Autumn 2026 | Vol. 1 Art, poetry, and fiction by a bored suburbanite
Letter from Snekcoatl Poetry Art Short Fiction Wordsearch
Dear frens, Welcome to the very first issue of Snekzine! If you are already familiar with the Snekcoatl blog, which you can find at freyathefrypan.blogspot.com, you know how much I care about authenticity in online presence. My blog’s design embodies an appreciation for the early 2000s internet, when people would have niche forums about their weird interests and blogs that showed off their personality. There is still some of this around today, but most of it has been lost to the smooth, polished aesthetic of social media. That’s why I created Snekcoatl to talk about snakes, ancient civilizations, and books without an academic tone. The accompanying zine is for art, poetry, and short stories that never made it into fancy literary journals. My goal is that this will encourage amateur artists and writers to post more about their journey rather than just finished, marketable products. Enjoy!
If I had a pumpkin for a head, There would be no need for verse, art, wit or charm, Indeed, there would be no need for me to say anything at all People would simply flock to me to wonder about the story of how I got a pumpkin for a head. To earn their love, to win their hearts, I would have no need for style, If not forever, my jack-o-lantern smile will make them stay, At least for a little while. I once knew a fellow who drew a portrait of a woman, My friends would pause mid-conversation when they were with me, I thought they would stumble and fall, just to admire his lovely lady on the wall.
One who is made of flesh and blood, for that drawing with which he seemed to have won the love of all. I’ll always be his rival but never his equal, Until I have a pumpkin for a head. I remember when he recited poetry, How many lines did he commit to memory? Nevermind, who cares? His audience would find more mystery in one who has a pumpkin for a head. They’d invite me to have a seat at the table, Where they would all gather around me, Someone would certainly fetch water, But not for that damned artist, Nor a traveling musician of some kind, But for me, Though I would not be able to drink. Yet what is the harm, really, In having a pumpkin for a head?
I adored her abundant harvests, and lost myself in her festivities, when I drank to celebrate my good fortune, I fell in love with her long, red hair, she extended her cold, skeletal fingers towards me, and marked me as her own, She was the maiden who commanded the earth's bounty, but who also sent the plagues, Now I am becoming weaker, in the Season of Death, I hear the cawing of a crow, when she walks away from me, taking a winding path between the trees, soon there is no trace of her left behind, but a trail of withered leaves
He pierces his tongue with cactus spines and lets his blood nourish the earth, and he says that the universe is a constant struggle between life and death, for one can not exist without the other, a Flowery War that can never have a winner, He gazes at the stars in wonder, and there is comfort in knowing that the cycle of history is never-ending, and at the end of each age the sun is destroyed, with no progress ever emerging, He paints glyphs for many thingsthe jaguar, the eagle, the quetzal, the warrior, All are equally divine and none are inferior, for sacred energy flows through them all, and everything in creation is alive
The books of my childhood home lie neglected, No one has brushed away the cobwebs from the shelf, The summer humidity has dampened the covers, When I begin to turn the moth-eaten pages, the dust makes me cough. No one weaker than me could forget when these old volumes were still alive. They were once passed onto the lap of a friend who had hands that looked like they were meant for strumming lyres. You flipped the pages in the most delicate manner, Followed along with difficult lines with your finger trailing under them, Until you emerged glowing, with your thirst for meaning quenched. These books once accompanied long evening conversations, and all the times I studied by your side. I see that my annotations have not faded, The things I quoted to you debated with you remain underlined. And now a thin strip of yellow paper that you once passed to me as a bookmark flutters out and lands on the floor.
I do not know whether I am mourning, the fate of so many civilizations, languages and ways of seeing the world, lost because of the greed of a handful of men who wanted gold, five hundred years ago, as you know best, Or whether I mourn that you are gone, I can not even ask you how a line drawn on a map can cause so much destruction you left me to ponder the horror alone, leaving me at the edge of a world I’ll never understand, while the sights I wanted to see within my lifetime The knowledge I craved, was all within you
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