There were not too many white people left, if any. Not real white anyway. There used to be before the Edict was enforced. Nowadays the only way to sight them was in a circus somewhere, or in the nearest museum where their atrophied carcasses were on permanent view in the history collection. And everybody knows…
From Telepresences Teratophilematology My Zoom therapist is tender under her Bill Clinton mask. Her retrievertongues the plastic wrinkles like a sloppy car wash. She makes me choose who tasted better: sexy Freddy Kruger or the Jägerbombed Leatherfacethat slapped the bouncer. How many people touch you each day? Did you know lipstick was invented to simulate a healthy…
by Andrew Paul Wood Palmerston North-based Jordan Quinnell was born and raised in Ōpunake on the Taranaki coast, and his whakapapa is to Ngā Ruahine, Taranaki and Tūwharetoa iwi. He has a bachelor’s degree, post-graduate diploma (with Merit), and Masters of Māori Visual Art (with Distinction) through the Toioho ki Āpiti Māori Arts programme at…
Tēnā koutou katoa, Welcome to T111, the August 2024 issue of takahē! The number 111 is supposed to be auspicious, portending opportunity and achievement and general good vibes. We could all use a bit of that. Wars are ongoing, housing and food are eye-wateringly expensive, 2024 is likely to be hottest year ever recorded on…
Chills wrack my body and my head pounds, throbbing in time to the beat of my heart. The sound of the ocean vibrates around this hill. I try so hard to hang on to the susurration, but it doesn’t ease my mind. Nothing helps. Nothing but her. The fog rose just over an hour ago,…
The husband is standing in front of my register and he looks incredibly uncomfortable. We are unnaturally far apart, and he shuffles his weight from foot to foot. He studies the drink fridge intensely, as if Sprite is an exciting new seasonal flavour, while running his fingers repetitively through his short greying hair. It’s been…
I gazed out over the disused hospital patio. Beyond, brightly garbed workers drained the pond to make way for a new parkade. Ana dozed on the bed, Eleanor in the bassinet. I stood guard, a bulwark against the return of the frenzied excitement of the previous night. The world was hazy and calm. Eleanor stirred.…
‘Have you floated before?’ the woman asks me. The man next to her looks up from behind the front desk. I shake my head. The woman stands up and hands me an iPad with the terms and conditions. She invites me to take a seat on the bulbous couch opposite us. I perch on the…
On the dawn of the solstice, under a sky washed clean of clouds, through the cold air cut with woodsmoke, through the piñon-juniper hills, the quiet comes singing. The quiet takes the shape of a woman. Frost in her hair, mud on her boots, a woman comes singing down the hills, her voice a holy…
Vultures by Jenny Rockwell. Dead Bird Books (2024). RRP: $30. PB, 59pp. ISBN: 9781738618231. Reviewed by Dani Yourukova. Vultures is a vibrant debut from Tāmaki Makaurau poet Jenny Rockwell, lush with emotionality, nosebleeds, glow-in-the-dark Jesus statues, religious shame and grave dirt. A candid coming-of-age narrative set in church basements and girls’ bathrooms, which contains a…