Creative

Content warning: eating disorders and disordered body image    It’s halfway through the longest March.  Italians shelter inside,  the concept of quarantine still new and terrifying.  Your body balloons, imagining the stagnation. People sealed into apartments like water frozen into ice cube trays. Opportunities for cardio snatched away. Subsisting on carb-heavy dry goods, pasta and noodles and rice... oh my.   The ghost of your eating disorder, forever riding shotgun, simmers maliciously, smells fear, readies itself to channel this turbulent uncertainty into its grasp.   You walk for hours, drinking the fresh air like Melbourne Breakfast T2, propelled by fear

by Greta Torelli   scar tissue protrudes less as do angles of deprivation down a spine now a backbone ready for snapping   this body of work evidence of healing hides fissions in my nerves of disrupted childhood games blue sirens in our driveway   while writing recollections resurface tears surface, and I place palm to breast   a check- up I am my own doctor, my own healer I feel the running heart punch out, don’t run, dear little heart, fill my veins, fill me with feeling, so that I don’t cut them open and check for poison inside

By C. Ross   News spread across the county, across barnyards and dinner tables - McGil's pig liked to sit in his chair. Then they started saying the pig liked to smoke McGil's pipe while it sat in his chair and that sometimes it read from women's magazines. Wasn't long before ears beyond the shadow of their mountain were soon begging to hear more, so naturally, the papers sent their best to find the truth to this hogwash. It was Dixie Dartmouth, whose mouth runs almost as fast as she does, who arrived first on the scene. "About time," was all McGil said and led her out to the pig.