I have officially survived my first mailbag shift at THE NEW'S, and I am typing this with fingers that smell faintly of Tin Master coffee and existential dread. The editor-in-chief handed me a letterbox that had swollen like a tick on a summer dog, then vanished before I could ask why a black cat kept leaving paw prints on the submission guidelines. With enough caffeine to make a Bangboo vibrate, I finally went through every letter. This issue is a special edition: selected letters from readers, offering a fresh perspective on New Eridu. And yes, I read all of them. Some twice. One of them I read while hiding in the supply closet because it was too wholesome.

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Here is what I learned: you readers are not passive consumers. You are fascinated by what we have recommended so far, and many of you wrote in to share your thoughts. It is wonderful to see we share the same interests. As an editor, that is the dream. (●´∀｀●) So please, keep the letters coming. My inbox is a coral reef of human curiosity, and every new message is a polyp waving hello. I mean that as a compliment. Mostly.

The Mailbag That Ate My Desk

Sorting reader mail is like herding sentient confetti during a windstorm. You think you have a system, then a postcard about someone's favorite ramen stall flutters into the void, and you have to start over. But I love it. Every envelope is a tiny portal into someone else's New Eridu: a complaint about a Hollow raid, a love letter to a Bangboo, a crayon drawing of the editor-in-chief as a vending machine. The city is a chaos blender, and you are all throwing in ingredients I never would have picked. That is the magic.

As of 2026, New Eridu's mail system remains gloriously unhinged. We have Inter-Knot messages, black cats, mystery containers, and secret phrases. It is less a postal service and more a scavenger hunt designed by a committee of raccoons. And I am here for it.

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What Makes a Good Magazine? A Question I Am Not Allowed to Answer

Bring that question to the editor-in-chief, and I am sure he will say he has no idea. After all, it is the final question in the interview for a job at THE NEW'S. The editor-in-chief vowed to never reveal the correct answer, or it would undermine the recruitment process. But I am an intern, which means I have no job security and even less impulse control. So here is my direct quote: A good magazine interacts with its readers. Besides making enjoyable content for the readers, making them want to be part of the content is even better.

My column as a new intern of THE NEW'S, 'Ridu Close-Ups,' is coming soon. I look forward to receiving your submissions. Yes, yours. The one where you describe your neighbor's suspiciously talented cat. The one where you rank every noodle shop by how likely they are to serve you a side of existential clarity. Send it. I will read it with the gravity of a Hollow investigator and the snort-laugh of someone who has had too much Tin Master coffee.

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How to Send Me Your Glorious Nonsense

Submission methods (including but not limited to):

Method How to do it Danger level
Inter-Knot submission Send a private message to the official account of THE NEW'S. About 20% of readers use this method. Low, unless you accidentally message a Bangboo fan account instead.
Postal submission Hand your letter over to the black cat that visits the noodle shop every Tuesday. If there is more than one black cat, please pass it to the one standing on the left, front, or top of the shop. Risky. You need to choose the right cat, or your letter becomes a cat toy.
Drop-off Put your letter into containers labeled 'THE NEW'S.' The containers have different sizes, colors, and shapes, and you can usually find them next to phone booths, inside parking lots, and behind the news stand. Please refrain from submitting yourself or jumping into the containers. Medium. Some containers look suspiciously like they might have opinions.
In-person submission Submit your letter to any editor you run into and use the secret phrase: Ehn-na na~ Nhu en-na! Be mindful of the tone when stating the secret phrase and do not reveal your private information to those who do not recognize said secret phrase. High, because social interaction is the real Hollow.

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A few notes from the mailroom floor:

  • The black cat method has a 100% success rate if you pick the right cat. I have no data on the wrong cat. Nobody does. The wrong cat has no data.

  • The drop-off containers are not for interns. I asked. Repeatedly. The container did not answer.

  • If you see an editor, say the secret phrase with confidence. If they blink, you have found a civilian. Walk away with dignity.

  • Do not reveal private information to anyone who does not recognize the secret phrase. This is not a drill. This is New Eridu.

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Why This Still Matters in 2026

In 2026, New Eridu is louder, stranger, and more Hollow-adjacent than ever. But a letter still cuts through the noise like a paper airplane through a fog bank—inefficient, weirdly beautiful, and somehow it arrives. That is the whole point. A good magazine is not a monologue. It is a conversation with a city that never stops interrupting. You write. We read. We write back. Somewhere in that loop, a black cat gets fed, a container gets filled, and an intern gets one more reason to love this ridiculous job.

So keep the letters coming. Send sketches, complaints, fan theories, recipes for coffee that tastes like Tin Master's but does not cost a week's rent. My column is coming soon. I will be the intern with coffee stains and a black cat following her. If you see me, do not jump into a container. Just say the phrase.