*The Reception Desk Flickers* We were asking for Wi-Fi but got a pamphlet on Internal Compliance. Even the carpet sighed under the weight of nothing promised. The receptionist’s eyelids twitched in Morse. Somewhere, a printer coughed up confidential regret. Lunch skittered in boxes shaped like streamlined guilt. Small birds pecked the air between emails; Twittered,…
Month: April 2025
Amanita 1
### Amanita 1 ### Shhhhhhroom Series – Part I The Genuine Account of Humankind as Viewed through the Luminous Lens of the Fun-Gi: A Rekindled Journey Toward an Authentic Narrative and an Exploration of Myths and Legends that Reinforce the Innate Impetus for Humanity to Rediscover Utopia. Integrating an Enchanting Compendium of Mystical and Shamanic…
*Rules & Restrictions Apply*
*Terms & Conditions Apply* All morning, the inbox swelled like a throat cleared too often—an apology’s stale rehearsal. There was a form to submit, but the fields labeled “self” kept changing. In aisle thirteen, fluorescent silence hovers like a drone taught to recognize longing. The cereal boxes blink back, mascots beaming a kind of edible…
Elegy for a Captcha
**Captcha Elegy** by The Clergyman The thermostat blinks doubt into my morning, a low hum of calibrated mercy. Someone, probably named Ethan, or a code in his place, set this room’s warmth to forgetfulness. Outside, a couple argues over a dropped phone— as if small plastics still carry the past like musk. We subscribe to…
The Priest
In aisle twenty-three under flickering light, a dented can of peaches chants psalms to no one—its label peeling like confession. The janitor baptizes linoleum with grey water and hums the death march backwards. An old woman exchanges coins for silence at the self-checkout; her barcode face unreadable. Behind her, a boy with pixel eyes cradles…
The Office of Whispering Fans
In the ministry of humming fans, a stapler coughs again—its creed neatly misfiled in drawer thirteen. An orchid blooms in the breakroom fridge, petals crusted with yogurt light, and Brenda whispers the Gospel of HR: “Your soul must clock in before your body.” Meanwhile, the photocopier emits eight identical sins per second— each page blank…
The Throne / Lupe
This article is based on this Dutch article of Martinus Benders El Trono I’ve had it for twenty years. It smells of rotting figs and ancient rain. I’ve had it for twenty years, and it has had me. It gave up long ago, but I never heard its creaking song between gasps. Its back is…
The Priest
In the elevator’s humming throat, I cradled a loaf of bread like a wound— each crumb a dream of socialist flour. A woman coughed pixels into her sleeve; in aisle seven, detergent gods blinked from holographic thrones. We genuflect to offers. Behind the fish counter, the saint of discounted flesh dragged his crucifix through ammonia…
The Pastor
In the atrium of the Welfare Office, a cockroach plays cello on a receipt — Baroque shrieks fracture the linoleum hush. Behind glass, the clerk peels the barcode from his neck, asks me to recite my mother’s last bank statement, in Latin. I oblige, tongue clumsy as a drowned priest’s hymn. Outside, the pigeons yell…
The Office Chaplain
In the breakroom, a shrine of plastic forks— Saint Microwave hums its Gregorian code to lukewarm saints in polyester shirts— each zipper a failed resurrection. Janet files her soul under E4. Outside, pigeons riot like minor gods knitted from gray snow and fast food grease, offering French fries to the void. The copier births identical…