By Erin Strubbe


I wake in the night to hollow bones cracking against my window.

The Dorsal is dim and folded up at the City’s nape. The atmosphere streaming out from the Gills makes the distant stars glitter and dance above me. Below, there is the Mouth and the empty lot that houses it, scabbed with scales and scraggled with dry kelps and weeds. And there’s a heap of feathers way down in the dark.

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The Author

Erin Strubbe