You guys are amazing as always!!! Thank you so much for all the goodies <3

“Farewell My Lovely”, Raymond ChandlerThe way she holds a gun reminds meof a recurring dream. I’m waitingfor her to say anything & rain burnsup the shadows. I always waketo a half-empty bed, my penanc...

Spare us some slummy Mummy, please. I need some for the rummy.Nan says a rummy is coming up.Our nans had all encompassing knowledge of who was up in court, who was carrying on with who, who had dirty ...

thank you so much to everyone involved. this is for you.

People have their own favourite type of potato. Some like Arran Pilot, or some go crazy for Desiree, others think Cara is the best. But for me there is only one.Breakfast, dinner or tea,It's got to be a Heathcliff, the Gothic Potato.Being Gothic, this potato enjoys being buried and regularly earthed up with soil. It likes being shielded from direct sunlight. It welcomes darkness and shadow.It prefers to be planted on its own. No rows of trenches for this solitary one.It yearns to be buried upon

Make a tax-deductible donation to support our work.

She called us survivors, the word coming from her fervent tongue, our heartsnot quite knowing how to cope withthe idea of ever feeling worthy again. We have each other’s stories stuck in our teeth, our sorrows, like smoke, deep in the threads of our clothes. Our eagerness inviting hope beneath clinical lighting, each one of us a bandaged wound yearningto become something different. We take it all in. We are broken buthardly reduced to ashes, our sore throats eager to swallowa language we don’t y

originally appears in ouch! collectiveBefore he was bones, he peeled orangesagainst the blare of baseballon the living room tv. We will never truly knowhis recipe for deviled eggsor protecting the bruisesgiven by grandma’s unkind tongueletting him knownothing was ever good enough. James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.

It is all sensations and nothing at the same time. Feeling nothing is still feeling something. Emptiness: “A lack of meaning or purpose” (Cambridge Dictionary). A blur of thoughts. Here I am. Now. And everyone around me is expecting something from me. Is she going to speak? Perform? What will she say? Dinner at Five: What will she give me after? Nothing. I will give nothing. Then, there are trees. The type of trees you see in the Pacific Northwest. Great Pine Trees. Rivers—flowing, steadily. The

your friend is starting an affinity group while you stare into the aether of what you could be doing of maxed-out planners of half-smirked conversations motivation, like your ex, only appears when you were almost alright with her absence. autumn lingers in the air like the scent of false promises on your breath the world is starting something—which could be possibility or maybe just fascism, again—while leaves and aesthetics grow faded, murky—while you are burnt-out or reignited or never full of