A skinny young guy, carrying a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder like a cotton picker’s sack, went down to the crossroads to catch a ride. The folks at home wouldn’t ever hear from him again. Rumors took the place of news – that he’d been shot and killed over a gambling debt, that he’d been lynched by a white mob, that he played guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit with such violent energy that gravestones fell over and broke and that’s why now, every day around dawn, birds resume singing a centuries-old murder ballad specifically for our continued moral instruction.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

Doctor Burke’s hands are steadfast as he performs the intricate surgery. The patient has lost blood and the bullet is lodged in his abdomen.

She asks how his first surgery went.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

are barking, she says, as she kicks off her scuffed dancing pumps and falls into the couch cushions. What a strange word: couch. Now, the television remote. Later, a Marie Callender’s pot pie. Turkey. In between now and later, a man pounds at the door—Beverly, he says. I know you’re there. Answer me. Thirty years ago, she would have. She would‘ve let him convince her to come back home, to try again. For the children, now grown. For him. Instead, she pours tea and peers between the blinds. She watches his breath condense, useless, and spill into the night.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.

At first glance it appears to be a normal home with a wraparound porch and swing.

I exit the car and walk to the front door, take a deep breath, and ring the doorbell.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I open the window with force to see what the commotion is. The street is filled with people standing and screaming. I see a glimpse of a shoeless foot, sock hanging. Long red hair catches my eyes, as does the smashed front windshield of a small car.

I coddle the furry cat in my arms, and realize I’ll be his home now.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The wind is howling, and the snow is heavy. New Year’s Eve and Times Square are scarce with the host’s expression one of weariness.

Happy New Year.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Stella longs for the unseen soul who one day will meander into her home to touch (perhaps envy) each of her precisely placed gatherings.

From Guest Contributor The Poet Spiel

There’s an owl outside the window. That’s a bad omen.

The thing about pacts with the devil is they are notoriously difficult to break.

I killed the crew of the Wandering Star, humanity’s last hope.

I wept when I realized why I’d been led here. The leviathan declaring the end of humanity.

From Guest Contributor Rick Ansell Pearson

Rick lives and works in central Mexico. His fiction can be found forthcoming in Year Five: Dark Moments and Patreons, published by Black Hare Press.

When Blake brought Miqui home that first evening, he spent hours translating the instructions into a form of English he could understand. Miqui had evolved a language much more sophisticated than his own outdated vernacular.

Miqui is Blake’s only company these days, other than the nurses. He remembers when fish still weren’t able to talk. The fish said it was worthwhile he could still recall the good old days. Nostalgia is a uniquely human trait.