Poetry Contributor
Kevin Kissane is a Connecticut native writer, and recent graduate of the University for the Creative Arts in Farnham, England. His experience as a writer spans a period as editor for Paperfox Literary Magazine, and as a contributor to Gay Times. Some of his publications include The Ginger Collect, Quail Bell Magazine, and Jetenous Magazine. He writes because he must always get the last word.
Poetry Contributor
Cheryl Heineman graduated in 2017 with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. She also has a master’s degree in Jungian Psychology and has published three collections of poetry: Just Getting Started, something to hold onto, and It’s Easy to Kiss a Stranger on a Moving Train.
Rachel B. Baxter
Sunday morning,
parts of me are peeking out
from under my nightgown and
my eyes have not yet opened fully.
so sweet
He whispers, and I think he’s referring
to the giggles and coos that are echoing
off of the wood floor from down the hall,
shooting up from the crib and sprinkling the new day
like holy water shaken from a pine branch.
But, he isn’t looking to the crib,
no, he’s looking at me in my slipshod nightgown,
breasts full and heavy with milk,
eyelashes stuck together with a forgotten day’s mascara,
an attempt at beauty.
I open my eyes and smile at him smiling back,
kiss him and say goodbye
before picking up the baby
who is calling after him,
da-da, da-da,
as he waves, breathes, and closes the door.
Kaylor Jones
there are stories out there / reluctant
echoes of a people fastened to a
tangential satellite / in a solar system
where likeness is prophetically mirrored /
they comb outward into the chaos but
it all looks like more me me me / yet
again it is supernova sunday / and the
phoenix isn’t just a metaphor they live
inside of one / a ribcage that breeds
lava and spits it into space / like the
suggestion of pollen on a threadbare
heel / once everything has dissolved you
really can start over / the infinitesimal
yearns to mature into a conduit to
a disparate universe / one that gladly
houses less than a scant inkling of
everything is temporary / except
this one thing that’s tinted aching
twilight blue by the notion that
there’s anything other than a
selfish reflection to be found in
the unknown / if life was temporary
it would have the good sense to
make something nice and just stop
there / the people are atomic like
pollen and could never be spit out
into space / like the phoenix
the sky reburns pink and sometimes
orange / solar system sentinels
pose then faint in the bedlam
that gravity relinquished / a
speck of gilded pollen actualizes
in the overlapping fringes of a
tossing turning universe / from
what they can grasp on the banks
of the earth / something cruelly new
will take root in the wizened husk
of the undying.
Nikkin Rader
But light what soft these fingers quake
her breasts are lactic placid snakes
empty your spit upon his face
overarching hearts ache in wait
The ocean wept to the stars that night
while her body lay beneath water lit bright
legs spread apart so bees can sting the thighs
open your orifices to foam white
sand in mouth as welcomed as the sunrise
open wrists we give red to the sky
and mouth on shells teeth chip away like pebbles
swallow them whole with fists of kelp
see if they’re there, the men under the sea
clawing at breaking waves faces under
watch them
they scream in salt and drown while you draw their picture
pencil marks on pages like freckles
peel them off the bone
and throw them to the seagulls
Fiction Contributor
Bayveen O’Connell loves strange, dark, Gothic things and is inspired by history, travel and myth. She lives in Dublin and is a teacher. Her flash, poems and CNF have appeared in Former Cactus, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Molotov Cocktail, The Cabinet of Heed, Retreat West, Selene Quarterly, Scum Lit Mag, Underground Writers, The Bohemyth and others.
Aremu Adams Adebisi
You see how the aging smile
after the fleeting chasm of silence,/span>
and you wish upon your night/span>
a star that won’t disrupt the moonbeam.
You see how birds sing sonorously
and your eyes tread bare in your mind;/span>
you breathe in mists to expel sunrays,/span>
you wear the days on your feet.
The river splashes in fullness,
you trace some down the side of a cliff,/span>
while some lap at shore/span>
to wash the bank anew.
Then a brittle boy laughs right in your face
with all his contagious innocence;/span>
you wish to smooth your scars with each beam/span>
for all is beginning to hold right meanings.
So, cramped wings leave the nest in your eyes,
a broken ship waterlogged by the storm/span>
made it to the shore.
So, yellow-stained leaves aid in fruits bearing,
an air stifled in a corked bottle
descends in whirls down the lowland.
Joris Lenstra
The evening is so warm it’s an invitation to stay awake
Its blossoms spread their soft perfumes
Nature prepares for her great birth-giving
While I enter the kitchen for a refill of my coffee
From my room comes the rumbling bass of the speakers
The Invisible Man waits open for my return
At this moment in time I have a cupful of hours
That I can spend as I see fit
An elderly black man comes to my mind
Happy with his life
Humming in his chestnut rocking-chair
Observing the world from his porch
And I let these hours glide through my hourglass like honey
Courtney Burk
Persephone’s calloused finger rests
on her pomegranate bruised lips
As she texts her friends answers
about their dying indoor plants
And orders tea from the local coffee shop
across from the park where she strolls
barefoot and dogs wag in greeting
Until the air goes crisp as she bites into
the last apple of the season
And kisses her mother’s tear stained cheeks
her smile radiant as she steps into his arms
And the Lord of the underworld welcomes
home his warmth and his Queen.
Seth Jani
Someone says wing, and I watch the light
Grow deeper, the eclipsing crosshatches of birds
Return from their dark portal.
Everyone is always telling me
That there’s no joy in stillness,
In the calm waters where the feather falls.
Make waves they say,
Conquer and expel, grasp the ocean
In your hands and drink its depths.
But maybe, on some days,
When the burning has ceased,
I want to watch the surface light
Playing for no reason,
Want to watch the architectures
Built and disassembled
By the snow itself,
Or the moon generously
Giving its image
To each municipality of glass.
In secret, everything adds value
And creates something from nothing.
This is the real mathematics
Hidden in the heart.
The equation the wind settles
When it rains a cascade of flowers
Across our fastened doors.