< Back grandfather clock Eleanor Song on the plane ride home i wondered what it must be like to mourn your life as you live it; you sat there with me, almost, the ghost of a downturned hand tapping slow and steady on your knee. i watched my sister poke at airplane food as you recounted the famines etched in your gut, the ghost of your river mush mixture sloshing around in her emesis bag. on the plane ride home i wondered what it must be like to mourn your life as you live it; grasping at the passing years, the white of your knuckles bleeding into your hair. you wear clothes washed by a machine decades old, break bread out of an aluminum bowl, watch time run dry on a year-old desk calendar. you’d drawn on the right month in red marker the next time i saw it; i wonder if putting numbers on time matters more or less when you know you’re running out. on the plane ride home i wondered what it must be like to mourn your life as you live it; to watch skyscrapers burst from the land you love and old customs turn to impersonal plastic. half the grave you used to frequent sits empty and unlabeled, waiting for you year by year. did it hurt to face your own impermanence as you lit incense at the proof of hers? i let a life engulf me as your daughter watched from the shore, but you stood on another side of the ocean. it’d take so long to know you the way i’d like; years of dinner table conversations and turtle-paced walks that we just don’t have the time for. sometimes i wonder if i watch you so closely because i know more sharply that i won’t be able to for long. you take your lunches slow and sugarless, place your life in a box, assemble your bedsheets like a puzzle. i piece you together as you rearrange the blankets, craft stories and fading photos into a mind and a heart; you build yourself a place to lie down as i build a boat out of your histories. when it is strong enough, i’ll sail across our ocean again Author Bio Native Portlander Eleanor Song is a second-year PCC student majoring in political science. She is a former National Student Poets Program semifinalist and has been published by Stepping Stone Publishing (but most of her work exists in a single notes app file, not backed up). Outside of writing, Eleanor is a photographer, legislative staffer, and proud cat mom. You can find her talking to strangers on the blue line, getting lost on hiking trails, and lighting candles that smell like sugar.

< Back An Ode to the Unsung Heroes of My Home Shamik Banerjee Music is anodyne, but what compares to our rice steamer’s ‘hissing’? Oh! that sound flies to each corner, even down the stairs, and makes our home a curry-cooker’s ground (evoking lunchtime dishes in one’s mind). Glory be to our geyser. Though a thing, it is no less than Gaia, great and kind, who shares with everyone her thermal spring, defrosting them in Winter’s glacial chill. Tell me how I should hail our ceiling fan, whose hypnic air transports me to some hill where zephyrs blow through Junipers that span upon its vertex. And these whitish walls imitate laminar white waterfalls. Now laud for windows: they amp up the dawn’s, the dusk’s, and the eve’s beauty ten times more, those voile-made curtains, like two lovely swans, float in the wafting light breeze from the door. Our living room’s a newsstand, or at best, a kiosk full of magazines and snacks. And oh, the English Roll-Arm is where rest comes pouring on us when we lean our backs upon its cushions with our eyes all glued to the TV, and if God has a kingdom, some glimpses of that place I’ve surely viewed in this home where I’ve learned a lifetime’s wisdom and felt comforted by these ‘things’ I prize— true paragons of firmness to my eyes. Author Bio Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. Some of his recent publications include Spelt , Ink Sweat and Tears , St. Austin Review , Modern Reformation , San Antonio Review , The Society of Classical Poets , Third Wednesday , and Amethyst Review , among others. He secured second position in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.

< Back dyspraxic J. Artemis Mackay limbs find unsteady rest, weak upon the earth stirring from the bird-song dawn gelatin legs of the fawn crowbarred in traumatic birth sired unready dys praxic ; Greek for “difficult activity.” page seven five, DSM five, prior name “clumsy child syndrome” precious pathology how can a jigsaw piece make fingers feel weak yet heavy as structural steel feel fall; clatter how my brainpan laden with ready-mix concrete feel in ten thousand places besides I fall onto sand castles unto circles counted nine into journey a journey a special sunrise, javelin rays turn every wall to doors ajar time did not heal my muscles yet waited on the fever-bed a sculpture is not broken no matter how many swings of the sledgehammer; my ulcers dry, crumble into rice heaved skyward at the wedding my body fails but it does not betray I’ve honed being a faggot in a way sports and dance never stuck working out masculine—disability perhaps if not a ballerina, my body does a riveting performance of homosexual conduct the manual labor persists libido explains hand tremors and inexpert affection— [a jigsaw is difficult activity joy-breathed in its completion] Author Bio Artemis Mackay (they/them) is a queer, trans writer living near a bridge in Portland. They hold a Master’s Degree in Comparative Social Change from University College Dublin and several DSM-V diagnoses.

< Back Yew Shannon Sullivan Spring is here. Sun heats my uppermost foliage, and flowers erupt from the pimpled skin of my smaller branches. Columbine and strawberries flower in the field nearby, along with the fir trees across the river. I can taste their exuberance, carried through the webs of mycelia and roots we share. In four seasons, the seeds they are forming now will be sprouting around them. My seeds will not sprout. My own flowers will not be pollinated. I witness pollen travel between the other trees and plants, on wind and bees and butterflies, and know there will be none for my new flowers. There must be no male yew tree growing near enough for his pollen to reach me. I am the only yew here, a female unable to pollinate myself in the way of the firs. Each spring, I wait to see if my seeds will develop, but they never do. When I was younger, I wondered how the seed that started me found its way here. Was it carried by the river, or did it travel in the belly of an elk? How did I come to be so far away from the rest of my species? I am no longer young and do not expect an answer to my questions. Several seasons ago, the insects arrived. They laid their eggs on my branches and deep in the crevices of my bark. When the eggs hatched, the emerging larvae latched into my twigs, eating their fill of the resources I had gathered to nourish myself and my potential seeds. Season after season, my body incubates eggs that aren’t my own and dwindles as new generations of nymphs feed. For how many more springs will I be able to produce flowers? Soon, if there is another yew, it won’t matter if his pollen does reach me. My attention drifts back to the present, to the field steaming in the sun’s heat, water evaporating from the damp soil. Tall grasses swish in the breeze, each with its own characteristic movement. There among the grasses is a new gesture; someone grows pliant and sturdy and low to the ground. Someone who was not there last season, whose kind I have never observed, but whom I already know better than any other. I reach out, signaling through underground networks to the new yew tree. Welcome, seedling. Author Bio Shannon Sullivan is a lifelong Oregonian, perpetually interested in Oregon’s natural world, history and possible futures. Writing speculative fiction has provided a new means for her to explore themes of ecology, disaster, fear and hope.

< Back Rose City J. Artemis Mackay Impurity midwinter baptism rain motor oil swells concrete crevices disgorge towards spotless white sneakers rhapsodic fit with light blue denim, what a throwback, how eighties I arrive penitent at the bourbon altar a stranger makes turgid confession I can’t take {that} I wait out side for rideshare rain falls in the biblical sense – hey noah – what a nightscape, how cozy city worn to the nub – hallelujah through gritted teeth. – Absolution I’m not waterproof but body can hack it, half gills sprout in northwestern damp hurried steps down cue the groaning hardwood staircase quartet strike a rhythm to the front door weather forecast unconsulted fragrant asphalt pirouette around the street water turn back take caution [heed the roses forever forward] Author Bio Artemis Mackay (they/them) is a queer, trans writer living near a bridge in Portland. They hold a Master’s Degree in Comparative Social Change from University College Dublin and several DSM-V diagnoses.

< Back Recipe for Conduits Moonrose Doherty after Michelle G. Stradford’s “Just Stir” Stop waiting rattlesnake resting for brilliance to strike you must open your mouth, shake your skin create a recipe for success create a home for lightning Show up for you every day every sand covered pocket, mesquite hidden moment at the same time and place at the same grains and granules bring your unique talents let them trail behind, leaving S shapes for eternity mix in your inner creative dust clouds of sparks and rainbows and just stir break up the clumps of shedded skin let the magic unfurl to stardust skies; let the brilliance of you pour Let yourself be the conduit Author Bio Moon Doherty is a non-binary human that started writing poetry as a teenager and was encouraged by an amazing teacher at Jefferson High School, which led to getting poems published in Rites of Passage , the school’s literary magazine. They’ve been writing ever since and love to write poetry about nature, feelings, change, water, relationships and connection. The art of singing and painting through words (poetry in their perception) is a deeply personal creating that helps them understand their own body, mind, and soul in ways that they’re joyous has become a realized possibility. They’re grateful for the opportunity to share in community. Moon is deeply intertwined with plants and energies and the astral world and you’ll often find them under stars, in a river or sitting with their rooted, rain-drinking friends.

Fiction Sun Grace Saunders Before the chaos of this universe existed, there was chaos upon other and different and more chaotic chaos... The Lost Voice Fran Kohler I am on my way to meet my wannabe lover north of Seattle. I am a businessman and it has been a hard, successful day... That Feeling When Moriendi Lenore The peaceful nights dreams are broken by the banshee wails of your alarm clock; with a swift hand you silence them... Yew Shannon Sullivan Spring is here. Sun heats my uppermost foliage, and flowers erupt from the pimpled skin of my smaller branches... The Man in the Red House Rowan Hartley Archie had lived in the red house for twenty-six years before Evelyn moved in across the street. It had seen the latter half of his marriage... Read More Read More Read More Read More Read More

< Back Why I Risked the Strikeout Terra Patrie 1) If you’re afraid of the ball, you’ll never win. 2) Remember you’re on offense, not defense. 3) You’ve got people in the stands you’re playing for. 4) You’ve got people in the dugout you’re playing for. 5) You’ve got yourself you’re playing for. 6) You’d rather go out swinging. Author Bio Terra Patrie tried to write a bio but kept getting distracted writing poems.

< Back golden (h)our Eleanor Song in my mind we laugh in a glowing field. the sun laughs with us, peeking past a calm horizon as the day ends. the wind smiles and lifts your hair past your ears; you look like you could fly. the willow trees’ branches chase after the wind. each time i visit this scene it changes, flowers wilting with the seasons, but you don’t. i craft you a flower crown of different vines each time, but you laugh identically, like you always do, and even the frogs seem to stop and listen. the greenery around us fluctuates, but the grass stains dotting your dress remain, like they always do, and you’re nature’s proudest work of art in the light. time stops but only for us, the sky still scheduled and so the stars watch over us in a heartbeat; you wish on them. i wish on you. Author Bio Native Portlander Eleanor Song is a second-year PCC student majoring in political science. She is a former National Student Poets Program semifinalist and has been published by Stepping Stone Publishing (but most of her work exists in a single notes app file, not backed up). Outside of writing, Eleanor is a photographer, legislative staffer, and proud cat mom. You can find her talking to strangers on the blue line, getting lost on hiking trails, and lighting candles that smell like sugar.

< Back The Lost Voice Fran Kohler I am on my way to meet my wannabe lover north of Seattle. I am a businessman and it has been a hard, successful day. The night rain is cold and ugly on the interstate and my need to piss pulls the car into the northbound roadside rest. There is a small dark form sitting upright against the wet restroom wall that somehow makes me feel safe, sitting here in my heated car. A tiny, tiny ragged form in a ragged old sleeping bag. I cannot see a face, there are shadows everywhere and, honestly, I don’t really care anyway. A ghost hand lifts a beggar’s cup in my direction. I drop some change in it and turn away. I don’t normally do that, drop change. Looking in the metal mirror bolted to the restroom wall I pause considering the man looking back. “Damn” I think. Outside the wind has picked up and the rain is frighteningly horizontal. Almost loud enough to drown out a hauntingly beautiful song coming from the beggar. The shaking coins in the tin cup are a big band rhythm section. An amazing, wondrous, Billy Holiday voice, overwhelming my senses. It is everywhere in my head. The hard rain is smashing into the beggar, making the sleeping bag heavy with cold. This voice does not belong here in this wasteland. I become afraid and run back to the safety of my heated, car. Driving north again the rhythm of the wipers sound like my coins in the beggar’s tin cup, louder with every swipe. The injustice of the beggar makes me lash out at the radio, what I know to be the truth. I want to blame Trump’s social fruit but that is just a cop-out. I am headed crazy to my wannabe lover and that is a cop-out too. I feel weak. I do not want to cry but I cannot help myself. I cannot get that voice out of my head. I know what I have to do as the car turns south, almost frantically, the wind blowing me sideways, now desperate for an off-ramp to McDonalds. My god, the salvation of McDonalds! There. Over there. Minutes later I am back; the beggar has become smaller—like the storm has been blowing beggar parts away. I grab my umbrella, open it and walk. I see the little vertical pools of water forming where the sleeping bag touches the wall, then down onto the sidewalk. Propping the umbrella as best I can against the rain I carefully set the box of hot food and hot coffee in front of the beggar. Like offerings in front of an altar. But why? Then—BAM!! A single bolt of lightning hits the pavement, causing the asphalt to burst into flames, right in front of me, in front of my car, cleaning the air. But why? I go deaf for a moment. I panic, thinking that I will not hear that voice again. I cannot live without it. Then… There it is again. Singing in the cold rain. I cannot look at this beggar. I dare not but I can… not help myself. The bright overhead light casts a face back at me—a beautiful scarecrow smile of broken teeth and whip-etched skin. She is singing to me, singing for her dinner and I am taken away somewhere far south of here. South of the Mason-Dixon line. It is long ago and I am peaceful. The falling rain is now warm, turning into springtime orange blossoms, dripping from my sleeves. The big, graceful old plantation has a giant old porch filled with happy people eating watermelon and homemade ice cream. A grand piano is there, rolled out of the house for the occasion. Teddy Roosevelt is presenting a Belle to the Ball. Living Blackamores open Duisenberg and Marmon coach doors, offering gloved hands to the Masters of a passing age. Then, that voice! Beautiful like God enraptured with creation fills the early evening magnolia trees. **************** A truck light illuminated the old woman. I saw she was reading a book by Faulkner. As she turned the cold wet page it tore in half. I ran. **************** Standing at the Edge. Soon I would arrive at the palace of my wannabe lover. A smaller palace to be sure, but quite expensive and built in a hurry—located at the very end of an insanely beautiful, manicured spit of land jutting out into Fidalgo Bay with its own drawbridge and moat. It was 2 a.m. dark outside as I pulled up. I waited in the cold rain, at the foot of the condo stairs. I wanted to be critical of the wealth surrounding me, of the yachts, the fine motorcars, the perfection. But I could not. I was weak with age and gravity. I felt trapped by the beauty and complexity of the bizarre feeling coming from my wannabe lover as she eased dramatically past the door, standing radiant and lonely in the driving rain. “Image is everything” I thought to myself as I stepped out of the car and into her arms. I could feel the money demon’s eyes upon me, inviting me to plug into any outlet. I did. It is hard now to recall those first impressions—the private elevator, the perfectly groomed and psychotic dog. Grandma County Kitchen décor in every room with Captain Nemo floor-to-ceiling bay views— screaming at me—run away! Run away quick before I did something crazy. “It’s ok” I said inside my head, “I mean, the whole idea of this meeting is to fall in love, or at least to seal the deal. ” I was too tired to surrender to my morals so I fell into the bed of a very inappropriate stranger. There was a delicious glass of never-ending fine red wine in my hand as I fell victim to my senses. “Fuck it.” I said under my breath. “Just fucking own it .” Days passed. Extreme, possibly undeserved days of leisure fueled with half-truths and gritted teeth. I could see Naked Sirens just off the shore looking back at me through my wannabe lover’s bedroom windows. Magnificent, nubile creatures who came into the house—seducing me with their trident of perpetual world news, expensive takeout food and engaging sex toys of all types. A massive TV in every room, all on the same news channel, 24/7. I found that it was hard to sleep with the lights always on, but my wannabe lover could not sleep with them off. It was not fair of me. My wannabe lover’s face was youthful for the most part and looked like almost the best that money can buy. There was a fear that if the lights went off then things would be different when they came back on. Like turning off the lights was like turning on the night gravity monster. “Touch Ups, love.” I started looking at my face with the power of money transforming it. Not dishonesty, in fact, honesty was a shield for cosmetic indulgence and I could not blame my wannabe lover for seeking the perpetual comfort of physical, mentally therapeutic pampering. After all, she could afford it. But, there was a ghost hole in the kitchen that set alarms off in my head. I was becoming comfortably numb after only 3 days (Or was it a month?) in this illusion. I did not want it to make sense to me. I did not know if I gave a shit or not. I went outside in the cold rain and saw old men and women with their wet dogs and I was beginning to look just like them. Warm bed to warm car, go for a drive, warm restaurant, see the town. In the big Lexus I could not feel the gears change, I could not feel the outside world moving by, I could only feel like I was losing the feel of things, everything. The wide, crack-free street sterility of the town came blasting through the dark and insanely cold, ripping rain all around us…Still…It was a warm fantasy town filled with warm fantasy citizens living in the strange reality of expensive designer drugs. Twinkling eyes and absent faces. The warm smile of my wannabe lover assured me that everything was alright with permanent porcelain masks floating gracelessly upon hidden necklines. And from this perspective, she was right. Even so, something was wrong and it was the wrong of no one under 30 years old living in this town. Not one young person to be seen. Not really because it is too fucking expensive—it is, and that is part of its comforting, disturbingly orderly appeal—but really because the youth of today have no interest in watching stiff walking ghosts become more translucent. I wanted to run like a freezing animal. “Will I be rich?” I ask myself. “Damn right I will.” “Ask me what I would do with it…. Isn’t that really what I am doing up here?” I comforted myself with comforting platitudes—“I’m guilty and I hate myself for it, I loathe myself for it.” I feared becoming a comfortable little ceramic actor on my wannabe lover’s fireplace mantle. I was afraid that I would enjoy fucking myself. When I arrived, my thoughts were about a mysterious broken-toothed beggar singing in the rain. I started freaking myself out when, on drunken day number four of this “indulgence,” I began to forget what the beautiful beggar looked like and how lovely her voice was. What it meant to me. It was becoming a lost voice and I did not want to lose it. In the middle of the night, I fled. It was expected. It was not right and we both knew it was not right. It had to happen and we both knew it but it still hurt and it still does. **************** The bitter salvation of reprise. It is raining really hard on the freeway as I leave Seattle for Portland. It is late at night and I feel safe in my businessman’s car. Hell, it is a Pontiac and they don’t make them like that anymore . I want to hide as I drive by the beggar’s roadside rest. “It’ll be safe to stop here” I think, “after all, this stop is on the southbound side of the road .” I carefully look, there are no beggars in sight. Uneasy I drop the seat and drift off to sleep. Then; then, I hear it again—that voice of warm, easy, honey-filled days. I desire that. Rolling down my window to hear it better the fierce rain and wind bring me back to coldness as the warmth of my car leaves. I want to stay here and wait until she comes back to rest next to me in her rags, in my dry warm car. I will wait here for her until I look like her—ancient and fragile. What is she reading? My very life depends upon knowing. I sit here watching pale figures get out of, and then after a few minutes, back into their warm cars. Some sleep, some drive away. When I woke up, wake up it was and is still raining and I saw her—see her clearly, my beautiful, sensual beggar, there, standing in front of my car. Brilliant. She stood tall, standing elegant in a long, perfectly tailored white raincoat and gloves. A kind of druid hoodie that covered covers her golden brown plantation hair. She stood back, now standing in the street light as it caught her face, sorta catching it like clear water in your hands. The light was bright, shining now on her missing teeth and whip-scarred face—far more lovely than ever before. She smiled a smile at me and I died dying. I wanted to want her love, to give her my car, shelter her from the storm, anything, if only she would sing something for me. The windshield fogged over and she was gone. Author Bio “You’re only given a little spark of madness, and if you lose that—you’re nothing.” - –Robin Williams Francis E. L. Kohler : I returned to PCC when I was in my middle ’60s because I was inspired by my children to start over in life. Honestly, I was clueless but I soon found a direction in the liberal arts thanks to some amazing instructors and brilliant fellow students who saw something in me that I had nearly forgotten I had—a creative imagination. Zackel/rust/stiffler/truax/sairanen/knight/fujita/buswell/hilt/johnson/tangredi/andsomany more with a special shout out to dr.s mitra and postma of pacific u—but mostly to my wonderful, really wonderful children! I intend to audit classes and write as long as I can think. Now, about my little story, “The Lost Voice,” it is a true story filled with real phantoms and demons.

< Back No Longer Shackled Kristina Landrum Dear Methamphetamine, When I was fourteen, you introduced me to your liquid charm encased in the syringe of euphoria, and I surrendered to your manipulations. The innocent giggles of smoking marijuana or the happy hallucinations of psychedelics soon turned to something white and sparkly, faster, darker. The novelty of experimenting wore off, and the thrill became a means to an end. Your evil intentions caused me heartache and destruction in one form or another. You stole my mother from me, who had also succumbed to the lies of your seduction; you stole my childhood, brutally used me to satisfy your own agenda and stole my hope of ever crawling out of hell. You have done nothing but bring terror and violence into my life and destroyed every relationship that mattered to me. I was blind to your truth, and by the time I figured you out, you had already brought me to my knees, to the point of not caring anymore. Before I realized what was happening, I found myself seeking you out and doing things for you that I never imagined. I committed untold crimes for you, kicking in doors and robbing people to pay you. I shamefully sold my body to any bidder just to feed you, numbly letting creeps play out their fantasies. There were so many times I chose homelessness, so you were my only responsibility. Throughout the years, you disguised yourself with a variety of names: crystal meth, crank, glass, or ice (Nicholas I. Parsons). In 2005, when I was in the midst of another relapse, Methamphetamine was proclaimed by Newsweek magazine as “America’s Most Dangerous Drug” (Jefferson). Arguably, it has become the worst mind-altering substance known to mankind (Parsons). In a needle, in a pipe, or laid out on a mirror, none of it dressed you up to represent anything but death, yet my craving for you was insatiable. The tears I’ve shed over the pain you poured into me could fill a reservoir. Oh yes, I tried to leave you time and time again, but I always crawled back and let you take me for another rollercoaster ride. Each time I gave in to your bullshit, I went deeper and deeper into the pit of despair. Little did I know, that’s exactly where you wanted me. You were an alluring god who successfully controlled every aspect of my life, always laughing as you shattered my self-esteem, my dreams, and my hope of ever escaping you. The sad truth is that from the time I was a little girl, I never knew I had a choice. You had my mom under your thumb even while I was in the womb, so unfortunately, I was born drug-affected and already in the clutches of your perversion and insanity. Never once did I question your twisted authority over my life. Most of the time you were good at killing the pain, comforting me, and loving me through multiple seasons of loneliness. As our relationship continued, there were countless times when I believed you were my only friend, the only thing I had to live for. So often, you seductively took me to the edge of blissful darkness, the brink of death, and I begged you to let me go. But you held on a little bit tighter each time just so you could spare my life once again and keep me all to yourself—plucking at the tattered strings of my mind. You fucked up my head in more ways than I can describe, shattered my heart, and tried to crush my spirit with the violence of your depravity. In 2009, as I was attempting suicide by way of police to get away from your hold over my life, someone bigger than you came along and spared my life. I experienced divine intervention as a new master lifted me out of the pit of desolation. He held me tenderly in His arms, told me all the things that I longed to hear—that I am loveable, valuable, needed, and have a purpose. Slowly, I came out of the fog and discovered your true nature. I was led into a marvelous light filled with forgiveness, compassion, and grace. The sins of my past no longer kept me in chains. I have been promised a new life, real hope, and a future. You see, today I have a new God who loves me better than you. Even though I stayed with you all those years, deep down, I hated you and everything you represented. You are a ruthless monster with no regard for who you destroy, ugly to the core, selfish, disgusting, and full of broken promises. What I find interesting is that you don’t just chase after the poor or the lowest of the low. Nobody is exempt from experiencing your torturous devices. There are countless people in all walks of life who have been ruined by your euphoric illusions, including political leaders. I recently learned of Matt Dorsey, a politician who has faced you publicly. His story has inspired me to believe in the recovery movement on every level, regardless of one’s socioeconomic status. He is open about his twenty-five-year battle with you, and in speaking out, he empowers others by saying, “It’s important for people in early recovery to see there’s a better life on the other side of this” (Heather Knight). Dorsey understands that early recovery support is crucial for ongoing recovery and he advocates for better systems to help others to succeed. If he can face you amongst some of his most judgmental, powerful peers and stand tall, so can I. Most recently, I learned that in Portland, Oregon, my hometown, there are three men in recovery running for City Council. They’re calling for more funding for sobering centers as well as more residential treatment facilities and abstinence-based housing (Knight). Hallelujah! How awesome is it that you have been exposed for the monster you are, and armies are rising up to take you out? Matt is a courageous hero who has opened the door for others in our government to come forward so that the devastation you cause can be addressed differently; people no longer need to hide in shame and hopelessness. This letter is to let you know that I no longer want or need you in my life. Have no doubt, I will join the fight against all that you stand for, but I don’t hate you anymore, nor do I miss the relationship we had. I have been able to move past all the craziness you brought into my world. In fact, I want you to know that I have forgiven you. I forgive you for all the destruction, heartache, and emptiness that you used me to cause for others. I choose not to harbor resentment and hate toward you or because of you. That would only hinder my own recovery. You no longer hold me hostage to your lies, threats of violence, or cravings. I’m proud to say that as of 2025, I have fifteen years of recovery and healing. My addiction to you has finally been broken. You can’t claim me as one of the 106,600 overdose statistics of the methamphetamine crisis plaguing our communities as of 2023 (KFF). I’m not a slave to delivering your brutality anymore. I’m not a slave to your deranged schemes of manipulating others anymore. And more importantly, I’m not a slave to your corrupted thoughts about my own self-worth that imprisoned me for so long. I thank God for the freedom that has finally come into my heart, mind, body, and soul. I can rest in peace that you are no longer the queen occupying the throne of my existence. Author Bio Kristina Landrum : As far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved reading and writing. Books often helped me to escape the dark reality of my household. They allowed me to envision a different life, a different family, a different me. When I learned to write I discovered a sense of control and power over my thoughts and emotions. It helped me express and sort through much trauma, pain, and confusion. I became a kind of “word nerd” in third grade, acing all of my spelling tests and dabbling in poetry. Now my writing is more about healing, advocating, and connecting with others. In the last 15 years I’ve written several program proposals, short stories, and more recently a “goodbye” letter to my addiction. I’m 56, going to college for the first time, and I have renewed her passion for writing … it’s never too late!

< Back 1,000,000+ Pieces (Some Lost) Terra Patrie Wouldn’t it be so nice to not have to solve the puzzle of every broken thing you encounter? Skilled at fitting together pieces that once knew each other before ripped to unrecognizable shreds with no diagram and no idea how they looked in the first place. Tasked with returning the Minotaur to man, somehow— perhaps by giving him a little bit of your human soul. So he can ravage that, too. Author Bio Terra Patrie tried to write a bio but kept getting distracted writing poems.