I glare at my sister, Nerissa, from my poolside chair. Her red-algae-colored tail flashes in the water, as bright as her toothy smile imitating the human faces gathered around her tank. She’s wearing a red wig and a purple bikini top, for the stars’ sake. Continue reading Aquacultural Appropriation by Kimberly Glanzman
Horror seems to be an instantly recognizable concept, be it channeled through monsters like vampires and zombies or through criminals, madmen, serial killers, and the like. Diving deeper into the subject, across the mainstream, one may find arthouse films like A24’s The Witch and It Comes at Night. These remind us that horror can have hard-hitting emotion and mature, provocative themes, items greatly lost in popcorn thrillers and torture porn flicks. The most nuanced offerings of the horror genre, and thus the most artistically fruitful, are perhaps works of literary horror. Continue reading Correcting the Slave Narrative: Toni Morrison’s Take on Horror to Challenge Antislavery’s Gothic Literature by Tom Garback
The wallpaper was the colour of filth, of excrement, of something unclean. Despite its inanimateness, it seemed to leap out from the wall, its invisible arms outstretched, fingers uncurled. Once, it was probably an airy and welcoming room. It might have been a nursery. It might have been an office. But the colour had filled the room with an air of ugliness that could not be mollified by the addition of bedside table flowers or lilac curtains. Continue reading The Wallpaper by Claire Fitzpatrick
Skorsgard lingered outside of a cafe, wondering whether to turn left or right. He had a few hours before his meeting with Huxley, and was determined to spend it in a way consistent with the dignity of his new position. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his grease-licked hair to the back of his head, upper lip twitching slightly. Continue reading Skorsgard’s Blues by Tuckerman Wunderle
A crowd of people gathered under the streetlamp on the corner of Alta and 5th. Moths clumsily tumbled under the electric bulb, each struggling to stay above the dust kicked-up by nervous boot heels.
Mike clutched the side of his jacket and held it against his belly. He felt sleepy and sore. His eyes moved sluggishly across the other faces in the crowd.
“Can’t say he didn’t have it coming,” said an old man through frayed beard hairs. Continue reading Gonzales, California by Christopher Seiji Berardino