Donkey Shavings & the White Devil. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

My father writes from Northern China.

To say that he has been working the fields 

and even tried donkey shavings for dinner

which “weren’t half bad.”

He is with this nice Chinese woman now.

They seem quite happy,

but the rest of the family over there

sees him as the white devil.

He enjoys playing the heel and runs with it.

Sending pictures back my way.

Of the White Devil working the fields of Northern China

dressed in black lederhosen.

He is 67 years old 

and picking vegetables less than 20 miles

from the Siberian border.

With a small army of Chinese peasants

in rice hats.

It is all so absurd.

Nothing in my Canadian childhood 

has prepared me for this.

I hope he got the ass end of the donkey shavings,

my wife jokes.

That’s the best part!

Ass shavings!

I say.

   

Your father is eating ass shavings,

she laughs.

And dressed in lederhosen?

He looks like a chubby red Pinocchio,

I say.

Then we start drinking faster.

The world has gone mad without us

and now we are playing catch up.

It is going to be another one of these nights.

The couch suddenly snapping in half

so that I fall through.

My wife crumpled up on the floor

in laughter.

We will both hurt tomorrow.

Even worse than the couch.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.

San Francisco by Tommy Robert Walker

I would have married her if it weren't for Alexander.
Do you find me cynical yet?

Tommy Robert Walter, Is a journalist who dabbles in poetry on ocassion he has been published in Spill The Words, The Back Roads Quarterly and Sidewinder .

The Key To Leading A Double Life by Tallulah Sanders

If I could change one thing, it would be inviting her inside.

I always wanted to be a camel - until that night.

The key to fighting crime is well documented online.

I won't lie to you Joni had grown accustomed to killing at least seven werewolves a year.

The key to communicating with aliens has always escaped me.

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you that I'm a conspicuous woman.

Last night I dreamt I was an ant again.

Tallulah Sanders, Is a poet who also writes short stories her work has been published in various print mags and online as well.

She is currently working on her first book of poetry.

Why I Have Wasted My Life. By Ethan Goffman

1,276 roads (or thereabouts) diverged

in a yellow wood

and I

just stood there, befuddled

Ethan Goffman accidentally became a poet by

tagging along with his wife, the far more talented, harder working, and

prettier Marianne Szlyk, to poetry workshops. He is still not sure how or why,

but somehow Kelsay Books has recently published his first volume of

poetry, Words

for Things Left Unsaid.

TRYING TO DOZE RESPONSIBLY ON THE F TRAIN by Tim Suermondt

The barely clad women crowd around
And lead me to a long table that holds
Pitchers of beer and thick pizza slices—
Although I must admit I’d rather the women
Wore thick robes and led me to a table
Heavy with serious, great books.
I don’t know if you can believe this latter
Part—I’m afraid I don’t believe it myself.
But I tried, waking up in Queens a happy man.

Tim Suermondt is the author of five full-length collections of poems, the latest Josephine Baker Swimming Pool from MadHat Press, 2019. He has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, North of Oxford, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine, december magazine, On the Seawall, Poet Lore and Plume, among many others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.

I Believe in Meat by Susan Tepper

So my sister sets me up with this girl straight out of juvie.  I am not shitting you.  Miranda.  The girl’s name.  A situation out of a horror movie, my sister says.  My sister says she’s a very nice girl who got screwed by life.

Anyways… we make a plan to meet at the Chuck E Cheese sign near the movie theater.  

And she’s not bad.  Thin with blonde hair pulled into a perky pony.  I wave and she waves.  We get closer, and she’s got these little stickers stuck on her face.  A few on her cheeks and I count three across her forehead.  

Getting closer, I can see really small letters and numbers on the stickers.  I’m wondering if they’re passes to get in and out of juvie— like they stamp your arm to get in a club.

She looks straight through me like I’m a ghost.  “Fruit stickers, if you must know,” she says.

“What?”

She taps the ones on her forehead: “Lemon from Chile, Sun World Black Plum.”  Then she makes a bunch of taps.  “4038 California avocado.”

“You wear fruit stickers on your face?”

“I only eat fruits and veggies.  It’s my issue.  My silent protest.”  

“Yeah?”  

I scratch under my T-shirt.  In my head I’m cursing out my sister for setting me up with this sticker chick freak.  

“Um.  Do you think you could peel them off before we go into the movie?”

She squints.  “Why should I?”

It is a good question.  I’ll give her that.

She’s waiting; her face looks hungry.

“I believe in meat,”  I say. 

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry.  Her most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and the road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Tepper has received many honors and awards.  She’s a native New Yorker.  www.susantepper.com