QueerPunk Digital Literary Magazine

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Masthead Co-Editor Storm Huryk (They/Them) is a gender-fluid writer and editor currently based out of Arizona. While fantasy is their favorite genre to write in, they still enjoy reading all types of short stories and poetry.

Co-Editor / Graphic & Web Designer: Jessica Minster (She/Her) is a transgender author and poet based out of Arizona who has written many short stories, poetry collections, and novels in the ten years she has been writing creatively. She tends to stick to darker, more dramatic, and subversive types of projects.

More of her work can be found on her blog/website: luckyfoxcommons.blogspot.com

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Our Contributors Front Cover Artwork by Paige Daniel (she/her) Paige Daniel is a pansexual zinester and abortion doula based out of Arizona. She creates zines to educate and provide resources to people that are otherwise typically censored. Her work discusses inclusive sex education, abortion/reproductive health, queer liberation, and much more!

More of Paige’s artwork can be viewed on Instagram @_mynameismud_ and purchased at etsy.com/shop/punkbubblegum. “there is a fire in these bones” by Amanda MacNair (she/her) - Poem - Pg 5 “Be trans throw hands.”

“Nonsense Song” by Jessica Minster (she/her) - Short Fiction - Pg 6-9 “Face the Pride” by Rhema Mitchell (he/him) - Artwork - Pg 10 “My name is Rhema I’m an artist at NAU. I’m glad to have displayed a piece for this magazine and create something authentic for a strong community. More of my artwork can be found on instagram @r.runforeve, would love any support and again very appreciative of this opportunity.”

“Man-Made” by Matty Pace (she/they) - Artwork - Pg 11 “My name is Matty Pace. I am currently a senior at NAU and will be graduating in May of 2024 with a degree in Hotel and Restaurant Management along with a minor in Studio Arts. I sincerely love the subjective nature of art in all its various forms. I'm very passionate about my art and love how expressive it allows me to be.”

More of Matty’s art can be found on Instagram @gallery.0073.

“Every Bone Was Binary” by Storm Huryk (they/them) - Short Nonfiction - Pg 12-13 “‘They’re Not Alone’: An Interview With Independent LGBT+ DJ/Music Producer Dubsplyce” written

by Jessica Minster (she/her) - Interview - Pg 14-16 You can find Dubsplyce’s music on Spotify, Apple Music, Pandora, and Amazon Music under the name Dubsplyce as well as on YouTube as DUBSPLYCE LLC., on Facebook as Dubsplyce Media, and on TikTok as @Dubsplyce.

“Queer Joy: Beautiful Humans” by Libby Flach (they/them) (lettering, concept, collage); Camila Valenzuela (she/her) (photography) - Back Cover Artwork “My name is Libby Flach. I am from Montana and am a sophomore here at NAU. I am a studio art major and queer studies minor, and this was my final for my first queer studies class!” Find more of Libby’s work @_libbycf_3 on Instagram.

Find more of Camila’s photography @camilajoann on Instagram.

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there is a fire in these bones

by Amanda MacNair There is a resistance in these bones much larger than a single root broken beer bottles used as weapons against the police as the only fertilizer more than Rebecca’s Daughters dressing in wigs and dresses to burn taxing stations to the ground, there is resistance brutal, unrelenting anger brimming in this skin seeping out of these pores like the sweat of Joan of Arc as they were burned at the stake this body will not cease and desist broken fingers will not hamper these words the necropolitics of this life will only create more fertilizer for the next wave the next wave the next wave to break and crash upon the shore of our murders to breach the next rally through the machine gun fire of hate there is a bile in this stomach building more than my burning throat can contain a hand burnt from the stove is still a hand a leg lost from an IED can be replaced a tragic story only remains tragic if the protagonist stays dead but there is a resistance in these bones there is a resilience in our broken prosthetics there is an ingenuity to existing that you cannot break that will not be broken that will resist and will exist and will eat the rich for the bone marrow inside create new gardens in the blood of hands swollen from fighting flatten the earth in the boots of feet broken from marching there is a resistance in these bones time-worn and shit out thrown again and again and again against iron bars and buried in the cemeteries of our grief let the dead bury the dead for while we yet live there is resistance in this living resistance in the shallow breathing of a beating heart resistance in a post-coital smoke and a post-mugging decision to stand stand stand STAND now and resist.

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Nonsense Song by Jessica Minster The officer held the woman’s identification card before him, reading over the details for a moment. Annie Niemals Donya. Twenty six. Black hair. Brown eyes. Caucasian. Five feet, six inches tall. Everything up to and including the picture on the ID was accurate. He handed it back to her. “Go ahead.”

Annie went to the

other side of the queue and grabbed her backpack, walking straight out of the station and crossing over to the side of it that touched her home country. She passed through several sets of double doors leading to the open air. A bus was taking off in the following ten minutes or so, so she bought a ticket and got on. She could feel peoples’ eyes on her as a woman traveling alone. It wasn’t a hungry look most of the time, it was just one of prying uncomfortability with her oddity as a lone female traveler.

She sat alone on the mostly full bus

as it drove down the highway towards the city. When the bus stopped in the city, Annie got out and smoked a couple cigarettes outside of a gas station before buying another ticket to her hometown. The second bus came soon enough and she got onboard. It was nearly empty. A man whistled far too much on the ride to her hometown. She wanted to tell him to stop but didn’t. She felt a brief relief at her departure from the bus, which stopped in the more dense downtown area of her hometown. This relief was dissipated in only a couple seconds, as the familiar feelings of home brought her back from the sensation.

The grass of

the park near downtown was all yellowed and dry. Some dead leaves crunched under Annie’s foot as she sat down on a bench at the edge of the park. Countless cars passed by on the street beside the park. Annie thought about how much time and money each of them cost to make. Too much, she figured.

Annie’s head

tilted as she looked closer at a nearby garbage can. Something was faintly shining in the trash. She got up and looked in it on her way out of the park. It was a revolver.

Opening a swinging door into a restaurant, Annie immediately noticed how silent the place was on the inside.

There was no jukebox or radio, just a single bartender waiting for a customer. Annie took a seat at the bar. She needed water but she ordered alcohol. The bartender was another young woman, around Annie’s age.

Within an hour the two of them were sitting at one of the tables on the other side of the restaurant. Both were drinking. “I’m sorry,” the bartender, named Ries, said. “Why?” Annie took another sip, even though she had already had enough. Neither of the two of them looked at each other when they talked. “I don’t know why I’m being so unprofessional.” “People hate professional waitresses. They want whores.” “I really shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m not well,” Ries replied. “Why?” “I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking.” Annie didn’t respond. Ries gulped and then said, “I feel like there’s something very heavy on my chest.” “You sound like you need a drink.” “I’m already drunk.” “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t feel well either, even after drinking.” “I’m sorry,” Ries said. “But at least we’re here now.” “That’s the problem. We are here but where are we going?” Annie asked. “What?” “You don’t understand. No one does.” “I do,” Ries said.

“I suppose it’s sort of a lie. I know, it’s just that it never changes and I’ve sort of gotten used to it.” “What is it?” “The problem.” “Please, Annie. Tell me.” “No one cares.” “...I think they care too much. That’s how people have always been.” “Caring too much for the wrong things. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” “It’s not?”

Ries asked. “No.”

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They both kept drinking in silence for a while. “Do you want to go for a walk, Annie? After this? We can keep talking then.” “Fine.” Annie stood up. “Oh, right now?” Ries asked, surprised. “We need to pay.” “Fuck it,” Annie said. “Quit your job.”

Outside of the restaurant, the two of them stood on the corner of the block a

while before Annie said, “I don’t know why you’re following me.” “Do you not want me to come?” “That’s not what I meant.” “What happened?” Ries asked with some concern. “Nothing. And the day before that it was nothing, and the day after this it will be nothing, and so on.” “You sound unwell, Annie.” “Yeah.” Continuing on into the park, they came across an old statue commemorating someone who was considered great once.

Annie stopped at the front of the statue, looking at its face. “You know they used to kill people like you and me, Ries?” “They still do.” “I’m sure they’ll get a nice statue someday,” Annie said. “Please tell me what’s wrong, Annie. Something more specific.” Annie looked off into the distance for a second before looking at Ries. “Why?” “I want to help you because I like you.” “‘Like’. You ‘like’ me. Everyone ‘likes’ me. And you’ve only just met me.” “Are you lonely, Annie?” Annie stayed silent, looking off into the distance again. “Annie…”

Ries started,” I had three shots before you came into the restaurant today.” “Okay.” “Do you want to come up to my apartment?” A pause. “I’m sorry,” Ries said. “I like to embarrass myself sometimes.” “Why?” “It makes me sound like an addict loser, doesn’t it?” Another pause. “...I’m sorry,” Ries said again. “Why do you say sorry?” Annie asked. “It’s hard to stop saying sorry after you start. I feel like apologizing for everything.” The two of them shared another moment of silence as sweat dampened down their clothes and gnats buzzed around their heads. “...Do you want to come back to my apartment?” Ries asked once more. “Would you want me there?” “Of course.” “Why?” “Because… Because I feel like I have a connection with you.” “Nobody is connected to me,” Annie said, walking back towards the restaurant. “Annie.” Reis pleaded but Annie kept walking. She followed.

“My car is just up the street. If you want, we can…”

Soon they came to the side of a small beetle car. Annie got inside the passenger seat. “Are you sure, Annie?”

Reis asked, with some excitement in her voice. “Not really.” Reis lingered in the window for a moment before getting on the other side of the car and opening the driver’s side door. She sat down and closed it. She inserted the key to the car and twisted on the ignition. They drove for a few minutes before making it to a small apartment block on the edge of the downtown area. “Do you want to go up?” Reis asked. “I don’t know,” Annie answered. Slowly they dragged their feet upstairs two floors to get to Reis’ apartment.

“Here it is,” Reis said as she unlocked the door. The inside was sparse and the walls were covered with a huge amount of pages from self help books written by people who were truly beyond help. “Please, please, sit down on the bed. I can make you tea.” The bed was a covered mattress on the floor. It was a studio apartment. Reis went to make tea and Annie sat motionless on the mattress. Once Reis came back with the tea, she set down the serving plate on a bedside table. “Do you want any?” Reis asked. “No,” Annie replied.

Reis scooted over on the mattress towards Annie. She started to undo Annie’s blouse. She took it off. As Reis proceeded to strip away each article of Annie’s clothing, Reis continued speaking.

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“You know, when I was very young, I saw some things I really shouldn’t have. My uncle was very mean. He was mean to my brother. I really haven’t been able to make many friends, let alone a boyfriend. My uncle owns that restaurant I quit working at earlier today. I told all my friends what happened and when they told the teacher she wouldn’t listen. Then my friends wouldn’t listen. Then I stopped listening. It’s easier when you stop listening.” By then, Annie was completely naked on Reis’ mattress.

It was clear that if they wanted to keep going they had to leave Reis’ apartment before her uncle showed up.

So, they got dressed and went down to Reis’ car parked in the street. As they sat there in dark silence, car headlights would intermittently illuminate them as they passed by. “Where should we go?” Reis asked. Annie stayed silent. They had nowhere to go.

Later on, in the small hours of the morning in the countryside, Reis stopped at a gas station in the middle of a tiny provincial town. “We’re about out of gas, Annie. Do you want anything from the store?” Annie got out of the beetle without a word and walked over to the gas station’s store, illuminated in soulsucking white by the fluorescent lights inside. Reis started to fill the beetle’s gas tank. Annie took out a cigarette, lit it, and started smoking it.

Jingling a bell, the front door opened and closed within seconds and Annie stepped over to

the checkout counter. A radio was on, playing some fashionable new music. Annie stopped and listened to the song. Its instrumentation was hollow, tinny, and inhuman. The vocals were saccharine. The lyrics were about falling head over heels in love with someone of the opposite sex.

“What can I get you?” an old man

behind the counter wearing big glasses asked, with plentiful brand labels glimmering in his lenses. Annie immediately thought about how the old man probably hated the music that was playing on the radio. She then thought about how she felt about the song. It made her take out the revolver from her pocket.

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old man took a second to realize that Annie had taken out a gun. Once he did, his wrinkled face contorted in fright. “What are you doing? What do you want?”

Annie just looked into the distance, holding

the gun loosely in her hand, listening to the song.

The old man began to stutter as he continued asking,

“What do you want? You want money? You want—?” He started to reach for a shotgun under the counter.

Before he could grip the shotgun, he started to consider the ramifications and possible outcomes of this assumed robbery. This caused his diction to become more slurred. Suddenly, he grabbed the collar of his shirt, clutched his chest, and fell back, knocking down a whole display of cigarettes.

Annie just stood

there for a moment, gazing over the counter and seeing the man’s dead body on the floor. She listened to the end of the horrible song. She turned around and went out the front door, which jingled its bell. As Annie exited, the gun still in her hand, a police patrol car quietly stopped at another pump. Annie froze. One cop got out of the car and started to fill their gas tank, not noticing Annie.

Reis saw Annie through the rearview

mirror of the beetle. Her eyes widened slightly and she got out of the beetle. Annie came closer. “Annie. What are you doing?” Reis said.

The cop filling his gas tank finally saw Annie with her gun. The cop quickly

took a squatting position, unholstering his pistol. “Freeze!”

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The blast of the shotgun ripped into Annie’s back. She twirled and fell to the ground. The cop looked over to see another person who was in the gas station holding the owner’s shotgun, still smoking. Annie’s cigarette, still in her mouth, was still smoking. Her hand was laying atop her gun. The shotgunner dropped the shotgun as soon as he saw the policeman, raising his hands. It immediately began to pour rain.

Reis watched Annie

as she slowly bled out into the puddle of rainwater accumulating around her and gave the police a statement before driving off in the beetle. They let her go, as upon further police investigation and testimonies from both Reis and the shotgunner, the old man in the store had died of a heart attack, Reis didn’t know anything about Annie’s plan to rob the gas station, and the revolver that Annie had brandished was nothing more than a decently realistic looking children’s toy.

Earlier, still after having driven far out of the city and into the countryside, Annie had begun to speak again. “Why are we doing this?” “What?” Reis asked. “Why are we doing any of this?” Annie asked back. “I don’t know… I thought this is what you wanted.” “No. I want nothing. I don’t want drinks, I don’t want conversation, I don’t want sex, I don’t want books, I don’t want movies, I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want anything.” “We don’t have to do this…” Reis said. “But we will,” Annie replied. Another silence emerged between Annie and Reis. For what little moments they still would have together, they would not speak to each other again.

At the end of the week, in the local newspaper of the region, the death of a strange drifter girl was recorded between the weather, an ad for a useless new hyper-specific kitchen appliance, and coverage of a minor league baseball tournament being hosted in the area.

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Every Bone Was Binary by Storm Huryk On What Was And Still Is Middle school. Everyone saw my body, they forced the realization of it on me. I have a body to be seen. It cascaded into everyone telling me how I should fit into a body I never asked for. Telling me how this body of mine should act. My so-called friends, “You really need to shave, leg hair is sooo gross” and “Girl you really need to wear a bra.” My parents, “Ladies don’t run around in the dirt,” and “Look at the young lady you are turning out to be.” Lady-like; the stupidest concept ever pounded into me, it clung to my skin like fever sweat. It was: don’t wear any shirt too low cut, don’t wear any shorts or skirts too high up, don’t show too much skin, remember to be modest, remember boys are looking at your body. I imploded with every thought that some boy I didn’t know, didn’t like, lusted after my body. So I dressed it in sweaters and straight cut jeans, nothing to clean the sweat, nothing that stuck too close. With tied up hair that made me want to chop and chop until no hair, no skin, was left, until I could be a boy. This skeleton I became followed me to highschool.

To days where boys were surprised I owned dresses or skirts. At least that body let me live to see love outside of boys, who made my skin crawl, and live to see the way we exist in constant flux of gender and reality.

If queer was celebrated, a word okay to say, experimentation might have been fun, instead of a cage away from everyone I knew, everything I was. Instead, I knew the exact way my body stood out as it moved through the men’s section. My face heated up as employees stared at me, my hands crying with that sweet lady-like sweat as I stood in a place I didn’t belong. If gender left me alone instead of constantly forcing itself down my throat, I would be able to buy myself clothes from the men’s section without having to think about what excuse I need to give“Hey! What are you doing here, the women's section is over there.”

“Oh it’s a gift for a friend” or “I’m just looking for something nice for my brother…”

It’s still there, even as I carve out the air inflating my bones, the stares burn on days where I can only hear the thoughts that say I’m just a fake, a woman, never even close to a man. On these days I know my gender clashes with how I perform, be that female or male, or neither, the expected options. Even as I feel like a woman, I fear someone will see my chest and never see me as anything else, as anything but girl. So I go back to my skeleton, hide behind it, within it, trying to dissipate into stardust and moss, clinging to bones not my own and denying my body’s existence.

On What Is And What Will Be Now a binder envelops my chest as I desperately cling to anything but woman. One rule only; never force it into punishment. When my body does not belong to me, it hugs me, binds my spirit to my soul, my soul to my body. My hands reach to claw out my flesh, scar it beyond recognition. I crave to become the thing that haunts the forest. Then, I take my sedative of pressure around my ribs, ever so carefully reminding me of this fine line– comfort, or unrepairable harm. My binder melds to me, feels like my own skin, I know sleeping in it exists far past that line. Exercise too, a cause to remember: bruised ribs can crack, I shed it after only 8 hours, I have to wait 12 more before it grows back.

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Now, my clothes fit around my skeleton, giving it flesh again. Some just a shade past too tight around my chest, my hips, the air of woman ingrained in my lungs pumping through each blood vessel. I breathe, and it’s me. Olive pants and a peach jacket, knowing what colors go right, what styles reek of fashion disaster. I always dress to spite it. Woman, man, both, neither, I am somewhere in between.

Now while I expect your conclusion to be I am a woman, if you think about it at all, if you aren’t sure.

That’s how I win.

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“They’re Not Alone”: An Interview with Independent LGBT+ DJ/Music Producer Dubsplyce

by Jessica Minster Background When I met my first long-term partner, I was in a place of desperation and uncomfortable near-complete uncertainty on where the trajectory of my life was going. Since we’ve been together for around a year and a couple months, we’ve both changed one another in a mutually beneficial way as well as supported one another through unrelated big changes of our own.

Among the most drastic changes I have gone through has been in the way I see the world, the way I process the strangeness of modern society, and even to some extent how I react to it. My girlfriend showed me, through the stories of her past and present, how shockingly cruel the system is, the way it sinks its teeth into people and indoctrinates them into being aggressively judgmental, among other things. In addition she gave me the antidote to this blight against the natural flow and harmony of the natural world that is the current globalized society we call home (or, more aptly, prison).

This antidote was the freedom of thought and expression that comes with embracing the spirit of authentic rebellion.

While no rebel is the same, anyone who goes against the system knows that a certain courageous essence and consistent determination is required to be able to function in such a way. There is perhaps no word in counterculture that can encompass so much of this spirit than “punk”.

While my girlfriend is no stranger to the punk spirit and music in particular, her passions are often entangled in a different genre of music entirely. My girlfriend goes by the stage name of Dubsplyce, a moniker which she has produced music under for seven years. As one of the co-editors of this publication, I thought it fitting to include not only an interview with this talented artist and enduring force of the punk ethos, but to give a personal introduction to the piece that at least suggests the importance of queer love’s relationship with punk and vice versa.

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The Interview Interviewer (Jessica Minster - “JM”): What would you say is the connection between queerness and punk?

Dubsplyce: Well I feel that the whole point behind punk has always been against social normativity, anti-systematic. In pretty much all aspects, depending on what time frame and stuff. I think that punk as a culture is accepting of ideologies and identities, it’s a place where personal ideology and self-expression have been a thing that is welcomed. That’s how it always should be. Punk is a place for people to be different. As a genre and identity, punk has always been that kind of thing where it’s about the community rather than how social norms have been structured.

JM: I’ve heard you describe your music as an experimental blend of different EDM genres. On your Spotify “About” section you describe it as “heavy dubstep”, but you’ve said that it incorporates elements of riddim and glitch hop, if I remember correctly. Is there any other way you’d describe your stuff?

Dubsplyce: So it’s sort of more along the lines of riddim and glitch hop at first, but it’s kind of evolved. Now I’d call a lot of the tracks I make more like melodic trap build-ups into more melodic riddim dubstep. Basically doing a trap or rap beat that is more on the melodic side to add that additional musicality to build into heavier drops but still semi-melodic, you know?

JM: I’ve got you. Is there anything else you’d like to mention about that-- like about the genre of your music?

Dubsplyce: I pretty much make things as I have an idea for them so, you know, my sound changes from track to track quite a bit at times, it’s just the artist’s flow, you have an idea and you see what you can do to make it happen.

JM: Earlier this year you released a couple of tracks that include lyrics written and rapped by you, which was a bit of a change from your prior output. I think both of these have a lot in common with QueerPunk’s guiding principles, in that one is clearly about an aversion to society and one is about identity. “I’m So Done” came out first. How would you describe your process in coming to produce this track?

Dubsplyce: [Snicker] Well I think it’s pretty apparent in the track that when I wrote the lyrics I was irritated. I wasn’t in the best of spirits. The process started sort of emotional for me and it was more a way for me to vent at first but it kind of evolved from that. To start with I wrote the lyrics because I was upset and then I was like, “Actually, this could be good as a track.” So at first I wrote it as a rap-only track. The original rap beat is still included as the main chorus. I later decided it could go really well as a rap-dubstep combo track. For that song I wrote lyrics and sat down at a console and then made something that would line up well with it and played out all the parts and eventually formulated that rap beat. Then I took the same studio save and created a dubstep variant of it. It probably took about maybe five days for the rap. It took around a month to develop it up to the point where it is.

JM: So you were gravitating towards rap as a medium to express that passion?

Dubsplyce: Yeah, the reason I wanted to start rapping in my media as well as making the instrumentals is, well, one I wanted to branch out to a wider audience space and another thing is that I felt like a more personal aspect was needed for my music production and I felt that lyrics of some sort would be a good accompaniment to my tracks, and that the audio engineering was really well developed but not necessarily the vocals at the time. “I’m So Done” was the first rap track released at all for my label.

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JM: A lot of people would probably believe that punk as a genre of music is defined within certain parameters, but even as a rap song “I’m So Done” just screams “punk” to me. In relation to “I’m So Done”, what does “punk” mean to you, as an aesthetic and as a philosophy?

Dubsplyce: I think the reason you’re feeling those vibes is that I wrote that track with a very punk feel behind the lyrics.

As I said, at the time I wasn’t in the best headspace at the time when I wrote the lyrics. I think that track was an expression, a cry out for why are people that are different treated so poorly by society as it stands? And as much as it can come off very angry, there are a lot of people out there that feel a lot like this. Not exactly the same, everybody’s different, but there are a lot of people out there that are almost made out to be second class citizens, all over the world.

That’s why I made the track, because if no one says anything, nothing’s going to happen about it.

JM: What about “All My Life”? What inspired that track?

Dubsplyce: “All My Life” was inspired by personal identity-- of my own. Feelings I was having towards… things about my identity that I hadn’t come out about that publicly until I released it, so it was kind of a coming out track. I’ve come out multiple times. The first time, I came out as gay-- and that wasn’t necessarily entirely true, so I later came out as pansexual because I felt that that was more suited for me. I don’t really judge people for what they have or what their gender is, I like people for who they are. After that I came out as transgender, so it’s been a process of coming out as a lot of things. So I came out as transgender. On top of that, more than anything I think “All My Life” was based on what I’ve come out most recently as, and that’s trans-species, as a cat. I’ve felt this way all my life, and just never felt like society was ready for it, which drove a lot of my anti-systematic feelings in general. Just feeling both depressed about what I am and at the same time depressed about how people are treating me for being different. I feel like a lot of people don’t necessarily consider how the things that they say or how they treat people affects them because of their own bias, or whatever normality has instructed. More than anything Dubsplyce Media has become more of an advocate for more of the identities that are being mistreated by the system.

JM: What was it like coming out with these songs, which I think the vast majority of people would say are extremely bold in terms of what their lyrics are saying? What were the types of reactions you got?

Dubsplyce: I was surprised. Most of the reactions I have gotten online so far are positive. Because there’s a lot more people who feel this way than those who express that they feel this way. For a very long time I didn’t necessarily feel like anyone else felt like I did, so then coming up with all of this, I feel like getting things off my chest like this it’s like I’m basically putting it out there for people who don’t understand. The reason why I think I wrote these very emotional lyrics recently, like I said, is that if no one says anything nothing can change, nothing can improve for people who are different. I think we need to stop treating people who are different like they’re less than people who are quote-on-quote “normal”. The only way you can make a difference is to be bold and I’ve put myself in a position where I want to be an advocate for what I believe instead of sitting back and letting things happen as they would.

JM: That was great, just one more question. Anything more to say to the kids at home?

Dubsplyce: [Chuckle] …You know, I just hope that the people who are feeling similarly to me come to realize through this that they’re not alone.

JM: Yeah. Thank you baby.

Dubsplyce: Mhm, no problem.

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Manifesto QueerPunk is a digital literary magazine based out of Northern Arizona featuring all kinds of writing and art from across the spectrum of expression and identity, diverse voices that cry out with reckless abandon.

The rebellious spirit of punk culture is something we recognize as having a great amount of overlap with queer culture, as many of the world's institutions would ban gayness if they could and we aren't about that.

In many ways, the act of being LGBT+ in itself is a form of rebellion against the status quo. In other words, being queer is the most dangerous threat to Western society and its precious cornerstone values, and we love that!

So throw out the glorified stacks of paper that dictate what we can and cannot do to express our true identities and live our best lives!

Pick up your pen (or keyboard, etc.) and deconstruct the status quo!

Create a gay agenda!

Be gay, do crime!

-Storm Huryk and Jessica Minster

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