Issue 6.4 – Nonfiction

Disclaimer: This year I was wrongly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and treated with Lamictal. My psychiatrist prescribed me a very low dosage and quickly – within four weeks – my dosage was multiplied by eight.   I’ve always been placid. Mom always says I was born thirty. I wasn’t active, I didn’t have a whole…

Issue 6.4 – Fiction

Sister Elizabeth’s porridge sat in Rachel’s stomach like a brick. She hadn’t slept, knowing today was her turn. The heavy feeling turned to nausea as she and Mary headed out to the perimeter. Stopping by the supply shed, Mary pressed a rifle into her hands, and said: “Remember, it’s you today.” As if Rachel could…

Issue 6.4 – Poetry

Obsessions with the Moon and Nearly Iconoclastic Weather Aside, & thanking Andre Breton, of course   I am dreaming of hair. Hair, a halo of daemons, hair of memory Swimming pool hair, after chlorine, after sun, salted ocean hair, little girl hair, silky smooth straight parted hair, on the right, hippie girl parted in the…

Issue 6.3 – Nonfiction

Taylor Swift blares from the U-Haul’s radio, and we immediately burst into song, switching the lyric without needing to confer: I’m feeling twenty-FIVE, oh, oo. My partner grins at our telepathy, then comments: “Partner, really, don’t quit your day job.”  I laugh; continue to sing, happily off-key. We’re packed into a 14-foot U-Haul, speeding up…

Issue 6.3 – Fiction

6pm Whenever I’m there, she is too. It’s nice to have her company though we are separated by both bricks and water.  I see her no matter whether I’m feeding, soothing, winding or watching the world go by reflected in the canal outside my house. She is in a room like mine, often sitting, sometimes…

Issue 6.3 – Poetry

  As the words left his mouth I felt the stake through my heart Shock, hurt and brokenness Swirled in a cauldron of confusion Who was this person? I didn’t recognise him   He seemed to know me He spat, foamed and hurled angry, hostile words With the strength of machine gun fire at me…

Issue 6.2 – Nonfiction

At first it’s like a regular evening. Not that that’s a good thing, but at least you’re used to it. You sit on the chair next to your mom. Your granny’s called four times already: to ask if your mom had locked the door in the summer house when she last visited a month ago,…

Issue 6.2 – Fiction

Akua was a tall hard man, I say hard because he could have been made of iron, black as soot with pearly teeth and bulging white eyes. He spoke fast and loudly, seemingly agitated, even when he was being nice. His walk bore the same qualities as his speech; the quick thump of his step…

Issue 6.2 – Poetry

It is not in the baby’s wail, puckering at limp breast, eyes drawn back in a death mask skull. Madonna and child together perverse. It is not in the futile scrape, bucket bumped down a dry well, miles trudged in raging sun. Deserts of sea soon to cross. It is not in the flood rise…

Issue 6.1 – Nonfiction

When my friend, Letty, and I were fifteen, we cut our fingers, touched them together, and became blood sisters. As adults, we can go months without communicating, but when we get together again, we are still those sisters, mixing blood and staying up all night to talk smart and laugh ourselves silly. We wanted to…