Tag: fiction

I’d be stressed about my grade but it’s too much energy to be stressed so I just accept it.

Union Basement, 1:30PM, 12/8/2023

worry is a tranquilizer. it paralyzes you under your covers, on your phone, in your dreams. it seeps into your bones and dulls your tongue. what’s the point? the two hours are going to pass whether you like it or not. the storm does not wait for you to board up your windows. hunker down and persist, or perish. or maybe you won’t. the hurricane will tickle the roof above your head, a gentle brush with the back of a scarred palm. let this be a warning. you will be ready next time, you think — if there is a next time…

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It was just the two of us and a bunch of books. In the Hatcher basement! I was like “where are we going? Are you going to murder me?”

Mosher-Jordan Dining Hall, 12:00PM, 11/28/2023

what if we were to soak up information like a sponge? the logarithms of knowledge are beyond comprehension. even with all of hatcher tucked away, what else lies beyond? the madness of multiplicity: in seeking understanding in one subject, you invariably uncover another… these are the consequences of grasping at infinities we will never see. an expanding edge of space. the horizon, and nothing beyond. who could live with this? a murder would be the easy way out. history defeats itself.

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I spent a lot of time crying over question 1, so if anything goes wrong… that’s probably where it started.

Panda Express, 1:00PM, 12/8/2023

the symbiotic relationship between the student and the exam should be carefully examined. there is a certain kind of irony in learning everything but the information: the highlighted color (blue), the study location (panera, but only on mondays), the back of your shoe rubbing against a bouncing heel — if anything, is this not a more finely attuned case of studying? perhaps if you committed to watching espn while transcribing notes you would remember the transcriptions and not the fantasy numbers, or the missed flags, or the post-game interviews. yet this fails as well. a strange phenomenon!

if all else fails — in case of emergency — wipe your tears on question 1 and turn to question 2.

This is precipitation but up here you know it will be snow. It consistently does that, do you see the colors?

North Quad Dining Hall, 11:00AM, 11/19/2023

the spirals swirl across the screen. they are always moving, mutating, out of formation like a line of ants trekking down from the 44th degree parallel. what do they call it now? a new version? an update? nothing is as pervasive as the thought of change, even when the seasons changes every year. on the last sunny day people line the streets of the diag and smile wistfully. what a day! a day filled with weak sunshine, a goddess recovering from a cold — or perhaps about to succumb to one.

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I see all the pictures of people posting the snow. They are just the out-of-state kids.

Pierpont Commons Basement, 3:00PM, 11/27/2023

in a different world, the sun shines every day of the year. further north it lies behind a wall of rain. the snow is soft, gentle — for now. the snakes lay their eggs; come back in january and fight off their young. when the earth crumbles the children will sleep soundly in their beds. when the sky falls the children will stick their tongues out and press angels into the rubble.

the day after the big game the clouds begin to spit. perhaps the heavens put money on the buckeyes?

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It doesn’t matter, I’m always cold! Remember the first time we went fratting? I was freezing!

That was the first week of August!

Yeah, I know. I wore that sweatshirt because it was so cold!

Sigma Chi, 9:00PM, 11/29/2023

the night is a blanket in only the metaphorical sense. the early night is warmer than the early morning, as if the earth were a giant bowl that was heated in a cosmic microwave. clouds and oceans and fractured ozone fractals decorate the outer edges, cooling and warming at whim. the contents are scalding, in more ways than one. you look up the videos of the smooth, perfectly spherical aluminum foil balls. my skin pricks up in danger. one inch ahead, one press of a button, and the world turns black. but for whom?

Father and boy play catch with a football. The sister does a handstand and splits her legs to form a V. Father throws down the field, through the V, into the arms of the boy. Touchdown, Michigan! The mother and the aunt stand off to the side, cheering. Then they return back to conversation. A dog rolls around on the grass at their feet.

Palmer Field, 3:00PM, 11/23/2023

what can a camera do that a dictionary can’t? it paints by neuron, by light and shadow. pictures worth a thousand words elicit no response. speechlessness is an iron fist. an emotion takes over, hot and fervent and bubbling, and it trembles in my fingertips and slides down the back of my spine. this is what it means to live in this pinprick of reality: between pages of characters that build worlds behind the back of your eyes. between photobooks of tyranny, of sunshine, of delicious meals and happy families, of you, and only you.

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How good dinner was yesterday! Nobody was on their screens, everybody was having fun playing…

Booksweet, 8:00PM, 11/22/2023

we are bonded beyond eternity to the screens that ru(i)n our lives. i wonder if they will have a place to sit in the future. let the phones eat, crows the mother. the child stacks a row of electronics around a tea party table. they feast on our information and suck the binary marrow out of our bones. airplane mode is on, but there are no more airplanes — they were hunted to extinction years ago. the smoking fuselage, wild with spice and oil and crispy metal skin, sits in the middle of the dinner table. father raises the knife. the world turns black.

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This is going to be our last game! We’re graduating! Come here.

Michigan Stadium, 1:00PM, 11/25/2023

the campus hibernates for a week. the bus stations lie empty, perhaps in anticipation or fear. nobody wants to poke the sleeping dragon, wake the transient wolverine. a stadium roused to madness, doused with a frigid, fracturing, fractal wind. it crawls up your skin and burrows with infinitely thin claws. is every culture a mosaic, or is every mosaic a component of culture? will you find the pigskin stained on church windows or raised on the top of flagpoles? of course, the answer is yes.

Hey, what do you think of this raincoat?

It looks really good! Does it keep the water out?

Yeah, I made it out of a plastic bag. Clever, right? Saves the environment too.

Biological Sciences Building, 11:00PM, 11/9/2023

sometimes we forget that people can be wistful. or creative. or proud. the conscience is plagued with disaster and sprinkled with the remnants of a dream. taking matters into our own hands. are our hands stained with oil, like a chef during rush hour? blood, like an actor during rehearsal? charcoal, like a miner or an artist or a disgruntled christmas elf? what are we to ourselves? what am i to you? i bellow into the wind and it bellows back a hail of frigid sleet. i wrap the plastic bag tighter around my shoulders and turn away.

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It could be worse…

I open tomorrow.

See, it is worse!

Spencer’s, 6:00PM, 11/18/2023

walt whitman writes in leaves of grass that we should “do anything, but let it produce joy.” in the back of my mind the words bounce around my head and cloud my vision. time passes but it passes slowly, obliquely, like taking a picture of a spherical reflection and watching the sides of your mouth uncurl a frown (you press your cheek into mine against the chicago bean; i tremble).

the same hands that lock the iron grating will pry the jaws open the very next day. love is the addition — the summation — of everyday beauties; should we approach the negatives — the subtractions — with equal care? equal appreciation? there can be nothing good without something bad. what use is a sunny smile without the absence of a cloudy sorrow?

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It doesn’t matter if you’re late or in a hurry. You never cross in front of a bus. Our brakes could fail or a car could pass and we still need you here tomorrow.

Fuller Road at Mitchell Field, 3:00PM, 11/20/2023

valiant optimism will always get you far, but not far enough. we are reduced to nothing more than ants, to figures, to statistics thrown on a powerpoint at the next faculty safety meeting. it’s the way we can quantify ourselves. and what good would that be? you wave to a driver at the cctc and the man next to you brushes past, oblivious. he is the chicken crossing the road, the one that got away. the road watches and crackles under our feet. perfection lost is persistence gained; vows, like eggs, are easily broken.