Layers of Zoe

Latest — 20 Oct 2026

#41. Out of Reach

From the window I could see all of it and touch none of it. The big ship was dressed in lights, three colours on a rope: a country for as long as it burned. The small one lay beside her, her green line under the pier. I have a photograph.

More issues

– Tuesday

He is reading the days of the week off a blister pack, checking which foil is still whole. Tuesday, still whole. This is offered as concern – and it might be, though concern sounds like inventory. You do not correct the tally: you did, in fact, miss Tuesday. You only notice

#40. Tell.

He touches his cufflink before he says it, a half-turn, quick, gold catching then losing the light, then names his uncle, the minister, sideways, not quite to anyone, as if the fact had simply occurred to him somewhere between the fish and the question left on the plate. I

Real Boy, no Strings.

A Genius, by His Own Account

Provenance

The dealer has photographed it against a white wall and given it the caption: Norwegian, a maker, a year, a chair built for lying back, for going under. When bare rooms were the fashion I thought it hideous. Now it is the kind of thing people collect. I knew it

#39. Nemine Contradicente.

The clerk writes it before the hands go up. Nemine contradicente. By now it is a full member. It takes the good seat, by the window. It seconds itself. It is re-elected unopposed, as it must be, declares no interest, having none, and is, alone, quorate. My chair left

#37. Transit Passage.

In another life, the villains seemed legible. On 4 July 2019, a frigate detained an Iranian tanker off Gibraltar at the United States' request. The Iranians cited piracy. The British cited Syria. Both filed the correct paperwork. A fortnight later, Iran boarded a British vessel in the strait. Same

Jordan Peterson, Explained.

The problem is older than politics. The lobster confirms this. This is serotonin. Order exists. Chaos also exists. Both predate the conversation you wanted to have. Chaos is feminine. This is Jungian. Jung said it was ancient. The ancients could not be reached for comment. He recommends cleaning your room.

#36. Ratio Sufficiens.

The floor is eighteen. The trapdoor, older – there since 1940, survived the carnations, asks only for sufficient reason. A colleague of the man who hung it has requested three of him, in bronze, at street level. He observes it, on Sundays. Speaks, with much feeling, about the Roma and their

#35. Access Not Granted.

The television drips. Saturday leaks down the wall. My mouth speaks facts about forged papers. The papers grow legs and wander into WhatsApp. Someone lifts a phone like a seashell. Inside it: my name, warped, echoing. A man assembles relevance from spare parts: a cousin, a discipline, a place I

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