Lucille you can Keep A Knockin’ but you can’t come in. You’ve been Slippin’ And Slidin’ with Miss Ann By The Light Of The Silvery Moon and that ain’t right. Now I’m Ready Teddy to Rip It Up with Long Tall Sally because She’s Got It. If she isn’t ready to be my True Fine Mama, maybe Cherry Red will Send Me Some Lovin’. I will look All Around The World to find the Girl That Can’t Help It giving me the Heeby Jeebies. Lawdy Miss Clawdy, can’t find the girl for me. I’m Going Home Tomorrow to Kansas City.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

We’re speeding in Mama’s 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air. Mama’s talking about new names we’ll concoct. Lives we’ll live.

“Yes, Mama.”

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

I try on names for mythical mother. Mother. Mama. Mom. They hold their own weight. Mother, formal, yet beautiful. Mama, the moon, wistful and luminous. Mom is too plain.

I keep trying on names, wishing. I can’t stop.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has had work nominated for a Pushcart Award and The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart.

Nancy Botkin loves midnight. She stands on the porch, wind whispering. She watches moon drifting. Luminous, motherly, never leaving. A new day awakens. Possibilities rise.

She hides pieces of dreams, waits for the next night.

From Guest Contributor Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State’s MFA program in fiction. The recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. His work has been published or is forthcoming in journals such as 50 Word Story, Molecule Lit Mag, The Write City Magazine, and Agony Opera. He lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O’Briant

A year ago it started like a joke. We were laying on our flat mattress together. Innocent. We were children.

Amadi was my brother, I was twelve. It came one night when we watched Mama and Papa do things underneath their sheets while she made strange sounds like she was in pain. When I slept that night, I felt it. Amadi took off my pants and put his thing inside of me. There was a pain like it was a needle, only there was breaking and entering, a salted liquid, and nine months later a child was on my breasts.

From Guest Contributor Oghenemudia Emmanuel

At dawn I am brought forth into this world, howling, crying. Mama, a girl hardly thirteen, swaddling my small frail body in a torn shawl. Oblivious that I am a load, or so I think.

By dusk I am an old man walking out of this world, soon. Mama, so long a spirit by now. Papa, a boy hardly an adult.

From Guest Contributor Troy Onyango

I held her dainty hand, her fragile bones hidden deep within her withering skin. Her once cerulean eyes, now slate-grey from worries of not knowing, look at me longingly as if I had all the answers. Her time was slipping, and that’s what she wanted; to be with her Papa… her Mama… her Mamoo… I wish she could remember; the stories she told… her children’s names… me… I opened the photo album on my lap. She smiled down at the pictures. “What a beautiful family you have.” My eyes fixated on her, wishing she could remember… they’re her family, too.

From Guest Contributor McKenzie A. Frey

His heart was in the right place, Mama would say. To explain away anything Kurt did. Like it was about location, his heart, being where it should be. He meant well. I nod like I agree. But on good days when Timmy takes a nap after lunch, I go out on the front porch, close the door behind me. Think about how I’d pack just a few things, wear a white summer dress. I stand there on the porch alone, and it’s like I’m riding in a fancy car with the top down. Letting the sun and wind hit me.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead