2 poems by Nathaniel Duggan


Escape from the Intergalactic Lunar Prison

Four suns hang in an alien sky.
Suddenly it’s Thursday.
My heart feels transplanted,
feels like four hearts humping
away on a desert floor, and as if
I hadn’t surrendered enough this week
I go to the bar. Obviously my nemesis
there thwarts me at karaoke, seals me
forever in the intergalactic lunar prison.
So I learn to meditate, to long
for myself so completely I vanish.
This whole town weighs less
than a bird’s heartbeat anyway:
no one will care what the snow plows
carve on the wrong side of the moon.




Shark Week

Either I’ve run out of things to conquer
or they’ve run away from me.
Perhaps I am not fit for murky water.
I am a cruel governor craving
tropical getaways, solutions clear
as a boiled ocean. Most of all I want
to box the shark with hammers for brains
to death in a seafloor cage.
Nowadays everything I police scatters
to plankton, outnumbering the stars.
Nowadays I fight the skin cells
I lose each night, tiny aboriginals
shoving me out of bed, shadows
making puppets of my weighty gestures.


Nathaniel Duggan used to sell mattresses, now he is unemployed. He lives in Maine.

Twitter: @asdkfjasdlfjd

“Motorcycle Emptiness” by Mileva Anastasiadou


Tonight we climb up the hill, aiming at the top. We’re a team tonight, howling at the moon, like a pack of wolves. Liam holds my hand, screaming his heart out, for he’s happy and loved at last. Adeline is a few steps behind me, beside Noah, who looks right into her eyes, ignoring the view. Next time, I’ll drive you to the top, he says, not just to Adeline, to all of us. We all nod for we’re too tired to walk farther ahead. We don’t know yet, but we’ve reached the top already, although mom claims it’s far too soon. We’re too young to have reached that far. 

I feel dizzy, approaching the cliff, blaming the height, or the video game, or both, for it’s as if I were still playing that game, where the hero climbs up only to fall all the way down and I somehow sense that this could happen today. Only that hero has three lives, while I only have one. Liam says that’s far enough. We don’t need to reach the top, he insists. No need to go higher. He’s been invisible for too long, he’s been a ghost and I breathed life into him. He’s now seen. And heard. He’s happy. It could be the happy pill he’s been taking though, the one that makes him yawn so hard, he can’t hear me. That’s how it starts, the downward spiral, I say, but he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t even see the void beneath our feet. Liam takes off his shirt and I see the tattoo on his shoulder, an eagle it is, he says, like he’s proud of it. I’m now free, he tells me, for being loved set him free, he doesn’t have to please his folks anymore now he’s found me and I feel proud too, like he’s my tattoo and we’re stuck together, I tell him and he nods. 

Adeline walks next to me and we’re now both standing breathless, like we’re at the top of the hill, or the world and we’re not only seeing the view, we’re also watching the best part of our lives playing like a movie ahead of us. 

In a couple of weeks, we’ll be waiting for Noah to drive us up to the top. Up to the point we haven’t reached tonight. Only Noah won’t show up and we’ll spend the night at the mall, the place that dies at night, when lights go out. We’ll no longer be a team next day; we’ll be lone wolves instead. Lone wolves are a myth, mom will say, claiming wolves don’t remain alone for long. It’s over, I’ll tell her and she’ll close my mouth with her hands, mumbling comforting words, like it was God’s will, which won’t help much. I’ve reached the peak, I’ll say, it’s all downhill from now on, but mother will advise me to not rush into the future, to not confuse my peak with Noah’s peak. 

Adeline will fall apart. Noah, who is now a fling, will be the love of her life after he’s gone. Poor Adeline will be the first of the gang to fall out of the safety net and into the black hole of loss. That black hole that’ll take her to a parallel universe where loved ones disappear and people certainly allow a certain amount of time for mourning, but expect her to move on like nothing’s happened. Only, to her,  Noah’s arc will be a dream forever lost. 

Liam will spend his time rearranging the future. He’ll be the opposite of the over-achiever he’s been for most of his life, as he’ll  blame that goddamn top of the hill for the loss. He’ll try to live alone, away from the city, or distractions. He’ll try helmets to resist mainstream ideology, to not let it penetrate his mind, only helmets won’t help. They’re permeable to ideas. So he’ll spend most of his time in the shower, rubbing his skin, to wash off invisible bits of ambition. Liam will prove to be a shape-shifter, slowly shrinking his ego, turning into the eagle he now has on his arm, until he flies away, never to be seen again. Not as secretly as Richey Edwards, Adeline will say and I’ll agree. 

Mom will say it goes like that; you climb and climb and you don’t know you’ve reached the top, until that first slip, that first loss. You can only walk down gracefully after that, she claims, emphasizing ‘gracefully’ to make the descent sound better than it does. I’ll be rolling down, almost gracefully, fixing my hair every now and then, stretching my clothes, checking my make-up, swallowing happy pills which won’t work but will only make me yawn harder, to the point I’m almost deaf and the world is conveniently incomprehensible, trapped in a sad Van Gogh’s painting, among ghostly ‘roots and tree trunks’, mom blocking the way, to keep me high enough, or push me higher, but I’ll keep rolling and I’ll tell her what the painter allegedly told his brother: la tristesse durera toujours. The sadness will last forever and mom will nod, but I’ll get used to it, she promises. 

However graceful the attempt, the descent sucks, but we don’t know yet. We don’t even know we’re about to find out. We form a circle, holding hands and we sway to the music  of Motorcycle Emptiness, only we’re not yet familiar with that everlasting nothingness we sing about. We’re standing now at this point, the world at our feet, flying high like eagles in the sky, or on Liam’s arm, at the peak of our togetherness, drunk on the future that will escape us, and we party like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t, exchanging glances of complicity, of promises we won’t keep, but for now it’s only another tender night, one of those nights you don’t suspect you’ll always remember, but we all will, except for Noah.  


Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres, Litro and others.

“Dispatch from the Dollar Hot Dog Line” by Connor Goodwin


7981319450_8d47639532_o.jpgSaturdays at the ballpark were dollar hot dogs and two dollar tallboys. These two fronts, hot and cold, came together like a tornado, a tornado of undercooked anus and bottom shelf relief, to wreak havoc on Haymarket stadium. 

In the eye of the storm was our beloved Salt Dogs vs. the almighty Air Hogs. 

But first, we must traverse enemy lines. 

To be clear, lines are the enemies. 

Lines to get tickets. 

Lines to gain admission. 

Lines for dollar dogs. 

Lines for two dollar tallboys.  

Lines for the bathroom. 

Lines for tallboys. 

Lines for dogs. 

Lines to shake hands and say: good game good game good game good game. 

From an aerial view, an Air Hog view if you will, these lines formed a labyrinth maze of standing spectators. None of whom are in fact watching the game. Instead, each studies the progress of their respective line and measures it against other lines, wondering, always wondering, if they chose the wrong line.

But there’s only one line that matters. And that line has tripled by the time we doubled back. It’s the dollar dog line. It’s the two dollar tallboy line. It’s the only line that matters. 

There are other, shorter lines. Lines closer to our seats. But those lines are for rich people. Those lines are for $5 drafts, $6 crafts, and no dogs. 

“No runs. No hits. No errors,” the announcer chimes, casting light shade over the sunny diamond. It’s the bottom of the second. 

One sadist cradling an armful of dogs and cargo shorts loaded with tallboys saunters toward the back of the line. He’s a rich man: unfettered by lines, warmed by dogs, heavy with beer. The sadist openly gnoshes into the radioactive pink-green dog and speaks loudly into his bluetooth. We might as well have rabies: we foam, we yip, we pant.

It’s the top of the fourth and we’re next in line. 

“No runs. No hits. No errors.” 

“No dogs,” adds the vendor, trying to be cute. Not. Cute. 

The line bristles. The line boos and heckles and waves its tickets as if they were a deed to hot dogs.

“Five minutes!” he shouts and waves his white towel in surrender. But a line not moving is an agitated line. Friction between particles increases. Collisions become more likely. The line is a nuclear explosion waiting to happen. And then it does. 

It erupts in joy. In the distance, lesser lines have parted to make way for an acned adolescent, sunburnt pink, looking as fine as any blistered hot dog. Balanced on his head is a pyramid of hot dogs looking as immaculate as Queen Cleopatra herself. My hero. 

I polished off my fifth dog and cracked my third tallboy when the announcer summoned everyone to their feet, “Ladies and gentleman! Boys and girls! Lagers and Buds!” 

It was time for the main event. 

In the sixth inning, little boys dress up as tallboys for a race around the bases. Whichever tallboy wins is a dollar for the seventh inning. It’s Bud Heavy vs. Bud Light vs. PBR. Bud Light won last time. Fuck Bud Light. 

“At first base, weighing in at 5%, we have Buuuuud Heavyyyyyy.” Red cans scorch the air. 

“Clocking in at 4.7%, hailing from the Great Lakes, P! B! R!” We cheers and shotgun our beers. 

“And now, you’re reigning champ, at just 4.2%, Bud Light, a.k.a Bluuuuuue Lightning!” The crowd thundered back in a chorus of boos and cans rained down onto the diamond. 

Obviously, we are team PBR. We’d be ok with Bud Heavy winning, but not Bud Light. Fuck Bud Light. I’m worried though, because Bud Light is taller than the others and suggests he is rightful heir to the tallboy throne. 

“Ready! Set! Chuuuuuug!” 

Bud Light gallops ahead to an early lead. PBR trails nearby and cuts inside rounding second and is poised to gain the lead. They are neck and neck approaching third when Bud Light shoves PBR, sending him tumbling into the dugout. Meanwhile, Bud Heavy is doubled over, heaving. Bud Light pumps his tiny fists in the dusty air as he trots home, unchallenged. Volley after volley of PBR and Bud Heavy cans rain down from the bleachers and litter the field around home plate, as if Bud Light had vanquished his competition into mini particles of themselves. 

The game is over. 

The final score remains unknown. 

We close down the stadium and head to the bar.


Connor Goodwin is a writer from Lincoln, Nebraska. His work has appeared in The Washington Post, Poets & Writers, Los Angeles Review of Books, BOMB, X-R-A-Y,and elsewhere. 

“what we’ve been doin while we wait” by Anthony Kelly


been earnin these blisters on our fingertips
with sweat in our dad’s wool socks

been stackin up these antlers – these elbows –
all this driftwood in the front yard.

been huskin our lungs out thinkin about tomorrow
after they’ve all dried out in the sun

how we’ll just steep em in gasoline –
toss in our big cigs to light em all up.

that’s one big fire ya got there!
neighbors comin in from all around
been just sittin here really, warmin whiskey
bottles in the embers – watchin their labels rust. 


Anthony Kelly is a writer living and working outside of Toronto. His work has appeared in various publications, the most recent being BARNHOUSE Journal. He is the co-founder and co-editor of Jam & Sand Journal.

“Kiling Humens and Baysbawl” by Chris Milam


Well, my mom slept with an alien. This was ten years ago, two years after the invasion. She met him on SpaceLove.com. His name is a bunch of squeaks and squeals and is spelled with weird symbols, so she called him Bruce Greenwood, who she said was an underrated character actor. Anyway, they met online. Bruce only listed two interests: killing humens and baysbawl. He’s not the greatest speller in the galaxy. She thought it was cute even though the aliens literally killed millions of humans when they first arrived. After a few dates, she introduced him to me. I took in his lobster claw hands and praying mantis head and told mom that I preferred she get back to together with Chuck because at least he wasn’t from another planet and looked somewhat normal in his khakis and vintage rock t-shirts.

After a few months, he moved in with us. But one good thing came from their union, my brother Jacob. He also has lobster claw hands but his head is human, though his feet are webbed. The alien is an attentive father, unlike my own, who left years ago to chase alcohol and other women. Bruce walks Jacob to school and vaporizes anyone who makes fun of him. My brother is untouchable when he is around. They also share a love of baseball, the Yankees to be more precise, and they always play catch in the backyard. I watch from my bedroom window wishing it was me and my dad out there bonding and throwing curveballs.

When dad found out that my mom married Bruce, he stormed over and demanded that she divorce him immediately because no god damn alien was going to be a step-father to my son. Bruce clicked his tongue three times, which was alien speak for I’m about to kill you, so dad backed off, said screw it, I need a drink and took off. I haven’t seen him since.

There are others like us in the neighborhood. It started slowly, a mixed family here and there, then over the years over half of the families had an alien in the household. Even Jason Preston, the saddest guy I ever met, found love on the internet. He calls her Rosamund, after Rosamund Pike, who he said was really hot. We all get along and have cookouts every month or so. Aliens love grilled chicken for some reason, maybe it tastes like whatever they ate back on their planet. There will always be peace in the suburbs because we know the aliens could kill us any time they want to. So we behave around them, give them our respect which is a disguise for fear. 

Bruce Greenwood tries to fit in. He wears skinny jeans and slim fitting Polo shirts. He bowls on Friday nights. He even dresses up as Santa Claus on Christmas, though most children know he’s just an alien in a red suit. I do admire his efforts, to be honest. I hated him at first but lately, I’ve grown to like him in a because-he-makes-my-mom-happy-in-more-ways-than-one way. He dotes on her, buys her little gifts, though he doesn’t totally understand the concept. He’s brought her a bag of crickets, a dead rat, a box filled with dog poop. He buys her things like Bic lighters and mulch and toothpicks. She says it’s the thought that counts and she loves him because he tries so hard to impress her.

I met a girl recently in the neighborhood. I call her Jennifer after a middle school crush. Even Bruce Greenwood gave me a tree branch to give to her on our first date. We are going to the ice rink at fountain square. I just hope her huge webbed feet fit into the ice skates because I really like her. I really do, alien or not.


Chris Milam lives in Middletown, Ohio. His stories have appeared in FlashBack Fiction, Molotov Cocktail, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, WhiskeyPaper, and elsewhere.
Twitter: @Blukris.

2 Poems by Aaron Adkins


Living for Two
For someone who doesn’t believe
In god, I ask about you a lot
Always hoping I might be wrong
And get an answer

I tell myself the lie:
There’s no way I could’ve known–
But maybe I did

In the way you walked
Head hung low, weighed
Down into the Earth

I just didn’t know how to help

You couldn’t bear it,
Now I’m gonna carry that weight




The hint of a spark
Hungering to burn
This forest of palms
To ash, to Dust
In the waste bin of heaven

The smoke
Caressing me like a child
In a blanket

Take a minute
To lay in the grass,
And flow in the wind,
Like fish
in a stream

We don’t have to go back.


Aaron Adkins is a senior at the University of North Florida. He is an English Major with a minor in Film Studies. His poetry is forthcoming in Badlands Literary Journal. For more follow him on twitter @MikeyIsAaron.

“In Conversation with a Recurring Character from the Nighttime” by Jessalyn Johnson


This is a ride at an amusement park. It has a red lap bar and a pouch to store my belongings. I am questioning whether or not it will exit through the gift shop or if someone will offer to sell me a photo with an appropriately themed border frame. I take the photo but cannot find the gift shop and no one asks me for any money. 

When I walk outside I am unsure of my whereabouts, curious as to how I might find my way back to the amusement park ride that has somehow disappeared. I see a house that is completely upended, but stepping inside I realize it just seems this way because I am alone, and all the books are still facing the right way. The air smells faintly of last night’s lasagna. 

A man I may have met before approaches me and asks that I notice his wardrobe, which mimics mine exactly, and in return I ask him what’s going on but he doesn’t respond for several minutes. Instead he offers me a piece of fruit I don’t recognize and I take it to be polite. 

I say thank you and he looks me in the eye and says to me you cannot measure numbers with love and you cannot measure love with numbers, and he says this over and over and over again until I promise to believe him. 

Jessalyn Johnson is a writer from Central Florida currently living in Brooklyn, New York. She has a degree in English Literature and currently attends The New School’s MFA Creative Writing Program. Her work is featured in Maudlin House, Barren Magazine, and Soft Cartel, among others.

Twitter: @jessalyn451
Instagram: @jessalynjohnson
or visit her at: jessalynjohnson.com