Mounds of grass

CAUGHT STARING A man my age sat on a mound of grass against the trunk of a palm tree. With his hands he caressed a dog, shaking its golden-auburn ears and making faces at it. Caught staring. I rounded the corner quickly, and the man caught sight of me, suddenly leaning backwards, dropping his arms, and returning his expression to a blank stillness. An intimate moment disturbed. I would not judge him, though I could not blame him the impulse to think so.

Caught Staring

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We wait.
We’re good at waiting.

"By Our Tail and the Pomegranate” by Caitlin A. Quinn, pdf pg. 80

We will showcase this piece over the coming weeks. Check back next week for more, or read issue 3 to read the whole piece now: wildwillowmagazine.com/archive

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The poems in Kelly R. Samuels’ “The Sailing Place” are pensive, impressionistic, sparse and compact, mirroring the frequently quiet malaise of necessary, domestic life. The voice is tightly measured and contained. The words seem to echo in these small spaces. But cracks in this guarded facade start to appear when routine is broken and the speaker considers the larger, natural world. An appetite for life returns: “The soaking up of.” The speaker’s world expands and brightens; colors reappear. There is a change in tone, however slight, that signals toward a life bubbling just below the surface, a moving past the mundane. I very much enjoyed reading Samuels’ collection and marveled at her masterful voice-control and restraint. These vignettes of a restless soul resonate in their quiet way, and her poetic craft is very apparent. I highly recommend it! Well done!

I had the opportunity to exchange book reviews with @kellyrsamuels.bsky.social Her chap The Sailing Place is a must read!

Goodreads link: www.goodreads.com/book/show/25...

Get your copy of Kelly's book here! bottlecap.press/products/_sa...

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"the bitter pull of tea, the chair back hard on my ischia, on the curve of my back, my legs not quite reading to the floor"

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A shadow against a wooden fence

GOSSAMER Round the corner and past a pole—unseen by my eyes a thin gossamer hangs taut between a stop sign and a streetlight. Caught on my glasses, I wiped it away hurriedly, brushing the web in frantic movements. It’s one of my pet peeves, breaking them. There’s the worry I didn’t remove it all, or had a spider in my hair, and the knowledge that I alone destroyed its creation.

Gossamer

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✂️ Weekend #Giveaway for e(i 8: #Collage✂️

FREE to read, download, & share! buff.ly/E6d26Y2

Interact w/ this post thru the weekend to help boost our contributors & we'll send you #FREE STICKERS as a thanks!

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"Calls to return to our nights--pale, feral,/suffice how everything is--to be broken"

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A collection of miscellaneous objects left on a sidewalk

CLATTER Stepping out of my truck I carried a water bottle, a thermos, my sunglasses, the keys, my phone, and swung my legs out onto the pavement. At that moment, the sound of falling items: keys crashing, water bottle striking the floor, vibrations thundering off the parking garage ceiling. And for a moment my heart stopped—looking down, I had dropped nothing. I stepped forward, and saw a man crouching behind my truck, clutching at his things that had fallen onto the newly painted pavement. A relief, then, that clumsiness comes to others and not only myself.

Clatter

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"We swish dresses in the flickering/starlight. We admire ever one of our misbehaving/hairs. We're in awe of each other constantly./Yes, I have to believe that."

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Contraindications for Holding Hands by Sheridan Mark Walter — AC | DC A Journal for the Bent Poetry

Check out our latest poem, Contraindications for Holding Hands, by Sheridan Mark Walker

#poetry #indielit #queerlit #literature #lgbtqia #literaryjournal #poems #writing

"every mask has some ghostly halos fracture/& when I sleep I dream/There is no sun here"

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She lives just outside
my bedroom window

"Ode To My Red Maple” by Nolo Segundo, pdf pg. 36

Check out the WWM archive to see more: wildwillowmagazine.com/archive

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A street lamp at dusk

ON PATIENCE All around me the sound of ticking clocks. An alarm set, a goal established, a timeline created. In this constant time-awareness a pressure builds within me. It’s in this way I am always impatient. I’d resolve to remove myself from this time crunch, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.

On Patience

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'an assailing miasma' — poetry by Sadee Bee “I am an appetite. Nothing more.” - Count Orlock, Nosferatu I am a feast–sublimely–decadent torture. The kind–once tongue touched–sends prickles down a throat. An...

I’ve got new work up in Luna Luna Mag’s issue!!

So grateful to be a part of something so dark and beautiful!

Check it out!

www.lunalunamagazine.com/blog/-poetry...

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She stared at the TV screen, watching her ex-husband Lin embrace their son Ming, lost for twenty-two years, under the glare of flashing cameras.

"She Could Finally Breathe” by Huina Zheng, pdf pg. 53

Check out issue 5 to read the whole piece: wildwillowmagazine.com/archive

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SOME TRAUMA NEVER HEALS CRATER GIRL POLLY SCHATTEL AUTHOR OF 8:59:29 "POLLY SCHATTEL'S CRATER GIRL READS LIKE THE SEASON OF TRUE DETECTIVE YOU DIDN'T KNOW YOU NEEDED. THIS TENSE, GENRE-BENDING NOVEL IS A MUST-READ!" JEFFREY THOMAS, AUTHOR OF PUNKTOWN

Another terrific blurb, this one from the great Jeffrey Thomas. CRATER GIRL is almost here.

#booksky #indielit #horror #lgbt #trans

A palm tree climbs into the air against a bright blue sky

IGUANA “I like the way they creep,” the woman beside us said. Behind her, an iguana, nearly four feet long (tail included), sauntered along the edge of the pool. Its dirty yellow claws scraped along the pavement as its reptilian limbs arced along the surface, barely a centimeter above the ground, step by step. Then, in a rush of movement, the iguana became vertical and stuck its claws into the bark of a palm tree. In a few quick strides, it climbed up to the canopy above. The tail caught on a browning, dead palm frond that swiftly fell to the ground below.

Iguana

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✂️ Weekend #Giveaway for e(i 8: #Collage✂️

FREE to read, download, & share! buff.ly/E6d26Y2

Interact w/ this post thru the weekend to help boost our contributors & we'll send you #FREE STICKERS as a thanks!

#poetry #writingcommunity #writerscommunity #poetrycommunity #litmag #indielit

London folks! Meet THE Joe Butler at Horrified Con this weekend. Along with his Diachro release "Imperfect Creatures", you can grab his other excellent mind-bending novels 😵‍💫

horrorfied.co.uk
@writelikeashark.bsky.social
#horror #indielit #spookyscary

Celestial Bodies / Earthbound Wounds was created from a need to explore. A need to immerse myself in mythology and space.

sadeebee.com/pages/links

@whitestagpub.bsky.social

#books #indielit

"Untitled 2” by Sadie Maskery, pdf pg. 35

Image description: A photograph of trees reflected in water

Check out the WWM archive to see more: wildwillowmagazine.com/archive

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Threshold Silhouette by Elle J. Snyder — AC | DC A Journal for the Bent Poetry

Check out the new poem, Threshold Silhouette, by Elle J. Snyder 👀 📖 👤

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negatives on table, projected back."

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A quiet street

STREAMS For ambience, as they put it, my parents prefer to watch security camera live streams on YouTube. We had planned a family trip to the Florida Keys, and in anticipation, they watched, daily, the live footage of Duval Street. They knew which bars left their TVs on all night. They knew how often the public trash cans were emptied. It became a part of their routine to monitor the routine of a town and people they did not know.

Streams

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Emerald eyes and locks of fern flowers
just cradled against the moon of my limbs

"Quiet Winter Morning” by Allister Nelson, pdf pg. 35

Check out the WWM archive to see more: wildwillowmagazine.com/archive

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Illustration of a solemn priest in white robes holding a cross, standing beside an ATM marked “Out of Service,” evoking themes of broken systems and quiet endurance.

My essay Gospel of the Broken ATM is out now in Disco Kitchen.

A story about faith, systems, and what happens when both stop working.

Read here:
www.discokitchenmag.com/nonfiction-v...

#CreativeNonfiction #LiteraryEssay #FlashNonfiction #WritingCommunity #IndieLit

A bee pollinates a purple flower among many leaves

PRESENCE In the corner of my eye I saw them. Two children sat perched on a staircase, shrouded in bushes and trees. Their muscles taut, they sat inhumanly rigid out of fear of being seen. And yet I saw them through the dark green leaves. I kept walking, allowing them their desired secrecy, but knowing their presence nonetheless.

Presence

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"this is a bridge/this is not a bridge/city surrounded by water/beige cliffs slick with salt spray/day after day/it pains me to stay honest/"

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Ling pressed her face to her forehead and whispered, “Mama won’t let you live her misfortune.”

"Pink Baby Blanket” by Huina Zheng, pdf pg. 30

This is part 3 of our showcase piece featured last week. Read the whole piece in Issue 5: wildwillowmagazine.com/tmpmagazine/...

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