International Women’s Writing Guild
SUMMER CONFERENCE
Anthology 2024
Acknowledgments
IWWG’s inaugural Open Mic Anthology features a collection of voices that beautifully represents the spirit of our summer conference. Each piece in this anthology was first shared in a space of openness, vulnerability, and community during our Open Mic sessions— moments where writers came together without judgment, fear, or hesitation. Here, we celebrate the courage it takes to share your words, to stand before a group of fellow writers, and to let your story be heard.
This anthology is a tribute to those moments of bravery and a reflection of the IWWG’s commitment to fostering a supportive and inclusive community. We believe in the power of storytelling to connect, uplift, and transform, and this collection captures the essence of that belief. These readings, first shared in real-time, now live on these pages, continuing to inspire and remind us that our voices matter. In this space, every word shared contributes to a rich tapestry of experience and creativity.
Thank you for being part of our community and for holding space for these voices. Together, we create a place where stories are honored, and where every writer is embraced with warmth and support.
Robin Mallison Alpern (aka Elise Mallison) began writing at age 6. She has published almost every literary form except a Western. Robin indie published a memoir, “Writing My Heart Out”, and a novel of polyamory, Degrees of Connection, under the pseudonym Christine Allison. She first attended the IWWG summer conference in 1982 and has returned many times.
WHERE DOES IT HURT?
by Robin Alpern
Prompt: line from a poem by Warsan Shire titled “what they did yesterday afternoon” – the line is “Where does it hurt? … everywhere”
Where does it hurt? Everywhere.
Everything, everyone, every when.
So much is ruined, so much torn up, ripped open, blasted apart. I am writing these words so quietly, so calmly, so thoughtfully, but this fucking world is so fucked up I literally do not know how I contain myself or it. I do not believe in escaping, by which I mean suicide and I do not believe in shutting down so I can stop feeling this agony and I do believe in feeling the joy that is our birthright but I will be goddamned if I can figure out how to hold all that and be some ordinary human being who remembers to get bread and milk from the grocery store.
Funny thing, I no longer even eat bread and milk, but you get what I’m trying to say. Don’t you? Because you live in this fucked up world too and you too have to work it out every minute of every day to keep from flying right off the goddamn planet vowing I will never go back there!
Terri L. Bailey, MA, is a writer and certified Master Coach offering empowerment and creativity coaching at Terri Bailey Creative, Healing, and Alternative Therapies, LLC. Terri incorporates her life stories and experiences into her poetry, short stories and coaching sessions.
My Sistah Circle by Terri L Bailey©2020 Terri L. Bailey All Rights Reserved
MY SISTAH CIRCLE
by Terri Bailey
My Sistahs' circle are super sheroes
Our pronouns are she, her, hers
Whether you have a cooch or womb
Or none of the above
You can be in our tribe
As long as you answer to GIIIIRRRLLL!
My Sistahs heal me
And with that healing salve
We close gaping wounds with tobacco spit and red brick dust
That potion run them enemies out and seal the protection in
And when necessary, we can erase all of your sin
My Sistahs some baaaadasses
We march and demand and create
We give birth to ourselves and others
With our power and magic, we save the world
Because we are the ones we've been waiting for all our lives
My Sistahs embrace others who are not in our circle
But need our love to light their way
We love on them
Showering them with 1000 kisses from each of us
Squeezing them tight and wrapping them up with big momma bury your face in my bosom hugs
We whisper words of empowerment to their souls
And give them the permission they seek to be free
Letting them know, no permission was ever needed
My Sistahs be organizing and creating movements
We be pulling shit down and turning shit around
And making change with no cash
We turn stuff round fast
We are energy, red, hot and volatile
Ain’t none of us average chile
Y’all betta recognize
My Sistahs accept my silly
We talk shit, drink the good stuff and sometimes we smoke too much
We be hosting massive, rude woman parties and such
Together, some of us have grown from grade school to high school to grown folks
life
Even when we are adulting my Sistahs find time for sleepovers where we still giggle like little girls
Talking about boys, girls and WAP or BAD, and how we gone kick some ass and rule the world
Death don't stop my Sistahs' love
From the grave we still visit, talking through dreams and feelings and relevant messages from an ancestor friend on a Facebook page
Our bond will always remain on earth and in heaven
Nothing but God can stop us
And she neva do
My Sistahs are Goddesses
We are power personified
We are the earthly deified
Come dance with us and claim your divine
Carol Bluestein, an IWWG member since 2008, authored the C.L. Bluestein’s Seduction political thriller series: Love, Loss, Leverage, Murder includes SEDUCTION, PERCEPTION, ISOLATION, DECEPTION, EXECUTION, and TRANSITION; a contemporary version of the Exodus— YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?; and essays for The Good Men Project online zine.
BREATHING SPACE
by Carol Bluestein
Characters: Chris and Henry
Excerpt from TRANSITIONS (2024)
At 6 a.m., Native American Henry Fox got out of his truck and walked up the Inn’s gravel driveway. Yvonne, his wife and inn manager, met him outside the dining room doors.
She pointed. “He’s over there.”
“Don’t worry. I got this.”
Henry strolled toward Chris, the inn’s owner and over-protective husband of Rachel, who is six months pregnant. He saw Chris channeling Paul Bunyan’s ax-wielding skills—sans clothes. He heard the repeated sound of wood splitting. The piles of firewood told him his friend had been at this for hours.
When he reached Chris, approaching him from behind, he noticed the man’s body awash in sweat, despite the warmer temperatures of the Indian Summer. The evaporation created a fine mist that encased Chris’s body in a surrealistic glow.
Henry walked past him and leaned against a tree within talking distance yet out of flying wood range. Without making eye contact, he said, “Hey,” sliding down the tree trunk to sit on his heels. “What’s going on?”
Chris said, “Don’t talk to me.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“She fucking walked out on me?”
Henry smiled. “I understand strong language is cathartic.”
“Go away.”
“I see a lot of firewood. What time did you start?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Henry spied a glow from a light on the nearby shed. Chris, more than likely, was out here the whole night. “Did Rachel give you any reason?”
“Said she can’t fucking breathe. Needs her autonomy. What the fuck does that mean?”
“I do not understand women unless, of course, I cross-examine them in court.”
“She’s the one who’s fucking hormonal and taking it out on me!”
“I hear you. You’re hurt.”
“I want to go get her, but I know if I interfere with her goddamned breathing, she might kill me.”
“I see,” Henry said. “Are you planning to chop the whole forest into kindling?”
“Why do you care?”
“Me? I do not care. I also do not care if you stay out here until she comes back or forever.”
“Good. Go.”
“However,” Henry said, “I came over to share information regarding new Orwellian bank policies.”
“Tell me.”
“Umm. Over breakfast. It will, uh, give you a chance to retrieve your pajamas, shower, and, uh, put on some clothes.”
Chris swung the ax. It lodged in a stump with a thud. “Okay.”
Anna Bozena Bowen is author of the multi awards winning novel HATTIE, a poet, and retired RN. Her intuitive approach in life deeply influences her writing, focusing on the multidimensional aspects of our human and spiritual lives. She has an MFA in Creative Nonfiction.
I NAMED HIM JOE
by Anna Bozena Bowen
Wanting to help someone and not being able to is a hard and painful truth. I was in my late twenties and working in the six bed Intensive Care Unit at our local hospital. We didn’t often have young patients, especially ones who were the age of many of us staff nurses. Joe was a tall, dark-haired, good-looking twenty-eightyear-old man. He was a husband and father to two little girls. He had not felt well, been in pain, his abdomen was swollen, and his skin had turned a golden yellow.
It didn’t take but a few tests to get a diagnosis. I can't remember the specifics, but he was in irreversible liver failure. When the doctor told him what was wrong, for a brief moment Joe believed we could help him. For a brief moment he latched onto hope. But there was no hope for Joe back when liver transplants were not yet in the mainstream of health care offerings.
For Joe his diagnosis was a death sentence. When a person learns there is nothing that can be done to save them, there is a look in their eyes – sometimes for a moment, sometimes forever - that cannot be changed. It doesn’t matter how much “I’m so sorry” is repeated. It doesn’t matter how much comfort is offered. It doesn’t matter how little or how much time is left.
I don’t recall if his name was really Joe, but, while writing this and remembering his face, “Joe” fit. I remember his sadness and the pleading in his voice before he finally accepted that nothing could be done. Then came that look in his eyes. Total defeat. Go home and live your remaining days knowing that you are dying. Dying too young. Dying too early. Dying knowing your little girls may not remember you. Dying while encouraging your wife to remarry. I imagine, being the man he was, before he died he wished his wife a good life in her future without him.
The day that he was discharged to go home and live the rest of his short life with his wife and little ones - the doctor told him probably two months - Joe stood tall. He thanked all the nurses. In one way or another, we all cried. What I remember the most about that day was the unique coat he wore. It was a wool coat of bright warm tones in a southwest pattern. It was a coat of many colors. Maybe that is why I named him Joe.
Susan Chute is a poet, librarian, bookbinder, and curator/founder of Next Year’s Words: a New Paltz Literary Forum, now in its 11th season. This poem was previously published in the CAPS Poetry 25th Anniversary Anthology, New York: CAPS [Calling All Poets] Press, 2024. It won first prize in that Anthology Contest.
INVASION of the body Ukraine
by Susan Chute
1
A curtain of darkness dresses us, necklaced with pinprick leaks of light
A shadow is a baseless lamp
A suitcase is a wing on the ground
The cough is a violet exposé to be tossed in the trash
My skin separates the darkness without and within
The infection of invasion is just a matter of time
2
In distant lands from rockets placed or misplaced
The woman stares, arms akimbo The smoke from the guns is bluer than honesty blue as ink stain on silk Blue as ash in the fireplace ember dying out
This is the block that hides heaven This is the block that hides hell
Citizens cower in subways
A bunch of rags is a woman crying The darkness swallows the throat Hunger is the opposite of an orchid’s tongue
Stop the trains the planes expel the diplomats tear up the monopoly money drain the vodka
What can you do to stop a war without warring
3
I am a country cut off from casualties and curses of powerful pariahs cut off from consequence
Of course the books will bury us
Of course the breath is a stop sign Of course the choke will stall Of course the solemn is statement
If I call, you will be occupied If I’m not in sight, I will forget If I remember, the surprise will sharpen me If I trust you, my heart will race If I imagine my death, I will die If I sleep, will I awaken
If I tell the truth, will I understand the ending
A pregnant woman runs
A cigarette is a rubbled street forming a wall that doesn’t stop anything
They said the bugs crawled through me but I am out of the weapon’s range
Note: This poem was previously published in CAPS Poetry 25th Anniversary Anthology, New York: CAPS [Calling All Poets] Press, 2024. It won first prize in that Anthology Contest.
Martha Darr is a poet and linguist with fieldwork experience in parts of Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean. She has received funding from various sources, including the National Endowment for the Humanities, and is now enjoying life in the Pacific Northwest.
COLONY
by Martha Darr
Music sweet and harsh riffs on territory wooing collusion
Calls to warn against intruders’ kill
Fighting loving singing doubled beats from tiny throats
Simultaneous lifts of highs and lows
Versatility
Living for delectables feasting on blooms sunshine each other
In the fullest of days the shortest of lives Chanting in modulation
IDIO*LECT
by Martha Darr
Sometimes I dream language into solid form impenetrable to all but me on an island: population one
The communication chiseled inlays of design Word prints charted on unmapped zones I yield now and then to an outer zone but restless soon return Freed from clutter in a crowded world of fluid manipulation
Kelly de la Rocha is a poet, journalist and founder of poemRENOVATION. com, a daily word challenge used in eldercare and academia. Her poetry and feature stories have appeared in more than 50 publications in the US and abroad. An upstate NY native, she now lives in Farmington, CT.
NO POEM ABOUT MALAWI
by Kelly de la Rocha
I have not written a single poem about Malawi.
It’s been more than a year since I journeyed there on a mission to help girls stay in school, and it makes no sense.
The whole country is a sonnet of wandering goats and handmade bricks.
It’s a free verse of brilliant chitenjes wrapped around dark-skinned women’s waists.
It’s a haiku:
barefoot smiling kids with filthy clothes, upstretched arms, asking to be held
It’s ballads alighting on schoolgirls’ faces as I offer them washable menstrual pads. They sing!
“Now we don’t have to miss a class or make do with cloth scraps. Now we can dance, no matter when.
We are back on the map.”
See? It’s all a poem.
But what rings in my mind like an overused rhyme is the memory of orphans using dirty hands to scoop gray gruel from a communal bowl, child brides with children strapped to their backs, listless men, run-down shacks, the lack of running water, lack of healthcare, lack of a way out. I want to write something soaked in hope, but can’t see past a dried up well, the miles walked to quench thirst, while my glass is always full.
That’s why I haven’t written a poem about Malawi.
Faith Swingle Green was born in a small town in upstate New York. She retired after 40 years as a special education teacher. Her first collection of poems, "My Prophetic Soul and Other Poems" was published by Mellen Press in 1992. She has published in 'Silhouette', the Virginia Tech literary magazine, "Trolley", the SUNY Albany newsletter,' New Authors' Journal, twice, and an anthology "With Pen in Hand" A pocketbook of her poems "Seasons of the Heart' was published in 2023 by Local Gems Press. She is working on a book about caring for someone with Alzheimer's Disease, a memoir, and a mystery. Faith is a longstanding member of the Hudson Valley Writers Guild and a member of the International Women Writers Guild.
THOSE KIDS
by Faith Swingle Green
This is the time.
People call it germ warfare. We, the fallout shelter kids who crouched under desks arms covering our ears against the otherworld blare of the air raid siren.
We were safe.
Yeah, the kids who were taught to hold hands and look out for each other
Those kids.
We knew there was something terrible might happen to us. The Russians.
But that was all.
kids didn’t ask questions, We took whatever explanation was given. And we held hands and looked out for each other.
INCARCERATED TEENS
by Faith Swingle Green
criminals in their teens
gansta rap idols
only knowledge from desperate streets
didn’t follow the Golden Rule
gansta rap idols
breaking & entering, assault, rape
try not to look like a fool
willing to take a gamble
tabula rasa with mouth agape
poverty a battle
willing to take a gamble
nobody went to school
poverty a battle
unable to break the cycle
nobody went to school
hidden sorrow and indelible hurt
unable to break the cycle
only knowledge from desperate streets
hidden sorrow and indelible hurt
criminals in their teens
Kimberly Hirsh lives with two dogs and two cats outside Boston, Massachusetts. She is a vegetarian, traveler, writer, and artist. She works in global public health and has traveled to more than 60 countries. She has published travel essays and essays on interracial relationships and is an executive member of PensAroundtheWorld.com.
A USE FOR HANDCUFFS
by Kimberly Hirsh
Callie’s heart jumped into her throat as she saw the flashing lights of two police cars in her rearview mirror. She passed a 65 MPH sign and was relieved; her speedometer read 63. She eased up on the gas, figuring the police would pass her in pursuit of their target. She glanced in the rearview mirror at her husband in the back seat. She slowed to 54, then 45. The police cars followed her as she signaled and moved into the right lane.
“Shit!” Derek bolted upright.
Callie pulled over onto the shoulder as Derek frantically searched the mess in the back seat.
They were eleven hours into the trip. Callie lowered the window to a young, white police officer.
“Ma’am, do you know why we stopped you?”
“Not really”
“You drifted out of your lane a couple of times. Can I see your license?”
Liars, Callie thought. She handed over the license.
“Where are you headed?”
“Cincinnati”
“What for?”
He needed to know? “To visit family.”
“Were you distracted?”
“Just chatting with my husband to pass the time.” Did she sound choked?
A second young, white officer tapped on Derek’s rear window.
“Can I see your license, sir?”
Derek was crumpled in the back seat. Lacking his triple N-95 masks, he lowered his window a few inches. Oh god, definitely not normal. “Wa…wa… why…,” he stammered, closing the window in the policeman’s face.
“Derek, please be calm,” Callie whispered. “You should tell them
the truth.” When she started dating Derek, she’d quickly learned from his mother to fear what all black women feared for the men they loved. Derek opened the window again and stuttered more protestations. Callie thought she might crap herself.
“Where are you going?” the second officer asked.
“Cincinnati,” Callie answered for Derek.
“Why?”
Again, “To visit family.”
A third police officer, young, black, appeared. Was everything ok now?
The night before in the hotel, they’d seen the news that five black police officers had beaten a young, black father to death in Memphis. The man was stopped for a traffic violation. It happened over and over.
“Do you have ID, sir? We got calls on you,” he gestured at Derek. “They said they saw you handcuffed to the grab bar and that this didn’t look like a police car.”
Callie smiled, just slightly. She released the breath she’d been holding. “Of course. I understand.”
The officer wasn’t done. “Can you explain?”, pointing to Derek’s tethered wrist.
“Surgery, I had surgery!” he sputtered defiantly. “What do you expect?”
God, tell the truth, Callie thought. Lies never lead to anything good.
“I can’t just leave my… arm… up? I need to keep...”
“Where did you get the handcuffs?”
Seriously? she thought. You can get them anywhere. “Army-Navy store.” You can buy guns at Walmart, a sales clerk had told her once when all she wanted was pepper spray.
“You did the right thing, officers. Thank you for checking.”
“So, you’re fine? We just have to check.”
“Yes, totally fine, sir, thank you,” Derek answered, finally calm.
Callie put on her signal and cautiously pulled back onto the highway.
Derek checked his handcuffs to ensure his right hand was securely locked in place to soothe his panic attacks and popped another tranquilizer with his left hand.
Callie wondered how many more encounters they might have with the police on this trip.
Christine Irving is the author of several volumes of poetry. She appreciates the power of the spoken word and loves to read her poetry aloud. She is also a novelist, priestess, ritualist, and collage artist. In all mediums, storytelling—creating a meaningful narrative out of given events or facts— remains her primary impetus.
E FOR EMILY
by Christine Irving
The young goth who calls herself “E” and works in the garden section at Lowe's is helping me put together an herb garden in that sunny spot near the back fence. She made a dozen sketches on scratch paper and sewed them together in a little book with samples of plants pressed onto each page. Can you imagine? You should see her out there double digging, sparkling like a Christmas tree when the sun hits all those studs and earrings,. She moonlights ‘cause Lowe’s pays diddlysquat. I’d hire her full-time in a second, could I afford it— just to hear her talk. Last night she read a poem at the coffee shop on the corner. “Wild Nights” she called it. Got me so excited I stood on my chair, cheered, and whistled like a maniac. I’m a weird old broad, but I know talent when I hear it. That girl will be famous, bet my bottom dollar.
AN OPEN BOOK
by Christine Irving
He says, he reads me like a book, but his shelves lean heavily toward memoirs, biography, and photo albums full of snapshots photoshopped with nostalgia and sentiment.
I know how to make him laugh, to comfort, to curb my tongue. He’s never learned to read between the lines; rarely glimpses the full range of characters, who dwell behind my pleasant face and dancing eyes.
O yes, we dance in here. We wail and vibrate— pungent, syrupy, transparent. My shelves retain a smattering of mystery, fantasy, and sci-fi, volumes on Jung, quantum physics, symbol, and myth.
I confess to a secret sweet tooth for Romances depicting feisty heroines Who claim sovereignty before succumbing on their own terms.
My life is not a secret— everything displayed face forward. I loathe self-help books. Didn’t come with a manual.
Guess he’s on his own.
Joyce Jacobson is a writer living in N.Y.C. Her work has been published in journals/anthologies including The Jewish Women’s Literary Journal, The Poetry Cooperative, IWWG Network, Women’s Synergy, Remember The Magic, The Poet’s Roundtable, Advanced Writer’s Retreat, Poems From 84th Street, Journal of Psychohistory, De-Colonizing Poetry. Online: gallery and.studio, Poem Renovation. She is a member of The International Women’s Writing Guild. She has recently published her first book of poems entitled: Through a Glass, Finally which is a memoir in poetry.
EVERY YEAR WE HEAR |STORIES OF WOMEN
by Joyce Jacobson
Every year we hear stories of women who walk on roads or avenues as if they are free.
Some faces are open to the sun, some partially covered in heat and wind, some hidden by cloth only their eyes are seen. They move one foot in front of the other only to go as far as man-made barricades, clenched fists and open holy books allow . They are forbidden passage, fulfillment of their own dreams.
Beneath the cloth, the skirts, the jeans, man’s well-built chains hold tight. Women broken and damaged wait to be released, wait for man’s hand to set them free.
But man grips them by the throat, throws them to the ground and does all he can to keep them there.
Melody Joy is a transformational coach and author of Shaktified: The Seven Sacred Keys to Heal and Awaken Your Feminine Power and the Substack newsletter, The Naked Mystic. Melody works at the fulcrum of Eastern and Western medicine, focusing on women’s health and empowerment.
WE ARE FREEDOM
by Melody Joy
We are freedom.
We are the prayer.
We are the song and the way through the dark.
We are the night of our own souls dawning.
We are the courage and weakness of all time.
We are the iridescent black of the Raven’s wing.
We are all that ever was and will be.
We are freedom.
We must continue to birth ourselves anew to keep our precious freedom.
Alice Klugherz started performing her docu-whimsy (talk/dance) in 1988. She writes, choreographs, and performs from the perspective of an aging feminist. Her work delves into the chaos of everyday life: technology overload, ageism, loneliness, and excessive waste. She has received Grants and residencies from The Field, Dance Theatre Workshop, LMCC, and from Franklin Furnace. Alice has performed at PS122, Dixon Place; Dance Theatre Workshop, and University Settlement. In 2022 she was chosen to take part in the Green Spaces Incubator of Dance, Take Root program, and she just received a DIG residency also at the Green Space.
WITCH MONOLOGUE FROM RAPUNZEL RANTS
by Alice Klugherz
I’ve always been one, always! Always with the sour word - I live on the edges of other people’s brains. Wondering when to put the bad word in. Always to keep little Rapunzel in her place, not so little, and in this case, not so young.
I’ve succeeded — not married, no kids, frustrated, self-loathing; I’ve done my job. Now I'll leave her be, she’s learned the fine art of undermining herself. My work is done. And she’ll get a bit "better" before she croaks. She’ll simmer that bitterness into feminism — how bad is that? So, now I must move on to be the itch in someone else’s brain. It's not entirely negative. They have some autonomy... maybe.
See, way back then they were locked in the tower for trying to have any self-control over their lives.
The tales blame it on me, but that was rarely the case. Needless to say, these older women accused of witchcraft were scapegoats, but I assume you knew this. Nowadays, I simply...well it’s not that simple. See, women no longer need to be locked in a tower. It’s all internalized — we simply keep it going. We’re really just doing their bidding.
What used to be done overtly is now completely self-motivated. You could say I've become a project manager. Mix that with good old-fashioned trickle-down Puritanism and she’s free to come and go and she will always be locked in the tower.
I’m a witch —vampires come and go, witches are forever!
Julie Lomoe holds an MFA from Columbia University. She showed her paintings at the Woodstock Festival in 1969, and one is in the permanent collection of the Museum at Bethel Woods. She has published three novels of suspense and one book of poetry, Proof of Process; Poems from My Slush Pile. She is the the founder and CEO of Creative Crone Press. Visit her at www.julielomoe.com.
OLD CRONE BLUES
by Julie Lomoe
Some people claim white women can’t sing the blues.
Oh yeah, they claim white women can’t sing the blues.
But this crone begs to differ—now hear me spread the news.
I’ve finally pushed past 80, like Mick and Keith and Paul.
Like Old Joe in the White House, and Mick and Keith and Paul.
Still swinging for the fences and giving it our all.
But age can creep up on you when you’re not keeping score.
Yeah, age can creep up on you when you’re not keeping score.
Your mind’s as sharp as ever, your body screams NO MORE!
When I woke up this morning, clock told me it was ten.
When I woke up this morning, clock told me it was ten.
Felt wet beneath my booty—I’d peed the bed again.
Sat up and checked my vitals—I’d survived another night.
I counted all my blessings—I’d survived another night.
Feet hit the floor, I realized—my legs weren’t working right.
My knees seized up in protest—they didn’t want to move.
Yeah, my knees, they cracked in anguish—they didn’t want to move.
A crappy morning start-up—I couldn’t hit my groove.
My cat demanded breakfast—she loves her Fancy Feast.
So I padded to the kitchen and gave her Fancy Feast.
Cleo murders mice and chipmunks—I’m trying to tame my beast.
I stepped on the scale and squinted—I haven’t lost a pound.
Stepped on the scale and squinted—I haven’t lost a pound.
My brain says I’m too fat but my body loves being round.
An Atkins Shake and coffee—my standard breakfast meal.
Dark Chocolate Royale and coffee—my standard breakfast meal.
Craving bacon, eggs, and pancakes, but trying to keep it real.
Now upstairs in my office, I plop down in my chair.
I boot up my computer and slouch down in my chair.
The screen’s blank, so’s my brain—it really isn’t fair.
Today’s like all the others—I watch the hours unfold.
I pray I’ll feel creative and watch the hours unfold.
But genius is elusive—God damn, I’m getting old!
Doris Mahaffey < Disorganization is my Superpower > is a curious-to-thecore retired economist and erstwhile flower child from Central Ohio, where she may be found sculpting her debut novel or delighting in the company of flora, family friends, furry critters, fond memories, and books. Lots and lots of books.
EXCURSION TO ORONSAY
by Doris Mahaffey
Years ago, visiting Scotland with my older cousin, We crossed the tidal causeway from Colonsay to visit the ruins of the Priory of Oronsay, Resting place of our ancestors.
We rambled along the worn path through lush fields, Delighting in the black sheep, black rabbits, black ducks Unique to the island. “Our kind,” we laughed. We strolled among the crumbled walls, whitened crosses, and barely discernible grave markers of distant kin.
The sun cast a silver glow behind a gray-blue veil of clouds, Offering subtle clues to the passage of time.
“It’s getting late,” I said. “We need to get back across the causeway Before the incoming tide traps us here.”
I led the way as my cousin struggled to follow.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry –Life is such a flurry, flurry.”
Lines, as I recalled from Black Beauty, Heart of my youth.
Water from the rising tide was already kissing the gravel lining the bottom of the causeway.
“Hurry,” I called to my cousin now some distance behind. I remember the look of dismay on her face, But all I could think of was getting back to the main island.
My cousin caught up and we waded through ankle-deep water, Laughing at the grotesque sucking sound our soaked sneakers made as we extracted them from the mud of the tidal flats before finally reaching solid ground.
Now that I’m older and my gait has slowed considerably, I remember the look of dismay on my cousin’s face And know it was one of reluctance.
She would happily have spent the night amidst the broken stones of the Priory, Communing with the bones of our ancestors In the company of black sheep, black rabbits, black doves
Carline Napolitano, is a clinical social worker, writer and workshop presenter. Her 34-year career is expansive specializing in neurological impairments and anxiety disorders. She’s written professionally and presented at international conferences. An 11-year member of (IWWG) her current focus is bringing writing as an expressive art into the therapy room.
ESSAYS IN THREE ACTS
by Carline Napolitano
ACT 1-When the clouds parted
A blazing amber sunset against fresh snow, but grief clouds my eyes.
Grief, gray, and gravely holds me like iced walls.
I took myself on a journey the first year after my mother’s death.
A photo a day of my new world.
Almost a year later, during a walk in the woods, a gentle breeze caressed my cheek.
“Soul whisper” pops in my head, was that really my mother’s voice?
Should I dismiss it?
Instead, I comb through my year of photos:
A lone daffodil budding amongst decaying leaves
A cardinal sitting on a brown lawn
A vast black/grey harbor not yet dotted with moorings.
I see but don’t know the meaning.
Instead, I name a soul card, Soulwhispers.
I take that solo trip to a writing retreat in Italy.
I meet new women.
I join IWWG!
Clouds part, and for a while, I see the blazing amber sunset with clear eyes.
A dream card handed to me in a workshop said:
“Your dream may not be possible right now. Could you give it a chance to come true in the future?”
This sent me reeling!
Is MY DREAM not possible?
Gathering all of my writing, my gems, into something. A book, a workbook, a creative non-fiction memoir- I love writing- I write and work from my heart. Many clicks of recognition these precious days here circle back to what I’ve done, written about, discovered, wish to carry forward. Listening to my soul whispersa gentle breeze carries my mother’s voice from beyond, “keep writing.”
My working life focuses on slowing down, being present, take a breath, feel your heart, go deeper, stay, stay a little longer, until the glimmer of transformation emerges.
Suddenly I feel gratitude swelling in me. Gratitude for my mind, my iPhone for holding my notes, my journals, my grandparent’s stories. My mentors, teachers, the late Riverside Writers, I’m grateful for my healing through writing. For knowing WRITING IS THE ENTRY.
Could I give my dream a chance to come true in the future?
F&#+ yes!
ACT 3- Finding Grace
Just when I think that getting older is scary and lonely, I find connections with women with whom I feel alive. We share slices of life; new hips, shoulders, falls, wrinkles, and sagging breasts muddled together with wisdom, and strength.
It’s no mistake that we arrive mindful that we are blessed to be on this earth. Although we cry and grieve, mostly, we remain unjaded by life’s unfairness, randomness, and discordance.
Mirrors are held up by each other, and we see (I see) reflections of grace.
Leslie Neustadt is a retired attorney, poet, and visual artist. The author of The Sustenance of Stars (Kelsay Books, 2024) and Bearing Fruit: A Poetic Journey (Spirit Wind Books, 2014), her work is inspired by life’s joys and struggles, the natural world, and a commitment to social justice. Invocation and A Chance Not to Kill were previously published by Kelsay Books.
INVOCATION
by Leslie Neustadt
Loosen my words. Let them fall to earth like soft rain, bring bellflower to blossom.
They might take wing with skylarks, be lush as a rainforest, sing the praises of kapok trees, kinkajous, monkey brush and mangoes.
Let words sling arrows, leave a trail of blood. Poems that burn
down walls, open halls of justice, echo the pleas of those who cannot breathe.
Let them reflect the girl who cries herself to sleep in a cage.
They might heal like bone broth, leave a kernel to gnaw on.
May these words flow like lava, blaze, and glow, shining light on the unseen, unheard.
Let them be like rivers. Let them flow. Let them flow.
This poem was previously published by Kelsay Books in The Sustenance of Stars.
A CHANCE NOT TO KILL
by Leslie Neustadt
For the Parents Circle – Families Forum of Israel and Palestine whose members have lost children to the conflict.
Their children are buried in this precious, this hateful earth. Israelis and Palestinians have planted thorny broom, their olive branches blistered.
Abdul and Aaron, Rafeef and Rachel have no place to rest. The Parent’s Circle climbs the arduous trail to trust within earshot of war. They have set the table with their children’s hallowed bones, drunk from each other’s grief, tasted bittered berries. Listened to each other’s histories and travails.
They plead, Begin with small harmonies. Pair anemone and royal iris in our shared soil.
Seek justice. Seek peace. We must. We must.
Laura Rutland, a transplant from North Georgia to Erie, Pennsylvania, retired from her teaching position at Gannon University in 2022. She has published in several journals, including Autumn Sky Poetry Daily and The Anglican Theological Review. Her fantasy poetry chapbook, A Dragon Woman’s Journey, is available on Amazon.
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
by Laura Rutland
For the first time in thirty years I will sing a solo line for choir and you are not here.
I cannot send the link to your e-mail, tell you that in 15 minutes 11 seconds you will hear a familiar voice. You would be pleased, send a WHOOP, or say, “That makes me happy.”
I announced my book’s release the day your husband called your children home to say goodbye.
My solo comes three days after your burial.
Life can begin again after sixty-five.
I am beginning again, dear one.
I hope you are, too.
AFTER: A LAMENT
by Laura Rutland
“saving flame points in the sky…”
From “Leap-Centuries” by Paul Celan
The day after your funeral I woke up with a black eye.
No fall—no one hit me—
The eye was blue-black anyway.
The Sunday after your funeral I ate pancakes after church.
Too much food—not really soothing— just put me to sleep, all that sticky sweet.
That same afternoon—saving flames— white flames—wings of gulls so high so high flying, sometimes in lines, sometimes swirling. White flames bright against a sky too blue for February.
In seagull light, I felt you for a moment, essence of you, a piercing wingtip love.
I saw us—girls together, gazing up at an ocean sky.
Linda Leedy Schneider, a psychotherapist in private practice and poetry mentor who was awarded The Contemporary American Poetry Prize by Chicago Poetry, has written six collections of poetry and edited two poetry anthologies. She founded and leads The Manhattan Writing Workshop. Linda believes in the healing power of writing and reading poetry.
I TOLD HIM I WOULD WAIT FOR HIM
by Linda Leedy Schneider
A man is coming for dinner. My heart pounds. Will he sit in the logical chair, the one that replaced my husband's recliner, that chair he took his last breath in while I told him over and over I loved him, would always love him, would choose him again? Asked him to just let go, nestled my face in his hair, held my hand on his chest while his ears grew cold, so cold and then his chest, his belly.
He was gone, but I stayed with him until dawn, looked at his hands, unwrapped his cold swollen legs, rubbed lotion on his body, held him, hugged him, told him I would miss him, that I loved him, I would wait for him. Finally, I called hospice, and a nurse anointed him with lavender and said a prayer. Someone removed his wedding ring and placed it on a chain. I still have the chain around my neck.
A man is coming to my house for dinner tonight.
Published by Verse-Virtual
CM Sears (MFA, MA, she/they) is an essayist, poet, fiction writer, and interdisciplinary artist. CM graduated with a Master of Arts from Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, MI, returning to school after a long career as a professional dancer. Recent publications of their prose can be found in the American Book Review, The Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, Isele Magazine of Art and Literature, and elsewhere. Her poems have been published by Crab Apple Lit, the Dewdrop, and Tupelo Press, among other journals. She lives in Michigan where she teaches dance, art, writing, and yoga at Maple Street Studios.
MORTALITY TOIKA
by CM Sears
I.
Mortality as Grandma Spider’s Hum
I am not a fan of squandering love, limbs or spider legs. This starfish is already down one arm. I grope for my words, my memories; my lost felt hat. As amputee grandmother spider spins webs darkly jeweled- she hums. What means egregious? Where are the lies? Is this where all the lost socks go, limping wetly, wheezing to the dirty clothes hamper? Where is your joy? Are you collecting paychecks in absentia? When we give uptrading the precious wonder of our lives, Remember Grandmother Spider, Her hum will endure Trust her web
It shimmers, collecting water droplets, She glistens
Transmuting jewels into sustenance.
II. Mortality and the Miscarriage
Mortality is a woman overboard, arms outstretched, pale and bluing Nothing is real. Forty-five minutes pass
Icy slaps of salt waves smack filling soft under-tongue cavities stern side of his old ship winks back, then
sinks into shadows culled from her last nightmarish trip to the ER. Then, as now, still empty
Cotton-stuffed like suture dressing
Nothing comes from nothing Seventy minutes pass
Slap! He spat
In her face when she lost it
a coffee bean-sized mass with smears of raspberry jam
You can’t do anything right even procreate, you stupid cow. His words stunned her She felt the freezing water numb her legs to pen nibs calcify her hands to claws the cruise line tickets, torn to bits the curse of not speaking up
Not defending herself Stitching her lips into jagged silence. Fat Tuesday is in twelve weeks Carnival will claim the streets
She would have been second trimester, easy beans, Sliding into home instead of here-
Subsumed in icy waves of guilt and shame and redundancy Overhead, a new moon sucks its teeth Mocking her to try, try again
She dries her feet descends into numb sleep dreams of Mardi Gras beads, King cakes stuffed with pink plastic babies.
III. Mortality as a Bitter Recessional
Tata, Brooklyn!
Seeds have sheath and sugar. Nutrients for that one sprouting bean, but the soil was poor.
Macy said I was hot to trot But she may have been insincere Probing her tongue into my earlobe
A vendor at the flea market
Sold an aged trumpet, claimed It was Neil Armstrong’s silver space suit
I wasn’t fooled. I tongued
the mouthpiece softly at midnight, longing for just one movie-star kiss.
Remember the gas lantern
From Ohio’s railroad?
Flashing blue and red and blue
against our wrestling arms. Your hair twined around my thumbs lips buzzing like a hive
We lolled upon a table I made; scrounged from scraps. Sharp edges marking our backs.
Paint the whole mess electric blue as my old Doc Martens. Your tongue held hostage under razor-sharp teeth.
We French-kissed in the shower Ivory soap suds perfuming your temples your brown eyes limpid with desire
We pinkie promised to stay together; even if the stock market crashed and music ceased to exist, we were twenty-two & six months
after all. The lantern broke and the table collapsed. Afterward, we smudged our hair, and drew the shades
close over window sills littered with dead flies. Backwards, we walked out
away from that pink shotgun house, where three decades of women succumbed to grief and fits of hysteria.
Macy stayed back. Cast runes in her room, refusing to watch the bitter recessional.
She smoothed her eyelids with rose water, her laugh glittered sharp as broken mirrors. Over the Hudson, seabirds scattered.
Robin Mayer Stein teaches poetry and memoir workshops. Her work has appeared in 50 Give or Take, The New Renaissance, Fiddlehead Folio, and Persimmon Review. She received a Massachusetts Cultural Council poetry grant. She leads workshops at schools about her book, My Two Cities: A Story of Immigration and Inspiration.
HUNGER
by Robin Mayer Stein
Back then, my parents were wrapped up in their own lives. They didn’t notice that I was very thin and pale. I couldn’t eat much those days because I was madly in love with Mr. Kaufman, my ninth-grade biology teacher.
I would do anything for him--anything except dissect a frog, a requirement for biology class. My friend Sam stepped in for me when we had to dissect the frog. I was grateful to him.
One morning, Mr. Kaufman stopped at my desk and said, “Please come see me at the end of the day.” Sam shot me a look but I would not meet his gaze. He was not happy about my feelings for Mr. Kaufman.
Somehow, I made it through the endless hours of French, history and algebra. At 2:45, the final bell rang. I walked down the long hall and stood in the doorway of Mr. Kaufman’s cubicle. There were stacks of books and papers everywhere.
Mr. Kaufman transferred books from one chair to another. “Have a seat. How are your classes? How do you like being in the chorus?”
So he knew that I took chorus. That meant he had been checking my schedule. “Classes are fine and I love singing. I’m an alto.”
He nodded. “Alto, that’s great. But are you working too hard? You look extremely thin. Are you eating enough?”
“I don’t have much time to eat when I’m working on extra credit. The Scientific American articles are really hard. I sit for hours in the library, reading and taking notes and sometimes, I just forget to eat.”
“Why?” said Mr. Kaufman
“Why do I forget to eat?”
“No, why are you torturing yourself with those journals?”
“To impress you,” I said, not sure if I had spoken the words out loud.
He leaned back in his chair. “You have impressed me, but there’s no need to work so hard. Pace yourself. Do you see what I mean?”
“Not really,” I murmured. His eyes were deep blue. I twisted the chain of my heart locket. You could put a picture in it but I hadn’t yet. “Are you going to send me to the guidance counselor?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mr. Kaufman said. “Are you going to call my mother?”
He tugged at his tie. “Only if you’d like me to.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said, and he smiled. I loved how he looked when he smiled. In class, he was always so serious when he taught us about lysosomes and mitochondria.
He placed both hands on the desk. “Here’s the deal. No more extra credit. Your class work is excellent, except for that frog business. I’d like you to check in with me from time to time so I know you’re eating enough.”
I wanted to say, “When should I check in? How? How often?” but I kept quiet.
I stood up and Mr. Kaufman stood up, too. He extended his hand across the desk, but I didn’t dare take it.
And, as I walked down the hallway, his voice echoing in my head, I was gripped by a hunger so strong that I feared I might never be satisfied.
Tracy L. Thompson is a writer living in Schenectady, NY. She a liberal feminist, a mom and grandma, a Navy vet, and a Yale Law Grad. She writes poetry, memoir, flash fiction and short story, and just released her first novel, Out Like a Lion, available on Amazon.
THOSE MOTHER FUCKING FOUNDING FATHERS
by Tracy L. Thompson
In 1776, there were 2.5 million people in America, (a little less than the current population of Brooklyn, New York) 23.9% of whom were black, disenfranchised, NOT included in 'created equal. '
That brings the population down to 1.9 million (just over the current population of Manhattan).
It's surprisingly difficult to find a source for the population of white women at that time, but for arguments sake let's say 49%.
So, 969,000 white men. That's the magic number for whom the mother fucking founding fathers were stacking the decks (about the size of Jacksonville Florida, Austin Texas, Columbus Ohio).
Now we're clinging to the idea that the rules those mother fucking founding fathers made for one million white men 250 years ago should apply in 2024 to a country that has exceeded their smallminded expectations.
There were 55 mother fucking founding fathers. 25 of them owned slaves.
39 of them signed the constitution.
The 'intent' of those 39 white men is what we are somehow, ridiculously, beholden to today.
Those mother fucking founding fathers must be rolling in their graves with the power they wield. Spinning like tops.
Margaret (Margie) Winslow is professor emerita of Earth Sciences at the City College of New York. She is a member of the Columbia Fiction Foundry, the International Women Writers Guild, Mystery Writers of America, the Crime Writers Association (UK), and Sisters in Crime. She published two awardwinning travel/adventure memoirs, Over My Head and The Cusp of Dreadfulness, and an animal companion memoir about her donkey, titled Smart Ass. Her first mystery novel, Cradle of Storms, is currently making the rounds of publishers.
TOTAL HEART BLOCK
by Margaret Winslow
(from her upcoming memoir, The Heart Knows)
It’s seven AM. The new shift starts in the cardiac ICU. Medical personnel rush back and forth outside my room in color-coded unforms. The nurse comes in.
“Why am I still in the ICU?” I ask.
“Total heart block. When you stabilize, they’ll go back in.”
“Go back in? What do you mean by stabilize?”
“When you came off the heart-lung machine, your heart wouldn’t restart, so we’re helping it along.” She checks the monitors and iv lines. Leaves.
Total heart block? Sounds dire.
Ten years ago I found out I had Hypertrophic Obstructive Cardiomyopathy, or HOCM, for short. As a field geologist, I had hiked all over the world. Lately, a single flight of stairs defeated me.
Later that morning, the surgical team arrives. “Your surgery was a success,” says Dr. Takayama, smiling.
“What does total heart block mean?”
“It’s also called complete heart block,” he says.
“That sounds a lot better,” I say.
He misses my sarcasm. Apparently, while removing the abnormal heart tissue, they “dinged” the electrical system. “When you’re stabilized, they’ll install an internal pacemaker.”
In the middle of the night, a woman in black scrubs comes in. She erases my name from the whiteboard and leaves.
The next morning, I ask the nurse, “Who was the woman in black scrubs who erased my name?”
“No one wears black scrubs,” she says. “Must be the lighting.”
Frowning, she re-writes my name on the whiteboard.
At mid-day, a neurologist arrives. “Do you know where you are?”
I proudly rattle off, “Columbia University Medical Center.”
“What day of the week is it?” he asks.
“Well, surgery was on December 30th, a Thursday. Must be Saturday, um, January first.”
He shakes his head. “It’s January sixth.”
I’ve lost a week.
That night, the woman in black scrubs returns. She approaches the bed carrying a huge syringe full of black liquid. She stops at the bedside and asks, “Do you want it now?”
Is this how it ends? “No!” I shout.
She leaves.
There’s a serial killer on the loose! I ring for the nurse.
When she comes in, I blurt out, “The woman in black was back.”
She stares at me.
“The other nurse wrote it down. The woman— she came back last night. She had a huge syringe full of black liquid, and…”
“Huh,” the nurse says, taking my hand. “Would you like to see a chaplain?”
I start to cry. “Yes.”
Thank You Letter
We extend our heartfelt gratitude to those who made this anthology and our Open Mics a success. Special thanks to Michelle Miller, Director of the International Women’s Writing Guild (IWWG) and overall coordinator for this anthology, for her vision and leadership. We also thank Lisa St. John, Leslie Neustadt, and Catherina Coenen for their dedication in hosting our Open Mic events, both online and in person. Your unwavering support and enthusiasm have provided invaluable platforms for writers to connect and share their voices. A sincere thank you to our editing team, including Chantel Figueroa, for your time, effort, and keen insights in bringing this collection to life. Your commitment has made this anthology a true reflection of our community’s creativity and passion. Finally, to everyone who attended, read, and shared their writing at the Open Mics, and to all those who submitted their work for inclusion in this anthology—your words and stories are the heart of this collection. Thank you for sharing your unique voices and for making this anthology a vibrant celebration of our collective creativity.
International Women’s Writing Guild