My fate had been decided and I’m not sorry. The hunger in the pit of my stomach was more important than the consequences. When I barreled my fist into the man’s face and he fell to the ground motionless, I took the bread with my sore, bloody knuckles and ran. Within a day, the sheriff apprehended me.

The sheriff led me outside to a chanting crowd, hands tied tightly behind me, to the noose that awaits my neck.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

I said to the doctor, “I’m dying.” He said, “How’s that my fault?” I had been shedding parts for at least a week. The doctor said it was my body attacking itself. “It’ll scald you,” he said in the same confidential manner, “peel the skin and muscle right off your bones.” The exam room then filled with people I didn’t know, one a crying toddler, her face all red and sweaty and scrunched up. Apparently, serious preparations for horizontal descent were underway. There was nothing else I could think of that would explain why this murdering old world trembled so.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

It had been deserted for far too long. All it took was a little black and white and the first brave soul came venturing in. That was the spark required. Many from far and wide, of different colours, proportions and voices came flying in. The place now housed so many flying entities. Remember when it once only contained the shackled soul of a socially dictated purpose her father had nurtured with care and her mother with ignorance. They say knowledge spreads like wildfire, the unabating hunger that can infect one and all, forcing people to abandon homes, doctrines and conventions.

From Guest Contributor Ronit Mukherji

NATURE SUBMISSION:

We had come out of the root cellar, its door fortunately hidden by an overgrown raspberry patch, where we’d hidden from marauding mobs that had fled the cities, and hidden again when the pursuing troops began shelling. Our house and outbuildings were charred skeletons, the animals gone. We were still holding hands.

From Guest Contributor F. J. Bergmann

He was a firm believer in the order of things; a conscious universe. He was well versed in Newton’s 3rd law and the law of ‘what goes around comes around.’ He had reduced life to a mathematical formula.

He died with hurt confusion in his eyes, his pain-wrecked body mangled and torn. Had he gotten the formula wrong? Was there even a formula?

From Guest Contributor Minerva Athena

NATURE SUBMISSION:

Crow laughed. Every spring was the same. Bear woke from his slumber and threatened her. He was too stupid to remember the forest belonged to Crow, not Bear.

From Guest Contributor Debbie Cox

James was exhausted by his work. He walked slowly up the stairs. He opened the door of his apartment and went inside. He saw that there was no one. He put his bag on the table and stood there. The room was cold and quiet. For a few seconds all he did was to stare at the empty bed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Everything was dark before his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his face on his palms. The sun was about to set and he sat still.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

The painting of the woman holding a baby close, swaddled in a white blanket, is meticulous. Her long unkempt hair is covering her face, and a man leaning over has his hands gently placed on each of her shoulders. The mother’s tear drop gives off a somber scene; however, the colorful blue background breaks the bleakness.

Sarah packed her supplies and, satisfied, left the room with a sensation of stares.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

NATURE SUBMISSION:

The Williwaw was the locals’ name for the wind that came from the north. High winds were not unusual, and the designers of the bridge had accounted for them. Mother Nature didn’t know the words “vortex shedding” or “aeroelastic flutter.” But she didn’t need words, she just needed the wind.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Everett was swinging back and forth on his porch enjoying a glass of iced tea, sweet tea, watching the annual 4th of July parade make its way past the little house he’d lived in all his life.

Back when Everett was young, girls, black and white, twirled batons. But the world today was meaner. Neighbors didn’t even try anymore. Or so it seemed to Everett.

From Guest Contributor Brian Beatty

Brian is the author of four poetry collections: Borrowed Trouble; Dust and Stars: Miniatures; Brazil, Indiana: A Folk Poem; and Coyotes I Couldn’t See. Beatty lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota.