Categories
Uncategorized

Hot-el in Hot-Lanta


In Hot-Lana, a hotel lobby’s severe AC
Targeted my back 
My brow coveted in sweat and my back painted in labor 
I wait patiently for this business man to redeem points 
For a room provided by his prestigious company
My heels sewn to the floorboards 
Eyes swollen with defeat from 16 hours 
Wide smiles and empty stomach 
I wait for my turn
The salvation of a plastic key card
The business man is exposing how his job is difficult 
In his leather shoes and Gucci bag 
Rushing the receptionist
His obese fingers tapping the marble counter
“This company, ridiculous! I deserve the better room after what they put me through.
You see, they promised me they would cover the costs of…”
His hoarse voice dominated the lobby
In effort to retrieve its quiet slumber
The receptionist typed rapidly
Trying to collect the correct information
To have this man’s presence vanish
Out of all the business men I’ve served
I have never seen their teeth line into a smile
Or any pigment in their eyes
I have only witnessed the swift performance of their fingers
On laptops and iPhones
The canyons of anger and annoyance
Etched into their faces
The sound of their disappointment hanging in the air
Visible, wounded, and silent
How could we, normal servers could ever imagine?
Their pain and anguish
The business man rambles and snatches his keycard
Taking his rage and suitcase to the elevator
The lobby hushes into peace
I asked the receptionist about his night
He turns to me with tender love
Takes a breath and states,

“You already know what this is like”

Poetry by Mia Amore Del Bando

Image by Adam Strong

Mia Amore Del Bando was born and raised in Long Beach, California. She featured in The Art of Everyone, Flora Fiction, Poets Choice, and others. Her poetry book Fragments of a Woman’s Brain published by Nymeria Publishing debuts in 2024. She is a faithful friend, difficult daughter, and selfish lover.

Categories
Uncategorized

I Used to Play the Saxophone

Yes, when I was young I used to hold the thing and make it sing, press fingers into golden keys that glittered, glistened in the natural light let in through the windows. 

Please believe me when I tell you I could call the song through a brass horn shaped like black hole’s vortex hammered into tapered form. 

Yes it used to shudder on the switch of keys and hemorrhage notes that spoke the world as such it had to be for this metal thing to sing a language only known by birds and trees. 

Yes briefly I was an actor making music from the endless march of time. The performance has not ended, only the instrument misplaced and now our stage is deathly quiet. 

The only song left is the sound of terror in fingers stretched over futures not yet music, endlessly possible if only I could use it. 

But each note is too beautiful, any song a prison, every moment a sacrifice. I find myself frozen, holding notes like children, old friends fading, a lost glint in the corner of a lover’s eyes. 

All my breath can stir is silence. 

Poem by Jack O’Grady

Image by Adam Strong

Jack O’Grady is currently writing from Boston, but grew up writing from Maryland and graduated with a degree from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Since he began writing seriously, he’s been focused on translating vulnerable experiences with nature and time into stories that strive to question our conception of either. His writing hopes to soften genre and structure into something like a soup, warm and nourishing. Outside of writing, he also writes tabletop games and is one of the founding editors of The Downtime Review, a literary mag dedicated to platforming the work of writers with day jobs. You can find links to his work at: jackogrady.carrd.co

Categories
Uncategorized

Wasps

He lights a citrus candle
as wasps circle
inside her belly.
Relax, he says,
as Coltrane fills the room.
A coned papery nest
attached to her childhood home.
They won’t sting,
the man told her mother,
unless provoked.
He traces her breast
and they spiral upward,
serenading their queen,
their medley rumbling
deep inside her throat.
At once the saxophone
lifts her high above the bed.
She joins a brown spider
watching safely
inside its web.
Thighs like lilies
empty of pollen.
Her ears buzz
as the queen escapes
from her open mouth.
The stingers sear
his surprised face
as drops of venom
fall onto her parched lips
like a prayer.

Poem by Phyllis Ritner

Image by Adam Strong

Phyllis Rittner writes poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work can be found in Wrong Turn Lit, Burnt Breakfast, Roi Faineant Press, Paper Dragon, Versification, Fairfield Scribes, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review and others. She is the winner of the Grub Street Free Press Fiction Contest and a member of The Charles River Writing Collective. She can be reached on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner

Categories
Uncategorized

Degreaser


Let
‘s go play
some place else.
These units
been degreased
so often
Their circuits can’t tell
which game to cancel.
MomDad clued me
on a new toyland
Where there’s still air
, and we’ve nukes enough …
Besides, I’ve got a 2 gig chip
out on my transponder
Audio
‘s shot
and everything sounds
like I’m in the Tubes.

Poem by Michael Theroux

Image by Adam Strong

Michael Theroux writes and doodles from him home office in Northern California. His careers span includes classically trained botanist, environmental health specialist, green energy developer and resource recovery web site editor. A life-long word smith, his publications have primarily been professional papers supporting these careers. Entering literary publishing late in life at 72, he is seeking publication of my cache of art writings, including around 400 poems, stories, memoirs, vignettes and two novels (one complete, the other in progress). Some of his shorter works may be seen in Down in the Dirt, Ariel Chart, 50WS, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, CafeLit, Poetry Pacific, Last Leaves and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

Categories
Uncategorized

Cracked Concrete


Hey mo-fo
Before you break bad on me
coming back into my game
remembering the slim times we shared
As we stood upon the street corner
listening to discordant palpitations
of the moving life around us
No one knows what we seen and done
in the pursuit of paying rent
to prevent our dilution
People just slid by us
enveloped in a technological haze
that reflected the blue-white light from their pupils
It dripped off of them in forgotten strands
effervescing through forever
into the cracked concrete

Poetry by Mark Slauter

Photo by Adam Strong


Mark currently lives in Virginia with his wife and two cats. The Diary Of A Novice Investor: The Bullet Train To Wealth Left When? was published in 2017. Recent story publications include Shark Week: An Ocean Anthology (July 2021) [How Manta Ray Was Created] and Goats Milk Magazine (Aug 2021) [Anliquitzchan]. His digital art has appeared in The Bookends Review, Goats Milk Magazine, and Nocturne Magazine. He is a member of the James River Writers group in Richmond, VA.

Categories
Uncategorized

Golden Shovel

When I was ten, he forgot me at the butcher, inevitably careless.

I met strangers’ eyes with the rapture of recognition, whether man
or teenager, until proven wrong.  Eventually, a policeman took my
hand, cradling our soup bones with unremitting care — like a father
in training. Afterwards, the stench of bloody sawdust always
reminded me of abandonment. I ate less and less, leaving
my meals and my solidity behind, slowly becoming a ghost. The me
who was ten years old grew another self who appeared at
will, an impostor rehearsing departure, thumbing rides at bus-stops or rest-stops.

Poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Image by Adam Strong

Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, has also been nominated for Best of the Net, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars.


She is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award winner “A Route Obscure and Lonely,” “Women Who Were Warned,”  Firecracker Award, Balcones Poetry Prize, Quill and Ink, Paterson Poetry Prize,and IPPY Award nominee “Messengers of the Macabre” [co-written with David Davies], “Apprenticed to the Night” [UniVerse, 2023], and “Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide” [Ukiyoto Publishing, 2023] are her latest poetry titles. In 2023, her poetry placed as a finalist in Thirty West Publishing’s “Fresh Start Contest” and in the 8th annual Stephen DiBiase contest.- links -Twitter: @Mae_Westside

LindaAnnLiterary:  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg

Categories
Uncategorized

The Rebel

With a flagrant disregard for existing social norms,
something’s brewing in the anvil of thought.
Wild rhododendrons and bougainvilleas running
along the wall,  
as we denounce the barriers of casteism and marginalization.
No to the elite.
No to centuries of limiting beliefs and traditions,
their insistence—the shackles of our own minds. 
At midnight,
in the waning light of the stars in the sky,
the silhouette of our necks interlocked like flamingos.
I miss you. I never even met you:
let us take a deep dive into our imaginations,
until we find the right imagery and metaphors
we can discuss—dissect;
not for ego’s sake, but for love.

Poem by Mukut Borpujari 

Image by Adam Strong

Mukut Borpujari is a graduate in English Literature and a Masters in Computer Application (MCA) degree holder. He started writing while he was still in college and his early writings were published in various local newspapers and magazines. Recently his poems appeared in various international literary journals and magazines, including Mount Hope Magazine of the prestigious Roger Williams University (RWU), RI, USA and New Feathers Anthology. Remington Review and Zephyr Review, Cerasus Magazine, London, UK are other major journals where his poems appeared. He is also long listed in this year’s Erbacce-prize for poetry 2023.

Categories
Uncategorized

Paper Image

A paper doll does not have a serrated blade as an accessory in her back.  The people of proximity pay attention to the dresses and heels the life-size version wears. They profess they will cut a doll in her image. They want to change the fashion every hour and place her in a box for safekeeping.  They carry her around. She crafts her own likeness with glossy pages filled with pancakes, spoons, and water that become collaged outfits. Only paper is permitted.  She creates the doll with no face. The life-sized version wore a child-sized dress today and they told her she looked like a doll. If only she were flat she could fold into a paper plane and fly away. 

Flash by Tammy L. Evans

Image by Adam Strong

Tammy Evans has been published in Gone Lawn, Cabinets of Heed, Clover and White, Spelk, Five on the Fifth, Fiction Kitchen Berlin, and Elephants Never. 

Categories
Uncategorized

A Question for Helen


When Paris touched your hand, did your
ships become comets that sliced the
heavens? Troy is a gasp in the
groan of deep space; no lustre
compares to the daughter of Zeus.
No virtue could be held at the
sight of your face. In your fleet,
did the image make you shudder
of Theseus’ dull grimace?
If you had known your visage would
shed blood, would you have cut it at
its stem; burnt it if you could?
You never asked to seduce
from child; you never asked that
men should fight that they might put
you in the sky, starry mascot.
You never asked to be a prize,
but so it goes. You never asked
for lovers to cage you; for your
legend to be tied to some mast.
Perhaps in our time, you would have
launched your thousand ships into the
sky, and made your own starry path;
head held high, cosmic intruder.
Banished away Helen of Troy
and become of Andromeda,
Whirlpool, Condor, Antennae –

Poetry by Emma Wilson-Kanamori

Image by Adam Strong

Emma’s poetry has appeared on Half Hour to Kill, and her short fiction in literary magazines Ginosko Literary Journal and The Gravity of the Thing.  Though she grew up in Japan as a mix of writer, artist, and dancer, she has moved to Scotland and has settled down fully as a
scribbler, both of words and of images.

Categories
Uncategorized

Faces

He remembered her face; a few dances ago she was someone’s wife. A scratchy record, the
needle stuck in her sophomore year of high school, the girl who failed to self-abort on the floor
of the bathroom, soaked in blood, carried on a gurney to the ambulance, sirens blaring. Now,
here, over cheese and red wine, a single’s dance, leftovers from broken dreams and broken hearts
with jobs and debts, they stare at one another, cracked sculptures of ice.

Flash by Marty B. Rivers

Image by Adam Strong

Marty packed his few belongings and left California for the rural life in Tennessee, where his wife shucked peas and his two children spit watermelon seeds and splashed in the creek. It was there he discovered a lack of dentists, catfish, moonshine, and fried foods. His writing is off-beat, counter-culture, geared toward YA and those still capable of thought. An emerging author, his work has been published in Heavy Feather Review, AOL, Yahoo and the defunct Los Angeles Free Press.