the whistle of seagulls taking their last breath. my ankles swell and sweat blue blood through my socks. don’t think i will survive this summer. sickness is in the sun. my dog is dead or at least i hope it is because i haven’t fed it. if it was eating seagulls i would hear them. but they whistle like the hot heavy things they are. they whistle while the fat in their breasts melts away to maggot meal. sick in the sun.
The skin of filth on the window is a plug. Lit a skin plug. Made of real things and dead things. Milky bird shit and bugs. It is yellow in hue and makes it safe inside the caravan. If you look out at the sky or the gulls, it is gritted and amber lit there has been a wildfire and the birds are filling up wi ash. Grease on the glass slicks the world.
Issue 12
SEA GATE
Rosa Stevenson is from Glasgow, writing predominantly in Scots. She has been published in publications such as Gutter Magazine and Razur Cuts Magazine. She is studying a Masters in creative writing at the University of Glasgow. She seeks to amplify the horror and hilarity in the voices around her.