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.

Publication Update : Dressed for the party in What’s your favorite animal zine.

Another one out in 2025. Even though I am getting lucky enough to get stuff published in a few journals it’s important for me to continue to contribute to zines. They are where I started getting things out years ago. And there is something pure about someone stapling and folding things and mailing them to a friend, or trading them for something else. Anyway lucky to have probably my sweetest poem Dressed for the Party (about penguins of course) in What’s Your Favorite Animal by Naturalist Zinester out of Switzerland. I am allowed to print my own copies here in the states or email the PDF if you’d like to read it just get in touch.

Naturalist Zinester

Publication Update: Two New poems up at Be About It Press.

Merry Christmas to me. Two New poems up today at the wonderful Be About it Press.
Alexandra Naughton has always been super good to me publishing me way back in Be About it Zine #4 a long long time ago. Happy to have Sorcerer and The Time I saw the ice melt published on the Be About it substack today. Free to read at Be About It Press Substack but hit that subscribe button while you are there for more great stuff.

After 77 Merry Christmas

Mirabel Annette Julian Jones celebrated her first Christmas deep in Underground Houston. Her parents wet a small blanket lightly letting her sip water through the thick cloth as a filter. She was growing stronger but her eyes had trouble developing here in the darkness. Her mother sang her old christmas songs this morning, 

“Silent Night, Holy Night,”Her father held her tight, the wounds on his shoulder still healing from the uprising. They now hid from retribution deep in the underbelly of the Houston underground. Four families had carved out a place they could protect should anyone vengeful come looking. But they were running low on food and would have to venture back up sometime.
Joseph, a small six year old, came up to Mirabel’s mother with a small stuffed animal, ragged and loved. Mirabel’s mother nodded and he brought it and placed it in tiny Mirabel’s hands. She gripped it with infant instinct and held on tight, the fur a tactile touch she did not know. She would have this bear years later, in her office as president, high on a cabinet shelf, a reminder of where she came from.

“Merry Christmas,” Joseph said as he skipped away.