They laugh their boisterous laughs, holding hands with Pride seated in the gaps between their knuckles. Butterflies overflow their love-struck hearts and they try their best not to erupt in a bashful fit of giggles. He looks at her like she is all the world’s treasures in one. And she looks at him like he’s everything her heart has ever yearned for.

Oh, how first love always ends in regret.

From Guest Contributor Mahathi Sathish

The king delighted in varying which crowns he wore. One day he’d wear a crown of gold; the next, a crown of silver or of iron, or even a crown eccentrically fashioned from barbed wire. When he wore the latter, he was always surprised when blood ran in rivulets into his eyes. The queen, meanwhile, hated anyone who might be thought more beautiful than she was. She frequently sent assassins throughout the land to eliminate all possible rivals. That sound isn’t thunder, people would say, but an assassin rapping on the door of a cottage until his knuckles are raw.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

My fate had been decided and I’m not sorry. The hunger in the pit of my stomach was more important than the consequences. When I barreled my fist into the man’s face and he fell to the ground motionless, I took the bread with my sore, bloody knuckles and ran. Within a day, the sheriff apprehended me.

The sheriff led me outside to a chanting crowd, hands tied tightly behind me, to the noose that awaits my neck.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

Noble and patient, our grandfather’s oak tree welcomes us. A bird’s nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

Shadows stretch through yellow light, grabbing at her moving outline on the sidewalk. Quickly now, quickly. In her pocket, she slips her middle finger through the ring of her keychain, the metal spines porcupine out from between the knuckles of her tightening fist. Quickly now, quickly. The time between the taps of her heels on the pavement shortens with her breath. Quickly now, quickly. Her ears swim in an ocean of rushing blood. Quickly now, quickly. Behind her, footsteps. Quickly now, quickly. She is almost there. Quickly, now, quickly. She stumbles, falls. Quickly, now, quickly. It is too late.

From Guest Contributor, Laura Fitch

Laura is a writer and a reader of a whole bunch of things. Her fiction and non-fiction has been published in print and online, but she’s not about to tell you where. She likes fat cats and wine.