On Monday a large stone crashes through the window. It is wrapped in an abusive letter. Eva doesn’t know what to do.
Rock, paper, scissors by Rob Walton
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Issue #40
Bamboo Canes by Tarmo Rajasaari
Yai is praying. She does that every evening around this time. Yai doesn’t speak English.
Train Man by Patience Mackarness
There is a you who still follows the tracks through India, photographing engines with names like Locomotive Sentinel and Last Star.
About the Longevity of Labelling Bell Jars by Mandira Pattnaik
I do understand the way my loving husband labels the bell jars, even though I can see through the glass what they are filled-with—salt, sugar, biscuits, and flour.
Bamboo Silk by Rosaleen Lynch
Pillow talk turns to silk; real or faux. In winter’s lowlight, smoke rises from the bedside ashtray, as the hotel window keeps the lunchtime city at bay.
Rodeo, My Way by Tess Kelly
I watched that cowboy through the fog of spray-on sunscreen, sunscreen that oughta be outlawed –up, down and sideways–the way it fucks with oceans, with air, with the sea turtles lolling on the Maui beach…
Beached by Rachel M. Hollis
“I’m a beached whale,” my mom says, tugging at her stomach in the mirror like she’s trying to peel it off.
Exit Wound by Bethany Bruno
The night the sirens came, my mother was labeling leftovers. She used blue painter’s tape and a black marker that bled through plastic.
The claw machine by Nadia Born
now offers babies for prizes. limited-edition grow-in-water ones that you can take home. no special instructions.
Vishnu’s Navel: My Creation Myth by Sherry Duggal
My family friend’s dog tugs on my white frilled cotton dress—saves me from falling down the stairs. I am four years old. My mom says that it didn’t happen.