It was the season of mists. He had been forced by necessity to pawn his one good pair of pants. Now that he couldn’t confidently appear in public, he sat sulking in his underwear at the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember, Josephine wasn’t there to remind him, what it was like to live in anticipation of making love. Adversaries swooped around him like moon-crazed bats. If he had had a suicide pill, he might have taken it. The world only ever really pays attention when there is a panic or a traveling guillotine or when all the soldiers have syphilis.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collection Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Today is his wife’s birthday. Five years later, a ghastly memory lingers over him. He cringes recalling the cave tour he planned for his adventurous wife. Now, he desperately yearns for her.

A flurry of air passes through him as her immortal love warms the hollow cave.

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal Shah graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

He was a mastermind, slowly taking over as he got deeper and deeper under my skinーconvincing me it was love the entire time. And I believed it, I believed him, because his hooks were in me so deep that I couldn’t see I was trapped. He knew what he was doing, it was all part of his plan. What he claimed was love was his way of making sure I wouldn’t leaveーeven if I wanted to. I was a toy to him; something he could keep, control, and manipulate into staying. As if I were something that could be kept.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

The ozone scent of the ocean reminds me how much I have sacrificed to be here: friends, family, home, heritage.

I lose myself in the roaring of the waves: a world I can no longer enter.

From Guest Contributor Iqbal Hussain

Kneeling on the hard ground making textiles is an arduous task when the sun is beaming, but the heat is worse indoors. The brick wall of my home blocks the air flow and sweat trickles down my forehead.

My heart is full of love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Maybe advertising was the wrong field for Bob. His boss, Ralph, passed him up for the accounts he wanted, like “Granola Gambit” and “Veg It Up,” giving those to his arch-nemesis, Ted. Bob kept getting accounts like “Killer Shrimp” and “Pork for Your Fork.” (Bob was a known vegan; passive aggressive much, Ralph?) Bob would’ve left ages ago had it not been for his secret love for his coworker, Darlene. He couldn’t shake the vision he’d had of her one day when he’d come upon her eating barbecued ribs like a wild animal. She’d been covered in sauce, but adorable.

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Susmita lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. She’s a lifelong writer whose work has appeared in The Daily Drunk, Nymeria Publishing (winner of March 2021 poetry contest), 50 Word Stories, and Vine Leaves Press (50 Give or Take), and will appear in upcoming issues of Short Fiction Break and Secret Attic.

The guests looked on with complete bewilderment as my future parents exchanged what sounded like ironic wedding vows. Afterwards at the reception, a farmer sang about his favorite crop and then it was the best man’s turn to speak. He had barely begun when my father interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” The wailing that arose might have been especially invented for the end of the world. Everything was burning. People, drapes, carpets, tablecloths – everything. In years to come, my brothers and I would pick through the blackened ruins. Haven’t you ever noticed that only the poor have dirty hands?

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest full-length poetry collection, Gun Metal Sky, is due in early 2021 from Thirty West Publishing

“Love from my heart to yours, always,” Christopher’s mother cooed, cradling his young body.

Hearts continued to surface the rest of his life.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The naked model sits, head bent, arms and hands relaxing. Her beauty is undeniable with pure white skin and long toned legs.

My love. The lady who stole my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I’m not an idiot; I know that we are young and there’s a chance he can shatter my heart, but the difference is that I don’t care. Falling for him isn’t a choice; I can’t stop it even if I try. It’s taking a leap of faith, hoping to swim instead of sinking. I dive in, head first, not caring if I drown. At least I’d drown knowing that I found the love I always wanted, one greater than any love story ever told. And so I dive, falling deeper in love with him, hoping he wouldn’t break my heart.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well.