RiverandCeliainUnderland

Hieroglyphs is a living digital archive of childhood memory. A collection of individual stories from around the world, gathered together not to prove how different we are, but to explore what connects us.

Maps do not have a beginning or an end. They start where you stand. And end where you fall.

In the beginning, there is warmth and rhythm. A darkness that cups like hands. Gentle. Forgiving as it moulds the edges of the body. Sound is muted. A vibration without meaning. A low, gentle hum. A comfort. It doesn’t matter that there are no words to press into, no language to define or praise or

And maybe that’s the part that stayed. Not the tree. Not even the fruit really.  It was never about the mangoes at all. Maybe it's a little bit about mangoes though.

“Good turnout though, dear. Good turnout.”

Guiseppe

Back from the Glitch...The Underland Review. Issue 3

Our Shared Vision: Emergent Expectations. A short piece on education, wellbeing, language, and the cruel cost of compliance.

A fictional procedural about care, routine, and the stories we tell children so everyone can keep pretending

Not everyone is breathing. So we tend what we can. mind may you wander #poetry #witness #hardwonpeace #gentlerdays

The Founding Fathers log back on to rewrite the Constitution—only to find a justice system powered by vibes, PowerPoint, and plea deals. Amendment VI gets a ghostly patch update, featuring civil asset forfeiture, trial-by-media, and one woman who is very tired of explaining things to men.

Untitled (Birds)

We are extending our deadline to February 5th! We've recieved many wonderful entries so far, add yours today!

🌀 CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS — THE UNDERLAND REVIEW 🌀 We are coming up for air after moving to Thailand. Of course that means a new Zine. We’re seeking twitchy poems, cursed microfics, feral essays, and rogue visuals. Max 1500 words. One piece per person. Deadline: December 24th 2025.

I keep mistaking stillness for mercy. It never is.

Political & sharp: We built our miracles on a bird’s last breath. #OdeToTheCanari #UnderlandDispatch

The Golden Apple