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When not writing, Jennifer Linnaea practices Aikido, studies Japanese, and works at the local library in her adopted town of Eugene, Oregon. Her fiction has appeared in Interzone and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, among other places. For more about her and her work, see her website.


Current Issue
21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
Issue 14 Nov 2022
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