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"When we die again, I want to come
back as a little brown bat,” I tell the only
other person alive. We gaze at one another,
then he bites my neck. Nothing can find
us when we’re deep in our cave.
When it’s time to emerge—when
the poison arrow photons have drowned
in the waves that whack the edges of the
Earth—something spectral possesses the
stalactites and makes them moan. We fly
out over the carrion scene and remember
something from before: don’t look down.

We look up at the:
moon and wonder if it used to mean something to someone.
clouds and hate them for the watery secrets they keep.
satellites projecting advertisements and feel hungry.
stars and apologize for never learning their names.

We look down and see:
a beach littered with telephones; they’re all ringing.
thousands of beached octopuses.
plants swallowing the city whole.

We look at one another:
and fly as one; we bear our fangs
and in our eyes, we see empty mirrors.

We look inside ourselves and hope we’re more
than the sum of the maggots feasting on our flesh.

I dot my eyes with the nib of my pen.
Words are the things on the insides of my
cheeks that I chew on until my teeth rust.
He plucks his arteries like guitar strings
and when he opens his mouth to
sing, my marrow liquifies and seeps from
every orifice. He drinks. We leave seeds in
our wake that will never take root. We are
shoots that will never bear fruit. We melt
into an acidic ooze that bores holes through
the karst, leaving cavernous crevasses in our
wake. We drip gently from the cave ceiling
until we’re whole again.
I shiver and shake out my wings.



Courtney Skaggs is an MFA/MA student at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, where they are the Hybrid Editor for Permafrost Magazine and a DJ at KSUA. Courtney’s writing can be found in Ghost City Review, Longleaf Review, Rejection Letters, and Lammergeier Magazine. Find Courtney online at courtneyskaggs.net.
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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