Soda Mixing 

A kid who can’t decide — that’s what you are —
At heart; The kid is limited in mix —
The soda fountain has few tastes to jar,
But few flavors suffice to teach the tricks;
Dark cola drowns light; lids hide but can’t fix
The secret-new lasts its moment, then strains
The taste — all shall be emptied down the drains.

There’s power in promise and promise in power;
Above all, that’s what soda mixing taught:
In you, indecision began to flower.
When almost any one thing can be bought,
The last entertainment left is what you wrought.
And I’ll confess: it’s fun to sip your blend
Of pride-poised love and hate — a poison thought
I can’t dispel; you’ve cast your spell on end;
I dive right in; like acid on skin, let it rend.

I know not why I need no why; I now
Find myself hating the known, tasting bone —
I do not want to chew; I’ll take a vow:
I’ll break my jaw, sip through straw alone —
Carve these words like sweetheart names in stone:
Let the flavors fall in mottled unison,
Fizzle — vestal vitiation of vision.

 I am a law student living in Washington D.C. My twitter is @Jason__Reid

A New Man

“Honey, I want to try that new crafting class. But first let’s pick apples. I know it’s Sunday during football season, but I want to try out that new sweater vest you got me.”

Erica flushed as he continued. This is how a man should talk to a woman. How he used to talk to her. Wait ‘til she could tell her neighbor Pam. Old “what do you need a man for?” Pam. 

Todd continued. “It’s not right how they treat you at work, either. I think Brad takes you for granted. I’ve got half a mind to march in there some day and deck him.”

Had he actually been listening when she told her work stories? It always seemed like he was scrolling through fantasy football sites or car shopping online while she described her mistreatment. 

“Also, I’m just gonna say it. We don’t see enough of your mother.” 

This was almost more than Erica could bear. Thoughts of Todd and her mother coexisting peacefully. Even bonding. The three of them at the early bird. Matinees. She had never dared to hope for that. 

“Also, I think you are right about my cutting down on the red meat. And wings. Let’s try more of those dishes you found on Pinterest. You are absolutely right about how versatile squash is. It really is a superfood.”

Had he done something wrong? Was he now overcompensating to curry favor? No. She knew it wasn’t that. She knew he was a good partner. Faithful. Just a bit indifferent to some of her desires. Until now. 

“And let’s forget about that Gettysburg trip. I think we should book the Jane Austen getaway you read about. Follow in the steps of Mr. Darcy around the English countryside. Better than some old battlefield any day.” 

Was this a dream? No, she was wide awake.

 And she was not merely imaging it. It was real. 

She was sitting by her honey, holding hands, as he gazed into her watering eyes and spoke the words she had longed to hear for so long.

 It was a breakthrough. 

At this point, the counselor had heard enough. She raised her hand and cut Todd off. 

“Ok. Ok. Very effective role play, I think. Now Todd, let’s continue the exercise. What would you say to Erica if you were being yourself?”

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com

on Instagram @scottmacleod478, on X @ScottMacLe59594 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334

Too much or never enough

Is it a silly thought
that I wish I knew what
a rainbow could look like
if it did not require a storm
to form its existence? 

To contemplate if such a beauty
can exist independent of
lightning strikes. 

The sun slowly escapes from
Under the rug of clouds that hid its glow
and this is how she greets us hello. 

Maybe the rainbow was supposed
to be an apology for
Making darkness arrive
Prior to 7pm. 

But that wasn’t her choice. 

She was still
giving light to us,
it just happened to be
hidden by the clouds. 

she is not the reason for the
car crash on 74th,
nor for the echoes of dogs howling
and running into closets and bathrooms
after an extended cascade of thunder.

If she had the power,
I think she would’ve broken
through the walls
placed in front of her
and relit the world. 

But instead, we place the
burden on the crash on her
and not the man who was
drunk driving at 3:45pm in the afternoon.
Cause anything non-manmade can be reimbursed—
excluding bodies of course. 

I feel for the sun
And the constant burden of apologies
It seems she is assigned to. 

Why won’t you let me rest? 

_________________________

Maybe one day after the
Sun is able to break through the next storm,

I’ll take my car,
Making sure that I am
paying attention to every loose branch
That landed on the road,

And take a few extra seconds
at the yield sign to make sure that the
mother walking her toddler
make it across to the sidewalk
on the other side of the crossroad. 

I’ll eventually park my car
At a place that is closest
To what may be the
edge of the rainbow, 

maybe an old parking lot,
or near the entrance of
the one of the strawberry fields. 

As the sun greets me by her rays
Hugging my skin,
I’ll whisper a soft
thank you to the sun. 

I’d tell her she does not
have to feel like she has
to gift us with her presence
when we have clearly
taken advantage of her.

I won’t be shocked if
Her response is to
Hide behind the clouds again

And let the rain pour once more

Naa Asheley Ashitey is a Chicago-born writer and MD–PhD candidate at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. A first-generation, low-income Ghanaian-American and University of Chicago alumna, she writes at the intersection of race, medicine, and belonging.
Her creative and editorial writing examines how policy, media, and academia reproduce structural violence—and what it means to resist with truth.
Her creative work appears or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, BULL, Hobart, Michigan City Review of Books, and editorials for The Xylom, MedPage Today and KevinMD. She has been nominated for multiple awards, including Best Small Fiction. More at NaaAshitey.com.

Twitter/Instagram: @foreverasheley
Bluesky: @foreverasheley.bsky.social

on tuesday i found myself trapped inside a raincloud

Outside the husk of a 7-11, I freeze,
stuck as a mule deer, and become wet
breath, braided in vines of leadened
mist, buoyant alongside water and dust.

Truth is, I was lucky. On Venus, rain
clouds are made of sulphuric acid
and I am already predisposed
to bad skin, from my mother.

You remember your mother? Before
sickness breached the levees and you
were flushed from your home, spit
out amongst abandoned coastal plains.

That was not the first time she had unleashed
torrents of violent nature. Once, she carved
deep into her palm with a pearl-handled
boning knife politely refusing to kiss bone,

just dull gray bands of recycled skin
and punishing red muscle. Draining,
she watched the innocent sink blush
(this was back when she still had hair).

Ben studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quarterly, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, SoFloPoJo and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com

SCENES FROM A CHINESE RESTAURANT

By Andrew Careaga

Daniel poked at the pile of caramelized nuggets on his plate, spearing one. 

“This is General Chicken,” he said, displaying the forked morsel to Cal. Its waxy coating glistened under the restaurant’s dingy fluorescent lighting. “According to the sign.” He pointed with his chin toward the buffet then plunged the piece into his mouth.

“You mean General Tso’s Chicken,” Cal said. He was hunched over his plate, twirling lo mein noodles around his fork and swiping it into a puddle of sweet and sour sauce. 

Daniel shook his head, chewing. “It just says General Chicken on the food bar.”

“General? Like average? Like generic?”

Daniel shrugged. “I guess. Just your run-of-the-mill chicken. Or maybe the general it’s referring to was a chicken. As in coward. But I guess you wouldn’t name a dish after a coward, would you.”

Cal chuckled. “I’m sure it’s General Tso’s Chicken. They just forgot to put the guy’s name on the sign.”

Cal pronounced “Tso” like sew or so.

“So disrespectful to such a distinguished military figure.”

Daniel speared another piece of the chicken. “I’ve seen it spelled General Geo before. G-E-O.”

“Geo as in George?”

Daniel nodded and wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “Or like the Geo Metro. Remember that car? Pass the soy sauce?”

“I wonder what General Tso or General Geo or whatever the fuck the guy’s name was did to get a Chinese dish named after him?”

“Some famous military victory, I guess. Maybe during World War II.”

“I thought China got their asses kicked in World War II?”

“Well, maybe they won a battle or two.”

Cal nodded as he twisted the noodles on his plate into a nest. “Why don’t we have any food named after a General? All we’ve got is a colonel.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a whole-ass chain of restaurants, not just a bunch of glazed chicken nuggets sitting in a warmer in every Chinese buffet everywhere.”

Cal nodded and dipped his egg roll in a splash of soy sauce. The waitress brought the check on a tray along with two cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies. 

Daniel grabbed a cookie and broke it open.

“It says I’m often unaware of the effect I have on others,” Daniel said.

Cal chuckled. “I believe that. You’re usually pretty clueless.”

“Fuck off. What’s yours say?”

“You fuck off. I’m still eating.”

Daniel shrugged and nibbled at the brittle cookie. It tasted like a stale, dry waffle.

Cal pushed his plate aside and unwrapped the fortune cookie.

“Mine says, ‘An important email will be arriving shortly. Check your inbox.’”

Daniel laughed. “Dude, you don’t even know how to use a computer.”

“Don’t need to,” Cal said. He reached behind him, producing his smartphone from his back pocket. “It’s all right here.”

“While you’re back there, find your wallet. It’s your turn to buy.”

“Shit.” 

“I’ll leave the tip.”

“What a pal,” Cal said.

Andrew Careaga is a writer from Rolla, Missouri, whose writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Frazzled Lit, The Argyle, Club Plum, MoonLit Getaway, The Orange Rose, Roi Faineant, Spillwords, Syncopation Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Find him on X/Twitter and Instagram at @andrewcareaga, on BlueSky at @andrewcareaga.bsky.social, and on his website andrewcareaga.com.

Back at Justice Defenders Headquarters, StreetLord threw the cape across the room. 

“I told you the cape was a dumb idea, Bill,” Femme Métal said as she transitioned from metal back to human flesh. 

Grey Matter glanced up from his multiscreens. “Hey! Code names only. StreetLord, I realize how much you idolize Batman, but he is a fictional character from comic books, movies, and cartoons. This is real life; capes are not practical, and the Vicious Psychos are our most formidable adversaries.”

“Da Bomb put his helmet, gloves, and bandolier of explosive devices inside his locker and said‌, “I’m sorry, SL, but that was hilarious. When the Brute grabbed you by your cape and tetherballed you for fifteen minutes…the look on your face…priceless.”

 Sister Sumo giggled and said, “And when the Brute tossed you into Orange Cthulhu, and he started smacking you in the face with his slimy tentacles. I almost peed my wawashi.” 

“Speaking of which, what kind of superhero wears a giant diaper and a sports bra?” Da Bomb asked. “It’s embarrassing.”

Sister Sumo giggled, pirouetted, and asked, “Too sexy for you, Bomb?”

StreetLord stomped over to the coffeemaker. “Hardy Har Har, butt wipes. If I could’ve gotten my Streetarangs out of my utility harness, it would have been a whole different story,” he said while jamming a cruller into his coffee. “I’ll be cleaning Orange Cthulhu goop out of my harness for a week.”

“Now that you mention it, StreetLord,” Grey Matter said, “I need you to start recovering your projectiles. Those things cost money.”

“Well, if they could auto-return as I suggested…”

“Oh sure, we can barely afford pods for the Keurig, and you want Tony Stark tech. Just pick them up.”

“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll beat the Vicious Psychos next time.”

StreetLord almost dropped his Batman coffee mug. “Holy crap, Translucent Girl, cough or whistle or something when you’re standing next to a person!” 

Everyone gave StreetLord disapproving looks as the barely visible girl started sobbing.

“What? It’s creepy, is all I’m saying.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” StreetLord waved his hands in front of him. “Hello? You still there?”  

“Maybe.”

Grey Matter adjusted the volume on one of his screens and said, “Good God, the Vicious Psychos just uploaded the entire debacle to TikTok.”

Femme Métal peeked past Grey Matter’s head. “Send me the link. My girlfriend is going to love this.”  

Da Bomb approached the snack table and said, “Ah, come on. Squirrel Dude, two of your rodents are humping in the dip again.”

“Um, it’s Squirrel Master, and their names are Fred and Ethel.” 

“I don’t give a crap if their names are Roger Rabbit and Jessica. Tell them to keep their horny asses out of the guac.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when my Squirrel Assassins were saving all your asses… nobody wants the rabies from my babies!”

“Hey, who knew that Doctor Spazmento had a giant magnet… Nice intel, Grey.”

“Apologies, Femme Métal. I don’t know how I missed that enormous horseshoe on top of their van.”

Sister Sumo giggled. “I didn’t see that open manhole…yuck, that was disgusting!”

“So, sue me, I forgot to bring my bombs.”

“You forgot your bombs? That’s your whole schtick… bombs… how do you forget your bombs?”

“Everyone shut up!” The vein in Grey Matter’s oversized head throbbed. “We formed the Justice Defenders to protect Shrapnel City and fight crime. Not each other.”

Grey Matter stood up and adjusted the dial on his neck brace to better support his massive head. “Everyone to the training room. We have new applicants to evaluate.”

“Oh, great. I hope they’re better than the last batch.” 

“Right?” Femme Métal said. “Captain Kielbasa, the moron with his sausage nunchucks, and Bucket Boy, Master of Disguise, the dopey kid with a bucket stuck on his head who kept slapping on different mustaches and hats like some kind of weird Mr. Potato Head.”

Grey Matter looked back at his multiscreens. “Change of plans, everyone. The Vicious Psychos are at it again. They just attacked City Hall. The Brute is pounding Mayor Lumpgrifter into the sidewalk, Orange Cthulhu is sliming the First Lady, and Doctor Spazmento is eating a chili dog…I think… I can’t quite make him out.”

“I’m not going if he still has that big- ass magnet!”

“Damn it, I just got all my bombs deactivated and put away for the night.”

Sister Sumo pouted and said, “I wanted to take a bubble bath.”

“Enough, everyone,” Grey Matter said, “Justice Defenders, we have a job to do!”

“Squirrels, assemble!”

“Okay, okay, let me just grab my cape. I think I can make it work this time.”

Grey Matter grabbed his phone and stepped away from his screens. “Translucent Girl, take the bridge. I don’t want to miss any of this.” 

To be continued…

Kenneth M. Gray is retired and lives in New Jersey with his daughter and two furry overlords, Lola & Lolo. He has kept these stories in his head for too long and is now setting them free. He is still working on it and hopes to release his illustrated story of Gleepglorp: A Tale of Love and Abduction one day.

X- KennethMGRAY2 Instagram – graykennethm  Bluesky – @kennethmgray.bsky.social

Soulmates

By G. Lynn Brown

Toad clouds
Float through a puddled sky
I watch in awe
Sun showers fall
Drench the garden
Moonflowers bloom
Worship the stars
Diamonds fall
Like wishes
The ones that come true
Not the ones that don’t
Not the ones whispered
Over birthday cakes
Toad stools
Line the bar
Set em up
So I can knock them back
Knock them down
Me and you
Floating down whiskey river
Neatly
On the rocks
Mixed with cola
Like we’re meant to be

Lynn Brown is a 2x Pushcart Prize nominee whose poetry and flash fiction has been published in several outlets including Prosetrics Literary Magazine, Spillwords Press, Dear Booze, Raw Lit and Bunker Squirrel. She’s also been featured in two of Literary Revelations’ best-selling haiku collections, Petals of Haiku and Tranquility, as well as anthologies by The Dribble Drabble Review, Wicked Shadows, World of Myth and Written Tales. She is the founder and EIC of Micromance Magazine and KissMet Quarterly.

Impressions by Donna Faulkner

Thanks to YouTube and the algorithm, I’ve become obsessed with Appalachian folklore. I’ve trailed 14 states without ever having set foot in any of them.I’ve learned the rules of no reply. I’ve dug a little deeper and become familiar with brown mountain lights.
I grew up with folktales around campfires while sparks passed between old hearts and new ears.
I’ve been watched by eyes in the forest. Ghosts in war paint. But now I know not to wander through the woods between dusk and dawn. The land remembers.
Collects
impressions like portraits and I’ve left impressions of my own.

Donna Faulkner lives in an old cottage in Rangiora, New Zealand.Free spirited and unconventional, she came to the business of writing later in life. Her work has been published in The Bayou Review, 300 Days of Sun, Takahē: Hua/ Manu,Tarot Poetry NZ, Windward Review, Havik, New Myths, and others. 

Her first poetry collection, ‘In Silver Majesty,’ was published by erbacce press,UK,2024 .https://www.erbacce-press.co.uk/donna-faulkner

Instagram: @lady_lilith_poet  X@nee_miller  

Website: https://linktr.ee/donnafaulkner

 Baby You’re a Rich Man

He’d been invisible, subhuman even. It’d boiled over last week on a rare day shift when Coleman had paged him. After five years at minimum wage as the night janitor, Donovan hoped against hope, promotion? Nope, a visitor had come to the most lucrative movie studio in the world with dogshit on his shoe and Donovan had been called to scrape it off the carpet – straight out of a Rolling Stones song, the command issued with zero eye contact.

But today, invisibility paid off. It’d been so damn easy. Three bungee cords and an old sheet was all it took, R2 secured in the bed of his beat-up truck. Donovan was sweating despite the chill of the February Los Angeles night blowing through the open windows. He shut the radio, he had no patience for today’s music, the 80s were proving to be as bad as the 70s. A Beatles song ran through his brain as thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes darting from speedometer to rear-view mirror.

There were two problems. First, telling Carla. She’d probably yell and try to get him to bring it back. But maybe not. She’d cried when they’d sent Andrea to kindergarten in a Goodwill jumper, a faint stain on the front. The dinginess of their apartment, the nights of boxed mac and cheese. Him, a musician trapped as a custodian, her, a painter trapped as a waitress. They deserved this break.

Second, selling R2. It wouldn’t be like fencing stolen jewelry. But hell, this town was full of eccentric rich guys. He’d find someone. Eduardo worked on a landscape crew in the hills, told him stories over 50 cent Coronas about those people. He’d have to cut him in, but Eddy was good people, it’d be okay.

He drove down his alley past the garbage cans. Yeah, the unit past the garbage cans. He pulled into the tight parking spot and saw the light on in their tiny kitchen. Was Carla up? His watch read 2 am.

She nearly leapt into his arms. He breathed her warmth and took in the smell of her hair. Then pulled back, “Is everything okay? Andrea?”

Carla smiled, “She’s fine. Look.” She pulled something from the front pocket of her flannel shirt.

It was a check from a lawyer’s office, $1500, almost three months’ rent on this dump. He squinted at her. “It’s an advance. They want me to paint their whole office, mural style. It’s a thing now. They love my stuff.” Carla’s words came out staccato. “This girl at work knew someone who knew someone. Sorry I didn’t tell you, I never thought …” She fell into him, her tears wet on his neck. He remembered his secret. His eyes welled up. He shut them and held her tight.

“Donovan?”

He opened his eyes.

Police lights pulsed through their kitchen. In the corner, the strings of his steel guitar glistened red and blue on each rotation.

François Bereaud is a husband, dad, full time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. He is the author of San Diego Stories published by Cowboy Jamboree Press and the novel, A Question of Family published by Stanchion Press. He’s the fiction editor at The Twin Bill.