Smokers By Gary V. Powell

The brands they smoked, each man

or woman a brand unto themselves,

Camel, Winston, Kent, Viceroy.

The ashtrays they placed on coffee

and side tables or next to chairs

for collecting ashes and butts.

How they held those cancer sticks,

between fore and index finger or thumb,

or stuck to a lip while they worked.

Where they kept their pack, rolled up

in a sleeve like James Dean, in a shirt

pocket, or at the bottom of a purse

The Bic they flicked, the matchstick 

struck, or treasured lighter passed

father to son, father to son.

When they wanted one, after dinner,

after sex, before the bell, with a drink,

over coffee, while reading the paper.

The coffin nail inhaled in the school

parking lot, on the riverbank, down

at the Victory Liquor and Lounge. 

The one ground out like an argument

put to rest, sparked through an open car 

window, or mashed into a dinner plate.

The way they exhaled, rings dancing

across a pool room or in a rush 

of words to make a point.

Chesterfield, Lucky Strike, and True.

Tareyton, Merit, and Marlboro.

Salem, Kool, and Newport.

Gary V. Powell is a mostly rehabilitated lawyer and a Pushcart Prize nominee for both his poetry and short fiction. His third chapbook, The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern was published by Main Street Rag Publishing, spring 2026. Recent poetry appears in Writer’s Digest, Oberon Poetry Journal, Southword 50, Passager Journal, and North Coast Anthology I.

how he became a writer By Keith Pearson

wild rabbits lived under the old tool shed

that leaned on the back of the family barn.

inside he found a rusted bucket of unused words.

when he showed his grandpa the treasure 

he'd found

the old man raised up the twenty gauge 

from his lap

and said i knew i shoulda kept that damn

shed locked.

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

Six Across the Danube By Jonathan Butcher

An extended backstreet,

reflective with cleanliness,

weaves into mosaic ceilings,

a gale-wind of history,

which blows tepid, 

like undercooked, ground meat.

Turquoise domes, which crown

pristine walls, balconies still

smeared with footprints past,

and the remnants of speeches,

which deflected centuries ago,

and now remain a constant whisper.

A shot of forest tree,

which strips our mouths and throats,

and leaves tongues rendered redundant,

the dim light of this false dungeon,

viewed through steins of honey mead

and beer. 

A song forced upon unwilling

ears in The Goblin bar, a rage against 

a conformity which never presented

resistance, yet still stamps its 

aurthority. Another Bloody Mary,

to settle this twilight, and once again,

I hear the cry; “He’s gone again..”. 

Jonathan Butcher is poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work appear in The Rye Whiskey Review, Drunk Monkeys, Mad Swirl, Popshot, The Morning Star and others. 

He is also the editor of online journal 

Fixator Press. 

INVASION by Susan Isla Tepper

Kids kicked open the door 

invading her shack

One room with cot

rumpled blankets

pilled wool over the years

They dug through 

all she owned

with great spirit and laughter

shredding that small life

No thought to

where she might be.

Outside the weeds

so high

they almost buried the place.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

Drunk By Wayne F. Burke

She staggers across the

street, trips and falls

onto the sidewalk.

I consider picking her up.

A car stops and Mrs. Good Person 

gets out and helps the girl to her feet.

The girl plops herself down

on the bench beside me.

A not unattractive girl.

"Been drinking, huh?"

"Yup."

She digs into her purse, holds up

a cigarette: "got a light?"

"No. I don't."

She calls by name a guy walking by--a can-

collector.

A howling ambulance blows past.

"Yay," she says, "it is not for me."

"It will be."

If I could get her into the woods--

the ash end of her butt extends

like a crooked pinky finger.

When the ash falls I brush it from

her thigh.

If only we were at my place--

(but I do not want her to know where I live.

But would she even remember?)

"I need to stop drinking," she says.

"Go to AA."

"I need a light," she says.

After standing, she totters off; her.

interest in me at an end.

Wayne F. Burke lives in Vermont (USA). In October, 2026. his novel THE SPREAD will be published by Alien Buddha Press.

Room for Future Boxes - Angela M. Carter

I drove a twenty-foot U-Haul south on the interstate

with the windows down, 

sweat running into my eyes,

beneath the brim of a trucker hat that read:

WOMEN DON’T OWE YOU SHIT.

Which was funny,

I had spent my whole life owing.

Even as a child, I owed my body,

explanations,

apologies that should have been received,

owed everyone else the ability to feel comfortable.

I gave everything I was,

to every place I existed, to everyone I loved,

until there was almost nothing left,

no proof that I had existed at all.

And suddenly, middle-aged,

with newborn eyes,

the price of remaining that woman

was more than I could afford.

I moved to a city where no one knew my name,

which was exactly how I want to be remembered.

The skeletons in my old closet, in an old town I used to live in,

had outgrown the space and closed in on my dining table. 

Whoever those skeletons belonged to, it wasn’t me.

I left a larger house, and traded it for an apartment in a 100-year old house,

with neighbor’s footprints drumming the ceiling some nights,

but the closets are empty here, with boxes of real memories filling them:

my children’s drawings, recital programs, old poetry,

and the only bones in the house are carrying the woman I created.

Angela M. Carter is a poet, novelist, spoken word performer, visual artist, and advocate whose work explores trauma, resilience, identity, and transformation. Her writing blends personal narrative with social commentary and is known for emotional honesty and lyrical intensity.

She is the author of Memory Chose a Woman’s Body (2014) and Love Is the Dying Dog (2026-under pen name Angela Marie). A Pushcart Prize nominee and Virginia Literary Award nominee for poetry, Angela has performed at venues across the country including The KGB Club in Manhattan and Busboys and Poets. She currently serves as a judge for the Poetry Society of Virginia annual poetry contests in 2024, 2025, and 2026.

In addition to her literary work, Angela is the Executive Director of Virginia Down Syndrome Association in Richmond, VA.

To the actor portraying Federico Garcia Lorca By Trish Saunders

On the afternoon of the day the Spanish poet was murdered,
you sat in the safety of your overstuffed armchair,
fanned yourself with dead palm leaves,
drank a dry Manhattan. Or a gin and tonic.
Let’s say it was Beefeater’s gin. 

You lay down for a nap after; wondered why beads of sweat
broke out on your brow though windows were wide open,
blankets flung on the floor. Meanwhile, the poet who wrote
of the city that never sleeps with iguanas was wide awake
in the back seat of the car, guessing what waited for him.
You were 20 in 1935. Like the poet, you were gay.

You could not tell anyone of this, not a single family member
knew your secret. This concealment shredded your soul. You are
old now. You can leave Lorca now, dreaming of apples in his
Spanish grave and tend to your aged orchard, with trees
full of worms.

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in the Rye Whiskey Review.