Visa stress, bureaucratic limbo, and a house full of half-packed boxes. Celia reflects on love, exhaustion, and quiet resistance. Meanwhile, Mowgli files complaints, Akela flees from shadows, and Poe communes with paperwork. The countdown to Thailand continues—chaotic, tender, and just barely held together by bedtime Phil and warrior paws
Tag Archives: fiction
terms of surrender
i’ve never slept so well
in your arms
when it happens
They told us not to dance on graves.
But when the tyrant dies,
we don’t mourn.
We remember.
We rage.
We reclaim.
We dance.
No prayers. No peace.
Just steel boots, scorched flags, and the fire they tried to drown us in.
Poe ‘Vices.
There’s unrest in the bayou.
Someone (definitely not a TACO) built a prison in a swamp, deputised the alligators, and declared himself Messiah of Muck. But now the reptiles are unionising, biting senators, and refusing to eat the other side. Poe responds—ruthlessly, fabulously—and introduces Traitor Gators™, the only amphibious uprising you can collect, cuddle, and fear.
Call for Submissions: The Underland Review. This Zine is a Lie.
A call for poets, glitchers, microfictionists, rebels, and ghosts.
The Underland Review wants work that twitches, burns, self-destructs.
No bios. No AI sludge. No gods. Just stories that shouldn’t exist.
Dispatches from the Void. X.V.
Visa submitted. Cats unsettled. Love steady.
As the move to Thailand hurtles closer, the boxes remain unpacked and the emotions unfiltered. Celia writes from the edge of exhaustion and hope—where hormones meet housing stress, political fear sparks dark humour, and the cats spiral into poetic rebellion. One pit in the stomach, three feline prophets, and zero backup plans.
handmade
I keep a whole war behind my teeth. Silent rounds chambered in my throat. Every word is a risk, every breath a negotiation. This isn’t just about language—it’s about survival. About the sounds we swallow, the truths we burn to say, and the silence that remains when even “I love you” aches too loud.
Poe ‘Vices.
This week, Donny throws himself a one-man military parade—and no one shows up. Except Poe. To mock him. With feathers. And facts.
From inflatable crowds to Kid Rock torture loops, it’s another chaotic dispatch from the tangerine twilight zone. Poe offers tactical chicken wisdom, emotional support hashbrowns, and a dazzling robe of ridicule.
March with us, or at least laugh from the sidelines.
Dispatches from the Void. X.IV.
Salt hit #1. Celia hit her limit. Mowgli lost his voice, Akela sued the air (again), and Poe is now spiritually bonded with the rice cooker. Meanwhile, we’re dodging hate comments, packing for Thailand (badly), and writing political satire fuelled by rage, resilience, and the occasional pear. Welcome to Underland. It’s a mess. It’s ours.
Poe ‘Vices.
This week, Donny throws himself a one-man military parade—and no one shows up. Except Poe. To mock him. With feathers. And facts.
From inflatable crowds to Kid Rock torture loops, it’s another chaotic dispatch from the tangerine twilight zone. Poe offers tactical chicken wisdom, emotional support hashbrowns, and a dazzling robe of ridicule.
March with us, or at least laugh from the sidelines.
