Vainly, her vulva strained to become prehensile. With her digits and her digestive tract things of the past, her vaginal aperture was the only anatomical feature that could hope to get a grip on the handle and shut off the valve before all the veal broth leaked away again. Yes, they would probably replace it with venison consommé, which might well be more flavorful—but existence is fraught with uncertainties. She suddenly remembered that she had once seen a man visibly twitch his large, convoluted, rather hairy ears. If he can do it, I can do it better, she thought.

From Guest Contributor F.J. Bergmann

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Old castles and dungeons. Wizards and dragons. Evil Orcs and bewitching princesses. And he above all, The Mighty Knight, the warrior chosen to save the world from eternal doom.

Nothing but memories.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

With Thanksgiving approaching, Ellie wanted to do something special. She dreaded listening to her sister complain about cooking Thanksgiving dinner when there were people that would give anything to have a meal and a family.

A little girl was very happy that year.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“Mihir let us call our daughter Roja or else Shahad?”

Later, men smoking bidi took my bleeding body to Shamshan Ghat.

From Guest Contributor Noya Nirriti

You’re moving away rather than moving toward something. I can’t be sure if you’ll ever come back. The sky is dotted with clouds that resemble ominous black eggs. You want to scream for help, but you’re out of breath. You’ve no idea at all what you should do next. “Fuck the clown!” you confusedly think. “Where’s my clock?” Just as someone is saying it’ll be OK, you feel a bone break. You see buildings toppling over, trees melting back into the ground. You hear angels approaching at full speed in chariots. There aren’t even parking spaces big enough for them.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press.

V’s sitting on the sidewalk in the sun, headphones and cut-offs, and she smiles at you, cigarette in one hand and a big paintbrush in the other, dripping yellow.

“No,” she says. “It’s a flower.”

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, Lotus-Eater Magazine, 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, teaches creative writing 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 www.brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.

I try on names for mythical mother. Mother. Mama. Mom. They hold their own weight. Mother, formal, yet beautiful. Mama, the moon, wistful and luminous. Mom is too plain.

I keep trying on names, wishing. I can’t stop.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has had work nominated for a Pushcart Award and The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart.

My mother used to talk to herself, still does. It’s more muttering than talking. My sister, when I ask her, says that of course she talks to herself. My niece, the one who feels connected to me through the umbilical cord, says she also talks to herself. My daughter talks to other car drivers, but that is something I see men do. My self talk is more like my mother’s, my sister’s, my niece’s. It’s silenced talk, cowering, frightened talk, defiant talk too, but quiet, subterranean defiance, crawling, hushed, vigilant, raging, hungry to growl and bite, make men swallow words.

From Guest Contributor Edvige Giunta

Both with decks attached that lead into pockets of treetops. Our rooms are like treehouses, and if I had a string long enough, I would make a tin can telephone and give one half to you. If we had a tin can telephone tying our treehouse rooms together, then I would whisper into it at night to see if you were still awake. If you were still awake, then I would tell you all the things that freeze on my tongue when we are together—when everything gets flurried, and I forget that you can’t hear me through the silence.

From Guest Contributor Grace Coughlin

Grace is from Buffalo, New York. She is currently a Senior at St. John Fisher College, majoring in Psychology with minors in English and Visual and Performing Arts. She has 100-word stories forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Otoliths Review.