Issue 13

M. E. C.: The Oregon Trail

The earliest parts of our story are fuzzy, a pointillist painting made of memories borrowed from others. Rosa and I did our best to hold onto our family lore, but over time, details shook themselves loose, or morphed so slowly that we never saw it happening.

Laura Borrowdale: The Wasps

The week after I cheated on you, I put my hand into a wasps’ nest. Neither of those things were intentional. And their timing was co-incidental, although I could blame them both on that summer. On the evening the wasp stung me, I hadn’t even greeted you yet.

Shannon Savvas: The Desert Road is Prone to Erosion

December 05, 1984, New Zealand. The arse end of the night. Not a time to be awake, never mind up, but best they hit the road before Mum and her too-old-to-be-fancy man creak out of bed.

Isabelle McNeur: Shaking

The day of the quake, I brought two dollars to go to the Cathedral. I’d been once when I was 12 and I wanted to go again. But the people I was with that day couldn’t be bothered, so we didn’t go.

Emma Shi: Under Anaesthetic

Before I walk into the room, I whisper an apology to my body for what’s about to happen. Then I step forward, into a space full of people wearing blue and standing under bright lights that are almost white.