Piano sounds drift muffled through the walls. I inhabit a dark little corner. Like every other space I’ve inhabited, it’s become utterly cluttered. My work involves a lot of sharp edges and loose ends. Sometimes cheating is required. That explains being strict about wearing a mask. I travel to many different places looking for roses: handmade, bought, fake, and real. The ones hanging over my head have recently been cured. I like having my history nearby. But what you don’t see is just as important as what you do see – for example, that the tree outside the window is dead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest collections are The Titanic Sails at Dawn from Alien Buddha Press and What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press.

There was an emptiness to everything. Even the space between the minutes lacked connective tissue, so that time no longer flowed with any regularity. Josey was left with nothing but her thoughts to fill the void that descended upon the convenience store after midnight.

She’d divide each 15-minute chunk into 91 cents. That’s how much she made, after taxes and withholdings. It hardly seemed worth it, and she’d stare out at the empty highway and live an entire lifetime during every span, dreaming of a life where she’d never married, had never given birth.

Until even her imagination was empty.

Winter today felt like death. Sor glared at the obvious trail leading to his concealment.

“The planet’s sterilized,” the marine announced over her com.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Alex watched the books seemingly fly off and back onto the shelves, guided by grinding mechanical hands. Time slowed and the scent of burning oil filled the space around him.

Alex concentrated on the scent. That alone, among all the ones and zeros, felt genuine.

Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can’t agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee’s gone cold. I mind. He doesn’t. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don’t care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I’m younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for… Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

I was eighteen when I met you. I did not like you. When I was nineteen – I kissed you. My feelings changed. When I was twenty – I slept in your arms. My heart changed. When I was twenty-one I slept with you. I did not love you. You broke my heart for the first time. It healed.

Twenty years later, you still call. My heart has been sewn, ripped apart, and patched back together. It has been systematically desensitized from your ploys and is now just existing somewhere between my stomach and lungs. Biological in space yet empty in soul.

From Guest Contributor Lindsey Stevens

Daphne has a secret.

In the end, she decides it’s easier to float into the eternity of space than to admit she’s gravity immune.

Space lover, every other morning she flips through iridescent images of interstellar clouds. Those nebulae are hers. She has collected many – Crabs and Orions, even Eagle’s pillars.

Today the Eye of Helix is just coming out on her thigh – fine web of filaments, embedded in a red and slate-blue oval. An older mark on upper arm begins transitioning from purple to the shades of yellow and green. She promises herself to find its alien soulmate tomorrow. Now she must go, and she packs her school bag void with hope. The regions of bright nebulosity are safely hidden under shapeless uniform.

From Guest Contributor Natalia Kay

“This is my weekend,” Hugh told the windscreen, almost colliding with the car in front. “Hold on.” He tuned out until he could give the Bluetooth his full attention. The car skidded to a stop on the gravelly lay-by.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

This is a long haul, intercontinental flight. In the allocated, limited space on the plane it is a matter of organizing myself.

The most contradictory thing about this wise saying strikes me; globally quoted, all the while remaining completely unknown in the airline industry.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

The Arts Alliance of Pine Rivers has announced Barry’s piece RETREADS as runner up in their most recent writing competition. Also, Barry’s story ARMED will appear in The Flash Fiction Press during the last week of October.