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The sun beat down on my dangling corpse. With visitors long since gone, I’m left in isolation, suffocating on a cross. Don’t call me a messiah. Will my followers construct religions in my name? Erect buildings in my honor? Will they misunderstand what I’ve said? My father promised to look after me when aborted me from his kingdom. He promises a lot of things, and he’s not so different from Zeus or Jupiter. But when you’re a god, you make up the rules as you go, especially if you’re an omniscient tyrant. It must be hard to be a god. Who would want to be such a creature anyway? To never want for anything, to know everything, and while everything changes, you remain a freak disjointed from existence. An ontological schizoid. “Father, have you forsaken me?” I sat back when he tortured Job, and for what? To win a bet he knew he’d win? What lesson should Job have learned other than the being he worshipped was a monster? And is there anything more heinous than asking someone—just as a test—to prove loyalty by killing your own child? I think back to the Garden of Eden. Back to when my Father exiled Adam and Eve, and for what? Eating an apple? Disobeying an order? The story goes Adam and Eve had no concept of good and evil, so punishing them is a reflection of my Father’s ineptitude. One doesn’t blame a table if it breaks, one blames the craftsman for poor work. I’m the symbol of a metaphysical criminal. The land is baren upon this hill. Rome carries on without me. My mother is gone. My disciples absent. “Father, have you forsaken me?” The wind whispers nothing. But as I hang dying, what am I dying for? A people who don’t care? A political cause? Original sin? Why would anyone have to die for these? Why do I bleed for these people? I think of Judas. Is he eaten up by guilt? I suspect people will blame him for my condition, or worse, the Jewish people, but it’s not their fault. Aren’t most people cowards? Wouldn’t you do much the same in his position? If blame is to be placed, again, it’s at my father’s own castrated notion of morality. “Father, have you forsaken me?” The wind whispers nothing. Night comes and washes over me. My death should be insignificant. Countless people die on crosses, nothing makes me special? A woman approaches and informs me I’ll forever be remembered I cry. They will lie. They will say my death is significant. They will tell tales of how heroic I was. A part of me thinks they’ll let me slip into oblivion, sands washing through my skull holes, lost in the recesses of history. But deep down, in places I don’t want to admit, I know this is a lie. They’ll construct religions, idols, and wage wars in my name. I’m the sacrificial lamb for cosmic nonsense. The woman kneels down and looks up starryeyed. My tears pour like rain from a cracked sky. “Father, why have you forsaken me?” I take three last breaths. Sebastian Vice is the Founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive fiction and dirty realism. He has short fiction and poetry has been published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, Bristol Noir, and Misery Tourism. He contributed a chapter to Red Sun Magazine's forthcoming book The Hell Bound Kids (May 1st, 2022) and writes a regular column called "Notes of A Degenerate Dreamer" over at A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His flash piece "One Last Good Day" was nominated for Best of The Net 2021. His debut poetry book Homo Mortalis: Meditations on Memento Mori was released April 4th, 2022 through Anxiety Press.

And the guilt sticks, like oily black mud on the soles of your shoes Walked through the house, ugly stains imprinted, reminders of your failings Lingering mockingly, faded but visible Stop and stare as the guilt chillingly engulfs All sound and sense drowned in the silent suffocation of that moment

I wake and hear birds calling the day into being. It drifts like steam from my morning coffee, into my mouth. Summer is a lump in my throat. A word from the author: A small poem about the chronic I experience from endometriosis.

Beautiful birds that brighten dull and gloomy British winters With weird and wonderful names Were those who named them drunk or starving? How many types of finches and tits? Makes me chuckle when I hear, read, say those names But leave those crazy humans aside for a moment Does a tit know that we call it a tit? Does it care? Is a tit known by any other name diminished in any way? My favourite tit surely is the blue tit Just look at those brilliant colours And that stare! She has the look of a professional boxer About to knock you out What a stunner! Can there be a better day than one spent in silence Watching these lovelies Going about their daily business? Pramod Subbaraman is a poet from India who lives and works in the UK. He started writing during the first COVID19 lockdown and has since been published in the UK, the USA, the Republic of Ireland and the Republic of South Africa.

CASTAWAY skies bristle to midnight to sleep in the shadow of the barn with homesick dreams and pourquoi tales lost among the furious trees to settle for the shelter of the velvet owl to live in the land of castaway lamps and the bare moon rustle of the windy barn DUST an uncommon day of light and air a poet with swallowtail eyes a lonely rabbit with bigger dreams we clamor for boulders in the dry dust wind a mooring, a strand a shimmer in the roaming shade but the lonely rabbit with the dry dust eyes will sleep by the brambled grave IRONCLAD a crackling train night indigo lurches along mudshack outposts wrestling the cargo of the lonely blacksmith the emptiness of the last trampled plain time’s merciful silhouette with nothing more to lose burns its love letters in the coal fires of a treeless dusk and vanishes into the dusty threads of history’s folktale Regine is a teacher and writer in the American Southwest. Her work has been published in numerous magazines including Black Bough Poems, Consilience, Loft Books, Cerasus Magazine, Spellbinder and others. She writes about the great Sonoran Desert, love and loss.

Stories I Cannot Tell Here’s the story I want to tell—each morning I got up before dawn to make the fire and cook rice, and while the water boiled, I hung on a strong branch of the pomelo tree because I thought it would make me taller I’ll explain the way I fastened on a headlamp at four am to cut and drain the rubber trees before class; it’s how I paid for college because after my parents paid my sister’s ransom there wasn’t any money left for me But I cannot tell those stories; they belong to my neighbor My stories are bland and white like milk As for heritage? My father’s Dutch last name, and my mother’s Irish hair, no other language spoken but English, unless you count the way we used words like laceration and dehiscence when describing our wounds Once, my family left a Halloween party and noticed police cars and an ambulance racing into the parking lot of a bar, and although he was dressed like a farmer, my dad followed the sirens and rushed in to find a man with a gun- shot to the chest; he started compressions, rode with him to the hospital and came home later with blood spattered on his straw hat and overalls My mother was frightened of water and held her breath when we drove over bridges When I was older, I found out that when she was six, her brother drowned and she couldn’t forget the way my grandmother fell to the ground when given the news I screamed in fourth grade when a boy named Andrew pushed me against the school’s brick wall and kicked me in the groin he pinched my arms and thighs I did not know that my cousin Andrew forced my younger sister to do shameful things; I thought the hidden bruises on my thighs were the worst thing a boy named Andrew could do As I write them down, these stories seem too meager to compose a childhood so you’ll forgive me if I mention the time I left the rice unattended, which allowed the dog to steal my family’s breakfast and fearing my mother’s wrath, I ran away into the woods, and when I became hungry, I ate the fruit that grows along the forest floor The Complication The baby is still feeding when I’m rushed back to the operating room. My legs are numb so I do not feel the clots which soak the sheets. He scrubs my abdomen and prepares to open the incision so recently closed. I need some help he shouts as I plunge into brilliant darkness. Here, there is nothing but time. My oldest son sprints ahead of me on a beach in Malibu. I round the bend and do not see him, and now the waves turn violent. I fall to my knees and scream his name—Nathan! He laughs. I look up and see him conducting the ocean as he stands atop a small bluff. The sons who haven’t arrived hover in the shadows and whisper. It is dark and I cannot see the color of their eyes. But I already know their names. Unexpectedly, the sky lightens. My fussy newborn is placed upon my chest and quiets. Oh Luke— you of copper hair and warrior eyes. So new I cannot bring myself to say your given name aloud. Rachel Mallalieu is an emergency physician and mother of five. She writes poetry in her spare time. She is the author of A History of Resurrection (Alien Buddha Press). Her recent work can be found or forthcoming in Haunted Waters Press, Nelle, Entropy, Tribes, Dialogist, Rattle and elsewhere.

A word from the author: As a trauma therapist I was invited to Harlem Hospital to talk to the ER staff, ambulance crews, and doctors and nurses from the Pediatric Surgical departments, and staff from the Injury Prevention Program. What transpired there still haunts me. I looked up into the fifty or so faces of medical personnel in the old amphitheater who were looking back at me, waiting. I had been called to Harlem Hospital to address the effects of working closely with all that the streets could bring in, the pointless deaths, the suffering. How they couldn’t help taking home the daily anguish. I was to tell them how they could reach inside for strength to help them hurt less and deliver more. Yet what could I—privileged, white and cocooned—give them that they would find of any use? double street sign Lenox Avenue/Malcolm X locals still call it Lenox It was time for me to begin. I told them about how this outer mess could trigger their morass within, how they could reach inside for strength to help them hurt less and deliver more. And they told me a few things as well. About needless deaths, children sold, babies baked in ovens by their drug-addled parents, of street corner executions by burning tire necklacing. You couldn’t work at Harlem Hospital without living the images, sights and smells. seats stretched upward thousand-yard stares look back By noon we had explored the realities of their work, and in the afternoon we would practice new skills. This would be draining. I was already depleted. I picked up my lunch and withdrew to a private office to eat alone and try to find the energy I needed. I forced down a sandwich, ate half an apple, then pushed aside the plate and laid my head on the table. Falling into a half-sleep I watched the images swirl. Feeling despair at the task ahead, I longed for direction. I fell even deeper asleep. thick walls and doors street smells and sounds still carry inside Visions circled as I slept. I remember the psychic telling me that if she gave me details about my coming work, I’d lose my nerve to do it. I recall my visions of a fountain, a donkey carrying a brace, a race to a well with my father, an oil well geyser, meeting a stranger, being welcomed to battle, being given a black onyx spear with a golden tip. I remembered times in my clinic using the spear to heal, how energy flowed down the spear into pain. light tingles passing through into darkness In my mind, I find myself back in the amphitheater, looking up. The medics and therapists of Harlem Hospital wait expectantly. This time I reach up with the onyx spear, left to right, top row to bottom, gently touching each on the shoulder. I serve as a conduit, an instrument carrying a current I can feel but need not understand. As I come to each, I sense their need and feel each of them grow warm. As I finish touching the very last person, there is a knock at the office door. “It is time.” Kendall Johnson’s writing has appeared in such venues as Cultural Daily, Litro, Shark Reef, Ekphrastic Review, and Tears in the Fence. He is an artist as well as writer, and his books include Dear Vincent: A Psychologist and Artist Writes Back to Van Gogh (2019, Sasse Museum of Art), Chaos & Ash (2020, Pelekinesis), Black Box Poetics (2021, Bamboo Dart Press), Fireflies Against Darkness (2021, Arroyo Seco Press), and More Fireflies (forthcoming). A former trauma therapist and on-scene disaster consultant, Dr. Johnson writes and paints in Upland, California.

Mature Age Student The earth is crying like it’s lost a fake Rolex it believed was real based on the glistening multitude of assurances piled onto the Rolex by the passenger in the earth’s taxi who’d had no cash and used the watch to pay the earth in a time before digital transactions, in a time when the earth had a second job driving taxis at night to pay for night courses in psychology because education had stopped at 15 years of age in the earth’s small town but stayed for decades howling by the front door of the earth’s mind like a dog with abandonment issues. No One Says Terrific Anymore The earth is crying but in a slightly annoying way because it showed in its teens its hyphen-heavy poem to a friend and the friend said ‘hyphens are dead’, forgetting that the origin of bedroom is bed-room, which is at least the way it’s written in my edition of Bleak House, now being swabbed for traces of explosives at airport security, where I’m hoping I haven’t packed a blade and a friend just texted to say I should say hi to the Parthenon for them, which is dumb because I don’t speak ancient greek or even modern greek and besides my flight is bound for Dublin, where the sky on arrival is beauteous blue perfection. On a scale of beauteous perfection it’s potatoes au gratin in food blog photos, delicate golds and light browns glistening like a desert coated in margarine spray. Quite a good score but not the top, for consumer surveys show the sky rates best when it’s about to disappear. What if I Don’t Leave My Body? The earth is crying because it once cried simply from seeing a puppy at an airport lick its owner’s cheeks clean of feelings of inadequacy yet won’t visit the Mona Lisa because a stranger eating octopus at a bar in Barcelona said ‘it’s pretty underwhelming’. Same for the Taj Mahal, Niagara Falls, Rome (the carbonara wasn’t quite transcendental), same for most of the world whenever elation wasn’t slipped into his hand like the lost code of a juicy bitcoin account. Uplifting Comedown At dawn I watch the sun ooze onto communist era buildings like armpit sweat and all it brings to mind is all the diabolical ways I might steal fries from a stranger’s plate. You think I don’t love nature? I do love nature — but mostly for the picnics, and preferably in pictures where I for once am not Caspar-David-Friedrich-ing myself into the centre of vast ineffable landscapes that somehow manage to squeeze themselves like expert queue-jumpers at departure gates into stanzas of beautiful poetry. You think I don’t love poetry? O I do— it’s just that I’ve never read any with the same urgency as reading a text message over the head-rest of someone seated in front of me on a plane whose wheels are already spinning towards their imminent redundancy. Doorknob with Vital Signs In a recent tweet I read it said ‘the simile is dead’. Dead as dodecaphonic serialism. Dead as last year’s five-year plans. So dead that roadkill will be assessed with the phrase ‘That deer is as dead as simile’, a self-negating incantation which brings not only the simile back to life but also the deer, who wobbles onto its hooves and trots across the road and into the forest, ignoring the absence of signs indicating an area set aside for the safe crossing of deer. The Earth Thinks Rich The earth is crying like it’s just worked out that the coins buried in the sofa are worth more than the actual sofa and actually belong to the bank that provided the loan for the purchase of the sofa yet won’t make a dent in the monthly repayments. It’s dreaming of investing in a washer/dryer combo completing a few of its seventeen remaining tasks before settling down to a film starring Bradley Cooper. And just like that the earth wonders if Bradley Cooper is also dining in at a takeaway restaurant eating French fries dipped in melted cheese the yellow of nicotine stains on ceilings in apartments in East Berlin after the fall of the wall but before mass speculation on ruins and the attendant stripping of plaster. Small Wonders Sample Pack On earth I am no more or less alive than yeast and Olympic athletes but I remember I’m always finding new things to like. Like the way we agreed on stars as appropriate symbols with which to rate operas and seafood. Like the way a single star can receive a five star review. I like how no one I know gets older unless they’re absent, aging privately and suddenly like pears. I like the way that language can be briefly terrifying until you learn that the words ‘die American...’ ‘die Single...’‘die Quick...’ are only the fragmented beginnings of sentences in German. And I feel young. I feel young in the way I feel fluent in a foreign language when someone speaking it only says the only two words I know. Matthew McDonald is an Australian musician and poet living in Berlin, Germany, where he is employed as principal double bass of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. He recently completed an MA in Creative Writing at the Open University, graduating with distinction.

Pissing in the Bushes I’ve just seen a man piss in the bushes Opposite my house. It’s the same place the school kids hide their cider. An awning of privets disguises it all. Catacombs are secreting receipts Of expensive dinners, New shoes, adulterer’s gifts. Aluminium wrappers are blowing in From the street. Old cat’s teeth are buried in the soil - Treasured dentistry. I watch it all, Everyday - Something different. This man pisses freely As if he is hosing the greenery. I imagine it ricocheting off leaves, My eardrums tingle for it. Just another Saturday afternoon. He turns, catches me peeping - I hide myself. I am the one exposed. My YouTube Viewing History Lately my YouTube viewing history has changed. It used to be pop songs, Old episodes of TV shows from the 90s. It's been a gradual happening. A long slide into addiction Like the way a teenager slowly acquires A thirst for vodka and tobacco. My friend showed me a video of popping spots. Big oozy boils of red and yellow Like a McDonald's about to burst open. I told her I was disgusted, Said I’m not looking at that But I typed it in when I got home Thousands of videos The thumbnails - mountainous tiles of Swelling pus under the skin - volcanic Like landmines. I sat and watched them for hours. 9 minutes, 3 minutes, 24 minutes It all added up. If I’d just watched the video in the car on the way home Maybe I wouldn’t have got myself to where I am now - Deleting history. Bad News The post hasn’t been, yet. The letterbox has never had so much attention. A noise. Birds on the roof coo and caw and converse together. They’re old fish wives. Hoisting up their chests, they don’t even realise They’re the neighbourhood watch. It’s bred into them. Any sight of the unfamiliar they’ll be gone. Inside the house, quieter, anticipatory, Waiting for the postman to turn the corner sharply all in red. Here he comes. The birds fly away, the letter is opened It begins. Charlotte Cosgrove is a Poet and Lecturer from Liverpool, England. She is the founding Editor of Rough Diamond Poetry Journal. Her work has been published in print and online in numerous anthologies and journals. Her first poetry book Silent Violence with Petals will be published later this year with Kelsay Books.

Better twenty in the seventies than seventy in the twenties He did her a favor, donating her fake-fur tiger-striped mini-dress to Goodwill. She tended to hang onto things like that, the scent of her memories still clinging to the fabric. The markings on the dress had faded, and the whole thing seemed to have withered in the back of the dark closet. Her husband pointed out, “You wore that dress fifty years ago─ you’ll never get into it now.” He was blunt that way, and she depended on him for objective truth, no matter how much it hurt. When a barista sashayed into Starbucks one day, wrapped in the tiger dress, he whistled at her. He was right again─ the dress was fierce as ever under the harsh light. Umwelt of a Fountain Pen It always crawled into his hand at the wrong time. He’d wrap his fist around it as if he was the only one enslaved. When the pen scratched the paper, it made a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard, a violin bow across cat-gut strings. A tickle, a twitch, a hiccup, an itch. To push the ravaging nib along the page stained everything─ fingers and thumb, paper, the grain of the desk─ with a fierce blue cruelty. When his work was finished, one of his muses said it was a revelation─ but of what she couldn’t say. The breath reconsiders death as it tumbles through these structures, past the lung-pinks and blood-reds, the vein-blues, bile-greens, and bone-beiges, knowing it may not make it; might not outrun the body’s disease. If it could speed up fast enough so time bends backward, the woman in the next bed would applaud and cheer. She’s always calling for her parents, as if they are not still dead, saying she wants her ticket home, too. Comfort comes from the idea we are skeletons made of stars, she whispers. When breath bursts from her mouth, it pops like champagne bubbles. We must always celebrate something, I tell her. Cheryl Snell is a poet, a fictionista, an aficionado of old music and new art, She is fluent in subtext, and is the author of several books, including the novels of her Bombay Trilogy. She has been published in five hundred literary journals and anthologies, including a Best of the Net. Look her up on Facebook. She'll keep a light on

I have cheated death, again and again; for punishment, I lose at love, again and again. we hike up New Hampshire’s Stinson Mountain on wooden snowshoes teardrop shape with curled lip open weave of lacquered deer hide lacing impress a waffle trail behind us we float on two feet of newly fallen soft snow foam of dream on waves of desire our assault on the granitic uplift wanders through the evergreen woods white pines red cedar Norway spruce around glacial boulders raising their muscular opposition through even deep drifts to our optimistic passage we seek possible route against gravity against the slope to the bald peak to view the forest panorama from the Timberland Owners fire lookout tower steel stilts thrusting caution into winter’s blanket of cloud waits unused for summer fire season the steps to the platform are chained off the stone railroad station squats waiting room empty closed cold boarded-up cracked windows debris and unplowed dirty snow, empty parking spaces, decommissioned aside Laconia’s once proud town center 6:00 in the January morning Boston and Maine’s final effort to provide rail service a single car self-propelled Budd liner engine running, untended, inside lights still off I have an hour to wait before departing I walk to the nearby railroad diner dimly lighted no welcome sign open exhaust aroma of unchanged cooking oil coffee frying bacon grease heated air unremoved garbage somewhere confront me the cook talks to the train engineer who sits on the counter stool farthest from the door I am the only other customer possibly the only passenger for the 7:00 departure I order coffee cook serves cream clotted toast cold conversation ends their silence verges on surrender the Budd car will run to Boston North Station’s grim hulk the postwar city worn out unrepaired at a dead end to visit you I want to be in Corfu I carry Durrell’s Black Book in my winter coat pocket not Catcher in the Rye before he escapes London his cold apartment the depressed friends rats foraging floors a skinny roommate with pimples staring into the small mirror with ripped black backing above the cold-water only sink Later I don’t understand his Quartet though engrossed by Alexandria’s culture of passion and cult but Justine teaches me love is onion-thick layers of deception and disappointment A yellow bulldozer with continuous cleated tracks heavy steel push-blade on hydraulic lifts tears a generation ago through the mountainside forest to carve out two logging skidways from ridge to hollow floor for century-old ash oak pine and locust logs to be dragged a half-mile to layup yard where a truck-mounted derrick with loading crane lifts them onto double-trailer trucks now are dedicated horse trails on our farm I trek on foot slowly with hand pruning shears removing clip by clip the overhanging veil of briars and willowy saplings and wind-torn branches already rotting from a wet winter of straggling snow drive our farm tractor using the bucket on the tilt-loader to push onto the slope of the creek below fallen trees with thick trunks and uptorn roots or mark work to be done by farm help identify deer tracks bear scat turkey hens and turkey toms that might startle horses you and your girlfriend’s ride trails to unfenced ridgetop hay fields across Cold Hollow Road to abandoned 150year-old farms with apple orchards gone to crab caved in houses out-building ruins fields reclaimed by thorny briars Bush Honeysuckles and Japanese Barberry then forest pines and poplars desolation is not fertile soil for reminiscence I am again at trailhead Poetry is about sadness for our mortality; we should rejoice we are not immortal. Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New Hampshire, Durham. He and his wife live in West Virginia, where they raise cattle and keep goats and horses. He is an imagist poet, grounding experiences and moods in concrete descriptions, including haiku, storytelling, recorded poetry, and in filmic interpretation. He occasionally uses the pseudonym, Turin Shroudedindoubt, for literary and artistic work. He has published in over 40 different digital and print literary magazines.

The Patron He’s sitting in the corner, side-part falling to the left, white napkin fluttering on his breast, soft pink hands armed with cutlery. He spears the Schweinshaxe, skillfully separates meat from bone, and forks it up, divebombing the pinkish blob down his savage gullet. “How is everything?” the waitress asks. He nods toward his beer. “Refill?” she asks. The question’s redundant. He goes back to his Schweinshaxe, spears it, slices it, divebombs it. Then looks about with tiny rapacious eyes, eyes that are blind to Bruegel, sonnets, the blue- breasted fairywren. But when the waitress leans over the next table to pick up a plate, those same eyes wash over her backside, giving it a shrewd and rapid-fire appraisal. Then it’s back to his dish, sliding the Schweinshaxe over a little, scooping up a forkful of sauerkraut and jamming it home. Fear and Loathing although I don’t or can’t or won’t I’ve come so close to letting everything go I feel like a day-old newspaper with a crow standing on it to keep the wind from carrying it away. The Tempest An angelfaced twentynothing Polish girl sitting Indianstyle at the Hermannplatz U-Bahn station, a big black poodle piled in her arms, tin cup for donations sitting between her legs. That was five years ago. She has since lost her dog and undergone an unfathomable Ovidian metamorphosis, her gleaming mass of chestnutcolored locks sheared into a crooked mohawk, her mouth a collection of broken stones, clothes soiled and frumpy, black electrical tape keeping one sole from dragging her into the earth. She now looks more like Caliban than she does Ariel, that soft broken beauty of just five years ago, tin cup banking with fire. M.P. Powers lives with one foot in Berlin and one in South Florida. Recent publications include the Columbia Review, Wrongdoing Magazine, Glitchwords, Mayday Magazine, and others. His artwork can be found on Instagram @mppowers113