The WeIrD World of Lalantree

…[he] sometimes pretended interest in my cosine functions. Namely, the ones which were plotted based off of his burnings. Because he really just wanted to talk about himself, and I remain deeply disturbed that we once snogged for upwards of two minutes.

Somewhere, in a galaxy and a future far, far away, Lalantree is running a grumpy commentary on the weird world she lives in. Most of the people there seem to be inoculated against absurdism and they enjoy cushy existences, unaware of Lalantree’s scathing inner dialogue.

Not that it would matter much if they knew what she was thinking.

Last time she was sitting in on an abnormal chair burning. Now, on the e3groupblog (where people whose names begin with E have colonized a pinprick of the internet) she is relating how she grudgingly acquired a pet.

She herself probably won’t thank you if you read about her latest adventure – but I will!

Even if statistics couldn’t tell us how to establish pronoun-equality, so that we might move on to the ideal gender-neutral terms for which social scientists wept, it could tell us that if we alternated between x and y for the foreseeable, infinite future, things were practically equal.

And practically was good enough.

Above quotations taken from the five-part story: A Chair Burning, and an Unfortunately Outspoken Girl


Cold sweats by day, hot by night. From the traditional glass of milk to Tylenol Cold Nighttime to Ambien, her teeth stay sharp and her eyes are still hungry, so that he can’t roll over and forget. He swallows and lays awake. He gets up and goes back to the computer, searching feverishly.
There is an explanation, somewhere, now that everything is online. He clicks through the same links and the same images over and over, searching for what they are hiding, bringing a fist down on the desk.
He can’t stop thinking about hunting. He dreams and in those dreams the rifle, the snare, the crossbow, the tracking and the camo are all stacked on one side, but at the last moment the role of hunter won’t come clear; the rifle, with a clear shot, is battered down by a snarling rictus.  Then his fingers at his own throat are like fangs. He is circling himself, doing her work for her. His eyes burn from lack of sleep.

Continue reading “Reverberation”