Anarchist activist feminist professional agitator psychonaut ACAB BLM QUEER AF smash the patriarchy dismantle the system subvert the paradigm taketheredpill Maidens and Magick find me at anerkey.me @aneane666 IG punk rock politics
I always hate going back to Seattle. That’s not true; I hate Seattle for changing, and myself for holding on stubbornly to my fading memories of it. I hate that I can’t morph it back into its former glory through sheer force of will. I hate myself for being so base; so nostalgic and romantic. I’ve always had the ability to romanticize anything. More of bane than a blessing really. All I can usually hear from my east coast overpriced condo is sirens and helicopters. It’s a long way from home.
Milk and Honey
Slipshod crunch - there goes another. From the back, take that one or it’ll rot. Ya can’t make the older ones comply and there’s too much blood in the honey. And they’ll tell you it’s nonsense, that it doesn’t fit convention. But why would you want it to? Accordingly, those were only some of the lessons I learned from Delvina before she decided to turn in her mortal coil and hit the heavenly highway. There hadn’t been much talk about it prior, and we all know the ranch will be fine without her, but the garden and the apiary might fall to ruin. That will screw us all.
The Latchkey Gang
Frankie closed his right eye and stared at the vase with his left, “Camera one." He switched, shutting his left eye, looking through his right, “Camera two,” and watched the vase bounce back into place. It was another boring summer day, stretched out before him like a wet dog drying himself after jumping in the lake.
First editions always made him feel sexy. It would be hysterical if a woman walked into the shop right now and caught him partially aroused by a stack of graphic novels. It wouldn’t be the first time in history a nerd popped a boner over a comic book villainess, but it would be the first time a woman had ever walked through his shop door.
The Seventh Veil
Act 1 It all began in the 2020 pandemic. Salome was born into isolation; an underweight, premature, screaming ball of flesh left in an incubator, bereft of human contact for the first 90 days of her miserable little life. She wouldn’t have known who her mother was or that she even had one except, at insufferably long intervals, a disembodied voice announced that mommy was there to see her. She didn’t understand the concept of mother. She understood only the existential suffering of isolation.