The girl next door—I keep forgetting her name—just came by, Platero. She’d found an injured woodcock.

I’m glad you didn’t witness it, dear Platero, even though now you’re sniffing the fluttered and sticky feathers.

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.

He had become a master in the arrangement of all her beautiful pieces.

Opening the door as the sun burnt her eyes, but the pain only lasted a moment.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The art of manipulation or being a spy is something. To be a double agent or triple agent even is more interesting than one would expect.

To get into a government or corporation and manipulate it towards good? Something very few can do. The intentions of corporations along with the state is to control the minds of the people the system of things enslaves. To change the doctrine even a bit can cause pain. Free humanity.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Clinton is an expat, filmmaker, and story teller

The house stands camouflaged. Painted blue, it bleeds into the sky, camouflaged, hiding the deep-red hurt inside. “How do you appear so serene?” asks the inside to its out. How do you not give credence to the suffering within us? “I must maintain hope,” the outside says. “The pain within our facade is already causing stress cracks and chipping in my optimistic veneer. My face was once a cloud-like cream. Now its blueness, though mistaken for a sort of cheer—is actually the shade of sadness. When she passes, and finally ceases this struggle, let us rebuild, recolor, reinvent ourselves.”

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

The medical assistant asked in a flat, toneless bureaucratic voice how I would describe the pain. Stabbing? Aching? Sharp? Dull? She entered my answer on the form, but without showing any actual concern. A philosopher once said – or should have – that a society is only as just as its treatment of its most vulnerable members: the old, the sick, the poor, the institutionalized. Using a dropper, I strategically place .50 milliliters of Triple M tincture under my tongue. I wait fifteen, twenty minutes, and then gray-clad troops burst from the treeline with a rebel yell. The tongue is all muscle.

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.

Nothing hurts like the pain in my chest or the ache in my head. Thoughts of my grandma’s last embrace grip me. I look up, expecting to see her face in the clouds, but all I see is rain. Perhaps, her tears appear as raindrops, and her face is only visible to angels. I was once her angel. She took with her my wings, the same ones that gave me the strength to fly above obstacles. I hold her umbrella above me, her scarf wrapped around my neck. Some say I inherited her kindness, the only inheritance that truly matters.

From Guest Contributor Ernestina Aggrey

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

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. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

I bring her diamonds. My hands are full of them.

Every full moon I come to her porch at midnight, to show her how they shine in my open hands. But every time she only holds her head and softly cries.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

“I’m so sick of pain, Gene. I wish I couldn’t feel at all.” With a shaky sniffle, Emily stroked the black fur of Gene’s chin, eliciting his tractor purr.

In her mind, Emily screamed.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Cook

Here is a secret–it’s not about the pain. Rather, it’s about prolonging the discomfort.

…and you might just catch when my eyes roll back.
Mmmmmm.

From Guest Contributor Jeff H.

Jeff is a high school English teacher. He blogs at https://batchandnarrative.com/ with his wife, a dietitian, about writing, food, and everything else.