A Redwood By JPR

Is just a really big fucking tree stuck out in the middle of bum fucking Egypt. 

That oddly reminds me of myself, as it's perfectly isolated and never feels the need to overstate the obvious.

As it kind of overshadows everything in its vicinity by default. 

Don't be jealous but keep this in mind.

Of course it's easy to stand tall at six four when mostly your contemporaries,

on their tip toes, stand five two. 

 I'm sorry, do I offend you? 

Hey don't get short with me. 

It's not your fault our roots run deep and this is but metaphorically speaking. 

But the issue may be good genetics; of course, 

it helps my family’s tree actually forks. 

Get it?

JPR, currently, is seeking Susan but not desperately. He is also touring the country as part of Corey Feldman's band, for-which at every event he hands out free earplugs and autographed barf bags. His work has been published in Esquire and Screw magazine, both esteemed literary publications. He once went ice fishing with Bert & Ernie. He found a wallet once in his pants and quickly returned it to himself right away. He once worked in Hollywood...... Florida as a greeter at Gary's Mortuary. He is also on a first name basis with the Lochness Monster, although they have never actually met. He also holds the title of the greatest bio writer in history...... He is tired now and will go have his Capri Sun Juice Box. Nah, nah, you can't have one.

How Shy Can a Little Girl Be by B. Lynne Zika

You know that year there was a private toilet

in the classroom? Not many schools had that.

Girls wore dresses then, sometimes even at play

but always, always at school.

You had to pull down your tights and undies,

let them pool around your ankles—honestly,

so absurd—then gather your petticoat

and the folds of your skirt

up around your waist and sit.

Your Mary Janes dangled.

Your feet didn’t even touch the floor.

So there you sat, ridiculous as a monkey 

with a cigarette, and THEN

somebody knocks on the door.

There wasn’t any screen in front of the little toilette.

When you opened the door, the whole white throne

exposed itself to the room. I can’t imagine 

who designed such a thing.

But the day I was holding court,

well, privately holding court,

somebody knocked on the door.

I’m there in all my dangling Mary Janes glory,

but I have a bigger problem.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t mean that a range of options

presented itself for consideration.

I mean no one ever told me how to respond

when you’re sitting in a semi-public bathroom—

a single-stall semi-public bathroom—

and someone knocks.

I just couldn’t think of a thing to say.

So Jimmy Felding opened the door,

thinking the room unoccupied.

He stared. I stared. 

Jimmy’s the one who spoke.

“Oh! Excuse me!”

It was like the time I was late for my performance

in the school play. Mama dropped me off,

and I ran down the hall clutching my costume

and the sheet music I’d marked in blue ink.

I hear a voice behind me. “Is this yours?”

I turn. A fella is holding up

a white crinoline petticoat.

They’re the kind which make your skirts

stand out like an upside-down tipi.

A boy was waving my petticoat high in the air,

some beribboned flag of surrender.

My petticoat was in his hand.

I believe I tossed my curls. I said,

“Nope. Not mine.”

He looked astounded.

But then, so did I.

B. Lynne Zika’s photography, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous literary and consumer publications. 2022 publications include Delta Poetry Review, Backchannels, Poesy, Suburban Witchcraft, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. In addition to editing poetry and nonfiction, she worked as a closed-captioning editor for the deaf and hard-of-hearing. Awards include: Pacificus Foundation Literary Award in short fiction, Little Sister Award and Moon Prize in poetry, and Viewbug 2020 and 2021Top Creator Awards in photography. Website: https://artsawry.com/.

Maybe the Holes by Michael Dwayne Smith

Maybe coyote is your wallet

Maybe coyote is the money in your wallet

Maybe coyote is your tongue and fingertips

Maybe coyote is a voice in your head that says

    buy candy or weed

    or an obscenely expensive motor vehicle

    out of covet or jealousy or envy or boredom

    or ennui or depression

Maybe coyote is that Billy Crystal voice that says

    it’s better to look good

    than to feel good, my friend

Maybe coyote has eaten through your skin

Maybe coyote has gobbled up your heart

Maybe coyote has chomped your bones, sucked your marrow

Maybe coyote has fucked you like a movie star

Maybe coyote has devoured your cock and balls and tits and clit

Maybe coyote has penetrated all your holes,

    made them more and more empty

Maybe coyote has become the holes

Maybe the holes have become your soul

Michael Dwayne Smith has appeared in ONE ART Poetry Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Ethel Zine, Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, and Heavy Feather Review, among many others; a multiple-time nominee for the Pushcart and Best of the Net, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.

Things That Go ping! in the Night by B. Lynne Zika

Do you know what neuropathy is? How about peripheral neuropathy? Me, neither. But mine has a Napoleon complex. The brat.

I finally order the Muses to shut up at 3:00 a.m. and jitterbug my way to bed. There I lie, not thinking about the 47 things I’m thinking about, and ping! he’s at it again. Napoleon, I mean. I have a feeling this is going to be good.

Four days ago it was a bee sting to the hip. Then the usual 30 fine needles peppering my hands and feet. I sit down to dinner and the knees start aching. Fiercely. I ignore them. Three bites of tortellini later, Bludgeoning crash! and I get a hatchet to the left knee. All right, already. I get it! Now, mon général, what do you want me to do about it? Silence.

But tonight, he’s King. This is a full-frontal attack. He’s skirmishing with hands, feet, shins, quadriceps, chest, right nipple — Hold on a damn minute. My nipple?

B. Lynne Zika’s photography, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous literary and consumer publications. 2022 publications include Delta Poetry Review, Backchannels, Poesy, Suburban Witchcraft, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. In addition to editing poetry and nonfiction, she worked as a closed-captioning editor for the deaf and hard-of-hearing. Awards include: Pacificus Foundation Literary Award in short fiction, Little Sister Award and Moon Prize in poetry, and Viewbug 2020 and 2021Top Creator Awards in photography. Website: https://artsawry.com/.

Rain of Terror at the Duck ‘n’ Dive In Inn By Mikki Aronoff

Outside, it’s raining flaming sleeping bags. Ashes fizzling everywhere. It’s not like sleet or snow — they thump when they hit the ground. They hiss. We quiver under the cherrywood bar, our necks craned to the 98” Samsung blaring the emergency warning, 1050 Hz blasting our ears. Five minutes to evacuate! repeated on the screen in cloud-white Luxi Mono Bold text floating on sky blue. Did some consultant plan that? So soothing. Four minutes! Guinness, TV, blue, white — are we not already in heaven? Three minutes! Two! One! We rise in slow motion to the garbled voice, call for another round.

Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, The Disappointed Housewife, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, 100 word story, The Citron Review, Atlas and Alice, trampset, jmww, and elsewhere. She’s received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.