It became obvious to the Minister of Culture that everyone wanted to be a writer, and no one wanted to be a reader. When the Minister of Culture collected statistics, she noticed that most of the stories published by reputable publications remained unread. With the support of Parliament, the MOC instituted a new rule: for every story published on the internet, the writer was obliged to read ten stories by other authors and write a summary and critique of each story. This practice led to a number of happy authors and readers, who turned out to be the same people.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Once upon a time, an orange man became president. He dressed in red, white and blue, but he liked white more than black and brown, and he loved orange most because he was orange.

The end.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. He has written poetry for The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling and has been published in Vital Christianity. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by a number of contemporary Christian music artists, including the Gaither Vocal Band.

I was born with three hands, all roughly the same size. People often mention how lucky I am. To be able to wave hello, or goodbye, to three people at once. Or how nice it must be to applaud more than everyone else. But what they don’t understand is I only have two arms, two wrists. There is nothing for my third hand to connect to, so I carry it around everywhere I go. One hand is always busy holding my third hand, which leaves me with just my other hand, my poor other hand, doing everything on its own.

From Guest Contributor Jason Heroux

The guests looked on with complete bewilderment as my future parents exchanged what sounded like ironic wedding vows. Afterwards at the reception, a farmer sang about his favorite crop and then it was the best man’s turn to speak. He had barely begun when my father interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” The wailing that arose might have been especially invented for the end of the world. Everything was burning. People, drapes, carpets, tablecloths – everything. In years to come, my brothers and I would pick through the blackened ruins. Haven’t you ever noticed that only the poor have dirty hands?

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest full-length poetry collection, Gun Metal Sky, is due in early 2021 from Thirty West Publishing

People, she thought, were like gadgets. They could be tucked away neatly into white boxes, each waiting to fulfill their role. Friends, family, coworkers—they each had their own purpose in her life, and she never let them stray. Few coworkers ever became friends, and even fewer friends became family. Nobody crossed the inner circles of her life without her permission. And then, there was him. The glitter explosion that disrupted her perfect life, bringing just a little mess with him, wherever he went. She now carried that intoxicating aura as it radiated from her chest in amber waves: Bull’s-eye.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well. Her work has been published in Entropy Squared, The Dribble Drabble Review’s Spring 2021 issue, and Otoliths in February 2021.

They kicked in the door. Your wife screamed. A few of them were wearing white lab coats as if they were doctors. The world was behaving in ways you wouldn’t have believed possible a short while ago. With a “doctor” on each side, and people in neighboring apartments covertly watching, you were hustled down the stairs and across the street and into an ambulance. To this day, no one will talk about what might have become of you. Everything is either too hot or too cold; nothing is soft. Prepubescent girls have dreams eight feet high and made of steel.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest full-length poetry collection, Gun Metal Sky, is due in early 2021 from Thirty West

Brad is splayed out on his couch watching the Seahawks. He is surrounded by snacks and beer. He had played football in college but had never made The League, a great disappointment. Suddenly Brad felt very sleepy. He put down his beer and closed his eyes. “I will rest for a few minutes,” he sighed.

Brad’s wife comes into the room, screams, and dials 911. Brad has achieved his wildest dream.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

A plainclothes policeman, using a pair of handcuffs as brass knuckles, cut the face of a boy who was wandering the city in a hospital gown. The sirens got louder. Windows rattled and the pictures on the walls shook. Sometimes I think it’s not true that teaching a child to not step on a caterpillar will make you a better person. Sometimes I think the plainclothesman is going to walk through the door, so I just keep waiting. The city streets are deserted – no St. Patrick’s Day parade, no people. In these slow days of unease, everyone is a biohazard.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

“I often find myself laying still in bed with the ceiling fan on and windows cracked. I’ll wait for the cold air to shrink the tissue in my joints, for my nerve endings to cool, and to feel the agony of hypothermia even though I am perturbed by all things cold; snow, door knobs, the hands of people with poor circulation. I am fazed by freezers; and those stainless steel stretchers that will latch the cold onto my body.

I don’t think I’ll mind dying as much as I’ll mind sleeping in a freezer—my brumal body boxed beside strangers.”

From Guest Contributor Shanique Carmichael

She was sitting on the bed, crying and feeling “something’s wrong, I should be asking for help,” but she couldn’t remember who or what she should be asking. Everything in her brain was white static. Secretly she wanted to see beautiful color, a purple that vibrates at the very end of the spectrum. Anyone observing her would have probably concluded she would never get away – away from clock faces with Roman numerals, the tyranny of structure, all those people going about their day on a busy street. When something needs water, you water it, you don’t just hope for rain.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).