- alnilam
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Dear journal: we have been on the island for nearly a year now, and I fear we have made a terrible mistake in leaving the old country. We have run out of trees to cut. We have no usable stone, nor iron to work. No wheat will grow in our stony fields. We have one thing - sheep. Hundreds and hundreds of sheep. Their bleating drives us mad day after day. The taste of mutton has grown old and malnourishment is rearing its head. The scratch of woolen clothes has grown unwelcome. There is nothing but sheep.
The town over the mountain has drawn inward. Its people speak a strange tongue, but we once enjoyed good trade. No longer. They have built a port and now they trade only abroad. They say they have little use for sheep.
I must go now. A din has arisen outside: the robbers are coming. When they find nothing but sheep to take, they will be angry. I pray this is not the last time I write here. Farewell.
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May 24, 2018 19:27
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May 22, 2024 05:27
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- alnilam
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Playing monopoly and my mom keeps trying to make it a monopsony
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May 25, 2018 15:26
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- alnilam
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"tonight children we're playing a different sort of game"
Mom injects herself with a syringe
"a game of co-operation not competition"
her eyes go sallow, dad puts an ice compress on her arm
"tonight we play PANDEMIC"
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May 27, 2018 23:03
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- alnilam
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never let authorial intention get in the way of a good theory, that's my motto
Death of the author *grins evilly @ FAU*
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Jun 18, 2018 23:31
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May 24, 2018 19:27
