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:


On the way to the bodega

By Claudia

Your attempts have been made in the microwave. Undone at the center burnt crisp at the edges to uneatable rocks. But if you do this correctly you will remember your teachers face. Your teacher will tell you, “you never bake a cake

In the microwave.” But my mother dried clothes in the RADARANGE and almost blew up the house with the smoke. Now we look back and laugh. No more brownies in the supermarket to be made in 5 minutes. Shaved dark chocolate dusted with chile molido from the state of Oaxaca, Mexico, wholly acceptable; processed cocoa and corn syrup?  wholly not.

Just be authentic. I don’t like meeting cold people at their centers who look like rocks. I don’t really care for lava cake but you can get that at any TGI Friday’s. Details details not flagrant buttons that scream your ideologies. I haven’t seen any kids in the neighborhood recently who looked like they used Kool-Aid to dye their hair to limpid blue. I miss that. Here I got these starbursts you want one? They’re fresh so they’re not hard enough to bounce off the sidewalk. I may never meet you again I’m not sorry about it at all. Remember me because I won’t give you cancer and I don’t need a wet paper towel over my mouth to walk through this city.

I like how the last thing before we eat can be peeled off in a strip and seen clear through into parts of the sky

Claudia is from Back Mountain, Pa.


By Cheyenne Pilarz

we are told that

if we hold a conch shell

up to our ear

we will hear the ocean

but they were wrong

because I hear it whenever I’m with you

when we were teenagers

we are told that

scars wont make you feel,

they were right,

because I feel whenever I’m with you

when we are adults,

we are told that

all things that come together soon fall apart,

but they were wrong,

you put me back together.

when we are old,

we are told that

we will die sometime soon,

I hope they are right

because for you to kill me,

would be an awfully amazing pleasure


Cheyenne is a freelance model, poet, and humanitarian from Scranton, Pa.

Disco Thursdays

By Amber Lynn

They’re fighting wars over coffee cups and
Spreading rumors about no love for all those celebs on the tv
They’ll never know me
I saw a picture on the Internet
Desensitizing us to the dead
But now all it does is burn holes through every thought in my head
Just like the cigarette smoke of this bar
I can’t seem to pull myself away from.
We always go too far.
I can’t breathe
It’s all religion and bad blood
Who has the quicker draw on a gun
And wallowing in oceans of self-pity
While across the pond, they’re bombing cities
I never claimed activist
Nor got into politics
But this blind selfishness makes me sick.
Allow me to help your point of view, my friend
Nothing really matters at all in the end

From Amber: My name is Amber and I dabble in all sorts of art.
Primarily, the lead singer for Eye on Attraction
If you’re interested, check us out here:

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