Do a dry run on the bus a week before you start, at the right time of day, carrying the right amount of stuff, in the stiff uncomfortable black shoes you can’t run in. If you don’t own such shoes, buy some. Don’t get paint on them.
Fiction
The island, thirty-five minutes by air off the coast of Belize, is too small for anything like a runway.
There is no point in describing a man who traverses Nova Scotia on a ten-speed bike with a concertina strapped to his back, is there? Let’s just say that Randy was resourceful, which is why he answered my ad in the first place.
In Arabic, her father put questions to the old man. Whether these were advice seeking, or advice giving, Safia could not be sure. She never came to understand what her grandfather wanted from any of them.
As she sails over the barbed wire fence, a hot dry wind behind her, the cow thinks of birds. How useful wings might be at a time like this. Her spindly legs crumple and pink udders squash as the round of her girth meets the hard of the ground. Parched weeds prickle and lightning bugs flash.
I think I smell like alcohol. I’m sitting, eating a doughnut and thinking about last night. I wonder if my liver is O.K.; if I keep this up, I’ll kill myself. No, if I keep this up, I’ll become my mother.
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Room 42.1, Magic
Edited by Arielle SpenceIn this issue:
Amy Louise Baker, Jenny Boychuk, Jessica Bromley Bartram, Monica Joy Claesson, Kess Costales, Sophie Crocker, Ruth Daniell, Alex Hall, Cody Klippenstein, Suzanne Langlois, Teresa E Lobos, Lynne M MacLean, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Isabelle Nguyen, Gaëlle Planchenault, Melanie Power, Natasha Ramoutar, Nilofar Shidmehr, jaye simpson, Cristalle Smith, Emily Urquhart, Yilin Wang, Hannah V Warren, Christine Wei, Lan Yao
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