Published by Caitin Press, 2020 Small Courage: A Queer Memoir of Finding Love and Conceiving Family is a story that explores the author’s multi-faceted identity: a writer, poet, athlete, mother and lesbian, partner to a loving wife, and a member of an unconditionally loving non – traditional family. Her memoir challenges the popular notion that
A brief study of certain adjectives and how they form personality and personhood. This study draws on both dictionary definitions and lived experience.
Here at the Black Bear Review, not only do we believe that everyone has a story to tell, but we also believe that the finest form of story-telling is through our art….click here to read more (Written by Samantha Smith)
I’m reading Elle by Donald Glover, and I’m struck by Elle’s predicament. What do you do with a headstrong girl? Fling her over the starboard deck and sail away, mate. Drop her on an impoverished beach with a dying lover and a useless nursemaid. Throw her a bone; a trunk full of posh dresses next to a
Susan Musgrave writes violets into my dreams that leave me flush alone in a field with rows of chiseled stone and flowers, strewn by the wind mauve, magenta, yellow, fuchsia, and persimmon orange i long to lie in a room near the click of her typewriter keys, keys that transform into a gentle metronome that lull
It’s getting hard, For real now. You know that- What? Right? She wants to paint you, Her decalcomania, Colors bleeding like tears. You know that- Why? Right? A flood’s coming soon, Dark water rising, Choking her whispered fears. You know that- Where? Right? Save her, please, Before she sinks, Drowning in dreams left unspoken You
On the edge of a fading shore where the words were heard no more they searched for it, and there it lay trapped in ink, that vanishing rhyme. Their tongue still stirred to speak familiar, they tried just lasting two seconds they said the elders knew it well so far and wide, they cast their
I am a Ghost Whose tribe has been Slaughtered Our language and way deemed savage. Hatred and anger From a society built on Bloodied lands Stolen from brown Native hands Painful past His-story and her-story Taints future Generations. This is a trigger warning: the Resident Evil photo series is a series that depicts the current
My story is breadcrumbs Sprinkled about a rocky trail Down cliffs Over rivers That rushed, and washed away the bank Born to a mother whose grip was forced Loose by powder The same powder that lingers in my veins Laces my bones in a bow Forever tight This small child Passed from mother to mother
I don’t want to be a clean environment I want to be poisoned I want to rot For holes tear through my atmosphere For my woodlands to burn For my rivers to turn sludge For my creatures to beg a god for the Reason of this ill My ill is deep Bandaged with science and
It was a Tuesday, although it felt like a Sunday. The birth was a series of complex actions that led to many reactions. No wailing newborn or cheering parents. Their existence winked into being and was so bright no one anywhere could respond. Just like that, they were here and new and alone. This
night blue plastic truck we sing Saturn’s rings to pieces in the shower I was whole let me tell you of a time I drank the world until I lost hold of the ground until I became a wintered kite with no tether and all the weather broke us down can’t you remember tiny wheels in your
I come from the slaughterhouse. From the boar-tainted blood stained two car garage where a skinned pig hangs by bound hooves her squeals still echoing down the valley. But I wasn’t stained by blood. My white flesh remained pure and I built friendships on oaths written with crow feather quills and ink from that pig’s
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