Driving Down NASCAR Lane I Notice the Empty Lot Where our Rented Trailer Sat for Many Years By jim bourey

I did the best I could cleaning

the rented trailer. It was old, dirty,

full of pet hair and beer cans,

sad prints of beautiful places

in cheap frames hanging at odd angles. 

The stove (my god that stove) was a sure 

source of disease. I got it mostly clean.

Then I drove the 500 miles north

in the piano store delivery truck

to get our stuff.

She had everything packed,

ready to go. But she was still

angry. At least the kids 

were excited. So, we drove 

back south, me in the truck 

with the oldest, her in the beater brown

Nova with the little one. We stopped 

more often than we should have.

I might have been purposely delaying

our arrival. She wasn’t going to like it,

this old green mobile home in the run down

park, on NASCAR Lane, for god’s sake.

We got to the trailer on that hot summer day in 1980.

She walked through the place, glancing 

around, tight lipped. 

I showed the girls their rooms. 

When I looked back down the hall

to the kitchen, she was kneeling in front of the stove,

sponge and Easy-Off Oven Cleaner 

in her rubber-gloved hands. 

At least she wasn’t sobbing. 

She was just trying to clean up my mess.

jim bourey is an old poet who lives on the edge of the Adirondacks. His books include Out There and Back Again and The Distance Between Us, both from Cold River Press. He also co-wrote Season of Harvest with poet Linda Blaskey, published by Pond Road Press. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies. He can often be found reading aloud in dimly lit rooms. jim lives in Dickinson Center, NY with his wife Linda.

Curt’s Leg By Trish Saunders

Finally, you come to the reason for your visit: 

Whatever happened to Cousin Curt? 

I'll tell you, but first a stiff bourbon, no ice, and no questions after. 

Curt gave up his diet of Fatso’s Fried Chicken; coke, booze and ecstasy;

 5-Hour Energy Shakes; and a crazy ex-wife who shot holes 

in his leather jacket. But losing his Harley after losing his license— 

that knocked the heart out of him, silenced his merry baritone belting out,

"Mississippi moon, won’t you keep on shining.” 

If our cousin phoned someone in his final hour, after a copperhead

snuck into his tent in the Arizona White Mountains, 

sank its fangs into Curt's left calf, 

I don’t know who he would have called. God, maybe.

Curt had found religion at last. I’m sure he sent out prayers that night, 

and who can say they went unanswered.

Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle and Honolulu. She has work in The American Journal of Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, and Silver Birch Press, and other places.    

 

Why I Hate Election Years By Leah Mueller

I have already tried in a tiny room to see a larger one but there is no space left can you understand this can it even be done without a hula hoop or a piece of pie or a poodle mohawk no one knows and I am not anyone the last time somebody trifled with me I pushed them they pushed me and then I ran and hid inside a fish floating beside a plate the bottle remained on the shelf without a glass it looked like stars it looked like shooting it came after me despite my attempts to conceal what I was thinking sometimes my thoughts are like worms in shoes the confusion comes and goes in red waves and blue waves and everyone slamming their fists on the table of their mind a bottle of thoughts a bottle of rage shaken by an invisible hand a tornado of carbonation a Bible in one glove and a gun in the other why do I keep wandering across the land looking for corners when there are only cul-de-sacs filled with cats whose teeth are bared oh America you have not disappointed me you are exactly what I expected stretched out on a hospital bed with your tub of fluids clock beating in time with your frail heart the center of which turns like a kaleidoscope of fury I will love you again on the condition that you love me back your handles grasp me even as I try to take hold of them again and again and again it can’t be long now I wish it would stop it never stops your field still holds me captive and my mother is in her trailer my mother is crazy and my brother is a criminal we are all criminals and we are all saints like traffic lights turning red then green then yellow just keep going the same speed to be on the safe side but there is no safety in the desert no safety in the ocean no safety in your mind just you America 

Leah Mueller is a Tulsa-based poet and prose writer. Her work is published in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. She has been featured in numerous venues, including the New York Poetry Festival, Creative Colloquy in Tacoma, WA, and Everett Poetry Night in Everett, WA. Leah is a freelance arts journalist for the Sierra Vista Herald/Review. Her fourteenth book, "Stealing Buddha" was published by Anxiety Press in 2024. Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.

The (Not-So-Politically-Correct-Trigger-Happy) Song By Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos

Margaret was late, and she hated running late as much as she hated waiting. As she made for the door of the conference room, Karen grabbed her arm and, as the head of Human Resources, advised her to hire Chris. He might not be the best candidate for the job—far from it—but he was their chance to get The Badge; the logo to add at the bottom of their home page, the smiley face to officialise them as being politically correct, the seal of approval from a society that read titles, glanced at pictures, and judged within seconds without bothering to read further, to investigate, to learn. A society that ignored the fine print or reality.

Karen shook her head. ‘No pressure, Margaret, but… we need to hire men… I know it’s ridiculous, but this one is old, he’ll retire soon enough’

Margaret had attended many meetings about the new company’s ‘inclusive’ policy. She sighed and nodded.

The problem with Chris was that everything triggered him; being greeted in the morning, anyone putting the kettle on without asking him first if he would like a cuppa, talking about one’s cat or dog, kids were also a no-no as were parents. 

The IT skills mentioned on his CV had obviously been a lie. He hated computers, refused to use spell check, to format documents—the Enter key sent him into a panic—or to use the printer. He did not answer the phone, and needed long breaks—as long as most people’s days off.

Chris would not be in a room where there were bananas, brown sofas, pineapple, Guinness, white chocolate, red meat, carrots tops, white trainers, nuts, staplers, pink shirts, orange cheese, rose, green tea, leather, black notebooks, the colour yellow, blue soap, coffee, black and red pens, spider plants, lavender, rosemary, face cream, hairy legs and armpits, led lights, green books, ponytails, brown rice, grey birds. Straight married people and women made him sweat.

When Margaret first mentioned the lack of formatting of his marketing report, he got so upset, he deleted the whole document and called in sick for a week.

He refused to take the minutes for the staff meeting—it was a woman’s job. The fact that he was the Admin Assistant was lost on him.

He took a two-hour lunch break, because his DNA test showed he was 1% French. N’importe quoi.

Margaret sent him on three computer courses ‘The Enter key is your friend’, ‘As simple as pressing on and off’ and ‘Printing made easy’, five ‘How to communicate with your coworkers’ seminars and two marketing training sessions before she gave up. She took over the admin of the department and waited for Chris to retire.

On his last day, she organised a party at the local pub—an old-fashioned joint with brown leather sofas and bright yellow walls serving Guinness and rose. They all chipped in to buy him a couple of black notebooks and red and black pens. She stapled branches of lavender and rosemary on the gift bag.

Margaret got drunk on rose to celebrate her department finally being free of him and having the potential to become efficient. When the band started playing, she crawled on the stage and grabbed the microphone. “I’ve written a song for you, Chris.”

The room fell silent until Karen clapped and cheered and whistled.

Margaret nodded to the band and began singing.

“You love coffee? 

You have a cat?

Your favourite colour is yellow?

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.

You have a relationship with your kids?

You forgave your parents?

You talk to friends who disagree with you?

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.

You eat red meat?

You like green tea?

You love bananas?

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.

You drink coffee?

You have a brown sofa?

You love lavender?

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.

You’re happy?

You smile?

You laugh out loud?

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.

Da dee da da dee.

Whatever you do, you trigger me.”

Karen too had drunk more than her share (of Guinness), and crying with laughter, filmed the performance and uploaded it. It went viral.

Chris’s lawyer—a she-devil named Christine—sent a perfectly formatted complaint to the board and threatened to sue Margaret for harassment. The company was forced to send Chris a large check to cover the emotional trauma he suffered and strongly suggested for both Margaret and Karen to resign.

Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature & music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, and hates easy opening packaging. Her words can be found in Roi Fainéant Press, BULL, Epistemic Literary, The Hooghly Review, Revolution John, Spare Parts Lit, JAKE, among others. She is a contributor to Poverty House and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was selected as a Runner-up at the Irish Novel Fair 2024. She lives in Athens, Greece. 

X/Facebook: @DelGeo14

https://delphinegg.weebly.com/

Mr. Jorgensen Holds His Shovel Closer Every Day By John Doyle

For Fionnuala and Susan Farragher

Moonlight is never less than equal to me,

though I'm colder than the moon.

Sunlight is brighter as my creed wriggles from my soul,

though my soul transmits a light sundown weaves its shadows from.

The patience of stones on the beach

made me sick of New York City, Mercury, and Utopia, their conjured evil and their ill-fitted moments.

I think it's wiser to pretend we belong there, 

stay as fast as the moon,

as tame as the sun,

as patient as a stone on the beach

writing songs I spy on Dennis Wilson handing to his pockets, 

examining his beard.

Gathered for my mouth

smoky puffs mime what dusk used to speak

in Summer, 

coming in like a moon saved from the sins of wedlock,

who screams that none of us are equal

when none of this showed up in the coroner's report.

Mr. Jorgensen (a man whose great-great uncle brought prosperity to this town)

handles that shovel like he's never dreamed of being in a rock n' roll band,

I'll make some things from the other things the sun and the moon

and the mysteries that laugh beneath the water

asked me to bring home with me today.

It'll be a song - for Mr. Jorgensen, who spends high-noon

making Jesus proud of his garden,

a place equal to the easy wilds of the beach

I wish I could bring him to see,

every second of every morning

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.

In Silence By April Ridge

A Saturday, with nothing to do,

is sweeter than 

a heavy grape on the vine. 

To have 

free time 

to laze about 

the spirit in the hand 

of the day 

is a graceful, naked thing 

a busy body craves 

like a cold wants 

comfort in the wind. 

How are we 

to know 

the joy of living 

without a little leisure 

from time to time? 

I soak my skin 

in early morning mostly silence, 

the whirl of fountains, 

the skitter of two cats 

rushing up the carpeted stairs 

back and forth in the darkness 

before I rise to meet their needs. 

To meet my needs 

I think I'll lay here 

another 15 minutes 

and listen to the fans 

push the humid air 

around and over the bed, 

listen to the words 

genuflex in my waking head.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom. 

Them Voices By Michael E. Duckwall

 I tried talking to myself, they say

ten different voices in one head

means “Schizophrenia?”

or however you spell it.

The voices say “My spelling is fine!”

You can “Fuck off!”

if you think otherwise.

Them voices, they’re something.

At least they make me smile

sometimes. This life

it's beating me down

to the point of thoughts

that we don’t talk about.

Do you think them too?

A question that’s forbidden.

How many of us just want to leave?

“Exit, stage door left!”

Get straight the fuck out of this chaos

this life. I tried talking to myself.

I wouldn’t listen.

They wouldn't listen.

We never listen.

Michael E. Duckwall was born and raised in the Ohio Valley. A featured poet at the 10th and final Gonzofest in Louisville Ky. Michael’s poetry, artwork and photography have been in a handful of magazines and anthologies, along with numerous online features. He has a couple of chapbooks in publication and one limited edition co-authored chapbook you may have missed out on.

Loaded Gun By Walden Quinn Caesar

 

Don't breathe,

Hold it in

Stay silent,

Don't open your mouth

Because if I speak

If I breathe

Then I risk

Falling to pieces

In this sea of

Strange faces

You see, I'm 

Barely holding it together

And I'm afraid

The simple act

Of breathing

Will lead to me

Needing

A new kind of help

I don't want to talk about

The mental strain

The way my brain

Is constantly on fire

And I almost wish

People would stop

Asking how I am

The question,

Less a question

And more an obligation

They don't want honesty

Just a generic answer

It's like a game of Russian roulette 

And I'm the asshole they pray

They won't get

Because I'm a little too honest

Don't breathe,

Hold it in

Don't know when

I'll be okay again 

But sometimes

I wonder

If I'm really the asshole,

Or the loaded gun

Either way,

They don't want my answer.

Walden Quinn Caesar is a nonbinary poet, novelist and author living in Southeast Indiana with their family. They have had a chapbook, novel and hybrid novel published by Alien Buddha Press, have a full length poetry collection due in November and just published a chapbook with Jude Miller. They've been published in numerous online and printed anthologies, and are the creator, editor and reviewer at Walden's Poetry & Reviews.

Far Beyond Sinister By Laura Shell

David's hand slipped off the wrench and bashed into the edge of the wooden work table. Holding said hand and experiencing an obscene level of pain, he emitted a slew of curse words that would have made Samuel L. Jackson clap. What he didn't know was that he'd not only smashed into the table but also obliterated a small sac of spider eggs. 

David looked at the back of his hand and could literally see the swelling occur. Also, a small cut was on top of the forming mound with a touch of blood and green ooze. 

"Yuck."

The contusion continued to grow in size. He knew exactly what his wife was going to say—he'd need to have it x-rayed. Well fuck that shit. He wasn't going to waste the time to go into any emergency room and wait around to inevitably hear the words "It's broken" or "It's fractured." 

Boo. Pfft.

He had shit to do.

But goddamn, did it hurt. But goddamn if he was going to admit that.

He'd ice it for a while. The immense swelling was due to his blood thinners—it had to be.

So David went into the house, grabbed an ice pack, sat in the living room, and iced his wound. And sure as shit, his wife did indeed tell him he needed to get an x-ray.

"I'll be fine."

But David wasn't going to be fine because something far beyond sinister was going on with that wound, far beyond swelling and pain.

It happened when the cold met the cut. Those microscopic spider eggs invaded David's bloodstream, and the cold had sealed the deal.

That night, David woke up with a serious, sharp pain, which confused him because the swelling in his hand had gone down. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand and examined the wound.

It pulsed.

Pulsed? What the fuck?

His wife woke, knuckled her eyelids, and then she, too, examined his pulsating wound with an expletive.

Suddenly, David's flesh opened, and a burst of tiny green spiders shot up. They landed all over his hand and on the bedspread, where they dashed in different directions.

His wife screamed.

He screamed.

The spiders screamed.

Over and over, David's wife said, "I told you to get an x-ray!"

Laura Shell has been published in NUNUM, Maudlin House, Citron Review, and many others. Her first anthology of paranormal stories, The Canine Collection, was released this year, and she is currently working on her second anthology. You can find out more about her at https://laurashellhorror.wordpress.com.

Happy Didn’t Pay His Bar Tab By Wayne Russell

Happy didn’t pay his bar tab at the huge disco tech in Spain,

The BMC was run by the British and the two Scottish ladies

insisted that they pick up his night of drunken debauchery.

Happy and his two new friends were seated at a booth, while

the music pulsated all around them, they spoke fondly of home,

but admired the incredible night life and the warmth of Spain.

They nibbled on fish and chips topped with vinegar, copious 

amounts of alcohol were consumed; Happy excused himself

for a run to the loo, he got sidetracked and befriended a woman

of Indian decent, she resided in Sweden; Happy was smitten;

the two Scottish women carried on the night without him; as 

if they never had even met.   

Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, singer, artist, rhythm guitarist, photographer, and author of the poetry books “Splinter of the Moon” and "Waves of Lucidity", both published via Silver Bow Publishing, they are both available for purchase on Amazon in paperback and digital formats such as Ingram Distribution at your local library.

 

  

Who The Fuck is the Editor? By Alex S. Johnson

Who the fuck is the editor?

The editor's up there 

in the loft, with mirror shades

smoking a Dunhills cigarette 

an elegant hooligan in a 

pinstripe suit

with quantum cufflinks 

With M-80s in his pocket and 

a smile like lightning glimpsed 

through the eye of a 

hurricane

He's standing by

the eternal shoreline now

in his board shorts, with 

luminous blond hair and 

a dazzling style 

zig-zagged through his profile

Also Who the Fuck

came running alongside

snapping photographs

of dirty underwear

And glowicky flesh.

The strung-together beads of 

celebrity

under close observation

resembled hieroglyphs

a moon alphabet

dream ciphers

your face absorbed in the

Vantablack dark 

Who the Fuck is 

Time ran

Off the rails in a 

spectacular chain reaction

That demon pose beloved of

angelic journalists

Rushing forever towards the 

eclipsed shoulder of 

the 

Holy Spirit. 

Known for an innovative style that combines elements of Beat poetry, the Romantics, Dada and Surrealism, hip-hop, black metal and jazz, Alex S. Johnson has been published in numerous venues over the years, including the HYDROPHOBIA anthology, poeticdiversity, HWA POETRY SHOWCASE VOLUME III, ALTERNATE LANES, Horror Sleaze Trash, Unlikely Stories and 13 Mynah Birds, among many more. He is the author of the dark poetry collections THE DEATH JAZZ, SKULL VINYL, THE FLOWERS OF DOOM and THUNDERSTRUCK, the latter in collaboration with Sandy DeLuca and Alea Celeste Williams. In 2011 he was a featured reader at the renowned Beyond Baroque venue in Venice Beach and has read alongside punk poetry icon Iris Berry. His current projects include THE JUNK MERCHANTS 2: A LITERARY TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS and ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE: A DISASTER RELIEF ANTHOLOGY with contributions by such luminaries as Susan Shwartz and Alexandra Honigsberg. Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family. 

the golden mile By Stephen House

back then it was called the golden mile and golden it certainly was / with night-life trappings from end to end in nothing could equal Oxford Street / i was told how globally unique it was by a foreign one-night fling / and i suppose we all knew that and travelled to get there if we didn’t reside in Sydney / nights would start at the famous corner pub situated across from Taylor Square / the hottest place in town to meet and see what happened from there / by midnight and several well-priced pints the chat of where we were heading bounced / and there was no lack of places to go along that road so we let it take us to where it would / it was a queer street without any doubt at all but also had a hetero-not-sure sway / and i suppose that gave it an edgy element of anything at all might present / across the road from the meet-up pub the drag shows ran non-stop / the queens all headed into the lights providing fabulous show-girl entertainment / so began the one mile trawl from bar to bar of lets-stop-here for a beer / until about 1am when the dance club line ups began stretching on forever / the cover charges and spirits were cheaper back then even when you look at the different time / it was definitely easier to party for many and the socio-economic mix added much / but the golden mile wasn’t all glitz and glamour with plenty of secret doorways / leading up stairways to hidden cruise clubs and back rooms where the flesh play was in full-swing / i guess one can always pretend that gold never tarnishes but any observer saw the darker sides / addiction and desperate loneliness on a street that could also be sad and wasted / and those wobbling alone at dawn-night-end without trick they were sure they’d find / until the after-parties and day-clubs emerged and a pill or two kept things rolling / one day could slide dangerously into the next on the golden mile of always a party / for gold will always glow longer than silver and bronze if someone is still there to adore it / that shine of what happened on that pumping mile will always live on in memories / and no-one can take a pure gold time away if it existed and was one’s reality //

    

Stephen House has won awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, with 20 plays produced, many published by Australian Plays Transform, and produced nationally and internationally. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink residency to India. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. He’s performed his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen's recently had a play run in Spain for 4 years.

White Horse Tavern By Terrence Sykes

….unattributed to Dylan Thomas

I died with the taste

of cheap whisky

upon my breath

and malty regret

upon my lips 

Terrence Sykes is a GASP Gay Alcoholic Southern Poet & was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.     Although he is a far better cook &  gardener – his  poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA. ..Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .

Past Midnight Off Spencer By Scott Simmons

I see the empty road and think of her.

The static of the radio reminding me of distant memories shared between two tortured souls.

As I remember the chaos of her storm.

And every beautiful moment in between.

Along with the pain of letting it all go.

But cherish everything.

With only the stars as my remaining company.

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

Incineration Pajamas By Wendy Cartwright

A nightgown filled with banana peels and sharp cheddar

on my loveseat

burns the midnight oil

The trash truck made its rounds this morning

I guess I’ll let it smolder

Wendy Cartwright is a poet/author/reporter/columnist/weirdo out of Columbus, Indiana. Her travels have taken her as far as Mayan Ruins and as near as the filling station. Her undiscerning tastes allow her to find creative fodder regardless of location. She has been published in various print anthologies and been featured in online publications. With three self-published books, she has the most of anyone on her block.

Last Call By Jake St. John

Loneliness

ain't the greatest

drinking buddy

but sometimes

he's the only one

we got.

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."

There Really is a Bottom By Don Robishaw

You’re on the road to tent city with our friend Fran.

  It’s the path to hard ground.

 Five minutes from tents remove wine from brown sack.

  Again fill skin to the brim.

 Four minutes from tents what can you do?

 What’s the word? 

  Thunderbird! 

 What’s the price?

  Thirty twice. 

 Tip back and squeeze.

What’s next?

 Stop one minute from tent city.

  Make love on hard ground, 

 under bridge over bottomless river.

  Fran refuses my fin, 

 later she cry. 

Christ Sakes man that vet ain’t no hoe.

 Rest on granite stone, 

  don’t look at each other,

 We shiver, 

  Who is Malcolm? 

 Fran asks as she touches ink on my arm.

  Sorry darlin’ never talk bout Malcolm.

 Turn to stare, 

  stare out at the muddy river. 

Willie you mean bottomless river.

  No bro there really is a bottom,

 and it looks like Fran and me.

Don Robishaw’s collection of five FF tales found in, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest.

Don’s short story entitled,’Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat 2018 Chapbook Contest.

fuck By Chris Dean

It's 7am and I want to drink

I want to drown

I want to lose myself

in a haze of

fuck the world

fuck this shit

fuck my life

I want to drown

until I forgot my name

silence my mind

bury my soul at sea

until the booze tastes of tears

straight up, neat

until I'm as empty

as the bottle will be by noon

Chris Dean is a storyteller, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed Magpie Poet who writes from the heart of Indiana where they live with their husband, dog and too many cats to mention. 

Their work has been featured online, in multiple print anthologies and they are the author of two books of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl and We're All Stories in the End, published by Storeylines Press. 

One Last Call By Cat Dixon

I need to write—Shakespeare, coffee, cigarettes,

tequila, music, drugs—to make the rain 

stop, to swim in the lake, to plug the leak 

of the first couple chapters. Finally, my story

will be told. Burn all the books.

What should be the ending? 

I grow old—a flawed portrait of an apple-eater,

a deep-rooted healer, a hack, a sham, an ahem,

a chapter one that’s never been written. While

chopping wood, waiting for the weather 

to change, I hum the Lollipop Song.

Where do the stars go?

They splash each other while treading light.

For five cents they’ll give you advice—listen,

you haven’t lived. You haven’t swum

upstream. This is all I am and all I’ll ever be.

They can’t make it back to shore. 

Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Poor Ezra’s Almanac, and Moon City Review.

What Was She Gonna Do? By Kevin M. Hibshman

School was a drag.
Her parents weren't interested in hearing about her

 teenage blues.
The town she lived in was ruled over by the cruel

and moneyed few.
She was passably pretty, not a bombshell by any

means, with a bird-like figure and freckles.
What was she gonna do?
She got a car and they all took her for a ride but

she knew where she was going.
Right down to the curb of the nearest dead-end 

street.
What was she gonna do?
What kind of job could she get save for serving

 the masses with their bad manners and snide

comments?
She hung out at the bars and the bowling alley.

Places for those with zero prospects where the

thrills were cheapest.
It was all she could afford.
She made time with anyone who came by.
Drifting on the sullen tide.
It was just another Saturday night.
It wasn't that she wanted to be a bad girl.
Perhaps we might label her as misunderstood?
What was she gonna do?
Anything she damn well could.

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. 

Dancing angels and a murder ballad. By Dennis Moriarty

The fire is fed, the whisky poured,

the joint rolled.

I poke, sip and inhale, watching a

clock that does not tick,

a pendulum that does not swing, time

tonight is on my side.

I sing along to a murder ballad, my

finger poised

on the trigger of an imaginary gun, a

midnight showdown

on my lips. The room flickers in the

shadows cast by firelight,

the hearth a stage occupied by a 70’s

dance troupe of angels

gyrating with the devil. I hear spiders

spinning their webs,

talking out loud, openly discussing my

state of mind.

Suddenly the clock begins to tick, the

pendulum swing

between sanity and madness, time no

longer on my side. I squeeze

the trigger and the song lays dying on

on my lips, the fire spits

and hisses like a snake on speed.

The spiders scream

in an agony of their own spinning.

The glass is drained,

the joint smoked, ash falling, silent as

snowflakes from the tip

and through the grate. The angels are

consumed by flames.

I close my eyes to the crackle of the

devil’s laughter.

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.

Between Dragonflies and Socrates By Rita S. Spalding

On the bridge a swarm of golden dragonflies.

They circle around me like a honeybee's hive;

not knowing if they want dinner or a dance,

standing still long enough for them to decide,

i laugh aloud at their circling dilemma.

The great blue heron balances on one leg.

He looks like a silent king with his thin crown;

perfectly held in place he weighs my existence,

flies into the setting sun nodding his wings,

as if he remembers me, his lost earth child.

Wind blows the sketch of lacy hemlocks my way.

Air delivers their itchiness into my fair soft skin;

suddenly while standing on this sacred bridge,

i think of brave sadness and cold suffering, 

Socrates’ dear enlightened hemlock tea.

Wondering how bad it all tasted for him to leave.

Past the wisdom and youth of this beautiful world;

wondering about the dragonflies and their song,

and if I’ll ever see their golden wings again,

the sun pulling a blanket of darkness to her chin.

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.  

Whiskey River By Richard Stimac

Some prisons are their own escape. Like memory
pours itself into its own Platonic forms,

our recollections make the past, not recognize it.
That’s why whiskey is a magical genie. Rethinking

becomes free form, as Willie Nelson sang, partially
right. The whiskey river takes us, yet we do not drown,

but like runaways confused of the compass points,
float downriver, some of us Huck, others Jim.

We don’t often get to choose. I tell myself,
when I pour a fourth small nip of a bottle I saved,

in theory, for others: Huck chose Hell and the West.
Jim? What exactly did Jim choose? To be decent.

I select a $50 bourbon and the Midwest. Twain
would have understood. There is only so much

America a white person can stomach. Before vomiting,
experts say drink water. Mine is from the Mississippi.

When you add water to whiskey, the oil separates,
floats on top in small threads, like the yarns

river boatmen told, or the slicks at the refinery
near Wood River, where Lewis and Clark first camped

for the winter before poling their commission upstream.
My privilege is that my freedom resides in a bottle.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.