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Wild Greens 5, no. 9 (July 2025)
Wild Greens 5, no. 9 (July 2025)
Sweat
Sweat
Welcome to the July 2025 issue of Wild Greens
Welcome to the July 2025 issue of Wild Greens
Can you feel the heat? The Sweat issue of Wild Greens is here.
Need to cool down before diving in? Maggie Topel’s digital logo offers some refreshment. Cyrus Carlson’s acrylic on paper “Abstraction” paints the colors of a hot summer day.
“The Rhythm of Ambition,” a poem by Kudakwashe Chipinda, speaks to effort and persistence in pursuit of dreams.
“Cracked Under Pressure,” a photograph by Denise Bossarte, captures the effects of time. “Slate Faces,” a prose poem by Benjamin Karren, takes us into a work yard and introduces us to the lives of its laborers.
In Lauren Kimball’s “Camp Summer Sweat,” Turtle and Hare work on their beach bodies.
“The Summer of Bees: To Dave,” a poem by Julie D. Lillis, was written in remembrance of a friend who passed away. “Neopolitan,” the second of two photos by Denise Bossarte, finds ice cream colors in rust.
Carol Rose Little’s poem “I Will” remembers a moment in the lowlands in the state of Chiapas. “Unfortunately…”, a collage by Irina Tall, suggests sweat on hot skin.
Tricia Knoll’s poem “Greensleeves” visits the garden, and thinks about both joy and regret.
In “Humidity Lingers,” a photograph by D C Nobes, the thick, humid air leaves droplets on greenery. In “Word Search,” a humorous short story by Jo Gatenby, a husband and wife hike through the jungle as they try to think of a word.
The pencil and digital color “Weird Week” by Melissa Lomax sweats through the pain of getting through an awkward week.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, as they say. Months come and go, changing weather is a constant. Keep on creating.
-Rebecca
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
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Wild Greens: Sweat (July 2025)
Wild Greens: Sweat (July 2025)
by Maggie Topel
Digital drawing
Inspiration: What a relevant theme to contemplate during these scorching days! Thinking about sweating made me thirsty, so I drew a bottle overflowing with a cold and refreshing liquid.
Abstraction
Abstraction
by Cyrus Carlson
Acrylic paint on paper
Inspiration: These bright colors summon the summer heat
The Rhythm of Ambition
I rise each morning- a blanket of fear draped over my shoulders, heavy with the weight of unfulfilled dreams, the pulse of ambition thrumming in my veins- but the daylight glimmers, reflecting off the sweat on my brow, each bead a drop of hope and worry intertwined. The world spins on- swift and relentless- while I sit caught in the web of my own making, too often I find myself in the pit, a descent into shadows, where the echo of my aspirations bounces off the walls of doubt, and the whispers of "not enough" claw at my resolve. I dream in colors bright and vivid, yet the canvas stretches thin, stained with the hues of struggle, each stroke a reminder of the grind, each smudge a moment of uncertainty. I gaze at the horizon and wonder- can I pull the future closer, or will it remain an elusive mirage, hidden just beyond my reach? Each day I rise, and the sweat begins to gather- not just from toil, but from the fear of failing to soar, the moments when I doubt my legs will carry me past the finish line of my aspirations, where trophies of joy are waiting, gleaming, untouched. Yet, with every droplet that cascades down, I feel the rush of perspiration mingling with resolve- a fierce reminder that aching hearts can still beat, hope can still flourish in the face of struggle- that the sweat is not just a sign of exertion, but a testament to battles fought and fought again, the fire within that refuses to be extinguished. I sweat not only from labor’s embrace, but from the relentless ticking of a clock, a reminder that life is fleeting, each moment soaked in the urgency of dreams. Some days I run, some days I crawl, but the path is mine to tread, carved from effort and persistence, etched in the alleys of my mind. The noise of failure rings like distant thunder, but I step forward. The ground bends beneath my feet, and every bead of sweat that hits the earthis a seed planted in the soil of my ambition, germinating in the depths of struggle, growing towards the light of a future I crave with every fiber of my being. The Rhythm of Ambition
by Kudakwashe Chipinda
Cracked Under Pressure
Cracked Under Pressure
by Denise Bossarte
Photography
Inspiration: I love wandering aimlessly to find beauty that emerges through happenstance—where human-made structures meet the natural forces of time and erosion, revealing a quiet, compelling dialogue between form and decay.
Slate Faces
Slate Faces
by Benjamin Karren
Slate sits in the yard on rickety wooden pallets out into the overgrown yellow meadow stretching beyond the horizon. A ramshackle tan building engulfed with ornery green vines. Inside, reliable iron slate punchers made around the time of the Civil War. Outdated tools sleep on a bed of shelves under a quilt of dust. The obstinate forklift on its last legs for a decade, rests quietly in the corner. A bitter survivor of a fire from last summer.
She arrives like a weathered pallet trying to hold everything at the shop together for another day. Classic rock is the elixir that keeps her mind from lamenting her daughter’s cocaine addiction. Her index finger chipped to a stub long ago, slain by the slate trimmer. She surveys orders behind a thick coat of dust on her glasses.
Next comes the Marlboro Man forever chain-smoking like an overheating car along the side of the road. He’s a stripped-down pair of plyers grasping for control in this life. Wrinkles creep across his face like shadows in the grass at dusk. His hands tremble as he feeds each piece into the machine. Drowning in anxiety, he’s got a meeting this afternoon because his daughter stabbed some kid at school. He’s down to half a pack until payday. He’ll probably have to smoke some butts from the ashtray outside the local convenience store before the meeting.
Slamming the door, Little Big Man is late! Seventeen years old with no education and a little girl. His beady eyes like dull heads on the slate puncher, bludgeoning his way through problems. Thumping holes into the sheet rock. Assaulting obsolete machines with wrenches. He’s got enough hell for everyone! His first day back after being sent home early last week for taking a leak on one of the pallets.
Time is a flexible formality for the Chilean. The boss complains he’s too “Americanized.” A staple gun only wishing to find occasional work throughout the day. Pressed into this job by an overbearing wife. He will tell you about Santiago and his favorite soccer players with excited brown eyes and an enduring smile of yellow teeth that resembles an ear of corn. Forever burning time off the clock, until he can go home to his little girl.
The boss saunters through the shop apathetic to the infrastructure that resembles a shattered hard-shell taco on a sidewalk. His face like a fox with a bristly mustache and eyes gleaming greedily at his pallets of slate. All he sees are outdated tools that will keep him in his mansion in the mountains for one more day. His Mount Rushmore of slaters, nothing more than gray faces lost on pallets in the meadow. He wants to know when the pallets will be ready to go to New York City.
Turtle and Hare: Camp Summer Sweat
Turtle and Hare: Camp Summer Sweat
by Lauren Kimball
Digital stylus
The Summer of Bees: To Dave
Hunched Over the nearly empty honey jar,Scraping the last remnants Of our glorious summer,The glint of the steel spoonBlinds me for a moment.But it is well worth it.The Summer of Bees: To Dave
The lustrous golden honeyShimmers in the twilight.I swallow it whole,Savoring its sharp sweetness. No rations for me, I wantTo remember June, July, and August—All in one mouthful—The languor of deep heat,The heaviness of humidity.
Never oppressive, our sultry climateInstead was liberating:Laundry and gardening, too hot.Errands, too exhausting.Best then, to wait it out.Sweet tea in hand, feet propped upLeaning into the cast-iron chairPorches were made for days like this.
And when I saw youFighting the cancer withinI knew this summer Would be your last.
“Come here,” I called from the porch,“Prop up your feet—Feel the sweat of the glassRun rivulets downYour arm” (the one pockmarkedWith bruises and IV intrusions).I knew you wanted toJust sit and be.
And so we did, we three,We sat and talked and satUntil the bees flew home for the night.We sat until the sun sankOver the hills you loved so muchWe sat until our glasses stopped sweating.We talked until there was no moreTo talk about, a nine-hour marathonOf our intertwined lives.You could sayWe knew it might be our last.
Bees hunker down For the impending winter.We did, too.Late to fold upOur summer furniture, we waitedOn winter’s end, we hopedFor the hive’s returnAnd another summer’s nightSitting on the porch with you.
But it was not to be.You slipped Further down the hillsideBy the mountains you loved.“God’s country,” you called themAnd we laughed because it was true.
I finally swallow The last drop of honey.It disappears Too fast,Leaving meJust a tasteOf summer and of you.
Today I put away the garden hoseTurned offThe water spigot, foldedFaded porch furniture.Summer will not come for youOnly for the bees.
by Julie D. Lillis
Neapolitan
Neapolitan
by Denise Bossarte
Photography
Inspiration: I love wandering aimlessly to find beauty that emerges through happenstance—where human-made structures meet the natural forces of time and erosion, revealing a quiet, compelling dialogue between form and decay.
I Will
I sit closein the interiorof his red Ford truck,I Will
smell of sweat and dirt, taillight busted out, six pack of Corona.
We speak of future, of politics, of the kaxlañobthat look down on him
for speaking his language—They think they’re better thanme but all I find
within them is emptiness.
We’re near where we swam, in the summerblue stream behind his brother’s
coffee fields. This is the last time we’ll be here, I realize, as he asks—
Will you remember those mountains, that mist and the cornstalks
macheted down,when you’ve gotten to whereyou want to be?
by Carol Rose Little
kaxlañob – a term in Ch’ol, a Mayan language of southern Mexico, used to refer to non-Indigenous people, pronounced kash-lan-yob
Unfortunately...
Unfortunately...
by Irina Tall
Collage , paper
Inspiration: Sweat seeps through your clothes, makes them wet, but sometimes sweat is like a small river on your skin, flowing.
Greensleeves
My olive-green coveralls, garden-wearwith double-strength knees for kneeling. For stains. Humming the ballad, twisted I did you wrong to cast you off discourteously,with last night’s dream that you need healing.Were your demands reasonable? Was I always wrong? These coveralls you gave me – I did love you so longand my Goodwill t-shirt of green and black stripes, that I chose for the double-spacing of the narrowstripes reminding me of a tablet for writing romance, room between lines for edits. And these I bought gladly.Green is the halo for a searching eye. Greensleeves was my heart and joy. Today’s heat heads to a record. Greensleeves
To the woods to hack down buckthorn. Slash and stack, sweat that heads to noon.Long sleeves and leather gloves against wicked thorns. Three hours. I have been ready at your hand. Sun full high. Slash and sweatand slash and stack. All’s quietin this woods. Except memory swirls go-round as I stand. Damp heat.
Retreat. Inside. To ice water. Salt, cold sweat and nausea. Heat. Stroke. Now? And yet once before I die.
Hand to the wall and in the looking glass, I go third person: she in green sees she pushed too hard beyondher age, too near a ragged line. Head lightened in dizziness, face of pale green. Song gone sluggish, I did you wrongshe sips at sorry.
by Tricia Knoll
Humidity Lingers
Humidity Lingers
by D C Nobes
Photography
Inspiration: I grew up in a temperate climate, and then lived in temperate climates until my (forced) retirement in 2018. I decided to retire to someplace without the snow or the cold of winter, Southeast Asia. It seems I have traded temperance for humidity, often unrelenting for days. There are times the air hangs heavy, making it hard to breathe. Other times it feels like it will rain at any moment, but then the rain doesn’t appear. Or the rain comes and goes, with little relief, leaving raindrops to linger like sweat in the humid air left behind.
Word Search
Word Search
by Jo Gatenby
“I’m not doing this for the money,” Tom assured her, cutting his way through the underbrush. They’d been at it since daybreak, and his shirt clung to his back, darkened and soaked through with sweat.
The oppressive heat was heavy with the smell of rotting vegetation, making it hard to breathe. Janet sighed. Getting passed over for promotion had made her husband increasingly restless and intense. She’d hoped this vacation would let him relax, but he’d turned it into some sort of quest.
Keeping a wary eye on the ground, to watch for snakes, she waved off the swarming mosquitoes, which seemed delighted with the hot, sweaty walking feast she provided. “I never said…”
“No, I want more than that…” He stopped, pulling a hankie from his back pocket to wipe perspiration from his face and neck. “The knowledge you did something really special, that you mattered.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he whirled around with a frustrated expression. “It isn’t fame either… or not the kind with cameras and interviews. There’s a word for it. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, you know?”
“Maybe—” she tried again, but he spun away, shoving the hankie back in his pocket with one hand, as he swiped his machete through the underbrush with the other. “Respect? No, that’s not quite it. You’re remembered… not because you lived, but because you attempted what nobody else would.”
Honestly! She loved him, but sometimes he could be so frustrating. “If you’d stop and listen for a moment, I think you mean…”
He leapt over a log, slipped with a yelp, but caught his balance and continued talking. “It’s taking a risk. The kind they tell stories about. Campfire stuff… that’s the word I’m after.”
Janet was exhausted, hot, itchy, soaked with perspiration, and growing increasingly annoyed at Tom’s constant interruptions. She couldn’t seem to squeeze a syllable in edgewise. Too tired to engage, she grunted and let him continue his rant.
She was about to suggest they stop for a rest and drink some water, when they reached the base of a cliff.
“Whoa!” Tom enthused. “This is it. If I can just get to the top, then I’ll finally find IT, whatever the hell I’ve been trying to explain…”
She tried to protest, but he leapt up the vertical surface, searching for handholds and toeholds, working his way upward with reckless abandon, ignoring her warning cries.
His muscles trembled with effort, sweat running into his eyes, and he cursed about them stinging. “Don’t worry though, I’m not giving up.” It sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth, and she clasped her hands together as he climbed higher.
He reached for the next handhold, his fingers scrabbling against the gritty rock wall slick with moss. She could hear him cursing as his boot slipped, and a small cascade of pebbles clattered down.
“Tom!” Janet cried, her fears justified.
“I’m fine. I told you; I got this. When I get to the top, perhaps I’ll remember that damn word…”
His hand lost its grip again. This time, his foot also slid out from under him. For a few seconds he hung suspended, boots scrambling to locate a hold that wasn’t there.
“Ahhh—dammit!”
Tom’s arms flailed in the air, then he pinwheeled backward. He hit the ground with a heavy thud that knocked the wind out of him. The decaying leaves at the base of the cliff softened his fall—and fortunately, he’d only been ten feet up.
He lay there winded, gasping and groaning.
She stepped closer, heart still hammering, and looked down. “Tom?”
Flat on his back, he stared up at her with a dazed expression. Insects buzzed around them while she waited. Then he moaned, and one hand moved to his bruised ribs. “Ow.”
Janet crouched beside him. “You lunatic,” she muttered, half relieved, half exasperated.
She brushed grit and sweat from his forehead. “The word you’ve been looking for is glory.”
Weird Week
Weird Week
by Melissa Lomax
Pencil drawing & digital color
Inspiration: I created this piece for my weekly autobiographical comic, 'Doodle Town'. It's such a special place for me to record happy times, note random occurrences, and work out some of the tough stuff! Although this piece was based on a specific event, I kept it general to respect the privacy of others and make it relatable to most readers! Discover even more of my moments on DoodleTownComic.com
If you like the issue, you can donate to Wild Greens through our Ko-fi page!
Artists and Contributors
Artists and Contributors
Maggie Topel
Maggie Topel
Artist
Artist
Maggie Topel (she/her) is an artist and writer living in Philadelphia. She designs our seasonal Wild Greens logos and social media avatar.
Cyrus Carlson
Cyrus Carlson
Artist
Artist
Cyrus Carlson is an abstract painter from the Midwest. His small cell phone sized works conjure moments of attention in a distracted world.
Kudakwashe Chipinda
Kudakwashe Chipinda
Poet
Poet
Kudakwashe Chipinda (he/him) is a 24-year-old wordsmith from Zimbabwe, weaving tales that capture the essence of life's triumphs and tribulations. With a passion for writing, Kudakwashe crafts stories that reflect his experiences, emotions, and perspectives. When not immersed in the world of words, he can be found debating or devouring books. Through his writing, Kudakwashe invites readers to step into his world, where stories come alive. Facebook. Instagram.
Denise Bossarte
Denise Bossarte
Artist
Artist
Denise Bossarte is an award-winning writer, photographer, and artist based in Texas, USA. When she's not immersed in writing, she turns her lens to the world around her, exploring visual spaces with a keen eye for the unexpected. Her photography captures the powerful imagery that can be found in unusual places.
Benjamin Karren
Benjamin Karren
Author
Author
Benjamin Karren (he/him) is a native of Vermont who is currently residing in Arizona. He is an emerging poet whose previous work can be found in WestWard Quarterly and Northern New England Review. Benjamin enjoys writing about a variety of topics including: rural living, the divine, and human psychology.
Lauren Kimball
Lauren Kimball
Artist and Writer
Artist and Writer
Lauren Kimball (she/her) lives in Philadelphia. She teaches literature and composition at Rutgers University-New Brunswick. In her spare time, she plays with paint, digital pens, words, and home improvement tools.
You can find her comics on Instagram @turtle_n_hare_comic.
Julie D. Lillis
Julie D. Lillis
Poet
Poet
Julie D. Lillis is a writer in the D.C. area whose work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Scheherazade Project, Brevity’s non-fiction blog, Grown & Flown, Months to Years, and Grace & Gravity. She loves to travel, knit, cook, and spend time with her family and friends.
Carol Rose Little
Carol Rose Little
Poet
Poet
Carol Rose Little is an assistant professor of linguistics at the University of Oklahoma. She has been working with Ch'ol-speaking communities in Chiapas, Mexico since 2015. She and co-translator Charlotte Friedman have translated two collections of Juana Peñate Montejo's poetry from Ch'ol into English. Their translations have appeared in Exchanges, Hayden's Ferry Review, The Arkansas International, World Literature Today, and elsewhere. Little has also worked as a Ch'ol-English interpreter for state and federal courts in the United States.
Irina Tall (Novikova)
Irina Tall (Novikova)
Artist
Artist
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, and illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art. She 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 Chornobyl 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.
Trisha Knoll
Trisha Knoll
Poet
Poet
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet whose work appears widely in dozens of journals as diverse as New Verse News and Kenyon Review. Nine collections of her poetry, both full-length and chapbook, are available through bookstores and Amazon. In 2024 two books came out: Wild Apples about her migration from Oregon to Vermont (Fernwood Press) and The Unknown Daughter with 27 persona poems telling the story of the Unknown Daughter (Finishing Line Press). Knoll is a Contributing Editor to Verse Virtual. Website: triciaknoll.com
D C Nobes
D C Nobes
Artist
Artist
D.C. Nobes is a physicist, poet, and photographer who, aside from 2 years on Vancouver Island, spent his first 39 years in or near Toronto, Canada, then 23 years based in Christchurch, New Zealand, 4 years in China, and has since retired to Bali. He used to enjoy winter but admits that he doesn’t miss the snow or the cold. He thinks almost all poetry is meant to be read aloud. His poetry and art photographs have been widely published.
You can find him on Twitter:@sebon521 and Instagram: @sebon52
Jo Gatenby
Jo Gatenby
Author
Author
Jo Gatenby writes whatever the voices shouting in her head tell her to. She has published flash and micro-fiction, and several children’s books. Her first fantasy novel is due to be released in October. Thanks to her grandmother, she is Algonquin, of the Pikwakanagan First Nation, in Canada. Check out her website and receive a free story when you join her reader’s club at www.jo-gatenby-books.com.
Melissa Lomax
Melissa Lomax
Artist
Artist
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!
Tim Brey
Tim Brey
Music Editor
Music Editor
Tim Brey (he/him) is a jazz pianist living in Philadelphia. He holds positions as Artist-in-Residence and Adjunct Faculty at Temple University and The University of the Arts, where he teaches jazz piano, music theory, and improvisation. Check out more of his music and his performance schedule at https://www.timbreymusic.com.
Jessica Doble
Jessica Doble
Poetry Editor
Poetry Editor
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.
Myra Chappius
Myra Chappius
Poetry Editor and Copyeditor
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, tennis, cinema, live music, and seeing the world. When not doing mom things, she is working full-time, learning yet another language, and planning her next adventure.
Her work can be purchased on Amazon.
Jacqueline Ruvalcaba
Jacqueline Ruvalcaba
Senior Editor
Senior Editor
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.
Hayley Boyle
Hayley Boyle
Arts Editor
Arts Editor
Hayley (she/her) creates the cover image for every 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 husband Evan and dog Birdie, and she wouldn't have it any other way. You can find Hayley on Instagram @hayley3390.
Rebecca Lipperini
Rebecca Lipperini
Editor-in-chief
Editor-in-chief
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.
You can find Rebecca on Instagram @rebeccalipperini (personal) @wildgreensmag (you already know it).
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