Lost Shaker of Salt by Leah Mueller

When “Margaritaville” 

comes on the radio,

I think of

American tourists

in towns like Ixtapa 

and Mazatlán,

whooping it up at 

Senor Frog’s, with

buckets of iced Coronas

and peel-your-own shrimp.

Clusters of Parrotheads 

in gaudy shirts, adorned

with tequila bottles 

and palm trees,

swaying in their 

rented hammocks,

signaling their waiter 

for a double shot, 

discussing stock portfolios 

in jocular tones.

Six shots later,

they run towards the water, 

pale legs flashing 

in the winter sun. 

Everyone has lost a lover.

Everyone wants to 

blame someone else,

and nobody knows 

where they put that 

goddamn saltshaker.

Perhaps they

left it at home,

with the rest 

of their baggage.

Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She is a 2022 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah's flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her two newest books are "The Failure of Photography" (Garden Party Press, 2023) and "Widow's Fire" (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.

Holy Fire By Tracey Sivek

Consequential damage accumulated within multiple sorrows has that eternal clock left with permafrost, binding the impactful moments to each cell.

Confusion sets in as the soul screams for redemption, wanting to be free of the “sins” of the masses, including the mass within.

Staying in vigil of my own essence, my own love, each step takes me further into the abyss.

Falling upon broken knees,  broken from years of repent, tears fall as the body quakes in release.

Again, a journey into the dark night of the soul.  A space where a stamp on the frequent flyer card would be nice for a bonus ascension.

Rising within the etheric realm, shedding the mud and negativity is the goal.

Why isn’t it mainstream to want to rise above?

This space, this damnable space is ours alone to navigate.  No pill fixes it, no substance numbs it.

It’s that journey we signed up for which is ironic.  So the basic message?

Stay in your own lane, rise and shine, shit or get off the pot, rot and die. 

Impregnable choice isn’t it?

Ironically it’s on us…cheers.

 

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan.

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel.  She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .
The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Wine Magic by George Gad Economou

a bottle of wine contains

magic, raw emotions ready to

barge out, swallow the

world, engulf your surroundings in 

effulgent flames. a bottle of wine is

a gateway to the gods, is how you

connect with beings too far gone, yet

always lurking around. in every bar, every

tavern, everywhere booze flows freely, the ghosts

of gods are present, waiting to jump out of

a bottle of wine and down your throat, to occupy

your brain and let you experience, for a few magnificently

blank hours, unadulterated pleasure.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Freeze by keith pearson

Too cold to sleep even under these old blankets. The rattle of the open car is like a pile of bones falling down a hill of rocks. Sitting too long too damn stiff to stand. As though he could even stand in the swaying car. Watching the thick fog of their breath. How soon he asks til dawn…

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

the many forms of strength by Kevin M. Hibshman

been thinking of you again.

the way you held it all in, revealing nothing while a bevy of conflicting emotions would run roughshod all over my face.

I suppose you had your own way of coping with nefarious folks

those who feed on the misery of others.

you played the games nobody wins.

it was a cruel exchange but you often got what you wanted.

I never heard you complain.

we inherit a certain loneliness with age though I feel a sense of relief being off the market.

I live in two places at once, wondering if you ever noticed how

cigarettes taste different in Winter.

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).

His current book Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon. 

Late Night Phone Calls by J. B. Hogan

If the phone rings after midnight,

it’s always you, and

you’re always at least

maybe one, two sheets

into the wind – or three.

And you want what?

To wake me up?

To tell me your latest news?

Maybe you’ll sing me a

verse or two of your new

favorite song, or read

another poem I wrote 

about you, or maybe

you’ll promise not to

call me so late anymore or

at least not when your 

so far into that wind

next time.

The next time – it could

be in three months or

a year if you land another

beau who you don’t want to call

late at night or who

won’t always pick up the phone 

when it rings late at night.

But none of that matters because 

I’ll always pick up the phone

when it rings late at night,

when I always think at first

it’s probably really bad news,

but then it’s always bound to be you.

Because I know if that phone

rings after midnight, it will be you –

three sheets into the wind, for sure, but

it always has been you, it always will be.

J. B. Hogan has been published in a number of journals including the Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine, Copperfield Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Well Read Magazine, and Aphelion. His eleven books include Bar Harbor, Mexican Skies, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, and The Apostate. He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

 

the pain of the next day by J.J. Campbell

did you ever see 

the sun turn to 

black

a young lover 

climb a tree

and decide 

it was time

the pain of 

the next day

alone and listless

not even the desire 

to find a vein

broken glass 

and all the bad

luck that follows

this wasn’t in 

the handbook

therapists have 

no words

deep breaths

hard questions 

with no fucking

right answers

old and bitter 

before you 

know it

J.J. Campbell was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, just good poems, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)