Every Tuesday By Susan Isla Tepper

Where I waited 

several hours, at least

in all weather

for the jail bus

 

picking us women up

and a couple of men

for a visit 

with our incarcerated.

A long bumpy ride

on hard seats.

 

Each time upon my return,

exhausted, my mother

nevertheless chided me: 

He is not deservant of you.

 

Deservant, I thought, sounds like

drain cleaner.

 

No foliage back then

snaked the slat wall

where we waited

on the tardy bus

just litter:

lunch bags, soda bottles,

cupcake wrappers, apple cores.

One time a condom.

Who would need a condom

going to that place?

 

Then I got old and he never

finished up his time.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

Key West By Keith Pearson

He sat alone at a table in the patio bar, looking out over the Gulf turning gold beyond the palms. A small glass of rum sat patiently next to his hand. Somewhere a guitar was being played badly but beautifully, as if the player had forgotten the song but not the feeling.

He thought of his friend, the one who always promised they’d come here together. They would sit beneath the palms, drink something cold, watch the sun sink into the impossibly clear water.

But life had other plans

The sun lowered, burning the horizon orange, then red. Couple at other tables oohed and awed. He raised his glass toward the empty chair beside him.

‘I hope you can see this, kiddo,’ he said.

The empty chair said nothing.

He smiled sadly and drained his drink, enjoying the sting. But the sweet rum left a bitter taste and he felt tears form hidden by his shades. The sun disappeared into the horizon and night took to falling. He sat for a long time, the city waking to the night’s festivities. The sounds of people laughing, music playing, car horns honking. The city celebrating life.

The waiters saw the man in the white linen suit and Panama hat sitting alone and crying and left him alone. They had seen it before. Not every celebration was for the living.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

On the Arrows By John Swain

The sky writhes

in the mirror

at the center

of the labyrinth,

the circle inside

the diamond fulfils

an imagined rose.

We measure

the compass dial

with golden thread

from the well.

We take refuge

on the arrows

and you sleep

in my eyelids

like a grassland

until the new beast

touches the hill.

John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His work has recently appeared in Borderless Journal, DoubleSpeak, and The Rye Whiskey Review. 

The Unforgettable Present By Renee Williams

Jose Cuervo Golden Margarita Mix

sat in the refrigerator, waited

for me, a yellow Post-It note

from my husband attached,

stated, Because I care.

Easter gift and peace-offering.

Only someone who loves me

could understand the cooking 

sacrifice during Lenten Smackdown:

Broccoli salad, Tangy 4 bean salad,

Mexican corn salad, Roasted cauliflower

chickpea curry, Thai coconut curry 

carrot soup…not to mention

the other unmentionable things

done to the hapless cauliflower. 

I don’t like beans.

Cheddar and chive scones weren’t 

baked, nor was beer bread with 

Lost Colony’s Holy Hand Grenade

Russian Imperial Stout, Rigatoni

with Vodka Sauce wasn’t prepared,

Teriyaki Meatballs would have to

wait another day. Speedy

Sesame Noodle ingredients

didn’t make the shopping list. 

Cheesy Hash browns?

 A distant memory. 

Friday night pizza came without

pepperoni. Onions and green peppers

substituted, but truly, you can only

expect so much out of vegetables. 

Since I’m not a fish fan,

Lenten Fish Fry dates found

me at the dessert table for

Better than Sex cake,

which Women’s Auxiliary ladies

asked my opinion of whether it was 

or not. 

During Lent, the order of the day

was Roasted Cauliflower and Brie

Risotto with sweet white wine.

At the bottom of the recipe

in my notes, I’d written,

Add more wine. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel. 

 

 

ADVENTURE By Susan Isla Tepper

Walking the ice

this country was tricky, 

rather they pranced, each step

Should be a coupon event

she told him: each step

equals one vodka.

Her eyes running behind slits

in the thick head covering.

Tears he didn't notice: this

massive unbearable frozen landscape.

 

Child-like he laughed

tossing a small red ball in the air,

over and over 

'til she hoped he'd fall through a crack.

Some crack, any crack

then she could go home.

He tossed the ball higher.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

Bellevue Liquor By Joe Garvey

 

The gatekeeper measures my shadow.

He finds me too heavy for his scales.

They built a black box to quarantine the wild.

They made a temple out of cold concrete.

I do not ask for keys from cowards.

I am the voltage they forgot to ground.

I am the white heat blooming through the brick.

If the velvet rope refuses my skin, I court the lock with an iron crowbar.

Brute force is a beautiful syntax.

I slide through the grease of the service alley.

I take the back door like a lover.

My knuckles are raw with soot and silicon.

My breath smells of gasoline and grace.

This is the heavy romance of the ruin.

I step into their polished sanctuary.

My boots stain the marble with ash.

They wanted a quiet ghost in the matrix.

I bring them a furnace of waking muscle.

I map the soft underbelly of the system.

I grip the throat of their terminal.

Every circuit learns my sudden name.

You cannot lock out the lightning.

You cannot cage what creates the current.

I am the dawn that breaks the house.

Joe Garvey is an internationally published poet from Worcester, Massachusetts, living in California & Utah after a couple years working the docks in Southern New England. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, his work has appeared in Expat Press, The Lake, Mad Swirl, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Drinkers Only and The Rye Whiskey Review.

Gloria By Trish Saunders

It makes me sad to see Gloria Swanson 

sitting alone in the Royal Hawaiian lounge

think I'll go bow low over her hand 

just to see her laugh prettily, then

might ask a spectral waiter 

to bring Miss Swanson a pink gin

and tell the orchestra leader

his baton’s not moving fast enough!

hot jazz is what we need right now

‘fact, let’s all have another round

be good to laugh a little too loudly 

without something aching inside.

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in the Rye Whiskey Review.