by Duane Herrmann With degrees in education and history, Duane L. Herrmann, award winning, internationally published historian, poet, and...

by Sophia Shiroff In history class, we were given an assignment with gingerbread people outlined on paper and I immediately was brought...

by Brenda Asterino With an eclectic education and background of skills, Brenda Asterino became an educator with an interest in education,...

by Frances Guadiano Frances Gaudiano hails from Southern California but has somehow ended up living in Cornwall, England. After earning a...

by Mica Lee Smith Mica Lee Smith lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with his wife and their four cats. He enjoys reading, gaming, and...

by Ann Herold A Herrold (ze/zir) is a genderqueer writer, poet, and comedian. Ze graduated with  a BA degree in philosophy (focusing on...

I will not die. Suppression, shame does not keep me down. Changing me to my core Does not change my core.

For a while, I took cold showers on purpose. At first, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

I was thirteen, spending summer in Ohio with my sister met neighbor girl on playground swing my eyes opened first time camping.

My uncle took my hand on the road home after babysitting, his breath reeked of whiskey and cigarettes.

I’ve finally put it all together. He was a monster, a monster in dad’s clothing, but still a monster.

Late July of 1993, A verbal invite came my way for both of us, To a family camping weekend, Not far from home in late August.

At my urgent request in the Spring of 1971, my mother arranged for me to see a counselor. I was 15, and my father had been dead for years.

by Sherry Shahan Sherry Shahan a white settler artist, writer, and poet. She lives and works on unceded Chumash and Salinan land on the...

Jayne only vaguely recalls her grandfather coming to their bedroom door that evening, asking her and Evelyn to come to his bedroom.

by Erica Adams Erica Adams is from Cambridge MA. She is a survivor of intimate partner violence. Poetry has helped her discover her...

By blurry vision I struggle in, sluggishly shuffling along the cracked crack city streets and what I do witness’ there in seeing perils

laughed at his funeral. I really did. I burst into laughter, watching him fade away in dust particles.

by Anette Gagliardi Annette Gagliardi is a poet whose work has appeared in literary journals in Canada, England, Sweden and the US,...

by Anchal Jain Anchal Jain was given the title of Resilient Human Being by her supporters when she was on the path of her healing...

by Karlo Silverio III Sevilla Karlo Sevilla writes from Quezon City, Philippines and among the most recent of his six poetry collections...

One summer college weekend, I drove out to the Hamptons with my friend Barbara, in her car, to stay in a rental near the beach.

by Sarah Kiepper Sarah Kiepper resides with her partner and dogs on the South Coast of Massachusetts. She is a compliance officer and...

by Sophia Shiroff In history class, we were given an assignment with ginger-bread people outlined on paper, and I immediately was brought...