 PC: Amy KrenciusLet's Talk About The PastI tell her that I used to be afraid of ghosts, of the shadows on the wall but eventually of nothing at all. I spent all this time believing in tangible spectres but this evening, in reluctant confrontation with my reflection, I felt the dread pour into me. Marble faced, she nods and scrawls. What are your goals for this - mumbling why do I feel like a squatter in my own skin, lived and not lived in. When was the last time you - time. if we’re talking about time, we are assuming a linearity, that selves don’t flit in and out like hesitant adolescents tripping over their own hopes. She operates in questions, I operate in never finding replies that adequately satisfy those numbered questionnaires. On a scale of 1 to 5, how often do you experience this? I don’t know if I can quantify this estrangement in numbers nor tell you that I’m haunting myself, a parasitic guest without an expiry date. I leave before I infect her with this disease of dissolution. Little pieces of a self, transparent and uncomfortably flimsy, are scattered on the floor. About the Author - Georgie WhiteheadGeorgie Whitehead is 19 years old and a student of English Literature at Oxford University. She is Fiction Editor for the ISIS Magazine in Oxford and a contributor to her college arts journal.
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 PC: Lexi JudeAn Unfinished Story Told Through InkIn my mind I see A story told through ink With thoughts created by me Told through images that link When the moon rose Life shifted And as the darkness grows I get lifted Trying to get away From this reality that leaves me astray when the shine goes away The floor becomes wet From all the tears washed away Inside the books filled with regret A dark tunnel that has no end I hold my darkness in my hands There’s much pain to mend But there’s always a light at the end The sun above my shoulder Proves I am a soldier in a battle dodging boulders There are places much colder In my mind i see A story told through ink With thoughts created by me Told through images that link When the moon sank The sun shined My ink went blank It’s time to see what’s on this side. About the Author - Jacinda AlmonteJacinda Almonte is a writer with a passion. She believes what makes writing, art, and music so special is the expression and message in the work. Through her writing, she's learned that she can take people into a world of her own, a space that could become a place of their own. Her goal is for people to see the world through her eyes when they read her work, whether it’s taking them away from reality or showing them a better way to live in reality.  PC: Jeanine LeblancreleaseImagine a cold room monitors beeping, the scent of disinfectant is awash and thick and anxiety like heavy chemicals seep into your senses. Imagine you wake up bodies in white coats and face masks mill about and there is no sound of clicking heels or pens or whispered assurances. Imagine screaming mouth open, sleep breath released and no sound comes to express your feelings. Imagine looking around darkness greets you; a welcome home party after the cops come and you can’t get out of bed. Imagine you can change the scene decide happiness is for you, loneliness makes you angry and anger is not welcome in this home of your body. Imagine two options blue pill, red pill and one is the be-all and end-all: the other flings you recklessly down the rabbit hole. Imagine meeting Alice finding out the matrix is real and wondering if experience is what makes things worthy. Imagine fading light going out, illusions abounding and no one can save you. Imagine loving so desperately and completely and holding onto promises and hope and tomorrows. Imagine a cold room always below zero and two options. Imagine if only for a minute that red shot happiness through your chest and like your blood circulating sparked plugs of fulfillment pushing the darkness out if only for a minute. Imagine experiencing that minute on repeat infinitely and what does it look like if not release. About the Author - Gervanna StephensGervanna is a Jamaican poet and proud Slytherin with congenital amputation living in Canada. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in Mojave Heart, Empty Mirror, The /tƐmz/, Bone & Ink, TERSE, & WusGood.black,. She hates public speaking, has two sisters who are better writers than her & thinks unicorns laugh when we say they aren’t real.  PC: Amy KrenciusThu'ummy words enlarge, energize weakness, changing a world, who pretends it can't be changed. the body weakens, diseases encroach, medicines maintain, feebleness accepted. my words remain strong, fierce & life-filled, surging with vitality that kills dragons. life enduring for a blink in eternity's eye, lengthened by my words changing reality to my wishes. my words are locked chests filled with gems of power hidden throughout space & time. left on the bus, tucked in a book, encountered everywhere in every form. I am at your elbow while you read my words connecting us forever. I will still hear your obvious argument, even though I may not remain in this body. yes we all know it's true! words are not the same as actions. but they are endued with energy that changes things. even now they contend with you explaining why you aren't as smart as you think you are. my words are symbols; ancient runes chiseled into stone, packed with sequences of truths value systems built atom by atom audible vibrations moving through meat & bone, contractions of wind, resonating into common frequential forms we are half-breeds; chimeras of animal & spirit subject to distraction endued with the breath of the Divine. reaching… adjuring… pursuing... words eventually spurring us on to become who we dream we could be. The Voicethe source of the voice is not seen in the open office arrangement it surrounds us. the white noise generators above us in the ceiling diminish its effect but there are times it pierces the low pitched whoosh like a hollow point bullet tearing through soft tissue carrying more than waves of sound each word phrase sentence is packed with complex data packets of complete emotional turmoil: the unfairness of it all the lack of respect hopelessness suffering anxiety anger the tone becoming frenetic increasing in rate rising in frequency as if life will end without communicating all of the pain within soon becoming unbearable the entire sadness of the world expressed in one voice downloading through our tired ears infecting our weary souls About the Author - John HomanJohn Homan is a poet and percussionist from the small town of Bend, Oregon.
A graduate of Indiana University, John's work has appeared in Chiron Review, Mojave Heart Review, and Quatrain.fish among others. John lives in Elkhart Indiana with his wife, daughter and two cats.  PC: Amy Krencius Asylumyou discover you are the only one in your family to never be locked in a madhouse of blues is it sanity or fluke? in your family to never be hummingbirds fill the garden is it sanity or fluke you never grew a peach? hummingbirds fill the garden and the wild tangle beyond the fence you never grew a peach that turned a dime, but you gorged and the wild tangle beyond the fence the silver twist of salmon in mid-air turning on a dime. And you gorge on a finding of hermit thrushes the silver twist of salmon in mid-air locked in a madhouse of blues on a finding of hermits, rushing to discover you are the only one About the Author - Kim GoldbergKim Goldberg is the author of seven books of poetry and nonfiction. She lives in a 1940s miner's cottage on Vancouver Island, immersed in the healing matrices of garden, forest and shoreline.  PC:Amy KrenciusIn the darknessof half light from an early autumn moon I throw out a dragline snag the thorn of a last rose, a spike of lupine build a wheel to hold my rounding a certain trembling will alert me to observe the moth closely her sudden lack of freedom too late to go back In The Doctor's OfficeI decide to buy you a book composite people Finns and Greeks Italians some stick people a tribal genealogy I cannot compose this business of outliving my mother an obsession tilting toward rage but nothing happens in this perfect room where I practice pronouncing five-word names count pillows perfect chairs deconstruct solids prints About the Author - Pat AnthonyPat Anthony writes the backroads, often inspired by soil and those that work it. Using land as lens she mines characters, relationships and herself. A longtime educator recently retired, she holds an MA in Humanities Literature, Cal State, among others, poems daily, edits furiously and scrabbles for honesty no matter the cost. She has work published or forthcoming in Cholla Needles, Heron Tree, Nature Writing, Quail Bell, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Review, The Avocet, The Courtship of Winds, Open Minds Quarterly, Orchard Street Press, Passager, Red Wolf Journal, Snakeskin, Awkward Mermaid and others.
 PC: Jeanine LeblancSpinal TapThere is a pocket Packed purple Giggling, a brown girl’s Skipping the pits Hollow hollow This body Deep puddles Deep muscles Swallowing Needles pine in bundles I think drip (my nose) A bleed so cherry-locked The backsplash can taste And it’s a crime scene Of those same boy parts Their tongues flickering Thirsty watch them rim This body Wolf cinnamon. rigor mortis Watch me Sex poetry party Just mix moods in that throat That throat That throat A rifle opening this floor Talking BodyThe blue sequins line my silhouette as tight as scales hug the flesh of snakes. They exhale around my hips and take a deep breath at my thighs. The mesh caressed me slow as I stepped into the dress before, but now, it claws into my back, hemming itself to my spine. The beads wrap over and fade into my breasts like lovers’ entwined fingers when they know it is love. I run my hands over my heavily sutured stomach following the complex in and out weaving until it bends under my bones. Soon I would walk a stage drowning in harsh lights with the growling gossip of pearly teethed pageant queens on all ends. I gaze at the flickering reds. They bounce from the chimes that hang above the mirror in my dressing room. The chimes sound off like fairies tittering in my ears. I turn, retracting my protruding shoulder blades like a plane’s wheels. I run off the platform with the voices of strangers, the women who dressed me, throwing the word love at my feet. But love gets caught in the train of this dress that falls seamlessly behind me, climbs up and down my calves, burdens me with the excess skin I want to lose. About The Author - AHJA FOXAhja Fox is a poet obsessed with bodies/ body parts (specifically the throat). Her tagline is ‘#suicidebywriting’ and her muses are dead things found among the living. Ahja can be found around Denver reading at various events and open mics or co-hosting at Art of Storytelling. She has recently decided to end her educational hiatus and is going for her BA in English-Literature/Creative Writing at UCD. She publishes in online and print journals like Five:2:One, Driftwood Press, Rigorous, Noctua Review, SWWIM , Tuck Magazine, and more. She has also recently been included in the 2018 Punch Drunk Anthology. |
