Consanguineous. Rambunctious. Delicious. A Hummingbird. A Raw Diamond. A Falling Meteor. Molten Lava. Diverted. A Scheming, Petty, Selfish Rat Bastard. An infant. Unstoppable. A Torn Sail. A Pair of Left Feet. Dynamite. Pirouette-ing. Learning French While Hanging Upside-Down. Indignant.
An Uppity Bitch. Bloody. An Art Project. Finished/Unfinished/I’m Not Sure. A Rabid Wolf. Foaming at the Mouth. A Horse With All Four Hooves Off the Ground. Ruptured. Passed Out, Or Close To It. Aflame. Pretty, Oh So Pretty. Gasping. A Sharpshooter. Spoiled. Luminous. Odiferous. Doing the Twist.
Dirty Underwear. A Bullet Wound. Kindred. Weird. Unknowable. Boring. A Lot Like a Chandelier. Stealing Second. A Modern, Past and Future Wonder. A Baton. A Drumroll. Leprous. Corruptible. Malleable. Free. A Six- Shooter/Six-String/Six-Pack. An Opera. An Orchestra. A Private Investigator.
A Broken Morse Code Machine, Sitting on the Back Seat of a Truck as it Heads Down a Freeway Full of Potholes. An Orchestra. Rotten Milk. A Sunrise. Salty. A New Creation. Tired as Fuck. Weepy. A Generous Tipper. Digging for Gold/Oil/Dinosaur Bones/Buried Treasure/The Fountain of Youth/Anything That’ll Make Me Rich, Famous And/Or Loved, Preferably ‘And’ Because I’d Rather Have Everything. Darkness.
A Disco Ball. Bouncy. Heat-Sensitive. A Kaleidoscope. Infested With Termites. Mischievous. Near-Sighted. Mad as a Goddamn Hatter. A Curveball Thrown When the Catcher Signaled for A Fastball, Because He Knew From the Scouting Report That the Batter Can’t Hit Inside Fastballs, But the Pitcher is Sick and Tired of Throwing Fastballs, and This Sonuvabitch Can’t Hit the Fucking Curveball.
A Broken Stoplight, Always Green, Which Sounds Lovely Until You Realize All The Accidents That’s Going to Cause. A Hot Mound of Steamed Rice. Terrific. Well- Dressed. Freezing. Spoken For. A Bolt of Lightning. Beyond All Time and Space. A Droplet Solidified Infiniteness.
88 Piano Keys, All Slightly Out of Tune. The Second- Hand on a Clock. A Trampoline. A Stinger. Humorous. A Soloist. Blind. Cherished. Demonstrative. Emitting. Fuckable. Grooved. Hung-Over. Imperial. Jammed. Kooky. Late, Late, for a Very Important Date. Moored. Napping. Obscured. Pettable.
Quilted. Rank. Swappable, Depending on the Price and the Buyer. Trying Really Fucking Hard. Ultraviolet. Voluminous. Wonderful. X-Ray-able. Young, Dumb and Full of Cumbersome Feeling. Zippy.
MADE WITH LOVE, OF LOVE, FOR LOVE.
Dominic Laing lives in Portland, Oregon. He’s a writer and long-distance uncle to five nieces and nephews. Dominic believes Storytelling acts as a campfire; it invites, illuminates, and is the dual grace of knowing and becoming known. Dominic’s work has been published in Ruminate, Embers Igniting, HCE Review and Ellipsis Zine. Dominic is in love, in love, and doesn’t care who knows it.
Nicolette is a hobby artist who once gave up on her passion, but reignited it after filling up two sketchbooks on a soul-searching journey in Switzerland. In drawing, painting or crafting, she seeks two things, beauty and emotion: the best art, she believes, has heart. Nicolette’s to-go is people or portrait-sketching, amongst which textured hair, soft gazes and forlorn stares are some of her favourites. Although she has spent most of her time drawing people, she has also taken up drawing flora and other still life, and is enjoying experimenting with different styles and mediums to produce fresh looks. Nicolette occasionally produces hand-cut stickers and prints of her various drawings, and looks forward to creating more things she can call her own.
