Little by little, she slept. The world had become rather too much. She began, in the night, when no one was watching, stealing away to where she couldn’t be found. Her great disappearing act. But before long, she’d be pulled back to the incessant waking wants, needs, demands. So she honed her skills. Cut social ties, snuck off earlier. Worked from home, held out longer. Staked claim to a full half of each day. And of what did she dream? Every night, the greatest dream of all. A world without work, without demands, where she could sleep as she pleased.

From Guest Contributor John Villan

On the borders of this serene land lay a dark shadow formed from a massive structure built on the ruins of another once-great civilization. It often feels like an ominous storm cloud in an otherwise starry sky.

On this glorious night, as the sun sets, dark clouds dissipate; the moon rises on the horizon, filling the entire night sky with dangerous possibilities as they come one step closer to the stars.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Iago dreamed he was a man who rescued kittens from tall trees, and children from the clutches of characters like him. He bought girl scout cookies, he sang in church, he harmonized, he eulogized, he gave away his possessions and passed through the Eye of the Needle. He gave up his part in “Othello,” but there was no giving up his raison d’etre, and as the dream dragged on, Iago’s essence slipped in and swept away his girl scout cookie goodness, and so he couldn’t help but swipe a few boxes, as he marauded through the rest of the night.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

At that late hour, the streets were deserted. I wandered the dirty sidewalks in a kind of amnesic daze. Somehow I had gotten lost in a part of town I thought I knew well. Familiar landmarks had simply disappeared. I didn’t recognize the faces of buildings or the signs on storefronts. My own footfalls sounded weirdly detached from me. After only twenty minutes of this, I felt as though I had been running, falling, flying, floating, crawling half the night. I sat down on the curb exhausted. Clouds shaped like vague suspicions of vast conspiracies were just starting to pinken.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry book is The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press.

It’s not fall yet. It’s still light ‘til eight and the kids want to stay out past that on the trampoline that squeaks now with every bounce, its round net keeping out the cucumber-loving mosquitoes, the raspberry-loving bees, the cool night-loving spiders. The sky goes sherbet and then gray and raindrops fall but stop just before you get them to come in and then the sky is bright on one side, and the baby is jumping and pointing: light! (spin) dark! (spin) light! (spin) pink! And it’s time to do pajamas and kitchen and bills but you don’t.

You jump.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests at Loud Coffee Press and A Story in 100 Words, and it has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing. Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Raindrops fell softly with a hiss. Each drop shatters like diamonds when it collides with the earth, leaving a dazzling path that leads back into the darkness. Through the obscurity of night, the city lights are shining.

As I stood there, eyes open to marvel at the majesty of the night sky and the glories of the heavens that filled my view, it felt as if time had slowed down, giving me a moment to breathe and think of home.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

There were days when the explosions didn’t subside. The sirens became more and more frequent, especially at night. We began to sleep badly. Then one morning, while hurrying to the market, I was struck by flying debris. At the hospital the doctor first looked around to make sure no one was listening who shouldn’t be. “I just need to grab a lab coat and one egg and I can fix this,” he said. He cut my feet open and put pennies in the incisions before sewing them back up and wrapping them in bandages. He said they were lucky pennies.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a poet and collage artist on Cape Cod. His latest poetry books are Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Robots Contest Entry:

He tinkered for a year, ignoring his phone and only leaving the house for Wacko Wake or the hardware store. The rest was delivered.

Then it spoke. “Yes, master?”

From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

I recognized him from his picture in an old literature textbook. It had been over 100 years since he had mysteriously vanished. I asked where he had gone and why and what he had done there. He wouldn’t answer. When I added I was a big fan of his writing, especially the Civil War tales, he just snickered. I didn’t know what to say next but felt I had to say something. “You like being a ghost?” I asked. He gave me a sly little grin. “You get to sleep all day,” he said, “so you can work at night.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie 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.

I can’t bring myself to read the news anymore or even watch it on TV. There are just so many unidentified dead men with my face, just so many couples in their late thirties having trouble making a baby. Meanwhile, a small band of starving deer stagger out of the snowbound woods in search of help, but help has been repealed. Like the Oxford comma or the use of voiceover in film, the whole thing is controversial. And although it’s day, night thoughts are stuck in my head, and the only immediate alternative may be to cut my head off.

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.