The Lost Notebook

I looked for it everywhere I could think to look. Under chairs and beds. In the clutter on the kitchen counter. Behind cushions. No luck. I’ve lost my notebook or had it stolen. The notebook is nothing fancy, a simple assignment pad like the ones we used in school. But I might as well have lost my soul. The notebook contains notes for poems and explosions. I’ve been unable to proceed without it. Words won’t obey like they once did. I’m a mirror without glass, a rocket ship without blastoff, a donor heart without a box to put it in.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, True Crime, is scheduled to be published by Sacred Parasite in early 2026.

Thick Crust

The real Spartacus was among the guys who answered to that name when Romans captured hundreds. No photos on file—he was the one who looked like Kirk Douglass.

He’d take his punishment alone for leading the slave uprising. Except his men wouldn’t allow it. The Romans spread them out along the Appian Way, crucified.

Appian Way was a strange name for a box mix of pizza dough a few eons after the action.

No one schools Romans. That’s clear as he walks to the cross they raise. Still, he’d do it all over—break for freedom, die beside the road.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Stuffing Made Of Memories

They sit on your bed, on a shelf, or maybe tucked away in a confined box collecting a musty smell. Once you cared for them and kept them neatly stacked up...but now they are forgotten and dusty all alone. They are full of memories of the smiles from old relatives who placed them in your arm. Or maybe the memory of wishing on their heart before their stuffing was sealed up, hoping it’d work like a charm. Think back to the stuffed animals that you held so closely as a child. Where are they now? What do they mean? From Guest Contributor Madison Rutkowski

Madison is a student of literature and the sciences at Pikes Peak Community College.

Courage

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

“Can I help you?”

“I...I just need a stamp, please.” he stammers, tapping his envelope on the counter. “Do...do you have anything interesting?”

“Not in singles.” She crinkles her nose, mirroring his disappointment. “A Purple Heart?”

“Perfect.”

His quarter and her first-class stamp exchange hands.

“Front box picks up at five. Still time to get that in today’s mail.”

At the door, he affixes the stamp and writes out the address. He retrieves the long-carried letter that starts ‘Dear...Mom?’ and tucks it inside. He seals it, takes a deeper breath, and passes the letter through the slot.

From Guest Contributor Scott Burnam

One Last Time

"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

The Gift

Today the mailman came with a special delivery package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and bore no return address. I was required to sign for it, which I did, and watched the mailman jump in an unmarked black van and speed away. I took the box inside and set it on the kitchen island. I wondered who might have sent it. I have no friends or family. It's a peaceful life. Then I heard the screaming—a man's screaming. Hard to make out at first, but once you keyed into it, you couldn't stop hearing it for anything.  

From Guest Contributor Meeah Williams

Outside The Box

Annie is missing. “Not in her room,” Mom said. “Can’t find her outdoorshoes,” noted Dad. “Maybe she fell into a humongous puddle,” quippedyounger brother. Older brother was silent. Two guinea pigs madlythreaded wheels. Crows lined the backyard fence squawking at thehouse. “Bet she’s at a friend’s,” said Dad. “Maybe a monster snatchedher,” younger brother grinned. “That’s enough young man,” assertedMom. “We need to think OUTSIDE the box,” Dad stated. “Maybe someoneput her INSIDE a box,” giggled younger brother. “Hush!” yelled Mom.Older brother emerged: “Annie’s in my bedroom closet with an imaginaryfriend.”From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

The Tiny Box

Rosa watched the Christmas lights flickering on the house across the street. Green, red, blue and white, gleaming through her window. She took a sip of tea and let the warmth settle in her stomach.

Under the Christmas tree sat a tiny box from Steve, neatly wrapped in gold paper and a red bow.

A year had passed since Steve’s death and Rosa wouldn’t open the box without him.

Deep inside she knew what would be in the box, but truly knowing would break her heart.

Every year Rosa continued putting the box under the tree and never opened it.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Last-Minute Shoppers

“Wrapping paper! Ha, ha!”

Shoppers passed by clutching rolls of it.

“Fancy spending Christmas Eve wrapping presents!” Ian thought, reflecting on how he’d finished his yesterday.

“My God, they’re fighting over chocolates,” he sneered, observing a couple of housewives tugging the ends of a Milk Tray box in Howell’s Department Store.

He resolved to have a latte in Starbucks to fully savour the spectacle before the shops finally closed.

“Chocolates?!...Christ, I forgot the wife’s chocolates!”

Ian rushed out of the café.

“Where the hell can I find some now?” he thought, seeing the doors of Howell’s snap shut.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Last Box

“Meat grinder?” I asked.

Arnold laughed. “Strange guess, sis’.”

“Not at all. Grandma kept her favorite possessions even when shecouldn’t use them anymore.”

Arnold shook the box. Contents moved.

“She grinded roasts for cabbage rolls and meatloaf,” I added.

The overhead light flickered as it swayed. I shivered.

“Let’s carry the box downstairs,” I said. “I hate attics.”

“Why, you’re scared?” Arnold snickered.

I followed my brother into the kitchen. Inside the box we foundparcels wrapped in Christmas print. Each labelled with tags spellingout names of the family.

Grandma didn’t have a chance to give them out.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.