“EAT YOUR VEGETABLEEEEEEESSSSSSS” Ok, so I am vegan, But I promise I am not THAT vegan.
However, Even if you are a chill vegan, Or a psychotic one, Thanksgiving is still very awkward.
Imagine sitting at the table With your family, Who by the way is the exact opposite of vegan, And it is Thanksgiving.
Passing around the turkey: “Sorry, can’t have meat.” “I thought meat was okay to eat.” “Nope, I do not eat any animal products.” “Ah ok.”
Passing around the ham: “Sorry, can’t have meat.” “But is ham really meat???!!!” “Yesssssssss……….” “Hmm……”
Passing around the stuffing: “Sorry, can’t have that either.” “Why? It’s vegan.” “It has turkey in it.” “No, it doesn’t.” *****looking at the box…… it has turkey
Passing around the gravy: “Sorry, it has animal fat.” “No, it doesn’t!!!!!” “Yep, it does……” Passing around the pumpkin pie: “Sorry, it has butter in it.” “Butter is vegan.” “.......... oh my”
Passing around the green beans: “Hey ,you can have green beans!” “Yeah I already got some” “Oh…….”
You would think That after being vegan for over a year They would know. They don't. At all.
It’s cool; I get it, But I am seriously concerned. Do they actually think meat is vegan? I think we might need to take a family vacation To a doctor I think they have amnesia…….
Autumn's Rails by Paulo Lombardi
Harry scratches the back of his neck, waiting for his watch to read five o'clock. People flock to the platform from the hectic streets of Vienna while exasperated police officers hold back boisterous children from hopping over the tracks. The fragrance of chaps and the stench of the working class permeate in the air in polarity. A tranquil zephyr strokes against Harry's inky hair—which is dull, nevertheless voluminous—as he digs into his bekishe for his ticket to Jerusalem. The ground begins to quiver, a cacophonic horn screams, a shrill screech overwhelms the vehement cheers of the crowd. Its prodigious, effulgent wheels lock into position, and it comes to a halt directly in front of the platform—steam spills out of its grandiloquent funnel, which blankets the station. An aureate trim highlights its grandeur, accompanied by the phrase, written on the side in burgundy: "DEUTSCHE REICHSBAHN." The embarking begins; Harry squeezes past men, women, boys, girls, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, elders to the first cart. A benevolent gentleman greets him onboard with a genial, rehearsed bow. Harry saunters through the aisle in astonishment; resplendent, primrose drapes hang from spruce arcs alongside walnut booths that rest on quixotic baroque flooring; he has never seen so much splendor. Harry locates his seat in the third cart, setting down his backpack under an alabaster table coated with porcelain plates and slender flutes. He reads through a periodical—this particular issue addresses a recent protest that unfolded in Vienna, where a congregation of working-class men spat onto oblivious bourgeoisie members from on top of a bridge—while waiting for the lingering crowd to board the carts. Stewards offer salmagundi and chardonnay to voracious passengers while a querulous announcer utters esoteric commands to the engineman, who frantically jerks a crankshaft and starts the locomotive. The clangorous horn howls anew as the train gradually withdraws from the station, emitting impenetrable fumes behind. Harry stares pensively out the side window, observing the creations of humankind; sumptuous cathedrals tower over apartment complexes and fountains splutter water parabolically and sculptures commemorate the most pretentious aristocrats. He then gazes down at his hand and ponders its imperfections; thick arteries bulge beneath dry, callused skin, unyielding nails protrude from his fingertips incongruously, hair strands horripilate in response to the cart's frigid temperature; it epitomized impotence instead of strength. Harry opens his siddur—which has an obsolescent sheepskin cover and a receding, water-damaged bind—and turns to a twilight prayer, which expresses: Dreams can lead to love Dreams can lead to apathy Dreams can lead to serendipity Dreams can lead to melancholy Dreams can lead to transcendence Dreams can lead to incomprehensibility Dreams can lead to life Dreams can lead to death Dreams can lead to God. Deciduous cedars shed their blades, sapphire streams glisten in the crepuscular shine, the moon glows phantasmagorically, and multitudinous stars shimmer in the sky—one of them more luminously than the others. The perpetual chug of the locomotive soothes Harry, which inevitably puts him into a profound, abstruse sleep. A tenebrous, solitary chamber encompasses him; dilapidated bricks aggregate the walls, and colossal iron beams—with dreary, flickering lamps hanging from them—prevent the roof from caving in. Silence inundates the room, except for his broken, desperate breath. Minute, nefarious pellets trickle from the ceiling, landing on Harry's susceptible chest; he screams in agony as the fluid seeps into him, pulverizing nerves and muscle and bones and organs while he asphyxiates on the insidious vapors that suffuse the space. He uncovers his pulsating eyes to be greeted by an ethereal aurora that floats over the skyline. On the alabaster table rests a mug of scalding tea, with steam radiating from its opening. Harry twists a silvery spoon in the drink, making its complexion uniform. The announcer pompously declares that the locomotive will arrive at the end destination—which holds an unblemished sanctity—shortly. The locomotive brakes, progressively diminishing its speed, its vexatious horn chiming concurrently. Harry, who is apprehensive, stares out the side window; grim foundations form linear rows with tall barbed-wire fencing encircling them, a mountainous, menacing brick gate impends to devour the forthcoming train, and an arched, insurmountable steel fence pledges: "ARBEIT MACHT FREI." Harry quickly comes to a dismaying epiphany; he will nevermore be free; this is not Jerusalem.
Did you? by Zaire Prime
Did you know that you still had such control over me? Were you waiting to detonate the bead of love you planted among the rubble? The pieces I picked up took time to put back together. But a cold, hardened heart forms ice in those cracks And destroys any attempts to be saved before they happen. When the heart is destroyed, the only thing left to turn to is the mind. But what use is it when I can’t think straight? The same creeping poison that destroys me over and over Entices my mind with sweet-smelling visions of the sky reflected in your eyes. What cruel seamstress of fate decreed that my savior would be my destroyer? How did I let myself be deceived by someone with pure intentions? Am I waiting with anticipatory excitement or anxious ennui? You were my joy, which made you my sorrow. And when I discover that seed, which grew into a flower, I realize I never understood What happened?