En cours



For info on this writing challenge, see WritChal24 Info.

More specifically, the rules I'm keeping are:

Find other peoples' posts for the challenge in the directory!

Personal Directory

  1. Theme
    • On-theme entry
    • Off-theme entry
  2. Year
  3. Weave
  4. Submerge
  5. Author Swap
  6. Transhumanism
  7. Medium
  8. Reverse
  9. Author Swap (again)
  10. Cube3
  11. Wizard Duel
  12. Sphere
  13. Branching
  14. Author Swap the Third
  15. Second
  16. Soundtrack
  17. Float
  18. Author swap the fourth
    • There might be an entry here. Only time will tell.
  19. Blood
  20. Vessel
  21. Language
  22. Author Swap V
  23. Cardinal
  24. Format swap!
  25. Unfinished
  26. Breakfast
  27. Road

Week 1: Year

Structural constraint: Max 100 words (a century) for the entire week. Total. Thank you, Jimi, for the idea.



New year, time for change. I won't be coming back. Please forgive me. Ice floats; I do not.


this isnt a metaphor im unpeeling a grape with my teeth rn

Ever unpeeled a grape? Freed it, like a stubborn sticker? Exposing tender flesh beneath?



A concatenation to Thoughtknife.

The blade is silent.



Know me. Study my internal tick, transcribe my hum, my rhythm. Share my wavelength, perfect understanding, mind meld with me. Understand me, I plea.

girl this is so melodramatic chill out



So, forty words left. What's next in this transient state?


one year later

I feel our echos. Place-des-arts, Boston in winter, our hugs; pain of what is not reflected in our eyes.



Solstice. Cycle of renewal, take me. Pact forged in seared cold.

A sketch in black pen of several wavey lines, one continuing down to loop through a needle, a loose knot tied in its end.

Week 2: Weave



It's the fluid motion of fire. The subtle jittery dance, weaving and predictable but still unwieldy. The sudden blue following oranges, yellows, and white. Hot wax coating my fingertips, leaving me to peel off my imprints. The glow, the only illumination, spoiling me in their gentle light. Shadows are deeper, made more real than an electric light. I wanted to keep a lantern, when I was younger. Constant, reliable illumination, never again subjected to the dark and the horrors it contained. Their heat, a soft warmth in colour temperature and the reactive retraction when I hold my hand above it. It is a joy.


Quiet night

"How long has it been since you've heard quiet? Pure, uninterrupted quiet—the kind where if you listen too long your heartbeat starts to creep into your ears and the anxieties crescendo until you can't bear it anymore, you have to hear something, anything?" There is no reply. "Do you know what quiet is anymore? The world today is too loud. Those damn cars, the whir of somethin or other, fuckin phones? There's too much noise. We've forgotten how to listen." He doesn't care what I tell him. The man continues his solemn watch. The only indication of awareness is his broken eye contact, fervently glancing towards the window and the furiously settling snow behind it. I can imagine him lifeless, an automaton, if not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He doesn't know what's coming; can't comprehend it. I didn't either—nobody did—but I'll never forget what I heard. I don't know the terms they use for it (the stages, I mean), but it's feels like it's idle in me. Not gone, though. The gentle coil around the bottom of my brain stem remains. I've seen it, y'know. The weaving. Last man I killed, I dug for it. Looks like a sausage. Tastes like it, too (I joke, I think). I decide to leave the man to his anxious watch. They'll be here soon enough, worrying about it won't do any good.


omitted for privacy

i reserve the right to change my mind about this later.



In a similar theme to yesterday, I've historically had a difficult time with being perceived. That worming sense of doing something embarrassing can be paralyzing and has really ruined my fun on a number of occasions. The greatest liberation from this came from dance (no this isn't cringe hold on one second okay maybe it is but embrace it). I took a summer course called Bach 2 Rock, which taught me basic music theory, counterpoint, and was generally fun. Something we did as part of every class, like twice a day, was someone got to put on a song and we would all dance to it. Week one, you were forced to keep your eyes closed. You could only dance by feel, listening to the difference instruments and their interactions and letting that guide you. Week 2, you could open your eyes, see friends and classmates dancing as well, but were encouraged to remain focused on your own movement. Week 3, you could interact: imitate, converse in moving, give and take your energy. It's why I'm most comfortable dancing at a gig than in any other context of perception: I have permission to do whatever the fuck I want, and this is how the music feels goddammit.



You can tell a lot about someone in how they live. Trace the value and importance through their life, the dust on the picture frames and peeling posters. It's worse when you know they're dead, their lingering spectre haunting the space. Any questions you have are doomed to an eternity of unknowing, joining them in whatever purgatory they have found. Their space knows that you are an intruder and you feel firmly othered by it, the photos on the walls whispering conspiratorially to each other. Why would they be bothered? You haven't even started rifling through their clothes, yet.


Disciplinary Report of Jr. Wz. Alice Dorgen

3 Þorri 4708 / 19 January 2024

Dear Honourable Archmage Gambrell,

By now, I'm certain that word has tickled your ears of the events that have recently transpired at the academy. Included with this letter is the formal disciplinary report about Junior Wizard Alice Dorgen's actions, but I believe that the official language does little to speak to the true context of the events that occurred. The report has also been submitted to the Wizard Council, who plan to take immediate action in updating the current schema of banned spells following the event. As you have likely gathered, yes, the rumours of a name-altering spell are true, evidenced by the constant removal of Jr. Wz. Alice's name. I have petitioned the Council for an authorization to reinstate alicization to return Jr. Wz. Dorgen to her prior state.

From Jr. Wz. Dorgen's account (and that of her peers), her actions were not made improperly. She claims that she gave proper warning after the development of many illicit botanical potions by one Junior Wizard Jerold Pord, with the incident arising from Pord's tincture of gnarly slug implosion which, "Was being used to needlessly torture those poor bastards," to quote Alice. Jr. Wz. Pord has become infamous in his class with his initial poultice of spider attraction, which became the first banned magical recipe of 2024. Jr. Wz. Dorgen has become similarly infamous after being the subject of the "24 seconds in the sun" incident; her instructors were pleased that her proficiency for protection spells were actualised in her safe return. On the date of the altercation between Dorgen and Pord, Dorgen used the authorised spell slap the top of bottle causing the tincture of gnarly slug implosion to rapidly expand (similar to elephant toothpaste), coating Pord's face and causing him great pain. In his anger, Pord moved to retaliate against Dorgen, but appeared to mispronounce "unalive", instead uttering "unalice". Unfortunately, this was a valid spell against his target, leaving Jr. Wz. Alice nameless since the occasion.

I hope that this letter informs your disciplinary decisions.

Yours in solidarity to the crest,

Archmage Timbre Fells

Instructor of Botany

inspired by snow's 11 january entry !!


Origins of a city

Cities have a life to them. The exclamations of car horns, the sighs of a steaming manhole, the conversation between two passing trains. They speak, they breathe, and she thinks that she's finally figured it out. At this point, modern research has concluded that cities are animated, created, inexorably linked to the confluence of ley lines. These ribbons of magical current, crocheted by some higher power and tenderly draped over the world, make cities what they are. But she knows better; she's the first to truly understand what is at work. There are many interpretations of why humans started building cities: more efficient use of resources, agriculture, protection, magic. But nobody's queried what precisely resulted from it, the myriad of population growth, empires, education, and advancement that they fostered. Our darling little subject has realised that cities take on humanity's characteristics, with so many arcane minds converging, doing, and existing together. Cities absorb this ambient magical power, imbuing homes, streets, parks, and rivers with the same magic that flows through any spellweaver. She's realised this because, like so many golems and familiars, when something is made full of arcane potential it starts to wake up. The city is stirring.

This way of thinking about cities as magical entities is deeply inspired by the work of N. K. Jemisin. If you're looking for a shorter thing of hers to read, here's the short story that she wrote that inspired those bigger works.
Inspiration for laura's Day 66 entry, The Cities!

Week 3: Submerge

Structural constraint: music-related


Myself, buried in you

I buried myself in you. I need you to understand that. Recognise me. Please, just look at me, a single glance, anything. As long as it's from you. What more could I have done, could you have done? As I stand here above you, solemn, I beg for a twitch of your lip, the suggestion that this is a sick bit, that you loved me all along and this is how you could finally escape your wife and family and it would be us, all us, and I could finally bathe myself in your affection. You remain unmoved in your coffin. I can do nothing but move forward.

Inspired by Dead Friend by Against Me!. I wanted to do something that was tonally distinct from the actual song itself.


On loving

Despite my track record, I don't consider myself to get 'love struck'. Or maybe I feel that phrase has a derogatory connotation and thus I eschew it. Regardless, the outcome is the same: I love deeply, and this can develop quickly. I never consider myself to have been 'in love' without allowing myself to do so, whether quietly in a way that I knew wouldn't be for the best or loudly as a relationship blooms. For myself, it's letting myself dive in to this affection and desire for another, and then it feels hard to stop. It hurts most when there's a disconnect, desires not matching those of the others, the fantasies that fade reality out being unceremoniously disrupted. And in spite of it all, I keep doing it. I can do nothing but move forward.

Inspired by Fadin' by Palehound. What a beautiful, lovesick, broken hearted song.


Whiskey up

It's easy. It always is. The slow, circling dance of predator and prey. I sit alone at the bar, whiskey up my only company (setting the bait for my hook). They approach, talking smart, cracking a witty joke, a sauve one-liner, whatever. They buy me another drink as I finish it during their introduction. Whiskey, again, to shoot with them. Now, the hook: enhance the tension and intimacy by taking it with our arms interlinked, eyes locked on the other. I lick my lips clean and they're trapped, all mine.

Inspired by Rip Off by Momma. Girl has to get her whiskey craving expressed in song somewhere, huh? Also uhhhhh this is connected to the theme don't ask me to explain.


Folk music

How hard can it be to learn the banjo? I adore punk music, noise, anything loud and grimy that blasts any other thoughts out of my mind. I dance to it and it consumes everything and I find solace for that brief moment. But when I'm alone, I'm just one player. Drums, I suppose, could drown it, but those need space, quiet gaps, to give the rest of it punch. I wanna play folk, become a banjo picker, let the melodies of generations past move through me. It's the only music I can sing and play at the same time. Maybe that's the legacy of it.


Un-gentle Mistress

She was not gentle. She never is; doesn't know how to be. Humans never want to go gently into the eternal rest. They tell themselves stories of peace, euphemising that they "went quietly in their sleep". She muffles their screams, sneaking up from behind and clamping her hand over their mouth like a cheap action flick. There is nothing gentle about death, the end of an existence. Hers will come eventually (it must) and They will be no more gentle than She has been. How could They be? If They were, then it'd be proof She could have been better, and was not.


Website upkeep

In the spirit of Getchyer, I have a Sitemap now! It's all crunchy xml (by hand ofc), but it's a smaller bit of website maintenance I've done the past couple days (most images are .webp now and much smaller {my beloved}, added 'license' info in the headers {don't steal my shit}, there's a robots.txt too??). I love upkeep.


omitted for privacy

also for format reasons (handwritten and i'm not digitizing it).

Week 4: Author Swap


Telephone (1)

Time is a curious thing. Fine grains of sand cascading down the curved glass wall towards their certain demise, doomed to cycle for eternity. The tick of a watch, haunting every waking moment. Or the path of the sun overhead, tracking every move with a shadow arcing through the dirt. What is it, at the end of it all? Does it continue onwards as the universe settles into its cold monotony? Or do you think it different?

Start > Next >...> Last↗ >>>


Day 72 — Intermission

By Laura

What do you lose by skipping out, just for one night? There are no rules against this. Drive away from the ambient glow of the city, up the north road into the dark winter. Spend a moment in the glowing snow above the gleaming star-studded lake. Maybe two. Then slink home under cover of sunrise, before the world realizes we've gone missing. We'll steal back a bit of lost sleep before heading out to live the rest of our lives. The stars never go away once you've seen them once. Yes, I'll go with you, we've got nothing to lose.


affix stamp here

By snow

dear alice,






there is something magnificent about the humble postcard. i wax poetic about it to all of my penpals, but it rings true nonetheless. in 2023 i received 16 postcards, in 2022 i received 2, and in 2021 3. and i, in turn, sent enough to lose count, most to internet friends new and old. this isn't to brag, i just. i can see them. physical reminders that someone was in a place far away, and thought of me. look, there's the one from grand teton where my friend took shelter from the rain in a gazebo while writing. there's the one scrawled hastily in an airport just before boarding. the one by a friend who did not want to be where they were. i know one from seattle that i wrote just before a downpour that rendered my words unreadable was probably lost. the one i wrote on the sleeper train, similarly, disappeared. my kitschy "love from boston" sent while missing someone in taiwan was lost for months, before finally making it into the hands i intended my words to be held by. how many times did someone think of me without those thoughts ever reaching me? how much did i love my friends without ever telling them? all to say, alice, safe travels.


Week 5: Transhumanist



I haven't written for a second. Travel tends to do this, when I remove myself from the typical stream of life and attempting to ignore any thoughts beyond the current.

But I've been trying to write. I sit down. I open the document. I put in my placeholder title. And I sit.

God, please. I have the ideas. I know what I want to do. What ideas I have, what I want to say.

The new USB standard will enhance USB-C to allow you to plug in your head and rip out your thoughts into your device. Also 500W charging.


Overflowing tap

The light here is dim. Their shadows are immense, stretching over the battered wooden table and masking the faded drywall beyond. There isn't much space, but they manage to slowly circle me, a scavenger hungry for its next meal. "Why do you want to be unmade, my dear?" they croak, the words unnatural to them. "Are you that displeased with your condition that you want to have another go? To free yourself?" They pause to hold my gaze. "It's pathetic." My ashamed glance away all but affirms their sentiments. "You can never escape it. This won't solve it. Despite it all, you will still be human." I'm shaking now, the chill settling in like nails cutting my skin. I open my mouth and my tongue hangs limp, unmoved, and I am left with my mouth agape. "You can try to move on, but this is your condition, love." I leave the water running.


On gender

Gender is a subtle, bending thing. It's reassuring to trace its curves and the flex in my own self-perception, deeply peaceful to hold my past with the understanding of the future. The incredibly fucked system of trans care instructed me that there are major events that showed me I was trans—that's bullshit. I follow the shoreline into bays of boyhood and through the isthmus of femininity. It's the echos of a mistaken name at the coffee shop; two different names mutated until they were no longer recognisable. I'm a woman when I'm yours, a bitch to an asshat, something when I'm allowed to drive. I don't know what I am anymore besides myself. Let's watch the surf come in, tonight.



I dream of you. You know this. You enter as a wraith, immaterial and haunting (i think). I reach for you (i cannot resist) and we never touch, not disrupting the fantasy that you remain, that you /could/ still be. I chase you and am left with the expression of pain that you bear on your face from our separation. The light is not natural, the world is black outside of our small pocket of intimacy and you cannot leave me for the shadows. And you do. I wander, searching, until the darkness swallows me too. I awake, without you.

Week 6: Medium



A picture of a green handbag, spilling its contents open on a green and white bedspread. A notebook, ereader, and pens are visible inside the bag. A nametag reading 'Contents' is visible on the bag. A pile of pens, sharpees, highlighter, and pencil on the same green and white bedspread. Above them a nametag reads 'I want to write about this. To record it. I stay prepared—do you know what will be next? (didn't think so). I like the pens—they write this now—I want to'

I want to write about this. To record it. I stay prepared—do you know what will be next? (didn't think so). I like the pens—they write this now—I want to

A pink notebook with text obscured reading 'FUCKING PLA', a white eraser, a cutesy tissue packet, and a black Skyn condom lay on the same green and white bedspread. A nametag on the notebook reads 'know you. Understand you. I want you within and around me. I want to be possessed (go on, devil). Call me yours, mine. What are possessions, here? Will I be one of your contents, too? Made to be connected and'

know you. Understand you. I want you within and around me. I want to be possessed (go on, devil). Call me yours, mine. What are possessions, here? Will I be one of your contents, too? Made to be connected and

A yellow ereader, gray bag with wires spilling out of it, and plaid eye mask lay on the same green and white bedspread. Atop them all, a nametag reads 'download, existing at your whim? It sounds cruel (I know now I do not deserve such cruelties), but by your hand it could be loving. Let's redefne my history,'

download, existing at your whim? It sounds cruel (I know now I do not deserve such cruelties), but by your hand it could be loving. Let's redefne my history,

A small brown sachet, australian stamps, yellow notebook labeled 'Story Supply Co / Address Book', and wallet lay once more on the green and white bedspread. A nametag on the wallet reads 'tell a new story with old words ^{make it} beautiful<s>ly tragic</s>. It can't be that hard, right? Just work with what's there.'

tell a new story with old words ^{make it} beautifully tragic. It can't be that hard, right? Just work with what's there.


transit diary

2024-02-10 / 17:01 / 1 / Green Line / Honoré-Beaugrand / 10-689 (2) / Station Lionel-Groulx / Station Guy-Concordia / 17:04 / from 2 / METRO / 4

The quick dart home was fast and quiet. The big crowds at L-G entered the train quickly, and I managed to snag a seat. A very excited kid took it when I got off to go home. A good resolution to the long trip.

2024-02-10 / 16:42 / 2 / Orange Line / Montmorency / 10-156 (2) / Station Côte-Vertu / Station Lionel-Groulx / 16:57 / from 968; to 1 / METRO / 5

My body is awake and my mind is bone-tired. I just missed the train before this one, the alarm blare of the terminus departure klaxon echoing up the escalators. The doors closed in front of my face, but at least Côte-Vertu has some benches. It is warm here, like the bus, a nice reprieve from the brisk wait before the 968 came.

2024-02-10 / 16:14 / 968 / Roxboro Côte-Vertu Trainbus / Est / 40-144 (1) / Gare Sunnybrooke / Station Côte-Vertu / 16:33 / to 2 / BUS / 6

I waited a while for this bus—it's lovely that it's so warm and sunny today. Whispy clouds decorate a pale blue sky. I think I've been here, Station Sunnybrooke, before with katie, late one night. It is the terminus of the 356 (aka the night 24, but advanced) after all. I stood while I waited, reading my book, while a couple cuddled inside the shelter next to me.

2024-02-10 / 14:55 / 209 / Des Sources / Nord / 38-076 (1) / Terminus Dorval / Des Sources/Hyman / 15:22 / from 211 / BUS / 5

A brief wait at Terminus (Gare) Dorval. I could have caught this bus from the airport, had a fun ittle jaunt to the hidden bus terminal, but alas. I took the quicker (at the time) route. Highways and suburbs roll past as I bury myself in my reading. The marketplace guy left the film in the mailbox and is trusting me to leave my cash there. I do. His trust in a stranger warms me. The walk down suburban streets echos childhood memories, transposed into a Montréal key.

2024-02-10 / 14:27 / 211 / Bord-du-Lac / Ouest / 40-014 (1) / Station Lionel-Groulx / Terminus Dorval / 14:48 / from 1; to 209 / BUS / 5

I jog from the metro to catch this bus. There's a long line waiting to go out West, Exo weekend service being what it is. I love the express from L-G to Dorval. I sit next to a young mother and her toddler. They chat in Mandarin. The toddler is restless and her mom dozes off beside her. She (the child) keeps glancing at my book (I wonder if she can read yet?). I turn up its brightness in case she can. A freight train hurtles alongside us down the highway. We're faster.

2024-02-10 / 14:20 / 1 / Green Line / Angrinon / 10-293 (1) / Station Guy-Concordia / Station Lionel-Groulx / 14:24 / to 211 / METRO / 4

A short trip on the metro. Dart through the station and still missed the train. Thank god for leaving early, for once. Someone offers their seat to an older lady. L-G is busy for a Saturday avro. The sun is crisp outside. I should've brought my camera.

Recorded by hand in my journal due to my phone being dead. I would've written on the walls of buses and bus shelters, but I have lost my paint pen. Another day, perhaps.

Inspiration for Lucah's 2024-02-16 entry, golden hour and Snow's 2024-02-16 entry, transit diary.



Long description. A picture of a white door and its frame with cream walls beside it. The door is ringed in blue tape with writing on it (the content of this entry can be found below) and a longer blue tape with writing from the bottom left to the center. In the center is a small square mirror, in which the photographer's eyes are obscured by blue tape reading 'CAN YOU HEAR ME CAN Y'. below, on the mirror, is another piece of tape that reads '2024-02-11'. towards the top of the door, a pink Pom Poko band poster is skirted by small pieces of blue tape that read (from top left of door) 'MY NAME IS *Obscured text*', 'PLEASE LISTEN TO ME PLEASE', 'echo ^echo', 'whispers', and 'groan'. beneath the mirror a stolen mcgill libraries '1M Zone' covid distancing sign is skirted by two pieces of tape that (from top right of sign) read 'creak' and 'moan'.

transcribed from top left. if you know me in real life, ask me for a link to a recording of me reading this entry aloud.

top of frame: these walls echo. in the night, when it's all quiet, i can hear them whisper. they mutter with the comings and goings of long ago, names that will never

right of frame: be spoken aloud again, doomed to ignaminity. the floorboards ache with their history, the weight of these forgotten footsteps. i think they're still adjusting, their sighs disrupting my sleep. only this silence frees them, that sense of privacy in another person's home — the same sense that fills you when you're doing the dishes too late and don't want to

bottom of frame: WAKE the roommates. i try to meet them (lie) i try to avoid them. i'm the intruder in this place is not mine who are they can i be quiet please hide me please—

right of frame: in the end i don't know what it was for. this place. remembering. maybe it's the lesson that some things are best forgotten, despite my nostalga. these things should never haunt again. i don't know myself anymore. i'm sinking into these walls, porous wood soaked with the essence — my essence — my blood. it's hungry. i'm scared. it's okay though. i'll become another of

top of frame: these walls echo. in the night, when it's all quiet, i can hear them whisper. they mutter with the comings and goings of long ago, names that will never

right of frame: be spoken aloud again, doomed to ignaminity. the floorboards ache with their history, the weight of these forgotten footsteps. i think they're still adjusting, their sighs disrupting my sleep. only this silence frees them, that sense of privacy in another person's home — the same sense that fills you when you're doing the dishes too late and don't want to

bottom of frame: WAKE the roommates. i try to meet them (lie) i try to avoid them. i'm the intruder in this place is not mine who are they can i be quiet please hide me please—


Week 7: Reverse



woo baby's first javascript !!!!! how daunting and bewildering! ooo!


MAGI 209: Relational Magic

Account of student A; Lecture 1:

"Many teachers (and in my opinion, lesser teachers) will tell you that it's supposed to feel like a deep warmth that grows around the heart and spreads through your arteries, like molten rock cascading through your body, worming its way into your every fibre. They say that you must steal yourself against its pain, that you are a weapon thus it is a weapon, too, that fire must be fought with fire. That if you let your control slip the gun will be against your head and the enemy will not hesitate.

That's bullshit. Magic is not some petulant child that can be whipped into submission, wrestled and bound. There is a reason that these are the brightest minds the school has available to instruct you. You cannot force agreement, it only creates resentment, hatred, refined malice. It will be free, eventually, and it will have its way. All the great witches, wizards, and warlocks you can name were the best of their time. Even they could not win. Magic is stronger than you, it will always be stronger than you, and it will win. I want to leave it there. Who are you to think you can control it? You walk into this course as an elective, not expected to respect it. I know I'm still on my probationary period (and I know it's because I'm a member of the gentry)..."

They paused here, for a minute. The only sound in the room was the breath of frightened students, the smartest ones signing their wards under their desks. Only the freshman (who knows how they enrolled) appeared curious, hand raised high. Their warlock brand wrapped around their wrist, robe sliding down to the elbow of their raised arm. The professor returned from foray into their shadows, eyebrow raised to the tenacity of the student. With a slight tilt, they indicated that the student could proceed.

"Then what is there to do?" the student said, belatedly adding, "Respectfully, professor." To this, the professor grinned (wider than most are comfortable) and barked a laugh, dagger-sharp teeth glinting in the late afternoon sun.

"What is there to do, what is there to do..." After a briefer pause, they appeared to reach some decision, and continued with the lecture. "If only there was another way. There is. That's the point of this. Stop." They snapped their fingers at two students who were murmuring to each other in the back of the class. When they looked up, fearful, their mouths were no longer present, smooth skin from their nose to their chin. They glanced at each other and appeared to scream, muscles tensing to run, but they remained sitting and soundless. The entire class vibrated with fear, unable to determine if they should run or stay. In the end, no one moved. The professor continued, undeterred by the scene they had created.

"Thank you. As I was saying, this is a particularly human approach to magic. That does not make it wrong, but it echos with centuries of doctrine and political ethics that have made an idol of power and dominance. Magic is water. It is fluid, cool to the touch, friction-less. Magic is in a dancer's movements, a well executed handshake, the flourish as you take off your coat. You cannot control magic, but you can guide it. How you do so is decided by your preferred life expectancy. Personally, I would like to live as long as possible, so magic is a stream. I can move the rocks, introduce a little turbulence, dam it and suddenly release it. But even a creek can drown you. This school is not here to teach you magic, you clearly have enough aptitude to be here. But it can shape you and your understanding of magic; that you may live and build a home together. Remember, if you disturb its home, it will return the favour. Do not let yourself be fooled by the lies of control, that we are above its power. The greatest magicians have always been artists, weavers, gardeners. Why do you think that is? I'll see you next Luneday. Class dismissed." They waved their hand and the two mouth-less students lips popped into place. Students flowed out of the class a little quicker than normal, left with a parting view of a small green bird settling on the professor's palm.

Inspired by Unseen's Episode 2, Into the Dark. I got a mean / scary magic professor on the mind and wanted to talk about dumb little humans trying to tame a force of nature.



if everything's okay why do i feel so bad. something is wrong and like always, it's me. that self-indulgent personal responibility rears its ugly head again. it's the echo of that summer: "Heat Wave" and "Let's Find an Out" and "Pristine". i feel myself searching for appreciation from others to make up for my own lack thereof. i don't know what i'm doing. i'm scared. i fake it and adopt another's face and i'm not her but also i'm not who i originally was, a moth crawling out of the cocoon when you expected a butterfly. i haven't had a day like this for a while (a month). blair was the one who told me that the way my insides feel like they're choking me and they burn, ache, rend, writhe within me i want to tear myself open to get it out. to feel better. to not hurt. could be linked to anxiety/depression, that his dad has similar experiences too. i just want to feel well, for this to stop repeating. sundays have always done this to me, for as long as i can remember (idk from age 10?). it makes it feel cyclical, trapped in this sick (twisted) loop. sometimes i can skip it if im so occupied and distracted that i don't process the emotions. maybe it's part of that good ole midwestern "protestant work ethic"—the only day where i'm allowed to settle lets my mind wander without distraction, and it is unhappy.

im sorry, me. i love you, me. see you again tomorrow, same mind, same place?


Candlelight ii


It's cold, here. The massive cathedral always is, mass always the exception (stiflingly hot, but such is God's hearth). The wooden pew creeks beneath her, hands clasped tightly in her lap, head bowed in an outsider's idea of a prayer. The candlelight reflects off of her tears, subtle streaks only visible in the dancing light. She stares at the central tapered candle, eyes trying to reverse its gentle melt downwards, bidding the draft of the chamber to slow its march. The flame is unrelenting.

Week 8: Author Swap! (again!)



By lucah

The cover of a brown paper bag. A white piece of paper pasted on the front says 'TRANZINE' in blue letters. 'my relationship with queerness was, maybe has been, an awkward one of inevitability.' 'figuring out i was trans was kinda like this' followed by an arrow points to a sketch of a character not looking where they're walking and falling down a set of stairs. an onlooker looks distrubed. the sketch is annotated '* depictions of me are adapted to present for dysphoria reasons lol'. 'here are some words:' 'heart-drop, awkward, too-late, unexpected, longing, angst, oh fuck'. 'Oh yeah I'd love to be a girl. If I could flip a switch I definitely would. Would I? Don't think about that. Oh transness is actually a possibility? How does HRT work? How would I start? God, there are trans people in the world and they're okay? Don't think about it don't think about it -' the rest of the box divolves into scribbles. Beneath the box of text a character (lucah) sits with her hands clasped under her chin, dreaming. the picture is annotated 'definitely not thinking about it' with a curly arrow. a sketch of a cracked egg. 'FINE! You got me. Turns out I didn't fall down the stairs and smash my face it. It was just a step.' '(a big wonderful step but still a step)'. 'Some lucah lore: Hunter Schafer on Euphoria cracked my egg lol'. 'Initiatlly in my transition I was probably over-compensating presenting femininity (when I wasn't trying to hide my body outright)'. 'because that was the only way I could show myself + the world that I'm Girl'. orange and blue flower stickers are pasted beneath these texts. a post-it says 'the divine feminine' with several heart embellishments sits with a post-it sketch of some beast-human woman thing and a cute little animated-show esque sticker of a girl and a bird. 'after a lot of stress trying to conform, I stumbled into a revelation: I am not going to bother trying to meet a standard I* cannot achieve'. '* or anyone, especially if you're not skinny, cis, or white.'
a sketch of women on stairs, rotated 45 degrees. 'HRT doing + having done its thing, I feel a lot more comfortable not having to keep up an image + portray femininity in an ideal sense.' 'I'm a weird tranny dyke and I think that's pretty cool.' A couple butterfly stickers are pasted among these text boxes. A post-it with an arrow pointing to a black ink person is annotated 'I'm here now. Now what?' 'at the risk of being tacky, here are some words: understanding, autonomy, love, amorphous sludge, confidence, contentment, everchanging.' a hand-drawn sticker of the tarot card XVII: the star is pasted below this text. 'the steps keep going. Change isn't happening to me, outside of me. it's beside me, scrappy and confusing and wonderful. Me and change are pals.' a sketch of a trans symbol is pasted below the text. 'I love you trans people.' 'lulu '24' 'writchal24 / author swap w/ alice,'
Written as part of an author swap !! you can find my work on lucah's site!


collective worldbuilding thing!


Transcript of the BBC World News, 26/02/24.

Begin relevant script.

PRESENTER HAMMERSEA: ...these policies will certainly have a determental impact to transexuals under the age of 18. And now, an update on the developing extraterrestrial situation. Live feeds of the scene were paused for nearly an hour today, creating significant stress and anxiety around the world. As has been clearly communicated, footage of the scene is available on a twenty four hour delay that is only paused in cases of emergency. The footage resumed fifty four minutes later at its last observed point with no observed changes. We go now to our field correspondant, AMY JOHNSON.

AMY JOHNSON: Panic spread throughout the globe as surveillance footage of the situation at the alien site appeared to come to a head. The past two days have seen a notable increase in the presence of military personel despite jurisdiction still appearing to remain with the Ad-hoc Extra-terrestrial Research Association (AERA). The period of the pause corresponded with a flurry of activity within the observable site, sounds of alarm and pain, and soon after, quiet. Where previously there have been the sounds of life from our position near the site, the hum of inscects, birds, and even the wind in the grass has gone mute. The Earth stands silent, here, broken only by the sounds of humanity.

A short clip from a news camera recording plays back a quick 15 second clip of the hurried shouts from within the AREA restricted zone, followed by absolute silence, broken only by the sound of a military vehicle speeding by at the end of the clip.

PRESENTER HAMMERSEA: That is unnerving, AMY. Do we know what happened on-site at this time?

AMY JOHNSON: AREA officials report the broadcast interruptions were the result of an equipment fault and did not respond to questions regarding the length of the outage or their lack of a statement during the pause. However, we have obtained exclusive footage of two of the AREA scientists being escorted off-site in restraints in a military vehicle.

Grainy, low-light phone camera footage shakily shows a military truck with an open canopy driving out of the site, its diesel engine roaring in the silence. Four soldiers flank two AREA scientists, distinguished by their tattered white labcoats amid the soldiers' camo. Off screen, someone barks an order to the videographer: "Hey, turn that thing off. I said put it away." Hands cover the lens and the footage ends with the sound of a scuffle.

PRESENTER HAMMERSEA: Thank you for the update, AMY. We will be the first to update you with news on this developing situation. And now, the situation in the middle east...

End relevent script.


one more to come ...

Week 9: CUBE3



My skin is dry. I feel like I'm in the interior of a cube, the sides painted in the blood of all these memories, and as I rotate it in my hands I dance through them again, forced into a perfect repetition. Six sides isn't much, but they collapse inwards, a bismuth-like fractal expanding into oblivion around me. The air is stale, moisture-sucking, old. How old is this? What kind of sick groundhog day nonsense is this? Can I escape my past or will it always haunt my future?



There's something magical in the pockets of time we don't usually acknowledge. I was introduced to the timeslip in Kim Stanley Robinson's Red Mars: as colonists settled Mars, they had to figure what to do in the 39 extra minutes in the Martian day (which is 24:37:35 metric hrs/mins/secs long). Wanting to keep to Earth's '24-hour'1 day, they dedicate the bonus time to the timeslip, where the clocks stopped and society took a pause to exist and be human (I think there was some weird sex-stuff mention here, Robinson usually hangs around a 3 on the sci-fi categorisation chart but he can work his way up to a 5 (2312 weird tranny sex my beloved)). I love the term—generally used as a sci-fi trope where characters find themselves outside of time for some event—but converting it to reality. A leap year and it's leap day should be a time slip! Strike the 29th from the calendar and leave it as the unnumbered day, floating, ours for the taking. The same goes for daylight savings time. Sure, it is silly, yes, but the twice a year timeslip/timeskip it provides is incredible. Time is immutable (none of us will ever truly experiences the effects of relativity) and to defy its control in the hour, the day, the now, is precious. Let's hold it, just for us.

Week 10: Wizard Duel


Wizard anthology

Sorry for the lack of cubesque posts !!! getting into Wizard Duel which feels good so enjoy today's short anthology of lil wizard duel-y stories!


I can hear the people chatting quietly beside me. I hear the rattle of the streetcar as we rumble over the points. I feel the rough moquette beneathe me, the way it irritates the flesh and makes me warm stop Stop Not Here Breath first In.   Out.    In.     Out.      Now, name your senses again. I smell the sweat of the man next to me, I can hear the ding of the "Stop Requested" chime, I...


If you listen hard late at night (when the city settles) you can start to hear the ones who forget to be quiet. They're spoiled by the constant noise and thrum of the town and forget to properly conceal themselves. The rippled reflections in the lake hold an unfamilar skyline, show figures that couldn't exist. The city starts to talk to you, murmuring through the distant sound of the lone car nearby, the wind cutting through the urban canyons, the scuttle of adventurous raccoons. Don't listen too hard, though, you'll make yourself obvious if you pay too much attention. This city doesn't kindly to gawkers.

guy who doesn't realise all his friends are dating

C'mon, man, don't you get it? We've formed a fucking coven! "bro settle down" no seriously! We share everything we eat, my germs touch yours touch hers touch zirs—we do all our spellwork together, Jamie's elegance supplementing my attention to detail and alice's knack for tying our disparate strands together. Fuck, even our group hugs have become a ritual, clasped together and turnin a circle: thrice clockwise, thrice anticlockwise, then SQUEEZE! And sometimes we kiss! What are we, if not locked into a coven together? A polycule?

Hunter / Poacher

It's cold here. Lake Ontario doesn't freeze fully, but it gets close. She's an intruder here, not one of us, preying on our docile fish herds and culling our eelgrass. She know better, knows whose waters these are. The poacher is quick, alert fingers twisting together with an ease that only magical warmth can offer in these depths. I stalk her, a sturgeon carving a path through the waters beneath her—she's too distracted by her quarry to see through my form. It's too late for her, now. A quick Compress Gases and her lungs have collapsed, the air (now smaller than a grain of sand) burning her from the inside out. Her mouth opens for a soundless scream and I drop the spell, gas expanding violently through her open jaw. Her fingers jerkingly compose a Penis Blast in retort, faltering into a Penits Blast. Her penis dissolves into a shower of peanuts, body sinking to the mud with a sense of finality. This winter has been long, the lake could do with some more food.

thank you to Snow, Laura, and katie! for the original entry and banter today, inspiration for the fourth entry (submerge + wizard duel), and more banter, respectively.


wizard duel against science

I want to perfect teleportation. I want to cradle every atom of you in my palms, to caress them as they stream past my hands to remake you. I want to tuck every hair into place (even the follicles that have not yet expanded). I want to feel the warmth in the stream fo your blood, coursing life back through you. I want to massage your shoulder blades into place, to set your hips in their sockets, to arrange your spine just a little more comfortably. I want to watch your lungs rise, body and mind set into motion, to watch recognition light across your face. I want to perfect teleportation with you by my side.

"Alexa, cast teleport."


Field report of Assoc. Wz. Alice Dorgen

In the year since my fulfilment of requirements at academy, I have witnessed many of the beauties of this world (and others). I've learned from the slow and steady shift of the coral reefs, their volcanic atolls leisurely subsiding while the corals grow ever taller on the bones of their forefathers. I ventured into dragons' caves to listen to voice of the Earth and her children, deep enough to feel the voices of the elementals conducting through rock as minor earthquakes. The dragons, of course, have been hunted to near extinction by power hungry youths and naive seniors. Their niche has to be filled, and I am pleased to see that the Council has done its best work to take the place of the dragons of yore. Lately, though, I've found myself in what most folk call God's Country: the lakes of northern Minnesota. Divesting myself of the academic side of magic, I whisper a spark to start my fires, forage for material components, wait for the earth to tell me what way to go. Birds fascinate me the most, though. Did you know that the Great Northern Loon (Gavia immer) carries a knife in its beak? It is a weapon, a danger, a threat to anyone watching to let it lie. I've been learning how to not be a weapon any more, to break the violence that has been instructed into me. In my dreams I hear the crunch of cys bones before cyr final retaliation, the only option left in losing. I've forgiven cyr. We both were only doing what we were taught.

In short, no, Cllr. Wz. Charlegne. I refuse your offer of apprenticeship and to rejoin the rolls of the Wizard Council.


Assoc. Wz. Alice Dorgen

yeah you're right playing with the wizards is so fun. love this funky little universe (yeah jr. wz. alice dorgen got her name back in this one wooo!!). also minnesota is canon? wild. deeply inspired by snow's two entries in the universe for wizard duel week: march 6's fantastic exam duel for dorgen and march 10's great pleading and theory-ish appeal to the wizard council to get rid of duels. so cool !!!!

Week 11: Sphere


omitted for privacy

i reserve the right to change my mind about this later.


dinner today

I cooked a big dinner today (pozole). I invited friends over and those that were incidentally here, too. I started cooking on Thursday (today is Sunday); our other big burner is broken and we only have the one big pot (these things take time). With a big bike ride yesterday to collect ingredients and the myriad of steps today, I took time, too. It's all part of caring for myself (and others). I cleaned while I wasn't tending to it, windows open to the first breath of spring air. I made drinks, we ate, and there are leftovers for tomorrow.

another century. as laura said yesterday, "some things are best expressed in that form." cute.


Lacrosse massage ball

"Fuck, dude." The lacrosse ball digs into his back as he wriggles on top of your carpet like a worm. "Uhhg." You swear to god you've never heard him make noises this indignant and it's with a fucking exercise ball on your floor. You watch in repulsed fascination as he continues his snake-esque dance, eyes closed shut in focus. A mix of pain, pleasure, and concentration swim across his face, eyebrows expressive to your interpretations. "Oh yeah, that's it." This man is going to cum his pants on your rug. After his moment of ecstasy in finally undoing the knot, he slumps to the floor, full of post-massage clarity. "Mmgh."

Week 12: Branching



I want to respect the sun more. Its holidays are absolute: longest day, shortest day, two days of equality. I like the simplicity. I think there's something wrong with me (psychologically). I hate the swings from perfectly fine to numb enough to be enticed by the cars flying in front of me, that no harm would really come from stepping into their path. I don't know how to reconcile joy with hopelessness. I've been staring into the past today, into New Zealand and Australia. It makes me sad to think about how sad I was then, even though now /is/ better. Loneliness like that is hard to shake, I think.

there's a todo list in When? now! maybe some nearly 9 month old posts will actually make it up here soon. i hope so. the todo list is to keep the website fun btw, been getting a little stagnant with it. this shit needs to stay fluid, stay funky.


thoughts of auckland

This isn't intended to hype it up, but I have something bigger I've been working on for "Branching" that isn't quite done yet. I don't think it will be done today or tomorrow; I can only hope to have it done before the next nine months are gone by. While I was working on it, I started thinking about a particular experience I had in Auckland that is relevant to the piece and that led me to think about Auckland and I broke into tears. I don't think that's a /normal/

reaction when someone thinks about their exchange. It's supposed to be a definitely Good Thing that happened, and sure there were probably some bad experiences but overall it was Good. And even now, looking back, it feels like it was mostly Good? I have a Long Post about this in the works but. It got better. I just still get caught up on the loneliness that so much of it held; it feels like that loneliness has come to define it? I can't remember large segments of my time in Auckland clearly. It feels like that depression-fueled block, that it was bad and not worth remembering, that when I lived my life in a haze it follows that its memory would be even hazier. I just wish it had been better, and I wish I could imagine what that would've looked like.

stealing laur's aside practices wholesale

Week 13: Author Swap (iii)


The Cycle

By Ollie

The cycle always starts with a lurch.

The survivors stumble out of bunkers, sail in on keeling tubs, or just crawl out of whatever fortunate nook they were hiding in. Some weep, some whoop, all send a thankful prayer to Wolf. They know they are the lucky ones.

The world they return to is beaten and scarred. Trampled forests and shattered hills are broken up by titanic corpses and their cast off shells. Around the behemoths, carpetflower is already poking its buds up, before the rot has even set in. Rabbit skipping Rat, just like the old story. We all know how that ends for Rabbit. A warning for children against breaking the cycle. There haven't been children in years, but the taboo is lifted now. Dread has turned to hope. They will come.

And with them come villages. Survivors pool like water, gathering in fresh valleys and gentle river bends. Bunker tyrants clutch at power as their leverage fades and their people slip off in the night. There's a new world waiting, they will not be held back. As the last of the hatching tremors fade from below, the first solid walls go up. Houses built to last. Seventeen years, two rabbit lives lived in full. No more, no less.

After the settling in, connection starts. Foresters and pilgrims roam far afield, leaving dotted trails of cairns and pits of smoky ash. Some villages discover their neighbors, others their isolation. The world is vast, the people few. Many are hopelessly alone. They push out anyways. Some stumble upon remnants: Protected pockets of the old world, or pieces of worlds yet older, unearthed by the nymphs. A connection to the dead is cold comfort for a lack of the living, but it will have to do.

The first year is a ceaseless blur of activity. Slowly though, as children are born and new communities founded, habits emerge and the typical chaos of life takes hold. The long arc of the cycle stretches out. Connection slows, but there are always those who wander. Cities form, societies build themselves up, Dog smiles. Crete is sculpted, canvas painted, great works constructed under Cat's approving gaze. Each cycle a different form, each cycle the same patterns. For a time, the swarming is all but forgotten, yet it always looms. The flowers never forget, the people try.

But as the years pass and the arc reaches its zenith, a generation is born knowing they will see the end. The pace of life picks up to match, slowly rising to a fever pitch. Some prepare, building boats and digging holes to hide in. Others accept the timer, living the life they have to the fullest. As the swarming approaches, the nurseries go quiet. Every culture sets a different limit, but by the last year there are no children being born. Silence and grim determination blanket the world. The last preparations are made. The calm is unbearable. When the first bunkerseeds sprout, the festivals erupt. The wait is finally over.

The parties don't stop until they feel the nymph tremors. Some don't stop even then, the revelers having accepted their fate. Ships set sail. Vaults are stuffed with souls. Wanderers find the biggest rock they can and slink under it. Wolf licks its lips.

The tremors grow to earthquakes. Fields erupt, cliffs shatter, rivers change their courses as nymphs burst from below and pour out across the world. Sinkholes swallow whole towns as tunnels empty and the surface grows heavy with molting giants. Tearing out of their shells, cicadas take to the air, their wing beats raising waves and pulling up trees. They perch on hills and mountains, calling out with songs that crack stone and flatten forests. Their choir reaches the deepest caverns and farthest seas. It permeates the world, invades the mind feeling like it will drone on forever, like it never started and has always been.

But all things must end, even the end times. The cicadas mate and lay their brood, seeding the next cycle, then curl up to die. Their song dies with them. In the quiet, the stunned survivors raise their heads and try to believe they're alive. They creep out of bunkers they thought would be their tombs, faltering at the sight of their new world. Then, falling forward over their feet, they stumble off into the sunlight.

The cycle always starts with a lurch.

Spawned by a song + music video and inspiration for the content from a modded campaign called Drika’s Story, for an oldish game called Overgrowth. alice,: You can find my companion swap over on Ollie's page!



By snow

you have been cornered for as long as you remember. when you aren't in a corner you skulk in the shadows. a shackle on your left leg rattles with every step, no matter how quietly you move. you shrink away from bright lights and comforting hands. hands can turn. an open palm can hide a knife. the glimmer in the distance can be a needlepoint. hold your breath. you know at this point, that it all is just a trick of the light.

so what. so what does it fucking matter. RUN. make as much noise as possible ricochet the chain so it hits the bars and yourself make everyone suffer in the cacophony. eat enough stone and you can walk through walls. claw at your cage, the world. arrowheads are buried into your flesh, what choice to you have but to scream. trust no one. when your voice goes numb keep shrieking 'til the hemoglobin bubbles out of your throat. go loud.

bite the hand that feeds you. they fucking deserve it. you're an animal. rend their flesh. the blood drips down your teeth and your chin, the iron is delicious, savor it. kill them all.

alice,: a beautiful piece of horror from snow!!! you can find my exchange on their site!



By lucah

autumn’s only place in my mind has been the hint of winter and the friction to life the cold brings. it hasn’t begun yet, it’s a tension, a not-yet-needle-drop. I anticipate the freezing, of joints in my fingers and my will to move.

but it’s still there, it’s the weeds bursting through brick and mortar, opposite corners of a 4 way intersection, hands changing coins. get where you need to go, it doesn’t matter how.

the interface has never been in question until this moment

stresses tangled and taut and slack in strange places, for now I will let the knots unravel on their own.

loose in the imagined obligation noodles, in some vermicelli verisimilitude, my muscles ease to the shifting tension. through the cold the body keeps vital organs warm above all else - I should follow suit. I am tired to no fault of my own. the cold nips my ears and I kiss it back. give way. hello autumn

alice,: oh what a lovely little view of the first whispers of autumn. i love the round-like experience of the seasons (and life, i think seasons tend to shape our lives) that this group of writers has going for it. i cannot wait to hear of the woes of winter once i am riding the heights of summer. i hope you think so, too. you can find my post in exchange on lucah's site!



I've been too caught up in remembering. I don't understand how (given the choice) one could always live in the same place. I've barely been here a cummulative three years and this place already reeks of the past. The dry cleaner we go to shares a wall with the Indian joint she dumped me in. Their apartment is up for rent—it could be ours, 4br/2.5bath for under 2500$/mo. The rattle of the train over the canal bridge has always been there, part of the background hum. I want to let it all wash away, a torrent of the heavens pressure washing this place clean. After all, the desert rain is followed by such sweet petrichor.

A contribution based on this author swap's sentence swap, from snow! The sentence was After all, the desert rain is followed by sweet petrichor.

Week 14: Second


Captive / Captor

It's part of our dance, see. I jerk against the double column tie that binds my arms together behind my back while you circle me with soundless footsteps. I cannot see you, of course, though I can practically see the dust in the air under the hood. You remind me of your presence through the tender caress of the cane, which, as always, leads to a sudden jolt as I am remind that I need to escape, lest I face the consequences. You've introduced a little novelty today (my legs came free a little too fast previously), with solid binds between each body leg and chair leg. I've been working on my Houdini escapes, though—you're just as surprised as I when I yank the hood off and we fall into a tussle, as per usual. The rest, of course, was nothing out of the ordinary.


my apologies,

for having left you all wanting. i was the one to suggest this theme, after all, and have had so many idea for it and none of the time. we're well and truly in the thick of it now, eh?1 today my first (and i suppose up to this point only) car died and my sister coulda too. car crashes are like that, y'know? she's safe and healthy as you can be, a burn from the seatbelt and bruises from the airbag, but all good otherwise. alfonso (the car, keep up) did his duty and crumpled like a champ. i loved that car, my first breath of freedom and 'adultness' in the suffocating suburbs. when i'm upset i feel like i'm stuck in the past, like it's still 2018 and i'm pulled over on the side of the road crying because ezra keeps telling me it isn't safe to drive with tears in your eyes and i'm starting to listen to him. i miss my family. i miss home. i miss my youth. i feel so lost and usually that is joyous with the possibilities the future holds but recently i've been feeling so scared. the band i listened to the first time i went to australia is putting out new music. every time i've listened to this song i've sobbed. i'm so glad my sister is safe.

this isn't a plea for empathy, just an expression of my feelings.

Originally a bandcamp embed was here but it gives weird tracking shit. The song embedded was Ella's From Somewhere Else by Babehoven.

1: it's the end of the school year and i am going to fucking graduate or so help me god.

Week 15: Soundtrack



It's a distant refrain. It grows nearer in this vestige of nature in the city, full of trilling alarm calls and the adventurous few that venture onto the bridge into oblivion. Swarms of gnats bzzt, providing both the natives and the foreigners a chance to feed greedily. The calls of surprise continue until the stopping point, when everyone settles and only the gentle chirps of casual conversation remain. As it dims more alarms sound, until evening calls abound as this day-night arrives. They awake as the world does, singing the songs of a gracious god that has shown mercy, again.



I don't know what got me in the mood, but the past couple days I've been tormenting my roommates with songs that are wrong. It started with an innocent Call me maybe but it's missing every other beat crossing my tumblr that reignited it, and I found a lovely youtube playlist that serves the purpose well. Eventually, every other beat got stale—I think my favourites are the Wii music with uncomfortable long pauses, Major key Halo, and All I Want For Christmas is you but Mariah Carey really needs to sneeze (my favourite of the bunch). I hope you enjoy this little bout of weirdness :-)

And thank you for your patience with the fonts, too. I realised the little bit of code I had to grab 'Open Sans' wasn't working on other OSes because their default sans-serif is not Open Sans (spoiled by linux, I suppose) wasn't working at all and I just liked the default linux sans-serif. Properly updating to Open Sans wasn't quite right either, though, and everything was a bit too thin. I'm giving this a go, it's called Poppins and seems a decent option? If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them. Maybe you think En cours should be a serif kinda joint? Perhaps some bigger style changes are coming... I have plenty of work to procrastinate on, after all.

Week 16: Float


float crafting

I need to get on that float grindset. I got the vanilla ice cream that's been living in my freezer for an age. I got weird and nefarious beverages haunting the fridge. Sounds like it's time to make some really fucked up floats. Milk clarified alcoholic punch over ice cream? Sound like yum! Heavy cream that's on its way to becoming butter? Sounds like a really creamy experience. How about that jar of pickle juice (sans pickles) if you're more of a savoury type? Top it with hot sauce if you want the heat. Get fucked up on it, girl!

now debuting the first entry (officially) with the new background!!! yippee!! and now serving the font myself instead of pulling it from fucking google!!! fuck google!!!!!!



This entry is a bit unconvential. Due to issues exporting it as an image, it is best available as a pdf. Also blow it up a bit bigger if you're printing it. Enjoy.


Transcript of codes.pdf (spoilers)

yeah yeah cube ass entry whatever call it a throwback

Week 17: Author swap $\times$ 4




this was the week's weird writing thing™. the character, the guy in your class who insists on playing devil’s advocate, was provided by ali, while the plot, an interaction with a stranger that they’ll never remember and you’ll never forget, was provided by Ollie.

Week 18: Blood



My full thesis is done! You can read it if you want, but here's as quick a summary as I can give:

I looked at the stability of croplands in the areas near cities. Their patterns varied a lot in space and only 929 / 2,425 nearby areas met my requirements for stability. Due to difficulties with the calculation, I ended up presenting a way to find the extreme temperature exposure of all these areas but not actually doing it. This was a year of my life. Yippee!


head rush

It's the rush of it. I know, it's a bit sick to subject myself to this, but I really do like it. Low-iron maxxing, anemia-pilled, whatever you want to call it, the bliss of standing and knowing that your own oxygenation isn't enough is intoxicating. I could sit in that brilliant moment of darkness for an age, unaware and unconcerned, leaning on the wall as my body lags to catch up. The way it all rushes back, sight and sound and smell and the pounding in my head as my brain finally understands the gravity of it all just as my body does too. Ah, the glories of flesh.

Week 19: Vessel


vessel of devotion

And here, at the end of things, we find ourselves. I was in your arms, comfortable as can be, naught twelve hours ago. And now, you betray me, my ideals, those I protect? I've given you my heart and this is how I am repaid? I will be the first to admit that I am a simple believer. I've never excelled, never failed, I have been perfectly average. I wake up. I go to work. I send my emails. I come home. I feed our dogs. I try to ignore your study (it's a disaster zone). I make us dinner. I welcome you home. I wash the soot off your robes. And we fall asleep watching Wheel of Fortune, trying to outplay those on the show. I knew something was coming. You've been working late, robes fraying, wand left on the counter slick with sweat. And I've done everything I could for you. I know I can't stop you, and I thought I didn't have to. I thought you were on our side, fighting for the good of us all. Why'd you have to go and be selfish, love?


A piece of honeycomb

Long description. An annotated map of Hughes Mountain Natural Area, featuring a rough rubbing / sketch of a piece of Devil's Honeycomb, with its moss and colour features noted. The path we took through the area is written on the map, featuring a few stops before the 'summit'. Beneath the map is written 'Making old places with new people leading to a new experience. / (Duh)'. To its left, a list of spotted birds are written: '-Summer Tanager / -American Crow / -Blue Jay / -Mourning Dove? / -Turkey Vulture / -American Robin'.

getting into uh. mediums. or something.



I close the book. It was a fine book, perfectly satisfactory, nothing special. A book, even.

I am tired. I curl into a ball at the foot of the bed. My vestibular aparatus is shot.

I feel myself dissolve into the floorboards, sinking into the earth. I follow the microchannels carved by centuries of seeping water, reaching bedrock and limestone. I'm oblivious to time as I blaze a trail, calcium carbonate filling my palms as I travel so slowly into the water table. I rest for a while.

The minerals clutched in my fists sink as I float within the aquifer. News of sodium and nitrates reach my palate. I feel the rocks shift beneath me, beneath us, our movements becoming one. And we are whole.



A quick sketch, titled Sittin' 11/5/24. Three figures sit in chairs. SNOW, on the left, is hunched over their computer, while KATIE, in the centre, reclines in her chair with hers. LAURA, on the right, reclines with her notebook in hand. The bottom is annotated 'Backyard, St. Louis, MO'.

Baby's first true little sketch! oough!

Week 20: Language


- --- / .... . .- .-. / .. -

.. / ..-. . . .-.. / .-.. .. -.- . / - .... . .-. . ... / .- .-.. .-- .- -.-- ... / ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --. / .. -- / -- .. ... ... .. -. --. / - .... .- - / .-.. .. - - .-.. . / -.-. ..- . / ... --- / ... ..- -... - .-.. . / .- -. -.. / --.- ..- .. . - / .. - / .-.. . .- -.. ... / -- . / .- ... - .-. .- -.-- / ..-. .- .-. / ..-. .-. --- -- / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .- .-. -- ... | .-- .... . -. / -.-- --- ..- / -.-. .- -. / .... . .- .-. / - .... . / .. -.-. . / -.-. .-. .- -.-. -.- / ..- -. -.. . .-. / - .... . / .-- . .. --. .... - / --- ..-. / -- -.-- / -- .. ... ... - . .--. ... | .. / -.. --- / -. --- - / .... .- ...- . / - .... . / .-.. .- -. --. ..- .- --. . / - --- / -.- -. --- .-- ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - .- -. -.. -.-. --- -- .--. .-. . .... . -. -.. / - --- / .... . .- .-. | .. -

"/" for words, "|" for sentences



I know it's not healthy, but I love the rush of epinephrine she gives me. Her pleasure in the ache of the wound and the discomfort in your eyes leaves me guilty. She's a pure flow of energy that leaves me shaking while I sit on the sidewalk. She gives me the self-satisfaction of a fully stocked first-aid kit and (if I may say so myself) a perfect field dressing. She's speaks so clearly in these moments, are you listening? She whispers a dull ache to me that turns sharp when I bump it, the twisted endorphins mixing with the blood as I clean the wound. She's in the fiery speech as it dries that returns to a murmur while she bides her time. Her voice is seductive, inviting, begging me to listen to her. We'll see if I can drown her out.

Week 21: Author Swap V

21.05.24 - MAGI 204: Home Enchantments

By lucah

Transcript from notetaker; Lecture 1:

Magic’s applications as used outside of the home and inside the home are as different as any particular discipline.

Casting outside, even as part of routine, it’s inherently a reaction to situations presented. It is flowing as the world is. In the home, it is the wearing of a groove. The home is a place of familiarities, of ease, and in some part: permanence. Now, physicality is often a point of contention in the home. It’s hard to imagine anyone able to harness magic so grand as to to surpass the need for walls, for cupboards, for a kitchen, to need a home at all. I’m to walk down the stairwell, I’m to get up from bed, I’m to climb the ladder to the bookcase.

Magical interventions notwithstanding, age is a permanent residence in the human condition. If you haven’t come to that conclusion already, I’m sure you’ll understand in time. To abandon that anchor is to abandon life itself. This philosophy regarding petrification has been highly debated, as some are to argue that magic inherently unnatural. Though my perspective is that magic is only an extension of life, and the many forms it takes. Who’s to say that harnessing it is unnatural? It only becomes what is already there. You cannot take without taking from yourself. You cannot take without giving.

Visitors and new apprentices are often shocked at the state of my home’s customisation. I will admit my applications are unorthodox, though I still stand by their worth. They get used it eventually—or at least they bear it for as long as they stay. They see my room-to-room portals as booby traps, my flying books as messy distractions, the mould ward as lazy. Their least favourite is the eyes, my eyes, that I’ve taken to spreading upon each wall.

It is perhaps an ignorance, or an underdevelopment in understanding, that ease or novelty at the sacrifice of nothing is a misgiving. We all understand friction is an inherent quality of life—I want to tell you not every dedication is virtuous. Help is not automation, a removal of process, it is merely help. Change.

Simple as it may be, I advise you all take this notion, not just as food for thought. Develop on it. I cannot tell you what you may need, that is for you to decide, to understand. Whatever home looks like, help home work with you.

That is all for today. Dismissed.

alice,: yess Lucah's been hit with the 'Wizard Blast' as they call it (no they don't)!! i love this beautiful addition to this funky world :3. my fun little swap (a cyanotype) is on her site.


Entry 145: Apartment Tour #23

By Laura

  • Sea vessel-style intercom system connected to every room, accessible from kitchen
  • Bulletproof glass windows might come in handy?
  • Nonlinear geometry gives all four bedrooms south-facing windows
  • Kitchen faucet pulls straight from the plane of water (clear and mineralized!)
  • Landlord is bound to honesty by ancient oaths (to unclear terms)
  • Enchanted front door unlocks itself for those who have been permitted entry
  • Diswasher is bigger on the inside than on the outside
  • Cons:
  • Closest metro station is the haunted one
  • Bulletproof glass windows cannot open for ventilation
  • All four closet doors lead to the same 2x2 meter pocket dimension, raises challenges for space allocation and privacy
  • The two bathrooms occasionally swap places
  • Previous tenants carved a permanent teleportation circle into the upstairs common area, still hold the sole keystone
  • Second-largest bedroom is cursed so you age twice as fast
  • Brand-new abduction stove steals heat from surrounding air
  • alice,: teehee i like how some of these are real places we've toured. yeah. that apartment would have all these features, huh. You can find my swap on her site! woagh!


    PHYS 448: Stochastic Transmutation

    By snow

    Past models of magic have relied on the four or five elements, depending on the time period. For example, Plato proposed four elements, with Aristotle later adding a fifth, which then became associated with the five platonic solids. Now we know there to be 118 chemical elements. Still, these four or five elements still have a grasp on those who perform magic.

    Mana comes from the Māori word mana, meaning power, prestige, as well as the form of supernatural energy in Polynesian theory that inheres in anything or anyone. This word is commonly used as a shorthand by magicians and wizards anywhere, even among those who do not have any background in the culture or its understanding of magic.

    Those performing magic without a strong scientific foundation tend to conflate the Hellenistic "elements" and Māori "mana" in their conceptions of magic. None of this has been rigourously proven, but has become a convinient shorthand in teaching and performing complex processes.

    This course does not cover different theories of magic, rather we observe the chemical and physical compositions of objects before and after transmutation, and develop and test our own hypotheses. We will cover the history of the study of magic, but briefly.

    This is not a MAGI course, it is not focused on developing any magical skill. This course is for anyone to study and theorize upon how transmutation affects the observable realm.

    Please open the syllabus to our course schedule on the third page.

    alice,: wooooooo yeah!!!! I want to take Wizard Physics now that seems like some super nifty stuff. My exchange (my swap) is available on their page!

    Week 22: Cardinal


    Ritualistic Practice

    Hey, there's a pretty serious Content Warning for Suicide for this entry, so it's linked on a different page. Enjoy!

    Read Ritualistic Practice


    Fell flat

    CW: Implied suicide attempt

    What happens after you finish falling? You peel yourself off the pavement after the momentum has perfectly flattened you, and you go back to your life. Your boss doesn't notice anything and you haven't talked to your wife since she left for her sister's, you're just locked back into the banality of perfect mundanity. The world keeps spinning. You read in the paper about another flat-guy who puts himself in the mail after successfully arguing that he's an oversized letter. You're not that brave, the boldest thing you've done with your new form is slipping past your own locked door through the gap at the floor. You downsize your wardrobe, three-dimensional clothes hang oddly on your two-dimensional frame. You find love. Sex is weird in two dimensions. You reexperience heartbreak. You live, all the same, wishing it was special.

    I think this is technically Flat Stanley fanfiction ????????? girls when they're a little sleepy with it. Also, I'm trying to write every day in June. Let's see how it goes!


    A quick and sloppy entry about Projections and Coordinate Reference Systems

    Okay so the Earth is round. Except that's wrong, it's not perfectly round, it's more of an oblate sphereoid. Except that's wrong too, the Earth is irregularly bumpy; it's not a regular shape. Thus, the only way you can perfectly represent Earth's geography is in three dimensions. Anything less (i.e. two) and you'll need to make some compromises.


    One of those compromises is you need to decide how you'll unwrap this 3D shape onto a 2D plane. You've probably heard of the Mercator projection, made famous by its use in naval navigation as it preserves angles (and shapes and directions). However, scale (area) is not preserved; in fact, it's impossible for a projection that correctly displays area to preserve angles. You can cheat a bit by altering the shape of your end map (à la Goode homolosine) but you'll have to choose between these two truths.

    Coordinate reference systems

    So here's where we start getting into the weeds of things. Any projection is just some way to transform an oblate sphereoid (our best approximation of our irregular Earth) to be flat. A coordinate refernce system (CRS) is how you actually do this for a map. Because of the irregularity, you need to decide what oblate sphereoid you want to represent the Earth (or more typically, the area of the Earth you're trying to map). You ground this with a Datum, with popular picks being WGS84 (pretty good for most of the world) and NAD83 (a North America centric one because woo rah continental primacy). Often a country will have a prefered Datum they use (e.g. Sierra Leone 1968) or if they're anyone else they'll use WGS84 because they're normal. Next up is what form your CRS will take: geographic or projected.

    Okay so geographers are pretty foolish and both geographic coordinate systems and projected coordinate systems use projections. The difference is in their units. A geographic coordinate system is based in latitude and longitude, in degrees (and minutes and seconds or an unreasonable amount of decimals). This is the closest to those projections we talked about previously; most of them can be directly applied as a geographic coordinate system with the addition of a datum. A projected coordinate system uses some kind of length unit (e.g. km or mile instead of angles) from a given meridian and equator. This is where we start getting really weird. If, for example, you don't want your units to be in excess of like 5.2 million metres you can LIE! You can assign some false prime meridian and equator for your calculation. The most common use is in a CRS called Universal Transverse Mercator (UTM), which divies the world up into little zones and splits it at the equator (giving different zones North and South) and still applies the Mercator projection for that zone. Montréal is in UTM zone 18N, with its fake prime meridian centred on 75°W but letting you make normal length measurements between places. It's more complicated than this and has some trade-offs that I'm not going to talk about. Québec, to be contrarian, uses a version of UTM called Modified Transverse Mercator (how original) that basically cuts the width of the UTM zones to be more accurate (which is really neat)! You can also do other weird stuff with this system but we're not going to talk that either!

    Anyways. Maps! Woo! Download QGIS and follow a quick tutorial and fuck around with your city's bus data! Make a map of your favourite park! Make love! Kiss your friends! Go to sleep!

    Week 23: Format Swap


    Place and self

    How much of myself is grounded here? It's normal to make a space your own, your decorations and tools and the particular arrangement of your coffee set. Your "self" seeps into any place—it's why locating spells can find the things you've been around more. Fuck where are my keys works a hell of a lot better than Where's my dad?. A bit of your soul is left in the fingerprints on the porch door of your childhood homeand when you scratch behind your cat's ears. This can be ill obtained—prisons serve as farms for souls, inmates rotated regularly so their essance can be scraped from the cells. But largely, the amount of "self" you deposit is based on its significance to you. That spoon, stolen from my grandmother's, provides nearly as much juice as can be harvested from a prisoner in a year. And when I leave that spoon behind or lose it or whatever happens to it, it won't come back to be. That juice is stuck in there. Graciously, our souls are not finite: they're constantly growing and able to cover the losses, but you'll still feel the pang when you make your first move. So, here I am, at the end of my near decade in your mossy walls. You've given me the space to raise a child, guarded me, saved me. I think this loss will take a while to recover from.


    Shot list



    A picture of the short story Linger, hastily scrawled in a notebook. It is held against an out-of-focus scene of a goose, marshland, beach and river. The short story text can be found below.

    Linger here—such a brief moment as it is.

    Unify your memories in the present and bind them eternal.

    Swim, and let them wash away.


    impact 3D

    When was the last time you walked into a wall? For me, it was this morning, I turned right instead of left and crashed my head into plastered brick. It hurt. Later, I sat down, legs crossed on the battered wood floors of the living room. I closed my eyes and leaned forward, draping with exhaustion. I hit my head on the ground. Once is a freak accident and twice is a coincidence, right? Later, as I inspected the broken window in our hallway, I slipped on my way down and managed to hit my head on the ceiling. Now that's what I call three dimensional impact, baby!


    bike playlist 2024-06-08

    pre-workout jams:

    songs that got stuck in my head while i rode:


    ranking the neighbourhoods of montréal based on my experiences biking through them today

    Ville-Marie: A

    leaving early meant I got to dive down guy with no traffic! the construction that's normally fucky wasn't an issue.

    Sud-Ouest / Lasalle (Lachine Canal): S

    standard lachine canal! it was early enough that there was no traffic so i bombed down it at 15mph the whole way. also there was running water for refills.

    Lachine: S

    surprisingly good! there was a dragon boat rowing competition happening that was really neat? and mostly on fully separated bike paths the whole way

    Dorval: B

    the border of Dorval is tangible because it's where Lachine's awesome bikeway ends. lakeshore drive sucks and the mess of "bike friendly" routes around kinda sucked but at least it wasn't hostile. also got to add a repair station to cyclofix (an openstreetmap thing)! but it's pump was broken so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

    Pointe-Claire: C

    deeply mid. so suburban. random ass bike lanes that spit you out onto residential roads and no signaling that that's happening?? eh. whatever.

    Dollard-des-Ormeaux: F


    Pierrefonds-Roxboro: B

    another forgettable borough. it made up for the crimes of DDO by giving me a gorgeous bike path for a good bit of it which was pleasant.

    Île-Bizard–Sainte-Geneviève: A

    hey Île-Bizard, what's happening with your bridge? that was kind of a mess? you make up for it by having a magical nature park so cool that i wish i lived closer so i could be there more often. also the cable ferry fucked hard.

    Laval: C

    Laval, you gave me such a wild ride. Initially: great bike ways! good signage! i love that you say if a park has a restroom or a water fountain before going into it! but also. do you have running water ????? all the bathrooms were closed???? none of the water worked?????? and your bikeways get so shitty ???? girlie wake up nobody is home hello??

    Ahuntsic-Cartierville: A

    i love the north coast of the island bikeways !! would be rated higher if there werent all those weird bits of street running??? it was annoying.

    Villeray-Saint-Michel-Parc-Extension / Rosemont-La Petite-Patrie (REV St-Denis): A

    i got to bomb down the rev!!! was cooking it big mode !!! lots of traffic though boo.

    Plateau-Mont-Royal: A

    idk normal ass plateau. i wasn't nursing a concussion this time? pine is open and is a cute cut-through? ah, the /bike friendly/ area.



    based on the playlist by my friend syl!

    It started like any other Tuesday. Normal, relaxed, boring. He preened over his dress shirt, adjusting the knot of his tie, and straightened his wings. A quick assessment in the hotel mirror and it began: a slew of the mundane in anyone else's exciting experience. The taxi, the airport, the security, the gate, the plane, the buttons, the taxi, the air. But at least there was the air. A brilliant thing, to behold such beauty so completely. As his copilot shuffled off to the bathroom, he was left in complete control, the only determinant of reality. And that's when it began to unravel. It was a slipping before the fall. The clouds that should be serenely drifting far beneath him were rapidly rising. This, of course, is not right. The altimeter reported that nothing was askew: 37,000 feet, as expected. Frantically, he searched his meters for any confirmation, a corroration that they were not falling from the sky. All was normal, but the clouds were rising, which he supposed was rather abnormal. He steadied his breathing, and held his course. No one else on frequency reported the anomaly, so he continued as normal. His copilot returned from the bathroom and did not comment on the phenomenon. He chalked this up to his mind, and took a break to nap.

    He awoke to the same harsh LEDs that always graced the crew cabin. He rose, straightened his shirt, and descended. Then, he turned left towards the passenger cabin, just to check. Every passenger sat in their seat, staring straight ahead, completely unaware of his presence. He paced the aisles, becoming increasingly frenetic as he moved deeper into the plane, trying to wake them, disturb them, have them recognise him in some way. He was met only with inhuman stillness. Racing back to the cockpit, he threw open the doors, and

    This time he truly awoke in the crew cabin. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and caught that he had slept nearly an hour longer than he meant to. He quickly moved back to his place in the cockpit, recieving a muttered acknowledgment from his copilot. The clouds were nowhere in sight, now. With this reassurance, he let himself flow into the plane again, guiding it through areas of turbulance and catching the winds as they swam nearby. In this state he did not realise how completely he felt the plane, he was the plane, the plane was living and there was nothing else. The plane was living and nothing else inside it was. The plane was living and he was not. Returning to himself, he inspected his copilot. He recognised him, of course, he always recognised him: his copilot. But he was wrong, inhuman, like he was made from one solid piece with his eyes and mouth and body moulded together. And as he thought more about it, when had he truly seen the humanity of his copilot? He looked away and leaned forward, trying to let the sky ground him once more. And at the edge of his vision he saw the clouds, so high now, threatening to pull away from the world entirely. All was not well. This plane had something to do with it. He could not allow for this to continue. He gripped the yoke and pushed in to a dive. This plane is definitely crashing. With the clouds so far above him, he could see the dark sea below him. He felt no reaction within the plane—it's ambivalence was choking. But he felt settled: this was his mission, what he must do. And so he did.

    Week 24: Unfinished



    I'm back on my home server shit, and have a larger post about this on its own page! (ignore that it's postdated the 11th).


    Changing City

    I don't know when I started noticing it. I think it was the Thursday before my presentation, about two and a half weeks ago. The manhole covers looked wrong. No, hey, shush, I'm being serious. I've been getting into manhole covers (and I know that's a bananas thing to say) but they were out of place that Thursday. I think it was their texture—the typical rusted metal looked scale-y, like snakeskin. It shimmered under the moonlight, the irridescence catching the corner of my eye as I walked down the hill from my bus. I didn't think too hard about it.

    I saw something again in the metro, about a week later. I know Guy-Concordia kinda sucks and they've been doing roof-repair work there forever, but the weird drips that come from the wall were growing. Not spreading, not liquid, but something living, something growing. The water ran dark green and cloudy, full of suspended chlorophylls that had colonized the local cracks. Some earthy mass was incubating there, and I swear it pulsed slightly, a caricature of breathing. My attention was pulled from it by my arriving train. I've made sure to take the exit away from it since then.

    Today, I saw the crosswalks counting up. des Pins / Peel had already overflowed and was spitting out garbage symbols, "&S3" accompanying the flashing hand. Bixis have been flocking together in packs, rolling slowly down streets with no riders, reactive like prey. I think I saw someone get eaten by a pothole on Sherbrooke. Something is wrong here, and I don't want to be the one to break the news.


    Remarks from Parc Summerhill

    It took longer than I expected, but I finished my notebook. It's a lil oetic for it to happen now, at this changing of things. I'm waiting impatiently for the solstice, for jobs, to move, to have something happen. Not to say I don't enjoy life right now—I truly do—but I feel plunged into this waiting mode where something is supposed to magically happen. I have no clue what that may be. I don't know if I actually want it, if it'll be all that it's cracked up to be. I know it won't be—post-grad has been dramaticized to all hell by those who no longer experience it. It's mythologized, the great journey into adulthood, with so little time spent on the fear and days spent locked in your room and the suffocating heat smothering you as it sets in all while you watch your savings slowly tick down. This will pass, I know. For now, I'll let the rain wash over me as I sit in the corner park that was built while I've lived here.



    You check it twice As the day (deictic), rolls in with hi-beams on. the sun doesn’t lessen in brightness, the warmth of the night drifting over the dark circles and all your broken things. the sun passes a little too much Before the flow, the flight of fancy, the energy to take a shower, is there. It’s a warm feeling you are less familiar with but day by day you are brought back to earth. You can think about anything now, not the overwhelming nervous glare, the not quite dread of being unacknowledged. You go outside.

    This is finally completing the /Remix/ activity of the Author Swap V! This is a remix of 29.02.24 - slow morning by Lucah, 02.06. sunlight geography by Snow, and 28.04. static charge by Ali. I love your original works and hope you enjoy this new collage of an entry.

    Week 25: Breakfast


    Melbourne Cappuccino

    i think i'm trying to see it wherever i go. i love traveling, i think, but i've been so completely spoiled by you. melbourne is so delightful—even a 36 hour glimpse was enough to have me infatuated—and now my typical tendencies of hunting a city's best coffee, museums, and natural scenes are just a little dimmer when your glow drowns them out, just a little. i want you back (or something). i miss you.

    Week 26: Road


    View from the lobby

    The scent of the rain is unmistakable. You know they gave it a name—petrichor. For me, it will forever remind me of that night. You rang me late, after 1am, begging me to come meet you outside. The smell was overwhelming and the rain was coming down in fat drops. You stood before me, drenched in a manner that I have never seen anyone before (or since), soggy and shivering as the low wind ripped through your shirt. Your blood was easily mistakable in the dark. I watched you pull your hands away from your abdomen and your guts gently settled outwards, easing into their resting place on the asphault before you. Your eyes met mine and I could not break the contact as your brought your hands to your eyelids and peeled your skin that easily gave way. Your bare face, dark red and sinewy, grinned before me, your pleasure apparent. I backed into my apartment, only venturing to close the door when I saw you collapse, petrichor on my tongue and acid in my throat.

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