Memory Brushes Past

Brave and Reckless

Memory’s delicate tendrils

reach out

brush the nape

of my neck

cause an electric shiver

that courses

down my spine

The past



sweet and breathy

that tickle

my ear


it implores


Crisp white sheets

whiff of cedar

sound of the ocean

butterfly brush

of eyelashes


salty skin

strawberry lip gloss


so soft

they dissolved like sugar

and lemon

on my eager tongue

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

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november 3

lois e. linkens

i walked through a place where i did not belong, and i saw things that i thought were wrong. but i could not speak, for i imagined i did not have the right; it was my silence that cost the lives of those who longed for one who would speak for them. it was my fear that left their days dark and their nights nerved. to think it was not i who stood to lose, is to bury useless shame in the gravel of their graves. but to grovel is no use when the damage done is damage dealt, breath blown and money spent.

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Hallucination- Aakriti Kuntal

Whisper and the Roar

Aakriti Hallucination
Vapors, inhaled and exhaled,
your porous skin whistles
Your skin has melted my darling
and lit these oiled sinks that I call palms
Here I collect you, between my threaded selves
Weave you with a needle in my teeth
and carve you
Your incense, bourbon patches on my winter body
I cling to you
dance on your shoulders, see-saw and rhythms
I think the atmosphere is in my mouth
and I have begun to choke
So I slide into you, legs first
lungs floating in saline bowls
and disintegrate on the tip of your tongue
I think I’m all grey, my love
I think I’m all grey
and that’s never gonna change
for you are not really here
For women like me
who carry a floppy womb of fate
and tyres on our belly
The worms of destiny and sheets of uncertainty
You are not really here
You are just…

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S. K. Nicholas


The cigarette sits perched on an empty can of beer. She looks at it, looks at the ceiling, looks back to the cigarette, then closes her eyes and falls asleep. Her bra smells of milk, and she hasn’t taken it off in days. Can’t be bothered. No energy. No desire. Whatever. I’m in the shower masturbating. There’s nothing on my mind, and I don’t even really want to, but it’s good to clear out the tubes. At least that’s what I once heard. And it releases endorphins, right? So it’s kinda like taking a vitamin tablet, or something. When I’m finished and have washed away the remains of my vacant act, I go downstairs and cook her two eggs making sure not to break the yolks. When they’re looking good, I place each one on a slice of lightly buttered toast and pour her a glass of orange juice. Taking…

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Cat Nap

by Lois Linkens and Christine Ray



sleep stalks me, finds me an easy target

slinks in to drag me under, into the depths
where unknown dangers lurk in my unconscious
what murkiness lies behind my drooping lashes,
what shadows hide between each whistling breath?
what sharpness snuggles buried
among the feathers in my pillow,
what traps will soon ensnare
and dangle me, just feet from death?

they hook me, by the ankle
and suspend me from the tree of dreams,
around which serpents rattle, tigers prowl,
insects scuttle, poisonous, foul.
blood rushing to my head
cheeks flushed
heart thundering
as i dangle helpless

great cats bat their armored paws
at my flailing hair
like beggars round a campfire.
their claws pull and snag –
draw drops of blood
that quench night blooming jasmine
waiting below

i wake with a start. temples throb and pulse,
the bed is dry as my parched throat, blankets cold.
perhaps a girl
can be herself without the hair of fairytales.



Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and we ask you to take a second to look at more of her wonderful work, lois e.linkens

Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a member of Sudden Denouement.  She is also curator at Blood Into Ink and barista at Go Dog Go Cafe.  She is an aspiring badass.



samantha lucero

i was once obscure
like food stains under skirts
or a film of oil on a flowers tongue
but i grew to be a bigger blemish
like a birthmark on gods face
until i had to hide away
so no one saw

death had come on many occasions
and i, the greeter at the door would grin
but i was not the company he was looking for
when i’d invite him in

thus i watched them all march out
my loves; one-by-one and fall to ash
and still i, never being the one sought out
began to wear white instead of black
to mourn; no coward soul is mine,
in hopes he’d never return.

words = samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = emily dickinson.

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The Sounds Inside

there is something
about being
caught out
in the unrelenting
as though god
is driving
icy nail after
icy nail
into my naked
into my weathered
trying to execute
some grand design
of deeply buried
dormant within me,
it makes me
grin, deep on
the knife point,
it fills with me
leather exuberance,
oh spectre in the sky,
oh little wisp,
filled with anger
and melancholic thunder,
i am more of a god
than you, for i
still live,
the years may
not have been good to me,
but they treated me
better than you,
and as those glacial
fragments trickle
down my nose and
cling to my beard,
as they form rivers
down my breast,
over my mother’s mark,
over the scars of
a thousand darlings,
my mind is awash
with my lovers and
enemies, honing in
on every
fragmented timeline,
and the…

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