What kind of parents produce a baby, doughy fists curled up, their precious little ball of pinkish regrets, drowned in maternal fluid, and decide, right then and there, to name her Excellence?

The kind of parents who grew up in a convent, that’s who.

Excellence’s name was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know because she sits across me in Bible studies. She identifies the ingredients on the back o...

October’s snow is virgin, the wedding veil of a defiant bride. Tugged fiercely over a rigid face. The insects expire beneath its layer, rot and dirty wings dissipating. All is clean.

July you rest upon grass or hide from the fuzzy bugs darting outside the windows. Aquamarine waters beckon your name. Attempt to leave and the beach scorches your soles. Do not breathe—you will choke on the richness ...

He’d fallen into bed with her, choking in a female perfume, catching the sleeves of her dress and yanking them off her shoulders. Her bones were like a bird’s, or the tiny ones holding up ear cartilage or maybe not there at all, like shark blubber. She was all flesh, no bones, that night.

It was in the morning, when she’d tossed him that smile, that he noticed the bones, the solidity of what he ...

Little Mary Anne didn’t complete her chores today. She’d be punished, brutally. Daddy already had the coins out for her to purchase it herself at the fair. Mommy lent her not a kind eye.

‘You should’ve known better, Mary. Your behaviour is unfit. Just unfit.’

Unfit was no good. It was the opposite of fit, an antonym. It ought to be synonymous, ought to be healthy.

So Little Mary Anne took the c...

Kaya lights the candle at the basement door and waits the three seconds till it flickers red. Always, on time, Jana meows from behind the door, scratching down it with her paw.

Behind, Gale descends the stairs halfway, holding her bowl of chips. She’s never mustered the nerve to complete those stairs, unlike Kaya, who finds comfort in the screech, in confirming Jana’s life.

‘It’s almost time.’ K...

A dragon breathes fire as a pen breathes ink.

When the pen suffocates, its breath runs out,

A knight has throttled your dragon round.

The story shared back home entails a defeat,

belonging to you, your ink’s retreat, that spilled

of red, your fire drained, and the pages laid

away to waste. As a poet you must persevere,

and in any case, never let that knight near.

It will snuff out your dragon,

su...

On the march back to Cherry Shrine, Tara checks her heels for Pearl, to ensure that cat hasn’t camouflaged into the snow banks, or run away. Pearl looks back up at her at the same time, as if checking for Tara. For a moment, she is a pair of floating blue eyes on wintry ground. She meows and exposes a sliver of pink mouth.

The other five shrine maidens are ahead, talking amongst each other, gossi...