CLICK HERE TO BUY THIS ISSUE. CONTRIBUTORS ALPHABETICAL BY FIRST NAME: Adrian Slonaker—St. John’s, Newfoundland Ann Aubitz—Bloomington, MN Barbara La Valleur—Edina, MN Bill DeArmond—Winfield, KS Bray McDonald—Chattanooga, TN Calida Osti—Lafayette, IN Catherine Zickgraf—Evans, GA Chrissie Rohrman—Indianapolis, IN Christopher Barnes—Newcastle, UK Cole Williams—Cottage Grove, MN Connie Anderson—Edina, MN Deb Weiers—Red Deer, Alberta, Canada DS Maolalai—Dublin, Irela

A lot of exceptionally good material came to us over the winter and it's all featured in issue 4 of WINK: Writers in the Know. That includes our incredible cover by well-known, Stillwater, Minnesota watercolor artist, Edie Abnet. All-in-all, it's the best yet and we are excited for you to see it. Looking to buy copies? You can pick them up online at MagCloud. FYI: although submissions are ongoing, we will officially begin reading for issue 5 on June 15th or shortly thereafter

Your carcass breathes to the highest heaven, stretching retching a lifetime all the way back down to one ragged elbow, blinded to the terminal, the surrounding floor, and everyone whishing past in thundering silence to every open door, abandoning two stunned New York’s Finest to stand, to stare to wish to the God who made them and you they were never there, praying it’s really only pale or at worst just stale pudding caking trickling glistening down your cocked welcoming chin

Most of you are familiar with the prestigious Pushcart Prize. If not, please go here to learn more (http://www.pushcartprize.com). It is our honor to nominate Jim Zola of Greensboro, North Carolina, for his poem, The Morning of My Death, which appeared in issue 2 of WINK: Writers in the Know magazine. This is something any writer can proudly mention and add to their writer's resume regardless of whether or not they win the prize. To be "nominated for a Pushcart Prize" is an

I dream a misty blue Around the crevices of my Eyes. Your candor does not exceed Any relic the past offered me; Nor does it bring comfort in Times of duress. All the winds blow against My face. I recall your lion's den Surrounding me with stale Air. For there in your mystic Eyes lurks a fierceness I cannot explain. Your aura is a dark purple. No light can break through. If only a song could turn The page, and lead me Back to myself. Published in WINK: Writers in the Know, iss

The Weight of Words Words used to have weight. you dreamt, pondered, philosophized then etched your words into eternity on stone, with stone, let it be known: These are my words! Heavy. Words too heavy to throw more than a couple meters from your own feet. Words used to be cherished. calligraphy in hand, slow pronouncement, acclaim for the perfect word for that subtle emotion, does this language possess it, search the world over: That perfect word! More than bread. One signed

Unquenchable Thirst a dream collapses into unquenchable thirst and unanswered thoughts She often ponders the journeys of her life, those borne in the steps of slow-footed time and those caught in the quickly moving winds of uncertainty. Her dreams and her reality collided so many times. Unanswered questions and unexplained reasons seemed to rule her heart and still her soul. Then she heard a whisper of faith and felt an unquestionable belief in her strength. Could she? Would

fumbling shadow once alive the matchstick girl fumbles her fingers, and is given no mercy for it; she has one job they tell her one job and she is failing— they see her tears, but they do not know or care to see her pain; forsaken by everyone she only has herself and her shadow like ink upon the snow but there is nowhere she can call home but her tragedy so she continues to singing though with every note her heart is further breaking— there is no happy ending, and no knight t

Word Flow In wet, miserable March, wind whisks paper to my door, from shopping lists to letters to signs announcing Flea Markets. I must confess when it comes to what blows into my realm, only money and words attract me. I've been drawn to a half rain-soaked school girl essay and a note once pinned to a door that read, "Back in five minutes. Make sure the cat doesn't escape." As much as I've written in my life, I've never once put down those words in that particular order. No

Designer Vanity This skin is not Prada, Gucci or Versace— it was purchased in purgatory at the Gap Outlet on the corner. Stitched tight in the flesh suit, I became a mirror gazer, a Snow Queen, how I’ve loathed that cast-back face. All day stealing into bathrooms to sneak weary peeks at my ravished portrait— watching age etch its many mars. At first the changes were subtle, a spot here, a pock there— the facial geography slowly shifted with time. I did anything to be designer