Old Fashioned by Susan Isla Tepper

Leave your name and address

on this cocktail napkin, please

Nothing technical

no phone, thank you

very much

I’m an old fashioned girl

You may have noticed

my consumption of

cocktails called Old Fashioned

First time I told the bartender

I’ll have an Old Fashioned

he had to look up the recipe.

As for my dress from the 1980’s

did you notice—

Tight, split high up the side.

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

I Won't Babysit Your Brats, But I Will Watch Your Strippers By John Patrick Robbins

 

So hopefully that answers any questions as to where my priorities truly do lay.

Because looking after some high-pitched bed-wetter doesn't quite fulfill 

my intellectual demands in the same way.

As watching Raven, Cinnamon, Diamond, and Sparkle twirl around

the pole does.

Commanding every look and happily depleting lonely old horndogs

like myself of their dollars.

A lap dance beats a kick to the shin and a Tonka truck to the dome, while listening 

to some brat cry just because you left him tied up in the closet so you could enjoy

a good booze snooze.

Yet I'll gladly sit for hours contributing to some nice lady's college fund

at least that's the bullshit she's been selling for the past twelve years, 

as if you truly give a fuck.

Because the truth is, we're all using one another until it's time to step off 

this plane of existence. At least I'll do so happy, because saints are 

fucking boring, and sinners always have better stories.

I hate kids, pets, and most human beings

unless they offer a beautiful view 

and the occasional discount for a returning customer.

I ain't never claimed to be good at anything.

But at being bad, I am forever a perfectionist.

Fuck Mr. Rogers. Mr. Robbins is always 

a guaranteed good time.

Salute.

John Patrick Robbins, is Asgard's Poet Laureate. He  enjoys unprotected sex and pissing on his asshole neighbor's lawn.

He is a 15-time Grammy Award-winning producer who has worked with such names as The Cookie Monster, Sabrina Carpenter, Satan, The Flaming Turds of Gastonia, Ragnar Lothbrok, and Madonna but enough about his love of death metal.

When he's not pissing off the lit scene by refusing to die, he's raiding their kingdoms and depleting their winter supply of ramen noodles.

He enjoys practicing black magic and serial killing while producing wine in his vineyard and touring with his all-def jazz band.

He recently won the John Patrick Robbins  for Poetry because, duh, dumbfuck, he created it.

He hosts poetry readings at gunpoint because how else are you going to get non-poets to listen to poetry?

Don't be jealous. He's a trailblazer.

He will forever haunt poets' nightmares, much like Freddy Krueger.

He was recently cast in a movie to play himself. It will be a historic film-slash-musical about the plague, set in outer space, featuring the AI cast of  Star Wars and The Dukes of Hazzard.

It won't make a lick of sense, much like those fucking stupid Marvel movies you dorks cherish so deeply.

He is your friend. He just doesn't ever want to meet you in person or have a conversation with you, but he will gladly take your money because he likes alcohol and boobies.

He once spoke to Kevin M. Hibshman, and Kevin is now good for at least seventeen more years.

He trains jiu-jitsu with famed martial artist Billy Ray Cyrus.

He is the greatest bio writer in history because he says so.

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.