Molly Gone Cold by Michael Garrett Ashby II

Slipped into a solution of clear
and teary white,
those egg-soaked left-over waters.
It’s a vessel or a test subject,
a body plunged into
salt and soil dissolved.
Are the results as you planned?
Or did life itself turn belly-up
gargling the spices, irritating the throat
closing in rapid contractions sending shockwaves
through the cities and skies.
Each subject envies the deaf
and fears the mute,
and the salt brings out the suburbs in me.

Michael Garrett Ashby II is a writer and poet based in South Florida. His works have been published in literary magazines and journals such as Spark Anthology, Digital Papercuts, eFiction India, Touchstone Magazine, and Coastlines Literary Magazine. You can keep up with his current projects and publications on his website at Mute Publishing

You can also follow Mute Publishing on Twitter.

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

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.

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.

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.

Microcosm by Gary Glauber

Inexplicably, a giant hole opens up in Siberia.
Everyone in the world feels somehow responsible.
Ice caps are shrinking; oceans are rising.

Global warming is not debatable.
This was the warmest June ever.
Yet my metabolism slowed.

While no one pays attention,
we set out to destroy ourselves.
There is shame in our actions.
As we worry about pimples,
we accidentally burn down the house.

The summer has turned tropical.
Wildfires attack certain states.
We get regular thunderstorm warnings.
My pets don’t understand the noise.
The earth rattles.

We learn to compost,
We require recycling,
but is it too little and too late?
Time seems to be speeding up
along with the trivialization of existence.

Farmers learn the concept of sangfroid.
Potable water will be the cause of future wars.
Human loneliness is a frightful noise.
And somehow we blame unions and teachers.

Mountain rages replace ranges.
Innocent children try to escape the violence
and poverty of their native homes.
They come seeking freedom, and a bite to eat.

The Middle East steams with turmoil,
destruction, and political unrest.
Unreasonable rulers seek to create
a new and more dangerous cold war.
Egos replace compassion. Again.

Blood is spilled for senseless reasons.
We delude ourselves with sports and entertainment.
The stock market rises in spite of economic woes.

Ants run frantically over to the site of a spill.
We suffer and scramble the same ways.
It seems we are no better, no wiser.

Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. In 2013, he took part in Found Poetry Review’s Pulitzer Remix Project. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. New work is forthcoming in 3 Elements Review, Fine Flu Journal, Brickplight, Stone Path Review, Stoneboat Journal, The Bicycle Review, Foliate Oak, Poetry Quarterly, and Think Journal. His collection, Small Consolations, is coming from The Aldrich Press in 2015.

Last Night in Little Rock by Hunter Wright

And don’t you know that the whole city gets hotter when the lights turn on, and all the shit in the world won’t make a stink as big as one fart from God, and when you chew a little tobacco and spit it out that’s excrement of soul, and the blackest black you ever sawwas one you couldn’t see?

That’s what he said when the lights turned out, and I swear, I swear he was staring right at me, hovering, hand cradling cheekbone and held steady by elbow, chest naked and calm and my own heart heaving – don’t you?

Hunter Wright was born and raised in the San Joaquin Valley of California. She is now pursuing a degree in creative writing at the University of Miami in Florida, where she hosts a literary talk-show on the radio and dreams of mountains. You can follow Hunter on Facebook.

The Collector by Jeffrey Zable

I was lying completely nude face down on a block of ice
in the market with my arse sticking up in the air. A woman
walked up to the seller, pointed at me and said, “How much?”
“Oh, that slab is very expensive!” he said with a smile.
“How much?” the woman asked again.
“For you $3,550, including shipping!”
“I’ll take it!” the woman said, and handed him a credit card.
When I got to my new home, the children were very excited.
“Can I have a piece of it now?” asked her son.
“Can I put an apple in its mouth?” asked her daughter.
But the woman had me deposited onto the living room table,
over a nice clean cloth.
“Aren’t we going to eat it?” asked her husband when he
returned home.
“No we are not!” the wife said emphatically. “This is a valuable
piece of art. I want him to stay right where he is and give some
life to the living room!”
But as time passed, and I began to rot and stink up the room,
the only one who would go in there was the wife, who never
seemed phased by what was happening to me.
And when I was finally nothing but bones, she hung me
in her closet along with her furs of hedgehogs and wolverines,
she’d collected over the years.

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. He’s published five chapbooks including Zable’s Fables, which has an introduction by the late Beat poet Harold Norse. Jeffrey has been published or is forthcoming in Toad Suck Review, Thirteen Myna Birds, The Alarmist, Skidrow Penthouse, Snow Monkey, Kentucky Review, Uppagus, One Trick Pony, Clarion, Lullwater Review, Dum Dum, Edge and many others.

Tasting Notes by Tracey S. Rosenberg

Trauma on the Ward
Cask no. 257.13

The nose transported us to a back-alley dental surgery where we found extracting forceps, bone curettes, retractors and orthodontic pliers. Then a cabal of unlicensed medical professionals approached – some transplanting grey-market kidneys, some railing against ethics committees, others forging prescriptions for Vicodin and mocking malnourished ward sisters. The unreduced palate brought cramps to our fingers, forcing us to curse and impotently scrape at windows.

We added lemon juice (painstakingly) to find the nose now had torture devices with leather straps, cat o’nine tails, imperial executions and nipple clamps – very drawn-out and seductive. The reduced palate had dry heaves, emesis (causing gastro-esophageal laceration syndrome), and bleeding out.

The distillery was licensed in Ceausescu-era Romania by an alcoholic abortionist.

Drinking tip: With a codeine chaser

Colour: Pale urine
Cask: Refill ex-bourbon barrel
Age: 8 years
Date distilled: October 2003
Alcohol: 70%
Outturn: 17 bottles


Tracey S. Rosenberg is the author of a historical novel and two poetry pamphlets, and recently won the Brontë Society Creative Competition’s short story category, judged by Dame Margaret Drabble. Active in the spoken word and literary festival scene, she’s a member of Edinburgh spoken word groups Inky Fingers and Shore Poets, and in March 2014 she attended the Spoken Word Workshop at the Banff Centre.You can follow Tracey on Twitter, and on her personal blog.

24 mistakes every college student makes (Buzzfeed Erasure #1) by Justin Jacoby Smith

proudly wearing
a youngster
meeting possible
on Fridays.
“jungle juice”
in the front row on the first day of class

8. Thinking

everyone you meet
taking advantage of your
sloppy house parties

And this is why we don’t go to frat parties anymore.
in your twin-size bed.

22. Feeling Guilty
Wearing dirty clothes
It’s called Febreze.


Justin Jacoby Smith is a Texan. He was the Grand Slam Champion for San Antonio in 2004. He has finally concluded his victory lap. His chapbook is Theoretical BBQ, from Small Child Press. He writes in Washington, DC and on Twitter.