Joey To

Joey To was born in Hong Kong but nicked off to Australia (Os-tray-ar) way before the commies took over. Anyway, as soon as he was old enough to pick up drawing utensils, he got to work. Joey then realized that the world was unhelpful to those who aspired to an artistic vocation.

Disillusioned and convinced he was born 500 years too late, Joey To resigned with spiteful bitterness to conquer another area of study but practiced various forms of visual arts in his own time. So no, he’s not a professional illustrator. And he also tries to write a little.

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Stories illustrated by Joey To

The EMTs

Written by Roy Dorman

“It’s out there again,” Steven Alderson said to himself. Steven was looking out his picture window at the ambulance that was once again parked down the block from his house. “It’s like they’re waiting for something to happen to me so they can come to the rescue.” It was 7:00 on Wednesday morning. Steven had first noticed the […]

The Crow King of The Junkyard

Written by Elizabeth Reed

We lived in the junkyard after the world ended. The town had emptied, save a few of us who escaped the final judgment. There had been talk among everyone about the Crow King who ruled this junkyard and kept everyone scared straight. I don’t know how someone who was never seen could inspire such fear, […]


Written by B. Butler

A few feet from the doctor’s office, I checked my iPhone. No messages. No excuse or reason to abort the appointment. My heart was racing. Calm, get calm. I looked across the street at the low granite wall that borders Central Park. Leaves fluttered gently in the summer breeze. Under the shade of a huge […]

Dragon’s Breath

Written by Abi Hynes

Something isn’t right with Jamie’s mummy. He can tell before he sees her; he knows it by the smoke creeping out beneath her bedroom door. She’s left him in the bath too long, and the water’s gone all cold and grey. He’s wrapped his slippery, three-year-old body in the bath mat, which is heavy and rough, […]


Written by Alanna Shaffer

C-1192 chose to do the things he did, he gets no sympathy from us, they say. C-1192 played baseball, I tell them, and neighborhood kids would wait and watch the roughly bound leather balls soaring over the prison gates, catch them and take them inside and hide them in shoe boxes under the bed. They say- […]