Hut 29 by Neil Fulwood

was our nickname for the lean-to
squeezed into the bit of square-footage
not monopolised by the lorry,
but it was less the doss-house

of the National Service sitcom
than the grease-monkey version
of a gentleman’s club – we’d withdraw
not for brandy and cigars but tea from a flask

and whatever was packed in our snap bag.
The décor: two seats from a scrapped
Datsun Cherry, an upturned crate
by way of a table, a sink the colour

of hypoid oil, and one tap – cold –
that took bolshy pride in its job description.

neil fulwood

Neil Fulwood lives, works and subsidizes pubs in Nottingham. His debut collection, No Avoiding It, is published by Shoestring Press. He hasn’t stopped going on about it yet.


Mall Walker by Alyssa Trivett

The elevator repairman’s keys
fling, slingshot on the half-ripped
right-hand side belt loop,
clinging and clanging,
a noise reminiscent of
dragging Terminator’s metal arm
across the floor.
They are only his temporarily,
after all, soon to be handed
to the next victim.
Sweating in eight-hour increments,
patches of blood monkey-climb his shirt
from yesterday’s round-the-clock shift.
A faded name badge
peels off from unwashed fabric,
like sun-burned skin
making a new home on carpet.
His suitcase of door stops,
lubricants, and rope gauges,
sits in the open,
an odd assortment of tools;
to help him stay focused
while children scream
and one hit wonders
blare over the intercom.

Alyssa Trivett

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Peeking Cat, on, Walking Is Still Honest Press online, and Duane’s PoeTree site. She has fifteen poems in an upcoming anthology entitled Ambrosia, a collaboration with eight other poets, soon to be released by OWS Ink, LLC. All proceeds from the anthology will be donated to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. More information can be seen here.


Unrest by Maria Stadnicka

Mondays I wear fundamental black.
For patient beginnings.
Close to the border, I wake up
in a dusty existence
by a window without curtains.

I rehearse the war,
the growth of my frozen children,
the walking, the loving, the singularity.

I am born under surveillance and
to me all things appear significant;
the imperfect good intentions,
the miracles which exist only in books.

Maria Stadnicka

Maria Stadnicka is a writer, freelance journalist and lecturer. Winner of 12 Romanian National Poetry prizes, she worked as a radio and TV broadcaster. She has lived in Gloucestershire, England since 2003. Published poetry collections: O-Zone Friendly, A Short Story about War, Imperfect.

Now He Is Walking With Another Companion by D.N. Simmers

After Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov

So this about a dog
and an old friend and he
the old friend lost
his dog and now
he is walking.
He could not handle the loss of his four footed friend, his dog.
He was lost
and now with a new leash,
has a new lease on life.
And a little furry
tail that wags
and he is off around the
blocks in rain and wind.
He was so sad.
I am not saying getting a new
dog erases all the memories
of his old dog
but there he goes.
And there is almost
a smile on his
wind blown

D.N. Simmers

D.N. Simmers is an on line editor with Fine Lines. He is in the current Poetry Salzburg Review and the Common Ground Review. He is in two new anthologies and is on line in riverbabble, Wilderness House Literary Review and Whispers. He was in Van Gogh’s Ear, Paris France.






The Barren Woman And The Tears Which Will Never Fill Her Emptiness by Paul Tristram

I was born to Dead-End!
A ‘Full Stop’ to an otherwise fertile line of ancestry.
A seedless apple
in a busy, blossoming orchard of growth and re-birth…
stuck inside my very own desert.
I can afford to buy the best perambulator in town,
but, will never actually need one…
that’s a lightning bolt to my pride and peace of mind
which I never fail to feel the terrible shock of.
I have stopped frequenting Public Parks
on warm, sunny afternoons… it’s simply torture.
Beaches, in the Summer months, give me soul-vertigo
and bring on desperate urges to self-harm…
the false gateway between my spiteful legs,
the quagmire of my futility, that bastard, impotent thing
which brings me pain instead of pleasure
which I can prune and piss through… but, never actually farm.

paul smoking - Copy

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

Orphan Black by Alan Catlin

“I had four dreams in a row where you were burned,
about to be burned, or still on fire.”
                        Richard Siken, Crush

Rimbaud could never have imagined this.
No one could ever get this high, though,
Lord knows, many have tried. You are always
yourself, except when you are someone else,
or someone else is you. Delusional or cloned,
what’s the difference? You are an end of the rope
undercover cop, about to suicide by train;
an Eastern European druggie, with a high
powered rifle bullet through the head, instead of
a brain, forensic evidence splattered all over
the back seat of a stolen car; you are yourself,
holding someone else’s blow, only hours back
to a rundown slum city, that could be Toronto,
or anywhere else, you are yourself, except when
you are someone else, or someone else is you.
How many of you are there? Maybe six in
the first series. Maybe more. You are a bad actor
housewife who can shoot the eyes out of a snake,
at a hundred yards with a pistol, and a few beads
short of a necklace, or a psycho killer/ trained assassin
who cannot be killed, past sadist, part masochist,
with a soft spot for the little girl you never were.
You are her and more, them: the lesbian student/
microbiology babe, dying of a clonekill deformity/
disease, that has killed many others of your kind,
whatever that is, and you are the ice queen exec
of some big pharma lab, with the heart of a replicant
and the soul of  science project gone bad, mutating
without end, but who is keeping track?  Someone is,
no doubt, but who it is has not been revealed.
Your life is so confusing, you need a spread sheet to
chart your ebbs and flows. Especially now that everyone
is after you and the child you had: the master race
born agains, Nazi scientists types, with inseminators
and a verse; multinationals with agendas and secrets
to keep; underground rads,  leftovers from the people’s
revolution that failed; para-military spies,
real military spies, CIA spies, spy spies, rogue cops
following dead leads on not so cold cases wherever they
may lead. It plain sucks to be you, being yourself,
except when you are someone else, or someone else
is being you.  One of you must be the original but no
one knows for sure who. Maybe it’s you, maybe not.
Anyone who is the white child of a black birth mother,
without a father, could be anything, even yourself, but
probably not. The biggest con of all is that you
are always yourself, except when you are someone else,
or someone else is you. No one is who they seem to be,
even you, though you hope that someone is; maybe
the child, who is someone else and  never anyone but
herself, which is good, and maybe the key to everything,
we think, and so on and so forth. Good luck with all that.

acatlin multi

Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine

Hoodie by Gareth Culshaw

He hid under a hood
his face
caged in plastic.

Feet unwary, as if they
belonged to someone


His eyes were metal detectors
looking for pennies

his hands ached to pick up
fag ends.
              People gingerly watched

like he was walking a tight

Fingernails held last week.
Tongue soaked in yeast.
Pockets empty of tomorrow.

He just walked with his face
in a plastic cage, keeping
the world away, in case

they saw who he was

Gareth lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.

After Nine Months by John D Robinson

We met him at the gates,
she was tearful and smiling
and rushed forward to
embrace him: I stood my
ground and waited: after
they’d let go he walked
over and shook my hand
and said hello:
we climbed into the
waiting cab: she said to me,
‘Here, you take this money
and buy as much wine as you
can and you take your time
getting back with it’
I nodded my head, grinning:
‘In fact’ she said ‘Take this
as well and treat yourself to
a sandwich and a couple of
beers in a bar before you go
to the off-licence and take
your time about it’
‘Yeah’ he said smiling,
looking across at me ,
‘take your time, you know
what I’m talking about?’
I did know what he was
talking about and I took my
time, I took it real slow.


John D Robinson is a published poet: ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016) ‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Publications 2016) his work appears widely in the small press and online literary journals.

A Welcome Suprize by John Patrick Robbins

I never forced it there is no point when the words just aren’t there.
I was burnt out in the worst way.

Too many drinks the night before had left me hungover and today I felt as though I had survived a car wreck and cracked the windshield with my head.

Soft music played I thought of mixing a drink and just nursing my wounds alone.
Perfectly happy and far away from anyone’s view.

The day would pass the hangover as well.
The peacefulness would be intruded upon by my neighbors noise.

And I would sleep until the day I no longer found it necessary to wake.

Then I would know the ultimate peace.
And I would know happiness far from the worries of this life.

Gone and part of everything unseen.

How truly beautiful that day would be.

John Patrick Robbins

John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet and professional drinker and fulltime smart ass. My works been published with In Between Hangovers . I also can be read on most websites and probably a few bathroom walls also. It is unfiltered like my thoughts . Cheers .



No Matter What by Jennifer Lagier

Last week, Batshit Cheeto-in-Chief
went ballistic over inquiries
of his campaign’s collusion with Russia.
Responds by firing the FBI chief,
threatens to release taped conversations.

The day after, he invites
Kremlin reps and Russian media
into the White House,
casually reveals
highly classified information.

Jellyfish-spined GOPers
develop sudden amnesia,
forget their outrage,
demands to prosecute
Hillary over her emails.

President Pussygrabber
indulges in a Twitter tirade,
claims there are no legal restrictions
on his right to broadcast state secrets
to known enemy agents.


Jennifer Lagier has published thirteen books, taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review, helps coordinate Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium readings. Newest books: Scene of the Crime (Evening Street Press), Harbingers (Blue Light Press), Camille Abroad (FutureCycle Press). Forthcoming: Like a B Movie (FutureCycle Press, 2018). Website: Facebook: