December 10, 2017

"Home" Photography by Janine Pickett

Merry Christmas to all our friends at Indiana Voice Journal. This is an all-star issue from an amazing group of poets, artists, and writers. I know it came out more than a little late, but I promise, you will enjoy reading the vast variety of content in this issue. I thank each and every one of you for your contributions and support in various ways. 

It's true, we are going on hiatus for a minute, but we'll be back revitalized with new themes, ideas, contests, and more! Stay tuned...Sending love and good wishes to all! Now for the great stuff...








Adam J. Sedia lives with his family in his native Lake County, Indiana, where he practices law as a civil and appellate litigator. He has published two volumes of poetry, "The Spring's Autumn" and "Inquietude," and has published scholarly articles in various legal journals. He also composes music, which may be heard on his YouTube channel.

Cecilia is a published poet from Kanonah, N.Y. She writes stories; and has also published 3 small books. The science and observation of the wild, and natural environment are her subjects and inspiration. She also has endless fascination with the human psyche in all its complexities of expression.


Longer Than We Thought To Get Back Together

Hear the rain on the roof
It must be pouring outside
You say you have to leave
Hey don’t give into your pride

Because it’s cold out there
You better wait for the weather
Remember what it was like last time
Took a lot longer than we thought to get back to together

The clouds are moving off
Sun’s peeking through the shade
Now you have to move on
No it wasn’t a game we played?

Yes it’s cold out there
You better wait for the weather
Remember what it was like last time
Took a lot longer than we thought to get back to together

Phillip Brown

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology,Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here:

Alex DeBonis grew up in Seymour, Indiana and graduated from Indiana University. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Buck Off Magazine, Tipton Poetry Review, Hartskill Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Yellow Chair Review, Parade, and Ilanot Review.

Anwer Ghani is an Iraqi poet and writer. He was born in 1973 in Hilla. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Adelaide, November Bees, Zarf, Peacock, Eunioa, Rabbit and many others. He is the author of several books, including "Narratopoet" (Inventives Cloud 2017), "Antipoetic Poems" (Create Space 2017), "TRUMP; a poetry collection" (Inner Child Press 2017) and "The Narratolyric Writing" (Smashwords 20170).  Visit his blog at:

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk.
She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website: . She's also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine. She has been published in several magazines and two anthologies: "Where Are You From" and in the Contemporary Poet's Group's "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses."

Adam Levon Brown is an author, poet, amateur photographer, and cat lover. He identifies as Queer.
He has had poetry published internationally in several languages. He enjoys long walks through the inner­ insanity of his psyche. He is an anti-imperialist with a love for books. When not tripping on his own musings, he enjoys reading fiction. He has been published in venues such as "Burningword Literary Journal," "Harbinger Asylum," "The Stray Branch," and others. Adam can be contacted via his website at

Duane Vorhees was born in Germantown, Ohio, near the Indiana border. He moved to nearby Farmersville when he was 10 and spent his adolescence there -- or, rather, his adolescence spent him! After high school he briefly attended "The" Ohio State University before graduating from Bowling Green State University in Bowling Green, Ohio with a degree in American Studies. And then, predictably enough, he left Ohio for good (or bad, of course, depending on one's preference). He has spent most of his life abroad, mainly teaching in Korea and Japan for the marvelously redundantly named University of Maryland University College. Now he is happily retired in Khon Kaen, Thailand, where he publishes a daily creative arts magazine,

Elizabeth P. Brooks is originally from Trinidad and Tobago and now calls Tampa Bay home. She is deeply concerned about human dignity and the need for social justice. She is a performance poet and has had several poems and non-fiction essays published in Indiana Voice Journal. She has a chapbook, “You May Applaud Now and Other Poems” and is currently working on a novel.  She is a contributor to the Huffington Post and writes a column, "A Call to Love," for Spirit Fire Review. Her latest book, "Freedom Fighter," presents a unique perspective on her experience as an immigrant and a woman of color.  You can visit Elizabeth at her Facebook page here: Elizabeth Brooks

Born a Hoosier, editor and English professor emerita Ellae Lawton has lived and worked in Manhattan and Florida and now lives near her daughter in southeastern North Carolina. Some of her poems have appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Referential, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, and When Women Waken.

Harry Youtt is a frequently published poet, essayist, and writer of short stories. He is a long-time faculty member in the UCLA Extension Writers Program, where he teaches courses and conducts workshops in fiction writing, memoir writing, and poetry. He is author of several poetry collections, including Getting Through, Elderverses, and Outbound for Elsewhere.

Janice Canerdy is a retired high-school English teacher from Potts Camp, Mississippi. She's been writing poems for decades. She writes: "I especially enjoy rhymed-metered poetry and get a kick out of writing parodies of the classic poems I taught." Her poems and stories have appeared in several magazines and journals, including "Light Quarterly," "The Road Not Taken," and "Better Than Starbucks." Her work has also appeared in anthologies. Her first book, "Expressions of Faith" (Christian Faith Publishing), was published in December 2016.

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood. You can find more of his work on Pandora, iTunes, and Spotify. Most recently, he's been published in In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, and Your One Phone Call. For more, visit these links:

Lance Carpenter is a poet and undergraduate in Purdue University's Creative Writing program. His work has appeared in Tributaries from IU East and The Eunoia Review.

Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in About Place, Cordite, Gargoyle, Grey Sparrow, Right Hand Pointing, Shot Glass Journal, Subprimal, and elsewhere. He is originally from Philadelphia, but now lives in West Virginia. He is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and Founder of the poetry coaching and editing service VRS CRFT.

Linda Simone is the author of Archeology and Cow Tippers. Her Pushcart-nominated poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies, most recently in Bearing the Mask: Southwest Persona Poems (Dos Gatos Press, 2016). A native New Yorker, she now lives in San Antonio, Texas.

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems have appeared venues around the world, including Spirit Fire Review, Empty Mirror, The Paragon Journal, Grey Sparrow Journal, Soul-Lit, New Mystics, Stride Magazine, London Grip, Communicators League, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Steven J. Jacobson is a poet living in Hopkins, Minnesota. He has been published in more than two dozen magazines, including Access Press, Linnet’s Wings, Burningword Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, Little Red Tree Publishing, Indiana Voice Journal,  Leaves of Ink, Thought Notebook and Storyteller Magazine. He is a featured poet in Metric Conversions: Poetry of Our Time (Editura STUDIS, 2013).  An e-book, Spiritual Gait, was published in June 2016 by Storyteller Magazine.

Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print ever since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Her first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include "Universal One" and "Essentials All." Her poems have appeared in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Eye On Life Magazine, Inwood Indiana, Misty Mountain Review, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum, and others. She lives in Toronto, Canada.

Nan Friedley is a retired special education teacher and graduate of Ball State
University. She was born in Huntington, IN, but spent most of her formative years in the Fort Wayne area. She graduated from New Haven High School. Her writing has been published in a poetry chapbook, Short Bus Ride, and in Indiana Voice Journal, Inlandia Anthologies, and Three, a nonfiction anthology collection. She published a poetry collection related to teaching special education kids called "Short Bus Ride" by BadKneePress. Nan lives in Riverside, CA.

Toti O'Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in Fiction South East, NonBinary Review, OVS Magazine, and The Adirondack Review.



    The wide cistern where the main supply of water is stored has a strange name. Later she will know it is derived from Arabic—as are all eerily-sounding words, in the island. The huge tank is mysterious and scary. Almost nothing else frightens her. Neither the stable where the bull is kept, nor the pigsty—though its dwellers can scream loud and sharp, especially on slaughtering days. Neither the moonless night, nor getting lost on the hills after sunset. Not vipers, with their snappy bifurcate tongue. Not thunderstorms. But the gebbia has something about it, like a buried secret, a mute threat.
    Its concrete walls are grey, nude, severe. From the outside it looks a sad bunker, but if you climb the stairs etched in its sides you realize water fills it to the top. Imagine a giant cube full of liquid, rising towards the sky. Think of one of those walls giving up. It won’t. That is why the construction is bulky, solid, secure. Water comes to the edge—olive, dense, impenetrable. The green hue and oily consistence make it mischievous, mortuary. This water is grieving.
    Or indeed it is murderous. It has been clearly spelled—no secret—a boy has fallen inside and he has drowned. It will happen if she doesn’t pay attention. She does. Water has gulped the boy. Murderous depths. The opaque stillness of the surface—the inability of seeing what is below, appraising how far is the bottom—slightly trouble her.
    Yet of course she can’t resist playing at the edge, where she spends long hours, because of the frogs. They are emerald jewels. They swim… do they? They hop and jump, so close to her hand she can catch them, fearlessly grabbing their cool slippery bodies. Such a thrill! Each capture makes her feel brave and competent. She relishes holding them in the cavity of her palm, then releasing them. What else should she do? She can’t bring them home like blackberries or flowers. She can brag about it, though.
    Frogs are only to be found in the gebbia—smaller basins, culverts, irrigation channels spread all over the orchards aren’t favored by their kind. Yet they are only the official reason of her visit. Rather the conscious one. Well, she is aware, though slightly, of the charm the column has on her—the square pillar built at the very center of the tank, with no apparent function.
    She likes its forlorn unreachability, rigorous geometry, more than all the tuft of vegetation (a small cactus, a palm, a bunch of bamboo reeds) that makes it look like an island. A grey little world of concrete, inaccessible. How does it crystallize her attention, tickling her ear like a background drone. How it calls her—deaf murmur in the distance.
     Still what most attracts her to the water edge is danger itself, with its irresistible magnetism. Because only if you look at peril from close, again and again, you’ll come to realize it is a meek companion—simply asking for a little respect, a nod of acknowledgment. In exchange for your discrete frequentation and prudent behavior, danger gives you great gifts (delivered in shy, tiny installments). Makes you strong. Makes you free—she doesn’t know yet.

    Grandpa has introduced her to frogs, as well as he has acquainted her with vipers and larger yet less dangerous snakes. He has taught her how to catch lizards into a noose made with a blade of grass, then walk them around like dogs on a leash. He has given her sound, wise, precise instructions for whenever she’d wander alone. He has told her the habits of insects, birds, mammals, the nature of plants and rocks. How to interpret the sky, clouds, wind, bark on tree trunks.
    There’s another dangerous place on the property, he has said, where she is supposed to behave. It’s a hole in the hillside—the opening of a cavern. He has told her not to get in and she obeys, though temptation crawls over her body. But she manages to stop by the entrance, made almost invisible by accumulated debris—a mound of slippery rock on which a fig tree has sprouted, partially obstructing the access. She should carve her way among its crooked, curvy, tentacular branches in order to proceed. The fig tree winks at her like a Jiminy cricket. It reminds her of her promise of sensible, prudent compliance. It would spy on her, perhaps. Perhaps, too late.
    The tunnel was originally shaped like a horseshoe, with two entrances/exits. If the soldiers found one of them, with some luck they might not spot the other, and then… What a silly thought. Soldiers had nothing to do with it. The obvious reason for the two holes was fear of a landslide. In case bombs would cause the hill to collapse and thus block one entrance, they all would run the opposite way, trying not to be buried alive, munched up by a cold jaw of dirt and stone.
    That is what occurred indeed. One entrance collapsed. Only, years after the war had ended. But she should be alert! The other opening might, will close up as well. Still a pull, like a tide, irresistibly makes her climb the irregular slope, linger under the sappy, sticky fig leaves. How she wishes to see the little chamber! Of my. Decades later she will vividly recall it. She’ll be sure she has gone inside, probably accompanied—her memory is too neat not to reproduce real data.
    And yet no. Reason dictates no sensible grown-up would have stepped into the tunnel, especially not ventured to the small room, hidden deep in the guts of the mountain, far removed from daylight. A tiny cot was inside it—Grandma said—where she carried her third son, five or six years old, ill with typhus and burning with fever. Why did she have to conceal him in such remote corner? In her words it sounds like protection. Was it fear of contagion instead?
    She could swear she has been in the room, a minuscule cell with dirt walls, dirt floor—and she has seen the cot. The remains of it—a pile of wood slates—the bare skeleton of a bed come undone. Of course it isn’t possible. And the wood would have been rotten by then. Positively no one ventured into the shelter. This must be a fruit of her imagination, activated by Grandma’s tale, busy fleshing it up. She has never ever seen the dungeon where the sick boy has lain, night after night.
    In the walls of the tunnel, all along, there are little indents. Little shelves where candles were put—the only furniture. Children, women, cripple, sick, old, would squat on the floor, the most fortunate resting their back against rock—many of them, as many as they could fit, gathering from the village, the farms. They would sit in silence, waiting for the plane raids to subside.

    She has seen piles of charred planks on the ground, though, for good. But that was the little house at mid-hill—a shed where Father stopped to read the paper when (once on a while) they hiked to the top all together, as a family thing. Dad obliged but not for too long. He wasn’t fond of exercise. At mid-way he gave up, opened a folding chair he had carried along, spread out his magazine. The shed was his landmark.
    Though neither he nor anybody ever entered it, though she didn’t know what it was for, she loved the small cabin where Dad was lost and found (on their way down). She was flabbergasted on the day she saw instead a flat pattern of smashed bricks, tiles, burned timber. All had fallen straight down, drawing a two-dimensional version of the previous volumes. Is it what fire does? Is it what melting means? This kneeling, meekly reclining.
    Fire has devoured the cabin, leaving a brisk emptiness in return. She can feel the wind from the sea, claiming yet another playground. She can see it (the wind) summersaulting, unbound, enthusiastic and arrogant. Where will Father rest now, on their way to the top? Alas he stops coming, tired of these vain, childish strolls—only needing an opportunity for his final desertion.
    At the very top of the hill there’s a lone locust tree—the most elevated specimen of vegetation around. Its daring and solitude give it an eerie majesty, as for an ancient hermit of sorts. Beyond the tree is a fence. What does barbed wire do up here, separating two contiguous slices of wilderness?
    She understands it marks property limits, signaling the end of the world she is allowed to explore. She accepts, more than truly comprehending. In a recess of her mind contradiction arise—itching, stubborn, disturbing. Exploration, she ponders, should be inherently endless. Exploration doesn’t steal, harm or hurt. At the top of the hill, past the locust tree, a crooked, bunched up, yet not less impassable fence clumsily cuts the trail, embossing the hill with a long irregular scar. She has to retrace her steps before these Pillars of Hercules, where—she is sure—even birds hesitate, turn in circles, get lost.

    Grandpa had a dream, Mother told her. Mom used to picture her father as a melancholy man who had given up wishes, aspirations, desires. Well who hasn’t, at least partially? By the way, at the time she was granted the confidence she already knew there were dreams in Grandfather’s past. At least two.
    One—the easel, canvases, set of oil paints she had found in the attic. To whom did these belong? No owner claimed them. The attic was off-limits during her childhood, separated from the house by unfinished restructuring work, only accessible if a ladder was pulled across—a drawbridge she carefully crawled upon.
    In the abandoned attic the easel stood like a monument, sporting a thick coat of gluey dust and an incomplete charcoal sketch—delicate, evanescent outlines of a turn-of-the-century mansion, a faint color of rust. Each time she accessed (unpermitted) the forgotten sanctum, her eyes drank in the drawing, her heart squeezed with nostalgia—not sure of what. Yes, he had painted in his youth, and that wasn’t all.
    In the cellar, after he was dead, she found a shelf of Russian books, with a plethora of red and black illustrations. As she mentioned her discovery to relatives, the anecdote came up he had been (oh-so-briefly) a communist, then an anarchist. Momentarily, promptly resuming his land-ownerish, aristocratic notions. Just a spur of juvenile foolishness.  But that wasn’t all.
    Last but not least was his archeological passion—the obsessive hope he would discover something some day. After all, Egyptian, Greek, Carthaginian and Roman conquerors had claimed this land in turns—these sweet hills overseeing the blue. He did find—Mother said—fragments. Not sure what, but evidence of a larger something. He could have pursued, excavated. He got scared instead. Permits. Licenses. City. Government. Taxes. Regulations. Expropriation? Maybe loosing the land, god forbid.
    Not only he didn’t dig. He decided to build over the hot spot—something large, heavy, unmovable. Something muddy, opaque, mysterious and mute. The wide tank—eater of children, immature aspirations, young dreams. The tall gebbia where emerald frogs thrived, uncaring and mindless, where the girl liked to play, mildly aware of some obscure evil lurking underneath.  

    Perhaps only regret.

~Toti OBrien

CHARLES E.J. MOULTON has been a stage performer since age eleven. His trilingual, artistic upbringing, as the son of Gun Kronzell and Herbert Moulton, lead to a hundred stage productions, countless cross-over concerts, work as a bandleader and as an acting teacher. He is a regular contributor for Idea Gems, has written for Shadows Express, Cover of Darkness, Vocal Images and Pill Hill Press. He is a tourguide, a big-band-vocalist, a filmmaker, a painter, a voice-over-speaker, a translator, is married and has a daughter. Charles E.J. Moulton's passion is creative versatility. His short story collection, Aphrodite's Curse: 21 Tales of Love and Terror can be purchased by clicking the link. Homepages:

Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware.  She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer.  She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats.  Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.

Visit her author page:

Linda Simone is a poet living in San Antonio, TX. Her work includes two poetry chapbooks and numerous poems published in journals and anthologies, most recently in Bearing the Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems (Dos Gatos Press).  Her interviews and book reviews have appeared in Valparaiso Review, Woven Tale Press, First Literary Review-East, Red Paint Hill, and other venues. She also expresses herself as a watercolor artist.

The Salamander Chronicles 

The Salamander Chronicles by Don Beukes is a well-crafted book containing 79 pages. The cover is beautiful and points clearly to the remarkable words found inside.

I first became aware of author Don Beukes when he submitted poetry for publication in the Indiana Voice Journal. I was captivated by the language and structure of his poems, the cadence, and sometimes wail of his songs, and more importantly, the depth of the story he carries on his back. As a child of apartheid in South Africa, the author testifies of the horrors of poverty, inequality, and injustice while passionately calling us to action. He brings us to the realization that it's not just his story to carry. It's not just his burden to bear. It belongs to all of us.

For example, the poem Ataraxia opens with: In this ever-changing global/ village, we still struggle/to feel as one--Some blame/religion, for others humanity/has not yet begun

and ends with: We yearn to remain ataraxic/obliterate the toxic, permanently/optimistic- -Let us release/our inner liberating fire to/finally achieve long-lasting /ataraxia

Beukes poetry lives to empower and educate and to call forth the goodness in the world. His testimony is invaluable. Quite simply, we need this book!

About the Author: Don Beukes

Don Beukes is originally from Cape Town in South Africa and taught English and Geography for 20 years in South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and literary journals in the USA, Canada, India, Bangladesh and Philippines. His poetry has been translated into Afrikaans, Farsi and Albanian and his debut collection 'The Salamander Chronicles' was published by Creative Talents Unleashed in December 2016.

Conor O'Sullivan received a BA in History and Political Science from UCD and an MA in International Affairs from NYU. His short fiction has been published in the Lakeview Journal, the Bitchin' Kitsch and accepted to Dual Coast Magazine, an affiliate publication of Prolific Press. The Short Story, a UK independent publisher, will publish his work, 'Out to Wreck', as a chapbook in 2018. He lives in London where he works as a sports journalist.

Sheehan served in the 31st Infantry in Korea 1951-52, graduated Boston College 1956, published 30 books, multiple works in Rosebud, Literally Stories,Linnet’s Wings, Serving House Journal, Copperfield Review, Literary Orphans, Eastlit, Indiana Voices Journal, Frontier Tales, DM du Jour, In Other Words-Merida,Literary Yard, Rope & Wire Western Magazine, Greensilk Journal. He has received 32 Pushcart nominations and 5 Best of Net nominations, sundry other awards. Newer books are Swan River Daisy, Jehrico, and The Cowboys, with 3 books being considered, and one to be published on November 1, by Pocol Press, Beside the Broken Trail.

Andrew Hogan received his doctorate in development studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Before retirement, he was a faculty member at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, the University of Michigan and Michigan State University, where he taught medical ethics, health policy and the social organization of medicine in the College of Human Medicine.

Jenny Sturgill is a nurse living in Louisville, Ky with her husband. When she is not writing she enjoys cooking and gardening. She's had stories and essays published in The Kentucky Explorer, Ky Story, Indiana Voice Journal, The Pink Chameleon, Enchanted File Cabinet, Page&Spine, Longstoryshort, Edify Magazine, and numerous more. She is also the author of Against the Wind: How I survived my life with Grandma.

I live with my children and crazy dogs in Middletown, Kentucky, a stone's throw from the beautiful horse farms Kentucky is always bragging about. During my career in education, I served as middle school principal in one of the largest school districts in the US; I share many skills with cat-herders. I love to read, write, cook, and sit in the sand watching the waves when I can. My poems and stories have appeared in several journals and anthologies. I'm also published in children's literature.

Cecilia is a published poet from Kanonah, N.Y. She writes stories; and has also published 3 small books. The science and observation of the wild, and natural environment are her subjects and inspiration. She also has endless fascination with the human psyche in all its complexities of expression.

Muhammad Nasrullah Khan is a fiction writer from Pakistan, currently living in Saudi Arabia where he is lecturer in English at Taif University. He is known for weaving Asian culture into creative evocative settings and memorable characters. In a profile of Nasrullah’s work titled “A Man Who Was Donkey,” The Gawanus Book called it “stunning.” This short story was selected among the Notable Online Short Stories of 2003. His short story ‘In Search of God’ was included in Silverfish Book’s Twenty-Two New Asian Short Stories, published in 2016. He has been published in Evergreen Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Newtopia Magazine, Gowanus Books, Offcourse Literary Journal, The Raven Chronicles, and many others. His debut story collection, In Search of God can be found here:

This month's featured books will make wonderful Christmas presents!  "Across the Light" by Bruce Owens, "The Wild Essential" by Claudine Nash, "Languid Lusciousness with Lemon" by Joan Leotta, and "Have We Been Screwed?" by Teresa Roberts.

September 13, 2017

Photograph Courtesy of Ken Allan Dronsfield

With this issue, we're sending thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy to our poetry editor, David Allen as he recovers from surgery, and to Jennifer Criss, our art editor, as she has made the decision to leave Indiana Voice Journal. We are going to miss her, and we appreciate all the hard work she has poured into IVJ. For now, all visual art and photography should be sent to I've updated our guidelines page to reflect that change and a change concerning reprints and multiple category submissions as well. Be sure to check before submitting.

If you haven't heard of Twitter-famous parenting comedian James Breakwell, be sure to check out our interview, and an excerpt of his first book "Only Dead on the Inside: A Parent's Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse." His story is inspiring, and his humor, hilarious!

A huge thank you goes out to all the poets, artists, and writers in this issue who continue to lift us with their wisdom and their words. Thanks, everyone, for truly making this a wonderful edition of Indiana Voice Journal. Best of the Net and a few other announcements are coming soon. ~Janine Pickett


Interview and Book Excerpt with James Breakwell 


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