 Evolution, No. 13, Group VI, by Hilma af Klint (Sweden) 1908 Evolution Hilma, I found your canvas an hour before the deadline, and so this Einstein-Rosen bridge is my last chance… In English your kärlek and ondska become words embedded in “evolution”-- love and evil inside cosmic constraints, the notorious Ouroboros gnawing on his tail. Yet, that’s not the point. I like your faded milky pinks & sepias soothing the conflict of primary colours, and spirals that could lead to a temple of the future, but alas—look at us, headless receivers of dramaturgy. A single tweak of an amino acid in a neuronal protein, and a mouse starts “talking”—coherently, tenderly. Even hums. In the beginning was the Word. What’s to be at the end? Elena Petrova Elina Petrova lived in Ukraine until 2007, where she worked in engineering management. Her debut book was in Russian. In the U.S., she published poetry books Aching Miracle (2015) and Desert Candles (2019), and a contest-winning chapbook A Bird from Ukraine (2026). Her poems appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Passages North, North Dakota Quarterly, Texas Review, Porter House Review, Sequestrum, Southwestern American Literature, Another Chicago Magazine, ANTAE, Pedestal, Ocotillo Review, Global City Review, and FreeFall. A short film featuring her poem won Best Cinematic Poetry at the 2023 Miami Chroma Film Festival, www.elinapetrova.com. ** What the Serpent Holds I didn't expect her to be warm. I could have said no — Howard wouldn't have pushed. I didn't. My heart was already at the door. Howard studied ants—slave-makers, fire ants, the architecture of coercion-- but my mentor knew when a student needed a snake. In Portal, Arizona, in a lab that smelled of concrete and control, he handed me a milk snake and said it was time. She came to me in loops and muscle, her pulse finding mine, sinuous, unhurried, warm as something that had always lived in the cup of my hands. I had spent a week lassoing lizards, catch and release, learning that wildness survives being held if you hold it right. She left green everywhere. Laughter. Relief. Disgust. The sublime tipping into the ridiculous the way it does when something true has just occurred. Now I stand before af Klint’s serpent -- that black coil holding the mandala, the wheel of pink and blue and geometry -- and I understand what it means to hold something beautiful without crushing it. She pooped on me as a parting gift, which I choose to call respect. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives and writes in an 1830s farmhouse in rural Delaware County, New York, where she shares her property with a murder of crows, one of whom she has named Edgar Allen Crow. ** Realizing Potential From chemistry, the human form struggles to emerge Reaching back to seeds, and even slithering serpents Winged creatures hover over an ever changing world A circuitous route, step by step, over many millennia In its wake, lie a myriad of intermediate forms of life And still a mystery, whether there was an initial spark The wondrous DNA double spiral, replete with genes That in so many permutations, do identify all species At the heart of the matter, beyond substantive form Is the question, as to whether this is actually the end Who are we to have decided and assumed superiority But A.I may yet have something to say on evolution Flowers nod and wave Content with their destiny As they know their place Howard Osborne Howard Osborne has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music, and travel. ** Kaleidoscope Stressing, and anxious, kaleidoscope of the mind, confusing ideas. Mind Challenging, confused, mind spinning in different thoughts, imbalanced thinking. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published as well as haiku poetry. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and two adorable dogs. ** To Hilma af Klint Regarding Evolution, No. 13, Group VI You came to such abstraction first inspired believing you conversed with those before that you became and those to follow not by name but as the spirit given trust of clay remade from fallen dust as vessel to contain the soul, embracing chaos and its toll, evolving the improved command of more and more to understand in realm to know though not to sense but reason from profound pretense of symmetry to be exposed in worlds conjoined to you disclosed. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** it is all so transient so symmetrical this whole affair of evolution to come to the centre as if by chance the whole world whirls around and around a circle consumed upon itself weary of an endless journey it turns and churns rolls and stretches will the heart ever be drawn whole? can things be certain in the geometry of life? a constant gaze scrutinizes every line mind empties what is consumed how can we breathe the stench of death and keep on living? all treasures hide in the mouth of the serpent yet we are not the same when we grab them our flesh burns to leave traces of pink youthful skin disappearing in a time fleeting expanding limiting of our own divinity Katia Aoun Hage Katia Aoun Hage, Lebanese American multidisciplinary artist and musician, lives in a world where everyone is welcomed, stories are heard, and voices find their places in the fabric of life. Art is an expression of her inner life which guides her creative process by fueling it with dreams, spiritual longing, and a drive to experience the different realities of our world. ** Mystery I dream of new friends. Of wings under my soul and angels guiding me on. Of confused thoughts and men with overgrown moustaches. Of the love of snakes masquerading as allies. Of You, in the days before wisdom. Of squandered heats and those without meaning. Of misplaced memories and unloved flowers. Of life waiting to be acknowledged. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle -poet, filmmaker, narrator. Grammy and Emmy nominated. Producer and narrator of the Documentary film ARTWATCH. About renowned artist and historian, James Beck. Publications include Dissident Voice, One Art, Verse Virtual, Wild Word, Poetry Super Highway, Haiku Universe, Amethyst Review, and others. ** Utveckling Sun and moon and dark and light, revolving in the common sphere, contend a time, and then unite. The snake of death is far and near; she wheels in a tenebrous coil around the track of life’s frontier. Dark is the soul in human toil, an unhatched egg within a shell where elemental atoms roil, but fledgling wings bear up the cell to still a higher wreath of strife, and there it is content to dwell, learn, go to school, be husband, wife, partake of wondrous things and vain-- the shining dew, the paring knife, the touch of every drop of rain. Fulfill the flower, become the bloom blossoming into another plane; the serpent’s maw’s an anteroom: soul passes, orbits, then returns a yolk again in other womb. Ramya Yandava Ramya Yandava lives in Boston. Her poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in The Oxonian Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Classical Outlook, and Merion West. She writes the newsletter Soul-Making at soulmaking.xyz. ** Symposium Pruned scalp or brainpan offsetting trunk tray at whim-- serpent cul-de-sac Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honoured by The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Eve Sews She threads her needle with sinews and veins and embroiders on linen the contents of her heart-- soft, layered secrets and cloudy dreams, thick tears that fall like painted blood. Her creating hands are godlike, whether grasping her cloth or winding a spool. As she lays down shapes and lines her mind is busy with future designs. She stitches a pair of ovaries in the colours of sea and sand, and the feathery womb that nurtured her sons, her beautiful boys now grown into men. But men have no place in her realm today, because embroidery, traditionally, is women’s work. She allows just one faithful friend to draw near-- the serpent that coils around her hoop. (Readers of the myth never stopped to think that the serpent might be female too.) Catherine Reef Catherine Reef's poetry has appeared in several online and print journals. She has published more than forty nonfiction and biographical works on subjects including Sarah Bernhardt, Queen Victoria, and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A graduate of Washington State University, Catherine Reef lives and writes in Rochester, New York. ** Ouroboros I leave my body under the sweet gum with the wood thrush's song. My skin remembers your hand upon my back, how blood expanded my heart. My pelvis felt you, all the way to its fallopian spirals. I am made holy within this cathedral of trees, light singing green notes. I grip the mulchy earth, clutch the gum's spiky orb of seed. There is no pain. Vanessa Zimmer-Powell Vanessa Zimmer-Powell's poetry has appeared on the radio and in numerous journals and anthologies. Awards include first place winner of the 2017 and 2016 Houston Poetry Fest ekphrastic competitions, top honours in the 2017, 2019, and 2021 Friendswood Library ekphrastic poetry competitions, honourable mention in the 2023 ReelPoetry film festival, and finalist in the 2024 Mutabilis Press chapbook competition. Her chapbook, Woman Looks into an Eye is published by Dancing Girl Press. ** When You Discover Divine Wisdom, the Essential One-ness of All That Is and Want to Tell the World When your heart is full of the discovery that everything, but EVERYTHING is divine—even you—what do you do if you can’t sing? If you can’t dance? Can’t write it into tomes telling the world about divine wisdom? When you just know it, when it was revealed to you, when you want to share the beauty of your truth: that there is no distinction of class, race, sexual orientation, colour of skins, that all beings: plant, animal, mineral are part of the one divine reality? And that everything we consider "unique," "individual" is nothing more than sacred, divine drops trying to find their way back to the ONE, the ocean, the all? Swedish artist Hilma af Klint actively searched for life’s meaning from a very young age. Her younger sister’s death cut her deeply, and Hilma wanted to understand and reach out into the world of spirit. She explored the mystical, and she and four friends—as a group—began to hold séances and practice automatic writing/drawing. Soon, Hilma dived into Theosophy (theos = God, sophia = wisdom = divine wisdom) and a little later Anthroposophy anthropos = human, sophia (wisdom) = human wisdom. The esoteric teachings of Helena Blavatsky and Rudolf Steiner influenced her artistic expression, and she used her art to explore her spiritual journey. Hilma was convinced that spirit held her hand while she created her otherworldly works, and that her paintings were messages to humanity—if humanity could only decipher them. And wouldn’t you know: just over 100 years later, a significant new theoretical framework suggests that “consciousness is a fundamental field underlying all of reality.” Is it just a coincidence that this theory is being proposed by Professor Maria Strømme (a nanotechnology expert at Uppsala University)? Let spirit guide you In your search For the light Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a several times Pushcart and Best of Net nominee. All her books are available on Amazon. The new chapbook, The Matter of Words, was published in June 2025, and a new full-length collection has been slated for publishing in 2027. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** What Lies at the Centre of the Universe? 1 We are both too large and too small to fit. Have not even the stars already forgotten us? Our thoughts are like stones skipping across the waves of the void. 2 We have drifted outside the equations. What remains besides the things we will never see? Life passes through us like an unanchored vessel of surging tides. 3 Zero begins and ends in the same place. Why compare nothing with nothing? What can you do with nothing? The snake holds its tail, yearning to reply to what has not yet been asked. Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. In both work and life, she tends to ask questions. The work of Hilma af Klint is full of questions. Follow her explorations at https://kblog.blog/. ** There Was a Girl in Class Who Told a Story I don't remember all of it. Just that it was about being young and doing something small and wrong and being caught inside that wrongness. And something in the telling unlocked a door I had forgotten was even a door. I was seven. There was a backyard. A fence we crossed because crossing it was exactly the kind of thing being seven feels compelled to do, not out of malice, just out of that pure animal curiosity that hasn't learned yet what belongs to it and what doesn't. My friends ran when the door opened. I stood there. Not brave. Just already somewhere else inside myself, already folded inward, already rotating around the hot fixed point of having been seen. That is what this painting knows. Not guilt, guilt is a straight line, it walks toward something, confession, consequence. This is the other thing. The circle that doesn't open. The pink interior held inside the black ring, turning, folding back on itself, soft and unresolved. Someone else's grass under my feet. A neighbour's eyes. Summer air that had changed its quality entirely and would not change back. The girl in class just told her story. She didn't know it would open mine. Isaac Marks ** … break every norm … bold primary contrast choice plucked from painter’s pastel palette it’s the beginnings of a juxtaposition where, from sky and earth and night, the original ovoid emerges bounded by temptation’s serpent-- inside Ovid’s metamorphosis is rested beside how Darwin evolved in thought all centered on what might be an egg a symbol of nature mothered by Eileithyia the goddess of birth a heart at the centre a quartered vessel filled to its brim with empathy equality evolution emotion life pods carry the genetics of the future in patches of DNA: nature’s astronauts orbit this globe-- a crystal ball with its predictive messages-- like eavesdroppers on what is to come orchestrating challenging change wings sling their curving dreams angelic in their flourish and poise springing life to the turning world embryonic, fluid yet full-formed expected, yet in birth, breaks every norm Peter R Longden Peter R Longden grew up in Rotherham, South Yorkshire before moving to Coventry in 1981 for a long career working with young people. Now retired, poetry is a significant part of his life, both writing and reading. He is still looking to publish a first chapbook, having had individual poems published by 9th O’Bheal Five Words Competition (2022); two poems published by The Ekphrastic Review in 2024 and April 2026; and three ekphrastic poems in the Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletters in 2024 and 2025. Other poems have been published in local anthologies. Writing poetry began over 25 years ago, recording how to see the world and what makes it the way it is. Peter is married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a two-year-old granddaughter). ** Perhaps I See More Whimsy Perhaps I see more whimsy than intended in Hilma’s painting. The animal at bottom I take for an impish owl, wings spread, striving for balance. I see a ghoulish figure hovering along the righthand side of a hoop snake. What does the clinging figure at left hold in her other hand? At first, I think it’s a cap. Then, an oval sack with blue lining. The snake outlines a quartered pie chart of cumulous shapes halved. Black square, blue circle, split in two. And those triangles, they point, don’t they? to that black square. Hilma would find me facile, or sacrilegious— unenlightened by messages channeled from her High Masters. Yet I’m invigorated by energy, those wondrous shapes and lines. And colour. I give thanks for that. The ouroboros implies we come full circle and then will ascend. I descend those curlicues for her brilliant egg-shaped gems! Margo Davis Margo Davis loves the interplay of visual art and poetry. A number of her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, as well as Synkroniciti, Equinox, The Mackinaw and Deep South. Forthcoming poems are to appear in The MacGuffin and Arkansas Review. Originally from Louisiana, she lives in Houston. Her recent collection is Uncoupling. ** My Myth Is Writing Itself I emerge from the serpent’s womb fully formed minus my head which I left within the boundaries of mouth to tail. I float inside these four realms, spending decades in each one; love and all its intricacies from the eros I feel for you bordering on mania to the agape in times of need; from there I move through perfection and symmetry and the constant pressure to appear calm though a storm rages within me; into the chambers of myth making and magic and remembering the sadness I felt when I was told magic wasn’t real; finally finding firm footing in me and what I choose to believe. I will not disappear into old age and frailty. I will devour my own tail in delight constantly evolving into better versions of myself. My body on the outside holds my world in place and my mind and spirit on the inside hold my truths. My soul’s journey through chaos and surviving the everyday things that tried to destroy it is the real magic. Laura Peña Laura Peña is an award-winning poet born and raised in Houston, Texas. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. She has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas, and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Texas. She writes ekphrastic poetry and has many pieces published on The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in Equinox, Boundless, Synkroniciti, Point Clear Press, Voices, and Four Tulips. ** Temple It can be no surprise that snakes are always present, circling our bodies-- eating the eggs of our stories. So we hold our silences, our silencing. When he came to see my paintings he ate them, one by one, declared them inedible. It is so much easier to walk across an island, and leave brushes, still, in their jars. We see women, voiceless, all the time. What have I learned? To close this circle. No one will see this painting until I die. Then, with that soft click, I pick up a brush, and paint my palms, my belly, my uterus. The flourish of a fallopian tube. Sister, you see it. They asked me to paint a temple, and after one hundred tries, what did my brush lift out of the weave of silence? The place where we pray. The place where we sing the yolks of our songs. Emily Wall Emily Wall’s poems are published across the US and Canada and have been nominated for Pushcart prizes and Best of the Net. She has published six books: Fig, Fist, Flame, Breaking into Air, Liveaboard and Freshly Rooted. She lives in Douglas, Alaska and can be found online at www.emily-wall.com. ** When Privilege, Convention Paid Sense esoteric ironies, as privileged on holydays, an island where remained perhaps, surrounded, social seas, indeed. Vacating scene where most were found, effected through this stranger life, an isolate, connection claim, hid legacy, revealed; declined. Academy, Society, disputing which direction guide; with chime of Sherlock’s Conan Doyle, The Five sought out High Mastership. Mixed séance with conventional-- wherein she found her income stream-- did sister’s spirit haunt her hope, dead, know rejection of her will? In mathematics, botany her roots and route, symbolic search; in vogue, espoused theosophy, but little canvassed then on earth? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** What Does It Look Like? It looks like Ganesha. It looks like Ouroboros. It looks like yin yang and yolks swirling in a centrifuge. It looks like the echoes of a forgotten past shaking hands with a forgotten future. It looks like the neon remnants of my ancestors reaching from the shell of a bitter fruit petrified underground. It looks like radio waves of distortion and loss. It looks like ovaries and testicles. It looks like sacs of angels burning with questions from within. It looks like The Lorax squatting to suck on a hookah. It looks like monks of Sikkim praying in a circle. It looks like star-crossed lovers sizzling in orthogonal dreams. Truth hidden in polygons, revealed in curved pigments of lies. It looks like life. Sowmya Krishnamurthy Sowmya is a writer, artist, and an educator. Her work appears in 3Moon Magazine, The Birdseed, The Hooghly Reviewand more. Her story was once shortlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize. She likes to brew Kombucha and spends afternoons wondering which reality she lives in. ** The Evolution of S Sometimes Simone saw a sunflower, snapdragon, or safflower. Sometimes she spotted sputtering seeds, shattered shapes of shame. Still, a snake slithered along the sides, serving as security sentinel. On Sunday, Simone spied six silhouettes. Statues? Spirits? Escaping, slipping past the sleeping serpent, springing like Slinkies onto the surface. Stretch. Stretch to be strong, Simone surmised. Smug with spunk, she switched on her transistor. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner's ekphrastic work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Main Street Rag, and Flare. Her latest ekphrastic collection is the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, June 2026). She hosts the Ekphrastic Book Club and regrets missing the Hilma af Klint exhibition at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 2025. She lives in New Jersey. ** Embroidery Kit DIY Cross Stitch Set No. 13 Ships in ONE business day! Please note: Read listing carefully. This is a KIT. Photograph depicts finished embroidery, but you will receive a KIT!!! Each KIT includes: 1 Pre-printed Evolution Pattern 8 x Color Embroidery Floss 1 Needle 1 Set of Instructions Display Stand: 1 Bulb Garlic 3 Mustaches (White depicted, but color may vary depending upon mustache availability) IMPORTANT: Due to recent changes in postal service shipping policies, KIT no longer includes Serpent Embroidery Hoop!!! I cannot ship snakes anymore, so please don’t ask. In order to complete embroidery, you will need to find your own snake. Detailed Snake Catching Instructions included. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with recent work in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Heavy Feather Review, Hot Flash Literary, and forthcoming in Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, but you can find her on Bluesky. ** The Vigil I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you. John 14:18 In the bluish haze of dusk when swallows rise from the tree and shadows mirage my wall you come to visit me after long months of despair. Your spirit looks the same as you did in mortal form; but now when I call your name white lilies shimmer in your grasp, wallpaper sags from winter's chill and I begin to understand as vines spiral on the window sill why you've come to comfort me. The moon shows her crescent wing, a sliver of angelic light to which dust and memories cling inspiring us to think of what we had and have yet to share, your breath falls on cold skin and the dark current of my hair as you kiss my forehead making us both glimmer in the glass of a mirror thinly cracked waiting for dawn and my soul to pass. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, The Orchards Journal, Songs of Eretz, The Peacock Journal, Indelible Magazine, Eye To The Telescope and many others. Her latest work will be forthcoming in the spring issues of The Otherworld Magazine and Flowers Of The Field. ** Divine Order The hem of black seaweed thrown up from the ocean wobbled and warped through my tears and so I couldn’t make out the dark blob that tottered on and off the line—a sick dog, maybe, angling just clear of the surf. No. Something about the shape steadied me, gentled my pace, as though my body had a read a thing my stinging, sleep-addled brain could not. The gentle lapping of the Pacific at dawn felt suddenly ominous for reasons having to do with the form, which tottered up and away from the ocean, before tilting and weaving back toward it. When this happened, electricity shot through my chest. Below that, my sturdy legs began to run. Oh, I understood, oh, child. Alone. Ocean. I’d seen the child the morning we’d arrived: it was a toddler, latched to the hand of a waif in a crocheted bikini on the beach in front of the backpacker hostel. That morning, child had chortled with delight as the young mother pointed out sandpipers and gliding, diving pelicans. With its lavish curls and dark, oblong eyes, it was an apparition of the baby I’d foolishly imagined having with B. The old story: Man, Woman, Child. The natural order of things. Run, was the word that tore through me, churned my legs in the loose sand, cleared my vision so that I could see that the waves were building, each one crashing and fizzing farther up the beach than the last. Closer, I saw that the child had crouched, back to the water, to dig at something in the sand. B hadn’t spoken to me on the overnight bus out of the mountains. The silence had continued the next day, as the road dropped into verdant scenery and softened into sand under the tires of the 24-hour bus. The tang of highly oxygenated sea air permeated the bus and made me want to take his familiar hand and squeeze it for happiness but he’d pulled away. Even on the purple-black sand of the beach, where the vast ocean lapped and murmured an old truth—the story of the land and the sea holding each other in give and take – I was more preoccupied with the crack between the two of us than with whatever bits of the universe might seep in. I did not want to admit that B’s silence had to do with my half-supporting, half-carrying him down from the mountain. It had been his idea to climb that first day at altitude. I’d worried when he bounded ahead. An hour in, he’d slumped against a boulder, delirious with altitude sickness. Instinct threaded my body under his arm, turned me back toward the little guest house, hidden behind the mountain’s flank. The way my skeleton is, the way I know to push through pain, the way energy addles me when I am still: I didn’t choose these traits to make asses out of men. I did fit in the natural order of things. Later, in the little thatch bed under the skylight, B took the steaming tea I’d brought him and snarled at me, saying I had made him climb, made him run. Lying next to his silence that first night at the beach, I hadn’t slept, had gone out to the beach at first light. As I closed in on the child, it plucked what it had been digging at from the sand and turned toward me. I fell into a crouch, gasping, mopping sweat out of my eyes with the corner of my t-shirt. The waves had receded, as if to point out that I was insane. The child—a girl, I could now see—lifted fixed me with a solemn gaze, took me in. She held out her treasure—a sand dollar— and began to speak with the clarity and delight of a being new to her language. It was a tonal language, with rolled r’s and soft clicks. I understood nothing. As she spoke, she lifted my hand and placed the sand dollar inside of it. One at a time, from thumb to pinky, she closed my fingers around the white disc. Nodding at the correctness of this, she clucked, sighed with satisfaction, turned and shambled back to the hostel, the air crackling and whirring with a gentle light in her wake. Zoe Alsop Zoe Alsop is a writer living in Maryland.
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