I just finished this project, and am gonna have these buddies with me at CZF this weekend!

It’s an audio cassette/zine bundle: I asked friends to tell me stories, and I asked if I could record them telling them. What resulted is 13 true-life stories told by 13 different people, all compiled onto a tape for you to listen to.

The accompanying zine includes 120mm portraits of all the storytellers (taken on the day of the story’s recording), and information on them to follow along with as you listen.

There are stories about ballet teachers, jail time, rabies shots, bad parenting, paranormal experiences, tour escapades, dance contests, and more.

Storytellers are: Samantha Cohen, Jared Larson, Michelle Ravit, Sarah Ayton, Alan Resnick, Dee Addario, April Rose, Dylan Taylor, Matt Ross, Simon Thrasher, Kate Larson, Jordaan Mason, and Dustin Lamberta.

I think it’s a really great collection! It’s sort of like an audio book: perfect for car rides, a day inside, a stroll with your walk(wo)man, etc.

Each tape is hand-stamped with gold ink, and runs 98 minutes long, in a numbered edition of 50.

Tape duplication by SUPERCRUSH tapes.

I Took the Lincoln

I took the Lincoln, I took the Lincoln right from my grandmother’s driveway with its rusted burgundy tone and 100 spoke wheels; I took it and drove it off. I drove on the side of oncoming traffic with a stone face. And all the other drivers on the right side honked their horns and flashed their lights trying to warn me. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I hit a car, flew the windshield and a piece of metal went right through me. Besides, there were no cars in my lane anyway until, of course, a little gleam way down on this straight black hole of a road appeared. And you know, for half a second I thought I saw god, but no, it was a 1978 Chevy pick-up. A chrome front bumper and an electric blue paint job rusted just the same as mine. I’d imagine my bumper blinded him too. He never honked or flashed his lights or waved his hand out the window. No, he didn’t even swerve out of the lane. I suppose he couldn’t as there were cars on the other side and I was pretty far away. Or maybe he didn’t care as much as I didn’t.

He was probably a boy, like me, who stole his grandmother’s car, like me, and didn’t care if he died, like me. He probably tells this story like me. I bet he’s scared of bees like me and not scared of death but more scared of living, like me. He was probably always in the shadow, like me, and never amounted to anything, like me, probably an asshole, like me. He wanted to see my body fly through this dirty windshield, just like me. And so he got closer and closer, and I got faster and faster and just my fucking luck right before the collision I blacked out…and when I woke I was told that the Lincoln was fine and I never got hurt; my car went to a graceful stop. The Chevy smashed into oncoming traffic trying to avoid me and the boy driving had combed hair, going to school, with a winning smile and plenty of ambitions, “the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet” who cared for all and was scared of blood. He bought his own car and didn’t tell this story like me; he never told it at all because he died by flying through the windshield and having a piece of metal go right through him; he bled out in the middle of the freeway. He had the same name as me and honked his horn 57 times.

-Aner Bajraktarević (IG: @anerica_b)

Art by: Lyss Janae (IG: @lyss.janae)


Sweet Home

Ink/digital print on take-out bags (cover) and paper (inside pages)

*     *     *     *     *

I was always wondering if I was conceived just like that when I went into their bodies.

But it didn’t feel like home when I was inside of them.

I had no idea what felt like home.

(to be continued)

anonymous asked:

Hi! I'm a really huge fan of your work, and I'm so excited for your new film! The pics from insta look great!! What sorts of work (media, books, etc.) do you find most influential? Were there ever any specific works that encouraged you to pursue filmmaking?

thankyou!!!!! :) i cant wait for everyone to be able to see it!

i’d say that D.I.Y punk is my biggest influence as an artist/filmmaker/human.
i started going to all ages local punk shows when i was 13, and although i have a huge interest in pop culture, i’ve always been surrounded by self made music, events and lifestyles that exist without needing to meet the approval of the mainstream or an industry standard e.g. being able to tell stories through self published zines as oppose to needing a book deal or making music that is not radio friendly with cheap instruments and low fi recordings or putting on parties in basements, empty buildings or parks without needing to find an offiical venue to host, etcccc etccccc etcccc.
riot grrrl has also been a huge influence on me, and as a teenager it was the first thing that really made me feel like i could create things and it also made me realise how much i dont care about high art or pristine quality or rock stars and famous people and instead just wanna see and hear what everyday people who i share similar interests and experiences with are creating.
so essentially that is what influenced/ inspired me to start teaching myself how to make films by making films, despite having no budget, no experience and no film/art related schooling.

as far as specific works go, i wouldnt say any one or few stand alone works encouraged me to start making films, however i do think that tween dreams by mollysoda should get a mention as being something i saw really early on when making films that confirmed to me that you dont need to have fancy equipment or lots of $$$ to make good vids.

Nineteen 1919 Hemphill Stories for Sale!

Hey folks, I made a zine called Nineteen 1919 Hemphill Stories. It is nineteen stories and mostly type but there are ten pages of comics! 

You can read all about the time I foolishly jumped in front of a gun. And that time I almost got beat up by somebodies dad. And how the residents of 1921 started a feud with 1919 Hemphill. And you can see comics like this one, this one, this one and more!

Its 40 pages and Black and White. $6.00 in the mail or $5 in person. You can hit me up via PAYPAL with the email address rick(at) 

I will also trade for most things of equal value. 

I trust you will enjoy it if you like me and have been to 1919 Hemphill!

REJECTION by Krishna Istha

Illustration by Jacob V Joyce

I hadn’t thought of myself as the kind of person that would stop in their tracks if rejected.

Thought I was secure enough in myself.

But what rejection does to one, has nothing to do with being secure. Rather, it is to do with entitlement. Entitlement of bodies and people.

I was on a standard queer night out at a pub where I knew most of the people. Started the night flirting with a more than attractive queer who bored me but all I could think of was being in bed with him. Evolution of the night left me watching him as he eye-ed someone else up, and I was like fuckkkkkk no, I’m winning you over EVEN if I have to do the Macarena. As he slipped to the toilet, I found myself next to someone who I had met only a few times. Someone whose Facebook cat pictures I liked (even though I hate cats) and whose witty and intellectual Tweets I admired. Let’s call this someone FIRE. We’d all been dancing for a while and I figured FIRE had been eyeing me cause they were looking past me at someone. I also knew the guy I was trying to get with was a mate of FIRE’s ex, who I also knew pretty well. You know, how we all say the queer world is so tiny? Yeah, straight people, we ain’t lying.

Fast forward half an hour, FIRE and I are getting it (on). By getting it on I mean grimey whiskey filled grinding. Loads of hands, two binders, no chest, no cock, sky high butcheness and fuck loads of defiance. We were surrounded by queers we knew or liked or flirted with or dated or slept with or met once at some point in our lives. We knew they knew everything about us. They knew we knew. We didn’t give two fucks tho. To imagine what people saw, two masculine of centre, gender ambiguous, dykey faggots biting each other’s faces off. Which to be honest gets remarks even in queer spaces.

When did queer get so heteronormative?

When did queer mean it was okay to promote homophobia with in the queer community? 

“Whose the top” “are you a bottom too?” “my wife is the femme one and takes care of our kids”.

Femme. Butch. Top. Bottom. Domme. Sub.

Abundance of binary terms to homo-normalise queer culture.

And there we were, two butches, two variants, two shaved heads, two tops, two dommes, two brown queers. Slaying everything.

As I think of this, I look across and catch guy no.1’s eye. And I think, good he looks agitated. That’s what he deserves for going for someone else, right?

Entitlement. My hidden entitlement of bodies and people.

4 hours, more whiskey, park and rain, later, we’re in FIRE’s bedroom. I try on an electric blue wig they have, totally going into hyper femme mode. They rip it off my head, pull my braces to them, and back away, shoves me onto the bed, lock my hands behind my head and keeps me there.

But only for a second. I joke, “let’s not forget I’m the butch one”, grab their hair, shove them back, twist and wrestle until we’re both turned on just by the fact that we’re both dying to top.

Masculine energy can be something beautiful. Even more so beautiful when two people are struggling to keep their identity in such a situation.

Fast forward. We wake up in a tangle of cuddles, both having fallen asleep wanting to be the outer cold spoon. We speak of radical politics, as queers do so early in the morning (LOLZ). We end up on plans for the day. They say they have a casual sex buddy coming over and I think hmmm hot. But I also think, someone other than me? Someone. Other. Than. Me? After one night together, I felt entitlement. I felt entitlement for that person and their body.

A week later, after analysing every inch of my facebook message, I message FIRE. I say “hey you’re so cool and cute and just like super cool, do you wanna hang?”

I thought I had (so) much game. Using ‘cool’ and ‘cute’ to describe someone is meant to work right? I mentioned I’d be up for casual sex stuff or dates or cuddles or anything really. 10:50 pm sent. 10:53 pm read. No reply. By now I’m freaking out. I think of whether it was okay to send that. I rationalise that I had been open and frank and that’s good. I let it be. I tell myself I don’t care. I msg a mate and he says it’s okay to feel the sting for an hour and then move on. And I think, yeah, you’re right why the hell am I sweating so much.

But I can’t shake it off. I can’t shake off rejection. I can’t shake off the feeling or the anxiety.

I wonder why I can’t handle the rejection. Why I can’t handle thinking someone doesn’t want me.

How that’s not much different to being angry about not getting consent. I have always been a very out spoken (intersectional) feminist , you know, studies people, consent, how to eradicate rape culture and the intricacies that come with it. Something that has played on my mind from a young age.

But here I was, feeling entitled of this person.

Here I was, thinking I deserve to atleast get casual sex from this person.

Here I was, ID-ying as polyamorous but in turn feeling jealous after one night,

And suddenly, I knew.

I knew I had to start checking my right to exercise ownership over bodies.

I had to check what my masculinity meant and I had to check that I wasn’t embodying something I didnt want to be. We all internalise messages about masculinity from a very young age. Viewing people as objects that you can claim. Being queer doesn’t mean you’re exempted from this. Being queer means even more of a reason to check your internal misogyny. Being queer means we might have more of an internal conflict. But that’s okay because you can set it right.

Ironically, I was listening to a song titled “you ought to be ashamed of yourself” on the tube when I came to this realisation.

Support Jessie Lynn McMains creating Stories, Zines, Books, Poems, and Songs

This is a reminder that I have a Patreon account, and if you become my patron you can get original pieces of writing sent to you every month, a subscription to my zines (meaning: anytime I put out a zine, you get a copy), and a bunch of other rad rewards.

My family and I are going through a rough time, financially, right now (some unexpected expenses came up, and our FoodShare benefits got cut), plus I’m trying to save up enough for the first print run of What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk (yes, I did crowdfund; however, I did not meet my funding goal, and it’s going to cost a little more than expected). If you become my patron, that will help me pay bills and fund my writing and publishing projects.

Other things you can do to help, whether you choose to become my patron or not: Buy some zines (and stickers and buttons) from my Storenvy shop. Download some of my music. Reblog/signal boost this post, or any of my other promotional posts.

Thanks, so much.


When i was 15 i made a fanzine with a friend of mine. We were hangin at his place and drinking and we made stupid jokes and stuff and then he said: Dude! Let’s make a fanzine! And i was like: Nah, come on, i don’t care about literature. Fuck this. So we kept drinking and telling stories but he didnt stop talking about that fanzine for hours. So i was fed up and asked him: What will this fanzine be about? And he was like: I don’t know, let’s be spontaneous. And i was like: Dude, come on, let’s have another beer. But he started looking for some sheets of paper and a pen and his house was packed with records and fanzines and stuff but he couldn’t find a pen and for me it was okay at first but he really got upset about this pen so he called his neighbour, asking for a pen at 4 in the morning and i was like: He will get angry. Because: What would you do if someone called you, asking for a stupid pen at 4 in the morning? But he answered the call immediately, he was still awake, and he was like: Sure, i will bring you a pen. And for me this was like: Woah! Because my Friend dialed the wrong number 3 times in a row and he said: Okay last try. And this was like a Sign, you know? So the neighbor showed up with a whole bunch of pens of every color you could imagine and he also left some weed as a present like he actually knew we wanted to do some art stuff. So smoking was illegal,but we did it anyway and we started scribbling and doodling every piece of paper we could find while we were listening to our favorite records and some more. I don’t remember what was happening that night, because we were so baked but this was magic, literally. So the next day we awoke and some of the sheets were drowned in beer and stuff, so they were unreadable but we took what was left and my friend was like: Dude, we will publish this! But we had no money so we were kinda depressed for some days, but then we found a way to publish it and this zine was literally illegal, made from scratch, because one day at school somebody left the copy room unlocked and pupils weren’t allowed to use the copy machine so, although our hearts were beating like crazy, we sneaked in there. The room smelled of polish sausages and we couldn’t stand that smell because it reminded us of one teacher who was like the biggest asshole around like he literally traveled in time from nazi germany into our classroom telling us we would end up as underachievers because we didn’t follow his stupid orders like all the other assholes in class. So with each stroke of copylight and each breath of that disgusting smell we died, literally. But we made it. No one ever noticed we were there to illegaly print 10 copies of our fanzine, our manifest against that stupid fucktard society on government funds and we felt like Karl Marx, you know? So at the next Punk gig  we traded some of them for
entry and in there we traded the other ones for beer and we felt like bohemian writers who actually make a living from their work of art.

Brooke Hatfield and Rebecca Rindler’s Better Late than Pregnant was included in Womanzine Delivery Service Package #2. 

Some questions for Brooke and Rebecca:

What inspired you to make Better Late than Pregnant?

Rebecca: I had to take a pregnancy test - my first - and I turned to Brooke and a few other friends for moral support. I was surprised to learn that not only had almost all my friends taken a pregnancy test (or several) in the past, a lot of them had funny stories to share about their experience. We realized that this was a fairly common experience that a lot of women went through but rarely discussed, and we saw the zine as an opportunity to open a dialogue. It was important to us to share women’s voices in these stories, and making this zine truly felt like a community experience.

How’s Georgia doing on reproductive rights at the moment?

Brooke: Better than Tennessee, which passed a really pernicious abortion amendment last November.  But even in Georgia, access to reproductive healthcare is limited; according to NARAL, 96 percent of Georgia counties have no abortion clinic.

How did you collect these stories? Were you surprised by people’s responses or by who responded?

Brooke: I collected one via gchat!

Rebecca: We put out a call through social media. I was delighted to see some people I know only through the internet jump at the chance to participate!

What are you working on (zine projects or otherwise) now?

Brooke: This summer my friends Kate Medley, Emily Wallace, and I are releasing a zine of Eudora Welty portraits.

Rebecca: Hmm, my day job is in finance (!), so I’m regularly focused on that. I hope to write more personal essays for The Billfold and other websites, and I am definitely open to participating in other zines in the future.

Who’s another zine-maker you want everyone to know about?

Brooke: Amanda Mills is an organizer and educator who runs the Atlanta Zine Fest and a new organization promoting DIY culture called Murmur. Her zines are rad and so is she.

Rebecca: Brooke has another awesome zine of portraits of Flannery O’Connor, and I’d buy anything she’s in :)

Thanks Brooke! Thanks Rebecca! You can see more from Brooke on her website, and follow Rebecca on tumblr
illustrated fiction chapbook: Cheering for the Montreal Canadiens & Other Things I Never Did Before
"Its like if The Hockey Sweater had a bunch of fuckwords & was a gay romance." -the author explaining this text to a friend

You know how I keep talking about where you can go to this or that local zine fair/craft market/alley behind a chicken feed store to acquire my chapbook, & you’re maybe like, “but my local is different from your local because the planet is vast & humans are a widespread phenomenon, you goon”?


You can now purchase the pretty glittery second edition of Cheering For The Habs from anywhere in the world using money. (Etsy link above.)

Recommended for those with an interest in one or more of the following:
-gay hockey enthusiasts
-reluctant gay hockey enthusiasts
-spritely bisexual musicians
-fierce asexual babes
-redneck amazon moms
-portraits of imaginary artists as dedicatedly flailing adolescents
-being given a guided tour of Perth, Ontario by a fictional teenager who is kinda preoccupied with his own problems
-makeouts, advisable & otherwise

i’ve been hiding from personal work and it’s been tough. very tough in deed, like constant disappointment in the emptiness of pages yet a very full mind. full minds seem to be everywhere and i’ve learned they happen to everyone, especially before bed. so i’ve gathered some information from some willing victims and here are some of their thoughts of what they make up before they go to bed. to be printed soon and soon in pdf format for online cynics.