Moving by GJ Hart

They’re moving me today.

The news bore sour fruit  – he scooped out its flesh and threw it down.

A lovely room.

And stabbed the screen like he was squashing a bug.

Beside the garden.

And when he cried it felt like sciatica, like fibromyalgia, like crawling from bed after a marathon and knowing now was now, he flew, from room to room, avoiding cats and locking locks, juggled a water bowl and throwing clothes into a dusty suitcase liveried with faded stickers – the Eiffel Tower, palm trees, a neon kangaroo – whist he called a local taxi company and argued the price until the controller yawned, capitulated and despatched their least roadworthy car.

The most beautiful pergola, even Razorbills.

Barely through traffic, the taxi damp and hot, enveloping him in reflux and ashtray, aftershave and medication and gripping the arm rest, he screamed into the room he hid his vengeful treatises and diagrams.

As he trembled against the stasis, his phone rang again.

Ice creams from a lime green parlour.

Sounded like a prank, like a joke, like his voice was filtered through a novelty gadget, but any smiles were drifting, always incredulous – at his evolution, at his new anatomy – the valves and tubes, canisters, monitors, pumps and metal doors closing over and over and over.

If I sit up.

On an ancient airbus in a cramped seat between a fuming couple he’d split like an atom. Poor planning – not his fault and so triangled by anger, he remained rigid until the plane’s nose shuddered and dipped through clouds, toward an old country – the strangest place, adorned with that particular otherness of once familiar places.

I can see across the dunes.

The hotel was vast and revivalist, a forest of buttresses and finials surrounded by neurotic gardens and so absurdly expensive, he could only expect more. Admittedly, the internet reached the toilet, the coffee was decent and the TV flat and huge, but the view was a crime – a blank wall, a misted window, a dual carriage.

To the sea.

He dragged a chair to the window, climbed up and balancing a hand against the curtain rail and standing on tiptoes, could just make out the seething tips of waves, breaking and sliding and shrinking down and away into nothing.

GJ Hart

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.



Twisting by Paul Tristram

Deep trickle
passion connects,
barbarian, primitive
the mind
grinding thighs.
There is a rainbow
your eyes
happy teardrops
your delirious face
the flood
draws itself back
to burst
its musky banks
over and over
I can taste us
upon you
as we roll and target
rough and tender waves.
and releasing
finally beaching,
side by side,
upon each others
soft, warm
delicate shores.

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!

Bardo by Wayne F. Burke

Are in a “better place”
they say,
but what place is that?
And is it “better” or
just “different”?
Are at “peace” now
they say,
but how do they know that?
Are with a merciful god.
Something happens after the
lights go out,
but what?
Hindus’ say it is back to the
portals for
re-entry or else
stick around and become a
spirit guide
welcoming those from the
other side…
That is, if you arrive with mind
you get no choice–
are stuffed into an
like an envelope
and off you go,
back into the world
for another go-round.

Wayne Burke

Wayne F. Burke’s most recently published book of poems A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME is available from Bareback Press. His chapbook POEMS FROM THE PLANET CROUTON, published 10-17, is available through Epic Rites Press as part of their PUNK Poetry Series. He lives in Vermont, USA.

The Slug by Michael Prihoda

He woke up like a freshly vacuumed carpet. Sucked of something. Relinquished.
Maybe this was a characteristic of happy dreams, to be forgotten. Yet visceral like intestines slithering about the ground. A biotic vegetation.
He felt the thing’s presence before he saw it. It created dissonance in the room, was a distraction, emoted chaos. He dared himself to ignore it, leave it alone.
It whimpered and he looked.
A small body, curled inward, scarred, barren, naked, ugly for its abjection. He was horrified, repulsed.
The room’s normality contrasted strongly with the desolation, ruined innocence, irreconcilable depravity. But a depravity worse for having been forced. Unreasoned. It didn’t deserve this.
He knew if he left for work the progression would continue. He knew the process well, knew the steps, knew perhaps if he stayed, if he devoted himself to stopping this, maybe he could succeed. But it was doubtful.
Maybe today the pills would be enough to keep the thing at bay.
Maybe today something would happen. Something spatially ignorant that would impede the hideous growth he knew would follow.
The indecision troubled him. Every day he considered his choice and the ramifications from both. Every day he considered the ill-formed third option and knew he could brush it off, most days with a self-reflective laugh at the absurdity. He wondered if there wasn’t some combination of choices that might render his condition more positive. One day home, one day work, three days home, three days work. But his job did not allow this. His job demanded he show up and suffer with a predictable continuance.
He made coffee, the insecurity in his fingers betraying his heart. The thing upstairs hazing his vision like a blindspot he frantically checked, always vacant but rushing with whoosh of near-collision.
Grounds spilled on the counter and he splashed water on the floor and nearly dropped a mug but caught it and felt a little surge of joy from a moment that didn’t end in failure. The caffeine soon to run through his veins reminded him of all the seemingly impossible days he’d already faced and conquered. A validation in false energy. After all, wasn’t a mountain climber broken as often as he broke the face of a mountain? Brokenness made a person more whole, given time.
Yes, dependency was good.
God bless dependency.
God bless the horror upstairs.
Certain things sometimes reminded him of happiness. Not necessarily of past happiness. Just the concept. Poses often did this. Illuminated the pale agony of truth. Graffiti on a wooden bench. A bit of sidewalk heaved by frost, a geometric proof gone wrong.
Just as often, he experienced the opposite in expression: the way a person’s hand flicked a cigarette butt out the window while paused at an intersection, the sycophantic guffaw of a coworker, the wealthy exchange of emails between coworkers on mundane subjects, fantasy football leagues, the decline of the postal service.

He never could remember who severed contact from whom. One day, he didn’t know which (everything was so vague and maybe that was for the best) things shifted. A him. A Her. A them. Land masses drifted away, new mountains rose up, new valleys sunk to divide expanses from each other. Leaving a crippled Pangea, little more than a crumpled paper airplane, organically huddled in the corner of his bedroom.

He stared at a quickly expiring loaf of bread. Thought of turning it into toast. Three minutes or less. The carbonizing process. What was he trying to sustain? Food seemed so vapid, empty, an endless pursuit with no resolution.
The refrigerator probably had some Greek yogurt, definitely some almond milk, maybe a half dozen eggs, other things certainly, things not attuned to breakfast. Things of disjointed purpose.
The pantry had flour, sugar, spices, pastas, vegetables in bags or vegetables in cans, and other things in cans, and other things in general. He imagined surviving a low-level apocalypse quite handily for a decent period of time. He never defined a decent period of time, except to realize it was probably better than the average person’s lifespan in the face of disaster. Why would apocalypse bother him? He welcomed environmental swivels. He had no horizon. Only the next staircase.

He thought of the thing in the bedroom as he sipped his coffee, feeling its immediate effects. He knew the thing’s trajectory.

There was a betrayal in clocks, always showing him times of inadequacy, earlier or later than he desired. The clock told him to leave for work. He obeyed because the clock told him to go and for a while he put the sniffling thing out of his mind. Reminding himself to forget how long it had been there. How it had grown while also curling further into itself. A carapace-less bug scrunching, hardening into its own tombstone.

The bedroom cradled the past. The child’s bedroom. No, his bedroom. He owned it. Why couldn’t he remember that? There was no child. There was no her.

He sat in his desk at work and waited for someone to say hello. Waited for someone to call the phone it was his job to answer, dutifully, habitually. Waited to handle another slew of complaints. Thought of handling an axe. Taking it against a wall, splitting something. Driving a wedge between a sea of atoms.

After a meandering hour at his desk (two calls, handled quickly in his affectless voice; only in the afternoon, near the close of his shift, as the fear and sadness and despair mounted, did he find it difficult to maintain his composure and the calm continuity that, despite his inner turmoil, made him good at his job, efficient in a manner that made his coworkers jealous) the grumbling of his stomach reminded him of the ritual. A brief catching of eyes across a couple placesettings, a wobbling hand gripping a plastic spoon and waving it with the abandon of someone trying to spearfish.
He had forgotten his lunch. Forgotten to pack one. He shivered at the idea of the thing coming down from the bedroom, uncorkscrewing, orangutan-ing itself up the legs of a kitchen chair, posing and forming some new-old expression.
He waited for his next call.

What had it become? What had it been?
The thought squeezed his chest as geysers of fear rushed down his forearms, reckoning paralysis on his limbs. The phone rang. He couldn’t answer it.
Had it grown? No. Yes. How much?
The phone rang again.
The slug lazed by, half-swiveled his ruddy body, cocked an antenna. “Gonna answer that?” he said. That annoying slow drawl.
He couldn’t stand the new hire. Probably paid him more.
The slug shrugged, slumped, oozed away.

The phone rang again. Stopped. Rang. Every instance the kind of thing that might not have happened. The only happening moment etched in his brain. Growing.
The screech. The unwinding. The no more going back. The grind of metal, just like it sounded in movies.

More calls. More time.
The slug slid back and forth behind his cubicle at least four times during the last quarter of his shift. He wondered how much salt it would take. To make him foam and bubble at the mouth. He wondered how Mr. Tim would feel about that. Mr. Tim adored the new hire. Praised his output. His call percentage off the chart they kept in the break room for tracking who would earn employee of the month.

Growing melancholy marked the passage of his hours and sometimes he reminded himself of his hourly salary but sometimes he thought of what underwater welders or brain surgeons or the president made by the hour and despite their job descriptions compared to his this knowledge destroyed his efficacy. Worth inseparable from money.

By the time he started his drive home his hands shook on the wheel and his brain shot messages in every direction, rendering his grey matter a flaming corn maze from which no escape was possible. He couldn’t focus and the cars around him became hazy, dreamy constructs of a world collapsing around him, a world offering him nothing in the way of solace or positive mobility. A twitchy paralysis began to overtake his motions and he felt ancient and newborn simultaneously. One foot in the womb and the other in the grave, with nothing keeping him here, in life.
His mind wandered desolate, barren wastelands littered with carcasses, skeletons, and irreducible landmarks telling him his own stories, the stories that cut him deepest.
His car lost its purpose and he drove recklessly through pale streets, past faceless people he didn’t recognize, cars that weren’t his and houses whose insides didn’t exist for him. The world a succession of exteriors, each more ghastly than the last. The only interior he knew was his, the very worst of all.
He parked in his garage and paused in the kitchen, his breath coming in short gasps. He knew the progression. He knew the steps every breakdown took. The slow descent tumbling into an uncontrollable slide.

The phone rang. Work chasing him.
“Gonna answer that?” The slug’s voice echoing. Present in the room. No. A phantom. Not there.

He picked up the receiver. Just a groaning. Heard double. From upstairs and wheezing through the phone. He put the one down, couldn’t dismiss the other. Began shaking.

“You really ought to shadow the new hire,” Mr. Tim was saying. “He could teach an old dog like you some new tricks.” That set Mr. Tim laughing. How much salt would it take for Mr. Tim and the slug to foam, to bubble, to froth at the mouth? What might it take to turn Mr. Tim into a pillar of salt?

In the break room. The slug making the water cooler glug as he filled his stainless steel water bottle. “Makes my productivity soar,” he was telling a rapt woman, “it’s all about the hydration.” He guffawed. His flubby body squirming like a pillow filled with worms.
He saw the clear glass saltshaker, three quarters full. Enough to maybe fizz out an eye. Turn the slug into a neo-pirate.
The slug nudged him with an antenna on the way out, one eye sparkling, the other antenna twitching toward the chart on the wall, the productivity numbers showing a glaring difference, the slug far out-distancing his own performance.

Maybe if he found out where the slug lived. Maybe if he worked up enough courage to carry the small bundle down the stairs, into the car. Its coffin. Its cargo hold. Its eggshell. Maybe someone else deserved the creature.

“Why would you do that?” Janice asked. Already reaching for paper towels. Rushing to the aid of the slug as a bit of his slimy skin sizzled where the salt had puddled. The exterior gone white, bubbly, then smothered by the paper towel. But blissful in that between space.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Accident.”
“Think nothing of it,” the slug said, amicable, an antenna whirring about to defray the tension.
The saltshaker had about half of its contents left. How much had he poured? Maybe a teaspoon.

What else could he do to negate the faux pas? However purposeful. He invited the slug for dinner. Wanted him to see. To see what went uncharted by his call performance chart in the break room above the water cooler.

The slug came up the front walk. Grim, he opened the door for him. Switched into all hale-fellow-well-met-mode. Something she would have disapproved of. The ability to hide a thing, to mask.
The slug wore a hat, a coat. He took both, draped them over a chair in the living room before leading him to the dining room. A saltshaker in the middle of the table.
At one point he excused himself to use the bathroom. Really to check on the thing.
Came back. Said, “We should do this again sometime,” as the slug lifted a shovelful of lemon cream pie to his mouth. Gulped it. Gave a deflated look as he was ushered out the door.
“Monday,” he waved from the door as the slug galumphed into his Lexus.
When he turned from shutting the door, it was there. Crouched behind him, blankly ashen face upturned. Mewling. Cowering. Rising.
He screamed.

Now it followed him. A silent specter dogging his footsteps. All the way to the door. Ready and crouching when he came home. Looking sightlessly, neck creaking to trace his movements. Its grizzled carcass of wrinkles making no sound as it caked his footsteps with invisible crime scene chalk. It had been living but now it had woken.

He made a trip to Kroger, giving his front door a perfunctory glance, feeling the thing’s stare through the wood.
The cashier raised her eyebrows as she scanned an army sea salt canisters. Twelve in all. She scanned his rewards card, telling him how much he’d saved today with a false cheer. She didn’t offer to help as he stuffed a paper bag full of the salt.

He apologized to the slug for his odd behavior last time. Wanted to make it up to him. Wondered if he could pick his brain about work-related topics. Did it in hearing distance of Mr. Tim just to see that sycophantic smile of approval. Gave one of his own in return.

The slug came over the next evening. He was prepared.
“The thing about customer service…” the slug was saying.
He was nodding along. False rapt attention.
The thing had focused its desolate face on the slug since he’d come up the front walk but the slug apparently couldn’t see it.
His anger at the slug not being able to see the thing, with its curling fingers, its disgusting infantile crouch, angered him. He was nearly boiling and they hadn’t even finished the main course.
“Do you see it?” he asked, gesturing.
“See what?” the slug paused with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his slurping lips. He half-lowered the fork. Shifted his massive body to see where he was pointing.
“The thing,” he hissed. “Can’t you see the thing?”
The slug became immediately uncomfortable, swallowed air with a visible gulp along his frontier, a shudder down his whole body like an eel’s slither across a seabed.
“Can’t you see the thing?” His anger rising like a previously dormant beast. Prodded and newly inconsolable.
He’d prepared the salt canisters by slicing off the cardboard tops. He’d lined them up near his end of the table, made invisible from the slug’s vantage by the angle and the tablecloth.
He would make him see.
He picked up a canister and flung it at the slug, salt flying everywhere, a white sandstorm. Wherever it struck the slug’s body it began to foam.
He took another canister in each hand, approached the slug, began shaking them at him like spreading fertilizer across a garden.
“Can you see it now!” he screamed. No longer a question. Frantically looking between the thing and the slug as if to visually connect the dots for him, the slug newly foaming wherever salt struck his bulbous flesh.
The slug was screaming now.
“Can you see it now?”
He flung the canisters he held, releasing the last of their salt. He went back and grabbed two more, not even halfway through his supply. The slug had tried to rise from his chair but found movement difficult as he began devolving into a slippery mess of foamy flesh, the agony searing through him.
He was back, flinging more salt at the slug, still raving as the thing looked on, partially uncurled from, keeping its distance from the scene.
“See what?” the slug gurgled.
“Can’t you see this?” he said, pointing at the thing again, accidentally throwing out a spray of salt as he did so.
“See what?” the slug gasped, the airflow constricted by the salt’s progress as it ate into his body.
The slug was immobilized, fizzling. He kept pouring out the contents of the canisters, all twelve, until his dining room floor resembled the stomach contents of an unholy beast and the table looked as if a snow globe had exploded across its surface. He poured the salt until it was gone, until it consumed the slug and the slug was gone. Reduced to a pile of goop.
Until the thing was all that was left. Until it was just him and the thing again. Until the next morning when he woke up and it was him, and the thing, and another, newer thing.

Michael Prihoda is a poet, editor, and teacher living in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. In addition, he is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).

Lonely Are the Brave by Alan Catlin

“Dead men get free utilities.”
 James Ellroy

In yellow fog haze, under overhead
lighted café, outdoor seating: tables,
chairs, part Dali-bent-by-time’s distorted
lens, part Kafka on a drug binge dream.
Overhead, corrosive, blue sheeted sky,
part Van Gogh, part Jackson Pollock
drunk, splotches on midnight canvas.
Inside, old, arthritic hands do the
Parkinson’s shake, as they offer cracked
cups, green fairy juice, filtered once through
wormwood sheets, tight flames and
blackened sugar cubes nearby.

There is no recourse once the liquid
has been imbibed, visions shared,
but to continue down a cobblestone
path, horse’s hoofs clicking sparks
as they pass, part of a drab cortege
black suited men are a part of, slowly
pacing their way to that dismal place
where they’ll share one last round,
the sweet taste of death.

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

Bleeding by James Babbs

I was getting ready to fuck
some beautiful blonde with long hair
she was lying in bed next to me and
her hair was covering her face
so I couldn’t see what she looked like
but it didn’t matter
she kept telling me
she had been thinking about me
for a really long time
and then I woke up
and the light was bleeding
through my bedroom window
I rolled over and looked at
the red numbers on the clock
and I saw
I still had plenty of time
even though
I was one more day older
than I had been
when this was only yesterday

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.

Public Open Spaces by Christopher Hopkins

When the light comes                with a winter’s morning,
when even the evergreens hold their breath,
and the sugar kicks wait         while the children are sleeping,
      that light,
            that’s pouring in,
in stop motion melting,
                                  lowering the shadows into the earth
down     into      kingdoms     of      the     borders,
the line,      the mass and      the colours trapped in lead.
Unhiding sweet wrappers, striped and bleached
besides the rods of iron roses,
is a dying frescos           of a old         season’s dare,
or a flattened coke can wreath,
laid at the floor of the oak’s grey bough,
is an act of remembrance               to young summer bodies,
covering the June lawn’s cool grasses.
Tarmac rivers along the side,
confuse            the swans every now and then,
and the only way the memorial stones will move anymore
is when the mammoths return.
There, on the park bench uprights,      nailed brass plaques
flicker to life the dead names of loved ones,
who      found      escape in this view.
Who sat and watched over their healing turf.
Or maybe      it was those sun-bathing limbs of June.

I grew up on a council estate in Neath, South Wales during the 1970’s. This fractured landscape of machines and mountains, with the underlying ‘Hiraeth’ in welsh life has developed into my poetry.  I currently resides in Canterbury with my wife and baby daughter and works for NHS cancer services. My debut chapbook ‘Take Your Journeys Home’ is due for release with Clare Songbirds Publishing House later this year. I have been nominated the for Pushcart Prize (2018) for my poem ‘Sorrow on the Hill’ from my debut chapbook.

Douglas St by Jason Baldinger

the tampon
into the sidewalk
finally gone
replaced by
a turkey leg
chewed on
a little more
each time
I pass

Jason Baldinger

Jason Baldinger is a poet hailing from the Appalachian hamlet of Pittsburgh. He’s the author of several books the most recent of which, the chaplet, Fumbles Revelations (Grackle and Crow) is available now, and the collection Fragments of a Rainy Season (Six Gallery Press) which is coming in September. Recent publications include the Low Ghost Anthology Unconditional Surrender, Uppagus, Lilliput Review, Rusty Truck, Dirtbag Review, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nerve Cowboy Concrete Meat Press, and Heartland! Poetry of Love, Solidarity and Resistance. You can hear Jason read some poems at

Blake’s Front by Paul Tristram

The sheer cliff face
is a nightmare to look upon,
never mind attempt to scale.
Urinal-side smooth,
rootless and crackless.
It’s as if the Building
on top of the otherwise
rough, jagged mountain…
vomited molten glass
straight over the insane edge.
No panoramic, aerial view
to speak of… the entire
courtyard is either
roofed or under tarpaulin.
There’s a constant freeze
to the atmosphere.
A seeming barrenness
kept brooding
behind impenetrable
granite block walls.
The only disturbance,
and sign of life,
is the sound of grinding chains,
deep in the surrounding hillside.
The real Menace comes
from a sick, fascinating waiting
and dark expectancy…
which causes the ‘Twisted’
to stay watching,
and the ‘Good-At-Heart’
to pack up and leave.

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!

Diary Entry # 9 by Wayne F. Burke

my three days off of work,
where did they go? How
flown the coop so fast?
Was on an emotional roller-
coaster ride but got off
last night when I crashed
in my chair, then got up
and went to bed, and
from there, to Paris, France,
a wild party, girls, their
knockers out…I woke in the
A.M. in the darkened bedroom
and got up, OOB, lol over the
dream, and looked out the
window at the frosted ground,
snow in the seams of the
neighbor’s yard.

Wayne Burke

Wayne F. Burke’s most recently published book of poems A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME is available from Bareback Press. His chapbook POEMS FROM THE PLANET CROUTON, published 10-17, is available through Epic Rites Press as part of their PUNK Poetry Series. He lives in Vermont, USA.