sit in the outdoor seating area of the only fast-food restaurant in a single traffic signal town after hours in the dark always the neon lights always the sound of water always the trees the road the cars the wind here no one knows you here there are night birds here is a little moth dying at the window
Kelly Burdick is a poet, artist, and librarian living in a tiny town in the Inland Northwest. Their writing has appeared in Eclectica, Segullah, Inscape, and elsewhere. They are an editor of the chicken-centric art and poetry zine COOP: chickens of our poetry.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 1 – St. John, N.B. Canada
I keep all your letters in a cigar box under our bed next to grandmother’s wedding dress. This is a city of ghosts of bars of brown pastures. You send me postcards from all the places I’ll never go. They are on a map I do not own. I am left with ink on fingers, smudges of black on white on an unpunctuated loss. Truth is something only paper can be witness to. I’ll never wear that dress. Instead, I’ll meet you where the earth is covered in blues and greens.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 2 – Woodstock, N.B. Canada
I’m a girl on a dragon-fly on the back of a horse heading straight into the wind under an unbreakable sky. You are not here. You are made-up words in an invented language spoken in whispers. I remember every detail of the world we created from scratch. I remember that day the moon eclipsed the sun and for a moment the earth turned cold. The sky turned deep green no stars in sight. You wrote me of a dream you had; lost, afraid and miles away from home. You heard the low beat of wings. You felt the steady pound of hooves and I readied myself for flight.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 3 – Edmundston, N.B. Canada
Disregard my last letter. If you have not yet received it bury it away when you do. I’ve tried to stop loving you. It’s easier than I thought. Miles and time only sharpens every memory. You would no longer recognize the land but the sky is the same. I look up at your moon and your stars. Imagine a blanket of quiet descends on us. I close my eyes, can almost hear nothing. I’m an experiment in exile. We don’t ever really lie. We believe and then find out later we were wrong.
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Recent chapbooks include Justice for all, published by Conversation Paperpress (UK) based on the last words of Texas Death Row inmates. Also, Without Dorothy, There is No Going Home from ELJ Publications. Other releases include an e-chapbook, From an iPod found in Canal Park; Duluth, MN, from Right Hand Pointing and Left of the Dial from corrupt press. The full length collection, Postcards from the Knife Thrower was runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. His chapbook, Perspectives on a Crime Scene was recently released by Grey Border books and a full length collection Pop. 1280, released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon.
Milo Gorgevska lives in the dreary suburbs outside of Toronto, Ontario. Nonbinary and queer, they identify as a menace to society’s traditions. As a jack-of-all-trades, they are an author, director, poet & screenwriter. Previously, their writing under the pen name ‘Kara Petrovic’ has been published in Philadelphia Stories, Train: A Poetry Journal & others. Their…
by Leah Mueller The absurdity of being so round, with such an eager mouth. The hippo looks like it’s about to bite into something, but it’s also smiling, like it’s goddamned delighted to be the most ridiculous animal in the room.Relentlessly positive New Agers see these beasts as noble creatures. Their essays claim that hippos…
Patio Furniture in a Mid-April Cold Snap by Kelly Burdick sit in the outdoor seating areaof the only fast-food restaurantin a single traffic signal townafter hours in the darkalways the neon lights alwaysthe sound of water alwaysthe trees the road the cars the windhere no one knows you herethere are night birds hereis a little…
The houseplants thanked me in their particular green way, for your unexpected aspirations on the climbing philodendron in the guest room where you slept last night and for your fragrant exhalations of carbon dioxide on the spiderwort potted in the living room when we companionably watched The Kominsky Method with Alan Alda and Michael Douglas, laughing together at Douglas’ frequent visits to the bathroom as an aging male.
The grandchildren went to sleep on the study’s yellow fold-out futon where there are no plants but plenty of fresh air from the open windows where ivy clings tenaciously to the wall outside.
Jan Ball has been published in various journals internationally and in the U.S. including: ABZ, Mid-American Review, and Parnassus. Finishing Line Press published her three chapbooks and first full-length poetry collection, I Wanted To Dance With My Father. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in both 2020 and 2021. When not traveling, or gardening at their farm, Jan and her husband like to cook for friends.
Meshwork by Soramimi Hanarejima In the cozy diner, breakfast with you is its customary languid affair of savory omelets and occasional quiet conversation—until coffee has coaxed me into greater wakefulness. Then I notice a lavender filament extending from you towards the tech district—a direction none of your strands has ever gone in. I know the…
by Zach Murphy Pete and Richard’s orange safety vests glowed a blinding light under the scorching sun, and their sweat dripped onto the pavement as they stood in the middle of the right lane on Highway 61, staring at an opossum lying stiffly on its side. Richard handed Pete a dirty shovel. “Scoop it up,”…
3 Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife by Alex Stolis. Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s WifeAugust 1 – St. John, N.B. Canada I keep all your letters in a cigar box under our bednext to grandmother’s wedding dress. This is a cityof ghosts of bars of brown pastures. You send mepostcards from all the places I’ll never…
Joseph Turrent (he/him) is a London-based poet. His book The Moth Apocalypse (HVTN Books) reprocesses the language of Twitter to imagine various cataclysmic scenarios as they might appear on social media. Recent work has appeared in Firmament magazine, and The Mouth of a Lion, an anthology of visual poems published by Steel Incisors.
Driving through the girth
Of Powis in new July
I see the land set
As a table for some banquet
This is a Marie Celeste County
Groaning under nothing
but the green.
Full of people not there now
resting in the care
Of some churchyard yew,
Seeded in the time before
Merlin’s first spell was cast.
Following the Vyrnwy
And the Tanat even though
They too sometimes
Have to ask the way
Through the leafy glade
And past the humpy hill
You are the biggest county in Wales
Unsure how to begin
And where on earth to end.
Bernard Pearson’s (he/him) work appears in many publications worldwide, including; Aesthetica Magazine , The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, and others. In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize. His first novel Where the Willows End was published in 2021.
Flowers radiate with the sun’s teeth opening the sky shining with sleeping stars’ hopes and bright red seeds’ echoes buried in the dry dirt. After long nights in a lonely cabin I drive my children through crooked roads to a high mountain overlooking the desert city and watch them sled on new snow, seeing once again the pink pointed dawn.
Natalie Marino (she/her) is a poet, physician, and mother. Her work appears in Barren Magazine, Bitter Oleander, Dust Poetry Magazine, and elsewhere. She was named a finalist in Sweet’s 2021 poetry contest. Her micro-chapbook, Attachment Theory was published by Ghost City Press in June 2021. She lives in California.
I’m pulling weeds and moss from the cracks in the patio Even though I know they will grow again. It feels important to pay attention To these spaces The in-between places That overgrow and can be hidden, Neglected Their meaning lost in relation to the whole.
And I think of you With your neural network of old fine cracks A barely visible history That could shatter the whole With too firm a press And leave a broken confusion of pieces.
I am consoled to know that The porcelain vase could be repaired With powdered gold Leaving the fault lines like precious scars On show Making the new whole more beautiful And stronger than before.
And when I have had enough of bending Some tufts and roots remain Between the paving,
But I don’t mind.
David lives near Hull in the north of England, retired from the NHS but still working as a psychotherapist (which is a bit like Kintsugi perhaps) amongst other things like being a dad & writing occasional poetry. Having only recently discovered the big wide world of Lit Mags he only has one other piece published thus far but hopes there’ll be more to come! Can be found on Twitter @Davidwilberforc. Say hello sometime!
You utter grievances of restrictions from holding a friend’s child. You keep him at a safe—safe—distance, laughing as he chases you. Home is a bunker detached from reality.
You suffer under a warm, gentle glow; my sunlight is filtered through glass, splintered into fragments on my skin.
Your loneliness echoes in open fields, reverberating from people two metres apart; mine rings within these walls, clanging louder, and louder, and louder, tightening around me with each breath of fresh air you take, your body expanding to occupy the space.
You leave me to watch from the windows in what you deem Play-life; a step removed from your open fields.
Grace Hui is a University of Cambridge graduate and a disabled Asian immigrant making her home in London. She writes free verse poetry, flash fiction and contemporary fiction novels. In her spare time, Grace coos at dogs, bingewatches TV and makes cards for her friends. She tweets at @gracehuiauthor and you can learn more about her at gracehuiauthor.com
I find a single sheet of A4 paper, printed on one side in cheap ink.
Unlock All Arenas Unlock All Bonus Stages He must have done it at school, or maybe a friend gave it to him in the playground.
Unlock All Concept Art I like the idea of concept art. I do. Although: it’s the kind of thing we feel we should say we like, when in reality we don’t know what it is.
Unlock All Duel Characters Sounds simple enough, unless you’ve known any.
Unlock All Moves Unlock All Powers and Moves Now we’re talking. Can I clarify – are Moves / Powers and Moves mutually exclusive? Can I have all of them? I’d like to have all of them. Unlock All Story Levels
Unlock Super Light Saber Mode
Unlock Tiny Droid Mode
Uh, Tiny Droid Mode?
Unlock Quick Health and Force Refill
Yes
Unlock Infinite Health
Yes
Unlock Infinite Force Power Yes.
Lucy Heuschen is a Londoner living near Bonn, Germany with her husband, sons and dog. Lucy is a former lawyer, cancer survivor, avid reader, poet and anti-plastic blogger. She is the founder and editor of two poetry initiatives, The Rainbow Poems and Sonnets for Shakespeare. Lucy’s work will appear in the next issue of the journal Beyond Words. She has appeared on the poetry show on Hope Radio Birmingham and on Poets For The Planet #beginafresh. Find Lucy on Twitter @Rainbow_Poems and Facebook @RainbowPoemsUK.
the bird on the roof; the lamp pointing upwards; the pen going on a journey; the keys; two pink clothes pegs a long way from the line; an acknowledgement; the books that stick out from the shelf; the waiting weights; the thigh that moonlights as a writing desk; the lady who organised this; the taste of the coupon; the wave; the flip flops that miss spending all day on the beach; the parts of her that are all mine; the rain that might fall; the old man terrified of retirement; the old lady who never got to; the bed that was made only to have unfolded clothes dumped on it almost immediately; the echoes of the next line; another rejection; missing my daughters; all those moments that we’ll never live again; the approaching; always the approaching; forgetting to indicate; glad of my skin shade when I get pulled over; no idea of my origins; Liverpool, Bristol, possibly some Irish; when it all collapses will it be permaculture or The Road? letting the size of the page dictate the length of the writing; feeling artificial; missing those days I can’t remember; welling up and moving on; can we do something else now?
Simon Alderwick is a writer and musician from the UK. His work is featured or forthcoming in Whatever Keeps The Light On, Re-side, The Daily Drunk and the Squiffy Gnu anthology, among others. Follow him on Twitter @SimonAlderwick.
Near Window 