3 Poems by DS Maolalai


Dollymount Strand.


the best thing – the city
swings inwards, sea
a swelling belly
disgorging itself of seaweed, wrack
and whales from every storm. off east
you see britain
or imagine it,
and sometimes
only the haze of other countries
you would some day like
to see – we share sandwiches, wine
and beercans cooled in rockpools. trade cigarettes with strangers
and drop ashed cotton
to blow into the dunes. northward
howth burns blue
with stacked driftwood
and south dun laoghaire shines like lighthouses
and imagined wealth. it’s been so long
since I’ve lived near the sea – I love it.
walking barefoot, holding my shoes
and tasting sand. salt air
cold and toothsome,
snacks, and the sky open,
filled and brimming with birds.






Everyone out, and flowers.


taking corners
without slowing, moving
like a swinging
pendulum, or like being
a bat, flying
toward buildings
and turning at full speed. biking home
in hot summer
while kids cross the road
and men in vans
play loud music
and lean through open
windows. it’s a joy;
everyone out,
and flowers. cans by the canal.
girls in dresses
smoking cigarettes
rolled up
at 4pm.






A naturally skinny man.


I remember
this prof we had
in college. he taught poetry
and was a poet himself, though I never read
his stuff. Ger Dawes – tiresome old rabbit. and my biggest impression
leaving his lectures
as a 20 y/o
was that a naturally skinny man
should be careful
never to get fat. for him, it lived in his throat.
thin arms, thin legs,
a chest like a bottle
and the expanding neck
of a bullfrog. 

but anyway; I remember, this lecture
he did on his own
poetry – the balls
that takes. all these kids listening embarrassed
as finally
the passion came over. there was one with capitals
he wrote, young as we were
then, and the words –
he really
yelled them. yeah; imagine the balls
and the passion – I hate to think
that at 60
I’ll be so passionate
about what I’m doing


DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)

3 Micros by Francine Witte

Mother Dog

The mother dog had left her puppies orphaned. We found them sprawled out in clouds of goo on the back porch. The mother dog had come by for food each day, and when we tried to bring her inside, she bit our hands. 

There were five of them. We named them after our fingers. Pointer being the leader, and so on.

We set out food. When Longfinger started to eat up all of it, starving the others, we laughed and laughed. How very protective this puppy is!

When Ringfinger got himself stuck in the stormdrain, we oohed and aahed. How cute he is, trying to swim!

When Pinky whined the entire night, we clapped and clapped, convinced he was trying out for chorus. 

But when we woke up to Thumb trying to suffocate us with our pillows, we got a little concerned. Maybe these little ones weren’t so cute, after all. 

Maybe we remembered all at once why we didn’t like the mother dog in the first place. Maybe we started to think about rounding up these little ones and re-orphaning them in the nearby park. 

But just then, all of them, the whole hand of them, surprise us with a birthday cake, even though it’s none of our birthdays. And even when one of us suspects a trap, rat poison in the icing, the rest of us vote it down, thinking instead, how very thoughtful these puppies probably are.



The House Watches Her

like a dumb husband.  Like it knows she’s leaving, and it’s sorry, and it promised to change. Like this time, she’s gonna believe it.

Like the water heater won’t break again, leave her in a shivery shower, leave her telling Susan over coffee and fatty donuts how she got cheated on again.

And when she gets too fat to fight back, Susan says, “oh yeah, it was me.  Your husband cheated with me.”

And when she throws the coffee pot at Susan, who just ducks and scrabbles out of the house, she’s left with nothing but a hole in the wall where the coffee pot hit, and when she calls the fix-it man, he finds it’s just the start of her problems.

The roof needs shingles, and the floor is uneven, and the paint in the bathroom is a peely mess.

And she just can’t live in a broken house, a broken marriage, but when she sees what either one would cost to repair, she figures it’s cheaper just to hop in her car and drive away.

And when she does drives away, and hears the carburetor whine, or sees a crack in the road, she’s just going to face forward, keep driving, because she can’t repair the whole goddam world.  Now can she?





When the packages start arriving,

I don’t know what to think. I stand in the doorway each morning as the postman brings box after box. Hundreds, in fact. 

It is, after all, Christmas, but still. 

My father is dressed up like Santa Claus.  Even though he told me not to believe.

The packages keep arriving, and soon, they are spread across the table, the carpet, and eventually out the door. They clog up the driveway, and we have to pry ourselves past them on the porch. 

There are too many to open, and we begin hoping for package burglars. The kind you see on the evening news. 

But no one comes. Only the postman with more packages. He looks at my father all dressed up like Santa and waits for a tip. My father puts his two hands on his jellybowl belly and jokes that he gave at the office. 

One day, the day before Christmas, so we’re hoping the packages stop, the postman dollies a human-sized box up to the porch. It is wrapped in gold, and out pops my long-ago mother. I’d only seen her in pictures that my father told me not to believe. 




He had said I was found on a doorstep, but here is a mother if you need something to hold 

on to. He gave me a photo of this woman who is right now popping out of the box. 

Do you like all the gifts I’ve been sending? She asks, excelsior still in her hair. These are the things I should have given you all these years. My father says we don’t need any of that, we’ve been doing fine without any of that, and he pushes her back in the box. She doesn’t even struggle as he closes the flap and tapes her up shut. 

We watch as the postman, who is package-less now, passes our house. My father waves him over and slips him a twenty. Together, they carry the boxes to the curb and leave them for trash. 

Including the one with my package mother who looks just like my photo mother. The way my father looks like Santa Claus. The way whatever I believe looks just like what I don’t. 


Francine Witte is the author of four poetry chapbook, one full-length collection, and the forthcoming, Theory of Flesh from Kelsay Books. Her flash fiction has appeared in numerous journals, anthologized in the most recent New Micro (W.W. Norton) and her novella-in-flash, The Way of the Wind is forthcoming from Ad Hoc Fiction, as well as a full-length collection of flash fiction, Dressed All Wrong for This which is forthcoming from Blue Light Press. She live in New York City, USA.

“Racing Against Ghosts” by Daniel Eastman


Steve came stumbling off the curb in cargo shorts and a polo shirt. Swung open the door and fell in shotgun, a movement so fluid I thought he’d rehearsed it. Sweating booze, he leaned over and put a tongue in my ear like it was supposed to be sexy.

“Not here,” I said, looking around to make sure no one saw us. 

He belched and the stench of Bud Light bloomed throughout my Taurus.

“Jesus.” But who was I to judge? I was drunk too. 

Looked around craning my neck from side to side. Not a body in sight, only darkness and a couple yellow porch lights. Coast clear. So I floored it. 

Steve gripped the plastic clothes hanger handle over the door and shouted, “Whoa!”
“Welcome to the Batmobile, baby.”
Steve laughed. “This is the fuckin’ Batmobile!”
Shit, why did I say baby?

Steve came home from SUNY Potsdam for summer. I didn’t go to college. I got a job working at the Car Freshner plant. A puncher. You know the little hole where the string gets tied at the top of the Little Trees? Well, I’m the guy who punches that hole with a piston machine. All day I’m punching and sending them by the crateful over to the guy or girl who’ll be stringing.

He had a beard, too. Everyone was growing beards. I couldn’t grow one so I told people I thought shaving was manlier. Dragging razors across my face, hell yeah.

I was speeding down Flower Ave by the golf course, looking for a good spot when I saw a familiar face in a passing car. Whoever it was, we made eye contact for a second and I was sure he recognized me. Fuck. Don’t turn around and follow me. Maybe if I get it up to sixty they’ll forget they saw me and not turn around.

“Why are we going so fast?”
“I saw someone.”
“Zach, I think.”
“Zach who?”
“I think his name’s Zach.”
“The lacrosse player, Zach.”
“All lacrosse players are named Zach.”

Headlights winked in the dark behind me like they were saying, we know all about you, dude. We know and we’re comin’ to gitcha! When you’re living a secret life, every passing car, every stranger’s glance, every shadow cast has the potential to expose you.

Racing from my ghosts, I parked us in the lot of a funeral home several miles outside city limits. Red lights from the radio tower in a nearby field flashed across a stretch of darkened road.

I got out of the car and kicked some gravel and took a long pull from a bottle of Yukon Jack. Steve got close and breathed into my lips. “What was that all about? Driving like that?”

He peeled my shirt from my skin getting his hands underneath, kissed my gritty neck, and I dropped the bottle next to the tire hearing some of it slosh out into the dirt. Guys always kiss like they already own you, like they don’t care if you break apart in their mouths. He pulled me close by the button of my jeans, tearing them open.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t want anyone to know.”
“Trust me,” he whispered between kisses, “everyone already knows.”
“Maybe I had too much to drink and said something?” He stepped back and I could sense his shame in the darkness, standing there all hairy chest and stooped shoulders. “Are you mad?”

I leaned against the hood of the car looking down. Avoiding eye contact, absorbing his confession. Probably could have taken him. Even just a sucker punch. I thought about getting inside my car and gassing it back to town, leaving him stranded half naked at the funeral home on an empty back road. I thought about the ways to ruin him. Ah, fuck. 

My chapped throat burned. Feeling my gut wring itself out of booze and betrayal, I swallowed it down. Then I stood up and pulled him back to me. Everyone wants to play the tough guy in heartbreak.

We traded swigs for a couple hours looking up at the blinking lights over the radio tower before passing out in the backseat beneath a used beach towel.

Last I heard, Steve’s married and manages a bar down in Myrtle Beach. Me, I’m still punching away. Wonder if any of my ghosts are watching me now. Not mad about what happened between us. Not anymore. Goddamn


Daniel Eastman is a writer from upstate New York but he lives in Pennsylvania with his wife.

Twitter: @daniel__eastman

“HOME AT LAST” by John Grey


to a dark pleasure hole,
a kind of low mass,
labor-saving devices,
dismal yellow wallpaper –
no wonder a man drinks
from boiling hell,
a kitchen table will have to do,
a series of apposite deluding
sermons on the pleasures
of the self-
beliefs balance so precariously
and here’s me praising them,
refusing to leave the building,
as solitude stares out at the universe
and then some –
where the stars cheer
at whatever Duchamp is painting these days,
as booze reclaims its place in religion,
colorless morphine for the masses
turning the world away from me –
what is it like out there anyhow?
baritone voice through megaphone,
boutique balustrades, psychotic rainbows,
bums pissing in the gutter –
can’t clean myself up for
if I shave I leave blood in traces,
can’t ask the light::
causality has never been so clean-shaven –
heady days of the early nineties,
don’t wait for formal burial,
enlist in a war with even electric shavers
and foam licking bloody chins –
a laugh riot for all who believe
in the rotting worth of bodies.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes

“No Signs of Struggle” by Margaret King


The third night in the historic log cabin, I awoke with a jolt. Creaking. Tapping. 

“Just the old logs settling,” I told myself, but in the next beat, thought, “This place was built in 1873–shouldn’t it be settled by now?!”

(The ground shifts imperceptibly beneath our beds . An unsettling, and resettling…a dance between the earth and the manmade)

The past two nights had been peaceful, with all of us sleeping soundly in the wooded darkness and the freedom from traffic, train horns, and neighbors. 

Scratching. Scraping. I froze, all my senses on edge. A jingling of the dog’s collar, and then absolute silence.

(Sometimes the unsettling releases long-buried creatures from the deep)

“The dog would bark if someone were trying to break in,” I reassured myself, turning over and trying to fall back asleep.

A knock on wood, sharp. My husband sat up straight in bed next to me, and not realizing I was awake, quietly got out of bed and felt his way down the pitch-dark, steep wooden steps leading from the loft to the living area below. 

“He’ll check it out,” I felt reassured but was poised to grab my phone just in case (there was no reception this deep in the woods). Nothing. The minutes ticked by without any noise at all, and my husband did not return to bed. 

I tried not to drift back off to sleep in the silence and inky darkness, straining my ears for sounds of my husband coming back to bed, but my eyes and limbs were so heavy. With a sense of growing dread, I finally forced myself to get out of bed as quietly as I could. I crept down the steep wooden stairs, but how many were there?! Surely by now, I should be at the bottom of the staircase. 

I descended for an eternity, and the growing dampness and chill around me became palpable. Putting my hand out to touch the wall, I felt clammy, slippery mud instead of firm wall. My knees went weak and I began to tremble, my brain shutting down but for the most basic of survival functions. Ahead, flickering lights and the sounds of digging and hammering–lanterns and shovels and pick-axes, I now saw, being wielded by transparent workmen whose clothes and faces were covered in grime. Digging, digging, digging, prying, prising, throwing lumpy black rocks into carts on old wooden tracks.

Ahead, the dog wagging his tail near an open pit roughly the size of a grave, and my husband, smiling and beckoning to it. The transparent men surrounding it were digging, digging….

Finding my voice at last, I screamed, but the mud absorbed my cries like a sponge before all went, again, silent.


(The sheriff’s press release notes read, “There were no signs of struggle. The couple and their dog were found as if peacefully asleep. At this time, we believe there was a tragic hydrogen sulfide leak from the long-abandoned lead mine that tunneled underneath the structure. Law enforcement responding to the scene detected a characteristic sulfur odor. For now, the property is strictly quarantined until the hazmat team can ensure there’s no further danger to human life or health. I have no more information at this time.”


Reporter 1: “How do you think this gas entered the home from underground?”

Sheriff: “Possibly from a crack in the stone foundation near the structure of the chimney. Once the site is cleared, our forensics team will make a formal investigation of exactly how this accident occurred. As I’m sure you know, there are abandoned mines all over this area. In spite of the efforts made to find them all, sometimes in the case of these heavily-wooded, remote areas…well, they still turn up and surprise us.”

Reporter 2: “Do you think recent fracking in the area may have released the gas trapped in this old mine?”

Sheriff: At this time, we have no reason to believe that is the case. Black Zephyr Corporation is the only one fracking in the area right now, and they have assured us they’ve had no reports of accidents.

Reporter 3: “Many believe that the sulfur odor also indicates the manifestation of a ghost or spirit. Is this a possibility you and your department would consider?”

Sheriff: “Who is this woman? How did she get press credentials? Excuse me, I’m finished taking questions for now.”)

(The ground shifts beneath our feet, unsettling and resettling. A dance between damp earth and the built environment. Sometimes, the dance is fractured, and an old mine is disturbed, releasing long-buried creatures from the deep…)


Margaret King is a Wisconsin author who enjoys penning poetry, short stories, and novellas. Her recent work has appeared in Ghost City Press, Bombus Press, and Mojave He(art) Review. She is also the author of the novella Fire Under Water.

You can purchase Fire Under Water here.



2 Poems by Rickey Rivers Jr.



Hotel Room Floor

on the hotel room floor,
not knowing where I’m going.
Where is my life at this moment?
Do I even deserve it?
My tears soak the carpet.
I belong on the floor.
It is the only thing that would have me,
welcome me
with open arms.
I lay here.
The rough bristles caress my face
as I ponder my future.
Do I even deserve it?
Nothing I have now means anything.
I am at peace.
Let me sink
and merge
into the carpentry.
This is indeed a place for me.




Sorry for Breaking It


I switch; a dumb move precedes catastrophe.

Amazon in a printed dress, her neck fragile,

shatter ceramic, apologies are like glue,

fixing mistakes. I feel terrible, still.

Accidents forgiven, not forgotten,

mistakes make or break creatives.

Things were fine seconds ago.

Let this not become a “remember when you-” moment.

I apologize. Please, let the glue do its job.



“The Last Hunt” by William Falo


The red fox looked up to the sky and let out a loud yelp. Snow fell into his eyes and he didn’t see a shadow moving through the trees. A blast made him jump and a shower of pine needles fell on him when the bullet slashed through the trees. He darted into the thicker woods with his tail down as not to be an easy target.

When he stopped, he sniffed the wind and knew the human was getting closer, he took a chance and bolted uphill to the deeper snow. While he could walk across the top of the snow without sinking, the human would have to trudge through it at a slow pace. It would be an easy escape.

Behind a group of snow-covered pine trees, he listened to see if the human continued his

pursuit. Why would he? But he knew the answer. He saw his mate in the trap. The cruelty was beyond his understanding. 

Crows in a tree farther down the slope cawed out a warning. The human was coming. The birds took flight and continued to sound the alarm. A large deer bolted past him. When he was younger, he might have tried to take one down, but now with missing teeth and sore legs the buck could kill him. He should have followed it.

The sound of crunching snow made him focus his one good eye in the distance and he saw the human climb up a pile of boulders. The fox watched as the human leveled a long stick to his eye, he looked through a tube on top of the gun. Before he realized that his red tail was sticking out into the pure white snow a spark came out of the gun and searing pain instantly spread from his leg to his head. He tumbled over and saw red flecks on the snow where he was previously standing.

“Yes.” The human yelled. The fox limped to cover behind some trees. He feared the next spark from the long stick, but suddenly the human cried out. The stick flew out of his hands and the human fell off the rocks and rolled down the hill until his body ended up hitting a tree. The human remained still, his long stick was nowhere to be seen and a trail of gloves and supplies littered the snow.

The fox licked his wound, but the pain didn’t stop. After the blast of the shot, the woods took on a haunting silence, until he heard crying.  He wanted to get closer to the human. The vision of his dead mate drove him. It took a long time while dragging his leg behind him, but he made it close enough to see the human’s bare fingers were shaking while frozen streaks of water lined his cheeks.

The fox moved closer. 

The human saw him and reached for something that wasn’t there. Panic filled his face. The fox waited.

“I’m sorry I shot you, but you killed my dog and all my chickens.”

The fox tilted his head.

“Didn’t you?”

The human sobbed. His hands started to turn a dark color. Night was coming and the human probably wouldn’t survive it. 

“Maybe, I was wrong. The dog was my best friend and I was so mad. My neighbor said a fox did it and he said he knows it because he traps them. I would never trap any animal.”

His mate died in a trap. Should he help this man?

A yipping sound came from the pile of boulders. Two coyotes looked down upon them.

“I recognize that sound. That’s what killed my dog and chickens. It wasn’t you; it could have been the coyotes.”

The fox watched as the coyotes disappeared behind the rocks.

“I’m sorry. Revenge got the best of me.” The fox looked into the human’s eyes for a long time. Maybe he didn’t use the trap. He slowly moved closer while keeping a watch on the rocks. Coyotes were tricky and he needed to be alert. The man fell asleep and the fox stood guard as long as he could. Darkness was not to be denied and the fox curled up next to the man using his tail for warmth. He saw his mate waiting by a den. He was home.




The park ranger stopped the bobsled and looked down the hill. She took out her radio. 

“This is Madison. We need medical right away. I’ll send you the GPS.”

She drove past a rifle and saw numerous coyote tracks, then followed a path of gloves and other items until she reached the man under a tree. 

Next to the man was a fox. Its bushy tail covered the man as much as possible. The man’s

hands and nose looked frostbitten.

She felt his wrists and got a pulse. 

“Make that a medical evacuation by helicopter. He may make it, but could lose his hands. This will be his last hunt.” She put the radio down and saw the man was trying to speak.

“The fox?” He managed to mumble.

Madison looked closer and then shook her head.  “It might have saved your life.”

She kneeled next to the man and covered him with an emergency blanket. 

“What happened here?” Madison asked.

His hands shook and he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak. A single tear then fell down his frozen cheek and made it all the way to the ground. 


William Falo writes fiction. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Newfound, The Ginger Collect, Fictive Dream, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and other literary journals.

Twitter: @williamfalo