By Syn Cyres I was taught early that obedience is safer than truth. That silence earns survival. That the more invisible I became, the more I might be allowed to live. So I folded, and folded, until I was origami — a swan people could perch their fears on. I was not raised. I was trained. To answer before the question was asked, to swallow my tone, to keep my eyes from burning too loud, to fear what happens when I am seen. They said “respect,” but meant obedience. They said “

By Bart Verhoeven A wheel squeaks, the kind that sticks, then gives, then sticks again. Metal rails rattle, bright against the floor’s dull shine. A faint trail of disinfectant follows, sharp enough to blind the tongue. The sheet lifts at one corner as the bed turns; a loose gesture, barely a gesture at all. It brushes the ground with a soft, dragging sound like someone shuffling in a dream. The ceiling lights slide across the frame, one after another, each reflection trembli

By Wing Yau The    ghost of   my   deceased  workplace  still  haunts my  new   uniform   as  an unspeakable    sweat     stain.   It haunts my work shoes that squeak like my tightened windpipe    as I walk into the    pale      daylight. I mean, through     daylight into a relentless   odour    bounded by   empty   spaces   in my    life indenture.   At      night the ghost  always  returns  to    the clock    and     strikes the most  feminine   pose to beguile time.    She