art by Zizanie

by Maria Kassandrou

I click my mouse from time to time.

Not because I always do something. Sometimes I click randomly on the screen, in order to give sonic signs of life; somewhere without consequence—without buttons or links. I stare at the open pdf file, postponing into eternity the reading of that document.

We’re both extremely quiet, each immersed in our own world. If we didn’t click the mouse buttons occasionally, the whole day would just pass over us. As if we were asleep,

by bart plantenga

Apophenia is the tendency to misperceive connections & meanings between unrelated things; a disorder exacerbated by our times, by social media, by our perceived lack of agency, & by our devastating conviction that over-consumption comes with no environmental consequences.

I came across artist Alisha Sullivan’s work. Her “In Place of a Better Version of Ourselves” consists of photos of mysterious megaliths placed in a residential setting. She describes them as “inflatable voids” with the dimensions of an average human being … I found them ominous, ghostly, intrusive & I wanted to give a voice to the hapless &

photo collection of the author

by Eric Roy

One night we went to sleep and in the morning you had turned into a body-shaped pile of mystery books lying next to me. I figured I’d make us some coffee, come back, and take a look again, but soon as I left the room I understood something was very wrong. I was inside my childhood home, and worse yet, I was alone, no sign of my parents, the family dog, or any activity at all. I brought a cup of coffee up for each of us,

“Hearts” collage by Tiffany Dugan

by Cynthia Robinson Young

In a time when no one would suspect a child of buying cigarettes for themselves,
a time when Ray-Ray was called limp-wristed behind his back and meaner things were said to his face, and no one ever felt the need to apologize,
but who was loved anyway because he could sing Lazarus out of his grave at church on Sunday morning, and stand on any stage and compete with anyone at Amateur Night at the Apollo in Harlem,

"Listen to Silence" collage by Tiffany Dugan

by Lara Chamoun

The Scar

Before the cave drawings spoke your name and the bones beneath your skin began to hum, there was the scar. Before your mother’s hands became tools of excavation, unearthing splinters from your flesh; before the empty spaces between the stars at night began to stretch and sag with the weight of the things you forgot, like that favourite toy ball you lost, there was the scar. You trace its rough edges in your flesh, its ridge a worn fossil,