Cold Rambler

I needed rather a lot of driving lessons. My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help. Nor, did my occasional confusion between right and left. But, coming up to my test, my new instructor was sympathetic. We could go for a Sunday drive, he said. I could have a free lesson and maybe a drink after. Well, why not? He told me a story over the drink. He’d been in the war in Singapore. Such horror. And conscripts all. In the chaos an enemy soldier had shot his dog. Shot her. Killed her, dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. But, it was alright in the end, he’d ‘got’ the one who did it. ‘Got him.’ Shot him! Killed him, dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. The life of a man for the life of a dog. Both shot. Both killed. Both dead. It was the life of the man I valued most. And I said so using a lot of words. Yes, rather a lot of words loudly spoken. So no more free lessons, but I passed my test.   Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and ev...

The bikes kept showing up. Filling the lot of the Alta Vista Motel with a zombie’s idling exhaust. MacLean and Spanish were inside the room. Making sure the new boys patching over dropped old allegiances on the bed. Spanish ran a meth lab out in the woods and MacLean fire-bombed rival stash houses. What they did was for the club, MacLean and Spanish could not stand each other. But the new ranks did not need to know such things. Taken to a burn pit out back to incinerate their old identities. Streams of liter fluid over everything. Spanish seemed twitchier than normal. MacLean was sure he’d become both cook and customer. The new boys put on their new patches. There would be a huge party back at the clubhouse. Spanish was fucking MacLean’s old lady. Usually from behind, over all those kegs that would not drink themselves.   Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in ...

We cry havoc and let slip opinions online A new praxis of anger and yearning Like shaking our fists at the yawning emptiness of privatized outer space Or the churning guts Of Sleeping Beauty Can you even conceive of the dump she took upon waking up 5000000 comments and no end in sight But still a pillar of clouds to guide us by day A pillar of fire Indefatigable source of consolation and inspiration By night   Brad Liening is the author of You're Doing It Wrong (Scud 2025). He was born and raised in the great state of Michigan but currently resides in Minneapolis and at bradliening.blogspot.com.

And so does sing that starry night that lilt of your voice of angels transposed and galloping headlong into interceding muse Out here now, where the shadows lie upon the earth so cool to the touch mockingbird song scattered throughout catacombs of thunderstorm exile A heartbeat echoes’   in the throes of an estranged lullaby the morning may dawn for someone else.   Wayne Russell is a poet that's been twice nominated for both The Best Of The Net and The Pushcart Prize, he's the author of the poetry books “Splinter of the Moon” and "Waves of Lucidity", both published via Silver Bow Publishing, they are both available for purchase on Amazon in paperback and digital formats such as Ingram Distribution at your local bookstore and library.

A gray fractal cloud of weed smoke hovers swirling at my window glass.