Wild Greens

Volume 2, Issue ii

Polar*ity

Wild Greens 2, no. 2 (December 2021)

Polar*ity

Welcome to the December 2021 issue of Wild Greens

We pride ourselves on being evergreen. This month, though green in spirit, we’re covered in a thin layer of white frost. For the December issue, we asked our contributors to create art inspired by the theme Polar*ity.

Robin Brownfield’s mosaic of polar bears creates surprising lines, diversity, and personality in seemingly monochrome glass tiles. Angie’s Cosey’s travelogue, “Siberia, 2020,” recounts the author’s chance meeting with a Siberian shepherd. Swipe through Angie’s photos from this encounter at the end of her short essay.

Erin Panek’s photographs “On Thin Ice” and “Solo Skater” capture a snowy scene in her hometown of a lone skater. Colleen T. Reese’s personal essay, “The Secret Life of Avoidant Cutlery” contemplates the life of a loner, the downsides and the benefits.

In the newest installment of Turtle and Hare, Turtle’s run for office continues as he tackles tough topics, weighs his own preferences, and considers the future.

Memory is the topic of Noah Erkes’s photo series, “Erosive Echoes.” He asks, “Can we see the positive in prior connections?” In her poem, “Polarity or Leaving,” poet Jessica Doble explores the cold winter of a relationship. Douglas Hardman’s photo series manipulates light and color to show contrasts and communicate duality.

In Kelly Rockstein’s oil painting, “No-Name Mountain,” she recalls a snow-capped rock in Colorado, and its connection to the memory of the friend she stood beside at the summit. Finally, “Akureyri” by Clara Peterson, a piece of short fiction inspired by a trip the author took to Iceland, picks up on the themes in “No-Name Mountain.” We leave you here, with the final image of her characters Kíra and Anna— “fierce, fearless, indestructible.”

-Rebecca

Polarity

by Robin Brownfield


Tiles, grout


Inspiration: I've done several mosaics of polar bears. Initially, I was inspired by the old joke about the child who turns in a blank piece of paper for a school art project, claiming that it's a polar bear in a snowstorm. Mosaic artists also joke about how people keep giving them leftover tiles from home projects, but they are inevitably all white. I did two mosaics using donated white tiles, but I sold those. For "Polarity," I made one using my usual recycled glass tiles. While making it, for some unknown reason, an arctic fox sneaked onto the board.


Siberia, 2020

by Angie Cosey


It was a raw and biting minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit as our little bread truck trundled across the Siberian steppe. A patchy layer of snow covered the grassy slopes in meringue ripples. We bounced across barren fields and through rutted cart paths and over frozen rivers, fighting fatigue as we traveled back toward the lodge after a day of staring across the hills and straining our eyes to catch sight of a snow leopard.

We came to a valley scattered with sheep and yaks and horses. The bread truck — called bukhanka, or loaf, in Russian because it was shaped just so — ground to a halt next to a shepherd who was keeping watch over his livestock. The driver got out to ask the shepherd if he’d found any leopard signs in the area recently. They conversed for a while, then walked off together into the field, returning a few moments later with a tiny wet lamb clutched in the shepherd’s arms. She was white and trembling and couldn’t have been more than 30 minutes old; I christened her Anastasia.

The shepherd needed to take Anastasia to his house — presumably so she wouldn’t freeze to death in the first hour of her new life — and it was agreed that we would give the pair a lift. It must have been two miles away; if we hadn’t come along that shepherd would have walked all that way with a newborn lamb. She could’ve frozen to death in his arms before they made it back.

For a moment we had a glimpse into one instant of a steppe herder’s day and I’ve rarely seen a lifestyle so different from my own. A week later I would be soaking in a hot bath in a magnificent tub in the Hotel Metropol in Moscow, and this guy would be collecting another wet lamb and trekking it across the plain to dry it by the warm flames of his hearth.

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"On Thin Ice" and "Solo Skater"

by Erin Panek


Methods: Depth of field


Inspiration: I am inspired by my surroundings which is oftentimes my hometown. "The lake" was frozen and I took the opportunity to snap some photos of the skaters and hockey players, young and old alike.


The Secret Life of Avoidant Cutlery

by Colleen T. Reese

"Turn right on Towanda Trail," said the virtual assistant as she interrupted some moody folk singer playing in my headphones. I was 32 years old and still using Google Maps to take a ten-minute walk from the Airbnb I was renting to a beach in Arrowhead Lake. A canoe named Chippy was fabled to be waiting there, a dark green three-person canoe that I planned to drag into the lake on my own.

As with Chippy, I was convinced that using Google Maps for this ten-minute walk held some deeper meaning than it really did. This feeling was expected. It had been years since I sat down and tried to write seriously. Throughout the week, I kept catching myself grasping at every moment that passed, desperately searching for meaning. The coffee I drank, the meals I ate each evening, the decor of the house, the wool-blend of my socks, the wine I selected, the sun in the windows, the unplugged television. This was the first trip I had ever taken by myself. I felt it with each inconsequential step.

After the first turn, I had already noticed several motorcycles parked in the neighborhood. I always looked for them in places like this one. I took comfort in the idea that somewhere among the manicured lawns was an underbelly, beckoning like a gentle and dark whisper for people like me. But, despite the occasional leather vest or startling sound of an engine turning over, I felt like a spy caught behind enemy lines. Was it obvious that I didn’t belong here? I looked around at the babbling water features and neatly paved driveways.

To my relief, most of the houses were empty along the walk to the beach. The only people I found were appliance techs and cleaners on their way to flip the houses in between renters. I had reserved the cabin for the week after Labor Day for this very reason. \ I always liked to operate this way: I vacationed in the fall almost exclusively; I never went to the beach; I prefered the night shift; I enjoyed drinking in the middle of the day. My desires in life were almost exclusively voyeuristic, like an unimportant secret I couldn’t wait to keep.

People in my generation are quick to pathologize these behaviors as avoidant. It's as if any deviations from the very social structures we've deemed as violent (at best) are still nothing short of a disease to be sought out and treated. We do this with particular vigor these days, to the point where it's almost a parody, a first date question.

"What's your attachment style?" the woman in my imagination asks me from across the table. She is well dressed and definitely makes more money than I do. In this maladaptive daydream, I don’t have the perfect retort for her frankly obtuse question. Instead, I am more curious if she had considered that many of us are hesitant to give up the paltry and strange benefits afforded to us when whatever triggering event thrust us out of the bosom of normalcy and called us "other." Benefits that included a unique vantage point, resourcefulness and, above all, intrigue. Infinite, delicious intrigue.

I gave up on the argument before it went on for too long in my head. I had other things to worry about, like finding and unlocking this fucking canoe when I got to the beach. But, when I arrived at the beach, it was empty.

"BEACH CLOSED AS A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE DUE TO HIGHER THAN ACCEPTABLE LEVELS OF COLIFORM," the sign read.

It was enough to make me reconsider the coffee and canoeing for the day. I sat, awkwardly, on the sandy beach behind the cautionary sign. I had no chair or blanket, just the long hiking jacket I was wearing. At least it covered most of my legs.

They call what I was doing that week deep work, which refers to time spent away from distractions in order to pursue a singular effort. I never imagined that I would be able to do something like this when I was younger. There was, of course, the idea of money to contend with first of all. (I never imagined making any.) And secondly, I wanted to be a writer so I assumed that my life would always be deep work. It never occured to me that I might become a bad writer and need to pour a month’s rent into disappearing an hour away from my home to even try.

But there I was, a thirtysomething-year-old woman, scribbling in a notebook stacked on top of a bright orange dry bag stuffed with Bolaño and Murakami and granola. I must have looked wholly unprepared. I felt like the people around me could smell it, that my presence might even be unnerving to them. It was a familiar feeling.

"Your writing reminds me of a sharp knife," Jess said over the phone.

Jess was a writer too, and much better at it than I was. We worked together at an advertising agency a few years ago. The job was one of the worst I've ever had but it bonded us and so I didn't feel shy about asking her to edit a meandering story I had written about my alcoholic father who passed away from liver cancer. At the time, I found her note complimentary. This was the most important pain that I had ever felt in my life (or at least I thought so at the time). I wanted that pain to be clean and sharp and specific.

I spent most of my young life this way: convinced that it was a good and honorable thing to understand pain. I wrote about pain. Listened to music about heartbreak. I was fascinated by sculpture—anything that felt like stripping something down. I remember the moment when I recognized that adults would pay extra attention when I wrote something about pain, as if they could already see it tattooed on my fingers. This one won’t carry it well.

Eventually, I became convinced that the path to self-actualization was subtractive too, like those art forms I adored so well. All I had to do was cut out the impurities. I was something like a homing pigeon for my pain. I could always find it and I didn't hesitate when it came to wielding it against myself or others.

As I turned Jess’s feedback over in my mind, I began to think of myself like a knife—a tool suitable only for very specific tasks. You don't just keep knives lying around with a deck of cards or the blanket you use to keep warm at night. That would be absurd. You put them in a drawer with the other knives.

Imagine, for instance, arriving at a friend's house and seeing a knife in an unexpected place. The knife itself is fairly banal, but it doesn't belong out in the open with no one attending to it. And maybe it's not so banal. Most normal people are unnerved by the presence of any unfamiliar knife. Perhaps this is why I found it all so difficult, to understand and be understood.

Like the unfamiliar kitchen knife, I unnerve the people around me. I have a lot of friends who find it generally uncomfortable to be alone with me. I can see it, you know. The shift in their posture, the way they balance their weight from one foot to the other. To be fair, the act has always been poor on my part, punctuated by bursts of poor attempts at people pleasing or sometimes outright lying. I’m not going to do anything with the knife, I’m just holding it! Really, it’s a testament to their character and intelligence. They are not easily fooled.

There are, of course, people who are very comfortable handling knives, even unfamiliar knives. I like to think of these people as handlers. And handlers are even rarer than knives. That’s what keeps the circle small. This is how alternative and subcultures work.

But then you go out into the real world and you have to ask yourself if being a knife is enough for you. Is it enough, to only be useful and welcome in very specific scenarios and otherwise stashed in a drawer with the other tools. Were we all so unimaginative that there could be no fulfilling life for us, the sharper people? The night people? The metalheads and wasteoids? The traumatized? Would we really spend a whole life outside of the normal flow of things, collecting these little beautiful moments that no one else would ever see or feel or touch?

As I peered at the sixty-year-old woman who had suddenly materialized next to me with her boat hat and arduous-looking paperback, I could only answer yes. It was enough for me. In fact, if I was as honest as I would need to be to accomplish what I came here to do, I would have to finally admit that I choose these alien and anonymous little seconds over acceptance from the people I know and love every time.

“Do you care if I smoke,” I asked her. And I held my breath, unsure if I had miscalculated her. The heavy book. The oversized shirt.

“Sure. But don’t let those guys in the carts catch you. They’ll fine you for smoking on the beach.” She replied with a smile. I could see that some of her molars were filled with metal.

“Do you want one?” I extended my hand toward her. She declined before I could fully extend my arm. I shuffled a few steps away to make sure I was downwind of her. As I exhaled, she peered at me from behind her sunglasses. We both smiled. It wasn’t hard to look her in the eyes.

“My daughter would hate it. She doesn’t like it when I smoke,” she said after a few moments.

“Makes sense.”

You see, some of us are marked forever and in no rush to disfigure ourselves back into some perverse imitation of our more palatable selves. It’s not just the trauma that marks you, after all. It’s the hard-won beauty of a new perspective all the years after that leaves fingerprints on your cheeks.

A relaxed moment with a woman in a boat hat. The way the city feels when it’s asleep and I’m still awake. The purple humor of the edges of a party. That sweet, strange smugness that comes with the knowledge that not everyone makes a full recovery. Learning this is like possessing a secret knowledge, one that lays bare the world around you. They need us, it speaks. To keep the knowledge and reflect it back at them. To show them what they look like from the outside.

On the way back from the beach, I passed by an older biker who looked like a grittier version of Sam Elliott. I knew it was customary in these kinds of communities to wave at people as they passed. (The gesture would normally gross me out but I felt a kinship with the biker.) I flashed him a peace sign, my head tilted up in a knowing nod. He took his right hand off of the handlebars and crossed his chest in a wave, amused if not a little nonplussed, as if he could have spotted me from a mile away. Was it in alarm? Communion? Understanding? Most of all, I wondered if he could hear it too, like the woman on the beach… that little voice in the back of his head.

Knife! Knife! Knife!


An Inconvenient Turtle

by Lauren Kimball


Digital stylus


If you like the issue, you can donate to Wild Greens through our Ko-fi page!

Erosive Echos

by Noah Erkes


Digital SLR; Adobe Photoshop


Methods: photography mixed/layered using Adobe Photoshop


Inspiration: Humans are theorized to form stronger bad memories than good, which has always led me to the question: can a person truly look back at past relationships with a fond eye? Can we see the positive in prior connections, or are we instead relegated to recalling only the problems that made things go awry? This photo collection attempts to explore this idea, with each visual being dominated by the presence of eerie and/or disruptive elements that inhibit the viewer's ability to find comfort in the scene.


Polarity or Leaving

by Jessica Doble


In winter, sunrises occur at reasonable times

so we alight to the porch—cold, puffy-eyed—

blanket our pink-painted toes,

share coffee and snow kisses.


As we sealed vows written by men

under white tufted clouds and lace

her mother told us—Tailor the bridge to your dreams,

your feet will meet at each end.


We find the trick isn’t openness

but neverwhere. In the garden, hollow stalks,

dried sunflowers whisper through wisped mouths

but her bangled arms drown the words.


My wife’s mother crocheted a tea cozy

for the cracked, bluebell-crusted porcelain.

She didn’t know the whiskey

kept us warmer than the yarned stories.


I leave the spiced bottom rim

Warmth leaking to the counter

the Santa napkin stained with red lips.


Too bad it didn’t defend against the winter silence,

I tell her as we stack her suitcases

into what is no longer ours but hers.



"the bench," "the trio," "bare," and "feeling blue"

by Douglas Hardman


Inspiration: I was out for a walk along the Schuylkill River and I passed by a spot that holds a dark place in my heart, and it was such a beautiful day this time around versus the last time I was there. I wanted to capture the duality in nature and how it reflects my current state and how there is a duel going on inside of me. The way we use and manipulate light to capture different emotions, the way we can tell a story through picture progression and different color palettes. These pictures show a progression of someone escaping the wonderland forest scenery to the dark gritty reality where they can truly thrive and survive, once they have accepted that this world needs them no matter how tough it is.


See behind the scenes of Wild Greens. Our Ko-fi page contains concept art for past issues.

No-Name Mountain

by Kelly Rockstein


Oil on canvas


Inspiration: Standing at 8,000-some-odd feet on top of a snow-capped rock is daunting, yet at the same time, it can be grounding. This painting is inspired by a photo I took in Colorado. I had reconnected to both the mountains and an old friend. For the first time in a long time, I stood with someone I loved.


Akureyri

By Clara Peterson


Somehow, despite the wind, we chattered merrily, like two best friends who hadn’t seen each other for a year. Or, maybe, I did most of the chattering. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember the wind stealing the words from our ears with the same icy tentacles that whipped the pom-poms on our wool hats while our boots crunched on a hard layer of ice that was rapidly getting buried in fluffy new fall.

“A-wheeeeeee-oooooh!” Kíra let out a Viking scream, and I snapped around just in time to see her charge forward, toward the cliff-face.

“Kíra!” I screamed.

She stopped like she’d run into a wall, arrested by a gust of wind that pushed her back toward me in a fit of ruddy laughter.

“Try it!” she laughed.

I took a tentative step in that direction. I was never the daring one. Feeling the force of the wind, I leaned into it. I guffawed. “The wind is holding my whole body weight!” I cried. Kíra walked closer to the edge. She leaned, and the wind held her too.

“Kíra, careful!” I admonished. She leaned backward and immediately tumbled into the snow. I followed suit, letting the force of the wind push me backward too, and I tumbled into the snow next to Kíra. We laughed and rolled toward each other like two kids having a sleepover on a bed of snow.

“Do you like it here?” I asked solemnly. Kíra let out a hoot. I knew she was thinking of old times, when I would suddenly get serious after a day of careening antics. ‘Questions with Anna,’ she’d always called it.

“It’s no Kyle Avenue!” she said. I smiled. She was always doing that, looking out for my feelings first. “I don't know, it's been kind of lonely. I miss you! But I’m getting to know my cousins and, like, my culture. It feels like a treasure hunt on one of those old-timey maps! And I’m an explorer on the winding trail!”

“Is it worth it? When you’re lonely?”

“Well, I met this girl Margrét who’s really cool, and I think we’re going to be good friends. You’ll meet her!”

“Oh…That’s great!” I said with a little too much effort.

“Not best friends! Of course,” she clarified.

“Whatever, you’ve already thrown me to the wolves of high school,” I joked.

“Then be a tiger!” Kíra roared as loud as she could; the wind whooshed it away.

“I might have to lose the glasses string,” I mused.

“Nooo! The glasses string is quintessential Anna.”

I sighed and sat up in the snow. I gazed out at the clean blue ribbon of the fjord, spooling through a valley between sprawling mountains, endless black rock and scraggly grass now cloaked in dramatic white. The homes nestled into the mountain base on the other side were trim and modest. Not a Walmart to be seen. Not a single strip mall in the entire drive from Reykjavik to Akureyri. Just small towns, open land, mountains, and rock. I took a deep breath and savored it.

“Nope,” I said, doubling back, “Absent your protection, I can’t keep wearing my glasses on a string around my neck.”

“Anna Peterson, you don’t need my protection!” Kíra proclaimed. She jumped up, extended a green-mittened hand, and pulled me to my feet. Her bright blue eyes watered from the wind, shining with their perpetual mischief.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“Not too much!” Now with each step, we plunged to mid-calf. The light began to change. Our shadows grew longer. Occasionally, the sun slipped behind peaks of the mountain that rose to our left, casting a dark film over the diamond snow. I looked up at the mountain’s dwarfing presence as the sun fell lower in the sky, and I shivered. Kíra had told me how avalanches started with a little crumb of snow tumbling down the mountain, growing bigger and gaining speed until it was a huge white mass, rushing down, crushing everything in its path. We had to be careful of avalanches, she’d said. Not that there was much we could do about it if we saw one coming, I’d thought glumly.

“Here’s the path to the top!” Kíra cried. Straining my eyes through accelerating snowfall, I could see a pathway of flatter ground between two peaks that led around the side and up, with a steep climb near the top. Kíra forged ahead, and I tried to keep up. Taking a deep breath, I turned onto the path... and was met by a surprising, quiet serenity. With a rock face blocking the wind on either side of us, the ferocious rush softened to a whisper. The snow, catching on cliffs above, filtered down in a gentle flutter. We trekked on.

Red-faced, we rounded a sudden bend and lost the protection of the second face. The wind whipped out like a laser and pushed us back. Gasping, I heaved my weight forward and realized with a sinking feeling that I’d lost sight of my friend. I pushed forward, looking for a snowy figure, or a flash of green mitten. “Kíra!” I called out to her. The snow formed a moving surface that swirled around my boots and up all around me, stinging my cheeks like pinpricks. My heart was beating quickly.

A barely-perceptible, “Almost there!” reached my ears. And then... the snow slowed... and we emerged together — into a moonlight so bright it was almost a silver sun. Below shone the golden light of a hundred miniature houses on the other side of the now-black fjord. I thrust my arms into the air and threw my head back — like Leo in Titanic, which we had seen together in 5th grade.

“I’m the queen of the woooorld!” I yelled.

Something hard and cold hit my cheek. I whirled around to see Kíra cackling with delight, already packing her next snowball. I grabbed a fistful of snow, mashed it together, and lobbed it in her direction. I missed.

Laughing even harder, Kíra ran over and grabbed my hand. Her green mitten and my purple glove clasped tight.

“LEAN!” she cried. We stretched our arms to their full combined wingspan and leaned all our weight into the winter wind. And I felt it rush around me and over me and through me until I became part of it — fierce, fearless, indestructible.


Artists and Contributors

Robin Brownfield
(she/her/hers)

Artist

Robin Brownfield is a former sociology professor who turned to art after becoming disabled. While she dabbles in numerous art forms, she finds mosaic art is a great way to recycle old materials and found objects. She has created murals, garden walkways, ornate tables, and countless other mosaic works, but recently, she has turned to creating portraits and works for social justice. She was recently featured in a FOX-29 News report, because she was commissioned by Tamika Palmer to do a mosaic portrait of her daughter, Breonna Taylor, whose death, in part, launched an international movement for justice for victims of racist murders. She has also won numerous awards in juried art shows, was featured as one of the Best Mosaic Artists in New Jersey in Best of NJ, and has had her art displayed in galleries all over the United States. She is currently working on a mosaic mural with the help of volunteers at Thomas Sharp Elementary School in Collingswood, NJ, and will be working on more murals in the Camden County area.


You can find her on Instagram @nebula1400 and Facebook - Robin Brownfield Mosaics Online Gallery. You can also visit her website Robin Brownfield Mosaics.


Angie Cosey
(she/her/hers)

Writer & Photographer

Angie came to Philly from south-central PA 15 years ago. Trained as a veterinary nurse, she is currently a research coordinator helping (human) cancer patients enroll in immunotherapy trials at Penn. Her travels have taken her across four continents (so far) and her special interests include bird- and wildlife-watching, hiking, and storytelling.


Find her on Instagram: @angiercosey


Erin Panek
(she/her/hers)

Photographer

Erin is an elementary school teacher and children's theater director who integrates the dramatic and literary arts in her classroom. Her passion for photography connects her to her late father. Erin finds inspiration in her travels with her family, in major life events, and everyday happenings. She enjoys attending local theater productions and writing about the “good news” in her community.


Colleen Reese
(she/her/hers)

Writer

Colleen T. Reese is a lifelong reader and writer. She currently lives in Philadelphia where she works as a Principal Content Strategist. In her spare time, Colleen likes to play Dungeons & Dragons and enjoys drawing.


Find her on Instagram: @beandr0


Lauren Kimball
(she/her/hers)

Artist

Lauren Kimball 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.

Noah Erkes
(he/him/his)

Photographer

Noah Erkes grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, and he currently resides in West Philadelphia with his cat, Missy. With a day job in social services, he uses cycling, Ultimate Frisbee, and photography as his primary outlets. Sporadically working on photography since first learning at a sleep-away camp in middle school, he's practiced much more regularly since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic. He's grateful to have access to such a valuable tool for self-expression, and he plans to continue utilizing that tool far into the future.



Jessica Doble
(she/her/hers)

Poet

Jessica Doble recently graduated 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” 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. She recently completed and defended her dissertation “Reading Fandom: Fandom as Reception and Creative Authority.” Her poetry investigates pivotal moments in women's lives that are often deeply emotional and traumatic. She uses a feminist lens to focus on gendered bodies and experiences. She is also currently an intern for Black Lawrence Press. Her poetry has appeared in PubLab and Wild Greens magazine.


You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at @JessicaLDoble.


Douglas Hardman
(he/they)

Photographer

Douglas is a veterinary technician by day and a brooding lyricist/poet by night (now dabbling in photography). He has a background in theatre 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. He has taken a break from his YouTube writing series, "the hideaway," but he plans to release new content in 2022 when he'll continue to share new poetry with detailed breakdowns and other content beyond poetry.


You can find him on Instagram: @caliboynewyorkmind (personal) and @the_hideaway16 (writing).


Kelly Rockstein
(she/her/hers)

Artist

Kelly recently picked up an old hobby (a paintbrush) and has been focused on honing her artistic skills. By day, Kelly is a Group Services Manager at the Four Seasons Philadelphia. She lives in New Jersey with her snuggly cat and boyfriend and enjoys exploring breweries and traveling. Her next oil subject is Baltimore, Maryland, a place she was happy to call home for seven years before moving back home to New Jersey.


You can find her on Instagram: @krockstein.

Clara Peterson
(she/her/hers)

Writer

Clara is a freelance writer and film producer based in Brooklyn, New York. She’s passionate about fairytales, dance, winter, rainbows, and all things that sparkle. You can find more of her musings and the occasional attempt at humor at clarapy.wordpress.com, and follow the journey of her first feature film, Snatchers, at @snatchersfilm across social media!


Jacqueline Ruvalcaba
(she/her/hers)

Fiction Editor

Jacqueline is a senior undergraduate student at the University of California, Riverside, working toward earning her BA in English and creative writing. She was a 2021 publishing fellow with the Los Angeles Review of Books and served as a co-editor, copyeditor, and producer on the fourth issue of PubLab journal. As a bookworm, writer, and homebody at heart, she spends her spare time looking for new fictional worlds she can lose herself in and working on crafting stories of her own.


Tim Brey
(he/him/his)

Music Editor

Tim Brey 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.


Hayley Boyle
(she/her/hers)

Arts Editor & Artist

Hayley 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 story-teller. 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 she wouldn't have it any other way.


You can find Hayley on Instagram @hayley3390 or @haypaints. She takes commissions, and you can find examples of her work on her website.

Maggie Topel
(she/her/hers)

Artist

Maggie Topel is an artist and writer living in Philadelphia. She designs our seasonal Wild Greens logo and social media avatar.


Rebecca Lipperini
(she/her/hers)

Editor-in-chief

Rebecca Lipperini 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.


You can find Rebecca on Instagram @rebeccalipperini (personal) @wildgreensmag (you already know it).