Manny started awake in the middle of the night. A commotion outside his bedroom window sounded like someone had been electrocuted while being drowned in a metallic barrel.

The next morning, the headline read, “The Midnight Shock Serial Killer Strikes Again.” His preferred method of killing: electrocution in a metal barrel.

I’ve been coming to this park for months. Today an elderly man I’ve never seen before wearing tan khaki pants that are too long, sits next to me.

When I return, the man is gone, and an orange sits next to my phone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I once skipped a stone 17 times across Lake Wawasee. It was one of those still days when the water is pure glass and you can see the clouds clearly reflected on the surface. We competed in hunting for the smoothest rocks all morning. I found one that was round and flat and just the right weight so I saved it until last. No one else got more than 11 and I was proclaimed the rock-skipping champion of Indiana.

I’ve never skipped a stone since. I’m satisfied knowing I once achieved a moment of perfection that can never be matched.

Every night around 11pm, the television stations ran an entertainment program for adults, featuring all of the funniest clowns in the circus. They danced around and bashed each other on their heads and wore garish make up, all for our amusement. The show was so popular it got replayed on the cable stations all morning and afternoon. Many times they performed with trained chimps in human clothes that we found cute and funny, because they acted just like real people.

Then, one day, every adult in the country decided to stop watching. We finally realized that clowns are for kids.

Corn maze stocks walk along, step by step, in endless motion. Lefts turned to rights back to lefts, leave us wondering and wandering alongside the corn maze. Eleven in the morning turns to seven at night, soon the moon will guide our way. Apple cider dances while the fire flickers, old folks singing folk songs. Knit sweaters insulate the warmth of your love, arms wrapped around my waist. Shadows once trailing, we now chase. Mama made a pie, pie’s been cooling on the counter, calling our name. One more corner, one more corner turns a long day to sweet dreams.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

Mekah is a student of literature and the applied sciences at Pikes Peak State College.

Every time Marvin rode the subway, he thought of Sarah. It got to the point he wondered if she was haunting him. For more than a decade they’d ridden the train together every morning, her to the high school where she taught, him to the warehouse that he managed. When he closed his eyes, he felt Sarah sitting next to him. Sometimes she’d even lay her head on his shoulder like she used to. He didn’t want to look for fear of what he would see.

The dead ARE ghosts, but not in the world around us. They live inside.

Henry knocked on his 8th door that morning. The woman of the house answered, still dressed in her bedclothes, with chopsticks through her hair bun. A remote worker rather than a stay-at-home mom. The latter at least take the time to look presentable before answering to a stranger.

This initial assessment was essential, as he used it to gauge which of the dozen memorized scripts he’d start with. The company believed using the right script equaled making a sale, but in his experience it didn’t really matter. Whoever first told him these bibles would sell themselves was the real salesman.

One morning, the adults of Sycamore woke up to find that all of the children had disappeared. There were no signs of abduction or notes left behind and, even more curious, it appeared that many of them had packed bags of clothes and favorite belongings before they departed.

-Your children”

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

The pulse of the city is becoming my own. I woke up with a thrumming headache this morning. The night and the dawn are a patchwork in my aching head. When I walk down the street, steam ripples off the pavement, as intangible as my disintegrating memories. How is my stranger? I wonder. The one from last night’s club. Gone now. He’s returned back to his own life after our brief collision: my drunken frame hung off his neck. His glassy brown gaze still holds me. Power lines cross my heart. My eyes swim in the summer sweat and rain.

From Guest Contributor Siri Harrison