Category: Issue #1

Hi Joe, it’s a pleasure to have you here. Your story in this issue, “Eating Bees From The Ass of God”, is suffused with a kind of aesthetically repulsive sexual body horror. Where did the idea for the story come from and is this aesthetic something you consciously wanted to explore? Hi Jonny, thank you…

It should be apparent from even the quickest of glances that online publishing is sick and dying. Not that you would know this from publishing’s centricity to culture, especially on the internet. Google, Facebook, Twitter—the media titans of the modern day depend on digital publishing the way a mill needs a stream. More than 4…

The most immediate myth to dispel about non-fungible tokens (NFTs) is that they have anything to do with art. The relationship between an NFT and a work of art is much like the relationship between a cereal box-promotion fan club card and the musical artist to which it attests the holder’s unparalleled admiration. The NFT…

I’ve often referred to myself as a “disaster queer.” This term is not intended to be self-deprecating, but rather explains my relationship not only with literature but with the world in general as well. Being a queer person, I see the world through a decidedly queer lens. I’m always extraordinarily suspicious of openly queer authors…

Toby has been obsessed with squid since we were seven. Said he liked the way ‘cephalopod’ felt in his mouth. I liked the way it squelched through his gap teeth and fell off his lips with a lisping splash. Birds of the sea, he said. I tried to tell him about penguins, but even then…

In the wildfire-ravaged summer, everything disappears behind a haze of smoke: first the sun, then the mountains on the horizon, and then the women. They leave at night or at high noon, following the smell of smoke and the currents in their own blood. Something unnameable carries them toward the hills. In absentia, the missing…

Benny came to the city and he’s looking for work. He’s got good strong legs and a straight back and he walks the streets tirelessly, stopping in for every Help Wanted sign. He hobbles over cobbles and clops down the sidewalk and he comes home to his dog, tired, dog-tired, oh so tired ‘cause his…

A woman stands at what she thought was her motel door and doesn’t recognize the number. At first, she brushes away the first tingle, light as a strand of spiderweb falling on her nape. All these motels look alike, she tells herself. They’re all cast from the same mold. She should know–they’ve switched between so…