The endless isles of thrift (Or, I’m still alive)

Hello! I’m still alive. I got about nil done on NanoWriMo and have done very little writing since. But I did this. It was a card for a Christmas present that was a coupon for shopping in a thrift store. Enjoy!

This started life as a story similar to most of the ones I write where odd, vaguely parallel universe-ish stuff happens. The ugly shirt was simply supposed to be a bit of flavor text that would bow down in deference to the beauty and writing of the main story. That derailed like a speeding locomotive, because when have stories listened to what I wanted them to do? (Never, not once, and I freaking love that.)


The endless isles of the thrift-store seemed to grow deeper as I continued to not find what I was looking for. A particularly hideous…shirt caught my eye. It was pink, and although I am naturally adverse to pink, the color is usually not bad. Overused, but not bad. Although for this shirt it was making an exception. To think that I never would have known that pink came in a color reminiscent of vomit.

The pink wasn’t the problem, the shirt could have been salvageable if it was in some flattering cut or style; the problem with this shirt was the ruffles, it appeared to be made of ruffles, and the ruffles were held together by bright green thread forming the words to a Psalm.

Why? No, a better question was how? How did this product get thought up by some monkey in a typewriter factory, and then not immediately shot down by the higher-ups who reviewed the monkeys’ performance to see if any of them spat out Shakespeare. And for this idea to then get past them, and put onto a factory line where it was mass-produced by child laborers in China, after that sent to stores and stocked on shelves.

Of course, for this monstrosity to end up here, it would have to have been bought for someone. Someone looked at this shirt and said to themselves, ‘Yes, this is something that I would like to spend money on, and then presumably wear or give to someone else (to wear).’

It was at this point in my consideration of the piece of modern art in front of me that an elderly woman walked past and took the conglomeration of bad ideas off of the shelf, inspected it, smiled distractedly, and nodded.

She then went and purchased it, presumably to be given as a Christmas gift because it appeared to be at least five sizes too small for her. And so the cycle begins again.

I say again, how?


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