HIDDEN by Sasquatch

I live in the woods
With the forests & the trees
The birds & the deer
The wolves & freedom

But mankind
Has been bothering 
And hunting me for 
Centuries following
My foot prints and 
Harassing my family

So 
When they 
Fall asleep?
I take a big nasty dump 
In their backpacks

Sasquatch (Mr. Cornelius  A.) has been a resident of Washington State for over one hundred years and his hobbies include writing, drinking and collecting old vintage pornography. He is the author of the widely acclaimed book " Hair Styles For Humans" & his philosophical essay " Should We Eat Humans?" He currently lives in the woods where he chain smokes cigarettes and types.

HUMID by Susan Tepper

Liquor being scarce in these parts, it was iced tea on the humid porch. 

We watched some Amish go by in a horse drawn carriage.  Clop clop clop clop.

Those hats have gotta be hot, he said.

I looked up at the porch roof peeling blue flakes.  Termites were taking down the house in sections.  One day it would collapse.  I could only hope to be out during that occurrence.  

So tell me everything, he said.

Everything?

All your men, he said, taking a good swallow like it was whiskey.

Have you checked Ripley’s Believe It Or Not?  (My idea of a joke).

He emptied the glass, sucking the lemon slice.  Deliberating.  Putting the glass down on uneven boards.  It toppled and some ice cubes rolled out.

Don’t worry, I said.  

He was looking somewhat dismal at this point in the conversation.

Sitting up straighter in the rough wicker chair, he suddenly seemed focused again.  Saying, Well, darlin’.  What about your past?

Where shall I begin, which country?

Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com

Chemical Exposure by Ian Hanks

 

 

I grew up on the coast of Maine, both of my parents were professional artists and under their guidance, I learned to draw and paint at an early age. My paternal grandfather, Fletcher Hanks, Sr. was an accomplished cartoonist back in the “Golden Age” of cartoons. Several compilations of his work have been published by Fantagraphics Books. My father, Ted, was an author, watercolorist, and nationally recognized woodcarver whose body of work includes life-sized ducks and geese displayed in private and public collections across the United States. My mother, Consuelo, was an accomplished artist in both pencil and watercolor mediums with a body of work that gained her a national reputation and following.

     I studied criminology at the University of Southern Maine and pursued a career in private security and investigations. I did everything, from working an access gate at an industrial complex, catching shoplifters at a retail chain, and conducting sensitive high-level corporate investigations.

     I have been drawing and painting since I could hold a pencil and paintbrush, thanks to my parents’ inspiration and encouragement. About twenty years ago, I first tried my hand at cartooning, drawing funny sketches to make people laugh which I find particularly fulfilling. A short time later, I took a break from art to focus on my career and raising our daughter, who we adopted from Guatemala. Since my parent’s passing in late 2015, I have taken over their art business, now called Maine Treasures Art Prints, representing my mother’s pencil and watercolor prints and launching my own full-time art career. Along with my latest foray into cartooning, I also paint maritime scenes in watercolor. My paintings are displayed at Gallery’s in Maine and my works have been included in several exhibits, including the International Maritime Art Show at the Mystic Maritime Museum and Gallery in Mystic Connecticut, and the Maritime Art Exhibit at the Coos Art Museum in Coos, Oregon.

Coyote Tales The Return Of The Gonz by John Patrick Robbins

It was a bright and sunny day early that morning at four in the afternoon.
Which is annoying because I seldom wake up that early and I hate daylight. 
Because Odin's lava lamp is really harsh on my corpse-like complexion.

The people in the Dollar General on Knotts Island North Carolina all stared as I walked through the door.

I mean being I'm their living God slash local celebrity.
I fully understand the awe of the moment as most said nothing.

But I knew from that repulsed look.

They all secretly wanted my autograph or to have a mass orgy.

In aisle six which is the best to shoplift.
Not that I know or anything.
But I haven't paid for mints in like two years.

Tic tacs are great for dinner and really pair well with chardonnay.
Wow, I know how wet that's getting you already random reader.

I mean It's kinda weird your reading in the pool . 

But, fuck it, your neighbor's a total asshole and what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Well maybe aside from the fact you're porking his wife but she does have awesome boobies.

And to think I'm a pushcart nominated writer. I'm truly a classy bitch.
But enough with the foreplay children.

As always, I checked to see if my books were still in stock at my shrine I paid to have placed in the store.

And to my shock it was gone.

My heart beat rapidly as the room began spinning.

 It was like drinking with Bill Cosby minus the rape.

Everything went suddenly dark and when I awoke that asshole who runs the store Randy was standing above me.

"Don't piss on me!"

I shouted in my outdoor voice even though I was inside because duh dumbass.

 It's not a fucking flea market.

 
Besides, everyone knows that's just a front for the gypsies to sell children to third world countries to work in the sweatshops of Canada or New Jersey.
Really what's the difference besides the shore?

"What the fuck John! Didn't I tell you I didn't want your crazy ass coming back in here!"

"Well I didn't think you meant it. I mean I am the only poetry famous person here. I'm like a national treasure you know like Dolly Parton. 
Minus the theme park and awesome boobies. And by the way, what happened to my book display?"

"I took it the fuck down you idiot! Besides you put it up yourself and why the fuck did you include a cardboard cutout of Mel Gibson from The Road Warrior?"

"Umm because it's fucking badass and you wouldn't let me put up the one of Betty Page because she was naked you Nazi bastard!"

Randy just stared at me with that same look he always has on his face.
You know the one most writers have when you mention my name.

Like someone farted.
When in all truth they're just jealous because I get to sit at home binge drink and sexually harass all my pen names.

Yeah I'm so lonely and oddly entertaining. Like a train wreck because I have mental problems like you couldn't tell already.

"Look jackass if I give you a corner near the toilet paper will you cut the shit and just try to act semi normal?"

I thought deeply about this statement for what was this strange word he spoke of called normal.

I kept thinking to myself as I laid there on the floor just hoping a woman with a short skirt would walk by.
I mean a cheap thrill beat's none at all.

And just like that old fart who flew a kite in a lighting storm. It hit me.

Build it and they will come.

Which I totally stole from that movie with sexy Kevin Costner you know that one about baseball Gone With The Wind.

"You know Randy, I will take your offer and even give you this collectable autographed picture of me. To hang on your wall or in the ladies room which may or not have a camera in the frame, so make sure it's placed properly asshole!"

"Why is it signed Betty White?"

"Well I would have had all the Golden Girls signatures but they had restraining orders on me at the time Randy."

"Fuck my job, why don't I just buy a gun!"

Randy said as he returned to his register clearly this moment had changed his life forever.

As I had truly made a huge step with my award winning book.
What? Just because I printed the awards out myself I created online didn't make them any less credible.

I swear reader, the way you torment me really is a turn on.
Hey are you single and have ultra low standards and have your own vagina or can borrow one for the weekend?

Then hit me up, just call 911. And just ask for me and extra pepperoni on your pizza that's what I always do.

Silly operators I'm probably going to prison.

Now where were we?
Oh yeah my books being sold next to where they stock the toilet paper.

Yes, sure they may not sell as good as toilet paper but they're just as useful.

Ouch John, that really hurt.
I know dude but sometimes I have to abuse myself just for kicks.
And to write totally batshit insane works to make writers question when the fuck is this going to end?

Kind of like half the broken english batshit insane submissions I have to read through every fucking day.
While being called a worthless hack no good batshit fucking cockless wonder.

And that one came from a motivational speaker.

Yes I bought my beer with just a little bit more pride that day and made sure I stared at the cashier's tits just a little bit longer and slightly drooled.

Till I realized he wasn't feeling it.
I really needed glasses but I need booze far more besides.

Everyone looks better with a hundred proof flowing through your veins and the lights off.

Until next time hamsters.

Stay crazy.

Coyote out.

#Iliketoparty

The Mad Editor aka Coyote, is a off his meds lunatic who is also a Grammy award winning bio writer. He is also a member of the illuminati and the most hated editor in all of poetry.

He enjoys making sacrifices of his critics and is a chieftain  of his Viking tribe now residing on Skull Island.

His many publications include Better Homes And Gardens , Serial Killer Quarterly, Modern Viking The Not So Sexy Swimsuit Edition, A Journal He Left In a Park Somewhere, Esquire, Fearless Poetry Zine and some shitty e-zine called the Dope Fiend Daily which only runs once a week.

He has been called the greatest human being within his mind and is voted the worst of the net which is title he has won now three years in a row. Because I won it so own it bitch!

He is currently working on his screenplay for the sequel to The Sliver Surfer vs The Bronze Bastard which will be released in the summer of 1892.

He is currently on a reading tour in Germany where he is opening for David Hasselhoff. 

And he thinks you look very nice today but you should probably change your shirt because it really clashes with that skirt.

Yeah I know everyone's a fucking critic.

Grazie.

How the Fuck by Jason Melvin

(upon finding a banana, where once was towel)

am I supposed to dry off with a banana?
I can take a joke, I can
but this has grown tiresome
It’s the price I pay, I guess
Having shitty friends is better
then having none at all, right?
This isn’t high school, we’re supposedly adults
I did my own laundry this morning
I miss home
Hiding all my shoes was funny
until I went to class barefoot
in the rain
Maybe Ramen noodles under your bedsheets
maybe that was too far, but I was pissed
but I’m done, you win
Standing here shivering with my dick in my hand
I can hear you in the hallway giggling
JUST BRING ME MY FUCKING TOWEL!

and I’m eating this fucking banana. 

Jason Melvin received a gimmicky T-shirt from his teenage daughter on Christmas with a picture of one large fist fist-bumping a much smaller fist.  The caption read, “Behind every smart-ass daughter is a truly asshole Dad”.  It fit.

His work has recently appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, The Raw Art Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Electric Rail, Front Porch Review, Shambles, Spillover and Last Leaves, among others.