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Ghost Bible issue one est. in Lancaster, PA

Edited by Audrey Lee ghostbible.tumblr.com  ghostbible1@gmail.com  Twitter: @ghost_bible  Send mail, your own zines, and candy wrappers to  Audrey Lee #1610  P.O. Box 3220   Lancaster, PA 17604   

ghost bible is a zine for the bodiless & the faithless & the searching for these things. we  are based in the lovely small city of lancaster,  pennsylvania & celebrate our local writers,  artists, musicians, photographers, thinkers, &  everyone in between. we focus on the  independent, the marginalized, the  intersectional, & the understated.     this is our first issue.     we’d like to thank our contributors from across  the world, our readers in coffee shops & stores  & bedrooms in lancaster and beyond, & local  businesses that stock us in their walls.    

Grix Grix (they/them) is an award-winning, Pushcart-nominated writer and visual artist in  Wilmington, Delaware. Their work focuses on disability,  gender, trauma, and systems from a neurodiverse  perspective. Their work is published internationally in  numerous journals and anthologies. Grix has two  collections: Systems Askew (2019), and Forsythia, which is  forthcoming. Grix is the Founder and EIC for  Human/Kind Journal and Human/Kind Press, and an  Associate Editor at both Sonic Boom and Yavanika Press.  They are more of a cats, dogs, and unicorns person than a  people person.      Twitter: @metagrix  Website: metagrix.com       

On the Subject of Being (A Mythical Creature)   

I’m making  tea  on  a  lazy  day  and  feeling  like  this  narwhal  on  my  Trader  Joe’s  Candy  Cane  Green  Tea  container.  Three  ornaments  are  hung  from  its  tusk  like  the  three  genders  people  try  to  box  me  in:  he,  she,  and  was-one-and-is-now-the-other.     But  my  gender  is  more  like  an  intersection  of  the  many  ingredients  that  comprise  this  tea:  the  fresh  peppermint  that  bites  if  you  get  too  close,  the  astringent  orange  peel  you’re  not  quite  sure you like, and the vanilla beans that  win you over—all in a sea of fervent green tea.    Like the narwhal, I understand there is confusion about my state of being. I am  viewed  differently  in  a  variety  of  settings  and  even  within  my  own  head  from  day to day, hour to hour.     When  I  feel  strong,  I  stand  dominant  with  my  arctic  ice  pick  ready  to  take  on  anyone  who  questions  me.  Other  times,  I  sulk  into  the  cerulean  depths  of  my  fear  and  overwhelm.  And  yet  others,  I  make  myself  visible  yet  offer  no  explanation nor seek validation for merely existing. 

Sarah Lilius Sarah Lilius is the author of four chapbooks, including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017), and Thirsty Bones (Blood  Pudding Press, 2017). Her work has appeared in the  Denver Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, Entropy, and Fourteen  Hills. She lives in Virginia with her husband and sons. Her  website is s​ arahlilius.com​.   

Church Bones  

At church we pass around   our bones.    How absurd to hold a femur, still bloody,  in your hands while finding Jesus     across pages of the Bible, bloody fingerprints  in the corners.    The church says bones are better   than money.    I heard Nancy has a cracked rib,  Alice has osteoporosis.     Ace fell down stairs last night,  broke two.    May we pray.     Buddy limps to his pew  without help.    His arms are flaps of skin  without a humerus, left and right.    The bones, hard in my hands  make me think    I might leave the church, 

full of bones, determined.Â


Haunting Me  

He’s dead as an answer. The wood paneling of his basement   repeats without a sound.  Memory gaps like the space underneath  a short bridge.    I was once so young.  Now I can’t remember how to do   up shoelaces.  My fingers break like a story   taking hold in the nighttime.    Everything has a face,  a thin body  that moves on the stairs   behind me effortlessly.  Shadows are structures   of ease and rainwater.    The delicate sound of red  and brown leaves, my scream  covered by a hand as the colors   hit cold pavement outside   the window.    I don’t get away but I try.   His pale skin testifies   and wins the prize.    Later and always, a grand horse  

trots from the barn. That farm is where I live now.  The grass doesn’t grow back  where it should.  A starving horse keeps my mind  on agony, on what’s broken.    But the sturdy fence, a perfect rectangle, no gate,  splinters on my body, stays sturdy  like a man, in all kinds of weather  it’s what never falls down. 

Juliet Cook Juliet Cook's poetry has appeared in a multitude of magazines. She is the author of numerous poetry  chapbooks, including "From One Ruined Human to  Another" (Cringe-Worthy Poets Collective/Dark Particle,  2018) "DARK PURPLE INTERSECTIONS (inside my  Black Doll Head Irises)" (Blood Pudding Press for Dusie  Kollektiv 9, 2019) and "Another Set of Ripped-Out  Bloody Pigtails" (The Poet's Haven, 2019). She has another  chapbook, "The Rabbits with Red Eyes" forthcoming  from Ethel Zine & Micro-Press.    Cook's first full-length poetry book, “Horrific  Confection", was published by BlazeVOX. Her most  recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed Confetti" was  published by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2018.     


She wants to prove she can remove her pet fish from its confined cage,  but its cage is filled with water.  Her carpet is dry.  Her pet falls from her fingers and hits the ground.    Dusty shag rug covers it up  and invades its breathing.  Tiny bones break.  A giant vacuum hides the remnants  of this small destruction.    Of course it is nothing  compared to all the species being burned alive  in their natural habitats.  None of them ever lived inside her home though  so why should it matter to her?    She thinks she’ll be dead before the fire finds her.   

Pat Richerson Pat Richerson is an erstwhile sailor, a reluctant Kansan who longs to return to where c’e la luna mezzo mare. He  studies English and writes. His work can be found in  Mangrove Journal and the University of Kansas’s Kiosk  Magazine.      

I want to live

This is an erasure of the transcript of a video available here:  

no wonder if tomorrow never comes   on the backside of the dark       & if the black sky never gives itself   away to the icy pallor       a crack along the seam of heaven-- imagine   me surprised       when we never meet again &   hungry sparrows carry me       a million miles away   away &   away       no wonder if we shuffle into creaking pews &  sat together we are more alone than anyone   thought     possible. say then       that the moments you pulled me at   the wrist to guide me  

were good were enough       come flooding back to me come   back to me. how       will anyone believe I was here?  

Tianna G. Hansen

Tianna G. Hansen has always been a poet at heart, though she has studied fiction and dabbled in creative nonfiction.  In human form she runs Rhythm & Bones Press, giving  space to those with trauma to be turned to art. Find more  of her work at ​creativetianna.com​ or follow her and her  wolf writings on Twitter: @tiannag92.   


I feel tonight’s crescent blossoming   in the crevices of my bones, song of   my marrow burning loud & cold like     steel lighting a silent night on fire.  my heart dredged beneath dark tides  brimming deeper with its ache. I     hide in a shroud of smothered desire.   no longer wishing to surface over clouded  waters, I drown these shifting skins    until my reflection gazing back ripples  into a thousand shards of who I am.  the way Hecate smuggles the heavens     from each night I will steal from you   the lifeblood in your veins. I worship   every part of myself: broken & beaten     pieces, the wholeness within.  move onward at reckless pace  seeking infinite ignition of my soul.    moon waxes above & I wane, racing  along forest paths, howl burning hot  

in my throat, eyes wild with wanting.

Jeanna Paden Jeanna Paden (she/her) is a freelance health and wellness writer and copywriter. Her work has been published by  Foothill: A Journal of Poetry, Her Culture, Pulp Poets  Press, and others. Connect with her at  PadenFreelancing.com or on Twitter: @HalfwayToItBlog. 


I hear you brown— eyelids collapse under street lights.     No words  a brown pull   sidewalk chill, 2am.      You twist up my stomach   the way the earth bends   the colors   of water     in crevices at our feet.      Cold skin  you don’t speak     but I listen still,  bewitched.      I hear you brown      your warm breath evaporates in the wind,   caressing visions,     as close as rain in the crooks of my body. 

Opryland after Aaron West  

I’m walking on stilts in the bookstore   chaos as a motion as a background drum   beat only I can hear, the intercom crackles   I expect someone to tell me   I’m in the way again  stop and go conversations, half   acquaintances  stand in the back and shuffle peg feet  swivel neck   where am I allowed to be   click-clack the stilts underfoot, look up  don’t look anyone in the face  look in the periphery   I am a periphery person  if I get high enough  maybe I’ll turn into a bat  maybe I’ll vomit black   and my skin will stain   

Sarah Summerson Sarah Summerson (she/her) is a poet hailing from small-town central Pennsylvania. Her work has been  featured in a variety of publications including Confluence  Magazine, OTHER Magazine, Tilde, Weaving the  Terrain, and peculiar. She is also a winner of the Academy  of American Poets College Poetry Prize and a Pushcart  Prize Nominee. You can follow her on Twitter  @SarahSummersun for all the tidbits that couldn't find a  home in a poem.   

Symptom: I reread The Island of Dr. Moreau   

London is a heavy year and all the poems I write  become medicine cabinets  I root through  counting the ways  I am now a stranger to myself:  I drug myself with antihistamines  in my stupor, send vials of pig’s blood  to foreign presidents  I learn how to make decadent cocktails  out of smog, I sleep  with a sprig of sage under my tongue 

Symptom: horticulture of the body  

daffodils bloom from my sternum they commune with my shoulders  gossiping into the hollows of my collar bones  such mouthy flowers, I have trouble  stifling their sprouting    sick of their discourse  I research how to make a sound proof room of my chest  I try binding, try the strappy muzzle of a bandeau  try brandishing them on street corners  to shy them into silence  but they only grow bolder    they bat their eyelash filaments at passerby  they speak in vowels  boaty oooohhs and uuuuuhs  like from the toothless mouth of a Marseillais  their catcalls clumsy like babies’ first words  cooed and shapeless    I begin carrying clippers on bad days  a last-ditch effort at subduing the outspoken bulbs  but even their trimmings hiss at me   

Stuart Buck Stuart Buck is a visual artist and award winning poet from North Wales, UK. His third collection of poetry, 'Portrait  of a Man on Fire' is due for release Nov 2020 on Rhythm n  Bones Press. His art can be found in many journals, both  in print and online.    Twitter: @stuartmbuck     

Knife Angel ​(digital photo manipulation)

Edward Lee Edward Lee's (he/him) poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in  Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly,  Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry  collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was  published in 2010. He is currently working towards a  second collection. He also makes musical noise under the  names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll,  Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond  Boy. His blog/website can be found at  edwardmlee.wordpress.com​.    


I would rather go cold than burn words,  says the man  living in his cave,  alone, save for  the words at his fingertips,  and the worlds  in his head,  some his, most born  from the minds of others;    his nights are cold,  but when sleep comes,  as it sometimes does,  his dreams are warm,    his dreams  are warm, and full of lives  worth dying for.   

To Climb Into the Cold Night ​(digital image)

No, Not This Night (​ digital image)

H.E. Grahame H.E. Grahame (she/they) is a writer, poet with work featured in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Variety Pack, Call Me  {Brackets}, Brave Voices, Z Publishing House’s Emerging  Poets and Writers series, and SLCC Folio, and student at  the University of Utah studying Writing and Rhetoric and  Gender Studies. She works as a Writing Consultant/Tutor  and Publications Coordinator for Salt Lake Community  College. She enjoys cooking, travel, photography, music,  and words.     Website: ​www.HEGrahame.weebly.com   

One Moment  

One smile to start rapport. One laugh. One grin. across tables of dim dinner discourse  A pizza and coke. Bowling and songs. Within  moments we were on a soulmate-crash-course.    One note to start a song. One chant. One cheer.  Across a mob of grand guitar glimmer  Drumbeats and bass. Passion and dance. Unclear  when we became more than migrant shimmer.      One shift to start a dance. One skip. One stride.  Across splashes of star-speckled skyline  Hillsides and gin. Waltzing and words. Inside  knowing always that our lives would entwine    From one moment. One love. One breath. One friend.  To one million moments without an end   

Jeremy Mauser Jeremy Mauser is a sophomore at Franklin & Marshall College and is pursuing an undergraduate degree in  English-Creative Writing & Spanish. His writing can also  be found in boy-band and Reviewing Shakespeare. You  can find Jeremy on Instagram (@jamauser13) or Twitter  (@JeremyMauser).   

Summer Nights, Winter Nights We tried to make love in the swimming pool. As our movements disturbed the stillness  of the water, I thought of all which I sought to reacquire. I thought of gentle kisses  under a moonlight colored by snow, of frozen fingers interlocking with unquenchable  intensity, of icy tears freezing halfway down your cheek. Underwater, I opened my eyes  when I began to thirst for air and thought you good for dead - your closed eyes glowed  with serenity and your lips, slightly parted, welcomed the incoming water. But I didn’t  stop. I continued thrusting, hoping to reincarnate those winter nights. Our skin, wrinkled  from our exposure to the tantalizing water, melded into one and refused to break apart.  I didn’t stop. But you placed your warm fingers on my ribcage and I knew that you were  finished. We swam back to the still heat of the night air and treaded water, our eyes  locked, mouths below the surface. As I waited for you to speak, your wintergreen irises  made me think of recent summer nights: our loveless kisses, our lonely hands, our dry  faces. A tear formed in the corner of my eye and I went back under, swimming to the  bottom of the pool, hoping to lose the tear in the darkest depths. 


Linda M. Crate Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Northwestern Pennsylvanian writer whose works have been published in numerous  magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is  the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is:  More Than Bone Music​ (Clare Songbirds Publishing  House, March 2019). She is also the author of the novel  Phoenix Tears​ (Czykmate Books, June 2018).   

the moon won’t answer your prayers i only need moonlight  was born  near midnight on a hot summers day,  i can always burn away any  nightmare with my light;  you stood no chance against me—  thought you were the  only monster,  let alone the only one who could transform?  i don’t hate being the bearer  of the bad news that you were wrong,  big surprise there;  you mistook me for someone you could  devour  but i am the one that bites  in this kingdom—  your bloodied steaks repulsed me,  but what could you expect  from a werewolf?  go ahead and howl at the moon,  she is my mother and she won’t answer any  of your prayers.   

J. MacBain-Stephens J. MacBain-Stephens lives in the Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: "Your Best Asset is a  White Lace Dress," (Yellow Chair Press, 2016) "The  Messenger is Already Dead," (Stalking Horse Press, 2017,)  “We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence,” tied for first place  in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and “The Vitamix  and the Murder of Crows,” is recently out from  Apocalypse Party. Work has been nominated for Best of  the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Recent work can be seen at  or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Black Lawrence Press,  Quiddity, Prelude, Cleaver, Yalobusha Review, Zone 3,  and Grist.   

#12 Meteorite (composition varies SiO​2 vs. Fe​2​O​3​(T) + MgO)  on the back of your motorcycle  thought to be descended from heaven  I see the moon  actually falling   from the sky  and the smells change  from wildflowers, to factory,  to creek  my hands grip your waist  so tight I cannot write later  open new levels​ in me  your fingers  a new horizon  feel busy  but graze my bare knee  checking in  which is​ rare but found anywhere  my awareness  is safe like 

the remains of a large planet I close my mouth to keep bugs out  Breathe through my nose  until back at the camper  I pretend I am not scared  to live 

#13 Hematite (Fe​2​O​3​)  

the half light

on my face speaks

above my mind grounding

c​ ome to the here​

the unrest ​but trying to get out​

my edges turn red trail   easily struck

​dug out of the world​

moss near my feet  

the now

​shatters ​

the fears in my pocket

or the opposite

hide magic ​the glimpse of back packs ​by falling rocks​

​the cliff

​stay too long fading ​ ​up the 

moving towards feet

Note: the words in italics in these poems are taken from Essential Guide to Crystals by  Simon and Sue Lilly, 2006, 2010, and 2018. published by Watkins Media Limited.  United Kingdom.   

Jonny Black Jonny Black resides in Riverside, California. As a child she was kept awake at night by poltergeist activity, later  discovering that her family has a history of clairvoyance.  These experiences have encouraged her to explore the  impossible, fantastical, and the supernatural in her work.  She can be found on Instagram @jonnyblackwrites.   


a collapsed lung and all that blood    a fire. a fire. a fire. your sacred heart.    the sky creaks and groans  under its own weight  as you wait for the day it finally collapses on top of you.    some deaths are not tragedies.  you are coming home  and    i will be in the morning.  i will be in the morning.  i will Be in the morning.   

Entry Number One, Journal One: “ANOTHER SUN”   

another sun rises over the dust.  behind the haze  honey thick and dark  the skyline continues to rot  I told you a story I half remember.  the air stings the lungs  burns the skin  if we let it. like  the silent hives  we once watched the flies pick at  melt the wax  with their thin tongues  and stomach acid  soft enough to swallow.  One, two  three thousand steps  above and between our necks  we’ve traveled in lines  in songs that never ended.  You gave me your shirt.    There was milk left on the counter to spoil   

in that one house   THIS IS WHAT WE GOT  WE ALL BURN HERE YOU SAID  WE GOTTA GET USED TO IT  TIL IT BURNS GOOD.      my chest fills  a chunk of air  Hey  I’ll tell you a story I half remember 

Jennifer Martelli Jennifer Martelli is the author of ​My​ T ​ arantella (​Bordighera Press), awarded an Honorable Mention from  the Italian-American Studies Association, selected as a  2019 “Must Read” by the Massachusetts Center for the  Book, and named as a finalist for the Housatonic Book  Award. Her chapbook, A ​ fter Bird ​was the winner of the  Grey Book Press open reading, 2016. Her work has  appeared in V ​ erse Daily​, T ​ he DMQ Review​, ​The Sonora  Review, ​and​ Iron Horse​ ​Review​ (winner, Photo Finish  contest). Jennifer Martelli is the recipient of the  Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant in Poetry. She is  co-poetry editor for M ​ om Egg Review​ and co-curates the  Italian-American Writers Series at I AM Books in Boston. 

Dear Quicksand,  

When I was young-young with no breasts yet, I believed you were far more insidious, a real problem in the sixties: the sidewalk in front of my house might soften, become liquid under a  hot-top crust and I’d sink, chalk in one hand, jacks in the other, crying to no one, or maybe just  that cat, warm on the stone steps, or maybe those invisible worms dangling by their own silk spit  from branches of the new maples. In a month, the worms would sprout gray moth wings and  flock like angels to the screen door under the square porch light. Someone would miss me  by then, I hoped, my little girl body curled and encased airless, soundless.    I heard you crushed what you took in, like a cruel knotted boa, tightening around a narrow  ribcage with each exhale. Someone said you’re tricky, sly—you looked dry or you hid under  shallow puddles, maybe you looked like mud.    Why do they call you quick when in all the Movies of the Week you starred in, you sucked a  whole deer, a grown man, took them slow and smooth, until all that was left was a hat on your  bubbling surface?    But—you missed this, being unimportant as I grew older and replaced by other fears—as it  turned out, the ground did open, but not the way you did, not like a soft spot on a peach, a bruise.  No.    The ground cracked open loud and fast, a sinkhole, a fissure. I fell in.    It was hard. I echoed from the bottom. 

Toxic Shock Duplex  

Last night my ghost period came to visit. She dragged the white string from the sky’s cervix.    What I hold onto will drag me for certain.  My fearful life was knotted like a pearly helix.    I’ve lived my life in fear of not existing.  I found an old box of Easy Glide Pearl Tampax.    The glide was easy, but the white bloomed toxic.  Long ago, I found the cure for disappearing.    To not disappear, to be found, almost killed me.  Today I walked under the pink magnolia trees.    But the pink lasts less than a day on the old magnolia —  the leaves fall pearly and slick to the cracked sidewalk.    I’m shocked when people leave or when they walk back.  The ghost meant only to last a night. Period.   

“On the night of the full moon in September, families come together...and  they eat round food”   

Mary Ruefle   I hear Blondie’s “The Tide is High.” I hear  someone asking to eat moon cakes  frosted half chocolate, half white to fit in a palm.    A billow of sweet pot smoke blows from the crack  in the window of my old house and hovers over the ripe  sleeping pinks of the Japanese cherry tree.    Now, it floats out front, to the Andromeda bush,  its white lantern flowers: tiny air blown masks.  This is as far as I can go.    Our old neighbor, the man from Palermo with the accent still, says he saw a  wolf, or a dog about to turn.    He went to get his gun. He won’t come back out or if he does  I’ll be inside, deep back in the hall closet, up on a chair.    I forgot to take down the half empty box  for the blood, black handled shears rusted open, my sister’s gold glove, 

a tortoise shell bowl with backless pearl studs. Everything happened at once and for all time.   

Michael Igoe

Michael Igoe: Chicago, now Boston. He has numerous works online and print, recently in ​cabinetofheed.com​,  Spare Change, and Avalanches In Poetry. He was the  National Library Of Poetry Editors Choice 1997. His  website is poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com, his  Twitter is @MichaelIgoe5. He enjoys urban realism,  surrealism, and the night.   

False Prophet  

His reign comes to power, when he parts from a duo.  He’s seen as handsome,  sheltered by eaves  shriveled in nooks.  Gladhands gallery visitors  lonesome at work  adheres to bold lies  in a forest of logic.  A crook who makes passage  with the clack of turnstiles  thin kisses in detention.  He wears his favorite shirt  he won at an auction,  plastered with pale bluebirds.  You know he must adore it. 

Cindy Veach Cindy Veach is the author of H ​ er Kind (​ CavanKerry Press,  forthcoming) and G ​ loved Against Blood (​ CavanKerry  Press), named a finalist for the Paterson Poetry Prize and a  ‘Must Read’ by The Massachusetts Center for the Book.  Her poems have appeared in the A ​ cademy of American  Poets Poem-a-Day Series​, ​AGNI, Prairie Schooner, Poet  Lore, Michigan Quarterly Review, Diode ​and elsewhere​.  She received the 2019 Phillip Booth Poetry Prize and the  2018 Samuel Allen Washington Prize. Cindy is co-poetry  editor of Mom Egg Review.     Website: ​cindyveach.com     

Dear Moon  

You appear halved tonight— darkness your camouflage,    chameleon, cover up—  and when he says    I was only half there  I look up to you    hanging  in the skylight—    Even eclipsed,  half full, halfway    you are not a fraction.  Nothing is ever missing.    You are not a part, a slice,  hangnail, sliver, morsel,    crescent, quarter, waning,  or half-hearted.    You are sum,  whole, all there—   

Blessed Teresa of Calcutta Declared a Saint Before a Huge Crowd at the  Vatican    

Samia Shahid, Strangled, 2016   Today there is a new saint and I am strangled.  With my scarf wound round and round I am strangled.    My father tricked me into coming back to Punjab—  I wear my blue scarf home to Punjab and am strangled.    Some say she doesn’t deserve sainthood because she  Helped the dying die. Yet, I deserve to be strangled?    My father feigned illness so I’d return. Here I am,  Father, in my beautiful scarf about to be strangled.    My ex-husband raped me for marrying another. Father,  For marrying for love I am raped and strangled.    How can there be a saint without a God Almighty?  I prayed to him, came to him only to be strangled. 

Max Sano Max Sano is an intended environmental studies and government major with a minor in Arabic, passionate in  sustainability, politics and diversity. He has been involved  in F&M organizations such as IMPACT and Phi Kappa  Psi, as well as research with Prof. Eric Hirsch in the  Environmental Migration Lab. In terms of off-campus  activities, he is a national correspondent for Planet  Forward- an environmental storytelling and media group-  and a freelance writer for the Urban Resilience Project,  which focuses on domestic stories regarding environmental  justice, conservation, public policy and green activism.  Max loves to meet new people, practice martial arts and  hike when the opportunity arises.   

5 Tips to be a Volunteer or Activism Coordinator on Your College Campus   

When my college experience began, all of these responsibilities and expectations and consequences and guidelines were really challenging to  balance; to peer through all of the noise and find ways to do something you are  passionate about on campus seemed impossible. After my first year at school,  however, I had some clues about how I can do environmental and community  activism work while also being a full-time student.  1.) Assess what your college is already doing.  I was disappointed in my college’s lack of focus on what I perceived as  sustainability or environmental ethics, in both the administration and the  student body, that I did not even look at what it was doing. Upon further  research, I learned that the Franklin & Marshall College Sustainability Master  Plan was established in 2015 after several years of deliberation and drafting  between the administration, faculty and students—a product of collaboration  between multiple constituencies working towards common objectives.  Nonetheless, I began pursuing other avenues to influence sustainability on  campus. This includes collaboration with local CSA farms, including  Homefields, Inc (see picture below) where students can volunteer some of  their time each week in exchange for a farm share. Passionate about sustainable  agriculture, waste management, energy consumption/use, upcycling, or  another eco-topic? Find an ally- be it faculty or administration staff- to be both  a soundboard for your ideas and a support mechanism to get matters moving. 

2.) Communication is key. Communication can go a long way in trying to plan events or start new  initiatives on campus. While keeping up with numerous contacts is not my  strong suit, it has pushed me to have better organization, time management  and transparency with both my peers and superiors. Many environmental  groups and organizations love the free help and are often open to volunteers.  Perhaps that volunteer work can turn into an internship? A job? The former  was the case for me with the Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay and Citizens’  Climate Lobby (Lancaster), where I became a project intern and social media  coordinator, respectively. Did you do a community service event with an  environmental group? Introduce yourself to that group’s representative, ask  for a meeting to brainstorm and share your vision for environmental ethics or  sustainability on and off your campus Who knows? Their projects or partner  organizations may be working towards the same end.    3.) Expand the scope of what “environment” means to you.    The environment is traditionally viewed as a single issue, which is inherently  misrepresentative of what it should be. As Jim Sandoe of CCL Lancaster put it  in that workshop, the only way to pass legislation like the Green New Deal or  the Carbon Fee and Dividend Act, there needs to be a coalition of  organizations pushing for change. Climate change, pollution, and lack of  access to healthy food or clean water are environmental issues that  disproportionately affect communities of color and working class  neighborhoods. When planning events on campus or looking for collaboration  from off-campus organizations, do not limit yourself to just conservation or  sustainability. In order to holistically solve systemic issues and institutional  failings, we as a society need to focus on environmental justice and how policy 

can change behavior and restore faith to all groups, placing emphasis on marginalized, working-class and minority communities. talk to the members  and/or leadership of an organization that is not environmental-centric, and  discuss ways that it can be run sustainably or if particular goals/events align  with environmental agendas. You don’t have to be green to be green, if you  know what I mean.  4.) Collaboration, not isolation.  You may be surprised by the volume and intensity of environmental  organizations in your community. At least, I know I was. Lancaster City is a  town of around 60,000 people, not including college students and commuters.  Yet, I have been able to coordinate with multiple groups and their initiatives,  including the Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay and their Riparian Rangers  program, which is a volunteer-led group that monitors the health of riparian  buffers throughout the county. There is a hunger for finding solutions to big  issues like climate change at Franklin and Marshall College, just like there may  be at your school as well, and all it takes is one person to begin a culture shift if  there isn’t. Mention your name, your interests and why you want to work with  that organization, and that is usually enough to spark a new dialogue.  5.) Get off campus!  When I was a freshman, there were few organized volunteer events or activities  that my college would provide for students. I found this all-the-more troubling  when I began reaching out to numerous environmental groups in the area who  were ecstatic that F&M students were interested in green activism, such as tree  planting or invasive species removal. While it is important to educate students  and provide workshops on campus, nothing is more important than  immersion and community service. Getting off campus offers the educational  experience for students while assisting environmental and conservation NGOs 

with their own initiatives, which usually lack the manpower. Support local green organizations by inviting them to campus to showcase their products,  services and background in the green economy. Talk to a local florist about  showcasing/selling their greenery in your dormitory. Talk to your local  congressperson or government about what their stances are on issues you care  about or ways to get your student body involved.   

Jaime Aelavanthara Jaime Aelavanthara currently teaches as an Assistant Professor in Art in Photography and Foundations at the  University of Tampa. She received her BFA from the  University of Mississippi in Imaging Arts and her MFA in  Photography from Louisiana Tech University. Her work  has been shown nationally and abroad in venues such as  the Center for Fine Art Photography, The SOHO Photo  Gallery in New York, The New Orleans Photo Alliance,  and the Ogden Museum of Southern Art.   

La Llorana (​ tea-stained cyanotype)

Swarm (​ tea-stained cyanotype)

Rebirth (​ tea-stained cyanotype)

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wWelcome to GHOST BIBLE: a zine for the bodiless & the faithless & the searching for these things. we are based in the lovely small city of...


wWelcome to GHOST BIBLE: a zine for the bodiless & the faithless & the searching for these things. we are based in the lovely small city of...


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