FOLIO NO.10
Under Currents: Reflections on Love, Loss, and Resilience
December 2024
Folio Issue Editor: Adrianna Lu
Folio Issue Editor: Adrianna Lu
Image provided by: Alyssa Garcia
From the Issue Editor
Dear Readers,
It is with great excitement that I present this collection, a journey through connection and the ever-evolving human experience. Welcome to this folio, a labor of love that will explore themes of reflection, connection, and growth. As the sole editor and curator of this collection, I have carefully selected each piece for its ability to move readers as well as inspire them. I hope this issue will have you contemplating resilience and engaging with memory.
Literary journals like this one are more than just a gathering of words; they are a celebration of voices that bring us closer to understanding ourselves and one another. I hope to invite you into a space where creativity meets introspection. A place where the stories and poems linger long after you’ve read them.
Folio No.10 opens with "I’ll Never Forget" by Adrianne Baluyot, a poem about the enduring presence of love in our lives. From there, "Corvid Fantasies" by Adrian Flores Ballard leads us into a reality of shadowy forests, where fear and fascination meet. Moving forward, Joe Lusnia’s "Amsterdam" is rich with imagery as it portrays the beauty and grit of city life.
In "One Last Breath" by Adlen Badra, the author reminds us of the fragility of human connection. While LindaAnn LoSchiavo’s "Acapulco by Night" paints a poetic scene of nocturnal life. For a plunge into resiliency and contradiction, Jesse Caverly’s "Hyena" offers a raw perspective. Finally, the folio concludes with "A Love That Grows" by Calyssa Lessard, a celebration of love’s milestones and a reflection on renewal.
Each of these works stands on its own, yet together, they depict what it means to be human. It is my hope that this folio seamlessly unites PCC students’ thoughts and connections. Perhaps it will even provide you with a sense of belonging that you could never quite articulate. Thank you for reading and engaging with this collection.
May it move you as deeply as it has moved me,
Adrianna Lu
December, 2024
It is with great excitement that I present this collection, a journey through connection and the ever-evolving human experience. Welcome to this folio, a labor of love that will explore themes of reflection, connection, and growth. As the sole editor and curator of this collection, I have carefully selected each piece for its ability to move readers as well as inspire them. I hope this issue will have you contemplating resilience and engaging with memory.
Literary journals like this one are more than just a gathering of words; they are a celebration of voices that bring us closer to understanding ourselves and one another. I hope to invite you into a space where creativity meets introspection. A place where the stories and poems linger long after you’ve read them.
Folio No.10 opens with "I’ll Never Forget" by Adrianne Baluyot, a poem about the enduring presence of love in our lives. From there, "Corvid Fantasies" by Adrian Flores Ballard leads us into a reality of shadowy forests, where fear and fascination meet. Moving forward, Joe Lusnia’s "Amsterdam" is rich with imagery as it portrays the beauty and grit of city life.
In "One Last Breath" by Adlen Badra, the author reminds us of the fragility of human connection. While LindaAnn LoSchiavo’s "Acapulco by Night" paints a poetic scene of nocturnal life. For a plunge into resiliency and contradiction, Jesse Caverly’s "Hyena" offers a raw perspective. Finally, the folio concludes with "A Love That Grows" by Calyssa Lessard, a celebration of love’s milestones and a reflection on renewal.
Each of these works stands on its own, yet together, they depict what it means to be human. It is my hope that this folio seamlessly unites PCC students’ thoughts and connections. Perhaps it will even provide you with a sense of belonging that you could never quite articulate. Thank you for reading and engaging with this collection.
May it move you as deeply as it has moved me,
Adrianna Lu
December, 2024
Folio Contents
Cover Art by Alyssa Garcia
Adrianne Baluyot – "I’ll Never Forget You"
Adrian Flores Ballard – "Corvid Fantasies"
Adlen Badra – "One Last Breath"
Carrie Hansen – Review of Ada Limon's Bright Dead Things*
Calyssa Lessard – "A Love That Grows"
Joe Lusnia – "Amsterdam"
Jesse Caverly – "Hyena"
LindaAnn LoSchiavo – "Acapulco by Night"
Adrianne Baluyot – "I’ll Never Forget You"
Adrian Flores Ballard – "Corvid Fantasies"
Adlen Badra – "One Last Breath"
Carrie Hansen – Review of Ada Limon's Bright Dead Things*
Calyssa Lessard – "A Love That Grows"
Joe Lusnia – "Amsterdam"
Jesse Caverly – "Hyena"
LindaAnn LoSchiavo – "Acapulco by Night"
Cover Art by Alyssa Garcia
About the Artist:
Alyssa Garcia is a part-time artist and full-time reading enthusiast. She is currently attending PCC and hopes to transfer by Fall 2025. Her dream career is to be the man in the chair for the future literary classics that will be written. She cannot be found in the physical plane; she exists in an incorporeal form. If you should see an avatar, send well wishes to the air, she’ll hear them there.
About the Artist:
Alyssa Garcia is a part-time artist and full-time reading enthusiast. She is currently attending PCC and hopes to transfer by Fall 2025. Her dream career is to be the man in the chair for the future literary classics that will be written. She cannot be found in the physical plane; she exists in an incorporeal form. If you should see an avatar, send well wishes to the air, she’ll hear them there.
Adrianne Baluyot
I'll Never Forget You
Love is a reminder.
It excites the heart, it burdens the soul,
It’s a constant wherever I go.
Fleeting memories attached,
Day after day, never grows but never leaves.
Love is a reminder.
Feelings that were once felt
Are embedded into every cell of my body.
It’s a constant wherever I go.
I’ve learned my lesson,
I’ll remember here and now like I should.
Love is a reminder.
It’s a constant wherever I go.
It excites the heart, it burdens the soul,
It’s a constant wherever I go.
Fleeting memories attached,
Day after day, never grows but never leaves.
Love is a reminder.
Feelings that were once felt
Are embedded into every cell of my body.
It’s a constant wherever I go.
I’ve learned my lesson,
I’ll remember here and now like I should.
Love is a reminder.
It’s a constant wherever I go.
About The Author ~
Adrianne Baluyot was a late bloomer, she didn’t discover her true passion until her teenage years. At age 6, Adrianne already had her career planned out, to be a police officer just like the rest of the family. When she became a senior in high school, she realized what she truly loved and wanted to be. It was to be surrounded by books and writing, Adrianne wanted her career to be filled with endless words and stories. The poem, I’ll Never Forget You, is her first attempt at a villanelle, and it was also the time of realization that she loved writing this kind of poetry. But, her absolute favorite one was the poem, You, another piece of villanelle. Each day and moment, she strives for her dreams and continues to walk down her path.
Adrian Flores Ballard
Corvid Fantasies
I went for a walk in the woods at night
Wrapped in a cold chill’s grasp amongst the alpine wilderness
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
Seduced by excitement, trembling with fright—
On a sinister All Hallows’ Eve, no less—
I went for a walk in the woods at night.
Nothing to pierce the gloom but a meek little flashlight
What terrible secrets could hide in the darkness
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight?
How to explain my strange delight?
This mystic unknown, accessed by a single button’s press
I went for a walk in the woods at night.
Skeletal fingers reach out, clawing at my sight,
One’s mind suddenly teeters at the edge of a frosty abyss
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
I’ve never known fear to feel so right
As when I sat inside the void, this primordial absence;
I went for a walk in the woods at night
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
Wrapped in a cold chill’s grasp amongst the alpine wilderness
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
Seduced by excitement, trembling with fright—
On a sinister All Hallows’ Eve, no less—
I went for a walk in the woods at night.
Nothing to pierce the gloom but a meek little flashlight
What terrible secrets could hide in the darkness
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight?
How to explain my strange delight?
This mystic unknown, accessed by a single button’s press
I went for a walk in the woods at night.
Skeletal fingers reach out, clawing at my sight,
One’s mind suddenly teeters at the edge of a frosty abyss
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
I’ve never known fear to feel so right
As when I sat inside the void, this primordial absence;
I went for a walk in the woods at night
Where shadows loom large and ebon dreams take flight.
About The Author ~
Adrian Flores Ballard is a writer, actor, photographer, and chronic overthinker who has written creatively for over 5 years. He currently lives in Pasadena.
Adlen Badra
One Last Breath
Laying on the hard, wooden black board
Who knew I'd be here?
Stranded in the middle of the ocean with you.
Just a few seconds ago, you were by my side,
A bright smile plastered across your face.
Laying on the hard, wooden black board
It's to hard accept my fate,
Our fate
The coldness of the water seeps into my bones,
Our bones
You stayed by me, clutched my hands
Who knew this would be your last?
Your last breath
Laying on the hard, wooden black board
You comforted me in your last moments,
Your shaky hands cupped my face
Before you froze in the icy-cold water.
I wept for you
As you took one last breath.
Who knew I'd be here?
Stranded in the middle of the ocean with you.
Just a few seconds ago, you were by my side,
A bright smile plastered across your face.
Laying on the hard, wooden black board
It's to hard accept my fate,
Our fate
The coldness of the water seeps into my bones,
Our bones
You stayed by me, clutched my hands
Who knew this would be your last?
Your last breath
Laying on the hard, wooden black board
You comforted me in your last moments,
Your shaky hands cupped my face
Before you froze in the icy-cold water.
I wept for you
As you took one last breath.
About The Author ~
Adlen Badra is a student at Saint Louis Community College. While still exploring the realm of poetry, she found inspiration in everyday moments and the intricacy of human emotions.
Carrie Hansen
"That's How This Machine Works:"
A Review of Ada Limón's Bright Dead Things
A Review of Ada Limón's Bright Dead Things
A huge heart pounds through Ada Limón’s 2015 collection of poetry Bright Dead Things, beating out the rhythm that connects us all. By her own account an autobiographical poet, Limón intimately brings the reader into a world where domesticity and familial expectations are examined keenly, where we feel kinship with and recognition of our animal selves, and where female wildness is powerful and explosive, “the strike anywhere, the reckless match."
“How to Triumph Like a Girl” opens the book with a teasing, light tone: “I like the lady horses best/How they make it all look easy…I like their lady horse swagger/after winning” before revealing the raw power beyond the pricked ears and swishing tails:
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As if this big
dangerous animal is also a part of me, that somewhere inside the delicate skin of my body, there pumps an 8-pound female horse heart, giant with power, heavy with blood. |
The poem continues with something closer to a threat than a promise:
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Don’t you want to believe it?
don’t you want to lift my shirt and see the huge beating genius machine that thinks, no, it knows, it’s going to come in first. |
Now we’re really off to the races! In this first of four parts of the book, Limón shows readers this racehorse-hearted woman adjusting to life in a committed partnership, in a new home in Kentucky, far from what she knows. In “The Last Move” she plays house while her partner is away on a work trip, putting on her “apron as a joke […] carrying a zucchini like a child.” The walls are closing in on her in this new domestic life, and she imagines first her old, unencumbered life in Brooklyn, and then, recalling the story of a woman’s body found in a hotel cistern, imagining the peace that her old self knew, and how she wills herself to forget:
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After that when the water would act weird,
spurt, or gurgle, I’d imagine a body, a woman, a me just years ago, freely single, happily unaccounted for, at the lowest curve of the water tower. |
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Yes, and over and over,
I’d press her limbs down with a long pole until she was still. |
The watery alliteration in these lines -- “spurt,” “gurgle,” “curve”-- are their own siren song. Who wouldn’t want to leave a cramped kitchen, “washing dishes forever […] judging crackles, rusty mailbox, spiders in the magnolia tree” for the oblivion of dark, cool water?
“Bellow,” the opening poem of part two, implores the reader to align with the forces of wildness against “all that makes you go quiet again." In these poems, Limón takes readers deep into grief, loss, and rage as she aches to makes sense of her stepmother’s death. The slant rhymes in this poem -- rain/again, scream/between-- give the effect of a chant and build pressure that is released as an anguished and mighty sound in the final lines:
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tell them – crazy sky and stars
between – tell them you didn’t come to disturb the night air and throw a fit then get down in the dark and do it. |
Limón grapples with acceptance of this death, in “The Riveter,” gathering brutal facts about hospice care, so as better to prepare herself for what is coming. Then she realizes that practicalities and planning are for the living, and that the hardest job is done by the one who is dying:
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Her job,
her work, was to let the machine of survival break down, make the factory fail, to know that this war was winless, to know that she would singlehandedly destroy us all. |
These poems reveal the confusing truths that grief exposes. Someone can be monstrous and still be deeply loved, and our relationship with the dead person may never be resolved; death comes for all of us, heedless of our power in life, even those who are full of “rare-earth explosives” as she describes her stepmother in “Cower”.
Part three looks back on a younger self, in poems vibrating with love and sex, tumbling the reader over in the grass like the teenage lovers of “The Wild Divine:"
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flushed and flowered and buzzing
with the quickening ripples of blood growing up and I could barely feel my hands, my limbs numbed from the new touching that seemed strikingly natural but also painfully kindled in the body’s stove. Oh my newness! Oh my new obsessions, his hands! I thought I could die and be happy and be humbled by luck of a first love and a first full-fledged fuck |
After experiencing communion with each other, the lovers are received by nature as they are visited by a neighbor’s horse, who seems to “take us all in, to inhale us, to accept our now-selves." They feel blessed by an older wisdom and by an expansive love that goes “straight from wild/ thing to wild thing, approving of its wildness.” The lush language in this poem recalls Whitman’s "Body Electric," the rapturous and stunned joy sparking off the page, with soft sounds of flushed/flowered/touching alongside the lightning strikes of quickening/strikingly/kindled/luck/fuck.
In “Glow” there is another remembrance of an old love, under the seedy setting of neon strip club lights, where Limón nevertheless finds a place where even an imperfect kind of love is celebrated and shame is erased. Despite being unsure of whether she has truly experienced love, she feels there is worth that “what I have done is risked everything for that hour,/that hour in the black night, where one/flashing light looks like love." There is absolution here, and also acceptance of what she and this man gave each other, and what they couldn’t give each other.
Horses introduced this collection, and in the final section, they gallop readers to the wire with poems that circle back to themes of home and identity. Limón explores her heritage here and also the erasure of being perceived as white, such as in “Prickly Pear and Fisticuff:" “what it is to lose a spiny layer.” In “The Problem with Travel” she imagines hopping a plane right out of her life so that she might “creep below/ the radar like an escaped canine/sneaking along the fence line.”
The final two poems in the book touch on the question of whether or not to have children. In “Call to Post,” a racing metaphor evokes the time limit on this decision. Limón walks her dog through the Kentucky bluegrass, unable to bear the tension of the race on TV, wondering if she is “made up/of mama material”. In the end she reaches an uneasy peace, realizing that whatever her decision, life is short but it will not be lacking:
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Either
money or none, but we’ll still be animals shoving our bodies in air racing no one but ourselves, the grass thick and trembling at our speed. |
The quick, restless lines here could be the thoroughbreds at post-time, jittering and pressing at the gate to be the first one through and away to the finish.
The last poem in the collection, “The Conditional,” is a repeated command to a partner that’s like an incantation:
The last poem in the collection, “The Conditional,” is a repeated command to a partner that’s like an incantation:
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Say tomorrow doesn’t come.
Say the moon becomes an icy pit. Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. Say the sun’s a foul black tire-fire |
The aching question that forms the hole in so many of us – am I enough? – is at the heart of this poem, as Limón turns from her what-ifs to the real matter at hand:
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Say we never meet her. Never him.
Say we spend our last moments staring at each other, hands knotted together, clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. Say, It doesn’t matter. Say, That would be enough. Say you’d still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky. |
Will you love me no matter what, she wants to know, no matter how vexed the world, how flawed I am, with my wild ways and secret darknesses? This question is asked in different ways throughout this collection, and the answer is always resoundingly yes. We are wild, we are different, we secretly dream of escaping our lives, we live where we don’t belong and we find a way to stay anyway. An extraordinary heart beats in all of us, these poems say, powerful, imperfect, destructive, creative, explosive, and loved.
This collection is vibrant and full of wildness, and will deepen every reader's engagement with the stuff of life.
This collection is vibrant and full of wildness, and will deepen every reader's engagement with the stuff of life.
About The Author ~
Carrie Hansen is an artist, student, teacher, and mother living in Los Angeles.
Calyssa Lessard
Calyssa Lessard
A Love That Grows
When I think of us, I think of November
The soft crackling of the fire and the hot embers
The burning passion of new love
I think of how we fit, like the perfect glove
When I think of us, I think of January
When we first said “I love you,” my worries I would bury
Just us two watching the sunrise on the beach
This is a love I prayed for, one that I could reach
When I think of us, I think of July
How you drove me sixteen hours to Oregon, one hand on my thigh
To spend time with my family, there was not a single doubt in my mind
That you are who I want to marry, someone who is so attentive and kind
When I think of us, I think of October
When we hit our one year anniversary and the weather grew colder
I think of the amazing year we experienced together
When I think of us, I think of forever
The soft crackling of the fire and the hot embers
The burning passion of new love
I think of how we fit, like the perfect glove
When I think of us, I think of January
When we first said “I love you,” my worries I would bury
Just us two watching the sunrise on the beach
This is a love I prayed for, one that I could reach
When I think of us, I think of July
How you drove me sixteen hours to Oregon, one hand on my thigh
To spend time with my family, there was not a single doubt in my mind
That you are who I want to marry, someone who is so attentive and kind
When I think of us, I think of October
When we hit our one year anniversary and the weather grew colder
I think of the amazing year we experienced together
When I think of us, I think of forever
About The Author ~
Calyssa Lessard is an aspiring elementary school teacher, finishing up her AAT at Pasadena City College in an effort to earn her BA at Cal State La. Her writing style ranges from persuasive essays to slice of life journal entries and poetry. Her recent work takes on more of a creative style approach, mostly focusing on the use of figurative language in her poems. She hopes to one day implement her writing skills in her future teaching career if applicable. In her spare time between work, chores, and school, she enjoys spending time with her loved ones which include her family, friends, and her significant other.
Joe Lusnia
Amsterdam
Water.
Water everywhere.
Like veins filled with black tar heroin.
Streets twining their way up and around
Old spice houses sitting like crows on the edge of a wire.
You smoking opium with the painter, hashish with the girl in hiding,
The blue grey sky coming down pressing into the blades of grass outside.
Cold wind scraping quietly along the canal as swans hover by the keel of a broken-down barge.
Water everywhere.
Like veins filled with black tar heroin.
Streets twining their way up and around
Old spice houses sitting like crows on the edge of a wire.
You smoking opium with the painter, hashish with the girl in hiding,
The blue grey sky coming down pressing into the blades of grass outside.
Cold wind scraping quietly along the canal as swans hover by the keel of a broken-down barge.
About The Author ~
Joe Lusnia is a student at Pasadena City College whose writing captures the mood and texture of the places he portrays. In his poem "Amsterdam," he offers a glimpse into the city's layered atmosphere.
Jesse Caverly
Hyena
The hair of the dog comes before dawn. Boots on, not to beat a rhythm of hangover into my skull, but to creek the floorboards so I know they are here. A fistful of fur in my hand from whatever beast I held onto as it dragged me along the shoulder of a street that could no longer even manage a shrug, as if that gesture was too belabored to make.
I don’t keep the wolves at bay anymore, I scratch them behind the ears.
I once was strapped up against the world. The pistol was not under my pillow, but close by. Once a weapon with me against the world, me and my girlfriend, it was inching closer to placing its barrel against my temple. It would never find its way into my mouth, for that would be a reverberation of possible past abuses unrecovered, but the temple was fair game. My guardian angels worked overtime, however, jamming guns before firing, holding back explosions of violence until I was long gone. They must be exhausted. They must have applied for jobs elsewhere, open to a lesser salary, a lateral move to the Department of Visions, perhaps. They must have been tired of my sh*t, but the Gods were like, “Nah, this is your boy. Tend to him.”
Now I am strapped against a burning bed. I am strapped to Craven Jones.
But the dog is not my avatar, the crow and raven are. Six feet tall and counting, wingspans that embrace buildings whole, beaks that shatter ribcages to yank out the centipedes in my chest. One is black as obsidian, the other is white as pearl, an albino, eyes a shade of blood mixed with earthen clay.
The dog is one of the lesser gods, the Queen Hyena. She has bark, she shakes off the gleam of my nightmares from her frame with ferocity. She licks my brow, spurs of her tongue scraping away the sheen of dreamsweat. She will nurse me well and then into the bottle again, for all the old Gods love contradiction, to say as they do not do. They gift us with choice unlike Yahweh. They don’t tell us we are free, they show us our chains and say, “The f*ck you gonna do about it?” They don’t curse us with enlightenment, they howl when we find it and say, “Good. now ride with me.”
I don't have the legs yet to follow her into the forest primeval. Only pet I ever had was a small terrier who ate his own sh*t. I don’t yet know how to be Romulus. Eating your sh*t, the Queen B*tch says, is how you find your compass. Look, I’ve even dried your mouth with liquor so it won’t taste so bad.
I’m not quite there, queen. Give me another night, another forgetting. One more round, no chaser, and you have my word that I will come with you next time you come for me. I may have to crawl, but that is a stratum I know well, hands and knees I can do, head at height with yours.
She snorts, bobs her head, and nuzzles my shoulder. She will return in a few hours as the venerated and despised St. Bernhard, barrel slung around her neck, sommelier to my needs with patience. If only I had her lope when I stride.
I don’t keep the wolves at bay anymore, I scratch them behind the ears.
I once was strapped up against the world. The pistol was not under my pillow, but close by. Once a weapon with me against the world, me and my girlfriend, it was inching closer to placing its barrel against my temple. It would never find its way into my mouth, for that would be a reverberation of possible past abuses unrecovered, but the temple was fair game. My guardian angels worked overtime, however, jamming guns before firing, holding back explosions of violence until I was long gone. They must be exhausted. They must have applied for jobs elsewhere, open to a lesser salary, a lateral move to the Department of Visions, perhaps. They must have been tired of my sh*t, but the Gods were like, “Nah, this is your boy. Tend to him.”
Now I am strapped against a burning bed. I am strapped to Craven Jones.
But the dog is not my avatar, the crow and raven are. Six feet tall and counting, wingspans that embrace buildings whole, beaks that shatter ribcages to yank out the centipedes in my chest. One is black as obsidian, the other is white as pearl, an albino, eyes a shade of blood mixed with earthen clay.
The dog is one of the lesser gods, the Queen Hyena. She has bark, she shakes off the gleam of my nightmares from her frame with ferocity. She licks my brow, spurs of her tongue scraping away the sheen of dreamsweat. She will nurse me well and then into the bottle again, for all the old Gods love contradiction, to say as they do not do. They gift us with choice unlike Yahweh. They don’t tell us we are free, they show us our chains and say, “The f*ck you gonna do about it?” They don’t curse us with enlightenment, they howl when we find it and say, “Good. now ride with me.”
I don't have the legs yet to follow her into the forest primeval. Only pet I ever had was a small terrier who ate his own sh*t. I don’t yet know how to be Romulus. Eating your sh*t, the Queen B*tch says, is how you find your compass. Look, I’ve even dried your mouth with liquor so it won’t taste so bad.
I’m not quite there, queen. Give me another night, another forgetting. One more round, no chaser, and you have my word that I will come with you next time you come for me. I may have to crawl, but that is a stratum I know well, hands and knees I can do, head at height with yours.
She snorts, bobs her head, and nuzzles my shoulder. She will return in a few hours as the venerated and despised St. Bernhard, barrel slung around her neck, sommelier to my needs with patience. If only I had her lope when I stride.
About The Author ~
Jesse Caverly is a writer who explores the raw and visceral aspects of the human experience. He does so with themes of resilience, contradiction, and survival. His work often blurs the line between the literal and the symbolic, as seen in "Hyena," where imagery meets despair and perseverance. Jesse's writing invites readers to confront their own vulnerabilities.
LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Acapulco by Night
Whirlpooling through darkness, undulating
As gracefully as a Chinese dragon, free
To filigree wide Mexican midnight,
Each colony of vampire bats wheeled, whooped,
Long pulsing ribbons of grotesque-faced imps
Determined to find blood to sip or share,
As a full moon clasped its chin, monitoring
Playpens of stars, while lonely North wind gusts
Continued their brisk, bitter monologues.
As gracefully as a Chinese dragon, free
To filigree wide Mexican midnight,
Each colony of vampire bats wheeled, whooped,
Long pulsing ribbons of grotesque-faced imps
Determined to find blood to sip or share,
As a full moon clasped its chin, monitoring
Playpens of stars, while lonely North wind gusts
Continued their brisk, bitter monologues.
About The Author ~
Native New Yorker and Elgin Award winner LindaAnn LoSchiavo (she/her) is a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize. Her writing has also been nominated for Best of the Net, Balcones Poetry Prize, Quill and Ink, Firecracker Award, an Ippy, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars. Her poetry placed as a finalist in Thirty West Publishing's "Fresh Start Contest" and in the 8th annual Stephen DiBiase contest. She is a member of the British Fantasy Society, HWA, SFPA, and The Dramatists Guild. Current books: "Messengers of the Macabre: Hallowe'en Poems" and "Vampire Ventures." Forthcoming: "Apprenticed to the Night" (UniVerse Press, 2024,) "Cancer Courts My Mother" (Penumbra, 2024) and "Always Haunted: Hallowe'en Poems" (Wild Ink Publishing, 2024).
Blue Sky: @ghostlyverse.bsky.social
Twitter: @Mae_Westside
Blue Sky: @ghostlyverse.bsky.social
Twitter: @Mae_Westside
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