Jun Do was down in the Junma’s aft hold, a steel room big enough for a table, chair, typewriter and a stack of receivers that had been pilfered from American tanks and planes in the war. The hold was lit only by the green glow of the listening equipment, which was reflected in the sheen of fish wa…
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‘There was really no point in going to a bomb shelter just because the siren sounded. Our hotel was unlikely to be a target.’
Lindsey Hilsum writes letters home from Ukraine.
‘The recipe is a text that can produce spattering because it was spattering before it was language.’
Rebecca May Johnson on recipes, repetition and intimacy.
‘To make a subject of the very same entity I am a part of, to be outside and within it.’
Thomas Duffield photographs his family.
‘There sat the joy of the shopping centre, what I thought of as its secret heart. A white rabbit.’
A story by Dizz Tate.
‘We were ourselves migrating birds; in a sense, refugees, displaced persons, without a home or a home town.’
Volodymyr Rafeyenko (tr. Sasha Dugdale) on the war in Ukraine.
‘I was dying to buy something, anything that would help my wife and children understand the profound surrealism and warped reality I’d experienced on my research trip to North Korea.’
‘The last few years, everybody wanted the same eyes: domed like lemons, with precise, symmetrical lashes.’
A story by Ysabelle Cheung.
‘To relive is the snarl of description, worked over repeatedly in the mind’
A poem by Jenny Xie.
‘We are sitting in a cafe, on planet Earth, on the night before our wedding day.’
Fiction by Aidan Cottrell-Boyce.
