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.

The Waiting Room

My clammy hands make the number I pulled soggy. I roll the paper’s corner between my fingers until it looks like the twisted end of those poppers you throw at the ground. The chairs are ice cold and don’t warm up to me. Who am I waiting for to call my name? The slip is blurry. There’s no number after all. My skin is on fire. The paper disintegrates. Now I’ll never know when I’ll be called. The gift of creation is eating me alive. I really wanted to get that checked out. But I don’t think anyone is coming.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

Broke

Bills. They stacked up like a child's art project on the kitchentable, each stamped red with the word "overdue." The house wascrumbling down, the wallpaper peeling off every panel. The wallstrembled as the couple screamed at each other. Blame flew likehousehold objects; lamps, chairs, and plates.

They stormed off in a huff to the same bedroom, facing away from eachother, their faces too hot and hearts beating too hard to sleep.

So they stayed awake, until the sunlight streaked in through thebroken blinds and the couple was ready to start the routine overagain.

From Guest Contributor Artie Kuyper