Stream of Consciousness
A Weird or Normal Dream
I dreamt I was at a very big store, hanging out with Catherine, my former coworker, and Mary, our former boss. We end up sitting at a super long table in the employee basement and reconnecting. I think at one point how I’m glad I can be so far from them, and that Catherine should be farther away from Mary.
By Gabriel Shamesabout a month ago in Writers
The Abandoned, part 1
We’ve all heard something about ghost towns and abandoned buildings. You might think it’s a fascinating but rare phenomenon, but you’d be wrong. If you dig deeper, you’d find it’s actually quite common. Disturbingly common, in fact. There’s at least one in every U.S. state, and thousands around the world. When you add in vacant properties, the list probably balloons to millions.
By Gabriel Shamesabout a month ago in Writers
2026: The Year of Writing and More Writing...
Happy New Year!! 2025 is over, which does have me a little down. It was an exciting year, especially for Jane Austen fans as it was Austen's 250th birthday this past December. I had really wished to do more throughout the year to celebrate this but unfortunately found myself with not much time or energy to do that. And maybe that is why I am very excited for this new year.
By The Austen Shelfabout a month ago in Writers
The Honest Truth: Out of the five online side gigs I tried, only one was successful.
The Honest Truth: Out of the five online side gigs I tried, only one was successful. I sought independence, adaptability, and additional revenue. Instead, I discovered disappointment, broken promises, and one unanticipated victory.
By Farida Kabirabout a month ago in Writers
My Own Big Toe, Object Study
Object Study 1 I shudder to think of the fetishists watching in the bushes who see this and find themselves spellbound: a toe is a toe, and a big toe is simply the biggest of the toes on a given foot. At the topside, a thick toenail flattened after years of stubbing and dropping books and tools on it. It’s mangled, just a little bit, by a lifetime of ill-timed and ill-fated clippings. The right end of it juts out a little farther than the left, which is thicker, a little ingrown, bleeds whenever the nail-clippers come down on it without mercy and without finesse. Beyond that, a tuft of hair—Hobbit-hair, as mother called it growing up. It’s lighter than I imagined it to be, lighter, the shade of my beard after a summer in the brunt of sunlight, the shade of half-dried sand on the precipice between dry land and less dry sea, the shade of the hair on my grandmother’s head before it turned white with age and then to ash.
By Steven Christopher McKnightabout a month ago in Writers
