Monthly Archives: May 2012

lustfully ever after

I just finished reading my contributor copy of Lustfully Ever After!

One of the best things about being part of an anthology, especially one with a specific lens and theme, is reading the work of the other authors who contributed stories as well, and seeing the movement of the collection as a whole.

This anthology offers a wide range of unique reinterpretations of fairy tales for adults, resulting in intense, symbolic, smart, and darkly erotic stories.  The stories in this collection are expansive and varied. Some keep within the original fairy tale world, others twist and turn within the fairy tale, finding new threads, while still others utilize contemporary characters and settings in the framework of the original tale.

All of the stories in this collection are unique, erotic, beautifully written, and skillfully woven.  It’s an honor to have my story “Wolf Moon” included in this stunning anthology.


Lustfully Ever After: Fairy Tale Erotic Romance. Edited by Kristina Wright. Published by Cleis Press. Foreword  by Sylvia Day

Introduction: They Lived Happily Ever After

Rosa Redford   Anya Richards

Gretel’s Lament   Jeanette Grey

Matches   Anna Meadows

The Beast Within   Emerald

Wolf Moon   Michelle Augello-Page

Mirror Mirror   Shanna Germain

The Last Dance   Kristina Lloyd

Name   A.D.R. Forte

Sensitive Artist   Donna George Storey

You   Charlotte Stein

Kit in Boots   Sacchi Green

The Long Night of Tanya McCray   Michael M. Jones

Shorn   Lisabet Sarai

Real Boy   Evan Mora

Garden Variety   Lynn Townsend

Steadfast   Andrea Dale

A Sea Change   Kristina Wright


In Lustfully Ever After, classic fairy tales are reimagined for an adult audience with twists (and kinks) to keep readers entertained. In Michelle Augello-Page’s romantically charged BDSM tale “Wolf Moon,” Little Red Riding Hood is the big bad wolf, while Kristina Lloyd rewrites “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” as a scorching hot MFM threesome in “The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces.” Shanna Germain’s “Mirror Mirror” shows the sensual Sapphic side of Snow White’s stepmother and Andrea Dale pens a contemporary version of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” in the poignantly erotic “Steadfast.”

This delightful collection of fairy tales will lead you down a magical path into forbidden romance and erotic love. You won’t need those bread crumbs to find your way home—for home is where the heart is and the authors of Lustfully Ever After know your heart’s most wicked and secret desires.


Lustfully Ever After is now available through Cleis Press, amazon, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere. Check it out! xo


reading series 5.1

Mother and Child (detail from The Three Ages of Woman) by Klimt, 1905


Last weekend was Mother’s Day. A friend of mine said recently that his mom is one of the strongest women he knows – she’s had 9 children, and has worked with children all her life. She ran a daycare for many years, and now that she is retired, she enjoys spending time with her numerous grandchildren. He said, “I have the best mom … and she thinks that Mother’s Day is a hallmark sham.”

I always find it sad that the more commercial a holiday is, the less meaning we find in it. Mother’s Day was created in America in the early 1900’s, to celebrate and honor the specific role of mothers in our lives.  Interestingly, the woman responsible for promoting the holiday rejected it later in life, feeling that it had been bastardized from its original intent and turned into a tool of corporate manipulation.

In ancient times, mothers were celebrated and revered through certain fertility based cults, but these traditions have no tie to the Mother’s Day holiday. In our contemporary world, I feel that motherhood is not truly respected or valued.

Firstly, our work is unpaid, and in a capitalist society, there is a strong parallel between how we value something and how much money we attribute to the pursuit. In the United States, celebrities and sports stars are highly valued – and they are paid ridiculous sums of money. Women who become pregnant are usually eligible for 12 weeks of maternity leave, and are paid by their workplace via disability benefits that seldom cover the entire 12 week period. Afterwards, women are expected to return to work.

When a woman has a baby, she has limited options. Either she returns to work, and leaves her child in the care of others part of the time, or she does not return to work and cares for the child herself. The stay-at-home mother is a rapidly declining position for many women; it is not economically viable. For women who return to work, they face the substantial cost of childcare and a “second shift” outside of the home; mothering is life-work, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Secondly, the role of mother is a very complex one. There have been schools of psychology devoted to the idea that “mother” is to blame for our neuroses, our issues, and our problems. And while people such as Winnicott have inculcated the idea of the “good enough” mother, alleviating some of the pressure placed on women, the affect of a mother on her children is still a reality.

Beginning with inception, a woman is not only emotionally but physically tied to her child. And beyond the physical changes of pregnancy and labor, a woman must change her habits. There has been enough research and evidence for us to know that alcohol, smoking, and drugs consumed during pregnancy will negatively affect the development of a child’s brain in the womb. Many women give up these habits quickly and easily upon discovering that they are pregnant, but there is still a hard reality that lingers in our mindset – from the outset, before the child is even born, a woman can harm her child for the rest of his or her life.

After birth, women are then faced with the choice whether to breastfeed or bottle feed. This is a contentious issue, as divisive as some people’s feelings on a mother working vs a mother staying home with her child. Some people believe that if you do not breastfeed your child, then you are scarring your child psychologically and possibly physically for life. There is research that supports that breastfeeding has excellent health and emotional benefits, but that does not mean that a bottle-fed baby is doomed to poor health and neglect. Paradoxically, society is fine seeing a baby with a bottle, but many people still find a woman breastfeeding in public inappropriate, bordering on scandalous.

When a woman becomes pregnant, her life is forever changed. As a mother, a woman will constantly strive for balance between her role as mother and her role as a woman. Economics play an integral part in how we live and how we raise our children. Raising a child in today’s world is expensive, and the financial strain can be felt very acutely. If a mother has to go back to work for monetary reasons after her maternity leave, often she feels a tremendous amount of guilt.

I became a single mother when my younger child was not even a year old. I was lucky to live close enough to my own mother, and she helped care for my children while I worked evenings and weekends. During the day, I was a stay-at-home mom. I suffered financially, but the trade off was worth it for me. I enjoyed being with my children and nurturing their growth. During the times I didn’t have enough money to buy diapers, I used cloth ones. I made all of my own baby food. I made play doh with flour and salt and food coloring, and engaged my children in activities and projects instead of store bought games.

That worked for me. But that is not to say that would work for another. There are some women that feel that staying at home with their children would drive them crazy. And I do recognize that there is a lack of support for mothers; there can be a sense of isolation from the rest of the adult world. But I think that this lack of support and sense of isolation speaks more to how we value the task of mothering, how we view our sense of worth as mothers, and the perceptions placed upon us by society when we are challenged with the role.

I’ve always felt that being a mother is among the most important work I will ever do in my lifetime. But, I have also felt that being a full person is integral to the kind of mother I am. Being a mother is part of who I am, but it does not define who I am. And while I am aware that I am helping nurture the growth of two beautiful children, I also recognize them as independent from me.

I am the example, the guide. I am not perfect, but I am “good enough”. I have read many books on parenting and psychology, because I feel it is important to have as much knowledge and education as I can about this role, but ultimately I parent in a way that is organic and feels natural to me. I love my children, and I respect who they are. We teach each other; we learn from each other.

On Mother’s Day, I did not encourage my children to buy me gifts. They are the gift. My younger daughter gave me a card she made in art class, waking me in the morning to hug and kiss me. My older daughter wrote me a little note, saying I love you. Later, I asked them to help me work in the garden, and we spent the afternoon digging in the dirt, turning over the garden with compost, and planting seeds.

Though we are not all mothers, we are all derived from a woman’s experience with pregnancy and birth. Women hold the font of all human life, and it is sad to me that the role of mother and the experience of motherhood is so often disregarded and marginalized. On Mother’s Day, we collectively experience a wide range of emotions – sadness and loss, anger and disappointment, love and gratitude – towards the women who brought us into this world and did the best they could.

Today I wanted to share a short story written by Tillie Olsen in honor of Mother’s Day.  The story is called “I stand here ironing.” Click here to read this thoughtful, heartbreaking, and powerful story.

i stand here ironing by tillie olsen

photo by Samuel Kravitt


I Stand Here Ironing   by Tillie Olsen


I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron.

“I wish you would manage the time to come in and talk with me about your daughter. I’m sure you can help me understand her. She’s a youngster who needs help and whom I’m deeply interested in helping.”

“Who needs help.” … Even if I came, what good would it do? You think because I am her mother I have a key or that in some way you could use me as a key? She has lived for nineteen years. There is all that life that has happened outside of me, beyond me.

And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total? I will start and there will be an interruption and I will have to gather it all together again. Or I will become engulfed with all I did or did not do, with what should have been and what cannot be helped.

She was a beautiful baby. The first and only one of our five that was beautiful at birth. You do not guess how new and uneasy her tenancy in her now-loveliness. You did not know her all those years she was thought homely, or see her poring over her baby pictures, making me tell her over and over how beautiful she had been – and would be, I would tell her – and was now, to the seeing eye. But the seeing eyes were few or nonexistent. Including mine.

I nursed her. They feel that’s important nowadays. I nursed all the children, but with her, with all the fierce rigidity of first motherhood. I did like the books then said. Though her cries battered me to trembling and my breasts ached with swollenness, I waited till the clock decreed.

Why do I put that first? I do not even know if it matters, or if it explains anything.

She was a beautiful baby. She blew shining bubbles of sound. She loved motion, loved light, loved color and music and textures. She would lie on the floor in her blue overalls patting the surface so hard in ecstasy her hands and feet would blur. She was a miracle to me, but when she was eight months old I had to leave her daytimes with the woman downstairs to whom she was no miracle at all, for I worked or looked for work and for Emily’s father, who “could no longer endure” (he wrote in his good-bye note) “sharing want with us.”

I was nineteen. It was the pre-relief, pre-WPA world of the depression. I would start running as soon as I got off the streetcar, running up the stairs, the place smelling sour, and awake or asleep to startle awake, when she saw me she would break into a clogged weeping that could not be comforted, a weeping I can hear yet.

After a while I found a job hashing at night so I could be with her days, and it was better. But it came to where I had to bring her to his family and leave her.

It took a long time to raise the money for her fare back. Then she got chicken pox and I had to wait longer. When she finally came, I hardly knew her, walking quick and nervous like her father, looking like her father, thin and dressed in a shoddy red that yellowed her skin and glared at the pock-marks. All the baby loveliness gone.

She was two. Old enough for nursery school they said, and I did not know then what I know now – the fatigue of the long day, and the lacerations of group life in the kinds of nurseries that are only parking places for children.

Except that it would have made no difference if I had known. It was the only place there was. It was the only way we could be together, the only way I could hold a job.

And even without knowing, I knew. I knew the teacher that was evil because all these years it has curdled into my memory, the little by hunched in the corner, her rasp, “why aren’t you outside, because Alvin hits you? that’s no reason, go out, scaredy.” I knew Emily hated it even if she did not clutch and implore “don’t go Mommy” like the other children, mornings.

She always had a reason why we should stay home. Momma, you look sick. Momma, I feel sick. Momma, the teachers aren’t there today, they’re sick. Momma, we can’t go, there was a fire there last night. momma, it’s a holiday today, no school, they told me.

But never a direct protest, never rebellion. I think of our others in their three-, four-year-oldness – the explosions, the tempers, the denunciations, the demands – and I feel suddenly ill. I put the iron down. What in me demanded that goodness in her? And what was the cost, the cost to her of such goodness?

The old man living in the back once said in his gentle way: “You should smile at Emily more when you look at her.” What was in my face when I looked at her? I loved her. There were all the acts of love.

It was only with the others I remembered what he said, and it was the face of joy, and not of care or tightness or worry I turned to them – too late for Emily. She does not smile easily, let alone almost always as here brothers and sisters do. Her face is closed and sombre, but when she wants, how fluid. You must have seen it in her pantomimes, you spoke of her rare gift for comedy on the stage that rouses a laughter out of the audience so dear they applaud and applaud and do not want to let her go.

Where does it come from, that comedy? There was none of it in her when she came back to me that second time, after I had had to send her away again. She had a new daddy now to learn to love, and I think perhaps it was a better time.

Except when we left her alone nights, telling ourselves she was old enough.

“Can’t you go some other time, Mommy, like tomorrow?” she would ask. “Will it be just a little while you’ll be gone? Do you promise?”

The time we came back, the front door open, the clock on the floor in the hall. She rigid awake. “It wasn’t just a little while. I didn’t cry. Three times I called you, just three times, and then I ran downstairs to open the door so you could come faster. The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked.”

She said the clock talked loud again that night I went to the hospital to have Susan. She was delirious with the fever that comes before red measles, but she was fully conscious all the week I was gone and the week after we were home when she could not come near the new baby or me.

She did not get well. She stayed skeleton thin, not wanting to eat, and night after night after night she had nightmares. She would call for me, and I would rouse from exhaustion to sleepily call back: “You’re all right, darling, go to sleep, it’s just a dream,” and if she still called, in a sterner voice, “Now go to sleep, Emily, there’s nothing to hurt you.” Twice, only twice, when I had to get up for Susan anyhow, I went in to sit with her.

Now when it is too late (as if she would let me hold and comfort her like I do the others) I get up and go to her at once at her moan or restless stirring. “Are you awake, Emily? Can I get you something?” And the answer is always the same: “No, I’m all right, go back to sleep, Mother.”

They persuaded me at the clinic to send her away to a convalescent home in the country where “she can have the kind of food and care you can’t manage for her, and you’ll be free to concentrate on the new baby.” They still send children to that place. I see pictures on the society page of sleek young women planning affairs to raise money for it, or dancing at the affairs, or decorating Easter eggs or filling Christmas stockings for the children.

They never have a picture of the children so I do not know if the girls still wear those gigantic red bows and the ravaged looks on the every other Sunday when parents can come to visit “unless otherwise notified” – as we were notified the first six weeks.

Oh it is a handsome place, green lawns and tall trees and fluted flower beds. high up on the balconies of each cottage the children stand, the girls in their red bows and white dresses, the boys in white suits and giant red ties. The parents stand below shrieking up to be heard and the children shriek down to be heard, and between them the invisible wall “Not To Be Contaminated by Parental Germs or Physical Affection.”

There was a tiny girl who always stood hand in hand with Emily. Her parents never came. One visit she was gone. “They moved her to Rose Cottage>” Emily shouted in explanation. “They don’t like you to love anybody here.”

She wrote once a week, the labored writing of a seven-year-old. “I am fine. How is the baby. If I write my leter nicly I will have a star. Love.” There never was a star. We wrote every other day, letters she could never hold or keep but only hear read – once. “We simply do not have room for children to keep any personal possessions,” they patiently explained when we pieced one Sunday’s shrieking together to plead how much it would mean to Emily, who loved so to keep things, to be allowed to keep her letters and cards.

Each visit she looked frailer. “She isn’t eating,” they told us.

(They had runny eggs for breakfast or mush with lumps, Emily said later, I’d hold in my mouth and not swallow. Nothing ever tasted good, just when they had chicken.)

It took us eight months to get her released home, and only the fact that she gained back so little of her seven lost pounds convinced the social worker.

I used to try to hold and love her after she came back, but her body would stay stiff, and after a while she’d push away. She ate little. Food sickened her, and I think much of life too. Oh she had physical lightness and brightness, twinkling by on skates, bouncing like a ball up and down up and down over the jump rope, skimming over the hill; but these were momentary.

She fretted about her appearance, thin and dark and foreign-looking at a time when every little girl was supposed to look or thought she should look a chubby blond replica of Shirley Tmeple. The doorbell sometimes rang for her, but no one seemed to come and play in the house or be a best friend. Maybe because we moved so much.

There was a boy she loved painfully through two school semesters. months later she told me how she had taken pennies from my purse to buy him candy. “Licorice was his favorite and I brought him some every day, but he still liked Jennifer better’n me. Why, Mommy?” The kind of question for which there is no answer.

School was a worry to her. She was not glib or quick in a world where glibness and quickness were easily confused with ability to learn. To her overworked and exasperated teachers she was an overconscientious “slow learner” who kept trying to catch up and was absent entirely too often.

I let her be absent, though sometimes the illness was imaginary. How different from my now-strictness about attendance with the others. I wasn’t working. We had a new baby, I was home anyhow. Sometimes, after Susan grew old enough, I would keep her home from school, too, to have them all together.

Mostly Emily had asthma, and her breathing, harsh and labored, would fill the house with a curiously tranquil sound. I would bring the two old dresser mirrors and her boxes of collections to her bed. She would select beads and single earrings, bottle tops and shells,dried flowers and pebbles, old postcards and scraps, all sorts of oddments; then she and Susan would play Kingdom, setting up landscapes and furniture, peopling them with action.

Those were the only times of peaceful companionship between her and Susan. I have edged away from it, that poisonous feeling between them, that terrible balancing of hurt and needs I had to do between the two, and did so badly, those earlier years.

Oh there are conflicts between the others too, each one human, needing, demanding, hurting, taking – but only between Emily and Susan, no, Emily toward Susan that corroding resentment. It seems so obvious on the surface, yet it is not obvious. Susan, the second child, Susan, golden- and curly-haired and chubby, quick and articulate and assured, everything in appearance and manner Emily was not; Susan, not able to resist Emily’s precious things, losing or sometimes clumsily breaking them; Susan telling jokes and riddles to company for applause while Emily sat silent (to say to me later: that was my riddle, Mother, I told it to Susan); Susan, who for all the five years’ difference in age was just a year behind Emily in developing physically.

I am glad for that slow physical development that widened the difference between her and her contemporaries, though she suffered over it. She was too vulnerable for that terrible world of youthful competition, of preening and parading, of constant measuring of yourself against every other, of envy, “If I had that copper hair,” “If I had that skin …” She tormented herself enough about not looking like the others, there was enough of the unsureness, the having to be conscous of words before you speak, the constant caring – what are they thinking of me? without having it all magnified by the merciless physical drives.

Ronnie is calling. He is wet and I change him. It is rare there is such a cry now. That time of motherhood is almost behind me when the ear is not one’s own but must always be racked and listening for the child cry, the child call. We sit for a while and I hold him, looking out over the city spread in charcoal with its soft aisles of light. “Shoogily,” he breathes and curls closer. I carry him back to bed, asleep. Shoogily. A funny word, a family word, inherited from Emily, invented by her to say: comfort.

In this and other ways she leaves her seal, I say aloud. And startle at my saying it. What do I mean? What did I start to gather together, to try and make coherent? I was at the terrible, growing years. War years. I do not remember them well. I was working, there were four smaller ones now, there was not time for her. She had to help be a mother, and housekeeper, and shopper. She had to set her seal. Mornings of crisis and near hysteria trying to get lunches packed, hair combed, coats and shoes found, everyone to school or Child Care on time, the baby ready for transportation. And always the paper scribbled on by a smaller one, the book looked at by Susan then mislaid, the homework not done. Running out to that huge school where she was one, she was lost, she was a drop; suffering over her unpreparedness, stammering and unsure in her classes.

There was so little time left at night after the kids were bedded down. She would struggle over books, always eating (it was in those years she developed her enormous appetite that is legendary in our family) and I would be ironing, or preparing food for the next day, or writing V-mail to Bill, or tending the baby. Sometimes, to make me laugh, or out of her despair, she would imitate happenings or types at school.

I think I said once: “Why don’t you do something like this in the school amateur show?” One morning she phoned me at work, hardly understandable through the weeping: “Mother, I did it. I won, I won; they gave me first prize; they clapped and clapped and wouldn’t let me go.”

Now suddenly she was Somebody, and as imprisoned in her difference as she had been in her anonymity.

She began to be asked to perform at other high schools, even in colleges, then at city and statewide affairs. The first one we went to, I only recognized her that first moment when thin, shy, she almost drowned herself in the curtains. Then: Was this Emily? The control, the command, the convulsing and deadly clowning, the spell, then the roaring, stamping audience, unwilling to let this rare and precious laughter out of their lives.

Afterwards. You ought to do something about her with a gift like that – but without money or knowing how, what does one do? We have left it all to her, and the gift has as often eddied inside, clogged and clotted, as been used and growing.

She is coming. She runs up the stairs two at a time with her light graceful step, and I know she is happy tonight. Whatever it was that occasioned your call did not happen today.

“Aren’t you ever going to finish ironing, Mother? Whistler painted his mother in a rocker. I’d have to paint mine standing over an ironing board.” This is one of her communicative nights and she tells me everything and nothing as she fixes herself a plate of food out of the icebox.

She is so lovely. Why did you want me to come in at all? Why were you concerned? She will find her way.

She starts up the stairs to bed. “Don’t get me up with the rest in the morning.” “But I thought you were having midterms.” “Oh, those,” she comes back in, kisses me, and says quite lightly, “in a couple of years when we’ll all be atom-dead they won’t matter a bit.”

She has said it before. She believes it. But because I have been dredging the past, and all that compounds a human being is so heavy and meaningful in me, I cannot endure it tonight.

I will never total it all. I will never come in to say: She was a child seldom smiled at. Her father left me before she was a year old. I had to work her first six years when there was work, or I sent her home and to his relatives. There were years she had care she hated. She was dark and thin and foreign-looking in a world where the prestige went to blondness and curly hair and dimples; she was slow where glibness was prized. She was a child of anxious, not proud, love. We were poor and could not afford for her the soil of easy growth. I was a young mother, I was a distracted mother. There were the other children pushing up, demanding. Her younger sister seemed all that she was not. There were years she did not let me touch her. She kept too much to herself, her life was such she had to keep too  much in herself. My wisdom came too late. She has much to her and probably little will come of it. She is a child of her age, of depression, of war, of fear.

Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom – but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by. Only help her to know – help make it so there is cause for her to know – that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron.


the novices


The sidewalk is cracked; loose pebbles, blown
leaves and bits of glass scatter across the pavement.
I survey the path, noting where the tree lifts
the edge of concrete, where the path dips and hollows
I am nervous, but I want her to learn. I promised
to teach her, to ride a bike without training wheels.

I think back to how I learned and remember
my yellow schwinn, the wind hard against my face.
My father promised he wouldn’t let go, but he did
and when I fell, he said, do it again. My body
bruised when I hit the ground, and I learned how

to expect the blow, to fall and feel pain, to get up
again and again; I learned how to use my body
as a negligible thing, to hold back tears, dust off
dirt and blood; to ride alone, I learned the way
of father. But that is not the way of mother.

I want to protect her, I want to cushion the sidewalk
with soft moss, to hold on and not let go until
she is ready. I don’t want her to do it alone. I don’t
want her to learn from pain. I would take her every
hurt and hide it within myself, far from her heart.

I look into her face, so eager and trusting, as she
straps on her helmet, adjusts the pads on her knees,
climbs onto the bicycle, and rings the bell with joy.
She is ready to begin, only noticing the light breeze
of the wind on her skin, and that the sun, falling
onto her silver bell, shines brilliantly.


Happy Mother’s Day! xo


Arthur Rackham

I’m so happy to announce that I started an online zine for artists of all genres who create edgy and experimental work!

The zine is called Siren and it’s all very exciting. This is something that I’ve been wanting to do for quite awhile … I’ve even had the website template for about a year, but it wasn’t until this past month that I realized – now is the time.

I wanted to create the type of journal that I would love to see and to be a part of – a place for artists of all genres who create edgy and experimental work, and who are seeking to grow and expand, to find different means and methods of expression beyond what has already been done. These are the artists that are so often marginalized and rejected in favor of the mainstream; these are the artists who are shaping future paths, interested in the evolution of their art forms. Having left the well-paved map, these artists are navigating places that have yet to be fully explored, guided only by the whispers of their dreams, the beating of their hearts, and the brilliance of the stars.

That’s what I’m hoping to find, to celebrate, in the creation of this journal. Wish me luck! xo


Siren is a new webzine looking for artists of all genres who create edgy and experimental work. We want work that pushes boundaries, that surprises in terms of structure and content, that provokes a visceral response. We want to be shocked. We want to blush. We want Art that is provocative, raw and beautiful. We want Art with wings, teeth, claws.

We are taking submissions from artists of all genres. This includes but is not limited to poetry, flash fiction, humor, short stories, photography, erotica, and visual art. We would also like to include artists who create short films, music, audio, and graphic media.

Siren will be released quarterly. The submission deadline for the first issue is June 1, 2012.

To submit, send an email to with the type of submission and your last name in the subject line. Please include your contact information, a short bio, and your submission in the body of the email. Our guidelines are as follows: Poetry – 3 poems max. Prose – 1500 words max. Audio/Visual Media – 3 to 5 minutes max. Visual Art – 3 images max.

Unfortunately, we are not able to pay our artists for their work at this time. As an online zine, your work will be free to all who visit the site. You retain all rights to your work.

lambda literary award finalist readings in NYC

On Friday, May 11, Lambda Literary Award Finalists will be reading from their selected works in NYC at  Bluestockings Books, 7:00 pm.

Confirmed authors for this event are: Anton Dudley, Paul Legault, Barbara Browning, Michael Schiavi, Bil Wright, Barry Brennessel, Glen Retief, Sacchi Green, Sally Bellerose, Dawn Lundy Martin, Jonathan Tolins, Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, Rafe Posey, Steven Haas, Colm Toibin, Michael Hames-Garcia, and Jafari S. Allen.

For more information, visit Lambda Literary and check out my event listing at The Happiest Medium