Issue #22

Art in this issue by Vanessa Vicario

Vanessa Vicario, born 1977, began painting in her late 30’s and considers herself an “Outsider” artist. She is a 1995 graduate from Bangor Area Highschool, a 2001 graduate from Kutztown University (B.S. Psychology, Magna Cum Laude) and a 2004 graduate from The University of Pennsylvania (M.S.W., Master of Social Work). She facilitates an intensive outpatient program and provides individual counseling for clients navigating substance use disorders. She also runs a poetry group for domestic violence survivors through Turning point of the Lehigh Valley. Vanessa resides in Bangor, PA with her two children, Tazio and Tatiana Violette. Her work may be viewed at: https://www.facebook.com/VioletteSunshineArt/

I recently revisited some of my early issues and I was struck by how far this publication has come. From revisions of weird layout choices to random site upgrades here and there over the years, to the addition of full art spreads instead of just cover art, the whole “feel” of Stick Figure has drastically changed from it’s original incarnation.

Along with all the changes on our end, submission levels and quality are on the rise as well. I think it’s a sign that we’re gaining traction and people are noticing us more and more. I’m very proud of where this humble online magazine has taken me and I hope you enjoy this latest installment. There is not a single poem or piece of artwork herein that I do not fully endorse and totally love! I hail this as one of my strongest issues yet, but I may or may not have a tendency to say that every single time… so maybe YOU should be the judge.


Mom doesn’t know how to breastfeed after surgery
And in the few ads they write that they don’t rent apartments to people of this nationality

Clouds overhead like overripe oranges 
The air is like after an explosion and it becomes difficult to breathe

A baby stroller was given out for free at a center for helping the disadvantaged
And the whole world cracked like the American ark Titanic

The nightclub where she cleans at 7 am stinks of some kind of crap
Incomprehensible remnants of steam are like a bird of freedom looking for an air cemetery

Previously published in Blood+Honey

Mykyta Ryzhykh is an author from Ukraine, now living in Tromsø, Norway. Nominated for Pushcart Prize 2023, 2024. Published many times in literary magazines іn Ukrainian and English: Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal etc.

steps and stones
taken and thrown

here for the haul
as long as it goes

the nights lasted forever 
when we only knew so much

now we know 
the worst for the better

no great beyond
no hell below

just the darkness

and whatever light 
we can shine. 

Edward L. Canavan is a Los Angeles poet whose work has most recently been published in Literary Underground, The Opiate and the Anti-Fascist Anthology “Silence is Consent”. He has 2 poetry collections published by Cyberwit Press, with a third slated for release in 2026 Born and raised in the Bronx, NY, Edward currently resides in North Hollywood, California, where he practices Buddhism and is currently listening to Dead Pioneers.

I can’t see you.
                You’re camouflaged in a blur
until you emerge from a wall.

If you lead me or follow me
get my hand, warn me of curbs
don’t let me get hurt. 

A guy walked up behind me 
dressed as the sky.
                I was surprised but not scared.

I unlocked my door once
to an angel in an old suit, 
and I wasn’t afraid.

I asked him why.
He warned, pay attention
                however you have to. 

He gave me a cookbook 
made by women in hiding. 

I gave some cash to help 
protect them from monsters.
                I locked my door when he left.

I am blessed I feel safe
when I sense you approach.
                But I can’t see you.

So whether I follow or lead please 
get my hand, warn me of curbs
don’t let me get hurt. 

Two lifetimes ago, Catherine Zickgraf performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. You can find her work in Pank, Deep Water Literary Journal, and 7th-Circle Pyrite. Her chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published by Kelsay Books.
Find her Substack @czickgraf and watch/read more at www.caththegreat.blogspot.com

The spring thaw comes up through the basement carpet
and part of me wants to let nature take it all back
let  the mold brachiate and sprout all along the ruined carpet, eventually
consume it and turn it to mud, make way for more, bigger mushrooms
to bloom in spectacular globules and flared umbrellas
push their way through the tiny cracks in the concrete
only to disappear under the branching fronds of green ferns
their seeds blown in from outside my office window.

And if I sat here long enough, here, at my desk
with the windows open and the forest creeping in
would rabbits hop through the open window to nuzzle at my rotting slippers
chew their way through stacks of paperwork to make little homes for their young
would birds follow suit and build their nests in my bookshelves
sit on the edge of my desk and watch me work?

What if all I had to do to get the world to finally accept me
was ignore the spreading water stain in the rug
put away the towels sucking up the water
just let the damage take its course
just welcome it all in?

Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in The NoSleep podcast, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in  Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.

I didn’t want the feral kitten,
an orphan that wandered
onto my son’s cat-rich farm,
but my ailing wife wanted
the comfort of a purr.

I didn’t want the stench
of a litter box or sneezes
from feline fur or claws
scratching rugs and furniture
or cat toys underfoot.

I didn’t want a night visitor
curled beneath our bed
who scurries down the hall
before my feet find the floor
mewing to be fed.

And as I fill the coffee pot
while my dear still slumbers,
it rubs my ankles softly,

whiskers tickling toes
Whose cat, I wonder.

Eric Chiles is the author of “What Was and Will Be” and the chapbooks “Caught in Between” and “Carbon Footprint” (forthcoming in 2026 from Finishing Line Press). He is a retired newspaper editor and grandfather to a dozen grandsons. Alas, no granddaughters. In 2014 he completed a 10-year section hike of the Appalachian Trail.

smooth round stones
rise to my feet
like a cobblestone street
gone to seed

through sneaker soles worn thin
from living hard and long
the ground tells me its story
in a hard luck song

our pace is a waltz
a graceless dance of
breath-step-step breath-step-step
ragged romance

footfall and pebbles
twilight and breath
love affair with windswept hair
damp with dusty sweat

my lust for this dirt road is shameless
an orgy of motion and speed
right now the running is all that i am
the road is all that i need

Jamez Terry is a queer and trans poet, novelist, zinester, parent, chaplain, and rabblerouser.  His poetry has mostly been published in DIY zines and spit from stages across North America.  His debut novel is forthcoming from Generous Press.  He lives in Alaska with his partner, two kids, and many fishes.

He peeled field mushrooms
fried them in butter
to make a starter
she picked from the pan
laughed when greasy strips
dripped from her lips.

Shifted chairs tipped up
she left the oven’s glare
ran where light poured from doorways
blackbirds clacked alarm
sawdust turned to blood
engines in the sky
became a plane that drifted spray
over burnt fields.

She stumbled on dried tyre tracks
hid in a hedge
when men led dogs along a field’s edge
three helicopters swept searchlights
through blackened brambles.

She ran to where
he held her said
‘We picked the wrong mushrooms
you were lucky.’

Paul Bavister has recently published poetry in DarkWinter, Grey Sparrow Journal and Ink Sweat and Tears.

Too young
to speak
any language
but your own,
I read to you anyway.

A poem.

At ‘carburetor’
you laughed.

How funny–

that strange word
you do not 
understand, probably
never will. 

Bob Carlton (@bobcarlton3.bsky.social) lives and works in Leander, TX.

Leaving rehab
Mom insists we proceed to the clothes shop which advertises a bogo sale
She is a sight
Teetering over her walker in wedge heels
Her oxygen tank threading its tiny tubes into her nostrils

People at home await her return anxiously
But no matter, first things first
Locating the discount rack,
She leaves her walker with me,
still tethered to her oxygen tank

I follow closely
as she browses with delight and abandon
Through the rows of tiny clothing
Stopping occasionally to breathe.

I keep her in view

What my mom would have called
A “Heavy set” woman
Appraises a size 6 dress
Mom frowns,
shakes her head vigorously
The tiny nasal tubes
bounce from side to side

Under my breath I intone “sorry”,
my head jerking towards mom.
The woman sheepishly trundles
back to the xl rack
We lunch at a byo
where she innocently orders wine
(She always does this)
I am no longer surprised
when they bring it
Can her balance survive
the encore glass?

Back home I grab
the area rugs as a tripping danger.
She replaces them,
the walker leaning on one wheel
True to character,
Never acknowledging
her limitations

Beauty fades and doesn’t see itself;
it never was kind.

Roberta Batorsky is a poet, science journalist and college educator. She is in several online and in-person poetry and fiction writing critique groups and has put a poetry book together called Perihelion, published last month by Prolific Pulse Press. 
She is published in Fine-Lines, Delaware Valley Poets, Poets for Science, Prolific Pulse Press poetry compilations (Social Possibilities and Unhoused), NJ Bards, NewVerseNews and Heron Clan and has been a freelance editor/reviewer of Life Sciences textbooks. She co-edits the Heron Clan poetry publication. 
Her science blog is at https://solipsistssoiree.blogspot.com. She writes on topics as varied as her interests and currently teaches Biology at a NJ youth correctional facility. RobertaBatorsky_poetry (Instagram)

I live in this room alone,
old news, old technology,
at the bottom
of my spiral
stairway—
there’s a note.

A Western Union telegram.
Dictum: “Your dad has died.”
July 29th, 1982.
Old news.

Letter & stanza
come to an end here—
no period
(STOP).

An era ends (STOP).
Grief paid for by the word.
*Footnote:  After 10 years in exile, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, Vietnam War era,
I started the journey home. I found a telemarketing job selling coupon books in
Minneapolis, Minnesota. I managed to save enough for a room. I
got a landline phone, then got this message.

Michael Lee Johnson lived in Canada for ten years during the Vietnam era. Today, he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 378-plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist with several published poetry books, and a nominee for 8 Pushcart Prize awards and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. He is the editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all of which are available on Amazon, and has authored several poetry books and chapbooks. Michael has administered and created 6 Facebook poetry groups. Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/ and Poets & Writers: https://www.pw.org/. His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence ‘Citta’ Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, “If I Were Young Again.” Please consider me for a Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination.

Only opaque backings stop mirrors being windows,
and windows can be mirrors if on one side it’s bright 
as an interrogation room while the other’s in darkness.
So think of glass as your poems, and light as reason.

How can you tell whether you’re being watched? 
Location’s a clue. Or you could switch your light off. 
But suppose you can’t? Suppose your mirror’s 
the only light that others have?

Instead, you could press your face to the glass, 
cup your hands around your eyes
and peer full of hope through to the other side. 
Don’t do this if you’re with others – 

they’ll criticise you. Don’t answer their questions
about whether eyes are mirrors or windows.
Most of all, don’t trust mirrors –
You’ll never know what you’ll see when they break.

Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet “Moving Parts” (HappenStance) and a story collection “By all means” (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry has appeared in Magma, Stand, Stick Figure Poetry, The High Window, Oxford Poetry, etc. He blogs at http://litrefs.blogspot.com/


Night just crushed the dusk
left the air
quiet as death
within a bourbon induced sleep
aborting any dreams before their birth 
the heavy wings of an owl clip the corner of the roof
and the desperate squeaks of a barn mouse grow faint 

The moon’s sinister eyes peer into our long-dead souls
as its moonglow slowly creaks down the corridor 
spreading its bronze beams through 
every crack and split 
in these Godforsaken blinds

We lay
soaked in the night’s fetishes
and overwhelmed by a tomorrow 
we can’t grasp 
so held in the grips of layered sleep 

The moon kisses 
the gorgeous glow 
of night’s metallic rainbow 
as it fades further into 
the clouds without 
any goodbyes

Donna Dallas has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash and Fevers of the Mind. She is the author of Death Sisters, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. Her first chapbook, Smoke and Mirrors, launched in 2022 with New York Quarterly. Her second chapbook, Megalodon, launched in 2023 with The Opiate. Donna has served on the editorial team of Red Fez and NYQ.
donnaanndallas@gmail.com
@DonnaDallas15