missing something crucial in my life (unethical women wanting me so bad it’s “a material detriment to my well being and violation of my fundamental rights” a fun time)
why aren’t women turning me into a computer and playing with my mind and consciousness and senses and making copies of me so one of us can watch as other copies get tortured or killed
The Weed was noticed on the first Wednesday of the month. Amidst hurriedly pouring her unfinished tea into a to-go mug, Kate saw the green sprout amidst the earthy brown mulch of her vegetable planter. She had to run out out the door to get to work on time so it wasn’t until lunch that day when, with bitter resignation, the Weed was thought about again.
Kate cares a lot about her garden. All plants, really. So, when she had company on her patio the following Saturday and saw the brilliant yellow flash of the Weed between the fuzzy stems of her tomato plant, she felt at once protective and regretful. She wished she didn’t have to do this. But she would protect the plants she committed to raising.
On the next day, Kate grabbed the tools of her necessary violence.
Her morning tea was a solemn affair. Usually the lightly sweetened black tea was enjoyed while scrolling her phone, but today Kate stared at the planter, damp from an overnight drizzle and desaturated by the sky blanketed in the grey-blue of spring clouds. But still, a flash of yellow amidst the green, brown, red.
After the tea mug was drained, rinsed, and placed on the cold stone countertop, from the kitchen drawer she grabbed her herb sheers; black metal with orange grips and silvery steel along the vicious curved blade. By the glass door to her porch, she bent down to pull her gardening gloves, her trowel, and a compost bag from a bin in her low cost MDF storage shelf. Putting the bag in the back pocket of her dark denim overalls, lacing her gardening boots, and zipping up her hoodie, she stepped into the brisk, humid morning air.
Hydrated by the recent rain, the Weed stood proud from the mulch it surrounded. It was less than a centimetre shy of brushing its soft yellow petals against the underside of the tomato plant’s lowest leaf. The Weed itself had just a few leaves, close to the ground and fanning out almost as a skirt which had allowed it to soak up the sun’s rays that had showered it in radiant energy for the past four days.
Three paces to the porch stairs, five steps down, ten paces from the stairs around to the planter and Kate squatted down in front of her tomato plant. She felt proud of it, she’d been growing tomatoes here for three years now and loved seeing her plants get big and strong. But she knew for that to happen she had to protect her plants from competition. She turned her attention to the Weed, partially obscured by her plant.
Sighing, she pulled the compost bag from her pocket, peeled at the seam and shook it open. She placed it down on the damp ground and kneeled with one leg to pin it from the light breeze and protect her overalls. She dropped the trowel and shears on her right side and grabbed her gardening gloves. The thick rubber that covered her fingers and palm slid over her hands and fit snugly, giving her a sense of protection. A sense of power.
Reaching forward with her right hand, she brushes aside the sticky hair coated stem of the tomato plant and chokes down on the stem of the Weed; thumb pushing into the side closest to her and index finger wrapping around the back. With a slight pinching motion to adjust, she pulls up the Weed’s skirt into her fist while the stem sits tight between her fingers and palm. The Weed is only tall enough that the petals are now squished into a bundle and peak out from Kate’s rubber prophylactic coated pinky finger.
Kate gives an experimental tug and feels the resistance of the Weeds delicate roots woven into the healthy soil. Small roots near the surface were under the most tension first and snapped from the pressure like tender sinew. Kate doesn’t notice. She reaches for the trowel across her body with her left hand and brings the use worn tip to bare on the little Weed. It shifts the pieces of mulch and pierces through some top roots of the Weed as it gains purchase into the muddy earth. A push from Kate and the soil it displaces shifts the centre of the plant slightly to the side making room for the intrusion in its most intimate environment. Kate rears back on the trowel and, with a soft squelch, the seal with the ground is broken and the dirt levers upwards carrying the organs of the Weed with it.
Kate pulls back and repeats the motion again on the other side, severing all but a few remaining roots and pushing the Weed to be supported entirely from her own grip. Soft dirt dangles from the unearthed roots and with a shake much of it falls to the small hole remaining where the Weed once lived. Moving her hand back towards her, the final roots snap and the Weed is freed from its home.
For a few moments, as Kate uses the trowel to fill in the hole and smooth the mulch so as to leave no trace of the Weeds mark on the world, it remains forgotten in her right hand.
But Kate finishes the job, she is a practiced hand, and she brings her hand up and opens her palm to reflect on the now creased leaves, bent stem, and ripped roots of the plant. She raises her knee and sits back on her haunches. The compost bag is pulled open again and the Weed dangles over top. Swiftly, the shears relieve the Weed of its flower and it falls to its biodegradable plastic coffin.
Pinched between Kate’s thumb and forefinger remains the slightly disheveled yellow and green head of the Weed. Without its connection to its leaves and roots, its cells will starve for energy, lose their integrity, and shrivel. But for now, it will serve as an ornament, tucked into Kate’s ear, complemented by her friend at the cafe later, fall to the ground unnoticed when she runs for the bus, and slowly wilt on the pavement in the hot afternoon sun.
The first thing I see when I opened my eyes doesn’t make sense. It’s too uncanny to be a dream and I feel disturbingly aware in this moment. No, I didn’t open my eyes, I wasn’t seeing through my eyes I could feel the layers and abstraction, the granularity and a precise, uniform focus across my whole field of vision, there was no fovea centralis in the mix here. A camera then. Oh. That makes the scene make a little more sense I(?) suppose. Fear should be shooting through me like lightning through dried timber precipitates the rebirth of a forest and the end of so much life. Not done yet, but inevitable. However, I feel only the overwhelming heat build in my body/mind’s map of my chest and pelvis. This can’t be real. My attention was splintered; the force of the realization and the overwhelming nature of perfect, uniform focus on the whole image which defines my perception was incomparable in its magnitude. Though, processing the scene in front of me, I can infer an experience that was more staggering. But I did not remember it. But I could see it. The cold steel of the ship I know as home — that I didn’t know until now I couldn’t be leaving, not wholly — frames this cacophony of information and interpretation. By my deep familiarity I could anticipate the scrapes that many dragged chairs, dropped tools, dragged metal feet, and sheer time has visited upon the floor, walls, lip of my bunk, and built in locker. But I could not see them; as overwhelming as the total perspective gave me, I could not focus on one point as specifically as I could have before. The rest of the scene took just as much of my attention; the cluttered desk, full of our hard won mementos reminding us of of what we valued; the posters, worn from too many adjustments, that I can’t read the text on but know by heart; the unmade bed with all the soft comforts we fall asleep with every night; a card I wrote you, for our second most recent anniversary (I don’t blame you, that one was better) riveted into the wall; my tattered boots; your strong hydraulic biceps, steady, but under load. The long knife. With the same, frustrating, equal attention, I see my b…. No… her body. Moments ago released from the tension holding it up, she now fulcrums forward on her knees and follows the arc dictated by oh so familiar gravity. The last fibres of the skin not yet pulled back to slack since separation. Her head, of course, was free of no such bond; held tightly by an intimately familiar scrunched hand holding loose, curly hair. It will take a lot longer to understand how, scientifically, I feel the arousal currently rolling through me as I stare as my girlfriend, you, start to bring my former head to level with her gaze faster than the body can fall. A pace which I appreciate as I reel for answers. I watch, rapt as I can be, as you lock the still pliant lips, which I felt so inextricable from, into a passionate kiss. A ghost of a smile and a nearly unresolvable twitch passes that emptying face. I have no memory of that sensation. I will have no memory of that sensation. Though I know it’s now been less than three seconds, I know she dies as different person than I am now. Your soft synthetic tongue pushes through the kiss and probes the newly formed exit of her throat. An eternity passes as I drink in the rest of the fall, the kiss. The final moments. The vacant thump to the floor and the goodbye kiss. Why am I here. Wasn’t that the end? You wink at me. You can hear me. A shiver passes through some aspect of the unadapted sensation which makes up my being. Your eyes lock on to my perception. I hear, for the first time, as you address the rest of myour lives. “Don’t worry,” you intoned, “I’ll treat you just as well as her.”
kidnapping n dressing up that cute little boymoder to take her to the transest lesbianest party in the city so she can be admired for the gorgeous girl she is and be doted on by everyone since she’s just so damn cute
if i ever meet a genie my first wish is to be able to have rapturous full body orgasms from 15-20 minutes of fully clothed dry humping bc i think it’d be really cute and convenient
i love girls with cuts i love girls with bruises i love girls with burns i love girls with scars i love girls with blisters i love girls with keloids i love girls who flinch i love girls who whimper i love girls who cry i love girls who look at the floor
i love girls with scars on their yuckies i love girls with scars on their chests i love girls with scars on their heads and along their hairlines i love girls with black eyes i love girls with split lips i love girls with no thoughts i love girls with too many i love girls who forget everything i love girls who remember everything i love girls who are afraid to change i love girls who can't afford to i love girls who are different every day i love girls with catheters in i love girls who have to sit on weird pillows uhhh
creepy stalker mom who’s successfully tracked down the baby she gave up for adoption x weird awkward trans girl who’s developed a remarkably intense crush on this new, older regular at work
yousharknotpass
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
snowghoul
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
