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

“If XXXX (she named the presidential candidate she preferred) gets elected, you can make a wish and I’ll make sure it comes true,” she said and gave him a smile that didn’t leave room for any interpretation.

Unfortunately, the brain tumor hadn’t been noticed yet.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

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

She dances with the leaves on this late autumn night. They rise, fall, crackle, swoop back into the air, without reflection about their falls. No signs of injury. No self-pity.

The words float in her mind like sickly alphabet cereal. But another curtain of leaves showers her. She twirls, the leaves dancing with her, sky and street opening wider than ever before.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Thinking about escaping across closed borders, I dug a hole outside. It was hard work. I pulled out bricks, barbed wire, glass bottles and jars, and old cans as I dug deeper. When my mind drifted too far into sadness, I stopped. Everything moves slowly now. I’m learning to be very stingy with supplies. On the table is a bunch of flowers I found in the trash. This may be a day for catching up on The Walking Dead, but I stand at a window that looks out on a yard. Somehow, just standing there feels like a hopeful gesture.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

As the handsome Captain Cahill hurtles through the cosmos at 186,000 miles per second, his mind wanders back to his finest victory. At the Battle of Vynsenulon VI, when he lured the Gigarachnids into a narrow crevasse and lit the charges above them, burying their army under five tons of granite. His actions that day earned him three medals, one for heroism, one for bravery, and one for valor. Captain Ronald Cahill, the universe’s greatest hero.

“I’m leaving you, Ronny.” He barely hears from virtual reality, “Call me if you ever grow the fuck up!” His wife slams the door.

From Guest Contributor Rob Howard

He followed the familiar tune through the fog: strings, horns, that impossibly sweet voice. The gloom lifted to reveal the girl, singing her heart out under the spotlight, invisible orchestra in accompaniment. He cried tears of joy, felt love, and also something not quite love.

He peered closer. “What does he have to smile about? He murdered that girl right on stage!”

From Guest Contributor Clay Waters