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Queer Little Nightmares accomplishes what mainstream media has historically feared: placing queerness at the forefront to tell human stories of creatures that seek love, vengeance, autonomy, and the reclamation of their ugliest parts.
Ryan Downum’s chapbook is a weird and wonderful treatise. It resists full comprehension and manages to do so with both elegance and gruesomeness.
Westerns are populated with larger-than-life characters, but children are notoriously difficult to write convincingly. Kelly’s Chatter and his orphan companions are adult minds in small bodies, making grave enigmatic statements while stone-facedly witnessing the world’s cruelty.
While it’s poetic enough and creates a lush mood of grimy eroticism, leveraging Lardeux’s talent for capturing sensory detail, The Second Substance’s experimentalism wrestles with the musk of the overly familiar.
Austin MacDonald’s colour choices give the pages of Squire’s Reunion a sense of foreboding. Houghton’s writing complements this. To make a recent reference for fans of swords, it’s as though the petite protagonist of Ranking of Kings popped up in Elden Ring.
In space, no one can hear you complain to HR. Olga Ravn’s The Employees is a sci-fi parable about what happens when you can never leave the office.
Not only is Cleopatria hilarious, they’re the kind and generous sort of artist who will proofread your bad poetry for you before you commit to screen-printing it.
Created to challenge beauty standards, Rose Riot is a fashion and activism zine founded in Portland, Oregon that is by and for kids.
Henry Doyle’s No Shelter is a plainspoken and authentic record of the grinding and unacknowledged quotidian battle with day labour, despair and displacement.
Geneviève Lebleu explores tense interpersonal relationships between several middle-aged women in a suburban neighborhood through the psychedelic imagery that so defines her lush illustration style.
K.G. Wehri drums up fear largely in service of amplifying the sexual tension. None of it is gory but at some point, the fangs do come out. These stories yield themes of loneliness, hope, staying the course and the flexibility of time.
The stories in Kym Cunningham’s poems literally grow from women’s bodies. It takes time to connect, to unpack the rearranged speech and to try and find meaning that goes beyond the surface stories.