The mud on my face sticks to me from the heat of the sun, and I’m cramped in a hole waiting.

And so, I sit and wait.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Passersby might have been forgiven for thinking the playground was host to a psychedelic staging of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but it was just Cassie and Bobby, who’d rubbed dandelions on their skin until their faces were streaked with yellow. They wanted to camouflage themselves like the soldiers on TV, but all they had was mud and flowers and imagination.

When the real life soldiers came, Cassie and Bobby hid in the drainage tunnel as they’d been taught. The gunshots echoed like firecrackers in the air around them while they waited in vain for their parents to find them.

Pale reaching hands slipped below powdered ash and blood-soaked mud, pressing tighter to the earth, seeking salvation in the grave-like ditch. War thundered overhead as gunpowder sparked and chorused above. The soldier turned his silver eyes over the mud—to the cemetery of barbed wire and bruised corpses.

A high-pitched scream wailed distantly from two warring steeds tethered together. He watched the blood-stained Roan shriek and kick as it fell into the sea of barbed wire; the moon-kissed Arabian jolted from the tearing spikes, her gas mask hanging from bloodied leather, not knowing whether to die quietly or while struggling.

From Guest Contributor Mikayla E. Gruber

Mikayla is currently writing a fantasy/sci-fi novel and studying English and German at Pikes Peak Comunity College. She is also working towards a CPDT-KA Certification.

His boots sinking in the mud, Joseph pushed the mower across the lawn. Cecile admonished him for its futility, but with the water receding today, now was his opportunity. He’d always enjoyed doing yard work. There was the sense of accomplishment, but he also liked getting out of the house for a couple of hours.

It made him angry to think some people were blaming all this on global warming.

Mouth agape, eyes widened with fear, I looked on to what my world had been. Everything I lived for was swept up in a distant array of mud, debris and…corpses. Even through my grief, I knew the landslide had chosen me, to avenge everyone’s lives that came to an end in this short, devastating moment. This was my calling, which I would live through for the rest of my life, bearing their dreams.

Standing strong, even until this day, I recall this distant memory. With tears beginning to well in my eyes I see hope glimmering from the future.

From Guest Contributor Danielle Simpfendorfer

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

Noble and patient, our grandfather’s oak tree welcomes us. A bird’s nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

Joseph lived in the trenches. The others came and went, firing weapons at the enemy location before marching elsewhere. Joseph always stayed.

Joseph had a reasonably comfortable spot. He mostly just lay in the soft mud. It no longer mattered if he was face down in the pool of water at their feet. Breathing was no longer necessary.

It was a Sisyphean task. Tom’s only job was to clean the staircase leading down the side of the building. Never mind that he lived in Seattle. Or that they were located directly across from the Rodeo and Cattle Auction. Never mind that he never managed to reach one end of the 17-step flight of stairs before someone muddied them up again by walking past.

What really bothered Tom was that not once in his 30 years of employment had he ever been named Employee of the Month. It was enough to make a man give up.