You stand where passage falters where answers thin into careful language. Nothing is denied. Nothing is given. Only delayed until it resembles reason. You call it balance. You call it caution. You wear it like it is clean. Something in me turns green sour nauseating burning a slow rising that has no language except return and repetition. I measure time by it now. You move elsewhere rooms that close cleanly evenings that soften laughter that costs nothing. But not everyone waits like this. Not your family. Not your daughter. Not your mother. They would not learn this kind of silence or the weight of being held just outside relief. Here things linger. The body speaks and nothing answers. Pain repeats itself until it becomes background. And still you stand at the threshold hand steady certain deciding when this is enough. Not for me. For you. A door never closed. Never opened. Crouching, kept. You, stand your ground, - tall. About the author:
Meg is an Australian self-published new Author who has one book *Story: Reflective Poetry* (2017), and a number of poems published to journals, in which some include: *Tipton Poetry Journal* (IN); *The Sunflower Collective* (LA); *SKYLIGHT 47* (UK); *Lifelines at Dartmouth* (MA); *Nature Writing* (UK); *Eureka* (Australia); *ditch* (Canada), and others. Meg was lucky to have positive press coverage in newspapers across the state of Queensland, and a positive written review by The Red Room Company (Australia) regarding this book which shows a reflective style of writing. Meg’s writing demonstrates elements of whimsy, transparency of feelings, abstractions, and may present as illustrative through her use of sensory and colourful words and imagery. Meg is self-taught and formerly worked in mental health as a therapist and support person. Meg’s education and qualifications are in Counselling. Meg is now retired due to an illness and has taken to writing as an outlet. Meg really admires and feels inspired by renowned poets local and international, such as Sam Wagan Watson, Dylan Thomas, Lord Byron, Les Murray, Clive James, Judith Wright, Dorothea Mackellar, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Yeats, Ocean Vuong, Kevin Young, Sharon Olds, Henri Cole, T.S. Eliot, Mary Oliver, Wordsworth, Jacob Polley — and many of the Bloodaxe Book poets.
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She wore the special slippers Brought by the handsome prince She’s only met him at a ball His dancing skills were mince She said she wouldn’t marry him He just was not her type He said he’d scoured the kingdom He mentioned all the hype She looked at him and smiled He didn’t know she knew She hadn’t been his first choice There was another, too He’d tried for Sleeping Beauty But the forest was too thick So, Cinders was the next in line The thought just made her sick She told him there were others Whose feet would fit the shoes She knew her ugly sisters Had cut off all their toes She sent Prince Charming packing He was a nervous wreck Why did they call him Charming He looked much more like Shrek
“everyone who saw her liked her”[1] she entered the woods and the trees rose at her sight her bottle of wine broke stained the dress that used to be white because the Big Bad Wolf wears sheep's fur he does not show his fangs he smiles poor girl could hear words but not the way he glared down at her when he asked “where” she simply gave him the answer “Thank you, wolf” she giggled as he walked her back home so monsters wouldn’t catch her she’d be eaten anyway she might as well choose her predator oh how grandma loved her partner to hear, to see, to grab her better when she doubted, nana said “no girl has even been luckier” it was so dark inside the wolf’s body that grandma didn’t have to close her eyes so she could never see “if my mother tells me not to” but when he opened her mouth she was told to answer “I do” About the author:
Charlotte Poitras is a queer neurodivergent artist-entrepreneur based in Montréal, with more than 100 publications internationally, spanning literature, theatre, visual arts, and audiovisual work. She handles mainstream culture like playdough to make it her own and defend social causes in both shocking and entertaining ways.
“Well, we’ll find that out”[1] thought the doctor when she said she was autistic laid twenty mattresses on a pea as a trick wondering if she could feel it but she slept well not even scarcely never did she complain oh had black and blue all over her body now they knew she was faking for a real autistic girl is hypersensitive and the pea was put in the DSM-5 “where it may still be seen if no one has stolen it” the girl remains undiagnosed and is still masking [1] With quotes from the original tale. About the author:
Charlotte Poitras is a queer neurodivergent artist-entrepreneur based in Montréal, with more than 100 publications internationally, spanning literature, theatre, visual arts, and audiovisual work. She handles mainstream culture like playdough to make it her own and defend social causes in both shocking and entertaining ways.
no one wrote a tale about the ugly step-sister she used to be beautiful and fair with her heart black and ugly but they made her ill-favored so it would be easier to see she mocked the princess like she had been laughed at she took away her pretty dresses so pleasing, she would be a little less “those who earned food must earn it” she learned how to fight by being hit “comb our hair, brush our shoes, and make her buckles fast”[1] maybe she needed help, maybe she had to ask she danced for a man that wouldn’t hold her hand fought for a place where they laughed at her face cut her toes shorter to fit in a shoe never tailored for her “there they go, there they go! There is blood on her shoe; The shoe is too small, Not the right bride at all!” she cried as she couldn’t be loved, only fall for she was unpretty she did not deserve romance nor pity only shame and nowhere in the original tale does anyone remember her name About the author:
Charlotte Poitras is a queer neurodivergent artist-entrepreneur based in Montréal, with more than 100 publications internationally, spanning literature, theatre, visual arts, and audiovisual work. She handles mainstream culture like playdough to make it her own and defend social causes in both shocking and entertaining ways.
The Beast lived in a grand, old castle, while many animal servants scurried around. He was presumed feeble-minded because he could barely talk, his body grotesque. At the end of the fairytale, the Beast becomes a handsome prince again, able to profess his love. All lived happily ever after. Our experiences mirror one another. A severe stroke sewed my mouth shut, and handcuffed me in a hospital prison for months. Others assume I am simple-minded because aphasia scrambles my words, and my right side is broken and disfigured. Unfortunately, my progress is on a treadmill, never moving forward. Roadblocks remain. There is no happy ending. About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson is the author of Stormy Road: Reawakening from Stroke and Aphasia. She has been published in four chapbooks, and several online and written poetry collections. Writing poetry has helped her recover, and dictation fuels her words.
In the bathroom, look in the mirror and see my reflection. In my mind, I see a child aged eight who spends all day looking for the Four-Leaf clover and blowing the biggest bubble possible. In a flash, the light changes, and you look into the magic mirror, see a young adult twenty-eight years old. I ask the mirror if I will have a happy life. The mirror says “Yes, Rochelle”. I am grown up, will I find a job? I often see glimpses of my eight-year-old self in the reflection, and remember those times with pride. Another moment, now the mirror is cracked. I see a changed person struggling, unhappy, and troubled. Much sadness and misfortune visible in the distorted image. At the end, I look in the mirror shattered into many pieces. I see the lines in my face that show all the troubled times, the sorrow. Can I continue my life, or am I ready to let it all go? About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson is the author of Stormy Road: Reawakening from Stroke and Aphasia. She has been published in four chapbooks, and several online and written poetry collections. Writing poetry has helped her recover, and dictation fuels her words.
A fairytale with three wishes, enchanting fables of dragons, elves, witches. My story contrasts, recovering from weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain. My first wish would be strength returned. The magic wand waved, made me tremble with excitement. But instead blurted out “I want disability.” So, my right side was still hobbled, but at least I could park in handicapped spaces. My second wish was to cure my trouble speaking. But instead, because of aphasia babbled “I want lasagna.” So, I still could not talk, but at least I could eat some steamy pasta with gooey cheese. My third wish was to make by brain perfect. But instead, jabbered “I want my brain frozen.” The fairy gave me an icy slushie to drink. So, I had a headache on a hot day, my brain fizzled, but at least I was refreshed. My three wishes failed, so, it is back to the beginning. Weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain. About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson is the author of Stormy Road: Reawakening from Stroke and Aphasia. She has been published in four chapbooks, and several online and written poetry collections. Writing poetry has helped her recover, and dictation fuels her words.
In realms of thought where dreams reside Imagination blazing, reality being Visions dance, unbounded and wide Excusing torment plans The hellhounds of demons In your head dancing Creating worlds, both strange and freeing And felicitously prancing Masked as the devil The mind, a canvas for ideas to flow With distorted evil Frightening faces of anger That appear forever In your sight dimensions Are pestiferous reflections Of falling angels unkind Moving in your mind With every stroke, a story to bestow A tapestry of wonders, yet untold In a transcending energy tune Picking your brain to a ruin For end times coming soon About the author:
A native of South Detroit, Michigan, now residing in Hampstead, New Hampshire, Daniel Miltz is a seasoned freelance writer and poet whose life bridges the realms of technical precision and creative expression. With a distinguished 40-year career as a Mechanical Engineering Designer in high-level government aerospace programs, Daniel brings to his literary craft the same discipline and depth that defined his engineering pursuits. His poetic journey spans decades and continents of thought, earning him over 1,600 accolades across various respected poetry forums, inclusion in more than 250 anthologies, and the publication of two books to date. Deeply influenced by the free-spirited, improvisational style of the Beat Generation, Daniel found his literary voice during his formative bohemian years in California—a time marked by introspection, rebellion, and a search for authenticity through words. Poetry, for Daniel Miltz, is not merely an artistic outlet, but a lifelong vocation—an enduring lens through which he continues to explore the intersections of memory, identity, and human experience.
I have no cat in this room, so I sometimes feel like prey without a pet— preyed on by rats and their misdemeanours. Not one at a time, and not once do they pillage my room with their teeth. Faster than any reflex I could manifest, they bolt into safety like criminals. Survival instinct knows no moral bounds. At least, not for these little, unrepentant burglars with dentition that can break a glass or tear into a jerry can. Sometimes, I wake in the night to their noises, just the same way ruthless robbers steal your sleep forever with a dose of PTSD. At this point, how they enter doesn’t matter— after-the-facts that cannot alter the fact that smaller mammals have taken away your peace. My corrective measures may fix the broken window net, but not the broken loaves of bread, nor the broken pieces of paper where I drafted some poems. The BS of a rodent’s teeth is the ugly side of survival that neither follows the rules nor respects boundaries. Keeping vigils to mourn my poisoned sleep for a night, and distorted sleep cycles for a week, and a disorganised body block in a month, is the new routine eclipsing the one I planned for my self-care goals. I wonder if they have the brains to consider the hours I spend drafting poems or doing other duties, and let me find rest. I guess instinct is all they have left to live for the short while before the gums trap them, or before the pesticides do their worst. Not with their squeaks, or snake-like hisses that scare the shit out of me when the light is off, or other cacophonies they create with the slightest movement too heavy for my brain. Not their rough thuds when they fall from the curtain pole. The one time I chased an adolescent rat across the cable strapped on the wall, he stunned me with a Tom Cruise stunt— standing high on my door’s angle and looking me right in the eyes. I wonder what he was up to, and I’m sure he wondered what I was up to, looking at a predator as tall as the door he’s standing on. With a reflex designed for eluding a cat’s swift paws, I knew I stood no chance— not when I was about to move an inch. But I moved at least to get a broom, and that was all for me. About the author:
Tukur Ridwan (He/Him) writes from Lagos, Nigeria. Shortlisted in the Bridgitte James Poetry Competition (2025) and the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize (2020), his works also appear in Afrocritik, Kelp Journal, ArtisansQuill, The African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, Cordite Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He won the Brigitte Poirson Monthly Poetry Contest (March 2018), authored A Boy's Tears on Earth's Tongue (Authorpedia, 2019), and The Forgiveness Series (Ghost City Press, 2022). He loves black tea, sometimes coffee. Twitter/IG @Oreal2kur |
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