Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
“Turns out gills work. You’re welcome.”
In a world where the rich breathe easy underwater and the rest are left gasping above, a rogue tech designer, a sanctimonious ex, and a sarcastic borg might be the last hope for redemption. Corporate theology, biotech betrayal, and underwater rebellion collide in Breathing Is For Closers.
A haunting reflection on time, memory, and the ache of never growing up. “Once I looked into your eyes and whispered I cannot grow up…”—this piece explores the enduring pull of childhood, the weight of nostalgia, and the quiet grief of being seen. For all the lost boys, boxcar hearts, and sunset liars.
A haunting reflection on time, memory, and the ache of never growing up. “Once I looked into your eyes and whispered I cannot grow up…”—this piece explores the enduring pull of childhood, the weight of nostalgia, and the quiet grief of being seen. For all the lost boys, boxcar hearts, and sunset liars.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. But Evangeline did. Now the house speaks in riddles and the clock runs in reverse. Her fate was sealed long before the latch clicked. Tick. Tock. Tock. Tick. Some doors don’t open — they consume.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Of Molluscs and Men
Ever seen a dead octopus squirm? I hadn’t either—until I found myself at a Korean welcome dinner watching the male staff do battle with a still-pulsing tentacle in the name of masculinity. I, blissfully testosterone-deficient, was exempt. This is a tale of cultural rites, side dish diplomacy, and the silent horror of watching your boss devour something that might bite back.
In the stillness of Utah’s oldest forest, a voice speaks—not of bark or leaf, but of shared breath and memory. Pando, the largest living being on Earth, remembers everything. It has watched the two-legged ones build, destroy, and misunderstand. But this is its story—of roots deeper than time, of protection, of quiet power. And of the day it decided one visitor would not be allowed to forget.
