Every Year by Jesse Lynn Rucilez

Every year, there is less joy in my life,
Why this is so I cannot say,
I just know that it is,
That it sucks,

Every year, I see my closest friend less and less,
Why this is so I cannot say,
I just know that it is,
That I miss him terribly,

Every year, there is more regret in my aching past,
Why this is so I cannot say,
I just know that it is,
That I hurt in a secret place,

Every year, I am one step closer to the grave,
This is how it should be,
The way of all things,
Death awaits like a long-lost lover–

Or a universal mistress to us all…

Jesse Lynn Rucilez was born in Reno, Nevada. Growing up, Jesse was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes stories and Marvel Comics. Throughout his life, Jesse has mainly worked in the security industry, both in Seattle, Washington and Reno, Nevada, and taught self-defense for several years before deciding to focus on writing. Inspired by authors such as Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Kurt Vonnegut, he prefers to write literary horror and science fiction, exploring what he calls “the dark side of the American Dream.” 

New Year's Day Reflections By Peter A. Witt

Another new year, another night alone
with nothing to keep me company but cliches
and a half bottle of rye whiskey, the other half
already leaving me unfit for company and hope.

Every year it’s the same, TV tuned to crowds
enjoying an outdoor party, jolly announcers
talking about the soon to be ball drop,
singers spewing words that can’t be understood
above the background crowd noise.

And every year I torture myself sitting alone,
listening to illegal neighborhood fireworks,
my tortured dog hiding under a chair glad 

his misery is confined to one night a year, 

my smug cat asleep on my lap, oblivious 

to the TV, dog, and me, except when I stop 

stroking his ego with my hand.

Soon, thankfully, it will be over, the bottle
drained, TV crowds subwaying home,
fireworks exhausted, dog relieved,
still smug cat chasing imaginary mice,
as I flop into bed, having survived another night 

alone.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas Poet and a retired university professor. He also writes family history and goes birding with his camera. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Fleas on the Dog, Live Encounters, Inspired, The Rye Whiskey Review, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, and New Verse News.

Kills by Ahmad Al-Khatat

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It never stops flooding
and extends to my flesh

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It appears from the shadow
of the sun behind the rain

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It is the stranger who dies
after chasing the fireflies

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
when the barefoot soldiers
bombed the house of dreams

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It is the stone who breaks the
mirror of the river to the moon

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It is the wheelchair who will
never take me to your doors

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
when the world was young,
I was the oldest seed in spring

What kills you everyday
kills me every other night
It is the blind who walked to
the wolves until they ate him

 Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote his very first poem back in the year 2000. He also has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and currently studies Political Sciences, at the Concordia University in Montreal. He has recently published his first chapbook “The Bleeding Heart Poet” with Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.

THE HUMBLEST EMPLOYEE AWARD by Clive Aaron Gill

    Every year, at our company’s Christmas party, the owner announces the award for the humblest employee of the year.

    Last year, he chose Janice, a shy fifty-year-old woman who had joined the company eight months prior, to receive the Humblest Employee Award. She wiped a tear from her reddened face and, with a beaming smile, accepted the honor.

    The company owner immediately withdrew the award.

Fifty-five stories by Clive Aaron Gill have appeared in literary journals and in “People of Few Words Anthology.”

He tells his stories at public and private gatherings.

Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.

Fifty-three By Cliff Aliperti

    It was the night before Adrian Price’s fifty-third birthday. On the bright side, Ida had agreed to go out with him to celebrate. On the dark side … fifty-three. Yes, certainly worse than fifty-two, but to Adrian Price’s mind, worse even than fifty-four, fifty-five, and etcetera, because those more accomplished numbers just seemed impossible to Adrian.

    This was because of the friends he had known.

    You see, Adrian had become a regular at this one pub upon his twenty-first birthday, such a long, long time ago. In doing so, he joined his good friend Frankie, four years Adrian’s elder, who had already been a regular and of legal drinking age those preceding four years. In that time Frankie had cemented his own standing and befriended a few of the older souls who frequented the joint, Irish in name, run-down in general.

    After Adrian’s twenty-first, he became every bit the regular as Frankie was. In those days, the two young men drank there at least four nights per week, sometimes as often as seven. In doing so they made several barroom acquaintances. Chief among these were an older handyman, Wayne, and a waiter, Lionel, more Wayne’s peer than that of Adrian and Frankie. These four men sat shoulder to shoulder for many hours most every evening, several times even closing the place as a quartet at four am.

    And now, on the eve of his fifty-third birthday, Adrian Price was the only one of them left. All of the others dead. Each dropping off every so often. All of them at fifty-three.

    Most nights, back in those prime years, their four heads just bobbed lower by the hour, eight elbows all that kept their rubber necks propped up, conversation slurred by the tick of the clock. But then there was the occasional outstanding night. A night so different that in later months and years it provided one more round of storytelling for those sinking drunken skulls.

    There was the night Shillelagh’s had set up the bouncy boxing distraction prior to a big Holyfield fight, and Adrian and Lionel tapped at each other with the oversized boxing gloves until Adrian decided to impress the girl at the bar—who turned out to be Ida—by throwing all of his weight behind a spear tackle that sent Lionel home with a wrecked back compounded by a chip on his shoulder that remained for several weeks. Ida ignored Adrian that night, but came around soon after.

    There was the night Wayne hit at the track and wanted to share the wealth, but only Frankie was around, so the two of them befriended two complete strangers, who they took to calling Adrian and Lionel, since they were already too loaded to remember their real names. Wayne had spent all the winnings on these ungrateful tourists before Adrian even arrived at one am, and Lionel an hour later. Those two didn’t even get to meet their fill-ins, who had departed the moment Wayne’s final winnings were spent.

    Another such night was the night of the scratchers.

    It began innocent enough when Wayne, the eldest man and a regular dreamer on dollar lottery tickets, smacked his palm over the bar and shouted to the trio, “Five hundred dollars! Round is on me!”

    Still mostly sober in this hour slightly after dinner, the four men clinked glasses and joked about what Wayne was to do with the rest of his winnings. Yet before they even finished their complimentary drink, Wayne slammed his palm to the bar again, and this most mature, typically most reserved member of the unofficial group, not ordinarily given to obscenity, shouted, “Holy shit, another thousand dollars!”

    “Buy me one, Wayne?” simple Kenny Chazzen, a real doofus, somewhere between Adrian and Frankie back in high school, asked from a few stools down.

    “Hell, Billy, buy everyone around the bar one,” Wayne called to the bartender.

    “Impossible,” Adrian said. “My mother scratches them things all the time, and I know you don’t get two hits like that all in a row.”

    “Check it out,” Wayne said, thrusting the ticket in Adrian’s direction.

    Adrian looked the ticket over. He had not seen this particular ticket before among the stacks of his Mom’s losers. It was a Monopoly sponsored ticket, and the one Wayne showed him had three Illinois Avenues scratched off.

    “Match three like properties,” Adrian read.

    Adrian returned the winner to Wayne, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

    He leapt off his barstool and headed for the door.

    “Where’d you get those?” Frankie asked.

    “Gas station next door,” Wayne said.

    Frankie was behind Adrian with a twenty dollar bill at the ready, while Adrian exercised slightly more caution and only spent ten.

    By the time Frankie had rejoined them at the bar, Adrian said, “Holy shit, five hundred!”

    “Really?” Wayne asked.

    “Three Ventnors,” Adrian said.

    Lionel was off his barstool and next door without a word.

    Over the next forty-five minutes, Wayne had four winning tickets totaling $7,000, Frankie had three winners at $2,500, Adrian three at $2,000, and Lionel, who had spent fifty dollars because the gas station attendant claimed he could not break his bill (most definitely a lie, since Frankie had only just paid with a twenty, and Adrian a tenner), had seven totaling $8,500.

    “That’s my rent for like most of the year” Lionel said, “plus miscellaneous drinks.” He downed his beer and ordered another.

    That’s when Billy the bartender rained on their parade. Actually, he shit all over their heads.

    Billy swept up his tip money, extra generous given the circumstances, and asked to see one of the winning tickets.

    “I guess you guys are headed to Mineola to cash out tomorrow, huh?”

    Mineola was where the state lottery offices were located. They paid out the big winners, anything from six hundred bucks up to those smiley bastards posing with oversized checks.

    “What do you say, fellows? Day trip?” Wayne asked. The others agreed, every one of them happy to bang in sick at work.

“What time you guys coming in tomorrow?” asked Kenny Chazzen, already whoring his pride for free drinks. Fucking Kenny Chazzen.

    “I’ll save you the trip,” Billy said. “Like properties. Three like properties.”

    “Yep,” said Wayne. “Which one you have there? Oh, see, that’s three Tennessee Avenues at $500.”

    “No,” said Billy. The bastard.

    “No?” said Wayne.

    “Three like properties, in this case, would be Tennessee, along with St. James and New York Avenue.”

    “Go on, Billy.”

    “I’m serious, Wayne.” Billy grabbed an empty glass and began walking away, singing, “Sorry,” like he was playing that other board game and rubbing in it.

    “It’s not true, is it Wayne?” Adrian asked, eight beers adding to his sense of panic.

    “I don’t know,” Wayne said, making the rare move of pulling out his readers, sliding them to the tip of his nose, and staring intently at the back of the ticket.

    “Well, that does make more sense,” Frankie said.

    “Shut up, Frankie,” Adrian said.

    “I’m impressed by Billy knowing the Monopoly board so well.”

    “Shut. Up. Frankie.”

    “He pulled out St. James and New York Ave like he was moving his top hat around the board just a few minutes ago.”

    “Shut the fuck up, Frankie!”

    “Boys, I think we’re out of luck,” Wayne said. “Three like properties defined as a grouping of traditionally color-matched Monopoly properties. Billy’s right.”

    “What about Boardwalk and Park Place?” Adrian asked, somewhat desperately, his beer spilling over the side of his mug as he gesticulated, somewhat wildly, with both hands.

    “What about them?” Wayne asked.

    “There is no third property,” Adrian said, his glare defiant as he struck this very true point.

    “Did you have Boardwalk and Park Place on one of your tickets?” Lionel asked.

    “No.”

    “Then shut the fuck up, Adrian,” Lionel said. Slammed his drink and left for the night. Super pissed. Lionel was out fifty and fifty further from making the rent that in his mind he had just paid off for months in advance with rounds and rounds of drinks to spare.

    That’s pretty much how they all looked at it in the moment. They weren’t out ten or twenty bucks (or in Lionel’s case, fifty); they were out the thousands they had already come to accept as belonging to them. Wayne’s vacation: gone. Frankie’s down payment on that motorcycle: gone. Adrian’s visit to the massage parlor with the bad reputation: Gone. Well, that last one happened soon enough anyway, but the point is, all of the fellows had been dreaming big that night.

    The next night Wayne, Frankie, and Adrian were in their usual spots without a mention of what had happened, nor any wonder as to Lionel’s whereabouts. They knew. The guy was pissed and probably pissed at the bunch of them. Lionel rejoined them two nights later after apparently cooling off. Wayne tried to make amends by buying him a couple of rounds. Nobody mentioned lottery tickets. Not for another three months, not until Lionel had caught up on his rent, which was a trouble in any normal month, and the others had relinquished their fortunes from their imaginations. Only then could they all have a true laugh about what had happened.

    Something wild like that went down every year or two, scratchers night having been the most notorious since it managed to simultaneously make fools out of all four men.

    One day Wayne stopped coming to the bar, and it was Lionel who told Adrian and Frankie that Wayne had died. Just fifty-three he was. Never a word about any illness to the boys, who had just believed Wayne had been eating healthy, drinking a little less, and shedding weight. Hell, Adrian had recently remarked to him about the sudden twinkle in his eye. Apparently, according to his wife, Wayne had known about the colon cancer for awhile, but had refused further medical treatment, perhaps out of stubbornness, perhaps out of fear. At any rate, this was long before the government white coats had lowered the suggested age for colonoscopies from fifty to forty-five, so even if Wayne had been semi-on-the-ball about such things, he probably wouldn’t have caught it in time.

    Lionel passed five years later, also at age fifty-three. Of the group he was the one most befitting the drunkard tag, as he always was, to excess, on every evening. Adrian and Frankie assumed his liver had given out, but they later found out it was just a run-of-the-mill, semi-boring given the speculation, heart attack that took Lionel.

    Years passed and every so often Adrian and Frankie would speak of Wayne and Lionel.

    “So weird that they were both fifty-three when they died,” one would remark to the other.

    Yet when Frankie’s diabetes caught up with him, stopping his heart at age fifty-three, Adrian had nobody to confide in over the coincidence. Well, there had been Ida, but such dark talk would have spoiled their main purpose for meet ups. And there were guys like Billy the bartender or fucking Kenny Chazzen, but Adrian didn’t really have reason to speak to them about anything at all anymore. It had been twenty years between Lionel’s death and Frankie’s, add another five for Wayne, and the coincidence of fifty-three was quite enough to cause fear in forty-nine year old Adrian’s heart every morning subsequent to Frankie’s mortal departure.

    In fact, after Frankie died, Adrian quit drinking, quit smoking, quit soda, cut back on carbs. He dropped seventy pounds before he was fifty, and another thirty before fifty-one, settling into a svelte one hundred seventy pound frame by age fifty-two. His cough was also gone as the cigarettes were out of his system by that time, and a daily exercise regimen replaced the nightly bar stop, so his muscles toned and tightened. Despite a few nagging reminders of his age, Adrian appeared to be in relatively good shape, though he still dreaded his coming fifty-third.

    One the eve of said fifty-third, Adrian took Ida to the best restaurant in town, a German place, and the pair ate in style. Adrian and Ida had been on-again off-again for almost thirty years now, both of them remaining single and stubborn in their ways. They had never made a serious attempt at a relationship because they both knew each other well enough to know it was doomed to failure. If the visitor did not depart the host’s rooms prior to noon the following day, they would be at each other’s throats by the next dinner bell.

    But this was nice. Adrian and Ida were both working-class people, but they were both capable of dressing to the nines and doing up the town proper, like respectable adults, as they would still put it well on into their middle age.

    “We haven’t done this in so long, Ade, let’s make a real night of it.”

    “What do you suggest?” Adrian asked, slightly concerned as he eyed the restaurant’s bill. He’d regret his broiled sole if it hadn’t been so good. And if Ida’s Hungarian goulash, and every other entrée on the menu, hadn’t cost exactly the same.

    “Let’s hit up the Shillelagh,” Ida said, the quartet’s old nightly stomping grounds. “Have one in Frankie’s memory.”

    Adrian grabbed his water glass is gave it a little shake, side to side, the ice cubes clinking one another.

    “I haven’t had one of anything, in a couple years now. Cept coffee and ice water,” he said, taking a big gulp of the latter.

    “And I see how fun you’ve become,” Ida said. “C’mon. Get yourself a Coke, and stare at it if you have to. I want something stiff.”

    Adrian raised his eyebrows.

    “It’s your birthday, Ade. Doesn’t matter if it’s stiff or not, I’ll take care of you.”

    “Not that old, Idee. Not that old. Quite yet.”

    Adrian didn’t recognize the bartender when they entered Shillelagh’s, which made it feel like four years well spent avoiding the place. If goddamn Billy had still been pouring drinks and shouted, “Hey, Ade, good to see you,” time would have evaporated in an unhealthy way. There’d be a beer on-the-house and clamped between Adrian’s paw before Billy would have even offered a handshake. The less familiar faces the better, Adrian thought, in terms of retaining will power and keeping away after tonight.

    And so, he cringed, when a voice from the past called, “Hey, Ade. Ida girl,” as the pair were removing their coats.

    Adrian turned as Ida shouted, “Kenny Chazzen,” a bit too happily before running over to give old Kenny, the jerk, a big hug.

    “Hey, Kenny,” Adrian said, holding tight to his barstool and managing a half-hearted wave down to him as Ida pecked Kenny’s flabby cheek.

    Fat, bald, shabbily dressed, Kenny still at least had all of his teeth (or so it appeared), but this disheveled low acquaintance held Adrian’s eye with a gleam and a glint that Adrian found damn unsettling.

    Adrian didn’t want to come off as a total deadbeat by asking the unfamiliar barkeep for an ice water, so he figured he’d live some and ordered himself up that Coke that Ida had mentioned. Then he called down and asked Ida what she was having.

    “Whiskey Sour,” Ida said, causing Adrian to shiver as he turned to the barman to make sure he had heard her.

    “You should go over and say hi to Kenny,” Ida said, slinging an arm over Adrian and leaning over to sip her drink.

    “I thought I already did,” Adrian said.

    “You know what I mean,” Ida said, giving his shoulder a shove. But once Ida sat on the stool next to him, Adrian wasn’t moving.

    They sat over the bar chatting, oblivious to outsiders, except whenever Ida raised her finger to order another drink. During those moments, as the bartender served her, Adrian would peer down the bar and lose himself in the disturbing shine of Kenny Chazzen’s eyes. He’d swear that every time he did so, Kenny smirked back at him and those eyes actually twinkled. Gave Adrian the shivers, those eyes did.

    “So you think you’re going to make it,” Ida said, somewhere along her third drink.

    “Me? I’m drinking Coke.” Adrian squeezed her thigh. “It’s been awhile, but worst I’ll get is maybe a sugar high. Question is, are you going to make it?”

    “Oh, I’m just getting loosened up, old boy,” Ida said, which Adrian had to admit, sent a little thrill running through him. “But I meant, make it to fifty-three.”

    Adrian glanced at the clock. “Already have,” he said, pointing.

    “One o’clock, oh boy,” Ida said, throwing both arms around Adrian and slobbering over his mouth.

    “Save it for the home front, Idee,” Adrian said.

    “Happy birthday, Ade,” she said. “But that’s not what I meant.”

    Adrian turned and looked at her. He shrugged his shoulders.

    “You know,” she said. “Frankie.” Adrian’s heart dropped, but he didn’t respond. “Lionel. That other old guy.”

    “Wayne.”

    “Yeah. I barely knew him. But also fifty-three.”

    “You know about … fifty-three? I told you I was worried about this?”

    “After Frankie’s wake, you did. Of course, you were shit-faced.”

    “Christ, that’s the last night I was drinking.”

    “Told me the whole story from jump,” Ida continued. “Jesus, Lionel and that Wayne guy too. I still think of them as old men, but here we are now. I hadn’t realized they all checked out at the same age until you told me.”

    “Well, then you know what’s on my mind.”

    “I tell you, it freaked me out, but shit, Ade, I chalk it all up to coincidence. Look at you.”

    “I’ve got sciatica and I’m pre-diabetic,” he said, putting name to those nagging reminders.

    “Well, dumb ass, you’re also fifty-three now.”

    “Point taken,” Adrian said. He sipped his Coke. “But. So were they. I didn’t realize it till I made it, but fifty-four is the actual win. The challenge none of those boys could meet.”

    “You’ll get there, Ade.”

    Adrian shrugged. He wasn’t so sure. Who would be?

    “Ever tell you about scratchers night with the fellas?”

    “Monopoly tickets?”

    “Were you there?”

    “No.”

    “Guess I’ve told that one too then,” Adrian said. “It was Lionel who really cut the matter to the bone. Said, ‘You know, some people never get to be winners. I never even get to pass Go,’ he said. Self-wallowing, but still.”

    Ida just looked at him.

    “You know, pass Go, collect two hundred dollars,” Adrian said.

    “I get it,” she said. “Beats Community Chest, I guess.”

    Adrian shrugged.

    “I’ve got to go pee,” Ida said. She caressed Adrian’s cheek. “What’s say we split when I get back. See if we can work around that sciatica back at your place?”

    “There’s worse ways to go,” Adrian said, happy that she was trying to cheer him up.

    Kenny Chazzen wasted no time. The second Ida had passed him, he was off his stool and on his way down to greet Adrian, which he did, his big mitt smacking over Adrian’s shoulder.

    “Happy birthday, Adrian,” he said.

    “Oh, Ida told you, did she?”

    “Fifty-three,” Kenny said. The bar was dark, almost too dark, but Kenny’s eyes lighted up the small area where Adrian sat.

    “You think fifty-four is in the cards?” Kenny asked.

    “What? Of course,” Adrian said, none too sure.

    “I mean, I remember Frankie,” Kenny said. “And I’m old enough to remember Wayne and Lionel as well. Fifty-three, Ade.”

    Adrian physically removed Kenny’s hand from his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “How old are you, Kenny?”

    “I was fifty-five last month.”

    “You see? It can happen.”

    Kenny clapped his hand back over Adrian’s shoulder. It hurt. His eyes practically high beams burning their way into Adrian’s mind; his perfect teeth grinding as he spoke: “I can get you over the line, Adrian.”

    “Kenny,” Adrian said, prying at the larger man’s hand without success. “You’re hurting me, Kenny.”

    “Just let me eat your soul, Adrian.”

    “Kenny, get the fuck off me,” Adrian shouted, jumping from his bar stool and shoving the man, practically into Ida, who was returning from the ladies.

    “Jeeze, buddy, what’s up your ass?” Kenny asked.

    “Ade, what the hell?” Ida said.

    “All I did,” Kenny said, suddenly lowering his voice, “was ask birthday boy here if he wanted to do a couple lines, or maybe smoke a bowl.”

    “This asshole is over here manhandling me and talking shit,” Adrian said. He tossed a fifty on the bar and downed the rest of his Coke. “C’mon, Ida, let’s go.”

    “I’ll meet you outside,” Ida said, glancing at Kenny as she did so.

    Adrian paused and added three dollar bills to his tip. A buck for every year of his life. He began to step away before stopping to add another dollar. You never know what might get you over that line to fifty-four. Then Adrian walked towards the door.

    “Happy birthday, asshole,” Kenny shouted. Adrian flipped him the double-bird without bothering to turn around as he made his way through the exit.

    Once he was safely outside, Adrian rubbed his shoulder, and upon reaching his car he turned on the interior and pulled his shirt down to have a look. Already black and blue, but the bruise, it wasn’t shaped like Kenny’s big ham-hock, it was more of a slim five-fingered talon with five tiny eddies of blood cropping up at the edge where Kenny’s fingernails had bit him.

    He covered up as Ida got in and slammed the car door shut.

    “Bastard’s got a hell of a grip,” Adrian said. He could barely see her in the dark. Couldn’t read her mood.

    Turned out, Ida’s mood was real good. It was a long night. Adrian crawled from bed the next morning, took a piss, and turned on the television when he returned to the bedroom.

    The curtains were drawn and the TV provided the only light. The local newscaster talked about the horrific crash that decapitated one Kenneth Chazzen three blocks from the Shillelagh bar early this morning.

    “Jesus Christ,” Adrian said, sitting up straight in bed. “Ida, you hear that?”

    Ida was quiet.

    “Idee, you hear that, I asked? Kenny’s dead.” He turned to look at her.

    “I heard you.” Ida said, her voice flat. “And I feel terrible about it.” She rolled over and exhaled deeply.

    “I mean, it’s too bad and all,” Adrian said after a moment’s reflection. “A real shock. But c’mon. Kenny Chazzen? Why would you feel especially terrible?”

    “My last words to him. I called him a fucking scumbag.”

    Adrian looked at her.

    “He lifted the singles you left on your tip before the bartender saw them. A shit move, right?”

    “Oh well, hopefully he bought me a little time.”

    “What’s that, Ade?” Ida asked.

    “Nothing, babe.” Adrian sighed. “Twinkle of death in Kenny’s eyes tonight, you notice that?”



    END

Cliff Aliperti is a Long Island-based writer who wrote about classic film for several years at his site Immortal Ephemera. His fiction has appeared in After Dinner Conversation, Fiction on the Web, JAKE, Squawk Back, and elsewhere. You can find more about Cliff at cliffaliperti.com. Twitter/X: @IEphemera.

Field Sobriety Test by David Boski

congratulations
you quit smoking;
please make sure
you post your anniversaries
on social media
every year,
we’re all so very impressed.
oh, you haven’t had a drink in
15 years either?
cool, post about that too,
that just means there’s
more for the rest
of us,
and coincidentally
15 years ago
is about when I started.
so,
thank you;
you’re no better than
anybody else,
you have your vices too;
just look
in the mirror,
you
hypocritical
fat
fuck.

David Boski is a poet living in Toronto. His poems have most recently appeared in: Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Duane's Poetree, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Winamop. He has a forthcoming chapbook being released by Analog Submission Press as well as Holy&Intoxicated Publications later this year. He enjoys whiskey, wine and beer, in no particular order.  

WD40 blues by John Grochalski

the head priest

of our church

rode around our suburb

in a big ol’ cadillac

my old man sprayed

WD40 on his spark plugs

to try and get our car to work

every sunday

we went to church

and put an envelope full of money

in the collection basket

every sunday

the head priest’s newly waxed cadillac

was parked in the church lot

for all the parishioners to see

we kept the WD40

in the backseat of the car

for easy access

the head priest

changed cadillacs

every twelve to sixteen months

silver one year

gold the next

he rode them around the suburb

with jesus as his co-pilot

honking and waving to anyone he recognized

we kept our car running for a decade

on WD40 and pure luck

if we broke down

no one pulled over to give us a hand

not even christ himself

the head priest’s homilies

were about modesty

kindness

generosity

loving the sick and the poor

and living a simple life

then he went about preparing

the host

pushing his big gold watch back on his wrist

if it happened to get in the way

while the collection basket

passed around the church

for all of the parishioners to fill

with bulky white envelopes

that smelled of WD40 or car grease

and coins that glittered off the church lights

as bright and shiny

as we hoped and prayed

the head priest’s next

brand-new cadillac

would glow

off the light

of a paper moon.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Warm Whiskey on Cold Nights by David Boski

winter is coming
as it does
every year.

seasonal depression
waits quietly in
the shadows
making it hard
to get out of bed in
the mornings
even on the rare occasion
the sun breaks through
the clouds.

as I think of all the time
that has passed
feeling empty inside
and
unsatisfied
with life’s results
thus far.

but Melvin needs
a walk.

so
get up
have
a cup of coffee
and
find happiness
in the moment.

warm whiskey
on cold nights
with him
by your side;
others have it
much
worse.

David Boski is a poet living in Toronto. His poems have most recently appeared in: Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Duane's Poetree, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Winamop. He has a forthcoming chapbook being released by Analog Submission Press as well as Holy&Intoxicated Publications later this year. He enjoys whiskey, wine and beer, in no particular order.  

Miles Ago and Years Away By Ken Gierke

thirteen and fourteen during those summers

sleeping bag and a rolled-up shirt

for bedding, we slept in the backyard

John’s, Mike’s, mine, in rotation

every weekend under the stars

not that we slept all that much

too much to do and never enough darkness

especially if a yard light came on

as we hopped into a neighbor’s pool,

skinny dipping of course, the neighbor

yelling as we made our exit

bare-assed and clutching our clothes

on to the next adventure, yard to yard

I’m sure those people finally sold their house

but it probably didn’t help

when they woke every Saturday morning

to find their For Sale sign

sitting on their neighbor’s front lawn

and that garage with a covered side patio

sure came in handy, not that we needed a garage

but the picnic table was a nice spot to sit

and have a beer from the tap in the wall

I wonder if that guy ever figured out

why his keg of Schmidt’s emptied so fast

or that early Sunday morning late in the year,

when I walked to John’s house, I Can See for Miles

playing on my transistor, to find him

loading the Courier Express into his mom’s ’62 Caddy

I hopped in so I could run the papers as he drove

the car, back before his dad was any the wiser

skinny dipping and swapping For Sale signs

are decades behind me, and good luck

finding a bottle of Schmidt’s – give me craft beer

any time, preferably a stout – but every time

I read the Sunday funnies I can see for years

as I think of that joy ride back in ’67

Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver, transplanted to mid-Missouri from Western New York. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as The Rye Whiskey Review, As It Ought to Be Magazine, Amethyst Review, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. His first collection of poetry, Glass Awash, was published in 2022, and his second collection, Heron Spirit, was published in 2024 – both by Spartan Press. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

Oh Fernet By Ben Gladnikoff

The city of San Francisco  

Drinks more Fernet 

Every year 

Than the country of Italy

He said for the 15th time 

As the bitter brown liquid 

Ran down my throat

The herbs express a longing sense for the Milanese skyline

Or is it for the sweepings of the factory floor

When it comes knocking on your door 

asking if you want some more

Baby, you know I adore you, but can we take it slow? 

Two by two is my preferred rate

Three works as well

But once we get to six

You better treat me kind because you know i’ll be sick

Don’t worry though

I’ll soon be back

Woah

That one went down and brought some friends back to say hi

Ok brother, here I am 

Pour me another 

Who’s keeping score

Italy San Francisco

Forty oh

My old bartender

In the club where I grew up

Had the logo tattooed

On his upper arm

We’d order in silence

With two fingers on our triceps

Smile from ear to ear

Smacking our lips clear

Thought that I’d forsaken you

But how could I forget

You come back like a dad who left for cigarettes

A little older a little wiser

A spirit that shines brighter

With your absence

Someone said absinth?

Take two shots of rye 

and a quarter of fernet

A dash of bitters and some syrup stir it well

Add a twist of orange

Just enough to remind us of our youth

Wormwood made our eyes water

Tickled our tonsils and made our hands sticky

To Fernet I raise my glass

Toronto’s where it’s at

Italy San Fransisco 

Tel Aviv Stockholm

Gone but not forgotten 

Ben Gladnikoff writes introspective radical centrist punk poetry and lyricism for the angsty middle class. He frequently collaborates with songwriters and musicians and thrives on the interplay between music, rhythm and art.

Born and raised in Stockholm, reaching adulthood in Tel Aviv, and now based in Helsinki, Ben brings his multicultural background into his writing. Drawing inspiration from as varied sources as Blues, Jewish tradition and Greek mythology, Ben explores the interplay between the worldly and the inner world.

Cabernet by Desiree Batiste

Watching the sun-kissed vine
give birth to the grape
Carefully selected and prepped
Squashed into paste
to attain its life’s blood
Fermented and bottled
Every year a treasured vintage
The grape’s destiny fulfilled
Let’s raise our glass
in thankfulness
to the fertile ground
for this superior harvest
which yielded a masterpiece
of unblemished Cabernet Sauvignon
The ghost of the grape
looks on, envious of its new form
knowing it is more popular now
than it was on the vine

Desiree Batiste was born in Mesa, Arizona in 1979. She currently lives in Buckeye, Arizona with her husband, Michael and her daughter Kaylee and their four cats: Sketch, Pixel, Trace and Slim Shady. Writing stories and poetry has been a lifelong passion for Desiree. She had her first poem published in a small circulation newspaper for children at age 9 1/2, which only fueled her interest in writing. She has been diagnosed with PTSD and several anxiety disorders as the result of her past experiences. She continues with therapy on these issues, but writing has always been very therapeutic for her and she hopes by sharing her poems and stories, she will help others who are in similar life circumstances.

Neighborhood Punching Bag. by Robert Ragan

The pipes were clean ready for the dirty. Skinny Cassie, the neighborhood punching bag, threw a tantrum because they couldn't get any clear.

Her boyfriend, Charles, was skin and bones too. His teeth were falling out, and his stringy hair was in desperate need of an oil change.

"That attitude is the reason them gals around the block keep whooping your ass."

It was also the reason he would hit her. No, Charles did it because he was as sorry as they get. He damn sure wouldn't hit another man.

This stuff wasn't burning good in the glass. Cassie raised hell when Charles suggested they run it on tinfoil. Neither of them expected their front door to bust wide open.

The law was screaming for them both to get on the fucking floor. Face down; Cassie had never been in trouble before so she fears her life is over.

Charles was familiar with the judicial system and asked to see a warrant.

He said to Cassie, "You're so quick to run that trap, why are you quiet as a mouse now?"

Both were incarcerated. Charles had been locked up for misdemeanors before. Those guys didn't have a lot of time left, and green clothes camps were laid back.

This trip, he was amongst the penitentiary's seasoned veterans. Scared out of his state boots, Charles was weak and frail but still tried to act hard and failed horribly. That attitude was the reason them boys whooped his ass after lights out.  

Nobody liked Charles, so he was easy prey for the commissary scavengers, even the faggots thought he was sweet. So Charles didn't have to drop the soap...NO, they would let him hold it.

This five-year sentence made Charles a bitch period.

Cassie, with no prior charges, received a shorter sentence with two years of her life stolen because of addiction. Right away the really bad bitches were already calling dibs on any commissary money she might get.

Dykes sensed fresh meat.

Every day was straight out of a scene from a women's penitentiary  B movie, only worse.

Cassie never brought her attitude with her. No, she was a quiet little mouse but was still preyed on by one particular inmate.

Big Momma Z took an interest in Cassie. She told all them other hoes, "Don't lay a finger on this one. I'm gonna make something out of her."

Cassie already had all nude fist fights in soapy shower scenes. But there was no way she could beat Momma Z. Much to her surprise, Cassie didn't have to fight with her. No, the lady didn't mean her any harm. She wanted to help her.

In the hood, Z was a ride or die chick until her boyfriend up and ran out of the trap house right before a drug raid. As a member of the household, Z went down too.

Her first year in, she would have taken advantage of Cassie. Now she wanted to take home a positive feeling when those gates finally opened outside. What better way then to take this fragile bird under her wing. Under Z's guidance, Cassie ate better, gained weight, even lifted weights.

That last year went by in a flash. The girl was bench pressing 250 right before she was released.

The night before she got out, Cassie and Momma Z both sat and got pick and poke prison tattoos. Cassie not only had new muscles, but she also had new hope and a better outlook on life. She didn't need drugs to go through the beginning of this.

Now she could face anything in her right mind.

Free and back in town Cassie wasn't the neighborhood punching bag anymore. She stayed to herself, but those old bullies still ran into Cassie. They used to whoop her ass, but now they see her and say, "Wow, it's nice to see ya girl."

She should have thrown one of 'em into an armbar. But Cassie knew they were scared now, and their fear was enough.

Drug-free and in shape, Cassie, a loyal girlfriend, was waiting to pick up Charles three years later when his sentence was finally over. She laid her eyes on a broken man. Charles told her what happened and begged her never to tell anyone. She didn't want to hurt Charles, but he was the same verbally abusive asshole he had always been.

Now when he goes off, Cassie says, "Don't make me tell everyone what happened to you."

In no time Charles was fiending to get back on that shit. Obviously, he'd calmed down a lot after seeing she had muscles.

Still, Charles gets a little braver each day. But the next time he lays a hand on Cassie, she's going to rip it off and slap him upside his damn head with it.

Robert Ragan, from Lillington, NC writer of short stories and poetry has been published online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, and The Dope Fiend Daily. Alien Buddha Press has published his first short story collection "Mannequin Legs and Other Tales".