By Isaac Handelman

Hidalgo licked the envelope lid, sealing it shut. He liked using envelopes; he still liked sending and receiving paper mail. He imagined the letter being picked up by a post carrier first thing in the morning as he strolled down the street to the post office. Hidalgo wondered how long it would be before he heard anything back. He wondered if he’d hear anything back at all. He betted, though, that he would. *** On Saturday, Theresa Hawkins decided to open the preceding week’s mail, which had been piling up on the countertop next to her bowl of pens. A few items in, she found herself grasping a manila business envelope from a company called Lipno Insurance. She had no dealings with this Lipno Insurance, so she threw the letter aside into her recycling bin, thinking it to be an advertisement or some such nonsense. Several weeks later, Theresa received a telephone call on her private cell. “Hello, is this Ms. Hawkins?” said a vaguely bored voice on the other end of the line. T...

As is often said, “The Children may grow old and die, but the Names stay the same.” A more accurate truism has never existed in popular discourse, and I proclaim that with the utmost pride. It was My first day on the Board, but I knew I needn’t be nervous. My many Grandfathers’ years of Accumulation had been in the service of My possession of this seat, and, My father perished, here I was at last. I was a Boardmember. I was now an Issuer of Decisions, not just a Beneficiary. Nor, of course, a helpless receiver of consequences. But need that even be said? I smiled softly to Myself as I burst through the Boardroom doors with a sudden and necessary confidence about Me. The other Boardmembers had already arrived. They sat on Their elevated seats, comfortably above the podium that marked the position of the coming Proctor. From the moment I entered They stared down at me. Their gazes were soft and unthreatening, for I was, of course, One of Them. Still, They were curious about thi...

Simultaneously the epitome of Marvel's hypercapitalist formula and a thrilling iteration of it, "Spider-Man: Far From Home" is, by and large, a highly enjoyable viewing experience. This entry finds Peter Parker (Tom Holland) and pals venturing to Europe for a school vacation. They end up lilypad-hopping across the continent in tandem with Quentin Beck (Jake Gyllenhaal), inadvertently nicknamed Mysterio, who's presented as an extra-dimensional crusader attempting to combat some apocalyptic mumbo-jumbo. For good measure, Beck has pulled old friends Nick Fury and Maria Hill along for his ride which - surprise! - turns out to be quite deceitful. Interestingly, "From From Home" is aware of its own ludicrous blockbuster trappings. Beck is a cartoon megalomaniac, sure; Fury and Hill realize that, and acknowledge so on-screen in an amusing exchange. Other side-characters, like Peter’s hapless teachers (Martin Starr and J.B. Smoove), best friend Ned (Jacob Bata...

I am not a musician, but I would like to find my music. I would like to write my music. I want it to flow from me. I want to care, and I don’t want it to stop. I want to find my muse, or my amusement. I want to write my music. I don’t care much if others listen. I just want to find my music, and to write it. Is there a trick, or do I just need to stick with something? Will I start to care, will I get invested, if I stay invested? I don’t want to force it, but I don’t want to ignore it. I don’t know how to evoke it, or if it’s even there. If it’s not, I’d like to put it there. If I can’t find my music, I’d like to make it. To create it. I don’t know how, but I’ll try to figure it out. I sure don't want it to pass me by.

Sometimes opening a window helps. Otherwise, it can be suffocating. Serenade, sweetly. I think these things as I walk down the street, toward the place where the Goblin lives. That disgusting little man, that vile, unworthy scum… he revolts me. I have arranged to meet him. I regret this decision. Fee, fie, fo, fum. He sits under his bridge. Fuck him. That troll, that gross, gangly, ghastly, ghoul. I’d spit on him if I could. That would make the meeting an awkward pain, though. Imagine that, my spit, coating his face. A barrier between me and him. Perhaps that’d make it more bearable, I think to myself. I laugh to myself. I crinkle my nose and close my eyes, but the light still penetrates them. The street is wet. My shoes are wet. Soon, my socks will be wet. Then, my feet will get wet. And then I will be a soggy fuck, trodding flatly through these dull streets, uncomfortable, barely mobile, slowed by the stringy, soaking fabric between my sickly skin and the wet ground. I’ll ge...

I just made a mistake. I screwed up. It was my first chance to provide my camp with a major upgrade, something that might improve the livelihoods of my compatriots, those I’ve come to think of as my friends and family. Lured in by the promise of upgrades to my satchel, I opted to buy an expensive set of leather working tools, dropping around one hundred dollars from my personal savings (more than half of what I had accrued since the disastrous failed robbery) as well as the entirety of the camp’s collective funds on the endeavor. As soon as I’d made the purchase, I regretted it. Buyer’s remorse in a world without refunds. A simple reality dawned on me: I had just chosen to purchase a handful of tools in order to improve my satchel’s capacity to hold herbs, ammunition, food, and other assorted goods. I’d never been out roaming the frontier lands and wanted for extra space on my person before; rather, I had been seduced by the luxurious promise of an upgrade to my personal abilities. I c...