SHORT PROSE

The coffee-toffee-caramel of my hot liquid handwarm looks luscious. It is also the exact same hex-code shade as the last nub of supermarket mudcake, resting on an A4 exercise book receipt book book book poetry books to-do list book tower on desk. I gnaw and gobble at both, sticky fingers returning to the clacker palette.

It is the witching hour, ideal for tickling my muses. Beyond my window sash, distant cicadas float in the black pool of night.

This is an appreciation letter to all the owly writers chained to their desks: your lit mag publications will fill up your bios but not your growling hearts (or egos). Get yourself a friend not for listening to you air your novel ideas or read at that gross anarchist bookstore, no. Someone who likes talking to people at the park, believes life is good and yes, helps you unclench so the words finally start flowing from your lips.

Touch grass. Get stung by a wasp. Bite the sun.

Haoyi Zhang is a reluctant student at FASS USyd and hopes to poem good for Cordite one-time this livin’. Drag them out for kebab + walks. Off all socials except Discord: @open_far