Bawdy Blue Rose By Merritt Waldon

All days remembered with fractalian

Digits

Patterned existences

Multiple everywheres

Celestial Terrestrial

Et cetera  

Minds drip

Sadly down the great

American painting of

Bawdy Blue rose

Swaying beyond

Eternity

Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,

The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.

At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.

Elegy By PW Covington

He seemed to know his way around by soul

In any town that we can to

While remaining the consummate stranger

Brown-eyed

Passing through

Burning ambition for warmth in the night

Listening for love and only ever hearing echoes

The prophet of highway happenstance and truck stops

     and smoky neon light-filled rooms night

So deep in Mason Dixon

It almost made him want to cry

He told me once, while high

Sipping beer from a bag that night in Pensacola

How to hitchhike into Houston, out of San Antone

Or find a flop in Tucson to lay low

Those desperate places, next to nail salons

Where flesh is bought and sold

He seemed to know every County Road

Or Metro line, by heart

Airports were his haunts

Worked, a while, as a deckhand

In the deep blue cobalt Gulf

Of Mexico, he’d often talk about

Months with the Tarahumara 

     and the railroad to Los Mochis

He knew the alleyways of Santa Fe

     and his way around Capitol Hill

Where to find the cheapest lid on Colfax

     and the way from Mount St. Helens

Up to Deception Pass

Always feeling himself fueled mostly by momentum

He seemed to know his way around by soul

Brown-eyed, passing through

PW Covington is the NBPF's 2024-2026 New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate.

 Writing in the Beat tradition of the North American Highway, PW Covington has spent decades traveling in support of his writing, and encouraging the creativity of others.

 Covington's latest collection of poetry Vintage Denim is available from Alien Buddha Press.

  PW lives just south of Historic Route 66 in Albuquerque, NM, where he has worked on film and television productions such as Better Call Saul and The Cleaning Lady.

Shock the Monkey By Jeff Weddle

I suppose the monkey was a terror,

but it never had a chance.

Maybe it was a biter or

perhaps threw its shit at people.

Still, did it deserve to be murdered?

The father took the son

on a camping trip, the only time

this ever happened,

and the monkey

was left at home,

alone with the mother.

There was an electrical outlet and a fork

and, when the father and son returned,

a dead monkey on the counter.

The mother was fine or better.

Did I mention madness ran in the family?

As far as I know,

the boy never had another pet

until he was grown

and his parents

were as dead as the monkey,

which remains, unavenged

and forgotten,

in a shoebox, two feet deep

behind the porch.

The boy lasted for another fifty years

but finally drank himself into an early grave.

The monkey, safe in heaven,

ate a banana

and bided its time,

because

even in paradise,

sin blots the soul,

and payback is delicious.

It was always going to be

hell.

 

Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the Eudora Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry, including being named the first State of Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026) by the National Beat Poetry Foundation. His work has appeared in Albanian and Spanish translation. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama.

 

Only Pretending By Michael Minassian

In college, I dated Bonnie, a writer,

though she claimed to be Helen,

the most beautiful woman on earth,

and only undressed in the dark

I’m doing this to protect you, 

she whispered, as serious as rain.

She told me that she wrote

about me every day, 

a lie I only half believed,

wondering what other fictions

were in her journal

or on the tip of her tongue.

She showed me poems

with our names erased,

saying it was easier to pretend.

No matter what I believed,

getting the truth from her

was like trying to peel water.

Impersonating herself,

she always stood

at the outskirts of affection,

words circling the drain

or in hiding, crouching,

long after she was gone.

MICHAEL MINASSIAN lives with his wife in Southern New England. He is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

 

Shaking hands By Julian Thumm

“Are your hands shaking?" 

My brother asks 

They were...

  Dehydration

             I mutter

  Disordered malnutrition or

  Sun stroke

Whatever seems plausible

Is flung against the wall

In desperation

To slowly sluice 

with pathos down 

before our eyes

My glorified debauchery 

   (The gutter aesthete

   With admiration

   Exploring the fecund swill)

Has a grim slimy taint

Under this wholesome

Unforgiving glare

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

 

Crumbled Pedestals By Skaja Evens

I love you
It’s just my life is full
I hope you understand why my replies are farther apart.
I trust you to process that as you will.

Probably meant in all earnestness and sincerity
But still stings
I’m a ride or die, but you never were to me.
How can I feel anything else
Except expendable?

Skaja Evens is a Best of the Net-nominated writer living in SE Virginia. Her work has appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Spillwords Press, Ink Pantry, Blue Pepper, among others. Her first book, conscientia veritatis, from Whiskey City Press, is available on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/conscientia-veritatis-Skaja-Evens/dp/B0CZTRN7ZP

Until The Next.. By Chris Lihou

 What a night! What a party! Stumbling home with a mouth that feels like sandpaper to my tongue and with a residual taste of vindaloo, I seek out a late-night drug store. 

 

My frazzled brain screams for something to counteract the excessive drink. I look at the counter unable to make a choice, pain relief or stomach relief, vitamins, or rehydration fluids or all of them. 

 

I’m amazed to see a leprechaun sitting on the shelf beside the paracetamol. I rub my eyes in disbelief but he’s still there - a little man in a green jacket, short green trousers, a green hat and sporting a bushy red beard. “Go home,” he tells me, “Have a full Irish breakfast; bacon, sausages, eggs (scrambled or fried), white pudding, a grilled tomato, beans, mushrooms, hash browns plus toast with butter and jam.”

 

I rush out of the store and vomit in the street at the thought of such a disgusting meal and decide I’m never going to drink again.

 

At least not until the next time.

 

I return to the drugstore. At the same counter, the little green leprechaun mockingly says, “Hello again, eejit”. I tell him to bugger off, pick up two bottles of a very unnatural blue fluid full of electrolytes. The cashier was grateful for the Plexiglas screen when I paid, shielding him from the unpleasantness of my inebriated state. 

 

Outside, I gargled the first mouthful of blueness and quickly drank the rest of the bottle. The second bottle defied my uncoordinated ability to open it, so with an expletive I threw it, narrowly missing my intended lamppost target --- and staggered homeward. 

 

As I lurch along, I become increasingly alarmed at the prospect of my live-in girlfriend Alice’s reaction to my arrival, if she is awake. 

 

Of course, Alice will be awake! She’s seen me inebriated before and would not be surprised to find me sleeping it off on the couch. But, like a truffle searching Lagotto dog, I’m concerned that she will detect the scent of another woman buried beneath my musk of booze, smoke, body odour and vindaloo. 

 

Earlier in the evening, Amanda and I had found ourselves in a comfortable corner where silly, drink-fuelled jokes progressed to a full-on snog. She gave approving moans through our attached mouths as my hand reached under her blouse to locate her breast. Embarrassingly, her hand to my crotch found me with a brewer's droop which prematurely ended our coupling; Amanda pulled away - “Another time, eh, John!” 

 

I consoled myself with a final pint of Guinness and left. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of Amanda with the young Shaun Ferris. Maybe she’ll have better luck with him.

 

I arrive and fumble, eventually finding the key to open the door to the staircase leading to my first-floor flat. There seem to be more stairs than I remember. As I reach the last step, I trip, keys clattering to the concrete floor. I attempt to stand but my knees seem unable to accommodate my weighty frame. I crawl to my front door, sensing a warm liquid on my chin, my tongue tasting blood from a split lip. And then I see that damn leprechaun again, watching me as I struggle. “You bloody eejit.” I tell him to “Fuck off” unlock the flat door, closing it as quickly as I could to leave the little bastard outside. 

 

I recall nothing until a whisper in my ear says, “Would you like a black coffee?” I’m lying on the couch, fully clothed feeling like yesterday’s, warmed-over, bubble and squeak. A nod from me gets a mug of the hot, obsidian liquid deliberately slammed loudly onto the coffee table next to the leprechaun - how did he get in here? The little man says to me, “She knows, eejit”

 

Alice angrily adds - “Quite the night eh, John, you idiot? When you are clearer headed you had better have a fucking good story to tell me about that woman you were with.”

 

Chris Lihou lives in Somerset. In retirement, Chris has become addicted to writing short stories that speak to the nature of our lives - its highs and lows, our pain and joy, our desires and losses, life’s quirks and realities, and even a bit of its silliness. His first self-published book, "Fifty More or Less,” is available on Amazon. A second one, Fifty or More, is in its final stages, before publication.

Whiskey Row By David Painter

Whiskey Row, where the lost souls go,

where neon flickers like a dying prayer,

where gin joints stink of regret 

and cigarette smoke clouds the room

the room is full of secrets and nobody shares.

The bartender pours with a hollowed stare,

 Glasses clink and some are even clean,

 but the bourbon burns like gasoline.

It’s a place to forget, a place to drown,

a place where twenty bucks buys redemption

but your soul still feels like a clown. .

There are no chiffon, no pearls, no polished floors

 just sweat-stained shirts and unshaven face.

Whiskey Row,at the city's edge,

or down some dark road  

It don’t matter, it’s all the same

it’s a place where the downtrodden go 

with cheap booze and sticky floors. 

it’s a place to forget their name

where you can keep your secrets and no one cares 

David is an International published poet.He is a member of the Inner city writers’ group and penned in the city.His works have been published in Sweetycat Press,Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review,Clarendon House, Spillwords Press,The Writers’ Club,and  Dyst Literary Journal.as well as The World  of Myth,Every Writer,Ohio Bards and Academy of the Heart. He is a member of Ohio Writers Group and West Virginia Writers Group. His book of poems Thoughts Alone the Way  is available on Amazon  

Pause For Poise By Kevin M. Hibshman

Blurred vision in the icy cold morning.

I am freezing beneath many layers of clothing.

It's a good thing I don't have to make the walk today.

February always wants to kill me.

I am relieved when I make it March unscathed.

No dodging speeding cars.

No negotiating slippery asphalt.

No broken ankle.

Goodbye Guillame-Barre Syndrome.

No 104 degree fever today.

I am relatively clear-headed.

Tucked in with the cats and savoring the passing of time.

Is that my breath or the cigarette smoke I seem to be exhaling?

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).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0DKHRDQD5/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=

I got drunk by Stephen House

I got drunk at a party a few weeks ago and I haven’t been drunk in years / I’m fucked if I know how it actually happened as it is not something nowadays I choose / I have one or two beers occasionally and maybe a wine if I’m out for dinner / as knocking back plenty was how I rolled long ago and then I let it go for good / I’ve thought well about how the drunk party happened as the old man I nearly am / and am still lost for reasons how I let it occur though I have a maybe hypothesis / I’ve had the toughest two years I’ve ever had in my life though I won’t bother explaining why / and quite possibly the feeling associated with the wine was related to easier days / I went past the two or three drinks and it slid into five or six / which led me to a place like my crazy youth partying all over the world / an escape from the shit I’ve been dealing with could’ve been the reason for it / or maybe what happened was I got drunk to remind me why I don’t get drunk anymore //       

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 had a play run in Spain from 2019 to 2022.

One-Hit Wonder By Ken Gierke

They may be one hell of a trio,

but they only have one memorable tune,

a one-hit wonder of angst and pain.

Gallbladder, stoned out of its mind,

lets one rip long enough to send

Pancreas into a shrieking fit.

Not to be outdone, Liver responds

with an infectious laugh

that borders on manic.

It’s clear that Gallbladder has to go

but can’t be cut from the act

until Liver settles down.

So, what’s up with Liver, fear of failure?

Never been mistreated, never been

one drink away from destruction.

But if Gallbladder stays stoned,

destruction is inevitable,

and no one wants to hear that tune.

Ken Gierke is retired and 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 The Rye Whiskey Review, Poetry Breakfast, Amethyst Review, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. His poetry collections, Glass Awash in 2022, and Heron Spirit in 2024, were published by Spartan Press. His newest collection, Random Riffs is forthcoming. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

Patience, Mercy, and Music By Manny Grimaldi

She loved to hum jazzy standards, 

and Something About Us

while looking at me. I was 

the color of blushing wine,

always so intoxicated, it wore on her 

as she did everything for us.

Christmas, she put 

crimson ornaments on our bedroom tree, 

and I had eaten six odorless tablets 

so as not to attract

attention, but she knew. Why?  

was the look in the pages of her face, 

dog-eared and bookmarked for future reference: 

This is the journal of my life, be sure 

there is more to say than this.

Manny Grimaldi believes inhaling Big Leafy Frond-sourced oxygen is good for the pancreas and can cure a variety of diseases of the spleen. He grows the real shit deep forest way, Kentucky. Watch for trip-wires and shotguns. The real story is at https://mannygrimaldi.mypixieset.com. His books include Riding Shotgun with the Mothman and ex libris Ioannes Cerva, soon to be followed by Finding a Word to Describe You with Whiskey City Press.

simple song By Joel M Frye

in whispered words

you sing along with

the song of my heart

unconcerned with tune

or harmony

a simple chorus

in unison

the reverb swells

as the presence

multiplies

you and i and love;

with Spirit

adding contrabass

more felt than heard

Joel M. Frye was an American poet who's work largely appeared on the website Hello Poetry.

He will be forever missed by his family and friends.

The Clown's Craving By Patricia Pease

 I don’t belong here. I decided to come early today, to check out this joint. So far, I’m unimpressed. Alcohol ain’t a problem for me, but the court disagrees.

Why can’t my hands stop shakin’? “Just one drink”, the devil on my shoulder whispers. I ain’t had a drink in forty-eight hours, and it feels like ants are crawlin’ under my skin. My heart is hammerin’ in my ribcage like a trapped bird, and my mouth feels rank and parched–swallowin’ hurts. If this is what it’s like to quit drinkin’, I’ll have a bourbon and coke please. Nobody likes a drunk clown. 

Last month I tried jugglin’ sober and the pins kept flyin’ out of my hands. My balance was off on my unicycle. I’m not sayin’ I perform better drunk–just a nip to take the edge off, ya’ know? People laugh at my jokes louder when I’m sauced. I’m funnier that way…ain’t I? Just one sip of booze and the world sings me a lullaby. It feels like I’m in love… tinglin’ down my arms; elated and wantin’ more. 

The birthday party was an easy gig after a fifth of liquor. Children dropped on the ground laughin’ when I fell in the pool….the parents, not so much. The cops were definitely not amused–the judge wasn’t either–ninety meetings in ninety days.

Lately, nobody’s been laughin’. My family’s long-sufferin’ faces twist and stab me with guilt. My body aches; cravin’ alcohol while nausea swamps my stomach–the room’s playin’ hide and seek with my eyeballs. I got here early ‘cause I thought they might help me–these fresh-faced, happy people laughin’ in this shabby place. Maybe there is hope. Maybe I can be funny again. Can I be a sober clown? Just one drink…

Patricia Pease has Patricia Pease has been published in Barren, Hippocampus, Little Old Ladies, BULL, Revolution John and more. She alternates writing while shooing cats off her keyboard. published in Barren, Hippocampus, Little Old Ladies, BULL, Revolution John and more. She alternates writing while shooing cats off her keyboard.

The Age of Luck By April Ridge

What I wouldn't give 

for the knees of a 20 year old,

the mind of a 70 year old,

and the heart of a newborn baby. 

A Frankensteined masterpiece of 

understanding and openness 

who can still go 

up and down those stairs 

in the apartment 

like a champ. 

I think it's natural to yearn

for facets of our former selves

and what we suspect our future selves to be . 

Life is full of a whispering mysticism. 

Surrender. 

Place a mirror up against 

your self image and compare:

is the damage that you feel visible, 

or can it be that 

what you've been sensing

this whole time is 

a trait we all share? 

The broken night,

the rush of time gone by

so effortlessly,

the accumulated aches,

wrinkles, small humorisms 

tracing a well-worn face...

the universal mind fuck of aging,

it comes for us all

if we're lucky.

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. 

The Evolution of Green By Rita S. Spalding

the sun has scorched your edges from inside

in that fire you are the word beautiful

once green new life yellows reds and soon browns

you wave at me as your bold dance begins

in this ballet you twirl amid others

tendu against image that holds you high

embryonic movement in the moment

sending you into the old broken world

gone from roots and predictability

onto a bright stage of higher mountains

never downwards to thoughts that once bore you

gloriously towards the clouds ascending

instinctively your spirit stopping here

today is why the very green was born

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.

BELTED, BUCKLED AND BOOTED By Michael N. Thompson

Blue static crackles

as if this old roadhouse

was a prop in a David Lynch film

A sour man in his fifties

stoic as a housewife

in an unhappy marriage

stares into a bourbon on the rocks

With his half-gray stringy hair

stuffed beneath an NRA baseball cap,

he looks like the live-action demographic

for right-wing cable news 

It’s not hard to imagine him 

cradling a rifle on his front porch

like a penitentiary guard

 Penn Belt & Buckle

being sold and shuttered

hits like the kick from a shotgun

 That was the last of the factories

in this threadbare county

 He tilts back the glass

until all that’s left is ice

and rails about the “deep state”

like a blister about to burst

Sentimental movies

come to life

when the whiskey

works its corrosion 

 

Michael N. Thompson likes bacon, cats and fantasy football.  His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including Word Riot, Toronto Quarterly and San Pedro River Review. He is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being A Murder Of Crows published by University of Hell Press.

walk away By Kurt Nimmo

my wife 

walked away from rehab 

for the second time. 

I drove up and down the strip 

where the bars were

where the drunks were

looking for her. did not see her.

she walked out 

without any money

so I had no idea how the hell 

she would buy the gin she drank.

I had an idea how she would 

get money for drink.

I did not want to think about it. 

on the second trip round

looking up and down the sidewalk

I almost ran a red light. 

slammed

on the brakes and 

saw a woman standing there

in the crosswalk

three inches from the 

front bumper

of my battered old car.

mad black hair 

slashed down across her face 

and two blazing blue eyes. 

when our eyes met

she flipped 

me the finger.

she was not

my wife. 

Kurt Nimmo edited Planet Detroit and PNG Chapbooks in the 1980s and 1990s. He has a published a number of books, including Criminal Class, Invisible Fire, and Tioga Pass. His latest book, Texas & New Mexico, will be released in March. 

Reading Richard Brautigan Drunk By Dan Flore III

I closed the book after reading a passage

it almost grounded me

I needed to step into clearer waters

I was too drunk

it was almost a holy experience

reading him

almost

I remember thinking

I should have read

the Bible

Dan Flore III’s writings have appeared in many publications. He is the author of several books, the latest being EVERYTHING MUST GO. (Cajun Mutt Press)

Taking a Break By Don Robishaw

Two buddies and I pooled resources, put our special training to work, and set up a wilderness school in the swamps. We’re gonna take a break from drinking, too.

That same year, my wife and I set sail on an Alaskan cruiseship for our honeymoon. Like the Swallows of Capistrano, spring-breakers and General MacArthur, we return.

First Anniversary

We relax on a deck under Spanish moss covered Cypress overlooking a swamp. A five-foot alligator slithers into murky brine. My wife slaps at giant mosquitos while inhaling a rotten egg stench that passes through moss-green water.

“Jack, you wanna raise children here?”

“It’s not always like this.” I stand, stagger and fling a whiskey bottle at the gator. After one year of sobriety, my buddies and I start drinking again. Two boys from the army laugh when I miss the gator by twenty-feet.

My wife, former high school sweetheart, frowns. “The swamp, booze, and your buddies. Is that all there is?”

“No.”

We first started drinking the day after two members of our squad died overseas. Ever since, I blame myself when things go wrong.

She peers up into my eyes. “Jack, you’re no longer all state wrestling. I’m your soul-mate.” Encircling her belly counterclockwise, “and we’re your family. ”

My wife’s dreams take precedence. Buds stay in the swamp to run the school. I push the stop button again.

Fifth Anniversary

Rich people hire me to escort them on wilderness trips. I stand, dripping in a Hilton Fairbanks towel, phone in hand, “Hello dear. Miss ya, babe. Have ya made plans?”

“Leaving soon to start our second honeymoon. Our son has a cold and is staying with my Mother. He won’t be coming.”

“There’s a new flight at midnight. Miss ya so much. Can you change your ticket?”

“Don’t like flying at night. I’ll think about it, dear.” 

  “Up to you. Five years since I stopped drinking tomorrow. Love y’all. Tell little Jack we’ll go fishing when we get home.”

Water continues to drip as I step onto the balcony and run my fingers through thinning blond hair. Clients on their way home. The Love of My Life will be here soon. Life is good.

A Different Journey: Seasons of Darkness

Another call. A plane crash. Where’s my wife? My God, I told her to take an earlier flight. I lead a rescue mission and return home with one coffin. My son blames me. Buddies in the swamp become victims of a new strain of malaria and die.

I’m lost somewhere north of Fairbanks, where few stars shine through dark clouds and the wind whistles through treetops. In the blackness, I sit injured on a petrified tree stump, seeking to conquer a fear that’s building.

My previous attempts at suicide failed, survival instincts got in the way. I document the journey, store notebooks in plastic bags, and leave them attached to tree stumps.

Limping through the darkness, I shift the weight of a backpack and soldier on through snow and bitter freezing air.

I jump off a mountain in the dark. No, it’s a twenty-foot cliff. Pain, like the time I was stabbed with a fighting-knife. Floating ribs on the port-side cry out and my upper-body tilts thirty-degrees to starboard. I stand, fish out a shiny object from my army coat that’s served as a companion since the tragedy. Shaking the flask and listening to the swish of Irish whiskey, I twist the cap, swallow and raise both hands to the sky. Ahoy, cruel world!

Will death come this time? Tugging off ebony Gore-Tex gloves and coat, reveals a fancy floral aloha shirt. I sit on another stump and write while waiting to die. Waiting lets my imagination create a private hell.

Survival skills provide the wisdom to overcome years of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair. Can overcoming self-blame be cathartic for me, and instructive for others? 

With bare hands, I wipe snow from a frosty beard . . . blasts of air seep into stiff bones. Pushing off a stump with the help of a hiking-stick, I pull a black watch-cap over my ears, kick my jacket aside and keep on trucking.

I stumble through the trees, numb to the cold. I hear the howls of wolves. In the blackness of winter, I fall a third time onto bare forearms. With renewed strength and energy, I rise like the great Polar Bear. Two wooded paths diverge. One leads to the high ground. I’m drawn to the low ground.

Through wind-blown leafless branches, I see flickering lights and wander out of the dark. Spending ages in darkness, purgatory, and a drunken stupor, anticipating the end. The howls fade away. . .

Fort Lauderdale — One Year Later

I’m at the library signing books. I shake in front of an audience of true life adventure readers. Touching my vest, I feel the weight of an Alcoholic Anonymous token pushing my shirt against my sweaty chest. I needed help, but was too stubborn.

“Jack, I’m with ‘The Sun.’ You coulda shared your memoir with us earlier? Why not!”

I swipe my sweaty bald head and loosen my Miami Dolphins football team necktie. “That’s a good question. ‘The Rest of the Story’ was so damn draining I had to ‘take a break.’

“That’s all I have, for now.” Clutching, almost crushing the fake mahogany podium, I say “Thank y’all for coming.”My son is in the rear. He went to the Alaskan wilderness to retrieve my notes.

I’ll read a brief excerpt from my book before leaving. I choke up . . . turn the page — “Fresh out of the army, Carla and I set sail on an Alaskan cruise ship for our honeymoon. Like spring-breakers, the swallows, and General MacArthur, we return. . .” I close the cover. Little Jack and I are going fishing.

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.