A young boy shaped sand sculptures. His parents combed the beach with a metal detector. When clouds rolled in, mother rose, balancing on the only leg spared in a shark attack.

As he imagined newly acquired wealth for his family, the sea tossed out a bottle. Nestled inside was a folded note.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. She resides in Alberta, Canada.

“This abandoned road looks really creepy. Are you sure we’ll be safe camping out here?”

Duke yelled “It’s coming from under the tent and it’s bloody huge!”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

It was about 2 am. I was on my way home. Again, as expected, I heard the same old sobbing of a lady that I have been hearing for a month on that particular road. I know it’s creepy and haunting, but I’m pretty used to it and have nothing to do. This is the only path I can take. No shortcuts, long routes, nothing! I couldn’t even tell anyone. After all I was responsible for all the things happening to me. Yeah, I was the one who ran her over with my truck and killed her a month ago.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

A road runs from the bare hills until it touches by the river. It dips among the summer sage and beckons leaves to faintly whirl. For those who lightly travel, an aged silence lures a calm desire. The old pine chants along and offers to stitch a tired wish. The sun murmurs warmly as it climbs to the last needle’s tip and chatters with so many dewdrops. Rummaging through fading prints, a low sigh rustles to a scattered impression. Here, it etches away brief moments of wonder and whispers a promise to follow when wings stray below to quietly suggest.

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.

I was driving like I always do, as if I were transporting a heart packed in ice for a patient in imminent danger of dying, when outside Springfield, Mass., a bird that was also in an exceptional hurry crashed into my windshield with the boom of a gunshot, startling me about as bad as I’ve ever been startled, but the strangest part was that there were no cracks in the glass, no blood splatter, no feathers caught in the wipers, nothing to see, just the greasy crayon colors of dusk smeared all around and the cold stretch of road ahead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

I miss him already.

Jersey is green. Spruce Green. Says so on his logbook.

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate

Chuck entered the car in a hurry and drove off, tires screeching. His wife, Hallie, was in surgery and he promised to be there when she awakened. He sipped his Starbucks coffee and wondered when the traffic would let up, cursing and punching the steering wheel.

Chuck would be at the hospital, but not for Hallie.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The only store open at that hour was out of the first-aid cream I needed. Security cameras recorded what happened next. I ran amok in the chips and candy aisle, as if a slave to junk food. It was scary how much I could pack in. By the time the cops showed up, I was outside again and a cat had become just a red smear in the road. Someone recently asked me how I would describe red to a blind person. I shrugged. No one wants your honest opinion, ever. They may say they do, but they really don’t.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of The Titanic Sails at Dawn (Alien Buddha Press, 2019)

Maybe they were tears or could be a shining in the eye. He was weak and had a fragile walk, while waving at his daughter. His ex-wife looked on with a miffed face. Her long-time affair waited for her, across the road in his Ferrari. She pushed her daughter towards the car. The poor child kept on looking at her father till her last gaze. Both of them separated by destiny and bound out of pure love. She was a gold digger and he a humble professor. Why didn’t he give her some life lessons? She looked deprived of learning.

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

A panhandler with the woeful face of a Christian martyr in a medieval painting stops me outside the discount liquor store. He says he needs two more bucks to get a bottle. Marlene, he adds as if I know her, is resting with a beer and the dude that shot her whose nickname is Rabbit. Has anyone asked us how we see things? No! We’re all on the road. But now it’s really getting fun. I dig some change out of my pocket. There are only so many opportunities to take maximum advantage of gravity’s pull on people and objects.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good