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ISSUE 130 | OCTOBER 2024 PETE KORNOWSKI, THE HOUSE - @PETEKORNOWSKI SCANNERS: JONNY DESTEFANO REC: KRYSTI JOMÉI SATURDAY THE 14TH : JULIANNA BECKERT BOGGY CREEK: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI SLEEPAWAY CAMP: CRISTIN COLVIN TIME BANDITS: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH MEG: MEGAN ARENSON FRONT & BACK COVER: MATTHEW THERRIEN - FRONT: THIRTEEN: PART SIX BACK: LORD OF THE DEAD - @MT_ILLUSTRATION ADULTS OF THE CORN: PETE KORNOWSKI, NICK FLOOK, GRAY WINSLER, JASON WHITE, BRIAN POLK, HANA ZITTEL, ERIK ROGERS, ROB GINSBERG, MOON PATROL, JOEL TAGERT, ERIC JOYNER, DAVE DANZARA, ZAC DUNN, NATE BALDING, TOM MURPHY, HEATHER REYNOLDS, SEAN EADS, JOSHUA VIOLA, CAITLYN GRABENSTEIN SWAMP THINGS: MATTHEW THERRIEN, MISHA BUKHAROV, ANDREW TELLEZ, ZAC LUX, RIVKA YEKER, OKSANA DROZD, JOSH KEYES, ITCHY-O, ANT SMITH, IRINA MAR, SETH MCCONNELL ZOMBEAVERS: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN, MARTY MANDRESH, LISA EBERHARTER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER MUSEUM OF NATURE & SCIENCE, MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, CAT'S EYE CRYSTALS, ASTRO TOURS, BENNY BLANCO'S, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, MONKEY BARREL, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, ITCHY-O, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + SINGLE & BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT US + HELP US GROW BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS A PIRANHANADO, RIBBONS MONTHLY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, KI KI KI MA MA MA

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NICK FLOOK, LOST CITY 2 - @FLOOKO

Amal glanced at the family photo clipped to his visor. They looked so happy. He smiled inwardly to himself, for a moment. But outwardly his expression remained unchanged, empty. He had always wanted a family. But he was never home. This cab was his home. Static played over the radio. He had not noticed. Windshield wipers metronomed, pushed away the constant wet. Rain slicked streets reflected the dull city light. His cab slugged through traffic. Horns screamed around him, humanity desperate to lurch forward. A new request pinged on his phone then. A request he had received many times before. A request that tuned the static in his head to a symphony. A request that reminded him of an old friend. He accepted it and joined the chorus of horns urging the swarm of cars onward. Wisps of shadow, again Squirmed, begged Cried out into the void No. 130 Mouths agape Hungry Always hungry Even when their bellies were full Amal had been his father’s name, and his father’s before him. He knew neither of them, not well. Just as the family that hung over his head did not know him. Perhaps that would change. Amal arrived in the alley, into which Sky Dance patrons were birthed like newborns into the city’s filth. His passenger door opened, and a man slumped inside. Amal watched as he fiddled with the door, managed to close it on his own foot, then successfully pulled it shut. He could smell the alcohol ooze from his throat, through the pane of glass which separated them. The man said nothing to Amal. He never had. Amal pressed the gas. He often imagined the lives of his passengers. Amal looked at this man, who MISHA BUKHAROV, STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES

was now passed out in the backseat. He had picked him up many times before. He had come to know him in a way. Amal did not work for Uber or Lyft or any of the other apps used by common folk. His passengers were of another class, needed special arrangements. He looked at the man’s watch, which was worth more than Amal’s cab. He looked at the man’s suit, which was worth more than Amal’s home. He looked at the man’s ring, which was worth more than Amal’s life. Amal glanced again at the photo clipped to his visor. At the family, whose father was absent, was never home. He knew what he had to do. He had waited weeks for this moment. The universe had presented him with an opportunity to correct one of its flaws. He turned off his phone and exited the highway. Shadows like worms Wriggled toward each other Pulsating, as one Shadow became feather Became claw Became grin Became oblivion Became eyes Eyes that could not see But when looked into, saw Shadows like worms Amal could feel his heart beat like a drum in his chest. The city was a distant glow now, the hum of life replaced with still suburbia; then still suburbia replaced with dim woods. His taxi was swallowed by the night. It became a lonely glow, a torch in a crypt, a star in an empty, black sky. He glanced at his passenger, still asleep, drooling. He turned onto another road, which was little more than gravel and mud. Headlights flashed on signs that said to turn back. Amal continued on, deeper into the woods. He knew these woods well. He played in them as a kid, alone. He lived in fantastical worlds beneath the canopy. He imagined wizards and goblins and shadows that could speak, shadows that became his friends. The shadows still spoke to him, sometimes. The taxi rattled and pitched over the cratered road. Amal glanced nervously at his passenger, who mumbled but slept on. Multitudinous shadow Towering, writhing, coalescing As a planet forms As a noose tightens As mycelium spark Feeling itself grow Hungry Ravenous Gaping maw of dark Amal drove on until he was deep in the belly of the woods. He placed the taxi in park. The wipers ticked back and forth, back and forth. Headlights stabbed into the trees. Amal turned off the cab, let the dark engulf them. Rain pattered on the hood, the only sound. He looked in the rearview mirror, licked his dry lips. His passenger stirred behind him, sensing the change of rhythm. The man’s eyes blinked open. Still drunk, thinking he was home, the man pushed open the door and stumbled out of the cab. Cold rain splattered on his face, cleared some of the ethanol mists. Amal joined him, stepping out into the black night. He looked up, let the rain wash over his face. Thunder rolled in the distance. He gazed into the darkness of the forest, into his childhood playground. He listened, in between the raindrops. He listened for the shadows. In the dark of the woods he felt eyes, great saucers of writhing shadow, felt grin, that was empty blackness. He felt his heart and excitement swell, sensed his old friend’s approval. His passenger was in his face now, screaming, ordering Amal back into the cab, ordering him to take them home. Amal looked at him, smiled, felt the dark hunger encroach. Fear pricked at the man’s spine. “You’re fucking crazy,” he said. Adrenaline and dread helped clear the drunken fog. He punched Amal then, intended to knock him out and take his keys. Amal took the hit, tasted the metallic tinge of his own blood. He looked back up at his passenger, still smiling, crimson dripping from his lips, and said: “Run.” The shadow descended Eyes that cannot see Consumed Tongue that cannot taste Swallowed Fill the belly Eat the flesh Ecstatic refresh Rain gushed on a forest wet with rot. Amal had trekked through the mud, over gnarled roots, over decaying leaves, over blossoming mushrooms. He had arrived where the screams went silent. He found the empty husk. He found the clothes, the watch, the ring. He took them into his arms and walked back to his cab. He placed them neatly into his trunk and drove home. Screams from within Garbled with bile Corroded Drowned A joyous meal Amal returned home. He took the family photo from his visor and smiled at it. He would not need it here anymore. He stepped through his front door, still dripping with rain, with blood. It was quiet and dark. He took off his wet clothes and tossed them into the sink, where maggots crawled on crusted dishes. He walked past his collections, of magazines piled, of diner saucers stacked in careening towers, of expensive watches and rings. Mice scuttled amongst the treasures. Amal was tired, the sort of tired that comes from a hard day’s work, that bodes of a good night’s rest. He felt he had done something good today. He had rid the world of the ungrateful father. He had fed his friend the rot it craved. Amal took the family photo from the pocket of his jeans and carried it into his bedroom with him. He picked up an empty frame from the shelf beside his bed and set the photo inside. He smiled at the family, at the father who was swallowed by shadow, and placed the frame back onto the shelf, alongside the other families who smiled back at him, other families he had dutifully pruned. Amal slept peacefully Dreamt of shadows which swelled Bellies full And burst, became Wisps of shadow, again 7

Forgive Me For Not Being Upbeat, But Life Has Just Beat Me Down (Part 34 Or So) By Brian Polk | Art by Jason White

I Don't Make My Bed Because I Like To See How Hard I Fought Sleep Last Night Sleep and I like to engage in battle. We’re constantly at each other’s throats. I like to land punches by tossing and turning and thinking about things I am powerless to change. Sometimes I’ll stare at the ceiling for hours and lament the fact that life lasts so long. Meanwhile, sleep blocks all my punches and laughs as I run myself ragged. So when the alarm goes off in the morning, I like to preserve my sheets to see what kind of carnage my fight with slumber generated. If the sheets and blankets have barely budged, then sleep and I didn’t really fight all that hard. But if my pillow was chucked across the room and the rest of my bedding somehow landed in my closet then I fought against sleep bravely and without mercy. But here’s the thing: even if I win the fight against sleep, I end up losing in the end. It’s kind of like life in general. No One Ever Talks About How Much Fun Benders Are Generally, when people speak of binge drinking a lot of alcohol in a small amount of time, they focus on the potential dangers: liver damage, vomiting profusely at inopportune times, waking up in strange places where they don’t speak English and the people there are clearly mad at your presence, etc. And sure, anyone would be wise to take these negative effects into account when engaging in bender-like behavior. But when all is said and done, going on a fucking tear is a lot of fun — especially considering the fact that sometimes a five-hour reprieve from how bad life has become is the only thing that you have to look forward to. And sure it’s expensive, and yes, hangovers are terrible, but when life hands you mountains of lemons, every so often it just makes sense to slice them all up and put them in your vodka sodas. Going to bars and seeing old friends — or making new ones — is really fulfilling. So is doing one last shot at 1:45 a.m. right before you stumble into your Lyft. So yeah, I’m not saying I’m going to spend the rest of my shortened life getting drunk every night, but life has a way of twisting and turning in ways you’re not prepared for. And in those times — for a very short period, anyway — imbibing copious amounts of alcohol can put a smile on your face where a smile is desperately needed at the time. (Birdy and its affiliates do not condone the premise of this entry and in no way support the ramifications of bender-like behavior. Please consult your lawyer and medical professionals before attempting to drink your weight in alcohol. —Ed.) The Sign Should Really Say, Frown, You're On Camera" I hate it when you see a sign that says, “Smile, you’re on camera.” Being under constant surveillance is not a thing that should bring a smile to anyone’s face. It would even be an improvement if the sign said, “Sorry to make you all sad, but we are recording everything you’re currently doing, because we simply cannot accept the lack of control we have in our lives and this is one way to mitigate that. Also, keep off the grass.” I’m going to make a sign that says, “Smile, you’re not on camera.” That’ll show ‘em! Now That I'm Going Through A Breakup, I Realize How Much Easier It Is To Give Advice About Getting Over An Ex Than It Is To Actually Take It I used to be a fucking champion about doling out advice to people going through breakups. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it soon.” “Maybe don’t think about it all the time.” “You’re still young-ish. You’ll find someone else.” Now that I am a single 40-something-year-old who still dresses like a 15-year-old and has never even tried online dating, I am having trouble heeding some of the advice I gave away freely for so many years. “… You’ll get over it soon?” What kind of shit is that? 9 Yeah, I know I will. But shit sucks now! Ya got any advice for that? … Sorry. Please excuse my momentary lapse of aplomb. This shit is a roller coaster ride of emotions. In Order To Mitigate My Insomnia, I'm Doing All The Things That Experts Recommend, Like Trying to Avoid Screens at Night, Exercising During Day, and Not Thinking About How, At This Very Moment, My Ex Is Most Likely Raw-dogging The Person She Left Me For The internet — and people who read it — often tell me that I have poor sleep hygiene. And fair enough. Even though I try to stay active, avoid screens, go to bed at the same time every night, just use my bed for sleeping, and try my best not to think about the sweet sexy time my ex is having with her new lover, I still manage not to get enough sleep at night. I wonder what I’m doing wrong. I Think I'm Going To Get Really Good At Drawing Dogs The nice thing about starting over in mid-life is that I get to dictate how the second half is going to go. During the first half of my life on this planet, I wasn’t very good at drawing dogs. But I think I have the necessary tools to remedy this situation. And since I wanted to end this particularly dark monthly installment here at Birdy with something positive, I’m divulging these plans for my future. I love dogs and I always wanted to draw. So look out world! There will be more portraits of canines that will be shitty at first, but then hopefully get progressively better. In fact, you’d be doing yourself a favor by making plans to attend my gallery show sometime in 2028. It will be called, “Dogs On Paper.” I’ll keep you posted.

AN INTERVIEW WITH TORONTO FILM & COMIC ARTIST BY KRYSTI JOMÉI Toronto-based illustrator, writer, musician, dream warrior Matthew Therrien is a bonafide autodidact. With art coursing through his veins, there’s nothing that can stop his creative flow and tackling whatever project or medium that comes his way. No matter the guidelines or clientele — Marvel/Upper Deck, Lionsgate, Vestron Video, SYFY, HorrorHound, Cauldron Films, to name a very few — his portraits, posters, storyboards and comics are undeniably recognizable, bearing a stamp of clandestine beauty, and entrancing the viewer to long for more. We had the chance to catch up with Matthew after September’s Colorado Festival of Horror to dive deeper into his terrifyingly talented world. BEFORE BECOMING A FULL-TIME ILLUSTRATOR AND CREATIVE DIRECTOR, YOU WERE A PROFESSIONAL PIANIST. TELL US MORE ABOUT THAT CAREER AND HOW IT LED TO YOUR CURRENT ONE. To be honest, my dream has always been to be a filmmaker. Well, to be really honest my dream was to be John Carpenter. However, I grew up in a fairly small Canadian town where movie-making just wasn’t a career path that was accessible, so instead I wound up pursuing music from the time I was about six years old. I graduated university with a degree in classical piano performance, and like you said, music was my entire life. I taught at three different schools, was a music director, choir accompanist and even played in a couple rock bands. Things changed when I was in my mid-20s; I had the opportunity to move to Toronto and started to become friends with a whole bunch of talented people in the film community. It was at that point that I realized I wanted to put music on the back burner and start to actively pursue a role in film. For whatever reason I had the idea that, since I had no film portfolio, I could try and work as a film artist and gradually make connections that No. 130 way with directors, producers, distributors, studios, etc. It’s still very much my goal to be actively working in film as either a writer or director (and it’s something that’s getting a bit closer each day!), but I absolutely have art to thank for where I am today. It’s given me a wonderful chance to meet and work with so many incredible people in the industry. YOU DOVE INTO YOUR ART CAREER HEADFIRST WITH NO PORTFOLIO AS WELL, SPEARHEADING YOUR JOURNEY BY CREATING ART FOR THE CULT FILM BASED COMIC, MANBORG: THE OFFICIAL COMIC BOOK SEQUEL (2013). HOW DID YOU GO ABOUT TEACHING YOURSELF TECHNIQUES, DIFFERENT FORMS, EVERYTHING THAT YOU’RE SO EXPERIENCED WITH NOW? I have a lot of fond memories of working on the Manborg comic. It happened at a time when I had no followers on social media, and because I didn’t have the pressure of anyone watching my work I was totally free to just experiment with the art. It was really a whole process of trial and error — it was before I was working digitally, so each page was penciled and inked by hand. After the comic was done I invested in a Wacom tablet and began to teach myself how to paint with Photoshop (which really took about three years before I had any kind of confidence with it). The internet is invaluable though. Artists like Dave Rapoza make so much of their process and technique available online for younger illustrators to learn from. It was really just through a period of drawing a lot, and also going through the wealth of tutorials on the internet, that I was able to finally hone in on a technique that I’ve used pretty much consistently to this day. GROWING UP IN THE 80S AND 90S, YOU WERE DEEPLY

INSPIRED BY FILM — FROM THEIR ARTFUL VHS COVERS TO THE IN-PERSON MOVIEGOING EXPERIENCE. WHAT FILM(S) SPARKED YOUR PASSION AND HOW DID IT SHAPE YOUR ARTISTIC PATH? The original Halloween (1978) was the film that made me a horror fan. But it was the breathtaking poster art from Bob Peak, Enzo Sciotti, Matthew Peak, Drew Struzan, Richard Amsel, John Alvin and Robert McGinnis (to name just a few) that made me want to be a poster artist. To this day I still reference all of them, and try to incorporate little homages to their artwork whenever possible. WHEN DID YOU REALIZE YOU WERE AN ARTIST? That’s a tough question, because I’m not even sure I feel like an artist now! I knew I was a working artist the first time I was paid for an illustration. And I remember feeling incredibly grateful the first year I supported myself — and my family — purely with art projects. But I really struggle with the “artist” label. I work as a commercial illustrator, so ultimately what I’m creating is artwork to sell a product. I try to infuse each piece with my own aesthetic, but at the end of the day, I’m serving a client. Which means often there are very specific requirements, or lengthy revisions that need to be accommodated. I think we’re all artists, regardless of experience or skill, whenever we find ourselves creating something purely for the sake of the joy that comes from creating. It’s in those moments, when I’m not working for a client but only for myself … those are the moments when I feel the most connected to that artist label. HOW DID YOU COME TO YOUR DISTINCT STYLE? That was a slow evolution. I worked hard early on to develop a style closer to the Drew Struzan technique … where I could capture realistic likenesses and render key art that felt very connected to that line of traditional poster illustration from the 70s and 80s. But, every now and then, I would feel so constrained by the need to make the art so clean and realistic, that I would spend time just creating these dark, abstract horror pieces (akin to the works of Francisco Goya or Francis Bacon). Eventually I just had the idea to take that kind of dark, expressionist style and apply it to my regular client work. It didn’t happen overnight … but ultimately the response to what I was doing was so positive, it just helped to steer my work more permanently in that direction. 11 BIGGEST CHALLENGES YOU FACE AS A TRADITIONAL ARTIST IN THIS DAY AND AGE? Revisions. The ability to make changes quickly, whether it be adjusting the size of portraits, their position in the composition, colors, etc. Making fast changes and hitting deadlines is such a massive requirement in this field, and that’s the reason I started working digitally in the first place. I admire any artist who has held out and works entirely traditionally; I’ve found that I use a combination of traditional and digital techniques in my work these days, just in order to make the workflow with clients and studios as seamless as possible. YOU APPRECIATE ARTISTS WHO TAKE AN ORGANIC AND UNCONVENTIONAL APPROACH — CREATOR OF HELLRAISER’S PINHEAD CLIVE BARKER USING STEAK KNIVES TO CREATE TEXTURE IN HIS PAINTINGS, COMIC ARTIST BILL SIENKIEWICZ USING HOUSE PAINT, ETC. CAN YOU EXPAND ON THIS VALUE AND ALSO WHAT “UNTRADITIONAL” ART TECHNIQUES YOU PERSONALLY USE (OR WANT TO TRY).

That’s a great question. I think sometimes, especially when we’re first starting out in the arts, we can get fooled into thinking that there’s a singular — or right — way to accomplish something. If you go to an art store there’s no shortage of expensive paints and tools … and I think it’s easy for us to believe that we need those things in order to create good art. What I admire about Barker and Sienkiewicz is that, time and again, they show that you can make breathtaking art by simply using whatever tools are at your disposal. Even comic artists like Jim Lee use cheap pencils and Sharpie markers to create absolute jaw-dropping masterpieces. Most of my work these days is for clients, and unfortunately it doesn’t give me an opportunity to do much experimentation. But it’s definitely something I’m looking forward to indulging in the future when I’m able to create work just for myself, independent of approvals of deadlines. WORKING FOR YOURSELF TAKES AN INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF DISCIPLINE AND SELF-MOTIVATION. HOW DO YOU KEEP YOUR CREATIVE FIRE STOKED AND MOMENTUM GOING? Some days are easier than others. The deadline is what ultimately always forces me to keep going, and since this is my livelihood, knowing that I need to pay bills with artwork is another big motivator. I do what I can to stay organized, but there are definitely some days where, a few hours into a piece, I’m still struggling to figure it out. I think it’s important for any freelance creative to be aware of burnout and do regular check-ins on their own stress levels. It can be easy to work late hours and through the weekends when you’re your own boss. But forcing yourself to have a work-life balance (that works for you personally) is the key to surviving many years in this industry. No. 130 MOST MEMORABLE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR CAREER TO DATE. I’ve been really fortunate to have a lot of fun highlights along the way. But, one that definitely stands out for me was having dinner and drinks with Macaulay Culkin and his wife, Brenda Song, at their beautiful home in Los Angeles. They’re such a genuinely nice couple … it was a pleasure to hang out and just talk with them. BIGGEST OBSTACLE / CREATIVE BLOCK / U-TURN YOU’VE OVERCOME. That’s such a tough question. I feel like almost every project I’ve had some kind of challenge that had to be overcome. In general, however, the biggest challenges are always when you become too attached to a design or layout … and then a client asks for a big revision. It can become almost impossible to see how to implement a big change if you’ve fallen in love with your original concept. FAVORITE / LEAST FAVORITE PART OF BEING AN ARTIST? The freedom that comes with being an artist. Being able to set my own hours has given me the rare privilege of spending so much quality time with my family and my kids — and that’s honestly the most important thing in the world to me. And, of course, it’s just fun to wake up every day and make a living painting art for comics and movies. My least favorite aspect is definitely the business side of things. It’s a whole other kind of stress dealing with quoting projects, securing payments, dealing with taxes, etc. There’s a lot to learn if you want to do this kind of work full-time and run a successful studio. WEIRDEST RULE OR GUIDELINE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN WHEN DRAWING A CHARACTER. That’s a really good question. Because I work on a lot of posters where celebrities need to give their final approvals on the art, there’s usually a fair amount of rules and guidelines in place throughout the whole process. But I will say, when I created some artwork for Upper Deck/ Marvel, they included a 14-page document outlining what characters could be drawn and how they needed to look. Including some very specific requirements for Howard the Duck. I never would have guessed there were so many rules surrounding that character. WHAT’S A PIECE OF ADVICE YOU CAN GIVE TO ASPIRING

ARTISTS THAT YOU WISH YOU HAD KNOWN? Be patient. There’s nothing worse than feeling frustrated early on that you're not as far ahead in your career as you had hoped. There’s no timeline for something like this. It can take months or years before you start getting the jobs you want. But keep at it — keep putting your artwork out there, and be willing to hear the advice that more established artists offer you along the way. Any career in the arts is hard. It’s emotionally hard, as well as financially. But if you give up, you’ll never know how far you could have made it. So just keep going. YOUR DEFINITION OF ART. I think art is — or should be — a nonviolent form of self expression (that is to say, something that doesn’t physically harm others). It’s that fundamental act of creation that we feel naturally compelled to do as humans. I think art is a broad term that encompasses a lot of disciplines and mediums. But, I like to think that art is a very necessary aspect of our humanity — and through the experience of art, we come to a better and richer understanding of ourselves. WHAT PROJECTS ARE YOU CURRENTLY EXCITED ABOUT? I’m not sure to what degree I can ever talk about client work … but I have some superhero-related paintings in the works that I’m looking forward to revealing next year. And in the film world, I’ve just started writing the screenplays for a horror trilogy that I’m really excited to delve into. WHAT’S YOUR GOAL FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR? I’ve booked most of the year already with projects, so for me it’s just a matter of trying to stay on schedule and slowly get everything finished up on time. My goal is to get everything wrapped by early December to hopefully take a few weeks off around Christmas. It’s always great to start the new year feeling refreshed and ready to go. ANYTHING ELSE ON THE HORIZON? I’m very slowly starting to layout the first issue of a comic that I created … which is fun because I haven’t tackled sequential (interior) art for many years. I have to try and fit in the work between my actual client projects which can be difficult. But I’m hoping to have something finished by early next year that I’m able to start sharing. ART TITLES IN ORDER AS THEY APPEAR: FINAL GIRLS: LAURIE, GET YOUR GHOST, OBEY, HUNKY BOY, NES "GHOST", SPIRIT OF HADDONFIELD, KILLER KLOWNS FROM OUTER SPACE, CREW EXPENDABLE, SHAPE OF EVIL, ZEDD, ASSIMILATION, THE TRILOGY, INHUMAN, THE GATES OF HELL BLU-RAY ART (CAULDRON FILMS), SHE'S ALIVE 13 ANYTHING I MISS? I think you covered it all! Thank you so much for the chance to talk about so many diverse topics and also shed a bit more light on my process and career. I appreciate it! HEAD TO OUR SITE TO READ AN ADDITIONAL ROUND OF FUN BONUS QUESTIONS WHERE MATTHEW TALKS ABOUT HIS FAVORITES IN FILM, COMICS, ART AND MORE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/FEATURED/INTERVIEWWITH-TORONTO-FILM-AND-COMIC-ARTIST-MATTHEW-THERRIEN FOLLOW MATTHEW THERRIEN FOR MORE BY TALENTED WORK: IG: @MT_ILLUSTRATION | X: @MCTHERRIEN | MCTHERRIEN.COM

Diavola by Jennifer Thorne The Pace family has decided on idyllic Tuscany for their family vacation, BY HANA ZITTEL renting a massive villa in the Italian countryside. Anna, the pariah of the family, is dreading the inevitable drama stirred up by her siblings, their significant others and her parents. Her twin brother, Benny, is bringing along his new boyfriend, Christopher, whose dry, judgemental personality seems to dampen any outing. Her sister, Nicole, has crafted a down-to-theminute itinerary, leaving little room for relaxation and is still visibly sour after suspecting Anna of lusting after her less than desirable husband. In tow, Nicole has her two young daughters, bursting with excitement to spend all day playing in the villa's pool, happy to have a plan to spend one of the days at an Italian waterpark with Grandma and Grandpa. At first, the only true tension of vacation for Anna is trying to stay under the radar and avoid becoming the target of disparaging remarks from her sister or snide comments from her brother’s boyfriend. Doing what she can to reduce tensions, Anna is just hoping to make it through the week unscathed and without a huge family blowup. Soon after her arrival, however, she learns the caretaker of the property had given her family an ominous warning to never enter the large tower of the villa, that it must always remain locked and closed. When tiny things start to go awry, spots of rooms that seem too cold, strange dreams, phantom shadows and illusions spotted throughout the property, Anna tries to resist letting her suspicions get the best of her. Benny’s boyfriend can’t seem to drop that they may be missing out on the best bedroom in the house in the locked tower, and convinces Anna and Benny to unlock the door. Met with a vacant room, the three have unknowingly made a grievous choice unleashing a heightened level of terror on the family. When Anna learns about the former resident, La Dama Bianca, from the frightened caretaker she knows she has to convince her family to get out of there, despite how little they trust her. Jennifer Thorne’s haunted house story is wound up in a captivating family drama allowing for the reader to often forget you were reading a horror story at all. The completely unlikeable Pace family is so consumed by their own drama and superficial issues that the thought of dying at a haunted villa seems to be the least of their concerns. A compulsively readable horror story, Diavola, is a crafty take on a classic tale that centers the terror of dysfunctional family dynamics mixed with the misery of time spent together with the family you don’t get to choose. A Guest in the House by Emily Carroll “A haunting is like everything else in life. Impossible to prepare for. So it’s better not to have expectations.” Abigail has moved into a secluded Canadian lake house with her new husband, David, and his daughter, Crystal. Navigating being a new stepmother and wife, Abigail cannot help to think about the woman that was in her place before. She has been told that Shelia died of breast cancer, and Crystal’s reclusive behavior and sometimes eerie drawings are a result of her coping with the loss of her mother. Crystal has been telling her classmates she sees her dead mother appearing on the dock down by the water. When Abigail hears this at a parent-teacher conference, she talks to Crystal about ghosts and processing death, but starts to have visions herself. Soon, Abigail is seeing Sheila regularly, learning about her life and the truth behind her time with David and her eventual death. A Guest in the House negotiates the lies we tell ourselves about the people we love and the reality of our situations. Emily Carroll unravels a captivating mystery full of twists, enhanced by her elegant illustrations which transition between the muted, mundane panels capturing everyday life and the otherworldly, colorful frames exploring illusions and fantasy. Layered and beautifully told, A Guest in the House was the winner of the 2024 Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the winner of the 2024 Lammy Award Winner for LGBTQ+ Comic. No. 130

MOON PATROL, ALLIGATOR SHADOWS - BEST OF BIRDY 121 ROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), DON'T BE TRICKED BY WHAT YOU SEE, YOU GOT TWO WAYS TO GO - ROBGINSBERG.COM ERIK ROGERS - BEST OF BIRDY 085 15

No. 130

Alternate Dimensions & Exquisite Corpse Explore the multidimensional nature of self at Cosmic Howl — your best version, future version, how many iterations exist in different dimensions and planets. By Rivka Yeker Art by Andrew Tellez Contributing artist: Zac Lux Many years ago, I went on a date with a closeted queer who was still figuring out what gender and sexuality meant to them. I, fully immersed in my own liberated inner — and mostly outer — identity, pursued them nonetheless. On our second date, we got on the bus at 10 p.m. and took it eastbound on North Avenue to the lake. It was late spring in Chicago and the weather was only just becoming ripe enough for a late night swim or spontaneous beach trip. On the way there, this person pulled out a piece of paper, folded it up four ways, handed me a marker, and said, “Draw something. Anything.” So I did. I doodled with the pink marker, they doodled, I doodled again, and when we unfolded it — it was a delightful monster. Imperfect and strange, yet tender and memorable. I still have the photo — and it remains one of my favorite memories of our relationship. When the concept of “Exquisite Corpse” was brought up to me by Meow Wolf’s copywriter, artist extraordinaire, and brilliant human, Quinn Fati, I thought, Oh, that’s familiar. There’s something eerily relatable to it — this creation that is made up of other people’s ideas, thoughts, visions, experiences. As a concept, it is the exact definition of what being human really is, yet it’s much easier to call it art — or a monster — or a game — or an exquisite corpse. So what is it, anyway? An idea, a phenomenon, a subsect of the surrealist movement? All of the above, definitely. The Museum of Modern Art says, “The game gained popularity in artistic circles during the 1920s when it was adopted as a technique by artists of the Surrealist movement to generate collaborative compositions.” It’s simple, really. Put a bunch of weirdos together and have them create whatever they want, let their imaginations run unconstrained. Meow Wolf already adapts this idea quite well, centering collaboration at the forefront of all their exhibitions. But what if it was elevated for Halloween? What if there were costume contests and workshops and parlor games that really asked you to perceive the world through not only your eyes and mind, but through everyone’s around you too? What if you had to confront the infinite possibilities of yourself in this life? In another one? An alternative dimension? What if you were able to actually create and live as these infinite possibilities? What if this was the most horrifying thing you could do? To finally confront the endless ways that you exist? This is what this collaborative game of exquisite corpse is meant to do. This is what Meow Wolf’s Cosmic Howl is all about this year. Cosmic Howl is a yearly event that takes Meow Wolf’s immersive experience and adds a splash of strange enchantment to the cauldron — with events, workshops and other special surprises on select dates in the spirit of October’s spooky season. It allows you to explore the multidimensional nature of self — your best version, future version, how many iterations exist in different dimensions and planets. It’s the moment to truly unleash all the ways that you exist. Quinn explained it very eloquently, “You can sit and try to figure yourself out as much as you want to but you have to figure out yourself as it’s reflected through others — yourself as the individual, yourself in community. You can recreate yourself over and over again but your point of reference is always seen through other people.” There is a bridging between the ontological sense of self and the way others project onto you. André Breton, a surrealist painter, said, “In their proclivity for composition and subject, Exquisite Corpse drawings bring anthropomorphism to its extreme. They emphasize chance relationships, that which unites the interior and exterior worlds. They negate the frantic, derisory imitation of physical appearances, which is still the most prominent — and most contestable — part of contemporary art, and to which art remains anachronistically subject. May they oppose all those wholesome precepts of indocility that try to exclude humor, and find a less embryonic means.” In other words, don’t look to the standard or what people expect. Resist the larger culture by showing up as you are and accentuating every part of you. When I think of my aforementioned relationship and the struggle to truly look at identity in the eye, I think of the monster we created and its freedom to exist just as it is: a frilly pink blob. Sometimes, it is much easier to show your truth through someone else seeing you first. Then slowly, it’ll all come out until everyone else does. See you (or another version of you) at Cosmic Howl this year! COSMIC HOWL EVENTS OCTOBER 2024: CHECK OUT WHAT’S HOWLIN’ AT THE MEOW WOLF NEAREST TO YOU: CONVERGENCE STATION IN DENVER, CO; HOUSE OF ETERNAL RETURN IN SANTA FE, NM; OMEGA MART IN LAS VEGAS, NV; THE REAL UNREAL IN GRAPEVINE, TX — MEOWWOLF.COM/COSMIC-HOWL A NEW PORTAL IN HOUSTON, TX OPENS HALLOWEEN! LEARN MORE: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/HOUSTON | STAY TUNED FOR LOS ANGELES! 17

A WOLF CALLED WORMWOOD BY JOEL TAGERT ART BY OKSANA DROZD AKA LUMITAR Remember to shut the door. Jon did not remember very much at this point. There had been a time, he knew, when his memory had been truly capacious, a prodigious palace whose pillars were a host of recondite systems and abstruse techniques for recollection. He had written books on the subject, entertained dinner parties, won trivia shows, educated the already erudite in hallowed halls. Now his memories were few, and precious, and threatened. Remember to shut the door. He was sitting cross-legged upon a large square stone in the courtyard of his house. The house was unusual in many ways, built by him for an unusual purpose. Constructed in the ancient Roman style, the courtyard was surrounded by exactly twelve rooms, with a hallway that ran around its inner perimeter. The memory palace method was also called the Roman house method, as this was one way the ancients had recalled their speeches and whatever else, by mentally placing each item sequentially in the house’s room. Previously there had been four doors from the hallway entering the courtyard, but three of these had been first screwed shut and then bricked over. The remaining door, the one he faced now, was a storm door of heavy steel. Little pig, little pig, let me in! In his hand he held an eight by ten photograph. A light mist was falling, as it so often did in this part of the state — what was its name? — glistening on the thick paper. He still remembered why the photo was important; he would remember this to the last, because he had placed this single memory in the courtyard with him. Once it had shown Llew and himself walking hand in hand through a meadow bordered by yellow aspen and deep green pine. Now, however, the photo had changed. Though only five years old and stored in a photo album, it looked much older, its surface pitted and flaked. Over the last six months its color had first faded to sepia, then deepened No. 130 into an unnatural crimson, as though the forest were ablaze. The two human figures had turned to patchy silhouettes, then grown diffuse, their shapes shifting. At first he had wondered what new form it would take. Now, as the legs, body and tail became clear, it was obvious. He focused hard, boring into the paper, and was rewarded by two new blister-spots appearing, red as rubies. The wolf called Wormwood opened its eyes. A low sound, less a howl than a disquieting subliminal vibration, neither human nor lupine, shivered through the air. It was equally loud in the inner space, where the mental image of the house, his memory palace, resided, and he cringed. The wolf was at the door! He focused on the first room, plumping up the memory like a juicy slab of steak. * * It was Eoghan who first brought it to his attention, Professor Eoghan Ó Cléirigh (Owen O’Cleary, but Eoghan was very Irish and would certainly not spell his name like a damn Englishman). He was attending a seminar on medieval manuscripts at the University of Washington (that was it, that was the state) and they met for coffee. Eoghan was distracted, even distraught, taking off his glasses again and again to rub at his eyes and temples, running his fingers through his thinning blond hair, staring out the windows. After some preliminary small talk, he burst out, “Do you remember a woman from the Trinity conference? A blond, I think. You dated her.” Like an accusation. Jon cocked his head. “Are you thinking of Mallory?” Whom Jon had dated for six weeks or so toward the end of his stay in Dublin. “No, no, no. She was at the conference. She gave a presentation. There was some controversy.” “Maybe, but I certainly didn’t date anybody there.” “Fine, forget the dating. But do you remember her? This is your area, right? ‘Elephants never forget’ and all that.” This was a reference to Elbert

the Elephant Never Forgets, a kid’s book Jon had written teaching children basic mnemonic techniques. “Can you just remember her name?” “Probably. Let me concentrate.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head. Jon routinely memorized the names of everyone he met. Here he had placed them in the Long Room of the Old Library at Trinity, the images standing row by row for his mental inspection: a shamrock burning (Seamus Byrne), a hollow statue of Michelangelo’s David (David Holloway), a swan holding a mallet (Siobhan O’Malley), and so on. He got seventeen names down before he stopped. The image there was … not missing, not merely forgotten, which would have been perfectly normal. When that happened he would refer to what he called his Record of Days, the journal where he recorded names and places. Rather, the image was … corrupted. The mental space felt blistered, painful, hard to focus on. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. A sudden sharp headache stabbed his temples and he covered his eyes. “What is it?” Eoghan asked, reaching out to seize his wrist. “Who is she?” The thing was, Jon was somehow sure he should remember this person, but her face would not come into focus, no matter how he tried. Still, he did manage to make out the mnemonic image associated with her. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I can’t remember her name, exactly. I see a, a well, a low well, but it’s shaped like a rose. Maybe, uh, Rose, or Roswell?” But that wasn’t right. “No, no,” Eoghan breathed, relief blossoming on his face. “It’s Llewellyn. Llewellyn Rose.” On just hearing the name, Jon’s eyes overflowed with tears, though for the life of him he couldn’t see why. Llewellyn Rose! The name stabbed him in the heart. * * The wolf’s whine grew louder, became a growl, then a sudden roar, and the doors to the first room, both mental and physical, burst apart. The wolf swarmed in like a rush of burning acid, and Jon bent over, head filled with pain. He fought to recover his concentration, knowing that whatever had been in the twelfth room, it was gone now. Eleven to go: a trail of crumbs. * * Room eleven: The hunt. Eoghan thought he and Lwellyn had worked together, researching medieval manuscripts. Now it was all a blur. When he looked into his boxes and binders of notes he found them inexplicably damaged, the text on page after page indecipherable, water-damaged, moth-eaten, foodstained, especially the names of the authors. His electronic files were likewise corrupted, unopenable. “There’s some force at work here,” he insisted. “I didn’t do this.” At first Jon was skeptical, but then he reviewed his own journals — his most precious physical possessions — and found to his shock that they too were damaged beyond legibility, both the Record of Days and his personal journal, where he recorded thoughts and impressions. But his memory palaces remained, and for a week he shut himself in his house and reviewed them intensely, paying special attention to anywhere he felt a burning discomfort. Herpetic lesions of the mind. In each of these places — and there were dozens — the content of the memory had been destroyed. However, the images remained, a series of visual puns (now riddles) whose answers they had to decipher. Fortunately, they were both experts. Painstakingly they reconstructed the research. It led them to a book, a fourteenth-century illuminated manuscript originating in Switzerland, now kept at Trinity. It was called the Apocalypse of Saint Gall, and together they traveled to Dublin to view it firsthand. They were both fascinated by the surreal images from the Book of Revelation, but even more so by the many figures and notes crammed into the margins. “How did I forget this?” Eoghan said wonderingly. One illustration in particular gripped them. A star with a tail like a dragon’s fell through the sky, roiling smoke, while the earth beneath it burned, villagers fleeing strangely angular buildings. The verses beneath, Revelation 8:10-11, were in vulgate Latin, but Eoghan translated them effortlessly in a hoarse whisper: “And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.” Beneath the verse, in the wide lower margin, a later artist had drawn a vivid addendum: a red-eyed wolf, chained, slavering and furious. * * Jon’s nemesis fell upon these memories like acid. He began to shake. This must be how it felt to have a stroke. The wolf was moving faster, impatient for the final prize, the last course. Jon had been hunting it, but it had also been hunting him. Room by room it took from him the substance of his past, memories of his friends, family, lovers. Most of all it seemed to desire memories of itself: not surprising, since these were the greatest threat to it. It was a being of hunger, a devouring demon. Jon wondered if it had a memory of its own. Perhaps it was like the daemons of myth, who would answer any question if compelled. It had to feed regularly, usually nightly, sneaking into bedrooms to crouch over the sleepers, stealing their pasts. Once in a while though, it would gorge. When it did, its victims would burst into flames where they sat. Eoghan had died that way. All that remained of him were his feet, still in his Chelsea boots. This memory was in the second room; and then it was gone. * * The last room was devoted to Llewellyn. It had taken time, but finally Jon had recalled her face, sitting in the aspen grove they loved. Her skin translucent in the sunlight, her smile easy and open. Here the beast lingered, savoring its meal. Jon wept steadily, finally not even knowing what he was mourning. Then … the creature paused. It regarded the door. Jon waited, willing it to enter the courtyard, but still it didn’t. It was suspicious. It had tested the other doors and seen the shuttered windows. Perhaps it also sensed that the best part of Jon’s memories were gone. It had sucked out the juicy bits until only a husk remained. And this had the smell of a trap. “No,” Jon whispered. It couldn’t leave him here, in this barren state. There was another name, he thought, one they’d used before. He looked down at his hand and saw it written there. He’d anticipated this. It was a silly name, taken from the wolf in The NeverEnding Story, the wolf that helped the Nothing. He and a friend — what was the friend’s name? — used to joke about it. “Gmork!” he called out, knowing the creature hated it, hated being mocked, hated being known. “Gmork, Gmork, Gmork!” Sounding like the Swedish chef from the Muppets. It worked. The door slammed open. Early on they had wondered if the creature even had a body, or if it were a true spirit, some floating evil, like a cloud. But eventually they had seen its physical form: about man-sized, low to the ground on four oddly jointed legs like a salamander’s, with a whip tail and black fur that writhed where there was no wind. Most notable were the eyes, red as blood. Wormwood hesitated only a moment. Then, in a single spring, it was on him, sinking its stinger into his abdomen. His spine arched, body immediately beginning to stiffen. Remember to shut the door! The physical door had already swung shut, propelled by strong mechanisms. But the wolf was tricky: It existed in two planes at all times, and if trapped in the physical world, it could still escape in the mental plane, and vice versa. Now though, Jon closed the inner door, the door to his true sanctum. The mind, he knew, was a place. Most of all it was a house: this house. He closed the door and erased it, smoothed it into stone, roofed it in steel, much as the physical courtyard had been roofed over in steel bars. The creature took everything from him, even his name, so he was left staring upward, blindly. His body was overheated, pouring sweat. But still he remembered one single phrase, whispering it again and again. The wolf paused in its feeding, sensing something was the matter. It looked around, realizing a circumstance it had rarely before encountered. It was in a cage. It tried the door, climbed the walls, tested the bars and found them firm. It shrieked in fury. Again it heard the nameless man whisper, hating the sound of it, hearing in the words the mewing cries of its own eventual starvation: “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin. Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin …”

SAFE KRAAKEN BY ZAC DUNN The membrane of eyelet slid so slow next to Skeletons of HUMPBACK’s and STURGEON Corroded ship guts rust and melt to dust That EELS and BARRELEYE trout sneeze PUFFER FISH wishes for rays of light to Puncture the infinite mass that drips and SLIPS sips of life and moonbeams That ORCA chase to the limit of their own Boundless hunger to fill a void or Speak in clicks that murmur motors back to Sleep as oars crack from cast off’s hands MAKO WHITE TIP and BLUE SHARKS MAN O’ WAR and MOON JELLY move Miles over sandbars where container ships Loaded to the gills with RoRo CARS LISTS so PERILOUS Upon the chin of the ABYSS A STRATOS slipped below deck and plummeted to bonk the KRAAKEN LIKE the PINKERTON’s lined up by BANDITOS Brought to knees in soiled knickers as Filthy sweat and tears of fear glisten Into the hail of GATLING and COLT’s breathe spit over a thunderous cackle in unison. The KRAAKEN would shrug off the ping of the bumper and profane incursion to a perfectly sublime many decades slumber The EYELET now exposed to a full round Sphere bigger than a boulder as a SPERM WHALE belch squelched from its core Pelting SEALS squeals of AMBERGRIS riptides drifting perfumier to FABERGÉ the stinky ROYAL JELLY away in haste … Pulling the tippy top of the sea to dip ever so slightly in displacement adjacent from the endless stasis of silence that grows slower Heavier than a billion suns magma and gases and perpetual inferno of the LION AND BALL SHARK AND BELLY WHALERS AND PREY A rouge wave exploded 10-stories in an instant pushing east of TONGA and the Jagged maze of the GREAT BARRIER REEF TEEF and CLOVEN HOOF upon decks spying the maelstrom of the tide pool As the KRAAKEN recoils to launch from Deepest dark to brazen illumination THE SAFE would hold all the keys and all The cyphers needed to understand the Coded epiphanies that great SQUID hungers most like a T-REX for its flesh too The one who seeks the two and two seeks the boundless prophets that are kept SAFE from GREEDY FINGERS and HARPOONS chucked From STARBOARD in desperation to puncture the EYELET yet only falls miles short as the IRIS of the KRAAKEN spies The puny eyes of the world cowing back INDIA INK STAINS on ALTERNATE TENTACLES so STOUT they spider web the hull of the vessel and pitch it skyward to bake in a flash of chaos and collision internally only To touch unceremoniously cracking in half SAFE 5:52am 7.29.24.000003 OGE IZU HOD NYC FOLLOW FOR MORE IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC DAVE DANZARA, GALACTIC EMPIRE - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS ERIC JOYNER, HARVEST MOON - ERICJOYNER.COM

JOSH KEYES, RAINBOWS END A myriad precedents have been set for stories where the travails of comingof-age are represented by otherworldly forces. Buffy, Wednesday, Harry Potter and The Blue Balls of Angst. Sure, the last one is slash fanfic (Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood causes a great deal of confusion in the timely throes of an updated Jane Austen). But they nonetheless draw back an essential fear of the hormonal unknown and speak to the generation currently vise-gripped by biology most foul. So it should come as no surprise that in October 1979 an entire school actually had what the police deemed a riot. Cause of riot? Why, Satanic possession, natch. Because when the Lord of All That Exists Unholy whether on Earth or in Hell wants to raise an army, he’s thinkin’ troubled teens and not, say, all the burned-out souls suffering from severe PTSD having been in, y’know, an actual army. It just makes sense. No. 130 While seemingly devoid of logic there may be some reasoning to Old Nick’s summation of the students of the Miami Aerospace Academy. A) It’s in Miami. He lives there nine out of 10 months in any given year. Slightly more during the television run of Miami Vice, during which the consultations of the Prince of Darkness provided every other plotline involving a speedboat. It’s common knowledge that Satan loves speed (synonymically, even — you’d think more of the daguerreotypes about him would involve an alchemist offering him a hot Erlenmeyer flask and a “smoking pipette,” the gross lightbulb of the late alchemical era). B) The Academy was being run by a narcissistic lunatic named Evaristo Marina who fled Cuba with a price on his head and demanded his staff and students refer to him as “El General.” A position which he had not previously occupied during the Cuban Revolution, but just kinda figured he would have gotten away with it too, if not for Castro and those meddling kids. NO WOMAN NO CRIOT

He once coached teen soccer though, so basically the same thing. Marina’s plan for the academy was to introduce what he called “Cuban discipline” — he’d been General Director of Public Order back on the island, and if that makes you think he’s both a casino strongman AND a violent cop, you’re completely correct. Full marks, now report to the paddlin’ room to make sure you keep those grades top-notch. The Academy was operated under — instead of educational theories — authoritarian rules. Marina hired an all non-accredited teaching staff who were essentially given full leeway to treat students (many of whom were already delinquents sent there in lieu of juvenile sentences) however they felt was necessary to maintain rule of. Well, not law, per se, but there’s no doubt everyone felt like they couldn’t be touched by the police. Not even in a bad way that almost gets the cop in trouble, but no DA will touch it (that’s probably a movie, right?) You may be starting to see the maelstrom of ingredients for a “riot.” However, it was also 1979 and Satanic Panic was in congruence with a rise in atavistic spiritualism and there’s a reason the Miami News would call it the “Ouija Riot.” Prior to the October 25th events that, to this day, are being referred to as “inspired by demonic possession,” many of the youths gathered for a pre-Halloween spook ‘em party where, allegedly, kids broke into groups to read tarot, contact spirits via Ouija Board (the second most nefarious product in the Milton Bradley universe after Monopoly) and a few choice games of Bloody Mary. It was one of these good time bathroom and broomsticks that would establish the mental state of a young girl when, terrified, went screaming from the bathroom. Other party-goers, assuming she’d actually summoned Bloody Mary, also fled the house. As with all great scary stories involving the Devil, concrete evidence is lacking and only the most trustworthy rage-filled teens with the deep-seeded, nihilistic sarcasm of the abused are available for quotes. Following is a short account of events from the 25th: The 13-year-old girl who’d been scared shitless by her experience with a mirror in the bathroom — correctly in direct defiance of everything Oingo Boingo stood for — became visibly upset. Her teacher thought to attempt hypnosis (granted, this “fact” was only found in one documentary and nowhere else, so pour yourself enough grains of salt to create a magical barrier with which to take this). That further unhinged the girl who fled to the bathroom (maybe not the ideal location for avoiding Bloody Mary), where she broke down into tears. Several friends followed her from the classroom. The girl claimed to have been made evil, levitates — yes, levitates — while in another classroom unattended teens start jawing off and get into a fist fight. One of them — the demonicallyenhanced one with the strength of 10 men — is defenestrated through a second story window, landing on either the top of a bus or directly on the asphalt. What followed, according to yard disciplinarian Josef Wolf, was an “exorciststyle head turn,” and several administrators attempting to restrain the boy, who repeatedly rebuffed them. Meanwhile, the entire school had gone insane. Doors were being torn off of hinges, lockers overturned, windows shattered. Some students had been led upstairs in the hopes of avoiding the random violence of the kinderkrieg. After approximately 3-and-half hours it subsided, with kids offering police and firefighters the vague excuse that they’d been taken over by supernatural forces. And not the ones that famed UFO enthusiast Ariana Grande titled a song for. These were definitely real. Or, maybe — just maybe — starting a disciplinary academy where you offer to take juvenile offenders off of the hands of the state is sort of a great recipe for a bunch of people to flip the fuck out every once in awhile. The world may never know. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED. 23

BY TOM MURPHY AMERICAN CULTURE – HEY BROTHER, IT’S BEEN AWHILE It would be too easy to compare this to an alchemical blend of influences Loveless, Screamadelica, George Best, Meat Puppets II and the first Stone Roses Record. But the moment you get into the songs, the feelings those touchstones evoke runs through it all. American Culture has taken any borrowed sonic inclinations and crafted a record imbued with a vital vulnerability and irresistible melodies that help to make its songs of heartbreak, desolation and redemption have an effect like a gentle catharsis. And one in which you get to experience some intensely heavy moments out of a life on the edge that may resonate with your own times of personal darkness. BLEAKHEART – SILVER PULSE This is a deep exploration of themes of mortality and the limitations of human existence from a psychological and physical perspective. The guitar work is at turns heavy and ethereal. The synth work shines in tracing an expansive yet introspective tonal trajectory with the processional rhythms accenting what feels like a journey to the inevitable end we’ll all experience. With this release, it is the arresting and melodious vocals of Kiki GaNun and Kelly Schilling together that powerfully express the direct human experience of struggling with forces beyond our control. GLENN ROSS – TROUBLESOME Glenn Ross is rightfully well-known for his superb and artful event and portrait photography. With this album, Ross demonstrates his mastery of dusky and brooding Americana as well. The moonlit and pastoral tenor of the songs lends the record the feeling of a cinematic experience, a High Plains noir written with the bittersweet and tragic sensibility of Ed Brubaker collaborating with Chris Isaak on a soundtrack to a Jim Jarmusch Western. THE MILK BLOSSOMS – OPEN PORTAL The lyrics of Open Portal sound like the distillation of private thoughts into glimmer jewels of personal poetry. They are vivid and poignant stories told with a radical vulnerability unhidden by production. Harmony Rose’s entrancing vocals are at the forefront, fitting for the album’s sometimes startlingly honest observations. But there is a depth to the production that feels immersive, like you’re invited into a private world where personal secrets are shared in a way that invites you to be more open with your own feelings, because the brain can get muddled with blocked emotions. Rose and the band demonstrate a talent for expressing tenderness with musical elegance punctuated by passages of fiery exuberance. SLIM CESSNA’S AUTO CLUB – KINNERY OF LUPERCALIA; BUELL LEGION Although this is the second part of a trilogy of records that began with 2022’s Kinnery of Lupercalia; Undelivered Legion by Munly & The Lupercalians, it is the first SCAC album in eight years. Old fans will appreciate the rich storytelling, highly detailed musicianship and fantastic vocal interplay that has long been the hallmark of the band’s sound. But this record is noisier and more experimental in its soundscaping than its predecessors, lending this set of songs a further cinematic yet spontaneous sensibility more reflective of the theatrical live show. TREES INSIDE OUT – IOVI The pedigree of this band is recommendation enough to give this album of jazz inflected shoegaze a listen. Roger Green formerly of The Czars and Myshel Prasad and Kit Peltzel who were once in Space Team Electra feature prominently. As do former STE guitarists Bill Kunkel and Todd Ayers, not to mention Sean Eden of Luna. Of course the songs dive deep into transporting realms of glittery/gritty guitar melody and emotionally charged lyricism built around realms of experience where personal and collective mythology intersect. It is an incandescent set of songs about love and loss and the rediscovery of the forces that drive one’s life with inspiration, rather than staying mired in the mere impulse of functional necessity. VAHCO – I’M NOT DEAD The R&B inflected vocals suit the electronic dream pop of this album while its relatively lo-fi production gives it the quality of an eclectic 1980s art pop record. The songwriter went through some periods of abusive and self-destructive behavior prior to writing these songs. He lays out those ghosts and demons in poetic form throughout this sometimes uncomfortably haunted but consistently well-crafted set of songs. For more, visit queencitysoundsandart.wordpress.com No. 130

HALLOWMASS 2024 E X P U R G O! Denver’s legendary 57-member avantprimal-futuristik ensemble, itchy-O, celebrates 10 trips of HALLOWMASS around the sun with a 3-night reality-warping ceremony, EXPURGO! Taking place over a globally traditional timespan that honors ephemerality — October 31-November 2 — the collective exalts ancestral lore while contributing their own aural-ocular-corporeal offerings, inviting their spectators to disrobe their day-to-day acumen and participate collectively in a state of synchronicity. We connected with itchy-O to learn about their why’s of this upcoming journey. Itchy-O’s annual Hallowmass ceremony venerates a multitude of traditional festivals — Día de los Muertos, Allhallowtide, the Hungry Ghost Festival, Obon, Samhain to name a few, and other global rituals honoring all things temporal. Why is impermanence something worth celebrating? Impermanence is integral to the fabric of life. Without the old passing away there would be no space for the new to emerge. By liberating ourselves of bondage to the past, we free our energy to focus on grounding in the present and moving forward into the future. And there is something powerful in coming together as a community to do this in celebration. Realizing this October marks your 10th Hallowmass, I was spellbound in memory of the first celebration, physically feeling that electricity like it was yesterday. Though each year is intended to be an ephemeral immersion, they undoubtedly build off of each other, inextricably linked through a rhythmic energy. Why has Hallowmass’ annual frequency been important and what’s the impact on itchy-O and its co-creating audience as a result? Life, like nature, moves in cycles, in rhythm. By maintaining this practice for a decade we, as a community, have built and are continuing to build a shared experience that holds space for change over time. By honoring the lives, relationships, beliefs and institutions that pass through, Hallowmass is a place for all of us to pause and reflect on the losses and liberations that shape our journey. Returning annually to this collective celebration empowers our community to consciously participate in that evolution. Hallowmass builds, year-to-year, in sync with the cycles of life. One of your missions is to create an opportunity to expunge all facets of ego, to release expectations, to let go of our current understandings of the world in an effort to experience unification, and perhaps even PHOTO BY ANT SMITH IRINA MAR SETH MCCONNEL v No. 130

A DECADE OF RITUAL, REVERENCE & REVELRY WITH ITCHY-O INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÉI a genesis. Can you expand on this year’s theme, Expurgo, and its intended role in the experience of attendees? This is bigger than any concert or show. This is a proper neo-mystic ritual aimed at purging ourselves from the bondage of the past; people, institutions, habits, behaviors and what have you. The audience is encouraged to actively take part by leaving symbolic offerings on an altar to be burned a week later and celebrate in a nonjudgemental, all-inclusive, and all-fantastical environment. The concepts of order out of chaos, life out of void, primordial matter spans time, philosophies and connotations. What is itchy-O’s interpretation of chaos and what role does it play in your live performances? Chaos is the primordial soup from which all things emerge, the eternal dance of entropy and negentropy. Our events provide a pansensual baptism into the fiery waters of chaos, from which we emerge and to which we will return. What is the significance of surrender in your productions? Why is embracing mystery vital to the experience? Mystery is the corridor to surrender, a sister to the sacred. In communal catharsis, we can achieve truly transcendental states. The most common itchy-O first experience is something like, What the fuck is happening, and why am I dancing? Why accept The Invitation to this year’s Hallowmass for both the seasoned participant and the newcomer? Halloween has become an anemic ghost of the powerful ritual it once was. As humans we are hardwired to crave transcendence of the mundane and connection with primal forces greater than ourselves. Itchy-O’s Hallowmass fills that void. This show will be itchy-O’s last performance for a good while. What is your hope for your upcoming sabbatical and manifestations for the future? 2025 is going to be massive for itchy-O. We are releasing a new album, Som Saptalahn, which is a whole odyssey into unseen worlds. And speaking of unseen worlds, we have an Intergalactic Masquerade coming in the spring that is calculated to drop jaws and blow minds. Follow along, you’ll be stunned when we announce the location and supporting acts. ITCHY-O: HALLOWMASS 2024: EXPURGO! OCTOBER 31 | NOVEMBER 1 | NOVEMBER 2 TRUSS HOUSE | INTERSTATE BUILDING AT RINO ARTPARK | DENVER, CO TICKETS: ITCHYO.COM/E-X-P-U-R-G-O FOLLOW ALONG: ITCHYO.COM | IG | FB | X | TT 27

[Excerpt] After Chet and David’s candles were lit, the five of us gathered at the base of the tree and Jake put his flashlight under his chin. “Time to explain the dark secret of Kingwood, ladies. This treehouse was built by John King himself for his twin sons after he discovered they weren’t his. Once his wife’s secret was out, he poisoned her. It was a long time ago and everyone thought she just died, but his crime was discovered decades later when his diary was found. He was going to poison the boys as well, but he stopped himself.” “Because he knew they were innocent?” “No, he thought poisoning was too good for them. He wanted them to suffer. So, he built this treehouse and made the boys live in it. Spring, summer, fall, winter. All the time. And he put two big Dobermans down at the bottom to attack the boys if they tried to leave. So, they didn’t. Even when they started to get hungry and thirsty after John King quit bringing them food and water. In the diary, he says he finally let the boys go and told them to never come back. That he didn’t care what happened to them. Then he wrote that he tore the treehouse down. But all of that was a lie. The treehouse is here, isn’t it? Randy, Mark and I were the first to discover it — and the truth on Halloween night. We climbed up and saw the skeletons. It was gnarly.” “That’s right. Gnarly.” “We buried their bones, but the skulls keep coming back every Halloween.” “So . . . they’re up there now?” “Yeah, numbnuts, just like we said. The three of us have taken our turns appeasing them. Now it’s up to the two of you, rookies. Start climbing.” No. 130 My face felt as hot as the lit candles David and Chet Somerset were being forced to carry, part of the dumb prank being played on them. The little flames flickered as the brothers made their climb with David in the lead. Jake, Randy and I stepped back several feet and aimed our flashlights up at them. “Dude,” Randy whispered. “They bought every word of it. Holy shit.” “Did I tell it as good as you, Mark?” Jake said. Randy aimed his flashlight into my eyes. “Sure you don’t want to go up there with your buttbuddies?” Jake snickered. I told them both to fuck off. “Chet made all that up.” “He sure knows what your room looks like.” “I told you my mom let them come over. I didn’t have a choice.” “Sure.” Jake, Randy and I had been best friends since we were seven. We were fifteen now and I couldn’t tell where I stood with them after Chet started talking about him and David hanging out in my room. They didn’t say it outright, but I knew I had to help them scare and humiliate Chet and David. Restoring myself in their eyes required this Halloween sacrifice, and the idea the Somerset brothers believed this was some friendship initiation rite just made it better to Jake and Randy. “Keep climbing, girls,” Randy said, his tone filled with merciless joy. “And don’t forget, if the candles go out, you have to climb down and light them again.” Jake lowered his beam a few notches to Chet’s ass. He snickered. “Is that a brown spot I see?” I joined Jake and Randy’s laughter just enough to keep up pretenses. HEATHER REYNOLDS, EMUNESKA - BEST OF BIRDY 058

But in my imagination, I saw David slipping and falling. He was already ten feet off the ground with another twelve rungs to go. I trained my flashlight beam on the next rung so David could see it. There was just a little sliver of moon, too weak to reach through the trees. Appropriate for Halloween. Inside the treehouse were two large pumpkins and two carving knives, courtesy of Jake. The pumpkins came from a little patch his uncle kept, and the knives were swiped from his mom’s kitchen. It’d been a bitch hauling the pumpkins up there one at a time in an oversized backpack, but they’d insisted I do it, a bit of hazing I endured to keep them happy. David reached another rung and looked down to check on Chet. David was my age, Chet a year younger. They had almost the same face, freckles and a pug nose. But Chet had brown eyes and David’s were blue. They walked side-by-side everywhere, in lockstep. It was hard not to picture them being joined at the hip, so it was weird seeing one ahead of the other. They entered the treehouse. The light of their candles made the windows yellow, and I exhaled a long-held breath. We didn’t ask questions when we found the treehouse two years ago. We just climbed the rungs straight up through a floor hatch. Outside, the treehouse looked like a small Victorian mansion stretched across the cradling branches of a maple that might have been two hundred years old. It loomed high against the cloudless sky. The dilapidated structure was flanked on both sides by turrets that framed the peak of its partially collapsed roof. It looked like the house in Psycho, that movie we watched at Jake’s last Halloween. The interior wasn’t nearly as spacious, taken up by a mess of strange, disorienting angles that left just a small practical space tailor-made for three people to hang out. There were windows here and there and they were all sorts of irregular shapes too. It was one of those strange things waiting to be found by the right kids, the kind of kids who sneak cigarettes from their mother’s purse. We weren’t the first ones inside, but it’d been a while between occupants. We found broken beer bottles, cigarette butts and used condoms. There were scattered pages from titty magazines, faded and water damaged in the most frustrating way possible. While Jake and Randy obsessed over them, I found a rolled piece of paper in the corner. It was yellowed with age, but not crinkly at all when I unrolled it and realized it was a wall calendar with all the months printed in little square blocks above a flowery script — Fitzhugh’s Apothecary. What the hell was an apothecary? The calendar was from 1916, several years after Kingwood’s founding. “Look at this, guys. Figure it means this place was built seventy years ago?” Randy and Jake weren’t interested. They’d discovered more ripped pages from some porno mag and knelt on the floor in a desperate effort to fit the jigsaw scraps together. Fitzhugh. I thought of the town drug store. How long had it been there? “Mark, get over here,” Jake said. “We’re like three scraps away from seeing pussy. Help us find the missing pieces!” “Hunt for the cunt,” Randy said, and soon we three kings chanted it together and giggled. I wasn’t any help though. My thoughts were on that calendar. On questions of time and who’d built the treehouse. I sat back and thought about it. A story sprang to mind so readily it was like someone spoke it to me. “John King built this,” I said. “The statue guy?” “For his sons. Twin boys. But he discovered they weren’t really his kids, so he . . .” They applauded when I finished telling the story. “You should be a writer,” Randy said. “That was fucking awesome. Especially that line about the one starving brother realizing you can climb up to Hell.” I shook my head. I couldn’t explain how the story just came to mind. I guess I’d made it up in a burst of imagination. It wasn’t important. Whoever built the treehouse didn’t matter. It was ours now and we spent damn near every day that first summer here, cleaning it up, making it ours. We pledged to tell no one about it except girlfriends, when we got ‘em. We vowed to lose our cherries up here. That summer in the treehouse, life was more real than ever before. The three of us did the same shit we would have done in the park or the woods, but we did it in our own world. Our dreams carried more weight in the treehouse, and our friendship was never stronger than when we occupied it together. I went there by myself only once, when Jake and Randy were off on family vacations. I don’t know why, but I thought the treehouse was almost angry with me for coming alone. I got creeped out by the sound of the groaning wood, the creaking of the branches and stood up. I went to look out one of the windows and something seemed off. The world outside was different, like the picture on an old postcard. I didn’t even feel like I was looking out of my own eyes. I left a few minutes later and didn’t return until Jake and Randy were there. Then it all felt right again. Our fascination with the treehouse lasted through that summer and stayed strong into the second one and was still going good in the third. We went there almost every day, up until that Fourth of July. Then I began hanging out in secret with the Somerset brothers and my room became a sort of treehouse for the three of us and we never left it. Mom kept covering for me whenever Jake or Randy showed up. I started feeling like I had two separate lives that mustn’t intersect. They’d have to when school started, I supposed, but that was a ways out. I didn’t ditch Randy and Jake, of course. When I was determined to hang out with them, I set off early on my bike. As far as I knew, Chet and David didn’t have bikes, but I always kept looking around expecting them to be running after me. I never saw them once, but only felt hidden from them once we were a quarter of a mile into the forest. “Dude, what’s been up with you?” Jake said after we’d climbed the rungs and could lounge in privacy. “What do you mean?” “Sneaking beers? Flipping off your mom? You got a death wish or something?” I grinned. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do sometimes.” Their look of respect was priceless. “You’re going to be grounded the whole summer at the rate you’re going.” I shrugged. “It’s totally worth it. Fuck that bitch.” I winced inside. As moms went, mine wasn’t as lame as most. Her excuses were making me look badass, but how far would she go if Chet and David kept coming over? Jake had scored a copy of Playboy and had the magazine open on the treehouse floor. As the three of us knelt around it, Randy took 29

out several cigarettes. They were bundled in a paper towel and were a little squished and bent. He had a lighter and kept flicking it until he finally gave up. “I don’t get why my lighters never work up here.” “Maybe it’s out,” I said. “I just got it.” He sighed and went to the hatch door. “Light one for me,” Jake said. “Me too.” Randy flipped us the bird as he descended the ladder. This took about half a minute. Then he shouted, “Hey, guys!” We went to the door and looked down. Randy was small on the ground, but I could see him grinning and holding up the lighter. The flame flickered. “See? Fucking weird.” He put all three cigarettes into his mouth, passed the fire across them and inhaled. “Don’t get the filter wet with your spit,” Jake said. He pulled back and I followed. “I fucking hate a wet filter. It’s like I’m kissing him or something.” We sat with our backs to the wall as Randy poked through and climbed inside, billows of smoke around his head. He plucked two cigarettes from his lips and handed them to us. Mine was damp, but I didn’t mind. I smoked and thought how I’d like to take David up here. David and Chet, of course, but more David. I thought he’d love the treehouse. They both would. Both brothers screamed, and Randy and Jake giggled and fell against each other. “Guess they found the skulls,” Jake said. “Those pussies are too freaked out to even realize they’re fake.” Randy ran to the base of the tree and hollered, “Get to it, girls! Carve a face in the pumpkins and put the skulls and candles inside. The brothers want their new heads!” They screamed again. “I’m going up there,” I said. “This needs to stop.” Their flashlight beams lanced at me. “It really is true, isn’t it?” “Chet was just lashing out because you were bullying his brother and he knows me. He was trying to get me to stop you. They’re just desperate for friends. They wouldn’t be out here if they weren’t.” The brothers screamed again. Randy stormed back to the tree, climbed up three rungs and shouted at them to shut up and start carving. “Dude,” Jake said, his voice softer. “I don’t know what to think.” I didn’t either. Memories of the end of summer and the start of the school year flooded me. David and I playing Atari as we sat on the edge of the mattress, with Chet asleep behind us like a little kid. David flexed his calf against mine. I flexed back. “Look,” I said. The candles had gone out in the treehouse. We listened. Silence. We waited. Several minutes passed. “Let’s go up there,” I said. “You can.” “They’re up there in the dark. They’re probably too scared to move.” Jake and I were about to argue when Randy shouted, “Gross, what No. 130 the fuck?” He dropped his flashlight and fell off the third rung and landed on his side, holding his hands up. His fingers glistened wet and red in our flashlight beams. “Dude, did you cut yourself?” “No, man, it just started dripping on me.” Randy got on his knees and began scraping his palms against the dirt. Jake and I stood next to him, pivoting our lights up the length of the tree. The rungs were wet, and the dripping became a steady pour. “David?” I shouted. “David, are you up there?” Jake got Randy to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed Jake’s arm. “How much red paint did you put up there?” “What?” “You had a can rigged to fall on them like pig’s blood, right?” Jake pulled his arm away. “I didn’t have any paint, Mark.” His voice was hoarse, every word like straw. “Randy, did you have paint— ” “I’m out of here, man. I don’t even care.” They took off. I followed them a few steps, begging them not to go. Then I made a helpless pivot and ran back to the tree. “David? David, it’s okay. Jake and Randy left. It’s just me.” A minute of silence lasted longer than an hour of noise. “Come on, guys! Chet?” You’ve got to go up there, I told myself. I put my foot on the first rung and my sole slipped off. I whimpered. There was no way I could make it up without falling. “Please, David.” A whisper came from the opening. David? Chet? Both? Then something appeared. Thank God, I thought. The prank had gone on long enough. I pointed the flashlight for a better view and only just dove out of the way of the pumpkins as they fell. But it wasn’t the pumpkins. It was David and Chet’s decapitated heads. I ran into the darkness. The huge maple tree shook behind me. It sounded like a roar. I tripped and scrambled to keep going. The whispers became more distinct. Chet and David. But how could it be — when their heads were — I turned. The Somerset brothers were there, but not on the ground. Their forms hung suspended in the air, substanceless. Boneless. It took a moment to comprehend just what I was seeing. Their skins had been peeled away and seemed draped like sheets. But what were their skins draped over, and who did the draping? The pumpkins were there in place of their heads, and each bore the face of one brother, carved with the exacting detail of a photograph, and lit from within by the very candles they’d been forced to carry. We stared at each other, and I couldn’t help but remember what they’d said to me outside of the drug store. Be our friend, Mark. A real friend. David floated toward me. “The story was wrong, Mark,” he said. “The brothers were never twins,” Chet added. They hovered over me as I fell to my knees. “Then — then — what were they?” “Triplets.” TO READ THE FULL STORY OF THE CLIMB UP TO HELL, HEAD TO OUR SITE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/FEATURED/THE-CLIMB-UP-TO-HELL-BY-SEANEADS-AND-JOSHUA-VIOLA.

31 MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, WOULDN’T IT BE NICE IF WE COULD JUST AGREE TO DISAGREE - BEST OF BIRDY 082

CAITLYN GRABENSTEIN, MODERN FEARS - @CULT.CLASS

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