Happy Birthday?

Putting me and my writing in the right place

Hey! Where do you belong?

A funny question that means so much more. For most, it’s likely far from a conscious choice and more about a natural instinct.

A certain je ne sais quoi, as the anglophones say.

This may be an obvious reflection of the now repetitive theme I’ve covered in the last few posts. That sense of lacking a home that is always close to my and many others’ heart. But I strongly believe it extends much farther beyond that.

More than the physical location, the simplicity of fitting in with others. Finding those with whom you are comfortable harmonizing among a chorus of discordant voices.

Friends, deep fried or otherwise, are but one additional ingredient to the spicy stew.

I mean to talk about the core of an aesthetic and the foundation of a belief, the way we mix and match colors and flavors to satisfy our basic needs and extravagant tastes.

Once the palette finally settles, painting can begin.

Newfound confidence stemming from a recognition of the frame. Perhaps the result will be far from any idealized metrics meant to measure abstract perfection, but the image will better reflect the soul behind the art.

Intention matching expectations, as long as the bounds are well defined.

And therein lies one of the bigger struggles. Finding the right ruler and learning how to properly explain emotions to the outside observer.

Or better still, having it be understood at first glance.

I am tempted to call said unwieldy bliss, sanctuary.

someone | some.what

Connecting with a piece of media that tears through your heart is an intense experience. Feeling so seen without having to do the whole song and dance of systemically wording thoughts and actions is refreshing.

For me, I get that from the likes of Edward Hopper and Final Fantasy.

For others, they may feel it in Van Gogh and Bernie Sanders.

The source matters much less than recognizing the experience itself.

Expression to match how we think of the world and ourselves.

And I recently had the lucky opportunity to find a new name that I feel comfortable adding to my personal list.

She goes by a few different names on social media, but I found some..what while scrolling through TikTok and was immediately drawn in.

The retro-nostalgic atmosphere with re-imagined modernity and a kind of punk rock attitude to make things work even if they’re rough around the edges.

The example may seem simple, but it very much spoke to me and my sensibilities.

So much so that I let myself drown in her art and come up with a story.

And thus, that tension between belonging and expression inspired this week’s piece of flash fiction.

Storm Shelter

You are too busy intellectualizing suffering to let the depth of your emotions move you to action.

It felt like the blight came in waves. We couldn’t trust the rain and the soil just gave up.

You would think that was the end. We did too.

We were fools.

Death would have been a blessing.

“Seeing stars again, Zhenya?” Max was quick with his wit. I think he cared about me, but mostly he was afraid of being left alone.

“Can’t be good, right?” I tried to let out a laugh, but the smile never reached my eyes.

“Optic nerves don’t appreciate how we stare up at the sky.” But Max made it genuine. He helped me relax into myself.

We were both forced to dropout and stuffed into that box. The new laws were a reaction to our limited resources. Education was a privilege ill afforded to those who lacked the aptitude to appreciate acceleration.

“How’re yours?” I asked as I looked at the shape of his face. The outline was rough, shades of black and white.

“I learned to never trust what I see a long time ago, Zhenya.” Max chuckled and I saw the shift in shapes. The thick lines forming the arms of his leather seat matching the vibrations of those same sounds.

Somewhere between a squeak and a squawk. I then saw his hands rest on the sturdy metal of the terminal. Our worsened vision never wavered our support for the cause.

The details of how it all worked weren’t well understood. But that didn’t matter. As long as we could make out the information on the screen, we could do the job.

“Did you see the new growth?” I asked him the same question I always asked. The answer obscured in blind definitions. “I swear the flowers are even blooming in new colors!”

“I’ll have to take your word on that!” Max shook his head and turned a knob as warning lights flashed overhead. Another storm approaching. “Strap in, Zhenya.”

“Not again…” I let my hands rest on the familiar controls and the lights pierced my pupils.

Our job was simple but important.

We were the last line of defense against the rain. The blight. The missiles and more.

Neither of us could remember what the shooting stars were really meant to be. We just performed our duties. Our fingers smudged against the old terminal screens and a blinding white light shined across the sky.

In the dead of night, we would flash salvation upon the shelters hidden deep underground.

The barrage was constant and we were meant to work in shifts. Double duty to cover the hours needed for sleep.

“Fuck!” Max shouted as an alarm sounded from his station. The computer crashed and I couldn’t immediately cover his corner of the sky. “Fuck! Fuck! Fucking bullshit! They were meant to upgrade everything years ago and now look what’s happening!”

He was hysterical, slamming his fists into his desk until the pounding was dulled by the cushion of his own blood.

“I’ve got it, Max!” I nearly went cross-eyed trying to save as much as I could. Then it happened to me too. My screen went dark. We were alone and fighting against the odds.

I reached for Max, and he found my hand. We slept together whenever we could, which happened less than once every fourth fortnight.

Lust in the fear that we would finally be forgiven.

“Seeing stars?” He looked at me and asked the familiar question. I tried to find his eyes, but his iris was pure white, the dark dots almost entirely gone.

“Just tired and drunk.” Another of my jokes landing off-point. Yet Max still smiled, a tear gently rolling down his cheek.

Our terminals whirred to life as the bombardment rumbled the ground beneath our feet.

[ 𝙾𝙺 ] 𝙼𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 /𝚜𝚢𝚜
[ 𝙾𝙺 ] 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝚁𝚈*𝙾𝚂 𝚟𝟷．𝟹．𝟹
[ 𝙾𝙺 ] 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎．．𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍
[ 𝙾𝙺 ] 𝙸𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜

Everything was dark save the screen in front of our eyes. And what we saw defied definition. Even with blurry vision, we both recognized the suggestion of a growing garden.

The hell raining from heaven nourished the earth.

Muted colors were budding even though everyone nearly forgot what it meant to taste the sweet sensation of blended hues.

The essence of our dreams was in the opposing force to our task. We were forever motivated to deny our own existence without ever knowing why.

“That was a good king.”

We learned to repeat the line. An ancient epic written generations and generations ago.

"What does it mean?" Max asked me as he leaned forward, nearly pressing his nose against the glass of his terminal.

"Does it matter?" I clenched my fist into his hand, trying to find another smile.

"Yes." He answered, turning his head as he stared blankly in my direction.

"Why?" I asked.

“Zhenya…” He trailed off. I knew what he wanted to say. If our sacrifice was a farce, then we were hopeless to ever experience a proper rebirth.

Whether we looked for it in this life or the next, our sin damned us to eternal suffering.

"Well then it means everything you want it to." I pulled him close and the sound of his leather seat squeaked at the sudden movement.

We watched what we could as the flowers reached for the stars.

@somewhat19my snake-plants progect

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On a shelf

Hopefully, that short story wasn’t too intense.

Or perhaps I needed it to be uncomfortable.

Either way, I have a more practical problem I want to address as well. I may feel at home in wondrous words, but I do struggle to identify how others connect to them.

I was recently discussing how best to place Significatorius in a bookstore and came up short.

Compromise should not mean sacrificing style. So, I now want to ask you for your help regarding those marketplace aesthetics.

I find my little sister’s art matches my other books quite well. As it should, she has created all my covers!

However, my marketing skills are lacking, at best.

Are there any books you think mine would complement, specifically as a title sat upon the same shelf?

Please, let me know. Don’t be afraid to be brief. If you don’t want to structure an entire email, just send me a simple message where you say something like:

Your books belong next to [author/title] because…

And since it was my birthday yesterday, any generous and fortuitous giftgivers could make my year by subscribing, sharing, or buying one of my books.

All things being equal, all I really want is to have entertained you for the length of this scrawled text.

Otherwise, until next time.

—JMB