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Your laughter always sounds like you are laughing at us. You are never willfully
cruel, we're sure. Your fingernails are understated and perfect except for a ragged
nail bed on your left thumb, which you constantly worry. We like to touch your
hair and are ecstatic when you allow us to at the late end of evenings, when your
elaborate bobby-pinned tower comes crashing down around us (no grabbing).

You abhor the sunlight and you’ve taught us to avoid it. We sleep as soundless,
motionless dolls, hands upon sheets, closed eyelids pointed heavenward, a
hundred thousand miles away from you. We don’t blame you for not coming
when we call. We stopped calling a very long time ago.

You point out our flaws like a kitchen maid picking gravel from a bowl of lentils.
We will be grateful for today’s carefully portioned dinners when our bodies grow
into tulip stems and the razor edges of our cheekbones cut straight to the souls of
those who dare gaze upon us. We are the soldiers of your future conquests. We
will be the sacrifice to your cause.

We will dream in secret of sucking on your thumb, of chewing on your cuticles
and hangnails, savoring the flawed parts of you, biting our way up your body and
under your skin, tearing through your ribcage, and curling ourselves into the hot
cradle of your meat and bones. After a while we will hatch as something new and
less beautiful, something wild.



Layla Al-Bedawi is a poet, writer, and bookbinder (among other things). English is her third language, but she's been dreaming in it for years. Born in Germany to Kurdish and Ukrainian parents, she currently lives in Houston, TX, where she co-founded Fuente Collective and champions experimentation, collaboration, and hybridity in writing an other arts. Her work is published in Liminal Stories, Mithila Review, Bayou Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, and elsewhere. Find her at laylaalbedawi.com and @frauleinlayla.
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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