A Poem For Marilyn — who, at her heart and core, was always Norma Editor’s Note Due to legal reasons, I cannot share the image originally intended for this piece. But perhaps that’s fitting — because some women, like Norma Jean, were never truly seen, only imagined. Author’s Note “Beneath every myth is a woman the world refused to understand.”

By Daniana Medina This piece is a fragment drawn from a longer reflection, Purple Bravery. It carries the pulse of memory — the dance floor’s violet haze, the word that lingered, the ache of what could not be. The full essay follows the journey beyond that night — from desire to restraint, from reflection to the quiet weight of what never became.

A Beautiful Stranger in the Halls of Manderley by D.M. of Ivy & Ink “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…”— Daphne du Maurier The 2020 Netflix adaptation of Rebecca, directed by Ben Wheatley and starring Lily James and Armie Hammer, invites us once more into the shadows of Manderley — though this time, the shadows seem a little softer, the ghosts a bit more dressed for daylight.

Poems by D. Medina Author’s Note These poems arrived to me not as mere words, but as whispers—echoes carried through dreams, intuition, and an inner sense I cannot quite explain. I am not one for regular religious practice, nor do I hold any title. Yet in these verses, the Orishas—keepers of paths, guardians of tides, mothers of endings and beginnings—seemed to ask for their presence to be named.

By Daniana Medina …Is it a glitch?Or echoes throughout time? A witch be called —intuitive, sensitive,alluring, enchanting. A blasphemy against nature —or so they claim. The witch is your doing —and your undoing. She is power,resilience,enigma,despair. She wanders without worry,bound to earthand to the universe. A witch be called — by men.

Self-Mastery and the Ethics of Darkness By D. Medina Have you ever had your lie detector antenna signaling deception so hard, you could sense its predatory warnings before a single word was even spoken? It happens to me more often than I’d like. You could call it a burden or a blessing — I see it as an advantage. It gives you a heightened awareness of what surrounds you, and, if strong enough, what’s coming.

“The sigil writes in a language the soul already knows.” by D. Medina The first time the weight came, Lena woke into it. It wasn’t sound that roused her, nor light. It was pressure—quiet and absolute—pressing her into the mattress as if the room had filled with an invisible tide. Her limbs obeyed no command. Her jaw unlatched in a silence that somehow felt loud.

By Sarah Penner A Review by In Ivy & Ink "The dead speak, but only if we listen." There’s something entrancing about a novel that beckons you into candlelight, holds your breath in suspense, and whispers secrets from the shadows. The London Séance Society does just that — pulling you into a world of loss, deception, and ghostly reverberations, where every glance could be a warning and every silence could be filled with the unseen.