“Stay,” I commanded, my palm facing him.

Four years tougher, I returned. There, just as I left him, was Julian. Emaciated and still. The most loyal gimp I ever did have.

From Guest Contributor Liam Kerry

It wasn’t a new year; it was the new year. Margo watched the clock tick down to midnight with bated breath. Her hand tightened around the stem of her bubbly champagne flute until her fingers turned red. A fresh start; a new beginning. As the clock struck twelve and the ding sounded the glass stem shattered in her grasp, forcing crystal shards into her palm. Blood ran down her wrist. With a resigned sigh she flopped back on the couch and watched the red drops dripping from her fingers permanently stain the rug. Oh well. There was always next year.

From Guest Contributor Madison Randolph

Madison is a reader by day and a writer by night. Her works have appeared in Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Bright Flash Literary Review, Spillwords, The Chamber Magazine as well as 101 Words under the name Ryker Hayes. She can be found on Instagram madisonrandolph17 or Twitter @Madisonr1713

The morning light was still dim, but the streetlamp sufficiently illuminated the permanent marker slipping down the glass door of my cafe like eels: STOP EATING DOGS.

A heavy sigh fogged the glass as I unlocked the door and tramped to where the cleaning supplies were kept. “The fact that I’m Asian doesn’t make me a dog-eater,” I muttered, but once again, there was no one to hear me.

From Guest Contributor Rina Olsen

Rina is a Korean-American teen writer living on Guam. Her work has either appeared in or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Dreams and Nightmares, 101 Words, Nano Fiction, Friday Flash Fiction, and Mobius: A Journal of Social Change, among other places.

The Duke of Westland stared down from his portrait. Walter studied the painting, admiring the duke’s powdered wig and frilled cravat.

Walter called out and raised his hands but his glittering rings thrashed against the inside of the canvas, causing his powdered wig to slip.

From Guest Contributor Cate Vance

Cate Vance writes from the mountains of Montana where she is inspired by misty mornings, brilliant days, and starry nights. Her short fiction has been featured in Sky Island Journal.

I live another life between raised garden rows, meditating on what worries me the most—feeling anxious about the seedlings that I’ve upended from their plug trays, pushing them head first into the palm of my hand, where I take a moment to study their good health, before I shove them into dirt that’s expansive as it is uncertain—a space where I imagine safety is being somewhere: tomatoes belong here—eggplants over there—and, in-between—bright, ruffled marigolds, guarding the future from an army of beetles, no bigger than poppy seeds, that seemingly ingest everything when no one’s looking.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

With his apartment empty and no sounds other than the ticking of the clock, Timothy took a walk in the cold night air until a bright sign caught his eye. Psychic Reading. Reluctantly, he went inside.

Still on the ground, her eyes open, Tianna was dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The flashing sign blinds Marissa’s eyes. The door says enter, and she pushes it open with a sigh.

Anxious and distracted, Marissa doesn’t see the car coming. She dies on impact.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You shared your writing with me. An extension of friendship, like a handshake. More like the reaching out of hands with the chance to be held – or swatted – open palmed. Sharing…emptying pockets to reveal hidden things among the embarrassment of collected lint, is a dangerous proposition. Your shadows merged with mine, achieving the density of darkness that brings on the dawn. How can I thank you? For selflessly taking my hands and guiding me to an unknown resting place within the pages of you. I spoke in an attempt to reciprocate. My words: sandpaper to your beach of memory.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

He believed he had the crowd in the palm of his hand, teasing them, provoking them, then hitting them with the punchline when they least expected. He heard their laughter. They were his.

She was the awful one but he was the one they took outside and shot in the head.