Leaving – Yin F Lim

Glossy lips, upturned in a cheesy grin. This is what I see when I think about the morning I left my country. The lips of a Ronald McDonald statue, painted red to match its garish hair and its clown’s outfit. Broad lips stretched into a smile that seemed much too bright under soulless eyes. I…

POETRY – Chavonne Brown

She was not like unwitting prey,
That had never sighted the lion;
She fled from him, knowing
As she did what it meant…

ONE POEM – Anne Gill

In lattie we held martinis,
un-clobbered each other –
left our cats on the floor in nishta.

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

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.