The Writer Tells No Tales

Beneath the shallow water flow. Beneath the shallow water flow beneath the wind, Come to the hillsides in the land beside the weeping willow tree. In this land, cold and slippery, Where the dogs inside and whimper, behold the children read fairy tales, of giant magical sky whales. Beneath this shallow dirt. Beneath this shallow dirt that we call home, The willow trees sway longingly, longing for rain. Yet they none get, for it was a simple yet meager bet, behold a land that will never get rain again.

It's difficult to find an audience when you're the only one that wants to here the story. But sometimes it is beneficial to only tell it to yourself. On this notebook, I find great struggle in telling it, despite having nobody to judge my work. Perhaps by the time I am finished with it, there will not be anybody left on Earth in which to tell it.

It was sometime close to the end of December, when I had just barely gotten out of my funk, while I reclined in my bed spending most of the time playing with my junk. I would play with my junk the entire evening, if not for want of bread. I jot down various types of ciphers in my notebook, although cryptography and steganography are only tools. But to play with my emotions on the topic, is like fondling my family jewels. And everything else one could possibly imagine that could make someone uncomfortable to here me vent about my life. From time to time I would miss being in high school, despite being a quarter century plus three years, and going on plus four years. If I could describe myself, it would be a slightly short stature for a man, although a man I am not. I have long curly brown hair coming down to my shoulders, although in the early days my parents had wanted me to trim it all off. Suppose one were more properly born female, this would not even be a discussion worth having.

But now my parents largely leave my hair alone, except to play with it to see how soft and springy it is. I'd rather not give my name, and if you saw the cover of this book, you likely already know what it is already. But lest those who went to my high school read this book, I shall leave them to feel absurd for not properly reading the cover before purchasing this time. I shall reach my hand out from the pages, and slap them silly. But now, I shall assume that you are a proper reader.

At school I was the outcasts of outcasts, although not quite as tech savvy as I am now. Nor have I yet gotten my pair of aviator goggles. But it was however the time when I had developed the sexual interest in ladies in Birkenstock clogs, although I had gotten hints of this interest from an early age. It didn't help that during my eighth grade year, there a girl in a blond pony tail, and quite then, he (at least it seemed that way at the time) would sarcastically comment on how cute I was, while showing off her Birkenstock clogs with short white ankle socks. The other students laughing, my own sense of shame.

My own fetish for clogs.

At home, my dad would comment on how his family used to raise pigs, and how his dad would be outside in the barn slopping hogs. I wondered for many years whether pops family ever raised any other animals. It was right outside of Chattanooga, and nowadays the city limits had strict issues in relation to the raising of farm animals. Although thankfully this did not include pet rabbits. But for my own worth, I had been interested in raising sheep. And treat the short curly white haired munchkins as one of my dogs, like kittens in the kennel.

But realistically I always knew this wouldn't work out, as I could barely take care of myself. That issue had only recently gone away, yet I am still about three hundred and twenty five pounds, although I am hoping to change that. It's easy enough to think about the past, yet not so much in thinking about the future. Though whether there would be a future I wasn't sure, as both the current US union president and the North Korean president would have a great time comparing each other's cock sizing, compromising the fate of the human race in the process. Yet, according to some well known computer cryptographers, humanities is quite the trusting species.

You can see it when a young woman refusing to go down a dark alleyway with a stranger, and carrying a can of pepper spray while trying to avoid being murdered by bigoted shitheads down the right from my apartment complex, with its own free wifi set up, and a place I call home.

It had been many months since the previous president narrowly averted a third world war. My previous ex guy friend had been of the mind that the Cold War in and of itself was a kind of world war three, although I would personally beg to differ about this. Even now since knowing him, and being a sexual assault survivor from the other female ex, that had shaped my view of the world as someone who could not trust anybody.

Yet now I was focused largely on getting out of dodge from militarized police officers, while they shoot down activists with water canons, and murder helpless black people. The news would often comment about the most current black victim of the day, but when it comes to trans people, and especially some of my friends who are trans and black, many of us never even bare mention on the digital television set. It was easy to play an old fashioned game of Russian Roulette with one's personal anxiety issues, as society slowly dwindles down to one of total moral decay. I suppose that in the reason for my cynicism.

That nobody will be around to read.

Even if that's not my story.

I recall the fact that when I was living in Federal Way, Washington State, how my room mate I had lived with for a year commented that it seemed like all my works of fiction seemed to come true. Whether it's two girls being outside in the cold, or other stories I had more intended to be children's book rather than something allegorical to my life, and in fact, if I were to do that I wouldn't be phrasing it in the same way that I did my books for those between eight and ten.

For me the only running theme I've got going on, is everything loops all over again.

Behold a land that will never get rain again.


Fairy Dust



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