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1/9/2018 Poetry by James Walton i wen† lef† CC A study of lovers and not as if they have swallowed a rainbow their gait a warble the rest move in tight bandages wobble in strain heads tilted Moon River Audrey Hepburn looking in quietly the light is listening walk carefully here softly pull the wild dandelion its poverty of flower in all I had to give with each tailing wind the tremble of breeze is me always me so I touch you again everything we were in here to threads floats an unbidden course rises to outwit the living smart people will say there’s more it’s complicated until a whisper can be heard  Bio: James Walton is an Australian poet published in newspapers, and many journals, and anthologies. His collection ‘The Leviathan’s Apprentice’ was published in 2015.He was a Librarian, a farm labourer, a cattle breeder, and a public sector union organizer. He is now a hermit of fewer things.
1/9/2018 Clean Nighthawks by Meagan Masterman Thomas Hawk CC Clean Nighthawks “You got 75 cents?” Josh shouted. He cupped his hands around his mouth. There was no doubt that the couple in the SUV could hear him, though they made no acknowledgment. The couple were about 30, clean cut and East Coast casual. They had a Coexist bumper sticker. “Hey!” he shouted. His voice echoed off the dumpsters in the motel parking lot. “Just seventy-five cents?” The couple, white with squeamishness, finally looked at Josh and Robbie. The woman squeezed the man’s arm and the SUV took off, heading back toward the highway. “I guess they didn't need directions after all,” muttered Robbie. Josh turned to him. “Aww screw them. What are they doing out at 2:00 a.m. anyway?” Robbie looked back at the motel. Almost all the room doors were propped open. He squinted as their light poured into the muggy night. Mosquitoes whined past his ear and in the distance frogs called out, though he didn’t know why. The motel was called the Zanadu Inn. He smacked at a mosquito perched on his jugular. “Come on Josh, let’s tell Maggie what we got to tell her and get out of here. I’m tired,” he said. “Always ask the people for 75 cents,” said Josh, clapping a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “It makes you seem modest. And then they’ll give you a whole dollar, because no one wants to root around for change in front of you. It’s embarrassing.” Josh clamped harder and harder on Robbie’s shoulder, only letting up when he got Robbie to wince. Josh liked to that prove he was the strong one. Not that it needed much proving. Josh was 6’2”. Blond and burly with dark eyebrows that danced as he talked. And then there was Robbie – scraping 5’7” and perpetually skinny, his skin still rough with acne scars. “Are you sure Maggie’s here?” asked Robbie. Josh scoffed. “You know she comes here all the time.” Usually when Josh started acting cocky Robbie would shove him. Josh would hardly wobble, but that would be that.Tonight Robbie would let all bullshit slide. Josh’s girl Linda had been sentenced on drug charges. Two years of her life. Josh couldn’t attend the sentencing hearing. There was a warrant out on him for what they called “theft by unauthorized taking or transfer.” Josh called it going to that shithead Tyler’s house and lifting a shotgun that was rightfully his. Linda’s sentence had come down that morning. They’d been kicking around Robbie’s place, which was his mother’s house. He was trying to move out, working every double he could at the sheet metal joint. So was Josh. They’d gone to high school and now they were together again, sweating with the machines. Maggie, Linda’s sister, had to be told. But her phone was disconnected again, so they went to the motel she hung out at. Josh sat down on the pavement in the parking lot and pulled out his phone. He found Linda’s mugshot on the website of a local free weekly. In the picture, her mouth was slightly open, just enough to see a flash of her tongue ring. It was white. Josh shook his phone at Robbie. “You know they made her take that ring out right after booking? Cut it out with pliers.” He looked rueful, stroking the screen with the pad of his thumb. “I loved that thing.” Robbie nodded. “I know man. It’s bullshit. Come on. Let’s go inside,” he said. “I can’t keep living with this warrant breathing down my neck. It's only right I should be locked up if she is,” said Josh. Robbie pictured the county jail and its discomforts. The TVs loud, the lights bright, the spaces cramped, the toilet right out in the open, the sorry excuse for a bed, the ever-shouting men. He’d only spent a couple weeks in the joint and didn’t plan on doing any more. Josh had done months on end and would again. “I know,” Robbie said. “But you don’t have to turn yourself in today. Let’s go inside and find Maggie. It’s cold.” Room 8 was dim. The walls were a white that had aged into an uneven yellow. There were five or so people milling around. A couple laid on the bed, fully dressed with shoes on, watching Rock of Love. Josh walked into the bathroom and sat down in the tub, moving fluidly and without thought. Sitting on the sink was a girl. She was skinny in the unhealthy way, a body made from junk food sparsely consumed. “You seen Maggie?” asked Robbie. The girl shrugged. Her eyeliner had flecked off like freckles around her under eye. “We really got to talk to Maggie. Do you know her?” The girl rolled her eyes and typed furiously on her phone. Robbie looked down at Josh. He was scowling and kicking the spigot softly. “It’s my fault what happened to Linda,” he said. “No it ain’t,” said Robbie, even though it kinda was. Josh and Linda ping-ponged bad ideas off each other and did them all. Josh slid further down in the tub. “Don’t say that just because you’re supposed to say that. I should’ve set a better example for her.” “You did, man! You got your three month chip right there in your pocket.” “That don’t count. I didn’t get clean until she was already upriver. You know that.” Josh took the chip out. It was a round of wood, slim and a little flexible. The Serenity Prayer was carved on the backside. He ran his thumb over the grooves. “Well, you’re on track. And after you serve the warrant, I bet Roland will let you come back to work. Plus, I’d bet my left nut Linda gets paroled early. She’s not one to start trouble.” Robbie wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and shot the girl a dirty look so she’d clear out. She left. “I can’t duck the warrant even a minute more. I have to do it now, while Linda’s in. There’s too many girls out here,” he gestured to the door, where the skinny girl had gone. Robbie nodded. Josh, he thought, was too calm. It gave him dread, like he was watching a horror movie and waiting for the jump scare, knowing it was coming and knowing it’d get him all the same. The couple in the other room started arguing, each sentence inflated by a few more decibels. The girl came in and locked the door. “Every fucking time,” she muttered. She sat back down on the sink and dug around in a makeup bag. It was pink and glittery. Inside was a plastic container of baby wipes. She pried the cover open and withdrew a spoon and a small Ziploc bag. “Where’d you get that?” asked Josh. “Room 4,” she said. She grinned at him. Josh grinned back. Robbie saw the light in his eyes. It was a sick glint. Then Josh looked at Robbie soft and trusting. It was so jarring, so uncharacteristic that it stunned Robbie into silence in a moment where he should’ve been anything but. He wanted to tell Josh to stay in the tub, the way a mother warns her children in the midst of tornado sirens. But he couldn’t. Then Josh was gone. Robbie followed. He stood on the cement walkway that ran the length of the motel, watching with lead feet as Josh got further away, half jogging to Room 4. Robbie wanted to catch up, but something in the muggy night air slowed him. By the time he made it to Room 4 Josh had already gotten what he came for. “Come on, man. Think of Linda. Think of your three-month chip,” said Robbie. The look in Josh’s eye made it clear he was thinking only of one thing. “Don’t sweat it. I’m going to be in the pen for nine, ten months starting tomorrow. It’s been a hard day. So don’t be a bitch because I’m only going to buy one.” He said it like he was unwinding with a beer after a long day at the office. “I can’t have goodbye sex with Linda. But I can have breakup sex with this,” he chuckled, fiddling with the packet in his pocket. “We’re supposed to be lookin for Maggie.” “Whatever. She’s not here. Take me home.” “Why don’t you stay at my place tonight.” “With your fucking Mom?” “Then I’ll stay with you. You just shouldn’t be alone.” “Because of Linda?” “Yeah. Because of that.” Robbie was thinking of fentanyl. “Sure. Whatever. Stay over. Just drive me.” Robbie’s car was a gray Pontiac Sunfire. It drove with reluctance and did nothing else. Josh had to manually crank his window down. He vaped out it, the smell of synthesized vanilla cupcake filling the air. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this.” The bad feeling eased off of Robbie for a moment but came back full force when Josh was finished a long pull of his vape. “There’s no smoke smell. I don’t need to blow it out the window. It’s only going to make your car smell better. Right? I bet they’ll let me vape in prison. Fuck nine months without a smoke. Not being able to smoke makes me feel like a little kid.” Robbie was tired. He shouldn’t be driving. If he had to drive, he should take Josh somewhere else. Somewhere full of distractions. In just a couple hours the early morning stuff would open. He could get Josh something at Dunkin’ Donuts then take him to the police station at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Just a few hours to kill. “I’m so glad we’re going to my house,” said Josh. “There’s some stuff I have to pack away before I go. Can’t leave my grandma to do it.” That was that. Josh’s house was a studio “apartment” above his grandmother’s garage. It had been built to store bicycles in winter and Christmas ornaments in summer. He flopped on the futon and Robbie took the recliner. They automatically augmented themselves towards the TV. “Have a beer with me. Okay?” “You can if you want.” “What about you?” “Jesus Robbie. No offense man but you’re really making me wish I’d brought home that bathroom girl. Can’t you just chill out for five seconds?” “I just...I don’t want you to fall asleep on me because I’m wired and I can’t. So stay up with me.” They locked eyes, both knowing what Robbie was asking. “Please,” he said. In elementary school they made kids climb a cargo net. If one kid got all the way to the top and touched the rafters, they got a gold star and the undying admiration of the whole class. Josh was determined to make it. But they both saw other boys, taller boys, try. They’d get 2/3rds up there and get too spooked by the net’s swaying. There was only a gym mat to catch them and it felt hard beneath them, too firm to do anything but slightly soften their post-fall splattering. Robbie was small even then, but it was him that Josh turned to. Josh asked if Robbie would catch him. Maybe it was only because they were assigned gym partners. Robbie said yes. But he knew he’d fail. The weight of Josh’s falling body would crush them both. There was nothing he could do, but still he promised. Josh went up the cargo net. Everyone watching. He got almost to the top and fell. Robbie didn’t move, didn’t catch him. Josh landed flat on his back. For a moment he was still. Then he bounced up, laughing, saying it felt like a roller coaster. He never brought up Robbie’s broken promise. And it was stupid that Robbie remembered it all the time. “Get me a couple beers,” said Josh. Robbie did so. Josh put on the TV. It would be dawn in not long. Most channels only had infomercials. People with bright and even fingernails selling miracle products. At night you could buy 15 life changing devices in a single sweep. Think how different life can be with 15 changes in one night. They ended up watching an all-night Murder, She Wrote marathon. Everyone was very casual about the murders, having cocktails or bake sales or filming a movie afterwards. Insisting that Cabot Cove was a neighborly village when someone was slaughtered every other day. It was Josh who was wired. Robbie was exhausted. There was that blue light from nowhere that comes before dawn, slowly covering up the stars, lacking warmth. The warmth would come later. And he didn’t think he would be awake when it happened. The TV seemed strangely muffled and as much as he wanted to stay awake, it pulled him under. At the last second he sensed Josh’s restless fidgeting and tried to say something. When he woke it was warm in the room. Stuffy. Another summer day, humid and heavy. The TV was playing Law and Order, or some show like it. Robbie looked up at the ceiling, the exposed rafters. If he stood on the chair he could touch them. Get Josh a gold star. If he fell, it was only a few feet. He knew Josh wasn’t moving. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he’d start moving any minute. But Robbie didn’t look. He didn’t move. He stayed still in the recliner, looking up at the rafters. Thinking about how he was 5’7” and skinny. Still too weak to catch anyone.  Bio: Meagan Masterman is a writer from Maine. Her work has appeared in Funhouse, Unbroken Journal, and Maudlin House. She co-edits Reality Hands. Find her online at https://twitter.com/meaganmasterman
1/8/2018 Artwork by Krista Graham        Bio: Krista C Graham is an artist who works out of Central Kentucky, where she was born and raised. She works mainly with watercolor and pen, and with each painting attempts to capture colors that both do the same dance. She does works that aren't political, biased, or anything of the sort because she wants viewers to see the work and thoughts put in, and not a message. You can find her work in EKU's Aurora Literary Arts Journal 2011, Shaun Turner's The Lawless River, Artemis 2014 and 2016, Nerve Lantern, 2017, and various online journals. 1/7/2018 Poetry by Marc Tissenbaum i wen† lef† CC McDonald’s on South Broad Street there is no Happy Meal here with the Wedge Recovery Center, the fast food joints stacked up junkies sleeping in the doorways by the bus stop this is that other Philly the tourism office doesn’t promote today with wind and snow howling, this bomb cyclone and no water at the house so here I am, looking for a toilet and the cashier screaming may I help you, may I help you, may I help you as I walk by the counter toward the men’s room it’s not a question she’s asking it’s an, I-know-what-you-want-motherfucker-and-you-better-order-first I tell her, I’ll order, but I’m about to shit my pants right now she glares, but hits the buzzer to let me in the bathroom there’s resistance at the door a trashcan pushed up against it from the inside a man is yelling, indignant, you can’t come in here and I see his reflection in the mirror sitting on the toilet, needle in his arm I’m fucking up his high and I almost feel bad I turn to go and face you-said-you-was-gonna-order changed my mind, I say, and step back out into the storm  Bio: Marc Tissenbaum grew up working on a family farm in West Virginia, received a a B.A. in Journalism from Marshall University, moved to Boston in time for The Pixies/Throwing Muses/Zulus era of music, went to write about business research at the University of Georgia, and was laid off during the massive George Herbert Walker Bush recession. He then earned an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Vermont College, went to work for--and bailed on--the poorly executed 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta, GA. He stayed in Athens, GA where he played music and worked as a club doorman, janitor, ghostwriter, waiter, house painter, carpenter's assistant, farmer, organic landscape gardener, and grocery clerk. He's traveled, somewhat extensively for a U.S. American, visiting Canada, Cuba, Nicaragua, Bolivia, Peru, England, Scotland, The Netherlands, France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Spain, The Czech Republic, Poland, Slovenia, Croatia, Turkey and Morocco. He moved to Philly in October 2016 and is still trying to find his place and way in the world.
1/7/2018 Poetry by Nichole Acosta Carolina Tarré CC Meeting the Parents I've met them in digitized reconstructions of memories past they look happy and hard souled. I've met them in my wife's shoulder blades their legacy heavy on her back she carries mommy's cooking in her hands daddy's generosity in her heart. I've met them in the retelling of her dreams in the Creole of her speak in the way she hugs questions government takes vacations in bookstores. I've met them in her laughter in her tears in her writing and how loudly she loves like they did. At The End of The Rainbow Everyone tells you there's a pot of gold Waiting but there's just the emptiness a hateful stranger has followed you to after all the other parts of the rainbow have broken away and you are a lone reflection of light the darkness will try to swallow you whole so you tuck your pride under your skin to survive Do. Not. Trust. People. Who. Say. They. Do. Not. See. Color. -Amber Maillard People who say they can't see that the complexity of my complexion is a blended artist's palette of colonists and slaves of Loving v. Virginia of sunkissed melanin v. tanning salon v. bleached skin of the reason to pull a trigger v. the reason to negotiate nicely of lives that matter and lives that don't of the reason to be followed in shop v. the reason not to of the reason to have hair searched at airport v. the reason not to of being told to speak English or go back to your country v. never being told either of those things If you don't see color you don't see leaves changing and the difference of how you and I have experienced life you don't see this poem you don't see these people you don't see the problem. When You Wake Up Without Her everything tastes like grey sounds like papercut looks like excuse for air freshener feels like empty. when you wake up beside her everything tastes like periodic table sounds like uncaged bird looks like crescent moon feels like bass. On Being "Too Sensitive" It's funny how onward is one word and we keep trying to move past the past but it grips us bumper to bumper car we snap back to reality that's just the Snapple cap facts of life suck it up kid don't sweat the small stuff. How many beads of sweat does it take to birth an ocean? How many ships have you slipped into a bottle to bury your baggage by the boatload? How good are you at growing gills? You've never been too sensitive you just perspired too many times to tally and now you're a grand canyon a scarred landscape so grandiose no one notices when they break you anymore no one notices when they break you no one notices that you are broken and you were born whole.  Bio: Nichole Acosta is a multicultural, queer, diabetic, poet whose work captures human nature in its best and worst light. Writing for those who have felt left behind in the margins, she has been performing spoken word poetry solo and in collaboration with musicians and other performers from New York City to Singapore since she was 11 years old.
1/6/2018 Poetry by Janette Schafer Carolina Tarré CC
Bottom There is always a never again-- a scraping of the knee to the floor a clutch of desperate arms around the mid-thigh, eyes wetting the pubis with repentant tears. String Theory A spool of deep indigo curls in my hand, the kind of blue one feels in their joints, their sinew. Unraveling in my fingers, the thread stretches across the country, the ocean, a continent. My insides are a tangle and you are pulled away from me, fingertips bleed, clasp the fraying fibers. Finally, I am altogether undone, a whisper in your distant palm. An Invocation Light is something that can be heard, pierces the duodenum, gathers in the belly-- whispers. whispers. whispers. Reaches with skeletal hand into the heart and now I am burning, one with the flame’s aura. dance. flicker. shimmer. Golden white, I see the Being inside-- Fire sentient, connects time, we become one. I listen. I am listening. Bio: Janette Schafer is a playwright, poet, and opera singer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a 2017 awardee of the Maenad Fellowship in writing through Chatham University and a 2015 awardee of the Arts MODE Fellowship through New Sun Rising LLC for playwriting and experimental theater. Recent and upcoming publications appear in Calamus Journal; Zany Zygote Review; Eyedrum Periodically; Nasty Women & Bad Hombres; The Woman, Inc.; B. E. Literary Journal; Big Lit International Writing Festival; Chatham University broadsides.  Carolina Tarré CC Blood in the Water You shake, flick, tear, the bag, then pour the bitter powder. It falls into the spoon, cap, lid. Your stomach clenches, your throat constricts, and you dry-heave, but you don’t spill a flake. This is the payoff, the lick, the score, the light that blinds the pupils and turns the weakened gait into a run, causing you to overlook the sweating, shivering, and shitting as you mix. Yes, you shit as you mix. Still, if your hand shakes, trembles, quavers, use your teeth to steady and guide the tip of your needle, rig, spike, into the torn piece of cotton swab or cigarette filter. Or, if you don’t have those choices, use lint, if you must. Then draw up the juice. Later, if there’s an abscess on one forearm, burning, tender, sore you can drive the point into that thin piece of skin on your knuckle. You will cry out when the vein collapses, swollen, numb, and bleeding. This will prepare you. You will have to use your other hand, and learn to be dexterous, deft, and nimble; an expert. There may come a time when you nod with the barb still in your arm, relaxed, un-sick, breathing slow and steady, and you wake up to rough fingers on your breast, searching for your hidden stash. When this happens, grab the random wrist, before opening your eyes, and shove. He will be looking for a scrape, an empty, a hope that you have something left. He thinks he smells blood in the water. He doesn’t know you’re just as much of a shark. Inevitable, Mythical Mark’s chiseled jaw would have clenched when Adonis, uncomfortable with envy, flipped him the bird because he caught Aphrodite’s attention. Now he lays on soft pillows and I touch his cold hand. The formaldehyde lingers in this place, hinting of pickles, not hinting of anemone, and I crinkle my nose as I kneel on the bench to talk to my God, my God, my God. My God, he was handsome. The salty incense of other people’s tears taste better than my own. They found Mark mauled by a wild boar in Sandusky Court. No, they found him in his bathroom, on the floor, a needle hanging out of his arm, his blood blooming with fentanyl, his body, fertile soil now. People talk, their words short-lived and dry, turning to dust. He could charm women out of their clothes, like Orpheus coaxing rocks to dance. His crimson blood congealed in the plastic neck of his syringe, and marked his end. That thought keeps leading me, like Orpheus would, and on the wall, a picture of green meadows hangs. I look back, I just look back once, tears on my tongue, but it’s enough. He disappears. *Dedicated to Mark Dailey, a most handsome friend Finding Pepper I was ten years old when my Black Labrador Retriever went missing. I heard my mom and our neighbor, Bob, whispering about it in the hallway between the stairs and our front door. So, I went looking for him. I found the spot they were whispering about, and I stood in the middle of the street, looking down at a huge bloodstain on the pavement where a bus had hit my dog. I felt queasy looking at all of that blood. Even though it was nearly dried around the edges, it still pooled in the center, where it started to congeal. I looked away from the wide, maroon stain and took a deep breath. I knew what this much blood loss meant but it wasn’t real to me yet. I made up my mind. I would follow the trail of blood. I would find Pepper. I would save him. As I followed the splatters, I kept expecting to see my hyper, jet-black lab run around the bend, wag his tail in quick circles when he saw me, and lick my face in happiness. I left my yard through the front entrance, which was surrounded by tall, even hedges that marked the limits of our property. I turned left onto California Avenue and headed toward the Loop, the big, asphalt turn-around for the 16B buses traveling through Avalon, Ben Avon, and Emsworth. I fantasized about finding Pepper. In one fantasy, I imagined seeing a stranger holding a leash with Pepper on the end of it. The adults were wrong; it was a squirrel or a raccoon that got hit by the bus. In another hopeful fantasy, I’d find him curled up under a porch, whimpering, but savable, and I would nurture him back to health. He would be my puppy again and I’d be happy and not yell at him when I saw him chewing my Flowers for Algernon in the living room. Following the droplets along Avalon’s Orchard and Florence Avenues, I checked under porches and inside open sheds, and when the spatters faded away, I imagined it was because he had run up into someone’s grass. I went out every day, always starting at the big stain near the Loop. I don’t remember when I stopped looking; maybe I stopped after the stains dried completely or when we had a big rain. Eventually, I could no longer trace my steps. Pepper was lost to me—I imagine he died alone. * Thirty-two years later I stand in front of a mirror in a cheap hotel room, high on cocaine, and lost on the North Side of my city without an escape route. I wrap a shoelace tourniquet around my forearm and pull it tight. I see nothing in my eyes but loss. This makes me think of Pepper, and how I never found him. I look down and see what I did find staring back at me from the edge of the porcelain sink: a charred spoon from adding heat to the bottom, an empty bag with white flakes stuck to the sides, and a syringe with blood in it, blood that no longer makes me queasy. I found a man with a nice car, a nice suit, and a nice bank account; and when he opened his wallet, I peeled back the layers of my conscience like I was peeling an onion. I found a habit and when I did, I found another way to forget about everything else I couldn’t find. “Come out of that bathroom,” the man says through the door. I linger. I look down at the cocaine residue caked on the sides of the spoon on the sink and I wonder if there’s enough there for another shot. When I open the door to the naked businessman sprawled on the bed, I have one last thought of Pepper: no one is coming to save me. I imagine I’m dying alone.  Bio: Holly Spencer is a recovering addict who lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her four dogs and two cats. She is a recent graduate of Point Park University where she obtained two Bachelor Degrees: Creative Writing and Behavioral Sciences. During her "real" job, she works with women in drug and alcohol recovery, as well as pregnant, homeless women. Her piece, “Stuck,” has been published in Jet Fuel Review, an online literary magazine, in the creative nonfiction genre. Recently, “Stuck,” has been nominated for The Best of the Net, 2016. Her poem, “The Cost,” has been featured on Rise Up Review, an online forum for protest poetry, June 2017.
1/6/2018 Poetry by Alexandria Heath Two what good is a day when I see absence of everything and nothing of covered eyes and ears when I feel skin cold and hard warm and soft when i feel the black rub my legs and light shatter on my chest an ocean and dirt what good is a day when I stay still and silent when I stay silky and poisonous hitting and celebrating what good is a day when I am back and forward when I have no fingerprints and my hands over my mouth Disillusion And how can I ever be sure that a hand is what I want I flip questions over and over in my mind until nothing but dirt remains but one question sticks over and over in my head like tiny pieces of rice on my skin-how can I be sure? That this is what I want. I want the sun and the moon and the stars and all I get is sweating skin in return. It seems so up in the air to stick to one thing when I consider myself to be a million. A million of nothing. A million of everything and how can a million of something stick to one thing? I think I've ruined certain parts of me like my mind, my hands, and my hips. They don't belong to me anymore. I've given them away to everyone like little gift boxes I'd give to my friends on Christmas when I was twelve. Twelve reminds of white and clear transparent colors. It reminds me of definition. I remember when I used to divide my body into sections for myself. But now I cut myself into little pieces to give away to anyone who mutters my name who whispers back to what I say. I've held too many people. I've touched too many fingertips. A Memory I wish I had known that my tears would eventually pool in the same place no matter where I am and never fail to baptize my body of your words and hands I wish I had known that purity isn't subjective and that because you placed your fingertips on my thighs I’d eventually grow a love for water and its ability to make me forget who I am and to cleanse me of the things I've allowed to shatter me like the windows of an abandoned house I wish I had known that touches leave no stains that can't be expunged and if they do it's just like a tattoo that fades with every moment that I move and every arm that I embrace that doesn't ask me for something that I can choose to rip the skin from the parts of me that you've caressed even if those parts of me are pieces of my brain That pain comes and goes like the clouds above my head and that you can look out for storms but you should really watch out for the ones that offer you gentle rain If I could I'd tell me that you’ll learn to love from lack and hunger and thirst And because of this you'll learn to appreciate every morsel and drop of hydrogen and oxygen that you receive That you'll learn to sustain yourself and forage for every piece of sustenance that's dropped on the ground How to smell it from a drunken stare across the room To open your mouth for a body when someone's ripped out your throat And even though I never imposed my own silence that I can still make people feel me like the holiness I never seemed to have but with every opportunity you had you'd rub it against my chest to remind me that I allowed my hips to be a vacant hotel for anyone who knocked at 3 in the morning but only bc I needed the image of myself that you stole But I wish I had known that I can also find that image if I stare in the mirror long enough that by just being right where I am I'm embracing the flames of hell that only exist in the form of memories And that the real devils aren’t even found in the pages of the Bible but you can find them on the trails their feet have hammered out on your mind In the faces you see in your dreams And on the palms of every hand you place in yours after theirs leaves  Bio: Alexandria is a writer and student from the South. She began writing as a way to come to terms with mental illness and trauma. She loves museums, cats, and psychology.
1/6/2018 Poetry by Lance Milham and he will chase In the dark you watch god pull a dagger from his pocket and slice a hole in the clouds directly above you. its blood staining your clothes, your bodies trembling under wet heads, you kiss the boy like vanilla ice cream, and he melts just the same and you splash in that puddle, exchange toothy grins and reddening cheeks like how they do in the movies, and you lead him with a beckoning finger to run and play chase through the yard because he can’t know he’s already caught you, so you play chase through the woods because he can’t know he’s already caught you, so you play chase through the street because he can’t know he’s about to have to catch you, so you play chase through the windshield of a Chevy Silverado. and then you’re dragged by the root of that three-strand braid he said was “so you,” higher and higher, through all his shrieking, through all that raining higher and higher, until you can no longer see him trying to put you back together, until you count the stars and open your lungs expecting them to choke and dissolve but they don’t because that part is already over, higher and higher, until you get to where you say “oh, my god,” and he says “yes, my child?” as you gaze around the most glorious prison you’ve ever known. with no visitation; they probably suspect no one will crave visitation in paradise. but you do as does he, and between the red shards of thunder he can still hear your laughter drooling down the window, down its windows, and he whispers your name under shallow, shaky breaths as his eyes mimic the darkest clouds from that red night with you and the city of gold is dreary. you are his skylight, and you can’t help but watch with your ear pressed to the glass floor, and you smell the cottonsky like wildflowers. you hear that whisper and it cuts through your heart like Plath and it sounds so soft and so far away, so fucking far away you aren’t sure you can actually hear it at all, and it deafens you, almost as much as the faint clatter of the knives he eats with every single day and ponders every single day, amongst all the rain and amongst all his rain because you know in his great blues it’s fucking hurricane season all the time, and then your own silver tears start to bud off your cheeks, because it’s still too close, because it’ll always be too close, and in every rainstorm it drunkenly trudges closer, he drunkenly trudges closer, and you cry and love and scream and beg that the clouds “please just stop!” and “please just fucking stop!” and postpone the most welcome death you’ve ever known watch the crows; i lost her in the dark! she looks just like her mother her black thumbnails chew the lemony edges of the Polaroid it’s got no pushpin holes or tape residue she knows she looks just like her mother those ivory cheeks sizzle and redden god, she’s strong but her hair isn’t blonde anymore, hasn’t been for months been red and blue and black, like now, and maybe that’s so she won’t see it, see mother in that mirror see it, see her in every little piece, in every shallow line on that round face every crooked tooth behind those plump lips every tiny freckle, like graham cracker dust every mile she’ll ever drive to that headstone, may they keep the grass green forever every red flannel she’s ever buttoned every sunrise, and the new memories stitched, whether she wants to make them or not every white thread in her smokey blue eyes every chubby finger she stuffs in her pockets every sunset, and the old memories, up her throat from a boiling stomach, and she must swallow every black boot she’s ever laced every masterpiece she’ll ever paint every fraying cuticle by those nails she cuts so short just like her and paints black just like her god, she likes them black because she liked them black because they are the same. so she’ll sacrifice that gold mane make it red and blue and black mirror’ll never be a Polaroid again never cry in the damn sink again make it all black, darling! for dry eyes, for reflections only in mirrors doors dad don’t you push please do not push the door is shut the door is the door is shut the door the door the door is shut and any longer or you’ll find my light off the light is off will stay off i will pocket my wallet, phone, my wallet, my wallet my phone, my watch my keys and the door is shut the door the door is shut until my door is shut dad don’t pockets are turned out my pockets my pockets are the phone is my phone my phone my phone is charging my phone will not ring not from me i will be busy my woman will still turn em out like a factory and they’ll be beautiful and happy just like me and never call you just like me never call you on your phone is charging the phone is charging and she’ll turn em she will turn em out my woman works hard my woman works my god we will move far away and i will shut the door the door the door is shut the door is  Bio: Lance Milham is a fiction writer and poet from Melbourne, Florida. He is a recent graduate from the University of Central Florida in Creative Writing.
1/5/2018 Photography by Célia Schouteden        BIO: Célia Schouteden is a twenty-four years artist based in Belgium. She’s currently studying at her hometown university, in Liège, to become a psychologist. Since 2016, she has explored herself through analog photography which she's using as a therapy to help herself with her anxiety and her cyclothymic disorder. She would love to help other survivors through art so, hopefully, they feel less alone in their conditions. In December 2017, she founded Peculiars Magazine, an online magazine with the aim of raising awareness around mental health through words and art.
Website: https://myelmforplath.weebly.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/myelmforplath/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/myelmforplath/ Peculiars Magazine's website: https://peculiarsmagazine.weebly.com/ Peculiars Magazine's facebook: https://www.facebook.com/peculiarsmagazine/ Peculiars Magazine's instagram: instagram.com/peculiarsmagazine/ |
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