‘She wanted to enjoy herself, she wanted to try, but she didn't know where to begin.’
It was an April Sunday, and Los Angeles was trapped in a heatwave that had descended a fortnight previously and refused to lift, drying up lawns in the Valley and sending weekenders to the beaches south of town. Half reclining in the back seat of a hired car on her way in from the airport, Ruth had …
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‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
Daisy Hildyard on the wisdom of scarecrows.
‘What is the read receipt for?’
Lillian Fishman on texting, power and the ethics of leaving a friend on read.
‘Like pretty much everyone who uses the internet, I have seen many terrible things that I did not search for and that I cannot unsee.’
Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
‘rumors of bees on speedwell, / no oxidative stress just / effortless pollination’
Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
‘You can drink in a bar and sober up in the basement of a church, but everyone sleeps (or lies awake) in solitude.’
‘It was 1 a.m., and it was Los Angeles; they were used to indiscretion.’
A story by Rhian Sasseen.
‘The picture of a postcard is a geograft, a scion of a place thrust into the life of a resident of somewhere else.’
Jennifer Croft on graffiti and the history of the postcard.
‘I realized that neither revenge nor compulsive storytelling would release me from this pain.’
‘I prefer not to speculate about what might have happened if I had not taken the ECG.’
‘The state can burn houses but it can't stop the rain, can't round up all the sheep. It isn't an easy place to control.’
