country.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

In my brother’s dream, a woman was sleeping on his closet shelf. When she woke, she claimed she was going to kill our grandfather with bobby pins. She was surrounded by them, and called herself the Bobby Pin Woman. All the pins were short in those days, without the cushion things on the ends like now, that save your scalp. When we went to see our grandfather, he lay in a hospital bed that raised him up from the waist. At the Rosary, I asked my brother what “Hail Mary” meant. At five I only knew to bow my head.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda’s stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, Misfit Magazine, Gone Lawn, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, Eunoia Review, and others.

We climbed down from our platforms and out of the ring, inhaling deeply of sawdust and popcorn, sweat and dung. We turned out the lights and broke down the tents, ropes biting into our palms. We watered the elephants and fed the lions; we waved at stragglers and kissed our new lovers goodbye. One last campfire, one last harmonica bray, one last cloud of dust kicked up by our dancing feet. One last paycheck pressed into our hands. No train tomorrow. No makeup, no spangled costumes. We’ll tip our heads back, way back, and spread our arms for the net.

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Previous publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and three collections: Circe’s Bicycle, Midnight at the Organporium, and Political AF: A Rage Collection.

About 600 miles south of the North Pole still stands the world’s northernmost statue of Lenin. There are people who feel uneasy in its presence. The face is like a mask, with a guarded but threatening expression. Some years ago, a tableful of coffeehouse radicals confided to a police informer that they planned to topple the irascible founder of Bolshevism from his pedestal. “We’re the rifles our ancestors didn’t have,” one declared. The informer made a shushing sound. He wasn’t used to the kind of drunken talk where you say you are going to do something and don’t do it.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

He was a short chapter in my story, merely a page turn, but, in his story, I was the witch who broke his heart, and that bothered me. Knowing he would always view me as the wicked witch I didn’t want that part, I didn’t ask for it. I just could not love him the way that he wanted, and he couldn’t give me the love that I craved, no matter how hard he tried. Years later, when he calls me a whore, I pretend it doesn’t bother me. It’s just his way of coping, and I accept that story.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her master’s degree in English as well.

Option 1: The books I’ve read on the left hand side, those I haven’t on the right hand side.

First, the daily routine: checking the updates, every day at the same time, hoping they announce that during the past 24 hours there were no fatalities to regret, no one was admitted to hospital and all those that have been – even those in Intensive Care – were allowed to leave. But that didn’t happen today. Today, I try keeping it together by choosing between two options.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé SUYS (°1968 – Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn’t stopped since.

It’s Halloween and I’m at my wife’s grave for her anniversary. She died three years ago, and I made a promise that I would be there every year to place a large pumpkin next to her headstone.

I looked back at the grave and the pumpkin was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake, stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

From Guest Contributor Anuradha Dev

“You are served!”

“Hmm. No contact, the papers state, so I won’t know. Let me think. I haven’t bought her a birthday present for four or five years, but she doesn’t like what I buy anyway. I always turn over all of the money I make. She is a great bookkeeper. No ‘out to dinner,’ but I cook often. I don’t do dishes. The kids are grown and out on their own. We don’t talk too much. I imagine she emptied out the savings. Where are Ted and I gonna get stoned? Where am I to sleep?”

From Guest Contributor Virginia Timm