The snarling saw cuts off and the groaning fir drunk on gravity takes its first step. A full ocean is born in the soughing fall and over four centuries whumps the earth like a five-dollar moll on a sprung stained mattress. And you stand there, hands numb and belly tight and you wonder why something so old saves its final words for someone like you. Someone who knows the glass bite of gin straight from the bottle while slouched at the tilt kitchen table as rain plunks a pan on the floor near the hot squat stove in the corner.

From Guest Contributor Casey Hampton

The realtor pushed the door open. “Will your wife be joining us?”

He toed the dirt floor and it gave way under his boot. “Sold.”

From Guest Contributor Darci McIntyre

The firemen backed out of the room, choking on the gut-churning scent. The old woman lay splayed across the floor, one purple foot twisted out from under the quilted bathrobe, the other in a pink slipper, the lamb’s wool gripping the foot it could no longer warm, by her side a bloated miniature dachshund and a cat curled and frozen on the cushion of the kitchen chair. A cockatoo danced back and forth on his perch, still calling to the woman on the floor, to the dog in whining vigil, to the three weeks of silence in the house.

From Guest Contributor Diane de Anda

In Export there is something heroic about earning foreign currency for my country. It makes up for jet lag, family absences, and living out of a suitcase.

My mind floods with stories told by fellow exporters, their helpless acute vulnerability, when their wives ran off with another man or woman.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Other stories by Barry can be found at Cyclamens and Swords, 50 Word Stories and here at A Story In 100 Words.

Gerald curled his hands around his coffee, coveting the warmth to be found there. Sabrina wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, lingering long enough to give him a squeeze, before she hurried back to the kitchen. He took a moment to look at the faces of those around him and realized he wasn’t the only one who was cold and exhausted. But they would be back out there searching as soon as their cups were empty, and so would Gerald.

He kept his smile to himself. He may have been cold, but at least his son wasn’t among the missing.

Victoria had believed their house was haunted, until they moved and the weird stuff in the kitchen didn’t stop. Maybe it was her mom who was haunted.

Victoria wanted to keep the spoon, but her mother sold it. After that, Victoria went to go live with her father.

Kurt returned home after several hours at the bar, slightly buzzed and no longer furious at his wife. He expected the house to be spotless after that disaster of a Thanksgiving dinner.

What he found was that damn turkey sleeping in his bed.

I absolutely hate the Church. They’re all up in my kitchen, telling me what to do, what I can’t do, what I’m allowed to think. They’ve hung a heavy dose of guilt around my neck and it gets so heavy sometimes I can barely move.

I think about waging war, taking on the Church and all the elders and giving them a taste of fear like they deserve. But it’s just a dream. With the shame sheets they’ve tied around us, every sin shows up red, and they know who needs punishing. It’s best to stay as pure as possible.

It was once a daily ritual I looked forward to.

Now it was the most agitated moment of my routine, wondering if today was the day she had decided to poison me.

Some morning, early, no sound from worrisome bees, refugees from last summer, moved twice, days after we decided to keep going, to lie, to lay together near the buzzing, pretending a world away from this one:

If I welcome you into my kitchen, to turn one of my forks over your fingers, flipping the metal into your palm, against knuckles, as you talk, too quickly, about what it means to leave her, what we can do with this freedom, I’ll mark the time, exactly, in quick numbers carved into the sink’s rough porcelain, unable, quite, to let the knife go.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.