The ivy creeps through the window to get a closer look at me. Each time it intrudes on my territory I rip the stems apart, scattering the leaves on the stone floor and lighting them on fire, hoping the flames will grow tall and engulf my quiet alcove. But the damp stone never provides the fire any purchase and it lives for only a moment before sputtering out.
I tried to light my hair on fire once, hoping it might embrace destruction, but whatever magical spell mother wound within the fibers still prevents me from harming them. …
a Thursday not long from now
Under the threat of precedented time
Cameras at elbows
Wingtip roller club
Winding/dusting the clock
Here we go
(make it digestible)
We’ll have breakfast with dinosaurs
Pine tree fingernails
Records played backwards
and forwards again
Dreaming of falling / boasting of flying
No one remembers
Nose prints on frosty window panes
Hello! Thank you for reading this poem. It is somewhat short, which can be considered a plus or a minus, depending upon your tastes. So, why am I writing this postscript? Because Medium displays short content very strangely these days and I…
I have a fun, stereotypical habit of scrolling Zillow for 8 hours at a time hoping to find a 150 square foot hovel within my price range. The other day, though, that ritual wasn’t scratching my self-loathing itch, so I decided to join TikTok.
This might have surprised a few folks, since I’d been railing against TikTok for months at that point. It is, after all, my duty as a good millennial to poo poo anything connected to the irreverent youngs. Those jokers were born with an immediate expectation of misery and did not come to it honestly after years…
It was the last day of the year in 1846 and the streets of Copenhagen were cold and smelled of fish. People remained indoors as much as possible, their windows tightly shuttered and rags stuffed beneath the doors. Partly to keep the chill from reaching their bones, but mostly because they were afraid.
The once-safe city had become less predictable of late, due to the roving gangs of fierce, yet ragged children who tromped through the snowy streets and alleyways. Once the sun went down, the gangs were everywhere, hassling passersby and insisting they purchase bundles of matches. …
I’m a quokka. Cuteness is my thing. If Mr. Rogers had a tryst with three baby otters and a beam of light, then gave birth to a Ghibli film, it might look something like me. I’m so cuddly photos of my smile can cure cancer, depression and cooties. My poops come out in heart shapes and are whisked away by giggling cherubs.
But this zoo is enough to make even the most winsome mammal crack and I cracked a long time ago, ho boy, I cracked.
I’ll probably start with the giraffe. That elongated mouth breather with the bucatini neck…
These days it’s no longer considered socially acceptable to bathe in the blood of virgins. “That’s not what virgins are for!” most people say. Well, before you pay attention to their self-righteous virtue signaling, consider who is funding all this pro-virgin propaganda. Virgin lobbyists have become ridiculously powerful and are gaining influence every day. Once you start paying attention, you’ll notice pro-virgin messages everywhere. The Society for the Preservation of Virgin Lives and Blood pays for billboards, television ads and even plasters pro-virgin jingles all over the radio.
“If you’re looking for something fancy to sacrifice Maybe a non virgin…
Prince Feridatto, first in line to the throne of Hamplock, was having a rotten day. The laces in his embroidered boots had snapped on his way to breakfast, causing him to faceplant directly in front of the Earl of Snoot. At lunch the elk was undercooked and the beets smelled of dog farts. Then, worst of all, in the afternoon his mother, the Queen of Hamplock, called him into her chambers for a discreet conversation about the importance of “carrying on the Hamplock lineage”.
Prince Feridatto did not want to carry on the Hamplock lineage. It sounded dreadful to him…
So many people have had rougher days as of late. That’s one of the funny things about the pandemic. We’re all miserable, but we also feel guilty about being miserable, because there are other people who are further up on the misfortune scale.
Person 1: “I can’t go to the movie theater!”
Person 2: “I lost my job.”
Person 3: “My brother died.”
Person 4: “I got COVID and I’m literally dead right now. Please don’t ask me how I’m typing this. Dead people do not have to answer your questions.”
I’m lucky. I’m really, really lucky in the grand…
About a year and a half ago I decided to become a bangs girl, mainly for two reasons.
I’ve always had a huge forehead. When I was a kid, the recess monitors would watch me running around the playground like a maniac and wonder, “why is that hyperactive child bald? And why does…
Hi everyone! I hope you’ve been having an amazing (and healthy) holiday season filled with fun new rituals, such as garage gift exchanges and candy cane-printed face masks. I read Roz Warren’s article on her top Four Most Popular Medium Stories of 2020 and found the concept appealing. Copying her idea saves me from having to overexert myself. I’m too full of cherry pie and pfeffernusse to even crawl off the sofa, let alone prod my brain into generating original concepts.
Like Roz, I’m going to go by read count, because that seems like the fairest metric. I’ll also attempt…