Sally sits at the dining table, scooping a spoonful of cheerios.

Sally is free, but bleeding heavily.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Findlay

Alexa spends most of her time writing fiction and poetry. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of three online literary magazines. She is obsessed with Disney and Jurassic Park. Her work has been featured in Pomona Valley Review, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Halcyon Days, Grotesque Magazine amongst others.

An elderly lady made an urgent call to the vet because her cat was off her food.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said through red cheeks. ‘That’s Dewdrop’s brother.’

From Guest Contributor Rick Haynes

“Sweet,” Dad said, licking his lips.

“Turkey gravy.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Robert and Rebecca arrived home to find a dead mouse on their kitchen floor.

Robert could only think about the mess that must have attracted the mouse, and began a thorough cleaning.

Grace paced the kitchen while her six-year-old daughter, Sophia, watched curiously. Sophia had bright blue eyes like her father. When would the war end? Grace thought. It had been two months and she hadn’t heard a word from Charles. All she could do to occupy her time was read and take care of Sophia.

Grace collapsed to her knees and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.

From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

Grace ran her finger over the word.

Life balanced on the pinhole of a hilltop.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier

He buys a supermarket flower bouquet and, pecking her cheek, gives it to his wife in the kitchen. She throws it in the trash can after he goes to work the next morning. Again. He buys white roses from the subway exit vendor, and gives them, with a hug, to his wife in the living room. Into the trash can after he goes to work. Again. He gives a pink potted orchid, expectantly, to his wife in the dining room. The orchid sits on a bedroom table the next morning when the wife lies in bed with the trash collector.

From Guest Contributor Gerald Kamens

Leon sat across the kitchen table, gulping down instant coffee and looking everywhere but at Jaclyn. He was late for work, again, and spoke of nothing else. The toaster pinged and he bustled away.

Now she felt that if she turned the jar upside down and shook it, there might be a few crumbs in there. But it would be too much effort for too little return.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement