“Noon at the Chicken Factory” by Sam Machell

R u still at the chicken factory? Ive just finished conducting the autopsy so im gonna send a bunch of info. Call me when u can


The arsenic content found in the chicken itself was negligible and the contents of the stomach had barely begun to digest at the time of death. It was a botch job, they just sprinkled it in with the breadcrumb mix. Like this is barely even attempted murder – would’ve just given him some stomach ache


I also tested the chicken, fries, and gravy for any other kind of bacteria/contamination but found nothing


There are no contusions on the skin, suggesting he was alone in his car and there was no struggle or awareness


Cause of death seems 2 b asphyxiation. The trachea and lungs are bruised and blackened indicating smoke inhalation. Otherwise critical burns across the limbs, torso and neck but all below the surface? The burns seem to have affected the interior tissue and muscle, specifically the areas around the joints, but not the skin. If I didn’t know the circumstances I would say he died in a fire


But get this as well, his lungs were punctured from the inside. Black from smoke but one large gushing hole torn open, still red. The tear is smooth and precise. Almost as if something inside burned its way out. It’s v hard to explain i dont know if ive ever seen anything like it. Sorry being a bit unprofessional here im just a little freaked out


Im thinking it must have been something he ate?




im still here yeah


But youre not gonna like my theory


He returns his phone to his pocket and flicks a feather from his arm.


The factory floor is sprawling and brown and rattles like a steel cage where he stands alone, dressed sharp in that old coat, 6’ 3” and all, his commanding presence with gun bulge pointing the way like a dowsing rod, huffing, fingers on his chin. The workers all scurried when he asked for time to think. There flickles right now that tang on the tongue: his salivating sour guilt. But he enjoys the power and smiles. Huffs. On his hip the warmth of steel coffee raises heat.


Although devoid of life, the floor heaves like a lung wall or a wheat field when the ancient ventilation conjures up and rustles the years of defecation and cannibalism past, pecked raw feathers, rose-tinted glasses. The residue has been trampled flat by the thousands of claws over the years and the years, the poor swarms of concentration, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped the smell.


Strips of steel rods suspend intermittent feeding stations – wire domes that hold the grain and hormones like his office lamp holding fragile the light across his framed degree and crumpled conspiracies. This is free range and they get away with it. 100% British meat. Huffs up some gristle. He got KFC on the way. Irony never lost on him. They charge him when he’s not in uniform. It didn’t taste like he remembered. A blood vessel got lodged snapped electric between a canine and incisor plus mayo down his shirt.


He visualises the space to reconstruct the ordinary, eyes closed, detective instincts tuned: darker than he expected: bodies so close they merge as one, an organism… screaming, swelling, pecking, clucking… individual motion a mystery. Assuming of course these birds have capacity for such thought? Does it matter? The muscles swelling and screaming from hormones and pecking. He doesn’t eat beef but once tried a bite of a girlfriend’s steak.


He crunch paces across the shit stained feathers.


the chickens have vanished




across the whole factory, Solder


est time of death?


Just after midnight


I asked to view the CCTV footage


at 23:30 the chickens are there


at 00:30 they’ve gone




and between 23:30 and 00:30 the footage is corrupted. It’s just a white screen


Crunching steps bring legs to the corner where the breezeblocks begin to slope. The camera is mounted 11 oclock facing his feathered absence expanse. In the fisheyed dark he notices other hangers on, threatening to fall. Bringing hands automatic he dusts his coat again and it snows, slowly; fast forward.


Darker stains on the floor sign the presence of blood. As always, his suspicions are confirmed. He’s a genius of course. These chickens were not debeaked. And that would be written on a poster with pride. Spits disgusted.


Without the brooding of a hen chickens do not learn what not to peck:


breasts become boneless bites
wings under heat
gristle molten gravy
bit dippedive fries to
sweetness soaked clothes
and celluloid ovals
rosypinned through the nose.


He doesn’t have to tiptoe to find the roots, where the wires enter the wall like parasitic spinal worms, partway melted where it must get hot. Acrylic camera casing seems spotless… but he finds evidence of tampering with the connection: beneath the socket a distinct mark, about two inches in length, three scars scratched deep. An accidental trace? Curiously animal in intent. Could a chicken have really carved concrete so sharply?


Where he then takes a rubbing


and somewhere sonorous
a rooster sounds.

I’m going to be here a little longer


looking for a certain witness…


She removes the latex gloves once she’s closed the car door. Her father insisted it when she flew the family Focus through medical school, when post-dissection blood prints pinched at the handles or wheel, and it has since become ritual. A man obsessed with cleanliness. He threw a highchair across the room when her mother once spilt gravy.


In the rear view she reapplies lipstick and halfway wedges her paperwork into the passenger seat.




Truth manifests in void.


Yesterday wasn’t a whole lot clearer, either. Where did sense go? Never in her career had she seen household bleach behave in such a way. To corrode the organs to a coagulated curd? And the smell! The smell! In what could have only been a few hours? Chemically impossible… let alone the husband whose cause of death remains a mystery.


The 9-5 corpses’ mutilated material seem more alien than ever – fumbling with her keys – one day smeared into the next dismembered sliced fat layer peeled back across the weekend.


More bodies wheeled in throughout the rest of the week too:


deep fried


And however many days ago she had to scream down the phone at her superior when some deranged picnic basket pork chop cannibal came knocking at the windows of the morgue with ketchup round his mouth. The pharmacy shut down. Her husband’s medication slipped into her handbag from the stockroom. Everything sweating. A tower beginning to bow. Plus the paperwork incomplete and near nonsensical not to mention her psychological / physical suitability checks just around the corner…


She clutches the silver crucifix through her lab coat


and her draining image of self rumbles as a truck rolls by: pig snouts snuffling from between the slats, and straw in the wind spread West down the road.


Catch up with me tomorrow my head is all sorts of messed up


I really don’t know if I can keep doing this Ramuli


This is beyond me now


I’ve been losing hair at an increasing rate


It’s not just a streak anymore I’m grey


Hey come on I need you you can’t quit


What would I do without you?


And I think I’m onto something anyway


But what though? What this time? As always? This is what he always says before dragging her, shedding, into some glistening/puffy room of weirdos. Pray to God it won’t be aliens this time.


She pushes down the handbrake and lets the car roll back into the grassy knoll where it softens still. The car park like an unfilled form dissects the tarmac into boxes. No insects anywhere. The titanic pylons across the fields buzz and crackle. The land drops away. She can’t stand those piercing LED headlights, violent blue. Like the one facing her from a few boxes away, engine idling with a menace she imagines she can hear through the windows. The car practically trembling with predatory adrenaline. Metal veins pumping gas and fumes. No flies on the windscreen…






She feels obliged to reorganise the facts.

I’m heading home


He breaks into a run.
Sam Machell is a multidisciplinary artist based in Plymouth, UK. He’s interested in post internet confusion, the eerie projected self, and collapse.

3 Poems by Mike Andrelczyk


The guy that drew the Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner Cartoon

He was probably often ridiculously sad 

like all of us get sometimes

drinking a beer looking at a yellow wall

and then he would spend endless hours 

at a drawing desk drawing cels  

that slowly moved the Coyote

closer to some inevitable cartoon cliff edge or fake mountain tunnel 

to some hilarious not-death

and that was his job

Oyster No. 1

The first person

To ever eat 

An oyster

Was probably


The first person

To eat a rock


I was walking

To the purple school

The purple school

Was far away

And small

And as I walked 

The school

Never grew

And I started to run


The school never grew

It was after midnight

And I was late for school

And I’m 36.


Mike Andrelczyk lives in Strasburg, PA. He is the author of the chapbook “The Iguana Green City & Other Poems” (Ghost City Press, 2018). Find more work at neutral spaces.co/mikeandrelczyk.

New Book: “Dissolving” (Alien Buddha Pres) available here.

twitter: @MikeAndrelczyk


“Pale Blue Whisper” by D. Price Williamson


“Why are you sad, Daddy?”

“I was thinking about Grandpa.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“His eyes.”  

Pale blue eyes,
Colored by the horror of war in the South Pacific,
Once filled with promise in the redemption of a returning Marine,
Alive, warm in the embrace of young love,
Those eyes, stern and fair, glowed with pride for his family and grew calm with the wisdom of a well-lived life.

But in the twilight before his mind disappeared, those eyes begged me to stay;
Lenses clouded, they pleaded to understand the loss of will and control.
Eyes that searched mine for peace, finality,
Until the last flicker of reason was but a pale blue whisper,
Haunting me.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too.”

“We love each other.”

“Yes, we do.”


D. Price Williamson is a veteran, dad, lawyer, occasional writer, and wannabe outdoorsman and athlete.  He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, youngest daughter, and a silly dog named Isabel. 

Twitter: @PriceWilliamson



In regard to me, in regard to us
So it possesses the burden of the blood

Who put her on the floor?
The preparation of her body 

Was a charitable event
Her edges would brighten 

Her father placed her there
Nearest to the grave

Between the blankets being fathers
Between the fathers being graves

It was a charitable event
She looks happy smiling iridescent

Are my legs shut?
Is the music still on?


Nicholas Beren is a New Jersey native. In addition to his poetry, he has written film criticism and features for sundry outlets, online and in print. You can find him on twitter @BerenNicholas. He still lives in New Jersey.

“THIEF” by Jeffrey Yamaguchi


The refrigerator is there and it always will be,
until the building gets torn down.
I have the urge to move it.
That is likely impossible, but certainly I could topple it.

Someone stole Ronald’s sandwich and this has happened before,
so he was on a tear.
He was going to find The Thief.
He kept saying that.
And once he did, I wondered,
what exactly was he going to do?
Thrust his arm down the person’s throat
and pull out the remnants of his sandwich?

I don’t even know how it happened.
I was in Maxine’s office working on the just delivered
last chapter of the manuscript,
only to get disturbed by some writer that I had never seen before.
He talked about Maxine like he knew her well,
and I kept explaining she was out for the rest of the day.

Finally, he left.
When I settled back into my seat,
I realized the manuscript was gone.
I’m staring down to the streets below and looking at all the people.
They don’t look like ants.
They look like people, and any one of them
walking this way and that way to who the fuck knows where
could be the crazy person who stole the manuscript
and is about to collapse the charade of my career
before I even get a chance to start one up.

Are these windows really unbreakable?
I’m not even supposed to be here.
I haven’t eaten anything all day.
Fucking Ronald and his sandwich.
I walk over to the refrigerator and pull.


Jeffrey Yamaguchi creates projects with words, photos, and video as art explorations, as well as through his work in the publishing industry. @jeffyamaguchi (https://twitter.com/jeffyamaguchi) | jeffreyyamaguchi.com

“Guilt Trip” by Zack Peercy


My train of thought is derailed as the emergency door swings wide for a man shaking a cup of change. He drags his bloated leg along the walkway; pants ripped to accommodate the bruised appendage’s girth. He speaks labored breaths. His eyes cast down.

A renegade with his gut hanging over sweatpants man-spreading across two seats points to the leg and says to a female stranger, “See that’s what happens when you don’t take care of yourself.”

He moves to the next car and I drift again. But he’ll circle back through, ignoring my warning signage, until I acknowledge him.

Zack Peercy is a legally blind playwright based in Chicago. He has work in Memoir Mixtapes, XRAY, Occulum Journal, formercactus, and others. He is a resident playwright at Three Brothers Theater where his full-length play “That’s Fucked Up” premiered in May 2019. His plays are available on New Play Exchange. Audio versions of his published prose can be found on soundcloud.com/zpreads. This specific piece can be found here.

“Anvil eyelids fall– ” Kayla Lutz



And I don’t remember a damn thing
You could have told me:
that you were a ghost or
perhaps the dog was carried away by
an owl or that you wanted to
leave the country and wouldn’t be
home to make coffee in the morning or maybe
the dryer was on fire but
the woodstove was already broken so
at least we’re warm for the night or
that you want to streak while
jumping out of a plane! Your penis
airborne for the first time!
You could even have told me that Atlantis was
discovered inside the stomach of
a beached Loch Ness monster but—
why would it have mattered anyway?

You would still be gone—
so let me sleep.


Kayla Lutz is a poet living in the Seacoast area of New Hampshire. They are a poetry editor and the social media manager of Periwinkle Literary Magazine. Their work has previously appeared in Royal Rose Magazine. You can find her unpublished ramblings on

Twitter: @Oh_Kay_Poet.