Farewell TransmissionBy Benjamin Niespodziany
Benjamin Niespodziany is a Chicago-based writer whose work has appeared in HAD, Fence, hex, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. His chapbook manuscript was recently awarded the 2025 Poetry Prize with Gasher Press. Along with hosting the Neon Night Mic reading series, he runs the poetry publication Piżama Press. You can find more at neonpajamas.com.
By Red Danielson
Red Danielson is a self-taught painter and a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His work has appeared in The Iowa Review, Haiku Journal, The First Person, Haiku Presence, The Great River Review, Little Village Magazine, and River Styx, among others.
He has worked as a concrete mason, a framer, a heavy equipment operator, an arborist, and a grave digger. He lives in the English River Valley of Iowa.
By R. Gerry Fabian
3:45 am and I am finally home.
Four trailer loads and a bonus
leave me flush for a while.
I am on Red Bull overcharge
and three steps beyond hungry.
The hall light is off. Odd.
I call your name.
At this hour of the morning,
I recognize my error immediately
and tip-toe to the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, I take out
the egg carton with three eggs.
I check the bread for possible toast.
Each slice is green with mold.
Grabbing a non-stick pan
I break the eggs and scramble them.
There’s beer in the fridge.
I open it hoping to dull the Red Bull.
Sliding the eggs onto a plate
I take a small swallow of beer
and begins to eat the eggs.
The carton is on the table
and the expiration date
confirms the obvious.
R. Gerry Fabian is a published writer and poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published seven books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflower Women, Pilfered Circadian Rhythm, Hidden Danger, including his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound. Web Page | X | Instagram | LinkedIn | Facebook | BlueSky
By Saba Zahoor
It rained in Kashmir again
and I dreamed once more
of turning into its soil,
waiting to receive the diaphanous, fertile rains–
ripe with the smell of bulbous fruit pulp
that coax the rivers awake.
I would weave myself
roots and rain’s silver threads
into lush green carpets.
How I long to be the earth sodden with rain–
to hold close every drop of goodness offered.
I have moved far from home
dwelling in fossil aquifers.
Here, rain falls obliquely, fitfully—
flash floods, ephemeral streams
drowning the sinful dust devils.
Each sudden downpour weighs
heavy on the soul like a debt.
And every attempt to repay
falls short of the favor.
The realization is a callous bone
wedged between my teeth:
For all my intentions to receive
like my home soil–
I am the baked sand that cannot hold–
yet there are rocks through which springs gush forth.
*The final line is adapted from Qur’an 2:74.
Saba Zahoor is an engineer, born in Kashmir and currently living in Saudi Arabia. She is a self-styled peasant poet who views poetry as a portal to alternate realities.
By Anthony Ikeh
Anthony Ikeh is a Nigerian writer & self-acclaimed cinephile. When he’s not writing or reading, he spends his time searching for bliss that exists between numbers, particularly between zero and one. His work are on or forthcoming on Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Yugen Quest Review, Metaworker Literary, Eunoia Review, The B’k Magazine, Afrohill Press, African Writer Magazine, The Mixtape Review & elsewhere. He tweets @lanalovesbooks0
By Paul Smith
In physical therapy
we learned the difference
between pain and discomfort
Jessica spread my legs apart
like I’m a rotisserie chicken
and I felt it in my hip
the one they redid
but I said ‘No’
when she asked if it hurt
I liked saying ‘No’ to whatever
that burning was
then I cancelled then rest of
my sessions with her
because at some point someone
said
stop when there is discomfort
and I thought it and pain
were one and the same
we are expected to know
the difference
like we are supposed to know
the difference between
lots of things
but between all the things
we can choose is us
we are a pivot point
a fulcrum
that can go one way
or the other
especially when Jessica’s eyes implied
I should push through the pain
and just call it discomfort
because pain is just a thing in my head
and it gets murky
Dad said there wasn’t
much black and white
out there but a whole lot of gray
and Dad said
he could always beat a zone defense
Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. He is a featured poet at Mad Swirl.
By Liz Falco
Liz Falco is a poet and high school English teacher from Provincetown, MA. Recent and forthcoming work can be found in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency (as Liz Bergman), antiphony, Cape Cod Compass, Do Not Submit, bethh, GROTTO, and Looky Here Magazine. Her chapbook, NO WAKE, came out in December 2025. She co-hosts Morning Shift at Looky Here in Greenfield, MA, where she now lives.