The smell of food wafted through the apartment. I groaned as I moved off the sofa. My old bones ached as I made my way to the small dining table. My wife smiled at something from behind me.

I just shook my head. I didn’t believe her.

From Guest Contributor Amber Brandau

Brianne gently swung the bassinet humming a lullaby. It had been in her family for years and it was her turn to place a baby in it.

It was time to tell him about the miscarriage.

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.

“Be a good boy,” said my mother. “Stop playing cricket in the graveyard with you likkle hooligan friend. I don’t want to hear that you trying to see duppies by washing you face with rice water.”

I didn’t want to disappoint my mother, a God-fearing woman, who left Jamaica ten Christmases ago to work as a hospice nurse in Miami, comforting the soon-to-be dead. I’d been a good boy until last week when she came home in a box. So who could blame me (and I know she would forgive me) if I tried to see her one last time.

From Guest Contributor Geoffrey Philp

Geoffrey is the author of Garvey’s Ghost

Old castles and dungeons. Wizards and dragons. Evil Orcs and bewitching princesses. And he above all, The Mighty Knight, the warrior chosen to save the world from eternal doom.

Nothing but memories.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

I walk down the abandoned streets as the slightest beam of light begins to brighten the unlit sky. The brisk wind forces a stubborn tear to stream down the side of my cheek and crystallizes from the absence of warmth. In the fog filled skies of New York City, I take my last exploration before I restart my life. I stumble down the stairs that stand before me and I make my way into a desolate tunnel that fills with light the longer I wait. A loud horn echoes. I guess now is my time to fly away from here.

From Guest Contributor Lilia Onstott

Lilia is an English student at Pikes Peak Community College. She spends her free time by allowing her mind to express itself within many artistic fields, like writing, photography, and music.

Sammy’s live-in, Tanya, abhors Sammy’s pet tarantula, Quentin. Tanya’s friend, Gwen—Sammy’s illicit lover—sees murder in Tanya’s eyes. Quentin disappears. Sammy suspects Tanya. Time smolders. Back into the picture Quentin dramatically creeps. Tanya proves Gwen prescient, then moves out. Gwen moves in, eventually giving birth to a boy they call Quentin. Time bursts into flames. Hating his parents for naming him after a spider, Quentin kills spiders to spite them, worrying school counselors. Twenty-first century America. Mad boy. 3-D printers. Time, get wise. They call the boy Thomas. He learns violin, no spiders wantonly harmed in this boy’s life.

From Guest Contributor Darrell Petska

Darrell is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. View some of his fiction and poetry at conservancies.wordpress.com.

Curiosity turned into passion. A passion to explore the unknown.

“No. I read.”

From Guest Contributor John Lane

If it was up to me, I would be anywhere else but this waiting room.

The news is not good. It’s twins and my husband has been in prison for two years.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

I miss him already.

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

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate