Year of the Fire Horse
by Phoebe Wang
Lying prone, under a sheet stretched
like a sigh across my spine, I don’t notice
the aching until it’s gone, my RMT finding
the release in my joints and the synovial fluid
slips like egg whites from a shell. I need to move
from the bed to the kitchen, from the fridge to the stove,
scrambling spinach into yolks, iron into protein,
to meet my daily calorie goals. A blister pack
of progesterone promises to shrink the fibroids,
common among women my age, into the size of blue salt
crystals, and then I will stop leaking. I believe
in cold plunges, and at the Russian bayna I inflict
their benefits upon my calves, then hips, then back,
then my clenched jaw. Outside, it has already toggled
from grey mode into oily dark. Another year is about
to gallop away from me, with my fingers wound
in its long, coarse hair. I have never been tempestuous.
I am the diligent Rooster, talons tenacious as staples.
My ambitions are finite and do not steam with the hot
breath of an animal hammering the earth’s backside.
My feet do not leave the ground except when floating
above the cedar-scented benches of the sauna,
or the tiled lining of the saltwater lane. Even then,
they only flutter and kick with small intentions.
The fog has not lifted, only thinned like sheer pantyhose
taut over the face of the thief hijacking my middays.
At 5pm I’m still paralyzed like a feather wedged in snow.
But I want to get up. To fly. I’m getting up now.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Phoebe Wang is a Toronto author of two collections of poetry, Admission Requirements (McClelland and Stewart, 2017) and Waking Occupations, (McClelland and Stewart, 2022). Her most recent work is Relative to Wind: On Sailing, Craft and Community (Assembly Press, 2024.) She serves as a mentor in the University of Toronto MA in Creative Writing program and as a Writing Consultant at OCAD University.
Website: www.alittleprint.com
by Greg Santos
Welcome to our first issue of 2026, friends. Here in Montreal, winter still has a firm hold, though the groundhog has reportedly seen its shadow.
Comic by Charlie Chen
'Charlie' Pinhui Chen is a visual artist from China, currently based in Germany. Since 2021, she's been working in film as a set designer and illustrator.
Comic by Jake Kennedy
Jake Kennedy is the author of three full-length collections of poetry and also the author of several chapbooks.
Creative nonfiction by Tanya Bellehumeur-Allatt
I was twelve when we came home from Beirut to Canada. My dad sat in the front of the taxi at the Montreal airport, while I squeezed into the backseat between Maman and my fourteen-year-old brother, Etienne.
Creative nonfiction by Grace Schwenk
A great lookout once told me that September is the best month at the tower. I’ve spent the last week trying to understand why.
Creative nonfiction by Emira Tufo
Year after year, you live the last few weeks leading up to the annual pilgrimage to your hometown as if they were your last. The dread and the hunger kick in at twenty-one days before departure; once your remaining time falls short of a month, death feels very near.
Creative nonfiction by Kirby Michael Wright
Jetty was our palomino quarter horse, the daughter of Ol’ Sissy and a mystery stallion who’d mounted her between lines of wire in the fence line.
Fiction by E.M. Foley
Ryan suggested therapy when I almost burned his cottage down. Not on purpose, although I didn’t do anything to stop it. I was trying to light the grill in the backyard when the flames suddenly shot up from the back.
Fiction by Elizabeth Jacyshyn-Owen
It begins, as such things often do, not with a declaration but with a sound file. A voice, timestamped, pressed like wildflowers into the coffin of an .m4a delivered at 3:12am local time, which is to say: inconvenient.
Fiction by Yasmina Jaksic
Tomorrow was her birthday and, as every other child did, she would bring in birthday treats. Normally her mother made her stay home on her birthday if it fell on a weekday.
Fiction by Silas James
i keep calling 311 about these dead squirrels in the bike lane, i keep calling 311 about these dead squirrels in the bike lane, i keep calling 311 because there are dead squirrels in the bike lane and i am starting to think it’s only me who can see them
Fiction by Ersun Augustinus Kayra
The bell on the dépanneur door isn’t a bell—just a thin metal strip screwed to the frame, flexing when the door opens and making a high, stubborn sound.
by Belén Catalán, stylized by Catherine De Sa Quintaes
Through interdisciplinary work spanning photography, video, real-time graphics, and creative direction, I create immersive environments rooted in personal experience and introspective reflection.
Photography by Clara Emery
The photographs included in Observations of the Waters tell a tale of the ocean and of belief.
Photography by Pinaki Nath
Urban expansion is a major driver of global climate change and warming. In South Asia, metropolitan cities are rapidly growing, swallowing nearby suburban areas and creating a sense of sameness despite cultural, geographic, and demographic differences.
Photography by Avery Nielsen Webb
Untitled Data Centers examines the hidden industrialization of the American landscape through digital infrastructure.
Poetry by Constantina Gicopoulos
Constantina,
I’ll keep this
Poetry by Amber McMillan
Persephone is a celestial body
in dual orbit with Earth and the underworld,
Poetry by Cassandra Myers
(Z) my rubber bands untwirl, aluminum foil
over the butter vortex of silicone heat
what once was a taught plank of silver
balloons - my heating pad a stovetop
Poetry by Jane Shi
“There are photographs
Of small children laughing in black
and white that people stop and cry at
in museums but ignore in homes.”
Poetry by Misha Solomon
There are things that are real
and things that are not.
There's a choice that I make
and a choice that I don't.
Poetry by Phoebe Wang
Lying prone, under a sheet stretched
like a sigh across my spine, I don’t notice
the aching until it’s gone, my RMT finding
Translation by Mélissa Bull from Françoise Major
February night, minus twenty-eight degrees Celsius—they said on the radio minus thirty-seven with the wind chill.
Translation by Katia Grubisic from David Clerson
On the first day, my son confided that he felt like his brain was rotting. When he ran his hand through his hair it came out by the fistful.
Cover art by Angie Quick
The oil painting “The actress (study)” is a work that explores the performance of sexuality. The painting borrows from imagery of the stage and asks the viewer what production are they witnessing.