Here At Home by Mike James

my origin story starts with whiskey/first shot of light/take that morning/take what the day is/first one thing/call your brother/sure enough is an answer/no i in team, but most of all in always/who thinks that far/no one i know, would want/most of my associates are cats and long lost ghosts/ghosts have a fondness for exit signs/there’s something to collect/my constant is a love of wind up clocks and roman numerals/the calendar gives me trouble if i plan too much/my cat watches me from atop the kitchen table/kitchen windows frame one picture/kitchens hold more secrets than groceries/that’s morning and night/every place i’ve lived/not every place i’ve visited/travel indicates far/visit can be next door

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken. 

A Thing That Happened by Jeff Weddle

At the bar with the famous writer.

I don’t know him well,

but I do know him.

We’re drunk,

though he more so than I.

My buddy is on the other side

of the famous writer

and he’s drunk, too,

maybe the drunkest of us all,

though who’s to say?

The three of us mostly sit there quietly,

drinking our beer.  

I’m trying to be a writer, too,

with little success,

but I am trying.

I figure that working at it

will make the writing easier,

that I will finally learn something

that will make the words flow.

So, I ask the famous writer

if it gets easier after a while.

His shoulders shrink and he sighs.

 “No, man. It just gets harder.”

We keep drinking, the famous writer,

my buddy and I, mostly in silence.

A couple of years later, still in his forties,

the famous writer is dead of a heart attack.

My buddy lasted another twenty years

after that. He was trying to be a writer, too.

No, you’ve never heard of him.  

This was long ago, and I’m still here,

still trying to be a writer,

still with little success.

No, you’ve never heard of me.

I’m glad I knew my buddy,

and, can tell you that,

completely unknown,

he wrote well.

I’m glad I knew the famous writer, too,

and marvel at his ferocious talent

with the novel and the short story.

The man was a master.

That old bastard, Death,

steps in on his own schedule,

no matter what we do.

On balance, I suppose it’s better

to be a famous dead writer

than a dead writer

who remains unknown,

though the bottom line is the same.

I’m lucky

to have split the difference:

still here and playing with the word

in obscurity.

But I miss my buddy

and would have liked

to have had more to read

from the famous writer.

He really was great.

I guess that’s all, except for this:

everything is a blessing,

even the drunken nights,

even the small talent, even death.

We all end up where we should,

and if you and I ever find ourselves

on barstools together,

it will be fine,

though I will have no advice to offer,

even if you’re in the market.

I do know, however,

and with the weight of years,

that the famous writer was correct.

Everything just gets harder.

You can take that to the bank.

Okay, okay. Drink up.

That’s all.

Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the 2007 Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press, and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama.

Sea at Rest by Susan Isla Tepper

I stared and your eyes turned 

blue then under your eyes

A shimmering understanding

blossomed 

Winter field into flowers

flick of a moment

Your whole body becoming

the sea at rest, at last

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

homemade razor blades by Kaci Skiles

we outgrow pain / remember 
Halloween / autumn falling in our yard / familiar / 
a black hat / a dress to match / candy corn

in cauldrons / mom and dad / the way they were /
 door to door / happy never lasting / Michael Myers ending / skeletons 
beginning / cavities beckoning /

cauldrons full of cigarettes / horror movies and Southern Comfort / 
not knowing / how 
to be mom and dad but trying / homemade razor blades

Kaci Skiles Laws is a closet cat-lady and creative writer who reads and writes voraciously in the quiet moments between motherhood and managing Crohn's Disease. She grew up on a small farm in a Texas town alongside many furry friends, two sisters, and a brother. She has known tragic loss too well, and her writing is a reflection of the shadows lurking in her psyche. Her work can be viewed at: https://kaciskileslawswriter.wordpress.com/

Access Denied By John Patrick Robbins

 

There will always be an end to all things creative.

Art like anything must die to truly be appreciated. 

To create we must accept this truth.

Storms pass as do seasons, take the good with the bad.

Comb the beaches sift through the wreckage.

Skeletons are but once living monuments.

I never bank on eternity, I simply sail into life's sunset.

Blind like all the rest.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review, The Black Shamrock Magazine and Under The Bleachers. 

His work has been published in Punk Noir Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fixator Press, Schlock Magazine, Piker Press,The Dope Fiend Daily and Medusa's Kitchen.

His work is always unfiltered.

Next Stop – Damnation! by Ann Christine Tabaka

I am not brave enough
     to say your name out loud.
You took away my youth - the youth I never had.

You left me open/severed/vulnerable to life,
    with no chance to dress my wounds.

With every day that passes - time shudders 
through my bones / tearing at raw flesh.

I hide within myself – closing out all light.
You were darkness. 
    You were pain,

as you wrote yourself upon me,
    in ink so black - it cried out for mercy.

Words will no longer form in my mouth.
    I am mute to you / deaf to myself.

A lifetime is a long ride – but never long enough.
    Next stop – Damnation!

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 14 poetry books. lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, Poetic Sun, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore.

*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

 

A cold one by Jake St. John & Jenn Knickerbocker

 A granite sky
holds back
sun, I smile
open a beer
 
take a long 
swig of knowledge 
knowing that nature 
calls the signals
and I am a spectator
taking delight in 
my lack of control
 
becoming the wind
and carrying dreams
in a knapsack
opening my arms
and my eyes
to the infinite 
possibilities
life has to offer
 
but until then
I’ll sit here 
drink my beer
and smile
as the persistent
dismal day
keeps me company

Jake St. John spends his nights in a cabin on the edge of the woods. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), Snow Moon (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, 2019) and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world. 

Jenn Knickerbocker is a writer, a mother, and a teacher. You can find her on a forest path or sitting fireside during her free time.