Protected
Artwork by Mirjana M.
“The artwork to me represents the many social instances in which I often find myself and where my own often described as hurtful quick wit has been a lifesaver when dealing with inhabitants of my surroundings and their unsolicited, vile comments about my religion, clothing, sexuality and appearance.”
Mirjana M. (they / them ) are a digital artist and writer from Belgrade, Serbia. Their work explores concepts of duality and has appeared in magazines and other places. They authored 4 poetry collections.
IG @cyanide_cherries / X @selena_oloriel / BS @cyanidecherries.bsky.social
IG @cyanide_cherries / X @selena_oloriel / BS @cyanidecherries.bsky.social
She sleeps to the sound of the night train
Fiction by Bronwen Griffiths
as it ploughs its way across the dust of the desert from the border to cities she will never see, as her nights track the lips of dream-lovers who sweet-murmur in her ears, their hands soft on her skin, these lovers so insubstantial, so distant from the man who rode her at the railway’s hard edge. She sleeps until the dawn breaks, a dawn garlanded with pink clouds, lovely as the sweetness of her dream men. But now she must dress in the small stuffy room with its view of the railway siding, the broken bottles and the cacti whose spines pierce the rubber of her cheap trainers. She must brush her teeth and tie back her long, dark hair because, even though this morning the sickness has returned and she can no longer ignore what it means, she is alone and nothing can be done. She must brew the coffee, cook the pancakes, the eggs and hash browns, nod at the customers, and clear the tables. But in the long nights she will listen to the sad wailing of the freight train and she will dream on and on. And perhaps after, perhaps later, when the baby arrives, she will follow the tracks back across the border she came from.
as it ploughs its way across the dust of the desert from the border to cities she will never see, as her nights track the lips of dream-lovers who sweet-murmur in her ears, their hands soft on her skin, these lovers so insubstantial, so distant from the man who rode her at the railway’s hard edge. She sleeps until the dawn breaks, a dawn garlanded with pink clouds, lovely as the sweetness of her dream men. But now she must dress in the small stuffy room with its view of the railway siding, the broken bottles and the cacti whose spines pierce the rubber of her cheap trainers. She must brush her teeth and tie back her long, dark hair because, even though this morning the sickness has returned and she can no longer ignore what it means, she is alone and nothing can be done. She must brew the coffee, cook the pancakes, the eggs and hash browns, nod at the customers, and clear the tables. But in the long nights she will listen to the sad wailing of the freight train and she will dream on and on. And perhaps after, perhaps later, when the baby arrives, she will follow the tracks back across the border she came from.
Bronwen Griffiths writes both short-form and long-form fiction, and sometimes poetry. Her flash pieces have been widely published. She's currently working on her third novel which she hopes to publish later this year. She lives in East Sussex, UK.
X: @bronwengwriter / BS: @bronwengriffiths.bsky.social
X: @bronwengwriter / BS: @bronwengriffiths.bsky.social
