iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

Reposted by Caylin Capra-Thomas

Abby Manzella @abbymanzella.bsky.social · 18/04/2026

The Unbound Book Festival is one of my favorite weekends in Columbia. Tales on the road by @sarahkendzior.bsky.social ir.bsky.social, @bjsoloy.bsky.social, @nancycrochiere.bsky.social, and @samuelkolawole.bsky.social led by @caylinct.bsky.social. .

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Matt Kendrick @mattkendrick.bsky.social · 17/02/2026

This month's #Mondettes picked by @kathrynreese.bsky.social ⚡Ten wonderful flash fictions 🔍Ten splashes of analysis as to why Kathryn made these brilliant picks 🪴Three fantastic prompts to get you writing mondettes.substack.com/p/february-2...

mondettes.substack.com

February 2026

Ten stories picked by Kathryn Reese

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Caylin Capra-Thomas @caylinct.bsky.social · 29/01/2026

I was absolutely riveted by Red Bull's story and Greenberg's reporting. Just teetering on the edge of my (metaphorical) seat the entire time. (My non-metaphorical seat was entirely occupied by me and my dog.) So much human spirit/guts/mettle in defiance of so much human cruelty.

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Aarik Danielsen (he/him) @aarikdanielsen.bsky.social · 06/12/2025

"I have come home. The sea says, The longer you stay away, the less you belong. I say, Is that true? And the sea says, Look at Kansas. So I drive a little while and look." I love all 3 of these pieces by my pal @caylinct.bsky.social for @wigleaf.bsky.social wigleaf.com

wigleaf.com

w i g l e a f : (very) short fiction

An online journal of very short fictions -- under 1000 words.

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Shala Erlich @shala-24.bsky.social · 09/07/2025

Thank you to @dintywmoore.bsky.social and Team Walrus for creating the conditions for this to emerge and to @hattiefletcher.bsky.social and the Short Reads team for giving it a home. ‪@shala-24.bsky.social‬) via @short-reads.org. www.short-reads.org/une-femme/

short-reads.org

Une Femme

by Shala Erlich | Body language.

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Longreads @longreads.com · 27/05/2025

In a new @longreads essay, @caylinct.bsky.social‬ writes about Sublime's late frontman Bradley Nowell, poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, addiction, and limits: longreads.com/2025/05/22/s...

Quote that reads: "I am looking for the sense of being somewhere I can never go. I’m looking for California again." Byline reads: "Caylin Capra-Thomas, 'On (the) Sublime'"

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Longreads @longreads.com · 27/05/2025

"I lived in Massachusetts, inland—not even really coastal, let alone West Coast. My town was small, my neighborhood the woods. I didn’t go to many parties. Not the kind Sublime sang about, anyway." — @caylinCT.bsky.social‬

longreads.com

On (the) Sublime - Longreads

When we reach for our limits, what is it that we ultimately grasp?

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Krista Langlois @cestmoilanglois.bsky.social · 23/05/2025

“Do you remember being 16 and loving a song? Of course you do. It felt like that. It felt like everything.” This @longreads.com essay on Sublime and addiction and seeking what you’ll never reach and the shitty parts of Massachusetts hit home for me in all the right ways. Damn.

longreads.com

On (the) Sublime - Longreads

When we reach for our limits, what is it that we ultimately grasp?

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Caylin Capra-Thomas @caylinct.bsky.social · 22/05/2025

So thrilled to have this brain baby out today! Many thanks to Brendan Fitzgerald (editorial), Julie Schwietert-Collazo (fact checking), Cheri Lucas Rowlands (copyediting), and Longreads (general CNF dreamboatery) at large for helping me bring it into the world.

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Simeon Berry @simeonberry.bsky.social · 17/03/2024

“I bequeath you the decade between us. It was / useless and warm, like a house party. // Like a house party, I spent it in the kitchen, / counter-top-perched, glittering so lightly / no one noticed my gravity.” — @caylinct.bsky.social, “For My 20-Year-Old Sister on My 30th Birthday”

FOR MY 20-YEAR-OLD SISTER ON MY 30TH BIRTHDAY

Nobody knows what they’re doing, Maddie.
Sometimes I can see, as if from above, the wave
of each fresh generation gathering, drawing

more of itself into itself and looming, perilous
and untenable, above the lower water.
The collective breath of newborns responsible

for the atmospheric shift. Freaky shit. The morning
shows call it sweater weather. I call it death knell
with elbow patches. Best case scenario, I say,

how do you think the world will end? It’s near two a.m.
and you’re walking uphill in Worcester in a silver
dress, shivering like the moon must shiver

in her lockstep tidal darkness. Know me, sister.
I bequeath you the decade between us. It was
useless and warm, like a house party.

Like a house party, I spent it in the kitchen,
counter-top-perched, glittering so lightly
no one noticed my gravity. I felt like I knew

something then. It was mostly a feeling. Best case
scenario? you say. Dinosaurs return for a feeding.

—Caylin Capra-Thomas

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Simeon Berry @simeonberry.bsky.social · 11/01/2024

“Your brother is doing well because you have adjusted/your definition of ‘well.’ He wakes sober in a house//Of sober men. They eat dry toast, and he drives to the tiny/Cape Cod airport to wave his arms around and drag//cigarettes” — @caylinct.bsky.social, “Cassiopeia” @newenglandreview.bsky.social

CASSIOPEIA

Meanwhile, a stranger’s grandma spoons cold
butterscotch pudding to her lips beside your own grandma.

They prefer custard but won’t complain to the nurses.
Revolutions happen elsewhere. The once beloved’s face

becomes unfamiliar, the moustache greasier, and it is the least
you could have hoped for, but it doesn’t satisfy.

Your brother is doing well because you have adjusted
your definition of “well.” He wakes sober in a house

Of sober men. They eat dry toast, and he drives to the tiny
Cape Cod airport to wave his arms around and drag

cigarettes, the weight of himself, and duffel bags
filled with souvenir driftwood and bathing suits

along the tarmac all day. The Vineyard people offer
pinched smiles to his dropped R’s and the desire to feel

another, very particular way plays beneath each
moment like Muzak. He resists. How noble,

to resist. How unlike the gods. Meanwhile, the mortals
are fasting. Your sister listens to the same screech

on repeat and walks along the White River, seeing
only the stones beneath the low, clear water, surprised

by its sting when she kneels and leans to press
her face against their shine. She has not cut her thighs

in weeks. And you go on not calling your brother
or grandmother, crying each time you fold clothes.

Elsewhere, sickness spreading is one way bodies
communicate. Your mother sends a card

with some money in it, says her husband is dying
so slowly he seems fine. You make the same corn salad

for a different set of dinner guests, put on Nebraska
one more time. Meanwhile, the constellations. Cassiopeia

hanging upside down from her throne and you on Earth
just gawking, wondering what kind of person you are,

and if you’d be the one to open up your arms
when she’s no longer able to hold on.

—Caylin Capra-Thomas

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