Monthly Archives: October 2015

Interview with Laurie Kolp

Laurie Kolp has been a YCR contributor/supporter since our Superhero issue. Her amazing poem Figure 8 has been nominated for a Best of the Net Award. She was kind enough to allow this interview! We’re excited to bring you more information about her awesome work and her process. -Sarah
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SM: When did you start writing? Why?

LK: I started writing as a child because I’d found a way to express myself. I spent hours in my room writing chapter books and poems, making cards for my mother. I’ve always loved writing.

SM: Tell us about your very first published poem:

LK: My first published poem was in my high school’s literary journal. The title was Secrets Within. I wish I had a copy of it, but somehow lost it in all my moves through college and early adulthood. I thought my parents had it at their house, but apparently they did not. I’m very, very sad about losing my first published poem.

SM: Do you have any creative rituals you’d like to tell us about?

LK: Running really helps clear my mind of worry. I get a lot of inspiration in those 5 miles. When or where do you write? I’m most productive in the early morning or at night. I have a little nook in the back of my den where I work. It’s by a window and I can look out into the backyard. My dogs are usually close by.

SM: YCR has nominated Figure Eight for Best of The Net. Tell us about that poem:

LK: Yes… thank you so much for that unexpected surprise. I’m truly honored! The poem is about my youngest child and the time he learned how to carve soap. He was working toward his whittling chip for scouts. He has always been very expressive, and our conversation that ensued inspired me to write the poem.

SM: What is your most favorite thing you’ve ever written?

LK: I’ve done several collaborations with artists that I’ve really enjoyed, but perhaps my favorite piece I’ve ever written is my poem, The Tryst, which was published in the 2015 Poet’s Market.

SM: Your chapbook Hello, It’s Your Mother is out soon. What can you tell us about it? Where can we purchase it?

LK: Hello, It’s Your Mother (Finishing Line Press) reviews the relationship between mothers and daughters and was inspired through insightful reflection upon caring for my mother as she was dying from cancer. The chapbook was supposed to be released this month but because of some unexpected delays on the publishers end, it’s looking like November. At this point, the best way to purchase Hello, It’s Your Mother is through me. Those interested can email me at lkkolpbmt@yahoo.com. I also have a full-length, Upon the Blue Couch (Winter Goose Publishing), which is available on Amazon and Barnes&Noble. Thanks for your support!

SM: What other projects do you have forthcoming or are you working towards anything currently?

LK: I’m working on another chapbook and have been revising/submitting a lot of my older poems. I’m also trying to make it through high school football season, wisdom teeth extraction, busted-open heads, and Homecoming dances… all fodder from my 3 kids for new material.

SM: We’re huge on promotion and supporting small press and writers. Have you read any great books/chapbooks lately that you’d love the world to know about?

LK: Yes, I have… there are so many great chapbooks that I have read, but Allyson Whipple’s We’re Smaller Than We Think We Are and Melissa Studdard’s I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast came to mind as soon as I read your question.

SM: Okay for fun! The end is near. You’re packing your bag and can only make room for three books. What do you grab?

LK: Considering I’d already packed a flash drive with family pictures and poems, I’d add the Big Book, Diane Lockward’s The Crafty Poet, and an empty spiral (I have lots of those).

laurie

La Llorona Comes Over For Dinner by Jennifer Givhan

Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona
Picante pero sabroso. –Chavela Vargas

~

Sea salt & ache
I’ve invited her in

as one invites
a distance, a dead

relative slow-
loved, slow to let go—

I’ve asked her
to wipe

the arroyo water gurgling
from her skirts

hook-eyed, fishnet
sinking.

My children look
away, uneasy

as if they understand
how long

I’ve longed
for redemption.

~

We’ve found a recipe for mole (pronounce it mol-ay like olé except móle—
make your mouth like you’re about to suck an egg, dyed or white, boiled or raw)

Oaxaca-style, tongue-burnt dark chocolate, for pouring on poultry

& she tells me how she visits the Midwest now myth has scattered her
like crushed chipotle

like dried thyme & stone-gray ash—
she tells me how a twister picks up the smell of everything it snatches

—what people were cooking, chicken grease & garlic
(her children loved allspice, sticks of cinnamon, they’d line up

like straws, or wishbones, & split)—then that twister, aromatic, belly-
full, swollen as a tick, when it sets each object down,

leaves itself on everything. But it was nothing until it swept us up, she says.
It marks us for each other.
I pour us each a drink.

~

Mothers were daughters
overflowing yet skinflint
blossoms on the bare bark
our bodies brackish
turtle shells
our underbellies without that tepid padding
those babies who’d sink us young
held like ribcages
& water turning.
I tell the woman slicing
tomatoes & spooning white
sugar I’ve brought home your
babies, I’ve fed them, I’ve showered them—
their ears filled with fresh cut
flowers, their chest bones
stemmed & thorned. She throws me in the river
with her eyes, she casts me
into the mother water, drowning.
I’m her rancid darling
& she’s become the ancient mother
I’ve daughtered against
the years—heavy in our bellies
as stones.

~
While I blacken
on the dry comal
guajillo chiles, ancho chiles, chipotle—

she toasts the dinner rolls
& tortilla strips
until they’re golden.

Together we pour
our mixtures, allowing them
to soak, fully submerged,
in simmering chicken broth.

Our talk turns to bedtime stories.
She can’t believe
what they’re calling her

(babykiller monstermother
nightterror witch)

so we set aside our wooden spoons

to Google search &
she covers her eyes
with her braids, the lace-white

sleeve of her once best dress.

~

When I was a girl

something terrible.

~

We decide our favorite picture depicts her
like a Calavera Catrina for Día de Los Muertos,

dancing with small skeletons who wear paper party hats,
boat-shaped beside the río.

The trees are bright & though the artist hasn’t shown them,
we imagine piñatas hanging

from their branches, braced for the children’s sticks.
In the sky, a colorful angel carrying a rainbowed plaster pig.

Maybe that’s why we thought of piñatas.
La Llorona laughs.
It’s been too long since I heard that sound.

~

I admit
how she’s stalked ditchbanks

wrapped in shadows
children in her rebozo

how some men compare her
with Malinali

our first country’s
mother they call

puta traitor whore
like my ex called me

or the neverborns
I lent to the water.

Nights I screamed
at the children

they still ran to me
in fear, the monster

they sought comfort in—
She understands it’s tedious

living up to a legend.
We set the table. Say grace.
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Jennifer Givhan is an NEA fellow in poetry and the winner of the 2015 Pleiades Editors’ Prize for her poetry collection LANDSCAPE WITH HEADLESS MAMA, forthcoming in 2016. A Mexican-American poet who grew up in the Imperial Valley, a small, border community in the Southern California desert, she was a PEN/Rosenthal Emerging Voices Fellow, The Pinch Poetry Prize winner, the DASH Literary Journal poetry first-prize winner, the 2015 Blue Mesa Review poetry second-prize winner, an Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize finalist, and a 2014 Prairie Schooner Book Prize finalist. She earned her MFA from Warren Wilson College, her Master’s from Cal State Fullerton, and her work has appeared in over eighty journals and anthologies, including Best New Poets 2013, AGNI, Southern Humanities Review, Prairie Schooner, Indiana Review, Rattle, The Collagist, and The Columbia Review. She teaches online at Western New Mexico University and The Rooster Moans Poetry Coop. You can visit Givhan at jennifergivhan.com.

Excision by Meggie Royer

I ask my mother about the mastectomy
like its presence in our lives is an old friend.
Growing up, she dragged the fish from the river,
slit the minnows on the cutting board
til their sides burst into glitter,
ran through the fields after her brothers
as the plough went through
to gather what it had missed.
Inside her blouse, the remaining one
is as soft as it ever was,
opening like a tulip into the wine pink
of the scar beside it.
Her parents scolded her for bringing home
birds folded into ink on the roadside,
squirrels with tails run over into grime.
Everything in the world missing,
some of it trying to come back to life again,
most of it gone.
________________________
Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more. She has won national medals for her poetry and a writing portfolio in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. http://www.writingsforwinter.tumblr.com

Review: Fruta Bomba: Poems – Reviewed by Clara B. Jones

Fruta Bomba: Poems
Holly Iglesias
https://mla.unca.edu/faces/holly-iglesias-phd
Making Her Mark Press
(self-published)
Asheville, NC
2015
$6.00

Reviewed by Clara B. Jones

I am convinced that Holly Iglesias is one of the finest feminist poets currently writing in the United States. From a critic’s perspective, her prose poems combine the aspirations of formalists and language poets, integrating “color”, ideas, and image. Fruta Bomba, Iglesias’ new chapbook, demonstrates that she is a Post-structuralist in the tradition of Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, emphasizing discourse, performance (of identity, of politics, of “alliance”), and avoiding binaries. Though she highlights particular social and historical moments (child welfare, the Cold War, inequality), Iglesias, openly lesbian, avoids compromising music for themes. A Poet of issues like Harryette Mullen, another Post-structuralist female poet in America, Iglesias presents contradictions, leaving interpretation to the reader (“They purchased the chain, says Bosch, a pediatrician and admitted assassin, but they don’t have the monkey.”). Believing that the formal pattern of the prose poem influences the contingent meaning of words, Iglesias’ compositions are both “aesthetic wholes” and interrelated parts of Fruta Bomba. Like other Post-structuralists, Iglesias is concerned with deconstructing hierarchy, and her unconventional poetics deserves a wide audience.

________________________________

Clara B. Jones is a retired scientist, currently practicing poetry in Asheville, NC. Her poems, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in many venues, and Clara’s collection, Ferguson And Other Satirical Poems About Race, won the 2015 Bitchin’ Kitsch Chapbook Competition, available at amazon.com.

Walt Whitman’s Wolves by Peter Arvan Manos

Of all humans, poets have always been the most delicious.

Since the beginning, around your fires, we’ve been watching you. We’ve been hiding right outside your circles. Hungry. Listening. Taking in your carnal cauldrons full of words.

Walt Whitman summoned us with his carnal cauldron’s barbaric yawp in “Song of Myself.”

Whitman made his poems part of his body through his voice and then he completely emptied himself into his carnal cauldron. He told you the truth when he was through: “This is no book;” he said, “Who touches this, touches a man.

We lick his follicles and chomp and gobble the juicy sinewy meat of his poems and the sweet fat stuck to his bones.

He was right—we’ve found no sweeter fat, either.

But poets’ intestines are the best! The ones we love the most are the most rotten and noxious ones. We consume them voraciously.

We grovel in our garden of darkness and fill it with our howls, guarding the organs before us: hearts and livers and bowels. Through the technique you humans invented, we will now read poets’ intestines.

In your parlance, “anthropomancy” was your ancient art of seeing into the future by reading a human being’s intestines. Did you know that your ancestors did this?

Did you know that the fortune tellers would even do their reading when the person whose intestines they’d just splattered against a flat rock was still alive? The main reason you invented the reading of coffee grounds and tea leaves was that intestines were so messy.

Your poets’ guts have told us this: You are more evil than you know, you humans! You will likely not survive, you humans! You may destroy all life on this planet!

You humans make many homages to peace, but you are unnatural and think backwards. Your aspirations for love are held in reverse, and your love is often just an afterthought.

You advertise a false afterlife, when you do not do enough in this life, for the life that will come after you are gone.

You suffer from fugitive dualism, thinking life is two things when it is one and one thing when it is two. You have no clue why we howl at the moon.

We saw our cousins, the slaves you enslaved–the four-leggeds you call dogs. Our sad cousins! Some of them now actually like their leashes. Like your dogs, your precious distinctions and divisions bind you like a noose around your neck in your attachment or resistance to them.

The moon rises and sets for us. We love our pack and it is good enough for us. Now even your own pack is not good enough for you.

We howl at the moon to find each other, and now we howl for our enslaved cousins. We wolves have four cousins: Dogs, coyotes, jackals and dingoes. Your near-two legged relatives in the trees–the other hominids–also have cousins, all three of them: The orangutans and gorillas and chimpanzees. You humans are the only hominid genus without any cousins.

We know why your species is alone in its genus, homo sapiens: You bludgeoned your cousins! You killed them! Why did you deserve to live but not them? Do you think Earth and its plants and animals are here just to be useful for you? Just for you to fill your carnal cauldrons with poems about them?

Whitman said “There shall be love between the poet and the man of demonstrable science.” Poetry made human beings human beings. But you must use poetry and science, in beauty and in truth, to save us rather than destroy us.

Don’t forget we will still be watching you. We’ll be hiding right outside your circles. Hungry. Listening. Taking in your carnal cauldrons full of words.

To you humans using beauty and truth! Aooo!

Eat your own evil, or it may kill us all! Aooo, aooo!

Eat the evil in you, or we will eat you! Aooo, aooo! Aoooooooooo!!!

_________________________________________________

Peter Arvan Manos’ poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, and in The New York Times. Peter’s free verse is part of his collection in progress called The Real Dirt, and his more structured poems are part of his collection called Myriad.

Offerings by Kelsey J. Mills

Allison doesn’t like the fireplace.

It’s too big for their livingroom, she thinks. For God’s sake, she’s told Charlie, we live in a one storey house; we don’t need a six foot fire place. But he gets so cold in the winter, ever since the shelter belt burnt down when the riots spread out from town. . Sometimes the wind beats so bad on the little house that the windows shake and shingles blow off. Sometimes the house rattles so badly Allison can’t hear herself think.

So Allison tends the fire place while Charlie tends the fields. Sometimes she catches herself staring into it, thinking about funeral pyres and how long it takes gold to melt.

#

Allison doesn’t mind the fire place, but she absolutely hates the logs.

Charlie says that he buys them special, to make the fire last longer. It doesn’t, but Charlie still acts like the fire is his baby and Allison won’t change that. She can’t give him a baby, not since the first nuclear winter, and Charlie just smiles so much when he watches the flames.

It isn’t so much their ineffectiveness that bothers Allison. It’s the smell. They smell like the barn fire of ’02, before the bombs dropped, and Allison asks Charlie if there’s cow fat in them. Charlie grins and says not quite, shuffling the embers before going back to his chair.

#

Allison finds bones in the ashes sometimes.

#

Sometimes, after church, Allison thinks about how the ancient Jewish people, the founders of their faith, used to offer God burnt sacrifices. They offered cows, goats, lambs, she remembers hearing. Did God think Christians greedy, for keeping their meat to themselves? Mother Thea seems to think so. She talks about the importance of “sacrifice in this difficult time” every Sunday. Sacrificing food for your neighbour, sacrificing electricity to keep the generators running for emergencies, sacrificing pleasure. It never seems to end.

She remembers that God offered his own son for sacrifice and it makes her feel a little better about what Charlie is doing. At least it isn’t their kin.

#

She catches him late on a windy night. She barely heard the fire screen open, but she hears muffled groans and wonders if Charlie’s hurt himself in the field again.

She goes out into the hallway, and then she can really smell it. She creeps into the living room, silent as snowfall, and sees Charlie pulling a woman—no, girl, into the kitchen by her leg. She looks like she can’t be more than 110 soaking wet, perhaps 115 with all of her ridiculous jewellery, but Charlie can barely move her. Allison wonders when Charlie became so weak.

Charlie lays the girl on the table. Her head rolls from side to side. Allison ducks behind the corner of the wall. Charlie opens the bottom drawer of the cupboards and pulls out the tea lights, lighting them from the lantern on the wall. He places them around the girl, forming a square. The girl suddenly jerks and sends one by her left wrist onto the floor. Charlie swears loudly.

“There’s no time.” Charlie mutters, “there’s no time…”

Charlie opens the drawer under the sink and pulls out a knife. Allison looks away.

She holds her breath until she hears Charlie’s footsteps getting closer. She hears dripping. Charlie doesn’t notice her as he passes, too busy whispering Mother Thea’s chant; the fire came and took the day, faith in God keeps fire at bay, burn the sin upon the pyre, smoke goes up to the heavens higher. He carries the girl’s shoulder and arm, and it’s barely as long as Charlie’s own arm.

Charlie places the limb in the fire, ever burning. Allison watches the flames dance off of the woman’s silver nail polish and giant jewellery. Charlie looks at her then, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, Allison. God smiles upon us, and nothing will go to waste.”

We all have to make sacrifices, she thinks, and stands beside her husband. She tends the fire, moving the wood so that the girl’s skin coats with charcoal, adding more logs until the fat sizzles and pops.
____________________________________
Kelsey J. Mills is a writer, blogger and poet living in scenic Saskatchewan. Kelsey currently holds a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology, with a minor in creative writing. In her spare time she bakes, reads, plays DDR and torments her boyfriend and their pets. http://kelseyjaymills.com/

Glassy-eyed Demon by Susan Beall Summers

too surprised
to be afraid
when he stood
a foot taller than me
eighty pounds heavier
his eyes vacant green glass
and me eight months pregnant

he was talking calmly,
but out of context
and advanced
unreasonable
threatening
pushing me
striking me

I deflected most blows with a pillow
and retreated.
against the wall
shock gave way to anger.
I braced and shoved
screamed piercing
and long

he blinked,
shuffled back to bed.

I sat rocking myself
in the dark
back and forth
thought of my baby
cocooned myself on the sofa.
toward morning,
he called my name
so normal

in a whiskey-tainted voice he asked,
“Why are you sleeping out here?”
__________________________________
Susan Beall Summers is an active Austin, TX poet. She is a video journalist for Texas Nafas, poetry show on Channel Austin. She has been published in Ilya’s Honey, Texas Poetry Calendar, Small Canyons, Harbinger Asylum, and others. Her first collection is Friends, Sins and Possibilities (DreamersThreePress, 2011).

The Dying Cú Chullainn by Nathan Tompkins

The bronze is pounded,
moulded, cast
into a dying figure lashed
to a lone standing stone,
erect on his gore stained feet
to resist Mebh’s bitter throng.

His shield has fallen to the earth,
the edge digs a shallow trench
in the rock boned mud.

His sword is still grasped
as his final breaths gasp
through weakened lungs,
as his battle crazed strength
ebbs with the blood tide.

He is bent over the rope
tied about his waist.

His shoulder is pierced
by the hungry talons
of the Morrígan’s crow.

Her caws echo across
the chariot churned field
to gleefully mock his hanged corpse.

as she thrusts
her wings to the sky,
waits for him to die.
_____________________________
Nathan Tompkins is a writer and photographer living in Portland, Oregon with his aging dachshund, Yoshi. His work has appeared in two anthologies, and several publications including NonBinary Review, Angle, North West Words, and The Tishman Review. He is also the author of two chapbooks, Junk Mail of the Heart and The Dog Stops here. Yet, the best thing he has done was father a lovely Australian girl, named Jacinta.

Back Demon by Ashlie Allen

My back doesn’t like it when I have anxiety attacks and cancel plans with friends. When I prostrate myself against the floor and weep, it stabs my nerves until I cry out like a ghost feeling its mortal body rotting. If I talk to someone, the ache goes away. If I make a phone call and don’t stutter, the stiffness leaves. I don’t want to communicate most of the time, but the demon in my back hurts me if I stay silent and hide.
Before the demon collided with my spine, we used to get along. We would watch TV together and dust crumbs off each other’s chest. “I enjoy you.” he used to say. “Don’t ever make me angry.” I had three friends which I spoke to four days a week when I was a teenager. They made me happy. Just being around them I felt like I had a purpose, like the anxiety I suffered was unimportant and silly. They made me feel like my disorders were imaginary.
One night after spending time with them, I came home and had a breakdown. I stammered through the house, semi-conscious, my hands knocking things down as I felt the devastation of panic and shame. I had made a stupid joke and no one laughed. I had also spilled my water across the dinner table. The embarrassment was so overwhelming I wanted to cry, pinch my arms or jerk out my hair. I spent hours reimagining how I could have done things differently. I imagined I didn’t have anything to drink. I imagined I stayed quiet and didn’t bore anyone with my dull humor.
After that night, every time I went out, I did not have a beverage, did not talk. If someone laughed, I thought they were laughing at me and my timid behavior. I walked around with murderous eyes and shaking hands.
I asked the demon what I should do next. I confessed I was unbearably lonely and wanted human contact, but at the same time I was terrified of company. “Quit pitting yourself and speak up.” he said. “You’ll never be satisfied if you are all alone.” “Tell me what to do.” I said. “Help me!” I was so tormented and exhausted that when I saw him running towards me, I did not realize he was coming to attack me. With his sharp nails, he tore the skin on my back, placed his feet inside my muscles and let the rest of himself sink inside of me.
This caused such pain that my ears started ringing and I saw black. I thought I was going to vomit up my organs. I tried to pull him out, but he only sank deeper. I heard him screaming from beneath my skin. “Get a social life. Get close enough to someone you could kiss. Tell them what your heart thinks of theirs. Make yourself complete. Love someone.”
The next day, I called one of my friends. “Please come over.” I said. “I think I’m dying.” There was a pounding sound at the door an hour later. I answered it, nearly falling against my friend, whose name was Adoncia. “Is there mercy here?” I touched her heart. “Do I make you feel loved?” She helped me to my couch, where I let myself stretch, and where she sat on my lap. “The truth is I miss you.” she said. “I’ve always had a crush on you.” I writhed when she tried to put her mouth against mine, but the demon, sending his insufferable pain, persuaded me to let her give me a kiss. “I am not adored.” I kept whispering until I became drowsy. “This bothers me so much. I don’t want contact, but I grieve without it.” She rubbed her fingers down my face, sighing like for a moment, she sensed my depression. “Keep her. You’re silly to suffer when someone is fascinated with you.” I heard the demon’s voice inside my head.
Adoncia stayed with me that night. She stroked my hair until my scalp was numb. “I have a confession.” I said at two in the morning. “Mmmhmm. Say it.” she moaned. “I am possessed. It is for my own good though. I am weak, so a satanic creature entered me to offer power. It’s like a punishment that has a radiant outcome. I can see what is wrong with me through the abuse.”
I smiled when I saw she had fallen asleep against my collar bone. Maybe she didn’t need to hear the truth. Maybe she was possessed too. I carried her into my bedroom, where she rested as I rubbed my back and laughed until morning.
_________________________________
Ashlie Allen is a fiction writer and poet. She is also a photographer. Her favorite writer is Anne rice. She loves the Autumn season.

Interview With Jocelyn Mosman

I got to interview Jocelyn Mosman who is the first ever winner of the Rock the Chair competition with her poem Reliance. – Alexzan Burton

AB: Tell us a little bit about yourself.

JM: I’m 21 years old and a native Texan, but I attend college in Massachusetts at Mount Holyoke, a private liberal arts women’s college. I am studying abroad this fall in the UK at the University of Kent in Canterbury. I am double majoring in English and Politics and want to have a career in international human rights law. I have recently worked such jobs as speaking and writing mentor, legal assistant, and community adviser.

I was a member of the 2015 Northampton Poetry Slam Team and I competed in the 2015 National Poetry Slam. I’m the founder of West Texas Poets, the former president of the Permian Basin Chapter, Poetry Society of Texas, the co-chair of the Conscious Poets Society, and the recipient of the Gertrude Claytor Award from the Academy of American Poets. I’ve been in multiple literary magazines and anthologies.

I have been writing for over a decade and performing in slams and open mics across the country for the past two and a half years. Poetry has taken me from coast to coast within the past year. I have previously published two collections of poetry and am expecting the third collection to be released either this fall or next spring. I have also published a handful of anthologies for various organizations and have been spotlighted in local news sources across West Texas and western Massachusetts.

AB: How long have you been writing?

JM: I was 10 years old and my elementary music teacher was a renowned Texas poet and encouraged me to enter a contest that resulted in my first anthology publication. She continues to be an avid supporter of my work and a mentor to me as I grow in my writing.

AB: Can you tell us a little about the poem that won the Rock the Chair challenge? It is so incredibly powerful and moving.

JM: Thank you for your kind words about my poem. It blossomed this summer out of necessity. On a broader spectrum of what inspires me, I’d have to say people. Just people in general. And more than that, relationships between people. I look for a truth underlying the relationships I witness and am a part of. I attempt to capture that truth in my writing, with varied success, naturally.

More specifically, this poem grew from a relationship that existed between myself and fellow poet. He has always been something of a hero to me, a mentor and a friend. I wrote this poem as a reminder to him that even when the pain seems unbearable, even when the world feels so small, I’m here to help him through it. The repetition of “I will not leave./ I will not watch you burn” is a reminder that no matter how bad it gets, no matter what the pain number or the struggle, we are not alone. In a simpler fashion, it is a journey of two artists learning what it means to love and be loved unconditionally.

AB: Are you working on anything new that you want to tell us about?

JM: I’m always working on one piece or another. I’m of the mindset that a piece is never finished, so edits keep happening, regardless of how much work I’ve already put toward a particular piece. Right now my focus is on preparing my manuscript for publication.

AB: And how about some links where we can find you and your work?

JM: Facebook: www.facebook.com/JocelynMosman
Twitter: @JocelynMosman
Website: mosma22j.wix.com/jocelynmosman
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Soul-Painting-Jocelyn-Mosman/dp/0692249745/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1442091770&sr=8-1&keywords=jocelyn+mosman

AB: Thanks so much for your time, Jocelyn, and we hope you have just a fantastic time studying abroad at Kent!

_____________________________________

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