The Bottle By Julian Thumm

All glory and shame to the bottle

& the man in its thrall: 

slavemaster, lover & 

dominatrix; 

whispering devil, loose-lipped confessor, 

albatross, anchor,

& final friend. 

Julian is a fledgling poet from Melbourne, Australia. He studied literature and professional writing and now works as a corporate shill, selling his corrupted pen to the highest bidder. His poetry is an attempt to make sense of a lifetime of bad choices. 

On The Highway by Keith Pearson

She checks her face in the visor mirror. Red lines mark the white of her eyes. Red lines on the road map. She flips up the visor to hide the mirror. To hide her face. She slumps in the seat, braces her knees on the curve of the dashboard. Marks in the dust on the dash where her knees were yesterday. The day before. She can smell her socks. Her feet. Boots still wet from walking in the snow last night. Early this morning. Her boots on the floor in the back. If they stop she’ll have to put on her wet boots. Can’t go out in this in stocking feet. So gray it could still be first thing in the morning, another stormy day. Slush against the windshield, against the glass beside her head. Her hair against the cold glass. The steady slap of the wipers across the windshield moving the slush. The purr of the heater. The smell of her feet in the heat coming from the floor of the small car. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if he can smell it or not. His fault her boots are so wet. Next time she lets him run out. Maybe gets hit by a car. Drowns in a pond. Wouldn’t know it was ice until he was in the cold black water and sinking. Too drunk to swim.

         I woke up thinking I could smell blueberry muffins, she says. Somebody making blueberry muffins right down the hall.

         Didn’t smell any muffins, he says. Both hands on the steering wheel. She wonders if the highway is slippery. Or is he just fighting the morning after. His hair a mess. Eyes worse than hers. Hunched up over the steering wheel with both hands on it, knuckles all white.

         When we get there can we stop? Can we stop someplace tonight where I can get some of that continental breakfast that comes with the room? What is the name of this place? she asks.

         New something, he says. I’ll know it when we get there. New something, its on the map.

         Her head hurts. I don’t know where the map is, she says.

         Well its here somewhere, he says. We’ll stop when we get there.

         The slush is thick on the window beside her head. Thick pitches of it come up from the wheels of other cars and splash against the windshield. He is driving fast but not as fast as others. All the cars coming at them have their lights on though it is the middle of the day. She can barely see them as they pass in the dim gray light. When we stop can I get a muffin? Maybe a hot chocolate too?

         You can get a muffin when we get there, he says. He leans further up and over the steering wheel. He turns his head from side to side as though to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. Never takes his eyes from the road. She watches the white skin of his knuckles. Its not going anywhere and I’ll know it when I see it, he says. When we get there.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

Ten Shots of Jim Beam By George Gad Economou

“ten shots of Jim Beam; just line’em

up right here, and get me a large glass of Ceres Classic, too.”

“are you alright?” the bartender asked.

“I’m fucking fine. just line’em up, please.”

he did.

I was in a new bar; wanted to escape my old

haunt, needed to escape the memories imbued

in those dirty four walls. had to forget, had to

move on, had to try something new.

I downed two shots, chased them with some beer. soon,

the draft glass was empty. “fill it up, will you?” I told

the bewildered bartender. sank two more shots

while he poured me the draft. chugged half the

glass in a single sip. lit a

cigarette. had a shot. five

to go.

the beer was gone. a new one appeared in

front of me. three more shots went

down. another beer. some more

cigarettes.

I could still not forget the smiling eyes of

those gone, the curled lips I used to kiss

while under the influence of too many substances.

last three shots went down in quick

succession, plus the fifth beer.

“again,” I said. “ten shots, in a line.”

“are you alright, man?”

“no but I hope I will be by the end of the night.”

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.

Drowned Words By Brenton Booth

"Alcohol makes

writing 

so easy!" I

drunkenly

slurred over

the crackling 

telephone line

soon after

finishing my

third new poem

in just two 

hours, following

a seemingly

endless four

week drought.

"If that were

true, I would have

written War and

Peace over a

thousand times!"

Ben immediately

responded.

Quickly draining

one of more

than a dozen cold

beers.

Eager to finally

get it right.

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.  

descension By Stephen Ground

evening knocks at the

window but I’ve been

rummed out since lunch.

dangling off the couch like

a liquored up leopard on a

bowed branch, encroaching

night slips thru the shades &

settles on my sweat-dewed

flesh in an inch-thick coat

of chewy black stardust.

Stephen Ground is a writer and filmmaker based in Treaty 6 Territory (Edmonton, Alberta).

A Whiskey Embrace By Alison Nuorto

Amber nectar,

Smoke and fire in a glass.

A promise on my lips.

Kiss away my regrets.

Capricious paramour.

Keep me company in the empty night;

Until morning comes.

An English Teacher and Freelance Writer residing in South West England but with a nomadic heart that yearns to roam far and wide. I feast on horror stories and Psychological thrillers. My poems have appeared in a handful of Anthologies and I am currently working on an Anthology of my own, as well as a Psychological thriller. As long as I still have a pulse, I aim to always be writing - provided that I have a drink to hand.

The Invitation By Rita S Spalding

if you’re going to sleep inside my soul

you must carry a restful companion 

a primitive cave fire that lights my hand

you must accept wild gypsy words that dance 

and artistic expressions in the space 

where my mind lives and holds them sacredly 

room can be made if you love those things too

Rita S. Spalding has had poems published in numerous anthologies and magazines. Her first book, Abstract Ribbons, was published in 1992. A second book, The Eighth, is currently at a publisher. She has received awards for poetry from Jefferson Community and Technical College, Elizabethtown Community College, National Library of Poetry, Kentucky Monthly Magazine and the Kentucky State Poetry Society. In 2024 she was a presenter at the Kentucky Writers Celebration in Danville and Historic Penn’s General Store, the Last Insomniacathon and she gives poetry readings regionally on a regular basis.