Introducing New Blood Into Ink Curator Devika Mathur: A breakfast of memory

Devika Mathur joins Blood Into Ink

Blood Into Ink

Devika 1

Sky tripping oranges and bars of star-dust

falling in our frolic skirts.

My sister, I conjured the sustenance of despair and morality

with your apple pie and the almond milk shake.

I churned your spotted skin into my minty breaths

making our bodies glow in the collision of the moon.

I heard mama cry and my cat frowning on the neighbours

when my back was scratched and segmented into tiny fragments.

I remember we did not eat our Dosa or any other fancy dinner for multitudinous days

oh, my sister a week passed by in disconsolate tanned knots of your memory.

And I am still a shivering, paradox of myth.

Bifurcated, haunted.

Devika resides in India and apart from educating English she enjoys reading and writing anything raw and dark perhaps. A hater of hypocrisy and a staunch believer in love she loves solitude and often dances to express her emotions.
Her work has…

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Momma Said- Matt Eayre


I was raised by a single mother and three sisters. My first friend was a girl. Most of my friends have been females. We had cats, a lot of girl cats. I’ve read a lot of books written by women. I’ve listened to (and loved) songs written and recorded by women. I’ve had really close friends and their mothers always liked me.

This, in no way, makes me an authority on women.

I have a wife, a daughter, and several female friends.

I have eyes, ears and a working brain.

I have reasoned my way to an understanding, betwixt my brain and my balls, a truce between thought and urge, a de-militarized zone between my mind and my dick.

I have three sons. I tell them, several times a day, what my mother taught me –

“Keep your hands off of your weiner and off of other people.”

It’s not enough to say, act this way in public.

The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.(John Wooden)

My oldest son is 13. I know that the raging river of hormonal metamorphosis is starting. I know that soon his pecker is going to be his main focus. Puberty is a difficult time. We change from children into children with sexual urges.

I tell my son, leave it alone. Wash it when it’s dirty, and otherwise, try to ignore it.

I know, I know… This isn’t part of the patriarchal dialogue. This doesn’t fit into the way that we see male physiology.

I’ve seen it my whole life, from myself to my brothers and friends to men on television shows to literary characters and society says, men can’t help it. Dicks run the world. A man can’t control his penis.

That’s the most ridiculous bullshit ever.

My younger sons are constantly fiddling with their fidget-sticks. I tell them to stop.

All three of my sons put their hands on others without permission.

I tell them to stop.

The two subjects are related.

There is a need for boundaries. People need to respect the difference between “mine” and “yours”. Men, especially. We need a new dynamic in this world.

We need to understand, men.

Men, boys, all those that identify as male.

We need to stop using that as an excuse for terrible actions. We need to create a boundary between our minds and our cocks.

I know that the idea is quite foreign to most men, but I promise you that you won’t become female, or gay, or invisible, or alien, or a giant block of cheddar cheese, you won’t stop being a person.

In fact, if that’s your fear, I challenge you to really think about that. We have ruled all of human history, we proud beasts with our mighty cocks and our dangling testes. Our physical strength and sexual virility has literally conquered the earth.

Of course, along the way, we also destroyed and degraded most of humanity. We’ve cheapened life and made existence a filthy parade of dicks being dicks to dicks, one dick United in dickhood, with a dick-tatorship created by dicks, for dicks and about dicks. We’ve even got a ranking system based on money, which makes a whole lot of sense, because money helps dick the world over every day.

The point here, the one I’m trying to make, is that I’m a Dad. I tell my sons to leave their dicks in their pants and to keep their hands off of other people.

And my instructions mean dick.

When my wife tells them, they listen.

So we use that. Momma said, don’t play with your weiner. Momma said, don’t touch other people without permission. Don’t touch their things, their bodies, don’t touch them with your hands or your weiners. Don’t take pictures of your weiner and send it to people. That’s a dick move.

My Momma said, you were born with a brain and a weiner and every day you have to choose which one is in charge.

I’ve chosen both ways, through my almost forty years.

My dick, well… He’s a dick. He doesn’t care about right and wrong. He doesn’t choose wisely, based on rational thought and integrity. He chooses to seek gratification. That is how dicks are programmed.

My mind chooses more wisely. I choose compassion, love, integrity, poetry. I choose art, literature, romance, friendship, family. My mind is kind, my mind is interested in other minds and their thoughts, choices, interests.

I’m not standing here trying to convince all men that their dicks don’t matter.

I’m saying that being a decent person means more than a dick.

Momma said, be proud of what you do, not what you have.

I’m not standing here, telling the world that I’m “not one of those men”

I have used my maleness for male purposes in life. I have never forced myself on anyone, but I have certainly enjoyed male privilege in my life. I have a dick, which is like being a rich white guy in the U.S.  The world has been controlled by dicks so long that I don’t have any way to know if I’m “one of those”

I do know that I have a choice.

I do know that my sons have a choice.

Make choices with brain.

Make fuck with dick.

Keep your hands to yourself, and use your brain more than your penis.


Uneven Street Studios is a labor of passion created by Matthew D. Eayre and his wife Jennifer Eayre. Uneven Street Studios was born out of love, a love of words, life, and possibility. Matt and Jennifer are writers, poets, dreamers and realists who have always walked the uneven streets of life. This is their little slice of the world and they have opened the doors to charm you, make you think, and encourage you to find your own uneven streets, where you will hopefully blaze a trail.

Blood Into Ink Writing Contest


Blood Into Ink, a safe space for survivors of trauma/abuse, has been deeply moved by the national embrace of the #MeToo Campaign. #MeToo has provided a way for women and men to tell their truths about their experiences with sexual assault and/or harassment in a way that feels comfortable to them. We believe that breaking the silence and telling these stories matters. To honor this campaign, Blood Into Ink is holding a #MeToo Writing Contest to recruit new writers for the Collective.  We welcome submissions about all forms of trauma: child abuse, domestic violence, sexual assault, natural disaster, addiction, mental health, etc.– whatever you have survived that has shaped you.

Prompt: #MeToo

Formats accepted: Poem, prose, fiction, essay, spoken word or video*

More than 50 words; Less than 750


1st place Membership as a Curator in the Blood Into Ink Collective.  The winning entry will be published on Blood Into Ink and Whisper and the Roar.

2nd place Status as a Guest Contributor in the Blood Into Ink Collective.  The second place entry will be published on Blood Into Ink and Whisper and the Roar.

3rd place The third place entry will be published on Blood Into Ink and Whisper and the Roar.

Additional worthy submissions may be published on Blood Into Ink at the discretion of the Curators

Submissions Accepted: 11/1/2017 through 11/30/2017

  • Send up to 3 pieces of original writing in either PDF or Word document attached to an email that includes your real name as well as the name you publish your writing under. Although we prefer previously unpublished work, we will consider published work as long as it has ONLY been published on a blog. You must own the rights to any work you submit to Blood Into Ink
  • Include a brief biography that includes a link to your website/social media site where readers can go to read more of your writing if applicable.
  • Please attach a suggested image for each piece of writing that you submit
  • Send your submissions to: by midnight on November 30, 2017

Finalists will be contacted by Blood Into Ink no later than December 30, 2017.

*Audio and video pieces should be accompanied by a text version of the piece.


Image courtesy of Pinterest

‘Nevertheless, She Persisted’: A Shield Maiden Collaboration

The Shield Maidens on Sudden Denouement

Sudden Denouement Collective


Her words, her will, her worth
Trampled and trodden
But for her
Flickering light
Fueled by ferocity
Molded with might
Courage compiled
Resilience reconciled
Wolves wryly grin
Circling again
Nevertheless, she persisted


Christine Ray

She was told little girls
should be seen, not heard
but silence was suffocating
truth twisted in her stomach
razor sharp
when her voice finally rose
from a whisper
to a roar
they tried to drown her out
their indignation a cacophony
Nevertheless, she persisted


Aurora Phoenix

her initial protestations
propelled by burning bile
bubbling pique
in a voice squeaky
with disuse
were dubbed whining
she scrubbed corrosion
from rusted tongue
flexed, strengthening
articulate exclamation
they proclaimed her
nevertheless, she persisted


Kindra M. Austin

Disregard your heart, they said
Faith is for the fools
Chasing gold; bold are the weak
Dream seekers
Dreams don’t raise children
Nevertheless, she persisted

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Forged of Flame: A Shield Maiden Battle Song

The latest collaborative piece from Blood Into Ink’s Shield Maidens

Blood Into Ink

valkyrie(Kindra M. Austin)

The fire that whelms me does   

not consume; for it is mine


I do control inferno,

a blood-borne lust to conquer


Here you come with buckets of water,

and a head distended with ego

convinced I’m a woman in distress

The fire that whelms me does

not consume; for it is mine


my defense mechanism,

desire to live forged in


Shield Maiden calls for no goddamned man 

(Aurora Phoenix)

these flames that fence me

char me not

they are the hungering tongues

of my animus

I spark them


feeding them on

the oxygen of my outrage

when the world crushes

upon me

you hasten forward

all suited up

toting your much touted hose

as if your stream

could touch these flames

these flames that fence me

char me not

they are the hungering tongues

of my animus

I fan them


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Guest Blog: Soshinie Singh – Scream

Guest Blogger Soshinie Singh on Sudden Denouement

Sudden Denouement Collective

th (1)

There is a scream lodged

At the base of my throat

Looming like phlegm

Being rattled by an inner earthquake

That I feel it bubbling up and with it

An entourage of emotions vibrate

Threatening to spill

But yet, I swallow it down in fear

Of what this scream might do,

Should I actually let it out

To tramp on my body’s strength.

[ Soshinie Singh is a West Indian young lady currently residing in the United States of America. Though she suffered heartbreak, she deviates from writing strictly about love and hurt. But she utilizes the lessons she has learnt effectively through her writing. She has a drive to turn anything into an inspiration which many can feast on and boost their morale. There is no fixed time nor place that she writes. Most of the time, the words just come to her and keeping playing on her mind…

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The Next Big Thing

Nicole Lyons/The Lithium Chronicles

Nicole Lyons

And you, with your twenty-year-old,
come hither face, shimmering
with the light of the sun,
and a life that has yet to be lived.
Look at you, unmarked and perfect,
recycling the pretty words that you have eaten,
and the lovely ideas of all the tragedies
that you have never even tasted.
I don’t like the way you keep
trying to force them down my throat,
as if choking on your nothing
could possibly cleanse me
of the suffering I have swallowed.
Darling, I see you,
all twenty years of you,
and I will invite you to my table,
set the prettiest place for you
to come back to me,
after you have gagged on life,
wiped your mouth,
and asked for a second fucking helping.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

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The Light Dressed in Chainmail

Kindra M. Austin/Blood Into Ink

Blood Into Ink


In the middle of the night, shadows breathe;

bury your face—bite your pillow when you scream.

Don’t wake the house with your nonsense.

Terrors wear an addict’s face, and smile with her teeth;

ten thousand demons seeded in your soul.

Don’t wake the house with your nonsense.

She was never your mother; and you are not her.

You are the light dressed in chainmail—

the greatest warrior I’ve ever known.

This poem was inspired by my aunt. Aunt Denise’s birth mother had tried to abort her with a coat hanger in 1959, and after her birth, she was adopted by her aunt and uncle, whom I’ve always known as Grandma and Grandpa Carter. My beautiful, fierce aunt lived her life plagued with hatred for the woman who didn’t want her. I hope Aunt Denise is peaceful now. I miss her like mad…

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