There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe’s stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.

A friend says he thinks of Andy Warhol and his pop art when he sees Campbell’s soup cans. But when I see Campbell’s soup cans, I think of my mother.

Now an old man, I still sip Campbell’s soup and remember my mother’s radiance lighting up the room and her deep blue eyes sparkling under the overhead light in our old kitchen. She’s been gone years, but I feel her presence.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

More than spirits, ghosts are the chill of a finger tracing your spine, a whisper only loud enough for you to hear, a memory of something long gone. What happens when the ghosts I’m afraid of are the ones that are alive? Will they continue to feed on me until there is nothing left? Will I join the other ghosts then? Piece by piece, they keep picking away until I am nothing. Will they pity me? The girl they once knew was full of life; and now, she is no better than the rest of them. A bag of bones.

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.

Hannah clutches the picture close to her chest and closes her eyes, a smile on her lips as she envisions her young daughter dancing, her steps light, and the sunshine gleaming on her golden blond hair.

The air is filled with a snowy substance.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I know I am asleep. I am floating, cruising through an old neighborhood. I recognize every detail of the houses and the trees. Perhaps I am just exploring the deepest, untouched basement spaces of my memory, where everything is stored? I float by an antique shop. The elderly owner, opening it up, looks at me. Now I muse: am I experiencing astral projection within my dream? I float by a little boy in black: going to a funeral? He is snagged on my floating robes, which are also black. I wonder: is this how one becomes, all unknowing, a witch?

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

As I lifted my daughter in the air, her melodious laughter echoed. My wife waved and set the picnic table, her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. The birds chirped in unison and the squirrels scampered searching for food. The sun beamed without a cloud in the sky and I relished the day.

Tomorrow I leave for war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The forest had darkened with overgrown conifers. At a fork the man made a guess taking the less trodden trail.

He raised a bottle of water to her memory, vowing to try again. He’ll find that bench. The place of memories. Where he took restful breaks and she, his retriever, would wait at his feet.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

He thinks he sees her again and he’s mesmerized by her perfection.

These are the benedictions of age, he thinks. Even when the fire burns low, there is memory and imagination; even in an empty room I am never alone.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Find Ron. Lavalette’s work at: EGGS OVER TOKYO

Lucie hears the police officer’s voice so clearly in her memory. We’re sorry, your husband has been hit by a drunk driver and he’s unresponsive. Come to the hospital immediately.

The sky darkens.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The girls play hopscotch, the one sister’s hair bounces in rhythm to her skips. She giggles and bends to pick up the rock, balancing her leg in the air. She wins, and they play again and again, until the sky opens, drenching them. Hand in hand they run home with their mouths open tasting rain drops. Entering the house, their mother yells for them to take off their wet sneakers and leave them by the door.

Eighty-five-year-old Cindy smiles at the memory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher