magazine - Predator Apparel

The Daddy Long Legs — Issue 01

Welcome to The Daddy Long Legs — a new literary magazine, a piece of art you can hold, and a quiet rebellion against a world moving too fast.

This project lives on the edges of fashion and literature, brought to life in early collaboration with Predator Apparel, a creative label that believes in the power of storytelling—whether on a page or on a piece of clothing.

Right now, The Daddy Long Legs exists as a seed: an idea, a voice, a future printed artifact. And this blog is where it begins.

The Vision

This is a space for the tender, the strange, the bold. For writing that breathes. For poetry that lingers. For visual work that doesn’t ask for permission.

We’re inspired by projects like The Moth, by zines of the past, and by the raw beauty of unfiltered expression. The Daddy Long Legs will hold space for stories that deserve to be felt — in both digital and physical form.

Whether it’s ink on paper or pixels on a screen, we want to share work that leaves a mark — the way a daddy long legs leaves a shadow on your ceiling: fragile, curious, unforgettable.

Why It’s Hosted Here

This magazine doesn’t yet have a home of its own, so for now, we’re growing it from the corner of the Predator Apparel site — a creative ally and supporter of the project.

The Daddy Long Legs will live, grow, and eventually stand on its own. But this collaboration is about mutual care and creative crossover — literature meets clothing, print meets thread, soul meets skin.

Soon, we'll publish our first pieces. Eventually, there will be a printed edition — something beautiful, honest, and made to last. In the meantime, this blog is our workshop, our window, our beginning.

Thank you for being here.
— Lorraine Dee

Submissions Are Now Open

We’re now accepting creative work for our first digital feature and future print edition. Everyone is welcome — whether you’ve been published a dozen times or never before.

Short stories (under 2,000 words)
Poetry (any form)
Personal essays
Photography & illustration
Creative nonfiction

Submit work to: thedaddylonglegsmag@gmail.com

(Please include your name, title of the work, and a short bio.)

— Featured Contributor —

Introducing Poet & Filmmaker

Sam Hendrian

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and poet striving to foster empathy through art. Every Sunday, he writes personalized poems for passersby outside of Chevalier’s Books, LA’s oldest independent bookstore.

Instagram: @samhendrian143 →

Unwitting Wizardry

Somehow your gentle brow Remains stuck in my head Practically every hour Of the days between our adventures. Can’t walk through a grocery store Without lamenting that you’re not there To agonize over each product And whether it’s worth your dime. Flowers and flashes of sprinkler water Evoke your spontaneity Alongside a box of animal crackers Saved for special occasions. Maybe it’s my turn to play hide-and-seek Just to test your searching skills Since I’m usually too impatient When it comes to chronic disappearances. But I should know by now You’ll always return eventually Ready to sanctify more mundane places With your unwitting wizardry.

Worthy to Be Found

Harassed her hungover head ‘Til it sanctioned a trip to the beach Where spontaneous baptisms were said to occur For those addicted to rebirth. Cold sands evoked the limp loneliness Of a tipsy writer on a Tuesday night Sending fire emojis and sloppy compliments To whoever might be in a flirtatious mood. Such solidarity in solitude Briefly disarmed her self-destructive shields Which guarded insult from injury, Discovery from recovery. Dipped her left foot in the water But couldn’t withstand the pressure Caused by courting the possibility She was worthy to be found. Returning to the fetal glass shards And taking out her rectangular rescuer, The chance to advance became the same old dance Between maybe someday and maybe nevermind. Then an elusively intrusive thought Conjured some sticker she’d seen on a lamp post Proclaiming she was loved as if it were a fact Yet why shouldn’t it be?

I Ride the Bus

Frantic first-world fears Foam up at the spa-adjacent coffee shop Crafting an overcropped canvas On which bedroom woes are the primary focus. But I ride the bus And know there are far more brands of protection Than Trojan or Durex, Lying or ghosting. A cracked iPhone 5 beaming Candy Crush Between McDonald’s and Section 8 housing While a blur of preferred parking lots Revives postpartum pipe dreams. Pocket rosaries and prayer books Clasped with placeholder faith By mathematical mothers Mentally tallying cans of SpaghettiOs. Rumors of tumors removed from consciousness Until the next paycheck arrives Since it’s pointless to stress Over what you can’t afford to address. Espresso existentialism erupts evermore From vacant volcanoes Oblivious to the invisible lava Scorching the tap water drinkers next-door.

Introducing Scriptwriter, Artist & Performance Poet

Graham Rhodes

Graham Rhodes is a scriptwriter, artist, photographer, and performance poet who has performed his poetry throughout the UK since 1968. He lives in Scarborough where he runs a successful monthly spoken word open mic and performs poetry with his band URM.

YouTube Performance Channel → | SoundCloud Audio →

This one’s for Jackie Overfield

The sunsets in the background Behind the Lowfield stand Factory chimneys on horizons When the fans all left by tram The fifties when all our teams Played in black and white Homemade scarves and wooden rattles In smoggy, gas-light nights The ghosts of players lost in time echo round the final whistle. Their game is done, their boots are hung there’s no one left to listen to the names, the fans all chanted the names from old team sheets Don Revie, Jimmy Ashall, Grenville Hair and Georgie Meek, Noel Payton, Billy Humphries, Jackie Overfield and Chris Crowe. Archie Gibson, Jackie Charlton, and Ted Burgin in the goal. Their names are carved on gravestones Somewhere in this land But their fame lives on forever in hearts of old Leeds fans whose lives too, soon will end, when there’ll be no one left to say they were standing in the Scratching Shed and saw Jackie Overfield play

The Man on the High Wire

The man on the high wire stumbles. Below we all gasp as he falls and wonder if it’s a part of his act.

Chanson

As the candle burns the night away and, on the table, the wax forms hot pools amongst the spilt wine, the ghost of Jacques Brel haunts the empty bottles and my thoughts drift back to Amsterdam.

Vermilion Roses

The sun is golden today. It shines on the mourning roses. Opening the buds Into full petal mode, turning delicate pinks into full vermilion, reminding me of someone I once knew and wondering if she thought of me in her final days.

— Visual Arts & Micro-Poetry —

Introducing

Lorrie Crozier & Danielle Crozier

Haiku

Words clipped neat, precise as sculpted bonsai in the ancient artists hands.

— Poem by Lorrie Crozier

Pencil Portrait Artwork by Danielle Crozier

— Featured Artists —

Visual Artist

Danielle Crozier

Featured illustrator and pencil portrait artist for Issue 01.

Visual Artist

Tom Blackford

Featured visual artist.