Monday, February 19, 2018

Street Serenade (Afterglow) by Wayne Russell

I walk upon these
dilapidated streets,
rose petals once red,
now black as starless
night.

Booze and blood flow,
into the sewers, along
with a myriad of dreams.

Windows shutter in the
looming red brick buildings
and halfway houses,
afterglow.

Reverberate, I can see the
heartache, I can taste the
tears, a smoky cat strolls
down by the railroad tracks.

There’s no way out, from
this small town, hallucination;
we are all trapped here, for all
eternity.  







Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer from Tampa, Florida. Wayne's work has been published in The Literary Hatchet, Black Poppy Review, PPP Ezine, and his own Degenerate Literature, which has sadly and recently gone into temporary hiatus.  

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Thirst by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Within the microscopic fluttering of mist
void of sharp lines defining life and death

she glides angel-like in the blur
silent strokes of wings and see-through veils 

her breath a breeze of unfelt disease
inhaled by those too close and unfocused

she is on them
before they know with understanding

foggy cloud of spittle juice
suck of the succubus

her silhouette mixed with enticing secrets
absorbing all senses of decency

her white eyes hypnotizing
temptress supreme she smiles

bite within a kiss
embrace of emptiness

systematic squeeze of the soul
dripping down to the hollow underworld

full of fluids where nothing floats
all hope like rain that never falls

she is from below and already here
coming within the exhale of hell

your tears swallowed like grapes.






Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and draw late into the night. His work can be found here and there and in-between. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Another Broken Home by Jeff Bagato

paradise so often becomes hell
when a king bears himself up
on the false pillars of pride
which he carved alone
in a legacy of dreams

wind blows across time,
stripping the houses from those pillars,
a culture from its bones

a princess goes mad
under the influence of wind;
the king must die—he who killed 
her favorite brother—the son
whose greater strength sealed 
his doom

as his children died,
the king built a pillar, one by one,
and so they fell in time,
eleven broken stones releasing souls;
one pillar stands today, 
the soul of the patricide 
trapped as if forever
in the rock:

a mushroom stone
like a fist raised
with a cry 







A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), And the Trillions (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at jeffbagato.com.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Ghosts / Nocturne by Timothy Hobbs

Ghosts

They dance on slender threads of midnight
And whisper hollow memories from the
Dark corners of a dream.
 
The moon an austere brother.
The night wind a cold, brittle breath
Of their passing.
 
They search our souls for infinity,
For hopes we treasure
And fears trapped in the marrow 
Of our bones.
 
We sense their bitter hunger,
Their yearning for a taste of life,
For something they have long desired
Buried in the gray mist of their eyes,
Lost in the jewels of their tears.
 
We all have them
We all have ghosts.
 
 


 
Nocturne *
 
She emerges from a frosted mist,
A bitter moth dancing on the breath of night.
Hunger summons her from the damp of the grave,
Bears her in a soiled, linen dress
To satisfy my yearning for eternity.
 
Whispering of obsidian pools
Where stars shimmer beneath melancholy waters
She guides her feline tongue across my throat,
Presses cold, pale breasts against me.
 
She feeds and the mournful cry
Of a night bird dances through
The open window with a nocturne
For my restless soul.
 

* (originally published Summer 2016 by The Horror Zine online journal)






Timothy Hobbs is a retired medical technologist living in Temple, Texas. His flash fiction piece Luna appeared in the Deep Water Literary Journal. His anthology Mothertrucker and Other Stories and novel Veils were published through Publish America. Novels The Pumpkin Seed and Music Box Sonata and novella The Smell of Ginger were published by Vamplit Publishing in the United Kingdom and republished by Visionary Press Collaborative. Netherworld Books published his novel Maiden Fair.  A collection of flash and short fiction, In the Blink of a Wicked Eye, was published in 2015 by Sirens Call Publications. Tim’s author page can be found at amazon.com

Monday, February 12, 2018

Drum by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

There is one bright dancer among them. Her hands trace the music onto air. The “U” of her hips sways, telling bedroom stories. Melodies float her toward the youngest doumbek player, barely bearded. 

She bends to him, smiling, flirting even, to the ululating tongues of all her watching sisters but as the hafla pauses to draw a collective breath, I see the truth: her focus is not the drummer. She shines for the pulled-skin drum. 

An elderly man leans near me. “It is all that remains of her husband.” 

“He played?” I am confused. 

He shrugs. “He had enemies.”


* First published in April of 2016 at Entropy2.com







Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), and had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

What I Haven't Said by M.J. Iuppa

Water trickles onto a depression
where sandy soil lets it bubble up,

reluctant to pop before it settles
in a spot where it soaks down

to roots twisted in a silver knot.
A ghostly place that gives me

shivers, watching water disappear
to a trace that settles the shock of

cold water pouring over bare
feet, over flesh that pinks with

surprise—toes curl instantly in
defense—wanting words to kick    

& scream, like blossoms lasting
on a cactus tree.







M.J. Iuppa, Director of the Visual & Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College, and a part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport, was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Evocation by Sravani Singampalli

The pillows on my bed
Are not stuffed with cotton.
They are stuffed with
My mother’s old sarees
And lots of other childhood memories.
The picture hanging there on the wall
Is still full of vigour and charm.
The nail hammered into the wall
Ten years ago with precision
Appears rusty yet very strong
Unlike decaying minds
And constipated thoughts.
The flower vase gifted 
To my aunt by us
Is a part of the soil now
In their backyard.
It hasn’t lost its shape
Just the colour has faded
And scratches have deepened.







Sravani Singampalli is a published writer and poet from India. Her works have been appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, Labyrinthine Passages journal, Criterion journal, Spillwords press, Setu bilingual journal, Delhi Poetry Slam and many other literary magazines and anthologies.