Web Series #58, “A girl…and one more inside” by Alex Falangi

A girl…and one more inside:

She is June, traveling with Johnny

from side to side

she is a dark-haired girl…

and one more inside.

Her identity is a mess which

makes boy’s life hard cause

she is a witch

with a kill switch

Web Series #57, “sugar” by Sarah Lucille Marchant



I created us in my mind.

we were only snowflake consistency in reality, paper patterns and melting triangles trying to press themselves onto the sun and prove that they were permanent. but we never found any sort of golden elixir; all we caught was its light. fragmented reds and blues were all we could comprehend;

we would never earn yellows or greens.


at least, not at that time.

now we are real.

finally these acoustic lullabies have meaning and our hands reach out to cup the tiny promises spilling over. 

they were black music notes overflowing, treble clefs and dotted half-notes — because, after all, you wouldn’t settle for normal or ordinary.

we would be extraordinary.


if only our hourglasses hadn’t run dry.

we are tangled—

undeniably, irreversibly, inevitably.

I cannot cut the strings

but I can never call you my own.

you are silently pulled, lost somewhere other than in my arms.

Web Series #56, “for always” by Anna Borchert

for always:

you couldn’t scream loud
enough for children to hear
blocks down, their terror proves
nothing on this. your eyes gleam
with hunger & sweat you

swear, nothing is less than this,
nothing is more. did you ever 
watch the sunrise from the brooklyn 
bridge and fall in love with yourself?
cause I saw that moment, your eyes
telling me.. that is the only bones I 
will ever love

Web Series #55, “heart-holder” by Alex Falangi


if you want somewhere to go

there’s a place where we don’t get older

if you needed to cry

there was a place on my shoulder

when we waited for warmth

summer became colder

lie down in my arms

i’ll be your heart-holder

Web Series #54, “Survival” by Eve Anissimova


Survival, Paris was full of it.

The metro had often teased my poetic interest in survival: where others would disinfect their hands upon leaving, I would bite my nails and lick my fingers.

One night, returning home from town, I waited for the metro. The station wailed its lingering silence. When the train arrived, the driver opened his door, looked me in the eye and motioned. I squeezed beside him in the front and he started the engine. We entered through the tunnel gate.

There lived the people of the metro.

They had arranged themselves, sat waiting for a finger to crawl into the dark and scratch at them, before this same finger touched daylight and became discussion, rebellion, stinking hot puddles of city out of which they could emerge, jewels around their necks, bracelets to their elbows like belly dancers or thieves swimming in their loot, only to have their sorrow remoulded by romantics, or their strength, the strength of collective symbolism, reduced by psychologists.

Each conceptual duo or lone creature had his own rectangular depth: a stretching darkness of three by infinite metres of which they used the front to stage their lives. A dirty yellow spotlighted the scene. What slept behind? Bone-chilling hollows, my imagination.

Museum pieces, they were all there. On the left, the mother on shoes with the bare footed child. She, on a chair; he, rebelling out of her copper grip, waving his arms and legs, his red flags. At the waggon’s passing, the light went out, they were swallowed up by the sweating walls. Only the glow of his feet remained.

The light switched onto the accordion player. As we rode to Vincennes one day, he plagued me with his song, refusing to touch the melancholy of “Katusha by one chord. With every refrain he tore his own memory and mine of the way his song could dig into the heart. He was playing something now, too. Sitting on a stool, his body swayed from side to side and the accordion folded out completely. I could not hear it but I knew that it was the right version ofKatusha, and maybe even more. Lights out.

On the right, the ventriloquist, his lifeless round-eyed friend perpetually on his lap. Two voices, one forgotten voice. And two shrivelled cocoons for bodies.

Mute driver, is this sight too familiar? Was it his regular shift that had caused the layer of callus on his heart? Then, like a roll of film exposed to sunlight, the lights of Les Halles erased what my eyes had seen and it came to me: he had simply not seen them yet. He was one of those sad cases, the public underdog of the time: a university degree; an economic straight jacket. The job market had started clearing its stands.

Web Series #53, “Ballad of the Lady a la Carte” by Eve Anissimova

Ballad of the Lady a la Carte:

In a fisherman’s village

A sullen young man

With war in his eyes

And a ring in his hand

Stops at her door

But he cannot go in

His once tender heart is infested with sin.

He takes off his cap

Throws it down on the floor

The doormat says ‘welcome’

He is welcome no more.

He walks to the bridge

And takes off his boots

A woman in white

Shouts “stop” and salutes

Runs up to the man

And touches his hair

He follows her home

And its private from there…

When he wondered who she was

The village voices whispered so:

She’s the lassy of the harbour

An address for you to know

She’s a mother to the martyr

She’s a harlot of the heart

She will feed while hunger eats her

She’s the Lady à la Carte.

By scavenging eyes

He was seen leaving late

With a smile on his sleeve

And a gold-coloured fate

With generous love-craft

She cured him of woe

But he’s just one of many

With many to go.

Yes he’s just one of many

With many to go.

One autumn storm

She had just gone to bed

A knock on her door

A man, lonesome and wet

He held her to him

And showed her his heart

“I’ve come here to save you, my sweet a lá Carte”

You may not yet know me

But a fire inside

Has told me to hold you

If just for one night.

His touch felt like Mother’s

His kiss was her child

For the first time in years

Through wet eyes she had smiled.

This tender gift was her first and her last

She woke up next morning and saw he had passed.

Yes she woke up next morning and saw he had passed.

In her eightieth year

She could offer no more

She closed both her eyes

And to heaven did soar

They had left her no flowers

None wilting or dead

All the pansies she’d known

were now blooming instead.

When people wonder who she was,

The village voices whisper so:

T was the woman of the docks

They’d take her love and off they’d go

She had nurtured countless fellows

T was the Lady à la Carte.

But no one knew that she had kept

An empty shelf for one warm heart.

Web Series #52, “More” by Katherine Anderson


I have more love in my heart than water in the seven seas, stars in the sky and cracks in the sidewalk down my street. I have more light and sparkles in my eyes than a box full of gold coins and jars of fireflies. I have more hope, faith, grace and beauty than any classic starlet could ever hope to posses, because it comes as natural  as breathing. I have more virtue than a nun and more audacity than the Devil himself; in the mornings he’s afraid of the sound it makes when my feet hit the floor.

I have more courage than brains at times. Most days, I am more Wesley than Solange, more Pikey than Lilly and more Miss Kati than oh-so-quiet Joy.  I am more Elphaba than Galinda on occasion, more Toto than Dorthy  and more cowardly than Lion, but I have more heart than Tinman and that’s all that counts…

  I have more spring in my step then Tigger on a sugar high, and more arch in my back than St. Louis and McDonald’s combined. I have more curl in my hair and flirt in my pout than Shirley Temple, Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe all together, and I know how to use it. I have more tricks up my sleeve than a card-counter in Vegas, and given the time and patience, I could pull them off more stealthily than SEAL Team 6.

I have more kisses in my mouth than Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley ever dreamed of, and more bats in my lashes than an entire season of Yankee’s baseball and a home run on every pitch. I have more balls than the pit on the playground and more spunk than every little girl on the swingset, pumping her legs higher and higher just to try and get over the bar and see what life is like upside down…

 I have more stories in my head than the Library of Congress, and on lonely nights I will curl up with a good one and relive my adventures. I have more spirit than a haunted house and more resolve than the detergent section of the local Kroger grocery. I have more guts than glory, more brains than beauty and more faith & trust than magic pixie dust, and I’m just fine with that.  I have more Aerosmith than Mozart in my heart, more Leaving Hogwarts theme in my head than quadratic functions and more memories that sound like Guns N Roses riffs than sad goodbyes and tearful sniffs, and that’s how it should be…

 I am so much more than meets the eye, so call me Little Miss Autobot and watch me transform. Call me Sherlock and watch my heart take flight; call me a Timelord and I’ll take you places you’ve only dreamed in your head, late late at night in a lonely bed. Call me a caterpillar, a silk worm, a moth: Love me how I am and forgive me for everything I’m not. Take me at my worst, love me at my best, leave out all the rest.

I am so much more than meets the eye, just wait and see…

Web Series #51, “Carapace Crunch®” by Nathan Royster

Carapace Crunch:

Vegetarians juice fruits
and imitation foie gras
lacking meat to tenderize her
jaws of candy cake gavage.
So they funnel crap about
the gasoline health scene
lean zero-admission
food decisions. It’s easier to 
grab a lemon bar than
manage making spinach
quiche from scratch.

Loaded dicey dinner date
plans with Christians
who probably won’t put out.
Mouth full of 6th commandment
insisting that
doG put the Animal Planet here
for humans to eat and change channels.

Don’t snack on dolphins,
bats, Clydesdales or cute cuddle-factory turtles— 
who conveniently make great
cereal bowls but are not pigs.

Some of us employee entire
swat teams still, to kill a single
horse fly, buzzing our apartment,
obnoxiously, from the lobby downstairs.
Hard to blame the fellow,
but like Cat Stevens said, “Oh 
baby baby, that’s pretty fucked up.”
No one wants to begin, or
end up dead meat,
masticated, filing for unemployment just
because someone helicopter dropped
a condo on their swamp.


The very first collection from the Walleyed Press Web Series (WPWS) is now available for download. This debut collection from the series features the first fifty submissions in one little package. You can download yourself a copy by clicking here, or you can visit the “Digital Series” section located on the left to pick one up at a later period.


Web Series #50, “Dump” by Bobby Union


Barrels hit the curb,

the force of another

early morning.