Marisol's Apples Fascist Cosplay

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In: Fiction

Her marriage was spiritually dead. She had nothing left for the fascist cosplay. Crossing Ashby was called suicide. She found life on the other side.Continue Reading

Get Me Out of Here

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In: Fiction

No rules, no boundaries. Rules and boundaries are oppressive. Damian wanted to go where he wanted whenever he wanted. He wanted most to go where Inger was and get what was his.Continue Reading

Become the Democracy You Are Not Family Enough

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In: Fiction

He crossed seventy feet and died—erased by the Citadel for wanting stew. But Silvia fed him anyway, setting a milk crate table with Berkeley Pier chowder and love. In seventy feet, he lost his name and found his family.Continue Reading

Are You a Woman pwnd

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In: Fiction

She’s mine. I don’t care what the Hive says. I’ll walk through every door until I have her.Continue Reading

Vacuuming the Beach This is the Way

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In: Commentary

OUTRAGED! Been trying that. The machine grinds on. Marched, posted, and branded. Plus ca change plus ce la meme chose. We demanded removal, reckoning, to engender utopia. And then we went home. The institutions remained and the algorithms adapted.
The regular rhythm endures. Sunrise, sunset, mewling babe to fading elder. A vacuum hums while the kittens sleep. This is the Way.Continue Reading

Charli Kirk

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In: Commentary

Charlie Kirk’s assassination didn’t silence his message—it sanctified it. This is a reckoning with martyrdom, violence, and the myth of collapse as progress.Continue Reading

Damian's Camp Serenity Disrupted

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In: Fiction

Damian knelt outside his tent, flicking the butane stove to life. “Want it hot?” he asked, holding out the pouch. Inger didn’t answer. She snatched the pho from his hand, tore the seal with her teeth. The scent of dried shiitake and star anise hit the air. She sat cross-legged, chewing—no spoon, no water, no ceremony. He watched, unsure if he’d just been insulted or initiated.Continue Reading

Trans daughter sweet bitterness

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In: Commentary

We failed Westmen. This isn’t a call to arms—it’s a moment to mourn, to face who we are, what we carry, and the hard choice to continue toward grace.Continue Reading

Thanks for the Beer

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In: Commentary

She didn’t linger. Just took the beer, offered a smile that felt like a receipt, and dropped the line that would haunt the room: “Thanks for the beer.” No promise, no apology—just a closing statement dressed as gratitude. What came next wasn’t her problem. It never was.Continue Reading