“A Florida State of Mind” by James Barr


On a recent trip to Florida, I was having breakfast at a local coffee shop. It was a beastly warm summer morning and the last person I expected to bump into was Santa Claus. But there he was at the next table, scarfing down a serious pile of pancakes while Mrs. Claus daintily dabbled with her eggs. I immediately feared the chef put the wrong kind of mushrooms into my omelet, but that thought quickly passed. 

This guy had the jolly old St. Nick look down cold. His familiar red suit must have been out for dry cleaning, because Santa was dressed in a red T-shirt, Santa pants with red suspenders and a red ball cap. Of course, he sported a fluffy white Santa beard, through which the pancakes somehow magically disappeared. Why he wasn’t cooling off at the North Pole instead of visiting blowtorch-hot Florida remains a mystery. 

When he caught me staring at him, Santa arose with such a clatter and arrived at my table with a business card that had his picture on it. As he approached, I could read what was written on his red cap: “Yes, I am.” And so he was.

As I left the coffee shop, I looked for a sleigh or team of reindeer atop the building. Not seeing either, I figured the sleigh must be in the shop for new runners. Then I saw a red trailer parked off to the side of the parking lot and thought perhaps the reindeer were scrunched together inside it. Moving closer, I listened for noises and heard none. That’s a good thing, as I have no idea what kind of noise a reindeer makes.

Driving down Highway 41 the next day, I spotted a funeral home immediately adjacent to a mobile home park for seniors. “How very convenient,” I thought. When old Howard’s time is up, just leave him in that wheeled patio chair, roll him next door, sign a few papers and get back to your doublewide before the noodles boil over.

Visiting with my nephew one evening, he asked if I’d like to accompany him to the mailbox. He and his wife live in a new subdivision and the mailboxes are in a clump two blocks away. As I stood to go join him, he said he needed to get his pistol.

“What? Wait!” I managed to garble. “Why do you need firepower?”

He told me alligators and wild pigs often frequent the mailboxes and one needs to protect oneself. I told him a better idea would be to drive to the mailbox in the daytime when you could actually see what was going to eat you. He agreed and put his pistol away. 

I think the next time we get together, it’ll be at my Santa Claus coffee shop. You never hear about reindeer attacks there.


For over two decades, Jim was creative director at two top U.S. advertising agencies. During these years, he created marketing/communications for a number of familiar products and brands. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and frequent pickleball player.

“Limo Ride” by Preeti Shah


Maa knows
the world is soundless
and noise. She mouths
sutras while brother and bhabhi
laugh like spring hatchlings, as Father’s
name fogs the back window.
My husband’s eyes swing,
like a directionless wind,
between us. I cannot answer
his wordless question.
I perseverate on the plastic
a/c vent hanging limp from
the limo’s ceiling,
swinging at the will
of every turn.
We balance Father’s
“18×24” gently smiling
semi-glossed portrait
framed in Mahogany.
Each of our hands
are knowing, yet unsteady.
We allow the other
the comfort of a limbless cry
but will not allow
the wood to crack.
On our procession to the funeral,
pious statues of weeping
cherry blossoms and crabapples
bury branched hands in reverence.
There are those of us
who still pray,
like Maa.


Preeti Shah serves as Associate Director of Communications for the online magazine, YJPerspectives. She is a finalist for the Fall 2019 Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. She has received her B.A. in Fine Arts, specializing in Music. Currently she rehabs the geriatric population through physical therapy. Preeti resides in Queens, NY.

“Late-Night Musing” by Molly Lynde


When everything is quiet
except for the soft scrape and shuffle
of Thursday’s quizzes,
I wonder if
somewhere
on a distant planet,
across eons
sprinkled with stars
like so many decorated cupcakes,
perhaps
another teacher
is also finishing her corrections
past midnight—
or whatever they call
this soggy-boned hour of reckoning.


Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).

“Lighthouse” by Molly Lynde


Bridge to infinity.
You point straight up, but
you are content to exist on the edge.
Lovers write their graffiti on you,
a living talisman of their wager
that love will last.


Molly Lynde is originally from Sonoma County, California. She teaches modern and medieval French in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and serves as editor-in-chief of Transference, a literary journal featuring poetry in translation (https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/).

“Words Left Unspoken” by Stephen Cecchini


A park bench,
Rusted with bad weather,
It must have ended somewhere.
Full pine tree
Young
Tender look;
Blue bike on a kickstand
Sprinkled with sand.
Stacks of books,
Scattered old photos
And the door from before
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday’s sun is gone
Along with energy
And the road that was fresh by the fence
Ended with cracks and rubble
With words left unspoken


Stephen Cecchini is an MSA student at Loyola University Chicago. During his free time, he likes to write in his imagery journal for experimentation purposes. He is also an editorial staff member at Diminuendo & Cadence – Loyola’s premier student-run literary magazine, published bi-annually.

“The Octave” by Daniel Haskin


What is this sound
That breaks me
But I listen still
Inside my wrists
Can it be forgotten
Like the slamming door
On my last breath
Or do I succumb
To its trickery

Is it lost
Without end
Or without death
Do I train my ear
To read the spell
Or lay my hand in the sky
And listen like braille

Even pain has a sound
Though it shakes
Turns on its own kind
Deep and shuttering
And worn like a dog

When I was young
I had depth of purpose
Now my hands are stiff tired
No tuning to my bones
I can’t reach the octave
Fingers twist
Darkness reverberates


Daniel Haskin is a Buffalo NY based poet, writer, musician, visual artist, and illustrator. His chapbooks of poetry include “Amnesia”, “Past Life Invisible”, “The Shallow Sea”, and his newly published work “Picture Book: Love, Death Time, and Assorted Ekphrasis”. He has also been published in various newspapers, and national journals.

“When Trees Dream” by Daniel Haskin


The beauty of life are trees
That turn as sleepy as death
Knocking on hungry doors
Creaking amongst the clouds
That rise above the weather

They sing but refuse to listen
To the turnings of the clock
Bouncing like swift shrapnel
Through rains stream and flow
Longing for Fall’s sparrowed skin

Their leaves roll and crackle
Like a mirage of slivered ghosts
That die on weary windshields
While the Autumn song simmers
Broiling in the red starry night


Daniel Haskin is a Buffalo NY based poet, writer, musician, visual artist, and illustrator. His chapbooks of poetry include “Amnesia”, “Past Life Invisible”, “The Shallow Sea”, and his newly published work “Picture Book: Love, Death Time, and Assorted Ekphrasis”. He has also been published in various newspapers, and national journals.

“Holding Thanks” by Yash Seyedbagheri


Older sister Nancy and I make our own Thanksgiving. We finagle a turkey, just like Mother did. Of course, we burn it. Same with the biscuits, which fall apart, like homes. Empires.

Next we try to arrange the table, Mother and Dad’s chairs. Empty, yet elegant.

When we try to give thanks, words won’t form, emptiness stuck in our throats. The world’s demanded bills, seduced parents with wanderlust. Forced us to survive when we should live.

We laugh at the idiocy of it. Mother and Dad would, if they were here.

Of course, mentioning them, laughter turns to tears.

Nothing holds.


Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

“In Search of Beauty” by Sandy Benitez


Harold arrived at the front door dressed in death, the soles of his tobacco, suede hunting boots wrapped in grass and sticky mud.  Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, leaving a trail of oily dew on his wife’s memory. 

Myrna shook her head in disgust, knowing the weekly ritual had begun.  Out came the thumbtacks and corkboards. 

“So, how many flies did you catch today?” 

Pollen infested eyes cut through her sarcasm; she covered her wounds with a crochet sweater. 

As he laid the net down, she saw one butterfly trapped inside.  Its moss-brown wings lay lifeless like a swatch of silk that she wanted to caress and stow away for safekeeping.

“Why must you kill something so beautiful?” 

Harold told her to hush and pinned the creature to its grave. “It’s just a butterfly,” he groaned. 

“And you’re just plain ugly,” she snapped as she stomped upstairs to the bedroom. 

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned, admiring the specimen on display. 

Myrna sat on the bed and wept, hot tears falling like Summer rain. She glanced at the bedroom walls, eyeing dozens of butterflies in dead repose.  Their glass coffins coated in dust and death. She sprinted to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. The bottle of sleeping pills a beacon in a sea of medication.

She rushed downstairs to the kitchen and prepared a glass of lemonade, dropping half the bottle of sleeping pills inside. Hurry up and dissolve. She peeked towards the living room. He was stretched out on the recliner, one hand lost inside his shorts.

“Harold, I don’t know what came over me earlier.  You must be so tired from the hunt. I’ve brought you a refreshing glass of lemonade,” she smiled.

He looked at her suspiciously. 

“Go on. It’s not going to bite you.”

He took the lemonade and quickly gulped it down. “Bring me another glass. You know I hate those dainty looking glasses you insist on using. Bring me a man-size glass.”

“Of course, Harold. You just rest and I’ll be back in a second.” She prepared another glass, dropped more sleeping pills. Then, dashed back to the kitchen and waited.

An hour later, snoring emanated from the recliner. Myrna knew what she had to do. With all the strength she could muster, she dragged his body onto a large piece of plywood that had been hidden behind the buffet for months.

Out came the hammer and some nails. The sound of pounding and screaming echoed throughout the house.

Wiping bloodied hands on her apron, Myrna frowned, then shrugged her shoulders. “Tsk. Tsk. So much for beauty. You’ve got to be the ugliest butterfly I’ve ever seen. You won’t do to display. My only option is the basement. You can discuss beauty with the spiders and roaches…for eternity.”


Sandy Benitez writes lyrical poetry and short fiction, sometimes dark, magical, or mysterious. Her most recent poetry chapbooks include Cherry Blossom Days and Petal Storm.  Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. She can be reached at https://sandysbenitez.blogspot.com or on Goodreads.