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.
Tag Archives: writing
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.
Modernizing the Constitution: Lessons from a Signal Chat. Part 2 .
What happens when the Founding Fathers get sick of being misquoted and log back in from the afterlife? Chaos. Group chat chaos.
Join Washington, Hamilton, Madison, Abigail Adams, and a very tired Tommy J as they try to update the U.S. Constitution — one amendment (and one eye-roll) at a time.
Spoiler: No one invited T. Rump. Again.
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.
How Privileged Are You, Really? Find Out Now.
You’ve taken quizzes for fun. This one’s not.
A brutal, eerily familiar journey through childhood, work, love, and loss—told through three life paths. Pick your answers. A, B, or C. There are no right choices. Just the ones you recognise. Some more than others.
Dispatches from the Void. X.III
Salt launched early (because patience is for capitalists). River won a challenge on a site run by bots and tech bros. The cats staged an emotional protest. We made pesto. Also, Celia did an interview and accidentally sounded wise. Chaos, poetry, and spite—just another week in Underland.
Volume XII: THE SALT IN MY WOUND.
Akela returns with righteous rage and ear drops. While the humans celebrate Salt in the Wound, she reminds us who the real wounded party is. Featuring vet betrayal, unsolicited ear juice, and Mowgli’s tragic (and possibly theatrical) loss of voice. The pillow has fallen. The diva has risen.
