FEBRUARY 28, 2026

by Alice Hartley

Photography & Reporting by Zohreh Saberi, Los Angeles Times, May 6, 2026

Frankenstein’s monster,

from parts lived before.

I wonder,

if we made a monster from

the little ones' parts

left unburied,

would its limbs

remember they wanted to run,

with nowhere to go?

If muscle remembers,

will our monster,

be doomed to flee,

to arms

too weak to hold?

Alice Hartley is a public health nurse in Milwaukee. She has been writing since she was five years old, starting with picture books about her friends. As an adult, she mostly writes poetry and horror stories. She has a found family that includes two cats who don't get along...but four adults that do.

THIS BIRD HAS FLOWN

A Prose Poem

by Howie Good

President Trump and President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia concluded their summit in Alaska on Friday without declaring agreement on any issue, much less the one Mr. Trump said was at the top of his agenda, ending the war in Ukraine. —The New York Times, August 15. 2025

The other day I saw a bald eagle for only the second time in my life. It soared over the treeline on the far side of the marsh. Almost in the same instant that I recognized it from its distinctive silhouette, it was gone, our national bird, symbol of strength and freedom. We are entering the last days of summer. Some of the plants I planted in the spring never grew, and the plants that did grow have begun dying. I dread the coming winter, a hulking, red-eyed monster roving streets of blackened ruins.

Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose poetry collections include The Dark and Akimbo, available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher. 

MAN INGESTED INTO JET ENGINE

by Jennifer Hernandez

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Death of worker "ingested" into plane engine at San Antonio airport deemed suicide. 

—CBS News, June 26, 2023

He leaps

into the mouth

of a monster.

 

Sea serpent, dragon,

Rainbow Snake, whale.

 

Khodumodumo,

Yulungur,

Mashenomak,

Leviathan.

 

In the stories—

swallowed whole—

they build fires,

light lamps,

slice livers

or hearts.

 

They save

whole villages,

even livestock

& porcupines.

 

Sometimes, they’re vomited out,

emerge pale & bald. In every

version of the tale, they escape.

 

This monster refused to let go.

 

Jennifer Hernandez lives in Minnesota where she teaches immigrant youth and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Recent publications include Mom Egg Review, Steam Ticket, and Halfway Down the Stairs. She sees the effects of the current mental health crisis among young people in the middle school where she works and hopes that arts education can play a small role in helping mitigate the crisis.

ELECTING THE SHADOW KING: A SPECULATIVE TALE

by Fred Demien

A study that evaluated medical records from 156 [St. Louis] child victims of firearms found that most did not know who shot them or why. —St. Louis Public Radio, May 9, 2023. Graphic by Susannah Lohr.

Americans under the age of eighteen are eight times more likely to be killed in St. Louis than in the rest of the country...[As of] March, eight St. Louis children have already been killed in 2021. —St. Louis Riverfront Times, March 10, 2021 

 

·      In 2021, twenty-three children were killed in gunfire in the St. Louis metropolitan area. 

·      In 2022, twenty-six children were killed in gunfire in the St. Louis metropolitan area. 

·      As of 13 June 2023, ten children have been killed in gunfire in the St. Louis metropolitan area.

There is no known original name, only what it became.  
The city that drips with the Shadow’s pitch.  
 
It wasn’t planned— 
the architects didn’t plot it in their original drawings;  
the sewer district had no recourse for its removal;  
the contractor did not budget it in her original bid.  
Only the asphalt worker knew, driving his roller,  
slow in the stick and heat of summer. But no one listened  
when he said he saw it swallow a child whole.  
Except that child’s mother, and another, another,  
as child after child disappeared. 
 
News reached the mayor too late  
after his election to campaign, so he ignored it.  
But one day the Shadow towered at the city’s gateway  
and opened like a mouth, with thousands of cries  
of young girls and boys screaming out.  
 
The mayor declared it a threat, but  
the money was already allotted, he said.  
They never fully calculated the damage, but a generation  
of future voters—gone. Everyone else evacuated.  
Even mothers left, their sons and daughters all 
drawn down the unending gullet of the Shadow. 
 
Still the mayor stays in the swallowed city,  
sitting at his darkened desk, writing 
—in what he thinks is ink— 
the songs he hears carried in children’s voices  
seeping from the walls. 
 
 He sends what he can to their mothers. 

Fred Demien is a queer, itinerant minister. In 2016, her work was longlisted for the Lascaux Prize in Poetry. Her writing will be published by The Forge Literary Magazine in July of 2023. An admirer of trees, bees, and human beings, she is currently writing and building community in the greater St. Louis area. 

OF SNAKES AND STONE

by Olivia Fortier

 

“Self-portrait in the style of Medusa” by Andrea Mantegna c. 1474 Uffizi Gallery. 
Photo via Web Gallery of Art

 

Though afraid of the water, 

my mother hand-scooped the lake 

to wet my skin before she blew up 

water wings, and slid them to the tops

of my arms. 

 

I floated on the surface of a calm lake, 

the flotsam of a failed marriage;

my father had sided with the man 

who’d raped my mother, when he, 

the rapist, denied any wrongdoing, 

as rapists often do, and it was then 

my mother lost her head.

 

From the water, I watched my mother 

walk the beach in search of driftwood 

for garden ornaments. An hour later, 

her pile was small, her harvest thin, 

so I swam back to shore to help her, 

my skin burned from the sun’s reflection 

on the lake’s mirror top. Seeing her error, 

my mother glossed me with sunscreen. 

Then, stony-faced, as single mothers 

must be at times, doing everything alone, 

she removed my wings, deflated them, 

and withdrew into herself.

 

When it comes to driftwood, 

gnarls and knots are lovely decorative 

features. Dead tree roots are rare finds; 

initially disturbing to look at, yes, but 

given a couple coats of shellac to bring 

out their natural beauty, they transform 

into octopi, or staghorn coral. Or, as 

my mother explained to me as I grew,

the rape survivor Medusa’s head of snakes—

 

snakes being her punishment for Poseidon's

assault against her body with his venomous 

viper; the rape turned any future hopes she had 

for normalcy to stone, which is to say, as Medusa

lied under his shadow, Poseidon projected himself 

onto her—a terrifying appearance, a petrifying gaze.

Then she was called monster while he continued 

to reign freely. Any man who slayed Medusa 

with his long, sharp blade would be called hero, 

and brave; her severed head and deadened mind, 

a trophy. But until then, she was forced to withdraw 

from society and live alone in a cave,

 

for shame. Before Mother died, she told me nothing 

has changed for women, and that I am Medusa’s daughter, 

and that statistically speaking, I will also become

Medusa.

 

I am Medusa.

Olivia Fortier’s work has appeared in multiple literary journals. She is currently a Master of Fine Arts candidate.

A GRIM FAIRY TALE

by Lynn White

Dozens of asylum-seeking children have been kidnapped by gangs from a Brighton [UK] hotel run by the Home Office in a pattern apparently being repeated across the south coast, an Observer investigation can reveal. A whistleblower, who works for Home Office contractor Mitie, and child protection sources describe children being abducted off the street outside the hotel and bundled into cars. “Children are literally being picked up from outside the building, disappearing and not being found. They’re being taken from the street by traffickers,” said the source. —The Observer, January 21, 2023 PHOTO: Hove, where unaccompanied asylum-seeking children have been abducted, according to a contractor working for the Home Office. Credit: Andy Hall/The Observer

When I was a child 

my mother told me 

that Never Never Land

Is where the lost children go,

those who can’t find their way home.

My mother told me that

they stay children for ever

and can play all day long.

It sounds like a fairy tale

and perhaps 

that’s where these children have gone,

stepped into a fairy tale

or perhaps

they’ve been taken into one

by a monster

straight out of Grimm.

And now they wait.

And there’ll be others

waiting.

Waiting,

for someone to find them.

Perhaps they’ll put up a sign

hoping someone will see.

And they’ll sit by the sign

waiting for rescue,

waiting for the fairy tale ending

that can never come.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes. 

AFTER THE ELECTION OF 2020

by Richard Kravitz

No one laughs at the orange 

monster, the clown 

outside the circus tent. 

In the open air he is frightening 

or pathetic. Clowns 

come and go. The enterprise, 

the circus itself, with its three-ring

allegories of the rugged individual,

the self-made man, southern hospitality,

the land of the free and the home of the brave,

the circus persists. The ringmaster

departs, barking his ugly song. We know

there is another, waiting, sprouting

from the sweat of armpit,

covered in greasepaint. 

The show must go on, does go on. 

If we so choose,

we will pay the price of readmission. 

Richard Kravitz is a psychiatrist in New Haven, Connecticut. He has published poems on medical themes in JAMA and other medical and psychiatric journals.  

CO'VID-AS'

by L.A. Pontes

An anti-government demonstrator wearing a protective face mask holds a poster representing a coffin of a victim of the coronavirus disease (COVID-19) with the message "30,000 deaths, so what?", during a protest named "Amazonas for Democracy" in Manaus, Brazil, June 2, 2020. © REUTERS/Bruno Kelly via France 24, June 2, 2020

The face of the infamous man is painted in black with red dripping fangs on the tall walls of the house on the corner.
"Fora Bolsonaro!" with the colors of the rainbow.
As the pans bang in every window—the ‘panelaco’ hour—the little girl fights with the dogs for bones tossed on the empty streets. The dogs are dying alone.
Her dark skin shows ghostly on orange lights.
She wears no mask, her face is empty.
The "little flue" had made a ghost out of her stoned mother and enemies out of friends. Mother stands tall in her grave.
Manoela climbs the tree on the corner and chews the splintered bone. She wished she had fangs like the monster.

L.A. Pontes is a Brazilian writer living with his wife and six dogs on the bushy outskirts near the city of Belo Horizonte. His writing has appeared in LITRO UK. He shares with all conscious Brazilian citizens a deep disgust with the government of Jair Bolsonaro.

POEM BURIED UNDER THE SHED

by Kelsey Bryan-Zwick 

Photo by Richard Baker, Concord Monitor, May 2, 2019

Buried under the rhododendron, left cold in a back
alley dumpster for the garbage person to deliver
to indiscriminate piles of city landfill, torn to
nothing by screaming seagulls, or tossed like so
many refugees seeking asylum, to the bottom of an
ocean more likely to be remembered as graveyard
did you think our stories would be pretty as we are?

Covered in lipstick, hair braided, words worn like
a dress, did you think our fight would be somehow
less violent than the all wars described to you in your
history books?  Well they don’t gag and bind you
with a patriarchy of rules meant to diminish your power
and your voice because they think you’ll have
nice things to say. As we shed the millions of slights
and insults meant to define us, we don’t even know
our own skin.

And when you hear us at first maybe it will just
sound like a siren, almost indiscernible from all
the white noise, but then unmistakable, an ill pitch
in the stomach, a long sickening wail, some
visceral animal, a tearing crawling shriek, clawing
our way through the silence.  After so many years in
exile, the truth is hideously real: the monster we made
our monster to love.

Kelsey Bryan-Zwick is a Spanish/English speaking SoCal poet and artist with a B.A. from UC Santa Cruz in Literature/Creative Writing.  She is the author of three chapbooks, the most recent being Watermarked (Sadie Girl Press) a hand-bound edition which intermixes both her poetry and art.  Disabled with scoliosis from a young age her poems often focus on trauma, giving heart to the antiseptic language of hospital intake forms.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelsey’s poetry appears, or is forthcoming in Rise Up Review, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Incandescent Mind, petrichor, Like a Girl, Lummox, A Poet is a Poet No Matter How Tall, Eunoia Review, and Redshift.

THE MONSTER

by Rick Mullin


on the 200th anniversary of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein*

for Roald Hoffmann

My fame is your reflection. I am known
as Frankenstein. Well known. Prometheus Bound
shall not have half the legs that creak and groan
beneath this body I have lately found.
This bleeding mouth, these rheumy eyes impearled
in mists of the eternal night . . . how odd.
The murderer you’d hoped for is at large,
your manufactured destiny. My God,
look squarely on the bloodlust of your charge.
Do you not own the spirochete that curled
in my electrocuted heart? Am I
not yours, my friend? Or did your aim draw higher?
I’ll not apologize. I, too, aim high.
In your good name I haul this fatal fire
to the northernmost extremity of the world.


*Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus debuted on January 1, 1818, published in London by Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones.




Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Transom.

PUTIN AS JABBERWOCK

by Kathleen Capps

Shots fired as Russian troops force their way into Ukrainian base in Crimea --Financial Times, March 22, 2014

Long ago with eyes aflame,
Keen his claws, monster came.
We have only fists to sing
We have only stones to sling.

No one calls to freedom bring
We have only fists to sing.
In the Square we’re beaten down
A Savior no where to be found
Monster monster burning bright
With all the diamonds in the night
Sitting on your jeweled throne
Dark and evil is your crown.

Whiffle your wings through tulgy wood
Manxsome Moscow foe, no good
To Crimea or Ukraine in breaking laws.
Only blood drips from those claws.


Kathleen Capps received a PhD from the University of Oregon in English; studied French, Spanish, German, Czech, Polish, and American Sign Language; presented conference papers at international semiotic studies and comparative literature studies conferences; raised Icelandic sheep for thirteen years; sometimes blogs about the farm.

BONDAGE

by Kim Baker

Cleveland kidnapper Ariel Castro was found hanged just a month after being sentenced to life in prison plus 1,000 years for holding three women captive in his home, a prison official said.  At his sentencing, he denied doing anything wrong, saying that the victims were "asking for it."  MSN.com, September 4, 2013

We don’t know yet whether he used a bed sheet,
soaked in the sweat of his fear or bravado,
no knife available to slit his wrists, too bloody,
reminder of the way he miscarried her,
no palm full of pills, too dainty for his rage and rationalization
no, this death is not poetic or pain free, does not follow
in a long line of agony and guilt self-killings,
nor a shameful addition to the history of lynching innocents,
this is the only way out for a monster wanting
to continue holding his victims in bondage
as he silences his voice that will never repent.


When she isn’t teaching the abundant virtues of the comma at Roger Williams University School of Law, writing poetry about big hair and Elvis, and doing the Cha Cha, Kim Baker works to end violence against women.  Her poems have been published online and in print and essays broadcast on NPR.  Three short plays have been stage-read at Culture*Park in New Bedford.  Kim’s first chapbook of poetry, Under the Influence:  Musings about Poems and Paintings, is now available from Finishing Line Press.  Kim is currently working on a book of ekphrasis poems about the stories and portrayals of women in the paintings of female artists.  Kim can be reached at bighairedpoet(at)gmail.com .

TORNADO ALLEY

by B.Z. Niditch

A funnel cloud
of warning
in the eye of a storm
presages high winds
over towns and villages
a mile over
these monster twisters
breaking us up
as a string of souls
become casualties
uncounted
trapped as in a war
under their homes
from a massive path
reported from the ground
in a few live pictures
wrapped in rain
from roofs
under cars
near now barren trees
of shelters
children salvaging
a few belongings
dolls, toys, firetrucks
from a leveled land
emerge as survivors.


B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art, The Literary Review, Denver Quarterly, Hawaii Review, Le Guepard (France), Kadmos (France), Prism International, Jejune (Czech Republic), Leopold Bloom (Budapest), Antioch Review, and Prairie Schooner.  He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.