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During the hourly wake of the city's mourners,
I escaped
to where none of us dared venture,
with the gynandromorphophile's long shadow
over my shoulder,
I escaped
to where no other nectar but yours—the XY-code's,
was harvested by the drones…
Nostalgia tastes like toffee. Like butterscotch. Like caramel. And that’s the danger of it. It’s confection. It’s empty calories. All sugar and no substance. The longing for something that isn’t real.
We always found ourselves in Magdalena, a quaint, abandoned town nestled far in the western reaches, Lya and I, as we ventured into the Spree. I didn’t know why. And I had never really thought about it. Until now…
Some things I checked in my last copyedit:
-song lyrics (as in listening to the actual song)
-spider anatomy (ew)
-whether certain planets are aligned on a future date
-whether said architect designed X
-Japanese names
-math
Spent all weekend working on a project that failed. Today’s newsletter almost didn’t happen. It’s hasty and haphzard. When it comes to luster, it’s lacking. But…it’s here…
Climb into the Fictionable archive, with exclusive #ShortStories from @mjohnharrison Joyce Carol Oates, Ali Smith, Sarah Hall, Diana Evans, Etgar Keret, Sabba Khan and more …
In the neon-lit sprawl of tomorrow, I'll hoist
the milky-white rose
of synthetic essence—its fragrant code will weave
through the data stream, perfuming
the holonight's
Pro-Rata enthymeme
with sweet binary echoes of virtual "Qui Vive."
VERNISSAGE
Holographs by Max R. J. Ovbi
Galería Cubana, New Moscow, UN City.
Sunday 30 December, 2323.
4pm—9pm