It wasn’t so long ago that Fembot, known then as Reasons to be Beautiful, had its own new beginning. When Alissa and I were teens, we started the site out as a modest blogspot page that focused mostly on DIY beauty products, fun films to watch when you were sad, and other feel-good topics related to young women. Our focus was on making women and girls feel good about themselves, and it’s something that has never really died from the website we have now.
But somewhere along the way, we “grew up,” finished college, and figured it was time to change our focus from being a general woman’s magazine, to discuss the more hard hitting issues women, and other marginalized groups, face every day. So in May 2014, we revamped ourselves into a social justice website, and in November 2014 we became Fembot, a site dedicated to writing about social justice issues that matter to millennials. It was our new beginning, and essentially a new beginning for our readers too.
So with this in mind I felt ‘new beginnings’ was the perfect topic for Fembot’s very first literary zine; the broad and meaningful theme is something I’m sure you’re all familiar with.
Each poem, story, and photograph in this issue gives us an in-depth look at rebirth, at starting over, and, in a way, endings. In Lee Jones’ poem ‘Lilith,’ we see how dark times can give way to a hopeful resolve, no matter how dark they actually are. And in Rogin Losa’s monologue ‘I Wish I Was A Miscarriage’ we see how self-doubt, and complicated relationships can give way at any moment to a second chance.
I hope when you read the following pieces, that you think about every new start you’ve ever had.
So enjoy the following pieces and be sure to let us know how you felt about them via our twitter @fembotmag, or drop us an email at email@example.com!
Stay tuned at the end of the zine for information on how to submit your art to next month’s zine!
Co-EIC of Fembot Magazine
Paige Evans is 23 years old and has a Bachelor’s in English from the University of California, Riverside, and a cat named Sam. Formalities aside, she loves poetry in nearly all of its forms so sometimes she attempts to write her own in her spare time. She never submitted anything to any kind of publication and no one, besides a few of her close friends, has read anything she has written. She is largely influenced and inspired by Margaret Atwood, Emily Dickinson, Adrienne Rich, and Walt Whitman.
Sarah Foot is a native Vancouverite who, conveniently, loves the smell of rain. A recent graduate from Simon Fraser University, she is passionate about the topics of feminism, agency and sexuality. When she isn’t writing up a sweet-smelling storm, you can catch Sarah dancing, petting dogs or on her blog Ink and Jam. You can also follow her day-to-day ponderings on twitter @sarahfoot.
Nicole Hebdon is a writer with a penchant for literary fiction, fairytales, alternative fashion and occasionally poetry. She has degrees in communications, multi-media journalism and magazine journalism and plans on starting her MFA in creative writing this next fall. She has been published in The Saranac Review, DoNorth Magazine, The Springville Journal, Strange Beauty Magazine, Fembot Magazine, Gothic Noir and several literary magazines.
Lee Jones is an English major at Radford University who writes poetry in her free time. She hopes to become a feminist essayist once she graduates.
Rogin Losa lives in one of the 7,107 islands that compose Philippines. She was born and raised there, will possibly die in one of the islands too. She is currently 18 years of age and a film student in Meridian International College. Her holy trinity composes of books, film, and music. She doesn’t plan much in her life and just takes what she can get. She knows where to go but doesn’t know the way. She acts before thinking. Spontaneity could be her middle name but it’s Ocampo, unfortunately. This make her sound adventurous but she’s usually just in her room. Check out her blog at honorarytenenbaum.tumblr.com.
Amanda Lundstedt is a London based singer/songwriter. 20 yrs old. Half Swedish and Half Iranian. She grew up in Sweden where equality is supposedly at a peak, but she wouldn’t say so. After growing up with ridiculous pressure from the media, as well as low self esteem she then moved to Spain and embraced a culture of bar hopping, drinking, and constant objectification. It was a lot of fun, but it also did some damage. She believes she has a lot to learn and a lot to unlearn, and she does this through music, writing, and activism. Amanda is the founder of Co-founder of Young Feminists London (@YoungFemLondon) and writes for Flavourmag (@Flavourmag).
Jessica Mango had always shown high interest in all aspects of the arts. Wanting to originally become a creative writer, her dreams had shifted and she had gone off to earn her Bachelor of Music at McMaster University. With this, Jessica has decided to start her own music teaching business and make a living out of bringing the world of music into her student’s lives. Jessica has worked several jobs at once for as long as she could remember and continues a jam-packed lifestyle today. She has consistently demonstrated thriving ambition and spreading the importance of following your dreams.
Passionate about getting women’s voices heard, Alissa Medina created Fembot (known then as Reasons to Be Beautiful) at 16. Although none of her creative writing is seen in this issue, Alissa has a passion for writing in all forms, graphic design, and HTML. She loves working with co-EIC, Stephanie Watson, to curate all writing for the zine and the digital website. You can find her at a local Chipotle with her feminist boyfriend.
Stephanie Watson, co-EIC of Fembot, joined Fembot in 2010, and since then has gotten an honors degree in Psychology, and an HNC in Professional Writing. As well as her love for opinionated journalism and social media, she also writes romantic prose and cryptic poetry, dabbling in TV and radio scriptwriting too. Stephanie’s goals are of a personal creative kind, however through her articles she hopes to provoke change and discussion of social justice issues.
feelings are facts, but nobody’s heart is perfect.
she will say- “doors won’t close, lies won’t flow.”
but she is fickle, time distorts feelings, and fact becomes fiction.
“I’ll always miss you-
but not enough.
your heart sits patiently
on the edge of your cuff.”
tongues, heavy with words, lie dormant.
a slow decay was all she had lent.
she’s abandoned her claim,
the rights to this game.
tit for tat-
an eye for an eye.
but why eat the cake
when she can have pie?
she waits in rest.
fish in the sea-
not her cup of tea.
play by the rules-
a spectacular ruse.
cheat her heart with unrest.
she tears out the roots she had sown.
her time in the garden is not over,
she fills her barren plot with rows of clover.
renew the bounty of the field-
her harvest’s yield is newly revealed.
infinite expansion results in destruction and reconstruction-
“if I love you,
is that a fact or a weapon?”
“To be like a tiger, you must eat like one. A meal a day, and then fasting to stay lean and powerful.” These are the words a strange man left to tattoo my memory when I was seventeen. Ironically, this was the most important lesson on myself I’ve run into. It taught me that this man and my previous self were dead wrong about everything we thought we knew about happiness and the body.
Growing up a chubby child, I often dreamed of being thin and at-peace. I imagined life worked on the equilibrium pop-culture told me it did: as I got smaller, my smile would get bigger. Dancing, I was also constantly surrounded by “ballet bodies” which glided gracefully across the floor as I perceived myself clunking behind like my 92’ sedan. I internalized every message of beauty-centric media without question. I envied my thin friends and dismissed their own body concerns, wondering how it could be possible to house so many worries in such a tiny home. Simply impossible.
When I turned twenty, after three years of letting the strange man’s fasting comment sit in my ear, I began my weight-loss journey. A year later, I had lost nearly seventy pounds and fitness became my number one focus. Making healthy food, along with activity, a priority in my life is something I’ll never regret. What I do regret, however, is letting my own insecurity and the comments of jerks (sorry not sorry!) control my decisions.
Physical health is one of my main components of self-love and happiness, but not the only one. I swiftly discovered that although my pants were getting baggier, when I looked in the mirror I saw the same girl. Every spare moment was spent calculating calories, burn and negotiating with myself what I deserved to eat. As we know, this is exhausting.
One day, after internally beating myself up for probably eating one too many cashews, I decided I was tired of those feelings. And it clicked. Well, more like began to turn. With every positive thought, I was able to silence the little mischievous ones that got me down. By making physical, mental and emotional health all priorities I was able to open up my life to a lot more light. And pad thai. Which is food-happiness.
At 22, I am happy to say that I’m finally happy. The struggle is still there every day, of course. Typical thoughts of, “do these eyeliner wings make me look edgy or crazy,” and, “are my calves really big or is it this mirror” still creep in. What’s different is that instead of turning to a magazine for confirmation, I turn to myself and what’s already glorious about my mind, soul and body. Focusing on ability, what we have, and simply how beautiful all bodies are creates infectious positivity. Once we realize happiness isn’t attached to anything but our own perception, life gets a lot easier to swallow. Just like that pad thai.
Time left with the fall
and hasn’t ticked since
even though snow
lays like spoiled linens.
“You’ll always be a part of me,”
but I don’t want to be remembered
I want to be with you.
I want to be
In this purgatory,
this hiccup of seasons,
you’ve split me in two,
and passed me to another,
like a communion wafer
I’m sick with
“I’ll be there with you,”
but your voice is so far away,
full of snow
as it melts into
water reddened with clay.
“I won’t let go,” you say,
but you do
I know I am
I used to believe
that no one could know you
the way I did.
That no one could wear bruises
on their hips
from where your’s had slid into their’s,
like two glaciers intercepting
to carve out a lake
like the one we scratched into my belly.
The one we filled
with your stories
of slaps and baby rabbits.
But now there are others
who will find the places
to make you smile
to make you laugh
that laugh that turned you
into a child
clutching a pillow, hiding your face
waiting to start.
I will no longer be
“the most beautiful girl you met in real life”,
as you said,
adding the last part
as if you’d have more lives.
And silly me,
because even then
I write this poem
in the margins of a bible
nestled under a hymnal,
knowing it will be lost
as soon as the service ends.
And it offends them –
I know it does –
but little I do would provoke
a different reaction, because
I am meant to be more perfect than I am,
more perfect than my peers.
I know that my uncle –
the pastor on the stage –
is watching me scribble this poem
and seethes, as he always has,
when I write during church.
They stare and are offended by
the skirt I never liked
billowing around my knees,
the blouse with peekaboo buttons,
a gap between the breasts I gained
when I was seven.
The boys will “brush” past me
after the service,
a hand “accidentally” trailing past
the inappropriate, the shockingly sensual;
to them it is electrifying, but to me,
it is unwelcome.
One boy – a boy with
curly, brown hair and
tattoos climbing up his arms –
will stick his fingers in the gap
that I forgot to close with safety pins that day.
He will later brag that I let him.
I will not deny it, even though
it is untrue.
When my uncle tells young girls
to save themselves,
he’s looking at me like he knows
the woman I will be,
like he already loathes her.
And that is fine – or so she says,
this reckless anarchist, this whore of Babylon
in pink lipstick and saltwater pearls,
this maverick in thick eyeliner and combat boots,
the woman I will eventually be.
But right now, they ignore the truth,
and that will never be fine,
I will never forgive that.
The woman I will be is being forged in the heat
of a life that doesn’t allow mistakes.
That woman may be shocking to him,
but to me, she is the only hope
I have any right to cling to,
the only salvation worth having.
And I am not the only one
looking at the future
like it will wash me clean.
“I wish I was a miscarriage.” is probably the worst thing I had ever said to anyone, and I said these words to my mother.
It was one of the darkest days of my life. The room that I perceived as my haven couldn’t even give me the sanctity and serenity I desperately needed. The space I inhabited grew wider as it grew foreign to me. I remember being frightened for myself and the future before me. It lasted for four days or more. I couldn’t really remember. Whether it was brief or not, it felt like a decade to me, more or less. When faced with heart wrenching obstacles, I usually call who is closest to me. I couldn’t even call my best friend. She barely knew the story behind this.
I called confidants, two of them, one I consider my mentor and the other as somewhat my equal. They were there for my outbursts. I’m always thankful for their love and comfort. Then came a time in those weeks that I knew I had to tell my mother. The fright I had for this confrontation nearly equates to the fright I have from my increasing desire to leave for good. What was the cause of this is something I rather not say in a public forum. All you have to know is I was in a bad place internally. I didn’t want to confront my mother about this because I knew this will baffle her and break her heart. But I was so scared for me and what I might do with myself that I knew I had to do it– I need her to save me.
She didn’t take it well. She scolded me about my faith not being strong enough. She’s a devout Christian, I couldn’t blame her. Although my faith wasn’t the problem, it’s me, it’s me in general. I prayed. God had listened, probably, I’m still here aren’t I? But my heart couldn’t take it anymore, my little fragile heart. I told her how I wish I was never born, how I was a disappointment, a mess of a human being, and then I dropped a bomb on her. Six words was all it took to break her heart…
“I wish I was a miscarriage.”
Not everyone knows this, but I wasn’t the first child she tried to bear on this world. There were three attempts: one before me and two after me. I remember liking hospitals when I was young. I remember this one time they took me to the hospital after the miscarriage. I was beside her on her hospital bed watching morning cartoons. I liked it there for the shallow reason that they have cable. When I grew up, I ended up hating the sterilize grief and the white painted walls of the institution. It gave me stale hope no matter the reason why I was there in the first place. She told me once or twice that she didn’t like hospitals either. Weird for someone in the medical field to say, but I guess teeth are different from the heart and lungs.
She was speechless after I said those words. She didn’t cry until afterwards when I told her that I felt like I was drowning in a vast ocean and that someone was pulling me down and I couldn’t keep afloat no matter how much I flail. She couldn’t do anything but listen to me and tell me that things will look up and God is always there for me, for all of us. I nodded and accepted this. She understood at the end and that was important to me. She accepted me and loved me as she should. But I could never forgive myself for saying that to her face. Remembering that moment from time to time makes me feel like I’m such a disgrace, that she doesn’t deserve me as a daughter.
I’m thankful for everyone that helped me through that horrible time: Ghess, Julia, but especially my mother who bore me into this world no matter what the cost. She saved my life no matter what the cause. She tries to understand the unexpected mess she unleashed on this world, for I am her mess either way. To my mom, I’m trying my best not to fuck up. I know you don’t like me swearing, but I really am trying to be the best in whatever it is I do. I want you to feel that every sweat, blood, and pain you poured for me was worth it. It’s been 18 years since your sacrifice. I’ll make it damn sure that all of this was not for nothing.
Slut. When that word was heavy under your breath and I was a girl you’d only just met.
Onto which you could project your fantasies and let… them just be fantasies.
When we were both in that bed but I was yours instead.
You had my sexuality redefine the personality you were yet to know. And I was a person no more. Simply your Whore.
Whore. When I enjoyed myself a little too much. With a few too many. When I thought that my nature was such.
Such that it would clot my veins with mud. Forever paint my sheets in my lost virginity’s blood.
And fill me with confrontational shame every time I dared to feel good… I would also feel pain.
And the day that my orgasm bonded with my shame I became a victim of my own pleasure. A slave by any measure. Simply a Slut.
Slut. That is now my role when I take off my clothes. You called me that. You put that on me. But I wish to take that off as well.
So I won’t answer to you or the words that you use to describe me. The voice that you wish to deny me I wish to reclaim. And for
that… Simply a Bitch.
Bitch. When I decline your advances or decide that I’d rather go home.
Then what was all of this for if not for me to be yours for the night. Why even talk to me then, right? It’s not as if I am a person
beyond what you want between my legs.
And maybe I’ll try to explain that I believe there is more to a man and a woman but all you can see when you see me is sex.
And in your eyes the interest might die as I go on a rant about equal rights and respect. Crazy Feminist. You bet.
Feminist. Out of all the dirty words you wish to call me there is but one to which I’ll answer.
Simply a Feminist.
Staring into his deep blue eyes, I sigh heavily and turn my head slightly to place comfortably on his chest. I feel the irregular beat of his heart, the blood pumping through his arteries.
“Your heart’s beating pretty fast eh.” I mumble, breathing in deeply.
“Well, when I’m with such a beautiful girl, kind of hard to control that.” his deep voice and kind words send shivers and signals to my brain, telling me to smile. I grin shyly and feel my face getting warm. I place one small kiss right above his left collarbone and I slowly sit up. The sheets falling off my olive skin, exposing my bare breasts as my nipples begin to react to the breeze rushing in through the open window.
“Can I have a smoke?” I mumble again, shameful of the habit that almost requires me to leave this warm situation. His eyes drop a little bit as he nods, his arms flexed as they rest underneath his head of rich, chocolate brown hair. I stand up, the rest of the sheets slide off my naked body as I walk over to my jacket, lying limply on the black desk chair that occupies the far corner of his bedroom. I reach into the left pocket, firmly grasp the small, rectangular box and my blue lighter.
Walking back to the queen sized bed, he opens his mouth to begin the familiar, dreadful conversation.
“Why do you smoke anyways?”
I shrug. “Bad habit that was developed by bad people.”
“Fine, but you’re not a bad person.” he replies as he sits up. I drop back down, bring a cigarette up to my lips as he places one soft hand on my lower back.
“Don’t have that drink babe…” I heard his voice coming up above my right shoulder. I felt his big hand slowly slither onto my lower back.
“Why not?” I asked, turning around to look up into his eyes. The crowd around us became invisible as I stared into the beauty of his face.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” he mumbled, barely moving his lips as he lips twitched.
“I think I can have one more drink.” I stood my ground. I brought my vodka cranberry up to my mouth and placed the small, black straw between my lips. I began to take a sip. Using the force of his one hand, he pulled me in closer with every gulp I took.
“You’re getting out of control.” he whispered into my ear, tightened his grip as he snaked his hand up to my right shoulder.
“Well, I wonder why!” I snapped back, pride emanated through my liquid courage. I took another sip as he suddenly tightened his grip. I was his stress ball. The shock and sudden pain caused me to drop my drink onto the floor.
“Don’t talk to me like that.” He sternly whispered as red drops of my fallen drink trickled off my fingers. I gasped and pulled my shoulder away.
“Hey you! I think it’s time you leave!” I turned towards the booming voice, the bouncer ran through the crowd and grasped a very familiar grip on my left arm, pulling me in the direction of the exit. I turned back to see his beautiful face transformed, as he slowly followed me out, with a look of utter disgust on his face. Boy, was I in for it.
“Are you ok?” His soft mumble brings me back, his gentle hand still on my lower back. I realize my cigarette is still sitting in my mouth, unlit.
“Yeah, sorry!” I reply by quickly lighting my fuse. I could feel the nicotine fill my lungs as I take the first hit. My heart reaching a slower beat, a sense of calm pulling me away from my fearful thoughts. My eyes roll back in complete satisfaction. The smoke escapes my mouth as I turn to look at him. His blue eyes weakening my lips into a smile.
“You want me to make you some food?” I question him as my own stomach begins to rumble while I inhale a second time.
“Well, aren’t you just a dream girl!” He smiles, his perfect teeth causing my rumble to become butterflies. I chuckle as I grab his fallen, button up plaid shirt and slip it on while my lips hold onto my cigarette for dear life.
“Be right back.” I whisper, giving him one last grin as I stroll out of the room. I head to the stairway as I place my right hand on the railing.
“Where the absolute fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice filled my head as I cringed at the volume. Throwing belongings into my old black backpack, tears starting to drown my eyes.
“Wherever the hell you’re not!” I yelled, my voice cracked. My throat was dry from the last cigarette I had consumed half an hour prior. Those tears began to slither down my cheek as he sat down on the bed beside my half-packed bag.
“Baby, you’re being ridicu-”
“Don’t you ‘baby’ me! I’ve had enough of your inconsistent bullshit!” I screamed as I grabbed the case for my glasses off the dresser and threw it into my bag, with half the intent to throw it at his head.
“Where are you gonna go? You have no where to go!” he raised his voice as I stopped to look him in the eyes. His pupils resembling an anaconda’s, prepared to suffocate.
“I’ll find a place, don’t you worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worried, because you’re not going anywhere.”
“Fucking watch me.” I closed the zipper, hooked the strap onto my right shoulder, I headed straight for the bedroom door, without one look behind me. That was it, I’d had it. Stomping straight to the stairwell, I heard him charging up behind me, but I was not looking back. I placed my right hand on the railing and noticed his arm as it reached over and pulled it off the structure. He yanked me back as I turned to see his face, his eyes black.
“Let me go!” I yelled, trying my best to pull away from his impeccable strength.
“You want me to watch you go?” he threw my words back into my face. “HUH?!” He forced me back, step by step to the edge of the flight. Fear began to grow from the pit of my stomach.
“You wouldn’t dare.” I clenched my teeth as those words escaped.
“Fucking watch me.” he mocked. He made the smallest shove you could possibly imagine as his grip slowly loosened and let me go. I watched his face as the world around me turned to slow motion, my body fell, my ribs crushed as I hit the first step of many on my way down.
I find myself at the bottom of the stairs, my cigarette still in my mouth. I shake my head as I walk to the kitchen and dim on the lights. I turn on the stove and begin my cooking away at some delicious eggs. I hear the steps of him coming down towards me.
“Hmmm you’re the best, baby!” he praises, as he crawls up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Can still smell that cigarette though” he mentions as he takes a deep breath with his head in my neck.
“I’m sorry, bad habits die hard.” I smile as his hands make their way around to my bottom. He squeezes slowly as I jump and squeal. I laugh and turn around to face him, wrap my arms around his neck and place one long, deep kiss on his soft lips.
“I’ll take you however you are. You’re still perfect in my eyes.” His voice still tired from the long night, but still so sexy. I smile and feel my cheeks flush, I turn back around to finish cooking, consistently bewildered to hear such wonderful words. He places his hands on my hips once again and guides me to turn back to look at his freckled face.
“I want you to know baby, that I will never hurt you. Never. Not like that last asshole.” his mention of the past brings a small tear in the corner of my eyes. His left arm rides up my right and runs over the thick scar leading up to my shoulder. A small sting rushes through my veins as I lean forward and dig my head into his chest and bring him in tightly. My tears start to flow as he kisses my forehead.
“I think I’m going to go home tonight, if that’s okay.” I slowly speak through my thoughts and tears, his arms running up and down my back, keeping me warm through his long shirt.
“That’s fine babe, you know you can stay if you want.”
“Yes I know, just for tonight though.” I regain the strength to bring my head back onto my shoulders and stare back into his soulful gaze. I place one more kiss on his peach lips, turn around and begin placing the food onto his plate.
Driving home, I turn the radio on to let the music fill my thoughts. Ideas and fear that need to disappear once and for all. My mind begins racing as the roads and the buildings around me become a blur. My memories take over, as I turn onto the dark driveway of my past. I park my car and grab my small rectangular package again. Placing another dart into my mouth, I inhale deeply as I light up my cigarette and figure out where my mind has led me. This place that was filled with pain, suffering and heartache. I inhale again as I unlock the door and step out of my 2011 Acura, slam it behind me and reach into my purse, hearing the jingle of my keys. I grab my phone and text my new love, the warmth I had just left.
“I’m home. Safe.” I reassure him.
I take one last deep inhale, stare down at my addiction and ring the doorbell. Those familiar deep eyes answer the door as he smiles and chuckles.
“I knew you’d come back.” he grins, his voice intimidating as ever. I slam my hardly finished cigarette onto the cement step and exhale with disgust into his face. I take a step into my past, and a life of turmoil, but I remind myself that it will be brief.
“I missed you.” those famous last words sneak out towards my weakness standing in front of me, but I’m sure they’re not staying for long.
I lied, I wasn’t safe, but in my heart, I knew this had to be done.
The door closes behind me and I spit on his face.
His pupils enlarge; he wipes away my weapon as his most familiar gaze makes my heart jump up into my throat, my anger pushing it back down.
I know I’m in for it, but this time…my escape is on speed dial.
My woeful mind has taken all this time,
To calm itself and guard my mood from harm.
It took a lot of guts to reach my prime,
And learn to let my mental gun disarm.
My doleful soul was left to fly alone,
Until I learned to walk without my rage,
by speaking of the hurt inside my home,
And let my irate heart out of it’s cage.
And though this journey isn’t at an end,
I feel that I can cope with what remains,
I owe so much to those who helped me mend,
my broken thoughts and all those hurtful pains.
It took some time but now I have some peace,
The other thoughts, well they will one day cease.
#1 Start me again
The end rushed forward
so fast I felt the earth shake,
it’s time to re-start.
#2 Our Emigration
No food nor water
left to keep us alive here,
new homes will call out.
#3 Winter Ramblings
It looks like the end,
But feels like the beginning,
What an enigma.
#4 Fleeing Thunder
I survived his steel
fist and his booming thunder,
the end is not nigh.
#5 Feminist optimism
this year will be the
year that women everywhere
will win the good fight.
#6 Lock Away The Past
If one door opens
when another one closes,
lock mine behind me.
Like a broken nail,
or a wilting flower,
you will soon grow back.
#8 Breaking Point
Do not break your back
caring for something toxic,
break the dependence.
#9 My Immigration
Millions of people
took this very same long path,
I will follow them.
This is my fresh start,
my own reincarnation;
escape leads to life.
#11 Writing New Paths
I stare at the page,
It stares back at me blankly,
How do I begin?
#12 Welcoming Feminism
This year needs to be
the year feminism
isn’t seen as hate.
Are you looking for an opportunity to flex your creative skills? We encourage you to submit your creative writing for consideration to be digitally published in our new monthly literary arts zine, Cyberrriot.
The theme for the month of April is “Me.”
What we’d love to see from you:
– Short stories and vignettes
– Fictional and non-fiction monologues
– Fictional and non-fiction letters
– Art (photography, drawings, collages, etc.)
– Open letters/personal narratives
– Mixed media (Vlogs, Instagram pictures, Vimeo, YouTube videos)
– Conversations & Social Media Text (Text message, Twitter replies, Tumblr blog posts, etc.)
The deadline for all zine submissions is April 2nd and will be published digitally on our site April 6th.
If you wish to submit a piece of writing to Fembot’s Cyberrriot, please submit your writing to this form. Then, send a picture of yourself to firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll get back to you within 3-4 business days. You can find more information about rules and regulations here.
If you have a piece other than writing, please send us an e-mail with your work.