I receive a call from my mother. It is to tell me a recipe for tortang talong, which she learnt last night in a dream.
Category: Art
ONE POEM – Emily Barker
A drunk girl came up to me in a club last week and told me, yet again, that I look exactly, no, exACtly–Sarah! Come over here! Doesn’t she look exACtly like our Hannah?
ONE POEM – Jack B. Bedell
and as soon as I touched the freezer’s handle,
the tar wall behind it rippled.
ONE POEM – Maura Way
I’m ready for the ritual
where I get crowned a
crone.
An interview with Claudia Knight
Born in the heart of the Black Country, Claudia Knight is predominantly a writer who is exploring the capabilities of her creativity after moving to London and discovering the freedom in taking more risks in life. Having discovered the endless possibilities when creating digital art, her bold yet simple pieces explore her relationship with herself, her body…
TWO POEMS – Paul McCarrick
The moon will not go down again,
street lights will be on forever and drive
electricity bills into walls with no seatbelts
ONE POEM – Anna Nightingale
when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
TWO POEMS – Sara Nesbitt Gibbons
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
SHORT STORY – Tamara Lazaroff
My grandfather who was not gay was born in 1930 in Seville, Andalusia. He worked as an itinerant labourer for the señoritos, the rich landlords, tending their olive trees and their domesticated animals.
THREE POEMS – Satya Dash
There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison
COMFORT FOODS // Dissecting the Heart of Mandu – J.A. Pak
Dissecting the Heart of Mandu The Chinese, Mongolians, Japanese, and now the Americans and Europeans are in my food, but are the Turkic nomads there as well? Intriguing and exciting. A mandu (만두) is a Korean dumpling. A savory dumpling with a filling of meat. It’s usually boiled but it can also be steamed, pan-fried,…
TWO POEMS – Steve Denehan
Pieces of me are escaping
through the pores
in the skin
of this room
