The American Dream by Skaja Evens

It’s a damn challenge to not give in. Do not give up, either.

Trying to keep it together to appear moderately functional in an extraordinary life in a world that would rather beat you down to keep you beige and mediocre.

The exceptional are occasionally revered until they dare step out of line. Then they are forgotten as quickly as discovered. And attention moves to the Next Big Thing.

Unless you can be exploited for ratings, devoid of entertainment value.
Anything for a quick buck.

My heart hurts a lot, trying to find my own way.
I’ve never fit into the compartment this world demands of me.

The self-proclaimed gurus will sell you something they don’t really have. Dressed up in pretty imagery where you, too, can have the life they advertise for only four payments of more money than you’ll ever see in a lifetime.

Surely your future happiness is worth going into debt for someone else’s half-baked opinions. Just give up anything that makes right now worth living, and you’ll afford the life of your dreams!

While those in power laugh behind closed doors, brainstorming ways to squeeze blood from a stone.

I am in so much pain. But so is everyone else, so who cares, right?
There are plenty that have it worse than me.
Suck it up, buttercup, and fall in line.
You’re nothing special, and if you can’t pick up the slack, we’ll find someone to take your place.

Be that machine cog and be grateful for any morsel of happiness.

What a joke, yeah?

Pay attention to who’s laughing.

--

Skaja Evens is a Best of the Net-nominated writer living in SE Virginia. Her work has appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Spillwords Press, Ink Pantry, Blue Pepper, among others. Her first book, conscientia veritatis, from Whiskey City Press, is available on Amazon.

Homo-Studen by Heath Brougher

The Noon Multiverse will continue
multiversing as I sail
with a snail in in a saltine glass
awaiting sapiens to realize
evolution has spun off-hinge
as “survival of the fittest”
has been replaced with
“survival of the most technologically adaptive”—
a void within an abyss—
evolution spun with flights of false fancy—
abstractions of abstractions of abstractions.

I’ll never forget the words “no logic”
are used to build the words “technologically aloof.”

--

Heath Brougher is the editor-in-chief of Concrete Mist Press and former poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee; he was awarded the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He is the author of 12 books and has a new book forthcoming titled "Beware the Bourgeois Doomsday Fantasy." He has spent the last few years editing the work of others but is officially ready to get back into the creative driver seat.

Just Another Day in Paradise by John Patrick Robbins

“Grandpa, why didn't you ever get married again?” The little girl asked as she sat across from her grandfather.

Michael Crawford laughed as children always cut through the bullshit. They didn't dance around in a conversation playing games, and that is what he greatly admired about them.

As he looked out the kitchen window, he thought back to when this old house once breathed life, when it wasn't more than an overrated tomb, and his daughter didn't consider him more than a babysitter whom she didn't even look in the eye, let alone pay.

But Casey was gold and seemingly the only person who enjoyed his company.

“Grandpa?”

“Oh, sorry, sweetie. Well, I don't think anyone could tolerate my grouchy ways. Besides, your grandmother is hard to replace. That, and all the others I love up in the basement always get away, no matter how hard I try to prevent them from doing so.”

Casey just looked at her grandfather, not getting the joke.

And, like every other day he babysat his granddaughter, it was over far too quickly. She later lay beside him on the couch, asleep, as he saw the headlights heading down the driveway.

His daughter, annoyed as usual from working a double at the hospital, quickly came through the door.

Looking at Michael as she always did with a sense of utter disdain, it was clear that she had hatred for him.

“Hello Julia, how was work, sweetheart?”

Michaels's daughter glared at him as she tried not to wake Casey. She scooped up her daughter to carry her to the car.

“Julia.”

“Father, just wait here. I will be right back!” Julia snapped as she took little Casey out to the car.

Michael sat, knowing that whatever his daughter had to say would be far from good and venomous as usual. As he sat there awaiting his judgment, no matter the circumstance, he was always guilty in his daughter's eyes.

“Dad, this is for you.”

Julia startled Michael as she had seemingly slipped back into the house undetected. He tried not to jump as his daughter stood holding a small envelope.

“What's this?”

“Please, Dad, just take it. I got a raise at the hospital, so it's just something for looking after Casey all this time for me.”

“Honey, you don't have to pay me. I love spending time with Casey. You know that. Heck, if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have any company at all.”

“Well, Dad, that's what we need to talk about. I found somebody else to watch Casey. I am sorry, but they’re closer to my work, and it's rough on me having to drive to bum fucking Egypt every time to pick Casey up, so again, I am sorry.”

Michael knew it was pointless to argue. His daughter was like a brick wall: cold, harsh, and unforgiving.

“I understand. I just wish I would have known sooner. At least I could have let Casey know.”

“Oh, I'm sorry I didn't consult you, father. I mean, when you lived in a whiskey bottle when I was a child, you would have loved not having to give a shit for anyone but yourself.”

“Julia, that's not fair. I haven't had a drink in a long while.” Michael replied.

“Oh, I forgot now that you've chased everyone out of your miserable ass existence and buried your wife, you actually want people around. Well, sorry, you made your bed. Now, sleep in it.” Julia barked as she tossed the envelope towards him and headed out the door.

Michael just let her drive off. She was bitter and had every right to be. His life was a blur for the most part, and when he, at last, navigated himself out of those dark waters, his kids were grown, his wife was on her way out with cancer, and all he had was his tow truck company and nothing else to show for it besides the damage he had done to himself.

Michael stepped out on the porch and saw his daughter's taillights turn onto the main road as she floored it, vanishing off into the night like far too many people in his life before.

Michael looked at his shop and saw the little red compact car sitting out in the open. Goddamn, he was getting sloppy in these last years of his life.

Fuck! Michael thought to himself. The only reason his ass got away with anything was because he lived out here in the boonies.

Michael had to shake his head as he walked back into the house and eyed the bottle of bourbon he kept on the top of the fridge. It was a reminder of all the years he would never get back and all the bullshit he could never deny.

He took a while just staring at that bottle. It was never his demons that tormented him. The bottle provided an escape that soothed his nonexistent soul. In truth, it just dulled his urges.

And he had to fight those urges to keep hidden by any means necessary. Michael made his way down to the basement. The only perk of his granddaughter not being around: he had more time to spend in his workshop.

He stopped at an old bookcase and pushed the switch to open the door to his workshop. The woman looked at Michael, tears filling her eyes, chained to the toilet. It was so beautiful. It was that vision he loved the most.

He commanded respect through blunt force. He had to fight his urge to bust out laughing at the young woman. She tried to scream, but the gag muffled it.

He loved when he could terrorize them without even lifting a hand to them. It was a game and his art, and he had been out of practice for so long that when he heard the call of this stupid bitch break down on a nearby back road, he couldn't pass it up.

He had long since put down the bottle, but it was time again to pick up his truest bad habits.

Michael didn't say anything as the woman screamed so much, he thought she would vomit.

He damn sure didn't want to have to revive her to continue the party, so he just hit her in the gut as she collapsed on the floor.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch!” He yelled, but it only served to enrage him. He hated to break his silence, so Michael went over to his toolbox, which he kept just out of his newest pet's reach.

He hated when they made him break his silence; he hated noise, and as he grabbed the hammer, he would truly make her pay for this intrusion into his game.

Michael Crawford looked at the picture little Casey had drawn of him in crayon he kept on his workbench. It made him smile to think he was loved by someone so pure, unlike these cunts he used like a cat playing with a mouse.

His hand almost shook with excitement at the fun he would most certainly have and the agony he would most certainly bring. He only questioned how long she would last and then again maybe his little granddaughter was right. Maybe he shouldn’t be alone in this tomb.

Of course, maybe she would just be a sacrifice he would drag to hell with him. He looked back at the girl who was already broken. He didn’t need love. He never did. He needed a release, and she would certainly provide that escape.

Michael Crawford knew he had to pick up a hobby in the twilight of his waning years as he had forgotten so many things. Yet, as he stood over the sobbing girl before bringing the hammer down hard enough to damn near split her skull open, he knew murder wasn't one of those things.

Micheal very much still had it.

John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer whose work has been published in Yellow Mama Webzine, Piker Press, The Dope Fiend Daily, Fixator Press, Schlock Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, and here at Disturb The Universe. His newest book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens published by Whiskey City Press and is available through Amazon. His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

The Horror We LoVe, The Movie We LiVe by Casey Renee Kiser

It all starts when we let it in;
plants a flag under our skin

The Thing must be You
The Thing must be Me
The Thing must be Us
in each other's company

How the distance takes our shape
when we don't choose a form to
just fucking communicate

Lights out; crawl around within
No surrender for the win

You're suspecting Me
I'm suspecting You
They're suspecting Us;
Seeing red when we are blue

Last swig of that J & B;
Let's end this here with the flames
The real thing, we'll never see

--

Casey Renee Kiser is a punk poet with a horror-quirk-twist. Her new release Altered States of The Unflinching Souls with fellow indie poet, J. J. Campbell is due out late Summer 2024, and Confessions of A D3AD Petal early Spring 2025. She runs a small independent press in Kentucky.

Words by Wayne F. Burke

Manhole cover says
"woe-cup!"
Car door burps
shut.
Car tires grind sand.
I am holding a wall up
downtown and
hanging on to these
words,
all I got to
get by on--
nothing else to
hold on to
but myself, and
myself, hell
I
ain't
enough.

--

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in DISTURB THE UNIVERSE). He is author of 8 published poetry collection and one book of short stories. He lives in Vermont.

Last Chance from Piute City by Michael Dwayne Smith

Come on back soon! said the faded yellow on a
rickety billboard as we high-tailed it out of that place,
final nod to our little sandstorm of history there.

Defeated & bleached, a desert town impossible
to live with, pretty in her way, but really a passing
darkening— shuttered Air Force base, bankrupt

horse farm, abandoned shadow, with the world’s
tallest thermometer caked in pigeon turd. Out on Yucca
Road, folks parked all day & night around the

crumbling hospital for birth or death, & there, it turned
out, Lacey, who once was good & saw only good,
worked in the clinic kitchen, before I stole her away

in my old red Chevy, though not for too long. She took
someone else’s name when she ditched back to Piute,
though years later I got a Christmas card from her,

with a pretty, hand-painted cactus-&-donkey nativity
on the cover, the words Come on back soon!
scrawled inside, with a pink heart, lipstick kisses.

It did not persuade. The past is best left for letting be.

--

Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Chiron Review, Monkeybicycle, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Prize for poetry, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.

And/Or by Eric Chiles

Which way should we go?
Should we combine or choose?
Are we wheat or chaff, neither, nor,
does that equation hold anymore?
Things get complicated, it's hard
to decide so the language of lawyers
presides just like the uncertainty
of etc. Better to cover all the bases,
numbers, colors, whatever. Who
cares? Around-and-about confusion
slashes our minds. In simpler times
it was Ten Commandments
or the Bill of Rights, do unto
others and us to them, here
and there. Geography went from shore
to shore even though Cristo
and Marco changed that long ago./ So
many voices, not sure which
is mine or yours or theirs except
they all say the same thing even
though they don't sound alike,
all babble and confusion trending
toward anarchy, the orderly odd
islands of exception, luddite holdouts
against the tide of devolution
and/or the palette of a masterpiece.

--

Eric Chiles is author of "What Was and Will Be" (Resource Publications, 2024, and available on Amazon) and the chapbook "Caught in Between" (Desert Willow Press, 2019). Besides Disturb the Universe, his poetry has appeared in Allegro, Big Windows Review, Canary, Rattle, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere. Grandfather to a dozen grandsons, he wishes he had a granddaughter.