Halfway around the world
The journalists are saying goodbye
Presenting perfect poetry of condemnation
And bleak acceptance
“Faces have become pale
Hope has disappeared
We will not forgive
Those who were able to speak truth
And remained silent” — Ismail Jood
Still offering beautiful
Words to describe atrocity
“I do not know how much longer I have.
I hope people will remember me
In a beautiful way
And I will remain in your hearts” — Ayman Aledi
Such a soft and aching request
After documenting a massacre
Please know I was beautiful
Please know I was strong
Please know I did everything I could
“It’s about life or death now
I did what I could
We are surrounded by Israeli tanks” — Motaz Azaiza
I did what I could
What words are more defeated
What words are more innocent
Survival like that means no longer
Doing what you stayed for
Their eyes are our eyes
“There is nowhere to go
I cannot leave. A bomb killed
Fifty people in my neighbors home” — Thaaer Abu Rayyash
Escape is not possible
Their eyes are our eyes
What must it be like
To document your own destruction
“I am an English speaker
My wife and child will leave
I can help document in English.” — Mansour
In English
For us
They are begging for their eyes to be our eyes
Individual life is less important
Than belief of the world
“I no longer have hope of survival
Like I had in the beginning
I am certain I will die in the next few weeks
Maybe days” — Bisan
Maybe days
Maybe days
Maybe days
Most of us don’t know
When the reaper is coming
But these authors
These fearless artists
Are risking their lives to
Be the eyes of the world
Those who are begging for peace
Somewhere halfway around the world
The journalists are saying goodbye.
The have accepted the inevitability
Of occupation
Of genocide
They will still be our eyes
Until they cannot anymore
Somewhere halfway around the world
Children are dying
And the journalists are
Saying goodbye.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Ayman Aledi stood outside Al-Awda Hospital Waiting for his son to be born. The war arrived first. Now his child will learn his voice Through old footage and unfinished drafts.
He was 35. He was known for covering bombings live from the field. The press vest, the car — none of it protected him. His death made headlines internationally, not just because he was killed while clearly marked as a journalist, but because of the haunting timing: his child was born days after he was killed.
Rest in Peace Ayman Aledi.
Free Palestine.
If this resonated, share it on Bluesky (or anywhere folks still have an attention span longer than a moth after a sleepless night), leave us a comment, or check out our latest anthologies
Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’
Prose Collection, ‘ Fifth Avenue Pizza’
SALT
in the wound
An Anthology of Justice, Equality, and Resistance
We are seeking work that burns.
Salt in the Wound is a forthcoming anthology of poetry, prose, nonfiction, and hybrid forms on the themes of justice, equality, and resistance. This collection is for the words that won’t stay quiet. The truths that refuse to scab over. The ones that bleed, bite, and insist on being heard.
If you’ve been told your voice is too political, too angry, too queer, too much—good. Send it.
▼ What to Submit:
- Poetry (any form)
- Nonfiction (memoir, essay, reflection, critique)
- Short Prose (flash fiction, lyrical narrative)
- Hybrid (fragmented, found, uncategorisable)
- Up to 3 pieces total
- Poetry: up to 3 pages each
- Prose: up to 2,500 words each
▼ How to Submit:
- Attach your work as a .doc, .docx, or .pdf
- Email to: riverandceliainunderland@gmail.com
- Use subject line: Salt in the Wound Submission
- Deadline: 16th June 2025
- No bios. No cover letters. Just your words.
▼ Equity in Action:
$1 from every copy sold will go to the Black Trans Coalition.
Because justice should be more than a metaphor.
Spread this call far and wide. Share with the loud. The silenced. The grieving. The furious.
LET’S MAKE SOMETHING UNIGNORABLE.
☍ The Underland Review
Out Now.
Read it…
And Weep.
The Underland Review: Issue One – This Zine Is a Lie is now live.
57 pages of soft monsters, glitch-lit poetry, haunted prose, cursed diagrams, and art that shouldn’t exist but does anyway. A digital archive stitched together with pocket lint, rage, and love.
☍ READ THE ZINE
Free to read, cursed to absorb. Share it with your coven, your nemesis, your local librarian.
☍ DOWNLOAD THE ZINE (Pay What You Want)
Keep a high-res PDF in your glitch archive. Every donation helps us print more, distribute wider, and one day pay the beautiful liars who make this possible.
☍ ORDER A PRINT COPY ($5.55 + your soul)
Hold the lie in your hands. Smell the ink. Feel the contradiction.
☍ Submissions for Issue Two Are Open
Deadline: Midnight August 10th, 2025
We’re seeking: poetry, prose, essays, visual art, sound pieces, spoken word, and other beautiful misfits. If it glitches, bleeds, howls, or doesn’t fit in polite company — we want it.
We accept text, image, and audio formats. MP3s, JPGs, PDFs, .docx, strange attachments — bring us your fragments. Collaborative works are welcome.
Email us at: riverandceliainunderland@gmail.com
Subject line: THIS IS A LIE – [Your Name]
Thank you for reading. Thank you for believing in beautiful contradictions.
We were never here.
— River & Celia
Curators of Lies, Underland Division
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