

Each button, it turned out, led to a new page with dozens of images displayed under headers like “Slammed,” “Punctured,” “Scraped”. Single words, violent but nonspecific, doing nothing to help explain the images beneath them, which were all like the one on the front page: sludgy, indistinct pools of hazy color, vague shapes jumbled together…
The suns light exterminated in the massed leaves and an early dusk fallen. A catholic wilderness where the wind whispered in the snaking branches hymns of doom and the earth slept in churchly darkness. As he walked, he passed areas where the land had fallen sheer and extreme and ancient stones held the trail sovereign…
We had been receiving phone calls in the small hours of the morning, my caregivers reporting each time an inability to discern any presence on the line.
An effeminate man invites a beautiful young skinhead into his home. Masculinity, the other, limit experience.
The absolute bizarre experiences of touring, noise shows, strange personalities in subculture, and being caught up in the antics of peers.
A wide range of artists from a variety of disciplines deliver sinister incantations.
The Tyrant Queen of Iron City presents us with a bouquet of petty grievances.
The freaked-out, bored, alienated observations of the Beautiful Boy looking out on his suburban purgatory.
An imminently depressing, short, contemplative piece of empty, alien-world-wandering SF.
An attempt to locate a distinctly feminine “non-tyranical monstrosity” in Ted K’s life and work