Touch the firehose of ds106, the most recent flow of content from all of the blogs syndicated into ds106. As of right now, there have been 92448 posts brought in here going back to December 2010. If you want to be part of the flow, first learn more about ds106. Then, if you are truly ready and up to the task of creating web art, sign up and start doing it.

  1. silverember

    Teeth

    by
    Something creepy I wrote for Halloween and totally forgot to post!

    Since I'm between writing projects now, I may explore some new stuff for a minute. That is, if Diana's As-Yet-Unnamed Fantasy Novel Volume Deux doesn't forcibly crawl out of my head.

    _________________________________________

    I jam the key in the lock and jiggle it. It always sticks when the weather turns cold. Tonight it's raining, big, fat angry drops. My hair is wet, my socks are fucking wet, it's all bad. I want a drink. I consider the potential consequences of having just one. And if that one feels good, maybe two. Two wouldn't be so bad.
    The lock gives way and I decide maybe I don't need to open that stale bottle of white wine in the fridge. Not today. Save it for—I laugh to myself—a rainy day.
    The door opens with a whisper against my tiny apartment's shitty carpet. I traipse inside, sure I'm tracking mud but too cold and wet to worry. I kick the door shut and flick the light switch, but nothing happens.
    “Fuck, the god damn power bill,” I say to no one, stooping to take off my boots.
    It would be nice to have a roommate to yell at about this. This one's all me. Stupid Emily, can't pay her god damned electric bill on time. Stupid Emily, who gets her power shut off, misses the bus, loses her job.
    My heart sinks. If my math is right, I should have a little over $600 in my account. That won't even see me through the month.
    I could call Arthur and see about picking up a few shifts at the club. Maybe I'll do that. Tomorrow.
    Tucking my boots next to the door, I stand and squint around my dim apartment.
    I'm not alone.
    It's lounging next to my half-shuttered window. It tosses something in the air, and as it catches the scant street light that's filtering in, my heart stops. A sickly orange pill bottle. And as it catches the bottle in a clawed hand, I miss the rattle of pills that should follow.
    “No, no, no,” I say, clutching at my scarf, pulling it over my mouth and blowing my suddenly ragged breath into the scratchy knit.
    My phone rings. The thing disappears. Trembling, I shove half-frozen fingers into my tiny girl pockets and pinch my screaming phone, delicately pulling it to freedom. Trembling, I look at the screen.
    Private number.
    “H-” I clear my throat and try again, “Hello?”
    “Emily,” Arthur's smooth baritone crackles through the speaker.
    “Yeah,” I say, eyes groping over every inch of my living room and kitchen.
    “I heard about Orchid.”
    There's still that wine in the fridge.
    “Yeah,” I say again, impotent and suddenly exhausted, “Yeah, it was some shit.”
    There's a pause, and I know—in that moment, I know with absolute certainty—that Arthur hates me. He's calling because he has to. Because it would be cruel to ignore his schizophrenic ex-fiancee in her time of crisis. That Facebook status update was a bad choice. I should delete it right now.
    “Are you alright?”
    And the way he says it, there's disdain. Thinly-veiled, but disdain nonetheless.
    He goes on, “I know how much that job meant to you, Em. I'm really sorry. Want to pop by the Spot and talk about it? I'm here for another couple of hours.”
    I don't want his pity, so I say, “No thanks.”
    And before he can embarrass either of us any further, I press my finger to the merciful red button on the screen and end the call.
    I go to the fridge and retrieve the wine from its black, silent depths. I grope for the wine cork in the back of the silverware drawer. I pop the screw out and prepare to plunge it into the cork when I hear something breathing. Something right behind me, drawing rattling breaths and pushing them into my right ear. The hair rises on the back of my neck and I think about screaming.
    But I swallow it. I remind myself that it's not real. That I just lapsed by—what, a day? Maybe two? I force myself to take a deep breath.
    One cold finger caresses my jaw. Without thinking, I pivot, swinging the corkscrew in a wide arc, and when my feeble weapon connects with nothing but air, I overbalance. Suddenly, I'm on the floor and the corkscrew is sticking out of my arm at a sick angle. Swearing, I twist the offending thing out of my skin and wince as blood gushes from the hole.
    I rush to the bathroom, wishing I had power, using my cell phone's over-bright, sterile flashlight to make sure I don't bark my shin on the coffee table or do some other dumbass thing to hurt myself. In the bathroom, I wash the wound in the sink, then open the medicine cabinet looking for a band-aid. A big one, or maybe some gauze.
    There, in the cabinet, is a half-full bottle of pills. Incredulous, I pick it up and examine the label.
    Seroquel XR
    400mg Once Daily
    I shake the bottle like a maraca, relief flooding my limbs. Placing my phone face-down on the dingy counter, I let it spill light onto the molding ceiling. Looking up at myself in the mirror, I look like I'm ready to tell ghost stories at a slumber party, the way the shadows pool on my face.
    It's behind me.
    Steeling myself, I want to say something brave to it.
    Its hairy black face is broken only by two huge, bulging, spherical red eyes. The fur parts to reveal two rows of shark-like-teeth. It isn't quite smiling.
    My phone rings again and I jump.
    When I look back up in the mirror, it's gone. I'm sweating and cold. And I'm bleeding god damned everywhere, fuck. Groping for my phone, I silence it and turn on the faucet, rinsing the hot, tacky blood.
    “Emmmmmmilyyyyyyy,” a voice hisses from the speaker. No crackle this time.
    “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no,” I say, hurrying myself, bandaging my arm. Hands trembling, I reach for the pill bottle. It's empty again. Picking it up, I shake it incredulously.
    “Stupid, pitiful Emily,” the voice says. “You let your prescription lapse.”
    “No,” I say numbly, clutching the bottle to my chest like a rosary. It rattles again. Laughter busts out of the speakers, bright and loud like fireworks.
    “What the fuck,” I whisper, staring at the full bottle.
    “Do you think anyone will miss her?” Came another voice.
    More laughter, and a click. A dial tone fills the tiny space.
    I pop the top off of the bottle and swallow two pills before they can disappear again. They're bitter on my tongue, hard in my throat. Swiping the phone, I unlock the screen and check the call log. The last one was outgoing, to my mother.
    I want to sleep. I want to warm up, and get in bed, and shut out this episode. I march into the kitchen and nearly impale my foot on the corkscrew. Rinsing it in the sink, I twist it into the old cork and sigh as it frees itself with a pop. I take a long pull from the wine and make my way back to the bathroom, grateful for my phone's flashlight.
    Luck is with me as I turn the knob for hot. I let the bath fill up, strip down, and ease myself into the scalding water. I drink more wine.
    It's back in the doorway, staring, but I'm warm and starting to get a little buzz, so I give it the finger. It slowly reveals its teeth again. I keep the wine bottle in one hand, and take another long pull.
    “I've never seen you before,” I muse, surprised to feel my tongue slip over the “s”. A wine glass would have been a good choice. I've lost track of how much I've had. No matter. I'll have a bear of a hangover tomorrow, but at least tonight I'll have oblivion.
    Its teeth part, and in a whispery voice it says, “Oblivion.”
    In spite of the cloying heat, my skin breaks out in gooseflesh. I babble, desperate to normalize this. “What's funny is if some monster ever did come traipsing in here, I'd never know the difference. . . Usually, it's the ah—just the voice. It sounds like a more sinister version of that actress I hate.” I shake my head, “But you—you're something.”
    It takes a step, then another, and suddenly it's on the bath mat. If I reach out, I could touch it. That is, if it were there at all. Instead, I lean back and hold the near empty bottle out to it, eyebrows raised. It takes the bottle, or maybe I drop it. I'm pretty drunk.
    My phone rings again, like an old fashioned rotary.
    It turns my phone over and hits the button. Suddenly my mom's voice is everywhere, “Emily. Emily? Emily!”
    Then the actress—the one that I hate, she's in the background with her usual talk, like my mom has the phone on speaker. She does that a lot when she calls—she'll be cooking or something. I hear her clattering around. That makes sense.
    “Emily, I'm worried,” mom carries on. “Arthur called me. You haven't been yourself, you-”
    Mom drones on. I drift in and out. Her words shift from worry about me, to talk about California, the election. She's thinking about getting a dog.
    It stares at the phone as my mother talks. Shifting, it holds its hand straight out, dropping the phone into my cooling bath water. Its teeth part, mouth is hanging wide open, and its voice is that stagnant dial tone.
    Its bulging eyes are on me. It leans down, and down, and down. I realize it's been a while since I've taken a breath. Its hands are on my neck, water is in my lungs. It's grinning now, really grinning.

    The last thing I see is teeth.
  2. silverember

    I Wrote a Book Once

    by
    On November 30th, 2015, I finished the first draft of my book.It was a hot fucking mess.On January 2nd, 2016, I finished my first run of edits on aforementioned book. That run of edits included a near-total re-write of the first half of the manuscript,...
  3. silverember

    We are WAY Overthinking This

    by
    It's gotten to the point where my work neighbor asks me how my book is coming along on Monday mornings. Because she knows that I've spent hours of my weekend staring at a screen and resisting the urge to scream and tear my hair out editing the damn thi...
  4. silverember

    Hey Ho, Let’s Go!

    by
    Looking back at the first draft like...

    I want to say I'm moving at a snail's pace with this book editing, but I have to give myself some credit. I've completely rewritten the beginning, up through Chapter 13. Being that I started sometime in January, that's a little less than two chapters a month (written in my spare time, which is whittled down from work and other general adulting, sleeping/resting and socializing. SO THERE'S THAT.)

    Skateboard and Belch very quietly moved away, giving me even less to write about when I DO feel like I can ignore the novel writing/editing duty that weighs on my conscience every. Single. Day. That said, I'm glad this silly blo gis here, giving me a space to come dump whatever writing I do that isn't book related.

    Great segue, right? I wrote this short piece back in February from a prompt. Looking back at it some time later, I'm intrigued by this character and thinking I might want to take NaNoWriMo this year to write more about her. Even though I really should be starting in on Book 2 the second Book 1 is finished, but SHHHhhhhhh....

    ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

    I turn the knob up until I can't hear the car engine's exhausted whine. Until I can't hear the rattling frame. Until I can't hear myself think anymore.
    One hand on the wheel, I fish in my purse for a cigarette. Not a cigarette. A cloves cigarette, because I can't even smoke right. Fumbling with the car's electric lighter, I finally get the thing lit, take a drag, roll the window down, and turn the music up louder. It doesn't even sound like music anymore, just a clash of noise ricocheting out of my shitty old speakers. But the baseline is there, and it thumps along like a heart attack.
    Leaning my head back against the seat, I scan the coastline, black in the velvet dark. The ocean is a glimmering blanket under the full moon. I take a long drag and flick ash out the window like a pro. I smoke and drive. Drive and look. Look and smoke. I finish the cigarette and toss the butt out the window like a real asshole. The music keeps up, and everything that ever bothered me is gone. Gone, or racing to keep up.
    Taking a hard turn, I squint as some dickhead rounds the corner with his high beams on blast. Lexus. Figures.
    I flip him off, disappointed that he can't see me.
    The song changes, and it's something I hate. I grope for my phone, pull it into my hand, unlock it, click through the app. I go back to the song I want and hit “Repeat”. I look up just in time to see the end of the road, the rusted guardrail.
    Shit.
    The rocky water races up to greet me. I want to panic. The music keeps going, oblivious to our impending doom. I wonder if it might somehow keep playing after I'm dead; if the car is left half out of the water, stuck up on some craggy rock. My obituary will read, She was found dead with “Blitzkrieg Bop” playing on loop on her outdated iPhone and a half-smoked pack of cloves cigarettes in her purse. It's probably for the best that this happened.
    I laugh.
  5. silverember

    There Will Always Be Summer.

    by
    My cells will always remember summer as it was, before summer vacations vanished. The freedom, unadulterated time to write, and play, and reminisce, and look forward. Because of the interruption of daily life, they stand out as so much more special tha...
  6. silverember

    Bad Poem Blues

    by
    When I was younger, I would get the urge to write poems when I had particularly strong feelings about things.I'm proud to say that I can now successfully suppress that urge.Believe me, nobody wants to read the poetry I crank out when I'm actually feeli...
  7. silverember

    Contra Clickbait 2015-10-25 22:26:00

    by
    "I won't let you be my next regret."I jam the shovel into the cool October earth. The rusted metal scrapes rocks, and the sound sets my teeth on edge. Hefting, I manage a scoopful of wet dirt and dump it on his chest, earthworms and all.He laughs drunk...
  8. silverember

    Hanna Hovarth is Not the Fucking Poster Child For Millennials

    by
    THIS. HAS. GOT. TO. STOP.

    Actual picture published in "Move Over Millennials, Here Comes Generation Z", via the New York Times because apparently you no longer have to be a remotely talented journalist to write for them.


    In Googling the exact birthdate parameters for "Generation Z" (creative name incoming, I'm sure) I came across this festering piece of garbage.

    To quote Alex Williams,

    "There’s Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg, in his hoodie, earning his first billion by the age of 23.
    There’s Miley Cyrus, preening for the cameras in a flesh-baring act that recalls a Snapchat sexting session.
    There’s Lena Dunham, TV’s queen of overshare, spiraling into navel-gazing soliloquies that seem scripted from the therapist’s couch."

    What you have done, sir, is you have taken an entire generation and boiled it down to three very exceptional, very rare, very particular human beings. Shall I cherry-pick 3 infamous people from Generation X and do the same?

    Hmm...

    There's Kanye West, in his leather jogging pants, whose actual talent has been completely overshadowed by his bid at being dubbed 'Biggest Assclown of the Centry'.

    There's Charlie Sheen, pissing his career away from one tabloid bender to the next.

    . . . I can't do this anymore. It's wrong.

    I'm pretty sure the over-generalization of millennials as "brash", "narcissistic" and "entitled" started when some Baby Boomer ran into a handful of people born between 1980 and 2000 who just plain sucked and thought, "You know who I hate? Young people. Fuck them!" Oh sure, there are plenty of millennials who are--in fact-- brash, narcissistic and entitled. There are also plenty of people from every other generation who share the exact. Same. Flaws.

    This journalistic tendency has taken an entire generation and tossed it in the trash. And now, Mr. Williams is holding up Generation Z as this newer, better version of the Millennial without all of that whiny entitlement. They're tech natives. They're entrepreneurial. They're responsible. They will save us all (and be the richest generation in ever, apparently.)

    I have no doubt that Gen Z is going to be fucking fantastic, because I have worked with and befriended those kids. I actually know what they're all about (unlike the lazy fuck reporter who inspired this article) because I've taught them, listened to their fears, and guided them through moments like Sandy Hook. I'll tell you, they're rad. Sure, some of them have been sheltered by helicopter parents, and that worries me a little. But you know what? Unlike aforementioned Lazy Fuck reporter, I won't presume to judge the many based on the few. The eldest Gen Zers are (depending on who you ask- the cutoff from Millennial to Z is rough) either still in high school or just barely heading off to college. They have yet to really shape this world. Frankly, I look forward to shaping it with them.

    I can only take solace in the fact that since Z is the new "it" generation, Y will be left to our own devices. Those devices, if you haven't noticed, are fixing the bullshit economy we inherited, scrambling to save the planet from utter destruction, attempting to save enough money to purchase homes and start families sometime... maybe? We've done a lot of amazing, notable things, and we'll continue to do so in spite of the bad press. Moreover, we'll be doing it without taking a big steaming shit on every generation that comes after us, because we won't leave the world in a giant trash heap for them to clean up.
  9. silverember

    Skateboard the Philosopher

    by
    Skateboard's family came to visit this weekend. They arrived as I was puffing and wheezing home from my run. As I sat on my couch, guzzling water, sweating and congratulating myself for exercising for the first time in weeks, I heard the approach. . ."...
  10. silverember

    Ode to Skateboard and Belch

    by
    New neighbors- oh, the excitement!A roll of the dice. Divination based on furniture.Would our destiny be a pair of neighbors both quiet and fair?With noise levels never breaching the paper wallsAnd soirees never ending later than 9pm?We threw ourselves...
  11. silverember

    The Other Shoe

    by
    As a chronic worrier, I have to remind myself that I have thus far survived every major crisis life has thrown at me. I could even argue that these crises have left me stronger. It's like playing a video game- every boss battle gives you XP and loots, ...
  12. silverember

    Toxic Funk

    by
    Times like these, I understand why people believe in God. Any God. I get it. It would be nice to know that some higher, wiser force is in charge. That the madness, and the not-madness, it's all leading up to something.I could use just a moment of that ...
  13. silverember

    Shit Sandwich

    by
    Bad things will always happen. It's a simple truth about life. Things break, relationships fall apart, people die.What defines us is how we comport ourselves when everything seems to be going to hell.In the dark, awful moments, it's hard to stand up an...
  14. silverember

    We’re Gonna Take This Town Back

    by
    A lot of people talk about writing as though it's a great mystery. I always thought it was rather simple. You sit, you think, words trickle out of your fingertips. Sometimes they come together to form a cohesive thought, though nearly just as often you...
  15. silverember

    Why I Refuse to Contour

    by
    Look, all makeup is a lie. I get that. That said, contouring is a step too far.

    Though I am a big, huge fan of makeup, I hit critical mass somewhere around 24. Before that, it was a natural progression. It started with lip gloss in middle school, mostly because Lip Smackers were at peak popularity and HELLO THEY TASTED LIKE CANDY. It was less about aesthetics than it was about being the girl with a hundred of those freaking things on a key chain. Lip Smackers were greater than currency. They were power.
    Behold, the Pokémon of beauty products.
    From Lip Smackers to eye shadow, which (at least when you're twelve) is like sparkly pixie dust and not much more serious than aforementioned tastygloss. More often than not, we applied that crap all the way up to our eyebrows and likely resembled wannabe fairy prostitutes. High School saw my discovery of eyeliner and punk rock, from which there has been no true escape. I didn't start doing sophisticated makeup until mid-college, but even that was fairly minimalist. For the most part, I used it to enhance my eyes and hide my blemishes.

    Skip back to critical mass at 24. We're talking foundation, blush, bronzer, lipstick, falsies, the works. I was fake as hell and (insofar as I can recall) likely resembled a drag queen. I had gone from enhancing what I had to just straight up face-paint. In retrospect, this was problematic for two reasons. One, I was relying too heavily on these things to feel attractive and two, I looked like a freaking clown.

    This is why I take issue with contouring.

    It's not so much the padded bra argument, but it shares some philosophies. First, I believe that (with very few exceptions) all people are beautiful and interesting in their own ways. And that goes for everything. Lately, the popular body obsession has been big giant lips and asses (neither of which I possess.) Before, it was giant Pam Anderson boobs. Having a dark tan has come and gone in and out of vogue. But I don't think that going to great lengths to achieve these looks is in any way desirable.

    Let me put it this way: how many steps from your true self have you gone when your makeup routine requires a diagram?



    And what was wrong with the woman in the above picture? What is contouring really giving her, other than alien-perfect cheekbones and pancake face? And seriously, what sort of life are you living where you feel compelled to contour your boobs to make them seem bigger? I wish I could find this girl and tell her that her boobs are beautiful and perfect as is.

    Besides, how long can you keep the giant boob facade up anyway? I feel as though this is an optical illusion that any sincerely interested party would see through fairly quickly.

    The mindless pursuit of looking fashionable has firmed my certainty that true beauty is diverse, and diverse beauty is fantastic. Contouring- while perhaps less homogenizing than bleach blonde hair, giant fake boobs, dark tans and Kylie Jenner lips- is just another beauty fad that takes focus away from what's truly important. And if you guessed that BEING YOURSELF is the most important thing, you win. Yes, it's a timeworn lesson we've been hearing from go, but it's absolutely true.

    Makeup is a tool that I use almost daily to feel more confident, but its powers only go so far. Would I look good if I contoured? Probably (if I could get that technique down right, and it looks seriously complicated.) But I refuse to take that step, because at the end of the day there are things that matter much more to me than looking flawless. Plus, I think I look alright the way I am. I don't have giant lips or crazy cheekbones, but I've got my own thing going. Anyone who uses makeup has their own balance to strike with it and the lengths they're willing to go to. I just urge anyone who's seriously into this contouring thing to reconsider. Natural beauty is something to cherish.
  16. silverember

    Why I Gave Up on Being Cool

    by
    Confession: I am not cool. There was a time when I tried, and I cared, and you know what? It was a complete waste of time. I don't have the best taste in music, the most exciting interests and hobbies, or the most fashion-forward taste in clo...
  17. silverember

    Shoulds and Wants

    by
    There have been a series of moments that I've held up to the light and examined closely for clues that I am truly a fully fledged adult. Most of them were superficial.I've mentioned before that I showed signs of real adulthood when appliances and other...
  18. silverember

    Answers to Questions Nobody Asked

    by
    Here we are again. I'm banging my head against a wall trying to dream up content and my thoughts kind of feel the way a child's playroom looks. I'm the exhausted mother kind of stumbling around picking things up and having no clue where to put them.Thi...
  19. silverember

    The Exhausted Blog

    by
    I've had one of those weeks where you hit a brick wall and just say, "No thanks. I need to be alone." Some people call it being "socially bankrupt". I hear that. I need a minute.Writers are observational by nature, so maybe what I'm going through is no...
  20. silverember

    The Graveyard

    by
    I don't know what this means, or if it has to mean anything, but I've written and abandoned six different pieces on this blog. They sit in limbo, waiting to be either finished or deleted, and will most likely sit there forever.I think the hardest thing...
  21. silverember

    Live From My Death Bed

    by
    The idea of a sick day is always rather romantic in theory. Tea and blankets, books, Netflix, someone to take care of you and all the guiltless napping you can muster.In reality, being sick is the worst. Being home sick would be pretty swell if only yo...
  22. silverember

    Intermission

    by
    You know you're in trouble when you don't know how to start.I feel as though- in hindsight- I'm always seeing the past as strange, or disjointed. The past couple of months have been just that, and more. They have been happy, busy, and full of change. G...
  23. silverember

    Shake, Rattle ‘n’ Facebook!

    by
    In defense of everybody (myself included) who hopped on social media mere moments after the earthquake this morning, I have this to say: In California, we live in constant fear of "the Big One".I very firmly believe that you pick which natural disaster...
  24. silverember

    I Call Bullshit on Adulthood

    by
    I'm not sure what heralded my (long overdue) emergence from the happy waters of childhood into the super lame ocean that is adulthood. It could have been the first time I asked for an appliance for Christmas. Or the first time I GOT one and was excited...
  25. silverember

    Why I May Never Lose Weight, Part 1

    by
    Let's cut right to the chase: salads bum me out.There's nothing worse than toiling through a morning at work and having nothing to look forward to but a pile of vegetables for lunch. Give me a sandwich and a bag of chips any day. Heck, just give me the...
  26. silverember

    Creative Differences

    by
    A few months ago, I bought a pair of concert tickets.This was a big deal.See, I haven't been to a "buy tickets ahead of time" kind of show since 2007, when Serj Tankian went solo (which, despite my initial misgivings, was totally awesome). Since then...
  27. silverember

    Sugar, Sparkles, Boom.

    by
    Bodies are strange, interesting things. Some people get away with essentially eating whatever they want and never see a negative consequence for it.  These people suck and I hate them.I recently found myself staring down a drastic diet change. &nb...

ds106 in[SPIRE]