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As a central theme of Consistency is the existence of time — ensuring that you are writing on a timely and daily basis — the theme of this month’s prompts will also be about time.
Today's prompt: [Nowadays]
Definition: in this day and age; at the present time, in contrast with the past.
╰┈➤ Write a piece that explores this meaning.
Word Count: Minimum 200 words, no maximum.
I used to know what I wanted to do with my life.
Elementary school was filled with declarations of taking some well-off jobs. Everyone in my class cheered me on when I said I'd take law. My parents told their family and friends in rapid succession. I had a purpose, and I was loved for it.
Freshman and sophomore year were full of preparations for achieving said well off jobs. Flying colors painted Sistine Chapels on my reports, and the approval of everyone who ever laid their eyes on it. Numbers dotted a picture of my judicial future in perfect pointillism. I could almost picture a successful case, being sought after for my wit and sharp thinking.
When I became a junior, everyone had gotten used to the triple digits I used to achieve with ease. Hundreds became nineties, and people began to question me. My GPA would lower substantially from this preposterous behavior, was the message I took for their worried inquiries.
And when I woke up to my senior year, I didn't even want take law. The spark left, even after a rigorous racketing in my brain for the answer to this sudden loss. Why? I would never know.
I graduated with the scent of smoke around me, charred and burnt out. Heaps of congratulatory statements slapped me in the face.
"Congrats, our future lawyer!"
I wanted to fizzle into ashes.
At present, I still didn't know what to do. Every step seemed embarrassed, and changing courses seem like a social burial. I started to wonder why I had strived so hard long ago.
People had treated my scholarship like it was nothing new. I was as usual and as expected. Never jaw dropping, always silent nodding.
Until I gave up.
They're description of me lay more similar to ones of trash. I was wasted potential. The me that I used to see, the one with the blazer and thick rimmed glasses holding a folder, couldn't have been farther from the truth.
Yet, in disappointing my younger self, I found peace with my current self, and for now, I think that in doing that, I'll be okay.
[WC: 359]
Nowadays, it’s hard to breathe.
Back then, when I was told to wait for half an hour, it seemed so long, almost an eternity. Sitting there, head empty, staring at the ceiling, until I would be allowed to watch TV or eat ice cream or what not. I barely remember doing homework, there was so little of it. But nowadays, I can barely think. There’s no time to at all.
When I look at myself now, I have to ask, “How did I get here?” because I simply have no idea. When did I go from riding bikes around the neighborhood during the longest days to having every month feel like a second? Gardening, cake-baking, going to the library all sound like foreign things from another life. Not this one, not this life anymore. We have things to do, like taxes, and shopping and cooking so that we don’t starve. It feels like the only way to change is to scrap everything and start over, but everything’s holding me down, strapping me in too tight, so much that it’s suffocating. People ask me what my plans are for tomorrow, but for now, I can barely even focus on today.
Nowadays, it’s hard to breathe.
CW: mild implications of depression
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
That much I know.
Now I watch as the memories you cherish
eclipse your wide-eyed glow.
You’re a strong one, my dear
you don’t crumble under weight.
As long as the fragments of your soul
linger in your eyes, you wait.
So you hold on
to meaningless words
hoping that if you tried enough
you’d be worthy of their reward.
Your wounded soul wanders
across an abyss with no end
seeking safe haven from yesterday
amidst the hypocrisy of today.
It’s been such a long time coming.
Your body aches and it bleeds.
The cruelty of your past
carved onto you like a creed.
But look at you now,
you’re tall and you’re grown.
No longer the shadow of a child
ignorant to the worth they own.
Nowadays not only do you smile,
but you laugh and you love.
No longer cursing yourself
for what’s beyond your grasp.
After so many years of lying in a grave
You rise from the ashened sparks of your greatness.
No longer a child, but a god.
And what a beautiful sight you are.
Finally, you see
what I’ve seen all along.
Finally you took back
what they so viciously stole.
And so, nowadays I watch you live
from the shadows of your mind.
For you no longer have need of my shelter
or the rage that I bind.
My breath falters,
I know my time has come.
The strength I once held
slips from my withering form.
It’s been a gift seeing you grow
from a child to a god.
Now remember, little one,
the past doesn’t keep your soul.
WC: 273
It's so much harder to connect to people and navigate other aspects of life than it used to be, which is the exact opposite thing that Azzy expected for all his life. As a kid, he believed that this socializing business would get easier as he got older. The working theory was that he'd learn to recognize social cues more, get better at blending in with the environment, and then it'd all be okay! Azzy would be a communication *expert* by the time he was fully grown, and they would have done so much and made so many friends and it was going to be awesome! Well. They're eighteen now, have been for a while, so ... close enough. And if anything, it's only gotten more difficult and more confusing. Kids were honestly easier to read, because most of the time, they were direct and didn't bother with trying to beat around the bush. (And if they did, it'd be obvious, anyway.) If they were sad, or angry, or uncomfortable, most of the time, they would just tell you upfront, sometimes a bit *too* directly, because children didn't often stop to think about the impact of their words before they spoke. But now. Now, people have gotten much worse with it. The social norm is to lie for the sake of politeness or convenience (even if it's as simple as a “No, I'm fine! How was *your* day?”), which he doesn't understand and kind of feels guilty about every time he does it. Isn't he deceiving people in this way? If it's the better choice to make, then why does he feel so bad about it? In any case, Azzy was dead wrong. Always has been. And the fact that they were wrong is extremely embarrassing. Ugh. Embarrassment. It's one of the worst feelings, goes hand in hand with shame. Makes him want to just worm out of his own skin, somehow, or get beamed out of his body and go literally anywhere except where whatever was happening at the given moment.
And nowadays, they have a lot more to deal with. They need to focus on music, both as a hobby and a professional skill that needs fine tuning, and if they don't either continue their education or find a good job soon, then what kind of person would that make them? Would it be wrong for them to wait? Would it be so bad if they stopped to collect their thoughts and not rush into any big decisions like that? Azzy doesn't know. And every time he asks about it, he suspects the answers fail to be straightforward at best, and mislead him completely at worst. And he has friends, and he has family, and he loves them all dearly, but interacting with just about anyone is draining as all hell. He tries his best, and he truly means well, but it's absolutely exhausting. Hell, he practically just got home from practice with the band and he's already passed out in his room, most likely. The meet only lasted for a couple hours, but it was enough adventure for the week. And where's the story in that, huh? How am I supposed to write about you if you don't *do* anything? ... well, it can't be helped. Azzy has a lot more responsibilities, worries, and self awareness than he did over a decade ago, and that all weighs down on a person. It'd get to anybody after a long enough time of dealing with it. Azzy's a lot more tired than he used to be.
558 words
The dust on the window smears the tips of Kiana’s fingers as she runs a hand on the pane, gloved palm against dirty windows. Blue eyes linger on the garden outside the room and on the brick roads the soles of her shoes once walked, everything basked in orange sunlight. The light invades the empty room Kiana occupies, alone at the corner where the girl she once was sat.
At this time of day, that girl would be jumping in her seat with excitement. As the clock’s long hand passed the 6 PM mark, she would’ve been the first one in the room to stand up and bid the teacher goodbye, unzipped bag carelessly hung over her shoulder, curious eyes clinging on her head. The sun setting behind her back wouldn’t matter and her eyes wouldn’t linger where the sun reached with its light, too distracted by her own dreams to care for the world around her, but today Kiana stares longingly at the sky, silent and solemn as she waits for the night to fall.
It’s a view she’s seen so many times, the sun sinking in the horizon while it coats the fields with splashes of blue and pink, strokes of white and orange decorate the gradient sky, and yet she watches the sunset unfold before her, breath held and pupils widened in awe, as if she’s seeing the view for the first time.
They say pictures can immortalize moments but it won’t wash you over a feeling of nostalgia the same way as the memory of a chuckle shared with friends between classes on a sunny afternoon. No photographs of a late night snack with friends hung with weeks old washi tapes in dirty white walls can tell Kiana that she once laughed so hard it made her cry, because the memories of her friends’ smiles and laughter over spilled junk food and coke tells her so, and she smiles so widely as she remembers, it hurts her cheeks.
Because no matter how many pictures of the sunset she takes with her camera from the corner of the classroom the girl Kiana used to be once sat, pictures would do no justice to the memories of a tight embrace under the setting sun, and it could never let her relive the feeling of uncertainty weighing down her chest when she bid her goodbyes. It’s enough to leave her chest swell with a love she could not explain with words and a love she could not get back. The ocean spilled from her eyes that day, and the setting sun witnessed it all. It was her, the world, and the sun but she’s alone now, the world has left her in a train she tried to chase but never caught up to. The warmth of a promise exchanged in July seems so far away.
The sun continues to set but today, Kiana doesn’t cut class short. She doesn’t pack up her bags in record time and pull her friends with her, loud protests passing through her ears, instead she looks back to watch the sun, blue eyes reflecting the orange sky she once saw in purple and gray. Today, and the days that’ll come after, she may be alone but their promise stays with her, no matter how distant it may seem.
Someday, we’ll meet again.
(I know it's supposed to be in contrast with the past, but what about in contrast with the future?)
Steve’d worked his whole life to become an astronaut. He always wondered about what it would be like in space—what the stars would look like close up, what low-gravity felt like, how thrilling it’d be when the spaceship launched.
Well…he worked hard enough to get up there, in space. And it truly was wonderful. The adrenaline when he finally got launched, and when he saw the expanse of space littered with stars.
But, after a month of being in a spaceship floating around, the novelty had worn off. The stars were pretty, but you could look at a photo of them and it’d be about the same. And wow. He missed ice cream.
And his wife. He picked up a photo of them at the ice-skating rink. He wished he could’ve taken her with him on this long, long trip.
Space wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, essentially. And as another month passed, he realised he missed Earth, too. He missed the grass and trees and blue sky instead of the ever-stretching black out here (even if it was lit up by stars).
Earth was polluted and full of people who honked their car horns aggressively at others. That’s why space was so great: it was full of potential, full of planets that could be so much better. But Earth was pretty great and it was all humanity had. Certainly it was better than space.
Nowadays, space just isn’t as good as Earth. Maybe in the future it will be.
Steve thought maybe once he was back on Earth he’d become a cashier or something.
Minor Warning for a Decent Amount of Swearing :) (mostly F-bombs sorry) The older man leaned on his cane and watched the children running across his lawn, shouting and laughing happily. He took a careful step forward, putting his cane in front of him to keep himself balanced and squinted at the children.
“Git off my lawn, ye damned whippersnappers!”
The kids skidded to halt to look at the man who carried on angrily, shuffling towards them with the assistance of his cane. One of them dropped the ball they were playing with and tilted their head up to look at the man.
“We were jus’ playin’, sir. We jus’ kids.”
“Y’all are fuckin’ spoiled brats is what you are. Back in my day, we ran ‘round doing chores all day, weren’t allowed back in the house ‘til the streetlights came on and got our asses whooped if we had run amuck like you are right now!”
The group inched away from the older man and left the chosen speaker alone to handle the conversation. Spinning around the kid glared at his friends before turning back to the older gentleman and ringing his hands together nervously.
“Sir, we’re not tryin’ cause trouble.”
“Nowadays, you folk are all just the same. Yer damn parents ain’t raise you right and now I have to deal with it! Crazy fucking kids tearing up my god damn lawn every single week. Yer lucky I don’t press charges for the damages y’all’ve caused! Now get off my lawn and stay away! Leave an old man alone; you wouldn’t want someone tormenting you when yer trying to rest, now would ya?”
“No, sir. We’ll be going now…” The little boy frowned and took off with his friends towards their respective homes. The older man leaned heavily on his cane with a frustrated sigh before hobbling his way back to his house.
“Can’t believe these damn brats nowadays. No fuckin’ respect.”
Back in time, when things used to be different,
You cared more for me than I myself did.
Nowadays, as I sit here and lament,
In the aftermath of the bitter farewell that we bid,
I wonder if you too suffer through the shame,
Of a turning us into naught but a sham.
Back when things were different,
You smiled, love sparkling through your eyes.
Nowadays, I sit here, numb and indifferent,
Wondering if love is worth all the cries,
If now there is dread instead of love in your eyes,
Your mind wondering if love is not worth all the tries.
Back when things were different,
You and I loved each others heart.
Nowadays, as I sit here, my mind in torment,
I wonder if fooling each other had been our true art.
It is not just nowadays that love is a mere transaction,
Even back then, love was sometimes nothing more than a mere deal negotiation.
Nowadays, I look back on those days of past,
How quickly they seemed to have passed,
Yet in memories of mine, they forever do last.
I wonder if things would have changed,
If on that one day, words had remained unspoken,
No pleasantries from our lips exchanged.
[WC: 205]
WC: 282
Nowadays, things are different.
I’ve dropped out of the university I was struggling in for 5 years, enrolled in a completely different university with a completely new major and career path, studying from what I call home now, and with just under double the GPA I used to have back when I studied in-person. Every time I have to leave the house for one reason or another, I have to bring at least one cloth mask and my vaccination card, and they’ve become as important to me as my house keys and my wallet.
I no longer live in the place I used to call “home” since I was a baby. I had to move to my grandmother’s place because she’s no longer able to take care of herself and the family needs all the help they can get.
At least, that’s the excuse my mother’s given me all this time. In reality, my mother and I are the only ones around willing to care for Grandma. The loss of my grandfather and the onset of vascular dementia onto my grandmother caused a huge ripple to settle between everyone in my mother’s side of the family. Nobody wanted to take care of the sick old widow, so my mother was stuck with the responsibility, and brought me along for the ride. Honestly, it’s an all-expenses-paid unofficial part-time job that lets me sleep until the moment my shift starts at 5 PM so I’m not complaining. In hindsight, maybe this radical shift in my lifestyle resulting from the arrival of the pandemic has its silver linings after all.
Nowadays, things may be different, but that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily worse on all ends.
A rather cozy house, passed throughout generations, was rather isolated from the rest of the city. On the verenda, Mr. Johns, an elder with no hair no beard, slowly sat down on his arm rest, supporting his body with the sides. He flattened the newspaper, and opened it on page two.
Youngsters Kill Marmelade
An expression of utter shock appeared on his face. Youngsters Kill Marmelade? These youngsters nowadays!
He reached for the marmelade on his table, as if to reaffirm that Marmelade wasn't really gone forever.
A grin greeted him on the other side of the table, and Mr. Johns almost fell out of his chair he so carefully placed himself inside before.
"Grandpa? But how are you alive?"
Johns' grandfather smiled back. "Do not fret the small details, focus on what is important."
Mr. Johns was confused. What could be more important than his long dead grandfather not actually being dead after a hundred years? "What is important?"
"Your meal."
Shaking his head, Mr. Johns grabbed his bread and marmelade. He forgot what a jokster his grandfather had been. Was. It was hard to believe that his grandfather was alive. Is.
"Do you remember when you were a brat, your balls kept hitting poor Mr. Fenningan's head?"
"Oh, yeah! Poor Mr. Fenningan eventually put that dog outside so we wouldn't get close."
"Why then deny youngsters their fun? If they have fun killing marmelade, which I doubt they actually do, who are you to deny them?"
Mr. Johns munched on his bread. You had to argue differently with his grandfather, he had a weird sense of logic. 'They are ruining tradition.' wasn't an argument, because his grandfather abhorred the idea of tradition. He also wore pants that were too big for him, with the simple reasoning that 'it was more comfortable, and people should just take it down a notch'.
"I don't want to live in a world, where I wake up and everything is changed," he said and surprisingly found it true and himself vulnerable. "Marmelade is just the first thing. Then it's beds, then cars, jobs, pensions, values, morality, and once they are done, I'm in an unfamiliar, apatheic world."
Grandfather drew from his pipe. "Ye? That was a different response than I expected."
"I know what you think about tradition, but to me it's part of my life."
Grandfather laughed and clapped my shoulder. "You are talking like Mr. Fenningan right now. I drank with the poor sod every Friday back then, he was much afraid like you."
Mr. Johns protested. "The footballs were an accident."
"Eh, there was more than just the football. Quite the bratty generation you were, and probably still are. Your parents didn't really want to do the same amount of beatings I did to them. For the better, you looked much happier. Still made our generation nervous."
Mr. Johns finished his bread, and looked up. His grandfather was gone, and he was all alone again.
He opened the newspaper on page three.
Marmelade insurrection.
He knew somehow the youngsters were behind it.
a cup from home
Word Count: 575
Summary:
There were a few months to himself.
Akira made his own coffee, nowadays.
AN: This is on the shorter side of my works for Consistency, since at the time of making this, I'm supposed to be preparing for a road trip in a few hours! I'll come back to this in a few hours, and maybe post a longer version. Happy reading <3
Akira made his own coffee, nowadays.
He picked up the habit a few months back, when Sojiro allowed him to have a drink before he headed to the station. Although he wasn’t entirely sure why, it stuck with him. In a few weeks, he found himself searching through the aisles of different coffee beans and blends. And in a month, he had memorized all of the blends at Leblanc by heart.
Now, back in his small town a few hours away from Tokyo, Akira looked back on his memories as a coffee novice with amusement. It was a refreshing challenge to start from scratch in his home, without equipment and a shelf of coffee of his own. Though despite it, he was glad he could spend most of his money in his own, selfish yet minor, pursuit for comfort.
His own coffee corner consisted of a smaller counter for the equipment. A shelf to the side with all his coffee in different jars, and another shelf with other things he may need. Milk, syrup pumps, even his cups, coasters, and spoons had their own place in it. Then there was his own small table and chair between them.
Although he received a few looks of confusion and concern, mostly from his parents, he would always insist the coffee tasted far better when he could adjust it to his own preferences. The few minutes lost making a simple cup was time well spent.
It gave him a satisfying feeling, more so when it was hard on some days. Days when it felt wrong to try and get something off his chest. It was easier to make a cup of coffee than to grit his teeth and try to ignore the formless, rising panic in his mind at the prospect of ignorance.
So, in that quiet morning to himself in the house, he placed a cup on the small, circular table. Ignoring the guilt buried deeply in his reflection in his glasses folded beside it. It was a slow start, but frankly, he preferred it for that day.
Akira had taken off and folded his apron, placing it at the other side of the table. He took his seat and stared down at his cup. The indistinct tinge of guilt was there in his reflection. Of what, he wasn't sure.
One of the possibilities was he felt guilty over leaving behind his Tokyo home.
The first sip tasted wrong. Like a hint of unfamiliar, bitter water. Like blurring vision, and returning memories of an atmosphere so uneasy and tense. Like rattles of chains, and loneliness.
Since coming home, he was beginning to forget his own voice, and sometimes he wondered where it all went. He went from talkative, sociable, to a shell that only observed those traits from afar. He guessed—or at least what he was trying to say in his reflection on the coffee’s surface—he wasn’t sure if his homesickness would ever go away.
He was a threshing field of want, all to feel his attic home, the atmosphere that Shibuya brought around him, once more. His hands shook and trembled. He was certain he couldn’t get over it. He would never get over it.
Akira blinked. Silently gathering his thoughts, reeling in the growing fear of change without so much as a breath out of place.
And as he grasped the side of his cup and took another sip of it, it was perfectly normal.