“Marco the Magnificent” by Elizabeth Farris

He blamed everything on his lovely assistant.  Lately she’d been acting strange, allowing the rabbit to escape from his top hat.  She failed to oil the hinges on a safety device.  Sabotaged his act by rumpling his silk handkerchief so the fake flowers emerged upside down. 

Even the stagehands noticed the crying fits.  She’d lost her sparkle; her passion for the magic of show biz had vanished. 

If she had survived, she would have told how he sniggered about the weight she’d been putting on.  Growing too fat for the sequined costume.  Her swollen ankles were visible to the people sitting in the last row.  She was unappealing, both to him and to the audience.  She could barely squeeze into the Saw the Lady in Half Box, no less contort her body to avoid the saw.  Marco the Magnificent, a show all about deception.  He accused her of refusing to participate in the illusion.     

If she’d survived, she would have told him, “I don’t care if your wife finds out.  I’m having this baby.” 


Elizabeth Farris is a dual citizen who divides her time between a small cabin in the mountains of Arizona and a small town in New Zealand. Both houses overlook water; a tiny year-round creek and the Tasman Sea. Either there are elk in the yard, or she is down the beach collecting pretty shells.

“Come, leh we dance” by Lynda V. E. Crawford


calypso, kaiso, ringbang, soca

merge horns into morning cock crows
tingle pan, pound bass

wuk up your waistline
in a giggle first, then

a sweaty laugh


Lynda V. E. Crawford is a poet who has lived in the USA longer than her childhood home Barbados, a fact that sways and punctuates her writing. She’s let go of journalism, copywriting, website management, and email marketing. Poetry won’t let go of her.

“Shopping Mysteries” by James Barr


For years, I’ve thought on and off about Mr. Coffee. To be perfectly clear, I have nothing against the guy. In fact, I think he makes a great cup of coffee. Instead, my wonderment has to do with Mrs. Coffee. Where the heck is she? Or was there ever such a person? Is Mr. Coffee a lifelong bachelor or did he and Mrs. Coffee go splitsville and I just missed hearing about it?

I’m not a regular reader of those supermarket magazines, but I know for certain that if there was ever any news about a Mr. and Mrs. Coffee breakup, it would’ve been splashed all over the cover. If so, I would’ve caught it, just as I caught another breaking story. Someone spotted the Pillsbury Doughboy at a weight reduction clinic. There’s even a grainy shot of him on a yoga mat, and it isn’t pretty.

I occasionally wonder if Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker know each other. After all, they’re stocked in the same aisle, sometimes right next to each other and have a lot of kitchen wizardry and wooden spoons in common.

I frequently see signs about “Gluten Free” and wonder, since it’s free, where I can get some. But there’s never any small print providing directions or attempting to clarify things. But that’s okay. I’m thinking I wouldn’t like it anyway and would probably return it. But where would I take it?

How come we never hear anything about Laura Scudder? She makes a mean batch of peanut butter, despite forcing me to bend a spoon and tear a wrist tendon while trying to stir it. I can see why she wouldn’t want to hang with Peter Pan, as he’s too young and an imagined character. However, I have heard rumors about Laura and Chef Boyardee, but can neither confirm nor deny them.

I also feel a little deceived whenever I go to Bed, Bath & Beyond. Despite asking every time I’m in one of their stores, no one can point me to the “Beyond” section. The Bed and Bath merchandise is easily found. But whatever’s in the “Beyond” department is a mystery. Maybe there’s a secret door somewhere behind the display of lemon-scented garbage disposer balls. I’ll take a closer look next time.

That brings me to that Mike Lindell guy of “My Pillow” fame. Have you ever seen anyone prouder of their pillow? If I were to purchase one from him, would he still consider it his pillow? Or would it now become my pillow? And when, exactly, does it officially become MY pillow? Why does one guy have to have so many pillows he considers his? Also, if I purchased two, would they then be called My Pillows?

Admittedly, none of these are problems worthy of a think tank or some cumbersome governmental committee. But let’s all work together to get them cleared up.

Doing so will give me more time to try to pull my spoon out of Laura’s peanut butter.


An ad agency creative director turned freelance writer, James is enjoying his newfound creative freedom. During his career, he was once challenged to find features and benefits in a well-known beauty soap. Today, he’s free to lather up stories that bring smiles and joy while never leaving a ring in the tub.

“The Word” by Kevin LeMaster


when the word is spoken
it files the teeth to a sharp edge
butters the tongue
like morning news
almost always not as sweet
looks at you with doe eyes
a fawn in your arms
until it kicks its way free
an uninvited guest that won’t leave
until it has drained you of all you can say
all that you can imagine is out there
on the table like lines of coke that must
be snorted
all we can do is breathe deep and smell
the rotted with the too sweet
and listen to the drone in the ear
until it has finished speaking


Kevin lives in South Shore Kentucky. His poems have been found at The Lakes, Appalachian Heritage, Praxis magazine, Rockvale Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Birmingham Arts Journal, Plainsongs ad Coe Review.
He has had recent work published in Dragon Poet Review, Pangolin Review, Constellations and Inkwell Journal and work forthcoming in The Bookends Review and Heartwood Literary Review. Kevin was a finalist for the Mahogany Red Lit Prize.
His work in “Rubicon: Words and art inspired by Oscar Wildes De Profundis” was nominated for a Pushcart prize.

“Higher Learning” by John Tustin


My son liked sea chanties
And my daughter liked Neil Young’s Harvest album
And Ennio Morricone.
They both liked Tom Waits.
In the limited time I had with them
I crammed all the learning about the finer things
That I could.

Someday in the future their significant others will ask them about me
And they’ll hear a song off of Bob Dylan’s Desire in their heads
Before they respond.

Whatever they say about me,
They better say I taught them well.


John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

“Everyone Hates The Bradford Pear” by Matthew Tyson


I know everyone hates the bradford pear
but there’s a cluster of them blooming
on the road to work
and when I saw them
for the first time this morning
I praised God
because when the bradford pear dies
it does so in a brilliant fire of red and orange
that flails madly
in the september wind
before, with a softness,
it stops breathing
and stands crucified for months
offering only sticks and debris for kindling
until one day you wake up
to the most pungent odor
as the white flowers open to the sun
which by Easter will be replaced with
plumes of green, thick green
and death overcome



Matthew Tyson is an English teacher, avid hiker, and family man from Alabama.

“Your Legacy” by Perry Powell


My love, you died before this plague,
before this confinement.

You would have hated it.
You were never one to be confined.

I can see you,
you would have worn a mask
because you were not a fool.
You would have worn one of your floppy hats,
because that was who you were.
Perhaps, a bandana around your neck as well.

But you would have been out walking.
You would have been checking on your friends,
perhaps bringing them groceries,
perhaps just cheering them up,
letting them know there was at least one person who cared.

Your daughter has a touch of your spirit,
which would have surprised us both when she was younger.
She has been sewing masks and delivering them
to hospitals, to workers still working.
She has delivered groceries to shut-ins,
including even that leftover, your husband.

I think it would please you to know that.


Perry L. Powell is a poet and author who is finding it all too easy to stay at home alone with his ghosts and his memories.

“Finding Luck” by Eric Persaud


Today, I am on a mission. A mission to find a clover. Not just any clover, but a four-leaf clover. Each delicate blade of grass slips between my fingers, still slippery from the morning dew. As I rummage through a patch of clovers, I turn up empty.

The park meadow’s green stretches further than I can see. From afar each blade of grass blends into an evenly level height. Yet, as I approach a new section, I see the imbalance I could not see in one piece.

The section by the trees are sparse with clovers, but abundant with acorn caps. I wonder where all the acorns are themselves, then I spot the squirrels in the trees above staring at me, rubbing their maniacal furry itty-bitty hands together. The sight is a bit unsettling, so I venture away from the trees and into the open field.

Pops of lavender spring up, taller than the sea of green it rests in. I know lavender is nothing more than a beautiful distraction.

I keep skimming through the grass for clovers. Each batch I inspect with a grace that would even have a surgeon envious. Despite my grit and valor, I turn up empty over and over.

The sun lashes my head from directly above. I start to feel heavy, sneezing from the pollen I disturb into the air each time I swath my palms over the turf. I sneeze even more vigorously as I use my pointer finger to rub my nose and realize in hindsight the dander now coats my face from cheek to cheek.

I decide to call Uncle Harry, to see if we can go home.

He is down by the car, resting in his naval officer suit, hat drawn down to block out the sun. Occasionally the dandelion stalk shuffling in-between his teeth would toss into the caps bill.

Uncle Harry asks what is wrong, sighting my slump shoulders and head staring at the ground still searching for a last second capture.

I tell Uncle Harry of my mission.

He chuckles, bends down, and plucks a four-leaf clover from right below us. Clenching the rare treasure in his fist at first, then lowering his clasp hand to my eyesight as I peel each finger back, revealing the four-leaf clover with now slight crumbles.

Before I can even gather my shock and awe, my uncle flecks the clover off his palm and a breeze drifts it away into the grass field behind us.

I ready myself to dash back into the meadow. My uncle gently grabs me by my shirts collar and twists me back towards the car.

We are going home.

Why?

Because, you make your own luck.

I get in the car and we drive off. I do not fret. Tomorrow I will be back looking again. I plan to make my own luck, that is the mission.


Eric Persaud is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. He is currently working on his doctoral dissertation in Public Health and writing stuff in his free time.

“I Will Wear Mermaid’s Tears” by Mary Kipps


Three days into my stay,
you are given the ward bed
next to mine. We share dreams
and paint our fingernails
a bright Cha-Ching Cherry
for its promise of tomorrows.

Each week, your mom
brings us a new color:
Lavendurable,
The Power of Pink,
No Room for the Blues,
Can’t Be Beet!

Today, she hands me
Lights of Emerald City.
But you must have asked her
for a separate color,
because you paint yours
When Monkeys Fly.

A month later, both beds are empty.
Today, to your funeral,
I will wear Mermaid’s Tears.
My mother says it’s gaudy.
But you and yours
will love it.


Mary Kipps writes poetry for all age groups, in traditional forms as well as in free verse. Her work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005. She is also the author of three Kindle eBooks of paranormal satire: “All in Vein”, “A Sucker for Heels”, and “Bitten: A Practical Guide to Dating a Vampire.”

“Smoke from My Father’s Coffee” by Matthew Domingos


On this earth it is the season when all the air is blue and filled with wet lungs.
Winter has carried the weight of old civilizations.

My Father and I are waiting again for Sebastian’s return.
We wait by the slate pined shores of the oiled Atlantic

He tells me, “Hope cannot reverse the salt from that old water.
It will still gather on our lips.”

Spring will brush this weight off,
When it is new like a flower that has held on to let loose from its green wrapped egg.

That’s when my father decides to build the fire near us now

With the dead pine in the water and the green skunk cabbage
that has climbed out finally between our neighbors’ gravestones.

He pulls it all up and all is combined into flame in front of us

My father drinks his coffee in the backyard and
we watch together the white smoke from its hotness spill through the air

to mix with the ash and old illness our ancestors
had brought who came here on the sick barges

It is the smoke and my father’s coffee
that brings them here today again to gather up together
to our gray sky where it will sit thick with the wetness of ancient illness.

The air has been left clinging to their empty words
Like breath clinging to the trichomes of a browning vine.

We will sit here watching the water
around us like a taste of soil

Until the birds of King Sebastian have returned.
They will have traveled as much as we have.
They will have traveled from those mountains of those islands in our ocean.

My father stokes the fire mass on our lawn now
with the stub of a new green pine bow, his coffee in hand.


M.P. Domingos joined the military a good bit of time ago to experience the real world before getting out. Neither have happened. He writes when he can, usually at the most inconvenient times on anything he has available to him. He edits at night on an old computer after the kids go to bed.