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 Í!ÍIÌ
9×H²http://HUMANSOF.DE××Ðˆ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://V9LTLazbgEhiLJGH03hye3MVFcYCYDmzpi3-207GBt8ÍGWÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µà×‰EÚ\ISSUE 148 | APRIL 2026
STACY PERALTA, OLD PAIR OF MY RED VANS - @PERALTASTACY
GOOFY: KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
JFA: JONNY DESTEFANO
KROOKED GRIND: JULIANNA BECKERT
ROCK TO FAKIE: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI
MARINA DEL REY: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH
AGENT ORANGE: DANIEL 'DL' LANDES
HALF CAB: DIDI BETHURUM
FRONT COVER: MOON PATROL, IMPOSTER SYNDROME
@MOON_PATROL | BEST OF 119
BACK COVER: BRYAN KLIPSCH, FRAMED FUCK
@HUMANSOF.DENVER | @COMFORTABLENOMAD
BLUNTSLIDES: MOON PATROL, CHRISTOPHSKI,
ERIC
JOYNER, GRAY
WINSLER, BRIAN J HOFFMAN, JOE VAUX, BRIAN POLK, DAVE DANZARA,
HANA ZITTEL, JOSH KEYES, NICK FLOOK, TOM MURPHY, STEVE HANEY,
JOEL TAGERT, JORDAN DOLL, JASON WHITE, ZAC DUNN, BRYAN KLIPSCH
STALEFISH: STACY PERALTA, MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, KIRK JOHNSON, DEVIN
JAMES LEONARD, DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER, ANASTASIYA KLEMPACH
JASON LEUNG
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1
CHRISTOPHSKI
×jJ\^DŒ^µá×jJ\^DŒ^µàÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ZPmVdk9CQMnKiVsSZ7ugu4RmKD_YRLgtlGiu8vfBDT0Î JLÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://w9i6ObASkM2yIi9YGaN1W3WkKfNeg6JK3RpLuBulYDIÎ &¡Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://qcfs2DlY3RNpn1psHypnnwdHozIeb3vuVkyLeHw9QBIÍf$Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://qcfs2DlY3RNpn1psHypnnwdHozIeb3vuVkyLeHw9QBIÍf$Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µâ×‰EÚ <MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: JUNE 15, 2025
×jJ\^DŒ^µã×jJ\^DŒ^µâÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://fmAkkDZbnyVxj93q0SzVdCqxG-5wWLbCEkRabwKuKCAÎ -´Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://bwXQdpghkVX9f06DHnvZPl3S79WfbscaXMUlnMXZkIQÍú{Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://NM0PgNmOONCSzx7ng1uSGXkJJZ0l7x0eJBN2TuhLxyAÍUÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ	\^DŒ^¶×‰E¨No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://NM0PgNmOONCSzx7ng1uSGXkJJZ0l7x0eJBN2TuhLxyAÍUÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µä×ˆE×jJ\^DŒ^µå×jJ\^DŒ^µäÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://6bw7tK7r_JMWOP0iVazVcIboj4JEDiy4KXaF-x_Bc9wÎ šÎÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://tPoFgaz1gVJDEW577_ZDOf25WTEzIhnm5dvmqDn-onoÍãlÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://I4_n_83KZ7abzET8TUF2LibHpa5qzg7IHSlINVRFeF0Í@Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ
\^DŒ^¶×‰EÚ—I first met Buck on an op down in Southern Africa, a hot bed for
proxy wars in those days. It was illegal to film them, but we all did
anyway. We couldnâ€™t believe how fast they were, tearing across the
earth like some cartoon roadrunner, shredding enemy combatants
to bits. I was always more of a traditionalist, thought we could get
things done without the help of bots. But they were fucking badass,
and we thanked God they were on our side. Buck himself got me out
of a tight spot when I was cornered by a mech in an alleyway in Cape
Town. Thought that might be the end of me, but Buck pinned it down
and ripped out its innards like a dog with a squirrel.
The talking heads expected them to return as heroes. Developed
by Boston Dynamics, the war dogs had turned the tide in our favor.
The other side focused on those mechs, which at the time were little
more than bipedal tanks â€” packed with enough explosives to wipe out
your pen palâ€™s village, but slow as shit and essentially glorified drones
controlled by a remote operator. War dogs were fast, autonomous
and unpredictable. Give them a directive and they will execute, in
ways even we couldnâ€™t calculate. That pissed off folks in command,
but it added an element of shock-and-awe to our strategy that scared
the shit out of our enemies.
It also led to some events that are still being investigated as war
crimes, so you can imagine how the gen pop felt about â€œrepurposingâ€
them. The thing about â€œheroesâ€ is people prefer them at a distance,
where they canâ€™t see the lines you had to cross. This was also a time
when some people were still pushing â€œrobot freeâ€ zones. No amount
of Westworlds or iRobots couldâ€™ve prepared people for how fast bots
became a part of our daily lives, and lots of folks wanted nothing
to do with â€˜em. Didnâ€™t help that the media loved highlighting every
goddamned incident involving a bot. If a human crashes a car, no one
gives a shit. But if a self-driver does? Front-page news. Canâ€™t say I
was surprised though. People resist change, especially change that
comes in the form of giant metal limbs they watched shred enemy
combatants like that grinder in Fargo.
Despite the backlash, there was a determined group of lapels who
came up with the idea of repurposing war dogs as companions for
veterans like myself. Itâ€™s hard for people to be openly against that,
even if they secretly donâ€™t give two shits.
I canâ€™t say I was too keen on Buck when he first arrived. My ma wouldâ€™ve
hated him, thought it unnatural. But it was that stubbornness that
got her killed, refusing every treatment we had for her cancer. â€œIf my
body says itâ€™s time to go, then itâ€™s time to go,â€ she wrote. Maybe itâ€™s
just how I reckon with her loss, but you gotta be a real badass to stare
down death in the face and not let it change you.
Buck had changed when he arrived, in appearance anyway. Theyâ€™d
painted him yellow, softened some of his features, added ears,
removed the chainsaws. They wanted him to look domestic, like his
kill count didnâ€™t number in the thousands. I suppose they wanted the
same of me.
They also programmed him to have much the same temperament as
a cattle dog. The cattle were a touch uneasy at first. But it wasnâ€™t long
before they took to him just like any other dog, and Buck soon became
No. 148
my ranch hand â€” helping me move the cattle, carry their feed, charge
the farm equipment and keep out predators. He seemed eager to do
just about anything I asked of him, as long as it didnâ€™t involve rabbits.
Couldnâ€™t tell you why, but those little guys scared the shit out of him.
I laughed my ass off seeing him leap some twenty feet in the air at the
sight of a furry whitetail.
Luckily he didnâ€™t have the same fear of big game. His code made him
trainable in much the same way as a dog, and so I taught him how to
hunt with me. The hardest part was finding ways to keep him quiet.
Asking five thousand pounds of metal to be stealthy is like asking a
wind chime to shut up in the middle of a hurricane. It wasnâ€™t in his
nature, but we made it work.
I canâ€™t say I ever expected to grow affectionate toward a bot. But
I came to realize after a couple years back on the ranch that there
wasnâ€™t damn near a second without Buck by my side. It was Buckâ€™s
metallic howl that would wake me up every day at dawn. It was his
butt-wagging excitement that got me out for our walk around the
ranch every morning. It was his boundless energy that kept me out for
a game of fetch as the sun bled down into the mountains. He was my
pal, and I realized I couldnâ€™t imagine what life would be like without
him.
And then there was the San Diego Zoo incident.
Most zoos started adding animal robotics in an attempt to draw in
more crowds. It worked, and the war dogs were everyoneâ€™s favorite
exhibit. They put on shows, programmed other bots to play fetch with
â€˜em. There was even a splash zone for the kids to get doused with fake
slobber. People grew to love them and they forgot about the death
machine it once was.
Until some nihilist wack job reminded the world. He hacked into the
war dog at the San Diego Zoo and reset it back to one of its original
directives. It was a fucking massacre, people ripped apart by the very
thing they came to see. Over a thousand people died before they could
broadcast its kill code. Photos leaked of a splash zone bathed in blood.
It wasnâ€™t long after that I got a call from the lapel whoâ€™d assigned
Buck to me a few years back. He told me there was an executive order
being signed tomorrow. The war dog program was being discontinued.
They were going to put Buck down.
I was pissed, livid. I called him a coward and hung up the phone. I
looked to Buck who was looking back at me quizzically. He had no idea
what was happening. Desperate, I started searching the web for any
hacker I could find, anyone who might be able to help protect Buck
from the broadcast. I started making calls, but people were too scared
to fuck with government machines, at least the ones I could afford.
No one wanted anything to do with protecting my Buck. I kept making
calls until exhaustion overtook me.
I fell asleep against one of Buckâ€™s ears, listening to the gentle hum of
the parts that whirred inside him. But when I woke, the hum was gone.
I looked at him, his body still and cold. I rubbed my hand over his nose
as Iâ€™d done a hundred times, fighting the welling of tears in my eyes.
â€œI love you, pal,â€ I said, and prayed there was some part of him still
alive to hear.
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://I4_n_83KZ7abzET8TUF2LibHpa5qzg7IHSlINVRFeF0Í@Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µæ×‰EÚ ;MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, BETTER ZEN THAN NEVER - @MARTINWOJNOWSKI
×jJ\^DŒ^µç×jJ\^DŒ^µæÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://4uKHDVOuMQe7POvzKr2liBA9TdgusyT0jN38K7W74OMÎ œÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://7VcuSNcYVaYgRTwA7Y-8iAWnQcmbTPic-P_zPjd7f_4ÍÈ`Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0dPWDSS4y1_hi_smjN9stWz7qixuh_X-A0hDMyS1RJwÍFîÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ
\^DŒ^¶×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0dPWDSS4y1_hi_smjN9stWz7qixuh_X-A0hDMyS1RJwÍFîÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µè×‰EÚ ;BRIAN J HOFFMAN, WHAT WE'RE TOLD TO SEE - @BRIANJAYHOFFMAN
×jJ\^DŒ^µé×jJ\^DŒ^µèÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Dmt1oCZ3OpdvhFfcEmb6YmjHI7eEflk1Kc7Yd-vdHHMÎ N%Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mo4cbtr-mmmHL8ck4qGVkouDIlU4c4I1tcpAqy27638Íô}Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5KAKvuq7L-ZybrRrHFQoF9qDjd4oeoljklJzAsrSie4ÍN?Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ
\^DŒ^¶×‰EÚ–BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JOE VAUX
DO I LOOK WEIRD WHEN I DO THIS?
Iâ€™m sorry, I know you canâ€™t see what Iâ€™m doing as I write this. And by the
time you read it, I will have most likely stopped doing what Iâ€™m doing
now. But let me describe it: I am currently at one of those â€œstanding
desksâ€ and I am walking in place. I figured I would get some exercise
while fulfilling my obligations to this fine publication. But I canâ€™t shake
No. 148
the feeling that I look like a damned fool. Or maybe it appears as though
I really have to use the restroom. Either way, I imagine I am causing
unease for the people who happen to be close enough to witness this
spectacle. I suppose I could just say, â€œI donâ€™t care what anyone thinks,
I need my exercise!â€ But I mean, come on. We all care a little bit about
what people think about us. And I hate that my actions may very well
JOE VAUX, DEATH TO BRAINS - @JOEVAUX
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5KAKvuq7L-ZybrRrHFQoF9qDjd4oeoljklJzAsrSie4ÍN?Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µê×‰EÚbe causing people to feel on edge. Okay, I suppose Iâ€™ll stop. But believe
me when I say this: I will be going for a proper walk when Iâ€™m done with
my business here!
WHY DONâ€™T WRITERS LIVE STREAM THEIR WRITING
SESSIONS?
You know how podcasters live stream their episodes? I think writers
should start doing that every time they sit behind a computer. Sure,
most of the time, it would just be a person typing, and thatâ€™s not very
exciting. But sometimes writers do things like walk in place at standing
desks. And while thatâ€™s not super thrilling, itâ€™s a tad more rousing than
if they were just sitting there. For example, if I live streamed myself
writing this paragraph, you would see me shifting my weight from one
foot to the other. And you might think, Oh look, heâ€™s getting exercise
while fulfilling his obligations to the fine publication he writes for. Of
course, if you said that at this particular moment, youâ€™d be wrong. I do
in fact have to use the restroom.
YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY: GIVE A PERSON A PARTY
AND THEY WILL GET DRUNK FOR A NIGHT. TEACH A
PERSON TO PARTY AND THEY WILL BE DRUNK EVERY
DAY
I mean, think about it.
MY COWORKER, WHO IS EXCITEDLY WATCHING ME
WALK IN PLACE AS I WRITE THIS COLUMN, JUST
INFORMED ME THAT NO ONE IN FACT SAYS THAT
THING ABOUT TEACHING PEOPLE TO PARTY
Itâ€™s rather nice having a live fact-checker in my midst.
ANYONE WANT TO GET TOGETHER AND PANIC?
Lately, I have been panicking by myself a lot. And I have to admit,
I get real lonely. So I figured maybe Iâ€™d procure some seltzers and
various finger foods and have myself a good old-fashioned panic party!
We could sit in a circle and take turns naming things that horrify us â€”
which wouldnâ€™t be difficult in this day and age â€” and then weâ€™ll straight
up lose our shit! Or we could join forces and get some of that mass
hysteria going. Either way, if youâ€™re free this Saturday, come on over
to my house. Weâ€™ll put on the news and have ourselves a proper panic.
I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS: THOSE â€œEAT HEALTHY AND
EXERCISEâ€ PEOPLE ARE RIGHT
So I have been exercising and eating a lot of fruits and vegetables
lately, and I have to say, I feel so much better. To make matters worse,
I havenâ€™t been drinking as much, which also has a profoundly beneficial
impact on my well-being. I know, I know â€” this is terrible news. I mean,
why canâ€™t we just party, not sleep, and eat deep-fried garbage all day
and still feel good? I donâ€™t know who dropped us party people off in
this bullshit world, but I feel like some kind of cosmic mistake has been
made. Anyway, as I embark upon this new, ultra-restrictive way of
living, I canâ€™t help but marvel at 1) how amazing I feel all the time, and
2) how much I really just want to get six orders of fries, buy a fifth of
vodka and some uppers, and party until four in the morning.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY NEW HAIRCUT?
Oh, Iâ€™m sorry. I keep forgetting that you canâ€™t see me right now. In
the future, I will be live streaming these columns. Then I can finally get
some answers to questions like this.
11
×jJ\^DŒ^µë×jJ\^DŒ^µêÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-__KGUsT--0TR8mt2yD0XXjjXQ8kr7tBw_tEDw4AVBIÎ bÃÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://BUT9XPbI-7uf814I2YT_S5C33-aknlzZzBDG3y-Gk6AÍÕÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://PtGBoyXXlG1DR7bgzTegLUOkW02N4wSee5rDEwSyslgÍ(·Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶×‰EÚâBY KIRK JOHNSON
Her breath steamed on the fire escape and for a moment, she considered going back through
the window to take a coat from the pile on the bed, but decided against it. Glimpsed through
the warped and dirty glass, the piled coats appeared a sleeping beast, its body humped and
shaggy astride the bed. Sheâ€™d tiptoed past it once in the triangle of light from the cracked
door, carefully closed, not because she was afraid it would reveal her absence to the other
partygoers, but rather because on some instinctual, ancestral level, sheâ€™d seen the humped
pile of coats for what it was, a predator at rest. And so, despite her visible breath, she did not
duck back through the window, instead closing it behind her, careful not to cause a clatter, no
thought given to how she would get back inside.
It didnâ€™t matter, she was free now. Free from the conversations about children and vacation
plans and the pickleball league and that new show that you just had to watch. Down below, a
car honked and another answered, herd creatures of plastic and metal and glass.
Not for the first time, she wished for a cigarette. Not for the first time, she regretted her
outfitâ€™s lack of pockets, sleeves. What was it about tattoos that made people feel free to
handle her like an unusual item discovered in the produce department, something appraised
for purchase.
The light changed, tinting the street green. There came the revving of engines and, of course,
more honking. Looking up, seeking stars, she found none, just an underlit void, tinged green,
now yellow and then, not long after, red. She exhaled for want of a cigarette, like sheâ€™d done as
a girl on those autumn mornings at the bus stop, her foot prints clear across the frosty lawn.
Her breath did not curl like smoke, it lacked the lazy, phantasmal life created by the alchemy
of inhaling combusted tobacco. It reminded her too much of herself, her frosty breath; there
and gone, visible for so short a time before dissipating into dark.
No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://PtGBoyXXlG1DR7bgzTegLUOkW02N4wSee5rDEwSyslgÍ(·Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µì×‰EÚ -DAVE DANZARA, WOLF MOON - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
×jJ\^DŒ^µí×jJ\^DŒ^µìÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-cXMExmdIgnto-0c5K2xRbDHYwDS0mrr8THR09DUQgAÎ ÉÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://NtKTlR1dnKHWnrmORvuCD1mOretgO18j_k-j6qfy7wAÎ CÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ihUNSRweE91GOmix3L26vjczCbckt_MwjZ9ONSF0XT0ÍWiÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶×‰EÚ Every One Still Here: Stories by Liadan NÃ­ Chuinn
â€œItâ€™s not both sides, itâ€™s not either side, itâ€™s this huge fucking army,
itâ€™s this huge fucking state, this government that does whatever it
wants, that just, that, they can kill us, and kill us.â€
Through six stories, Liadan NÃ­ Chuinn examines grief, family, generational
trauma and oppression set in Northern Ireland. In the first, We All Go,
Jackie seeks to understand his familyâ€™s history after the decline and
death of his father. This loss is mixed with scenes of his anatomy class
and the gruesome, sterile dissection of human cadavers. In Russia, a
young man starts to see a psychic, whose advice is more therapy than
future telling. He attempts to navigate a relationship with his sister,
both of whom were adopted from Russia when they were young. Intertwined
with this past seeking is his job at a museum that is facing increasing
guerilla protests over their displays of human remains.
All of NÃ­ Chuinnâ€™s tales seem to have a dual-story feature, what may
be happening on the surface in these characterâ€™s lives and the bubbling
distress underneath. In the final story of the collection, Daisy Hill,
Rowan visits his uncle John, who has lost his wife and now is in distress
as his dog nears the time for vet-recommended euthanasia. What Rowan
finds is a man crumbling, crushed by the past and continued loss. He is
living with mental illness and has taken something to end his torment.
Rowan connects this trauma to the Troubles and another family member
wrecked by the extreme stress of the past. This story concludes and NÃ­
Chuinn follows it up with a section, â€œThe Truth.â€ In this final entry,
NÃ­ Chuinn details unarmed civilians murdered by British soldiers in
Northern Ireland. Children, teenagers, mothers, innocent people, shot
when they have already been murdered, shot in the back, and tortured
into confessions of crimes they did not commit.
Each story in Every One Still Here is a dynamic contribution to
Irish literature and a stunning debut that mirrors the inhumanity and
devastation of our present.
Salvage by Hedgie Choi
If I am stupid, let it be exposed.
If I have harmed others, let me be smote.
Maybe hold off on that second part.
The debut poetry collection from writer and translator Hedgie Choi
covers everything from binge-watching Star Trek to the brief joyful
memories we maintain of those who have harmed us in the past. At its
root, this collection is a refreshing introduction to a cunning and
funny poet. In a form marked so often by pain and heartache, Choiâ€™s
collection is witty and indisputably full of youthful energy.
Poems feel like wandering thoughts and musing on what may to some
feel mundane, bringing absurdist ideas and original character to this
collection. In the poem Holiday, she highlights the futile effort and
constant practice of cleaning the Cologne Cathedral, when the bricks are
finally clean, those at the top are dirty again, starting the process
again. In Nourished and Enriched, she wonders where milk comes from,
â€œMilk is so intimate but I donâ€™t know where it comes from. Or I do. It
comes from a cow? From its udders, which in illustrated childrenâ€™s books
are fat accusatory fingers, but in real life, who knows? I know.â€ Choi
twists and turns her collection, with each poem likely taking a wild
turn from the last, keeping the reader surprised and eager for more.
A shiningly unique release in modern poetry, Salvage was a finalist for
the John Leonard Prize from the National Book Critics Circle, an award
that celebrates author debuts.
No. 148
By Hana Zittel
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ihUNSRweE91GOmix3L26vjczCbckt_MwjZ9ONSF0XT0ÍWiÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µî×ˆE×jJ\^DŒ^µï×jJ\^DŒ^µîÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://xSUtq2bnSe4zXHVjWobEcE7mfJUDcnGzozEPdf8SKoIÎ Ç¨Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://UsSxtM_9ho6Xf9R2vPOOctlOVlsP2aGbSPgw54RVduYÍFÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://XagaVCZ3Xx1h2IUU-S7Ns7TERjbZi35yQpbkI59zYPMÍ7Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://XagaVCZ3Xx1h2IUU-S7Ns7TERjbZi35yQpbkI59zYPMÍ7Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µð×‰EÚ 6JOSH KEYES, TEARS OF THE MOON - @JOSH_KEYES_PAINTINGS
×jJ\^DŒ^µñ×jJ\^DŒ^µðÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://MVYJeXFJMgCZUAUtnFolUoil_QvDz4OuPnwskuflaOsÎ ÙâÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://SiZ4f9aMvhe-JTBXTdbUFqioGjppT6nM577Zi9kIEMMÍø$Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0iP7MwXVL1jJH2UO3aL_iEgdqZRPPPKhNkPbkaeJDo0ÍCÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶ ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0iP7MwXVL1jJH2UO3aL_iEgdqZRPPPKhNkPbkaeJDo0ÍCÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µò×‰EÚpAs the scavenger creeps through the hallway, I sneak up behind him,
wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. With a pull and a lift, his
feet come off the ground, and we topple backward, landing on the floor
with him crashing on top of me. He squirms, his hands reaching and
swatting at my face, but I donâ€™t let up. I tighten my grip and hold the
pressure, crushing his throat, strangling the life out of him. He tries to
gasp for air, but he canâ€™t. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the
scavenger is no more. Breath will never reach his lungs again.
I shove his limp carcass off me and remain lying down until Iâ€™ve caught
my breath. And then I sit up, fast, peering around this dank and dusty
house.
â€œChristine?â€ I call out. â€œChristine, where are you?â€
Every morning, when the sun rises to greet the ashen wastelands, I
scour the earth in search of my wife. I always find her, but come dawn,
sheâ€™s gone again.
Our day-to-day consists of traveling on foot, from one desolate
location to the next. At night, we set up camp on the barren ground,
eat what food we can scrounge, and fall asleep nestled together in our
sleeping bag.
In the morning, sheâ€™s wandered off, and I must repeat my search.
Despite the landscape festering with smoke and blood, and ash
descending from the sky like black snowflakes, whenever I locate
Christine, she remains as immaculate as she was on our wedding day.
In a world of filth and constant nomadic traveling that leaves me
sweaty and dirty, Christineâ€™s clothes remain white and untarnished,
her skin as pure as cold stream water. I suspect sheâ€™s been sneaking off
in the mornings to wash and clean herself, but who am I kidding? The
creaks dried long ago. The chances of her wearing an invisible cloak, a
protective shield to keep her from the muck and grime of our new life,
is a greater probability.
Itâ€™s the days and the miles that have taken their toll on me; you can
see it in my sunken, dry eyes, the scruff of hair on my hollow cheeks,
and the dirt caked to my emaciated frame. Since the downfall of our
world, Iâ€™ve aged exponentially.
Christine looks as young as ever.
Morning arrives. I wake up alone. The search begins. This time, I find
my wife in a clearing surrounded by rotten pines, miles from the old
stable where we took shelter the night before. When I catch up to her,
I snatch her in my arms and embrace her with as much aggravation as
relief.
â€œWhere are you going?â€ I ask her. I already know the answer. Because
Iâ€™ve asked this question what feels like a thousand times.
Home. She wants to go home.
â€œI want to go home,â€ Christine utters, her unsoiled face inexpressive,
catatonic.
â€œThere is no home to return to,â€ I say. â€œYou know that.â€
With my backpack securely tightened on my back and the rifle sling
adjusted on my shoulder, I cautiously gauge our surroundings for any
nearby threats. There could be others in these woods â€” scavengers,
looters, killers â€” but I donâ€™t see or hear anything in our proximity.
â€œYou canâ€™t keep running off like this,â€ I whisper to my wife â€” for the
thousandth time. â€œNow come â€” we have to keep moving this way.â€
I take Christineâ€™s hand and lead her through the silent woods in the
opposite direction.
Another night, another camp set. A pot of soup boils over the small fire
I made. I scarf my meal, ravenous with hunger from the dayâ€™s endless
trekking and the additional miles I had to backtrack to find my wife.
Christineâ€™s bowl lies on her lap, untouched.
â€œYou should eat,â€ I tell her.
â€œWe should go home,â€ she says.
I have no response. What can I say that I havenâ€™t said before?
The heat rises with the sun, and I wake up to find my sleeping bag
zipper undone and Christine missing from her usual spot beside me.
Iâ€™ve come to expect this. What once made me jump with panic now only
makes me sigh with frustration.
I pack our belongings, kick dirt over the smoldering fire, and set out
for my wife. Like all the previous mornings, I find her moving in the
direction from which we came the day before.
As she wades through the thick brush, I hustle over to her, grabbing at
her shoulder and forcefully spinning her around to face me. â€œWhere are
you going?â€ I hiss at her.
She wonâ€™t look at me. â€œHome,â€ she says.
â€œI told you, there is noâ€”â€
A branch snaps in the distance. Leaves rustle. My ears perk up to
listen.
A deep, apprehensive voice, booming, threatening, echoes beyond the
dense growth of foliage. â€œI see something! Over there!â€
I clutch my wifeâ€™s hand. â€œThis way,â€ I whisper sharply, and we flee.
I run and run, pulling my wife along as we sprint through the thick
forest. Christine struggles to keep up (itâ€™s like dragging a stubborn
mule), but her breath never labors, and she never speaks except to tell
me where she wants to go.
Branches whip my face, leaves blind me as I hurry forwardâ€”
The woods suddenly open. My feet leave the ground, and my stomach
leaps. Iâ€™m dropping â€” falling. I lose my grip on my wife as I plummet
down a steep hill, rolling and tumbling, cartwheeling and flipping
uncontrollably until I crash into a dry, rocky ravine at the bottom.
Jagged rocks poke into my back. My entire body seethes with pain,
and I groan and hiss while holding my mouth shut tight to suppress the
screams I feel summoning up from my lungs. With great effort, I roll
over and hobble to my feet, scanning my surroundings.
Christine is nowhere in sight.
The voice of the pursuing threat calls out from the top of the hill
where Iâ€™ve just fallen. â€œThis way! He went this way!â€
Growls and moans escape my mouth as I dash to the opposite side
of the dry creek bed, and I ascend the hill, clutching trees for balance,
clawing at the earth for grip. I pull myself halfway up before I direct my
gaze toward the peak. And there she is, my wife. Sheâ€™s standing on the
summit, having somehow made it up there much faster than I. Sheâ€™s
gazing down at me, but now she turns away and walks off, receding
from my view.
I dig in. Climb harder. Faster. I reach the top, sweaty, breathless and
aching. Once again, Iâ€™ve lost sight of my wife. The sound of falling rocks
clatters behind me, but I pay no mind to whoever is chasing after me.
I only focus on my wife, who is no longer here. Instead of Christine
awaiting me, I find myself standing on a crisp green lawn, with a house
on the other end. Itâ€™s a structure unlike any I have come across since
the world crashed down around me. It appears clean and maintained,
and as I progress closer, crossing the yard, the sunlight casts its blaring
rays down on me from the open blue sky. The stink of ash and waste
has vanished from my senses, replaced by the aroma of flowers and
freshly cut grass.
19
×jJ\^DŒ^µó×jJ\^DŒ^µòÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kxfzlovg7HikOr9pO_VYr03TC0einsI8OWxRU1do6_MÎ ¶Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://57x9LjDgsYnatjeMg1bEopYGGmaoNhHSAWxIAbluMNQÍŸÏÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://WK5HFzDdlmiiN7Sq3YjcS2zZ03agHXhVir_kOqz9OKIÍ/jÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶"×‰EÚëThe closer I approach the front door of the house, the more familiar
the place becomes. Christine and I may have once taken refuge here
not so long agoâ€”
But how do you explain the lawn? Itâ€™s been mowed â€” very recently.
â€œThere you are!â€ a voice behind me calls out.
I reach over my shoulder as I swing toward the voice, only I find no
weapon on my back. My rifle and pack must have fallen away from me
during my tumble down the hill. Iâ€™m defenseless to the man hustling
out of the tree line, and the closer he moves forward, the slower and
more cautious his footsteps become. This strikes me as quite odd;
the pursuer is more reserved and hesitant than I am. Even stranger,
this man is clean-shaven and wearing a black suit, with a white longsleeved
shirt underneath and a tie hanging loosely around his collar.
Peculiar attire for the end of the world.
â€œWhere have you been, Dwight?â€ the man asks with his hands raised
in mock surrender.
He knows my name. I recognize him. I know him. But I canâ€™t place him.
â€œWeâ€™ve been scouring the woods for you,â€ this man tells me. His
voice and his eyes convey a sense of genuine concern. He carefully
approaches, each step more wary and deliberate than the last. â€œWe
saw your pack and rifle were gone. Figured you went camping since you
andâ€” â€ He hesitates. â€œYou had everybody worried.â€
I take in my surroundings, this house, this yard, blinking the sweat out
of my eyes. â€œWhere am I?â€
The man frowns at me. Then he turns his palms out and spreads his
arms as he slowly approaches. â€œYouâ€™re home, Dwight. Come on. Itâ€™s
time to go. We canâ€™t start without you.â€
Home? How could this be? My home is gone, destroyed.
Who is this man?
And where is Christine?
Who is everybody, and what were they worried about? What is it they
canâ€™t start without me?
â€œCome on, Dwight,â€ the man says with a pat on my shoulder as he
passes me. Heâ€™s heading toward the house. â€œWeâ€™ll get you cleaned up.â€
The man opens the front door and waves at me to follow, and then
he turns inside, leaving the door open. Beyond that door, I see, at the
far end of a long, narrow hall, Christine. My wife is sitting in a den near
a fireplace, completely still, her profile facing me. She doesnâ€™t seem to
notice the man proceeding down the hall, moving closer to her.
I sprint across the lawn, slowing down and quieting my steps as
I reach the inside. The man moves through the hallway, making his
way straight toward my wife. I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms
around his neck, and squeeze. Reeling him backward, we both fall to
the floor. The man squirms and chokes, but my arms donâ€™t let up. I hold
the pressure, strangling the life out of him. It lasts a minute, maybe
more, and then the man is no more.
I shove him off me and sit up, peering down the hallway where I saw
my wife sitting a moment ago.
Sheâ€™s not there.
â€œChristine?â€ I call out. â€œChristine, where are you?â€
With no answer from within the house, I set out into the apocalyptic
landscape.
Searching.
No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://WK5HFzDdlmiiN7Sq3YjcS2zZ03agHXhVir_kOqz9OKIÍ/jÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µô×‰EÚ (NICK FLOOK, LOST IN A DREAM 2 - @FLOOKO
×jJ\^DŒ^µõ×jJ\^DŒ^µôÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://shsRjwYImt0KpW3TMaIwRQ-yozYirPNG3XaPrfWWiWkÎ PØÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://GAukRUIZgg3mpDqXl6jNKP0W64y-THdC0rpDyXrTBVcÍîVÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://2gArT4K1xrNScjm1ZXk2YxUgOC9kx7c1fiG57g29vrsÍL Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶$‘× ×jJ\^DŒ^¶) Í6ÍÐÌ’
9×Hºhttp://QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG××Ðˆ×‰EÚâBY TOM MURPHY
CHEAP PERFUME â€“ DONâ€™T CARE. DIDNâ€™T ASK.
The title alone is a concise statement against patriarchal culture and harassment alone. But this album is also
bursting with working class, anti-fascist, anti-racist and anti-capitalist fervor. Cheap Perfume takes on the
ignorant, hateful language flung your way with uninspired and lazy regularity and turns it into a way of dismantling
the power dynamic. All with sharp humor and exciting songs that hit like anthems for a new social revolution after
years of too much right-wing, misogynist, white Christian nationalist activity in the national culture. A thoroughly
relevant record for these dark times.
CHERISHED â€“ S/T
An album-length exploration of evolving relationships with others and within oneself. Themes of complex
feelings, reaching for extremes of experience and burnout, rediscovery, redemption, and revival and renewal
of connection and purpose. In between the melancholic melodies and grit of the musicâ€™s core sound, one hears
the acceptance of a cycle of struggles and the achievement of hard-won affection and solace. All in mutual
understanding of the turns everyone has to go through to attain any authentic knowledge and peace of mind worth
having. A genuine fusion of post-punk edge and shoegaze transcendence.
THE LOLLYGAGS â€“ OLD NEW BORROWED II
â€œInto Thin Airâ€ sounds like a theme song for this new chapter of The Lollygags who are back after a more than
five-year hiatus. Sounding like a cross between a rousing power pop song and a raging blues rock track, the words
seem to reflect a sudden reawakening to purpose. Like the sentiments of someone who gave up something they
thought they should in favor of sensibility, only to recognize that was foolish and return to their passion with a new
sense of perspective. â€œA Cautionary Taleâ€ acknowledges the folly of pursuing rock and roll, because chances are, it
wonâ€™t make you famous or rich. But the fun of it is worth doing again as something more worthwhile than a lot of
whatâ€™s considered respectable.
LUKE LEAVITT â€“ CONCERT IN THE SHELL
Overtly ambient jazz, there is a great sense of space throughout this captivating release. With smoothly
incorporated piano, synth, electronic/organic percussion and horns, the songs seem to tap into an era of jazz and
avant-garde composition that fuses African rhythmic modes, dub and funk. There is even a version of Ornette
Colemanâ€™s â€œWhat is the Name of that Song?â€ from the jazz greatâ€™s 1982 album Of Human Feelings. The tactile is
both tonal and atmospheric in building mood and concept in each track. Think Penguin Cafe Orchestra from the
1980s and thus Enoâ€™s of the same era. But as a matter of resonance with the masterfully eclectic fusion of sounds
rather than influence.
MOON PUSSY â€“ AT THE PACE OF OUTRAGE
Maybe this band has always been so pointed in its lyrics. Not just in its jagged and thorny sounds, savagely
angular rhythms and kinetic intensity. But something about this album feels like the songs are reflecting both
the rot of trusted institutions and their violent destruction at the hands of corrupt and incompetent people. The
lyrics dig deeper with music to match the unvarnished honest examination. We hear words that look into oneâ€™s own
roots and how those narratives play out in life. And also â€” unconscious and unintentional though it may be â€” our
participation in dark collective legacies that we can only hope to purge from our lives. This is the soundtrack to that
struggle and ongoing awakenings. A must for fans of mclusky, The Jesus Lizard and Shellac.
NEVER KENEZZARD â€“ ALMOST LIVE
Live, this band comes across as something more straightforward than is revealed on these recordings. Thrashy
stoner metal is an obvious sound here, but the way the guitarists bend and stretch tones is truly psychedelic.
Almost more in the realm of jazz than most heavy bands. The vocal harmonies paired with more gruff screaming
hints at some inspiration from the likes of the more metallic end of a Mike Patton project. There is even a cover of
a harder Ween song in â€œThe Grobeâ€ for the last track. Even though one hears beautifully cascading heavy riffs and
and finely modulated rhythms, there is a playfulness in Never Kenezzardâ€™s edge.
SEE MORE: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG
No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://2gArT4K1xrNScjm1ZXk2YxUgOC9kx7c1fiG57g29vrsÍL Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µö×‰EÚ 4STEVE HANEY, DJ PALMS
@VISIONSCOLLAGE | BEST OF 085
×jJ\^DŒ^µ÷×jJ\^DŒ^µöÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://_MzQH00pBQDwvt8fxeVLxfq5XKwZZ4i_NJUnxGgOo5UÎ eÄÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://1wrR3cXnyA1FyE_9_4K77AG0ugVrsxSLcu8OltBrytgÎ =Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YCYBYWZamIrfyW1vwt0UNR_9XSlaBRzHijR-NaZQZOYÍMÕÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶'×‰EÚkright. Sent it straight to hell.â€
â€œDo machines go to hell?â€ Emilia asked.
â€œThese have, Iâ€™m sure.â€
On the stage a band of twelve was playing
jaunty music, and people were starting
to dance. â€œEmilia!â€ cried her friend Kelsey
Sullivan, spying her and rushing in for an
embrace, face flushed. â€œIsnâ€™t it great? Come
on, letâ€™s have a toast!â€ She began pushing
through the crowd, pulling Emilia in her wake.
Emilia drank the proffered champagne and
tried to smile. All Chicago was drinking, it
seemed, and no doubt all America, and the
world. The machines had landed, and fought,
and been destroyed. Humanity had triumphed.
â€œWhatâ€™s wrong?â€ Kelsey yelled over the
music. â€œAre you and Ed fighting?â€
â€œWeâ€™re fine.â€
â€œThen what? This is a night to be happy!â€
Half the cities of the world lay in ruins;
Chicago itself had seen a quarter of
REGARDING THE TITANS
BY JOEL TAGERT
buildings destroyed when three machines had
attacked its factories, and been attacked in
turn. Yet the last of them were gone; the world
was safe again, at least for now. â€œWhat if they
come back?â€
Kelsey gave her an astonished look. â€œWell,
theyâ€™ll think twice about it now, wonâ€™t they?â€
â€œI suppose.â€ Or would they? No one knew
from where they had come; they had simply
landed that day in 1927, lines of fire screaming
through the sky, striking the Earth with a
sound like the world ending, as indeed it
seemed to be at the time.
But the Titans for all their technology, had
not prevailed. When the Titans realized they
were in a real fight, they responded in kind.
But there were only a few thousand; and when
one was destroyed, it was rarely replaced. Now
it was June 1932; and the last of them lay in
pieces, hung on the walls as garish trophies.
After a while, Ed found them again and took
her hand. â€œCome on, letâ€™s dance.â€ His eyes
were too bright, breath redolent with liquor.
She shook her head. â€œYou two go ahead.â€
â€œNot feeling good?â€
â€œA headache.â€
When the last Titan fell the world threw a party. The one Emilia went
to was in the largest dance hall in the city, and it had been decorated
with their remains. They had not been human, nor nothing like; yet
still she found it in poor taste. Here was a clawed manipulator tall as
she was; here a flanged bit of armor; here an energy core, which had
once pulsed red with power. â€œThat was taken from the one they called
the Flamer,â€ said someone nearby, who was wearing a Navy uniform.
â€œDestroyed half of Seattle before they got it with some artillery.â€
Ed Durrow, who had dragged her here, growled his approval. â€œDamn
No. 148
She found a seat by the wall and rubbed her temples. Soon someone
sat beside her: the lieutenant from earlier. â€œIâ€™m John Russell,â€ he said.
â€œHi, John,â€ she said.
â€œWhatâ€™s your name?â€ So she told him. â€œCan I get you a drink?â€
â€œNo thank you.â€
â€œNot feeling like dancing?â€ She shrugged. â€œWhy not?â€
If he was going to ask ... â€œWe donâ€™t know anything about them,â€ she
said. â€œNothing at all. Where did they come from? What did they want?
Are there more? Weâ€™re all here celebrating, but weâ€™re like children,
its
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YCYBYWZamIrfyW1vwt0UNR_9XSlaBRzHijR-NaZQZOYÍMÕÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µø×‰EÚ	¿celebrating something we donâ€™t understand.â€
He looked at her more seriously. â€œYou donâ€™t have to understand
something to know itâ€™s attacking you. You just have to defend
yourself.â€
â€œI saw one once,â€ she continued. â€œEarly on, in the first weeks after
Invasion Day. I was visiting with family for the summer, and after the
news we decided we better stay on the farm for a while, thinking it
would be safer.
â€œIn a way it was; it was never harmed. But one of the Titans came
through the fields. It was just as big as they say: taller than the barn as
it walked by. I remember most that it shimmered silver as it walked; it
seemed to be covered in lights, or some luminous material. It was near
sunset, and it shone as it walked.
â€œI had been out walking myself, and of course I stopped and hid in the
corn when it came by. It turned, and seemed to look right at me. Then
it just kept going. It went to our car, a Cabriolet, and tore it apart. That
was terrifying. When it was done, there wasnâ€™t much left but the tires.
â€œThen it left. Just walked away.â€
After a while Russell said thoughtfully, â€œYou know they changed over
time.â€
â€œHow do you mean?â€
â€œThey were altering themselves. Thatâ€™s why they always went
for machinery, heavy metals. They used the materials to repair
themselves, to make changes, to build new Titans. But they were slow
about it, which was fortunate for us.â€
â€œI never heard that.â€
â€œCan I show you something?â€ He stood up. â€œCome on, I wonâ€™t hurt
you. Wonâ€™t even hit on you, too much.â€
She let him lead her backstage. â€œI helped set this up,â€ he explained,
as they passed a number of broken and mysterious objects, in strange
shapes and hues. â€œBrought the parts here for people to see. But we
didnâ€™t use them all. Here, look at this.â€
And there they were, three great orbs, slung from a hook on the wall
like a cluster of grapes. Her own eyes widened in surprise. â€œThese are
from a Titan?â€
â€œYep. One of the last to fall, right here in Chicago.â€
â€œBut theyâ€™re so ... human.â€
He nodded. â€œIâ€™m not sure the machines even realized who and what
they were fighting until late in the war. Maybe they thought they were
fighting other machines, and of course in a sense they were. But they
started to catch on, toward the end.â€
He unhooked one from its netting and handed it to her. It was smooth
and glassy, surprisingly heavy. She sat down in a stool and cradled it,
its gaze innocent as a childâ€™s.
25
×jJ\^DŒ^µù×jJ\^DŒ^µøÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://bCtGpoUFLcV-5Z5GK5pgd-P2iiXYAiJOafglxqK7qdAÎ ×«Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://l36Ivf_-dGYZmxyk5aq2QC2jiQOOhhOl9eGEEh9BGR8Î +Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://dPH804lB3c7EDMrXxnOg-cC36ysv2-LG4sbN8j4nHpEÍ\CÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶*×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://dPH804lB3c7EDMrXxnOg-cC36ysv2-LG4sbN8j4nHpEÍ\CÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µú×‰EÚxART BY ANASTASIYA KLEMPACH
On the third lap around the yard, I notice her escape tunnel hidden by
a thick patch of mint along the fence â€” a brilliant use of camouflage.
Still no sign of buried treasure though. I wonder if I can trick her into
revealing her booty. Sparkles races past me and I stop chasing her. â€œAll
done,â€ I say. She barks, urging me on. â€œNo more chase.â€ Her head drops.
Remembering the parade of stolen objects, I ask, â€œSparkles, whereâ€™s
your ball?â€
She bounces back and forth on her front legs then runs to the corner
Sparkles
BY DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER
â€œSparkles!â€
A blur of white and merle fur charges through the screen door. The
dogâ€™s figured out Iâ€™m loaded with groceries and canâ€™t collar her. Sparkles
speeds through each room banking with Aussie precision until she
locates her prize â€” my catâ€™s favorite catnip banana. She zig-zags past
my legs and out the door before I can set down my bags.
â€œGod dammit, Sparkles.â€ Iâ€™m laughing too hard to be angry. My
neighbor, Jack, told me their two-year-old named the Australian
Shepherd â€œSparklesâ€ for her shiny blue eyes. She joined the Cook family
as a playmate for their toddler, who lost interest soon after naming her.
So the Cooks built her a dog house, filled their back yard with toys and
left a dog who was bred with the intelligence to independently control
an entire herd of sheep, with no job and no one to play with all day.
Smart-girl Sparkles found ways to amuse herself. The first game she
invented was â€œhide the toys.â€ On Monday, Jack came home to six fresh
mounds of earth in the backyard. Under each pile of dirt, he discovered
one of Sparklesâ€™ toys. He filled in the holes and threw the toys away.
Undeterred, Sparkles came up with another game, â€œfind more toys.â€
She dug an exit hole under the fence on Tuesday and raided the
neighborhood in search of new objects to bury. I watched her disappear
under the fence with a hotdog, a tennis ball and a Barbie doll before she
burgled my house.
While I appreciate her clever plan, I need to get that catnip banana
back before Tabby Ted notices. He has a nasty habit of protest-peeing.
Heâ€™s been known to soak my bathroom throw rug for offenses as minor
as moving his cat tree from one side of the living room to the other. I
do not wish to incur Tedâ€™s ammonia-scented wrath when he discovers
the loss of his beloved banana, so I follow Sparkles back to her lair. She
ducks into the hole hidden under the fence. Between the slats I see her
running back and forth in the yard from her tunnel to a gate beside the
garage â€” as if inviting me in. Such a smart doggo.
I reach over the top of the gate and lift the latch. Sparkles twirls in
the yard. â€œOkay Sparkles, where are your toy-ees?â€ She barks and playbows
â€” not about to reveal her stash. So I squat, slap my thighs and
say, â€œIâ€™m gonna get you!â€ Thrilled at the game of chase, she takes off
in a zoomie-run around the yard. I follow her, scanning for evidence of
a new toy cemetery.
27
of a raised-bed planter and sticks her nose into a spot under the box
that appears to be eroded from the rain. Laying on her side, she swipes
her paw into the cavity, flicking out one item at a time. The tennis ball
rolls deeper under the box and it takes her a minute to work it out.
Meanwhile, I examine the pile and snatch the catnip banana from
under the piece of hotdog. The meat flips over to reveal it has a nail and
is, in fact, a severed finger.
Sparkles nudges me with her nose then drops the ball at my feet. I
toss it across the yard, to distract her while I overcome my initial shock
and figure out what to do about the body part. I pluck a piece of lettuce
from the planter to grab the finger. The dirt on the end makes it look
like one of those chocolate-dipped strawberries rolled in nuts, so I
imagine it must have been wet when she found it. I raise what now
appears to be the first two knuckles of a pointer finger closer to my
nose, wincing and bracing for the smell of decay, but there is none. The
loss must have been recent.
I exit through the gate knowing Sparkles will follow. Hopefully sheâ€™ll
lead me to the owner of the severed digit. I retrace the path from her
escape hole to the street and see a faint spot that looks like watery,
brown paint on the sidewalk.
Smart-girl Sparkles follows my gaze. She sniffs the spot and runs
ahead. Following her, I see the trail of blood left by her trophy. She
leads me to the end of the block and through the unlocked door of Herb
Winkleâ€™s garage-turned-workshop. Herb lays face up on the ground by
the table saw, eyes closed, skin pale and a pool of blood around his
left hand. I gasp and Herbâ€™s eyes snap open. Sparkles and I both jump.
â€œJesus, Herb!â€ I call 911. The finger has been damaged too much to
reattach, but Herb will be fine.
Sparkles wags her tail, acting very pleased with herself as I lead her
back home. â€œYouâ€™re not exactly a hero, but it was a good thing you
nabbed that finger.â€
After Sparklesâ€™ story appeared on every local news channel, Jack told
me he was out of ideas for how to deal with her escapades. I told him
Iâ€™d be happy to take her off his hands.
Now that Sparkles attends ongoing agility training and sheep herding
classes, sheâ€™s given up her thieving ways. Sheâ€™s even won over her new
roommate, Tabby Ted. I considered changing her name but decided her
eyes really do sparkle, especially when she chasing sheep, and when
she looks at me.
×jJ\^DŒ^µû×jJ\^DŒ^µúÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://34iKrtec0UWGb20qR6BiB8HWMpaZcGQm7UAuHMbhzXsÎ iÄÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://tf2vSSfqNMzk0PT5jaaks_G-Mqd5yEnS0A6jbukQ51YÎ /¸Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://IrG0LDwCIn9E-K_3-v5kg8VLWaYD7gZez7-WONTBRGYÍaÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶,‘× ×jJ\^DŒ^¶/ ÍÄÍYÌ×9×HÚ !mailto:werewolfradarpod@gmail.com××Ðˆ×‰EÚvCRYPTOMANIA
BY JORDAN DOLL
Being a cryptozoologist is not an honorable life. It is a life lived in shady
internet back alleys, trading blurry pictures of Mothman and scraps
of information with a character known only as â€œH4mBurgl4r666." It
is one spent courting mystery and intrigue, but also foolishness and
disappointment. For cryptozoology is, by and large, a disappointing
field. Too many kooks willing to overlook evidence in favor of fame, too
many hoaxes and too little substantiation.
People feel pretty comfortable openly ridiculing Bigfoot and
chupacabra enthusiasts alike, and we feel pretty comfortable letting
them. Because deep down, we know the truth. We can sense it like
a stone in our shoe. There are animals out there, living unknown or
forgotten by humanity, glimpsed every so often by the occasional
off-duty cop or hysterical hillbilly. Creatures so rare and strange that
it is easier to consider them myths than to believe they ever walked
alongside us. But they did, and they do. And every so often, one of
them reveals itself to us.
In the fifth century B.C., the Greek explorer Hanno the Navigator
returned from an expedition to West Africa touting tales of strange
man-beasts! His interpreters called them "Gorillai" and he had never
seen anything quite like them. Of course nobody believed him. "Manbeasts?"
Hanno? Sure, cool story. The creature was considered a thing
of fantasy to Westerners for another two thousand years before a
British explorer of the region, Andrew Battel, reported the same beasts
visiting his camp every morning after the humans had left. One thing
led to another and a pair of the creatures were shot and killed in 1902,
proving to "civilized" minds that the legendary "Gorilla" was real, and
furthermore it could be killed by ordinary household bullets.
Then there was the coelacanth: living fossil and top-shelf Scrabble
word. The coelacanth is a very metal looking fish from ancient times. It
belongs to a family of lobe-finned fish that are sort of lizard-fish hybrids
that were supposed to have been extinct since the late Cretaceous
Period. Then on December 23, 1938, one was popped-up among the
No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://IrG0LDwCIn9E-K_3-v5kg8VLWaYD7gZez7-WONTBRGYÍaÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µü×‰EÚART BY JASON LEUNG
catch of a fisherman in South Africa. It was gigantic, armored and
apparently very greasy. Fishermen had been throwing them back for
centuries because their oily discharge was known to befoul other fish.
For almost 66 million years this thing was just down there, stinking
up the joint, freaking out the locals, completely unknown to Western
science.
And honestly, that's just the tip of the iceberg. Thereâ€™s the okapi: a
relative of the giraffe with stripey little butts. They were considered
as mythical as the unicorn until 1901, now there are literally about 100
of them in conservation programs worldwide. Going from complete
fiction to having your own zoo exhibit in less than 100 years, that's
pretty good. The Komodo dragon, the platypus, the manatee. The red
panda, the anaconda, the giant squid. All of these animals were once
thought to be completely imaginary. Only a fool would believe in them,
and then we were all made fools.
So why not Bigfoot? Why not the chupacabra? People are seeing
something out there, something is draining those goats and for the
last time it ain't me! Why not the Kongamato, or the blue tiger or
the Loveland Frogman? Might they not also someday prove our inner
skeptics wrong? Can you answer with complete certainty? Is there even
a shred of doubt? ... That's where we live. In the shred. H4mBurgl4r666
and me. Join us.
Have questions about the paranormal?
Send them to werewolfradarpod@gmail.com
or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar.
Itâ€™s a big, weird world. Donâ€™t
be scared. Be Prepared.
BEST OF 075
29
×jJ\^DŒ^µý×jJ\^DŒ^µüÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://pp6zTCnPShfOuFAcmBdvWSuuYqoGnYeVw1942izbtOMÎ ìDÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://zA1KLLAmTsx2Ti0PnP9nYd9bttNtS3_kJk-KwHCDUmYÍÙŒÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://JlegX4OtEYTGfA58gR-NxUYViyY48944ucX6wg-oZ20ÍEÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶0×‰E»ART BY JASON WHITE
No. 148
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://JlegX4OtEYTGfA58gR-NxUYViyY48944ucX6wg-oZ20ÍEÍ`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^µþ×‰EÚßTHE RIVER OF
VENGEANCE
BY ZAC DUNN
In the cold riverbed
Where they left me for dead
And washed off the lies they tried to hide
I began the long crawl back to the lonely fort
Built on stilts that had rotted from guilt and desires of conquest
on plains they sought to take from strong hearts who knew
Of painted moons that bled gloom and glory
Illuminating a path in a stolen story of Manifest Destiny
and gore that settlers thought was their right despite no
seed that grew and trees with fruitless limbs hung low
And the dead horse I took a shank from to devour in the sanctum
of despair and hunger under starry skies that could lead a
castaway from the endless plains
As buffalo stomped and wolves tracked
them down to feed the calloused feet in
broken boots hoofed deeper into the
abyss ever forward
I cursed out the names of the
profane and lame
Crawling back for vengeance and
glory that the parched headwaters
knew too
1.4.26 4:25 am East NY
IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC
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MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - NOV. 9, 1996; SEPT. 1, 1991 - MYOPIA
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0N1E0JokIBZBGsobiCARhYJeZ_anY6uFFpAlZct09fIÍI°Í`ÍŠÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶ ×ˆE×jJ\^DŒ^¶×jJ\^DŒ^¶ ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://8AcMXvsRiecR5hOIxZ6cW4PWW08d_YT1z_Sd0JzzJo0Î $kÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://_ztrBa-eGMa-SRazjiRX6mA0SCqrSz38jo4Ks6l7XgAÍD~Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://jTcKgO0YYY97c8XKtz8Rjedg2SPBmXTqMr5thWFBgHIÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶4×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://jTcKgO0YYY97c8XKtz8Rjedg2SPBmXTqMr5thWFBgHIÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×jJ\^DŒ^¶×ˆE×jJ\^DŒ^¶×jJ\^DŒ^¶ÍÚÍ,¯BIRDY ISSUE 148Ú „Published APRIL 2026. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine: art, words, comedy, et cetera. Available monthly in print or online.×jIù›ÖÎS‡¬ŒÀ