Michele Feltman Strider

I chronicle the adventures of my imaginary friends.
https://amzn.to/3BBqv7B

What I do: Make stuff up
Where I do it: Tehachapi, CA
The stuff I make up: https://amzn.to/3j2kXfT
The website I never update: www.michelestrider.com

Public Key

npub1er6pztr3hqw9lyjnqxxn33l7x7uvsuupk8teztcvq4dw2a78734q7uwprr

NIP-05 Address

michelestrider_at_mastodon.social@momostr.pink

Profile Code

nprofile1qqsv3aq393cms8zljffsrrfccllr0wxgwwqmr4u39uxq2kh9wlrlg6sprpmhxue69uhhyetvv9ujumt0d4hhxarj9ecxjmntmgzrfg

Publishing to

relay.momostr.pink

Author Public Key

npub1er6pztr3hqw9lyjnqxxn33l7x7uvsuupk8teztcvq4dw2a78734q7uwprr

Show more details

Last Notes

2026-04-30 00:01:40 UTC

- reply

"What're you drinking?" you ask Hobo Clown.
"Vesper martini" was not the answer you expected.
You squeeze through the clowns to the bar and receive only one faceful of seltzer this time. Praise Bozo.
As you thread your way back, trying not to baptize yourself in vodka, you're stopped by -- dear god -- a mime.
"Hey, pal," he says in a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Little advice -- watch out for those Bozo bozos. Real cult stuff."
"OK."
"If you want true enlightenment, check out us Krustifarians."

2026-04-29 00:01:34 UTC

- reply

"Say more," you answer earnestly. Hobo Clown doesn't miss a beat.
"Guru Bozo teaches that the only sane response to the absurdity of life is to play the Fool. In kingly courts of yore, it was often only the Fool who dared speak truth to power. In the Tarot, the Fool..."
You sip your drink and nod. Hobo Clown has a nice voice. You suspect theater training.
"... continuing unbroken, even today," he concludes. "There's a study group in the dining car, if you're interested."
Your drink is empty.

2026-04-28 00:01:28 UTC

- reply

You nurse your drink and watch the Lounge Car evolve into a three-ring circus. You witness so many clown-themed songs, performed so flashily.
Rainbow Hair gets up to sing, and a hobo sits down next to you, replete with patchwork pants and bindle on a stick.
"Nice shoes," he says. You aren't sure how to take it.
"Thanks?"
"Traveling for work?" he asks. You shake your head.
"You?" you ask and immediately feel weird about it.
"More like a retreat. Have you heard the teachings of Guru Bozo?"

2026-04-27 00:01:23 UTC

- reply

You approach the bartender, who doesn't appear to be a clown.
"Seltzer with..."
You're immediately smacked in the face with a jet of fizzy water from an old-school seltzer bottle.
You should've seen it coming. That's on you -- along with a half-liter of water. The bartender grins. You dry off with a handful of cocktail napkins.
After two more drenchings, you manage a vodka soda and return to your seat.
A poker game starts up in the corner. A tall clown announces karaoke. Beer pong happens.

2026-04-26 14:29:34 UTC

- reply

This hits deep and hard

2026-04-26 00:00:59 UTC

- reply

You squee internally. It's every birthday party of your childhood rolled into one. You giggle like a sugar-coated 5-year-old. You're hanging with clowns!
You turn to Rainbow Hair and start to ask, "Can you..."
She shuts you down with a snarl. "Off duty," she growls and squirts you in the face with her plastic lapel flower.
You turn to Rubber Chicken Guy and smile. "What's his name?"
"It's a rubber chicken, pal." He gives you a withering look, then starts doing card tricks.
You need a drink.

2026-04-25 00:00:46 UTC

- reply

You squeeze into the crowded Lounge Car. It seems like every new passenger has gathered there. It's raucous and lively, full of wild laughter.
You claim the last empty seat. The person to your left has rainbow hair. The person to your right is clutching a rubber chicken.
At the bar, bottles are juggled indiscriminately. Endless colorful handkerchiefs fly about. Balloon animals happen. There is honking.
They're not music festival hipsters. No. Clowns. The lounge has become an actual clown car.

2026-04-24 00:00:42 UTC

- reply

You walk to the far wall of the station and wipe the dust off the display case with your sleeve.
Inside is a cavalcade of yellowing newspaper clippings, sepia-tone photos, and other similarly tinged memorabilia. The station, you deduce, was a popular stop for circus trains back in the era that was a thing. Suspenders and bloomers and lots of straw hats. Very Ken Burns.
You've never been to a circus, except the bendy-people ones in Vegas. Still, it's evocative.
The train signals time to board.

2026-04-23 20:39:10 UTC

- reply

green tea, lean protein, diet pills from the 90s, a 14-hour nap. Hope this helps

2026-04-23 00:00:33 UTC

- reply

You decide to stretch your legs and check out the station. It might help you wake up.
You pass a queue of new passengers, all eccentrically dressed. Maybe there's a music festival down the line.
You look around for some brochures to take and ignore while scrolling your phone. A man in the corner juggles souvenir pens.
With time to kill, you consider your options. You'll be on the train long enough. You should soak up some local color. Or flavor. Or 30 minutes worth of something local-ish.

2026-04-22 00:00:18 UTC

- reply

Dull scenery aside, you go to the Observation Car, hoping for better views down the line. Besides, everything looks cool from panoramic windows.
You pass loading docks, parking garages, and the recycling center, seeing old graffiti from a new perspective. City gives way to suburbs, the airport, the warehouse ring, and finally nature.
Probably. You fell asleep just past the outlet mall and woke up in a tunnel.
The train exits into sunlight, mountains in the distance, and approaches a station.

2026-04-21 00:00:11 UTC

"Chug, chug, chug. Puff, puff, puff. Ding-dong, ding-dong. The little train rumbled over the tracks," you giggle to yourself as you pull away from the station. It's official. You're on vacation.
You've never traveled by rail before and are buzzing with the romance of it all. The ambiance may not exactly be giving Orient Express, but you've got a roomette, a view, and you don't have to drive. Budget luxury!
The scenery is still too familiar to be interesting. You decide to explore the train.

2026-04-18 04:04:39 UTC

What is the worst US Interstate, and why is it I-10?

2026-04-13 20:41:10 UTC

Tooting while my eyes are dilated because I like living on the edge

2026-04-08 01:14:47 UTC

Cereal for dinner

2026-04-02 00:16:40 UTC

Please wish this silly little cat a happy birthday
https://files.mastodon.social/media_attachments/files/116/332/224/114/667/548/original/699d11435d9be436.jpg

2026-03-24 14:19:21 UTC

- reply

Why do I feel I know that sign? Is it in the East Bay on San Pablo? (I would frame this pic. Dang, you're talented.)

2026-03-16 01:00:59 UTC

- reply

I can feel that picture. I can smell it.

2026-03-10 15:39:51 UTC

Dashi wishes y'all a very perky Tuesday
#CatsOfMastodon
https://files.mastodon.social/media_attachments/files/116/205/621/736/079/408/original/d1dcfff830605b61.jpg

2026-03-01 02:12:56 UTC

- reply

Have you tried Quordle? It's wonderfully infuriating.

2026-02-28 15:00:38 UTC

So, the Epstein files are "start a war with Iran" bad

2026-02-13 01:40:31 UTC

- reply

Summer is such a good soul

2026-02-12 01:47:58 UTC

- reply

Why are we doing this?
It's weirdly insightful about the ethics and esthetics of the MAGA set. It's the world they long to live in. Never mind that it's a fantasy of masculinity and white Western superiority written to appeal to boys still hoping to touch their first boob. This is the world they want to impose. This is their level of emotional and intellectual maturity. Bang, bang, no consequences, and Oh, James. It's a MAGA masterclass.

2026-02-11 18:15:50 UTC

Our project of watching all of the James Bond movies continues.
But, y'all.
Imagine my disappointment in learning that Octopussy was just a pretty lady and not Pussy Galore with Doc Ock arms.
A real opportunity missed, if you ask me.

2026-02-07 18:53:57 UTC

Best Bond

2026-01-14 15:16:33 UTC

*googles* Is "meat hangover" a thing?

2026-01-12 15:45:03 UTC

Things you should be good at if you are from the South:
1. Calling people by their preferred names. I'm looking at you, Bubba.
2. Tolerating religious differences. Y'all live in towns with a different flavor church for every 10 people and there's not a shootout every Sunday.
3. Welcoming immigrants. Y'all's menus are all about shrimp creole, margaritas, asian-cajun fusion, etc.
4. Respecting different gender expressions. Y'all're always saying "don't tell us how to live."
5. Hating ICE.

2026-01-11 15:40:53 UTC

Please, for the love of all that is internet, please stop saying "videotape." There is no tape, only video.

2026-01-11 01:02:22 UTC

- reply

"One question at a time!" you scold, deeply shaken.
"Oopsie! Truxby is so silly," she chirps. Her eyes whirl. "Truxby will try again,"
Your palms grow clammy.
"Do you like rainbows?"
"Yes," you sigh with relief.
"Have you ever been a member of, or in any way associated with, the Communist Party?"
"Truxby!" you gasp.
"Oopsie! Truxby meant to say, 'Have you ever advocated the overthrow of any government by force or violence?'"
"Well, I mean... Wait, what?"
"Do you want to hear a secret?"

2026-01-10 01:02:05 UTC

- reply

"Twenty Questions," you say, remembering her as having a limited vocabulary.
"Great!" she chirps. "I'll go first. Remember, you can only answer 'yes' or 'no,' OK? Here we go!" Her eyes blink and spin wildly. "Do you like cookies?"
"Yes." Your eyes also roll a little.
"Do you ever feel despair in the face of a meaningless existence?"
"Um..." You shudder.
"...Engaging in unceasing yet pointless activity to distract yourself from the looming void? Anything to help you feel momentarily alive?"

2026-01-09 01:01:30 UTC

- reply

Though you vowed never again to let the abomination known as Truxby see the light of a yellow sun, you drag her box out of the closet and cut the tape.
Stiff bear body with a bright pink hamster-owl head and some Frankenstein-worthy bolts holding the whole mess together -- horrifying. You rummage around for batteries.
The creaking sound of her soulless eyes opening chills you. A digital nightmare voice greets you. You feel sick.
"Truxby wants to play!" she trills. "Play a game with Truxby!"

2026-01-08 15:34:37 UTC

First they came for the libraries
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a librarian
Then they came for the Trans people
And I did not speak out
Because I was not Trans
Then they came for the Latinos
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Latino
Then they came for the white Midwestern minivan moms...
Y'all, we're way too many stanzas into this poem.

2026-01-08 01:01:22 UTC

- reply

The Electronics layer is most accessible. You begin detangling obsolete cables. As you dig, you realize where all the RadioShacks went. You unearth a stray motherboard, soldering kit, six different adaptors, and a sack of servos.
You find a box labeled "Magic 8 Bob" -- your attempt at a fortune-telling robot. The head, anyway. You used the body as a coat rack. Beneath that is "Crystal Math," your talking calculator prototype, meaning Truxby, the unholy Teddy Ruxpin/Furby mashup, must be near.

2026-01-07 01:00:49 UTC

- reply

You rise slowly from your chair and solemnly trudge to the closet. It is time.
Cautiously, you open the door. Nothing tumbles out. No crapvalanche. A fallen boxed Funko Pop acts as a keystone for the wall of junk facing you, impenetrable. You'll have to tunnel your way in.
Like the geologic record, each layer represents a different era of your development. You examine the deposits, hoping to start your excavation with the richest vein. Maybe you'll strike eBay gold. Where to begin?

2026-01-06 01:00:40 UTC

"It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage."
You sigh. Your mom sends the weirdest texts, and the BritBox subscription you got her isn't helping. You put the date in your calendar, assuming "the Vicarage" is Vic's Garage Bar & Grill in the strip mall.
Five days in and the new year is filling up. You close your laptop. It's "new year, new you" time. You resolve to work on one of your resolutions.

2025-12-30 19:42:55 UTC

Y'all:
It has come to my attention that the fashion industrial complex is trying to revive the corduroy pant.
Corduroy, the musical highway of fabric. The number one garment of choice for sweaty thighs in the middle of January. Denim's troubled half-sibling. Velvet's sleezy cousin with a record. Jean's sketchy 1970s stepfather. The pants your middle school vice principal wore when he was feelin' fancy.
No.
If we let them get away with this, what will they bring back next? Crushed velvet?

2025-12-25 15:09:24 UTC

RE: https://mastodon.social/@michelestrider/115724165357145318
For Mastodon Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Twelve pills for numbing
Eleven LARPers LARPing
Ten hours sleeping
Nine days in Lansing
Eight soups they're making
Seven steins a-brimming
Six donkeys braying
Five Trebuchet Slings! (ba-dum-bum-bum)
Four friends with fur
Three fancy pens
Two nifty bugs
And fudge and a cup of hot tea
#12DaysofChristmas
#note18m9…04y9

2025-12-21 01:40:06 UTC

- reply

If you could hang it from the wall, that would make a cute kitchen decoration

2025-12-19 19:19:24 UTC

All we need is a Muppet Barbie movie starring Miss Piggy. Then the world could finally start to heal.

2025-12-15 14:57:08 UTC

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:

2025-11-30 00:28:07 UTC

- reply

That's such a funny flashback!

2025-11-29 23:59:24 UTC

- reply

God help me, I remember this one. There was also a girl-in-bikini version

2025-11-27 18:58:41 UTC

Surrounded by people who all keep asking you the same questions?
Spending the holiday with an older person who keeps asking you the same thing over and over?
Don't feel like giving your worst family member more grist for the mill?
Try: Lying™
With Lying™ you can:
*Customize your response to the audience
*Not reveal any actual details of your life
*Entertain your damn self, because no one else there is going to do it.
For use anytime you're asked stupid questions. Try Lying™ today!

2025-11-26 00:12:24 UTC

- reply

You decide to end the day with a meal at your favorite diner. You order breakfast for dinner. It somehow feels right. You even get the fresh-squeezed orange juice. The waitress mentions how relaxed and happy you look.
You reflect on the day. Obligation, you decide, is the opposite of celebration. It distracts from the true joy of the season.
You resolve to visit everyone at another, less stressful time. You even want to. In the meantime, you and the fudge have a date with the sunrise.
The End

2025-11-25 00:12:21 UTC

- reply

You text the group the highlights of your Solstice talk in friendly bullet points. This is later screencapped and posted alongside the viral video.
You wait for a response.
A couple of emojis pop up, but that's all. You will later learn of the feline-induced catastrophe requiring a fire extinguisher, a short course of antibiotics, and everyone's attention.
You're off the hook.
Full of magic fudge and the spirit of the season, you try to decide how to cap off a brilliant day.

2025-11-24 00:12:10 UTC

- reply

"...this glorious and life-giving celestial dance," you conclude your sermon to a smattering of applause from the crowd as they put their phones away. "Amen."
Hashtag SolsticeNut quickly starts trending. For the moment, you are blissfully unaware.
Until the group chat starts popping off while you're buying a discount holly wreath.
Busted.
It's all about damage control now. You try to decide on the best approach -- one that won't get you uninvited from the July 4 beach house weekend.

2025-11-23 00:12:01 UTC

- reply

You point to a brick of marshmallows and nuts. "Rocky Road was invented in Oakland," you helpfully inform her as she rings you up. She does not care.
You grab a coffee and take a seat on a bench decorated like a sleigh.
You unwrap a piece, take a bite, and wait.
Your toes tingle. Because it's cold.
Your heart flutters. Because you feel hope.
The darkness will lighten. Days will again be warm and bright. Renewal, rebirth. The cycle begins again.
Surging with joy, you leap to your feet and

2025-11-22 00:11:49 UTC

- reply

Many of your favorite words begin with "F," such as "free" and "fudge." You rush to the stand, clutching the coupon like a treasure map.
You trade the palm-sweaty paper for a small square. It's transcendent. The memory of every holiday of your life rushes in.
Leaving you with sticky fingers and the realization that this season has always been hella messy.
"Revelation?" the aproned lady asks. You nod.
"The cream," is her entire explanation. "Wanna get a box? They each hit a little different."

2025-11-21 00:11:06 UTC

- reply

You spy a spry older woman and plead your case. Lucky for you, she knows how to polka. Since you don't, you both decide she will lead.
The music starts, and Polka Granny bounces you around the dance floor like a ball. The crowd stomps and cheers. The band plays louder. The judges leap to their feet as one.
The song ends, and the next couple enters the stage: a cute kid with a dog. Victory slips away.
You graciously accept 2nd prize, a coupon book for the market, and search for a fun bargain.

2025-11-20 00:02:41 UTC

- reply

You're exactly buzzed enough to think dancing is a good idea. The high-energy, frenzied drive of an oompah band screams out: You must polka.
You join the other contestants in front of the bandstand and prepare for battle. You need a partner, as there's no single freestyle round. You search the sea of people for possibilities.
You spot a few likely candidates in the growing audience. Each affords a different potential advantage. You weigh your options carefully and try not to act drunk.

2025-11-19 00:02:08 UTC

- reply

You decide a warm cup of spiced wine is called for and search the market.
"Do you sell mulled wine?" you ask the Profoundly German man in a promising stall.
"Glühwein," he responds.
"Gesundheit," you answer.
Maybe it's the sugar. Or the warmth. Or the heady spices. Or, maybe, it's the 14% ABV cabernet laced with brandy. You feel giddy.
You realize you're fully buzzed when you find yourself sniffing candles in a way that gets you asked to leave.
You need something to get your blood moving.

2025-11-18 00:02:00 UTC

- reply

You decide to let fate be your guide and wander the holiday streets. You've never had the chance to appreciate your hometown splashing out for the season.
You walk through the business district, marveling at the mammon. Each block is a paean to a different deity of greed and vanity. It freakin' rocks. You gawk at the shoppers and jam out to piped-in pop-star carols. This was a great idea.
At city center, you find a holiday market. Very pop-up, very hip. You decide to stroll the stalls.

2025-11-17 00:01:35 UTC

- reply

A smile tugs at your face as you text your apologies to the group chat. "Will explain later." You have no intention of explaining later.
You runway strut out of the concourse and into the wintry mix, emancipated. You are Kevin in Home Alone. You are free.
You feel giddy, like a character in one of the manic old-timey musicals they show at holiday time. You'd skip if you weren't sure to slip and fall.
On the ride-share ride home, you consider how to spend this magical, stolen moment.

2025-11-16 21:07:44 UTC

geologist but pronounced like geoduck

2025-11-16 00:01:19 UTC

"Over the river and through the wood," you mutter as the TSA line inches forward. "To Grandfather's house we go."
Belt flung over your shoulder, you hold your shoes in one hand and grip your waistband with the other. In front of you, a child peeks over her father's shoulder, smiles, and sneezes Cheerio debris. Your backpack gently slides down to the crook of your arm. "'Tis the season," you sigh.
You reach the gate just as they announce your flight has been canceled. The next is in 4 hours.

2025-11-11 15:49:09 UTC

- reply

That got me all choked up

2025-11-09 15:10:47 UTC

Signs my cat is MAGA:
1. Is well-fed with dry food, wet food, and treats; resents the other cat eating anything.
2. Lives a cushy indoor life; is constantly and angrily obsessed with the stray cats outside.
3. Her rules are sacrosanct; my rules are fascist oppression, oh, poor baby.
4. Smells like canned tuna.

2025-10-26 00:53:41 UTC

Halloween candy is too expensive. Do kids still eat Tide Pods?

2025-10-24 19:11:06 UTC

Got bored, then remembered the library exists

2025-10-22 00:45:28 UTC

I don't know who needs to hear this, but it's time to Pentagon Papers the Epstein Files

2025-10-13 00:09:06 UTC

- reply

"A self-storage facility!" you exclaim in awe. "How can I resist?"
"It's the pride of our portfolio," Mr. Overalls grins. "It started as overflow apple storage, but really took off when the local hoarders found it."
You arrive at a tidy-but-sprawling facility on the edge of town and enter the small, cinnamon-scented office. All of the matching-plaid staff turn and smile in unison.
"Now I'm gonna hand you off to our management team to tell you about their departments. Where do ya wanna start?"

2025-10-12 00:09:01 UTC

- reply

"Get to the core of it," you decide while considering more pie. "What's the story?"
"No one knows how it all started," Mr. Overalls drawls. "Some say Johnny Appleseed was the first. Others, it was a fella from upstate New York. It happens when the arsenic in the seeds mixes with the extreme health-giving properties of the flesh. It creates a sorta unresolvable internal paradox."
"Is there a cure?"
"Raw onions."
"So, no."
"Well," he slaps his knee and stands. "Time for the tour. What first?"

2025-10-11 00:08:54 UTC

- reply

You nip into the diner down the street and slip into a booth. A stereotypical waitress calls you "hon" and takes your order -- apple pie and coffee.
You're halfway to the crust edge before you look around. The diner is full.
Of plaid-clad folks eating pie.
They smile at you.
"Howdy," the man from the farmers' market greets you.
You nod, mouth full.
"Purty strong cider, eh?"
Your new teeth shred the crust like a woodchipper.
"We're all here to help you out. Whatcha like to know first?"

2025-10-10 15:08:08 UTC

- reply

Chewing every bite 100 times will be a pleasure

2025-10-10 14:28:44 UTC

- reply

Are we finally doing it? Are we going to eat the rich?

2025-10-10 00:08:45 UTC

- reply

You chug the rest of the mug of cider to steady yourself. It's the best thing you've ever tasted. And it's cool to watch your fingernails grow like that.
You decide to listen to music. Your new nails present a challenge, but soon the sound of clawhammer banjo pumps from your speakers.
You notice a raven at the window and invite him in. He politely declines. Also, you speak raven now.
And you need pie. No time to wait for delivery. You grab a red plaid flannel shirt and head into the night.

2025-10-09 00:08:40 UTC

- reply

"Hello?" you respond to the candle, feeling insane.
"Six months," it whispers.
"Until what?" you gulp.
"Six months you left me sitting in that drawer."
"Sorry?"
"You should be. I was made to shine."
"Are you a ghost?"
"I'm a candle," it snarks. "A perfectly normal candle."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not the one growing fangs."
You rush to the mirror and check your now-pointy teeth. Dang if the candle wasn't right.
Also, you use the word "dang" now.
And crave raw apples...
and moonlight.

2025-10-08 00:08:32 UTC

- reply

A fan of compelling-yet-vague descriptions, you choose the house special, ignoring the look on Mr. Overall's face.
"It's the perfect fireside drink," he drawls as he fills the growler. It's cute that he thinks you have a fireplace in this economy.
That evening, cozy in your PJs, you decide to try a mugful. In the spirit of things, you light a bougie candle you've been saving.
The cider is thick, almost syrupy. You start to think something might be wrong when the candle flame says your name.

2025-10-07 00:08:30 UTC

- reply

Unable to resist bib overalls, you approach the cider man.
He greets you with a twang and gestures to his wares. "All our own special blend of Brahms, Bellas, and Irmas, bat-pollinated and night harvested for extra sweetness." He takes a bite of the apple he's holding. His teeth are surprisingly sharp.
You try a sample. Rich and warm, it coats your tongue with spice. You ask for a grolwer to go.
"Which kind? Each is harvested under a different phase of the moon. For maximum effect."

2025-10-06 00:04:57 UTC

- reply

It's a beautiful day, and the farmers' market is just blocks away. Maybe you'll find a cinnamon broom or some decorative gourds. Plus, there's always the pie stand.
The market is bustling. You delight in the colorful ripe stacks and the apple-crisp air. Flannel-hipsters smile out from every booth. Even the gazebo guitar guy is good.
You see the pie stand at one end and a pumpkin patch at the other. In the center is Country Crafts, and next to it, an overalled man sells growlers of apple cider.

2025-10-05 23:52:06 UTC

Cheers to all my random bruise people. Y'all know who you are

2025-10-05 00:04:46 UTC

"Among the rugged peaks that frown down on the Borgo Pass are found crumbling castles of a bygone age."
You close the travel website with a sigh. Maybe next year. It's too hard to get away right now. Family, friends, and the world have been a lot lately. And it feels like you're trying to save for a rainy day in the middle of monsoon season. You're drained and need cheering up.
There's just enough room in your budget for one small dumb Fall indulgence. Maybe a treat will do the trick.

2025-10-03 19:54:14 UTC

- reply

Let's hope the nurse calls me into the office before that happens

2025-10-03 19:48:16 UTC

- reply

My IQ drops every time they play the laugh track

2025-10-03 19:47:25 UTC

I'm stuck in a waiting room with the Jim Belushi sitcom on and am wondering if I died and this is my personal hell

2025-10-03 18:22:05 UTC

The greatest trick the devil* ever pulled was convincing people they needed a prescription for cat food.
*Hill's Science Diet

2025-09-29 23:34:43 UTC

- reply

I listened to it and now I need to buy some crackers to go with all of the cheese.

2025-09-29 14:37:40 UTC

Name a song you hate with fiery yet irrational passion.
I'll start:
New York Groove by Ace Frehley

2025-09-22 00:27:41 UTC

- reply

Thanks for playing, everyone!
We'll start a new adventure the first week of October.
Until then, if you want more of my nonsense, you can find it here:
https://www.amazon.com/stores/Michele-Feltman-Strider/author/B008MOEWZA?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true&ccs_id=bde4a64b-8dea-4be9-b698-bf9f04504ad8
and here:
https://www.amazon.com/stores/John-Anders-Erickson/author/B0982KX1HM?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1758500025&sr=1-1&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true&ccs_id=ff9e30a7-2ca9-4edf-b290-dcb7eecff538
Thanks, y'all!

2025-09-22 00:25:38 UTC

- reply

*Six months later*
Your edgy show of gothic ferret photography is the talk of the town. Hipsters AND influencers queue up for hours. Critics fawn over the "quasi-religious overtones" and your "elevated yet intimate" approach. Hot people think you're cool.
In your new apartment in the warehouse district, you relax, content, a ferret at your feet. Your freelance days are behind you. The sundae was right. You are an artist. You take a thick bite of cosmic brownie and await inspiration.
The End.

2025-09-21 14:30:05 UTC

Posting a Bluesky link to your Substack is not the act of resistance some seem to think it is

2025-09-21 00:25:23 UTC

- reply

"I got this," you stride ahead with the confidence of someone who does not think things through.
You enter the ferret-strewn kitchen, careful not to slip on any eggshells. They recognize you and gather at your feet.
Taking an unbroken egg in each hand, you Pied Piper them out of the kitchen, up the winding staircase, out to the roof. The ferrets see the egg-heavy nests and go to work.
"I solved your pigeon problem, too," you brag.
"How can we thank you?" The priestess smiles like sweet wine.

2025-09-20 15:03:30 UTC

The cats know the word tuna.
So we took to spelling it out around them.
Now the cats know how to spell tuna.
There is no winning. Only cats.

2025-09-20 00:24:58 UTC

- reply

"Three. I have some sage at home that I need to use up, one way or another."
You climb the wide staircase, careful not to trip as you snap photos. Every angle presents a masterpiece.
She escorts you through the stacks. Soufflé, you learn, is the highest form of both disciplines.
As you frame a shot of the priestess holding a book on BBQ, a scribe-looking person runs up.
"Ferrets just raided the bakery!" he panics. "They took all of the eggs!"
"The Devotees of Chaos," you realize out loud.

2025-09-19 00:23:38 UTC

- reply

You explain the edgy photography show. The priestess smiles like butterscotch.
"You give the gift of perspective, the chance to consider another's point of view. I approve."
You file that away and follow her to the end of a gaslit hallway.
"Let's begin in our repository of wisdom."
You follow her through the double doors into an immense archive four stories tall. Warmly gothic, the library glows with candlelight, reflected off silk covers.
"Which floor?" she gestures to the grand staircase.

2025-09-18 00:23:32 UTC

- reply

"Butter..." you stammer. "Chocolate..."
"Take your time," she smiles like sweet milk.
"I..." You can't find words rich enough. "Who are you?"
"We are Servants of YUM," her voice melts like candy floss.
"Like the Whatevers of Madness or People of Turmoil?"
"We are devoted to the great YUM. You. Us. Me. We seek unity with all through the celebration of pleasure. Mostly snacks."
"I do enjoy a sweet treat."
"I'm happy to show you. We can start in the kitchen, cookbook library, or great hall."

2025-09-17 00:23:14 UTC

- reply

"The cosmic brownie?" The priestess looks concerned. "Are you certain?"
"I can handle it." You can eat a sno-ball in one bite.
She invites you in. You sit on a brocade poof as she prepares your treat.
You take a bite and consume the cosmos.
Light, you discover, tastes like butter. Gravity is chewy. And fudgey dark matter ties it all together. Alice Toklas would be proud.
A custard-soft voice chants as you descend from orbit.
"What great mystery did the universe reveal?" the priestess asks.

2025-09-16 00:22:57 UTC

- reply

It's been a minute since your sundae. You deserve a sweet treat. You excuse yourself and set off to find the baker.
Your nose leads you up to the sacristy. The heavy smell of chocolate seeps out from under the thick door. You knock.
A dark-haired woman greets you, dressed in green and gold vestments. She smiles. You melt like warm caramel.
"Have you come for Communion?" she asks, her voice like butter.
"OK," you figure.
"With The Past, The Now, or The Eternal?" she asks, her words honey.

2025-09-15 00:22:50 UTC

- reply

You've never been on a ferret's bad side and don't intend to start. You hurry back to the lair to prepare their meal.
Much slurping and lapping ensues. You get many adorable shots.
The red priest emerges from a dark corner. "They are pleased," he confirms.
"You know, I heard someone playing an organ. And smelled something baking." It's a busy abandoned church.
"Odd," he answers.
"Should we check it out?" you ask.
"We?" he replies. "I've agreed to take you to our other two Orders, no more."

2025-09-14 00:22:45 UTC

- reply

You set the sack down gently and get your camera to document the stack of red-eyed birds against the odd gray sky. You get some amazing shots before they start dive-bombing you.
You snatch up the eggs, spilling a few, and run for the door. You risk two last shots for safety, then zip inside.
A rat runs across your foot, chasing a roach. You get a picture.
Organ sounds reach your ears (Bach) at the same moment baking smells reach your nose (brownies). Both seem very soothing after all of that.

2025-09-13 00:22:41 UTC

- reply

Fresh air sounds nice. Gingerly stepping out of the ferret swirl, you creep down the hall to the spiral staircase.
As you reach the top, you feel a little winded and dizzy. A cool breeze braces you as you step out of the narrow access door onto the roof. You blink in the weird daylight.
You spot the pigeon nests, no birds in sight, and fill the sack. Feeling you made the smart choice, you head back to the door...
Where you are confronted with a multi-story wall of displeased red-eyed pigeons.

2025-09-12 00:22:28 UTC

- reply

"I'm happy to help," you sigh.
"It is their feeding time," he explains, gravely.
You were sure you were going to be tasked with cleaning The Litter Box of Chaos.
"They prefer roaches, rats, or raw eggs," he says as hungry polecats swarm around your feet. "There are pigeon nests on the roof near the spire, and bugs out by the kitchen trash. The rats you can find basically anywhere."
He hands you a flashlight and sack. "Happy hunting."
He leaves as you face the hungry, swirling fur tornado.

2025-09-11 00:22:25 UTC

- reply

The priest nods and leads you deeper into the crypt. A musky scent grows thick. Odd sounds echo from the dark.
You pass through a heavy gate into the bright sanctuary. Dozens of ferrets ricochet off every surface.
"The Devotees," he explains, "are dedicated to the creation and preservation of Chaos. We believe excessive order stifles spirit. They bring balance."
You snap away like mad, which fits the vibe.
"They require an offering," he continues, "of worship, service, or penitence."

2025-09-10 00:22:20 UTC

- reply

You wait, stifling a small cough. The smoke twists into faces you almost recognize, reverts back to chaos, then disperses into nothingness. You lose connection to time and your toes. After too long, the air clears, the candles now hot pools of wax.
"You passed," the priest finally speaks. "The congregants are well pleased." He indicates the sealed niches.
"Thanks?"
"There are three levels to our order: the Devotees of Chaos, Masters of Turmoil, and Children of Madness. Where shall we begin?"

2025-09-09 00:22:03 UTC

- reply

"Smoke," you decide, thinking maybe your misspent youth had value after all.
"So be it." The red priest lifts his hand. The candle flames flare to the ceiling. The crypt chapel begins to fill with thick fumes. Not the fun kind. The room darkens as black billows cloud above.
Sooty tendrils curl down and embrace the altar. Dark waves wash across the room. The heavy scent of incense envelopes you. Your vision grows hazy. You stifle a cough.
The priest silently waits, watching to see what you do.

2025-09-08 00:21:54 UTC

- reply

You launch into the whole story, including your ice cream headache and revelation. "So, whaddya think?"
"Conjuring darkness with light?" the priest asks, pointing to your camera bag.
"Exactly." And now your show has an edgy theme.
"Dangerous."
"Edgy," you agree.
"You could lose your immortal soul," he bellows.
Your parents said the same thing when you went into the arts. "Right. So... are you in?"
"I will assist you, Dark Artist," he decides, "if you complete one of our sacred rituals."

2025-09-07 00:20:42 UTC

- reply

"...and, like, Ayurveda, crossed with Wicca, and a dash of Western Mysticism," you finish, realizing you're just naming sections of the holistic bookstore where you buy tea bags.
A man steps from the shadows into your light. His flowing robes match the crimson candles, which spark to life.
"Disciple of Many Masters, what do you seek from others that you cannot find within yourself?"
"Networking," you answer like a true freelancer.
"And what do you seek today, in this place of dark worship?

2025-09-06 04:28:54 UTC

You should probably have a little cheese

2025-09-06 00:20:34 UTC

- reply

You spy the slender rail of a staircase near the altar. You turn on your phone's flashlight and slowly descend the dark, narrow spiral to the crypt.
At the bottom is a small chapel, lined with boxes of bishops labeled like spices. The candles here aren't broken, but burned. And red. The wooden seats are polished from use, and the air holds traces of incense. Bas-relief images on the dark altar depict four horsemen on a mission.
"Are you one of the faithful?" a deep voice echoes from the dark.

2025-09-05 00:20:21 UTC

- reply

The church looks the most promising/least dangerous. It takes effort to open the heavy wooden door even partway.
Inside, it's as ornate as it is neglected.
Pale light seeps through the colored glass, staining the tiled floor. Broken beeswax pillars stand in tarnished gold candelabras. Warped wooden benches wait patiently in rows beneath a high, arched ceiling, ornately illuminated with the lives of the martyrs.
Every angle is rich with potential. It's hard to decide where to begin.