Smoking Herb & Other Stories, By John D Robinson

Screen Shot 2020-03-31 at 12.59.10 PM

John D. Robinson returns with ‘Smoking Herb & Other Stories’, his first collection of short fiction from Analog Submission Press.

A5 saddle stitched chapbook. Lovingly handmade, hand stamped, and hand numbered. 3 stories over 20 pages. Limited to 25 copies. Printed on an old Canon laser printer we found abandoned at a dump site.

Out April 10th. Pre-orders welcomed. £4.00 + shipping.


Corey Mesler

Sex, Our Badger and God

The badger’s in the kitchen
making chai.
He says he learned how from
his sensei.
My wife and I are settling in
to watch that
new Hollywood blockbuster:
Jackpot Vernacular,
starring the ingénue, Sunday
I tell the wife, boy would I like
to and she says her, too.
The movie takes our mind off
the wrecking ball
poised outside our plateglass.
It looks like another
planet, that’s what the badger
says. Only to a
badger, I think, but I smile my
The chai is hot and spicy and
as smooth as a blowjob
so that we forget the holes in the
movie’s plot, the
holes they try to patch with Sunday’s
ample backside.
It’s almost enough.
“Snuffle,” says my wife and the
badger is pleased.
“We have to get rid of him,” she
says when he leaves.
He seduced my secretary.
I contemplate this and decide that
her secretary
looks a lot like Sunday Lipinsky.
I wouldn’t mind, etc.
The movie rattles forward
a little longer
but our concentration is shot,
like Kennedy,
like the moon.
We decide to cover each other with
chai and see what happens
to our sex lives.
It’s not a bad way to spend
the afternoon, even
if you know you have to let
your badger go.
And, when I mount my loving wife
like a cowboy,
I think her ass is as good as
Sunday Lipinsky’s.
It gets me through. It gets me
to the other side.
It gets me and it gets her and we
all muddle along,
as the rain begins to genekrupa
the roof,
and the wrecking ball glows
as if it has conjured Dr. Dee’s spirits.
The arc of its intention
is something to see.
So I cover my wife’s nakedness with
a quick cairn
as the world shatters,
shaking its myrmidon coat, a wet god,
now appearing for the first time,
almost too late.

Leah Mueller

Fleeing 2019 in a 2004 Ford

Sign on the freeway: silver alert.
Another elder said fuck it,
got into a red 2004 Ford
threw IDs out the window
and jammed the accelerator.

She took 1-90 east and
headed for the opposite coast,
laughing as she fiddled with the radio.

Relatives twisted napkins in knots
and punched numbers onto cell phones:
all of them beside themselves,
screaming at law enforcement for help.

Mom should be there for the grandchildren.
Dad needed to stay, so others
could feel superior to him.

Instead, flagrant disregard.
Mom and Dad have fled the scene
like teenagers, but in separate cars.

Dad split six months ago,
and no one ever found him.
He’s an adult and entitled to leave,
even if that does make him
a self-centered bastard.

After a while, we gave up looking.

When Mom left on New Year’s Eve,
the last day of the decade.
she swore she’d head straight into 2020,
and as far as I know,
she hasn’t stopped driving.

Bogdan Dragos

bachelorette party

The driver:
He’s got the best chance
at survival in a car crash

That’s why he made it
and the other three didn’t

Having the seat belt on
also helped immensely

Knowing that the accident
would happen was also
a plus

Yep, the only minus of the situation
was having to pretend
he had PTSD and depression
and whatnot
for causing the deaths
of three close friends

who had talked his fiancé
into a gangbang
the night before

HSTQ: Spring 2020

HSTQ_Spring 2020

horror, adj. inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.

sleaze, adj. contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable

trash, n. literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality

Welcome to HSTQ: Spring 2020, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by John Gartland, Alan Catlin, Judge Santiago Burdon, Anthony Dirk Ray, Robert Plath, J.A. Carter-Winward, Joshua Jordan, Judson Michael Agla, Bogdan Dragos, Leah Mueller, Ben Newell, Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri, J.J. Campbell, John D Robinson, Joseph Farley, Casey Renee Kiser, Willie Smith, Andy Seven, and Puma Perl.

Kindly PayPal 5 USD to for print copies,
or download the FREE ebook instead!

J.J. Campbell

at such a young age

the broken eyes of a child
beaten down by reality
at such a young age

a cold queen that suddenly
melts when she comes
across a sullen asshole
in the grocery store

forever isn’t possible

and no one can afford just
one night any longer either

the tornado broke the town

the mass shooting decided
to end it once and for all

i can’t imagine the homeless
giving two shits about
the latest hashtag
made into a t-shirt

the river is full of poison

and god has moved on to
fuck over the next county

the meek have decided
they’d rather have cash
than this whole fucking mess

Daniel Ortiz


Daniel Ortiz is a self-taught artist from Albuquerque, New Mexico…a beautiful place where saints jack off in the sky and history hangs from the walls like quiet screams.

He lives to make art, but it’s not what he does for a living. He’s a slave to the eight hour day, like most of us are…but he’s hoping for a way out, in more ways than one.

If you like what you see, more of his work can be seen on Instagram @danieljamesortiz_art









Willie Smith

16mm Venus 1973

She comes up out of the sea
and she is all blond –
she has lost her bikini;
the shark of her smile took it. She
reaches back; wrings brassy hair
in a wet mass. She wants to come over,
primp, turn around – pray her ass be kissed.
Her eyes glint sea-green; her breasts float
large and gently sloped as distant breakers;
nipples buoys; bush surf white. She
straddles the screen. Between the crack
of her butt you glimpse a sunsquint;
close eyes to sniff the vision burst.
Your throat detects encircling cigarettes
and bad cigars, old coats, stale popcorn;
knees cracking; torn leather seats creaking…
Open the eyes – to catch a last sneer,
as she steers her posterior down on the
mouth of the camera, turning all dark
in the must you breathe.

Willie Smith

First Old Flame to Die

I took her in the ass because she asked me to.
And because I was curious, actually enjoyed the novelty.
As did – or so it seemed – she.
Her way of asking: “Ever put this in a woman’s ass?”
I cleared my throat… let a few seconds drift,
as if reflecting… “Once or twice.”
She shrugged, disappointment evident;
she obviously eager to deflower.
I should have lied. Given her the triumph.
Today I learn she died six months ago. Cancer. Fifty-six.
All those cigarettes. All that love. But now she has taken,
at least in one sense, my virginity;
as I take the news up the ass of my heart.