Every time Marvin rode the subway, he thought of Sarah. It got to the point he wondered if she was haunting him. For more than a decade they’d ridden the train together every morning, her to the high school where she taught, him to the warehouse that he managed. When he closed his eyes, he felt Sarah sitting next to him. Sometimes she’d even lay her head on his shoulder like she used to. He didn’t want to look for fear of what he would see.

The dead ARE ghosts, but not in the world around us. They live inside.

First day at my new school. I wonder what the other kids will be like. I miss all of my friends from my old school; I hope I’ll find new friends here. My older sister Alice has it worse than me. She lost her steady boyfriend when we moved. Those guys down by the street might be interested in Alice; she was popular back at Edgeworth High. They look like they are the right age for her. Oh-oh, I’m going to be late if I don’t snap out of it and get going. School is a couple of miles away.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Few people actually like me, and one of them keeps mice in a fish tank. It’s my vocabulary. Gulls squawk. Sirens whoop. I use large words. It comes naturally to me. But others just think I’m full of myself, a showoff. My wife’s friend’s husband said he should’ve brought a dictionary along to dinner. He laughed as he said it, but everyone at the table knew. I felt I was back in high school. The adults were thugs in suits and dresses, and the girls covered their mouths when they giggled. There are tumors no mix of chemicals can shrink.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry books, The Dark and Akimbo, are available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

Here’s my dilemma.

I am … she deserves better!

From Guest Contributor Bob Gielow

A college administrator by day, Bob (he/him) spins tales in formats we all use when communicating with each other: text messages, emails, fictional Wikipedia posts, and diary entries all allow him to be clinical and thorough in describing his characters, their thinking and actions…without diminishing his ability to explore the resulting human emotions.

“Yes, I drink human blood, but only for ritual purposes.”

As Timmy ran off, Robert spoke to Jonathan. “Talk him into coming, where else are we going to get blood for the creepy guy to drink?”

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin 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.

It started with gummies. Her mother placed a bag inside her lunch box every day. She gave them all away, hoping the other kids would like her.

She stepped into the bakery, bought lemon cake, and ate it.

From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

Faye is the author of the memoir-in-essays Message From a Blue Jay and the Stray Cat Stories children’s book series. She lives and writes in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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.

Marjorie and her husband Herbert thought that names were important. When their first child was born, they named him Homer in hopes that some day he would be a major-league baseball player. Herbert used to laugh at the concept even while he predicted that Homer would be inspired by his suggestive name.

In the end Homer majored in Classics and wrote an epic poem in Greek.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

The day is cold even by New England standards. Girls dump menstrual blood on icy sidewalks in some kind of protest. Myth is dead. Our high school biology textbook compared the body to a furnace. Mr. C, our very nice teacher, was killed that spring with his wife and baby daughter in a car wreck. There’s no point in speaking ironically to people who can’t understand irony. You’ll just end up having to publicly apologize. Freud said dreams are the day’s residue. It has to linger for a while, as if to warn we’re a danger to self and others.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

In the past, they described Michael as an “introvert” and “sensitive.” They said he was “different, but he’s harmless.” “He’s a good kid, just a little shy.”

The headline read: Michael Stocktan, age 19, entered Morris High School with his dad’s handgun and shot 19 students and a teacher. Three are critically wounded.

From Guest Contributor David W. Cofer