When I stepped outside onto the cold snow-covered sidewalk, I remembered my childhood in Maine.

I never skated again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A boy I knew killed a man. Lost his mind. Shaved his head. His face on the news was an open-mouthed scream, soundless. His eyes so round, searching. I whispered to the screen: please blink. I said it like ice in his mouth, like the way he’d look up at stars puncturing the still night sky, the cold air, too many angles of his body pushing out, knees and elbows and chin. I said it without hope. When this boy was mine, he danced and wide-smiled and kissed and laughed. His voice rang out, ethereal, hit the earth like rain.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

raise it as if your life depends on it. Your future too.

Shout until you are heard.

From Guest Contributor Marzia Rahman

Marzia is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in several print and online journals. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022.She is currently working on a novella. She is also a painter.

I love eating ice cream with Tom, we go to Cold Stone Creamery down the road whenever I’m feeling down. The 2 things that can cheer me up whenever I am not feeling the best, Tom and Chocolate Ice Cream. I asked him “Why are we here today?” “Well, you don’t seem like you’re very happy honey, thought a cup could cheer you up,” he says smiling like he always does. He looks so adorable. I want to remember this forever, I take my phone to click a picture and there is nothing. Today marks one year since Tom passed.

From Guest Contributor Mariam Dinah Jacob

The soldier’s leg is broken in two places, but he’s courageous and doesn’t scream. As I’m cleaning the wound, he grabs my arm.

The sepsis will soon kill him, and he’ll return home in a coffin.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

NATURE SUBMISSION:

It is nighttime. Myriad dots of light litter the sky. We lie on our bed with our distinct commitments disinterested in rekindling a lost pulse. As a pack of wolves practice their choric song, my wife trembles, scratches her skin and flutters her limbs trying to repress an urge. She grinds her teeth as if she wants to sing like the baritone owls and soprano sparrows. I ask, “What’s wrong?” She doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead she escapes into the toilet. A high-pitched scream perks my ears. She returns with calm on her face and nuzzles into my neck.

From Guest Contributor Anindita Sarkar

Anindita is from India. She is a Research Scholar at Jadavpur University. Her works have recently appeared in Indolent Books, Ariel chart Magazine, and Flash Friday Fiction.

Josh always watched the lottery alone, his door locked to keep out his roommates. He’d been playing the same number for ten years, and after writing down Saturday’s numbers, he checked his ticket against them ten times. He had thought if the moment ever came he’d scream, maybe dance. Now he sat holding his winning ticket, terrified.
$825,000,000.

He quickly endorsed the back of the ticket and quietly checked the Internet for tickets to Australia.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

“HUNGRY HANNAH EATS REAL FOOD!” I thought all robotic dolls were creepy, but my twin daughters loved that commercial.

“Feed me,” she bleats.

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

Amusement Park. Strange name. Bet there are more unamused adults than young children. Heard Uncle Max scream. Saw him vomit on the Ferris Wheel, again. After he said he couldn’t stomach it. Cousins bashed themselves manoeuvring bumper cars. Their dads were not amused. Neither was the ride operator. Too much cotton candy caused my sweet tooth to sour at the dentist’s. We tried the Swing Carousel. I sat with Dad. The swing in front of us was empty. Would’ve been filled if the father of a toddler didn’t have a tantrum. They relocated at the merry-go-round. I preferred the Pendulum.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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