Her laughter escalated

into muted hysteria,

lasting a second too long,

like an unfortunate accident,

a gasp, an inhalation

with throat muscles constricting,

breasts heaving,

shoulders shaking.

A moment of mirth

escaped unawares,

triggered by happenstance,

initially apologized for,

then later

subtly savored.


by Gary Glauber

Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. In 2013, he took part in Found Poetry Review’s Pulitzer Remix Project. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His collection, Small Consolations, is coming from The Aldrich Press in 2015.

Daniele Walker

Getting to know you


How do you feel about thunderstorms?

I realize I have no idea how you’d answer.

My cheeks burn;

the thunder cracks;

it must be a sign.

I miss a lover I don’t know

and the thunder is judging me.


Have you ever

tried to write a poem

and the poem won’t write

but its lines keep insisting themselves to you?

I’m being silly.

It’s storming and I’m blushing and

I don’t know you

but I know you don’t write.

The thunder snorts

and the poem about you keeps insisting itself to me.



when you kissed me,

did your fingertips

feel like lightning?


i guess that was

just me.



Shame on you for making me feel something.

Shame on me for thinking it meant something.



how do you feel about thunderstorms

and relationships that won’t go anywhere


and me?

The thunder is crackling now,

cackling now,

but I don’t think it’s laughing at us.

by Daniele Walker


October sixteenth


The world in which I am living

is not the world in which I woke up

this morning,

because you are not in it.

The world is not the same,

and I didn’t even get to say goodbye

to it

or to you.

This kind of sadness is how I imagine drowning like you did.

And I wonder if it hurt.

And I wonder if you were afraid.

And I wonder


you knew

what was coming.

And I wonder if you knew that I loved you.


by Daniele Walker

Daniele DeAngelis Walker is twenty-three years young, but her soul feels much older. An avid lover of colors and words, she graduated from Drew University with specialized honors in creative writing. She works in the publishing industry and lives in New Jersey with the fiancée she never thought she’d have.

when I close my eyes

when I close my eyes,

my bones quiver like I’m

the girl I was last summer,

waking up eighteen on

the banks of the river,

four inches deep in little boys

that press themselves flush

into the creases of my barefoot callouses


it’s there:

honeysuckle, rationed

single drop by single drop,

nectar touched so gently

by our green mother

that it’s bitter to my tongue,

pressed inside my cheeks,

to bite, to knead,

sewn into silk-hewn soil

that bleeds roots from seeds,

bursting leaves like sunburst skies,

like the amber-glossed eyes

of every horse I led to water

only to never let them drink


by Alora Ray

Alora Ray is 20, temporarily lives in Northern Virginia, perpetually lives in a state of denial, performs for whimsy, writes by necessity.



on pulpits,

lucid with bliss,


gold, crimson and chartreuse,

a tricky weave

in thatched looms,


chirps tuned

to dulcet grace,

coy as they syncopate,


fragile as a drizzle

of satyrids,

murmur of aria, whirl


and frond.


fantasia of mince,

lilt-borne chimes,



of felicity,


young as breeze,

buoyant with glee,








by Chris Crittenden

Chris Crittenden writes from a struggling fishing village, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. He is pretty well published.

The Printing Press

i want to build you castles of words,

letters looping into stairs & banisters –


standing up billboards of breath

in a sleepless city lit by commas &


question marks. i want to sprinkle consonants

into your dreams & i want you to wake up with poetry


under your tongue. i’ll soften all the vowels

that dewdrop on the roses & i’ll sculpt


the adjectives into a vehicle

to the extraordinary. my fingers


may be feeble & my heart may spin

rambling novels before it’s through,


but i’ll keep restacking these bricks

and trimming these topiaries


until every last syllable

comes out right.


by Sarah Marchant

Sarah Marchant is a writer, poetry editor, and literary enthusiast living in St. Louis.

Lana Bella

Like The Blue Like Infinity


From you,

the wings of a seraphim grow.

Like the blue.

Like infinity.

You tore the currents from

the shore,

you belted the sky against its flesh and

held back the threat of rain.

But there was a recent time when you

fell through the thick of clouds

and fell some more,

the heart pattered out,

the bone slipped into death,

and the truth peeled away at the skin.

A limpid metaphor.

Your tendons were led, strung up like

skulls on pikes.

Your tears, clear droplets mingled with

plump pity were

flicked beneath the burning sighs.

While breaths wrung out to be strangled by

the claws of mud-coated ground.

But, the patient one, with hearty bale of madness

you had carried on.

Stripping apathy of its sorcery.

Leaving it eyeless and dull.

Then you stirred when tomorrow arched

across yesterday,

where the hallowed calm

darkened over water-lights of today.

Pleasures and pain. Glory and shame.

And skyward to light you soared,

on extended wings.


by Lana Bella


Under My Dark


Five long hours. Under my dark. I sprawl awake.

Tumbling through the house. Sinking against the

windowpane, watching rained acoustics patter on

the terraced roof. Cries of raindrops. Mingle with

a symphony of ghosts roaming about me. Then I

pour myself a memory from a simmering cauldron,

flavored of alphabet scars and flakes of consciousness.

Hands on the pot. A sudden blink. How do I pour the

liquid thoughts and lettered inks into a bottomless beaker

without leaving my body in a pool of shadows? But now,

my lips thirst for drink. To warm over the cold where the

bone is hollow. Until, I lean in, something exposed and

glassy, echoing on the surface. It is my eyes staring back

at me. Gliding through the fluid with hooked arms. And

its mouth slurping up the pale gullet, heaving off the

squirting blood. The muddy mass of flesh throws up

in the mirage. Then high above, a dullard of rain again

breaks over the house. If I listen, my heart would once

more weep and my eyelids would suspend in tears. So I

stretch my skin where the stairs lay muted and heavy,

under the particled air into which darkness goes.


by Lana Bella

Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction anthologized, published and forthcoming with more than sixty journals, including Aurorean Poetry, Burningword Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, Mothers Always Write, New Plains Review, The Criterion Journal, and Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine, among others. She resides in the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.

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