Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
Kooky King Kong kapellmeister
just jabbering gibberish (A - K)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,
geographically generically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester
just jimmying jabberwocky
justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish
jubilantly jousting jittering
jazzy jawbreaking jumble
justifying, jostling, Jesus;
junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll
joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;
jammed jello junket jiggled
jeopardized jingled jugs.
Kooky knucklehead klutz
knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed
knobby kneed kleptomanic.
The Mind is a Strange Place
I looked around trying to figure out where I was. The place was familiar but yet strange.
I was standing in a circle like structure, if you could even call it a structure. There where walls that seemed to just go up continually. The floor was made of grass and looked more like a field then a floor, wildflowers spread throughout the uneven blends.
I looked around some more to find a small low to floor table. It was clearly set up for tea, with a blue teapot and mismatched teacups. I looked around some more and found a piano. The black and white keys calling my name. I ran my fingers along the keys. The distant memory of taking a lesson played in my mind. Next to the piano stood a violin and bow. I picked it up and gently started playing. The sweet melody echoed against the walls. I carefully set it back down.
I looked some more only to find a desk with a pen and paper. I picked up the paper and read what was written on it. "The vines of a crying child. Chapter 1, That night." I shoved the paper in my pocket, saving it for later.
I looked around at the seemling empty space. That's when I noticed the hallways. Long hallways leading to nothingness. I started walking down one. Doors covered either side, each one a different color and decoration. I stopped at one that was light pink. It had little hearts all over it and string lights hanging above it. I opened the door only to find the precious memory of falling in love for the first time behind it. That's when I realized the doors held my memories. Each one the color of the emotion and the decorations the importance.
I decided to go back to the circle area and try a new hallway. I felt myself being drawn into one the seemed dark and evil. I walked down it, the bright and colorful doors slowly fading into darker ones. Till there was no longer light or color, everything was pitch black. I kept walking even though it was dark. Finally I saw a light, I followed it as it got brighter. When I reached what seemed to be the end I found myself back at the circle, back where I started.
Repetitio est mater studiorum
Repetitio est mater studiorum
October 23, 2024
The women in my family range from intelligent to genius. The men, mainly my father, occupy the other end of the spectrum. My grandmother taught electrical engineering. My mother, with dual masters in computer science and mathematics, worked as a contractor for a variety of governmental projects. I have my doctorate in physics and am an inventor of sorts.
My father drinks beer and spits vitriol every chance he gets.
Why the minds of the former met the hatred of the latter has always been a mystery to me. I never had the opportunity to speak to my mother. She died giving birth to me. I have her journals and her notes, but nothing not related to her work. My father has never once told me a story of her or how they met. I do not know the details of their relationship. Was she blind? Did he change for the worse? My grandmother wants to divulge details, but something holds her back. She spends our time together preparing me for some grandiose adventure in science that will soon arrive. She knows something.
My father knows nothing.
He does what he needs to do to get by. I do not believe he graduated high school. I know he must have repeated a few grades trying. This made him too old and too large to be with children. He was, and still is, a bully. He is physically intimidating. He is strong enough to impose his will. He is weak enough to recognize his faults and correct them.
My father is corrosive and wishes to remain that way.
And yet, I live with him. My grandmother lives with him. He never married my mother and she still lived with him. The question that remains is “Why?”
There is no answer.
So I searched for one. I became engrossed with my mother’s journals. She wrote of the abstract and then explained with the concrete. She meandered in a myriad of volumes all culminating in one central, never discretely mentioned, thesis.
She wrote of time travel.
Once I garnered this singular fact, my grandmother unleashed a torrent of information upon my person. She spoke of my mother as never before. She took me to the safe deposit box at a bank I never knew existed. She gave me access to my mother through what she invented, what she postulated, and what she theorized.
In essence, my grandmother gave me nearly 40 years of my mother’s life.
And then, without warning, my grandmother took too many sleeping pills the next night.
She never woke up. She never wanted to wake up. The smile on her face told me she finally fulfilled a promise, unloading a burden, giving that final performance (her swan song) that would define her existence in this world.
I gave her a eulogy wanting to say these very words.
But, no one attended; my father least of all.
He spent both the day and the night on the couch in the basement drinking beer and watching TV.
When I found him, I left him.
My new life begins nearly two thousand miles distant. I work for myself. I have my own lab. I am off the radar. I am my own woman and I am on a mission.
I am going to build my mother’s time machine.
I am going to find the answers that consume my life.
And then, I am going to make corrections.
My mother deserves better. My grandmother deserves better. I deserve better. The women of my family should take their place among the giants of science that occupy the hallowed ground of honor they so rightfully earned. There is enough room for three more.
All I need is time and (now) I have nothing but.
Two years later, I am now 38, but still look 18. I have great genetics.
I also have a time machine.
How it works, how it is powered is of no matter. I will keep this black box of information secret for now. I will explore its limitations and subsequent applications later.
Today (under the circumstances, a newly obsolete word), I am going to visit my mother when she was 18, in high school. Her journals begin here. I have many questions for her.
I also have one warning.
Since time is neither continuous nor discrete, it is always misunderstood. Time is best thought of as amorphous. All times are at all time everywhere. Time is not synchronized with space. Time is space and space is time. You exist with you always and forever. Once I understood this, it became easy to invent a machine that could not place the time and space I wanted in my grasp, but rather, filter out all of the infinite times and spaces I did not want. What remained (quoting Sherlock Holmes), no matter how implausible, must be the truth.
I located my mother, my father, and my grandmother in 1980. I do not manifest as truth here, so visiting will not initiate one of the many time paradoxes of science fiction writing. I cannot kill myself. I can create a new timeline in which my reality does not manifest itself as I know it.
Worst case, I may never be born. Penultimate worst case, I may never create the machine that permits me to return. Under the circumstances of my existence, I will risk the former as the price I must pay for the life I have chosen. As per the latter, It may not be so bad to know the outcome of events certain to occur for the next four decades.
I like my odds.
So,
I walk into Benjamin Harrison High School. The secretary asks if I am a transfer student. I lie, tell her yes, just until graduation, and explain that my paperwork will arrive shortly. I am sure my grandmother will be able to forge appropriate documentation.
This was good enough for the secretary.
She gives me a general studies schedule and I walk to my first class, English. There in the second row is my mother. In the third row, right behind her, is my father. She looks like every picture I have ever seen. She is attentive, beautiful, and smart. He does not look like the fiend I remember. He is charming and kind of cute. I see the attraction. Unfortunately, others see me see their attraction. He takes it as an invitation. She is repulsed by my existence.
I sit on the other side of class.
I have biology and history with my mother. I have algebra and PE with my father. In history, my mother tries to pass me a note. The teacher intercepts it and reads it aloud. It has two words, “GO AWAY”. The class senses tension. The look in her eyes is the look of a woman on the defensive. I might just have made an enemy today.
By the time PE begins, word has spread. My father is on the prowl. He wants to meet me. He wants to greet me. Cornered in an empty girl’s locker room, he wants even more of me.
By the top of the hour, he has raped me.
His weight and his strength he uses to pin me down and have his way. He uses my sock to stuff in my mouth to muffle my screams. He is smart enough not to tear my clothing (thus catching me while I change into my gym clothes) or leave any violent bruising. When finally caught, he claims it was all consensual and I lured him in.
I am numb to the entire experience. I am also, most likely, pregnant. It is only a matter of time to know for sure. In this time, I have options, but they are limited.
Later, at the police station, the police want me to press charges. They explain my father has a history of sordid behavior and with my testimony, thay can convict him and send him to jail for twenty years. The prosecutor informs me where he will go is a place so hostile, he will never live long enough to return.
All I have to do is sign the complaint.
My grandmother is waiting outside, posing as a relative who is responsible for me. My mother must have informed her of the crime. Where my mother is, I do not know. I should, but this is not the time to ask.
I ask the prosecutor if I can think this over. He tells me this is my only chance to do the right thing. If I consign my father to jail and death, I will not be born, my mother may never be the person she should be, and I will have a baby and the associated stigma. I am steeled for these consequences. However, I will never get to know my mother.
I sound selfish, almost hysterical. I came to know my mother, above all else.
I do not sign the paperwork.
I am out of school before I spend a second day there. My grandmother takes me in to live in a rental house on the edge of town. I know this house. This is where I grew up. This is my stomping grounds. This is where I began my questioning.
But, it (somehow) is different. The paint is brighter than I remember. The furniture is different. Perhaps it is just my perspective. I am an adult, a pregnant adult, looking through my memories with the eyes of a child.
It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does.
That night, my grandmother came to see me. For a raped woman, I am surprisingly in good spirits. This is odd. I am not of this time, thus, I am odd. Everything is too odd.
My grandmother asks for my arm. She wants a blood sample to send to the lab. She wants proof prior to giving me answers. In for a penny, in for a pound. This will take a week. Until then, I am not to leave, nor have anyone in. She asked my mother to stay away. She asked the police for a restraining order against my father. This is crazy. Nothing is going according to plan.
However, I expected as much.
I must have changed the timeline. Is this new one parallel to my old one or is it diverging? With every second, it will become more difficult to make the return trip.
I want to speak with my mother.
Ten days later, both my grandmother and mother arrived at the house. The tension was obvious, I offered them both coffee. Neither partook. My grandmother began the conversation.
“Greetings, Lillian. I wish to formally welcome you to our little time traveling family. I am Rose, your grandmother on your mother’s side. Beside me is Amy, your actual mother. Your blood work indicates a positive test result proving what I am about to relate to you. Before I go any further, do you have any questions?”
“Am I pregnant?” Yes was her reply. “However, Trent, the man who raped you is not really your father. In this timeline, you do not yet exist. This information will help assuage some of your worries.”
“How can you positively confirm that I am pregnant?” She replied that she took my blood a few years into the future (75) and ran the test herself. I assumed our mitochondrial DNA match as confirmed in her future lab.
“So the machine works both forward and reverse?” Both nodded their heads in agreement.
“Then why all of the secrecy? Mom, Amy, why didn’t you tell me? Why leave me to the harsh reality of my father? Why did you die so soon? Wait, did I just spoil something? Are you really dead in all of the timelines? Am I really saying this correctly?”
My mother, Amy, took my hand before she spoke. “We have much to talk about. All you need to do is listen. It will be very difficult for you to accept, but you must. The laws of time travel dictate that you do. Please understand.”
Over the next five hours Rose and Amy told me how the Universe worked. Those immutable laws of physics providing peace and comfort to billions are not exactly as they seem. Time is indeed immutable, but time travel is not. Once you breach the barriers man was not meant to cross, the totality of reality becomes exposed, as a raw nerve, for you to poke and jab. At first, you feel an acute sensation, then a throbbing. Finally, much like a missing tooth, you yearn for the absence and wonder why the pain left.
Time travel makes you feel all of this. However, Rose looked right at me when she stopped here, “You will feel nothing if you are pregnant.”
“Why is that?”
“Because pregnant women cannot time travel.”
That hit hard. Almost a punch in the solar plexus.
“So what is the plan?”
Amy took her turn. With a slow rhythm, she began. “I keep my life as it is. You take the role of Rose after you give birth. You will raise Lillian (her name), but will always be known to her as her grandmother. Rose will move forward in time to meet future Trent. I will soon follow to perfect the machine and give future Trent his copy. That is the deal. The cycle will be as it always was. There will remain no loose gaps or holes. You will move forward when young Lillian travels back to initiate the cycle again. It has always been this way. It will always be this way.”
I had to ask, “But what of Trent? He seems to have an extremely long life. Is he even human?”
Amy fielded this one. “He is human enough to pass as human. His kind offered the theory for time travel. We (now holding Rose’s hand and mine) engineered the machine. Anything more, well, wait until you move forward in time to understand the rest.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Rose said her goodbyes and she evanescensed from the room. Amy took a more conventional route with her goodbyes. As she was leaving, I had one more question. “How do you know the baby is a girl?”
“They always are. Bank on it.”
Dei Verbum
A peculiar monstrosity: it floated so gracefully to the ground, implying an otherworldly sophistication that went beyond mere arrival. Yet, it was obvious that Earth was its destination and Earth's people assumed to be the reason.
Its shape was one that could only be conceptualized by anatomy so alien that no one could pretend to guess function from form.
That was 43 years ago.
It sat, inert and impenetrable, occupying most of Piazza San Pietro in Vatican City. It had alighted perfectly equidistant from all of the Doric columns of the colonnade. In fact, the Egyptian obelisk was no more, as if the craft had absorbed it on descent.
It's landing spot was subject to heated debates. Politicians, think tanks, and the clergy of all religions weighed in. Yet, imagining an alien sentience that appreciated the significance of religion seemed a stretch.
There were noises emanating from within the craft. Metallic noises, arrhythmic, and seemingly random. Sometimes they beat out imagined patterns, but the best AI could not come up with a plausible analysis regarding the possibility of communication.
The Vatican Observatory Jesuits, by decreed edict of the sovereign city-state, were the first to officially evaluate the strange spacecraft. After four years they gave up, the ship's hull being completely impervious to any type of man-made breach.
Invitations in all the world's languages, on all bandwidths, went unanswered. Stroboscopic lights invited replies to mathematical sequences, but the visitors remained deaf, blind, and mute.
Four years after the Jesuits had given up, the inquiry team from CERN returned to Meyrin, Switzerland, with no information.
Then the noises stopped.
Perhaps whatever machinery was at work had finished priming itself and the craft would finally open.
But the silence continued long past the visiting team from Pasadena returning to their Jet Propulsion Laboratory—no wiser to the craft's details other than what could be seen with the naked eye or measured with calipers.
The Pope himself, in his weekly addresses from his apartment balcony, always closed with the following:
"We've been patient and faithful for two millennia now for the Second Coming. Certainly we can muster patience to out-wait our visitors."
The people were haunted: What if neither ever happens?
At first, the societal upheavals were tumultuous. evoking the many theories. Why had the aliens landed so ostentatiously in a place synonymous with Christianity? Was it a scout ship for a planned invasion? Was it a calling card, an introduction for more to come? Was it sent by God? Were the unseen visitors dimensionally aphasic and we simply missed each other due to some myopic existential blindness?
Why no doors or windows—not even a seam in the unknown metal? We knew the craft was not solid; we all heard the noises for a few years before they abruptly stopped.
Why the hell hadn't they come out? Why the hell wouldn't they? They came all this way (a long way, indeed), only to hide themselves from us. Was it some test that only made sense according to some alien cognitive sensibility?
We waited.
Could they have been waiting on us? For some societal milestone? For some evolutionary rite of passage that finally would deem us worthy?
We wanted to meet them. Learn from them. We wanted a cure for death, solutions to climate change, perpetual motion machines, and free, limitless energy. Certainly they knew! We needed them.
Yet, they chose to remain unavailable.
Some mysteries were not worth the effort.
So the people of Earth moved on.
While at first there were promises of a new age of understanding and brotherhood among Earth's peoples and nations, after a decade and realizing once again we were on our own, the old grudges, feuds, and holy wars re-surfaced.
But also, total human knowledge continued to double faster than an in-winding Fibonacci curve.
It, one day, came to be: we were finally able to open the craft.
With much holographic media coverage and fanfare, seams were rendered where there were none before. That's when we discovered that the door header wasn't level: the jamb's slope could be freed from the outside, but from the inside would have been impossible.
The smell was awful.
What was left of them were smudged, gelatinized stains on the craft's floors. Many alien contraptions lay about evidencing the occupants' efforts to clear the doorjamb, open their portal, and exit their craft to meet their new friends.
Questions
In a quiet little town named Meadowbrook, where the sun dipped below the horizon in a palette of lavender and gold, lived a young girl named Elara. With her wild curls dancing in the breeze and a notebook clutched tightly to her chest, she spent her days exploring the meadows, enchanted by the whispers of nature.
One afternoon, while lying in a field of daisies, Elara noticed a peculiar sight. A small, shimmering butterfly fluttered nearby, its wings glistening with hues she had never seen before—iridescent shades of blue and green that seemed to change with every movement. She watched in awe as it danced from flower to flower, and an adventurous thought sprouted in her mind.
“What if this butterfly holds a secret?” Elara whispered to herself, her curiosity ablaze. With a determined yet gentle approach, she reached for her notebook, where she often penned her observations about the world around her. Today, she would document something extraordinary—a question.
“What is it like to be a butterfly?” she wrote, her pencil scratching softly against the page. “Do you feel the wind as I do? Do you dream of the flowers you visit?”
With her heart racing, Elara closed her eyes and whispered into the summer air, “Oh, butterfly, if you can hear me, tell me your secret!”
To her surprise, the butterfly paused mid-air, hovering just a few inches away from her face. For a moment that felt like eternity, Elara felt a connection—an unspoken bond formed between the girl and the creature. She grinned, believing that perhaps, just perhaps, the butterfly understood her.
Days turned into weeks, and every day Elara returned to that spot, asking her question and jotting down any answers she believed she found in the fluttering of wings or the rustling of petals. She imagined the butterfly’s life, weaving tales of adventure and dreams between the flowers.
One bright morning, as she sat in her familiar patch of daisies, she noticed something new. The butterfly landed lightly on her notebook, its delicate feet dancing across the paper, as if reading the words she had written.
“I see you, friend,” Elara said with a smile, her heart soaring. “Do you have a secret to share?”
In that magical moment, time seemed to slow. Elara could almost hear a soft voice brushing against her thoughts. It was a whisper of freedom and joy, reminding her of the beauty in impermanence and the thrill of seeking understanding.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, the butterfly took flight, spiraling upwards into the sky, leaving behind a trail of shimmering dust. Elara watched in wonder, feeling a warmth in her chest. Perhaps learning about the butterfly wasn’t just about the answers she sought. It was about the journey of asking, of yearning for knowledge, and the beauty of connection—a dance that transcended words.
From that day on, Elara understood that questions were not just about seeking answers but about embracing the wonder of inquiry itself. Each day brought with it a new query, and she found joy in every moment of exploration that followed, with her notebook filled with stories not just of what she saw, but of the questions she dared to ask.
An Act of Imagination
What’s the difference between fiction and story? A story, true or not, is meant to be told. Fiction, though it might have originated from stories, might not be said. Such is a piece like this. Such is a notebook like this where I’ve written FICTION in large capitals on the front page.
But does it truly lack an audience? Such that the bleakness of human beauty won’t alter it. With no greater purpose, it shall be beautiful. It’d have objective oneness and a strange pureness. But no. It’s meant for the man’s monstrous silhouette that has big hands and grey caustics for eyes. His eyes are mine and his brain’s a segment of my own. And his stare—so close that the two pairs of eyes become one—wilts me. When I close my eyelids, my eyes are all his. Then he looks at me—a man with empty eye sockets and a deformed head—sitting with folded arms and legs through a cherry-red tinted mist that unfurled as far as he could see. There was no sun, but the mist—more like fog—had its own light. Uh, I recall the cherry-red glow that made my sweat look like burgundy blood. I was scared, like a stray cat really. So well, he is the audience I’m writing for. He is the one who destroys this obscure beauty. I write for him as I lay down the words.
Reader, you don’t have to guess, I’m lonely. Between walls and windows, I’m trapped in my room that’s squeezed between a hallway and my parent’s bedroom. I keep the doors closed—though they can’t be locked as my room doubles as a passage—but I’ve pulled the curtains before my desk. I look at the cypress’ branches, barely visible through my room light, when I get enough privacy to grind morphine tablets. (You thought I was writing this in daylight, didn’t you?) The dust on my table is morphine. I even tried opium and alcohol, but opium’s too costly and alcohol is hard to hide. Nevertheless, you, reader, love morphine and I love how you give my eyes back. I could, if only for an hour, see dreams. Dreams don’t come during sleep—matter of fact, I don’t recall ever seeing one but have read about them—but more like pictures in active imagination. No, not active imagination either, I don’t choose them, hence I call them dreams. The images, except once which I shall come back to, are of creatures who were once humans. Withered women. And their cries, gosh-awful their cries, that are agonising even to a war-field dog. A mother and a daughter crying at each other’s faces for so long that the black of their iris was corroded by the salt in their tears and were flowing down their cheeks. The black liquid was acidic to mangle their skin and melt their pink lips. The drops fall on their white shirts. They made glass paintings of a cathedral without the faces.
The one instance I promised to come back was fairly recent. One month, seven days ago. Late September when the creatures weren’t descended humans, but a man so obscure that even the most omnipresent voices of my conscience had not seen him. I do not know why he looked to be holding a secret—a secret of a future—underneath his skin and veins. I owned his obscurity and he owned my hope. He wore loose formals—the looseness of which was hiding his starvation. His face was of a skeleton blessed with skin, that made his eyes appear bludged. He had no teeth. And he had no voice. Like a snake on slippery ice, he tried running towards me. His run, or rather walk, was of purpose. He wasn’t lost crystallising hopeless romantics and hoping to lose his faith fast, so the idealised beings turn into demons, make the shadowy inner creatures larger, and give death a purpose to accept a being it had rejected prior. Being lonely to be dismissed by death, that’s what I am, reader. I stood there and slowly a cherry-red tinted mist unfurled and made his picture fainter until the mist was white and I was looking through the window at fog-hidden cypress branches. The earliest morning fog had somehow left a burgundy impression on my eyes.
One month and seven days as I said, and I have increased my morphine dose in hopes of seeing him again. How can I forget him? How could I forget him? A person lost of a future is deemed to chase the faintest light. Even the light of starvation is better than no change. Better than not writing a word for a month. Holding my eyes off my parents who keep moving to shout at the water supplier and then going back to searching analogue cable TV signals. I don’t utter a word, I used to be sober during the day, but on the thirteenth day of his disappearance, my night high was dragged till the burgundy fog. The light entered my room as a pinpoint ray in a smoky oven. I wasn’t there: not on my bed or the floor. But a distant observer looking at a man’s outline in smoke. Its movements were deliberate and controlled. It was gesturing to my room’s dust-laden air in a choir harmony. No particle had a choice but to follow commands. I don’t know how long it went—an hour or a few days—but I was at the end of it on my chair. The fog outside was white as it should be. Even a few of the cypress branches were rattling. But my table was covered in what seemed like morphine dust. And I heard rustles in the other room. They were up… I licked it, I sniffed it. I cleaned it with my lips and lungs. The table shone as if a fresh coat of varnish was applied. It looked like coffee candy. I swear, I smelled caramel. I wanted to bite it, or if not that, at least lick it. So, I got closer. And kept getting closer. The air was again viscous and the Pacific between Russia and Alaska was tormented between us—me and the sugar top. I felt reaching it, then it was the darkest, voidest dream I had.
Days must have passed as strong green leaves had started yellowing. My head on the table—felt itchy and a strange smell tickled my nose, one you could find in a slaughterhouse. I could only open one eye, the other eyelid was shut to my cheeks and pulling it hurt. Faced sideways I could see the foot marks on the white wall up my bed. I observed—researched—the smell. It all had the burgundy film up top. Was that an imaginary artefact?
Sometime later, mother was holding my shoulders shaking them gently and calling my name. I lifted my body with great force that had the momentum of an easygoing lever. The right of my face was sizzling. The table was covered in a shiny, candy-like, coat of blood. My right eye was forced open when I realized I must be blind on the eye as there wasn’t any light but a sensation of liquid in it. I touched my face. It was like touching foot marks on dry concrete. My gaze at the table was the refraction of my mother’s who looked through me. Then that woman cried on the floor. The table shone perfect.
I failed at everything she, and he, and they had deemed me to be, reader. Or deem ‘it’ to be—that’s how I should be called from now on. I long for humans. And they know, and you know, they never come. You know so well. Now, with my face, everyone remaining would know too. Except for the man whose starvation materialised mother’s only child’s failure. And for a fact, today after writing this I’ll go for a stroll uninfluenced to finally meet him below yellow stars to chatter about something—something losing which makes one—no, me—my self no one, or reader, selfless.
Thanks for reading!
I'm new here, a little encouragement will mean a lot.
Bad Behavior
As I peruse posts regarding gender relations. I have noticed a reoccurring theme, and that theme is bad behavior. Regardless of whether you are male or female, if you are putting up with bad behavior, according to the wisdom of the internet, you are a moron who has no self-respect.
You want to talk about love, get out of here with that nonsense! The important thing in a relationship is how you personally benefit from it and if you are pouring in emotional labor with no payoff, you are being horribly abused. Don't expect anyone to feel sorry for you though, you're the one who is putting up with it.
In an age where we have moved past merely surviving, it's about quality of life and if your partner is emotionally abusing you, that's no life! The internet teaches us that people will do the absolute bare minimum to get what they want and if you let them get away with that, you deserve the hell you have put yourself through. All the red flags where there, you just chose to ignore them because you're projecting your fantasy on someone who only wants to take advantage of you.
In a world where the media sells us fantasies, you need to stop believing the lie that people care about you. You need to stop believing the lie that your "person" is out there waiting for you to find them. The only thing your "person" is interested in is sucking the life out of you and consuming all your resources.
Wow, that went downhill fast. Anyway, maybe you are not reading the same stuff I am but if you are, you are probably looking for a bridge to jump off of. Hopefully there are none close by. Through all the disillusionment there is some truth to be found, but the road to get there is as depressing as hell.
Is School Really Preparing Us for the Real World?
We spend more than a decade in school, learning everything from the Pythagorean theorem to the history of ancient civilizations. Yet, when we finally step out into the real world, many of us are left wondering: Why didn’t school teach us the basics of adult life?
While algebra and biology might have their place, the absence of practical life skills in our education system leaves students woefully unprepared for everyday challenges. Topics like taxes, credit scores, budgeting, social security, and understanding loans or credit cards are conspicuously absent from the curriculum. Here’s why it matters and what we’re missing:
1. Understanding Taxes and Social Security
Filing taxes is an annual ritual for adults, yet many enter the workforce with little to no understanding of how to do it. What’s more, social security is a significant aspect of our lives, but few people understand how contributions affect their benefits in the future. Why is it that we can recite formulas but can’t file a tax return without help?
2. Credit Scores and Debt Management
Credit scores play a huge role in financial health. They influence loan approvals, interest rates, and even job opportunities. But most of us first learn about credit the hard way—through debt, late payments, or after being denied for a credit card. We don’t understand how to build or maintain good credit because no one taught us the rules of the game.
3. Budgeting and Personal Finance
Personal finance is often an afterthought in traditional education. We graduate knowing how to balance a chemical equation but not a budget. Proper financial literacy can empower young adults to save, invest, and avoid the pitfalls of living paycheck to paycheck. If budgeting and investing were as familiar as the quadratic formula, the next generation could be better equipped for financial independence.
4. The Consequences of Oversight
The lack of practical education has real-world consequences. It can lead to young adults making poor financial choices, falling into debt, or facing legal issues because they didn’t know their rights. The gap between theoretical knowledge and practical application becomes apparent once students leave the structured environment of school and have to navigate the complexities of adult life alone.
5. What Can Be Done?
Integrating life skills into the curriculum is long overdue. Practical subjects could be offered as elective courses in high school or incorporated into existing subjects. Basic finance, understanding insurance, reading contracts, and even navigating workplace etiquette could prepare students to thrive rather than just survive.
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
Ask a Question
In the charming town of Maplewood, nestled among green hills, stood a quaint bookstore called "Whispers of the Past." Its owner, Mr. Finch, was a warm-hearted man with a talent for storytelling that captivated children every Saturday afternoon.
One bright Saturday, Lily, a shy girl with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, ventured into the store for the first time. She settled on a colorful rug, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. Mr. Finch welcomed the children with a smile, announcing, “Today, we’ll explore the power of questions.”
Lily listened as her classmates raised their hands, asking questions like “What’s the biggest animal in the world?” and “Why is the sky blue?” Each inquiry led to a magical tale, drawing laughter and gasps from the group.
But Lily held back, fearing her questions might sound silly. She wondered why stories could evoke such deep emotions, why they could make people laugh, cry, or feel comforted. As Mr. Finch concluded his stories, he looked around, encouraging the children. “Every question is important. Don’t be afraid to ask.”
Gathering her courage, Lily raised her hand. “Mr. Finch, why do stories make us feel so much?” Her voice trembled, but the room fell silent, eyes turned toward her.
Mr. Finch’s eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s a wonderful question, Lily! Stories touch our hearts because they mirror our experiences and emotions. They connect us to one another, teaching us empathy and understanding. When we engage with a story, we embark on a journey alongside the characters.”
Lily felt warmth spread through her as her classmates nodded, a sense of belonging washing over her. Encouraged by Mr. Finch’s response, she decided to embrace her curiosity.
From that day forward, Lily became more confident in asking questions, eager to explore the world around her. Each Saturday, she returned to the bookstore, knowing that every question would lead her to new adventures and discoveries.
As the sun set over Maplewood, casting a golden glow on the town, Lily walked home, her heart brimming with the magic of stories and the endless possibilities that come from simply asking a question.
Dating in Your 30s as a Mom of Two: The Spaces In Between
It’s 10 p.m., and the house is finally quiet. The dishes are done, the toys are scattered like breadcrumbs across the living room, and the kids are tucked away in bed, dreaming of tomorrow’s adventures. In the silence, I find myself pausing, standing in the kitchen with a half-drunk cup of tea, letting the day’s weight settle in.
There was a time when dating was as simple as making plans on a whim, dressing up just because, and seeing where the night took me. These days, my time isn’t so easily given away. There are little ones who need me, a job that demands my attention, and a household that never seems to stay clean for long. It’s not that I’m complaining; this life is filled with the kind of love that spills out of scribbled drawings and bedtime giggles. But between the school pickups, work emails, and stories before bed, there’s a space—a small, quiet space that I haven’t quite figured out how to fill.
Dating now isn’t just about meeting someone I like. It’s about finding someone I can trust, someone who understands that my life is a little chaotic, a little louder than most. It’s about knowing that whoever steps into our world has to be more than just a romantic interest—they have to be the kind of person who can be steady, even when the living room looks like a disaster zone and dinner is whatever I managed to throw together last minute.
Not Just Anyone Will Do
There’s no room for “just anyone” anymore. My girls deserve more than a revolving door of people who don’t stick around. It’s not just my heart I’m protecting; it’s the little lives intertwined with mine, who’ve already learned that love isn’t always simple. I can’t afford to be reckless. I can’t afford to let just anyone in, because opening that door isn’t just about me anymore—it’s about the two little hands that hold onto mine.
And with the world feeling a little more unpredictable these days, it’s hard to know who to trust. It’s not like I’m out meeting people at bars or casually striking up conversations with strangers. My life happens in the spaces where I’m not looking, in the moments when I’m pushing a cart down a grocery aisle or sneaking a quiet coffee break in the middle of a hectic workday. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real, and if someone is going to be a part of it, they need to understand that I come as a package deal—crumbs, chaos, and all.
Finding the Right Kind of Brave
There’s a courage in letting someone get close, especially when life has taught you to be careful. The right person won’t just see the chaos; they’ll see the beauty in it, too. They’ll understand that love, in this stage of life, isn’t about grand gestures or perfect timing—it’s about showing up in the small moments that make up the day. It’s about finding the magic in between the mess, the laughter, and the quiet nights where it’s just me and the sound of the world settling down.
Maybe one day, I’ll cross paths with someone who gets it, who sees that the life I’ve built is already full but has just enough space for the right person to walk in. Until then, I’ll keep living in the beautiful spaces in between, knowing that while dating may not be easy, it’s worth holding out for someone who fits into this messy, wonderful life.
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.