Unanchored
The bird lands on a self checkout machine then flies back up to the next floor. Realizing we’re the only two living things in this little world, I follow it. To my relief, the box store gives me up with little issue.
Fiction »
And I’ll be All Alone
Supposedly, it’s 2:00 AM. Alex glares sideways at every clock he sees, letting his head spin in that direction until it loops back into him. Having spent years doing everything he could possibly do in his apartment, he centers himself to the task of pushing his window open. The headlights of a car briefly blind him as the light scatters through the glass, setting off a glowing set of fractals.
He’s on the porch roof now, and the lights swirl into a starry night sky. The stars connect into constellations and shift over time. Not the petty parallel movement of hours or seasons, but the unrecognizable change from eons of the sun circling the galaxy. He leans back against the house’s plastic siding and curls into something much smaller than himself and waits for the stars to notice his reticence and reach out for him themselves.
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The Economy »
New series coming this week: Death and Taxes by FFYO
Economics is an opaque and oft-troubled study. Most popular econ focuses on personal finance or solely offers perspectives within the context of the neoclassical mainstream.
FFYO’s professional experience in tax policy, public finance, and international economics guides this series that focuses on historical and institutional analysis. Suitable for both complete econ-newcomers and those already-versed but looking for new thoughts to chew on.
Poetry »
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Lucy
Grandpa said the world didn't end one day. The old ways of doing things just receded, a wave falling back into the ocean. Lucy understood what he meant though she'd never seen the ocean and expected she never would. Even now there were places where people drove cars and flew in planes and kept electric lights on all the time, but nobody could afford that in Vermont.
A Personal Tragedy: One
The boasting doesn’t come from pride. It comes from a rotting shame that grasps at any tool of the ego to assuage guilt. Professing, often only to themselves, the righteousness of their act of killing in an attempt to claw back the very humanity that they stole from someone else.