Spirited Away By Ken Gierke

No wet blanket,

it kept her dry.

Bottle or can,

didn’t matter.

Kept her warm.

Inside.

Where it matters.

Until it didn’t

let her forget

what ailed her,

what haunted her.

Until it became

a wet blanket

and the fire inside her

died.

Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver, transplanted to mid-Missouri from Western New York. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as The Rye Whiskey Review, Amethyst Review, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. His first collection of poetry, Glass Awash, was published by Spartan Press. His second collection, Heron Spirit, is forthcoming. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

Measure By Bruce Morton

We measure light,
Not darkness, which is
The absence of light.

We measure heat,
Not cold, which is
The absence of heat.

We measure sound,
Not silence, which is
The absence of a wave.

We measure intelligence,
Not stupidity, which is
Everywhere.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.

Natalie The Server by Bill Kitcher

I raised my glass to my lips and, looking up, saw Natalie watching me. She smiled slightly, briefly.

She came over and sat beside me at the bar. “I’m off work in about half an hour. Would it be OK if I joined you for a drink? Or two?”

“Of course it would be OK. Why wouldn’t it?” I teased her, wondering why now of all the time we’d known each other she would choose to sit beside me.

“May I have the house red?”

“Small or large?” asked the bartender.

“Large,” she smiled.

We clinked glasses. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

She turned on her barstool and looked directly into my eyes with her own beautiful brown, no green, eyes. “There are too many idiots around, and...” She paused briefly. “I’m very attracted to you.”

“I’m very attracted to you too. But it can’t work. I’m way too old for you.”

“How old are you?”

“Too old.”

“Age doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

Natalie lay on my bed naked, her arms extended to me. “Come here,” she said.

“No, I can’t,” I replied, and shook my head with a brief smile.

I took a sip out of my glass and glanced at Natalie, who was already looking at something else.

Bill’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Germany, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, the U.S., and Wales. His stories have appeared in Fiery Scribe Review, Ariel Chart, New Contrast, Spinozablue, Helix Literary Magazine, Granfalloon, Eunoia Review, Defenestration, Pigeon Review, Yellow Mama, and many other journals. His novel, “Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep”, was published in October 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing. 

Rudy Died By Daniel S. Irwin,

Rudy died and they're gonna close down the bar.
Me and the boys don't have near enough dinero
To buy it and keep it open.  As if we really could.
It'd be a contest of who drank the most of our stock.
We been regular lushes hangin' out there forever.
That's where we got our first illegal underage drink.
We had the best fake IDs in town.  Rudy didn't care.
We had so many fun-filled nights no one can recall.
I beat Terry B's ass out behind the place.  Had it comin'.
Gun and knife hoedown dang near every weekend.
Dope smokers' haven with some local cops joinin' in.
Partied with some women.  Shot at by some husbands.
I proposed to my wife there.  Drunken bitch said 'yes'.
Later, I spent three days there celebrating the divorce.
Bill Bailley blew his brains out good in the parking lot.
I was glad I didn't loan him my car when he asked.
Just a lot of sweet memories there and now Rudy died.

Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away. 

Bright Orange Sun By Trish Saunders

It rained all day long, the date of that last eclipse  

and I didn’t bother to get dressed all day, until

the sky turned dark and a faint train whistle 

reminded me how years slip away from us. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

the years disappear in pitiless rain 

while the drudgery of dishes, laundry,

ironing, 401k’s and spreadsheets

eats away at our existence. 

Meanwhile in Naples, a gnarled orange tree

grows next to the tracks leading to Pompeii. 

Meanwhile, an ancient orange grove. Mean-

while, this amontillado in my glass, my good

friend who says, ‘I understand. ‘

For John Patrick Robbins

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu, formerly Snohomish, a small town on a big river in Washington state. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Open Arts, and the late, lamented Fat Damsel Press. 

Where Do You See Yourself? By April Ridge

Five years ago
I was struggling
to make ends meet,
working four part time jobs,
drinking on
a fisherman's wage.
Hoping the tides
would bring in a good haul.
Driving at 4 a.m.
Tuesdays and Thursdays
to the Kmart down south
to dry mop the whole store
with one other guy
who sadly couldn't even read
or write other than to sign checks.
I'd sweep and swab the deck
in the Little Caesar's,
dump the bucket,
walk out.
Take a nap
in my car
at the park
dreaming of
one single full time gig,
health insurance,
a full nights sleep
under a roof
that wasn’t ruled
by mice
or men.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom. 

Mom Wasn't a Drinker By Jonathan S Baker

She scowled 

at Dad’s medicine.

Her curative was prayer.

Even the blood of Jesus

was made Welch’s.

Jonathan S Baker lives and works in Evansville, Indiana where the Sterling Brewery finally tarnished.  They are the author of several collections of poetry including Cock of the Walk (Laughing Ronin Press, 2022) and Long Nights in Stoplight City (Between Shadows Press, 2023).  They are also the host of the longest running and most prestigious poetry series in Indiana, Poetry Speaks.