Logan Roscoe

Before the party ends, we dare you to indulge in the final verses of October.

Knowledge of Charles Byrne’s existence made its way into circulation among surgeons. From a distance, they imagined what they could find if they had a chance to dissect that anomaly of a man.

The night of our fifteenth trip to the movie theaters this summer, you asked me one of those questions you tend to ask. "What was it like for the people who went to the first movie theater?"

What constitutes a person's identity if they are separated into two different bodies, two different brains? And if there are two versions of a person, then who’s the real one?

The history of artificial intelligence is more than just the historical development of technology. It’s also a history of humanity’s self-image — and our fear in replicating what we believe to be our artificial counterparts. 

Horror writers keep reaffirming some collective terror in the concept of fungi and mold. There’s something off-putting, uncanny — something wrong with whatever they've infected or contaminated. The Last of Us, The Haunting of Hill House, Relic: all these medias use mycophobia, the fear of fungi, as the basis of their horror. 

The singular dimension we travel through doesn’t allow us to bring the past back in all its authenticity. But we can revisit the past, and sometimes take hold of its malleability, simply reimagining it.

Places built for death live all over. They live in the stories surrounding the Winchester House; they live in cemeteries; they live in video games and novels and movies; and they have been living with us in various forms since the very first conception of death.

I’m thinking of when you sat on a white blanket with grass peeking through the threads, and you wore a white dress for our special occasion: a conversation.

In recent years, there have been trends in science fiction that frame the chaos of the supernatural through a distinctly human perspective.