“Paul, Emily here.” Pleasant and composed as always. “I need a power of attorney for my mom, Agnes.”

All the time in the world.

From Guest Contributor Tony Covatta

scowling, baldwin grabbed the welcome-to-9 birthday card from the tv compartment. birthdays? useless! he thought. aren’t birthdays for children whom god gave little time and had to celebrate their short lives. just like my twinnie.

—he’s my twin. he wanna live, too!

From Guest Contributor Elisha Oluyemi

A young lady reminded me of the theatre, a single spotlight illuminating an actor on stage; blackness all around except for her brightly lit face and dust particles dancing about, defying gravity as they floated in all directions.

Now, I’m nothing more than that dust particle floating my days away.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Meanwhile, Franz Kafka sells another piece of his dead mother’s jewelry to pay for his brothel visits. Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse go horseback riding together. Alma Mahler has just aborted their child. The police question Picasso, but he has an alibi and they release him after slapping him around. Summer is fading, and Rainer Maria Rilke feels it as a wound in his chest. Using an alias, Adolf Hitler boards a train for Munich to escape conscription in the Austro-Hungarian army. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is missing from the Louvre. Museumgoers lay flowers in front of the bare wall.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collection, THE HORSES WERE BEAUTIFUL, is forthcoming from Grey Book Press.

The bullet tore through flesh and bone. The arm fell limp, and Officer Brady drew his weapon with his non-shooting hand. Their assailant continued to fire from outside the passenger window of the cruiser as his partner slumped unconscious and bleeding in the front seat. Her baby was born in spring. She returned to duty last week.

Placing his front sight on center mass, Brady squeezed the trigger and watched the attacker drop to the pavement. After screaming “officer down” into the microphone, he smashed his foot down on the accelerator, racing the mother of his child to New York-Presbyterian.

From Guest Contributor B.G. Smith

B.G. Smith enjoys writing flash fiction and drinking Kentucky straight bourbon, usually at the same time. B.G. is a married father of four boys and a lifelong fan of Philadelphia professional sports teams, which explains the affinity for bourbon. His stories have appeared in Pocket Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction.

The gunshots up ahead are deafening. The screams, more so. I close my eyes and keep my mouth tightly shut to avoid crying out in terror.

She reaches for my hand, and we escape to a foreign country only to be trapped again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Grandfather waved us goodbye in his distinctive style, up and down instead of side to side. As we drove off and he became smaller and further away, mother said ‘Poor old man.’ He was alone, and living the life he’d always lived – the life he wanted – but I understood her sentiment.

It’s clear to me now that finally you become the one they leave behind. That’s the way it is. The way it has to be. And that’s alright.

From Guest Contributor David Dumouriez

In 1991 my parents invited Sharon and I on a cruise to Hawaii and Tahiti (where we had never been). This was during the run up to Desert Storm, the US invasion of Kuwait to liberate it from Iraq. The trip was quite enjoyable, but what sticks in my mind was the sight of my mother crying on the deck when we received news of the invasion. It saddened her to think of her three brothers going to war in the WWII Pacific and Korea. Flying back to the mainland USA I imagined that the plane was filled with terrorists.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Mother waters her garden at midnight, with tears of the moon, she says. I can sometimes hear her crying, but I don’t tell her. Her garden is beautiful, with pale petals on willowy stems and dew clinging onto their souls, she says. I asked her once to see her budding seeds, but she insists that she must tend to them alone, fragile blooms. I nod because I know she is right, and because I am scared that if I don’t, she will find out, and my heart is too fragile.

Mother’s garden has no flowers, and I am still wilting.

From Guest Contributor Zeyneb Kaya

It started with gummies. Her mother placed a bag inside her lunch box every day. She gave them all away, hoping the other kids would like her.

She stepped into the bakery, bought lemon cake, and ate it.

From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

Faye is the author of the memoir-in-essays Message From a Blue Jay and the Stray Cat Stories children’s book series. She lives and writes in Cambridge, Massachusetts.