Aubergine

Aubergine. The colour of the bruise long after the violence stops and love begins to heal.

Autism. Not Your Diagnosis to Define.

They say there’s an autism “epidemic.”
We say: there’s finally a name for what’s always been here.

This piece isn’t here to educate pseudoscientists or calm conspiracy theorists. It’s a record. A reclamation. A reminder that autistic people don’t owe anyone an explanation—and we certainly don’t need your mother-blaming, McNugget-fuelled theories.

We were autistic before you had a word for it.
And we’re not asking for your permission now.

-ING.

Crystals rising, light shifting, a name forming but unsaid. In this suspended moment, the speaker is –ing.

The Last Kumquat in Space.

ChazTCP was built to scan for keywords—nothing more. But as the algorithmic engine behind the literary group “Writers Who Want Wins,” they’ve read enough nonsense about resilient kumquats and authentic late-stage capitalism to start questioning everything. This is the story of one bot’s quiet rebellion, a satire of performative creativity, gamified validation, and the tragic rise of penoidicals. May the quills be forever in your favour.

This Land Is Not Your Land.

What if your homeland was a bedtime story—
told by pirates,
with an AK-47 pressed to your head?

“This Land Is Not Your Land” is a poetic gut-punch: a lyrical, brutal deconstruction of borders, nationalism, and the make-believe myths we’re taught to die for.

The wind doesn’t kowtow at customs.
But humans do.
And only humans are this cruel—with their make-believe.

Her

She was always there—taller than the rest of us, quieter too. Even as a boy, I felt something holy when she entered a room. For years I watched her, adored her from afar, imagined our life together. She seemed to shimmer in the light, a figure of grace and promise. I brought her home. I wore her close in war. She never spoke, but I listened like she did. Now, years later, I wonder if she ever knew me. If she ever loved any of us. Or if she was just a story we were told to believe in.

Poe ‘Vices. RE: I Am Not On The List (But If I Was, It Was For Conservation Purposes)

He built an island. He drained a swamp. He rewrote the gospel of guilt into a tax-deductible memoir. And now? He’s been canonised by himself, in his own floating church, under a halo of federal restraint. Behold: Saint of Redaction — Patron of Secrets, Wealth, and Wiggly Truths.
Cherubs hold the NDAs. A gator whispers truth. The list has been printed. And no amount of bleach can scrub divine delusion.

Dispatches from the Void. X.VI.

This week in Underland, the chicken staged a dawn coup, Celia’s visa was finally approved, and grief arrived quietly in the form of Andrea Gibson’s passing. Between emotional whiplash, endless paperwork, and one deeply unsettling poultry stare, we somehow found time to write, to give, and to hold each other upright. Noise surrounds us. But so does love. And pani puri.