unwell setting

where things might or might not happen. weird fiction writing blog. don't worry about the writer, they're around. somewhere.

[unwellsetting]

there was a conversation on a table, paper cups of hot coffee and donuts on tissues, talking between sips, nodding occasionally, expressing with gestures, maintaining the advised amount of eye contact, inquire about a detail or another.

abruptly , it was realized the conversation wasn't about the same thing. and silence breathed again.

[unwellsetting]

you rather suffer before a brute god, you rather grapple onto him than suffer this without an audience. a witness.

all alone.

[unwellsetting]

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬:

¹²/³/²⁰²²

regional gothic: Arabian southwestern.

we stared at each other over the eggs and cheese, i was trying to communicate to him “are you seeing this? please tell me you’re.”, but his eyes told me one thing “ keep eating. don’t look around.”, his face is different, softer as if he was looking at me from under the water, it’s unnerving, my bare feet are swinging under the table, kicking him, he didn’t react. 

then i sneezed once, twice, and a feather lashed in my mouth, my parents wings, white, prodigious, heavy and overwhelming flooded the kitchen, my mother wing were weighing brother's head down, and still he was eating, his face an ugly dough, she was reading her morning prayers, her fingers flicking the rosary beads, her eyes bitterly cold wastelands.

 father's wings almost knocks me down, the feathers are falling in my tea, cramping us around the table, choking us, the table edge is digging between my ribs, i can feel them under us breathing, i gulp the tea with the wet sinking feathers so he doesn’t talk to me, he’s listening to the radio, damned thing, so loud the back of my skull burn, the day of judgment's lecture, when mountains walk, the moon falls and the sun burns out, and god calls forth the bones from the graves, his favorite subject. i turn to the calendar, it's still early until the day of reckoning, it's Tuesday, i kick brother again.

we fall under the table and crawl under the back breaking feathers, i latch to his shirt when i lose sight of him, until he drags me out by the hem of my gown.

we stand in front of the bathroom mirror, I'm standing on the toilet, we pluck feathers out of our hair, clothes, ears, noses, under our nails and throw the bundle of softness in the trash, we brush our teeth, and i run to my room, i wear my school uniform and my white socks with a bow, run down and i wait for him by the door.

when he descended the stairs, his wings were clawing the ceiling. i looked around then back at them looming above his head, he swung the door and pushed me lightly and yelled sharply baring his teeth over the howls of the nonbelievers hellish devastations, “we’re leaving.”

then without looking at me he muttered gravely:” I'll shear them.”

.

i ran to the school’s bathroom and pull up my shirt and turned to stare at my back in the foggy mirror, i wiped my sweating eyes, my lips chewed like spitted berries, but my back, there was no feathers, no lashing wings, no lumps.

i turned around me as if now the wings will blow out inside the door to splinters, sprawling from under the green tiles, burgeoning in the toilets and storming in the sinks.

when I'm out of the bathroom. i cough, retch and heave, i groan and bend over, and reach into my throat to pulls out a white feather.

[unwellsetting]

pictures

₁₁/₂₉/₂₀₂₂

you were terrified, of seeing a picture and not the hands that cradle it, the story, the intent, the build up behind the funeral of an event, scenery, portrait.

nearly nauseous with a craft without conception, without a myth of creation, an explanation in a lost interview.

but all these blind pictures discern, most of all, you are afraid of missing out.