Brian Kilkrieg

Brian Kilkrieg would caravan his body through wear, and tear, stitch, and scar, just to live out his dream as a wrestler. From high school gymnasiums to abandoned armories, to rented out bingo halls, to off-season fairgrounds, if your bar had the space and a wrestling ring you could book him; you could find him. Dropkicking, Sharpshooting, and body slamming his way to the mountain-top he not only moved up in the spot of every show, he did the same in the hearts of the people. Yes, there were morning waking up, aching out. …

Turtle Neck

When a walk-in-closet doubles as the shell of who you were, you might as well have found a tiny nook of space to sleep in. Every night, gazing at the foot of your bed, your head nods profusely, and pacing rapidly, you decide to blanket yourself in a moving box of mom-made quilts and wrinkled sweater vests, encasing your body in a self-imposed dungeon, composed of cheap oak paneling, where the only contact with light are the rays passing through the thinly-veiled opening between the slide rail and the door itself. My kitchen: two boxes of sugar-free Haribo

Castles in the Sky

I awoke to the banana yellow hue glazed on my window pane. As I rubbed my eyes, trying to greet the morning while sighing simultaneously, the sunlight became a retractor beam, and lifted my body gently from my bed, by a force I couldn’t explain at the time. As the energy field funneled my body through the road map of light, I almost broke my knuckles trying to punch through it. I was transported to a kingdom of candied clouds lined with streets lined in peppermint pearls, and ruby-encrusted town squares. Every building from the municipal…

Please, Don’t Put Me In Coach, I’m Not Ready to Play

Sorry John Fogerty

— especially not today. I never asked to be on the baseball team here at SUNY Binghamton. I would have rather spent my downtime between studies laying in my dorm, blasting Fleetwood Mac and Sade, with a Colson Whitehead Novel, and a hefty blunt in my hand, rightfully filtered through the bathroom vents to avoid any conflict with the RAs on duty — but this is not what my “scholarship funded.” No, it was for me to donning the most uncomfortable uniform, scuffed in dust and…

When the Moon Doesn’t Feel like Rising

TW/CW: Depression, burnout, experiences with gaslighting

Moon has been dealing with a lot lately. Sun tells Moon, positive vibes only; vilifying Moon’s sorrow. Moon isn’t trying to be a burden, but the sun fails to see past its own jaded smile. Sun tells Moon to get over itself. Sun tells Moon they need to suck it up because they have a job to do. What started as a public service to the universe has morphed into an office space where dread & existence align. The cosmos have lost more meaning than an eternal…

A Midsummer’s Front Lawn

When there are no children at play, turning cul-de-sac pavement into street hockey exhibitions. When there is no middle-aged dad laying down unnecessary pesticides, mowing grass blade after grass blade to appease the false gods of neighborhood ordinance: another realm appears in the dry-heave summer air. The ornaments plastered across every front lawn start to unravel from their inanimate states. The lawn gnomes who awake from statue to flesh, flip open synthetic boulders like miniature speakeasies, dispensing tubs of magical booze, and galivanting around carved shrubbery with pitchers of mystifying lager and ale. Making lines of…

The Reluctant Astronaut

The reluctant astronaut floats like an ironing board across the vacuum of space. The reluctant astronaut didn’t sign up to be clutching, holding, tightening the grip of his chrome-glossed hands to the supporting chords that keep him bound to the shuttle-walk. The reluctant astronaut never had childhood fetishes of launching his body in a cramped rocket into parts unknown. He never dreamt of doggie-paddling above the stratosphere, never dreamt of being an experimental drone of flesh and bone, all to satisfy someone else’s manifest destiny. The reluctant astronaut misses the ground. The reluctant astronaut misses the ocean…

J.B. Stone

Poet. Editor. Writer. Literary Critic. Neurodivergent. Nerd. Wannabe Witch. Successful Steven Universe Impersonator.

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