J.C. Traverse
Bio
Nah, I'm good.
Stories (46/0)
The Bittersweet Necessity
Last night, I dreamt of it again. The vision would begin with the simplicity of the student-desk tan filling my line of sight. I would see the little carvings and scribbles made by the other students, and I’d feel my intestines begin to twist into the all-too-familiar knot that defined a decade of my life.
By J.C. Traverse2 years ago in Futurism
Raleighwood
Life isn't quite like the movies, but don't we try to make it so? Even through the perpetual anticlimax that is our lives we try to attach the meaning that the visionaries intend and the critics miss. Everything is a symbol, we have free dictation of our own will, and things will work out, they always have, right?
By J.C. Traverse2 years ago in Humans
Eco
I could hear the Sword of Damocles, creaking and teetering above my head, swinging back and forth like a pendulum; eventually it would swing at just the right angle in the right frame of time, collapse into my skull, and I would leave this Earth. But it will be worth it, for by then I will be taking Ike Calvino with me.
By J.C. Traverse2 years ago in Criminal
The Seventh Steer
Men pierce women with words; women pierce men with silence. This much I know at this point in my life. Mere hours ago I had been blocked-out and cut-off socially by yet another woman whom I’d believed to find me to be at least something--intelligent, kindly, or even amusing--something worth keeping around. Instead she chose to turn to me with a cold shoulder when I saw her in person and to not respond to my messages. Circumstances such as these tend to bring about an anxiety within me, one with anger and resentment that I, polite as I try to be, always refuse to unleash on anybody; however this ultimately puts that energy inward, causing me to feel somewhere between mildly depressed and bat-shit crazy.
By J.C. Traverse3 years ago in Fiction
Spirits.
It was not the contents of the dream that haunted me; it was the familiarity of it all. Every crevice of the room felt to be lived-in, not just by its natural deterioration from years of neglect, but as though I’d been squatting in it for days on-end. The Sun slipping through the cracks of the ceiling made it all-the-more surreal; it was dusk and I didn’t want to be there. Perhaps this torn-up warehouse was never to be a final stopping-point, or even a pitstop, but nevertheless there was not an end in sight.
By J.C. Traverse3 years ago in Fiction