Archive for February, 2008

It’s time to lighten the tone after all the serious tales of floating limbs and pus-filled houses. Sometimes it’s hard to say why a piece appeals to me. Is this a poem about stoners on a food run, or is it an evocation of the dissassociation and confusion of life itself?

You decide.





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I first encountered Steph Campisi’s writing while using it to fill potholes during my brief career as a stopgap during the early fifties. Steph understandably requested that I stop, and it’s fortunate for us both that we did, for that very night we encounterd a friendly bear who nursed us back to health and shared with us the precious secret of hibernation.

I think you can trace the events of those tumultuous years in the themes of Steph’s story for us:



A Pox on All Your Houses: a tale of Singh and Daughter


Stephanie Campisi




Ravi Singh was a small, meticulous man who dressed only in colours that could be found in nature and drank tea that was properly steeped. He owned two side-by-side terraced houses, and each was painted in colours the inverse of the other. His daughter, Priyanka, had moved into the second house, declaring she needed space and independence. Of course, living next door to her parents was exactly the sort of independence Ravi thought Priyanka needed, so he was rather pleased with the arrangement, truth be told. (more…)

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This week, a classic tale of heads…. we hope it sends chills down your spine… *OR DO WE*???

Man, I’m getting lazier and lazier at these intros:




by Matthew Chrulew



Hi, how’s it going? I’m a detached, semi-functioning head, artificially arrested post-decapitation but pre-decay (Human of course). You may know me from such urban legends as “there’s a psychopath loose, your boyfriend hasn’t returned from getting petrol, and there’s a banging on top of the car, but whatever you do, don’t look back”. But that’s not the story I’m here to tell today. Today I wanna tell you about something that happened to me recently. (more…)

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Today’s story came to me in a dream… somebody else’s dream. Offended, I threw it out of my subconscious with the disdain of a superhero. Or so I thought. But weeks later it torments me still. Torments, or Currants? You decide.

 Here is the story:



Deborah Biancotti



Conversations 1: The Blind King



Stop, stop here a while. Lay down your burden. Now. Dig.


I said dig.


You know why. Because it needs to be buried.


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