How to Grok a Frozen Waterfall By B. Lynne Zika

They’re quite like two men I know

who keep a steady rhythm:

chill, seldom prone to outbursts,

could be mistaken for low throttle

on occasion.

Odd they’re drawn to me,

a site of thunderous weeping

and murderous applause.

B. Lynne Zika is an award-winning poet and photographer and a retired editor of closed-captioning. Her father, also a writer/poet, bequeathed her this advice: Make every word count.

Whatever Gets You Off By Ashley Karlsson

Is concrete of only your twisted understanding.

Somewhere along the way, I wish I could slap the bitch that screwed you up.

That made you hide everything within.

As I've known you for over a year yet still feel like I just met you.

The vault that conceals your truest feelings is a curse that pushes everyone away.

As we lay together in those moments.

I can almost feel a hint of something more than a moment's fling.

Was it the booze speaking or just a madman's pleas from his heart's asylum?

All I know it exist for a moment, then is somehow suffocated.

As you prepare to leave me more a mess than when you found me.

Your love is a sunset beautiful in its misleading promise of anything more than the long empty night ahead.

But it's all supposed to be in fun after all, right?

You say so much in silence maybe it's time for me to return the favor.

Ashley Karlsson's work has been published in It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Off The Coast Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Black Shamrock Magazine, Disturb The Universe and Death Nail Magazine.

Janis On West 4th By Susan Isla Tepper Art By Digby Beaumont

                      

Janis Joplin came to my place on West 4th a week before she died.  She came for some dope, which kind of annoyed me.  I had given up all that, except for the occasional brownie, here and there, which I liked along with a cold glass of milk.

At any rate, there was Janis standing on my front stoop looking like something the cat dragged in then didn’t want.  I hate telling it like this because she died in a bad way.   But she looked damned ugly and kind of dirty. 

“Doc,” she kept calling me, rubbing her scalp. 

“It’s Chuck,” I told her more than once. 

“Doc,” she kept saying.

“Who sent you?”  I remember saying; or something close to it.

“Ain’t you Doctor Acid?”

It was Greenwich Village so that was almost a joke.  Two feet away this guy was hawking passersby.  Plus, she had a band.  Why did she need to scratch around?   She looked determined.  I’ll give her that.  Janis had this fierce determination that was kind of scary up close.

“Can I have a ticket to one of your concerts?”   “You mean like a trade?”  She was pushing that mop of hair off her forehead.  It was hot and my building faced the sun in the afternoon.  That hair was so tangled I thought of rats living inside and would she even know?

“I don’t have any dope,”  I kept telling her.  Finally I sent her to Original Louie in the next building.

“Which way?”  She looked right to left up the street.  Her see-through blouse had this sad little pink rose pinned on, some kind of paper flower hanging cockeyed so the safety pin showed.  I could see her breasts sagging behind the blouse.  They looked sad, too.   

I asked if she would sing Me And Bobby McGee.

“Man are you crazy or what?”

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Digby Beaumont is an artist and a writer. In his art, as in his writing, he is always exploring the idea of how best to produce some emotional response to the work He is a self-taught artist. An interview with him about his art plus a showcase of some of his portraiture feature in the November 2019 issue of the online journal, Tupelo Quarterly. As a short fiction writer his work has been published in numerous print and online literary journals and anthologies. His collection of flash fiction, one-page stories, Dancing Alone and Other Lessons, was released in early 2020. Digby has also published numerous English language textbooks with Heinemann and Macmillan, including international bestsellers. He lives by the seaside on the south coast of England. You can see more of his work on his website: https://digbybeaumont.com/

First published in The Galway Review

the first stab on innocence's cold body By George Gad Economou

at fifteen, I bought

a fifth of Bombay gin, planning to

swill it down in a couple of hours, in between

coming home from school and before

my parents returned from work.

I sank half the bottle, 

got plastered.

I tumbled on the hallway, staggering against

the walls. I put the bottle in

a plastic bag, hurled it out of

the window. aimed for

the trash cans, it crashed on the

street.

I shambled to bed, slept

inebriation away. my parents never

found out; it was the day I embarked

on the lifelong journey of destroying

my liver and liberating my soul.

I still recall the day I assassinated

innocence, proud for all the things

(good, bad, and felonies) I’ve done that made

me the slurring man that just

wrote this

poem.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

No TCB On 2CB By John Patrick Robbins

To the poser posh socialites of the club scene down in Spain, to the elite little whores in the bathroom stalls. 

It's all a rave glitz, pumping music and near death bodies OD'd on the bathroom floor. 

Fentanyl laced poison, the best kick has the most allure. 

The trip is so glamorous from the back alleys to the local morgue. 

All the kids show their ignorance as the reaper never does discriminate.

A kiss from a black rose to cold blue tinged lips.

The razor's edge serves only one true purpose. 

Take heed upon which side of the equation you find yourself. 

Enjoy the ride for however long it does last.

JPR, is a southern gothic writer this is his work and that is all he cares to share beyond this point.

Past victims list.

Disturb The Universe, Medusa's Kitchen, Fearless Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Punk Noir Magazine, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Piker Press, Spill The Words, Impspired Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Sava Press.