Peggy is a piece of work. Only Joanie knows. While she would be happy to talk, she’s not about to volunteer just how big a piece and what kind of work. So Joanie shoves it to the back corner of her mind so that it only appears when Peggy does. Then it explodes and she has to cheek her tongue—Peggy is a piece of work—and shove it back. It was Peggy that sicced them dogs on Marianne. That was some job. It was Peggy that sicced them girls on that young SOB. So sicced, Joanie catches her breath.

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry

Rick’s most recent? “The Other Daughters,” an audio production a performance poem featuring 120 contributing voices.

Our daily newspaper when I was growing up would publish on Saturdays a page of commentaries, advice columns, comics, etc., by teenagers. Although I can’t remember the exact subject of my commentary – the unfortunate phrase “the rising tide of communism” sticks in my mind – I do remember my intense pride of authorship. For the first time, I felt avenged on all the adults who had ever undervalued me. I deliberately showed the clipping, with my name and age, 13, in boldface at the bottom, to Mr. Eakely, my eighth-grade English teacher. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at the number. “Your IQ?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

When I write, I look above my screen and think. When I write, I ponder the entertaining events a published book may possess. When I write, I revere the marvelous feeling of finishing a book. When I write, I envision what I’ll do with my upcoming chapters. When I write, I imagine the extravagant scenes I can conjure up in my mind. When I write, I realize all I’ve been doing is daydreaming about moments of a future not yet known. Watching the clock tick, I look down at my screen and notice I’ve still not even begun to write.

From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.

“Trespassers deserve to be punished,” Ralph stated. “They have no business being on property they’re not entitled to.”

With the sweet taste of sugar, the ants entered their underground home.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

“This abandoned road looks really creepy. Are you sure we’ll be safe camping out here?”

Duke yelled “It’s coming from under the tent and it’s bloody huge!”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Silence.

A dark empty void encompassed him. Helpless, he hurdled in an endless tumble towards infinity. In the lonely darkness the unending quiet pulsed in his head. The terror of the inevitable quickly found his thoughts. Alone he fought to control his mind as he drifted aimlessly in space. His only partner the broken umbilical from the shuttle. The debris scattered around him a vivid reminder of the devastating meteor storm. An emergency alarm sounded though his visor. Fifteen minutes of oxygen left. His life now measured in minutes. Alone, he awaited his cruel fate.

From Guest Contributor Stephen Johnson

The shadows that lurk in the background carry the suggestion of prison stripes. Cary Grant picks a flake of cigarette tobacco off his tongue. This whole time the Ferris wheel has been spinning in the traveling carnival of his mind. He doesn’t try to reason with the gods but mocks their Greek robes. Then, as night burns to the ground, he discovers the perfect partner in Rosalind Russell, who spits words the way a machine gun spits bullets. She knows without having to be told that movies are just life enlarged. There’s no one to feed, nothing to feed anyone.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press), The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro Press), and Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

A red-tailed hawk screeched as it circled above. Grandfather pointed and said, “That is your spirit animal, my little one. You are a chosen one. It carries a message for you.”

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Other residents would cradle baby dolls, designed to match the heft of a newborn. But for Grandpa, who’d been one of America’s top reporters, only a typewriter would do. It didn’t even need paper; as the nurses discovered, simply sitting at the antique Olivetti was enough to quell his nightmares. Though his mind was gone, his fingers retained echoes of his memories, shaping them into the staccato sound of clacking keys.

He would sit there, morning to night, at his little utilitarian desk. And while he never produced a single page, we still cherished each and every word he wrote.

From Guest Contributor Keshe Chow

Flour, salt and baking powder. Margaret whips up a cake recipe as familiar as her own name. The whirring of the stand mixer comforts her.

The glass, like Karl, is gone.

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo