I keep coming back to Green Windows because I really got motivated when Peggy first invited me to the class to get over past things and express myself more. 

While I was taking the class, I went to a women's group and we had incense and candles and meditated and were asked to take whatever was on our mind and bothering us, from childhood to early age to teen to young adult to adult, and write it on a piece of paper, then read it to ourselves, then ball it up. It made me get rid of what was bothering me. I had been feeling like I had been tortured since a little girl. But as I wrote, I released things through the tears in my eyes, from my stomach, my belly, to my lungs to my throat, releasing it, throwing it up, freeing myself. So my writing is more like a journal: Instead of using my voice, I'm using my writing, screaming so the world can hear me. Instead of marching in the streets with the 99 women's march, I'm the 100th woman, marching with words.  

Young women, girls and teens are speaking up with their voices. You know, some people can't speak. Some people can't hear or talk. But they can read with their eyes. Reading, and other people reading your poetry or stories, is inspiring in either a happy way or sad way. They can learn to relieve what is bothering them, too. 

Now I'll hand a person a pencil, ink pen, or crayon and say, "I would like to hear your story. Would you like to write it down?" People think homeless people want money or food. Some people just want people to hear their story, to sit and listen, or release something, or just be quiet together. So asking them to tell their story, what's bothering them, they are like. “Oh, I just wanted you to hear this." Sometimes it doesn't make sense, but I don't care. They just want someone to listen. Most people don’t have time. 

For 2019 I would like for the city of Oakland or Green Windows to have an open mic where women, men too, but women, can say what's on their mind or what they went through, or what they want to release. Then we can give each other hugs after and let each other know we are loved no matter what gender, race, color or nationality. 
​
When I think about the violence done to people of color and queer people, I want say, “No matter your gender, we are praying for you, be strong, keep your heads up, know that you are loved. I hope they catch the racist haters out there who try to torture you. We are going to kill them with love because love is what makes the world go around.” 

Below is a piece of writing that I wrote in a Green Windows workshop. It was published in the 10-year anthology, ​Writing from Green Windows. 

Who’s Your Daddy?
     By Sister Roxanne Rocksteady Jones

Trick or Treats 
Mamas’ babies
daddies’ maybies
Who’s your daddy?

Ok! Soul Sisters
Girls, here we go
Dancin’ to the beat of Aretha Franklin 
and Lady of Soul, Diana Ross 
and Lady Sings the Blues

Here near downtown Oakland 
the block of 22nd, Telegraph and West Grand Ave
which is now called Uptown

Here on the sparklin’ psychedelic rainbow dance floor
in this ol’ ol’ ol’ red brick building
used to be the Pancake House 
which is now called Disco City
Shakin’ our money maker 
as the mens would say
Shakin’ what your Mama gave you 

Shakin’ our bootays
Droppin’ it like it’s hot
Girls just wanna have fun 
Actin’ like our Mamas’ drinkin’ brandy 
Courvoisier 
Vodka with pineapple juice 
and Gin
Strawberry margaritas 

Laughin’ havin’ fun
Cryin’ talkin’ about the good good ol’ days
about the no good men who almost stole our hearts
Rememberin’ the good good good ol’ ol’ ol’ days
When our Mamas was also on the dance floor 
Partyin’ and shakin’ their old money makers 
Their groove things
Their asses, as the ol’ men would say
Drinkin’ brandy with milk 
7 Up with Courvoisier 
Vodka with orange juice
Gin with apple juice
Dancin’ to the Temptations
the Whispers 
Gladys Knight and the Pimps
Dancin’ til’ the funkadelics the freaks 
Come out at night

Dance song 
Shakin’ it
Droppin’ it like it’s hot
and our Moms cryin’ about our no good daddies 
on the dance floor 
as the Godfather of Soul, James Brown 
Sings the number one song 
Hot Pants
I like the girl with the hot pants on 
She can do the boogie woogie all night long

Oh my God, he’s singin’ about my Mama
who’s your daddy?
James Brown, Father of Soul 
Goin’ back to the good good good ol’ days

Trick or Treat 
Who’s your daddy? 
Mamas’ babies 
daddies’ maybies

​When I was a teenager, I was very ambitious. I was convinced that the stories coalescing in my head were so vivid and important that I would make a great working writer, sell enough copies to support myself, maybe have my works taught in English classes, and follow in three of my relatives’ footsteps. What I didn’t fully understand, however, is that being a working writer requires a day job—or in my case two—especially if you’re publishing books by yourself. The major traditional publishing companies were, and sadly still are, the gatekeepers of literature, and generally wary of investing too heavily in unproven writers, which is why I was so determined to do it myself.

In college, I intended to collect my rejection letters to remind myself not to give up. Unfortunately, some time after my sixth rejection, I had a serious health emergency, then life caught up with me, and I misplaced my collection. But at least I never stopped reading, or watching movies, or listening to music, and finding things in life that inspired me, because those experiences help maintain the vibrancy of my stories, and even to help ground them in reality, to make more sense of them. Even generative writing programs like Green Windows have been invaluable. As Kurt Vonnegut Jr. once wrote, “The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.”

Nobody can really tell you how to write (no matter how much they might want to), because the creative process is an extension of your unique, individual thoughts, feelings and ideal method of expression. When we write, that process is the crystallization of concepts that we wish to transmit, however raw they might be at first. Editing is the process of cutting, refining and burnishing those ideas like gemstones. When we read, watch or experience other things, we are mining … looking for the things that resonate with our own experience.

In summation, we need to look for the things that inspire us, and we will know that they’ve inspired us when, all of a sudden, in spite of whatever obstacles that external forces throw in our way, our world-views and the stories connected to them begin to make sense again.

Below is a piece from a previous Green Windows workshop. Enjoy!

Excerpt from
“THE HEARTSCAPE FACTS” THREADS ON WWW.MAPPINGTHEHEARTSCAPE.COM, DATED 07/29/2011
     by Rachel Golden
​
FACT
It has long been believed that Atlas Galt, the keytarist for Heartscape, was named after the Greco-Roman god who supposedly held up the Earth on his shoulders. Whoever first started that bull-crap was clearly an Objectivist twat, because any fourth-grade textbook will tell you that Atlas was the Greco-Roman god who held up the SKY on his shoulders, which was no doubt an easier job because the sky is way lighter!

RighteousPath: LOL!

Howitzer: LOL!

VMyson: LOL!

PantherHands: OMG LOL!

RocketSauce: FUCK OBJECTIVISM UP ITS FAT WRINKLY ASS!!!!!

Diogenes: LOL nice one, Rocket!

RighteousPath: Damn, that got political pretty fucking quick.

BigNo: Not even the internet is totally free of politics, sadly. Up north, we have a contemptuous asshat named Stephen Harper to thank for that. Part of me is tempted to go scale Mount Everest for that very reason.

Howitzer: Fuck Stephen Harper!

LunarRover: Wait a goddamn minute… I think I know the smart-ass piece of shit who wrote this post in the first place.

BigNo: Do you, now?

LunarRover: I’d accuse Biggie, but that’d be too easy, and frankly he’s not one with an affinity for Greco-Roman gods. Diogenes the dog, I accuse you! Do you hear me? J’accuse!

Diogenes: Ruh-roh! Guilty as charged.

SidPernicious: LOL!

LunarRover: More like “guilty as fuck”!

VMyson: Bad dog. No biscuit. LOL.

Diogenes: LOL!

Howitzer: Holy shit, I love this fucking forum so much!

LunarRover: And the forum loves you, too, Howie.

SidPernicious: I don’t love Howie, gaymo.

VMyson: That’s because you’re an asshole, Sid.

BigNo: LOL!

RighteousPath: LOL!

Howitzer: LOL TRUE DAT!

SidPernicious: I’d rather be an asshole than a gaymo, like you gaymos!

Diogenes: Aw, sorry to hear you’re not comfortable with your sexuality, Sid. You might want to get in touch with someone at PFLAG, and maybe get some shit off of your chest.

SidPernicious: Why the fuck would I do that, when I have you chodes to get into bitch-fights with?

BigNo: I think what my associate meant is that you should do yourself a favor and “get some santorum off your chest,” Sid, because I’m pretty sure I can smell it from here.

RocketSauce: Yeah, Sid, it’s not our fault you’re so deep in the closet, you’re finding Christmas presents!

PantherHands: ROFLMAO!

LunarRover: ROFLMAO!

RighteousPath: Embrace your queerness, Sid! We believe in you!

Howitzer: LOL!

PantherHands: LOL!

VMyson: OMG I’M DYING!

SidPernicious: FUCK YOU PUSSIES!
SidPernicious has logged out.

VMyson: LOL what a dumb-ass!

Howitzer: Some motherfuckers just don’t have the introspection to be able to laugh at themselves.

LunarRover: Wait a sec, do kids these days still say “gaymo” when they want to insult people on the internet? Seriously?

Diogenes: I know, right? It’s so last decade…

​BigNo: Kids are so unfashionable.

​I heard about Green Windows on an aimless walk through downtown Oakland at dusk one Spring.  I remember the sky was pink and I was climbing my way up from rock bottom and pure Hell.  I think I was only a few months sober.  Back then, Green Windows was hosted at the original Rock Paper Scissors Collective art workshop on Telegraph Ave.  I opened my mouth for what seemed like the first time since I was a kid and spoke about what was really important to me.  We sat on unassuming chairs in a paint-splattered room and people listened to me.  I never did AA or any kind of structured help program.  Green Windows was it for me.  Every month I would join a friendly assortment of colorful people, I would write, I would share and I would listen.  In this way, I built myself up from broken, devastated pieces into a positive member of a tangible community for the first time in my life.  
    In Green Windows, you always have the option to pass on sharing a piece of writing.  I have never done this.  I have written pieces of writing that scared me into shaking, pale-skinned jello in these workshops.  Sharing them in a safe, confidential space with warm, loving people who all share their stories in turn has brought me healing that feels divine.  Again, you don’t have to share if you don’t want to, and plenty of people choose not to, but I have made serious progress emotionally and spiritually just by saying what I need to say, even if I’m terrified.  
    After a while of coming to these workshops, you start to see the same people.  You admire their writing and then get to admire them as people.  None of us are big-shot prestigious writers (at least not yet).  Almost everyone is available to talk or share a ride home or a slice of pizza after the workshop.  The community of people I’ve met coming to Green Windows over the years is what keeps me rooted in the Bay Area.  It brings me pride in my home and I feel like I’m releasing stagnant energy and rejuvenating by writing, reading and listening.  
    As long as I live in the Bay Area, I’m going to keep coming to Green Windows workshops.  This community has played no small part in making me the person I am today.  Peggy, her helpers, and all of us do a lot of work to keep the space open to truly anyone who wants to come through these doors and write.  The participants in these workshops feel like a cross-section of Oakland and the greater Bay Area and I haven’t seen this diversity in one space anywhere else.  Green Windows writers have the privilege of coming to awareness of what life is like for people different from us. This work is important for keeping myself humble and keeping myself engaged in the struggle for justice and in building community.  Here, I have the space to dig into myself and find veins of painful, traumatized gold to bring into the light and inspire others.  I am grateful to live in a time and place where this is possible.

Below is a piece of fiction I wrote in a Green Windows workshop. I hope you enjoy it. 

Alec West is a Bay Area native and has been writing and publishing since he was twelve, when a fierce middle-school teacher taught him that he was worth something.  He has been published in Slingshot Magazine, The Anthology of Poetry By Young Americans, The Moon,   and The Highlander.  His first book, “What Happened When I Stopped Watching TV” will be available in print and e-book in December 2018. Follow Alec on Instagram.

I’ve been telling stories since I was three years old. The best years of my childhood were spent guiding my friends on narrated adventures in my backyard (which I would later learn is called “live-action role-playing”). Unfortunately, not all of the stories I told were, in truth, my stories, spun out of my own head, nor written by my own hand… The truth is I didn’t master handwriting until I was 12 (and before the widespread use of personal computers, this was a serious set-back), and a good majority of the stories I told were based on movies and TV shows I had watched, memorized, and faithfully replicated in my own little voice.

In retrospect, I suppose I had to start with the oral tradition before I could move into transcription. There was a good several years of my life where I was able to recite the entire poem, The Owl and the Pussycat, by heart and without prompting, not because I fancied myself a poet, but because my grandfather used to read it to me every night that I stayed over at his house, and it became stuck in my head. It took me a long time to figure out how to tell my own stories, or at least to perfect my own voice when I told them, but if I hadn’t practiced with the masters, I wouldn’t have learned that every idea comes from something before it, that “new” stories are essentially built upon pre-existing narrative structures, and that it is physically and metaphysically impossible for creative impulses to exist in a vacuum.

My father worked for IBM for 30 years, so we were among the first in our neighborhood to own personal computers in 1994, which served me well in my transcription practice. One of the first writing programs I used to transcribe my stories was appropriately called “Creative Writer,” which you could tell was purposefully designed for small children because it was full of colorful cartoon characters that cracked lame jokes and stale puns, as well as weird-shaped buttons that made squishy fart-noises when you clicked on them. Other than that shameless bit of pandering in the software’s design, “Creative Writer” basically functioned like Microsoft Word, with many spacing and font options for each project, plus much fancier-looking clip-art to use as needed.

Thankfully, I took to typing much faster than I took to handwriting. My middle-school teachers were disappointed that I continued “hunting and pecking” for the keys I needed, despite their pathetic attempts to cover my hands with a thin (but not thin enough) box over the keyboard. I’m pretty sure they only wanted me to master QWERTY-style so that I could become somebody’s secretary, and if I’d been allowed to curse, I would have gladly advised them to “fuck that noise,” but the truth is that I wasn’t allowed to curse until I got to high school and then all bets were off.

Instead of embracing social milestones for most teenage girls—like learning about makeup, armchair-studying fashion in magazines, and/or getting a boyfriend—I spent the vast majority of my high school and college years absorbed in story-driven computer games, like “StarCraft,” and writing fanfiction for multiple other writers’ stories. The important thing, again, was getting as much practice as possible; I wrote before classes, I wrote at lunch, I wrote at the library, I wrote after dinner, and I wrote well into the small hours of the night, and yet still managed to get up in time for school.

Jordan was one of my best friends since I was three, and she introduced me to Green Windows in 2015. These workshops have allowed me to challenge my time-use, to focus on staying positive, and to hone my narrative voice, as well as to listen for that which resonates with me, even if I don’t immediately understand why… It feels to me as if we are essentially building on pre-existing structures and adding our own flourishes in order to express the ideas we generate, with the goal of learning how to share them with others. While most of my computing experience is centered on word-processor use, I figure if the process of writing is at all like I hear coding can be, then Green Windows must be one hell of a hack-a-thon.
​
Below is a piece from a previous workshop. Enjoy!
​

EXCERPT FROM “THE HEARTSCAPE FACTS” THREADS ON WWW.MAPPING-THE-HEARTSCAPE.COM, DATED 02/02/1998
​
By Rachel Golden

FACT
Frank Riordan, the guitarist for Heartscape, is not just musically competent – he’s also an astrophysics prodigy. When he was 16, he was placed in an advanced mathematics course where he composed a 10-page essay on the practicality of faster-than-light travel as featured in the classic film, Barbarella. Within a year, this work earned him the attention of the Canadian Space Agency, which offered to pay for his university tuition if he helped them develop a perpetual motion machine. He even took time to help a fellow musician—Philip Taylor Kramer, the bassist from the band Iron Butterfly—on a Top Secret time-travel experiment in the U.S., but good luck getting him to break his non-disclosure agreement with the CSA and NASA.


HighPriest: OMG MIND BLOWN!

BigNo: LOL!

Howitzer: LOL!

Diogenes: Holy shit. I don’t even.

LunarRover: Sounds plausible. I mean, the guy is a genius, after all.

Diogenes: Where to start? I mean, it’s total bullshit, but I have to say it’s the most entertaining bullshit I’ve read this week. Kudos to whoever posted this – you’re a funny bastard.

Howitzer: Dude, it’s not bullshit—don’t ever say Frank Riordan isn’t a goddamn genius, because he totally is. Anything else is fightin’ words!

LunarRover: Whoa, down boy!

Diogenes: Are you seriously polishing his balls right now, Howie?

Howitzer: They never found Kramer’s body! He fucking disappeared off the face of the earth! How the hell do you know Riordan didn’t help him with a time-travel experiment?

Diogenes: The same way I know that Riordan didn’t write a goddamn paper on FTL travel in Barbarella. The premise of undertaking such an endeavor is absolutely impractical, completely insane, and totally stupid!

LunarRover: Jane Fonda is a total fox, BTW.

Diogenes: Don’t get me wrong, I love the shit out of that movie and yes, Jane Fonda is a total fox, but good goddamn, it’s called SCIENCE FICTION for a reason!

RocketSauce: But at least the post is funny, right? You did say it was funny, and that whoever posted it was a “funny bastard,” right? Yes?

Diogenes: Thanks, Rocket. You actually made me smile today. Congratulations are in order, for that is no easy feat.

RocketSauce: Fuckin’ sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

BigNo: Wow, and here I thought Diogenes might actually secretly be Frank Riordan, posing as an average poster and getting his jollies by trolling the crap out of everyone.

LunarRover: No, no, that’s me.

RocketSauce: HOLY SHIT LUNAR ARE YOU FRANK RIORDAN?!!!!!??!!

LunarRover: No, I’m the average poster that’s getting his jollies by trolling the crap out of everyone. I like to think it’s basically my job.

Howitzer: OMG, if Frank Riordan actually posts on this site, I’m going to freak the fuck out and literally shit myself.

RocketSauce: You and me both, man!

BigNo: Gotta say, Howie, you are a class act.

HighPriest: I think you mean, “clact ass.”

BigNo: No, I don’t, King Pothead. Get your eyes checked.

LunarRover: …the hell does that even mean?

BigNo: It means HighPriest has been hitting the bong too hard and needs to drink some coffee.

HighPriest: Fuck you too, Biggie.
​
InfinityPrincipal: All right, all right, enough of this. This all has gotten simply too silly. Thread is locked. Now for a complete change of mood…

I recall being an unusually keen and observant child, and there seem to be a myriad of stories and memories confirming such. For instance, I was told that from birth until about the age of two, I seldom spoke beyond uttering the Korean words for mother and father, or other short, one-word phrases. Over time, my parents grew concerned and considered taking me to a pediatric developmental specialist, but one day, I requested a glass of water in a full, complete sentence. While I myself have no recollection of this happening, it also doesn't surprise me in the least. I like to collect and gather bits and pieces of things before deciding what to do with them. I especially love stories and storytelling---stories are how I understand myself, others, and the world around me.


I was also a child who experienced extremely intense emotions and did not know what to do with them. I had intrusive thoughts that I knew were troubling and abnormal. There was a lot of yelling in my household, both around me and directed at me. My mother in particular would fly into fits of unpredictable and  unrelenting rage. One reason I really enjoyed school and learning was because I could see my friends, my teacher, and get away from my traumatic home environment.


And in my mind, school comprised of two distinct parts: writing, and everything else that wasn't writing. The act of writing itself brought me such great joy. As silly as the stories and poems were, sometimes unoriginal in their content, they were something I got to make myself. I never wanted to stop. Writing was a place where I could let my creativity and odd thoughts be, and sharing my work with others felt fulfilling. I was proficient in other subjects, sure; advanced, even, but I quickly grew impatient waiting to review yet another example for concepts I already understood. I did like reading to an extent but often felt dissatisfied and crushingly disappointed with most of the books I encountered. They simply couldn't hold my interest. 


Life continued on and I found myself writing poetry on occasion. Different topics, but usually something abstract and vague. However, my reintroduction to poetry came during my sophomore year of high school. I had just left therapy and was still struggling with depression and thoughts of suicide. After talking to a friend about my feelings, he admitted that he didn't understand what I was going through but wanted to, so he suggested that I try writing a poem. I wrote this very personal poem on the topic and ended up competing in a youth slam where I received a perfect 30. Scores aside, what moved me most was the overwhelming support I received afterwards. People I didn't know showed me love, said they liked my poem. Some of them even thanked me, saying they were going through something similar or knew someone who was. It was the first time I felt heard and realized my voice was powerful. As a sad young person, it meant the world to me.


Thereafter, I became very involved in an organization called Youth Speaks, who also hosted the slam I first competed in. I attended countless writing workshops, open mics, slams, and shows, all free, and served on their youth advisory board for three years. I loved every moment of it and had the chance to apprentice under teaching artists who mentored me. From time-to-time, I performed poems, helped out at events, and sometimes facilitated a workshop here and there. In college, I found my place in CalSLAM, a student-led writing organization, and June Jordan's Poetry for the People program.


During this time, I was also named the first Oakland Youth Poet Laureate and received an award for my writing. Since then, I haven't really prioritized my own writing but I'm hoping to change that. My last year of college, I felt extremely burnt out and all I wanted to do was write again. I veered away from the career path I was set on and at this point in my life, I'm thinking of pursuing my writing professionally.


Where does Green Windows fit into all of this? Everywhere. I met the founder, Peggy, through the various organizations and spaces I've been involved in. She has been one of my fiercest proponents, one of my greatest mentors, and one of my most thoughtful friends and sources of overall support. We see each other in passing at the Oakland Public Library, an opportunity she encouraged me to apply for, and in our work with youth.


Peggy invited me to write with Green Windows sometime last year and it has been my most favorite writing group of any I've ever participated in. Peggy's passion and skill as a writer/facilitator are unrivaled, and I love Green Windows for the community it brings together. I've never written with such a dynamic, diverse group of writers not only from different walks of life but also across styles and genres. This alone has helped my writing grow. Every writer that graces the space is serious about their craft, and hearing others' work as well as receiving feedback on mine has allowed me to develop and challenge myself in invaluable ways. My writing is the best it's ever been and I know that this is in part due to the work at Green Windows.


So how might I describe my actual writing process? I find that I write in small bursts and need to have several projects going on at a time. I'm quite touch-and-go and my focus shifts quickly. Some ideas float around and some are forgotten but I try to capture those thoughts before they're beyond summoning. Sometimes I know exactly how to start, what to write, what I want to say, and other times I start with a freewrite, tapping into something my conscious mind is too busy to notice there. My style has been changing and that's exciting. I'm excited to try something new. I have a lot of stories, a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings and curiosities, and my writing allows me to explore them all together.

I've always loved stories. I've always loved secrets. I literally sat at the feet of my elders while they cajoled, caroused and shared their stories as only they could. Bedtimes were tortuous, because I would strain to listen to the adults while they exchanged their lore in hushed tones at night.

I am fortunate to have a large, diverse, family with expressive, larger-than-life personalities. My father doubled down on his stories, my grandfather spoke piecemeal and cryptically, my mother weaves together tales of tenacity and enduring humor so effortlessly. I have a lot of cultural capital from which to draw my experiences, and for that I am truly blessed.

In my adolescence, I became enchanted with Dungeons and Dragons, along with art house cinema. I learned about the importance of compelling characters being presented in unconventional ways. Often as the Storyteller for our sessions, I had to captivate my audience quickly and unite the players with a common bond that was worth their time and imagination. I can't say that I was always successful, however my strongest friendships are with those that humored me and indulged my fantasy creations.

My writing became more refined throughout college, where I learned about structure and identifying theses. A wise professor advised me to “make your subjects personal.” Since I've received that guidance, I've been able to write passionately about most everything. To this day, I feel as if I write with an edge, or chip on my shoulder.

I feel fortunate to have been introduced to Green Windows by my wife. I didn't know what to expect or if I really wanted to expose my writing, but I took a chance anyways. I found the environment encouraging, welcoming, and I was blown away by the authenticity and vulnerability of the participants. While struggling to find my writing voice, I was encouraged by the growth of others and the creative ways they approached the writing prompts.

Through Green Windows, I've been able to find my unique voice and express myself with conviction. The writing prompts and welcoming atmosphere have inspired me to dig deep and get raw with my writing, drawing upon my unique experiences and perspectives. This process has made me realize that everyone is a vital repository of great stories and truths. I am humbled by the journey and am excited to see where it takes me each month.

Professionally, I've been a psychiatric nurse for about 3 years. I'm tasked with listening to my clientele and discerning truth from delusion or projection, for the purposes of positive health outcomes. I am fortunate to have the trust of my patients who have shared in varying degrees, heartbreaking, nihilistic, zany, grandiose, dangerous, and relatable stories. My role constantly reminds me of the power of trust, secrets, and having a secure place to tell your story. For a person like me, this feels perfect.

At any rate, I will share another piece of myself in the form of a Green Windows writing project. Thanks for listening. I hope you enjoy it.​

TABLE SCRAPS
by Philip Staley

“I'm a kung fu preacher from Wichita, don't fuck with me!” Silas McClellan teetered unsteadily as he always did, propped up at the figurative intersection of angst and bad choices. Kay noted that he had a much larger crowd today. Normally, she would dismiss his ramblings for scrimshaw, slipshod, nonsense, but these were different and hungrier times. 

Old Silas had a penchant for pouring cheap alcohol in his myriad wounds and drinking the rest; and we're not talking about the kind they sell at liquor stores. His crazed eyes were red-rimmed and golden, a harsh indicator of his pock-marked liver. The combination of these things lent him a demonic, blood-orange visage.

Kay Kellen had to consider the changes in this part of town, long in shadows and hope. People were disappearing in such disturbing fashion, that even the city's undesirables complained. She had “the sight” or the “undervision”, as it was known in occult circles; to see and interact with the fearsome denizens of worlds best left unexplored.

Additionally, this sight was instrumental in piercing the veil of superstition in the cityscape and the isopropyl alcohol fueled ramblings of amateur and tormented, doomsday preachers. The gang members, ne'er do wells, and other ruffians who composed the Murderers' Row of Junktown approached too. They paid rapt attention to the nuggets of superstitious truth that now affected their collective interests.

Often ignored, Silas McClellan rumbled along in that deep speech, the hate and vitriol of his words punctuated by that horrible, phlegm-racked cough. Occasionally, he spit out blood and blamed the Devil; his captive audience hanging on his threadbare words. 

Kay shifted uncomfortably, noticing the small apparitions now creeping amongst the assembled like pickpockets in a town square. Naught creatures who were here to lap up the conveniently assembled packets of fear. The psychic investigator liked the idea of these times, for once feeling useful. However, bathing in this apparent destitution made all previous instances shudder from the abrupt juxtaposition. 

Aged in spirit well beyond her 29 years, Kay Kellen rolled up her sleeves and approached the doomsday prophet, eyes blazing with that otherworldly fire and the resolve of the forgotten.

Insurrection

by Joseph Kim

​Slivers of rotting dog meat covered the helmet, all the better to blend in with the carrion that infested the city ruins. Wild dogs, rats and roaches were now the chief rulers of a megalopolis that had once spanned over a hundred square miles. From horizon to horizon only twisted rebar, crumbling concrete and mangled steel could be seen. 

But Cassandra had the helmet in her crosshairs. It had moved. Something or someone was under it, crouched behind the wreckage of the sixth floor of a former Stock Exchange building. In the building opposite, Cassandra held her rifle, trying not to blink and waiting to shoot between heartbeats.

It had to be him – whatever he’d become. He was the enemy now. Could never be trusted. He had flipped. His message had read:

Come to the city center.
In the center we will play.
Remember Chutes and Ladders?
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It was the game they’d once played. A beaten-up board game retrieved by her on a scouting mission, to entertain him while he spent lonely hours down in the bunker surrounded by Women Folk, no other boys to play with. Boys were all raised separately. The idea was it tamed their natural aggressive tendencies by removing the “wolf pack” element. They played the game awkwardly at first, trying to understand the strange 20th century obsession, but in time they found joy in it, an escape. Such a simple world where the stakes were clean and innocent. Not life or death, like now where she was obligated to kill her own son.



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I remember a few years ago, I was going through childhood stuff as I started to move the last of my things out of my parents’ basement, and I found poems I wrote when I was probably in the 5th grade. I wrote a few that were what I thought poetry was supposed to sound like, a few that were what I thought cute girls were supposed to write about, and then there was this other one. I was really passionate about the wild world as a kid. I was part of a project that same year where my friend and I raised money to help protect snow leopards. I used to keep a sticker collection, like most 90’s babies, and the front cover was a tree frog. I had a budding monkey stuffed animal collection, and anytime I could, I escaped to the woods behind my house, where no one could hurt me.

I’m a trauma therapist for children and families at an elementary school. A lot of what motivated me to get into the work I do was my own trauma as a kid. I was sexually abused by an older neighbor who also bullied me in front of other kids from age 5 to 10, and my family had a lot of dysfunction, to say the least. School, the woods, books, writing, my own fantasy world: These were what kept me alive. I was that kid who could read and walk through the hallways from classes--to this day, my peripheral vision is on fleek.

This poem I found was about big construction vehicles rolling through a beautiful, pristine rainforest; ugly, metallic machines attacking the sweet greens and damp brown of the earth and bright red of a flying bird leaving its disappearing nest. The animals began to run until the snakes hissed back. The snakes hissed back and led a revolt and the animals turned around and took down those big machines with all the power of them standing up for the protection of their home.

I read this poem, and I knew that the part inside me that, 15 years later, started my own personal revolt against my abuser and the environment that broke my heart and my innocence, started it with this poem and the teacher that asked me to write it and wanted to hear me read it.

I read this poem, and I knew that I wanted to be the person who would ask others to write about how they would start their revolts and then help them start them.

Today, I’m lucky to get to hear those stories and to help re-write them so that the suffering, the cycle of abuse, stops. I try to remember to never underestimate the power of a poem, a metaphor, a story.
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When I found Green Windows last year, I was ready to write more of my story, and Peggy and the group of amazing people she manifested every month kept me coming back and writing more. The writing below is an excerpt from a book I’m writing based on my own story and all the stories I’ve heard throughout my lifetime. ​