Porridge

ONE POEM – Sally Michaelson

giddy with the scent
we pipette the peppermint
into the mixture

COMFORT FOODS // Sour moon – Ieva Grigelionyte

The first important thing in making fermented cabbage is to choose a good cabbage head.

ONE POEM – Emma Wells

a cheeping beak breaks forth
scenting balmy air:
swirls of hyacinths waft
in warm, hour-less days –

Frickin’ Lion – Ann Kathryn Kelly

Olive the (lion) dog. Image by Andrea Farrow, via Instagram The mane streams behind the dog as it tears across weathered gray floorboards. “Frickin’ lion.” The seven-second Instagram reel auto-loops on my Thursday lunch hour and I become obsessed with this dog that I later find out belongs to my colleague Jessica’s sister, Andrea. I…

THREE POEMS – Eleanor Scorah

I felt autumn and you weren’t in it

Umbrology – Brian McNely

I stepped off the plane in Helsinki – airport code HEL – and found a restroom. Standing at a urinal, I heard birdsong piped through overhead speakers: odd, soothing, out of place. The train to downtown Helsinki departs from a giant, cool tunnel many meters below street level. The platform is nearly empty. Massive faux-tapestries…

ONE POEM – Aimee Nicole

How many fried eggs do I have to eat to heal these broken bones?

Two Cultures, Again – Kate Venables

I am a student in a creative writing programme, a mature student, from a professional background as an epidemiologist. Amongst ourselves, we students don’t really talk about ‘creativity’. We talk a lot about craft and sometimes we talk about ourselves and the way in which how we feel affects our writing. But rarely about ‘creativity’…

Dances with Rabbits – Walker Thomas

I stood under the alligator juniper that shaded my tent in the oak woods. Effie squatted between my feet. In The Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade called his receptionist Effie. But the Effie at my feet was no lady. I called her F. E. Cottontail in my journals. Cottontails are coprophagous – literally, Fecal Eating. That…

ONE POEM – Miriam Gauntlett

last night i carved open
a tree in the yard and
at the centre of the
trunk was a small
knife

ONE POEM — Danae Younge

The trees are prettier this time of year, limp—
gowned in sweet milk stuck to our tongues.

Missing Woman – Katie Hunter

In early October 2020, my partner Greg and I drove at sunrise to Zion National Park in southern Utah. On the way I swigged coffee and snapped photos of sandstone cliffs dip-dyed red by the sun. They dwarfed what I’d imagined while planning our pandemic-adapted vacation – a national park tour via road trip, starting…