Review by Julie Carpenter
My Xanthi is a timely story of family love, immigration, and political violence. It’s the story of
one woman’s ability to live through unspeakable tragedy make the terrible choices that follow.
There’s a lot to love in this slim volume, a novella that punches far above its weight - a depth of
discovery bigger than the words that fill the book, as the narrator considers the nuances of
justice and the consequences of violence as they interact over generations and places.
On Narrative and Comfort Books
by Jarad Johnson
There’s nothing quite like a familiar book, is there? You open the cover, and you’re immediately
transported back to a different time. Not only through the story you’re reading, but to the time
you originally read it. One of the reasons I think that we love certain books so much is that they
capture a moment or memory of when we were happier, unburdened, or content. So, when we re-
read that book, we are taken back to that time and to that mindset.
Parking Lots, Bars, and Falling Stars
Sweet Anne Marie
by Roy Peak
Three things right off the bat about Pennsylvanian indie-folk artist Sweet Anne Marie that I liked before I even heard her music:
In her press photos she seems a bit awkward and to me that's an adorable selling point. She's not afraid of the Oxford comma—also a good thing. And lastly, she has a song titled "Retrograde," beating me to the punch on that one. Sweet Anne Marie, my hat is off to you. Oh, and she plays a really cool Gretsch hollow body electric guitar!
Love in Vain
I wish I didn’t know you were dead.
These things escape notice
when we are lucky.
Better to remember an awkward embrace,
or a dark motel room in Georgia,
an inexpensive lunch
of fish and pickles,
a certain October day,
the two of us beer drunk, laughing,
or your face, briefly serious,
a cigarette held carelessly
between two fingers.
I wish I could knock on some door
and you would answer
and be glad to see me,
that I could walk through that door
and say you are beautiful,
to follow like your shadow
to where you are.
Thoughts Over Coffee,
Looking Out My Window.
by Jarad Johnson
I don’t particularly enjoy living in an apartment.
I mean, it’s fine I guess, but I’d much rather be in a house with a large garden (If any attractive rich men with estates are available, call me - it will be best if you travel and I can be in the house alone from 50-90% of the time.)
A Modern Hobo Story
by Charles Whaley III
by Roy Peak
If you've ever been sitting in your car at a railroad crossing, waiting for a train to pass by, and wondered just what would it be like to hop that train and travel across the country, busking for money, living off the kindness of strangers at truck stops and convenient marts, sleeping in the wide open, then Ohioan Charles Whaley, also sometimes known as Captain Chucke, has a book just for you.
Musings From A Park Bench
I saw a man in the park the other day claiming that he was God. He was yelling loudly at some park employees looking in a pond for some lost jewelry. “It’s in the treasury!” He proclaimed. “I’m the Lord!” Even the ducks looked perturbed.
I never know what to do in these situations, except to take my cue from our government and try to pretend it isn’t happening. However, I do remember thinking, “I always thought the Holy Father would be better dressed than that.” Maybe a suit and tie? Or long flowing robes? Even a beard? This was the same day I had car trouble, so perhaps I shouldn’t have judged so harshly. God would’ve been of more use to me that day If he had been a mechanic, not a screaming man I hurried to avoid. Mysterious ways, I guess.
Poe as a Gardener
One singular daffodilly did,
Poke up its little yellow head
In the second month of the year,
And though the clime was drear, crisped, withered and sear,
The little dear brought some cheer to my demeanor.
In the parlor of the manor, in this very haunted house,
Daffodilly hunted by the music of the spheres
Vivacious, and insatiable.
The Drowning House
by John Sibley Williams
Review by Julie Carpenter
I once had a dream that I lived in a huge, malevolent, haunted house. The house was a Victorian. Initially, I was charmed but the house soon became violent, flinging objects at my head, turning stairs into slides. Dream Me knew that if I didn’t come to terms with the spirits in the house, it would kill me, but dream logic demanded that I remain in the house. Ultimately, I took a terrifying trip to the graveyard to speak with the ghosts of two children who died there. They needed to be avenged, and more than that, they needed to be heard.
Hey Chickens! I received this message from fellow writer Kate Doucouré. She has allowed me to reprint it here. I don't think there's much to add. This is a call for submissions - your chance to express yourself and help out with a fundraiser. Submissions are due by July 31st.
There's an email link below. Get to it!
Mother Warfare is calling all writers, web designers and artists: female, non-binary, trans, or female identifying, uterus havers or former uterus havers of all ages to contribute to the project Jess Mann and I have cooked up. Mother Warfare which will either be a website art/lit collection with a donation button to an abortion fund or several abortion funds- a purchase to print journal through amazon (or a better print on demand service) with all money going to an abortion fund/s, or a website and print edition.
Please submit poems, short stories, art work, comics, or essays about how you feel now that we've lost our rights, and musings along those lines. Previously unpublished and published authors welcome, first prints or previously printed works welcome!
No payments for work, this is a fundraiser!
Email submissions to:
Below is my contribution:
I've never felt like a woman.
born with a muzzle on my face
am I really non binary
or is it just the endless grooming towards woman that I detest
put a skirt on me
and I can't run
our fashion binds and
keeps in place
endless thoughts about our face
things we can't change
and now we can't
choose our life
child birth and parenthood
is amazing but it eats up
for centuries woman were the weaker sex not because we were less intelligent
or couldn't handle pain
but because any time you got into a relationship you could get pregnant and DIE
or years wiped from your life feeding and caring for your child over and over as you pop babies out
the revolution happened
with birth control
no wonder they're
taking it back
how do you stop woman
from gaining equality?
make it impossible to
chose what you spend
your life doing
they groom us
to be quiet, not shrill, demure
keep your legs together
and constantly caretake everyone around you
they train us to take care of
men and not complain
and worry all the time if we're attractive to them
do we have a summer body?
In rejecting the dresses, the frill, the quiet voice- embracing the rage and
not caring if i'm dainty
am I non-binary
or anti patriarcy??
Fucking White Men