Leftovers by John Drudge

Along the streets

And in the bars

Where we reach speeds

Beyond responsibility

Expressing something

On the frontier 

Of pain

Through the majesty

Of grief

Across the yellow shades

Of our secrets

Looking up

To the purity

Of a new blue sky

And searching for the bones

Of God

In the clouds 

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.

Oversaturation by Aimee Nicole

I pen piles of erotic poems on napkins 

smeared with dark chocolate. 

How else should I expunge this oversaturated

want for you sweating out of me filling the mattress with refuse. 

I purge my fantasies for others to ponder 

behind shades illuminating dancing silhouettes.

Your mind so traffic jammed with road raged 

nonsense you can’t see me broken down on the 

side of the road…flares vaulting through brilliant sky. 

Aimee Nicole is a chronically ill queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.

A Lake on the Way Home By Latif Askia Ba

The still lake.

The sky before darkening.

In that oval abyss:

Clouds or swimming geese.

So clear, so plain—

Nature looks in the mirror. 

Is a poet with Choreic Cerebral Palsy from Brooklyn & Staten Island, New York. I'm currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University and an author at Stillhouse Press, who will be publishing my next collection, The Machine Code of a Bleeding Moon (fall of 2022). I was the First Place Winner of the Perceptions Writing and Art Contest, judged by Sheila Black (2021), and the Second Place Winner of the Iris N. Spencer Award (2020). My debut collection, Wet Monasteries, was published by Alien Buddha Press (2019).

Santa’s Helper by Leah Mueller

No one enjoys working on Christmas, but some jobs are more bearable than others. 

If you’re stuck with a holiday double shift at the roadside massage parlor, you should be philosophical. Believe it or not, there are worse gigs. Tips are way better than fast food wages. And Bob, the owner, is a supportive guy, ready to beam jerks with a 2X4 when they step out of line.

The customers are almost always polite. Vast majority are truckers who just need some quick fun before returning to their rigs. They see the interstate exit sign that says “Climax” and get all hot and bothered. Most of them want to know if I’m a WMU student. I tell them yes, so they ask what I’m studying. Like it isn’t obvious.

It’s all theatre. I’m really from outer space, sent to western Michigan to observe the natives’ erotic habits. My honchos at the home office picked the Midwest because of its homespun Americana vibe. In a few days, I’ll be back on my planet, ready to share research with esteemed colleagues. 

The door pushes open and a guy steps in wearing a Santa suit. He looks unhappy. Maybe his favorite reindeer died. I hand him the sex menu, and he peruses it like a guy who knows that someone will screw up his order. I’m not sure if he annoys me or if I just feel sorry for him.

“Can I answer any questions?” This seems like an absurd query for a massage parlor, but Bob gets pissed off if I don’t ask.

Santa’s face rises from the price list. “I just want to talk. I mean, have a real discussion. How much for that?”

I sigh. “20 thousand. You can’t afford it. It’s only one thousand for a two-girl back rub with extras.”

Santa bristles, and his face becomes even more red than usual. “How do you know I can’t afford it?”

Taken aback, I stammer, “Well, it’s a lot. Like a new car or a down payment on a house. Conversation is pricey these days.”

“Money is no object.” Santa sinks into a chair and begins to unlace his boots. The shoelaces flop everywhere like black spaghetti. When Santa finally looks up, his expression is coy. “Whaddaya think, sweetheart? You up for it?”

Like most customers, Santa wants to pretend I’m his girlfriend. I’m always surprised these poor saps can’t tell I’m an extraterrestrial. Men don’t look closely at anything, including women. If females knew how easy it was to impress guys, they’d save a fortune on makeup and Botox.

Santa gives me his credit card, and I swipe it through the machine. 10 grand for the house and 10 for me. Not bad for a slow night. I might as well be polite.

Santa has finally succeeded in his mission of boot removal. His plump toes are like two rows of overripe strawberries. I look away and smile politely. “What would you like to talk about?”

I hope he doesn’t want me to sit in his lap. It would be just like an ersatz Santa to have a lap fixation. But this guy doesn’t seem to be interested in sex at all. He’s into conversation, which strikes me as the ultimate kink.

Santa fixes me with an earnest expression. “I’d like to know what you think about Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature. If you don’t mind.”

“Reason is slave to passion.” I watch as Santa unbuttons his shirt. “Ethics are based on sentiment, rather than rational behavior.”

Santa’s eyes meet mine, and I shiver involuntarily. “Who is your favorite existentialist philosopher?” he whispers.

“That’s hard to gauge. Those 20th century European thinkers were a rather dull lot.” I help Santa disengage one of his chubby arms from a sleeve. “I do have a strong fondness for Camus, however. Reading “The Stranger” had a profound impact on my adolescence.”

“Oh God, me too!” Santa’s face is ecstatic, enraptured. “I never could understand why Meursault killed that man. It seemed so random.” 

“He just wanted to feel something.” I glance at the clock. Twenty more minutes until the end of my shift. I’ll head home, input the evening’s session data to the home computer, and catch a few hours of well-earned rest.

Santa is now completely shirtless. His corpulent body shudders for a moment, then goes still. “This is the best conversation I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.” He rises from his chair and throws his arms around me. 

Santa’s embrace feels warm, like I’m an old friend he’s not sure he’ll ever see again. I don’t understand why he’s so grateful, since our dialogue only lasted a few minutes. I am surprised by the authenticity of his gesture, and my own willingness to submit to it. For 20 grand, Santa has earned a hug. Perhaps I need one, as well.

Without another word, Santa pulls his arms back into his shirt and slides both feet inside his boots. He fumbles with the shoelaces until they come together. 

I can’t imagine why Santa wanted to converse while shirt-less and shoe-less. In my temporary line of work, it’s best not to ask too many personal questions. My role is to observe and take notes.

“I’ll be going now. Thanks again.” Santa strolls towards the door, then pauses to give me a final look. “You’re so SMART.” 

Santa wanders across the parking lot towards a 1998 Honda Accord. It’s a particularly hideous shade of slate-gray, half-covered in rust. Someone has painted a reindeer on it. He yanks the door open, gives me a cheery wave, and drives off in a cloud of exhaust.

The parking lot is now completely empty. A couple of stray snowflakes skitter across its surface. The absolute silence fills me with a strange sense of peace.

    Well, I’ll have a hell of a story to share with the home office tomorrow morning. Hard to believe that a guy would be willing to pay so much money for conversation when sex would have been far cheaper. Especially someone with such a shitty car.

    Perhaps sex is overrated. I have long suspected that might be the case. Rapport is much rarer, and therefore more valuable. Like the difference between a piece of costume jewelry and a black diamond. The costume piece might sparkle more, but that doesn’t really mean anything.

    My mission on Earth is almost complete. I’ll be home in less than a week. And I’m ten grand richer. It hasn’t been such a bad Christmas after all.

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona.  She is the author of nine prose and poetry books, published by numerous small presses. Her latest chapbook, "Land of Eternal Thirst" (Dumpster Fire Press) was released in 2021.  Leah’s work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

The weep of the wound by Emalisa Rose

What she’d like to forget,

reminds, when she catches

its glimpse in the mirror, or

on those never more nights

as she’s sipping the sauce 

between star wishing.

Though the weep of the wound

long ago healed, it's the face in 

the scar, that torments Maria.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and birding. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies in the neighborhood. Living by the beach, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her work has appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Spillwords, Madswirl and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is "On the whims of the crosscurrents," published by Red Wolf Editions.

Fleshless Bones By Dennis Moriarty

My mind is a dusty room in an old house

cut off from reality by a storm.

The wind is a wolf taking a trip on magic

mushrooms

howling at a spot in the sky where the 

moon used dwell.

The clock is striking thunder, my darkness

illuminated now and then

by strobes of lightening and the flickering

flame of a candle.

An army of raindrops the size of China

are amassed outside my window.

My thoughts are dyslexic, scrambled

words and distorted meanings

scratched on to a mirror of myriad reflections.

The wolf wind is on the roof,

claws scratching slate as he finds the chimney,

comes down,

damp fur and soot filling the room. He comes

towards me,

I scream in silence as his sharp teeth scrape

the fleshless bones of my sanity.

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 Fretting Hand by Howie Good

His band, The Drifting Cowboys, had driven off right after the show, leaving Hank Williams with these chains on his heart. A pretty young thing in a dress that looked painted on approached him as he leaned forlornly against his Cadillac in the gravel parking lot of the roadhouse. In his fretting hand he clutched a whiskey bottle with only a swallow or two left at the bottom. “I was born with holes in me,” he told her. She wasn’t sure what he meant. Maybe it was just country music – you know, three chords and the truth

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.