Literary movements spark and evolve, ebb and flow together without ever warning the writer. By the time one knows what is new, all too often that new has already become old. Yet there is a sentiment emerging now, wondering aloud—though still quietly— Personally, I blame the internet.
No peppermint candy filled stockings or pine scented candles to mask the smell of her mother’s Marlboro Lights. Boys crept into her window and fondled her pubis, twisted her tits.
In less than a second your entire head could explode and just about every thought or feeling you had would be rendered almost completely insignificant. Your skull's circumference, just a broom sweep of ashes.
ONCE UPON A TIME, in the heady days of economic collapse, a number of French malcontents got together, christened themselves the Invisible Committee and wrote, 'It is useless to wait - for a breakthrough, for the revolution, the nuclear apocalypse or a social movement. To go on waiting is madness. The catastrophe is not coming, it is here. We are already situated within the collapse of a civilisation. It is within this reality that we must choose sides.'
“It’s red and white, of course,’’ you answered. “Or maybe just red, and the white holds the red bits together,’’ you added, just in case. The chains of Qalixy’s swing squeaked as she turned to you. “No, no, the color of peppermint is actually purple,’’ she said.