February 2016

blood teeth.

By Stephanie M. Santore


I am the beast, a wild wolf

Steel trap jaw and mighty paws

I refuse to be a carcass

Bleached bones among white stones


I starve protecting a pack of thieves

Stay, and die upon these fallen leaves

Kick dirt in the air, raise hair on the neck

Shred throats for mercy, they bleed out among regret


I am the beast, a wild wolf

Piercing eyes – Sheep’s disguise

I refuse to be a carcass

Predator’s trick – Vulture’s toothpick


Twitch of the ear and the journey starts

You follow your head, abandon the heart

In solitude is the thrill of the fight

Ragged soul, you rage, hunt down the night


Paws pound the ground.

You escape,

escape without a sound.


Teeth and fur,

nothing more to give.

A rabid will to live.


The blood runs red.

The blood runs red.


By day, Stephanie works as an SEO specialist. She has been writing since she can remember and tries to take it more seriously with each passing day. She loves nature, photography, history, and am is currently reading the Game of Thrones series and loving every page of it. She lives with two furry felines in South Abington, PA. Her blog is


Sister and Brother

By Marissa C. Miller

A boy and his dog
sat on a log
enveloped in warm summer air
“Sister and brother” but without a mother
how could it ever compare

He sat all alone while his sister was home
cooking to feed the other
for daddy was gone to whimper and fawn
over the bed in which laid their mother

“Well fuck.” He said, to the listening few
his dog, the crickets, and ants
“I’ve got football today and I wanted to play,
but how can I when there are already plans?

“Mother can’t die” he thought to himself
while petting the dog at his feet
I’ve been nothing but rotten and often forgotten
her birthdays and love, semi-sweet

He jumped and he turned
a mission to do
a mission of dubious bearings.
he turned and “aha”
his sister, he saw
not cooking
but staring.

“Seriously though?”
I thought to myself
A limerick from my own fucking brother.
Or is this my brother
who I’m writing about
is it my brother and that one time
We thought our mom was dying
and it was a poignant moment by a tree
but does it make it more poignant
if I rhyme

Or is it about some guy
I saw once in the aisle of a discount craft store
and the overwhelming meaningless-ness of life
my brain doesn’t confuse those people
but what am I even trying to say here
I don’t know
Am I doing this right
am I doing this right?

the thoughts in her head
had her face turning red
and they looked out at the incoming weather.
“mother’s okay and you can go play”
“We’ll figure this out together.”

Marissa C. Miller is a Scranton based writer, actress, singer, and graduate student. She is currently a performer and sometimes writer on the podcast 40 Story Radio Tower.

You can find more of her work at:


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