space scribbles
It was still Springtime
Birdie didn’t live on the farm, but she lived close enough that when she yawned in the morning, she could taste the breezes that blew over the field. She lived over the garage of the Humphreys’, an old and pleasant couple who gave her peace and privacy. That was the thing about this country. Plenty of peace and privacy.
She pulled on her boots when the sky was still dark, standing in her stocking feet on the Humphreys’ concrete patio. The moon hadn’t set fully, and the sky was still a deep indigo. She took her mug of coffee up off the metal lattice of the pool table and cradled it against her chest as she climbed into the front seat of the Silverado, a beat-up old thing that she’d been borrowing from Dennis since her coup had broken down three months ago. The coffee smelled like the indent of a pillow in the cramped cabin of the truck, and the steam was warm against her face.
She drove down the mile and a half partially-paved drive. The Silverado was barely warm. There was a bundle of Dennis’s dirty clothes in the passenger seat, but Birdie hadn’t touched at them all week. She didn’t want to see any flash of red nail polish. She pulled through the gateway into the farm, underneath the wooden beam, the hanging, creaking sign. Lazy Swine Ranch. Dennis’s dad had carved out the sign, wood-burnt the name into the plank of wood. Dennis couldn’t change the name of the farm, even if he wanted.
Birdie pulled up to the barn, killed the Silverado, slid out of the truck with her coffee mug in her hand, the liquid sloshing against the rim. She kept leaving mugs here. She needed to take them home, wash them all out. She went to the sink room, clocked in, checked the timecards.
No Colleen.
She pulled on her boots when the sky was still dark, standing in her stocking feet on the Humphreys’ concrete patio. The moon hadn’t set fully, and the sky was still a deep indigo. She took her mug of coffee up off the metal lattice of the pool table and cradled it against her chest as she climbed into the front seat of the Silverado, a beat-up old thing that she’d been borrowing from Dennis since her coup had broken down three months ago. The coffee smelled like the indent of a pillow in the cramped cabin of the truck, and the steam was warm against her face.
She drove down the mile and a half partially-paved drive. The Silverado was barely warm. There was a bundle of Dennis’s dirty clothes in the passenger seat, but Birdie hadn’t touched at them all week. She didn’t want to see any flash of red nail polish. She pulled through the gateway into the farm, underneath the wooden beam, the hanging, creaking sign. Lazy Swine Ranch. Dennis’s dad had carved out the sign, wood-burnt the name into the plank of wood. Dennis couldn’t change the name of the farm, even if he wanted.
Birdie pulled up to the barn, killed the Silverado, slid out of the truck with her coffee mug in her hand, the liquid sloshing against the rim. She kept leaving mugs here. She needed to take them home, wash them all out. She went to the sink room, clocked in, checked the timecards.
No Colleen.
Blog
First Published Story!
My first story has been officially published on Altered Reality literary magazine online! This is my first science fiction story that has been published, and I am so excited to see my words in (digital) print. This short story, "Yellow Horizon", focuses on the existential dread of being young and idealistic in a world that already feels ruined beyond repair.
Genesis
there is a compassion there
for a younger self, who wore
a five dollar t-shirt to a recital.
(it was new.)
the living say to me:
i am ill-fitted for the living.
the world is stretched thin over
my head
i claw at the skin that makes it difficult to breathe.
if i saw myself as a child
i would put hands over my ears, i would
wrap a sweater around my shoulders,
i would say
there is a name for ill-fittedness.
i would kiss my forehead.
there is a compassion there. there is love.
i am already too much of myself
to hold onto what the rest of you think of me.
for a younger self, who wore
a five dollar t-shirt to a recital.
(it was new.)
the living say to me:
i am ill-fitted for the living.
the world is stretched thin over
my head
i claw at the skin that makes it difficult to breathe.
if i saw myself as a child
i would put hands over my ears, i would
wrap a sweater around my shoulders,
i would say
there is a name for ill-fittedness.
i would kiss my forehead.
there is a compassion there. there is love.
i am already too much of myself
to hold onto what the rest of you think of me.