Paper Dragon, Author at Paper Dragon

2024 Bingo Card

By Celeste Bloom

Sky Caged by Vishaal Pathak

About the Author

Celeste Bloom recently graduated with a BA in Literatures in English from Bryn Mawr College. She is currently based in Philadelphia, working as a college and career advisor. Her work has been published in The Write Launch, The Bryn Mawr Nimbus, The Haverford Milkweed Zine, and the Q&A Queerzine. They are also an editor for GLG zine.

About the Artist

Vishaal Pathak writes short stories and poems and occasionally clicks a picture. His photography has appeared or is forthcoming in Juste Milieu Zine, Moiramor, Ink In Thirds, and The Word's Faire.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Ode to a Paperweight

By Nancy Takacs

Art: Landscape Vista #4 by Max St. Jacques

About the Author

Nancy Takacs is a poet and natural fiber artist. Her poetry is the recipient of the Juniper Prize, a Pushcart Prize, and other awards. She has 8 collections of poetry, the latest of which is Dearest Water (Mayapple Press 2022). Please visit her websites at nancytakacs.org and mappingliteraryutah.org.

About the Artist

Max St. Jacques work has been shown at Colors of Humanity Gallery, J.Mane Gallery, Usagi NYC Project Gallery, Glen Echo Photoworks, Annmarie Sculpture Garden & Arts Center, Ten Moir Gallery, Station Independent Projects, Remote Gallery, Red Dot Miami, Art on Paper NYC, Gallery 1313 and at the BRIC Project Room in NYC and in Stone Soup Magazine, Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Wanderlust Journal.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Aunt Rosanne’s Truchas Ranch

By Alexis Sandoval

Aunt Rosanne’s Truchas Ranch
belongs to my father’s least favorite brother.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll still speckle
like horses, tails like distant dogs.
I’ll still rumble like road, spoke
like wheel, split like wind, and drop like snow
so that when she goes, I can remember
the chocolate chip cabinet under the stairs.
Legs bitten bumpy. Christmas Tupperware
come June.
Aunt’s paint oiled by a trembling hand.
My father—a boy—in the other room.

Division of the Equine by Ronald C. Walker

About the Author

Alexis Sandoval is an undergraduate student at Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington. A New Mexico native, Sandoval writes poems to celebrate the people and places close to her heart. Currently majoring in English and minoring in economics, Sandoval hopes to become a technical writer.

About the Artist

Ronald C. Walker is an artist living and working out of the Sacramento area of California. He works in a style he calls "Suburban Primitive." This style combines his interest in the origins and functions of art along with life in the suburbs. Mr. Walker has had more than 50 solo exhibitions over the years, and his work can be found in several collections, most recently the Morris Graves Museum of Art in Eureka, CA. He holds both an MFA and an MA in painting and is a retired art teacher of more than 30 years.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Portrait of a Female Elephant Bird

Delaware Museum of Nature & Science

By John Wojtowicz

She was the last queen, the last
of the megafauna our ancestors overhunted
out of the same cellular panic

that drives us to stockpile
toilet paper when we see
a snowflake on the weatherwoman’s map.

Maybe this is also what feeds
our nostalgia for kings
and keeps fascist leaders in rotation.

Visitors regularly mistake her for
a colossal ostrich
with hips like a Victorian hoop skirt.

But this ten-foot, thousand-pound bird
is cousin to the kiwi—
two feet tall, five pounds, tiny wings

it cannot fly with. Bones thick
with marrow. Loose feathers
patterned like fur for camouflage.

During times of stress,
making ourselves small
can feel like the most natural way to survive.

To her right, encased in glass,
is a melon-sized elephant bird
egg. The sign reads:

DNA can be extracted from eggshells.
One day, scientists hope
to restore this wonder to our world.

The glint in her marmalade eye says
think twice, mammal-brains. Good luck
on your elephant-bird-less planet.

Aepyornis skeleton, Monnier, 1913.
(Source: Wikimedia Commons)

About the Author

John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery and still lives in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he teaches social work at Rowan College of South Jersey. He has been published in Rattle, New Ohio Review, and Gigantic Sequins. Find out more at his website.

Uncategorized / Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Small Hands

By N.W. Hicks

When I arrive at a meadow,
ready with dandelions,
swollen with bird song,
empty of small hands,
I wish for a daughter. I wish
for the laughter in the lily of the valley
ringing like bells, the swish
of a stick parting tall grass,
the dandelions tied up in chains.

When I arrive at the meadow, I leave
to listen to the stream instead
breaking against rocks, weeping
down an old dam wall,
but there are voices in the water too.

I wonder if I will ever see my wife’s hair
on my daughter’s head, fanned out
in the current that shaped me from blue clay,
or her olive skin soaked in the same sun that cured me,
her fingers tracing eddies,
her arms outstretched like wings.

Nature's Grace I by Michael C. Roberts

Nature's Grace III by Michael C. Roberts

About the Author

N.W. Hicks is a Connecticut-based poet, a graduate of UConn, and earned his MA from Manhattanville College. His poems have appeared in The Passionfruit Review, Molecule, Yes, Poetry, and elsewhere. He believes in water but works with dirt and dreams of becoming a river’s meander.

About the Artist

Michael C. Roberts is a mostly retired pediatric psychologist who, during the pandemic, painted rocks and dropped them around his neighborhood as inspiration and motivation. He since has returned to photography. His images have been published in several literary magazines and on journal covers. A photographic book is available on Amazon: Imaging the World with Plastic Cameras: Diana and Holga. In his photography, he seeks to portray things and scenes that are overlooked or are mere backdrops to everyday life. In the last several months, he has been exploring minimalism as a way of projection and abstraction. Roberts often makes photographs in a range of colors, objects, and formats; the simplicity of minimalism reduces nature to its basics to reveal the underlying beauty of structure and form. The images may seem bleak to some viewers, but through these vestigial elements of nature, we can appreciate its simple complexity and basic beauty. These stark figures made in the Sonoran Desert have reduced nature to its essential elements and beauty.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

The Only Thing You Taught Me, Katie

By Mark Fleming

easy groove your voice
crackle pops like
merry-go-round
classic vinyl

what does a poet tell another
one who showed them
through beige plains
to a pool of speech
let cool water move
through cupped hands
to a dry mouth
teaching it to drink

you don’t say thank you
despite many thanks earned
you don’t say anything
you make yourself available
to the next leather tongue
dipping your ladle into the mirror
and letting the water drip
from one person
to the next

all you taught me, Katie
is how to cup my hands

Draining by Lindsay Liang

About the Author

Mark Fleming is a poet from Cleveland, Ohio.

About the Artist

Lindsay Liang is an interdisciplinary artist whose work traces the vanishing contours of memory—personal, cultural, and biological. Raised on Daishan Island, her early intimacy with the sea continues to inform her understanding of time, disappearance, and continuity. Water, in her practice, flows as childhood ocean, fetish structure, and bodily fluid—both materially and ecologically. Originally trained as a pre-med student, Liang published scientific research on genes regulating longevity. Her background in neuroscience and pathology shapes a heightened sensitivity to the unstable boundaries between the normal and the pathological and informs her visual exploration of the body as a site of transformation. Drawing from dream theory, embodied perception, and traditional kingfisher feather techniques, she constructs a hybrid visual language that binds craft, science, and ancestral residue. For Liang, the body is not a subject but a site—of inheritance, trauma, and transmission. Her work unfolds as a recursive process, where preservation and reinvention co-exist. Each piece is an unstable container: a reconstruction of what slips away, a structure for what resists language but demands to be remembered.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Cleopatra at Mersa Matruh

By Anne Whitehouse

So many shades of blue
existing together
in a sea of clear water
rippling over a beach
of fine white sand.

A massive rock rose
out of the sea,
hollowed by the slow
grind of erosion
into three natural rooms.

In one, a sunken pool
emptied and filled
as the tide ebbed and flowed.

It was here, to her capital,
Mersa Matruh, that Cleopatra
retreated with Antony
after the disaster at Actium,
knowing she’d be blamed for the defeat.

All day she bathed in the limpid pool
or sat in the sheltered cool.
She gazed up at the strange shapes
of the water-and-wind-worn rocks,
bright in the blaze of morning,
violet gray in the dimming light.

Zoe_blum_This_Isn’t_Healing_But_It’s_Something_1

This Isn't Healing, but It's Something by Zoe Blum

About the Author

Anne Whitehouse is the author of poetry collections: The Surveyor’s Hand, Blessings and Curses, The Refrain, Meteor Shower, Outside from the Inside, and Steady, as well as the art chapbooks, Surrealist Muse (about Leonora Carrington), Escaping Lee Miller, Frida, Being Ruth Asawa, and Adrienne Fidelin Restored. She is the author of a novel, Fall Love. Her poem, “Lady Bird,” won the Nathan Perry DAR 2023 “Honoring American History” poetry contest. She has lectured about Longfellow and Poe at the Wadsworth Longfellow House in Portland, Maine, and Longfellow House Washington Headquarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

About the Artist

Zoe Blum is a multidisciplinary artist whose work is focused on her personal experiences surrounding the themes of trauma, memory, and mental health. Her painted photographs reflect how memory is altered as a body goes through distressing events, emphasizing feelings of confusion, disorientation, and curiosity. Blum currently resides in Cincinnati attending the University of Cincinnati’s DAAP program, on her way to earning a BFA with a certificate in photography. She has had work shown in a number of exhibitions at the Tabula Rasa Gallery in Cincinnati and has collaborated with companies such as IKEA and Cummins, Inc. in her professional experience. Blum continues to explore how paint can alter the context of photography in her work and investigates how paint can be a vessel for remembering.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

Ice Cream Lessons

By David M. Alper

In the half-light of a rain-soaked summer,
his mother's hands, callused & gentle,
steer them to the corner where Lane kisses Crescent.
The ice cream truck, a pastel mirage,
hum its sugar-coated lullaby.

She fills her denim purse with coins & dreams,
each fifty-cent cone a promise
of sweetness in a bitter world.
He watches her wipe her chin,
as if to brush away the weight of memory
a gesture so small it could be mistaken for tenderness.

She speaks in the language of light,
translating the emerald dusk into wisdom.
Look, she says, how the sky bleeds into ocean,
how the moon hangs like a pearl
in the throat of night.

On the beach, they trace the geometry of loss
in the rotted remains of a manta ray,
its once-sleek body now a relic,
sculpted by time & salt & sorrow.

He learns to read the world in shades of garnet,
to find beauty in decay,
to see how even the diamond-dust sand
can chafe & wound.

In the space between heartbeats,
she teaches him to survive.

WhatsApp_Image_2024-07-01_at_11.49.51_AM_5

Mother and Child I by Dr. Gattem Venkatesh

About the Author

David M. Alper's work appears in The McNeese Review, Variant Literature, The Rush Magazine, and elsewhere. He is an educator in New York City.

About the Artist

Dr. Gattem Venkatesh currently lives in Chicago. He is a visual artist and architect, specializing in painting and carving miniature sculptures on tips of pencils, chalk pieces, crayons, bamboo, matchsticks, and making architectural models using waste materials. He was awarded two national awards from the government of India and honorable doctorate (arts) from the International Peace University, Germany, 2019. Winner of the Limca Book of Records (2014) and the Guinness World Record in 2017 for carving the Empire State Building on a toothpick.

Volume 9 - Poetry - 06/09/2025

This Is Not a Drill

By M.C. Blandford

Only for Emergencies

As his heart pounds in his ears, his fingers move slowly against the screen, still learning how to piece words together from the sea of individual letters. i am sorry mama, he types. With his brightness turned way down, he sends his mother this message on his second-hand phone specially given to the third grader at the start of the school year for “emergencies only.”

Earlier that weekend, he’d thrown a fit when his mother told him, wagging a manicured nail in his face, that he wasn’t allowed to wear the sneakers his father bought him on their mall outing to school. He didn’t understand. Those shoes, featuring Spidey with his gang of Amazing Friends that lit up like fireworks when he ran, swiftly became his prized possession. His need to show his class was all-encompassing.

Monday morning comes and he sneaks his shoes into his backpack, hoping his mother won’t notice their absence from the disarrayed shoe rack. He switches into them for gym class, and everyone gawks at how they glow when he steps in exaggerated circles.

Relentless Shadows Came by Jane Zich

Now, huddled on the floor surrounded by his peers in the constructed darkness of the too-large gym, he understands. Despite his nerves, he wills his shoes to remain firmly on the lacquered floor. Wills the flashing lights to stay asleep as they are told this drill is not a drill and he has targets on his feet.

Noise by Jane Zich

What If It’s Arlo?

Miss Pander dares to stick her head through her classroom door—already breaking protocol by neglecting to immediately flip the deadbolt and shut off the light—wishing into existence the student she permitted to use the restroom less than three minutes ago.

“No, no, no, no. Come on!” she mutters to herself.

The PA announced this is not a drill exactly forty-five seconds ago—her neck programmed to crane toward the large clock on the wall whenever the braying call of the PA interrupted her class. The clock ticks the seconds by like a gong signaling their compromised location. Within seconds, teachers are trained to lock the door and have the children in the corner, lights off. She is putting all her charges at risk hoping—praying—one will round the corner as she sticks her head out of the door that used to have a small window in its frame, long since replaced with a safety-wired slot one couldn’t make heads or tails out of.

The other children are already flocked, without needed direction, in their predetermined herd, being stiller than any child should ever have to be.

The escaped whimper at her back compels her retreat. She feels her heart in her hands as she slips the door closed and turns the lock in place. The click of it sliding home creates a fissure in her chest. In here, it is not “no man left behind,” but rather “every man for himself,” even if that “man” is only eight years old.

She swallows her sobs and prays to a God she no longer believes in that Arlo is doing as he was taught back in kindergarten: lock the stall door, stand on the toilet, be silent, and hope the shooter doesn’t enter the bathroom and spot his target through cavernous cracks in the stall doors.

The clock ticks on like a bomb counting down before Miss Pander hears the sound she never truly believed she’d hear. Shots shatter the room’s quiet bubble but still the students do not scream. Ingrained in them, the utmost importance of remaining still, silent, unnoticed.

She needs to be strong. Set an example for her kids, but she can’t stop trembling. She can’t help the wracking of silent sobs. Small hands touch her body from all sides and angles. Opening her eyes, she is met with the innocent round gazes of the young. They pour their immaculate strength into her as she hugs them close.

Silence falls over them again as they wait. Wait for what, they don’t know, never having gotten this far in the drill. The muscles in her arms relax minutely with each resounding tick of the clock until the sound is drowned out once more by an abrupt pounding on the door. Still there are no screams. Their voices are crammed into their throats, drowning in the surrealness of this moment. A moment that was never really supposed to happen. Not to them.

The door thuds again.

Miss Pander grips the kids, trying to shove as many of them behind her crouched body as she can manage, waiting for the inevitable bullets to sing through the flimsy wood.

“Please!” A tiny voice rings out through the crack under the door. “I’m sorry, Miss Pander! I’m so sorry! Please let me in!”

Miss Pander knows that voice. Knows all her students’ small voices. She bolts from the floor and barrels toward the door. Then, she hesitates.

Arlo is sobbing on the other side, pleading for entry. Miss Pander’s fingertips are a breath away from the lock.

What if the shooter has him? Is using him to gain entry? Or, she shudders, what if it’s Arlo? What if he’s the shooter?

There are two options: let Arlo back in the classroom and hope that doesn’t let in the gun or leave an innocent, pleading eight-year-old in the hallway for slaughter.

The training tells her to leave him. The odds tell her to sit back down with the kids she knows are safe. She can’t save them all, but she can save the ones who are all staring at her. She hates the small part of her that wants her kids to decide for her. Her gaze sweeps over them looking for a nod or shake of the head, but they are still, wide-eyed and waiting.

Before she can decide, her hesitation chooses for her. Shots spring to life again and the thudding of Arlo’s tiny fists on the door is replaced by the louder one of his body hitting the floor.

That moment hangs suspended in the air long after the police arrive and the screaming starts then stops again. Long after she sees the body. The parents. The grief. Long after Miss Pander resigns. Long after thoughts and prayers dwindle to crickets, forgotten and replaced by other school tragedies—one after the other. Long after she is told by nobody who matters that she did the right thing. The moment lasts until she decides to rectify her hesitation by pulling the trigger on herself.

The Right to Bare Arms

I didn’t want to do it. At least, I don’t think I did, but I did do it. So, there must have been a time when I thought I wanted to.

They were always so cruel, the students I was supposed to call peers. And it was so easy. My dad’s guns were locked up, but the key was just sitting on his key ring. There were tens of keys on it, but this one stood out: printed on it and worn with use was the proud American flag. My father had a right to bare his arms. Or was it bear? I never did know. Even as I went from primary to middle school, I didn’t know. Always too afraid to ask after he started on about it. Spittle flew from his lips and his cheeks flamed in fury for those “fucking libtard snowflakes” trying to take his “God-given rights.” I had those rights, too, didn’t I? The right to right all the wrongs done to me in these halls. Right?

God this hurts. I didn’t know it was going to hurt so much.

There are voices swimming above me as I lie there. The edges of my vision are blurred, not black, but a kaleidoscope of shimmering rainbow hues. The lights above me are bright.

I only shot one kid. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t check to see if it was loaded. Assumed it wasn’t. They scattered when I pulled it out of my bag. They scattered and screamed and that is what I wanted. I never wanted to hurt anyone, just scare. Just correct.

The trigger compressed so willingly. I didn’t even know my finger was on it, but it fired a round before I realized the consequence was smoking at the end of the barrel.

My hands are sticky. I think it’s blood. My blood.

I didn’t have time to drop the gun. Didn’t have time to think of my actions having repercussions in the form of the limp body in the hallway with me. Didn’t have time to see the school guard—Roger was his name, I think, bushy mustache always high-fiving kids and fist bumping—pull his holstered weapon and fire it along with me.

No. Not with me. At me.

I didn’t feel the bullets tear through my flesh. My body jolted back and landed hard on the concrete floor. The pain started slowly as did the barrage of people I know are surrounding me.

By the time a woman kneels beside me, the pain is becoming excruciating. I don’t know where it begins or where it ends.

“Son,” the woman says, leaning closer. Another someone across from the woman’s voice is touching me now. I can’t place the hands but there is a definitive pressure.

The shining hues are closing in to a pinpoint above me, the light stretching further. I want to catch it. But the pain.

“Son, can you hear me?” The woman speaks louder but the words are muddled, lost in the encompassing light. Why is she yelling?

“We’re going to get you the necessary medical attention, but I need you to understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent,” she begins. More hands begin touching me, but I am getting farther away from the pain now. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t want to do it. Or maybe I did because now I can descend into the shimmering edges of the promising light.

“Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law…” What is she talking about? I’m not going to the court of law. I am going… away.

About the Author

M.C. Blandford is a historical fiction/horror writer out of NE Ohio who received both her BA (Capital University) and MA (John Carroll University) in Creative Writing. Currently, she works full-time at her regional food bank as the Executive Assistant in Akron, Ohio. Most recently, her writing has been accepted by Owl Canyon Press and Free Spirit.

About the Artist

Jane Zich is a San Francisco Bay Area artist whose award-winning artwork is exhibited nationally and featured on the covers of American Psychologist, Dream Time, Fiction Fix, Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche, and Permafrost Magazine, as well as inside Agave Magazine, Catamaran Literary Reader, Metonym, Midwest Review, Reed Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Saranac Review, Stonecoast Review, Trickster Literary Journal, West Marin Review, and Winter Tangerine Review. Her paintings are based on imagery from the unconscious, which operates as a dynamic image-creating partner contributing surprises throughout her painting process.

Volume 9 - Fiction - 06/09/2025

Hymn for the Dead

By Kayla Knight

Friends hang around, left over edges of the party. Smoke curls in ribbons from the ashes of their cigarettes.

“Honey, come over,” she pleads.

He sighs into the receiver on his end. She sees him, phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He paces his room. He doesn’t answer with words.

“The party’s slowed down,” she presses. “You don’t have to drink. We know you—we know things have changed.”

Things. She doesn’t say “you.”

“I don’t know, Eurydice…”

I Am Whole while in Nature by Tereza Kleovoulou

“Orpheus.” Her tone softens. “I’ve been ready for you to come home. Please. Come.”

He’s silent a beat. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

And he’s true to his word. A little while later, his headlights flash as the tires of his Ford bounce through the ruts in the gravel drive. The lights surprise—almost blind— her.

Orpheus cuts the engine. Opens the driver’s side door. Closes it. Instead of immediately heading to her, he circles to the passenger side. Her heart seizes for a fraction of a breath. Surely he didn’t bring someone—

As he slams that door shut, she sees his guitar case slung over his shoulder. Eurydice closes the distance between them, dismissive of her bare feet on the dead, icy ground. Her fingers entwine in the curls at the nape of his neck. His beard scratches her cheeks. She presses her lips against in greeting for the first time in the months since he left.

Orpheus himself freezes in disbelief before welcoming the kiss and the embrace. Maybe the ghost had returned whole from Asphodel.

“Do you want something to drink?” asks Eurydice. She’s pulled back to see his face fully. His expression hardens like a statue.

“There’s orange juice in the kitchen,” she adds quickly.

Orpheus shakes his head. “No. Thank you, though.”

If he consumes anything in this underworld, he may never leave.

Eurydice leads him ahead by the hand to the small group of their old high school friends circled up in the garage. They exchange “Hey mans,” and “How you beens,” and the conversation then slips to their kids, their jobs, the election, the weather, the economy…

When every safe topic is exhausted, Orpheus unpacks the guitar, absently picking a melody out on the strings.

A voice hums along, and he stops to listen. A chord inside sings, awakening the rest of him. He looks to Eurydice then lets the note hang unfinished.

He waits until they are alone in the small, dark hours after midnight. Her tiny house is quiet, save the wind in the bony trees outside the kitchen window.

Orpheus holds the guitar still. His thread back out of this labyrinth.

“I’ve been following your adventures online,” Eurydice says. “How was playing Red Rocks?” She is thinking of a conversation not-so-long ago. Before. After two hits from their shared joint back then, and a swig—really more a glug—of cheap whiskey. He wanted to travel and sing. Live the life of a twenty-first-century troubadour.

“Everything I could’ve hoped for,” he says now.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she says now. Eurydice reaches for his hand. Her fingers are stiff and cold.

“You know why I’m here,” he says. “It’s not because of the warm and happy memories I have of home.”

“You haven’t been back since the wreck,” she says.

“I haven’t been back since I left for rehab after the wreck,” he corrects. “You know, her grave is on the way here?” Orpheus pauses. “I didn’t realize how many times I’ve driven by that cemetery on the way here until tonight.”

“It’s different when you know who’s there,” she says.

“I walked away without a scratch,” he says.

The conversation trails off and Orpheus plays something to fill the silent space. Eurydice sings. When the song ends, she looks at him one more time.

He answers the question she wants to ask. “I came back for you. You’re the only thing worth returning for in this dead place.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Just, okay?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll—I’m coming with you.”

Just like that.

They plan into the early hours between kissing and crying and singing. Dawn creeps up the eastern side of the house, through the window. Orpheus realizes he stayed longer than he meant. He’s got a show. He has to go.

“I love you,” he says.

“I’ll never let you go again,” she swears.

The next show is not far, but it’s in New York. After she promises. She’ll come after; pack up her stuff, deal with her lease, come to him after.

He pulls from the drive in a halo of golden sun. When he turns to look at her on the front porch, the sun is so bright he doesn’t see her. But Orpheus knows Eurydice will follow behind him.

After the show, a day passes. A week passes.

He sends a text: I can’t wait to see you!

The notification says “undelivered.”

He calls. The line is dead.

He goes to her profile to scroll through her pictures. See what’s going on. See her face.

She has vanished.

About the Author

Kayla Knight is a full-time high school English teacher, composition professor, and writer. She was born and raised in Florida. She received her BA in English and MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University. Her work has previously appeared in Torrid Literary Journal, Fresh Words Magazine, and POETICA.

About the Artist

Tereza Kleovoulou is a photographer based in Cyprus. She explores philosophical and abstract ideas with her creative writing and photographs. She studied photography and media arts in the UK. She is working on philosophical and psychological matters and themes, ‘investigating’ aspects of herself and others and maybe ‘exhibiting’ some of her deepest emotions and thrills.

Volume 9 - Fiction - 06/09/2025