It’s a web-comic I just started as the result of a conversation with a coworker about starfish, starfish-position, apathy, expressions, and how they are all fundamentally interconnected. Not sure how frequently I’ll update it, hopefully at least once a week depending on how steady the ideas come in and the quality of the pieces. First one is up, it’s pretty mediocre but it’s a start. Check it out, subscribe to it, date it, fuck it, marry it, divorce it, murder it, mourn it.
I dreamt i was asleep in a white, rounded, claustrophobic space chamber of some kind. like a minimal, economy class shuttle pod meant only for travel, with the occupants in some kind of stasis. I woke up, and looked around the curving slopes of wall, and knew something was inherently and exceedingly wrong. I pulled myself sliding through a narrow doorway, into a larger common area. At this point I’m not sure what happened. I think someone else was already in the common area, with a blank face showing horror from the eyes. Rapidly a black alien of some kind, more of a motion than a figure, swept in and horribly destroyed the person in the common area. I flung backwards into my chamber while it was consuming the man, and slid the door shut. But I knew I was fucked.
that feeling you get when something is overwhelmingly upsetting or joyful, and your heart feels like it’s flooding with blood for maybe the first time, each time that it happens.
I’ve been getting that feeling a lot in the past few days,
at first I had something of a bad reaction to it.
Memories of molt, of feathers shed. He she or it died.
So I let it come cautiously at first..
and then for a moment I embraced the rushing beat
of fists on the drum in my heart
Only to remember in a moment how hard that wave of blood can hit,
and I remember the molt that comes,
and feather etched gashes.
So to slow the crash of waves and the beating of these quiet fists,
to look at feather dug scars.
where for once i was content
I’m sitting on a bench at the bus terminal, waiting. This girl in a green sweater with tired eyes but a kind of energy in her face walked by and stood a few feet away, occasionally looking over at me. I pretended not to notice her, vacantly staring ahead with my headphones on (my default). She does this weird thing where she shakes her head forward, almost like a metal-head, letting her hair fall forward and open. A few minutes pass of this, me pretending not to see her glance over periodically, when the bus arrives. We get on. She sits in the shotgun seat behind the driver, me a little further back. The bus rolls through its route, clockwork, I’ve been here before. We come upon a bridge, and the girl in the green sweater isn’t glancing at me anymore. The bus just reaches the highest part of the bridge when the girl in the green sweater stands up and leans on the rail next to the driver. She springs forward and yanks the wheel to the left, hard. The driver’s hand raises a second too late. And then it’s too late. There are two loud shaking thumps as one and then both of the front wheels smash over the meridian curb, and then the bus starts it’s flip in slow-motion. I catch my reflection in the opposite window, I’m falling backwards into the window behind me, and it looks almost fun; like I’m jumping backfirst into black water. The engine on the bus roars crazily; a back tire spinning unencumbered sounds like a bomb winding down. The last thing I remember is the girl in the green sweater.