​“It will never happen to us,” the couple said to themselves, and still it did…

But how right our parents are in saying we are their sons and daughters, their words
somehow getting lodged into our brains, was all we could fear, was all we became. 
Even as we promised we’d never be them, it was all we were allowed to claim. 

So as we settled into our lives together, learning our own language, wrapping ourselves
into a blanket of complacency, we let the monsters of childhood sneak in, their faces like
mum and dads’, beasts in the living room. Our pasts awaiting us like spectres of doom. 

We thought we could ignore our demise then, fill the void with parties, so-called-friends,
one blind eye always on the End. So I met your parents after a time, and, in doing so,
killed mine. All the things we choose to hide, all the secrets adults shake behind. 

Thus two broken houses became a home. Old lovers anecdotes, betrayals swept under
rugs. Our demons uglier than our household bugs. But I could never say what needed to
be sung. Denying it was anything more than a malady of the tongue. 

So this was couple-hood: tennis on weekends, masturbation in the dark. I turned black
inside to save me from blackening our lives. You drank, I lied. You laughed, I cried.
Washing the sheets and making the bed to hide my crimes.

I cheated on you with my mind. I cheated on you with porn. Chinese girls in Chinatown,
Chinese massage parlors with Chinese décor. My vindictive sense of values.
Anger turned inside out. The whole business of adulthood nicely thrown into doubt. 

I became my father’s father, and every man before him. I grew horns and a tail, I
concealed the evidence, hid them well. That men invented deceit, could only mean he
knew defeat. For women are different from the men, more sensitive to these things. 

And the men hadn’t the heads to ask themselves how everything they did went straight to
hell. Didn’t stop to care, didn’t notice 
the drop of blood on the tear. 

But somehow I always hoped you knew. My revenge for your gossiping friends, goading
the beast under their breaths, washing their hands of the whole thing once it all went
dead. And before we knew it the years had passed…

The shrinks getting paid for their part in things, their coffers filled even as we returned
the rings. But who’s to blame? For we are products of our own creation, everything we
wanted to be, cheating ourselves more than anything. So the heartache 

of our ending remained between us. Our pets weren’t real, our hearts we’re steel. Still,
the love we knew will always be. Our monsters afraid of the heart. Our moving on like
two actors playing their parts. Cobwebs over our once-happy whims, our tennis rackets 

and our dreams like relics of the grim. So what’s left of our lives is now spent starting
over once again. The mirror laughing at our aging skin, our nights spent alone in fetal
position. Still I hope you’ll always know, what I felt then takes the place of letting go…


Author Bio:
When not standing on the remnants of his Aesalonian fatherland, Falconhead is writing poetry, fiction, drama and essays. His work has appeared in Transcendent Zero Press, The Charles Carter, shufpoetry, TWJ Magazine, Syndic, Straylight, Nazar Look, The Rock River Review, Still Point Arts, GNU, Folia, Whimperbang, Antiphon, FictionWeek Literary Review, Pacific Review, The Red Line, Sein Und Weden, Peeking Cat, Route 7, The Corner Club Press, Naugatuck River Review, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine, Wilde, Story Shack, Poetry Potion, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Meat for Tea, Poetica Magazine, Camas: The Nature of The West, Huesoloco Journal, Glitterwolf, Whistling Fire, Two Hawks Quarterly, Rock & Sling, Adanna Literary Journal, Deltona Howl, Plath Profiles, Green Wind Press’s “Words Fly Away” Anthology and KY's "Getting Old" Anthology, among others; and is forthcoming in several more publications. For his poem “Man-Made God or Poem In Which The Hypochondriac Gets His Way” Emerge Literary Journal awarded him “runner-up” in their 2014 poetry contest. You can follow Falconhead @ https://twitter.com/Falconheadpens 

The way to a man's heart 
Is through his stomach,
A bendy, bloated road
Of routine, stomach acid and something else.

Before this I am six or so,
Creating meals with reckless
Abandon.
My imaginary friends have
Such wild palettes;
Sand soup
Garri made from stones
Rice made of air
They scrape tomato tins
And Coca Cola corks,

They 
Murmur in
Deep appreciation.

These men 
Break me.
I offer dishes in fear;
Egusi means I love you
Ofe nsala please don't leave me
On cold nights Jollof is me atoning
For a sin I did not commit.

I look intently as he eats
And hope he murmurs
In deep satisfaction.

I was twelve or so,
When it hit me
Cooking will never be reckless.
That was the day Ma led me into the kitchen
Sat me on a stool,
Gave me a mortar and a pestle,
"It's time for real cooking." She announced.

Ma should have told me
I will make meals
Steeped in carefulness,
Wrapped tight in routine,
Gasping 
For reckless abandon.

Ma should have told me
I will grope
Through the acid, food stained stomach
Of a man,
Looking for love.


Author Bio:
Ifediba Zube writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. When she is not neck deep in clinical postings she is in hiding with a good book. She has been published on Kalahari Review, African Writer, Windmill and Brilliant Flash Fiction.

Driving south, leaves leave pavement with lift, wind tossed, 
Breath bereft of cost, a heft across white lines, rolling

turned and tossed, skin folded in on self, 
Like a gift box of inlaid rosewood dream whorls 

unfurled leaves now a youthful green, later mature gold
finally the crispy russet brown of decay 

Daily on my commute, I watch the cycle of leaves, of lives, a love
Manifest in this tree tunnel beside Westmoreland park

Evidence of birth growth death is never completely lost    
gutter pilings, backyard blowers, slick patterns on walkways

a simple reminder to put workaday woes in perspective
Fallen alder whirligig bursts against highway median 

as cars pass, an explosion of canopy tree annual debris
eliciting at least one brief smile from rush hour commuter

up close, the veins of a leaf are like so much tatted lace
in decay, its geometry more beautiful yet for imminent demise. 

Still we fear death, and wish that like the leaves, 
we could return, wearing coats of fresh colors. 


Author Bio:
Joshua H. Baker has published writing in publications such as Latitude, Gnu Journal, and Adirondack Review. He lives with his wife and pets in Oregon, where he hikes as much as he can. 

Frequent hands don’t reach further than your fingertips.
First Fruit shadow—blinds them like trying
to save a raindrop. Almost disobedient,
but you don’t know

if it runs to soil
it’s something 
else. You can’t overshadow
this blush ripening your skin, though
it’s just a reach—not a grasp. A reach to inhale

perfection at birth. You promise

no touch. Well—no hold. Maybe
just one pick—well—a peek. Too late.
You might as well take it. Hang it 
by the bells or tie it up

with an eye-fix saying, “little
moon in my evening corner, drip
some mist on my tongue,” then 
that tale-of-a-venom could 
melt into a serum while evening 
tucks you in
and you evaporate

with dawn.


Author Bio:
Tia Paul-Louis is the pen name for fiction writer and poet Pascale Louissaint: a wife of a US Army soldier and mother of a three-year old girl. She has one sibling: an older sister. Paul-Louis left her first home—Haiti—to move to the US at age nine with her parents. Through many years of battling with foreign and old traditions that could never come to an agreement, she finally found a voice through writing and earned an MFA degree in Creative Writing from National University, in La Jolla, California. She began with lyric compositions at age 11 but later, became a lot closer to poetry. Inspired by poets such as Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes, she continues with her writing which appeared in journals such as As/Us, Eye to the Telescope, The Write Place at the Write Time, Rattle, Ancient Paths, Darkrun Review and several others. Paul-Louis’s themes portray family life, mental health, gender role controversies, and spiritual values. Aside from writing, she enjoys singing, playing the keyboard, watching animated movies, and exploring other aspects of art.

remember I taught you
birds are smarter than people,
that they know when to migrate
and when to return, unlike us…
but this is not a poem about birds,
it is about the human condition –
if I use serious words maybe you'll follow my
train of thought even when it seems fleeting 
I'm counting on you, my reader, my critic 
though many things are out of my reach
in this world, you are mine as you read these lines
our experiences on this earth are clashing
it is a mission I choose to accept
but this is not a poem about power,
because then I would have to admit
i abuse it too much –
don't give it to me if you value your freedom
i wish i was a bird, not any kind of bird
but a wagtail so I can still perform
my dance in the rain,
and be wise enough to know when to stop to 
embrace winter with all the baggage it brings
because what we have between us are running water
and the tide that continues to gain speed
meet me at the read of our creek,
I'll climb the ledge and jump twice
before diving in
but this is not a poem about swimming,
if it was I'd be sinking by now
since i've never learned how to float
and it is definitely not about the shape of your smile
or what I learn about myself when I am with you –
I am a wagtail
in this
stream of consciousness
that seems to shoot out of my mouth,
like darts hitting the target board
if I wag my tail over and over perhaps
you'll reappear and say this was all a dream
because becoming a bird is a way of life,
it is a sacrifice I must consider,
like living in a hollow tree
but this poem is not about nature,
not in its physical sense or so it seems
nor is it about what I see in my eyes
when they are reflected through yours
and still, I twirl to the pulses my heart creates
whenever I am with you – remember,
I taught you about birds,
I gave you the power that comes with knowledge
thinking you might be able to – understand,
I see language as an endless battle 
as a continuous string  
 

Author Bio:
Orit Yeret is a writer, artist and teacher. Born and raised in Israel, now living in the US, she writes in both Hebrew & English while many times testing the balance between order and disorder that language allows. 
She has self-published three poetry collections in recent years, and currently working on her next one. 
http://orityeret.webs.com

At the fanciest eatery ever there was
on a Saturday prior to service
while preparin’, the staff were all shakin’ because
they had reason to feel very nervous;
entered Jittery Geoff the Celebrity Chef
who was famously vile and British,
he could roar off your ear ‘till he rendered you deaf
(but his cookin’ was really quite shit-ish).
One unfortunate cook over-roasted the lamb
so the chef came up shoutin’ and shovin’
then he seasoned and trussed up that cook like a ham
and he stuffed the poor guy in the oven.

When the pastry-girl said that she felt underpaid
as she idly fingered a booger
came the chef with a torch and her face he brûléed
but neglected to add any sugar.
Then the sous, at the busiest part of the night
served a T-bone as tough as a fender,
that’s when Geoff went berserk on that “right piece o’ shite”
and he hammered his testicles tender.
All the servers complained in a furious mob
that the chef was a mean evildoer
so ol’ Geoff ran ‘em through on a giant kabob
with the maître d’ last on the skewer.

In the dinin’ room, diners impatient they grew
and so angry their hunger it made ‘em..
in response, complimentary liquor he threw
before Jittery Geoffrey flambéed ‘em.
All alone then was Geoff in the bar-b-que pit
jammin’ cabbages into a juicer
and about to impale his own ass on a spit
when there barged in his happy producer.
“Well your ratings are up!” the producer exclaimed,
“and I think I’m aware of the reason:
all those innocent people you butchered and maimed,
what a triumph! We’ll see you next season…”


Author Bio:
Clyde ALWAYS, for the promotion of bliss, writes and recites his own blend of tall tales and clever verses. 

“Why don’t you talk more?” 
Cue the apologetic smile. 
“I’m sorry,” I’ll say with my hands, “But silence slept next to me when I was nine, keeping me safe from the monsters under my bed, 
Held my hand as I walked into the classroom for the first time. 

“Why don’t you talk more?” 
Silence puts her hand around my waist at my best friend’s birthday party, 
I move her away, 
And ask if I could meet her after the party, maybe? 
She’s confused. She’s been my date every time. 

I ask again. “No,” she says with her eyes. 
She grips my arm tighter than she ever has before, 
I beg for her to leave me alone, 
“NO!” she says with her hands. 
I don’t want her here, anymore. 

“Why don’t you talk more?” 
She grabs my legs as I desperately run towards love, 
She cups her hands over my mouth, her hands slide under my skirt, 
She pulls me to herself, I am nineteen. 
She’s the monster under my bed. 

“Why don’t you talk more?” 
Silence slams the door, 
And only I can hear. 
It’s been twenty-five years. 
I never thought I could feel this alone with someone holding on so tight. 

“Why don’t you talk more?” 
Cue the apologetic smile, 
“I’m sorry,” I’ll say, with my eyes. 

But, listen. 
I’ll trace the veins on your hands as though they are a road map to happiness, 
I’ll breathe love into the nape of your neck on summer nights, 
And days you think about saying goodbye. 
I’ll listen. I’ll listen to each word you say like they’re spells, 
And I’ll kiss you like I have the greatest stories to tell. 

“I don’t talk much,” 
Cue the apologetic smile. 
One day, you’ll say, “It’s alright.” 
Silence will stand agape; silenced. 
She will realise she isn’t needed here anymore, 
She will silently walk out the door. 

And you and I, 
We could stay up all night, 
And talk. 


Author Bio:
Sanjana Muthukrishnan is a 17-year-old from Prune, India. She is in her final year of school, where she studies History, Economics, Psychology and Mathematics. She began writing poems and short stories at age nine on any scrap of paper she found lying around her home. Eight years later, I now she publish her poems on her blog. The sheer wonder of weaving words and phrases together, forming stories, poetry and emotions only grows as she does. She aspires to study Economics after she graduates high school and will never let the love for writing diminish.

The moment of her saying yes 
took a chin out of its reflection, 
put a world in place other than the poem. 
The moment of her saying yes 
continually baffles her 
because she meant to say no. 
Sometimes when she wakes in the morning she forgets, until she smells the word in the sheets, hears the hissing that follows her through the day. 

Yes being such an easy word to say 
has left the others in a heap on her tongue. 
She can’t remember the moment of saying
but it reminds her of the time she was five 
and ran for a shell in receding waves. 
The undertow caught her, 
whistled and tumbled in her ears. 
She can still hear this gritty refrain 
occasionally hums along while washing dishes 
or peeling onions. 

She tries to figure out why she said yes, 
and can only suppose 
that the saying 
the moment of saying 
made her


Author Bio:
Mary D'Alleva's work has appeared in the Benicia Bay Review, SmartishPace, California Quarterly, and Rosebud Literary Magazine. Her first poem at age six was about a flute. She doesn't know yet what her last poem will be about. She teaches writing and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

See him still. Rear-view mirror stuff.
A three wheeler flier, a leg dangler,
he ducked when the Great
Horned Owl swooped.
 
Lord of the dirt road, meeting
life on its terms, he helped Dirty
Ray and Old Glenn collect bottles
from the corners of the night.
Sandwiches, cups of coffee.
 
A church. Oh yes, his church!
Nowhere to nowhere,
he owned that strip.
 
(A drugged-out boy, dead
behind eyes, walked that
road waiting for the lord’s
hello. Big browns beaming
back non-judgment, it came.)
 
That church was an open air
Cathedral, a road where
boy-in-a-hurry paused
long enough to bless
strangers into friends.
 
Thought he might break
a wing there one day,
speeding on trike with
friend. But it was in the
downtown one night
that strangers heard
the crash that makes
no sound in nightmares.
 
Maybe they’ll pave
that freakin’ strip.
 

Author Bio:
Frank is a retired psychiatrist who has utilized his many years of working with individuals to comment on the incredible experience of being human. His prose and poetry, then, arise both from his own experiences and those of others. He is always grateful when an effort stimulates thought or strikes an emotional chord with a reader. Over the last nine years, more than 120 pieces have appeared online and/or in print. Credits include: Lalitamba, The Penwood Review, Modern Haiku, Visions with Voices, vox poetica, The Whirlwind Review, Indigo Rising and The Aurorean.

 
 

His big brown eyes tell a million stories
but far from worries.
I find that enjoying
his eyes is like looking into clean water,
my reflection is altered;
I have transformed into his partner

As I stare into his big brown eyes, in my chair I sink.
The man stole all my blinks
pupils more effective than an alcoholic drink;
intoxicate me enough to show you my kinks.

His big brown eyes are the best part of my day.
So maybe I'll get out of my own way
listen to when he says he's really trying to stay.
If I stare into his big brown eyes, I know I will believe him one day.


Author Bio:
Sevoy Duncan has 19 years of passion for writing, since the first time holding a pencil.