★ ‘The Yellow Slide Agreement’ by Amber Beardsley

soft cartel may 2018

Once upon a playground there were two kingdoms. One of these was ruled by me and JoEllen, my greatest ally, and the other was ruled by two older boys named Jake and Josh. Because the only ones who knew about these specific realms of power were limited to the two rulers who had founded them, not only did JoEllen and I rule over our side of the playground as co-queens, but we also served as knights under our own rule, protecting our land and enforcing our own policies. Naturally, Jake and Josh did the same on their side, as they too had no other permanent members of their realm.

Unfortunately, the boundaries of both of our domains were very poorly determined, and the lands of our respective reigns often intersected. This meant that we met one another in disputed territory frequently, and whichever side spotted trespassers first was generally also the first to give chase. Most days, Jake and Josh were successful in chasing JoEllen and I back to our side of the playground, mostly because they had the advantages of being in third grade when we were in second, and they were energetic boys and we were slightly less energetic girls.

While most of our encounters involved Jake and Josh chasing JoEllen and I from the green and brown slides set near the gymnastics bars in a curve all the way across the blacktop, finally ending by the big yellow slide in the middle of the wood chips, we did have our own small but glorious victories every now and then. One winter afternoon, after several feet of snow had been collected and then plowed toward the wooden 4x4s that separated the blacktop from the wood chips, JoEllen and I were working with my friend, Rebecca, on building a snow couch the three of us could sit in after we had completed our work. It seemed that since the already muddy boundaries regarding the kingdoms were now further covered up by mounds of fluffy white snow, we had to be in some kind of M.A.D.-esque stalemate for the season.

Either we were wrong, or Jake and Josh decided to break the truce without scheduling a meeting to re-negotiate our relationship, because the moment they spotted us with our guard down, they pounced. And I mean, literally, they pounced and tackled me and JoEllen into the snow, and poor Rebecca was abandoned as battle in the form of frantic snow-throwing broke out. Somehow, JoEllen was able to escape Jake’s clutches and run away to the far end of the playground, and I was able to gain the upper hand in the struggle that Josh and I were involved in. He must’ve had slippery gloves and couldn’t hold his own, for I succeeded in flipping us over and throwing snow into his face and peeling his hands off my arms before I, too, ran across the blacktop toward the doors that led inside the school. I made sure to mark that day as a victory for JoEllen and me, despite initially being surprised.

Continue reading “★ ‘The Yellow Slide Agreement’ by Amber Beardsley”

‘Inside of A Drop of Water’ by Felicia Ryan

soft cartel may 2018

You are everything.

You are a complete biosphere

of microorganisms and life force.  You are

understanding and movement. You are lost and found.

Like the mysterious sock that emerges from the dryer without its mate.

There is light and dark. There is aging then death. It’s all the same. We are

here and they are there.  We encapsulate all these tiny moments on a long continuum.

Who do you choose to be in this moment? A caring daughter, parental caretaker, older sister, attentive friend, supportive spouse, present step-mother, or committed employee. You are an infinite number of decision trees that flow from one another.

You are deliciously simple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and gourmet

 carrot ice cream. Your warrior soul comes from steadfast Capra genus

 and wild red hair from the salon. You are Three Stooges and Cinéma France.

You are great skin and bad backs.  You are an ex-smoker and a health and wellness coach. You are silly and serious. You use humor to cover the mistakes. You know when to blame the farts on the dog. You are different variables all happening at the same time in cascade. You are waves in the ocean. You change direction when you need to.

You lap up into and meet yourself.

You are perfect balance and stumbling grace.

You can retreat and pause any time you like and still end up

 where you are. Your sanctuary is a library; find safety on its warm leather

couches, pull your favorite book from its shelves and be lulled by the rhythm of raindrops on its window panes. This internal space lives in your present mind always open and accessible. Your stillness allows action and movement. Even butterflies and birds take time to glide on their chosen air currents. You have an infinite number of books, memories, and choices to draw from.  Past and future are all at once here.

Your life is an Escher drawing but not in a cruel or confusing way.

Let’s rethink that. Maybe your life is just an Etch-o-Sketch.  Shake the toy

and the scene resets. Nothing is written in sand that the ocean can’t wash away.

Their future is not yours. Your future hasn’t even been lived yet.

There are beautiful and elegant loops in your life.

Like light and water you bend and refract into yourself. Your beauty creates this beauty. Your pain creates this pain. The waves carry you forward.

Your life is all connectedness and all knowing.

You are a precious drop of water for a thirsty soul.

Felicia is driven by curiosity. She takes things apart and puts them back together: dryers, door handles and ideas. She values directness as well as kindness. In life or salsa class she will be moving in the opposite direction of the crowd (sometimes not on purpose). Her family is nice enough to leave all the drawers open for her to push in so she feels useful. She lives outside of Boston on the North Shore with a large man with a heart of gold, a tween who sings like an angel but can’t remember to wear her own coat home from school, and a greyhound named Arnie.

‘Side Effects’ by Felicia Ryan

soft cartel may 2018

I can feel the knot in my stomach tighten as I wriggle my foot back and forth trying to squeeze it into my sneaker. The mouth of the other sneaker is flopped open and its defeated tongue is hanging out just mocking me. My feet are swollen and my cankles spill over the edges. Such a lovely term, I first heard it used by another weight loss group support member Tina M. describing her Old Greek Yia Yia’s ankles. There was no delineation between the ankle and calf. It is common when you are overweight or a Greek Yia Yia to sport some hefty cankles. Then I remember how my back aches and that I feel soooo old. I yell in desperation at my sneaker “I am only thirty years old and fat.” I kick the stupid thing across the room.

This constant utter disgust of my body is more motivation to try a new medication that the annoying woman at the weight loss support group suggested. I go begrudgingly because I am trying to work through my food issues but I can’t stand the people in this group. Annie K. hides pizza in her sock drawer and whines about how guilty she feels about it. Peter R. dips circus peanuts in cool whip crouched on the toilet so no one sees. I like to eat full bags of Cool Ranch Doritos and fold the empty bag into a tiny square and hide it in the trash. Then I spend the next twenty-four hours stewing in a puddle of self-loathing and nausea on the couch. But unlike the other group members I politely keep my suffering to myself. Is any of our “secret eating” really a secret? No one scratches their heads about why we can’t fit into the subway seat next to them.

So when “sock drawer Pizza girl” mentions this new weight loss medication has both an X and a Z in the name, it must be good, right? Having studied Marketing in school I know that the drug companies put Xs and Zs in the names of medications so that they sound scientific. I have tried everything to lose weight. I have seen every dietician in the greater Boston area, had massages, gone to weight watchers, drank disgusting shakes, starved, binged and now here I am lost in a sea of my own sad stories and drowning in fat. I am usually not a sucker for those quick fixes but I am so desperate to lose weight I might forgo the conclusion that pizza is Annie’s only friend and consider trying this medication even though she suggested it.

I pop two pills out of a blister pack and put them on the table. I know I could avoid all this misery and drama if I just swallowed them now. I bet I wouldn’t hesitate to take them if they were dipped in chocolate or deep fried. Great, now I’m hungry.

Continue reading “‘Side Effects’ by Felicia Ryan”

Three Poems by Sarah Tun

soft cartel may 2018


My sister hates me
ignores me and tells lies
but I let it go
because I know she feels


waves of
      ocean under sky
dim moonlight
       over water
       the sky
rim of starlight
         soft shades of comfort
         blankets the night watch
as I slumber.

Burger King

A corner
quiet relativity
pure beef
once a day

of food
luke warm

they do not know

No food
no drink
can feel
or quench

Only love
perfect love

First published at age 7, Sarah wrote two stories when sent out of the classroom for being naughty; the principal liked them so much she posted them in the office window. Sarah has written copious poems and novels, self-publishing one “Confronting the Darkness”, a sci fi fantasy especially for young people. One short story has appeared in Polar Expressions. Originally from Canada, she is a world traveller, has lived in 5 countries, and resides now in England. Further information can be found at http://www.sarahtunwordsandvoices.com

‘The First Pancake’ by E. Pique

soft cartel may 2018

When I was a kid living in California, wildfires were a common occurrence. At camp we laid out our go bags at the end of our beds every night in case we needed to evacuate. I never actually had to live through one, but we would hike to see the massive black scars left on the mountains by the fires, and we would imagine running from them through the darkness and the heat and the smoke. Back at home, I would lie awake making lists. How would I escape if the house caught fire? What would I save? What could I save? It became a nightly ritual. Say my prayers. Kiss my teddy bear goodnight. Try to save my loved ones from the fire. When we moved away to Indiana my bedtime ruminations shifted from fires to tornadoes, and then to the more immediate terrors of math tests and oral presentations. I thought I’d put my preoccupation with natural disasters behind me until my first child was born. I would read the horror stories, and I would make lists. What if…

[Fast forward]

We were living in my brother-in-law’s one-bedroom unit on the fifth floor of a high rise apartment building. He had a balcony, which was good. I’d devised an elaborate scheme involving wrapping the baby in a sheet and swinging him from balcony to balcony to get safely down to the ground should the building go up in flames. It was preposterous, but had helped me sleep. Then one day I noticed that the neighbor immediately below us had enclosed his balcony. No good! I lay wide-eyed awake shooting terrified glances at my son sleeping in the crib by the window.

“Go to sleep.”

It was no use. “We’re all gonna die.”

“What are you talking about?”

I was giving my husband my most pathetic apologetic look, knowing I was going to sound like a hysterical idiot. I told him how the neighbor had foiled my escape plan.

“Tell me, how do I save the baby now?” I implored pitifully.

“The whole building is made of concrete, and the stairwell is faced in fire retardant tile. Just stay off the elevator. He’ll be fine.”

“Really?” He nodded.

“Oh, thank God.” He put his arm around me, and I fell asleep.

[Fast forward]

My son was screaming on the toilet again. We’d tried suppositories and laxatives and diet changes, we’d tried everything, but the problem wasn’t physiological, it was psychological. He was afraid to poop, and he was doing his damndest to hold it in. He had been pacing and moaning, and there was no doubt in my mind that he had to go. He had to go. I’d put him on the toilet several times that day trying inducements like bonbons and favorite books and videos all to no avail. Now it was an hour before we were supposed to meet his little friends on the playground for the last time before leaving for the summer to visit grandma in the US. He had to go. He had to go now. He was kicking and screaming as I tried to hold him on the toilet. I heard the voices in my head screaming even louder.

What are you doing? This isn’t normal. Why can’t you get him to use the toilet like a normal kid. How hard could it be? Everyone else in the whole world can do this without all the drama. Gorillas can do this, why can’t he? What are you doing wrong? Did you give him enough water? What did he eat? Why can’t you fix him? If he doesn’t poop we’ll have to take him to the doctor again…

He kept screaming. He had to poop.

“Please, please, just let it go!” I pleaded, holding his thighs too hard against the toilet seat.

He punched me in the face with a tiny closed fist. I slapped him back. Hard. Hard enough to leave the pink imprint of three fingers on his cheek just below his left eye. He was three years old.

Fuck! What have you done! You evil bitch! You monster!

Now he was shrieking in pain and rage. I desperately wanted to rewind, to take it back, to erase it, but in that moment with his screams reverberating around my head, I also wanted to hit him again.


I went into the hallway, leaving him on the toilet apoplectic. Was the baby watching me hit myself? Again. Again. As hard as I could. I looked in the mirror. I wanted to leave a mark just like the one I’d put on my son. I wanted to feel exactly what I’d done. I deserved to suffer.

Stop it! Stop it! Stop!

My heart pounded and my stomach clenched.

What have I done? I can’t take it back. What do I do now? Don’t see me. Don’t see this. Fuck!

I took him off the toilet, and tried to calm him down. Half an hour later, he was still fidgeting, obviously still holding it in, but he was also smiling and ready to go to the playground to see his friends—with three pink finger marks still emblazoned on his cheek.

What do I do? They’ll see. They’ll all see it. They’ll all know what I’ve done. They’ll take my kids away. Maybe we should just stay home. No! I’m not going to cancel his play date. I’m not going to make him pay for my mistake. He wants to go play, to see his friends. He should see them. And they should see him. See what I did to him. Maybe I deserve to lose my kids. Maybe I shouldn’t come back with them from the States. Maybe they’re better off without me. I deserve to suffer.

I packed up the stroller with water and snacks and sand toys and headed to the park with my stomach churning and my heart in my throat.

What happens now?

I watched the other mothers notice the marks. I braced myself. Prepared to be honest. I wasn’t going to lie about what I’d done. I deserved the guilt and the shame. I deserved to suffer. No one said a thing.

Oh, my God. I’m the fire that’s burning my babies. What do I do now? This can never happen again.


You sound just like my wife. Don’t be so hard on yourself.

But I never told You that story. I never told You what was really at stake that night several months later when the kids were screaming, and I locked myself in the toilet. I never told You how I’d asked for help, for a babysitter, for a break, for a therapist, for medication if it came to that, but instead was told to just be normal. How hard could that be?

“My parents can do what you’re doing,” my husband had told me. “I can take the kids away to stay with them if you can’t handle this.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe they would all be better off without me. Maybe I had nothing to offer a child. I never told You that story, because hitting myself in the face wishing I could take it back, I didn’t want You to see me, but you were there. I always bring you to the places I don’t want anyone else to see. I don’t want to be alone in them.

So, why then, did I tell You this story.


…tonight, after my husband came home with my son while I was trying to put the baby down, effectively preventing that from happening after I’d nursed her for about half an hour, I was done. My nerves were shot, hormones, weather. I don’t know. I went and laid in bed while the kids played with daddy, and when the baby found me and started in, I just said “I love you,” and laid there ignoring her, because that’s all I could think of to do. I took her to my husband. She found me again. I hid in the bathroom. She started screaming and crying, and I knew that me being with her would be worse for her than me staying in the toilet. Then my son started asking where I was, and my husband said “I don’t know. Mama’s gone.” So, I came out. For my son. I didn’t want him to think I’d just leave. I put him to bed and kissed him, and tried to make everything seem okay. But the whole time the sirens were blaring. The baby wouldn’t give me any peace, and I couldn’t stand to have her on me again. I went to the kitchen to wash dishes. She was still screaming.

I have never hit my daughter, not a swat on the bum, not a slap on the wrist, nothing. I’ve never left her in her crib at night screaming for me to come back. I’ve never left her sobbing at day care. I’ve never left her. I have that sickening moment I hit my son carved into my soul, and it protects her. It gives me endless patience for her, the blank slate. Yet, when I look at him, I see the guilt and shame of every mistake and false start, and it gets under my skin. He hits, kicks, scratches, pinches, sasses, fights, rages, and it’s all my fault. I know it is. I want to have the same well of patience and bag of tricks for him that I have for my daughter, but every time I find my groove, he grows out of it. Yes, I will lock myself in the toilet to protect him, but I will never leave. Not really.

“You know I love every part of you, always, even when I’m angry.”

“I know that already, Mama,” he says rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

“How do you know?”

“I know that, because you already told me that. I know.”

He’s four. He knows everything, but does he feel it in the marrow of his bones? He’s my first, and I’ve burned him, but I would never ever throw him away. I just don’t know what I’m doing.

I feel the same way about you.


Thanks I need all the moms I can get.

Now, listen to your first born, your beautiful precious boy, grown into a kind, strong, independent man. Listen to him say that he had, if however briefly, become a–


… wandering, lonely, drunken vagrant…

because he’d never realized you actually cared. Listen to your Baby, you could have spared him that pain if you hadn’t abandoned him. Can you feel it? It’s like a shot to the gut. I’m not supposed to feel that way about You, but I do. It takes my breath away.

I had hit You hard and left a mark. I thought You were better off without me.

Three Poems by Diana Rosen

soft cartel may 2018

Water Sports

Lolling in the bath, I remember
your arms around me,
palms atop my thighs,
your body pressing my back,
seeking softness awaiting you.
Lifting me backwards
you drape me onto your floating body,
your hands covering my breasts.
My feet dangle
in chlorine-scented waters.
We’re sandwiched together until
gently broadsided—a wayward raft—
I soar through aquamarine light,
gaze at your face half surprised,
half amused, thoroughly distracted:

Floatus interruptus.

Jungle Fever

We pace like pumas
flutter like birds
circle one another
‘til a sky of surety unites
sweet flowers of lips.
The Chinese astrologer
said we had each been
the same person. That
somehow the cosmos
split us apart
brought us back
together, or maybe we
are just two people
on the edge of loneliness
who did not run away
this time.

Walking Through Green Gulch One Tuesday

My friend Karen, she of precise poetic line breaks,
and I, with my words sprawling to the edge of the page,
walk this winding path marked with leaves, not casually blown
to the ground, but laid in a pattern like a precious Oriental
carpet of boomerangs in red and ochre. The path is bordered
on both sides with a low fence of gray logs tied with X’s
of tan rope and gray interspersed with precisely positioned
round rocks, like grocery produce stacked more exactly
than nature ever intended. Empty shoes lean against
the outside meditation room wall: dutiful lap dogs
awaiting their masters’ return. From contrived orderliness,
the path veers off to a greenhouse nursery attended by three
women in matching wide-brimmed hats and mindfulness,
cutting fresh flowers for market. We wander further to a rose-
covered arbor that opens onto an English country garden
of clipped hedges and graceful benches where we sit Karen,
Zen quiet, me with racing thoughts, inhaling the thick lush
grass sweet with morning dew. Behind us, a jumble of cosmos
in a Manet splatter of colors, sways in the twilight breeze
as if to say, “You cannot control everything.”

DIANA ROSEN is a journalist, nonfiction book author with 13 credits, essayist, and poet/flash fiction writer. Recent and forthcoming print and online publications include The Pangolin Review, Poetic Diversity, Zingara Review, Ariel Chart, These Fragile Lilacs, and the anthologies Poetry Box: Love Poems and Altadena Poetry Review. Other credits, among others, include RATTLE, Tiferet Journal, Camroc Review, and Verse-Virtual.

‘Big Bosomed River’ & ‘For the Gone Mother’ by Beth Oast Williams

soft cartel may 2018

Big Bosomed River

River swells like a lady
puffing up her chest
shows off cleavage
as she flows over the edges
of her dress.

River swells in orgasm
of heavy breathing
riprap unable to hold back
the waves as they burst
in succession on the shore.

She lays down in the street
vomits in the basement
a drunken mess
pumped from the stomach
after the damage is done.

Salt of sweat left behind
streaks white on the windows
like the caps
tipped towards us
when the river pays a visit.

For the Gone Mother

Sometimes I capture night thoughts
like butterflies in a net
and hold on to them until the morning

the new day when all is forgiven
and the sun takes a mother’s place
gently easing me out of sleep

this morning a jar full of words
spilled onto the breakfast counter
regrets burst the perfect dome

of an over-easy egg
its barren juice
ruining scattered slips of paper

what was routine now a mess
no clean towels to mop up
the memory of what was said

this day will not die by noon
in a cold hospital room
it will clock out on time

and before the next sunrise a man’s hand
will once again steal tomorrow
from an unsuspecting hen.

Beth Oast Williams is a student with the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, Virginia. Her poetry has appeared recently in Lou Lit and SHANTIH.  A former librarian, she spends most of her time still trying to make order out of chaos.

‘reclaiming what is mine’ & ‘indecipherable’ by Maribel C. Pagán

soft cartel may 2018

reclaiming what is mine

this rigid stone pathway is mine,
though hopeless abandon should be

where this wild heart lies and all that it holds—

but i give it up for this stone pathway i created.

the letting go is the hard part.
it always is, when stones are stable

and stay where they’re put—unbroken

shambles. yet this wild heart burns

and beats like those galloping horses,
this wild heart beats for the trees

and the rivers who make new paths.
it is to these woods i must escape to,

where my soul meets the earth
and wild means letting go.


notes on a stick she left upon the ocean floor.
seaweed clung to it, wrapped like a scroll.

wishes sealed in a language, an alphabet
indecipherable. the ancient precedes

within it. to discover, you must drop into
its black hole of music. sink before you swim.

die before you live. speak tongues. tread
through fire. hear echoes before you hear

its voice. jot your wishes upon the sand
and watch them melt away into the ocean.

Maribel C. Pagán is a Latina writer and poet. She has appeared in Gone Lawn, Foliate Oak, 7×20, Cuento, and others. She has received 4th Place in the Word Weaver Writing Contest, among other prestigious awards. Additionally, she is the Editor-in-Chief of Seshat, a Prose Reader for Apprehension, a Poetry Reader for Frontier Poetry, and a singer and musician for The Angelic Family Choir. Visit Maribel at http://therollinghills.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter @maribelauthor12.

‘Maggiano’s’ by Karen Alyse Billings

soft cartel may 2018

My sister and I always go to Maggiano’s for her birthday. She always gets the Crispy Pepperoni Risotto Bites and I always get the Mozzarella Marinara. I smile as I glance at the clock. 6:53 PM. She won’t be here until precisely 7:00 PM because she is always exactly on time—never early, never late. I sit in our usual corner of the restaurant, smiling. I have already ordered for us and have made arrangements that my sister is totally unaware of. I got here early so I could tell the waiter about my special plans for her.

Ever since we were young, Lacy has wanted to try alcohol—specifically the Once Upon a Vine Sauvignon Blanc—obviously for the novelty purposes, but also because it’s the type of wine our father had with his Italian food—that’s also why we go to Maggiano’s. Lacy might think I don’t know, but she has never been good at hiding things from me—her crushes, her diary, her chocolate, and her love for our father that she feels she has to hide from mom and me. Our father may not have always been the nicest man, but he was still our father.

I remember his scent—musky as though he was always outdoors. Long hair, cradling his face, but stopping before becoming too long—pitch black. When I was younger, I often wondered if there were little monsters hiding in it—you’d never know without running your hands through it to find them. He always let me and would pretend like there were, making up these little monster voices for me. Dad had known how to have fun.

One day we walked out of the house to welcome him home as he drove up the driveway after work, Lacy was in 2nd grade, I was in 6th.

“Daddy!” Lacy said, jumping up and down with her arms stretched out.

I smiled, well at least he came home.

Continue reading “‘Maggiano’s’ by Karen Alyse Billings”

Three Poems by RC deWinter

soft cartel may 2018

the scholar of loneliness

the scholar of loneliness is dead
but what is the world without someone to
illuminate that dark corridor

and so being well acquainted with the subject
volunteer to take that mantle
wear it
write of its empty geography

those of us familiar with it
attempt to fill it with speculation
despair and hope

the stray seed with no firm core
is always a lonely soul
those with roots have a hard time understanding that

but if you too are a transplant
and so often transplants find themselves in foreign soil
you carry that knowledge in your bones
the disconnect from nourishing ground

all hail the new scholar of loneliness
intimately acquainted with that darkness
who will walk that corridor with you
together yet separate
in our individual hells

audience non-participation

i lounge in my corner of the universe
louche long lazy
watching the endless performance
of the human comedy
but i’m not laughing
knives flash silver in the moonlight
and another innocent falls bleeding
but i’m no hero
i laid my sword down long ago

swiveling my head
i focus on the people
dancing on the graves
of children who starved
while grain rotted in warehouses
the pope said mass
and functionaries initialed
documents full of promises
they never intended to keep

if i had any ambition i’d get up
and change my seat but i’m not sure
that would make any difference
so i order another drink
and then another
and wonder why nothing’s changed
in hundreds of thousands of years
maybe it’s this hundred proof
we’re all sucking down

hell’s kitchen

what with the constant wind
deafening in its ferocity
hell is a cold but elegant place

it’s a challenge
to arrange a comfortable spot
in which to pass eternity

but it can be done

one must be careful
not to sit too close to the edge
of the canyon of angels

every so often one explodes
sending a blizzard of feathers
up into the wind

which then
plasters them in your face
and trust me there is no hell

like burnt feathers up your nostrils
in your tongue sandwich
all over your little black dress

but overall it’s not so bad

not that it’s exhilarating
but the tales of the despair of the damned
are gross exaggerations

truthfully the worst thing
about eternal damnation
is the food

and your punishment
is being served the same thing
at every meal

take me
i was a terrible liar
terrible as in constant and convincing

consequently i get a tongue sandwich
morning noon and night
disgusting but not as bad as some

killers get blood pudding

whatever’s leftover from yesterday
goes to thieves and so on
it’s all geared to your worst behavior

keep this is mind because
guess what
you’ll be here too

i call it hell but really
it’s just where everybody goes
the gang’s all here

and all the devils are chefs

no pitchforks just forks
and carving knives and ladles
and they’re damned too

because they cook the same thing every damned day

if you were hoping for pie in the sky
forget it
there’s no dessert in the afterlife

but believe me
once you get used to the wind
and the food you’ll be fine

RC deWinter is a Connecticut writer/digital artist whose poetry has been anthologized in “New York City Haiku,” published by the New York Times, and in “Uno: A Poetry Anthology.”  Her poetry has appeared in print in 2River View, Pink Panther Magazine, Another Sun, Plum Ruby Review, Garden Tripod, The Gall and in numerous online publications for two decades. 

Her art has been published in print, online and also used as set décor on ABC-TV’s “Desperate Housewives.” She is proud to be the first digital artist invited to exhibit at the Arts of Tolland Gallery in Connecticut.