The Stories of Your Name
by J. M. Melican
If I were Palaeolithic, I would paint your name on sacred stones with ochre and ash.
by Cynthia So
My mother had been dead just a week when a moth flew into my room.
Jiak liu lian
by Yap Xiong
You catch a faint whiff of blood while selecting durians for the buffet.
Past Far Gone
by Toby MacNutt
Tell me about her?
I can’t. Too much to be known.
by Alix Bosley
The egg waxes, the yellow white
of moon marrow, of stretched skin,
opaque with the dull stain of life blood speckling
the outer shell, enveloping the hard white.