OUR PENNILESS WRITE
Contributors About
We aim to foster experimentation in writing. We believe traditional structures of writing can be restrictive and we encourage those who do not adhere to the tried, tested and, therefore, validated conventions of literature and art writing. We want to experience new writing without relying on our preconceptions and expectations of established genres. There are no deadlines for submissions. The only criteria is that submissions be under 3,000 words (or up to 10 images for visual essays). Submissions can be sent to ourpennilesswrite@gmail.com
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twitter.com/pennilesswrite:
We aim to foster experimentation in writing. We believe traditional structures of writing can be restrictive and we encourage those who do not adhere to the tried, tested and, therefore, validated conventions of literature and art writing. We want to experience new writing without relying on our preconceptions and expectations of established genres. There are no deadlines for submissions. The only criteria is that submissions be under 3,000 words (or up to 10 images for visual essays). Submissions can be sent to ourpennilesswrite@gmail.com
Follow us on Facebook | Follow us on Twitter
twitter.com/pennilesswrite:
"Imagining Worlds"
By Anne McColgan & Jane Hartshorn
As trees rib the sky, like
The drowned hulls
Of skeletal ships
And my feet steal soft
Upon the
Moss blown bed
Of the forest floor,
Rain dimpled spider webs
Shake themselves free
From their crooked picture hooks
And cling wetly
To the sandpaper of my lips.
Shadow Girl
She sleeps in the honey dew forest
Childhood sweet-pea stopped in stone
Her pearly young body a dusky statue
Of something that once was
So innocently alive and free
What happened to her, you wonder…
Writer’s block / mind frozen
It could have been any array of
Imaginative fairyland scenarios
Irreversible spells most tragically.
♦ ♦ ♦
The drowned hulls
Of skeletal ships
And my feet steal soft
Upon the
Moss blown bed
Of the forest floor,
Rain dimpled spider webs
Shake themselves free
From their crooked picture hooks
And cling wetly
To the sandpaper of my lips.
