Crimes of the Future by Brooke Ward
October 1, 2025
If there are no trees the birds build nests
of fiber optic cables
from the war drones
Scary Easter Bunny by J.D. Isip
September 16, 2025
My students are making movie recommendations. I said, “Tell me a movie that makes you
happy” and one boy, a man of twenty-seven really, says, “Terrifier!” a slasher franchise about a
killer clown.
A Good Patient by Ewen Glass
September 13, 2025
How broken are we to put
such store in taking pain and
saying nothing?
Davenport, IA by Laz M.V.M.
September 8, 2025
I have decided that the world is a more beautiful place without me in it. Your mother is waiting in Davenport. Maybe I owe her an apology. I’m not ready.
JFK by DS Maolalai
August 19th, 2025
picking out shirts
for the next maltese wedding –
later this year in october.
Mishpat by Eva Alter
August 15th, 2025
Ransom....relief......... daydream-
drugged.......rescue glitch doorbell wire-
trip...brain basement gasp—.......couch
black mass by Charlie Baylis
August 12th, 2025
black rain left on the mountain side
black rain, latin graves
the receiver slides
Fragments of Two Women’s Waiting Room Talk by Madeline Howard
August 9th, 2025
cremated? I want to be a .....pretty
glass ..art on somebody’s ....mantle
ha ha [...........................................]
Carnot Engine by Eric Kong Angal
August 5th, 2025
Look out and see. The creaking of chairs to accommodate shifting weight. The asses hanging out of them. Hard plastic chairs that end below the shoulderblades and foldup tables made of the same stuff. Heads bowed like penitents. Listen: whisper-thin air conditioning....
Brand New Me by James Callan
July 28, 2025
Our mutual attraction started small, no bigger than the size of a poppy seed. Yet our
passion germinated over time, growing to the size of a blueberry, an orange, a
cantaloupe. Over nine months, our lust....
"Can you follow this?" by Aditya Bhatia
July 26, 2025
It was a mocking question from a mocking machine, a setting he still couldn’t figure out how to disengage, as he barreled down this highway out of a nightmare, Orlando bound, on that final pilgrimage to Henson’s final contribution before....
Now by Alexei Raymond
July 25, 2025
Natalie's asleep and I'm awake. I watch her serene face, her golden hair—she’s unaware. I’m pulled to her, and I know my sleep's stream will soon join hers to form our running river. But before getting into bed, I must take a moment to sit silently by the window....
Dentophobia by Nikola Milosavljevic
July 23, 2025
I admit, I'm a coward.
A miserable poltroon
who loathes the dentist....
In My Hometown by Zachary Lorico Hertz
July 21, 2025
(well, this is really the place I will begin to call my hometown in ten years)I cry on the doorstep....
Gasket by Mark Parsons
July 18, 2025
The crow’s lustrous black feathers, bunched, grasped
In Great Tinsmith God’s mitt of grey sky,
Pump offset grip....
June 16, 2025 by Ivan de Monbrison
July 16, 2025
There is the night, locked tightly inside of an aquarium. The night is a fish swimming in circles along the transparent walls of the glass, but around a fixed point, which is but just the one of your insomnia. It doesn't speak, and neither do you, because the room is a prison....
Still Life with Fulvous Whistling Duck by Beth Sherman
July 14, 2025
I wake at noon to find my father in the bedroom, making grilled cheese sandwiches. He’s been dead for a month and looks way better than he did in the hospital. Hair grown out. Cheeks not so flour white....
Envy: A User's Guide by Kevin Singer
July 11, 2025
First, there is no you to rely upon for help (at best this you is a bug stuck in Precambrian mud, unaware that the world it once inhabited has long since passed).
Second, nowhere is safe.
Christmas Commercials by Kevin Richard White
July 2, 2025
He was selling his dead wife’s jewelry. He cut a pathetic figure, a schlub on a bender.
“I got no need for it,” he said.
“I’d rather have another vodka,” I said. “I’m not a frills person.”
dear resident we’re building a new park in your neighborhood by Zary Fekete
June 20, 2025
they’re building a new park in the lot behind the old outdoor theatre i jog past every morning
where the homeless guys congregate where they remember where they were during the ’56
revolution they’re all old enough to remember it....
Coy by Theodore Wallbanger
June 18, 2025
Melvin Curtz commenced master blaster
finger aerobic training
within Sea-Monkey kingdoms
What I found today when clearing Drafts in Gmail by Ronita Chattopadhyay
June 16, 2025
Hi!
I wanted to check another thing
blank
If I Were A Dog by Shawna Woods
June 13, 2025
Winona was a prostitute, not a very good one, but a working woman, nonetheless. Behind dilapidated grocery stores, in small parks with dead grass and scattered trash, she ate whatever was under five dollars....
Five The Inconceivable Excerpts by Colin Gee
June 11, 2025
Juan Jose lit it on fire and stood outside watching it burn, waiting for Paco Haskins to burst from the smoldering entryway in the full dress uniform of the generalisimo Porfirio Diaz.
.
Years in the Making by Tom Busillo
June 9, 2025
They arrange your months across the bedspread like dead toy soldiers in round plastic coffins and ask me about them – whether I knew you were hoarding your pills, patiently collecting oblivion. I ask if they’ve...
What We Discard by Patricia Russo
June 6, 2025
We had been arguing nonstop for one day shy of three entire weeks. I was fed up, drained, no juice left, like it would take a whole day to get my battery even to one per cent. In the kitchen, I sat down without switching the light on....
Two Poems by Mather Schneider
June 4, 2025
AFTER ANDRE GIDEAfter all this time
you finally understand....
Reunions by Lori Cramer
June 2, 2025
Entering the reception hall where your prom was held five years earlier, you flash back to how amazing Bobby looked in his tux, even though he refused to wear the fuchsia bow tie that matched your dress. When Bobby made....
Killing Floor Dementia – another diluted found pome by Scott C. Holstad
May 26, 2025
It’s just a simple case of crucifixion.
I’m feeling better since I found my
mind. Drowning doesn’t impact you....
Fruit and Antilabe: Travis Shosa Reviews Tom Blake's Peach Epoch
May 25, 2025
The opening couplet from Tom Blake’s second chapbook, Peach Epoch, reads as follows:This one’s a freebie
lhude sing cuccu...
A Form of a Fraudulent Gender Acceptance by S. Anon
May 23, 2025
It’s a plain white underwear, with specks of grey. It’s the threads. Probably sewn with gentle threats and two pieces of kidney beans. Flat fingers but skeptical of age. I’m not good with words. Here’s a comprehensible sentence...
in half (pulling a rabbit) by Conor Ryan
May 21, 2025
front-lit by the early morning fissures
of not-quite-light filtering through
water-stained beige curtains -
Storage Facility, Irreparably Damaged, or
Tip of the Iceberg by Bob Carlton
May 19, 2025
Diamond H Lounge...Thunderbird Lounge...
Club Schmitz...Joe Mac’s Whistle Stop...
Southern Belles...Geno’s Southern Belles...
A Chalk by Theodore Wallbanger
May 18, 2025
................................................................[No preview for art]
The Patchwork of Life by JB Polk
May 16, 2025
As he emerged from the birth canal, the warm air from the delivery room heater took him into its embrace. His red and wrinkly body relaxed – he was warm and safe. Squinting at the bright overhead lights stinging his still-unfocused eyes, he marveled at the world....
The Adopted Family by Jon Doughboy
May 14, 2025
The shut-in wanted to adopt a dog but was too lazy and fearful to walk it. Hadn’t walked more than two blocks in ten years if you don’t count anxious midnight living room pacing. He considered ordering a cat from the shelter—free delivery....
everything splits eventually by Sreeja Naskar
May 12, 2025
...............the tree opens like a mouth
.......& the mouth has teeth
& the teeth are roots
.......still choking the names out of soil...
Two Poems by Reza Jabrani
May 9, 2025
I met someone, a thousand someones, on the piss-steeped streetsof Philadelphia, studying English, learning America.I was young. Thick-haired diligence. Perfect posture....
HUMAN SQUEEGEE by Theodore Wallbanger
May 7, 2025
seconds struck at zero markdecades lost on image dovessucking wind from other...
everythin gonna turn round when stop thinkin i'm tom green by Travis Shosa
May 2, 2025
everythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin...
I Love Your Tweets by Tim Frank
April 30, 2025
They’re not tweets,
They’re postmodern sculptures
Beneath cerulean skies...
Cars and Traffic: Hugh Blanton Reviews Tim Dodd's Galaxy Drip
April 28, 2025
Tim Dodd's acerbic new collection of poetry does not give the reader a warm welcome—the epigraph is taken from Raymond Chandler: "And the commercials would have sickened a goat raised on barbed wire and broken beer bottles."...
The Shadows of Our Minds by Claudia Wysocky
April 25, 2025
Can........... ....I
touch.............your
hair?.....,........ Place
my ..... ..........hand....
february by Natalye Childress
April 23, 2025
for three days, breathing
............the same air. for a short hour,
standing in the same flurries....
j ack dream by Sean G. Meggeson
April 21, 2025
............terrestrial shiver
............cross comfort
............flower thick by name by map by....
Nothing, Really by Makayla Carmichael
April 19, 2025
He couldn’t even remember who’d started it. But his thoughts were consumed with it as he waited in his parked car for her plane to land, waited for the discomfort that would follow, seeing her again after a week....
Still Jaded by Wilson Koewing
April 16, 2025
It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower....
Spatial by Kimutai Kemboi Allan
April 14, 2025
Always a space
Out there in the world
A large thicketed field....
Bum of the Month Club by Bart Edelman
April 11, 2025
Congratulations are in order!
Recently, you were elected
To the Bum of the Month Club....
Compartmentalization Pattern by Eva Alter
April 9, 2025
.....................it is...built
.........into our DNA.
.....................ordinary language reveals .....implicit conversance with....
Disease of a Paranoid Mind by Colin Gee
April 8, 2025
Been drinking too hard
for too long
and I got the fear....
Submission by Paul Hostovsky
April 7, 2025
My submissions rhyme with
my nocturnal emissions and maybe this is a guy thing but
when I send out my stuff....
Afterlife by John Tavares
April 4, 2025
Dad,Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX?....
Almost all the poems written are scoundrels by MK Kuol
April 2, 2025
none of your names is an aptonym:
a reflection of your character.yesterday, i ripped you....
kill the weeds by Theodore Wallbanger
March 31, 2025
Redistribution of souls is how William looked at death
Culling of herds was frequent fodder for elder Bill
All shunning had been completed....
Poetry in Penance: Hugh Blanton Reviews Adrian Sobol's Hair Shirt
March 28, 2025
Adrian Sobol's second collection of poetry, Hair Shirt, is an energetic book, full of panache and pizzazz and without the frippery often found in the sophomore books of younger poets....
Schoolboys by Kevin Richard White
March 27th, 2025
I told him I didn’t want to face the camera.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Jeff said.
“My body is much better,” I said....
Kismet by Eva Alter
March 24th, 2025
I learned how to do it at ..........fourteen,
.......that brutal undoing
of desire—........... a violent purification
Horsehair Worm by Daniel Fraser
So
thin
this
tethering
it
could
be
God
or
the concept
of
puppetry.
.........String
.........enough
.........together
.........and
.........you’d
.........have
.........maybe
.........a roadmap
.........or
.........convict’s
.........idea
.........of freedom.
Who
among us
hasn’t
edged
toward
pool water
feeling
the cool
ripple
up their back
their tongue
lasso
in the throat
.........a brain-thirst
.........so eager
.........to step
.........forward
.........and let
.........faith or
.........some other
.........force
.........take over?
There was a Fraser named Daniel,
who had no food for his spaniel.
He chopped off one limb,
the dog ate it, then him;
that poor unfortunate Daniel.Twitter
Crimes of the Future by Brooke Ward
If there are no trees the birds build nests
of fiber optic cables
from the war drones
If there is no rope
we use our hands
So resourceful
our forty something ounces of electricity
In Cronenberg’s future some people eat plastic
others feel no pain
aside from loss
and betrayal
All those silly things
I guess we’ll get there
some awful future
David and I imagine babies
will still be being born
People will still press their bodies together
in alleyways
get inside somehow
through incision or explosion
Maybe nothing will hurt
and we will be in so much pain
Here lies Brooke, she smelled very nice and talked a whole lot.
Scary Easter Bunny by J.D. Isip
My students are making movie recommendations. I said, “Tell me a movie that makes you happy” and one boy, a man of twenty-seven really, says, “Terrifier!” a slasher franchise about a killer clown. The class, as he probably expected, explodes with laughter and loud indignation. “That’s not a happy movie!” someone protests. I take a little credit for their rhetorical reflexes, another offers, “But happy doesn’t always have to mean happy.”
There are haunted houses where you pay for people in costumes to pop out of corners and blackened windows. There are roller coasters and weddings, firing ranges and baby showers. When you agree to go to your high school reunion or have dinner with an ex, aren’t you wandering right into the funhouse?
I believe in Jesus, but every Easter, instead of a bible verse or some well-worn cross meme, I send my loved ones the GIF of the girl in her flower dress and darling white sweater, smiling wide while the Easter Bunny creeps up behind her. When she sees him, she doesn’t scream, she just jumps off the bench and runs. A delighted adult wearing bunny ears, probably her mom, laughs in the corner, then the image repeats over and over.
When the terrified women ran from the tomb to tell the disciples the body was gone, there was laughter from inside the house. They probably said, “You’re crazy!” like I’ve heard so many times in this life. But crazy doesn’t always have to mean crazy.
Here lies J.D. He always did. Ask his family.
Davenport, IA by Laz M.V.M.
I have decided that the world is a more beautiful place without me in it. Your mother is waiting in Davenport. Maybe I owe her an apology. I’m not ready.We used to wait for signs from God. Now we are old enough to drive and we cut like a knife through the plains, looking for resistance. We free fall down through the heartland.Being a woman is one of the hardest things. You ask me if I have second thoughts. I’m like a junkie sprawled across a bed, hit by the first beams of sunlight. I tell you that I do.I do.There's a rest stop in Tiffin. We need to pull over now, or there may be nowhere left for us to go.
"Clicks and buzzes on the radio will guide us home."Twitter
AVERT by Theodore Wallbanger
No matter how many times we advised the Purple People Eaters to avert their eyes from flash photography, most of them would stare directly into the flash.
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.
Twitter | Instagram
Nightclub by Theodore Wallbanger
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.
Twitter | Instagram
JFK by DS Maolalai
picking out shirts
for the next maltese wedding –
later this year in october.
I’m not a Hawaiian
shirt holidayer –
thinking jfk vaguely –
on cape cod gone yachting
with family. overshooting
to more miami vice.
an off-white suit-jacket,
a flowered shirt, loafers –
I look a pure dick and feel
cool as a gamecock,
and I often smoke cigarettes
on holiday also: this weekend is going
to rule. it's a week out of dublin – sitting
on anyone’s balcony. looking down
at still seas and sometimes at streets;
seeing english guys puking
by restaurant dustbins
until their lungs lie on their lunches.
and I'm happy that she's
getting married to him, but that's not
why I'm excited to be there.
I just want to be someone else
for a weekend. this dick jfk wearing linen
and boat shoes. the sun
on his neck. cigarettes.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)
Mishpat by Eva Alter
Ransom....relief......... daydream-
drugged.......rescue glitch doorbell wire-
trip...brain basement gasp—.......couchbed....desk...school yard..farm....car—
Synthetic....simulation
strategy....Mind’s eye.....gouged—Inserted—.....forced into
its socket—.....Exploded cone
chromex.......intercessionpetrichor....moon...Malat
playback ........Circus conundrum
contortion caravancrustacean projection
trained on the shed roof—...Shadchen
positioning...Rabbiexamination—...Left
ear...static.......Modem....motion
Middah k’neged Middah
Eva Alter is a cataloger of internal mythologies. Her debut chapbook, AUTOCAROTOGRAPHIES, will be released by Eulogy Press in October 2025.Twitter | Website
black mass by Charlie Baylis
..................i.m. may baylis
black rain left on the mountain side
black rain, latin graves
the receiver slides
to a ray on may’s bedroom floor
the sun leans in
& paints her room yellow
the subtext is loss
or
a raindrop is a delicate map of the east midlands
loughborough, 28 moor lane
i stand outside her home
her cold body is inside
she is dead
flies gather by the window
mass cut deep into the black velvet lining the black trees inside my lungs
the monsters she wore in white
forever
white rain left on the mountain
dear angel
she was my sister
May (6) and Charlie (4) Baylis.
Winter of 1991.
Fragments of Two Women’s Waiting Room Talk by Madeline Howard
cremated? I want to be a ......pretty
glass ..art on somebody’s ....mantle
ha ha [........................................... ]
[..................................................... ]
ring on the middle finger or or ..in
an hourglass! [............................... ]
ha ha ha ha [................................. ]
[........... ]I’m......... counting down!
[..................................................... ]
the different .insurance... of course
[..................................................... ]
[..................................................... ]
still. the smell of her ......perfume is
[...........] After the Adolfo went out
[........... ] that ...aerosolized.... stuff.
You.. walk ..in.. and.. get. a .whiff.
[ .....................................................]
I got ...a cardinal... in.. the ...feeder
after .not putting out ..food .for ..a
long.. time... and I think... that’s .a
good sign. [....................................]
[......................................................]
in these pictures. Oh............. that’s
darling! [ .......................................]
[..................................................... ]
oh ..she.. had. all kinds.. of ..things
wrong.... with ...her ..back ....then
[............. ] but ......it all grew back!
[ .....................................................]
[.........] My ex- ....husband [.........]
I was ..............diagnosed ........with
[........... ]... and ..nobody ..sees that
you’re.. in... pain ..........and.... they
think......... it’s .........made........ up
[.................................................... ]
I was on [ .....................................]
[.....................................................]
She weaned off it? [......................]
[.............] a .miracle .yes .....but in
my opinion...... it.. does ..a lot.. of
irreparable damage [....................]
[..................] until....... it’s too late
[.....................................................]
[.....................................................]
Well ...I was still ....me ............but
getting up.. in .......the ..mornings
was hard.
Madeline Howard died in Waco, Texas, where she was born. Sources say she's now parked somewhere on the Terrace of Lust, which lurches kind of close to Heaven
Carnot Engine by Eric Kong Angal
Look out and see. The creaking of chairs to accommodate shifting weight. The asses hanging out of them. Hard plastic chairs that end below the shoulderblades and foldup tables made of the same stuff. Heads bowed like penitents. Listen: whisper-thin air conditioning. The rustle of papers being flipped, unflipped, flipped again. The noise of an eraser’s friction, the dismissive sweep of its pink shavings, the rasp of freshly sharpened Ticonderoga No. 2s about their business. Occluded breathing scattered across the room. Someone’s definitely got bronchitis. The accretive tick of the quartz clock on the wall. One guy kneading the side of his temple in a therapeutic act of self-assurance. Another one biting his knuckle. The proctor nursing a coffee which you can just tell from the smell is black. Soles tapping on linoleum, a question staring up at you from the page. It’ll still be there in a minute. Take a break, you deserve it.
Look out at those others around you in their own little worlds. A girl chewing gum out the side of her mouth, the smack of her molars working the elastomer. Light which seems sourceless and so sterile it’s only light in the loosest absolute sense of the word. Listen: deep sighs, satisfied sighs, sighs of frustration. Somewhere out in the hall the sound of a mopbucket’s wheels over uneven tile. That’s another world, the world you came from. In here it’s different. Little graphite circles smeared across the scantron, your name written in block majuscule. The backpacks piled in a heap by the door. You can’t really afford to fuck this one up. There’s a lot riding on this one and it’s either you walk out of here with that goodass feeling like you’ve crushed it or you spend the next seventy-two hours wondering exactly what the damage is going to be. Look, there’s another guy in the row ahead of you who’s thinking the same exact thing. You feel a pang of empathy.
There he is.
Pain is only temporary, or something like that. You think of those who came before you. Waiting in the car for your dad while he went to classes of his own. Eggo waffles with no syrup and the static of AM radio at the break of dawn, watching him study for something he also didn’t really give a shit about. He got so good with the TI-36 he didn’t even have to look while he was using it. Even while he was pressing all the fucked up buttons at the top, the euler’s number and natural log buttons, his hands knew. His eyes stayed right there on the page. It’s not so much about being a disappointment as it is about the spirit of it, the mettle of it. You’re reading through the question one more time.
The question wants you to determine the total work performed at each stage by a Carnot Engine whose working fluid is an ideal gas. It’s appended by a series of values and drawings which make your eyes tear up. You’re thinking.
When divorcing the real from the theoretical, Carnot grappled silently with the same questions you and I face, the same questions we all face. Could a working theory weather the storm of praxis? Could a view of a life diverge so far from its actual living that one could no longer ostensibly model the other? Is it what it is, or is it more than that?
You frown. You reread the lines, making sense of this. This is what you were put here to do, after all. Soon the noises begin to fade, your surroundings go anechoic, your peripherals narrow. A feeling of calm ensues. You put your pencil to the scratchpaper and start to write.
Four hundred miles away, in an office with the same fluorescent lighting situation you’ve got going on in your classroom, a modestly windowed office boasting twice-filtered air conditioning and mahogany hardware, your old man’s right eye inexplicably twitches at his desk, as if he knows, preternaturally, that you’re about to come to the wrong answer.
Eric lived and died in Seattle (but mostly in the smaller and shittier cities surrounding it). As per his wishes, his remains were reconstituted into nutritional mulch for use in factory farms. A seance (performed over Zoom by psychics whose services were procured on Etsy.com) confirmed that he is in hell.Twitter
some morning someplace by
Ibrahim Azam
I poked myself
out of bed
some hours after
waking.
reached out
for the can
on the bedroom
floor,
but oh,
it was empty.last night
it was
seductive,
stimulating.
a love child of
courage
and
creativity.
sweet but
sturdy.
smoky at first
with a little
teardrop
aftertaste.but this morning,
it was
worthless.
an ugly
one
night
stand
that
stayed thru
the night
but didn’t
leave me
a phone
number.I bought
those cans
with yesterday’s
pay check.
everything was
good
yesterday.
the money
was more
than green
and the drink
was a little sweeter.but now,
this morning,
the drinks
are stale
and the money
is gone.
I guess it
grew legs.I’ve got
no idea
where the
next pay check
will come
from,
or the next drop
of romance.but I’ll
find a way.somehow.
Ibrahim Azam was a lifelong applicant. You can find his work on the tenth page of Google search results. He’d like to be remembered like Dostoevsky, and not for his Netflix binges, Red Bull addiction or ill-fated attempt to write like Dostoevsky.Instagram
Brand New Me by James Callan
Our mutual attraction started small, no bigger than the size of a poppy seed. Yet our passion germinated over time, growing to the size of a blueberry, an orange, a cantaloupe. Over nine months, our lust developed arms and legs, a mind of its own, an 8-pound infant sharing my DNA. My wife thought the neighbor’s baby had eyes just like mine, blue and crystal clear. In full transparency, I agreed: “He’s like a brand new version of me.” As we walked home from our visit next door, I decided it couldn’t go on; I’d become a better man, the devoted husband my wife deserved. Although the change may start small, I’d grow to become a brand new me.
James Callan died in shame at the altar of fire. His sacrifice was in vain.Twitter
"Can you follow this?" by Aditya Bhatia
It was a mocking question from a mocking machine, a setting he still couldn’t figure out how to disengage, as he barreled down this highway out of a nightmare, Orlando bound, on that final pilgrimage to Henson’s final contribution before the Mouse tore it down for good. Britt Daniels sang about letting himself be held—Bill Callahan’s words, not his—as the moon peeked out from behind a cloud, bathing the pavement in a silvery shimmer that mixed with his headlights in a such a way that, if one squinted, they could believe the floor was alive, writhing underneath the constant battering of the rubber.
This was Onion Country; he’d abandoned urbanism nearly fifty miles ago. In the light this path was unnerving, what with its endless expanse: fields showered by those large, windy pipes from which both water and pesticides were emitted, on which one found individual abode spaced apart in such a way that one began to believe there was no life in these parts, despite sight telling one otherwise. Yessiree, there were people who lined up at the melon and pecan stalls that hand-painted signs would inform drivers of miles before they arrived, and at the barns—large white figures, once used for whatever barns were used for, now stop-offs for those headed for Florida and the pleasures that resided there—filled to the brim with chachkies, snacks, pocket knives, etc. But that was during the day. Now there was no one, nothing: just the swaying grass and no line on the horizon.
The billboards added to the sense of dream disturbed. Rotting feet and bloodied fetuses and zombified people and large crosses were all that one passed. In the light there was a sense of safety, an arm’s length from these ominous warnings, enough that you were able to point and laugh and nudge each other that this was what the Real America believed, and then continue on, unscathed, accelerating slightly, because even with the safety of the day you felt that leaving it in the rearview as quick as possible was the wisest course of action. But now, without that armor, the truth of the image began to settle on his brain, that out here was a group of individuals, an alternate civilization, one that believed that the country was falling into the grips of sin, that the country was being overrun by the abortionists and the homosexuals and the immigrants and that soon enough miscegenation would bring about their extinction. They believed that there was no hope, because when you looked at where they lived there really wasn’t: there were no hospitals and there was no recreation and there was no advancement. Here it was still the Dust Bowl, only now they had phones, and on them they gorged themselves on the world they believed in, and as they drove to work those pictorial reminders of the worst burned into their retinas, haunted their thoughts, and made them believe that the only way out was to wait for the Return of the martyr, the man who washed the feet of lepers and consorted with the downtrodden, who in their minds, upon Return, would bring down American Vengeance upon those they deemed the corrupters, and the country, the world, would be handed back to them upon a platter.
He could see it now: the pickup truck would come flying out of nowhere, forcing him into the same, and he’d be pulled from his seat and put up on a cross (though this action would contain nothing holy for him, he would not be worshipped, he would not be loved) and set ablaze as they watched on, proud of the end they brought, sure of the righteousness of their cause, no smiles or laughs, for this was not for pleasure, this was serious business and required a visage that spoke to that. Or maybe that was his prejudice speaking. Maybe his tire would pop and, as he was pulled over, phone in mouth, head twisted so that the light of it would catch the lug that needed to be twisted out, the pickup truck would pull up behind. The man would get out and ask what was wrong and if there was anything he could do to help and in reply he would explain the situation. This man, this good Samaritan, would then tow him to his home, behind which was his work, and he’d get his tire patched, get some food in his belly, and send him on his way, telling him to enjoy Disney World for the both of them.
He flipped through the displays on the dashboard and found the one that told him the pressures for each of his tires. They were all exactly where they needed to be. He sped up from seventy to eighty. There was no need to linger. This land wasn’t his land.
"My name is Aditya and I commit time theft at my desk writing these stories instead of completing the things I get paid to do. Hopefully this all pays off in the end."Twitter
Now by Alexei Raymond
Natalie's asleep and I'm awake. I watch her serene face, her golden hair—she’s unaware. I’m pulled to her, and I know my sleep's stream will soon join hers to form our running river. But before getting into bed, I must take a moment to sit silently by the window. I need to force myself to inhabit this moment. I focus and intone I am here, this is Now, I am here
this .......................................................................................................... is .......................................................................................................... Now
I must dismantle layers of taking things for granted, of the minutes slipping away relentlessly, while I’m oblivious and blind. Her lying there. These days. Tonight. The mere fact of awareness. And I think I’m ready to have a pretty good grasp on it. Then I spot it. Yes, it’s here. So I creep up and lunge to subdue it. Tonight, I must kill it. I’m truly aware, because the stalking Now is writhing and muscular in my arms. I try to keep its snapping jaw away from me—did I miscalculate? It thrashes around and lets out a soundless, deafening roar. I hold on to force it still—for myself, for us. And I have Now right here, by this invisible beast’s neck. Is strangling it enough? I doubt I can kill it with my bare hands. Its hide is too thick, the neck bursting with strength. Will we be safe? I try to appreciate Now truly, even as it threatens to overpower and devour. Surely, this is my best attempt yet. Amidst the struggle, I glance out the window, perhaps wildly, for there are more of them flying out there in the night sky. I don't suppose there's much else I can do, so this has to be enough, and then Now goes limp. I relax my hold. It lies with a frozen grimace, teeth bared, barely visible in the dark. So, I let it be. I turn away and enter the soft, warm bed. I incorporate myself under the duvet and curl up against her—perfect, eternal—and feel her pushing herself snug against me, and she takes my weary, bruised hand to safekeep near her heart, but I begin to feel a biting chill, yes, Now simply feigned death, Now is coiling, tensing up, creeping again. I never stood a chance, did I? And I wake up the next day, the next week, the next year, and then the decade, and I wonder whether I could've been more present. So forgive me, my lovely, because it seems I really couldn't.
Alexei is the host of a Russian nature show called The Now Hunter, where dangerous temporal beasts are never caught for long (TV Series 1995-2025).Twitter
Dentophobia by Nikola Milosavljevic
I admit, I'm a coward.
A miserable poltroon
who loathes the dentist.
But not because of
the fear of blood,
swollen nerves, needles,
or feral drills hissing in
the maxilla.
I fear that one day, they’ll
have to put me under
and when I open my eyes again,
I'll be eight years old,
lying unconscious on my
work desk with the kitchen
knife jabbed into the plank
besides my ear, while
my father is pressing on
my throat with his fat fingers,
yelling and spitting in my face.
I'm afraid that I’ve hallucinated
past twenty-two years after
he knocked me out cold.
Nikola is an American gopnik, and forever in love with Halley's comet sight.Twitter
In My Hometown by Zachary Lorico Hertz
NOTE: this story renders best on desktop. you can download a version with correct formatting here.
(well, this is really the place I will begin to call my hometown in ten years)I cry on the doorstep.Why I’m here, I barely know, but the salt on my lips recalls a fading transgression.Each kernel bursting at my heart sparks another secret whose flare passes silently into the dark. I certainly cannot announce it.“All I know — all I will know and all that will be known — is what uncertainty remains, the unloving space and the barred door.”
At night the stars seem brighter than before.
(where I avoid staying overnight, unless absolutely necessary)I meet a woman named Angel.Her name, it seems to me, is at odds with a
painfully human appearance.I joke that this must make her
the smallest heavenly host known to man,
at least when judged purely by the numbers.She frowns and asks me what on earth
I could possibly be trying to say.
I change the subject.
At night the stars seem brighter than before.
(long after the memories had hardened, cracked and been displaced by time)I lock the door.Light bends around the key, I think, these inadequate hands balking at the familiar task.Despite his failings I am certain that Horatio dreamed it on earth if not in heaven, and I find myself graciously accepting the company.How strange to find myself here one final time, invited to unhand these old bones I hardly remember you handing unto me.
At night the stars seem brighter than before.
Zachary Lorico Hertz experienced more than 10,111 unique days. He was best known for his ability to make a dad joke out of anything and catastrophe out of nothing. Those wishing to remember him can view his poetry in Yearling and LEON Literary Review, admire a caricature of his professional self at @zacharylhertz, or browse his fleeting works at zacharylhertz.github.io. He is survived by 17 group chats.
Gasket by Mark Parsons
The crow’s lustrous black feathers, bunched, grasped
In Great Tinsmith God’s mitt of grey sky,
Pump offset grip
Bulldog snips raptor beak
Open, shut
Around
Jawbone hinge
Pivot point: onyx blades
Closely hew
Switchback curve
In dark cloudy low winter
Sheet metal sky.
Perched on
Thin,
Music staff rastrum
Line,
One of three
Power lines overhead,
Corvus bird
Pulses, throbs: every barb
Locks in place;
Vanes reform; hollow shafts
Pull at skin:
Current drawn, excess arcs.
Taking wing, pitch-black fowl, hooked in air,
Drops a dull, discharge-singed
Contact point feather
Down.
Mistah Parsons--he dead. Penny for the old guy.His many poems have been published in ExPat, Misery Tourism, Don’t Submit, Cape Rock, and elsewhere. His books include Stills (Southernmost Books, 2023), Lake Tahoe is an Elegy, (Alien Buddha Press, 2024), Spiral (Anxiety Press, 2025), and The Kingdom of Middle Children (Southernmost Books, forthcoming).Twitter
June 16, 2025 by Ivan de Monbrison
There is the night, locked tightly inside of an aquarium. The night is a fish swimming in circles along the transparent walls of the glass, but around a fixed point, which is but just the one of your insomnia. It doesn't speak, and neither do you, because the room is a prison locked tightly, where every gesture weighs more heavily than death itself, as if you could embody it, playing a game of chess against you, a game always lost before it even started, obviously. A hand detached from the body of a dead man is now painting something that doesn't exist on the flat canvas. The transparent walls are harder than steel, and you haven't finished your lunch. Just before, you've thrown away two mangoes that you had bought at the local market this morning, but which weren't good. They had cost you one euro and thirty cents, but despite that, you afterwards still found sixty cents down the bottom of an old and worn out trouser pocket. In order to feed yourself, you then decided to cook what was left of an old packet of pasta and then you sprayed what was left of a packet of bad Parmesan cheese on top of it, but since it really wasn't good anymore, you started to sprinkle it on those mangoes instead, the ones that you had just thrown into a pot filled with dry earth. To satisfy your hunger, you found an old tube of concentrated tomato juice on a dusty shelf and put some of it on your food, then you ate the pasta, and finally you decided to lie down to smoke for a while. You, in general, smoke too much. Your ears have started to ring in the meantime, because of your anxiety, and your left thumb hurts right where the nerve was accidentally damaged three months ago by the tip of a driller. It occurred practically simultaneously at the time when she was admitted to the hospital, and thus with the second appearance of death this year. You had already attempted to commit suicide yourself in January, but without fully realizing what you were doing, you had lost consciousness and then had woken up alone, in a large room, with multiple devices connected to your body, but in another hospital than hers. So, without explanation, you had decided to walk out of it as if nothing had happened. You have now just taken two anxiolytics, the same as the previous four that you swallowed last evening in order to fight your insomnia. Cancer had been the unexpected appearance of death before our eyes, already burned out by Time itself. Indeed, looking at your arms, before your aging eyes now, shortly after finishing the plate of pasta, you feel limited to this perishable body, and you realize that you yourself are, sitting again in a chair, like those mangoes that you've discarded before into the cluttered pot, which will now slowly dry out in the sun.
Ivan de Monbrison is a person affected by strong psychic disorders that prevent him from having what others may call a "normal" life. He has found writing to be an exit to this prison. Or maybe it is a window from which - like an inmate - he can see a small square of blue sky above his head. His writing often reflects the never-ending chaos within him, but contrary to this mental chaos, the paper and the pen give him the opportunity to materialize this in a concrete and visible form. Writing can feel like a slow death, but it's better than mere suicide in the end.
Still Life with Fulvous Whistling Duck by Beth Sherman
I wake at noon to find my father in the bedroom, making grilled cheese sandwiches. He’s been dead for a month and looks way better than he did in the hospital. Hair grown out. Cheeks not so flour white.
“I’m making yours with scrap paper,” he says, flipping a piece of bread.
There’s no grill. He’s cooking on his old, scarred bureau littered with bills and toiletries.
I’m happy he’s back but something nags at me, a mosquito’s plaintive whine.
“Why won’t you tell me anything?” I ask.
All the windows are open and I inhale the familiar scent of camellias and Old Spice.
“What would you like to know?”
Not scrap paper. Stories I’d written about the two of us. About bird watching together. Happy times. Childhood times. Hospital times.
Loss pincers my heart. “I can re-write them, you know.”
A lie.
“Sure,” he says. “I love reading your stuff.”
There’s a bird on his shoulder. Long-legged. Tawny stomach. Goose-like.
“Fulvous whistling duck,” my father yells, like he’s just won the Mega Millions.
A gift! A miracle! We’ve never seen one before. All those times we’d gotten a Rare Bird Alert and raced to Loxahatchee or Oleta River State Park. The Fulvous! The One that Got Away!
We high five and I try to grab hold of his hand.
The wind has picked up. It blows the frying pan off the bureau, shatters the windowpanes. The Fulvous flaps its dark wings.
“Wait,” I call after it, wanting to hitch a ride back in time.
I’m shrinking now, getting smaller and smaller until I’m the same size as the saltshaker.
“Who are you?” I shout up at my father.
He tries to speak, but no words come out. Jarlsberg tears meander down his face. When I find myself in a gooey puddle, I start doing the backstroke.
Beth Sherman has kicked the novel-writing habit and is now devoting herself exclusively to microfiction. The novels she's written say they want her back, but it's a hard no.
Envy: A User's Guide by Kevin Singer
First, there is no you to rely upon for help (at best this you is a bug stuck in Precambrian mud, unaware that the world it once inhabited has long since passed).
Second, nowhere is safe.
Take now, for instance. You’re in a cafe. He sits two tables away from you: gym shorts, t-shirt, muscles, curled over a book like one of Michelangelo’s finest creations.
He exhales.
His name is Derek. He doesn’t say as much but you see the letters as they seep out of his mouth in Times New Roman: D then E, then the rest. The letters, they cram together in the air above him, followed by others you can’t decipher yet. They crawl weightless like the ants that scrape beneath your skin every moment of the day.
You panic. You fixate on his exposed muscles, desperate to mine some diamond of lust, but all you get is the reminder of your own body, somehow unchanged in your mind’s eye from when you were just thirteen.
Those words, those crawling ants, they notice you. They coil your way.
You’ll want to run. Don’t. It won’t do any good. Anyway, you won’t leave, not while he’s still here.
At this point you might console yourself with some trite advice such as: “be in the here and now,” or, “don’t live in the past.” But you can’t help yourself. He’s a strong branch on the tree of life, while you’re a twig cast onto the ground, and all you want is to feel what it’s like to be him, with all his strength and confidence and utter happiness, and at this moment you’ll realize the rotten heart of your dilemma: desire that can’t ever be fulfilled is a wicked thing.
He sits there in his blessed nirvana, so brilliant that you can’t see anything else, while you’re frozen like a forgotten soldier with wounds that never got the chance to heal.
Those ants finally reach you. They coil around your neck. The colors of your world fade to gray as they break off one by one and burrow beneath your skin.
They chew you up.
They fester you.
By now you’ll feel as if you’re on fire. But there’s no need to panic. This episode will eventually end.
Unfortunately, it will all come around again.
Kevin Singer is an army vet and occasional snowboarder who has had several weird stories published across the internet. He lives in Jersey City but dreams of living in Hawaii.
Health by Isaac Offski
it's funny how in restaurants
people drop
the racism
the misogyny
the homophobia
the hatreds
& slurs in general
when the plates arrive
at table
with the variously
prepared
proteinsdigging in
stuffing their faces
the survival
mechanism
kicks inParmigiana
Tikka Masala
Coq Au Vin
General Tso's
Adobo
Tom Kha Gai
Oyakodon
Kentucky Frieddespite
zillions of daily
sacrificeschicken
remains the great
equalizerkinda like how it is
at Christmastime
Isaac Offski was left at the doorstep of zoologists at a tender age. Mistaken for a new strain of orangutan, his keepers fabricated an ersatz cave and fed him mangoes. After his fur molted and never grew back, Isaac took to watching Gordon Ramsay cooking shows and vowed to become a chef. He soon ran away from the zoo and started washing dishes at dive restaurants. Offski's first poetry appeared after a child services counselor suggested that he use his overactive imagination to "blow off steam." Isaac Offski lives in Los Angeles.
The Mad Cloud by George Vincent
Coming down
The Mad Cloud
Purple-veined
Thunder-clapping loudErupts into terrible coherence
Then terse despondence
Floods hairy rain
Into the drowned valleys of doubtDragging the airy way
Tension between the brows
Like a stiff smile
Meeting the ruptured dawnWithin the Cloud
Which drifts lonely
Whose loneliness is binding
Like a sail is to the seaThe acid network of nerves
Black memories
Hands and fingers which reach frenzied
And do not find their solutionThe sons and daughters
Of a secret madness
The mothers who beat them into silence
The fathers who drank themselves into solitudeThe Mad Cloud which
Shadows its only hope
Shuns the golden necklace
Of a simple sunNeither living
Or hoping or loving
Can be done
When you’re in the Mad CloudThere are no feet to run
Quick-sand rivers retreat
Toward vague beginnings
In the borderlandsBetween two countries
At war eternally
The Mad Cloud overhead
Hangs like the gavel of a murdering judge
George Vincent is a writer from Newcastle Upon Tyne, England.Twitter
Three Poems by Taylor Hamann Los
PrayerNow I lay me down
among the reeds............where the water
............offers half-mercies& licks venom
from my hand.............I pray for the wasp
............whose abdomenI sliced away.
Who, an hour later,............still dreamed
............of escape, wingstwitching toward
the window. I thought............it was dead. I thought
............I could be saved.
............
............
............
............
An Arsonist’s Creation MythIn the beginning, I stole a match
from my mother to quarter the dark.
Blackened paper in an alley. Wondered
how the flames would taste across
my tongue. I always stood too close.
Too close to raccoons digging
through trash cans. To floodwaters
reckless with debris. To fireworks
for the singe before explosion.
Too close to emergency exits
because I wanted to pull the alarm
& examine the shiny skin of my scars
under police lights. I was a helicopter
crashing against a mountainside,
all crumpled metal & blades.
& years later, I stood in the center
of the city. Lighter & gasoline. Fairy
ring of slick rainbows on pavement.
The skyscrapers shimmered
& I saw that it was good.
............
............
............
............
NecropastoralPast the industrial district where
everything dies, by the river
screaming with sulfur, I answered
an echo: a white pine pleadingfor freedom from poisoned blood.
So I carved out a kidney, buried it
among the roots, stitched together
the wound I’d made with fishing line.Then I hung myself for a moment
to imagine what rapture feels like
while straining for breath, night’s crude
effigy swinging from the branches.
Taylor Hamann Los was far happier and much less mysterious in life than her words would suggest.Twitter | Instagram
Christmas Commercials by Kevin Richard White
He was selling his dead wife’s jewelry. He cut a pathetic figure, a schlub on a bender.
"I got no need for it,” he said.
"I’d rather have another vodka,” I said. “I’m not a frills person.”
“It’s from Jeweler’s Row.” He pulled a silver band out of an Acme bag. “It’s really pretty.”
“Find a pawn shop.”
“Can’t get a beer at a pawn shop,” he said. “Figured I’d come here.”
I decided to bite. The game wasn’t on yet anyway. “Okay. How did she die?”
"I begged her to wake up," he said instead.
"I'm guessing she didn't."
"She didn't," he said. "Ah, fuck it."
There was more vodka. Time broke and spilled onto this surface we sat at.
"Alright. I'll buy the silver band,” I said after an hour.
He looked fit to weep. "Excellent," he said.
Later, we sat in the dark on my couch, unsure and dehydrated. I fiddled with the silver band. I waited for him to compliment me. After all, I did bring him home. I wanted to choke him, just to hear a sound, but he stayed silent, focusing on the television instead of my arm.“Does this look as good on me as it did on her?” I said.He shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Her skin was more tan than yours.”I could have annihilated him.An awful Macy’s commercial came on, with perfect white people happily throwing presents and fake snow around. He started to laugh.“What?”He pointed, a thin spittle of saliva hanging from his lip from the laugh. “These Christmas commercials. Aren’t they fucking bullshit?”I wondered if she hated him, how long she debated annihilating him, if her tan skin smothered him on beds.“Aren’t they?” He turned to me.I nodded, then pushed him back on the couch. I unzipped his pants and put my hand down in and made sure to say nothing. I began to move."She did it faster," he said after a moment.He turned to look at me, but I held his neck with my other forearm.“I can’t look at your eyes anymore,” I said. “Just watch the screen.”I emulated speed. I moved. I looked down at my wrist. The jewelry looked nice. His wife had good taste. I wished she was resting peacefully.He made a childish moan. It wasn’t a sound a real man would have made.On the TV, a voice said, "Only now at Macy's."
Kevin Richard White lives in Philadelphia.TwitterChristmas Commercials originally appeared in The Hunger, which is now defunct.*It is also featured in his full collection The Exploding Tree which was published at Anxiety Press.
Empire by Tim Frank
I’m a Vegas slot machine,
feed me
and watch
me multiply.
I want oil
from frozen midnight deserts,
as fires light the skies
like exploding lucid dreams.
I want to rule
the Blue Ridge mountains
and seize the Sulu Sea
by its greasy neck.
I want bombs
to drop with dancing rain
on superstores and superstars
and blast the streets to porridge.
Give me stadiums of twisted bone,
and children under blankets
of radiation fog.
Soon my virgin empire—
the freak with flapping arms
and greedy yapping mouths—
will heave
across the land
like slowly moving tides.
Tim Frank's debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24) and his second chapbook of poetry is, Delusions To Live By (Alien Buddha Press, ’25)Twitter
Assurance by Nate Tulay
I felt your pain in your silence, it has been eight plus years now, and you are no longer sure how
the game you started will end, but darling, I want you to know that I felt your love in your
absence.
Nate Star-to Tulay is an aspiring Liberian-American poet. He was born in Liberia during a civil war with a tied tongue and some deafness in his right ear, and also experienced another civil war when he was five and lost his childhood innocence to it. Nate’s experiences and struggles have made him a philosopher sooner rather than later in life, and are still his motivations to strive for greatness, and to be a fair, kind, friendly, loving, understanding, compassionate, and somewhat honest person one day at a time.Twitter
dear resident we’re building a new park in your neighborhood by Zary Fekete
they’re building a new park in the lot behind the old outdoor theatre i jog past every morning
where the homeless guys congregate where they remember where they were during the ’56
revolution they’re all old enough to remember it even though some of the younger ones were
only children then and the older ones describe reading calls to action from the yellowed
newspapers and the younger ones remember seeing the first tanks roll up the wide boulevards
just to scare people at first until the first shots were fired and some people really diedthe oldest one said he saw hamlet performed here on the chipped stage even though that’s hard to
imagine since it’s all grown over with weeds and covered with broken glass and last night’s feces
and i don’t know if they would have performed Shakespeare back then since so much effort went
into propping up the government and probably would not have signed off on anything coming
from the west not holiday inns or cokes or taco bellall that’s different now of course with the city center across the river glisteny with new funds
from brussels and dog walking parks with pre-portioned baggies and daily pickups for trash and
rows of office buildings with words from california or shanghaii jog on and realize none of these old guys are in the plans for this new park and sooner or later
they’ll be met by the shovels and bulldozers that will take away the soft shady weedy places
where they sleep off the afternoon’s heat made easier by casual swigs from plastic jugs bought
from the corner store up the street where two coins will get you a loaf of bread and a few slices
of cheese even though they always just settle for the cheap wine because once you’ve had
enough of it you forget you’re hungry and morei jog past the new restaurant with its polished floors and carefully curated displays of what used
to be a street market of what used to be where the old women shouted bargains for peppers and
tomatoes their hands gesturing like they held the truth of what was passed down through
generations that was before the taste of bread spread with lard turned into something you needed
a reservation for and the restaurant smells of ambition and spice but in the middle of it i swear i
hear the low hum of what’s been buried waiting half-rememberedthe last few steps of my jog before i turn back take me to the top of the hill where the whole city
lays before me where the distance makes it easier to see it as a glistening jewel on the danube
and makes it harder to remember that each street corner down below have old guys like the ones
next to the theatre down the hill behind me who never make it up this high
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.Twitter | Instagram | Bluesky
Coy by Theodore Wallbanger
Melvin Curtz commenced master blaster
finger aerobic training
within Sea-Monkey kingdoms
at age six.Most of the neighborhood gang had extreme
difficulty connecting with their brine shrimp families
so, Melvin quenched many thirsts with his on-the-fly start-up,
Maestro Can or simply MC Productions.Ten cents was invoiced for any direct message you needed
delivered within your cartoonish aquatic mystery globe.Self-proclaimed aquatic creature whisperer, MC, developed
keen customer connection gimmicks.A sliding scale, in the form of a chattering dolphin,
was adopted for the monetary exchange of customizable services
which was the capitalization tool that young Curtz utilized to
slay his competitors.These embedded dolphin rate cards were designed with ink crafted out of
the purple mombin extracted from the tropical regions of Aruba.X-ray specs ordered in bulk for a discounted rate,
off the back of Mighty Mouse comic books was one critical
business alliance, Melvin engineered early on in his career.Time spun through Sports Illustrated bikini months while simultaneously
forming thick patches of hair that grew everywhere on mature Melvin.Neighborhood mouth breathers had all advanced on paths
to graduate, procreate, or cremate.
Mr. Curtz honed his specialized skill sets
with the development of Enchanted Coyness, Ltd.Adapting to circumstances allowed MC advancement
in a struggling economy, while he
swallowed persistence juice in an attempt to flourish
in a vulture-dominated Wildomar.By monitoring government-sponsored Inland Empire RV auctions,
he was able to acquire nineteen crippled Airstream rocket trailers
only moderately dusted with crystal fumes from undercover drug bust seizures.Three coats of Nag Champa paint on the interior walls quashed olfactory disturbances
while also setting a marbled hue of camel across paneled walls.Construction of koi breeding jungles within
the confines of one Airstream were challenging in themselves.Multiply that by eighteen with a crew of one, which was completed
in four months and you have a complicated math problem that goes nowhere.The primary focus of Enchanted Coyness was breeding koi
for the inter-city dwellers squatting on neighboring dust properties.
Cockfights were vintage games of the past.
Children of the dirt battled with aggressive koi,
of which the majority were trained by
Melvin Curtz, koi killer trainer extraordinaire.
Business was beyond fishy.
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
Five The Inconceivable Excerpts by Colin Gee
House of waxJuan Jose lit it on fire and stood outside watching it burn, waiting for Paco Haskins to burst from the smoldering entryway in the full dress uniform of the generalisimo Porfirio Diaz.Inexplicably enough, the door remained closed.Paco Haskins, managed Juan Jose through grit teeth. You stubborn sumabitch!.
. Laundry dayEat crayons.
Punch a girl and take her rabbit.
Pee in the washer.
Put his penis in there.
Lick the inside of the dryer.
No one knows why Juan Jose did these things..
. What in the hell is this fucking song about?Juan Jose stopped into a church that he passed along the way. He got down on his knees and he pretend to pray. The preacher Paco Haskins liked the cold and Paco Haskins suddenly realized that Juan Jose was going to stay in the church..
. Thou shalt not stealJuan Jose typed up the notes of my fantasy novel, which he found scattered around my office, signed his name, and mailed the manuscript to his publisher. Never do this..
. At the hospitalJuan Jose was alone at the bedside of his mother, Maria de la Encarnacion, when she spoke her last words.What? asked Juan Jose, not quite catching it, but the old woman’s spirit had already flown..
. Fido should have stayed in the yardWhen Fido was kidnapped from the neighborhood on a spring day by the notorious dognapper Paco Haskins and his gang, Juan Jose refused to pay the ransom.One thousand dollars? Juan Jose repeated incredulously, making a brutal motion for silence as his weeping daughter, Maria de la Encarnacion, cried out in protest. Keep the mutt and fuck off, then, dognapper scum!
.
Colin Gee is founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette.Twitter | The Gorko Gazette
Years in the Making by Tom Busillo
They arrange your months across the bedspread like dead toy soldiers in round plastic coffins and ask me about them – whether I knew you were hoarding your pills, patiently collecting oblivion. I ask if they’ve ever been married and surrendered to its fog, where the extraordinary blurs into the mundane until both become invisible.Their questions hold unspoken accusations as if I should have known the count of every silver thread among your dark hair, that your heavy breathing when you walked up stairs should have raised a red flag. I told them you had Long COVID and had stopped going to the gym, and whenever I brought up your breathing, sometimes even while navigating the maze at Costco, you chalked everything up to deconditioning.They imply that I should have known you kept all your new bottles stacked in rows behind the door of your nightstand, seeming to believe distraction is undeserving of pity. As I keep my well of grief buried deep within myself, I wonder too whether I’m complicit, if this is death by neglect.I keep to myself that in the note they found in its top drawer, you used the word “yesterday” to refer to something that occurred years ago – the tree in our backyard getting split by lightning.
Tom Busillo was a person of infinite jest. Alas, the joke turned out to be on him. He is survived by his loving wife Carol, his amazing son Nicholas, three cats, a foster cat, a dog-eared copy of Old Man and the Sea, a pile of unpaid parking tickets, a stale bag of Fritos, and several guitars.Twitter
What We Discard by Patricia Russo
We had been arguing nonstop for one day shy of three entire weeks. I was fed up, drained, no juice left, like it would take a whole day to get my battery even to one per cent. In the kitchen, I sat down without switching the light on. I didn’t need to see the empty mugs, the bowl with the solidified clot of soup stuck to the bottom, the rest of the mess I hadn’t dealt with.There was nothing in the house left to eat except cereal, and Tully was out of cigarettes, which wasn’t softening his mood any, Mr. It’s No Big Deal, I Only Smoke a Couple a Day. Yeah. I had to go to the corner store, get him a pack, get me some bread and peanut butter, at least.“You got any money?” I yelled.“I told you before, I left my wallet in my blue jacket,” he yelled back from the bathroom.Dammit.I had to switch the lights on then. Man, it was like the mess had been secretly humping and breeding when I wasn’t looking. Plus I’d forgotten to take the garbage out, again. Who could blame me for being distracted, though, what with all that was going on?Plenty of people, I thought. Even with everything in limbo, with him still just being listed as missing.I went to the emergency drawer to raid the envelope of emergency cash, but it was gone. Then I kind of remembered doing this already, finding the envelope empty, crumpling it up, tossing it. When? When had I done that?I sighed. Didn’t matter. “Tully!”“What?”“Where’s your jar of coins?”“I don’t know.”I went to the bathroom door, peered in. “You better remember, if you want me to get you any more fricking Marlboros.”“Fill up the tub,” he said.I wasn’t going to start round one billion and seventeen of that bout, I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I walked away. I breathed for a minute. I walked back. “You’re the one who’s always dumping quarters and shit in it. Where is it?”“Fill up the tub so I can float out.”I walked away. I walked back.Tully said, “You don’t want things to change, but they already have.”I walked away. I started looking for my phone, thinking maybe I had a few digital bucks floating around. There were messages. Loads of messages. Loads of voice mail. A couple of them were new. Like today new.I listened to one. Then the other one. Then I went back and listened to the first one again.“What are you doing?” Tully shouted.I went to the bathroom door. “Nothing.”“Fill up the tub.”“No.”“Fill up the tub so I can float out.”“The cops called.” I said. “They found a body. But they said they haven’t, ah, you know, positively identified it yet. Because of…the state it’s in. Yeah, I don’t think he was supposed to say that part.”“I’ve told you. It’s not a body. It’s just my old skin.”“He said they wanted to keep me updated. Which is nice, I guess.”“Fill up the tub.”“Why did you leave it there, Tully? Why by the lake?”“I didn’t need it anymore. Why would I keep it with me, after I changed?”“You’re still not dead,” I said. “Officially, you’re still only missing.”“Fill up the tub so I can float out.”I walked away.But I was going to walk back. Soon. In a little while. After I stepped outside so he wouldn’t hear me crying. After I stopped crying and dried my face on a dirty paper towel. Because no matter what changed or didn’t change, no matter who changed or didn’t change, Tully was the very last thing in this world that I did love, so I was going to go back to the bathroom, and close my eyes, and turn on the tap to fill the tub up, and up, and up, so that he could float out.
"I'm not going to have a eulogy when I go, because I'm not going to have a funeral :-)"Twitter
Two Poems by Mather Schneider
AFTER ANDRE GIDEAfter all this time
you finally understandchildren
who start firesand the things you
once detestedhave become delicious to you.-----WINE IN A TONGUE-LESS MOUTHA painting in the dark
like wine in a tongue-less mouth.My dreams are footsteps in water.We want to say great things
true things
but we don’t want to do anything
unseemly.We hear of strangers’ troubles as easily as we listen
to the rain.We don’t really want answers
so we ask impossible questions.We don’t really want to know our lovers
so we close our eyes
when we kiss them.
Reunions by Lori Cramer
Entering the reception hall where your prom was held five years earlier, you flash back to how amazing Bobby looked in his tux, even though he refused to wear the fuchsia bow tie that matched your dress. When Bobby made up his mind that he didn’t want to do something, trying to convince him otherwise was pointless—a fact you learned early on in your relationship.At the welcome table, the class secretary hands you your name tag and informs you that Bobby won’t be coming. Nobody knew where to send his invitation, she says, as if she honestly expects you to believe that the reunion committee put any effort into the search.Gigi and Ingrid rush over to you. After hugs and hellos, Gigi waves a sparkly ring in front of your eyes and says she wishes you could meet her fiancé, but he’s in London on business. Ingrid confides that she’s coming off a bad breakup, then asks if you ever think about Bobby. Before you can formulate a response, Gigi declares that you’re better off without him. He should’ve gone to college, Gigi asserts, instead of signing with that baseball team. Same old Gigi, finding fault with everything Bobby has ever said or done.Everyone you talk with comments that it’s so strange, seeing you without Bobby. Pulling you aside, your former Chemistry lab partner tells you he heard Bobby’s fastball’s no longer as unhittable as it was in high school. You’d like to see him say that to Bobby’s face! Another guy, whose name you can’t remember, says somebody told him the reason Bobby stalled in Triple A was because he was too bullheaded to follow the pitching coach’s instructions. The only thing anybody seems to want to talk to you about is why Bobby hasn’t made it to the Major Leagues, so you duck out early.When you get home, you head straight upstairs to check on the baby, who’s sound asleep in her crib. Then you tip-toe across the hall to the bedroom, shed your fancy clothes, and crawl into bed beside Bobby.
Lori Cramer prefers baseball games to reunions. Links to her writing can be found here.Twitter | Bluesky
Wisdom by George Vincent
Wisdom is something
Entirely old
Like war
Like cholera
Like leprosy
Like human figures
In mud-huts
Squirming in dreams
Screaming at the Gods
That stop the rain
That burn their children
For the taste of the fat
Don’t speak to me of wisdom when
I have things to pay for
Like rent
Like washing up liquid
Like coffins
And funeral food
For meat in tins
And strange purple shampoos
That leak down the
Hairy shower-holeI don’t want to work
I don’t want these dreams if I have to wait for them
The dream of the island in the golden ocean
With the shimmering vineyard
In heat
Pregnant with
Oil
And wine
The new born leg of lamb
With abundance of
Rosemary
Thyme
Flowery cloudy liquor
That sets itself on fire
And the sun going down
On a sea
Promising a salty-clean rebirth
Into a better age
Somewhere far away
From this green
Sad
LandA tribe of men with thick, dullard skulls shipped here
And saw the wormy soil
And planted their wisdom in it
And it sprouted and produced
Kings
Gout
Peasants with boils
Popped and used for soup stock
The tax system
The religious ephipany
Genital warts
Witches and saints clad in shite-stained-tunics
Wielding impotent weapons
Piccalilli meadows
Porkpie hangmen
With rippled guts and
Scrotum-sacks that reeked like Stilton
Wives with their sixth stillborns standing in drooped doorways
Holding them by the ankles
And bartering with the vegetable-man on his
Proud stand
For a sack of black potatoes
The rolling hills
Into deep cowpat valleys
The names of places after great rivers
And monks in their drunken monasteries
Perfecting the arts of brewery
And buggary
The quarry-roads
Which made way for the steam-train tracks
For a hundred years of CAPITAL
Gruel conditions
In smoking factories
For urine dumped from upper-windows onto
Sleek cobbled streets
Where the children slipped
And scattered their marbles
Down flooded plague-drains
The tractor
The bomb
The invention of pavement
The modern catastrophe
FinallyThese are the products of wisdom
Polished and revered on
It’s red-velvet cushion
In a glass cabinet
Precious as silk
To behold
To tamper with
To harnessAway with it!
Swines and swindlers
Give me what I want
My easy dreams
My £5
Aldi wine
Wisdom is the result
Of time
Getting old
And having the
Sweet
Privilege of
Reflection
When only the
Idiots
Are left
George Vincent is a writer from Newcastle Upon Tyne, England.Twitter
Killing Floor Dementia – another diluted found pome by Scott C. Holstad
It’s just a simple case of crucifixion.
I’m feeling better since I found my
mind. Drowning doesn’t impact you
nearly as much when you’ve got
gaping holes in your stony head. Some
say lobotomy, I say goddamn sieves.
You can find chicken nuggets and
the like swirling around inside that
shit. Sometimes weapons too but
that's a different type of art.Smear me with hot coffee grounds.
You’re so sexual, you kinky fuck. My
nipples get hard when you gape at
me like that. Or are they just goose
eggs? Does it even matter anyway?
Does anything?Sheeples herd round about me. Bloody
swamped cosmic of them. But the
vinegar morphed to wine and my
rotted flesh peeled and my head can
now touch my toes. You know, just
the norm. Tell me, is that usual or
unusual? I can’t frigging tell.
Scott C. Holstad has been a professional writer for over 40 years & has worked hard to “get a lot of stuff published.” He loves reading, writing, geopolitics, good vinyl & hockey. He’s moved 35+ times & currently lives near Gettysburg PA. Recent words appear in A Sufferer’s Digest, The Beatnik Cowboy, Blood+Honey, Blue Villa, Bristol Noir, Fresh Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Horror Sleaze Trash, Libre, Red Fern Review, SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS & WIREWORM.Website | Twitter
Fruit and Antilabe: Travis Shosa Reviews Tom Blake's Peach Epoch
The opening couplet from Tom Blake’s second chapbook, Peach Epoch, reads as follows:This one’s a freebie
lhude sing cuccuThis clues the reader into a few things immediately. First and foremost, Tom Blake is a wiseass: not only willing to interpolate “Sumer is icumen in” (one of England’s oldest rounds), not only willing to lead his chapbook with this, but to juxtapose it with “This one’s a freebie”: as if “lhude sing cuccu” was a penny to be taken from the counter dish at a convenience store. He doesn’t borrow the lyric, he nabs it.Second, we immediately know that we’re in for a very British book. Not in the manner of tea and crumpets, but of a dry, casual humor. Peach Epoch’s poems are not prose poems, but they’re not not prose poems, and Peach Epoch’s poems aren’t jokes, but they’re not not jokes. Blake’s voice is muted but incredibly distinct. It’s plainspoken and ever so faintly musical, and this subtly allows him to rob the ancient or mythic of its gravitas and drag it down to earth with him.Beyond this, we’re cued into Blake’s tendency to reference music in his poetry. The first poem is plainly named “Plain Song” (one of only two previously published poems out of 13 - this could be Blake’s stinginess, it could be that journals are afraid of this man), while the second, “He Is 82 Years Old Now,” is a poetic eulogy of Ed Askew, first published in KLOF, where Blake covers music. Elsewhere, you have poems dedicated not to Louise Gluck or Ross Gay, but late depressive wiseass musicians Jason Molina and David Berman.This couplet sets up so much of Peach Epoch, a near-endlessly quotable and incredibly breezy read of wry observation, sly malaise, and deceptively economical tangential constructs. Let’s look at “He Is 82 Years Old Now,” which chronicles jumpy, loosely threaded thought. Blake tracks his day: he opens by shittalking Ezra Pound’s “The Tea Shop” and, by midday, is listening to Askew’s “Japanese Movies” (“He sings about wanting / to fuck young Japanese men / he is 82 years old now”). This, of course, plunges him into a crisis about his diet and a hernia he has named Gelert, in a very “oh shit I’m getting older too, huh?” way. Some poets write 300 words about a bowl of soup and land on “I am just like this bowl of soup #deep.” Blake, instead, sees himself in bad poets and weirdly horny acid folk musicians. It’s less of a reach.Speaking of horny, Peach Epoch is. Not constantly, and not always overtly, but it is. Fittingly, there is the recurring motif of the peach (a fruit frequently associated with sex), which pops up in the opening of “Chirrup” before Blake bemoans:We are not sex people though sometimes I
wish we were
because otherwise it’s just make up
make up and get downThe poem “Peach” sexualizes the cutting of a peach. 13 quick lines where he de-skirts the “clothed peach” as it “shivers electrically.” He obsesses over a viola player in “The Blue Dress,” while the closing nine-page epic “The Failure of the Dream Room” features this fantastic bit of sidetracked etymology (really, this poem is mostly tangents, but this one’s my favorite):(antilabe: from the Greek
meaning ‘mutual grip’
which sounds like, I don’t know
a hardcore band or
a keyword search
on Pornhub). Snow!And it’s not that writing about sex is novel, or that even name dropping Pornhub is novel (we can find alt lit poetry that goes there). It’s how Blake presents everything as a shrug. These are loud, goofy ideas written with a bizarre sense of humble, disaffected poise. You can see this in several of the other best stanzas. From “Sight”:For years I read trail mix as trial mix
like it was something only the accused got
to eatAnd from “Recital”:I have not paid good money
to hear these scaffolders
and their radio
or the rain’s dry rattle.This man is so fed up it’s hysterical. There are more vivid, imagistic, fanciful passages littered throughout the book, but as great as they are in their own right, they serve to illuminate these frank, droll, dreary bits. That’s the magic here. Peach Epoch is a sneaky little book. Blake’s not writing for awards and he’s not writing to shock, either. This is poetry written to shine a weak light on a dull happening. Turns out, life is mostly weak lights shining on dull happenings: shrugs, dietary concerns, admiring pretty people you won’t talk to, fruit, intrusive thoughts, idolatry, and more shrugs. As such, Peach Epoch feels more like life than most poetry books you’re likely to read this year.
Peach Epoch
By Tom Blake, 44 pages
Red Ceilings Press, £9.00Travis Shosa (they/them) is looking for work as a Daniel Radcliffe impersonator. They are looking for work as a Shane MacGowan impersonator. They are looking to impersonate a person, money optional. Their line-broken ramblings appear or are forthcoming in Maudlin House, fifth wheel press, Eulogy Press, and Waffle Fried. They have also written about music for Pitchfork, Bandcamp Daily, PAPER, The Line of Best Fit, and others.
A Form of a Fraudulent Gender Acceptance by S. Anon
It’s a plain white underwear, with specks of grey. It’s the threads. Probably sewn with gentle threats and two pieces of kidney beans. Flat fingers but skeptical of age. I’m not good with words. Here’s a comprehensible sentence, with a period and single space. Is it okay for a deserted wheat crop? To grow? Oh fuck, I fucked up. I think I prefer rejections, especially when they roll in immediately after I bled into my socks and hyperfixate on chewable pain killers to kill off hormonal migraines.“I don’t understand. It makes no sense. I don’t know what it is.”You can’t see my gender. You’re just saying words.“Also, unless you’re lying on at least three, two marble squares on the kitchen floor, and birthing Costco sized heads right out of your own vaginal canal, I can’t accept this.”You want to be sure of my gender. No. Okay.Okay. No really, you’re better and I’ll explicitly stop existing in my current form and drink more of your voice because I want to learn how to make perfect eggs in the microwave, too. I fucked up. How to apologize to men?“Never have I ever touched an elbow that weighed less than a pair of scissors.” You said it so perfectly. I’m gonna cry. I’ll die. Too much? His eyes I’ve never seen but I imagine them to exist right under a bridge of poreless skin, bulging and making victory signs ending above the nose. There’s judgement. Men. I as a non man can’t even say anything anymore. Oxymoron. No. Just the latter. I’m dumb. They’ll present their ally badges, collected from wet biscuits and pools of congealed blood. You’re sloppy if you disagree.I’ll never make sense. Why should I when nothing else does? Are you happy? Another fucking me playing martyr. “Here we go.” Yet. No, I'm certain about. Relief, inside me.You’re so sensitive, and lonely. “Stay. Away.” From me and my mother. My father also had the same gender as his father. Look where it got us. Sprawled on the bottom of the stairs, staring, the bulge, wondering if ceiling fans were always a luxury.
S. Anon is a Canadian writer.Twitter
in half (pulling a rabbit) by Conor Ryan
front-lit by the early morning fissures
of not-quite-light filtering through
water-stained beige curtains -
i practice disappearing. a shitfaced magician
bungling all the steps: 1)when there's no pictures of my face
framed in small squares, how easy
am i to forget in the background
of your candle-lit cabaret? a voice
in the background buzzing like faulty HVAC
in a strip(mall magic) club. 2) assistants get sawed
in half all the time - the top roasted
over open flames like a pot-belly pig
and the bottom thrown into the mafia
dumpster out back. on bad trips
i've rehearsed unwrapping my severed
intestines like a ribbon on a glitzy gift,
the whole audience peering to see what isinside 3) the tools aren't what
they used to be. the spikes
in the stand-up casket are
soft rubber. the walls are pre-cracked
plastic. but luckily the stools have one
bad leg and sailors still need good4) rope5) at the seance i put my hand inside
the puppet head of a dirty crystal ball
and make it show obscene, deranged
visions of the afterlife from the comfort
of my unfurnished cream-walledroom. as the first rays hit the fracturing
bricks of our apartment, i snap over and shut
my eyes. flecks of blood and fairy dust. serene.
Conor Ryan loves railing nicotine toothpicks and is haunted by nightmares of Garfield: The Movie.
Storage Facility, Irreparably Damaged, or
Tip of the Iceberg by Bob Carlton
Diamond H Lounge...Thunderbird Lounge...
Club Schmitz...Joe Mac’s Whistle Stop...
Southern Belles...Geno’s Southern Belles...
BJ’s Coffee Shop...Webb Lounge...
Steak Pit...Circle Inn...Hole in
the Wall...Silk and Satin...First Draw...
Olivares...Baby Doll’s Saloon...Deja Vu...
Northwest Pub...Fly Boy...Caligula XXI...
The Doll House...Keller’s...PT’s...
Jackpot Lounge...Letot Lounge...
Garfield’s...Mark II Lounge...
J Rag’s...Lipstick...Red Lion...
Three Times a Lady...Conflict of
Interest...Bare Hare...The Palace...
Squeaky’s...The Cottage...Top Rail...
Dallas Gentleman’s Club...Cowboy
Saloon...Cabaret Royale...Easyriders...
The Ritz...Smokin’ Dave’s Rock Room...
Trail Dust Steakhouse...
Bob Carlton lives and works in Leander, Texas.Twitter Bluesky
A Chalk by Theodore Wallbanger
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
The Patchwork of Life by JB Polk
As he emerged from the birth canal, the warm air from the delivery room heater took him into its embrace. His red and wrinkly body relaxed – he was warm and safe. Squinting at the bright overhead lights stinging his still-unfocused eyes, he marveled at the world around him. “I wonder who is in charge here?” was his first conscious thought...............................................................................***His tiny mouth opened and closed excitedly as he looked at Mom’s milk-producing breasts. Dizzy with impatience, he instinctively latched on, finding contentment in that simple act. "Mother is in command," he conceded without hesitation...............................................................................***The red bike under the Christmas tree made him very happy. He was soooo lucky! He could brag to his buddies as he rode it around the neighborhood. He imagined the wind ruffling his hair and the kick it would give him. He roared: "I run things in this house!"..............................................................................***His first girlfriend was fifteen and all curves. Her laughter was infectious, and her smile lit up any room. She wanted to hold hands, and he... He pictured her large breasts fitting nicely in his palms. But he pushed the thought aside, knowing that trying was pointless. He knew his sex drive called the shots...............................................................................***On his first day at work, he felt both excited and nervous. The office buzzed with activity as he tried to navigate the new environment. Eager to prove himself, he was determined to make a good impression on his boss...............................................................................***She was modest and intellectual, and nothing like his first girlfriend, who was all curves. He was never drawn to her breasts but admired her quiet charm and asked her to marry him. He decided that family was paramount...............................................................................***When his son's head emerged from the birth canal, he was filled with joy. Cradling the newborn, he noticed him squinting at the bright overhead lights with still unfocused eyes. Hugging him tightly and promising always to protect him, he whispered: Son, you are number one!..............................................................................***He beamed with pride as he looked at the red Porsche in his three-car garage. He couldn't believe his good fortune; he would show off his new toy to his colleagues and Lorna from the front desk! His heart raced as he imagined the wind tousling his hair and how much of a chick magnet it would be. He laughed wickedly: cash rocks!..............................................................................***She was twenty-five, and all curves to his fifty-something potbellied body with bits already going south. She never laughed at his jokes and instead asked him to buy her a new Hermes purse. And he... He thought of how her breasts fit perfectly in his palms as she lay naked beside him. He sighed sadly: Viagra’s in control…..............................................................................***On his last day at work, he was overcome with sadness. It was hard to believe that forty years had gone by. As he tried to envision how to navigate the unfamiliar environment of his upcoming retirement, someone said, "Bye, boss."..............................................................................***He was planting orchids in the greenhouse when a ray of sunlight brushed against his wrinkled face, filling him with a sense of safety, warmth, and peace. His cataract-clouded eyes squinted at the light, inviting him into the tunnel, and he wondered what he might find on the other side. His last conscious thought was, “I wonder who is in charge there...”
Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 150 of her stories, flash fiction, and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication. She has recently won 1st prize in the International Human Rights Arts Movement literary contest.
Kismet by Eva Alter
“because a woman’s body
is a grave;”
.......-............Dedication to Hunger, Louise GlückI learned how to do it at .......fourteen,
...........that brutal undoing
of desire—....... a violent purification
ritual, my own;to rid myself of my person,
temporarily .......yet entirely................[to rid myself of my soul’s detritus]that porcelain door going nowhere
but down ....down ....down.I knew I was septic.
Knew my skin had been
............made into rot................[knew I had to bear it anyway]and decided to barter my fate
..............sacrificing myself to that chasm of
........dreck.Once became dozens became thousands..............each time an unwitting move
in some cosmic chess match against
God’s magistrate;total expiration the loser’s reward.
Eva Alter is an emerging poet from the Southeast infatuated with the natural world, cats, Coke Zero, and sad folk music.Twitter | Instagram
If I Were A Dog by Shawna Woods
Winona was a prostitute, not a very good one, but a working woman, nonetheless. Behind dilapidated grocery stores, in small parks with dead grass and scattered trash, she ate whatever was under five dollars, in donated clothes. In her world, there was no kind savior, nor cunning villain. For Winona, there was only a jagged sidewalk and a busy street. Many socially conscious folks would respect her enough to call her a simple sex worker without housing. This type of respect wasn't familiar to her, not from others or herself, so she wouldn't argue for anything less.Occasionally, she would stare into her hands, shrouded by liver spots, in shock at how many years were behind her. In any cheap man’s car, she would slide her panties down her thighs, and an unnerving pain would shoot across her back. Every encounter would leave her bruised like a rotted fruit. When her body would cramp up, she could barely walk. And most men who bought her refused to pay full price for a wilted, old, hunched-back woman. Often her customers would be mad enough to kill her for being incapable.The ones that didn't leave her stranded dropped her back where they found her. Where she lay—in an alley, parking lot, or a liquor store’s dumpster— she watched younger women steal her regulars. Winona’s simple 1-2 steps weren't cutting it nowadays. She couldn't get away with packing herself with lube anymore. Clients wanted more than a warm body. These young women were able and willing to bend in a dozen complicated positions, for hours at a time; they came from good homes (she could tell by how they dressed) and were more resilient to beatings.New hookers —some only in adolescence— turned Winona to common garbage. This went on for years. She felt the street sweep had washed away over a decade of her life. The thought of it aggravated her hunger pains. Her body would convulse from arthritis. She was to wait for death in an empty parking lot or find food money. By this time, she felt old as dirt, and decided she couldn't wait that long. She’d trade in soda cans for cash at a local recycling center. She could’ve had hundreds, but barely anything was in exchange for collecting cans. However, it was all she needed to trade for a menagerie of pills. A quick fix and an easy escape for every ache. Whether it be from hunger, chronic body injuries, or foul depression, to compete, Winona swallowed, snorted, and injected multitudes of junk.Each drug made her more limber mentally and physically, pushing her limits with every encounter, and welcoming more clientele. Over time, she became a living legend in the slum. Willing to do tricks with cigarettes, roaches, needles, fat rodents and maggots; she earned money that made the busiest hookers jealous. The money woke up her charisma, adding a fun flair that her customers loved from each performance. Soon, they valued her antics more than sex, and big money came from her shocking “puckered hole” party tricks. She would hardly get any sleep from itching sores into her skin, picking off fleas, painful cuts, harsh burns, and strange crusted pus from bug bite infections. No matter what affected her, Winona walked around stuffed to the brim with dollar bills. Regardless, the money in her bra and heels was reserved for drugs, while the cash clenched in her fist was saved for alcohol. Winona loved the attention but only when the pills mastered over her body.Within a month of her perverse stunts, she regularly trembled, with just a few teeth spread widely across her gums. Patches like thin, jerky skin sagged around her eyes. Many folks assumed she had soured enough to be dead and wedged between two dumpsters. Any man or vermin couldn't find a proper hole. She suffered more, clogged with infection, which caused her business to decay. Winona was hexed by addiction, like a mad witch mixing poison in a cauldron; the fumes of her undoing have left her demented.One afternoon, while trotting her squashed feet in heels, she stuck herself deep in cheap liquor to distract from the ache. On the curb, her mind swaddled by alcohol, a warm lightness came over her body. Under the liquor's amusement, everything became smooth, easy, even whimsical. She examined the shapes of clouds as a small child would. Before she could fight it, her imagination took her to sleep.By the time she woke, a warm fog blanketed the night. On an unknown street curb, missing her left heel, she took note of the night's effortless calm and ease. All feelings of disgust and hopelessness seeped out (and ran down her leg). She was a drunk who fell in love with the night. Winona imagined the surrounding darkness as a vast reservoir of serenity and acceptance. She sat comfortably under a flickering streetlight. A light, to her, that added an eccentric charm to the endearing night.While heavy into the velvet night, there was a dog under a streetlight. A typical dog for a typical drunk—baby bear brown, scruffy with hair, and huge eyes—Winona wanted to hold him tight, to tell him how much she loved him. She reached out her arms and called the dog with a long whistle. Methodically, the dog stepped out of the spotlight. She was hurt to see the dog go. Winona, almost in tears, thought she scared the poor dog away. She sat in misery until the streetlight above her flickered on. At the first glimpse of light, the dog appeared to her close, dripping thick white saliva, mesmerized in a heavy growl; with a bark of insurmountable anger, it slung its drool, shook its head left and right, covering Winona’s face. She felt her heart sink.Stiffened, she thought I would eat a rabbit if I were a dog. I would devour its guts and then lick my asshole for some time. I'd feel at peace while napping under a tree for a moment. Although even as a dog, I’d feel unforgivable under the beautiful and earnest night. I'm not sure if dogs eat rabbits, but I'd be the one to do it. I'd chase it, pin it down, take its head into my mouth: crunch. Its bones would be small enough to swallow. But once the eternal midnight saw my bloodied face, I'd hope to choke. The rabbit's huge black eyes would pop in my mouth; I'd vomit, then lick it back up. It would be easy and feel good because it's easy. All I'd do is sit and wait. So eager, I'd hallucinate hundreds of white rabbits.
Shawna is a black woman who writes bizarre fiction. Since childhood, she’s been hibernating in the same building in Long Beach, California. This submission would be her first published story.Instagram
What I found today when clearing Drafts in Gmail by Ronita Chattopadhyay
Hi!
I wanted to check another thingHeight 50 inch 4 feet, width 8 feet 9 inch (?)Photograph of a bag with a cross-stitch patch
made by a friend for meDear all,
Further to our conversation‘Lyrical precision of poetry, economy of language
and expansion of metaphor’(no subject)
(no body)
Ronita is an Indian poet. She loves sweets, books, mountains and tea, sometimes excessively and not always in this order.Twitter | Bluesky
The Adopted Family by Jon Doughboy
The shut-in wanted to adopt a dog but was too lazy and fearful to walk it. Hadn’t walked more than two blocks in ten years if you don’t count anxious midnight living room pacing. He considered ordering a cat from the shelter—free delivery, neutered, all shots included. But he was allergic. He found a robin’s egg once and incubated it but the oven temperature wasn’t right, a tad too hot, so the chick, once hatched, roasted. He was alone. Shut in with his loneliness in a three-bedroom cottage in a dying town. The government, to avoid a mass shooter situation, kept the disability checks flowing. He never had to leave his house. The grocery store delivered. His dentist visited with a bag of portable drills. His Japanese sex doll installed itself in the foyer and solicited a fuck—kudasai—every time he went to the fridge for his cherished glass of Ovaltine, ingesting Eisenhower’s America in malty powdered form. But the loneliness grew and grew. Seeped into the cracks in the sheetrock. Destabilized the foundation. Warped the floorboards. The want grew in proportion to the loneliness. Cancerous growth. China’s economy after Deng Xiaoping numbers.Finally, in a catalogue selling refugees, he found a family to adopt. He made his picks based on the latest diversity metrics put out by the Census Bureau. His town was in a need of a Black Nigerian Muslim Woman, ideally between the ages of 92 and 94. An Egyptian Coptic Christian Man, exactly 50 years old, preferred. And a North Korean child around 6 or 7 years old with a passion for the visual arts and on the pudgy side if possible. With a stroke of his digital pen, the lonely, sex-doll-fucking, Ovaltine-guzzling, robin-roasting shut-in, adopted all three. They arrived a mere week later plucked from the refugee farm floating in international waters. At first, the new family bonded. The shut-in’s loneliness waned without him having to leave the house. The woman appreciated the sturdy roof over her head for the cage, as you’d expect, had been drafty. She loved the wheat growing over the rusting cars in the back prairie. The rare and forgotten species of apple trees surviving along the desolate road and the tart fruit they bore. The man appreciated no longer being caged. At night, while the others slept, he also appreciated, in quiet, sweaty pumps, the Japanese sex doll in the foyer. And the child? Well, the child was mute but seemed content to paint Juche Realism depictions of valiant North Korean soldiers bayonetting pigs dressed like American marines. All was well in the cottage of the dying town. The jubilant mayor was eager to add three to the population size on the faded welcome sign on the ramp off the derelict highway to greet the new citizens in grand fashion.But cracks in the happiness, as they always do, began to appear. The Coptic and the Muslim began to debate—with words and fists and rolling pins—the word of God. The godless child, to settle the matter, bless his indoctrinated heart, tried to paint God and made Jesus and Muhammad North Korean prophets proselytizing to the wildlife flourishing in the demilitarized zone of the 38th Parallel. The shut-in discovered someone else’s semen in his sex doll and the thirsty refugees had drunk all his Ovaltine. Outrage upon outrage.A year later, when the Census Bureau visited for its annual wellness check, they found four corpses in a state of advanced decay, variously stabbed, slashed, pummeled, and poisoned. The only sound, aside from the census workers’ vomitous grieving, was the sex doll’s robotic voice begging to be fucked.In an act of public mourning, the mayor subtracted one number from the highway sign.
Jon Doughboy is an aspiring upmarket genre-blending, reality-bending, fat-check-earning novelist working on a grotesque drawing room comedy in the vein of Wodehouse-meets-Bernhard but in Rabelaisian proportions. Offer him a book deal.Twitter | Linktree
Compartmentalization Pattern by Eva Alter
[a found poem based on the preface from Elizabeth F. Howell’s The Dissociated Mind]
...............
...............I.
...............
..................it is..built
....into our DNA.
..................ordinary language reveals.........implicit
.............conversance with
...........................parts that are not cohesive—
................................................dissociation—.....one realm of experience—
........repression
.........................................................focally examined
..................barren..............................................structuring
of the mind—
............................................rare
..................................traumatology—
....................................................implicit
...........................................internalization;
...............a construct of psychic structuring.
......dissociation, [a]
........................................public explosion;
...........widespread
..................formulation of ...........diagnostic
atrocities.
..................trauma is not outside of the realm
of ordinary experience;........ it .........exists
within the realm of the ordinary—
...............
...............II.
...............
..............confusing
.........................threatening event—
overwhelming to anyone
overwhelming to the individual.
...................................................Trauma
.........disrupts reflective functioning; .......it nearly wipes out the ability to
think.
.....................event(s)
that could not be assimilated
.............cannot be linked with other experience[s]— .....there is now a structural
.........................result of trauma: ........dissociation,
the event(s) that cause
.....................................splits and fissures in
........the psyche
...............
...............III.
...............
...............rising tide, ...............sea
.........change: .................Chronic trauma—
.............................................................profound
...............rigid separation— ..parts of experience .....somatic
consciousness ..affects.... perception... identity ...memory...............a structural ......dissociated self-state;
....................................................trauma generated
...........................................psychic struggle—
..........................keeping dissociated experience out
of awareness—
...........................reconceptualization—
..........................................a constellation of symptoms:
.................long-term.... emotional
dysregulation ...amnesias.... damage to identity and relationships
........potential for revictimization...........................................The hallmark—
...........................the inability to distinguish
the internal from the external.
........trauma disrupts—
...............
...............IV.
...............
dissociative patterns,
...........compartmentalizations— ......ways of thinking
of awareness and anxiety;
...........unexamined contradictions—
......unconscious .........execution of atrocities
often denied......... unexamined.......................................................it is
astounding............ nobody seemed to notice............................................................................How did [they]
............not know? .......should have known if they
.....................look[ed]... inquir[ed].
consequently
simply
...........................no one in the family
wants to upset.... illusion of harmony......... They condemn one member
.............to exile; ..........shield themselves from recognizing.
.........................................................The failure to notice ....extends—..........................................................................Patterns
............of not knowing are endemic...........................some people— .........especially traumatized— carry the
burden:........ dissociative problems in living .........experiences
............others fear
............sequestered thinking
dissociative processes
unconscious enactments
...........manifested in various
.....................................patterns.
Eva Alter is an emerging poet from the Southeast infatuated with the natural world, cats, Coke Zero, and sad folk music.Twitter | Instagram
Schoolboys by Kevin Richard White
I told him I didn’t want to face the camera.“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Jeff said.“My body is much better,” I said.“We’ll see about that. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one knows it’s you.”I looked over at Ashleigh and she kept chewing her gum like a cow and it was really annoying. She’s got no clue why she’s really here - she just loves being naked. I watched as she took her top off and threw it over the chair arm. She undid her bra and let it fall at her feet, kicking it away like a dirty leaf. She tried to blow a bubble with her smacking lips. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Ashleigh, quit chewing that fucking gum.”“Why?”I shook my head. Jeff finished setting the camera up. Sean came back into the room, holding four sodas. He’s the one that spent all his money on this - the soundproof installation, the camera, everything. I shivered. I knew they wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but I just didn’t want to take my shirt off anymore. “I just want to watch,” I said.“You can’t watch. I need you, Morgan. You’re beautiful,” Sean said.“My body may be but not my heart.”“Don’t bitch out, Morgan,” Ashleigh said.“No one’s being a bitch. I just don’t see why we’re doing this.”Jeff looked up from the camera. “Revenge. And slightly boredom.” I guess revenge can be noble, but it’s not enough for me at times.“We’re all friends,” Sean said. He handed out the sodas and then went over to his computer and started typing something. “No one else is here. We’ll have you home soon so you can do your homework.”Ashleigh laughed at that one. She had her jeans and panties off now and tried blowing a bubble again. She always was the giggly bimbo. Well, she fucking cornered that market real good. I walked up to her. “Ashleigh, swallow the gum.”“Morgan,” she said.“Just do it.”Jeff laughed.“Well, ok, Mom,” she said and swallowed it. Then she shot me a cocky smile and if it wasn’t for the fact that we were best friends, I would have slapped her. I turned around and saw Sean grinning at me.“Come on, Morgan. At least the top,” Sean said.“Sean, please,” I said.“You’ve known me for a long time. Since elementary. It’s not weird. I’ll make sure it won’t get your face. I know you’re going to college. I don’t want to fuck that up. Just the top. Please.”Ashleigh was sitting on the chair now. She had shaved for the occasion. “I don’t feel good about this, Sean. Someone will find this. This is not ok.”“We’ll be ok, Morgan.”I looked over at Jeff and he gave no indication that we would be ok. “We’re all just kids, Sean. Please let me watch.”“Morgan, come here,” Sean said and I did, and he hugged me and I began to cry.“How long have you known me?”“Since you were young enough to talk.”“Do you trust me?”“Yes.”“So let’s do this.”“Why?”“Why not?”“But...we’re better people than this.”“No, we’re not. Morgan, wash up and come back in five. We’re shooting.”So I did. I left the room and Ashleigh started talking shit and I resisted the urge to turn around and shout, fuck you bitch. I went into the basement powder room and I threw water in my face. I smudged my mascara but I left it like that. I walked back into the set and Ashleigh was stretching like she was some athlete. “Like that’s gonna help your fat,” I said.“Shut up, Morgan. You’re going to fuck this all up.”“Alright, girls.” Sean. “That’s enough. Listen. We don’t have time to rehearse. So you need to focus. You know all the basics, I’m sure.” His phone dinged from his pocket. He took it out and read the text. Jeff stood against the wall, crossing his arms, sighing, knowing that he had to beat off after this was done rather than during. “They’re here.”“Who’s here?”“I’m ready,” Ashleigh said.I wasn’t. I still had my shirt on. I wanted to puke.“Morgan,” Sean said.“What.”“Are you ready?”“Whatever.”“Then take your shirt off. I’m not asking again.”I didn’t want to argue anymore. So I ripped my shirt off and I threw it as hard as I could and I took one of the sodas. I chugged it until it went down my chest and onto my tits and all over the floor. I wished it was beer. Then I spread my arms wide and I said, “I’m a fucking monster. Let’s do this.”Sean laughed and Ashleigh groaned.“Well, damn. Let’s commit some sins,” Jeff said and went back to the camera. Sean went up the steps. I didn’t bother to clean up - the mascara and soda was a great look. Ashleigh was sizing me up.“I guess, Morgan, we’re going to find out who can do better.”“Come on. We’re friends.”“Of course we are, dear.” She walked up to me and then her voice briefly broke. “But this is really...important. You’re going to college.”“What does that have anything to do with it?”“Because I’m not,” she said and turned away. I didn’t know she wasn’t going. I thought she applied. My idea of a future - one that included her - now hung delicately.“Just remember the good times, I guess,” I said, after a long pause.“I will,” she said and took the hair tie off her wrist, putting her hair up for easier access to activities later.“Because none of this matters.”“We’ll see.”“We’re gonna start filming when he opens the door back up,” Jeff said.I nodded.The door opened up and Sean ran down the steps. His energy scared me. He told Jeff to wait. He looked at me and I started to sob a bit but he put a finger to my lips. He stared at my tits and tan skin and I knew I wasn’t perfect because of my appendix surgery scars and I was not the beauty he wanted and that I should be skinnier and that I wanted to go vomit for him but he stopped me and held me. I felt the other people at the top of the steps - disgusting fucking shapes, confused young assholes.“We’re way too fucking young to know what we’re doing, Sean,” I said. I lost it. I wanted to fall to the ground but Sean helped me up.“Morgan.”“What?"“Just give me fifteen good minutes.”"Fifteen?”“Half a sitcom. For me.”“Fine. Ok.”Yeah?”“Yeah, Sean. Sure.”Sean smiled. “Sounds good, babe.” He kissed me and turned and I reached out but he was already gone. But Jeff yelled action and I heard the boys come down the stairs, boyfriends of other girls we knew, and I got to the less attractive one, and I gave it to him and I took him down with my beautiful stored vengeance and smudged mascara and soda-drenched skin, and I made sure not to talk so loud because Jeff was holding the boom and I took my tongue into the boy’s ear and whispered “revenge” and he said he didn’t care and he smelled like beer and I unzipped his pants and in the haze I looked over and saw my collegeless best friend with a full mouth and I took him in me and as I did I saw Sean grinning and I thought, fucker, this should be you, this should be so much of you.
Kevin Richard White lives in Philadelphia.TwitterSchoolboys originally appeared in SOFT CARTEL.
Poetry in Penance: Hugh Blanton Reviews Adrian Sobol's Hair Shirt
Adrian Sobol's second collection of poetry, Hair Shirt, is an energetic book, full of panache and pizzazz and without the frippery often found in the sophomore books of younger poets. Sobol chews up a lot of territory here—we go from seas, to mouths, to animals of varied stripe: a donkey, wiener dog, the worlds smartest horse (named Gorgeous Allegheny Slim), two singing cows, and a bear that can sign its name in beautiful cursive. There doesn't seem to be anything that Sobol won't turn into a poem, which is of course a virtue and a vice. There's a lot of free verse here and some prose poems, but he smuggles in some subtle rhymes from time to time:............I'm living on my own
............hunger
............built from
............the last of my flesh
............this is mine
............I said
............snatching
............bread
............from
............my guestsThe collection's energy is reminiscent of Jon Sands's second collection It's Not Magic where even poem titles carry their share of the load—Sands has "Moons Over My Hammy," Sobol gives us one here "High Impact Donkey."Sobol's poems have a hard time settling into a style. If it weren't for his voice, you'd sometimes wonder if these poems were all written by the same poet. They elude categorization, hybridizing poetry and prose, fantasy and reality. He creates evocative images without being an Imagist, but there are a few poems here Marianne Moore would definitely give a vigorous nod of approval to. Melancholy has been done to death in poetry, the poets who indulge it give us lines that come off as not much more than whining or grumbling. Sobol never indulges, giving us flowing, comprehending lines: "There remains no law/ against our melancholy. So much light,/ I said in my closing argument, will go out before it's finally/ dark."The thing about Chicago poets is that they never let you forget they're Chicago poets. From Carl Sandburg then to Nate Marshall now they act like boasting tour guides as if being a Chicagoan is some kind of vaunted privilege. Sobol grew up in Chicago (his family immigrated from Poland in the early 90's) but doesn't natter on about Chicago, and in fact doesn't even mention it a single time in this collection. There are some traces of The City of Big Shoulders muscularity in here: "If you were an appliance, I'd keep you plugged in. Maybe run my lips across the socket until it told me to stop." but for the most part Hair Shirt is the introspection of a writer with a vivid inner life. It's not a tour de force, but a tour de scrappy romp.Sobol's debut poetry collection, The Life of the Party is Harder to Find Until You're the Last One Around was written "under the influence of immense Catholic guilt." Of course, a hair shirt is what monks and ascetics wear as a penance, and I can't help but wonder if Sobol thinks he needs a hair shirt because he isn't as austere and gloomy as his many Catholic predecessors (Gerard Manley Hopkins comes to mind first). Sobol's prose poems are heavily influenced by Noah Eli Gordon (Gordon's 2007 book Novel Pictorial Noise was selected by John Ashberry for the National Poetry Series, and, yes, Sobol has inherited a little of Ashberry's weirdness, too). In Sobol's prose poem "law of conservation" someone crashed into a Miata on the way to a wedding: "At the reception the priest shouts your name. This is for my Mazda Miata, he says before shooting you six times. You Barely feel it. The bullets pass through you like light through an hourglass. When the maid of honor finds you bleeding out near the cake, she offers you a glass of water. You ask for champagne. The tearful bride hands you her bouquet. This is for you, she says, and places a flower into each of your bulletholes." Sobol has taken a tango and turned it into a clog dance of prose.Sometimes Sobol gets lost in the thickets of his imaginings, a horse (there's those animals again!) performs mathematics by stamping a man to death:............After completing
............his multiplication tables,
............we were justifiably
............impressed (a polite round
............of applause paired
............with our son's
............threadbare whistle).Those lines are a touch of Ashberry, but where Ashberry can be formidable, Sobol is endearing, even with his near fanatical preoccupation with animals.Sobol's the editor in chief of Kicking Your Ass magazine, a magazine of poetry with a—you guessed it—donkey image on the masthead. (It's wearing cool Biden-like aviators.) Their mission statement says that too few poems "tell us what it's like to push on a door marked pull or how to deal with sitting next to a rude grizzly bear in a restaurant." He obviously takes a different view to animals than did Whitman, and I don't think he's referring to Delmore Schwartz's metaphorical bear here, either. Sobol himself is an avid submitter of poetry to magazines, more than a dozen poems in this collection have made previous appearances in various journals. "Torch Song," a ten page prose poem, previously appeared as a micro chapbook in 2017.The charm of the poems (sometimes excessive) in Hair Shirt don't diminish their intelligence, even when Sobol is hopscotching through light verse like a fairy clutching a wiener dog to his chest. Almost half the poems in Hair Shirt use parentheses, they serve the purpose of runaway truck ramps on a downhill grade and it's necessary for the collection's sometimes ecstatic tenor. Sobol minds his syntax, he doesn't allow his poems to sink into modernist murky ambiguity. His superb confidence sometimes comes off as a snotty schoolboy—the poem "regicidal friends" is a prose poem shot through with its own virgules, the word salmagundi wiggles its way in in the first poem. The confidence and cocksureness doesn't undermine his sensitivity, though: "Have you heard? he tells me/ More men are dying/ in need of softness than thirst." Sobol's talent is still fully alive in this second book, but he's not housebroken enough to be a laureate. I hope he never is.
Hugh Blanton's latest book is Kentucky Outlaw. He can be reached on X @HughBlanton5.Twitter---Hair Shirt by Adrian Sobol. Malarkey Books, 2025. 87 pp. $16.00 (paper)Hair Shirt | Kicking Your Ass Magazine | Twitter
kill the weeds by Theodore Wallbanger
Redistribution of souls is how William looked at death
Culling of herds was frequent fodder for elder Bill
All shunning had been completedChildren were extensions of his DNA
Fresh William took pride in showing his youngest son
precise steps needed to poison neighborhood encroachment of vegetation
agitating personal property linesAlcohol bucket lines were soon required to
start aging engines granting mental escapes from tragic kingdomsThirsty dreams would ticket adventures into frothing libido landscapes which danced recklesslyFrisky alliances with wed-lined dragon sloths
welcomed deviant pleasure portals
into bikini saloons rich with
Bambi baby flesh tease smilesJamesons rocks soothed a disgruntled soul who memorized impressive
resumes of saucy lipsticked sin grins but transformed
into a frazzled church monkey during holiday home plastic dazzle traditionsThe grown up rampage bearded sheep invaded lives with a napalmed sweepLies painted across money trains were ceased
for no other reason than to
kill the weeds of hypocrisy
so as to live a beast sheep’s life flourishing in
magically twisted fantasy
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
Almost all the poems written are scoundrels by MK Kuol
none of your names is an aptonym:
a reflection of your character.yesterday, i ripped you
from the brittle ribs of a drunk god
with my deaf eyes & sang about it.your story is not unique:
all of us will part someday
with everything we’re now part of.a dumb grief sits on my mother’s tongue.
she dips her boneless fingers into her spine
to scour in her sour soul the smooch of death.my father doesn’t believe heaven is a haven.
the thesaurus is yet to convince him
how a servant [fanning an egotistic god
.....................................with hollow hosannas]
isn’t synonymous with a slave
[tending with tender hands
.....................................an entitled anna’s oats]today, in an infant poem―daubed
on a dead metaphor’s breath―
a poet autographed: almost all the poems written
are scoundrels born when fraught hearts
make out with empty stomachs.
MK Kuol is dead to almost everything but poetry. He feels poetry is his Lazarus' experience—his second chance at life.
Twitter | BlueSky
Afterlife by John Tavares
Dad,Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX?
Did you ever think how your daughter would feel if she was scrolling through social media, and she came across a photo of her father having sex with a woman younger than her?Did you ever think how she would feel?KYL---------Karen,I’m not exactly certain what you’ve been doing browsing through a website like AltAdultX, especially since you were vice-president of Young Christian Conservatives on Campus. You even led a crusade against all forms of adult pornography. I ended up having to bail you out of jail after you threw a bucket of pink paint at the storefront of an adult bookstore, personally threatened the owner, and picketed and demonstrated very loudly outside and inside the store in violation of a court order and restraining order. I still do not know how you managed to escape a punitive lawsuit, further criminal charges, or how those charges were ever dropped. I believe my personal and heartfelt apology to the store owners and my offer of hefty financial compensation for the damage to their building and business helped. I accepted those expenses and paid them in full. That is beside the point, though, and I am losing my train of thought here, after hearing from you out of the blue. Still, I must admit it is heartening to hear from you.Love, Henry---------Dad,My own personal views on pornography have evolved, but I think you have missed the point. Did you ever think of their effect upon your family? This isn’t like the embarrassment caused when you were caught on TV cameras joining the parade at Caribana, playing with the masquerades in bikinis, glitter, and sequins, dancing, doing the bump and grind.KYL---------Karen,My family – or what is left of my family – consists of two people, you, who have asked me not to contact you because you said, it messes with your mental health, and your mother, from whom I am separated and who has no desire at the current time to formalize a divorce, for complicated legal and financial reasons, so I am not certain exactly to which family you’re referring.Love, Henry---------Dad,I do not know what you are talking about. You do have a family. But you missed the point, and I do have a point, or at least I did think I had a point. Why are you posting pictures of you having sex with a woman younger than me on AltAdultX? This isn’t the same as you doing the bump and grind with a masquerade at Caribana.KYL---------Karen,I did not post pictures of me on AltAdultX. I have an account on AltAdultX, but I made that account after your mother and I separated and divorce talks and proceedings were initiated. I also switched the settings on that social media account to private. I needed an outlet, simply, an adult outlet. Moreover, I have no photographs posted on that account, no narcistic selfies so beloved of your hip ultra-moderns, your generation, no dick pictures—just a blank black square profile photo.Karen, I find this discussion bordering on the incestuous and thereby disturbing.Please try to think of more positive and upbeat things you can tell me about. You are living in sunny southern California, in your mid-thirties, studying filmmaking. Can’t you tell me about your productions at film school?Love, Henry---------Dad,No, I cannot because the profs are pricks.So, did you not post the pictures to AltAdultX?If you really want to know how I made my discovery it was because a few friends, in filmmaking, and I decided to do a documentary film on kinksters and swingers.AltAdultX became an obvious and easy source.The picture I am certain is of you. It shows an old guy, fit, tan, looking like you, having sex with a woman who looks like she’s in her mid-twenties.KYL---------Karen,You keep harping about incriminating pictures on AltAdultX. Get over what some dirty old man is doing with a younger woman. It must be consensual, or it would not be posted on AltAdultX.Love, Henry---------Dad,You obviously do not know or understand some of these social media websites, which become dark cesspools of oversharing and deep secrets and dirty laundry revealed to a voyeuristic public.But I am not worried so much about you, as I am about your partner, my mother.Did you ever think about the effect on her?KYL---------Karen,I do not know why you keep bringing up your mother in the conversation on this chain of events especially since you practically accused your own mother of molesting you. Please move on with your life. Be the next Steven Spielberg or a Canadian film director who rocks that nasty place Hollywood. Move on with your life.Love, Henry---------Dad,You asshole, and you are an asshole—Dad, I did not accuse my mother of molesting me.KYL---------Beloved Karen,Ok, ok, I am sorry. I misspoke. But I remember you constantly used the term abuse. Your words at that time left a bad impression on me, especially since your mother invested so much of her time and energy into trying to make certain you became a more perfect version of her. Around that time that I decided to put even more distance between myself, you, and her. I believed that anything I did to try to help was only bound to hurt you somewhat or inadvertently make you miserable. For that reason, I removed myself from the picture and took the nearest exit.You are not short of money, are you? That is not the reason you decided to message me, is it? Just say the word, and I’ll make certain the suit sends whatever cash you need, if it is for textbooks and tuition, rent and groceries.Love, Henry---------Dad,If I needed money for anything, it would be for cameras and equipment, production crew and actors’ wages, and set rentals. But I am good for money at the current time. The lawyer or financial advisor sends me money from the trust fund whenever I need it.I am starting to question how well you know mom. Have you ever noticed how jealous she can become? Have you ever noticed how crazy, angry, and out of control jealousy makes her? I know Mom, and I know she knows, and I know she had an account on AltAdultX. If she saw you having sex with another woman, especially a woman younger than me, she would go insane with jealousy, even though you are, as you say, separated. The fact you do not seem concerned about these pictures’ effects on mother also leaves me concerned.KYL---------Karen,Now you are talking about pictures, as opposed to a picture. Please send me a link or links, and I will see if I can log into my very vanilla AltAdultX account or create a new account to have a look see.Love, Henry---------Dad,Ok, I have sent you the links. Now you tell me the pictures at the end of these links are not of you.KYL---------Karen,These pictures could be of any man. You can’t even see the man’s full face because the image is cut off above his mouth.Love, Henry---------Dad,I recognize your chin, your mouth, and your facial hair growth in the pictures that show half of your face, and I recognize the body and figure.---------Karen,That man looks like a bodybuilder, like a man who lifts weights and goes to the gym everyday. He is also too light-skinned to be me.Love, Henry---------Dad,You tan during the summer and become very dark, exactly like the man in the picture, except you lose your tan during the winter. I’m guessing you started to trim your body hair, like that man in the pictures, and you did go to the gym everyday like you say, at least until you separated from mom.KYL---------Karen,Why are you trying to turn this into a detective story? So, what if this picture shows me, when I was invited to my friend’s party at his estate in cottage country? I am not saying that it is me, but what if it is me? Why should it matter?Love, Henry---------Dad,Because that picture shows you nude with your blank in the mouth of a female about a third your age. And the other picture also shows you behind her, presumably having intercourse.KYL---------Karen,I’ve enlarged and scrutinized the photos closely and carefully and I believe this is a case of mistaken identity. If you look closely, you will see that this man has a Semper Fi tattoo on the biceps of his right arm. He might be a soldier veteran or marine wannabe. As you know I’ve always been opposed to tattoos for health reasons. You must remember the number of times I encouraged and advised you to never obtain a tattoo.Love, Henry---------Dad,You can’t mislead me. I’ve enlarged and examined the photos closely with photo editing software and I can see none of the tattoos to which you allude. In fact, the more I look at these pictures the more I believe they are definitely of you.KYL---------Karen,If that picture is of me, and I am not saying it is me, the woman in the picture, and, I must emphasize, she is a woman, the woman is in her mid-thirties, your age, a sports physician, single, exceptional, and enthusiastic to be sharing her warm and friendly personality and body with a member of the opposite sex. And I must emphasize, if it is of me, she is a professional, a respected physician for professional sports figures, with a reputation to protect. I’m retired now and, frankly, I don’t give a damn.Love, Henry---------Dad,I am concerned about mom. And you should be, too.KYL---------Dad,Why haven’t you answered my texts and emails? Stop stonewalling me.KYL---------Beloved Karen,Sit down and have a drink or take a tranquilizer before you read this. I want to emphasize: Sit down and take a tranquilizer before you read this dramatic news.Your mother has taken her own life.She said that she was tired of her pain and long and drawn-out struggles with her own mental health. She said she felt guilty for all the turmoil and anguish those troubles may have caused, but I tried to reassure her this was not the case and tried to remind her of all the good times together. Still, she simply decided to end her own existence.Love, Henry---------Dad,Why didn’t you call me already? Why didn’t you email me earlier? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?---------Beloved Karen,I could ask the same question of you when you moved, when you dropped out of high school, when you married, when you divorced, when you put your child up for adoption.This is all water under the bridge, Karen, but during your last tantrum you told me even if Mom dies you did not want to hear from me, so I simply do not understand where your sudden family values are coming from.Your mother died in an assisted suicide after she abandoned hope for her life.I refused to have any part of the ceremony because I was born and raised a Catholic, and I will probably die a Catholic, even though on some days recently I feel like an agnostic or an atheist.Your mother produced an event worthy of one of your documentary films, with her friends singing, dancing, banging the tambourine, strumming ukuleles, contributing their favorite memories of your mother, and offering prayers in their various faiths and denominations.
There were prayers from the bible in recognition of her Catholic grade school religion. There were evangelical prayers from when she became a missionary in high school. There were prayers from when she converted to Judaism in Israel. There were even Hindu and Buddhist prayers from her brief dalliances and immersions in those religions, when she volunteered for humanitarian agencies in Vietnam, Nepal, and India. Friends from other faiths and religions also contributed their own tributes.So please do not take it personally when I tell you your mother has passed away. She wanted you to learn about this event in the New Year. She did not want her passing to be a sad event, or tragic news, but a celebration of life. She asked her closest friend and your former close friend’s mother to tell you in the New Year—and I’m not certain of the precise reasons she wished for this, but you can probably learn of this from whomever you call or email.Her estate was left to her son from her first marriage—to the Jewish fellow who became an eye surgeon. I am confident you understand those reasons better than me, but the trust fund and those arrangements remain the same, so you should have few financial concerns.
Please let me know if there is anything, and I mean anything I can do for you. Remember this is the way she wanted it.Love, Henry---------Dad,My own mother dies, and you do not even tell me. WTF.And I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to take her own life after she saw the pictures of you with that prostitute or whoever she is. The picture, after all, was posted several months ago, so she may indeed have seen it. I am guessing she did. You just do not know how insane jealousy can make Mom. Mom’s closest friend told me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder by two different psychiatrists but like anyone with BPSD she denied it.You drove her to the brink, Dad, you did this.Goodbye forever. I never want to see you again.
KYL---------
In memoriam, Karen Yang-Li, Daily BruinKaren Yang-Li, a vibrant and talented graduate student at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television, lived a life filled with creativity, passion, and boundless curiosity. At just thirty-six, she had already left an indelible mark at her new home at UCLA, playfully referring to herself as a "professional student" while inspiring everyone around her.Karen’s love for storytelling shone brightly through her remarkable achievements. She published a heartfelt volume of poetry, a captivating novella in verse, and two compelling screenplays—one of which is soon to come to life on screen, produced by an independent film company. Her talent extended to documentary filmmaking, where her three student video projects, Affluenza, Overshare, and First World Problems, captivated audiences and went viral on YouTube, sparking meaningful conversations around the globe.Beyond her academic and creative endeavors, Karen found joy in the simple and beautiful moments of life. She shared a special bond with her beloved Schnauzer, Phoenix, and cherished her eclectic collection of books, DVDs, and vinyl records, which will now enrich the shelves of the UCLA library system for others to enjoy.Karen’s spirit found solace and inspiration at El Matador State Beach, her cherished sanctuary. There, she spent many blissful afternoons and evenings hiking, practicing yoga, meditating, reading, and embracing the ocean's ambience. True to her wishes, her ashes were lovingly scattered along its shores, ensuring her spirit infuses the place she adored most.A heartfelt memorial service was held at UCLA's Magnolia Meditation Room and student chapel, where friends, colleagues, and loved ones gathered to celebrate Karen’s life, creativity, and kindness. Those who knew her will forever carry her warmth, wit, and radiant spirit in their hearts. Her sisters from her U of T sorority, where her volunteer work was indispensable, wish her a safe and happy voyage in the afterlife.---------Obituary, Henry Yang-Li, Toronto Star.A memorial service to honor the remarkable life of Henry Yang-Li will be held at Holy Cross Catholic Funeral Home, with interment to follow at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Thornhill.
Henry was a vibrant and colorful individual who brought warmth and humor to all who knew him. He devoted much of his career to financial advising and investment management, earning the trust of prominent clients in the world of professional hockey. His sharp mind and infectious spirit made him a beloved figure, both professionally and personally.Proudly a member of the Chinese Jamaican Canadian community, Henry embraced and celebrated his unique heritage. He often shared lighthearted stories about the amusement and curiosity his biracial identity inspired among new friends and clients. Born to hardworking parents, his mother—a shopkeeper from Kingston, Jamaica—and his father—a marine mechanic from Montego Bay, Jamaica—Henry grew up witnessing their entrepreneurial determination. After moving to Toronto, Canada in the 1970s, his parents founded a thriving cleaning company in the financial district and a cherished convenience store in Little Jamaica on Eglinton Avenue West.Henry's own story began in Kingston, Jamaica, where he attended Campion College, a Catholic institution that nurtured his pride in academic excellence. He often fondly reminisced about his time there, and later ensured his family spoke the Queen’s English with the same discipline he cherished as a student. Upon immigrating to Canada, Henry settled in Toronto's Jane-Finch neighborhood and pursued higher education at York University, where he attended business school on an international scholarship.The early chapters of Henry’s career saw him as a financial analyst for a major Canadian bank, covering the restaurant industry. With his signature humor, he confessed that his job indulged his guilty pleasure of savoring fast food at every major chain for research. Beyond his professional pursuits, Henry brought passion and joy to Toronto's Caribbean community. A devoted participant and organizer of the Toronto Caribbean Carnival, he played mas in the Grand Parade with enthusiasm and pride. He also became a cherished figure in the culinary world as the owner of a jerk chicken restaurant on Eglinton Avenue West and a Jamaican patty food truck and restaurant on Yonge Street.In retirement, Henry embraced life with vigor, immersing himself in international travel, amateur sports, and the physical activities he once missed in his youth. Whether biking, hiking, swimming, or hitting the gym daily, he reveled in the joys of an active lifestyle. A dedicated member of the Knights of Columbus, Henry found deep fulfillment in service to his community.Henry’s philanthropic heart shone brightly through his unwavering support for the Canadian Mental Health Association and the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada. He contributed not only as a donor but also as a volunteer, demonstrating his commitment to causes close to his heart.Henry Yang-Li will be remembered as a spirited, generous, and joyful soul who touched countless lives. For those who wish to honor his legacy, donations in his memory may be made to the Canadian Mental Health Association or the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada, in lieu of flowers.
Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from Sao Miguel, Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism at Centennial College, he more recently earned a Specialized Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His short fiction has been published in a variety of print and online journals, magazines, and anthologies, in the US, Canada, and internationally. His passions include journalism, literature, economics, photography, writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling.Twitter | Instagram | Facebook
Submission by Paul Hostovsky
My submissions rhyme with
my nocturnal emissions and maybe this is a guy thing but
when I send out my stuff
when I put my stuff out there
it feels like I’m sowing my seed
I mean it feels like I’m a burst dandelion
and each submission is attached to a pappus of fine hairs
like little parachutes in a wind-aided dispersal
of my stuff over long distances
and maybe this is conceited but
that’s the conceit that comes to mind
and I think I’d like to explore it a little further if you don’t mind
because dandelions produce their seeds asexually
which is exactly how I produce my submissions
which are sometimes outwardly obscene
and which do contain certain sexual overtones
but are nevertheless asexual by nature
which is to say I don’t have sex when I’m making them
though I do like to have sex after they’re done
because it’s in my nature
and because making them is like compression
it’s like trying to compress all this pressure
into the simple figure of a leaf
a floret a tendril
and I need to release all that pressure
that’s pushing up through the taproot
when I’m done compressing it into something
that’s beautiful and true
and winged
and when I get one in there
when I get that acceptance letter it feels like love
it feels like a love letter and I read it over and over
and sniff it and lick it and put it in my buttonhole or hat
and pretty soon it starts to fade and to droop
and it goes to seed and it just goes to show
that everything is vanity after the seed
because it’s not about the seed dispersal
it’s about the seed production
it’s about the making of the stuff
not the putting the stuff out there
not the getting the stuff in there
and yet and yet and yet
if you whisper your sweet acceptance in my ear baby
I’ll give you the best First North American Serial Rights you ever had
Paul Hostovsky’s poems appear and disappear simultaneously (Ta-da!) and have recently been sighted in those places where they pay you for your trouble with your own trouble doubled, and other people’s troubles thrown in, which never seem to him as great as his troubles, though he tries not to compare. He has no life and spends it with his poems, trying to perfect their perfect disappearances
Disease of a Paranoid Mind by Colin Gee
Been drinking too hard
for too long
and I got the fear
as the Irish boys say
three days in on a bender
Got the fear
got the bends
bloody gums
the Tommy Johns
There are signs for urologists
and radiologists
family doctors
dentists
undertakers
and cemeteries popping up everywhere
URÓLOGO they say in Spanish
ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION
right above the glass plate front door
No peace
My mom says take it easy
Christa tells a story about a gruesome cancer
the friend long dead
Sam says
Some push it forward
some never rest
rest in peace
Can you name all the apostles?
Peter James and John in a satin frock
A hanger-on
A groupie
Magdalene
hair greasy with organic olive oil and tears
dust of the road
probably flecks of uncooked chicken
made the whole town afraid
they might stay.
John
another John
said
All of them are dead now
my friends who drank like you
You can stop
He said
You can stop
He said
turning to Mistress A
But YOU
he said
YOU can’t stop
you going to be dead before fifty.
Piles of bottles in the yard
stashed in the flusher tank of the house
so you couldn’t even walk
or flush without thinking
No one mentions her.
God Himself said
Take and drink.
Going down the row the priest says
Take and drink.
Again the priest says
Take and drink
Again he says
Take it and drink of it
but we guzzle.
Going down the row
Pornomagnetic tongues out
This is my
My oh my
such a literal mind is mine.
Colin Gee is the founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette. Check out his books: The Penult with LEFTOVER Books, Left in the Lurch with Dumbo, Lips with Anxiety Press, All you want (a series of lies), chapbook and work of love from Stone Corpse Press.Twitter
Bum of the Month Club by Bart Edelman
Congratulations are in order!
Recently, you were elected
To the Bum of the Month Club,
And it wasn’t even close.
If your mom were alive today,
She’d be proud of you,
Fulfilling the destiny she predicted,
When you showed early signs
Of promise way back then.
Dad, though, had higher hopes,
Before you proved him wrong,
Flunking out of a college
You never sought to attend,
Where your sister graduated,
Summa cum laude, no less.
Mishaps plagued later progress:
Demotions and dismissals galore—
One addiction after another.
Who says there isn’t steady work?
Now, you’re settled in nicely,
Part of a distinguished group,
Recognizing your true calling.
Home sweet home, at last.
Bart Edelman’s latest poetry collections include The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He lives in Pasadena, CA.Facebook
Spatial by Kimutai Kemboi Allan
Always a space
Out there in the world
A large thicketed field
Overgrown with weeds
A mind blank
Writers block
Waiting for new words.
Always a space
To sin
Soil our existence
With trivialities
Dancing upon a fire of bones
Our brothers dead
We have their wealth.
Always a space
To lie in the meadow
Tufts of grass in our mouths
Bovine adventures
Sans milk
Our udders are dry
Dead!
Kimutai Kemboi Allan is a Kenyan writer residing in Nairobi. His works have been published or are forthcoming in The Stray Branch, Crescent Currents, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine, The Wayfarer Art and Literary Journal, Everscribe Magazine, the RIC Journal, DoubleSpeak Magazine, MEN: An International Anthology of African and Latin American Writers, the Redefining Poetry Anthology by Litterateur RW magazine, the "Best New African Poets 2023 Anthology'', “Our Stories Redefined Anthology for African Writing 2023 (Poetry Edition)”, The Piker Press, Prodigy Magazine, Our Poetry Archive, the INK Babies Literary Magazine, Written Tales, African Global Networks (AGN), Ake Review, The Active Muse, The Writer’s Space Africa, The Kalahari Review, The Naluubale Review, Writers Resist and Havik’s 2020 Anthology (Homeward). He is currently working on a Collection of Poems.
Still Jaded by Wilson Koewing
It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower. She was involved, and had been for some time, with a chef in Australia where she’d moved several years before. As a side project they ran a Louisiana themed Cajun food pop-up which they both positively glowed about. The Chef was good looking in a general way. Nothing distinct to remember about his appearance. I imagined him having the most stereotypical Australian accent possible. Jade had dyed her hair light Auburn. During our years together I’d never given much thought to her being seven years my junior, but as I’d recently turned 40, I couldn’t help but envy her youthful glow. It had been five years since I’d seen her in the flesh. The last time was during the two weeks she left our shared Denver apartment at the end of which I was to vacate for good. I can’t recall why she came by, but it was snowing outside and dark early that time of year. I was playing a baseball video game muted on the television and streaming Parks and Rec on my laptop. She sat on the couch across the room watching my reaction each time a joke landed that she knew I would enjoy. It was something she’d always done, and I could never stand it, but that night, on the outside looking in, I felt for it a painful fondness. We’d barely lasted two months in that apartment, which was a shame. It was a great place. I’d seen us in the clawfoot tub, candlelight. Smoking on the side porch, snow falling, red wine. Strolls over to South Broadway or Wash Park. Hobbies, crossword puzzles and tea. A chasing of youth or a fighting of years or a graceful succumbing. And though I’d have trouble defending myself, the truth was I wanted none of it back. Missed nothing. Not really. While once gushing, the wound had cauterized and been healed for so long all that remained were the digital scars that presented themselves through the opening of random screens instead of a rolled-up shirt sleeve or pant leg. I don’t remember Jade leaving that night. Or what she was wearing. Not a single word spoken. Only that I glanced over at some point, and she was gone.
Wilson Koewing lives and writes in Marin County, California.Twitter
Nothing, Really by Makayla Carmichael
He couldn’t even remember who’d started it. But his thoughts were consumed with it as he waited in his parked car for her plane to land, waited for the discomfort that would follow, seeing her again after a week as she would climb into his car, the awkward embarrassment and anxious excitement. He could feel the heat between his legs, the subtle stiffness, and no, he wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t imagine. It just wouldn’t happen again is all. He was determined. Hell, he hadn’t even drunk that much that night. It had been lust, pure and simple. He was a fuckin’ bad boy, always had been. And he’d been without it for so long, his wife sick and well, just not interested anymore. Maybe in time she would be again when she was feeling better. He was stuck. But he loved his wife, he really did. There was just no way he’d ever leave her, never.And he’d innocently, generously really, offered to drive her cousin back and forth to the airport because it was hell to park there, to just leave a car, hell and so much shit to maneuver, if not familiar, so it was settled then, his wife insisting to her that it was not a problem or inconvenience for him to provide transportation both ways. She’d arrived at their house the day before her flight out and he could never stop himself from comparing the two since they were just a year apart, their appearance. And she was beautiful as was his wife, both with beautiful faces, rotund in body though his wife had become and disinterested in sex anymore. Her cousin was beautiful, he’d often acknowledged only silently to himself as he’d looked at her face over the years, her profile as she ate at the big Thanksgiving table, eyes moving down her smaller frame. Still, there had been nothing there, nothing between them. He’d never said it until that night she’d arrived and after drinks and dinner out and more drinks back at home when he’d just blurted out, you’re gorgeous, his wife gone to bed already, the two of them left on the couch together. And at some point she’d said it, maybe asked him, to touch her down there, with his hands, just finger her and he had, he goddamn had, been without for so long, he’d done it and it had been so fucking sweet, touching her like that, in and out, he’d wanted more, she said no, it was ok, it was enough just to touch it like that, warm and moist on his fingers, tight too, he’d liked it, imagined more. She’d gotten up off the couch and he’d followed her like a puppy dog on her heels, wanting to be touched too, holding himself in his hands for her to take, but she wouldn’t so he’d been confused. Women. They want it and they don’t want it and he was supposed to figure it all out. So, they went from the couch to the bedroom and bath and back again, her telling him to touch it and then telling him to stop until he’d said, “Get on your knees.”“No,” she’d answered insistently. It was ok. It was enough poking in and out like that, touching her. It was enough, had been so long. Then he’d bent her over or she’d bent over the guest bed and he’d done it without asking, just put himself quickly in and out of her, his thing all hot and stiff. It had been quick, but she’d said, stop, it hurts and he had, but it had been too late, he’d been inside her. He wasn’t big, maybe she’d hadn’t even felt it much, except there was a little blood, he’d noticed afterward, next day, making up the bed again. It was his chore after guests stayed. The drive to the airport, an uncomfortable trip between the two of them, friendly, they’d talked of his wife, smart and ambitious, how hard she worked, blah blah and no mention of the night before. But she’d hugged him goodbye at least as she’d exited his car. He had felt good, her body close to him again just briefly. It was all okay. It was all cool, just something that had happened.Anyway, it was done and now he sat waiting for her after her week away, remembering and thinking he must make it clear to her on the way back to the house that neither of them could ever tell anyone what had happened. He was sure she would agree, as they were family and all and had more Thanksgivings to share, no, it would never be told. He was consumed by thought, by longing, by denial. Crazily he wondered if he’d found love again. He didn’t even hear or see the emergency vehicles until they were almost upon him, where his car sat, just a short distance from the airport. He’d left early so as to be on time and he’d felt strangely excited with a stomach of butterflies, fearful but anticipating of her return, their drive back together to the house. While she’d been gone, he and his wife had discussed her one evening, having drinks on the back porch, his wife telling him she loved her, that she was her favorite cousin even, no trace of knowledge of anything that had transpired the night before she’d gone.Now there were ambulances, police cars, EMS, all with sirens blazing, racing past him and why? Suddenly he saw smoke rising over the airport, past his line of vision which was obstructed by the terminal. People seemed to be stopped in their movements, amassing in areas, trying to get out of the way of the rush of emergency vehicles, the officers and paramedics running inside toward something going on in the back of the terminal. And he’d lost track of time, she was supposed to text him when she landed, but it was way past he suddenly noticed. He exited his car. In this mess no one was going to ticket or tow him, he figured. “An explosion,” someone said to a person near him and it was chaos really, suddenly no one seemed to know what direction they should be headed, away from or to and they just were scattering and gathering to ponder, to be thankful it wasn’t them because people had been hurt, bad, people might have died. He felt his insides drop and he thought he might need to use the bathroom suddenly. He stood still, listening to the conversations, the screams too.“…a bomb…”“…near the luggage carousel.”“…body parts on the floor and so much smoke…”“…blood everywhere,” they said. He couldn’t move forward, couldn’t see it, he just stood listening and visualizing it in his head, creating that horror scene, finding her beautiful face, her broken body on the hard floor.And within hours it was confirmed, she was dead. His wife had the information already from the news, all over the internet and wasn’t it just awful, losing a cousin like that, losing a virtual sister almost. He would return home without her, his car, passenger-less and him just in a fog. Maybe he was relieved or disappointed or just empty, just something he’d never felt before, something he couldn’t share with his wife, would never share with anyone else. It was just there inside him now, making him breathless. He drove home. Later that night, both of them sitting on their back porch again, a sleeping dog at their feet and his wife saying, “I can’t believe she’s gone. I just can’t believe it. Hold me.” And he had, silently, stunned as she continued. “I mean, I, well, I can’t believe she was just here a week ago in our house and now she’s gone. Such a waste, so pretty and all. Fuckin’ terrorists. Fuckin’ sons of bitches. Dammit,” cuddling up closer under his outstretched arm. He brought his beer to his mouth and swallowed large, still silent. There was just nothing else to say is all.
Makayla Carmichael spent most of her life as an accountant. Retired now, she is seeking to reclaim her soul through her writing which was suppressed for many years. She has had stories published in several obscure online literary journals that she hopes will haunt her readers for the rest of their lives.Instagram
j ack dream by Sean G. Meggeson
.........terrestrial shiver
.........cross comfort
.........flower thick by
.........name by map by
.........spring ice sprint
.........by 200 then
.........arrangement
.........rather
.........met t ere m agus
.........un plural kept
Here lies Sean-the-Pawn who went to school with nothing on. Now he's fertilizing the lawn.Twitter
february by Natalye Childress
for three days, breathing
.........the same air. for a short hour,
standing in the same flurries.it won’t always be this way,
.........but at least we have the moon.
if only you could see it. butyour night sky is lit up like a
.........football stadium. it’s lit up like
a fucking christmas tree.
Natalye is just a happy kid stuck with the heart of a sad punk.Twitter
The Shadows of Our Minds by Claudia Wysocky
Can...................I
touch...................your
hair?...................Place
my...................hand
on...................your
shoulder?...................Feel
the ...................warmth
of...................your
body?...................Your
presence...................my
anchor,...................keeping
me...................steady.But...................in thedarkness...................of the nightwhen...................I close my eyesand...................feel you nearI...................knowyou...................arenot...................here.
Claudia Wysocky is a Polish poet and photographer based in New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life's essence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various local newspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformative power of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Her works blend personal reflections with universal themes, making them relatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community on social media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creative expression.
Cars and Traffic: Hugh Blanton Reviews Tim Dodd's Galaxy Drip
Tim Dodd's acerbic new collection of poetry does not give the reader a warm welcome—the epigraph is taken from Raymond Chandler: "And the commercials would have sickened a goat raised on barbed wire and broken beer bottles." Ace Boggess, author of The Prisoners and Escape Envy, says of Dodd: "Timothy Dodd writes with the energy and frenzy of a man being chased by assassins, hell hounds, the police." A lot of the poems in this collection are like an octopus wriggling its way through the eye of a needle, astringent and prickly with vividness. If you want headstrong verse, Dodd's your man.Dodd's latest book, Galaxy Drip, with echoes of the Beats and the Meats, is tragicomic and often wincingly peculiar. He's not a confessional poet (at least not in the solipsistic fashion that is becoming popular today), but there are threads of public accusation throughout the book: "your uplifting dinner is another creature's/ tragedy, demise." "Each early morning, we millions believe: worker/ ants for our colonies." Some poets are described as lyric, others as narrative, Dodd wears both hats well. Automobiles and traffic (including a Peel P50 that will send Yanks running to Google) appear often, including American's addiction to their cars. Filippo Marinetti and the Futurists would have loved to have seen Galaxy Drip. (There's also an ode to Greyhound bus stations, a sort of tribute to Americans who have divorced their cars.)
Dodd has a natural, unforced and slightly imprecise meter, a reader not paying close attention will miss it. From the poem "Statehood":.........Sherry's sipping sherry,
..............Dick's drinking whatever;
.........red Florida sky dazzling
..............behind their new beach condo.The poem continues on in similar rhythm for thirty lines, never letting up. Dodd's poems don't unfold, they carom downhill at high velocity. There's no milking the endings—he just walks out the door. In "Life and Death in East Wheeling" he wraps it up: "In thick air float strange opportunities,/ and I think a moment of all the little empty jobs we do." That's an ending even David Lerner would like.If a poem stumbles because it's too wild, it's because he's raging with excess. At fifty-three he can no longer be called a younger poet, but his poems brim with the energy of someone discovering poetry for the first time. His poem "The Boxer":.........Only the laundry room
.........knows his lime green
.........shorts, for in the office
.........they hide under dark
.........grey suits as he phones
.........and files, traffic sliding
........ outside the window.Times are not propitious for poetry—the Instagram poets with their uplifting vacuous guff and poor-me trauma are selling thousands of weightless books while poetry of substance goes unnoticed. The honest prosiness in Dodd's poems shows off his poetic chops, he swaggers through his verse both cocksure and whimsical. He writes on common enough subjects, but he begins in odd places and you never know what you'll find when you turn the page.Dodd puts his lyric talent on display several times throughout the collection: "the day is forgivable, maybe life is livable." "all laid to casket, surrounded by/ the mess of modern roads, traffic." (There's that traffic again!) "I've neatly noted/ Maybelline isn't make-be-// lieve. "End of the line, out of time, nothing comes alive." Dodd's a poet better quoted than described. In his poem "Cornstalk in Point Pleasant" he may have been conjuring Raymond Carver, but if so Carver's got him by the scruff of the neck:For our cheeks are pockmarked
not by love or lust, but by hammer
blows, sugared teeth and gasoline.
There is rarely a rise anymore
from these alcohol-damaged gullies:
neither language, nor pride,
nor our pant-legged peckers.Galaxy Drip is Dodd's third poetry collection (he already has a fourth on the way, Orbits 52 from Broadstone Books) and he's also got four short story collections under his belt. He's got an MFA from UTEP and he even has an Instagram page where he exhibits his paintings. There's no such thing as an ideal poet—it's actually a poet's limitations that invent and define them. Dodd's virtues have his defects surrounded, snarling, "This, this is a poem. Kill your automobiles."
Galaxy Drip
by Timothy Dodd, 76 pages
Luchador Press, $15.00-----Hugh Blanton's latest book is Kentucky Outlaw. He can be reached on X @HughBlanton5.Twitter
I Love Your Tweets by Tim Frank
They’re not tweets,
They’re postmodern sculptures
Beneath cerulean skies
Flexing like deltoids
Riding hired yellow pushbikes
On my toilet seat.
everythin gonna turn round when stop thinkin i’m tom green by Travis Shosa
everythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin
i’m tom greenno more
jumpin on pink
fuckin couches
platformin rabbits
with tha chaos drumsno more
playin
with muh sausage
no more
jokin
bout tha lonely
no more
performin
every convo
no more
pretendin
everythin ok
no morenot todaybuteverythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin
i’m tom green
Travis Shosa (they/them) is a confused boy-adjacent creature creating ugly little word nightmares. Travis Shosa does not endorse their own poems, merely expels them. They have recently trespassed in Maudlin House. They have also written about music for Pitchfork, Bandcamp Daily, PAPER, The Line of Best Fit, and others.Twitter
Crippled Fingers on the Ouija Board by Laszlo Arányi
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, visual poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: „(szellem)válaszok”, „A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya”, „Kiterített rókabőr” His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. His new books are: "Delirium &...The Seven Haiku" (Published By DEAD MAN'S PRESS INK ALBANY, NY 2023), „Sacred anarchy! Poems and Visual poems" (Nut Hole Publishing 2024).He has been nominated several times for international awards. Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.Twitter | Facebook
HUMAN SQUEEGEE by Theodore Wallbanger
seconds struck at zero mark
decades lost on image doves
sucking wind from other
plastic injected pill boxed chums
everlasting boredom rails
fucked with shit snot sandwich fails
snap laugh trails of discovery
would unleash rampage destiny
time existed to initiate
new hope a change a quick refrain
we cull
ability to hypnotize
allowed for organic heater rides
of excavation with robotic eyes
my human squeegee
provided me
cleansing breakthroughs destroying
human bullshittery
squeegee optics
smashed all lies
from grown up toxic lullabies
scraping souls helped fill the vaults
with rotting flesh
we primed with salts
the cakes we baked from
the fakes would take
us all to a cosmic
wonder place
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
Two Poems by Reza Jabrani
Jabrani
I met someone, a thousand someones, on the piss-steeped streets
of Philadelphia, studying English, learning America.
I was young. Thick-haired diligence. Perfect posture.
They said, by way of greeting, “nice to know you, Jabroni.”
I replied, exasperated, “that’s Jabrani, Ja-bra-ni,”
to which they said, to the last man, “well, Jabroni,
maybe we were wrong. Maybe it’s not so nice after all.”
I stoop now. Bald apathy. I’m fluent. American.Used Condoms
Lie like shriveled slugs
in dewy grass, slimy
with some strangers’ sex.
Hello, spring.
Reza Jabrani—that’s Jabrani, Ja-bra-ni—writes coarse prose and crude poetry.Twitter
everything splits eventually by Sreeja Naskar
.............the tree opens like a mouth
.......& the mouth has teeth
& the teeth are roots
.....still choking the names out of soil.
............(they scream in lowercase.)i saw a deer unfold itself
in front of a truck —
slow as a hymn /
quiet as surrender...............& the body—
.........opens like
.....an apology:
.................too late. too soft. too much........................the sky
................is blistered red
.......(again)
..............something holy spills
............through the seams.
........................not light.
........................not yet.
.....skin splits easier when it's warm.
i learned this when i tried to hold you.
...................(you leaked.)
..............(i didn't stop you.)my ribcage blooms backwards—
..............petals / bones /
....................empty rooms /
.......whatever god left in there
..............is feral now...........the trees are cracking.
(they said spring was coming
.....but they lied.).................i am not
............grieving the earth
.......only the way it used to feel
..before it started
..........screaming
..............under my feet...........somewhere
..................a boy opens his mouth
.............& only ash comes out...............somewhere
....................the ocean forgets
.......to hold its shape.........................i bite down.
........something iron leaks.
.....(this is how i pray now.)
Sreeja is a young poet who tried to grow up, but words just kept getting in the way.
Literary Magazine Submissions
Tell us a story unlike anything we've heard before. We're not looking for the kinds of things you'd find in a university-run literary magazine or a journal that's existed for a billion years. There's nothing wrong with those stories, they're just not for here. Take some risks and worry about it later.
Dazzle us with prose, poetry, or some third thing. Anything is fine. You can send multiple poems or micros, just keep it reasonable.
Please only have one pending submission at a time. It makes it way easier for us!
Simultaneous submissions are all good. Let us know if you need to withdraw something at [email protected].
Submit your work in a Word document (or a jpg or png or whatever if it's hybrid.)
There may be an editing process for accepted works. No forced changes but suggestions. We're a team now, there may be time for this kind of thing.
Contributors will receive one mini-zine including a handful of Eulogy stories shipped to the United States. They will get the choice as to which zine they will receive. Work submitted in Eulogy after September 24th, 2025 is eligible for this.
Include any handles you want tagged.
Macy's two favorite things people do for their bios are a eulogy, eulogy-like thing, or first-person statement. A few fun examples are linked. Please don't send me overly promotional or bios. You can also choose not to have one, or have a photo or something.
We're just publishing the stuff; you have the rights to it.
We'll let you know as soon as we can with a decision. It's a whole new process and site, and things may be a disaster. Who knows? If it's been a month, give us an email and we'll update you.
SUBMISSIONS CLOSED
About Eulogy Press
Eulogy Press exists in a space beyond themes, issues, and anthologies. We're looking for the kind of stuff that would make your high school English teacher sick. We want stuff that barrels straight into the unknown with its eyes closed and doesn't worry about getting lost. Break form. Break convention. Break norms of what is acceptable to write about and what is off limits.
Eulogy Press is run by an amazing team of writers, poets, and artists.
Eulogy Team
Macy Craig ("Managing" Editor)
Macy Craig came up with the idea for Eulogy in the midst of a heat stroke. Unfortunately, she never recovered and is responding to your submission from beyond the grave.Here is a link to her published works.
David Gladfelter (Prose Editor)
David Gladfelter was born in Gettysburg, PA and now lives with his husband in Detroit. His writing has been published by don’t submit, Bruiser, Apocalypse Confidential, The Pixelated Shroud, and Back Patio Press. He co-hosts a podcast called response pod. He is working on a long thing. He is 34 years old. He has a high school diploma.Here is a link to his website.
Eric Angal (Prose Editor)
Eva Alter (Poetry Editor)
Lucas Mancini (Poetry & Hybrid Editor)
Lucas Mancini is trying not to die but does not want to live forever, and thinks living is a choice you make. We all need our reasons to say nice things at funerals.Here is a link to available writing.
Rami Obeid (General Editor)
Here Lies Rami Obeid.
(1999 - Forever)You could have followed him on X: @obeid_ro as well as on Instagram: @obeid.ro Why didn't you check out his chapbook "Marooned on the Shores of Malaise" (2020) published by Whispering Wick Chapbook Press and why didn't you check out his website? Why didn't you do any of those things? Are you a horrible person? Do you not refill the ice cube tray with water?
Aditya Bhatia (Editor)
Press Submisions
PRESS SUBMISSIONS ARE CLOSED!
hello
Eulogy is taking submissions for short chapbooks or chapbook-adjacent projects. Think poetry collections, novelettes, and short plays. That said, I am open to a pitch on anything. Like the literary magazine, I want this to be a place where far-out and experimental stuff can find a home.
They will be available in print in small batches and online. I also hope to have an audio version of each project recorded by the author that will accompany the digital version. This is not needed, but appreciated!
If your project uses epigraphs or includes found poems, I will work with you in securing permission to use the source material, but it may not be possible to publish some projects if permissions are not given.
I'm not looking for novels, more collections and novelette-length stuff, but you can send me anything and I will consider it.
There will be an intensive editing process for most projects, and the final publishing agreement will not be made until this process is over.
Authors will receive 80% of the profit once production costs have been factored in. That 20% will be used to help fund secondary print runs in the future.
Send chapbook and novelette submissions to [email protected] in a Word document, and I'll review them and make a decision within a month.
No need for a bio, any social media handles, or any fancy cover letter. Just say hi!
Special Collections
In a library, the special collections are where the one-of-a-kind books and items go. Eulogy Special Collections will be guest edited hyper-specific and hyper-strange issues.
Our first is Postcards, for the release of First Things by Sam Calhoun. If you haven't seen the chapbook yet, check it out at our shop.
Postcards
First Things is a chapbook mailed as postcards. That got me thinking: what else can be sent as a postcard? The first Special Collection will be a September-long call for anything you can mail to me as a postcard, definition loose.
This is still a literary magazine, so don't just slap a stamp on a packaged single of cheese and call it a day. Put a poem on it or something. That being said, I really want to see some creative stuff. A regular postcard with a message is also fine.
Send submissions through the mail. The address will go public on August 27th. All submissions must be post-stamped by September 30th. There will be an accompanying form to fill out with extra details.
Editors: Sam Calhoun and Macy Craig. Send any questions to [email protected].
Check out the chapbook First Things by Sam Calhoun, available now at Eulogy Press.