We were magazines
STEPHEN MEAD
I did not realize-----
the vicarious existence,
the pages as songs to find, or photos,
whole scrapbooks all in a face, our gazes,
the living cinema, our touch, experience
in a dream, knowledge as in empathy
or voyeurism, as breath kept turning the copy,
superimposing the me for you who was the scenery
of some news occurring in another land.
Grate Escape—Part III
JESI TAYLOR
July 12, 2026
My great-great-grandpa John I was an incredible artist who wrote and illustrated notebooks for decades. Most of them contained hand-drawn maps and diagrams of underground structures, equipment, and geological features he encountered and worked closely with as a Sandhog.
I still read them religiously. They’re cherished treasures in my family and partly the reason why I made it out of that (manufactured) disaster alive.
Even though I’m not a Sandhog myself, my entire life revolves around infrastructure. Not only because of my scientific research areas of focus and family history, but also because most of the special interests that consume my brain are in some way related to infrastructure. Which is, I’m sure, the result of some sort of neurobiological-social-ancestral feedback loop.
My mom’s side of the family were all farmers until my mom moved from North Carolina to Harlem in the late 80s. She was an artist, a painter. She died when I was in high school. Heroin overdose.
She loved John I’s notebooks and we’d recreate images from them together on canvas. The notebooks inspired a lot of her later paintings.
They also made my escape from the tunnels possible.
I wish there was.
The Hex
LAUREN M. CONNOLLY
The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex on my right arm, and I couldn't move my fingers for hours.
I thought it would be cool to have a hex as a tattoo.
“Don’t you mean a pentagram?” Stephen asked.
“No, I mean a hex.”
Stephen shrugged, “Okay, I’ll paint one to see if you like it.”
We were both drunk and I laughed as he pulled out a brush from his backpack.
“What the...”
“I am an art major,” he told me, “I am always ready to paint hexes on people.”
It all seemed very funny. He swirled his paintbrush in my beer glass to moisten the bristles. Before I could protest, he proceeded to paint shapes on my arm.
With paint dripping down my arm, “How long until it dries?”
“Oh, just a few minutes—don’t move.”
The next morning, I lie in bed and can’t move my arm. Strange hangover feeling, I thought, forgetting what happened. For the first hour, my arm was tingly. I looked down and remembered the night before.
I couldn’t brush my teeth or hold a cup of coffee. I took a shower to scrub the paint off my arm. Slowly, the feeling started to come back into my fingertips.
I dumped my beer glass, watching the paint swirl down the drain. Looking for Stephen’s number on my phone, it disappeared, just like my hex. I never did see Stephen again.
Mixed Emotions
MEGAN DIEDERICKS
Frequently Asked Questions:
What is hatred?
➔ This is a loaded (there are many answers) question—one we’ve received fairly often recently. Hatred can be defined as the opposite of love (see addendum 6 for love’s definition.) Hatred isn’t the same as disliking (addendum 8) another—it’s when you grit your iron teeth, and wish to make scrap metal of them.
Why is hatred experienced?
➔ By now, you’re aware that we humans feel the need to have rational explanations for everything. A common diagnosis is jealousy (addendum 5.) Another is that you don’t understand the being, who they are, or their actions—hence, hatred is your natural instinct. However, as you also might know, not everything has a reason—hatred can fall beneath that umbrella (if confused, see addendum 4 for ‘Explanation of Metaphors’.)
How to dispose of hatred?
➔ According to the psychology department, to rid yourself of hatred, you have to understand why you feel it. Look at what is being done that infuriates you (see addendum 7 for more on anger.) Once you’ve pinpointed the reason, lead with empathy (addendum 2) and kindness (addendum 1.) It’s something most beings, humans definitely included, struggle with. Blood instead of walls has been shed because of hatred.
What if hatred doesn’t leave?
➔ Distance yourself from what evokes your hatred. If you find that difficult, because most are drawn to hatred, speak to your supervisor (unless they’re the reason; we can’t afford more incidents.)
For further guidance, please contact your assigned human therapist.
dim
KEN KAKAREKA
today,
a right-wing
political influencer
was shot
in the neck
and killed.
i am neither
glad
nor mad
but sad
at america’s
responses.
some
are outraged,
while others
rejoice.
most argue
and threaten
one another
online.
when it’s
an attack
on us
by foreigners
we unite.
when it’s
an attack
on us
by our own
we lash out
and make
things worse.
we are
toddlers
in this land
we call
the beacon
for everyone
else.
follow
our lead!
but how
can they
when we
lead
w/ a torch
whose light
is dim?
follow
our lead!
but how
can they
when we
lead
w/ a torch
that burns
in sin?
Eldritch Lure
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
“CAREFUL,” my Great Old Man howls as I hook piscine lip and mouth profane incantation, not-my-hand, not —
“My hand!” I squeal. Dad erupts in miasmal laughter below ophidian whiskers.
“I SAID 'CAREFUL,'” he bays and thunderclaps me on the back.
Dad's baited hook tears like a comet through the void. Mine floats until my heart sinks, then drags unfathomable depths.
We slumber for aeons. Such is fishing.
My line jolts, then ululates. I strain against the unseen force.
“EASY DOES IT,” Dad bellows.
“I can't!” I screech.
The conflagrations below his cordilleran brow freeze my blood. I flail with impenitent fury!?
At last—Victory!—my prize spools down to the ocean floor. Nothing titanic, but no mere rowboat. The gnarled vessel shimmers, impossibly glabrous.
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars as I unknot the netting. He pries open the steely sepulcher and we swallow sallow meatthings.
Dad's line yanks taut. With a single flick and torrent of current, an amalgam of maculate tubing sinks nearby.
Dad's features contort in a horrifying labyrinth of mirth. He lifts the crumpled oil rig and wolfs down effluent. Viscous brown-black blobs speckle his bloated tentacles.
He proffers a swig.
“THIS'LL PUT SUCKERS ON YOUR CHEST,” he booms.
“But Mom said...,” I squeak.
Another abysmal look.
I choke down my first sip of fossil fluid and cough, wheeze, clutch, can't–can't—
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars, thunderclapping me again, ungumming my gills.
I look up at this hulking, unimaginable form and contemplate my own impending Great Old One-hood.
“Last one to the monkey bars is a rotten tomato!” shouts Pete, flinging his bag to the ground.
The fateful words have been spoken, and 4th graders splinter like shards from a broken tamagotchi screen.
They probably think that they’re safe. That I, Sandra Sodwall, last pick for every sport, will be the rotten tomato.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
While my unsuspecting classmates were picking their noses in geography, I was in the playground setting a devilish series of boobytraps, pitfalls and snares. They’ll be like flies, tangled in my dastardly web.
I stroll towards the swings. Calm. Collected. Carefree. Bobby F dashes by, towards the rake I’ve buried beneath a pile of leaves. He leaps clear of it. Drat.
Felix is at the foot of the slide. I jump onto the seesaw, sending a barrage of pebbles catapulting his way. That’ll teach you for pouring pencil sharpenings down my back in biology. The pebbles snag on a kink in the chute and fall harmlessly to the ground. Double drat.
Meanwhile, Amy and Lisa have evaded the super glue puddle on the hopscotch squares, and have reached the sacred safety of the monkey bars. Drat times infinity.
I pick up my pace, but the last stragglers are already home and dry. My race is run. I’ve been foiled. Outsmarted. Defeated.
My skin softens and bloats. A vine-green stem sprouts from my head. A putrid odor erupts from my seed-ridden innards.
The prophecy has claimed me as its victim.
Turning Wheels
DENNY E. MARSHALL
Life can be complicated with the many tasks at hand. In our minds, lots of wheels turn. Family, friends, work, home, and a never-ending list of things to do, or one should do, or do someday.