A literary & art zine with a focus on a view from the outside
Author Archives: Lucy Wallis
I'll write about anything. From the Tesco Garage to an art exhibition I liked. From Politics to the weather. Heavy or light. Your car radio, my mum's cooking. Just hope you lot like it as much as I do.
you see what you want in the surface of trees at false spring i looked & a face was looking back at me
trees talk & if you listen closely to their limbs swaying & their roots reaching you’ll see they’re
connected like us &
speaking like us &
mourning like us &
maybe you’ll believe me when i tell you i have faith in the astrological compatibility of trees
& instead of running late, we arrive, but i’ve long since learned that life’s story never ends as we imagine
so i invent another world where i look & it’s you
looking back at me
Milo Gorgevska lives in the dreary suburbs outside of Toronto, Ontario. Nonbinary and queer, they identify as a menace to society’s traditions. As a jack-of-all-trades, they are an author, director, poet & screenwriter. Previously, their writing under the pen name ‘Kara Petrovic’ has been published in Philadelphia Stories, Train: A Poetry Journal & others. Their self-published poetry collections are available for purchase at most major sellers. Their debut short film, SHARDS, placed in 8 festivals worldwide and was awarded Best Cinematography.
by Leah Mueller The absurdity of being so round, with such an eager mouth. The hippo looks like it’s about to bite into something, but it’s also smiling, like it’s goddamned delighted to be the most ridiculous animal in the room.Relentlessly positive New Agers see these beasts as noble creatures. Their essays claim that hipposContinue reading “Seven Ways of Looking at a Hippopotamus”
Meshwork by Soramimi Hanarejima In the cozy diner, breakfast with you is its customary languid affair of savory omelets and occasional quiet conversation—until coffee has coaxed me into greater wakefulness. Then I notice a lavender filament extending from you towards the tech district—a direction none of your strands has ever gone in. I know theContinue reading “Meshwork”
by Zach Murphy Pete and Richard’s orange safety vests glowed a blinding light under the scorching sun, and their sweat dripped onto the pavement as they stood in the middle of the right lane on Highway 61, staring at an opossum lying stiffly on its side. Richard handed Pete a dirty shovel. “Scoop it up,”Continue reading “Opossum”
The absurdity of being so round, with such an eager mouth. The hippo looks like it’s about to bite into something, but it’s also smiling, like it’s goddamned delighted to be the most ridiculous animal in the room.
Relentlessly positive New Agers see these beasts as noble creatures. Their essays claim that hippos mean confident problem-solving. The hippopotamus can even be your spirit animal, and it would be thrilled. It’s watching you with bulging eyes from just above the waterline, hoping you’ll say yes.
You can’t rhyme anything with hippopotamus. Don’t even try. You can barely spell the word.
You’re barreling down the interstate. A plastic hippo rides in your car well. You keep meaning to glue the hippo’s feet to your dashboard, but that’s only a thought that comes and goes with no real intention. The hippo is too small to solve your problem, so it goes into hiding under your driver’s seat. Months later, it creeps out to see if the coast is clear. Nothing has changed. It tumbles into the back and lies on its side, lazy and smiling amongst the bits of paper and stale, abandoned crumbs.
The DOT screwed up and thinks you’re driving without insurance. They wrote you a nasty letter filled with unfounded accusations. You want to tell them you don’t need insurance because you have Hippo Energy. Sad fact is that you do have insurance, but you don’t have Hippo Energy, which is why you must prove to the DOT flunkies that they made a mistake. You might need a bigger hippopotamus.
It would be kinder to bring the plastic hippo inside. Once the hippopotamus is in your living room, it looks even smaller than it did in the car. Its tiny bulk threatens to melt into your walls. You place it on your table beside a candle made from prickly pear-scented wax and an old El Pato Hot Tomato Sauce can. The hippo looks happy, but that’s nothing unusual.
Dusk falls and you light the candle. The hippo flickers in the faint light. You’re glad you finally rescued it. You’re not yet ready for an actual pet, but you could form a decent bond with a plastic one. The hippo likes your table even better than the floor of your car. Its beady eyes glow with contentment. Neither of you have to say a word. You have already told each other everything you need to know.
Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her latest, “Land of Eternal Thirst” was released in 2021. Leah’s work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. It has also been featured in trees, shop windows in Scotland, poetry subscription boxes, and literary dispensers throughout the world. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.
In the cozy diner, breakfast with you is its customary languid affair of savory omelets and occasional quiet conversation—until coffee has coaxed me into greater wakefulness. Then I notice a lavender filament extending from you towards the tech district—a direction none of your strands has ever gone in. I know the splay of them, and this one is definitely new. Maybe it’s your latest crush—the new attraction you’ve just barely hinted at.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and once we’ve finished our coffee refills and you’re heading to work, I trace this strand—even though one of the first things Mom said about the web was not to do this.
The very first thing she said was, “You can see it, can’t you?”
She must have noticed how I had been staring ahead, too intently to be seeing only the train car’s empty seats and vacant standing area. That’s all there should have been, but the space before me was crisscrossed with purple lines, countless coming and going as the train clattered down its tracks. Mesmerized by this mesh, I scarcely heard Mom’s words.
When I hadn’t answered for what was probably a half minute or so, Mom said—louder this time, “I started seeing the Purple Web around your age. It’s the connections between people.”
Instantly, the entrancing lattice transformed from a visual riddle to the vast middle of human relationships—as though Mom had broken the spell I was under by casting another. I turned to her, eager to learn more. Leaning back in the seat next to mine, she was looking at me with a bittersweet smile, lavender strands reaching out from her every which way, like magnetic field lines diagrammed in my science textbook but more haphazard. My gaze settled on one running straight from her to me.
“It is fascinating, but don’t follow the connections,” she said. “They can go far off into the distance and won’t take you where you think they will.”
Now, as your newest strand takes me by the shopping arcade, those words echo in my mind—like they did the last time I disregarded them. That evening when I studied all of Mom’s strands while she took a nap on the sofa, because I wanted to find the one that linked her to Dad but instead found out that every strand went through the walls of our little house, except the one between Mom and me. The discovery left me unsure of how much my parents cared about each other, until I later understood that the strand connecting them must be tied to some special place in the city where they met—the way the strand that connects you and me runs through Ms. Winterstone’s classroom.
And it’s becoming increasingly likely that this one I’m tracing leads to not your new crush but a place related to her. Whenever the strand shifts, the change in its angle always comes from your end, so the other is probably anchored.
Regardless, I go through parking lots, past a community garden and across train tracks, steadily moving from one city block to the next. Until, as it of course had to at some point, the strand brings me to an impasse. A building’s concrete wall. I was bound to come up against this sort of obstacle, though I was hoping that I’d be lucky enough not to.
Having come this far, I might as well see what’s inside the building thwarting my sleuthing. Around the corner, the large windows of its main entrance reveal a reception area and a prototype gallery—an open area showcasing upcoming product offerings. Curious what this company’s designers have created, I enter the building and head for the gallery.
Among the objects that seem like eclectic artifacts from a possible future, one draws particular attention to itself: a floor-to-ceiling “mirror” that spans much of the gallery’s back wall, reflecting me in a palace full of crystal—chandeliers running along the ceiling of a lengthy hallway lined with vases like giant diamonds on marble pedestals flanking numerous doorways. The shimmering scene of prismatic glass is dazzling, a baroque infinity emphasizing and adorning my plainness. I imagine you in this vitreous corridor, your eyes outshining all its sparkle.
Could this be what the strand I’ve followed is connected to? If so, who does this mirror link you to—someone who worked on it or someone who also marveled at it?
As though in answer to my questions, a woman in a gray blazer and matching skirt enters the palace hallway from the left, seemingly from an adjoining ballroom. She stops to stand behind my reflection, and for a moment, I think this is just how the mirror works—with a feature that adds people to the scene. Then I realize someone is actually behind me.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” asks the woman.
“Context really changes how we see ourselves,” I answer still staring ahead, as though we can only speak to each other’s reflections.
“Oh? I was going to say the opposite,” she replies. “We are who we are, no matter the surroundings.”
She takes a couple steps forward, and a filament running alongside me jostles, one that goes from her past me to the mirror—right into my reflection, as though we are already connected. If she is your new crush, then I’d rather be linked to her through you.
Standing next to me now, she snaps her fingers, and the crystalline decor around our reflections vanishes, everything replaced by a forest with trees of such height that only their thick trunks are visible.
“So, how about now?” she asks.
“Looks like me and someone else,” I answer.
“Isn’t that what the human experience is supposed to be, a mixture of self and other?”
“Yes, but in what proportions?”
And she smiles so wide that I have to turn away from her reflection, toward her to see the real thing up close.
Soramimi Hanarejima is the neuropunk author of Literary Devices for Coping and whose current work can be found in Lunch Ticket, Cotton Xenomorph and Cheat River Review.
Milo Gorgevska lives in the dreary suburbs outside of Toronto, Ontario. Nonbinary and queer, they identify as a menace to society’s traditions. As a jack-of-all-trades, they are an author, director, poet & screenwriter. Previously, their writing under the pen name ‘Kara Petrovic’ has been published in Philadelphia Stories, Train: A Poetry Journal & others. TheirContinue reading “Firmly Planted by Streams of Water”
3 Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife by Alex Stolis. Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s WifeAugust 1 – St. John, N.B. Canada I keep all your letters in a cigar box under our bednext to grandmother’s wedding dress. This is a cityof ghosts of bars of brown pastures. You send mepostcards from all the places I’ll neverContinue reading “3 Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife”
Houseplants By Jan Ball The houseplants thanked mein their particular green way,for your unexpected aspirationson the climbing philodendronin the guest room where you sleptlast night and for your fragrant exhalationsof carbon dioxide on the spiderwortpotted in the living roomwhen we companionably watchedThe Kominsky Method with Alan Aldaand Michael Douglas, laughing togetherat Douglas’ frequent visits toContinue reading “Houseplants”
Pete and Richard’s orange safety vests glowed a blinding light under the scorching sun, and their sweat dripped onto the pavement as they stood in the middle of the right lane on Highway 61, staring at an opossum lying stiffly on its side.
Richard handed Pete a dirty shovel. “Scoop it up,” he said.
Everything made Pete queasy. He once fainted at the sight of a moldy loaf of bread. Even so, he decided to take on a thankless summer job as a roadkill cleaner. At least he didn’t have to deal with many people.
Richard nudged Pete. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.
Pete squinted at the creature. “It’s not dead,” he said. “It’s just sleeping.”
“Are you sure?” Richard asked as he scratched his beard. He had one of those beards that looked like it would give a chainsaw a difficult time.
“Yes,” Pete said. “I just saw it twitch.”
Richard walked back toward the shoulder of the road and popped open the driver’s side door of a rusty pickup truck. “Alright, let’s go.”
Pete shook his head. “We can’t just leave it here.”
“It’s not our problem,” Richard said. “They tell us to do with the dead ones, but not the ones that are still alive.”
Pete crouched down and took a closer look. “We need to get it to safety,” he said.
Richard sighed and walked back toward the opossum. “What if it wakes up and attacks us?” he asked. “That thing could have rabies.”
“I don’t think anything could wake it up right now,” Pete said.
Richard belched, “It’s an ugly son of a gun, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s so ugly that it’s cute,” Pete said.
“No one ever says that about me,” Richard said with a chuckle. “I guess I just haven’t crossed into that territory.”
Just then, a car sped by and swerved over into the next lane. Pete and Richard dashed out of the way.
“People drive like animals!” Richard said. “We’d better get going.”
Pete took a deep breath, slipped his gloves on, gently picked up the opossum, and carried it into the woods.
“What are you doing?” Richard asked. “Are you crazy?”
After nestling the possum into a bush, Pete smelled the scent of burning wood. He gazed out into the clearing and noticed a plume of black smoke billowing into the sky. The sparrows scattered away, and the trees stood with their limbs spread, as if they were about to be crucified.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete whispered under his breath.
Pete picked up the opossum and turned back around.
Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Maudlin House, Still Point Arts Quarterly, B O D Y, Ruminate, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. His chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press) is available in paperback and ebook. He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Written by Lucy Wallis Illustrated by Lucy McDonald I held your diary in my hand but I didn’t read it. I imagine stored there within tiny fragments of your days, a kaleidoscope of being. Daily weather reports, and bird sightings, jumbled up with the minutiae of thought that flickers along the inside of your eyesContinue reading “Unlatched”
by Bridie Donaghy The gun has been fired. The gates open and me and the other hounds are set free. But I don’t feel much like running, not in a race – which this is. Forward…or backward… I can’t remember which, but a race away from this point, this moment…from here. Whenever I look atContinue reading “You are HERE”
Joseph Turrent (he/him) is a London-based poet. His book The Moth Apocalypse (HVTN Books) reprocesses the language of Twitter to imagine various cataclysmic scenarios as they might appear on social media. Recentwork has appeared in Firmament magazine, and The Mouth of a Lion, an anthology of visual poems published by Steel Incisors.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 1 – St. John, N.B. Canada
I keep all your letters in a cigar box under our bed next to grandmother’s wedding dress. This is a city of ghosts of bars of brown pastures. You send me postcards from all the places I’ll never go. They are on a map I do not own. I am left with ink on fingers, smudges of black on white on an unpunctuated loss. Truth is something only paper can be witness to. I’ll never wear that dress. Instead, I’ll meet you where the earth is covered in blues and greens.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 2 – Woodstock, N.B. Canada
I’m a girl on a dragon-fly on the back of a horse heading straight into the wind under an unbreakable sky. You are not here. You are made-up words in an invented language spoken in whispers. I remember every detail of the world we created from scratch. I remember that day the moon eclipsed the sun and for a moment the earth turned cold. The sky turned deep green no stars in sight. You wrote me of a dream you had; lost, afraid and miles away from home. You heard the low beat of wings. You felt the steady pound of hooves and I readied myself for flight.
Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife August 3 – Edmundston, N.B. Canada
Disregard my last letter. If you have not yet received it bury it away when you do. I’ve tried to stop loving you. It’s easier than I thought. Miles and time only sharpens every memory. You would no longer recognize the land but the sky is the same. I look up at your moon and your stars. Imagine a blanket of quiet descends on us. I close my eyes, can almost hear nothing. I’m an experiment in exile. We don’t ever really lie. We believe and then find out later we were wrong.
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Recent chapbooks include Justice for all, published by Conversation Paperpress (UK) based on the last words of Texas Death Row inmates. Also, Without Dorothy, There is No Going Home from ELJ Publications. Other releases include an e-chapbook, From an iPod found in Canal Park; Duluth, MN, from Right Hand Pointing and Left of the Dial from corrupt press. The full length collection, Postcards from the Knife Thrower was runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. His chapbook, Perspectives on a Crime Scene was recently released by Grey Border books and a full length collection Pop. 1280, released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon.
Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and Missouri native who now calls Maryland home. Her work has previously appeared in Ligeia Magazine, Capsule Stories, Midwestern Gothic, and elsewhere.
by Christopher D.Z. Mason I’m at the table after dinner and through the window to my left I see hued layers of green going back into a smoked-blue haze. First is the back fence, festooned with creeping old man’s beard that grew with such groping vigour in the spring. Behind it is the top ofContinue reading “Bones For Arcadia”
Mid Wales by Bernard Pearson Driving through the girth Of Powis in new July I see the land set As a table for some banquet This is a Marie Celeste County Groaning under nothing but the green. Full of people not there now resting in the care Of some churchyard yew, Seeded in the timeContinue reading “Mid Wales”
The houseplants thanked me in their particular green way, for your unexpected aspirations on the climbing philodendron in the guest room where you slept last night and for your fragrant exhalations of carbon dioxide on the spiderwort potted in the living room when we companionably watched The Kominsky Method with Alan Alda and Michael Douglas, laughing together at Douglas’ frequent visits to the bathroom as an aging male.
The grandchildren went to sleep on the study’s yellow fold-out futon where there are no plants but plenty of fresh air from the open windows where ivy clings tenaciously to the wall outside.
Jan Ball has been published in various journals internationally and in the U.S. including: ABZ, Mid-American Review, and Parnassus. Finishing Line Press published her three chapbooks and first full-length poetry collection, I Wanted To Dance With My Father. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in both 2020 and 2021. When not traveling, or gardening at their farm, Jan and her husband like to cook for friends.
Adrenaline was running high, like a kite without a string. His sisters laughed at his hammering, his vivid drawings of aliens but the batteries were humming, electricity sizzling and gas tanks shuddering as his creation cranked into gear and took shape beneath his slippery fingers and sweaty behind. Fumes bit the air anxiously, dogs onContinue reading “fuel injected fury”
Karin Hedetniemi (she/her) is a writer, poet, and street photographer from Vancouver Island, Canada. She’s inspired by the sea, and ordinary beauty in quiet places. Karin’s photos are published in CutBank, Invisible City, and elsewhere. Her cover art has been nominated for Best of the Net. Find her at AGoldenHour.com or on Twitter/ Instagram @karinhedet.
I was seventeen years old, utterly drawn to the closing scenes of The Sandlot (1993), when the narrator explains what happened to everyone after the sandlot becomes a location of boyhood. Bertrum said to have “gotten really into the ’60s, and nobody ever saw him again.” was one of the many lines that stuck toContinue reading “Notes For Sunday”
Written by Lucy Wallis Illustrated by Lucy McDonald
I held your diary in my hand but I didn’t read it.
I imagine stored there within tiny fragments of your days, a kaleidoscope of being. Daily weather reports, and bird sightings, jumbled up with the minutiae of thought that flickers along the inside of your eyes (which is where I imagine my thought lives – but I never asked you where you kept yours).
Today started fine and turned to rain. The leaves have begun to turn along the A40, and every night so far this week I’ve heard the geese pass overhead. I thought you’d like to know.
I looked out of the back bedroom window over a garden much overgrown, and fields much unchanged since I sat on the edge of the bed a child a sent my dreams out there to run like Hazel’s ghost in the cartoon version of Watership Down. I never spoke to you about it, but I’m sure you read it. The country in that book being the country you grew up in.
I heard a blackbird while I was sweeping. It’s only natural, being as it was after the rain.
Standing in your shed, the smell of old oil and damp wood, and working things I saw a spider had strung her web across the small window panes in its corner. The Autumn light oozing through dusty panes to leave a streaky, blinking miasma over the fact that all of your things have been unhooked and packed away and all that’s left in here is a rusty saw, and a nice new home for spiders.
I’m not sure what sort of spider it is.
Up the garden, the vegetable patches and flowerbeds are all overgrown and the apple tree bears fruit for the dropping because there’s no one here to pick them. You have gone elsewhere.
Back upstairs now to the front where we crammed ourselves in making your 3 up 3 down a port in all our storms. The sun has become brilliant, and in the beams that break the silence the dust dances in eddies. Swirling in the current of all our comings and goings. Except no one comes. The house draws shuddered breath as the afternoon draws on and the curtains, undrawn, catch themselves in whichever breeze unsettles the dust.
Memory settles in the corners of all the rooms and collects inside the cupboards and drawers. If I opened up the cupboard with your cups inside I might find whole days tucked inside the mugs. 11th June 1985 jumbled in with 1st September 2001. I might find 2002’s February, or 2007’s march. My memories, my mothers, the whole family’s, yours. Stored under the sink with the dustpan and brush and the WD40.
In the garden, I look through the window at where you used to sit and where you don’t sit anymore and think about how nice it is that you’re not sitting there at all and you’re freer than all of us to go where you will, even though I wish you were sitting there just now. No, actually, I wish you were outside, or in the shed doing things, or up the garden digging.
The last time I saw you, you read me Seamus Heaney’s ‘Digging’.
The August day was high and clear. No clouds. I heard a skylark in the field that morning and told you all about it.
When I read it now I hear you reading to me inside my head somewhere. In my head, you say ‘By God’. You say ‘By God, the old man could handle a spade./ Just like his old man.” and In my head, I reply to my memory of you “But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.”
In the silence that follows I playback you reading me the end:
“Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.”
So after the cleaning and the clearing, I left the windows unlatched so that whatever may be left of you in those back rooms might find its way out through the overgrown garden, over the back fence, and into well-known fields. To wend and wind your way onward. Freer still than the birds are free.
I go home to dig new furrows with my pen. The earth turns over.
and I leave my window unlatched too in case you come by in the night to say hello.
Lucy Wallis (she/her) is a writer from London or Oxfordshire – depending on who’s asking. She created this zine from a tiny flat in Paris. Her life long goal is to become a morning person, or a writer other people tell their friends about. Her greatest fear is that only one of these is possible. You can find her on twitter & instagram @thelucylist
Lucy McDonald (she/her) is an illustrator and audio creator from London. She loves all things auditory and visual and can most often be found with a big set of headphones on and a pencil in hand. You can find more of her work on instagram @lucy_walks_about
Rezia Wahid is an artist and weaver from London. She was awarded an MBE for Arts in London 2005, had a Solo Show in 2007 at Crafts Study Centre ‘Mosque in Rome’ collected by RISD 2009. New work collected by TateEdit 2019. Find her on Twitter @ReziaWahidWeave
Flowers radiatewith the sun’s teethopeningthe sky shiningwith sleepingstars’ hopesand bright redseeds’ echoesburied in the dry dirt.After long nightsin a lonely cabinI drive my childrenthrough crooked roadsto a high mountainoverlookingthe desert cityand watch themsled on new snow,seeing once againthe pink pointeddawn. Natalie Marino (she/her) is a poet, physician, and mother. Her work appears in Barren Magazine,Continue reading “The Long Light of Morning”
These are some photos by Bri Bruce, that were included in the 2nd Edition of Near Window, Inbetween. Award-winning author and Pushcart Prize nominee, California poet Bri Bruce has been deemed the “heiress of Mary Oliver.” With a bachelor’s degree in literature and creative writing from the University of California at SantaCruz, her work hasContinue reading “Inbetween – Some Photos”
The gates open and me and the other hounds are set free. But I don’t feel much like running, not in a race – which this is. Forward…or backward… I can’t remember which, but a race away from this point, this moment…from here.
Whenever I look at one of those maps in the park and it has one of those handy ‘You are here’ arrows I try to think of something clever and existential to say but I can’t because it’s just a map and I’m usually on my own or late to meet someone.
Besides it’s not always right. I’m only there when I’m there…but I guess even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day. Anyway.
I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about not being here, about the future and the past. About alternative universes, about not being in this time or in my body.
And about when I’m really not here…like dead dead (which is like being out out except you’re just really very dead). And at some point, during the nightmare that has been this…this…I made peace with being where I am – or rather accepted it…peace isn’t the right word. So now we’re here, I’d like to just sit here for a bit.
I’m not desperate to push away from everything that’s happened…is happening. And I don’t want to.
I also didn’t book a table in a pub three months ago, so I’ve got not choice anyway.
So I’ll just be here, wherever here is now.
Bridie Donaghy (she/her) is a London-based writer, producer and performer. You can find her on twitter @Bridie_Donaghy
I’m pulling weeds and moss from the cracks in the patioEven though I know they will grow again.It feels important to pay attentionTo these spacesThe in-between placesThat overgrow and can be hidden,NeglectedTheir meaning lost in relation to the whole.And I think of youWith your neural network of old fine cracksA barely visible historyThat could shatterContinue reading “Kintsugi with Weeds & Moss”
You utter grievances of restrictionsfrom holding a friend’s child. You keep himat a safe—safe—distance, laughingas he chases you.Home is a bunker detached from reality. You suffer under a warm, gentle glow;my sunlight is filtered through glass,splintered into fragments on my skin. Your loneliness echoes in open fields,reverberating from people two metres apart;mine rings within theseContinue reading “Play Life”
by Lucy Heuschen I find a single sheet of A4 paper, printed on one side in cheap ink. Unlock All ArenasUnlock All Bonus StagesHe must have done it at school, or maybe a friend gave it to him in the playground. Unlock All Concept ArtI like the idea of concept art. I do. Although: it’sContinue reading “Cheat Codes – A Found Poem”
Joseph Turrent (he/him) is a London-based poet. His book The Moth Apocalypse (HVTN Books) reprocesses the language of Twitter to imagine various cataclysmic scenarios as they might appear on social media. Recent work has appeared in Firmament magazine, and The Mouth of a Lion, an anthology of visual poems published by Steel Incisors.
Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and Missouri native who now calls Maryland home. Her work has previously appeared in Ligeia Magazine, Capsule Stories, Midwestern Gothic, and elsewhere.
A Story to Tell The man in 16B leaned over and spoke to the man in 16C. “I have a story to tell,” he said. 16C looked up from his Sky Mall catalog. He leaned away from the first man, trying to preserve his scant personal space. “Everyone has a story to tell,” he said.Continue reading “A Story to Tell”
I should feel happier. The days of rain have ended. There is sunlight. There is also the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed sulawesi toraja coffee. Beetroot-coloured, butterfly-like triangularis leaves flutter about my ears. Piped trip-hop evokes idyllic beach scenes with the promise of wild parties later on. The conceptual artwork is indescribable, as it shouldContinue reading “Goodbye, Frenetikov”
the bird on the roof; the lamp pointingupwards; the pen going on a journey;the keys; two pink clothes pegs a long wayfrom the line; an acknowledgement; thebooks that stick out from the shelf;the waiting weights; the thigh thatmoonlights as a writing desk; the ladywho organised this; the taste of thecoupon; the wave; the flip flopsContinue reading “Caught Napping”