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we bury all our ghosts in the same place; hold your breath in any graveyard and whole cities will pass you, bee-lining to memorized names and dead flowers and hidden, rotting bodies. idling cars time-lapse on the lineless paths. this silence is ancient—you wail in the building, here you remember.

the day your teacher asks what your epitaph, your lineage, will be is the day you learn that in this world your death is the strongest thing you build.

get lost in a graveyard and cry for the name you don’t know. maybe someone will remember to pray a rosary for them. maybe your gnashing of teeth will leave bite marks in their grief, gums bleeding dry while spirits watch.

these sprawling meadows and flat stone testaments hide earth rich because here we tell ourselves death looks like peace and shifting light beams and decomposing memories stacked three shoulders high. if we bury our dead together, they’ll speak to each other instead of in our dreams. if we bury our ghosts in the same place, they’ll remember each other for us.

individual loss, communal burial.

how easy to think yours is the only body, forget every slab is someone’s last attempt to live forever. out of sight, out of memory, out of mind, out of body.

gravestones are finality, solidarity, attempt, statement, honor. gravestones are somewhere to look to avoid seeing the loose dirt screaming underground rot. gravestones are somewhere to look so you don’t lock eyes with someone else’s story trying to be told.

when i die, don’t let them bury me. if they bury me, dig me up, make it noon, make sure they see the fresh dirt on your hands resurrecting me. when i die, burn me in the middle of the meadow.

make my name a treasure hunt. blow me into a stranger’s funeral. if the only way to die is as a final word, drown my story in ghosts you’ve never seen before. make sure those trying to remember me trip over extra bones. let me die as i lived: gathering stories, suffocating in shouts, pulling you into something bigger than we were taught and longer than we know.

if you truly love me, let me visit you in your dreams—and let me bring friends.

Inseparable from their backpack and operating off a tentatively solid life plan, Hana is a 20-year- old, nearly-graduated college kid.  They believe in the power of good clickbait, regularly cry about mountains, and have the goal of cuddling a zebra shark.  They are white, able-bodied, and middle class.
Current Issue
3 Oct 2022

Lying in bed last night I felt fingers reach in, grabbing. I opened in spite of myself as you clawed me with your fingernails, flattened, panicked. Split throat, iron tongue, white masks ranged overhead, the rings on their fingers scraping me as they reached in to take you.
from my tower we climb, shroud as my veil. We leap on his fae steed
I tell smug Cyclops that I’m as gay as the next mutant, and that all mutants find themselves within battles
Get ready to feel hungry, because the theme for this quarterly roundup is food.
Wednesday: The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo 
Wednesday: Where You Linger & Other Stories by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam 
Issue 26 Sep 2022
Issue 21 Sep 2022
Issue 12 Sep 2022
Issue 5 Sep 2022
Issue 29 Aug 2022
By: Cat T.
Issue 22 Aug 2022
Issue 15 Aug 2022
Issue 8 Aug 2022
Issue 1 Aug 2022
Issue 18 Jul 2022
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