So burn me upon your pyre
Son of Man
that you have built from banned books, MPAA appeal forms, and scantrons
wrap my arms in your illusions
bound my legs in your fear

For you have already….
Declared my body impure
your paws disinfected
by cinnamon scented sanitizer,
washed clean my autonomy from your mouth
with Crest
tapped into my veins
found my determination
leeched it
replacing it with doubt and daddy issues
blamed me for what you cannot control
deem me the devil
call me the snake
I am violence in youth
I’ve given hurricanes their names

So burn me upon your pyre
Son of Man
because my body will decay
flake away in the flames reflected in your eyes
But
 my words will fill
the canals of your ears
until you are deaf with it
the leaves will crunch and whisper “Sinner”
and in the static of the snow you will hear
“Saint”


Author Bio:
Between juggling school and three devious cats Victoria Barycz often finds herself scribbling poems on scrap paper and bathroom walls. She has been published in Swallow the Moon: A literary journal published by Oakland University. She will graduate in Winter 2015 and she's crossing her fingers about grad school.

Between trees, the flexibility from flip to sleep
through the afternoon, yes, between trees, sparkle
disturbs little. Deep trust. Air is the wind of breath
of air of wind, between trees. Trees
shed no bones or skins, there is no reluctant grip. Flip
free, a butterfly urges a hold, a little delinquent. Feel
with the embarrassed in a rejected confession, still
mixed with a sting of salt (believe me, just a little)—to
me I know. Between trees, the clearly-proportioned
oils and flesh in fresh-cut sausages made
in grandma’s hands are always—the just in-places—juices
of longevity, recipe as offspring’s keepsake, not shared.
Grandma also breathes, like us, but more like trees.
She says little, as her body. She used to dance
salsa in sexy shreds. Led, learning to be, through
a mix of hot beats and boys’ caress, blush wasn’t
counted on. Care, she says, is like beef cubes
in broth, stuggy no matter how you stir, not like powder--
(she likes using “not like” more than “unlike”). What she
cares after years and years? Between trees, she says,
there is a myth. Once you stare into the gap
between trees that hits the one-hundredth time
of the swing, you can hear the trees sing. “I like your
singing more than the trees’,” I tell her. “I just sing
like the trees, my dear,” she giggles. My father
told me that he really heard the trees sing
like an angel when he was four. I wondered if
it was just my grandma singing between trees when
hanging up the wash of a family of ten kids, three aunts,
and two brothers in the backyard for half a day.
But my father said that she never whistled, not
even singing. Does singing like the trees
mean singing badly or singing like an angel, who
can only sing like an untouchable nymph
luring people to seek no matter how many
years have passed, so as to make it into one
of the carelists when dozing off between trees? 



Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing in the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favourite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.

Sitting in the first row never felt so
reminiscent of his confession,
his proud profession,
a proclamation to counter tops.
Kneeling never felt like idolization,
ignorant adoration,
an estimation with hypocrisy.
I'm not denigrating my people.
Rather amputating baby pictures,
plucking off fingernails
as if I was a child.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Speaking aloud never felt like isolation,
a cry to our imagination,
desperation for salvation.
A people needing to be told what to do.


Author Bio:
Devin De Both is a 16-year-old poet living near Chicago, Illinois. She has always found comfort in words and began writing when she was 13. She is continuously fascinated with the influence a string of syllables can have on an individual and hopes she can be so lucky as to inspire others with her own personal syllable formations. She found her love of poetry watching spoken word performances on the internet. Growing up with 4 older brothers, family is a large part of her life and a common theme in her writing as is her curiosity regarding religion. Her most prevalent writing influences include Tyler Knott Gregson, Sarah Kay, and Sierra DeMulder. She hopes to major in English and work for a literary magazine. Besides writing, she loves reading and running. However, she is usually found eating and sleeping.

The sun sets
under spent blue skies.
Thick raindrops smack wind gusts,
converse over telephone lines
outside the basement window
where Sylvia’s “shut their eyes
and all the world drops dead,”
holding guns to our heads in quiet agony,
soup sits cold, writing lies
unfinished. Blood spills inside the dark
belly button of what’s left forgotten.
Calm clocks strike seven,
Alzheimer’s hour,
remembering the silence. In death,
ignorance is condemned to another life.
All the unpaired socks in laundry baskets
have collected the remains of a darkened
red hope - a river of rubies
overtaking the cold concrete,
like crimson rain.


Author Bio:
I am a Penn State University sophomore, majoring in Journalism and minoring in Comparative Literature. I have been writing since I was very little and love to write about personal experiences and realities of the world that people ignore or refuse to speak the truth about. I appreciate the views and voices of men and women who are strong, independent, and who create work that inspires others to indulge in their talents. I appreciate effective criticism 100% and hope that my work may be acknowledged. 

Ogle the detailing
           on my little red beast
I drive like a man
I know you like
the      broken edges
of my womanhood

You can't       bite this
machine but you'll
find my skin
yields to         teeth

The backseat isn't
made for company
but my flesh     invites
nuanced readings
both broad      and deep

Come here       I'll drop
these bucket seats

I've           already crashed
into the tree
the tow truck
will be awhile
I don't hear sirens          yet


Author Bio:
Allyson Whipple is the director of the Austin Feminist Poetry Festival and the vice president of Austin Poetry Society. She was raised by a librarian and an attorney, so she grew up understanding the power of words. Perhaps it is only natural that she became a poet. Her chapbook, We're Smaller Than we Think We Are, was published in 2013. Allyson teaches at Austin Community College and in her spare time is pursuing a black belt in kung fu.

A tiny grass sprouted some time ago
In a derelict poor farmer’s meadow.
His face was brightly shining and aglow
Melted with angst visible on his brow, though.
Time and again, your merciless arrow
Strew desolation and brought the death blow
He protested in a voice shaking and low.
But this very bud I’ve decided to grow
Whether you thwart or readily let go.
Yet, if you robbed what Venus did bestow,
I would never ever plough up nor sow.
As the bud continued to bloom and grow,
His apprehensions and worries did so.
Soon, deluge and gale blasted in a row.
To his heartache, he heard Mars jeer and crow
Viciously voicing the end of the show.
So aggrieved as he was and full of woe,
He asked Mars if he’d go home on furlough,
Take off his armour and lay down his bow,
Proudly chant his triumph over his foe
And spitefully crow over his sorrow.
Curtly the trumpets were blown for retreat
Forthwith, the shattering thunderstorm withdrew.
The farmer was struck down in a dead faint
But with an overwhelmingly strong faith
For any callous clout to overthrow.
His flogged body was immensely weak
Yet his sturdy spirit none could subdue.
In his dizziness he heard someone crow
And wondered if he had a spiteful foe.
Swiftly, he brought his life under review
But could only discern a dim shadow
At whom he heard Mars rumble and bellow
Such a man cannot meet his waterloo.
There’s something divine in him, now I know
That allows him to brave a tornado.
And the austere suffering he went trough
Has uncovered that blissful residue.
I deem, he’ll be unforgivably venged
And archangels will come to his rescue.
So bellicose and stern as I may be
When facing the divine I yield and bow.
And now that I have witnessed all and saw
Not only will I willingly let go
But from the sight of mankind I shall hide
And to men, my face, I will never show.
Mars’s voice was merely a faint echo
When Jupiter replied, let it be so!
And helping the farmer up to his feet
The eagle said in a voice so mellow
The King of Gods left the sentence to you
As to that which is no more a shadow.
I went through a tough experience, that’s true
He said to the King of Gods’ messenger
But came out with an immunized ego.
Pain and grief were its gloomier recto
Endurance and determination were its verso.
As hate corrodes the vessel where it’s stored,
He’ll certainly harvest what he did sow.


Author Bio:
I am an EFL high school teacher and an amateur poet writing especially Shakespearean sonnets. I have been writing poems over the last few which I am sharing on my page on facebook " https://www.facebook.com/groups/525342040861982/" 

I’ve been a sinker all my life
ever since I entered the YMCA
guppy league at age seven I have
never once been able to float on my
back. 

I made it all the way to shark level at age twelve
and almost to life guard training before I realized
I hated myself
my waist
the way my bathing suit hugged my hips
my lisp
the way I walked like a duck
and I hated
the water I sunk in as well. 

I lied to myself
and my mother
when I told her I didn’t want to
swim ever again.
I told her to give up our summer pass
to a family whose kid would actually enjoy
a private swimming pool.
At age twenty-one I floated on my back
alone in an indoor pool that smelled
like summer
and felt like
Hawaii to me
even though
the water was eighty
and the weather was forty five.
My mother was reading
Oprah Magazine in the pool chairs
I was wearing
a black one piece she had given me
and I stared up at the skylight
to see the cloudy Nova Scotia day
and I got lost
floating

I didn’t know which way was earth
the gravitational pull
seems like it doesn’t exist
in pools, I
only knew I was breathing
and that there was light snow falling
covering my skylight

I floated and almost fell asleep
I was so tired
I realized I tried too hard to float
when I was a guppy
and when I was a shark
and everything in between
I tried too hard and didn’t enjoy the water
or myself
or my company. 

When I gave up caring so did my body
and I floated
until it was dinner time.


Author Bio:
Hannah Rucker is a young writer living in Burlington, Vermont. She has a BFA in filmmaking with a specialty in screenwriting from Champlain College. Her love for writing and poetry started after she wrote her first poem at the age of five; first puppy / then puppy / next puppy / last puppy. 

“You’re so fucking fat, how do you live with yourself?”

He had an English accent and front teeth that overlapped, but I didn’t care about his teeth till he cared about my weight. I didn’t know that my body was broken sidewalk, ailing addict, a deformity of the soul. How can I live with myself?

I live with myself every day. I will not apologize for handfuls of fat I’ve tried tucking to hide, I am not something to hide, I am not a fugitive, there are not grenades beneath my skin and if that man saw grenades I don’t know how he saw them past my paisley leggings that I used to wear so strangers knew that I would accept them, and yet he didn’t accept me interrupting his path on the sidewalk.

In those stunned seconds, I gargled sea creatures and dirt and things of the natural world trying to understand what makes a person naturally think like that, what makes a person have to accuse someone of living like they are wrong in the only thing they will ever truly own, what makes a person see a body mass as something to fear?

I am not something to fear. I am everything but animal, I am not rabid, I am not sick, I am not stung, I am not explosions, I am not firecrackers whizzing out of control, I am not running with sharp objects, I am not something that needs to be gutted and cleaned, I am not from the water, I am not an embarrassment to myself, and I get cold in the winter just like he does too. I do not hide grenades beneath my skin, but he may have had grenades embedded in the silk of his mind. 


Author Bio:
Karen Fischer is an undergraduate student studying creative nonfiction at Columbia College Chicago. Karen has been writing since the tender age of cannot-really-remember-because-it-was-so-early. Recent topics of interest have included the city of Chicago, meditations on the body, family connections and traits passed down throughout the family, and a new passion for flashes of memory to translate into new flash nonfiction. Karen is hoping to attend graduate school for sociology and to continue her studies of the intersections between gender, race, class, and place.

When the war came my mother hired farm hands from a country beyond the mountains to help with the harvesting. She had to do that because there were no men left in our village to bring in the crops. They - like my father - had all gone north to the hot lands for the fighting.

My mother called the workers Indios - and she did not trust them - hiding my father’s tools and saddle under the smokehouse. She kept a small pistol in her apron when the Indios were not working - and me close at hand. 

At sunrise I could see them walk from their camp to the fields where there was still dew on the stalks and cook-fire smoke trailing across the sky. 

The workers mowed in an uneven line with the blades of the scythes blinking in the sunlight - arms rising and falling like the steady motion of a machine in the wind heaving crops. 

Then at noon they gathered at the stew pot with their faces and chest speckled with chaff. Passing around wineskins and the rough bread my mother left out for them on a white cloth weighted down by stones.
Before returning to the fields, the older men ordered their sons to bring them the scythes for sharpening. They sat in the shade of the trees by the barn scraping the blades with stones as their heads swayed to the foreign songs their women sang from the threshing-room floor. 

One day the men were gone. My mother told me the war had crossed the mountains and that the harvesters had returned home. Those few who remained in the fields seemed quieter at the reaping. Their women did not sing anymore. 

The fields are still tall with grain and there is much to be done before the rains set in. But my mother says there are not enough young men for mowing or children to bind the sheaves. All we can do is wait for the stalks in the field to tilt under the burden of their bounty and rot in the furrows. 


Author Bio:
Tom Darin Liskey was born in Missouri but spent nearly a decade working as a journalist in Venezuela, Argentina and Brazil. He is a graduate of the University of Southern Mississippi. His fiction and non fiction has appeared in the Crime Factory, The Burnside Writers Collective, Sassafras Literary Magazine, Hirschworth and Biostories, among others. His photographs have been published in Roadside Fiction, Iron Gall Press, Blue Hour Magazine and Midwestern Gothic. He lives in Texas.

In the city with transformers, transgender and trans-fat
the story told with graffiti-tongued voice
could pierce the memory like a drilling gun.
Her dress tumbles in the dryer
Her umbrella circles around the rain
Her stiletto-shoes explode in rhythm and blues measures
to end up in Sunday asphalt-music.
Father Peter hidden in pop-culture art-expressions.
Her name drops from the phone receiver directly into my brain.
Her nail polish goes on my mouth along with her fingers.
The silence was always mine
because I lack the sense of proportions
and the plotline-limb. 

I lack the narrative bone.
But I still have the other ones.
In a way, I am as healthy as any.
But, if you try to check like a general practitioner
where the hard stuff lies inside me,
your fingers would go astray, all over the skin
in a desperate attempt to find a solid bridge
to my liquid mind and to my square-like soul.

Once upon a time,
there was a little boy who was dreaming under a huge oak tree.
Princesses, dragons, adventures, spells and castles,
all of them were marching before his wriggling eye.
When the bad sorceress came and waved the images away,
the story went blind and the boy, limping to his house,
buried himself into the long blanket of distress. 

I lack the narrative bone,
yet I can keep my body straight.
I’m inseminated by what they call “word imprecision”.
On the edges, my mind fluids are leaking.
The stiff organs try desperately to keep my illusions together.
Spilled in the open air, they might fly away like disasters out of Pandora’s box.

I lack the narrative bone.
Exquisitely, my blood spins around something
not-yet-heart-shaped.
I see demons, a friend told me once with dramatic emphasis.
I don’t. Maybe I am just disabled.
Nonetheless, I see streetlights and bodies.
Red ones and horny ones.
On Magnificent Mile I see cars, celebrities, pavement stones,
significant lips and significant others,
flying hands in expressive gestures,
impeccable shoes and origami ties.
Red ones and horny ones. 

I hear voices, she told me next.
They give me unhinged gods and infamous rhythms to my prayers.
I hear voices, she said again.
my mother’s, my baby’s, my kitchen’s knives’,
the voice of Bob Dylan and Omar Shariff,
Dalai-Lama and Obama.

Joggling with city lights,
I hear the human race’s future
in words and exclamation points.
If I lean my head to the wall,
the sky train clinks in my memory
like Nutcracker clinks in the dancers’ legs.

Thinking doesn’t come with erudition and experience,
but with long dead silence imprinted in frozen skin.
I lack something. Maybe a bone or a stone. Or something more consonant.
While brooding, the body stands still.
And the blood stops running through improbable veins. 

I don’t hear voices, but thoughts
banging to the back window of my brain.
I don’t see demons, but words with strings and
terrible meanings.
Natasha’s dance is the secret plot of our time.  
And my missing bone, the secret agent with Bond-ish eyes.  


Author Bio:
Diana Andrasi completed her studies in philology at the University of Bucharest, followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Montreal. While researching for her doctoral thesis on the subject of thought-image as a poetry device (at the beginning of the 20th century), she became interested in research projects linking contemporary poetry to urban legends, political ideologies and global cultural development. She wrote articles, poems, and essays in both English and French. She lives in the far west of the Montreal Island.