We get it. We do.

Maybe getting published in a magazine isn’t your ultimate dream. You want to get out there and be breaking down walls in the publishing industry. Setting new standards. Blowing people away with your new and unique writing style. And heck, you’re going to do this with the coolest, number one best-selling book ever.

And we at Mudita support you. We want to see you succeed.

But every writer’s journey is a step-by-step process. You have to gain exposure before you can start building your empire. Every castle (or mansion if that’s your style) starts with a brick. Maybe that’s a dumb analogy but it’s all we’ve got so let’s run with it.

Let’s pretend that each brick is a time someone in the writing industry sees your name and acts on it. This action could be anything from checking out your portfolio to actually contacting you about what projects you have in the works.

Only problem is if you’re not published elsewhere how the heck are you going to get your name in front of the publisher’s eyes?

So we commend all of you dear Prosers for writing on this site. You’ve already started to push yourself to get out there.

And now we implore you to take the next step-- submitting to other publications. There are so many opportunities for writers. Search up some literary magazines. Contact some old friends. Get yourself published in anthologies, collections, art magazines, etc. Yes, you may face rejection. But everytime you get that one small poem published, you are getting one step closer to your bigger dreams.

Writing is already a difficult struggle. Making a career of it is even harder.

We at Mudita want to see you succeed. So, go on! Get out there. We believe in you.

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Submissions for our Summer 2019 issue are currently open. Visit our website muditamagazine.weebly.com for more details on how you can submit. We look forward to reading your submissions.

He was the kind of love that pulls you apart from the inside.

Feral and ravaging.

Crashing and teeming.

Skin ripping from the pressure building.

He was my fingers dug into my palms to form crescent, blood moons.

He was my breath too heavy to catch.

My bones splintering from the weight of my blood rushing.

He was my eyes closed tight and my head tipped back and my chest full of melancholy and ache.

He was the kind of love that is breaking.

A war determined to eat me from my body.

Myself, torn in shreds.

He was my tongue wetting my lips and my skin warmed and aching.

The creep of longing that tumbled across my neck and back.

The bruises smarting against whispered touches.

He was the light that breaks through when you come out of the shadows.

He was the darkness that pulled me in deeper.

He was a frenetic up and down, drain circling, tantrum.

He was the angst that I craved.

He was words pouring out of me all at once.

And he was the throbbing in my hysteric heart.

The pulsing torment that’s deconstructed my being.

And the insomnia that continues to keep my eyes tired and my mouth starving.

My destroyed.

My raw.

My devoured.

My tormented.

My gritty.

My careening.

My burnt.

My blistered.

My wrecked.

My fiery.

My raging.

My tortured.

My drowned.

My lonely, deadly, can’t hold it together.

My never ending.

Ending.