The Arsonist’s New Flame by Paul Tristram

There is amber to her eyes,
hair a-glow
with reds of Autumn.
The kindling of emotion
cracks and sizzles
whenever she draws near.
Smouldering kisses
and the smoke
of delicate,
intimate whispers
within the bonfire skies.
His burn scars…
weep a tender healing
and his rickety,
matchstick fingers
stoke a different type of pyre…
warmer, in a subtle way,
than one he has ever before known.
The Candle
he now holds for her,
lamps the bleakness
of yesterday’s darkest hour.
Through the brush and broom
sweep of each new crimson morning,
they engulf and rage, passionately on.

Arty Pic Of Pauly

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!

Open Heart Surgery by Aaron Kent

You were bamboo in tepid climates, a sailor’s hand-made
paper boat set sail down a stream where the elephants
drink crystal. In your hand, a waste paper basket with
every note made as wax – the leaves from a bonsai tree
we never grew because one of us can’t count seeds.

You clung to the edges of the stratosphere and collected
the remnants of the last flight to the moon. In a backpack
made of peppermint tea you held the golf balls of astronauts
and the meditative techniques of eastern deities. I could
only offer you books, quotes from the Buddha, while

you sat, scarry-eyed and chewing the rhetoric employed
to push you from your seat. You trimmed the branch
and allowed priests to wash you of favours, a line carved
from the edge of intermittent failure. In this life I will
keep your name on my wrist and wait for silence to speak.

Aaron Kent

Aaron Kent is a poet from Cornwall, UK. He has recently had a art-verse-novella released through zimZalla titled ‘Subsequent Death’. He has a collaborative book with photographer William Arnold – The Last Hundred – due out in late 2018 / early 2019 with Guillemot Press, and a pamphlet – Tertiary Colours – due out in mid 2018 with Knives, Forks, and Spoons Press. Aaron also runs the Saboteur Award longlisted site Poetic Interviews, where he interviews poets using poetry. And he was recently announced on the shortlist for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award. Aaron is also a poetry and film lecturer,and his wife gave birth to their first child in July.

Evidence by Rupert Loydell

Just as I collect poems about the rain,
each unsuccessful in their own way,
I gather poems of mourning and loss,
diaries of grief and absence, approaching
death secondhand, each page evidence
of despair: it was this, no this, I tell you
it was like this. It wasn’t, it isn’t, we all
die alone, but I clutch the memories offered,
the failed loves, the sorry, to me. It ends,
it carries on, it stutters and stalls. We are
left behind, wondering what’s occurred.

Rupert Loydell

Rupert Loydell is a Senior Lecturer at Falmouth University, a poet, editor and artist. He has run Stride magazine since 1982 and is a contributing editor to International Times. Shearsman recently published Dear Mary, a book of poems about art, colour, annunication and Italy.



John by Gareth Culshaw

He had a tan that defied the sun.
He walked ten miles a day, bending
roads and seeing streetlights fade.

His white hair dipped the winter
grey when he came outside.
In the gym he punched his shoulders

a little. The vest was tight, giving
him the appearance of a candle.
Years ago he worked for the steelworks

flipping and pulling pieces, like huge
lasagne sheets. He had a confidence
about him. An air of cockiness

sprung from his feet. His legs were thin
and hairs looked like an unkempt lawn.
The last time I saw him he was on a bus

with some piece. Still hiding his years
behind a ten mile walk a day.

Gareth Culshaw

Gareth lives in Wales. He has his first collection by futurecycle in 2018


The Recluse Declines Once Again by David Spicer

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
—Jean Cocteau

Though I’ve never cold-cocked a student,
I’ve killed people in my imagination,
inventing identities for self-exile:
laureate to suicidal painters on the precipice,
I’d disappear when someone deciphered
my disguise. Another time I lived
in a goldsmith’s cabin among honeysuckle
and buttercups, listening to Lateef echo
the bridges I’d burned. Hotter than four
arsonists, I’d drink bourbon and root beer
in the truck bed before pinching off a chaw
to snore under a parasol. In a different,
mundane life I’d shower, boil an egg
or two, slide into a corduroy jacket
and buy herbs, rope, and a gilt crucifix
for the bones in the garden, where martyrs
of art dwelled. True, you could interview
me in this new farmhouse among my horses
and oxen—I don’t want to be accused
of aloofness—but ancient rumors would resurrect,
killing chances of stable friendship because
my reputation precludes me and you’d discover
the subtle difference between a poet and a liar.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He is scheduled to have From the Limbs of a Pear Tree, (Flutter Press) released in the Fall of 2017.

When Dad Comes Home From The War by Ruth Z. Deming

Beth was sitting out on the front porch, glass of wine in her hand, and noisily eating salted pretzels right out of the bag. Barefoot, her blond hair twisted into a bun atop her head, she looked up at the sky, thinking about her husband. Jimmy was somewhere on the blazingly hot plains of Helmland Province in Afghanistan. It had been a few weeks since they had last spoken. Dogs had barked in the distance and she could hear the muted voices of his men, sprinkled with laughter. Jimmy was a cheerful guy, always ready with a joke. “Did you hear the one about….”
“Stop worrying,” she told herself futilely. She knew that if he were to die in an IED explosion or from heatstroke – his buddy Adam had burned up in 106-degree weather – she would not be too proud to ask his parents for help. They lived nearby in the same town of Feasterville. When she and Jimmy moved into the little town outside Philadelphia they jokingly referred to it as “Festerville.” Their son Kyle copied his parents and still called it by its obnoxious nickname.
The wine soothed her nerves and helped her stop thinking about the only man she had ever loved. The red wine turned her lips a bright red. Kyle was concerned about her.
“Ma!” he would say, when he came home from school. “You’re drunk!” Then bravely he would add, “Dad would be mad at you!”
“Oh, you’re just darn silly, kid!” she would answer.
Kyle loved the house where they lived. He would approach their blue rancher with near reverence. He loved seeing it from afar. It was so pretty with its bright white shutters.
“Mom,” he said. “Let’s not move again. This is my favorite house ever!”
“I’m with you there, Kylie! I cannot stand moving, either!”
One day after school, he ran up the steps of the front porch and grabbed the baseball bat they kept in the corner. He took a couple of swings – Mr. Malone, the coach, told him he was getting real good and might become a starter – then put down the bat and picked up the softball, with its yellow stitching. Why it was called a softball he had no idea. It was as hard as a rock. But unlike a rock, you could take it apart, which he did once, peeling it with a kitchen steak knife. It was stuffed with something like rubber bands and stunk like a dead fish.  He barely remembered playing softball in the huge back yard of the trailer park with his dad.
Putting down his baseball mitt, he attempted to walk in the front door. It was locked. How strange! There were two other doors. He climbed up the steps to the side door. That’s where his parents kept the cooler of cold drinks in the summer. Like now. He could help himself to a Coke or bottled water anytime he wanted. When he found out that door was locked, too, he kicked the cooler in frustration. He ran to the back door, passing the swing set in the far back yard, he’d used when he was younger. Now he was big, all of 10 years old, and it wasn’t much fun anymore.
The back door swung right open, letting him into the kitchen. His mom was sitting at the table, this time chugging from a bottle of wine, which had spilled down her yellow dress.
With her was Mr. Scott, one of their neighbors.
“Mom!” he yelled.
“Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. “What do you know. You’re only a kid.”
“Beth,” said Mr. Scott. “Don’t talk to your boy like that. He’s a good kid.”
Kyle was terribly hungry, but he ran out the back door, yelling, “I hate you, I hate you, Mom, and I’m never coming back.”
Like any other kid, he was an explorer and knew every feature of the terrain of Penn Valley Terrace Mobile Home Park. He had few friends and didn’t mind. They would just stand in his way. He liked to be free, like his dad, “the warrior.” When his dad was home two years ago, they would roam the woods in camouflage suits, hunting for deer.
“Son, you must keep perfectly quiet, so you’ll hear them stepping on leaves and cracking twigs as they come through.”
His father had a bow and arrow. On the few occasions when he saw a deer, he would tap Kyle on the shoulder and draw back the bow. Kyle wasn’t old enough yet to use it. He lacked the musculature of his father.
Kyle knew, back then, his dad was going back to war again, so he tried to memorize what he looked like. In the flesh. Not in photos. Dad was a big man, a head taller than Mom, and had short dark hair. You could see his white scalp right through his buzz cut. At night, when Kyle would fall asleep, he would feel his own hair, and pretend it was like his dad’s. His hair was blond, like his mom’s, and filled with embarrassing curls, like a girl’s.
He ran as fast as he could and sprinted toward the woods. Immediately, he felt cooling breezes and smelled the little creek in the distance. Then he stood stock still. He thought he saw a doe chewing the bark of a tree. He stared among the cluster of dark trees, blinking and focusing his eyes. Sure enough, he clearly made her out. Her pretty little head was munching the bark from the tree, then delicately chewing off the green leaves. What big eyes she had. “Oh, if only Dad was here,” he thought. He was so proud of himself. Then he remembered his mother. Drunk, as usual. And maybe even fooling around like they did on his favorite TV shows. Disgusting! He could never kiss a girl, though that little Kayla was awfully cute with her twinkly blue eyes.
“We might be twins,” she once said to him at recess. “Kyle and Kayla.” The other kids gathered around. “Kyle and Kayla, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
“Oh, stop that,” shouted Kyle. “That’s not fair.” He refused to leave the area, not wanting to be seen as a coward.
“Kayla, come over here,” he said, and led her to the jungle gym.
Quick as a flying squirrel, he climbed to the very top, looped his legs around the cold metal bar, and hung like a monkey. He loved the feeling of being upside down. It was a whole different world. Sometimes in the living room, he would lie on the red leather couch, his body sticking to it in the heat, and let his sweaty head touch the floor as he watched the ceiling. It seemed like a new land straight out of Star Trek. There were lacy cobwebs that looked like the kitchen curtains and a tiny spider or two tiptoeing across the white plains that were the ceiling.
Kyle heard a loud noise. With a sudden leap, the doe ran away. How had she known he was there? Smell, his dad had told him. He sniffed his forearm. It was sweaty and filled with tiny blond hairs. His mother smelled different than he did. She smelled from wine and red lipstick and waffles and syrup she would make for breakfast. He missed her already. And knew it was almost time to go home.
He walked slowly over to the creek. Staring down, he found a school of iridescent minnows and those weird water spiders sashaying across the still water. His dad had shown him a trick. He found a huge green maple leaf. He loved the way it looked like a hand. He studied the waxy surface to make sure it was nice and clean with no bugs or bumps on it, wiped it on his blue jeans, folded it into four parts, making a cup, and dunked it into the clear water. Licking his lips, he took a small sip, and then a larger one. He did this six times until his thirst had disappeared. He stood there a moment and pretended his dad, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, was standing beside him.
He walked slowly home, head down. How, he wondered, could he help his mom. The sun was setting on their block, painting an orange and purple picture behind each house. Kyle silently named the occupants of each house. The O’Rileys; the Reimers; the Scotts; the Phillips with their fiercely barking white dog, Monty; the Myers – Dad, Mom and himself – and the Amos family with the identical twin girls.
His mother was standing out on the porch.
“Kyle!” she cried. “I was so worried about you! I was frantic and was going to call the police!”
She grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him to her, and gave him a huge hug.
“I saw a doe, munching on the bark of a tree,” he said softly.
“You did!” she said. She was listening. Actually listening to him.
“I want to show you something, son,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.
She held up a bottle of wine by its neck.
“This,” she said, “this is the last bottle I have and I’m not going to buy anymore. Let’s go out back.”
She carried the bottle outside, like carrying a long-necked goose.
They went out on the patio, which was rimmed with colorful flowers: red and white impatiens; yellow marigolds; tall pink cosmos. She poured the wine in a single line across the soil.
Kyle watched in amazement and then looked up at her, thinking, “Could this really be happening?”
“And you know what, honey?” she said. “We’re going to plant a garden. Just you and me. And when Dad comes home, he’ll have fresh vegetables to eat.”
That night Beth and Kyle sat on the red leather couch, watching television and munching on buttered popcorn. A commercial for a new and violent movie came on, when the announcer broke in and said, “Special announcement.” Beth and her son looked at one another as if it pertained to them.
It did.
The NBC announcer said, “The Taliban have conquered Helmland Province in Afghanistan after a six-year battle. Historians tell us this is the worst loss for the allies since the Taliban made its appearance.”
Beth edged around the coffee table and shut off the TV.
“Kyle, this is bad news, very bad news. But we’re not going to worry. We have faith in your daddy.”
She laughed. “I am so glad I threw my wine out. Here’s what we’re going to do, son.”
She walked to the adjacent dining room, where a tall and fancy cabinet nearly reached the ceiling. She opened up the middle drawer, pulled out a cigar box and held it up to Kyle.
“Daddy smokes cigars,” he said. “He’d call them ‘The Bay of Pigs’ cigars.”
“What a good memory you have,” she said.
Inside the box were seed packets. She pulled out one and shook it.
“No better time than now to start our garden,” she said.
And so, throughout the long night, while the moon and stars watched over them, they planted eggplant, Big Boy tomatoes, red leaf lettuce, and Fingerling potatoes.
Beth hummed as she worked, telling Kyle how deep to lay the seeds, and then asking him to tear off the front of the seed packet and half-bury it near each vegetable, so they knew what would finally come up.
Three weeks later, the eggplant, tomatoes, and lettuce were popping up.
“Mom, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he said. His mother smiled and put her arm around him.
“Your daddy will be so proud of us.”
Kyle would check the garden every day after school. As they sat down to dinner, the two of them held hands, and Mom would lead a prayer, “God is good, God is great, and we thank Him for our food.”
Kyle picked up a crunchy yellow taco filled with black beans and lettuce and salsa – “My favorite!” – and took a bite that sent everything scattering all over his plate.
“The problem with tacos,” laughed Beth.
A loud sound interrupted their meal. The knocker on the front door was pounding as if the very door itself would split open.
They both ran to the door.
Two men in uniform stood there on the porch.
“Oh, no,” said Beth.
“May we come in?”
Beth opened the door wide and motioned them into the living room. The piquant smell of salsa swirled around the room.
“Perhaps your son should wait in the other room,” said Officer Brickman. Kyle looked up at his mom with wide eyes.
“Kyle will stay right here. This is about his daddy.” She noticed her voice had begun to shake.
The men explained that Staff Sergeant James H. Myers had suffered what’s called “head trauma.” He was still very much alive but his thinking was altered. And he had various physical problems. Kyle had a vision of living on the white ceiling and crouching up there in the corner.
Staff Sergeant Myers would be sent to the closest veterans’ hospital for intensive treatment and then return home.
“I must write this all down,” said Beth. Kyle ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a pad that read, “U.S. Marine Corps.”
Beth thought of offering the men some coffee but she wanted their stiff and somber bodies out of her house as fast as possible.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said as she walked them to the door, shutting it a little louder than she meant.
“It’s not so bad, Kyle,” she said. “He’s not dead. He’s wounded. Bad. Very bad. But we’ll nurse him back to health.”
The trip to the veterans’ hospital was a two-hour drive. Kyle’s grandparents would drive over in their big white van and the four of them would pile in and take the fast highway to the hospital. On the way home from the first visit, he heard Grandma Myers say, “He’s a ghost of his former self.” He wondered what that meant, but he sure knew it wasn’t the same dad he remembers.  Every time they walked into the white room, where he sat on a chair with a clock behind him, he seemed not to notice them, but to look right past his wife and son. Beth decided it did no good to visit. In fact, every time Beth visited, she felt like killing herself.
An ambulance brought him home. Kyle was at school when he was escorted by two medics into the home he had left nearly three years ago. Beth, dressed in white summer shorts and a white tank top, showing the outline of her moon-round  breasts, led her husband to the dining room table. She couldn’t help but noticing he didn’t look around. She hadn’t kissed him and didn’t want to. It would be like kissing a mummy. In the middle of the table was a huge milky-white bowl that sat on a pedestal and contained two large shiny eggplants, Big Boy tomatoes, and apples and oranges from the market.
The table was set for dinner.
Jimmy picked up a tomato with both hands.
He said slowly, “Tom Tomater,” which is what they jokingly had called them.
He took a big bite – the seeds splashed across his face – and then Beth pushed over the salt from the middle of the table. Jimmy put the tomato on the plate and slowly cut it open, salting it carefully.
When he finished, Beth went over and kissed him on his cheek.
“Kyle will be home soon, darling,” she said. She strode over to the front door where the sun seemed to light Kyle’s way home.
“Here he comes, Jimmy,” Beth said, her voice rising, as she walked out onto the front porch.
“Kyle!” she called. “Guess who’s home from the war?”
Kyle took the porch steps two at a time and raced into the house.
“Dad!” he called. “Dad! I’ve got so much to tell you!”
A whole year passed. Kyle, now 14, had grown nearly as tall as his dad. His blond curls fell around his ears. The girls loved them, especially Eva Marie. A camera crew from 60 Minutes had taken temporary possession of their house for several hours. Kyle, who now journaled in a black and white Meade Composition Book, took notes. “Our house is transformed and looks like a stage set. Bright lights burn my eyes. Signs read ‘Take One, Take Two, Take Three.’ I’m going to be a camera man when I grow up, not a stunt man like I thought when I was little.”
After they left, the producers of 60 minutes kept in touch, telling the family the story was finished, but the broadcast date was uncertain. Then a phone call from a Mr. Weiss said the program would air this Sunday after the football game.
Beth called everyone she knew. Kyle ran around the neighborhood telling the neighbors. Jimmy walked around the house, flexing his arm muscles, and revealing the tattoo of a bald eagle he’d gotten while on leave in Germany.
They kept the sound muted during the football game and finally saw the familiar faces of the 60 Minutes reporters and heard the sound of ticking at 8:20 pm.
Leslie Stahl, the anchorwoman, appeared in a purple jacket, with long dangling earrings.
“From a little town in Pennsylvania, where houses proclaim the American dream, a dream has come true for Staff Sergeant James L. Myers – “Jimmy” to his wife Beth, son Kyle, and friends – a miracle has occurred.”
The camera panned to the dinner table where Beth, Jimmy and Kyle were passing around serving bowls of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, and cornmeal encrusted eggplant and tomatoes.
In low voices, the family talked together. The camera then focused on Jimmy, who wore an open-neck blue shirt.
Leslie Stahl asked him, “I understand you applied for several jobs, Jimmy.”
“Seven, to be exact, and was offered a job by all seven.”
His speech was a bit halting and the viewers were rooting for him to successfully finish each sentence.
“I’ve been working for the past month as sous-chef at the Eagle Diner, where I bake our own breads” – he made a “kneading” motion with his hands – and most of the desserts, like this apple pie.” He pointed to the middle of the table where a browned fluted crust sat on a trivet with red, white and blue tiles, like the crown jewel it was.
Then came the ticking of the clock that signaled the end of the interview.
“What a great job they did!” said Beth, who was already in her slippers and pink pajamas.
“Dad, you’re a movie star,” laughed Kyle.
“Sure am,” said Kyle. “Maybe I’ll have my own cooking show like, what’s her name?”
“Julie Child,” said Beth, yawning. “I’m going to bed.”
“Dad, why don’t you stay up with me and we’ll have another piece of pie.”

ruth deming

Ruth Z. Deming has had her poetry published in lit mags including Literary Yard, River Poets, Blue Bonnet Review and JonahMagazine. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Pennsylvania in the US of A.


Home by J. K. Durick

It’s the place where they have to take you in, when you
have to go somewhere, there, even if you don’t deserve
it anymore, after the fog of years. So now when they find
you, wandering the streets, shabby, incoherent, dazed or
drugged the police call them and they come for you again,
“last time” they warn, like last time. Then after a day or two
you become invisible, someone they discuss in loud voices,
make plans for, ultimatums that you know they won’t act on.
It’s too embarrassing for them to leave you out there when
the whole town knows who you are and where you belong.

J. K. Durick

J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, 1947, Poetry Superhighway, Synchronized Chaos, and Algebra of Owls.



Astral Horror by Sudeep Adhikari

In the astral world,
where all the deads are crammed
with their unfulfilled dreams and desires.
No merciful God,
no non-stop high, no 72 virgins.

They probably suffer from
post-existential angst, and the looming sense
of something-ness that constantly
haunts their marshmallow non-self.

And when they get bored,
they probably watch horror movies
about life before death. And get
non-mindblown at the
quality of horror that life has to offer.


Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal. His recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys, Zombie Logic Review, The Bees Are Dead, Silver Birch Press and Eunoia Review.


The Examiner Doubts Your Ways by Paul Tristram

… and he is Roche Rock in stature.
Important as Logic,
surgical in interrogation
and swift to life changing Justice
as the lightning strike
piercing downwards upon rushing target.
The ‘Corners’ you hide in
are not, in reality, concealed.
Each backtracking step
astutely recognized and monitored.
He scratches at the silver
of his perfectly groomed goateed chin,
Merciless slate-grey eyes,
unflinchingly upon you
… as you stumble your blind way
through impossible verbal nonsense.
You are merely amusing Him,
like a Court Jester
rolling and tumbling over his own feet.
He’s waiting, patiently, like The Tower Card,
to calmly speak the word “Halt”
once you have finished wasting his time
and completed the noose
which you are unwittingly constructing.

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!

Number 51 by James Babbs

When I awoke from the dream
it was cold again and
I looked around the room.
I waited until my surroundings
were familiar to me again
before I climbed out of bed and
went into the bathroom and
started splashing
the cold water on my face.

I remembered the way
they kept telling me
it was only a number and
it didn’t really mean anything.
I had always understood
how you had to lose one thing
before you could gain something else and
when I sat down and
started going over
all the additions and subtractions
that were scattered throughout my life
the numbers never seemed to add up.

I thought it was funny
how the sun kept appearing
in tiny bursts of light
before getting swallowed up
by the clouds over and over again.
I kept hearing the wind against the house and
saw the naked trees shivering
waiting for their new leaves to arrive.
It seemed like no matter what I did
the wind always found its way inside,
slipping through the smallest of cracks.

James Babbs-Author Photo

James Babbs is a writer, a dreamer, a three-time loser and an all-around nice guy who just wants to be left alone. James is the author of Disturbing The Light(2013) & The Weight of Invisible Things(2013) and has hundreds of poems and a few short stories scattered all over the internet.