ISSUE 145 | JANUARY 2026 FIREFLY: KRYSTI JOMÉI RUDE WALKING: JONNY DESTEFANO SOFT MOON: JULIANNA BECKERT THUNDER & LIGHTNING: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI PENUMBRA: CRISTIN COLVIN PIANO GARDEN: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH RISING TIDES: DANIEL 'DL' LANDES UNDER THE MILKY WAY: DIDI BETHURUM FRONT COVER: NICK FLOOK, COMISSION 7 - BEST OF 131 - @FLOOKO BACK COVER: BRIAN J HOFFMAN, PYROCRACY - @BRIANJAYHOFFMAN CLIFFS OF INSANITY: NICK FLOOK, ADDISON HERRON-WHEELER, BRIAN POLK, JORDAN DOLL, JOE VAUX, DAVE DANZARA, WILLIAM SEWARD BONNIE, JOEL TAGERT, HANA ZITTEL, JASON WHITE, MATTHEW C. MARINER, ZAC DUNN, MATTHEW THERRIEN, TOM MURPHY, MICHAEL DAVID KING SINGING TREES: ZOLTRON, MALI JAROO, HARI REN, MATTEO MONI, JORM SANGSORN, ZACH DOCTER, ZOE MARZO, MARINA POPMARLEO, CHRISTOPHSKI, BRIAN J HOFFMAN GARDENA BOULEVARD: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, ALAN ROY, CHELSEA PINTO, MATT HAVER, IZZY DOZIER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER ART MUSEUM, MUTINY COMICS & COFFEE, ANALOG SALON, BRAND BABES, THE IMPLIERS: MIXED MESSAGES, MONKEY BARREL, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BENNY BLANCO'S, COCREATE, TOXOPLASMA ARTS 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 FLOWERING INFERNO, ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN MONTHLY ©2026 BIRDY MAGAZINE, CHROME IN THE CLOUDS 1 NICK FLOOK, FOREST DRIVE - @FLOOKO
SCREEN-PRINT BY ZOLTRON FROM MARK MOTHERSBAUGH'S 75TH BDAY BASH No. 145
THE FOREST BY ADDISON HERRON-WHEELER Arika lifted her face from the dirt and looked to the clouds. She could see the drones above her head, circling, and she could hear their calls, in her mind. She shivered and dropped her face back into the cold earth. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT The voices were as clear as her own inside Arika’s mind, but she forced herself to stand up and press onward through the forest, pushing aside nettles and thorns that barred her path. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT Arika wanted to touch the still, cold body and see if any warmth was left. She wanted to lie next to it and find some animal comfort in the soil, but the mechanical voice droned on, rising to a shrill, almost shrieking pitch. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT Arika continued on and thought she heard a howl, a moaning. She imagined some distant beast, some beautiful, fleshy animal left over from the days of old. Then she began to clearly hear the sound as a horn, a blaring. Of course the drone was not something fleshy, but another machine, and she was foolish to think otherwise. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT As the voice grew softer, Arika thought she could sense some hope in the air. She stumbled again, grabbing a tree for support. She saw words inscribed on the bark but it was hard to read exactly what it said. She squinted, moving closer in the fading light of the sun. words will rot and fall away as summer fades to the machine coldness alone in my retreat resisting the inevitable Arika ran her fingers over the words for a long time, wanting them to mean something, wanting them to be important to her in some way. She wasn’t sure exactly how, but they spoke to her. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT The voice was louder this time, and Arika reeled in horror as she realized it was coming out of her own mouth. The alien sound was somehow so much more familiar to her than the poetry of the tree, or the sounds of the forest. What may have once been called tears started to build up inside her, but Arika’s eyes were not designed for tears. RESPONSE IS NECESSARY – RETURN TO THE HIVE – RECONNECT Arika finally crashed through the final stretch of forest and emerged in a clearing, able to see the sun in full as it started to set behind the trees in the distance. She thought she heard a bird song, but when she listened closer, it seemed to be the hum of the drones as they closed in on her and made retreat impossible. SUBJECT INTERCEPTED – RECONNECTION INITIATED As the cold metal connected with her cold flesh, Arika felt her memories slipping away. Although she only had an hour’s worth, the pain of losing her sense of self was overwhelming and she fell to her knees. She saw the implants sliding back into her face and she could no longer feel them. She began to see everything fractured, with an unblinking eye, all greens and reds, all artificial. Before the last blink of daylight faded and everything became code, she saw an animal standing at the edge of the woods, facing the clearing. She saw its big round eyes, antlers standing proud, gaze never breaking. Then it was gone. words will rot and fall away as summer fades to the machine coldness alone in my retreat resisting the inevitable ART BY MALI JAROO
WHAT I VE LEARNED FROM THE FINE PEOPLE OF TV BY BRIAN POLK FROM DAVID ROSE Judging The People Who Are Having More Fun Than You Is Not As Much Fun As Having Fun On the show Schitt’s Creek, David Rose is at a housewarming slumber party where they’re playing Spin the Bottle. For a moment, he leaves the center of the action to speak with his sister, Alexis, and his boyfriend, Patrick. That’s when he says, “What are you guys doing over here? You remind me of me at a high school house party, judging all the popular, attractive kids for being attractive and popular … Now that No. 145 I’m an attractive and popular kid at a house party, I can confidently say it’s very fun.” I acted like Alexis and Patrick in real life when I judged all the happy couples who were in love and couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. “I hope they break up,” I would say aloud to friends and acquaintances who found my bitterness endearing. “I hate them so much.” Of course, now that I have a girlfriend, I get to be one of the popular, attractive kids playing Spin the Bottle. And David is right: it’s very fun. And it’s so much better than being mad at everyone who isn’t as miserable as me.
FROM JIM HALPERT In The Early Seasons, You Might Think You Can Goof Off And Have Fun At Work, But Eventually Management Will Offer You A Promotion And More Money, And You’ll Take It Because You Won’t Be As Charming And Funny As You Used To Be At the beginning of the show The Office, wise-cracking slacker, Jim Halpert plays pranks on his fascist coworker, Dwight, tries to lure Pam — the unassuming receptionist — away from her fiance, and turns down every opportunity to rise in the paper supply business for which he works. In fact, he says, and I quote: “Right now, this is just a job. If I advance any higher in this company, then this would be my career. And, well, if this were my career? I’d have to throw myself in front of a train.” As time goes on, however, he shows signs that adulthood and the promise of more money and authority come for us all. Eventually, he accepts a promotion to be the assistant regional manager, and as you might imagine, he doesn’t follow through with his promise to throw himself in front of a train. Also, once he becomes a manager and father, the showrunners have no choice but to cast younger office workers to replace him, because customers don’t find Jim as charming and funny as they used to. This happened to me professionally. FROM JERRY SEINFELD As Long As You Surround Yourself With Extraordinarily Talented People, You Can Turn A Career As A Mediocre Comedian Into One Of The Most Successful Sitcoms Ever All you have to do is be friends with Larry David and cast the most talented comedic actors and actresses of a generation, and that’s pretty much it. You don’t even have to know how to act; you just have to keep showing up to work. Talk about inspiration! FROM BRENDON SMALL You Have To Put Effort Into Things If You Want Them To Happen In Home Movies, Brendon Small pays a visit to the library and is disappointed to learn that the mere act of going to a place where people are historically productive doesn’t automatically mean you will walk out with a completed school report. He says, “I am just here to tell you people that you can’t just go to the library and expect to sit down and have a report just happen, just to fall in your lap. That’s something you have to put effort into. And if you think you can just squeeze by and not do any work, you got another thing coming.” I find this to be the case with the following: • Books: You can’t just buy a bunch of books and expect that information to travel from the pages, through the air, and into your brain. You actually have to read every sentence. • Zines: Sometimes I’ll sit down to write a zine and just stare at a computer with a blinking cursor on an empty page. Time to do some writing, I’ll think. And then I just read a bunch of Buzzfeed articles for an hour or so. • Art appreciation: Other times I’ll go to the art museum in the interest of being moved by beautiful paintings, and then I’ll realize I’m far too dense to understand what I’m looking at. Plus I get tired easily, and I don’t like being in crowds as much as I used to. • Relationships: Apparently just having a relationship is not enough. You have to actually put effort into it, lest it fall apart and ruin your life for a year. Who knew?
WEREWOLF RADAR: BY JORDAN DOLL What has horns, a cell phone and a lunch box filled with cans? A goatman. And no, I’m not talking about the beloved X Games athlete/morning radio DJ/guy-you-bought-weed-from-in-high-school of the same monicker. I’m talking about THE Goatman. The literal half-man, half-goat cryptid said to be roaming the forests and off-the-path lairs of rural New England. At any given time there seem to be between 3 and 700 goatmen and women operating within the United States. (Author’s note: I mention goatwomen only as a matter of biological course. It is no secret in paranormal circles that the job of goat ANYthing is a field sorely in need of diversification). Perhaps you’ve heard of the Maryland Goatman. No? Copper Canyon Goatman? How about the Pope Lick Monster? A goatman style monster named after the nearby creek where, presumably, something unpleasant happened involving a pope. Still nothing? Well, it really doesn’t matter all that much which goatman you pick because quite often the story is the same. There is a place, usually a bridge or a cave where dwells the Goatman! A twisted man-goat mashup, jumping right out of your nightmares like an SNL character everybody would rather forget. People are told not to go the Goatman’s lair but they do and the Goatman kills the shit out of them. Sometimes he kills his victims with a bloody axe. Sometimes he drops on their backs Dracula-style from the railroad trestle above. And sometimes he lures them out on the tracks using mimicry and hypnosis where they get hit by a train, as was the case of Roquel Bain, a 26-year-old paranormal investigator who was struck and killed by a train near Louisville, Kentucky while attempting to catch a glimpse of the legendary creature — one of many such deaths that lend a note of tragic truth to the monster’s legacy. Her boyfriend survived by hanging from the railroad trestle. He didn’t see anything. So who is the Goatman? Where does he come from and what does he want outside of hay and turnips obviously? Well, the most metal of the many legends is that the Goatman is a farmer of black sheep who struck a deal with the devil for … a golden tractor? I don’t know, the legend doesn’t specify but it must have been something good because the farmer was turned into a goatman for his trouble. Yet another tale tells of a goatscientist performing illegal goatsperiments on innocent goats deep in the woods. One day, one of the experiments backfires, transforming the scientist into a goatman in what must have been a great, fiery goatsplosion! Runaway circus freaks, witches summoning demons from the pits of hell, etc., etc. The list of possible origins for the creature rolls on but we will have to wait for the Goatman to get integrated into the Avengers before we get an official, MCU-approved origin story. (On a related note, please email Werewolf Radar directly if you would like a sneak peek at my spec screenplay for Goatman: Origins.) If you take anything away from the legend of the Goatman let it be this: some legends are in place for a reason. The very first myths came about largely as a way to warn people away from dangerous paths and areas. Legend-tripping is fun but it is never, ever worth your life. Unless of course you are an ex-cop bent with nothing left to lose who decides to pursue the Goatman who killed her partner in which case, back off. That is the exact plot of Goatman: Origins. , Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar. end them to: werewolfradar.com/contact-the-radar IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED. No. 145 BEST OF 071
JOE VAUX, DUST BUNNY - @JOEVAUX
DAVE DANZARA, RELATIVITY- @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: ATLANTA, GEORGIA - SEPT. 22, 2025 WILLIAM SEWARD BONNIE, CONTROL 9
THE ASSASSINATION OF SNUFFKIN MCGILLIS BY JOEL TAGERT | ART BY HARI REN HARI REN, HELD IN THE RED -@HARIR3N
Snuffkin had been exsanguinated. Normally, when Patty McGillis woke up in the morning, her cat was one of two places: sitting on her pillow meowing demandingly, or, if he’d refused to come in the night before, sitting on the back step meowing demandingly at the door. Today he was not in her bed, so she stepped outside, expecting to hear his insistent cries. And sure enough, there he was, lying at her feet in the early summer sunshine. “Good morning, Snuffy,” she said, squatting down to pet him. “All tired out?” As soon as she touched him, she knew something was wrong. He didn’t respond at all, didn’t stretch out and flex his claws, didn’t flop over for a belly rub. His calico fur was soft as ever, but the lithe little body beneath it was unmoving. “Snuffkin?” She laid her fingers on his frame and shook him a tiny bit, then retracted her hand, tears already coming to her eyes. She sat watching him for a good minute, but his sides failed to rise and fall, his fur didn’t expand and contract, and his eyes, she saw, were half-open and utterly unmoving. Snuffkin was clearly, unalterably dead. Gingerly, she reached out and took the cat in her arms. A sob shook her at this completely unexpected hurt in what was already a difficult year. Snuffkin wasn’t even old! He was only six, full of life ... too much life, sometimes, like how he’d offer his belly and then decide to scratch the shit out of you, or how he was always staying out at night, fighting with the other cats in the neighborhood, like that wild tom they called Lion who lived in the empty lot down the street ... It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t his time! She stroked his fur, her cheeks wet. But how had he died? She’d always expected, if this happened, that Snuff would just disappear, get hit by a car, or carried away by a fox. Instead, here he was. He hadn’t been sick. As she petted him this last time, she examined his little body, looking for a sign. He could have been hit by a car, and come back here and died of internal injuries. That was the most likely answer, though her fingers came up with nothing in particular. Then she spied them, on the left side of his neck: two dots of dried blood in the patch of white fur there. She peered closer through her tears, spreading the fur away from the injury, saw the two small puncture wounds in his skin. “Motherfucker!” she cried, with venom. A vampire had killed her cat. — “It’s one of these crazies I’ve been writing about,” she told the officer taking her statement, a big, pink-faced, blond man named Askew, which was how Patty felt today. Also hurt, enraged, and a little afraid. “These cultists, the Sons of Judas.” They were standing in her backyard over Snuffkin’s body. The other officer, a woman, stayed in the patrol car, apparently deeming this not worth her time. “Why do you say that?” Askew asked. “Because a vampire obviously did this. He drained poor Snuffkin and set his body here on the step.” “Do you have video of this, or …” “No, I don’t have video. What I have is an inbox full of threats.” Finally, a spark of interest. “Can you show me?” Sitting at her desk, the same place she’d written most of her stories, she showed him the three or four threatening emails she’d received. They were all from nonsense addresses, of course, but three were signed “True Son,”and all made vague, if not increasingly violent threats against her person. “We know where you live,” one read, “and you know we’re invisible at night.” “See?” she said. “Yeah, they aren’t happy,” said Askew. “But you know they can’t actually turn invisible, right?” “Of course I know,” she snapped. “I just wrote a three-part expose on the Sons of Judas. I’m well aware of what they are and what they can do.” Askew gave her a troubled, disapproving look. “They’re not all like this, you know. My nephew’s got vampirism. It’s not his fault. He takes his pills, works the graveyard shift, stays inside during the day. He’s a good kid.” Vampires, it turned out, had always been with humanity. And vampirism was a unique virus, transmittable only through bodily fluids. After a brief period of coma-like sleep, those afflicted developed a powerful desire to drink blood, were sensitive to light, and grew the famous fangs. For millennia they had either hidden themselves out of fear for their own survival, or simply died shortly after contracting the virus. These days, there were medications they could take to control the bloodlust, if not the other symptoms. Nearly all had the fangs filed down or removed. A very few, however, took their condition as a special mark, a sign of divine favor, and claimed all sorts of supernatural powers. Among these organizations were the Sons of Judas, who had a thriving little club here in Denver. As a reporter, Patty had spent months learning about their organization, and her final expose had run just this last Sunday. Now the Sons were receiving renewed scrutiny, and they were clearly pissed. There was no other reason to kill her cat but to threaten her; you couldn’t transmit the virus between species. — Back outside, Askew’s partner used a couple cotton swabs to take samples from Snuff’s wounds. “We’ll run the DNA, see if we can get a match,” she said. “Until then, you might want to set up a security camera or two around your place,” Askew added. “Maybe also get some bars on the lower windows.” Patty crossed her arms, shivering. “Can’t you guys, like, stand watch or something?” Askew raised an eyebrow. “We could get someone to drive by a couple times, if you want. Beyond that, I’m afraid you’d have to contact a private security contractor. Until there’s a more serious crime, that’s all we can do.” “So after they kill me, then you’ll really investigate.” “There’s not much else we can do, at this point.” He jerked his head and the two officers began walking to the back gate. “Sorry again about your cat.” — That evening she dug a hole beneath the catalpa in the backyard and buried Snuffkin there in an Adidas shoebox. She held herself together while digging, but when she tried to speak she lost it. “Snuffkin, you were a good cat. You were always so full of life, you taught me how to live better myself.” She patted down the last shovelful under pink skies and went back inside to wash up. She slept restlessly, waking up again and again, thinking she heard a cat outside meowing. Then, somewhere around 3 or 4 a.m., she woke 11
with a jolt, certain she really had heard a cat. She hurried downstairs in a bathrobe, heart beating fast, but left the lights off. What if it was actually the guy who had killed Snuff, returning for her? Moving silently, she advanced to the window in the back study, and lifted the curtain to look outside. The moon was high and nearly full. She stared and stared, and sure enough saw a cat hopping up the steps. It’s a ghost, she thought wildly. It’s Snuff’s ghost. Quickly she stepped to the back door and jerked it open. With her movement the back light turned on, and the creature there ran off a few yards. But it was tawny, not calico, and it was larger than Snuff, with matted fur. It was Lion, the wild tom from the empty lot. And he had left her a present. She knelt down and looked at it. It was a rat, and thoroughly dead. Turning her head, she could see two little puncture marks on its neck where the blood had been sucked out. The Sons of Judas hadn’t killed her cat, she realized. It was just Lion, fighting with Snuff the way they always had. But this time Lion had changed. The virus mutated. It jumped species. Mind aswirl, she closed the door and went back upstairs to bed. One way or another, she had another story to investigate. — In the early dawn she woke suddenly, eyes wide with realization. “Oh God,” she cried, as she threw on her robe again. What if she was too late? She shoveled in her house slippers, getting them filthy. She hoped her neighbors didn’t see her. They’d think she was crazy. When she was close to the box, she got down on her knees to clear away the last of the soil. When she heard the first meows, she began crying again. Snuff wasn’t dead, of course, not really. He’d just been sleeping, in the prevampiric coma. She opened the lid and Snuff exploded out of the box like a rocket, tearing halfway across the yard before stopping to lick himself. “Snuffkin!” Patty cried with joy, extending her arms to him. But Snuffkin only hissed at her, and from where she sat she could see the exaggerated fangs. She retracted her arms, and Snuffkin turned and climbed over the fence and was gone. Oh well, she thought. Snuff always had been a bit of a handful. No. 145
The Harder I Fight the More I Love You by Neko Case (2025) “It’s funny how our desires can cut a memory groove like on a record.” Neko Case was born to two teenage kids in Washington State, and as it so often goes for young parents, they did not stay together too long into Case’s childhood. Surviving on very little, Case was often left alone to entertain and fend for themselves, growing up “small and grubby, and that was okay because every kid I played with was small and grubby, too. We were all scrappers, all of us from families with no money.” When their parents separated, Case’s mother moved out and Case would visit her weekly. After staying at their grandmother’s one day, Case was picked up by their father and was told that their mother had died. She had been sick with cancer and simply didn’t want to put them through all the trauma. The family let Case know their mother was cremated and a wake had been held. Days were filled with despair and loneliness after this loss. A daughter to a distant and emotionally unavailable father, Case was left to deal with all of their pain in solitude, surviving and trying to piece together their sadness alone. This trauma was flipped upside down when Case’s father revealed, “OK, I don’t want you to be afraid. Your mommy …’ Then he paused, as if unsure how to proceed. ‘Your mommy is back, and I don’t want you to think she is a ghost.” Events like the loss and reappearance of their mother and instances of blatant neglect and poverty create gloomy shadows throughout Case’s memoir. Yet, despite this ever-present hardship, Case punctuates their story with tiny slices of light: The day Case wished so hard to see a horse and two seemingly magically appeared in an alleyway. Being shown love from a mother of a friend who arranged for the two young girls to participate (and win) a local horse show. Running around wild with their cousins at the Northwest Washington Fair where their grandmother worked in the summer, getting to No. 145 witness the exhilarating demolition derby. Case’s story is filled with magical moments, unbelievable twists, and adversity akin to the fairy tales they were so attached to as a kid. The perpetual betrayal from their mother, a woman Case struggled to let go of despite the abuse and refusal of love, led to Case’s ability to persevere, survive and eventually thrive in their music career. Despite the bleak circumstances of their upbringing, Case’s story remains light, scrappy and full of life. A candid look at the beginnings of an iconic musician, Neko Case’s memoir holds the same power as their legendary songwriting. Murder Ballads: Illustrated Lyrics & Lore by Katy Horan (2025) A dark staple in folk music tradition, the murder ballad is often a slow and eerie telling of a killing through song. More often than not, these were deeply rooted in misogyny, racism, and messaging that steering from the virtuous path leads to a violent and untimely death. Katy Horan examines the history behind popular songs that trace their origins back hundreds of years in Murder Ballads: Illustrated Lyrics & Lore, an elegantly illustrated and documented 2025 release. Horan works through research and centuries of musical alterations to distill the roots and evolution of each song documented in the collection. A track like “In The Pines,” famously performed in 1993’s MTV Unplugged by Nirvana and attributed to Lead Belly during that performance, has origins in Appalachia. This earliest version was titled “Black Girl,” and the refrain was altered in later versions to “my girl.” Additionally, various releases and rewrites incorporate a train accident which include a decapitation, displaying the expansive universe of variations one ballad took through time. Each of the songs covered by Horan include the lyrics of one of the traced versions of the murder ballad and a beautifully drawn image of the themes in a sparse and symbolic folk tradition. An endlessly fascinating dive into a historic song form, Katy Horan’s exploration is a captivating look at a beloved musical tradition. Hana Zittel
MATTHEW C. MARINER, MOOD LIFTERS: SERIES 3 - BEST OF 017 @JASON_WHITE_ART 15
MATTEO MONI, THE QUEEN OF THE FLOCK - @MATTEO.MONI
BY ZAC DUNN No. 145
Up near DERBY in the far flung NORTHWEST TERRITORY From out of the tall brush Came the wretched Stinking YOWIE Like if cheese, meat, mold and death Had a baby The YOWIE pounced with Such fury the tiny Lizards scampered into puddles They had all made in Fear of the commotion The YOWIE took one look at The tourists and snatched one Up like a gummy worm from out Of a fine glass container His last wail was a muffled Kerfuffle of vowels and screaming bloody Murderous howls as his head and neck Collided with the gaping maw Full of rotten teeth squeezing Calories from out of BARRY The leader of the troop pounced Into action as well and curled up In a ball thinking he was in JURASSIC PARK and that the YOWIE Might possibly behave as a T-REX And perhaps NOT SEE HIM if he was to NOT MOVE and BE STILL BUT OH MOTHER LEMME TELL YA NOT A GOOD LOOK The YOWIE being utterly perplexed By having never seen an ARMADILLO ROADKILL skid down The tarmac and back again With its armor sufficient but ill-suited Against the rims of the 18-wheelers of steel The YOWIE stepped back with a RIGHT HOOF and PUNTED GORDON Clear on the other side of the creek He too made sounds as he careened Screaming before being IMPALED upon a Post of the ghost of the RABBIT-PROOF FENCE That was left for all the bunnies And tiny mites to DIE looking for water That was impossible to find and Become OUTBACK morsels for BUZZARDS GORDON had splattered And BETO and BEN prepared for YOWIE combat The remaining troop RAN towards the creek s Speaking in tongues that MORMON MISSIONARIES spoke too When they came to hunt the YOWIE For the church of something something something ZOO-A-LOGICAL arcade But the YOWIE was said to have eaten them too All while leaving one SOLE SURVIVOR to feast on its Blazing hot people FECES as the YOWIE Pounded the ground and found little solace In the pitiful human shoveling filth down Like HOT DONUTS from the bakery BACK IN DERBY The troop tripped and dodged WOMBATS And DINGOS and WINGOS and blue-haired ladies Angrily waiting to play BINGO As the eyes of GOD looked down On the muddy creek bed and giggled and Pretended not to send the CROCS to Beat out the YOWIE and gobble up the remaining survivors and Leave him to battling the JAWS That love a meat sickle of any size, shape, color or flavor But the YOWIE was hungry So he grabbed the biggest CROC and Thumped the shit outta the other two Biggest ALPHA CROCS SPLATTERING the first one’s Face into the carcasses of the people They had all too briefly enjoyed eating The CROCS gnarled their terrible teeth, claws and eyes at the YOWIE Before spinning back into the creek To swim up the way and look for another Bit of meat just up the corner and around the bend again The YOWIE grabbed what slabs of protein His mighty paws could hold and snatched them all up clean Lumbering off while sneaking wee bites Of what had been IKE as the light slowly Falls on the OUTBACK and DERBY and the Disastrous excursion the troop had so Delivered to the YOWIE Like a whole roast DUCK in a PAN A meal is a meal is a meal is a man in the OUTBACK mistake house … DERBY, NW TERRITORY 2:16am YARDIE HOD NYC 7.12.24.0000003 FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC
MATTHEW THERRIEN, LORD ZEDD - @BEST OF 130
BY TOM MURPHY CABARET VOLTAIRE Around the spring of 2025, pioneering industrial and post-punk band Cabaret Voltaire announced it would reunite for its 50 year anniversary. Featuring surviving members Stephen Mallinder and Chris Watson, who hadn’t been in the band since 1994 and 1981 respectively, the reunion would miss Richard H. Kirk who kept the project going until he passed away in 2021. The duo with guests scheduled a string of shows only in the UK to honor the legacy of the music they’d made together. Since the band was a major influence on my own music, and because I’d never been to the UK before, I decided I would try to go. I put off getting a ticket too long to go see the Cabs in their hometown of Sheffield, but in July I was able to buy a ticket for their Birmingham show. As someone who grew up in the 70s and 80s I was an appreciator of UK television, film and music, watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Doctor Who, the Bond films and Hammer House offerings and listened to The Beatles and Pink Floyd among others. Into the 90s I learned the lore of UK punk and post-punk and in the late 90s, I bought an electric bass to teach myself to play what Peter Hook was doing in Joy Division and New Order. Earlier in the decade, I was drawn more to UK bands of the alternative rock explosion than their American counterparts. The sensibilities, humor, intelligence and creativity that seemed dense in music from the UK has stuck with me from a young age. Throughout the 90s I got into IDM-centered and ambient music around Warp Records and the experimental artists on Mute. It’s surprising I’d never previously made it to England. So of course for my first trip I would try to land in Manchester, the mecca for fans of UK post-punk. Before experiencing Manchester properly I had to take a coach, one of the easiest ways to travel between cities, to Birmingham to see Cabaret Voltaire. After checking into my hotel, I took an Uber to XOYO, a venue situated in a grimy part of the city that felt like home having gone to DIY spaces in gnarly parts of various cities for decades. The venue felt like an upgraded warehouse with excellent sound but no frills. If I had expected something good from the Cabs, it was better. Their mastery of early forms of sampling was on full display as well as their complete incorporation of various strands of electronic music, funk and rock. The day after, I walked around Birmingham and was struck by the beauty and history of the city with buildings established in the 12th century. I went to the renowned Swordfish Records before journeying to Bristol. There was a more laid back energy to Bristol than Birmingham. I visited PYNCHER HEAVEN 17 No. 145 HOLLY HEAD
HUMOUR the acclaimed Full Court Press cafe and Rough Trade East record store, then went to go see Heaven 17 at O2 Academy Bristol. Heaven 17’s founders had been in the original lineup of Human League, and the band was and is very left politically, with a charismatic live show that kept me engaged beginning to end. The following afternoon, I took a long coach ride to Manchester. It was in Manchester that the typical, drizzly fall weather of the UK settled in, perfect for the final two days. I went to a small club called YES and on the first night saw local groups pyncher, Tigers and Flies, and Holly Head. The second night I caught Humour from Glasgow with The Cutter from Manchester. All post-punk, all different. Across the street from where I stayed was the building that once housed Factory Records. I paid a visit to the ManCoCo Coffee Bar and Piccadilly Records as well as the wonderfully eccentric Paramount Books. The city felt comfortable, like a place that embraced the old and the new alike, aware of its cultural legacy. The latter is something you can feel in cities like New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago and Seattle, but not in Denver, and I returned home thinking maybe we ought to work toward cultivating that kind of awareness and consciousness. BIRMINGHAM MANCHESTER SEE MORE: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG
THE KISS IS THE FIRST TO GO BY DANIEL 'DL' LANDES On a hot summer day, Samhari sat on the banks of the river and watched the Willow King swim in its current. Samhari’s feet soaked in the cold mountain water, her toes digging into the sand and gravel. She waved to the Willow King as he floated by. He pulled himself out and sat next to her. “I think we are moving too fast,” Samhari said finally, expressing a thought she had been thinking for days. He dried his face on her skirt and suggested that they move to the sunny side of the river, out from beneath the shadow of the palisades, to continue the conversation. She touched the gooseflesh on his upper arm and looked into his eyes. When he spoke of the other side of the river his eyes twinkled. He was charming. She preferred the shade of the palisades but knew she would acquiesce to his desires. “I think we are moving too fast,” she repeated. They sat for a moment in the shade wrapped in a wool blanket and ate crisp apples and drank red wine from the bottle. The Willow King began to gather their belongings into his river bag. He corked the wine and threw his apple core into the current where it bobbed slowly and drifted down stream. Wordlessly, he began to cross the river. Samhari followed. On the sunny side the Willow King spread the blanket onto the flat top of a large granite boulder that damned the flow of water into a deep pool where fat rainbow trout lurked and slurped winged caddisflies from the surface or gulped them deep below as larva. Samhari was growing anxious that he had not responded to her concerns for the velocity in which their relationship was developing. “What are you thinking about?” she asked. The Willow King stretched in the sun and rested his cheek on the warm granite rock. He reached up to move a stray lock of hair from Samhari’s face to behind her ear. Small birds sang lilting ditties from the branches of the overhanging cottonwood trees. The Willow King smiled and let out a breath, “When I sit by the river I imagine throwing my brain into its currents allowing the cold water and abrasive grit to round off the calcified edges of my weak thoughts.” Samhari followed his gaze to a white-capped rapid that was churning and churning the water over a submerged granite boulder, reducing it ever so slowly. “Like what kind of weak thoughts?” Samhari asked. “Mostly thoughts of being unlovable,” he said, “feelings of being unworthy.” She could not imagine the Willow King feeling inadequate in any way. She never knew he was vulnerable. Warmth grew inside of her chest. The sun shined lovingly upon them. Samhari lay down next to him. He smelled of earth and labor. His skin was warm and sun-kissed. She pushed his hair behind his ear. “Your eyes look green now,” she said, “they were more brown when we were on the other side of the river.” He pushed himself up and took Samhari’s hands in his. “What are you afraid of?” he asked. Her mind twisted and swirled like the eddy of water behind the river boulder. I fear so many things, my love. So many things. Her voice did No. 145 not come. She could not find the words to explain the pain in her chest. In her mind she stood on the edge of a great abyss and could not see the next step. She could not reach for his hand. She thought of the rainbow trout deep in the cold pool below, content to slurp bugs and procreate. She knew with her continued silence the Willow King would slip back into the river and flow on. She couldn’t form the words to tell him not to. The Willow King drew symbols with river water on the warm rock. The symbols became prayers sent skyward as the water evaporated into the sky. He drew a symbol for Samhari and as it evaporated he prayed for her well-being. As he drew a symbol for the Willow King, he observed the disquieted look on Samhari’s face. She was searching for the words to express that she is petrified of disappointing him, of being truly loved, of being rejected, of being vulnerable. The symbols evaporated from the rock to the sky merging far above in the belly of a cloud. Samhari and the Willow King carried off of this earth of decay and rebirth, reformed in the torrential elements of cloud world, where they will blend and fall back down as rain. — The sun began to dip behind the horizon of the palisades. The stored heat from the granite boulder was slowly absorbed by the growing coolness of the late afternoon air. Samhari was alone on the riverbank. The Willow King kissed her cheek and slipped into the current when the sun was still high above them. “I need your words,” he had said before leaving. “Without them I fill in the silence with my imagination which is heavily influenced by my own self-doubt. Your words are your freedom and mine.” Samhari stood before him dumbfounded. Her mind was filled with colorful and articulate thoughts, but like a bubblegum machine with a quarter stuck in it, not one of them would drop. She wanted to say: I need to be alone! I’m still in love! I don’t want to ever have my heart broken again! I don’t trust you! I don’t trust me! I love you! The words did not come because none of them had the temerity to hold form long enough to travel from her heart to her head and finally escape her mouth. They dissolved somewhere along the way. The only thing escaping from between her soft lips was her slow, warm breath that smelled of apples and wine. A smell that intoxicated the Willow King to the point that he wanted nothing more than to pull Samhari in and kiss her so deeply that the tips of her toes turned pink and tingled with joy. Kisses they used to share, until she pulled away. Kisses he knew only existed in their past. From experience, he knew the kiss is the first to go. After the kiss loses its luster, the words soon dry up and distance is created. If he were to kiss her now, he would only feel the distance. So instead he slipped back into the current of the river and left Samhari with the blanket, the wine and the river bag.
ART BY JORM SANGSORN
Without warning, the Great Pyramid of Giza flipped itself upside down. I had just landed in Cairo when it happened. Tourists and residents didn’t know what to think. Before that point, the monument sat comfortably on its base. Now it sits precariously on its tip. The modern buildings surrounding the pyramid now lie in the shadow of its outwardly sloping sides. In order to appease the tenants in these buildings, and to stem any fears of a massive collapse, engineers were immediately called to gauge the structural integrity of the reversed pyramid. After the engineers came the religious leaders. They all traveled to Cairo from across the world hoping to see the monument for themselves. Scientists were as perplexed as ever. Many theorized that the sudden reversal was a sign that we all live in a simulated reality. Others felt that the whole thing was an elaborate optical illusion created by the Egyptian Government to garner publicity. Many theories have been put forward to explain the unusual event. Perhaps the most interesting was the theory of Dr. M. Branson of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dr. Branson was convinced that the solution to the mystery was not to be found in hard science, but psychology. Branson’s theory was remarkably simple: The pyramid was always this way. Our minds have simply been conditioned to believe that the monument sits right side up. In his paper on the subject, Branson argued that this delusion stems from the time when the pyramid was first built over 4,500 years ago. According to Branson, when the pyramid was first completed, everyone who saw it found the design so bizarre and contrary to common sense that their minds reversed its orientation to correct it. Over time, the delusion spread as travelers wrote about the monument and depicted it in artwork. Eventually, all of humanity came to believe that it sat right side up. But even a delusion this powerful could not last indefinitely. It began to break down in the 20th century when modern sensibilities started to make the pyramid’s true shape seem less outlandish. When the delusion finally broke in one person, it didn’t take long for it to break in everyone. Still, Branson’s theory is far from proven. To this day, the strange event remains a mystery. It’s been three years since the night of the reversal. As a frequent traveler to Cairo, I still haven’t gotten used to the monument’s new shape. However, with time, I believe I will. It looks so unwieldy upside down, but eventually, I’m sure I’ll see the beauty in it. Soon, I won’t even remember what it looked like before. It will seem normal, as if it were never any other way. 27
FEEDING YOUR DEMON OR, FROM HELL TO TACO BELL BY ZOE MARZO ART BY JASON WHITE As if losing her job wasn’t bad enough, now Deb had to contend with the demon she’d summoned and a friend who was “deeply concerned” about the choices she was making. “Do you think you might be self-sabotaging, just a little bit?” Sybil asked. “Well, I didn’t exactly fire myself, did I?” Deb retorted. Deb only dabbled in the dark arts, but you can do a lot with a little rage, the power of intention, and a summoning circle drawn on the floor of your corporate office. But to be fired for something like that seemed grossly unfair. They’ll give three warnings for sexual harassment, but smear a little pig’s blood on the walls, and you’re fired?! Effective Immediately?! She boxed up her things — a philodendron, an empty bottle from the butcher shop, red stains visible through the clear plastic, a framed photo with the glass broken and her ex’s eyes blacked out — and she left. A little green demon shuffled behind and followed her home. The demon sunk into the sofa and kicked its feet. Its legs didn’t reach the ground. Charnokc (that was its name) gazed up at Deb with large yellow eyes and scratched absently at a boil that erupted from its bilious green skin. She looked at the demon, and thought, So this is what my anger looks like. Sybil seemed to float into the room, her flowy skirt swishing in an invisible breeze. She carried burning sage in an abalone shell and waved an eagle feather to fan the smoke. Charnokc leapt off the couch, retreating to the corner and making a sound that could have been a hiss or a wheeze. “Syb, stop! You know Charnokc’s allergic to sage!” Charnokc sneezed. Sybil regarded the demon, expressionless, “Oh no, Charnokc. If you’re uncomfortable here, maybe you should go back home. To hell.” “We’re all going to have to leave if I can’t pay rent,” Deb said. “I’ve been looking for a job, but apparently, I spent my life training to be a robot and No. 145 now we have AI. No one is hiring for my skillset.” In a voice that crackled like hellfire accompanied by a chorus of disharmonious echoes, Charnokc, crouched in the corner, whispered, “Your rebellion in the workplace is timely and honorable. You broke your chains and unleashed vengeance upon the world. I am that vengeance.” Sybil sat next to Deb, set the sage on the coffee table, and smoothed her skirt. “Well, I can’t get a job right now. This is my job. Helping my friend is my job, but— ” she looked at Charnokc, “I heard Taco Bell is hiring.” The manager at the Taco Bell was a teenager named Corey, with curly hair that had a flash of purple peeking out from underneath his Taco Bell logo baseball cap. He consulted his clipboard in a manner that he believed was officious: “So, Charles.” “Charnokc.” “What’s your full name?” “I am Charnokc, the Disheveler, Bringer of Disarray, Steward of Shadows, Shiver-maker of the Otherworld, Proprietor in the Plains of Despair, Champion of the Downfall.” “Char-les Dish-evil-er. Can you spell that?” “No.” “Ha, right. Tell me about what kind of job experience you have.” “I tended the fires of hell.” “Oh, right on. Like a pizza kitchen? I did that for a while too. Those pizza ovens get pretty roasty-toasty, am I right? So, you have prior food industry experience.” “I commanded a legion of devils.” “My dude, I am loving the management experience, but it makes you overqualified for this role. We’re really just looking for someone to work the drive-thru window.” “That position sounds abysmal and hence it is acceptable.”
The sounds emanating from the broken drive-thru intercom vacillated between clarity and tongues and on the other end sat a demon with a headset saying, “Welcome to Taco Hell, what is your desire?” Customers ordered Crunchwrap Supremes and Chicken Chalupas with extra Diablo sauce — “So fresh you will feel the grit of brimstone between your teeth.” An ordinary day at the Taco Bell drive-thru took a turn. The interaction began like any other. They wanted a Mexican Pizza with a side of Cheesy Fiesta Potatoes, but there was something off, an edge to their voice. Charnokc could recognize hanger when he heard it, sense their rage ready to ignite. “Mortal, I sense your discontent through the speaker system.” There was an empty fuzz of static before the voice responded: “What?” There was a sharp annoyance to the tone, a terse staccato. The “t” jutting out like a knife. “You seethe with unrighteous anger.” “What the hell— ” “I compel you, Mortal.” Unwillingly, annoyance oozed out of them like lava ready to burn the world down, to encase the planet in igneous rock, to make the surface of the earth into a new level of hell. They hated everyone and everything, but especially the people closest to them, and especially people who were happier than them. “How terribly lonely that must be,” said Charnokc. “Let’s ruminate on that.” After twenty minutes of conversation, siphoning their dismay, Charnokc surged with power made visible, an electrical current that made the overhead lights flicker. They were crying now, tears materializing as storm clouds that gathered over the curved, bell-shaped roof of the Taco Bell. “I just wish that my dad would apologize, you know?” they sniffed. “The pain of childhood never leaves us,” Charnokc coaxed. “The world must know your pain. They must suffer as you have suffered. We should set ablaze the— ” “Charles, my dude, what’s the sitch?” Corey interrupted. “There’s a line of cars outside. This isn’t In-N-Out.” “This customer is in deep distress.” “Try to communicate a sense of urgency, please. We’ve got to get this line moving.” “Your lack of patience is admirable. I will comply. Apologies, hungry Mortal. This is the end of the line. What manner of feast do you crave?” “Oh, right, it’s just so nice to have someone to talk to. I, uh, I guess I’ll have those Fiesta Potatoes.” “Would you like to make a pact with that?” With the demon out of the way, Sybil opened windows. She cleaned, she cleansed. She vacuumed around Deb, a lump wrapped burrito-style in blankets only moving to change a channel or pick up her phone again. Sybil filled the apartment with protective crystals, Demon Be Gone candles and sacred sigils. Charnokc returned after a long day of work to find Sybil lying in wait. As soon as the demon crossed the threshold, she burst out, brandishing a rosary: “Be gone, Devil! I banish thee! Return from whence you came!” Charnokc glared, sniffed the air, shrinking slightly from the warding scents, from the fresh air circulating through the open windows. The demon hissed. “Charnokc, is that you?” Deb called from the other room. Thereby summoned, the demon dropped its dirty apron on the floor in defiance, and said to Sybil, “You fail to understand my nature so you will never destroy me.” Trudging past her to the living room where Deb waited, Charnokc held out a crumpled, greasy paper bag. “I have brought sustenance. It is called the Supreme Taco Party Pact.” Deb reached out to accept the bag. Charnokc went to the kitchen, took one of Sybil’s organic sodas out of the fridge and opened it with a clawed finger, slurping down the viscous contents. The next day at work, Corey told Charnokc, “This is so weird, my dude. I cashed out your drawer yesterday, and every order came out to exactly $6.66, and the grand total was $666. What are the odds?!” The grievances were delicious. Most people were tired. Many were hangry. Some were on road trips, trying to escape cults, arranged marriages, families that didn’t accept them. Their friendships were broken. Their romances were disappointing, fleeting, and laden with drama. Their dreams didn’t pan out. Their stomachs twisted with a hunger that went beyond physical emptiness. After Charnokc had been there a week, word got out. The parking lot filled with people making videos from their cars. TikToks that started, “I can’t believe I’m crying.” Then, ended, “… and then a little green demon in a Taco Bell hat handed me a Mexican Pizza, and I just felt better.” They said, “This Taco Bell gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘comfort food.’ Not a sponsored ad.” Or, “Te quiero a side of therapy with your Taco Bell? Not sponsored.” Or, “Avocado Verde Salsa, Fire Sauce and someone to listen to your problems? Not sponsored, but my DMs are open.” Sybil finally convinced Deb to take a walk for her mental health. As depressing as it was to walk alongside traffic amidst chain restaurants and strip malls, it seemed to help. When they got to the corner, they could see 29
storm clouds gathering over Taco Bell. “I saw clouds like that the day I summoned Charnokc,” Deb said. Sybil didn’t respond but narrowed her eyes at the Taco Bell. The time had come for an exorcism. That’s what Sybil decided. She called for reinforcements. Aside from Deb, the only people she knew were in her drum circle and amateur coven. They assembled in the Taco Bell parking lot. Wind howled; clouds billowed. Dust twisted in a taunting loop like a miniature tornado, accentuated by the vibrations of the drums. The drummers wore festival attire — tie-dye and beads. Cars honked, hungry, grumbling and desperate for a demon’s radical empathy. Sybil stood before them: “Drummers keep drumming. Coven, have your crystals at the ready!” She held a standing point quartz overhead. “The power gathers at the base. We attack with the point. Avoid kyanite, selenite, azurite. Anything brittle. Get ready to hurl your palm stones and clusters on sight. We’re going to Baja Blast this demon into the next realm!” Deb hadn’t been invited or warned, but she wandered out of the house in sweatpants and slippers for a solo stroll. She craved a quesadilla, felt curious about the crowds and drumsong. Sybil didn’t notice her arrival. Her eyes were on the double doors of the Taco Bell as they burst open saloon-at-high-noon style. Charnokc stood there and loosed a laugh that unsteadied the drummers and shook the earth. With a wild battle cry, Sybil ran toward the demon, charging with a massive cluster of tourmaline. The demon leapt at her and uttered a guttural cry, “Kchlktal!” The wind picked up. “The roommates are fighting again,” Deb muttered. She tried to call out to them, but her voice was carried away amidst the swirling dust and wild drumming. Deb shivered in the cold wind and piercing grit. Crystals flew through the air. Like so often when Deb looked at the demon, she found it difficult to focus on its shape and features. The effort was so taxing that she felt the urge to crawl under one of the cars in the drive-thru line and go to sleep right there. She squinted, determined to see, to refine the blur of sickly green, to enhance the quadruple horns and mottled skin, to recognize the embodiment of a pain and distress she could not name. “Charnokc charnokc charnokc,” said Deb, quietly — too quietly to be heard. Yet, the demon stopped in its tracks, turned its yellow eyes in Deb’s direction. “Charnokc the Disheveler, Bringer of Disarray, Steward of Shadows, Shiver-maker of the Otherworld, Proprietor in the Plains of Despair, Champion of the Downfallen, Middle Manager of Pain, Taco Bell Team Member, Drive-thru Operator, Granter of Wishes, Destroyer of Stars, Advocate of Rage, Sympathizer of the Wounded.” Sybil looked to where Charnokc’s attention was drawn, noticing Deb for the first time. “Debbie, you left the house on your own! I’m so proud of you!” Sybil’s grip on the crystal relaxed. It fell from her hand, and it bounced off the pavement of the parking lot. Deb extended her arm, and the demon reached back to her, the tips of their fingers touching, lightning striking the air between them. Deb, Sybil and Charnokc stood in the center of the circle, drums pounding. Charnokc whispered to Deb, a cacophony of dissonant echoes behind its words. “Pain and misery has been unleashed upon the world,” said Charnokc. “You are no longer alone.” They were three silhouettes and Taco Bell against the sunset. All around them, TikTokers danced. Their videos were going viral. FOLLOW ZOE MARZO FOR MORE: IG + BSKY - @LIFEANDMARS ART BY MARINA POPMARLEO No. 145
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CHRISTOPHSKI, RAVEN: A PORTRAIT - @CHRISTOPHSKI
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