This Room is Not for Rent-Christine Ray


The Greek chorus has declared me

damaged beyond repair

incapable of a “normal” life

“better off dead” say the well-meaning citizens

than “broken”

preferring the image of the golden haired innocent child angel

comforted by a merciful God

over the living angry woman

who refuses to be silent

I try not to let these voices

rent space in my head

they are destructive tenants

who forfeit their security deposit

scrawl graffiti in red lipstick on my walls








I try not to buy into the vitriol

when they imply that my life has no meaning

that I am an abomination

a red, raw, bleeding thing they deem too unseemly to look at

unfit for polite society

“Fuck You!” I want to shout at the top of my lungs with my hands covering my ears

Some days it is hard to find the armor of my rage

when I am just so god damned tired

of having to prove over and over again

that I am worthy of continued existence

that I deserve to walk this earth

breathe the oxygen

as if I am the one who must continue to do penance

for other’s sins


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Deep Throated Menagerie-Aurora Phoenix

there must be something in the water

that she swallowed

along with aphorisms



social edicts

collective glue

that constrict and restrict

those who might

come unglued

unsightly hued

in garish reds and purples

from the bruising of this life

miniature ragtag zoo

dictates born and bred

hold your horses

disguised chastisements

cat’s got your tongue

stop beating a dead horse

reminders of low set sights

when pigs fly

don’t count your chickens

coaching in indirect


ignoring elephants in the room

be a fly on the wall

inelegant admonitions

don’t be a bitch

you’re not the top dog

animated Animalia

congregate and morph

lodge as the

frog in her throat

Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”

The Weyward Sisters: Hand in Hand – A Collaboration from the Women of Sudden Denouement

Stand, a nighean.
Call the moon.
Bring your Wolves
With you.
Let down the flames of your hair.
The Great War
Has come again.
 – Rana Kelly

In the end there will be fire and ash
But to us it will be like the Fourth of July
What could be more powerful than women
Standing together in solidarity
We’re taking a page out of Lilith’s book
The one you never read
We will not lie on the bottom
We will stand side by side.
– Hannah Wagner

Thrills the Viking Whisper ice –
splinters of the north wind
Of the high noon blood of sister-raiders slain
The shield-maidens dine
Tonight, too.
– Samantha Lucero

It is well within the fires
of burning words
and stolen wombs, ravaged,
we have birthed a beast.
Swaddled in the souls
of her mothers of fire
and maidens of ice,
she has been touched
with the wisdom of crones blazing,
and she will cast
her shadow upon the ashes
of their bones.
– Nicole Lyons

hail the harlot
and crown the courtesan,
for she has seen seduction’s beast
and let it swallow her.
let her tread its veins like footpaths
and sleep upon its heart.
– Lois E. Linkens 

We stand shoulder to shoulder with our sisters
Warrior women all
We draw down the moon and hold her as our shield
Our pens will be our swords
We will no longer be silenced
Hear the chorus of our voices
We shall ROAR!
– Christine Ray

Nighean is Scottish Gaelic for “lass.”

Lilith is considered to be Adams first wife who would not lie beneath him in bed. She wanted to be his equal.

Shield maidens were Vikings who fought alongside the men in battle.

Weyward Sisters are a reference from the witches in Macbeth.

That Rib-Stephen Fuller

Steve Fuller That RibIf I took you up on that deal with God,
What would we discover at the top of that hill?
Would it be tall enough for me to understand?
I will agree to run, but cannot promise to keep up.

If I took you up on that deal with God,
What would I find on the other side of that hill?
Would my skin be sensitive enough to feel what you feel?
Running beside you, distracted, I cup my hands in salty water.

What deal did God make with you for that Rib?
Salt streams, at times tears, other times glowing red
In moonlight. I try to find footing in myths
That undermine views of visions too serene to reveal.

I do not want that rib back, but I want to share
The pain sculpted around it. Images projected black.
Blue perfection expected. Thrown away scraps when done.
Bruised art. Rotting in the woods. What in Hell is this deal?

I will take you up on that Deal, God. Take me.
Slaughter my flesh. Filet my heart. Suffering
At the top of that hill, toss me off the cliff
To take away all that should not have ever been.

Art: Eve by Anna Lea Merritt, 1885


You can read more of Stephen Fuller’s work at Stephen Fuller Poetry