MoJo! Issue #4: Traditions and Blessings
Editor’s Introduction
Some people don’t believe in writer’s block. This journal’s editor has misplaced the introduction to this issue. That’s okay, right? I’m a writer, so I can just write another. Or not. Well, you see, I’ve been trying since Monday. Nothing is happening. It’s not that the drafts I’ve written have been bad. There are no drafts. There is just a computer screen staring back at me as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” This is the time of year that many people’s spirituality shines through. I’m one of those wacky creative types who believes her writing is indeed the result of training and discipline, but that the desire to write creatively in the first place is a gift from a superior spirit. After I, formally trained scholar who has written 50- to 300-page books, struggle with this one admittedly-too-long paragraph, I intend to spend the rest of this year enjoying cookies, pie, good will, friendship, family--and remembering not to take nature’s gifts for granted. Happy Holidays! May you revel in whatever human and supernatural spirits keep you company and guide you.
Mignon Ariel King
Boston, Massachusetts
October 29, 2009
POETRY:
Bridgit Brown, Dorchester, Massachusetts
Night
It's 3 o'clock in the morning
and someone is scraping concrete
with metal.
Who goes in the morning will tell all the news
about night: how the sun fell asleep
while the moon rose.
Can the dark night hide the beauty of a rose?
It's three o'clock in the morning and boys run,
holding their jocks.
Who can pass the time of clocks?
Where the moonlight sleeps on rocks is a star line
to trace until you fall asleep counting the silky, silver way.
Oh that day may come too soon for fools who live for night!
Who said darkness can be tripled?
There is a glimmer in the ripple where the sea sleeps.
It's three o'clock in the morning and tomorrow will rise
as slow as the night turns to day.
Bridgit Brown holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College; is a 2007 Fulbright Lecturing and Research Scholar; and the 2006 Nadya Aisenberg Poetry Fellow. Currently a contributing writer for Color Magazine, she has also worked for newspapers and publishing houses as an editor, freelance writer, reader, and technical writer; she aspires to teach. Miss Brown's current projects include a full-length collection of prose poems. Her work appears in the current issue of the Ibbetson Street journal. Follow her blog at: www.bridgitbrown.com
Coleen T. Houlihan, Boston, Massachusetts
Pretty White Mansion
As a child my mother picked cotton.
“I was the fastest out of all of them,” she says.
So many siblings, but this was no time to play.
Mary would get whipped for goofing off—
my mother’s sack of cotton always larger.
“I would try to protect myself from the sun.”
Her skin lighter than the others.
Back then the color of one’s skin
had a lot of significance— now too.
In the big white mansion I unpack boxes,
furniture, and knickknacks collected over the years
and handed down from my father’s mother— not hers.
In the house, there are only four things my mother’s mother
has left us— little crocheted dogs with wire-hanger bodies.
I keep two in my room. Over time they have
started to unravel. And there is also a photograph,
a picture of my mother’s mother holding her last child,
looking haunted and sad.
There were too many children in that shack.
“I miss my red girl,” she told my mother’s sister, Mary.
Red was what they called my mother for her hair and
her skin. Red girl moved far away to escape the stink
of poverty and that hot biting sun. Now forty years later
she returns to her home state, but to a different town,
a town with pretty white mansions, and out front,
she will wear a straw hat and coax flowers
from the ground. It is good she has a big pretty house
to get lost in. Three hours away in an unmarked grave,
impossible now to pinpoint the exact place, is my mother’s mother.
“I always knew my Red girl would make it,” she would say.
Coleen T. Houlihan studied writing at Wellesley College. She has featured at several poetry venues in Massachusetts such as: Stone Soup, Best Sellers, Borders, the Sherman Cafe and Walden Poetry Series. Her poetry has been published in Poesy, The Alewife, The Wilderness House Literary Review, Ibbetson Street, Spoonful: A Gathering of Stone Soup Poets, and Spare Change, as well as abroad. More on http://coleenthoulihan.com.
Joyce Jellison, Boston, Massachusetts
Still (For ADK)
Beautiful
Women
Seek
Safety nets
To
Fall into
To hold
Them
When
They
Loose
Their footing
And slip
Between
The cracks
Of
Someone’s
Humanity
Sometimes
They
Fall
Into the
Softness
Of another
Just as
Beautiful – radically empowered/gorgeously restrained/too distracted to second glance
Her reflection and who would prefer/chooses to gather light like nits from others who languish sullenly in half lights nursing half-truths like watered down gin and tonics
They do this
For a myriad of reasons – not just/because of men – it is never just about men.
This one
Captures
Their
Flight
On camera (set at f9 aperture)
This one
Rescues
Them midair – digitally storing despair
Leaving
Them
Unsure
Of what is inherently
True to them
But still they push
Against the
Softness
Having been
Acclimated to the bruising
Caused by
Emasculated
Men/corporate take overs/violent shoves at organic farmer’s markets/parental disapprovals
All things
Posing as superheroes
These women
Deny
What is quite obvious
To others – those who of course, who have been captured in mid-flight – saved from landing as indecipherable mutterings in mundane conversations about heartbreak and recovery
those
Who are now sepia toned memories of their past selves gazing from a variety of frames
Women
Can
Save
One another
From
Disaster
With
Restrained
Kisses
That
Ache
To blossom
Into
Careful caresses - not mother touches, or sister's touch
but
as a lover would touch - with fingertips eager, pained with anticipation reading despair like braille
with mind sending rapid signals
to
slooooow
down
Women
Who extend
Left
Arms
Revealing
Tattoos
Naming/declaring/protesting
Birth places
Can be/are/exist as saviors
Attracting/ keeping
The company
Of fallen angels and rising demons
Both are attracted
To the mystery of unmasked light
Beckoning
One/many to the intimidating heights of
Heaven
Or the
Delicious, tempting
Depths
Of hell
Offering
Comfort and
Momentary distraction
From
The
Complexities
Of being abstractly beautiful
And
Lost
In an inapproximate definition of love/identity/
self
Joyce Angela Jellison is the author of two books, Where Everything Fits Beautifully and Black Apple. She describes her poetic style as “[sometimes] a bit provocative. I often use anatomy as metaphor in the tradition of Hattie Gossett.” She is also the director of Write Out Loud: Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths. Check out: writeoutloud.synthasite.com.
Lolita Paiewonsky, Cambridge, MA
Christmas is in the Air!*
Christmas is in the Air!
See the White Butterflies dancing, and the
Lace of the snow-on-the-mountain fluttering.
Christmas is in the air!
Air filtering through
palmfronds and seabreezes.
Christmas is in the air!
Dancing on sunbeams by day and
moonbeams over the harbour by night.
Christmas is in the air!
Hear the rhapsodies of the steel drums.
Christmas is in the air!
Decorations everywhere:
Lights all up King Street
along the Strand in the West,
on hillside homes, and in every little bar.
Christmas is in the air!
At Midnight Mass and in
merry hearts of carolers as they stroll.
Christmas is in the air!
Green, not white;
sand instead of snow.
Poinsettias growing wild.
It’s Christmas on St. Croix !
*Previously published in Luces Brilliantes/Lights Aglow
Lolita Paiewonsky writes librettos, drama, fiction and, especially, poetry (since the second grade). She has presented her poetry with classical and jazz music and original choreography and exhibited it as “poetage” (visual poetry); she has been featured poet at many venues. Her poetry has appeared in a number of publications, including The Harvard Dudley Review, Harvard ALANA journals, Wilderness House Literary Review, Bagelbard anthologies, and Bradley University Journal.
The writer has published three limited-edition chapbooks: Who hears the gull’s song?; Fragments and Reflections; and Lights Aglow/Luces Brillantes. Lolita has taught composition, creative writing, and English at secondary through adult levels. She has edited several anthologies; forthcoming is The Jazz 5:30 Anthology, 2006-2008 (First Church, Cambridge). Contact her at appian_lp@yahoo.com.
MEMOIR:
Krystal Grant, Lithonia, GA
Happy Birthday Baby Jack Jack
Exactly one year ago today, I was debating on whether I should go to the hospital and deliver my 3rd child or go to work to finish an incomplete project. A dedicated, perfect, do-everything-right mother would have immediately rushed to the hospital as soon as she realized she was in labor…but not me! Off to work I go to clean my classroom and write out all of my lesson plans for the next 6 weeks because I knew that Baby Jack Jack would be here any minute. 6:00 am September 19, 2008 I call my boss, “Ms. Hoskins, I’m in Labor, but I’m coming to work to finish my lesson plans. I may have to leave early. Is that OK?” Wow! What a dedicated, dependable teacher I am….did I mention how much I love my students?
Anyway, I think I had the most productive day I’ve ever had since I started teaching in 1998. I rushed to finish up all the details of my lesson plans, made all the copies of the assignments, cleaned my classroom spotless, hid anything I didn’t want my substitute to touch and made it to the doctor’s office, contractions and all by 3:00 pm.
“Oh, you’re 4 centimeters dilated! You have to go directly to the hospital”. I feeling of panic rushed through me. Not because I was about to experience the most painful event in human history, but because my other monkeys were still at school and there was no one to pick them up. There was no way I was driving ALL the way to Piedmont Hospital in the middle of rush out traffic and leave my children stranded at school on a Friday afternoon. So, into my purse I went to grab my cell phone and call Mr. Incredible. “Rodney, you have to pick up the kids from school.” I fumbled over these words thinking he would immediately change into his cape, hop into his batmobile and rush to Stone Mountain to pick up the monkeys. But calmly and slowly he said, “Wwwhhhhhhyyyy?”. BECAUSE I’M IN LABOR AND THIS STUPID DOCTOR WITH A BAD ATTITUDE PROBLEM WON’T LET ME GO GET THEM!
And then everything gets fuzzy from here on in. I can’t remember much because fear had taken over my body along with the contractions that were making their way from my belly to my back. I could barely stand up. I could barely drive. I don’t know how I made it down I-20 to the hospital. But as soon as I got there, a nurse that smelled like cocoa butter grabbed me, put me in a hospital gown, connected me to lots of tubes, needles and bags, and told me if I needed to call anyone, I’d better do it now cause I was about to have a baby. So, back into my purse I dive to get my cell phone again and call Mr. Incredible….
“I have the kids and I’m on my way”
Boy that batmobile can fly!
So here comes Shelly. A different nurse with long, beautiful dreadlocks comes in and asks me if I’m ready to go. “No, my husband isn’t here yet.” But when the big, humongous, outta this world labor pain knocked the breath out of me, I forgot about Mr. Incredible and said “Yes, I’m ready!” (Hey, he was there for the first two kids, so 2 outta 3 ain’t bad). I get out of the bed and stand the best I could to go to the operating room. And then a miracle happened, Mr. Incredible and the monkeys walked through the door!
I hugged the kids goodbye while Mr. Incredible changed into his scrubs- he’s quite sexy in scrubs!
Baby Jack Jack came in a flash, all 8 lbs 11 oz of him. And, to make his mark on the world, he promptly peed all over the 2 nurses that were taking his weight and measurements. Way to go Jack Jack!
Feeling confident that my new born son was safe, I turn to the doctor and ask, “Since you’re finished my C-Section, do you have time for a little liposuction?” I guess I don’t have to tell you that she said no. Before I was stitched up, the doctor gave me a tubal ligation….no more super babies for me!
So that’s my birth story….applause please!
Baby Jack Jack has now comfortably taken his place in the family. He pees on the floor, slaps his sister in the face, eats crumbs out of corners and rolls down stairs. Yep, he’s an Incredible alright and I’m so proud he’s mine. Happy Birthday, little monkey. Mommie loves you!
Krystal Grant “happens to be a wife and mother of 3. My family is my life and I love them dearly. I've parlayed my imaginary writing career into a job as a high school teacher and I have some of the best yet craziest students in the United States! I am a true Carolina Girl who loves grits and gravy, watermelon, rice and good ole Coca Cola. I graduated from the University of South Carolina. My husband is sexy, my children are beautiful and I am just a wannabe writer." Read more at: www.KrystalGrant.com.
**************************************************************************************
MoJo! Issue #4 October, 2009 All rights reserved. Reproduction of any part of this journal without express written consent of the authors represented herein is exceedingly bad form as well as a serious violation of copyright laws. Each writing will become the exclusive intellectual property of its author as of publication of the next issue of the journal or two months after publication of the current issue, whichever comes first. Corrections, Letters to the Editor, and Queries will become the property of the MoJo! editor.
Some people don’t believe in writer’s block. This journal’s editor has misplaced the introduction to this issue. That’s okay, right? I’m a writer, so I can just write another. Or not. Well, you see, I’ve been trying since Monday. Nothing is happening. It’s not that the drafts I’ve written have been bad. There are no drafts. There is just a computer screen staring back at me as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” This is the time of year that many people’s spirituality shines through. I’m one of those wacky creative types who believes her writing is indeed the result of training and discipline, but that the desire to write creatively in the first place is a gift from a superior spirit. After I, formally trained scholar who has written 50- to 300-page books, struggle with this one admittedly-too-long paragraph, I intend to spend the rest of this year enjoying cookies, pie, good will, friendship, family--and remembering not to take nature’s gifts for granted. Happy Holidays! May you revel in whatever human and supernatural spirits keep you company and guide you.
Mignon Ariel King
Boston, Massachusetts
October 29, 2009
POETRY:
Bridgit Brown, Dorchester, Massachusetts
Night
It's 3 o'clock in the morning
and someone is scraping concrete
with metal.
Who goes in the morning will tell all the news
about night: how the sun fell asleep
while the moon rose.
Can the dark night hide the beauty of a rose?
It's three o'clock in the morning and boys run,
holding their jocks.
Who can pass the time of clocks?
Where the moonlight sleeps on rocks is a star line
to trace until you fall asleep counting the silky, silver way.
Oh that day may come too soon for fools who live for night!
Who said darkness can be tripled?
There is a glimmer in the ripple where the sea sleeps.
It's three o'clock in the morning and tomorrow will rise
as slow as the night turns to day.
Bridgit Brown holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College; is a 2007 Fulbright Lecturing and Research Scholar; and the 2006 Nadya Aisenberg Poetry Fellow. Currently a contributing writer for Color Magazine, she has also worked for newspapers and publishing houses as an editor, freelance writer, reader, and technical writer; she aspires to teach. Miss Brown's current projects include a full-length collection of prose poems. Her work appears in the current issue of the Ibbetson Street journal. Follow her blog at: www.bridgitbrown.com
Coleen T. Houlihan, Boston, Massachusetts
Pretty White Mansion
As a child my mother picked cotton.
“I was the fastest out of all of them,” she says.
So many siblings, but this was no time to play.
Mary would get whipped for goofing off—
my mother’s sack of cotton always larger.
“I would try to protect myself from the sun.”
Her skin lighter than the others.
Back then the color of one’s skin
had a lot of significance— now too.
In the big white mansion I unpack boxes,
furniture, and knickknacks collected over the years
and handed down from my father’s mother— not hers.
In the house, there are only four things my mother’s mother
has left us— little crocheted dogs with wire-hanger bodies.
I keep two in my room. Over time they have
started to unravel. And there is also a photograph,
a picture of my mother’s mother holding her last child,
looking haunted and sad.
There were too many children in that shack.
“I miss my red girl,” she told my mother’s sister, Mary.
Red was what they called my mother for her hair and
her skin. Red girl moved far away to escape the stink
of poverty and that hot biting sun. Now forty years later
she returns to her home state, but to a different town,
a town with pretty white mansions, and out front,
she will wear a straw hat and coax flowers
from the ground. It is good she has a big pretty house
to get lost in. Three hours away in an unmarked grave,
impossible now to pinpoint the exact place, is my mother’s mother.
“I always knew my Red girl would make it,” she would say.
Coleen T. Houlihan studied writing at Wellesley College. She has featured at several poetry venues in Massachusetts such as: Stone Soup, Best Sellers, Borders, the Sherman Cafe and Walden Poetry Series. Her poetry has been published in Poesy, The Alewife, The Wilderness House Literary Review, Ibbetson Street, Spoonful: A Gathering of Stone Soup Poets, and Spare Change, as well as abroad. More on http://coleenthoulihan.com.
Joyce Jellison, Boston, Massachusetts
Still (For ADK)
Beautiful
Women
Seek
Safety nets
To
Fall into
To hold
Them
When
They
Loose
Their footing
And slip
Between
The cracks
Of
Someone’s
Humanity
Sometimes
They
Fall
Into the
Softness
Of another
Just as
Beautiful – radically empowered/gorgeously restrained/too distracted to second glance
Her reflection and who would prefer/chooses to gather light like nits from others who languish sullenly in half lights nursing half-truths like watered down gin and tonics
They do this
For a myriad of reasons – not just/because of men – it is never just about men.
This one
Captures
Their
Flight
On camera (set at f9 aperture)
This one
Rescues
Them midair – digitally storing despair
Leaving
Them
Unsure
Of what is inherently
True to them
But still they push
Against the
Softness
Having been
Acclimated to the bruising
Caused by
Emasculated
Men/corporate take overs/violent shoves at organic farmer’s markets/parental disapprovals
All things
Posing as superheroes
These women
Deny
What is quite obvious
To others – those who of course, who have been captured in mid-flight – saved from landing as indecipherable mutterings in mundane conversations about heartbreak and recovery
those
Who are now sepia toned memories of their past selves gazing from a variety of frames
Women
Can
Save
One another
From
Disaster
With
Restrained
Kisses
That
Ache
To blossom
Into
Careful caresses - not mother touches, or sister's touch
but
as a lover would touch - with fingertips eager, pained with anticipation reading despair like braille
with mind sending rapid signals
to
slooooow
down
Women
Who extend
Left
Arms
Revealing
Tattoos
Naming/declaring/protesting
Birth places
Can be/are/exist as saviors
Attracting/ keeping
The company
Of fallen angels and rising demons
Both are attracted
To the mystery of unmasked light
Beckoning
One/many to the intimidating heights of
Heaven
Or the
Delicious, tempting
Depths
Of hell
Offering
Comfort and
Momentary distraction
From
The
Complexities
Of being abstractly beautiful
And
Lost
In an inapproximate definition of love/identity/
self
Joyce Angela Jellison is the author of two books, Where Everything Fits Beautifully and Black Apple. She describes her poetic style as “[sometimes] a bit provocative. I often use anatomy as metaphor in the tradition of Hattie Gossett.” She is also the director of Write Out Loud: Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths. Check out: writeoutloud.synthasite.com.
Lolita Paiewonsky, Cambridge, MA
Christmas is in the Air!*
Christmas is in the Air!
See the White Butterflies dancing, and the
Lace of the snow-on-the-mountain fluttering.
Christmas is in the air!
Air filtering through
palmfronds and seabreezes.
Christmas is in the air!
Dancing on sunbeams by day and
moonbeams over the harbour by night.
Christmas is in the air!
Hear the rhapsodies of the steel drums.
Christmas is in the air!
Decorations everywhere:
Lights all up King Street
along the Strand in the West,
on hillside homes, and in every little bar.
Christmas is in the air!
At Midnight Mass and in
merry hearts of carolers as they stroll.
Christmas is in the air!
Green, not white;
sand instead of snow.
Poinsettias growing wild.
It’s Christmas on St. Croix !
*Previously published in Luces Brilliantes/Lights Aglow
Lolita Paiewonsky writes librettos, drama, fiction and, especially, poetry (since the second grade). She has presented her poetry with classical and jazz music and original choreography and exhibited it as “poetage” (visual poetry); she has been featured poet at many venues. Her poetry has appeared in a number of publications, including The Harvard Dudley Review, Harvard ALANA journals, Wilderness House Literary Review, Bagelbard anthologies, and Bradley University Journal.
The writer has published three limited-edition chapbooks: Who hears the gull’s song?; Fragments and Reflections; and Lights Aglow/Luces Brillantes. Lolita has taught composition, creative writing, and English at secondary through adult levels. She has edited several anthologies; forthcoming is The Jazz 5:30 Anthology, 2006-2008 (First Church, Cambridge). Contact her at appian_lp@yahoo.com.
MEMOIR:
Krystal Grant, Lithonia, GA
Happy Birthday Baby Jack Jack
Exactly one year ago today, I was debating on whether I should go to the hospital and deliver my 3rd child or go to work to finish an incomplete project. A dedicated, perfect, do-everything-right mother would have immediately rushed to the hospital as soon as she realized she was in labor…but not me! Off to work I go to clean my classroom and write out all of my lesson plans for the next 6 weeks because I knew that Baby Jack Jack would be here any minute. 6:00 am September 19, 2008 I call my boss, “Ms. Hoskins, I’m in Labor, but I’m coming to work to finish my lesson plans. I may have to leave early. Is that OK?” Wow! What a dedicated, dependable teacher I am….did I mention how much I love my students?
Anyway, I think I had the most productive day I’ve ever had since I started teaching in 1998. I rushed to finish up all the details of my lesson plans, made all the copies of the assignments, cleaned my classroom spotless, hid anything I didn’t want my substitute to touch and made it to the doctor’s office, contractions and all by 3:00 pm.
“Oh, you’re 4 centimeters dilated! You have to go directly to the hospital”. I feeling of panic rushed through me. Not because I was about to experience the most painful event in human history, but because my other monkeys were still at school and there was no one to pick them up. There was no way I was driving ALL the way to Piedmont Hospital in the middle of rush out traffic and leave my children stranded at school on a Friday afternoon. So, into my purse I went to grab my cell phone and call Mr. Incredible. “Rodney, you have to pick up the kids from school.” I fumbled over these words thinking he would immediately change into his cape, hop into his batmobile and rush to Stone Mountain to pick up the monkeys. But calmly and slowly he said, “Wwwhhhhhhyyyy?”. BECAUSE I’M IN LABOR AND THIS STUPID DOCTOR WITH A BAD ATTITUDE PROBLEM WON’T LET ME GO GET THEM!
And then everything gets fuzzy from here on in. I can’t remember much because fear had taken over my body along with the contractions that were making their way from my belly to my back. I could barely stand up. I could barely drive. I don’t know how I made it down I-20 to the hospital. But as soon as I got there, a nurse that smelled like cocoa butter grabbed me, put me in a hospital gown, connected me to lots of tubes, needles and bags, and told me if I needed to call anyone, I’d better do it now cause I was about to have a baby. So, back into my purse I dive to get my cell phone again and call Mr. Incredible….
“I have the kids and I’m on my way”
Boy that batmobile can fly!
So here comes Shelly. A different nurse with long, beautiful dreadlocks comes in and asks me if I’m ready to go. “No, my husband isn’t here yet.” But when the big, humongous, outta this world labor pain knocked the breath out of me, I forgot about Mr. Incredible and said “Yes, I’m ready!” (Hey, he was there for the first two kids, so 2 outta 3 ain’t bad). I get out of the bed and stand the best I could to go to the operating room. And then a miracle happened, Mr. Incredible and the monkeys walked through the door!
I hugged the kids goodbye while Mr. Incredible changed into his scrubs- he’s quite sexy in scrubs!
Baby Jack Jack came in a flash, all 8 lbs 11 oz of him. And, to make his mark on the world, he promptly peed all over the 2 nurses that were taking his weight and measurements. Way to go Jack Jack!
Feeling confident that my new born son was safe, I turn to the doctor and ask, “Since you’re finished my C-Section, do you have time for a little liposuction?” I guess I don’t have to tell you that she said no. Before I was stitched up, the doctor gave me a tubal ligation….no more super babies for me!
So that’s my birth story….applause please!
Baby Jack Jack has now comfortably taken his place in the family. He pees on the floor, slaps his sister in the face, eats crumbs out of corners and rolls down stairs. Yep, he’s an Incredible alright and I’m so proud he’s mine. Happy Birthday, little monkey. Mommie loves you!
Krystal Grant “happens to be a wife and mother of 3. My family is my life and I love them dearly. I've parlayed my imaginary writing career into a job as a high school teacher and I have some of the best yet craziest students in the United States! I am a true Carolina Girl who loves grits and gravy, watermelon, rice and good ole Coca Cola. I graduated from the University of South Carolina. My husband is sexy, my children are beautiful and I am just a wannabe writer." Read more at: www.KrystalGrant.com.
**************************************************************************************
MoJo! Issue #4 October, 2009 All rights reserved. Reproduction of any part of this journal without express written consent of the authors represented herein is exceedingly bad form as well as a serious violation of copyright laws. Each writing will become the exclusive intellectual property of its author as of publication of the next issue of the journal or two months after publication of the current issue, whichever comes first. Corrections, Letters to the Editor, and Queries will become the property of the MoJo! editor.
*************************************************
MoJo! Archives
Link to the Extra MoJo! site which includes archives of previous issues, etc.
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This new MoJo! site is under construction.
Pardon our appearance as the editor works slowly but surely to create a new and improved journal site.
Questions? Spot a typo? Submissions? All welcome at mojoeditor@yahoo.com
Thank you to readers and contributing writers for your patience!
~Mignon Ariel King, Editor
Questions? Spot a typo? Submissions? All welcome at mojoeditor@yahoo.com
Thank you to readers and contributing writers for your patience!
~Mignon Ariel King, Editor