Introducing A New Literary Journal and Writing Contest


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Dearest Reader.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story.

I am beginning a blog dedicated to my late mother entitled “Judy.” The online journal will be an anthology of different poets and short story writers dealing with the topic of “mother.”  The works should be no longer than two pages.  Eventually, I hope to print this project annually. And, the best poem of the year will receive a cash prize to be determined soon.

I ask a love donation of at least $5 for each work sent.   If you cannot donate, do not worry!

If I choose not to use your piece, I will send a specific note of explanation.

This mother’s day I will donate any money received to Charlottesville, Virginia’s Black Mama Day’s Bail Out, a project to bring Moms out of the jail and home for Mother’s Day.

Please email your work to  The blog is at

Thank you so much for your help in this project.

For more information about how you can donate, please see

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh


Why I Suck My Belly In When I See You


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“You talk a lot.”

“I am just being real.”

“You think your realness is based on your constant verbal vomit?”

“I think you are really mean.”

“I am just being real.”

You wouldn’t check my loudness if I were thinner.

You wouldn’t check my constant drone if I were prettier.

I don’t have the privilege of changing you.

So, I skip another happy meal, buy another glitter lavender mascara…


You don’t look into my starving eyes, anyway.

Watch Jane and John Run…


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Adjacent, we begin hoping to outrun ourselves to spaces of bronze plated cups and wreathes.

We dare not face each other.  We only see our glorious ends.

I trip over my past browning laurels into your lane.

Your leap is not flung high enough. Your heel hits my hip.

Caught, you collapse onto me.

Knees skinned and bloody, we watch each other dazed

having lost our race–

smiling for the first time into each others’ eyes.

We sit in loving protest until the angry crowd leaves and the unforgiving sun sets

no longer parallel.

Panic can bring love to the brink of obsession.


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Why won’t he? Why hasn’t she?
When will we?
Serotonin floods.
Sweets taste metallic and diabetic.
Pathology lurks.
It’s tendrils pulls me back into empty, dark corners.
Breathing accelerates then stills.
I’ve died a hundred times in my head.
The latest, blazing trigger’s you.

Her Call


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An old world sparrow with her extra tongue bone drinks it in.
Brown gray she rarely wonders, why not a peacock’s plumes?
Short and stubby legs, why not a flamingo’s height?

Why would he focus his eyes on such an insignificant seed eater?
Is it her effortless humility and contentment?
Is it her incredible smallness against such a broad patch of sky?

Or, perhaps it’s her song.
Maybe, she sings, because she is happy and free as well.
And, his eyes and her good fortune follow his ears’ delight.

Auntie _______


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“Where is your father?”

Out with his other woman.

“I don’t know…”

She makes me call her auntie when he takes me to visit her pink duplex on that half street no good girls know about. I know about it. I no longer am good. I fear ending up on a half street like Auntie ____.

She buys me a navy blue satin dress for my silence and buys my father a suitcase for what I can only guess and fear.

I think my mother knows. I can’t ask her.

Auntie ____ talks to me about things I don’t understand but I pretend I do.

Auntie _____ lets me put powder on my freckles and toilet water behind my ears.

My mother does not let me wear make up.

My mother does not let my father do what he wants either.

He leaves with Auntie _____ and the suitcase.

I rip each stitch holding the dress together with a box cutter my father left behind.

My mother takes away the box cutter.

She tries to hold me.

I turn away.

She leaves.

I hold the dark silkiness to my face staining it with missing my father.



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The Mylar balloon shine face reflections gather and sneak into my late afternoon dread
reminding me of yesterday and other happier faces.


No more reminders, memories, sentimental attachments.
No retrospect.

Constant invention, creation, more.

Now and here.

I cling to the jagged edges of this moment letting it slice my palms.


The nameless empress…

She bodiless, bobs.

Free of self loathing,
she lives in her head
and kills with her mouth
biting, gnawing venom truth she spits.

Until, he comes to her,
freezing her in pewter and silver.

He hangs her on a wall in a crowded room of baubles.

They look but do not see.

Until she comes to her
daring to break the glass and trace her petrified hair
leaving her scarlet for the empress gray.



She places her dirty, holed sleeping bag behind the Andy Warhol cardboard boxes.