By Suemi Chiba
Roald Dahl wrote his mother a letter once a week until the week she died. One of his late father’s wishes was that he go to boarding school, so at the age of seven, he did. At the end of each week they wrote home. When he left school he never stopped writing on Sundays.
One FleshThree semi-fictional collisions of faith, intimacy and teh interwebz
I click on the link he’s sent me and find myself looking at a gallery of Adam and Halli’s Southern wedding, an attractive American couple I’ve never met nor ever will. The masthead is simple and streamlined – white sans serif typeface on black background.
The air quakes in the heat. An ant crawls across Lisa’s arm and Madeleine licks it up. It’s on her tongue, still moving, and then she swallows it, mostly because she remembers swallowing an ant when she was little, and wonders if the sweetness was real. Lisa is fucked on the sun and murmurs don’t before closing her eyes again.
Pushing Aside Vulvic Doily ArtA place for trans people in subversive handicrafts
By Vincent Silk
The Doily and the Unsung Heroes: I was sitting at the launch of the Lip Magazine Anthology, that came out of a magazine published in Melbourne from 1976 to 1984. A feminist magazine, it was called a ‘lightning rod’ for art, theatre and journalism in the Women’s Movement.
Anju lay starfished in the sand. The ferris wheel behind her had been there for decades, and stood there now as a famous monument to the unfortunate part of the island. The part of the island where children were dumped. The wheel did not go round and round. It just stood there rotting into the sand.
Like every other morning of her life, Anju had awoken to call of the rooster. But this morning she had not slept well and wished for the old cock to be murdered. If Aji did not do it today, Anju would take the honour herself.
He looked up from the paper, groaning slightly as he stretched various muscles and straightened his back. Enough strain for his eyes for today. He dropped the pencil, ran his hand through his hair. His eyes darted as usual to the wall, to the setting sunlight glinting off the framed feathers. Christ, he was getting old.
By Nick Marland
The farm was huge and he was the only kid there. He wandered paddocks and watched spooked browns writhe off into the long grass. He climbed trees and picked up beetles, and he stared into the eternal eyes of the Herefords as their mouths worked the grass. But the image which had not left him in twenty years was the night sky on those nights: stars like the powder of crushed Greek marbles tossed into the infinite; scattered everywhere, clumping in places, older than everything. The lazy tentacle of the Milky Way reaching out from the eastern horizon; meteorites breaking up low in the sky. You never got to see it like that in the city, where orphaned stars floated in illuminated filth. He remembered asking his mother, Can you see an aurora from here?