Lola Ibrajter was born on 11.01.1996 in Uzice. She spent her childhood in Nova Varos, where she also completed high school. She studied at the Faculty of Law in Belgrade, where she still lives today.
Since early childhood, she has been writing poetry and engaging in drawing and painting. Since 2022, she has been a member of Young Artists of Culture (MUK), where in 2023 her poem titled “Ona” is published for the first time in the poetry anthology “5 to 12 Time for MUK”. Two years later, her poems “Sveto tlo” and “Deo ljudske duše” are published, and that same year the Spanish magazine “AZAHAR” translates her poem “U početku beše reč” into Spanish.
Annabel Kim is a high school student from Massachusetts whose artwork explores the intersections of memory, identity, and landscape. She often works in mixed media and oil, drawing inspiration from both everyday life and literature. Her work has been featured in student exhibitions, and she is excited to share her art with a broader audience through literary publications.
The wheat stalks breathe you in, Braid your letters for the evenings. And stir your songs the day they met Upon his face, the silence… the flock of stillness. Depart to where we began our journey, Indeed, the streams hold but fragments. To a time squandered, Forgive my death when I choose you, To the mercy of the devout, in protest, To the dwelling of the wound, The distance of desolation. And your endurance was to borrow From the star, the day of collapse’s rituals. Within you, the debasement of poems eludes, Towards the sunrise. And you quiet above some plains The languages of apprehension, In your sailing times. You soothe the blaze of solitude… cities, And pour into the eye the tears of reunion, Branches from the beginning we were, For the land of severance. We carry to it the beseeching letters, To write in love, The beloved’s spinning song. And you still swear by the earthquake, So as to prepare a new homeland, Which the questions lost in their lament, And the impossible bolted its gates With bursts of time that began to depart. You never left the harvests of remembrance, That we were quenching. With your silence, visions will not overflow The boundaries of emptiness. And we… Are in vain.
***
May God Strengthen You
When love confused you one day, And you melted into it, and you had no choice. That separation was coming for you, my heart, Anyway, may God strengthen you. Why did you obey him and walk with him? He got lost with you from the first step. You lived life after him, And the pain of his separation keeps you awake. When love called to you, You saw paradise with your own eyes, And you returned again with what’s inside you, In every glance, he makes you remember. Were his days a dream, or Was it a time that came and went? In it, my joy is absent from his presence, And my sorrow and worry destroy you. Believe me, a page has been turned, Like the hearts that were burned. From him, love and hearts intended To return to him again and command you. Anyway, may God strengthen you.
***
The Roofs of Houses
It peeks from the window of our hearts, And steps onto the paths that have drunk From its spring, the tales. Upon a thousand civilians who implore, And thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses. Their lament still embraces them, And gathers them, A million prayers, Except what it couldn’t contain. And you, who are ascetic within your prison, waiting For a glimpse of light, Just to caress your forehead. Your umbilical cord between you And the homeland, Knows you overcome your tears And split your chest for the cities, So that life may enter them, Free from the gloomy darkness clinging To every wall that the specter of silence Has demolished. These are thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses.
***
The Scars of Salvation
Let the halos of my heart fall from my brow, A light I thought I’d find while resting on the shoulder of the word, The one that hums a tune through the folds of this poem. Illuminate for others my journey, this bitter taste of a homeland’s pain, The anguish that fills it, stirring with every dawn That rises on a morning full of nonsense. The word was powerless then, Unable to forge a new space for confession, Or pluck a bejeweled pearl from its sky To gift to the poor, the orphans, the forgotten, Those on the brink of death. I know I am the zero from which all poets begin, The seed whose sprout only grew in the shadow of my ancestors’ verses. From them, I drew the strength to survive, Dreaming of their blissful, generous seas. I lean on them all with a pride that lifts me Into realms bright with the light of their wisdom, O Lady Poem. All I ever wanted from you was salvation, To end on your shores. I began you (or you began me) among the transients In a city whose streets had all gone dark, Forgotten by long wars, then awakened just once By the triumph of survivors, and drops of hope That thirst couldn’t defeat. Between tables of gunpowder and napalm, Scattered limbs and blood-stained walls, Jackets lie vomiting on the sides of ruins, With the words “I was here” scrawled upon them. A hemorrhage of questions. How I’ve longed for my poems to take them on, A path to grief and to release. I craft my shoot for the fated crowd, And belong to the march coming from those forgotten lands Hidden in the folds of shackles and prison cells, The torment of hungry stomachs, The gasping of tongues behind cries for departure, The absence of hope for a coming brilliance That carries on its face the radiance of the impossible. Lady Poem, I know glory in your proof. I know the secret in your river. This is how we meet, and with us, we meet A life that has no shrine, A life that only survived through an impossible bargain Between a bundle of thorns that grew just once From the pain of salvation. I am destined to live and to see the city Be the first to bless the burning heat of a step toward freedom, Swearing by the fading glory in its children’s eyes, The honeyed treasures flowing over a new homeland.
I was operating under a pseudonym at the time, blogging about Kaiser Permanente and the physicians whose decisions had left scars—some literal, some systemic. I was part of a loose network of Facebook groups pushing back against corporate medicine, calling out malpractice, and amplifying patient voices. One day, a notification popped up: Kari Lee Krome has sent you a friend request.
I blinked. The Kari Krome? The original visionary behind The Runaways? The teenage firebrand who helped shape the band’s early identity before being pushed out of the spotlight?
She messaged me almost immediately. “You’re my hero,” she said.
I told her who I really was. I told her I was the world’s biggest Runaways fan. And just like that, we were off—an unlikely pair bound by trauma, rebellion, and a shared disdain for sanitized narratives.
Kari had suffered a brain injury in a car accident, and later, she told me, was harmed by a medication prescribed by a Kaiser physician. She was raw, brilliant, and unfiltered. She’d pop into my DMs calling me “Mister,” and referred to herself as my “little sister on a skateboard.” It was a nickname that stuck, and one that still makes me smile.
She gave me an insider’s view of the world behind the Runaways mythology—the depravity of Rodney Bingenheimer, the sickness of Kim Fowley. “I’ll need therapy for life,” she told me once, and I believed her. She spoke of being “incredibly naive” at 14, living with Fowley, and of being “undiagnosed autistic.” Her stories weren’t just confessions—they were dispatches from the edge of a cultural moment that chewed up girls and spat out legends.
When I asked her about David Bowie, she said, “He was a vampire.” No context. No elaboration. I assumed she meant his proximity to the same predatory circles—Rodney on the ROQ, the Sunset Strip’s darker corners.
We collaborated. We co-wrote six songs together. She showed me her songwriting structure—tight, poetic, emotionally surgical. She sent me a story called Mootsie Tootsie, a scabrous, hilarious, and terrifying piece about shooting heroin in a Taco Bell restroom. I published it in my William S. Burroughs tribute anthology. Her poem North of No North appeared in White On White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, alongside contributions from Poppy Z. Brite, Caitlín R. Kiernan, and David J. Haskins.
She was only mentioned once in the Bad Reputation documentary about Joan Jett. It didn’t surprise me. Kari had little regard for the rest of the Runaways. She was the spark behind the band’s original concept, but her role was minimized, her voice nearly erased.
And then, about six months ago, she disappeared. No message. No goodbye. Just silence.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she’s okay. But I know this: I will never forget our friendship. I still have mad love and respect for the woman who called me “Mister,” who gave me a glimpse into the machinery behind the myth, and who reminded me that the most powerful voices are often the ones the industry tries hardest to silence.
Kari Lee Krome is a survivor. A poet. A punk. A sister. And wherever she is, I hope she’s writing, skating, and slowly conquering her demons.
The story takes place in Nova Scotia, Canada. All is not what it seems at first glance. First things first. This is a story about succession. This is not a story to send to your Sunday school teacher. Intrepid Lucy is a Banisher, and she has visions. She comes from a family of Banishers. Lucy gets into trouble as she happens upon Tucked Inn. She thinks she’ll get help here after her car breaks down on a deserted road, but unbeknownst to her she stumbles very quickly upon hellish terrain in a nutshell.
You get to grips almost immediately with the daring writing of the innovative Nadine AuCoin. Her characters find themselves in drama and conflict. Lucy is by far in over her head right from the beginning. She wants to escape the underworld realm and sinister atmosphere she finds herself in, and searches for ways to find an exit out. Her parents are loving towards each other, and she has wonderful memories of a grandfather. The characters are quirky but you fall in love with Lucy’s unique heart, mind and spirit.
The writing style moves the novella along at a rhythmic pace. It’s sensational writing at its core. It is never frivolous. Drama and suspense builds tension, and the element of anxiety and violence is used to create an atmosphere of fear and horror, keeping the reader glued to the edge of their seat. The story also has the element of the macabre. What makes this book an example of good horror writing is the aspects of the suspense, the overly dramatic, the combination of the mundane and ordinary tapping into the grotesque.
The story, I would say, goes so far as to use fear and anxiety to make an emotional connection with the audience. It plays tricks on the reader as well as being a thrilling psychological mind game. The book will also evoke a sense of disgust and shock in the reader. Horror can be difficult to write, and to read; but if you have an insatiable appetite for it, this book is for you. Horror is more than just a scary story; it’s about fear.
With suspense. There is both the expectation and anticipation of fear. Nadine AuCoin certainly has a flair for this kind of writing. I might just read the next installment. I am toying with that idea. There are creepy, crawly things, a spooky house with locked doors, long hallways and hidden walls, the dark and the familiar made strange.
It most certainly taps into the reader’s darkest fears. Lucy seems extraordinary at times with the reality of her situation quickly dawning on her. She is brave, bold in her forward-thinking, thinks fast and on her feet, letting nothing get her down. On the surface of things, Allister seems to be her match, but he does not have her powers. He can read her mind, and as the attraction grows between forthright and independent Lucy and Allister, the reader can sense their growing chemistry.
Keep up. The spooky story begins on a foggy dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere. Of course that road is found next to a forest. It paves the way to Lucy’s nightmare world filled with crazies, sex-crazed savages, the devil, a hell made of underworld realms of hidden caves, exorcisms and back. The only horror stories I used to read were Stephen King’s in high school. Now mind you, this novella certainly has aspects of horror in it as well as lusty passion, and the supernatural. I promise you it won’t be a waste of your time if that’s what you’re looking for.
The story has a sound beginning, middle and end. It flows, it has racy in parts if you demand that from your storytelling, and will keep you guessing at what will happen next. There are chapters where what goes bump in the night threatens to overwhelm you at every turn of the page. The writer keeps you captivated at every turn and twist of the story.
Horror leaps at you from off the page as well as Lucy’s ingenuity and her enthralling romance with the handsome and well-dressed gentlemanly mama’s boy Allister. Drake and Darko are the stuff nightmares are made of and are the complete opposite of their older brother. This is a book to sink your teeth into on a sultry autumn day with a mug of tea at hand under a duvet. Once you get into it, though, you want the story to end with Lucy and Allister falling in love and getting the fairy tale ending.
One can only hope that good triumphs in the end. I kept guessing until the very end at what would happen to everyone in the book, even the bad guy. What a delightful page turner of a book this was, although it did make me cringe in certain parts. You can read this novella easily in one sitting as I did on a sunny Saturday afternoon with warm sunlight streaming into a cozy bedroom in a coastal town in South Africa.
Although there is a great deal of adversity to overcome before the end, Lucy takes it in her stride and finally accepts her role in the world as a force for good. Lucy is a survivor. She comes from a centuries-old family of survivors. Evil threatens to overwhelm but peace eventually reigns in the end.
This book review was published on the website Modern Diplomacy on the 21st October 2023.
