andie writes dumb stories

time loop love story where the time traveler is stuck living the same day over and over again. at the start of the story, they've already gone through hundreds of the same day, this has been a long time going. but the story isn't told from their point of view. it's told from their love interest's. the story starts with just a normal narrative, presenting it all as it is. then the day starts over, but it doesn't change for this person, who continues to narrate like this is the first time they've ever encountered this day, because for them, it is. things reset everytime, but the time traveler gets smarter and smarter, and they start to get hope again with the narrator, despite the fact that they still have yet to remember any of the previous loops. the time traveler has told them dozens of times now about the loops, and the narrator believes them, but it doesn't fix anything. they do start getting closer and closer to a solution though, working together despite the resets. and then the time traveler escapes. but the narrator is still trapped in the time loop. and they remember now.

she emerges from the metal encasement, peeling away wires and detaching IVs, and she smells of gunsmoke and motoroil. she smiles, and there's blood and soot between her teeth, coolant and sweat on her brow. she cracks her knuckles, and it sounds more like the grinding of gears than popping of joints; her gaze glitters steel when the others flinch at the noise. machine grease streaks her hair, her face, her being. she tilts her head at a question, and though she is said to be disconnected from the mech, it seems to mirror the movement in unison as the mechanics run through the maintenance checks. later that night, after she's choked down the nutrient slurry and decontaminated in the showers, she slips from her bunk and walks silently back to the bay. neither her nor her mech speak as it opens the cavity for her to slip back inside, far more at home here than anywhere else. she doesn't reconnect her neurons, for even she is not reckless enough to sync her system again so soon after, tired and aching and raw following the fight, but still, she sleeps better here than among the breathing, dreaming sighs of her comrades. across the room, other pilots slip into their mechs in similar fashions, bodies scrubbed of grease and replenished in a way that soothes the minds of the higherups but leaves the pilots feeling empty and detached. they all feel detached anywhere but here, nowadays. all best friends, but the pilots find themselves closest speaking through the mechs, lodged safe in mechanical hearts. she drifts asleep without a moment longer, mechanical whirring and the rush of hydraulic pumps filling her ears, a sound more familiar than her own heartbeat. steel and seat leather lay under her head, and she curls into it. in the morning, her commanding officer will check the mech before her bunkroom, and they will rub the IV scars and wire ports on the inside of their own elbows with an empty sadness before waking her for the morning dosages. they, too, understand this urge, no matter how long their mech has been out of commission, broken down for parts years ago. it's the commander's own fault, anyway. no pilot was ever meant to outlive their mech.

one time, long ago, i was stuck in a time loop. that's not quite right. yesterday, i was caught in a time loop. today, i'm caught in a different one. i went through yesterday 847 times. you'd think i'd remember that loop a little better than i do. i've been stuck in today 3,485 times. at least, i think it's that many. give or take a couple dozen. i've tried everything. yesterday, all i had to do to escape was become better-- perfect, basically. stop the kid from tripping, pull the woman back from the car splash. eggs over easy, piano isn't tuned, try the third floor, instead. call my best friend, apologize to my sister. go to the festival, ride the ferris wheel, dance. i thought getting it right was what got me out. maybe it was just luck. i've tried everything today. helping people, saving people. romance, running away. fixing the government, starting a charity. a thousand different ways to kill yourself, to hurt someone else. i've tried staying in bed all day, sleep deprivation. inevitably, i'd blink by midnight and wake up in bed. i woke up tired, but otherwise the same. about 1200 loops in, i took to adopting the same dog over and over again. i didn't think it would change anything, i just wanted the dog. about 1700 loops in, i forbid myself from going by the shelter anymore. still, i cherish the memory of giving junebug her first cheeseburger, a hundred times over. the nice thing about june was that i could talk about the loop to her and she never reacted differently after. i wonder what this town would think if it knew i had slept with the vast majority of them. strange how quickly romance dies when you're militant in the search for your true love. the only upside is the loop kills any stds. i've checked. i've learned mandarin and python, taught myself piano-- i wanted to do guitar, but i can't develop the calluses for it--, and i managed to catch up on grey's anatomy. if-- when, maybe-- i make it to tomorrow, it'll be fun explaining my new skills. i figured out my thesis at least, so once i know that my writing won't disappear as soon as i fall asleep, i'll have that ready. maybe if my defense goes poorly, i'll have another loop to fix it. maybe when i escape this, i'll just kill myself anyway. i don't think people are meant to exist like this and keep going. i don't know if i'll ever escape this loop, anyway. i'm too scared that tomorrow's loop will be worse.

The windows are boarded up, but it doesn't stop the sunlight from filtering in, painting warm golden streaks across the room. Cans of food stacked against one wall, two milkcrates full of old clothing against another. Atop a closed cardboard box sits a little potted fern, a notebook with a worn-down cover next to it. A bed, pressed into the corner, sits under a window. A couple strips of light fall across the two figures on the bed. A little gray cat naps, curled up on the faded comforter, quilted to begin with and well-patched now. A hand lovingly strokes over soft gray fur, slow and repetitive. Their other hand turns the pages of an old paperback, the soft rustling of the paper the only sound in the room, past the sounds of birdsongs and trees filtering in from outside. The inhabitant of the room, reading the book, sighs softly, contently, as the events play out. It's a story they've read a dozen times before, and will enjoy at least a dozen times more. Between their criss-crossed-applesauce legs, they cradle a still-steaming mug of coffee, and they pause from petting the cat for a moment to drink from it, not taking their eyes off the words. When they set it back down, it sinks a little into the comforter, but doesn't tip over from between their knees. A ladybug scales a wall, bringing good luck with it. Across the room, a gecko sits above the doorframe, good luck of another kind. Honeybees buzz outside the boarded-up windows, flitting between the lavender unseen from inside. On the wall above the bed, a handful of photographs and postcards are tacked into the chipped and peeling paint. Close to the ceiling, exposed brick peeks out, dilapitated more than artsy or tasteful, but it doesn't reduce how cozy the room feels. Clearly, despite all else, this is a well-loved, cared for bastion of safety, shielded by the boards over the window and evidenced by the baseball bat next to the door. The house creaks a little as the wind outside picks up. The person looks up, pausing from their reading. They aren't concerned, but simply look up at the gaps in the boards to where the sky peaks through. They sit in the moment, the sounds of the breeze and rustling branches, quiet purring, the smell of fresh air and lavender. It's a quiet moment. It settles into them, and they faintly smile, turning back to their book.

child-proofing spells that feel like when you try to push two magnets together, with that resistance and strength you have to put into it. parents will cast them on coffee-table corners and outlets to prevent little ones from injuring themselves.

the god of healing, the god of knowledge, the god of the sun, hath forsaken me. and today, he dies by my hand. apollo, oh golden child of olympus, with lyre in hand and prophecy on his brow, has hours left of life. for all his visions of the future, i've made sure that he will not see this coming. the spear in my hand is long and golden, cool to the touch. the weight of it is no burden. i stand atop the hilltop and think of cassandra, of her bright face and terrified eyes. i feel no reservations, no doubt. even fear escapes me in this moment. do not mistake this for overconfidence. this is nothing but certainty. zephyrus ruffles my hair as i stand in the darkness. my eyes are fixed on the slowly brightening sky, waiting for the moment his golden chariot crests the horizon. my heart beats steady. my hands do not shake. i breathe even, in, and out. golden rays begin to warm the sky. i do not move, not yet. cassandra's screams as she begged them to believe her fill my ears. guilt still rests heavy between my ribs, knowing i dismissed her then just the same. the sun is glorious, blinding as it rises in the sky. when he appears, only then do i make a movement, bracing my feet and standing even taller. the shock on his face is only there for a breath, but it is enough. he stares me in the eye, knowing well who i am and knowing well what i plan to do. i have no reservations in my heart, but i can tell he does not believe i will succeed. the thought brings me something like joy as the spear arcs from my steady hand and sinks into the broad of his chest. ichor like sunlight spills forth from his heart, but i see none of it. i have killed a god, and now it has killed me. the poison kicks in, the price for the use of weaponry my mortal hands were not intended for, and at last i smile as the life fades from my body, my last and only thoughts of cassandra. the underworld awaits me, and i will fight my way to elysium if only for one more glimpse of her.

By that winter, the pages in Dad’s notebooks lay blank. The bird-watching book was tucked into a cabinet, and I stopped carrying my binoculars around with me. I still whistled though. At night, I would listen to the recordings of bird songs online, recreating them. When I’d wander the trails winding through our property, I’d call them out, no longer even hoping for a reply. I learned to appreciate the other noises though: the low croak of a bullfrog, the soft bell of a deer, the strange bark of a fox. When we got a dog in the spring, I taught him to respond to my bird calls, and soon he learned his name as the contact call of a yellow warbler just as much as the one Dad used to call him to dinner. We still feel the absence of the birds whenever the mice creep closer to the house. It’s become a habit these days to reset the traps, especially as Dad’s back worsens, and he can no longer bend over to do them himself. My daughter has only heard bird songs through my recreations and the documentaries she watches online, but she’s gotten increasingly at doing them herself. Nowadays, I expect replies to my bird calls once again, but only from her. I still visit the owls by the pond. It’s the one call I’ve never felt strong enough to learn. I expect that I never will.

i'm going to hold my breath as i jump off the cliff. i can hear the splash before my feet have even left the ground. the rush of the water as it goes past my ears, eyes clenched shut to avoid the salt sting. i hold my body straight until my feet hit the bottom. the sand is softer than i imagined it to be, and it gives a little as i bend my knees and push upwards, back towards the surface. when i breach, i'm no longer in the world. the entire sky has opened up around me. i can reach out and touch cassiopeia, and i do. her stars are long-dead and cold, and i run my fingertips through her nebulae, watching as they swirl. a comet kisses my face, and i giggle as freckles burst across the bridge of my nose. they glitter with stardust, and i feel beautiful.

character who, when seen in the peripheral, has a "glow"/"sparkle" about them, but looks completely normal when looked at head-on. & they absolutely hate it. they can see it in their reflection as they walk by mirrors and windows, and they'll often see people looking at them in a specific way that let's them know they're trying to figure out what they're seeing (shit that's a lot of "they"s, have fun following that). they have no clue why they glow like that or how to make it stop, but it's just how it is. beyond the one quality, they're fairly average looking, which only pisses them off more bc people usually only care about the one thing that can't even be properly perceived. mentioning it makes them go into attack mode.

Standing near the window, I could feel the cold emanating from the poorly-insulated panes. My breath left a little fog cloud on the glass as I looked out, watching the market below. People walk stall-to-stall, trading fares and inspecting fruit. A little girl drops a mitten and her tired father picks it up, smiling as he helps her put it back on. A young couple giggles and swing their arms as they wander, pointing at trinkets. An elderly woman examines a mint plant, teaching her granddaughter what to look for. "You still remember the violence," Death says, standing behind me. They too are watching, calm and clothed in warm shades of brown. I don't turn, still focused on the street. "I've never stopped thinking of it." Burning buildings and the air choked thick with smoke and ashes, screaming and gunfire edge my vision, the memory of a man choking on his own blood and his murderer frozen for but a moment in horror, before she turned back to the fighting, maybe to meet a similar fate, maybe to return home, haunted much as I am. Weeks and months of protests and riots, the crush of war, until all we were left with was rubble, tinnitus, and scars. The peace that came after was equally hard fought, with nearly two years of the diplomacy we couldn't start with, treaties and trials and far-too-long for anyone to actually talk about how we all move on. I don't say any of this. I don't need to. Death knows. They lay a hand on my shoulder, and I take the comfort of my oldest friend. At the end of it all, we only had them to thank, who quelled the most murderous of us all, who hushed the dying and comforted the sick and reminded those of us still alive why we needed to stay that way. We'd all end up with Death one day. There was no prize for first place. Death smiles softly as I turn to face them. Their voice is as familiar as their face, and I've felt no fear of them in years. The only thing I fear these days is the land forgetting. The memorials we've raised, the statues and warnings we've left behind serve as reminders, but there have long been memorials of wars before our time, and I know in my heart more memorials will be built long after me. I can only hope the land holds onto the peace for as long as it can before blood poisons the soil again. I was too quick to throw stones before, and I know I will not be the one to blame them when they cast their own rocks. Reflected in Death's kind gaze, I see myself, and I know what will happen. Today, I will go with them. Tomorrow, I will hold my arms wide open and greet those who have followed. For now, I watch the markets where I once killed my brothers and sisters, where my own blood was spilled and the war began and ended. For now, I take a deep breath. Death is patient, gives me this time just as they gave me all the moments before now. Death has cultivated their garden carefully, has loved all of us, both weeds and fruits alike. Now, they pluck me gently and bring me to the table. I go freely. The land will not forget me yet.

this is where we exist and this is where i have loved you

they entered a small city, far from where they started, and found themselves at the doors of a castle, tall but not quite sky-scraping, large and of white stone and ivy, yet it somehow looked weary and tired, as though it wished to lean against a wall and close its eyes, head flung back and breathing in deep. they hesitated, but walked in, for what else was there to do? their footsteps echoed, though not as much as one would expect in such an empty space. the dust seemed to dull the sound, thick curtains draped around windows only partially opened. they wandered, and the way was clear as it usually is in castles, though they had never been here before. they felt awkward, though not quite unwelcome-- more like they were walking in the home of someone long-sad and resigned. and, reaching the throne room, they found that same person. he was… young. their breaths caught in their throats. this was a king, surely, the crown on his head and the wisdom in his stare, but he was still so young, eighteen to the best of guesses. he was slumped in his throne, the weight of the world having pressed upon his shoulders, and there was an ache and tiredness to all he was. this was the oldest of souls, this was the most tragic of all they had yet seen. this was king richard, the boy-king of the city that rushed for greatness and swallowed itself up in its wake. they recalled the stories, of the prior king in his greed and hubris reaching beyond his means, grabbing at the sun and crashing through the earth, dying in some unnamed town in an attempt to grab for more, of an army that was swallowed by the sea. they remembered the mentions of an heir, spoken of in passing and sympathetic tones, and how eventually, as all talk of the city died out, how the heir seemed to dissapear and remarks of the new king were simply that there was one. this was tragedy, here. so young, aged so much. the fact the walls outside still stood were testament to his successes. they felt no skill for praise in their throats, choked up by dust and emotion alike. war ages even those it leaves behind. especially those it leaves behind. there is much bravery to be had in picking up the pieces. there is much strength in trying to fix what has been broken for so long, strength in trying when there is no guarantee, when hope has long been killed. they said none of this. king richard knew. he was still just a boy.

the censors have blocked all except "LOVE YOUR NATION, WORSHIP YOUR ROUTER" their subtlety has become endearing in the newspaper articles we fall asleep with screenshots burned onto the back of our eyelids, exploring our timelines even as we sleep i think of the tetris effect as i wake up again, thumb scrolling against my thigh, tapping freckles instead of likes i come to the thought of the number of engagements the livestream of my execution will get my fifteen minutes will trend via "#THEWITCHISDEAD", tacked onto sponsored Target tweets and Wendy's roasts Salem is an instruction manual, after all, spliced with doja cat and justin bieber as our overlords throw it back on tiktok we pause to leave our houses, waiting for the "SKIP" button to appear on the thirty-second health supplement ad the smart kids know to hit the info button and mark it as "REPETITIVE" the next ad will be for new shoes my lover smiles at me, and we bump our watches together, updating our heart rates to match when we fuck, they tie my wrists with charger cords and kiss me with a mouth that tastes like tin foil we livestream it and receive three thumbs down and thirty cents of ad revenue we add it to our spotify subscription fund and create another email for netflix trials another screen goes on my ceiling and now i can watch my breakdown streamed in curved 4k we figure out the blacklist is case-sensitive and only type in aLterNAtE raNdOM CaSes, mixing in greek letters and emojis to fill the gaps our next protest has instagram buffering for twenty-eight minutes straight, and we take to discord to celebrate another follower defects and dissapears, only to come back two days later with a new nose and blue hair i shave off half my eyebrow and replace it with a qr code that causes phones to vibrate and emit whale noises the bathroom walls inside of applebees are covered in protest scrawl reading "FUCK YOUR FOREFATHERS, FIND YOUR TRUTH" and we giggle and scribble "OKAY, DADDY" in loopy, lipstick letters underneath it at dawn we stay in bed, awake but unmoving, the sun rising in the corners of our eyes as we check for war and shark week updates i choke on tv static seltzers as the world ends not with a bang, but a loud voice followed by nothing but silence, nothing but bright blue light punctuated by broken code and frowny faces under the cover of dead airwaves we burn down the last of the radio towers and decorate the telephone poles like christmas trees, complete with faulty wiring and endlessly blinking lights my lover dies and i fail to fit their eulogy in 280 characters or less i write it on a green electric box anyway and post the audio to soundcloud another white boy of the month is martyred, his intestines a red smear across monument steps, and all i can think of is chewing aluminum foil between my teeth eventually, they shut off our hotspots and kill our bluetooth connections, and i can't remember how to get to the safehome i've been to a thousand times before we create a time machine and it quickly becomes a suicide box, sending ourselves back in time and dying long before we're born no one comes back, at least nothing here changes, or maybe it already had the sunsets are more colorful now, and the air we breathe tastes like cinnamon and orange juice, filtered through our gas masks another country kills itself off and i create a new pinterest board in memorium eventually, riot gear and talks of revolution fall out of style, and we fall into thrift stores and dumpsters, others in body bags and unmarked graves i set my cremation date, and they stamp it on me along with a matching bag of shredded cheese, both of us reading "USE BY" after it's over, i return home, make a pot of cold coffee, and wait for the next trend to rise

in a far-off land, there is a queen for each month. when their respective month arrives, they go to the palace and don their royal garments, sweep their faces with rouge and their hair into elegant fashions. the scenery changes around them as they enter, brushing hands as they trade places, transforming the land and building as it fits them. in the off months, they live humbly, no more or less human than any other, no more regal than the next. they laugh and cry and make bread and love, and the may-queen and september-queen twist pinkies as july-queen sings softly. they return tired, struggling to take off their grace and become people again, and in violent months, of snowstorms or thunderstorms or hurricanes, they come back shaking and with tear-tracks, though no less alive. they wash off their faces and go to sleep, resting until they feel whole again. candlelight brings solace no matter what time of year. within their homes, there is no marker of the time, no calendar or clock. they know anyway. it never leaves them.