I stretch my legs inhaling and exhaling. It’s a beautiful abundant sunshiny day, and I’m ready for my jog. Not many people are out and that’s normal nowadays.

Since jogging, my legs have strengthened and I’m more energetic. I’ve been working from home and cooking more, but I miss the previous world. However, I won’t let Covid-19 take away my jogging.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Erie Canal in Spring is serene, she thought. Once again, first heat of May made the pink sugar bowl blossoms on magnolia trees shimmer with light. Townies were out walking, taking their time getting to the Lift Bridge on Main Street. Each wore a blue, or red, or yellow balloon fastened to their jackets. The balloons drifted & tugged in the wind, like her niggling thoughts about her neighbors. How they reminded her of sliced white bread. She doubted that they knew they lacked depth; yet, like setting clocks ahead, they came to watch water fill the canal’s bed.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

M.J.’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 31 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Elsie opens the window and the warm breeze enters the room. She sits next to William holding his hand, remembering.

Elsie’s eyes begin to water, and she wonders why dementia has taken her young love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The anguish of losing a loved one aches the heart. Henry knew this too well as he walked the cemetery grounds to his wife’s grave, carrying a dozen red roses, her favorite flower.

A gentle breeze blew a rose petal in the air.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Every spring, King Tolliver traveled with his retinue to the ruins. None of the official historians had an explanation of what city once stood here, all of the stories offered contradicting explanations of the calamity that brought the civilization to decrepitude.

Tolliver’s son enjoyed scrambling over the rocks looking for cracked ceramics and the occasional colored glass. More importantly, the king shared the prince’s enthusiasm.

“O ugly ducklings grown into beauty, are ye homesick too?”

Thus I, standing in the shadows of the House of Quasimodo, watching you glide upon these placid waters, O snow-winged sisters of my soul!

“Swans fly south for the winter” You, of whom I first read in the sun-baked plains of my homeland, a world soaked in the scents of masala and mangoes – in this city of eternal Autumn, you have made yourselves a second Spring.

You know not my home, O Daughters of Winter. I know not yours. Yet here the twain shall meet, Once Upon a September.

From Guest Contributor Hibah Shabkhez

Hibah is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

Noble and patient, our grandfather’s oak tree welcomes us. A bird’s nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

He had spent the morning prepping: moving furniture, taking down curtains, removing pictures from the walls, spreading drop cloths, and taping: lots and lots of taping.

He hated painting, but when his wife said paint, he painted.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.

Winter surrendered. Riverbanks croaked a single splash with each muddied footstep. Wild Sweet William’s dainty lavender flower mingled lush green leaves and twisting vines of yellow-hued buttercups and scarlet sumac. Scraps of ocean blue ribbon and coral-colored yarn frantically entwined weaving sticks and leaves, nesting six brown-speckled eggs. Wild turkeys gathered strutting rowed corn fields. Beneath the refuge of centenarian pine fawns struggle against tottering wobbled legs. Snapping turtles lazily sit side by side sunning on downed oak logs across the trickling eddy. A deluded hummingbird, hoodwinked by an empty bird feeder, tells me to get busy.

From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz