kindasortawriting

[kindasortawriting]

How to tie your shoelaces in five easy steps.

Step one. Take one shoelace in each hand. Tie them together tight. Give it a few practice tugs. Feel strong? Good.

Step two. Find something sturdy, a bar, rod, the top frame of a bunk bed. Loop it around, cinch it, secure it. Tie the other end together to make a big loop. See how much weight it will bear.

Step three. Wait for the guard to make his rounds. It’s Allen tonight, he's lazy and slow. Patient. Be patient. You can wait a little longer.

Step four. Leave a note. Nothing fancy, you have no one left. An apology? What's the point.

Step five. Escape.

[kindasortawriting]

Dr. Peyton Kerry was beyond any level of excitement he had previously thought possible. Using an unheard of combination of quantum scattering and a specially developed particle collider, his team was just seconds away from seeing the smallest structures man had ever seen. They were all gathered around the viewscreen in the basement level of the facility, but he was front and center, leaning in close. It was, after all, his life’s work, the culmination of some forty plus years of scientific advancement.

The first image began to form on the monitor, hazy at first but slowly coming into focus. Strange, hair-like structures were the first to appear, and seemed to make up the majority of the quantum foam being imaged – a form of base string, maybe. That was for the first researchers to get ahold of the results to bicker over. Peyton could feel the barely contained energy of his team, the desire to immediately begin discussing results. Then, as the image came into full focus, absolute silence and stillness.

Eyes. Hundreds of eyes of various sizes, filling every nook and cranny made by the swirling fibrous structures. Human eyes. All of them seeming to stare back at them. At him. The voice followed this realization, penetrating deep into all of their minds and echoing around them, a voice both androgynous and calm.

“You have seen. Too much. Too far. Too deep. No more.”

[kindasortawriting]

There's a bucket of nails in my dad's backyard

Rusty and dusty and gray

It sits just inside his big toolshed

So it's out of the way when I play

Today I have a playdate

Although I’d much rather read

Because the boy’s name is Timmy and

He annoys the fuck out of me

Just last weekend, in fact, you should know

While I was watching some birds

He ran up to me with a red plastic shovel

Filled to the rim with dog turds

So I concocted a brilliant plan

To settle it once and for all

The bucket of nails in the toolshed will spill

And upon the new mess we’ll fall

But I have a secret, a part of the scheme

It's about the tetanus shot

Because, you see, I've had it

And fucking Timmy has not

[kindasortawriting]

“Look, Bradley! It's like we went back in time! We're here!” She points towards the nearby stegosaurus and grasps his arm, gasping. “Your favorite! Look at all those bony plates, let's go t—”

Something wet, sticky, tacky. Something wrong. She looks down suddenly, startled. Blood has pooled in the crook of her arm. Her son lay there, one eye closed. The other is gone, the right side of his head a ruin. The arm attached to the hand held in hers clings to his body by tendon and skin stretched to tearing.

She lifts her gaze to the smoldering remains of her green Volkswagen. The driver's side of the vehicle is mostly intact, but the right side is almost completely sheared away. Jagged metal sticks up from the roof at odd angles.

She laughs wildly. It does look like a dinosaur.

[kindasortawriting]

I celebrated my last birthday today.

Everyone left was there.

Two mannequins from the corner store, both in disrepair.

I celebrated my last birthday today.

With what? Just wait and see.

Kindling on my favorite rock.

The cake for you and me.

I celebrated my last birthday today.

I lit the pile of sticks.

A candle made of Mother Earth.

What a fancy trick.

I celebrated my last birthday today.

Alone at the end of time.

Thanks to me for jotting down

The world's last silly rhyme.

[kindasortawriting]

There's a bridge in our local park. Just a small wooden bridge over a rivulet of murky water. It leads to a picnic area, complete with plastic tables. I've only walked across it once, on a date with my high school sweetheart.

We're still here. We yelled, back when we first arrived. No one heard. We watched them cross the bridge and vanish. We started a family. Then we ended it.

If anyone finds this, I'm sorry. You'll never leave. Turns out, there's a way to enter another world. It's just the picnic area at your local park, friend.

[kindasortawriting]

"They found us, and they pulled us down. Deep, deeper, deepest.

I can still see one. Seeing it makes me forget. I think I was married. Children, too.

At least they won't need to come find me.

When they started pulling...

I was in my living room."

- note found in a beer bottle, Challenger Deep, Mariana Trench, ~35,000ft below sea level.

[kindasortawriting]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[kindasortawriting]

Jim Turner was looking forward to his next class. He stood just outside the door to the classroom hugging his briefcase to his chest and grinning.

He'd been teaching here for the better part of a decade, and nothing he’d encountered so far had been too much for him to deal with. Fights, excessive horseplay, the usual pranks on the teacher, cursing. The class clowns, the ones just getting by for the football team. This assignment was a good one, though. A younger class, fresher minds, a new start.

“Showtime, Jim,” he whispered to himself, pressing down the door’s handle with his elbow, “Give ‘em your best.” He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped through.

“Hello, children!” He spoke loudly enough to overcome any chattering from his audience. He walked the few steps to the broken wooden desk at the front of the room and deposited his briefcase on the floor behind it.

“My name is Mr. Turner. I'll be your teacher for the first semester of this year.” He stepped towards the old-fashioned, well-used blackboard in the center of the front wall and, picking up a stub of dusty white chalk, scrawled his name in large, looping cursive. “I hope we can all get along and maybe learn a few things along the way. “

He turned back to face the room, smiling warmly. He had been assigned to better classrooms, but it certainly wasn't the worst. Standard issue desks, a few run-of-the-mill posters with motivational quotes – the one portraying a cartoon kitten doing a pull-up with the words ‘Hang in There!’ below it actually struck his funny bone – and the usual loudly ticking wall clock. Above all the décor one would expect in a classroom, though, were the rows and columns of smiling faces, and he was thrilled to see that these faces were doing just that.

“Wonderful! Now, I believe you had an assignment to complete over the summer. If you'd all be so kind as to place your completed assignments on your desks, I'll come by and pick them up.”

He started with the desk nearest to the door and made his way around the room, lifting two or three sheets of paper from the top of each desk as he walked by. He stumbled twice and nearly lost his balance entirely a third time as his bare left foot made contact with a lonely, crumbling brick. He laughed it off, shaking his head and waggling a finger at himself in mock beratement.

“Mr. Turner needs to be a little more careful, eh, kids?” He collected the final sheet of paper from the desk in the rear corner and made his way back to the front of the classroom. He winced, sucking air through his teeth sharply, as he nicked his left arm on a shard of broken glass jutting from a partially boarded-up window. “More careful. Careful. Easy does it.”

He tapped the collection of yellowed sheets against the top of his desk a few times, then laid the neat stack aside before turning back to his students, gazing at them with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“Now for the introductions! Who to start with first, hmm?”

The skull atop the skeleton sitting in the nearest desk lolled to the side. The rattling, creaking sound it made penetrated the silence and echoed throughout the room. He smiled, showcasing the few yellow stumps of teeth remaining in his blackened mouth.

“We already have a volunteer!” He giggled, jumping from one foot to the other.

“I think we're going to have a great semester. Don't you?”

[kindasortawriting]

My writing then: Oh this is nice!

My writing now: This is great!

Looks back on my writing then: The hell was I thinking?

A perfect example of your writing is infinitely changing in little or big ways.

[kindasortawriting]

The new throw pillow kinda sus ngl.

https://www.instagram.com/noxivae/

[kindasortawriting]

Sticky, Part 3

He lifted his head slowly, then peered around through half-lidded eyes. It wasn't where he remembered lying down. The park, wasn't it? Daytime, too. Not here. He was lying on a green, ruffled mat atop a stone floor. Latticed metal fencing surrounded him on all sides. It was a large space. Not meant for the likes of him, maybe. The high ceiling was inset with bright florescent lights, but the small window behind him showed a sliver of sky filled with the purples and greens of twilight.  

He blinked, his mind churning slowly through the implications before letting them go. He lowered his head back down to his folded legs and let his eyes fall closed again. A change of location wasn’t really cause for concern, was it? He didn’t think his fate would be any different regardless. That was okay, he thought. 

He was faintly aware of the sound of approaching footsteps. Four large feet. Two small.  

“What about this little guy?” A soft voice murmured. A woman's voice. A nice voice. “He looks awful, though. How long has he been here?” 

“Just picked him up today. Still hasn't been processed. Don't even know about vaccinations, so I can show you some of our other recent arrivals if you’d like.” 

“Him. I want him.” The boy’s voice was louder. It cut through the hushed tones of the two adults and echoed faintly through the corridor. 

“Honey, are you sure? We can keep looking for a while.” The woman’s voice again. He liked her voice. It made the soreness in his joints and the hollow feeling in his stomach seem distant somehow.  

“Yes. I'm sure. I want to hold him.” 

The gate rattled, then squeaked. It scraped against the stone floor as it was pulled open. A strong but gentle hand scooped him up.   

“Hold him like this, okay? Oh, hang on, let me get you a towel, he's filthy.” 

“No, that's okay. He's just a little sticky.” 

He found himself being cradled, one small hand supporting his backside. He leaned his head against the boy’s shoulder.  

He was a little sticky. That was okay, he thought.

[kindasortawriting]

Sticky, Part 2

The park was vibrant with activity, a stark contrast to the start of his day. He had walked the half mile to the center of town. It was a dangerous place to be at night – too much competition – but during the day it was full of people and the occasional discarded treat. He curled up beneath a wooden bench, careful to avoid a particularly fresh-looking wad of chewing gum plastered to the metal leg, and watched the passers-by.  

“Bro, you gotta chill out on those. Didn’t you say you were watching your weight?” 

The two men were walking along the concrete path near which the bench was placed. He lifted his head slightly and followed their approach. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Full anyway. You don’t want the rest?” 

“Nah, chunk ‘em. Thanks though.” 

The discarded container hit the rim of the trash can positioned near the bench, then fell to the ground. Two breaded nuggets, shaken free during the descent, landed a few inches away. He sniffed at the air, then rested his head on upon his folded legs again. Moving seemed like too much work. He didn’t know if he could, honestly. That was okay, he thought. He was tired. 

“Daddy, look!” The scream of delight was piercing. He winced as he lifted his head, ears twitching. The little girl waddled towards the bench, holding her father's hand at first, then letting go as the pair reached him. She bent at the waist and curled her chubby fingers beneath him. Yesterday, he might have hissed. He might have fought. But not today. 

“Look, look! Kitty!” She waggled him in her hands, grip a little tighter than he would have preferred. His head lolled with every slight shake. “Can we keep him?” 

“No, absolutely not. Put that thing down right now, it's disgusting!” The man reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, then dropped him just as quickly. “Ugh, and it's sticky! Who knows where it's been, come on.” 

He managed to land on his feet, though he wobbled a bit before fully sticking the landing. He shook himself, then gave one leg a tentative poke with his tongue. He was sticky. That was okay, he thought. A bath seemed like just too much work. He wobbled again as he walked back to his place beneath the bench. 

[kindasortawriting]

The mirror was backwards this morning.

I was late for work, in a hurry. I didn't have time for breakfast. My shower was quick, I barely toweled off, my clothes are still damp. Toast was burned.

Was the mirror backwards this morning?

Traffic is heavy. People are angry, there's more honking than usual. Tires are screeching. I passed this red light twice already. The inside of that car is on the outside. Funny.

I guess the mirror was fine.

[kindasortawriting]

Sticky, Part 1

He pushed himself up from the damp, musty blanket and yawned mightily, so much so that it nearly pulled him back into sleep. He blinked rapidly several times as he glanced about the deserted alleyway in which he found himself on this night. He thought it would be morning soon. That seemed right. 

It was foggy. It had been every morning for the last few days, if his memory was still all it had been. It was a light but all-encompassing haze which made everything just a bit blurrier than it might have been, a little out of focus. The yellow-orange glow of the few streetlights interspersed along the pitted, rubble-strewn street just outside of his hiding place didn't serve to illuminate much. He stretched his much too lean body, feeling a satisfying pull in his joints, before stepping out to the curb.  

No people. Not at this hour. But that was good. Enough time to find a meal and clean up before the traffic started, maybe. He certainly wasn't presentable as he was, not in the way that he needed to be to accomplish his task. Maybe he would never be. That was okay, he thought.

He started off down the sidewalk. Brick buildings loomed on his right, several with creeping, sickly-looking vines curling their way along and around the mostly boarded-up or broken windows. There was the occasional open or missing door, but the dust and gloom prevented him from peering in far enough to see much. Broken furniture. Shards of glass. A disheveled mannequin. This part of town had been abandoned a long time ago. That was okay, he thought. Hadn’t he been, too?  

Dawn was just beginning to make its sullen red-orange appearance as he came upon a possible source of breakfast. A dumpster, lid left open and propped against the brick wall of the adjacent building, was still emanating the smell of someone's dinner from the night before. He glanced from side to side, head lowered, legs tensed, before bolting towards the source of the smell. He leapt onto the side of the dumpster and clambered up towards the waiting mouth of the receptacle. 

Nothing. He peered down into the vast, empty cavern below, ears drooping, stomach giving an ill-timed gurgling. The distant rumble of a truck engine followed by the incessant beep of its back-up alarm told the rest of the story. His meal had been taken away. Soon the rest of them would be, too. That would be okay, he thought. He scrambled down the side of the dumpster before leaping the rest of the way to the pavement.