Issue III: Buds

I long to know my body’s magic: Wound repair. The mystery of sleep. The majesty of consciousness: If such a thing can be constructed From the building blocks of life, What is not possible? Dreams, the conversion Of food into me. The number of atoms In my body, The number of cells, And the action Of each. I long for consciousness Of my body’s magic, As I move through The world, A swirling miracle. by JD Del Rey

Midway upon the journey of this city I found myself within a darkness... I forgot to carry my bones from the back alleyway after the scuffle. Thou art so cunning city, thy wound incurable, yet I can’t leave thee. With thy magic, I become invisible. Often, Joy greets me, which comes from resisting thy way of life. Distorted identity on broken existence. The hair on my head has changed its colour like thy mysteries. Yesterday, black today grey. An empty stomach empties dreams.

It’s always a line at the beginning when we squabble, but a dramatic monologue takes its place and sprawl when an anthology gets dislocated. Ok, okay, I agree, my bad, I missed it. I left it somewhere when I took it in my travelling bag. But look at the silver lines, they travelled not in imagination but in reality. I transported the words into reality. It’s hard, isn’t it? Really, too much. To praise every nonsensical line is not an easy job. When you are not able to swallow

Four walls never expected to become body part, an extra chamber to the brain. Before you came, they'd settled down to being one more piece in an architectural puzzle, a combination of angles, perfect horizontals and mutual understanding with floors and ceiling. They never anticipated the way in which you'd impose yourself upon them. Your quirks became their oddities. Your secrets melded so perfectly with blue and white paper that it was hard to tell where telling and hearing

When was the crash anyhow? They tell me it was yesterday. But when was yesterday? All I know is that I wake to a silence as serene as a snowfield. Except my body’s not quiet. But aches have no sound… unless you count the clench of my teeth. Yes, my eyes are open. A nurse listens to me breathe. I peer under the sheets. Some of my body appears to be packaged in white bandages. But not for shipping. I have a feeling I’ll be here a while. And I’m thinking, how slippery was the ro

Benjamin is the first one in his family to refer to Eminem as “old people’s music.” To his sister Liz, her homework as “brutal.” His father, Roy has never heard the words, “frantic pace of living” used in connection with the neighborhood. His mother, June obsesses over signing up for the best telephone plan. Benjamin’s best friend, Joey once held his breath for nearly two minutes in an attempt to get out of an accordion lesson. Joey’s mother, Kate wonders why she’s never been

we went into a cave at the beach in Santa Cruz and when I started licking her there she tasted of salt, which make me think to myself, “I’m not only tasting her, but the salty air that has been around for millions of years and will still be around after both of us are gone.” A thought that made me sad for a moment, but not enough to stop what I was doing. . . by Jeffrey Zable