Rosa watched the Christmas lights flickering on the house across the street. Green, red, blue and white, gleaming through her window. She took a sip of tea and let the warmth settle in her stomach.

Every year Rosa continued putting the box under the tree and never opened it.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“So, uh, what happened to Ben?”

“I know.”

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The first night we moved into our new home, we heard singing from the house next door. I went to the window and saw a woman singing on the second floor. She held a single candle in her hand.

Now, each night, I sit at my window and sing that song, a single candle my only source of light. I have not seen my wife in many years.

The flame exploded into being as the match head dragged across the sandpaper. It might have seemed magical, but really it was just that the glass-on-glass friction generated enough heat to kindle the match’s phosphorus.

Seventeen matches to survive until the end of the world.

As the floodwaters receded, Thompson entered what used to be his home. The structure had once stood proud at the top of the hill. Now it was in shambles, the storm having carried it off its foundations and depositing it several hundred yards away.

With stooped shoulders, Thompson shifted through the remains. His friends would say he should count himself lucky that anything survived at all. At least he was alive. But it was hard to think that way with Jessie’s waterlogged doll in his hands. He was not one of those parents who looked at their children as disposable.

We named our new bulldog pup, Drooley, in honor of never-ending slobbering. As he matured, Drooley’s slobbering grew worse. Navigating through our house was like running a gauntlet of huge slime spots that Drooley slung on floors and walls every time he shook his head.

A week later, we celebrated our brilliant discovery by giving Drooley a new name, Pucker.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave is a recovering software developer who now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.

I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can’t hoard me.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Leo squeezed Hayden’s neck. Slowly the life began to leave her body as her eyes widened and face reddened.

Leo wiped down every trace of his finger prints and DNA. He put the gloves in his pocket and left Hayden’s house intent on finding the man she left him for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com