-----------------------------------------------------------------------
no one ever promised
 
endless days
of rain and
fog
 
just pure
fucking misery
as my arthritis
is jumping
for joy
 
and the days of
drinking the pain
away have got to
the point where
dylan thomas
looks over at
me and smiles
 
no one ever
promised life
would be fun
and fulfilling
 
hell, i wasn't
even promised
a tomorrow
 
these are the
days where i
wish my father
had the courage
to follow through
on his threats
------------------------------------------------------------
in a dying town
 
an old buddy of mine
opened up a coffee
shop in the town
we grew up in
 
i wish him all the
luck in the world
 
a small business
in a dying town is
usually a recipe for
the onset of a mid-life
crisis
 
of course, he served
in the navy
 
so, it's probably not
the first crisis he has
come across
------------------------------------------------------------
a smile to your face
 
i still remember that
perkins parking lot
and how you couldn't
believe how easily
i slid my hand down
your pants and brought
a smile to your face
 
you're still the only
woman to ever answer
her door in lingerie
for me
 
i'm sure your wife
is enjoying that now
 
thankfully, i haven't
drank all the memories
away
-------------------------------------------------------------
down the roads of apathy
 
near the end of summer
 
another hot, long, sweaty
ride down the roads of
apathy here in the midwest
 
the road to nowhere has
been washed in the blood
of countless suicides and
the old souls realizing all
their mistakes
 
the kkk still like to recruit
here, but often knock on
all the wrong doors
 
i saw a black man walking
with his daughter in the
neighborhood yesterday
 
first time i have smiled
 
in months
-----------------------------------------------------------
this holiday weekend
 
a local radio
station is doing
an 80's marathon
this holiday
weekend
 
just what i
want to do
 
relive my fucking
childhood with all
these songs choking
on nostalgia
 
i figure i'll throw on
some beethoven
 
pour a glass of scotch
 
and think of a few
creative ways to die

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Pyrokinection. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Story from Syed Tabin Ahbab


Once upon a time there was a different world where terrible animals and people lived together. But the animals were so bad .The animals killed people and destroyed their pets and crops. There were some animal hunters to protect people from them. They always protect people from these animals. The most famous hunters were Oad Robin and Sams. They did their work goodly .But people didn’t paid their salary because they thought Robin and Sams were maniac. So they’re so poor .They lived in a small hut.
The richest man at that time was king Junior .He had a wonderful palace. But there was nobody in this Palace because the most dangerous animal the Lion Back Dragon attacked there every year. In his Palace, no more could enter than his daughter and a servant and some soldiers. So King Junior hired Robin and Sams. After a dangerous war they killed the Lion Back Dragon. The King paid them  the money by which Oad Robin and Sams built a house .They lived there a happy life .

DIARY OF A LOAFER

Maturity the birth of gentility,
A fugitive I am,
Told never to shut a lad up,
Shut a boy and shut an ancestry they said,
They carry the shoulders of glee they said.

Miming my way through the rabble.
My confidence ebbing away.
Sit down, don't talk, you're overweight, dress pretty they said,
I ate the dust,
I still remember them smirking at me,
Visible disgust on my face.

Always being told the bitterest truths and the sweetest lies,
And here I am 17 years later still imprisoned in a pyramid  of thirsty men,
I see myself as a nova.


BIOGRAPHY

My name is Hannah Aipoh, I am sixteen years of age, l was born on the 23rd of February 2006 and I hail from Estako East Local Government Area, Edo State, Nigeria.

I aspire to be a gynaecologist and a poet laureate.

Poetry from Tanvir Islam

MY TRUE LOVE


I have a feeling
          That I can't comprehend.
In my deepest thoughts you are
          More than just a friend.

I wouldn't want to
          Rush us now
As love we explore,
          But there's a growing love inside
That we just can't ignore

I love the time we
          Spend together. 
We are comfortable and free.
          I think of you when we are
Alone. I think of you and me.

We have shared 
          Secrets to uncover. There's more
To life. We will both discover.
          I love   you always.

I'll love   you when you're dumb,
 I'll love   you when you're smart,
I'll love   you any way you are,
Right from the start.

I'll love   you if you're tall,
I'll love   you if you're short,
I'll love   you if you're pretty  ,
Or just an ugly dork.

I'll love   you if you're toothless,
 I'll love   you if you're blind,
Anything that's wrong with you,
To me you'll be fine.

My heart is opening up now,
Unlike it used to do.
I see the pain that's in your heart  ,
And sometimes I feel it too,

I'll love   you tomorrow  ,
I'll love   you today  ,
I'll love   you forever  ,
And forever always    .....

                                       A Father’s Vigil

A man sits on a folding stool talking with his daughter even though she is not listening. But he does not mind. She has not listened to him these past years. Still, he talks as if she is there, not in the shallow grave she rests in, consumed by the natural way of all the dead in this corner of the park. The park did not allow a head stone or marker. He built a cairn of the rough serpentine rocks the day of her interment, the family crying and weeping with the sorrow that comes from the disbelief of a child passing. He wept along with them. He believed she had passed but knew that it was not an end.

The rocks were gone when he came to talk the first time. He came back every year, an annual vigil. Every time he came to talk with her, he tried to remember the tree she was buried near. At first, he came on the anniversary of her burial then on her birthday. A friend told him not to remember her at her death, but her birth. The conversations were the same, but it was easier to talk with her on her birthday than the anniversary of her death. He talked of family things: family trips and holiday gatherings, at Christmas, Thanksgiving and the 4th of July. One year it was the story of a white Christmas at her grandma’s house and the snowball fight that ended with everyone cold, exhausted and laughing. And the Fourth of July in Disneyland, the noise, the light, the awe. He talked about birthdays and events, both happy and sad. He told her about her grandma's 85th birthday, and how she died the next year. He talked of personal things: fears and regrets, joys and successes. He talked of the regrets of not spending more time with her: sharing her favorite movie, playing tag in the park with the dog.

He talked of her: memories and possibilities, so much of her life left undone, dreams left undreamed, wishes never to be fulfilled. Early on he wondered if he was sane or just obsessed by coming every year. Her mom worried about him. As the years passed she worried less and less. He often came back more relaxed, almost relieved, like a burden had been diminished. He often asked his daughter what she thought about the things he told her. He knew she was not listening.
 
But she was there, for him, all his life. She became his confidante.
When his death was near, he made one last visit. This time there were no stories, no histories. Just the fears of the uncertainty of death: was there an afterlife, would he find her there, would someone come talk to him, would he listen. At the end he thanked her for being there, and wept. If she had listened, she would have thanked him for the company.

A Short Writing on Mango Prone Chapainawabganj from Mokhlesur Rahman


The Mango Capital of Bangladesh

Chapainawabganj is located in the north-western part of Bangladesh. It was formerly a sub division of Malda district. Everyone knows about Chapainawabganj by the name of Mango capital. I live at Tiktampur in Chapainawabganj. At presen, it is a part of Rajshahi division. It has five upazilas which are Chapainawabganj Sadar,Shibganj,Gomastapur, Nachol and Bholahat. Now, Chapainawabganj is the main Mango growing region in varitics Mango like Fazle, Langda, Himsagar, Khirsa, Ashina, Bombai, Amropali, Laksmanbhog, Gopalbhog etc. All of them, Khirsa is the best for it's unthinkable taste in Bangladesh. In summar, Mango is the main product that develops the economy of my home district. Chapainawabganj is full of Mango tress. Everyone can see the Mango trees here and there. Every people of Chapainawabganj supplies Mango for every region in Bangladesh. As a result, on June 12,2022-The West zone of Bangladesh Railway launched a special train of mango from Chapainawabganj to Dhaka.1800000 people are living in Chapainawabganj. The interesting thing is everyone wants to get the tasteful mango. So, I am proud of my home district which is the capital of Bangladesh.

3


murmurs

of ill winds

shift to the west

cheerful ladybird 

returns to nest



2


yellow warbler

on the green palms of nature

takes a perch

unsuspecting 

of a waiting goshawk 



1


her turn 

at the queue 

staggered tears

she collects in a basket

wages of labour



  Christina Chin / Uchechukwu Onyedikam