Midnight on Royal Street by Connie Johnson

naked in moonlight 

an unassailable moment 

tonight is a river of wine 

and what passes for salvation 

violet noir magenta and 

bleu de france

everything feels translucent 

the birds that fly only at midnight 

flutter atop a willow tree 

on Royal Street 

and in this moment you are 

my lonely palette of grays and indigo

I am a musical murmur of voices in the court 

where all seven of your sisters reside

Connie Johnson is a Los Angeles, CA-based Pushcart Prize nominee whose poetry has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Syncopation Literary Journal, Cholla Needles,  The Rye Whiskey Review,    and Writing in a Woman’s Voice. Everything is Distant Now (Blue Horse Press), her debut poetry collection, is available on Amazon; In a Place of Dreams, her digital album/chapbook, can be found at www.jerryjazzmusician.com    

Playing Fetch With GI Joe By Richard LeDue

The machine guns are loaded

because the government failed

to ban them years ago,

and the bullets are ready

to sing of freedom and oppression,

depending who you ask,

while the sanest thing is to hide

behind a bottle of rye on Friday nights,

solving all the world's problems

just well enough for yourself,

before your vomit in the kitchen sink

reminds you you are the problem

sometimes, 

only for those who swear they know

all the answers

to joke about Hitler

being an animal lover, so much so

that he had his dog killed

rather than play fetch with GI Joe,

and even if your hangover helps

you not pick a side,

they'll still find a reason to hate you. 

Richard LeDue he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, “Sometimes, It Isn't Much,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024.

MATINEE By Glenn Armstrong

WNYU transmitted radio waves of ‘80s hardcore punk. Outer borough kids lured by fast and loud music invaded Lower Manhattan. Bowery Bums sprouted up from sidewalk cracks like Centipede arcade mushrooms. The CBGB awning hung, covered in graffiti and band stickers. More teenagers stood outside than inside. A ‘70s punk holdover guy wearing a leopard skin vest and spiky hair, slouched at the bar. Club owner Hilly Kristal grinned in the shadows. Skinheads clad in traditional braces and boots abounded. Their White, Black, and Puerto Rican trackball domes reflected the lights. Hidden horrors lurked in the grimy bathrooms. The decayed fingers of a black leather jacketed, Ramones-era, overdosed junkie reached out from behind a stall. The hand throttled a youth in my mind’s EC Tales from the Crypt comic. I sat alone upstairs in a dark corner. Later, a patch of green mold grew on my jeans. The band played short two-to-three-minute songs. Bursts of testosterone fueled aggression sparked the mosh pit. Elbows and knees jerked in a tribal dance. I climbed onstage and faced a Marshall stack. Sonorous guitar reverberations vibrated throughout every ecstatic atom. 

 Glenn Armstrong enjoys reading old pulp fiction and piloting the way back machine. The result is sometimes poetry. His work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy and The Rye Whiskey Review, among others. He lives in San Diego. 

If John Berryman Wrote Love Songs By Jason Arbogast

They’d be dedicated to cheap vodka,

and we’d be afraid every time the radio came on.

If John Berryman wrote love songs,

they’d be two minute, alternative ditties

to be sung in a schizophrenic duet,

have depressive lyrics punctuated

by inappropriate laughter,

and a damn good beat(ing).

The spaces between beats would 

say more than any random pop song ever said,

and each CD would be packaged with a shot glass, 

a box of rubbers, and a pack of smokes,

to be used in that order.

If John Berryman wrote love songs,

they would stem from second-hand knowledge,

like five eunuchs trying to describe the Kama Sutra,

defining love by what it lacked,

and lust as the one word on all men’s tongues,

just dressed differently for each woman.

If John Berryman wrote love songs,

weddings would be somber affairs,

and no one would have one as ‘their’ song

unless they had a good pre-nup and a masochistic streak.

No one would dance to them,

they couldn’t keep 

up.

If John Berryman wrote love songs,

they’d be sealed in vodka bottles 

and tossed off the Washington Avenue Bridge,

so they could float away

to be discovered the next day,

the next week,

the next month,

alone.

Jason Arbogast currently lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he buys and resells various pieces of nerdery. He taught in one form or another for twenty years, and expects to return to it soon. He has had pieces appear in right hand pointing, Iodine Magazine, Defenestration, and other publications. His novel, Amber Sea of the Dead, is available on Amazon.com.

158 Words For Loneliness By Jake St. John

I am writing poems tonight

and have no one to read them to

I will read them to the wall

and we will laugh

at the poems I am writing  

alone in my room

I will read them to the wall

and make the wall cry

at the words it hears

tonight alone in my room

I will read my poems

to the windows

who will open

and shout my poems

down into the street

that is as lonely

as my room is tonight

I will shout my poems  

at the ceiling

and curse it  

for hiding the moon

I will read my poems  

to the door

that is keeping  

the outside  

from coming into  

my room tonight

I will read my poems  

to the floor

and make it cheer

for the words  

that represent those

that have been trampled upon

I will read my poems  

to the walls

and make them cry

tonight alone in my room

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."

Wine Telepathy by Leah Mueller

    You and I drank wine by Lake Mendota, even during cold weather. We usually guzzled a couple of bottles, then groped at each other. Sometimes we had sex in the bushes. No one ever tried to stop us.

    Madison was a college town, but neither of us took classes. Since we didn’t need to write papers or study for tests, we felt free to invent our lives as we went along—at least until the rent came due.

    It was my cheap German wine period. You were a jobless couch-surfer. I lived in a dilapidated house with my boyfriend and several psychotic roommates.

    I never could feel content with just one boyfriend. Steve was my main guy, you were secondary. You knew your status, which came as a relief to you. Less responsibility that way.

    Madison winters are brutal. The lakes freeze solid, and artists build sculptures from ice chunks. In early December, jagged pieces float across the water, looking for a place to solidify.

    We’d almost finished our wine when I noticed some crystals floating at the bottom of the bottle. They looked dense, almost translucent. 

    I turned the bottle upside down, and a few crystals fell into my hand. The texture felt hard and grainy, like someone had molded them from cheap plastic.

    “What the hell are these.” It was more of a rhetorical question than anything. “Maybe some kind of fancy wine shit. But I don’t recall seeing such big crystals before.”

    You shook your head. “Me neither. Of course, I always drink cheap swill.”

    We were in our early twenties, so cheap swill didn’t bother our intestines much.

    The crystals felt warm in my palm. “I think these might be a product of fermentation. But I’m not sure.”

    I peered inside the receptacle’s cloudy interior. Several extraneous bits formed a soggy clump at the bottom.

    Suddenly, an idea struck me.

    “Let’s take this bottle back to the liquor store. We’ll tell the clerk we found mysterious chunks in our wine. He’ll explain what they are and offer us a freebie for our trouble.”

    We were already drunk, or I never would have suggested such a crazy thing. You nodded with glee, convinced my plan would work. The two of us walked unsteadily down the frozen sidewalk.

    When we reached the store, I extended my empty container towards the clerk. He stared at me, expressionless.

    “I don’t know what’s wrong with this wine.” My voice sounded glib and matter of fact. “There are weird bits on the bottom. We didn’t see them until we were almost done with the bottle.”

    The clerk held the receptacle to the light and squinted. “Oh, those a product of fermentation.” He smiled. “Nothing to worry about. But for your trouble, I’ll give you another.”

    You and I avoided looking at each other as the clerk slid a new bottle across the counter. In a daze, I scooped up my gift and headed for the door.

    As soon as we stepped outside, we started laughing like we would never stop. 

    “If only everything in life was like this,” you said.

Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "Stealing Buddha" was published by Anxiety Press in 2024. Website: Home | Leah Mueller

Stars In Bars By Trish Saunders

Just one thing more about
last night at the Kit Kat Klub,
King Street has gone quiet at 2:00 a.m.,
but not that 3:00 a.m. quiet
that knocks the heart out of you,

and Tom Mix is alone at the bar
rhinestoned and cowboy hatted,
still handsome, and he says to you, a five-year-old boy
sitting spellbound up in the cheap seats: 
“I’m not going to join that circus,
not going to crack a whip at some toothless old lion.”

And he’s the silent heartthrob who raced Tony,
his horse, up a fire escape, right after he lassoed a locomotive?
Could you point at the door, some insufferable A.D.
yelling CUT! on his career?

Evening, Mr. Mix, very glad to pour one more,
in fact I’ll join you. Let’s drink from a glass of stars,
and toast the wonders the night might still bring.
Look at that Honolulu moon--
so close, you could throw your shoe and hit it.

Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle, formerly Honolulu. She has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Medusa’s Kitchen, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and the Rye Whiskey Review.

ephemeral summer By Natalye Childress

 it was just another tuesday night.

she showed up at 8 p.m., just like she said she would. the sun had already set, and the darkness had begun to spread out across the sky, but even the blanket of twilight couldn't soothe the stifling heat.

"a quick drink," i said, an invitation. "before we ride."

she walked across the living room and into the galley kitchen. i grabbed the absolut and two frosty shot glasses from the freezer, placing them on the counter and filling each to the brim. then i took both in my hand and handed one over.

"to summer," she said, gently clinking hers against mine. "to us."

we downed them quickly, the cool in our throats lamenting the season's unforgiving reminder.

i opened the door and was met with a rush of heat so thick it made me choke. i shook my head and smiled. summer in sacramento. then i locked the front door. we walked around the side of the house to our bikes. i moved up the kickstand and threw one leg over the frame. she was already set.

off we went, single file, down the busy street. noise from the freeway spilled out into the city; we heard nothing but chaos and movement. i peddled faster as we passed under the train trestle, a span that always threatened to collapse with the weight of the overhead trains.

she turned back to look and me and flashed a knowing smile. i knew what happened next.

in a burst of energy, we tore down the street, block after block blurring by until the lanes slowly collapsed into one.

we turned right off the main thoroughfare and left on m, down a quiet suburban street. these homes were the fab 40s and 50s, and we could see just why. each one was an aesthetic wonder, with a unique personality all its own. we casually rode, our arms at our sides, pointing out which ones we wanted to live in when older — each block, some house superseding the pick before it.

we passed others on the road, walking, biking, or driving. most waved to us or said hello. the heat has a way of making people a bit less guarded.

upon arriving in midtown, we resumed an air of no nonsense. flying through the grid, we turned and tucked between and around obstacles until we were near the park.

as we approached the grounds, we could make out two figures in the shadows. they heard our laughter and emerged with smiles, anxious to greet us.

we dismounted, a bit disheveled, then locked up.

the four of us began walking. through the rose garden, past a war memorial, and into a grove of trees. beyond that was the liberty bell replica, alongside a koi pond. a bit further, the capitol.

we sat in the shroud of darkness and the black velvet boy pulled his namesake out from his backpack. passing it around, we each took turns, coating our tongues and mouths with the 80 proof liquid, strong and biting. it went down like fire, through our esophagi, penetrating our insides yet setting us at ease.

we talked loosely, cautiously avoiding the topic of post-summer. we acted like things would go this way forever, even though each of us knew things would never be the same.

summer had presented itself, as evidenced by the emerging freckles, the darkened arms, and the long days. soon it would disappear, taking with it this seemingly eternal bond of friendship.

i could anticipate the separation and was already missing the taste of companionship. but for now? i was content to sit with my best friends and take it — take life — all in. it was much like the whiskey. it roughed me up at times, but it certainly was not without its sweetness.

Natalye Childress (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, translator, and sad punk. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Farewell Transmission, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sontag Mag, scaffold, BRAWL, and elsewhere. She has an MA in creative writing, and her first book, The Aftermath of Forever, was published by Microcosm Publishing.

Situations By Daniel S. Irwin

Sometimes you get
These situations in life.
Wife says give up poker
Or she's gone.
Okay, bye bye chips.
Quit playing the ponies
Or she's gone.
Done bet my last hot tip.
Quit smoking cigarettes
Or she's gone.
I do miss my coffin nails.
Says to quit my drinking
Or she's gone.
I bought her new luggage.

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. 

Karma by Phil Temples

Evan Hilliard and his German shepherd, Max, leave Evan’s popular haunt: an upscale bar in Boston’s Allston neighborhood. It’s a cold, windy Friday night. Evan has had more than his usual number of drinks that night. It’s only 9:30; he’s shut off. As Evan leaves, he levels a few choice profanities at the bartender. Evan stands up and heads for the door, dragging Max roughly behind him. Once outside, Evan moves swiftly down the sidewalk toward the bus stop on unsteady feet, throwing caution to the wind.

    “Jesus, would you hurry up ya’ mangy mutt! It’s friggin’ cold out here!” 

    Evan turns around and tries to land a kick against Max’s rump, but the dog senses the blow coming and dodges it easily.  The lack of a target with which to connect nearly causes Evan to fall. He spews more profanity at the dog. It’s not the first time Evan has abused him.

#

Evan’s friends and associates wonder how a guide dog organization would allow Evan to be assigned a dog. Owners are carefully matched with their dogs, and required to live in a residential program for weeks with their canine companions while completing a training program. Organizations typically invest over a hundred thousand dollars in their animals, from breeding to medical to food to training. But what people don’t know is, Evan cheated. He approached a family member of Max’s recently deceased owner and offered him a large sum of money for the animal in exchange for the relative’s silence. Evan is completely unskilled as a guide dog client. And he’s grossly unfit to care for any animal.    

#

It’s almost 11:00 when Evan and Max arrive at Park Street Station to catch the Green Line train. Evan mutters under his breath. He gives Max a painful jerk on his leash, an action not unnoticed by several passers-by. They give Evan dirty looks and they shake their heads in disgust feeling sorry for the dog. Several people consider reporting him to the police. 

    As a train approaches, Evan steps toward the yellow rubber warning stripe lining the subway pit. Even in his inebriated state, Evan can feel the difference in the surface under his feet. He realizes that he is perilously close to the edge and at the last moment he catches himself, balancing on the balls of his feet.

    Max knows it is now or never.  The dog circles around behind Evan and charges at him, planting his front paws squarely on Evan’s butt. The force of the 72-pound animal causes Evan to topple over into the pit. Fortunately for Max, Evan drops his hold on the leash, leaving Max behind on the platform.  Passengers watch in horror as Evan bounces off of one track rail and onto the second. Then he starts crawling the wrong way—toward the third rail.

    “NO!”

    “GO BACK!”

    But it’s too late. Evan comes into contact with the 660-volt electrified rail and is electrocuted. Before onlookers can render assistance, an oncoming train runs over him, slicing his torso in half.  In all of the horror and confusion, Max bolts up the stairs and escapes the subway station unnoticed. He is never seen again.

Phil Temples resides in Watertown, Massachusetts, USA. He's published six mystery-thriller novels, a novella, and four story anthologies in addition to over 240 short online stories. Phil also likes to dabble in mobile photography. He is a member of GrubStreet and the Bagel Bards. You can learn more about Phil by visiting his website at https://temples.com.

Kansas City Airport By Kent Fielding

She sits at the bar

Drinking a beer, empty shot

Glass near her right hand. 

It’s 5 am and she is alone.

Her feet are on a nearby 

stool. Her lips are forming 

The words, “Who the fuck cares.” 

What are these moments – 

The 5 a.m. need for a drink 

In a town she is escaping.

The desire to flee from thought

From emotion, from the man

She has just left with the handwritten

Note: Mark, you are not good 

In bed, you are not good with your hands

On my body or anywhere else.

You are not good at commitment.

Love is about doing things for another

When it is needed.

Even if you don’t 

Want to do those things. 

You don’t know how

To change the oil in a car,

Vacuum or mop a floor, 

Cook an egg. Did we really

Just fall in love conjugating 

Verbs in Latin class?

It’s 2 am and I’m getting 

On a flight in four hours,

And I’m better at saying goodbye

Than you. Remember our old saying,

It is better to drink off a good

Sleep than to meet the day. Remember 

That when you wake, there’s whiskey

In the cabinet. I left shot glasses

On the table. Take care of yourself.

You don’t do that well either.

Here is to two years. Love, 

Rebecca. The bartender is

Still opening for the morning

Breakfast rush and the potential

Bloody-Mary. The girl, Rebecca,

Raises her hand and motions

For another round.  

Kent Fielding – educator, editor, poet, activist – co-founded White Fields Press and the literary renaissance with Ron Whitehead in 1992. Fielding is an Honorary Kentucky Colonel, a BP Teacher of Excellence, an Alaska Teacher of the Year Finalist, 2021 Alaska Speech and Debate Coach of the Year. He has taught in the Marshall Islands, at Jefferson Community College, University of Alaska Southeast, Mt. Edgecumbe, Skagway High School, and at summer institutes in Turkey and Latvia. Author of a book of poetry, Chief Iffuccan, a chapbook, The Revolution is About to Begin, and a broadside “Museums” (Cheek Press 2023), his work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Asheville Poetry Review, The Jefferson Review, Pavement Saw, Modern Haiku, The Beat Scene, Frisk Magazine, Boog Literature, Night Owl Narrative: A Cajun Mutt Rag, and Tidal Echoes, among others.