5th Column

The radiator ticked its familiar uneven rhythm, tapping softly at the pipes like somebody rehearsing a timid knock. Mira’s apartment smelled faintly of yeast, coffee, and old paper; every flat surface had a script or a notebook on it, the pages splayed open like mouths mid-syllable. Four of

Who is the quintessential 21st-century protagonist? A dashing, sword-wielding hero? An idealist politician? I would submit that it’s not someone so grand, not a leader of society, but someone on its periphery. A minor character from a Star Wars prequel who inexplicably got his own TV series.

I. In the event that this finds you well— and I kind of hope it doesn’t, not because I wish you unwell, but because I’d rather think you’re still out there, a little restless, trying to remember where you left your keys and what it was you

The Weeds. It’s a server expression. A service expression. Meaning that someone is in a really tough spot and they can’t get out of it without help for the immediate future. When someone’s in the weeds, someone always jumps in to help. I’d never really truly

Noise passed away sometime early Tuesday morning. I only noticed later, when my playlist sounded too clean and the city seemed to hum in perfect key. The news feeds didn’t mention it, of course—they rarely report a death that isn’t attached to a body, if they’re

The letters on the notice were so evenly spaced they seemed to hum: BUREAU OF AUTHENTIC EXPRESSION. The seal showed a mask split down the middle—one cheek flesh, one chrome—with an olive branch braided along the seam. Beneath it, the mission statement crawled across Mira’s apartment wall