Dolphins dying in the Black Sea because the sonars of warships mess with their brains.
Only a small percentage of deceased cetaceans wash up on the shores. The majority sink to the seabed, their lungs filled with water. Warfare as ecocide.
Biomimicry. Micro drones becoming pollinators. The strange and quiet sadness of the world in the absence of bees.
Time series analysis of social media data. Rot creeping through the networks. Polluted words.
A woman is rummaging in her purse on the street corner. Extracts a battered umbrella, a crumpled bag, a sippy cup, drops the umbrella, picks it up.
Can people-watching be considered a healthier form of procrastination than staring at the computer screen?
Is watching the screen also a form of people-watching?
Am I going to have a migraine today?
Need to revisit my research manuscript “in progress.” Somehow, you’ve always written less than you thought you had.
Note to self: Stop abandoning your manuscripts. Don’t leave them unattended for months on end.
Peking pancakes.
No, I’m not going to walk all the way to the Chinese takeout in this weather.
Yes, I’m going to have a migraine.
Dissociation as a mechanism behind the endorsement of conspiracy theories. How is that for a title?
Cancel that hotel booking. My brain doesn’t do buses. Iceland doesn’t do trains. In all likelihood, won’t see whales from shore anyway, and the trip is too expensive to end up being a disappointment.
How bad is this migraine going to be?
No, I’m not a robot. I wish I was.
The point of the womb, when it is past its childbearing capacity, is to generate headaches. Or so it seems.
Pay the water tax. Need to deal with this now, unless I want my purse to become considerably lighter next month.
The fact that while the dams in this country can withstand rising sea levels up to another couple of meters, the salt seeps in anyhow, resulting in the salination of ground water and the poisoning of crops in the coastal areas.
Life below sea level does have its benefits. If I squint, I can see the great whales of the North glide past my office window.
Space guild navigators, spice, worms, and the mystery of the most unfathomably boring book in the history of science fiction becoming a cult classic.
This migraine is going to be bad.
The dwindling probabilities of positive outcomes. For whales, my brain, bees.
All the reasons to loathe military ships and their sonars, robots replacing bees, rot between the lines of text, the sleek, black, toxic drip of oil, and the dull, sickly ache pulsing behind the orbit of my right eye.
Laila Amado writes very short fiction in her second language, has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth, and can now be found staring at the North Sea, instead of the Mediterranean. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2022, Best Microfiction 2024, Lost Balloon, Flash Frog, Cheap Pop, Milk Candy Review, and other publications. You can find her on Twitter at @onbonbon7; on Bluesky at @amadolaila.bsky.social and on Instagram at @laila_amado.