The Tides They Are A-Changin'

It was a twice daily occurrence. Water gradually crept up the shore, claiming the land and scattered detritus in sacrificial tribute, only to recess gracefully back once more.

The powerful and inexorable tides! Countless livelihoods depended on their constant rhythm. Yet for those who knew what to look for, troubling signs portended a change was coming. A slight burgeoning of the seas slowly encroaching the Earth's surface.

And then tonight. Water flooded everywhere, until even the tallest mountains were covered. This was no 40-day affair, but the complete envelopment of all humankind.

Water, water everywhere, no one left to drink.

The Cycle Repeats

There are no bruises. No black and blue markings. The damp pillow muffles my sobs. Berating me with silence, his brand of torture is debilitating. I cower in the dark. The smaller I get, the more his power swells.

He dares me with a narrowed glare, and I shrink a little more. I bite my tongue to stifle my fear. The spiral deepens. He said, I was worthless. He said, I was stupid. I am all those things.

I wait, holding my breath until the deafening silence has passed.

Then he smiles. I can breathe again.

Until the next time.

From Guest Contributor Violet James

Autumn’s Menace

A plainclothes policeman, using a pair of handcuffs as brass knuckles, cut the face of a boy who was wandering the city in a hospital gown. The sirens got louder. Windows rattled and the pictures on the walls shook. Sometimes I think it's not true that teaching a child to not step on a caterpillar will make you a better person. Sometimes I think the plainclothesman is going to walk through the door, so I just keep waiting. The city streets are deserted – no St. Patrick’s Day parade, no people. In these slow days of unease, everyone is a biohazard.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Brumal

“I often find myself laying still in bed with the ceiling fan on and windows cracked. I’ll wait for the cold air to shrink the tissue in my joints, for my nerve endings to cool, and to feel the agony of hypothermia even though I am perturbed by all things cold; snow, door knobs, the hands of people with poor circulation. I am fazed by freezers; and those stainless steel stretchers that will latch the cold onto my body.

I don’t think I’ll mind dying as much as I’ll mind sleeping in a freezer—my brumal body boxed beside strangers.”

From Guest Contributor Shanique Carmichael

Him

And, the sad truth was: he really could have loved me so well, and he would have, too. He would have opened my door, bought me vibrant purple irises, and kissed my cheek. But his idea of forever and mine just weren’t the same. He wanted to settle down in the same small town where we met, and I wanted more. The sad truth was he could have and would have loved me so well, but I could not give him the same in return. I wanted more. I needed more. And I gave him up because I knew him.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her master’s degree in English as well.

Election

It’s election night and everyone is on edge, waiting to hear if the candidate they voted for wins. I don’t discuss politics with friends or family since it only leads to arguments. In some cases, I blocked friends on my social media page because they’ve become too involved discussing politics and arguing.

Whoever wins I will be grateful whether it’s for the candidate I voted for or not. They are strong leaders and I envision a great country with a thriving economy.

The winner has been declared. It isn’t who I voted for, but regardless, I’m happy.

Bless this country.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Bobby Pin Woman

In my brother’s dream, a woman was sleeping on his closet shelf. When she woke, she claimed she was going to kill our grandfather with bobby pins. She was surrounded by them, and called herself the Bobby Pin Woman. All the pins were short in those days, without the cushion things on the ends like now, that save your scalp. When we went to see our grandfather, he lay in a hospital bed that raised him up from the waist. At the Rosary, I asked my brother what “Hail Mary” meant. At five I only knew to bow my head.From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, Misfit Magazine, Gone Lawn, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, Eunoia Review, and others.

The Greatest Show

We climbed down from our platforms and out of the ring, inhaling deeply of sawdust and popcorn, sweat and dung. We turned out the lights and broke down the tents, ropes biting into our palms. We watered the elephants and fed the lions; we waved at stragglers and kissed our new lovers goodbye. One last campfire, one last harmonica bray, one last cloud of dust kicked up by our dancing feet. One last paycheck pressed into our hands. No train tomorrow. No makeup, no spangled costumes. We’ll tip our heads back, way back, and spread our arms for the net.

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Previous publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She's the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and three collections: Circe's Bicycle, Midnight at the Organporium, and Political AF: A Rage Collection.

The Reluctant Informer

About 600 miles south of the North Pole still stands the world's northernmost statue of Lenin. There are people who feel uneasy in its presence. The face is like a mask, with a guarded but threatening expression. Some years ago, a tableful of coffeehouse radicals confided to a police informer that they planned to topple the irascible founder of Bolshevism from his pedestal. “We’re the rifles our ancestors didn’t have,” one declared. The informer made a shushing sound. He wasn’t used to the kind of drunken talk where you say you are going to do something and don’t do it.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Her Sacred Space

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

She told Sammy how dearly she missed him. How her life lacked happiness, excepting visits from grandchildren.

They would’ve delighted seeing him. But it was different for them. They lived elsewhere in town. Their lives filled with interests young people sought.

Only when Rose died did her grandchildren realize her loneliness. Close to the burial ground, hidden under debris, they uncovered a stash of cigarette ends.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.