by Mike Towey
This is a fumbling towards chaos
No whimpering in dark memories
Read More »Tag: the amazine
His Mother Used to Isolate Him in Her Coldness
by Huina Zheng
Like a frost creeping through the early morning, her indifference enveloped him, a chill more pervasive than the winter wind. While he never ignored his own child, his mother had often enveloped him in a suffocating neglect. This disregard swirled around their home, leaving an icy sheen over his heart.
Read More »2 poems
Let me cut my finger: Understanding the complex love of a mother
by Rossana Segovia
“You’re going to hurt yourself, let me do it.”
My mother snatched the kitchen knife from my hand and pressed the vegetables gently against the wooden board, raising the knife edge to create thin, uniform cuts, forming perfect circles and cubes for the soup she had cooked but would present to the family as my original dish.
Read More »A Wing-stroked Spectacle
by Daniel Moreschi
Segmented sets of starlings sharply elevate
towards candescent skies, suspend, then circulate
in sync. Their wingspans whisper sunset symphonies
while manifesting silhouetted symmetries.
Seagull Vignette
by Annemarie McCarthy
Next to me, Maisie brings the paper cup to her lips. The lukewarm chocolate has been given the go-ahead, deemed cool and safe enough for her to drink.
She slurps one, two, three. Pauses to blow bubbles into it, her nose stuck tip first into the liquid. Then her head rears back, nose wet and dripping and she releases a yowling scream into the air, a primal sound. Nobody at my table reacts.
Read More »Clay figures
by Kyla-Yến Huỳnh Giffin
The snow falls, but it doesn’t land.
The roads scream when I drive over them.
Birds waltz over power lines and take dust baths in the ground-up concrete.
I grow a plant indoors that knows nothing of how much of the earth is no longer alive.
This world so rarely makes sense.
Surely we’re all just pretending to understand it?
Surely we’re all just acting as if we’ve got it under control?
My Little Demon
by Rowan Moskowitz
I have a little demon on my shoulder. Not the type who whispers in my ear encouraging me to do bad things to others like in a stereotypical cartoon setting, but more so one that whispers insults and lies to me. It’s my own personal bully, following me wherever I go and reminding me of all the things that could go wrong. Then? It tells me how I deserve it, claiming that I ruin everything and just bother people with my presence. It makes me feel as if I’m back in middle school sometimes, memories of childish insults being thrown my way all coming back in one quick swift like a gust of wind that’s never ending.
Read More »The Uncanny: 2 prose poems
Call the Folk Police
a song by Ben Macnair
Give a listen to the first original piece of music on our webzine below.
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