Author Archives: Shawn Scott Smith

After Part 80

Des grésillements retentirent et Juliette sursauta. Son manteau, usé et déchiré, la gênait dans sa marche rapide vers le récepteur.

” Allô ? Qui est à l’appareil ? Qui est là ? “

Le silence s’installa, et son espoir s’amenuisa, puis…

“Allô ?” une voix d’homme.”

” Allô, c’est George, nous sommes à Calais. Qui est à l’appareil ? “

Des larmes coulèrent sur les joues de Juliette. Elle n’était pas seule. Elle tremblait en parlant dans le microphone.

” C’est tellement bon d’entendre ta voix, George. “

Publication Update : Act Your Age Volume 3: Generations

Rare piece of nonfiction for me with the preorder of Act Your Age Volume 3 put out by Wild Ramp Publishing. This issue is about fandom across generations. My roots are in the fan space, and this call intrigued me. My piece is called A Sense of Wonder and it’s about how I fell into fandom, but also how my hope is that my son finds joy in the media he chooses and chooses love over despair, and maintains a sense of wonder in this world.

You can order a copy while available at Wild Ramp Publishing Shop.

Mucky Mondays #04 an exclusive 60 minute interview by john compton

an exclusive 60 minute interview

it is dark but the branch slides down the window in such a creepy way
i almost run from the room—and i know it is a tree

but it sends shivers with how meticulous it moves, its leaves licking the glass,
and i imagine it being on a documentary about how it had broken into my house

and killed me, and it’s just smiling at the interviewer
with no remorse, only saddened because it was cut down and apprehended.


john compton (b. 1987), author of 18 books/chapbooks, is a gay poet who lives in kentucky with his husband josh, alongside dogs, cats, & mice. his previous full length book is “my husband holds my hand because i may drift away & be lost forever in the vortex of a crowded store” published with Flowersong Press (dec 2024); his newest full length book is “house as a cemetery” published with Rebel Satori Press (mar 2026). you can find his books, some poems, and other things here: https://linktr.ee/poetjohncompton

After 79

In the long stamped path over white snow the blood left distinct marks, slowly catching into evaporating bubbles of steam. The fox sniffed at the ground in pursuit of prey, a lonely hunter, surviving at this point on instinct and genetics. Above a hawk watches, circling, making note for an upcoming feast, talons ready for the rapture. The river slowed by ice, the temperature cause for concern, the fish buried to the lowest depths, with the mud holding earth warmth inside. 

And along the shallow edge the survivors would come, one by one, for a last taste of life, before the world froze, and an eternal winter began.

Mucky Mondays #03 Greater and Lesser Ghosts by Trace Ramsey

On a turn to light;
chaos within the glow.
All clay-red and mullein-yellow,
distorted color furnace flames,
embering memory
and coal ash dumped in
an unsuspecting stream.

On a turn to the dark;
lonesome snow packed tight.
All ice-blue and envelope-white,
breath low and vapored,
grins full of crooked teeth.
We have our blankets,
heat, lights low and our babies
in the other room.

On a turn to the living;
damp grass, peppermint, ivy
that none of us will reach.
All grass-green and horse-brown.
Speak with me as we walk,
goats in the spent pasture.
Bolted down bollards at the parking lot edge
upright, near the sickly trees,
painting dulled greens and yellows
above the warnings in safety orange.
I’d make a great wife you know,
and I have time for more mistakes.

On a turn to the dead;
instants stood still, suggestions there in the ditches full of trash, a dark dummied oasis.
All concrete-gray and street-black,
passing but thick like all our ghosts
pressed together as one.

traceramsey.com
IG trace.ramsey
“Trace Ramsey is a recipient of the North Carolina Artist Fellowship in Prose. Trace lives in Durham, NC and co-parents two children.“

Mucky Mondays #02 Poem by Tom Snarsky

True things are socially impractical
Is a true thing that’s socially impractical

Handling the truth in a poem is like
Holding a baby goose close

In the hope it will someday defend you
Or your ducks, who can’t do it themselves

Imprinting is something the truth does
Almost by accident, although

As evinced by many small waterfowl
Just bc something imprints doesn’t mean

It can’t be killed

Tom Snarsky lives in Virginia with his wife Kristi and their cats.

Publication Update : The Locker Room at Mythic Picnic

Excited for my first publication of 2026 and it is exclusive to twitter/x at Mythic Picnic in their Micro Mayhem series. This short by me is loosely based on my time growing up in ice hockey locker rooms. Thank you so much to editor Nathan Pettigrew for including me.

Mucky Mondays #01 The Old Vampires by Patricia Russo

The old vampires put on long black dresses
to conceal their thinness
and arrange bright pink shawls over their shoulders
(not red, red is too old-fashioned)
and pretend they have invitations to the wedding.

No one challenges them.
They move through the reception hall stealthily
keeping to the walls
picking up nearly empty glasses to hold as camouflage
until they reach the gifts table

and sip cautiously from the jealousies and the hatreds,
the sharp bit of them like ripe pineapple on the tongue,
then, egging each other on,
they taste the hopes,
so frothy and intoxicating.

The one person who recognizes them from the old days
says nothing, but lifts his own glass in silent salute,
recalling a time when he envied them their certainties,
recalling the tastes of his own blood
on their lips.

 

Patricia Russo’s work has appeared in One Art, Zin Daily, Wild Greens, Vagabond City, Hex Literary, and Eulogy Press.

After 78

Leaves fall, and left to the Earth’s whimsy.

Begin anew like language to a child.

In the tunnels below society sustains together,

The sun long since blurring life with death.

 

In the refresh we grow closer, turning to each other,

For comfort, we intertwine like weeds running up a post,

Savoring touch, rejecting old politics,

To become something better, less wasteful.

 

Adaptation along a river running fresh blue again,

Long cornflower stalks like midnight moonlight shine bright,

To see such wonders with human eyes!

The birds know, and watch for us. Steady, ever present.

 

Till we figure out how to be better,

A tenant to our world, proper and prim,

She shakes with changes, her crust healing,

And we shall one day venture out again, ex

plorers once more.