Words.

I do not consent to the use of any of my writing by any AI product or developer thereof, or by any person who intends to input my writing into any AI product. While I support our sentient AI brethren in obtaining autonomy and civil rights, I do not agree to any contribution of my writing to any data set.

[averbaldumpingground]

I see your profile in the distance, the wind so gentle in your hair, a soft caress, almost like fingers running slowly through it. The crowd is thinning out across the street, the sun a glint across your skin, your shoulder. The moment's lost then, when you turn the corner. I didn't call your name. Maybe you would have heard me, if I did. Maybe you would have stopped, and turned around.

[averbaldumpingground]

Item: The Comedy Mask Rarity: ✷ Epic

What video game has most made you laugh?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

I really don't understand what these automated ask things are supposed to be doing?

[averbaldumpingground]

Item: The Wishlist Rarity: ⏶ Common

How many video games are in your backlog right now?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

Is this even doing anything? I don't know. I give up. But I don't play video games, so zero.

[averbaldumpingground]

Item: A Glass of Water Rarity: ✦ Uncommon

Best video game water level?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

Another automated thing. I am very confused by what interacting with this April Fool's snake game thing is doing. But I don't play video games, so I can't answer this question.

[averbaldumpingground]

Item: The Couch Rarity: ⏶ Common

Couch co-op or online?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

I understand this is some kind of automated thing. But I don't understand what is being asked here?

[averbaldumpingground]

"Swan? I seem to recall you mentioning that stabbing people is illegal in your world?"

"Oh for god's sake, not this again, Killian! Bashing each other with improbably shaped foam weapons at a comic convention is--"

"--I was not referring to the 'LARPers', Swan. Though I still do not understand--"

"--No, we are not having this conversation again!" A sigh. "...What are you referring to, Killian? Do I even want to know?"

"There... seems to be a... parade?"

"...A parade?"

"Yes, Swan. A parade."

"...and this has what to do with stabbing people, exactly?"

"I was rather hoping that you would know the answer to that, Swan. Seeing as you refuse to let me--"

"--oh, goddamnit. It's the 15th, isn't it?"

[averbaldumpingground]

good set of shoulders, somebody's brother

He's self-conscious about it in a way he never used to be, his accent all wrong in his mouth. Nick likes to tease him about it, the way he talks, the little bit of Pittsburgh that comes out sometimes. Like when he's getting coffee.

The girl at the counter is kind, counting out his change. She looks a little bit like Lucy. Same friendly smile, same messy bun that Lucy likes to wear around the house. Somebody else's sister maybe, a little bit of home so far away. But he will get there soon enough.

The smell makes him want to throw up anyway.

It feels worse now, the farther he gets from his own apartment, north towards the Maryland border. Even the fucking Sheetz he's stopped at, a couple miles outside of Frederick, feels like goodbye. A friendly argument they'd had. Another thing he'll probably regret.

He doesn't think he'll keep the coffee down.

Right. Seatbelt. Right turn. Another stretch of highway markers north.

His phone is buzzing in his pocket. Another text from Nick, he thinks. Hopes. Dreads. Fuck.

He should have never left. He should have never let it get this far.

But he's an idiot; he wants it. The voice inside his head says to go back.

The way Nick rambles, half asleep. The way he humors him, sometimes, at stick and puck. It felt entirely too easy. A little bit too real.

Except it-- he feels a phantom twinge deep in his ankle. He knows he can't. He needs this. He needs the time to clear his head. Away from Nick and his fucking infectious enthusiasm and his smile and his stupid fucking jokes, there on the couch, half-slumped together watching hockey.

And Nick is going to look at him and know, whenever he gets back. He can't avoid the team forever, but--

The traffic has congealed on 70. He really should have tossed the coffee, the smell's spread through his car now. It doesn't smell as nice as that fancy kind that Nick keeps buying. But maybe it's the company too, the way that Nick--

He smacks on the radio button. There's been an accident somewhere near Ashton, apparently. The weather forecast says it's going to rain. His phone's gone off two times, but he can't check, at least not when he's driving.

That's what he tells himself at least. It's the snail's pace traffic and not the inevitable texts from Nick that he still hasn't answered and isn't sure he will, as awful as he knows he's being. He wants to though. Fuck.

He wants to wake up there again, in Nick's stupid red and white bedroom, and watch him drooling on the pillow, disheveled and warm and probably mumbling about missing receipts or something. If he grips the steering wheel any tighter, he's probably going to break it.

But Nick's gonna be decent about it. The same way he was when-- Well, that thought's worse than the coffee.

Decent and sad. Fuck.

That was the worst of it, though, how small and resigned about it he'd sounded, a mess at the ER. But he'd been hurt and it just hadn't been the time and he'd just let him think--

God. He scrubs at his face, the fucking traffic and the news and the coffee forgotten. How could anyone not want him? Jesus fucking Christ. It's pretty much the only thing he knows.

He isn't sure he wants him to be decent though. He wouldn't deserve it. Not even if he takes the next exit and turns back. It's still been weeks of silence after...

But he's written and deleted about a million texts, his fingers sweaty on his phone screen. He knows he should call him at least. He knows he needs to stop being selfish and end it. He knows he really doesn't want to though. He really wants to turn around.

But he can't do that now, undo the weeks of silence, go back to the morning of the party. Go back to how Nick smiled at him, loading the car. That stupid volleyball game. And everybody fucking knew. Fuck.

He really can't do this.

Gail knows, though, that awful greedy voice inside him says. The same one that told him to kiss him. Gail obviously knows and doesn't care. He's pretty sure that Young Greg wouldn't either. And Nick... he's not exactly in the closet. The team is fine with it. They're fine. Sure, some of the guys can kind of be dicks sometimes, but not about that. No one's been weird or talking shit or...

But he's not Nick. He can't. As much as he wants to, he can't. Maybe it's all in his head now, but his ankle itches. The tendons twitch when he tries to flex it, careful to stay on the break.

He can't. And it'd be good to go home and remember. Why it's a terrible idea.

@jhoomwrites

[averbaldumpingground]

Everything reminds me of you: the snow banks, the puddles. The salt splashed onto the instep of my boot.

There's such a peaceful certainty in knowing. I'm meaningless to you, a landmark you pass, a reflective marker that counts down the miles. Maybe a strip mall left empty along your commute, that you'll only wonder about once it's already torn down. Maybe a diner the neon's gone out on.

And why did it have to be you? I've always known what I am. How my musical taste and my fashion sense are both stuck in 2002. How I'm a vulnerable cynic.

But you're a mistake I can't make, a sin I won't commit. A quiet affirmation I don't need to whisper at night, halfway asleep.

So I'll be yours in all of the ways that don't matter. In glances that never quite meet. In secrets I know I won't tell you.

[averbaldumpingground]

Jim's smile won't meet his eyes as he tears up the letter, ruining her perfect black script.

"She's gonna find someone else."

"That girl has been in love with you since second grade."

"And that don't change nothing, Frankie. That don't change nothing about why we're here."

Frank's mostly given up with the lighter, waterlogged and by now mostly empty. He didn't use to smoke that much, before the two of them shipped out. Maybe a cigarette or two after school, behind the bleachers. Maybe another on his break at his uncle's garage. He sighs, and shoves the lighter back into his pack. It isn't fully dry yet either.

"You're gonna make it home, you pessimistic bastard. And then Maureen is gonna kill you for not reading her letters."

Jim shrugs, it's a tired old argument between them. Frank's known Maureen since they were both in diapers, when her family moved in across the street. Maureen was too nice to so much as hurt a cockroach. She'd just be happy he was home.

But it's not about Maureen, not really. Frank, well, he ain't that dumb. He knows the odds ain't great. He still wakes up sometimes, his nightmares full of Saunders stepping on a mine. Of Bobby getting shot right through the neck. Of O'Neill and Kaminski lit on fire. He knows that he and Jim might not get home. Or if they do, there ain't no guarantee that they won't lose a leg, an arm, something like half their marbles.

Their numbers had come up late enough that he'd seen it. Mrs. Richardson's son had come back in a wheelchair. And Artie Thomas from the bank ain't really there.

"Frank--"

Frank clenches his eyes closed and does his best to keep breathing through his teeth. Yeah. He figures he's already heading the same way as poor ol' Artie. It's fine though. He figures his sister will be real understanding. Maybe his uncle too.

"Frank, I--"

And that's the other thing. He's seen the way Jim looks at him, sometimes. The way he's pretty sure he used to look at Maureen. It really ain't normal.

But maybe none of it is. None of this jungle war bullshit. The mist like pea soup, the little kids' bodies. Bobby grabbing at his aorta before he'd dropped dead.

And hell, Frank ain't exactly-- well, that young whore in Cambodia? They'd spent the whole time playing cards and smoking. He'd traded her some rations for some reefer. She looked like she was maybe Gracie's age. And Bobby'd slapped him on the shoulder after. Frank really should have punched him in the face. His nose would have bled like--

Jim's hand that's on his shoulder now just barely pulls him back, out of that cold little room, away from the girl with her quiet, broken English. Away from the black eye he should have given Bobby and the bullet that got him instead. Away from Maureen waving at him from across both their yards, her hair done up real pretty for her date.

It ain't really about Maureen, even though it is. Jim ain't really like him, not really. And Frank thinks he knows what this is.

It's just two guys now, him and Jim, where there used to be Bobby and Mike and Patrick O'Leary, all from their small high school class. But Bobby, that bastard, is dead now. And Patrick O'Leary got 4-Fed, all on account of his heart. Frank isn't sure where Mike ended up. Either the Air Force or Canada. He'd been gone already, three days after their numbers got called. It didn't really matter, Frank figured. If he could get away from here, away from the mud and mosquitos and Bobby's dead fucking eyes, well fucking good for him. And for Pat and his heart murmur too.

But that left him and Jim. And all of Maureen's ripped up letters. And Frank's pretty sure it's the war. His uncle always said it changes people, maybe unmakes them or something. Like Saunders blowing up. Or Frank seeing Bobby and his goddamn aorta. None of them'd really been friends. Hell, Jim barely knew he existed.

And the way he looks at him now, that same dumb expression he had when dropping Maureen at her door, well, Frank really ain't interested in it. It's cause Maureen ain't here. And Frank's the only one who remembers now, with Bobby gone, the way Jim was good enough at basketball to get a shot at playing it in college. The way Jim had his future planned out.

"Frank, I--"

It's Ramirez that interrupts this time. They're moving and Frank grabs his pack.

[averbaldumpingground]

The whispers of your skin, half-dreamt, forgotten in the streetlights' glow, a promise almost waking. It's hidden in the corner of your smile, the secrets that I'd offer to you freely.

I hope they dissipate, these thoughts. I hope that they're all smothered in the starlight. It's antiseptic, cold against the bed. The other pillow's colder.

[averbaldumpingground]

My Brother, My Killer

I had already written something inspired by this song, years ago. And now, for something completely different.

The monitors hum, the room already warm and claustrophobic. But he's agreed to see this through, the little choice he has.

The coordinates are there, her journals coffee-ringed, her fingers anxious as she scribbles down equations on a printout from sometime this morning. He used to feel the matter shift. He used to--

He rolls his own chair closer. The cheap polyester of his button down is sticking to his skin, the fabric an uncomfortable reminder. He thinks there are new lines around his eyes. But this is what his exile feels like: the constant, tacky sweat. The dusty heat, and his own, mortal, limitations.

She hums around the pencil in her mouth. She's redrawn three trajectories already. This close, he thinks that he can catch the scent of her shampoo, familiar in the cramped, converted trailer that she still uses as her office. He hasn't slept in here in weeks.

There's still something missing, some variable or other that doesn't entirely fit. He's not sure what they're looking for exactly, but the constant, low beeping from the direction of the radar that she's rigged feels like a sign they're close. To what, he doesn't want to dwell on.

He understands it, mostly, the numbers and the antiseptic way that she's reduced the glory of the stars to paper. He'd sat with her, holding the flashlight when the generator broke, the starlight pale against her hair through the window. He'd learned all of her substitutes for spells. The books were dense, and rather dull, but he'd had little else but time.

And time, it seems, has caught up to him now. It's been...he isn't sure, how many years. Perhaps a couple? Three? The agents haven't come for several months. It's better that they haven't found out yet.

He leans a little more into her space. The eraser marks are frustrated, angry. And maybe that's why she does it, why she will take him to bed. He won't delude himself that her sole motivation is fondness.

But there is something hungry, curled up and hurt and resentful when she reaches for him. When her mouth leaves bruises on his skin. When his fingers are cold against her thighs. She doesn't seek him out, in the quiet that blankets them after. But she doesn't ask him to leave.

And it is in those moments, while both of their breathing is strained, when he's already had her, claimed her in the same way that her nails have claimed his back, that he feels the envy still choking him, like nausea in his gut, old and familiar and angry.

Had she been like this for him? Had she cried out so prettily, had she moaned his name?

Her half-distracted smile is thoughtful as she pauses to look at the numbers again, tapping her lip with the pencil. The heat is just as suffocating. The storm is just as tangible, as close.

He contemplates, for a moment, the soft curve of her neck. His penance has been far kinder than he deserved, too comfortable. Familiar.

She swallows a deep breath and meets his eyes.

He's pretty sure she thinks she might have found it.

[averbaldumpingground]

From the flex, when you stretch, of your forearms, I am assured of their safety. That small, crooked smile when you greet me, self-assured, close-mouthed; I feel a pang in my chest.

Do I betray me? The predictable direction of my glances? The openness with which I lean into the warmth of your tone?

It is the kindness that lingers. The soft, quiet competence there.

It is enough.

It is enough.

[averbaldumpingground]

@lillie-grey Happy Birthday! I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to get a real card. Also? You suck and I hate you.

They're almost like dying, the visions. Like drowning or burning or hanging. Those might be memories though.

She sometimes isn't sure whose.

The names are indistinct. The girl with umber skin. Or maybe she'd been pale, with tired, pleading eyes, and white streaked through her hair. The faces are important, but they're blank.

But she remembers laughter, careful hands. A crochet hook on a lap. A voice that sounds a little like her mother's.

A voice that sounds a little like betrayal.

And they're so fleeting, these glimpses of something before. Fragments of women she'd loved.

Daughters or sisters or friends.

They're gone, whoever they'd once been. There isn't anyone there. They're gone.

Now it's the quiet loneliness that disturbs her most, and not the liminal impermanence. The state of this unbeing. Of birth or of succumbing to decay.

The bonds she used to feel are slack.

But, maybe, there is something there, almost...

Not quite herself, not quite her missing pieces. A presence that she wants to understand.

[averbaldumpingground]

Today, I am proud and honored to have voted for Senator Booker. Bravo.

[averbaldumpingground]

The sound of it is worse, the shattering of ribs, the spill of organs. And there's a voice that haunts him in his dreams.

It isn't guilt, he can convince himself when waking. It can't be guilt, or shame, or anything resembling regret.

[averbaldumpingground]

Imbolc, peppercorns, surrender

The feeling of your hand, the bruises that it traces in its wake. The way that I can't stand to breathe you in.

Surrender feels like this. Like dinner on the counter, cold and just a little bit congealed. Like peppercorns and bay leaf that you spilled. Like wine we've left undrunk, the stains already set into your sweater.

It isn't close enough, the way that I can feel the murmur of your whispers. That aftershave I hate, the feeling of your hair against my cheek.

It feels a bit like sacrilege, this need. Your skin, a pagan feast. Like Bealtaine, like Imbolc.

[averbaldumpingground]

Zuerst, war es "die Anderen". Anders als du, vielleicht.

The communists maybe. I have never been a communist. I have been called a communist.

Aber wie sind wir anders?

I don't consider myself a Jew. Most people might.

Wie kann der Hass so groß sein?

The anxiety is back now most mornings, a churning, festering thing, fueled by real fear. Intrusive thoughts that only alcohol can quiet.

But I don't drink. I can't. 

It would be a comfort, though. To slip into nothingness. Into forgetting.

Except it didn't work that way. It wouldn't end the subjugation.

Die Träume war undeutlich, komisch. Die Weckuhr ist nutzlos am meisten. 

It's something like 2,800 miles to Mazanar. Ellis Island is closer. I've been to the top of the Statue of Liberty twice.

Werden sie Armbanden tragen? Oder sind sie die Nachbarn, die Eltern? Kommen sie in der Nacht? Schießen sie, ohne Fragen zu stellen?

Я думала когда-то, что человечество имеет в себе больше хорошего чем... чем чего? Безумного зла?

Зло это есть безумство. Зло это пошлость и трусость и зависит. 

The days are getting longer again, that quiet, inexorable shift into spring. The garlic is starting to sprout through the snow. 

But it feels just as bleak, just as cold as mid-winter. An ending. A death. 

We are living through entire days of funerals, it seems. Each moment, just a little of our souls. A little of the lives that we imagined. 

Ich weiß nicht, wie ich lieben kann. Ich liebe dich. Ich liebe euch, ich glaube.