Mia Pandey Gordon

The Sea Balloon

Monday, 7.47am: Water, water.

My throat itched — not where it meets your tongue, but further down. Then, the itchiness started snaking up. When it reached my mouth, my head started swaying, back-n-forth, back-n-forth, like a beach ball at sea — buoyant on gentle waves, back-n-forth, back-n-forth.

The itchiness reared its head, making my mouth dry. I need water. I had water. Water all around, but none to quench the thirst. And all the while my head went back-n-forth, back-n-forth.

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Hearing Feminist Voices: Writing with Feminist Theorists MWC Workshop Series 1

Hearing Feminist Voices: Writing with Feminist Theorists, Series 1 (2026 – 2027)

In Hearing Feminist Voices: Writing with Feminist Theorists, we will write together in conversation with feminist theorists and consider how creative writing is a space for the making of Mad feminist theory. In this workshop series, we will write with feminist theory by hearing the voices of feminist theorists as a Mad feminist practice and by considering selected ideas from feminist theory as we write through theory and consider together how our writing practices are forms of and informed by feminist theory – ultimately, shaping feminist theories through our writing by hearing these voices,  calling them from the past to the present and into future. We will dive into writing our way through questions of selfhood, experience, suffering, strength, power, and joy by turning to feminist theorists and writing through fragments of their theoretical lenses, which can act as prompts and inspiration for us to think and write together. ‘Writing into theory’ is a practice feminist writers have been engaging in for more than a century. By hearing feminist voices, we will explore and write through the feminist theoretical constructs of writers such as bell hooks, Gertrude Stein, Virginia Woolf, Audre Lorde, Angela Davis, Sonia Sanchez, bell hooks, and others. In this Hearing Feminist Voices: Writing with Feminist Theorists series of workshops, we will write with some of the great feminist genre-changers, exploring what it means for a writer to create new knowledge by doing that very thing. The Mad Collective will be the first to experience and, therefore, to shape this workshop series, which will eventually be offered to others, in the form of workshops and courses. 

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Tiara Raven Marie Clover

Blood for Water: Hands

I could begin with how I often lay in bed thinking about the blood running down my arms while looking out at the flowers from my window. I could trace my laying out to the fact that we don’t talk about Jerry. Jerry, who supposedly was cleaning his gun in the laundry room and the gun went off.  I could talk about the ways the story changes over time from person to person.

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2025 December Letters Project

It’s that time of year: December Letters Project preparation time!

We invite you and/or your families, clubs, organizations, schools, and communities to be part of MITA’s – 2025 – December Letters Project. This is MITA’s annual local literacy project, but we encourage others to run a December Letters Project in their local communities if you’re not local to the greater western New York region.

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Elise Boria

Within Sterile Walls

For so long I could still see the hospital from my dorm room. With its concrete structure perforating the landscape as an incessant reminder. The windows that crawled up its sides like ants, with each one seemingly whispering to me, and I’m repulsed. I can always feel the visceral response welling in my body when I see it, somewhere between comical and infuriating. Now in the mornings its form haunts me, and in the evening when I close the curtains, it still manages to live in the dark and silent room. It swallows tranquility, spitting back up a mocking tar like mass that attaches itself to my skin.

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Natalie Forsyth

Uncomfortable, Yet Familiar: An Asylum Experience

I take you to my room on a cold April morning. My head usually feels like the boulder Sisyphus had to push up the hill but that day it was much worse. The littlest sounds felt like I was being waterboarded. Drip, drip, drip. They came to me like drops of water slowly hitting my head. Each one more agonizing than before.

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Arianna Taylor

Mary

I stopped believing in Omma’s God the day she covered herself in plastic wrap. When I was younger, Dad used to pick me up from middle school around three in the afternoon, his poorly hidden shooter bottles laying across the floor of the backseat. His breath was hot and his cadence mean—I did not talk to Dad, then. We only yelled. Screamed loud enough until one of us cried—who would break first? Me, knowing this, and him, desperate to drink, would both coalesce rather simply to the idea of dropping me off at Omma’s after school, leaving him to do God knows what with the drug dealers that lived further down on Fulton. Just seven houses down and he’d get his fix. Only had to figure out what to do with me, first. The only issue was that Omma, at that time, had fallen quite far off of the wagon. In fact, I recall thinking that a wagon wasn’t high enough. That it would make more sense to say she fell off a very high trampoline, or a cliffside, perhaps a telephone pole or even heaven. Gracefulness never had less of a place than with her during my sixth, seventh and eighth grade school years.

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Sara Hobler

The following poems are from Sara Hobler’s poetry collection, E=MC^2.

Holy Lunch

Chief complaints are boredom and back pain

And Hunger, puts the body under a strain

Hungry makes arthritis hard to ignore

They weren’t lying when they said it keeps the score of your life and mentality

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