Forgotten Promise by Bruce McRae

After the rainbow,
a pillow stuffed with dreams and mites.
A carnation dipped in gun oil.
A request from Death’s neighbour.

After the rainbow, a meteor.
Scuffling among the cutlery.
A village swallowed by the countryside.
Spectres sparring.

The rainbow, painted on a cellar wall
by the blind sorcerer’s daughter.
Under a tin bucket of milk.
Remote and indifferent
to men’s strife and the causes of suffering.

After the storm, a rainbow.
Walking a tightrope. Twisting a wire.
Mocking the sounds we make
before nightly retiring.
As peculiar as lost money.
Like finding a finger in the snow.

The one that shows itself at night.
The deer’s god and raven’s deformity.
What the prisoner on the gallows saw
through the folds of his departure.

Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 900 publications, including Poetry.com and The North American Review. His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit ‘TheBruceMcRaeChannel’ on Youtube.

Talk Like a Pirate Day on D Block by SaraEve Fermin

Is that why they call me
A sullen girl, sullen girl
They don’t know
I used to sail the
Deep and tranquil sea
-Sullen Girl, Fiona Apple

1.
Call her fish out of water.
Broom unenchanted.
Pussy unpurred.
Dragon unroarred.
Bitch unvoiced.
Rage unfisted.
Cackle unsharp.
Pack separated.
Call her tame.
Call her caged.
Call her complacent.
Call her bae.
Call her wifey.
Call her domesticated.
Call her Stockholm Syndrome.
Call her statistic.
Call her get over it.
Call her ‘NOT ANOTHER’.
Call her proper.
Call her property.

2.
call her.
The power that resides in your most dormant
place, right now, it begs to sing. Call her now.
Call the Mermaid, Call the Sirens,
call the Moon and tell her the Sea wants to play.
We have yet ANOTHER story
to tell.

SaraEve is a performance poet and epilepsy advocate from New Jersey. She is the founding editor of Wicked Banshee Press (2014) and a 2013 Women of the World Poetry Slam Competitor. Her work can be found in GERM Magazine, WordsDance, Transcendence and Ghost House Review as well as sever other online journals. You can follow SaraEve on Twitter.

Girls Night Out by S. Kay

Lips Uptown
She wears fuzzy ears with flashing lights as she dances on the bar, watching bachelorettes down celebratory glow-in-the-dark shots.

Eager Beavers
We gals do maple whiskey body shots at Eager Beavers, the Canadian exploitation strip club where the staff wears plaid flannel thongs.

Lusty Ladyland
A bachelorette gets up with the dancer, twerking in a satin club dress. She kisses the girl and likes it, jumping down for a sugary shot.

SciSexy Dancebot Spectacular
A robot poledances, while a woman in a futuristic microbikini toasts me with free Moonshots. My bridesmaids take a selfie for social media.

Sour Cherry’s Pie Stand
We do too many fruit shooters at the local organic cabaret. Drag queens squeeze juice while they lip sync, and read us over dessert.

Girls Girls Girls
I gain five pounds from girls’ night out, and when I try out for the amateur strip show, they say I’m too fat. Figures. Men.

S. Kay writes one tweet at a time. Her debut book Reliant, a collection of tweet-sized sci fi stories, will be published by theNewerYork Press in 2015. You can follow S. Kay on Twitter.

Ode To A Blank Page by DS Peters

Stark beauty
and vast potentiality
you are the foundation
of all that I was
all that I am
all that I ever will be
Pristine in any shade
with lines
pale grains
or absolute nothingness
you are a poem before ink
ever mars your surface
I look at you
and love you
love you
love you
for hours until my hands
shake, my spirit
bursts and I scar you
repeatedly

DS Peters earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY, and obtained his BA from UW-Milwaukee. He writes speculative fiction, earthbound fiction, poetry and odd bits of non-fiction. He is a traveler and currently resides in South Korea where he works as a professor, and observes human behaviour. You can keep up with DS Peters at http://www.dspeters.net

Number 165 by John Grey

next Christmas.
given Harry Potter horns
I even asked Santa for rakshasa –
and virgin, whatever that means.
but I expect you’d prefer something older
sketched what I imagined you must look like.
but already skinned a toad,
But, don’t worry, by the way,
defiling, fouling, deserted house, abandoned mill.
everything dermatology offers,
glory in gory newspaper details.
hellfire is safe with me.
I follow your career with awe.
the other kids in Kindergarten.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.

Plastic Legs by Ethan Taylor

Thaw me as a child with plastic legs
And apprehension of a shoe box Christmas,
And I will wait for theme park dreams
And the head shots taken at track speed
To justify the birth I wasn’t there for.

Only then can I recall the great leisure
The work strives, shift by shift, to murder,
As a set of crows just left of centre,
Beating the patchwork crops sown by men
Fed by a clown with a thirsty smile.

Too many critics and not enough art
And I can’t even get out of bed
To make a living or an excuse
Or a mistitled wager on a finish line
I won’t ever cross on these plastic legs.

Ethan Taylor is a twenty year old student studying Acting at the Guildford School of Acting in the UK. He has recently taken up writing and poetry is something he immensely enjoys whether it’s reading, writing, discussing, speaking or analysing it.

Remote by Brian Robert Flynn

The most affecting crusade recalled
in waters rapid as our own embraced
a certain stillness, an immobile peace
promoted to rejoin the cosmic balance—
tottering the teeter, so to say, or acting
the counter—a real-life [PAUSE],
the blink of an eye in perfect control
[During such temps mort is when life is lived.
The optic nerve throbs. Dendrites electrify.
Dogs are walked. Pancakes get flipped. Actions
and memories linked to passion, to caring.]
if but for an instant so the shot could be had
before the blink un[PAUSE]d and the rising flood
continued pouring the day-to-day right over us.

Originally from Denver, Brian Robert Flynn is currently breathing the poetry and fiction of Washington, DC. His work has appeared in Banango Street, Epigraph, Litro Magazine, RiverLit, and theNewerYork. You can follow Brian on Twitter.