Psycho Holosuite #Issue 1 [Out Now]

psycho holosuite7-2

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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 orderĀ 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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POL POT

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Note: this was originally on spork press

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Pol Pot was dead.

Then there was a helicopter, an aeroplane, a scientist, some drugs, some lightning and a video recording of some guy screaming ‘It’s alive…mostly.’

Pol Pot was man again.

But he felt bad.

Really bad.

The last twenty years or so he had been on the edge of nothingness. But only on the edge. Something wouldn’t let him fall in, he didn’t know what, so he’d been sitting there, his legs dangling over the edge, thinking about everything he’d done in his life while others came, waved and then dropped into the abyss.

The first four years had been okay.

He’d had a decent life, hadn’t done much wrong. He’d risen high, met every challenge in the face, dealt with those who turned against him.

But still he couldn’t fall into nothingness.

After four years and a bit, a farmer from his country drifted by and called him a ‘monster.’

‘Sorry?’ said Pot, confused.

‘I said, ‘monster’,’ the farmer repeated.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Not really.’

‘So why do you call me monster?’

‘Because you told someone to kill me, monster.’

‘I did?’ Continue reading