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My co-founder and friend Sarah and I have been dreaming up more ways to talk about Cauldron Anthology, and so we've come upon the idea of a contest.
Right now our twitter following is at 185. We would love to get it to 200! So here's the deal. Once we reach 200 followers we will be opening up a flash fiction contest for you all. There will be no official theme, but we'd like you to stick to mythology that inspires you as a woman and feminist. We would like the flash fiction to be no longer than 1,000 words, but it can be as short as a sentence. Thank you all and we can't wait to see what you are inspired by!
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Milkweed cannot cry out to fruit-stained fingers, explain how it feels to be pried open, weeping opaque drops. Insides are loosed to catch the wind and scattered in another's delight. It cannot call to them who fling out soft boned arms. Today, they may be flighty, dizzy creatures whirling skirts in the timeless burning before evening. No prophetic warnings, just a silent watchfulness, a seeing, prescient stillness. It knows time will catch them out one night, too late when the womb turns to silken down encased in fibrous armor. Their mothers will look for them in the witching fog. They find only the milkweed pods now swollen. About Amy KotthausBio: Amy Kotthaus is a writer and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, Occulum, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, and Digging Through the Fat.
Twitter: @amy_kotthaus I saw my death. I saw my death and she called me forward, it was my turn to greet her. The invitation stood hanging in the air: It smelled of sumire, and momo, but the flowers could not hide the stench of decay. I reached forward and accepted her invitation, I reached forward and accepted my death. For a time, all was peaceful, then I smelled the fire burning, the skin falling off her like meat sliced from a bone. The look in her eyes told me of her fury; she would have her revenge. She invited him forward and I watched as I remembered how she had done that for me, but back then her eyes were clear, now all they revealed was the fire pit in her heart. The revenge was not to belong to her, instead her body became rot and she was no more. It was too much for her mate who cleaved the fire demon in two and begged to see his wife once more. Izanami could not be released from the Underworld though, as she had already eaten of its fruit. She was trapped now: Her final invitation. About David PineDavid Pine grew up in the deep south of the United States. He grew up reading stories and poetry about ghosts, ghouls, and goblins. Now he writes stories and poetry about ghosts, ghouls, and goblins.
You must be a man of stone; my flesh will not kneel to flesh, soft and dying. The fever scalding my lips consumes any skin kissed, burning it away to a heap of sinewless ribs. Piles upon piles, enough to build the horse on which I wait for a hard man to pull my hair like I ask without the strands dropping off and becoming black asps biting poison into a meaty calf. You must be an immovable man Compel me to pray, prostrate myself in divinely unfamiliar supplication. Press my searing lips to the cold marble of your feet, cleansed with rose water by dedicant priests. I crave the steeped petal taste of you. My ears ring with a sharp silence at the absence of a binding order, and my wrists sting with matching bands of blistered skin, missing the chill of silk red ribbons; they are the veins that bleed us into each other. About Amy KotthausBio: Amy Kotthaus is a writer and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, Occulum, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, and Digging Through the Fat.
Twitter: @amy_kotthaus |
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