it is better than an empty closet,

for it encourages thrift

and reminds us

that we can, indeed, slam

those rosewood doors,

a cautious sanctimony

tucked in the scarves

of the accomplished

and inarguably well-spoken moms

who told us of regrets

we ought not to strive for.




and reach as lost stars do.

the clothes on our backs

flapping in light autumn sweat.

ready to be folded

again, near public showers.




Kristine Brown

Kristine Brown is a freelance writer and editor located in Southwest Texas. Her writing has been featured in Forage Poetry, In-Flight Literary Magazine, Dulcet Quarterly, Thought Catalog, Journal of Asian Politics and History, and Sanglap: Journal of Literary and Cultural Inquiry. While her work is driven by research, Kristine aims to expand herself creatively through poetry and prose. She experiments with writing at her blog, Crumpled Paper Cranes (



A.J. Huffman

A Brand New World


Strange cracks evaporate,

buckle like a sky that has forgotten

its blue.  Clouds

crawl off the floor, point

accusingly at stars swearing

they are innocent as a bathroom

mirror.  Three leaves send up smoke

signals, invitations to tomorrow’s mess.



Of Onions and Umbrellas


Parallel creatures of hanging,

droplets are their common denomination.

Production vs. repellant.  Necessity

will decide as I stand in abandoned

doorway.  Surrounded

by solace, I waver

between kitchen cabinets and countryside

pathways.  I inhale

freedom-scented winds from both sides.

I wonder if I held

a match between my teeth,

would I spark, change

the weather or the world?



Midnight in Central Park


Clock tolls, harsh tones

of deadline’s passing.  Old contracts

now void; New contracts, yet to be

inked, lay stagnant on conference-room table.

The squirrels and pigeons have spent hours

painting protest slogans on posterboards,

now firmly fastened to limbs

graciously donated by the trees.  Morning

will find a feral picket line rising

with the sun.  Let the tourists try

and cross.  A mouthful of human nuts might be

an interesting change of pace.  Thoughts darken

as demands are prepared for release.  Select

branches have been branded, stand ready

for wind’s first liberation movement.  Seeds and

crumbs to be bickered over, most will be fodder

for the camel-cracking straw: Respect.  Less

smoking.  The flowers feel brown tint

is a terrible shade to bloom.  No stilettos.  The grass

is wimpy, sparse at best, already aerated enough.

Absolute banishment of Alka-Seltzer.

Some urban legends need not be

granted acreage for daily testing by teenagers.

Mandatory permits for artists and musicians.  The

ability to hold can or conversation does not make

a Monet or Missy Elliot.  Little reprieves

that might make the daily doses of drunks and

muggers bearable.  The last

[semi]natural wildlife in this city is crying

out for compromise.


Dawn comes, as do the villagers.  Both storm past,

ignore flurry of fur and feathers, paws and wings.

These mindless migrants remain

too blinded by their own

desire to beat the rush, to make the train.



A.J. Huffman

A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.


Charles Hayes


Through shoes with cardboard soles that sport a clownish grin, my blackened toes flash like rotten teeth. Crows, spooked from the pizza box atop the trash, hurl their curses from the wires on high, to the concrete canyons of misty light.

Chalk colored piles with dark swirls,, like rippled custard, dot the box, and I wonder at the absence of odor, as I lift the lid. One piece is better than none, a find at last, and some fluff for a bowel that growls.

Sitting on the curb, my breezy feet to face, I figure that I have had worse, and smack the pizza down. Time to nap, I scan the shadowed doors about, and see my pick is occupied. A lumpy blanket squeezing hair, with weathered boots parked aside.

Removing my flaps of shod I waft to the shadowed lee, do a trade and carry on.

The crows are quiet as sin.


By The Sea

Arching its neck over the undulating highway to feed from the other side, an orange dinosaur fittingly forms a gateway for my passing, a secrete portal to new things in a world of vivid color. In awe of this unexpected find, I smile and look aside at the jungle flashing by. Along its face smiling heads of scaly creatures look out to welcome me. Huge friendly eyes, shaded by leathery furrowed brows, seem to say, “What took you so long?”

Turning to Bill to share my joy, I exclaim, “After all the looking, I have finally found it!” Bill is undisturbed to part from his muse and turn his mask of calm my way. Simply meeting my eyes, he knows, yet he needs not say. Turning back to his muse and calmly tooling the little VW through the herds of prehistory, Bill drives on.

In the back seat Rocky laughs and says, “Danny tried to set me on fire.” Looking back between the seats, I see that Danny has lit a cigarette, its blood red swirls of smoke flashing tracers from the rear window sunbeams. Immune to Rocky’s claim, Danny returns my look and shrugs. Rocky immediately forgets his outcry but likes the attention anyway. Scrunched together, excitement in their eyes, like Bill, they are watching. I watch too. And together, the miles suck us in.


For a moment the late autumn sea leaves me a child standing in the middle of an empty slate dump, grey expanses running to steep hills of leafless timber. Then, I am here again, as slate grey seas kiss a cumulous scattered sky.

Danny squeals and dances in the surf while I and others sit in the sand, our sneakers wet by his dance’s reach. Suddenly across the tableau of what seemed untouchable for so long, a string of pretty girls parade, all enjoying the ancient interest of our smiles, yet bemused by them a stitch.

Wildwood by the Sea blesses our short stay as another portal begins to close. Still whooping and high kicking the curled white froth, Danny does not see. Grinning at this sight, like a silent monk, I wait. It will not be long now.


Charles Hayes

Charles Hayes, a Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.



Ron Riekki, Featured Author

Setting the Landlord on Fire


Let me explain something first.

This was by mistake.

Although I remember a motivational speaker

saying something about how there are no mistakes.

And it was only his face.

I was trying to do a circus trick.

I was drunk.

He had a giraffe shirt on

so I couldn’t miss him.

I spit the vodka aflame into his face


and he had a beard

and mustache—had

and fell back

into the Christmas tree,

which wasn’t my Christmas tree,

because I’m not Christian

and I don’t own a saw.

I’m Saami,

which is a people

of genocide


and maybe this is the first time you’ve ever heard of us,

in this poem

about my landlord

rolling around

in the thorns

or whatever

of silver and gold


orbs and beads and crucifixes

that unfortunately


do stick in backs

and he didn’t die

or even get wounded

that badly.

It was more embarrassment.

Like every time I go to the slot

and put the check in

and realize I can’t even hear it

hit the bottom.

I don’t even have the satisfaction of that.


The EMT Instructor Shows Us a Video of a Man Falling to His Death


There is, of course, absolutely nothing

to be learned from this.

Other than I should have spent more money

on the college.

Except this isn’t really a college.


It’s more of a basement in need of a shave.

The man keeps falling in the video,

mostly because the instructor keeps playing it

and laughing and he looks like

he’s eaten people’s dreams his whole life.


Not the man falling.  The man falling

looks like nothing.  He looks like a flash

of flesh.  He is nameless and he’s not

nameless and I look at the teacher

who doesn’t teach who looks like


he was eating a dream last night,

all night long, in his insomnia,

and I wonder what happened

that made him think he can do anything,

say anything, and have no repercussions.




It’s a city.

You’ve never heard of it.

It was New Year’s Day.

You’ve never heard of that either.

It’s a day in the U.S.

where everyone commits suicide.

I’m defining Negaunee for you.

I can’t explain New Year’s Day.

It’s too complicated.

It’s sort of like Christmas

but with more syphilis.

We went out to go shovel

but the shovel was buried

under ten feet of snow,

because I come from a place

where we have to shovel

a hole up to the sky,

building a ladder

so that we can crawl

out of our homes

up onto the snow banks

where the crows are waiting

to eat our eyes.  But if you’re fast,

you’ll eat theirs first.


Typhoid Donald

for Kevin Simmonds

German wonder crook,

wintered why

the talk to the lot of us

could be so lethal,

and yet, even told that,

we know,


and don’t even wonder.

Not the women, not the men,

not even when the blood

legs its way over to us.

We turn


and blink and four years fly by

on our new island, walled and chained.

Ah, Donald,

from the Gaelic, ‘ruler of the world.’

We hear your magnificent

hard rule

of pus and drool.


Ron Riekki


Ron Riekki’s books include U.P.: a novel (Sewanee Writers Series and Great Michigan Read nominated), The Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New Works (2014 Michigan Notable Book from the Library of Michigan and finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Award/Grand Prize shortlist, Midwest Book Award, Foreword Book of the Year, and Next Generation Indie Book Award), Here: Women Writing on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (2016 IPPY/Independent Publisher Book Award Gold Medal Great Lakes—Best Regional Fiction and Next Generation Indie Book Award—Short Story finalist), and And Here: 100 Years of Upper Peninsula Writing, 1917-2017 (Michigan State University Press, 2017).


Alex Hughes

A Seminary Education


The most interesting thing I’ve learned while

at seminary was not taught to me in a class, but

something I observed gradually around campus:


amid this gluten-free fitness-freak city it seems I’ve

stumbled upon some holy place for women who are obese—

everywhere I turn there’s a thigh as wide as my waist


gyrating against its mirror, and I can hear seams

screaming, clinging like lovers being dragged apart—

I cringe, and cannot help but wonder why, what it is


about the religious life that beckons to them.

Of course in my heart of hearts I wonder if

I’m being an ass, if just having this thought is


offensive—but if I can’t even ask, if I can’t

wonder aloud in my own head, what’s the deal

with all these fatties? then I’ll have sacrificed


truth, or the pursuit of truth, nailed it to some

crucifix in favor of a world where young girls

can eat through their sorrow, can gorge with


sticky fingers upon words that whisper: doesn’t

this feel good? who needs beauty when you have

the grease of misery? If I can’t ask what all these


bowling balls are doing here, can’t wonder how their

wobbly pins don’t snap in half, then the world will

keep spinning and young women will keep turning


to Jesus, for he’s the only one to dry their tears

after a binge when the night is empty, the only one to

make them feel loved, the only one to look upon


all these obese women on campus who have, at long last,

given up hope, and told them it will be alright—

if I can’t even ask, then nothing will ever change.



Lost & Found


Or at least that’s what the sign says.

I watch the severed hand

scuttling and rummaging through

diamond rings and key chains and

Kodak cameras, through sunglasses

and eyeglasses and pocket-sized maps,

through coffee cups and baseball caps

and phones too stupid to find their way home.


The sleepy-looking boy had looked at me

in mild disbelief when I told him I lost

my soul in room 3-3-0—it must have

slipped between the covers when

I wasn’t looking and hid, listening,

or else it dove into the crack

between bed and wall—I don’t know

why it left me but I know I want it back.


And now it could be anywhere,

anywhere except here in the blue

bin at the concierge.



Alex Hughes

Alex Andrew Hughes lives and works in Los Angeles. He splits his time between his training in clinical psychology, his research in existential crises, and his fiction, poetry, and sketching. Sometimes, however, he does absolutely nothing, and he enjoys that time the most. His poetry has recently appeared in Thin Air, New Plains Review, Firewords Quarterly, and elsewhere.


Richard Weaver

The Monkey of Anger


does more than fling poo. Sure, he’s a master craftsman
and dead shot, able to fling without being seen,


and disappear after the deed is done. And he is careful

to point a finger towards the pack, and wag it suggestively.


The monkey of anger is a connoisseur of dung, a fierce,

biting and snarling competitor for the best excrement


available. No matter whose. He plays no favorites.

He hoards it near his banana stash, mixes it


with small stones and chewed straw until its consistency

is firm enough to remain a ball in his hand, and balanced.


Only then does the monkey of anger reveal his intentions.

Does his anger unveil itself, and his need for a target manifest.


The monkey of anger has his sights on you. You wrongly

assumed your umbrella will shield you, your reflexes


are superior. Your awareness of environment and superior

knowledge will not grant you poomunity. You are doomed.


Your fate complete, and ignominy your new name.



The Giraffe Who Swallowed Wrongly


died while gargling, a slow death, exacerbated

by allergies to pollen, a fear of heights, knocked knees,


a too-keen awareness to the nearness of stars

and the moon’s atavistic nature, as well as complications


of multiple herniated discs caused primarily

by Acute Peeping Tom Syndrome. The service


and feast were held the same day: all who attended

enjoyed a long repast.



The Aardvark of Unwanted Adverbs and Unwelcoming Adjectives


has taken up residency in the Swedish embassy, having sought asylum

after uploading a smorgasbord of grammatical impurities

to every English Department and laundromat on the planet.


He/she, no one knows or is willing to suggest, has demanded

nothing, suggested less, insisting they (the sexless they) are not

the arbiters of language nor the ambassadors of lexicography.


The rotation of the earth has slowed noticeably, due, possibly,

to the collective breath intake of all English majors, and minors,

not to mention Endowed chairs, Professor Emeriti, and tenuously


tenured faculty members. Committees have been formed worldwide,

and are meeting on days that begin with W, and months ending in E.

There is hope yet for a solution, or at least a truce. A partial withdrawal.


Untutored minds are quick to realize the End has come ‘round.



The Speed of Dark


has challenged you to a race, a duel of sorts,

a journey beyond the universe’s edge.

Winner take all. Loser required to pay


God’s outstanding tab. In your defense

this challenge arrives every year exactly now,

at the High Time of Golden Impatience,


when most everyone else has fled this galaxy

or the next, bored with weather patterns,

bothered by an influx of tourists (you never know


where they have been), being fleeced by balding

gypsies. Bad timing can never be made good.

But bad decisions, that is another story.


Just not this one. This one will lower the net

so that all shots land safely in play. It even allows

for Mulligans. What do you have to lose, I hear you


say to yourself. And truthfully I say to you,

God’s a teetotaler. Never goes on a bender.

Never buys the next round, or drinks for the house.


Truth be told you could throw the race, and find a way

to come out ahead. It’s clear you are leaning

towards accepting this farce of a proposal. Science


is in your favor. Always has been. Most likely will be

after the sun has imploded. So what’s the problem?

You worried about your streak of perfection?


Unbeaten since…always. It’s not pride that beckons,

or ego that prods. You are simply bored with the unchanging

all-ness of it all. And know that rubbing Dark’s nose in it


will give no satisfaction, offer no closure or resolution.

You are the rock and the hard place.

Alpha joined at the hip with garlicky Omega.


And worse, you know without a doubt

this slow death will never end.



Richard Weaver

Richard Weaver is an unofficial snowflake counter (seasonally) in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Recent poems have appeared in the Southern Quarterly, conjunctions, The Little Patuxent Review, Gloom Cupboard, Red Eft Review, The Literateur, Five 2 One, Steel Toe Review, Crack the Spine, StoneBoat, OffCourse, and the Stonecoast Review.