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The cat. The Cat! He scurries about, drinking the drink, shouting obscenities aloud! Oh, what a beautiful, clever, lithe, punk drunk. The Cat.

Down the hole she goes, to around and around, mushrooms throw. Then, convicted of opening eyes, the hallowed hare represents by-and-by.

"Sibylline whispers", an art piece by, Nicola Kelly. Oil on linen, 80x60cm. About Nicola Kelly: Nicola Kelly is a self-taught artist from Co.Dublin, Ireland. Her ethereal style of visual storytelling has been strongly influenced by her background in contemporary dance training, which provides her with an innate understanding of form and movement. She describes painting as a cathartic process of releasing past trauma which cannot always be easily articulated or conveyed with words. Her work is a continuous exploration of the unheard inner voice which quietly inhabits a hidden part of us all. Primarily painting in oils, there's an element of delicate translucency in her work achieved using small repetitive brushstrokes gradually and thinly built up. Nicola’s work has been exhibited in the Signal Arts Center Bray, public architect offices (among other local venues). She was also selected as one of one hundred Irish artists asked to design a ‘What On Earth’ globe sculpture which was exhibited at CHQ buildings Dublin.

A pattern envelops that is regulated and defined, as the box segments and repeats and aligns. Standing among the centers of the squares that coincide, the heat is welcome as the grass has dried and died, due to the chill of the weather that provides a reminder that darkness is often on our lighter side. Making one remember of the time of the year, and pausing things still in the center of the sphere. There is a place that only a few know of, a place where you go to forget about all the snubs. The bullies and the saints, they cannot find you here, though they look and they search, there is no window when they peer. Behind your eyes, they cannot tell you their lies, you are the one that does not need to compromise. Speak of your tones and dig up your buried bones, finding the skeletons we keep that we work to atone. Though we look for this place where we have no disgrace, we must remain steadfast in the current wake we make. Do not blame yourself for past mistakes, as they are simply solutions that we do not have the math to equate. If you are like me, then they flip and they fold, they bring themselves up when they are told to stay in their molds. But I work and I try to forget about the cuts, and they scar with time as if it's glass in your foot. The glass hurts, but pluck it, and the cut shall heal. If you care for the wound, and do not succumb to the feel… for the moments we hang in the balance of fear, we are lost in the moments where reality does appear. For real vision does not come often if you keep your eyes shut, as progression seals with meditation and the essence of clear thought. mouths lead to vision, and sometimes they stymie… for those who are soft spoken do not speak words lightly. About Edward Palmer: Edward Palmer is a graduate of the University of Florida and is the author of two previously published poetry compilations, ‘Subconscious Still Frames.’ and ‘Extween of Between.’ Alongside his poetry, Edward also creates digital art and is a photographer. Originally from Maryland, he currently resides in Southeastern North Carolina. Edward is in the process of starting his own arts business, entitled ‘The Art of Gemini Skies, you can see more of his work at https://geminiskies.com.

Within the box that we hold close inside- Resides a sample of the segments that are all a-lined. To view the ob-skew relies on a map- A map that deciphers the moment-kept it intact. Forget for one moment that you are in that list- A person a format a segment a disk- A memory that swallowed the virus and spit- Centered on movement and tidal and rift- The wave that wavers on the cliff of the lost- Spins like revolution on the tips of far off thoughts- we reach and we reach to find that place of peace, a pit that has been filled and fostered in belief. Working on that one that can lead everything home- Lying in wait and silent as a stone. About Edward Palmer: Edward Palmer is a graduate of the University of Florida and is the author of two previously published poetry compilations, ‘Subconscious Still Frames.’ and ‘Extween of Between.’ Alongside his poetry, Edward also creates digital art and is a photographer. Originally from Maryland, he currently resides in Southeastern North Carolina. Edward is in the process of starting his own arts business, entitled ‘The Art of Gemini Skies, you can see more of his work at https://geminiskies.com.

“Sometimes it’s all I can do to get out of bed and face another day!” “What crap is that!” responds the cat on the mat. “Actually, there are times when I really wonder how I made it this far, given my state of mind!” “Just put my food in the bowl!” says the cat on the mat who’s smiling very much like the Cheshire. . . About Jeffrey Zable: Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Chewers & Masticadores, The Gorko Gazette, Recesses Zine, Cacti Fur, The Hooghly Review, Uppagus, and many others. . .

I recently met a guy who told me he was artificial, but intelligent nonetheless. “Each of us is artificial in certain ways,” I responded. “I must say that I appreciate your honesty!” “No! you misunderstand me! I’m not the same as you. I was born in a laboratory, created for a certain purpose.” “Well, it’s good to have a purpose!” I acknowledged. “Out of curiosity, do you ever feel depressed, sad, anxious, or forlorn?” “Have never felt what you mentioned, but I will malfunction without periodic maintenance. It’s a necessity for me to maintain artificially!” “I do understand!” I answered. “And I must admit that I envy you because I often feel depressed, sad, anxious, and forlorn. It’s all a part of the human condition in varying degrees.” “Sorry to hear it!” he responded, before sticking out his hand, which I accepted artificially . . . About Jeffrey Zable: Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Chewers & Masticadores, The Gorko Gazette, Recesses Zine, Cacti Fur, The Hooghly Review, Uppagus, and many others. . .

She was cleaning the fangs of a baby while I was trying to get some slop into my gullywug. I tried and tried— actually getting some into my mouth—when the baby spit up what was inside of it, and so I naturally I did the same, both of us smiling with our eyes like two peas in a rotten pod that had known each other for an eternity. After that, we fell to the floor and slept until the host shook us awake: told everyone it was time to leave, which is exactly what we did, one by one without saying a word, shivering into the night, yet relieved to be back on the road . . . About Jeffrey Zable: Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Chewers & Masticadores, The Gorko Gazette, Recesses Zine, Cacti Fur, The Hooghly Review, Uppagus, and many others. . .

The derelict citizens, known only as, “fishermen”, have lived poorly in the various precincts, while the leaders of the ship, under the direction of the Captain, live in a large tower surrounded by the vast stone maze. The leaders, called “the Provocateurs”, wear their theater masks and snakeskin suits so that no one may know their true identities. Who are they? They have convinced the masses that the citizens are the righteous chosen ones destined to conquer the sea and enforce ‘their’ new moral standards. Lloyd is a young criminal who attempts to find himself amidst the oppressive regime. A criminal at first, he later decides to join the Madness’s army and destroy any ship which does not submit to their rule. Meanwhile, he progressively falls in love with his long-time friend, Savanna. What shall become of him and, most importantly, the ship that contains most of humanity? The Madness: Packard, J.R.: 9798693465527: Amazon.com: Books

The man, whom we shall refer to as only, “WRITER”–seeing as his name has little importance in his new, most melancholic life that, in his mind, is worthless–sat both lonesome and red-eyed at his computer. Indeed, he hoped to type one last short story before the incident would occur. Would it be WRITER’s magnum opus? He could only hope; yet, none of it would matter after his upcoming meeting with MURDERER. The poor, tired man was soon to fall asleep at his laptop, just as he was about to type, “Fin.”, when, unexpectedly and quite peculiarly, he heard the ring/ping alarming him that he had a new email. Now, seeing as WRITER possessed the name of his profession, it was not at all unusual to receive query replies, announcements from publishing houses, editorial letters, and all of the sort. And yet, the hand on the wall’s clock read midnight. What a strange time to receive a message, he knew. WRITER’s heart sank as he opened his email only to find a single file, reading, “Hello, WRITER”. Intrigued, he opened it, finding that the address on it was a series of numbers. Assuming the sender to be a scammer, he half-chuckled but, out of boredom, thought he’d humor him. “Who is this?” WRITER asks. The mysterious messenger informs me that, somehow, he knows me: your humble, earnest narrator, WRITER. In no detailed terms, he wants to “help” me. With what? Yes, I will never listen to what my readers say, no one can help with the recent events that have taken place as of late. She’ll never come back, what has been cannot be undone, and there’s only one option left. Again, I strictly demand, “Who is this?” He tells me that he/she wishes to go by, “UNDISCLOSED”–a pseudonym, of course. No matter. WRITER began to worry and feel uneasy when UNDISCLOSED mentioned that he knew his plans and motives. Ha! Whoever this clown is doesn’t know my motives; surely, he doesn’t understand the backstory behind it, if he did. Otherwise, he’d sympathize with me and know that what I’m about to do is justice, perhaps not so-called, “divine justice”. This is man’s hardy, icy justice: most fitting for the coldness of MURDERER. A new email popped up– “Of all the stories you have written thus far in your long life, WRITER, have you never incorporated the theme of: revenge is never the answer? That there are always other ways?” Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, WRITER had the urge to glance over at his bed. Why? I can’t put my finger on the reason, but I went over and pulled out the pistol stashed away beneath my mattress. Ping! I hear a new message. “Would your WIFE approve of that?” UNDISCLOSED asks. WRITER, at this point, was infuriated. How the hell does this clown know about WIFE? The incident wasn’t on the news and not many caught wind of it. What’s he trying to pull? Her murder was not long ago. A dark thought began to brew in WRITER’s mind. What if UNDISCLOSED was MURDERER? WRITER knew his identity well–having been his family friend for so many years. The police could never pin WIFE’s death on him, but WRITER knew the truth. Bastard! I can’t help but think he’s MURDERER. “Well then,” I write, “I’m soon on my way. Just got to finish the damned story, if I get the time. How you know what’s coming eludes me, but rest assured, that gun is waiting for you.” It was at this moment when WRITER’s angry grip loosened from his coffee cup that was on the verge of breaking. “Do you remember our first date?” Asked UNDISCLOSED. I don’t know what to think. Dear audience, my dear readers, being in the trade that I am, I’m a fairly down-to-Earth man and know the various lessons of life: such is what molds a proper writer to tell good tales. But, I do admit, that I’m more confused than ever, and am utterly bewildered at this whole scenario. “You were once so caring when with WIFE.” Writes UNDISCLOSED. “At that time–during your first date–you wouldn’t hurt a fly, for you were truly the kindest of men.” “How do you know about this?” I ask. “I got with you from that day forth because of that tender fact.” Said UNDISCLOSED. WRITER paused to catch his breath. If this were MURDERER, why would he say this? How would he know any of these details? MURDERER was too young and wasn’t alive at that time. Could this be, dare I even consider it, WIFE?... “I will always love you, WRITER”, says “UNDISCLOSED”. “I will forever cherish the gentle man I know. I’m in a good, most beautiful place and, if you deal with MURDERER, if you follow the path of misty revenge, we’ll be separated for eternity.” Could this all be real? Could this be WIFE? I must ask you, my audience, because this stretches the mind, too much for one individual alone to endure. Is WIFE really communicating with me from beyond the beyond? If so, I trust her motives more than my own. A tear can’t help but slowly fall down my cheek. “I love you, WIFE”, I write. One final email popped up following this: “Forever and always, even after death”. Directly after WRITER finished reading it, all the emails got miraculously deleted, and the email address could no longer be found. I’m sitting silently right now, pondering and awestruck. She was absolutely right. Seeking the death of MURDERER may seem like the right thing to do, but will I be a murder if that occurs? Will I be damned for eternity because of my hatred? No, UNDISCLOSED, WIFE or not, is right. I’ll throw the pistol in the river outside my cabin. When WRITER returned to his bedroom, he was caught off guard to see a picture of WIFE and himself during their wedding night lying upon his bed. As tears continuously fell down hot, red cheeks, he lay down for the night whilst grasping the photo, thanking existence that she saved his soul. About Joshua (J.R.) Packard J.R. Packard is the lead editor of Aether Avenue Press. He is also a newsletter writer/editor on the side and novelist. He enjoys strange, mind-stretching stories that re-define what it means to think, consider, and feel when one gets immersed into a story.

I was here gazing you were moping shuffling doom’s deck missing none of three 3-dimensional blue in your chair you read from long-dead poets I listened to the first & best of things you were schooled by the end the coffin blows a gardenia in a terra-cotta pot stood upright against the expression of your face insinuated self-harm on Buddha’s gold highway thumbed a ride your true religion demanded one shovelful at a time sunlight & geese sermon silent running commentary you dripped like boots by a door About John Grey: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.