Gay girl prays for a gun is an interactive fiction piece mainly about religion and sexuality. I like to think about it as a collection of poems and anecdotes. Play game (direct link)Play on itch.io This has been a work in progress for a while, but we’re at a few thousand words and at a state of branching that I think is interesting. Try it out. For more interactive fiction pieces, I’m storing most public works on my Github: https://github.com/chiaski/if
The next three thousand words are selections of writing I did for a class I had this Fall. I am slowly learning, and hope to return with better pieces to make the most of this. A lot of my writing dealt with religion, home, and expectation. If you read this blog, you’re probably used to that. Thank you for following my journey from my first “chapbook” (not really) to my first college works. The title comes from the fact that I did delete a Pinkerton reference in the fiction piece, somewhere in the attempt to copy Borges (we read a lot of Le Guin and Borges–the comment was that there was too much extraordinariness in the listing of lives and beings, and I agreed, we have to dwell somewhere more common at times) but without the experience and knowledge to actually understand what a worthwhile life is like, but I’m getting there. I don’t really spend much time publishing or sending out things (I don’t do this at all), but I’ve been writing a lot lately, so here.
Outside Gate 2.5 Here, I am the rich. I, ilk of captive grasslands; interim of conversation and strangers of shared descent. This discomfort will follow – as oxide stains the validity of tonsils, leaked of coarse throat, straining, frugal with desire to be heard. I abuse the story I come from. Here, a gun asks for a namesake. His crippled hips grin of a lawless history, scorned of the 70s. Hands shuffle us inside. Tell us for a moment, we must finally scream for our own selves. I, voiceless for a future, has entanglement clock our sameness, our waning fear of living. Inside, they pick up all our mangled selves, sputtered of wax; and so we become ember, holding onto life again. We become your voice, ascent to fueling the ends of times, like gunshots splayed of freefall towards streets. Here, I am the rich, burdened of word – further, they tell us not to fight again. Further, they say we do not seek them. To this I wonder the requirement of boiling my skin, or piecing apart the words we give in pursuit of breathing human. Or, so begins the collection of cardboard. Corrugated certainty – and we never give the name. Here, wither life failed of repetitions. History lessons: Hilao, Quimpo, to which the voice is of wax or prestige – here, never again. (Never again.)