I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn’t creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

Brandon and April hold hands as they walk their house one last time, searching for anything important left behind. The entire move has been an impromptu affair, with little opportunity to reflect on what truly counts as essential. Certainly not their record collection or even their wedding album. It’s weird to think about how much things have changed in so little time, and what used to be cherished heirlooms are now nothing more than dead weight. The less they bring with them, the better.

What’s the quote? May you live in interesting times? Surely, an alien invasion counts as interesting.

The fire blew the windows into the street, and pedestrians ran from the area. I entered the house with my fellow firefighters, and the intense heat hit me like a weight. In the distance I could hear someone yelling for help.

I went back inside, and we extinguished the fire.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Megan watched Max watch TV. This went on for days. Max was too sad to do anything else. He’d stopped going to work. He wasn’t seeing any friends. He even refused to answer the door. He just binged whatever old sitcom Netflix recommended next.

But Megan was stubborn too. She’d keep haunting Max as long as it took to get him off the sofa and out of their house. She may be dead, but Max had a life still to lead.

Being a responsible sort, Pig Number Three set about building a house entirely out of bricks. This was before you could go online and order bricks delivered to your door. Besides, Pig Number Three had neither a door nor an address, so he was forced to make his bricks from scratch.

Pigs Number One and Two laughed at his labors. Everyone knew the wolves in the area had been hunted into extinction years before.

One day a bird with a broken wing showed up on the back porch of the old man’s house. He tried nursing the bird back to health. He bought birdseed and he put out water. He took the bird to the vet, and the vet told him there really wasn’t anything they could do for the bird; the wing would never heal enough for the bird to fly again. The man took the bird back home, but the vet was right. One day the man looked out at the porch and saw a single feather, but the bird was gone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Scott retraces the events of that evening to understand what went wrong. Candles were lit. Dinner reservations at Jen’s favorite restaurant. A dozen red roses.

A single broken rose is all he has left to remember her by.

People stared as my white wedding gown dragged along the pathway to the motel room, my head piece barely hanging on. I shut the door and removed the pins from my hair shaking the curls loose. That snake cheated on me with my best friend on our wedding day. I snuck to the house and packed a bag as soon as I saw them together. Now I’m in this dumpy motel, my wedding gown thrown on a chair that has cigarette burns, while staring blankly at the television.

They’ll find that out soon.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I wake up and it’s almost dark. I hear boom…boom…boom. I think it’s the raccoons jumping across the roof on their way to look for food. Maybe it’s the wind, the porch swing hitting the house, fireworks for some forgotten holiday or the war we’ve been waiting for but when I pull back the curtain on the window in the door, each rectangle of glass is a piece of your thumping heart, the size of a car, its feathery periwinkle veins like map-rivers, red finger-branches steady, wrapping down around the lower chambers, stamping the glass with tree patterns, knocking. Asking.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook (she/her) is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests and appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and elsewhere. Two new collections, Exodus with Red Delicious and I Drink from an Ear: Real Ghazals, are forthcoming from Unsolicited Press in 2026 and 2027. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal, the founder and facilitator of The Nearby Universe writers’ group, and a professor of creative writing at Pikes Peak State College.

I’m at that point in my life where I need to wake up at least once in the middle of the night. Stumbling through the dark to the bathroom, the street lamp cast a shadow across the table, revealing a yellow envelope.

Dropping the note, I searched frantically throughout the house. Beverly had died exactly one year ago tonight.