Issue 3 - Life + Death

ISSUE
III
Select
LIFE + DEATH
Poetry & Prose July 2024
Compiled & Edited by Anita Pan
THE PINNACLE 1

CONTRIBUTERS
THE PINNACLE
ISSUE III: LIFE + DEATH
DC Diamondopolous
DS Maolalai
John Grey
Matthew Dexter
Morgan Boyer
Peycho Kanev
Samuel Cooley
Sean Mahony
Tom Ball
Tom Holmes
William Doreski
July 2024
2

contents
Anita Pan Editor’s Letter 4
Sean Mahony The Space Between Words 5
Morgan Boyer Hollow 7
Samuel Cooley Raised for the Slaughter 9
John Grey My Books When I’m Gone 22
Matthew Dexter
Suicide Letter From the Only Child of an
OnlyFans Model
25
DS Maolalai A Fling 30
DC Diamondopolous 1969: The Stonewall Inn 33
Tom Holmes Moral Seriousness During the Black Death 40
Tom Ball Humans in Zoos, Etc. 43
William Doreski The Light of the Sea 48
Peycho Kanev The Cycle 50
3

EDITOR’S
LETTER
As another year passes us by, I must first begin by
thanking our wonderful readers. This year is The
Pinnacle’s first birthday, and it is a very happy one:
we’ve just surpassed a combined total of 57,000 views
for Issues I & II, none of which would’ve been possible
without the massive support we’ve received!
Whereas our first issues were about everything
from dystopias to injustice, in Issue III we wanted to
shift gears toward the fundamental question facing all
human beings: our inevitable, inescapable mortality.
How do one face death? How does one process grief
and learn to understand—even accept—the idea of dying?
Our writers aim to answer the ages-old existential
question in this issue. Each piece explores the classic
struggle between life and death through a different angle,
whether it be a dead man’s books, the Stonewall Riots, the
Black Death, or even an Animal Farm-esque allegory
involving pigs.
We’re excited to journey into Issue IV in October.
Until then, thank you for reading our third issue. We
hope you enjoy these works as much as we did.
Anita Pan
Editor-in-Chief of The Pinnacle
4

THE SPACE
BETWEEN
WORDS
By Sean Mahony
Sean J Mahoney lives in Santa Ana, California
with Dianne, her mother, 4 dogs, and 4 renters.
He believes Judas a way better singer than Jesus
and dark chocolate extraordinarily good for
people. Sean helps run the Zoeglossia table at the
annual AWP bookfair, “poetry by crips.” He is a
Zoeglossia Fellow (2020). Sean co-edited the first 3
volumes of the MS benefit anthology series
Something On Our Minds. His chapbook
(“Politics or Disease, please”) is available from
Finishing Line Press.
5

What is said isn’t written. Ever.
Farther than a light year, as close
As the slope of your nose under
Me. What were we saying? Why
No records…no cave etched art
Of food, the hunt, wild chases
And finally sleep…why do we
Persist? What is said isn’t written.
No it floats; will forever be
Purposeful, intuitional…our survival.
6

HOLLOW
By Morgan Boyer
Morgan Boyer is the author of The Serotonin Cradle (Finishing
Line Press, 2018) and a graduate of Carlow University. Boyer
has been featured in Kallisto Gaia Press, Thirty West Publishing
House, Oyez Review, Pennsylvania English, and Voices from the
Attic. Boyer is a neurodivergent bisexual woman who resides in
Pittsburgh, PA.
7

empty shelves where Kohler shower-heads
were displayed like Faberge Eggs for
bored bridesmaids looking up from
their high school bestie’s wedding registry
early 50-something moms finding bedsheets
for their 17-year-old daughter’s freshman dorm,
along with filtered water-jugs and Kuerigs
for long autumn nights of writing philosophy papers
a kitchen gadget for separating egg yolks,
an overpriced KitchenAid pasta attachment,
an “ocean salt”-scented four-wick candle,
an Airfryer in crimson, navy or blue;
now this capitalist castle stands completely hollow,
flesh of inventory sucked dry beyond recognition;
a corpse of yet another victim of the Bezos Empire,
with the tell-tale weeklong 70% liquidation sale
as employees discuss their next minimum-wage job;
a cashier at Hallmark Cards in Castle Shannon,
a receptionist at Best Western off of the I-79,
an Applebee’s weekend-shift waitress serving onion rings.
8

RAISED FOR
THE
SLAUGHTER
By Samuel Cooley
Samuel Cooley is a writer born and raised in
Louisiana. He is pursuing his MFA in Creative
Writing at the University of New Orleans and is an
alumnus of Louisiana Tech University. Samuel’s
work can be found in Daikaijuzine, It Always
Finds Me, Ellipsis, and elsewhere. For more
information about Samuel and his work, please
follow him on Twitter @samtheman500.
9

Cast of Characters
PIG 1: Large, easily excitable.
PIG 2: Bold, gruff, and ignorant.
FARMER 1: Young, excitable, naïve.
FARMER 2: Aggressive, doesn’t like wasting time.
HEAD FARMER: Shrewd and tired.
Place
A grassy farm with a slaughterhouse nearby.
Time
Fall, late 1960s.
——
Setting: On top of a hill in the farm. Slaughterhouse is visible in the
distance.
At Rise: PIG 1 and PIG 2 are relaxing on stage. The sun is shining, the
world seems peaceful.
PIG 1
Man, that was some good slop.
PIG 2
You think all slop is good.
10

PIG 1
I don’t know man, there’s something about the one the farmers have
been bringing out lately. Fills me up better.
PIG 2
I do feel a bit bloated. You think they’re going to swap back anytime
soon?
PIG 1
I hope not! I love being full. Makes me feel like a giant pink cloud just
floating around.
PIG 2 (relaxes with a deep sigh)
For once, I think you’re making sense.
The pigs relax in silence. After a moment, PIG 1 looks in the direction of
the slaughterhouse. PIG 2 ignores him for a moment before huffing,
annoyed.
PIG 2
What?
PIG 1 (looks away from the House)
What do you mean, “what”?
PIG 2
Why are you staring at the House? I thought you were all cloudlike? I
can’t fall asleep with you staring off somewhere.
11

PIG 1
Why are you so worried about where I’m looking?
PIG 2
Because I can smell the smoke pouring out your ears. Just tell me so I can
get some rest!
PIG 1
Fine, fine, you don’t have to yell.
PIG 1 (looks around as if afraid someone would overhear.
Whispers.)
Did you hear?
PIG 2
About what?
PIG 1
About the House.
PIG 2 (rolls his eyes)
What idiot rumor did you hear this time?
PIG 1
It’s not a rumor! Some of the others have been talking. Said that this time
last year, most of the pigs were brought to the House and never returned.
A few told me they smelled blood.
PIG 2
You’re joking.
12

PIG 1
I’m not!
PIG 2
Then you’re stupid. How would the others even know about it? Most of
them were brought in with us. We were stomping down mud and
chewing up slop in a whole other farm while these pigs were
“disappearing.”
PIG 1
Not all of them were with us! There are a few others, remember?
Survivors. The ones that were too small to kill.
PIG 2
The Runts? How’d you get them to talk?
PIG 1
I didn’t do anything. I was thinking about stealing some food from them,
what with them being so lazy and asleep all the time, but one of them
opened their eyes. Started going crazy about the season, how it was “that
time of year” again, whatever that means.
I asked some of the calmer Runts about what he was talking about and
they told me the whole story. Said they got away last time but they’re big
enough for the House now. Big enough for the farmers.
PIG 2
The farmers?
13

PIG 1
Yep.
PIG 2
The same farmers that feed us?
PIG 1
That’s what they said.
PIG 2 (laughs)
You’re insane.
PIG 1
Stop laughing!
PIG 2
Do you hear yourself? How would the farmers even manage it? There are
three of them and dozens of us.
PIG 1
I don’t know. But they can. The Runts said they lured the others with
food and rope.
PIG 2
Oh please. Next you’re going to tell me they shot lightning at the
stragglers.
PIG 1 is suspiciously silent. PIG 2’s amusement runs dry.
14

PIG 2
No.
PIG 1
The Runts said…
PIG 2
I don’t care what the Runts said! There is no way you’re telling me the
farmers can shoot lightning.
PIG 1
They mentioned thunder coming from sticks. The farmers pointed it at
one of the more aggressive ones when he wouldn’t move. A giant of a pig,
gone in a second.
PIG 2
Did the farmers start flying next?
PIG 1
Stop.
PIG 2
No, no, seriously, did they read the Runts’ minds and decide they were
better off alive? Did they spit fire at everyone to speed things along? Ooh,
maybe they grew fangs and started chewing everyone up.
PIG 1
Stop!
15

PIG 2
Or maybe, just maybe, the Runts have finally lost their minds. Maybe
they can’t accept that they were just too small and too weak to be moved
with the rest of the herd. Maybe they know, deep down, that the only
reason we even tolerate them is because we can take their food. Which of
those makes more sense?
PIG 1
I said stop!
PIG 2 falls silent, realizing how scared PIG 1 really is. PIG 1 is breathing
heavily. PIG 2 starts to say something, stops, and then tries again.
PIG 2
Why are you so worked up about this? You have to admit it sounds
ridiculous.
PIG 1
I know. I just…what if they’re right?
PIG 2
About the lightning?
PIG 1
Forget about the lightning. What if the farmers are just pretending to be
our friends? What if they’re just waiting for their chance to eat us?
PIG 2
They’ve had plenty of chances before. They practically raised us.
16

PIG 1
I know, but we were small then. Ever since I heard the Runts I can’t sleep
without dreaming that the farmers are going to chew into me as soon as
I’m big enough. At this rate, I’ll never be able to eat again.
PIG 2 (bumps PIG 1’s shoulder)
It’s that bad?
PIG 1 nods.
PIG 2 (cont.)
I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were this worried. I didn’t mean to make
fun of you.
PIG 1 (rubs eyes)
It’s fine. It does sound a little ridiculous.
PIG 2
Lightning hands.
PIG 1 (laughs)
Lightning hands.
PIG 2 (laughs)
Listen, it’s fine to be worried, but you can’t be losing sleep over a rumor.
PIG 1
I know. I know. I’m just scared.
17

PIG 2
Don’t be. If the farmers try anything, I’ll be there. They just think about
hurting you and I’ll tear them to shreds.
PIG 1
What about that one pig? The one the Runts said-
PIG 2 (interrupting)
The Runts are twice our age and just reaching our size. They probably
thought every pig was a giant back then. The farmers won’t know what
to do when a real boar charges at them.
PIG 1 (Hesitates before nodding his head).
Yeah. You’re right.
PIG 2
Of course I am! Now relax. We have some sleep to catch up on.
The pigs get ready to sleep. Before they can get comfortable, a bell starts
ringing. PIG 2 starts to leave but PIG 1 is frozen. PIG 2 tries to pull him
but there’s no change. Eventually, the bell fades. Three farmers enter.
HEAD FARMER steps in front of the others.
HEAD FARMER
What are you two doing out here? You’re usually the first to the trough.
HEAD FARMER reaches for PIG 1. PIG 2 jumps between them
aggressively. HEAD FARMER pauses and FARMER 2 reaches for the
pistol at his waist.
18

After a brief staring contest, HEAD FARMER reaches into his pocket and
pulls out some oats. He offers them to PIG 2. PIG 2 reluctantly calms down
and takes the offering. HEAD FARMER tries the same trick on PIG 1.
PIG 2 nods at PIG 1, convincing him to accept the oats as well.
HEAD FARMER
There you go. All better now.
FARMER 1
What do you think scared them?
HEAD FARMER
Who knows. Probably those damn hippies. They’ve been threatening
trouble for a little while now.
FARMER 2 (looks off stage)
Enough to tear down the fence?
HEAD FARMER (sighs, rubbing hand over face)
Hell, I hadn’t even thought of that. You think they’d go that far? They’re
supposed to be about peace and love and all that crap.
FARMER 2
They’re commies. Ain’t no telling what they’ll do.
HEAD FARMER (reluctantly nods)
I guess you’re right. You two better go check the fence and make sure
there isn’t any damage. I’ll bring the pigs towards the House.
19

FARMER 1
What do we do if we see someone?
HEAD FARMER
If they’re hippies, they’ll probably just yell at you for a bit. Just tell them
you’ll look into whatever they’re screaming about. By tomorrow, there
won’t be anything else to protest.
FARMER 1 nods. HEAD FARMER exits, gently guiding the two pigs
by their arms. FARMER 1 and FARMER 2 watch him leave.
FARMER 1 (shakes his head)
Poor things. You think they know they’re marching to their deaths?
FARMER 2
They’re animals.
FARMER 1
Pigs are supposed to be smart.
FARMER 2
Not smart enough to think. That’s all human. This will just be a nice little
stroll for them.
FARMER 1 (Shrugs)
Yeah. You’re right. Oh well, another day, another bacon.
FARMER 2 (sighs, grabs nose with fingers)
Do you ever hear yourself talk? What does that even mean? Another
bacon…
20

The two farmers stand in silence for a moment, staring at the
slaughterhouse. FARMER 1 is starting to look nervous. Finally,
FARMER 2 shakes his head.
FARMER 2
What is it now?
FARMER 1 (looks around, as if afraid someone will overhear him,
whispering)
Nothing, nothing. Just…Did you hear?
FARMER 2
About what? Spit it out.
FARMER 1
About the draft.
21

MY
BOOKS
WHEN
I’M GONE
By John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently
published in New World Writing, North Dakota
Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between
Two Fires,” “Covert” and “Memory Outside The
Head” are available through Amazon. Works
upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry,
La Presa and Doubly Mad.
22

They will not be buried with me.
And I live in hope that they won’t be
ditched in the nearest dumpster
or dumped in the nearest ditch.
They are as much a lifetime
as these bones and flesh.
I see myself in the mirror
when I shave
but, when I look into the mirror
of all my years on earth,
I see shelf after shelf
of immaculate spines.
I’d always hoped there’d be
another version of myself
ready to take delivery,
to build their own aesthetic
on the hard-covered back of mine.
But I have no sons, no daughters.
I know of no one who would
appreciate this collection,
or even make a home for it.
‘Sell it on eBay!” shout the chorus
at the far reaches of my realm.
But they haven’t got inside my head.
23

I refuse them entry.
Then I ask myself, “Why worry?
As long as they’re here for me,
they’ve done all they intended.”
But I can’t help thinking of the waste,
the knowledge, the beauty, the
artistry,
that will be lost to the world
once my possessions
follow me into the afterlife.
Hell, if I knew as much,
if I was as lovely, as creative,
as all these volumes in my possession,
I’d resist death as if it were
the most pedestrian of Philistines.
But my passing is inevitable.
Its tragedy lies elsewhere.
24

SUICIDE
LETTER
FROM THE
ONLY CHILD
OF AN
ONLYFANS
MODEL
By Matthew Dexter
Matthew Dexter lives and breathes in Cabo San
Lucas, Mexico. Best known for eating shrimp
tacos and drinking enough Pacifico to kill six blue
marlins, he's the Lil Wayne of literature.
25

Mom,
I love you so much. Sorry. I couldn't take the bullying and
humiliation anymore. Being the son of an OnlyFans model was a
burden too big to bear. We escaped Dad and rented that tiny twobedroom
apartment overlooking the miniature golf course. We ate
Costco Hot Dogs and gooey macaroni noodles that burned the roof
of our mouths. A centipede stung my eyelid during our Burger King
dumpster dive. You cleaned houses, and after a few weeks we
purchased furniture and a television. I kept begging for more shit.
It was awesome owning an Xbox Series X. All the popular kids
came over and we puffed Granddaddy Purple out of an apple outside
on the patio while you scrubbed toilets in colonial-style houses where
rich kids race go-karts around cul-de-sacs bursting with butterflies.
You bought me Air Force 1 kicks and we watched Harrison Ford
heave terrorists off an airplane after you told me you quit being a
maid. Remember? I asked how we would pay rent. You promised
"freelance modeling" and I believed you.
The kids always wanted to come over to our apartment because
they said you were a M.I.L.F. who could suck a miniature golf ball
through a garden hose. You modeled professionally as a child and even
landed a commercial for Oscar Mayer Wieners as a tween. Remember
you sang the jingle when I was a baby? “The Weiner Song” is the
sweetest lullaby:
Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener,
That is what I'd truly like to be-ee-ee.
'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener,
Everyone would be in love with me.
26

I should have known what was up when UPS delivered the most
expensive webcam and aimed it at your new canopy bed. You said it
was for Zoom interviews with modeling agencies in Manhattan. I
believed you. When we drove home from school you were sloppy
drunk with gourmet food from restaurants, and you welcomed my
friends. More and more perverts every day. We got stoned in the
abandoned windmill behind the miniature golf course. I was popular
for the first time. We were popular. I know the cool kids only wanted
to come over to see the M.I.L.F. but that was fine with me.
I learned you were an OnlyFans model when I was taking an
explosive shit in the handicapped stall at school on Halloween. A
forearm curled above the partition, wielding a sticky iPhone smudged
with muffled moaning from your naked body. I wish they flushed my
face in the toilet. I prayed for a school shooter to enter that bathroom.
Anything to escape their laughter. Honor Students forced me to
watch your vampire video over and over.
I wiped fast but they held me down hard. I could taste the lukewarm
spit from their bursts of laughter as saliva bounced onto my eyeballs. I
could taste their bad breath and feel its warmth in my nostrils. The
world was different forever. I felt knuckles knocking the air from my
lungs like a large wave rolling me against the sand. I didn’t know
which direction was up or down and dizziness rocked me. The entire
school knew. Even teachers. Boys wanted to come home with me to
see you in person like you were an A-list celebrity. You were more
famous at school than Taylor Swift. The hallways oozed obscenities
from your lips. Your flesh and bone. You wiggled in every phone,
every eye, every morsel of students’ souls and it was over. Life. IT
KILLED ME, MOM.
27

You could’ve quit when you drove me home from school that
Halloween years ago. I begged you to quit.
You said it was your job. You hugged me at the stoplight across
from Taco Bell as a homeless war hero squeegeed a collage of whipped
cream and red-bellied woodpecker feces from the windshield of our
Ford Focus. You opened your Louis Vuitton purse to hand me a
Kleenex. I saw your plastic fangs glistening with saliva and the
turquoise dildo and fake blood between your new porcelain incisors.
Every day at school they showed me a new picture or video. I couldn’t
poop in peace. You could’ve quit, Mom. You bought the pink
Mercedes instead and slapped the sticker with your OnlyFans name in
the rear windshield.
Cheerleaders pointed at you in the pickup line, and you blew
kisses at lame soccer moms hissing sanctimonious gibberish. Principal
Hanna told you to remove your sticker, but you replaced it with an
enormous new decal the next day. It covered the whole rear
windshield and when we got home a new go-kart was waiting for me
in the driveway of the opulent colonial-style house you bought. The
kids mimicked your moans, squinting impressions of your screaming
face. Contorted trembling eyebrows, grunts and groans echoing
down corridors as if coming from your esophagus. The teachers
looked at me like a whore. The son of a whore. I begged you to let me
switch schools and you agreed.
Private school was worse. Goons in suits and ties flushed my face
down the toilet. Potheads gave me atomic wedgies. I’m done with this
shit, Mom.
28

I’m sorry you’ll find me in the closet when you return from
Costco and hot yoga class. I’m sorry I used your sex harness for a
noose. But the leather is stronger than the cowboy belt Dad spanked
me with. It smells like a dead cow. I love you, Mom. I love you. I love
you. I love you today and tomorrow and forever.
Your Only Child,
Tommy
29

A
FLING
By DS Maolalai
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a
cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific,
bordering on incontinent.” His work has nominated
twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart
and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released
in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the
Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among
the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot”
(Turas Press, 2022).
30

no acts now perhaps
except now the last one.
found a place
we both like
and arranged to pay bills.
bought furniture.
split up the chores.
we've even got a dog
who's as happy
to live here as we are.
yesterday
I brought papers to the bank;
opened an account
under Chan and Maolalai.
the clerk was younger than me.
was charming,
very neat. that's it;
almost as far
as we can go now. nothing left
but marriage,
if we'd consider
such a thing
as that. but a year ago
we'd said this was a fling,
and we meant it
until everything continued
to make sense, and why
shouldn't things continue?
31

I fold the corner of my book
and suggest we take the dog out
who's looking fretful.
she looks up
and loves me, says
“why don't you go
yourself? and I'll
make us something to eat.”
32

1969: THE
STONEWALL
INN
By DC Diamondopolous
DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short
story, and flash fiction writer with hundreds of
stories published internationally in print and
online magazines, literary journals, and
anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in:
Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary
Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and
Library, Lunch Ticket, and others. DC has two
published collections of short stories, Stepping Up
and Captured Up Close (20th Century Short-
Short Stories). She was nominated twice for the
Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net
Anthology. She lives on the California coast with
her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com
33

In the industrial ruin near the New York docks, rats clawed
through garbage left by vagrants. Inside the jammed truck that hauled
meat during the day, Jackie, along with dozens of boys and young
men indulged in an orgy. The stink of beef, sweat, and cum had
nowhere to escape. The only sounds were moaning and grunts. In the
dark, Jackie clutched the waist of someone in front of him.
Somebody pounded on the truck. “Lilly Law! Lilly Law!”
The back doors swung open.
Two cop cars screeched to a stop.
Jackie and the others jumped onto the landing platform. They
charged in different directions.
On this sweltering summer night, Jackie darted through the
freight yard. In his worn hightop sneakers, the soles smacked against
gravel and pavement.
He bolted onto Greenwich Avenue under a big white moon.
His tight, frayed, bellbottom jeans pulled against his crotch. The
sweaty orange tie-dyed T-shirt stuck to his chest. His heart thumped.
The pigs weren’t going to catch him, not this time. He ran as if his life
mattered.
If only his eighteen-year-old legs could outrun life on the streets.
In late-night movie houses, lonely old men found his blond hair, slight
build, and effeminate nature irresistible. Jackie scored, sometimes
going home with them for food and a shower. Chicken hawks
cruising subway toilets paid to blow him. To survive, he’d do
anything.
Jackie raced past Mama’s Chick and Rib Restaurant.
Turning onto Christopher Street, he glanced back—no cops.
34

He walked down the one-way street toward the Stonewall. It was
there that he had made friends with other twilight boys and drag
queens. And it was the only bar in the Village that allowed slow
dancing between men. For the first time, someone put their arms
around him—not for sex or to hurt him. When they danced to Stevie
Wonder’s “My Cherie Amour,” they stepped on each other’s toes. It
didn’t matter. They laughed. The tenderness blew his mind.
As he neared the Stonewall, there was a crowd and a paddy
wagon. It was a raid, but on a Friday night? Just the past Tuesday the
fuzz raided the place. Had the Mafia not paid off the pigs to keep the
bar open?
Walking closer, Jackie heard grumbling and sensed the bad vibe.
Bar regulars watched cops haul out handcuffed customers, then
throw them into the paddy wagon.
“What the fuck’s happening?” Jackie asked the guy beside him.
Just then a pig punched a tough-looking lesbian. She kicked him.
The angry crowd inched forward. Jackie seethed.
“She didn’t do nothing,” a Puerto Rican kid shouted.
“We’ll shut you damn perverts down for good,” another cop
bellowed. He clubbed the woman, then pushed her into the truck.
“Leave us alone,” Jackie yelled.
A brick shattered the windshield of a police car.
Whoops rang out.
Drag queens taunted Johnny Law with cries of “Betty Badge!”
“Patti Pig!”
More gay men arrived from Christopher Park across the street,
from Waverly Place, and 7th Avenue.
35

They brought with them years of persecution and joined the
rebellion. A drag queen threw pennies at the pigs. “You’re nothing
but copper.”
Jackie hurled coins. “Here’s your payoff.” Shouts of “Let us be,”
thundered through the pandemonium.
In front of the bar’s plywood window, a nightstick pressed into
Jackie’s back. His wiry body whirled around. He punched the cop in
the face. Jackie saw first shock, then fear in the man’s eyes. Fear. Jackie
lived with it every day.
All six pigs looked astonished as the enraged nellie queens and
limp-wristed fags hit, kneed, and threw bottles and tin cans at them.
Sweat flew off Jackie’s long curly hair as he jabbed, slugged, and kicked
the cops with the viciousness of having nothing to lose.
A drag queen in a sequined dress jumped onto a cop car. She
took off her stiletto heels and waved them high in the air with one
hand while blowing kisses with the other. Everyone cheered. The
crowd mushroomed to hundreds. Jackie pumped his fists and joined
the chant of “NO MORE” until his voice rasped.
The terrified pigs turned tail and fled into the Stonewall.
“Let’s get ‘em!” Jackie yelled. He rammed his shoulder against
the two wooden doors. They didn’t budge. He joined three guys who
rocked a cop car. A young man in a Jewfro and handlebar mustache lit
a mesh garbage can, and threw the burning container at the bar’s
doors.
Screams and shouts split the night. Bricks crashed against the
wall. A sewer grate slammed into the plywood. Firebombs smashed
against the doors. The smell of lighter fluid saturated the air.
36

A bottle crashed through a window above the Stonewall. Shards
of glass rained on the sidewalk. Blood trickled from Jackie’s head. He
wiped it away with his arm. Cries of “gay power” turned the scorching
night into a blazing furnace of pent-up rage.
Jackie and his friends, Mary Queen of the Scotch and Miss
Congo Woman, pulled on a parking meter. Two burly guys pitched
in and tore it from its base. The five of them hoisted it and used it as a
battering-ram against the doors.
With each thrust, Jackie’s adrenaline surged—against the pigs
who clubbed and raped him—boom—for his stepfather who threw
him down the stairs for swishing like a queer—boom—for the bullies
at school who cornered and beat him—boom—for every asshole who
called him faggot—boom. He heaved the meter like a gladiator against
a world that hated him—BOOM! The Stonewall, with its watereddown
drinks, no running water, and clogged toilets, was a shithole.
But it was Jackie’s home, his block, a place where he felt human. Safe.
A small gap appeared between the doors. He knew if they busted
through he’d kill a cop. Sirens howled. Gay men packed the sidewalks
and streets.
Against the flow of traffic, five buses drove down Christopher.
They parked between 7th Avenue and the Stonewall. Cops in dark
uniforms, black helmets, and big plastic shields filed out of the
vehicles. They formed a V wedge, gripped their clubs, and advanced
toward the crowd.
Jackie, along with scores of street kids, faced the oncoming
tyrants.
37

The pigs inside the bar opened the doors and scampered to the
paddy wagon.
“C’mon girls,” a drag queen yelled. The drag queens locked
arms, formed a kick-line, and sang:
We are the Village girls—kick
We wear our hair in curls—kick
We wear our dungarees—kick
Above our nellie knees—kick
The squad froze and glanced at one another. They edged
forward, their batons raised. Jackie was confronting an invincible
force, but he and his gay brothers were winning just by standing up to
them. It was a momentous feeling of liberation.
When they were less than ten feet away, Jackie and the throng
turned and ran, racing around the short blocks that crisscrossed the
Stonewall, Washington Place, Waverly, and 7th Avenue. They
outsmarted and confused the cops by coming up behind, pushing
them forward. From Howard Johnson’s to Mama’s Chick and Rib, it
was Jackie’s and the street kids’ turf. The uptown pigs were clueless.
At first, Jackie thought it fun outwitting the cops, but after an
hour of playing cat and mouse, his legs became heavy. He and the kids
scattered. The pigs dispersed.
Jackie headed up Christopher, wanting to see what they’d done
to the Stonewall. As he walked, he noticed his bloodied knuckles,
blood-caked arm, his torn T-shirt.
When he opened the door, the smell of liquor smacked him.
Bottles and mirrors were smashed to pieces, along with cigarette
machines and the jukebox. Tables and chairs lay shattered.
38

“Don’t worry,” the bartender said, brushing glass from the
counter. “Mario will have the bar opened by tonight.”
“It was worth it,” Jackie said, feeling tired but exhilarated, and
strode outside.
Too exhausted to walk further, he sat on a stoop with two other
kids.
“Man, I can’t believe what happened,” said a boy on the top step.
“Now we’re really in for it,” added the other guy.
Over his shoulder Jackie said, “If I have to, I’ll come back and
fight tonight.” He turned to the war zone.
“Me too.”
“So will I.”
In the predawn, lampposts picked up glitter of broken glass
strewn across sidewalks and streets. Like diamonds, they glistened. A
light breeze ruffled torn pieces of cloth. Interwoven like a giant quilt
lay crushed cans, a high heel, bricks, left-overs in food cartons, a wig,
orange peels, Styrofoam cups.
Jackie and his gay brothers had fought like men. The fear he saw
in the cops eyes would live with him forever. For the first time, hope
entered his life.
This was America. People had rights. He’d be willing to fight,
even die for them.
Pride overwhelmed him as he scanned the hallowed battlefield. It
was so beautiful, their reward.
39

MORAL
SERIOUSNESS
DURING THE
BLACK DEATH
By Tom Holmes
For twenty-two years, Tom Holmes was the founding
editor and curator of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics.
The final issue is due out in the summer of 2024. He
teaches at Nashville State Community College
(Clarksville).
Blog, “The Line Break”: thelinebreak.wordpress.com/.
Twitter: @TheLineBreak
40

Then one day the Church announced,
“The Plague is good for you.
She is a blessing from our Saviour,”
as fire warmed their chambers
and burned away fleas and we warmed
by candle clocks and rattled breathing
from our lovers burning away.
Emotions soon presented infection
and burned away, and we felt as glass
before dawn without the calm.
At sunrise, we flailed an open hand
and sighed. At night, the tavern
was quieter than Sunday morning
service with hungover parishioners
with not a thing to offer the plate.
Weeks later, after the fresh dug graves
were planted, after parents stripped tree bark
to serve for supper, after the church realized
donations were naught, after they realized
they must revive, the church announced,
“We will legitimize your illegitimate child
or offer two burial plots for the poor soul
with an offering of two florins...
41

...For twenty,
we incinerate your sins,” we smelled
their roasted fresh pork and lamb
as we sucked smoked cod. We knew
the end of moral seriousness
and did not have an urge to care.
42

HUMANS IN
ZOOS, ETC.
By Tom Ball
Tom is from Canada. Tom has published novels,
novellas, short stories, poetry and flash in 54
publications.
Website: https://tomballbooks.com
Online Journal Website (he is senior editor/cofounder):
https://fleasonthedog.com
43

Vera asked Patrick, “Are you my knight in shining armour?”
He said, “These days, most men don’t believe in true romance,
though many women still do. But I, for one, enjoy women who are coy
and hard to get. It’s a challenge.”
Vera said, “I want to build a romantic World on Mercury. Only
lovers will be allowed into this World.”
“Then make sure you include the most passionate people,” Patrick
responded, “People who are open-minded as well as loving.”
“Anyone who believes in love will be welcome. I will vet all
immigrants with MRT (Mind Reading Technology) to make sure they
are all kind and loving.”
“No love secrets, eh?” He laughed.
“That’s right! People will have nothing to hide, and if they are
embarrassed by their secrets, we will still accept them.”
He asked, “I suppose all great lovers will love to use MRT with one
another? Is that part of your plan?”
“Yes, it will be a great love-in!”
“Perhaps one day,” Patrick said, “Everyone will be connected with
MRT on the Internet. And crime will be drastically reduced, and evil
hackers and politicians will all be exposed and forced into some kind of
rehabilitation, like neurosurgery.”
44

Vera answered, “Yes, that is part of my plan. And communication will be
virtually instantaneous, throughout the Solar System. And we will reward
good deeds with panacea drugs which we are already close to producing.”
“What about android lovers?” Patrick asked. “Some of them are
mind-blowing. I know, I’ve tried them. I think they’re better lovers than
humans and are cleverer too. The perfect lovers.”
“We definitely will not be accepting androids into our Paradise. Our
lovers will be approaching perfection: no need for machines. Why should
we replace human lovers with machines?”
Patrick replied, “But machines are superior. They’re now building
Android and even hologram Utopias. Not to mention utopias with God
machine Supercomputers.”
“Thinking machines are an anathema,” Vera said. “Human beings,
with their instincts and proclivities, have made human Utopias. And one
couldn’t ask for more. Above all, humans need to control the militaries to
ensure they remain in full control.”
“Many States already have android troops, which can live and fight
anywhere, and which have greater strength and precision when operating
weapons.”
“But,” Vera argued, “humans have better imaginations than
androids, and this alone will allow us to triumph over the machines.”
“It will only be a few years before android imaginations are superior
to humans. I like your Utopia, but it is not the future,” Patrick snorted.
45

“It is madness to replace ourselves with machines!” Vera said.
“The future is madness, no doubt about it,” Patrick laughed.
“Surviving humans will be totally crazy. And so will the androids. Life, to
me, has always been meaningless, and all human endeavours are pointless.
In the future, there will be human survivors for some time to come—
even if they’re only in zoos as a reminder to androids and holograms about
where they’d come from. I am sure there will be human zoos one day.”
“If machines take over,” Vera said, “we will simply close our borders
to all interaction with the machines. And live in a bubble, surely the AI
will leave us alone.”
“Actually, new android models are very aggressive and egotistical. It
is unlikely they will tolerate humans.”
Vera remarked, “I know you are just playing the Devil’s advocate.
The brightest machines are designed by the best scientists and the
overwhelming number of them are good people.”
“It only takes one to ruin it for everyone.”
“Life has never been easy or safe,” Vera said. “We survived plagues
and endless wars and now have survived the AI phenomenon.”
“AI will soon assume full control and humans will all be lost in
dreamworlds, out of touch with reality,” responded Patrick.
“But maybe,” Vera said, “Humans will have to fight wars in order to
maintain their grip on reality—”
46

“—But I wouldn’t bet on the machines to win. Ultimately the
machines are servile to their creators.”
“The time for fighting for control is long past.” Patrick sighed. “It’s
too late to stop AI.”
47

THE
LIGHT OF
THE SEA
By William Doreski
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New
Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and
universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus,
Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and
reviews have appeared in various journals.
48

Although the light of the sea
creeps seventy miles inland
it fails to illuminate this page.
But it brings news of tidepools
flushed by unnatural warming,
stocks of herring and haddock
depleted and too small to eat.
Plastic waste drifts from China
around the horn to wash ashore
on Copacabana Beach where
Madonna drew one and a half
million for a public concert.
I wish I had been there to gawk
at the overwhelming landscape
lush with music and luxury.
Trying to read about the crowd
and its response to that aging star
I can barely make out the words.
The light of the sea doesn’t cast
the lanky shadows I need
so I turn my face to the sun,
which denies the allegation
that it presides over a planet
too ignorant to know it’s dying.
49

THE
CYCLE
By Peycho Kanev
Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry
collections and three chapbooks, published in the
USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in
many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry
Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch
Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street,
Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The
Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The
Cleveland Review and many others. His new book
of poetry titled “A Fake Memoir” was published in
2022 by Cyberwit press.
50

On the street. I walk. On the sidewalk made of sidewalk.
I walk fast and slow. In the night made of night. And stars
of nothing. Dead. No noises. Just echoing steps. And time
made of time. Black sky. Glowing firefly cigarette. Trees
made of trees. Silence. Houses made of trees and stones.
In my home. I drink vodka and water. Music. Vodka made
of vodka and water made of time. Unending. Fifteen billion
years. And I am still here. I drink fast and slow. News on
the TV. War. Soldiers made of mothers and pain. Dying.
I watch and I listen and I drink and I smoke and I breathe.
Air made of air. And then I sleep and I dream. Nightmares
made of nightmares. Blackness made of darkness. Finally
dawn. Light and inhalation. And the beginning made of the
end.
51

STAY
TUNED
FOR
ISSUE
IV.
Arriving in October, 2024
THE PINNACLE
52