A Place To Rest

“Did you bury the dog?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Where did you put it?”

“In the back of the garden near where we buried the cats and turtles.”

“Did you remember to bury it deep so nothing can dig it up?”

“I remembered mom. I dug real deep. Clear down to the water pipe. I left Chuckles on top of the pipe.”

“I guess that will do. Now, remember what I told you before you carried him out there.”

“No more pets.”

“That’s right Sammy. No more pets. I’m tired of all the heart break, between the animals and the people. Nothing lasts long enough.”

“I miss dad too. And Janie and grandma and grandpa.”

“You don’t need more loss, but you know I won’t be around forever. You’ll outlast me by mile.”

“Don’t say that Mom.”

“You know it’s true. There’s no denying it. Between my heart, my lungs, and my kidneys there’s a race going on to see what kills me first.”

“Don’t talk about it, mom. It hurts to think about.”

“I won’t mention it again. But you remember, no more pets. No matter how much you love animals, you can’t have another one.”

“I know.”

“We’re running out of room back there in the garden anyway.”

“The state forest is on the other side of the fence. We can bury you there if the garden gets full.”

“No, I want to be in the garden. Your Uncle Phil will fix it. Fake cremation like he did for your father and grandparents. Just make sure you take the urn home.”

“It’s good to have an undertaker in the family.”

“It’s good to be buried in your own land.”

“I know that’s what dad wanted.”

“Cheaper too. Gotta save money when you can. Life is expensive.”

“I know mom. We can barely keep up with the property taxes as it is.”

“You will have to find a way when I’m gone. You will have to, since so many of your family are buried back there. Can’t break up the family. Gotta keep it together on family land.”

“I considered my pets to be family too.”

“I meant them as well. Once you’re part of the family, you’re family forever, even if you are part of the land, our land.”

“Is there any particular spot you have your eyes on back there, in the garden? Like we discussed, space is getting tight.”

“I always wanted to be buried in the garden next to your father and sister, but not on the same side as my mother in law.”

“I’ll have to take down the apple tree to squeeze you in, but don’t worry. I won’t put you next to granny.”

“I like that apple tree. Don’t take it out. Place me in there on my side, facing your father. That way I’ll take up less room.”

“I’ll do that. I might have to move sis a little. Probably have to chop away some of the roots as well, but I’ll do it.”

“Your sister won’t mind. She was the understanding sort. You can put her on her side north of our heads.”

“Okay mom.”

“I always liked that tree. Always liked the apples it gave us. Sweet, but not too sweet.”

“Don’t worry mom. The tree will be survive.”

“I like that. Sleeping in the shade of the apple tree with your father for all eternity. Sound nice, doesn’t it.”

“It sure does mom. I’ll make it happen.”

Sammy said this, but he was aware of the offers his mother had gotten from developers for the family land. The most recent offer had been very generous. Enough for a man to start over again, in comfort, if not luxury, in a better place, far from the semi-rural poverty he had grown up in.

Sammy eyed the fence at the back of the property. He liked the stands of trees on the other side of that fence. Those were state lands, unlikely to be touched unless a highway needed to be built or oil was discovered. The state land seemed as good a place as any for all of his family’s dead, including what was left of the pets, to spend eternity. There were plenty of trees and chirping birds. He might even be able to dig up that apple tree and replant it over there, along with all the others that his mother loved. They all will survive.

Bio: Joseph Farley writes fiction and poetry. His books include Suckers, For The Birds, Longing For The Mother Tongue, Her Eyes, Labor Day, Yellow Brick Pilgrim, Written In The Sand, Farts And Daydreams, Nightmares And Hiccups, Beware The Cartoonist, and The Dog Scowls Instead Of Biting.

I used to believe in the green of your eyes

Tender

I used to believe in the care in the green of your eyes
Not in a form of

Surveillance

I used to believe in the green of your eyes

I used to believe

In the green

Of your eyes

I used to believe

Lisa Marie Zapata is a writer and dancer from the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. She can be found on Twitter/X @LMZzz, on instagram/pi.fyi @ellemzee, and online at ellemzeee.com.

‘Oi – Emo boi!’

‘Piss off Em. Don’t you have some frogs to eviscerate? You don’t get there soon, 7b’s gonna burn down your lab.’ 

Now that thought raises a smirk. First sign of life since Jayne kidnapped our cat Kipper and moved in with Jim, the careers advisor, last year. Smug wanker. Hope she shits in his slippers. Kipper, that is. Mind you, wouldn’t put it past Jayne, now I come to think. . . Of course he wears sodding slippers.

‘What Em? Cool muso dude like you, can’t remember it’s Iris, after two whole terms?’ She spits “cool muso” at me, like the xenomorph in Alien spitting acid, excoriating me.

‘MDPG. Em’ Manic Dream Pixie Girl. I read a fascinating article in Mx Garrett’s Grazia only last week, and recognised the description instantly. ‘With your tiny tartan mini and your little shiny nose hoop and your pastel pixie crop. Ugh. And Iris, really? What are you, a fucking flower fairy?’ 

And that raises a snort. I’m on a roll. Mind you, I may have spent quality – ahem – “personal” time recently with that shiny little nose hoop, which she absolutely doesn’t need to know.

‘Oh sod off and go play with your instrument – pretty sure there’s a teeny, tiny little piccolo with your name on it in the music room.’ She spins squeakily on the staffroom lino in her Chucks, looks back over her shoulder to check out me checking out her arse. Which fair play of course I am. Raises one sparkly pink-painted pinkie, gives it a little wiggle, then sloooowly lowers it until it droops forlornly. Eyes me challengingly, eyebrow raised, all B&W movie star vamp. Fuck, she’s magnificent.

And, oh yeah, she so knows about me and her nose.

‘Why do you have to be so mean? I get I’m pathetic, I get you despise me, so why can’t you just leave me be?!’ For thirteen humiliatingly adolescent seconds I’m certain I’m going to blub.

Then a shaft of sunlight half-blinds me, illuminating her face like a mediaeval martyr. Slam-bang, fairy bells start clamouring in my ears like roid-rage-grade tinnitus, and a million rainbow-coloured bubbles are sucking all the air out of the room, because she is smiling at me. That. Fucking. Smile. A man would go to war for that smile, or the moon. Or maybe just plain insane. Anything, absolutely any goddamned thing you could think of to keep her smiling like that at you forever. Or perhaps that’s only me.

‘Don’t you know anything? Thought everyone knew us manic flower fairies only ever pull the wings off the cute little emo elves we like best.’

And with a quick up-down and a flicky-eyelinered wink she’s off to sort out 7b, Goddess help ‘em. But not before I half-blind her with the smile she’s raised.

 

Pam Martin-Lawrence is a queer neurodivergent writer living on a small English island with collections of emotional support plants, ‘book boyfriends’ and a long-suffering partner. While writing novels, she writes poetry and short fiction for relaxation, almost fifty of which pieces have/will appear in publications and anthologies including Passionfruit Review, Writers’ Journal ‘Roots’ anthology, Hotch Potch Literature, Coin-Operated Zines, KissMet Quarterly, SunSpot Literature (Rigel anthology), litl journal on Instagram, Bunker Squirrel magazine, and Micromance Magazine. She is the author of ‘The Tale of a Dragon’ (Alien Buddha Press 2024). Chocolate is her kryptonite.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mykki Rios has inadvertently birthed a lot of poetry while trying to do their makeup or fall asleep.
Most of said poems did not ask to be born and immediately left to take their places in the sky as UFOS.
When asked about their womb, Mykki simply pointed to the aquarium full of crystalline, gestational almost-concepts, looking like plastic bags slowly actualizing into immortal jellyfish and evening gowns.
Mykki only has a home because others hold onto holiday decorations year round.
Mykki is a basement dwelling entity, always out of season, spring florals in autumn, and all their leaves falling salacious at the feet of Easter.
Mykki only shows up in photos that were never of them. Fashion bloggers gush about how the hem of their dress conceals their lack of physical form.
Look how the eyelashes flutter soundless like high tea being served.
Notice how the exuberant hat complements the unearthly abundance of phantom features.
Museums begin from a deep, gnashing lust to simply observe.
Mykki’s touches are an archival, and you are welcome to come inside.

Mykki Rios is a queer genderfluid Mexican-American writer, performer and multimedia artist. Raised in Chicago, and having lived many places across the globe, they recently returned home to the Windy City. Mykki has had works featured in issues of Welter, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, Random Sample Review, Smoke and Mold Journal, The Normal School, Apparition Literature, BRAWL Lit, Synkroniciti Magazine, HAD, Tampa Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Londemere Lit, and more. They were also a finalist in Lupercalia Press’ 2022 Chapbook Series Contest.

 

“I wish you could see this skyline, Michael,” Jane lamented.
“Why, aren’t they all the same?”
“Sure. And all music’s the same too, right? That gives me an idea.” Listen to this. Jane’s practiced hands conjured musical magic. Jazz, swing, and so much more smoothing painfully chaotic chords.
“What. Was. That?” whispered Michael, wonder in his voice.
“That, my love, was New York. Want to hear Chicago?”
“Uh, huh,” blind eyes blinking agreement.
Sweet, soulful blues, fused with gritty rock power filled the air—all glass and steel.
“Play another,” Michael begged.
“I want to hear the whole world sing.”

Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn’t yet figured out what retirement means. In turns, he consults, mopes around, and crafts wildly varying types of fiction—literary, horror, humor, as well as many things undefinable. He often plies Virginia’s backwaters on his kayak, searching for both fish and inspiration.

https://linktr.ee/KWhitsonWrites

Not Pedro the brooding zombie hunter,
not Pedro with super rubber legs and arms.
Pedro saying my name in a hot foreign accent,
painting my portrait among daisies.
Pedro who washes the dishes while
I soak in the bubble bath.

He would make me the creamiest
carbonara for lunch, and massage my feet with
cranberry-scented body butter.

Pedro, who would worship me in bed,
spill my name through his senses like
a blast of honey,
but Pedro who would also search for my hand
in the dark after some stupid fight.

I’d only leave you for Pedro,
Pedro starring in a film, cast as
you.

Karina Longo is a neurodiverse Brazilian-Italian poet based in Milan. Her poetry has been featured in online publications including Ressurection Mag, Micromance Magazine and Londemere Lit, with more soon appearing in Rough Diamond Poetry Journal. Karina was nominated for The Pushcart Prize for her poem, Lovelight (Micromance, 8/01/25). She is the EIC to new indie magazine La Rotonde Review. Find her musing on X: @TheDarkestStar_

I want to move your hair;

to clout you sharply on the moors,

leaving canine contours at the foot of your throat,

a dog mawing the marrow,

sticky sore and ashamed of

a picked-clean ribcage

on cooing windowsills.

I want to burst your banks;

float by like detritus

and cloy to your oar’s thick end,

over and over.

Praise with faint damns.

Drown in them,

roll in them,

bask in them,

bake in them,

dive in and miss and hit sticky-up bits.

Cracked, like fine wine.

I want pills & booze,

traversing what’s decent,

like the octopus tree

feeling your terrace, head bowed, where

old flames decay attics,

skylights pulsing 

blue and black,

mistaking my arse for your elbow.

Never knowing when to please

stop

doing that.

Sua Sponte

in your 3rd year of law school

a rogue thought will spring loose 

prima facie

from the confines of your tightly tamped mind

habeas corpus

a runaway quarter racing into the vortex 

ex parte

of a spiraling charity wishing well 

triggering a series of decisions that will forever alter you

sine qua non

you will pick agency over comfort and convenience

caveat emptor

embark on a path of your own making

sui generis

decades later you will wonder if your parents are proud or disappointed

quaeritur

you never have the courage to ask

de minimis non curat lex

Johannah Simon is a corporate strategist, professor, and optimistic ideator. A Midwest GenX writer, her tiny pieces are curated at thewritingtype.com. Connect with her on X @JohannahWrites,  @johannah.bsky.social, or Insta @johannahcanwrite.

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