By Gabrielle Munslow Crows are women who embraced the dark and never came back— iron-winged, flame-eyed, their breasts like banners of defiance. They clatter across rooftops, spilling laughter like gin from a broken bottle. Their feathers reek of funeral lilies, their tongues stitched with moth wings. When they open their mouths, the night bends sideways. Men drop their cutlery in terror, prophecy staining the tablecloth. Open wings like iron overcoats, armour against the wra

By Elliot Chester Terror. This is me waking to the sight of an incubus masturbating at the base of my bed. The nodding Jesus on the windowsill shakes its head left and right as my sheet with smiling angels and cherubs convened in heaven is yanked down. It matters not that I’m male. Visiting women is just a myth. Paralysis takes hold as moths, now attracted to blackness, emerge from his mouth; heavy headed, light winged, clinging to screams that retreat like slug’s tentacles.

By Shannon Éilis The view from my childhood estate remains the same as I’m looking out for a black Audi at 3am. Waiting to cry in that familiar back seat. Trying to ignore the screams of a neighbour who drowned his daughter in the bathtub. The sirens in the background as you drunkenly said that this place is a failed suicide net, and I reminisce on how us girls just wanted to be abused in the ways advertised. When we’re barely legal, on the back of mopeds circling r