Remember that time when Jethro Tull was named hardest rocking metal band in the universe, and all the Klingon death metal bands lost their shit? The Romulans and the Greys arranged a battle of the bands that very next week. Even the Reptilians managed to slime out of their pet store tanks and make an appearance. The judges from the Galactic Federation were on the take, but who isn't these days? 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 print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Zygote in My Coffee, Rusty Truck and The Oklahoma Review.
on the day jason baldinger has to put his cat down we talk a bit in the morning but there’s no preparing for this i think for a second about the afterlife of cats & how for nearly nineteen years she has been the only woman to stay by his side through sleepless nights through sunlight & sadness in sickness & in health it’s been a marriage for both of them all of the women i’ve ever known have been feral creatures who came up short on sweetness never sitting shiva for a week or even one lazy sunday in a vigil for our hearts never resting close-by on that final morning before we parted ways hoping for something better. John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, and Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
Sometimes when the sun is rising and the dew has fallen on the world, sometimes when I sit and wonder, sometimes when the Earth is spinning and the tunes are lost to time, we watch ice storms down the oaks, we watch the oaks crash to the icy Huron, frigid Erie, the St. Lawrence and the North Atlantic. The fallen oak drags its amber leaves in rushing currents. The fallen oak, like chamber music in chambers of the heart, is washed by the pump of receding glaciers. And we all fall down, and we all clear those hurdles. And we watch as coffee spoons swirl and twirl and squirrel away their ever-loving song. Sometimes in the wake of winter when the winds of the plains blow back, sometimes when I stand and stumble, when the moon eclipses every star and the flames of tomorrow burn bright, it’s unclear what we want. We want the empty matter of life, the universe, the empty matter of everything. And like worms after the storm, we wallow in muck and gloom. Like the worms after a storm, we are stra...
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