Loves the Little Children by John Patrick Robbins

Philip Barnes looked upon his class fondly, for they were pure, untouched, and unmired by society. As he sat down, his focus was inherently on Shirley Riggs, his newest little angel in the class.

“Honey, I know it's always rough on your first day but I promise you will fit right in, okay, so just try to relax sweetheart.”

The little blonde-haired girl just clung to her teddy bear lost within a world in her mind. As she sat on the floor of the cramped room, surrounded by others, all silent and cold, she fought back tears.

Philip spoke to the class, his voice soothing yet oddly unnerving.

He kept his gaze fixed upon Shirley.

The Bible lesson was simplistic as they were all too young for depth, Philip's class was different from the poison these modern bastards attempted to pollute these children's minds with.

Pushing toxic ideas, confusing morals, sex was putrid to Philip; it was the filth that ruined everything in this world.

Everything aside from what took place here.

Philip could barely stand to exist but he lived for his class. His perfect little angels.

Philip was reminded of the past as those sad eyes of Shirley’s stared at him. They were like the eyes of his mother's dolls that covered every inch of that goddamned house.

The thought alone enraged him. There were days as a child his stomach ached because of his mother's insanity over those fucking dolls. Every cent she had she wasted on those stupid ass dolls.

She even took in foster children just to support her lust for spending money. She was a lush and a whore and if Philip dwelled any longer upon her memory he would lose it entirely.

But in those sad eyes, he also saw himself. As adults were vermin, children were the only truth. They were pure and perfect in every sense of the word.

“Mr Barnes, are you okay?”

Philip was snapped back into reality.

“Sorry sweetie, just the memory of some old ghosts came to visit me. We old people are always haunted by something.”

The little girl just stared as Philip went on with the lesson.

He tried his best but he knew he wasn't at his best that day. He never was when the past reflected itself in the eyes of a new student.

And as he wrapped the lesson he decided to speak with Shirley as she still was very much lost within herself. He was equally so.

Philip sat across from the despondent little girl.

“So sweetie, what did you think of your first lesson? Please be honest. Remember honey it is always the best policy. I won't be mad, I promise, okay.”

Shirley just shrugged looking down at the floor.

“Sweetheart, please tell me.”

The little girl broke out in tears.

“I just want to go home, Mr Barnes, please.”

“Why! Why the hell would you want to go back there? Your mother probably hasn't even noticed you're gone, yet here you are shedding years over someone who in reality couldn't care less.”

The little girl began sobbing uncontrollably. Philip realized he had gone too far as he took the little child in his arms.

“Sweetie, please don't cry. I understand I promise I will take you to see your mother. I promise just please stop crying, please!”

He held Shirley tightly and after a while, she began to calm down as he stroked her hair. She was so beautiful, so pure a doll much like the ones his mother collected, and although he knew he shouldn't he smelled her hair it was sweet as he felt that vile tinge of arousal.

His rage grew inside for he knew she had that evil within that was a cancer all young girls had. It was the undeniable truth that they would never remain pure; they would grow into the filth corrupted by sex and lust.

“Mr Barnes, are you okay?”

Shirley asked as Philip saw clearly in her eyes. It was always within their eyes. It was their vile nature they could not suppress and only he could help her. No matter what, Philip would save her from her own nature.

“Honey, I'm going to take you back to your mommy but let's have something to drink first okay, and wipe those sad eyes. We can't have that pretty face all red and swollen when you go see mommy. We wouldn't want to worry Mommy, now would we?”

Shirley sniffled looking at Philip not knowing what to truly say.

“It's okay honey, just drink this and we will be on our way. You have had a rough enough time.”

Shirley took the drink not daring to anger Mr Barnes. She sipped her juice. The flavor was beyond sweet almost to the point of being sickly sweet.

Philip was over his urges as once again he knew why he was the only one who could do this task.

The little girl coughed with that familiar sound.

“Mr Phillips?”

Shirley began to cry as she began choking on her own blood. Philip found such comfort in the sound as he suppressed his urge to burst out in laughter as the past victims’ children watched with those dead black glass eyes.

They were all so perfectly frozen in time as little Shirley would be. She entered the last stages, hitting the floor, convulsing to the annoyance of Philip. He had to stop himself from just grabbing a hammer and bashing her head in. Why these little bastards fought the inevitable truly frustrated him.

As his perfect former living dolls just viewed as another would be joining them soon, Philip was reminded of the past in the eyes of the innocent. Maybe that is why he took such joy in ripping them out to replace them with the cold dark pools of his haunted past remembrance.

He would add her missing child's poster to his collection and tomorrow he would fight his urge to drive the bus off a bridge. He viewed the whores of a promised future walk blindly into oblivion to take a perfect innocent canvas and soil it with drugs, piercings, and lust; so much filth as the teachers preached it's all in their putrid acceptance.

Philip took the innocent and gave them immortality; he truly did God's work; he knew it within his soul his beautiful works of art. Cold preserved and very much dead as he was in every facet of this plane of existence.

He only held passion for his secret purpose in life, his work his art that others must suffer with him for.

He walked amongst them the truest wolf in bloodstained sheep's clothing.





John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer. His work has been published in Schlock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fixator Press, Yellow Mama Webzine, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Lothlorian Journal Of Poetry, and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and never safe.

Unfinished Exit by Claudia Wysocky

I keep thinking
about the time in high school
when you drew
me
a map of the city,
I still have it somewhere.
It was so easy
to get lost
in a place where all the trees
look the same.
And now
every time I see
a missing person's poster
stapled to a pole,
all I can think is
that could have been me.
Missing,
disappeared.

But there are no
posters for people
who just never came back
from vacation, from college,
from life.
You haven't killed yourself
because you'd have to commit to a
single exit.
What you wouldn't give to be your cousin Catherine,
who you watched
twice in one weekend get strangled nude
in a bathtub onstage
by the actor who once
filled your mouth with quarters at
your mother's funeral.
The curtains closed and opened again.
We applauded until
our hands were sore.

But you couldn't shake the image of
her lifeless body,
the way she hung there like a
marionette with cut strings.
And now every time you try to write a poem,
it feels like a
eulogy.
So even though you haven't
found the perfect ending yet,
you keep writing.
For Catherine, for yourself, for all the lost
souls
who never got their own
missing person's poster.
Because as long as there are words on a page,
there is still hope for an unfinished exit
to find its proper
ending.

--

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored All Up in Smoke (Anxiety Press). Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.

A certain point. by DS Maolalai

at a certain point:
a fulcrum –

a life is lived
and life then
continues

to be lived.

--

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)

As Time Helps Me Grieve by Richard LeDue

The swimming lessons I never took
taught me a healthy fear of water,
which only quenched my distrust
of the land further, forcing me
to dive into the cheapest whisky.

Saturday nights trapped in a bottle
like a ship that couldn't float,
nor sink, and as easy as glass is
to break, I was always scared
of seeing my own blood.

Now, red is my favourite colour
and winter where I'm most comfortable:
footprints going in circles,
yet moving forward as time
helps me grieve who I used to be.

--

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of eleven books of poetry. His latest full-length book, “Sometimes, It Isn't Much,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024, and his latest chapbook, “Mourning for the Petals,” was self-published online for Kindle in November 2024.

devil just passing through by Casey Renee Kiser

My nightmare-man comes SO LOUD;
he comes often, bores me and collects
my wrist cuts-
oh he cuts, he cuts, HE CUTS
Promises me I’m in the black book, he checks,
ha! Yes! Top ten mind-fuckable sluts! Cold cuts;
licks his knife and hands me his double tongue
I say, ‘Oh baby, JUST BREATHE’
as I rip out his dreamy lung. Can’t gaslight
a FiRestARTeR, dragon up my sleeve
Now he can’t wake up ‘cause my flames
will never leave
until he’s ready to upgrade

to my dReAm.

--

Casey Renee Kiser is a punk poet who knows how to deliver the horrors of the mundane machine, churning out the emotions that lurk beneath the surface within complicated relationships, most of all, self.

Precipitation by Anthony Ward

It was a rain swept afternoon,
Where a sudden downpour creates a white noise,
As if the programme you were engrossed in
Has come to an abrupt end
A thick and streaky Kurosawa rain,
Drumming against the windows,
The black and white contrasting with the grey.
Consigning myself to doing nothing,
Whiling away to wait out,
Consoled by the external aggravation
Pelting the pavements with applause,
While embezzled in the moment
Something I’ve not felt in a while,
The present not normally permitted.

--

Anthony loves the way words sound through silence. He is inspired by the nature of the world and the expression of art as humanity decrees to discover itself. He writes to express the overwhelming beauty of the natural world with the inspiring admiration of artistic creativity. He has recently been published in Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Dear Booze, and Mad Swirl.

an upcoming dystopian winter by J.J. Campbell

here comes the rain

the hollow ache
of an upcoming
dystopian winter

hope was slain
on the side of the
yellow brick road

any fool could
see it coming

bleeding hearts are
never meant to last
long

eventually, we harden

become these brash
bastards unraveling
whatever the fuck

progress was ever
deemed to be

eventually, that will
become a society
that eats itself

in the distance
caligula is laughing

amateurs

just a bunch of
fucking amateurs

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is a 3 time Best Of The Net nominee and was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos, The Dope Fiend Daily, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)