“Little chickens, with eyes of real Baltic amber. You made them, thread by thread, stitch by stitch, and now they rustle bloodthirsty. Now they want for dreams. Yours are absent whenever you wake, a murky cavity in your memory. They diagonal golden beaks toward your scars, try to pluck them up like earthworms. They whisper to each other in their suspicious, enigmatic chicken language, and you just know they are seditious.”

Read more in Issue Twelve, page 29:

Issue 12