New Offerings and More

New cycles bring plenty of life changes here at the press. I’m pleased to announce our new anthology editor Marissa McCool joined OWWP. In addition to our new editor, we will also be offering workshops with mental health advocate and social worker Alex McLaughlin.

In addition to our new members new items are popping up online. All our retail is made by women or nonbinary folkx and chosen to help a writing life or boost a health-centered lifestyle.

As we continue to explore new possibilities, you’ll see new items pop up online daily. You may also soon see our anthologies, candles, and more in small boutiques across the USA.

Contest Winner

Congratulations, Juliette Givhan! Our winner of the Making Magic Poetry Contest and featured writer in “Wondrous World”!  

“Call Me Magic” was inspired by Marcus Wicker’s collection Silencer, specifically the poem “When I’m alone in my room sometimes I stare at the wall, & in the back of my mind I hear my conscience call” which uses the title as a through line to the first stanza. While reading Wicker’s poem, I kept returning to one idea: I have been called many things by many people (friend, student, love, menace) but I have rarely claimed a title for myself. “Call Me Magic” is my attempt to change that- a long overdue self-naming that I saw happening in Wicker’s work. My poem is a spill of who I see myself as, and a reminder to give myself more credit for managing the multitudes that come with the different parts of my identity. – Juliette Givhan

Juliette Givhan (she/they received an MFA from Oregon State University and writes predominantly about myths and memes. A lover of thicc cats, overpriced seasonal coffees, and out of vogue video games- she WILL make a scene for a breakfast bagel. Their recent work appears in McSweeny‘s, stellium literary magazine, and DEAR Poetry magazine.

See more on on Juliette’s website:

Thursday Inspiration


Petrichor wafted into her beaten lungs.

Nourishing the forest within.

Rain stroked her bruised skin.

Filling the droughted river.

Psithurism played her favorite tune.

Dancing with extravagant grace.

Wind carried her elegant locks.

Praising her every perfection.

She flew beyond the forbidden skies,

And saw her distant past.

The scars on her body illuminate.

The wars she fought, a clean slate.

She designs a path,

and opens the gate to the never-ending.

My name is Malavika Saju. I was born in India but lived most of my life in Africa. I moved to Dubai 6 years ago for my education. I am currently a first year University student. I have been an avid poem writer for the last three years but have had one piece of work published. I am a business student, but I find that poetry and literature play a major role in my passions and the ways I express myself. I look forward to my work being reviewed and possibly published.

Follow Malavika Saju on Instagram @malavika_saju

Coffee tip:

When shopping for coffee, keep in mind light roast beans hold more caffeine than dark roast. But, if you desire a bolder flavor, dark roast is a better choice!

Mid-Week Words

Bottoms up

You poured words into my cup
And I drank them.

Older sister, you handed me my cup of coffee

Every morning filled with opinions,

And you smiled.

You told me of what should and shouldn’t be.

You told me of tradition and shame.

Your smile masked out the blackness,

And I kept drinking it.

My kin, you charged my drink

Every evening with etiquettes and guidelines,

And I faked a smile.

I heard your tales of how to be.

I heard your tales of convention and guilt.

My smile filled out my face,

And I swallowed.

My predecessor, you taught me how to make it.

Every night, you laid out the steps

And I learned them by heart.

I followed your instructions,

I made all the right moves.

Your nod was a proud approval

And I held into my tight smile.

When morning came around

I poured words into her cup

And she drank them… oblivious
That they were chains in disguise.


My feminist father would never claim this identity…

My feminist father is ashamed of knowing;

what’s in the cupboards of our kitchen,

where we keep the detergent,

How to properly do the dishes.

My feminist father is embarrassed

By his love for cooking and lecturing me about it;

Be kind to you casseroles, he tells me,

Be gentle with your ingredients.

I catch the smile that tugs on his disproval.

My Feminist father feels guilty;

For not wanting to go out every night,

For preferring to stay at home.

He settles into his cozy corner,

We blame the cold for keeping him in.

Yet, My feminist father would never claim this identity…

Instead, it claims him.


One need not be a house to be hunted, 

One need not be a thing.

A body would do just fine,

A memory, a hymn.

When on your bed you fall at night,

He is there to tuck you in.

He lays there beside you,

He creeps under your skin.

Fear not my darling,

Hold up your chin.

When you wake in the morning,

He will have you still.

Rania Attafi is a feminist Tunisian poet. She’s a teacher by day and a poet by night.

Follow Rania Attafi on Instagram @raniaattafi

Coffee tip:

Not all decaf coffee is created equal. There are two processes to remove caffeine from beans. One uses a chemical to remove caffeine and leaves some nasty traces that enter your body with the java. The other preferred method that is more expensive is water-based. If you’re drinking a cup of decaf, ask how the brand removes the caffeine. Try drinking decaf that is water processed for your health!

Monday Inspiration


I wonder if sugar knows

As it drops into water,

With lemons,


Or tea

That it is changed, completely.

That being as it was

Is now drowning in heat.

I wonder if sugar

Feels and delights

That its dissolution-

Sweetens the sour,

Softens the bitter,

And cries what comes next?


Turtle dove walls,

White cotton curtains.

The room was supposed to feel light.


Outside the branches are bare.

The ground is frozen.

Rain is mixing with the hiss of the fireplace.

It’s January.

These rooms are for ghosts,

Silent footsteps over unsure boards.

Thoughts that trail into nowhere.

Full of fog and twitching covers.

I hung paintings on the walls.

And mirrors,

I watch myself cross them, back, forth, backward.

I begin to see my reflection as a memory of me,

All silver, and glass, and magic I can’t really touch.

It doesn’t really exist.

Moth bitten.

My home feels like a morgue.


I guess the first time was

Right when I woke up.

I still felt tired, and I knew,

If I wasn’t always so sad

I’d have more energy.

And then when I was frying an egg,

After being a failure as a mother.

I fished my fingers into the pepper

For flakes of chili ashes,

And as it spilled onto the stove,

I thought of how this didn’t happen

To better women.

I reheated the coffee from yesterday,

Left in its pot

To drink this morning, instead

Of fresh grounds, and water, and time.

A smarter woman would treat herself better.

Did I use too much cream cheese?

Why did I grab the bagel still hot, and burn my fingers?

Why am I so sad?

And I think of every terrible thing,

Ever said to me, by people I made angry.

The words slam into the inside of my head that I am:

Never enough,

That I

Could be, should be- more.

I was meant to be the love of their lives.

They loved me so much

Except I am not good enough, so they had to stop.

They tell me, I am to blame for this unfortunate truth.

And as I sit down, I’m always sitting down, too much,

I should change

I remember I left the laundry


Emalee Long is a linguistic anthropologist and writer living and working in Little Rock,
Arkansas. Her poetry, nonfiction, and micro fiction can be found online at Columbia University
Journal, Panoply Zine, The Showbear Family Circus, 86 Logic, The Pointed Circle, and The
Whorticulturalist. Find her in print at Weasel Press Vol. 3, In Parentheses Vol. 6 issue 2, 86 Logic
Vol. 1, and Wingless Dreamer ‘Rewritten.’

Follow Emalee on Instagram

Coffee tip:

Not all coffee is created equal. When shopping for coffee to brew at home, think about who is handling the coffee. Are the laborers paid, are the beans organic? Instead of reaching for the cheapest beans, look into the company that produces the product. You may be surprised to learn how far your coffee has traveled before it is in your cup. Cheap beans often equal poor quality and bad labor practices. Also, they don’t have the same taste.

By being a more educated consumer, you will support fair labor and environmental practices.