So It’s Sayonara by Scott Simmons

Our last night together was a wild hell ride.

Full of cocktails and bad decisions. 

Perhaps there was more we should have said.

Or done together before our curtain call.

But still I don't regret a single thing.

Because you’re just another heartache of many.

But also a beautiful memory.

And that’s all I could ever ask for.

Scott Simmons is a poet, humorist, and a shitty artist from Houston Texas. He is also the editor of the Dope Fiend Daily and usually enjoys reading your submissions as little as possible.

His work has been featured in places such as The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, HST, Daune's Poetree, It Takes All Kinds, Off The Coast Magazine, The Black Shamrock, The Anti-Heroin chic, and Under The Bleachers

Cuernavaca Nights by J. B. Hogan

In ebbing light of dusk, 

across from the little city park,

large Tongolele mugs of beer in hand,

they packed the Bar Universal to savor the 

decline of day in this city of

eternal spring, eternal hope.

Young women selling pulseras,

cheap bracelets, pass through smiling,

smiles far more dazzling than their wares.

At nightfall, the crowd drifts away,

diminishes, rearranges into small groups

at this café, to that new watering hole,

moving slowly through the dark,

humidly throbbing heart of the town.

In a new bar, buckets of ice-chilled 

Coronitas at hand, new friends, 

old teachers, drink and laugh,

cultures new and old melding 

into one, merging for the moment

in the dark, pulsing heart of this

land beneath the volcano.

J. B. Hogan has published over 300 stories and poems and eleven books, including Bar Harbor, Bounty Riders, Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollow, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, The Rubicon, Fallen, The Apostate, and Angels in the Ozarks (nonfiction, local professional baseball history). He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Club Le Pep by Stephen House

Club Le Pep is at is darkest 

its maddest

the meanest 

as one would expect it to be 

just before dawn

when the worry 

of those that seek 

is at its most agonizing 

eyes scan the room

i throw back a drink  

close off my mind 

and dance 

here in a club in Paris 

i dance 

with stranger’s eyes 

and solitary souls

a ghoul in a corner 

and a crying friend 

are you a friend

that friend of the friend from just before 

didn’t i meet you here another time 

another life 

don’t laugh at me

are you just another part 

of some funny game we play 

i dance with him and her 

and they and them 

i dance with nothing 

and all for more 

in Club Le Pep 

i dance for dance 

even when no one else does

i dance 

and i have spent 

a thousand lost nights 

in the Le Peps of cities 

in the universe 

of the lonely lost

like we are here

locked together 

by fear and hope 

the friend stops crying

and saunters 

on his floodlit stage 

to a pack of others

not unlike himself 

and i decide 

to stay at the bar

tonight

today  

not descend 

into that place below 

of tarnished joy 

where he and the rest

will soon go

there is no time in Le Pep

no night or day

no rules in wonder world

no restrictions or limitations

no dream impossible

the life of night is not all forlorn

i watch them shuffling

towards the stairs falling

fast and dark below

smile at some spinning hero 

who i think i loved  

once before

probably

or maybe not

throw back another drink

close off my mind

and dance

here in a club in Paris

i dance

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for 4 years.

Should I Watch? by Brannon O'Brennan

Noon vodka disguised with ice, the camouflage of alcoholic civilization. 

We just funeraled his mother, he deserves some slack. 

He’s explained for me going back to Reagan. 

I was his peer before I retired. 

Do I say something if I see something? What if I write it down? 

Much later, when mourning has no practical application, entire plans are forgotten. 

Made and then

distilled in 

4 PM 

Absolut. 

The chorus laughs so then I can laugh. His wife is in the chorus so then I can laugh. 

All can be forgotten, even if never remembered. 

Don’t Make Plans After 8 PM becomes Don’t Make Plans After 4 PM. 

Don’t say it, but don’t forget it. 

Not him. Me. 

I’m not just watching. 

I am a writer from Washington, DC. Two of my pieces have been published in the literary journal Within and Without Magazine, and three more will be published shortly in the White Cresset Arts Journal and Periwinkle Pelican Lit.  I previously published through George Washington University: WHY AN INTELLIGENT MAN MADE UNINTELLIGENT DECISIONS: THE COGNITIVE FACTORS BEHIND ROBERT MCNAMARA'S DECISION TO ADVISE IN FAVOR OF ESCALATION OF THE VIETNAM WAR, JANUARY - JULY, 1965.  I am currently seeking literary representation for my upmarket crime fiction novel THROUGHLINE, a novel about a dysfunctional family of outlaws and the effects of trauma across generations.

Archie Bunker opines about Pellegrino Water by Doug Holder

 This ain't your meathead Poland Spring

this is what comes from what you call

Virgin Springs.--

hey—nobody gets laid there

their happy just drinking water

may Jesus strike me dead!

It's like seltzer

but it is not made by the Hebes --

like a sucker punch

no bitch slap

of dem bubbles

here there are 

no troubles...

She is long and green

a regular queen

hey!

you know

what I mean?

 Doug Holder is the co-president of the New England Poetry Club founded by Robert Frost and others in 1915. He is also the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press of Somerville, MA. He teaches creative writing at Endicott College in Beverly, MA.

Just a Peach Schnapps Kiss by Nick Gerrard

-You need to move to Brno my friend. 

This was a psychiatrist in Vyskov who I was seeing because of my alcohol problems. Basically, I was drinking my face off. What else was there to do here? A soldier’s town with a few bars and two shit discos with bad strippers. I had come here from Birmingham via Lisbon where, after two years of hedonism, I had cried out for help from someone to set me up somewhere else. So, I ended up here working and living in an agricultural school. My room was next to my classroom, and sometimes the students had to come in and wade through the bottles and books and pizza boxes to wake me up to teach them.

-Really, you think that might help?

-If you stay here you may die!

Fair enough, I’ll move then. So I did. 

Someone lent me a flat but I wasn’t allowed to use it. I had no electric or gas or furniture, so it was just a place to crash. My drinking didn’t stop; I found the worst bars and took my lunch of cheap soup and cheap beer amongst the alcos in the train station bar. I got some work, so started to go to better bars like The Hobbit and The Two Goats, where there were cool young people, so I behaved myself more and tried to get to know people; well, women to be honest. 

The guy who owned the flat gave me two weeks to get out after I set my mattress on fire after a bender. I had fallen asleep with a fag in my mouth but thought I had put it out and put it smouldering onto the balcony and went back to my drunken slumber. I got woke up again by the fire brigade banging on the door and rubbed my eyes to see the bed blazing away on the balcony. So, I had to get out.

It wasn’t easy to find flats back in 95, I asked around and got a job in a language school and put an advert up…Room wanted! I got no replies. And I asked every class I had if anyone had a room to rent. I got no interested faces. 

One day a colleague was sick so I had to cover for him. At the front of the class was this interesting-looking woman; huge rolled-up jumper and flared trousers and mad jewellery, and short hair. She stood out amongst the mini-skirted high healed, big bouffant hair brigade. 

So, I spent the lesson trying to engage a lot with her, but she just flipped me off with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers, so I gave up. During the lesson I did my usual pitch about needing a room, after the class the girl approached me.

-I have a room you can rent.

-Really? That’s great.

-I share a panelak with three guys, we are all croupiers, so we are not there much, but you could rent the living room.

-Ok, that sounds fine.

-Just one thing, you’ll have to share the room with Kevin.

-Who’s Kevin?

-Kevin’s our rat.

-Is he a friendly rat?

-Yeah very friendly, but we don’t keep him in a cage, I mean when I say share, you really will be sharing.

-Well, I’ve shared rooms with worse people than rats, I’ll take it.

-Here’s the address you can move in today, here’s a key, I’ll be home about nine, after my shift.

So, I moved my stuff in and made some food and waited for the strangers who I would be living with. The three guys arrived about seven. All cool guys, into good music, though too much metal for my liking, and sports and drinking. We got to know each other over shots of Slivovice and some beers. 

Dasa arrived at nine with a bottle of peach Schnapps. We retreated to my room, the living room and Kevin’s place of residence. We had a good chat, though her English wasn’t that good as she spent a lot of time in the pub with a gang of suitors who followed her around all the time, I was to find out. With the bottle nearly empty she leaned in and whispered…

-Would you mind if I kissed you?

-Not at all.

We kissed, not too deeply, but it was a good kiss.

And that was it; we went to bed, separately. 

The next day at school I told the guy who I had substituted for that the move seemed great! I got drunk and a kiss from my landlady.

After some classes Dasa and her gang of guys approached me.

-Don’t ever talk about what I do out of school understand?

-Yeah sure, sorry about that. 

She went off in a huff. The teacher had mentioned the kissing and drinking in his class and she was well pissed off. I went home and she was aloof and abrupt with me. I thought that this was a big mistake and was going to be a nightmare place to live in; what with this stuck-up housemate.

She continued to be aloof and snobbish, and I started to really detest her and dreaded going home to be in the same flat as her. The guys were Ok though, and we went to pubs, and to see Boby Brno play. 

Things changed after a few weeks when I lost my job because I wasn’t turning up for work because of hangovers. Dasa then shaved her head and consequently lost her job too. 

Here we both were, jobless, skint and stuck in the same house as each other; nightmare!

-I am going to a new art exhibition if you want to come?

-Sure, why not.

And actually, we had a good time; we went for a coffee after and chatted and got on OK, not best buddies but OK.

In the next few weeks, we went to loads of different places; hidden gardens, museums and our favourite art house cinemas. In Lisen amongst the rows of panelaks was a shopping centre and in the middle of it was a cinema restaurant. This was a great place to see a film. The tables had comfy sofas and chairs and all raised a little higher so everyone got a good view. They bought steaks and wine to our table as we watched Frankenstein and Natural Born Killers.

Over those weeks we began to get to know each other better and started to like each other more. I had thought she was a stuck-up snob, and she thought me an arrogant over-confident dick. But spending time together we changed our views, I saw she was an intelligent, funny and caring woman, and I think she thought the same as me. After one night out we ended up in bed together and from there our relationship blossomed. We spent loads of time together and eventually, we both got new jobs. And I used to watch her walk to work or come back from work through the window and I adored watching her walking in that red coat. Gradually, over time, we fell in love with each other, and we became a couple. 

Our usual route after town was the number two tram to Zidenice then a trolley bus up the hill to the rabbit hutches of Vinohrady. In the shopping area, there was a bar that stayed open all night. It wasn’t a cosy bar; a lot of metal and Formica, and terrible music played on a tinny tape player. So, not that pleasant but always good for a couple before bed.  

One night we arrived late or early according to the clock and went in for one; it was never one. This night the place was empty apart from two guys at the bar. One was really short and the other a big bear of a man. We stood at the bar to drink and started chatting. Turned out it was the grizzle’s birthday. So, the drinks flowed as we celebrated with them. The midget guy spoke English so I stood chatting with him while Dasa was left with the drunken ramblings of the bear. She was sat on a stool and he leaned in more and more as he got more and more drunk. I asked him politely to stop getting in her face so much but with little effect. In the end, I got pissed off and warned the midget that if his brother didn’t stop bothering Dasa then I would smack him one. But, this guy kept leaning in and leaning in. 

-Look, man! I won’t ask him again. Tell him to back the fuck off or there’s going to be trouble.

-It’s cool man, calm down, I’ll tell him; he will be fine. 

After another five minutes, he wasn’t fine at all, in fact worse. I got off my stool walked behind him and tapped his shoulder and as he turned I smacked him one, a right beauty, right under his nose.

He fell to the floor. Suddenly, the dwarf was on my back, punching anywhere he could. I rolled over and over with this guy on my back and we smashed a couple of tables flat as we rolled. Next, the bear got up and dived in. Now, I had two of them punching and rolling and flattening every table in the place. 

Meanwhile, the waitress had called the cops and they arrived and pulled us all apart. The waitress then explained that it was all mine and Dasa’s fault for the whole thing; the place was a wreck.

So, me and Dasa got handcuffed and thrown into the back of a meat wagon. 

At the cop shop, we were searched and had our shoes taken away and thrown into a cell. At least they let us smoke, and we sat there still drunk contemplating what would happen. Dasa was worried; me not so much, it wasn’t my first cell visit.

After a while, we were led into an interview room with a guy behind a typewriter at a desk. He was wobbling a bit and had clearly been drinking; shots of Slivovice behind his locker door no doubt.

-So, you started the fight in the bar.

-Wait a minute!

The guy rolled off statement after statement where we were said to be the sole perpetrators of the fight.

 -Sign here! 

-No way, I am English and I don’t understand anything and demand a translator.

Dasa translated for me. She spoke firmly and it seemed to have the right effect. Things got serious all of a sudden and we were put back into our cell. We were there for some hours until we were taken again to an office and had a guy read the statement to me in English. We refused to sign it and we dictated our own statement denying everything.

After a couple of more hours in the cells, we were given a load of paperwork and our shoes and let go. 

It was almost midday. And we now had hangovers and had not slept. What to do? We went to the nearest bar for a beer and to think things over. For some reason, I really fancied some Chinese, so we hopped a few trams to our favourite restaurant that was just opening. It was Dasa’s first time drinking in the morning and she went with the flow. We drank a few bottles and wolfed down some food and started to feel better. Her initial shock and fear started to disappear a little. We took a tram and had some drinks at the terminus, took the trolley bus up the hill, fucked quickly, and at last went to sleep. 

 A couple of days later the Midget and the Gorilla appeared with a cop at the door, their brother-in-law. They gave us a warning that things could get very difficult for us, but with some cash paid, it could all go away.

They came a couple of more times and the guys in the flat said I needed to pay these guys or I might have to go to court or even get done over by the cops; or even, both!

I looked at my options; part with cash was not an option, and hope for fair justice was not on offer either. 

-I think I should get the hell out of here.

The guys agreed; with me, out of the way Dasa wouldn’t get into any trouble.

In the Two Goats, I told Dasa.

-It’s our only option.

-I’ll come with you

-You’ll come to England with me? To live? That would be great. I mean you’ll have to give me some time to get set up, you know, somewhere to live, a job and that. 

-Nick, I know you by now. It’s not going to be easy but it’s definitely going to be interesting.

A week later I packed my bag and took a rickety old bus to London. 

After a few months, I was set up with a job in Cambridge and a room in a shared house, so Dasa packed her bag and got the same rickety bus and we hugged each other deeply in Victoria coach station before taking the train to Cambridge and beyond.

Nick writes Gritty realism or social realism or as he likes to say 'Working-class kitchen sink drama! ‘ His short stories, flash, poetry and essays have appeared in various magazines and books in print and online. Nick has five books published available on Amazon and elsewhere. His short novel out last year, Punk Novelette is all about a group of friends growing up with punk in the 70s in the UK and the effect the movement had on their lives. His latest short story collection is Called Struggle and Strife; fifteen short stories covering the political and personal struggles of today, yesterday, and the future. Stories of casual workers, holocaust survivors, refugees, slum dwellers, and trade unionists. Tales of protests and fight-backs against oppression, and the daily battles of ordinary people. https://nickgerrardauthor.wixsite.com/books

Special Occasion by Todd Cirillo

My birthday has arrived again,

cards and packages

received in the mail,

calls and texts

from close and far,

social media messages

from friends and people 

I don’t know and will never meet.

There will be no cake

because I don’t like cake,

but there will be something

with a candle in it

because I like candles

but cannot even stand 

to watch those go out anymore.

I prefer long days to the long nights

that send another day into the past.

I don’t like to see the end of anything.

Perhaps, I’ve reached that point

where calendars are the enemy

and I purposefully do not wear a watch.

Today, everyone wants to know 

which once-a-year something 

I will do, just because,

“It’s your birthday today!”

“It is your special day!”

The one day you get a fancy expensive dinner, 

cheat on your diet with decadent dessert,

do absolutely no chores,

maybe co-workers put up a banner in the break room,

or your partner puts on a sexy outfit,

one that slips off easily,

maybe gives you a teasing dance,

and if a candle wish comes true,

a birthday blowjob or birthday sex.

I do not need those extras today.

For the first time 

in a long time

I am not waking up alone

on this birthday morning

and that is a gift.

So, in looking to the day ahead,

I’ll choose to take it easy,

move like the Mississippi River,

go where the currents take me,

get some Vietnamese food,

do the dishes,

float in the pool,

go down to the French Quarter,

find live music just right for the moment,

order my same drinks

and, I suppose

if some extras were offered

I will accept

because

it is,

after all,

my 

special

day. 

Todd Cirillo was born of bastard lineage. He has many books and misdemeanors. His books include; Sucker’s Paradise, Burning the Evidence, ROXY, Three For the Road etc. His latest book is, Kisses From A Straight Razor (Epic Rites Press, 2020). Todd is co-founder and editor of Six Ft. Swells Press. His poems have appeared in numerous national and international literary journals, magazines and on cocktail napkins everywhere. Todd lives in New Orleans, Louisiana where he seeks out shiny moments and strange wisdom. He can be found at www.toddcirillo.com

Hi by Wayne F. Burke

A woman in the

grocery store says

"Hi!" And I say

"hi," and she gives

me a funny look, and

I realize she is

speaking to the clerk 

behind the counter:

"I thought you were

talking to me," I say

but she doesn't reply:

too busy talking to the 

guy behind the counter.

I buy a copy of the

useless local newspaper

and walk out to sidewalks

that do not recognize me

either.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry and prose has been widely published in print and online (including in THE RYE WHISKEY REVIEW). He was nominated for a Pushcart by THE DOPE FIEND DAILY in 2022. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Liar, Liar by Laura Stamps

You know how it is. Everyone’s 

always telling you. That you 

need to expand your universe. 

You know. That it’s a good thing. 

To get out there. To meet new 

people. Widen your circle of 

friends. Experience what life 

has to offer. All of it. All. 

Whatever. So I did. I made 

new friends. I expanded my 

universe. My small life. I went 

places. I did things. New things. 

With new people. And you 

know what? It’s exhausting! 

It is. And stressful. That too. 

But I learned. My small life. 

My few friends. My little 

Chihuahua (such a good girl!) 

My job. My marriage. It’s 

enough. That’s what I learned. 

And those people. The ones 

who say bigger lives are 

better? Yeah. Those people. 

Liars. That’s what they are. 

I mean. My days are already 

full. Too full. Why did I listen 

to them? Why? Those people. 

The experts. Geez. What was 

I thinking? What? Tell me. 

Does anyone know? I don’t.

 Laura Stamps is the author of over 50 novels and poetry collections. Most recently: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Lover of feral cats, Chihuahuas, and Yorkies. www.LauraStampsFiction.blogspot.com   

Forget It by Phil Huffy

A truck with a load Chablis

overturned and the shipment broke free.

A wine snob came ‘round,

saw a case on the ground 

and said, “Leave it, it’s 2003”

Phil Huffy writes all sorts of poetry, often at his kitchen table. His work has appeared in dozens of journals. Some of it is funny.

The City Where I Live by Ian Lewis Copestick

The city where I live

is in the worst, most

deprived 20 % of the

country,

I've just read

that it's now known

as the ' monkey dust '

capital of the U.K.

If you haven't heard

of monkey dust.

Don't worry, I don't

know what it is either.

The city where I live

used to be one of the

most prosperous in

the whole country.

We were known as

the potteries for a

reason.

Doulton, Wedgwood.

We were the world

leaders.

Well, the world

leaders in making

fancy pottery.

One of my first jobs

was in  ' pot bank '

As we called them.

In a factory churning

out plates, teapots,

teacups, saucers,

etc.

Now, they've all

closed down.

They outsourced the

work to Malaysia.

I've got nothing

against anyone

from Malaysia,

or anywhere.

It's just a shame,

that's all. 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.

This Language May Be Offensive to Your Reader by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

My computer program seems to know best when I write a poem and choose words such as bullshit. It brings my vocabulary into question. It tells me that this language I am using may be offensive to my reader. I find that offensive if I take this suggestion literal. Do I have just one reader? Should I have said manure, cow dung, or lies instead of bullshit. As for any edits, the computer program wrote, No suggestions available. Fuck it, I am going to keep bullshit in the poem. In fact this poem is much better than the bullshit poem or funnier at least. Don’t get me started with Siri, who is such a prude.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Fearless, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Unlikely Stories.

One More Saturday Night on the eve of my birthday By Jake St. John

The clock ticks 

towards dawn

like the heels 

of the warden

echoing 

off the cold floor

of death row

it'll drive some

right over

the edge

but at this age 

it's all just noise

and I turn on the radio

to avoid the inevitable 

I'm not flying 

any white flags 

tonight

as the hours

pass like

exit signs

into the night

I'll carry on

and see this 

to the end

 

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including 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

Serve Them Straight Rye Whiskey or Saving Dollars Through Subterfuge By GC Smith

Been around for awhile

that good rye whiskey

canal diggers swilled it

steel workers slaked thirsts

Been around for a while

Farmers hid it in hayracks

City boys hid it in closets

Wives found it and sipped

Been around for a while

Union soldiers took it afield

Johnny Reb eschewed it

The Yankees had it right

Been around for a while

Pennsylvania straight rye whiskey

served to us at eighty-six proof

more recently a whoppin’ hundred

Old Overholt’s been around a while

serve small shots to cheapskates

the crisp strong rye whiskey taste

hides the amount, seems like it’s lots

GC Smith is an award winning ( 1.Writer's Digest and 2,University of Maine --The Binnacle) writer.  He writes novels, short stories, flash fiction, and poetry.

Smith's short story and poetic work can be found in many publications: Gator Springs Gazette, F F Magazine, Iguanaland, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Naked Humorists, The GLUT, Flask Fiction Magazine, N.O.L.A. Spleen, NFG Magazine, Cellar Door, The Beat, Dispatches Magazine, Beaufort Gazette, Coyote's Den, Lamoille Lamentations, Quiction, The Landing, The Haunted Poet, Flavor a Deux, The Binnacle (University of Maine), Stymie Magazine, Bannock Street Books, Fried Chicken and Coffee, Write to Meow --Grey Wolfe, Publishing, Fiction Southeast and elsewhere. 

Smith has six self published novels written while honing craft, WHITE LIGHTNING --Murder In the World of Stock Car Racing, THE CARBON STEEL CARESS; A Johnny Donal P.I. novel, IN GOOD FAITH; A Johnny Donal P.I. Novel, MUDBUG TALES, A Novel In Flashes, wit' recipes, TO LIVE AND DIE IN DIXIE (a sequel to WHITE LIGHTNING), and THE CATS; AN Unauthorized Biography. Smith also has: A SOUTHERN BOY'S MEANDERINGS, a poetry chapbook, ANTHRACITE COAL COUNTRY, A Bygone Era In Poetry and Prose, COLLECTED POETRY, in three volumes, and REDNECKS AND HARDCASES, a book of short stories.

Smith lives in Aiken, South Carolina, where he writes, reads, plays golf, builds furniture and other stuff, and works on boat and automobile motors and other parts. He also cooks yummy things, often with a redneck or Cajun flair.

After you've gone: Horses, Beer, Cigarettes by Trish Saunders

She calls across the pasture. 

Over here, I answer. 

Grasses shrink 

from her big yellow teeth 

as she approaches—

weeds don’t know

a mare’s gentleness. 

And I still miss you. 

Clouds pause.

Wildflowers hurtle

seeds into cracks

beneath the interstate,

open into 

poppies

that catch fire 

in the sunset. 

And I still miss you.

Ancient forests are burning.

Smoke dissipates, like exhaust

from an old bus, 

like the Rainier beer we poured over cemetery grass,

killing it. And I still miss you. 

The rain will return,

it always does. The wind

will have business elsewhere—

trees to terrorize, 

crows’ feathers to blow across a river. 

And I still miss you. 

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, works as a freelance editor, and has published poems in numerous publications. 

A Battle With Butter by Kevin M. Hibshman

It was an outdoor gathering.

Family and friends in the Summer backyard heat.

Hamburgers and hot dogs.

All the classic picnic items I believe were present.

I was probably fourteen or fifteen.

I was something of a clown with the budding desire to entertain.

I liked to get laughs and most often, could.

We were all chomping on corn on the cob.

I put a pat of butter on my knife. aiming like I was going to shoot it off at my neighbor girl.

She jeered me on, knowing I wouldn't actually fire it at her.

Suddenly, I felt a stinging sensation in my left eye and that eye went blurry.

It took an embarrassingly long moment for me to realize that I had unintentionally lobbed the aforementioned chunk of butter into MY OWN EYE.

Son of a bitch, it stung.

I jumped up and ran into the house amid confused laughter I did not willingly solicit.

Upstairs in the bathroom, I doused my greasy eye with cold water.

It was a mess.

It was a few days before the redness and irritation began to subside.

I wondered if I would ever see out of my left eye again.

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).

His current book Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon. 

Lucky Penny by Cheryl Snell

He pulled his pockets inside out and spilled his change across the bureau. “Take a coin,” he said. His little girl looked over the small mound of silver, and then at his empty pockets. They reminded her of a puppy’s ears somehow. She picked up the only copper penny in the pile. It glinted brightly, perhaps knowing it was less valuable, so grateful to be chosen. “That’s a lucky penny,” her father said.” Keep it close and your luck won’t run out.”

     

She did as he said, and every so often he’d check, asking, “Where is it, then?” and she’d pull the coin out of her pocket or the cuff of her sleeve, and once even from her shoe. He chuckled at that. “There are more secure places to keep it.” He hadn’t noticed that penny loafers were popular that year, but then again, why would he? After all, she never noticed the trail of clues to the double life he’d been leading.

     

After he left home for his girlfriend with the brand new baby, it was the penny that comforted her. She still believed it was lucky, and thought, maybe if she stroked it like her mother’s bottle of gin, its good luck would again rub off on her. “Wishful thinking,” her red-eyed mother sniffed, shuffling her feet in her husband’s abandoned leather slippers. She pinched the coin between her fingers, then turned it over in her palm. “My brothers used to go pennying with coins like these.”

“What’s that? A game?”                                                                                                                                        

“Lining train tracks with a bunch of them and letting the train flatten them.” 

The image of a train derailed by spare change rose in the girl’s mind. “Why did they do that?” 

She held out her hand for the coin. 

Her mother tucked it in her bra instead. “A flattened penny becomes a good luck charm. I had one when I was young. I carried it around with me for years. And then, one time, a cop stopped me for speeding. I couldn’t afford a DUI ticket, so I slid my penny from my pocket to my mouth, and sucked it.”

“Why?” 

“A friend told me that you can fool a breathalyzer by sucking pennies.”  

“Oh really,” the daughter sneered. She knew more about such things than her mother thought she did. 

The mother shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently copper alters the alcohol reading. Or it used to before all the machines got so smart.”

“So did it work out for you?” The daughter suddenly wanted to believe in something.

“No. The officer just laughed and said, ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Maybe that’s when my luck began to run out.” 

If the mother had not already taken her lucky penny, the daughter would have given it to her just then. Her mother needed it more than she did, she could see that now. The daughter had time. She would make her own luck, bring it home like great tubs of pennies, solid and gleaming; set it at her mother’s feet, drink a toast, and let all the good luck in the world rub off on her. 

Cheryl Snell writes poetry and fiction of all sizes. Her books include Bombay Trilogy and Geometries.Visit https://cherylsnell.weebly.com

 for more of her work.

stealing kisses with your imagination by J.J. Campbell

the fading noise from a wind 

chime in a passing cool breeze

these are the nights you swear 

you can see the moon starting 

to sweat

time bleeds through each of the pages

all comedy comes from tragedy

stealing kisses with your imagination

yet again

a stunning blonde stops you dead 

in your tracks

the words get trampled by a rush 

of blood to the only working brain

sure, you notice the wedding ring 

but you are too old now to give any 

shits about morals or standards

it’s an old guitar and a bottle 

of bourbon

string the right chords together 

and the demons will come out 

to play

every blue moon

you can still see a little reckless 

abandon not wasted on someone 

else

J.J. Campbell was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, just good poems, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Leaving Kansas with Jimi by Ken Gierke

No crosstown traffic here.

We’re talking cross country.

Yellow fields on the left,

yellow fields on the right,

a foot tall and waiting for a chance

to be in your next wheat beer.

Driving into the morning sun,

you thought you were leaving

gray skies behind, but when you see

that straight and narrow ribbon of a road

disappear at the crest of a hill

four miles ahead framed by black sky

punctuated by jagged bolts of lightning

you know there won’t be any magic

carpet in this electric lady land.

The rain starts slow and lazy at first

as Jimi’s guitar dances with a sax,

but five minutes later, you drive into

a rainy day that may as well be

a long hot summer night and wish

it was all a daydream. Rain lashes

your windshield, and thirty feet

is the farthest you can see,

so you slow to thirty and hope

you’re still pointed straight ahead.

But then, as if tonight’s full moon

was turning the tides gently away,

you burst through the last of it

to find a patch of blue sky

as you head out of Kansas,

thankful to have that behind you

and looking forward to that beer.

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 Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, Silver Birch Press, The Gasconade Review and River Dog Zine. Glass Awash, published by Spartan Press, is his first collection of poetry. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

Erasing Away the Pain by Ann Christine Tabaka

The whiteness of morning fog invades daylight

hours / drifting into noon. A fragile veil of dreams

surrounding all. White / like the petals of a Cala lily 

falling gently from dawn. No sun to burn off haze as 

droplets hover / thickening air. Breathing in dense 

clouds / daylight is suspended. Walking through a 

dreamy mist / reality dissolves / emotions unfold

The softness of fur / caresses pale moist skin. Time 

collapses inward / taking all sense of being with it.

There will be a time / when all life fades / and 

vanishes / devoured by the sun. And today will 

be but a memory / painted on an ebony sky.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The Phoenix; Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)