“To Roam at Last” by Gonzalo Adolfo


On the Road in the West

toast to the new
year and my way,
to roam at last

across South Dakota…

arteries streaming over hills
through the plains, red
highways of the rangelands

posted at the rest
stop for pissing, a
sign says no hunting

in Bighorn National Forest…

towering over dense hills
of forest, snow-capped
peaks shine like diamonds

wildlife of Wyoming…

a posted warning speaks
the truth, herd of
slow cows stopping traffic

grazing along the shoulder
of the road, family
of cows, hello darling

picking at the grass
among the pebbles, mama
and baby sheep roadside

an impromptu stop to
refuel, cow milks her
young on the road

a crossroads for the
wildlife, cows line up
to cross the highway

with Yellowstone on the horizon…

from dry plains rolling
to lush hills distant,
mountains go into clouds

vast open space for
miles, a skinny-legged
fawn on the prairie


Gonzalo Adolfo is a Bolivian-American writer and author of the novel, No Rush for Gold, and the poetry volume, Gone to War. His international publication credits include The Opiate, Black Bamboo Haiku Anthology, and Vita Brevis. He lives in Berkeley, California. Follow his work at: bumhew.com

“Sunday Afternoon Sermon” by Susan DeFelice


The old man descended the stairs on his matchstick legs to the outside section of the bar and hobbled out to the rusty fire pit where the glaring sun rendered Cherise invisible. As he approached, her body diffused as though he was nearing a pointillist painting.

He arched back, shielding his eyes from the sun, “I can barely see you, Lady! What you doing back here all by yourself?”

Before Cherise could answer he hollered, “Well, I’m Manny and you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through!” his legs bent stiffly like they were held together by stick pins. He wore holy jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt with an aged black leather vest. His face was sunken and his quivering smile revealed few teeth.

Manny said to Cherise, “What do you think about this plan: I’m starting a Saturday sermon out back here at three o’clock. Because church is closed and people are suffering! Hell, I’ve lost a few friends, not from illness but from loneliness! What do you think of that idea, Lady? We won’t out and out offer alcohol but it will be available.”

Cherise replied, “I think it’s a nice idea, Manny. I’d go, but I don’t go to church. I know what you mean about the loneliness though.”

Manny looked at Cherise with his watery eyes and cried, “That’s what I’m talking about! Loneliness is such a god-damned ignored thing these days!” he slapped his leg and Cherise imagined a big bruise already forming on it. He focused on the driftwood benches surrounding the firepit as though imagining them filled with a congregation, then waved and shuffled back inside the bar. Cherise closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun, its rays scattering her apart particle by particle.


Susan DeFelice graduated from Sonoma State University and recently moved to Georgia where she writes fiction and bakes.

“Honeysuckle” by D. Parker


You press the soft petals between my lips
and whisper of things I have known
only in the letters of others
before me; there isn’t much you need
to say; we found our own tongue
shaped like secret, intimate devotion.


D. Parker spends most of her days surrounded by books both at work and at home. In her free time she reads and occasionally lets words form on paper.

“Sea Glass” by Brandi Kary


I once took comfort
In the refuge of you
And your turbulent sea

I once offered up
The wholeness of me

That way your waters
Chiseled at
The sharp corners
Of my pain

That way your waters
Swallowed my story,
Shattered me, and
Spit me back out —

Resurrected on your shore
Like an unexpected gift
Round and smooth
I stay, desperate for you–

Put in a pretty bowl
On top of your pretty shelf
Admire me from afar

Make me something else
Make me someone else.


Brandi Kary is a mother, educator, and poet who lives in Pacific Grove, California. She’s taught English and Creative Writing at Monterey Peninsula College for many years. Aside from loving words, Brandi loves to lift heavy things. She’s a competitive powerlifter and currently holds world records and national records for bench pressing and deadlifting.

“The Smile” by Julius Lobo


Beyond the valley, the last light reddens the sky.
A lone deer grazes near the road into town.
I have forgotten the faces at the inn that night,
Except yours: your smile holds my gaze,
Making an instant of time, inexhaustible.
My future, still unfolding in that fleeting moment.


Julius Lobo is a teacher and writer currently living in the Baltimore area. Swept up by a love of books, he earned a Ph.D. in English Literature and has held a variety of teaching positions. His work has appeared in Book Riot and the Journal of Modern Literature. You may often find him catching up on email and sipping a strong cup of Assam black tea.

“Dilemma” by Alyssa Sego


The great quandary has
Been my equal wish to be
Seen & disappear


Alyssa Sego studied English Literature at Southern New Hampshire University. She enjoys reading and writing poetry, and making traveling dream boards. She resides in Louisville, KY with her husband and two dogs.

“I Run” by Emma Murray


I’ve been envious of Ganymede for some time now. Most will think it’s because of his unwavering beauty. The most beautiful of all the Greeks, but this isn’t why.
Legend has it that Zeus abducted him, flying him to the top of Mount Olympus. Had his wicked way with him, his new cupbearer. His exquisite servant.
No one questioned Zeus, did they!
But oh how they’d question me.
Me, the captain of the school football team. The straight A student, excelling in wood work class. Talented.
The shock would quickly turn to playground jibes, unfavourable taunts.
Derogatory whispers.
No, that would never do.

“What will I get ya for your birthday Danny?” my mother asks of my looming 18th.
My overnight transition from boy to man.
What I truly desire, I could never tell her. The curse of living in old Ireland. A farmer’s only son.
Oh how I yearn to walk the streets of Manhattan, or London’s Soho, in jeans too tight, shirt too low. Basking in the florescent neon lights. The freedom. My smile illuminated, stretching from ear to ear.
My unrealistic fantasy.
“Ah, money will be grand Mam, thanks,” I say, not wanting to engage any further in this awkward conversation.

I run.
I’m naturally athletic, fit. But that’s not why I run. I run, in an attempt to out run this monster inside me. The one desperately trying to break free, with every breath I take. The one that longs to live happily ever after on Mount Olympus. I have the looks for it, I’ve always been handsome. It’s the strength I lack.
And for a moment I wonder if it’s me that lacks the strength or my family?
My devout Catholic grandparents. My mass every Sunday childhood. The stolen moments my ears pricked, hearing my father curse at the failing football team on the TV, muttering ‘faggots.’
Maybe its not me, maybe it’s them.

I dream of asking for a one way ticket.
An escape.
A new life.
One where I could be me.
The real me.
Not the fake role I play in this cruel world. God mocking me. Having a laugh while I try to navigate my secret, daily.
But who am I kidding!
There is only one kind of one way ticket for me.
And why wait any longer? Why suffer the first few years of adulthood being a fraud. Why live a life of disappointment when realisation is now upon me.

I reach for the rope. Smoother than I imagined. It doesn’t look like a murderer but I suppose neither do I.
St.Peter won’t open the gates for me, that much I know.
But I don’t want him to.
All I want is Zeus,
to save me from this torture.

No more running.


Emma M. Murray is a young mother living in the North West of Ireland. She has a passion for writing short stories. She enjoys sunsets over the sea and too much chocolate. She dances well and sings badly.

“Here Lies” by Elizabeth Kiem


Frankly, I blame the flowers.

It’s a nice gesture, bringing flowers to a grave. But people only think about the bringing. Not about the leaving. They don’t think about the roses three days brown and the cellophane slick with rain.

Do you know what a bouquet lying on a grave looks like? Like someone was there, but then left.


Certain flowers don’t get left. Because nobody put them there in the first place.

You know what wildflowers in a cemetery look like? Like covered tracks tripping up the surfaces of ground and underground. An overnight carpet of wild violets and snowdrops—that’s fuzz on your teeth. That’s sun on your cheek. That’s natural.

The bouquets in their plastic sheaths are natural too. It’s natural that the living want to arm themselves on entering a graveyard. Natural that they would want to leave something, too.

But this? This wasn’t natural. This was a grave turned to garden: Tulips plugged in the four corners. A banner of chrysanthemums, framed by freesia. Symmetric sentinels of foxglove. Not a bare patch of earth. Not a blade of green. Roses too red. Daffodils too yellow.

And the worst: the daisies with their pincushion pupils— a hundred wide-open mustard eyes lifted to the sky.

Who could sleep under all that watchfulness? Who could rest under such landscaped elegy? Could you lie still, laminated in petals?

Floral claustrophobia it was.

If I were Daniel Lazare, I would have risen from my grave, too.


Elizabeth Kiem is the author of a fictional series about psychic Soviet ballerina spies and a non-fiction series about George Balanchine’s ballets. She was born in Alaska, raised in Virginia, calls herself a New Yorker and lives in London.

Learn more about her TrapezeWriting workshops at elizabethkiem.com.

“everything moves slightly” by Jack Deno


i wake up every day with eyes slightly
darker underneath, regardless of my sleep quality.
each restless night or malicious dream slightly
making me look older than i truly am

i attend to a job i despise to make money, slightly
making me wealthier. every day spent there
takes its toll on me, turning me slightly
colder and more hollow each day’s end

i consume caffeine on an empty stomach to feel slightly
more awake, but my body has grown tolerant.
each cup of energy makes me slightly
less jittery as i become more resistant

returning home I park my car, knowing it will get slightly
scratched by people who are poor parallel parkers.
i will pull in and out and in and out, slightly
brushing theirs too, for i am bad at it as well

being home, I get high to feel slightly
happier and at peace with myself.
my high seemingly weaker and slightly
shorter each time; i smoke too much

everything in my life is moving slightly
along, a slow crawl into the future.
at what point do all the slightly
moving actions catch up to a rapid pace?


Jack Deno is an Illinois native currently exploring his potential as a writer. He hopes to learn more about himself through his writing. He gazes at the stars every opportunity he gets.

“Connection” by Marie-Kristin Hofmann


Lemonade hearts
lavender love
lips longing
for anything
but loneliness.


Marie-Kristin Hofmann is a 29-year-old content marketer currently living in Berlin. Her poetry is inspired by her solo travel experiences, Berlin rooftop nights and the city’s lost souls. She holds a bachelor’s degree in American literature from Mannheim University and a master’s degree in Intercultural Communication from Passau University.