HeyJaredThe Convulsion Doctrine
Dark poetry. Feral love letters. Dream logic. Horror stories. Your intrusive thoughts, twisted just right.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 25, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 7, 2026
Latest issues
glassjaw (opens the original)
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I don’t know why I’m writing you.I should’ve left you where you fell,half-eaten by shame,a twitching monument,still somehow alive,whiskey Lazarus.I should hate you.I do.For what you left behind.For what you carried out with you,not pride, not wisdom,all nerve endings, bile,a limp and that fucking laugh,the one that soundslike a car failing to start.You didn't rise.You crawled,smeared in nightsI still wake up tasting.Knees shredded,spine bent like a question.And yetyou lived.
Chair (opens the original)
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“The years had not passed cleanly through the apartment.”Arthur was impaled by his chair on a Tuesday evening in November.The mahogany slat did not enter him with the cinematic violence of a sword. It went into him with the quiet, stubborn authority of a fence post driven into wet clay. There was a crack beneath him, a brief collapse of upholstery and wood and then the sensation of something passing through the lower part of his body. Arthur’s breath hitched, a dry, papery gasp that still tasted
The Quiet Hour (opens the original)
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“I hope you are all where you ought to be.”When I was a child, there was a radio program that came on when it rained.It wasn’t on any particular station. Sometimes it interrupted whatever you were listening to. Sometimes it came through a radio that wasn’t switched on. Once, according to my brother, it came through the speaker of his toy fire engine, but nobody believed him because he was six and had previously claimed to own a horse that lived in the attic.But I heard it. Lots of us did.It alwa
The Man in the Ceiling (opens the original)
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“Because he used to sound like your father.”When I was little, there was a man in the ceiling.My mother said he wasn’t a man, but she never told me what he was. She only said that I mustn’t look up when he was moving.This was difficult because he moved quite a lot.Usually he moved at night. We would hear him crossing the rooms above us, though there was no room above us. Our house had one floor, a roof, and then the sky. Still, there he was, walking around up there in his little invisible apartm
slow and steady (opens the original)
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Nine thousand miles is a cruel number.So is four hundred.So is six.Better not to carry it.Wake with the dark still clingingto the shoulders of the morningand say:I walk.That is all.The road does not need to knowwhat you intend to become.It receives the feetone after another,dust entering the seams of the shoes,small stones gossiping.By noon the distance has becomeheat,thirst,a black bird crossing the sun.By afternoon,the body begins its negotiations.I walk.
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