Outrunning By John Drudge

The sign outside buzzes 

Like a drunk preacher 

Spilling light 

Onto the pavement 

Like jazz drums 

Sirens and fryer grease 

Poetry scratched 

Into bus shelter glass 

With a stolen knife 

And everybody bleeding 

Onto the streets 

All nerve and laughter 

Juking through alleys

With empty pockets 

Broken hearts 

And just one more 

Sure scheme 

As the city grinds on

Like an old engine 

Hungry 

Bulletproof 

And as steady

As the 3 AM train 

Outrunning the night

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of four books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), and Fragments (2021). His work has appeared widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

Evil By Shannon O’Connor

I learned about canned

margaritas from the show Evil –

it’s about a team of paranormal investigators

for the Catholic Church.

The main character, Kristen, had climbed Mount 

Everest, graduated with a PhD in Psychology, gave birth to four

daughters, was in her thirties, and found solace 

in margaritas in a can.

I wondered how a person could

accomplish so much by that age, 

but I realized this is a fantasy show,

and it’s not close to reality.

She has the hots for the priest

while they investigate paranormal

activity, possessions, demons,

and Evil.

I tried the margaritas in cans, and they’re

the perfect blend, not like

when I try to mix them myself.

I find when I drink the margaritas, 

I have the desire to find

Evil -

where it’s lurking,

hiding,

so, I can get a dose of 

excitement

in an otherwise boring life.

On Fridays, after I finish work,

I can look for aliens 

depositing toxic mold in Earth houses,

poisoning people

and spreading evil.

I pay attention at my job

to the doctor’s discussions about

psychiatric patients,

and dream of transforming their tragedies

into sci-fi.

I will continue to sip the margaritas and search

for Evil, and a hope for a more interesting

life.

If I can’t live one, at least I can

write about it.

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has been published previously in The Rye Whiskey Review, as well as Wordgathering, Oddball Magazine, 365 Tomorrows and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She writes sci-fi based on stories she has heard, but changes them, so people can't recognize themselves. Or at least she hopes.

& a secret back door & By Susan Isla Tepper

Hell’s back entry 

accommodates the surplus

privileged 

who have no intention

of waiting in the long line

 One helluva long line—

it snakes and darts

in and out and around

the entire world

with blood fangs dripping

quite fearless 

They built it in the first place

dug deep

& a secret back door &

the huge front entry

for the common people

The privileged steeped 

in the certainty of knowing 

how to skirt 

hell’s worst chambers

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer and the author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was released by Spuyten Duyil, NYC in early October. Check out the Official Video for this book on YouTube link: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqYriter

Tepper has also written 5 Stage Plays. www.susantepper.com

Failure By Ben Newell

No sooner 

do I submit the thing

than a failure notice

appears in my inbox.

Apparently 

Modern Drunkard Magazine 

no longer reads poetry—

Bukowski said

it’s the small things which

drive a man to the madhouse.

I don’t 

know about the madhouse

but I can definitely vouch

for the 12-pack. 

Ben Newell lives in Mississippi where he works as a freelance writer and bookseller. His poems have been published online and in print, most recently in The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, and The Scumrag. 

That’s Entertainment By Bob Carlton

whatever is interesting

in these places

is always happening

somewhere else

and i am a settler

not usually a seeker

the private theater

i conjure

through impairment

a trick of inebriation

decades in the making

Bob Carlton lives a life almost totally devoid of outward incident in Leander, Texas.

The Moment the Thread Broke By Heather Kays

In the neon hum of a crowded bar,

ice sweating in glasses, laughter sharp as swords,

my phone blinked a betrayal.

A message—

meant for hands that weren’t mine,

for skin I’d never touched.

Her name, a quiet bomb.

My stomach dropped,

the floor shifting beneath the weight of a stranger in our story.

At home, he wore his guilt

like an ill-fitting coat,

shrugging it off with a laugh and another drink.

I folded my love smaller and smaller,

tucked it into corners,

praying it would still be enough.

I even made room for him,

gave him space to walk away,

but he stomped through the cracks anyway,

leaving his mess all over what we’d built.

Twice,

his absence bruised the bed before his body ever did.

Twice,

he left,

came back smelling of someone else’s perfume—

sour, cloying,

like the whiskey staining his breath.

My hands bruised too,

once.

His grip a cage that held me still

while the words came fast and harsh,

the air turning thin.

Even then,

I stayed.

I rehearsed forgiveness like a prayer,

but my mother’s ghost whispered behind my ribs:

You were not born to be this small.

You do not belong here.

And when I finally left,

it wasn’t with a bang but with silence—

the kind that follows a storm,

where every broken thing lies bare,

and the air smells like freedom and fear.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.

My Great Escape By April Ridge

The morning commute 

brings me past 

fields of flowers 

that I'll never know 

the names of. 

The time necessary 

to wander aimlessly, 

lying about in fields 

referencing wildflower manuals 

is off far in the distance.

So I continue 

to drive 

into town.

Watching all of the 

pedestrian signals 

high five themselves 

in the windows of 

the store front shops 

that have not opened yet 

at this early hour.

Thinking 

about 

my great escape.

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. 

Hit Over Head By Chad Parenteau

The local florist's sign

says: If your name is

Chad Parenteau, enter 

not for early birthday rose, 

but for unbagged clump 

of same processed shit

our flowers grow in

to remind you every

photogenesis--the birth

of everything made 

photogenic--was built

in the entrails of the ugly

ones, and you're too far

down in the ground

to ever see the results, 

face under sensible shoes.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

Questions unasked By Dennis Moriarty

I am here today, rummaging among

the ruins of society.

A society ruined by politicians, cheap

sound bites

and establishment stooges. Here where

the people are aided

in their fight for survival by prescription

pills and promises.

Where violence is free and laughter comes

with a price that few here can pay.

Walking the pavements strewn with the

smithereens of shattered lives,

in the shadow of the city where millions

of pounds are made and lost,

in the blink of a poor man’s eye. Past cars

with no wheels

and wheels with no cars, scattered syringes

and empty tin cans

playing hopscotch in the wind. Streets gangs

and knife crime

and drive by shootings, wars on the TV

not to be confused

with these turf wars here and wars of words

between them and us.

The young and the old, the sick and the poor,

middle age antipathy,

the disenfranchised disgruntled young all with

a story to tell

if only someone would listen. And so it is

you have found me here,

rummaging among the ruins of society, walking

streets of poverty

in the shadow of prosperity, searching for answers

to questions that have yet to be asked,

endlessly wondering how to make sense of it all.

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.

LA LITERARY AGENT By Terrence Sykes

We had conversed by email & telephone  

When I arrived at his home office in West Hollywood 

Book were stacked & scattered all about 

That gave illusion and aura to my desires 

I was lead up the stairs to close the contract 

And I sure wished for lots of good bucks

We negotiated the deal & yet in the end 

When he withdrew his generous offer 

But he told me I was brave to be a poet

That meant fucking stupid & yet 

I was well lubed & thanked

And yet screwed out out of luck

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 .

Dionysus, Bartender By Steven Bruce

Sticky floors. Blocked toilets.

Glasses stacked to heaven.

Dionysus pours shots

for girls with eyelashes

like spider legs.

Nods at men who can’t meet his eyes.

At closing time,

he helps a lad mop blood from his nose.

Calls him brother.

He remembers

when wine turned the world holy.

How songs cracked stars wide open.

Now the bass drops,

the crowd screams,

the girls dance.

He smiles.

Close enough to a miracle.

Steven Bruce is a multiple award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master of Arts in Creative Writing. His work often explores themes of trauma and resilience. Born in England, Steven now resides and writes full-time in Poland.

The Old Man Schmoozes with the Guy Who Owns a Bar around the Corner By Terry Allen

I like your sign over there.

Yeah, it’s new. It’s only been in that spot for ten years.

“Keep your trap shut! No politics! No religion! No filthy language!” What kinda dump is this?

The kind you frequent every day.

That reminds me. Did you see what happened to that squirrelly guy on the news?

What? What squirrelly guy?

You know, that squirrelly guy who used to wear a bow tie all the time and pretend he was one of the big boys.

Oh, the guy who never met a conspiracy theory he didn’t like? Like about the ruling class of secretive reptiles that are controlling the world.

That’s him. The guy who looks like he was bullied every day in school.

What about him?

Well, did you hear what his lawyer said?

What?

She said the decision to kick him off the network was the most catastrophic event in television history.

No way.

Yeah.

What about the space shuttle Challenger disaster?

Or the Munich Massacre at the 1972 Olympics?

Or when NBC canceled Baywatch after only one season?

Or Keeping Up with the Kardashians?

So, what do you think? It looks like you’ve got an opinion as usual.

Well, I tell you what that kinda lawyerly talk reminds me of.

What’s that?

Those big wind-twisted Ponderosa pines they got out in Utah.

How’s that?

I mean, those kinda lawyers grab hold of the facts and bend them and twist them like they’re trying to screw the head off a chicken.

That’s her job, isn’t it?

That’s what I’m saying. Plus, the fact that she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.

What do you mean?

I mean, she has no knowledge of broadcasting history.

Really?

For me, an event that was far worse happened in 1955 when Pinky Lee, a little guy who just wanted to make people happy, collapsed on camera during a live TV show and because his whole shtick was his slapstick antics and comic dancing and rapid-fire jokes, the cameraman and the director thought his fall was an ad lib and part of his act and no one helped him while the “Peanut Gallery” of kids was encouraged to keep cheering and applauding.

So?

He coulda died right there, while the world laughed, which was really what his life was all about anyway, I guess.

I see. I get your point.

There are worse things than losing your so-called news platform that makes everyone miserable.

Yeah.

Add that to your sign.

Okay.

You know, your sign needs more positives and fewer negatives.

Like…

Like: “Be kind. Bring joy. Leave ‘em laughing. Help carry the load.” for God’s sake.

Terry Allen was born in Brisbane, Australia, grew up in Kanas City and is an emeritus professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing and playwriting. He is the author of four poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, and Rubber Time. His poems have appeared in many journals, including I-70 Review, Third Wednesday, and Popshot Quarterly. In addition, his work has been nominated for an Eric Hoffer Book Award, a Best of the Net Award, and a Pushcart Prize. His books are available at Amazon, Kelsay Books, and locally at Skylark Bookshop in Columbia, Missouri.

Closing Arguments By Bruce Morton

The words the drunk speaks

Are not the effects of truth

Serum, but a vocabulary enebriate,

Pickled in a slurry of barley brine,

The fermentation of fault and gestalt

That eats away at what ails, whatever

Thought, caught or taught. So,

It pours out in the boozy breath

Of what is at the bar sworn, oaths

Far from nothing but the truth, whole

But anything but. Facts distort the stream

Of consciousness soon to be forgot by

Both sayer and listener. The ever-present

Tender has a earful of verdict on tap.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Hollow 2 The Point By John Patrick Robbins

I do not feel anything, to a degree.

I've grown to an age where experience is meaningless.

The odd party and the pointless conversations bore me

beyond words.

People find comfort in compliments, and me?

I just find happiness in being left the fuck alone.

I never will be your friend because I am honest, and that is me truly doing you a favor.

So, I'm sparing your fragile ego before we even say hello.

I don't want to read my pages, let alone yours.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has appeared in.

Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazinze, Disturb The Universe, Lothlorien Poetry Journal,  Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

again By Chris Dean

I'm drinking. Again.

(Ok, not like it's a rare thing.) 

I'm drinking

and I'm drunk

on alligator tears,

mumbling about nothing

that has everything to do 

with something,

but I can't put a finger on it 

through the dark, bourbon haze.

And that was the point, right?

To drink 

until the fucking voices

speak in broken slurs

and pass out before me?

To forget them

in the moments

I surrender to oblivion,

with fuzzy outlines

and aching head

to remind me when I wake.

But the booze

rusts the hinges 

on the barn doors

of the past

and the horses

are running wild,

stampeding through my now.

I wish the liquor 

could be loaded

in a 12 Gauge 

made for memories…

I'd take aim,

down another shot,

and obliterate

every piece of me.

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. 

Along with Wendy Cartwright, Chris is co-founder of Keeping the Flame Alive Press. 

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. 

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=

COLD COMFORT By George J. Searles

If you have the sense

that each year seems worse

than the one before,

Relax. You’ve not lost

your marbles; you’re right.

It is worse. Much worse.

So, what can y’do?

The only thing that might help:

Cough it up for another round.

George J. Searles teaches English & Latin at Mohawk Valley Community College (Utica NY) and has also taught creative writing on the upstate campus of Pratt Institute (Brooklyn) and graduate courses for The New School (NYC). Widely-published, he's a former Carnegie Foundation NYS "Professor of the Year" and is currently editor of Glimpse, a poetry annual. His collection Escape from Jersey City is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds. His all-time favorite bar is The Brown Derby (Poughkeepsie NY).

Let’s Talk By Alec Solomita

Let’s talk.

Let’s talk about

the difference between

“I want a drink” and

“I need a drink”

I want a drink

is about desire.

I need a drink

expresses a sine qua non.

When I was a teenager

I wanted a drink.

In my twenties 

I wanted a few.

In my thirties

I preferred several.

That went on for

a decade or so

while something

slowly altered.

A yearning became a craving;

a craving became a need,

until the morning came

when I could handle

a handle of mead.

Alec Solomita is a writer working in the Boston area. His fiction has appeared in

the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, among other

publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry

has appeared in Poetica, MockingHeart Journal, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 

The Galway Review, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His poetry

chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book,

“Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He is working on a new book.   

When He Left By Keith Pearson

He took the bottle 

took her dope 

took the keys. 

Sun reflects through the crack in the windshield. Hurts her eyes. 

She’d kill for a piece of gum. 

In the distance she sees him. Standing in the sun. 

Maybe not.

He left a note. 

True West is a simple thing. 

Look directly at the sun and begin the journey. 

You can do it. 

Take your hat the water leave the map. You will not need it. 

Tip your hat to the past. 

Believe in the path. 

Walk straight until the end. 

She began to walk.

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