Volume 4, Issue ii
Wild Greens 4, no. 02 (December 2023)
Welcome to the December 2023 issue of Wild Greens
As the year comes to a close, we’re collecting our loose ends, our first drafts, all of our work that’s unfinished.
“French Exit,” a poem by Adora Limani, opens the issue with the concept of leaving: exiting a room unannounced, abandoning a conversation, leaving a situation before it's finished.
Liz Lydic’s darkly humorous short story, “Son, Are You Still Mad at Me? (Also, Do You Need Me to Send You Some Socks?)” takes the form of a letter from a mother to her estranged son. The letter writer reaches out with a projected worry, focusing on the wrong thing that went wrong (a bizarre and arbitrary regret involving soy sauce). Her job as a mother feels unfinished now that her son is grown. In “Moving On” by Don Palmer, the poet reflects on a faded memory, focusing in on a single image of a blue bottle.
“Upside Down” in ball point pen by Angela Patera is an unfinished drawing of a tree’s ecosystem; from the birds that live in the branches to the worms that live by the roots. “We Are in the Lush Time” by Lisa Ashley takes nature as its inspiration, in all its perpetual finished and unfinished state.
“Yes I’ll Hold” by Alyson Gold Weinberg takes a sly, irreverent jab at reincarnation, life after life.
The digital drawing “Chipping Away” by Melissa Lomax looks behind the scenes at artists and freelancers managing their time. Big things are “finished” by slowly chipping away at them—much of creative work is embracing the time of the unfinished.
The patchwork cento poem by Natalie Quile, “love stories: a cento poem,” gathers and reinterprets lines by other writers. In “Out of Time…Again” Rick Blum reflects on the creative process of having too many ideas. “Macky Jean, To Be Zine!” is a pencil sketch of an unfinished project by Melissa Lomax.
In Mariah Harned’s lighthearted short story “Trials of a Blocked Writer,” the writer’s characters decide to write their own stories, but the plot gets out of their hands! “Untitled” by Irina Tall Novikova imagines mermaids, unicorns, and what didn’t happen. Poet D A Angelo’s “The Unfinished Gallery of My Mind” ponders the crowds of ideas that swirl around in our heads.
To end, but not to end. Robin Brownfield’s heart wrenching mosaic, “The Cost of War” is still unfinished, as the war itself is ongoing and seemingly without end. The artist writes of her work, “I will finish it… but not today.”
An ellipsis here, something you might expect from an Unfinished issue…
Table of Contents
by Adora LimaniThe crisp sound of a bell chiming, a wooden door creaking, open, footsteps becoming fainter —the sound of leaving. And with the quickness and ease of a city rat, turning to liquidand exiting through the cracks.
The orchestration of a Great Escapeis a yearning for quiet abandonment,an unfinished conversation or cold cup of tea to make the existence of vacancy completely trivial. To only mouth the words of some vague valediction as if it were not real, no vocal pronunciation.
Leaving is to say “Look, I’ve escaped you,and I’ve left you to yourself,”the cruelest thing you could do.It’s better not to alert those being left, like how you’d never tell a child their pet rabbit died. He’s just “somewhere better now.”
When we escape we don’t always run fast. Sometimes we take wide, conceited steps, savoring every moment. Our desire for escape does not rely on dangerous or uncomfortable rooms, but simply that we can, and so we must.
How would anyone know of our presence if they never felt our absence? The escape is orchestrated to show that we never cared to be known in the first place.
Read about the inspiration for this month's logo on Ko-Fi.
Son, Are You Still Mad at Me? (Also, Do You Need Me to Send You Some Socks?)
by Liz Lydic
How are you? Things are the same ol' for me and your dad. The lemons this year are not doing so great; I think it’s mostly the heat to blame, or should we say, “global warming”? Aunt Gail’s surgery went well, and she should be back to driving and even working in about six weeks. She’s having Amazon delivery bring over food that she can easily cook or heat up. As long as she’s not on her right foot for more than 20 minutes at a time, she seems to manage.
I had to get a new crown put on my bottom left molar again; the one I had before split and broke, and I don’t know if you remember this, but that was the second time it happened. So, believe it or not, this will be the fourth (counting the original) tooth or “tooth” to occupy that space!
I also wanted to let you know that I recently came across an old recipe for the stir-fried beef I had made for dinner that night in September 1987. I’d misplaced the recipe at some point, but seeing it again now, I realized that I had forgotten to add soy sauce to the dish that night. It’s a miracle that you boys never noticed or said anything; maybe it’s because your palates were not so sophisticated—no offense. I’m sure none taken, knowing how far you’ve come since then: Luke with his real estate license, and you with your engineering job.
I’m not sure how I missed adding the soy sauce that night, though I do see that the instructions for the soy sauce part of the recipe are slightly difficult to see because of the way the cookbook unfolds: it has many pages, so they don’t really lay flat when the book is open. It sort of reads like:
Stir beef into vegetables and season with sesame seeds and s
Continue to cook and stir until vegetabl
So, you can imagine that both ‘oy sauce’ and ‘es are tender’ are not visible. I think that’s probably what happened. That was also during a period of my life when I tried to go off my antidepressants without consulting Dr. Sharpe, so it could be that that meal—along with the six months surrounding it—was effectively a blur.
The recipe was in with some of your dad’s books. I haven’t spoken to him about it, but I have been cleaning up his home office. He hasn’t worked in years, as you know, and I’ve urged him to turn the space into a den or gym or nursery (just kidding! No pressure from this want-to-be-grandma!) but he has yet to respond. It may be that, after fifty years, our marriage has seen its course. I made that appointment. The one I mentioned wanting to make that night with a divorce lawyer. It’s scheduled for next week. I already had the appointment when I discovered the recipe, but now I can’t help but doubly wonder about my role in the general unhappiness of our home. Luke’s two-month-long experiment with drugs; your on-again-off-again relationship with Jamie Elston; your dad’s temper…what could I have done differently? Exactly how much did I disappoint you boys with that recipe?
I’ve thought about burning the recipe book, in the hopes that I could stop reliving this mistake, but I haven’t done it yet. I could rip out just the stir-fry page, but again, I’m paralyzed in that decision as well. Maybe it’s one of the many self-destructive tendencies Dr. Sharpe has warned me about over the years.
I’ll send you a package with some of those polo shirts that have the wicking material that you mentioned. Do you like pale blue or navy? I’ll surprise you! I found a cute tie for Luke I think he’ll like. I’m sending that to him at the same time I send you the shirts, that way I’ll only have the one trip to the post office. I’ll throw in some washcloths if you need them, and a Patterson paperback I just finished called ‘The Jailhouse Lawyer.’ Hard to put down!
Adam, I hope you will forgive me about the soy sauce. I understand if it’s too late or if I’m asking for a lot. Even if you don’t formally excuse my error, I just want to make my statement of remorse. I am so, so sorry, Adam. I know I let you down that night. You and Luke have made me prouder than I could have ever imagined. You both have excellent palates. You are a smart, kind, good young man, and I am the luckiest mother in the world.
Love you always,
PS: I may include the recipe book in your package. Just keep an eye out!
by Don PalmerIt was a purge of hard thingsmemory’s hair triggers stuffed into boxes.
In one, a blue bottle sealed in plasticdry and brittle, as if we never were—never mattered. A gift never given, or even chanced to be given.Then why, after you moved on, a letter?
Was it to share sorrow? Had you thumbed to our prettiness pressed between pages? Was this halo affecting clear recollection?
And why then again? This time—just a timea date, a place. In lieu of flowers, I moved on.But even after so much distance, your blueness demandedI wander every encounter, searching for a sideshow embrace, a safety net stretched under each kissa missed sleight of hand, or harlequined mimicry.
But there is only this blue bottle— snug and warm in my palm, like a derringer, cockedrestless in its winding sheet.
We Are in the Lush Time
by Lisa AshleyWhen the ants on the peonies tickle the budsopen, blossoms sumptuous as the flounceof a ballroom gown give blush to the garden’s soft air in June.
When the scout ant finds the nectarat the base of the green sepal, she drinks, emits her pheromone trailall the way back to the nest.
The worker ants trail back to those fat buds to gather sugary droplets, thus protecting the peonies from aphids and thrips.
The ants sting, bite or spray the bugswith acid and toss them off the plant,bits of discarded detritus like hair dander.
There is no such thing as a whole story.
The ants are small machines, tiny working cogs of biological mutualism, the peonies their factory. Once the buds open and lift their round plush faces to the sun, the ants leave.
Where do the ants go? Do the peonies miss them?
See behind the scenes of Wild Greens. Our Ko-fi page contains concept art for past issues.
Yes, I'll Hold
by Alyson Gold WeinbergI think God may be a Capitalist: It’s always live, live, live with Him,survival of the exhausted. Why can’t the dead stay dead? Look! How the Disassembly Line rips them apart, patches them up, next one, rips them apart, patches them up, next one, all the raggedy souls. Invests them in new bodies. No, they don’t remember a thing from previous lives—Oh, a phantom fear here and there, a bone-aching weariness, maybe.
Nothing too bothersome. Look at His vast inventory, ready to be packed up and shipped back into Being with a label marked Perpetual Return. Do people come with
Infinite Lifetime Guarantees? Can they ever be retired? When I die, I do not want to come back. Can I speak to someone in Human Resources about that?
love stories: a cento poem
by Natalie QuilesSomeone once told me that every story is a love story."Your spine’s a ridge i’d die climbing," he saysI hear him swallow. I want to follow the sound down his throat.
you have bewitched me, body and soul,and I am struck by the beauty of the sky yawning over the desert.
How she felt when he kissed her—like a tub of roses swimming in honey, cologne, nutmeg and blackberries.It’s the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world.
she wishes to go outside and dig her fingers into the springy ground and understand anything about herself.
There is a big spoon I keep wetting against my lips. I daydream of home and raw meatand the sound our bodies make when they crash against each other.
I daydream of home and instead you fill my mind, the way veinsfill with poisonfrom a snake bite.
citations:The Book of Two Ways by Jodi PicoultRed, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuistonRed, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuistonDeborah Moggach, Pride & Prejudice screenplayThe Book of Two Ways by Jodi PicoultSamuel Sullivan CoxTahereh MafiRed, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuistonSarah Xerta
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Out of Time…Again
by Rick BlumThe ideas roll in aimlessly, effortlessly—in the dark of night; in the glare of sunlight pouring through the study’s window on another scorching July day; while preparing a lunch of plums, pickled herring and leftover cornbread fromSaturday’s Mexican feast; in the throne room awaiting the expulsion of Saturday’s Mexican feast’s remnants; even while intently solving the daily crosswordpuzzles (yes, there are two, sometimes three) that try to disguise simple solutions behind oh-so-clever clues like “Swing times” (at bats).
So, the choices are as numerous as the items on a Cheesecake Factory menu—right-wing adoption of left-wing cancel culture.The irresistibility of hot dogs cooked on an outdoor grill.Why real beauty isn’t found in a woman’s eyes.A compelling opening line: “Too late, what’s done is done.”
Any of these would be fertile territoryfor exploration and exposition—thoughts to be stewed over and shaped into Pindaric odes, or rhyming couplets that tickle one’s fancy, or maybe a spellbinding sestina—just for the challenge.
But somehow the day slipped away as silentlyas the dog that didn’t bark. And a self-imposed deadline looms as surely as the sun rays wilt earlier every day past summer’s solstice. And poems, even spare haikus, take ample time to draft, digest and refine.
So I’m left with an unadulterated musing on nothing and everything, yin and yang, Abbott and Costello.Too bad a clever closing didn’t accompanythat opening line I’ll carry around hoping its brethren will appear before it turns stale as week-old cornbread.
But whataya gonna do—cancel me?
Macky Jean, To Be Zine!
Trials of a Blocked Writer
by Mariah Harned
I stare at the white page in front of me, thoughtfully stroking the keyboard as if I expect my creative muse to pop out in a puff of smoke and grant me three stories. But the computer screen stares back at me blankly. Fine. I’ll write something with a simple plot, like a fairy tale. Knight saves damsel in distress, and everyone lives happily ever after. Easy enough.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young princess named Emma, locked away in a tower.
“A tower? Isn’t that a little cliche?”
I jump at the voice before I realize it came from Princess Emma, who’s perched on the first line of the page, rolling her eyes. “It’s a fairy tale. It’s supposed to be cliche. But you can be in a cabin in the forest instead.”
I sigh. “Where would you like me to start?”
Emma smiles. “Shipwrecked on a tropical island.”
“Yeah, because that’s not cliche.” But I rewrite the first sentence:
Once upon a time, the royal family was on a long sea voyage when a terrible hurricane drove the ship into a tropical island. The sole survivor was the beautiful young Princess Emma…
Twisting the end of her golden braid, Emma watches tearfully as wave after wave tosses jagged boards onto the beach, knowing she’ll never see her family again. Suddenly, she swipes away her tears and smiles. “Oh, well. Time to get busy.”
My eyes widen. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be devastated!”
She shrugs. “I didn’t really know Mother and Father all that well, and my nanny wasn’t on the ship. Time to make a life for myself. Bye!” She waves, and the beach disappears from my mental picture.
I groan. I guess I’ll try to develop another character. Let’s see… there’s the knight. We’ll call him Knightly.
A loud groan alerts me to the young man standing in the middle of the page, dressed in clanking armor. “No! Any name but that!”
I ignore him and start writing:
As soon as he hears the news about the shipwrecked princess, Knightly sets out on his horse for the nearest port. Halfway down the road, he reins his horse to a halt.
“Wait a minute. I forgot my sword.”
“You forgot your sword?” I mutter. “All that armor, and no sword?”
“That, and I just remembered that I still need to finish my sword fighting lessons,” Knightley says as he gallops back to his castle. “I’m not ready to rescue a princess yet.”
“You coward!” I fling at his back. Great. My hero has deserted the damsel in distress.
Speaking of which…
Back on the tropical island, I find Princess Emma roasting a bird over a campfire. “Where did you get that?”
She nods toward the chicken coop behind her. “The chickens washed up from the ship. And one rooster tried to bite me, so I cooked him.”
Well, that’s awfully convenient, I think, but I continue with my planned scene.
A deafening roar shakes the beach. Sulfur and smoke permeate the air, and a shadow blocks the setting sun. Emma leaps to her feet, beaming. “Smokey’s back!”
“No, run!” I shout at the page. “It’s a deadly dragon!”
But her grin only widens as the scaly winged reptile descends on the beach. “Don’t worry, I met her earlier. She wanted a piece of chicken.”
Her? Suddenly, I notice the neon-pink scales. “Dragons can’t be pink!”
The dragon drops a charred mountain goat by the fire and glances up at me. “Why not? I obviously am.”
“Be quiet, you! Dragons can’t talk! They only roar, and blow fire, and eat people!”
The dragon snorts disdainfully, filling my view with smoke.
Scowling, I fan the smoke away to see Knightly still clashing swords with his trainer. Time to skip ahead.
Knightly stares at the endless waves surrounding his ship. “How did I ever end up here?” His horse snickers in response, and he—
“No, seriously!” Knightly snaps. “How did I end up here? Last I remember, I was sword fighting. Show, don’t tell!”
I groan, and my fingers clatter across the keyboard:
With an abrupt maneuver, Knightly knocks his trainer’s sword to the ground. The trainer smiles.
“Okay, you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To rescue the princess, of course.”
The trainer thrusts a pack of food into Knightly’s hands and hands him the reins of his horse.
“Off you go.” He shoves Knightly up onto the horse.
“George, you’re behaving most peculiarly,” Knightly complains. “This is so out of character.”
I smirk. The trainer slaps the horse on the rump, and it gallops wildly into the forest, smacking Knightly against a low branch. His helmet clangs against his forehead, and his armored glove shakes loose. Another branch catches him in the chest, throwing him to the ground with a clatter. His helmet flies into the creek beside him. Every muscle aching, he reaches for the helmet, but it rolls away. Hoofbeats fade away into the distance. He leaps to his feet. “Okay, okay! Enough is enough! Just put me back on the ship already!”
“What happened to ‘show, don’t tell’?” I say, but I return to the ship scene:
A reptilian shadow darkens the sun.
Knightly squints in the glare. “A dragon? I’m not ready to fight a dragon!”
The shadow grows until the pink-scaled monster overshadows the entire ship. Knightly finds himself smothering in sulfurous smoke, stars dancing across his vision. Then his world fades away, and he falls to the deck with a clang.
“A cliffhanger!” A gleeful chortle calls my attention to Princess Emma. “Will he be roasted like my rooster? Or will he survive? You’ll never know! Meanwhile, I plan on living happily ever after. Bye!” With a wave of her hand, my fairytale land disappears into oblivion.
With a howl of frustration, I slam my laptop shut. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a writer. My characters are just plain incorrigible.
The Unfinished Gallery of My Mind
by D A AngeloAnd I guess it's getting crowded:The book of prose poems is stuck on a Minotaur bagging groceries. I hear it complainingwhile I'm eating pizza. A yeti is playing hide and seek with a childhood self lost to the LochNess monster. The memoir drenched in antiquity shoutsall the time. Childhood tripsto antique shops threaten to burnwith flames brighter than the firebugscrowding the fortress of a giant rock in front of a holiday home. Novelsin various states of decay are on the verge of toppling like a Jenga block. Some dare meto finish the prose, thick like bog mud,chanting “finish it!” “finish it!” “finish it!”while I wait for another player to wander inside, pluck my chicken feathers.
The Cost of War
Artists and Contributors
Adora Limani is an 18-year-old aspiring writer from North Macedonia. Her work has appeared in Brown University’s College Hill Independent as well as Balkan publications such as Respublica and Kosovo2.0. She is a passionate feminist and existentialist. Alongside poetry and journalistic writing, she is a researcher in cultural and gender studies and is active in the NGO sector. You can find Adora on instagram: @ad0raaaa
Don Palmer studied Literature at Dawson College and Concordia University. In the 1980’s nineteen of his poems saw publication in 30 journals. Most recently, his work has been accepted & appeared in Wild Greens, Syncopation Literary Journal, California State Poetry Society, Blank Spaces, and Reedy Branch Review.
Angela Patera is a published writer and artist. Her short stories have appeared in Livina Press, Myth & Lore Zine, and more. Her art has appeared in numerous publications, as well as on the cover of Selenite Press and Penumbra Online. When Angela isn't creating, she likes to spend time outside in nature.
You can find her on both Twitter and Instagram as @angela_art13.
Lisa Ashley (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize nominee. She descends from survivors of the Armenian Genocide and has listened to and supported incarcerated youth for 8 years as a chaplain. Her poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, The Healing Muse, Thimble, Blue Heron Review, Last Leaves, Snapdragon, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and others. She writes in her log home on Bainbridge Island, WA, the traditional lands of the Suquamish people, and navigates her garden with physical limitations in a constant state of awe. Lisa is currently working on her first manuscript.
Alyson Gold Weinberg
Alyson Gold Weinberg is the author of Bellow & Hiss (Finishing Line Press), a New Women's Voices Chapbook Competition finalist. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including december, One Art, Halfway Down the Stairs, Poetica, Movable Type, and others. She is a Harbor Review Jewish Women’s Poetry Prize finalist and a Jeff Marks Memorial Prize finalist, judged by Carl Phillips. She is a winner of the Derick Burleson Poetry Prize for her poem “Dieffenbachia,” included in the anthology Best of Choeofpleirn Press. A Washington, DC-based speechwriter and the ghostwriter of five non-fiction books, Alyson enjoys time away from her keyboard to binge-watch RuPaul's Drag Race with her family.
Melissa Lomax (she/her) is a freelance illustrator, writer, and cartoonist, with 20 years of experience in the creative industry. Some of her clients include American Greetings, Sellers Publishing, Great Arrow Graphics, Lenox Corporation, and Highlights for Children. Her comic 'Doodle Town' posts on GoComics.com, the largest catalog of syndicated cartoons and comics. When she is not in the art studio, she enjoys spending time in nature, drinking really good coffee, and 'everyday adventures' with her husband. Pop by her Instagram @melissalomaxart for weekly inspiration!
Natalie Quiles (she/her) is a dreamer, yoga teacher, lover of greek mythology, and overall circus peanut. She earned a degree in Political Science and hasn't used it once. When she's not writing poetry, you can find her drinking too much coffee, practicing yoga, or salsa dancing. Follow her on instagram: @nattieraexx
Rick Blum (he/him) has been chronicling life’s vagaries through essays and poetry for more than 30 years during stints as a nightclub owner, high-tech manager, market research mogul, and, most recently, old geezer. His writings have appeared in more than 50 print magazines, literary journals, and poetry anthologies, as well as in numerous online publications. He is also a frequent contributor to the Humor Times. He resides in a Boston suburb that, thankfully, has been spared wildfires, biblical rains, weeks of searing heat, drought, and flooding from rising sea levels...so far.
Mariah Harned (she/her) is a graduate of Greenville University and a future medical research scientist. Given her background in biology and chemistry, she usually channels her love of writing into science fiction. But, sometimes, her childhood on a farm shows up in the form of talking animals.
Irina Tall (Novikova)
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, and illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the Museum of Maxim Bogdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology. In 2005, she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, drawing on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. She writes fairy tales and poems, and illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, and she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines such as Gypsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room, and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories," and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter."
D A Angelo
D A Angelo is a UK-based poet with recent work in Moss Puppy, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Sage Cigarettes, Flights of the Dragonfly, Impspired, The Amazine, and Petrichor Mag. New work is forthcoming in Volney Road Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, SurVision, and Skipping Stone Review.
Robin Brownfield (she/her) is a former sociology professor in Collingswood, New Jersey who turned to mosaic art after becoming disabled. She was featured in a FOX-29 (Philadelphia) News report because, after sharing a series of award-winning “Black Lives Matter” mosaic portraits online, she was commissioned by Tamika Palmer to do a mosaic portrait of her daughter, Breonna Taylor, whose death, in part, launched a rebirth of the Black Lives Matter movement. That portrait can be seen in the documentary Bree Way: Promise Witness Remembrance. Her award-winning artwork has been in galleries in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New York City, Las Vegas, Norfolk, Virginia, Texas, Illinois, and San Francisco. She recently finished supervising a community mosaic mural project, entitled “Childhood Memories,” which she designed at Thomas Sharp Elementary School in Collingswood, NJ. Above the mural honoring her is a plaque making her one of those old dead people (in the future) who nobody ever heard of, but whose name is on a plaque. Visit her website, www.robinbrownfieldmosaics.com, to see more of her work.
Poetry Editor and Copyeditor
Myra Chappius (she/her) is the author of six works of fiction and poetry. While her passion lies with shorter creations, it is her aspiration to complete a full-length novel and screenplay someday. She enjoys reading, running, cinema, music, and seeing the world. When not doing mom things, she is working full-time, learning a new language, and planning her next trip.
Jessica Doble (she/her) holds a PhD in English from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. She's published two critical works: “Hope in the Apocalypse: Narrative Perspective as Negotiation of Structural Crises in Salvage the Bones” in Xavier Review, and “Two-Sides of the Same Witchy Coin: Re-examining Belief in Witches through Jeannette Winterson’s The Daylight Gate” in All About Monsters. Her poetry has appeared in PubLab and Wild Greens magazine.
Jacqueline (she/her) edits fiction and nonfiction as the senior editor for Wild Greens magazine. She earned her BA in English and creative writing at the University of California, Riverside, and completed training as a 2021 publishing fellow with the Los Angeles Review of Books. She previously served as a co-editor for PubLab, editor for UCR's Mosaic Art and Literary Journal, and as an intern with Soho Press. In her free time, she loves to read all kinds of stories, including YA, literary fiction, sci-fi, and fantasy.
Maggie Topel (she/her) is an artist and writer living in Philadelphia. She designs our seasonal Wild Greens logos and social media avatar.
Hayley (she/her) creates the cover image for each issue of Wild Greens and serves as the Arts Editor. Hayley is a social justice seeker, world traveler, rock climber, dog snuggler, frisbee player, event planner, and storyteller. She loves to paint with watercolors, embroider, and write. She grew up reading sci-fi and fantasy, and to this day she still turns to those genres to help her make sense of the world. She calls Philadelphia home where she lives with her partner Evan and her dog Birdie, and she wouldn't have it any other way. You can find Hayley on Instagram @hayley3390.
Rebecca Lipperini (she/her) is a writer, teacher, and academic living in Philadelphia, and the founding editor of Wild Greens magazine. She holds a PhD in English from Rutgers University, where she taught all kinds of classes on literature and poetry and writing, and wrote all kinds of papers on the same. Her essay on the soothing aesthetics of the supermarket was recently published in PubLab. She teaches in the Critical Writing Program at the University of Pennsylvania.