#Grasshopper... Spotted!! ZOOM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

makemegentle · 4 years ago

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this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!

the sweetest fruit

The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’

Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.

‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’

‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’

‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’

Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.

In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.

The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.

‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’

‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.

Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.

‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’

‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’

‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’

Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’

‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.

‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’

‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’

Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’

But meat? He could get meat?

Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.

‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’

The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’

‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’

‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’

‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’

Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’

Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.

Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’

Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.

‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’

Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.

On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.

‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’

On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.

‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’

On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.

‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’

‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’

As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’

#my writing #honestly dystopia is not a genre i'm interested in #lol #this was lazy and i wrote it in one morning while i was hungover on negroni

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dolphin-enthusiast · 5 years ago

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So we had cockroaches, spiders, but know let’s think bigger: La Squadra with a T H I C C/H U G E grasshopper hopping at them

Superb request my dear grey faced sunglasses wearing being😳😳

Risotto:

- At first isn’t bothered by it but the second it actually starts REALLY approaching him he fucking bolts up from his seat and zooms into the opposite direction without another sound/word.

- He isn’t scared of insects (not even spiders) per se, but the sight of that thique grasshopper violently charging at him kinda intimidates him and Y E S he is aware that he’s like 100000 times bigger than the poor insect. That still doesn’t change the fact that the sight was absolutely anxiety inducing. He’s only lucky the others weren’t around or else he would have been clowned for d a y s.

Melone:

- Fucking SCREECHES the second he spots it then runs away while still screaming like a maniac. The sight of him just flailing his arms around while screaming bloody murder as a big ass grasshopper is chasing him around would be absolutely p r i c e l e s s.

- Insert the other members filming him here as he’s almost crying like a little baby. He has no idea why but grasshoppers absolutely terrify him and when they are also HUGE on top of that it only gets worse. He certainly won’t be sleeping soundly at night.

Formaggio:

- Much like his fellow crackhead bestie Melone, he too goes into fight or flight mode the second he spots the h u g e insect hopping towards him. All that he wanted was to have a nice relaxing day out alas he is currently running for his life, all because of a thique fucking grasshopper.

- Eventually finds the others and desperately asks them to help him and when he takes them to the place in which he “almost go assasinated” all that the gang can do is facepalm once they discover the source of his distress.

- Even if SOME of them are lowkey afraid of the grasshopper, they still help poor Formaggio out. Most likely either Prosciutto or Risotto managed to lure the thique grasshopper out as the others were trembling in sheer fear, unable to do jack shit.

Ghiaccio:

- Is WAY more freaked out than he’d like to admit but he still tries (emphasis on “tries”) keeping his calm. And he relatively manages to do so until he fails to get rid of the insect and is sent into fight or flight mode.

- Desperately tries getting out his stand in order to freeze the insect so he can run the fuck away only to keep missing it, causing the man to go into one of his usual rage fits. Is the thique grasshopper THAT skilled in the art of dodging or is he simply too scared?

- Turns out it’s a mixture of both and so at some point Ghia just says fuck it and uses the secret Joestar technique. After he manages to get the hell out of the grasshopper’s range everyone can see just how agitated he is, and yet they shrug it off because when is Ghiaccio not agitated really?

Illuso:

- Actually manages to keep his calm, like REALLY keep his calm as he gets up from his seat and quickly dashes away so the grasshopper doesn’t jump on him or something.

- Certain insects just manage to induce him anxiety and grasshoppers are one of those. Why? He has no idea. All that he knows is that he ran away the instant he spotted the cursed insect and much to his dismay the others saw it too. Poor man got clowned by Melone and Formaggio for days afterwards.

Prosciutto:

- Probably the one that handles it the best out of them all. When he first spots the insect angrily hopping towards him his eyes widen almost comically but he keeps his cool and doesn’t let out any sounds.

- Grabs a newspaper and carefully gets up then gets into a ninja-ish pose as he waits for the grasshopper to come closer. If it wants to fight then that’s exactly what Prosci will do.

- And in that moment the rest of the squad arrives only to find Prosciutto having a mexican standoff with a fucking grasshopper. Prosciutto doesn’t say a word and it’s almost as if he pays them no mind while he steps away from the grasshopper and tries wacking it with the newspaper only to miss every single fucking time. This is definitely going on Melone and Formaggio’s Instagram accounts, be sure of it.

Pesci:

- If you thought Melone and Formaggio were horrible at handling this then just wait till you see our boi Pesci right here. The second he looks to the side and sees the G I A N T insect charging at him he’s literally on the brink of tears.

- Immediately runs away while screaming for his brother, making the rest of the gang eye him with a mix of suspicion and worry. Like me mans completely forgets that he has a stand or anything like that, he just goes into panic mode and y e e t s away. Needless to say, Prosciutto scolded him for noping out so easily after he got rid of the insect for Pesci with an exasperated groan.

#and thus the cursed saga continues #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #vento aureo #la squadra di esecuzione #jojo headcanons #headcanons #anon #feral tag

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astxlphe-fics · 5 years ago

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Snapshot.

Atsushi likes to draw in the park. He doesn’t realize how many times he’s drawn the handsome photographer until the man comes talking to him.

Kuniatsu / Artist Atsushi, Photographer Kunikida (also ft. bug lover kuni)

Word count : ~3K

Atsushi settles down on the grass, back against the tree, and crosses his legs. He sets his cardboard folder against his knees and opens his sketchbook.

It’s new, and empty, a gift from Kyouka for his birthday, along with the set of pencils he’s brought with him. He puts the metal box on the ground next to him, picks on and looks around.

It’s a sunny day, in April, so the weather is still somewhat cool and the park isn’t as packed as in the summer months. Atsushi takes in the tree line, in the high building behind it, the people walking, the guy sitting on a bench playing a video game, the blond man lying on his stomach, a camera in hand.

He starts to draw.

Broad strokes shape the trees, from gross shapes first until he moves on to smaller details, leaves and patches of grass and the shape of a man with a camera.

It takes over an hour for Atsushi to get to the point of drawing him, deciding last minute to add him to the scenery, and when he looks up to check if he has moved, he finds the man in the exact same position.

Utterly still, and a look of complete concentration on his face.

Atsushi draws him, smiling to himself, taking great care in the placement of his finger on the camera button, in the way his messy ponytail falls on his back, in the angle the sunlight makes his glasses glint.

About another hour later, about ten minutes after he changes page and takes on drawing a spider that crawled up his leg, the photographer sits and stretches, setting his camera around his neck. Then he walks to the man on the bench, who puts his video games in his trench coat.

They exchange a few words, and leave.

Atsushi tries to imagine what this man could possibly have photographed.

Bugs.

What Kunikida absolutely wants to photograph is close-ups of bugs.

It takes longer than he expects, but waiting is something he can do. His roommate is Dazai Osamu, so his patience is forged in fire, iron and exasperation.

The last bug close-up he takes is a caterpillar crawling its way to the nearest leaf, set right in front of his camera, and he has a pretty good shot of it eating.

When he is done, he sits back and stands, joining Dazai, who puts away his video game.

“Are you finished?” he asks, and Kunikida nods.

“I’m done.”

“Show me!” Dazai leans over to see the screen of his camera, almost knocking Kunikida off balance.

“Oi, be careful!” He huffs and turns the camera back on and opens the gallery, flipping through the different pictures he took during the last few hours.

There is, besides the caterpillar, a group of ants carrying bread crumb from where a family had picnicked for lunch. He shows him the ladybug as well, particularly proud of this one, as it's a picture of it as it takes off.

Several grasshoppers, a yellow butterfly and a bee.

Dazai looks over the pictures, and his nose wrinkles as he makes a face. “That’s gross, Kunikida, you could at least try to take pictures of more glamorous subjects.” He grins. “Like me.”

“Bugs are certainly glamorous,” Kunikida shoots back. “Unlike you, they’re an essential part of the ecosystem and are underappreciated. They need to be more recognized for the role they have in preserving our environment!”

Dazai sighs over-dramatically, draping himself on his shoulder. “Am I not an essential part of your ecosystem? Kunikida, you black-hearted man.” When Kunikida rolls his eyes, Dazai pulls himself straight again. “I’m only trying to help you. If the cute boy over there knew you took pictures of bugs—”

“The what now.”

“Don’t turn around,” Dazai orders, and Kunikida almost does as a reflex. Instead, he glances back to where Dazai is looking, to a (admittedly cute) white-haired young man sitting under the tree. “He’s been staring at you for an hour.”

“He’s drawing,” Kunikida hisses, starting to walk away. “This activity usually requires a lot of staring. He just happened to look in my general direction.”

Dazai doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says. “But you’re wrong. He was looking at your butt.”

“Dazai.”

The park is a good source of inspiration, Atsushi decides on the third day of drawing there. He changes his spot every time, looking for new sceneries and people to draw. There are a lot of critters he ends up doodling, from birds to bugs and a few squirrels.

He brings a hot drink with him today. The temperature has dropped during the night, and it’s pretty much cold, so there is no one in the park besides Atsushi himself — and the photographer.

Today he has a tripod and facing away from him, and it’s an angle Atsushi rarely draws anyone in, so he takes the opportunity to put it down on paper.

His friend is with him today too, and Atsushi plans to draw him as well, but he quickly forgets about him. He puts special attention in the angle of the photographer’s shoulders, well defined by the blue coat he’s wearing. It stops under his knees, mid-calf, and then Atsushi makes sure to draw the folds of the pants just right.

Once, the photographer makes a movement to turn away, seemingly in Atsushi’s direction. Atsushi ducks his head, pretending not to be watching.

Then he tries something new. He looks up, trying to guess what the man is seeing, what he is taking a picture of, and sketches it as well as he can. It’s not perfect, but it’s a fun game that he finds out he likes to play, for now.

Once he is done, he catches sight of a cat playing in the grass and changes his subject.

Maybe, he thinks, he should bring Byakko to the park with him, next time?

Kunikida comes back to the park often.

It’s not necessarily to take pictures of bugs, though he likes it, but he needs practice in taking pictures of larger sceneries and finding a focal point in it.

A subject, noticeable enough to draw the eye, placed in a way that makes it looks part of the larger picture rather that the focus of it.

He turns on his heels, and catches sight of the young man he has seen two days before — the one who, Dazai insisted, was looking at his butt. He’s sitting just on the line between shadows and sunlight, bent down, focused on his drawing, hair overshadowing his face.

His pen scratches at the paper, and he periodically looks up to the calico cat playing a few meters away.

When he does, the light hits his face just right.

Kunikida twists the head of his tripod and turns the camera in his direction, making sure to include the cat. The white-haired artist isn’t paying attention to him at all so, the next time he looks up at the animal, Kunikida snaps a quick picture.

He opens the picture folder and stares at it.

It’s perfect.

It’s not the only picture Kunikida takes of him.

“You’re turning into a stalker~" Dazai teases, poking his side, and Kunikida flushes.

“I’m not a stalker!”

“S—ure. It’s not your fault he is so photogenic, right?”

On the latest one, he is lying on the ground, legs swinging slowly as he draws a different cat. This one is black and white, and Kunikida saw it arrive with him. It’s probably his cat.

Over the next few days, it seems like every time Kunikida tries to take a good picture, this young artist is just there, in a corner, looking a natural part of the place. He zooms in on one of them as much as he possibly can before it turns blurry.

He is smiling here, wide enough to show some of his teeth, to make his eyes crinkle and shine.

Kunikida spends several second looking at it, at every details of his face he can make out, committing them to memory. Then, he duplicates the pictures and crops it.

That’s a smile he wouldn’t mind seeing up close.

God, he’s starting to sound like Dazai.

Next to him, Dazai’s obnoxious laughter only gets louder, and Kunikida would strangle him with his bare hands if not for the attention it would draw.

“I should apologize to him,” he decides suddenly. Because taking secret pictures of a stranger isn’t simply weird, it can come off as downright creepy, and Kunikida is not a creep. Because he’s started to look for this young artist on shots he’s definitely not on, and to zoom in on his face, and this is getting out of hands.

“You can’t!” Dazai can barely contain his glee. “He’s napping!”

Indeed he is, and Kunikida gives up. He huffs and settles on the ground to take more pictures of bugs, stopping all movement to wait for one to approach him.

A few minutes later, he finds himself nose to nose with the young man’s cat, who bops its face on the camera lens.

Resigned, Kunikida adjusts the settings and presses the button. The cat’s nose looks enormous on the resulting picture, it’s curious eyes wide, its face magnified. One it's taken he sits up and shows it too the cat.

“There,” he says. "Are you happy?”

It stares at the picture of itself, rubs its head on Kunikida’s hand until he gives it a good scratch, and leaves.

The cold has passed now, as the end of April nears, and more and more people come to enjoy the sunshine and warmer weather. Atsushi sees families and several dog walkers.

He sets Byakko upon the grass. “Don’t go too far,” he tells the cat, who flicks her black-tipped tail at him before ignoring him.

The photographer is almost facing Atsushi today, so he has to be more discreet while drawing.

He focuses on his face, this time. On the line of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes, and the way he frowns where he’s focused. He adds in as many details as he finds, and the more he draws the more his eyes are drawn to him.

By the time he is done Atsushi feels like he knows this face by heart.

The photographer’s expression changes as he takes different pictures of crowds while Atsushi records them in his sketchbook as fast as he possibly can, stomach fluttering as he discovers the range of emotions this man expresses.

It’s wonderful practice, especially when his tall friend annoys him until he turns to him.

“Stop it, Dazai,” Atsushi hears him snap when the friend in question purposely waves in front of the camera to wave at him. He supposes the picture is ruined, because the photographer emits a loud noise of frustration. “Dammit, it’s all blurry now! Stop that, you useless waste of bandages!”

The sound attracts Byakko’s attention, and she wanders away from Atsushi. She curiously paws towards the pair until Dazai notices her and bends down to pet her.

She rubs her head against the man’s hand, before messing around, coming close to knock the tripod over. The sight it almost as Atsushi on his feet, but before he can Dazai looks up. His eyes catch Atsushi and he smiles, wide, like a Cheshire cat.

Atsushi’s face burns. He has been caught staring. To make it worse, Dazai tugs on the photographer’s arm and points to the cat, then to Atsushi. The man picks up Byakko and walks over to Atsushi with decisive steps.

He's mad at him, he thinks as he tries to read his face. He’s going to yell at him for staring or for letting his cat mess around his equipment.

The photographer stops right in front of him, and Atsushi realizes his work is in plain sight. He slams his sketchbook close, hoping he hasn’t noticed it — and the handful of drawings of his face all over the page.

“Is this your cat?”

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi says, standing up to take her. “I’ll be more careful with her —”

“Please do,” the man answers, handing her to him. “What is she called?”

“Byakko.” He scratches at her ears and sighs. “I’m really sorry, I figured the park would be safer for her than letting her out in the streets.”

“No harm was done.” His face smooths over as he notices Atsushi’s distress, as if trying to reassure him. “She came over to me yesterday as well, and got her picture taken for her troubles.”

“Really? Thank you for not—you know—” He shrugs. “Uh, I’ve seen you around? Several times. I’m Atsushi.”

“Kunikida, it’s a pleasure.” His eyes fall on the discarded sketchbook. “I’ve seen you here as well, you seem to be a prolific artist.”

“I try!” He sends him a weak smile. “That’s how you progress, right?”

“Of course. Practice makes perfect— you must be skilled.”

“I can show you?” Atsushi offers, cheeks fading to a light pink. “If you want?”

Kunikida nods. “I can show you some of my work as well, if you’d like.” He gestures back at where his camera is still set. “I’m a photographer.”

Atsushi picks his sketchbook up again and flips it to the previous pages, trying to find one he likes enough to show off. He’s never liked showing his drawings to anyone, but Kunikida doesn’t seem the kind of man who would laugh at him, and something like excitation bubbles in Atsushi.

Until he realizes just how many times he has drawn Kunikida in the past few weeks.

“Uh—” The sketchbook snaps shut again, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Would you look at the time! I should really head home!”

“What—”

It’s obvious, from Kunikida’s face, that he’s seen them. He glances from the sketchbook to Atsushi, who is currently stuffing his things in his bag as fast as he can.

“I can hear my mom calling me!”

It’s only after he offers to show Atsushi his work that Kunikida remembers just how many pictures of him are on his camera roll.

He is almost relieved when Atsushi runs away, because it would have been a lot to explain. He would probably think Kunikida is a creep.

“Or maybe not,” Dazai tells him, thoughtful. “You say you saw that he’s been drawing you? So, I was right, he was looking at your butt.”

“Dazai, I’m sure he didn’t draw my butt.” He sets up his camera and looks around.

“Shame, it's very nice.”

After three days of going back to the usual park, Kunikida finally resigns to the fact that Atsushi isn’t showing up anymore. Since then, all his pictures have been bland — incomplete — so Dazai suggested moving location.

This new park is larger than the previous one and different enough to give him new material. The trees are denser and clear-cut paths run through it. A fountain stands in the center, the water flowing with a soothing noise.

Next to him, Dazai flops down on the grass, staring up at the sky and pulls out his earphones. Kunikida takes a picture, mentally labelling it as “Dazai being a lazy ass, as usual”.

It's only half-hearted, because Dazai doesn’t have to come with him on his photographing endeavors, and some days Kunikida wonders why he comes at all. Besides, saying he doesn’t enjoy Dazai’s company would be a blatant lie, they both know it.

Suddenly, Dazai rolls on his side and takes one of his earbuds out. “Your favourite subject is here,” he points out. “Looks like someone had the same idea!”

Following his fingers, Kunikida finds Atsushi sitting near the fountain, scribbling in his sketchbook. He almost has his back to him, so he can’t see his face.

“You should—”

Kunikida doesn’t hear the end of Dazai’s sentence. He grabs his camera and walks towards him until Byakko, sitting by him, raises her head in his direction.

She stands and meows, attracting Atsushi’s attention, and he turns around. His eyes go wide as he sees Kunikida, and he stammers out something that sounds like “hello”.

“I would like to take a picture of you, please,” Kunikida declares, and Atsushi’s face turns into a deep, concerning red.

“Uh?”

He raises his camera. “You also don’t have to be embarrassed about drawing me. People watching — and drawing — is a strong hobby that can only lead to great progress in your art.” He pauses. “There are also several pictures of you I took without your knowledge and consent, I’m sorry. In my defence, you are often the only person who doesn’t move around.”

Atsushi looks a lot less panicked now that he knows Kunikida doesn’t hold anything against him, and laughs. “I hope you know how weird this sounds.”

“I’m aware.” His strict composure softens, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “So, can I take a picture?”

“Sure.” He sets his sketchbook down. “How would you like it to be?”

“Just a portrait.” He crouches to be on the same level as Atsushi, who is still sitting, and smiles as the camera is pointed to him.

It’s the first picture he takes where Atsushi is looking right at the camera, smiling at him, and Kunikida’s heart jumps in his chest. He sits on the bench, right next to Atsushi, to show him.

The young man leans over until their shoulders touch and stares at his own face, not unlike his cat did just a few days ago.

His cheeks are still pink when he pulls on of his uneven strand of hair behind his ear. “Could I see the other ones?” He gulps, and seems to gather the courage to add something else, twisting his hands: “I mean, I could show you mine—” his graphite stained fingers tap his sketchbook as he speaks “—and you can show me yours. Over coffee? Maybe?”

Kunikida blinks in surprise, taken off guard, but he smiles. “I would like that.”

#bsd #kuniatsu #kunikida doppo #nakajima atsushi #bsd kunikida #bsd atsushi #writing

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blanxkey · 6 years ago

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the long way home || 2000 words

lucas turns seventeen on the road.

///

he doesn’t know why he proposes the idea in the first place.

except that when lucas wakes up one morning, flushed warm and sticky from sweating all night, his days withering and uncomfortable beneath a scorching july sun, he decides that he’s had enough. there’s heat dripping from every crevice of his bedroom walls – the boy above him traces soft, languid fingers over his naked back – and lucas blames it for the way his skin sings with the barest of touches.

when he feels the press of eliott’s lips to his spine, lucas shifts so he’s laying on his back. eliott hovers over him, balanced onto his elbows. mouth forms the beginning of a lazy smile, eyes following a little too closely, “morning.”

“let’s get away,” the syllables slip out, sleep induced and sort of bleary. “i don’t want to spend another day in this hell hole.”

eliott hums when he kisses the top of lucas’ nose, moves back to straddle his waist. lucas rest his hands on eliott’s thighs, strokes up, and down, and over each brush of morning light. appraisal catches eliott’s eyes – they’re so grey at this hour, grey like a sky kindling thunderclouds or lightning storms. “and where would we go?” eliott considers, if only to humour him, but he doesn’t laugh. something curls low in lucas’ belly, a sharp tug of impulse that turns giddily in his blood.

shrugging is vain, but he tries his best, says, “somewhere – anywhere, it doesn’t matter – we’ll think of something.”

eliott smiles fondly, briefly, before he’s kissing him. his kisses are tender, quite noises and gentle hands, and lucas will always melt in his hands. his heart takes on a messy beat. eliott, eliott, eliott.

outside, the chirping gets louder as paris comes slowly to life.

///

(recklessness is dangerous, a polished darkness. a spider’s web, fusing in the place where clear and broken meet. but sense fails, sometimes, falters when eliott says they’re still young. palms over his eyes, he leads lucas to the convertible parked just outside, dusty and hibernating. my uncle’s. eliott had just received his license, he only had to ask, and lucas would always go.)

///

they keep on chasing the asphalt even when the sun drips low on their backs, lucas likes that they never stay too long at one place, always moving, like the paths they follow. there are two bags of clothes hastily prepared, a motel, two, then three, and the distinction blurs. all of lucas’ shirts smell like eliott. hands draped over the steering wheel, pink blooming on his cheeks, eliott develops a liking to lucas’ snapback. when he grins at lucas behind his aviators, he looks like he belongs.

it’s an empty road, unwinding before lucas’ eyes, never looping, that sees the sun on lucas’ seventeenth.

seventeen. a number suspended between young and old, neither here nor there. if lucas thinks hard, he won’t remember how he got here, only that he’s glad eliott’s there with him. eliott, who’s drumming his fingers against the wheel. he doesn’t look over when he asks “wouldn’t you rather be anywhere else right now?”

lucas frowns. “like where?” he doesn’t know where they’re headed; the road atlas lies forgotten on the console. he just keeps watching as the sun casts faint shadows of eliott’s eyelashes over his cheekbones.

“i don’t know…like home.”

“no –” lucas answers quick, final. he looks out the window, at the lush green trees lining one side of the road, towering like skyscrapers under the bright sunlight. he thinks about how, when he was young and confined to the four walls of his parent’s room, the world stretched vast and mysterious, foreboding outside the comfort of his own home. in his dreams, it grew darker the longer he walked, and he feared that if he walked too far, he’ll never find a way back home.

now, eliott feels like an antithesis of those dreams, or a whisper of a new dream. a dream that he no longer fears, or represses, a dream he sees through open eyes. eliott changes lanes and the engine hums, the wind ruffles their hair and lucas watches deep grass field zooming by in the rear view mirror, but the doesn’t look back. he doesn’t have to. today, this minute, right now – “i am home.”

///

impromptu stops punctuate their journey, five minutes at tesco, ten at a gas station, thirty when they stop to have lunch at an Italian diner where the lady serving them keeps pinching eliott’s cheeks. it’s endearing to watch, the way a shy smile breaks across his face every time it happens.

when it feels like they’ve driven too far, eliott pulls over to the side of the road. he’s taken them somewhere, at last.

“come on,” eliott prompts, stepping out of the car. “always wanted to show you this.”

and lucas goes. he follows eliott to a sunset of fiery colour, to erupting hues of orange and dusky purple above, and pure, pure gold in front of him.

for a moment he feels transfixed, unable to move. the fields widen before him, on and on, until they meet the horizon. beige and sun-scorched sunflower stalks bend in the wind, the flowers sway gently atop, grasshoppers chirping somewhere among them. time comes to a standstill here, and he drinks in the stillness of it all, breathes until his lungs fill up with the wispy aura of high summer.

the world resumes again when eliott comes into his peripheral, holding a basket that lucas remembers they definitely didn’t have.

“where did you get that from?” lucas asks as eliott leads them ahead. he finds a clear spot just at the mouth, and starts unloading the basket, explaining as he does: “the lady at the diner prepared it for us. i only asked for some snacks for the road, but she insisted on the basket as well.”

lucas sits down next to him, his voice is full of mirth when he exclaims, “oh, so i was right! she did like you too much.”

“shut up.” and whether it’s the last bit of sunlight playing with eliott’s cheeks or the tint of an actual blush, lucas doesn’t know.

eliott lays out sandwiches and crisps, chocolates and rice cakes. there’s lukewarm beer for lucas, coke for eliott. lucas unwraps a sandwich, gazes at eliott as he does the same, and doesn’t feel ashamed in watching him eat.

“i know the cake’s missing,” eliott looks away when he catches his eyes. “but i’ll make it up to you, i promise.”

the way he looks right now, the way he carefully avoids lucas’ gaze, occupying himself with observing their surrounding instead, makes lucas’ heart race. he feels stupid, guilty even, for not voicing his gratitude before. for making eliott think he would want anything else, more. but still the words don’t come.

“it’s okay,” lucas hides behind his beer, it’s all he can say. “i know you will.”

they make use of their phones’ flashlights when the light fades to a dull grey. “do you come here often?” he asks after some time, when eliott has finished his coke.

eliott shakes his head. his eyes roam around them, turn somewhat wistful, like he’s remembering something. “only when i was young,” he swallows before continuing, “when dad wasn’t working or mom craved a drive, this is where we ended up.”

lucas observes the giant stalks, like if he searches hard enough, he can find the ghosts of eliott’s memories floating about. he can feel himself smiling at that, trying to imagine little eliott running through the field, screaming, laughing, complaining... “isn’t this a bit far?”

“it never was. not for me, at least,” eliott affirms, and then he winks. it’s hard to catch under the fading light. “i was always eager to return, to catch a glimpse of those wild animals people talked about.”

“is that why you brought me here? to feed me to your beast friends?” lucas gasps, affronted.

that squeezes a laugh out of him, loud and booming. eliott’s carefree under the fading light, pretty in the way that catches his eye. that whispers to him like the call of sleep. lucas keeps the moment close. “beast friends, god…” he wipes at his eyes, heaves out a sigh afterwards.

“yes, actually that was at the top of my bucket list,” he leans in to whisper conversationally, when he’s calmed down enough.

the prospect of feral animals living right here is, admittedly, terrifying, but he knows eliott wouldn’t take him somewhere dangerous, unsafe. so he lets it go, focuses instead on the next pressing matter. “what bucket list? why am i now hearing of a bucket list?”

“because i’m secretive and mysterious,” eliott says, puffing out his chest.

lucas scoffs. “or because you’re just making it up as you go.”

there’s a pich to lucas’ side. “hey!” he throws his hand over eliott’s shoulders, but he pivots, and pushes, and they end up falling backwards, lucas on the ground, eliott on top of him. the tiny gossamer strands of grass tickle his backside through the thin tank top, but the weight of eliott is comfortable above him.

“why,” eliott mumbles, and it sounds like he’s pouting, “is your humour always on my expense?”

lucas leans forward, presses his lips to eliott’s nose. “you love it, demaury.”

there are hands on his sides, fingers gripping the material of his shirt, and then there are soft lips on his. eliott licks into lucas’ mouth; he tastes faintly of chocolate. he holds lucas close when he kisses him, like lucas is the air he breathes, like lucas is the sun, the moon and all his stars. it makes lucas’ heart beat clumsily out of pace. he isn’t sure he can live under this effect for long.

when they part, a tiny smile is tugging eliott’s lips up. it widens when he sees lucas’ answering grin. pupils glimmering from the ever-widening bands of moonlight, eliott hoists them upwards.

“maybe i just won’t make it up for the cake, then.”

lucas’ eyes roll on their own. “you’re something else, entirely.”

“you love it, lallemant.”

///

later, after night drapes over the world in a glimmering sheet of navy, on and on they go. the tires crunch over gravel, throwing off sand and dust. lucas feels so full, feels like his heart could burst any moment right now. there aren’t enough words to explain how he feels, but he tries his best.

“thank you for today, eliott. it was beautiful, really,” it comes out meek, silent over the changing notes from the radio, but eliott hears him anyway. he glances at lucas, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles bashfully. faint moonlight silver breaks through the window by his side, colours his skin in soft graphite.

he turns back to the road. lucas keeps watching. “we need to find a place to stay, for now,” he announces, smile still in place, messes with the radio dial. “here,” he passes over the road atlas to lucas, “find us a motel, and tomorrow i’ll take you somewhere more beautiful.”

promises, promises.

“oh? another task on your bucket list?”

“uh uh, right alongside finding our tunnel song.”

lucas smiles. he traces a path on the map, then another, fingers passing over where they are now and where they had been to where they will be. an elaborate pattern, obscured by several memories lining the trail. but it doesn’t matter—it’s eliott he’s talking about, of course he would find a way back home.

(for now, though, lucas leans in his seat as moon river croons through the radio, as the cadence of sleep calls to him. he closes his eyes for a moment, just to feel earthed somehow. seventeen, he thinks, a number that feels like falling, and flying, and love – warm, warm, warm)

and eliott – he drives them further into the moonlit night.

#skam france #lucas x eliott #mywriting;#was supposed to post this yesterday #but some things happened and i #forgot #anyway #happy (belated) birthday lucas #i hope you had a blast with my son eliott

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bunysliper · 7 years ago

Note

you should write a story about the tags you did in this post post/149522438811 because oh my god yes to that

Soooo, it has been about a million and a half years since you prompted this, but I hope you like it, Anja! <3

Bouncing Baby Girl

Inspired by this post

Lily wakes her not long after her husband slips from thecocoon of their covers. It's still early – very early by vacation standards –but her daughter seems unbothered by that fact as she pulls herself up with a vicegrip on the comforter and plops onto the bed by Kate's chest.

"Hi Mama."

Kate yawns, looping an arm around her wiggling child."Hi, baby. It's not time to get up yet; come cuddle me."

Lily evades her attempt to pull her closer, rolling towardRick's side, a bright peel of laughter spilling from her lips. Kate hums; Lily'salways such a happy kid, so eager to see the world, and Kate's happy to see itthrough her eyes – even happier after coffee.

"No, Mama. S'go."

Kate's fingers creep across the sheets, tickling hertoddler's side. "Where are we going, honey?"

Lily squeaks, then stills, looking at Kate's from the otherpillow. Kate grins, using Lily's moment of contemplation to her advantage,drawing the girl closer and tucking the covers around her.

"I see da ocean."

Kate smiles, brushing soft fingers over Lily's hair. "Youknow, I think Daddy wanted to go to the beach with us after he has his booksigning, baby. Can we wait for him?"

Lily squirms away from her hands, giving her a nod after asecond of thought.

"Okay, so why don't we rest here until he gets back,and then we can put our bathing suits on and go see the ocean."

Her daughter sighs, flopping across Kate's torso. It's anagreement, mostly, but Kate doesn't waste the opportunity to close her armsaround her, keeping the baby against her chest. Lily settles after a moment,though she makes sure Kate knows it won't be for very long.

"That's okay," Kate murmurs, stroking sleep-clumsyfingers through her daughter's hair. "Mommy just needs long enough for herbrain to be able to work with her body to make coffee."

Thankfully, she's a little more with it the next time Lilysquirms in her arms.

"Yes, yes, yes," Kate answers, giving in to herdaughter's demands that she get up, leaving the bed on careful legs."Let's get you changed and have some breakfast, then we'll play untilDaddy gets back."

Lily whines as Kate scoops her off the mattress. "Nochange, Mama."

"Yes change," she argues, stopping at the dresserto send Rick a text telling him they're up and moving for the day. "Youdon't want to sit in your wet diaper all morning."

Lily doesn't argue that point, which comes as a relief. Shedoesn't fuss while she's being changed, either. She does, however, follow Kateinto the bathroom when she's done, her little feet slapping on the tile withevery step.

"Mama potty too?"

Kate bites her lip, remembering a time when she'd been ableto walk into the bathroom without a pint-sized shadow.

"Yeah, baby, I'm going potty too."

She also remembers a time when she hadn't used the word'potty' in everyday speech. How she'd taken that for granted. Then again, shealso hadn't had this sweet, beautiful little girl to make her life so much brighter.

She would pick Lily every time.

Although she braces herself for further questioning, Lily'scontent to leave it at that, and then to leave the bathroom altogether. Katemakes a mental note to ask Jenny if Sarah Grace had displayed similar interest,and if that had meant it was time to start toilet training.

She emerges from the en suite to the sound of giggles,finding Lily bouncing on her knees in the center of the bed.

"Are you having fun, crazy girl?" she asks, forgettingthat perhaps she's supposed to be stern and put a stop to this before herdaughter launches herself off the bed and cracks her head open.

Lily squeals, jumping with a little more force. "Mama,wash!"

Affection warms her veins as Kate hums. "I'm watching,Lily. You're a little grasshopper today, aren't you?"

Her daughter giggles, hopping in a clumsy circle beforecollapsing in the center of the bed. Kate lifts a hand to spot the girl andhelp her to her feet, but Lily is unbothered by her fall (and uninterested inthe help). Lily tumbles again on her next jump, but despite getting way tooclose to the edge of the bed for Kate's comfort, the girl doesn't seem at allfazed; she just gets back up and bounces some more.

"Cash!"

Kate barely has time to brace for impact before Lilylaunches herself off the bed. Her arms shoot out, plucking the girl out of theair.

"I caught you," she breathes, willing herheartrate to slow to a normal rhythm. Lily's fearless, just as Kate's fatherassures her she had been at this age. "You just love to fly, don't you?Well, let's fly."

Shifting her in her arms, Kate zooms Lily around the room,delighting in her happy – if not loud – giggles.

"Okay," she exhales after they've made a few lapsaround the suite, "ready to come in for a landing?"

"Ya, Mama!"

Nodding, Kate flies her over to the bed, feigning a bout ofturbulence before gently tossing her onto the pile of blankets. Lily lands on asqueal, jumping up with arms raised for her to do it again.

And again.

And again. At least ten times she tosses the girl back intothe center of the bed, only to have her pop up again, her cheeks flushed andher eyes sparkling blue – just like Rick's.

"Two more throws," she says finally, leaning overto blow a raspberry on her daughter's belly. The move only serves to make Lilylaugh harder, to clutch at her hair and squirm. "And then it's Mommy'sturn to jump on the bed with you."

#Fluffy Friday #Castle Fanfiction #Castle Fanfic #Caskett #Caskett Fanfic #Lily Castle #my fanfic #Prompt Responses #Post Series Fic #remuslovestonks

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ca-8 · 4 years ago

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(This is a short story about the Wright Brothers I wrote for chem class! Thought I'd might as well post this so it wouldn't rot in the back of my Google Docs app lol)

A Success Takes Flight

“You won’t win this one, General Orville!” an eleven-year-old boy declared, chasing an even younger boy down the hallway. The younger boy struggled to stifle a giggle as he almost tripped over his feet and darted around the corner. They both held a plastic horse with fake identical soldiers glued onto their backs. Various parts of their yellow and blue coats were scrapped off, but by the grins plastered on their faces, the boys didn’t seem to mind.

“When I get away, I will, General Wilbur!” a seven-year-old boy retorted, looking back at his older brother. They passed by a window of their house, and the moon shining from the Ohio night sky gazed down at them. They zoomed by their little sister’s room, and the small owner silently looked up at the doorway and returned her attention to the doll in her hands.

Wilbur increased his speed just a little. He figured his taller stature would easily overpower his younger brother's shorter size, and he would finally win the make-believe battle. The fate for his victory was sealed; however, he didn’t know that it would be from Orville’s own carelessness.

They ran into the living room, and while his eyes were on his big brother, Orville’s feet caught onto the edge of the rug that stuck up from its usual position. That grin instantly flew off his face as he collapsed onto the ground. The toy flew from his hand, and the horse was beheaded when it came in contact with the hardwood floor.

“Woah, are you okay, Orville?” Wilbur asked, approaching and kneeling down beside him. But his brother’s attention stayed glued onto the broken object.

“My toy…” he mumbled.

“What is going on here?” Wilbur turned to the doorway and saw his mother rushing to the scene.

“Orville tripped and his toy broke,” Wilbur said. He heard sniffling behind him, and he saw that his brother’s eyes were starting to well up with tears.

“Oh, honey…” their mother mumbled as she kneeled in front of him, cutting off his view from his once beloved toy. “You don’t need to cry. We can always fix it tomorrow, and it will be as good as new, okay?” she said in a soothing voice. Orville sniffed and wiped his eyes, but before he could say anything, the front door flew open.

“Wow! What smells good in here?” their father’s cheerful voice asked. The boys’ eyes instantly lit up when they saw a little bag in their father’s hand. “Father! Did you get us anything?” they asked in sync, running up to the man.

The father peered down at his children and chuckled, wiping off dust from his dark coat. “Now, now, boys, settle down.” His eyes went past the boys and onto their mother, then to the mess scattered behind her. “My, what happened here?”

“Orville broke his toy,” their mother informed. Orville lowered his head.

“Oh, it’s okay, the one I have is even better,” their father said. “Can we see it now?” Wilbur asked, bouncing on his toes. “I will, but first, I’m starving!”

The boys hurried to the dinner table and messily swallowed the food after their father’s prayer. Ignoring the disgusted looks they received from their five siblings, they ran from the kitchen and back to the living room. Wilbur encouraged his little brother to clean up the mess on the floor, which he obeyed, and they both waited for their father. Soon, the preacher entered the room.

“Okay, boys, here ya go!” he said. He put his hand inside the bag and carefully pulled out...some kind of object.

“What is that?” Orville asked.

The toy was a model of some sort of vehicle made out of cork with paper wings sprouting from the wings. But what really caught the boys’ attention were the two tiny things sticking out sideways on the other end of the vehicle. “You know, I am not sure. I guess it’s up to you boys what you want it to do,” their father said, handing it to Wilbur.

Wilbur held the strange toy in his hand with Orville peering over his shoulder. “Can it fly?” he asked, using his finger to gently brush the wings.

“Does it?” Their father was grinning like he was silently telling them to find out.

Wilbur stood up slowly. He moved the two small paper pieces slightly and cocked his head to the left when they both spun around the end. Without much thinking, he flicked one of the pieces, and the two spun quicker than anything he has ever seen.

“Woah! Let me see!” Orville demanded, jumping up from his spot. Wilbur handed him the toy and his little brother flicked the rotating paper a couple of times. His black irises seemed like they were shimmering with awe. Suddenly, he rose up the toy and threw it across the room.

“Hey, what’re you-?” Wilbur started, but when his gaze followed the toy, he realized that it was gliding through the air like a dead grasshopper instantly springing back to life. It flew across the room for a second before landing safely on the carpet.

The Wright brothers were silent. “My, what an interesting toy!” Their father walked over to it and picked it up, examining its unique features.

“That’s so cool!” Orville exclaimed. “I wanna do it again!” He ran over to his father, and after getting it back, he threw the device a few more times. Meanwhile, Wilbur stood and watched them entertain themselves. He wanted to join them; however, a thought forming in the back of his mind kept his feet cemented to the floor while thinking to himself, ‘I wonder if there’s anything to make us fly like that.’

For the next few years, the boys’ source of fun was only that toy. They always found new ways to make it fly faster and farther, like throwing it with the wind on a gusty Friday or climbing on top of the large tree that was not too far from their house and throwing it from there. Though, Orville would be its primary owner because of Wilbur being buried in his studies more and more each day.

But Wilbur was far from annoyed. He enjoyed being occupied in work he knew how to do. It was a way to show off what he knew, and what more he wanted to understand. And later on, school work and the flying wasn’t the only thing that brought a smile on his face.

Despite that, the activity would eventually introduce life-turning despair to him.

A few years later, Wilbur stood at the sides of a large river of frozen water. Many of the boys were holding their hockey sticks and skating along the thick ice. Wilbur's eyes followed the black puck that was passed between them. He had been playing hockey from time to time, but this was the first time he would be playing with this many kids.

"Be careful, Wilbur!" his mother yelled on the hill behind him. Wilbur looked up and gave her and his family an excited smile. His sisters and brothers had books and dolls in their arms. Orville had their flying toy. "Oh don't worry so much, Susan, he will be fine," he heard his father say.

Wilbur put his gaze back on the field and joined the other boys. Some of them he knew, some of them he didn’t, but it didn’t matter all too much. They accepted him as soon as he quickly took the puck and smacked it to the other side of the frozen lake.

Playful laughter erupted from the fields the boys had fun. Though, all through that time, Wilbur felt an unsettling feeling in the back of his head. As he chased boys who were trying to show dominance over the puck, he looked over his shoulder. The person behind him caused a shudder to run down his spine.

He was far, but his piercing gaze was almost unbearable. Oliver Crook Haugh stood on the other side of the field, his eyes never leaving Wilbur’s. The stare was as if a lion was stalking a gazelle abandoned by its herd.

Wilbur shook his head and focused back on the game. He was just probably having a bad day. Yeah, that’s it. The neighborhood bully always had a bad day. Surely he had other prey to pick on, right?

The Wright kid pushed in front of the other boys and held the puck against his stick. He kept a steady pace as he focused on the black, round object, only looking up every few seconds to avoid the other boys coming his way. The end field was so close he could practically see the grass in his sight. He prepared his arm to raise and swing the puck to the imaginary goal.

But he never did. Instead, a pair of black shoes appeared in front of the puck. Wilbur shot his head up to see Oliver with his stick behind his back, ready to swing. He thought he was aiming for the puck, but a sharp pain that collided with his jaw told him he was wrong. Wilbur felt himself fly back, and the only thing he saw next was a pair of birds flying in the cloudy sky.

It was as if time was moving in slow motion. The birds held their wings out, letting them glide perfectly along the windy air. Wilbur wished he could be one of those birds.

The world turned black when they flew out of his view.

Raindrops crashed into the window. Many slid down to the bottom, and Wilbur silently cheered for some to reach the bottom before the others. It was the only thing he could do that was slightly fun since his parents banned him from ever leaving his room.

“You need to stay here and rest if you want your jaw to get better,” was his mother’s actual words, but to him, it held the same meaning. Especially since she and his father said he wasn’t allowed to play hockey anymore.

“I can beat up Oliver if you want,” his other brother, Otis, offered. Every Wright child was taught to never raise a hand at anyone, so it surprised but also satisfied Wilbur that Otis would suggest such a thing. However, he had to decline; he didn’t want his brother to get in trouble because of his rage. Besides, who knows what Oliver would do to him?

His other siblings helped him eat and read stories to him, and though he appreciated it, they didn’t ease the pain. Not just the pain of his jaw, but this heavy pressure in his chest. He thought it was just a side effect of being brutally injured, so he ignored it.

One day, Orville silently came into his room and sat on his bed. He glanced at his big brother and mimicked his stare at the window. It was raining again.

Wilbur noticed that he was holding the flying toy. “You should be doing homework,” Wilbur said, forcing his gaze back on the window.

“I got bored. I wanted to go outside but Mother said I would bring dirt in the house.” Wilbur hummed, and the two boys sat in silence.

“Hey, Wilbur?” Orville said after a few moments.

“What?”

“Do you think we can actually fly like our toy?” Wilbur’s eyes trailed back to the small toy. The paper was wrinkling and the cork was covered in dirt, and some parts of it were coming off. Not only that, but the two smaller pieces of papers that stuck out at the end were beginning to rip. It surprised him that he didn’t notice such drastic details until that moment. “I don’t know,” he finally responded.

“Now that would be fun, doncha think? We’ll be like those annoying birds that wake us up every morning.” Wilbur let out a soft chuckle, and Orville grinned widely.

“Yeah, I guess we could. Someday.” They faced the window once again.

Wilbur felt ashamed. He was among the oldest of the Wright children, and yet, he just witnessed most of his siblings go off to college. He should be there too, but instead, he was stuck at home, wallowing in self-pity and failure.

Right after his jaw healed up, his mother fell ill, and Wilbur felt that this was his time to be useful. After all she had done for him and the family, it was the least he could do. At first, his father insisted that he would take the position so his son could catch up on his studies; however, Wilbur knew that his chance of graduating high school was far from his grasp.

Ever since the incident with Oliver, the heavy, empty feeling never left him, even after most of the injuries were fixed. In fact, it was probably worse. The usual urges to get out of bed, to eat, sleep, and smile were gone in an instant. It wasn’t very long before he realized that feeling took away his need for academic success. Afterwards, he dropped out of school, and taking care of his mother became his primary goal. Though he knew it was impossible, he still had regret lingering through his veins everyday when he thought of his chances for college.

“You don’t have to worry about me so much. You should get back to your studies,” his mother said weakly. Whenever they were in the same room together, she would always take the time to lecture him about his mistake. But he refused to listen.

Wilbur held the fork up to her mouth and her teeth hesitantly took the food. “Don’t be silly. If I can’t take care of you, who will? Father’s too busy.”

“You could do so much more…”

“I will, but after you get better.”

A tensed smile fell upon her lips as if she was putting every ounce of effort into showing her love. “You are so selfless, Wilbur,” she said.

Wilbur returned the gesture and took the empty plate off of her nightstand. “Thank you. Now rest up, Mother.”

Being in the Midwest, the day was unusually peaceful. The cloudless sky showed off the summer sun with pride, the grounds were untouched by merciful mother nature, and the wind was nonexistent. Orville and Wilbur would curse those calm days, and the flying toy would stay in the shadows of Orville’s room.

Wilbur walked in the kitchen and put the dish on the kitchen counter. Just before he could start cleaning it, a soft knock drove him out of his wandering thoughts. The older teen raised an eyebrow before making his way out of the kitchen.

“Orville?” he said when he opened the front door. “Shouldn’t you be filling that empty head of yours?”

His little brother chuckled. “You’re one to talk. I came to talk with Ma.”

“Don’t know if that’s a good idea. You know how she is, if she sees you, you won’t hear the end of it.” He only shrugged. There was something about his face that Wilbur couldn’t help but notice. His eyes shimmered with strange determination. As he entered the house, his pace was fast and those strong-willed irises darted from the furniture with the speed of a cheetah.

And Orville did the same. The moment the door opened, he was overwhelmed by the apathy his brother radiated. He knew he had changed in some way ever since the accident, but he never thought he would ever feel whiplash in the presence of his brother. When it was over, he wished he was brave enough to make Oliver pay and take his father’s angry lectures as a man rather than simply watch Wilbur become less of himself by the moment.

But now was not the time to focus on the past.

He entered his mother’s room to see the frail woman on her bed. “Orville?” she said, just above a whisper. He knelt by the bed, putting a hand over hers. Her sharp, cold skin sent shivers down his spine.

“Ma, before you say anything, I want you to hear me out,” he began. Wilbur silently walked in the room and leaned against the doorway.

“School’s not going well for me. I think I’m going to drop out.”

His mother’s eyes widened slightly. “What? Do you know how-” She erupted into a series of coughs and Orville jumped back. Wilbur pushed passed him, grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand, and poured the cold liquid down her throat.

Orville waited until silence was the only noise in the room. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, “it’s just not working for me.”

Wilbur turned and glared daggers at him. “You wait here, Mother, Orville and I are going to talk for a minute.”

“Wait…” she gasped out, but the boys have already left the room.

“I thought the biggest idiot in this world was the neighbor who ran in his burning home to save a piece of jewelry. But now… now you’re taking his place!” he yelled as soon as the siblings reached the other side of the house.

“I’m sorry, but it’s all too much! I want to do something more than solve little equations and learn the same history lesson over and over again.”

“So what, you just left? You left an opportunity to make a life worth living?”

“I never left. I still have a future. School is just not it.”

“I swear, if you don’t go back, I’ll drag you back there and make sure you don’t come out!” He was glad Katherine was out with her friend, or else she would replace their mother and lecture them for hours. That was the last thing he needed.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur-”

“Stop with the apologies! If you’re really sorry, you suck it up and go right back into that classroom. We don’t need another worthless child in this family.” Orville fell silent. Wilbur let out a heavy breath and looked away when he realized what he had said. It was almost as if he was talking in the mirror.

“Wilbur, that’s not true and you know it,” his younger brother said. “Ma wouldn’t be half as healthy if you hadn’t stayed here.”

He sniffed, cursing his body for even thinking about crying. “I stayed here because there’s nowhere else for me to go. If I can’t bother to read a book, what good am I?”

Orville sighed and wrapped his arms around him. The last time they hugged like this was when he was six and Wilbur was eight, and Wilbur comforted him about another toy he broke. They were glad no one else was around; it was embarrassing enough already.

“I can help with Ma, and after she gets better, we’re gonna start a company and get a lot of money.”

“You idiot. Do you know how much that would cost us? And you don’t know the first thing about starting a company.” Orville pulled away and smiled. “Then you can find a way.”

Wilbur softly laughed. “Fine.”

For the rest of the year, they did everything they could to help their mother. She didn’t have the strength to scold Orville on his decision anymore, so his father did it for her. He yelled and sometimes threw him out of the house to “make him experience what will happen” (as he would say) if he didn’t go back. Yet, Orville persisted, claiming that he and Wilbur were going to find a way to survive without school.

Meanwhile, Wilbur stayed in the background. For some reason, his father was easier on him. Of course, he had the hour-long lectures, but ever since he began taking care of Susan, they had grown distant. Still, he ignored this, and their relationship continued to be a struggling flame in an active snowstorm.

And soon, that flame would burn out.

In 1889, the light of death finally consumed her.

The Wright brothers sat in the front row of the crowd. The casket containing his mother’s body refused to leave the youngest’s line of sight. The older, however, felt as if his eyes would explode if he took a glimpse. Their father’s words were only echoes.

“God blessed me with an angel, and it seems…” he began, obviously suppressing a sob. Wilbur drowned out the rest of eulogy. Orville was too distracted to listen.

The church was filled with nothing but despair. Katherine and Ida cried so loud that the heavens must have heard them. Lorin hid his face from the crowd. Reuchlin was looking out the window. The brothers didn’t talk to them that day.

It wasn’t long before the two stood at the grave of their mother. Wilbur shouldn’t be crying because he knew this was coming. Despite repressing those thoughts every day and every night, reality always haunted him. His mother’s illness had no cure, so no matter what he did, he could not prevent the inevitable.

Orville put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” was all he muttered, and he pulled his brother away from the grave. I’m sorry, Ma, he apologized, I’ll make us into men that you’d have to be proud of. A wind of encouragement blew past him, rustling the leaves of the trees next to the grave.

Several years have passed since their mother’s death. Their father fell into a depressive state and urged his children to leave him alone. Thanks to him, Orville was able to convince Wilbur to come live with him in his house. From selling newspapers to designing bikes, they earned enough money to make a living. But, was it really enough?

“I know we enjoy this and all, but is this what we’re only going to do?” Wilbur asked, sitting down on his bed. He and Orville just came back from another day of work.

“Of course not. This bicycle business is only to get us some money,” Orville’s voice responded from the other side of the tenement. He poked his head into the room, grinning widely. “The real dream is over here.”

Wilbur let out a silent sigh and followed him to the ‘office’, which was just the kitchen covered in papers. The only thing that piqued his interest was what was on them. “I went ahead and made some pictures of what real aircraft will look like. What’d ya’ think?” Orville said.

“When did you make these?” Wilbur asked.

“Not too long ago. I just hid them so I could surprise you!” The older sibling raised an eyebrow. Never thought I’d see a twenty-five-year-old man act like a ten-year-old girl.

“Um, this is interesting and all…” Wilbur slowly walked up to one of the papers and picked it up. The drawing contained a large mechanical vehicle with open seats in the middle while propellers sat in the far end. Large paper-looking wings held up by what he thought were sticks hung at the sides. “...But why?” he finished.

“Why? Didn’t you read the newspaper the other day?” Orville ran out of the room, and a short moment later he came back with a newspaper in his hands. He set it down on the small table and flipped through it until he came to the page he wanted to show his brother. He pointed to one of the headlines:

German Aviator Otto Lilienthal Dies From Aircraft Crash

“A lot of people want to fly, Wilbur,” Orville started, “but they can’t if they don’t do it right.”

Wilbur had heard about aircraft testing and was lucky enough to read about aeronautics in the past. Though he wasn’t entirely focused on it, his love and hope for flight had never died. In fact, the decaying flying toy sat in him and his brother’s room. Even so… “Can we really do it?” he said, quickly skimming the article.

“Hm? Of course we can! All we need is some parts, coffee, and a place to fly. As long as we can put enough back into it, we’ll be richer than the British monarchy. And besides, you basically said it yourself that you didn’t want to make bikes forever.”

That, he couldn’t deny. A few years ago, he did like the idea of designing their own brand of bikes. And yet, inside him, he felt as though something was missing… Maybe this was it?

“I don’t think I can make this project last long without a wise-guy like you, man,” Orville said.

What was he talking about? His drawing and notes made enough sense for it to be possible. Not to mention the aircraft’s architecture convinced him that it could have plenty of stability to stay in the air with someone in it, if they had the right equipment. However, there was one thing that was off.

“Balance,” he said. “The aircraft needs to be balanced so it doesn’t get out of control. We’ll need…” He looked at his brother, who had his head tilted at him. “How much money do we have?”

Orville hesitated, then grinned when he realized what he meant. “Enough to test several times over.”

“Well then, let’s get to work.”

‘Dear Samuel Langley,’ Wilbur wrote on the cleanest sheet of paper he could find. Behind him was his brother, counting up the cash they had earned in the past few years. ‘My name is Wilbur Wright. My brother, Orville Wright, and I would be honored to possess some of your works on aeronautics. We have been informed that you worked on Otto Lilienthal’s aircraft, and we ask for your knowledge of its architecture.

Ever since the day of Lilienthal’s death, we plan to give our blood, sweat, and tears to make an aircraft powerful enough to let hundreds of people soar through the skies. However, we know little about the science of flight, and we believe that you could bring us that knowledge. We only ask for a few books. Even one is more than enough. Just anything that can let us work our fingers to the bone.

With your help, a dream of human flight will become reality. Thank you, Wilbur Wright.’

A few weeks later, multiple books appeared on their doorstep, and they immediately took them in. “Holy-! Wilbur, look!” Orville shouted. Wilbur turned his attention from the other books and walked over to him. His eyes widened when he held Lilienthal’s book in his hands. They flipped through the pages, taking in every drawing, entry, and recording of the progress of his aircraft experiences.

The brothers took turns staying up all night studying each book on what made existing aircraft possible. Soon, they narrowed down to what they needed to do: how to get the wings to stabilize the vehicle while it’s in the air.

They looked for things that could naturally fly to see how they made themselves consistently stable. Once the Wright brothers found it, they took their notebooks and binoculars to the local park.

“Those birds…” Wilbur said, watching the creatures fly through the sunny sky. “They don’t necessarily put too much work in their wings, don’t they?” The birds have only flapped their wings four to six times, as he noted. They kept their wings still by their sides and just let themselves glide with the wind as their accelerator.

“Maybe our aircrafts can do that?” Orville suggested.

They decided to test his theory. With the help of Lilientha’s data and wood to hold up the hundred square foot fabric wings, they built their first-ever glider. Two large rectangular wings stood above and below each other while behind held up by wood. In the middle was a hole that would allow the users’ knees to stick out while their feet held onto the back. Wood horizontally stood in the front of the hole where the user’s chest would be supported. A few weeks later, they were ready to test.

But, Dayton proved to be quite useless as the testing sight. When they sent off their glider, it dropped right to the ground with no effort. The brothers covered their faces in embarrassment.

“Well, what now?” Orville sighed, resting his head on the kitchen table.

“Don’t pout like that. We’ll just find us a place that’s more suitable. Now, what place has a lot of wind and is private enough for our experiment?” That night, they were still lost. But when it seemed like they were at an impasse, Wilbur came up with an idea. He researched the windiest states and cities closest to Ohio, and a week later, they were headed to North Carolina, bringing as much equipment as they could carry. When they arrived, they paid for their hotel and rented out a large building with nothing but empty space inside. It was perfect for building numerous aircrafts.

Yet, when they followed Lilientha’s data to the tenth place, something about their glider was off. They decided to make adjustments (using stronger fabric, putting more and less wood under the wings, switching between who was going to be pilot), but it was useless. Nothing worked.

“Maybe they were wrong,” Wilbur said. He scanned Lilithenal’s notes again. “Then what’re we supposed to do? We can’t improve something if it was wrong the whole time,” Orville groaned, leaning against the wall.

“It’s not like you to act dumb, Orville. Of course we can.” Wilbur closed the book. “We just need to take a different route.”

His face glowed instantly, like a lightbulb just turned on in his mind. “Let’s build a wind tunnel,” he suggested, “so we can observe how the wings move with the airflow and measure constant velocity. We can also catch what goes wrong with the current wings.”

His big brother smiled. “There he is. For that, we’ll need a large fan and a room we can look into. And we’ll have to test the wind tunnel first just so we can make sure ours is efficient,” Wilbur explained. “First, let’s find a fan that’s powerful enough to be used against the glider.”

“I know what we need. Wilbur, are you okay with handling the smaller models of the wings?” Orville asked. “Yes. What are you going to do?” his brother asked.

“Don’t worry, leave it to me.”

Wilbur did as his brother asked. He designed a smaller, but not too small, pair of wings that looked exactly like the ones on the glider. Without warning, Orville kicked the door open and dragged in a large box with a fan attached to the end. Wilbur covered his ears at the sound of the boxes’ legs screeching against the floor.

“Aha, sorry…” Orville said sheepishly. “But, I got us our wind tunnel!” He went to the side of the box and pulled up a small door, revealing the darkened inside. Inside that darkness was some sort of stand with horizontal sticks on two of its inside ends sitting near the top. “With this little creation, we can measure how the wing moves against the wind and its pressure. We can see how much it lifts and how it drags.”

“Then what’re we waiting for? Let’s get started,” Wilbur said and handed him the wings. Orville grabbed them and attached it to the top of the stand. After closing the door, he rushed to the fan and turned it on, then led Wilbur to the far end where the side was nothing but glass. They fell in silence, focusing on nothing but the wings.

The wind pushed against the wings and they quickly flew off and crashed into the glass. If the glass wasn’t there, the wings could have smacked their faces. “...I think we need a different set of wings,” Orville commented. “Thanks, genius, never thought we had to do that,” Wilbur remarked with sarcasm. He got up and turned off the fan, then lifted up the door to grab the wings.

The second pair, which was longer and curvier, couldn’t produce as much lift as the other pair and the drag caused the wings to move too slow. The third pair, which was a little shorter and straighter, lifted a lot faster than the second, but the drag was too insignificant. They produced more and more wing models until their fingers were numb. Sometimes, they accidentally cut themselves with the steel.

The hours of work and days of testing one hundred eighty-nine (Orville counted) wings, they eventually find the pair. Their long, teardrop shapes lifted perfectly against the wind, and their drag proved to be just as efficient: not too fast and not too fast. They instantly abandoned the other test models and created the gliders’ wings’ final form.

Orville laid in the aircraft and nodded at his brother. Wilbur pushed the aircraft and the glider took off. Just like the models in the wind tunnel, these allowed the wind to lift him in the air, and the drag stayed constant. The only thing he wished they changed was how they could land. About fifteen seconds in, the wind disappeared, and Orville landed right into the sand.

“Just as I thought,” Wilbur mumbled under his breath, helping him off the ground. “Ugh, what?” his little brother said, wiping the sand off his clothes.

“We need to make the aircraft more mobile so we don’t end up like Lilithenal,” he answered. He looked over to the glider. And I think I know just how to do that.

“What’s this?” Orville asked the next day when he walked in the large empty building where they made their inventions. In front of his brother were tools and a medium-sized flat rectangle made of the same materials as their glider.

“You know how I keep saying the aircraft lacks control?” Wilbur asked, and he nodded. “Well, I made us something called an elevator. With this, the one flying in the aircraft can control the wings so the balance won’t be off all the time.”

Orville nodded. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying...And-”

“And because I invented it, I will be the one to test it.” Orville stopped and glared. “What? Don’t give me that look. I’m the big brother anyway, so I get to do things first.”

“And you’re the one calling me childish all the time…”

Once they were finished attaching the elevator to the glider, Wilbur hopped into the glider, his knees poking out of the little hole and stomach resting on the fabric above. With the help of his brother, he was sent into the air. The movement was rocky, but despite it, Wilbur strangely felt at peace. After a few seconds of wind accelerating the glider, the wings began to shift to the left on their own. Wilbur gripped onto the handles of the elevator and slowly shifted them back to the right. The aircraft managed to keep itself in the air for the time being.

He quickly realized that he was gliding right towards the ground. He took a deep breath and carefully pushed the elevator up. The wings shifted upwards, and he was back in the air. He looked down at Orville, and, while even being in the air, could see his big smile cheering him on. Wilbur formed his own grin and titled the elevator down.

“Wing warping,” Orville suddenly said when Wilbur reached the ground. “What?” he said, breathing heavily.

“While you were shifting the wings, it came to me. Just like birds, you controlled the wings so you can be better adjusted to the air.”

“Why do we have to give it a name?” Wilbur asked.

“Because people might ask what the method is called when we get interviewed. Plus, we invented it, so we have to give it a name. Edison didn’t invent the light just to call it ‘thing that can make light,’ right?”

Wilbur snickered. “Alright fine. Anyway, I think we need to add something to make the aircraft last longer in the air.”

“Way ahead of you. Come on, I have an idea.”

The brothers headed back to the building. Orville showed Wilbur the damaged flying toy they brought with them. As soon as the older brother saw rudder-like things on its tail, he quickly knew what his brother was saying. They put the toy back and went to work.

By some miracle, their predictions were right. With the rudders they attached on the back of the glider, the rocky movement he experienced before greatly decreased. He soared through the skies, like a bird hungry for adventure zooming from its mother’s nest. If he was daring enough, he could probably take a nap here.

But he couldn’t rest yet. They could now add power to the soon-to-be aircraft.

“So what did you two need my help with?” the Wright brother’s friend, Charles Taylor asked. They brought him in from Dayton because of his intellect with machinery. He was quite useful during their construction of original bike brands.

“We need to build an engine powerful enough to support an aircraft, and all of the others being sold couldn’t quite fit the requirements. They were all much too heavy,” Wilbur informed. The brothers walked him to the door of the large building and opened it. Charles flinched at the sight of their large glider. Orville gave him a quick explanation for the situation.

“Hmm, then I guess I’ll have to use aluminum instead of iron...” Charles explained, his eyes darting over to the glider. He gave it an intense stare for a few seconds before saying, “What will it specifically power?”

“We were thinking about adding propellers to help it lift in the air. Could that work?” Orville suggested.

“Guess we’ll have to find out. I’ll get some equipment and you boys start on the propellers.” The brothers followed Charles’ instructions, and about an hour later, he came back with boxes of machinery.

As they helped him bring the boxes in, he asked, “So you two want people to fly because you were bored with bikes?”

“Ahaha, not really…” Orville trailed off, huffing when he put down one of the boxes. “It’s actually a dream we had ever since we were kids.”

“Really? I only heard y’all mention aircraft a few times at the bike shop.”

“We didn’t have much money at the time, so we couldn’t really do anything about it,” Wilbur said.

“Ah, makes sense. Everything’s getting more expensive these days. Alright, I think this is the last box.” Charles sat the box down and put his hands on his hips. “By the way, just because I can make it smaller, it’ll still be a little heavy with all the combustion chambers and crankcase and such. I don’t think it’ll work well with fabric and wood.”

With that, the brothers began manufacturing steel propellers and managed to get stronger wood to support them properly. At the same time, the machinist silently prepared them an engine suitable for powering human flight. As the three men were oblivious to time, hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and those months transformed into a year. Luckily, they used that time to put more weight into the aircraft. Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Charles was finished.

“There you are, fellas!” he said with a big grin. The smaller engine’s aluminum skin gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that shined through the windows. “All you need to do is put the gasoline in this tank right here-,” he pointed to the small tank on the engine’s right, “-and it should mix with the air that comes from the air intake, assembling the ignition in these cylinders right there-,” he pointed to the four combustion cylinders that hung below the flat surface at the top, “-and go right through the fuel line no problem! Now we just need to find a way to make that fuel go right to the propellers.”

“Thanks, Charles, we dunno what we’d do without you,” Orville.

“Hey, anytime. By the way, you guys said you needed these?” Charles went towards the back where the boxes sat patiently, waiting to be helpful after days of being untouched. He dug through one of them and pulled out chains and a couple of sprockets. When the brothers wrote to him the first time, they asked him to bring those from the bike shop.

“We figured that those would be needed,” Wilbur said, walking up to him and taking the two objects from his hands. “What for?” Charles asked curiously.

“You know how we used those to build bikes?” Orville started. “We attached the sprockets to the pedal and wheel, and connected the two with a chain so they could move. So, if we attached the sprocket to the engine to power it up, we can connect that with the chain. Then, we can attach the other end of the chain to the second sprocket that’s attached to the propellers.”

“Oh, I see, like one big bicycle,” Charles said. “Well then, let’s power this baby up.”

Just like in Orville’s explanation, they attached one sprocket to the crankshaft part of the engine, then wrapped a chain around it. With the other sprocket, they attached it to the end of the long pole that connected to the propeller. They did the same actions for the other propeller.

The next morning, the first heavier-than-air powered vehicle had its first taste of the clouds.

“Ready, Wilbur?” Orville shouted. His big brother laid on his stomach on the pilot’s seat of the aircraft. He looked back to see Charles and his friends (four men and one woman, who were invited to come see the Wright brothers’ success) standing far behind the propellers. His younger brother was behind the engine, ready to activate it.

“Yes, sir!” he yelled. In the next few seconds, the engine was activated. The back of the aircraft sputtered, like an old man coughing out his struggling lungs, and Wilbur’s heart skipped a beat. He gripped the handles of the elevator. After a long, tense moment, the propellers turned slowly, then faster, and faster, and faster until he couldn’t see the individual blades anymore.

The aircraft bounced and carefully lifted itself off of the ground. Wilbur was suddenly pushed through the air by a gust of wind, and he took flight amongst the clouds.

It took quick thrusts to the right and left, and at some points, Wilbur thought he was dropping to the ground. He tilted the wings to where they could move against the eastern airflow and moved upwards. Another sputter left the engine, and he heard nothing but the whistling wind and hum of the propellers.

Was he doing it? Is it working? Everything inside him felt light and fluttery. Wilbur moved his gaze from the ground and looked up at the sky. The sun stared at him from above while the birds stood clear of the flying man. It might have only been a few seconds, but compared to their other tests, this flight was a decade long.

He let out a soft laugh. It worked, Mother, we did it.

He titled the wings to their left and flew back around. Ant-sized people stared up at him, and one of them was jumping for joy. A sputter erupted from the engine again, and Wilbur decided that it was time to let his wings rest.

He landed the aircraft back on the ground and jumped out of it. “So, what’d you think?” he said to the crowd. Charles had a huge, excited smile on his face while his friends looked stunned. “See, what’d I tell ya? These guys are geniuses!” he said to the small crowd.

“I think we’re about to be the richest men in the world!” Orville shouted. He ran up to the aircraft and hugged it like a father embracing his child.

“B-But will anyone believe it?” one of Charles’ friends stuttered, staring at the aircraft. “I mean, a flying car, the press will think you’re joking!”

“Oh, they will,” Wilbur stated, crossing his arms. “Once they see this thing fly across the world, they’ll have no choice but to believe it.”

#history #wright brothers #i dont know why but im kinda proud of this #even though i rushed some parts lol #writing #original story

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jessiewre · 5 years ago

Text

Day 65

Mon 9th March

Safari Day 3 - Serengeti & Ngorongongo Park

Some would say a wet mattress is a sign of bad luck.

Sean & Jane would probably sit in that category.

They both looked KNACKERED the next morning at breakfast and I cringed as I asked them how their night was. I had to ask though, I’m British! It’s what you say!

‘Awful’ she replied. She was looking straight at me and there was a strange look in her eye. Did she think...no, she can’t think...

‘We’ve basically had no sleep’ she continued, her eye contact wavering at this point. ‘Well, Sean’s had a bit and I’ve not. How was your night?’

Ok I was sure I was started to detect a hint of accusation in her tone. Maybe I was imagining it.

It was weird though, because we were constantly trying to get a balance between bigging up the tour that they had recommended to us, so that they felt good about it, but then also not having too good a time incase we were having a better time than them. Which we clearly were.

I blame the Romanians.

‘...yeah, it was fine’, I began, ‘My mattress was a bit wet too but it was ok when I turned it over...’.

Was that the right answer or the wrong one? I just couldn’t tell. It’s like saying ‘Yeah my mattress was wet too, so it wasn’t just you guys who suffered, but hey look at me - I just got on with it!’

It felt like we couldn’t win.

If we’d had a perfectly good night sleep it was unfair, but if we’d had a bad night sleep, it was like saying they couldn’t complain cos we had it just as bad as them - when clearly we didn’t.

What can you do other than just tell the truth and hope they will take it well?!

We guiltily began to feel grateful that the Jeeps groups were being kept apart for dining and went off to enjoy breakfast with our happy Romanian friends.

We started off with a beautiful sunrise safari in the Serengeti and it was a bit of a pinch me moment. Pink and orange skies and grasshopper safari sounds all around us. I could practically hear music from the Lion King on repeat in my head. We watched the hot air balloons beautifully glide overhead and kept our eyes peeled for any early risers of the animal kingdom. We saw hippos and birds and a serval cat very briefly - but no big cats. The overnight rain had caused a major problem to the roads and we realised that we were quite limited with where we could go due to the muddy tracks. At one stage, we had travelled for an hour seeing NOTHING at all, then got to a point in the track where loads of vehicles were struggling on an incredibly muddy single vehicle track. As one jeep tried to pass another, it had to go sideways up a bank - but as it did so, it slipped down the bank side on with the other jeep and crashed into it!

Luckily it was all quite slow and there was no major damage, but now these two jeeps were in a sort of V shape squashed together blocking the track for everyone.

By the reaction of the drivers, it was just another day on safari! They were so relaxed about it.

Eventually it got sorted and we drove off in search of animals again but apart from the amazing sunrise, it had not been a particularly fruitful morning safari. Oh, apart from our driver - Alfani - helping to fix a broken down jeep. Our driver was not amazing at spotting wild animals we’d realised, but he sure knew how to fix a car!

Then suddenly, we got a tip off from another vehicle that there was a lion nearby and we headed to a potential cat spotting area as quickly as the muddy tracks allowed. We zoomed through the savannah trying to avoid the huge muddy puddles, crossing all our fingers and toes that we’d get a sighting.

And then there she was.

A huge female lion!

She crossed the road and ran up a tree to pose and yawn in front of us while we (I) snapped away with my camera.

Then she stayed in position for OVER HALF AN HOUR!

MAGICAL!

We felt so lucky.

We looked around at all the vehicles arriving, desperate to see Jeep 2 somewhere amongst them. C’mon we are nice people, OF COURSE we wanted the Irish couple to get a sighting of the lioness too.

Mainly to avoid a very awkward conversation later.

But we couldn’t see them. Oh gaad.

Luckily, when we got back to the campsite to collect our belongings and have breakfast before leaving the Serengeti, they confirmed they too had seen a lion. PHEW! They seemed pretty happy now too. Perhaps the bad nights sleep was just a distant memory now. Maybe this was the turning point we’d been hoping for. Maybe all prejudice in the world will stop soon and there will be equality for all.

Yeah. Maybe not.

The drive back through the Serengeti didn’t feel as long as the day before and we spotted hyenas, vultures, giraffes as we headed to the evenings campsite. We were crossing our fingers that the campsite would be a step up from the previous night, but mainly praying that we would be the first car to arrive so we could choose our tents and use the showers first! Screw equality for all, we wanted a nice tent!

And rumour had it this campsite had HOT WATER. Can you imagine it? Hot water in the middle of the African plains. Plus people had definitely cottoned on to the first come first serve vibes, so we really needed to be selective about our jeep stops along the way. On Day 1 we would have stoped for a bloody dragonfly. But now we were old hat at safari! Professionals mate. Pah, another wildebeest? BORING. Hit that goddam pedal dude, them tents aren’t going to pick themselves.

We finally got to the campsite as dusk was falling and luckily, we WERE one of the first jeeps! Oh sweet lord! And it wasn’t raining! You don’t realise how much you love NO rain, until it rains while camping with an ancient tent and lack of hot water. Not tonight though!

We got our pick of the tents and I quickly grabbed my stuff to head to the showers.

I practically skipped there, humming a little tune to myself.

The thing with rumours is that they are often false. I’d forgotten that.

The shower I went in was absolute dog shit, a pathetic excuse of a shower. I attempted to wash my hair under a cold trickle of water but I gave up after about 5 seconds. It’ll have to be a basic body wash this time, I thought, shivering under the cold dribble.

As I left the cubicle, I noticed the one next to me had the distinct sound of flowing water. WTF.

And did she have hot water?? I couldn’t resist asking.

‘Hey! Excuse me! Is your shower HOT?’

‘Umm, I wouldn’t say hot...but its not cold’

Well that was enough for me to decide to wait for her shower and go for Hot shower take 2.

So I waited. And waited. And waited. I swear to god this fecker seemed to think that there would be a limitless water supply and took AAAAAAGES. By the time she finally came out, there were 3 more people queuing for it. I’ll tell you what really does my nut in, its when there are limited showers, such as a situation exactly like this one, and people STAY in the cubicle to fully dry off and get dressed and brush their hair and blah blah blah. NAH babe, GET OUT OF THE SHOWER CUBICLE there are another 100 stinky safari bitches out here and we ain’t got all night ffs!

And breathe.

So anyway.

Moving on.

This was going to be the Romanians last evening with us, as they were doing one day less safari’ing than us - so it was sad times! But they were still going to be with us for the full day the next day, so it wasn’t over quite yet. And we were already planning our trip to go and visit them.

We went to the dinner room and saw the separate tables again, giving Sean and Jane a little wave. Then I thought, frig it - we should make the effort and join the tables. Even though part of me didn’t want to, I felt like it was the right thing to do.

So I suggested it to them and they looked pleased, ‘Yeah great idea, lets do it’ they said.  Phil and I walked over to their table and helped to carry it along with their chairs and plates over to join the end of our table to make one big long table. Great!

Except it wasn’t really, was it.

For some unknown reason, our table was way better than theirs. In so many ways.

We had proper chairs, but their chairs were camping chairs WITH NO BACK ON THEM. I watched Jane’s eyes hover over to our plates, ‘Wow you guys have fancy plates and stuff. Ours are basic’

Jesus.

How was it so awkward so fast.

I prayed Jane wouldn’t spot our metal cutlery. I’d already seen they had plastic. I COULDN’T TAKE ANY MORE OF THIS.

In hindsight, having their table right next to ours was a terrible idea.

Every dish that came over to our table was scrutinised by them to see if it was better than their food. Which of course, it was. Even if it wasn’t, it just was.

Their table was quiet and their conversations were forced and, well, kinda boring to be honest.

Our chat was better, our laughter was louder and our Romanian love story was blossoming right before their eyes. I reckon it almost felt like we’d invited them over to sit with us so we could show them just how much fun we were having. We hadn’t. (Really. We hadn’t. I swear).

The difference between the two now-joined groups was so starkly opposite that it probably just confirmed to them that we were solely responsible for their safari being second best. Which in a way, it really was.

We even offered them some of our food when we’d all been served but they politely declined of course (its the principle don’t you know).

I was sat on the join of the tables, so at least tried to make an effort with conversations across the border - whereas Phil was chugging back the rum and having a jolly old Irish-Romanian time learning some Romanian slang phrases such as ‘F*** my feather’ & also ‘F*** your dead ancestors’ (which seemed particular unnecessary).

I tried my best to chat to their side of the table without having to miss out on the fun vibes of our side, but I kept having to repeat myself so they could hear me, as Philly’s hilarity was causing very loud laughter.

Yep, it was pretty cringe.

We couldn’t really avoid the obvious safari chat so I tried to say something positive. In a backwards sort of way.

‘Our driver is not a great wildlife spotter to be honest’ I said, ‘YOUR guy seems great though!’.

Jane replied, ‘Yeah he is actually, he is really good at spotting stuff. He spots the most out of everyone in our vehicle!’.

And that meant a lot considering they had about 12 people squashed into their jeep 😬.

I thought we’d made some progress there, but then she just came out with it.

‘Yeah, thats the one we’ve beat you guys on and to be honest, its a really important one’.

Ok so up until this point, no one had actually said out loud what this safari trip had turned into. No one had said that it had become a weird competition, a battle, to see who had the best tent / best food / best time. And me and Phil really hadn’t paid much attention to it because, well, we were busy HAVING THE BEST TIME.

But now it was confirmed. They were constantly comparing what they had to what we had and it was clearly wrecking with their heads. I’d had my suspicions of course, but this was a proper penny-drop moment.

She meekly smiled as though trying to shrug it off as a light-hearted comment. But I could see right through her.

From now, it was GAME ON.

 Ok not quite.

I actually still felt sorry for them and a bit embarrassed about it all. And Phil was just drunk at this point.

I decided I’d wait till the morning to tell him about it all and see what he thought. Maybe I’d read it all wrong.

And as crazy as it might sound, in between these moments, we did kind of enjoy a sort of pleasant evening with them. Honestly. We DID 😬.

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