Out to Lunch

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Nobody watched the news anymore; she found out about the drought from an LED sign on the freeway that routinely advised her not to drink and drive.

“Serious drought,” the sign said.

“You don’t say,” she replied. She turned up her stereo to sing louder to her favorite song.

“HELP SAVE WATER,” the sign demanded.

She nodded and continued on her way. In her rearview mirror the sign shook its fist in her direction. She never paid a glance behind her.

“Excuse me, miss, can you spare some change?”

“Sorry,” she said and continued walking down the boulevard.

“God bless you.”

She rolled her eyes at the thought.

“Excuse me miss, we’re looking for a signature to help stop the demolition of a local forest—”

“Sorry,” she lied and continued on her way.

Cars sped by at the speed of light. A simple blink and their existence would have never been known. She continued into her favorite shop. She pulled out her plastic card.

“Would you like to add a piece of jewelry to your purchase for only 5.99 more?”


She excitedly tried on rings until one of them fit her fancy.

“Good choice,” the clerk said, “enter your pin for me please.”

She complied with a swift hand motion.

It was all hers now.

the morning is when i love you best


your skin smells like damp cedar wood, fallen in a forest,
and I know the answer to that age old question;
when a tree falls in the woods, it makes a noise and
it’s the sound of my insides crashing in on themselves,
fearing these moments cannot be pasted into my memory
like a scrapbook with designed paper and glittery stickers,
reminding me beauty always remains despite the ugly.

I’ll stamp flowers and sprinkle crushed pinecones
inside the books you have bought me. They are tiny pieces
of you. It’s a small reminder of you.

And when your brow furrows in dream, it appears as if
all your responsibilities and finite time have crept over your skin,
reminding you that our love is no match for time.
When we least expect it, when we least desire it, there will be an end
to us. In the creases of your worries are clusters of freckles
like baby constellations overlooked by our greatest astronomers.
I see landscapes, animals, and I see gods playing there,
singing and dancing there, underneath my fingertips while I attempt
to draw the curvature of your face in the air.

We do not have much money. We have none at all, and though
your pockets are empty and there are holes in mine, I still create
from what little I have. Your aura and my finger will have to do.

I hope you don’t mind that I kiss the line of your spine or
bite the rounded edges of your shoulder blades. Think of them
as love bites – as bookmarks in time where I could not get enough of
you. I’m making my mark, exploring new territories in the morning sun
before high noon. Each turn around a valley, and my senses vibrate
within themselves each time I feel the slow rhythmic sway
and warm pulsations. I feel both lost at sea and miraculously found.
Amazing grace, how sweet is our sound. I feel saved.

Reasons to Never Return

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 a collaborative poem by the Paper Plane Pilots

Tamed (Edited) by Nicholas Gagnier


Desert sun in my
conscience, trying to find what
the devil and I still
have in

forty days and thirty-
nine nights of
mirages and

heaven-sent heat.

The world around me
swells and fades—
transient, impermanent—
fleeing this caustic hell
while I am left to wallow.

(No oasis
so far to absolve
me of arid expanse)

Vision blurs under
heavy feet trudging as
I try not to collapse,
attempt to evade
mandatory concession.
in their
of withering imagery .

A small part of me asks if it had to end this way. The rest of me
knows better—knows willpower prolonging the inevitable fall, but

Some things
leave no room for error.

The match dwindles,
and beads of sweat,
burning fists on blazing sand,
red jerry cans against my ankle,
empty thuds against bony nubs

relentless heat a
blistering reminder,

dripping down to dwell
in pools of tears
collecting on my cheek.

I’ll always remember
the last beckoning scream of
that burning succubus
I left behind.

The devil tips
his fedora, its brim
filled with
red ants.
Breath fresh
with gin, his
black-tooth gaps
filled with weeds

and wasps,

eyes sticky with
black tar.

He says,

“Come with me, you’ll never
work a day in your

Sit with me, and count
the ashes that gather,
former flowers arranged in
colourless piles.

Let’s paint with fingers in the dust,
mark our faces with charcoal pride to match the
dusk, because contrast is over-rated.

But you must
promise me to remember all those
reasons to

never return.”

I may have lost my direction, for
his offer tempts me.

when something displeased
left me out here
to lay with the stars.

I am nothing.

Never a struggling man
or wanderer looking for a home,
just Lucifer’s first human contact in
a thousand years,
the Scorpion’s meal,
triple threat watered down
by mounting moral debt at

the world’s end.

Ascension of dead weight,
a hundred hands, fingertips curling,
unfurled from the grave,
roots of the living, rot of the dying.

There’s nothing here worth saving.

Little reminders of where we have been—
a squatter’s shack under which the sun attacked
the moon, its fires
a blight on desert

Light up those walls and blow down that roof,
the moment says, and I, in twisted acceptance,
let the flames echo through me
now, like blood skies
so profound,
poetic, so
fucking proud.

Supernovas pierce my mother’s eyes,
wilts small strength I learned from
my father,

my peace upon the altar of kindle and
kindness and calm.

I’m ready to burn it all
down, in lieu of a ring on the
devil’s third,

his for all eternity,
a heretic even Heaven couldn’t

I’m pebbles of ash with no
reason to ever return.

Reasons to Never Return now available on Kindle!

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Just a quick message to all the eBook people out there—we didn’t forget about you! Reasons to Never Return is now available on Kindle. If virtual text is your thing, don’t you worry, you can add us to your collection right here!

Ace out!




Back in 2012, a group of six or so friends and I sat together at a hookah bar and discussed making a home for our writing. Mostly, all of the writing concocted went unseen unless emailed to a friend or two for advice. The writing sat collecting virtual dust on hard drives—waiting for that moment to be sent out into the world and be appreciated by additional thirsty eyes. A month or so later, a website was launched. At first, it was initially just to get all of the writers and artists I knew together to have an online workshop where they can share and comment on each other’s work. The work was no longer homeless. With a destination we began cranking out more work. The proper motivation was set in place.

Slowly, over time, I began recruiting other writers, some from across the U.S. and Canada that I’d met through WordPress, others I’d met in Los Angeles through daily living (classes, parties, etc.). Eventually, the idea of starting up a publishing company began to germinate in my mind. Of course, like most thoughts, the idea itched at me until finally all of the research seemed to align and the process finally began.

Now two and a half years later, it is with great honor and pleasure to announce the release of Paper Plane Pilot Publishing’s first anthology Reasons to Never Return. This anthology is a collection of poetry, prose, short stories, and flash fiction by fifteen Paper Plane Pilot voices ranging from traditional to experimental writing.

Thank you so much for your continued readership. Without your support, our work would have no home.


-Sara Khayat


To learn more about each writer, visit our about us page.

To view or purchase Reasons to Never Return click the image below.



3 year 2 months


Things you have taught me:
How to play the lottery
How to light a fire place with the stove
How to separate business from personal life
How to speak to your elders 
When to use your card
When to use cash
How to treat a house guest
How to cook a good steak dinner
How to not assume
How to drive a stick shift
What horses to pick at the races
How to take a shot of tequila “the right way”
What to say when you get pulled over
When to stop talking
What it feels like to be left with no explanation
How it feels to be heart broken
You’ve taught me a lot
I will remember it all
One thing you didn’t teach me
Was how to forget you

A Dedication to The Sexiest Man I Know


He does not know that he is beautiful. He wakes up,

smiles, eyes blue, not that cliché “blue as the sky crap,”

but the kind of blue that makes you remember

the first time that you saw clear crisp ocean water,


the kind of ocean that they only

advertise on the Royal Caribbean commercials,

the kind of blue that invades sea sand tans and inhabits

the textured green strokes of seaweed.

He is a painting that could only be painted by the hands

of stardust and supernova explosions. A beauty

that could only be admired in Greek sculptures,

the very image of Achilles himself.


If we have evolved from apes, God must have

taken the most divine ape and

molded his evolution to excellence,


a man that has been put together carefully by hand,

pieced together, stitched as if a quilt was being made

to fit the very patterns of the Earth’s terrain.


And let me not forget about his mind,

the type of mind that creates things

like E = mc2

he didn’t make that up but if he

could have, he would.


The type of mind that if it were

physically capable to visualize

I would think of the Himalayas,


Ha Long Bay,

places that are treasures to the world.


Don’t think I forgot about his soul.

It’s what I think about when I visualize

a heart beating, pumping blood vessel

to vessel, feeding life

vein by vein.




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