Featuring:
L.M. Camiolo
Simon Collinson
Damien Farley
Martin Fisher
Stephen Ground
Paul Hostovsky
otto LA
LMHO
Vishaal Pathak
K. R. Rose
R James Sennett Jr
Shannon Wagoner
Huina Zheng
Vishaal Pathak
otto LA
Year in Review
Deep dive time! Let's take a look at your music habits this year…
Your top albums:
5. Rain on Various Surfaces 24 hours by Get Sleepy (2019)
4. a pretty fucking good album by Some Youtuber (2020)
3. A Fever You Can't Sweat Out by Panic! at the Disco (2005)
2. Soundtrack of a Musical You Performed in High School by Original Broadway Cast (1997)
1. Sophomore Album by Scumbag Band (2019)
You listened to "A Song Ryan Ross Featured on in 2011" for 3,057 minutes! That's the top 0.01%! Now that's commitment.
This year, you managed to skip listening to anything that came out in the last five years— What, you want a trophy?
You made a ton of playlists— 72, to be exact, with an average of 2 songs per playlist! We love a curated vibe!
Here's to another twelve months of great tunes! Who knows what else you'll discover next year?
Shannon Wagoner
seeing anew
does the nurse see it? does the doctor see it? is that why they look at me with those pitying eyes after they ask if i’ve had other concussions and i say yes, this is my sixth actually? can they see the radiance of sparkles surrounding me?
black squiggles, worms, floaters now accompany my existence. but i can’t say i hate the added elements to my worldview. they’re in the blank space of sky, crawling on an empty page. they fly through my vision, sometimes accompanied by the glittering twinkles of light. they wait for my words to emerge, taunting my slower processing speed, slower talking speed, slower living speed, slower everything.
i thought this was just a part of life now, post sixth concussion, post primary doctor saying everything seems fine but she’ll refer me to the neurologist anyway. don’t worry though, they’re booking appointments thirteen months out. they’ll call if someone cancels. thirteen months pass. i go to my appointment. i fully expect they’ll say something like dang that suuuuuucks, but you’re actually fine. best of luck, nice to meet you. see you in a year.
they see me, they take their time. they ask me questions to clarify what’s going on. i’m baffled in a good way. they test me in many ways, one of which racks my entire body into a spinning storm. the doctor asks the resident, did you see that? the way their eye staggered? let’s do it again. i hardly keep up the second time, he apologizes. he slows down. everything blurs. he rattles off medical jargon to the resident, who translates for me. he clarifies when needed but everything is still a whirlwind of visual noise. i ask if this will be on mychart, because i’m not going to remember it. he says it will.
i’m now in the slew of making appointments, understanding referrals, awaiting treatment for all of this. new information telling me that everything is actually not fine and wasn’t fine for the past thirteen months. or maybe it hasn’t actually been fine in a decade, we better do an mri to double check. my thoughts rattle at the delay it took to get here. yes, something is actually off. the glitter isn’t supposed to shine so bright. many worries fill the skies of my brain. the biggest storm though, is wondering if i will lose the sparkle that’s accompanied me for the past thirteen months, and while definitely not supposed to be present, has slowly kept me from deteriorating. i would surely miss it.
Stephen Ground
life #2
you & me are stars
in our own Hollywood noir
called Can We Make Rent?
circumnavigation
slowly drifting west
on the scummy slick of a
roiling dish sink sea
Damien Farley
Anthony Geary’s Dead
Quoting Ray Thomas
and that sends me down
a Moody Blues YouTube rabbit hole.
And, while you’d think
there was a limit
to the number of consecutive times
you could watch
“Nights in White Satin” reaction videos
recommended
after the single viewing
of “Legend of a Mind”
you’d been craving to satisfy
your brain’s soundtrack playing it
these few days since reading the news,
it turns out you’d be wrong
and find your life remaining,
as well as your pending sleep,
about 90 minutes shorter.
Which is really all to say,
Anthony Geary’s dead…
“No, no, no, no he’s outside,
Looking in.”
A Mug, Other Things, and the Night of the Blue Hair (and screw Jim Carrey, by the bye)
If you think so, then what is your name
and what’s that white shit in the parking lot?
Because, though I have many questions about life,
foremost among them is where the fuck is Texas Road? (It should be noted
that just ’cause there’s mention of New Orleans
don’t make it the blues.) Surely, he should have mentioned
Cindy Street and Schulmeister Rd.,
at least to Dimi (I guess and prized)
and sleet and snow (my personal rainmaker!)
(and train stations as well).
Crying now, in person, on a 4-sided paper –
stay cool. With you, I could write of no one (else?)
for certainly I’d speak.
It wasn’t cool at all
but I am the singer’s alter ego removed.
Yeah, I still have my pen, you mother fucker
(the other side reads
“Disturbingly kick-ass” “Too good for (4) the room”).
Wonderin’ how, as a smoker,
My eyes hurt.
Two hours of a life granted more value.
Pained in the ass to be taking notes by rote,
blowing to pieces all in attendance (’course
not as good as Type O Negative).
Having to refrain from posed indifference as someone tries to steal your drummer,
I become momentarily a moshing mod.
And I’ll yell at Juani and the Mick
And I don’t have to work tomorrow.
Get Piazza (4) for the postseason.
(It’s been a long
time since the Gertish Besterium.)
Thanks for the green bracelet.
Though Jim wouldn’t like the tunes,
I do admit to having taped The X-Files,
as I just did some sit-ups and made February,
August. And still, I say it’s excellent,
asking if you (pl.) eat at Taco Bell how you (pl.) survive.
If there’s one thing I made sure of in life,
it’s that I’m never more than
a day away
from a lighter
(silhouetted shadows
playing on the wall
no longer need pan for gold).
L.M. Camiolo
You don’t want to end up like that one Bobby Hill meme, my therapist said,
but I’ll only have one drink, I think.
I think and then it’s 4 am
and I’m crying with smeared lipstick
and just one drink, I thought,
and I’m stuck in animation,
cracking open cold ones
with the boys until I’m hollow
as the bones of the dead bird
we find on the steps of the bar.
Last night’s greatest photos
are today’s hastily deleted posts
and I block the number of yet another
kiss I can’t remember.
I show my therapist self-deprecating memes
because I tell myself wounds
are best soothed by bottom text,
that relatable deflection will save me,
that any trauma can be a shitpost
if you just put your mind to it.
You don’t want to end up
like that one Bobby Hill meme,
my therapist said, yet here I am—
a viral sadness, sloppy lipstick,
a strange child, crying.
Huina Zheng
The Rabbit
Before my mother died, she bought me a rabbit so I would not feel alone. Its fur was so soft it reminded me of the inside of her wrist. Whenever I missed her, I pressed it against my chest and ran my fingers along the small bumps of its spine, pretending it was her hand patting my back.
One morning, I found it curled in the corner of the cage, its body already cold. Grandma said it had gone just as suddenly as my mother had. The night before, my mother was still reading me a picture book. The next day, she disappeared into the scream of brakes.
That afternoon, the heat pressed over the yard. Grandma skinned the rabbit outside while sweat ran down the back of her neck. She pulled the hide away whole. Then she stretched it under the sun to dry and tan. In the heat, the skin slowly tightened, then softened beneath her hands until she sewed it into a small handbag.
“Now it can stay with you forever,” she said.
I took the bag from her. The leather felt dry and soft against my palms. All right, I thought. This way it would never get sick, never be hurt in an accident, never vanish overnight. It would always stay white and soft, resting quietly in my hand.
K.R. Rose
"The Glaciers Left These for Us"
Simon Collinson
The End of the Eighties
In the excessive eighties,
everything was exciting,
flashing in bright blue neon,
with wavy, big hair.
we thought we could have it all,
as we listened to Duran Duran ,
on the walkman.
The neon faded away,
and now i’ve not got much hair.
Just the other day saw a smashed up rubik's cube,
lying by a cheap plastic gutter
surrounded by moss and weeds,
all jagged and pointy,
with only the red, yellow and green showing,
but all complete.
Ultimate triumph or frustration?
LMHO
“Chalk-Man”
"All right, Chalk-Man, spell it out for me."
Across the table, Detective Felt Tipps eyed me over his steaming mug. I shuddered at the sight of coffee. Liquids always went right through me.
The detective set down his cup. "So, you were-"
"Drawing the line between good and evil," I growled.
Tipps sprang up, going red.
"Don't give me your scripted hero bullshit, Chalk-Man!"
He slammed his palms on the table, sending searing droplets of coffee splattering across my arm. Where they made contact, my pallid, dry skin dissolved.
"Careful, Tipps," I said, dabbing the drops. "Weren't you just written up for assault?"
Tipps pointed.
"We've got your white rubbings all over the Presidential Wax Museum! You defaced art and history, Chalk-Man!"
I held my melting hand up. "Did you try cleaning it? Because my markswash right off."
The detective's throat dipped. "We did."
"Didn't work?"
He shook his head. "You're the only Pen Protector who writes in white."
I shrugged. "You've penciled in the wrong perp, detective."
Tipps sank back in his chair.
"Could we just… chalk this up to bad luck?" He asked.
"No."
I stood, leaving a powdery plume behind me. My dust and mind spun in tandem.
A white substance that didn't come off after washing it…
There was only one conclusion I could possibly draw.
Something must've clicked in the detective's mind too.
"The S'Harpie!" We exclaimed together.
Of all the colorful characters on Pen Island, the S'Harpie was the most permanent. No matter how many times I struck her out, she kept bleeding through.
And, this time, she'd gone white.
Now it was personal.
I cracked my knuckles, nearly breaking them. "She's gonna need a new palette, copper."
"Does it include black and blue?" The detective asked.
I nodded.
"Let's erase the ne'er-drew-well."
Paul Hostovsky
Good Cry
I hadn’t had one in years. I was
due. But the question was
where to have it, where to
do it? “You could do it here,”
said my therapist, taking in the tasteful
prints on the wall, the braided rug,
the upholstered sofa and chairs
with a wave of her upturned hand.
But that would feel like taking a dump
in the middle of your office, I thought
but did not say. “No,” I said, “I have to do it
alone.” “But that defeats the purpose—
a good cry is better when shared,” she said.
We both looked out the window then
at the gray day, the constipated sky.
There was a long silence. I could feel her
checking the time. It started to rain,
then changed its mind. “Our time
is up,” she said. So I went and sat in my car
and did it. And the people passed by
beneath their umbrellas. And the sidewalk
moaned. And the street lights flickered.
I felt cleansed. I felt wrung. That night,
when I told you about it, you told me
a little ruefully, that you wished it was something
we could have done together. And you wept a little.
And I wept a little with you. Which felt good.
But the one in the car was better.
The Story of the World
Praise the im-
provised, the im-
perfect, the jerry-
rigged, the jerry-
built, praise Jerry, who-
ever he was, a lands-
man after my own inept
broken heart,
which I keep trying to fix
with a little duct tape
and Elmer’s glue.
Praise Elmer, praise
the tacky, tottering half-
assed job, the un-
professional, the un-
reliable, the un-
stable and unsound. Praise
all the safety pins
and paper clips
and staples holding the story
of the world together,
a story that doesn’t hold up,
with its impossible plot
and vast cast of rickety
flawed characters,
every last one of us un-
believable.
R James Sennett Jr
Age
climbs the ladder,
rusted tools in hand,
trying to fix all
the broken parts
that were strewn everywhere
haphazardly impeding knowledge,
gnats in the eyes,
sexy distractions from important lessons.
But we kept safe
all the extracted tonsils
floating in jars.
Martin Fisher
Canal Static
Hoppin’ on Leeson Street—
Party 2026.
Rooftop gin,
the skyline tilting,
bangers tearing through
cans of Lilt.
Ramp it—Harcourt—
heels, chainmail,
satellites flashing
over cheap halos.
Uber to hell,
a quick Ryanair out—
terminal blur,
sunrise in our veins.
Champagne shaking
in the neck of the bottle,
dancing for the shots.
Take it up to Brum,
open the floodgates,
then down to the ’Ditch,
to Brickies—
reactors glowing,
Mandy and Mollie,
the city off its rails.
Just the canal
of howling sirens
reflecting nothing
at 5 a.m.
Gratitudes, Comments, and Credits
I fall in love with this project more each year. Glitter Gutter has been such a rewarding experience to curate. Thank you to the contributors and thank you for reading, looking, and exploring Trash Wonderland.
-KL
"The Glaciers Left These for Us" by K.R. Rose showcases glacial ledges in Acadia National Park.
L.M. Camiolo’s work has most recently appeared in Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo, Troublemaker Firestarter, Genrepunk, and the 2024 Moonstone Arts Featured Poets Anthology. Outside of poetry, her interests include horror, hauntology, and antiquing for oddities. Originally from New York, she currently lives and writes in Philadelphia. Find more at beacons.ai/lmcamiolo.
Stephen Ground is a writer, filmmaker, and picture-taker based in Treaty Six Territory [Edmonton, Canada].
otto LA is a writer, musician, and professional coffee snob based in Durham, NC. Raised by the internet on the West Coast, otto writes about masculine love, parasocial relationships, and their love-affair with online culture.
LMHO is a Kansas-born creative. She dabbles in various artistic mediums, from performance art to the written word. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Elegant Literature, Midnight Magazine, Twisted Magazine publications. At any given time, she's probably laughing her head off.
A self-taught photographer, Vishaal Pathak’s work has appeared in Juste Milieu Zine, Moiramor, Arkana, Stonecoast Review, The Inquisitive Eater, Welter, Moonlit Getaway, Quibble Lit, Union Spring Literary Review, Reservoir Road Literary Review and Another Chicago Magazine.
Simon Collinson is a ND writer from England. He is a member of the All Seasons writing group. He will be publishing a collection of contemporary Gothic poetry later this year. he seeks stillness and solitude.
Damien Farley from NJ is not a writer and is currently asleep in his living room chair with an unpaid Verizon bill on the coffee table before him. His poems recently appeared or are forthcoming in Maudlin House, Folly, The Quasar Review, Pink Ochre Magazine, Fast Pop Lit, orb speaks, Discretionary Love, Dirt Freckles, Rat’s Ass Review, and Soup Can Magazine.
Martin Fisher has worked across Africa and Europe and now lives in the UK, where he gardens for a living. His poems have appeared in Antae, JMWW, Ink Sweat & Tears, and other journals.
Shannon Wagoner (they/them) is a writer, photographer, and early childhood educator living in Charlottesville, Virginia. More of their work can be found at linktr.ee/shanwagoner and you can find them on Instagram and Substack @shanwagoner.
Submissions are OPEN for the next issue of Trash Wonderland, more info here. For upcoming issues, sub calls, and surprises: Trash Wonderland Newsletter.