Trena Tackitt

I put the cigarette lighter back in my pocket and watched the edges of the paper curl as the notecards burned. I rarely smoke, but I'd gotten the cyan ashtray specifically for this reason, as if burning my petitions upon completion was somehow comparable to a sacrifice being burned on an altar in thanks. It wasn't necessary, but the ritual of the paper funeral pyre was oddly comforting, and it gave each request an air of finality or closure. It would come eventually, but ther

I squinted at the screen, then chuckled in disbelief at the glowing text on the screen. What in the chatgtp was this drivel?

To anyone who is a survivor:

I smirtled at the glowing rectangle in my hand before selecting the perfect GIF as a response and tossing my phone onto the bed, which is still unmade from the night before and now half-covered in laundry. A few minutes later I hear a ping, but this time it isn't from the giant- it's a notification from Messenger. I arch my eyebrows in surprise as I see the name at the top, then feel a soft smile tug at my lip as I read the message: