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Ashley-Elizabeth Best Literature Poetry

the best thing about today

Today my mother sent me a framed picture of her heart,ladybug stickers in each corner. A chest preparing for new growth. I’m not sorry anymore that she doesn’t like her life. My poemsare dispirited by her, thick mentions of roadtrips, and landscapesand pissing into Lay’s Stax canisters while...

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Genesis Ansong Literature Poetry

Two Boys on the Shore

On the night of a restless saucer moon, as the budding surfs jitterbug and the cold sleeps inside the toothy groove of your back, I wind my wet linen around your neck like a corsair’s love noose, make it loose as the meaning behind the white honey frothing within your open mouth, blue lips...

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Creative Non-fiction Literature Sarah Lord

Concussion Camp

1. They Say Fish Don’t Feel Pain As a new intake, I’m ushered through a maze of clinical rooms, a noisy lunchroom and a bustling gym. Joanne, the program coordinator, shepherds me, waiting as I shuffle with my cane and pelvic brace. We end at a darkened room set apart from the rest of the...

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Hugh Blackthorne Literature Poetry

The Ungirling

There was no book on how to girl. I read all the books about animals at the library. When my mother gave me a book on puberty, I drew penises. I became track suits, jean jackets, short hair. My bones grew. In the city, I swirled caught without ponds, between asphalt and decay. My friends were boys...

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Literature Monica Meneghetti Poetry

Muse

I know you will make your own way in the world.The way you favour linen and leather, and walk like a boy.Your teeth are like pomegranate seeds, sucked clean.Your motorcycle helmet unleashes copper strands.You do exist. The way you bathed me in mud, adding champagne and orchids.I flogged you with...

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Anuja Varghese Fiction Literature

Cherry Blossom Fever

Marjan Every year, for two weeks in mid-May, the city is struck by cherry blossom fever. In April, the city waits on the edge of spring, which should be soft like rabbit ears or tulips. More often, spring in the city is sharp, the mornings still mean and frostbitten, the grey dusks prickling with...

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Gordon Taylor Literature Poetry

Origin Stories

There are tiny, quick spiders that live in my curtains. Sometimes they die, shrivelling in silk folds. I killed one once in a moment of fear, interrupting a key sequence of events, like the man who rescued a baby songbird that fell from a nest onto Queen Street, hand fed her mealworms and suet for...

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