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.

Ripped To Bits By Ghosts

I moved into my workshop, with a gas-ring and pair of chickens in a cage. I needed no assistants. I watched the sky from a hilltop laboratory, harnessing the lightning.

In reality I sleep under the stairs in my friends’ flat. He’s a motorcycle courier, she’s a receptionist. I work where I can, wherever the agency sends me, seven days a week. If I’m ill I rely on her noticing and bringing me soup or something. I have a notebook to record my dreams. Huge flights of geese turn furrows through the red November skies. Worlds can barely contain me.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

Incensed

The crumpled notebook paper can’t be hurt, no matter how hard it’s thrown. An anemic crackle sounds at impact, a lazy, pointless attempt to uncurl is its sole achievement. The lopsided wad sits atop the unburning end of a Duraflame log. Mercifully, black char ashes the paper’s edge, further loosening the ball until gravity pulls it down to hearth. Still misshapened, I see blue ink, evidence of the second worst opening line in the history of writing. The winner is in my fist, ready to toss to the flames. It’s the only way to bring fire to my words today.

From Guest Contributor DL Shirey

DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon, writing fiction, by and large, unless it's small. He has been caught flashing at Café Aphra, 365 Tomorrows, ZeroFlash, Fewer Than 500 and others listed at www.dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.

Possibly Stephen

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

Words trickled...gushed...cascaded. He ripped the page out, rolled it into a tight ball and chucked. It bounced off the bin, thran as the incorporeal muse.

“What was wrong with that?” she asked, form flickering in the draught.

“It was in Latin,” he spat.

She giggled a bit. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I know, how about–?”

“Look, could you put on something less filmy. It’s distracting. Tired, not dead.”

“Tweeds okay?”

He nodded, and wrote Misery.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Salt Of The Earth

Ian sits supping his pint, jotting down some verses in his notebook, his Sylvia Plath’s Collected Poems at his side.

A mother and two twenty-something daughters take the next table. The menfolk, the husband and the boyfriends, arrive with the drinks.

They notice him briefly and he senses the usual smirks and rolling eyes.

But he’s soon forgotten as they immerse themselves in their hearty little world.

The men have large practical hands. Eavesdropping, Ian learns that the daughters are in sales and retail, respectively.

‘Salt of the earth’ he thinks sardonically, thanking God for poets and tortured souls everywhere.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

The Search For Meaning

The purpose of the meeting wasn't revealed beforehand.

Timothy walked into the boardroom carrying notebook and coffee, ready for anything. He dutifully took notes as the minutes were recited, then listened as each department head read their reports covering the previous 24 hours.

An argument broke out over the order of the reports. The company would not refer to it as an argument, but rather a protocol discussion. The minutes wouldn't make note of the raised voices on both sides.

Eventually, the meeting broke up. Everyone returned to their cubicles.

Timothy still had no idea why the meeting was convened.

The Poet's Life

I sat on the large stone in the middle of the picnic field. I had my notebook out and was busy scribbling away. There were couples and families and dogs and blankets. There was food and sport and laughter and a few tears. The more life unfurled around me, the faster my pencil lurched across the page.

This is the life of the poet. A life of watching. You might call me a mirror, or a tape recorder. I am an instrument.

But life is lived whether we laugh and love our way to death or record others doing it.