Poker with Nanny

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Poker with Nanny

Nanny dealt the cards with a twinkle in her eye,
Five years old, I sat across, a sucker for a lie.
Two unmatched socks, a fistful of coins, my whole fortune there
She raised an eyebrow, muttered a crooked prayer.

Dice rattled loud, a plastic cup on the floor
Nanny with her ciggy, muttering hexes by the door
Snake eyes rolled, my hand shook, a tear welled in my eye
“Bad karma, child” she’d wink with a loving smile in her eye.

And Merle sang in the background
And Waylon played along.

Five years old, knees scraped from climbing too high
Nanny dealt the cards with a twinkle in her eye.
Five card-draw, a lesson with a playful disguise.
Pennies and dimes, a world turned upside down
But poker with Nanny, that’s where love was found.

And Merle sang in the background
And Waylon played along.

And Nanny would yell “Sing it, Merle”
Even when it wasn’t his song.

Pennies and dimes, a world turned upside down
But poker with Nanny, that’s where love was found.

Leigh Ann Raab a Virginia-based photographer and poet. Leigh Ann's creative journey spans over two decades. Her poems delve into themes of healing from an abusive childhood to navigating her own mental health. Known for her constant companions-a pen and a camera- she captures the world through both words and visuals. This poem honors her grandmother, who taught her to gamble at the age of five.

King of Hearts Might Not Have One

Photographer - Tobi Brun

King of Hearts Might Not Have One

Card games in Marianas Trench don’t feel the same without you-
Anyway, the monsters like Rummy more than expected.
Crustaceans play fair for the most part, but the sharks like to cheat and ruin the mood
I sip on a seaweed cocktail and pray waves swirl me into the abyss where you seem to have
disappeared to

Just in time to beat you at your own game.

No rules, right?

Anyway, the monsters laugh at me
I ask if they can solve a riddle; they can’t, and neither can I.

A good man is gifted a fiddle, but it doesn’t play any music.
None of his instruments do anymore-
Not the tiny violin in the corner or the piano or our favorite song on the jukebox
Is the fiddle the one playing him or is he simply not a good man?

Marinah Inman is a personal banker, bartender, and poet. She has published poetry in Northland College’s magazine, The Mosaic (2018), Anthology Turning the Corner, New Adventures (2021), and was co-editor for Prayers for Women by Women (2022), a Thrivent prayer book. She is a Washington State native but grew up in Oklahoma and Minnesota. Marinah now resides in the small town of Hartford, Wisconsin and enjoys being an aunt, daughter, and friend.

‘Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?’, ‘Fog’, & ‘High as a Kite’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?

Whose words would heal the cynic
Whose gifts I’ve heard in lyrics
Embraced and gentle-faced
would make mine glow
I fear only time knows,
but time has not been kind
each passage a newfound wound
each promise, a broken oath
that follows from womb to tomb
that hurts to love to loathe
I have not wished to live by song
To twist your words sweet for me
to feel your touch and still find longing, in such sacred company
I need no artist to be a muse, a lab man to be a tester,
Musician to share the blues
Lovelorn to rot, to fester
I only want my son of a preacher man

Fog

Fog engulfed me
Fog thick and cold
Fog stole my sight
Fog freez’d my eyes
Fog hid something
that terrifies
Hands were reaching out searching
Somewhere out there it’s lurking
Rapid quivering my hands, feet, whole body quakes
Something awakening
Panicked and dazed, my head it aches
Though Fog has blurred all space between
I know what I heard what I have seen
Intoxicated by misty dew
I have discovered the murder clues
Fog trapped me no clear escape

I scream and cry in pure blind rage
I scream and ache and drown in shame
Fog has trapped me, in the monsters maze.
In acceptance of my fate,
I feel the cold concrete as I lay
down on the ground
but make no sound - inhaling fog
And I admire the maze the monsters design
Hands on my face as it’s face meets mine
Dinner time
It’s chipped claws rip into my skin
And tears me apart limb by limb
It’s heavy teeth shatter my bones
The crisp snap makes the monster moan
It must’ve been starving
No piece of me left
No blood, hair, eyes teeth or flesh No clothes, thoughts, sound or pain
Yet in the void
Fog remains

High as a Kite

I fly a kite to greet the stars
The sun she kissed my left cheek
burning bright, she scolds me
the guard that keeps the gods
I feel her glow, but not her blows
For my song delights the flowers
they stand and bloom when magic leaves my core,
Entranced they dance for hours, and lift their limbs to greet me at the door
The birds they sway in flocks
both hugged by the wind
Their beaks speak but they sing in squawks, perhaps that’s why they grin
We pass the shore,
the matte flat of the rocks calms me
The plush Cush of the grass kneeling, my golden string reeling
My belly dropped, my song paused
rays stinging my sight

Nails flayed in the sky
as the sun laughs, my song is gone
As each second passes, the land revealed the blues,
Her violence in her wind
Reclaiming all her kin
She yanks me by my limbs
And makes me her dessert
This gift she steals for earth.

Janesia Stillwell is an Australian writer from Melbourne. A political science major at the university of Melbourne, She fills her time by watching hour long video essays and of course writing. Her poem ‘through the looking glass’ was published in ‘The Crow Journal’ of Ginninderra press.

The Machete Yelp Reviews of Sebastian’s Seabiscuits

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Jonathan D.

Davis, CA

3/5

Sebastian’s Seabiscuits was fine. I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I feel for the staff. But would I

come here again after what happened? Not a chance. I mean, I didn’t really see it. I was pulling

out of the parking lot when the guy got there. I think I saw the knife for a second. But still. Also,

racehorses aside, I still don’t have a clue what a “seabiscuit” is. The crab wasn’t half-bad though.

Rachel F.

Santa Cruz, CA

5/5

Please please please please please support Sebastian’s Seabiscuits! Like I’m begging! They need

support now more than ever! I get the criticisms– like sure, how did the guy get in? But what,

you expect these minimum wage high schoolers to risk getting beheaded so you can eat your

lobster mac and cheese? They’re such nice people. Would give 6/5 if I could. Great service! The

experience wasn’t their fault. Oh, and the food was pretty good too iirc!

Barnabus M. (Food Critic and Top Reviewer)

Sacramento, CA

0/5

Davis, California has a new restaurant and if I can say so based off of my experience (and I

really do feel like I need to say so), it’s a total f*cking death trap. Don’t eat here! It’s supposedly

a “new” restaurant, but it already has mold in the corners. The silverware looks old and has water

stains. The décor is old-fashioned if I’m saying it politely, and the breadsticks were stale.

Disgusting. And what on earth is a seabiscuit? Look, I’m not saying the deaths were their fault,

but clearly, they’re into the drug trade or owe money to the wrong people. So, actually, probably

is their fault. I didn’t even get to sprinkle some crackers in my bisque before blood was squirting

all over the place. And before people start sending me messages again, yes, this is my real name.

Delany J

Davis, CA

2/5

This place was a really weird way to start college. My roommates and I just wanted to get some

food after we got our nails done. We’re tired of our room already. I mean, three bunks in a 12-

foot space? What is this, the military? The university is totally abusing us. Anyways, we got the

grilled prawns for our appy and it was actually pretty good. Maybe too salty. I’ll have to drink a

lot of water before my workout in the morning. But not bad. I was really excited for my eggwhite

whitefish omelet. They said it comes with tomatoes, spinach, a mix of cod and haddock, and

avocado optional, but y’all know I’m a California gurlie so OF COURSE I’m getting my

avocado!!! And a good price, I think. $25. I grew up in Nevada and we don’t get a lot of seafood

out there, so it seems fair enough to me. Anyways, the guy with the sword walked in right when

my omelet got set on the counter thing where the servers pick up the food. He was dressed nice.

Sort of like Daniel Craig <3 But then he started hacking away at people and the servers just ran.

They just ran! They didn’t seem all that dedicated, and the omelet never came. Not sure if I’d

come here again. Depends how well they clean up the stains.

Curtis L.

Pensacola, Florida

1/5

Listen I paid for a f*cking service man, this stuff happens in real cities all the times but these

townies just freaked out and ran off like a bunch of rabbits or whatever. I paid for a service!

Where are my salmon tacos? They talked up the avocado drizzle. Well, you know what? I never

tasted it. They didn’t even give me a voucher for free food next time or nothing. Not that I’d ever

come back. Shouldn’t food be part of the service? Like, shouldn’t a comfortable sword-

murderer-free dining room be part of what we’re paying for? How the f*ck they gonna let some

dumba** with a machete in. Block the door. Say he didn’t reserve a table. HOW BOUT CALL

THE COPS. But no. California hates police. Let’s just let everyone take a machete to the neck

instead of trusting our bravest heroes. AND GOD FORBID WE HAVE A GUN ON HAND TO

PROTECT OURSELVES. I don’t know why my daughter wanted to go to school here.

#givewaitorsguns #impeachNewsom #f*ckcommunism #landofthefree #nationalguard

#f*ckliberals #demsrcowards

Dave

San Francisco, CA

4/5

Jeez. That was a crazy experience. I think they handled that psycho pretty well. Minor injuries, 2

deaths. But that’s the police’s fault for not getting there quicker. Machetes aside, the food was

good. I really recommend the lobster tarts. Sounds weird, but it was really good. Also, the Clam

Juice Monterey Mule was surprisingly refreshing. Yeah. I feel bad for the owners. Gonna be a

rough few months for them. I’ll go back next time I’m in town again though. I feel good

knowing that my son is going to college here given how kind the employees were to us after the

cops arrested that dude. Also, though, I’m really unclear about what a seabiscuit is. “Seabiscuits”

weren’t even on the menu, so I decided to google it, but the only thing that comes up is that

Tobey Maguire movie.

Jake Johnson is a writer based out of Davis, CA. They are an MFA Candidate in the Creative Writing Program at UC Davis and have an adorable dog named Bandit. Their work has been featured in Rain Taxi Review of Books.

The Revenge of the Potato Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

You almost wouldn’t consider Captain Sandwich a superhero. Almost. But if you saw how fast this guy could throw a sandwich together, it would blow your mind. I mean, you can’t even see it. It’s like… like… If you’ve ever been unexpectedly hit on the head and your eyes black out for a split second. It’s like that. It’s not painful to watch. It’s just that fast. 

I first met him when I started working at Fatty’s Sandwich Shop downtown. They didn’t even have the guy train me because he’s too fast. He’s physically incapable of slowing down. At least, that’s what he says. I just don’t think he likes training people. 

“Oh, and this is Captain Sandwich,” the grease-aproned owner with the bulging belly said to me as an afterthought on my first day. I must’ve looked confused. 

“Y’see,” he started to explain. The whole time, Captain Sandwich worked away, making sandwiches, stocking the line, filling sauce-bottles. All extremely fast. 

“The p’cyoolur thing ‘bout him is: he’s only this fast with anything sandwich related. Can’t run for shit, can’t beat anybody up worth a damn. But man, when he makes a sandwich…” he drifted off and raised his hand towards Captain Sandwich, still working away. 

Mitch trained me. He was a cool dude, laid back. I thought he was my age. I was nineteen then. Later when it came up (I forget how) I was shocked to find out he was ten years my senior. I was also shocked to find out that not a hair on his head was real. One day, when he was walking into work, his hat (part of the uniform) blew off and took his hairpiece with it. He chased it down as I watched out the window. When he finally caught it, he placed it swiftly on his head and neck-snappingly looked around to see if anyone saw. I quickly averted my eyes and continued making sandwiches. 

Mitch and Captain Sandwich and me and Fatty (the owner). They really didn’t need anybody outside of Captain Sandwich, but he had recently converted to Catholicism and wanted

Sundays off. Mitch worked Sundays now even though he didn’t like it. I asked him why he didn’t like working Sundays and he shrugged and said: “just don’t.” Anybody else who responded in this manner could be psychoanalyzed to determine the root of this dislike. Maybe a dislike of being deprived of a morning of sleeping in during their youth. Maybe something traumatic and repressed regularly occurred on Sundays in their youth. Maybe they had been forced to work Sundays against their will their whole life. But Mitch could be taken at his word. If he just didn’t like something, he just didn’t. 

Sundays were the only day of the week I worked which was fine because I was in school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and felt like I was wasting my time and money in school. Or somebody’s money. I wasn’t involved with the tuition payments. My parents and the government handled things. But I was wasting somebody’s money and that didn’t sit right with me. 

The only reason I had gone to college right after high-school was because that's what I was supposed to do. That’s what everybody else was doing. All the people that didn’t follow this pattern were on Skid Row, or so they’d led me to believe. “They” meaning the adult influences in my life. So it was off to school. 

My first semester I had no friends. Well, there were people you could call friends, technically. People I would talk to in passing or in a certain class, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out outside of that. 

I remember Frankie Midnight (his actual name, I’ve seen his license). He didn’t have anybody in his social circle in our sociology class and we happened to sit next to each other, so we’d exchange comments at the beginning of class. All the talk was limited to the class, though. As much as I desired to break beyond that talk, I never could. I didn’t know too much about him. Maybe I could’ve come up with something. Asking him about a movie or an album or

something. But I never did. I’m pretty sure he was content with the limitations of our conversations. 

I was doing the credit-required classes first and falling deeper into depression. I found refuge in the library. The third floor was the silent floor and there were stacks and stacks of classics to look through. I buried myself in A Farewell to Arms and A Wild Sheep Case as well as several biographies or autobiographies of my favorite writers. The bio/autobiographies depressed me though. Keouac had met all of his lit’ry buddies in college while I was sad and alone. Rimbaud had completed his works by seventeen. I was two years older and hadn’t written a worthwhile thing. Hemingway was on the Italian front at eighteen. I dove deeper into fiction. 

The sad thing about reading was that the library would always close at some point and whenever I put the book down I’d be alone again. Wisps of the characters and their worlds would comfort me in my mind, but confronting the sidewalk by myself as others around me walked laughing in twos and threes always brought me down again. 

Working Sundays was a welcome escape. Fatty’s was far enough away from campus that nobody would pass up the other options along the way to get there. Fatty’s wasn’t renowned or locally legendary. It was just another sandwich shop in the city. The only people that came in were traveling through or lived on the block. 

I’d work other days as needed. My social life was nonexistent and my free time was spent reading, so I was available to work whenever. Fatty would call me and ask if I could come in and I’d always say “yes.” I’d get to witness Captain Sandwich at work. 

Whenever I worked a shift with Captain Sandwich I never had to make anything. Well, sandwiches anyway and that’s mostly what we sold. We only had two salads and they were the simplest things in the world to make. Just a Cæsar and a Greek. People hardly ordered them.

They weren’t even listed on the menu and most people weren’t brave enough to ask for something they didn’t see. But once in a lucky penny (how often do you find those?) someone would ask. 

The thing I noticed about Captain Sandwich was that he was incredibly slow doing anything else. I mean, Fatty had told me so, but to actually see it? It was the craziest thing. There would be a rare instance, say he went to the bathroom and I had to make a sandwich. He’d come back and notice the wallet-clutching customer and decide to cash them out. He would punch the numbers at a flat tire’s pace. Beep…… beep…… beep…… enter… “your total will be $13.74.” He’d slowly take the money, like he was reaching through frozen syrup, gather the change like someone after coming stiffly inside after a freezing day, and hand it back through the syrupy barrier. 

Whatever sandwich I had made would be long done, waiting on its anxious owner to get their change and devour them. Then he (Captain Sandwich) would smile the biggest smile in the world. It looked like it hurt, with his eyes squinting and all of his teeth showing, and bid them a good day. He’d hold the smile until they walked out the door, casting uncomfortable or shivering glances over their shoulder, then he’d sigh and let it drop like the final rep at the gym. His face would return to normal, he’d pat me on the shoulder without looking at me and then return home to his station. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to be a clock puncher or a pencil pusher or a corporate drone. I didn’t know exactly the meaning of these phrases at the time, but I understood the idea they represented: conformity to a single thing for a lifetime. Whiling away the time until retirement, then being too tired to do anything when retired and wasting away prime years of life. Thinking of doing any single thing

for the rest of my life terrified me. The only things I really wanted to do was… well, I didn’t know. 

I didn't want to be a rockstar or an actor or a lawyer or doctor or teacher. All I wanted to do was be left alone to read and write. Whatever I wrote and submitted was rejected. Maybe my time to be a writer was gone. Maybe I wasn’t even born to be a writer. What did I want? Maybe I could just marry into money and become a house-husband. That’d be easy if I knew any rich women and how to talk to them too. 

My second (which would be my final) semester ticked away. I was already wasting time in life. I needed to get out, I needed my freedom. Time was freedom and if I could control my time I could control my life. That’s what I thought then at least. Why was I learning things I didn’t care for or had already learned in high-school? I was planning on going on leave to sort things out. I needed to know what I wanted before I wasted any more time or money. 

Fatty’s grew on me. If I was spending time doing something I didn’t want to, at least I was making money doing it. But I enjoyed Fatty’s. All sorts of interesting people came in and Captain Sandwich was there too. I’d become mesmerized watching him work on any large orders, the way his hands moved, the way the ingredients flashed away. It was like watching something in fast-forward, but about a thousand times fast. 

One Sunday, Mitch told me the origin of Captain Sandwich’s powers. It had been itching away inside of me, the need to know. I waited and waited until somebody told me, but as time went by, nobody ever did. I finally asked Mitch. His eyebrows raised and he nodded. 

“You’ve been here so long now that I didn’t realize you didn’t know,” he said. I was leaning against the sandwich line and he leaned against the salad line opposite. There were no orders and everything was clean enough. He looked off, thinking…

He looked slowly back at me. 

“Apparently he was born like that,” he said with a shrug. Just then, a customer walked in and Mitch nonchalantly walked over to take their order. I was left incredulous and disappointed. I planned on asking Captain Sandwich (real name unknown) myself one day, but never got the chance. 

After a month of mentally building myself up, I finally decided to ask him. I finished class and skipped the library. Fatty had asked me to come in when I could. That was in the morning before my class. In fact, his phone call had woken me up. 

“Busy today kid?” he asked. Fatty was straight to the point. No ‘hello,’ ‘good-morning,’ or ‘did I wake you?’ I didn’t mind it. 

“Not after class,” I responded, equally to the point. 

“Come in when you can?” He said with a slight note of asking. Somewhere towards a demand like a speeding car, with the added question like hitting the brakes too late when passing a cop. 

“Sure” 

“Thanks” 

He hung up. 

When I arrived at Fatty’s it was no longer Fatty’s. There were fire engines lined all down the street, cop cars, ambulances, lights flashing, hoses spraying and misting. Ironically, the mist from the fire hoses made a rainbow in the air. Before the remains, outside of the emergency responders buzzing about, were the infuriated, fist-clenched Captain Sandwich and the greasy-aproned fat-bellied Fatty, trying to hold back tears. 

Before I could say anything (I had no idea where to start), Captain Sandwich’s

fire-eyed gaze met my helpless and confused one. 

“Come with me,” he said and began to walk. I followed behind. Fatty stared at the smoking blackened remains of his once not-so-renowned restaurant, oblivious to anyone else. The sun glinted off of Captain Sandwich’s blackout ‘77 Mustang. He got in and reached over to open my door. I slid in. It smelled like a new car. The leather interior was spotless and the sun gazing down from the blank blue sky hardly penetrated the tinted windows. “It’s about time I ended this,” he said, staring forward angrily and firing up the engine. Before I could ask what we were ending or what happened or if he was really born like that, we were peeling out and zooming down the street. 

When I said he was slow at everything else, I was wrong. Apparently he was a fast driver. Captain Sandwich was an enigma full of surprises. And not only was he a fast driver, he was precise too. He drifted around corners on a dime. He weaved in and out of honking cars, his only focus on the road ahead. I felt at ease, despite the speed and ferocity with which he was driving. “Potato Man,” he brooded, “Po-tay-to Man.” 

He rounded another corner and there was a long empty straightaway. At the end of the straightaway stood the city’s renowned restaurant “Potato Man’s: Burgers, fries ‘n stuff.” “What makes you think he did it?” I asked, unease creeping up on me. The packed parking lot of Potato Man’s lay ahead. We entered and Captain Sandwich slowed, stopped, then reversed quickly into an empty spot. 

He put it in park and fished in his pocket for something. 

“THIS,” he said, removing his hand dramatically from his pocket to reveal a single french fry. I didn’t get it.

“THIS,” he said, bringing the fry slowly in front of him, his gaze focused venomously on it, “Is the Potato Man’s calling card.” 

“We’ve been enemies from the start,” he said to himself, then looked me in the eyes, “But today I end this.” 

We marched in. Captain Sandwich marched straight to the front of the long line. Several people raised voices in objection, but we paid them no mind. Well, Captain Sandwich didn’t. I gave them apologetic shrugs and helpless hand gestures. 

“Bring me to the Potato Man,” Captain Sandwich demanded the freckled, potato-hatted cashier. The cashier nodded nervously. 

We were brought through the busy kitchen to a door that looked like the door to a walk-in cooler. 

“He’s through there. Or, uh, he should be. I gotta get back to work.” 

He quickly moved away. 

The door opened inward to a dark wood paneled and floored hallway. It was lit overhead by warm lights hanging at intervals from the ceiling. Captain Sandwich entered and I followed. The door shut behind us. 

At the end of the hallway there was a potato-skinned door with a golden plaque that read “Potato Man.” We entered without knocking. 

The Potato Man (I assumed) was behind his desk. He stood when we entered and between the short time between him standing there and him raising the revolver, I gathered that he was short, fat, bald, and wore a white suit with a Potato Print tie. He fired and I winced, shutting my eyes. I heard a thud. It was a gut shot to Captain Sandwich. 

My mouth hung open. My mind raced. What the hell was–

There was a second shot and the bullet thudded into my gut like a boxing glove hitting a heavy bag. I was down for the count. I looked over to Captain Sandwich and he looked at me. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Is this really how it ends? I thought. Captain Sandwich smiled. I was confused. 

“Y’see,” he strained, “he thinks he’s won.” 

The Potato Man still stood, only the top of his bald shining head visible over his desk from where we lay on the ground. 

“But he’ll never, never–” 

There were two more shots and everything went dark.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.