A List of My Fears

by Michael Daley The light at dawn dragging night away like a child silenced trying to screamHow afraid I was of the pigeons cooing in the eavesIn that big bed a fever glowered on the crumbling city wallsMelted into terrorsA childhood like that without release The complicity of the abusersWere they dreams or shapes older than hallucinations take?

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Humanoid Beats Usain Bolt’s 100m Record at Beijing Robot Games

by Kip Knott The five-day games demonstrate China’s rapid progress in advanced robotics… Associated Press When the robot breaks the tape,its stops dead center on the trackand turns slowly in all directionsas if calculating whether the crowd is actuallycheering for its victoryor voicing their terror as they realize that a robot may have just become…

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2027 Best of the Net Nominees

January House Literary Journal is delighted to announce our nominations for the 2027 Best of the Net anthology. The Best of the Net is an awards-based anthology designed to grant a platform to a diverse and growing collection of writers and publishers who are building an online literary landscape that seeks to break free of traditional publishing. Congratulations and best of luck to our nominees!

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Loop

by Alicia Potee I.Milk, milk, lemonade, round the back is where the fudge is made. Late to everything save life itself since birth, I know the knotted price of early arrival—in my case, meconium aspiration, a fancy term for eating shit. Specifically, breathing it in. At first, four frank-breech pounds, my diapers mirrored the dainty shape and weight of my mother’s soft cigarette packs—

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Corporeal

by Louise Robertson Our heart slaps while lillies hold out their arms till they droop,stomata pulling fluid through 
their bodies.We bow to that spongy thing,clapping for itself,the fist in our chests 
that opens like 
the wound that is our mouth.Imagine letting air move internal
liquids instead of that constant flex and 
punch. The body then…

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Two Poems by Chad Rutter

Sweet Tooth Sobriety: Day 7Something they don’t tell youIs how badly you’ll want candy.How your body, flailing blindly,will fall into sticky poolsrimmed with brightly colored plastic.How a room full of addictson a 15 minute break willdescend on a bowl filled with thesweetness they’ve been missinglike the shades to Odysseuscome to drink the blood.

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Issue 2.01 is Live!

by Jeffrey Heath Our Summer 2026 issue is now live on the site. You can view the free PDF edition here. Print and Kindle editions are also available via Amazon. Jeffrey Heath, Founding Editor, EIC - January House Literary Journal

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Two Poems by Ellen Romano

Our Last Trip to AshlandSouthern Oregon was on firewhen we came for the Shakespeare Festival,the sun a blood-red disc in the sky.The first night an outdoor performanceof Romeo and Juliet was cancelled,the air-quality hazardous to our health.The novelty of seeing crowds waiting in lines, standing on street corners all wearing face masks. Pericles Prince of Tyre risks death…

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Yesterday’s Light

by David Hanlon We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.
—Anaïs NinI am yesterday’s light,
a shard of citrus
caught behind black curtains.Dawn finds me
folded into pleats of shadow—
birdsong blurred
to a distant remembering,
the river forgetting
its silver breath.Then a great spotted woodpecker,
red-crowned, insistent,
strikes the oak
until the tree remembers…

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Return from Astral Projection

by Rebekah Bowman I must root myself so deeply into this soil that my ownnetwork of light will form and make an ecosystem, a world.If I abandon this shell, it will be plucked from the sand as a token.I need to plant a tree. I need to plant a forest.I need to become organism, entity, the kind that rebirths itself after wild…

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Acid Rain by Gina Cooke

Gina Cooke was born and raised in Pensacola, Florida. Her passion for art began in high school when she received first place in An Artistic Discovery for a batik depicting palm trees. This early recognition inspired her to pursue her artistic interests, earning an Associate of Arts degree in Art from Pensacola Junior College and later a Bachelor of Arts degree in Graphic Design from the University of West Florida. Working primarily in abstraction, Gina explores the interplay of color, shape, and form. Using acrylic paint, she embraces experimentation and intuitive expression.

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Conservation of Energy

by Lorrie Ness A bare bulb spraysthe root cellar’s bulging walls,so infernally bright that I squintagainst its glare, then squint againat its dimness. Where does the light go,in the space of eight-foot square?It’s the math mama used to picklesummer into jars. Three monthscondensed to quarts.This is the only placewhere time is measured in volume,

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Two Poems by Mary Buchinger

when birds sing I feel it inside and am changed their chirr and twee the manic insistence of my branch! my tree! the lightful song of a pale-blossom wren enters my innermost cavity & my neighbor’s windchimes too a belling song feathered-metal clang that churches inside me touches old hymns and passages I once memorized the sound it wrings from the breeze…

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Reflections by Tony Brinkley

Tony Brinkley's poetry, art and translations have appeared recently in COLLATERAL, TRAFIKA EUROPE, ANA, NASHVILLE REVIEW, EXCHANGES, NEOLOGISM, POEMS IN TRANSLATION, BOMBAY REVIEW, PICTURA JOURNAL, BLUE UNICORN, MERION WEST, REVERIE, VIRIDINE LIBRARY, RUMEN, SOUL, LAST LEAVES REVIEW, LOVER'S EYE PRESS, MISERERE REVIEW, CONSEQUENCE FORUM, JERRY JAZZ MUSICIAN and ANTIFA REVIEW. Before retirement, Brinkley taught literature, Holocaust Studies, and Fascist Studies at the University of Maine. He is the author of STALIN'S EYES; GOMORRAH; AMERICA, AMERICA; and ICONS OF WAR.

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Motel Moths

by Kevin Snyder A caterpillar fingers its way up my forearm. I’ve shut my eyes so I can only feel the fine hairs and half an inch of tiny stubs. Its head antennas the air. It doesn’t know that the whole world is the rectangle of my arm. Mom plods in. We’re in the Pink Lady tonight. I hide the critter in my fist and my fist beneath the blanket.

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Hot Water

by R. A. Allen Today is much hotter than yesterday.And when I slosh in on the sandbankthe sea foam swirling around my anklesreminds me of cappuccino froth.The bay's water molecules are in a riot of thermal expansion, they jostle away from each other like irritable speed freaks,causing a lift in the sea level, causing me to ride microns higher…

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Lush Life

by Mervyn Seivwright Sometimes I need a sad song Coltrane serenading the parts of me whored out as each of us have Layers loosened enough in clothes to cut skin from an Uptown Chicago wind whipping corners I hear a hiss my breath these days withers Golden hour morning on Dutch coast coasting waves whistling breeze a gliding seagull sun teasing beyond…

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Between Leaving and Returning by Shama Shams

Shama Shams is a writer, storyteller, and memoirist based in Seattle. Her work explores identity, immigration, womanhood, and the quiet resilience shaped by lived experience. She is the author of She Called Me Throwaway, which received the Top Choice award from NBR, and the forthcoming Dreamers, a collection centered on migration and belonging, is scheduled for release in March 2027 by Running Wild Press. When she is not writing, she teaches storytelling and works closely with communities to amplify underrepresented voices.

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Palmetto Station

by David Colodney David Colodney is a poet living in Boynton Beach, Florida. He is the author of Gen X Redux, forthcoming in 2026 from Main Street Rag Publishing, and the chapbook Mimeograph (Finishing Line Press, 2020). A Best of the Net and four-time Pushcart nominee, his work has appeared in multiple journals. David currently serves as an associate editor of South Florida Poetry Journal and is an ardent supporter of Liverpool Football Club. If you are looking for him, he can often be found at the Lion & Eagle Pub watching Liverpool matches.

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Postcards

by M.C. Schmidt She found them on eBay and got them for a steal. Once they arrived, she wrapped them and kept them in her underthings drawer until Russ’s birthday. “What’s this, Norma?” he asked when she presented him with the gift. She raised her eyebrows to say, Open it and see... To her delight, he got it. “Well,” he said, smiling at the stack of postcards.

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Somewhere in Asia Minor by Gordon Massman

Willy Conley, an award-winning, published photographer, writer and filmmaker, is the author of Space is deaf like me, Photographic Memories, Plays of Our Own, Visual-Gestural Communication, The World of White Water, Listening Through the Bone, The Deaf Heart, and Vignettes of the Deaf Character and Other Plays. Born profoundly deaf, Conley is a professor emeritus and former chair of theatre at Gallaudet University (the world’s only liberal arts university for deaf students) in Washington, D.C. For more info check out his blog & website: www.willyconley.com/blog

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Licked Clean

by Mark Nuzzi Paul Whittaker had been collecting stamps for forty-seven years, each acquisition a small victory in his methodical pursuit of postal perfection. His Manhattan penthouse reflected a life of disciplined success. Mahogany bookshelves lined with legal texts, framed commendations from three mayors, and walls displaying pristine stamp collections in museum-quality frames. The apartment held peculiar touches that spoke to his obsessive nature.

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Tumbling, Like Sea Glass

by Christy Hartman My daughter pushes a salt-crusted curl off her face, crouching to examine the pebbles surrounding the tidepool. Show her where it is, Dad.  Ruthie’s delighted squeal signals a discovery. “Mom, look!” My twelve-year-old expertly hops over the rocky shore, a piece of sea glass in her palm.  “Oh cool, another brown one.” I open my father’s leather-bound notebook and tick a box in the correct column.

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Amateur Hours

by Jeffrey Thompson How can I finish anything when my first instinct is always wrongand my second instinct is to trustmy first instinct? All the wordsstand up straight and blamelesson their shelves but soon I can’t place them anymore.They are the spines of books I don’t remember readingor someone else’s family photos.They are an empty museum wall,

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Tammy Wynette’s Lonely Street

by Terry Barr Was there ever a singer more lonely in this world than Tammy Wynette? Steacy Easton, in Why Tammy Wynette Matters, coined the phrase a “Tammy Wynette kind of pain (59).” It’s the kind of pain I keep thinking about when I hear Tammy’s version of “Lonely Street.”  In the early 1960s Wynette lived in the Elyton section of Birmingham, Alabama, with her two kids, more or less estranged from her husband.

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Dwelling by Kelly DuMar

Willy Conley, an award-winning, published photographer, writer and filmmaker, is the author of Space is deaf like me, Photographic Memories, Plays of Our Own, Visual-Gestural Communication, The World of White Water, Listening Through the Bone, The Deaf Heart, and Vignettes of the Deaf Character and Other Plays. Born profoundly deaf, Conley is a professor emeritus and former chair of theatre at Gallaudet University (the world’s only liberal arts university for deaf students) in Washington, D.C. For more info check out his blog & website: www.willyconley.com/blog

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Hovering Without Wings by Bill Wolak

Willy Conley, an award-winning, published photographer, writer and filmmaker, is the author of Space is deaf like me, Photographic Memories, Plays of Our Own, Visual-Gestural Communication, The World of White Water, Listening Through the Bone, The Deaf Heart, and Vignettes of the Deaf Character and Other Plays. Born profoundly deaf, Conley is a professor emeritus and former chair of theatre at Gallaudet University (the world’s only liberal arts university for deaf students) in Washington, D.C. For more info check out his blog & website: www.willyconley.com/blog

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i drive home from work—

by Elizabeth D. Jennings the sun sags lower in my windshield than it did last week. i can’t blame her; the weight of it all, it makes a girl tired. i think i’ll nap when i get home, curl like a cat on top of the covers, curtains open so the pink-strained evening can get in. i won’t miss the cicada-shrieked heat of summer, …

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The Lost Boys

by Kelly Murashige I find out a boy’s gone missing from a flyer on a corkboard. Had he disappeared a year or two ago, I would have found out from the news. For a while, I immersed myself in the goings-on of the world, afraid if I let a war, a bill, a cultural event pass me by, everyone would brand me ignorant, perhaps even maliciously so, and leave me in the past, where I arguably belonged.

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Take Stump Shoots

by Barbara Daniels “Leap, and the net will appear.” John BurroughsYou’re in the grill basket. You’re fried.But rumor has it that certain kinds of tinfoil hats can protect you. Sleep is a wall you slip down to join phantasmas and eclipses. But sleep can order your thoughts, teach you to be calm. Arm yourself with a garden hose and a small…

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