By Oreganillo.
Aodh Ó Riagáin is Oreganillo., an Irish, genderqueer, dyspraxic cartoonist working in the arcane tradition of slinging ink onto paper with a pen and a brush.
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By Margo LaPierre
When I say Orion watches over me, I mean it was the name I’d chosen for the baby. I mean Orion my unborn, whose fate was sealed when my bestie and a male stripper and I were kidnapped from Pink Pony Atlanta’s parking lot.
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By M-X Marin
Through the nascent storm, walk away from the river. It’s my first winter near my grandfather’s grave, on occupied territory first named Gespe’gewa’gi, seventh district of Mi’gma’gi, the ancestral and unceeded territory of the Mi’gmaq, later christened Sainte-Anne-Des-Monts by my ancestors. Seven-thousand inhabitants nestled along the south bank of the St-Lawrence 49° North.
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By Vrnq Synnott
It's a familiar outline, life mouthing I want more.
She sat on the sofa, her hands on her knees—but for whom. There were days such as this one where she felt like someone had zoomed in on her. This impression was not new. As if the landscape disappeared and she now filled the entire frame.
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By Sunshine Barbito
My knees sink into the mud and grass while I try and think of a prayer. It was just lying there in forever-sleep.
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By Bára Hladík
I was just among the whales. I hang somewhere in water or mud listening to whales move through water until the snakes weave my muscles. They swim up the center of my spine and fill my Lymph with soft poison.
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By Sue Murtagh
Theresa misplaces her phone every single day. Ditto her car keys. But after the regular panic and flurry, running around like an idiot upstairs and down, dialing the phone from the landline, checking yesterday's pockets, she always finds what she's looking for.
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By Sara Sherr
Hannah’s family had a huge farm with something like thirteen acres. She reminded me about all the acres when she tied me to a tree so far away from her parents’ stone mansion that I could no longer see it over all the rolling hills in the distance.
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By Steven Stowell
Sean’s bedroom door was open just a sliver; a thread of warm light peaked out, framed by the shadows of the upstairs hall. Nudging open the door, I found Sean sitting on the floor, leaning his bare shoulders against the side of his bed, facing away from me. He contemplated something held in his hands, blocked by the corner of the bed—a book or a magazine, perhaps. His room was filled with the sweetly sour smell of sleep.
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By Béla Váradi
For decades Béla Váradi has been trying to integrate his two main interests; creating visual art and represent the life and interest of Roma people in Hungary. As a young adult, starting a career in journalism helped him to find an accommodating platform for his passion for visual and social representation.
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By Conyer Clayton
I can never remember the difference between ligaments /
and tendons. It all has to do with what you're attached to.
By Rasha Abdulhadi
this body is a chest of seafaring gear and unused tablecloths /
times are i go years making passage without unpacking
By Jane Shi
I grasp for things the things
aren’t mine I grasp for things that aren’t
mine fish out detritus bend my neck towards flesh
By Nnadi Samuel
giant pine of tall task deck the muscled prairie.
the cloud, fibre thick atop like a double-decker.
By Jake Byrne
Leaf matter passing into dust lil caterpillar mange-holes /
Mon cheri berry. Aprikorn
Greetings, dear readers! I’m writing this editorial right on the cusp of the winter solstice and we at carte blanche are so pleased to present our last issue of 2021, issue 42.
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