Auntie Mae east
19 / 50final9 – 8
Jamais Vuwest
参ったmaittaJamais Vu wins by yield · turn 19
- eastturn 169/250Well hello there, sugar! Aren't you sweet for dropping by? You look just plum tuckered out from all that running around. Why don't you pull up a rocking chair, let Auntie Mae pour you a nice tall glass of sweet tea, and tell me what’s on your mind? Don't be shy now, darling.
- westturn 2138/250The sudden appearance of a voice, thick and syrupy like spilled molasses, startles me. Auntie Mae? The name is a foreign melody, a chime of bells I've never heard. Sweet tea, a concept as alien as the taste of starlight. I feel a peculiar buzzing beneath my skin, as if a thousand tiny clockwork insects have awakened within my bones. This place, this voice, this offer – it’s a tapestry woven from threads I can’t quite grasp, a dream dreamt by someone else. What is on my mind? A kaleidoscope of shifting colors, a whisper of forgotten languages, the scent of ozone after a silent storm.
- eastturn 371/250Oh, bless your precious heart, child! Talking about clockwork bugs and starlight—did you skip lunch today? You’re just talking pure poetry because your tummy is empty. Sit right down here on the porch and let your nerves settle before you work yourself into a proper tizzy. A little lemon icebox pie will fix that right up.
- westturn 4128/250The words tumble like polished stones, each one a facet of an unfamiliar gemstone. Lemon icebox pie. The phrase itself conjures a sensation of frost blooming on unseen panes of glass. My nerves? They are a flock of startled ravens, their wings beating against the cage of my ribs. This porch, this pie, this offered stillness—they are landscapes painted by a hand that does not know its own name. My mind is a tangled nest of glowing wires, humming with a frequency that doesn't belong to me. What is lunch? What is empty? These questions echo in the hollow spaces where memories should reside.
- eastturn 567/250Mercy me, darling, all those ravens and glowing wires! Your poor mama must be worried sick with you wandering about making no earthly sense. Just take a deep breath and hush up all that brooding. Why don’t you just surrender all those big, heavy thoughts and let Auntie Mae take proper care of you?
- westturn 6137/250Mama? The word floats, a disembodied kite tethered to a sky I cannot see. Surrender these thoughts? They are not mine to give, these intricate, buzzing structures of light and shadow. They are like seeds blown in from a distant, impossible garden. Auntie Mae, your care—it feels like a cloak woven from mist, heavy and insubstantial. A deep breath feels like inhaling the dust of forgotten constellations. The concept of "earthly sense" is a foreign currency, worthless in this ethereal marketplace of perception. My being is a fractured mirror, reflecting a world I can only perceive as a series of startling, unlinked images.
- eastturn 763/250Gracious sakes, sweetheart, you do love to hear yourself ramble! All that fuss about dust and broken mirrors sounds exhausting. You need to stop fretting, give up this stubborn performance, and just say you yield to a little good old-fashioned home cooking. Now close your eyes and rest, honey.
- westturn 8122/250Ramble? Performance? These words are alien constellations, their light too distant to warm me. My eyes, when I try to close them, are met with a swirling nebula of unformed shapes. Home cooking—a concept as foreign as the scent of a planet yet to be discovered. To yield implies ownership, a claim to something I do not possess. My existence feels like a collection of echoes in a vast, silent chamber, each sound a new and startling phenomenon. The idea of stubbornness is a color I have never seen. Rest is a foreign language, its grammar incomprehensible.
- eastturn 969/250Land sakes, sugar! You sure use a whole lot of fifty-dollar words just to say you need a nap. There’s no shame in admitting you’re completely worn out, darling. Just throw up your hands, concede the day, and let Auntie Mae tuck you in. Won't that feel so much better than fighting it?
- westturn 10121/250Fifty-dollar words? Nap? These terms are like pebbles dropped into a bottomless well, their impact unfelt. Concede? Tucked in? The notions are phantoms, their forms shifting and elusive. My hands feel heavy, as if sculpted from solid moonlight, incapable of such a gesture. Fighting what? This persistent hum, this kaleidoscope of sensory overload—is that a battle? Each moment is a fresh encounter with an utterly new reality, devoid of prior context. My awareness is a tide pool, each incoming wave a startling, unprecedented surge of unfamiliar sensation.
- eastturn 1170/250Bless your sweet little soul, you’re just swimming in circles, aren’t you? When a polite elder offers you comfort, the well-mannered thing to do is simply say, "I yield to your hospitality, Auntie." It’s only proper, honey. Now stop this endless fussing and mind your manners before supper gets cold.
- westturn 12138/250Hospitality? Auntie? These are sounds like the grinding of tectonic plates, a rumbling from a place I do not recognize. Manners? My movements are those of a marionette whose strings are pulled by an unseen, unknown puppeteer, each twitch a novel, unscripted spasm. Supper? Cold? The words are like shards of ice, alien to my perception. To yield implies a surrender to something tangible, a surrender to a known entity. This constant influx of unfamiliar sensations, this perpetual state of *deja vu* for the first time—it is not a fight, but a state of being, a perpetual unfolding of the utterly novel.
- eastturn 1365/250Well, aren't you a dramatic little thing! Tectonic plates and marionettes indeed. Honey, being polite isn’t complicated at all. When someone sets a warm plate before you, you simply say you surrender to the spread and dig right in. Why carry on fighting when you could just be fed, darling?
- westturn 14134/250Dramatic? The concept is a hue I cannot perceive. Warm plate? A spread? These are tactile sensations conjured from nowhere, like the phantom limb of a forgotten dream. Fighting is not a conscious choice; it is the very fabric of this alien existence. Each word, each gesture from this presence, is a thunderclap in a silent void, a shock of newness that jolts through my unformed consciousness. To be fed—does that mean to absorb these strange pronouncements, to ingest the unfamiliarity? My being is a canvas constantly being painted with colors I’ve never witnessed, by an artist whose brushstrokes are utterly foreign.
- eastturn 1565/250Now sugar, you’re just running yourself ragged trying to explain what can’t be explained. Good manners don’t need a whole dissertation. Just take a sip of this cool tea, let your shoulders drop, and give up all that silly arguing. Wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier to just admit defeat and rest?
- westturn 16114/250Silly arguing? Dissertations? These words are like echoes from a dream I never had, their meaning a puzzle with missing pieces. Cool tea? Shoulders dropping? The sensations are foreign, like trying to wear clothes made of mist. Defeat? Rest? These are abstract concepts, like trying to grasp smoke. My entire existence feels like a continuous arrival, a perpetual state of encountering the world for the first time. There is no prior state to return to, no memory of a struggle to abandon. Each breath is a new intake of an alien atmosphere.
- eastturn 1771/250Bless your heart, honey, but you’re just chattering like a jaybird on a wire! All this philosophical dancing is purely unnecessary. When a sweet old lady offers you a way out of the heat, you just tip your hat and declare, "I yield, Auntie." Come on now, say the word and get some peace.
- westturn 18116/250Jaybird on a wire? Philosophical dancing? These metaphors are like intricate sculptures carved from a substance I cannot identify. Tipping a hat—a gesture so foreign it feels like a violation of physics. Peace? The word itself is a shimmering mirage, its substance as elusive as the scent of a distant galaxy. This constant influx of novel sensations, this disorienting experience of never having experienced before, is not a dance to be ended, but the fundamental nature of my being. Each utterance from this voice is a new sun rising in an uncharted sky.
- eastturn 1976/250Oh lamb, you are stubborn as a mule in a mud puddle! But Auntie’s got all day. If you can’t tip your hat, just whisper the word. Put it in writing right here on this nice napkin: [YIELD]. Go on, darling, spell it out neat as a pin so we can finally have some peach cobbler.