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. 

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.

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.

There’s Mud in your Sky By Tony Pena

The heavens, a shade of wildfire

charcoal grey all day, like clouds

stepped on and smeared across

the once periwinkle canvas by Zeus,

drunk on ninety-nine barrels of spiked

nectar and rolling down naked

in the mire of Mount Olympus

with Hera hot on the cartwheeling

heels of his hydra leather sandals

after she found him Netflix and chilling

with yet another crown check girl

in a guest room at the celestial palace.

Tony Pena was formerly 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

His new book of poetry, Triad, is now available on Amazon

His prose and poetry have found refuge recently with 101 Words, Alien Buddha Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Dear Booze, Death Wish Poetry, Fevers of the Mind, Mono, Odd Magazine, The Erozine, The Literary Underground, The Lotherian Poetry Journal, Trailer Park Quarterly, and Witcraft.

 Also, Best of the Net nominations in 2019 from the Rye Whiskey Review and the Dope Fiend Daily.

A volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available at Amazon.  

A chapbook of poetry, "Opening night in Gehenna," is available from author.

Social Media

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

Instagram: Tonypenapoetry

Just Another Reading By Leon Drake

The folding chairs

looked like they'd survived

three divorces

and a flood.

A guy in a beret

read seventeen poems

about birds

that clearly wanted

nothing to do with him.

Someone clapped

after every line.

I suspect

it was his mother.

The coffee

had all the personality

of wet drywall,

but I drank two cups anyway.

It gave me something

to hold

while pretending

to understand

a poem about

the emotional life

of a zucchini.

When it was my turn,

I read a few pieces

about dead-end jobs,

cheap whiskey,

and people

who mistake volume

for wisdom.

A woman nodded

like I'd uncovered

the secret machinery

of existence.

I was mostly thinking

about cheeseburgers.

Afterward,

everyone said

we should do this again sometime.

That's what people say

instead of goodbye.

Outside,

the night

didn't care

who got published,

who won the open mic,

or whose metaphors

had the longest legs.

The moon

kept its opinions

to itself.

Probably the smartest poet

there.

Leon Drake is a Toronto based poet.

His work has been published in Fixator Press, The Literary Underground, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spill The Words Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Sava Press and The Crossroads Magazine.

All Fucked Out By Chad Parenteau

No fucks

given 

for months

and none

received

for longer. 

No more 

fucks for 

those who

expect

me to spill

my secrets

after one

half-night

stand. 

I try to

create my

own fucks

seated at

a bar with

no alcohol

in front of

a good 

bartender

who knows 

if someone’s

on a stool 

and only

drinking 

a water

and jotting

down words

on paper,

they have

a fucking

good reason

so leave 

them and their

fucks alone.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

Nostalgic By Dennis Moriarty

Sunday morning strolling, street corner dreamers

and Sombre bells.

Following in the shadow of my father’s footsteps,

along pavements littered with 

Broken promises and unfulfilled ambitions, past 

a few of his old drinking haunts,

one a coffee shop now, outside which a family 

sits, a skinny latte mummy,

a double espresso daddy and two hot chocolate 

children, IPads and phones,

not a pint glass or smouldering fag between them.

Around the corner

and the church comes to greet me, the church

where he prayed 

each Sunday morning for salvation and a free access

all areas pass to heaven.

Just three people outside now where once there 

might have been thirty,

two old school faces and an earnest young man with

smile on his face and a bible in his hand.

I take the path to the church, open the door and 

look in, can feel his presence 

two rows back, imagine him beckoning me in to sit

beside him and pray for my own salvation.

Without hesitation I slam the door closed and walk

away.

Yes, I am nostalgic, but not that fucking nostalgic.

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.

This is Brew Week By Renee Williams

For the life of me, I’m still not sure if blueberries or peaches should find their way into beer.

Craft brew options have my head spinning as I wander into the bars of Athens

with distributors from Heidelberg, Devil’s Kettle, Thirsty Dog, and Fat Heads all there.

An IPA was never my thing, but hand me a wicked wheat ale and I’ll be your BFF. 

I try to explain to my eighty-three-year-old mother the allure of this nonsense. 

How do you describe enjoying a flight of 8 different beers—

of various potencies and bouquets —with about ten of your closest friends 

all drinking from the same tiny shot glasses?

Yes, the tables at the J Bar are a little sticky, so best not to get too comfortable. 

But I have my 2026 Brew List on hand with an ink pen ready,

so I can mark down if I’ve tried the Elvis Juice from Brew Dog 

or the pilsner, Come At Me, Beau! from Little Fish Brewing. 

After a quick stop at Insomnia Cookies for some chocolate chip delectables to cleanse the palate,

we’re on to Tony’s because the night wouldn’t be complete

without indulging in the Femme Fatale Pink Boots, Double IPA at 8.2%

or the Oh, yOU, Oh Yeah, Imperial Stout because we’re all grads of Ohio University.

As the Court Street Shuffle comes to a close, and my tortured taste buds can tackle no more,

I find my way to the West End Ciderhouse to choke down …just a little more.

At that point, the Peach Melba and Raspberry Sauce ciders suddenly become tolerable

and for the next six months, Budweiser will remind me why it's the king of beers. 

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

 

 

Labor Emotional By Skaja Evens

It's when you give in to take a breath

The onslaught of persuasion 

Disguising coercion 

A million reasons to say no

As defense for a singular syllable respected

A complete statement alone

It's when you smile and acquiesce 

Pushing the mask in place to lie

Squashing sovereignty for another's comfort

Attempts to avoid the awkward

All uncomfortably suffocating 

As though suffocation is ever the right fit

Skaja Evens is a Best of the Net-nominated writer living in SE Virginia. Her work has appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Spillwords Press, Ink Pantry, and Blue Pepper, among others. Her first book, conscientia veritatis, from Whiskey City Press, is available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/conscientia-veritatis-Skaja-Evens/dp/B0CZTRN7ZP

Blood In My Eyes by Susan Isla Tepper

Every spare bed 

in your house

animals sleep together

snug in harmony

 

But, you see

I need a bed

badly—

a place to rest

my bloated head

Full of gin 

and the blood in my eyes 

Unlike your animals

blanketed by love

literally— your love

The kind never 

experienced

while I was growing up

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

WHERE DO YOU WANT TO EAT? BY Dan Flore III

she took me to some Mexican joint

upscale

people wearing clothing

I can’t afford

I was exhausted 

felt like I was crisped 

on the edge of the sun

sun burnt

burnt out

I just want to go somewhere where 

I can blend in

and nobody knows I’m there

even myself

I said

when the waitress came over

she had tattoos 

on her leg

that could wake up the town

I ordered three tacos 

I could eat one

I went out to smoke 

it was a good respite

it was night by now

and I was getting cooled off

when a group of drunks 

started yelling

and the panic started

there was no way I could go back in

that restaurant

I sat on the bench 

looking like a clown with a poor disposition 

can you finish your pina colda and get me the hell outta here

I texted her

she came out 

and saw me crying

you poor thing what happened? 

I said the night bit me 

I just wanna go home 

which is where she took me 

and in a hurry

Dan Flore III’s work has appeared in over a hundred different publications. His latest book that’s available is JUMBO POETRY (Crying Heart Press)

with a little pond By J.J. Campbell

i remember when

i was a child

i always wanted

a little piece of land

with a little pond

just enough solitude

so that utopia would

be possible

now, i’ll be lucky

if its a trailer with

an outhouse or a

composting toilet

the doctors say

i’m dying

i laugh

ask if they would

like a shot of jack

as well

if anything, life is

so fucking overrated

in these days of who

is the biggest asshole

after i finish my next

glass of scotch i’ll tell

a story about a wayward

soul and all the embers

from the burning bridges

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, Night Owl Narrative and Crossroads Magazine. His most recent book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available at Amazon by going here: https://a.co/d/073NBSFO

Let's Drink By Kevin M. Hibshman

A toast to your health.

You are not healthy nor will you ever be.

Why wallow in spiraling depths of despair alone when we all know how

Misery loves company?

Wake up in the gloam.

My kitchen is cold and so is my memory.

The people I love are enemies.

I watch them disintegrate daily.

The clock has froze.

Let's add some sugar to a life that will never be sweet.

I've been far away and drowning.

How would you like to try to swim with me?

I am talking respite not escape.

No canned religion.

No hypocrisy.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://a.co/d/aIBcNvy