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. ❤

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. ❤

Felixuish – Page 1

The door made a sound between a creak and a squeak. The floor harmonized with its own version of an echo. My hand, sliding off the wood, seemed off-color amidst the overgrown scrapes and thunks inside the tavern. I sniffed. Pine. Nice.

The three men not hunched over their drinks at the bar gave me a wary glance as I passed. My modest cloak disturbed the air just so that the scent of blue forest following me from without permeated the stale, wooden odor within. This earned me a glare from the bartender.

I sat in front of the woman. “The usual,” I said, fatigued. When she raised an eyebrow, I returned the look and then turned my attention to the object in my left hand. It was a knife with a golden hilt, the blade more reflective than your average mirror.

The woman behind the counter took this as a threat and went to serve me a random drink; really, I was studying the pattern etched into the steel. It looped and curved and dotted itself like a conscious fragment sentence, and yet the longer I stared, the less like language it appeared.

The woman set a proper beer mug in front of me. Its glass was fogged with condensation, a contrast to the metal surface I’d been observing. I tucked the knife away and took a sip. Gross. I licked my lips and put it back on the counter.

Everyone in the tavern was watching me now. Their indiscreet glances weighed heavily on my back and neck. Heat radiated from my skull to my tailbone through the spine, leaving nothing but ice behind.

I couldn’t stay here. Knowing this, I took another sip of the dubious drink and went back to my treasure. Its reflective properties made it all the more difficult to look at; as I tried to focus on the silver patterns, intense blue eyes stared back into me. I turned the knife so I was seeing the ceiling now. Something dripped from the floor above, washing away the letters I’d almost begun to read. Damn it.

The familiar creak and squeak of the door with that harmonious sound of a food on the edge of the floorboards struck the room again. I tilted the blade so I could see the newcomer and suppressed a curse at the sight of them.

They sat down next to me, and I caught a whiff of the forest air outside. “The usual,” they said, sounding fatigued. The woman behind the counter saw them and looked at me. I met her eyes. No.

She seemed to understand. She leaned across the bar, eyes on the newcomer. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t seen you here before. Perhaps I’m the new one… What is ‘the usual’?”

I tucked the knife away and left the tavern. Not today.


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. ❤

Communication?

Words are constantly praised for their potential to describe and to sooth and to wonder. People have been inspired throughout history by words to create and to destroy. All you have to do to start a war is to say the wrong words to the right people, and all you have to do to end the war is to make people listen to more words.

What’s difficult is the latter. Words aren’t valued as they should be. Without value, their meaning fades into the void of knowledge. What would otherwise be poetry becomes wasted breath. What would otherwise be life-changing becomes over-dramatic. Names become more than a tool to shape ourselves that must be sharpened and refined over time; they become labels like any other word that must be symbolic or nothing. The ramblings of a half-asleep fool become worthwhile and poetic.

It’s idiotic.

What could describe a state of mind? Only vague nothings and tapping into empathy in people who have it. Preaching to the choir. Words become a manipulation tactic for those who can’t draw, whittle or carve, but it’s a form of manipulation yearned for by those who can’t even use them correctly.

Art is an art form. That was a fallacy. That was a fragment sentence. And so is this.


Communication? is a part of a two-step program I’m using to keep myself on my mental toes (yeah right):

  • 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. ❤

Cinnamon Peanutbutter Chocolate Chip

Meanwhile, in the middle/near the end of an incomplete saga you will not hear the rest of for many years, or maybe not at all…

Helen met her cousin’s eyes briefly, then turned to me. “Why did you wait until I existed to kill yourself?”

Frick. I unclenched my teeth, pulled the cookie out of my mouth, and set it on the table. “Mm. No more cookies for me.” I sighed. “Uh, because time travel.”

The kids’ frowns deepened. Theo sunk a little deeper in his seat. “What?”

“You guys know what happened to Helen’s parents when they were teenagers?”

Helen lowered her brow. “Which thing?”

I put on a cheeky grin. “The one where they basically had to crawl through the pits of hell and were kind of saved by, um, a future their daughter?”

Both pairs of eyes lit up in understanding. “Ah,” Theo affirmed. Helen nodded. “That thing.”

I pointed at them, like exactly. “When you see a kid from the future that can only exist due to certain events that necessitate your existence, there isn’t really much choice but to make sure those things come into play at some point in your life.”

Theo gave me a confused, and maybe slightly disturbed, look. Helen sat back in her chair, eyes focused on me, yet flickering with thought.

I like her, I decided.

She finally looked to the side, a more obvious sign of contemplation. “So you made sure I would exist… so I’d exist.”

“Basically. Also I didn’t want my brother and best friend to die. There’s that too.” I allowed a pause. “Mostly that.” They allowed another pause, so I added, “Pretty much just that. Only that.”

“Okay, I get it.” Helen scowled, and I couldn’t help but grin. She caught it. “What?”

“You look just like your mom and it’s freaking me out.” Theo twitched at that. Don’t think I didn’t notice, but I didn’t react.

Helen blushed a bit. “Everyone says that. Well, not the freaking out part, but…” She shook her head. “So you don’t actually care about me, huh? You never did.”

That got me; the pretense fell. “Wh-no, that’s not… ugh.” I spread my hands. “I hypothetically cared about you as much as I would hypothetically care about anyone. I didn’t actually know you before you were born.”

Theo tensed more. This time I looked at him, then I cursed myself for giving him the signal to speak. “I was going to ask what you thought of me, but I guess it ends there, huh?”

My face threatened to burn, but I wouldn’t let it. “That is a whole other situation, man, and you know it.”

He flushed. I could tell he wanted to blurt some retort. That would be very me of him, but Helen coughed quietly, and he took the moment to think that he needed.

“What is it, then?” His voice was tight. Inside, I cringed. I hate the sound of sad children. Granted, he was almost thirteen, and he would probably not like being called a child, but it was the same sound. “I’ve heard stories of you my whole life. Then you do… that.” He swung his arms in some direction. “Then you do… this.” He gestured at me. Nice. “Where’s the hero mom who doesn’t fear gods and saves people all the time? Why are you hiding in an apartment? Why did you look so depressed when you opened the door just now? Why haven’t you come to see dad? What gives?”

With every word, I sank deeper into my shoulders, my stomach tightened more, and my brow lowered further. I had to admit, though, he held it together pretty well, considering what he was saying. I took a breath. “People exaggerate stories to kids so they don’t have to face bullshit. I mean, have you seen a Batman movie?”

Theo did not look impressed.

I shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? If it makes you feel any better: I am. But you already knew that.”

Helen kicked Theo under the table. She did a good job of hiding it, but his eye-flicker gave it away.

I conceded. “Your parents are probably wondering where you’re at right about now.”

“Half of my parents,” Theo pointed out without grudge or contempt. It gave me pause for a moment, but I had to smile a bit.

“Right,” I acknowledged. “The one that matters. Speaking of — “ I finger-gunned him. “You are a carbon copy of the man.” He blinked. I stood up. “You kids are weird. Can I keep the cookies?”

Helen stood up too, followed by her cousin. Neither one looked in any way negatively affected by my responses to their interrogation. It made me feel… proud? No — damn no.

“I thought they were ‘okay,’“ Helen accused, going to pick up the box.

I put my hands out. “No, no! They’re awesome! Come on, can’t I keep just one?”

“Nope.” She put the lid on it, turned to Theo, and gestured to the door with her head. He skipped around the corner of the table and gave me a little wave as they started over.

I went to open the door ahead of them like a polite host. “Sorry again.”

“Whatever,” they said at once, then grinned at each other.

I waved goodbye and closed the door, not wishing to have any more uncomfortable comments or questions thrown at me last minute.


Cinnamon Peanutbutter Chocolate Chip 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. ❤

I didn’t feel like doing anything today, so I just wrote out a conversation I imagined would be had in this thing I made up but may never write. The main character is socially awkward af and does not care. Also those kids… I’m not… sure…

An Idea

To live a thousand lives in dreams is more fulfilling than living one life for any other reason.

Imagine, for a moment, that nothing exists. Without a template for reality, the nothing becomes something based on simply the idea of “thing.” This Thing is the concept of concept, which becomes aware of itself and conceives of the idea of being “alone.” Alone is interesting, because it means a state of being, and a state of being must have some kind of “not” state of being. That becomes a plural, a “not alone.” The idea is such an interesting concept that the self-aware concept of conceptions decides there must be a “many.”

Now there’s existence.

Within this existence are many Things, all of which are concepts of concepts of Things that Exist. They feel as though they exist for a reason, but the concept​ that led to the feeling didn’t include the idea of a reason beyond the fact. To fill the void this left behind, existence built into themselves a portion of things that are not self-aware, or at least not entirely, in order to become something that finds things that don’t exist within idea.

This something is life.

Life is a chaotic and confused state. Its order is time. Its order comes with it. (Or the other way around.) Over time, more rules develop, because life is confused, and life wants to know. Life creates the Heavens and the Earth.

The Heavens are scattered nonsense ruled by confused chaos. The Earth is Life’s haven. Life’s haven becomes unaware and desiring, until life becomes something that finds things eternally that don’t exist within Idea (Idea being what started it all). Consciousness arises. A first person develops out of that thing called time and eventually blossoms into a question arising out of Thought.

    “Am I real?”


A Letter From the Author
      This is the first of a thing that I’m calling “Snippets,” when I post a section (usually a prologue or a description) of a piece of fiction that I’m working on, specifically a section that I believe works as its own piece of writing. It could be considered prose poetry or an abstract short story.