Three Poems—Raymond Farr
Three Poems—Lee Nash
Three Poems—David Ackley
Tree Hearts—Stanley A. Galloway
Four Poems—Jeannie Roberts
Four Poems—daniel de culla
Three Poems—Nate Maxson
Four Poems—Ajise Vincent
Three Poems–Mason Nunemaker
Understanding Bees–Darryl Price
Three Fictions—Nicholas Cook
Bad Policeman—John Riley
My Black Hand Massacre—Mister Pope
Two Poems—Richard King Perkins II
Three Poems—John Grey
Five Poems—Howie Good
The Campaign Winds Down—Barry Basden
Four Poems—Gary Hardaway
Four Poems—Anton Yakovlev
Two Poems—Lynn White
Four Poems—Jay Sizemore
Two Fictions—Niles Reddick
Elly & Jack—Barry Basden
Three Fictions—Thaddeus Rutkowski
Four Poems—-Steve Klepetar
Five Poems—Donal Mahoney
JEHOVAH FRAGMENT #11—Joseph J. Wood
Caseworker Arrives—Catherine Zickgraf
Two Poems—Chella Courington
On Platform 2, You See Yourself—-Kate Garrett
Tenacity—-Nikki Anne Schmutz
I Know—Beate Siggridaughter
Final Transmission of HMS Prayopavesa—Joseph J. Wood
Three Fictions—Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Three Poems–Eric Allen Yankee
Three Poems–Andi Stout
Three Poems–Tim Suermondt
Three Poems–Irena Koronas
Three Poems–Robert Cole
Two Poems–PJ Carmichael
Two Poems–Cody Music
Two Poems–David Wright
Three Poems–Marc Frazier
The Johnny Carson Show–Gary V. Powell
This story is a stone–James Lloyd Davis
Scintilla Whiff’s Short Day–strannikov
Music: Outer Edge (Ollocs)
Three Stories–Matt Hill
Two Stories–Barry Basden
Mandatory Options–Robert Cole
Rwanda Suite: Cabaret La Prospérité–Steven Gowin
First Week–Cezarija Abartis
Tale from a Möbius Strip–strannikov
Sausages–Deborah Oster Pannell
Thunder Snow–Gary V. Powell
Three Poems–Keri Withington
Four Poems–Emily Bertholf
never a baby–jan Ball
Three Poems–Jenene Ravesloot
Two Poems–Lucy Logsdon
The Miscreant publishes flash fiction and poetry that challenges social boundaries, makes us rethink what it means to be human–and more importantly, bludgeons us over the head with raw, honest reality.
Submissions are on a rolling basis and responses will typically be given within two weeks.
The Miscreant is a Duotrope listed publication; further info can be found here: https://duotrope.com/listing/19973
Flash fiction pieces should be no longer than 600 words and poetry should be no longer than 20 lines.
Send your work, along with a short bio, in the body of an email addressed to email@example.com.
Please submit no more than five poems or short fiction pieces per issue.
The Miscreant is an equal opportunity publishing venture. It does not discriminate on the basis of gender identity, sexual identity, race, religious affiliation and/or disability.
A line from Auguste Rodin
I’m not a rash person, fearless-
ly accepting all exterior truth
even if some of the evidence is
displayed only on refrigerators;
but we pride ourselves on our
customer service, feature a full
hot breakfast or delicious pizza
with diecast aluminum housing,
to be enjoyed on a casual & cozy
outdoor patio that is far too
narrow for real growth. To me,
only a small difference exists
between a rental villa over-
looking the Indian Ocean & a
thin coat of stucco applied
over Marxist economic theory.
Rewriting the blueprint doesn’t
always work. Big Data can be
a little messy but a cocktail will
balance out the calories. There’s
just no reason for a grown ass man
to use the acronym LMBO unless
he’s attracted by the arguments
of outsider, populist, politicians.
A cry; an appeal; a call.
Yclept is one
of a number
of words that
frustrate me in
that I never get
to use them.
Take this poem
then as an
act of onanism.
Mark Young’s most recent books are Bandicoot habitat & lithic typology, both from gradient books of Finland. An e-book, The Holy Sonnets unDonne has just come out from Red Ceilings Press, & another e-book, For the Witches of Romania, is due out from Beard of Bees.
They tell us the universe
is expanding at blazing,
amazing speed. Yet all things
collapse upon themselves.
We see it every day.
Does the great wheel turn and
keep turning, or does it fall
back into the black ocean
of the dark’s dark matter?
I don’t know, and perhaps
I don’t want to. Such knowledge
is a burden. Some burdens
are much too much to carry.
THE WAY SHE MOVES
The way things shift in the sack of her dress.
Does she know what she carries?
Does she understand she lifts the world?
She bends. Desire bends with her.
Sun and wind hold her close.
They won’t let go. I won’t either.
Tom Montag is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013. He is a contributing editor at Verse-Virtual. In 2015 he was the featured poet at Atticus Review (April) and Contemporary American Voices (August) and at year’s end received Pushcart Prize nominations from Provo Canyon Review and Blue Heron Review. Other poems will be found at Hamilton Stone Review, The Homestead Review, Little Patuxent Review, Mud Season Review, Poetry Quarterly, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere.
The orator is an atomizer, spraying hope.
If he had any chance of grasping power, the secret forces would have assassinated him already.
America is the latest incarnation of the Black Plague. We are diseased collectively and individually—no
I went to the rally and inhaled the odors of thousands of bodies. Passion surrounded me like coastal fog.
By the next day it had burned off; I felt bereft.
I went home and spread Nutella thickly on a leftover blueberry pancake. Eating it was like participating
in an orgy. When I was young I smoked a lot of marijuana and participated in orgies, but that was a long
We were hopeful then. But we didn’t need to be hopeful because we were stoned. Stoned out of our
The orator’s hope is a recycled product.
The novelist Walker Percy said that the predominant emotion of the twentieth century was
disappointment. No one has yet emerged to reveal the predominant emotion of the twenty-first.
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over a thousand of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including THE MISCREANT. He has been nominated for numerous prizes for work published from 2011 through 2015. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.
I’m the barefoot poet from the barefoot city,
I have laid languishing at the bottom of staircases
cluttered with litter, liquor bottles, and leaves.
My tongue reaching out of my body like the spirit
within reaching for the eternal bliss of unknowing.
I have drunk the nectar of nothingness,
While hoping to glimpse time, paralyzed
like my body bonding with concrete.
I’m barefoot and broken.
All for cheap forgetting.
I’m the barefoot poet from the barefoot city,
I have laid upon odorless leaves
in clouds of soberless unknowing,
While knowing time
is drifting, undressing my breath.
The moment a poet is born in the rubble.
Wet leaves resting against bare feet.
I have journeyed to dark places,
The bottom of staircases,
All for cheap forgetting.
I have loved a man.
Platonic chords played tunes of remembrance.
Why am I barefoot?
I have loved a man, but never told him
his habits were bad.
The ground feels this burden,
The cold concrete has no sympathy.
I am barefoot and I am a
Matthew J. Lawler is a Chicago native. He was raised on the Northwest side of the city(Irving Park neighborhood) His writing is a unique blend of narrative and philosophical thought. He has been writing poetry since his teenage years, but only recently began to submit his work to literary journals. He is published in the People’s Tribune, Visual Verse, Unlost journal and Caravel Literary Arts Journal. You can find him and like him on http://www.facebook.com/matthewjlawlerpoet
Hope (Less Romantic)
it is the you in i
(and the i in you)
that moves me
writes word about thought
lips across breasts
clothing unnecessarily chosen
for souls to touch souls
lovemaking our way
into the realm of spirits
into the youth of night
into (un)known pleasures
and the weight of a new world
canvas of flesh
cliché of the moment:
our children are sleeping
deep within us
the slow, gradual tender-
the slow season
running of mouths
poets and writers.
We write the articles
of clothing onto and off of
for the connection,
the click of compatible
the stars and black holes
attract those left
towards burning light
remains viewed as artifacts,
the midday sustenance:
are we going?
PJ Carmichael is a writer, philosopher, dreamer, spiritualist, and angst-ridden existentialist from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He enjoys the exploration of the natural world and the documentation of the New England landscape. His favorite season is Autumn, and he edits the literary/arts zine High Tension.
It comes to me at night, the monster. I don’t even realize it’s in the room until I hear it breathing behind me. It reaches out its hands and places them on my shoulders. Its fingers are furry and soft, but strong. They grasp the muscles on either side of my neck, and I think, oh, I’m so tense. I lean back into what I think will be something therapeutic, only the hands are moving now, over the top of my shoulders and down onto my chest, where they track down the contours of my breasts and land on my ribs. The monster has me in a full embrace now, laying claim to the ins and outs of my breath, the rise and fall of my chest.
I don’t know how I got to this place. I thought I knew all of the demons that visit me at night — the skeleton, the gorilla who tickles me, the vampire. But this creature has somehow gotten past my defenses and staked a position in my life. Next to my stoner buddies, my art world friends, my childhood pals, the monster sits at the big table with us, helps itself to a serving of stuffing, shows up at funerals, clusters around the TV with me and my family during national disasters, lounges on the beach with us as the sun goes down.
I want it close to me when I am confused, when I am asking myself what to do next. I want the monster beside me when I measure myself against those whom I admire, when I am imagining myself into my talents and pushing against the boundaries of what I already know. I want the monster right up against me, tantalizing me with long kisses and teasing me liquid until I beg to be penetrated in places I didn’t know I had.
I want the monster inside me, reminding me that I can be anything I choose, even if I’m alone. I don’t mind if the monster stays or goes, because I’m already so frightened I can hardly breathe.
Deborah Oster Pannell is a freelance writer living and working in New York City. In addition to her own creative work, she collaborates with other writers, artists, and entrepreneurs, helping them develop and promote their work via her company, Project Mavens.