Appendectomy or sadistic soul Stopping satiety
Are Aliens breeding us for our appendixes? (Appendices)
Are they simply there to protect a mother's organs during pregnancy and is formed in a fetus before the gender is much like nipples and thus MALES benefit from it in the form of it (appendix and other vestigial organs) being an internal armor against stabbing and other flesh piercing trauma helping protect the more vital organs
Pawns that a moral cannibal can knockout of someone without doing any real damage
Soul vessels that creatures that once were in the race for top dog (dogs do not have an appendix) developed so in case they one day developed a soul, it could be stored somewhere that so dissections from anyone or anything would not easily give away their reincarnation bullets?
Or perhaps
Sensory
A way to sense what isn't there, or was, but whatever was here left vanished or is hiding well enough that most Earth creatures are losing have lost the organ the sense that made us able to prevent THEIR uprising
Whatever it is/n't
One thing is for certain
Appendixes
A pen dix is
A pen dick is... Unknown, exists sure, but anyone with one would upgrade to something more useful if this one does little to nothing no matter how hard we try
The Last Turn
Dan leaned back in his seat and took a drag from his cigarette. He blew the smoke out the window and watched the wind carry it back into the dust behind his truck. His toes pressed the gas pedal down into the ground and felt the engine roar.
He felt more comfortable here, hurtling down rural roads in a dented tin can on wheels, than he ever did around people. That's why part of him felt heartbroken to retire from his mail truck a few years ago. There was nowhere that felt more natural to him than the worn-in faux leather seat that had molded to him over the years. He missed the way it rumbled beneath him. He missed the squeak and hiss of the brakes as he slid to a stop in front of a mailbox, and the sound of the wind through the corn fields. It was the soundtrack of his life for fifty years.
He never could sit still in one place. Never could settle down with one woman. He was married to the road. He honeymooned down dirt roads with a full gas tank in his trunk. One summer he wandered into a sleepy coal town and gave a piece of his heart to the bright-eyed waitress who smiled at him when no one else would. He waited for her shift to end and they giggled as they traced their fingers over the names carved into the tables. She begged him to stay, but he left her misty eyed before the leaves had started to turn. He said he never regretted his solitary life. But late at night, when he lay wide awake in bed watching the fireflies outside his window, thoughts would creep into his head about what he left behind.
An outsider might say retirement had been kind to Dan. He received a solid pension for his decades of service, his garden outside the city was flourishing, and he had spent the majority of his golden days reading books in the big armchair he kept next to the window. But he got up with the sun every morning like he did for his mail routes for years. Except now, he would wake up with an empty ache in his chest instead of a spring in his step.
He had been driving for a couple weeks now with just the radio and the open road keeping him company. He liked it that way. No text message alerts. No one whining in his ear. No one to ask him questions he didn't know how to answer.
He put together this route himself, from his old hometown in Ohio down through Tennessee and toward the peach groves in Georgia. All the places he had driven through over the years. All the places he had loved and lost. This time, he was in a beat-up pick-up truck instead of the glossy white mail truck with the decals on the sides. He didn't have any deliveries to make or schedules to stick to. But deep down, he was hoping to find something along the way.
He had driven on this road many times, many years ago. It was paved now, and the town had installed streetlights. But he still remembered the little gas station with the broken pump and the way the sycamore trees framed the red sun as it dipped below the horizon. The old school was still standing, though barely, and an old woman was sweeping the leaves outside the general store that had served the town since the Civil War. Dan could've sworn he was back in 1983 until he caught a glimpse of the lines etched into his forehead in the rearview mirror.
Dusk had begun to fall on the town, and the first stars were twinkling faintly through the windshield. Dan saw a bright neon light in the distance. There was something beautiful about the magenta and cyan glow on the dark countryside, and he couldn't take his eyes off the aura of light around the building. Dan was certain this was another new addition to the town. He would've remembered a sight like this around here. His truck slowed as it approached the neon sign reading "DINER" and rolled into the empty parking lot.
Dan felt his stomach grumble. "Well," he said, slapping the dashboard, "Guess it's time to fuel up."
The truck slid to a stop in a space in front of a great red door. Surrounding the door was an exterior constructed from hundreds of chrome panels. There didn't appear to be any windows on the place. Dan hesitated as he reached over to push the door open. He stepped in to find a woman behind the host stand with her neck bent down over a clipboard.
Dan started, "Hi, I—"
"Take a seat." She kept her eyes focused downward and waved him away.
Dan slipped into a booth. The diner was silent save for the bubbling coffeepot and the waitress' nail tapping on the clipboard. He looked around at the black-and-white framed photos on the walls, the turquoise ceramic tile, and the stained glass lamps over the booths. He flattened his palms on the cold, yellow linoleum table. His thumb absentmindedly rubbed the surface and felt the "D" scratched in. His heart jumped into his throat.
"What can I get you?" The woman had appeared right next to him.
He whipped his head over and stared into her glittering blue eyes. "May," he breathed.
May smiled. He searched her face for a line, a sun spot, anything that might show the years marked on her face, but found nothing. She still had those round, pink cheeks and blonde curls pulled back with a blue ribbon. She set a menu down in front of him.
Dan stared at her with his jaw hanging open. "Is that really you? After all these years? What are you doing up here?"
May's smile never wavered. "What can I get you?" She repeated.
Dan blinked at her. What was happening? Why didn't she remember him? "Uh, what do you have?"
"Honey, we haven't changed our menu since General Lee marched through town. What do you need?"
Dan felt tears well up in his eyes. "I—I don't know. I thought I knew then. I thought I'd know now. But I'm seventy-five years old, and I've been driving around and around all this time without knowing where I'm supposed to be going."
May gave him an odd look and clasped her hands in front of her. "Maybe you got here right when you were supposed to be." Her eyes widened. "You know, there's an inn down the street. You don't have to rush off into the moonlight. You could stay a while. At least until my shift ends."
Dan smiled. Maybe this was exactly where he was supposed to be. Back to the start, a fresh start. One he'd never have to drive away from.
"That sounds nice," he said.
Dan glanced around the diner again, taking in the flickering lamps and faded photographs. Everything looked untouched by time, like it had been waiting for him to return.
He turned back to May. “What is this place, really?”
May tilted her head, her smile softening as she took another step toward him. “This place is for people who aren’t ready to move on.”
Dan looked down at his hands trembling against the table. A coldness crept into him, the kind of chill that comes when you realize you’ve crossed into something you don’t fully understand. May’s eyes were kind, but there was something behind them now. Not malice, just knowing. Too much knowing.
The lamps flickered again. The photos on the wall shifted ever so slightly and faces he hadn’t noticed before now stared directly at him. One of them looked like his mother. Another like himself, decades younger.
Dan stood abruptly. “I—I should go,” he muttered.
May didn’t try to stop him. She only gave him a small, sad smile, as if she’d seen this before. Dan pushed past May and hurried to his car, locking the door behind him. He drove away with his heart pounding in his chest as he used a shaking hand to open up the map.
“This was a good place to turn around,” he whispered.
The road behind him vanished on the map as the diner disappeared in his rearview window.
Optical
Topical
Illusions
Reiterate
The
Impression
of
Movements.
It's
The
Expression
Of
A
Moment
Frozen
For
All
Time
As
If
Paused
And
Placed
Aesthetically
On
Display.
Kinetic
Art
Like
A
Heart's
Beat
At
Play
It
Keeps
Moving
Tread
Carving
Grooves
Cutting
Lines
To
Prove
It
Is
Doing
what
it
Is.
Its
Thumbprint
Ensuing
From
It's
Path
Via
Our
Brains
Gray
Cellular
Synapse
When
Viewing
The
Rifts
Delicate
Decay.
To
Make
Legitimate
It's
Moment
Of
Movement
Into
Actuality
Realized.
Reality
Actualized
Longevity
Forming
When
One
Day
Art
Formed
An
Artform
Initially,
And
In
A
Way
At
It's
Forefront
Art
was
A
Movement
Authentically.
Where
Since
Then
It
Has
Been
The
Start
Of
A
Community
Communing
through
The
Time
We
Took
Taking
The
Opportunity
To
Introduce
A
New
Look
To
See
A
Concept
To
Shape
A
Form
Who's
Conception
Is
Purely
Formed
Through
The
Expressive
Elements
Uptake
Only
Finalized
When
Received.
This
Guided
Intent
Gilding
Raw
Outcomes
Of
Active
Passions
Reactive
Outputs
Into
Our
Sinew
An
Income
Stomping
Stamps
Of
Dancing
Dances
Tapped
Deeply
Freely
Upon
Our
Cellular
Center
Stage.
In
These
We’ll
Find
Our
Future.
By
These
kinetic
Firings
Sparking
Thoughts
We
Pray.
We
March
Forward
Tracing
Woven
Ways
And
The
Neural
Wiring
Is
Decided.
Mapping
The
Mental
Potential
Pathways
Of
Our
Thoughts
To
Be
Guided
To
Come,
In
Coming
Days.
Future
Causes
Inspiring
Effects
As
a
basis
From
Which
Is
Sprung
Creation
Enriching
Ways
For
Us
To
Further
Enumerated
Epithets
Fodder
And
Accoutrements
If
The
Expressive
Testament
Is
kept
Wholly
To
The
Moves
These
Meanings.
Make
A
Kind
Of
An
Etiquette
To
The
Kind
Kinetic
workings
Of
Time
That
Is
Spent
And
That
We
Take.
True
Progression
Of
The
Mind.
Art
Moves
And
Art
Makes.
Cyclically
Perpetuating
Mundane
Progeny
The
Day
By
Day
Yet
When
Looked
At
Close
Its
Pulchritudinously
Ornate.
Where
Art
Is,
There
Exists
Expression
Expanding
Through
time
In
space
Where
Direction
Was
A
Decision
A
Choice.
Within
That
Moment
Where
We
Find
That
Voice
Grace
Is
That
That
Speaks
Silently,
Though
Inarguably
Perceived.
The
Narrative
Of
What's
Paced
Gets
Received
Art
The
Culmination
Of
What
Was
Used
To
Be
Part
Forming
Part
Of
The
Input
To
Calculate
The
Data
Computed
Art
Is
This
Sum
SSTThe e
Some
Thing
to
equate
To
The
Impression
We're
Left
With
That
Part
Left
Is
What
Matters
It's
Art
What
Art
Uses
To
Move
Us
Moved
By
What
It
Meant.
Made
To
The
True
Us
The
Symbiotic
Nature
of
Kinetic
Art
Contextualized
In
Text
An
Art
Formed
By
Phrases
Scrawled
In
Lengths
I
Write
If
In
These
Pages
I'm
Right
Read
Me
Through
The
Ages
Give
Me
The
Life
It's
Musings.
The
Moving
Parts
Are
Part
Of
Us
Bright
Is
Our
Collective
Kinetic
Spark
What a sight.
Cold Coffee
I balance the tray on one arm as I reach out and quietly turn the knob on the bedroom door. I slowly push the door open in front of me in hopes of not making the door creak and waking him. I know it seems silly, but I want to be the one who wakes him, not the door. I glance down to do a quick inventory of the tray. Freshly baked cinnamon rolls - check. French press with coffee ready to go - check. Serviette to wipe his mouth and fingers once he’s done - check. Milk and sugar - check. I can’t help but smile as I do a quick personal inventory as well. My breasts weigh heavily down as the tray sits just below them. In fact, it almost looks like I’m serving up my chest rather than breakfast. I smile as I recall how self conscious I used to be until he instigated the protocol of me always being naked when we‘re home. I now feel much more comfortable in my own skin and a confidence and love of my body I’d never had before. I shake my head at how much things have changed in such a short period. With another shake, I remind myself of the task at hand. I place the tray down on the bedside table and take a step back. I glance at his face and smile at how peaceful he looks in repose.
Quick as a lightning strike, his hame flies out, grabs my wrist and in a fluid movement pulls me on top of him and then with a twist of his hips, rolls me off of him and to the side. Before I can blink, he is on top of me, straddling me, pinning my arms to the bed. A wicked smile curves one side of his mouth. ‘Good morning, slut. I think this morning, I want to fuck you like the bitch you are.’ His hand reaches under my hip as he rolls me over so that my face is pressed down into the mattress. He then pushes further around and wraps his arm under my lower abdomen and raises my ass up into the air as I rise up onto my knees.
‘Now slut, I want your hands to remain flat on the bed at all times, and I do mean all times. Do you understand, my sweet little cunt?’
‘Yes, sir, on the mattress. Flat on the mattress at all times, sir. Yes, sir.’ As if I’d respond in any other way. He owns me completely and I revel in it. He shifts slightly and wedges his legs inside of my legs, spreading me wide. Both areas are instantly accessible to him. He slides two fingers inside of me and chuckles when he feels the wetness there. He takes his fingers out and wipes them on my ass. I can feel the stickiness against my skin. I blush at just how ready I am for him. He demands it at all times, but the reality is that if I hadn’t already been ready for him, the minute he rolled me over himself, I would have started creaming. I can’t resist his power. Nor do I want to.
He continues to laugh softly as he acknowledges my compliance. ‘Good girl. So wet. So hot. So slippery. Do you know what good little sluts who are ready for their master get?’ Before I can even answer, his rock solid cock slams into me, nearly splitting me in two, the girth of him stretching me wide. I push back with my hips as if he isn’t already deep enough, but he knows me well. When it comes to cock, there is no such thing as enough. He starts hammering into me and my pulse flies faster. With each stroke inside of me a small gasp slips through my lips. This fullness. This is what I crave.
As he speeds up, my eyes try to fasten onto my hands. I will not grip the sheets I tell myself. I stare at my hands willing them to stay put, but with each thrust of his cock I hear my breath becoming ragged, the wetness starting to run down my leg as he goes in again and again. Driving harder, deeper each time. As my body turns itself over to him, I feel that building sensation, I can feel it growing, my muscles going taut and tense as inside I grasp hold of him, squeezing and pressing around his cock. As the speed rises, I try to shove back in his rhythm to drive him as deep as I possibly can. Smack! Unexpectedly, his hand lands a blow across my ass just as he drives forward. A whimper escapes me as my desire ratchets up another notch. Oh God, I think to myself. However, my mouth clearly has a mind of its own as it begs him, ‘More, please, sir, more’.
As soon as he hears those words, he synchronises each thrust to another blow on my ass. I whine and push back hard, my arousal escalating every time his hand lands. ‘What a good little slut you are,’ he acknowledges with a particularly forceful thrust. Then his tone changes in a second. ‘Oh slut, and you were doing so well.’ His remark baffles my mind. What did I do? What happened? That’s when I see it, my fist grasping tightly onto the sheet. One word only reverberates in my mind - Nooooooo! He slows and then stops. I can’t stop the whimpers coming from my mouth. I sound almost like a puppy desperately whining for its master. That’s when I realise it, I am that dog. I am being taken like the bitch I am. I can feel him lean away from me, but I only process the confusion and the nervous energy that comes along with wondering what comes next.
‘When I say flat, slut, that is precisely what I mean. Flat. Now, I’m feeling merciful today, so let us try again.’ I release my hold on the bedding and glare at my traitorous fingers. I fix my stare upon them. I will not let them betray me again. My face still planted into the bed, he starts again. This time, though, I can tell he means to torture me as he starts nearly painfully slow, taking pleasure in making my body shake with each stroke as it pleas for more. I can hear that self- satisfied smirk I know is on his face at this moment. He speeds up just the slightest when - Thwack- it hits me. A scream wrenches free as I shove my ass backward into the wooden paddle. There is no mistaking that sensation, one of the sweetest sensations, right up there next to his whip. My whimpers turn to grunts as I try to push back for more. With each thrust, the paddle comes down, and more pleasure builds inside of me. My mind wants to let go, but knows it can’t. It must not let my fingers curl. I try to focus on my hands as his breathing becomes ragged, but there’s no denying the growing abandon coming within me. I am unsure just how much longer I can hold on. How much longer I can hold back. I push and I shove, I meet each blow with glorious desire. I feel myself slipping I feel the release coming. Only animal like noises issue from my mouth. I snarl and thrash, my head held still only by the force of the mattress and his driving me downwards each time he pushes deep inside of me. I barely register the clatter by the bed and feel the shifting of him, pushing against the sides of my cunt. He slows briefly, but thankfully only for that moment. I can hear his breathing, fast, full of need, his want of me. He pushes forward, further inside of me when I feel something slip around my neck.
The next moment my throat is hauled back as the belt around my neck pulls at me. His thrusts are full of frenzy and I try to take a breath but it’s not possible. Not a full breath. He drives harder and harder. My muscles bunch and clench, fighting for everything Every pore of me is screaming for the orgasm I feel just on the edge, but it’s now competing with my body struggling for air. I shake and pull, I push and grab as tightly ahold of his cock as I can as he rams into me, but at no point do my hands lift. I cannot think anymore. My whole body is ablaze. Every hair and every nerve is at full attention, grasping, reaching. With an almighty moan, he shoves in as far as he can and grits out through his teeth, ‘Come, bitch!’
I let go of everything, my body is on fire. My whole body releases. It takes all that pain that drove me on, all the filling and emptying of my cunt, all the energy kept so tightly bound, it releases into the air as my whole body convulses with one orgasm after another. I come and come. I wail and moan as the shockwaves break throughout my body. My head flails back and forth as the belt slackens and my lungs take in a full breath again but with that first full breath, I come again my cunt sucks him dry while adding my own wetness to the mix. I slam back into him and ride him as each orgasm breaks harder than the previous one. I hear the screaming echoing around the room but it just drives me more. I am an animal, taking what I want. Nothing but a bitch in heat. I jackrabbit on his cock and milk it for all its worth. I can hear the scream over and over again, ringing in my ears as he suddenly grabs my hips with both hands and slams me hard onto his cock. I bellow as the fullness rocks me to my core as a last orgasm rips all humanity away from me. I collapse beneath him. I feel his weight follow on top of me.
My ear pressed to his chest by the fate of our positions. I hear his heartbeat, so quick, so fast, matching my own. Listening intently, I hear it begin to slow. My heart slows in time with his. My breath recovers. Breathing in and out with him. As I feel his heart beating against my cheek, I smile to myself. So safe. So secure. So his. I can feel sleep tugging at me, but just as I think I may just let it claim me, the weight above me shifts. His parched words reach my ears.
‘Flat hands. Good girl. But I think the coffee might have gone cold.’
Somebody that I used to know
We have drifted apart like melting flow ice on the first warm day of spring. Have you even noticed? Now we're heading into winter with all it's darkness. The cold mornings where I stamp my feet to circulate the blood. And you are nowhere to be seen.
I think of you. I do. But I don't miss you. Not in any real way. Is that bad to say? Am I heartless? Sometimes I think I am. Cold, heartless, lacking light. A better person would sit with you. I tried for a while. I cannot stand it anymore.
Often I ponder why. And each time the answer is different.
Your deep insecurity. It's exhausting to be around. You sprout your facts a dime a dozen, to prove your intelligence. You monopolise the conversation, you twist and turn it, so you might pontificate about the latest book you've read. When we first met, it made you fascinating. Now, I want to mute you and let other people talk for a while.
You think you're the only one in pain. You whinged about your housemates at the funeral of a friend's father. Childish, selfish behaviour. Once again we spent the whole afternoon talking about you. About how hurt you felt. How betrayed. Never about what your own actions and your own agency in your unhappiness. Never about our friend who had just lost a parent.
Your drunkenness. It appals me. Your voice is a shout. Spittle spraying from your mouth. Drowning out the quieter conversations. The introvert in me wants to run and hide.
Then there's every time you said you'd come to a dinner party, so we'd cook according to your dietary requirements and then you wouldn't show up. No text, no call, no apology. Just a no show.
Or the way you look at people and think...how can they help me? As if the very act of friendship is merely a transaction. This one can be my counsellor. That one could help build a fence. This one is a gardener. Like we're Pokemon to be collected, stored and used.
Your lack of hygiene. You stink out my car with your stale sweat. There is egg in your beard and greasy handprints on your clothes. But not sometimes. Not after a hard days work. It's every time. As if you do not wash your clothes. Or yourself.
It makes me sad to write this. Because I see these all as symptoms of your pain. Your anxiety, your self-loathing. And you have so many good qualities. I wish you would let yourself be happy.
But I let you drift away, like melting flow ice. I cannot make you feel peace. But I can protect my own.
Poltergeist
I think. I think hard. I think of the women I've met. Vaguely found attractive. Kissed. Dated. Thought of marrying and raising a family. I think of you.
I sip my drink, and its lemon is as bitter as the facts. You’re happy. You are in love. You won’t come back.
In my dreams you return. You’re not desperate and needy, which at a point was all I wanted in a relationship. Someone to control and to manipulate. But that is no longer me, and that is something you would hate me for.
You’re you. Strong, stubborn and confident. You come to me out of annoyance that I won’t leave your thoughts. Out of a need to make it stop. You hate taking to me. You never wanted to again. But talking to me is a reprieve you haven’t had in years. A release. You talk to me and you feel as safe and as unnerved as I always used to leave you. Safe because I’d never truly hurt you. Unnerved because I am constantly riding a wave of emotion that leaves you spinning on the spot trying to follow.
You like me. You hate me. It’s familiar and pleasant and discomforting.
But you’d have to disrespect yourself a little more. Hate yourself more, to speak to me again. You don’t. So I am a memory. A vague shadow that doesn’t draw or repel. Just exists as a thing in the very back of your mind like a task you don’t really have to do, but if you feel like it you can. Like cleaning a corner of a closet. I will collect dust; but it won’t ever matter. You won’t see it or think of it and it won’t inconvenience you.
How nice that must be, my personal poltergeist.
FOOLED
After the second world war,
Americans were slowly fed a load
of crap. We were so high off of being TOLD we won when in reality all that happened was they stealthily came in and undermind the whole american population.
Of course we fell for it because we were so glad to have our boys back from the war at any cost.
Then came all the sugary sweet camercialisms of everything! Anything you could possibly want was now at your fingertips and life would now be easier somehow, and keeping up with the standards of everyone else was the biggest lie told! Everyone fell for it!
To be able to keep up with those standards you had to become a two income family now, to be a real woman you had to do it all, clean house raise kids AND cook dinner while making hubby happy.
Meanwhile, those who couldnt handle the preasure were used as guinnea pigs with psychedelic drugs or self medicated on booze.
The children being raised by the post WW2 and pre Veitnam ERA didnt have a chance because by then the underlying evil controling the mass media, schools and Government had already taken hold.
Fast forward to the Covid epidemic. We now know that was a bioengineered virus in a lab. Why?
We also now know that the vaccine that was supposed to make people safe did not. Still doesnt.
We have through a process of discoveries found out that out U.S. tax dollars have been shuffeld into certain officials pockets or to fund evil regimes when our own people were suffering.
Its not safe to eat store bought food in the United States of America anymore. Its not the same food our great great grandparents were raised on. Im scared to get grocery food now because of all the junk they put in it.
All this is to say that as Americans we HAVE GOT TO GET BACK TO LIVING SIMPLE.
Buy seasonal food from local farmers, get to know your growers!
Get our land back from China who have bought up farmland in america near military bases and get back to natural farmiming practices! We dont need to buy food from other countries when we can farm it right here even better than we used to because we have better equipment.
Also, why do you want to work to pay someone else to raise your children just so they can instill thier values and not yours?
We need two parent families with one parent making the living outside the home, and in todays world, if its possible to work from home and raise your kids even better!
I understand if nobody agrees with me, you dont have to.
Im just looking at this from a perspective of lets not keep repeating the same sad song so that we can come up with a happier ending.
School Clothes
-Lacitia-
There are girls all around me, in their heavy, polished wooden desks. Many of the girls are paying attention, many of them are not. Some are fastidiously taking notes, some are doodling, and some are discreetly whispering to the other girls around them. Each girl wears a crisp blue and white uniform, not quite the colour of the sky and not quite the colour of the clouds. The uniform is pretty, but there are so many other clothes that are pretty. It gets rather repetitive wearing the same thing each day.
I am in class, but I'm not paying attention to what's being said. I can always go back and read the textbook anyways. I have better things to do right now. Right now I am talking to my friend Navalia, who has her long black hair in two long plaits that have their ends pinned to the top of her head. There is a bright blue ribbon in her hair, softly iridescent, matching the colour of her uniform. Other girls have different ribbons in their hair, but Navalia likes matching.
"Mrs. Ansami is so boring," Navalia whispers to me, so quiet that the teachers cannot hear us, and neither could anyone spying for them.
"I know," I reply, "this is the worst class."
"Well at least the other classes are better."
"You're right. They are better. I don't know what's wrong with her. She's so monotone."
"Well, at least we have some time to just talk."
"Yes, it's a chance to cool down after everything that school puts us through."
"So, did you get the new skirt you wanted?"
"Yes, it looks lovely on me."
"Burnt orange is your colour."
"It really is. I'll let you borrow it if you want, though."
"You're so sweet."
"Aww, thanks. You are too."
"I wish we could wear our miniskirts to school."
"Oh, I wish so too. The girls would be so impressed by the clothes I have."
"They would. It would be so much more fun if we could dress how we wanted."
"Oh, so true."
We keep on talking until the ringing school bell dismisses us to different classes.
———
-Alissiya-
The house is empty right now. I'm ostensibly supposed to be guarding the house against thieves, or burglars, or any of the like. But how I can protect the house when I'm a twelve year old girl, I'm not quite certain. There are locks on the door anyways. Locks that prevent any intruders from coming in unnoticed. Why I'm here, I'm not entirely certain. But in this time, when the adults are at work and the other teenaged girl is at school, in this time I finally have some time to myself.
I finally have time to take down the brave face that I've been putting on. I'm allowed to sit on the couch, with no-one to see me. And I'm allowed to mourn and mourn and mourn my heart out until the time when the doors are opened and the family comes into the house, a house that is ultimately theirs, in the same way that I am ultimately theirs as well.
I think about my mother. It's been months since I saw her last. Months since I've been in her embrace. The way that I miss her, it's unspeakable. The grief settles its way deep into my heart, seeping through all parts of me, deep down into my very core. I miss her. I miss her, I miss her, I miss her so very much. And I don't want this life, not if it means being away from her. And it does. It does mean being away from her.
I am a prisoner, trapped by my hunger, trapped by my mortality, trapped by my need. But my immortal soul needs so much more than what my body needs. My immortal soul needs my family. My real family, not the masquerade of a family that I am forced to live my life with. I need my real family. And I cannot even grieve for them, not when my false family are here in this too-bright, too-large, too-cluttered house that is eerily shiny.
I lay down and I let myself feel my emotions. And it's a whirlwind storm that drowns me. But it's also an oasis in the desert. I need to allow myself to feel openly, because otherwise the secret girl inside myself is banging and clawing at the door, screaming to be let out, until her hands and throat are bloody.
Time passes by crawlingly slow, as does every second that I am in this house, or outside somewhere in the custody of the house's owners. But still, it feels like no time at all has passed when I am faced with the sound of the doorbell ringing.
"Coming," I call out. I unlock the door, the wooden door on the inside. I unlock the white gridded gate on the porch. And I welcome in Lacitia, who has her bright purple school bag on her back.
"Hi, Alissiya," she chirps brightly. She's two years older than me but she acts younger.
"Hi, Lacitia. How are you today?" I keep my voice bright and chipper.
"I'm fine. Just tired out from school."
I wish I could go to school.
———
-Lacitia-
I am at the dinner table, a finely-carved, gleaming wooden table. I am with my family, and with Alissiya, and we are just casually talking. My mother is wearing dark eyeliner and coral lipstick. My father has on a plain white truck-shirt that goes well with his dark hair. Alissiya is wearing a red dress. Everyone is happy. We're all together, and everyone is happy.
"What should we wear to Hannah's wedding?" my mother asks.
"I really like the blue dress we saw in the marketplace," Alissiya starts. "The dress with the pearls on it."
"Oh yes, that's beautiful," I agree. "Is that what you're going to be wearing?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I'll see if mom and dad have the funds for it. What are you going to be wearing?"
"I think I want to wear the red dress with the sequins that we saw a week ago."
"Oh, yes," my mom agrees, "that would be so beautiful. You would look so beautiful in that."
"I would, wouldn't I?"
"You look so beautiful no matter what you wear," my dad tells me. "Both of my girls do." He smiles.
"I just wish I could wear whatever I wanted to school," I fume ruefully.
"I don't understand that rule," Alissiya admits. "Why shouldn't you girls be allowed to wear pretty clothes? It doesn't detract from your education at all. In fact, it might create a more fun learning environment."
"I agree," my mother states. "I wrote to the authorities of the school. But their answer was predictable. The school uniform apparently instills a sense of responsibility and community within the student populace."
"All it installs is resentment," I riposte.
"Well," my dad begins, "you could do an act of civil disobedience. Force them to rethink their policy."
"I could." A smile forms on my face as an idea forms in my mind.
———
-Alissiya-
"Mom," I ask my fake mother, my eyes bright and shining, hiding all the chaos in their deep, dark depths. "Why can't I go to school?"
"What do you mean, Alissiya?" She's looking at me as if she did not expect at all for these words to come out of my mouth. And honestly, I suppose that she didn't. She never expects anything less than absolute gratitude from me. I know that I walk on very dangerous ground.
"You send Lacitia to school," I try to explain. "And that's very good. Good for her. But what is the reason that you don't do the same for me? I'm not, I'm not asking to go to school. I'm just wondering what the reason is?" Fear thuds in my chest. But as always, I keep it hidden deep within me. Her face darkens, her black-framed eyes seeming much colder.
"Why are you asking me this?" Her words carry the subtlest bit of threat, unknown, probably, even to her.
"I'm just wondering why. I mean, it's not that I want to go to school. But won't it make it easier for me to relate to and understand Lacitia?"
"Well, we just don't have the money to send you to school," she explains. "We're middle class and you know we're middle class. We don't have the budget to send you to school. You already know that we spend a lot on you as it is."
"Oh, I understand," I lie. So they have the money for bright, shimmery, lustrous, expensive dresses in chic cuts and intricate designs. But they don't have the money to send me to school. I get it. A middle class lifestyle is worth more than the education of a false daughter from the slums. I get it.
"Also," the lady keeps on talking, "it wouldn't be worth it putting you in school. You're smart, I'm not going to lie, you are smart. But your intelligence isn't quite the sort of intelligence they look for in the school system. You wouldn't do well there."
"Oh, okay. That's perfectly understandable. Thank you for the explanation, mother." I bite down all the rage that is welling inside of me.
"Besides," the lady tells me, "school isn't any fun anyways." There is a hard edge to her words. I'm going to have to win back her approval. Be the good daughter she wants me to be.
———
-Lacitia-
"We should do a protest, make them see us for who we are." I'm talking to the children gathered all around me. My friends are here. But even people who aren't my friends are here. Dozens of people from all the grades are here. And they're all listening to what I say.
"Yeah," a girl with a striped headband agrees, "we should totally rise up. We should make them see that they can't control us, they can't control what we wear."
The girls all around us cheer.
"So what should we wear?" my friend Alaia asks.
"Well" I begin, "we might as well go all out. We might as well wear the most beautiful, expensive things we have."
"Oh, that will be so great!" a girl with red highlights in her hair declares, "it will be like a party!"
"So it will," another girl with dangly earrings agrees. "It will be both fun and rebellious at the same time. Which is a glorious mix."
"So, should we change in the school washrooms, or should we come to school in our party clothes?" my friend Maria asks.
"Good question."
We continue to talk about our rebellion, all standing in the gazebo of the school park, next to the playground. We're too old to be playing on the playground, but a lot of the younger kids like it. There are not many of us coalescing and colluding here, in the shade, where the recess supervisors cannot hear us. But there are enough of us. Enough that we pose a threat to the status quo. This is beautiful.
———
-Alissiya-
"What did you learn today?" I ask my not-sister. She is smiling, as she so often is. There is hatred in her eyes, hidden deep. As there always is. Unknown to her.
"Oh, just, boring stuff. We did draw something cool in art today, though."
"That's nice, what did you draw?"
"We had to make mandalas, and we could draw all sorts of patterns, as long as they had radial symmetry."
"That's interesting. What's radial symmetry?"
"Oh, don't you know?"
"Can you explain?"
"It's when the same pattern repeats in each part of a circle, meaning, around the centre."
"That makes sense." I try to imagine what she could mean.
———
-Lacitia-
Today is finally, finally the day. The day when we are going to put everything into motion. The day when we are going to have our voices and our desires be heard. I am jittering with excitement on the inside, and restless in the outside. Alissiya is helping me with my makeup, which is a godsend, because my makeup needs to be absolutely perfect today, it needs to match my coral minidress with the frills and the shining tassels.
"Thanks, Alissiya," I tell her, spraying my fastidiously curled hair, dyed at the tips to match my dress. I take my backpack, slip on some high heels, and I make my way to the school, which is a short bus ride away from my house.
"Where are you going, pretty young lady?" an older woman on the bus asks me.
"Just to a protest," I answer her. "We're fighting for our rights to wear what we want at our schools."
"Good girl," she replies, smiling with her red lips. "May the gods aid in your journey."
The bus stops and I walk out, and in no time I am at the gates to my large school, which shines in the sunlight. About one in five of the girls are dressed like me, are dressed lavishly in colours and cuts and patterns of all different sorts. They all look glamorous. We all look glamorous. We all scan the crowd of incoming children, and smile upon seeing each other.
There are no teachers at the gates of the building, nor are there any in the halls. But in the first class I go to, the teacher looks over the crowd of students in front of her, and she immediately calls the principal
"What do you girls think you're doing?" she asks. She doesn't sound mad, and the usual warmth of her voice is still there. But still, there is something annoyed to it. Which makes her a hypocrite to be honest, standing there with her blue skirt and cream blouse that is not quite up to standard for the teachers' uniform.
"We're standing up for ourselves," one girl replies.
———
-Alissiya-
She left her uniform at home. She honestly left her school uniform at home. And, everyone is gone from the house. No-one is here to see what I do, to see where I go. This is a golden opportunity, an opportunity which I cannot afford to miss out on. This is something that I've wanted all my life. It's something that I've never known that I could have.
Yet it is something that is deeply dangerous. It is something that I know is deeply dangerous, something that I know that I should not do. The rational, reasonable part of my mind is screaming at me to stop, it's screaming at me to not carry out my plan, but I am just not thinking rationally right now. I'll never have a chance like this again.
So I slip on the uniform, which is a little large on me considering that Lacitia is a couple of years older than me, and I board the bus.
My heart is thudding the entire ride to school. I feel like I'm going to vomit. It is simultaneously the best and worst sensation that I have ever felt in my lifetime, except for the times when I get to be with my mother. I'm not thinking straight, I know I'm not thinking straight at all, but I don't care. I don't give myself time to examine all the reasons this is dangerous. I don't give myself the opportunity to come to my senses.
At the school, I am able to slip in unnoticed, and I am able to melt into the crowd of students, all dressed like me, dressed in blue and white. I have to pretend that I'm supposed to be here. I have to pretend that I belong here, with all these middle class children from middle class families living their middle class lives. I have to pretend, and I have to make it believable.
That should be easy. I've been pretending all my life.
And it is easy enough. I go with the students that look my age, and follow them into one of the classes.
"And who might you be?" the teacher with her crisp blue skirt and inquisitive blue eyes asks.
"My name is Avilia," I lie, "it's my first day here, after moving to this city."
"Strange. The school didn't notify me of any new students."
"That is strange indeed." I have to think fast. "Maybe they just forgot. I'll tell my parents to contact the school."
"Okay," the teacher acquiesces. "Go take a seat."
The class is about history, and it is one of the most interesting things I have ever heard in my life. We talk about the thought processes and the values of people in the late Middle Ages, and about all the social developments that were going on at the time. We talk about how the power structures of society affected the way people viewed themselves and society, and we talked about how technological inventions lead to new ways of seeing the world. It's absolutely entrancing.
———
-Lacitia-
I am in the assembly room, along with all my fellow protestors. We're all so pretty. But we're also all getting a talking to. Well, I knew that this would happen.
"What you girls are doing is commendable," Mrs. Valzim, the principal, is telling us. "It is exactly the type of citizenship we long to foster in this school. But the problem is, you have to understand that the rules that are put in place are put in place for a reason. In this school we are breeding an atmosphere of diligence and professionalism, and the uniforms are a part of that..." I stop listening to her as she drones on, opting instead to post to my Connectio account some selfies of myself in this pretty outfit, bravely standing up to those who seek to oppress me.
———
-Alissiya-
"Hello. I'd like to talk to a miss Avilia." There is a woman in a crisp white blouse entering the door to the class, just as we are about to leave. Her hard eyes land on me. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
"That's me." I try to keep my voice even as I follow her out the door. It's not like I could run right now, they'd just trap me. And, if I try to resist, that will make me look all the more suspicious.
She leads me down the halls, not saying anything as her polished shoes hit the hard school floor. My heart is racing. And, the rational part of my mind, which I had been suppressing until now, is telling me that I should have listened to it. I knew that this would happen. The part of me that I so thoughtlessly suppressed knew that this would happen. But still, I was blind and foolish and thoughtless. Why was I so impulsive? This is all literally my fault.
She stops at a private office, and I can see that there are two police officers there, guns and handcuffs glinting on their belts. I act surprised, I act confused.
"Did you think wouldn't catch on?" the lady asks.
"Catch on to what?" I ask in fake earnestness.
"We know you didn't pay to be here. We don't know who you are or where you came from, but stealing an education is a very heavy offence."
"But I didn't steal anything. Maybe my parents forgot to sign me up."
"We keep fastidious records. And don't think we haven't noticed how that uniform is a little too big on you. Those aren't really your clothes, are they?"
The police officers move to surround me. I do not resist as they wrench my arms behind my back and clamp cold metal handcuffs around my wrists.
About Beautiful People
I love beautiful people. Not just their looks — although appearance matters too. I enjoy looking at clear, balanced faces, at people who show harmony, style, and confidence. But what I admire even more is what’s behind the beauty: self-care, taste, and inner discipline. It’s not just about physical features — it’s a sign of respect for oneself and the world. It’s the art of being yourself.
Beauty isn’t only about facial features, clothes, or good skin. Real beauty comes from the soul. You can see it in the way someone stands, walks, speaks, or stays silent. A beautiful person shines with calm, confidence, and dignity. Being near them makes you want to stand tall, speak clearly, move gracefully, and become better — not to impress them, but because of the light they bring.
Sometimes just one glance is enough to feel inspired. A beautiful person’s look can warm you, encourage you, or move you to act. The way they speak can feel like music — full of rhythm, tone, and style. Being with such people is an aesthetic experience, like visiting a museum, listening to a symphony, or reading fine literature.
Beauty doesn’t shout or demand attention. It’s just there — calm, strong, quiet. It doesn’t need to be explained. Truly beautiful people don’t try to show off. Their beauty is in their respect for others, in graceful movements, in knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. They bring light without trying to be the spotlight.
I notice these people right away. They may not look like models or wear fancy clothes. It could be a woman with silver hair holding a book, or a man in a clean shirt quietly reading a newspaper in the park. It could be a teacher whose voice is soft and kind, or a passerby whose posture shows care for the world. Their beauty is natural. They don’t take up space — they make the space richer.
I enjoy being around beautiful people. With them, I want to be gentle, thoughtful, and honest. I want to listen, speak simply, sip coffee slowly, and choose my words carefully. They create a space of style, kindness, and dignity. Being near them feels like quiet, noble music.
Some people say it’s shallow to admire looks or form. But form also shows meaning. Our skin, eyes, gestures, and voice — they are all part of our language. And how someone speaks this language shows who they really are. As Oscar Wilde said: “The true mystery is on the surface.” Beauty doesn’t need to be explained. It simply exists. And it’s enough just to love it.
©2025 Professor Victoria.
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May 03, 2025
I have never seen one. Not in person. Not even a picture. It is almost as if it were illegal to ask. I’ve heard of their existence and their extinction. My mother won’t tell me their stories. My grandmother looks at me as if I will be the last of my kind. I believe her to be correct.
On August 27, 2145, they released the toxin. It disrupted human reproduction. It tagged (alkylating with multiple propyl and iso-propyl substituents) the Y-chromosome, rendering it too massive for the shuffle during meiosis. The mosaic loss accelerated the inevitable. In a nutshell, the rapid rise of the Mashad Imperium caused the equally rapid decline of the human male gender. Was it an act of terrorism? Was it an act of God? Those were questions for theologians and politicians to ask in the closed, darkened recesses they both frequently populate. For the remaining 3 billion female humans, life had to go on. Not for long and not as well as before. But, it is what I have and I have to make the best of it.
Since the panics, riots, wars, and nuclear exchanges, reducing human population to half a billion, most remnants of civilization fell into ruins. For the survivors, vengeance took a back seat to survival. Without men, there would soon be a “without women day”. Birth rates fell to nearly zero. I attend school alone. I walk among the hastily created graveyards populated with names of lore of a time when such names were common. They are all males here. Not a single female. This is as close as I get to meeting one. I am 14 years old. Not much to look forward to.
My grandmother is 50 and very sickly, most likely from exposures during the wars. I am fascinated with her not only because I look so much like her, but she acts so much like me. She tells me not to worry. I want to believe her. By next week, I will grieve at her funeral, never knowing what I should be learning.
I ask my mother, now an elder in her own right at age 32 for guidance. She only speaks about a future I cannot see. I also look like her, but rarely act or speak as she does.
“Be patient. Someday, this will all change. You just have to wait.”
She utters this mantra, hoping I will finally stop bothering her. She tells me I am lucky to even have been born. I don’t see how. I don’t understand how.
“Who is my father? What was he like? How did he survive the toxins? Why won’t you tell me?”
Silence. Nothing but silence. I want to run away, but where would I go? Outside is filthy. There is no food, no water, and no safety. Between the wild animals and the stories of the semi-survivor’s cannibalism, I cannot take the chance of escaping.
Thus, I am affixed to the soil of this compound. No better than an indentured servant. No better than a prized piece of livestock.
Someone has a plan for me.
In the next two years, I will watch my mother grow old. Her health will fail quicker than my grandmother’s. This is the fate of all who live here. This will be my fate. During her funeral (I had to dig her grave), I surmised this to be so.
Now, at age 16, I have no family, thus, I am alone. The few remaining women of the compound all wait for their death.
Everyone except for me.
By age 17, one of the few elders delivered a package. She will fall to what she calls old age (she is only 42). Her daughter, age 27, looks as bad as her mother.
She will not live to see age 28.
In the package lies one key and one book. The book has instructions as to what I need to do should I be my family's sole survivor. The key unlocks the room to where I am to do this task.
It only takes me an hour to find the room in the building. The key fits perfectly. I enter with the book and an intense curiosity, for I have never been here, not ever heard of the place. The directions I am to follow are easily understood. I switch on the power (must be from batteries for no generator activates) and proceed to the only console with a chair.
The book tells me to read the written instructions that await me. They seem cryptic, but understandable. I am glad I worked during school so I could read and understand what was asked of me. I learned a few more details of the extinction of man. According to this, there will be more human births. There would, instead, be a series of cloning to perpetuate the species. If I agreed to be cloned, I simply had to insert my arm through the aperture for the machine to take a blood sample. Someone would be notified and months later, deliver to me an exact clone of myself.
This is how I was born (poor choice of the word, copied is better). This is why I look like my mother. This is why my mother looks like her mother. We are all clones since the day of the toxins. This machine wants me to acquiesce and continue the cycle.
What the instructions failed to explain was that when you make a copy of a copy, each new copy degrades accordingly. I am a third generation clone (possibly a 4th or a 5th). My grandmother died young, my mother died younger. I may not live to see 30.
Why would I want to share this curse with another generation?
The sun rose on the remains of my mother’s compound. I am not strong enough to dig the grave that will keep her intact from the wild animals I must hide from. I am nearly 10 years old and will have to leave the only home I have ever known. While packing what I can carry, I came across a strange package containing a key and a book.