When I listen to the forecast, the weather calls for abundant sunshine and the day is anything but.

Chemotherapy awaits after all.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The air is ominous, and lightning brightens the sky. I hold onto the mountain with both hands. I’m an avid climber, but the weather forecast is wrong. The sky is not abundant sunshine.

I wave my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The sky looked heavy as darkening clouds pressed hard against the planet’s surface. The two dominant elements fought. It was like an unstable ballet.

Samael bowed his head crying as the real thunderstorm began.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

One day city visit. While parents shopped around, brother and I went to an amusement park.

We weren’t amused.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

The rain is pounding on the window and I see water seeping through the sill. I put towels to block it, but to no avail, and the dogs are barking uncontrollably, pacing back and forth at the clap of thunder and lightning. With nothing else to do, I sit and wait for it to pass. A summer storm doesn’t usually last long.

I look out the window and see abundant sunshine. In the distance a glimmer of a rainbow appears.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sarah sat on the beach swooshing her toes through the hot sand. In the near distance, two young girls were building a sand castle, arguing about who was the better swimmer. Sarah turned up the radio and tuned them out. She closed her eyes and let the warm ocean breeze sooth her tension. With a smile on her face she listened to the waves, in between her favorite songs.

Within minutes the sun disappeared and it began to thunder and lightning. Seconds later Sarah was drenched and running to her car, the day ruined.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There are trees on the west coast you can drive through. Ancient monoliths built by thousands of years’ work: rain, floods, winters, dry lightning fires. Our grandfathers’ fathers’, storytellers gone silent over the ages, tales forgotten, archaic aching fallen into disuse, a dead language. Even the wind cannot communicate with these trees anymore.

And all I smell is the distant salt water licking wet sand.

From Guest Contributor Jon Alston

Jon has an MA in Creative Writing. Good for him. He writes things from time to time, and sometimes people publish them. Good for him. On occasion, he will photograph things (or people), and maybe write about them; sometimes there is money exchanged for his services. Good for him. He is married and has two children of both genders. Way to reproduce. He is the Executive Editor and founder of From Sac, a literary journal for Northern California. How about that? Currently he teaches English at Brigham Young University, Idaho among the frozen potato fields and Mormons. Good for you, Jon.
Websites: www.fromsac.com www.jaawritter.blogspot.com

You remember: a blurry red light darting across the sky; the glossy road and its skewed mirror of your forehead; flashes of light into the eyes of a man in a hat, crossing the street. He remembers: two tons of steel collapsing from a rooftop, crushing his best friend flat. All that was left were two blue fingers and the smell of dust. The building remembers: the bones and bricks who made it strong, the lightning and rain licking its sides; burst out windows, a fire devouring from within like a disease. The fire remembers being the thing that burned.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin