Vulnerable Narcissist By Kevin M. Hibshman

I have not yet taken my celebrated break from reality.

Dogs are sniffing.

Evidence keeps shifting as it depends on my memory.

Could I borrow a small portion of your illicit fortune?

Have you come to finally bury me?

I am resisting temptation, sad that it has become my only chance at therapy.

Cats are howling.

Something I must turn my overwrought attention to.

People are waiting on me for a decision.

I don't know what to do.

I have nothing to feed them and so they become angry.

Collapsible houses and unzipped trousers.

I have nothing to confess.

Walking in a half sleep.

Water only skin deep.

Who do we blame for all this mess?

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://a.co/d/aIBcNvy

The Whiskey Print Issue Available Now On Amazon

The first and only print mag that highlights some of the favorite writers and voices of the 

Rye Whiskey Review.

If you enjoy the zine you will definetly love the print issue.

Stocked with original writes that can only be read by purchasing the book its top shelf all the way.

Its available on Amazon now on the link below.

Pick yourself up a copy today and see you at the Whiskey.

https://a.co/d/dkHJZFC

Well That Was Disappointing By Ashley Karlsson

He phoned me up to say it was over.

No remorse just the persona most envisioned him to be.

The heartless mirage I knew better but didn't protest.

For I was portraying the cold-hearted bitch I was cast into by default.

There was a long silence.

"So, see you Wednesday night?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Sounds good, don't forget to stop by the liquor store sugar."

"I thought you quit drinking."

He cracked up at that one.

"Yeah, bad habits are hard to break."

I laughed at that one myself as I reached for my keys.

Cause without our vices and momentary trysts people may begin to question.

Was it something more?

Old habits are at times, a fondly reflected upon mistake.

Ashley Karlsson, is a North Carolina based writer who's work has been published in.

The Dope Fiend Daily, Off The Coast, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Outer Banks Quarterly.

Grocery List By John Drudge

He tightened the chair leg 

Until the wobble stopped 

He didn't have a reason 

Worth saying 

His drink didn’t spill  

On the table anymore 

That was enough

You can’t turn it off 

All at once anyway

It leaks in through the walls 

The windows 

The cracks in your head

In a coat pocket 

He found a folded grocery list 

With a few words 

Of a poem 

Scribbled on it

He smoothed it 

Folded it again 

And put it where receipts go 

To be forgotten

He put on his coat 

And left the house 

With the back door 

Unlatched

John is a social worker in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of eight books of poetry — March (2019), The Seasons of Us (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024), Sojourns (2024), and Too Close to the Shore (2025). His work, often rooted in the quiet truths of the natural world, explores the interplay between human experience and the landscapes that shape it. Widely published in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally, John has been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He lives in Caledon, Ontario, Canada, where the forests, fields, and changing seasons are constant companions and an enduring source of inspiration.

 

Contractions By Susan Isla Tepper

If you are the one

To bury me

Do it in contractions

I don’t want it dragged out

Hour by hour

Suffering as my mother did

To get me here

Pick an even numbered day

The sun phasing in and out

Behind clouds

Turning white to gray

A little rain, say 50 pct

Then the sun

Let my final day

continue in this way.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com

Abstinence. By Dennis Moriarty

No pills today, no wine, no beer, just the soft

Fizz in my mouth of carbonated water.

No reading today, my books are all closed,

The words like petals

Pressed between pages bound in leather

On a dusty shelf.

The clock ticks but tells no time, the radio

Crackles and hisses,

The dial set adrift between channels, the white

Noise of abstinence is loud.

No surfing the internet searching for quotes

By Charles Bukowski,

No trying to write like Dylan Thomas or sing

Like Johnny Cash.

Just me and the overwhelming sound of abstinence,

Sipping carbonated water

From a plastic bottle wishing it was wine. Where 

Is Jesus when I need him most?

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.

Papa's Cuba By John Patrick Robbins

I am that which I once feared the most.

The once bountiful fisherman.

Now just the sad old fool, who casts his lines to seemingly empty waters.

Others keep their distance, as if bad luck and creative drought were catching.

I no longer have my vices to blame. 

I only have the truth of my situation to scar my thoughts and saltwater to embrace my eyes.

Nothing is forever, especially a dreamer’s imagination. 

One day you awake and it's all fucking over.

I been wide awake for so long, I welcome Death like an old friend.

I believe when he arrives, I will pour one last drink and sit silent. 

You cannot beat the house or cheat that prick who will one day visit us all.

I acknowledge the Reaper. 

Just like I accept my words have escaped like a worn-out net that's no longer effective. 

So it sits amongst the clutter of things that sentimental fools often hold onto for no good reason aside from the fact it once was effective. 

We all have seen better days.

I don't want to watch the sunsets anymore, wishing only for that which we can never possess to return.

I don't want to be here, I just accept the fact I am.

I listen to the ocean’s waves crashing upon the shore. 

I recall memories that have become dreams that continuously remind me.

Nothing lasts forever.

Including those ill-fated dreams.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in.

Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Piker Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Revision By Renee Williams

Somewhere between Morgan Wallen songs 

and blood orange margaritas is where I find

my peace. When the wild winds sweep

over the hillside, make that long ooohhhh

call, I hear the words, are you lonesome tonight?

Are you lonely or alone, and sometimes

if I’m lucky, you are okay. 

She speaks to me now, after six months.

Twice in as many days. Messages float in.

Tiny drops from heaven, still fresh 

on the morning dew. It’s Holy Week 

and time for those cheap plastic flowers 

from the dollar store to find their way to the cemetery. 

She beat me. Again. Always two steps ahead. 

A massive clump of dandelions, bright 

little rays of sunshine, rise right above

the place where we placed her box. 

How can anyone really beat

smiles from the grave?

After I scared my optometrist

I went to the drugstore for eyedrops.

My bloodshot eyes shine,

probably from allergies, 

or maybe this hellacious wind,

definitely caused by medicine for glaucoma,

but most likely from tears. The clerk 

ran my customer care card, glanced at me,

and asked, Betty? My mother’s name on the card. 

What could I do but smile,

look down and mutter, Hi, Mom.

I lick the sweet sugar off the rim 

of my glass, take a slow slip 

and try to stop beating myself up

for all that I did and did not do.

In the next booth over, some gal

giggles

and giggles. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and Fevers of the Mind. 

 

Wednesday, If I Recall By John Doyle

Lots of people in Hiroshima today laid flowers, 

silence dwindling in the sky

fell down breaking words like eggs,

you stopped to say hello

and I missed a most perfect sunset by a matter of seconds,

day climbed a ladder, escaped from us;

elderly leaves had their powdery mysteries return, 

airplanes simple but free of loneliness

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.

Common is as common does By Peter A. Witt

They call me a common drunk,

but I object, indeed I drink too much,

but common, for real? I am unique

in my demeanor, classy in my downing

of what some say are too many fingers

of low-priced scotch, with a beer chaser

just for good measure. I am polite beyond 

expectations, smile at people’s jokes,

funny or not, usually the latter, and full

of compliments, even when not deserved.

So, common, no, I am special and unique,

proud and loud, vain without disdain for those

who can’t hold their liquor, let alone their opinions,

which I find simply common, something I surely

am not. So, call me a drunk, vilify my appearance,

but never, ever, never call me common!

Peter A. Witt is a Texas Poet and a retired university professor. He also writes family history with a book about his aunt (Edith’s War) published by the Texas A&M Press. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Fleas on the Dog, Live Encounters, Inspired, The Rye Whiskey Review, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, and New Verse News. He's been twice nominated for Best of the Net.

The day my grandfather tried on his casket By David R. DiSarro

he carefully climbed in, and laid himself down 

on the sateen lining, head pressed to a pillow, 

saying nothing, except for that wry smile. He held

his breath, practicing, committing himself,

as though eternity had already enveloped him,

and only later did he inquire about cost, quality, 

and what kind of material seemed best suited

for the job. “Lead,” they said. “Lead,” 

he repeated, like the bullet that would bring

him back there six months later, when he

emptied his pockets and placed his trinkets 

beside the bed, overlooking the magnolia 

blossoms outside the window where he watched

us play against the backdrop of an April rain.

David R. DiSarro is currently an Associate Professor of English at Endicott College in Beverly, MA. His work has previously appeared in Neologism Poetry Journal, Bending Genres, The Rome Review, The Hawaii Pacific Review, among others. David's first chapbook, I Used to Play in Bands, was published by Finishing Line Press. He currently lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts with his wife, Riley, five children, and two rambunctious dogs.

Salmon Jerky By Manny Grimaldi

Because women need time alone, because they need it with the kids out of the house, because I was home from work, because the playground was dirty.

None of it, don’t even tell me, they whine, drool and cry. None of it, don’t even tell me,

I’m drooling too. The cream cheese in the refrigerator is mixed with flesh tone fishy pink. 

Boxes of Wheat Thins, plates of these, in bed. Heaven, she goes with the children.  

She’s eating a watermelon with salt.

Manny Grimaldi works in Kentucky. He manages Yearling, a Poetry Journal for Working Writers. Manny is the author of the upcoming poetry collection Finding a Word to Describe You, a book covering the whole gamut of emotion in one seemingly ill-advised, whirlwind relationship. It is released for consumption by Whiskey City Press (2025). In 2024, he self-published a full length poetry book about addiction and family issues, Riding Shotgun with the Mothman, and a satirical chapbook ranging from the literary and cinematic, to political and pop sensibilities named ex libris Ioannes Cerva. Recently he was awarded The Browning Literary Club Poetry Award by Western Kentucky University Creative Writing Faculty for “Judas Contemplates a Painting.” Manny is father to two genius-level children. His currency is his word. The dishes are never done.

His current book Finding a Word to Describe You, is now available through Amazon on the link below.

https://a.co/d/2CLIpGd

Autumn in Sydney By Brenton Booth

I haven't

written a

new poem

for over

6 weeks.

Sitting in

my writing

room. Can

of Jack

Daniels in

my left

hand.

Looking

at the

dreary

autumn

sky. She

is in the

bedroom.

Still

sleeping

at 4pm.

In a week

she will

no longer

live with

me.

Moving

over an

hour away.

Never

seeing me

again. I

will be in

the same

room. With

the same

can of

whiskey.

Beneath

the same

dreary sky.

Waiting

on the

words to

finally

come and

save me.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.  

Healing Drunk By George Gad Economou

late nights with half-empty

bottles of bourbon and rye, full ashtrays,

and lingering clouds of smoke; healing nights

for the aching soul, as memories are

dug up, buried emotions mimic Romero’s zombies and

push their arms through the dirt, and

words flow like a tidal wave ready to inundate a continent.

in these nights hide the heightened feelings, the grandiloquent

pieces of work that may one day immortalize somebody.

late nights engulfed by alcoholic fumes and stale blue smoke

as the city dies down, flames go up, and the madness

is cranked up to homicidal levels.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and two poetry collections, with the latest being his horror novel, The Lair of Sinful Angels (Translucent Eyes Press). His words have also appeared in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Barstool Confessions By Heather Kays

I’ve told bartenders more truth

than lovers.

They never judge.

Just pour.

No promises.

No expectations.

Just a nod,

a refill,

a silence that doesn’t ask questions.

He knew my mother drank vodka

because I once cried into my second one.

He knew I hated birthdays,

but still slid me a shot

on the day I showed up

wearing red lipstick like armor.

I never told him my name.

He never asked.

We didn’t need names

to understand the shape of grief.

Eventually, we became more—

friends, bedfellows.

He warned me who to avoid.

He watched my body and my drinks.

I felt safe with him.

Some nights,

my mouth couldn’t form the words,

but he always seemed to know

when to make it a double.

And when to slide me a water 

even though I didn't ask for it. 

And isn’t that love,

in its own way?

To be seen—

not solved.

To be heard—

without having to explain.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.

DEMISE By Susan Isla Tepper

Earth’s collaboration

in its own demise—

otherwise—

fight off these plagues

plastics and cancers

the almighty glacial

meltdown:

After all, you’re Mother Earth

Mother of all Mothers.

So where have you been

off drinking in some dive bar.

You let us down;

so damned down.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com

It’s Day Eleven in West Virginia By Ace Boggess

But, in Florida, day one:

folks leaving the last party,

returning home to wash

sand from their sun-

diminished heads.

They are like the legend

of soldiers still fighting

World War II from isolation

of their island jungle:

don’t realize they’ve lost,

carried defeat like shame

too long. On the news,

I hear that Florida’s governor

exempted religious services

from the prohibition

on public gatherings.

Goddamn it, Florida,

why do you always

fuck things up

like that one kid in class

who forgets to bring a pencil

to the most important test

of his young life?

My dad will go,

despite his age, diabetes,

recent cancer treatment.

He was as stubborn as Florida

long before he moved there.

Several states away,

I’m hunched over a notebook,

which has been my church,

attempting to figure out

how to say I won’t

see my father alive again.

Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025) and Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His forthcoming books include the poetry collection, Tell Us How to Live, from Fernwood Press and his first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, from Running Wild Press.

To purchase My Pandemic / Gratitude List Poems. Please use the link below. 

https://a.co/d/eu9HG43

Outside the 33 By Jake St. John

I was reading 

on stage 

one night 

at a local joint. 

After my set

the whole bar 

cleared out

for a smoke. 

I figured 

instead of sitting 

waiting at the lonesome bar

I’d join them. 

a person who saw my set

handed me a Camel

non filtered cigarette 

and said,

 “You’re punk as fuck.” 

I smiled 

and mumbled 

something genius like,

“Right on.”

Then thought to myself,

the only thing 

I know about punk rock

is the Sex Pistols 

and that's only 

because of 

Sid Vicious, 

but not the one everyone knows—

the pro wrestler

from the 1990’s

and for a guy like me

that’ll have to be

punk enough.

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

His current book, The 13th Round is published through Six Ft. Swells Press and is available everywhere please pick yourself up a copy today.

https://www.amazon.com/13th-Round-Jake-St-John/dp/B0F2KBGR8M

Back When Hunting Became a Hipster Hobby by Shannon O’Connor

She wanted to learn to hunt because she thought it was cool. She didn’t know if it might become necessary someday.

On the weekend, she went to the forest with her friends to look for wild game. She owned a fact-checking business, and she needed to escape looking at screens.

She did not want to use a gun. She learned to shoot with a bow and arrow.

She discovered the most difficult prey is always worthwhile.

They scoured the wooded area, looking for small creature to shoot. They wore orange jackets to be visible. The squirrels heard them and ran away; the rabbits stood still, then bolted.

She saw a deer, and held her bow taut.

She looked directly into its eyes, but could not pull the arrow.

The deer pranced away, happy, as if it knew she were afraid.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked her fellow hunter.

“It’s your first time out, not everyone’s successful,” he said.

“But I was looking right into its eyes. It saw me, and we had a moment.”

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for them. They don’t know any better.”

“What if I have to feed myself someday? I’ll be a failure.”

“Not everyone is good at everything.”

“But this could mean survival.”

Life hadn’t come to that point. She trudged out of the forest with her hipster hunting friends. They went to a bar with their orange jackets and drank organic craft beer, and laughed about how she looked into the deer’s eyes, but could not shoot.

That night, she fell into a dark sleep. She dreamed the deer gazed into her eyes, and said, “You do not have rights to do what you think. Someday, we will take over the land, and you will fall back into it and become of the soil.”

She woke up, tasting dirt in her mouth.

What was the deer trying to communicate with her?

In the morning, she called her hunting partner, and said told him she wanted to go back to the forest.

“I dreamt the deer spoke to me,” she said.

She wandered around the area she saw the deer. She smelled smoke and looked up.

A fire spurted from a branch.

“What are you trying to say?” she said to nobody.

“You have no chance,” a voice said. “You should give up now.”

“Did you hear that?” she said to her friend.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

The fire above them dissipated, leaving the stench of smoke.

“I think we should leave, and never come back,” she said. “There’s life here we won’t ever understand.”

“But hunting was cool.”

“We shouldn’t hunt for pleasure. Someday, it will be necessary, but for now, we should live ordinary lives, and let nature alone.”

They left the forest, envisioning the time when the flora and fauna would grow and flourish and overthrow everything else. But for now, the humans were in charge, and she wanted to relish every moment until the world they knew disappeared forever. 

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has been published previously in The Rye Whiskey Review, as well as Wordgathering, Oddball Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Alien Buddha Press, and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. In her spare time, she likes to play the tin whistle and dress up as Amelia Earhart, not always at the same time. She lives in the Boston area.

Stella Style By Arvilla Fee

Stella wasn’t young anymore,

but you could tell she’d been

a real beauty back in her day.

She was also tough as nails.

Ain’t nobody talking back to

that woman! I’d seen her fury

first-hand when a foul-mouthed

drunk decided to push a woman.

Lordy, Stella charged at him with

the ferocity of a long-horned bull.

Put his back against the wall.

As a regular at Caddy’s, I’d stop

in for a beer at the end of a long

haul, my trucking time taking a toll

on my limbs. And there she’d be,

Stella, black tank, lotus tattoo 

on the back of her lean shoulder,

wiping the bar with a white rag,

shooting the bull with patrons,

pulling those taps like a champ. 

I asked her one day why she did it—

why, after all these years, she wanted

to put up with roughnecks and drunks

and young punks like me. She’d thrown

her head back and laughed, said since

she’d never been able to have children,

she figured she’d plant herself in the one

place where everyone needed a mother.

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/