Issue 9c

Table of Contents


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

Flash Fiction

Three Fictions—Nicholas Cook

Bad Policeman—John Riley

Long Fiction

My Black Hand Massacre—Mister Pope


daniel de culla

Issue 9a

Table of Contents


Four Poems—-Steve Klepetar

Five Poems—Donal Mahoney




Caseworker Arrives—Catherine Zickgraf

Two Poems—Chella Courington

On Platform 2, You See Yourself—-Kate Garrett

Tenacity—-Nikki Anne Schmutz



I Know—Beate Siggridaughter

Romantic Precepts for the Aesthetically Challenged—Jacob Appel

Final Transmission of HMS Prayopavesa—Joseph J. Wood

Three Fictions—Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Issue 8

Table of Contents


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–David Wright

Three Poems–Marc Frazier



Vows–Barry Basden

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)

Books: Underwater Typewriter (Marc Zegans)

Issue 4



Three Stories–Matt Hill

Flim-flam–Chris Okum

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

Sisters–Christopher Allen

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:

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

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.

All Along The Watchtower

Mark Young

Two minutes ago I
answered a knock
on the door to find
I’m Harry & this is Bill
standing there in their
outback hats & boots

& moleskin trousers.
Wanting to share some
special information with
me. Looking old enough
to have witnessed Jehovah
the first time around.


Mark Young’s most recent books are Mineral Terpsichore, from gradient books of Finland, & The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago. An e-book, The Holy Sonnets unDonne, came out earlier this year from Red Ceilings Press; another, a few geographies, will be out later this year from One Sentence Poems; & another, For the Witches of Romania, is scheduled for publication by Beard of Bees.

Three Fictions

Samuel J. Fox


I, knee-locked and clearing throat on the edge of a cliff, toe life and death. I tremble before the treble patch in my vibrato. No audience. No purpose nor functionality. The garble of brook is a raspy whisper behind me. The sky: a cheek dabbed with rouge lit sanguine and metallic. I am forgotten by those who I have forgotten. I second-guess my outfit: a cardigan stitched with my father’s silver linings, my mother’s blonde hair slicked down onto my crown, my brother’s skinny jeans unable to hold back bulge and chill, and God’s own pair of high-top Converses colored with liminal spaces between hope and vanity. Shades of grey, off-white. I inhale, exhale an uncivilized mountain call. I immolate a Swiss-army knife thrust into the thigh of nightfall. I came to scream through this controlled torture. I came to find absolution over the deep drop into ravine and let sonic-blood out of voice-box. Even my echo is caged. I am nothing to write home about. I am nothing to write about. I am about nothing. I am nothing. I am something in a world where suffering is a lost art only learned with patience. I came to sucker-punch God in the throat and take a heavy breather: I’m all out of breath. Can you guess who never showed?

Bestial Disposition

Call me anti-romantic, but I always dap up the devil. He says we are just animals disguised with wit overcrowding in cities. He says there is no one who believes in magic anymore. I figure this is because we discover better ways to ruin ourselves with technology.

Once, in a bruised twilight, my dead girlfriend walked through the trunk of an oak and laid down next to me. I thought it was the LSD but she told me there’s no such thing as hell. I believed her and her cyanotic eyes, her split lips, the umbra shadowed on each cheek.

The priorities of animals are as follows: birth, see, hunt, fuck, and die. Once, in a concussed midnight, I cried. The tears were minuscule, dripping diamonds fading into my hands.

I watched an old friend ride by on his signature Schwinn (the same he let me borrow to visit my deceased girlfriend). When he waved, the moonlight pierced straight through his gesture. He yelled that we should catch up sometime. I had already forgotten his plot number.

Call me nihilistic, but, ever since I was five, I have wanted to unlearn to be alive. I have exhausted the verb survive. I’d rather observe the way ravens peck flesh from bones, listen to the coyotes roam toward the spot where life rots, and listen to the applause of old friends before ascending into the night.

What good is an animal if it cannot be trained? What good is an animal if he can’t thrive on what must be done? What good is an animal? What is good? What good?

Uncommon Laws that Shouldn’t Be Broken

I once danced with a bear on the tile floor of my near pocket-sized kitchen. He engraved claw marks in the calk between already scuffed tiles. His voice gruff, his beard brownish. Both are whitening. He says he misses those days. If you must dance with a bear, be sure to let him lead.

I had a lady friend (had). She liked to pinch my right butt cheek. I wasn’t sure if this was her kind of affection. Sometimes, it hurt. I still think of her after we parted ways: her hair sun-burnt and windblown, her left eye golden-wheat toned while the right a slight greenish tint. We abused love arguing over who wore pants. When the shit hits the fan, it’s never evenly distributed.

I’ve never jumped out of an airplane. Why step out of a perfectly good chance to receive complimentary B-rated movies. Why waste jet fuel? I had a model of a Jet (once). I worked hard in my childhood to build it. The ceiling dropped it on my head one morning: kamikazed into forehead and bombed its way into splinters. I will never jump out of a plane. It’s quite obvious that a falling object will always land to impact efficiently to do the most damage.

My heart is made of multiple things: a dying four cylinder engine, Plexiglass, rusting bolts; a bear paw, beard trimmings, and canine encased in a ballet shoe; a small vice grip and shreds from a ripped pair of jeans, plus epoxy and gasoline to keep its going together. It works well enough. I’ve always believed in an old, bitter maxim. If something ain’t broke, better not fix it.


Samuel J Fox is an M.A. candidate in English at Western Carolina University. He writes poetry and nonfiction/lyric essays. He queers the lines often and refuses to concede with social norms. He has been published most recently in Luna Luna Magazine and A Quiet Courage; he is forthcoming in Polychrome Ink Literary Journal. He lives within the mist, foliage, and beauty of the Appalachian Mountains.

Four Poems

JD DeHart

Working on the Stack

There is another
voice to be found, rifling
toward the bottom,
pressed finely like grapes
beneath a group of readings,
There is another author
shouting to be heard
beneath the fluttering pages
of other bully writers
who fight to share verbs.

Day Off

I could have been
brilliant today, taunts the empty
bag of chips.
I could have written
the masterwork, so says
the star of the film I watched
then re-watched.
Worse yet the plastic toys
of my youth line up in revolt
accusing me of wasting
my childhood on fantasy.

Cup Two

By cup one I’m remembering
who I am, living my life
on the java surface.
By cup two I’m getting pumped
for the places I’m going.
I know not where they are yet.
There’s a cup three, maybe four
and by then I’ll be positively
stirring like the dark bits
swirling toward the mug bottom.

Simple Words

Some may say
I use simple words
packed lines. I could definitely go to the edge of the screen
or drop a word like prestidigitation
a vague reference to Nabokov
or another word like pusillanimous
It’s not like we don’t have a life
full of spell check now, after all.


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His work appears in a variety of journals and blogs, including Mother Bird and Gargouille.


Robert Beveridge

Distant thunder slips by outside
like your voice, soft
and deep, pliant.
Sometimes I trail
one finger down your back
scratch, light, with the nail
just to hear the dark, sweet purr
as you snuggle closer, a cat
full of cream and satisfied.
In your sleep, sometimes,
you whisper my name
invest it with warmth, softness
make syllables I’ve lived with
sound new, comfortable.
Now I sleep nestled
in your voice, warm, safe,
away from all care.


Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poems just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, and Random Sample Review, among others.

The poems:

Five Poems

Mike Meraz


The world
Are only
For poems
To seep



We used to
Text each
But now it’s
Things like
“Well, you

It seems
We are



In a matter of time
You will realize
Your submissive
Was just holding
Wasn’t a saint
At all
But a



I worked in a
Mom and pop
Grocery store
In New Orleans
Owned by
Louise and John
Who worked me
To the bone
I boned
That city
For all the poems



I drank a 18 pack
Of Miller Light
A pack of cloves
In a room
With no ventilation
When a girl I was
Seeing at the time
Came to my door
“Who’s here?” she asked
“Who’s here?!”
“No ones here” I told her.
“So you just been smoking
And drinking on your
Own?? Yeah right!”

No one has ever


Mike Meraz lives and writes in Whittier, Ca. He has been published online and in print. His new book She Poems is published by Epic Rites Press.