For his eighteenth birthday, Lathan got magical boots from Grandpa, so nobody could catch him up.

As cyclopes growled, Lathan finally faced his worries, selling the boots for a rusty sword at the blacksmith.

From Guest Contributor Bettina Laszlo

Bettina writes fiction to convey what is beyond expression. Her work has appeared in NUNUM, Dragonfly educational programme, and is forthcoming at 101 Words. She lives in Budapest with her fiancé.

The rejection stings. Dave stumbles down the sidewalk, absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to the people walking nearby or the rain pouring overhead. Motor memory guides him back to his apartment despite never making a decision to walk home. He’s too preoccupied with being left standing on the curb looking a fool. The others were probably still laughing.

If only he’d been a few seconds quicker, he could have boarded the bus before the door slammed in his face.

The new neighbors were installing an elevator in the three-story home on the corner. As soon as it was finished, they handed out tickets like we were going for a ride. When the doors opened, we stepped out into a blistering afternoon, where men were struggling with giant blocks of stone. Were they busy creating one of the ancient wonders of the world? It looked like we might be witnessing a miracle, but the air was stifling, thousands of years old. Wasn’t it time to go home and relax? Kick off our shoes, call an end to this crazy day?

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Anna walks in and out of alleys to avoid the Gestapo, hiding bread and cheese under her coat to feed the Jewish child she is hiding.

Is it a lie?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Beyond porch lights, snow piles up, sealing in anxious women. They stand at windowsills watching the sky glower. Blinking in the fists of children are glo-stix to throw at the towering drifts, aiming where the eyes should go. Elsewhere, a child snaps his birthday gift of a bow-and-arrow in half. The moon rolls down a hill and thunder beats its metal chest, a rattling that distracts everyone from the whir of an incoming drone. It kicks up all the snow but means no harm, though some will insist the machine was an alien ship, come to take the glo-stix home.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Six-year-old Monty, a master of his plastic sword, calculates strikes against imaginary giants while he takes cover behind backyard trees. When his mother’s voice pierces through his fantasy, calling him for dinner, the warrior boy marches home victorious.

While cleaning out his garage, Monty finds his plastic sword and wields it again, destroying enemies with a battle cry whoop. The brave boy/man rediscovers his inner sanctuary to face his lackluster world.

From Guest Contributor Leigh-Anne Burley

Grampa used to warn that if we weren’t fast coming home, wolves would eat us. I knew he must be joking, yet I still hurried to beat nightfall just in case.

Now that I’m a father myself, I understand he wasn’t joking. I mean, there weren’t literal wolves. We lived in the suburbs. But he knew the dangers that only come at night, the dangers of the heart. When you truly love someone, would sacrifice your own life to save theirs, you want them to hurry as fast as they can because you won’t have peace until they’re safely home.

First, there’s a moment when you are just crossing the threshold from complete oblivion, wrapped in blankets and darkness, to reemerge into the light of the living. You are not a person yet. You have no recollections or anxieties. This is probably what it was like right before you were born.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and promise you’re never going to drink again.

The muffled voices from outside the closed door play behind every memory. The echoes of arguments filled my ears each night as I fell asleep. The stinging sliding down my face and the taste of salt along my lips fills me with comfort. My frowning face in the bathroom mirror, as I rinse the dried tears from my cheeks, is a clear picture of me. Home is a safe place. I feel safe behind those doors. I feel safe tucked in my bed. I feel safe as I cry myself to sleep. Home is the familiar noise of troubled souls.

From Guest Contributor Selah Mantravadi

The snow and wind pelted my face. The inclemency hadn’t started until I was half-way to the subway station, and people slipped across the pavement rushing to get home. Vehicles honked at pedestrians cutting in and out of lanes, so I had to be careful. I tried not to think about the numbing in my fingers after forgetting my gloves at home.

When the train arrived and I boarded, I knew it would be a matter of time before I’d be snug by the fireplace.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher