Another Broken Heart

They'd warned her. They told Sheila that he wasn't boyfriend material, let along worthy of marriage. But she hadn't listened. Sheila believed that if she stuck with him, Greg would prove them all wrong. He had hidden layers.

Then Greg decided it was over, and here she was in tears. The same thing had happened again. Her girlfriends didn't need to say, "I told you so." Her therapist didn't need to remind her of repetitive behavior patterns.

Greg wasn't the one. And thinking that he might be after their first date said more about her than it did about him.

Heart The Size Of A Car

I wake up and it’s almost dark. I hear boom…boom…boom. I think it’s the raccoons jumping across the roof on their way to look for food. Maybe it’s the wind, the porch swing hitting the house, fireworks for some forgotten holiday or the war we've been waiting for but when I pull back the curtain on the window in the door, each rectangle of glass is a piece of your thumping heart, the size of a car, its feathery periwinkle veins like map-rivers, red finger-branches steady, wrapping down around the lower chambers, stamping the glass with tree patterns, knocking. Asking.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook (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 contests and appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and elsewhere. Two new collections, Exodus with Red Delicious and I Drink from an Ear: Real Ghazals, are forthcoming from Unsolicited Press in 2026 and 2027. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal, the founder and facilitator of The Nearby Universe writers’ group, and a professor of creative writing at Pikes Peak State College.

Rain

Music is flowing around me, thought a little flower bud as it shyly opened its dewy new petals. A quiet, peaceful melody of streams of gray pouring from a cloudy sky, framed by cooling rhythm of beads of water hitting cement nearby, thrumming on rooftops of homes around its garden, drumming against wooden walls, staccato taps on glass panes. Wavering patterns of drizzle and downpour, whispers of gentle wind through branches of trees, and drips from pools of water on lush green leaves, add a dulcet cadence, forming a tender harmony to welcome this year’s refreshing renewal of mother nature.From Guest Contributor Sara Light

Sara lives in Chicago and writes poetry, fiction, and children's stories. In her spare time, she likes to paint and read. Find her on twitter @SaraLight19, and on her website, saralight.blog.

A Genius Remains Unrecognized

HUBRIS CONTEST:

John shouted into his megaphone, sending the entire set scrambling. He was in command. He was a god, and "Flesh Would Melt" was his creation, his masterpiece finally springing to life.

Even amidst the commotion, there was a still part of John's mind that was not occupied by the calculating of f-stops or picking out of wallpaper patterns. He thought of the first time he'd seen Hamlet performed, wondering at the rapturous applause, and thinking to himself that if he had been in charge, he would have done better.

Almost exactly one year later, John's film premieres to universal vilification.

From Guest Contributor Eduardo Felin

Confined By The Sea

NATURE SUBMISSION:

I watched as the minute breaking waves climbed the gentle slope of the beach, trying to get as far as possible. As the surf receded, complicated patterns formed in the tawny sand. The pendular movement repeated itself, together with the characteristic sound of the advancing and retreating water. But the smell of the shore at low tide, the taste of the salty spray, the feel of the breeze and the warmth of the early sun were missing. I tossed my mobile phone away and sighed - no video will ever replace the soothing experience of a simple walk by the sea.

From Guest Contributor Miguel Prazeres