Collected Words
Many of us have stories we are eager to share. In this space on the site, we’re featuring the writing of community members. While these short stories will vary in focus and gaze, they all share the common link of an intersectional feminist lens.
“If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” - Toni Morrison
Submissions
If you’re interested in submitting a piece, send us an email at adastrastories@gmail.com. In particular, we’re looking for ~150 words of prose/poetry, along with a brief abstract (2-3 sentences) as to what you hope to accomplish with said piece. We will accept these on a rolling basis, with one piece being selected each month to share in our monthly newsletter and on this page, accompanied by one of Fiona’s custom graphics. Each published writer will receive their choice of one of the following:
$25.00
$25.00 gift card to bookstore of choice
$25.00 donation to organization of choice (must also be rooted in intersectional feminism)
The editorial process will be discussed with the writer, allowing for as much or little structure and feedback as desired. Any desired feedback will take into consideration the provided abstract. A final version will be required from the writer by a specified date in the last week of the month.
Reaction to Yet Another Femicide
by Anna Tsagkari
We shouldn’t consider ourselves lucky, while the dead girls are the unlucky ones.
We shouldn’t count our blessings because we weren’t hurt
raped
hit or
spat on
harassed or
groped.
Luck has little to do with it.
We are hurting because we exist.
They are hurting us because we do not exist to please them.
Hadoula murders newborn and young girls, believing she is saving them from a fate worse than death: that of being raised in a patriarchal society.
In her eyes, she is doing an act of mercy, working as a dark angel, but an angel, nonetheless, rescuing these girls from a life of poverty, violence, discrimination, and misery.
Alexandros Papadiamantis wrote The Murderess in 1903. How painful is the realization that women are still fighting for life?
We shouldn’t still be fighting for air.
We shouldn’t have to choose between death and fear.
One starts to wonder if Hadoula wasn’t simply an unhinged old crone but a woman fighting until her very last breath.
Anna is an educator, intersectional feminist, avid reader, and writer. She is also an invisible disabilities advocate. (And being close to bodies of water brings her peace).
Balloon Boy
by Perry Fernands
In the back of our cramped living room, I perched on the ancient, moss-green sofa while my cousins sat cross-legged on the dusty hardwood floors and watched cartoons directly in front of the TV. As the familiar first notes of Arthur’s theme song played, my auntie burst into the room and made a beeline for the remote. When she switched to the news, images of a silver balloon in the shape of a rotund mushroom covered the screen as the anchor explained that, in fact, this balloon carried a passenger he dubbed “balloon boy.” At once, my cousins began to whine about their mother’s interruption, but I leaned in towards the TV and tuned them out, fully entranced by the screen’s glow. I smiled, felt myself ascending to join this balloon boy in the sky; people and places that had felt so big now made small. As we jumped between clouds with no particular direction in mind besides up, the world we knew slowly dissolved away into the haze. As a red “Breaking News” banner streaked across the screen, the same monotone anchor repeated words I’d only heard when eavesdropping on my auntie and mother’s whispered conversations: “housing,” “foreclosure,” and “crisis.” I finally felt the unyielding pull of gravity as I tumbled back to earth.
Perry is a current student, worker, and organizer who aspires to become a librarian and writer. Follow Perry @Periwinkle_Pages on Instagram.
Echoes
by Noelani Piters
In the beginning it seemed the silence was earned. That was the only explanation—why else would no one listen, or answer; why else would they all turn away when we spoke? Then there was frustration, and anger, and our realities became a problem that did not deserve solving. The shameful thing then was not the void but the aching that throbbed because of it. We put pen to paper, because though the emptiness of the pages were as still as the silence, they blanketed and held our words. Only the pages calmed us. Now they had something to hold in their hands, to cut and burn. We fell asleep to cold laughter and woke to the crackle of paper. But there was something about the cacophony of it all that felt different. Amidst all of that destruction, we heard ourselves echo through the din. Nothing sounded sweeter. We gathered the remnants from the floor. We assembled a new, jagged mosaic to catch the light. We began again.
Noelani is a writer living in San Francisco. Follow Noelani at @backtobacklist on Instagram.
Bear the Weight of the Beach Read
by Swati Sudarsan
Because who finishes a life soaked in sadness or tender little waves - but a reader. Why bother brushing little mustard seeds of doubt off the page when we can set a match to the whole rusting library? We could surreptitiously dip back to 1953.
How else to hold this: we slink into micro-dunes on a denigrated beach, plastic rasping across our knuckles and study paper-thin stretch marks on our broadening skin. Leave off the sunscreen, only to find that when wearing sunglasses, we can’t see the words on the page. We’ll eventually find where we left off, pick it out by the unmarredness of it. We’ll delineate today and tomorrow by how clean the pages are. Later, we salt the paper with sand grains strayed into charted territory, will them deep into the cracks of pages yet to be explored. We call that knowledge. Morality. It’s an exercise in forgetting.
Listen, we’re still bleeding ocean water through entire chapters.
Follow Swati on Instagram at @booksnailmail. Swati also has a Substack newsletter—follow her here.