 Man is the last species to die, for he can eat all the others. Plankton, plant, pork or porgy All go down his maw. Forget about cockroaches and rats, Man dines on them both. Consider seafood as example. Poisonous blowfish, mercury-laced lampreys, sea urchins and periwinkles, sharks and slugs and squid, unless rotted, all eaten. And after man consumes all the plants and animals he’s apt to eat other men as well.  Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors. Follow Ed on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
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 one late autumn the bitter water spread through the entire building filling mouths with a caustic taint but the tenants did not care enough to protest, until the dreams came: DREAD EVIL DARKNESS SADNESS EMPTY SO EMPTY a thousand agonies of loneliness the sum total grief of mere being the cats howling, the dogs whimpering a hundred people—men, women, children-- feeling that they were falling, falling, falling... forever and forever and forever, until-- after two nights of mass distress the grim hysteria bubbled over and—making a connection-- they finally sent the super up to the water tank he lifted the lid and there she greeted him: floating face down, fully clothed her backpack still about her thin shoulders her stygian hair clumped like rotting seaweed some of them had been wondering where she had got to she had been such a nice girl a little quiet perhaps. Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, Spank the Carp, Better Than Starbucks, View From Atlantis, Poets' Espresso Review, Once Upon A Crocodile, The Rye Whiskey Review, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England. Follow Harris on Twitter @ha_coverley.
 On my broken back I carry the world: hungry children drinking the minerals from my exposed bone; battered women prickling me with needles, yet even they, adept at the art of patching things up, defeated by my tectonic fissures and split vertebrae; men who—for lack of softness to scar—destroy themselves, fashioning bandages out of my peeling skin. And those who are neither man nor woman, dangling from my ragged clumps of fur, clinging tooth and nail to the forces trying to forsake them. Rotten roots attempt to trip me, birds made of pure keratin and spite, swooping down. Carnivorous bracken find no flesh left to nibble. The tears of my passengers, acid rain over ravaged earth. I run quadrupedal, leaping over fermented fords of ichor, bounding through woods of my fellow skeletons growing into trees, limbs into boughs. But I have many more journeys left inside me before I fall apart and my passengers do too, before we are all dust and ghosts, feeding this broken-backed world.  Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on Twitter (@avramargariti).
 At vision’s rim, curtain flutter, a shadow, a blur. My nerve ends twist, wrap round sinews, tighten me to a standstill. Something is in the room with me. Only one of us is breathing.  John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
 Lone dead approach unbidden with requests. Eternal rest’s eclipsed by unmet needs. Preparing for the ask, its devil tease, The dropkick of the punchline, I’m composed. This won’t take long. Crisp salt-white speech is not A conversational duet. It’s brief. Succinct. Direct. Delivered neat. Deep-voiced. Or else transmitted silently, slipped thoughts, As if the listener’s reborn inside Unwritten books that stalk the author’s mind. Desires, regrets, or urgencies don’t die When bodies decompose to worm-sawed seed. Don’t think fierce yearnings laze about, content To swing in hammocks of the afterlife, Unhunted by the conscience’s sharp edge. Gut hunger’s not forgotten when homeless. Dumped six feet down, desires don’t get dismissed. Remorses, cravings, impulses revive, Resurface -- seeking friendly patronage. Why wouldn’t I oblige? Souled will still thrives. Returning home, before I hit the sack, I’ll muse: “When are the dead expected back?”  Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, recently Poetry SuperHighway's Poet of the Week, is a member of SFPA and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award nominee "A Route Obscure and Lonely" and "Concupiscent Consumption" are her latest poetry titles.
Forthcoming is a paranormal collection of ghost poems, a collaborative horror chapbook "Santa Muerte," and an Italian-centric book, “Flirting with the Fire Gods,” inspired by her Aeolian Island heritage. Her Video-Poetry channel will give you nightmares. Follow LindaAnn below: https://linktr.ee/LindaAnn.LoSchiavo https://twitter.com/Mae_Westside https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg https://www.amazon.com/LindaAnn-LoSchiavo/e/B084WSGD5K/ |
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