Jane – Rachel Small

Rachel Small is not a small person and can be found wandering the streets of Ottawa. She spends her time haunting bookstores and serving poorly made lattes to the general public, as well as writing things specifically to distress people. Check out @rahel_taller on Twitter, and also @AtticVoices for more of her antics.

Jane
By Rachel Small

I found a girl
not made of sugar
but rather orange pekoe,
dark and bitter amongst graveyard soil.

She had lain beneath rich blue sky,
like a mirage amongst scattered books and shoes.
She had been left with her neck near vanished,
a pair of pantyhose wrapped around her throat so tight.

I found a girl so dead
she looked not dead,
but rather a mannequin,
stretched out upon a stranger’s grave.

She’s got both a sister and a father
but also a murderer,
and her name circled in a phonebook.
She’s both dead and a victim.

I found a girl
stretched out with dirt beneath her nails,
eyes forced shut and hair knotted
and I thought she were plastic and manufactured.

She’s got a tragedy stamped across her face,
rotting away upon a stranger’s grave.
Her stomach bloats as she begins to vanish,
a slow trail to barebones.

I found a girl so violated
with DNA smeared across her body.
A puzzle and a code,
Strewn about beneath the hot sun.

She’s not my sister nor my daughter,
nor the victim of my hand.
She’s nothing to me but an existence dead.
Her name is Jane and I found her lying there.

Everything Is A Boxed Dinner – Kaitlin Noel Hanrahan

Kaitlin Noel Hanrahan is a third-year MFA poetry candidate at UNCW, with previous degrees in French and Philosophy. She has been published in print and online at Atlantis Magazine and Show Your Skin. She hates radishes and loves a good knife.

EVERYTHING IS A BOXED DINNER
By Kaitlin Noel Hanrahan

standing in line for teriyaki soba noodles at the saddest mall in america.
my total? $11.11 baby.

the chef is wearing a white chef hat and pours liquid on a flat hot circle.

someone in the food court is wearing a tiara.

also a silk sash that says ‘north carolina princess’ in red.

Continue reading “Everything Is A Boxed Dinner – Kaitlin Noel Hanrahan”

Ode to a #Becky – Marisa Silva-Dunbar

Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in work to a calm poetry zine, Amaryllis, Manzano Mountain Review, Bone & Ink Press, Midnight-Lane Boutique, Mojave He[art] Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine. She is a contributing writer at Pussy Magic. Her work is forthcoming in Constellate Literary Journal, The Charles River Journal, Angelical Ravings, and The Same. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. She is @thesweetmaris on both Twitter and Instagram.

Ode to a #becky
By Marisa Silva-Dunbar

    I.

Summer epiphany:
Realizing he was wrong for me.

Autumn reality:
You were the party favor
when he walked back into destruction,
and even then you were tossed out
before the night was through.

II.

Please post more hashtags
that contradict each other.
Don’t create anything of worth.

If the same theme appears in your life—
you’ve failed to analyze it properly;
your lessons are on repeat1—
play them when you’re in the bar
dancing alone or taking mirror selfies.

Tell us what you find when you
ignore the warnings you profess you heed;
continue wondering why you’re never valued.
That smirk is the only thing you know,
and it’s not real.

Get used to feeling “melonchaly.

The credit terminal at the hipster café wasn’t working – Qurat D

Qurat Dar is an engineering student and an emerging author. She has work forthcoming currently in The Evansville Review, Augur Magazine, The Temz Review, Rag Queen Periodical, Yellow Taxi Press, Neologism Poetry, Cabinet of Heed, Awkward Mermaid Lit Mag, Anathema Magazine, and KROS Magazine. She was also recently a finalist in the 2018 Canadian Festival of Spoken Word (CFSW). Find her on Twitter: @DQur4t

The credit terminal at the hipster café wasn’t working
By Qurat D.

and for a few minutes of pure anxiety, the barista and I stand in uneasy silence, with only half hearted
attempts at conversation.  She sees the tape on my credit
card, probably sees the gaping hole in my backpack
(both the result of carelessness than anything
else), probably wonders why I’m in a café with
stylized prints on the walls, trying to buy a $6 coffee,
why I’m wearing eyeliner and skinny jeans, when I
should have spent that money on a nose job,
wondering if she should actually believe when I say
that the card, taped, has worked many times at
other terminals with other skeptical clerks,
she asks me if I have any other cards. I wonder if
I should tell her I live around the corner, that I could run
and grab one, get cash (which I never carry), I wonder
what she’ll be thinking in the ten minutes it takes me to get back,
all to pay for my lukewarm, overpriced coffee, all to save face
after the humiliation of a blank screen,

Do you have tap?

I try not to think about how few brown faces I see in the room,
that somebody else is in line behind me now, that this is all a
performance and I’ve been a terrible actress for as long as I’ve
learned what it is to act.

Once the terminal reboots I tap it again, trying not to grind my teeth.
It makes a flippant sound of recognition.

black body – Jim Young

Jim Young is a poet living in the Mumbles, Swansea, UK. He does most of his writing in his beach hut overlooking Langland Bay, Gower.

black body
By Jim Young

festering night;
such a stench from
the wound in the
steaming neon-slashed rain.
much has streamed astray,
in the way footsteps falter
following a falling star.
rue the night that
wrapped the day away,
and bid our souls slip down,
to beat upon the testament
of the damned.