Oh that's true. I've seen a lot of cancel/call-out documents archived on IA, some of which were directed at children or had false accusations on them. It would be funny but not that surprising if all of this was over obscure Twitter drama.
It is, of course, a tragic and beautiful poem on its own, but another thing I find interesting is that it's been translated into a ton of languages, so if you speak another language, you can see for yourself how translation changes a work: https://ifimustdie.net/
The Malay version rhymes, for some reason. And there are quite a few small changes in meaning: the line "bringing back love" is changed to "bringing back a love that had left", presumably for the rhyme to work.
If I must die, you must live to tell my story to sell my things to buy a piece of cloth and some strings, (make it white with a long tail) so that a child, somewhere in Gaza while looking heaven in the eye awaiting his dad who left in a blaze— and bid no one farewell not even to his flesh not even to himself— sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above and thinks for a moment an angel is there bringing back love If I must die let it bring hope let it be a tale
I read Martin McInnes's In Ascension recently. What I loved about it is that it felt both intimate and sweeping. Intimate in the sense of going deep into the protagonist's thoughts and feelings; sweeping in the nature of the things she thinks and does. Discovering and investigating things beyond all human knowledge, monologuing about the cyclic nature of life... The former keeps it grounded, the latter makes it exciting.
Another book that made me feel a similar way is Jeff Vandermeer's Annihilation, although it's a very different kind of awe. Being a horror book and all.
What are other books that can make me feel that way again?
by Ada Limón
All these great barns out here in the outskirts, black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass. They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use. You say they look like arks after the sea’s dried up, I say they look like pirate ships, and I think of that walk in the valley where J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said, No. I believe in this connection we all have to nature, to each other, to the universe. And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there, low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss, and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets, woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so. So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky, its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name though we knew they were really just clouds— disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.
He could have set it up at the start of the class using information from past years.
The "near death experience" heading being messier supports this. I imagine this was the first time that happened, so he added that in the middle of class.
We are sitting in the kitchen when I ask her if she still loves me.
As she answers, she begins to remove all of the things I don’t like from a paper container of fried rice—the peas, the carrots, the chicken—until there is nothing left but browned rice and slimy onions.
I feel her doing the same thing with her words—spoon feeding me answers of little substance because she thinks I like the taste of them, how easily they slip down to my stomach.
She’s right. I eat it all.
I’m still hungry late into the night.
That's not what the campaign is saying. The statues are just being used as a visually striking metaphor for sexual harassment. It's cheaper and more effective to put some placards on a statue that people are obviously paying attention to, vs spending the time to design posters that nobody will look at.
Why would knowing about taxes a few years earlier make you rebellious?
The trees on the right have artefacts on the lit parts. The sky has these nonsensical white lines that you would usually associate with the underside of clouds, except they're not attached to any clouds. The pink fluffy clouds on the right overlap each other in weird ways.
And I think what made me immediately think AI on a first look is the strange colours. The top half uses a very warm, low-contrast palette but then you get to the bottom and suddenly there's tons of green and blue. Not to shit on OP but it's a very "beginning artist" choice for a work that is clearly not made by a beginning painter.
tried to post this in the lemmy.world community since it's more active, but it loaded for like 10 minutes before i gave up. i'm curious if it'll work here.
It is in August when the rains fall thickly and your ghost disappears. I am seated on the porch swing, my feet dusting the floorboards, our farm fields overrun and expansive in the distance. I am w…
It is in August when the rains fall thickly and your ghost disappears. I am seated on the porch swing, my feet dusting the floorboards, our farm fields overrun and expansive in the distance. I am work-weary, grief-stricken, manifesting moisture of any sort. Our son joins me, his hair tousled by the day, his feet a soft padding down the hallway. I saw Peter’s ghost, he says, pausing to shovel blueberries into his mouth. I saw Peter’s ghost on my bed when I woke, and I wish I could see you like he does: Peter’s ghost sat next to me on the bus, Peter’s ghost did a cannonball off the diving board and soaked my whole class, Peter’s ghost rubbed my back while I barfed in the bathroom.
But I don’t see you at all.
You mean Dad, I whisper in our son’s ear, pulling him closer, he was your dad.
Our son cries and I rock us back and forth. The air is unmoving, stale.
You used to join me here at dusk, when the falling light made it dangerous to flail blackberries along the ditches, when you couldn’t hold the steering wheel or shovel a fence post any longer. You’d rub my feet, I’d rub your hands. We’d light a fire, watch our son marvel at the magic surrounding him.
Tonight, our son will wake next to me on the porch swing sobbing. He will say: I saw Peter’s ghost at the barn, at the barn, at the barn, and, for the hundredth time, I will wish he hadn’t followed me there that night. That I hadn’t told you I was worried about the rains. The run-off from the river. The momentum that builds when water has nowhere to go.
If you join any big writing community (the Reddit one most obviously) you'll be stunned at the number of "How do I write [opposite sex]?" posts. Most of them are from men but there are a surprising amount of women making those posts too.
This is a pretty common take in Eurovision discussion boards atm.
EBU doesn't want the controversy of taking a stance on the I/P conflict, but most Eurovision fans are pro-Palestine and a lot are threatening to boycott if Israel does compete. And KAN (which is in charge of Israel's entry) obv doesn't want the humiliation of a guaranteed last place and potential harassment/security issues for the musician they send. Giving Israel the boot over the song (which, if you read the lyrics, is actually pretty subtle on what it's referencing) is a win-win for everyone involved.
Did not get that impression at all. To me it seems like basically the same thing as the "What have you done, Billy?" and "dumbest man alive" memes. Something relatably annoying followed by a hyperbolic "haha if only" response.
A bias I've noticed on a lot of social media is that a lot of people tend to assume video games are either 0 importance or heavy importance in people's lives. Like if he gave up his console, it must mean that he sacrificed his dearest hobby for her and that's why it's bad. In reality it's just as likely it was something he used a couple times a month and gave up for something more important.
I don't think they did. I just checked. Some subs disable downvotes I'm sure but they still exist in the site as a whole.
The flat black box can solve almost any problem. Just make sure you read the contract.
“It’s cold in here,” the woman says, lighting a cigarette, blue smoke catching in the light of the laser.
“It needs to be cold to work,” I say, “and there’s no smoking in here.”
In the reflection of my computer screen, I notice her looking around the lab. Her left arm sticking up, the still-lit cigarette in between thin fingers, right arm around her waist supporting the left elbow.
“I need to know why you’re here,” I say, punching in the code for the entanglement.
“Why?”
My chair squeaks unprofessionally as I spin around, “Because, what if I send you to another reality where whatever brought you here has already happened?”
I wait. This was usually the time where either the reality of what they were about to do hit them or their brain began doubting what I was saying.
Her body slumps a little, “My son died.”
I nod and spin back around with a counter squeak from my chair. Typing in random coordinates, I let the quantum machine hum on the desk. The black box was doing its job. It would be a few minutes before she spoke again.
“Is that it?” she steps over, staring the flat black box.
It was unimpressive at best. I could hear it in her voice. Just a small six-inch square metal cube, humming as if thinking, which it was.
“Yep.”
I took in the full measure of this woman. Tall, well-dressed, nails impeccably done, hair unimaginably soft with expensive products. She had money. It wasn’t cheap to buy a new life, a new reality where the tragedy never happened. Or a new life where they were rich, or a woman, or man, or had no children, or their mothers loved them. But these days, it was mostly a dead kid. Word must be spreading.
“How long?” she asks.
“Couple minutes.”
On the edges of the machine, I could already see the white frost. It was working hard, finding the right coordinates to send this lady back where her son was alive and well.
“How does it work?’ she steps closer to the oblong ring in the center of the room. A see-through sheet of clear glass covering the opening.
“I don’t know.”
Twisting in surprise, her perfectly tailored eyebrows raise. “You don’t know?”
“I think I can safely say that nobody understands quantum mechanics.” I smile at my joke.
The temperature drops ten degrees as the glass on the portal changes.
“It’s a mirror now,” the woman whispers.
Letting the air out of my lungs, I say, “It’s not a…seriously, didn’t you read the contract?”
Hugging herself against the cold, she stares at the woman staring back at her, “Most of it.”
“It’s a reflection from a similar world as ours. She’s you, looking at you from another dimension. Okay?”
Raising her hand, she waves at herself in the next world.
“She’s not the one I’m going to replace, is it?” stepping closer to the aperture.
“No, but that’s the closest world to ours, so it comes up first.” I kept typing, the humming box slows, and the cold stabilizes. By this time, it was nearly forty degrees in the lab.
“So, I just walk through here and boom, I’m back with my son?”
“More or less.”
Another flash and the woman in the reflection is gone, only a copy of my lab staring back.
“Hey, where did I go?” she says, upset.
“Well, the other you is probably doing something else. Like at work or with your husband,” I hesitate, “Or with your kid.”
The words sting. Enough for her straighten her back and almost jump through the portal. This was the moment.
“There’s a little business we need to take care of,” I say casually.
Shaking hands pull a silver ring from her pocket, she touches it to mine. On the outer ring, my credits jump six figures.
Reaching over, I pull out a silver box and open it. Taking out the small device, I walk over and hand it to her. “Now, you do know what happens next?”
“I go across, and my son’s alive.”
“Jesus, did you read any of the contract?” I mutter, dropping the round object into her hand.
“Oh, you mean the fine print? Yeah, I read it. I need to kill the other me, then take over her life.”
I nod, “Place this within ten feet of her, and there’ll be nothing left.”
Hefting the ball, the woman asks, “Then what?”
“Then you live with the guilt.”
A curt laugh escapes her lips, “No guilt here, buddy. Besides, it’s me, right? I can’t really feel guilty replacing myself?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I say, “Safe trip.”
She’s two feet from the portal.
“Now?” she asks.
“Anytime.”
Placing the ball in her pocket, the woman steps through the glass window, disappearing from this world.
“What happened?” she asks, stunned.
“Jesus, did you read any of the contract?” I ask.
“Yeah, but...”
“You went through. I’m the other guy in the other lab.”
It always took a few seconds for their brains to figure it out. Multiverses, other dimensions, portals. And I look slightly different.
“You know where to go?” I ask.
Her face changes; she knew where to go. It was her life, after all.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t get caught,” I call out as the woman leaves.
“Hey.”
I turn and see myself looking out of the portal.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Did you send anyone today?” I ask.
“Yeah, he wanted to be rich. What’s with her?” I nod to the door.
“Dead kid.”
“Damn,” I say.
“Things used to be so simple. Now there’s all this emotional baggage they bring with them. I mean killing yourself, who does that?”
Staring at myself, I look well dressed, thinner, and have a wedding ring. Turning back, I mark the coordinates in the computer and smile.
“It’s a lot to think about,” I tell him.
Where does that "the eyes of a psychopathic killer" diagram on the right come from?
This guy has never spoken to a gym rat or eboy LMAO. Lots of straight men love masculinity, love maintaining and enhancing their bodies, love their "corporeal existence" as he puts it.
I assume Junji Ito changed it a bit but you can read the original (translated) short story by Edogawa Ranpo here: https://pseudopod.org/2021/08/21/pseudopod-771-the-human-chair/
To answer my own question, I haven't played all the games yet, and I'm biased towards parser games, but I loved To Sea In A Sieve and I think it's a contender for winner. Quirky writing (which seems to be a popular trait among past winners), strong setting, and challenging puzzles. Only possible downside is that the puzzles might be a little too challenging? 🤔
I accidentally lost my progress in Assembly and haven't gotten up to replaying, but what I saw was super promising too.
For the unfamiliar, IFComp is the biggest event in the IF community, with usually 50+ entrants each year. The link is to all the games—which are, of course, free. Consider becoming a judge or donating to the prize pool!
For the familiar—what are your favourites this year? Which game do you think will win?
SEBASTIAN AND THE TROLL A little story about how it feels
I lightly edited some parts because it's translated from Swedish by a friend of Mr Backman, presumably for free, so I assumed the clunky bits were unintentional.
---
Sebastian lives in a bubble of glass. This is a problem, of course. On this everybody on the outside agrees. Glass bubbles are very impractical, for example in classrooms and at birthday parties. In the beginning everybody thought the glass was the problem, but after he’d lived in there long enough it was decided instead that Sebastian was the problem. The people on the outside say you can’t establish eye contact with him, that he seems ”absent”, as if where he is somehow is worth less than where they are.
”Don’t you wanna go outside in the fresh air and play ball? Wouldn’t that be fun?” they used to ask when he was little and their voices could still be heard all the way in. He couldn’t explain then that he didn’t think having fun seemed like fun. That being happy didn’t make him happy. He can’t remember the last time anyone of them said something funny and he laughed. Maybe he never has, and in that case they’re probably right, the people who, for as long as he can remember, have been shaking their heads saying ”there’s something wrong with him” to Sebastian’s parents.
He sat close to the glass back then, reading the words off their lips. They were right. A person is supposed to think that having fun is fun, otherwise something that shouldn’t be broken is broken. Something that isn’t broken in children who aren’t weird. For years various grown-ups came and went outside the bubble, some carefully tapped the glass, others banged it hard when he didn’t answer. Some asked him how he ”felt”. He wanted to tell them that it feels like feeling nothing, yet still it hurts. Some said Sebastian ”suffers from depression”, but they said it like they were the ones actually suffering. Sebastian himself said nothing, and now he can’t hear anyone at all from the outside anymore. He doesn’t know if it’s because they gave up or if the glass just got thicker.
When the bubble still had tiny openings at the top they dropped down little pills, they said the pills were supposed to make the glass thinner but he thinks they might have misunderstood. He’s not sure they actually know as much about glass as they claim. The pills got stuck and blocked the last few openings. Now there’s only Sebastian in here.
He can’t sleep at night. Sometimes his parents can’t either. He can see their tears run slowly down the outside of the glass then, they sound like rain over rooftops. Sebastian knows that his parents wish that something awful had happened to him. Because then there’d be a reason for him to hurt. Then he could be understood, maybe even fixed. But Sebastian’s darkness is not just a light switch that someone forgot to flip, not just a pill he doesn’t want to take. His darkness is a heaviness and a tiredness that pulls the bones of his chest inwards and downwards until he can’t breathe. And now the bubble’s gotten bigger, or maybe Sebastian has gotten smaller. Maybe that’s what anxiety does to us, shrinks us. He sometimes falls asleep in the afternoons, from exhaustion, not tiredness. Sleeps with shallow breaths and deep nightmares, just for a few minutes at a time. Until he wakes up one evening with fur in his eyes.
There is a troll sitting in his bubble.
Sebastian knows it’s a troll since he asks the troll: ”What are you?”
And the troll replies: ”A troll.”
Then you know. But Sebastian still needs to ask: ”What do you mean a troll?”
The troll is busy, it’s concentrated on writing something on tiny white notes with a nice blue pen. More and more and more white notes being stacked in uneven piles everywhere, until the troll looks up at Sebastian and replies: ”Regular kind of troll”, it says, since that’s what it is. Nothing special for a troll, but special because it's a troll, of course. It's not that often you see a troll either in a bubble or anywhere else.
”What are you writing on the notes?” Sebastian asks.
”Your name," the troll answers.
”Why?”
”So that you don’t forget that you are somebody.”
Sebastian doesn’t know what to reply to that. So he says: ”Nice pen.”
”It’s the most beautiful pen I know. I always carry it with me because I want them to know that I love them," the troll says.
”Who?”
”The letters.”
Sebastian’s fingertips touch the glass of the bubble.
”How did you get in here?” he asks.
”I didn’t get in, I got out," the troll says and stretches sleepily.
”From what?”
”From you. Through one of the cracks.”
”I’ve cracked?”
The troll rolls its eyes, disgruntledly flails its paw against the walls of the bubble, kicks a threshold, annoyed. Sebastian didn’t even know there were thresholds in here.
”You see, this here shack won’t do anymore, Sebastian. The glass has gotten too thick and everything that’s in here hurts too much. In the end, there’ll be no air left and then something has to crack. Either the bubble or you.”
Sebastian’s fingers fumble over his stomach. His throat. His face. Small, tiny cracks everywhere. They don’t hurt. Sebastian thinks that maybe he’s forgotten how to do it, how to hurt in places where other people hurt, in all the normal ways. Burn-your-hand-on-a-hot-pan ways. Stub-your-toe-on-furniture ways. Now he only hurts in weird ways. Ways that don’t leave a scar. Ways that can’t be seen on an x-ray.
”How did you fit inside me?” he asks the troll.
”Oh, it wasn’t hard at all. I’ve been asleep inside your heart for a hundred thousand years. Trolls get very small when we sleep. Like balloons, balloons also become very small when they sleep.”
”And when they break," Sebastian notes.
The troll nods thoughtfully, as if this is very, very true. Then asks: ”Is there breakfast?”
Sebastian shakes his head. He doesn’t eat very much anymore, everyone worries about that, as if food was the problem instead of the problem being the problem. It’s easier to worry about food, of course, it’s understandable that the people on the outside stick to the kind of worrying they know best. The troll looks very disappointed.
”You get pretty hungry after a hundred thousand years. Breakfast would have been nice.”
”I’m sorry," Sebastian says.
The troll nods, with his sorrow in its eyes.
”I know, Sebastian. I know how sad you are.”
Sebastian reaches his hand out. The troll is soft, its fur thick.
”You’re not from my imagination. My imagination isn’t this good.”
The troll takes a deep bow. ”Thank you.”
”What do you want from me?” Sebastian asks.
”What do you want for you?” the troll asks.
”I want it to stop hurting," Sebastian asks.
”What?” the troll asks.
”You should know, if you’ve been inside me. Everything. I want everything to stop hurting," Sebastian begs.
The troll doesn’t lie to him then. Sebastian really likes the troll for that.
”I can’t teach you how to make it stop hurting, Sebastian.”
”Then what can you teach me?” Sebastian breathes in reply.
”How to fight.”
”Fight against what?”
”Against everybody that’s coming tonight.”
”Who?”
”Your nightmares. Your weaknesses. Your inadequacies. Your monsters.”
And at night, they come. All of them.
Sebastian sees them at the horizon of the bubble. They wait for just a moment, just long enough for him to be terrified. They love when he’s terrified. And then they come, everyone that hurts, every nameless terror, everything Sebastian has ever feared. Every monster from under every bed and every creature from the darkest rooms inside his head. They ride straight towards the boy and the troll now, all the anxiety that there’s space for in a child. Children always have so much more space inside them than grown-ups can take remembering.
Sebastian turns to run, but he’s at the edge of a cliff, a hundred thousand feet high. The ground shakes. In a few seconds they’ll be here, all his inner demons. He feels their shadows and how cold they make everything. He’s cold on the inside now, they way you get when some of your skin is exposed to the air outside of the duvet an early morning in November, just after winter has wrestled its way into autumn but before the radiators have had time to adjust. Sebastian spins around at the edge of the cliff with his palms open, like he’s looking for heat, and suddenly he actually feels it. It’s coming from below. If he jumps now he’ll land in a bed, soft and safe and full of blankets just the right size for pulling over the head of an average sized boy. He can see it from here. The demons hiss and snarl so close to the edge that the troll has to scream for Sebastian to hear it:
”They want you to do it!”
”Do what?” Sebastian roars, leaning over the edge.
He wonders whether it’s really possible for anything to be worse down there than up here.
”They want you to jump, Sebastian!” the troll screams.
And Sebastian almost jumps. Because he knows how good it would have felt on the way down, and then maybe it doesn’t hurt anymore? Down there at the end of the fall, maybe it will feel like it never hurt at all?
But the troll holds on to Sebastian’s hand. Its paw is also soft. It can’t be imagination, Sebastian thinks, because he doesn’t have that good of an imagination and he knows practically nothing about paws, does he? So he stays, and everything that hurts rushes straight through him, down into the abyss, laughing and howling.
”They can’t hurt you, not really, so they have to make you hurt yourself,” the troll whispers.
Sebastian stands at the edge, out of breath.
”Are you sure?” he wonders.
”Are you sure there’s no breakfast?” the troll wonders.
”What do you mean?”
”I mean that sometimes you think you’re sure of something, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t be wrong. You could for example see a balloon and be sure that someone dropped it, but it might actually have run away.” Sebastian starts hurting just behind his eyes.
”So you mean that you’re… sure or not sure?”
The troll scratches a few different spots of fur.
”I just mean that breakfast would have been nice.”
Sebastian apologizes, the troll nods disappointedly. Everything goes quiet. Then Sebastian’s feet start moving, without him being involved. The bubble starts rocking, at first almost nothing at all but then almost immediately all at once. Sebastian closes his eyes and holds his knees with his hands, because there’s nothing else to hold on to in here. He wants to throw up, but the troll places its paw at the back of his neck and then for a long while it feels like Sebastian takes off and floats. “Watch out," the troll whispers, but Sebastian doesn’t react until the troll yells ”WATCH OUT!" All of a sudden Sebastian gets water up his nose. Then in his eyes. He flails his arms wildly, feels his clothes get wet and his shoes fill up with sharp claws, something is pulling him down into the depths as if he’s drowning. HE’S DROWNING!
”Did you push…you fricking idiot…did you push me into…into the ocean?” he screams to the troll, panicking with his nose barely over the surface now.
”No, this isn’t an… ocean, it’s…rain," the troll pants.
They both gasp for air. The sky disappears behind huge waves that pound and splash them on purpose, hurt them just because they can. The troll’s fur gets dark and heavy and is sucked into the depth. Sebastian reaches his hand out and grabs its paw, an endless storm riding in over them.
”Where did the rain come from?” Sebastian yells in the troll’s ear, or at least where he thinks trolls might have ears.
”It’s tears!” the troll roars back, where it thinks Sebastian has ears.
”Whose?”
”Yours! All the ones you’ve held back inside you! I told you, I TOLD YOU!!!”
”WHAT!?”
”THAT EITHER THE BUBBLE WILL CRACK! OR YOU WILL!”
Sebastian disappears under the surface, just for a few moments or maybe an entire life, before he struggles his way back up again. A flock of huge grey birds hover over them. Now and then they dive towards the water and snap at Sebastian’s shirt collar. He shields himself with his arm, their sharp beaks cut long, deep, bleeding cuts in him.
”Are they trying to…take me?” Sebastian screams with the rain and the wind raging and roaring across his cheeks.
”No, they’re trying to…scare you!" the troll cries back while one of the birds takes off with a beakful of fur.
”Why?”
”Because they want you to stop swimming.”
Sebastian grips tightly onto the troll’s fur, closes his eyes even tighter, he doesn’t know who is keeping whom afloat in the end. They’re hurtled through the waters, down into the darkness, into a wall. They land in a petrifying silence, impossible to trust. But at last Sebastian opens his eyes again and realises that the two of them are lying coughing and snorting in the sand on a beach. The sun slowly dries fur and skin.
”Where are we?” Sebastian asks.
”At the bottom,” the troll whispers.
”The bottom of what?”
”The bottom of you.”
Sebastian sits up. He’s got sand inside his clothes, in every place you don’t want sand to be and some places where Sebastian imagines that the sand wants to be just as little as Sebastian wants it there. It’s warm when he lifts it up in his palms, runs around his fingers until it finds its way between them. Sebastian looks at his knuckles, full of cracks that don’t hurt, and it’s not raining anymore. Maybe it never rains at the bottom, maybe the sun always rests on you here, never too much and never too little. Surrounding the beach are high, smooth cliffs, impossible to climb. This is a paradise, at the bottom of a hole. Along one of the cliff faces there is a rope, at its very end there’s a campfire burning. Sebastian carefully opens his palms towards the small, bouncing flames to feel the heat. The wind tickles his ear.
”Do it," the wind shouts. ”Do it!”
Sebastian scratches his ear, looks at the troll in surprise. The troll points sadly to the fire.
”Everyone is waiting for you to do it, Sebastian.”
”What?”
”Decide that it’s easier to stay down here. And set fire to the rope.”
Sebastian blinks like his eyelashes have gotten stuck to his heart and have to be ripped from it every time his eyes open.
”I can’t live on the outside of the bubble," he stammers at last.
”You can’t live in here either," the troll replies.
The words shiver when the answer falls from Sebastian’s lips and the tears bring him to his knees: ”I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Does everybody else hurt like this?”
”I don’t know”, the troll admits.
”Why do I hurt when nothing has happened? I never laugh! Everybody normal laughs!”
The troll’s paws rub the spot where the troll probably has temples.
”Maybe it’s your laugh that’s broken. Not you. Maybe someone broke it. One time someone broke my favourite breakfast plate. I’m still a bit upset about it, actually.”
”How do you fix a laugh?” Sebastian whispers.
”I don’t know," the troll admits.
”What if there’s something wrong with me after all?”
The troll looks to be taking this under serious consideration.
”Maybe something’s wrong with the wrong?”
”Huh?”
”Maybe the balloon isn’t even a balloon. Maybe you don’t have to be happy. Maybe you just have to be.”
”Be what?”
The troll writes something in the sand. Slowly and carefully, with its most beautiful letters. Then it promises: ”Just that.”
The troll dries the boy’s eyes. The boy asks:
”What do we do now?”
”Sleep," the troll suggests.
”Why?” the boy asks.
”Because sometimes when you wake up there’s breakfast.”
The troll puts its paw under Sebastian’s cheek. Sebastian crawls up in it and falls asleep. From tiredness, not exhaustion. The troll sleeps around him, the boy’s tears sway slowly like crystals in the fur. When they wake up the fire has gone out. Sebastian blinks at the sky.
”What are you thinking about?” the troll asks.
”I’m thinking that maybe the balloon was neither dropped nor ran away. Maybe someone just let it go," the boy whispers.
”Why would anyone let go of a balloon?” the troll asks.
”Because somebody wanted it to be happy.”
The troll nods gratefully, as if this new thought is a little gift. Sebastian stretches forward carefully and touches the rope.
”What’s up there?” he asks and points to the top of the cliffs where the rope is attached.
”A life. A hundred thousand years of all the best and all the worst," the troll whispers.
”And in-between that?”
The troll smiles, almost happily.
”Oh, yes! THAT! All the in-between. You get to choose that. The best and the worst in life just happens to us, but the in-between… that’s what keeps us going.”
Sebastian’s breath bounces around in his throat.
”Will you come with me?”
”Yes. We’ll all come with you.”
Sebastian’s face crumples up like confused laundry.
”Who’s ’we’?”
”We," the troll repeats.
When Sebastian looks out over the beach he sees a hundred thousand trolls.
”Who are they?”
The troll hugs Sebastian until Sebastian is only hugging air. The other trolls walk toward him and disappear, one by one, all in through the same crack. But they call out from the inside: ”We’re the voices in your head that tell you not to do it, Sebastian. When the others say ’jump’, 'stop swimming’, and ’set fire to the rope’. We’re the ones that tell you not to.”
Sebastian looks at his hands. One of the cracks closes up. Then another one. He holds the invisible scars against his cheek and wonders how you live with them instead of living in them. Then he closes his eyes again, sleeps all night there in the sand.
He dreams. Not that he’s running, like he usually does. Not that he’s falling or drowning. He dreams that he’s climbing now, up a rope, to the top of a cliff. When he wakes up he’s on his own next to the hole. He drops the rope and it falls to the bottom, lands with a soft thud. Far down there in the sand the boy can still read what the troll wrote when it said ”just be” and the boy said ”be what?”.
It says ”Sebastian”. Just that.
He sits with his feet dangling over the edge and awaits the sound of rain against the roof of the bubble. But nothing comes, and far away he sees something else, something he hasn't seen in a long time. A line in the sky, from top to bottom. Sebastian has to turn his head to the side until his neck sounds like bubble wrap before he finally realises what it is.
A crack in the glass. Just the one. He can barely fit his hand through it. His mother touches his fingertips on the other side. He hears her shout his name into the bubble, and he whispers: ”You don’t have to scream, mom… I… can hear you.”
”Sebastian…” she whispers then, the way only the person who gave a child its name can whisper it.
”Yes, mom," he replies.
”What can I do for you?” she sobs.
Sebastian thinks for a long time before he finally answers: ”Breakfast. I’d like…breakfast.”
When his mother whispers that she loves him, snow starts falling from the sky. But when it lands inside the bubble it’s not frozen flakes, it's freshly shed fur, small bits of fluffy fuzz that settles softly on Sebastian’s skin. It’s still early, maybe he doesn’t have words for this yet, but in time he might be able to talk about it. One day when someone says something and maybe he laughs for the first time. Or when he laughs as if it were the first time, over and over again. Laughs as if someone a very, very long time ago found the laugh on the ground in a forest, broken to pieces after a storm, and brought it home and nursed it until the laugh was strong enough to be released into the wild again. And then it takes off from the rooftops, straight up towards the heavens, as if someone let go of a balloon to make it happy. Maybe, in a hundred thousand years.
He blinks at the light, as the sunrise gently tugs at the clouds until the night lets go. There’s a note in his pocket. He’ll find it soon.
“Don’t jump," it says, written with someone’s most beautiful letters.
”don’t jump sebastian please don’t jump because we really really want to know who you can become if you don’t.”
Just that.
The Figure
You sit at a window and listen to your father crossing the dark grasses of the fields
toward you, a moon soaking through his shoes as he shuffles the wind aside, the night in his hands like an empty bridle.
How long have we been this way, you ask him. It must be ages, the wind answers. It must be the music of the wind
turning your fingers to glass, turning the furniture of childhood to the colors of horses, turning them away.
Your father is still crossing the acres, a light on his tongue like a small coin from an empire that has always been ruined.
Now the dark flocks are drifting through his shoulders with an odor of lavender, an odor of gold. Now he has turned
as though to go, but only knelt down with the heavy oars of October on his forearms, to begin the horrible rowing.
You sit in a chair in the room. The wind lies open on your lap like the score of a life you did not measure.
You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know: The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle
in the hands of a man crossing a field with a new moon in his old wool. We abandon the dead. We abandon them.
One summer she goes into the field as usual stopping for a bit at the pool where she often looks at herself, to see if she detects any changes. She sees the same person, the horrible mantle of daughterliness still clinging to her.
The sun seems, in the water, very close. That's my uncle spying again, she thinks— everything in nature is in some way her relative. I am never alone, she thinks, turning the thought into a prayer. Then death appears, like the answer to a prayer.
No one understands anymore how beautiful he was. But Persephone remembers. Also that he embraced her, right there, with her uncle watching. She remembers sunlight flashing on his bare arms.
This is the last moment she remembers clearly. Then the dark god bore her away.
She also remembers, less clearly, the chilling insight that from this moment she couldn't live without him again.
The girl who disappears from the pool will never return. A woman will return, looking for the girl she was.
She stands by the pool saying, from time to time, I was abducted, but it sounds wrong to her, nothing like what she felt. Then she says, I was not abducted. Then she says, I offered myself, I wanted to escape my body. Even, sometimes, I willed this. But ignorance
cannot will knowledge. Ignorance wills something imagined, which it believes exists.
All the different nouns— she says them in rotation. Death, husband, god, stranger. Everything sounds so simple, so conventional. I must have been, she thinks, a simple girl.
She can't remember herself as that person but she keeps thinking the pool will remember and explain to her the meaning of her prayer so she can understand whether it was answered or not.
After attending a talk where Kuo Jiang Hong spoke about how she once asked her mother whether her late father, Kuo Pao Kun, was really a Communist. (Further context for non-Singaporeans: in our country's early years, the government was very militant in purging all traces of communism. Kuo Pao Kun, a playwright who wrote very political plays, was detained for over four years without trial on communist conspiracy charges, among others.)
The flipside of a conviction is an acquittal. The upside of total despair is my denial. There can be no downside. There can be no middle ground in this memory of home written on bare walls. One man's life pivots upon a cutting edge so let's pray the wind doesn't blow. When innocence falls by the wayside the flipside of anger is a calm demeanour. But silence can be a strength, just as too many words can be troublesome. Do not trade kisses for hard knocks. Do not trade your eye for my tooth. There are nightmares we do not rise from while too much time has taken flight. The curbside of a road is where the wildflowers come to life. The flipside of a flipside brings us somewhere else. And we cannot be sure if we have turned or returned. In the end there is only my conviction. Do not doubt me or your father. Just come warm your frigid hands by the fireside. The flipside of a prolonged winter is this incandescent bulb that pretends to be the sun.
And Still It Comes
like a downhill brakes-burned freight train full of pig iron ingots, full of lead life-size statues of Richard Nixon, like an avalanche of smoke and black fog lashed by bent pins, the broken-off tips of switchblade knives, the dust of dried offal, remorseless, it comes, faster when you turn your back, faster when you turn to face it, like a fine rain, then colder showers, then downpour to razor sleet, then egg-size hail, fist-size, then jagged laser, shrapnel hail thudding and tearing like footsteps of drunk gods or fathers; it comes polite, loutish, assured, suave, breathing through its mouth (which is a hole eaten by a cave), it comes like an elephant annoyed, like a black mamba terrified, it slides down the valley, grease on grease, like fire eating birds’ nests, like fire melting the fuzz off a baby’s skull, still it comes: mute and gorging, never to cease, insatiable, gorging and mute.
For Detroit
There are birds here, so many birds here is what I was trying to say when they said those birds were metaphors for what is trapped between buildings and buildings. No. The birds are here to root around for bread the girl’s hands tear and toss like confetti. No, I don’t mean the bread is torn like cotton, I said confetti, and no not the confetti a tank can make of a building. I mean the confetti a boy can’t stop smiling about and no his smile isn’t much like a skeleton at all. And no his neighborhood is not like a war zone. I am trying to say his neighborhood is as tattered and feathered as anything else, as shadow pierced by sun and light parted by shadow-dance as anything else, but they won’t stop saying how lovely the ruins, how ruined the lovely children must be in that birdless city.
Because my husband would not read my poems, I wrote one about how I did not love him. In lines of strict iambic pentameter, I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor. It felt good to do this.
Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder. Towards the end, struck by inspiration, I wrote about my old boyfriend, a boy I had not loved enough to marry but who could make me laugh and laugh. I wrote about a night years after we parted when my husband's coldness drove me from the house and back to my old boyfriend. I even included the name of a seedy motel well-known for hosting quickies. I have a talent for verisimilitude.
In sensuous images, I described how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes, got into bed, and kissed and kissed, then spent half the night telling jokes, many of them about my husband. I left the ending deliberately ambiguous, then hid the poem away in an old trunk in the basement.
You know how this story ends, how my husband one day loses something, goes into the basement, and rummages through the old trunk, how he uncovers the hidden poem and sits down to read it.
But do you hear the strange sounds that floated up the stairs that day, the sounds of an animal, its paw caught in one of those traps with teeth of steel? Do you see the wounded creature at the bottom of the stairs, his shoulders hunched over and shaking, fist in his mouth and choking back sobs? It was my husband paying tribute to my art.
Image version (original is also right-aligned but i couldn't do that in lemmy)
The first sound was the quieting of my fingers brushing the first, brief shocks of hair from your head. Still. There when our father said we had five seconds to cry before he’d get angry or cry himself. When the child psychiatrist watched you play with ghosts, diagnosed seems like a perfectly happy child to me. Am I
both or neither of us now? My fingers through your hair aren’t so much fingers anymore. My touch not so much touch. Only breeze, your dark hair like mine, this absence you’ll hear now and for the rest of our lives. Half-drowned tree in the lake shrouded in mist. Listening, beyond the doorway of that haunted shore where you wake from every dream, our mother saying, I speak with the dead. If I can
reach and hold across this always, these galaxies, your forehead like a steaming cup to my lips. If I can mouth my silent swan- song into you, know this without my saying it: Brother, lend your ear. There are many different ways to sing yourself to sleep. Like in your head? Our father pleads. No, she mouths. Like I’m speaking to you now.
To pull the metal splinter from my palm my father recited a story in a low voice. I watched his lovely face and not the blade. Before the story ended, he’d removed the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale, but hear his voice still, a well of dark water, a prayer. And I recall his hands, two measures of tenderness he laid against my face, the flames of discipline he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon you would have thought you saw a man planting something in a boy’s palm, a silver tear, a tiny flame. Had you followed that boy you would have arrived here, where I bend over my wife’s right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down so carefully she feels no pain. Watch as I lift the splinter out. I was seven when my father took my hand like this, and I did not hold that shard between my fingers and think, Metal that will bury me, christen it Little Assassin, Ore Going Deep for My Heart. And I did not lift up my wound and cry, Death visited here! I did what a child does when he’s given something to keep. I kissed my father.