Volume 3, Issue iv
Wild Greens 3, no. 04 (February 2023)
Welcome to the February 2023 issue of Wild Greens
This month, we’re second guessing our instincts, having second thoughts about our choices, and getting a second wind to seek that Second Chance. On this, the second month of the year, we’re turning back time: moving the minutes and the hours, counting every second.
This is Wild Greens, Second Chance.
Kate Statelman’s song, “A Week Apart” is a song about the distance between one moment and the next, and the way time moves on even as we wait and think back and ruminate. Hit play and listen as you read the rest of the issue.
In Myra Chappius’s long-awaited final installment of “Lost and Found,” Ethan gets a second chance at being a father.
“Solitude,” a sonnet by Mike D’Andrea, speaks of missed connections, romantic longing, and regret.
In “The Rematch,” Hare challenges Turtle to another race.
Lorette C. Luzajic’s short story, “Must Love Dogs,” follows a young woman who, suspicious and mistrustful of men (and of dogs), seizes an opportunity for connection at the supermarket checkout line.
Melissa Lomax’s pencil and watercolor panel comic, “Remembering You Do-Over” depicts an embarrassing (and relatable) moment of forgetfulness.
“Birthday Party,” a mosaic by Robin Brownfield, is a portrait of the artist’s daughter on her third birthday, when she had a second chance at a birthday wish. Robin notes that the piece itself is also a second chance: she had originally submitted and then withdrawn it from a previous Wild Greens issue.
“Every Axolotl is Me,” a poem by Christian Ward, explores the second lives of axolotls through regeneration. Mariah Harned’s short story “Destiny” similarly picks up this theme of traveling through time, literally!
“My Lucky Pin” in enamel by Melissa Lomax gives us a little extra luck from black cats. To close, Douglas Hardman’s poem “the stars, and the signs, and the bad, bad times.” We can choose to walk away from people who don’t deserve a second chance, and to solidify the bonds we have with the people who do.
We think this issue is second to none, and has come not a second too soon.
"A Week Apart"
Music and lyrics by Kate Statelman
I can see youFrom across the streetThrough the cars and people and carriagesAs they pass in front of meThey make you flickerLike the lights hitting movie screensTo make pretty picturesOut of little sparksWith shadows in between
RememberForgetfulJanuary SnowTakes a while to catch up with time
Let's take our timeA year or soDecide where we wereA day agoWe aren't who we'll beIn a month or soThere's so much to seeIn a weekOr so it seems to me
Takes a while to catch up with time
Inspiration: "A Week Apart" is a song about the time and distance between one moment and the next. It depicts the pause between a question and its answer—and the way in which the world continues to move and change when we slow to think things over.
For mobile listeners: Pressing "play" will open a new tab. As long as you keep the tab open, most phones will allow you to listen to the song while you explore the rest of the issue in a separate tab!
For desktop listeners: Press "play" and listen while you explore the rest of the issue!
Lost and Found (part 6)
Ethan’s apartment was in a rundown motel-style arrangement of buildings. He had prepared her, on the bus ride over, for the state of his current living conditions. Again, the details weren’t shared with contempt but rather gratitude for the smidgen of stability he had managed to secure. He told her even more as they sat together bumping along the road. It occurred to Jo that she had never been on a city bus. Ethan had been to hell and back and she hadn’t even dipped her toes into public transportation. The paths on which life takes us, she thought.
There was a text from Ryan. It was two hours old and contained only a line of question marks. Jo knew he must be anxious, but this wasn’t the kind of revelation that could be put into a few sentences, nor did it deserve that. Instead, she typed a short reply that all was well, she loved him, and she would call later.
The iron of the banister burned her fingertips as they climbed the three flights of stairs to unit 321. Ethan was greeted by several people along the way. He had related to her that the Sunset Bay apartments were a common landing zone for those working their way out from under addiction. Though he had only been there a couple of months he was well-known and liked. He cooked meals for people when he wasn’t working at the diner. He sat up late into the night keeping company with those that were struggling. He had a rotating schedule of meeting buddies, each person keeping another accountable. Even a few years on the streets couldn’t drive out Ethan’s helpful nature. When it came down to it, he knew how to take care of people.
His apartment was expectedly small but tidy. He had the basics – a futon that he pulled out at night to sleep, a coffee table which doubled for dining, a decent selection of pots and pans. A small dresser in the corner held his clothes, two pairs of shoes lined up in the closet under a handful of hanging chef coats, pants and aprons. A little nightstand next to the futon held a reading lamp, alarm clock and one frame with two photos. A little bathroom was set back off the kitchen.
Ethan watched as Jo looked around, taking small steps about herself. There was no decoration in the place to speak of.
“Haven’t quite gotten out of the habit of keeping it simple,” Ethan said humbly. “Seems easier this way. For now.”
“It’s nice,” Jo said sincerely. “You’re doing well.”
Ethan offered her a glass of water, which she accepted, the day’s heat having given her a thirst. They talked a bit further, catching up on five years of news. Ethan asked after her kids, a sadness rising in his eyes as he realized how much he had missed. At first, Jo tried to keep it superficial, not wanting to make him feel badly. But he pressed her for greater details, and she offered them. Her daughters and son would be so happy to hear from him again when he was ready. She was happy to be able to at least tell them that he was alright.
After an hour, Ethan rose to use the restroom and Jo’s gaze fell on the frame situated on the table behind her. Two photos sat loosely side-by-side, each a little crooked. On the left she found herself looking back at her. She recognized the photo. She had been the one to send it to Ethan just before things went silent. It was from her daughter’s birthday. The remainder of the stellar cake Ethan has made sat in front of the group cut and enjoyed. It was the last time they had all been together. Someone’s phone propped on the counter; timer set to ten seconds. Jo remembered how just before the screen flashed the number one Ryan had said something funny that turned everyone’s pleasant picture expressions into a display of boisterous laughter and genuine love. It seemed like just yesterday. Jo hoped they’d be there again.
The other photo was smaller, a bit more aged around the sides. It appeared as if part of it had been ripped away at some point. It was a teenaged Emily, standing in front of her high school, clad in baggy sweatpants, wet hair dangling in front of her face. She was clutching a medal with a huge smile on her face. She had been a rather accomplished swimmer, even going to college on a full scholarship. Jo couldn’t imagine missing such important years of her own kids’ lives, or not being in contact with them. Ethan and Emily had been close, best friends as much as father and daughter. Jo would’ve thought nothing could tear them apart.
She was still gazing at the picture when Ethan re-entered the room. He ducked his head when he saw what she was looking at, sat himself back down, took another drink.
“Have you really not spoken to her since graduation?” Jo asked. “Nothing?” Ethan shook his head, his eyes on the floor. “Have you tried?” she asked further.
Again, he nodded. “I wouldn’t know what to say. How could she ever forgive me?” And now, for the first time that day, Ethan cried. Through the telling of his entire ordeal, the demonstration of his current conditions, he had been strong, reserved. He’d seemed to have accepted the way things had gone and was intent on moving forward. But some wounds run so terribly deep.
“You’re her father, Ethan,” Jo offered. “She’ll forgive you. Talk to her, like you talked to me. She’ll understand, just like I do.”
It was several minutes before he was able to calm himself, but there was nothing awkward about those minutes. Ethan and Jo had been in each other’s lives long enough, closely enough, to have seen the other cry a time or two. Jo rubbed a hand along his shoulders in comfort.
After a time, he said sniffling, “I wouldn’t even know how to reach her. What kind of father doesn’t know how to contact his own daughter?”
Jo didn’t have an answer for that. But she had something else. She pulled her purse into her lap, retrieving her cell phone from the side pocket. She hadn’t spoken to Emily in over two years; how likely was it that her number was still the same? When Ethan realized what she was doing, his face went a little pale. His eyes narrowed just a bit and his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked up at Jo, fear behind his eyes.
“You could try. I’m sure she wants to talk to you, to know that you’re okay.”
He continued looking at her, his eyes pleading.
“Ethan, I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He closed his eyes, taking deep, even breaths, one hand twisting in the other. After a moment, he went still, his attitude now comprised of determination. He looked at Jo’s phone, gave her a single nod and said, “I can try.”
Jo took a deep breath herself, found Emily’s contact in her phone and pushed the bottom that would dial her. He tried to hand the phone to Ethan as it began to ring but he waved her off. Instead, she hit the speaker button and put it down on the table in front of them.
After five rings, when it seemed as if this opportunity was going to pass them by, the line clicked and a voice that was instantly recognizable to both of them came on.
“Hello?” it said.
At that simple word, tears reappeared in Ethan’s eyes. He swallowed several times.
“Hello?” it echoed.
The air in the room was as still as a windless desert night. A sob broke free from the other end of the line.
SolitudeWisdom says one shouldn’t have regretif in their life they’ve found themself content.I keep this adage in my heart, and yet, I’m dreaming of a lifetime better tread.
That lifetime when I dared to say helloinstead of dreading how you would react.That fantasy remains unknowable,a courage and conviction that I lacked.
I’d say I’m happy now, but not elated.A lifetime taxed by constant thoughts of you.My mindless musings, countless hours spent -the might-have-beens if I had followed through.
A fantasy I’m fighting to eschew,repurpose my remorse for someone new.
If you like the issue, you can donate to Wild Greens through our Ko-fi page!
Must Hate Dogs
She’s always talking to herself. Saying things out loud helps her keep track. Salami, yes, she says. Cream. Fresh basil. Check, check. Olives, yes. And oh, goodness, something fresh and floral in a white.
It’s too hot for red, isn’t it? Or not, she thinks, seeing a ripe ruby vintage Malbec. She talks it over with herself. The pros and cons of each option. “All right,” she decides. Puts both in the basket.
The checkout is usually a long wait at this hour, with everyone nabbing a few ingredients on the way home from work. She adds a quart of big bursting strawberries and some plain and perfect Swedish chocolate with a kitschy label. She’s taking in the folk art graphics, wondering if they are ancient or made with Canva, when she hears him.
“Looks like a great date ahead,” the voice says. She prickles instinctively at the intrusion, but his voice is a plush, rich alto, with just a touch of whisky gravel. She can’t resist looking up. “Hi there,” he says.
She hates people who say “hi there.” It rubs her the wrong way.
“Oh, um, hey, hi there,” she manages. No, oh goodness. She didn’t! She is more nervous than her usual.
The voice bearer laughs, as if he can read all the awkward turmoil in her mind and heart and laptop files and front hall closet of shame with nothing more than that to go on.
“Hi there,” he says again. “Javier here.” He’s holding a bouquet of asparagus spears in one hand and a nice varietal, another white, Pinot Grigio, in his other.
He smiles. He’s small and brown and beautiful. His teeth and jaws are wide, sturdy in a more delicate head. His hands are slender and tender.
She smiles back. It takes a while for that reflex to kick in but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, um, no date,” she says. “I’m cooking lemon and basil pasta and drinking tonight. Just needed a few things.” She nods. The thought runs through her mind that she’s glad she has on a sweet and flimsy little gold chain that sits just oh so subtly at the base of her throat, plain but real, and dainty pewter earrings that are treble clefs if you look closer. It seems to matter in this moment.
“Yeaaaaaaahhh,” he says with broad, big grin. His voice rolls with real mirth, sounds like a river. “You got the idea, yeah,” he says. He holds up the bunched-up stalks and gives a long nod, grin not fading. His eyes are twinkling. It takes her a moment to get it—he’s flying solo tonight, too. Really flying, that is, not trying to get out of his own company and finagle a date. Maybe he is the sort who guards his solitude as greedily as she does.
She thinks about her last date. Dude was cute and clumsy, big sweater, loveable sort, with as much sex appeal as a cocker spaniel. He had a labradoodle, a golden doodle and some other kind of doodle and they were all friendly and panting just like he was and his whole flat smelled of kibble and dog tongues. She politely slipped home early to her Siamese cats and a documentary about a composer she adored.
Dating was tricky enough for the rest of the world. For introverts, finding someone’s company you preferred to your own was a risky proposition. Who would get her? Who would see things the way she did?
Once a young reporter from the local college had asked her what she lived for. It was a little puff piece in a lean but glossy alumni edition and they’d sent a photog, too. She didn’t read too much into the small triumphs like these, but was gracious and grateful for them at the same time. She’d had a respectable, if unspectacular career crafting television themes and scores. She burned with music and culture, bled it, and she knew she was lucky. She didn’t have to log barista hours at Starbucks or work in medical data entry. She had work. She wrote, she played her flute and her violin.
“Yay, life, yeah,” she’d said, reeling back in from her imagination’s flight to answer the journalist’s question. What was that? What do you live for? Three things.
Oh, okay, three. Yes. That’s easy. Film score. The way classical composition merging with pop and rock had its own kind of choreography, an emotional life outside of her after she was done with it. Two, umm, yes, claro. Cats. Their easy grace and nonchalance, twisted with their intensity and their extraordinary beauty. Three? Well, goodness. Everything. Chess, kiwi birds, nun figurines, jellyfish, amethyst turtle carvings, wine from Porto, neon paint, the half-moon, Mexico, Hannukah, Tiffany’s, wooden clogs, Shalimar, olive oil, Inuit art, New York photography, the Dire Straits. The dictionary, hard copy. No, the thesaurus. Oh, either, both. The bounty of words. Sting. Emmylou Harris. Philip Glass. Berlioz.
The line moved, and the beautiful small brown man she’d done her best to ignore was slinging his Grigio into an eco-carry he’d pulled from his jeans pocket like a magician pulled something out a hat. The moment was almost past her. She looked him over again. Who was he? Drums? Cello? Folk singer? Trance? Music, for sure, in some way. No way he was about anything else. She pictured the tiniest viola, cradled against him. The trill of magic that might rise up, the siren melody that drowned out all the noise. The conductor? The thought of it sends a current of electricity through her. Him commanding all of it, him feeling every note, every instrument the way she did.
“Wait for me,” she says, impulsively, almost under her breath as he pays, but he hears her.
Remembering You Do-Over
tiles, glue, grout
Inspiration: This fits under "Second Chances" for a few reasons. First, I had submitted and withdrawn this one before because I lacked confidence in my work, so I am looking for a second chance to show it. Second, this was my second choice for submission because, due to a still disabled post-surgery right hand, I can't complete the one I really wanted to do. Third, this is a portrait of my daughter on her 3rd birthday. We sang "Happy Birthday" and she watched excitedly waiting to blow out the candles, when her six-year-old brother blew them out! After several minutes of consoling a devastated little girl, we re-lit the candles, sang again, and caught this image of her blowing out her candles on her second chance.
Every Axolotl is MeTape your eyelids to avoid missingthe flashgun of regeneration. Doctor Who has nothing on this Pokémon wannabe with troll doll fingers.Instagram perfect this Houdini is.Look how the audience coosat its childlike face, how it attractsadoration even when dressed in a mud-like shade when old.And all the while, the audience ages while it takes a second chance back into youth, back to a timewhen its body is a diorama of perfection.It ignores the rain redrafting the city,people’s lives and the undercurrents flowing everywhere. Every day is another page to be illustrated.Let the ink splash you it might say.
If you like the issue, you can donate to Wild Greens through our Ko-fi page!
by Mariah Harned
The throbbing pain in my leg won’t let me sleep. Glaring hospital lights and voices booming over the speakers don’t help matters. I groan, knowing I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my own negligence. What kind of idiot runs down a flight of stairs with untied shoelaces? If only I'd noticed the flapping strings before they sent me rolling.
Footsteps pad toward my bed, jolting me from my self-criticism. I open my eyes. Then I sit up straight, blinking in confusion. Instead of the expected scrubs and stethoscope, the stranger’s garb consists of a khaki robe tied off at strategic points with neon blue rope. How strong is this pain medication? “Who are you?”
“Just your friendly neighborhood time traveler!” With a smirk, the stranger taps a few buttons on his handheld gadget that looks too sleek to be any electronic device of this era.
“Okay, now I know this isn’t real.”
The stranger grins at my scowl and scribbles something on the screen with his finger. “I’ll prove it. Watch—with the press of a button, I’ll travel one minute into the future.” With that, he touches the screen and vanishes.
My eyes widen. What a weird hallucination. I settle back onto my pillow, but unreasonable curiosity keeps my gaze on the empty space where the stranger had been standing. I shake my head, chuckling. As if there’s such a thing as—I jump, yelping when the man in the khaki robe appears beside me.
He laughs, his hands on his hips. “Didn’t believe me?”
“Well, I— I—” This has to be a dream.
“Look, I’m just offering you a chance to try out time travel for yourself.”
“You what? Really?” I narrow my eyes, uncertainty creeping in. “Why me?”
The man ignores my questions and holds out his gadget. “Don’t you want to go back and tie that shoe?”
I stare at him. Now he can read my mind, too? But then I relax. Of course he can—he was all in my mind to start with. Well, let’s see how far this dream can go. “Alright, fine.” I accept the sleek tablet from his hand. “I’ll do it.”
He smiles. “I knew you would. Just touch the purple button.”
With a shrug, I glance at the screen, half-expecting a mosaic of shape-shifting, impossible-to-catch patches of color. But only one giant neon-purple circle appears on the black screen. I roll my eyes and tap the circle.
Instantly, a swirl of light envelops my consciousness, and the ache in my leg fades away. I find myself standing at the top of the stairs again, about to leave work. An eerie chill runs down my spine. No, this can’t be real. But, if it is… Tucking the machine into my shirt pocket, I look down at my shoes. Sure enough. Untied. I kneel to retie my shoelaces and eye the dimly lit stairwell. “No way.” I retreat through the door behind me. “I’m taking the elevator.”
The evening proceeds in its usual peaceful monotony. I descend to the ground floor, wave at the security guard, saunter across the parking lot, and step into my red Ford Focus. With habitual caution, I ease out of my parking space and maneuver onto the main road. Suddenly, squealing tires split the air, a vehicle smashes into my door, and blinding pain shoots up my leg.
The throbbing pain in my leg tugs at my consciousness, and I open my eyes to glaring hospital lights and a khaki-clothed man peering down at me. “Good. You’re awake.”
I sit up groggily, wincing at the sharp pain. “I just had the strangest dream…”
The man sighs. “Here we go again.” He holds out his hand. “My time machine, please?”
My eyes grow wide. I pat at my shirt pocket and pull out the sleek metal device.
“Unless you’d like another try?”
I hesitate before handing it over. If this is real, it would be foolish not to undo my injury. And if it’s all in my head, well, it wouldn’t hurt to try again, would it? “Can you set it for this morning? Before I go to work?”
He smiles and takes the machine. “Of course. Fascinating choice.” Now what does he mean by that? I watch in perplexity as he swipes, taps, and stretches buttons. Then he hands the device back to me. “Bon voyage!”
I touch the purple circle again, and the pain in my leg disappears into a swirl of lights.
I wake up in my bed, my phone bellowing its wake-up call. “First things first,” I say to myself. I silence the alarm and message my boss that I’m taking a sick day. Then I wander happily to the kitchen for breakfast. I won’t set foot in any stairwell, or elevator, or car, or—a shriek escapes me when my bare foot skids on something slimy. Twisting around to reach for the doorway, I catch sight of a brown banana peel. Seriously? I really should move the trash can, or else work on my aim. I lean sideways to regain my balance, but my leg slides under me, and my weight hits the ground with a sickening snap. With an anguished scream, I fumble for my phone in my pocket and dial 911. Everything explodes into stars of agony.
The throbbing pain in my leg drags me from the numbness of anesthesia again, and I glare blearily at the time traveler beside me. “Before you ask, no, I do not want to go break my leg again! You can have your gadget back!”
He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “You sure? There are so many possible destinations—”
I fling the time machine at him. “Yes! Go away!”
With a sigh, he taps the screen and disappears.
A few days later, it hit me. All of time at my disposal, and I threw away a chance to travel the centuries.
My Lucky Pin
the stars, and the signs, and the bad, bad timesAstrological ponderingKaleidoscopic tendenciesFracturing fallaciesRewriting the storyI killed off the hero
The stars betray meEvery turn of the cornerA new friend appearsDisguised as a foeSimilar plots, different floodgatesWhen two problems collideA happy endingIt cannot be
I stopped believing in second chancesEveryone around me was a disappointmentWhen two people of the same sunBetrayed meWhen two people of the same sunTested meWhen two people of the same sunObliterated meHow much wishful thinking can I affordWhen the burning cosmosContinue to double-cross me?
Stars are already faded before we know itSo I kept myself secludedExpect disappointmentAccept lonelinessI wondered if they were even worth itOne flick of the switchI easily turn on thoseBefore they could destroy my egoIt’s not worth my newfound peaceEasy come, easier gone
Not all is black and whiteLike a starry sky in the mountainsLet the right ones inBut how do I know?Sometimes you just doRare as the glimmer of a comet in the skyI found my comradesUnited in trauma and rising signsI’ll keep my guard upBut leave the moon tattoos on my sleeves revealedA welcome signAnd a comfort beaconTo the friends I haveWho will never needA second chance
See behind the scenes of Wild Greens. Our Ko-fi page contains concept art for past issues.
Artists and Contributors
Kate Statelman is a composer inspired by movement, texture, color, and imagery. Her music blends technology and traditional instruments into unique sound palettes that incorporate orchestral, folk, and electronic influences. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she works as a freelance theatre composer. Kate released her debut EP, Character Studies, in December 2022—listen for free on Bandcamp and YouTube. Find her on her website: www.katestatelman.com
Writer 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, music, travel, and learning. When not doing mom things, she is working full-time, seeing the latest movie, or waiting an acceptable length of time before returning to Universal Orlando to satiate her Harry Potter obsession.
Mike D'Andrea (he/him) was born and raised in the Philly suburbs, though he currently lives in Hell's Kitchen in NYC, where he works in tech as a User Experience Researcher. Writing poetry is one of Mike's longest-held hobbies; you can find more of his work on his Instagram, @mikeyd231!
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.
Lorette C. Luzajic
Lorette C. Luzajic (she/her) writes, edits, publishes, and teaches flash fiction and prose poetry. She is the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. She is also an internationally collected visual artist. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.
Melissa Lomax (she/her) is a freelance illustrator, art teacher, and cartoonist with 20 years of experience in the creative industry. Some of her clients include American Greetings, Sellers Publishing, Great Arrow Graphics, 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!
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.
Christian Ward (he/him) is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Double Speak, Obsessed with Pipework, Primeval Monster, Clade Song, Uppagus, and BlueHouse Journal.
Mariah Harned (she/her) is a senior at Greenville University and a future medical research scientist. Given her background in biology and chemistry, science fiction seems like the proper channel for her love of writing.
Douglas Hardman (he/him/they) is a veterinary technician by day and a brooding lyricist/poet by night. He has a background in theater and journalism, with a few original productions under his belt, and a national award in collegiate journalism for editing and writing. Philadelphia has been home since August 2019, and he has loved pursuing different mediums, forever being inspired by the beauty of the city. Check out their Instagram@the_hideaway16 for snippets of unpublished poetry and song lyrics. His personal Instagram is @caliboynewyorkmind. Keep an eye out on his socials for details about upcoming poetry readings in Philadelphia.
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) is a writer, editor, and copyeditor living in California. She earned her BA in English and creative writing at the University of California, Riverside. She was a 2021 publishing fellow with the Los Angeles Review of Books and an editor and co-editor for PubLab and Mosaic Art and Literary Journal. She serves as the fiction editor for Wild Greens magazine and a copyeditor for the Los Angeles Review of Books and The Arrow Journal.
Maggie Topel (she/her) is an artist and writer living in Philadelphia. She designs our seasonal Wild Greens logo and social media avatar.
Hayley (she/her) creates the cover image for each issue of Wild Greens magazine 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 and 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 (hi!). 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.