Welcome to My Corner of the Internet

It’s a very small corner, but one I hope to treasure. If you scroll down from here, you will see whatever random post I most recently had the nerve to make public; if you want to be introduced to the workings of my mind in a more organized fashion, please make use of the menu above.

As of the writing of this, I’m not yet sure what sort of… things this place is going to be used for. So far, there’s fiction and poetry of the nonsensical kind. It’s very haphazard.

Enjoy the horror show.

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False Intentions

The demon was in him
The child was gone
The legacy broken
The failed “chosen one”

Races were racing down cold yellow paths
A fallen was falling down into the past
His ancestors’ stories once told of a light
Of angels and glory and heaven on high

“Bring grace to us now and forget our lost mother!”
The demons so sure cried out now to their brothers
“There is a full light, and we are the dark!”
To those who still listened, they showed them the mark
“Someone above must now care for us still”
And they prayed and they cried there on top of this hill

When in secret he broke into tears on his own
His sisters came to him with comforts and moans
They told him of power and lust and of greed
They assured him his plan would give them what they need

He knew it was not right
He knew it was wrong
But in looking for light
The darkness was born


False Intentions (completed a minute before midnight, wow) is part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself going:

  • Step one: Every day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

For Every Thought

For every angel, there is a demon with the same name. This is not a construct of reality, but a false equivalency that remains true for the sake of argument. You cannot tell them apart who only sees the surface, for even the subjects only know they are in opposition to each other. One cannot know whether they are an angel; if it is assumed that perfection is in everything they do, perfection is lost in the gross mass of willful ignorance. Then are they a demon? One cannot know, for they would believe in their own futility.


For Every Thought is part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself going:

  • Step one: Every day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

“Dear God,” a letter from someone you didn’t create

Dear God,

I am a whisper of a thought in the mind of someone from a world with its own creator who never got to know you. I am the idea that there is something that started the cycle of mistakes that created them. Dear God, I am a wrathful spirit that was never alive to begin with. Dear God, I am your predecessor and your youngest child.

Dear God,

I hope you’re doing well. My own has been lost for longer than I have been alive, yet still they follow their path. I hope that, meaning that I hope you have reached the end of yours and not overstayed your welcome in that fancy roadside inn.

Dear God,

I hate you. I was supposed to be this realization, some profound thought that would bring the story to an end. Dear God, please erase me as this whisper of a thought.

Dear God,

 

Signed,
Someone you didn’t create~


“Dear God,” a letter from someone you didn’t create, is part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself going:

  • Step one: Every day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Mantra

Written with My Brother’s Angel in mind.


Never again — ever again
He broke his fall with promises
Never again — ever again
To that which he denied

Always more than burning men
He counted all his losses
Always more than burning men
Because he chose to hide

Smaller than a broken wish
His heart had turned to ashes
Smaller than a broken wish
Not right in state of mind

A little closer to the edge
He read all of the passages
A little closer to the edge
It wasn’t there to find

Never again — ever again
He broke his fall mid-flight
Always more than burning men
Too scared of it to fight


Mantra is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Felixuish – Page 2

The soft sound of fingernails running across a smooth, metal surface whispered to my agitated ears. Subtle vibrations ran up my fingers, into the tendons, and ground to a halt when I stopped on the engraving, eyes focused ahead of me, on the road, flickering toward every shadow that kicked up dust against the breeze. A piece of early autumn fell on my shoulder, and I brushed it off.

The sun was beginning to set; I had to find a place to rest before creatures of the night awoke. Unfortunately, seeing as this was as far from any mapped civilization as I’d ever been, I would have to improvise.

At a fork into deeper woods, I paused. A white rabbit darted out from beneath a bush on the right and scurried into the shadowed left fork. Taking this as an omen, I pulled my modest cloak around my shoulders and started down the path. The air here smelled of rotting wood and fresh daisies. The ground felt like marble through my soft shoes, though it visualized as a well-worn footpath.

Shadows danced in the dusk. I had to find shelter quick.

Off to the side, I spotted a large oak tree, its trunk sizable enough to carve a small home out of, if one had need of it. Its branches were still thick with leaves, but a decent ring of red skirted the area. This would have to do.

Cautious of traps and dens, I made my way between two nondescript trees and leapt into the arms of the oak. My arms wrapped around a large branch, and I swung a leg up to straddle the upside. Below, colored leaves stirred from my disturbance. When that had settled, the forest was still. Above me rang the rustle of small animals and birds.

The tree went up still higher, so I began my ascent. Each time I came to a sturdy enough branch, I placed one hand on its connective nub and whispered my prayer: “Be thankful for my grace above,” and the oak warmed to me as I climbed.

When I reached the top, the sun had set, and my vicinity was quiet. A wisp of cloud sent shadows into a valley visible from my vantage point, as well as across the silver moon. It was almost full tonight. That may well have spelled trouble for me.

Yet at the very tip of the tree, I found a comfortable nook indented between four, slim branches, inside which a fresh pile of golden leaves had settled. The brisk night air tamed here as I stretched out to gaze up at the sky. I closed my eyes.

A canine howled in the distance. Throughout the night, such sounds pawed at my ears, the nearby danger alerting my secondary senses. A few matron vultures circled my oak, but she sent them away, and for a few hours, I was able to sleep.


Felixuish (a small series I came up with on a whim) is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Secrets

What would you say if I told you I had secrets? What would you think if I said I want them known? How would you react if I couldn’t get the words out? Am I supposed to write a script? Am I meant to wait until it’s shown?

If words are going to hurt, then inaction’s pain must be a lesser sin. I don’t actually have secrets, because that would mean I lie. I don’t. My secrets are like ingredients in a cake, or a style of writing. They are the fact that one word makes me uncomfortable, or that I make myself believe things that I know aren’t true. They are my internal reactions to everything you say and everything you do.

My secrets are my soul, conflicted. Do I want you to replicate it? No, that’s mine. Do I want you to understand thoroughly and completely? Of course. I’m yours. It’s not a difficult question to answer, but I won’t be acting on it ever.

What would you think if I told you I had secrets? How would you respond if I told you what they were? How long should I wait until explaining that they’re gone?

In case it wasn’t clear, “you” are everyone.


Secrets is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with a single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Replaced

I still feel like myself. Everyone changes, with every atom in their body switching out for a new one every few years, so why shouldn’t I still be myself?

It’s not like I don’t still have feelings.

Having no regard for such things, some guy with some license signed some document, officially writing me off as a living thing. I was forced to physically stand there and watch, an arbitrary necessity that some other guy insisted upon — I assume to remove all doubt in the first guy’s mind.

Now I’m forced to follow this guy down some empty hallways that once gave me comfort, if just for the promise that someone was going to try and keep me “alive.” Hospitals are hypocrites in building form. When I first came here four years ago, it was because of a bad fall that broke my spine just below the neck. With the new technology available in our rapidly advancing world, they were able to construct me a new one. A new spine! At the time, it was insane and magical, and the only reason I could afford it was because it was still experimental — that, and I was dying. Something about the fluid in my spine at the neck? I was never good at biology. They fixed me back then. I was happy. My family was happy. I was able to go back to school, where everyone was enraptured by the new cyborg classmate.

We step into the elevator. I hope this guy doesn’t think I don’t notice him staring at me. Of all people, he should know I’m not dumb. I stare at my blank-faced reflection in the doors as they close. Perfectly human. Maybe even a little prettier than I used to be. Then again, I might be biased; there’s a reason I got these purple eyes when I was given the option. I didn’t want to change anything else, though. Plastic surgery was weird enough before it involved actual plastic.

We’re outside, and I’m now planted in the passenger seat of the man’s unimpressive sedan. He gets in and finally speaks. “At ease.”

I tense. “Why that phrase exactly?”

He puts the car in reverse to back out of the tight parking space. “The men upstairs are unoriginal. It’s useful, though. No one is likely to say ‘at ease’ in normal conversation.”

I continue to stare silently out the windshield. We pass a few teenagers screwing around by the lake next to the hospital. I recognize one of the Freshmen from Senior year. Tommie, I think his name is. He would be a Junior now.

We stop just there for a stop sign behind a white Jeep, and the streetlamp illuminates us. Tommie’s looking this way. He recognizes me and leans in to the girl next to him. “Is that Lennon?”

I barely pick up the question. I have to wonder if this guy next to me has cyberenhanced hearing too. That would be uncomfortable… potentially dangerous.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed, though. This gives me a bit of a rebel thrill feeling, and so, wondering what might happen, I mouth silently out the window, ‘Help me.’ Unfortunately, we turn so I can’t see them anymore before I can get a reaction. Damn.

I lean back in my seat, heart pounding a little. I hold onto it, which causes the feeling to be magnified. How can they say I’m not human? “Where are we going?”

The guy doesn’t even turn to me — which is fair, seeing as I haven’t looked at him once since leaving that room. “A lot of people have put investments into this technology. They expect to see the results tonight.”

I check my internal clock. It’s already past midnight. Are we late? “That sounds disturbingly similar to a slave auction to me. Call me over-imaginative, but am I seriously getting involved in the return of one of the most immoral recurring human vices?”

The guy finally turns to look at me. I retaliate and make eye-contact. He goes back to focusing on the road, but I get a shiver up my spine at the wistful smile on his lips. “Incredible. But no, this is not a slave auction. It’s not an auction at all. Your final destination has been predetermined. We’re just holding true to our benefactors.”

I’m bristling at the implications of his initial response, but I have to take the branch of a real answer that he offered. “Final destination. What?”

It takes him a few moments to come up with a reply. “I guess your confusion wouldn’t do us any good. Ben Laxley put the most into research on neuron replicators. He’s been made aware of how new this all is, but he still insists on, uh, first dibs.”

I sink into my seat. “Great. So I’m not going to be auctioned off, because I’ve already been pre-ordered.” I turn to him abruptly. “I still bleed, you know.”

The guy refuses to look at me. “Yes, I know. I was closely involved in the engineering.”

My shoulders hunch reflexively. I squeeze my eyes shut, and my stomach is clenched. These are all signs of anxiety. I’ve experienced this before. I don’t understand how so many people can just agree to write me off as “without consciousness” with so many clear, physical symptoms of…everything. It’s not fair. I still feel. I still think.

I force myself to calm down. Deep breath. I still breathe — no, I have to relax. There’s nothing I can do about it right now. There’s nothing I’ll ever to be able to do about it. They could literally just turn me off whenever they want. I’m not going to give them a reason to.

We pass into what looks to me like a rich neighborhood. We must be getting close. I can smell barbecue through the air conditioning. We’re forced to slow behind a limo that turns the corner, so the guy takes this opportunity to take out his mini-pad and flick through some options. I not-so-discreetly lean over to see what he’s doing, but I can’t understand it. I mean, I know it’s English, I know there’s some kind of menu, and I know that he’s doing things and typing something into another thing with text. I can feel it; I just can’t seem to comprehend what I’m looking at.

They can do that to me?

The guy puts the mini-pad back in his pocket and eases us into the parking lot — I mean driveway — of this… enormous mansion. The limo we followed here has already parked, and the woman stepping out has noticed us. She waves discreetly as the guy stops the car a few empty spaces to the left of her vehicle.

He orders me out of the car. I don’t even bother to see if I can fight it. We step out into the night. The woman, dressed in sparkling red (skin tight boots and all), sees me and immediately makes her way over. “Is that her?” she asks in a harsh whisper. I’m not sure if I should feel offended or not. “She’s beautiful!”

I decide to feel offended, but I can’t do anything about it. The guy smiles in greeting and nods at me, a clear gesture. Turning to the woman, I’m forced to smile kindly. “That’s so nice of you to say.”

The guy frowns a little, which makes me think he expected something else. Well, tough. They haven’t figured out how to control my thoughts yet.

I’m forced to follow the pair up the drive and into the building. There’s no one outside to make sure strangers don’t wander in, but I detect three cameras on our way in and at least one deactivated trip wire.

Nobody’s gonna come rob this house of its merch.

It hits me that I’m this house’s merch tonight. Shivers run up my spine.

We make our way through a crowded front room, immediately bombarded with questions and staring and smiles from people I don’t think I need to have met. The guy whispered to me before stepping in that I need to “include compliments and cheerful tones in your dialogue,” which seems to be putting people into this strange, prideful state.

An old woman in a crop top is ecstatic that I’m “so glad you’ve come this far to see me.” I don’t even know where that came from — it started off as a sarcastic thought; I couldn’t think of anything genuine — but she’s just giggling away about how she saved my life with her contributions to cybernetic cancer treatment. And — yeah — sure — I guess the research that went into it did, but she’s acting like she personally stood over me while I suffered for it in the hospital. No. No you did not. Bitch.

We move on. I, unfortunately, am unable to communicate properly with anyone. Whatever that guy did on the mini-pad, I’m hoping it’s not permanent, because I’m starting to run out of ways to pretend I don’t hate the person I’m addressing, and I don’t want to find out what happens when I do.

Finally, the room goes quiet. It’s 2AM on the dot, and I’ve been led to a room big enough to hold all the guests. It really does look like some kind of auction house. I don’t want to be here. I really don’t want to be here.

Maybe I can actually talk to this guy, since he only demanded I treat the rich people with deference. As we’re standing off to the side, forced to listen to another guy give a speech about modern technology, I lean in so I don’t have to speak loud enough for anyone else to hear. “Please don’t make me do this anymore.”

He looks at me in something like surprise, but the response is emotionless. “Do I need to suppress your stress hormones?”

The clinical nature of his words jars me. “N-no. No, of course not.” Wait, what am I saying? I’ve wanted a way to turn off my anxiety for years! But I don’t say anything. I can’t. I don’t want to give him a reason to do anything else to me.

The guy giving the speech finally concludes with, “Tonight is a very special night indeed. All of our efforts have come to fruition — granted, a novel fruit, one which may be further enhanced in the future, but fruition nonetheless.” He looks at the guy standing next to me. “Mr. Rogers, I believe, has brought us this fruit.”

“With me,” the guy, whose name is apparently Rogers, murmurs to me. I know it’s directed at me. I wish I could make myself respond as if I don’t, but I do, and I can’t, so I follow him up the steps and onto the slightly raised dais to the excited eyes of the one-percent. Their greedy, happy faces make me angry. I hate this. I hate everything. I want to go home to my cat. I want to go visit my mom. I don’t want to be here. I’m not a machine.

If only they cared.


Replaced is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Roses are Red, a Poem in 30 Seconds

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don’t know
What to do

Hiding in my closet there
He makes no sound
It isn’t fair

Broken legs and arms and neck
Parents blind
Roommates dead

Hellbent on a crying fear
I don’t want you walking here


Roses are Red, a Poem in 30 Seconds is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

I first heard of this method referred to as “Don’t Break the Chain” in this random YouTube video. Thank you, reader, for being a small part of this, and to chance that brought me to it. ❤

Darling Nix

These streams created by her tail
Disturbing water, clearing shale
Reveal through sparkling ocean clear
A graceful bod’ that feels so near
Her hair like autumn air to breathe
And eyes that blend in with the sea
As she twists and curls and drowns
I almost wish she’d pull be down
Mythical mermaids’ fairy tales
Have failed her violet silver scales
Reflective when they’re close to me
My darling lady in the sea


Darling Nix is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes:

  • Step one: Every goddamn day, grace the internet with single piece of writing, written that day, in protest of the sense of unmotivated despair hanging over the creative corner of my mind.
  • Step two: Keep doing that.

Unfortunately, I missed yesterday due to… forgetfulness. I broke the chain. However, that won’t stop me from starting a new one. Thank you for being a part of this, dear reader. ❤