Counter Culture
We called it ‘Preacher House’. Though the preacher that once lived there didn’t do much preaching within the curdled beige walls, preferring instead to commit sex crimes against his congregation. Or so the story goes. Preacher House was, this threadbare winter, rattling with Newtown hipsters, who drank oat milk and shaved their eyebrows clean off. Without them, they looked foetal and pallid: amoeba fermenting in a draughty womb, holier-than-thou vegans preaching polyamory. Where once sermons rang, the tinny drone of online lectures and oh god prayer of Tinder hookups reigned.
Nautilus
In this dream, I don’t leave for months. Time is the same, a silvered, ever-present light that filters through our house, through the windows, through the glass doors. I trace the corridors of this house in a memory. Cherry-wood floors, white-washed walls, linen curtains that breathe in and out with the breeze. The house is rich in warmth, it cocoons and slumbers; at night we are rocked, as if by a mother.
Patupaiarehe
Margaret Allen sighed and scratched at her scalp, finding the kitchen ceiling no more interesting than the wall. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and the gnawing pit in her stomach pained her. Ever since her dad had followed that high, piping call from the forest days earlier, her mother had been on edge until she, too, went to investigate. The hopeful smile she wore as she left, just after their last breakfast together, still lingered in Margaret’s mind.
Exit Music (For A Planet)
Inhale.
With every passing day he knew it was coming; when, exactly, was still unclear.
He’d spent years leading a team of nineteen scientists from various fields, and now it had all come to this.
