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  Table of contents Issue Twenty-five FADING GIRLS


Slipped away on ships
in a phantom fog
or floating up, like a yellow balloon,
drifting from a child's loose fingers.
I've heard fading girls
speak before they go
in loud bursts of laughter
over fries in a food court,
in pleasured screams
from the backseats of cars.
I've seen their names
painted on bathroom stalls
in dripping lines of red nail polish,
and seen them again
in 10-point Franklin Gothic,
under grainy color photos
in front-page news.
I've smelled, tasted their sweat
like dirty water on satin skin.
I can tell you that pressing
the hand against a panicked heart
is like touching thunder in a bottle.
Like struggling to keep
an old door shut
against a roaring gale.
The wind's voice
has amazing range.
A warm whisper or the
coldest shriek. But think
of the silence on an airless
summer day, how the shadow
of a tree can look like a charcoal
drawing on concrete.
How what sings, thrives, writhes
can go so suddenly still.




Kim Mannix is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared in print and online journals such as subTerrain, CV2 and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Her background in journalism and lifelong love of dark fiction means she spends much of her time pondering the nature of horror, both real and imagined. Originally from Saskatoon, she's lived in six Canadian cities and has decided to stay for a while in Sherwood Park, Alberta. You can find her online at her blog www.makesmesodigress.com or on Twitter @KimMannix.

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