You’d think the world were ending. With how null-coloured cracks rack the sky. And razor winds shred the upside down sea overhead, Into shards of spray.
It hurts to hold this hissing light.
Sears the skin.
Leaves ugly scars.
Where it tears with acrid claws.
A short story which employs a scifi metaphor of being autistic in a neurotypical social setting. On assimilation, empathy, and groupthink.
It’s my island, mine alone, so I’m alone. Singing to myself and the sea. With equally endless ever-churning fractal blacks above and below me. And the pattern repeats, too far out for me to see, but there must be an infinity of islands just as isolated. And the pattern repeats, inside my mind, infinitesimally across […]
Stella Brown. Not to be ignored! How to introduce her? She’s an artist “aspiring,” and astronomer “amateur,” being interviewed by Pareidolia Press. Because, simply, she deserves to be.