Weight Cycling_Cherry Bomb_Kateryna and the Piano Man_Decomposing Glory
Catalog Guide:
Weight Cycling
TW: Disordered eating, fatphobiaMom is in the kitchen today. I’m slumped in the recliner, pretending to watch TV in the living room. I always feel compelled to watch her as she goes through her weekly ritual. It’s Wednesday so she did the grocery shopping and she’s laid out the food across every available surface. Her food and our food. She keeps them separate as if proximity to our full-calorie, full-fat, sugary, highly processed regular food will somehow contaminate her 100-calorie, non-fat, sugar-free, organic and natural diet food. I watch her anxious movements, the muttering under her bre...
Cherry Bomb
Despite being a successful television actor, Cherry Adams is a wayward young woman. Tonight, she fixates on a shopfront with pulsing neon signs—pressing her face on the glass and bathing hungrily in the rainbow light. She smears the windows with her oily skin, but the despondent nwww.onedoor.ccewsagent who usually shoos her away with his broom has not made his presence felt yet. An automated street cleaning vehicle follows its preset route along the street where Cherry is ensconced. The sleepy nightshift operative who is supposed to be looking out for pedestrians in the vehicle's route is more concerned wit...
Kateryna and the Piano Man
TW: This story contains references to the impact of the war in Ukraine on childrenSome stories are both true and imagined, and this is one of them.Em,Our Ukrainian family finally arrived in Warsaw! A mother and her two little girls. It took them four days to get here. There were dozens of checkpoints along the way which really slowed things down. My heart breaks just hearing about it.Olena, the older girl, said “I thought I’d freeze to death sleeping in the car. We didn’t have any blankets so I put on all the clothes I had and it still wasn’t enough.” “I was so hungry,” added the little one.Sv...
Decomposing Glory
ㅤI found the body in the playground my father had built with his own two hands. Maple stakes driven into an oak formed steps up to a treehouse. Each year on my birthday my father would shorten the rope on the tyre swing so my feet wouldn’t drag against the ground. Twenty years without use and the rising tide of grass and ferns had grown waist-high. The sweet, earthy smell of rotting wood filled the air. My father had died the previous week, along with my mother, when their car left the road and fell into the North Sea. An onlooker said their car had swerved to avoid a rabbit. Now they were bot...