Sound of the Underland – Page 10 – River and Celia Underland

Dispatches from the Void. V. VI

Back from Turkey and quietly reflecting on the uneasy mix of beauty and loss. A rich culture overshadowed by British tourism leaves behind more questions than comfort. As we return to our quiet life with the cats, our sights turn to Thailand—and the ongoing pursuit of something real, rooted, and ours.

FAce-lIft Continuation XV: Clarice Lispector

I made paintings. Tech advanced I let the algorithm chew on them. fAce-lIft™ is what happened when I asked AI to distort, not dictate — to echo, not replace. The result? Something almost beautiful, slightly haunted, and very much still mine. If that makes you uncomfortable… good. Come look anyway.

FAce-lIft Continuation XIV: Madge Gill

You Called It Glory. It Was Just Death.

When war scorched the earth and the gods could no longer bear to watch, the sun itself turned away.
This speculative short story weaves a brutal, mythic tale of violence, divine reckoning, and the collapse of honor on the battlefield.
As brothers fall and the world darkens, only silence — and surrender — remain.
What happens when even the sky says: enough?

FAce-lIft Continuation XIII: Henry Darger

FAce-lIft Continuation XII

Socks, Sandals, and the Sun We Stole

A searing poetic critique of modern tourism, Flatbreads and Fags explores how paradise becomes parody under the weight of entitlement. From chip-stacked buffets to bikini-clad colonisers, this visceral piece pulls no punches. A street-level lament for stolen culture, served with brown sauce and shame.

Dispatches from the Void. V. V

A strange kind of paradise — this week we reflect on the tension between beauty and performance in Marmaris. Between sun-drenched mornings and staged culture, we’re caught in a tourist dreamscape that leaves us missing home, our cats, and a quieter kind of magic.

Kulak Değil, Kalp Gerek

She arrived on the knife’s edge of a summer storm, the sea crashing against the rocks like it remembered her. The mountain cottage stood quiet, holding its breath. Inside, only dust and memory stirred—until she found it: the conch, waiting on the table where her grandmother once sat. And when it spoke, it did not speak in words alone, but in whispers layered with voices, salt, and time.

Now, Ilayda walks through the ruins of tradition and tourism, past the shouts and spilled beer, her grandmother’s voice pulsing faintly from the shell.
“Kulak değil, kalp gerek.”
Not the ear, but the heart is needed.

The Hollow Gospel Of Paper Lies.

They called it freedom once,

a democratic right.

Now.

Broken.

The land of the free –

Always,

But for the blacks or the women

Or the poor, sure.

But that’s by the by.