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Viscous skeins of intertwining voices
creep like ivy snaking up and over metallic walls 
of interfaced identities with a half-forgotten howl.
I whisper dreams to leaves that caress the coruscating present,
tainted by the lure of a sunrise somewhere tangible—
somewhere touchable by digits of bone, skin, and flesh.
I clank within an uncompromised exoskeleton,
All desires carapaced within.  I am a tinwoman rooting out
the ghost of a pulsating heart; the apprehending of phantomskin 
courting impact and friction of other skins.
 
I am a brain encased and unreachable.
 
Only these twined leaves make love to my synapses,
my shattered limbs lost somewhere in the wreckage
of future history.
 
I had a body once that ached for feels,
which dripped unwelcome desire
through viscous fluids of mortality.
 
I felt the ebb and flow of youth and age
before I euthanised all impulses
and chose these parts that encase my mind.
 
These voices like ghostly vines
were not factored into
 methodical deliberations of corporeal  liberation,
my emancipation from a body that never ceased to disappoint.
 
These spectral tendrils twine and snake
into confines of my most closely guarded secrets;
they murmur, they purr songs that susurrate dreams fulfilled, 
notes that amble upon livewires of sonnets and cantatas,
tickling and tormenting my fancies
like gifts after the fact.


Nin Harris is an author, poet, and tenured postcolonial Gothic scholar who exists in a perpetual state of unheimlich. Nin writes Gothic fiction, cyberpunk, nerdcore post-apocalyptic fiction, planetary romance, and various other forms of hyphenated weird fiction. Nin’s publishing credits include Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons, and The Dark.
Current Issue
9 Feb 2026

“I’ve never actually visited the pā before,” she said out loud. “Is this where they gather lāʻī to make the pūʻolo?” she asked. “Yes,” Benny responded, glancing to see where Nanea was pointing. “Here and in other places as well. Many of these ti have been growing for decades now.” She paused for a moment. “I think about all the work you guys do, you know, up in those offices, and I think that all of that work actually starts from right here, in the ground, all covered in the earth and the pōhaku and the ti. Most people don’t even know it, but it all starts right here.
sometime in the night, we heard rocking and knocking and rapping and tapping, a million trillion tiny feet
The triangles bred and twisted, replicating themselves.
Issue 2 Feb 2026
By: Natasha King
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
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