Issue #14 Online Exclusive Content

If I could call her an act of God, my Mother, I could believe in the earthquake unhinging her throat’s seabed. I could trust her decibels thrumming through me, vibrational frequencies juddering my cells until I am swept out into the sea of her.

These Prisoning Hills

By Darian Bianco

Growing up as an only child on my grandparents’ farmland, I was hungry for the impossible. I caught the bug early on, and any book called “unrealistic” was a book I wanted to get my hands on— give me mermaids, give me fairies, give me swords and robots and chosen one prophecies. I wanted it all.