Sonia Charales is a South Indian American writer and artist. Her work involves exploration of South Indian culture, the beauty of nature, nostalgia, and healing. Her work appears most recently in antonym, Suspension Literary Magazine, The Firefly Review, Cordelia Magazine, and elsewhere.
Kristiana Reed is a writer and freelance editor. She is the Editor in Chief for Free Verse Revolution, a literary & arts magazine. She has self published two poetry collections, Between the Trees and Flowers on the Wall and her work has been recently published in Anti Heroin Chic and The Hyacinth Review. You can follow her on Instagram @kristiana.reed. .
Patera is a self taught artist that likes to make art of who and whatever inspires her. Her original art usually contains elements of
and she also
to draw scenes from
Ruchi Acharya is the CEO and Founder of Wingless
She has garnered much acclaim for her
received her summer
from the University of
R o t t e n t o t h e T h r o a t
To live in a mouth Full of filthy harsh words Parasitic hatred stemming From every groove and crevasse Between each tooth
Strangling the tongue Stuffed down the throat The speaker chokes before coughing Words live among the worms
Feeding on decayed letters
Wondering what died in here For such filth to develop Only to find the remains Of tired and tried linguistics For anger to emerge from this tongue Twisted and tangled every which way To be met with mockery
The mouth gave up To spew such harsh words
When told no longer to speak The loss grew into uncontrollable vines Splintering any self control This tongue might have prospered If only the world were kinder
T h e b o d y a s a h a u n t ed h o u s e
Three witches tower, then cower in the doorway, beckon visitors closer before vanishing, nothing but wind atop a thundering heath.
Visitors are left to roam, to fall in to my flesh, my smothering attempt to love, to hold, to give birth to anything but dust and blood clots.
A piano plays in a distant room, invisible hands across ivories, visitors know the song, know it is a knell, an invitation
afterJoelleTaylor to bury themselves beneath my floorboards, to sing until their throats close and twist, asphyxiated bliss.
I am the shell, the husk, within which they search for home, a mother they never knew, the one who drowns her own children, or breaks their pretty bird necks, call me Medea, call me Medusa or Macbeth, a hollowed out story, a feeble endeavour to live without the soft caress of death.
w h i s p e r i n g o l d l a d y
Do you hear the whispering old lady? Infinity fears filled in her eyes Home echoes with unfathomable children's cries Wood burns and the cornucopia of horror comes to live. My mind emptied my body and my soul has left Seeing the Grim reaper ' s merciless and deathless death. 'One will live and the other must die', s
My grandmother doesn't want to die, It wasn't her time. She wonders, Where to find the diamond light? Her wrinkled skin was burnt alive protecting a mortal infant and I survived.
"There is a sense of glamor and confidence that comes with being wicked."
Editor in chief: Dominique
Reader Director: Rosegold
Editors: Cassidy Jackson, Nafeesa
Staff Writers: Lyn, Pearl J, Sage L., Willow Kang, Mahek
T H A N K Y O U T O E V E R Y O N E !