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redrosethorns journal
Conscious raising, frequently utilised by feminists, involves individuals sharing their experiences to enhance awareness of social, personal, and political matters. This method has proven highly effective in fostering unity, building communities, and shedding light on broader issues affecting diverse demographics worldwide. It's a means of expressing our identities and experiences, ultimately empowering us.
Inspired by this approach, redrosethorns launched an online journal publication aimed at facilitating conversations about mental health, gender, sexuality, self-care, and empowerment.
ISSN: 2978-5316 (online)
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Mirroring the Time
Clock in to lock in rings loudly,
availability provides opportunity and possibility.
Availability is your best ability,
only when you have mental capacity.
Loss in life shines the light on your vulnerability.
Thomas Beckwith
Mar 61 min read
Crumpled Roses
I bought some paper flowers once
from a market stall;
near London's Covent Garden
in The West End
where all the best voices are heard.
They were over-priced
Emma Kennedy
Mar 61 min read
Liberation?
It feels so so so good
to be liberated.
Who needs romance when
I can have a nice fuck
without the extra effort,
without the dinners and flowers,
without the weight of obligation.
Deepa Rajan
Mar 61 min read
Self-Care
I want to take care of myself.
I want to bathe and brush my teeth.
I want to take care of myself.
I want to get 8 hours of sleep.
Deepa Rajan
Mar 61 min read
Grasping for Magic
As a child,
I cried when I couldn’t do magic,
like trying to teleport a soda can
from across the room.
I wanted it to be tangible,
to feel the sweating aluminum
meet me in the middle.
Madison McClintock
Mar 61 min read
Foreign Bodies
I was born an alien,
dropped down
into my mother’s arms
by way of plastic sheet.
Silent amongst the fluids,
warm and familiar.
Madison McClintock
Mar 61 min read
A Controlled Descent
It begins with inventory.
Names, tones, hallways.
A register of glances sharp enough to teach you
where to stand so you won’t be noticed.
Bullying is not a single event—
it is curriculum.
It teaches posture.
It teaches silence.
Abby Deisinger
Mar 64 min read
Paint My Own Canvas
I see shadows
out of the corner of my eye.
They follow me
wherever I go, with no escape.
A.S. Winters
Feb 201 min read
Paint the Town Pink
She adjusts her short skirt, pink crop top glimmering
in the moonlight. Her red lipstick is her warpaint.
She’s a confident woman, and she damn well
wants the world
to celebrate it.
A.S. Winters
Feb 202 min read
Following Aphrodite's Call
It was early November when the touch
of his hand set my heart on fire.
The glow warmed me through the chill air of the
approaching winter.
After a cold summer spent sinking, the comfort
of a warm winter was welcome.
A.S. Winters
Feb 202 min read
Midnight Stars
The curtain has been there
for almost as long as I can remember.
It's as dark as a shadow
and as heavy as the midnight stars.
A.S. Winters
Feb 202 min read
Caro White
At the bottom of the cream tub, Mama scraped the edges for the last remnant of slime, her peeling nails working like a spoon. On the sticker, a rusty, yellow-skinned woman smiled upward, wide piano-key teeth beaming at some unseen heaven. Her eyes frightened me, soulless in their happiness, yet they entranced me, made me want to borrow them. Behind her, the featureless void stretched on—a cage of white that she loved.
Natalie Gachoka
Feb 208 min read
a girl messages me on bumble at 9:53 pm
she says, heyyy girlie!! with a heart-eyed emoji, and there’s already sleep
in my eyes. how do i tell her i wear swim shorts at the beach
and flannels in the winter; learned shaina twain’s man! i feel like a woman!
on acousti guitar; doodle with blue papermate pens; ride a skateboard
with fiery thrasher stickers; down slices of spicy meat lovers
Britney Trachtenberg
Feb 201 min read
The Garden Left to Rot
I was twenty-nine years old before I understood the idea behind a vegetable garden in their front yard fully blossoming and neglected, left to rot. Back when I first noticed that garden over on Helma Street in Appalachian North Carolina, I was a couple of weeks pregnant and was walking to one of my first prenatal appointments.
Shane Greene
Feb 208 min read
Armbands Diptych
Mum’s technique was to inflate them both first.
She would then pull them up my puny arms.
Friction burnt my skin as she pulled harder.
Dad would put them on uninflated and
blow them up in place. I could sense the air
pressing on the hump of the tiny bicep.
Stephen Lott
Feb 202 min read
The Tragedy of Sisyphus
The tragedy of Sisyphus is not in the
Heaving of the rock up the endless mountain,
Nor is it in the falling, watching it
Tumble and bounce down rugged terrain.
It is the knowing that it must happen again
And again and again,
For nothing.
Jill Euclide
Feb 201 min read
Letting Go
I imagine baby birds do not welcome flying lessons:
Frantically clinging to the nest’s edge,
Heart racing in anticipation,
The shadow of Mama Bird
Threatening
Paralysis requires her to pry
Talon after talon
From small twigs and pieces of nest detritus,
The task, nearly impossible.
Jill Euclide
Feb 202 min read
The Four Seasons
Will it be winter when heaven calls
As the chill sets in and the howling wind
Roars across the sea to rattle my bones
I’ll button my coat and fasten my cap
Wrap myself in a blanket of snow
Warm to the touch is the winter’s glow
Jeff Sommer
Feb 201 min read
Rite of Passage
Sadie knew she was in over her head. She had accepted the boy's invitation to 'the farmhouse,’ where all the great parties were held by upperclassmen at her school. She accepted because Arno was one of the popular boys: he was tall and gorgeous and so smooth. Arno had been her first lover just a week ago. They had gone to a movie, and later, in the backseat of his car, they had consummated their relationship.
Bill Tope
Feb 204 min read
I Thought I Heard
"I remember a whisper I heard when I was seven; a uniformed policeman was addressing my aunt, with whom I lived. 'Your brother, Mrs. Allen,' he said, 'lost his life in an automobile accident last night.'
"Aunt Livy's only brother was my dad, Tom Lewis, Jr. I remember thinking to myself that I was named after him, which made me Tom Lewis, III. I heard a sudden sharp intake of breath and then screaming.
Bill Tope
Feb 2011 min read
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