Bathroom Stall Gospel By Heather Kays

I have met God

in the smeared eyeliner

of strangers—

who hold my hair

like it’s communion,

who whisper prayers

through cracked lips,

who cradle broken pieces

like holy relics

in the back of a club,

where saints

dance with sinners,

and the fluorescent light

never tells the truth.

This is where salvation smells

like cheap perfume

and desperation.

Where grace

is a hand on your back

when the world

is too loud to hear yourself breathe.

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.

Promises are made to be broken By Dennis Moriarty

It’s a struggle but finally you are wake

With a head full

Of unconquerable mountains and penny

Weary eyes.

Sitting up you blink away the coinage

Of death, 

Eyes opened fully, you take in the carnage

Of the night before.

You pick your way through the fallout, 

Among discarded clothes

And fragments of the night that you can’t

Quite remember.

Downstairs the house is cold and grey as

The ash from last nights fire,

The air thick as your tongue, smelling of stale

Beer and sour whiskey.

In the kitchen you play a game of hunt the

Coffee beans,

Find them in a packet already open and like you,

Already past it’s sell by date.

You grind and brew arabica beans roasted, like

Your thoughts, to the edge of darkness.

Exchanging one addiction for another, you slurp

And swallow,

Hoping the bitter taste will take the edge off

The craving for another night before.

You sit alone drinking and listening to the rain 

Chuckling in the downpipes,

Promising yourself you will not drink before 

Mid day, will not pass out

Before god knows when. But between sips of

coffee and the laughing rain,

You resign yourself to another day of what

Might have been,

After all, promises are made to be broken.

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.

The House of the Rising Sun By Doug Holder

Whenever my cat hears me play

"The House of the Rising Sun" by Dylan

He jumps on my lap,

Rattling my whiskey

As if he senses something....

Some mysterious scent

A feline totem...

He was once

An abandoned

Feral cat

His father was a rambling man

as he wags his tail

As if the music and the words

Were a mantra,

A dirge

That brings him

Back to that winter,

the starving fields of Kentucky

Where he almost succumbed ---

His House of the Rising Sun--

Which has been

The ruin of many

A young cat...

And thank God

He wasn't one.

Doug Holder is on the board of the New England Poetry Club and teaches creative writing at Endicott College. His latest poetry collection is " I ain't gonna wait for Godot, no more" ( Wilderness House Press)

Co-President of the New England Poetry Club

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene   http://dougholder.blogspot.com

Ibbetson Street Press  http://www.ibbetsonpress.com

Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer  http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com

Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com

Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times

https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0

Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive   https://archive.org/details/@dougholder

A Close Call By Jim Harrington

I entered Eddie’s Neighborhood Bar & Grill and saw my best friend Morgan sitting on his usual stool, the look on his face far from happy.

“S’that water?” I asked. I think the last time I saw Morgan drink water was in high school, which was longer ago than I care to remember.

“Yeah,” he replied. “You know I haven’t been feeling well, hands all shaky.” Morgan stared at his drink like it was ready to put a curse on him.

“I haven’t said anything,” I replied, “not being a doctor.”

Morgan took a long sip of water. “I finally went to see Doc Ramsey. He said I might have dipsophobia”

“What’s that?”

“The fear of alcohol.” Morgan was the last person I would think of as a teetotaler, given his daily habit of “having one before I head home”.

“Doc said he was going to request the lab run the tests again.” He turned to me with a look that warned he might either pass out or throw up, probably from withdrawal. “Said he’d get back to me as soon as he got the results.”

“If you do have dispo-whatever, can it be treated?”

“Best way is to stay out of bars and restaurants that serve alcohol. You know. Avoid temptation.”

I looked around the room. It was almost full with lots of liquor in plain sight.

“You do drink a lot.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you tell Martha?”

“Figured I should.”

“What did she say?”

“That she guessed she’d be eating out alone from now on.” Morgan twirled the glass slower than a slug crossing a country road. “And, no, she wasn’t smiling or have her fingers crossed when she said it.”

“Anything change in your life recently that might have you stressed out?”

“Doc asked the same question. I said no, but later I did think of something.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Well, my sister, Bethie, is coming for a visit.”

“When?”

“In a few of weeks. She wants to stay a while. Didn’t say how long. Martha wonders if Bethie finally got fed up living with her drunk of a husband. How Bethie might want to move in with us.”

“Do you get along with your sister?”

“Not really.” Morgan eyed the display of beer taps and licked his lips. “Haven’t spoken to each other in over a year.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Not sure why.”

“Think that might be the reason you’re not feeling well,” I asked?

Before he could answer, Morgan’s phone rang to the sound of Sweet Home Alabama. He listened for a while, hung up, and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have a beer,” he said, with a cheerful voice. “Make it two.”

He turned toward me, a big smile on his face. “Doc said I just have a bad case of gas, probably caused by drinking too much beer too fast. I mentioned my sister coming for a visit. He suggested, based on his own family experiences, that I stay in a motel. I said that might not be a bad idea.” Morgan stared at the mirror behind the bar, keeping his eyes from mine. “Unless your spare room is available, Abe.”

I belched. My hands started to shake, and I signaled the bartender for a beer. “Make it two,” I said.

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, CommuterLit, Fewer Than 500, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com. His series of editor interviews can be found at https://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com.

Our Gang By Jeff Weddle

We were a bunch of assholes 

but didn’t think so. 

We drank a lot of beer, 

dressed like bums, 

thought we knew it all. 

We didn’t know shit. 

We were casually cruel 

to the girls 

because we wanted them 

but knew they didn’t want us. 

We all wanted to be writers, 

but we were only a bunch of assholes. 

Most of us are dead now. 

I’m not quite dead, 

and have had a fine wife 

for a good long while, 

but I guess I’m still an asshole, 

still hoping to be a writer. 

Maybe I’ll do better

tomorrow. Maybe, 

but I wouldn’t bet the farm. 

Jeff Weddle is the Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026). His latest book is Letter to Xhevdet Bajraj (Uncollected Press, 2025). His work has appeared in Albanian and Spanish translation. 

Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits! By Shelly Norris

Fresh out of October, which sailed past 

as though it had somewhere else important

to be, we swerve, breathless and half asleep, 

into this new day, first of this new month, 

hopeful, wishful, praying for that luck, 

Irish or any other kind, to bring us fortune. 

‘Tis Montana State Lottery season. 

Without breaking fast, we drive to the Mint

Bar (any western town worth its cattle

has a Mint Bar), where we wait, three hours

after last call, atop pleather barstools

sipping from Styrofoam cups bitter coffee 

made by a bartender who doesn’t drink coffee. 

I watch people eat complimentary doughnuts 

wondering how they get away with it. 

We wait for the magic chime,  

for the ceremony of ticket sales to commence

as the room fills fuller with cheerful folk

talking and laughing too loud for this early. 

Odds of winning the million, 1 in 124,000.

That’s about ten times greater 

than the odds of rolling a Yahtzee 

on a first roll. I want to abstain. 

I never win anything, I always say, 

which isn’t true. Just this week I won

a handmade leather amulet in a raffle.

Can’t win if you don’t play is the mantra. 

That one’s true. 

I zone out playing Yahtzee on my phone. 

I roll five Yahtzee’s between two games. 

Last year we both drew instant hundred-dollar

winning tickets. Made back my investment,

which is usually all I ever ask from a gamble.  

We spend what little extra cash we can

on numbered paper slips.  

No instant wins today. 

Home before sunrise of All Soul’s Day,  

now we set our clocks back one hour and wait 

for someone to draw our winning numbers. 

Born and raised in Wyoming, Shelly Norris now resides on the Montana Hi Line where she serves as the Liberal Arts/Communications Instructor at Aaniiih Nakoda College on the Fort Belknap Reservation. Her first collection titled "Hyperbola" debuted February 2024. Her second collection titled "Dry Lake" is in publication due out soon.

“Walking With a Broken Toe” By Richard LeDue

It’s easier to keep the beer

in the cupboard

when life is going easy,

but when the doctor calls

for a follow up over a mole

shaped like a deal with the devil,

or my boss forgets my name

after working there two years

or my kid punches a hole in the wall

with his head,

I’m reminded of alcohol

not being a crutch,

but a steel toe boot.

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He writes poems. His last collection, “Another Another,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2025.