“Brutal Roux” by Elyse Jancosko
Becca add morebutter Becca. That’s no way tomake a roux. Don’t just measure on a whim.Your flour and fat. Or fluid and fault.Meat drippings, maybe. …
The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged.
Becca add morebutter Becca. That’s no way tomake a roux. Don’t just measure on a whim.Your flour and fat. Or fluid and fault.Meat drippings, maybe. …
There is no chirping from gulls, no chatter back and forth,No songs at sunrise or ushering in night. No lonely callsFor a lover to echo …
on hills by park pathwaysand beds of fresh petal,we collapse on our elbowsand tightly scrubbed grass.twist off ourbackpacks, wet with the weightof the sun and …
Through the eye of a dream,the round pit of a binocular opening,I recognize myselfstanding in front of a stranger,his gun barrel pressedagainst the bone between …
The armoire tips from out the truckbed withThe same uncertain, blind leap of a fishFlopping from a boat sole, hoping only to landSomewhere wet, to …
I piss. it feels okand then after I walkthrough the house going backto the kitchen.and you are not herein any of the house,or at least …
That motherlode of Sun right thereliterally blasting me in the face with its gloryit’s so far away (1 au, to be exact), but all this …
I. Snapshot Click. WHIRR. Shadowed still frame capturing fae.Ethereal grace magnified by child’s wonder.Muted only by adults’ misunderstanding “genuine.”Why would fae be less real if …
Mary Paulson currently lives and works in Naples, FL. Her poems have appeared in Slow Trains, Mainstreet Rag, Painted Bride Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, Arkana, Thimble …
Jane floats her tablecloth across the floor,sets out fruit, bread, wine, says: Here, look closely. See the red so forcefullywoven into the curtain? Mother’s blood. Scattered like …
A heaviness paws at the groundsupporting the birch-wood tablewithout sound, left in the lurchwith this godforsaken mourning shroud. He lives so little, his face can …
Amber, scarlet, gilded daffodil. All sits quiet, calm,and the sun sets as I turn to you. It takes a second but then I see a …
everything smells like soap except that one hallway smeared withvolatile coconut particles, reminds me of that porn theatre in somedank Indianapolis district wild with heavy …
The dull beep raises my guardas the seconds canter in the frostlit up by an anaemic starin the echoes of the morning. A glib voice …
I.As snow settles upon the landand brings with it crisp, frozen air,I’ll hear the cardinal’s jarring callas it echoes in my anxious mind. The cold …
Julie Allyn Johnson, a sawyer’s daughter from the American Midwest, began writing poetry after her retirement from IT work in 2017. She loves hiking, gravel-travel …
A walk over the dunes, round a naked headland crisp white sand the walk liberating an escape from routine the hues golden, rising and flowing, …
sky shocked nightterrific lashesturning bright the nails in the coffin of the bluetrembling each one of us appointedlike idle children choosing teamsour regaliaonly ordinary hats …
Eyes linger, unchanged photos thickened with dust,body-locked, estranged face gazing at the mirror,clutching at the mind, recalling memories dimly-flung,cycling again through sitcom and rerun.Bras holding …
Train tops tick tackingnext to half melted snow banksholding up the trafficlike everything else.Ruminating on pavementin our collective toyotawhich will always havethose wheezing tires.My face …
If I check my Facebookfor likes I must want to be liked but why no one who sends me wishes knows my birthday …
My mother is already uplong retired from work, she putters aroundher house all day, buying things and giving them awaycalling friends, taking short walkskeeping herself …
Jupiter’s raindrops area phenomenon thatfollows close behindmoonlight and aftersexand the sonnetof moments wherecollecting my pantsmixes deliberately withstaring and thispale shimmer ofmelancholy. This isa lesson inanger, …
It seems like paradise, but it’s a mirage. No more concrete walkways through the wired treelings, by the serious cyclers, no kids with frisbee dogsNo …
When I greet “semi-strangers,” sometimes strangers, with Hellos and How-Are-Yous you say they do not warrant, it’s because of Physics, and the empty seat that …
InsectsPerfected in that specific environmentIn thousands of nights & darksCrashing into that bulbLight impacts of ferocious attacksCongratulated admiredEach character with its own specialtyA monolith of …
Perfuse mebrain scanner Push your fluidsthrough my blood vessels my tissues Let whatever in me that is at issue be scanned interior scar star-birth tumor …
An ivy educated American male, bespoke suited but modest and sincere, once seated and lighted to good effect and confident of his look and manner …
How many days to Calvary? I asked the rich man’s child. Depends on how you’re travelling; Are you dying or exiled Or seeking sweet contentedness? …
Our balsa-sweet Mosquito flies low and slow into the burning sun, undetectable by radarI hear only air scratching past the belly of the holdNo bomb …
We have always lived within these walls,this gleaming, shining castle on a hill,a beacon held aloft for one and allto marvel at, imagining the thrill …
Seven billion was the end predicted by that movie where the population was fed on a questionable combination of soy, lentils, and plankton that wasn’t …
A fire sunset facing her, thunder didn’t show, how much she even wished for this sky to hurt, to rive in two, boiling the river …
On questioning circumstance;One must accept that it is often mere collision.That it is neither the (un)holy they, nor a waxwork trinity, at fault for the …
This solarium could be a craggyoverhang in the desert or a yurtburning sandalwood inside, plates of rosewaterjellies awaiting us, or a dumpster letting in moonlightbetween …
The bus climbed slowly up the gravel road,the inside all dust and sweat, smellingof leather seats, of engine oil.The travellers rubbed together, chatting,recent arrivals to …
A grey afternoon and when itcontinues to rain, a clueless patternleaves pools on our balcony, tearson the skylight.By now we knew who we are and …
The I, That which separates me from you, Was the first of our sins. Thus, at rest on the sun-bleached water, We have learned that …
1.And you wish it were easier to writeAbout how you’ve been feeling lately,The thought of being back homeFor the first time in a while placating,Quite …
We three stare at each otherit’s Reservoir Dogs: BurgeoningDomestic Dispute Edition Our mouths trained guns,words chambered, Hello translates directly to Say something stupid, BrianAnother Hello …
Edmund Evanson is an aspiring creative-writer who penned feature stories and film reviews for The Star newspaper, Malaysia’s leading English-language daily, in 2017 and 2018. …
on his roof checking shingles for fleasscouring the ground for alien invaders Hey Don! I say, but he’spolishing tools till his face smiles backdigging more …
Boxes everywhere, boxes overflowing, traffic conesstacked in the parlor, a brown Christmas tree in thedining room peeks out from behind a tower ofnested plastic chairs. …
i.other things live easy, you knowI suppose I, too, live easy in some ways.a domination of oceans gatheringa braying of old bones, dust and then …
The sunlight that crawls between hydrangea leaveswhile moss roses stretch and mouse through cracks in the stairs Neighbors who share their sweet ouzowith stories about …
Floating, ghost horse wakes in a fieldExactly like his own, just that he can’t touchThe soft weeds crawling up the fence.At first, he shivers into …
once, mothers waited for their dead children in damp bodies untilno more noises crept from their wind-polyp’d throats, until a dozen moons passed, a skinned …
August humidity in Coney Island makes the darkness much heavier,Candles dimly light the lock to match the skeleton key,As darkness provides anonymity to faces hiding …
Waiting for a chicken leg to broilI near the end of a chapter of Eco’s bookThe Name of the Rose.In my pocket is a timer …
I In an old cafe on Frenchmen Street in The Faubourg Marigny, a ceiling fan churns, throwing dust into the eyes of an old painting …
Up here, the intervals of thundering wavesat dawn signal churning, pebble-rivensculpting by water’s paws: crucible likea cleanse. Low clouds, contesting gravity,fabricate braids of gray sleeves …
now in the park july no– no parks are left. we survive inside the maelstrom of infinity, a glitch inside the program of identity late …
It was the days where the night would not come, for the sun held the sky hostage just by a look. It was the tyrannical …
Even without a caress its petals wait, try more red than usual then sweets, sent along with the scent from the latest hillside till one …
I I plunged my shovel into bare ground One foot stomping its edge, Tearing dirt like paper with needle-like precision My garden was full; I …
No one is enlightening this mass of all masses. Everywhere I look, the paintings are in a language my inner voice can’t translate. I feel …
Gallery of grotesqueries whence names are staked as pilgrims blameless to manifest that destiny, hands out hand me downs. Accompanied, individuality affronts. Individually: unencumbered; loving, …
Chaos sings, we areDisintegrating whole, drunkWith the city’s disillusionmentHalf and half and nowhere reallysick sipping stars, picking dirt off soles unmet; yet to birth new …
Through a broad valley of baked brown dirt and sparse green trees,past mudbrick and stone villages of flat-topped houses, we climbthe Humvees up the mountain, …
Riding shotgun, I look out the upper right cornerof the windshield, writing in a blackEnglish car,and see a dark thing: a dot,with a wing, twirling …
Getting all the feels with SZA tonight as that rack of wine from yesterday makes its way through my wrists and ankles Sometimes a voice …
Did they tell you Inferno was made from glass? Clear as truth turned upside down You can see through to the bottom of the world …
Out of respect I acknowledge you’re a speck on a papered wall in the midst of a tornado. You’re expected to show your worth, follow …
You wake up on the fourth floor to the garbled coo of some window-shopping pigeons, dress quickly, pick at breakfast, clamber down the dark stairwell …
Earth o’ mine green red brown and blue, They ask me which colour you are And laugh when I cannot answer. Could I lie you …
The winds switch faster thanThe clouds can circle Under avalanches of ink Saviours and Saints allBuried beneath Invisible tombstonesProphets gone, mixed with dionysian delusions Bound …
Hidden under sheets of ice invisible as dreams in glass comes smoldering behind, my foe who shoulders fire and steel aside, rides elevators high and …
Kurt wouldn’t eat yellow rice. Hedidn’t like that exotic food. Henarrated our trip to Iowa onesummer, had a story for every exit onevery road, tooth-whistling …
Wisteria drapes green bean-knuckled fingers over my forehead, the anointing oil of rain dripping. Robin poised upon the weathered, mossy timber spine of the swing …
I speak- Of climbing trees, and, of being terrified, but jumping, ‘fifteen feet!’ onto the brown mound beneath, momentarily and relationally also jumping through a …
“I’m not used to being in Nature” Is what comes to mind as I stand here at Still Point Staring up into space – Feeling …
The destiny tree, Dark gnarled and secretly wick, Claws at you and me Across eye spaces Twisting phoenix-glass specks prance Bloated toad-faces Yearning for their …
I have no hair atop my head but if I did it would be like yours and I’d wash it brush it out and take …
I always mowed the wild green hair of lawn, eyes of corn stalking me from across the street. Steering Dad’s tractor in the shapeof a nose ring …
The aspirations of man are simpler— a plate of fruit, a bottle of wine and my wife about to cook a chef’s dinner from disparate …
This neighborhood is all I know, these placid lawns and cars consumed by blooms of rust where things move underneath the surface —parts and widens, …
By the waves I felt the storm shall Death bring his scythe? Eagerly I looked for cover; loud thunderstorms drumming from the tempest that is …
Oisín Breen is a 35 year-old poet, part time academic in narratological complexity, and a financial journalist covering the US registered investment advisory sector. Dublin …
“through the view/of a hollow lens/like an eye surprised/by lost sight”
you’re biting your nails again o sweet white of time I feel in the December rush of cold the whoosh of closed & open doors …
Shaman paints the wolf and full moon blister red above a sinuous line of orange scales, serpent tail pointing to the past, head spitting a …
Dopo mezzanotte! Dopo, dopo! The door pops open, out of the dust the ocean unfolds under the ropewalker’s high gloss black shoes. He floats among …
Another stormy night in their neighborhood a warning came for twisters, hail and fire no one said anything about ghosts in the dark. Eerie hours …
In a chamber with three hundred ninety eyes there is no place not to be seen. No blind spots. The corners, the ceiling, on the …
She wasn’t a phoenix, but she knew ash. She painted herself with coals, with cinders. War paint disguising the woman of the woods. She felt …
This dimly-lit café, there’s a voice then two, then three speaking like a detuned triangle with so much impatience. Winter, dense and black, crams itself …
somewhere up here you might bite the whole horizon. love pours in like an emptied sack of apples. tastes fresh like apples, and smells like …
I would step out of my bodyto dream I was concurrentwith the wind and light,or the painted stonestossed over the embankmentinto the hearts of rivers.I …
Two to speak loud and clear for all and too many to hear; secrets of an alcove and two more join for some chatter; it …
Connie Woodring is a 75-year-old retired psychotherapist/educator/social activist who is getting back to her true love of writing after 45 years in her real job. …
There used to be an edge where the world ended, where ships would tumult down cataracts into nothingness. There are places still, buffers and hallows …
The cracks of frost in the whitened planksspell the end of one season and the slow plunge into the next.By the black pond, the danceof …
A pair of purple-throated pigeons entwine atop a post as our train passes by. Their beaks lock beneath unblinking black eyes. Breeze passes over the …
My poor dear, were tight plastic ties placed on your tender wrists? Were you marched down a long dim hall to the room “Philosophy 101”? …
Kill the funeral please.Mow down the mourners.Assassinate the coffin. Hey. pallbearers,hands up. don’t move.And preacher man…none of your phony speeches…heaven’s what I say it is. …
[Shot] [in a single take] [with no lighting] [and no sound] [some believed] [The Black Movie] [would fail] [at the box office] [when it opened] …
A four-engine train engines idling diesel beside the iron fence mist herds of penned-in cattle earthen clouds settling low a rider crooning Huddie Ledbetter Goodnight …
The Devil’s wicked lips taste my burning flesh A delicacy A flame with delight (with shame) He teases, waiting, enticing, watching as I squirm and …
The villages grew wingsOut of their water hyacinth-fringed backsAnd took flightTowards the heart of a hot, busy, concrete-skinned metropolis That had the hands of steel, heart …