On:

as the crow-flowers tickle and the nettles prick her remembrances. she is a river of dream purpling the shadows of overhanging branches as, mermaid-like a while, she buoys herself up with flow and flight, no more the awkward baggage of a boy with clanking ghostly chains for brains. Kate Falvey’sContinue Reading

On:

Millie and Adela waggle their tow-sacks through the stile, grazing the beech hedge as if they were moony golden sheep instead of moony dun girls meant to be sharp-eyed, not dozy and slack, watching for bits of fluff, flimsy in the scraggly brush. They trod on silver thistle, quaking grass,Continue Reading

On:

I skulk around the gemmy corners of the emerald mausoleum and sift the twinkling dirt through the veil of my unnatural hand, as if memories of sentience were enough for me to hold the insubstantial grandeur of our lofty and unseemly dreaming. Never was I bold enough to challenge hisContinue Reading

On:

The ideal woman isvery brightly colored.She is shiny; her breastspoint in sharpconical assertion oftheir amazing defiance ofphysical laws; her waistturns where she leans orbacks away and, ifshe is clothed herstatic swiveling rumplesher neat skirt, shifting andhitching it over herneat hips. Her lapseems emphasized. Her legsalways exert themselves.If she is clothed,Continue Reading

On:

You could, if you were so minded,dab another descriptor onto the page,something sunny like dazzle or a blotch of razory silver, glinting in a naughty knot of cursive, a wink or arched curve of pencil under a dramatic swath of glistening fringe.The eye would be brimful and green, the hairContinue Reading