#weekly magazines

[thefugitivesaint]

We Are the Mutants is an online magazine focusing on Cold War-era sci-fi, fantasy, genre, pulp, cult, occult, and anti-establishment media.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog post with this random bulletin: there’s a relatively new online magazine that you might be interested in. I just came across it myself. It has content. You all enjoy content. The internet is filled to the brim with that stuff. Well, here’s more of it but it might be better than the other stuff you’ve been consuming. I don’t know. What was I talking about? Oh yes, content. Here’s what kind of content is on offer: “We Are the Mutants is a weekly updated magazine focusing on the history and analysis of Cold War-era popular and outsider culture, with a strong emphasis on speculative (sci-fi, fantasy, horror), genre, pulp, cult, occult, subculture, and anti-establishment media. We cover everything from underground comics and post-apocalyptic fictions to ufology tropes and space disco.” Does that sound like your kind of content? If it does, have at it. It’s just there, waiting for your greedy eyes to suck it up into your eager brains. It’s in my brain. I let it in. And, just for the hell of it, one more time, I’m going to use the word content. 

[yourweek]

Why? Wherefore? In-As-Much-As-Which?

As each of your days goes down into their evening graves, their mysteries will seem to advance upon the advancing years, like never dying kudzu vines who creep by the foot up and down whole forests. Or is it that the forest itself is the question? In any case, the questions abound, and never followed by any very good answers either and getting lost in the wood has lost its romance, now that evening’s coming on faster than you’d like anyways, and it sounds as if someone is following you, though you can’t see anything and everywhere are signs, wolf prints as big as pony hooves, trees torn up violently by something tremendous, the scattered bones and hair of devoured beasts, and every now and then the breeze-carried odor of something rank and fell while high above the gibbous moon is sneering down through the kudzu. How exactly did you get into this scenario anyways? Then you remember: You’ve never liked answers all that much. Answers got, are soon discarded, like sad weekly magazines banished to the bathroom.