Nothing this week

Unfortunately, this week there were no added pieces on the main site. Sorry.

To help make sure this problem does not happen again, go submit your own stuff! Go to the main site, here, to view the submission guidelines.

Thank you, and hopefully we’ll see your stuff here next week.

Just a bit of info

Wasn’t sure if it was obvious by now, but I update almost every Thursday. So while I’m sorry you’ll have to wait an entire week for the next update, it gives enough time for the rest of the crew and myself to find and publish stuff. Thanks to all! You’re great.

(Also have a wonderful Valentines Day. May it be spent with those you love, whether they be real or fictional.)

Changming Yuan – Poetry

Biography: Changming Yuan, 6-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China but currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. With a PhD in English, Yuan has recently been interviewed by [PANK], and had poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry (2009; 12), BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 749 other literary journals/anthologies across 28 countries. 


Black is this year, both because
The ominous number has flooded the world
With America’s QE3, Snowden’s dark secrets
And war threats from Obama, the Nobel peace
Prize winner and, more important, and because
This is the year of the snake, the most difficult
Year in my entire life when I have been badly
Bitten by 3 vcious vipers; one has run away
With a piece of meat from my heart
Another trying to strangle me
Into a slow death, and the third still waiting
To swallow my hardened body
With its young and ambitious mouth, all
Sloughed out of the attractive terror of white

Should You Allow

Should you allow us to live, let it not like robots
Running and working around the clock, to give you
All the comfort and convenience available to humans
Should you allow us to live; O let us live
With the kind of freedom you enjoy, the equal rights
And democracy you are talking about aloud
So that our tears and sweat will become less salty
Than our blood, less murky than our visions
Then even the food and products we make would warm
Your hearts. Don’t try to make love with us
When you feel happy, or beat us mad, containing us
Whistling your dogs of war upon us when you have
A nightmare. True, like robots we may not be entitled
To your human rights, but even a cornered robot rabbit will bite back
Someday, somehow, like a treaded cobra, like your fore fathers

Mekiya Walters – Poetry

Biography: Mekiya Walters studies Creative Writing and Psychology at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington. He has lived in Asheville, North Carolina and Hyderabad, India, enjoys baking and fedoras, teaches Tae Kwon Do periodically, can personally vouch for the existence of unicorns, and will someday institute a global revolution using only double-ply color-changing sock yarn and size 2 tin needles. His work has appeared in Atlantis Magazine, Gulf Stream Magazine, and Diverse Voices Quarterly. 

Subject Permanence

At what stage, Piaget, do we learn
that people go on existing–
that air goes on flowing,
that blood goes on pumping,
that fluids go on moving,
that cells go on growing–
after we leave them for dead in our minds;
after we stop thinking of them?


I want a soap bubble to wear:
effervescent, shimmering,
and not quite there–
I’m not quite there.
And if you



I’ll be your fault. Your thorns
in my throat feel just like
red balloons
rising up, little suns,
from a girl’s sweaty, lax palm,
rising like the chariots of little gods
up over all the skyscrapers
of me,
and if you



the sun will go out.
Continue reading

Daniel Ruefman – Poetry

Biography: Daniel Ruefman is an emerging poet whose work has most recently appeared in The Tonopah Review, Temenos, FLARE: The Flagler Review, DIALOGIST, SLAB, and Burningword. He currently teaches writing at the University of Wisconsin–Stout.


Deflated on its hook,
the pink terrycloth robe
is nowhere near as soft
as the attributes you use
to give it shape.

Tracing the shadow of you
on this battered mattress,
I imagine your warmth
emanating from the indentation
left by your hips.

Last night we spoke of you
scaling Olympus
and I shuddered to think
of your form
returning to its source,

trekking to the Skala summit
the maternal, white radiance descending,
enveloping you in its arms,
carrying you past Skolio
to the throne of Mytikas;

oh consummate child,
heiress of Titans,
kin of the Twelve,
when you cast off
your bitter mythology,

return to my awakened desire;
I shall prepare your chamber,
spread deliberately the ambrosia,
and in the receiving hours, I will fully explore
what it is in you we call human.

Continue reading

Luther Hughes – Poetry


Biography: Luther Hughes is an undergraduate student in the creative writing program at Columbia College Chicago, in which he is the founder of the poetry organization called, “ink.” He has also published poetry in literary journals, some of which can be seen or is forthcoming in Espial, The Voices Project, Apeiron Review, Chicago Review, and Storyacious.


My best-friend had fairy-tales
tied to his eyes; brisk

and golden between
every blink, hazel

as sunrise, politely
speaking – beautiful.

The breeze beneath his
cheeks followed my

laughter, supple and
dank. We flowered

time between our hands,
held space between our lips.

Mornings were lullabies, his
arms were black holes. Once,

we woke up without dreams.

Our bodies, the mangled reality
of friendships, grew pale.

I love you; an accusation. We settled
atop dying clouds riding the

distant sun. Dawn was figurative.
His eyes were anchored in last

midnight where we slept in two
different beds.
Continue reading

Emmanuel Ramirez – Poetry

Biography: In Those Eyes” is my first poem. I’ve never been too good at writing, but it turned out that it wasn’t a bad idea to try it out. It felt so good to finally let out some of my penned up emotions. So this might be the start of something.

In Those Eyes

Remember a warm memory
With a bitter feeling,
And the clarity of madness
It’s always so tempting.
It’s the story
Of being herded into your own
False sense of faith.
The security in you
Is far from purity.
And your lies,
They truly hide your eyes
And no matter how hard I try,
They will always cry
Just so that I can feel again.
But it will always be my fault,
Since I saw some hope.

In those eyes…
In those eyes…