My Father Told Me About This:
On the left, there’s the front of a building that is now a dojo - but back in the Sixties, it was a dance hall, and quite the place to go of a Saturday night.
Through the bridge, there’s a red brick building, which is a police station.
It all looks very peaceful, but back in the day, it was a pretty rough sort of a venue.  You could pretty much rely on a fight breaking out every weekend, and if you weren’t near the door, you’d have to grab onto one of the coat hooks that lined the wall, and hold on for dear life.
It was also an oddly safe venue, so you wouldn’t need to hold on for very long, though. Because each time a fight started, the management would turn off the light under the eave - and before long, the police would notice it was off and come a’running, and a few would-be tough guys would dry out in the holding cells until Sunday morning.
~
image & text: Loki Carbis

My Father Told Me About This:

On the left, there’s the front of a building that is now a dojo - but back in the Sixties, it was a dance hall, and quite the place to go of a Saturday night.

Through the bridge, there’s a red brick building, which is a police station.

It all looks very peaceful, but back in the day, it was a pretty rough sort of a venue.  You could pretty much rely on a fight breaking out every weekend, and if you weren’t near the door, you’d have to grab onto one of the coat hooks that lined the wall, and hold on for dear life.

It was also an oddly safe venue, so you wouldn’t need to hold on for very long, though. Because each time a fight started, the management would turn off the light under the eave - and before long, the police would notice it was off and come a’running, and a few would-be tough guys would dry out in the holding cells until Sunday morning.

~

image & text: Loki Carbis

The Spiders are weaving their webs.
Some of the webs are literal, silk stronger than steel teased out of ancient spinneret glands. Other webs are conceptual, nets of meaning and insinuation spun between printed words.
The distinction is irrelevant. Every web is a trap. The Spiders are waiting, flexing their chelicerae in hunger.
~
image: Megan Cole
text: David Witteveen

The Spiders are weaving their webs.

Some of the webs are literal, silk stronger than steel teased out of ancient spinneret glands. Other webs are conceptual, nets of meaning and insinuation spun between printed words.

The distinction is irrelevant. Every web is a trap. The Spiders are waiting, flexing their chelicerae in hunger.

~

image: Megan Cole

text: David Witteveen

You are reading when you miss your station.
The station sign slips past in your peripheral vision. You leap up. But it’s too late. The doors are closed. The train is pulling away. You’ve missed your stop.
You stare around the carriage in confusion. The other passengers are hunched down in their seats, reading newspapers or listening to their headphones. No one looks up at you.
The train pulls into the next station. You slide a bookmark between the pages of your book and get off.
It’s night. The air is sharp and cold. The platform is deserted. Bright lights shine down the exit ramp.
You don’t recognise the station. There are no signs. You glance down at the cover of your book, and the title is written in some indecipherable language.
Where are you?
How are you supposed to get home?
~
image: John Weldon
text: David Witteveen

You are reading when you miss your station.

The station sign slips past in your peripheral vision. You leap up. But it’s too late. The doors are closed. The train is pulling away. You’ve missed your stop.

You stare around the carriage in confusion. The other passengers are hunched down in their seats, reading newspapers or listening to their headphones. No one looks up at you.

The train pulls into the next station. You slide a bookmark between the pages of your book and get off.

It’s night. The air is sharp and cold. The platform is deserted. Bright lights shine down the exit ramp.

You don’t recognise the station. There are no signs. You glance down at the cover of your book, and the title is written in some indecipherable language.

Where are you?

How are you supposed to get home?

~

image: John Weldon

text: David Witteveen

He kissed me, and the colour drained from the world.
The sky flared. Every edge became razor sharp. My vision focused down into a single pinprick vanishing point.
Eventually, our lips parted.
"How was that?" he asked.
"I’ve had better," I said. And smiled.
~
image: Andre van Eyssen
text: David Witteveen

He kissed me, and the colour drained from the world.

The sky flared. Every edge became razor sharp. My vision focused down into a single pinprick vanishing point.

Eventually, our lips parted.

"How was that?" he asked.

"I’ve had better," I said. And smiled.

~

image: Andre van Eyssen

text: David Witteveen

When I was a little boy, my mother told me there was a magical kingdom under the stairs.

There wasn’t, but I kept looking as I got older. Checked every set of stairs I came across, always to be disappointed.

Until I finally found it, under a mildewed set of concrete steps in an abandoned block of old apartments.

The King of Fairyland beckoned me to enter, showing me the kingdom of talking animals, smiling rainbows, witches and lions. ‘We’ve been waiting so long for you to find us,’ he said. ‘What took you so long?’

'Oh, you know, the usual,' I said. 'Life. Family. Job.'

'What vocation did you pursue, my boy? Wizard? Hero? Candlestick maker?'

'Property developer,' I said, and signalled for the bulldozers to move in.

~

image: David Witteveen

text: Patrick O’Duffy

He ran, fast and afraid.
His feet slipped on the grass. The night air froze in his lungs. He pushed himself, swore at himself, burnt his fear as fuel to keep running.
But whenever he turned his head, the cyclops was still behind him.
~
image: Scott Vandervalk
text: David Witteveen

He ran, fast and afraid.

His feet slipped on the grass. The night air froze in his lungs. He pushed himself, swore at himself, burnt his fear as fuel to keep running.

But whenever he turned his head, the cyclops was still behind him.

~

image: Scott Vandervalk

text: David Witteveen

I will be buying coffee when the future invades.
There will be a hum in the air. The barista will look over my shoulder and frown. And then they will appear: robots the size of buildings.
Dogs will bark. Traffic will stop. Teenagers will snap photos with their phones.
SURRENDER YOUR RETRO, the robots will scream. ALL YOUR RETRO ARE BELONG TO US.
The barista will shake his head.
"Goddamn hipster robots from the future," he will mutter. "I was into the past before they were."
~
image: Nichole Weinrich
text: David Witteveen

I will be buying coffee when the future invades.

There will be a hum in the air. The barista will look over my shoulder and frown. And then they will appear: robots the size of buildings.

Dogs will bark. Traffic will stop. Teenagers will snap photos with their phones.

SURRENDER YOUR RETRO, the robots will scream. ALL YOUR RETRO ARE BELONG TO US.

The barista will shake his head.

"Goddamn hipster robots from the future," he will mutter. "I was into the past before they were."

~

image: Nichole Weinrich

text: David Witteveen