Joan's Writings

yvaine.ink I'm just gonna put up stuff I write here. Maybe excerpts, maybe full stuff. I'd appreciate any feedback. Have a great day.

[by-yvaine]

Where I'm At

Personal Website All my writing, in one place. Bluesky Quotes, excerpts, the like. Twitter / X See previous.

Substack A handpicked story each Sunday.

[by-yvaine]

Where It Lies

It would be a lie to chalk my attempts at things in my life up to pure intentions, or to something greater. I want to be good at things. And within that lies another lie, one by omission: I want to be recognised for the things I am good at. In the pursuit of this, I search for where the core of my ability rests. I replicate aspects of the day I produced a result I was pleased with; I listen to the same music, I wear the same clothes, I sleep at the same time, and am met with a worse outcome. I then try to strip things, because the fewer the things, the more visible the core must be. In practice, it just means the empty canvas is smaller. What I have found is that I am able to make strides when my emotions are right; when I am the right amount of angry, or peaceful, or desperate. But these cannot be the core, for if they were, I could not become good in any meaningful capacity.

[by-yvaine]

Every Bit As Much

I really do not know why. There is no real reason why we have not spoken. I could not have spoken at that time, and I was not up to it the following day. But if it makes things a bit better for you, know that for the last month I have thought—and I mean truly thought—of speaking with you. But the days went by, and as each passed, speaking grew harder. And then I thought I would be able to speak with you once I had accomplished something, once something in my life had changed that would warrant speaking, but today feels every bit as much as last month.

[by-yvaine]

The One After That

I met you at the park while I was feeding the birds. You said you weren’t doing much of anything; “Just swinging.” Your child was there. Between her trips down the slide and falling off the monkey bars she’d run up to you and chat. Once about her ring pop falling down, another about a kid who gave her their hair clip. You’d rustle her hair, the corners of your eyes would crinkle, and she’d return to play.

The sky grew dimmer, the birds came in fewer flocks, and you began warning Naja that she had but ten minutes left. You offered me a ride back to my place, and I wondered why anyone would drive out to a park to begin with. But I accepted. I told you where I stayed, and Naja kicked rocks all the way to the car. You and I spoke on the drive, but truth be told, most of it was spent listening to you and her.

“I think swimming’s better this year,” Naja said from the backseat.

“Yeah, hun. You look a lot less tentative diving,” you responded.

“What does ‘ten…’—‘ten-ta-tive’ mean?”

“Uh, you seemed more confident. Self-assured. This time around.”

I looked at you, smiled, and then echoed, “Self-assured.”

Naja hummed for a beat and then broke it:

“When are we gonna build the pool?”

“When? A pool’s gonna take a lotta money, hun.”

“You’ve got more than that.”

You chuckled.

“I can tell you, you’re looking at a fair bit for a pool.”

I faced you. “Hey, between you and her cookies, that pool just might happen.”

She eyed you down. “See. This is the kind of energy we need around here. Hmph.”

You chuckled once more, then turned to me. “Right at the light, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You drove down my street, slowing down as we got up the hill.

“It’s uh, the white garage door.”

You indicated left.

“Not that one, the one after.”

“This one?”

“No, my bad, the one after that,” I said, pointing at my house.

“You’re good, you’re good.”

You pulled in.

“Thanks for the ride, see you around.”

“See ya.”

“Goodbye Naja!”

[by-yvaine]

Past The Webcam

I am watching a middle-aged man. I have been watching him for some months now. Not always. Just in the moments his laptop is on and he is in the frame of his camera. His face is a nice kind of round, and on it a pair of rectangular glasses. His hair is greying: some bits of his beard are still black. Often, he lightly bites his bottom lip, shrinking his already small mouth. And every now and again, he’d leave his laptop and come back with a mug. I’d say he did this about two or three times each day before ending his night.

I am watching him. He is on the same bus as I. I can see things from here that I could not see from the screen, such as how his hair flowed in a rather flattering way that covered the bald spot at the back of his head. He is seated next to a lady, and they are speaking. I cannot hear them from back here or over the hum of the bus. I like how he looks at her when she speaks. He looks directly at her, right in her eyes, he hangs on to each word, and when she’s done speaking his eyes point at the floor for a moment, as though he’s taking it all in. When the roles are reversed, and he’s speaking, his eyes wander. They peer up at the signs above us, at the railing running overhead, at the stop buttons on the poles. He repeats certain actions; his left eye—no left for me, so his right eye—twitches. A lot. Especially focused on her speaking. He runs the back of his palm under his nostrils. He fingers the gold wedding ring on his hand.

Eventually, the lady gets off the bus. A couple stops later, he does so too. I decided to get off too. I crossed the road and followed him. He got back to his house, and I sat at the bus stop opposite it. A couple moments later, he comes out the house with two girls. His. Only one seems familiar. He watches them cycle on the lawn for a fair bit. Both tricycles are pink; one of them has tassels on the handlebars.

The bus came to the stop. It was not my bus, come to think of it, I’m not sure what bus runs from here back to my place. I shook my head at the bus driver, and he left. The bus pulled away, leaving him in sight. He looked at me. I looked back.

I smiled.

[by-yvaine]

Apart From The Times I Do

I do not wish to grow old. I see them sometimes, and I do not wish to be that age. I do not wish to walk around slowly, limping, as though I’m falling onto each leg in front of the other. I do not wish to abruptly break silences with a guttural cough, a cough that sounds like it might spill out whatever has kept me alive this long.

I do not wish to grow old. Apart from the times I do. I wish to be able to give directions to people and know fully that I am right. I wish to be old enough to have conversations about which shops had moved; “Oh, they moved the coffee store across the road to where that old billiards place used to be.” I’d say.

I do not wish to grow old. Alone. Waking up in the mornings, unsure if I’m grateful for another day or upset that I had not gone yet, turning, and finding nobody to my side. Spending my noons on solitary walks. Or maybe I’d end up in a home, surrounded by the aged and their caretakers. I wish to grow old with those that made growing old feel easy — ‘Cause God knows it wasn’t. With those that coloured the previous decades of living, and to watch the painting alongside them.

[by-yvaine]

Sienna

I liked it when you listened to music. It often meant that you’d sing along. And during the times you were standing, I’d watch you sway with the melody. Quite often I would step out to our backyard and find you hanging up clothes, sundress dancing in the wind, the summer sun shining through your hair, and your voice. Your voice. I think the birds stood at attention when you sang.

I liked when we read together. Each evening, when the sky had begun to dim but had not lost all its light. I would sit by your side. You would rest your legs on my lap. You’d read, then I. And when we could spot the faint outline of the moon, we would go back in to our room. You narrated perfectly and whenever you voiced a different character, you had a different voice to boot. When it was my turn, you’d tease my monotone voice, and I’d comply with your demands. They never sounded right to me. You rather liked them. You never said it, but you’d smile, and I’d see it out of the corner of my eye. And as I read, tracing each line with my pointer finger, I could feel your eyes on me, some evenings I’d feel them on my lips, others on my eyes. But always on me.

And so, when I returned yesterday to you frantically weaving between rooms, your things in your hands, and from your hands to your box, and from there you would move to another room. A hairdryer from the bathroom, shoes from the closet, everything into the box. I watched you organise all the items: shoes in the back zip, clothes in the front, toiletries inside your shoes. I did not know what this was for. Worse, I did not know what to say. I stood there. I watched you. Eventually, you were done. And then you were gone. You did not look my way when you walked past me in the doorway. You did not look back once you had made your way to the door. You did not return the next day, or the next week, or in the last year. A year spent hoping you would return for your poster. Enough time had passed for me to know what to say.

[by-yvaine]

Green

I used to cry watching movies when I was younger. I cried watching a story about a green dinosaur. I cried watching a story about a green dragon. I have grown older, and since then I have found it hard to cry at much of anything. In recent times, I have found myself cringing at the violence on screen, being startled during horrors, and sometimes, every now and again, my breath catches itself in my throat during emotional beats.

Last week I cried watching a movie. And then a bit after it.

I do not know why. The scene was not sad, nor was it especially heartwarming. I do not know why I fought it either. Why I paused the show and tried to breathe through it. Why I held my sides as though that could keep things in. Why I covered my face under my sheets. Why I tried to let the tears flow but keep my voice quiet.

[by-yvaine]

Guess who dropped their notepad in the wash!

[by-yvaine]

Where It Comes From

Autumn will come, and I will disappoint myself. I say this not to be negative or self-pitying. For it is true. I was disappointed last Autumn, and the Autumn prior. The concerning part is that increasingly I have found myself more and more disappointed between Autumns.

I believe this to be the reason for the things that happen. My bus leaving as I got to the stop. The bird that shat on me this morning. As well as your absence. That these events and my disappointment are born of the same mother.

I believe that action matters. That it causes all. I only believe this in the moments where I do not disappoint myself. This is why during the months of August, September, and October I find myself immobile. Splayed out on my bedroom carpet. Each day of this that passes leaves me more disappointed the next, and I believe the cycle is evident to you.

I wish not to disappoint. However, I think getting better means confronting this. Fixing it.

I watched someone on the bus once who was chatty, they spoke to the driver and made them laugh, then to the person they sat next to and made them laugh. I do not think she disappointed herself.

I watched an unhoused man from the window of the same bus. I saw him walk around with his sign, moving from car to car. I do not think he disappointed himself.

I watched an ambulance arrive at the store on the same block. Three people emerged with a stretcher. They hauled a body out the store and left. I do not think they disappointed themselves.

On the days I am up to the task of thinking of this, I come to the conclusion that to fix this. To be like them. To be like you. Would be impossible. A quick sort of calculus ensues. I am disappointed far too often.

[by-yvaine]

Lemon Chicken

My bus should’ve been here two minutes ago. I’ve been shivering for the past seven. I worry that it was early. That it drove past here, picked up its passengers, and departed eight minutes ago. Bus stops, airport terminals, the waiting room at the doctor’s; a few of the places I find myself nervous at. As though my being in a place where people are always moving, I too might be whisked away. I’d question if it was my turn. Or if I had missed it. When I boarded the bus, was it the right one? A stop would be announced over the speakers, and I questioned if that was mine. Or if mine was the one after. Or maybe the one before. It did not matter how often I looked at the schedule, or the travel guide, or asked the receptionist if the muffled voice over the loudspeaker might’ve been referring to me. Nothing eased that corner of my mind.

The bus did arrive though, and I made my way to the Chinese restaurant.

Rain had started to fall as I walked the rest of the distance. I liked the rain. Be it the soft pitter-patter or a harsh storm punctuated by thunder. I found both somewhat calming. I walked into the shop and was met with a fairly short line. After a bit of waiting it was my turn.

“What do you want?” There was a trace of an accent in there. I don’t know why, but I always found it kind of friendly.

“I’ll have a—”

I was going to order lemon chicken and noodles. I thought I’d decide what noodles exactly at the counter.

I had not realised that I would be ordering the same meal she would order for me.

Or that it had been my first time here since she left.

I also had not realised that I was tearing up.

[by-yvaine]

What Stays

I returned home and made for the shower. I began to clean myself. My fingers and toes began to hurt. It was cold outside, so they had grown numb. I made this mistake often. My extremities began to thaw under the warm water, and while they hurt, this was not my issue. The real issue was that I would feel dirtier. As my toes got warmer, and I regained feeling in them, I would feel the itch. It would dance its way across my body. And while I had slathered soap on my body and my scrubbing was well underway, nothing could save one from the itch.

I thought this would subside. In my youth I had a fear of the ocean, and whatever lurked within it. My child mind only knew of one thing, sharks. When I would shower, I always held onto the possibility that a shark would emerge from the drain of the bath tub. That it would dive out with great speed and make its way for my face. This was why, to the ire of my mother, I would keep the bath curtain open. For if the shark emerged, I would jump out the tub, onto the bathroom floor, and through the bathroom door. When I washed my face, and as such had to close them, I would picture myself underwater. The background would be dark, but I’d see a jellyfish, and it would illuminate just enough to spot the shark swimming to devour me. It never did, I would open my eyes quickly, sometimes quick enough for the sud on my forehead to fall into my eyes. But that was okay, for they did not hurt as much as the shark. For these reasons, showers in my youth were brief. A race against my own fear.

I am biding time for this to end. The sharks had only plagued me a year. Maybe slightly over. But this was my fourth year of such troubles. I had stopped playing hockey, as when I returned home, soggy and muddy from practice I could not take it. The walk back would pain me. My feet would squelch with my wet socks. And my legs would itch, but my fingers were far too numb to scratch them properly. The itch only made things worse. It conjured up imagery of dirty showers. Not typical dirt. The kind of dirt that had become one with the shower. That enough time had passed, that the dirt had settled. The gunk in the crevices. The black lining the rubber. The dirt and the shower could not be described apart from one another. To describe one would be to describe the other. There were days I could not leave the house for fear of the filth that lay beyond it. And while I lay on the corner of my bed, immobilized, I thought that was the one clean spot. That to roll onto my side would place the filth upon me.

One day, I may scrub till I drift down the drain alongside the bubbles and foam. I will whirl down the pipes, and while I will mix with the dirty water, or touch the filthy pipes, I will not be dirty.

[by-yvaine]

Not Quite a Lake

It was mid-August and during this time of year, I retreated to my family’s home in the countryside. We would spend days going out into the forest, crunching on the falling leaves. Mother would cook. Father would praise said cooking. My brother and he would sometimes go into the forest, emerging late in the noon or sometimes at dusk with some sort of game. Last year, they procured a boar, and a rabbit which seemed pitiful by comparison. Now, after Mother prepared both, I did wish they had found more rabbits. Lost in my reminiscing, I suddenly found myself aware of the leather cushions beneath me.

I continued to drive down the highway, taking note of the signs. There was one noting the population of the town over — 18,372 — and the distance to it — 32 km. I was still a ways off. I began to see the moon in the sky though the sun had not yet set. Another sign informed me that the left lanes were for vehicles, more personal ones, and the right for buses, lorries, and other vehicles of that sort. It told the overhead clearance limits as there was a highway that ran above this one. It was—looking further down the road—two kilometres out. Driving past the overhang, I found another sign. It told of the national wonders nearby. A park to the southwest and a zoo east of here — a shame, it seemed I had passed a wonder. North seemed to have a larger variety of boons. There was a museum and a lake in that direction.

I ventured further down the road, and surely enough I found the lake. I passed by it most years, though I had not seen it in a few since the highway had been closed. I peered out the window. It did not seem right to call it a lake. Lake seemed far too quaint to this body of water. It could not be called a river, for it did not rush. Neither “pond” nor “ocean” were fitting descriptors.

[by-yvaine]

Half a Chair

He rode the bus. Frequently. He sat with his bag in front of him, between his legs. Sometimes underneath the seat. He folded up his jacket and placed it neatly on his lap. He sat on the very edge of his seat. As though even half a chair was more than enough for him. Every time the bus came to a halt, and another passenger boarded, he adjusted his things. They had not moved out of place since the last stop, but he thought the attempt would entice others to occupy the seat next to him.

Sometimes his eyes would water. Now was one such time. At first, he thought it was because he needed glasses. He went to the doctor and discovered he did. But this did not stop the watery eyes. He did not know what to do. He was unsure of the proper etiquette. Whether he should blink more — No, that only made them water more. Should he keep them open, in hopes that it would subside — No, that only made them water more. And when the eyes welled up too much for him to hold by keeping his face at an angle, he was unsure about whether to wipe them. How soon after the tears fell should he clear them from his face? Should they be cleared at all?

He brought his hand to his face, to his eyes. The bus came to a stop a little ways off from a convenience store, and he placed his jacket around his body. He departed the bus. About ten minutes from there was the big box store he worked at. He began his walk, jacket flapping in the wind. He did not like to zip up his jacket. If he were still inside or had just left, he might. However, once he had begun his journey, he would not. No matter how strong the gales were. Or if his fingers had grown numb. He simply walked till he reached his destination. Trying his best to disguise his shiver in his gait.

[by-yvaine]

Between Stops

I watched a man pay for his parking. He got out of his car, a lifted white truck, and made his way to the meter. He stood behind it and slotted in coins such that I wondered if his proceeding struggles would have been aided by walking to its front. He leaned over, checking the meter. Shook it slightly. He began to walk away. Then returned to the meter to check, just one more time. After which he walked off. Not without glancing back at the meter. Seemingly unsure about whether he would return to find his car.

Behind the man was a clearing. There were mounds of dirt in preparation for the building of something. Something was always being built. Rows upon rows of prefab houses, a garage that would be refurbished to a Chinese restaurant, a petrol station, then another five minutes from the last.

My bus came. I got on. Slid my coins through the machine, first a quarter, then a pound, and made my way to a vacant seat. Opposite me was an elderly couple. The man’s jacket was blue and the woman’s purple. Their faces wrinkled. The bus came to a stop and I watched them stand, however challenging it seemed for them, and depart the bus. Another person got on. This one was in all black. The jacket, the trousers, the socks. Everything but the boots which had white fur lining where one’s foot would enter. They sat, one seat offset from where the elderly couple sat. They fiddled with their bag until I believe they realized they were fiddling. Then they put the bag down and began fiddling with the zip of their jacket. And this continued for a while. Fiddling, attempt to break the fiddling, and then find another instrument suitable for their fiddling. The same cycle repeated until finally the bus stopped, and they got off. Another person got on. As I watched them find a seat, I glanced around the bus. My eyes met an elderly woman. Her hair was a mix of bright whites and tired grays. She had cut low, such that none of it fell. She was holding a recyclable bag. Groceries, maybe?

Her eyes met mine.

Her lips spread out, and then moved outwards in what I began to recognize as a smile.

The bus came to a stop. My stop.

[by-yvaine]

Like a Train

In the last month, I started going on walks. It was her idea. She’d since stopped. Each day I would walk past the same train tracks. I had never seen them. Never watched an old rustic train rattle past me.

I thought we were perfect together. At some point. The times when we were together. When she invited me to her parent’s. Her uncle and aunt were in town too. She had a big family. They seemingly liked one another. Her father killed it on the grill. It was warm, that day. She gave me a stick of gum on the drive home. It was orange.

I don’t know when. Or if it always was, and I was too foolish to notice. But we had become two people occupying the same space. We’d speak and… There was one day. I had just gotten home. Went upstairs, asked if she wanted anything, she said she did not, that she already had, I went back down, got myself something to eat. I returned to her, sat by her side, ready to eat. I then watched her leave, I waited for a bit. Then I finished eating. When I went back down to do the dishes, I found her seated in the living room, crocheting.

I remember when she suggested going on those walks. I agreed. And so we started walking. It took her a week and a half to grow tired of it. A week and a half of watching different mushrooms in the grass, or pointing at the sky whenever we saw a shade of blue we woke too late to view normally. Sometimes it would mix with other colours, her favourite was the slightly orange sky. A week and a half of walking by those tracks with her.

She loved like a train.

[by-yvaine]

Leanne

It was Friday. I got to call him each Friday. I heard the knock on my door, they told me it was my turn. Giddy, I stood up. Made my way through the hall. I wondered how I looked, whether the smile on my face came off as joyous or creepy.

I got to the phone. My fingers rolled to each number. I wonder how many times I had done this by this point. We spoke. He called me by name, each time. I liked it when he said my name. Leanne.

“Leanne, how are you doing?”

And I’d hear a faint smile behind the crackly speaker of the phone. Someone had hit the phone a tad bit too hard — two, no, three weeks ago. He had started working part-time. His mother had gotten better. His pay had been bumped recently.

“Not much, but we’ll take it.”

He asked me what I’d been up to. Not much. It’s the same thing each day.

“Time!” I heard one of them yell. I hated it.

I told him I loved him, and he said it back. I put the phone back.

It must’ve been Wednesday. I knew because I’d slept six times since we last spoke. Though that was not always a reliable way to keep count. Just two more days. I had something very funny to tell him. Someone had dropped their food, cleaned it up, and when they went back to get more food they dropped it again.

Friday came, and with it the knock on my door. I walked down the hall, holding back the urge to sprint down it. Rotated the dial to each number.

“Leanne, how are you doing?” I smiled. “Well, you?” I responded. He told me about his manager, how he had caught a person trying to shoplift. His manager called him out, and the thief immediately confessed. I could hear his smile once more. It was funny. I found it funny. He had made dinner with his mother. She was doing well. Chicken parm. It was their meal, and when I was there, it was ours.

“Time!” I heard one of them yell. I hated it.

I told him I loved him. I heard a pause. He said it back. I put the phone back, wondering when they’d fix it. It’d been nearly a month.

Friday. Knock. My turn.

Hall. Number. Phone.

No answer.

Number. Phone. Number. Phone. Number. Phone. I repeated these actions until I heard the word:

“Time!”