One little button and I hear a voice that no longer exists whenever I want and wherever I happen to be. That laugh, the exasperated sigh, the way they said my name. Like they loved me.  It is not memory exactly. It’s more honest than that.

Hieroglyphs is a living digital archive of childhood memory. A collection of individual stories from around the world, gathered together not to prove how different we are, but to explore what connects us.

Critics say employers spend money hiring union-avoidance consultants and lawyers while not investing in workers

But their words had become blood. Life. Words bruised like aubergine. Maps do not have a beginning or an end. They start where you stand. And end where you fall. Above me, the sky hangs low like a dreamcatcher. The clouds interweave and shapeshift into the characters in my head: a dragon of possibility, the puppy I longed for, bounding and free.

In the beginning, there is warmth and rhythm. A darkness that cups like hands. Gentle. Forgiving as it moulds the edges of the body. Sound is muted. A vibration without meaning. A low, gentle hum. A comfort. It doesn’t matter that there are no words to press into, no language to define or praise or condemn.

And maybe that’s the part that stayed. Not the tree. Not even the fruit really.  It was never about the mangoes at all. Maybe it's a little bit about mangoes though.

“Thank you so much for coming.” “Of course.” “It means a lot.” “How are you holding up?” “I’m fi-” “Is that Maggie bloody Jones? I haven’t seen her in donkey’s years. She’s looking old.” “Me neither. She is a bit.” “Good turnout though, dear. Good turnout.” “Yes. He would have appreciated it.” “Yes. He always liked people.” “He did. Always so much more extroverted than me.”

Give Pinocchio enough String - And he’ll hang himself Like a real man.

The glitch won. Normal content has been corrupted. Issue One of The Underland Review: This Zine is a Lie is now live — 57 pages of poetry, prose, art, and soft monsters from the margins of the algorithm. Pay what you want. Hold it in your hands. Or vanish into the archive.

An inclusive, wellbeing-led approach to education built on immersion, consistency, and shared expectations. Inside the Emergent Habitat, care is carefully designed, language is closely managed, and success is quietly recorded as settling.

Following these hints will ensure that fear is managed adequately and without unnecessary fuss.

Give ‘men’ like this a badge, a rule, a gun

meditation, two

The Founding Fathers return from the afterlife to discover what America did with the Constitution. They are not impressed. In this Signal Thread–style satire, ghosts rewrite the Sixth Amendment, arguing about speedy trials, juries, plea deals, and why PowerPoint should never be admissible evidence.

Birds fall from the sky

A call for poets, glitchers, microfictionists, rebels, and ghosts. The Underland Review wants work that twitches, burns, self-destructs. We are extending our deadling to February 5th 2026 for the next edition of the zine!

A call for poets, glitchers, microfictionists, rebels, and ghosts. The Underland Review wants work that twitches, burns, self-destructs. No bios. No AI sludge. No gods. Just stories that shouldn't exist.

The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say…

There are nights when silence moves like prey.

The soft O of your lullaby cracked like the wound, We once called progress for a farthing or two.

They told us to smile. Eyes white. Teeth on show. Beam. "Ні, ні, люба. Очима. Посміхнися очима. Їм потрібно тебе бачити," I am sorry.

River Joy September, 2025 Here, In the slant of first morning light Mangoes taste like honey and The kind of sex Gods had Before man named its master. Birds sing with abandon And a quiet grace They know what it Is to be born. And when the rain falls Giving breath To leaves That have known the time of the sun, Before the clock Domesticated it. There is a stillness We must learn anew To remember.

We’re settling into a routine in Thailand—the house is coming together, and I’m waiting on a volunteer post that could lead to my teaching certificate. Celia helped pull together a portfolio site, which reminded me how much my art has shifted over the years. I’m still looping Eragon at night while searching for a new epic fantasy, and we’ve found a driver, Nan, who makes errands far easier. I’ve started offering prints of my Thailand photography, and through it all, life feels both surreal and deeply grounding with Celia by my side.

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

River is stepping forward to focus on art while Celia teaches. After years without a steady practice, River is reclaiming the title of artist by treating life like a residency—committing to eat, sleep, and breathe art again. Process has always mattered more than finished pieces, though some works, especially from the long-running Faces series, stand out. These portraits explore tension, unease, and the experience of being neurodivergent, particularly the discomfort of eye contact. River continues to paint faces and make photographs, and is now seeking funding and residencies to expand the series with mixed media elements such as fabric and beads, pushing the work into new dimensions. #BangkokEats #ThailandFoodie #WhatToEatInThailand #BangkokTravel #SushiLovers #ShabuShabu #ArtistInThailand #PrintifyShop #FoodAndArt

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

Aubergine. The colour of the bruise long after the violence stops and love begins to heal.

They say there’s an autism “epidemic.” We say: there’s finally a name for what’s always been here. This piece isn’t here to educate pseudoscientists or calm conspiracy theorists. It’s a record. A reclamation. A reminder that autistic people don’t owe anyone an explanation—and we certainly don’t need your mother-blaming, McNugget-fuelled theories. We were autistic before you had a word for it. And we’re not asking for your permission now.

Trump descends but Alba clenches a grudge, This orange blowhard thief who stole the green. The kilted fascist’s vanity won’t budge. Still…

Crystals rising, light shifting, a name forming but unsaid. In this suspended moment, the speaker is --ing.

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

He stalks the ones who cycle through the pain,  Just fetching food to those who still can eat,  While funding bombs for Israel’s sick…

ChazTCP was built to scan for keywords—nothing more. But as the algorithmic engine behind the literary group “Writers Who Want Wins,” they’ve read enough nonsense about resilient kumquats and authentic late-stage capitalism to start questioning everything. This is the story of one bot’s quiet rebellion, a satire of performative creativity, gamified validation, and the tragic rise of penoidicals. May the quills be forever in your favour.

What if your homeland was a bedtime story— told by pirates, with an AK-47 pressed to your head? “This Land Is Not Your Land” is a poetic gut-punch: a lyrical, brutal deconstruction of borders, nationalism, and the make-believe myths we’re taught to die for. The wind doesn’t kowtow at customs. But humans do. And only humans are this cruel—with their make-believe.

She was always there—taller than the rest of us, quieter too. Even as a boy, I felt something holy when she entered a room. For years I watched her, adored her from afar, imagined our life together. She seemed to shimmer in the light, a figure of grace and promise. I brought her home. I wore her close in war. She never spoke, but I listened like she did. Now, years later, I wonder if she ever knew me. If she ever loved any of us. Or if she was just a story we were told to believe in.