The atmosphere had been charged all day so when the storm started neither of them was surprised. The husband settled in to read; the wife paced the room unsettled.

“Whatever you want,” he said, and returned to reading his book.

Melissa Ridley Elmes

Melissa is a Virginia native currently living in Missouri in an apartment that delightfully approximates a hobbit-hole. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Reunion; The Dallas Review Online, Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Gyroscope, In Parentheses, and other print and web venues, and her first book of poetry, Arthurian Things: A Collection of Poems, was published by Dark Myth Publications in 2020. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MRidleyElmes

Candy crawled behind the battered settee, where nobody could find her, and held her knees tight to her chest. Sleepy raindrops smashed at the window, echoing like someone rapping at the door. Someone who cared.

It tapped a little harder.

From Guest Contributor Malvina Perova

Malvina is a warrior writer, creator and illustrator from Ukraine, the amazon from https://goamazons.tumblr.com/ and an artist at https://www.instagram.com/goamazonsart/

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

We step into the past, warm and bright, light up a Lucky and slip into the booth by the window with its posh leather seats, its black and white glossies on the walls: Sinatra, Sammy, Bogey and Bacall. We say, Let’s have the T-bone rare, please, the baked potato, loaded, and that wonderful Caesar salad tossed tableside. While outside, mayhem on the march. Throngs chanting, flags unfurled in a cold rain, and darkness soon to settle in. While we sit, sipping Manhattans, cozy in our denial, where dinner will soon be served, and there’s Sinatra piped in, singing “My Way.”

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda’s stories and poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, Outlook Springs, and others.

The rain pelts my face, the umbrella useless. I walk quickly, but not enough to draw attention. I must get to my destination and back before curfew.

I leave and make my way home before curfew.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Music is flowing around me, thought a little flower bud as it shyly opened its dewy new petals. A quiet, peaceful melody of streams of gray pouring from a cloudy sky, framed by cooling rhythm of beads of water hitting cement nearby, thrumming on rooftops of homes around its garden, drumming against wooden walls, staccato taps on glass panes. Wavering patterns of drizzle and downpour, whispers of gentle wind through branches of trees, and drips from pools of water on lush green leaves, add a dulcet cadence, forming a tender harmony to welcome this year’s refreshing renewal of mother nature.

From Guest Contributor Sara Light

Sara lives in Chicago and writes poetry, fiction, and children’s stories. In her spare time, she likes to paint and read. Find her on twitter @SaraLight19, and on her website, saralight.blog.

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“Certified organic?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

The rain came in through the window, but she didn’t move to close it. Her eyes were fixated on the picture of her late husband.

She gently traced his face with her fingertip as tears glided down her cheeks.

From Guest Contributor Zane Castillo

With muzzles lifted towards the sky, they gather on rocks long dry. The sun touches down where water no longer passes by. Sable tips wash to marbled tails that tell of a time in the distant past. As wind sifts the sand nearby, it slowly edges them away. A golden plague bears their memory with a single name and details of their cause. For now, they pause as a simple thread meant to knit its way into today. When clouds darken the light, rain falls and remembers the familiar trails. It brings with it a mending unearthed by the dawn.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it’s brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.

Rain blackens the windows, dime-sized water balloons of toxic ash. We haven’t had sun in months, and now this. You look up and say, Think it’ll stop? I love how you still look up, that instinctive angle of hope, of God.

We stand on the porch and watch the rain. Our last neighbors emerge from their house, wave, then slow dance down the street. By the time they reach the corner they’re convulsing like punk rockers. I ask you to dance but you pull me back inside.

From Guest Contributor Charles Duffie