THE OBLITERATOR

by Steve Rodriguez

"Supreme Leaders" by Nick Anderson

President Donald Trump has put the United States on the verge of war against Iran with the goal of ending that nation’s nuclear weapons program, less than eight months after proclaiming he had “completely and totally obliterated” that same program. —HuffPost, February 20, 2026

Back in ’71, during the spring semester of sophomore 
year, after receiving a long streak of D’s and F’s,
my geometry teacher surprises me with a quiz grade
of C+. I read the comment “good job” and for
one second revert to being a humble twerp,
suddenly contrite about previously 
disregarding each of his homework assignments.
 
Then that second passes, and I once again act
out the more familiar role of arrogant jock. 
From my seat, I shout out “Good job? Ha!  Admit it,
old man. I totally obliterated that loser quiz.” 
The bell rings.  As my fellow students depart,
I loudly repeat my point…“OBLITERATION.”  
 
Mr. Prebbles—a low IQ dope who closely
resembles one of Nixon’s crewcut aides—smiles
and responds with “I trust you have turned over
a new leaf, and that studying becomes a habit.”
I toss the quiz on his desk and demand he cross 
out the words “Good job” and replace them with something
 
like “You quite simply obliterated this quiz,”
and that the o-word be underlined with glitter. 
After mentioning the obvious—that high school 
teachers don’t stock such primary grade art supplies–
he shakes his head and asks me to leave the classroom.  
 
Later in fifth period, my English teacher  
smiles and refers to teacher lounge banter
mocking my awkward use of “hyperbole”
in math class. I tell her, “You’re no Shakespeare,” 
and that I alone will judge what is “hyperbole” 
and what can be deemed as “obliteration.”  
Miss Jones chuckles and seems to dismiss me 
as if she is both Funk and Wagnalls.
 
Not until much later in the afternoon do
I gain more clarity on the fine nuance
of language. While attempting to pitch my baseball
team to victory, I am overwhelmed by our
cross-town rivals who decide to tee off
on both my fastballs and curves, scoring ten runs in
two innings before Coach Funk yanks me away from
the mound. Yes, me!  Ace of the staff. Later, as we
 
suffer from a fifteen-run differential, and 
I am sitting disconsolate on the bench, Funk
offers me an assessment. “The last time someone 
got hit that hard was the day my B-17 
squadron obliterated Dusseldorf.” I nod,
reverting once again to that quiet, modest, 
humble self before retorting, “‘Obliterated’
may be too harsh a word.”  He snaps back, 
“Obliteration means to utterly destroy
 
or remove. From the Latin oblitteratus,
which refers to blotting out or erasing.”
Sure enough, that happens to be the last time I
pitch during my junior year. The coach finds ways
to keep me off the field. I am erased. 
Wiped off the map. Obliterated, so to speak. 
 
In the meantime, we win every remaining game 
while becoming league champions. Still, this account
is far from a lesson in adolescent humility. 
Later that summer, I devise a wicked pitch—
a breaking ball I term “The Obliterator.” 
So effective!  And I alone decide how much so.   
 

Steve Rodriguez is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher. He resides in San Diego, CA.  

LOVE OF THE COMMON MAN (HONEST!)

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Netanyahu and Trump, the peacemakers of our time... Cartoon by Tjeerd Royaards

All we have done

Is take off our fedoras

And baseball caps,

But under our space-age flight helmets.

We’re the same good-hearted

Ordinary Joes

We’ve always been.

 

We were remarkably restrained,

Weren’t we?

We said we’d wait and see

And we did,

For hours and hours.

We gave them the opportunity

To cease and desist

Their opposition

To the war being waged against them

By our little brother

(With, admittedly, a little big-brother supporrt).

They did not stop.

 

We know they have nuclear weapons

With which to destroy us. 

Even though “experts” in the CIA

And other suspect organizations

Tell us this enemy

Has no nuclear WMDs.

We know the “experts”

Are wrong. 

We know 

They are going to use those bombs

Against us.

Honest.

If we do not attack them 

They will attack us.

Honest.

So we have taken

A pre-emptive step.

(Pre-emptive is such 

A multifaceted and useful adjective.)

 

We are sorry most people

And most nations

Misunderstand us,

Accuse us of over-weaning ambiton,

Of wanting to rule the entire planet.

We are merely seeking

To take our rightful place

In the hierarchy 

Atop the world order

Where we will reign with

Wisdom and generrosity

And love of the common man

As long as the common man

Doesn’t get too big for his britches

And think he can fight back.

Buff Whitman-Bradley’s latest book is A Friendly Little Tavern Somewhere Near the Pleiades. He podcasts at thirdactpoems.podbean.com .

FOR HIS LEGACY

by Richard Matta

He lines up his army men

sacrifices them, 

with the enemy he alone creates 

because he wants to play

with toy soldiers on a big stage

like a kid who wants to shoot

his BB gun, toss his cherry bombs 

even the M80s

to gain everyone’s attention. 

He knows the stakes are higher today

there’s narrative to control. 

He instills fear in those who

would question the story he weaves. 

He reminds the world

a red button, his red button

is within reach.  

Keep them guessing, 

on their heels, asking themselves

is this a crazy man who’d destroy the world?

And this is how he plays the game

Constructed ambiguity

he figures he has to play the big threat, 

they’re thinking—long game in Ukraine

—sanctions will break Russia like the USSR

He figures they’ll try psych ops—

drones dropping rubles and letters,

pleas and podcasts in Russian

the oligarchs and their yachts

hiding on the seas with the country’s wealth

They’ll fill the airwaves with western propaganda

to twist the minds of Russian military 

and those with curiosity. 

But he knows all this. It’s narrative control. 

He vows to protect his people 

from the tyranny and pathological lies 

of capitalism and democracy. And who 

in their right mind will question

a boy with a BB gun and M80s 

who plays chess and might blow up the board

for his legacy.  

Richard Matta grew up in New York and  now lives in San Diego. Some of his work is found in Ancient Paths, Dewdrop,  The New Verse News, San Pedro River Review, Gyroscope, Healing Muse, and many international haiku journals. 

CHESS AT THE END OF THE WORLD

by Claire Matturro

We ran and jumped and bounced

over monkey bars in sandy school yards

then raced inside at the bell’s

shrill scream and covered our heads

as we crouched beneath wooden

desks that smelled of crayons and

fruit punch while outside

the open jalousie windows

cardinals and mockingbirds sang

their sweet wild songs

as soulless men hid

missiles in Cuban silos and

played chess with the end of the world

but we didn’t worry

because we were seven

and our mothers stockpiled

food and juice in pantries

and our fathers turned

the TV low so not to wake us.

 

We ran and jumped and lobbed

volley balls in sandy school yards

and the slap of leather against

our hands made us laugh

while soulless men

tested nuclear bombs and

played chess with the end of the world

but we didn’t care

because we were thirteen

and besides one of us had

a left-over bomb shelter

in her broad backyard where

we once played dolls and drank

canned juices from stockpiles

hidden behind concrete and steel.

 

I no longer run or jump and

the sandy school yard is silent

with pandemic and children gone

inside and the bomb shelter

long traded for a swimming pool

and its stockpiled juices tossed

into landfills yet soulless men still

play chess with the end of the world

as troops mass at borders and

the hurricane which will find

me in my glass house

breeds silently in melting ice

and the oil keeps flowing and

the coal keeps burning and

the missiles stockpiled in places

where children hide

their heads under thin arms

guarantee the collateral damage

we’ve learned to turn away from

as cardinals and mockingbirds

go quiet in the world outside my windows.

Claire Matturro has been a journalist, a lawyer, and a legal writing teacher at Florida State University and University of Oregon. She is the author of seven novels, including a legal thriller series published by HarperCollins, and is the co-author of a recent novel. She is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and lives in Florida.

NUCLEAR NURSERY RHYME

by Jerome Betts

A Reddit user used Photoshop to imagine what President Trump and Kim Jon Un would look like if they swapped hair. Via The Daily Mail.

One brought new missiles out to play
To which another said ‘No, K!’
So Rocket Man and Donald J.
Between them risked a world flambé.

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, and edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online. His verse has appeared in a wide variety of British magazines and anthologies as well as UK, European, and North American web venues such as Amsterdam Quarterly, Angle, Light, The Asses of Parnassus, TheNewVerse.News,  Parody, Per Contra, The Rotary Dial, and Snakeskin.

DOG-WALKING IN THE SHADOW OF PYONGYANG

by Devon Balwit




We flip a coin over who walks
the dog, not tired, but edgy,
for the loser glances covertly
upward, listening for whistles,
siren-ready, side-eyeing each lot
for shelter. Somewhere in Pyongyang,
a finger hovers over a button, a head
cocks to catch the command
that will release the unmaker of worlds,
mine. The button-pusher is loyal,
me, reduced to caricature, and soon
to ash, all of us, web-stuck
in history. As with solar flares,
the big quake I’m told is coming,
or closer still, the millions arriving
next month to eclipse-gawk, my way
to cope is to deny, acting as if
and going about my business.
Kim Jong Un may render all
my insomniac panic moot—
aging, health-care, the planet,
my kids, my craft—a flame out sear
to trace elements in an open crater.

Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.