Bad as Heck
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Ready, Set, Grind!
GRIGORY LUKIN
You clench your fists as you examine the numbers. One more ambitious scheme has backfired. Another wild attempt to get rich has gone bust.
You bite your lip, blinking fast, trying not to cry, not to react. You’ll get that money back somehow, some way. You’ll raise more. You always do. You look up from your phone, forcing a grin, convincing your buddies all is well. The next round’s on you.
You sign up for more shifts. Overtime. Flipping things on Craigslist. Crumpled twenties, sweaty palms. Grind. Growth. Greatness. Glory.
You double down on uppers and cut down on sleep. You’ll rest when you die, and death is a lie. To hell with it. Try harder. More crypto tips. More ideas. You write them down in the bespoke Moleskin you carry around. Swag.
On the way to the gym, you spot some grime-covered kids, playing with castoff toys, wasting time. No ambition. Make some lemonade, open a stand, franchise, LLC, IPO, boom – victory! You shake your head. Slackers.
That night, a rare glimmer of REM sleep. Old toys of your own. Parents fighting. You escape. You always escape. You survive and thrive and prevail and you goddamn triumph.
Another weekend, another attempt. Trends, charts, tips, rumors. You clench your fists as you prepare to examine numbers. You take a deep breath…
Grigory Lukin. Rhymes with "story" and "win." Award-winning filmmaker, author, ally, vagabond, and adventurer based in Montreal.
Mercy Planet
MIKE MURPHY
Boothby hoped Slyvak Prime would offer what he was longing for.
He landed his ancient starcraft and fired up its antiquated sensors. The scans reported an alphabet soup of harmful gases in the atmosphere. Boothby smiled. At last! Months of searching were finally over.
He opened the ship’s hatch and shuffled down its exit ramp to the planet’s boggy surface. He left the starcraft behind as a gift to whoever found it.
The atmosphere’s gases quickly entered his lungs. Boothby swooned and collapsed. In mere minutes, they had taken his life—and his agonizing cancer—away, just as he wanted.
Mike has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.
Through
JAY CASTELLO
On the surface of the lake, the moon was a silver coin paying the boatman. The women dove beneath, caressed by weed and embraced by water. They sank with purpose, eyes open. They sank through time, though the water remained the same, and the moon, too. They sank to the depths. They saw the foundation of things, where the weeds rooted and the water settled and the moon touched only lightly, scattered and shaded. They scooped handfuls of mud and let the silt run through their fingers, cling under their nails. They burrowed. The moon watched them go.
Jay Castello is a writer, editor, and creative found by the river or at @jaymcastello.bsky.social.
Make Them Laugh: Three Easy Steps
CHRIS CLEMENS
ONE. Procure nitrous oxide. Amateur
comedians who stare at their feet
every Thursday night may resort
to desperate measures after years
of shame. For suicidal dentists,
this step is simple.
TWO. Generously donate ten canisters
of “stage fog” to Laugh Machine,
to be installed near vents. Rig secret
remote triggers on each: you’ll TELL
them when to laugh!
THREE. Alone in the spotlight, release gas
as needed to survive coughs and smirking
faces. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES
should your sweaty fingers jam the remote
buttons, releasing all the gas at once
with a faint hiss.
FOUR!? Between giggling gasps,
try to warn everyone
maybe
although
every word you say is hilarious
everyone’s finally rolling in the aisles
together
and the laughter goes on and on
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons.
Apocalypse
ASHER BOMSE
Earth had been sick for a while
Humanity being the root cause
A spiral that only went deeper as time went on
Everyone knew, saw the signs, did nothing
Then, as predicted by so many, it’d finally happened
Humanity was facing its demise by their own hands
Earth was getting rid of the infection that’d been slowly killing it
At long last in the eyes of Mother Nature
Floods, Tornadoes, Volcanic eruptions, Typhoons, everything in between happening
The weather was taking over, washing everyone away
Much like the Biblical floods once did, only worse
Nowhere was safe from anything
People dying instantly while others died slowly
Millions dead within the first twelve hours
Leaving millions of others knowing they were likely next
A fate that seemed worse than death being what it felt to them
Five million survived out of eight billion
They’d did what they’d needed to survive
They began using what they could to survive and rebuild
All five million were unsure of their future
Knowing they still very well might be on borrowed time
No amount of planning would help other
Too many unknowns to attempt it
They came together anyway in hopes of rehabilitating Mother Nature
Asher is a Transgender Man living with Disabilities. He writes to help others in some way through their writing
Tombstone, April 2020
LEAH MUELLER
You walk down the wooden sidewalk with your husband. His steps are slow, hesitant. Boards creak underfoot. When you round the corner, a woman springs out of a restaurant. “We’re open!” She sounds hopeful, yet desperate.
She means takeout, since it’s illegal to dine in a restaurant. The iconic bars sport heavy padlocks. Big Nose Kate’s. Doc Holliday’s. The Four Deuces Saloon. Closed indefinitely, until owners get the all-clear.
The main street is empty, except for a photographer with a fancy setup. He’s standing in the middle, snapping away. His apparatus looks like a mechanical praying mantis.
You think of old Warner Brothers cartoons. Tumbleweeds roll down the street like spiked bowling balls. The desert is a harsh and unrelenting place, but roadrunners always rise again.
Usually, Tombstone’s streets overflow with gunslinging cowboys, searching for tourist dollars. “Goin’ to the gunfight today?” they snarl.
If you say “no”, they follow you down the street. “You sure?” Insistent, like they might shoot if you say no. “Two PM. Watch them fall like they did in 1881.”
Death isn’t a kitschy joke anymore. It’s a real possibility. Everyone’s huddled indoors like the cavalry might appear at any moment. You take a deep breath of the dusty air and snap a cellphone photo of an overhead sign. “Ghosts and Legends.” Ominous shadows stretch into the distance.
Your husband’s cancer treatment begins tomorrow. Still, you feel oddly peaceful. Tombstone has never been so quiet. You clasp your husband’s hand and keep walking.
Leah Mueller is everywhere and nowhere. Her work is published across the internet and in print.
PTSD
JOHN GREY
Memories crack head-on with now,
smack bang in the middle of the road—
none giving way,
none slowing.
Her brain’s a bloodied knot
of yesterday’s smoke and today’s hazard lights.
She reaches out like roadside assistance—
but this wreck’s deep in the woods,
long past the guardrails of reason.
How do you salvage only half a soul?
Can she bear to see one crawl free
while the other’s laid out like a funeral?
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Latest book “Bittersweet” is available through Amazon.