Free submission window from 1 September – 16 November 2025
The prompt for submissions is here.
Writers published in this anthology
Ansuya Patel, Anthony Gorin, Antje Bothin, Daniel P. Stokes, Donna Marie Smith, Emma Wells, Frank William Finney, Jeff Skinner, Nathaniel Mcintosh, Ping Yi Yee, Sharron Green
, Simon Alderwick, Sue Gerrard, Ted Gooda, Terry Jones
indicates one audio of a poem
Daniel P. Stokes
A Riposte, perhaps
Blithely unaware
of espionage,
I packed my beach bag
(books in sequence, paper,
pencils, specs in separate slots)
till – as if a gate I hadn’t
opened banged behind me –
“You’re slowing down.” Detached,
peremptory, “Half a week
It took you this time” – sigh –
“To slip into a routine.”
I shuffled through the doorway’s
sudden sunglare, “Ready?”
Then, leaving her to follow
in her time, dumped bag in boot.
I wasn’t irked but thought,
she’s got this wrong. You slip
into ruts. Routines
are created to do the things
you want the way you want to.
And, Madam Mistress Mine,
perpend: each morning
as you wake and press,
against me, I wrap
my arm beneath your arms
across your breast and, synched,
we wallow in our warmth.
If routine must be ruled
innately vicious,
this warrants censure.
The Architect’s Song
I never heeded the squeaks of the half-opened gate
nor the kitchen clock tchhing that you were late.
My pen, as it’s wont, under pressure scratched on
till the unruptured quiet exploded she’d gone.
For weeks, no for months, I could hear the room moan
how she never liked it, her armchair intone
that it was made use of, while the two wardrobes whined
she’d stripped them and skulked off, herself on her mind.
But we worked on and planned for the day you’d come back,
A few flowers, a nice wine, what we had still intact.
Till by wind and by wire sure and short came the news
that you lightly gave ‘way what I’d dreaded you’d lose.
Turned, waded through routine, and the walls still as stone
told nothing I’d do could undo what was done.
And the carpet hushed boards that were tempted to squeal
as I peered in at the hurts that I couldn’t yet feel.
Now, I’ve taken the belt of a spade in the face
and know numbness allows but a brief breathing space
and to sop the surprise from the onslaught of pain
screened unexpurgations of dread on my brain.
In a year and a day I could name you aloud
with no claw in my gullet. I’d worn my want out.
And laying out plans for the rest of the year
saw how much we’d have done if you’d never been here.
Now the door’s been repainted, the hall redesigned,
the garden reseeded, the curtains relined,
the furniture covered, refurbished or new
and the bell’s been retuned to chime fuck off to you.
Glitz
Sol, the sire of life,
makes butter run.
We’re on the terrace.
Shaded. Breakfast.
Fruit and pastries. Coffee
creamed with Baileys.
Decadent. The street
beneath, still sleepy,
muses why last night
we stopped mid-road to gawp
a moonless heavens
splotched down its middle
with a billion melded suns.
A primal call to confront infinity?
Elements intuiting whence they came?
Or inculcation that the distant,
vast and barely comprehended
demands our awe?
It could, of course, be glitz –
the straining flame before us on the table,
oil oozing iridescence after rain,
a dusty shaft of sunlight through a crevice –
that lures the eye and later
we take home and,
granting our perceptions import,
flesh with meaning.
Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.
Sue Gerrard
The Big Issue Seller: An Unsung Hero
I am tempted to walk past you
and not stop and speak
nor acknowledge your presence.
I am tempted to brush you aside
like a persistent fly
or bothersome bee.
I am tempted to look down on you
as if you are not worthwhile
or worth a smile;
but then my heart stops my feet
from rushing past and in
that moment I truly see you
and know our common humanity,
for you are an unsung hero
having survived more
than I could ever imagine.
Sue Gerrard has had published 17 books ranging from poetry to Local History to a children’s book. She has appeared at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester and many other festivals. She was awarded and took up the ‘Robert Lord Writing Residency’ in Dunedin, New Zealand in 2018/19 based on her project ‘In Search of Richard Seddon.’ Further details are on her website: suegerrard.com
Antje Bothin
Energy in Motion
White foam mimicking snow
Constant quiet movement
Waves dancing happily in circles
Forming a twitching net of joy
Naked trees, patiently waiting
Their branches’ mirror images in the water
A shiny glow on the surface, festive vibes
Go with the endless flow
Swans, ducks and lots of fish
Enjoy the vibrant ride
As the water flows bravely on and on
Seemingly aimlessly but towards the sea
The river is alive
Pure energy of nature
Antje Bothin has a passion for writing and her poems have been published in international anthologies, e-zines, poetry magazines and journals. Originally from Germany, she has an academic background, lives in Scotland and volunteers as a health walk leader in the community. She authored a novel about a treasure hunt in Iceland – ‘Annika and the Treasure of Iceland’. When not being creative, she can be found in nature and drinking tea.
https://antjebothin.wordpress.com/publications/
linktr.ee/assertivevoices
Emma Wells
Dream in Ink
She comes to me in dreams
fluid, morphing, alive, made real.
Here, swimming in lost consciousness,
I can caress her face
tell her I love her without falter –
no stumbling blocks exist,
only accessible inked rivers,
free-flowing, boundless…
This inky swirled land
is our playground
and her calligraphy
a bending, twisting ink,
tattooing my mind;
thoughts are made concrete-tangible
in typing blueprint,
a work of soaring skyscrapers.
Having never met in person,
this is all I have to hold:
hollow, wasteful delusion (in some ways)
but in others,
these nocturnal meetings
form the building blocks of essence,
marrow bone deep
where breathing is stitch-free,
disbanding societal corsets,
flinging them to dark corners.
Sometimes, I wait, for hours,
before she enters our world of ink:
once arrived, her liquid lines
morph with mine;
spiralling each other as DNA strands
finding common ground,
a shared heart, elixir rich,
beating hard.
‘The Lovers’ tarot card is us,
entwining clockwork souls as one
forging an inked alchemy,
a Bible scribed in personalised calligraphy,
bearing fonts only we can read
like braille to sleeping, cloud-milk eyes.
Emma Wells is a mother and English teacher. She has poetry published with various literary journals and magazines. She writes flash fiction, short stories and novels. She is currently writing her sixth novel.
Simon Alderwick
flag shaggers of the world
after the Smiths
the missus left me
cos i can’t change my ways
i wish i could go back
to yesterday
i put all my faith
in the Union Jack
i spray painted a roundabout
now there’s no going back
flag shaggers of the world
unite and take over
flag shaggers of the world
hang it over, hang it over
i’m on the A road
standing on a bridge
waving a St George’s Cross
cos i love my country
i see my kids
every other Saturday
i make them watch Damnbusters
so they won’t be afraid
flag shaggers of the world
unite and take over
flag shaggers of the world
hang it over, hang it over
i will not rest
til we’ve built Jerusalem between
the out of town shopping centre
and my local Wetherspoons
the cost of living
i watch GB News
don’t be surprised i got these
scapegoat simple racist views
flag shaggers of the world
unite and take over
flag shaggers of the world
unite and take over
flag shaggers of the world
unite and take over
flag shaggers of the world
take over
Simon Alderwick lives in Oxford. He is the author of ways to say we’re not alone (Broken Sleep Books, 2024) and the forthcoming reaper in a headlock (Broken Sleep Books, 2026). ‘flag shaggers of the world unite’ is a reworking of the Smiths song, ‘shoplifters of the world unite’.
Frank William Finney
Twenty-First Century Satyr
He spends his days watching porn and anime.
He thrives on setting traps.
He sleeps through sounds that shake the house.
A hairy plotter when he wakes.
His bog-breath draws a thousand flies.
If ill-luck sits you by his side,
may your stomach hold its own.
He holds fork and spoon like farming tools.
He slurps & burps and fouls the chairs.
His unwashed hair might grease your gall.
He reeks from every pore.
At night he makes himself at home
by preying on the inmates.
And I dreamt I saw him in a cell
with a toilet for an oracle.
Frank William Finney taught literature in Thailand for 25 years. He is the author of the collections Birds in a Boneyard (Bainbridge Island Press, 2025), The Folding of the Wings (FLP Books, 2022), and two collections published in Thailand. His poems have appeared widely in journals including Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, Midsummer Dream House, The Wells Street Journal, and Wildfire Words. He lives in Massachusetts; loves in Asia.
Donna Marie Smith
Bin the Sin
The scales groaned,
The scales moaned,
They told me to get off.
What have you been eating?
How much food do you binge and scoff?
The scales wailed,
The scales paled,
They told me to return.
After six months dieting,
After all the fat I’d burn.
I tried the elimination diet,
I went on a detox.
Ordered from a healthy chef,
Food delivered in a box.
I tried to do the DASH diet,
I tried just liquid meals.
Couldn’t take to all the juicing,
Dicing, slicing, orange peel.
I went vegan for a while,
I tried the Atkins diet.
I attempted a day of fasting,
But I was snacking on the quiet.
So, I headed back to the scales,
And I launched them in the bin.
Now no more counting calories,
And no food now a sin.
Donna Marie Smith is a British poet residing in Oldham, Greater Manchester. She is a published author with her Anthology Marmalade Hue published in May 2024. She has over seventy poems in various anthologies including Wildfire Words, Wheelsong Anthologies, The Endeavor compendiums, Local Gem Press and Buzzin Bards. Her poems range from quirky light-hearted observational pieces to deeper heartfelt poems.
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61551765666639
Ansuya Patel
Passing Ghosts
Today my heart is a small country,
the air thick and grey.
Darkness arrives, a cloak slipping
over my shoulders.
I’m sinking into slow time.
My body numb as a child who never
had words for sadness.
Now I find ninety six ways to say
how I feel, yet my mouth will not open.
Somewhere my mother is wind
untangling her thoughts with ghosts.
My father a door that opens in dreams.
Childhood is an open window.
It keeps appearing. I have no hands to catch
its loss. My body keeps a ledger.
I invite it for tea. I offer it cake.
It presses on my chest. I place my hand
on my heart, feel its rise and fall.
Tears run, clearing out ghosts to
light blue skies.
Encounter
Your eyes on kids josh, push, grab packs
of Polos and Opal Fruits.
Their small hands throw pennies, two pence
coins onto the counter. You catch my face
in the doorway. My bag pushes past you
for safe space. You’re late, your friends’
won’t feed you. Hoover the stairs, wash up
before you start supper. Homework can wait
you say. My stomach curls in pain.
No, I say. You grab my shoulder, I shut my eyes.
My mind swims over strawberry ice-cream
and sun kissing my face. Your breath and face imprint
like front page news. I trace the shape of India
in the door, cracks of grey bleed through magnolia.
Ansuya Patel was a joint winner of Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize in 2024. Her debut collection is out on pre-order. Her poems have been shortlisted for Bridport, Alpine, Aurora, highly commended at Erbacce. Appeared in Allegro, Artemesia, BlackinWhite, Crowstep, Gypsophila, Ink Sweat and Tears, Rattle, Renard.
Anthony Gorin
All I Know of Intimacy is Trauma
One day to the next,
Apathy is now what I dub you.
After all, everything you have left me with,
is trauma,
nightmares,
only occasional now,
three years later.
If I think I see you,
from hundreds of metres away,
my mind panics and looks for an,
any way to escape.
I once heard your voice,
out of nowhere,
alert and fearful,
until I saw you and I felt dizzy,
sat down,
or else I was about to keel over,
my mind seeking refuge in poetry.
All was panic,
looking for an escape
from my life.
Lived Through the Scars
I’ve lived through the scars,
survived those many trials.
A broken battered mess,
but still alive,
grasping to this life of my own.
I’ve lived through those scars,
etchings upon the timeline of my life,
tallies that line my arm.
The demons that have gone,
I’ve pushed away,
but not before they’ve left their scars.
Reminders of their damn names.
Thus I dub them,
the demons of Malice, Apathy and Abandonment,
names that follow their marks,
but mere words cannot even begin to describe.
I, still standing here,
marked by those many scars,
each of a time,
broken, beyond repair,
but repair isn’t the path I take.
Picking up the pieces,
now, forever changed.
To piece myself, bit by bit,
alongside the lessons of life,
about how,
I’ve lived through the scars.
To Never Forget a Face
To never forget a face,
though a curse in the same.
I won’t forget a face nor kindness.
I remember each demon,
and know them by name,
ancient,
though they’ve come to be realised
renamed.
No matter how you choose to shift and fade.
To change,
I remember.
You shall find no rest nor peace,
and karma shall have its peace.
For those of kindness whole,
then you have a guardian, a protector in Karma,
and for me?
I shall never forget you.
Anthony Gorin (he/they) is a multidisciplinary artist working in poetry, photography, and film. Their work, rooted in experiences of mental health, autism, and queerness, finds beauty in the everyday. Featured in Pluviophile and The I in Politics, they were Poems by Post’s Poet of the Month (April 2022) and a Disability Arts Online Covid Commission artist.
Jeff Skinner
Reframing
The poems never stray from well-worn themes – not
far enough is what he meant.
I wasn’t dying in Guadalajara, living
with a skint Contessa in a pop-up tent,
no writer-in-res at church or gym; wild
swimming’s not me, poker in the buff.
It’s not all bad news. The voice is assured;
subtle, deft, are words he uses about my stuff –
work that’s tremendously enjoyable, no less.
I’ve a slightly off-beat vision, it seems,
which I take to be a positive, B minus, plus?
so has to beg the question, Edward, wtf?
He doesn’t get my jokes, says it to my face –
You long for quiet rain. I know my place.
Jeff Skinner’s poems are widely published in the UK, most recently in Amethyst Review, The Aftershock Review, Acumen, Paperboats, Ink Sweat and Tears. A retired librarian, he volunteers at the local Oxfam bookshop, listens to music, watches football, reads, writes.
Nathaniel Mcintosh
Circle O
Smile for the world but don’t forget your grin/ In your daily cycle, please keep this ring/ Love is the ocean, positivity the key/ Your heart and its chambers, hold the best seas/ Let the great and good flow as much as you breathe/ You will manifest the best currency, beyond lands you see/ Wherever you travel, in mind, body or spirit – go in good health/ For every step of the way, I wish you well/
Nathaniel Mcintosh is a ‘True Artist’ who starts from the heart as artist, poet, rapper/MC, with motto ‘Power To The People Till We All Equal’.
Terry Jones
Bloc[k]
‘Word are ideological signs.’
Marxism and Language – V. N Volosninov
One got knocked off, as it wobbled on shoulders like a stitched football;
another, say but-er, slept in brown paper, leaking a portrait of greasy sweetness;
others were set by fuzz, or memory,
the old agencies hived in tall buildings where everything leaked or bled,
and nobody, but nobody spoke.
One gathered in the East, watchful, more dangerous than the sun’s hammer,
moon’s sickle: borders were shut,
elements redefined en bloc. Still innocent, we listened in: who would say brass,
who gold to its new ring?
For now, I mean just the blunt word, a passport for stops and releases, and drag it out
for the scum intimacy of a sound
to remember, like a shiver on water, the wet muscle and clay of its shape.
I say bloc[k] and balance a wisp on the tongue; say bloc[k] and again,
bloc[k] for the lost weight of history,
and because it is an old, heavy word, eloquent and dumb as a breeze,
I stoop to lift it on a shadow of a voice.
Flower of My Spine
Can’t resist it, go there every time,
Whatever flows runs darkly down that line,
And I’m still there, go there every time.
It’s lost itself in shadow by design,
It circulates around a hidden sign,
Can’t resist it, go there every time.
Being neither one nor many, not a prime,
It can’t be counted, isn’t yours or mine,
But I’m still there, I go there every time.
It’s set in such a way it cannot shine
To show itself as presence – and that’s fine,
But I’m still there, I go there every time.
I cock an ear, think I hear it chime,
Bend towards it, flower of my spine,
I can’t resist it, go there every time.
Eat Your Words
There was the man who was made to eat his own words:
it was a medieval punishment, Old English,
a monk had found it in the sub-sub-text of the Dream of the Rood:
it was more severe than drowning in the muddy pond of a dialect,
the throat and nose silting; it hurt more
than The Trial, the hand blistering
into the weeping colours of guilt.
The Law said ‘Eat Your Own Words or Die!’
So he began.
He ate ‘denial’, ‘insistence’, ‘pleading’,
‘mother’, ‘father’, ‘sister’, ‘brother’.
But it was not enough. He ate
‘child’, ‘friend’, ‘lover’, ‘pet’, ‘neighbour’,
‘acquaintance’, ‘stranger’, ‘foreigner’, ‘alien’.
But more was demanded by the strict Letter. He ate
‘mystery’, ‘incomprehension’, ‘puzzlement’, ‘wonder’,
‘blackness’, ‘self’, ‘soul’, ‘dream’.
He liked this last word:
he secreted it under his tongue, held it there.
It was his stalagtite growing slowly
whilst the naked lexicon of his forced chewing echoed
and his torturer licked his thumb and turned the page
taking him a root at a time and slowly.
He ate ‘angst’, ‘anthropic’, ‘alluvial’;
he bit into and swallowed ‘pandemonium’,
crunched ‘persiflage’, ‘xanthic’, ‘xyster’; ran his tongue around
‘circumambient’ and ‘periphrasis’; took the poison peas
‘glum’, ‘limp’, ‘bad’, ‘sour’.
He chewed the tissues of ‘insurgent’ and ‘liberation’;
grinded the bone splinters of ‘love’, ‘loss’, ‘pain’;
gagged on ‘irony’ and ‘representation’,
and still they force fed him with the chillies of ‘intifada’,
the iron grapes of ‘genocide’,
the salt grains of ‘identity’ and ‘belonging’,
the rancid butters of ‘home’ and ‘hearth’.
He split his cheeks on ‘demilitiarisation’
broke teeth on ‘triangulation’ and ‘iatrogenic’,
got through the unripe fruit of ‘pity’,
took down the long sausage of ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’.
And he ate too ‘flesh’ – ‘vlees’, ‘spirit’ – ‘rews’. ‘musis – sagita’…
When, decades into his sentence, he bit into
‘apotheosis’, he began to imagine release.
But the Appeal Court froze around the definition of ‘langue’
and ‘parole’. Far from the arguments
The Guardians of his sentence began to pile around him
a wall of forgotten ancient texts.
Terry Jones, lives and works in Carlisle; won 1st prize in the Bridport international poetry competition in 2011. His collection, Furious Resonance, was published by Poetry Salzburg.
Ping Yi Yee
Germ
Hades Meets His Match
In sleep I die at the speed of Dream,
this husk burrowing beneath
a blanket of Life with no give,
yet speaking for the still living.
Not all cries find words; not all blows
leave marks; not all wounds leak crimson.
Not all souls stay whole. I descend
into a festering dark as you rail,
King of sticks and straw. I sink,
while you blame and berate,
to a frost I’m not made for. Cursed fool
was I to believe in fairness. I rise
from nothing to stay your worm’s tongue,
to name you with every gasp,
to weed out your germ. I plant hope,
and feed humour in your stead.
My wife stirs beside; my fever passes.
I slip out of our bedroom to wait
for the sun, trusting the light to burn off
the seeds you left inside.
Cell
Persephone Awakes
Hippo, wearing tropical fruit, sits on Giraffe
while Cheetah plucks ’em, perching
on the neck which charts my son’s height,
marking growth while he marks time:
“Do other Dads work nights, for months too?”
A chill descends. What have I sown –
what will I reap? I shed lucre and trappings,
thresh the bitter and caustic, wrestle
my soul back from a barren grind.
Don’t slouch kid. Sit straight. Eyes further
from the screen; you guys message too much.
Do you eat during recess? Get veggies,
more Vits. Here’s pomegranate juice;
it’s real healthy. Don’t roll your eyes;
I can tell without looking.
Wall of words born of love, still a prison.
Boy inches upwards, past Lemur,
past Monkey, human bonsai protesting
his fate. You are free to grow, son.
I keep you not to jail you; this fever too
has passed. Giraffe shoots through the tree’s crown,
crunching a tart leaf,
Snake beneath dancing with joy.
Hack
Zeus Starts A Second Career
Incense fumes in eight clay pots
on a traffic island in the dawn rush;
someone broadcasting their desires,
but surely it can’t work this way.
Each day to school, the boy and I
drive by these pots, still hailing
all deities for help to surmount
life’s barricades. I write in my trench,
to cast light on the climb before me;
always the last child, always late
to the feasting. I write to revive my soul,
to arouse a barren will, to taste
the creamy wellspring of words,
and touch the contours of another world.
Hoping with the might of one person
to unearth new bliss. Once a god
bestriding my realm, I swap stave
for pencil, mace for pen, marking
my taint, a paper pygmy to true kings.
Passing Guanyin Bodhisattva’s temple,
I flick water with pomegranate twigs;
light three joss sticks, wishing health
and joy for family and kin. But nothing
for myself.
Ping Yi Yee writes poetry, short fiction and creative nonfiction. His work has appeared in Orbis (nominated for 2025 Forward Prize), Litro (Editor’s Pick), The Stony Thursday Book, London Grip, Meniscus, La Piccioletta Barca, Harbor Review, Vita Poetica and Eclectica, and is forthcoming in The High Window and The Bangalore Review.
https://instagram.com/pyyee10
Sharron Green
Wise Flowers
My walk takes a path
where the wildflowers go,
grow straight to the light
and keep going.
Their seeds have been scattered
in soils far and wide,
they beat all the odds
never slowing.
Mixed bunches of beauty,
scents summon the bees,
who feast as if there’s
no tomorrow.
My walk takes a path
where the wise flowers show,
a hardy example
to follow.
Sharron Green, aka @Rhymes_n_Roses on social media, writes about nature, nostalgia and modern life. With an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Surrey she has published four chapbooks and has poems in 20+ international anthologies.
Sharron co-hosts an open-mic poetry night in Guildford and is in the Booming Lovelies, a trio of poets who perform at festivals.
https://rhymesnroses.com
Ted Gooda
Phony sea
In a world where no one calls
and i.r.l is a last resort, I resolve
to send a text if I think of a friend
even if I have nothing to say.
Everyone has nothing to say.
I shall reach out, as they say,
though I dislike the phrase.
I pick up the glassy mirror and see
reflections of infinite possibility.
When telettrofono was invented
by Meucci (years before Mr Bell)
neither guessed its future heft
in this minute form or that speech
would be its least object.
Whatsapp has a raft of alerts.
I reply, sailing merrily for a while
already caught in a vicious riptide,
cast wide in brine and bile.
Beneath clickbait’s wild waves,
I can’t breathe. No
information highway, Berners-Lee,
but the Mariana Trench and I’m adrift.
In currents stronger than me I plunge
to foamy depths until I’m flotsam,
finally lashed by wild waves to shores
of reality miles away. My friend
is water under another bridge.
Ted Gooda is a poet, playwright and ghostwriter. Her debut pamphlet Silence & Selvedge was published in 2024. Her poetry explores memory and family, often with a touch of ‘domestic noir’. Her fourth play, a verse drama, Mannequim premiered at the Brighton Fringe Festival in 2025. She ghostwrites a Sunday Times top-10 bestselling series with Mirror Books, writing as Theresa McEvoy.
www.theresagooda.co.uk
Here’s a theme that enables you to write, prose or poem, about almost anything you like, as long as it has some sort of name. You need to give it a new name and show your personal reaction. You may want to rename a person, object, place, event, sports team, stage show, political party, idea, trend. Your new name may be to praise, support, express affection, lovingly satire, improve . . . Or it may be to shame, oppose, show disgust or anger, bitterly satire, destroy . . .
Whatever you submit, we’re looking for writing that is original, grabs our attention, pulls our heart strings, leaves us open-mouthed or holding our breath, makes us think, makes us laugh or cry, and/or is strikingly original. In short, words that excite us enough to share them with Wildfire Words readers.
We aim to be inclusive of writers worldwide. We respect all people‘s free speech and their beliefs, individuality, well-being, and free speech — and expect the same from all writers. We’ll publish any work that adds fresh creative spice to this submissions feature. We’ll evaluate your written jewel, whether it’s a cut and polished dazzler or a rough stone with some interesting lustre. So please don’t hesitate to submit. More on our submission philosophy.
Each writer may make one submission as a single file of text or audio** containing 1, 2, or 3 items, each of which can be poetry, or prose and no longer than 30 lines or 300 words including title and any dedication.
You are welcome to submit an audio recording of you reading your submission(s)** along with your text. If you do submit an audio, you will have priority in the selection process. If not, and we publish your work, we’ll invite you to email audios or to join a Wildfire Words free Zoom recording session.
**For any writer who has difficulty providing text, we accept audio-only submissions, provided there are only three pieces of work, and each poem or story is no more than 300 words.
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