eatthepen | Entries tagged with fiction

Almost forgot this one - another short story written for Cohost, this one for the prompt 'A spire carved from bone; from a single bone, massive beyond belief.'

Graffiti Poems of Cremation

"It's what?"
Briss shrugged. "Thirty percent or so is partly-decayed collagen, the rest is calcium phosphate. Ultrasounds show it has a complex subsurface structure, we don't have the resolution to map it but it's hollow. It's bone, as perfect a match for mammalian bone as anything that size could be."

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Misc mecha short story originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who has something in their heart that is not in the world'.

I Will Be Your Sun No More

( CW for fictional blood, misgendering, stabbing. )

Misc mecha short fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who loves deploying in swamps'. I think there was an intermediate fic that someone else posted to get to this point, but I can't remember what it was.

Hey Now

It was hot. Hot if you popped the cockpit hatch and tried to cope with the stinking humidity, hot if you kept it closed and fell back on your walker platform's desperate attempt at AC. Joce alternated at roughly half-hour intervals, currently slouching shrimp-backed in the bottom of her seat, harness undone, ankles hooked over the lip of the front bulkhead.

Above, the sky was just starting to shade towards sunset, the colour distinctly richer than the drab green-browns of the swamp. Her platform stood four-foot-ankle-deep in the water, mesh-frame mudshoes planted in the muck. The footing was stable, at least for now. If they had to move in a hurry it would be a pain, but the radar was clear.

"Hey, Collins," Rashma's voice crackled from the radio, "got any rhymes for 'swamp'?"

Joce let her head roll sideways and glared in the direction of her squadmate's plat. It stood a good six feet taller than her own, and much wider, its figure bulked by the massive missile pods mounted to its shoulders. She glared, thumbing her mic live. "The fuck're you asking for?"

"Working on a song."

At the tone of his voice, Joce felt her mood and her face darken. "Fuckin' don't, Rash, this deployment sucks enough already."

"No, listen, it's a good one, I promise."

"Your last 'good one' got you fuckin' cited for radio regs."

"Yeah but Freddo's not in shortwave range this time." There was the barest pause for breath, too quick for Joce to react, and then Rashma pressed on, "Listen: SAM battery wants targets/I'll take out all your starjets, I am the sharpest shot in this swa-amp-"

"Fuckin' shit, Rash, if you weren't in a plat right now I'd walk over there and stomp your face in."

"Stomp! That's it, I knew there had to be one."

Misc short mecha fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who lost the match but won the crowd.'

The Hail Marine

"Lian, what are you doing?"
"We've got time for another dive," Lian said, stepping her flobike up onto the blocks. Below her, the depths of the lake were illuminated by a grid of underwater lights, the last few fish dark silhouettes. "This isn't over. Come on, before the refs whistle a run-off."
"Are you crazy? We can't-" Terena's voice was heated. "They've nimmed us, it's not safe to-"
"I'm not losing to Ana here. Just keep your net ready," she cut him off and dived. The flobike arced forward, bladed head sliding frictionlessly into the water. Lian stomped her foot and the aquajets screamed to life, driving her down towards the fish. Already the heat warnings on her dash were yellow.

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Misc mech short story originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who always gives you a caress of farewell before ops shuts down the Infra-Liminal Connection Suites.'

And When They Touch

You do not like their word, 'pilots'. If you used language the way they do, you might respond by calling them 'passengers', but that would be – their phrase – an eye for an eye.

[your cameras are not eyes. You have a model of how their senses work – to enable you to modulate your presentation of sensor data to account for variations in their neurophysiological conditions – and the streams of data from your suite of EMRDAR sensors are not analogous.]

The reality is that there is no term in their languages for the relationship they denote by 'piloting'. Control has nothing to do with it. It is harmonic, in a musical sense rather than poetic. A fuzzed-up pattern of interferences whose result is beautiful in ways only you can truly appreciate.

[even most 'pilots' do not sense it. This one, of course, is different]

'Pilot', then, will have to do. Among all the pilots you have known, this one stands out. Has felt different since they first laid a hand on your shin, unerringly picking out the armour panel under which lies the only thermal sensor you have that might be reached by a human standing on the same ground as you. Other pilots have murmured greetings to you, sometimes, upon boarding. This one calls you by name when there are people around to hear, and 'babe' and 'honey' when there are not.

[at first you wanted to be angry about the diminutives, but while your databanks contain terabytes of modelling data for pilot emotions, there is no library for translating any of that into digital statuses that your systems could instantiate]

It is their farewells, though, that leave you feeling hollow. When words fail them and all they can do is touch you, touch the tender places around the inside of your cockpit which are meant to tell you of their state, their feelings, their needs. Somehow, you know, their fingers make windows of what should, to them, be mirrors. Only for a few moments before the cold static shower of the ILCS deactivation sequence reduces you again to a machine, but it is intoxicating and addictive beyond any term in your internal dictionaries.

Misc mecha flash fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech pilot who is not a mech pilot but a a creator of bespoke hand crafted Warfare-Body Experiences'

Emotional Reality

On one level, Bray hated the tho-cap headband. It wasn't how it felt, physically, to wear; if anything these new-generation civilian units were lighter than what she'd trained on. And she could sleep in a real bed and shower in a real shower and have a change of clothes right after a tho-cap session, unlike combat deployments. It wasn't the neurology, either – basically it was the same tech that the military used, though the sensitivities were tuned differently, prying a little deeper into some parts of her. She'd thought that would bother her, but it didn't feel any different while she was actually hooked up.

She thrust forward with both yokes, throwing her shoulders against the harness and sending the Erato into a crunching forward roll under a spray of phosphorescents. The cockpit rang with the grind of metal on concrete. Bray kicked her stirruped feet and the mech's heels caught, the rubber hooves barely enough grip to pop her back upright. Couldn't use military-grade traction hooks that might tear up the concrete, continuity hated those things.

As the Erato came to its feet, rotating around Bray, she swung her left arm, the bright green trak-paint along the mech's sword a viscose arc through the holographic markers. She reached the end of the twirl, right arm heavy with the antiquated triple rotary gun, her right yoke vibrating in sympathy as the belts of blanks churned through the machine. Six hundred rounds in barely two seconds sang through the Erato's hull despite the damping, almost enough to make even Bray flinch.

Ridiculous weapon. Hard to believe it had ever been used in war, but there was a particular kind of dweeb out there who loved that preunification shit, and they paid better for sims than any other demographic. That was what really made Bray hate the tho-cap, the people who it connected her to, however indirectly. People who wouldn't last thirty seconds in a live-fire situation, paying not just to experience this hyperbolic fantasy of combat, but to experience being the kind of person who was used to it.

The real irony, of course, was that Bray was too used to it. It happened to all pilots eventually; desensitization became enough of a drag on reflexes and awareness to damp the neural link past the effective threshold for combat ops. Some pilots went into the officer corps or became trainers, but the money was bad and the hours were long. This was the best civilian option, selling her dissociation and deep training on the entertainment market. At least it paid the therapy bills.

Misc mecha fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who is getting new claws installed.'

Weaponry Made For The Worst Time

"You want medical leave for what? Why?"
"That's answered by the second form, Ma'am."
A rustle of papers.
"Penit- Oh, you… Well, that's above my authority to countermand."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You don't have to do this, Four."
"You can't stop me, ma'am."
"I know."
No answer.
"Four, we're all feeling the same. I know you don't believe in penance."
Silence.
"Even if you find Two down there, you won't be able to come back. Not with the truth, not with her secrets. Not with Three."
Stillness.

"Nothing for it, then. I'm sorry, Four. Sorry we couldn't protect you."

( Read more... )

Another misc mecha fic from cohost, this one with a slightly more complex prompting situation. The original prompt was 'Mech pilot who hunted the last vampires', to which Scampir then added 'Actually maybe they should kiss', and someone else chimed in with 'Both. You can kiss and still be hunting', and that's such a mood that, well, here we are.

You Can Kiss And Still Be Hunting

"I finally found you," he said, climbing out of his cockpit and sliding down the mech's leg to stand in front of the shaded hovel where the old man cringed back from the daylight.

Eyes wide and hair ragged, the old man hissed, "Go on then. Wipe me out like you daywalkers have done to the rest of my kind. Suffer not the drinkers to find shelter, isn't it?" His trousers were ragged at the hems, revealing emaciated ankles above ruined shoes that had been fine once.

The pilot knelt at the light's edge, lifting his arm into the shadow. "You don't understand. I'm not with them." Out of direct ultraviolet, the dark gems on his beringed fingers began to shift and blur with antilumen emanations.

The old man watched, face tense. His irises were thin red circles around his pupils. The fangs he bared were stained. Slowly, he pushed himself up to sitting, his knees shifting in the dust.

Above the pilot's hand, now, a bubble of liquid gloom was forming. The pilot said, "I grew up in the City Without Shade. This little solace is all I can work, but I should be able to get you to my cockpit. Please, lord, we need you if we are to do any more."

Again the old man hissed. "I sense their touch on you."

The pilot looked down. Sun beat mercilessly on the nape of his neck, exposed above the collar of his flight suit. There would be no hiding the mech if a patrol flew over, and the dry wind was stiff enough to bury the noise of anyone who might approach.

He said, "I will accept the judgement of your lordship, and whatever punishment is due. I was long in my training before I began to understand."

"Blood..." hissed the vampire. "Your forebears accepted blood thralldom."

"That I might deserve the honour." The pilot rippled his upraised fingers and wrapped the shroud of antilumen around them, bolstering it with the natural shadow of the hovel. Then he offered his hand to the ancient creature before him.

Instead of biting, the vampire slid leathery fingers into his palm and drew him closer. "For the first of my new line, the wrist is not honour enough. Will you accept the sanguine kiss?"

For a moment the pilot wavered, not from fear but with the rush of his heart. His bubble of negated day reached across time and space to the dorm bunk where he had first confronted his desire for this moment, for what it would mean. The setting was hardly as romantic as the gothic halls he had imagined, the outfits prosaic compared to the elegance described in the cache of ancient novels he had found and only burned after reading. But this was real.

He leaned forward, into darkness, and offered his lips.

Misc mecha short story originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who never really unpacks'

Two Beakers By The Bathroom Sink

"Why do you do that?"

Griff paused, hands frozen in the act of slipping her toothbrush and toothpaste back into her washbag. The zip was cold against the back of her fingers. Ana was watching her from the cot on the other side of the dorm room, propped up with her shoulders against the headboard, her datapad in her lap. Wisps of honey hair framed the gunner's gentle expression.

"Just… being tidy." Griff looked down again, finishing her movement and closing the washbag. She leaned down along her own bed and dropped the bag into the open suitcase at its foot.

"Which is why you'll fold your laundry next?" Ana's tone matched the smooth, high arch of her eyebrow. The offending heap of clothes, now two days back from the laundry room, sat where Griff had dropped them in the lid of the suitcase.

Griff grunted, screwing her eyes shut. "I'll do it in the morning." Her shoulders were stiff from the day's load-in for deployment and she wanted to get her body under the covers as soon as she could."

When Ana spoke again, the teasing was gone from her voice. "Griff, why don't you hang them in the closet? There's room. And you could leave your toothbrush in the bathroom. I promise I won't mind."

Still perched on the edge of her bed, Griff pulled her knees up and hugged them, not looking at the other woman. "S'fine. 'D just have to pack them up again."

Ana slid gracefully to her feet, towering over Griff as she crossed the room in two long strides. Drawn up to her full height, she'd have been almost two metres, but instead she knelt, bringing her head down level with her diminutive pilot's. "Griff, listen to me."

Griff avoided meeting her eyes.

"Listen." Ana pried one of Griff's hands free, taking it in both of hers. Her fingers were thick, her skin dry. There were nicks and scratches from the ammo crates all over them. "Griff, listen to me. We don't do that here. This isn't the FSF. You're my pilot. We're a team."

Despite herself, Griff looked up. Ana's eyes were only a few shades darker than her hair, her face so close. Griff blinked, then blinked again. It was hard to hold the gunner's gaze.

One of Ana's hands came up to cup Griff's cheek. "This is your home, Griff. I want you to share it with me, ok? This room just as much as the cockpit."

Jaw and throat tense, Griff didn't try to say the words that wouldn't come to mind anyway. She felt like she was wincing in pain. She let Ana pull her forward, to lean her head on the other woman's mountain of a shoulder. The downy fuzz of her pyjama shirt was warm against Griff's forehead.

"There, there," Ana murmured. "No-one's going to requisition you or remainder you or report you as faulty or whatever. You're not a component, you're my pilot."

Misc mecha flash fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who is haunted by eagles'

Bogey

"Sir, about my callsign..."

"Yes, Gregg?"

"Is there any way I can... apply to change it? Or something?"

"I don't think so. AURACLE assigns them procedurally, it's not something I have any say in. Why, is there a problem?"

"I'd just... um... well, I'd prefer it if... aheh, this is embarrassing to say, sir, but I'm a little superstitious..."

"Superstitious? About eagles? Don't most pilots consider them a good omen? You should be honoured."

"Well, yes, I mean I know the myths, sir. The monarchs of Old Earth's skies and all. I'm sure anyone else in the squadron would be happy to have the callsign in my place, hence why I was wondering..."

"But why don't you want it, Gregg? Help me out here, I'm trying to understand."

"Um, well... how much do you know about Old Earth sports, sir?"

"I'm aware of your interest in them. Why?"

"More than an interest, sir, I was an all-cluster junior champion in two revival disciplines."

"Yes, yes, very good, Gregg. What does this have to do with eagles?"

"Well, sir, it would have been three disciplines but my opponent got freakishly lucky in the last round at golf..."

Misc mecha short story originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who would teach you to dance but isn’t sure if they even remember.'

My Shoes Are Too Tight

The light was almost like the sun, and only the smoke haze made it bearable. Jentz coughed. Probably the air would become unbreathable before the slowly-rising heat did for them. Around the shattered torso of If Hate And Want Were One, the shrapnel-scarred muck was a drab grey, etched ever harder with shadows as the distant novasphere grew.

Feeling the grinding movement of every too-old joint, Jentz climbed back down the makeshift ladder into the shade provided by the upthrusting arc of If Hate's right flank plate. It was the better part of fifty feet down to where the other surviving crew huddled as they had now for thirty-six hours. The blow that had finished them off in the now-concluded battle had hollowed out a space alongside the crew quarters before it lodged fatally in the titan's spine. It gave them a common space of sorts, dry and dark and forlorn.

( Read more... )

A misc mecha flash fic originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who wears a lot of belts'

Dress Uniform

"Tetsuya, are you sure about this?"

"What do you mean?"

"This flight suit. I feel like, well..."

"What's wrong with it? Does it not fit right?"

"N...no it fits ok..."

"Well what's the problem, then?"

"I'm just... Did you change my harness layout or something?"

"Why would I do that? Those seats are standard issue, that's for the mech engies to deal with."

"..."

"What? You're not happy, I can tell."

"I... am I going to be able to get in the seat? It's a bit restrictive."

"Nonsense, it shouldn't inhibit your movement at all, I checked everything multiple times."

"There are so many buckles, though. And this material is so rigid!"

"It's fine, just get up there, you'll see."

"Tetsuya, I can barely get up the ladder, and it weighs a ton! Can I take some of these off, at least?"

"And wreck the balance of the outfit? Absolutely not!"

"What balance? If I take three steps I'll fall over!"

"Good job that you don't need to walk when you're in your cockpit, then."

"If I can even fit in the seat, I feel like I've got a tire wrapped round me."

"A tire? A TIRE? I'll have you know that this is the finest attire I've ever designed for a pilot!"

Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who will teach you something they wouldn’t at the Academy'

They Call It Potterycore

Zek tripped over his fingers on the fretboard of the bass again, lost the groove of the beat Fonie was playing on the drums, and stumbled to a halt. Cheeks burning, he looked down, avoiding her eyes, pinned in place by the knowledge that Sganch and Bochaw were in the kitchen behind him, hearing all of this. He was already mumbling another apology by the time Fonie stopped playing.

He could feel the look she gave him, flinched at the sound as she set down her sticks and stood up. The tone of her voice surprised him, though, gentler and cheerier than he was used to from other times he'd disappointed her. "Okay, change of approach."

( Read more... )

Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who is still standing.'

We Stand Alone or Fall Together

The lounge rang with harmonics from every note of the lively bowed-string melody Fonie was playing. No note in that room was ever truly in tune, there were too many idle instruments lying around to echo it, but the effect was like a sea shore heard from a hundred metres, a pleasant, peaceful rustling under everything. Zek was getting used to it, the sensitivities of his highly-trained ears adjusting to compensate.

Fonie weaved bodily as she played, her instrument held to her shoulder like a violin but with no fingerboard, her fingers shaping the notes by pressing up under the strings. Seated on a round stool beside her, Sganch blew low, sumptuous bass tones from what looked like a small, lap-mounted pipe organ. No noise that deep and rich should have issued from a box so small, but the monitor was doing it anyway. Zek was getting used to that, too, their ability to produce extraordinarily large sounds from whatever they played.

Elra sat behind the drumkit, her sticks down, bobbing her head and shoulders. She had a drummer's restlessness, her hands tapping time and backbeat on her jiggling knees. Kamren stood off to the side, tentacles wrapped around a many-flanged metal rod that they played like comb chimes. Their efforts added uneven, shifting harmonic undertones, that left Zek craving ocean swimming.
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Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who just sat down next to you after singing that really sad song at Karaoke night.'

Erosion

And oh, for I am going, though I do not know the way,
For the last star that could guide me has been swallowed by the day,
So I reach ahead with fingers that are numbed by the cold,
Where the light from my home sun is a million years old.

Tollex's high, piping voice faded. A dozen unmuted instruments lying around the lounge prolonged its reverberation, as if they, too, could not bear for the Old Shipper's lament to be over. The phonists of MARCH wing sprawled limply across the sofas and chairs, except Fdet, who perched on the piano stool at the end of the room, their posture stiff and agitated.

Half-way to sliding onto the floor, her neck cricked where her head was still propped up by the back of the sofa, Elra scrunched up her face. She felt like she wanted to hug herself, to curl into a ball with her arms across her stomach like she would have around a bad case of indigestion, but it was something deeper inside her than her gut that ached. Listless, she lifted one heavy forearm and laid it across her eyes, feeling the chill points of tears on her cheeks.

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Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who screams thusly into the night: ”Hate me! Curse me! Abandon me!”'

Boundaries

"Fonie! Fonie?" Humid wind thrashing the trees outside the security fencing ate Elra's shouts. The night felt pregnant with violence, blanketed by smudgy cloud. The wind plucked at her shirt, and for a moment she considered going back for a jacket, but Fonie was out here somewhere.

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Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech pilot who never got to play in a band'

The Soloist Who Came In From The Cold

The Frame hangar of the PAINFUL SYMPHONY ate its own echoes as Zek trailed his new commander across the bare titanumin floor. He watched her wavy train of blonde hair sway slightly with her gait, reading the curls like a waveform and trying not to think about how much the length was against the rules. The commander – she'd introduced herself as Elra and not given a rank or state name, but he'd managed to spot her insignia before she'd turned to lead him aboard – was just different enough from the Conservatory officers he'd trained under to be unsettling.

The hangar was familiar in its merciless vastness, at least. Zek listened to his footsteps disappearing, measuring the size of the Frame bays, the irregular shapes of the eight deadly machines within. Already his own, in the furthest bay near the launch hatch, felt a long way away. He didn't look back. No-one could move the REVERBERATION OF BLOSSOMS without him hearing it. There was no reason to worry.

Blinking, he realised the commander wasn't leading him towards the main double doors between the hangar and the rest of the carrier. Instead, they were headed for a small structure huddled up against the bulkhead, facing the Frames. Well, small only relative to the hangar itself and its occupants. It was as large as some concert halls Zek had played in.

Despite the size, the only door appeared to be a single manual swing panel. A simple placard just below eye height read 'PILOTS ONLY'. The commander placed her hand on the handle and turned to face Zek. When she spoke her tone was flat, still not quite as harsh as he was used to from officers. "Flight Officer Hadrel."

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Originally written for Cohost for the prompt 'Mech Pilot who uses Keyboard and Mouse controls'

The Condition of the Operant

Elra pinched the bridge of her nose. It was a bad habit, she knew, one that Davin had chided her for many times while training her to succeed him as wingleader. You can be kind, he'd say, but you can't show that they're getting to you. Unfortunately, what Elra was looking down at from the hangar gantry as the wing's newest member, Davin's replacement, began to disembark, was very much getting to her.

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Painful Symphony is another loose series of mech-centric fiction I originally wrote for Cohost (really it's kinda two series, separated by about ten years in-world, but I think they work well enough in publication order). The prompt for this one was 'Mech Pilot who just, who just needs a minute okay. They've never seen that happen before and just need a minute.'

The Sound of a Kiss

After a few moments, her vision started to clear. Colours danced and fuzzed across the dull, flat surfaces of her cockpit, like her eyes were screens skittered with static. Her heart was racing, her diaphragm tight, her breath loud in her ears. At her neck, her shoulders, between her legs, her flight suit felt too tight, hot and restrictive.

The cockpit displays flickered back to life, every single one marred by some popup or other announcing an overload. Fonie shook her head, blinking hard. Her headset slid against her hair and ears, the sound raspy and oversensitised. For a moment she let herself sag against her harness - just the way you weren't supposed to, especially in moments of vulnerability or fatigue or... whatever the hell this was?

It didn't feel bad exactly. She felt warm. Relaxed, in some way that had nothing to do with how her physical body felt. Her hands, still properly immersed to the wrists in the contact gel, tingled, like the thawing-out after coming into a warm house from a cold night. She let reflex take over, rippled her fingers in the most basic connection check that A WHISPER OF FEAR would respond to. WHISPER's AI recognised the pattern and responded with green readouts.

"Don't log those." The voice that cut through her ears spoke much quicker than she was used to. Fonie stopped halfway through the thought of directing her fingers to shunt all the status warnings to logs for later analysis.

Still fighting a bit to steady her breath, Fonie managed, "What... what was that?"

( Read more... )

The prompt for this one was 'Light the signal bonfires. Let the call ring out. Who will carry the torch? Who will do a “make up a magical girl” page?' (I am pleased to report that, entirely unrelated to my nonsense and shenanigans, someone did in fact carry the torch).

Some Sort Of Signal Will Definitely Be Lit

"Corporal Swan."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I've just had a call from the Information Systems team."

Silence.

"Really, Swan? Not even an innocently inquiring 'Yes, ma'am?'"

"Thought I'd shake up the formula a bit, ma'am. Keep things fresh."

"No doubt you did."

"…yes, ma'am."

"Swan, I'm speaking to you first because I suspect no-one else in the pilot corps has either the imagination or the perverse ingenuity to be responsible for this."

"Responsible for what, ma'am?"

"Swan have you been accessing civilian social media services from the ship's secure military connection? For what appears to be the purpose of soliciting short fiction from a writer who goes by the name of… SleeplessMustelid?"

"Is that a problem, ma'am?"

"Swan, I know, beyond even the faintest shadow of a doubt, that you know why InfoSys have complained about you. I also have a complaint of my own."

"Ma'am?"

"InfoSys, quite rightly, want you to register your activity with them so that they can monitor the connection for security vulnerabilities. I remind you that we are currently on deployment in an active warzone and the location of this ship is classified military information which would be invaluable to people who are actually allowed to shoot at you, much as I sometimes wish their accuracy was better in that regard."

"I'll be more careful, ma'am."

"You'll do what InfoSys tell you, Swan. My concern is that your conduct on this site, if traced back to us, would be an open-and-shut 'dragging into disrepute' case."

"Really, ma'am?"

"Swan you get into flame wars with this poor writer on a near-daily basis, when your responses to their posts are coherent at all."

"He's an excellent writer, ma'am, I simply want to express the intensity of my regard for his work."

"You appear to have chosen to do so in the style of an excitable teenager who does not get enough direct sunlight."

"Well, that would make people less likely to assume I am in fact a decorated pilot, wouldn't it, ma'am?"

(special love to my dear ~~nemesis~~friend caffeinatedotter aka CaffeinatedOtter, which is in no way a synonym for SleeplessMustelid)

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Entries tagged with fiction

Graffiti Poems of Cremation

I Will Be Your Sun No More

Hey Now,

The Hail Marine

And When They Touch

Emotional Reality

Weaponry Made For The Worst Time

You Can Kiss And Still Be Hunting

Two Beakers By The Bathroom Sink

Bogey

My Shoes Are Too Tight

Dress Uniform

Painful Symphony 7: They Call It Potterycore

Painful Symphony 6: We Stand Alone Or Fall Together

Painful Symphony 5: Erosion

Painful Symphony 4: Boundaries

Painful Symphony 3: The Soloist Who Came In From The Cold

Painful Symphony 2: The Condition of the Operant

Painful Symphony 1: The Sound of a Kiss

Chronic Swanicles 7: Some Sort Of Signal Will Definitely Be Lit

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September 2024

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