treachery By Dennis Moriarty

I kissed my father once, when he wasn’t 

looking, not embarrass him

in the presence of his god, but to explore

the prospect of how it might

have been in life as it now was in death.

And in that moment 

I came to terms with the implications of my

treachery.

His skin like blank parchment waiting for words

of fulfilment,

but I could fine no words to fill that empty space 

between us,

just a thought that came uninvited into my

head, that, at any moment,

his eyes might snap open like the slats of a

blind suddenly released from 

from its bindings, dust motes dancing in the

warm rays of his resurrection, 

and I would look into his eyes and see my

own treachery staring back, 

a truer reflection I might never see again. That

then he might jump up and out of

his gown of shrunken flesh, gripping my throat 

with bony fingers, kneading 

and squeezing as if to choke the last treacherous 

breaths from my body. 

I dismissed the thought, stroked the crucifix 

in his hand,

leaned down, kissed him for the first time, the very

last time,

his penny weary eyes closed tight against my

final act of treachery.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.

Short and Not So Sweet By Juliet Cook

Juniper berry eyes

clog the tub.

Empty bottle.

Broken stopper.

Juliet Cook doesn't fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her

poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications.

She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently

including "red flames burning out" (Grey Book Press, 2023), "Contorted

Doom Conveyor" (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), "Your Mouth is Moving

Backwards" (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), "REVOLTING" (Cul-de-sac

of Blood, 2024), and "Blue Stingers Instead of Wings" (Pure Sleeze

Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed

Confetti" was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out

more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.

Make It Clean By Susan Isla Tepper

Gin/lemon/ice

and I will be your 

honey babe

That’s right

but don’t call me that 

I’ll punch your lights out

Frankly I don’t see you 

dancing in the dark

so not your speed

Yours 

Yours 

slow and thoughtful

Me I’m a self-starter

did you know

You are ever so thoughtful

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

The Grand Junction By Tracey Sivek

All these years

 feel less like years

and more like a breath

held between lifetimes.

We have sailed opposite oceans,

guided by different stars,

yet somehow remained

closer in heart and soul

than those standing

within arm’s reach.

It is a rare blessing

to find another

who can sit beside

your deepest shadows

without asking them to leave,

and then rise with you

into your brightest joy

without ever dimming your light.

Long before we knew

we had choices,

before awareness whispered

that another way was possible,

the tapestry of our lives

had already been woven.

There were missing threads.

Some would call it broken.

I cannot.

I call it survival.

The wounds we carried

were never ours to own.

They belonged to hands

that forgot

what gentleness was.

Perhaps to the world

we appear a little crazy.

But maybe what they call crazy

is simply two souls

who learned to breathe

through impossible seasons,

building quiet coping mechanisms

that became bridges

instead of prisons.

I have watched

your creativity

spill colors

where others saw red from jealousy.

I have witnessed

a wisdom

that asks for no applause,

a depth

few are ever invited

to discover.

Even in your darkness,

I have never lost sight

of your light.

And for that,

I will remain grateful

for the rest of my days.

Because where your threads

meet mine,

there are no missing places.

No frayed edges.

No unfinished design.

There is only

the Grand Junction…

the sacred place

where two souls remember

they were never broken,

only becoming whole.

And within me

there will always remain

a quiet sanctuary

that belongs to you.

So keep proving them wrong.

Not by becoming

someone they can understand…

but by continuing

to become

exactly who you are.

The world may never see

what I have been blessed to witness.

But I do.

And that

has been one of the greatest gifts

of this lifetime.

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan. 

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel. She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .

The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Her latest book For The Love Of Lily  is currently available on Amazon.

https://a.co/d/0hSH9eG9

31 Flavors By Shannon O’Connor

Baskin Robbins has 31 flavors

of ice cream.

It’s been 31 years

since the last time I went insane.

Right before,

I went to Baskin Robbins and ate

chocolate ice cream,

she said it looked like I had shit

all over my face

We went for the long ride

to Jamaica Plain, where the hospital

shaped like a castle called me.

What genius decided to design

a psychiatric hospital like a castle? 

All the lunatics could believe 

they’re entering

a magical castle, transforming into

queens, princesses, or knights

in shining armor?

I thought I was a princess, and the castle

was where I would rule over

the world, except it was only

psychosis, the people took our

shoelaces away, served medication

in shot glasses, to make us believe

we were not special.

I though the world was gone the first

time I entered the castle,

but after the fourth time, I knew what

would happen,

“You have dirty hair, Paris.”

“I can’t sleep with the lights on.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

How could I feel safe surrounded

by lunatics, I was the craziest one

they should have been afraid

of me

It’s been 31 years since the last time

I stepped into the castle

I haven’t been to Baskin Robbins either,

none of the psychiatrists I work for know

I used to be a princess in the castle,

ready to dance on the moon,

singing for angels, the dirty truth

my dreams were a lie

Not quite a lie, but far from honest.

I wanted to discover what was real,

but that was buried, along with my youth,

in a place I’ll never go again because the world

will explode,

we will never discover

what I could have become

if I had been permitted to sing

though I never took lessons, I had to learn

my own style, which isn’t loud,

but can punch a hole in a wall

of a castle, making the ramparts tumble,

the princess never existed except on the skin

of a priceless onion, forcing tears, when

none existed before.

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has published poetry and fiction in The Rye Whiskey Review, Oddball Magazine, 365 Tomorrows and others. She is the chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, and can be found sharing her opinions on her Substack, Ms. Hen's World.

Last Words By Keith Pearson

 we stole a bottle

from uncle frank's shed

my cousins and me

knew he couldn't count

would never know it was gone.

one of the cousins

found a pack of viceroys

and one night we went at it

drinking and smoking 

a transistor radio blasting away

until first light found us

on our knees in the sand

puking our guts out into the creek.

i am the last of the cousins

and it was me uncle frank

called to his bedside

in his final moments his last breath

gripped my arm with his

claw of a hand and whispered

'you owe me a fuckin' bottle, boy.'

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

  

Joseph, Back Bar in the Hood By Joe Garvey

Karebear slides me a Jack.

I grin.

"Kara, how dare you?

You know I'm raised on rye."

She laughs,

"This handsome Jameson

wears the night better than you."

I lift my Belvedere

like a man defending a faith

already half abandoned.

Every bottle's a believer

until the lights come on.

We drink to names,

to Gansett,

to the lies they let us borrow.

The glass doesn't care

who wins.

It only asks

who's empty first.

Joe Garvey is an American poet based out of Utah. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, he writes about labor, salt air, endurance, and the quiet machinery of modern life. His work has appeared in Expat Press, Mad Swirl, The Lake, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, and The Rye Whiskey Review.