Issue 17

Maia Ingoe: Whakarongo ki te Tai Ao

My best mornings are spent on the couch squeezed onto our thin, sloping veranda. Washing hangs at eye level, paint peels from the railing, dust and grime coat the windowsills. On the blue-sky days, sunshine twists and spirals around shadows of trees stretching in the wind.

Jess Richards: The Ghost in the Room

 

Mask

Before I open my eyes each morning I mentally list all the things I’ve done wrong. This is so I don’t think about them all day. There are many things I need to list because before I have language, I can make the wrong things vanish.

Marianne Bevan: Objects Visible to the Landlord During a Surprise Flat Inspection

A gold velvet playsuit

A black sequinned vest

 

One browning orange

A decapitated polystyrene head

 

An obviously dead plant

 

No family photos

Three dusty polaroids of Rotomā, near home

Two small elephants like Gran used to have

 

Three books about dying by the bedside:

One about the Holocaust

One about the half-lives left after brain surgery

One about our missing rituals…

Clara van Wel: Slings and Arrows

Note: This essay contains discussion of suicide that some readers may find distressing.  

You think you might start with Shakespeare. That has always been your solace. You leaf through the battered Works of Shakespeare dated 1911.

Raina Ng: Tūrangawaewae

I did not look into his eyes, the youth who was armed with the venomous words he liberally spat at me. The words, symptoms of age-old wounds that, left unarticulated, had swelled up, rushed through his veins.