Psycho Holosuite #Issue 1 [Out Now]

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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]

Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]

Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville, Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].

Release date: Now

Notes:

Well, after printing this thing 5 months ago and watching it sit in a box in the corner of my living room doing nothing ever since, I can finally say, man, it’s out.

By ‘out’ I mean available for order in stripped down e-form on amazon, and on its way in glorious zine form to the following places:

Atomic Books [Baltimore]

The Coming Society [Hong Kong]

Sticky Institute [Melbourne]

Housmans [London]

Book Thug Nation [NYC]

Molasses [NYC]

Quimby’s [Chicago]

There are still 4-5 places we’re gonna add to this list, but you can find out more about these confirmed stockists here.

All of them are decent and well stocked with zines from all kinds of people, so even if you don’t like our one, you probably will like at least one zine there.

Also, if you want to order a copy, just e-mail us and we’ll see if there’s any left.

What’s in Issue 1 of this zine?

Well, there’s: Continue reading

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Uchujin Time Strip

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In many ways Susan Sarandon was more than just the lub interest from Bull Durham and the ex-wife of Tim Robbins, she was also the mind interest of sub space aliens who conducted experiments with/in/outside of time.

 

It had started, the Sarandon interest, when a stray signal from Earth swerved and poked itself into sub space by mistake…and ended up on one of the screens inside an alien base only eight sub-parsecs from the Sol System [not that distance really mattered].

 

Alien: What’s this?

Alien 2: White Palace.

Alien: Well…I don’t like white, and I don’t really like palaces…wait, who’s that?

Alien 2: The one with the stick?

Alien: No.

Alien 2: The one with the hills?

Alien: Yes, who is she?

Alien 2: Susan Sarandon.

Alien: Wow.

Alien 2: I know.

 

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RULE 17 of Chrono-strip-experimentation:

Always seek permission from a representative of the subject’s world, even if that representative seems to be out of their depth.

If refused, ask another.

 

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The sub space aliens ordered the face cream, pulled out the temporal hacksaws and grew four tongues [two as back-up].

The face cream would take a few weeks to arrive, so they passed the time by watching the 14th century.

Their notes:

 

Black Death = efficient culling of general population, mostly peasants

Red Death = efficient culling of Italian nobles who worshipped something called Satan. Continue reading

Bad Hungarian

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Escalator de death one way

up not down cos

Citibank digs from gap kids

plus etsy

on weekdays if it’s dark if there’s oil

Oh tzi do, megatron

don’t use gap use

lacuna

LAA – COO – NUH

this has stock feeling

and finger tights

lava doesn’t negotiate

much

oh man

the penguins thought they were the heroes

not MARIO 64

I mean girls

we’re not gonna spend the whole war in the basement

are we

are we?

when even the bombs turn back

it’s toast

it’s

Muslim powernap

outside tesco and Texaco and tesla and co Continue reading

The Deterritorialisation of Nick Nolte

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      Nick Nolte the wildman drunk woke up after a long night of reading, drinking and smoking and [with light storming in] realised he was no longer Nick Nolte.

‘Shit…’

As he brushed his teeth in the bathroom he further realised he hadn’t been Nick Nolte for a long time.

‘Shit, padre…’

He showered, put his contacts in and tried to figure out some kind of time scale.

Twenty years?

Longer?

That cop film…the Eddie Murphy thing…was that it?

He walked into his second living room, in the beach pad bought by Nick Nolte the mad scientist in that green monster film, and thought about what he should do next.

A few seconds later he went sideways and thought about why he’d come to think of this in the first place.

There were all those books he’d been reading. The ones Walter said would give him trouble.

But, shit…just fiction and philosophy, he thought.

Cela and the Life of Pascal Dirty. Camus and the third man. Celine and the long journey through the night. Malaparte and…what was it…Virus? Disease? Sartre and the nausea. Takahashi and the Sayonara Gangsters. Hesse and those two guys…Nazi and Goldman.

Shit, just fiction and ideas…

He shrugged and went back to thinking of that other thing, the plan, what he should do next.

******

Nick Nolte the wildman drunk stood in front of the bathroom mirror and combed his hair. He brushed his teeth again, whiter than white, then smiled to the other.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘A Goddamn Philandropist.’

******

In the police station the first arrestee smirked and said, ‘no reason, man.’

He was slapped twice then put back in the cell.

The second arrestee smirked and said, ‘fuck you.’

He was given a ‘fuck you’ back, slapped and put back in his cell.

The seven arrestees that came next were all pretty much the same way. Continue reading

[Preview] Psycho Holosuite Zine // Issue 1

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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]

Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]

Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville [cover artist], Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].

Release date: September 1st

Publication: Every 3-4 months hopefully

Notes:

Unlike the Gupter Puncher zines I’ve done before, I really like the name of this one.

The issue number was going to be higher to give the impression the zine’s been running for longer than it has, but I scrapped that idea and just went with ‘1’.

80 Pages isn’t that many, even with 6 other contributors.

Theme? Stories?

The first issue of this zine will deal with a] authenticity and b] dread.

The stories will be alive and integrated fluidly into the zine, not just put down on the page to be admired.

There will be e-mails and comments and tangents all over the place.

There will be time travel and dying astronauts and riker from Star Trek [barely] and a hybrid designed specifically to colonise Mars.

There will be a Ray Bradbury piss-take.

There will even be notes for most of the Freddy films written by me pretending to be Robert Englund. Continue reading

Space Capsule [featuring IT as IT]

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Kaia don’t

don’t open it I don’t wanna see

don’t please

don’t

Kaia don’t

its dark out there

don’t

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Last night I had a dream, a space dream that reminded me black and white of younghood, of anxiety times when I used to fear things like knives/ freddy/ dying before Christmas/ being cut/ recycling my mother’s madness and worst of all floating above Jupiter without any support nearby no other ships or space stations or defiant or kira nerys to swoop in and save me from floating downwards to the surface of big non-ascending Jupiter and there was no spaceship holding me either it was just me and my spacesuit and my helmet and my gloves and that’s about it and although it takes time to be pulled into the atmosphere I was in a dream and dream time was the constant I was dealing with so

I could see the planet getting closer and closer and the red spot getting bigger and bigger as big as Neptune until quickly it was gone and the black was gone and I was falling into the pink and grey and blue misty stuff the thermosphere or troposphere and I know technically I should’ve been crushed or having a heart attack at this point but it was a dream so it was a hundred times worse.

The idea that you have no idea where you’re floating to it’s been done a few times in star trek specifically the night episode of Voyager and every time it makes me anxious I can’t help it and every time it happens in my Jupiter dream I wake up and thank the universe that I’m not anywhere near that fucking planet and am unlikely to be so for the rest of my life.

I want to go to space someday, just not alone in a spacesuit and not too deep where its dark and Continue reading

Krsnik in Lisboa

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Hot light from Spanish land spread over the pastel-white buildings and the churches and the marketplace, making the 47 bodies of Lisboans killed that day look like idle sunbathers.

No one bothered to move them as if they did there’d be 48.

Instead the locals played their guitars.

And talked about the weather.

And drank

at eleven o clock in the morning.

A stranger with no luggage or purse walked into the main plaza, almost tripping over two of the 47 bodies, both women. He glanced at the slash marks on their necks, the blood tails creeping toward the church steps…then at the man sitting on the same steps, strumming a tune about the glorious coastline of La Coruna.

‘The waves are large, the sand is clean…

The rocks are smooth, unless you’re mean…

In La Coruna…La Coruna…’

The stranger listened up to the ‘mean’ part, muttered something non-Spanish then continued walking. He got to the far corner of the plaza, ignored the Moroccans selling baking powder as cocaine, and turned right onto a narrower street. It wasn’t much quieter, the place was too close to the city centre for that, but there were no more corpses. He moved quietly past the guitars, past the guitar shops, past the hawkers selling fake guitars from Sevilla, and up onto the hill by the castle.

Outside the gate, sitting on a wall with a quill and paper, was a young woman. She wasn’t particularly pretty [her face was too narrow, her eyes not sharp enough], but was definitely a step up from the guards standing nearby scratching their thighs.

The stranger moved closer, taking a leaf from a nearby tree and folding it in two. “Ona je ostal z mano…”

Some locals came up the hill speaking Portuguese, noticed the guards and the swords, switched to Spanish for a few seconds then, ten yards distant, went back to Portuguese.

“Fucking wretches,” muttered one of the guards, watching the bi-linguals disappear into the chapel on the corner. “They’re lucky that damn language ain’t banned.” Continue reading