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On a hill over the sea
two hundred steps above the earth,
I build my nest in the crook
of an old jack pine.
Willow, oak, linden, cypress:
a base to give in the wind, shore
against the tempest of those below.

Magpie enough for silvered toffee wrappers
nestled like distant stars in the crux
of feathers and bone.

Pages torn from a bard's folio
diminished by the rub of time and water.
Raven's tail feather, plucked
to paint shade over the shock of the world.

Layers of paper, spines of fallen wood, salt
flowers on powdered feathers making vellum
of air's instrument.

My nest has grown too heavy.
Time has weakened Jack's heart.
The wind clasps him close; he leans
too far in her arms.

My eyes grow tired of this shore. The air—
too much broom, apple, and dust.
I will abandon this strata bed,
craft another on an unfamiliar shore
where an architect may sleep
in a strange tale's branches.




According to family, Sharon began singing and telling stories before she could write them down. If it were possible to subsist on tea, music, and language—she would.
Current Issue
4 Nov 2024

“Did you know,” the witch says, “that a witch has no heart of her own?”
Outsiders, Off-worlders {how quickly one carves out a corner of the cosmos, / claims a singular celestial body as [o u r s] in the scope of infinity}
Lunar enby folks across here
Wednesday: The 2024 Ignyte Award for Best Novel Shortlist, Part Two 
Friday: A Place Between Waking and Forgetting by Eugen Bacon 
Issue 28 Oct 2024
Issue 21 Oct 2024
By: KT Bryski
Podcast read by: Devin Martin
Issue 14 Oct 2024
Issue 7 Oct 2024
By: Christopher Blake
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
Issue 30 Sep 2024
Issue 23 Sep 2024
By: LeeAnn Perry
Art by: nino
Issue 16 Sep 2024
Issue 9 Sep 2024
Issue 2 Sep 2024
Issue 26 Aug 2024
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