For Yulia Navalnaya

Beware, murderer. I know widows. I watched my mother become one, imagined how my face would bend and darken in the shadow of the word that means shroud, dusk, ash. What lies inside the bones of a woman who does not crumble before you—who wears this word to war, vowing not to yield? Something heavy: iron, redwoods. Oak, like him: an oak among reeds who knew he would be uprooted, just as she knows she will be. No, it is light, hydrogen fusion in the belly of a star, howling life, dawn, freedom. Beware of this widow on fire.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat (she/her) is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won or placed in the top two in contests at Loud Coffee Press, A Story in 100 Words, and most recently, the Pikes Peak Library District 2023 fiction contest. It has been published in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and elsewhere. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Time Travel

For nearly three weeks, I found myself in a state of utter confusion. Despite using my usual login details, I was unable to access any of my accounts. It was as though I wasn't myself, like something else had taken over my body. I entertained the possibility of theft or insanity, but my motherboard's lack of responsiveness left me with more questions than answers. It reluctantly crossed my mind that I had been transported elsewhere. However, how and why I would end up there was still a mystery. These unexplainable experiences have left me feeling perplexed and uncertain. Time travel.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Before The Words, There Were Echoes

There was silence in the universe. Words were nowhere to be found, as if all existence had stopped and all that was left was a void of utter disbelief and confusion. How can there be something, and yet it means nothing?

She had many words inside her, words that boiled into nothingness and brought about the vapor of insignificance. She remembered “in the beginning was the Word,” but instead of feeling any sense of security, she lost heart.

In that loss, she grasped the emptiness of whispers and asked the vast expanse:

“What is needed to be compassionate?”

“A soul.”

From Guest Contributor Aida Bode

A Non-random Universe

He was a firm believer in the order of things; a conscious universe. He was well versed in Newton’s 3rd law and the law of ‘what goes around comes around.’ He had reduced life to a mathematical formula.

He'd lived his life being painstakingly good, always looking over his shoulder for karmic mis-steps. He would do good and be amply rewarded by a benevolent divinity that was weighing his every action on an eternal balance.

He died with hurt confusion in his eyes, his pain-wrecked body mangled and torn. Had he gotten the formula wrong? Was there even a formula?

From Guest Contributor Minerva Athena

Pity Me, My Preconception

I'd been here before, but I was lost. Confusion, desperation took residence in my bones, my breath, my very being. Everything had changed.

I stumbled along, eyes rambling in vicious circles, a desperate search for something familiar. Nothing made sense anymore. Tradition sacred, change took me by unfriendly surprise. If no one tells me who to be, who am I? I need structure.

I found a man, wearing men's clothing, and I asked where to find the Men's Department now that it was just Department. He pointed to the sign that said "Men's."

"But what does that mean?" I asked.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse