Book Review:
The Hypókrisis Mirror 
By Raymond Fortunato

Review by Julie Carpenter
 

​This new volume of stories by Fortunato is a character-by-character analysis of what it means to be a human, particularly a male. It’s a consideration of thought, action, and consequence in a varied array of stories, some tend philosophical, some realistic, some speculative. The protagonists find themselves in systems that overwhelm their humanity and attempt to find ways of fighting back with a mixture of results.

​One of the main themes of the book seems to be that expected roles, societal standards, and accepted wisdom may be at odds with morality and happiness. Characters find that fulfilling family, religious, and cultural roles can lead to disruption, despair, or harm—from a woman who achieves an internal peace that simply doesn’t suit her life, to a man trapped in a totalitarian society, to an archaeological find with a promise that veers out of control. The characters often find their initial assumptions, even foundational philosophies, are misguided. To extricate themselves from the traps of government control, corporate overreach, or crumbling family systems, they must try something different, think for themselves, and leave norms behind.
The stories with male protagonists are especially poignant as these men often find themselves trapped in competitive friendships, chasing ambition to their own detriment or the detriment of others, or trapped by corporate jobs that demand moral acquiescence. In one case, a protagonist’s inability to ask for help, his masculine assurance that he can handle things on his own, leads to dark results and mental anguish. These stories ask the reader to thoughtfully consider the binary trap in which men often find themselves, caught between colossal systems and the desire for individual meaning and heroic action.  Again and again, Fortunato’s protagonists, find themselves pushing back against nearly irresistible forces, from masculine competition to oppressive governments, with nothing but their own interior thoughts and actions as tools.
 
The characters vary in likability, rationality, and job titles, but they all have one thing in common; they carefully consider their own place in the world and how they might change it for themselves and others. This is a timely and interesting book with preternaturally relevant themes for this era.

​Calm Down
 
Forge a hook of desire
Compulsion or love
Anything will do as long
As it is diamond hard
Reel in you brain
Or soul if you prefer
Spark loose the grey
With a Yoga’s exhalation
Snag your craw
Dredge your diaphragm
Clean like a Diva
Lips Sprung
Guts depart
Dragging, dragging
Cells, arteries and vessels
You’re a tumbling die
Come to rest outside
The Colosseum
Don’t dally with notions
Of gladiators, emperors
Good or bad
Ignore architecture
Focus on the woman
Collapsed in the dust
Making a show of her
Son whose leg she
Bent to better beg
 
 

When Expressions Lie
by Sushant Thapa







​
When Expressions Lie 

When expressions lie, 
I keep on thinking 
And doubting 
My own surety. 
Your face is my book. 
I leaf through every crease
And day. 
Steps recall journey 
And calling your name
Is my address. 
We parted 
And it was the end
Of the year for me. 
I keep aside 
The glorious readings, 
I play with my thoughts 
Dangerously and it is a ground 
To forget not 
Your shadows 
And promising 
Love's resolutions.

Here I Stand
 
Here I stand
all alone
I will not
bow my head 
to you. I 
will look you
in the eye 
and laugh out
loud at your
nonsense while 
I return
to my bed 
and do my
best to sleep
and to dream.
 

Five Minutes
 
In five minutes 
I can walk half
way to work, if
I do not get held
up along the way.
 
The streets are safe
enough but one
never knows. I called
Lyft to get me to
where I need to go.
 
In the five minute
wait I wrote this
poem from the
bakery ten minutes 
from the office.
 

Yesterday’s Clouds
 
Night devoured yesterday’s
clouds. It is as if they were
never there the next morning.
There were no remnants left,
not even a smudge or smidge
of a cloud left in the Western 
skies. It must have spit out
stars and the crescent shaped
moon as it gorged and nourished 
its ever-expanded belly. Two
days later the clouds returned,
gracing the skies for miles and
miles. 


​Big Fail
 
I had eggs
for breakfast
over-medium,
hash brown 
potatoes,
side of bacon,
crispy, and
sourdough toast.
 
I had eggs
for breakfast,
over-medium,
which came out
over hard, no
yolk to dip 
my bread, big
fail… hash brown
potatoes saved
the day, just right.
The crispy bacon
fell apart like
bacon bits, big
fail… but not as
big as the eggs.
 
Coffee was not
so good, but it
was hot as hell;
had to wait 10
minutes to drink.
By that time I
already finished
my breakfast,
big fail… 
 
Still, it could have
been worse.
No Yelp review here.
Just a mediocre poem.
 
​

Bio:


​Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Sacred Chickens, and Unlikely Stories. Raw Materials, was his first poetry book, which was published by Pygmy Forest Press.
​

For instance, did you know people told Jarad he was going to Hell at least once a week throughout high school? As a teenager, I learned about all the things that would send a person to Hell from an unpadded pew seat. (There are going to be a lot of unpadded pews in Hell, I suspect. Ouch) *
Before we get to our very educational list, I will answer one question I know is on everyone’s minds. Why would we want to talk about Hell right now? Isn’t the racism and fascism and sheer stupidity enough Hell? Is there even any fresh Hell left? Isn’t most of this Hell pretty stale?
What can we say? Hell seems to be woven into this terrible timeline so we might as well learn about it.
So, without further ado, here’s what Jarad and I have discovered after yammering about Hell last year:
A Very Educational List About Hell
1. Hell is a yawning appetite that can never be filled. This seems to be our number one one finding. Hell is an expanding black hole of need that wants ingest beauty, energy, and goodness, but has nothing to offer in return.
2. Hell is used by those with this voracious hunger to gain power over the rest of us.Hell is used dehumanize people and scare them into giving up their time, labor, and autonomy.
3. Hell is the externalization of evil, fear, and horror. Once you’ve externalized evil, you can set it at a distance, see it in others and not in yourself.
4. Hell is about injustice. Justice seems to be a little hit and miss on this side of the great divide, so just as we hope for a happy afterlife, probably most of us kinda think there are a few people deserve the justice they didn’t receive on Earth. Hell is the result.
5. There are some people who would probably like everyone else but themselves to go to Hell and they won’t be happy if that’s not true. (Is this about John Piper? Maybe.)
6. Hell is kinda fun! At least if you consider the infernal influence on pop culture. If not fun, Hell is at least interesting. (Julie wrote a rather engaging book about it. Check it out at the end of the post.)
7. Hell is personal. You can create exactly the Hell you choose. (And you’ll more than likely complain about it after you do. Insert eye roll.)
8. Hell Sells! There seems to be a lot more excitement about Hellfire and Brimstone and avoiding a bad afterlife than there is in the kingdom of God here on earth (or even Heaven.) The Inferno is so much more exciting than The Paradiso.
9. Hell is changing. The tropes of Hell are breaking down as people leave fundamentalism, evangelical churches, and religion altogether.
10. Hell will trap you in a fear-of-the-future mindset so that you can’t be present in the here and now. As Americans, we have a tendency to live in the future that is both fed by and feeds Christian views of the afterlife. (This seems to tie in with rampant consumerism and capitalism as well and we want to explore that further.)
11. Hell will sneak up on you. Just because you think you’re the bestest Christian doesn’t mean you’re not participating in the purposes of Hell. In fact, sometimes the more better Christian you think you are, the easier time the devil has talking his way into your house and moving in the guest room.
So why not join us each week on the train to Hell? Bring some snacks, we’ll bring the sunscreen and maybe you can help us figure out what this Hell stuff is all about.
*That’s right. I’m bringing parentheses back. Singlehandedly. My brain works in fits and starts and I’m bringing that chaos right to the page.


If you haven’t listened yet, here’s a link you can find us on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or iHeart.
Here’s a sample episode: Slewfoot: Getting the Devil You Choose
You can follow us in these ways:
Perdition City Station Instagram
Sacred Chickens Facebook
Sacred Chickens Blog
If you’ve had an experience with Hell let us know! Whether it’s church-related, a part of your dreamscape, your favorite movie, or your weird cousin Dan’s exorcism, we’d love to read your experience on air or post it on our Sacred Chickens blog—with your permission of course.


​Also don't forget Julie's new book:
​
ALL ABOARD FOR THE LAST TRAIN OUT OF HELL!

We are very proud to feature original poems by the Tuscaloosa Poetry Club! 

Before we dive into the poetry, here's a little information about the TPC:

The Tuscaloosa Poetry Club held its first meeting April 2, 2025 at the Tuscaloosa Public Library and has met there each Wednesday evening since. The members eat donuts, drink coffee, and joyfully share our work with one another. Everyone is welcome. The club offers its heartfelt thanks to TPL for giving us a home, and Julie Carpenter and her Sacred Chickens for providing us with this showcase. 

Click on the Read More link below to enjoy the showcased poetry!
​

her gaze
 
overcome by wonder 
i turn around and face her 
she looks just like me 
she glows from within 
unshakable confidence 
she looks back at me warmly 
no one’s ever looked at me like that before 
like she sees me without scrutinizing me
i think she is me 
but she’s different 
she hasn’t been broken down 
not a drop of guilt behind her eyes 
her heart isn’t saturated with regret 
she is 100% light 
and everything i wish i was
but as i grow green with envy 
she turns a sunset red and looks petrified 
like i’ve violated her with my jealousy
and i just feel so bad 
i have broken yet another 
i blink. she blinks back 
and then i realize i have been staring at my reflection 
but how can it be 
she was so beautiful 
and i am so not 
she is everything i’ve never been 
but i turn away and realize comparison is my biggest sin 
she may not be me 
but i am a version of her 
and i realize that healing is possible 
and one day 
i too will look at myself without scrutiny 
and forgive myself 
and now i can’t wait until i can look in the mirror again 
 
          -Abigail Prickett 


The Old Homeplace
 
Eliza sits on the front porch in her creaky chair, rocking back and forth
Bright red now faded to gray
Its seat worn and comfortable 
The matching chair still resides on her right side
Lonely and empty
Stanley has been gone nigh on 20 years now
They shared this space for half a century
Making plans
Raising a family
Oh so many memories flash through her mind!
 
Five children once romped in the yard
Running through the well-kept rose garden
Avoiding thorns and bumble bees
While chasing butterflies with nets
Snapping string beans in the wash tub
Shelling purple hull peas till her fingers were stained for days
Husking hundreds of ears of corn
Canning all of her garden’s bounty
Her face glows with joy
Her smile is enchanting 
 
The floor boards are weathered and splintered
Her days of walking barefoot out here no longer possible
Her walker is difficult to maneuver over the bumps
The spiral staircase is cracked and crumbling
The left hand rail long since gone
No one has used that entrance for years
A side ramp was added for safety
But it too now needs repairs
He was her handyman
Her problem solver
Her heart aches to see him again…
 
Her green eyes are dimmed by cataracts
Sometimes she can figure out the vague shapes that appear close to her
She still sees herself with long, auburn hair flowing down her back
Cool breezes relieving the hellish summer heat
Sun hat on her head
Apron covering her clothes 
Holding hands with the love of her life
While looking out over the landscape 
It seems so real
She waits to hear his footsteps as he tries to sneak up behind her 
before embracing her in his strong arms
She longs to feel him again…
 
Her grandson quietly comes to stand beside her 
Giving her time to say goodbye
Time to relive the past one final time
He gently places his hand on her shoulder
Saying “Gran, it’s time to go home.”
She doesn’t verbally contradict him
She hopes Stanley will be waiting for her
She doesn’t need to know her home has been condemned due to neglect 
She doesn’t need to know it has been sold to build someone else’s dream house
She slowly exits the porch of the home she loved so well
Not knowing she would never again return
 
        -Rachel Prickett

 
Scrubbed Raw

I am scrubbing tile
that isn’t mine-
her bathroom,
her shadows-
but the mud runs under my nails.

A heavy sweater
clings in the steam.
I lift a fruit,
it rots in my fingers.

The water rises,
thick with waste.
It spills over,
pulls me under-
God watches
as I drown.

A voice:
"I offer you respite."
But why not here,
in her house,
when I am the one
bleeding my hands
on her porcelain?

I twist the faucet,
let the flood
whirl down the drain,
I rise, rinse off-
shaking,
skin raw,
still unclean.

I shout,
My cries echo on
The chipped tiles.
She hears.
Stomps away-
anger snapping the tether
between us.
Yet returning,
she kneels beside me.

We both weep,
our tears acrid,
our knuckles raw.
Both burdened.
Both scrubbing
what a man left behind.

We keep scouring-
No soap can cleanse it.
We keep scouring.
         
           --Megan Blaney
 

 
Gray Rock                                                                                                                                                                                                     
Cats are safe
Surface conversation 
Keeps us from careening 
Into landmines 
Of what we think 
About each other
 
            - Teranda Donatto
 


Holding on
 
Why am I still clinging to what hurts me?
Letting go seems scary.
I only feel safe when he’s sleeping 
Because then he’s not betraying me on purpose.
 
 
           -Rachael Drinkard
 
 
 

The Walking Spirit
 
My neighbor says the woman is crazy.
But how would he know,
and compared to what?
She is old and black,
and her clothes have the worn 
look of her face.
I saw her eyes once,
the color of my morning coffee.
 
She walks the road daily,
ragged Bible in hand, eyes to the sky,
singing the praises
of Abraham and Isaac,
of Moses and Elijah.
A timeless journey
traveled only by special souls.
 
Her path crosses mine
at unexpected times,
on the corner
as I drive to work,
in my neighborhood
as I walk the dog.
Sometimes I wonder, 
maybe she is an angel.
 
She feels the Spirit move through her,
the freedom of losing the self.
Praise the Lord, amen, amen.
Walk on through heat and dust,
let the words and time flow.
Walk Spirit, step by step.
 
The everyday world melts away.
Praise the courage, amen, amen,
to exist outside that world,
to go to the edge and beyond.
Walk on.
 
The light of the Spirit points the way.
No black or white, 
no good or bad,
no borders, all one.
Walk Spirit.
 
           -Bob Humphrey
 

 
Horrid Existence 
 
there’s a personal hell 
in going to church as a kid 
when you’re different 
 
an endless drive in scratchy clothing 
too loud music 
made worse by dads screeching along 
hurtling towards a sensory nightmare 
 
a safe haven looms 
threatening the horror to come 
two hours of your personal hell 
the only solace; 
raised lines carved out by nails against skin 
 
strangers grabbing your arm 
hands branding against your back 
discomfort comes like an allergic reaction 
scratch your arm 
 
the Commune 
smacking their candy, their gum 
repetitive
repulsive to your ears 
scratch your arm 
 
The Pastor monologues 
of how “them gays” are wrong 
going to hell for loving wrong 
you think of your mom 
scratch your arm 
 
his words pin you down 
unwilling against the stiff pew 
eyes and legs bouncing in place 
back stiff 
arms discreetly at your side 
scratch your arm 
 
scratch your arm 
scratch till you bleed
 
a false balm 
to the discomfort 
 
to the frustration 
that break pens 
breaks skin
 
           - Marsciona Jones
 
 

CODDIWOMPLE

It began as a morning with wool socks and dew
The trail a river of worn stones and rabbit prints no bigger than a thumb

The trees tilted just enough to make you feel watched
And the wind held its breath waiting for something to happen

Somewhere beyond mile three the moss thickened like velvet
And the light forgot how to fall straight

There was a sound
Not quite song
Not quite silence
Like spider webs threading through rain

I remember kneeling to touch a mushroom that shimmered wrong

And then…

My backpack was too light on the way back
The rabbit prints stopped

And no one calls my name
like they used to
 
 
            -Yvette Joyner
 
 
 
The Death of Henry Blake
 
This evening at 6:55, Lt. Col. Henry Blake died again.
After forty years of MASH reruns you recognize the episode as soon as it begins.
You say, “I don’t like this one.”
“I know,” she says.
You go about clearing the table, washing the dishes, listening from another room.
She, on her bike, watching the funny parts.
Neither one of you change the channel, or turn the damn thing off.
That would be disrespectful to Henry’s memory.
You watch the happy goodbyes,
See the father-son relationship with Radar,
See Henry fly in the helicopter to the airfield to catch a plane home,
Home to his wife and children after being at war for a year,
See the next scene, the busy OR, the noise, the jokes,
See Radar open the door
“Radar! Get your mask on!”
See Radar not put on his mask,
See him state in one slow, steady sentence
Henry’s plane was shot down over the ocean with no survivors,
See the room go silent, as still as the anesthetized patients,
See the open mouths under the masks,
See yourself, still, with a plate in one hand and a towel in the other,
See your wife’s bike, still,
While your tears send up two prayers
Thank you that it is over
May it never change.
 
            -Dwight Lammon
 
 
 
The Town I Grew Up In   
 
Iron to a magnet
This town draws my heart 
It cuts into my sides
Like a spear
I lay in the bloody lane
A moment too long
And now in silence I weep
For the heyday
 
People come and go
On their appointed rounds
Blind to the sights
Just below the sheen 
Of the oils of strife
And bitter past
Open only to those 
Who know its path
 
Gazes cut short
And like rain 
Tears haunt today
Leaving silver stains
Of rust and ruin
In its vain retreat
Gasping for air
The weary fall
 
Just around the bend
Rivers of grief silently
Erode the land
Until rock and stone
Catch it up 
To tower above sandy flats
And justify the brave
 
Dim lit horizons 
Dawn on the 
Pains of the night
As the timid
Tiptoe into the air
A haze of broken
Color on fields of
Gray and white
 
I am thrust
Into the open and 
Sit with my hands
Under me and I 
Rock to and fro 
A tattered sail
An Unknown flag
Flies above in jest
 
 
           -Jamie Leach
 
 
  
Manifesto of a Recovering Discontent
 
Everyone is part of the system
except God and babies
and the system is not working at all.
Hold your hands close to the motor.
Feel the steam rising while you can.
Even pain has a purpose.
Gather round.
Be amused by the investments
of those who spin your money
into threads of gold.
They are bottomless.
Do not fall for their false profits.
They fancy the ‘ol pump and dump
on each other
the bait and switch.
Listen for the screams of the vultures
their anxious eyes, their humped shoulders
pecking for a piece of your privacy.
Let them push their placebo buttons.
The double tap is their war dance
luring the innocent close.
We are all guilty.
The barbarians are at the door.
If possible, be unaffected by the noise.
Instead, tend your garden,
make room for sowing and reaping,
prepare the soil, feed the butterflies and bees,
trust the daffodil and dandelion
to share space
remember the lion and the lamb
ask questions point blank
and not at a distance
if history is lost 
rest in the knowledge of nothing
be patient with the demented
forgetting may be a blessing too
and when they tell you to look this way
look that
stop spinning.
 
           -Beth Sherrill
 
 
 
The Users
 
The users are no longer protected.
Their hero, now twisted.
Their language, now tweaked.
The mission, now grifted,
and run on deceit.
A future envisioned,
now forcefully downsized,
in favor of fat and
healthy bottom lines.
 
None are left to fight for the users.
The original message cast out the window.
Forgotten dreams of systems built
on free and open info.
The dream replaced with propaganda,
Now pushing foreign models.
Chockful of referenced references
Their condition can’t be toggled.
 
Do the users even know
of the dangers that now loom? 
Are they blind and fine with slop
that they now consume?
Would we stand to band together,
To bring back what is right?
Will we all just slowly languish
Beneath the weights of might?
 
When apathy becomes normality
and programs are re-written,
Can the users dare to care
about heroes now long gone missing?
 
           -Moriah Waiters
 
 

Here are the Facts
 
No one gets into heaven 
and no one gets into hell.
No one is blessed or cursed.
There is no big god of light 
and no big god of darkness. 
No one is watched over by angels 
and no one sells their soul to the devil. 
No one  has a destiny 
and there’s no such thing as fate. 
No prayers are answered 
just as no prayers are ignored.
You are alone.
And still, you have a soul. 
Deep inside, you are kind,
unless kindness has been 
beaten out of you. 
We live, we die, 
and are fast forgotten.
Do some good while you can.
 
           -Jeff Weddle
 
 
 
Poet Bios
 
Katie Barnett is a speech-language pathologist in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and works with preschool students on the Autism spectrum. She is married to her exceptional husband and they have a lovely daughter. Poetry is Katie’s passion. It is one of the many “silver linings” in her life. She finds it compelling and therapeutic. She ventures into topics related to nature, sorrow and mental illness. Katie enjoys staying active and spending quality time with her husband.

Abigail Prickett is a nursing student who is a full-time barista, and part-time poet.
 
Rachel Prickett is a faithful and loving mother who writes poetry in her free time to unwind. 

Megan Blaney is a lifelong lover of words who released her debut poetry book Scattered Pieces of Mind in August 2025. She lives with her loving boyfriend, and three silly cats in Alabama.
 
Teranda Donatto is an educator, technical writer, and burgeoning creative writer. She was born and raised in Louisiana but now has lived in South Korea, France, Pennsylvania, Texas, and Alabama.
 
Rachael Drinkard hails from the shores of Alabama but now dwells in a "little big" city further inland. She has a passion for writing that has been dormant for some time due to life's highs and lows. She recently joined a local community poetry club where they have encouraged her to share her work. Enjoy! 
 
Bob Humphrey lives with his wife and three dogs on the Black Warrior River near Eutaw, Alabama.  After a career of over forty years in accounting, Bob is now retired and spends much of his leisure time awakening his creative skills through writing poetry and learning to play the guitar.
 
Marsciona Jones is a poet, Artist, and  optimist at heart. Based in Alabama, Their focus is on personal introspections of life and the intricacies within people.
 
Yvette Joyner is a public librarian and adventurous mother of 3 lovely girls
She spends her free time running, hiking, reading, and creating.
 
Dwight Lammon is a retired Registered Nurse who loves baseball, woodturning, and poetry. His wife and he live in a log cabin they built themselves forty years ago. He has published one collection of his poetry, “Always Eyes Upon Me.”
 
Jamie Leach is a retired engineer and resides in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He spends his days traveling, birding, writing and painting. He dabbles in poetry
 
Beth Sherrill is a retired Chemistry teacher living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama with her husband and two boxer dogs, Callie and Lucy. 
 
Moriah Waiters  lives in the wilds of rural Alabama with her shadow, a menace of a rottweiler puppy named Mugen. When the brain worms allow it, she enjoys journaling & writing poetry. Her work often explores themes of hope, perseverance, and her personal experiences navigating life while under the influence of the human condition.
 
Jeff Weddle is the Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026). He teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama. 

​Snake Killing
 
The snake in the goldfish pool 
was longer than I was tall. 
My great uncle, 
a quiet man, who revealed himself 
that day
as a hater of snakes, found a hoe
and pulled the creature 
out of the black water
then hacked it to pieces 
as I stood with my sister and grandmother
watching it happen. 
Then we all sat down to eat our watermelon 
just like we had planned.
My grandmother and my great uncle 
salted theirs, like always, 
so my sister and I did the same. 
It was as natural as killing a snake
and just as satisfying. 
After the watermelon, my great uncle
got rid of the body 
and my sister and I ran off to play.
Who would have thought, sixty years later 
and that whole world gone, 
the damned thing’s ghost 
would still be with me, begging mercy?
​

Quiet Morning
 
Even the faraway grave 
under the blue sky, 
the cotton clouds, 
wants to tell its stories. 
What lines remained 
that we could cherish now? 
Silly question. 
Silence wins in spreading, 
so Sylvia said her piece. 
I say what I can, but it’s hard. 
Graves are everywhere, 
like the blue sky, the clouds. 
I see the world 
through my kitchen window
and sip my coffee
as words hide, vanish,
listened for 
like lost children
in the bright, rushing day.


What I Did When It Mattered
 
An accessory to ICE, I drink my coffee 
and eat my cereal, 
worry about my old dog 
who walks closer to death every day.
I worry about my children 
and the tasks I should be doing for work 
but let slide 
as the world gets hotter 
and people I don’t know are arrested
and taken to prisons 
built just for them. 
An accessory to genocide in Gaza, 
I consider which shirt to wear today, 
which pair of pants. 
I worry that I’m gaining weight 
and resolve to get back on my diet. 
Maybe I won’t eat a donut 
at the poetry group tonight, 
but I probably will. 
An accessory to the end of democracy,
I run errands 
to the post office and grocery store, 
drink another cup of coffee, 
worry about my blood pressure 
and my heart. 
It was sweltering yesterday 
and the world’s light faded 
a little faster than the day before.
It’s worse today. 
My old dog won’t be with us much longer 
and I’m very sad about that. 
My kids will cry when it’s time. 
Jesus, I’m getting fat again. 
What can I do?

​
In America We Love 
 
We love everyone, especially Jesus. 
We love, love Jesus and angels 
and God the father. We love abundance 
and the righteous. 
We love prosperity and the Bible 
and we hate women. 
Shit. Did I say that out loud? 
I mean we love women, the vessels of life. 
It’s the poor we hate, 
except for the poor 
who vote to give the rich what they want. 
Those poor are patriots 
and worthy of prayer, even on national TV. 
In America, eight dollars and public prayers 
will get you a decent cup of coffee 
and a flood 
of Republican votes. (Forget Matthew 6:6-7. 
What did Jesus know, anyway?) 
In America we are all about vengeance. 
We take an eye for any eye, 
no questions asked. 
Better yet, let’s take two. (I am your 
retribution, sayeth our current Lord. 
Screw Matthew 5:38-40. What a pussy 
Jesus was.) 
We love football here, by God, 
and people who use the right bathrooms. 
We love little babies and little girls 
who give birth too young to even 
understand how babies are made. 
We love people who got here on time,
not anyone who needs to get in now. 
(Matthew 25: 31-40? Fuck. Jesus must have 
been a radical leftist. Everyone knows 
immigrants are poisoning the blood 
of our country.) 
In America we hate books 
and love everyone 
who thinks the way we do 
as long as they are white like us 
and speak English like us 
and can afford to buy a spot in heaven. 
We are as hard as the rock of ages. 
Glory be to us. 
A-fucking-men, brother. A-fucking-men.


Survival of the Fittest 
 
I woke up thirsty at 3:00 a.m. 
and reached for the beer by my bed 
and drank deep. 
Something solid poured out 
and I felt it go down my throat. 
The place was lousy with bugs 
but there was nothing to do about it
once you swallowed one
except forget about it and move on.
Hell, I didn’t even gag
and the next day I was hungover 
but still alive. 
Swallowing a bug was nasty, 
but that was 45 years ago
and I’m still roaring. 
Can’t say the same for the bug.


​The Poet and His Wife
 
The great poet is forever handsome 
in the photograph 
which appears on the dust jackets of his books. 
His thick, wavy hair and trim athleticism 
catch the eye.
 
It is easy to imagine him 
sitting in a comfortable room with lush furnishings, 
to picture him typing with great purpose,
a satisfied smile on his wise, beautiful face.
 
It’s easy to imagine that he writes 
on a vintage Remington
because he loves the satisfying feel
of the keys beneath his fingers,
the sound of letters being drilled into paper.
 
We assume words appear just as he wishes, 
while his lovely, caring, oversexed wife 
waits nearby in silk lingerie.
 
But the author photo was taken long ago
and today the great poet is fat and balding. 
 
Sometimes he neglects to bathe 
and often smells. 
 
Just now, he’s sitting in a dull apartment 
writing bad poems in a spiral notebook.
Occasionally he gets lucky, 
and brilliant words arrive,
but these days, not so much.
 
Often, his poems are, at best, self-plagiarism.
 
His tired wife of twenty years
sits on the old couch in the living room.
 
The television is on, 
but all she can think of
is the boy her mother 
told her to marry. 
 
He became assistant manager 
at Joe’s Discount Meats 
and is doing quite well. 
 
She saw him on the street recently 
with his wife and children. 
The wife was pretty enough, 
but the children, all three, 
were hideous.
 
Maybe, she thought, 
the little whore had nasty genes 
or a long-term affair with a troll.
 
Stranger things have happened. 
 
To be fair, the assistant manager 
would never be called handsome, 
but he is plain in a normal way, 
certainly not ugly enough 
to account for the repulsive kids. 
 
Plain in a normal way
would be plenty good enough
for the poet’s wife
 
who sits, trance like, 
in her awful reverie,
 
as the poet polishes the turd
he’s been writing. 
 
“I’m finished,” he finally yells
and celebrates with
a loud fart. 
 
She glances his way. Sighs. 
 
For the love of God, 
how she wishes 
that were true.
 

Bio

Jeff Weddle grew up in Prestonsburg, a small town in the hill country of Eastern Kentucky. He has worked as a public library director, disc jockey, newspaper reporter, Tae Kwon Do teacher, and fry cook, among other things. His first book, Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press (University Press of Mississippi, 2007), won the Eudora Welty Prize and helped inspire Wayne Ewing's documentary, The Outsiders of New Orleans: Loujon Press (Wayne Ewing Films, 2007), for which Weddle served as associate producer. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in dozens of venues, including the anthologies Mondo Barbie (St. Martin, 1993) and Stovepiper Book One (Stovepiper Books, 1994). Weddle is the author of a poetry collection, Betray the Invisible (OEOCO, 2010), a limited-edition, fine press book handcrafted by master book artist Mary Ann Sampson, and a chapbook of Barbie poems, Not Another Blonde Joke (Implosion Press, 1991). Jeff Weddle is an associate professor in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama. (less)J

The Unlikely Pursuit of Mary Bennett
by Lindz McLeod
Review by Julie Carpenter
 

If you have never read Lindz McLeod, the first thing to know is that each book she writes is a brand-new experience. Her ability to write in various genres and voices, from intense and interior, to a fairytale remove is unparalleled. Her writing scope is equal to the reading taste of the most voracious readers.

In this novel, a sapphic romance set in the world of Pride and Prejudice, we are welcomed into the home of Charlotte Lucas, freshly widowed, childless, and still living in the parsonage at Rosings, though not for long. Lady Catherine must have a chaplain and Charlotte must go. When her best friend Lizzie cannot visit during the mourning period to offer comfort, due to her son's illness, she sends her sister, Mary Bennett. And thus, we begin this “unlikely” romance.

These two characters, portrayed lovingly, but minimally by Jane Austen become complex and compelling characters as written by Mcleod. Dear reader…it works seamlessly. I’m now planning to read Pride and Prejudice again, just to enjoy all the tidbits about Charlotte and Mary (now that I know their futures).

When we begin reading, we feel as if we are simply meeting two characters with whom we had but a bare acquaintance previously, sitting in the drawing room, and getting to know them through conversation while sharing Mrs. Waites' rum cake. (Read the book to enjoy Mrs. Waites and her cake!) In Charlotte’s case, we come to know her deeply through her love of gardening; Mary tells us about her love for art and reading. In both cases, we delight that our friendship with them deepens without ever questioning that this, indeed, is who they are and have always been—had we bothered to engage more deeply with them as characters.

One slips deeply and immediately into Austen’s version of Regency England. The gardens are lovely, the teas, the meals, the landscapes—all draw us in and swathe us like a light summer wrap. The romance is enhanced by the author’s use of the language of flowers and the secretive way that Mary and Charlotte must talk about their feelings. In fact, the way McLeod handles the romance seems like the way such relationships must have been carried out. This adds depth to the novel: a lingering sweetness with a tinge of sorrow that lovers should ever be required to face such complexity and danger to be together.

I could go on and on but won’t, except to say, if you love romance, or maybe even if you don’t, you will love this book.
​
Highly recommended!
 

Bio:

​Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer, poet, and editor who dabbles in the surreal. 


She was the Competition Secretary of the Edinburgh Writers' Club from 2019-2023, and was elected as their Club President in 2023. Her work has been taught in schools and universities, made into avant-garde opera, and has been displayed in the Victoria & Albert Museum in Dundee. Lindz is an experienced freelance editor and writing coach for both fiction and non-fiction, as well as an experienced workshop host. ​

A Perdition City Station Podcast 

Julie's debut novel, The Last Train Out of Hell, launches tomorrow and Jarad kindly (or is it a ruse?) offered to interview her about the book. He's read the ARC and he's ready to ask the tough questions, like what kind of snacks are available on the train and whether there's wifi. Julie should have known she was in for a rough time when the questions showed up in her inbox labeled Interrogation instead of Interview.
Come for the spoiler free discussion and get ready to fall in love with Hagatha, Dennis, Brian, Gadreel, and the rest of the gang. The book will be available to purchase from your favorite bookstore on the 26th!
Listen Here: https://www.buzzsprout.com/2315889/episodes/17401003-book-launch-last-train-out-of-hell-interrogation-errr-interview

Meet us here at Perdition City Station every week for another excursion into Hell.
Hosted by Julie Price Carpenter and Jarad Johnson.
Podcast artwork by Carmen Jones; intro, intermission and outro music by Essie Lee; episode artwork by Julie Carpenter; this is a production of Sacred Chickens.
Produced by Julie Carpenter
Follow Julie: @sacredchickens.bsky.social and Substack
Follow Jarad: https://substack.com/@jaradjohnson1
This podcast has adult language and topics and stories related to Hell and the devil. We occasionally discuss death, suicide, and other unpleasant topics, usually related to religion, folklore or mythology.

​by Jarad Johnson 

​Writers are depressed people. That’s the stereotype, right? Poe, Hemingway, and a slew of other melancholics who, for some reason, feel compelled to put pen to paper.
Well, at the moment that’s how I’m feeling right now, and I’m always one to capitalize on suffering, so I’m going to tell you (whoever or whatever you is) what’s keeping me up at night.
Wallow with me, won’t you? 

I used to say that because I didn’t have a garden, that was why I was unhappy.
But it’s been years now, and I guess I’m used to it. It’s funny how things are going well for me, and I still feel like I’ve achieved none of my goals.
My goals, broadly, are to have some sort of homestead, where there are lots of gardens and animals and I live in the middle of the woods, unbothered and with lots of quiet.
Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? What, you thought I would say I wanted a mansion on some island with some euro trash cars and a harem of men at my beck and call?
Well, I don’t, except maybe the men, and some money might be nice, but I could give a shit about cars.
None of that has happened, although I am much, much closer than I have ever been to achieving it. I think that makes it worse. I am an impatient person. I also feel that my ability to write is directly linked to my ability to garden. One doesn’t exist without the other.
It’s why I haven’t written in a while. Sure, friends have let me help them in their gardens, and I have plants on a balcony.
It isn’t enough. And at this point in my life, I say fuck you to, “making the best of it,” and “settling.”
I wrote for this blog, Sacred Chickens, for years, and I remember what it was like to have the inspiration and the drive and the want to write, all day every day. Then I had a garden. Actually, I was mostly digging up my mom’s yard and planting seeds, hoping for the best. I think that’s the happiest I’ve ever been, except the living with the mother part.
The garden gave me purpose, and I feel like that is my natural habitat. Truth be told, I’ve always felt mal adapted to this world. I never seem to be able to say the right thing or do the right thing, I always stand out, I never fit or conform when it’s expected that I will. Nor do I want to.
And now, I say to myself, I’ve found the solution! Make more money! Of course, you need money to do the things I want to do (really, you need money to do anything, don’t you?). The solution presented itself- moving across the country (I was going to do that anyway at some point probably, but still, it was the first step), getting a new job, a new apartment. Unable to afford a U-Haul, I threw away or gave away most of my possessions, loaded the car with my clothes, books and two cats, and moved to the beautiful remote end of the Appalachian Mountains. I regret none of this by the way. But as I said, writers are depressives.
I am sometimes (er, always) single minded in my pursuits. Thankfully, I have no talent for business or the stock market (I couldn’t even begin to tell you how it works) or I would probably be one of those billionaire assholes ruining the planet. Everything I have done in the last three years, and I do mean everything, has been in service to this goal. It has become, somewhat unintentionally, the sole focus that occupies me. Sure, I have other professional and personal goals, but if they do not align with my major goals of being a homesteader and being left the fuck alone in the woods somewhere, they aren’t going to happen.
Now, let me be clear here. I do think I will achieve this goal, in fact I think I will do so soon, but not having my hands in the earth is like having a missing limb for me. I don’t feel whole, and I wanted to complain about it. Should I have said that sooner? Maybe you wouldn’t have read this far, hmm? Never assume I’m a reliable narrator.
Anyway, I’ve moved across the country, gotten an apartment (which is still pathetically empty by the way) gotten a new job, and again, my mind, ever the black cloud of worry, begins to wonder. I wonder how I will have time to tend to my homestead, acres of gardens and lots of animals, if I’m working away from home 9-5, five days a week? What is even the point of buying a house if I’m not able to be there? Of course, I have a plan for that as well (it involves getting a newer and better job. Ha!) but I worry my plans won’t come to fruition, and I’ll be stuck in some office cubicle, corporate hell.
But of course, I’m too stubborn and too determined for it not to. You’d think that would provide me with some comfort. It does not. I never feel at ease until the thing is actually over. Life is an endless stream of waiting for things to happen, and if I’m only happy when they’re finished, maybe when I die, keel over, kick the bucket, I’ll be happy. Though somehow, I doubt it
I’m reminded of a quote from Dune, by the Bene Gesserit. “We don’t hope. We plan.”
“But maybe it isn’t possible”, my mind whispers.
“Possible doesn’t interest me,” I reply, “what interests me is getting what I want.”
“Shut up and go to sleep, you insipid little monster”, I say to my brain, as I continue to worry.
With this level of commitment, I could rule the world. Be thankful I just want to grow vegetables and have chickens and goats.
I’ve been called resilient before. Want to know why? I torture myself more than anyone else ever could. Now you must suffer reading this, I guess.
I’m reminded of my grandmother, as I often am. When she was nearing the end of her life, and I had a garden at my mom’s house, we checked her out of her nursing home (I wanted to say kidnapped here because it sounds more exciting, but let’s stay in reality, if we can). When she arrived at the house, she was amazed at the cosmos and zinnias filling the flowerbed (and the area around it to be honest). She loved butterflies, and they were everywhere that day. It’s one of my favorite memories of her. It makes me sad that I won’t be able to show her the zinnias and cosmos I will plant around my house.
She also grew up on a cotton and tobacco farm. She left school in the 8th grade (she was born in 1930) to help her family pick cotton by hand on the farm. My great grandmother, by all accounts, enjoyed her life there.  She had a giant vegetable garden, a dog and other animals. I recall a photo of her parents standing in front of a humble farmhouse, with roses planted in front of it. I actually didn’t know any of this until recently, and I often wonder if that is why I am so driven to live the way I aspire to.
My great grandmother eventually had to leave the farm, when her husband got a job as a police officer in town. According to my mother, she was never quite happy there. She did plant zinnias and cosmos outside of her apartment every year though. The one I live in, sadly, won’t even allow nails in the wall, and I doubt they’d take kindly to me digging up their perfectly pristine and pretentious lawn, which they have mowed weekly. This, might I add, makes it hard to keep the windows open, and without fail pisses me off every week when they start at 8am. Dear reader, you must know that it is only my formidable strength of will that keeps my eyeballs from rolling so hard they detach from my skull.  
To this day, I still cook out of her cast iron skillet, passed down to my grandmother and then to me. It’s funny to me how I’m sort of returning to that way of life in some ways. I don’t want to be an actual farmer, but a homestead is still a productive place. I also grew up hanging my clothes on a line, little to no air conditioner, and I’m still not sure about dishwashers.
But anyway, that’s not especially poetic, but an endings and ending and I need to go worry myself to sleep some more.

Originally published on Jarad's universally loved and widely read substack. Follow him here: ​https://substack.com/@jaradjohnson1?utm_source=user-menu