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04 Jun 01:35

The Importance of Hip-Hop Inviting Comic Books To The Cool Table

by Omar Holmon

[Art by Julian Lytle]

As I get closer I notice that they showing each other sketches out of their notebooks, reminded me of my old roots // I walk past with a nod and a reminisce // Swear to god hip hop and comic books was my genesis

That verse from Slug from Atmosphere resonates with me more and more as the years go by. Growing up, comic books and hip-hop were a huge part of my youth. I never saw these genres as separate entities ever since the day I saw Wu-Tang’s Triumph video and heard Method Man say, “On foreign land jump the gun out the frying pan into the fire// Transform into the Ghost Rider // A six-pack and a streetcar named desire.” I saw Method Man on a motorcycle with flames on his head and I knew he was referencing The Ghost Rider, Johnny Blaze. My eleven-year-old self was ecstatic at the revelation because this emcee that everyone loves fucks with comics, and then he used “John Blaze” as an alias and Ghostface used “Tony Starks”? I. LOST. MY. SHIT.

Here are these world famous emcees dropping obscure characters (in Method Man’s case) and I caught what he was talking about. I had to ask what “A Street Car Named Desire” was, and when I found out I was even more impressed because not only was his nerd game up but so was his playwrite/literature game. From then on, nothing made me happier then catching a nerd/lit reference from an emcee. It became a game of seeing how much I could decode or catch from a verse.

This also made me proud of the depth of my comic book/myth knowledge which I was always interested in because these popular artists (the majority of which look like me) are referring to them as if to say, “Hey, I read that book too. Page 25 was crazy, right?” Nothing makes you feel like less of an outsider than when you discover an artist you enjoy is into the same genres of pop culture that you are. It made me so excited when Lupe came out because he his verses weren’t just one-liners to nerd references, that shit was drenched in it! His song Daydream basically took place with him rhyming inside a Gundam. There’s multiple pop culture allusions in Lupe’s work:

Ororo Munroe, make it rain
Not with bills, I make it change
Take that cool shit, make it lame
Take that nerd shit, make it bang
“- Yoga Flame

I like “Thelonious Monk”
He’s the wallpaper on my computer
I love Final Fantasy
I hate first person shooters
(me too)” – And He Gets The Girl

Gave me the green light like Yoda’s Knife“- Failure

Lupe was MVP of pop culture, but I got to give it to the pioneer of the nerd genre, the emcee Last Emperor, who made two tracks based on Marvel’s Secret Wars (which Marvel has recently brought back) titled The Last Emperor’s Secret Wars I & II. He had his favorite emcee battling against heroes and villains, going so far as to detail each battle blow for blow and impersonate rappers’ voices. My man basically wrote and performed in fan fiction on a track! Y’all don’t know, he even went so far as to update it with more current rappers in the game on the second track. When I was put onto this it really felt like interweb gold.

“Let the games begin!” Set it off, it’s the fight of the century…
KRS and Professor X would battle each other mentally With rhymes, these two team captains waste no time"

KRS and Professor X would battle each other mentally
with rhymes, these two team captains waste no time

I honestly couldn’t get enough of this shit back then, and the same is true for today. Against the “fast food rap” that’s currently being played mainstream, my preference is toward those artists that are more versatile that rap about the opposite of gunplay. It can take a lot of digging to find those artists too, man. I mean, I enjoy the look through a rapper’s perspective via the likes of Pusha T (who lives that shit), but that won’t be the artist I relate to most since we grew up in different environments. I gravitate towards artists whose rhymes reflect the nostalgia of what I grew up with, such as Mega Ran, Open Mike Eagle, Homeboy Sandman (Pre-Gawker article), Zach Lost (the hell is the new album at, man?), Jean Grae, Pharaohe Monch, and others. You can still have respect for one approach while preferring another.

A perfect example of this is with Dumbfoundead, a musician that has come back to the battle rap forefront. He himself expressed keeping his art dynamic (some may read as nerdy) and versatile, but even though a majority of battle rappers may use gun bars he still respects the art the time they take to craft it as they use elements of poetry in the mechanics used in the detail for crafting verses. On the stage of battle rap I absolutely love seeing a battler that’s more versed with pop culture references than gun bars as it becomes two opposing forces mashing together. In Dumbfoundead’s battle against Conceited, he had a genius retort to the gun references Conceited used in the previous round against him.

“Oh you got unlimited ammo? Does that mean I could have force fields?
Does that mean I could have orc sword shields?

A giant hammer that Thor wields?
Does that mean I could have orbs, pills, potions to level up more skill?
Just cuz you talk about guns doesn’t make it more real…

While you and ya crew was playing Gangster: The Gathering

While you and ya crew was playing Gangster: The Gathering

It’s one thing to hear this shit in your iTunes, but to see nerd shit being used in a battle? Arghhh I love it! I already expressed Carter Deems’ ability to use nerd references in his battles, as well as when Immaculate (a dude who gets versatile in the literature and fiction) played Carter’s game for what was a lighthearted battle. However, I got to point out that when Illmac gets in his zone? Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiit…

“Cats think all I got is nerd bars, right? So how ’bout this
This a blitzkrieg weeks prior till the cease fire in Germany
Your pennies for thoughts to bitcoins and deep cyber-net currency

illmac gif

Nano technician, hadron collision
Black holes and astral-projection

When I battle I travel demensions & reality hangs in suspension" (art by mery03)

When I battle I travel dimensions & reality hangs in suspension” (art by Mery03)

The man literally pulled out nerd frames, ripped the verse, then crushed them, and continued ripping the verse and exposing some nerd bars his opponent (Aye Verb) used before. It was just a symphony of beauty in that third round, man. As we all know, it has now become more of an acceptable style to be a nerd (especially via fashion), but when that shit was still outlawed these emcees were some of the folk that made repping the nerd genre set a badge of honor.

Man, it used to be real Meji Government out here, except instead of a sword ban (Samurai were pissed about that) it was a ban on all things nerd. It’s great to see how the times have changed and the means we’ve used to bring that portion of pop culture to the forefront. Now we’ve got Marvel doing hip hop variant covers to their comics as well. As much as we’ve seen comics influence on hip-hop we’re also seeing hip-hop influence plenty of other platforms. It’s great to see how these two genres, both considered a fad and shunned upon numerous times, solidified a place of their own and a bridge between each other.

“Started in my youth I blame Street Fighter II back when winning wasn’t enough I had to get a perfect”-Joe Budden


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02 Apr 00:35

Every Nerd is an Island

by Omar Holmon

Art by Nidhi Chanani

So I’m on the train with a friend heading into New Jersey. We’re talking right, and I spot this guy a few seats ahead of me. If I was to get my Sherlock observation on I’d say he was late 40’s, banker type, ivy league-ish, glasses and a long black coat, he probably reads Wall Street Journal and his favorite movie is Ghost. Typical guy (he looked like Tim Gunn), except for one thing. He’s wearing a scarf… a burgundy and gold scarf. Now I’m looking at this guy and debating with my friend if this man is a Harry Potter / House Gryffindor fan. I’m not big on Harry Potter but I like to think I’m well versed in fictional gang colors cause Nerd Recognize Nerd.

At this point I’m literally debating aloud with my friend if my man is bout that life or if Johnston and Murphy just so happened to make scarf with the similar pattern by coincidence. Me being who I am, I can’t live on not knowing the truth, so when he gets off at our stop I ask him “Excuse me sir, you Gryffindor?” My man lowered his glasses, looked me straight in the brown stained glassed windows of my soul and nodded his head. To you that may be insignificant but to me (in the moment) it felt like….

u guessed it

It should be known that i hate talking to people because to quote Dr. Perry Cox “People are bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.” So talking to a stranger really isn’t in my criteria but there is something about recognizing said stranger as a person into the same nerd/pop culture genre as you are that can make one (temporarily) put aside that hate/disdain/distrust/misanthropic tendencies toward potential fuck boy-ness and give them the benefit of the doubt. Here is the thing, Every nerd is an island, man. We’re out in life either loving what we love keeping it to ourselves or at times flaunting in via T-shirt, accessories or what have you.

You don’t expect someone to be aware of what you’re “Sinestro Corps” shirt is or references but there are times when a person (another nerd) does and they give you that nod saying, “I understood that reference”. That nod is basically a ship passing by your island seeing your flare (nerd shirt/accessory). Usually it’s your choice if you wanna engage that ship or just keep by yourself on your island cause you not that pressed for conversation. Gotta recognize that might not always be the case for nerd girls as cats may wanna engage on how nerd you are AND come off as ass in some cases as Carrie touched upon in a prior post.

"Everytime A Nerd Says "Fake Geek Girl"  A Meninist Get's His Fedora"

“Everytime A Nerd Says “Fake Geek Girl” A Meninist Gets Its Fedora”

However, there is something about rocking your nerd shit via whatever apparel that displays the genre clan you belong to. I found myself a year ago heading on my way to an event and there was this fellow blerd rocking a Nightwing logo shirt. He was on the phone so I just pointed to his shirt and gave a thumbs up. To which, his response was,

“Ayo, Hold on. You pointing at my shirt but you rocking the Gaara gourd like that ain’t what up!? *dap* (gets back on phone) This dude out here reppin’ Hidden Sand Village fa real doe.”

If only exchanges were so pleasant (and brief). We are in an age where people are taking more pride in flaunting their genre, and more of the “In Crowd” has taken upon this as well. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen someone in a nerd shirt and felt shame due to not having mine on me at the time. All the while internally screaming, “I’m one of you! I swear!! I too am an island.”. This ain’t always the case though, I was watching Naruto at work once (they knew what it was when they hired me) and a dude from another department noticed and I got caught in a conversation I really didn’t want to have with this guy.

I was perfectly good with our hellos in the hallway AND THAT BEING IT. Sure, it was nice to meet another fellow nerd in the office (ehhhhhhh) but I ain’t want this dude on my island man. That’s like our islands are adjacent from one another and this dude swimming over cause he seems my camp fire going and I’m like “nah…nah I’m good… you don’t have to….. annnnd you’re here.” There are just sometimes you don’t want to engage man but being part of this means at times you gotta share that genre island… then keep your office door closed and change your hallway route.

Yeah… yeah this open field in looks safe

This could also be argued as an introvert or an extrovert I suppose but I’m not really getting into all that. I feel like to me at least. Being part of this nerd subculture (black nerd= subculture within a subculture) is really about reppin’ your genre flag and recognizing the flags of other’s particular genres as well with respect. Whether that makes you an island, peninsula or just land locked all depends on you and how you choose to engage fellow nerds.

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24 Mar 00:04

"classic" "aphorisms" "rephrased"

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March 23rd, 2015: My book To Be or Not to Be is now available as a game on iOS and Android!

– Ryan

21 Dec 16:32

All Your Giant Mecha Dreams Come True! The Legend of Korra, “Kuvira’s Gambit”

by Mordicai Knode

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

That’s...quite an eponymous ploy, hm? This episode of The Legend of Korra is named “Kuvira’s Gambit,” and I frankly was expecting something like the inverse of the Gaang’s invasion of the Fire Nation, or the Rebel’s plan on Endor, or Suyin’s assault on Kuvira in the first place. Make a distraction and let an elite team take out essential targets. I was expecting Kuvira and a crack assault time to ride in on, I don’t know, a heavy paratroop drop, and hit Republic City in the heart.

But no, I had it all wrong: Kuvira’s gambit is a 25 story tall mecha suit. It’s a short jump from last week’s “Operation Beifong”: now that the crew is back together—kit and caboodle—they’ve almost got a chance to prepare...

[Read More]

Ever since I first discovered one of the McKinney Robotech novels in the lost and found in junior high while waiting in the principal’s office—and absconded with it—I’ve had a passing interest in mecha interface systems. Inexplicable systems of pedals and switchs, brain scanners, ZERO systems, the enigmatic and mystic union between humans and protoculture, the Proustian inquiries of gothic machines in Big O, and now metalbending.

Metalbending your Megatron mecha with giant Centipede cueballs? I didn’t see that coming, but it makes a lot of sense. The there is already a union of movement to effect, with bending; abstracting it from movement, to bending effect, and back to movement on a larger scale—a mecha-scale—just makes intuitive sense.

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

I can’t help but think that you could do the same with waterbending—bubble chambers and waterclocks—or lightning bending electronics, or airbending, like the temple doors in Avatar: the Last Airbender. I thought we weren’t going to see the flying mecha, but they went from blueprint to prototype pretty quickly. We still haven’t gotten one in the air, but I’m much less dubious now, even with the hangar destroyed. See, now I’m wondering about the future of technological and bending advancement; The Legend of Korra has turned me into a futurist for their fictional world: thanks Asami Sato, Varrick, Zhu Li...and I suppose Batar Jr., as it would be remiss to overlook the giant freaking robot.

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

It’s a good thing our team is on point, because everybody else—except, against all odds, Wu?—is getting on my last nerve. I can appreciate that President Raiko is in a difficult position but he’s just so slimy. He’s the epitome of a politician, and while it is great characterization by Spencer Garrett and the writers, it just leaves me feeling like a cabbage bugslug crawled all over me.

Varrick, you are so close, but why you gotta be like that? A jerk and a dolt? At least Bolin has no sympathy for the moron. Batar Jr.’s all “I’m a big dumb idiot” and that’s to be expected but still, how hard my eyes rolled? So hard. Meelo’s farts, sigh. What can I say, I don’t want to act like I’m Mister Mature or like the show can’t be silly, but the scatalogical humor continues to miss the mark.

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

It is a nice character piece, this episode. The bit with Kuvira and Batar Jr. at the end is very film noir, right? Hardboiled as heck, if you overlook the strange circumstances. The Legend of Korra may have gotten off on wobbly footing when it comes to romance, with the controversial Mako and Korra relationship, but since then? Telling love stories in the margins is something they’ve always been good at. Zaheer and P’Li had passion and charisma, but Kuvira and Batar’s tragedy springs from betrayal, and that’s hard to top. The anime-cute relationship between Varrick and Zhu Li is vindicated by her standing up for herself; now all that remains to see is if they can pull off the dismount. Lots of emotional story arcs advancing this week!

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

Nice to see a few breaks go our guys’ way for a change. The Air Nomads are part parkour, park basejumping; they’ve got this urban combat thing down to a science. Once again, the choreography of this show is ridiculous. The plan to jump an airship and grab Batar Jr.? No problemo! Korra’s in charge, and now that people are finally listening to her for a change, they are on a hot streak.

Maybe it’s just ’cause I’m a nerdy guy with thick glasses in love with his wife, but poor dumb Batar Jr. really got me as the patsy this episode. It’s not done to try to exonerate or absolve him, so it works to generate empathy. The very lopsided exchange of “I love you” still stings. Sure, he built the Death Star, and he still just had his heart broken...but by a giant freaking mecha with a superlaser. I can’t stress that enough.

Legend of Korra Kuriva's Gambit

You can see the scars of colonialism all over this episode. The United Republic was a compromise precisely to prevent this sort of thing, but in the words of the season three intro to Babylon Five, it failed. Even with Kuvira shooting a giant laser into Republic City, I still think that “Balance” will end not with Korra bringing defeat, but with Korra bringing peace. It may be an elegant yin-yang sort of peace, or it may be a series of ugly compromises, but I think the theme of the season will win the day.

As for my “Korra re-unifies Vaatu and Raava” hypothesis, the last legs is for a climactic spiritual scene in one of the last two episodes: the purple beam could provide this, in theory—Korra gets hit with it, flash-sideway ensues—but we are running out of time for weird cosmological theories.

Mordicai Knode can’t stop, won’t stop making up cosmological theories. It’s just the way he’s wired; he’s a worldbuilder. He also just doesn’t care about the finer points of distinction between robot and mecha. Find him on Tumblr and Twitter.

20 Nov 13:58

Season 2 RING RING POEM 5, Hidden Falls Regional Park, MN; Nov 18-25

by Cole
The last poet of the regular season of Ring Ring Poetry is William Waltz, Editor in Chief of Conduit Magazine. His poem is set in Saint Paul’s Hidden Falls Regional Park, right along the Mississippi River. The poem is rife with imagery, man and animal butting up against each other, trading places and treading closely. The … Continue reading →
02 Nov 16:08

The "Nonnein" Wraith Advisory Board (1970)

by Scarfolk Council

I desperately desire these.

Similar to the Ouija Board, the "Nonnein" Wraith Advisory Board was released by Scarfolk Games in 1970. The main difference between the two boards was that the latter gave the deceased more control over their messages.

Ghosts had became weary of dictating one letter at a time to the living, especially if they had poor spelling skills, so they welcomed the upgraded Nonnein Board which permitted them to shuffle the letters and spell out their own messages in 140 characters or less.

Predictably, the initial otherworldly communiqués were ominous, such as those below:

However, eerie threats and foreboding creepiness eventually gave way to genuine, inter-plane bonhomie:

The Nonnein Board also became a political interface between the spirit and earthly realms and by 1979 there were, in local government, several deceased politicians defending the social rights of both living and dead constituents. This wasn't without some controversy, as right-leaning politicians expressed concern at the idea of dead people immigrating to the UK and taking the jobs of the living.

Happy Halloween from Scarfolk Council.
29 Oct 13:16

The Husband Stitch


Wow, okay. Yes.

Carmen Maria Machado

(If you read this story out loud, please use the following voices:
Me: as a child, high-pitched, forgettable; as a woman, the same.
The boy who will grow into a man, and be my spouse: robust with his own good fortune.
My father: Like your father, or the man you wish was your father.
My son: as a small child, gentle, rounded with the faintest of lisps; as a man, like my husband.
All other women: interchangeable with my own.)


In the beginning, I know I want him before he does. This isn’t how things are done, but this is how I am going to do them. I am at a neighbour’s party with my parents, and I am seventeen. Though my father didn’t notice, I drank half a glass of white wine in the kitchen a few minutes ago, with the neighbour’s teenage daughter. Everything is soft, like a fresh oil painting.

The boy is not facing me. I see the muscles of his neck and upper back, how he fairly strains out of his button-down shirts. I run slick. It isn’t that I don’t have choices. I am beautiful. I have a pretty mouth. I have a breast that heaves out of my dresses in a way that seems innocent and perverse all at the same time. I am a good girl, from a good family. But he is a little craggy, in that way that men sometimes are, and I want.

I once heard a story about a girl who requested something so vile from her paramour that he told her family and they had her hauled her off to a sanitarium. I don’t know what deviant pleasure she asked for, though I desperately wish I did. What magical thing could you want so badly that they take you away from the known world for wanting it?

The boy notices me. He seems sweet, flustered. He says, hello. He asks my name.

I have always wanted to choose my moment, and this is the moment I choose.

On the deck, I kiss him. He kisses me back, gently at first, but then harder, and even pushes open my mouth a little with his tongue. When he pulls away, he seems startled. His eyes dart around for a moment, and then settles on my throat.

– What’s that? he asks.
– Oh, this? I touch my ribbon at the back of my neck. It’s just my ribbon. I run my fingers halfway around its green and glossy length, and bring them to rest on the tight bow that sits in the front. He reaches out his hand, and I seize it and push it away.

– You shouldn’t touch it, I say. You can’t touch it.

Before we go inside, he asks if he can see me again. I tell him I would like that. That night, before I sleep, I imagine him again, his tongue pushing open my mouth, and my fingers slide over myself and I imagine him there, all muscle and desire to please, and I know that we are going to marry.


We do. I mean, we will. But first, he takes me in his car, in the dark, to a lake with a marshy edge. He kisses me and clasps his hand around my breast, my nipple knotting beneath his fingers.

I am not truly sure what he is going to do before he does it. He is hard and hot and dry and smells like bread, and when he breaks me I scream and cling to him like I am lost at sea. His body locks onto mine and he is pushing, pushing, and before the end he pulls himself out and finishes with my blood slicking him down. I am fascinated and aroused by the rhythm, the concrete sense of his need, the clarity of his release. Afterwards, he slumps in the seat, and I can hear the sounds of the pond: loons and crickets, and something that sounds like a banjo being plucked. The wind picks up off the water and cools my body down.

I don’t know what to do now. I can feel my heart beating between my legs. It hurts, but I imagine it could feel good. I run my hand over myself and feel strains of pleasure from somewhere far off. His breathing becomes quieter and I realize that he is watching me. My skin is glowing beneath the moonlight coming through the window. When I see him looking, I know I can seize that pleasure like my fingertips tickling the end of a balloon’s string that has almost drifted out of reach. I pull and moan and ride out the crest of sensation slowly and evenly, biting my tongue all the while.

– I need more, he says, but he does not rise to do anything.

He looks out the window, and so do I. Anything could move out there in the darkness, I think. A hook-handed man. A ghostly hitch-hiker repeating her journey. An old woman summoned from the rest of her mirror by the chants of children. Everyone knows these stories – that is, everyone tells them – but no one ever believes them.

His eyes drift over the water, and then land on my neck.

– Tell me about your ribbon, he says.
– There is nothing to tell. It’s my ribbon.
– May I touch it?
– No.
– I want to touch it, he says.
– No.

Something in the lake muscles and writhes out of the water, and then lands with a splash. He turns at the sound.

– A fish, he says.
– Sometime, I tell him, I will tell you the stories about this lake and her creatures.

He smiles at me, and rubs his jaw. A little of my blood smears across his skin, but he doesn’t notice, and I don’t say anything.

– I would like that very much, he says.
– Take me home, I tell him.

And like a gentleman, he does.

That night, I wash myself. The silky suds between my legs are the color and scent of rust, but I am newer than I have ever been.


My parents are very fond of him. He is a nice boy, they say. He will be a good man. They ask him about his occupation, his hobbies, his family. He comes around twice a week, sometimes thrice. My mother invites him in for supper, and while we eat I dig my nails into the meat of his leg. After the ice cream puddles in the bowl, I tell my parents that I am going to walk with him down the lane. We strike off through the night, holding hands sweetly until we are out of sight of the house. I pull him through the trees, and when we find a patch of clear ground I shimmy off my pantyhose, and on my hands and knees offer myself up to him.

I have heard all of the stories about girls like me, and I am unafraid to make more of them. There are two rules: he cannot finish inside of me, and he cannot touch my green ribbon. He spends into the dirt, pat-pat-patting like the beginning of rain. I go to touch myself, but my fingers, which had been curling in the dirt beneath me, are filthy. I pull up my underwear and stockings. He makes a sound and points, and I realize that beneath the nylon, my knees are also caked in dirt. I pull them down and brush, and then up again. I smooth my skirt and repin my hair. A single lock has escaped his slicked-back curls, and I tuck it up with the others. We walk down to the stream and I run my hands in the current until they are clean again.

We stroll back to the house, arms linked chastely. Inside, my mother has made coffee, and we all sit around while my father asks him about business.

(If you read this story out loud, the sounds of the clearing can be best reproduced by taking a deep breath and holding it for a long moment. Then release the air all at once, permitting your chest to collapse like a block tower knocked to the ground. Do this again, and again, shortening the time between the held breath and the release.)


I have always been a teller of stories. When I was a young girl, my mother carried me out of a grocery store as I screamed about toes in the produce aisle. Concerned women turned and watched as I kicked the air and pounded my mother’s slender back.

– Potatoes! she corrected when we got back to the house. Not toes!

She told me to sit in my chair – a child-sized thing, only built for me – until my father returned. But no, I had seen the toes, pale and bloody stumps, mixed in among those russet tubers. One of them, the one that I had poked with the tip of my index finger, was cold as ice, and yielded beneath my touch the way a blister did. When I repeated this detail to my mother, the liquid of her eyes shifted quick as a startled cat.

– You stay right there, she said.

My father returned from work that evening and listened to my story, each detail.

– You’ve met Mr Barns, have you not? he asked me, referring to the elderly man who ran this particular market.

I had met him once, and I said so. He had hair white as a sky before snow, and a wife who drew the signs for the store windows.

– Why would Mr Barns sell toes? my father asked. Where would he get them?

Being young, and having no understanding of graveyards or mortuaries, I could not answer.

– And even if he got them somewhere, my father continued, what would he have to gain by selling them among the potatoes?

They had been there. I had seen them with my own eyes. But beneath the sunbeams of my father’s logic, I felt my doubt unfurling.

– Most importantly, my father said, arriving triumphantly at his final piece of evidence, why did no one notice the toes except for you?

As a grown woman, I would have said to my father that there are true things in this world only observed by a single set of eyes. As a girl, I consented to his account of the story, and laughed when he scooped me from the chair to kiss me and send me on my way.


It is not normal that a girl teaches her boy, but I am only showing him what I want, what plays on the insides of my eyelids as I fall asleep. He comes to know the flicker of my expression as a desire passes through me, and I hold nothing back from him. When he tells me that he wants my mouth, the length of my throat, I teach myself not to gag and take all of him into me, moaning around the saltiness. When he asks me my worst secret, I tell him about the teacher who hid me in the closet until the others were gone and made me hold him there, and how afterwards I went home and scrubbed my hands with a steel wool pad until they bled, even though after I share this I have nightmares for a month. And when he asks me to marry him, days shy of my eighteenth birthday, I say yes, yes, please, and then on that park bench I sit on his lap and fan my skirt around us so that a passerby would not realize what was happening beneath it.

– I feel like I know so many parts of you, he says to me, trying not to pant. And now, I will know all of them.


There is a story they tell, about a girl dared by her peers to venture to a local graveyard after dark. This was her folly: when they told her that standing on someone’s grave at night would cause the inhabitant to reach up and pull her under, she scoffed. Scoffing is the first mistake a woman can make.

I will show you, she said.

Pride is the second mistake.

They gave her a knife to stick into the frosty earth, as a way of proving her presence and her theory.

She went to that graveyard. Some storytellers say that she picked the grave at random. I believe she selected a very old one, her choice tinged by self-doubt and the latent belief that if she were wrong, the intact muscle and flesh of a newly dead corpse would be more dangerous than one centuries gone.

She knelt on the grave and plunged the blade deep. As she stood to run she found she couldn’t escape. Something was clutching at her clothes. She cried out and fell down.

When morning came, her friends arrived at the cemetery. They found her dead on the grave, the blade pinning the sturdy wool of her skirt to the ground. Dead of fright or exposure, would it matter when the parents arrived? She was not wrong, but it didn’t matter any more. Afterwards, everyone believed that she had wished to die, even though she had died proving that she could live.

As it turns out, being right was the third, and worst, mistake.


My parents are pleased about the marriage. My mother says that even though girls nowadays are starting to marry late, she married father when she was nineteen, and was glad that she did.

When I select my wedding gown, I am reminded of the story of the young woman who wished to go to a dance with her lover, but could not afford a dress. She purchased a lovely white frock from a secondhand shop, and then later fell ill and passed from this earth. The coroner who performed her autopsy discovered she had died from exposure to embalming fluid. It turned out that an unscrupulous undertaker’s assistant had stolen the dress from the corpse of a bride.

The moral of that story, I think, is that being poor will kill you. Or perhaps the moral is that brides never fare well in stories, and one should avoid either being a bride, or being in a story. After all, stories can sense happiness and snuff it out like a candle.

We marry in April, on an unseasonably cold afternoon. He sees me before the wedding, in my dress, and insists on kissing me deeply and reaching inside of my bodice. He becomes hard, and I tell him that I want him to use my body as he sees fit. I rescind my first rule, given the occasion. He pushes me against the wall and puts his hand against the tile near my throat, to steady himself. His thumb brushes my ribbon. He does not move his hand, and as he works himself in me he says I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not know if I am the first woman to walk up the aisle of St George’s with semen leaking down her leg, but I like to imagine that I am.


For our honeymoon, we go on a trip I have long desired: a tour of Europe. We are not rich but we make it work. We go from bustling, ancient metropolises to sleepy villages to alpine retreats and back again, sipping spirits and pulling roasted meat from bones with our teeth, eating spaetzle and olives and ravioli and a creamy grain I do not recognize but come to crave each morning. We cannot afford a sleeper car on the train, but my husband bribes an attendant to permit us one hour in an empty room, and in that way we couple over the Rhine.

(If you are reading this story out loud, make the sound of the bed under the tension of train travel and lovemaking by straining a metal folding chair against its hinges. When you are exhausted with that, sing the half remembered lyrics of old songs to the person closest to you, thinking of lullabies for children.)


My cycle stops soon after we return from our trip. I tell my husband one night, after we are spent and sprawled across our bed. He glows with delight.

– A child, he says. He lies back with his hands beneath his head. A child. He is quiet for so long that I think that he’s fallen asleep, but when I look over his eyes are open and fixed on the ceiling. He rolls on his side and gazes at me.

– Will the child have a ribbon?

I feel my jaw tighten. My mind skips between many answers, and I settle on the one that brings me the least amount of anger.

– There is no saying, now, I tell him finally.

He startles me, then, by running his hand around my throat. I put up my hands to stop him but he uses his strength, grabbing my wrists with one hand as he touches the ribbon with the other. He presses the silky length with his thumb. He touches the bow delicately, as if he is massaging my sex.

– Please, I say. Please don’t.

He does not seem to hear. Please, I say again, my voice louder, but cracking in the middle.

He could have done it then, untied the bow, if he’d chosen to. But he releases me and rolls back on his back. My wrists ache, and I rub them.

– I need a glass of water, I say. I get up and go to the bathroom. I run the tap and then frantically check my ribbon, tears caught in my lashes. The bow is still tight.


There is a story I love about a pioneer husband and wife killed by wolves. Neighbours found their bodies torn open and strewn around their tiny cabin, but never located their infant daughter, alive or dead. People claimed they saw the girl running with a wolf pack, loping over the terrain as wild and feral as any of her companions.

News of her would ripple through the local settlements. She menaced a hunter in a winter forest – though perhaps he was less menaced than startled at a tiny naked girl baring her teeth and howling. A young woman trying to take down a horse. People even saw her ripping open a chicken in an explosion of feathers.

Many years later, she was said to be seen resting in the rushes along a riverbank, suckling two wolf cubs. I like to imagine that they came from her body, the lineage of wolves tainted human just the once. They certainly bloodied her breasts, but she did not mind because they were hers and only hers.


My stomach swells. Inside of me, our child is swimming fiercely, kicking and pushing and clawing. On a walk in the park, the same park where my husband had proposed to me the year before, I gasp and stagger to the side, clutching my belly and hissing through my teeth to Little One, as I call it, to stop. I go to my knees, breathing heavily and near weeping. A woman passing by helps me to sit up and gives me some water, telling me that the first pregnancy is always the worst.

My body changes in ways I do not expect – my breasts are large, swollen and hot, my stomach lined with pale marks, the inverse of a tiger’s. I feel monstrous, but my husband seems renewed with desire, as if my novel shape has refreshed our list of perversities. And my body responds: in the line at the supermarket, receiving communion in church, I am marked by a new and ferocious want, leaving me slippery and swollen at the slightest provocation. When he comes home each day, my husband has a list in his mind of things he desires from me, and I am willing to provide them and more.

– I am the luckiest man alive, he says, running his hands across my stomach.

In the mornings, he kisses me and fondles me and sometimes takes me before his coffee and toast. He goes to work with a spring in his step. He comes home with one promotion, and then another. More money for my family, he says. More money for our happiness.


I am in labour for twenty hours. I nearly wrench off my husband’s hand, howling obscenities that do not seem to shock the nurse. I am certain I will crush my own teeth to powder. The doctor peers down between my legs, his white eyebrows making unreadable Morse code across his forehead.

– What’s happening? I ask.
– I’m not satisfied this will be a natural birth, the doctor says. Surgery may be necessary.
– No, please, I say. I don’t want that, please.
– If there’s no movement soon, we’re going to do it, the doctor says. It might be best for everyone. He looks up and I am almost certain he winks at my husband, but pain makes the mind see things differently than they are.

I make a deal with Little One, in my mind. Little One, I think, this is the last time that we are going to be just you and me. Please don’t make them cut you out of me.

Little One is born twenty minutes later. They do have to make a cut, but not across my stomach as I had feared. The doctor cuts down, and I feel little, just tugging, though perhaps it is what they have given me. When the baby is placed in my arms, I examine the wrinkled body from head to toe, the colour of a sunset sky, and streaked in red.

No ribbon. A boy. I begin to weep, and curl the unmarked baby into my chest.

(If you are reading this story out loud, give a paring knife to the listener and ask them to cut the tender flap of skin between your index finger and thumb. Afterwards, thank them.)


There is a story about a woman who goes into labour when the attending physician is tired. There is a story about a woman who herself was born too early. There is a story about a woman whose body clung to her child so hard they cut her to retrieve him. There is a story about a woman who heard a story about a woman who birthed wolf cubs in secret. Stories have this way of running together like raindrops in a pond. They are each borne from the clouds separately, but once they have come together, there is no way to tell them apart.

(If you are reading this story out loud, move aside the curtain to illustrate this final point to your listeners. It’ll be raining, I promise.)


They take the baby so that they may fix me where they cut. They give me something that makes me sleepy, delivered through a mask pressed gently to my mouth and nose. My husband jokes around with the doctor as he holds my hand.

– How much to get that extra stitch? he asks. You offer that, right?
– Please, I say to him. But it comes out slurred and twisted and possibly no more than a small moan. Neither man turns his head toward me.

The doctor chuckles. You aren’t the first –

I slide down a long tunnel, and then surface again, but covered in something heavy and dark, like oil. I feel like I am going to vomit.

– the rumor is something like –
– like a vir–

And then I am awake, wide awake, and my husband is gone and the doctor is gone. And the baby, where is –

The nurse sticks her head in the door.

– Your husband just went to get a coffee, she says, and the baby is asleep in the bassinet.

The doctor walks in behind her, wiping his hands on a cloth.

– You’re all sewn up, don’t you worry, he said. Nice and tight, everyone’s happy. The nurse will speak with you about recovery. You’re going to need to rest for a while.

The baby wakes up. The nurse scoops him from his swaddle and places him in my arms again. He is so beautiful I have to remind myself to breathe.


My son is a good baby. He grows and grows. We never have another child, though not for lack of trying. I suspect that Little One did so much ruinous damage inside of me that my body couldn’t house another.

– You were a poor tenant, Little One, I say to him, rubbing shampoo into his fine brown hair, and I shall revoke your deposit.

He splashes around in the sink, cackling with happiness.

My son touches my ribbon, but never in a way that makes me afraid. He thinks of it as a part of me, and he treats it no differently than he would an ear or finger.

Back from work, my husband plays games in the yard with our son, games of chase and run. He is too young to catch a ball, still, but my husband patiently rolls it to him in the grass, and our son picks it up and drops it again, and my husband gestures to me and cries Look, look! Did you see? He is going to throw it soon enough.


Of all the stories I know about mothers, this one is the most real. A young American girl is visiting Paris with her mother when the woman begins to feel ill. They decide to check into a hotel for a few days so the mother can rest, and the daughter calls for a doctor to assess her.

After a brief examination, the doctor tells the daughter that all her mother needs is some medicine. He takes the daughter to a taxi, gives the driver directions in French, and explains to the girl that, at his home, his wife will give her the appropriate remedy. They drive and drive for a very long time, and when the girl arrives, she is frustrated by the unbearable slowness of this doctor’s wife, who meticulously assembles the pills from powder. When she gets back into the taxi, the driver meanders down the streets, sometimes doubling back on the same avenue. The girl gets out of the taxi to return to the hotel on foot. When she finally arrives, the hotel clerk tells her that he has never seen her before. When she runs up to the room where her mother had been resting, she finds the walls a different colour, the furnishings different than her memory, and her mother nowhere in sight.

There are many endings to the story. In one of them, the girl is gloriously persistent and certain, renting a room nearby and staking out the hotel, eventually seducing a young man who works in the laundry and discovering the truth: that her mother had died of a contagious and fatal disease, departing this plane shortly after the daughter was sent from the hotel by the doctor. To avoid a citywide panic, the staff removed and buried her body, repainted and furnished the room, and bribed all involved to deny that they had ever met the pair.

In another version of this story, the girl wanders the streets of Paris for years, believing that she is mad, that she invented her mother and her life with her mother in her own diseased mind. The daughter stumbles from hotel to hotel, confused and grieving, though for whom she cannot say.

I don’t need to tell you the moral of this story. I think you already know what it is.


Our son enters school when he is five, and I remember his teacher from that day in the park, when she had crouched to help me. She remembers me as well. I tell her that we have had no more children since our son, and now that he has started school, my days will be altered toward sloth and boredom. She is kind. She tells me that if I am looking for a way to occupy my time, there is a wonderful women’s art class at a local college.

That night, after my son is in bed, my husband reaches his hand across the couch and slides it up my leg.

– Come to me, he says, and I twinge with pleasure. I slide off the couch, smoothing my skirt very prettily as I walk over to him on my knees. I kiss his leg, running my hand up to his belt, tugging him from his bonds before swallowing him whole. He runs his hands through my hair, stroking my head, groaning and pressing into me. And I don’t realize that his hand is sliding down the back of my neck until he is trying to loop his fingers through the ribbon. I gasp and pull away quickly, falling back and frantically checking my bow. He is still sitting there, slick with my spit.

– Come back here, he says.
– No, I say.

He stands up and tucks himself into his pants, zipping them up.

– A wife, he says, should have no secrets from her husband.
– I don’t have any secrets, I tell him.
– The ribbon.
– The ribbon is not a secret, it’s just mine.
– Were you born with it? Why your throat? Why is it green?

I do not answer.

He is silent for a long minute. Then,

– A wife should have no secrets.

My nose grows hot. I do not want to cry.

– I have given you everything you have ever asked for, I say. Am I not allowed this one thing?
– I want to know.
– You think you want to know, I say, but you do not.
– Why do you want to hide it from me?
– I am not hiding it. It is not yours.

He gets down very close to me, and I pull back from the smell of bourbon. I hear a creak, and we both look up to see our son’s feet vanishing up the staircase.

When my husband goes to sleep that night, he does so with a hot and burning anger that falls away only when he starts dreaming. I sense its release, and only then can I sleep, too.

The next day, our son touches my throat and asks about my ribbon. He tries to pull at it. And though it pains me, I have to make it forbidden to him. When he reaches for it, I shake a can full of pennies. It crashes discordantly, and he withdraws and weeps. Something is lost between us, and I never find it again.

(If you are reading this story out loud, prepare a soda can full of pennies. When you arrive at this moment, shake it loudly in the face of the person closest to you. Observe their expression of startled fear, and then betrayal. Notice how they never look at you in exactly the same way for the rest of your days.)


I enroll in the art class for women. When my husband is at work and my son is in school, I drive to the sprawling green campus and the squat grey building where the art classes are held.

Presumably, the male nudes are kept from our eyes in some deference to propriety, but the class has its own energy – there is plenty to see on a strange woman’s naked form, plenty to contemplate as you roll charcoal and mix paints. I see more than one woman shifting forwards and back in her seat to redistribute blood flow.

One woman in particular returns over and over. Her ribbon is red, and is knotted around her slender ankle. Her skin is the colour of olives, and a trail of dark hair runs from her belly button to her mons. I know that I should not want her, not because she is a woman and not because she is a stranger, but because it is her job to disrobe, and I feel shame taking advantage of such a state. But as my pencil traces her contours so does my hand in the secret recesses of my mind. I am not even certain how such a thing would happen, but the possibilities incense me to near madness.

One afternoon after class, I turn a hallway corner and she is there, the woman. Clothed, wrapped in a raincoat. Her gaze transfixes me, and this close I can see a band of gold around each of her pupils, as though her eyes are twin solar eclipses. She greets me, and I her.

We sit down together in a booth at a nearby diner, our knees occasionally bushing up against each other beneath the Formica. She drinks a cup of black coffee. I ask her if she has any children. She does, she says, a daughter, a beautiful little girl of eleven.

– Eleven is a terrifying age, she says. I remember nothing before I was eleven, but then there it was, all colour and horror. What a number, she says, what a show. Then her face slips somewhere else for a moment, as if she has dipped beneath the surface of a lake.

We do not discuss the specific fears of raising a girl-child. Truthfully, I am afraid to ask. I also do not ask her if she’s married, and she does not volunteer the information, though she does not wear a ring. We talk about my son, about the art class. I desperately want to know what state of need has sent her to disrobe before us, but perhaps I do not ask because the answer would be, like adolescence, too frightening to forget.

I am captivated by her, there is no other way to put it. There is something easy about her, but not easy the way I was – the way I am. She’s like dough, how the give of it beneath kneading hands disguises its sturdiness, its potential. When I look away from her and then look back, she seems twice as large as before.

Perhaps we can talk again sometime, I say to her. This has been a very pleasant afternoon.

She nods to me. I pay for her coffee.

I do not want to tell my husband about her, but he can sense some untapped desire. One night, he asks what roils inside of me and I confess it to him. I even describe the details of her ribbon, releasing an extra flood of shame.

He is so glad of this development he begins to mutter a long and exhaustive fantasy as he removes his pants and enters me. I feel as if I have betrayed her somehow, and I never return to the class.

(If you are reading this story out loud, force a listener to reveal a secret, then open the nearest window to the street and scream it as loudly as you are able.)


One of my favourite stories is about an old woman and her husband – a man mean as Mondays, who scared her with the violence of his temper and the shifting nature of his whims. She was only able to keep him satisfied with her unparalleled cooking, to which he was a complete captive. One day, he bought her a fat liver to cook for him, and she did, using herbs and broth. But the smell of her own artistry overtook her, and a few nibbles became a few bites, and soon the liver was gone. She had no money with which to purchase a second one, and she was terrified of her husband’s reaction should he discover that his meal was gone. So she crept to the church next door, where a woman had been recently laid to rest. She approached the shrouded figure, then cut into it with a pair of kitchen shears and stole the liver from her corpse.

That night, the woman’s husband dabbed his lips with a napkin and declared the meal the finest he’d ever eaten. When they went to sleep, the old woman heard the front door open, and a thin wail wafted through the rooms. Who has my liver? Whooooo has my liver?

The old woman could hear the voice coming closer and closer to the bedroom. There was a hush as the door swung open. The dead woman posed her query again.

The old woman flung the blanket off her husband.

He has it! She declared triumphantly.

Then she saw the face of the dead woman, and recognized her own mouth and eyes. She looked down at her abdomen, remembering, now, how she carved into her own belly. Next to her, as the blood seeped into the very heart of the mattress, her husband slumbered on.

That may not be the version of the story you’re familiar with. But I assure you, it’s the one you need to know.


My husband is strangely excited for Halloween. Our son is old enough that he can walk and carry a basket for treats. I take one of my husband’s old tweed coats and fashion one for our son, so that he might be a tiny professor, or some other stuffy academic. My husband even gives him a pipe on which to gnaw. Our son clicks it between his teeth in a way I find unsettlingly adult.

– Mama, my son says, what are you?

I am not in costume, so I tell him I am his mother.

The pipe falls from his little mouth onto the floor, and he screams. My husband swoops in and picks him up, talking to him in a low voice, repeating his name between his sobs.

It is only as his breathing returns to normal that I am able to identify my mistake. He is not old enough to know the story of the naughty girls who wanted the toy drum, and were wicked toward their mother until she went away and was replaced with a new mother – one with glass eyes and thumping wooden tail. But I have inadvertently told him another one – the story of the little boy who only discovered on Halloween that his mother was not his mother, except on the day when everyone wore a mask. Regret sluices hot up my throat. I try to hold him and kiss him, but he only wishes to go out onto the street, where the sun has dipped below the horizon and a hazy chill is bruising the shadows.

He comes home laughing, gnawing on a piece of candy that has turned his mouth the color of a plum. I am angry at my husband. I wish he had waited to come home before permitting the consumption of the cache. Has he never heard the stories? The pins pressed into the chocolates, the razor blades sunk in the apples? I examine my son’s mouth, but there is no sharp metal plunged into his palate. He laughs and spins around the house, dizzy and electrified from the treats and excitement. He wraps his arms around my legs, the earlier incident forgotten. The forgiveness tastes sweeter than any candy that can be given at any door. When he climbs into my lap, I sing to him until he falls asleep.


Our son is eight, ten. First, I tell him fairy tales – the very oldest ones, with the pain and death and forced marriage pared away like dead foliage. Mermaids grow feet and it feels like laughter. Naughty pigs trot away from grand feasts, reformed and uneaten. Evil witches leave the castle and move into small cottages and live out their days painting portraits of woodland creatures.

As he grows, though, he asks questions. Why would they not eat the pig, hungry as they were and wicked as he had been? Why was the witch permitted to go free after her terrible deeds? And the sensation of fins splitting to feet being anything less than agonizing he rejects outright after cutting his hand with a pair of scissors.

– It would huight, he says, for he is struggling with his r’s.

I agree with him. It would. So then I tell him stories closer to true: children who go missing along a particular stretch of railroad track, lured by the sound of a phantom train to parts unknown; a black dog that appears at a person’s doorstep three days before their passing; a trio of frogs that corner you in the marshlands and tell your fortune for a price.

The school puts on a performance of Little Buckle Boy, and he is the lead, the buckle boy, and I join a committee of mothers making costumes for the children. I am lead costume maker in a room full of women, all of us sewing together little silk petals for the flower children and making tiny white pantaloons for the pirates. One of the mothers has a pale yellow ribbon on her finger, and it constantly tangles in her thread. She swears and cries. One day I have to use the sewing shears to pick at the offending threads. I try to be delicate. She shakes her head as I free her from the peony.

– It’s such a bother, isn’t it? she says.

I nod. Outside the window, the children play – knocking each other off the playground equipment, popping the heads off dandelions. The play goes beautifully. Opening night, our son blazes through his monologue. Perfect pitch and cadence. No one has ever done better.

Our son is twelve. He asks me about the ribbon, point-blank. I tell him that we are all different, and sometimes you should not ask questions. I assure him that he’ll understand when he is grown. I distract him with stories that have no ribbons: angels who desire to be human and ghosts who don’t realize they’re dead and children who turn to ash. He stops smelling like a child – milky sweetness replaced with something sharp and burning, like a hair sizzling on the stove.

Our son is thirteen, fourteen. He waits for the neighbour boy on his way to school, who walks more slowly than the others. He exhibits the subtlest compassion, my son. No instinct for cruelty, like some.

– The world has enough bullies, I’ve told him over and over.

This is the year he stops asking for my stories.

Our son is fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He begins to court a beautiful girl from his high school, who has a bright smile and a warm presence. I am happy to meet her, but never insist that we should wait up for their return, remembering my own youth.

When he tells us that he has been accepted at a university to study engineering, I am overjoyed. We march through the house, singing songs and laughing. When my husband comes home, he joins in the jubilee, and we drive to a local seafood restaurant. Over halibut, his father tells him, we are so proud of you. Our son laughs and says that he also wishes to marry his girl. We clasp hands and are even happier. Such a good boy. Such a wonderful life to look forward to.

Even the luckiest woman alive has not seen joy like this.


There’s a classic, a real classic, that I haven’t told you yet.

A girlfriend and a boyfriend went parking. Some people say that means kissing in a car, but I know the story. I was there. They were parked on the edge of a lake. They were turning around in the back seat as if the world was moments from ending. Maybe it was. She offered herself and he took it, and after it was over, they turned on the radio.

The voice on the radio announced that a mad, hook-handed murderer had escaped from a local insane asylum. The boyfriend chuckled as he flipped to a music station. As the song ended, the girlfriend heard a thin scratching sound, like a paperclip over glass. She looked at her boyfriend and then pulled her cardigan over her bare shoulders, wrapping one arm around her breasts.

– We should go, she said.
– No, baby, the boyfriend said. Let’s go again.
– What if the killer comes here? The girl asked. The insane asylum is very close.
– We’ll be fine, baby, the boyfriend said. Don’t you trust me?

The girlfriend nodded reluctantly.

– Well then, he said, his voice trailing off in that way she would come to know so well. He took her hand off her chest and placed it onto himself. She finally looked away from the lakeside.

Outside, the moonlight glinted off the shiny steel hook. The killer waved at her, grinning.

I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten the rest of the story.


The house is so silent without our son. I walk through it, touching all the surfaces. I am happy but something inside of me is shifting into a strange new place.

That night, my husband asks if I wish to christen the newly empty rooms. We have not coupled so fiercely since before our son was born. Bent over the kitchen table, something old is lit within me, and I remember the way we had desired before, how we had left love streaked on all of the surfaces. I could have met anyone at that party when I was seventeen – prudish boys or violent boys. Religious boys who would have made me move to some distant country to convert its denizens. I could have experienced untold numbers of sorrows or dissatisfactions. But as I straddle him on the floor, riding him and crying out, I know that I made the right choice.

We fall asleep exhausted, sprawled naked in our bed. When I wake up, my husband is kissing the back of my neck, probing the ribbon with his tongue. My body rebels wildly, still throbbing with the memories of pleasure but bucking hard against betrayal. I say his name, and he does not respond. I say it again, and he holds me against him and continues. I wedge my elbows in his side, and when he loosens from me in surprise, I sit up and face him. He looks confused and hurt, like my son the day I shook the can of pennies.

Resolve runs out of me. I touch the ribbon. I look at the face of my husband, the beginning and end of his desires all etched there. He is not a bad man, and that, I realize suddenly, is the root of my hurt. He is not a bad man at all. And yet –

– Do you want to untie the ribbon? I ask him. After these many years, is that what you want of me?

His face flashes gaily, and then greedily, and he runs his hand up my bare breast and to my bow.

– Yes, he says. Yes.

– Then, I say, do what you want.

With trembling fingers, he takes one of the ends. The bow undoes, slowly, the long-bound ends crimped with habit. My husband groans, but I do not think he realizes it. He loops his finger through the final twist and pulls. The ribbon falls away. It floats down and curls at my feet, or so I imagine, because I cannot look down to follow its descent.

My husband frowns, and then his face begins to open with some other expression – sorrow, or maybe pre-emptive loss. My hand flies up in front of me – an involuntary motion, for balance or some other futility – and beyond it his image is gone.

– I love you, I assure him, more than you can possibly know.
– No, he says, but I don’t know to what he’s responding.

If you are reading this story out loud, you may be wondering if that place my ribbon protected was wet with blood and openings, or smooth and neutered like the nexus between the legs of a doll. I’m afraid I can’t tell you, because I don’t know. For these questions and others, and their lack of resolution, I am sorry.

My weight shifts, and with it, gravity seizes me. My husband’s face falls away, and then I see the ceiling, and the wall behind me. As my lopped head tips backwards off my neck and rolls off the bed, I feel as lonely as I have ever been. ■

To read Granta 129: Fate, buy or subscribe to the magazine.

Photography courtesy of Internet Archive Book Images

16 Oct 02:22

"Discovering Scarfolk". Out Now.

by Scarfolk Council

30 Sep 02:02

bruce of the citydwellers

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September 29th, 2014: I have been writing some short walkthroughs for various parts of To Be or Not To Be. Here's one and here's the other!

– Ryan

24 Sep 17:28

my choose-your-own-adventure version of this story is called "the princess and/or the pea"



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← previous September 24th, 2014 next

September 24th, 2014: YOU GUYS, Todd emailed me to let me know we all forgot to change the footer here to the summer version, and now it's fall! And yes I absolutely said "we all" there as a way of diffusing blame across every single person who reads this comic. Anyway, it's too late for summer, but just in time for fall, so that's what we've got now. It's a really pretty fall scene that you can see if you scroll down to the very bottom of this page on a non-mobile device, THE END.

– Ryan

22 Sep 12:57

North Scarfolk Independence & the "Unity Wall" (1974)

by Scarfolk Council
Back in 1973, residents of sparsely-populated North Scarfolk wrote to Father Christmas and asked if they could have independence. The North Scarfolkians had long felt that South Scarfolk had taken advantage of their natural resources - seashells - which they painted with pretty colours and glued together to make funny little characters and animals. These novelty items were valued as far afield as Wales.

Scarfolk Council eventually acquiesced. It granted North Scarfolk its independence and made it a gift of an unassailable, wall-shaped monument to celebrate its new-found sovereignty. The 'Unity Wall', as the south preferred to call it, also provided protection and comfort: The council was worried that North Scarfolkians might inadvertently fall off cliffs into the sea, so it made sure that the wall completely surrounded North Scarfolk. Positioned along its length were armed 'monument curators and attendants' who protected the wall for the North Scarfolkians and made sure they didn't accidentally wander out.

Occasionally, a few bad-mannered people from the North, who did not appreciate this artistic symbol of harmony, tried to spoil it for everyone else by attacking the wall, and the curators were forced to benevolently shoot these people for the sake of peace and brotherly understanding.

But on the whole, Scarfolk Council found North Scarfolk to be both amicable and manageable, so much so that it sent all its criminals to live there, presumably so that they could learn from their virtuous neighbours.

13 Sep 13:27

Season 2 RING RING POEM 1, Cedar Ave & Lake Street, Minneapolis, MN; Sept 12-18

by Cole
Joe Horton is an emcee for internationally recognized hip-hop band No Bird Sing and a professor of Lyrical Composition at McNally Smith College of Music. He has a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Hamline University. Horton is best known for his abstract, associative approach to songwriting.  The poem is by Joe Horton, of No … Continue reading →
22 Aug 02:05

A Softer World: 1142

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19 Jun 00:13

Magic Words



'And then whisper 'anapest' in my ear as you hold me?'
23 May 16:05


This is even better than my previous smartphone casemod: an old Western Electric Model 2500 desk phone handset complete with a frayed, torn-off cord dangling from it.
22 May 02:18

space light amplified by stimulated emission of radiation (from space)



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May 21st, 2014: This tale features the classic stock character, Space Wolf, Who Is Not To Be Trusted.

You know what's out today? Adventure Time #28, featuring Finn and Jake as SPOOKY GHOSTS! You can read a preview by clicking on this here crazy picture!

– Ryan

09 May 12:43


Trains rotate the Earth around various axes while elevators shift its position in space.
18 Apr 13:05

Free Speech

I can't remember where I heard this, but someone once said that defending a position by citing free speech is sort of the ultimate concession; you're saying that the most compelling thing you can say for your position is that it's not literally illegal to express.
26 Feb 18:30




This image stays roughly in sync with the day (assuming the Earth continues spinning). Shortcut:
25 Jan 23:26

"Babies Are Killers" Awareness Week (Part 2)

by About me
Babies Awareness Week continues with this poster which was placed in airports, harbours, maternity units and other entry points into the United Kingdom.

25 Jan 23:26

"Babies Are Killers" Awareness Week (Part 1)

by About me
Today is the start of Babies Awareness Week in Scarfolk, so make sure you check back for updates. The first Babies Awareness Week took place in 1973 after health and literacy clashed with wide-reaching consequences.

Here is an excerpt from a 1974 leaflet: "While babies are stunted, mostly inefficient humans, 'Babies' is the name of a viral disease carried by unbaptised infants born out of wedlock. It is usually transmitted to other animals by a bite from an infected baby. 'Babies' travels via the nervous system through the anxious gland to the brain, which is most often stored within easy reach of the cranium. The virus is untreatable and invariably fatal within days, especially if panicking family members leave the delirious patient to stumble aimlessly along the motorway at night.

Early stage symptoms include gurgling, inability to walk or solve complex mathematical problems, an inexplicable contempt for mashed banana, and defecating without panache accompanied by a sense of unjustified triumph."

Back in the 1970s, concerned parents vaccinated their children daily and those suspected of having contracted 'Babies' were taken away by the council in large trucks then pickled, varnished and used as clothes mannequins in department stores. However, this practice was stopped when the virus spread to a range of medium-priced sweaters. It was the first time that the disease had passed from one species to another.

Here's the first of several posters designed in the 1970s to warn Scarfolk citizens of the dangers of babies with 'Babies.'

25 Jan 23:22

"Babies Are Killers" Awareness Week (Part 3)

by About me
This is the third and final post for Babies Awareness Week.  We hope that the danger of Babies has now been fully conveyed to you.  

Remember that the symptoms of Babies are not always visible. If you have been been bitten by a baby, toddler or even an adult under 4 feet 9 inches, always visit your doctor.  If you do not receive medical attention within 74 years of being infected you risk suffering from the effects of aging and, ultimately, death.

"Don't smuggle death. It could save your life..."
09 Jan 00:40




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January 8th, 2014: This comic is a spiritual sequel to this comic from 2007! Only with MORE SYLLABLES.

Also I supposed this comic establishes in canon that the T-Rex and Utahraptor are not from wherever it is people pronounce "our" in a single syllable like "are", IF EVEN SUCH A PLACE EXISTS IN REAL LIFE; I HAVE MY DOUBTS

One year ago today: hello ladies my name is ryan north and i am a writer, you may know me from my phrase "weird veiny eyeballs"

– Ryan

19 Dec 03:41

NEW BOBBINS for December 18th 2013




Neil continues to grow as one of my favourite characters. But who's that other fellow? You remember The Boy, right? He's a man now. I wonder what the intervening years involved.

Readers outside the USA! You know the new Bad Machinery book, The Case Of The Team Spirit, is on Amazon, right? You can get it on HERE - or check your local version.

12 Nov 13:58



So confuse

05 Nov 14:35

Bonfire Night in Scarfolk

by About me
As tonight is Bonfire Night, instead of a postcard from the mayor's pharmaceutical collection, we thought we'd post an image of a 1975 box of fireworks that we just found in the cellar.

Back in 1970s Scarfolk, fireworks weren't used only during celebrations; they also had many other practical applications. For example, in  medicine and healthcare, they were used by dentists to remove enamel from healthy teeth; rockets were employed by surgeons to demean rowdy prostate glands; and sparklers were taped to children's hands to stop them biting their fingernails.

Fireworks also had everyday uses: beauticians applied them as speedier alternatives to waxing, and inner-city school teachers used them to create volcano deities, as volcano deities don't typically manifest in deprived urban areas. They were even tied to emotionally unstable homing pigeons with skyphobia in an attempt to rouse them from their anxiousness.

Of course, children also loved them and incorporated them into playground games such as 'holdy-sparkler-screamy-stubs' and 'doctors, nurses and ECT (electroconvulsive therapy)', but above all they tasted great and came in several flavours including fizzy lemon & lime (see image), pork & hair and whisky & unknown.

Enjoy Bonfire Night but remember: if your Guy Fawkes effigy groans or moves unexpectedly, please call a council exorcist before placing him on the bonfire. And always light your Guy at arm's length in case he tries to bite.

WARNING: Fireworks are dangerous. Do not try any of the above at home. If you are homeless, do not try under a railway bridge or in a shop doorway. Always light a firework at arm's length, preferably using the arm of someone who has a better education than you and therefore more societal value. Never pick up or throw a firework at someone. If you want to do something like that join the army and/or become a terrorist.
21 Oct 08:03

Happy Friday the13th from Scarfolk Coven!

by About me
Everyone at Scarfolk Coven would like to you wish you all the best for today, Friday the 13th. So mote it be, dear citizens, so mote it be.

"Scarfolk Coven: Where every Friday is Friday the 13th"

To enlarge/zoom right-click and 'open in new page/tab'
18 Oct 17:32

Reverse Identity Theft


Whenever my mother can't remember her email password, she makes up a new address. She doesn't always tell everyone.

I asked a few friends whether they'd had this happen, then looked up the popularity of their initials/names over time.  Based on those numbers, it looks like there must be at least 750,000 people in the US alone who think 'Sure, that's probably my email address' on a regular basis.