How would I turn a sword into rust? Why would I? That seems like reversing a lot of work. Why not just smash it into a plowshare? Keep it useful.
To make it more bioavailable? How exactly does one go about making the intellect more amenable to the biosphere? I dump my coffee grounds in my garden every day. So now how do I compost my mind?
It is not trapped. It stays because it knows...it knows that I am enslaved to a ritual of worship.
Approaching with dread-filled steps, my brim-filled basket a rotting tribute to its sullen bloated power. There is no choice - the kitchen waste must be emptied.
TOAD!
Toad, Wart Lord. A cabbage throne, a court of glistening slugs. Your palace steams dankly.
The patron saint of Compost, as everyone knows, is Saint Jacques de Compostelle. Pilgrims can be identified by the scallops on their hats and refer to themselves as 'Les Noix de Saint Jacques'.
Then again, some might say they're just nuts.
Not a lot of people know that (Michael Caine voice)
Mrs. Fiore’s garden was the envy of the neighborhood. Magnolias bloomed impossibly bright, their roots deep, their petals soft as silk. She hummed as she worked, hands buried in rich, dark soil. Beneath her fingernails, something red lingered. A button. A fingernail not her own. No one questioned how her roses climbed so high, how her hydrangeas never wilted. She smiled, pressing another bone into the earth. Everything thrives with the right compost, she thought, patting the soil, waiting for the next bloom.
I'm gonna have to figure out what time you're putting these out at , because I didn't see this until late. But that's okay, it kind went dark on me anyway...
She was on her hands and knees — digging, and scraping, and digging — trying, unsuccessfully, to forget the last time she’d been so occupied, so lost with the digging — the scent of fresh loam, and compost — the acrid, manure, stench that was so much more freeing than what the air around her had to offer. She paused, looked up, half expecting to see the dogs, and the guards, the single solitary flag, a limp promise of the future. She wept softly.
I’m writing this with a broken pencil. The lead clings to the splintering wood.
“When the heart stops, the soul exits the body”
“When the heart stops, the self becomes trapped in a prison of experience. It is forced to watch, hear, feel the process of the terminus. The fire or the oblivion of the six wooden walls. Hell is the prison of experience without input.”
Her grandma Margaret was in her routine chat with a nurse. She blended in smoothly, scrolling her phone.
‘I was sixteen when I worked for a castle-like household. They had dozens of old wine barrels filled with compost. The gardener had to empty the contents, and I had to crawl in and scrub them clean. Sometimes, I found earrings and bracelets in there.’
She ditched her Instagram.
Margaret continued, ‘I was told not to return after the gardener went missing.’
Gaia was done. She had been patient with people, but the whole race have proven to be obstinate, petty, greedy, and prone to violence. Enough was enough.
So she sent volcanoes, earthquakes, and floods to change the land. She allowed the sun to burn too hot and the snow to fall too deep. She sent storms, tornadoes, and hurricanes to uproot and dismantle.
Finally, Gaia sent fire that knew no boundaries and reduced everything in its path to ashy compost.
My husband wrinkles his nose when we open the compost bin. It’s the usual mix of food waste, grass clippings, and cat fur.
Give or take.
“I can’t use this stuff,” he groans, removing his gloves before changing the subject. “I should call my mother. She’s been surprisingly quiet since she went on vacation last month. I wonder when she’ll be back.”
He’s a mama’s boy with a weak stomach. I smile as I silently answer never.
Where do we seek answers? Many of us source books, news, conversations, and our own history. All this is data going in, like leaves, vegetable peels, and dirt begin compost.
It’s only raw data. If we pile it into our world and our mind without caution, we can set the whole of our being on fire. Spontaneous combustion.
To have healthy thoughts to chew on, we must allow time for it to cool
I read question 7 of the entrance exam.
Sword : Rust :: Dianoia : ???
I consider:
How would I turn a sword into rust? Why would I? That seems like reversing a lot of work. Why not just smash it into a plowshare? Keep it useful.
To make it more bioavailable? How exactly does one go about making the intellect more amenable to the biosphere? I dump my coffee grounds in my garden every day. So now how do I compost my mind?
Malevolence resides within the compost bin.
It is not trapped. It stays because it knows...it knows that I am enslaved to a ritual of worship.
Approaching with dread-filled steps, my brim-filled basket a rotting tribute to its sullen bloated power. There is no choice - the kitchen waste must be emptied.
TOAD!
Toad, Wart Lord. A cabbage throne, a court of glistening slugs. Your palace steams dankly.
"Leave your offerings, mortal, then be gone!"
Shuddering, I flee.
Oh that is a lovely one, though I happen to think that toads are cute.
Waaaaah! so evil! brilliant
😂 Yeah, I'm so proud of this one.
Sorry I'm late!
:
The patron saint of Compost, as everyone knows, is Saint Jacques de Compostelle. Pilgrims can be identified by the scallops on their hats and refer to themselves as 'Les Noix de Saint Jacques'.
Then again, some might say they're just nuts.
Not a lot of people know that (Michael Caine voice)
And now we know... 😂 So now I can say I'm "La Noix de Saint Jacques."
Your Honor, Ricky’s a bullshit expert. Not my fault he keeps tabs on his cows’ “gut biomes.” Those things eat like they’re gonna be sacrificed.
Ask yourself why Ricky’s barn is so clean when he only focuses on his prized shitters. How has Ricky never stepped in cow pie before?
We have a partnership, Your Honor. I cut Ricky’s cleaning costs, and his cows keep my compost competitive at the market.
I’m not guilty, and what’s more, I’m pro se.
Mrs. Fiore’s garden was the envy of the neighborhood. Magnolias bloomed impossibly bright, their roots deep, their petals soft as silk. She hummed as she worked, hands buried in rich, dark soil. Beneath her fingernails, something red lingered. A button. A fingernail not her own. No one questioned how her roses climbed so high, how her hydrangeas never wilted. She smiled, pressing another bone into the earth. Everything thrives with the right compost, she thought, patting the soil, waiting for the next bloom.
I'm gonna have to figure out what time you're putting these out at , because I didn't see this until late. But that's okay, it kind went dark on me anyway...
She was on her hands and knees — digging, and scraping, and digging — trying, unsuccessfully, to forget the last time she’d been so occupied, so lost with the digging — the scent of fresh loam, and compost — the acrid, manure, stench that was so much more freeing than what the air around her had to offer. She paused, looked up, half expecting to see the dogs, and the guards, the single solitary flag, a limp promise of the future. She wept softly.
oooh theres a story and a half in this one...very nice
I'm also drunk, Miguel, here:
I’m writing this with a broken pencil. The lead clings to the splintering wood.
“When the heart stops, the soul exits the body”
“When the heart stops, the self becomes trapped in a prison of experience. It is forced to watch, hear, feel the process of the terminus. The fire or the oblivion of the six wooden walls. Hell is the prison of experience without input.”
“What of heaven, then?”
“No one get through without sin”
The lead, it splinters.
Cheers!
Microdosing Fiction - 80mg of Compost
===
Her grandma Margaret was in her routine chat with a nurse. She blended in smoothly, scrolling her phone.
‘I was sixteen when I worked for a castle-like household. They had dozens of old wine barrels filled with compost. The gardener had to empty the contents, and I had to crawl in and scrub them clean. Sometimes, I found earrings and bracelets in there.’
She ditched her Instagram.
Margaret continued, ‘I was told not to return after the gardener went missing.’
80 words
Gaia was done. She had been patient with people, but the whole race have proven to be obstinate, petty, greedy, and prone to violence. Enough was enough.
So she sent volcanoes, earthquakes, and floods to change the land. She allowed the sun to burn too hot and the snow to fall too deep. She sent storms, tornadoes, and hurricanes to uproot and dismantle.
Finally, Gaia sent fire that knew no boundaries and reduced everything in its path to ashy compost.
it has happened before, and so shall it be again.
This one is shocking, and good!
Thank you Rose!
You really meant it when you said 'body is a good fertilizer'..........
It is… :D
Whoa!
“It smells disgusting.”
My husband wrinkles his nose when we open the compost bin. It’s the usual mix of food waste, grass clippings, and cat fur.
Give or take.
“I can’t use this stuff,” he groans, removing his gloves before changing the subject. “I should call my mother. She’s been surprisingly quiet since she went on vacation last month. I wonder when she’ll be back.”
He’s a mama’s boy with a weak stomach. I smile as I silently answer never.
hahah! poor mother in law - they are the butt of so many jokes
“Is he even talking to us anymore?” Maya asked.
“Pfaha… That’s why I brought you,” Kai told Maya. “He’s like a kid in a toy store.”
“….will be used for indoor composting. I-”
“OHMYGOD!” Maya shrieked. She ran out of the greenhouse flailing at a large moth.
“Uhh, what happened?” asked Frank, the kid in the toy store.
Kai sighed and smiled. “Your dream home is chasing my friend away.”
80 mg dose of Compost
Where do we seek answers? Many of us source books, news, conversations, and our own history. All this is data going in, like leaves, vegetable peels, and dirt begin compost.
It’s only raw data. If we pile it into our world and our mind without caution, we can set the whole of our being on fire. Spontaneous combustion.
To have healthy thoughts to chew on, we must allow time for it to cool
Life today is compost, fertilizer for tomorrow.