Sunday is the first day of the week on the calendar but the last day of the week in Chinese. On…
poetry
The Difference Between an Arm and a WingSunny Chan
poetry
The Difference Between an Arm and a Wing
poetry
Auchindrain Inventory: Village MuseumNeile Graham
ragweed yellowish bramble yellow & grey these are the dyes & the colours they make meadowsweet bright yellow brown alder dark brown for the handspun wool hand-woven into herringbone tweed iris green & light brown…
poetry
StonePenny Stirling
Penny Stirling used to be stone but now she is flesh, words and embroidery stitches. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lackington’s, Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, Heiresses of Russ 2014, and others. Find her at http://www.pennystirling.com/ and…
poetry
On Two Streets, with Three LanguagesSonya Taaffe
The exorcism has failed. Dead Khonen in his bridegroom’s stainless kitl lifts white-gowned Leye into his arms, into the golden ghost-light, two halves of one neshome as dark-haired and slender in embrace as twins or a trick with mirrors, their…
poetry
From, ToSaudamini Deo
Rain and rain and rain and the familiar sight of rural Rajasthan seemed almost foreign with its green stillness reminding me of my train ride to Prague from Berlin where nothing happened except silence, …
poetry
Shadows Into LightKythryne Aisling
I made a necklace about you. Counted out beads like words, linked them, glass and stone – the wire will hold. There are stories in it that we haven’t even begun to write. I warned you that loving an artist…
poetry
Concerning The Curious Burial Customs of the Witches of MegairaElizabeth R. McClellan
For A.F.S.B., friend of poets & fairy godparents, wise mother of witch-worlds. On Megaira the witches gave up solstices and equinoxes fifty years after the Displacement. The groves (more shrubs than trees) flower hydroponically, light-years from the moon and…
poetry
Dark LightJohn Reinhart
There is no key, just an infinite number of doors turned inside out, each one creating a black hole full of white noise and closing into empty dreams where doves die forgotten on rotten limbs and their songs are unsung…
poetry
Witches of ChildhoodGwynne Garfinkle
The comfort of the sitcom witches with their laugh tracks, sixties dresses and twinkly music. When I have the flu, my mom wheels the TV into my bedroom so I can watch. Samantha Stephens twitches her nose, and the vacuum…
poetry
Tainted Margins ISaudamini Deo
Years ago, a woman stood in front of me and read out Manto. Siyah Hashiye shouldn’t be translated as Black Borders, she said. Tainted Margins. Another woman, years later, looked plainly at me and asked if people still slept on…