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Engkantos are invisible to the sober, but there’s truth
in wine. When grandfather died, his dog vanished.
It persistently reappears just to howl by the gate.

My childhood best friend lives in our attic closet.
Nightly, from the inside, he halfway opens the cabinet
to throw the other end of a tin can telephone.

Anitos shared a home with us. After a white god,
we disowned and banished them into folktales.
What is disregarded fades. To spite, the faded stays.

A dead uncle shares my birthday. He tastes blood
from imaginary wounds in his mouth.
His black and white photos are my dead ringer.

We never cross the dotted pebbles by the garden;
beyond the line are duendes. Despite garlic,
the kitchen smells like a forest equinox in spring.

At eight, I stopped playing with the neighbor’s kids.
Same year. First wine. 2hrs non-stop laughing.
I was bantering with cold, humid air, they said.

We leave empty dining chairs for the family multo.
Since grandmother died, the gate remains undisturbed.
On his deathbed, my uncle promised to return.

After I moved out, our housekeeper would hear knocks
from the attic, followed by a voice calling out my name.
A closet creaking. A tin can rolling on the floor.



Mark Dimaisip is a Filipino writer from Manila. His works have appeared in The Brasilia Review, Cha, Fantasy Magazine, harana poetry, Human Parts, Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition, Strange Horizons and elsewhere. He has performed spoken word in Southeast Asia and Australia. Links to his poems are at https://markdimaisip.carrd.co.
Current Issue
29 May 2023

We are touched and encouraged to see an overwhelming response from writers from the Sino diaspora as well as BIPOC creators in various parts of the world. And such diverse and daring takes of wuxia and xianxia, from contemporary to the far reaches of space!
By: L Chan
The air was redolent with machine oil; rich and unctuous, and synthesised alcohol, sharper than a knife on the tongue.
“Leaping Crane don’t want me to tell you this,” Poppy continued, “but I’m the most dangerous thing in the West. We’ll get you to your brother safe before you know it.”
Many eons ago, when the first dawn broke over the newborn mortal world, the children of the Heavenly Realm assembled at the Golden Sky Palace.
Winter storm: lightning flashes old ghosts on my blade.
transplanted from your temple and missing the persimmons in bloom
immigrant daughters dodge sharp barbs thrown in ambush 十面埋伏 from all directions
Many trans and marginalised people in our world can do the exact same things that everyone else has done to overcome challenges and find happiness, only for others to come in and do what they want as Ren Woxing did, and probably, when asked why, they would simply say Xiang Wentian: to ask the heavens. And perhaps we the readers, who are told this story from Linghu Chong’s point of view, should do more to question the actions of people before blindly following along to cause harm.
Before the Occupation, righteousness might have meant taking overt stands against the distant invaders of their ancestral homelands through donating money, labour, or expertise to Chinese wartime efforts. Yet during the Occupation, such behaviour would get one killed or suspected of treason; one might find it better to remain discreet and fade into the background, or leave for safer shores. Could one uphold justice and righteousness quietly, subtly, and effectively within such a world of harshness and deprivation?
Issue 22 May 2023
Issue 15 May 2023
Issue 8 May 2023
Issue 1 May 2023
Issue 24 Apr 2023
Issue 17 Apr 2023
Issue 10 Apr 2023
Issue 3 Apr 2023
Issue 27 Mar 2023
Issue 20 Mar 2023
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