Wednesday, October 25, 2023

Repentance Of A Port Forgotten By Time By Tracey Sivek & JPR




Primal energies weave through as the ocean meets the sea. Calm waters with mad minds.
Ever-changing tides, churning the depths up and out as an unheard scream gets lost in the winds.

Towards an expanse vacant as the feelings that no longer exist yet, we strain to maintain this facade praying none may view the cracks.

Falling into each wave, begging the universe to cradle the demons within, or just aid in the escape, or simply, just simply cast them into the depths of the void.

As we await what may never return, at candlelit tables apart in spirit, occupied in form only.
The requiem of a night’s promise gone sour.

The tides move delicately, yet ever haunting is the music to resonate the wind’s continued dance of strained existence.

Etched in time, in the shadows people seek to see, the witch holds the bloody memories in a clasped hand for all eternity. The bitterness will never yield to forgiveness.

Deadlights and false fronts in a hollow seaport the light exudes as equal a warning of its inhabitants as its rocky shore’s embrace.

What was, will certainly bleed, trapped in photographs of a town.

Now, forever, out of time.




Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan.  She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel.  She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com. Her publications include The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.



JPR, is a southern gothic writer his work has been published by.

Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Fixator Press, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir Magazine, It Takes All Kinds A Literary Zine, Spill The Words and Fearless Poetry Zine.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Wednesday, July 19, 2023

Seeking Sanity~ by Tracey Sivek






Pandora's box has been tightly sealed 
remnants of what once was 
is scattered now in northerly winds 
...vision is lost 

Dying time wages on 
like a war between 
decay and the stillborn 

Fighting something that 
cannot be seen 
while loving with third eye open 
...soul retrieval countdown 

Drifting between yesterday 
and today 
That is where the sun meets moon 

Survival of the fetus hidden inside the blind 
spots of a road overly traveled 
leaves healing as the daily mantra 
...be reborn or die 

So black and white is the palate 
of this life 
...the answers lie in the dark side of the moon 

Seeking Sanity~







Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan.  She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel.  She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.
Her publications include .
The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.


Tuesday, July 11, 2023

Within The Vacant Chambers Of A Lost Soul By JPR




Barred windows view, its screams can never equal the torments within.

To suffer is the nature of this existence, to challenge the borders of normalcy.
We must suffer the consequences, as so it's told by those which do not offer solace.

Breaking bones to repeat sins of your darkest desires, we are mortal, and mortals are wicked by design.

Take the punishment and return it with a loving sense of malice.
Enjoy this retribution, for you are the only one that rules over this domain.

A forged alliance signed in blood is the lie’s strength of an invisible pact.

We do - on a small scale - what the power-hungry swine do without question upon the blink of an eye.

Torch it to cinder as you laugh in spite.
What if the only consequence lingered upon this realm?

As we lock away the vile, along with the innocent, casting killers who, if not guilty, certainly by appearance suit the role.

Torments of the uncertain pleas of the accused.
The barred windows view trapped only the flesh in a murders row of judgemental fools.


A solid aforementioned hell's false perception.
As so it's preached in ignorance.
Won't you join us in this lesser form of Heaven?

We all fade either way.
Life is a prison for which I do cherish the thought of escape.






JPR, is a southern gothic writer his work has been published by.
Fixator Press, Disturb The Universe, The Dope Fiend Daily, The San Pedro River Review, Horror Slease Trash,  It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Piker Press and Punk Noir Magazine.


Saturday, March 11, 2023

The Intrusion Of Light, The Promise Of Death By John Patrick Robbins






My pages whisper truths far older than my own.

The pains suffered to pen a legacy, the frauds all snicker, the innocent just somehow always get caught somewhere in the middle.

These wounds remain open, as your suffering is but music to my ears.
For my sands are spent, but I won't go out silent.

Your treason, my wrath; combined is the mixture. I never create to be included, but I will happily make you part of this murder’s scene.

Squeeze and erase, run while you can. Slither as serpents; the fire’s faster than pleas to empty skies.

Test my patience, and I will equally test your tolerance for pain’s divine reckoning.

I exist, dancing upon an ever-so-fragile coil.
Awaiting death, embracing the exquisite excesses of life.

I won't go silent but test me again, and I can promise I won't go out alone either.






Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Once Upon A Witches Hour By John Patrick Robbins




When the veil between worlds was as thin as the deceit that exists within us all.
I captured a moment in turn, embracing a memory to erode with my sanity’s ever-waning coil.

Blood to rights and pleasure to seal the pact.
As I cannot speak for the feast, but the spread was ever so divine.

The wines stain the decay's stench.
Outside the circle is such a more fascinating place to play.

Hoof to soil bound by velvet restraints, as barbed wire's embrace is the constant of this earth.

Choking for pleasures untold in daylight’s conversation, not all bruises are cast in anger.
As the lies we embrace to protect the loss of purity of their own minds asylum.

The hour beckons, as so very much does the night.
I tend my thoughts with anticipation of the return of old truths and darkest understanding.

I am always ever so happy to extinguish the light.






John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine.
His work has been published at. Fixator Press, Impspired Magazine,  Lothlorian Journal Of Poetry, The Dope Fiend Dailey, San Pedro River Review, Red Fez, Horror Sleaze Trash and It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine.

His work is always unfiltered.


Tuesday, August 23, 2022

murder, machete, machine gun by Tohm Bakelas





“my name is murder” he mumbled,
“i’m here to kill the haitians with 
my machete. i’m going to cut 
their fucking heads off.”
 
“okay” i said, “good thing
i’m greek.”
 
he laughed and asked if
i had a machine gun
 
“no i don’t” i said
 
“that’s too bad” 
 
he shook my hand and 
walked down toward the
other patients’ bedrooms,
blasting them with his 
invisible machine gun 
before disappearing into
his room and screaming 
 
i went back to my desk
and began to eat my lunch 






Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He is the author of 19 chapbooks and several collections of poetry, including “No Destination” (Kung Fu Treachery Press, 2021) and “The Ants Crawl In Circles” (Whiskey City Press, 2022). He runs Between Shadows Press. 


Monday, August 1, 2022

Goodnight My Darling by John Patrick Robbins




The night was like all the rest.
Samantha was as distant as a stranger simply sharing a space.
Aside from the fact she was Eric's wife of nine years.

To say the magic had left the room was an understatement for the both of them.
But deep down Eric Scholtz always still held a glimmer of hope for the both of them.
They had been through hell and back and, although he may not have said it enough, he still loved Samantha. Even though Eric had a hard time showing it.

"Baby, I'm going head to bed a bit early, okay?"

Eric knew Samantha simply wanted more time with her sexting buddy from work.
He had long since put the app in her phone to read her texts, as the lawyer had suggested.

It was all so goddamned mechanical, Eric thought to himself. He was broken within and was beyond caring about the burden of proof.
All he wanted was not to feel anything at all.

And as he suspected, the moment he was alone the alerts went off it was all the usual shit.

"Baby, I can't stand it tonight, my body’s aching for you. Fuck, I need your dick so bad!"

Eric was beyond pissed; it was a perverse game and he had enough. He went and grabbed the thirty eight from his jacket.

Went to the kitchen and mixed a stiff drink, as upon mixing the second.
He mixed Samantha one as well and tried to calm his shaking hands.

Eric knew what he had to do and it didn't involve a long drawn out court case.
It was simple and real as a heart attack.

Everything felt different. Almost in slow motion as Eric made his way down that hallway towards his and Samantha's bedroom.

As she looked a bit startled as she realized Eric was standing two glasses in hand at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, you scared me baby. Is everything alright?"

Samantha asked.

"Have a drink with me, sugar. I want to talk to you, sweetheart?"

Samantha didn't question, she just nervously put her phone upon the nightstand.
Eric laid down beside her.

And despite the fact Eric had mentioned talking, he found far more was said in the silence.

Samantha took a sip of the drink, couching and grimacing.
"Is there a cola shortage I haven't heard about, baby?"

"A tad bit too strong for your taste, sweetheart? And here I thought you considered yourself a whiskey drinker."

"I am, but I think a distillery just lost half its supply in that one drink. As expensive as gas is these days, whatever I don't drink I will just pour the rest in the gas tank."

Eric laughed at his wife's reply. She could always crack him up no matter the situation. 
As he looked at her, questioning just what the fuck had happened between them to leave them so damn fractured?

They continued to make small talk; it was all as insignificant as how Eric felt about life these days.
He existed, nothing more, cohabitating with a woman who secretly loathed him yet maintained a facade to exist rent free, he supposed.

Samantha was a great actress, he thought to himself, as he fought his urge to simply rip into her.

"So, you want another, sugar?"

Samantha yawned.

"If I had another I would slip into a coma, baby. I'm fighting to stay awake as is.
What you put in that drink, a damn mickey or something?"

Samantha said, slightly laughing to herself.

"Actually, it was Rohypnol and probably way too much, but I'm far from one of your drugged out coworkers that swipes pills off the med cart, honey."

Samantha was beyond buzzed and feeling too good to realize, or maybe she just didn't give a fuck about her husband's snarky reply.

"You know like I told you long ago, baby, it's not rape if you yell surprise first."

"Yeah, I wonder does Sean find that joke as stupid as I did all those years back when you first told it to me?"

Samantha wasn't registering what Eric was saying, as he had put enough in the drink to drop an elephant, knowing his wife's tolerance for most pills in general.

"What the fuck are you talking about!"

"Please drop the act, Samantha, our last moments together should be many things. Dishonest is truly not one of them."

Samantha tried in vain to get up; the Rohypnol had already taken effect. She was but an onlooker to what she could only imagine was her demise.

She saw Eric pull the pistol from his robe, placing it upon his lap as he continued to rattle on as if nothing was out of the ordinary

Eric stroked his wife's hair, watching her slip in and out of consciousness.

"It's amazing how I feel nothing anymore, sweetheart. I'm not angry. I am not anything anymore. I am just existing here, is all."

Eric reached for his wife's phone, dialed 911, and just sat the phone back down as Samantha opened her eyes.

"Baby."

Eric simply kissed her lips, fighting back the tears. For no matter their current standing, there was always those glimmers of the woman he loved and who had all but become a living ghost, haunting and fueling his living nightmare’s torment.

As he placed the gun within her hands, wrapping his hands overtop her own, and putting the gun to his forehead, he quickly forced Samantha to pull the trigger.

The sound was deafening as Samantha was jolted from her coma to bear witness to Eric's body fall off the bed as unbeknownst to her, the cops were already on their way.

Eric never wanted to live his life without Samantha, but he also didn't want her to have a life of her own either.

He had enacted his vengeance in the coldest way possible she had broken his heart and now she would have to suffer the consequences of her vicious actions.

The cops would find Eric's body and see it as an open and shut case of another crime of passion.

Eric Scholtz always believed in the vows.
In death do us part.
And Samantha had no idea how deep those words resonated within him.

Samantha would be charged for the murder of her husband, and he was free of his burden of being trapped upon this plane of existence.

Revenge is as sweet as wine and always best served cold and Eric's blood was that of the serpent that waits to strike when you at least expect it.

Love’s always a gamble, and the best always know when it's time to leave the table.






John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine.

His work has been featured here at the Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Fixator Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Spill The Words, Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry.

He is also the co-author of The Mirror Masks Nothing along with Kevin M. Hibshman  from Whiskey City Press  available on Amazon.

His work is always unfiltered.