by Debbi Voisey
I remember your feet coming from me; the first thing I saw. And your screams and your crumpled face.
A breech birth, and ever after, different to everyone.
Read More »by Matias Travieso-Diaz
Freedom is when one hears the bell at seven o’clock in the morning and knows it is the milkman and not the Gestapo.
– Georges Bidault
The caterpillar does all the work but the butterfly gets all the publicity.
– George Carlin
The sudden banging on the front door startled Ricardo, who was not expecting visitors that early in the morning. His first instinct was to flee, but there was no back door through which he could escape, and his two-room apartment had nowhere to hide. He approached the door and asked: “Who is it?”
“It’s the Posse! Open up!”
Ricardo opened the door and was shoved aside as four armed men wearing brown military fatigues entered and encircled him. “Are you Ricardo Trovador?” asked their leader. “Yes, I am. But…” started Ricardo.
“Mr. Trovador, you are under arrest. You have ten minutes to get dressed and contact any friends or relatives.”
Read More »by Gianoula Burns
Some traditions take time to fade, the stocking at the end of the bed, the laying out of carrot and mince pie for Santa on Christmas Eve, the lights that adorn the live Christmas tree much weathered with each year, mince pies and custard, fruitcake, all those things we have come to associate with Christmas, lovingly built up when children arrive slowly fade when they grow and depart. It takes time to dismantle, but with each year one or other vanishes from the celebration and we wonder whether they ever did exist at all, just memories that are stored and unpacked when reminiscences are the norm. They meant something, sometime to someone and then memory departs and traditions are buried with the people that gave them life. She now prepares two stockings per bed, one for each couple, but they no longer sleepover, she no longer has to wait till they are fast asleep to creep into their bedrooms trying not to make a noise while placing the heavily laden parcels at their feet. That time has slipped away, gone with those other things we scarcely remember, the children’s high-pitched squeals of delight when the sun rises. Surely, they’ll remember when she’s gone the burden of that love, or so she hopes.
Read More »Submissions to our webzine have officially reopened!
We invite you to send us your contribution to our theme call From grief to resilience, from joy to resistance in the form of writing, visual art, music or basically anything up until March 30 2026.
We made a few changes to our submission guidelines, so please read them carefully here before sending us your work.
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Read More »We proudly present another amazine reading!
Our wonderful contributor Diana L. Gustafson reads an extract from her nonfiction piece Curating Death, published on The Amazine in January 2025.
Give it a listen below <3
Read More »by Haley Young
“It’s just that you don’t seem that adventurous,” said an acquaintance when I told her about our plans to move into a converted camper van.
I smiled. She wasn’t wrong about my personality. She was wrong in her assumption that living on the road demands the highest level of adventurous spirit. Two years into travelling full time, I’m more of a homebody than ever.
I just take my house with me.
Read More »by Easter Mukora
one a.m: i am looking at quotes from the Waking Life and ran into ‘dream is destiny.’ it’s one of those things i never thought i would remember to associate with you, which might be weird because it’s literally written on you. it’s so late into the night that it’s morning and i am better off waking up than sleeping. so i am writing. i still don’t understand what dream is destiny means. i will rewatch it again next week. or some week when it comes up and i want to watch more than i want to write. or if you waltz into my life again when you app finally works. teknolojia! how does anybody know when they’re telling the truth
Read More »by Gillian Fletcher
Apartment hunting in The Netherlands is an adventure, to say the least. If you read about it online, it sounds like non-stop madness riddled with scammers, false hopes, and broken dreams.
So far, it’s only a little bit like that.
Read More »by Charlotte Deason Robillard
When I was somewhere around age 8 or 9 – still homeschooled, living in rural Alabama, and mostly wearing thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs from my cousin – I meticulously put together an outfit I was proud of. Basing my vision off of whatever snippets of pop culture I’d been exposed to – Nickelodeon on the cable TV at my grandmother’s house, my best friend’s occasional copies of Tiger Beat – I pulled together a study in plum: purple jean shorts, a purple paisley oversized t-shirt, and a purple-hued tapestry vest. Since I didn’t go to school and I couldn’t wear jean shorts to church, the only obvious place to debut my outfit was homeschool day at the local roller skating rink. Despite my general lack of athletic ability, I was pretty good at skating, and I was excited to cruise around the rink in my fly new ‘fit. But my outfit was too avant-garde for the Pelham, Alabama homeschool crowd, and I soon had my first experience of bullying. Two girls (who I envision in the bland but popular Umbros and Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts of the era) shoved me and snickered about my clothes as they whizzed by me in a fit of giggles. I don’t remember what they said, but I remember being hurt and confused. I was the one who was dressed cool, right? I had seen vests and oversized t-shirts on TV, and I’d so carefully paired each color and pattern. This was my first introduction to conformity, and while my feelings were hurt, my taste for getting dressed up had not been stifled.
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