The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten


Tho Autumn didn’t dare let Edgar see it, she felt her breath catch up when she saw it come into view, & ’specially as she felt herself enter what seemed like a forcefield round it. Here she saw not just billions o’ tiny colored dots bunched together, giving off the flat illusion o’ a brick building, but the building itself in its full spatial glory. Soon she’d be close ’nough that she could feel the scratchy texture o’ its bricks.

But this thrill came married, as it always did, to a fear o’ all the tasks she had left to complete — all the tightropes she had to cross, e’ery 1 o’ which with its own risk o’ falling off & destroying her in the snap o’ a finger: she had to find her room in the labyrinth inside that building, had to figure out all the financial trickery to keeping it & feeding herself while paying for her expensive classes, had to get to e’ery class on time e’ery day & had to excel @ e’ery class. A single failed project could destroy her fore’er.

But she did what she always did when faced with such seeming impossibilities: she took a deep breath & reminded herself that effortless tasks were no accomplishments @ all; ’twas the threats & pain that made a task valuable.

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Posted in Boskeopolis Stories, Short Stories