Cindy Shebley CC




To Do List at Your Brother’s Grave 

1. Observe the surroundings. Breathe in the vastness of this place called Higbee, Colorado, far from any town.  See the ranches and winding dirt road.
2. Look up at the rock plateaus and across the fields to Purgatoire River, such a fitting name for a place that feels in-between and forgotten.
3. Take it all in. This will only be the second time you’ve visited the cemetery since the funeral two decades ago.
4. Rub the tip of the juniper tree and smell your fingers. Remember: this land is inside you. Not the way it was to your brother who lived here and roamed the canyons on foot or rode his horse up on the bluffs. The land was really inside him, but he is gone and all that's left is the land. You hope you live inside this land or that it can live in you. It’s the only way you know to find your way back to your brother again. 
5. Think of the last time you saw your little brother alive, here, across the river. Mom’s wedding day. She married Ed—one husband after your brother’s dad, two husbands after your dad. 
6. Be thankful you have a photo from that day—your mom’s four kids. You’re all in jeans and boots, arms around each other.  Two light skinned, two darker, marking your mother’s first two husbands.  You all look like your mother.​

      7.  Think back to your young, teen-brother’s shy smile or his open mouth laughter. Think about his mischievous brown eyes, or his shiny               cowboy belt buckle.  Try to believe he was happy that day--especially when he snuck onto the back of one of the Clydesdale horses                  (used earlier to pull the wagon of guests across the river) and wandered off with his little cousin on the back.  
      8.    Clear the dirty stuffed dog, cherub statue, and silk flowers from the head of his burial spot.
      9.    Sweep the small, white quartz stones off the top of the dirt with your hand.
     10.  (Perfect the ground.)
      11.  Ask your living brother David to carry the gravestone from the car to the plot. The granite is heavy, but he is tall and strong.
      12.  Dig three inches down with a shovel so his new 16” x 10” x 2” granite gravestone will settle into the hard earth.
      13.  Tell your little brother out loud you are sorry you couldn’t afford a bigger stone.
      14.  Help David set the heavy slab into the clay soil and try to make it look like this stone has been here as long as your little brother                         has:  22 years.
      15.  Make sure not to disturb the rough, jagged rock that your mom’s husband carved with “Mike.” Your stone is not meant to replace                      his stone. It is meant as an affirmation of his full name: Charles Michael Trujillo. It is meant to reveal his birth and death dates (1979                – 1993) so the creators of the graveyard website know he is not just “?, Mike” and he is not a “baby” just because people leave him                     stuffed animals. You need them to know he is perpetually a teenager, a boy halted by his own hand as he was blossoming into a                           man. 
       16.  Gather the weight of things not said.
       17.  Place that weight on the foot of his grave.
       18.  Acknowledge you didn’t know how unhappy your mom’s wedding made your brother until you saw him crying behind a truck-sized                  boulder after the ceremony. Someone told you later that he didn’t want his mom married to anyone but his father. But you never                       asked him yourself.
       19.  Admit how powerless you felt when you saw a woman you didn’t know put her arms around him.  She seemed to already know why                   he was sad. He leaned into her.
        20.  Make excuses why you, the big sister, didn’t comfort him instead:  
                         a.  You lived hours away in Denver.
                        b.  Your mother disowned you often. Sometimes one or two years went by without contact. You never wanted to be away for                                     so long.
                         c.  You felt so disconnected from his life and too absorbed in your own.
          21.  Be honest. (That was the year you did a lot of coke.)
          22.  Say out loud the things you should have said that day:
                          a.  Are you okay?
                          b.  Can I hold you?
                          c.  Tell me what hurts.
          23.  Disconnect the images of his death from images of his life. Try to remember his long, dark lashes or the smell of his sweet, earthy                       breath or the way he giggled when he was being playful or naughty.
          24.  Hope your mother doesn’t know you’re the one who laid this stone. You wouldn’t want her taking it away out of spite.
          25.  Place the weight of his life down at the foot of the grave. One pound for every year: Fourteen pounds.
          26.  Sit down next to the headstone and try not to replay that last day of the wedding over and over in your head.
          27.  Read aloud the poem you wrote and had engraved on the stone.  With a clean cloth, polish away the earth.​

            29.  Now stand and wipe the clay from your hands.
            29.  Notice the lightness in your arms and breathe in the sage, and the clay earth, and let this land live inside you.





After “Things To Do Today” by Joe Wenderoth


​
A Colorado native, Cathy A. E. Bell now calls North Carolina home. She works at Appalachian State University’s Hickory campus as an academic coach and instructor and coordinates the Student Learning Center, where students receive tutoring support. Her writing has appeared in The Rumpus, Hippocampus Magazine, and Full Grown People. She shares her life with her husband, beloved fur babies, and many flower gardens. A visual artist and writer, she believes art saves lives.  


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Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cindy Shebley CC




Bordo

We drove to Marfa because there was no snow. This is the way it’s been getting. Dryer and hotter. To distract ourselves, we go to see some Big Art. A guy in a tiny art store/gallery tells us where to go for important sandwiches. Let me be perfectly clear: I have known some sandwiches in my day. A poet I admire was at the next table and I did my best not to be a menace. The place had some curious soda flavors like cardamon and lavender, and the poet and I nodded to each other, hoisting our drinks like champagne, toasting this small good luck.

​


Linda Michel-Cassidy’s story collection, When We Were Hardcore (EastOver, 2025) was named to the PEN/Robert W. Bingham Award for debut story collection longlist. Michel-Cassidy’s writing has appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Rumpus, Electric Lit, Tahoma Review, December, Catamaran, and elsewhere. She is senior reviews and hybrid/collaboration editor at Tupelo Quarterly. Michel-Cassidy lives on a houseboat and is a novice open-water swimmer. lmichelcassidy.com


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Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cindy Shebley CC




As My Mother Lay Dying        

I was brick and mortar.
Immovable.
The give and take like a swing--
its once soft-shelled seat aged into hardwood,
the chains fused tight—rough and rusted.

I eroded and broke away--
a granite coastline calving
into the sea. I was not kind.

Which childhood memory felt
the sorrow of betrayal the most, as trust fell
apart in my hands?

In my own flash flood of motherhood tides pulled
me away from her salt and rock.

I swam back to a different shoreline, found
bodies of warm water calling my name, dove
into a lake of storytelling and song, swam
through sloppy waves of tears and laughter

no longer drowning in isolation, or choking
on the heartache of my own childhood.

I knew love. I was kind.
No longer just a daughter but wife and mother.
And I shone.

Slipping out of her grasp broke
her into pieces. Hardtack memories crumbled--
and as the grit of time laboured on,

watched her death clock as if waiting
for the final night-shift at a dead-end job--
relieved when the final whistle blew.
​



Lynn Tait is a poet/photographer residing in Sarnia, ON., land of the Aamjiwnaang First Nations. She is the author of You Break It You Buy It (Guernica Editions 2023) available in Canada, the US and the UK. Poems have been published in Prairie Fire, FreeFall, Windsor Review, Vallum, CV 2, Literary Review of Canada, Anti-Heroin Chic, Muleskinner, Up the Staircase Quarterly and in over 100 North American anthologies. She’s a member of The Ontario Poetry Society, the League of Canadian Poets, The Writers Union of Canada and Not The Rodeo Poets.



​Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cindy Shebley CC




Hawthorn

                Hawthorn, the ogham letter H, huathe. The Hawthorn or Whitethorn tree is known as a
                Fairy Tree, and is still considered to be a gateway between this world and the Otherworld, the
                realm of the Sidhe. - Ogham.academy

Must have grown from a bird-
dropped seed, the gnarled and scrubby
bush with two-inch-long thorns 
that appeared last spring near my peonies. 
Thwarted hands stabbed each time I grabbed 
branches to cut it back. Blood sprung. Could be 
native to Ohio, depending on the variety. I muse 
as I pace the labyrinth in Kentucky. In the Cedars
of Peace silent retreat area, the mulch 
beneath my feet is shredded cedar bark.
November. I bend to the dark-spotted green
leaves, a three-tongued cluster, woodland 
Winter Orchid, Tipularia Discolor, or Cranefly 
Orchid. Woodpeckers percuss
in the distance, echo in silence. Everything
is connected. Ancient Celts named the hawthorn 
the faery tree—it’s said misfortune comes 
to those who chop it down. Another psychic
protector, bringer of spiritual growth and love,
say the ancients. Hawthorn growing near my side
door back home. With each step closer 
to the center, the path moves farther away. 
Eventually, I will reach the heart. The unseen 
mirror of the seen.

​



The Call of the Wild

I’m standing atop the picnic table
in the yard at Nana’s farm, safe 
from my cousins’ dog. My brothers and sisters floating 
around, another Sunday like every other. The dog may be 
a wolf that will tear me apart if I get on the grass.
Baby-blue sky, late summer. I am sleeveless 
and in shorts. My cousins and siblings
laugh and tease, but cousin Billy kindly reassures 
that his German Shepherd will not hurt
me. I am less than ten and have been reading 
Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. I am 
consumed by wolves. The air reeks of cow manure,
to which my mother always declares: fresh air.
The white clapboard farmhouse is to my right, the main
barn behind us. I hear cows mooing from the far
pasture, and nearby corn rustling when the wind 
picks up. Cousin Danny offers to take us to the barn 
to swing from the hayloft. I follow the gang 
as soon as the dog trots away. Nana’s collie, Fuzzy, 
doesn’t terrorize me like Spitz does. I can’t recall 
the German Shepherd’s name, but “Spitz” pops 
into my brain. It’s the way his eyes drill into mine 
when I look at him. I jump down and run 
into the barn, eyes adjusting to the low light 
after coming inside from the sun. The sharp tang of dry 
hay tickles my nose. Dust motes float 
in the stripe of sunlight from the cracked-open barn 
door. Rectangular haystacks surround the ground 
floor, a mound of unbound straw in the center. A rope 
hangs from the rafters, close to the loft’s ladder. 
We take turns climbing, holding the rope swing, 
letting go, howling into the dark. We are
a regular pack of wolves.

​


Ellen Austin-Li's collection, Incidental Pollen, is the runner-up to Madville Publishing’s Arthur Smith Poetry Prize. Finishing Line Press published chapbooks  Firefly and Lockdown: Scenes from Early in the Pandemic. Ellen is a Best of the Net & Pushcart nominee, whose work appears in SWIMM, Salamander, The Maine Review, Lily Poetry Review, One Art, and more. SAFTA supported her work. She holds an MFA from the Solstice program. Ellen hosts Poetry at Artifact in Cincinnati, where she lives.  



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Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cindy Shebley CC




100 Ways to Die


When night bore down like wild horses

you rode its back to dark and distant corners. 

Disappeared into buildings and other places 

you would forget. Tell me months later 

how much you loved the disappearing. 

That world took you. Held you 

under. Forgot your name. Street corners 

edged in broken bottled vacant stares.

Subway station strangers. Drugs you could not name.

Backseat  unlit  knife.

I used to think there were so many ways you might die. 

You only need one.

​


Kim Backalenick has been published in Train River Anthologies, Juste Milieu Zine, Nightingale and Sparrow, and Jaden Magazine. In addition, she is active in her local creative community, participating in readings at galleries, fund raisers, and open mics.



Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cindy Shebley CC




Step One (of the Twelve), 1985

In a field outside Crookston, Minnesota, 
my brother, me. The wideness 
of indigo sky—a rusty darkness 
like a half-ton truck parked 
under a spark of stars at night. 
Me, the oldest, he against his will 

and angry. The scar on his skull 
pulsing with every fuck you he flings 
into the field. Fuck you. Fuck this. 
Fuck Mom. Fuck Dad. Fuck rehab. 
Fuck them. Fuck lunch. Fuck dinner.
Fuck every step. All 12. Fuck. You. 

When a flying thing with feathers 
lands on my left shoulder, brushes 
her soft wings across my mouth, 
shushes me so I will listen

to the hiss of heat from 
my brother’s mouth, the red hot 
stone of his loaded heart, the need 
napalming through his veins
as he paces a path in the tallgrass.

The feathered thing then turns 
my head toward the horizon where
I can see the fire creeping 
through the prairie.

​



Massage

I’ve come to lift the weight, I say, 
my shoulders tense from carrying. 
No injured parts. Just this frictive life--
worries fraying my telomeres, unravelling 
my being. She anoints, pours oil, pushes 
her probing thumbs along the muscles 
that line my spine. Presses hot spots, 
trigger points—my knots persistent fists 
of endurance. She kneads the too-stiff 
dough of me, unwinding fascia, time, 

that ancient wound. She releases 
rhomboids, trapezius. Unpacks 
the scapula. We both startle 
at the snap. Tight-packed wings 
a burst of feathers choking this 
small dim room. First—pulse 

then lift    thrust              
                                                            flight.

​


Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who writes and caregives on the unceded Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Published in Event, Poetry Northwest, SWIMM, and Whale Road Review, she’s won some awards (RBC PEN Canada 2024 New Voices Award) and a gazillion rejections. She keeps writing.  



Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Gerry Dincher CC




As Lethe, Daughter of Eris, Speaking of the River 
Come Evening


I drove the river road north. It was not leisurely. 
Everywhere: yellow leaves kicking 
up. The wind was fierce and dry.
I thought the haze must be from distant wildfires
but it was the fields, drier, shedding 
their topsoil. When I stopped, briefly, there was
a Great Clips, a Papa Murphy’s, Nails! Nails!
Nails! An old Kmart converted into KO 
Storage: climate controlled. Clean. Safe. 
Secure. I sat with chocolate and potable water 
and pondered the water I had traveled
alongside—metallic blue, choppy, widening
into a lake with its sailboats sail-less.
Back when you prompted wars 
I did my nails in that same blue. 
I almost forgot you were once, before 
me, of here, where I now rest beside the river
come evening. The light isn’t what it will be, every-
thing bleached out, like those photographs
of the other lake—the one we lived by
in a trailer, poor, thinking on marigolds.
But, it will come and I will settle 
in. I am not near the maximum depth 
down by the delta where there is confluence 
of a different salty nature. And yet, it appears 
deep. Don’t worry. Though I know 
you won’t, having gone the way of 
thousands of years ago. I am talking to what little
remains: there in the corner, where stone meets
the mineral.





Discussing Dysthymia, as Lethe, Daughter of Eris


Afternoons when no one texts I circle
the block wearing my dulled rhine-
stones. They tend to lift my low
spirits, slightly. They jog the memory
of happier days, though I have to 
think long and hard on when exactly
those were. Thousands of years ago 
we came to drink. It was required.
And I suppose I have to own all of it: 
this namesake, these relinquishments
in order to carry on. Get a move on
you would say, standing in the door-
way, lecturing on the uselessness 
of moping. Vague, as yet not 
understood despondency was not 
permitted, especially when the sun
shone in winter. So what, what they 
say? Or how they tend to avoid. 
I try and walk it off with these pieces 
of glass that fool no one and catch 
the light only half-heartedly.





As Lethe, Daughter of Eris, Speaking of the River 
Early Morning


In the morning there are gulls. They crowd 
the lock. Some skim the water farther 
downriver where I have stationed myself
just before sunrise. Everything looks a bit 
weathered: the driftwood pale 
and dry, contorted on the shore. 
I cannot quite orient myself. I think 
what is another state is, in fact, not another 
state but only more of the same, and the hill
she spoke of is lost to me. Gestures: an arm
flung out to suggest direction. You flung
the apple. I could never
have done. Later you stood in front 
of the classroom, chalk in hand, lecturing
on integers—those things complete 
in themselves. Now it is getting lighter
and the moon is less like a coin and more
like a wafer. The early risers walk 
by, cheery. They swing their arms as if 
they know exactly where they are going.
I will drive south, back down the river road
soon. All the trees will still be disappointing,
having either already flared or relinquished
themselves to the sudden hard frost followed 
by warming. I think the water will be less
of metal and the black hat I wear now tossed
off. Behind me: the tall grasses  
blaze, suddenly.

​


Kelly R. Samuels is the author of two poetry collections and five chapbooks—the most recent Oblivescence, a finalist for the Edna Meudt Poetry Book Award (Red Sweater Press, 2024), and The Sailing Place (Bottlecap Press, 2026.) She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee with work recently appearing in Denver Quarterly, Laurel Review, and The Glacier. She lives in the Upper Midwest. Find her here: https://www.krsamuels.com/



​Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Katherine Squire CC




Free Couch


She wants to be remembered.

This is not a feeling that is noticeable on the

stiff fabric of her face.            Write a poem about 

what you know, someone says,             like how there are 

rivers, but she has only seen the small ones.      That is okay.            

Be the thing, someone says, that we all sit on,         it is asked of her 

in a dream where she is not allowed to answer.     That is okay. 

There was a time when nobody used to say,        your mother 

has always had legs like that.          She never expected to        

always               hoped                    to            use such a sentence. 

Now it is the only kind of sentence she knows.              She was 

cigarette skinny.  She is now-slouched              cushions. 

To be loved is to be defeated                    gently. 
​
She has held heavy. She has stood still. She has leapt out of cars.

​


Jessica Whipple is a poet and author of two children's picture books: Enough Is... (Tilbury House 2023, illust. Nicole Wong) and I Think I Think a Lot (Free Spirit Publishing 2023, illust. by Josée Bisaillon). Her work for adults has appeared in print and online literary magazines, most recently Philadelphia Stories, ONE ART, McSweeney's, and Gastronomica: The Journal of Food Studies. "Splinters," appearing in Door Is a Jar, received a Best of the Net and a Pushcart nomination. She lives in PA and inhabits the places where picture books and poetry intersect. Find her online @JessicaWhippl17.


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Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Derek Σωκράτη CC


​
           "Wherever there's a lighthouse, there's a light that saves
             It goes without saying, but say it anyway" - Mary Chapin Carpenter


       It feels good to be back in this place. Shared, common ground. Sometimes you gotta take a temporary detour to return home to yourself. That's my story. Maybe it's yours, too.  This is what I know, we can be awfully cruel to ourselves, and it can feel sickly safe to wield that weapon turned inward. As write this, I celebrate six months in recovery. My heart is a wailer. Heavy. Pumping blood. Live, it says, just a little bit harder if you have to. Because you have to. Hope may be elusive, and ever on the move, but I'm staying on its trail. 

All my life all I wanted was to be whole. Not broken, not ill-fitting in this body I carry around like a bag of ancestral trauma-stones, not shell shocked from a childhood war I was drafted into straight outta the womb, not... me. But I am me. And there is no whole. I sorta feel the way Jon Dee Graham feels about it: "not beautifully broken, just broken, that's all." But that's not all. There's beauty in the break, but it don't sit pretty in us. It can be hard to locate some days. But there are days. Hours. Minutes. I reckon one reason we create is to try and put our feelers on it. That fracture of light pouring in through the crack in us. It's daunting: to not be whole but to work with the pieces we've been given. And to make those pieces shine.

I remember this moment in rehab, a life time ago, when I first made contact with the inner child in me. It took the form of a crumpled teddy bear on the floor. We had been asked to pick stuffed animals out of a closet to represent our inner child. For weeks I refused to indulge what I determined was hippy nonsense. So every day, when I got to group, I would just sorta toss my floppy eared bear to the ground beside my chair. I don't know what it was, how it happened, but one day I looked down and saw that bear laid out on the floor by the wall and I saw... little-me, a kid convinced they might actually die at the hands of their own parents. And not an entirely unfounded fear at that.

​I thought, goddamn, they look so scared and all alone in the world. When I say I wept, I wept. No, I wailed. "Why don't you pick them up," one of the counselors asked. My hands were shaking, my chest heaving. I didn't quite have the language for it yet, but I was being asked in that moment to be a parent to myself. I'm telling you this because that's the pain we try to remove in ways that only add more pain. That's what addiction is. The why and how of it. Life asks us to pick the thing up. Look it in the eye. Take better care than was taken with us. 

"Fight when you need to fight, but don't turn the weapon on yourself," someone once told me. I am so good at self harm, but self love, it's a muscle I must fight to work every single day. Most of us didn't get exactly what we needed. And there's some truth to "not beautifully broken, just broken." It's painful to have lived through what we've lived through. What was done to us. It was so unfair. We didn't stand a fighting chance. But maybe we do now. That's the rub. We were given bad information about ourselves, and the world. There's a lot to learn and unlearn. Terrible things happen, but grace-points do silver through like ineffable moments of unnameable beauty. I can name a moment. Once I saw a parent on a train console their angry child by asking them "what are you feeling right now, kiddo? It's ok, whatever it is, just let's talk about it." Just let's talk about it. Damn. Ok. That's it. What most of us needed was to just be able to talk about it. Our insides. The burning. 

And that's what we're doing here. Giving the shame we've for so long carried a proper measure compared to the deserving of self, and other-love that we are each worthy of. Pain doesn't go away, it just takes a more realistic seat at the table. There are others. Joy. Laughter. Innocence. Anger. Beauty. Fear. Hope. Comfort. Prayer. Doubt. Frustration. Agony. Bliss. 

"When I was a little boy," writes Michael Eigen, "I remember seeing a tree. Half of it was withered and dead and the other half was blooming. Then I realized that one could be dead and very much alive, concurrently. We are not monolithic, and can experience vitality and life on certain levels and on others total deadness." 

"Sometimes we hide ourselves to survive." he continues. "To make pain go away we simply make ourselves go away." And to make life return we must find a way back home to ourselves. The long way home. Partnering with the pain, we try our hand at a different story. It's something, ain't it, that we can die and come back more alive.

Addiction, self-escape, is an attempt to freeze time and pain, but time is pain and pain is the deal. What can we do with it that helps lessen the blows of life? This is it right here, a tiny part of what we can do. Art consoles, at least to me it does, the voiceless, alone, terrified parts of ourselves. It's a window we open onto the world, and the world is what we have. And each other. Heart speaking to heart. Take up my hand. This is rough country. Rough road. Even so.

There might be snow heavy on the tundra of our lives, but there's also a fierce heat in our hearts. Love is a muscle, pain the road we travel to break out into a thousand points of light. If it were easier it wouldn't come out singing. And shining. 

Until we meet again, friends. Tend to the fire in you that lives on, even if only as a smoldering ember that the slightest breath can reignite. Fight. Just not yourself. I am learning it is worth it. I am. You are. 

In love, service, and solidarity,
James Diaz, EIC
Anti-Heroin Chic


​
​Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

Cover art: "Don't Call Me By My Old Name" by James Diaz

(Issues are best read on a laptop. If reading via cell phone formatting will be lost.)



​
​Editor's Remarks:

James Diaz

​​

Poetry:

Claire Maracle
Sarah Morris Shux
Morgan Matchuny
Nicole Dalcourt
Megan Merchant
Iain Grinbergs 
Valentina Gnup
Noel Sikorski 
Ann E. Michael
LeeAnn Pickrell
Derek Thomas Dew
Amanda J. Bradley
Sarai Nichole 
Lyndsie Conklin
Sherry Abaldo
Sara Eddy
Marianne Worthington 
Katherine Boecher 
Jenna Wysong Filbrun
Lisa Seidenberg
Emily Alice Spivey
Angela Sucich
Luther Jett
Kimberly McElhatten
Camille Lebel
Kyla Houbolt
Katherine Schmidt
John T. Leonard
Johannah Simon
Nathalie Kuroiwa-Lewis
Josie Peterson
Holly Hunt
Cat Dixon
Cordula Plassmann
Jennifer Browne
Hannah Behrens
Jean Voneman Mikhail 
Sarah Wetzel 
Amorak Huey
Tula Francesca
Rachel Neve-Midbar
Elsa Valmidiano
Lucy Coats 
Beth Kanell 
Naa Asheley Ashitey
John Gallaher
Breana Kruithoff
Donald Sellitti
Merna Dyer Skinner
John Sweet
Kelly White Arnold
Andrew Ray Williams
Diane Funston 
Jessica Whipple
Kelly R. Samuels
​Ellen Austin-Li
​Nancy Huggett
Kim Backalenick
​Lynn Tait

​
Essays:


Josie Peterson
​Cathy A. E. Bell
Paz 
Holly Hunt
Diana Rojas
Jessica D. Thompson
Camille Lewis



Fiction:


Roxanne Doty
Nikki Blakely
Jeff Kass
Guy Biederman
Elizabeth Rosen
Bill Merklee
Tamar Gribetz
Kip Knott
Linda Michel-Cassidy



Artwork/Photography:

Lisa Gordillo
Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
Sandy Beach
Julia Biggs
Mollye Miller
Gary Barwin
Lois Perch Villemaire
Susan Barry-Schulz
Keilan Colville
Janette Schafer


Music:

Martha Reich



​Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.