Lucie hears the police officer’s voice so clearly in her memory. We’re sorry, your husband has been hit by a drunk driver and he’s unresponsive. Come to the hospital immediately.

The sky darkens.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Nancy Botkin loves midnight. She stands on the porch, wind whispering. She watches moon drifting. Luminous, motherly, never leaving. A new day awakens. Possibilities rise.

She hides pieces of dreams, waits for the next night.

From Guest Contributor Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State’s MFA program in fiction. The recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. His work has been published or is forthcoming in journals such as 50 Word Story, Molecule Lit Mag, The Write City Magazine, and Agony Opera. He lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.

She replayed his voicemail message. ‘Sorry I missed you, I’m just catching the plane now.’ Then an airport announcement sounded in the background and almost drowned out the next words. ‘I left a note on the kitchen table. Read it when you get home.’

Now she picked up the note and read it for the umpteenth time: I love you. See you next week. I’m counting the seconds.

It may have been only words, but they were important. Especially now. How she wished she had gone too, then she would not have had to listen to news of the crash.

From Guest Contributor Henry Bladon

Henry lives in Somerset in the UK and writes all types of fiction. He has a PhD in creative writing and runs a writing support group for people with mental health issues. His work can be seen in Writers’ Forum, MicrofictionMonday, FridayFlashFiction, 50-Word Stories and Writers’ Forum, amongst other places.

There’s a man on the television in an outdated suit. He is talking to a famous interviewer I have always liked. The words on the screen read: William Goldman — Author, The Princess Bride.

There is one thing the man says that I agree with in addition to his mustache. “The easiest thing to do on Earth is not to write.”

Miguel was seated in front of the word processor, tears running from his eyes. The keys were making their poetic sound. Rhythmically putting letters into words, words into thoughts and ideas that moved things deep within his heart.

“I just think about how dark and painful my life was. Not having any way to get healthier with schizophrenia.” Sitting in the dark Miguel stared into the light. “I can’t leave anyone to fight this on their own.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of building a life together. Buying houses and cars. Now she is gone.

One episode of indiscretion, it wasn’t such a big deal. Deal breaker, she said. She is never coming back.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The whispering grows louder after exiting the shaman’s hut. If her words are true, the voices following me are not of my own making, but rather the lost souls of the long dead, clamoring for attention.

I do, however, regret killing all those people now.

The road was empty at two in the morning and felt like a different world.

“I didn’t think you remembered that.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

The writer stared at the page, expecting inspiration to spring at him from the fibres of the old-style reporters’ notebook.

He nodded, and wrote Misery.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid