Reprisal by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The kids in the theatre were loud
with their feet up on the seats
throwing popcorn at the back of his head.

So he got up and went and sat in one of their laps
kissing them on the cheeks like they do in
cobblestone Europe.

And the kids ran off.
Nice enough to leave him half a bucket of popcorn
and a one liter pop.

To enjoy with the movie
as it worked its way towards
the end.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Oklahoma Review

Hookers In Heels Providing Meals On Wheels by Ron Murphy

Tis the holiday season and all the other shit I can't stand.
So I beat the blues by staying loaded and higher than Jesus himself.

Keeping company with hookers and pimps and pirates oh my.
Drinking whatever is near and cheaply priced.

Staying in a haze like a nut in a bomb shelter.

Waiting for it to either blow over or the zombie apocalypse to begin.

Waiting to snag some hottie in need of shelter and maybe her annoying friend too.

We will repopulate the world with perverts much like myself.

Ever so horny and deranged and make the flesh eating zombies sound not so bad compared to the destruction bound fools we produce by the second.

It's weird the shit you think up sharing the night with some hookers and some good drugs.

And whenever I'm on the prowl for cheap sex and quality cocaine.
I look no further than the

The Debauchery With Activities Network.

Yes why waste your  time on Facebook?

With endless conversations meanwhile trying to figure out who's holding.

Liking endless stupid posts and dumb ass bathroom selfies.

When you can say what all men really want to say.

How much?

Yes screw love lets get blasted and hopefully not catch disease.

I'm Ron Murphy.

And whenever I arrive in a strange town and need some dirty sex and affordable narcotics I turn to the one place that has it all for a man of such refined taste.


The Debauchery With Activities Network.

Screw you Facebook cause I wanna party like the worlds ending tomorrow.

And fuck the consequences.
As long as I get my rocks off tonight.

Yes thank you internet for helping perversion thrive in modern era.

You're Welcome !!!

About Ron Murphy:

Ron Murphy  is a modern enigma and worshiped as a God in Brazil where he currently resides and fights extradition due to some silly laws liars claimed he broke. His voice over work is the stuff of legend. He remains the golden voice of U.T.B. His publications include. The Ryan Quinn Flanagan Quarterly, Field And Sexy Stream, Jugs Magazine, Women's Home Journal, Home Wrecker Review, Farting For Freedom Ezine, Sams Club Bathroom Wall, Playgirl, National Geographic Magazine.

He is currently single and looking to mingle and if horny and interested please call 757 376 9058 to set up a meeting at a motel six nearest you. Yes Motel Six the official stabbin cabin of Ron Murphy.

Just mention my name at the front desk and get a two percent discount for a limited time only.

You're Welcome!!!!

Los Angeles by Ashley Cooke

You hold the restless ones

A saint lost in the lust of love

A sinner found freedom in fear

with twitchy fingers holding cigarettes

flicking them across the graffiti filled walls

The smell of perfume between her breasts

and piss along the brick wall

You are the problem child

worn down from fights and breakups

and throwing up from too much alcohol

You are a continuing love story

Filled with violence and beauty

The ink will always run along the page for you

Spiders descend from skyscrapers

Waiting to feast upon us

It will take this love poem

and stick it to the tongue

of someone who dreams of this city

someone with the hope of belonging

in a place that will never embrace you.

About Ashley Cooke:

Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection

Fighting Against The Gloom by Ian Copestick

"Come in."

I entered the room, although it was only 3’O’Clock in the afternoon the room was in semi-darkness. In the corner a lamp did it's best to fight against the gloom.
Ed was sitting at a desk, with a chair placed at the side of it., I sat down.
I liked Ed, for a drug counsellor he was surprisingly straight forward. There was no bullshit in him, he didn't spout the usual self help bollocks at you. He treated you like a normal person, a human being. Most drug counsellors treat you like a child, or as if you were retarded.
Because your choices in life weren't the same as theirs, they assumed that you must be stupid, or I don't know,  just plain crazy or….. I don't know, I could never work out what those people were thinking.

"How're things, Ed?"  I asked.

 "The question is, Ian, how are things with you?"

"Not bad, Ed, could be better, could be worse."

"Have you been using though, Ian?"

 "Unfortunately so, Ed, unfortunately so."

"Oh dear, Ian, what's happened this time?"


It really pissed me off this question, it's the same thing every time.
I feel like saying "Well, you know, Ed, it's the same thing that's been happening for the last 27 years. I struggle to face reality without a little help from something. It doesn't matter what it is, it could be alcohol, smack, crack, downers, speed. Whatever. I just think that life is sad, it's just too sad to face it straight.,"
Of course I don't say this, I come up with some crappy excuse why I have used in the last month or so since I last saw him.
Anyway the meeting goes on, both of us making the noises that we're supposed to. Him trying his best to do his job. I try to make him feel like he is getting somewhere in his work.
After half an hour of this charade, the meeting is over. We make arrangements to meet again in a month or two, I tell him that I will do my best to be straight.
We shake hands, I leave.

As I'm walking across the car park I take out my mobile phone, punch in a number.
It rings several times, a Scouse voice answers “Alright, Ian, what are yer after?"

"The usual, mate."

About Ian Copestick: 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer from Stoke on Trent England, so far he has published 45 poems in 10 different ezines. He intends to keep going for as long as he can, and hopes that someday soon a publisher will take a chance and bring out his first book.

For Your Consideration by Alyssa Trivett

We have provided detailed instructions.

Please lend an ear to the audio version

of submission guidelines 

or paint can shake your 

eyes across the screen

for eighteen paragraphs of 

disclosures and fine print.

The poems are yours, to keep.

We ask if they are reprinted, 

you grant us full permission

to freely edit said poem and change your pen name to something

of more substance: 

Kitty O’Shea. Marie Camden. 

Vanessa Onomatopoeia.

Delete any obtuse metaphors.

Roll it out only to chop it down,

like a stack of plates, through the roof, falling as Jenga pieces

into a falling apart bathtub.

Do not let the flashing cursor 

control your screen. We will.

And dictate which words will be for your choosing 

from the constructive criticism 

via email suggestion box.

Your art, your keys tip-tapping 

keep us alive 

and will become our masterpiece

created out of crumpled post-it-notes

and from lines you scrawled 

on diner napkins

as the waiter had to refill the dispenser

at morning-rush breakfast hour.

We feed off as fencepost alley 

cats in need of scraps,

dancing on our overgrown claws,

waiting to indulge in your art

to make it ours.

After all, it's only a poem

About Alyssa Trivett:

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music while chirping down coffee and scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in many places (including the trash bin), but most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review.

The killing season by Tony Pena

Santa wearing 

the blood and black 

colors of anarchy, 

reading list after list 

from the naughty 

feigning nice asking 

for an AK-47, ammo, 

and zero targets under

the biggest ass tree 

a tweeker can steal.

About Tony Pena:

Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.   His publication credits include   "Dogzplot,"   "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” “Misfit Magazine,” "Red Fez," “Rye Whiskey Review,”  "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others as well as a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."

Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

Poetry by Ezhno Martin

Hungry Sluts and Spaghetti 

There's really no explanation

I can come up with

to make the fact

that I think it's beautiful

your titts look exactly the same

they did back when

we were both 14

seem any less creepy

but we were so innocent then

and so broken now

we're both hooked on drugs

and covered in shitty prison tattoos

but we tell the same jokes

with the same brightness of being

we did back when we thought we had futures

and we're fucking now

because we bumped into each other

in the grocery store

and I still had a little something left on my

food stamp card

and you didn't

I made you promise

you would have followed me back home

even if you weren't desperate

but didn't need to believe it

no

not after you flashed me your titts in the frozen food isle

Maybe this is a little more like Lolita

than I can acknowledge

but you were the first person

I ever saw naked

and people like us

need to get back to purity

worse than most everybody else

I'll be the first to admit

that if we weren't both starving

this wouldn't be anywhere near as sexy

Decay

I want to believe

her breath wouldn't taste like diabetes

but I know she's been shredded

the last decade and a half

smoking all those shards

sucking dick to pay rent

and swallowing whiskey to prevent memories

oh I did it all too

survival is sexy

actually

but I don't think she would be anymore

not after knowing

how scary it has been being held down

and extracted

stripped

and mined

for the both of us.

I want to hold her

face close to mine

and share our secrets again

but I don't want to hear any of that

and she couldn't handle it

I can't handle the thought

of waking up next to her

and not hating myself

for never moving on

she's still a little girl in my mind

she's a special case, maybe

but I can't stomach the decay.

So Perverse

She slit his throat

with a dime store Katana

for holding her hostage

and raping her repeatedly

For two days

he smoked ice

and shoved his raw dick

in her sore gashes

untying her finally

when she shit the bed

and his pipe was empty

when he crashed

she broke all the phones

so he couldn't call for help

and swung with all she had left

leaving him bleeding, too

running away to the comfort

of one of her kinder Johns

She was sentenced to three years

in the state pen

for hoping it killed him

the prosecutors

secretly thinking

a junkie whore like her

must have had it coming

and that she hadn't needed to be

so perverse

in her escape

About Ezhno Martin:

Ezhno Martin doesn't believe in god, pronouns, american exceptionalism, most conventions of capitalization, monogamy, any form of censorship, that 9/11 was real, casseroles, coming to a full stop at stop signs, chivalry, patriotism, hand washing after bathroom visits, rough sex, decorum, the importance of biological families, and/or that The New York Knick's are ever going to get their shit together.  Ezhno lives in Toledo, Ohio.  Ezhno is now from Toledo, Ohio, because that's how that works.  You can't misgender Ezhno, because Ezhno doesn't believe in genders, pronouns, safe spaces or any of that social-justice-warrior-rich-kid-with-a-complex bullshit.   Just say “nice ass” if you're feeling nervous or confused about the fact that the 6'2” Adonis that is Ezhno hates your counter culture just as much as the culture it opposes.

Cat Gut by Holly Day

across the room from me, my guitar

pulses bright colors, throbs dreams

I can’t ignore. I think about sleep

but the music’s too loud.

my guitar sprouts lilies

not intended to twine, purrs

of birds I’ll never see

but it knows all about them.

even idle, I can feel

the razor-slide of metal strings

cutting grooves into worn calluses

changing my fingerprints just enough that

future scholars will recognize the damage.

my guitar blooms like a lotus

floating on a blue sea I can’t climb out of

pulses waves of songs near-realized even

when silent, invades my dreams to remind me

that I am not in control of this.

About Holly Day:

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press),  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).

More Ways To Ruin Christmas By Robert Ragan

Martha got up early that morning before daylight to check on the turkey and wrap the last of the Christmas gifts before her son woke up. But she already knew he wouldn't like his presents.

Tim would say, "Mom, I can't go to school with some fake imitation Jordans."

Her husband, Tom, would say that their son was a little wigger. He wasn't around much with his drinking and blowing all his money gambling on pool games. But when he was, Tom whipped Timmy's ass with a belt on the regular.

Martha didn't know how to relate to her son. One day when the kids from up the street were hanging out, Tim met her at the front door. Excited he said, "Mom, Drake dropped a brand new album today!" Concerned, Martha said, "Well, tell him to pick it up before someone steps on it."

Martha's life was a disaster. Her husband would leave, and Timmy would have any and everybody hanging out. No one would set foot in their yard when Tom was around. He was old and miserable. A Grinch who would steal Christmas and anything else he could get his hands on.

Tom made it clear to his family, once they got in the habit of sending cards with no money, he wouldn't even open them. He said, “ Mail me the two bucks you were gonna spend on that stupid Christmas card and I'll buy a beer with it.”

As sorry as they get, you would think he helped Martha hang Christmas lights outside. But hell no! She's lucky he didn't tear them down!

Tom hated the holidays. Last year he got mad and threw the Christmas tree out the front door. So she didn't waste her time putting one up and decorating inside the house this year.

It was nearing lunch time, and Tom still hadn't shown up. Tim already threw a fit about his Jordans. Then a bigger tantrum when he got a Chicago Bulls snapback. "I wanted a New Era fitted hat, mom."

Shaking her head, Martha wants to pull her hair out. "Tim, your dad is coming home today." Martha forbids him from saying any cuss words or spitting any of his offensive rhymes.

She said, "I put up with y'alls shit, but this year I just want the three of us to have a nice peaceful Christmas dinner." Tim promised he'd be on his best behavior.

On the table, she had turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, candied yams, and dressing. By now Martha's thinking, 'This bastard won't even show up.' An image of Tom asleep on a park bench cuddling with a liquor bottle for warmth flashes behind her brown eyes.

Then she heard a car pull up in the driveway. Martha nor Timmy got up from the table. They sat and waited on the man of the house. Tom walked in with a 40 of Malt Liquor and a lit cigarette. He walked to the table and looked at everything.

Martha smiles and waits on Tom's response. Taking a drag off his cigarette, Tom says, "You think I'm gonna eat this goddamn shit?" before flipping the table and all the food over on his wife and son.

Martha, with a candied yam stuck in her brown hair, immediately burst into tears.

Timmy actually laughed about it mocking his father. Then he says, "Dad, you want to hear a new diss I wrote?"

Martha interrupts, "You know your father doesn't like stuff like that."

Tom said, "Hell, it's Christmas, let the little shit say his rhyme.”

Timmy throws on his snapback and says,
"You better never let it go
Shady was riding Dre's dick
and never missed his chance to blow."

Tom smacks him upside the head and Martha orders him to his room.

Already cleaning up the mess Tom made she thinks to herself, 'Hey maybe next year.' He wasted no time retreating to the couch where he'd sleep the rest of the day.

Martha spent all that time preparing this meal, and now she had to pick it up off the floor. Martha loved the Holidays even if she never received a gift. The last thing she got from Tom on Christmas was a black eye.

It's what she gets her momma, and her sister both told her. Tom was a loser and would never amount to anything. Oh well, it's the life she chose, she just hoped her son didn't end up like his father.

About Robert Ragan: 

Robert Ragan from Lillington NC lives his life for art and writing. He has stories and poetry online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, and Under The Bleachers. Alien Budha Press has published his short story collection “Mannequin Legs and Other Tales” 

Blue by Terrence Sykes

ancient truths arise
crackling scratched vinyl
Joni Mitchell hauntingly
notifies me that we've
paved paradise
but was it done
by the dashboard light

About Terrence Sykes:

Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.  This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined.  Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .  His poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA