Issuu

Summer Quarterly, 2025: Issue 13

The GGP Collective

Bio: Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".

“Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.” Franz Kafka

Acknowledgments A very special thank you to all of our contributing writers. Without the courage to share your words and work with others, our little publication could not exist. Please find our contributors and follow their pages on social media for more! Follow @glassgatespublishing on Instagram for more announcements and future calls for submissions ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

Violetta Von Stella k.c. powles Ella B. Winters Amy Osella D. G. Rosales Debarati Saha Laveena Serra Justin Marlowe N.C. Beverly M. Collins Chelsea Jordan Paweł Markiewicz Jim Krosschell Glenn Marchand Adam Brooks John Dennis David Keane Stephen Mead William Doreski John Swafford Jane Rosenberg LaForge Gary Beck Claudia Wysocky Sahana Vijay Maja Wolfe Donna McCabe Lucia Tasadu Kritika Choudhary Matthew Ellis Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith

Table of Contents ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

dichotomy Null. A fox earth trophy wives Happy Monday, Everyone! Summer in my sips Instead, You Become the Light Paradox of the Ocean Current When the Veil Lifted Soft Encounters June The statue of Apollo through the marvelous night 1056 Bates Street Heart Motion 162 CHESTER FIREFLIES Untitled Trees in Endless Blossom The Axis of our Universe Night-time boxer Snow in Los Angeles Brief Grasp Paper Birds Tuesdays and Rain Four sisters A Woman of Substance The Theater Mask The housewives department I pledge allegiance What I Know

dichotomy

i am everybody i am nobody

the heavenly sweep of angel wings and the tender kiss of Death

a quivering touch vowing to haunt you for lifetimes

a waltz in your heart and flame in your eyes

i am the salt in the wound that never heals but I will wipe away your tears

i am everything i am nothing

Violetta Von Stella

Bio: Violetta Von Stella chases wonder, whimsy, and magic through the power of her pen. Based in Metro Detroit, she invites her words to dance between the real and imagined. You can find her on musings on Instagram @willowsbookapothecary.

Null. He takes She takes They take Until there’s nothing left to give But somehow they find more Feeling empty, void, parched Unable to go on And yet they still find more to pillage She says she’s running on empty, Has no energy No resources left to recharge… And they “hear her” And they “listen” And they “understand” And they say “you need to save some for yourself” And yet He takes She takes They take And she, alone, has to figure out how to go on. Void. k.c. powles

Bio: Rachel Turney, Ed.D. (she/her) is an educator and artist located in Denver. Her poems, research articles, drawings, and photography can be found in a variety of publications. Rachel is passionate about immigrant rights, teacher support, and empowering other artists. She is a Writers’ Hour prize winner and her photography can be found on a few magazine covers. Poetry Lighthouse will publish her full-length collection Record Player Life later this year. Her disappearing digital chapbook Europe in Black and White is available on Blood + Honey at bloodhoneylit.com during August 2025. Keep writing and please connect on socials! Website: turneytalks.com Instagram: @turneytalks Bluesky: @rachelturney

A fox earth A fox runs along the road. What else is there to do when your home is taken, when your home is on fire. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The dust becomes your home. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with the putrid remnants of your childhood, growing cancerous with silence. You pile dirt around you, spit from a parched tongue. You try to earth yourself up, make a shelter from the dirt and spit, a home. For dirt you are, and to dirt you shall return. The road runs out. The fox stops running. Still eyes, like oil stains, stare directly, remembering no mercy. Ella B. Winters

Bio: Ella B. Winters (she/they) is a social worker, writer, and double immigrant, currently living on the South-East coast of England with her partner and a sausage dog. Her work often explores themes of identity and locating yourself in the world. She is working on her PhD in Health Science. Instagram: @ella.b.winters

trophy wives watch the fawn on unsteady legs wobble to the edge of the wood torn between curiosity and fear I silently urge it to accept both to not stick to one path, but walk along many an envy so green so winding wraps my throat, deprives me of speaking aloud verbal warning that trees uproot and rivers dry up open meadows carry flowers and hidden rifles that lay waiting still I don’t wish to see her head mounted beside mine, nothing more than Amy Osella

Bio: Amy Osella is a Brooklyn poet whose work delves into the complications of grief and the evolutions that come with it. Her work can be found at @_dropsofpoetry_ on Instagram and @amyosella on Substack.

Happy Monday, Everyone! I used to laugh at people like them. “The end is nigh,” they'd shout from crowded corners— Signs in hand, Bibles, crosses. Trying to save the souls who dared make eye contact. I don’t walk into the streets. My pulpit glows blue, holy light of sleepless hours. My thoughts write gospel. Thumbs hit share. My pews fill with Likes; The chamber echoes: Despair. I'm afraid of being afraid. That inaction means consent. Should I stay and fight? Should I run? My son deserves not to be afraid— That calling me papá might tear him from my arms, that a stranger in ared hat and a bulletproof vest will make him disappear. ...Or me.

But the tightness won't leave. My lungs starve. I don’t laugh at them anymore. They don’t have to wipe their tears before this next Zoom call. “Happy Monday, everyone!”

D.G. Rosales

Bio: D.G. Rosales is a Guatemalan-born writer based in North Carolina. He holds an MBA from Elon University and a degree in Applied Physics from Appalachian State University. When he’s not managing projects or writing, he’s likely chasing his toddler through the local bookstore during Storytime. His work appears in the Voices of the Modern Diaspora issue of Variety Pack.

Summer in my sips Those long-awaited summer recesses, a bunch of homework, Broken bat cricket matches, Clay-laden tiny hands, Moulding vision niches. Under the warmth of golden rays, Mysterious games, in shades of the Banyan trees, Listening to Bikram & Betal stories, sleeping on Amma's lap, Feeling the grass beneath the feet, And lying down to watch the birds and kites flying free, Sighting colourful butterflies on flowers. While thoughts drift like cirrus wisps. Bliss in the taste of ma's khichuri, Mashed raw mangoes, kuler Aacher (Ber Pickle) on summer afternoons. And the smell of the season's first kalboishakhi (summer storm). Fear of lightning and passion for floating dreams in a paper boat. When the power goes out, The scary black ghosts in a clump of coconut leaves, Listening to stories while lying down on a sital pati (cool mat) in the yard, To the songs of Jhi Jhi insects, and the flickering light of fireflies. Now, summer comes, Memories unfold with a kiss on a cup of warm evening tea, And sometimes getting immersed in the scent of a novel, My paper boats have sailed, leaving fragrances of an endless childhood. Debarati Saha

Bio: Debarati Saha is from India. She is particularly interested in the nature, mental health, grief. Her published works are in multiple anthologies, Glass Gate Publications, etc. She pursued a B.Sc. and M.Sc. in Geography, with a focus on Applied Geomorphology, and qualified for the National Eligibility Test for Junior Research Fellowship and the West Bengal State Eligibility Test for Assistant Professor. She is a septicemia survivor and is currently paralysed with Guillain-Barré syndrome.

Instead, You Become the Light

To pick up your favourite stones and place them neatly on the night sky to make your own constellation. Name it after you. Instead, you are uprooted by giant claws like you were mere weed. You pick up your sack and move across lands like a wind-swept traveller following the familiar scent to wrap around you like home. Instead, you let yourself get flayed. Set afire until you no longer remember your name. Instead, you collect hearts from the wishing fountain, place them on the altar in the temple you built. Oh! To see them turn to stones! Instead, river flows through your ribs and flowers sway from your arms, outstretched to meet the sky. Instead, the promised land finds you, enshrines you in the light, so brilliant - no land has seen before.

Laveena Serra

Bio: Laveena Serra is a Mumbai-based poet; housewife, a loving mother of two. With a background in mental health and a passion for literature, she brings a unique voice to the world of poetry. Holding an M.Phil in Psychiatric Social Work and a Master's degree in English Literature, her poems often delve into social issues, personal growth, and emotional resilience and explore the complexities of human experience. Her poetry has been featured in Poetic Reveries magazine, Glass Gate Publishing Quarterly, the 'Eternal Flames – Tales of Romance' anthology (co-author, Sept 2024), and short articles in the local parish magazine 'Communique'. You can read her work on Instagram - @myblue_shadow.

Artist: Irina Tall (Novikova)

Paradox of the Ocean Current An abnormality draped behind a veil of pristine elegance. The moon was an integral participant. Off kilter beauty wrapped inside an immaculate seashell. The primary term; “looking.” A delightful outer core. A peculiar being cloaked within ornate colors and exquisite earthly design. An enigma lacking candor, and therefore, tears ensued. Not necessarily from the subject, but from loved ones. The paradox of the ocean current, as the shell rocked back and forth. I can’t do without, but I must. I can’t, but can I?…what is necessary for my own fulfillment? Hesitancy persisted with regularity. Virtue and dread were withheld, enclosed by a mirage. The paradox of the ocean current, as the shell rocked back and forth. A facade, yes, but one which had been determined beneficial by the narrator. A fruitful contradiction, maybe? Eventually, gone too soon, without answers; lost amongst the abyss of the sea. Hopefully located and placed within an affectionate home;...hopefully. Increased candor still warranted unfulfillment, and while it persisted, tears ensued. The paradox of the ocean current, as the shell rocked back and forth.

Justin Marlowe

Bio: Justin Marlowe is an author who currently lives in Fredericksburg, Virginia. His pronouns are he/him. After embarking on a career as a writer, he’s been fortunate enough to have his memoir, “Perfect Strangers: Echoes of a Black Suburban Youth,” published, as well as three of his poems; one within the World Poetry Collective’s, “Poets of a New Generation” compilation, another within the BIPOC centered Literary magazine, “Alma Lit,” and finally one with the UK’s, “The Lost Letter Project.” While building a solid portfolio of published work is never easy in such a competitive industry, Justin is on a fast track toward success and notoriety. You can follow him on instagram at @JmarloweWrites.

When the Veil Lifted I walked once beneath the aching sky— where the clouds peeled back like skin from bone, revealing heaven’s pulse in streaks of gold and charcoal. The wind didn’t speak; it screamed, hurling leaves like prayers torn too soon from branches, and I knew— this wasn’t chaos. It was choreography.

I saw Him in the shattered light spilling through the cracked cathedral of eucalyptus, each beam a benediction on my bare shoulders, and I felt smaller than breath— but held.

The ocean roared with a voice too vast for language, waves slamming into shore like desperate saints knocking on the door of understanding. Even the ants, marching with militant devotion across dirt that glowed with the sweat of God, carried His will in their unknowable patterns.

And then— you.

Not as thunder, not as fire, but as the stillness after. The moment a storm sighs and the air smells clean enough to start again. Your eyes— not blue, not brown, not green— but the color of roots, of something deep and necessary. I saw the Maker in the soft gravity of your smile. He was not up high then, but close— in the warmth of your palm against mine, in your laughter folded like linen in my ears.

He blessed me not with miracle, but with you— a soul stitched together from stardust and shadow, strong enough to cradle all my becoming. And I knew: He made the universe for me to find Him, then made you so I would never forget where to look.

N. C.

Soft Encounters While on a summer stroll, a curved path led me to a rippling pond. Messages danced in water’s movement, curly words called out to soften my expression. Maybe, I will remember this moment at midnight As I kick the covers, punch emotions that fold inward like a spiral. Will I think of these colors that wave and distract from beliefs that fill one’s shoulders with tension?

Sometimes, I pace and drink water at night more from habit than thirst. Tiny sips that do not extinguish the desire to make a splash. Is this a cushion for the coming day? A shield for parts of myself unready for new impact?

I once overheard someone say that a know-it-all may appear as a disruptive student. The classroom stirs awareness that they do not know-it-all. Control freaks can become aggressive drivers or full of anxiety on the roads. As they are consumed with futile longing to rule other motorists.

What can be said about a feel-it-all person? They bite their jaws, anguished by sounds and sweating when emerged in too much silence. How can they navigate spiked edges, sudden scrapes from this prickly world?

Beverly M. Collins

June And a moment happens. The kind where you wish you could freeze it, replay it over and over, like vinyl spinning in your mind. Yet you know you have exactly ten minutes to bask in the subtle beauty of it. It's you and me, just after dusk, staring out at a painted sky. Fireflies dance before our eyes, lighting up the fields with their blinking yellow beams. These little bugs make me nostalgic for so many little things. And I look over at you— the handsome, grown version of the boy I loved at seventeen. And I smile, because I know I'll always love you, even when you give someone else your ring.

Some kinds of love aren't pictured in storybooks; you just know that they're always there— in the touch of a passing hand, the graze of laughing eyes that seem to see you for your everything. Some loves will simply just be a beautifully unspoken, perfect kind of understanding. Chelsea Jordan

Bio: Chelsey Jordan is a contemporary poet and artist from Michigan, known for her distinctive writing style and playful watercolor doodles. She blends creativity and emotion, often exploring themes of self-expression. Her verses linger and her art delights, both coming from a place of truth. Chelsey's work can be found on Instagram at cjwordsandotherfeelings.

The statue of Apollo through the marvelous night The statue of Apollo stood in the museum´s hall, in the midst of the sculptures of the brightest antiquity-time. The man visited it with the clearest Arthurian grail, so that Phoebus awoke, with sheen of the first moon and star. That Apollo was a friend of the museum´s warden, who knew in moony dreams the petrified tears for ever. Apollo in the dazzling stone meant a whiff of the time. Nobody felt like eternally tender morn – a dream. However amusing miracle of midnight happened. The Phoebus became like a German-human, the soft man, when Apollo was awakened through the enchantment. And his heartlet was manlike as well as so immortal. Apollo was able to think and muse such an oracle. And he sent meek sagacity into the gentle spring. The oracle showed only worlds like tenderly made pearls. Apollo and this oracle had the souls from star-wind. He was in position to dream like eternal dreamer. His dreameries had epiphany of the hot wings-tides. The souls of the divine sweetheart could bewitch hearts and tear, perpetuate thus – softly the spell-like feast for the eyes. The God could write poetries such night ovidian offspring. He adored the spell of moonlet and tender shooting stars. The enchanted distant night shone dreaming, gleaming, glinting. His soul was close the gracefulness of the benign homeland. The envoy of Elysium wanted to philosophize. The ontology of miracle became most lovely. The naiads became fair she-friends of the eternal things. The celestial eudemonia became just so dreamy. Paweł Markiewicz

Bio: Paweł Markiewicz is a poet from Poland born in 1983 in Siemiatycze. Pawel currently resides in Bielsk Podlaski, where he dedicates himself to writing tender poetry, including haiku and long lyrical forms. As someone with a background in German studies, he has had the privilege of achieving recognition in both German- and English-language literary circles. Pawel holds degrees in German philology (teacher training), law, and geography (minor).

1056 Bates Street Sixty-plus years ago, we would visit Grandma in the city. Fifty-two years ago, I lived with her for sophomore year. I often have a poor memory and a buttoned-up life. Why, then, does every room of that house shine in vivid relief?

Bed: hers, full of Dutch stuff from the farm; where, when I was overseas in Peace Corps, she died in pain.

Dining: with the big long table where the family, often a dozen or more, gathered for Sunday dinners, loud games, puzzles, and near-sexual teasing of my Aunt Evelyn. Living: where fierce after-dinner battles pitted men against women, disputing Ike, war machines, God’s existence.

Bed: tiny, Uncle Jim’s refuge for his heresy.

Hall: dark, hung with coats, cardboard cases, old man suits.

Kitchen: where she boiled potatoes and carrots, served tea brewed from thriceused bags, hectored her daughters, and gave me life advice. Stairs: basement stuff I’d rather not see. Bed: where Uncle Henry withdrew for hours, rigid; when they took him away, I got his room, losing God thereafter.

Because every room was jammed with conflict and love. Because the battlers scattered to America’s four corners, middle-class and safe. Because ambition suppressed our fears. Because anger’s been buried, squashed, verboden. Jim Krosschell

Heart Motion 162 It becomes doing something, an incredible xylophone, a nurtured craft—the world is dying. I do not laugh much anymore, gripped by depression, I wonder where the highs went, nevertheless, rather the lows. I never met me. It was shocking to meet me. To wonder how the afflicted pass time. Last year was ghostly, a rough ride, death seems to play guitar. The more I adjust, the worse it feels. Each event adding to it. One thinks, I will leave life alone, life screams back—"And I will refrain from profanity.” Such sarcasm. Could have been like others: practicing the grave. The mentality of souls, the ghetto times, out the slums, walking down Wilshire. Create an image, watch it give up the ghost. From city to city; from pains to arts; speaking to mirrors, asking questions, to drop a feeling. It never works. Such mind-matter, magnets, diamonds in spirits—courage to endure, for it keeps intensifying. It all peters out: one lost in meditation, another in prayer, another in concentration. Hells keep roaming islands. One wakes up decoding upon certain factors. I would be careful to suggest a rhythm to it all: smaller joys, cadence at times, faith of some magnitude, even deep spirituality. Glenn Marchand

Bio: Glenn Marchand is an African American poet-writer, concentrating on the human predicament and the existential conundrum humans are faced with, with an emphasis on the imposition of pain.

Title: Cafe Terrace at COVID Artist: Donald Patten Biography: Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He creates oil paintings, illustrations, ceramics and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries throughout Maine. To view his online portfolio, visit @donald.patten on Instagram. Almost overnight, COVID-19 had changed the way people interact with each other, and with our own bodies. We lived our lives in vulnerability during that historically significant time of disaster. The initial phases of the pandemic are behind us, but the virus remains and continues to be dangerous. The societal trauma this pandemic has caused will be remembered and felt by those who have lived through it for the foreseeable future. In the past, master painters would depict historically significant disasters that happened to them as a way to cope. Artists of the 19th century depicted hardships and trauma in the wake of the Industrial Revolution which began the formation of our modern world. As an artist learning the techniques of masters, I have the opportunity to create long-lasting visual information that depicts the trauma of this pandemic. Therefore, I have created a series of charcoal drawings that represent my experiences in modern COVID life by drawing inspiration from past masterpieces that depict the embodied experience of trauma. Cafe Terrace at COVID Capacity. Charcoal on Canvas. 36 x 24. 2023.

CHESTER FIREFLIES If you write the words. I will sing your song. With your blood on my face. Giddy, like a schoolgirl. Laughing. The cemetery will be your main stage. Mourners light wicks that birth smoke and melt wax. We are throwing our guests out with a wry smile. Tables turn, and plates break. Adam Brooks

Untitled The day soft with rain. My feet sink into the pulpy sod outside the house where you were raised, its windows dark, its roof and walls sagging under the weight of time. Its grief a faded line on the family tree. I stare out over the same undulating hills you once roamed, my eyes combing the verdant countryside, searching for anything that might temper the distance. Above, a crow’s black breast presses against the steely sky. It calls out as it passes over the field beyond the priest’s road, where cattle settle, softly lowing in the fading light of this dreary eve. The scent of burning peat lingers in the air, a ghost from the past clinging to the present. This ancient aroma, woven with the dewy breath of the land, moves swiftly across the fields, stirring the purple loosestrifes that crowd the hedgerows— causing them to sway like a pendulum, ticking away time, carrying me further and further from you.

John Dennis David Keane

Bio: John is a poet and playwright, born in the Bronx and based in Westchester County, NY. He’s written a dozen one-act plays, presented both in Manhattan and online. In 2021, he co-received the inaugural Mark Plesent Commission from Working Theater, leading to An Irish Echo, which had a public reading in Manhattan in 2022. Find him on Instagram @Jkay____.

Trees in Endless Blossom These are candelabras in reverse, the earth their roof for a floor of sky on the axis of unnoticeable motion. God, how the planet spins - curve of a wheel for great invisible celestial hands forming that large circle where all tries to hold on, gravity-pinned. Here, Spring in stasis is more than perennial but second-by-second held by the honey of amber where the air yet manages the atmosphere as everywhere-lungs. Blooms breathe cilia and breeze it around languidly without plopping crinkled as crisp crust. Trust what is spiritus as permanence, such angels whisper in a choir's susurrus of apple to cherry, magnolia to almond, & all thousands of varieties take part in the songfest. Ears are too astonished to hear this, eye-wide in fascination, every sense a tuning fork struck by eternity's currents, the pliant vibrancies a hush distilled. Such esplanades of the fabulous have the clutch of hothouses vaporous, the humid dew a spa's balm forming drops on petals, leaves, trunks. How is there such clarity instead of mist lucky souls ask, wandering the spiral stairs huge hilly woods form as floorboard roots, the steps in dirt swept good and plain as medieval drawing rooms sweet rushes cover like sphagnum moss in a base for some sacred bonsai this season of holiness stays in to hold benevolence fantastical and, at last, non-stop. Stephen Mead

Bio: Stephen Read is from Albany, NY. He is a resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/ ,Stephen is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs, https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead

The Axis of Our Universe Dressed in the afterglow of dusk, you remind me of stone washed smooth by tides. Your expression is California coast, your speech is intercontinental. Far hills bend to your will, racoons and porcupines almost trust you. Our favorite bear emerges from the woods to dazzle herself with the light dying around you. Despite the plague of mosquitoes we should stand here long enough to establish you forever as the axis of our universe. That’s the point of assuming the colors of a fading spectrum in the guise of polished marble. Yes, the planet and its accessories are yours. But taking everything in one gesture will render you inert to running water, deaf to its mindless gossip.

Bio: William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

Artist: John Swofford (Young Woman, oil on canvas)

Night-time boxer Don’t hide from me, please dare to be you, instead i went looking, and my love grew i can feel your presence, you’re drawn to empty space sucking in the night air, it’s cool, and it hits the spot will you be my love, then with some unexplainable grip, pouring out your emotions, wearing them on your sleeve? i’d like to believe that this night will end, and we’ll be back together again, but night follows night and day follows day when you can’t understand what is happening like ground teeth, or a feathered display—leading me to believe that, when I sleep, i may need a mouthpiece, like a boxer making ready for revolution a chance to let it all hang out and be discovered, by you, in a determined state John Swofford

Bio: John Swofford’s schizophrenia makes him, according to him, neurodivergent, and he identifies as queer—where queer would mean that his sexuality doesn’t fit any category. This identity influences his work. He lives in Rex, Georgia. You can find him on Facebook and Instagram @johnmerrillswofford

Snow in Los Angeles My source document is a spotlight shined upon a disco ball, the first time I saw snow as an accessible marvel. I was seven years old in a stadium to see an ice skating show for a girl’s birthday party, and I was amazed light could be separated into a tactile infinity that glided around the audience, up my body but always past my hands so I could never see how the particles made up the whole, though it wasn’t my place to say such things in the dynamic overall. It wasn’t my place to smell alcohol on the breath of the birthday girl’s mother but it was unavoidable. My own mother, officially diagnosed with depression, warned me about her because she was going through a divorce, and yet this turned out to be just another story I’d tell to disbelieving adults. Yet they insist on bathing their children in fantasies as if that provides the mettle required to survive the inevitable.

The truth was how we were divided into teams for games and sleeping arrangements back at the birthday girl’s house, and I felt like Cinderella, spurned by my contemporaries and the drunken mother, who sent me to sit on my own as if I had spotted the ashes that come after miracles like snow in Los Angeles, or marriages like her own, that melt in the blink of a promise.

Bio: Jane Rosenberg LaForge lives in New York. Her Facebook Author page is https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063717211528 ; her web page is janerosenberglaforge.com ; and her Blue Sky handle is @elrosenberglaforge.bsky.social.

Brief Grasp Power is fleeting some empires discover, often only enduring for the brief life span of those who exercise control over others. Power’s intoxicating, frequently deluding those who exercise it they are more important than their citizens, egos demanding action more harmful than helpful. In a world crammed with nukes consequences must be weighed before foreign adventures. But it shouldn’t be forgotten that enemies abound, always waiting for the chance to strike America, so we must be on guard, or risk terrorist attacks in this hostile world. Gary Beck

Bio: Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction, essays and plays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his traditionally published books include 43 poetry collections, 18 novels, 4 short story collections, 2 collections of essays and 8 books of plays. Gary lives in New York City.

Paper Birds I was a bird once, made of paper and thin air flying over the arid landscape of my soul. My wings were strong, but brittle and I knew that I could fall at any moment. The sky above me was a deep blue, as if the world had chosen to color itself in reverence for my freedom. The sun warmed my feathers, but I knew that it was only temporary. Soon, the sun would set and the cold night would come, bringing with it an unrelenting chill that would test my resolve. But still I flew, soaring high above the lonesome earth where there are no trees to call home, where there is only dry grass and cracked dirt. With each beat of my wings, I felt myself grow stronger, more resilient. I was not meant for this world, bound by gravity and time. No, I was meant for something greater. Something beyond the confines of this fragile existence. And so I flew on, chasing after dreams that only birds can dream. Drunk on the wind and dizzy with possibility, I forgot about everything else – the weight of responsibility, the burden of reality. For a brief moment in time, I was free from all constraints and nothing could bring me down.

But as all creatures do, I eventually tired and began to descend back to the unforgiving earth below. As my wings gave out and I fell towards oblivion, I couldn’t help but wonder – was it worth it? To be a paper bird flying high in an endless sky? Yes. Yes, it was. Claudia Wysocky

Bio: Claudia Wysocky is a 16-year-old Polish poet based in New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life's essence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various local newspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformative power of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Her works blend personal reflections with universal themes, making them relatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community on social media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creative expression.

Tuesdays and Rain Today it is Tuesday. Today it is raining. Those are two things you hate. You told me that once, sitting in the empty parking lot behind your dad’s shop. It was a quiet night, so quiet you might be able to hear the noise of the interstate miles away if you listened hard enough. And we did listen. We sat in silence and listened for the speeding of cars as they passed by, and when I turned to you your eyes were closed, trying to feel the rush of wind from those distant cars. Maybe that’s why you were mad when you felt drops of water instead. “I hate rain,” you said. I frowned, because I loved the rain, the way the whole world seem to stop as the Earth shed its tears. My mom used to tell me crying is one of the rawest emotions someone could feel, that tears are the body’s form of validation to show you it's not all in your head. So whenever the rain leaves the clouds, I have the urge to clap and applaud the world on how proud I am for having the courage to cry in front of everyone, for having the courage to feel. And maybe if I had told you all of this, you would have loved the rain too. Maybe instead of sitting in the silence, we would have danced under the Earth’s tears until you laughed at how dumb we were. But just as I was about to tell you, you stood up and grumbled, “I hate Tuesdays too. Dad always makes me close up this stupid shop late on Tuesdays. Always on Tuesdays and always in the bloody rain.” And then I didn’t know what to say because Tuesdays are only days we spend together anymore, every Tuesday in this empty parking lot, and a part of me was stupid enough to think you enjoyed them too. To think you enjoyed our random conversations and the times I made you laugh so hard you almost cried. To think you enjoyed the times when it rained. But as we walked back to your car I didn’t say a word. And when you kept complaining about “this goddamn Tuesday” and “horrible rain,” I just agreed. I agreed not because I wasn’t a girl who loves the rain and loves Tuesdays, but because I was a girl who loved you more. But today it is Tuesday. Today it is raining. And the only thing I hate is you.

Sahana Vijay

Four sisters Separated by a thin veil, Four sisters hold hands as they melt into one another, Forever inseparable. Spring, The Goddess of beginnings, You seduce the Sun And give birth to Nature. You exalt with the sounds of the crescendo, You give hope with your white blossoms that absorb the sunshine. You melt the ice as you melt the souls of the passersby. You greet your sister selflessly, As you give her the throne. Summer, The queen of the cloudless kingdom, You show your bright face shyly. With the passing of the minutes, your strength grows. Given to the Golden Coin, As a gift, As a bride, You win the endless battles, And as you prepare to rest,

You offer your hand to Autumn, And all her glory. As the air dances And caresses the leaves with a thousand faces, As our senses surrender to the smell of wood, As our skin befriends the rain, And our eyes marvel at the view, In all your magnificent beauty, You close your eyes As your sister opens hers. Winter, With whiteness too powerful for our sight, With rigidity too cruel for our bodies, You reign over the sisterhood With the grace of a white horse that could never be tamed. Your soft blanket clears the paths, And cleanses our souls as the snowdrops start poking out above the snow. Four sisters, Magnificent, Worthy, Life-giving.

A Woman Of Substance Worldly and knowledgeable Open and caring Many a role she has to fulfil A strong constitution, yet soft underneath Nurturer of new life Holder of family bond's, ties and connections Openly sharing her love Offering the knowledge she knows Devoted and loving too the end. Donna McCabe

The Theatre Mask Lights on! – The tension is rising! Curtain up! Significant words. And the play takes It’s course. Takes us to remote places. The actor steps forward, the spectator waits for his with a tense ear. Just a small gesture, a wink, a hint – suddenly say more than a hundred words! one word: alone in the wide field. The viewer sees; And yet sees nothing, than what the actor has told him seeing. He moves with his role the minds, so that sometimes one weeps, then laughs again. But the actual goods, remain hidden behind a mask. The game of roles: gently covers many things, sometimes also brought grief to serenity, many a darkness has brightened, if the actor spoke of it, many a thought flashed and woke up, loud or quiet – Words hurt too, Wonderful circles go in the vicinity of the theatre. For words are like beings, which in the actor's power, on the stage they are all exquisite— Now, spectators, watch out for everyone! See how the stage – teases the viewer! The stage expression moves the viewer, because it hurts or seduces him. The actor awakens i n him again imagination but what happened to him in the theatre the viewer does not understand – never.

At the end there is a big applause, the audience goes to home from the theatre house. The lights go out! The curtain closed! The mask falls! Man bows silently!

Lucia Tasadu

The housewives department A crucified candle, wrapped in a cold jar, Whose fatigued wax is hoped to burn forever to lighten the walls of a home that breathes her salted lesions I am a crawling bee trying to taste my husband's saccharine liquors after suffering a flood of his blanched debris To the lawmakers of our home, I am a dried meat who feeds on confiscated delicacies on the pastel plates Leaving everyone's mouths drooling over her crimson boldness Arrested in a vile situation, I am a pallescent palindrome Whose heart's-tired waves are nothing but a flatline Burned bangles sing the song of unvoiced words And anxious anklets tremble out of unending demands I wash my identity off in a sink jammed with my husband's cumulated desires It has his imbecile opinions about women engraved on it I rinse off any banal doubts imbrued on his balls Moping the floor, I clog my throat with squeezed-out coldness What imagery should I use to metaphorize the assorted cuts I bleed every day? The windowpanes at my husband's house reflect only the red bindi and vermilion on my head I blow air on them, draw hearts, and write my children's name My eyes want to see beyond the veranda of callousness But they glare at the efforts my husband makes to stop me at the doorframe I hold his spine, so he may not get hunched by the weight of his ego A body that never paralyzes its vagina And smothers its every decision at the cervix's pinnacle I am a cannibal who feeds on her dreams, Transpiring pent-up emotions at midnight To let the next day fill the void inside her with the love sutured by her baby Disseminating the powder of my crushed bones for twelve hours every day for decades My fingers nimble in the dust to find a penny But they stick on a placard saying "Your work is not work"

There are multiple strings attached to my body and managed by many Every day I surpass the limit of their breakage through my compromises, Only to see my family smiling in one frame I want to levitate on my feet, but they are glued to my father's footprints My tongue can say more than "it's ok," But it is stuck between my teeth I bask under my husband's dolor during the day And, at night, retreat to my imagination I breastfeed my children with empathy, hoping that they will nest their home in the lap of humanity And read them "Tolerance and Women" by an unknown woman So that they never make an alive human feel dead ever in their lives Kritika Choudhary

Bio: Kritika is a writer and a poet based in India. She always strives to write to create an impact on the hearts of her readers. Half of her writings are written about women and the bias they face. A nature lover, she loves walking in the green while running her mind continuously. You can check out her Instagram handle @_wordlore

I pledge allegiance Nationalism is a sickness of the mind. Contagious in the form of indoctrination As though someone is better, that their lives hold more value, because of where they were born or where they live— Ridiculous. I understand its uses, why a nation elevates itself among a people Pride can blind one to all sorts of horrors, Zealots will cheer violence in their homeland’s name, True belief allows for the denial of reality. I understand the lure, the draw of being included, superior, and right. A tool to unify here, but to separate at a border line, A weapon to destroy, from without and within, An ideology to encourage compliance; fealty. But I fear this fever will not abate Will even the host be burned out? How many must it kill? Matthew Ellis

Bio: Matthew Ellis (he/him) is a queer poet living in Columbus, Ohio with works published in journals such as Wild Greens and dipity. With a background in chemistry, he spends his time teaching yoga and following creative pursuits in music and writing. To keep up with his work, you can follow him on Instagram (@matthewellismusic3) or visit his website (www.MatthewEllisContemplation.com).

What I Know One afternoon, just recently, I was told by a young man that, “You look like you know what you are doing.” I was selecting beers and placing them in the cardboard six-pac holder. It’s all standing and reading. I was not changing a car’s oil or replacing a fill valve in the toilet. Not even hooking up speaker wires. I am not very good with tech stuff. I can barely cook frijoles and I get my menudo and tamales from take-out Mexican. But I suppose I know my cervezas. I slice up a limon and add a dash of salt to get the fizz up. In a liquor store I do feel bad ass. If I am wearing a clean white t-shirt I even feel a bit like Lou Reed walking down Broadway or 5th avenue looking for la Sweet Jane. I understand it may be easy to impress spaced out kids who work hard in liquor stores. Or maybe I should be better at accepting the grace of others. Their kind words and small gestures remind me of my shame which is a dog looking for his spot. Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith

Bio: Christopher lives in Tucson Arizona and tries to sit down and write every day. His work has appeared in Sky Island Journal and many other places. A pushcart and best of the net nominee. www.facebook.com/chrisgoldsmith.16