‘The Pressing Need’ by Colin Stein



My hands tremble in anticipation. A video of the cubic contraption plays in my head. Then I see it. The gargantuan metal door.

Resplendent maw opening and closing. Two circles await with which to choose my destiny.  Rise to the heavens? Descend to Earth’s core?

DING. I hear the crowd, smell their cake, perfume. I enter, caress onerous steel sides. I should fear.  But I fantasize.

I turn around to see a blockade of circles. Each a fate. Apply pressure and life changes before your eyes.

I pushed, but I do not lead. I float, I transport.  The device dictates the destination, I merely follow.

The mouth shuts, beast grunting from strain.  I move with haste, explore a new place, after its swallow.

Stillness is anathema, atrophy to my brain, heart, and soul. Motion equals learning, evolving, a better me.

Limbs flow like water, part of the instrument. Weightless euphoria, forgiving hand of God, you see?

My body betrays me, undercuts my psyche. Everyday movement is torture, but you couldn’t know.

The outside world pounces, wolf on a lamb. Flight, fight? Freeze. I can’t go.

My mind acts without consent, unreliable partner, physique a stranger in the night.

The machine bestows me liberty. Most take for granted this “inalienable” right.

The kind where intellect and flesh work as one, if fleeting.

My spirit ascends as we decelerate, musical chime signaling greeting.

Jaws creak, then release. Light illuminates where I’m standing.

An unknown planet emerges. Curiosity, wonder, joy.  Landing.

Step foot across the threshold, reality’s line.

Beyond gratitude, humbled, honor all mine.

Feelings of sadness, inner tension.

Leaving the benevolent invention.

Its teeth seal.

They appeal:


2 Visual Art & Poetry Hybrid pieces by Scott Wozniak / Andrew Nutini



Scott Wozniak is a poet/chaos enthusiast living in Oregon. His works are widely published both online and in print. To find out more, follow him @sewozniak on Twitter.
Andrew Nutini is a graphic illustrator living in Denver Colorado. His art can be found pasted on walls around the world. To find out more, follow him on Instagram @found_image_design.

“The Boy” by Matt Weatherbee


Men don’t cry, boy. Stop that, a gruff deep voice said. I’m going to tell you a story. Two boys were left in the desert with nothing but themselves. One boy survived, made it out and became a man and the boss of the Pandilla cartel like his daddy. One boy died. He stayed a boy forever.

Someone in the passenger’s seat got out and opened the back doors. The boy’s heart pounded. A hand grabbed his swimming trunks and yanked him out of the van. He flopped onto cool sand.

Get up, a smooth deep voice said.

The boy got up. A hand shoved him forward.


The boy walked.

Cut him loose, the gruff deep voice said.

The duct tape ripped off, stinging the boy’s mouth. The zip-tie around his wrists snapped off. The blindfold whisked away. The boy looked at where he was. Too bright. He clenched his eyes shut and pressed his face into the crook of his arm.

What’d I do? he asked.

Carlos, the smooth deep voice said and clicked its tongue three times.

What’d I do?

You were born, boy, the gruff deep voice said.

Three doors slammed. Then the van drove away and the brightness turned off.

The boy lowered his arm and opened his eyes. Night. The dim red brake lights of the van disappeared over a dune. He crawled up the dune, digging his fingers and toes into the sand. There were two boys in the gruff deep voice’s story. But what about him, the third boy? He figured his story would end with his mom rescuing him.

At the top of the dune he shivered and cried. The van was gone, lost to a moonless black night and a desert. Dune after dune after dune. So much sand.

It reminded him of San Clemente State Beach. He and his mom had had a fun day there and she was buckling him into his car seat to leave when two men came up behind her. One choked her out and one kidnapped him.

Thirsty and hungry and tired, he started down the dune. Something told him to head the way he thought the van had gone and to do it now instead of later. He walked to the next dune and climbed up it.

You were born, boy. Yeah he was born all right. Happy fucking birthday. Everyone was born. He didn’t deserve this. He was six and homeschooled. He watched MMA with his mom and took classes. He talked about it a ton but that wasn’t bad. He hung around La Siesta Mexican Restaurant where his mom worked, played games on her phone and laughed at stupid memes. What did he do?

The sky lightened. The sun rose in a cloudless blue sky and heated up the sand. Soon the sun was burning his back. Then the sand was burning his hands and feet. The glare of the sun reflected off the sand. He squinted and put more dunes behind him.

His head aching, his mouth dry, his limbs heavy, he slowed. Where was his mom? She should hurry and rescue him. He wanted to sit on a towel in the shade under an umbrella with her. Drink a cold Hi-C and eat a tuna sandwich and some Pringles while she applied enough sunblock for three boys. He wanted to lie down next to her and relax. He fell.

Supine and sunburnt, he lay in the sand, a third of the way up a dune. Dust powdered his stomach. An invisible wool sock gagged him. The heat kept up and the boy didn’t cry.



Matt Weatherbee writes things.


Collages by Shane Jesse Christmass

electrical currentsspongy stuffit is not the mode (1)indirect outcomeslow explosion dance


Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Belfie Hell (Inside The Castle, 2018), Yeezus In Furs (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2018), Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).

He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker.

An archive of his writing/artwork/music can be found at www.shanejessechristmass.tumblr.com

Instagram: @sjxsjc

Twitter: @sjxsjc

‘2 Poems’ by J.B Stone


To Every Minute Missed, and Every Museum Left Untoppled

For Frank Turner
Oh how I reminisce over the nights
ending with us
strolling past the bar strips
of Bleaker Street
moving in the image of
damaged marionettes
slacking from bent strings
just a raging youth
cutting lose of the chords
that kept us bound
as we vomit echolocation
instead of leftover rounds
trying to find each other
after poor attempts at finding ourselves
we took these nights to moon every
passing vehicle plastered with
‘Pro-Trump’ bumper stickers
still tried to spray paint the words
“Nazi Punks Fuck Off”
over every swastika grafffitied brick
in a 40 mile radius
placed flowers from dying gardens
onto the windshield wipers
of every ticketed vehicle
just to show them there are others
who give a shit about them
even when they stop giving a shit
about themselves
feeling like a band of Robin Hood wannabees
trying our best to feel like heroes
if not through a series of late night antics,
but for a time where worries were less
& joy was a convenience store
only a block away
no one ever told us
how far the distance would grow
when 700 feet, turns into half a mile,
then to a mile, then several miles, then ten,
then 20, then 40, and so on..
until the thoughts that once put a smile on our faces
become an uncharted territory of distant memories:
this is the moment where our minds
become mausoleums
and buried underneath these marble tombs
lays our youth

Listening to 99 Luftballons on the Eve of Election Day

the night of November 5, 2018
the world is a panic switch
a nuclear detonation button
placed below a mad man’s desk
& I’m sifting through spotify playlists
trying my luck as a translator
rewriting the messages
in the Google-search lyrics tab
just thinking how long the finger
upon this doomsday device
has lingered
postcards from the apocalypse
slipstream to the P.O. boxes
of an anxiety-induced mind
Nena echoes the spirit
of Nostradamus
launching a vocal barrage of truth
astral projecting visions
of an ultra-violent state
crawling out of cold war rubble
as nightfall looms
so does the fate of a nation,
yet I sit here, waiting,
hoping the music will save us all

J.B. Stone is an neurodiverse poet/fiction writer from Brooklyn, now residing in Buffalo. Stone is the author of A Place Between Expired Dreams And Renewed Nightmares (Ghost City Press 2018). He also has work featured in Occulum, Riggwelter Press, Peach Mag, BlazeVOX, Mystic Blue Review, Breadcrumbs Magazine, Flash of Dark, Crack the Spine among several other publications. You can check out more of his work at jaredbenjaminstone.com, and follow him on twitter @JB_StoneTruth

“A Seat In The Circle” by Sean Thor Conroe


Wasn’t till I heard Desiigner’s “Panda” play for a third consecutive time, at apartment wall-shaking decibels, that I gave up: closed my laptop, removed Winnie from my lap, and went out for a smoke.

Milo was kicking it with the crew.

Milo lived next door, in the bando-looking apartment adjacent. He rocked a grill when not eating, meticulously maintained his waves, and, though about my age, was a father.


I shuffled street-ward, along the unlit back walkway separated from Milo’s by chest-high fence, patting myself down for my lighter. Narrowly avoided eating it on a balloon I last-minute sidestepped that must have squirmed over from Milo’s son Tayshawn’s party last week.

A black four-door with tinted windows was idling on Ashby, at the entrance of Milo’s driveway. Passenger open, streetlight glinting off its hood. Maybe six dudes not including Milo congregated inside and around it. Of the maybe six, maybe three had phones out. Were by the looks of it Snapping.

“Bruh what’s good,” said Milo, emerging from one of apartments at the back of their lot, behind me.

“You know,” I said, removing my right earbud, which wasn’t playing anything. “Same ole.”

He typed into his phone.

“Y’all turning up tonight?”

“You know me,” he said, going in for the dap up, over the fence. “Always.”

“For sure.”

He put his head down. Continued texting.

“Welcome to come through and kick it,” he added. “We’ll just be. You know. Kicking it.” He tapped a button on his phone. Spoke into it from a distance: “Bruh these hoes tryna do what?”

I eyed the six-some at the end of the driveway. Recognized one of the bulkier dudes in a white tee and low-hanging gold chain from my first encounter with Milo. Didn’t see the fool who tried to step to me though…

The wifey and I had just moved in, I was smoking out back one weekend afternoon, adjacent to our backdoor, on the bottom step of our upstairs neighbor’s staircase, directly facing Milo’s: grill going, picnic tablecloths spread out on fold-out tables, kids running haywire. I’d just woken up, so needed thirty at least of solitary calibration before even considering speaking to anyone. Preemptively avoiding this possibility, I paced Ashby-ward, along the walkway on which I was presently idling.

But midday weekend traffic on Ashby can be on one. As the foremost thoroughfare leading onto 580 South, which led onto the Bay Bridge, it funneled just about all SF-bound South Berkeleyites and North Oaklanders—where it intersected San Pablo, a couple houses over from Milo’s, literally the neck of the bottle.

Quickly realizing I wouldn’t be able to handle the energy of the street, I stopped, one-eightied, and started back towards the staircase. Figured I’d hide out on the cinder block I’d found, while moving in the week before, behind the dumpster abutting our back window.

Ninety degrees into my one-eighty, I caught the eye of one of Milo’s homies who, the moment I noticed him, I could tell had been eyeing me since I’d stepped outside.

“That’s right dog. Keep walking.”

I heard this only vaguely, amidst the chatter of the barbeque.

I stopped, turned, to ensure whoever spoke was in fact addressing me.

Homie—light-skinned, durag just visible beneath a beanie—was blatantly mean-mugging, his fingers massaging the blunt he was rolling.

“What was that?” I said.

“Said ain’t nothing to see here, dog.“ He stood up. Looked left, right, left again. Licked the paper, lit it to dry it, and lit up.

“I mean, I live here. Who the fuck are you?” I said, dragging hard.

He approached aggressively. Stopped about ten feet away.

“Bruh who am I? I been here. Born and raised. I know everyone here. Who the fuck is you?” his voice going an octave higher at the end.

None of those gathered took notice, save for this bigger, bulky dude with a gold grill and gold chain and crisp white tee who stood by, avoiding eye contact but whose expression conveyed, Not getting involved yet, but you see me and I see you; I’m right here.

“Well shoot,” I said. “My name is Sho. And I live here.” I indicated our back door. “Recently moved here, that is. Ever moved before?”


“Huh,” I said, considering this. Flicked my butt, spat, and proceeded to the back.

“Bruh,” he said, following me. “I been here since I was born. Where the fuck you from?”

“Shit dude. All over! Moved every two years damn near since I was born. Fuck outta my face.”

Here Milo stepped in, “holding him back.”

I sat down on the cinder block. Someone had moved it to the side of the laundry shed, against the back fence, facing Milo’s lot but also partially obscured from it by the back row of apartments. Opened my book, Parzival (ca. 1200), and began going through the motions of reading.

 “What are you then, dog? Like, what are you?” He paced side to side behind Milo’s outstretched arms, doing that thing fools do when flexing where they lick their lips and rub their palms together, as if their hands are cold.

Thinking I’d flexed enough for the day, I almost ignored this. Until I was piqued by the question. By what he meant.

“What do you mean?” I said, laughing lightheartedly enough to diffuse the conflict somewhat, derisively enough to convey “it’s still beef.”

“I mean what you rep? Norteño? Sureño?”

“Ha,” I said. “I don’t rep shit. Just out here.”

“You Mexican?”

“Nah bruh. Japonés.”

He would later come over, ask what I was reading, comment “Reading’s mad important yo, gotta keep your mind right,” here tapping his temple.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Reading’s where it’s at.”

Milo, too, would introduce himself. As did White Tee homie who’d stood by and surveyed; he saluted impassively from back of Milo, without coming forward. And he was whom I recognized on this night—out by the idling four-door blasting “Panda.”


Milo had invited me to come over and kick it a number of times in the nine-or-so months since that first encounter. But I never had, not least since his invitations seemed like, and likely somewhat were, tacit requests that I don’t hit him with a noise complaint: his music, lately Dirty Sprite 2 (2015) on loop, really was apartment-wall-shaking. Plus weekend nights—when the invitations tended to come—I generally spent out with co-workers or cuddled up with the wifey and our cat, Winnie. The wifey, however, was on this night out of town.

“Ay!” I called out to Milo, who’d meandered over to the idling car, was showing White Tee something on his phone. He looked up. “Y’all gonna be out here in like ten?”

“For sure bro,” he called back, lifting his thumb aloft.

I went inside, rolled a more ambitious spliff than I would have were I smoking alone, grabbed a 40 oz. sparkling water from the fridge door, replaced it with another from the pack of six stashed atop the fridge, and returned outside.

Vaulting over the fence, I found them congregated in the semblance of a circle, on fold out chairs out front the two-story back row of apartments, illuminated by a motion activated light. They were passing around a bottle of something pink and bubbly.

After conducting intros, Milo pulled up a chair.

“Anyone tryna smoke?” I said, procuring the spliff.

“I’m straight,” said Milo. “Don’t smoke.”

I surveyed the circle, gesturing Anyone?

All except homie directly to my left, whom I didn’t recognize from a previous shindig, declined.

“Word,” I said, for some reason thrown.

Homie to my left passed me the bubbly, which I traded him for the spliff I’d gotten going. Swigged. Sweeter than expected. Passed it along.

White Tee was going on about someone who was fronting like he wasn’t into dudes but was pretty clearly into dudes.

“Nah, I don’t even understand that though,” said Milo, pouring codeine out of a wrinkled paper bag into a two liter of Sprite, the outdoor light glinting off his grill. “Like, how you a dude, with a dick, and not be fucking hoes? Like how?”

“Nah for real though,” someone else added. “Not even gonna lie, if my kid was gay I wouldn’t even fuck with him.”

“Damn,” someone else said.

“Even if it was a girl?” I said.


“If you had a daughter, who was gay, would you fuck with her?”

“Oh, I mean, yeah. That’s different.”

“Word,” I said, taking back the spliff homie to my left handed me. Toked. Exhaled. “My sister…” I began, as if about to rail off additional details, before trailing off, feeling the weed all at once, mid-clause. A hyper-pixilation of my surroundings, like HD television to the unaccustomed eye. Needed a sec was all.

“Yo, play back that Stick Talk,” said Milo to whomever was closest to the speaker, a sizeable subwoofer bungeed onto a dolly-type cart.

Took a shot o’ Henny I been goin’ brazy brazy!

Milo held the two liter to the light. Watched the lean and soda mix.

“Activis?” I said, once Future got a few bars in.

“Shoot,” said Milo. “Is it?” He removed the paper bag. Examined the label. The bottle looked pharmaceutical grade. “Yeah. It is.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Yo, you fuck with lean?” said Milo, his fist over his mouth as if about to bust into a laugh. Everyone not on their phone looked up—homie to my left holding in his inhale, as if until I responded.

“I mean,” I said, smiling. “Nah.”

Everyone laughed.

“But—,” I said, holding up my pointer. “By no means saying I wouldn’t. Just haven’t ever.”

“Aha, this nigga said ‘by no means saying I wouldn’t’,” said White Tee, the part repeating what I’d said in a ho-hum Square White Dude voice, before swigging the bubbly.

Everyone went silent.

Of the moths circling the motion detector light at the base of the upper level balcony, one, the largest, kept banging into the bulb, bouncing off, banging back into the bulb.

“Hold on. So all you fools do lean? But don’t smoke weed?” I said, addressing everyone but for some reason looking directly at White Tee.

“Shoot,” he said. “I don’t even fuck with that no more.”

Others in the circle nodded.

“That’s only ’cause this nigga wife-d up,” said Milo, snickering like kee-kee-kee.

White Tee pssshhh-ed. Looked down at his phone.

Next the bubbly came around I said I was good, opting instead for my forty of sparkling water. Grabbed the bottle by its neck, swigged it like one might a Mickeys.

I imagined myself as a gaucho-type wino, face dirtied and lounging trackside, glugging a forty of malt liquor. Only it wasn’t malt liquor. It was sparkling water. This image, the clarity of it, filled me with silent laughter. The feeling came over me like a wave, warming my insides.

Then the wave passed.

I dragged. Got only crutch.

Panicking, not wanting to forget the feeling, I jotted into my phone:

Sipping 40 oz. of sparkling water like it’s booze.

Before last minute adding:

“The Hydrationists.” 

I asked Milo whether he made music, whether he rapped; and, when he said ’Course, suggested he play something, but in a sec—to Think of a good one need to grab something be right back—before vaulting back over the fence and into my apartment, which I’d left unlocked since I could see the backdoor from where I’d been sitting. Refilled my grinder with dispensary-bought Gorilla Scout, re-exited, vaulted back over the fence, and returned to my seat in the circle.

Things had shifted slightly in my absence. There was commotion from inside the main apartment, around the corner but in earshot. White Tee was where he’d been when I left, except now he was standing: on his phone, stance active as if organizing a relocation. I recognized the central voice of the commotion as the grandmother or guardian of Milo’s son Tayshawn. In her mid-forties, she at times conducted herself in a matriarchal, domineering way, at others could be seen mildly made up, getting lit with the younger folks.

Undeterred by the Changes, feeling “I was onto something,” I rolled up another.

Two tokes in, an old, beat up, raised pickup barged up the driveway. Skrt-ed abruptly, as if about to occupy one of the slanted spots in the back corner of the paved yard. We all stood and in unison yelled versions of “Woah woah woah!” indicating we didn’t want to get run over. The driver, a girl I hadn’t seen before, looked not only lit but untrustworthy the way she sat awkwardly upright, craning her neck over the steering wheel. She lurched to a stop at an oblique angle to the property-separating fence and promptly killed the engine.

Five tokes in, two older dudes in tank tops, basketball shorts, and slides emerged from upper-level apartments. Began disputing something with the pickup driver.

Milo had his head down, was focused intently on his phone. Whether scrolling for a suitable song to play or for something else entirely I wasn’t sure. Homie to my left was debating with homie across the way about whether the group of women they were about to meet up with were “tryna get it” or not. The consensus-held hope was that they were.

The arrival of this tertiary force to compete for auditory supremacy in this shared outdoor space stressed me out, but evidently didn’t anyone else present. Milo seemed a bit withdrawn, like he might be irked by the trio arguing. Or maybe by my presence, which seemed to take on a different significance with the arrival of the pickup. Couldn’t tell.

“This some shit right here,” said Milo. “Where that aux at?”

He turned off “Panda,” which had somehow made its way back onto the speakers. Threw on his song.

It sounded like some early-aughts, Bay Area Hyphy shit, except with the influence of all the current, Atlanta-based rap I knew Milo listened to evident. Although only obliquely: I felt, like I did with most amateur rap, that the flow could vary more from bar to bar. Same time, the barometer for bar-quality in that Hyphy sound was more the consistency and oomph applied to each enunciation, rather than the complexity of the syllabic patterning.

So yeah, I fucks with this, I was about to say, before the truck’s engine, on its third attempt, screeched back on.

The truck lurched back, scraping the fence. Three or more bodies yelled and strolled briskly to strategic, mirrored points around it. The driver swiveled frantically, apparently unaware of how to employ side-mirrors. Homie stationed behind the truck, on the exhaust-side, began coughing and stepped back, enveloped in a dense cloud of smoke.

By the time the driver backed out to the road and successfully entered the gauntlet of westbound Ashby traffic, the gathering seemed shot.

I dapped up Milo, my sole co-smoker, and White Tee, before vaulting back over the fence and into my apartment, where I was greeted by an especially vocal and frenetic Winnie.

Closed and this time locked the door.



Sean Thor Conroe was born 香村 翔宇 (Kamura Sho) in Tokyo. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, on sidewalks and in fields. He hosts the podcast ‘1storypod,’ tweets @stconroe, and edits http://1storyhaus.com 

“K” by SR Gorski


K ran mental diagnostics before sneaking into the UCB library. Getting in early morning was easy, she just couldn’t leave. She had her ancient but functioning macbook, her Blue Yeti microphone, and a relatively cheap webcam. All the important assets, aside from the Yeti, are digital. For 55 minutes she’d don a digitally rendered Deepfake veil—whispering at just-the-right volume for her audience to identify feminine intonations. Her gig rakes in about $800 on Patreon every video. Intermittent livestreams—which are harder to pull off while hiding away in a library study room—are another $300-500 in Superchats. K dropped out of school over a year ago. It coincided with her dope dependency—however H is not the reason she dropped out. An abusive boyfriend, shitty Korean parental pressure about finances, and an inescapable sense of Ragnarok that ebbed at her ankles like a ghost tide—all that, and some. She isn’t a dope fiend—she just likes getting high—and would NEVER I.V.

K hocks a loogie before entering the library’s side door, the spit is laced with starchy and bitter mucus. She almost swallows to preserve some of her high, but spits, disgusted. K thinks back to Ted, her needy manchild ex. He didn’t get her into dope, that was on her, but he didn’t help make her life any easier. She recalled a time she was giving him head; his cock was already sad looking but he was also having trouble staying hard, most likely a result of her cottonmouth. So she mustered her spit and hocked a loogie to aid in lubrication. It had been full of dope just like this one. He never did find out about her habit.

At a high paying patron’s request K could transform her image digitally and—with a little coaching from the requester (“Higher pitched, no now with a little more vocal fry”)—she could become any individual purring sensual, sometimes sexual, murmurations in the form of emotional reassurances and affirmations. Most videos consisted of platonic conversations or finger tippy-tappy onomatopoeia “experiences.” Scar Joh… Emily Blunt… a guy’s 8th grade science teacher—anyone could be lulling the masses into hypnagogic euphoria. K is unaffected by ASMR’s siren song and she doesn’t question its legitimacy; she imagines it feels like getting high.

>Today’s session will be simulcast live

>Top donor: Koriolis, has a special role request

>This one is personal… here’s his preference:

>”Asian/American, very pretty with high cheekbones and full lips, around 23 years old” attached is a picture (always appreciated for better accuracy)

>Picture of K appears as K scrolls down the request feed

>Voice request description: “soft, kind, and monotone with a bored sort of intonation—not emotionless though—more like mono-emotional… with an emphasis on caring. She always sounded caring. Like a silk-sewn death knell or the wet, nurturing embrace of a womb.”

K’s heart skips beats or changes to syncopated meter, the stream cannot be cut off, she needs the donations to score for the week. A voice in her head says this will save time: no digital interfacing necessary. No private chat for voice corrections, it is her voice after all. She rasps in air as a war drum deploys cortisol throughout her nervous system.

>Shallow breath begets panic—paresthesia

>K can’t handle. This is too much

>The too much will devour her

>K needs to get High

>The High will be good for her

>And she can be herself

5 minutes until the stream starts or donations will begin being refunded. K busts out her stash—knowing that doing bags here is not smart. UCB library has security. They don’t roam the building, but someone could see and say something. She stations the Yeti to block out the lines of H: strategic pew rows in which she will quickly kneel then get back to acting her part in this strange, uncomfortable, painful play. “Should I do 2?” She wonders rhetorically. “No 3, that is perfect.” But she will make them heavy—it isn’t like the viewers can tell. Someone is coming… fuck, no—wait, ok. Just a nerdy-looking blonde chick with an armful of books. Please fucking get the fuck out K prays as she aggressively side-eyes the girl. Three earthworm sized lines awaiting frothing cerebellum and…


>A pretty, 23 year old Asian/American girl with black hair looks dreamily into the camera

>Her head lilts and sways as if to a slow and silent song

>Eyelids at a quarter, half, then fully closed

>K falls flat faced on the desk with thud and her mouth aimed at the mic

>Not a sound

>Viewer count: 1200

>Viewer count: 1205

>Viewer count: 1208

>Viewer count: 1227…


SR Gorski is the pen name of a person obsessed with thought. SR graduated with an english/creative writing degree and attends writing workshops regularly. SR is interested in speculative fiction, specifically the effects our era of access has on social interaction and cognition