essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
The moon will not go down again,
street lights will be on forever and drive
electricity bills into walls with no seatbelts
when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
Photo by Joseph Pearson on Unsplash Milk Crate Malady We stumble to your home, arms linked tripping over ourselves as we talk I’m guided through the front door and down the passage to your room A lone mattress on the hardwood floor A vinyl collection spilling out of green milk crates Quick thumbs roll a cigarette we take…
. True crime, by its very titling, leads audiences to believe that they are consuming something inherently true in nature. True crime is categorised as a non-fiction form of media, regardless of the means of communication – whether it be written or visual. This alleged truthfulness raises intellectual and moral ambiguities. The rate at which…
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
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.
There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison
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,…
Yifan Zhai is a young critic from Beijing. She is currently pursuing an MA in English Literature in Beihang University, China. She used to be in an exchange program to the St.Mary’s University of Texas, USA, where she developed an interest in studying and criticizing literature. Her focus is reading the classics with new…
the future is ready for
our, now available,
technological improvement
He was a black hole in a suit. An abyss in a necktie. And he sat down next to her on the train.
I’m a mess
A profaner of tombs
Devoted to graves
Except mine.
Porridge 