I dive into a wave, swim, 
haul myself out into Breton heat.
Hot sands fire my feet,
sting me with pleasure.

Wordless, 
you extend your arm,
disembodied 
behind your broadsheet.
You pass me a beer, 
bread and cheese
and my book.
Your eyes stay 
on your newspaper.

When I read, 
you fret and flounder
awash with annoyance
at my willful absence,
paper cuts draw blood.

The White Hotel, hurts more 
than most, Lisa fledges 
from Freud’s Anna G.,
and I surrender, 
hypnotized 

the story shifts
and shivers in the sweltering day.
Stung by ice-needles,
a user,
I shudder and shake;
a vicarious voyeur
faced with death camp hell
written alive by Thomas [D.M].
His strong hand

shocks to the core, 
I am shamed

the author’s bite-sized benedictions,
the small balms that end his tale
deliver no-one.

Finished, I close my book,
rise and run to the sea.
Pray today’s warm water
will splash against my skin
unfreeze me and draw me back
to the here and now.

If so, 
I’ll hide in the agitated comfort
of your sunburnt arms.

If not, 
my madness will distort
all my remainder days.


Author Bio:
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK. After a career as a probation officer, a mental health social worker and a practice educator she is concentrating on writing. She writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in web magazines and print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Alliterati, Stepaway, Poets Speak (whilst they still can), Three Drops from the Cauldron, Snakeskin, Obsessed with Pipework, The Linnet’s Wing, Blue Nib, Picaroon, Amaryllis, Algebra of Owls, Write to be Counted, The Lake, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Riggwelter, Poetry Shed, Southbank Poetry, Smeuse, Bandit Fiction, Atrium, Marauder, Prole, The Curlew and coming up in Mothers Always Write. She was Highly Commended in the Blue Nib Chapbook Competition In 2017 she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University and she is now developing practice as a creative writing facilitator with hard to reach groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.

I want to know
The content of its character
The colour of its skin
The sound of its voice

Let me know
How it pierces
The strongest mountains
Leaving them permeable

Teach me now
Emotional treasures of the stars
Foundational agility of the sky
Unquenchable energy of the sun

Let it snow
The ice of passion
Breaking the surface of pain
The stoic grit of survival

Odyssey of the lyrical rendition
Nike smiling on the trail
Of Aphrodite’s mansion
Solidifying the power



Author Bio:
Adedayo Ademokoya is a writer who believes that we are beings of emotions. Expression makes human free from the shackles of ignorance. He feels that words are just a combination of letters until passion is infused for the liberation of souls. He loves to motivate, open to learning new things and keenly interested in making the world a better place. Some of his works have appeared on BraveArts Africa, Thought Catalog, Praxis Magazine, Parousia Magazine, Indian Periodical, Kreative Diadem, PenAStory and elsewhere.

Transfixed by terror,
barricaded by
demons,
I can’t stop trying
to weaken the wall
with my head,
with my fists,
with my heart;
I can’t stop trying
to scale the wall
with my palms,
with my nails,
with my mind;
I can’t stop looking
at their cupped
hands, their bunched
fists, their bent
fingers
closing in;
I can’t do this
I can’t
I

?

The throat
of my silence
is raw
from screaming
Into a black
hole

a black
hole
like the one
you pierced,
like the one I
believed,
like the one I make
when I open
my voice
and nothing
leaves.

I shoot pleas
at strangers;
they smile
or avert
and the screams
bloom louder in the field
between my chest
and my throat;
they bloom louder
and louder
until the eruption settles
and a few hearts
know.

I stand
with my hands
around bars,
my eyes
bulging
while I gush
truth
that even I can’t
believe,
and the hearts listen
and furrow
and apologize
and leave.

The land is silent
as the hearts run
home
to lock their
doors
and latch their
windows
and close their
curtains
to get on
with their own lives.

I know I’m not
the only speck
in this dust bowl
but I am lonely
and terrified
and fuming
at the struggle
of surviving this
alone. 



Author Bio:
Raechel is a writer and artist dedicated to reclaiming and using her voice to tell truth without apology. Through her writing and art, Raechel hopes to inspire, encourage, and empower others who've been silenced to take the leap of faith that is speaking up and releasing.

Face the facts, and embrace the acts,
People are not what they say.
Actions above words, thinning the herds,
Separation of predator above prey. 

It's more realistic, to be materialistic,
Than to actually believe in true love. 
It's more acceptable, to be a receptacle,
Of the bullshit raining from above.

If you believe in romance, you don't stand a chance,
Messed your head up man, get it together.
Swallow your pride, and don't let the pain hide,
You knew it wouldn't last for forever.

With a fully forced smile, I face my denial,
Accept the cards my life has been dealt.
Try coming to grips, with my heart as it rips,
As I let go of the greatest thing I've felt. 

I'll always remember, the slow burning ember,
That sparked a fire into our life.
And I'll never forget, or even regret,
The spot in my back that still has the knife. 

You hurt me so bad, something way beyond sad,
A wound only time will heal.
It's terrible to ask, and give my heart the task,
Of finding out if it was real.

I can live without, but can't stand all this doubt,
This misdirection is driving me insane.
Try as I may, much to my dismay,
The answers I'll never attain.

I'll ask myself why, until the day that I die,
But I still thank you for all of the good.
I'll say goodbye, and try not to cry,
And try to move on like I should.


Author Bio:
John Rock is a single, full-time dad of two dealing with the everyday struggles of life. He hopes he can make a few people feel something on the way.

The butterflies flying off the pink lilies of our garden are your smile. 
And the lilies are dancing, dancing. 
The dew of your petals tingle my skin,
Fresh earth entangles my ol’ factory again, 
Robins chirping along and singing a song that only the kindest of ears can hear 
My hands grip the root of those precious lilies 
And then—almost instant—I can picture those butterflies prancing, prancing. 

Travis Barker, circa 2016 at the Hollywood Bowl is where I’ll find you. 
“Finna” go and enjoy the show where the California album makes you jive. 
Your stunning adoration of Star Wars films is the moon rising to cascade its beauty on those that need it but haven’t yet realized that they do. 
The lilies are still, still. 
“I love you, but this movie is so boring. 
I mean, they would help you, but you got an axe in your back, son.” 
Once the Sun hits the flowers, they cower back into themselves and reject the taste of water. 
One day, you will find—and this I am certain—that in our house, you will always breathe in and out with a smile upon your face. And I will kiss you to widen it. 
Canfani loves you and always has, and loves your dad jokes even when they are inconvenient. 
Jacob is flying and hooting about how beautiful it is to float in the air. 
The purple grass tickles your belly.
The ground grumbles at your newfound power and I watch in astonishment. 
Look at what you cause. 
(Anata wa watashi no bōken no nakamadesu eien ni Jakobu—You are my sunshine, Jacob.) 
I am not kidding; don’t look at me like that—I do love you!
The butterflies are sitting on the petals, now. 
And now, the Sun opens your petals. 


Author Bio:
Canfani Oliver is an aspiring writer from Pasadena, California and currently attending college majoring in English. Canfani hopes to publish fiction and creative non-fiction works. Canfani has a tabby cat named Ziam and loves to sing.

For N.W.

My business is the train, and I time its rails
each night. The cargo came on the quarter,
and the passenger arrives at nine, rides
over the line of eleven pennies I tape

to the rail. I make the train make me jewelry.
And I am an expert now, this is my superior
product, which, contrary to what you say,
is neither shoddy nor shit. Here, look at this,

Father, on one side of my coin, the outline
of another father—one who will support me
as I support myself. And with one penny see
what I create: this charm for fifteen dollars,

a stamped pendant for ten, and in blank copper
I can beat any name. After labor with aluminum
hammers and stamps, each special penny returns
the affection I invest. This is my craft, dear Father,

my investment. And here is the story I tell as I sell
my pennies: when the train approaches, the coins
would throw themselves far away from the rail.
But the tape preserves their posture, keeps each

penny face-down on the track when the train rides
unaware across its back. Violent, I know, even so
the ends justify the means. After a pearl, the oyster
holds no grudge against a grain of sand. Can you see

the blank coin in my hand? Now see what I see--
this opportunity, beauty. Father, you are the train, you
press away your likeness from the coin of my soul.
And I am a bright, blank, glistening thing.


Author Bio:
Ruth Towne is a young woman finding her place in early twenty-first century America. She is a Millennial Poet, and her poetry reflects her views on life, death, romance, memory, the woman’s body, matters of belief and unbelief, and eternity, among other themes. She is an emerging writer living and working in New England. When she is not writing, she spends as much time as she can outdoors—cycling, running, hiking, camping, and hammocking. In typical Millennial style, she strives to be an expert on anything she can, from what Drake and Taylor Swift are doing in their spare time to how a poet strives for timelessness in her work by first assaying the value of the time she has received to write. Of course, she has a typewriter and drinks coffee whenever she can, and of course she has opinions on how to improve the environment by carpooling and using metal straws. And of course, she doesn’t want to be pinned down in one biography statement, either. She completed her undergraduate education at Cedarville University and attended the University of Maine’s Stonecoast MFA. 

They coated my palms like a bottle of blue-black 
ink, so purple and sweet and moist they stained 
the bottom of the wooden fence where 
summertime crept between the planks onto the brim
of the tin pail I’d placed on the dew-drenched 
ground. From the sweet garland of thorns, I plucked 

a handful of blackberries, eating half then dropping 
the others into the round bucket. By early
morning’s end, I’d shoved as many berries 
into my mouth as I’d tossed into the shiny pail. 
My jaws bulged with the thick, syrupy juice 
of summer and longed for the warm, mushy pulp 

that transformed into my grandmother’s pies 
a few hours later. The flakiest crust, as necessary 
as love and mercy, pulled me from my room
at the end of the hallway toward summertime’s 
black, honeyed goodness and the pastry fork 
my grandmother left for me on the kitchen counter. 


Author Bio:
Shay Cook’s love for writing began at an early age when her mother would punish her by sending her to her room when Shay got in trouble. For Shay these moments were exciting! With pen in hand she crafted funny poems, serious verses, rhymes, and free verse. Her love of poetry continued throughout high school and college as she gained a deeper enjoyment of literature. Shay earned an MFA in Creative Writing from National University and a Bachelor's in English from the University of Phoenix. She is the recipient of the Hillsborough County Lit Wit Poetry Contest, Winner of the Tampa Tribune Letter of the Day, and author of a collected work of poems entitled "Black Silk." Shay’s poetry has appeared in both online and print venues. Her recent published work can be found in The GNU Journal, Mother’s Always Write Magazine, Silver Birch Press, Entropy Magazine and The Narcist Playbook by Nutshell Media Group. Shay is currently working on her second book of poetry, "A Pale Shad e of Color." In her spare time she hosts local creative writing workshops. Shay lives in Tampa, Florida. 

Though I slept aft of the endeavor,
and thus kept my roiling mind at bay,
I did feel in my gut an atrocious pillaging,
from neck to crease, as if a small demon had been swallowed
whole with breakfast.
It ranted and raved; crying: Face up to it, man!
And lo I tried, but 'twas too much of a responsibility.
When it comes to Love, I find cowardice and longing the easier
of the more divine emotions.


Author Bio:
Keith Kennedy has published poetry in Niteblade, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Kindling, the Poetic Pinup Revue, A Handful of Stones, Bareback Lit, Randomly Accessed Poetics, Chrysalis Zine, From the Well House, Hitherto Literary Journal, Joypuke, the Ottawa Arts Review, and the Southword Journal. Keith has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award, and was published in the SFPA's anthology of the best poetry of the year.