׉?4ׁB!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://IEw9_4UYZRiBr8Pou_4ILhMn-3Gj2vdPvrRN6mRKLUkx`׉ 7cassandra://JK_QKLbfZohCpS8OqGlzXOuOvNYnPUULV9o1YzUpz0YL`r׉ 7cassandra://sRCtsGJ-C_LE3KjjMXb3OFvPFADOF6E0qztsVYiWF_M^`i?}]'eUt׈Ei?}]'eUN׉E׉ 7cassandra://sRCtsGJ-C_LE3KjjMXb3OFvPFADOF6E0qztsVYiWF_M^`i?}]'eUOi?}]'eUNבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://K0Y3T-O0zL9BSAsP6m0uW7gfghds74hpQzx1BDjr9-w`et׉ 7cassandra://wt17f0_ewdYJjVDpf9GaKXDvuLBMkwNs9XCPt2Jis-c`׉ 7cassandra://9Xptr9QDSzXMck0-JXCmoCsrYHLUIxYEa5tGVCNwHAAE`i?}]'eUwנi?}]'eU| 9ׁH http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Јנi?}]'eU{w 9ׁH$http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONSׁ ׁ Јנi?}]'eUzJ̧ 9ׁHhttp://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOPׁ ׁ Јנi?}]'eUyVp 9ׁHhttp://BIRDY.MAׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://9Xptr9QDSzXMck0-JXCmoCsrYHLUIxYEa5tGVCNwHAAE`i?}]'eUP׉EISSUE 146 | FEBRUARY 2026 MR. SNUFFLEUPAGUS: JONNY DESTEFANO MAASAI MARA : KRYSTI JOMÉI MASKED GRAY VISAGE: JULIANNA BECKERT WANDERLUST: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI SUPER TUSKER: CRISTIN COLVIN MUTUAL OF OMAHA: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH JOSEPH MERRICK: DANIEL 'DL' LANDES IVORY COAST DIDI BETHURUM MUD & WATER: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, ALAN ROY, CHELSEA PINTO, MATT HAVER, IZZY DOZIER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS & BENEFACTORS: FM, MUTINY COMICS & COFFEE, PHOTO BANG!, CREATIVEMORNINGS/DENVER, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, ANALOG SALON, MONKEY BARREL, COLORADO INDEPENDENT VENUE ASSOCIATION, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, BRAND BABES, APOGAEA, BENNY BLANCO'S, COCREATE, DENVER DIGERATI, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FRONT COVER: CHRIS AUSTIN, PEEK A BOO - @CHRISAUSTINART BACK COVER: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES (2017) - @MARKMOTHERSBAUGH TASTE FOR DUST: CHRIS AUSTIN, JOEL TAGERT, JASON WHITE, BRIAN POLK, NICK FLOOK, MOON PATROL, GRAY WINSLER, HANA ZITTEL, JOE VAUX, CURTIS BERGESEN, JORDAN DOLL, TOM MURPHY, SUSANN BROX NILSEN, DAVE DANZARA SIGHTS FOR SORE EYES: MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, CHRISTOPHSKI, TITHI LUADTHONG, BRYAN KLIPSCH, BRIAN J HOFFMAN, JESSE LONERGAN, BAHAR SAMANI, MANUELA BATAS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE KEEP PRINT UNDEAD – MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT INDEPENDENT ART: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS A BREATH TAKEN AWAY, LEARNING TO FORGET MONTHLY ©2026 BIRDY MAGAZINE, WHERE THE ROAD ENDS 1 MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, IF ONLY WE TALKED MORE - @MARTINWOJNOWSKI i?}]'eUQi?}]'eUPבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://QeATJHIBbBi4tqZQpKesUQDTkaOPS3YSqnOapjua4Wwss`et׉ 7cassandra://exEB_fF5Ox9bMbjEfwRIbiGADQfmOejX9sXsbjf-dDs`׉ 7cassandra://2Ehx3tEvTxLMrL-gc4Z2XntqEfEDCtZza_aqIx4Y10cX`i?}]'eU}׉EyJOEL TAGERT Mingus Rides North Mingus rode north and Death rode with him. Mingus was, or had been, a canary. Death was this Swedish kid named Niclas he’d picked up hitchhiking outside Billings. Kind of a strange kid, truth be told. Did a lot of drugs. “Stop here,” urged Niclas as they approached a Petro-Canada. “I need smokes.” Mingus angled the Malibu toward a spot out front, but gave his passenger a dubious look. “You should let me go in.” The skull looked at him intently. Mingus could see the back of its eye sockets, which wasn’t something you often saw when you looked at someone. “So what now, I never can talk to another human being?” “That’s just it,” Mingus gently argued, “you don’t seem to be human exactly anymore.” “I have a body, man. Look, it’s human.” “It’s a human skeleton, yes. Walking and talking and smoking.” “Yeah, like I say.” Niclas looked out the tinted window with dissatisfaction. “Fine, you go. But then we stop at a rest area or some place.” “Okay.” Mingus got out. In Canada, it seemed, even the gas stations had beautiful views – mountains, a lake with a dock. Some boats down there. He felt refreshed, like maybe things would work out for the best after all. They’d find somewhere without any people, and spend their days chopping wood and carrying water and such. It was all admittedly a little vague, but it felt worth pursuing. Inside the forty-something clerk was watching a television on the counter. Her gaze barely left the screen as she retrieved the cigarettes. Bizarre creatures were loping and flying and squirming down city streets, buildings burning, policemen in riot gear. “What do you think?” she said, jerking her chin absently at the TV. He glanced at it nervously. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably good to stay away for now.” “But what do you think it is? Look, this cop just turned into a walking refrigerator.” “Well, if I had to guess ... I’d say that probably a scientist was researching interdimensional phase changes using planar crystals in a lab in Denver. Then, probably, she found out she’d succeeded when her canary, which she kept around partly to warn of dangerous dimensional fluctuations, suddenly turned into a middle-aged man in a blue suit. “Then, probably, she made the mistake of touching him, which initiated another phase change, turning her into an octopus. It’s like how very pure water won’t No. 146 freeze until you introduce a little impurity, and then it freezes instantaneously.” Her eyes narrowed. “But what about all this shit?” “Oh, well, turns out it’s communicable. Just by touching. So ... might want to stay at home for a little while. Or just not worry about it. It’s not so bad.” She backed away. “I think you should go now.” He nodded. “No worries.” He was hearing shouting anyway. Outside a big red-bearded guy was backing away from his motorcycle, which Niclas had come out to admire. “You’re not taking me!” the biker was yelling, ducking around the pumps toward Mingus. “I’m not ready to go!” “I’m not really Death, man,” said Niclas. “It’s just how I look. I can’t help that, you know?” Mr. Redbeard seized a window-washer from a plastic well and waved it in front of him. “Back off! I’ll use this!” Washing fluid sprayed the concrete. “Excuse me,” Mingus said, and tapped the fellow on the neck. With his bare finger. There was a crackling noise and a brilliant fragmented alteration of the space around the biker, as though he’d been suddenly encased in a sparkling glass mosaic. When it dissipated, there stood a short, exceptionally ugly gray-green demon thingie. Sharp, curving horns, flesh like rock, remarkably large triangular teeth, flaming orange eyes. This squat devil looked down at itself, gasped, and made a rush for the motorcycle, deciding death was preferable to staying put, but unfortunately the keys had disappeared in the transformation along with his clothes. Also, his short legs couldn’t reach the chopper’s pegs. He raised his hideous visage to the sky and howled. “Calm down, man,” said Niclas. “It’s okay, you’re just a little different now.” The biker’s name was Fred. After a lot of reassurance, they all sat on the curb and contemplated their changed existences. “Listen,” Mingus said finally, “I’m sick of driving anyway. What say we walk down to that dock, steal a boat, and look around for a nice cabin on the lake?” Fred shrugged in defeat. “Sure. I mean, I was going to meet my buddy in Prince George, but now he wouldn’t even recognize me.” “Hey, everybody changes, man,” said Niclas breezily. “Can I take your helmet?” Out on the water the air was crisp and fresh. As a canary, he’d had been kept in a cage. This new life was confusing, but the mountains offered grand vistas of possibility. Mingus rode north, and Death and the Devil rode with him. BEST OF 053 ׉ 7cassandra://2Ehx3tEvTxLMrL-gc4Z2XntqEfEDCtZza_aqIx4Y10cX`i?}]'eUR׉E$ART BY CHRISTOPHSKI - @CHRISTOPHSKI i?}]'eUSi?}]'eURבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://GHt-Ji_2RiWSEH7IN2f9i1aAmbvHoh_ppsVXdREZ7eI `et׉ 7cassandra://pmckoMHCrjKZUKGaVtFQpybzZw7pLEuZIWYQ8-HP-UQV`׉ 7cassandra://ZcoqjbnKQf0njcv3boNOy8cURTB_yLR8UaVGAwqROwc``i?}]'eU׉ESPINNING MY WHEELS AT THE END OF THE WORLD AGAIN WELP, LOOKS LIKE I’M BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JASON WHITE I THREATEN TO QUIT MY JOB ABOUT AS OFTEN AS I THREATEN TO QUIT DRINKING, BUT AS LONG AS I KEEP DOING ONE, I’LL DEFINITELY HAVE TO KEEP DOING THE OTHER I mean sure, I could quit drinking, but I would still have to go to work — and working is the main reason I drink. I could also quit working, but then I wouldn’t have as much motivation to drink, nor would I have the money. So here I am. Really, when I say I am going to quit one or the other, it’s more of a declaration that I am sick of the lifestyle that No. 146 I fell into a couple of decades ago and wish I could do something else. But my creditors still demand payment and the customers are still mean, so yeah, anyone want to meet at the bar later? Of course, it goes without saying that I can’t stay too late, because I do have to work in the morning. I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE BODY HEAT THAT THIS CHAIR IS RETAINING FROM THE PREVIOUS SITTER TO STOP MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLE ׉ 7cassandra://ZcoqjbnKQf0njcv3boNOy8cURTB_yLR8UaVGAwqROwc``i?}]'eUT׉EWhenever I immediately sit on a chair that someone else had been occupying for a while, I am intently aware of the residual heat created by the ass that just vacated the seat. For a good half a minute, I know I am not the one who generated the toastieness currently beneath my own posterior. It’s an alien warmth that troubles me a bit. How clean was the pair of buttocks that were here right before mine? I ask myself. And if their rear wasn’t clean, can germs crawl down through the fabric of their pants and up through the fabric of mine? If so, how much trouble am I really in here? Eventually, I stop torturing myself (with uncomfortable questions that I could probably easily google), because that’s when the heat beneath my seat becomes more familiar and I can begin to claim it as my own. I OCCASIONALLY READ REVIEWS OF LUXURY TRAVEL OPTIONS JUST IN CASE MY JOB SURPRISES ME WITH A $189-AN-HOUR RAISE Sometimes I will succumb to clickbait and read articles with titles like, “Inside the new luxury sleeper that’s about to take Europe by storm.” Or, “Tips for getting the most out of your first class flight to Japan.” Or, “If I make my butler fly coach, will he still be able to tend to my needs mid-flight?” And I always think, I could see myself really enjoying these fine accommodations. This is in spite of the fact that unless I get a sixfigure raise at my dead-end civil service job (or a band like Green Day gets in touch with me for touring opportunities), I shan’t be traveling the world in opulence any time soon. I suppose my interest in the subject of luxury travel represents some sort of mental escapism, but I often come away from these articles with a sense of embitterment and a newfound interest in starting the class war. And that simply can’t be good for my well-being. PSA: IF YOU START DATING SOMEONE WHO IS FLUENT IN TEXT SHORTHAND, BE PREPARED TO START GOOGLING A LOT OF ABBREVIATIONS I get a lot of texts from my new girlfriend, and I have no idea what they’re saying. So I have spent a lot of time Googling things like, “TTYL” and “TTB.” We’re only a few years apart (don’t worry, I’m not one of those guys), but I must admit, I am definitely not up-to-date in texting etiquette. Also, you should know that it’s definitely not cool to come up with your own, unsanctioned text shorthand. For example, I once sent her the initials, “BNWTL.” And she responded with, “?” Then I sent, “That means, ‘Busy Now, Will Text Later.’” And she sent back, “Please don’t do that.” So yeah, to all my fellow olds out there: sometimes you have to stay in your lane and use Google to your advantage. I HAVE SIX TRAVEL MUGS AND THEY ARE ALL CURRENTLY IN MY CAR I had the perfect plan — to obtain a reusable travel mug so I would stop bringing regular coffee cups to work (where they are routinely absorbed into the office collection). Well that didn’t pan out the way I wanted it to. I procured the first one, but I always left it in my car. So I figured I would buy two so I could keep one in the car and then bring the other one in. They both stayed in my car, of course. I would have ended it there, but I got two more travel mugs for Christmas, stole one from the lost and found at work, and bought this one that had a cool skull on it from the thrift store for $2. As of this moment, they are all littered about my car in an unwashed state. And if you’re wondering, I still bring regular coffee cups to work (where they end up in the communal employee cabinet). I am not good at being an adult. 5 i?}]'eUUi?}]'eUTבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://3lhsv3CW3pgMOtlbZeMJZ0XyxHdWRlGn8PSWGq5UHLY[`et׉ 7cassandra://9wuLKRRrmSMqmSU570ScNi38v34ZWdAKRsDONPwA71Q(`׉ 7cassandra://ynpGYnDLRI6Y2v1s71hYXz9tEBFej6enqT2WbX6f1PQR`i?}]'eU׉E׉ 7cassandra://ynpGYnDLRI6Y2v1s71hYXz9tEBFej6enqT2WbX6f1PQR`i?}]'eUV׉E:NICK FLOOK, STILL SCREAMING: THE SCREAM TRIBUTE - @FLOOKO i?}]'eUWi?}]'eUVבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://XpRwzJua808U80k3IfjRELlQ0wbeIyhmzHfWQpAnpAA`et׉ 7cassandra://U7WCwyJoS6lcJZUlsgoyBn9acNDw15bOtRXcwC_zlbkv`׉ 7cassandra://Lo9cYPPFNyVi-PI9YneXSDSUuTIL3Z5D1Y8o72Ag_70Ls`i?}]'eU׉EMOON_PATROL, GARDEN DRAGON ׉ 7cassandra://Lo9cYPPFNyVi-PI9YneXSDSUuTIL3Z5D1Y8o72Ag_70Ls`i?}]'eUX׉EBEST OF 105 9 i?}]'eUYi?}]'eUXבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://6QMmDp3OTmwemtb0clgow-JH3EQqn4eXtSAh_9nEi-M?`et׉ 7cassandra://2e8ehLP2UCS6YSIARf6O8Gu97nhgf2hA4nSECtrxJyo`׉ 7cassandra://6TkwdfE02Duzgp8McCYEcE8K5d316Sk5M1AgbrhvFcIM`i?}]'eU׉ENo. 146 ׉ 7cassandra://6TkwdfE02Duzgp8McCYEcE8K5d316Sk5M1AgbrhvFcIM`i?}]'eUZ׈Ei?}]'eU[i?}]'eUZבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://iIhQgnScUSr3BzgY7yXp4KjWESK47AiBobUjjd3wGss`et׉ 7cassandra://swyvvFjiqW_dLPg4E-bdDJ16vpUkjGfpoWVtlp2XIaIͽ`׉ 7cassandra://OmoblvefrCbPJT2qP02V7NwfAhyQzRVlP9-0i7fMqHcCj`i?}]'eU׉EZTITHI LUADTHONG AKA GRANDFAILURE BRYAN KLIPSCH, SATIRE LOUNGE - @COMFORTABLENOMAD No. 146 ׉ 7cassandra://OmoblvefrCbPJT2qP02V7NwfAhyQzRVlP9-0i7fMqHcCj`i?}]'eU\׉E3BRIAN J HOFFMAN, GUT FEELING - @BRIANJAYHOFFMAN 13 i?}]'eU]i?}]'eU\בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://5yNsapto8sh4yb2RoPJP3CQhzSAUgaNYwLd80gtYbv4vW`et׉ 7cassandra://ROKfQWzA5SzJIG7b0L3Yo7opM-Y_NIwr1KlrTh2EVXE14`׉ 7cassandra://cm4KtT6VmBTrWOh_a1WBbFaPzwrfT1SF05QA8hfoaxM_`i?}]'eU׉E Hana Zittel Bluff by Danez Smith (2024) “there is no poem greater than feeding someone there is no poem wiser than kindness” Danez Smith opens their 2024 collection with one of the three poems titled anti poetica. This beginning marks the work with a recognition that poetry cannot save us, cannot defeat the state, and that there is “no poem to free you.” Bluff was written as the world took a drastic turn into the global pandemic and after George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the twin city to Smith’s hometown of St. Paul. Capturing this moment Smith writes: being (Black) feels like a lot right now. they shot a man then they shot the people mourning the man. they shot a man while he was a. handcuffed b. walking away c. already dead the terrorists i fear played ball with the cops or they is the cops. i ain’t got much left to give This vital, powerful collection remains so urgent today with each poem invoking painful memories and forcing examination of our current reality. Smith reckons with state violence, white violence, oppression, and the omnipresent grief shadowing the American experience. They explore multiple structural forms in Bluff, creating a range of visual experiences with the written word. Heartbreaking and No. 146 dire, this collection is also marked with a sense of fortitude and survival. Of the poets capturing our time through prose, not many feel as right to read in our current moment as Smith, and this collection in particular reflects the cruelty of the present paired with Smith’s characteristically magnificent writing. Danez Smith’s Bluff was recognized as a best poetry collection of 2024 by multiple literary organizations including Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and The New York Public Library. Drome by Jesse Lonergan (2025) Through a largely wordless graphic novel, Jesse Lonergan builds a vast universe and creation myth tracing humankind’s imagined origins. Created by a starry, horned god, the first human emerges from the ground when a seedlike capsule dropped from the heavens to earth. Almost immediately, the creation of life leads to chaos, violence and war. Another god critiques the destruction caused by the living, and in response, the horned god responsible for creation sends an elemental demigod with connection to the water to control the chaos of humanity. What follows is a violent, gory epic of the battle between civilization and the divine. Honored as one of the best graphic novels of 2025 by multiple publications including The Washington Post and The New York Public Library, Drome feels like a refreshingly different and monumental achievement in the medium. Lonergan plays with traditional comic book layouts and frames to reshape linear storytelling and reader expectations. Combined with his captivating drawing style, this experimental form and expansive sci-fi storytelling has resulted in a legendary graphic novel accomplishment. ׉ 7cassandra://cm4KtT6VmBTrWOh_a1WBbFaPzwrfT1SF05QA8hfoaxM_`i?}]'eU^׉E15 i?}]'eU_i?}]'eU^בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://xghnBg9qx0hDqG256kS5OAxB-ChSuJPuvCw9hba0osg@S`et׉ 7cassandra://-ImI9xDH7P1QAbxi-I6p3xz4LPdIcdlRXJh924AskZo`׉ 7cassandra://rAqv1G85nLDNNEYBNT0JkaesO_JMPuizR13wdCfIg8cJ`i?}]'eU׉E׉ 7cassandra://rAqv1G85nLDNNEYBNT0JkaesO_JMPuizR13wdCfIg8cJ`i?}]'eU`׉E,JOE VAUX, HOW ABOUT THEM APPLES? - @JOEVAUX i?}]'eUai?}]'eU`בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://rTOa9IqN4ZzeOTf2G1iR65orSd93XVRxepWoXRVG2zwg`et׉ 7cassandra://sIE_475vVuVbAYl1wd201QEhWYcDN8z_MMbgkli5krQͯu`׉ 7cassandra://a_jRoVyocoBZI6_I2IwT9AqPvh2jSA5GkAAAF9XNoIk8`i?}]'eU׉EI am pressed up against the edges of Denver. The hidden stories of this city are the only thing that keeps my interest. Stories we tried to bury and stories we are trying to bury now. The stories that get my attention are of wretched acts of treachery and demonic acts of man. Stories so dark they have to be buried deep beneath this city so we can try to forget them. Stories that should stay buried. We don’t want to know just how uncivilized we behave or remember when rivers of blood jumped the banks of the Platte River and Cherry Creek. We would assume forget the scalps and carcasses that stacked up on both sides of the Frontier Wars. It’s gone now, buried, and we ride bikes on the graves and feel good about our efforts to not drive. The stories will not stay buried. Nothing stays forgotten. {} Only half the train whistles you hear passing through the crease of Denver in the middle of the night are real. The other half are the screeches of the ghost train signaling its passing through a town that existed one hundred some odd years ago. A time when things that glittered on the sandy shores of our rivers got men laid and got men killed. It is the whistle of the ghost train passing through a town that reeked of pine smoke and the byproduct of human encampments. The whistle of the ghost train, a warning signal of its slow approach into the forgotten depot near the confluence of the Platte and Cherry Creek. When the ghost train arrives at the station the people who get off are not alive. They are ghosts; poor souls who did not stay buried. They did not understand where to go when their hearts stopped beating so they stay here with us, without substance. They go about their daily lives, just like they did a hundred some odd years ago in Denver City. They exist beside us, participating in the commerce and civics of a bygone era with as much conviction of their realness as you or I do, as we go about our daily lives. If you can shut your mouth and open your ears for just a minute you can hear them. They are everywhere. They tell stories. Stories of a time we would as soon forget. A time when the rivers ran with blood and we stacked carcasses like cordwood. BEST OF 017 No. 146 ׉ 7cassandra://a_jRoVyocoBZI6_I2IwT9AqPvh2jSA5GkAAAF9XNoIk8`i?}]'eUb׉E,BRIAN J HOFFMAN, SKY SPY - @BRIANJAYHOFFMAN i?}]'eUci?}]'eUbבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://8eR7MVKxdpJWuGmAA96xB_OzRq_suk1cgCL2y1_kKO4f`et׉ 7cassandra://W7SQcDnv6vpi9EPr9eUnQY9Vtsl6_kxQCr5Dyjp_JSI͈t`׉ 7cassandra://LIKH8SiPlQN9PuaUUk-DmKW7jfelwjNCd6aP5AnbBqs+`i?}]'eU׉ETHE CAVE BY ZAC DUNN The test strips Turned blue in urine cups Or Kool-Aid given in haste Or communion of conditions Plastered upon Parisian buttresses And ramparts flippant and forgiven Moats full of eels and trout spout ROE that bubble light and radioactive Flatulence in flagranti volcanic INDIGO infatuation adverbs antiquated to Obtuse angles and RIGHT WHALE FINS Begin making waves So blue and cool Yet cruel while antediluvian otters Anchoring HULL DRUG ideology Upon rock outcroppings and rusted Wrecks that exude the slow corrosive Hold as brine and ore explore being Less separate atoms and devolve Into feline calculus subtracted with Broken digits of dyslexic members Only hatching webbed feet That scamper on frozen ponds Updrafts and laughter lifting A carcass above yapping mouths of SILVER FOX teeth clacking back up Myrtle as the pigeons and sewer water Evaporate into slurry and street RAT cement The oil rig ROUGHNECK retires to a bunk of toil And dinosaur essence while the diamond bit Plunged into the brittle sea bed mantle In hopeless and infinite query to quarry into The bottoms that we all labor in vein to avoid As gulf winds bring blooms and CRIMSON TIDES to the DELTA And the CROSS ROADS And HELTER SKELTER TEX told the young folk to do the deed The clown in the box was no organ grinder at all Yet the voice that commands often looks in the mirror Prior to ever uttering a word The caves hold bat guano So Perry forth into the crevices TALLY HO! 3:36am 7.28.24.0000003 OGE IZU 314 IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC ׉ 7cassandra://LIKH8SiPlQN9PuaUUk-DmKW7jfelwjNCd6aP5AnbBqs+`i?}]'eUd׉E3CURTIS BERGESEN, TIBURON MALETA - @COLLAGETHEWORLD i?}]'eUei?}]'eUdבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://BZ-eeU_UbM9wQDlBnWofxOSRdiImcdsk-SbUSCBZvIYo`et׉ 7cassandra://Dg0uc1AXimlxTUKGSycOFsNX68iXoMuyF1qoYqYAEcA؋`׉ 7cassandra://tCeO0vXDRnljwr-WxFg_4wow176jK0I2BED6bzWgYxsR9`i?}]'eU׉ERBIRDY X CREATIVEMORNINGS/DENVER - @CM_DENVER PHOTO BY BAHAR SAMANI - @BAHARSMEDIA ׉ 7cassandra://tCeO0vXDRnljwr-WxFg_4wow176jK0I2BED6bzWgYxsR9`i?}]'eUf׉E23 i?}]'eUgi?}]'eUfבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://pUakYdn-KkbhmiiRvMQKLS9IgdjehBWlYGUubQoO3TU`et׉ 7cassandra://HDWvoi776y54uYzy6_tH42dVf6noigAvVEmVaMlv16Qx`׉ 7cassandra://yQaLvckSj-bAW1HGmQFCdC0XGpr16ce9XQk4ffbw7VgR%`i?}]'eUנi?}]'eUI 9ׁH http://werewolfradar.com/contactׁ ׁ Јנi?}]'eU= 9ׁHhttp://gmail.comׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://yQaLvckSj-bAW1HGmQFCdC0XGpr16ce9XQk4ffbw7VgR%`i?}]'eUh׉E9BY JORDAN DOLL BEST OF 026 WANNA HEAR A SCARY STORY? The fi rst house I remember living in was this big, beautiful Victorian row house on Broomhill Road in Aberdeen, Scotland. It was four stories high, had an enormous back garden fi lled with roly polies and raspberry bushes and sometimes, late at night, a strange woman would come into the room I shared with my brother and check on us. My brother caught her one night as she watched silently from the doorway. According to him, her eyes were enormous, her hair unkempt and she jerked back into the darkness of the house when he tried to speak to her. We didn’t know who she was, but she defi nitely didn’t live there. Not anymore, at least. There was the house in Eagle where I woke up to something pretending to be my brother at the foot of my bed, the crouching shadow I chased across the fl oor at an old girlfriend’s place in Boulder, and the thing that whispered me awake so loudly that I can still remember the feeling of still breath in my ear. Goosebumps. Most people have a ghost story in their back pocket. Often, it isn’t their own, but rather some aunt or cousin or friend who had this one thing happen to them that one time. But while sharing a goofy story over a pint is no big deal, almost everyone balks if you ask them straight up, “Do you believe in ghosts?” I get asked this question a lot and there is really no good answer. Say no and you are tagged as some joyless curmudgeon — sensible, pragmatic, working hard every day to ensure a comfortable transition into absolute nothingness. But say yes and you are immediately shuffl ed off to the kid’s table to discuss tree fort defense and how best to get from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night without ending up inside some monster or another. I mean, if you can believe in ghosts, why not leprechauns? Or Santi Clauses? Or a successful, loving relationships? It’s an accepted fact of life. People who believe in ghosts don’t believe in fi scal responsibility, portion control or fl ossing before bed. They are suckers and they deserve what’s coming to them. And there is good historical precedent for that, really. The history of paranormal investigation is so jam-packed with cheats it’s no wonder almost everyone is a baseline skeptic. Almost since the invention of photography there have been people trying to crowbar ghosts into pictures in a play at fame, fortune or just plain old foolishness. “Spirit Photographers” they called themselves, and, for a small fee, they could use their secret knowledge of spiritual energies (and double exposures) to provide you with personalized proof of life after death. Spirit healers, mediums, fortune tellers; the tradition of peddling the supernatural to hopeful rubes has long been a viable way to make some decent scratch for a person of a particular charisma score. Even today there is money to be made as a practitioner of the ‘intangible arts.’ On a daily basis, people pay street corner psychics and their ilk actual human money in exchange for the promise of a peek under the veil. I am not here to call these people phonies (because I enjoy not being riddled with curses), I am just saying that it happens. There is money to be made when you have a few spirits on the take. For proof, one need only look to the mercifully dying glow of the recent ‘paranormal programming’ renaissance. From 2005 to around 2013, you could scarcely turn on the TV without coming across some faux-hawked, meat-golem challenging an unseen force to an epic bro-down. Few things have muddied the waters of paranormal research worse than the programming that sought to legitimize it so. And yet, for all of that, people still claim to see ghosts. People who aren’t trying to get paid or made. People who were simply there when something real weird happened and who are fascinated by whatever that something might mean. There are people who believe that what we think of as a “ghost” is simply the observable manifestation of some scientifi c process we have yet to unravel. Trust me, I’m one of them. For some of us, there are just too many lucid, credible people who have been truly rattled by odd encounters for it to be nothing more than a trick of light or a spot of indigestion. Skeptics will crow about a lack of physical evidence while believers churn out mountains of cryptic data, sketchy photographs and electronic anomalies in response. But it occurs to me that perhaps physical evidence (or lack thereof) is not the perfect indicator of substance when the subject of study is, well, insubstantial. Who knows, could be that we are dealing with the workings of some natural process unlike anything we’ve seen before. Some psycho-reactive force that requires a thinking mind as part of its essential mechanism. Something we don’t have a word for yet, let alone the tools to measure it. Perhaps, trying to capture a ghost on fi lm is the experimental equivalent of trying to photograph a thought or a dream, or measure the barometric pressure using a yardstick. Maybe the best we can do for now is tell our stories. The only thing worse than being a bought and sold skeptic is being a bought and sold believer. For me, the truest answer I can give to the question of: “Do you believe in ghosts?” is an emphatic and sincere “I don’t know.” Because we don’t. We can’t. Nobody has that answer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one or that this particular mystery is foolish or unworthy of exploration. What we do know is that, from time to time, people seem to see a fl ash of something that suggests we don’t know everything there is to know about the natural world, about existence in general. I like to imagine that when that fi rst thinker saw that fi rst lightning bolt strike that fi rst mountaintop and said, “Whoa! What the fuck was that?” they got a couple of responses. Some people said, “It was nothing, get back to toiling!” Others said, “It was an angry god! We must feed him skulls!” And luckily, in the end, the thinker decided to just go and fi nd out for themselves. Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to werewolfradarpod@ gmail.com or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar. It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared. 25 Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to: werewolfradar.com/contact-the-radar. It's a big, weird world. Don't be scared. Be prepared. i?}]'eUii?}]'eUhבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://05cRifWmSp2UluUyJ4ws5m9EUHWzpmPV3Ngw0e3fpn8K`et׉ 7cassandra://fjJV0g34j4vD_nVBqd2qKQqyXV9ygShWBHJQpdTXf-g6`׉ 7cassandra://Ghf7ENOiHKAmDhpQnmbAxlIWqUl6vUBGlZ21h8YcRjs_`i?}]'eUנi?}]'eUCց̒ 9ׁHhttp://QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORGׁ ׁ Ј׉EA SHORELINE DREAM – TO WHERE THEY HAVE GONE Current-era themes of often replacing analog in-person contact with digital communication, which break an essential component of human connection, run throughout this new A Shoreline Dream record. Including contributions from Ride’s Mark Gardener on “Down with the Upward,” these songs and their trailing tones coupled with melancholic moods, sound like a search for something lost and elusive that could once be counted on even if it was imperfect. Because the false perfection of cultivated digital lives and personae lack authenticity, especially when presented as an endless stream of disposable choices. These songs, with their wide yet deep swirling vistas, reflect the band’s re-centering of its own identity as a vehicle of reconnecting with a more vital and grounded existence. BABYBABY4EVER – 4EVER IS A LONG TIME A breakup album of front-to-back bangers that lean into doing whatever is in one’s heart to work through the sadness, self-doubt and other un-fun emotions that come in the wake of splitting up. The rich synth tones are enveloping and captivating enough to chase away any deep psychic ache, while Lily Conrad’s lyrics honor the hurt feelings with vivid imagery that hit like emotional truth. Her vocal delivery, with its left field sensibility, is so brimming with humanity shining through the imaginative processing that these songs connect with an immediacy resonating with one’s own direct experiences with heartbreak. DESTINY BOND – THE LOVE No one was expecting a hardcore record with themes centered on love, but Destiny Bond has been anything but super predictable. The songs have the aggression and bite of the genre with plenty of adrenalized thrash riffs. But at times this album, especially on “Can’t Kill The Love,” has melodic hooks and what sound like ballads, minus the cheesiness. It becomes obvious that the themes are larger than just simply falling in love and romanticizing someone or some time of life. It dives deep into the more nuanced and often uncomfortable aspects of love as a complex emotion that feels very mixed together in the living of it. LIGHTNING CULT – IN RELIEF The title of this album seems to have multiple meanings. Mike Marchant’s vocals and the lead instruments stand out from a tableau of shifting atmospheric music. The gorgeously distorted synths and gently urgent pulses of rhythm almost push the action of the songs forward. Marchant seems to be singing songs about intention and reinvention, emerging from the weight of one’s own previous life narrative and what you told yourself you had to be, and embracing new ways of being to stand out from your previous limitations. The psychedelic synth pop style of the album makes this self-transformation seem like something to look forward to and an encouragement to engage in some of your own growth. LIZZY ROSE – FAULTLINES These seven songs were recorded in 2019 and basically buried for six years when Lizzy Rose’s life shifted focus when she became a mother and educator who no longer identified herself as an artist. Without intending to, Rose wrote a set of art pop songs in their compositional sophistication, their playful creativity, their delicacy and strength of feeling, speaking deeply to themes of love and self-discovery. In releasing the album with little, if any, modification as a raw document of a different time of life, Faultlines sounds like a time capsule from another time of life, but also of music culture. A reminder that human songwriting still has the power to transform and heal. TASSLES – NET WORTH Bedroom shoegaze chillwave, sure, but Nick Tassinari bypasses tropes with superb guitar tone and an ear for layering melodies that lend what might otherwise hit as lo-fi as an unexpected power. The programmed drums sound like something from a New Age jazz record and perfect for the hazy, dream-like quality of the songs. Each track feels like a vignette, drawn from moments of contemplation that imprint strongly on memories and become the touchstones of life, comprising the only things of real value in the commodified existence under late capitalism. A cult record in the making. SEE MORE: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG No. 146 BY TOM MURPHY ׉ 7cassandra://Ghf7ENOiHKAmDhpQnmbAxlIWqUl6vUBGlZ21h8YcRjs_`i?}]'eUj׈Ei?}]'eUki?}]'eUjבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://etlT0SfpIiw0oP0XY9_AMUAo1obVQvdewTWdtxez3GYs`et׉ 7cassandra://c1uTewGFm82QGbgpJmAwzji7PfazyYmo75hO4JssjFUͼ`׉ 7cassandra://X2261MCSOJFniM5aygD9UHXhVfESRT74klTzQRkxw4UD0`i?}]'eU׉E׉ 7cassandra://X2261MCSOJFniM5aygD9UHXhVfESRT74klTzQRkxw4UD0`i?}]'eUl׉EBSUSANN BROX NILSEN, GURT & FLØFF -@ SUSI_THEWEIRDANDWONDERFUL 29 i?}]'eUmi?}]'eUlבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://4F9aR6KeK4uHS85z328frzjkO1znQ7LN964GSBzN0u4K`et׉ 7cassandra://L8Fv0EdFr7PAo5ZwSceeMW7LYmUOFHf4NRzJz-JA_Ao.`׉ 7cassandra://DGCaLXnLVASdZ1VrnAHmmFF1PKDU6Hu4b_ocaW7bPz4Uq`i?}]'eU׉EThose Unseen / Linger more PHOTO AND STORY BY MANUELA BATAS I used to watch her from the distance as I crossed the park. Her wheelless truck’s door was always open, like she didn’t care she was watched. A glimpse inside and all of those pigeons, some out, some in cages, watching over a still silhouette sitting. A pile of insanitary clothes, soiled. No face. I avoided seeing her face. I couldn’t confront her eyes. The smell of wet birds and damp hit me before I even got close. My hands clenched the strap of my camera bag as I jumped between feathers and seeds mixed with mud. She wasn’t lonely. There were these birds. Hundreds of them. Watching over her in this leafless tree. Perching from its branches like moving apples, shadows twisting across the trunk. When her body moved under the pile of rags, I ran. I came the next day and faced the other side of her stationary truck. The one without a door, where she couldn’t see me. The birds still there. I noticed the artwork on the doorless side. Scribbled cartoons, the main character, a gigantic anthropomorphic pigeon, staring from the van. Above, still countless birds, until I heard a sound. “Shuuu!" No. 146 And a voice shouting. “Go away! Why are you staring? Are you going to call the police?” She seemed frail, curved like a question mark, hiding behind the truck’s door. Her sudden appearance sent a shiver down my spine, with my fingers gripping the camera strap, unsure whether to run or stay. “No, no, I just like the birds. Your birds are beautiful! Just wonderful!” I said as I pointed the camera to the sky, towards the tree’s arms, the viewfinder unable to keep the clouds in frame without shaking. The cooing and rustle of wings, the wind cracking the branches in the rhythm of my heart pounding like a drum on an empty stage. “Yes, they are! If you’d only see when they gather all together. These are not all! I have many! People hate them. Poison them. Throw rocks at them! But I save the ones I can.” The silhouette sprinted on the improvised stairs descending from the door, wearing a black, pointy beanie hat. Here she was, in front of me. A toothless mouth opened its corners like a half moon. “They look healthy!” “I nurse some injured ones, I have them inside. Do you want to see ׉ 7cassandra://DGCaLXnLVASdZ1VrnAHmmFF1PKDU6Hu4b_ocaW7bPz4Uq`i?}]'eUn׉E+them?” I froze, unsure how to respond. Although I couldn’t sense any glimpse of madness in her lashless eyes, but some sort of weird gentleness in that crooked smile, I stammered an excuse. She skipped any rumination of my refusal and jumped straight into telling me stories. Many tales with birds. I didn’t put the camera in my bag straight away. I continued shooting as I listened. The viewfinder started stabilising and I could distinguish the wings fluttering, their bodies fragmenting the stillness. Some were cooing, and as I looked not to step in the puddle made by the previous night’s rain, I saw her reflection. Still smiling, gesturing, telling me the birds’ stories. I asked her name as I told her mine. “My name?” Her eyes sparked like matches in the dark. “I am Myra.” Witnessed silently by the birds, her name echoed on the wind, carrying the faint scent of resin and my sudden increased restlessness. I looked back as I left, and realised that only the tree by the truck was leafless. The rest were wearing their usual garments, healthy, blending in the park’s horizon. Only that tree stood out, branches bare. Synchronised with the wind, the pigeons floated back onto the branches, but something different moved between their bodies. Two gigantic opaque wings battered in the cadence of nature’s sunset hums, and they engulfed the tree in their shadow. Myra’s door was still shut, but that black, gigantic bird-like apparition perched itself on the roof of the truck and, after a few moments, disappeared. My mind tried to deny what my eyes perceived, my body screaming in chaos, every muscle alert, holding my breath as my heart urged me to run. There was no one on the streets, except this singular teenager with long hair, whose eyes met mine. Like deer in the headlights, we both were stuck in time, unable to move or say anything, until he broke and ran away, dropping something. Back home, I tried to remove the smell of birds which leaked into my pores. As I washed my face with cold water, my gaze stopped through wet lashes. Thin, 90s headphones laid on the edge of the sink. Putting them over my ears, I pressed play on the unbranded Walkman. It was just as mine used to be: white, with the cassette rolling behind a transparent glass, saying: Made in Germany. A tune was in mid-play. I thought of my father humming this very song years ago on the sofa and a sharp ache pierced my chest. He used to love that band, and as I tried to remember its name, the song stopped and a young man’s voice started. “I’ll be one day enough to get our home back. What happened was unfair, even I can see it, and I am not even 17 yet. I wish I never was, not even 16, not 15, no nothing. But she would be completely alone. And everyone would laugh at her.” Then the song started like nothing happened. The next day, I had to find this kid and return his Walkman, hoping to restore my dignity and maybe understand that what I had seen, although unusual, did have an explanation. “Giant black birds disappearing on rooftops don’t exist!” My imagination sometimes fascinated me with the foolish arrogance of someone trying to hold his head upright, drifting in and out of sleep. When I opened the pictures I took of the tree and Myra’s truck, I was baffled at how every photo was pink with green. I felt a sudden, thrilling fear, was it the camera, or had I captured something impossible? The next day, I still took it with me. Sometimes I felt useless without the camera. It was like a shield of protection and memory. Since my dad’s passing, I used it more. Holding it, I felt as if I had the power to preserve every fleeting piece of the world from him to this very park. Now, my camera was in the bag strapped around my body, broken. Myra saw me from the distance; this time she waved. No beanie hat, just a big thick crown of hair like entangled wire mesh. “I’m changing!” she shouted and disappeared inside her truck. As I waited, an old woman with bright white hair, pruned and primmed, crossed by the truck, dragged by a small dog. It started yapping at me, to his owner’s discontent. She mumbled in an irritated tone, almost scolding for disturbing her mutt with my presence, when I heard: “She’s not right in her head!” a passer-by said, slowing down his pace. “Who? This lady with the dog?” “No! The lady with the birds! She lost her son or something. Somebody hit him with this very truck! She bought it from him!” He said as he went on his way, unfazed by the mutt barking at him. The sun started setting, and the birds perched on the tree, flocking like liquid mercury beads. “Where’s your camera?” Myra appeared, her head covered with the beanie hat, wearing the same clothes. “My camera is broken, not really broken, but it’s giving me some errors. Look!” I said as I put the camera at arm’s length. “Ah! These pictures are beautiful! The colours!” “The colours are wrong, Myra!” “No, no, everything around here is pink and green! Wait! I’ll show you!” She disappeared inside her truck with the excitement of a light flickering to life, closing the door behind her. Rattling, banging sounds came from inside, her murmur and glee growing louder, until everything stopped. I waited staring at the sunset casting a range of yellows and reds, until they diminished, blues and dark greys taking over. She never came out of the truck and I was scared of the night unravelling, the shadows forming behind the trees. Of that black, gigantic bird. I went closer to the truck and peeked through the only window, my words shaking. “Myra … !” Between cages with birds, piles of feathers and hoarded junk, I could see Myra, head resting in her bony fingers, her body like a tensed questioned mark, holding a picture. After calling her name once more, I decided to leave. Crossing the empty park somehow, I knew that I would never see her again. I looked back one last time toward the tree, the birds and the graffiti-smudged truck. The gigantic bird came like a veil of darkness, chasing me through the park, covering the sky with its shadow. I started running, legs burning, breathless, looking back from time to time. Until, suddenly, it vanished. With it, the truck disappeared too, as if it had never been. Only the tree with leaves and birds flying to and fro still lingered. As the darkness cleared the sky, the park became green and the sky pink. A smile crossed my face. She had been right all along. I put the headphones on my ears and pressed play. Now, I remembered the band’s name and hummed the song just like my dad used to. “those unseen, linger more, we are real.” 31 i?}]'eUoi?}]'eUnבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://w4GzexgIBDR0SNOJ5k3i50yYP3DvgnaEuCnLVHknmEw<`et׉ 7cassandra://LEKwv8T1SFy9pEs4HH2HXtvhW1L4WPf5NPMpHjBdus8:`׉ 7cassandra://tnDbh1FQHXooahnxoX9QIBQf_G_Bs9RW4x0fs6j1-QIL:`i?}]'eU׉EfCHRISTOPHSKI, RAVEN: A PORTRAIT - @CHRISTOPHSKI DAVE DANZARA, COWBOYS VS. ALIENS - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS ׉ 7cassandra://tnDbh1FQHXooahnxoX9QIBQf_G_Bs9RW4x0fs6j1-QIL:`i?}]'eUp׈Ei?}]'eUqi?}]'eUpבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Y_Z-9mA_i3XQQ9nJaTPPlRz35u50DD-u3uCNe7jFYO4`׉ 7cassandra://Yg5uEwMxwy2qADC3KEvnY03zaFZjMu8GAjSUb4zfgEw͜`r׉ 7cassandra://7vgbPRh7fXwJ-U2laY7-OQs0MzDjPWeDSTZvSp9ruXU6`i?}]'eU׉E׉ 7cassandra://7vgbPRh7fXwJ-U2laY7-OQs0MzDjPWeDSTZvSp9ruXU6`i?}]'eUr׈Ei?}]'eUsi?}]'eUr,BIRDY ISSUE 146Published February 2026. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine: art, words, comedy, et cetera. Available monthly in print or online.i?m[G