By Ishmael A Soledad

She says she doesn’t want to lose me
as if I can change it
the hour and day
writ from birth

What’s life? What is served
to live another one, ten, fifty years
what purpose promoted?
Is the preservation of I so important?
Seemingly hollow
as someone said
a waste of breath what was
and what is to come
What stands or lasts anyway
even the universe has its days numbered

She says she doesn’t want to lose me
Unknowing, I neither ever was nor ever was not
She says she doesn’t want to lose me
She says

Her Comfort


By Rio McKee

She finds comfort among the dead.

Stories untold surround her.
She whispers her secrets,
knowing they will remain so.

Lips moving silently, she mouths
the names, imagining their faces.

Peace fills her as she lays
across the tombs of the unknown.
Cover me with your presence, she sighs.

Sometimes she sleeps, for in this place
her unconscious thoughts are protected
from the torment that awaits.

These moments stay locked inside her,
for most of the living would never understand.
They provide no comfort.

Here she will walk, with fresh flowers and peace,
among those who she resolves will not be forgotten.

The Writer’s Life


By Theresa Jacobs

A writer tears open their soul for you
We lay bare our fears and woes for you
We pour our heart onto the page for you
We unleash our demons for you
Letters like blood smear the page for you
The world’s pain we absorb for you
A delicate path of sanity walked for you.

Only for you to –

Crumple the page in disdain
You will not abdicate your reign
In the oblivion of life, you’ll remain

As I continue to write for you …

The Specials Tonight Are …


By Rock L. Madigan

I sat near the window and shuffled until I could scoot no further. She never liked the inside seat, a marginal sense of claustrophobia would wash over her. I never thought much of myself as a phobia person, though I didn’t really care much for flying. A young, pretty girl stood silently filling our glasses, the sound of ice and water rising. Taylor didn’t have her ring on, and I actually felt kind of foolish wearing mine. She said she wanted to speak first.



By Kyle Hemmings

The dictator of a tiny but defiant nation declares he will drop a bomb within a mile radius of our neighborhood. He claims during interviews that our neighborhood is a hotspot. Perhaps there are undeclared gold ores under our artificial grass. The days tick loudly. The homely girl next door flaunts her small breasts. Mother becomes lopsided. She drools over breakfast. A school friend knocks on my head and asks “Is anyone home? You can come out now.” If the bomb falls, most likely it will fizzle and leak. We will play dead for years. Then, we will die.

Kyle Hemmings is a retired health care worker. His latest collections of poetry/prose are Scream from Scars publications and Split Brain on Amazon Kindle.



By Hasen Hull

There were three scratches on the right bumper, wide and long but shallow, silver paint giving way to a trio of dark lines. Could have been some cat or kid, or maybe I did it myself somewhere. I had this car for two months before I found out.

My wife told me to get it sorted, that it was ugly and might rust, and I was going to. But then I got to thinking that it was alright, it would last long enough, and that I didn’t want the car to outlive me.

Hasen Hull lives in London. His work has appeared in Litro, Eunoia Review, Pure Slush, Flash Fiction Magazine, Praxis and elsewhere.

The Job Sight


By J.J. Vaughan

The construction site was booming
Roofers were swearing over blaring stereos,
3 PM summer sun was beating down.

Pushing a wheel barrel all day,
A bead of sweat dropped from under my hard-hat
And over my safety glasses,
Almost impairing my vision of a jogger:

Tight shorts.
Low-cut tank top.
Curvy swagger.
Epic cleavage.

Shit. I’m one of those “creepy” construction guys.
Don’t stare, I think.

But just then she looked up at a shirtless roofer:

Totally staring.

I should become a roofer.