For Today I Am A Boy by Kim Fu stopped me dead in my tracks. 

The pure poetry in every line feels like something akin to Medeline Miller (The Song of Achilles) or Ocean Vuong (On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous), easy-breezy but powerful, simple and complicated. It is difficult to find a writer quite like Fu, with such command over a narrative, seamlessly moving between past, present, and future without a single falter. Each line felt like its own universe so carefully crafted, and the whole novel moved like a symphony harmonizing in unison. 

You wake up in hazy, hot darkness beneath your comforter. There is a sound coming from somewhere in your room. It is the sound of a foot, shifting positions. It is soft, but heavy, as if someone tall is trying not to make any noise. You go through your list. Your roommate. But he is gone until Tuesday, and it’s Sunday. And why would he come into your room unless it was an emergency. Your girlfriend, but you saw her last night at her place and then left. Sometimes she comes here to shower after the gym, which could be it. Very quietly, you turn your wrist towards your face. It glows green, illuminating the time: 3:32 a.m. So yeah. Your girlfriend would not be coming from the gym at this time.

The rain fell hard as the moon hung in the obsidian sky like a chandelier. Bramble Manor stood resolute over the dark village of Black Brier. The village, founded on partial truths and gossip, sat at the edge of the cloaked woods surrounding it like a crescent. The only way to leave was down an unkept dirt road through an opening in the black woods. 

It was just plain rotten luck, or perhaps some cruel twist of fate, that Melinoë, the goddess of nightmares, had plenty of nightmares of her own.

Nightmares of smooth scales and winding bodies pulled flush against her own. Serpents, snakes. They curled around her shoulders, tangled in her hair, corkscrewed around her wrists and ankles. They pulled taut, slithered, and writhed, covered her mouth, her eyes, her ears. And she woke up gasping. 

Dunya closed her eyes and banished the Old-Man-turned-god from her sight. Still, the gods remained before her. In the abyssal blackness behind her eyes, there burned a glowing light. Shadowed figures cavorted around it, symbols flitting overhead. Vishnu and Rávan circled each other in a violent dance of war, and Dunya lay in the pyre at their stamping feet. 

While Frédéric Gros is not native to the Puget Sound, and his book, A Philosophy of Walking, is not rooted in the Pacific Northwest, it has completely revolutionized how I navigate and experience the city of Seattle and the University District where I live. In a part of the world so close to nature with comfortable temperatures most of the year, and a large hiking, biking, and travel culture, A Philosophy of Walking feels like a necessary read.

The Old Man began to play. 

It was like no music she’d ever heard, tainted and raw and beautiful. 

When he finished the song, he stood, opened the window all the way, and held forth the instrument. “Do you want to try?” 

Five words which dictated the rest of Dunya’s life. 

We Are Not a powerful graphic novel. Written and illustrated by Josh Tuininga, We Are Not Strangers explores the relationship between Marco, a Jewish immigrant, and his friend, Sam Akiyama, a first generation Japanese American. Marco and Sam navigate the discrimination and displacement of their communities in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor and during World War II while trying to look out for their families and for each other.

What would the world be without poetry today? Poetry, a quintessential art form, always needs more attention, affection, and appreciation. The Pongo Poety Project, a nonprofit organization based in Seattle, is just one of many that continues to keep this art form alive while fostering new writers into its environment.

Three prisoners staggered out of the truck: two men and a woman. The men knew each other. Their hands grazed and their gazes met. The woman stood alone, clinging to the broken neck of a violin. They were all unchained, but fear and shock were as good a shackle as any. Until it was disrupted, at least. 

Ivy watched as the evening workers and night dwellers shuffled down the sidewalks, heads bowed against the omniscient glow of the streetlights that’d borne witness to their savage furies. 

Warning, the voice began again. 

Ivy lifted a cigarette to her lips, inhaled, let the smoke sit and coil through her lungs like a breath of life before she blew it through the crack of her propped window. Only the stub of the cigarette remained, its embers hot against her fingers. But it was good for a few more puffs at least, and god did she need it. 

It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over by Anne De Marcken is an ephemeral collection that feels more like a dream than a story. This novel is simply unforgettable, and it had me in its clutches from the moment I flipped open the first page.

Have you noticed that Vampires are making a comeback? With two new iconic vampire movies to swoon over, Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu remake (2024) and—a new personal favorite—Ryan Coogler’s Sinners (2025), there’s a growing trend towards blood sucking fiends in media (again!). And these aren’t the tame, glittery vampires from Twilight—these are the gritty, murderous creatures from our nightmares, and I love it! After watching Sinners during its box office run, I have been on a major vampire kick. So, naturally, I had to deliver a vampire novel for Parker’s Pages this month, and I found the perfect speculative fiction story for you all.

It is refreshing to have a press dedicated to queer stories. It is even better that these stories are so accessible. Many of Northwest Press' offerings are available digitally for download as well as in traditional paper and hardback. The price of each is much more affordable than the latest from the big publishers as well as in a beautiful package. There is something for everyone at Northwest Press, and as it says on much of their wonderful merch: Comics are for everyone. 

Firelight flickered on the walls, and the crackling grew into a roar. In the amber glow, a face watched her pass, little eyes staring out from an old photograph of her daughter. 

Ivy was twelve when Leonna last saw her. The girl was Leonna’s greatest pride. The one creation of hers whose heart seemed truly pure. She hoped Ivy had remained that way, indelible and defiant against the cruelties of the world, never letting them break her. 

I want to start by thanking everyone, whether you have read all of Max’s Musings or this is your first one. When presented with the opportunity to explore my love for poetry in a new way and share my thoughts and experiences, I lunged at the chance to do so. Poetry has always been an escape for me as it has taught me more about myself than I could ever fathom.

For my final Max’s Musings, I selected a poem from the powerhouse poet Maya Angelou. I couldn’t think of a more remarkable poet to ride out this long-awaited train.

When Leonna was six, wildfires turned the sky a wrathful shade of red. 

The sun seemed to be the glowing eye of a giant beast veiled within the smoky horizon. She feared it would consume the world. That morning, her mother had soothed her despondent cries and promised it would be all right, but Leonna never quite forgot the dreadful memory of that burning sky. 

Now, for the first time in forty years, the fury of those flames returned.

With summer only a couple of months away, I found Oliver’s poem “While I Am Writing a Poem to Celebrate Summer, the Meadowlark Begins to Sing” ideal for discussion this week. From her book Owls and Other Fantasies, published in 2003, Oliver’s collection takes a deep dive into the world of birds and their hidden messages for humankind. The poem is a prime reminder of Oliver’s remarkable skills as a wordsmith and eye for conjuring a secluded snapshot of a nature landscape.

The barkeep opened a side door and waved them in. There, in the gilded haze of flame-lit lamps, artists gathered. Poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers. Artists of all sorts came to the garden to talk, create, and workshop. It was a safe place for unfettered expression. One of the last of its kind.

If you’re anything like me, then you’re approaching Emerald Street knowing next to nothing about Hip Hop, but Abe has you covered. His approachable and straightforward explanations are easy to follow and even easier to enjoy. Starting us in Seattle’s Century District, we move through time and space, beginning at Seattle’s early Hip Hop days and arriving in the present where the community thrives.