‘Oi – Emo boi!’

‘Piss off Em. Don’t you have some frogs to eviscerate? You don’t get there soon, 7b’s gonna burn down your lab.’ 

Now that thought raises a smirk. First sign of life since Jayne kidnapped our cat Kipper and moved in with Jim, the careers advisor, last year. Smug wanker. Hope she shits in his slippers. Kipper, that is. Mind you, wouldn’t put it past Jayne, now I come to think. . . Of course he wears sodding slippers.

‘What Em? Cool muso dude like you, can’t remember it’s Iris, after two whole terms?’ She spits “cool muso” at me, like the xenomorph in Alien spitting acid, excoriating me.

‘MDPG. Em’ Manic Dream Pixie Girl. I read a fascinating article in Mx Garrett’s Grazia only last week, and recognised the description instantly. ‘With your tiny tartan mini and your little shiny nose hoop and your pastel pixie crop. Ugh. And Iris, really? What are you, a fucking flower fairy?’ 

And that raises a snort. I’m on a roll. Mind you, I may have spent quality – ahem – “personal” time recently with that shiny little nose hoop, which she absolutely doesn’t need to know.

‘Oh sod off and go play with your instrument – pretty sure there’s a teeny, tiny little piccolo with your name on it in the music room.’ She spins squeakily on the staffroom lino in her Chucks, looks back over her shoulder to check out me checking out her arse. Which fair play of course I am. Raises one sparkly pink-painted pinkie, gives it a little wiggle, then sloooowly lowers it until it droops forlornly. Eyes me challengingly, eyebrow raised, all B&W movie star vamp. Fuck, she’s magnificent.

And, oh yeah, she so knows about me and her nose.

‘Why do you have to be so mean? I get I’m pathetic, I get you despise me, so why can’t you just leave me be?!’ For thirteen humiliatingly adolescent seconds I’m certain I’m going to blub.

Then a shaft of sunlight half-blinds me, illuminating her face like a mediaeval martyr. Slam-bang, fairy bells start clamouring in my ears like roid-rage-grade tinnitus, and a million rainbow-coloured bubbles are sucking all the air out of the room, because she is smiling at me. That. Fucking. Smile. A man would go to war for that smile, or the moon. Or maybe just plain insane. Anything, absolutely any goddamned thing you could think of to keep her smiling like that at you forever. Or perhaps that’s only me.

‘Don’t you know anything? Thought everyone knew us manic flower fairies only ever pull the wings off the cute little emo elves we like best.’

And with a quick up-down and a flicky-eyelinered wink she’s off to sort out 7b, Goddess help ‘em. But not before I half-blind her with the smile she’s raised.

 

Pam Martin-Lawrence is a queer neurodivergent writer living on a small English island with collections of emotional support plants, ‘book boyfriends’ and a long-suffering partner. While writing novels, she writes poetry and short fiction for relaxation, almost fifty of which pieces have/will appear in publications and anthologies including Passionfruit Review, Writers’ Journal ‘Roots’ anthology, Hotch Potch Literature, Coin-Operated Zines, KissMet Quarterly, SunSpot Literature (Rigel anthology), litl journal on Instagram, Bunker Squirrel magazine, and Micromance Magazine. She is the author of ‘The Tale of a Dragon’ (Alien Buddha Press 2024). Chocolate is her kryptonite.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mykki Rios has inadvertently birthed a lot of poetry while trying to do their makeup or fall asleep.
Most of said poems did not ask to be born and immediately left to take their places in the sky as UFOS.
When asked about their womb, Mykki simply pointed to the aquarium full of crystalline, gestational almost-concepts, looking like plastic bags slowly actualizing into immortal jellyfish and evening gowns.
Mykki only has a home because others hold onto holiday decorations year round.
Mykki is a basement dwelling entity, always out of season, spring florals in autumn, and all their leaves falling salacious at the feet of Easter.
Mykki only shows up in photos that were never of them. Fashion bloggers gush about how the hem of their dress conceals their lack of physical form.
Look how the eyelashes flutter soundless like high tea being served.
Notice how the exuberant hat complements the unearthly abundance of phantom features.
Museums begin from a deep, gnashing lust to simply observe.
Mykki’s touches are an archival, and you are welcome to come inside.

Mykki Rios is a queer genderfluid Mexican-American writer, performer and multimedia artist. Raised in Chicago, and having lived many places across the globe, they recently returned home to the Windy City. Mykki has had works featured in issues of Welter, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, Random Sample Review, Smoke and Mold Journal, The Normal School, Apparition Literature, BRAWL Lit, Synkroniciti Magazine, HAD, Tampa Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Londemere Lit, and more. They were also a finalist in Lupercalia Press’ 2022 Chapbook Series Contest.

 

“I wish you could see this skyline, Michael,” Jane lamented.
“Why, aren’t they all the same?”
“Sure. And all music’s the same too, right? That gives me an idea.” Listen to this. Jane’s practiced hands conjured musical magic. Jazz, swing, and so much more smoothing painfully chaotic chords.
“What. Was. That?” whispered Michael, wonder in his voice.
“That, my love, was New York. Want to hear Chicago?”
“Uh, huh,” blind eyes blinking agreement.
Sweet, soulful blues, fused with gritty rock power filled the air—all glass and steel.
“Play another,” Michael begged.
“I want to hear the whole world sing.”

Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn’t yet figured out what retirement means. In turns, he consults, mopes around, and crafts wildly varying types of fiction—literary, horror, humor, as well as many things undefinable. He often plies Virginia’s backwaters on his kayak, searching for both fish and inspiration.

https://linktr.ee/KWhitsonWrites

Not Pedro the brooding zombie hunter,
not Pedro with super rubber legs and arms.
Pedro saying my name in a hot foreign accent,
painting my portrait among daisies.
Pedro who washes the dishes while
I soak in the bubble bath.

He would make me the creamiest
carbonara for lunch, and massage my feet with
cranberry-scented body butter.

Pedro, who would worship me in bed,
spill my name through his senses like
a blast of honey,
but Pedro who would also search for my hand
in the dark after some stupid fight.

I’d only leave you for Pedro,
Pedro starring in a film, cast as
you.

Karina Longo is a neurodiverse Brazilian-Italian poet based in Milan. Her poetry has been featured in online publications including Ressurection Mag, Micromance Magazine and Londemere Lit, with more soon appearing in Rough Diamond Poetry Journal. Karina was nominated for The Pushcart Prize for her poem, Lovelight (Micromance, 8/01/25). She is the EIC to new indie magazine La Rotonde Review. Find her musing on X: @TheDarkestStar_

I want to move your hair;

to clout you sharply on the moors,

leaving canine contours at the foot of your throat,

a dog mawing the marrow,

sticky sore and ashamed of

a picked-clean ribcage

on cooing windowsills.

I want to burst your banks;

float by like detritus

and cloy to your oar’s thick end,

over and over.

Praise with faint damns.

Drown in them,

roll in them,

bask in them,

bake in them,

dive in and miss and hit sticky-up bits.

Cracked, like fine wine.

I want pills & booze,

traversing what’s decent,

like the octopus tree

feeling your terrace, head bowed, where

old flames decay attics,

skylights pulsing 

blue and black,

mistaking my arse for your elbow.

Never knowing when to please

stop

doing that.

Sua Sponte

in your 3rd year of law school

a rogue thought will spring loose 

prima facie

from the confines of your tightly tamped mind

habeas corpus

a runaway quarter racing into the vortex 

ex parte

of a spiraling charity wishing well 

triggering a series of decisions that will forever alter you

sine qua non

you will pick agency over comfort and convenience

caveat emptor

embark on a path of your own making

sui generis

decades later you will wonder if your parents are proud or disappointed

quaeritur

you never have the courage to ask

de minimis non curat lex

Johannah Simon is a corporate strategist, professor, and optimistic ideator. A Midwest GenX writer, her tiny pieces are curated at thewritingtype.com. Connect with her on X @JohannahWrites,  @johannah.bsky.social, or Insta @johannahcanwrite.

Soda Mixing 

A kid who can’t decide — that’s what you are —
At heart; The kid is limited in mix —
The soda fountain has few tastes to jar,
But few flavors suffice to teach the tricks;
Dark cola drowns light; lids hide but can’t fix
The secret-new lasts its moment, then strains
The taste — all shall be emptied down the drains.

There’s power in promise and promise in power;
Above all, that’s what soda mixing taught:
In you, indecision began to flower.
When almost any one thing can be bought,
The last entertainment left is what you wrought.
And I’ll confess: it’s fun to sip your blend
Of pride-poised love and hate — a poison thought
I can’t dispel; you’ve cast your spell on end;
I dive right in; like acid on skin, let it rend.

I know not why I need no why; I now
Find myself hating the known, tasting bone —
I do not want to chew; I’ll take a vow:
I’ll break my jaw, sip through straw alone —
Carve these words like sweetheart names in stone:
Let the flavors fall in mottled unison,
Fizzle — vestal vitiation of vision.

 

 I am a law student living in Washington D.C. My twitter is @Jason__Reid

A New Man

“Honey, I want to try that new crafting class. But first let’s pick apples. I know it’s Sunday during football season, but I want to try out that new sweater vest you got me.”

Erica flushed as he continued. This is how a man should talk to a woman. How he used to talk to her. Wait ‘til she could tell her neighbor Pam. Old “what do you need a man for?” Pam. 

Todd continued. “It’s not right how they treat you at work, either. I think Brad takes you for granted. I’ve got half a mind to march in there some day and deck him.”

Had he actually been listening when she told her work stories? It always seemed like he was scrolling through fantasy football sites or car shopping online while she described her mistreatment. 

“Also, I’m just gonna say it. We don’t see enough of your mother.” 

This was almost more than Erica could bear. Thoughts of Todd and her mother coexisting peacefully. Even bonding. The three of them at the early bird. Matinees. She had never dared to hope for that. 

“Also, I think you are right about my cutting down on the red meat. And wings. Let’s try more of those dishes you found on Pinterest. You are absolutely right about how versatile squash is. It really is a superfood.”

Had he done something wrong? Was he now overcompensating to curry favor? No. She knew it wasn’t that. She knew he was a good partner. Faithful. Just a bit indifferent to some of her desires. Until now. 

“And let’s forget about that Gettysburg trip. I think we should book the Jane Austen getaway you read about. Follow in the steps of Mr. Darcy around the English countryside. Better than some old battlefield any day.” 

Was this a dream? No, she was wide awake.

 And she was not merely imaging it. It was real. 

She was sitting by her honey, holding hands, as he gazed into her watering eyes and spoke the words she had longed to hear for so long.

 It was a breakthrough. 

At this point, the counselor had heard enough. She raised her hand and cut Todd off. 

“Ok. Ok. Very effective role play, I think. Now Todd, let’s continue the exercise. What would you say to Erica if you were being yourself?”

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com

on Instagram @scottmacleod478, on X @ScottMacLe59594 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334

Too much or never enough

Is it a silly thought
that I wish I knew what
a rainbow could look like
if it did not require a storm
to form its existence? 

To contemplate if such a beauty
can exist independent of
lightning strikes. 

The sun slowly escapes from
Under the rug of clouds that hid its glow
and this is how she greets us hello. 

Maybe the rainbow was supposed
to be an apology for
Making darkness arrive
Prior to 7pm. 

But that wasn’t her choice. 

She was still
giving light to us,
it just happened to be
hidden by the clouds. 

she is not the reason for the
car crash on 74th,
nor for the echoes of dogs howling
and running into closets and bathrooms
after an extended cascade of thunder.

If she had the power,
I think she would’ve broken
through the walls
placed in front of her
and relit the world. 

But instead, we place the
burden on the crash on her
and not the man who was
drunk driving at 3:45pm in the afternoon.
Cause anything non-manmade can be reimbursed—
excluding bodies of course. 

I feel for the sun
And the constant burden of apologies
It seems she is assigned to. 

Why won’t you let me rest? 

_________________________

Maybe one day after the
Sun is able to break through the next storm,

I’ll take my car,
Making sure that I am
paying attention to every loose branch
That landed on the road,

And take a few extra seconds
at the yield sign to make sure that the
mother walking her toddler
make it across to the sidewalk
on the other side of the crossroad. 

I’ll eventually park my car
At a place that is closest
To what may be the
edge of the rainbow, 

maybe an old parking lot,
or near the entrance of
the one of the strawberry fields. 

As the sun greets me by her rays
Hugging my skin,
I’ll whisper a soft
thank you to the sun. 

I’d tell her she does not
have to feel like she has
to gift us with her presence
when we have clearly
taken advantage of her.

I won’t be shocked if
Her response is to
Hide behind the clouds again

And let the rain pour once more

 

Naa Asheley Ashitey is a Chicago-born writer and MD–PhD candidate at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. A first-generation, low-income Ghanaian-American and University of Chicago alumna, she writes at the intersection of race, medicine, and belonging.
Her creative and editorial writing examines how policy, media, and academia reproduce structural violence—and what it means to resist with truth.
Her creative work appears or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, BULL, Hobart, Michigan City Review of Books, and editorials for The Xylom, MedPage Today and KevinMD. She has been nominated for multiple awards, including Best Small Fiction. More at NaaAshitey.com.

Twitter/Instagram: @foreverasheley
Bluesky: @foreverasheley.bsky.social

on tuesday i found myself trapped inside a raincloud

Outside the husk of a 7-11, I freeze,
stuck as a mule deer, and become wet
breath, braided in vines of leadened
mist, buoyant alongside water and dust.

Truth is, I was lucky. On Venus, rain
clouds are made of sulphuric acid
and I am already predisposed
to bad skin, from my mother.

You remember your mother? Before
sickness breached the levees and you
were flushed from your home, spit
out amongst abandoned coastal plains.

That was not the first time she had unleashed
torrents of violent nature. Once, she carved
deep into her palm with a pearl-handled
boning knife politely refusing to kiss bone,

just dull gray bands of recycled skin
and punishing red muscle. Draining,
she watched the innocent sink blush
(this was back when she still had hair).

Ben studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quarterly, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, SoFloPoJo and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com