Dislocations
Bronwyn Winter

Peshawar 2000
We are in a Sikh palace in the old city
Renovated and priced for tourists by Americans
Its carved arches handrails balconies
Polished to perfection.  Starshaped windows
The signature image of a forgotten affluence
Intricate lampshades ripple the walls with light
The damp sewage smell from the bathrooms
The only reminder of when and where we are
We are in a street of Sikh palaces
Washing draped over rotting wood sagging walls
Electric

Isobel
Beryl Fletcher

Wendy is in such a state that I make her sit down and drink a cup of coffee before I ask her what the hell is the matter. I am tired of her coming home at night like this; uptight, tense, her words jumbling over each other. Especially tonight, when I have good news to tell her. Two months ago, I sent a short story away to the editor of a new book of lesbian short stories. And today, idly checking over the pile of letters that arrived in the mail, (mostly

from Saw

berni m janssen

15,000 hoods on uncoiled spines with breath to the earth, chests resting on knees and sound in their sacs tremoring bones and flesh. Their mouths are empty. Palms grounded for the throb. Rising and passing away. Breath in the earth. Skins all silver. Reliquaries of desire, fluctuations softly. They are bent and bending in thought. Their bodies rise and fall. The sound of their hearts embracing. Cloak and hood veil their transparency. Their breath

My Hairy Little Saviour

Belinda Morris

Sitting here looking at Bessie, I realise how much she has changed my life. For one thing, all these walks are putting a severe dent in the laziness I’ve always been rather proud of! But the greatest impact Bessie has had on me, is helping me to feel again. To feel love, happiness — even light-hearted. For a long time, I didn’t feel any of those things. Most of the feelings that broke through the numbness were pain, anger,