short short story

Evil you! You make me a nudger too …

She didn’t like being told what to do.  She hated it, in fact.  And he’d known her all her life: from face-to-face; from her blogging outpourings over a decade or more; more recently, via social networks and other stuff she blithely went and put out there.

So this was why, when he got her to do things, he got her to do other things she was happy with, which went and meant she actually ended up doing the things she would never have done if he’d asked her straight off.

And the latest wizard wheeze really was bewitching: he managed to get her into a position where with her very own offspring she was gladly nudging them into decisions and behaviours and attitudes and results wherein she absolutely, totally, refused to take the ownership she’d always been so demonstrably in favour of.  She had sworn by such ownership, in fact; and this evil universe was laughing its socks off every time it managed to convince her to do something she’d claimed she’d never do: something, even, she had balled out family and friends for having committed foully against her very being.

She was a fraud, that was clear – and this was exactly what the universe was aiming to demonstrate.

And it made her feel sad to be made a laughing-stock.  And she even knew, for sure it was, that even her feeling a laughing-stock was something they’d nudged her into feeling.

Nothing she did was unknown by them.

Nothing at all.  Not even who she’d fuck next.

What a horrible universe, you are!” she said.  “What a perfectly horrible universe!”


Her former experience of mental ill-health became now as clear as ever.  Her reaction of paranoia to an environment around her hadn’t been a result of an illness itself, but far more a consequence of detecting in some strange way a connecting of actions which was on full view for everyone to detect – or not (and that was not the problem …).  Maybe she had fallen ill if one’s definition of illness is circumscribed by the idea of dysfunctionality – but if it was defined by one’s relationship to reality instead, and that reality was truly as perceived, then this paranoia she had manifested was more an accurate adaptation than a deformation.

And this is why inside she wept tears of rage.

And this is why inside she occupied a cage.

And this is why her face-to-face outside never managed to properly connect with all that cage she had inside, and all that rage she now barely stomached.



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