Issue 7.1 – Nonfiction

I set to iron out the wrinkles on your shirt. It’s your favourite one. Or perhaps, I should say ours. Like a lot of other elements, ‘yours’ became ‘ours’ when we tied the knot. Like how the train coaches are linked together with the engine; they make a pretty picture as they curve up and…

Issue 7.1 – Poetry

The story your mother told while she pulled cactus spines from your forearm   When god conceived the cactus, he was already pregnant with the desert. He felt the sands gust in his abdomen, so he swallowed the bones of seven birds.   The first was the roadrunner’s long neck, which darted through the sandstorm…