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Poetry
Drunk Monkeys
POETRY
Resist
Luis Lopez-Maldonado

I am here  cuz  I am  too  Mexican  for  Americans  too  American
for  Mexicans & too  feminine for masculine, I am here cuz even as bodies keep dropping 

jails  keep  maxing &  whites  keep  robbing, these  large  brown  hands  with  nail  polish
will rise  &  fist up for freedom for revenge for tradition & for that  little queer brown boi  

that has yet to be born.   

Poetry
Drunk Monkeys
POETRY
3 Poems
Joseph Balaz

Da press secretary is deflecting

so many pertinent questions

dat you could almost visualize

da force field dat surrounds him 

Non-Fiction
Drunk Monkeys
NON-FICTION
Soft Goods
Lauren Matthews

Pets and a garden work wonders as allies through transitions. I don’t mean large ones, like a death or a move or a birth, though I’m sure they’re good during those too, I mean quotidian ones to which you’d think you’d be able to adjust all by yourself, but in fact, without soft allies, you don’t.

Poetry
Drunk Monkeys
POETRY
Time once taught us
Elizabeth ...

that what is frozen roars for eternity (and that’s too much for us) while gashes in our wrists will bleed ceaseless, fluttering crimson ribbons.

Poetry
Drunk Monkeys
POETRY
Ode to My Mistakes
Susan Flynn

oh, blundering human,
tripping forward,

turn around—
tread your life’s labyrinth
back to the beginning

FICTION / No Mercy, $ir / Ryan Shoemaker

Johnny canted his neck to the side, then flung his muscled shoulders back, his vertebrae crackling. A black bandana circled his mane of corn-silk hair. He turned to Daniel, a sly, lopsided grin tilting his thin lips. Daniel flinched, retreating a step. He couldn’t believe it. In thirty years, Johnny hadn’t changed, not a wrinkle creasing his boyish face, not a gray hair on his head.      

FICTION / My Night of Horror with Maria / Joe Hughes

Your brain can only be Oxygen deprived for so long. I felt like those helpless victims in Jaws. What would be worse? Getting ripped apart by that giant sea monster or not being able to get to the surface for a breath? One time in high school a jock had cold-cocked me upside the head for calling his sister a tramp. Afterwards I couldn’t stand straight or stop the ringing in my ears. This was no different, although that was a smidge more enjoyable.

ART / Excerpts "From Nostalgia, Through Now & Beyond" / Stephen Mead

Trigger Warning: Homophobic Violence

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A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead For links to his other media (and even merchandise if you are interested) please feel free to Google Stephen Mead Art.

100 WORD FILM REVIEWS / Glass

100 WORD FILM REVIEWS / Glass

Unbreakable was phenomenal; Split was clever (and that "twist"!), and now we have Glass, the third installment of a trilogy spanning 20 years. Yes, Sarah Paulson is tiresome, and yes, there seems to be a few things that don't quite stick, but forget what you've read: Glass is a worthwhile use of two of your precious hours. I was delighted to see Spencer Treat Clark reprise his role as Dunn's faithful and proud son, and Anya Taylor-Joy and Charlayne Woodard are always amazing. Don't wait for that Shyamalan twist: just enjoy the conclusion of a story of three people who are extraordinary.

ESSAY / Ideation into Art / Bekah Steimel

Depression is a colony of termites laboring so silently and ardently until your dwelling is unlivable. Unlivable. They crawl over me while I like your posts about your vacation and the hilarious thing your toddler said. Unlivable. They creep inside of me as I listen for the tenth time about your tenth lover, and what size U-Haul you should rent. I am genuinely excited for you. Unlivable.

FICTION / Men in Arms / Josh Dale

Within minutes, I discovered the artifact. It was a pistol, mostly intact I assumed. Tarnish and rust flourished upon the graymetal. I held it close to me like a newborn babe whilst scanning the area with my widened eyes. My heart pounded in my chest, awaiting the wayward voice shouting to disarm myself at once; to seize their rightful property from my wavering hands.