Tag: fiction

aSoSS 43 | Annoyance

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She used the word assure when she meant ensure. which is not a typo, it’s a language problem, which is a big deal! People type fast, whatever, it’s okay, but somebody wants to be a writer and they don’t understand the difference between assure and ensure?

Traverwood Library, 5:30PM, 1/14/2025

there are windows of opportunity and there are doors of regret, sometimes both, but never neither. you have blown into my life like a wayward leaf. where did you come from? darling, i was born in a hurricane. the windows are boarded but the door still swings off its hinges. you shake your head–whether in denial, or disbelief, or innocence, as if it would make a difference. Isabel Allende was right: two words is all it takes to change a person’s life. everyone could see the eyes of the puma soften as she steps towards him and takes his hand~

Back when I was in Livonia… the school district said kids can bring their phones to school and I remember being like “we’ve lost the war!”

Jerusalem Garden, 12:30PM, 2/1/2025

who gets to control the narrative? the caution tape flutters, a moth snared in a spiderweb. i am an ambulance chaser in every sense of the word. you tell me it is immoral, and i remind you that morality is a price to pay for your wellbeing. are we only in love because we love emergencies? sometimes we make bad decisions and they blossom into the undeserved fruits of our labor. other times they burrow into the belly, out of sight and out of mind. you are delicate in this life, just as i am delicate without you–mother nature plays such cruel tricks on her children! my stomach rumbles in agreement: there are no dormant volcanoes, only overdue ones.

…I didn’t even get my freaking cheese grits this morning!

Duderstadt Connector, 5:00PM, 2/4/2025

annoyance is worse than tragedy because it fools you into believing that your emotions are unjustified. we allow grief to permeate the barrier, unregulated, like a broken floodgate. this luxury does not extend to inconvenience without the eye of guilt, an ever-present watchman. the caterpillar and the butterfly, two sides of the same coin–what is a tragedy but an annoyance left unchecked? it is human nature to rot from the inside. even the phoenix dies from an ironclad heart: thinking of you turned me into ashes.

Crooked Fool: How an artist survives the end of the world

Cydney Marie Leave a comment

In the morning before first light, they kneaded the covers with their legs, freeing themselves to roll onto the floor with gentle sureness. Eyes still closed, they rolled their body around on the cool wood, bending into joints, slip-sliding around, rolling over themselves, dancing horizontally until they felt stretched, released, ready to adapt and mold to whatever came their way. Then they finally blinked their eyes open, the rolling and stretching having worn the sleep away. They rose to their feet and walked downstairs. In the kitchen, they put on a pot of coffee and their favorite music. They hummed and half-danced until they could pour the black liquid into a mug, adding plenty of milk and some hot chocolate mix, because they damn well weren’t going to miss out on the sweetness. Cup in hand, still taking piping hot sips, they clumsily wrapped themselves in a thick blanket and stumbled down the stairs to the basement. By now, they could hear footsteps above them as the rest of the household started to stir. They knelt on concrete in front of a makeshift altar and just stared, breath suspended, cup clenched in hand. Then breath drew in ragged and ribs expanded again. Life filled body. Grief sighed out. Eyes glided and stopped on a photograph, then another, and another. Somehow each person on that altar was everywhere while simultaneously being wholly gone. A bow of the head. A lump in the throat. A zing of caffeine in the fingertips. And the day begins. They dress in their favorites because they can. In a bit their chosen family will pile into their living room to share food. And while they claim joy in sustenance, they will plan their survival, their safety, their freedom. And then they will take to the streets, maybe quietly, maybe screaming to be heard. Both can be dangerous. And after a day of reclaiming their place, and even if they lose another, even if they are bruised and bloodied, they will gather in yet another house to dance, talk, cry, and tell stories until their bodies tire out. More food will be shared. Maybe they’ll go home to their sanctuary. Maybe they’ll slide down and curl up where they are, in community, insisting on survival again.

LOG_041_EXPLORATION

Traveler Leave a comment

These small, gull-winged craft, once designated as strike bombers, found new life as exploration and research vehicles in the wilderness of 234.4a.c. Their extensible payload capacities–owing to the large available volume under their wings–were ideal for long expeditions where pilots often had to be largely self-sufficient in remote regions. This particular craft sports the matte green and yellow livery and insignia of the Concord Corps of Exploration.

aSoSS 42 | Expletive

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That’s like people who put their socks over their pants. Ugh.

That’s horrendous!

Intramural Building, 3:30PM, 1/13/2025

the voice you are reading this with is not mine or yours, but a narrator present to your thoughts. first-person omniscience? an enzyme, breaking and rebuilding, a tornado of yarn tangling the threads separating memory from fiction. they are both the same, in a way; there is no way to prove the past, just as there is no way to prove your presence. your finger slips against the needle and you curse softly, a soap bubble of a word, floating out of your mouth and into the air.

Apparently her nickname at church was church slut. Yeah. I guess we’re just leaving it out there.

Palmer Commons, 5:00PM, 12/2/2024

ecstasy is paired with dread like a fine wine to a steak: one enhances the flavor of the other. you are frying shallots and mincing the skins, turning them into an autumn leafpile on the cutting board. i don’t ask what you plan to do with it–with what? the skins, the oil, the knife? a square of butter falls into the pan and begins to bubble in protest, a witch burned at the stake for predicting the future. a final chemical farewell–just like the scent of grass, a scream without sound–as you turn around and pour the scraps down the sink. my stomach drops with the oil, with a hiss. paired with dread, indeed.

What the [-] is wrong with you? You’re showing all of Ann Arbor my ass! Pull my draws up!

Blake Transit Center, 4:30PM, 1/27/2025

another theory: for each idea we nurture, ten more sink their roots in the soft flesh of the brain. antheia’s snakes, long and green and suffocating everything in sight. that’s not right. you’re confusing jack and the beanstalk with king midas. and wasn’t it medusa with the snakes? i wave you off. the vines tighten further. delirium is a delicious taste because it convinces you that nothing is impossible. everything, and everything still–don’t you see? the beginning is the end of the beginning. the stardust twinkles in your eyes, just to prove a point.