Sisters of the Page has been on the web since 2007. We have featured the works of Misti Rainwater-Lites, MK Chavez, Judy Brekke and Craig Sernotti.

SOTP is a place where we promote female writers, artists, and photographers. This is our goal and our emphasis however, from time to time, we will open the page to our male counterparts in order to showcase some of their works.

Please feel free to click on our archive for past works. It is located at the bottom of each page. If you have comments, please post them under the artist's work, General comments may be directed to the editor at midulcevida66@gmail.com.

Abusive and deragatory comments will not be tolerated and will be immediately removed.

We hope you enjoy your visit. Thanks for stopping bye.

Juliana Vargas
Editor-Sisters of the Page

Sunday, September 30, 2007

wal-mart frightens the fuck outta me by misti rainwater-lites

with its
shiny floors
dead eyed stockers
lackluster produce
christian propaganda
kitten calendars
zombie shoppers
coming toward me
with their carts full
of squalling kids
and cases of generic soda
this is hell
whatever happens when I die
will be heaven
by comparison

Misti has two brand-new chapbooks at lulu.com, Sought and Don't Be Deterred By My Deterioration. Halloween/Samhain/Dia de los Muertos are Misti's favorite holidays. Her favorite candy is Reeses pumpkins.

two by melissa hansen

The wild god

The wild god hangs with the goats

Because he is in you

I want him in me

Because he can see you

I want him

to see me

I smell him from a distance

my nose

it does not twitch

The wild god hangs with the goats

I am selfish

I want god to dig into me

to bury me

I cry with desire

I burn my skin with fire

My pilgrim lust

I give to one

my bloody




like sun

The wild god hangs with the goats

I want him

And I think he wants me too

Cold Eve

The fog brews lovingly.

Inches away

the dawn is forced to recede.

Further and further

it lays.

Swept into the night

with nature's black broomed whores

who swallow lovingly.

Melissa Hansen lives in San Francisco where she writes stories and poetry that enjoy lying in swollen notebooks while hiding in dark drawers. Her poetry has been published by Leaf Press, Silenced Press, The Smoking Poet, and The Guild of Outsider Writers. You can contact her here:

the lesson-a short story by km sutton

Darkness falls over the rural country road. The old dirt road started its life as a footpath. Progress had made it necessary for a road to be built there, in order to construct a sprawling estate for the software media mogul. He used his estate to escape the modern world he helped to facilitate. The gates of his estate were a mere mile from this dark spot. A car with its lights off was making its way slowly along the road. The woman in the car knew, like everyone else in the small town knew, he was at some big conference in New York. He was there to help reassure the country that 9/11 hadn’t crippled the economy. The town was proud of this patriotic son and his connection to their little community. She didn’t care about that. All she cared about was that this was a remote location and she needed time for this final act of intimacy with the man who was her husband.

She pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop. She’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes on the way. She opened the trunk and pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted out the old wheelchair. She’d paid cash for it a month ago at a medical supply store in Kirby. She’d drove the two-hour round trip when he thought she was visiting her mother at the hospital. If his corpse weren’t rotting in the car he would have beaten her after seeing the odometer mileage didn’t match up. He’d been on top of her from the moment her father gave her to him. People didn’t believe that kind of thing still happened in this country. He’d given her father fifty thousand cash for her hand. The wedding was a farce. Everyone, including the parish priest knew her shame. She would have died at her father’s hands had she refused.

She dragged the body into the wheelchair. Pushing him into the woods she remembered all the beatings and the torturous rapes. He’d wanted her to get pregnant. She’d managed to prevent it with a screwdriver and Jim Beam for anesthetic. He’d removed every screwdriver from the house after finding her with last one. She was properly punished that night. He gave her a sponge bath with bleach. He said to wash the sin of killing their child off her. She saw the murder of her possible children as a mercy killing, which she preferred, rather than subject their innocent souls to her same miserable fate.

After about a mile of pushing, the terrain became too much for the wheelchair and she had to drag the body another mile and a half before she was satisfied. She returned the way she’d come and collected the wheelchair. She packed it back into the car and drove back toward the small town, and then through it.

She considered her future. It had to be better than this. She decided to change her name to Angelina. She loved that Angelina Jolie. She had finally become as strong as she had when she poured the arsenic into the pecan pie mix. She watched him eat it, watched the convulsions, the painful death that ensued, and then the realization in his eyes. He should have known what would happen. Between her father and her husband, they had taught her all the lesson she needed; that cruelty had its uses. There was no hope, no love, no emotion; the only thing that remained was malice. With a smile she considered her future, as she let her hair down. She would find a battered woman’s shelter in some city. There would be opportunities there to continue her work. Many men to teach the lessons she’d learned. Death is coming to town.

km sutton is an african american lesbian living in the lap of luxury (so she says) in the middle of nowhere. she has been a closeted writer for many years. welcome to her coming out party!!

locks of hair by zoe alexandra

I keep having to remind myself

that they are just feelings

that you have them too

even though you can slip yours behind

your long black hair and forget

My hair is short and I cannot tuck secrets

Into the lining of my jacket

If my face is your compass then

You are moving in the wrong direction

I believe in your eyelashes

The soft flutter of one against the other

The way you look at me

But I bet you look at everybody that way

Your hair is electric

Your eyes are smoldering through

My tightly wound string of my confidence

You are the seeing the actual me

You are seeing the authentic me

And I bet you want to wash your hands of it.

Last night I drove through the darkness

Through New Rochelle and New Haven

All the lamplights on the highway looked like constellations

Telling me to run the fuck away

The night before

We were flying down the Boston Turnpike

All the way to Vermont

With my best friend,

I am finally safe

I can finally spill the alphabet soup

Acrid red from my dirty mouth

Not afraid to be unlovable anymore

(if i am then…so what…)

You're from Tempe, Arizona

Where my best friend used to cook up batches of acid

And crack

And heroin

And that's how I know you had to come back

To Connecticut where they loaded you up with

Thorazine and methadone

And you crawled around in some dimly lit basement

And played with bugs.

I only loved you because you were so far from my grasp

I only loved you because I could never touch you

You were magical and I was on a pink cloud

My first week crying

Your hair was above water

Somehow your eyes were still clear pools

Like crystal balls

Like Russian roulette I knew that you'd die

Or I'd die

but I'd never get to sink my fingers into your back

Hold you correctly

And then I did

Felt you there beneath me

Thought I was sinking

Thought if I had you

I wouldn't want you anymore

Your fingers up my cunt

Your crooked fingers in my mouth

Biting down hard

Trying to be quiet

Trying to move like some starlet

From the pages of a glossy magazine

Trying to let you catch me

In all the right lights.

But we're just friends now

We're just friends like you said

And I had to etch it into my hemisphere

Because yours is warmer

Yours is closer to the equator

And I'm out of sunscreen

And I'm feeling lost on this desert landscape

Everything is as barren as my mother's womb

Everything is drying up

My skin is peeling

My lips aren't flower petals anymore.

I won't tell anyone about this

I won't tell anyone except:

God and Jesus and Mary Magdalene

And my best-friend and that girl from Ferry St. that I used to know.

I live my life for a live wire

I lay myself on the telephone line

I wait for you to pick up the receiver

And if you don't I sob into my flannel sheets

It is this tiny inferno that keeps building inside me

It's this little flame

That won't let me fall to ashes

It's you looking at me

Then looking away

Begging me to turn back around

To see if your eyes widen

If a stare like yours could ever burn through mine.

Made in secret

See you tomorrow

Made in secret

See you later

Made in secret

See you Friday

Made in secret

See you whenever

I wish you hadn't made it real,

This poem would be propaganda

If this was 1937 it would be confiscated

By someone in a blue suit

I'd be wearing your red letter

I'd be crying in kitten heels

I'd be cuffed and thrown against a fencepost

I'd think it was all really romantic.

If all feelings are trivial

Than so are yours

If you have any.

I don't play those sick games anymore;

Come here, A little closer, Come here

Get the fuck away from me

Everyone's bleeding

Everyone's bleeding from their lips

And nose and eyes

Everyone's bleeding from their aorta

And their fibroids and their bowels

Just not everyone can see it

But I can feel it

It's internal

I'm taking a turn for the worst.

If you loved my mouth then you'd know

I could tell you things no one else could

Sick things that would make your ears ring for days

You could brainwash me and make me proper

I'd wear whatever you wanted

I'd wear your black eye

I'd wear nothing at all

The truth is I just want your hair

As symbolic as it may sound

Once I wanted to dye and cut and maim

My hair and my mom said it was psychosis

I think I just want your hair

To wrap around me to tie to trees

To inhale deeply

To exhale like a drag from a menthol cigarette

When you say you're quitting smoking

I think it's a trick

I think you're quitting me

I think I've lost my sheen

I think I'm not that nice-looking girl anymore

I think I need you all over again.

I am a twenty-three year old female from Queens, NY whose work has been published in Zygote In My Coffee, Silenced Press, Madswirl.com, Hipsterotica, Deconstruction Quarterly, The Common-Line Project, Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 (cleis press) and will appear in the future Zygote in My Coffee zine print edition of December 2007 as well as in Remark Magazine, Debris Magazine, Word Riot and Pink Elephants on Review.

at the treatment center by judy l. brekke

her make-up
thick and overlapping layers
mental illness

she walks carefully
silently on tip toes
afraid her face
will show
dark secrets

her child-like babble
gives the appearance
of a lost toddler
searching for
a friend
who is not there

he shuffles
down a damp, musty
hallway dragging
a leg stiff as white marble
it collects fluted med
cups rainbow stained

black hair thick
as a horse's mane
slicked back into
pigtails that hang
over his torn brown plaid
jacket with pockets turned out

he passes rooms locked
to keep him in view
of female staff dressed
in odorous and stained
white shirts covering
bulging soft breasts

these keepers
of his must prevent
a second leap
from a broken
third floor window

he cut off
his testicles
with a soda can
pop top

a first day nurse
found him in the kitchen
putting a soft grey object
recently fried in his mouth

he rests
in his dark room
"oh please help me"

his self mutilation
was only the beginning
with towels wedged between his legs
he cried softly wanting to be a woman

Born in and again resides in Minnesota with Stephen S. Morse (spent between 1969 and 1982 in the Bay Area). A co-editor of JUICE, (first as a print magazine now an e-zine). She has been writing since age 10 with some seriousness since 1974. Won the Ina Coolbrith Memorial Poetry Award in 1978 and 1979 with the poems sharing a place in the University of California (Berkeley) Archives. Wrote and illustrated a child's book of poetry in 1981- never submitted - it rests on her bookshelf. Now working on a book of poetry with Stephen S. Morse, 'Places that Linger', dedicated to their granddaughter.

She loves roasting marshmallows, watching fireflies, and experiencing life through the eyes and mind of her granddaughter Willow.

Published in: Debris Magazine, Instant Pussy, Mystery Island, Outsider Writers, Poetry Super Highway, Wilderness House Literary Review, Zygote in My Coffee, and others