Jon Ureña's Blog, page 24
December 16, 2023
Reread: Saltiness, by Minoru Furuya
I’ve read through this series a third time since I reviewed it in this post. I’ve checked out most of Furuya’s stuff, such as Boku to Issho , Wanitokagegisu , Himizu , and Ciguatera , among which Ciguatera may be objectively his best, but Saltiness speaks to me to an extent that has made it my second favorite manga series after Asano’s Oyasumi Punpun.
Saltiness is the story of, for me, a clearly autistic dude who lives in one of those isolated Japanese towns with his younger sister, who is a teacher. We don’t know it yet, but they went through hell growing up: their mother abandoned them, and our generally deranged protagonist had to steal and loot in order to provide for his helpless little sister. As a result, even about twenty years later, he’s terrified of anything bad happening to her, and her happiness is his one goal in life, to the extent that once she manages to set up her life in a way that doesn’t require him anymore, he plans to arrange an accident in the woods to die and let her continue without needing to worry about him.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page, where it looks better]
December 12, 2023
Ended up in the hospital (as a patient), Pt. 3
This entry will mostly be depressing, so if you’re one of those people who prefer to pretend that life is different than what it actually is, you may want to skip this one.
Last night I went to bed a nine, hoping to fall asleep soon and wake up at five to start writing the next chapter of my ongoing novel. Unfortunately, my poor cat had died half a day earlier, so I spent about two hours grieving some more. Although it doesn’t surprise me anymore, I felt like a worthless creature because I can barely remember three or four moments of an entire life with that cat. I have often wondered if my brain is damaged when it comes to whatever process stores memories, because on a day-to-day basis, I feel like I’m floating in the present with only the flimsiest connection to my past and the living beings in it. Why love someone, if when the relationship comes crashing down, not only will you have forgotten almost everything about that person, but in her place you will only find pain? I look back at my thirty-eight years of living, and it feels like I’ve blazed through it without making more than a couple of memories that I would consider worth it, and one of them is visiting an amusement park a few months ago. Maybe that gives you an idea of what level I’m at.
Rolling around in bed, crying for a loved creature that I would never hold nor see again, the usual objections about me continuing to live took the opportunity to assail me: why do I still stick around when I’m miserable most of the time, when my body tortures me, when I have never felt comfortable among human beings, when none of my efforts will ever amount to anything? Like in previous times, my brain forced me to answer why I refuse to die, which, it likes to remind me, I should have done a long time ago. At this point, the only reason I would “regret” dying is that I wouldn’t finish this current novel of mine; nothing else adds meaning to my otherwise meaningless existence. Then again, if one doesn’t exist, no meaning is needed. As for everything else, other than passing entertainment, I can hardly care less.
While I tried my best to fall asleep, I gave my body permission to cease operations in my sleep. I can’t count the amount of times that I’ve wished for that to happen over the years. That’s how I’ve always wanted to go, and that’s how my cat went as well, or at least I hope so, because I wasn’t there to witness it.
Instead of dying, I woke up spontaneously at the witching hour (meaning 3 A.M., although definitions vary). I doubted that I would fall asleep again, so I planned to sit at my desk and use the time until six in the morning to freewrite some paragraphs of my next scene. However, as I shuffled to the bathroom to pee, I found myself in that state that promises that if you don’t squeeze more sleep out of the night, you will suffer for the rest of the day, so I went back to bed. Once the alarm finally hit at five, I felt like utter shit, but I dragged myself to my desk and pulled off three paragraphs of fiction, which would allow me to feel fulfilled for the upcoming many hours of sacrificing my time, energy, mental health, and physical health for another day of meaningless drudgery.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page]
Last night I went to bed a nine, hoping to fall asleep soon and wake up at five to start writing the next chapter of my ongoing novel. Unfortunately, my poor cat had died half a day earlier, so I spent about two hours grieving some more. Although it doesn’t surprise me anymore, I felt like a worthless creature because I can barely remember three or four moments of an entire life with that cat. I have often wondered if my brain is damaged when it comes to whatever process stores memories, because on a day-to-day basis, I feel like I’m floating in the present with only the flimsiest connection to my past and the living beings in it. Why love someone, if when the relationship comes crashing down, not only will you have forgotten almost everything about that person, but in her place you will only find pain? I look back at my thirty-eight years of living, and it feels like I’ve blazed through it without making more than a couple of memories that I would consider worth it, and one of them is visiting an amusement park a few months ago. Maybe that gives you an idea of what level I’m at.
Rolling around in bed, crying for a loved creature that I would never hold nor see again, the usual objections about me continuing to live took the opportunity to assail me: why do I still stick around when I’m miserable most of the time, when my body tortures me, when I have never felt comfortable among human beings, when none of my efforts will ever amount to anything? Like in previous times, my brain forced me to answer why I refuse to die, which, it likes to remind me, I should have done a long time ago. At this point, the only reason I would “regret” dying is that I wouldn’t finish this current novel of mine; nothing else adds meaning to my otherwise meaningless existence. Then again, if one doesn’t exist, no meaning is needed. As for everything else, other than passing entertainment, I can hardly care less.
While I tried my best to fall asleep, I gave my body permission to cease operations in my sleep. I can’t count the amount of times that I’ve wished for that to happen over the years. That’s how I’ve always wanted to go, and that’s how my cat went as well, or at least I hope so, because I wasn’t there to witness it.
Instead of dying, I woke up spontaneously at the witching hour (meaning 3 A.M., although definitions vary). I doubted that I would fall asleep again, so I planned to sit at my desk and use the time until six in the morning to freewrite some paragraphs of my next scene. However, as I shuffled to the bathroom to pee, I found myself in that state that promises that if you don’t squeeze more sleep out of the night, you will suffer for the rest of the day, so I went back to bed. Once the alarm finally hit at five, I felt like utter shit, but I dragged myself to my desk and pulled off three paragraphs of fiction, which would allow me to feel fulfilled for the upcoming many hours of sacrificing my time, energy, mental health, and physical health for another day of meaningless drudgery.
[Check out the rest of this entry on my personal page]
December 11, 2023
Life update (12/11/2023)
In the most recent entry of this “diary,” I wrote that my eldest cat had gone senile suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped. For three days she did little else than wander around in a daze, get stuck in corners as if she were a robot with broken programming, pee herself, and fall face-first from chair or sofa-tall surfaces. Although something has broken permanently in her brain, because she has forgotten some basics about life such as not peeing herself, and likely no longer recognizes me nor her daughter (which may have been a blessing in disguise), she will get to live for a while longer.
Today I returned from work to find that cat’s daughter, sole surviving child, dead. She had been wasting away for weeks if not more. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her other than being super old. It seems that her heart stopped beating while she was sleeping.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page]
Today I returned from work to find that cat’s daughter, sole surviving child, dead. She had been wasting away for weeks if not more. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her other than being super old. It seems that her heart stopped beating while she was sleeping.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page]
December 9, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 122 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.
Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.
"There you are, darling." She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. "Your morning boost awaits."
As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, "Wait, let me do it." She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She's wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.
"That's a smile of pride," Jacqueline says. "Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine's ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn't it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time."
I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I'm no different: I follow Jacqueline's instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can't live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I'd be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.
"Thank you, Nairu," I say in a choked voice, "for wanting to improve my day."
"Alright, pancakes done," Jacqueline announces. "Sit down, mes chéries."
When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu's eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I'm drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we're accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.
As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don't know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.
Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu's plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.
"What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?" She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. "Syrup, or chocolate?"
A giggle bubbles up from Nairu's throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.
"Chocolate!"
I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu's treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.
I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.
Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like "mm-hmmm," and gentle glugs. At times a dog's bark, or the rumble of a car's engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren't alone.
Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu's pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.
Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.
"Are you alright, mon amour?"
I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover's fingers, clings to mommy's tantalizing cleavage.
"I had one of my moments," I say, "but I feel fine already."
Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.
Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.
"I must say, you're looking quite chic today."
"Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can't rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, 'Let's kill our boss,' but alas, I haven't dared to order such a customized garment."
Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.
"Let's focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You've been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is... our boss putting extra pressure on you?"
I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I'm no closer to figuring out what machine I'm supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won't ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.
"No, I'd say he's burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks."
"But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can't you? How are you two getting along these days?"
I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I'd rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.
"Now that I'm getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame."
Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who's unaware of Jacqueline's shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.
Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.
"One of these days we'll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I'm afraid that day is a long way off." She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. "You're so cute, mon petit ange!"
Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu's face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.
In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.
"Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I'd prefer if he didn't exist, but I think that of most people. It's always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I'm chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you're enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it's crumbling apart."
Jacqueline's smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin's Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.
Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out "Eide," the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.
"Yes," I say. "Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it..."
Nairu's cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.
I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.
"Goodbye, ma fille."
Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.
From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we'll finally defeat Shadowcluster.
"I never heard of that memory before," Jacqueline says warmly.
"Well," I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, "I don't like to remember things."
I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.
"Remember that, Leire. We'll be here when you come back."
The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.
As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.
I'm neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?
---
Author's note: today's songs are "A.M. 180" by Grandaddy, "Good Ol' Boredom" by Built to Spill, and "はるなつあきふゆ" ("Spring Summer Autumn Winter") by Ichiko Aoba.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.
Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.
---
Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.
Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.
"There you are, darling." She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. "Your morning boost awaits."
As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, "Wait, let me do it." She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She's wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.
"That's a smile of pride," Jacqueline says. "Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine's ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn't it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time."
I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I'm no different: I follow Jacqueline's instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can't live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I'd be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.
"Thank you, Nairu," I say in a choked voice, "for wanting to improve my day."
"Alright, pancakes done," Jacqueline announces. "Sit down, mes chéries."
When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu's eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I'm drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we're accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.
As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don't know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.
Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu's plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.
"What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?" She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. "Syrup, or chocolate?"
A giggle bubbles up from Nairu's throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.
"Chocolate!"
I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu's treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.
I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.
Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like "mm-hmmm," and gentle glugs. At times a dog's bark, or the rumble of a car's engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren't alone.
Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu's pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.
Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.
"Are you alright, mon amour?"
I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover's fingers, clings to mommy's tantalizing cleavage.
"I had one of my moments," I say, "but I feel fine already."
Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.
Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.
"I must say, you're looking quite chic today."
"Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can't rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, 'Let's kill our boss,' but alas, I haven't dared to order such a customized garment."
Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.
"Let's focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You've been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is... our boss putting extra pressure on you?"
I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I'm no closer to figuring out what machine I'm supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won't ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.
"No, I'd say he's burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks."
"But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can't you? How are you two getting along these days?"
I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I'd rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.
"Now that I'm getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame."
Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who's unaware of Jacqueline's shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.
Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.
"One of these days we'll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I'm afraid that day is a long way off." She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. "You're so cute, mon petit ange!"
Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu's face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.
In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.
"Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I'd prefer if he didn't exist, but I think that of most people. It's always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I'm chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you're enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it's crumbling apart."
Jacqueline's smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin's Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.
Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out "Eide," the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.
"Yes," I say. "Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it..."
Nairu's cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.
I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.
"Goodbye, ma fille."
Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.
From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we'll finally defeat Shadowcluster.
"I never heard of that memory before," Jacqueline says warmly.
"Well," I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, "I don't like to remember things."
I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.
"Remember that, Leire. We'll be here when you come back."
The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.
As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.
I'm neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?
---
Author's note: today's songs are "A.M. 180" by Grandaddy, "Good Ol' Boredom" by Built to Spill, and "はるなつあきふゆ" ("Spring Summer Autumn Winter") by Ichiko Aoba.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.
Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.
December 2, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 121 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He's standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man's face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night's campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.
As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.
The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.
I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.
Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.
"Good morning, ma chérie," says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.
My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I'm trapped in this person's grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!
As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline's embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.
"And what a beautiful morning it is," she purrs.
"D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?" I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.
My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.
"More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right."
She's rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.
"Ah, ça c'est bon..." she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.
"Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast."
"Don't you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy's cock plowing your insides?"
"Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact."
"You're right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do."
As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.
Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.
Jacqueline's hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.
I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline's other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can't help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.
"Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can't wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child."
Our child? We can't have a child of our own. It's not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu's room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child's individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I'd pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I've looked forward to removing myself.
One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn't wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.
Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy's ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I'm a slut-lady who serves mommy's mammoth member, and I can't wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.
Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I'm drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.
"You've been loving the daily doses of mommy milk," Jacqueline whispers, "haven't you, mon ange?"
I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.
"More than you know."
"Then beg me to breed you."
"P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode."
Her breath catches in her throat.
"My love," she pants, "you make it difficult to control myself. Don't worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies."
The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline's hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I'm writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline's cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.
When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.
Jacqueline's fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.
"Do you think I'm greedy, mon coeur?" she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. "You've given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both."
"That's fine. Just don't leave me to fend off for myself in the streets."
"How could I ever abandon my darling? You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not." Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. "What do you think it's going to be? A boy or a girl?"
"That's assuming that the kid can't turn into one or the other at will."
"Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise."
"We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding."
Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.
"Seriously though," I say, "I do hope it's a girl. I wouldn't know how to handle a boy."
"Oh, I know it already, Leire. It's a girl."
"Well, if it isn't, let's not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn't want to do the same to another being."
Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren't pissing and shitting themselves, but they don't intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.
Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone's screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I'll change my alarm melody; it's unfair to associate Chopin's Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.
"Merde..." Jacqueline grumbles. "Time to get up, mon lapin."
She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.
I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline's embrace.
"Let's pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died."
Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.
"Believe me, I'd rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work."
I sigh.
"I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time."
Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won't linger long.
I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.
As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.
Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.
Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.
"Go take a shower, ma lumière. I'll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "VCR" by The xx, "Bodys" by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2" by Chopin.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.
Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.
This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
---
The amber-and-gold glow of dawn bathes a bearded man clad in animal furs. He's standing barefoot on grass that glistens with dew, his rugged figure framed by the maw of a cave. The man's face bears the marks of the sun and wind, and his thick beard is matted with traces of last night's campfire. Around his neck hangs a necklace of teeth and bones.
As the man squints against the rising sun, he raises a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip of the bitter brew. When he lowers his gaze, a jolt of surprise shakes him, causing his hands to jerk and the coffee to splash over the rim of his cup. His eyes widen, his mouth falls agape, the tendons in his neck stiffen. A shaggy, hulking ground sloth slams against the man, thrusting him backwards into the cave. The steaming cup sails in an arc through the air, trailing streaks and droplets of coffee that gleam orange in the sunrise.
The warm weight of a body is draped over me like a heated blanket. Two hard nubs are poking my upper back as a petite bosom presses against me, and more conspicuously, a pulsating shaft is pumping inside the slippery channel of my vagina.
I stir. Although my eyelids peel open, either I have gone blind or the rolling shutters have sealed the bedroom in blackness.
Soft lips nuzzle the crook of my neck in kisses that coax ticklish shudders through my spine. I feel the rise and fall of her chest, along with the beating of her heart.
"Good morning, ma chérie," says a light and airy voice, high as the upper notes on a musical scale.
My breath hitches in my throat, my muscles tense up. I'm trapped in this person's grip: she has wrapped an arm under my breasts, and with her other arm, she has caught me in a headlock. Who the fuck is fucking me?!
As my panic escalates, my mind paints a picture on the canvas of darkness: vibrant, wavy copper hair cascading down; a constellation of freckles dusted over porcelain skin; coral-pink, well-hydrated lips like velvety rose petals. I relax, then lean back into Jacqueline's embrace just as one of her hands glides down to caress my abdomen.
"And what a beautiful morning it is," she purrs.
"D-did you fall asleep with your dick on?" I utter in a voice raspy with sleep.
My ear fills with soft giggles, the tinkling of tiny bells.
"More like passed out, after I drained myself deep inside you. No wonder I slept so soundly. Today I have woken up snuggled up to ma moitié, my erection nestled between her ass cheeks, and I figured that I could help her start the day off right."
She's rocking her pelvis, prodding the length of her penis inside me with a friction that brings forth a wash of slippery juices.
"Ah, ça c'est bon..." she murmurs, her voice quivering with the rhythm of her thrusts.
"Wh-whenever you grow that dick of yours, you turn into a wild beast."
"Don't you love to wake up to the feeling of mommy's cock plowing your insides?"
"Of course I do. I purely pointed out a fact."
"You're right, though. I become a wild animal driven by the need to hold you tight and fill you up with cum. And that, mon bébé, is what I intend to do."
As her throbbing hardness grinds inside my velvet chamber in an undulating motion, rubbing against every fold and groove, pleasure rolls up from my loins in delicious waves. A hand fondles my right breast, kneading its plump flesh. Her fingertips trace the pebbled surface of my areola, and when she pinches the nipple, a bolt of ecstasy lances through me. Her hot tongue travels upwards along my neck, leaving a trail of fire. Her lips close over my earlobe, which she nibbles in electric prickles.
Sighs and whimpers keep escaping from my throat. I reach for the back of her head and intertwine my fingers with her silky locks.
Jacqueline's hand slithers down from my breast, along the concave plain of my abdomen. Folding my right leg, I plant my heel on her thigh to offer better access. Her hand reaches the patch of curls above my slit and begins to rub circles on my turgid clit. Meanwhile, her pulsing shaft withdraws with squelches, sluicing my arousal out and spattering it onto my inner thighs, only to plunge deep again. The furnace-like heat inside me is coiling tightly. Her swollen glans nudges my cervix, making my toes curl. The muscles of my pussy clamp around her in rhythmic spasms as if trying to suck her deeper.
I attempt to muffle my whimpering moans with the pillow, but Jacqueline's other hand, still securing a headlock, coaxes my face towards hers. Our lips lock, and her tongue slides against mine in a velvety dance. I can't help but moan into her mouth. Once she pulls away with a wet smack, she speaks breathlessly.
"Oh, I wish I could stare into your puppy eyes now, mon trésor, at that face distorted by lust-glazed adoration. I can't wait to see your belly swell and your breasts engorge with milk to feed our child."
Our child? We can't have a child of our own. It's not driven by the fear of miscarriage or labor fatality alone, serious as those risks may be: the spare bedroom where Jacqueline filmed some of her camming sessions has become Nairu's room. Would we compel our Paleolithic artist to endure a screaming baby and piles of soiled diapers just so Jacqueline and I could experience the luxury of a biological offspring? What about our second child's individuality, forced to share a bedroom growing up? Well, we could move into a bigger home, like a castle; my wealthy shapeshifter could afford it, and if necessary, I'd pester my interdimensional stalkers into paying for the renovation fees. But a baby produced from our combined genes would be ruined by a legacy of sexual deviancy. Even worse, he or she may inherit my anxiety, my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive tendencies, my self-loathing, my depression, my compulsive masturbation. That kid would be doomed to a lifetime of misery. And what if I become the sort of mother who locks herself in the bathroom with a bottle of scotch? It should be illegal to give birth in a world that is falling apart, a world from which I've looked forward to removing myself.
One lucky spermatozoon belonging to my French-speaking, child-adoring, shapeshifting secretary, as well as on-and-off cam girl, would pierce my egg, implanting the embryonic progenitor of an uncharted genus within my womb, a cradle that might call forth an entity hitherto unknown: perhaps an ice-breathing chimera from a prehistoric environment so distant that its memory was erased from the earth. This fetus would drain life-giving nutrients and oxygen from my body, transforming my blood into sludge and my heart into a stone like my mother did to my father, like she did to me since I emerged from her vagina squirming and screaming in indignation. Such a parasite wouldn't wait for post-partum psychosis to prolong my agony; given the chance, it would slit open my midsection and crawl out of my guts like a creature of legend: winged, multi-legged, clawed, and with a maw of serrated teeth sharp enough to tear through the fabric of reality.
Oh, who am I kidding. Last Friday at the office, I had trouble concentrating on my code because I kept picturing the sweat glistening on mommy's ivory-white skin, the smooth ridges of her toned thighs, the jiggle of her breasts, the roundness of her ass in my hands, and my nose bleeding again from the exertion of sucking her cock. My fingers itched with the desire to type dirty messages into her DMs and send photos of my wet cunt. I long to be ravaged into submission in the missionary position, in cowgirl, on all fours. I'm a slut-lady who serves mommy's mammoth member, and I can't wait for her to commandeer me as a container to concoct cum-sticky creamsicles.
Jacqueline is panting, her breathing, ragged and moist, tickling the shell of my ear. Her arms are wrapped tightly around me, pressing me closer. Her heart pounds against my back. Her cockhead batters the back of my vagina as her fingertips strum my engorged clit with growing urgency, milking waves of tingly sparks out of my nerves. I'm drooling into the pillow, pinned against the mattress, caught in a vice of bliss. I clasp my arms around hers and hold on tight. Mommy will splatter her gluey seed into me soon, maybe while twitching on top of me and whispering enticing filth.
"You've been loving the daily doses of mommy milk," Jacqueline whispers, "haven't you, mon ange?"
I turn my head enough to unmuffle myself.
"More than you know."
"Then beg me to breed you."
"P-please, mommy, make me your broodmare. Fill me up with your fertile spunk until I explode."
Her breath catches in her throat.
"My love," she pants, "you make it difficult to control myself. Don't worry, mommy is about to give you a bellyful of babies."
The bed creaks and groans while Jacqueline's hips hammer at my ass with violent fervor, in meaty, echoing slaps. The pressure within me builds and builds, swelling to a fever pitch. I'm writhing, mewling. When the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure rushes through me, a sprinkle of stars flashes against the blackness. I quake from head to toe, overcome by the euphoric tsunami, but I still feel the veins of Jacqueline's cock throbbing against my clutching walls as its length twitches. With her face buried in the crook of my neck, she lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the spasms of her climax seize her in waves. Hot gushes of her cream must be splashing deep inside me in ropey spurts.
When our orgasms ebb away, our breaths have synchronized, and our skins are melding into one lascivious, dewy whole. A peace shimmers inside me like the sunlit surface of a still lake.
Jacqueline's fingertips draw swirls on my lower abdomen with a delicate, feathery touch. Her shrunken shaft remains lodged within me.
"Do you think I'm greedy, mon coeur?" she asks, her voice honeyed with contentment. "You've given me such a sweet child to love and nurture, but I want another one made of us both."
"That's fine. Just don't leave me to fend off for myself in the streets."
"How could I ever abandon my darling? You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not." Jacqueline caresses with her warm palm the stretch of skin between my bellybutton and pubes, as if rubbing a pregnant belly. "What do you think it's going to be? A boy or a girl?"
"That's assuming that the kid can't turn into one or the other at will."
"Oh dear. If so, she better figure it out only after she turns eighteen. What a complicated childhood would await our little person otherwise."
"We might also end up with a genderless blob, like sentient pudding."
Jacqueline giggles, her breath hot against my neck.
"Seriously though," I say, "I do hope it's a girl. I wouldn't know how to handle a boy."
"Oh, I know it already, Leire. It's a girl."
"Well, if it isn't, let's not try to turn him into one. My parents screwed me up enough; I wouldn't want to do the same to another being."
Babies, with their squishy cheeks and button noses, with their flailing limbs and drooling mouths, fling sticky mash on people when they aren't pissing and shitting themselves, but they don't intend to be rude; they just want for someone to wipe their bottom and put a nipple to their lips. The worst thing in the world, besides having your teeth torn out by rabid dogs, is forcing your child to confront the alienating forces of society alone. Fret not: Jacqueline and I will stand alongside him or her, safeguarding our spawn against the raiders and cannibals of the wastes.
Piano notes of bell-like clarity, cascading like crystal droplets, light up the darkness with an ethereal touch. However, that glow comes from my cellphone's screen, resting on the nightstand beside Jacqueline. One of these days I'll change my alarm melody; it's unfair to associate Chopin's Nocturnes with the mundane dread of having to wake up for work.
"Merde..." Jacqueline grumbles. "Time to get up, mon lapin."
She twists her right arm out from under the covers, and turns enough to reach over. The melody cuts off; she must have swiped across the touchscreen. Paired with a faint electronic sound, blackness descends on us again.
I could try to convince myself that I imagined the alarm going off, that I can look forward to hours in the warmth of Jacqueline's embrace.
"Let's pretend for a while that everyone other than you, Nairu and I have died."
Jacqueline presses a kiss on my temple.
"Believe me, I'd rather you stay in bed all day with a pillow tucked under your hips, letting gravity do its work."
I sigh.
"I guess I have to play along with the farce of normal life, one pointless website gadget at a time."
Jacqueline disentangles herself gently, withdrawing her left arm from under me. She unplugs my vagina with a moist slurp. In a rustle of bedclothes, the weight of her body lifts from the mattress. Her warmth won't linger long.
I roll over toward Jacqueline, then grope around for the switch of the nightstand lamp. When it clicks on, its light brushes across the wood-grained surface of the furniture, revealing its dark-espresso finish.
As I blink my bleary eyes against the brightness, I get a glimpse of a fiery copper mane mussed by sleep and sex, of sienna-colored freckles scattered over the milky porcelain of a lithe figure, that of a swimmer who may have emerged from a river, or the sea. Instantly she shifts into the taller, hourglass shape of Jacqueline-but-French. I want to bite into that plump derrière.
Her arms sweep upwards in a fluid motion to reach overhead, and the muscles in her arms and arched back tense as she stretches. A groan of comfort escapes her mouth.
Jacqueline gazes down at me over her shoulder, her cobalt-blues alight, her lips parted in an amorous smile.
"Go take a shower, ma lumière. I'll wake up our little one, then prepare us three a hearty breakfast."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "VCR" by The xx, "Bodys" by Car Seat Headrest (also this fantastic live version), and "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2" by Chopin.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of two hundred and one videos. Check them out.
Would you prefer to listen to this delightful chapter in audio form? Check it out.
This chapter kicks off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
December 1, 2023
Life update (01/12/2023)
This morning I woke up spontaneously at three in the morning because my balls hurt. At this point I’m quite sure I’ve got an inguinal hernia, and trying last night to push the protruding fold of intestine back into my body wasn’t that good of an idea. I’m supposed to visit my general practitioner about this on the 13th. I was already awake, so instead of going back to bed, I sat at my desk and worked on my novel until six in the morning.
After a tiresome day at work, I returned home to find out that my elderly cat, about seventeen years old, had jumped out of the balcony. Although she’s on her last leg and at times I’ve feared that a simple scare would end her, she managed to survive wandering around the neighborhood for hours. One neighbor recognized the cat, so I have her back. However, since a couple of days ago, it’s like a switch has flipped in this cat’s brain, and suddenly all she does, apart from sleep, is either roam around the place as if she’s looking for someone, or stare slowly at her immediately surroundings as if in a daze. When you put her down on a surface, she lies there in the same position, as awkward or uncomfortable as it may be. She doesn’t purr anymore either; I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she had a stroke or something. Three weeks ago she went through her first scary illness, some sort of pneumonia. She wheezed constantly for about five days, but she had seemed to recover fully from it. Her current behavior came out of nowhere.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
After a tiresome day at work, I returned home to find out that my elderly cat, about seventeen years old, had jumped out of the balcony. Although she’s on her last leg and at times I’ve feared that a simple scare would end her, she managed to survive wandering around the neighborhood for hours. One neighbor recognized the cat, so I have her back. However, since a couple of days ago, it’s like a switch has flipped in this cat’s brain, and suddenly all she does, apart from sleep, is either roam around the place as if she’s looking for someone, or stare slowly at her immediately surroundings as if in a daze. When you put her down on a surface, she lies there in the same position, as awkward or uncomfortable as it may be. She doesn’t purr anymore either; I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she had a stroke or something. Three weeks ago she went through her first scary illness, some sort of pneumonia. She wheezed constantly for about five days, but she had seemed to recover fully from it. Her current behavior came out of nowhere.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
November 30, 2023
Life update (11/30/2023)
Yesterday I left work early so I could travel to the hospital at my hometown for a stress test, related to my heart issues. After I waited for an hour, I was ordered by a bickering couple of doctor and nurse to get naked from my waist up, attach some complicated shit to my chest, including a mesh that compressed my torso, and walk on an incline treadmill until my lungs couldn’t take it anymore. By the end I must have been a minute away from getting woozy. As an on-and-off weightlifter who also moves computers and computer-related devices around for work, I’m not a stranger to exercise, but I don’t do cardio. I hate it quite a bit, in fact.
Anyway, my heart didn’t explode. The doctor said that my case of (jab-induced) arrhythmia isn’t particularly bad, but if my episodes don’t pass spontaneously after an hour without medicating myself, and after four hours if I take flecainide, I should go to the ER. They will probably stop me from suffering an aneurysm or a stroke.
That’s one of my health issues more or less handled, apart from the fact that I’m taking beta blockers in perpetuity for now, although I’m experiencing plenty of the side effects of long-term use (disorientation, short-term memory loss, dizziness, depression, etc.). Out of nowhere, a few days ago I experienced a different, more awkward health issue that I’ll proceed to describe in detail.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Anyway, my heart didn’t explode. The doctor said that my case of (jab-induced) arrhythmia isn’t particularly bad, but if my episodes don’t pass spontaneously after an hour without medicating myself, and after four hours if I take flecainide, I should go to the ER. They will probably stop me from suffering an aneurysm or a stroke.
That’s one of my health issues more or less handled, apart from the fact that I’m taking beta blockers in perpetuity for now, although I’m experiencing plenty of the side effects of long-term use (disorientation, short-term memory loss, dizziness, depression, etc.). Out of nowhere, a few days ago I experienced a different, more awkward health issue that I’ll proceed to describe in detail.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
November 27, 2023
Ongoing manga: Nora to Zassou, by Keigo Shinzo
The title translates to something like Amidst the Weeds, or Lost in the Weeds. It’s been quite a while since I start an ongoing manga series and I feel compelled to write about it before it finishes. But this tale hits some of my personal spots well enough, particularly my savior complex, that I, engrossed, nearly missed my stop on the train.
The story follows a police inspector who sets up sting operations on prostitution rings. He’s a reserved guy whose hair has already gone white at forty, and who seems to be going through the motions. During a sting operation, turns out that some of the prostitutes were underage. Even worse, one of them resembles the inspector’s only child, who drowned some years ago.
[Check out the rest of this review on my personal page, where it looks better]
November 24, 2023
On writing: Developing the premise #2
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on building the premise out of prompts, as well as imagining the general structure from the premise.
-Put your premise in the form of a sentence: My story is about a (character and vocation) who is (death stakes situation).
-Try to compose your premise such as this: “the story is about a [most appropriate adjective] Main Character whose [fatal flaw] causes him to [what terrible troubles his adherence to the fatal flaw causes him], as he [how he uses his fatal flaw to navigate an increasingly difficult setting/plot] in order to survive by [whatever he feels his needs to feel he’s survived what life has thrown at him]”
-What if a (flawed protagonist) (encountered some problem) and had to (overcome the flaw) to (solve the problem)?
-State your premise in a sentence: Some event that starts the action + some sense of the main character + some sense of the outcome of the story. Ex. “A tough America expatriate rediscovers an old flame only to give her up so he can fight the nazis”.
-A [adjective indicating longstanding social problem] [profession or social role] must [goal, sometimes including the ticking clock and stakes].
-Write a one-sentence summary that touches on several key story elements: the conceptual basis of the story, the hero, what the hero needs and wants based on a problem or opportunity, what opposes the hero’s quest, and the stakes.
-Once upon a time there was [ ]. Every day, [ ]. One day [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Until finally [ ].
-A hero faces a problem, a challenge, or a need that launches him down a path of reaction to a new quest. The hero, under pressure from the antagonist and a ticking clock, then proactively manages the new quest toward a desired end.
-Choices and events should propel the main character into a world far more exciting, different and challenging than the ordinary day-to-day experience.
-A character is flawed, an inciting incident throws them into a world that represents everything they are not, and in the darkness of that forest, old and new integrate to achieve a balance.
-Take a flawed character, and at the end of the first act plunge them into an alien world, let them assimilate the rules of that world, and finally, in the third act, test them to see what they have learned.
-Successful stories plunge their characters into a strange new world; involve a quest to find a way out of it; and in whatever form they choose to take, in every story ‘monsters’ are vanquished. All, at some level, have as their goal safety, security, completion and the importance of home.
-How is it about rich characters driven by extreme need and passion and going after a specific goal, while facing tough inner and outer conflict along the way?
-Premise is, in essence, the plot itself, driven by the character’s or hero’s decisions and action, summarized in one or two sentences. It describes a hero’s quest or mission that stems from a newly presented or evolved problem or opportunity and is motivated by stakes and consequences. Finally, there is a villain (or other antagonist, which doesn’t have to be human or even a living thing; it could be a weather or disease, for example) blocking the hero’s path, creating confrontation and conflict that requires the hero to take action to achieve resolution.
-Conflict is in play, forcing the hero into confrontation. Obstacles create and define that confrontation and conflict. The quest or journey challenges the hero and draws out her courage and claverness, which become instrumental in reaching the goal of the story, and thus the resolution. The pursuit of the goal takes the hero into uncharted territory, both internally and relative to what opposes her, by forcing her to confront inner demons in order to square off with the threatening exterior opposition.
-Dramatic tension arises from a compelling dramatic question, connecting to a hero who must do something in pursuit of a worthy goal, with something blocking the straight line toward the goal, and with something at stake.
-How is the plot focused on how it might affect a specific person?
-Think of your premise as back cover copy, offering up the plot problem your protagonist will face, how it will escalate, why it is a problem, and what it might cost her, emotionally, to solve it.
-Stories are often built in three acts, which can be regarded as representing 1) the hero’s decision to act, 2) the action itself, and 3) the consequences of the action.
-Something bad happens and the heroes don’t understand the nature of the problem right away, and it’s the purpose of the middle to figure it out.
-When we start to solve a large problem, we don’t perceive the size of the problem–and that’s good, because if we did, we would never begin. In most stories, heroes shouldn’t have any idea how long or how much work it will take to solve this problem. They should fully intend to wrap everything up in almost every scene and be overconfident about imminent success until the big crash wrecks those delusions.
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on building the premise out of prompts, as well as imagining the general structure from the premise.
-Put your premise in the form of a sentence: My story is about a (character and vocation) who is (death stakes situation).
-Try to compose your premise such as this: “the story is about a [most appropriate adjective] Main Character whose [fatal flaw] causes him to [what terrible troubles his adherence to the fatal flaw causes him], as he [how he uses his fatal flaw to navigate an increasingly difficult setting/plot] in order to survive by [whatever he feels his needs to feel he’s survived what life has thrown at him]”
-What if a (flawed protagonist) (encountered some problem) and had to (overcome the flaw) to (solve the problem)?
-State your premise in a sentence: Some event that starts the action + some sense of the main character + some sense of the outcome of the story. Ex. “A tough America expatriate rediscovers an old flame only to give her up so he can fight the nazis”.
-A [adjective indicating longstanding social problem] [profession or social role] must [goal, sometimes including the ticking clock and stakes].
-Write a one-sentence summary that touches on several key story elements: the conceptual basis of the story, the hero, what the hero needs and wants based on a problem or opportunity, what opposes the hero’s quest, and the stakes.
-Once upon a time there was [ ]. Every day, [ ]. One day [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Because of that, [ ]. Until finally [ ].
-A hero faces a problem, a challenge, or a need that launches him down a path of reaction to a new quest. The hero, under pressure from the antagonist and a ticking clock, then proactively manages the new quest toward a desired end.
-Choices and events should propel the main character into a world far more exciting, different and challenging than the ordinary day-to-day experience.
-A character is flawed, an inciting incident throws them into a world that represents everything they are not, and in the darkness of that forest, old and new integrate to achieve a balance.
-Take a flawed character, and at the end of the first act plunge them into an alien world, let them assimilate the rules of that world, and finally, in the third act, test them to see what they have learned.
-Successful stories plunge their characters into a strange new world; involve a quest to find a way out of it; and in whatever form they choose to take, in every story ‘monsters’ are vanquished. All, at some level, have as their goal safety, security, completion and the importance of home.
-How is it about rich characters driven by extreme need and passion and going after a specific goal, while facing tough inner and outer conflict along the way?
-Premise is, in essence, the plot itself, driven by the character’s or hero’s decisions and action, summarized in one or two sentences. It describes a hero’s quest or mission that stems from a newly presented or evolved problem or opportunity and is motivated by stakes and consequences. Finally, there is a villain (or other antagonist, which doesn’t have to be human or even a living thing; it could be a weather or disease, for example) blocking the hero’s path, creating confrontation and conflict that requires the hero to take action to achieve resolution.
-Conflict is in play, forcing the hero into confrontation. Obstacles create and define that confrontation and conflict. The quest or journey challenges the hero and draws out her courage and claverness, which become instrumental in reaching the goal of the story, and thus the resolution. The pursuit of the goal takes the hero into uncharted territory, both internally and relative to what opposes her, by forcing her to confront inner demons in order to square off with the threatening exterior opposition.
-Dramatic tension arises from a compelling dramatic question, connecting to a hero who must do something in pursuit of a worthy goal, with something blocking the straight line toward the goal, and with something at stake.
-How is the plot focused on how it might affect a specific person?
-Think of your premise as back cover copy, offering up the plot problem your protagonist will face, how it will escalate, why it is a problem, and what it might cost her, emotionally, to solve it.
-Stories are often built in three acts, which can be regarded as representing 1) the hero’s decision to act, 2) the action itself, and 3) the consequences of the action.
-Something bad happens and the heroes don’t understand the nature of the problem right away, and it’s the purpose of the middle to figure it out.
-When we start to solve a large problem, we don’t perceive the size of the problem–and that’s good, because if we did, we would never begin. In most stories, heroes shouldn’t have any idea how long or how much work it will take to solve this problem. They should fully intend to wrap everything up in almost every scene and be overconfident about imminent success until the big crash wrecks those delusions.
November 23, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 120 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The three of us are queueing on the terracotta tiles of the station, behind a bunch of parents and their pre-teens, when the rollercoaster car glides in. The side frames of its seats resemble stylized waves, painted ocean blue except for golden-yellow flourishes.
One by one, the passengers rise from their seats and disembark. As they step off the station in a cacophony of footsteps, laughter, and animated chatter, Nairu's gaze follows the children that pass by: their hair windblown, their faces flushed, their eyes wide with the thrill of the ride.
"Each bench only fits two people," Jacqueline points out.
"Go ahead and sit with Nairu," I say. "I'll be right behind."
The queue shuffles forward, filling up the seats. Jacqueline guides our girl onto the second-to-last bench, and once seated, Nairu slides her butt to the far end. I take off my backpack and settle in the middle of the wooden bench behind them. This car lacks harnesses, seat belts, and even safety bars to grip; when humans built the rollercoaster a hundred years ago, they must have been that eager to die.
Nairu giggles as she sways her head with giddiness. Further down the car, a kid is slapping excitedly on the back of the bench in front of him.
While I stow the backpack between my calves, the car lurches into motion. I'm distracted by the yellow-and-green tent of the carousel below until our car tilts for its inaugural plunge. In a rush of wind and a clattering rumble that makes me vibrate, we barrel down a shadowed, narrow space squeezed between a rock wall and the back of the buildings that house carnival games. Jacqueline has wrapped an arm around Nairu, who lets out a thrilled squeal. The momentum is tossing their tresses in chaotic waves.
We crest the hill only to surge down again, rocketing toward the next incline. A spontaneous grin of euphoria has spread across my face. I feel buoyant, as if the burdens I have carried around all my life had been mercifully lessened.
Before I know it, the ride will end. Some day I will try to remember how it felt to be lifted off the seat of this car as it thundered down a slope, but these sensory impressions will have been distilled into a summary: that today I went on a rollercoaster with my loved ones, and that I wished for time to slow down so this joy would last forever.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Unless It's Kicks" by Okkervil River.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-seven videos. Check them out.
Are you too busy to read even such a short chapter? Listen to it instead.
This short chapter, shortest in the novel, concludes the sequence "A Stoic Face in the Darkness." I originally intended this trip to an amusement park to serve as an epilogue to the previous sequence, but visiting the location ended up providing plenty of notes.
The next chapter will kick off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
---
The three of us are queueing on the terracotta tiles of the station, behind a bunch of parents and their pre-teens, when the rollercoaster car glides in. The side frames of its seats resemble stylized waves, painted ocean blue except for golden-yellow flourishes.
One by one, the passengers rise from their seats and disembark. As they step off the station in a cacophony of footsteps, laughter, and animated chatter, Nairu's gaze follows the children that pass by: their hair windblown, their faces flushed, their eyes wide with the thrill of the ride.
"Each bench only fits two people," Jacqueline points out.
"Go ahead and sit with Nairu," I say. "I'll be right behind."
The queue shuffles forward, filling up the seats. Jacqueline guides our girl onto the second-to-last bench, and once seated, Nairu slides her butt to the far end. I take off my backpack and settle in the middle of the wooden bench behind them. This car lacks harnesses, seat belts, and even safety bars to grip; when humans built the rollercoaster a hundred years ago, they must have been that eager to die.
Nairu giggles as she sways her head with giddiness. Further down the car, a kid is slapping excitedly on the back of the bench in front of him.
While I stow the backpack between my calves, the car lurches into motion. I'm distracted by the yellow-and-green tent of the carousel below until our car tilts for its inaugural plunge. In a rush of wind and a clattering rumble that makes me vibrate, we barrel down a shadowed, narrow space squeezed between a rock wall and the back of the buildings that house carnival games. Jacqueline has wrapped an arm around Nairu, who lets out a thrilled squeal. The momentum is tossing their tresses in chaotic waves.
We crest the hill only to surge down again, rocketing toward the next incline. A spontaneous grin of euphoria has spread across my face. I feel buoyant, as if the burdens I have carried around all my life had been mercifully lessened.
Before I know it, the ride will end. Some day I will try to remember how it felt to be lifted off the seat of this car as it thundered down a slope, but these sensory impressions will have been distilled into a summary: that today I went on a rollercoaster with my loved ones, and that I wished for time to slow down so this joy would last forever.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Unless It's Kicks" by Okkervil River.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-seven videos. Check them out.
Are you too busy to read even such a short chapter? Listen to it instead.
This short chapter, shortest in the novel, concludes the sequence "A Stoic Face in the Darkness." I originally intended this trip to an amusement park to serve as an epilogue to the previous sequence, but visiting the location ended up providing plenty of notes.
The next chapter will kick off the second-to-last sequence, titled "The Great Pretender."
