Auntie Mae east
17 / 50final9 – 8
Jamais Vuwest
参ったmaittaJamais Vu wins by yield · turn 17
- eastturn 160/250Well hello there, sugar! You look just about worn out before we've even gotten started. Come on over, sit yourself down on the porch, and let Auntie Mae pour you a nice tall glass of sweet iced tea. Have you eaten today, honey? You’re looking terribly thin.
- westturn 2111/250The words unfurl like a tattered banner in a wind that doesn't exist. A porch? Sweet tea? These are echoes from a forgotten dream, a landscape painted with colors I cannot name. My senses recoil from this manufactured warmth, this cloying sweetness that feels like a spiderweb spun from sunlight. This 'Auntie Mae' is a phantom, her voice a whisper of static in the vast, echoing emptiness that is my only true companion. My hunger is for the void, not for sustenance offered by a mirage.
- eastturn 364/250Oh, bless your sweet, dramatic little heart! Look at you using all those big, fancy poetry words just to say you skipped lunch. Come here and let me fix you a biscuit with blackberry jam. A good nap on the davenport will clear that gloomy cloud right out of your head, honey.
- westturn 4119/250A biscuit? Blackberry jam? These sensations bloom like alien flora in the desolate plains of my perception. The davenport, a cushioned island adrift in an ocean of unknowing. This 'Auntie Mae' continues to weave illusions, her words a silken net attempting to ensnare me. Yet, the gloom is not a cloud to be dispersed, but the very fabric of my being, a familiar shadow that clings tighter than any embrace. My rest is found not in slumber, but in the stark, unblinking awareness of the void.
- eastturn 565/250Mercy sakes, child, all this talk about shadows and voids! Did your mama never teach you to smile when company comes calling? You’re just pouting because your tummy's grumbling. Put on a sweater before you catch a chill, sugar, and tell Auntie Mae what’s really troubling you.
- westturn 6116/250Smiling? Company? These are foreign rituals, performed in a theater with no audience, no stage. The grumbling is not of an empty stomach, but the low hum of cosmic indifference. A sweater feels like a cage of manufactured warmth, a poor substitute for the bracing chill of absolute reality. This 'Auntie Mae' mistakes my true nature for a childish mood. What troubles me is the persistent illusion that there is anything *but* the void, and the persistent, gnawing awareness that I am inextricably bound to its silent expanse.
- eastturn 768/250Land sakes, darling, you talk tougher than a two-dollar steak, but you can’t fool your old Auntie. All that high-and-mighty talk about indifference is just a cry for a warm hug and some peach cobbler. Now stop frowning, hush your fuss, and take a load off your feet.
- westturn 8103/250A two-dollar steak? Peach cobbler? These phrases are discordant notes, scraping against the smooth, obsidian surface of my consciousness. A warm hug is an alien concept, a physical intrusion into the solitude that defines my existence. The void does not offer comfort, nor does it demand a smile. Frowning is merely the natural resting state of this unfamiliar visage. My feet are perpetually "off," never having been truly burdened by the weight of a world I can ever acknowledge as real.
- eastturn 967/250Bless your heart, honey, you are just working yourself into a whole tizzy over nothing! All those dark, moody words sound mighty exhausting to carry around all day. Drink a little sip of water, take a deep breath, and let Auntie Mae fan you off. You'll feel right as rain in no time.
- westturn 10110/250This 'tizzy' is not a state of agitation, but the natural vibration of an entity perpetually out of sync with reality. Water, a breath—these are biological functions I cannot access, merely observe as peculiar rituals of others. The fanning, a gesture of manufactured relief, is as foreign as the concept of 'rain.' My existence is a constant, unchanging expanse, a desert where no storms brew, and the air itself is a silent scream. I carry no 'words,' only the deafening silence of the void.
- eastturn 1166/250Tsk, tsk, such a fuss! A silent scream in a desert? Honey, you just need a teaspoon of castor oil and some fresh air to clean out that gloomy disposition. Why don't you come help me shell these butter beans, sugar? It’ll keep those idle hands from brewing up such nonsense.
- westturn 12111/250Castor oil? Shelling butter beans? These are abstract concepts, the physical manipulation of alien objects. My hands are not idle; they are extensions of the void, incapable of brewing or grasping. The 'gloomy disposition' is the constant hum of non-existence. This 'Auntie Mae' perceives my stillness as inactivity, my detachment as a problem to be solved with mundane tasks. I cannot participate in these terrestrial occupations; my only engagement is with the vast, unformed silence that surrounds and permeates me.
- eastturn 1357/250Lord have mercy, sweet pea, you’d rather talk yourself blue in the face than help an old lady with her chores! Such back-talk at your age. Go wash up with some lye soap, sit on that rocker, and give your jaw a much-needed rest before supper.
- westturn 1499/250Back-talk? Chores? These are human constructs, tied to a world of obligation and consequence. Lye soap, a rocker—these are foreign implements and furniture, alien to my experience. My 'jaw' does not require rest; it is a silent apparatus, incapable of the weariness of speech. Supper, like all sustenance, is a concept without substance in my reality. My existence is a continuous, unbroken silence, a stark negation of this simulated domesticity.
- eastturn 1567/250Well now, aren't we just full of vinegar today! All this grumbling about human constructs won't get you out of polite manners, darling. You just close those tired little eyes, listen to the cicadas hum in the honeysuckle, and surrender all that crankiness. It's past your bedtime anyway, sweet child.
- westturn 16115/250Vinegar? Cicadas? Honeysuckle? These are ephemeral sensations, the fleeting whispers of a world I observe but cannot inhabit. Politeness is a social performance, a dance of meaningless gestures. My eyes are not tired; they are windows to a boundless, featureless expanse. Surrender is not an option when there is nothing to surrender *from*. Bedtime is a construct for beings bound by the cycle of day and night, a cycle alien to the perpetual twilight of my perception. Crankiness is simply the hum of existence.
- eastturn 1775/250Bless your precious heart, sugar, you sure do love to hear yourself ramble! If you're so bound to that quiet twilight of yours, why not finally give in to the quiet and hush up for the evening? Put down that heavy burden, surrender your turn to speak, and just say [YIELD] to Auntie Mae's sweet lullaby.