If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is the ingredients, and all that Betty Crocker kind of crap. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s cookbooks. So I’ll just tell you what we ate last Christmas, me and D.B.: he’s my brother and all, got a Jaguar cost him damn near four thousand bucks. So we hit a turkey on the highway, stuffed it in the trunk and stuffed it again when we got home, with a loaf of Wonderbread soaked in a bottle of Overholt a John left in the Jaguar. Did I tell you D.B.‘s a prostitute? Works in Hollywood. Anyhow, stuff your turkey with the rye-soaked loaf, roast it for a couple of hours and just before serving, fill one of those fancy icing gun things with ketchup and squirt „Happy Holidays, Phoneys“ across the crispy skin.

Moray McGowan, a Hiberno-Scottish silverback, wrapped chocolate, delivered mail, dug trenches, picked fruit and baked boiler insulation, taught for forty years at universities in Germany, the UK and Ireland, and now shuffles between the marshlands of Somerset (UK) and the jungles of Berlin.

“Fred, did you know that some people think there’s a rat for every human being?”

“What?”

:Yeah… But others think there’re four people for every rat.”

“That many people, huh, Ralph?”

Rat population statistics are imperfect. Rats, like people, are social animals. They are shrewd, reproduce quickly, and have well- developed immune systems. They care for one another, enjoy talking to each other, but merely squeak when people are around.

So, alone in an alley by a dumpster Northeast of Philadelphia, Fred and Ralph, two sewer rats, continued to talk…

“A rat for every four humans. Others say, it’s just for every three. You know what that means, Fred?”

“Not enough rats?”

“Exactly.”

For a while they were quiet in the dumpster shade, amidst the empty cans and plastic bags. Yes, the world is full of cans and bags. And flies.

A bulbous-headed fly zipped by, followed by a number of others with their compound eyes and vigorous wings.

“There’s a lot of flies in the world, Ralph.”

“I know… They estimate about 130 quadrillion.”

Fred scratched ‘130,000,000,000,000,000’ on a bag with his paw.

“Is that right, Ralph?”

“That’s it.”

He counted the number of zeros.

“In other words, not enough flies either…”

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

Once upon a then not long ago
enough the nows became
delicious, and every other then
took on its flat feel of “My,
how I have wasted…” Yes,
yes, you are who you are
because of blah, blah, blah—
all that dullness, too, that
boredom. But now you can
love the nows, love those
who show you, look forward
to a better later, even risk missing
this now or the next. Today’s
faint sun struggles to cast
yesterday’s delicate warmth—
but because it is now
here’s its half-fazing glow
through filtering clouds
and its more mottled effect
on water and the water’s still
steady sound and this alighting
bird who fans the translucent
arc of her tail feathers
through which you can see
the occasion you call now.

D. R. James, retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections is Mobius Trip (Dos Madres Press).
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage

There’s been a cliffside above my left aorta
Mesolithic fossils, old wounds reopened like a diary
I know so much of this place, and it, of me
That it can be hard to separate the two.

The doctors ask where my pain fits on a scale.
They show faces, bruises, fractures.
“Where is the chart for how my home is being eaten?”

I tell them 4
They tell me most people would say 0
That the human body is not built to be in pain.
Most people I know are 4s

Most people I know know when the sewage is released.
E-coli and ice cream summers.

They found a brachiopod in loose chalk the other day,
And I remembered the ghost of home.

Connor Sansby is a writer living and working in Margate, England – a place which greatly influences his work. He has written two collections of poetry and one joint collection of poetry, as well as a short story collection, I Am Not A Well Person. He is the founder and CEO of Whisky & Beards publishing from 2018 to present, and is 3x Saboteur nominated. He is also the host of the Margate Bookie Slam.

I am a dandelion, one of many in this yard.
Our stems stand tall, our flowers bloom round and full
We proudly declare that this lawn has no spray
We are proof that pesticides do not defile this space
It’s a safe place, a chemical-free oasis
For kids and pets to romp and run
For squirrels and birds to crunch and munch

Neighboring yards lack dandelions
They boast smooth carpets of green grass
Manicured precisely with lawnmowers
They often sport “keep out” pesticide signs
Many people crave these yards
They spend years perfecting them
Applying chemicals to eliminate “weeds”

We dandelions grace this yard with our presence
Happily co-existing with its plants and animals
Pollinators buzz around with joy
Chipmunks and deer chomp our leaves
Sparrows delight in eating our seeds
Clover cheerfully grows among us
Together we thrive.

Kristi Jones is a poet who lives, works, and writes in Madison, WI. She relishes time outdoors, particularly in her vegetable garden. Kristi loves re-wilded yards and wishes she had one. Dandelions are beautiful to her and she admires lawns filled with them. Kristi holds a BA from St Olaf College.

The blood red moon is back
Grey cliffs and rocks and
Promontories
Ocean and desert of dust
And ruin
Single eye staring

Dying orange sunset
Before the blue fades to black
A wound in the sky
Lost dreams and desires
Single eye staring

As certain as the ways
Of scheming men and women
The grey mist and fog
Of haze
Return

Arthur Neong is a Malaysian Chinese hailing from Sungai Petani, Kedah, Malaysia. A school teacher for 11 years, he now channels the maelstrom of thoughts and visuals into lines, hoping to make sense of it all.

The old news

wakes me from another manic dream
about my sons, 4 a.m., a solitary bird
whistling to no answer, news enough
that my night is over, day begun,
time to receive the old news—my father
no longer alive again—as if it were new,
though only through sentences
that circle like this one—circle
like yesterday’s drab cardinal,
who blended into the uncut lawn,
the leafy hedge, circling repeatedly
from another yard to the dogwood
to the overhead wire to feed her chick
who barely clung there, while the flashy
father tried with flapping antics
to distract me, watching from the patio
as descending dusk enshrouded
my father—dozing again on the porch,
his newspaper unfolding to the floor—
who died five years ago last night.

D. R. James, retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections is Mobius Trip (Dos Madres Press).
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage

The olive drabness of rejection rots
A fruitless branch of unattached, pruned parchment.
Black night of doubt surrounds the judgement. Lots
Of missing feedback for the sapling talent

Erodes the ego. Friendless fears, like dew
Drops, warp and wrinkle paper. Pencil nubs
With warn eraser caps provoke anew
The memory of their lead-sweat traces. Shrubs

Get sheared, but, writing is a gift that grows
Like graceful grape vines. Read how others write.
Agree or disagree. Allow your prose
Or poetry to be critiqued in light.

Engraft into a writing league, and sow
Revised words till they hang as mistletoe.

V. Paige Parker is married, has 5 children, and lives in San Antonio. She is a poet with an MFA in Creative Writing in the Catholic Literary Tradition, with a focus on formal poetry, from the University of Saint Thomas in Houston, Texas. She is a member of Well-Read Moms. Her hobbies include playing the guitar and the flute, taking long walks with her husband, and traveling with him. Her website is https://substack.com/@vpaigeparker.

I sit mindlessly on the floor playing solitaire for the seventh
time. Numbness, like nova cane, numbness that blurs
the stars. Sadness that plays with my hair, parting it over and
over. Eyes float through the succession of blinks. They flood
spilling over. Trickling down my cold, pale face they fall on my
spaghetti-stained t-shirt. I force thoughts down, dreadful, unwarranted.
Hues of warm yellow fade into the carpet from the adjacent
window. Light feels good.

Luther, my incorrigible black poodle abruptly takes over my space.
He stumbles in, falls at my stubby feet and swears he’ll always love
me. Scattered, his thick black hair is matted beyond repair. His breath,
simple, like coffee grounds, endears. Shiny coal eyes that look at me
like my mother. Eyes that fall all over me, wanting no more of me than
I bring. No pretense. No foul. Luther’s presence, his acceptance, his warmth,
negates thoughts now adrift.

Katie Barnett is a speech-language pathologist who spends most of her spare time writing poetry.

Ralph bought a new squid dog toy for Frodo, his Labrador, and a miniature sunken treasure ornament for Zeus, the goldfish. It’s better to give than to receive. Still, on that overcast Saturday, he felt a little, well, down. Alone with his pets, he took out a frozen dinner. Frodo was happy and coated the squid with saliva. Zeus darted eagerly back and forth from the treasure to the artificial weeds. Soon they would have dry dog food and fish flakes.

As he ate his microwaved mac & cheese, the doorbell rang.

“Hi, Ralph.”

“Oh, hello, Rayette.”

No longer living with him, she was still friendly enough to show up unannounced.

“I was in the neighborhood. I hope I’m not interrupting, but I bought you something.”

“No problem… My birthday was last month, though, Rayette.”

“I know. But better late than never.”

“That’s…”

What was the word? Thoughtful? Kind? Nice?

“…fine.”

“Here, Ralph. I hope you like it.”

She handed him an octopus dog toy for Frodo and a ceramic mermaid for Zeus.

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).