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pinkgrim · 6 years ago

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东宫 CH42

A large number of the Yu Lin army have already started to charge towards me, i turned to face the gateway, rushed forth and ran straight up the city gate tower. I leaned over the city wall battlements from above, and stooped down to see A'Du who was still there by herself thumping at the city gate with her fists, that grand and well fortified gate, just relying on her own strength, how could she possibly push it open ? I saw her grimacing and silently weeping, He Shi suddenly came to mind, he had entrusted me to A'Du, and how was it not that he entrusted A'Du to me. If it weren't for me, A'Du might not of survived, just like how if it wasn't for A'Du, i wouldn't of survived either.

The massacre of Tu Jue must of made A’Du feel a thousand, ten thousand times more lonely and aggrieved than me. 200,000 of her tribesmen died at the combined strength of Yue Zhi and the Central Plains army. Despite the deep hatred from that sea of blood that had been spilled, but for my sake she accompanied me in the Central Plains for 3 years. Now that things have reached this stage, she is the only one i felt apologetic to. The Yu Lin army had now already reached the bottom of the gates pass, a numerous amount of people escorted Li Cheng Yin as he dismounted from his horse and from behind i could hear a mass of footsteps, they have ascended up the gate. However i had no fear, calmly standing in my place.

Li Cheng Yin's neck was still bandaged with a white gauze. If my blade had cut even a little bit deeper, perhaps he wouldn't of been able to stand here. He faced me and walked towards me alone. However, every time he took a step forth, i took a step back. I kept on retreating my steps until couldn't retreat any more and reached the edge of the battlements. The westerly winds blew my sleeves upwards, producing a whistling sound, just like the day i was standing on the summit above the River of Forgetfulness. Right below my feet appeared to be a bottomless abyss of interweaving clouds and mist. Li Cheng Yin was observing me with a deep and profound gaze, he finally spoke : " Don't tell me you really are that unwilling to be my wife ? " I smiled at him but did not answer. He asked me : " That Gu Xiao Wu, what makes him so special ? " The heels of my feet were already suspended in mid-air, only the tips of my feet were standing on top of the battlements above, teetering back and forth. The Yu Lin army had already retreated far away, silently and attentively watching me. Yet the gaze from Li Cheng Yin, held an anguish so tangled and complicated, as if he was silently enduring, as if he was miserable. I felt as if i had a dream, where everything was the same as 3 years ago, and for the past 3 years, life was just a vain illusion, but after all, nothing had changed. I said : " What made Gu Xiao Wu special, ill never tell you " Li Cheng Yin suddenly cracked a smile : " It's a pity hes already dead. " Yes, its a pity hes already dead. He tried reasoning with me : " Return with me, we can turn over a new leaf, i will still treat you well. Regardless of whether you still have that Gu Xiao Wu in your mind, as long as you're willing to return with me, i will never mention this matter again. " I gave him a smile and said : " As long as you promise me one thing, i will wholeheartedly return with you. " His face held no expression and only asked : " What thing ? " I said : " I want you to catch 100 fireflies for me. " He slightly staggered, he looked at me seemingly utterly perplexed. My line of sight gradually started to get misty, yet my smile remained : " The River of Forgetfulness, where love can be forgotten.... the divine water from the River of Forgetfulness allowed me to forget for 3 years, however, it failed to allow me to forget for a lifetime."

Tears trickled down my cheek, i smiled and said to him: " To be someone like you who has forgotten it all, how great would that be. " He dazedly stared at me, as if he couldnt comprehend what i was saying, i was also unaware of my current expression, i was certain i was smiling at him, however i couldnt help but cry at the same time. I said : "This time, i must truly forget you." I turned around, like a bird about to fly towards the sky, like a butterfly about to flutter towards a flower, i was determined to leap without hesitation. I knew without a doubt that there was no River of Forgetfulness here. That right below was a myriad of piercing-sharp rocks and as soon as one jumps, only a gruesome death awaits. I heard a number of people crying out in fear, in a moment of desperation Li Cheng Yin scrambled to grab his belt and wrapped it around my hand. All that was happening felt like a reenactment of exactly what took place 3 years ago. Suspended in mid-air my entire body became rigid as he held onto me, he was hanging from the edge of the battlements due to the inertia from my plunging body. With one hand he held onto the battlements, and with the other he leaned over holding onto me. Due to the physical restraint the veins on his hands violently bulged and the wound on his neck started to seep out blood, the wound has probably split opened, but instead of letting go, he loudly roared : " Guards ! " I knew that if the Yu Lin army rushed here to help him, i would have lost all chances. I raised my hand, a cold light flashed past his eyes, he cried out : " No ! " I severed his belt, that thin silk cloth ripped apart in the air, i poured all my remaining strength into giving him one last smile : " I'm going to forget you, Gu Xiao Wu. " I saw the startled expression in his eyes, and the blood from his neck slowly flowed out, as if his entire body was suddenly inflicted with serious damage, he even slightly stumbled backwards looking upwards towards the sky. I saw the blood burst and splash forth from his wound, falling upon my face. I held onto my smile and watched him, he seemed to want to grab onto me in vain, but he missed by the smallest margin and his fingertips could only catch air, his mournful cry echoed within my ears : " Its me.... Xiao Feng.... I'm Gu Xiao Wu.... " I knew he finally remembered, and so this will be my greatest revenge against him. The massacre that he commanded over 3 years ago, was what completely obstructed our affections for each other ; and now 3 years later ill use this to cut off everything between us. I saw his clothes fluttering out, perhaps just like 3 years ago he'll follow me and leap down, but this isnt the River of Forgetfulness, to fall is to die a bloody gruesome death. I saw Pei Zhao grabbing onto him, i saw him turn his hand and hit Pei Zhao in the chest, undoubtedly he used all his strength, i saw that the attack to his chest caused Pei Zhao to throw up blood, but Pei Zhao did not let go and even more people started to rush forwards, firmly hindering him.

The was sky so blue.... the sound of the wind created a "huhu" sound past my ears, everything before my eyes gradually started to blur. It appeared as if i could see myself sitting on top of a sandy dune, watching the slow setting sun, along with my heart gradually descending, until the very end, until the sun had eventually vanished and was obstructed by a far away sandy dune, never to be seen again. The heaven and earth was heavily surrounded upon by the darkness of the night, even the last of the light was not to be seen.

It appeared as if i could see a circle of people watching and laughing. The majority of people from Tu Jue did not seem to believe that the white-eyed wolf king was really slayed by Gu Xiao Wu, so they continued to hold a thread of contempt. Gu Xiao Wu clasped at the bow, as if he were to play the zither, he used his finger to pluck at the bowstring. The bowstring made a clanging sound, the circle of people laughed even louder, yet among the roaring laughter he aligned his arrows, shooting down 100 bats.

It appeared as if i could see a myriad of fireflies flitting towards the sky, like millions of shooting stars flying across from the tips of our fingers, when the gods release their shooting stars, perhaps it would look just like this. Thousands upon thousands of fireflies encircling us, gracefully flying by, luminous lights scattering in all directions, like the golden rays from shooting stars that streak across the night sky. I think of the poem in the song, the god and the lover he longs for, standing in the river of stars, just like this so wondrous and dazzling.

It appeared as if i could see myself standing above the River of Forgetfulness, the heel of my feet already suspended in mid-air, the wind from under the cliff blew me unsteady, i swayed as if at any moment i could fall, the wind blew my garments it producing a loud whistling sound, my sleeves as if a thin blade unceasingly lashing at my arms. Now he didnt dare to step forward and coerce me, i say to him : " I misjudged you, and now my home and people are in ruins, to suffer this ordeal is the punishment sent from the gods. Enunciating each word distinctly, i say : " For all eternity, i shall entirely forget you forever ! "

It appeared as if i could see the evening of our great wedding, he lifted up my veil. When the veil uplifted, everything before my eyes was bright, brightly lit candles surrounded me, illuminating his face, and his entire body. He wore a black robe, exquisite designs were embroidered on top. Several months before, under the supervision of Yong Niang, from the book 《Rituals & Etiquettes》 i had to memorize it to heart, i knew that that was a black attire, crimson garments, ninth chapter. Five chapters on attire, dragon、mountain、flower insect、fire、ceremonial goblets ; four chapters on garments, seaweed、rice、axe、bows. This was weaved into it. The single patch of white silk, axe on the collar、 jade cuffs、lapel. Leather belt, bright gold strokes, great apparel, silk belt nor vermilion lining, sets of concise knots. Bow on the lower garment、fire、mountain. He wore the ceremonial imperial crown, nine tassles with various beads, appearance as his silk cord, green-black silk around his ears, guided by a sharp hairpin, a grand bearing.

At that time, i thought that that was our first meeting. What i didnt know was that we had already met, under the moonlight in the vast Western Liang. The last thing that came to mind was the precise moment i severed the belt, his eyes that were full of glistening tears. But its too late now, we conflicted for three years, however we still fell in love with one another. This is the punishment the gods have bestowed on us. Those who have drunk from the River of Forgetfulness, shall eternally part and shall never remember one another. Whilst rapidly falling I serenely closed my eyes, waiting for my body and bones to be crushed. The pressure from the fall eventually ceased, the sharp pain i imagined still never arrived. I opened my eyes, A'Du's cold arm was wrapped around me, even though she tried to use her strength to jump up, but no one on this earth could withstand the immense force from such a fall, i could practically hear the sound of her bones disintegrating, she had forcibly used her own body as a safety pad and cushioned my body from smashing on to the ground. I saw the blood from her ears、 from her nose、and from her eyes all flowing out, i loudly cried out : " A'Du ! " I had twinges of pain coming from both my legs, i had no way of standing up, i heavily struggled to get up, bewilderedly i wanted to embrace her, but it seemed that even the slightest touch would bring forth acute pain, her expression showed agony, but her jet-black eyes gazed at me, her glance was just as poised as in the past, and didnt hold the slightest intention of blame. She looked at me as if i had merely done something naughty, or perhaps like in the past, when ever i wanted to slip away and take her out to roam the streets. I embraced her, muttering her name.

I clearly knew i had long lost the chance to return to Western Liang, i merely wanted her to leave first, but i failed her, because i clearly knew she would not cast me away to live upon this lonely world alone.

As well as how I could not bear to cast her away to live upon this lonely world alone. A'Du had already closed her eyes, no matter how much i cry out for her, she wouldn't even know. I heard the sound of the city gate squeaking open, an imposing amount of soldiers advanced towards us, i knew that everyone still had thoughts of pulling me back to that insufferable world, to bring me back to that cold and grim Eastern Palace. But now i no longer want to suffer that type of misery anymore. I said to A'Du : " Let's go back to Western Liang together. " I lightly picked up A'Du's golden knife, a moment ago A'Du had used it to cut down a large amount of iron bolts so the blades surface had ruptured and many small fine nicks appeared. In an instance i deeply stabbed the knife into my own chest, and yet i felt no pain. Perhaps ive already experienced all the sufferings of this world, so how could death even compare ? Blood gurgled out, i held onto A'Du's hand with both of my blood-stained hands, slowly I leaned over and fell by her side. Now, we can finally return home. I could feel my temperature and consciousness all gradually parting from me, and darkness gradually enshrouded me. It seemed as if i could see Gu Xiao Wu, sitting tall he urged his horse forward rushing towards me, i knew he had not died, but he had merely gone to catch 100 fireflies for me. Now I want him to fasten his belt on me, by doing so he will forever stay by my side. With a slight meaningful smile, i swallowed my final breath. A vast and desolate land, a song speaks out : "A single fox sitting on top of a sandy hill, sitting on top of a sandy hill, gazing at the moon. Alas, it turns out it was not gazing at the moon, it was actually waiting for the girl who herds sheep.... A single fox sitting on top of a sandy hill, sitting on top of a sandy hill, basking in the sun.... Alas…. It turns out it was not basking in the sun, it was actually waiting for the girl riding her horse to pass by..." Turns out that fox was unable to wait for girl whom it wanted to wait for all along.

《Eastern Palace》 End

#goodbye my princess #eastern palace #东宫

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autumnmooncakes · 6 years ago

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Scrying

WARNINGS: creepy images, mild gore and violence

Summary: Loki investigates some magical mirrors and has a terrifying encounter.

Word count: 2500+

Author’s note: Pre-Thor and not part of my fanfiction series (for now)

The ancient art of scrying is prevalent in many cultures across the cosmos. This technique is utilized to divine the past, the present, or possible futures. Scrying tools are not limited to mirrors. Any reflective surface can be used for scrying: metal, stones, water, fire. What the scryer sees may be personal to them, or it may have nothing to do with them at all.

“Are you hoping to see your future lover?”

Loki looked up from his book. A grinning Thor was leaning over the desk, threatening to mess up Loki’s piles of carefully-taken notes.

Loki was interested in a wide variety of topics, and his curiosity was not superficial. A topic could be subjected to intensive research for weeks, even months. The latest one to catch his eye had been mirrors.

Mirrors were surrounded by numerous superstitions. They were said to show visions. Breaking them was considered bad luck. Some believed they could trap people’s souls, especially the souls of those who were dead. With magic being as diverse as it was, Loki held to the notion that not all such fears were irrational.

And mirrors held a special meaning for Loki. Because of his ability to cast illusions, he knew better than anyone how images could fool people. He startled himself when he walked in front of a mirror while disguised.

Thor had heard many of the same rumors, but he didn’t believe any of them. For him, mirrors were just tools for vanity.

Loki was planning on visiting a place called the Vale of Mirrors. Stories about it varied and many sounded exaggerated, but they all agreed that the Vale held some very mysterious mirrors, possibly the most powerful in the universe.

Loki wasn’t interested in scrying or seeing any deep truths. He just wanted to experience the mirrors for himself.

Loki gave his brother a bored look. “I would not waste my time asking such empty-headed questions.”

“You may find out that your sweetheart is a lizard,” Thor continued. “Or a troll.”

Loki’s eyes dropped to a drawing on the table, depicting a man cowering from a storm of whirling leaves. His mother had warned him about delving too deep into powerful magic, but the temptation was just too great.

“You should be careful in the Vale, brother,” said Thor, taking his hands off the table. “You might accidentally summon a Fire Demon that will gobble you up!” Chuckling to himself, he left Loki in the shadowy corner of the library.

The distant planet Loki landed on was largely uninhabited, so nature flourished freely. The planet’s three faraway suns gave off a comfortable light through the blue and gold trees. Furry animals with long snouts leapt through the branches, and worms twined around the trunks. Colorful rocks crunched beneath Loki’s boots.

Strangely, many of the trees were broken near the tops, with the severed branches lying in a heap around them.

Loki plucked some leaves off the ground. They were very soft, like velvet.

Placing the leaves in his coat, he continued on through the forest, following a faint but undeniable tug of magic.

At last, he reached the grove he had seen so many times in illustrations. The trees here looked as if they had been pruned. In the center of the grove was a perfectly circular pond with worms swimming in it.

Wondering if the pond was one of the mirrors, Loki peered into the water. However, it was so clear he could see right to the bottom.

Loki walked around the pond and found the ground sloping down into a pitch dark cave. He lit up his hand with yellow magic and went in.

The tunnel led to a circular room with nine large mirrors on the walls, each a plain sheet of glass.

Loki studied the mirrors. He could only see himself from several different angles. Nothing unusual.

Loki then noticed that everything was still. The sounds of rustling leaves and animals had stopped. There was invisible magic in the cave, but it was static, unmoving.

Maybe he had to focus. He drew closer to one of the mirrors. Still nothing changed.

Just as Loki was wondering if he needed to use a spell, the eyes in his reflection darkened, and the face became longer and narrower.

Loki stepped back and noticed that all the reflections were changing, growing broader or thinner, their hair morphing into other colors, until each one was a different person. All of them turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Loki asked.

“Why have you come here?” one of them asked back.

“I am here to see the magic of the Vale.”

“We can show you a great many things,” said another man.

Each of them was standing in another cave, also full of mirrors. It was his own world, multiplied a myriad times.

Maybe the mirrors were windows into other worlds, ones he could see but not touch.

Or maybe he was the reflection, and the others were reality.

Loki summoned up his courage. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Are you afraid of your future?” one of the reflections asked.

Fate was not something Loki considered very often, because it unsettled him. The conviction of most Asgardians was that no matter what came to pass, they would face it courageously.

Loki was not nearly that confident. Still, if that was what they offered, he would take it. “What do you know of my future?”

The magic in Loki’s hand extinguished itself, but the mirrors remained lit with their own eerie light.

“If you are not afraid …” said the reflection.

“You should be,” all of them hissed.

The cave and the mirrors disappeared. It was very dark, but Loki could see the faint outlines of trees. Leaves were falling around him – some silver, some a ghostly blue. The gleaming tips of creature’s snouts darted in and out of sight. Luminous worms as large as snakes swarm in a murky black pond in front of him. The whole place gave off the stench of wet leaves and dirty rainwater.

Loki heard a crackling noise that grew progressively louder. Ice was creeping over the forest floor and up the trees. Pinpricks of red light appeared in the rocks, like a million eyes looking up at him.

Terror gripped Loki. Every muscle in this body wanted to run. But just as that thought crossed his mind, a wind blew him onto his knees.

All at once, the trees broke at the point where their trunks forked, as if a giant scythe had cleaved off their tops.

Loki looked into the pond. The reflection looking back at him seemed melancholy.

Then his reflection’s arm grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him into the dark water.

Loki barely had time to gasp.

But he wasn’t drowning. He didn’t even feel like he was underwater. The other him had vanished, and he was floating in empty blackness.

It isn’t real, he reminded himself.

His toe hit something solid, and he fell onto hard ground.

Loki’s head was on its side, and he could see that he was on a patch of rocks that smelled vaguely metallic. Beyond the rocks was a thick black fog. It was extremely quiet.

Loki tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Even his eyelids had been forced open.

Something oozed up from between the rocks, flowing over Loki’s fingers and seeping through his clothing. The scent of blood filled Loki’s nose. He tried to get up again, but to no avail. His magic wouldn’t respond, either.

The blood kept coming, and Loki wondered if it was his. He thought he could see ghoulish faces in the rocks, screaming silently. Maybe they were the ones bleeding.

Just as Loki thought he would be trapped forever, the rocks turned to dust beneath him, and the liquid vaporized.

Loki twitched his fingers and found to his relief that he could move again.

He got to his feet shakily and wiped the blood off his face. The fog was gone, and he was on a barren plain. He stood there, legs apart and eyes alert.

The wind picked up, and dust got into Loki’s eyes and clothes.

Loki then thought he saw something hovering in the distance, unmoved by the wind. A spark of flame, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Was it a friend or an enemy?

The bits of dust started to twist themselves into cable-like strands. One end was anchored to the ground, while the other end waved in the air. Instead of attacking Loki, they started converging on the tiny flame.

The flame could be his only aid in this place He started running toward it.

Immediately, some of the cables started moving towards Loki. Their ends became pointed, like spearheads.

Loki pulled a dagger out of his coat and sliced through the cable closest to him. The cable exploded, its dust spraying over Loki. However, no sooner had it burst apart then it reassembled again.

The cables slashed, making small cuts on Loki’s hands and face. One of them darted straight towards his chest, and he dodged it.

If Loki had been facing a conventional opponent, he would have known how to fight. But these were very different entities. Stooping down, he put away his dagger and unleashed a blast of magic.

The magic scattered the pieces of dust much better than his dagger could.

Loki charged towards the flame. As he cupped his hands around it, it grew slightly larger, lighting up his face with its orange glow. It was pleasantly warm.

Loki smiled a little, but he knew he had to be careful. Fire was fickle, and not easily controlled.

Similar types of magic were attracted to each other, Loki remembered. He conjured a small flame of his own and held it steady.

The cables were advancing on him.

He strengthened his magic, and the flame grew along with it. He unleashed them both as one fiery blast. The cables were disintegrated instantly.

Loki grinned proudly. He extinguished his own magic, but the small flame stayed.

The ground quaked, making Loki almost lose his balance. The plain began turning into sinking pits of dust. Soon, only the patch of ground Loki stood on remained.

Many voices whispered all around him, speaking as one. “Will you join us? Or will you be the one to escape?”

Burning white objects, like stars, began showering from the sky. Loki had nowhere to run to, so he shielded his head.

He hated this. He had fought hundreds of enemies before, but none of them could compare to the forces of nature.

The flame spread out above him, incinerating the objects as they came near. But he could feel the flame weakening.

Fight nature with nature, he thought.

Some of the objects grazed Loki’s arms, scorching him through his clothes. When they fell around Loki’s feet, Loki saw that they were leaves, sharp as glass and smoldering with white fire.

Images danced in the flames. A blue crystal mounted in gold. An army mounted on winged horses. A rift in the sky that was full of stars. A long sword stained with blood.

Just as suddenly as it had began, the bombardment of objects stopped.

Loki took his hands away from his head, and the orange flame shrunk again.

Rocks rushed out of the pits, and as he watched, the cave walls rebuilt themselves around him.

There was a flash of lightning and a thunderclap that made Loki cover his ears. He was almost certain the cave roof had split open.

Then it was absolutely silent.

The flame was gone. The leaves were gone. Except for the nine mirrors, the cave was empty.

After a few heartbeats, Loki hurried back through the tunnel into the open. The sunlight blinded him, and he fell to his knees.

When his eyes refocused, he realized he was kneeling by the edge of the pond, which was clear again. The sun was warm on his back. He watched the rippling water and fluid movements of the worms, and gradually his heart stopped pounding.

Loki gingerly reached up to touch his face. There was no blood, no dust. All his wounds had healed, but the sensations still remained.

He had to laugh at himself. He, the illusion-caster, frightened by false images. Nearly all sense had departed from him in the cave. He had always prided himself on being the rational one in his family, but it seemed fear always triumphed over intelligence. He knew the best thing to do was to go home, talk to other people, and remind himself that reality still existed.

He pictured Thor coming to him and asking, So, did you see your future lover? and him answering, Yes, and it turned out to be myself. Now please leave me and my books in peace.

Loki saw that more of the trees were broken than before. Perhaps he had actually left the cave during his vision.

The blissful scenery suddenly seemed to be overlaid with sinister images. Anything – from the ground to the plants to the sky itself – could turn against him at any moment.

Loki backed away from the pond. Then he reached into his coat and took out the leaves he had picked up. They were still blue and gold, and as bright as ever.

What had the Vale been trying to tell him?

Here’s a piece of music to go with this story (lyrics in description)

#loki #thor #son and brother #fanfiction

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ktrsvo · 7 years ago

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infinity plus one (2.9k) alternate universe - soulmates

Peter whispers, “I’ll never not choose you, Lara Jean.”

the movie called me, and i could not resist

Lara Jean grows up believing that the sentence on her wrist is supposed to mean something.

Six words. Nineteen letters. There is no one like you.

All her life, she is told that birthmark words are words she’s supposed to hear from her soulmate. Something exclusive, grand, and romantic. Magical, in the way hearing classical music on a moonlit night is supposed to feel. Like you’re more than part of the universe, like you actually encompass the entity itself. All the stars, planets, suns, revolving infinitely around the earth.

Or, at least that’s what romance novels say.

But here’s the thing: the sentence on her skin is nothing extraordinary. It could come from anyone, anytime. Some people, she’s heard, have beautiful words, and there are Lara Jean’s, as plain as they come. There is no one like you. Fate’s way of handing out poetic irony right there.

Margot won’t tell her what her sentence is. The response is always the same: “just flowery nonsense”, each and every time.

Lara Jean’s kind of jealous, really.

But not everyone has words. There are those with images, too. Almost the same as tattoos, but ultimately with more meaningful permanence. Delicate roses done in pale pink filigree, to name a few. The unfurled wings of a raven, spread out in midnight-blue ink. Sea shells on a tangle of anemones, pearl-white and ornate.

They beat what she has, any day.

Admittedly, it’s a pretty vain wish, to have stars instead of an unkempt scrawl. But that’s precisely the point: if she’s going to meet her soulmate, it might as well be a memorable affair. Not - whatever this is.

Oh, well. You can’t have everything in life.

✧･ﾟ: *

She thinks it’s Josh for a good two weeks.

It starts when she falls off her bike one day. They’re riding around the neighbourhood, the warm afternoon light luminous against their skin, their backs, when Lara Jean comes across a rock and skids to the side. She isn’t wearing any kind of protective gear, so that earns her a few scrapes.

The sight of the gashes gets Josh into the Worried Mode immediately. That sort of state is usually reserved for Margot - Margot being Margot and all - but Josh can be just as bad, sometimes. So there they are, crouched on the sidewalk, Josh carefully examining the afflicted areas, Lara Jean sticking her tongue out all the while.

“Hey, I’m fine. Promise,” she insists, pushing away at his hand because it’s the truth.

Josh raises an eyebrow. There’s an amused twinkle in his eyes that makes her breath catch for the briefest millisecond. Or two. “Uh, hello. You can’t ride in your condition,” he says. “What if you like accidentally trip again? Or something? Margot would kill me.”

“Nice to know that your own welfare is all that you care about.” Lara Jean snorts. Then, she moves to get to her feet, but the effort makes her wince, and it isn’t lost on Josh.

So before Josh can speak up, Lara Jean is hopping onto her bike again and racing down the sidewalk. It is quick to become a game, the two of them speeding along the streets, the balmy summer hair whipping through their hair.

They stop once they reach the front of Lara Jean’s house, and Josh practically throws himself onto the grass.

“Seriously?” she says, poking at his leg with a foot. “C’mon, lazy bones. We still have that tree-climbing to do.”

Josh rolls onto his side. He curls into himself, pretending to sleep. “Get yourself patched up first.”

“That can wait.” Lara Jean lets out a laugh. And then, she stretches out a hand. “Josh. Please. Get up.”

For a moment, it looks as if he isn’t about to listen to her, but then his fingers wrap around her own wrist, his lips quirked up into a smile. And for some reason Lara Jean’s heart, that - that traitor, starts stuttering at this, Josh’s hand now slipping into her own, his mouth curled in a crescent moon shape, his voice honey-sweet in her ears.

“There is no one like you, is there, Lara Jean?” he says, and maybe he means it to come off as teasing, but it isn’t, not really.

Those six words, six syllables, and still the world turns. Staying firmly in its tracks.

The now dying light haloes the brown of Josh’s hair, illuminating the lighter hues, like the golden threads of a tapestry. It’s you, Lara Jean thinks dimly. Definitely you. But it does not feel like it is.

(He is not, Lara Jean realizes not long after. When she discovers the mark on his skin does not match hers in the slightest. Not a sentence, but an image. A whorl of powder-blue, twined along the slender arch of his collarbone.

✧･ﾟ: *

There’s Kenny from camp. John Ambrose from Model UN. But it is neither of them, like Josh.

Kenny, she finds out the hard way, after he says the words on her wrist without knowing of their existence. And it’s funny, how a sentence that once meant so much could turn out insignificant in the end.

“You know, Lara Jean, I actually know who my soulmate is,” Kenny says to her as they’re swinging their legs over a ledge, unaware that her heart is sinking, sinking, sinking. “It’s this girl back at home. She’s really pretty, you know. Brown hair, green eyes. Freckles all over her face. I think I’m in love with her. And I think she loves me, too.” He says this so seriously, so solemnly, Lara Jean forgets her disappointment and hopes it’s true, for both their sakes.

When you’re eleven, you don’t really know what love is. Not the kind where your family or friends are involved, but the kind that makes your heart race, palms sweat, knees buckle. Lara Jean would know; she got over Josh point five seconds after the crushing realization. So, Lara Jean and Kenny? Not meant to be?

Cool.

Camp is the last time Lara Jean sees Kenny, anyway. Cutting a languid, loose-limbed figure against the noonday sun, tanned from exposure.

✧･ﾟ: *

John Ambrose is a little more complicated. They get to know each other well during the MUN meetings, and Lara Jean ends up liking him so much it’s harder to accept the reality.

Smart, handsome, soft-spoken John Ambrose, with those bright blue eyes of his that remind her of oceans where they’re at their deepest. Rich sapphire. Deep, deep blue.

For a while, she is sure that John Ambrose likes her back. That maybe, just maybe, he is the one meant for her. So when a stroke of fortune gets him to utter the cursed words, during a conversation about political warfare, she’s touched that he seems to mean it, that he truly thinks she is clever and capable and bright, but there’s something missing from the picture, one that she cannot name for the life of her.

Sure, John Ambrose does like her. In the way she has been hoping for.

It is not a dream come true, however. Whatever they have between them ends where it starts - never mutually acknowledged - because, number one, they’re kids, and, number two, she figures out it’s not John Ambrose her heart has been searching for.

When John Ambrose moves to a new school by the end of the year, that’s quick to become history, and strangely enough Lara Jean feels an odd sense of closure.

✧･ﾟ: *

Seventh grade comes along and brings with it Peter Kavinsky.

This one is easy: the only real event that comes up between them is a single kiss during a game of Spin the Bottle. That’s pretty much it. Plus, there’s the matter of Gen being crazy wild for him, convinced they’re meant to be together, forever and ever, so ....

Good for Gen. Whatever.

Still it does not stop Peter from stealing looks at her on occasion. And she notices this, alright. Hard not to.

✧･ﾟ: *

Lucas James happens before Lara Jean has the sense to finally draw the line somewhere.

She’s not sure how it begins. Her, eyeing Lucas James from afar, pulse racing, cheeks warming. Maybe it was the smile. Or that amazing sense of humour. But it was the dance, really, that sealed the deal, the two of them swaying under the blue-purple lights, rendered aglow. Him whispering the words so many before him had once told her.

However, they don’t last long, her feelings for him. It is the start of something new, until one day it isn’t: “Hey, Lara Jean, I think - I think I’m into guys.”

That day, Lara Jean looks him in the eye. And gives him a big smile.

It may not have worked out, but at least she found a friend.

Five boys later, and clearly the soulmate search isn’t really working out.

Perhaps it’s time to set it aside. For now, at least.

✧･ﾟ: *

Eleventh grade arrives, and by that point Lara Jean isn’t really looking for a somebody, anymore. It gets pushed to the sidelines, wondering about her soulmate, because there are better goals to have at the present moment than trying to find the One. She’s got years ahead of her. A lifetime, to be exact. And if that still isn’t enough, then that’s that, she supposes.

If it isn’t meant to be, then it isn’t meant to be. No use trying to wish the unachievable into existence.

And then Kavinsky happens - again.

Peter Kavinsky. Kavinsky, with that lazy, crooked smirk, and those piercing dark eyes that have always seemed to smolder with all types of belly-burning promises. And Lara Jean has seen them in action - the effect potent up-close and just as strong even from afar.

A butterfly’s touch to the wrist turned searing by the low burn of that steady gaze.

Lara Jean should be immune to this. This being boys like him, too cheeky, too charming for their own good - nothing but trouble.

And she is, so to speak. Immune.

She’s seen him in classrooms, hallways, and parking lots. With his arm slung over a pretty girl’s shoulders. His laugh infectious when he leans down to whisper into her ear. His smile loose and coy. Incandescent at the seams. This part is where the appeal’s lost on her, even though yeah, he is hot.

No, that’s not it. Because what Lara Jean has always been drawn to is that Peter, for all that boys like him should stand for (as dictated by those silly ninety-nine cent finds at discount bookstores), is actually really, really nice. Like, he’s been this way since middle school, and maybe Lara Jean’s being judgemental, but she’d been at least thirty percent sure that he’d change, transform into someone annoying and pseudo-debonair. Typical jock attitude.

It’s nice that she got that assumption wrong.

So, back to the topic of soulmates. And how Kavinsky fits in.

It’s stupid, thinking about those things on the same page, much less the same line. It’s Kavinsky’s fault, honestly, that he had to choose sitting right next to her - out of all people - in Lit class, and then proceeding to give her that annoyingly gorgeous Peter Kavinsky grin.

While saying, in his most serene voice, “Looks like we’re stuck together, Lara Jean. We’re officially partners-in-crime now, right?”

There was a cough in the background - Gen’s irritation, at the sight of them side by side - and then Lara Jean’s small smile directed towards him, amused.

That’s how it started. Lara Jean falling against her better wishes.

And the dangerous part is, there now seems to be no end in sight.

✧･ﾟ: *

It takes Peter Kavinsky driving her to school, swapping silly notes and hanging out at cafes with her, to get her to arrive at a realization.

That he feels so, so different from the others. Josh, Kenny, John Ambrose, and Lucas James, that it honestly kind of startles her in its novelty. The slow and tender way he’s steadily infiltrating her thoughts and the spaces in between. The limbo between rest and wakefulness, and that dream-state of barely-there consciousness.

Peter’s just a hard-to-forget afterthought in her reality, solid only when he’s around in her presence, until one day he isn’t, slowly easing himself into a position of significance in her life, no longer white noise.

He is there at school, and now in her dreams as well. Boy running. Boy chasing. Always, always after her, through dew-soaked meadows of green gilded by sunrise.

✧･ﾟ: *

“Lara Jean,” Peter says with a grin, settling down onto the spot next to her and then knocking their knees together.

“I’m waiting for Chris,” Lara Jean says, putting aside her book.

His mouth curls in amused suspicion. “No, you’re not.”

A sigh. “No, I’m not.” She looks into his eyes, and there are lights flickering in them from the lamps lining the street, and she thinks she can hear her heartbeat, there behind her ribcage. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy, Peter? Why always me?”

“That’s because there is no one like you, Covey,” Peter says, and the mark on her wrist burns, but Lara Jean just looks away.

✧･ﾟ: *

At school, they tell you how stars are born, the ones high up in space. The process takes place inside molecular clouds called nebulae, where dense regions start forming, and then collapsing under their own gravitational force. Once that happens, a real star is born after the resulting protostar at the centre undergoes fusion.

That’s the simplified step-by-step. Minus the technicalities.

It’s hard to explain Lara Jean’s reasoning, why she thinks that might be how love develops, too. But she’s always had a thing for reconciling completely unrelated topics with each other; that’s the beauty of metaphor. It doesn’t have to make sense, so long as it moves you.

So picture this: a nebula. A cloud of dust and gas. Confusion. Feelings. All sorts of happy but irritating things.

And then next, gravity compressing the cloud. There’s pressure building, and the temperature going up.

The centre gets hotter and hotter, and then a fusion reaction takes place. And there you have it: a star. Love burning, burning, burning.

✧･ﾟ: *

Lara Jean takes to distancing herself, but it’s hard, because it’s Peter, and giving in is so much easier, so she stops, and just goes along with it, lets herself think about Peter in all the ways she’s wanted to.

Holding his hand. Looking into his eyes. Pressing her palm to his heart.

Peter saying, “Lara Jean,” when he means something else, and Lara Jean saying, “Peter,” when she means, “I feel the same way.”

And then there comes a time when Peter tells her he’s known who his soulmate is for a while now, and Lara Jean’s heart sinks because she thought he was genuinely hers, but she doesn’t let her disappointment show; she only smiles and says, “Good for you.”

“Don’t you want to guess?” Peter says, and Lara Jean shakes her head, trying for another smile.

“No, not really.”

✧･ﾟ: *

She finds out that Kitty has been keeping Peter’s notes, and she’s only annoyed for a moment, until she goes through some of the papers herself.

You looked so pretty today, Lara Jean. Math class, fifth period.

Did you know that you have hair the colour of midnight. Seriously. I’m not saying this only to be poetic. World History, third period.

And then, There is no one like you, Lara Jean Song-Covey -

Wait. Wait.

Lara Jean pauses. Scrunches her eyebrows. Then she pulls down her bracelet, compares the note’s handwriting to the one etched on her wrist.

Same letters. Same scrawl. A hundred percent match.

A small smile blossoms on her face.

✧･ﾟ: *

They meet up after school, when the sky is a thousand different shades of languid rose-gold. Peter is waiting for her on the bleachers, hair windswept, mouth pulled up in a large grin, and there’s Lara Jean moving next to him, her heart refusing to settle, still.

“I got your note,” Peter says, and Lara Jean feels full of this: the timbre of his voice, the deep amber flecks in his eyes, the soft, gentle glow of sunlight against his hair.

He shows her his wrist, and there it is: I know it’s you, Peter Kavinsky, done in the soulmate mark equivalent of glittering blue gel pen.

Wait. “But - but I gave you that note two hours ago,” Lara Jean says. “How did you know it was me before then? Like, you told me way back when that you already had an idea.”

“I think I dreamt you,” Peter says, and when Lara Jean laughs, tells him to be serious, he just says, “Honestly, I did. Like, I think that my heart’s internal compass was just pointing at you this whole time. That, and I really wanted it to be the case.”

“You … did?” Lara Jean’s breath hitches. Halts entirely.

The fading sun turns his skin luminous and orange-warm, and when Peter whispers, “I’ll never not choose you, Lara Jean,” before leaning down to kiss her, nothing magical happens, and even though it isn’t like what the movies say, it’s even better because it’s real, all of it.

Peter’s mouth against hers, her hand pressed flush against his chest, and the unspoken I’m falling for you in between.

The world is already painted in the colours of a sunset when Peter reaches up to cup her jaw and kiss her more deeply, so really, that’s all the magic that she needs.

#hmm so this happened #upon rereading this i guess im okay with how it turned out #oh well #:c #my writing #tatbilb

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westphotolukedas · 6 years ago

Text

Project Critical Evaluation

100419

Project Title

The title ‘Object / Fetish’ remained a constant throughout my project. It is a play on the terms ‘objective’ and ‘commodity fetishism’.

Subject

The Roland Barthes essay ‘The Rhetoric of the Image’ 1964 and David Campany’s critique of the subject matter provided the basis for my study. Retailers impose commodity fetishism upon consumers in the pursuit of commercial gain by making their products deceptively appealing. I decided to photograph store windows in the retail districts of London to comment upon this issue. The final outcome deviated from my proposal due to the observations that I made as each shoot progressed.

Aims / Objectives / Concept

My initial objective was to reveal the realities of luxury products and the devices that retailers employ to make them appear aspirational. Oxford Street and the surrounding areas became my main location of interest. I had a brief diversion into China Town to photograph products that may be perceived as kitsch to parody luxury items. Given that our brief specified a final edit of five to nine images, I felt that these would be a distraction from the overall theme. Patterns began to form in my photographs due to the conformity of each store unit and the fluorescent presence of their signs. The function of this urban landscape is historically commodity fetishism. I felt it was fitting that the dimensions of the space, such as pavements and central islands in the roads, dictated the composition that I produced. Furthermore, the LED panels in store windows meant that many of my pieces recontextualise and distort the photographs that appear inside them.

Form / Medium / Presentation

My Nikon D750 is a full frame DSLR camera. It has an aspect ratio that resembles 35mm film and I decided to maintain a landscape format throughout the project. I collated in excess of 150 photographs over three evening sessions. The editing software Lightroom was useful to catalogue these images into collections, which automatically record the time each was made. I added a further detail, which was the location of each shoot. A simple blue tag was placed onto any photograph of interest and a collection was made that brought these all together for consideration.

An aperture of f/8.0 was a consistent choice to ensure that most of the detail I captured was sharp and in focus. Since I wanted minimal motion blur, I worked in ISO 3200. Many of the exposure histograms of my photographs were in a well exposed range. The main edits that I made in Lightroom were the addition of +30 contrast and -30 highlights. This was to counter the brightness of signs and panels. Clarity +10 was added with luminance +20, a step added to correct any digital noise that might have been problematic. Patch tool was used a few times to remove distracting reflections in areas of total darkness. Finally, lens correction and the transform modules were useful to align the horizontal and vertical features within each photograph. If any of the horizons or store features were skewed this would have been distracting. My production journal comments on specific colour saturation preferences.

Prior to printing, each image was sharpened in Photoshop with the unsharp mask function. A white border was added because the printer was not able to produce full bleed photographs. As a consequence I feel that the borders actually add to each piece, as the white contrasts the colours on display making them appear bolder. Their lustre finish is also complementary to the fluorescent nature of the works.

Mock up versions of each piece were printed and cut out to allow colleagues to suggest their interpretation of the final edit. Since every image is the same aspect ratio and in landscape it was a challenge to present them as a montage. A single linear formation worked well; however, since they appear all at once compositional choices regarding form, line, colour and subject matter determined their organisation. I would like to propose a book format for the final piece with the photographs appearing in linear chronological order. This would allow the viewer to appreciate each piece without distraction. Interestingly, they actually group in a sequence of three store windows with mannequins, three photographs being photographed and a final three that tie these themes together. With further time and budget the photo book would have many more entries and there would be a possibility to add the time and date as captions.

Research

The works of photographer Rut Blees Luxemburg appealed to me the most during our opening lecture. She was of particular interest to me given that she is a former Westminster graduate student. The main attraction of her take on street photography was her use of colour to imply the intonation of each piece. The Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize 2019 nominee Mark Ruwedel became another reference for his objective study on the effect of historic and political agendas on a physical landscape. There was an implied parallel to my project and photographing a shopping district. Recontextualising a photograph became another theme of my series. Sherrie Levine and twins Doug and Mike Starn have approached this subject in their artwork. Please refer to my production logs for more information.

Working Edit

Final Edit

#thephotographiceye #westphoto #rutbleesluxemburg #markruwedel #sherrielevine #dougandmikestarn

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drrove · 7 years ago

Text

I Never Met the Devil

"Agma..." The crackling bed-side speaker sputters to life. "Boss?"

"I'm here." Agma croaks, probing for the light switch. A harsh glare pierces the dingy gloom of her spartan sleeping cubby, illuminating the wide scar covering much of the left side of her face. She brushes her long, black hair aside and presses the palm of her good hand into her disfigured left eye. A headache begins to swell. "What d'ya need Rocky?"

The mechanic's gruff voice returns on the coms. "We're picking up a distress signal."

Agma's blood freezes. "You didn't respond, did you?"

"I'm not that stupid," the man assures her. "What should I do?"

"Start a long-range scan and keep your distance. I'll be up in a minute." Agma awaits her companion's confirmation, then returns to massaging her eye socket. "Just my luck," she groans, then forces herself up. The weary star-pilot pops a couple of pills and rubs her head some more. If these endless salvage operations don’t kill her, the headaches certainly will.

The bedraggled salvager finally grabs a prosthetic arm from its hook and begins connecting it smoothly - automatically - in the manner of one that has performed this task a great many times before. The left side of her torso is dominated by a curved metal plate, covering what would otherwise be an open chest cavity with a mere two remaining rib bones and a mechanical lung. The shoulder possesses a mass of coiled synthetic fibers that terminate at a heavy socket, onto which she connects the accompanying arm of similar design.

She gives the arm a swing and flexes the synthetic fingers individually, only to find the smallest two prove unresponsive. “Dammit.” Not again. Agma produces a pouch of delicate tools and begins plucking at a bundle of fibers in the forearm. It’s getting worse, she knows, and sooner or later she’ll have to take it to a real biomech. Of course, Central’s done paying out disability, and she’s not pulling enough scrap to justify the cost.

Something triggers in the limb’s motor controls, and the fingers splay out into a rigid star. The tactile response center fires scrambled messages to the neural link connected directly to her nervous system, adding an unwelcome layer to her headache. “C’mon!” Agma grits her teeth and twists a small screwdriver into the rogue forearm until the fingers relax. The flood of signals fade. Another motion test confirms she has adequate control. Good enough. She composes herself and stands. “Let’s see what Rocky’s got for me.”

Rocky's hunched form twitches uneasily in the pilot's chair. Display screens and back-lit buttons provide the only illumination in the cockpit, bathing his rugged face in a bluish glow. The black expanse of space dominates the old cargo-freighter-turned-salvage-ship's main viewing port, with a single distant star shining just slightly brighter than the others for its proximity. An even "beep-beep-ba-deep" sounds quietly through an overhead speaker. Rocky scratches his shaggy beard and runs dark eyes over scrolling electronic readouts. Any anomaly could spell trouble. His attention is stolen as the hatch behind him clanks open.

"Move." Agma slides into the pilot's seat while Rocky obediently slips back into the navigator's position. They inspect their respective screens and listen to the faint beeping for a moment. "Where's it coming from?"

"Somewhere near solar center," Rocky shrugs, "orbiting around half an A.U., given the degradation cycle."

Agma squints at the dim star through the viewing port. It could be a trap. Or it could be the real thing. Either way, she fights the impulse to simply fire up the super-luminal and hightail to a new system. Nine times out of ten it’s a ghost ship, ripe for salvage - god knows she needs the payday - but it’s that other 10% that worries her. "Get something to eat, Rock. I'll keep an eye on the scans." The mechanic grunts the affirmative and squeezes his bulk through the hatch. "And change your clothes. You smell like you died while taking a crap."

"...After a sweaty work-out in the incinerator." Rocky cheekily adds before vanishing.

Agma leans back in her chair and rests her eyes. She lets the distress signal's faint beeping wash over her while exhaustion sets deep in her bones. She could never sleep in this old rust bucket, but when time comes to sleep in a real bed at port, she can’t find the nerve to leave her baby, even for a night. Maybe she can get a nap in while the long-range sensors do their work.

A sharp buzz from the console dispels any such possibility. Agma jerks forward and checks the readout. The frequency sweep found something on the radio spectrum. She twists a knob, and a sorrowful, rasping baritone crackles through the speaker, singing a tuneless song.

"-cold heart, that burning wrath. You took my all, you drank my last... I do not blame you for your thirst, my hubris was what doomed me first… Though if one truth can keep me level..." The singer pauses to take a few labored breaths. "It's that I never met the devil." Another long pause fills the air, and just as Agma begins to suspect he's done, the pained voice returns. "Day 92. This pressure suit is my home... I don't know how much longer the recycler will last... If anybody can hear this message... my name is Cam Larsen... My mining ship, along with the rest of my crew, has died in stable orbit at 0.44 A.U. around HPK5574... Please... someone save my soul."

Agma hovers a synthetic finger over the communicator switch. Does she dare answer this lonely survivor's prayers? A stranded vessel is every spacefarer's worst nightmare. Hesitation, as her eyes slip to the long-range scanner readout. Still incomplete. She slowly withdraws her prosthetic hand and once again lets the faint distress signal fill her ears. He's waited 92 days, she concludes, he can wait a little longer.

It's hours later when the scans complete. Rocky fidgets in the navigator's seat, chewing nervously on a knuckle. He finishes listening to Larsen's recorded plea for a third time, and shakes his head. "Seems legit. Your call." Agma stares motionless at the scanner results, fingers steepled beneath her nose. Readings place Larsen's ship exactly where he claimed, nestled within a thin belt of asteroids. More importantly, no sign of any lurking vessels awaiting a foolish Good Samaritan or an enterprising vulture. Still... Rocky can see the wheels turning in her head. "Somebody else is bound to come by," he offers.

"That's what I'm worried about." She sees the confusion on her companion’s face. "Rocky... hear me out..."

Agma fires the reaction control thrusters, bringing the now-massive star into view through the overhead glass. The past three hours since contacting the castaway asteroid-miner have been a testament to orbital dynamic control maneuvers. The skilled pilot taps the forward thrusters, slowing the ship's velocity. She depresses the communicator switch. "Larsen. You should be seeing us off your bow any second."

"I see you." The radio confirms. He's finally calmed his speech, Agma observes. The old man was so overwhelmed by their hail that it took some time to be able to speak through the sobs. "Damn fine vessel!" he adds. Agma suspects he'd say the same about a flying cardboard box, as long as it was strapped to a functioning super-luminal drive.

"Countdown, Rocky."

"15 seconds..." The mechanic carefully studies his console, "Ten seconds... three, two, one, mark!"

Agma fires the rear thrusters, matching the damaged mining vessel's velocity. She squints at an external camera feed and makes small adjustments. Her prosthetic hand seizes unexpectedly for an instant, jerking the stick too far, but she regains control of the limb before they overshoot their mark. The airlocks align and she kills the roll. "How's that look, prospector?"

"Beautiful!" The audio feed replies.

"I aim to please." The pilot smirks. "Gimme a few minutes to suit up and we'll do this thing. Keep your ear to the feed."

"I assure you, good captain, I’m not going anywhere. Talk to you soon."

Agma cuts the communicator, pinches the bridge of her nose, and stands. She pauses, noticing Rocky's ambivalent expression. "You got a problem with this, now's your last chance to speak up."

Rocky shakes his head. "Naw. I've trusted your judgment six years. If you say we're good, I'm good."

The pilot gives her companion a somber frown. "I didn't say we're good." Rocky swallows hard and contemplates this for a moment. He nods sheepishly.

Agma returns his reluctant nod. "Just keep everything aligned. I'll take care of everything else." The mechanic seems satisfied with this arrangement and Agma leaves him to man the controls. She winds her way through the cramped halls to the airlock. It’s a few minutes before she's fully decked out in a pressurized suit. "Rock, patch him through."

She waits a moment for the line to open. A barely audible mumble enters her earpiece. Larsen sings quietly to himself, unaware of his audience. “…If one truth can keep me level, it’s that I never met- “

Agma clears her throat. Something about the song bothers her. "You ready prospector?"

"Yes. As ready as I'll ever be, captain." There’s a nervousness in his voice.

Agma steps into the airlock, rises in the zero-G chamber, and listens to the telltale hum of depressurization. The headache is back, she notes. Maybe it never left, but something in the hum brings it back to that space behind her eye. She instinctively raises a hand to rub it, only to bear a palm uselessly into the helmet's face-plate. She sighs.

The indicator turns green and the dour pilot hits the blinking "OPEN" button. A hatch slides up, and for the first time she’s aware of the distance between herself and the small figure floating in the airlock across the way. From the cockpit, the ships seemed inches from collision, but now she finds herself staring across a vast gulf. She sets her jaw and connects her tether's carabiner to a mounting rail. Her heart rate rises, stabbing hard behind her eye with each beat. "You strapped in, Larsen?"

"Strapped in. Ten meters of cord, slip-knotted down to six meters, as ordered." His voice is level, though no less agitated. "I must confess, captain, I've never actually done a 'lock-leap’ before."

Agma forces levity in her voice. "Full disclosure, prospector, neither have I. Don't worry, just set your trajectory, wait for my word, and don’t jump too hard. Last thing we want to do is knock each other out on contact. We’re going for a firm handshake here." She allows herself a smile before the grim determination sets in. "Alright, line up. Jumping in three, two, one, JUMP!"

Larsen kicks off from the airlock into the void. A rush of joy envelopes him. It’s finally over. He’s going home. The joy quickly drains, though, when he notices the woman across the way hasn't budged, and turns to horror when he spots the plasma pistol rising in her left hand. "No."

The plasma slug punches a clean hole through the face-plate’s layered substrate and hits the soft target behind. Agma's earpiece howls as Larsen's life support rapidly depressurizes. It's a long, bellowing cacophony while the compressor fights a doomed battle against the endless vacuum of space.

It’s a heartbeat before Agma notices to her dismay a second layer beneath the roar; a cry of mortal pain. It wasn't a clean shot! As she trains the pistol for another round, Larsen reaches the end of his cord and is sling-shot away in a writhing cartwheel. Red droplets speckle Agma’s visor.

"No!" The pilot cries out as she tries to find an opening. She squeezes off another charge, but her elbow jerks unexpectedly with a mind of its own, sending the shot wide. A wild torrent of tactile signals pours from her biomechanical arm and the synthetic fingers splay open. The electronic seizure lasts just an instant, but long enough to thrust the pistol into the void. "Damn!" The weapon quickly sails beyond her reach.

A pit sinks in her stomach as her eyes fall on the wounded man pawing feebly at his punctured face-plate. The sounds, distorted by rapid pressure changes, take on an unnatural and infernal tone. She turns away from her despicable work. "Rocky… kill the feed.” The line quickly falls silent. Only the woman’s pounding heart remains in her ears.

After what feels like ages, Rocky's voice cuts through the tense silence. "Agma? …Boss?"

The pilot’s eyes focus on the red droplets on her face-plate. She wipes them with a bulky sleeve, but succeeds in only smearing them. She finally looks back out the airlock opening. The prospector’s body floats lifelessly at the end of its line. Her headache seems rather distant now. "Rocky..." she struggles to say anything through her dry mouth, then swallows hard, "get on the grappling arm. Lock us into the ship and let's start the salvage. Once we're secured, priority is to shut down that distress signal."

"Larsen already shut it down," the mechanic informs her. "I guess he figured..."

"...he was saved." Agma looks across the gap at the prospector's broken helmet. She touches her prosthetic hand to her own visor, a subconscious desire to caress the scar around her eye. She reminds herself what this salvage can buy. The deed is done, now it’s time to take the cold prize bought with an old man’s life.

"You alright?" Rocky's voice seems feeble and distant over the radio. Agma knows she wasn’t the only one hearing the terrible death throes. Rocky had known what they were doing, but that still didn’t prepare him for the reality of it.

"It wasn't clean," she sighs, "I botched the shot. Decompression... I've seen it before. Nobody should go like that." She waits for Rocky's response, unsure if she'd prefer absolution or disgust. He remains silent. "That song he was singing... 'I never met the devil.’ I've been thinking about it. Thinking of my time with Central Peace Enforcement." She can’t help but chuckle mirthlessly at the irony of the name.

"We were brought onto an orbital refinery to crack down on a crime ring nestled in with the local laborers. Our team had already gotten a reputation for dealing with tough cases, but this was something else. Day one, I got promoted when my C.O. took a scatter-shot on the chin. It was on me to respond and respond I did.” She watches starlight reflect off the dead man’s broken faceplate. “The resulting campaign ended six months and 115 bodies later. No home untouched. No family unbroken. I waged a war and tore a hole in that community that’s gonna take generations to heal.” She grimaces. A pang of regret, even now. “Those people gave me my name, Rocky. It’s what I still call myself today… Agma. It means 'Devil'."

#writing #original #scifi

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komishares · 3 years ago

Text

THE LOOKOUT

Eight roses rest on the stone shelf of the arched window. Bright pink petals in the light of the bright spring sun. Eight roses for each one of you lost to us, lost to me. They lie pointing north across the bay to another country, just in hazy view, the picture split by the deep golden sandbank revealed only at low tide.

I turn to look left, not ready to look ahead.

The east arch looks out over a wall of rock, stretching far and ascending ever higher, the misty waters at its feet and hazy beyond. I know the path along the coast there - you all knew it too. We'd taken it at various points, separate or in smaller groups but I recall that one time where all nine of us went, scampering up one sunny summer day, sweating and thirsty but still energetic enough to chase each other around the graveyard glistening luminously in the sunlight, which imbued the grass with a dazzling green, while the golden stone church oversaw it all, perhaps unamused but indifferent all the same. Reggie had cut his head that day, tripping and splitting his browned skin by his hairline. Molly had laughed but Faye had been earnest at once, the red high in her cheeks burning from worry rather than high spirits. Vic had sighed that we probably should quit it, while we were still largely all uninjured. A halfhearted attempt at hide and seek had commenced after that but it didn't last long. I remember it was long enough for you and I to squash ourselves into the shadows of a mausoleum's tiny anteroom, shoulder to shoulder and catching our breath, the stone behind my back chilling, you warm like a heater. I'd hoped you didn't sense how hard my heart was beating but I'd also hoped you did.

I turn away again, away from the east and to the west arch which frames the distant pier. Iron and wood, it's the platform to more moments and memories. Ice cream and ice lolly hours under the pavilion's overhang, races between the boys before we girls joined in, both distracting and dodging the pier officers who blew their whistles to no effect. And then there was years later, coming quick as a flash, when Vic proposed to Abby and we all pretended to hide a little further back, while watching the entire time and then breaking out in cheers when the couple embraced. Only I was the one to notice Hannah fighting back tears of both joy and pain as we all went to congratulate the affianced. Oh, how I yearned to give her comfort but you pulled me away and joked into my ear that maybe you should have proposed to me first here on the pier. Wasn't it typical of Vic to get there first? And then it was my turn to hide my pain and all I did was jab you in the ribs, our playful exchange always our language.

We spotted the ships of war leave from those shores, never talking of what ways it might disrupt our lives, until it was those same ships that took the men away, then the boys, leaving us not even as wives.

I gather myself and look up straight ahead to north once more. The distant shore of the other country watches me and I watch back. Look down, look down, plays in my head like a nursery rhyme track.

So I do, dropping my gaze to the sandbank.

The water between that and the main beach is so shallow, it's like a rippling pane of clear glass. You told me it's low enough to walk all the way to, convinced me to come with you and race along it to scare off the gulls pecking within the mud for worms and grub. I was too afraid as I tend to be but you urged and you urged, gripping my hand fiercely and I allowed myself to be taken, as I was always taken with your insistent passion. I never wanted to be the one to dim that radiance, rather to be in orbit of it, always. So when we stumbled and collapsed in the knee deep waters and knew the mud to be too sticky to wade elegantly through, you hauled me up and carried me, laughing the whole way to. We then commenced a hopscotch dance to find the driest patches, failing for the most part but victorious in scaring off the gulls anyhow. You whooped and crowed, like Peter Pan.

Only I was no Wendy, flying back home and you left carefree in Neverland. No rather you flew from our home - as did Reggie, Vic and Ben. And your Peters, hoping beyond hope that you might return to an island of innocent youthful joy and vanity, were I, Molly, Faye, Abby and Hannah. You became the Lost Boys and we, the Lost Girls, almost women, almost men.

Eight roses rest here, in the north window of the lookout. I wait, watch, remember, then leave, wondering who will there be to place the ninth rose that's me.

#shortstory #amwriting #roses #pier #sandbank #inspiration

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insomniac-arrest · 8 years ago

Text

Little Lights

genre: original, sci-fi, wlw

words: 7k

summary: a girl on a floating continent communicates with a girl on the ground through floating lanterns

they try to reach each other

The first one appeared on my 7th birthday, I had seen them before but hadn’t been allowed to join the procession until that year.

My hair was tied back in complex knots and I pulled on them regularly, trying to dislodge the tight coils and chew on the ends. It was a bad habit, my mom had been trying to cut the habit out of me for years (at nine she would threaten me with a spritz bottle).

I tugged on my hair coils and stared up the night sky as my mother fiddled with her high-tech camera, she had wanted to be a photographer at one point when she was younger. My father was still trying to find the ‘perfect’ patch of grass for us to settle on.

I held my mother’s skirts as I stared up at the approaching mass in the sky, dark and shimmering as it hefted across the sky like a rolling tangible storm. I was aware of the floating continents at that point, but it was still making me suck in my breath.

I sucked on my bottom lip instead of my hair and try to keep my eyes fixated on the glowing jagged shapes miles away. I had some eminent sense that if I blinked the whole thing would fall from the sky or disappear altogether.

My sister called me a fanciful girl at that age, but that was one of the nicest things she called me overall.

I kept my hand latched onto my mother’s skirt, her fingers ticking over the different filters on her camera and cursing softly, not loud enough for me to overhear, but I filled in the gaps. My sister was with her first boyfriend that year, somewhere high up, close enough she said to almost touch the bottom of it.

I doubted that. I didn’t believe anything could reach that high, my mouth falls open as the rumbling machine gently glides closer and closer. I had always known about floating continents, I see the lights first.

Honey yellow, glacial blue, cherry lipstick red, tangerine orange, all the crayon colors I could think of and more, they lit up one by one as hovering fairy lights against the dark. It was a dream of a dream and my eyes itched as I refused to look away.

The continent was poised against the last last tendrils of the setting sun and I could see buildings and trees outlined in a fantastical twisting design. And the lights.

My mother told me this happened every nine months or so, but I wasn’t listening, the fairy lights, lanterns, gently, slowly, were released from the darkness, lights carried on the breeze.

My eyes trace dipping patterns of glowing paper as they glide soundlessly out, cheering erupts around me as people whoop and clap for the release.

My eyes are drawn to a light pink one, pansy pink, kissed sunset pale pink, pink like my little fairy princess set.

“Mommy!” I say shrilly, hotly, “that one’s for me.” My mother sticks her bottom lip out, “Winnie-” She warns.

I release her skirts, “I have to go get it!”

“Winnie!” She grabs for the back of my green hood, “you’ll miss the paper airplanes, don’t you want to see-” They told me I was too young for a paper airplane anyway, I block out the rest of what she says, which was probably a deep groan as I dart into the cheering crowd.

Skirts and rustling coat tails flow around my small head and I ignore them, I had to keep my eyes on the light pink lantern, it was twisting gently in the sky with all the others

“Winnie!”

I duck my head under a low fence and feel the grass on my knees as I run away from the glow of the festival. “Come here little light!”

I almost scrape the palms of my hands as I scramble up and start sprinting up the side of the hill where only a smattering of people had perched, but my pink lantern was floating down slowly, slower than the others. Just gasping over the ground. I hear cries as people start to catch them.

“Here!” I reach my little arms in the air and flail them back and forth; the pink was far above my head. I run around in large circles as I try to guess where it is going to drop. I start to whine as it picks up and floats far above the others. Almost gone.

“Please,” I plead with it, “don’t be difficult.” That’s a phrase my grandma was always using, I reach up on my tiptoes. The pink lantern falls, my fingers curl around the sun panel on the very bottom

My entire face lights up, heart soaring, fingers clasping around the cool panel that held the lantern up. I tumble backward onto my backside as I grab the sides and fall back down to the earth

“Yes!” I can feel the grass staining the back of my light green fancy jacket. My heart is pounding in my chest, the lantern was pink poppies, sweet jam, I can see the little note inside.

“RELEASE!” I hear the cannon shot, I just catch the end of the ceremony, the little metro area launching thousands of colorful paper airplanes back at the floating cloud city. I hear cheering as people up there must be trying to catch them too.

I can’t stop smiling, “hello little light.” I reach inside, avoiding the tinted LED light bulb and curiously taking out a piece of paper.

The piece of paper wasn’t the point of the exercise for me, but I squint at it anyway. I knew some people sent things down with their light.

Dear anyone,

It was written with curling alternating colors, like a rainbow with each letter delicately formed and chosen. I was impressed.

I hope you get this!!! My name is Iris, this is my lanturn :) It’s the same color as my play kit and I piked it out myself.

I have 2 parents and 1 cat. He is a fat cat named Marshmellow and I wished he would have kittens, mommy says he can’t. I feel very sorry for him when he mews to go outside and we don’t let him outside

I would want to go outside if I was a cat- even if I couldn’t swim or pet dogs.

I go to scool every day and want to be an artist or detektiv one day, I have a magnifying glass and 2 crimes already

One is who stole Stacy’s bike (not me) and the second is who nocked over the grass hut I built

Here some of the grass I found at the scene!

Pleese enjoy my lanturn, my mom says this is a very specile time of year and I really really want someone to find it and keep it like in the movies

PS- do you have a cat? Has it had kittens?

PSS- do you think breakfast cereal is okay to eat out of a big cup? I think it’s a weird but okay

PSSS- please be careful with my lite! I spend very time on it and I hope you love it too :D

I held the note to my chest as I lie on my back and watch the last of the lanterns and paper airplanes fall to earth. The music is already increasing behind me as the rest of the night heats up with noise and clattering feat.

My dad wanted to show me how to do a cartwheel.

Instead I start to wonder how I was going to tell Iris that I got her lantern.

------

I was grounded for two weeks after I ran away during the festival and stained my nice clothes. I don’t mind being grounded because it just means I don’t go outside and can’t use the internet.

I can still use my toys and paint programs on my computer systems and mommy doesn’t take down my fort, so I’m okay. She doesn’t know why I like my fortress so much anyway. I didn’t stop crying for a week after they took it down the first time, so I can keep it in the corner of my room as long as I don’t try and bring it to the living room again.

I prefer having it in the living room since the couch holds the blankets up better, but the lamp in my room works pretty good anyway as long as no one runs into it.

I crawl inside the soft insides of my fort and I start writing back to Iris immediately.

Dear Iris,

I sit for a very long time as I excitedly go over what I want to tell her. I have my sister check all the spelling before I try and write it out sentence by sentence.

I found your lamp!! It is the best color, I love pink, it’s my favorite color. How old are you? You sound like you’re about my age. That’s good, I don’t have a lot of kids my own age.

That wasn’t exactly true, but it was true enough. I didn’t consider myself part of the ‘losers’ but I knew people didn’t think I was very popular. I didn’t have a group, sometimes I really really wished I had ‘a group.’

I keep writing to Iris.

I don’t have a cat, my mommy is allergic and sneezes a bunch when she gets near one. It’s bad. There aren’t too many pets down here, how many pets are there up there??

Do you really eat clouds up there? (my sister told me not to ask this but she doesn’t know more than me. She only gets normal points, I get lots of class points for my group (which is green banana))

Do you like living up there? Is it windy?

I sometimes eat cereal out of the big mugs when everyone forgets to do dishes and I don’t say anything since sometimes I’m the reason no one did dishes. I eat out of big mugs then, I don’t think it’s weird. Mine has scooby doo on it! Do you like scooby doo? You like detective stuff, so I hope so.

Tell me what happens with your crime!!! I sniffed the grass but couldn’t find any clues.

Please write back soon!

My name is Winifred, which isn’t a good name, and my mommy calls me Winnie and my uncle calls me Freddi for fun. But I want to be ‘Lumin’ since it means light and my favorite God (Apollo!!) is the light God. I like mythology and magic and shows about animals a whole lot, I like your light!!

I hope I hear from you soon.

-Winnie

My sister says it’s too long and rambling, but I don’t know what rambling exactly means so I just ignore her. She says I need to make real friends and I tell her that Iris is my friend.

I was eight that year.

I was going to find Iris.

---------

I didn’t find Iris. It turned out there were a lot of Iris’s on the continent of Tritos, I told my mom I was going to write all of them and she told me I could try. If I did my homework first.

They want me to a lot more testing, a lot more than the other kids. I notice, I’m not sure if they want me to notice or not, I don’t think it’s a secret.

Ms. Kamau keeps me after school sometimes and has me take these quizzes that ask me things like which graphs make sense and what kind of money I would make. I like the part where I make stuff up like money, I’m little sick of telling them that their graphs suck though.

I don’t really want to be in the ‘separate’ class by myself, I had always been in the separate class and it was little jarring to be more separate than even the separate class.

It makes it hard to go to the library after school and look up the names of all the people in the cloud cities. There were a lot of cloud cities at this point, and even more Iris’s.

My dad asks me why I have a giant book on my lap, typing emails in from the directory and looking up the different names. I tell him that Iris needs to know, she needs to know someone found her lantern like she wanted.

I write a second letter in only pink pen.

Dear Iris, I get sad sometimes, do you get sad? Please tell me what your favorite music is. I like the ones where it’s quiet and you can’t always understand the words.

It’s pretty dark tonight, another continent is coming overhead, but they aren’t our sister. That’s what my mother said, so there are no lanterns. Just night. It’s kind of sad because I can’t imagine what you’re up to, like waking up in the morning and eating cereal and putting your hair up. My mom makes me put my hair up now. Do you have uniforms up there in sky cities?

Please tell me if you have any more mysteries to solve.

From,

Winnie.

-------

It takes three years before I get in contact with Iris again, I had twelve letters at the time, some were better than others. I settle on three and a picture of our home and my family, I hoped she would like those (and she wasn’t a creep).

I got to put my hair up myself that year, the lantern festival was back, the year before that I had been sick during the night and the year before that I couldn’t find her lantern. I checked every pink one in the area, but maybe she changed colors.

I was ten.

Instead, this year I was going to send up the brightest airplane in the night sky, I had been working on the motor for months now. I was in the separate separate class of just sometimes just me, sometimes they let me join just the one separate class. But not always

They let me work on whatever project I want in there, so I decided I wanted to create a tiny motor for my airplane, so it would stand out.

It says Iris in giant purple letters on top, the paper itself is a vibrant pink, just the same hue as hers. I know on some level I should be ‘moving on’ as my sister insisted, but some things are worth seeing to the end. That’s what my dad said, my mom just nodded at him. They were getting a stipend now to have me do the extra classes.

They always want little scientists, that’s who made the floating continents in the first place and solved overpopulation and the poison in the dirt. Some of the dirt is poisoned but the dirt up there isn’t now, so it solved a couple problems.

I’m not sure how I feel about all the science, but I feel like I can warm up to all the numbers when they leave me alone with them. They’re simple, like a game I can solve. This was another problem I could solve.

The motor came out of that, numbers and drawings and a puzzle I can solve. I tell Iris all this in my third letter, that I still like my classes but I wish they let me do more stories about Apollo. I send her one of my short stories about him and Helios, they both want to ride the sun across the sky but can’t. I ask her about Marshmallow and what she did all day up there.

I make sure to put a streamer on the back of my airplane, everyone loved the ones with streamers.

I make it to the festival early and avoid anyone trying to get my attention and ask me when I was going to take the PISA and get placed. I told them I didn’t want to do either, The Qualifier could wait.

I find a spot on the grass behind my older sister and her new boyfriend as we stare up at the sky. Titros rolls through the sky, the hover panels reflect off the ground and glow softly, the lights of the city are turned off one by one.

“They do that for us,” Bee’s boyfriend says sweetly and tucks my sister’s hair behind her ear. “They want us to see the lights.” I try not to look down at my sister and her boyfriend, my face is already hot from seeing my sister even giggle at one of his dumb jokes. At least this boy is sweet.

My mom is taking pictures again, standing at the very top of a craggy peak, we’re waving at her as she stands with a giant smile on her face. I loved seeing her like that.

I wave until my arm is tired and she still doesn’t see me, that was okay, Titros is almost at our doorstep, I hold my breath as the lantern lights are turned on one by one.

“Here it comes!” I sing over the noise and my sister glances over her shoulder with pursed lips at me, she was doing that a lot more now, pursed lips like a coin purse locking. I almost miss the yelling.

“Are you going to catch another one this year Winnie?” Chege asks me politely.

I just nod fervently, “I’ll try.” The lights come down like falling stars one by one, little tear drops from the darkness, slowly at first until they were a cascade of color and light. People down below are wagging their hands above them frantically as they try to catch a good luck lantern.

Most of them had special patterns and little words of encouragement and phrases, many had letters within. Some letters were greetings or wishes and secrets they couldn’t tell anyone else or even class assignments they wanted to get rid of. Some unlucky person sometimes got a prank lantern, but I preferred not to think about those- the fake ones.

I try to survey the sky for pink ones, but my hopes were a little down, there was a high chance she would switch patterns by now. She didn’t even know I existed in the first place, my heart sinks at that thought and I bite my lip.

I still liked to chew on things, but it’s mostly gum and toothpicks now, my sister assures me neither of those things are cool.

I sit a little numbly as people reach and reach toward the lanterns and catch them in a flurry of limbs and laughter, cheering. I watch as Chege jogs purposefully to bright red one, a heart in the very center, my sister squeals as he presents the heart-lantern to her. I have to look away again.

I watch as the lanterns dangle and dip, this isn’t what I was waiting for though, I hold my breath again as I hear the second little jingle of silver noise, a blast. Windchimes and a cannon release.

“There it goes!” I jump to my feet to watch as my sister was busy embracing her boyfriend, I run to get the best view as the blast fills the air. The stream of little paper planes arches just high enough to reach the floating continent, more whooping follows.

I run, chasing the arch as long as a snaking river, I spot the white of my streamer just in time: Iris! It says, Iris!

I can only pray she sees it, the people are just waving outlines above us, wiggling stick figures with one voice and one gasping mob. I couldn’t even imagine what Iris looked like, what she saw in the morning, what she thought about when she went to bed.

I watch as outstretched fingers I can’t see start to catch the little planes one by one.

Catch it.

I pray to something indistinct and nameless, something that must make the lanterns float in the first place.

Please catch it.

I chase the planes until I am breathless and sweating out of every pour, my chest heaves try to see something that isn’t there. I imagine her ripping her airplane open to see my letters snugly placed there, I imagine she is relieved- someone had got her lantern all that time ago.

I pray.

----

I am eleven, I get the first best surprise I could ever wish for. An IM.

The tests are coming fast and furious now, for the first time I am struggling in school and wish I was outside doing anything else.

My sister is listening to happy music and my mom is developing more photos, she got one of the festival where the lights were reflecting off a toddler's cheek as they shrieked at their first Lantern Celebration. I don’t know what she sees in it, but she keeps looking.

My father is trying to get a hot tub for the backyard, it’s a very long process that I think it taking more time than strictly necessary. The hot tub was being bought from my stipends.

They aren’t talking to me like they used to, I wished terribly to talk to somebody but I feel like my tongue is made of moonrock even when I’m around the other kids. There was too much competition, too many points and tally’s and names written in line on the board.

My name is always at the top.

I close my eyes every night and try to think about what Iris is doing, what I tell her if we ever talk. I might lie a little bit, I won’t tell her my ranking.

It’s a nice fantasy.

That’s why I almost leap out of my skin when I see a new IM on the family computer locked into the living room wall. It pings brightly with little white notification in the corner and I pass in front of it before I head off to school.

I assume it’s for my sister, for some assignment from a classmate or some friend that wants to go to the mall. Maybe a boy she turned away.

The day goes by like every other day: they let me do independent study for an hour, always building something. I like building things but the joy of it kind of soured after my motor didn’t seem to make a difference last festival.

I have no idea if I actually did anything or not.

I poke and prod at the electronic bits of a cube that can tell you the weather at any place in the world. It was pretty as it was superfluous.

I see another ping on my handheld phone at school.

I blink a couple times at that, a family IM was one thing, I blink again, but this meant it was for me. I sit up straight in my chair and make sure no one is paying attention to me. Ash seems to be consumed in her robotics project and the teacher is helping Tumanai.

I quickly poked at the ping to see where the message was from, my eyes go wide. IW. IW from international satellite coordinated in the middle of the Pacific.

My heart leaps into my throat, that had to be a floating continent. It had to be her.

I thrust my hand in the air.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” I almost shout it at the top of my lungs, the class looks at me but I stopped caring what I thought after the day they threw all my pencils out the window on SAT day last year.

My teacher adjusts her glasses, “What’s that Miss Otiena?” I scrunch my nose up, “I need to go home.” “You just said bathroom,” Ash hisses at me, I make a face at her.

“I feel awful.” I slump down on my desk, my teacher adjusts her glasses again.

Brief haggling follows, but I had never asked to be excused before, never asked for any favors. She had no choice but to believe me, she didn’t even bother calling my parents, I was eleven now. And separate.

I run home with my pulse throbbing in my wrist and eyes wide, it could be a false call, it could be a prank, it could be that I had finally lost it.

I run home and put up a pile of blankets between the chair and the couch. An impromptu fort.

The little light glows in my face, I wipe my sweaty palms down, my finger trembles as I push down on the answer button.

A message dings up immediately.

“Hello!” My computer offers to read it out loud for me, I decline. “This is Iris.” I close the program immediately, taking deep heaving breaths.

“She’s here,” I bury my smiling face in my hand, “She’s here, she’s here!” I couldn’t help it, I had been waiting. Iris. Iris Wegener it said.

I bite my lip and wish I had something to chew through, I had her name, her whole name. And she knew I was someone.

I almost start to dance, she had gotten my plane! The world is somehow bright and larger than it ever had been before.

It takes several more minutes before I can even think about opening the IM again. My whole body was tensing, I remember about reading an article about expectations. Some part of me hadn’t thought this would ever work.

What would I fantasize about after this? What if I made it bad?

I take deep rattling breaths, I had worked for this. I couldn’t keep Iris waiting, not anymore. I open her messages again.

IW: hello Winnie!

There were less exclamations points now.

IW: I’m sorry it took me so long to respond, I had to go through a couple of bargaining chips to get my parents to believe this is real.

IW: but… it feels real.

IW: you were seven when you got my lantern? That’s so embarrassing, I barely remember what I wrote. But… thank you. I was pretty excited when I saw an entire plane with my name on it. I almost lost it!

IW: I don’t know what I’m writing, I’m sorry.

IW: anyway, my name is Iris Wegener. I’m thirteen this week :), Marshmallow passed when I was nine sadly :(, I like horses though I’ve never seen one. I don’t like Game Shows since they seem so fake, I don’t really want to be a detective now.

IW: I’m sorry you feel sad sometimes.

My mouth is fully open now, Iris had responded. Iris had responded a lot, she was almost my age. She liked horses, she didn’t game shows! She was a real person, not something I just made up.

I close my computer and lie on my back, I trace the lines I remember of Tritos with my fingers on the bedsheet above my head. The outline of the continent stands out in my mind’s eye.

“Iris,” I mouth the word. I don’t know what to say back.

----

I don’t know to say back, I figure it would come to me, so I sleep on it. But it doesn’t come, not the next day or the day after that.

Iris keeps messaging me.

IW: hey, I’m sorry if I said anything weird

IW: I hope I got the right number, maybe you lost your phone or your parents took it when they ground you :(

IW: that sometimes happens to me, my mom calls me a troublemaker. I’m locked up in my room right now, I don’t know what her problem is >:(

IW: I don’t feel like a troublemaker, but it’s always this or that, detention for talking in class, detention for running in the halls, detention for writing my essay with The Truth

IW: I mean, everyone knows the The Fifth War was started by a systematic flaws of any era built on blood and exploitation

IW: It’s not news!

IW: anyway… I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you

IW: I think

IW: I think the plane is the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to me.

That was the first day, I read it over breaks, over dinner, smiling it down on my lap as my father tries to ask me about my studies and my sister rolls her eyes. I read it before bed, first once, and then what felt like twenty times.

I liked Iris Wegener.

I need to say something cool to her.

IW: Day three!

IW: I’m still freaking grounded, it sucks so hard

IW: do you ever get grounded? I hope you are right now

IW: oh dang, that sounds bad, I just mean I hope you message me, the computer says this is the right address

IW: who do you think was the most handsome member of the Imperialist Russian dynasty? I’m doing a project

IW: the headline is ‘Hottie or Romin-notty?’ It’s a thinkpiece

I didn’t get any more messages until the next day.

IW: I got double grounded!! My mother must not agree that Ivan the Terrible was a notty

IW: This is probably why you aren’t IMing back lol

My heart fell at that, I needed to say something. I need something, I need to tell her that I think she’s funny and that I think we’d have fun if we went to school together. My head falls, I wished so bad for a moment we went to school together.

My thoughts go blank as I try to make the first move, to say anything. It doesn’t come to me that whole week.

Iris keeps going.

IW: here’s a picture of a dog: [FILE PICTURE]

IW: does this make me normal? I honestly don’t want you to think I’m that weird

IW: here’s a list of my favorite members of V-W in order of best hair to worst personality:

Iris was bored and interesting, and I was interested and boring. I couldn’t figure out when any of these lines could be intersected.

It would be three months until the next Festival.

Iris kept writing.

----

Iris liked boy bands, she owned 27 arm bands, she wrote papers that made her teachers angry, she wanted to study zoology sometimes, and sometimes she wants to be a bakery chef.

She was in the normal class.

She hated asparagus and loved salty things ranging from fried chips to plain peanuts out of a jar. She loved the color grey now, the type that was almost silver, she wanted to paint her room that color and carpets, but her mom wouldn’t let her.

She didn’t have any siblings, but her friend Holly was almost there she argued.

Her parents circled her like a vulture sniffing for problems.

It was a month before the next festival, I was working harder than I ever worked before. I had my new project. Iris was telling me something else now.

It was 2 in the morning, I was still looking at phone, going over numbers in my head, going over the test scores. My parents would get more stipends the higher I reached. And then the next step, The Qualifier.

I didn’t want to think about The Qualifier.

My phone pinged, I turn my phone over as quickly as I can.

IW: sometimes I feel like nothing I do is good enough for her

IW: I couldn’t buy birthday flowers for her, she’s ‘allergic’

IW: it doesn’t matter if I try

IW: none of it makes her happy, do you ever worry about that Winnie? IW: that you’ll never be good enough

IW: Winnie?

I hold the phone close to my chest and imagine the next words I would write back if I could.

WO: I feel that sometimes Iris, I think it’s normal. WO: I think you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, please don’t think that of yourself. You don’t have to be good enough

WO: everything about you

WO: is good

I wrap my fingers around the little box, right up against my thumping heart, and fall asleep like that.

-----

Iris goes slightly quiet the couple days before the festival, I try not to let it bother me, I was busy enough as it was. This had to be perfect.

I had all my responses from the last couple months saved up.

The first was an apology, it was on flower paper and a little crying laughing face.

The paper reads briefly:

Hey Iris,

I wanted to say something cool! But I wait too long and the pressure kept building up! I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t cool either.

-Winnie

If Iris stopped messaging me after that then that’s how it would be, but I had to clear the air. I had to try again.

I’m sweating in the dead of summer as our sister continent came sweeping across the horizon, bleeding into the night and showing itself just as the sun went down. My mouth is dry and tasteless, I would be fourteen that year.

It felt so strangely routine compared to the wonder of being seven and struggling for the single light in the sky. It had felt like it had to happen at the time, that it was always going to, but here I was, a mess in all regards. Not messaging back.

I am in the launch prep room right up to the final bell, tinkering, adjusting, trying to figure out what to really say.

There are five letters stuffed into the fat airplane this time, I hope they stay fixed in there after everything. My jaw hurts from clenching when I go to the Festival Master and give her my plane, she examines it skeptically for a moment.

The little motor and basket on it’s back are both off model, she shrugs anyway, almost smiling in a knowing way. She places my plane right next to all the others.

I exhale.

My phone trembles in my hand, waiting. The lanterns had already fallen, only the planes were left. I run outside and I’m typing as fast as I can, before my thoughts catch up to me.

WO: Iris, look up!

I don’t know where I get the courage, but my fingers are flying over the letters.

WO: Please look up!

The blast of air tickles my neck, a twinkle of wind chimes fills the air as thousands of little airplanes are pushed high into the sky. Shot toward the continent and waiting crowds.

My plane is slightly higher than the others, I see the mechanisms clicking in my mind’s eye, igniting the tails of the string. Lighting up the little plane as it let out the series of purple sparks. The sparks fizzle and boom, twisting into large colorful letters.

Iris!

It wrote the letters in curling, carving sparkles that filled the sky. I wished I had more to say but the white and glowing Iris hangs in the air with a rainbow of color and series of pops.

I exhale again, hoping the rest of the plane makes it there after the fireworks were released. I hope she looked up.

I take a moment to lie down and feel the crowds churning around me, my mother was nowhere to be seen, my father was putting together our new hover car somewhere. My sister was eating ice cream with her friends over her friend’s latest breakup.

I was lying on my back, looking up, panting, phone clutched in my fingers as I wait.

I told myself I didn’t care if she messages back after that, but my phone hangs empty and quite next to me. I feel pinpricks on the edges of my eyes, I strangle the feeling as it rises up.

She had every right to be mad, I hold the phone harder. I tell myself she never has to talk to me again, my cheeks are flushed and wet.

Ping

I let the stress tears roll out before wiping at them, before rolling over frantically to open up the IM.

IW: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh

IW: I DIDN’T KNOW YOU GOT MY MESSAGES

IW: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh

I can’t stop smiling.

WO: don’t worry about it

WO: hi my name is Winifred Otiena, I am almost fourteen, I still like the color pink and think that your detective business would have been wonderful

WO: I’ve seen a horse, but think they’re little too big

WO: and thank you

WO: thank you so much for messaging me

IW: you’ve been reading this crap??

WO: please don’t stop

WO: I’m not great with words but I liked yours

IW: you’re great with fireworks apparently tho!! :D

WO: I wanted to say something great back, I knew I had to say something great

IW: Well...hi

WO: hello

We started to talk back and forth, at last. It was touch and go at first, I still had to hide my face sometimes and Iris filled the gaps with her chatter.

It was okay. In fact, Winnie grinned, it was great.

-------

I was fifteen, I was messaging a girl on a floating island. The girl on the floating island was messaging back.

She sent me a lantern that year with wings on it, wings and floating clouds around it. It held all of the Odyssey released in bits of scrap paper into the air as it descended. I caught it and took a selfie with the clouds and Apollo lantern.

We talk for the whole night.

-------

I am sixteen and I am messaging Iris every night, Iris is on her third suspension and I was spending less and less time at home. We had a new home, we celebrated my sister leaving for college.

I missed her terribly.

My parents are just glad she didn’t stay for her boyfriend Chege that she was on-again-off-again for all these years.

I am more grateful than ever for someone to talk to.

Iris sends me lantern with moving kittens on the side and chocolates that taste like bourbon and sugar. She says she wants to taste real bourbon one day and thinks I look like I’d make a cute kitten. I say we all would.

I go through my second growth spurt and am still barely reaching 5’4.

I send Iris an airplane with flowers from the ground, iris’s and poppies. She says there aren’t poppies up there.

The Qualifier preppers are at my door almost every night. I gulp and sometimes shake my head, I had more questions than answers.

------

I am seventeen, the air is thick with summer.

Iris sent me a lantern that is red and silk, an outside made of slick flowery material and smells like her perfume. I blush and send her a plane with a bright pink ribbon on top. I tell her to wear it.

I am tired all the time, numbers and figures float through my head.

I keep getting the same message from her.

IW: where do you go after you ‘qualify’ ?

WO: I don’t know

IW: find out!

WO: that’s classified, the WG only shows you the paycheck

IW: :/

What do you qualify for she asked.

-------

I am eighteen.

I feel the age creeping up on me like a battered old woman about to curse my soul and suck it out of my body with a straw. That’s an image Iris suggests to me, she is already nineteen, she’s got a temporary job at a shoe store.

I don’t know what to tell her, she sends me snaps of her DnD games and I show her my tired puffy face.

I took the test, it took me five hours and my hand almost blistering into nervous hives as I finish. I wished I had failed.

The conversation from before ringing through my ears

IW: botch the test

WO: I can’t, they’ll know, they already know what I can do

IW: … don’t go.

WO: you can’t say that

IW: don’t go! You don’t know where they’re taking you

WO: humanities brightest, they’re gathering us

WO: it’s how we got the floating cities… the World Government, everything

IW: THey don’t need you!!! Not all of you

WO: :

IW: for me

I start shaking, did I really want to go? My parents barely spoke in the sprawling house we were provided, my sister was trying not to fail out gracefully from of one of the top schools in the country (she was doing her best). I had nightmares of hands and timers every night.

For her.

I start sneaking into my old school again, into the old building room.

I would solve all of humanity's problems, somewhere I didn’t know. Somewhere they didn’t let people come back from.

She sends me the article.

IW: READ. THIS.

[LINK RECEIVED]

IW: they did this on purpose, they do it all on purpose

I’m not sure I want to know, I click on it anyway, stomach sinking.

Our Smartest Children: Isolated, for a Reason?

Does competition and strategic pushing help young minds bloom? One investigation says that the next crisis will be averted through grooming the next generation.

But at what cost?

Teachers are said to be taught to pick out the brightest and set the rest of-

I close the article at that, I had seen enough. I go back to my workshop, I start building, I start bleeding my fingers on nuts and bolts. It starts to look like something from a fairy tale.

I break into our hover car and take out the resisters.

I borrow the reflectors from my neighbor’s tool house, the boards they used on the continents, to reflect. To blend in.

I stop going to class, I had already qualified.

The days tick by like maple syrup, dripping and slow. Sticky.

Iris facetimes me. Her face is round and bright and dark as the sister earth that left our soil all those years ago from the mountain.

I pet it slowly and she grins back at me, “so,” she makes a hiccup of noise, “where is my postcard from earth?” I smile back, “wait for it.” I’m almost done.

-------

The night beats on my brow like a violent slap, making me shake. I didn’t know if they were watching, maybe they’ll think I’m going to fail anyway.

I knew the reflectors would only last a couple minutes, I knew the hover material may barely hold me up. I worried she might not want to see me anymore after the first day passes.

I knew I would miss my parents, but I wouldn’t miss the tests and the headache and the burden. There were other ways to save humanity.

I perch on the edge of the gulch where it looks out on the planes. Where they had scooped out the earth, purified it, made it wholesome and able to plant trees again. Then the made it float, build, grow.

Trees were starting here again now too, but they came from the floating cities first.

I reach up and close my eyes, breathing in deeply as the shallow breeze licks my neck. It felt forever ago I stood there and chased a small pink lantern.

I shake, my eyes open just as the first little colors of glowing light come softly floating down from Titros.

I engage the thrusters of my machine, clenching around my shoulders and humming against my spine.

“Iris,” I try to make her out in the crowd on the land above, I can’t. “Iris.” I pray again, my shoulders tensing as my feet lightly, slowly, stop bearing my weight, I feel a smile grow across my mouth as I begin to ease off the ground. The motor I had been developing since I was nine pressed against my back, I took the next leap.

My hover wings hold me up, I go hurdling toward Titros, to the dirt and the earth and away from the eyes of the World Government. Titros was its own.

I reach my hands out, temples pounding, a blur of light and sound as I become a weightless leaf in the wind, I rise.

“Iris!” My voice is hoarse and almost gone, I’m afraid I will be shot down. That I will be chased and punished and told I have failed them. All of them.

I see the edge of the continent like a guillotine’s blade, I reach for the very bottom of the first panel, “please.” I gasp and I hear the voices from below for the first time.

“Who is that?” “What is she doing…” “What’s that on her back?” “She’s going to fall!” The ignition stutters, a coughing choking sound that sparked fear deep in my gut. A sputter comes from my home-made wings and the world is popping and whirring all around me. The air rushes through my ears, through my hair, I gape. No.

My fingers grasp at nothing and I begin to fall. “Winnie!” A hand is surging toward me, wrapping around my wrist, pulling me.

My face splits into a smile, heat surges throughout my whole body from where she touched me. “There you are.”

I don’t know who says it, I am pulled up into Titros, a hole in the sky that sucked me in as she yanked on my hands. She wraps around me like a light and I fall into the depths of the continent, with her.

The voices are still calling out, the hatch closes behind us and we collide in the way universe’s come together. It steals my breath away and chases every thought I ever had away.

“You made it,” she laughs against me, “took you long enough.” All I could do is nod, “I suppose I couldn’t stay away.” She shakes her head, we kiss for the first time in the last moment. I hold her close and my whole body feels light, powerful.

We watch the last of the lanterns fall and she squeezes my hand, “This is my favorite one.” We come together again.

#original story #science fiction #wlw #sapphic #original writing

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spaceexp · 7 years ago

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Storm hunter launched to International Space Station

ESA - Colombus patch. April 3, 2018 ESA’s observatory to monitor electrical discharges in the upper atmosphere is on its way to the International Space Station. The Atmosphere-Space Interactions Monitor is riding in the Dragon cargo vehicle that lifted off at 20:30 GMT (16:40 local time) from Kennedy Space Center in Florida, USA.

Dragon lifts off

A suite of instruments will search for high-altitude electrical discharges associated with stormy weather conditions. It is the first time that such a set of sensitive cameras, light sensors and X- and gamma-ray detectors are flying together to study the inner anatomy of luminous phenomena in Earth’s upper atmosphere and the link with bursts of high-energy radiation.

ASIM mounted on Columbus

The Atmosphere-Space Interactions Monitor, or ASIM, will be mounted on Europe’s Columbus laboratory, looking straight down at Earth. The crew will install it using the Station’s robotic arm within nine days of arrival. From its unique vantage point 400 km above Earth, ASIM will be able to catch the gigantic electrical discharges, a phenomenon difficult to observe from the ground but previously studied from the Station by ESA astronaut Andreas Mogensen in 2015.

Thunderstorm seen from Space Station

This dedicated monitor will improve our understanding of the effect of thunderstorms on the atmosphere and contribute to more accurate climate models. Related article: A space window to electrifying science http://orbiterchspacenews.blogspot.ch/2018/03/a-space-window-to-electrifying-science.html Related links: Experiment archive: http://eea.spaceflight.esa.int/ International Space Station Benefits for Humanity: http://www.esa.int/Our_Activities/Human_Spaceflight/International_Space_Station_Benefits_for_Humanity European space laboratory Columbus: http://www.esa.int/Our_Activities/Human_Spaceflight/Columbus Terma (DK): http://www.terma.com/ ASIM website: http://www.asim.dk/ DTU Space: http://www.space.dtu.dk/english/Research/Projects/Project-descriptions/ASIM Images, Text, Credits: ESA/NASA/SpaceX. Best regards, Orbiter.ch Full article

#space #science

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xtruss · 4 years ago

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10 Spectacular Hubble Space Telescope Images

With the upcoming launch of the James Webb Space Telescope, the Hubble era is gradually drawing to a close. Here are some highlights from the countless wonders Hubble has shown us during its 31 years in space.

— By Alissa Greenberg | Wednesday November 24, 2021

For 10 days in 1995, the Hubble Space Telescope turned its gaze toward a small and seemingly empty patch of space. The result was the “Hubble Deep Field,” a very-much-not-empty image packed with the 3,000 faintest galaxies ever detected.

Hubble has been at the center of such remarkable discoveries for more than 30 years, detecting the atmospheric makeup of exoplanets, using light wavelengths to help us understand how stars form, and giving humanity its first ringside seat at a supernova.

Building on Hubble’s science, NASA is now preparing to launch its successor: the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST). The telescope (whose name has sparked controversy) will be able to look even further into the past by going beyond visible light and observing primarily in the infrared part of the spectrum. As the universe expands, light emitted by the first luminous objects has been stretched out, or “redshifted” into longer wavelengths. The JWST is designed to pick up these wavelengths with sensitivity and resolution so powerful it will be able to observe light arriving from only a few hundred million years after the Big Bang.

Still, for decades our best views of the universe came from Hubble. Here’s a look back at some of the spectacular images that helped us better understand our universe.

The image was taken by Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3 to commemorate Hubble's 30 years in space in 2020. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and STScI

"Cosmic Reef"

This giant red nebula and its smaller blue neighbor are part of a vast star-forming region in the Large Magellanic Cloud, a satellite galaxy of the Milky Way, some 163,000 light-years away. The image is nicknamed "Cosmic Reef," NASA says, because the red nebula resembles a coral reef floating in a sea of stars. The sparkling central region is a group of hefty stars, each 10 to 20 times more massive than our sun.

A 2012 composite of separate exposures. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration, and W. Keel (University of Alabama)

Overlapping Galaxies

A rare view of a pair of overlapping galaxies, called NGC 3314. The two galaxies look as if they are colliding, but they're actually separated by tens of millions of light-years, or about ten times the distance between our Milky Way and the neighboring Andromeda galaxy, NASA says. Despite their appearance here, the motion of the two galaxies indicates that they are both relatively undisturbed and are moving in markedly different directions—not on any collision course.

A 2016 image from an imaging and spectroscopic study of the region. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and P. Crowther (University of Sheffield)

Star Cluster R136

In the central region of the Tarantula Nebula, some 170,000 light-years from Earth, lies a dense cluster of young stars (seen at the lower right). Among the hundreds of young, blue stars are the most massive stars detected in the universe so far, NASA says. In the most dense, central region of this cluster astronomers have found nine stars with masses greater than 100 times the mass of our sun.

A 2015 image was created with observations taken by Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3 instrument using five different filters to enhance the contrast of the Veil Nebula’s gases. Image Credit: NASA and STScI

Veil Nebula

A small section of the Veil Nebula, the debris of a supernova remnant formed roughly 8,000 years ago by the death of a star 20 times the mass of our sun. As massive stars tend to do, it “lived fast and died young,” ending its life in a cataclysmic release of energy. The shockwaves and debris from that supernova sculpted the Veil Nebula’s delicate wisps of ionized gas. In this image, red corresponds to hydrogen, green to sulfur, and blue to oxygen.

A 2002 image. Image Credit: NASA, ESA and H.E. Bond (STScI)

Light Echo from a Red Supergiant Star

This image of the red supergiant star V838 Monocerotis reveals dramatic changes in the illumination of its surrounding dust clouds. The effect, called a light echo, unveiled never-before-seen dust patterns when the star suddenly brightened in January 2002. It temporarily became one of the brightest stars in the Milky Way—600,000 times brighter than our sun—before fading in April 2002. In contrast to a normal nova explosion, V838 Monocerotis did not expel its outer layers, NASA reported. Instead, it ballooned in size, and its surface temperature dropped to temperatures not much hotter than a light bulb. Scientists aren’t sure why it erupted this way but say the outburst may represent a rarely seen transitional stage in a star's evolution.

A 2015 composite of separate exposures. Image Credit: NASA and ESA

Herbig-Haro Object 24

Newly formed stars sometimes shoot out thin, hot jets of ionized gas, creating a lightsaber-like effect known as a Herbig-Haro object. The young star obscured by dust at the center of this image lies in our own Milky Way, some 1,350 light-years away. Hubble observed this HH object in infrared; according to NASA, these young stellar jets will be ideal targets for the JWST, which will have even greater infrared wavelength vision to see deeper into the dust surrounding newly forming stars.

A 2009 composite image captured by Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3 in ultraviolet and visible light. Filters isolated emissions from oxygen, helium, hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulfur from the planetary nebula. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team

Butterfly Nebula

As smaller stars die, they eject their outer layers of gas into space over the course of about 10,000 years, leaving behind a hot core known as a white dwarf. Radiation from the white dwarf at the center of this image illuminates the departing gas, creating a striking formation called a planetary nebula. According to NASA, the name comes from the early days of astronomy, when observers thought the dim forms they observed might be related to planets. With an estimated surface temperature of more than 400,000 degrees Fahrenheit, the central star of this planetary nebula is one of the hottest stars on record.

A 2020 composite of separate exposures. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, STScI, A. Simon (Goddard Space Flight Center), and M.H. Wong (University of California, Berkeley) and the OPAL team

Jupiter and Europa

This fairly recent image of Jupiter captured not only the gas giant’s famed Great Red Spot, but a bright white, stretched-out storm in the mid-northern latitudes that’s traveling around the planet at 350 miles per hour. And below the Great Red Spot, Oval BA—nicknamed Red Spot Jr.—continues to fluctuate, now shifting from its typical whitish coloration to redder tones. The icy moon Europa, which is thought to hold potential ingredients for life, is visible to the left of Jupiter.

A 2010 composite of separate exposures. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and M. Livio and the Hubble 20th Anniversary Team (STScI)

"Mystic Mountain"

In the prolific stellar nursery known as the Carina Nebula, chaos unfolds at the top of a three-light-year-tall pillar of gas and dust. Scorching radiation and streams of charged particles from super-hot newborn stars in the nebula shape and compress the pillar, causing new stars to form within it. At the same time, the pillar is torn apart from within, NASA reports, as infant stars buried inside it fire off jets of gas that can be seen streaming from its peaks.

This 2006 image uses visible and near-infrared observations from Hubble’s Wide Field Camera 3, along with previous observations from Hubble’s Advanced Camera for Surveys. Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration

Antennae Galaxies

Hubble has been documenting the merging of two spiral galaxies dubbed the “Antennae galaxies” for years.The pair began to interact a few hundred million years ago, NASA reports, and during the course of the collision, billions of stars will be formed. This clash is so violent that stars have been ripped from their host galaxies to form a streaming arc between the two, the inspiration for their name. And the rate of star formation is so high that the Antennae galaxies are said to be in a state of starburst, a period in which all of the gas within the galaxies is being used to form stars. This stage cannot last forever and neither can the separate galaxies; eventually, they will meld together to become one large elliptical galaxy.

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nikaharper · 8 years ago

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Unrelated Happenings in a Big Apartment Building

It was considered a regular Tuesday.

James had a productive evening, catching a quick drink with a coworker who was stuck completing a project he had moved on from a month ago. It was still as fucked as ever, and James grinned inwardly as he got the leftover fried rice out of the fridge. Time for some Hulu.

Alex had a sinus infection, again, and was resigned to laying on the patched couch full of bleary-eyeing cold medicine. He fell asleep while flipping channels and woke with memories of a strange dream about the American Revolutionary War. No more napping to the History channel.

Marielue always felt awkward in the evening, the transition between day and night, and this particular walk home had perturbed her. A discarded brown sweatshirt in the gutter had, at a glance, appeared to be a dead dog, and after a double-take she couldn't shake it from her mind. Everything became an abandoned animal corpse. She saw three more "dead dogs" and one that looked like a slain kitten, but was actually a gnarled tree root poking out of a lawn. She closed her eyes as she closed the door of her apartment, took a few deep breaths. But the rest of the night didn't fare much better. Every bit of discarded laundry was a lifeless form; she saw a skull in a bar of soap.

Naseem was cooking up a stew for dinner, and he checked his phone for texts from his girlfriend. There was a flash of pain on his forearm; he had rested it against the stew pot on the stove. He washed it under cold tap water, but it glowed a livid red. He remembered thinking it would blister, and considered taking a picture for his girl. 'This is what I go through for you!"'

Charles was out of the apartment, watching the basketball game on Ian's couch and talking too loudly about a girl he'd met that weekend. He didn't know it was too loud, though.

Amelia was plucking her eyebrows in the bathroom mirror. One, two stray hairs, grooming to the perfect shape of arched but still natural. The phone rang as she gave one last look in the mirror. Odd, that one had bled, and left a smudge of red on her dark skin. That never happens.

Caleb was doing laundry in the basement, full of coin-op machines and scuffed linoleum. He sorted the wet items into dryer-ready heaps, except one of them... That wasn't his. Maybe it was leftover from another tenant? A cotton pair of too-small boxer briefs, he was about to discard it before he remembered what happened last week. Best to put them in the trash. He bit his lip too hard as the garbage can top swung and creaked.

Jackie just woke up. Her head pounded, and she always swore Monday night drinking was the most abrasive of them all, because you'd be around people who may have no jobs or may have nothing left in life, and keeping up drink-by-drink was a hazard. She remembered some names... Michael or Mike or maybe something unusual like Makivar. One look at her phone said she was right. Skyla was asking how she felt, punctuated by emoji of which she could only see half and the rest were rectangular blocks. Then there was two missed calls from "Makkovar." She must have really liked him. She wondered if he had a job.

Kevin removed his headset. The raid wasn't going well. Wiped five times on a boss that they considered farm-status. He rubbed his eyes and didn't notice the shadow passing by his fifth-story window.

Thomas and Stephanie lay on sweaty bedsheets, panting in the glaze of newfound love. Three times that night! It wasn't even midnight. "Need anything from the bathroom?" he asked. "A towel." Stephanie turned over and smiled into the pillow, feeling the stickiness between her thighs. But it wasn't all just passion. "Um, maybe I'll... get it myself," she called, carefully rolling on her back and edging out of the bed, trying to hide the blood on her fingers. "Fuck," said Thomas from the bathroom, the lights on, "Are you okay? I mean there's—" "It's fine, I got my period, sorry sorry." Stephanie hadn't had a period in two years.

Ed was home early. It was bullshit. He pulled off his hat and cheap, dark wig, slamming himself down into his favorite lounge chair, the same chair his dad used before he died. The costume party was an annoyance at best, a disaster at worst. "IT'S FROM TRIGUN," he finally yelled out over the keg at a dumbstruck partygoer dressed as Finn. He didn't mean to scream, but Ed had never been good at environments where music was blaring and everyone was drunk by the time you arrived. He really cared about his outfit, it was good shit. A bottle of shochu washed the taste of cheap beer out of his mouth, and the remote flicked through his library to find Trigun, the episodes with Rai-Dei. He pressed 'Play.' Ed looked awesome. Fuck anyone who didn't get it.

Brandon took out the trash and found himself face-to-face with an oppossum. He hadn't recognized before how much their face looked like a skull.

Alejandro let the faucet run for a bit, waiting for hot water to make some rice. His nose was in a book, so he didn't notice that for a moment, the water ran blood red.

Makayla wasn't into that witchy shit, it seemed like stuff for dispossessed white girls. But on the websites, as fucking footnotes, there was a mention of Marie Laveau, and voodoo, and the things that called to her. She had more power here than she thought, without the fuckin' salt lamps and quartz crystals that cost nine dollars each. Nah, there was good shit in here, and it called to her. She held half a dead cigar in one hand and grabbed an oily eel filet, the best she could find at the Asian market, in the other. It jolted through her like a seizure. Something was very wrong, and very near. Makayla gasped and dropped her reagents. Nah, fuck this. She'll fry that damn eel and not fuck around with this shit anymore.

John's business worked at night. So he didn't recognize the flickering lights in the hallways, excited squawks and yelps from other apartments doors as he passed. This was all normal. Eyes followed him from the underside of dark doors, squinted through the keyholes of post boxes as he went to get his mail that evening. He paid no mind. Why should he?

Renee had the worst night. Newly single, full of glass-shard memories that hurt to remember but they were everywhere.... It was easy to exist, to do normal things in a normal life because there was a repetition that was comforting. Coming home was the awful part. Moments to rest were the awful part. She felt unloved. Worse, she knew she wasn't loved anymore. Things had ended that badly. An hour passed sitting on her bed, thinking about a bottle of wine. Any bottle. It didn't matter right now. Then it was an hour and a half. Mentally taking note of all the things in her space which SHE had touched, the candles they had lit on romantic evenings, the way the pillow still smelled like her, the dress and leggings still piled into a corner from the last time they... It was three days ago. That they touched, that they felt each other's heat and Renee felt the heartbeat of her as she lay her head on that chest, that perfect chest that held the most golden heart, the person she loved. It all seemed to be going so well.... Or well enough. Good enough. Enough to go on, to continue, to keep being in love as they were, as they had been for over a year now. Maybe Renee hadn't seen the signs. She must not have, because it all felt so sudden. Two days ago. Three days ago they had been twisting limbs in a galaxy of jersey bedsheets, and one day afterward, nothing. She wanted to wash the sheets. But she didn't dare. There was no wine, so that... couldn't have been the problem. Renee didn't take any pills, she had always been a rather healthy person but admittedly she hadn't eaten much that day and didn't plan on putting together a dinner. Her friends didn't know yet, so they couldn't provide survival comforts. It was just her, on a bed, in a tiny apartment, alone. So it wasn't wine or pills or attributed to anything particularly chemical, but it just so happens that on that night, Renee got a nosebleed. In the midst of her tears, a dark stain spread on her palms and she realized she was bleeding. It felt so dramatic, she walked to the bathroom pinching her nose and looked for the nearest towel to wipe on her face. As she removed the washcloth, a threadbare thing she would probably throw away after this incident of staining, she realized it had changed color. It was a yellow handcloth, she had wiped her hands on it for years, probably too long without replacement, but it was yellow. It was a bit blanched with wear and wash. But it was yellow. Not now. The cloth in her hands was a deep red. Renee's eyes snapped to the mirror, inspecting her face and nose—maybe she had bled a lot more than she thought— but her face was clean. The cloth stayed red. A single tear snuck from the corner of her eye... she followed its path in the bathroom reflection... and it was dark, moody, red. Like wine. She felt wet, like having walked out of a steamy shower, the air was warm and full of vapor and she could barely breathe. A drop of blood splattered the hexagonal tiled floor, but her nose felt dry. Dropping the towel, Renee watched as her fingernails pooled with thick burgundy liquid and spilled to the ground. This time the mirror showed her looking clean, and pale, and scared. The floor was splattered art, white tile and grey grout, artful splashes of deep red. Her sandals stood in pools of crimson, a steady flow easing out of the peep-toe opening. This wasn't just grief, it was worse than that. Renee knew she wasn't losing her mind. The world, like many other things, was here to blindside her, and she had no control over it.

Maybe the other tenants could have seen the sloshing red liquid in the other washing machine. The mysterious stains on the stairs. The pupils of their eyes that looked red and luminous in the mirror's reflection. The metallic tang from a bitten lip.

But it was a regular Tuesday night. Easy enough to forget, anyway.

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soy-em · 8 years ago

Text

Wincest Writing Challenge: One King

Written for @wincestwritingchallenge Round 12: Richard Silken

Prompt: I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth.

Pairing: Wincest

Partner: @ilostmyshoe-79

Rating: E/NC17

Summary:

Dean's confusing porn with reality again, and he's really got to stop.

What happens when the Winchesters are forced to share a bed.

On A03

Sequel to Two Queens

It doesn’t work.

Dean knows he has a good ass. He’s been told so by more people than he can count - most of those comments very much unwelcome at the time but enough to leave him in happy confidence that his backside is pleasing to people.

But dropping his pants and showing it off hasn’t worked. Sam remains as utterly indifferent to Dean (and his ass) as he always seems to be.

Dean tips his head back in the shower and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to do any more; maybe he should just give up. Water pounds down over his head; the excellent pressure might turn out to be the only good thing about this motel, and Dean finally starts to thaw out, tingles radiating from his fingers and toes as he warms up. He forces himself not to linger; Sam needs this bliss as much as he does.

When he leaves the bathroom, he’s confronted with the kingsize bed. It’s like something out of a porno, he thinks; two hot guys forced to share a bed and huddle together for warmth. In the porn world, it would only end one way, even if the men were brothers; but as Sam’s said many times, he shouldn’t confuse reality and porn. The likelihood of him and Sam getting it on tonight is miniscule. He needs to resign himself to that.

He hops into bed and scoots to one side, leaving enough space for his brother. When he finally emerges from the shower, Sam looks utterly horrified at the thought of sharing with Dean, and that’s more than enough to crush all of Dean’s hopes.

Rolling over, Dean does what Winchesters do best, and thinks about something else until he falls asleep.

***

Waking in the middle of the night, Dean is surrounded by a warmth and rightness that he hasn’t felt in over four years. Sam is not just close, Sam is within touching distance, within breathing distance, within kissing distance and that’s just exactly where he should be. Dean luxuriates for a moment, Sam’s familiar breath hitting his cheek and his little almost-snores tickling Dean’s ears.

There’s enough dim artificial light trickling through the thin motel curtains for Dean to see his brother. Sam looks so peaceful asleep, as if the trials of the past few months have washed away; the frown on his forehead smoothed out and his lips gently parted. He’s beautiful like this too, of course, he’s always beautiful; but Dean is struck with how relaxed he looks. It highlights the strain Sam carries during the day, the grief of losing Jess mixing with the guilt of not being able to find their Dad, and it’s only now that it’s gone that Dean is seeing the impact.

Dean is awash with love in that moment; the love he’s felt all his life, from the moment the tiny bundle was first placed in his arms, supported carefully by a soft embrace he can barely remember; right through to the desperate hug at a wet bus stop as Sam set off into the unknown, and most recently felt through the crash of Sam’s body fighting against him in a dark room, before a girl in tiny pyjamas flicked on the lights.

Jess. Dean had been stunned when he saw her; not just because she was hot (so hot, well done Sammy), but because it was just a little bit like looking into a mirror. Light hair, luminous eyes, freckles; Dean had seen himself and hoped. And there’s the looks, sometimes; the way Sam’s eyes follow him; the frown that deepens across Sam’s forehead as he watches Dean flirt; the almost painful intensity between them when they avoid talking about Stanford. Just occasionally, Dean wonders if Sam feels the same way.

But Sam’s grief over Jess has shown his brother’s true feelings and Dean’s been forced to let go of that.

Except he hasn’t really. Twisting onto his side carefully, he looks at his brother again and his heart clenches. There is literally nothing he wouldn’t do for this boy, even give him up to college and a better life. But Sammy’s back now and all Dean’s feelings, ruthlessly suppressed over the past four years, have come roaring back. Dean wants everything of Sam; every moment, every thought, every feeling and every breath of Sam is important to Dean; he wants to know them, understand them, share them all.

It’s not healthy - he’s known that since he was nine and found Sam’s first day at school harder than his brother; since he was fourteen and wanted to fight all Sam’s battles for him; since he was nineteen and saw Sam’s long legs in a different light for the first time. But he wants, and he can’t help himself, and he needs to realise it’s never going away and make his peace with that. It’s just harder at times like this, when it would be so easy to reach across the bed and kiss Sam into wakefulness.

Trying to regain control of his feelings, he rolls back the other way and shuts his eyes firmly. As Sam said, the sooner he goes to sleep, the sooner it will be morning and he can find them a motel with two beds.

***

It’s light when Dean wakes again, his body still heavy with sleep. Trying to move, he realises that he can’t; he’s pinned by a heavy, warm weight across his waist and legs. Blinking sleepily through his feeling of contentment, it takes him a while to realise it’s Sam. His brother has pressed up against him in the night, sprawling across Dean and most of the bed, so that Dean is almost hanging off the edge.

Fucking sasquatch, he thinks, and tries to shift into a safer position. As he moves, he becomes aware of two very concerning issues: one, that he himself is hard, Sam’s leg pressing warm against his morning wood; and two, that Sam’s even harder, a small wet patch forming against Dean’s hip where Sam’s slotted tight against him.

Shame flushes through Dean’s body. He’s never been a prude about sex, and he’s been aware of his feelings for Sam for years, but still; finding himself aroused by his baby brother’s warm, sleeping, unaware body gives him the kind of guilt trip he could do without. Its drowned out almost immediately though by a different kind of heat; Sam is hard against him, and although it’s probably just a natural morning reaction, or even a dream about a different warm body, Dean still can’t control his visceral reaction.

He must unknowingly tense his body, because suddenly Sam’s squirming against him, waking up. Dean’s still too sleep fogged to react fast enough; before he can think to move, Sam’s awake, body going stiff beside him.

“Dean?” Sam asks, voice quiet. He sounds almost fearful. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” It takes Dean a moment to realise Sam’s trying to extricate himself from the tangle of their limbs, and yet more time passes before Dean’s aware that he’s making that impossible by not moving his leg.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice insistent and more high pitched than normal, a slight edge of panic creeping in. “I need to get up.”

Dean will never know what possesses him to take the risk, but he rolls so they’re face to face, legs still caught up, and rocks his hips forwards. He can feel the hard press of Sam’s cock against his own through their boxers, and the puff of air on his face as Sam gasps, his hands clutching tight onto Dean’s arms. There’s no rejection, so Dean does it again, rolling his hips fluidly into Sam’s, watching his brother’s mouth go slack with pleasure.

“Sammy?” he asks, putting as much emotion as possible behind that one word in the hope of not having to talk about his feelings in more detail.

“Yes, Dean,” Sam agrees fervently, and that’s enough for Dean to lean in and seal his mouth onto Sam’s in a deep, intense kiss. Sam should taste sour but his mouth is the sweetest thing Dean’s ever experienced. It doesn’t take long for them to start rocking against each other, Sam’s leg curling over Dean’s hip as if to trap him in place and never let him go. Dean winds his arms around Sam’s neck, pulling their heads together so that they’re sharing every tiny gasp and moan between them, no space for the outside world. He knows he should get his hand down between them and pull their boxers down at least, so that they’re skin on skin; but he’s wanted this for so long that he’s not going to have time. Everything feels so good, and he’s so sleep-fogged that he can feel his orgasm rocketing through his veins far faster than he’d like; his body speeding up and toes curling. But Sam’s in no better state, his ever-changing eyes focused on Dean’s as their noses brush together.

Sam bites down hard on his own lip, head tipping back as he comes while he’s riding Dean’s leg; and the sight is enough to end things for Dean too. He comes with a gasp, forehead knocking against his brothers as they both try to draw in a breath. It’s only a second before Sam’s kissing him again, uncoordinated but so eager, licking into Dean’s mouth as if he never wants it to end.

They make out lazily for a while, neither caring about the mess in their boxers. Dean could stay here forever, happy to ignore the consequences of their morning. Rain is still pounding against the windows and they’re probably stuck here for the day anyway, he thinks.

Eventually, though, Sam pulls back. He slides to the edge of the bed without a word, and Dean feels his heart drop. The disgust he’s been expecting all morning is obviously kicking in and Sam wants to get away from him. It’s going to break his heart; he’s lived through Sam’s rejection once, and survived, just barely. He doesn’t think he can do it again.

Pushing himself out of the bed, he fumbles for his jeans, pulling them up harshly and disregarding the mess in his boxers. He’ll sort it out at the first service station. Casting around, he sees his t-shirt on the other side of the room and strides across to pick it up.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small and confused; he’s standing in the bathroom door, still in just his boxers and a t-shirt. Looking incredibly young, Sam visibly takes a deep breath. “I get it if you want to leave, Dean, I’m disgusting. But wait until it’s safe to drive again, at least.” Sam turns away. “I can wait in the bathroom. Or go to reception.”

Dean’s head actually spins for a minute, dizziness threatening to send him to the floor. Sam thinks he’s disgusting? Dean’s the one who’s corrupted his little brother. Worse, Sam thinks Dean is leaving him and he’s upset?

It all takes Dean a minute to process, and in that time Sam’s gone back into the bathroom. Dean can see him, perched on the edge of the grimy bath, cradling his head in his hands. Dean hates stuff like this, hates having to work through his emotions, but this is Sam; it will be worth it. He approaches his brother softly, still-bare feet making no noise as he crouches down in front of his brother.

“Sammy,” he begins. “I don’t think you’re disgusting.” He pauses. “I am, but not you. You’re perfect.”

Sam’s eyes peek through his hands. “I’m disgusting. I made you do that.”

“I made you do that,” Dean counters. “I’m the big brother.”

There’s an interminable moment of silence. Sam’s the first to break it, taking the risk that Dean can’t quite bring himself to chance. “Did you want that?” he asks softly, and Dean nods emphatically, heart in his mouth.

“Oh thank fuck,” Sam breathes, and collapses forwards into Dean’s arms. Dean barely catches them in time, lowering them both to the cold bathroom floor. Sam’s peppering kisses against his face and it takes Dean a moment to get him to stop, framing Sam’s face with his hands.

“I take it you did too?” he asks, voice a little dry, and this time its Sam who nods, laughing.

“Yes, yes.” They’re kissing against, messy kisses across each other’s faces as they miss their mouths, Sam’s teeth nipping at his lips, his ears, his neck. Dean’s laughing too, happiness bubbling out of him. Eventually their mouths reconnect properly and Dean’s swallowing down Sam’s joy alongside his moans, his heart beating sure and fast where it’s pressed up against Sam’s, right where it should be.

#wincest #wincestwritingchallenge #sam winchester/dean winchester #sam winchester X dean winchester #ilostmyshoe-79 #season 1 #my writing #bedsharing #cliche

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creativitytoexplore · 5 years ago

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Candy by Dave Wakely https://ift.tt/306W3OW Dave Wakely's character has to look after his estranged fifteen-year-old daughter for a few days.

"God, you're so useless!" She stands before me, two skimpy candy-pink tops dangling from their hangers like the discarded skins of lurid reptiles, her ferocious glare expecting me to choose. Decisions, decisions... Luminous Lycra or acrylic machined-lace the colour of bubblegum. I scratch my chin while her right foot counts out the seconds on the rough concrete floor. Tap tap tap. This is her second day with me after half-an-hour's notice, after what passes for an explanation from her mother. Just a text, neither predictive nor predictable. Hasn't her daughter told her? Abbreviations are sooo last year.

Moved in new house but hv chickenpox + R on business in Singapore. B not had it. Don't kno neighbours so cant ask. Yr office sed u r on study leave, so sending her over w driver. Shd be ok in 2 wks. Will xfer £s to yr a/c. Spk later. J.

Since she arrived, we might still be in my town but we're in her world now. Mine never smelt of fast food and unisex perfumes. The lighting was kinder, and it was quieter there. How's a man to think? More to the point, what would the man she now calls Daddy do? Would he even allow her in a place like this? The tapping stops, and then comes the outburst. "You're supposed to be GOOD at this!" Her tantrum is, I understand, designed to drag me back into the moment. I've been lucky to escape so long. She lives for now, not for later, even if that's when most of her life is going to actually happen. At fifteen, hormones trump strategic thinking. Frankly, it's still a tussle at thirty-eight. For twenty minutes now, I've lurked in the shop's darkest corner while Bonnie has ransacked the rails, the gum-chewing sales assistant eyeing me like I'm an old paedo lurking behind a playground fence. Above my head, a speaker booms like the daytime disco Bonnie probably wishes she was in. Eddie would cope with this so much better than me. He usually says I'm trying to be kind when I tell him I envy his deafness, but right now... Still, it's her mother's money I'm spending, I remind myself, not mine. B nds new summer tops: put xtra £150 in yr a/c, this morning's text said. No sign-off - not even a J, let alone an x - but Jess has an encyclopaedia of reasons to hate me. My uselessness isn't news, just an echo sounding down the years. Whether I dress her daughter as a teenage hooker or a day-glo Edwardian vamp, it will be just another erratum slip tucked inside the bulging catalogue of my failures. I wonder if she ever reads them to Bonnie, bedtime stories with a pinch of deadly nightshade. Bonnie was twenty-three months old when Jess finally realised the main reason I'd spent the afternoon on the balcony, our baby girl cradled in my arms. Not to revel in the sunshine and the miracle of my daughter's existence, but for the view of the man next door and the shadows flickering across his sunburnt-pink back as his muscles danced the lawnmower to and fro. My life started then, or at least the life I lead now. I'd seen the pain in Jess's eyes when she gave birth, heard her screams, but I gave birth to myself - to the honest version - in the spare-room, on my own. No gas, no comforting hand, no drugs beyond the illicit. If Jess heard me cry, she didn't say. Tap tap tap... Bonnie's left foot jerks me back into the day once more. "Hold them up against you," I tell her, buying time I've no urge to spend. At least not here, not now. She holds first one hanger and then the other against her, arms signalling a bad-tempered semaphore. I admire her energy, but with every flourish of her elbows I get the message: I am rubbish, a desperate case. Eventually she pauses, the skimpier blouse's lacy material as transparent as her mood. "The other one?" I ask. "Just for a few seconds?" I watch her dial her loathing up another notch, glowering as she slams the second hanger against her collar-bones, letting the first fall to the floor. I expected Till Girl to complain, but she just scrolls her head from left to right like a security camera, purple hair swishing as she scans first Bonnie and then me. Her lip-stud winks with every grind of her jaw, a twenty-first century beauty spot. Maybe, behind her carefully applied overlay of tedium, she's as baffled as me. It's not just the fashions that I'm out of touch with: it's the girl. For twenty-four hours we've skirted each other, any moments in the same room an uneasy truce. I'm like a wary gardener, too daunted by the thorns to venture a nostril nearer to the rose. I've seen Bonnie grow, but in giant leaps rather than baby steps. Standing on the porch, face caught between smiling and blankness as I drove away in a borrowed car after six months of sleeping on an old sofa, stemming the draughts under the garage door with the boiler-suit I'd worn to half-finish painting her bedroom. Outside the divorce court three years later, beaming and waving as she held Roger's hand. "Daddy," she called out, till she was shushed into silence. "I'm right here, darling," I heard him say. Then at nine-and-a-half, when Jess's mum died and her father invited me to the funeral, still preferring me to Roger. Close enough to see her tug Jess's sleeve while she pointed at me, for Eddie to lip-read her mother calling me 'Uncle Desmond'. Since then, mostly snatches of conversation at weddings or old friends' parties before Jess or Roger could steer her away. Perfunctory paragraphs in Christmas cards, letters send via lawyers' offices. As I wait for her scowl to turn vocal again, I remind myself that I am the adult here, even if I'm not the precise adult either of us might have chosen. She knows me as little as I know her, and taking a gay man shopping hadn't turned out as fabulously - and that would be the word, wouldn't it? - as she'd hoped. I turn to Till Girl, her face dead-pan. "I need your help here," I tell her, shouting over the music. "This is Bonnie. She's fifteen years old..." "I'm nearly sixteen," Bonnie interrupts with a shrill squeak of outrage. "She was fifteen four months ago," I continue, hearing my voice coarsen into a bark. "Her mother's ill, so I'm looking after her. She needs a new top." I can feel my emotions bubbling like a percolator, finer manners sinking like silt. "One that doesn't make her look a total slut." As the words leave my mouth, I hear the shame under the rage, feel the realisation that it isn't really Bonnie I'm angry with. Till Girl flicks her tongue across her lip, a snake tasting the air. Contempt, or contemplation? One hand drops below the counter and the music abruptly dies. Bonnie is silent now too. The girl steps round from behind the counter, nods once at me and strides to a rail by the changing-room. "What size, please?" she asks, her crystal vowels a surprise. I motion Bonnie to reply. "Six," she mutters, absorbed in staring at her feet. Till Girl's fingers fly through a mass of hangers, pulling out a blue velvety creation with an asymmetric hem and sparkling embroidery. "This suits your colouring more," she tells Bonnie firmly, "and the cut will make you look taller. Slimmer." There's a subtle emphasis on the second adjective. "And I think you're more like an eight." She pushes open a changing room door and waits as Bonnie half-drags, half-stomps her way across the shop. As the door swings shut behind her, the girl raises one artfully-pencilled eyebrow at me and struts back to her counter. A seemingly eternal silence later, Bonnie re-appears, tugging down the shorter side of her new hem. Till Girl knows her stuff: she looks taller and more graceful, almost adult. Differently dressed, she has the beginnings of a figure, shaded and outlined without anything being underlined or underwired. "Well?" she says, more tremulous than truculent. Till Girl beats me to it. "Quite sophisticated, actually. Yes, I like that," she says. There's an undertone of surprise. "What does your father think?" "I think you look great," I say, before Bonnie can speak. Before she might deny my existence, or I might do the same. Even here where it would never matter, where it's already assumed, it seems an acknowledgement too far. "Not that my opinion matters, I suspect. I'm just the wallet carrier. Is there a younger man she might impress?" Till Girl almost smiles, and turns her head towards the back of the store. "Jamie!" Her shout would stir a catacomb. A boy of eighteen or nineteen shuffles out of the stock-room, all ear-tunnels, piercings and ink-black tattoos, halfway between Meccano and a badly-photocopied medieval map. He moves inside his baggy clothes like a man wrestling inside a duvet cover, the waistband of his unbelted jeans sitting below under-developed buttocks. There's a flash of gaudy yellow underpant, bright as cupcake icing, the only hint of sweetness he's allowed himself. "Trade Descriptions Act," Eddie always says when he sees a boy dressed like that. "If it's not for sale, don't put it in the window." Till Girl does her security-camera head-swivel thing at Bonnie, and then back to the boy. "Cool," he says, his voice as flat as Lincolnshire. "Wicked." Whether from shyness or lust, he rubs his palms on his thighs, a blush spreading through the few patches of bare skin left on his neck. Is this how straight teenagers flirt nowadays? It's like watching a wildlife documentary. Bonnie's face is as pink as the clothes she would have chosen, but she's clearly persuaded.

Twenty minutes later - after she's convinced us both that her new look requires black metallic leggings and, two stores down, petrol-blue patent leather stilettos that of course she insists on wearing - we walk the mall's marble walkways, a stable-hand leading a prize filly into the dressage ring. Each time I hear a pause in her erratic clip-clopping, I take her hand for a second before she teeters, sparing her more the embarrassment of toppling than the pain of a twisted ankle. I watch the eyes of teenage boys as we pass, scanning her like bar-code readers assessing some new exotic fruit. Whenever a woman Jess's age comes close, I try to read her expression as if I might read Jess's mind by proxy. As if I ever could. Bonnie's eyes dart from window to window, feverish with the shopping bug. Each time we stop, it's not the display I dissect but our reflection. The young woman, dumped on an almost-stranger but bursting to be happy. The gangly man in the biker jacket and faded 501s, sullen as a teenager and anxious to be somewhere else. And the way they avoid each other's eyes, stranded in a no-man's-land between anger and apology. We pause on the benches by the fountains in the open courtyard, faces splashed with spray, pretending that an icy slab of damp marble under our buttocks comes as some kind of respite. I take her picture on her phone so she can send it to Jess. My new look, her message says. Like it? B x. There's no reply. As we drift back into silence, I watch her attention scampering from one boy to another, so blatantly she triggers more blushes than smiles. Maybe this is the kind of moment Jess and Roger would never allow her, a chance to make mistakes. Perhaps she's even enjoying being here, with me, just a little. I police my own gaze more carefully. Here and there, middle-aged fathers sit with teenaged daughters, carrier bags at their feet and shoulders turned a fraction against each other, seeing the world at different angles. Maybe this is what teenage girls think fathers are for: for presents and treats, but not for company or conversation. "I'm sorry I made you lose your temper," Bonnie says, looking down at her feet as she breaks our silence. She's shaken off one of her new shoes and there's the start of a blister on her heel, already rising a livid red. "I'll buy you some plasters," I tell her. "Unless you want to put your trainers back on?" I pat the growing pile of carrier bags beside me. "Thanks," she mumbles, shaking her head, "but I can afford Elastoplast, at least." She takes my proffered tissue and folds it over, wrapping it round her heel before she slips the shoe back on, trying not to wince. "And I know me being here isn't your fault. Just 'cos Mum's using you doesn't mean I should. It's not like you're responsible for me or anything." I want to protest, though it would do no good. Jess didn't get herself pregnant: if I'm not responsible for her, who on earth is? Without me, Bonnie wouldn't be anywhere - wouldn't even be. But it's not what she means, and complaining won't help. Roger's her father now: I abdicated and I can't expect loyalty. "It's ok, I'm sorry too. I know I'm kind of the last resort," I tell her. "Like being promised a trip to the zoo to see the tigers and winding up in the reptile house with some cold-blooded thing staring at you through the glass." She looks as embarrassed as I feel. The fountains spray our faces with cold water as the silence grows again. "How about I treat you to something?" she asks me, suddenly a child again. A fifteen-year-old girl wanting to impress. "Have you ever had bubble tea?"

The concession stall is a cartoon-coloured laboratory of bubbling liquids in luminous columns. Their high-buttoned uniforms as white as surgeons', Asian boys barely older than Bonnie strain alien concoctions into transparent beakers, inscrutable stewards in a Martian cocktail bar. I scan the menu, pretending to understand. "Extra bottom, 50p," it declares. With Eddie, I could have pointed and laughed, but not now. I turn to Bonnie. "Help me out here?" "OK," she says, "are you more milky? Or more fruity?" "I guess I'm more the fruity type," I say, stifling a snigger I can't quite prevent. "Apple, if that's possible?" "How are you with things that burst in your mouth?" she asks, all wide-eyed curiosity, and I wonder if she's trying to provoke me, testing my boundaries, or if being fifteen is still as innocent as I dimly remember. The students I teach are older: nineteen, twenty... women, not girls, though their counterparts are still more boys than men. "I'll try anything once," I say. Her face stays straight. My offer to pay refused, I perch on a ridiculously tall barstool while she places our order, passing over her little sequinned purse from her backpack when she remembers her new outfit has no pockets. I watch how she keeps it hidden below the counter-line, too girly now for her chic ensemble, for the suddenly mature Bonnie. Young enough to blush and giggle, but old enough to play the scene to suit the audience. She passes me a see-through cup filled with something bile green. There are viscous black lumps clumped at its base and a thick purple straw sticking out like a drainpipe. Hers is a shade of lilac only chemicals could conjure, but she slurps at it happily. We swivel on our seats, our feet dangling in mid-air, two satellite dishes scanning the ether for different channels. "Go on," she teases. "Try it." I lower my head and suck. The glowing gunge fills my mouth, cold and thickly chewy. I give silent thanks that I've mastered my gag reflex, and swallow with what little elegance I can muster. "So, how does it taste?" she asks, apparently blind to my discomfort. Preoccupied with not throwing up, my manners go AWOL. "Like it looks," I mutter, scrambling for tissues to wipe stray globules from my chin. "Dragon sperm." I watch her roll her beaker across her cheek, either hiding a blush or cooling one, and wonder if I've gone too far. There's a pause before she replies, but no coyness in the question. "You recognise the flavour?" Her eyes signal a smile that's yet to reach her lips. "I've had... similar." It's taken twenty-four hours, but finally I've made her laugh. "You're much more fun than Roger," she tells me. "Or Mum. And it's ok - leave it if you don't want it."

The concrete park bench feels warmer than the mall's marble, although the landscaping's manicured scrubland is no more sincere. In the dogwoods behind us, I can hear the underground pump that sends the curiously tidy stream trickling down through the artificial hills. She wants me to choose a place for lunch, but where would she enjoy? I can hardly take her to The Taverners and spend an hour explaining the difference between bears and otters, cubs and twinks. That menu would mean as much to her as the bubble tea bar did to me. What have we got in common? She has my nose, my eyes, but it's only genetics. What do we share beyond a woman neither of us seem to love anymore and a weakness for letting our eyes wander over the bodies of men we don't know? Bubble tea might be thicker than water, but blood? I ask a question that I probably shouldn't. "So, what kind of boys do you like?" She looks a little flustered. I'm probably creeping her out more than earning her interest, but my mouth keeps moving. "I mean, what kind of boy do you dream of being with, one day?" I wonder if I'm blushing now. "Intelligent," she tells me. "Clever. Someone that reads. Proper books, not comics." Hardly the answer I expected, but heart-warming: maybe Eddie might like her after all. I won't tell him she asked me yesterday why I 'went for' a deaf guy, like he was something sub-standard I'd settled for. As if I'd told myself that was what I deserved. She didn't say it quite like that - although he did, once. "Just checking," he said afterwards. "Making sure." I wonder what she'd make of him, proof-reading in his brother's spare room to escape a girl he's pre-judged as shrill and vacant, if she got to know him. Maybe she'd see what I love, if she took the time to look. "Someone who cares about more than money and deals and profits and all that," she says. "Not like Roger." I feel an eyebrow rise and I struggle to keep it level. "Or like Mum. Thinking a turtleneck jumper or a squirt of scent covers everything. Even when it gives her away." My eyebrow drifts aloft like a balloon slipping from a child's hand. "Last time she farmed me out, she said she had a migraine..." Bonnie pauses, her face wondering if she should tell me. "When I got home, I sat on the sofa with her. The cushions smelt of cologne. I recognised it." She's looking down at her hands, her fingers knotting and unknotting. "It wasn't Roger's." She unclasps her hands and they lie in her lap, palms upturned. "Not that he's any better. Coming home late reeking of breath mints, a plaster over a love bite and some crap about cutting himself shaving." She looks almost like she's going to cry. I slip my arm round her shoulder and she nestles her head into my chest. I can't think of a thing to say. "So I'd like a proper man. Classy. Faithful." She's almost mumbling now. "Not like someone you'd find in a shopping mall then," I say. Her smile is half-embarrassment and all charm.

The canal-side bookshop café's an oasis after the mall, tables far enough apart for your conversation to be your own. Away from the neon and the noise, Bonnie's quieter too. We take a balcony table with a view out over the water, a gaggle of Uni students messing about in punts. She chooses mushroom risotto - no meat, Jess's texts had reminded me, she's veggie now, apparently - although she seems to live on Haribo and Diet Coke. She has a sweet tooth and the world is her candy store, eyes still darting from one man to another with the indiscretion of youth. Mine too, pretending to soak in the view but drawn more honestly to the rowers. One of them wears only cut-off jeans, torso already lobster-pink and shiny with sweat. He must have been in the water, thick hairs flattened against his legs, droplets catching the sunlight in his dense black beard. He could be a satyr from an old Greek vase: all he needs is a horn to blow. I barely register when Bonnie asks if I'd mind if she reads the paper, although I notice it's a broadsheet she brings back from the rack, unfolded to the crossword and pen in hand. "The waiter guy said it was ok," she says. "Although he doesn't think I'll manage it." I look occasionally as she starts to fill it in, resting the paper on the table's edge as she either writes in an answer or stares into space, temples lined in concentration as she grasps for solutions. My cheesecake devoured, my attention drifts back to the other temptations. I don't even notice when she gets up to go to the loo. It takes a second or two before I realise the insistent throb in my pocket is my mobile - another command from Jess, no doubt. But I'm wrong: it's a message on Grindr. "Well, this is kind of sweet ☺" There's no profile photo, just a name - Huxley92. Checking Bonnie's not back yet, I send a simple "?" "Her watching me watching you watching him." I'm scanning the room, trying to work out whose eyes are on me, whose fingers are tapping away. "Behind the counter. Goatee. Glasses. Reading Brave New World. Or pretending to ;-) As I turn my head, he smiles casually, paperback propped against a serviette dispenser. I recognise him now. Graham, a former colleague of Eddie's. Cheeky, Eddie says, and flirty with it, although it's only ever just words. We met at some Department evening, me joking with Eddie that every time I turned round I caught Graham pretending not to be looking at me. "Oh, you're his type," Eddie told me, laughing. "Scruffy." Then a pause that could have been shorter. "And gorgeous with it." He planted a theatrical kiss on my cheek, making sure Graham saw him pinch my arse. "She's my daughter," I type back. "It's complicated." "Sure is! Still, she has taste. You too, dude. Eddie's always said so." "Thx. I think." "She's coming back now, btw - you want coffees?" I nod, grinning sheepishly, before I'm distracted by a noise outside. The rower has capsized his boat and he's spluttering in the water, spitting out the rancid taste of city centre canal. As Bonnie sits back down, Graham's right behind her, bringing two large lattes. We each get a shot glass full of Smarties. "Enjoy," he says, as he glances over Bonnie's shoulder. Her crossword puzzle is complete, her handwriting all the more girlish for the pink pen she's been using. "Oooh, cryptic," Graham tells her. "I'm impressed. Where did you learn that?" He's looking at me as he speaks, and I could swear there was a wink. "This hip dude here?" Yep, definitely a wink. "It must just be genetic," she says, cool and coy. As I sip my coffee, I realise my phone is still on the table and Bonnie's been reading it out of the corner of her eye. I play it deadpan, face as inscrutable as an exam invigilator till she looks up at me. I nudge my glass of Smarties across the table. "You have these. My eyes are bigger than my appetite." She nudges them aside and smiles back. "Well drink up, then. We've got more window-shopping to do." She giggles as she reaches across the table to take my hand. Her mother's laugh, perhaps, but her father's sense of humour.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

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jrazillashadowworks · 8 years ago

Text

Second Chances

A new, original story. ^,,^

Warning: Blood. Violence. Sexual themes. Language.

Word count: 3322

Enjoy!

Waking up to the all too fancy apartment, the young man opened his dark eyes, staring at the blackened wall, the blur of sleep easing away. The alarm clock sitting on the nightstand beside him shown four am, the hologram luminescent straining his eyes even in its dim function. He had woken up before the alarm yet again. Feeling the grogginess lingering, he had to fight to sit up, pushing the covers off of him. His partner shifted in the bed, letting out a soft sigh.

Turning, he brushed the thick bangs from his face, eyes adjusting to the darkness to notice the mop of wavy hair flowing out on top of the pillow next to him, face marred within the tufts. Smirking, he tried his best to get up without making a sound. Stepping around the room, he found the bathroom and went inside, shutting the door behind him before turning on the fluorescent lights that blinded him when he clicked the switch. Groaning, he hovered his hand over his face, letting light filter through his fingers until his eyes had adapted.

The shower was all it took to clear away the last of the sleep and he was awake and alert. Doing the other cleanly necessities, he exited with a towel around his waist, coming back into the darkness. The lamp suddenly flashed in the room and his partner stared at him through the tresses of her messy hair. “Hello, sexy,” she said half groggy, half sensually. “Up already?”

“Morning,” he replied with a smirk. “Yeah, I figured I’d just get started since I woke up anyway. You got class today?”

The woman combed her hand through her pale brown mane, moving it from her beautiful face, full lips still molded into a smile. Sleep did not dull her looks like it did ninety-nine percent of the population, including himself upon waking up. “Not today. It’s my layover day.”

“Lucky you,” He scoffed.

She gave a mock pout. “Don’t be jealous.”

Walking over to the wide, oaken dresser, he pulled out his simple clothes for the day, moving over to the bed and sitting them down. Dropping the towel, he raised a brow. “I’m not.”

She scanned him up and down and wiggled her brows, blue eyes alight. “That’s a good start to my morning.”

Chuckling, he pulled on his boxers and jeans. “Just a sneak peek for now, I’m afraid.”

“You better make it up to me later.”

Pulling on his t-shirt that meshed to his muscled torso, he gave a nod. “Count on it.”

Walking up to her, he bent down, giving her a kiss on the lips, her arms wrapping around his neck in a vice, threatening to not let him go. Not that he minded much. But after a minute, she let go and slapped his ass as he turned to leave. “Good luck,” she breathed.

“Enjoy your day off.”

Pulling his zipped, black hoodie from the wall hook in the alcove by the door where all the jackets and shoes sat, he shrugged it on. Pulling on his shoes, he finally gave his partner one last wave before heading outside.

Staring out over the railing of the second story of the apartment complex, the sky was still pitch, the countless skyscrapers of the city raising up to the hidden clouds, only visibly by the ever relentless, neon lights that practically decorated every building. The light posts below however, remained darkened. As he strolled down the walkway, the little half orb lights above him flickered on, revealing his way down the descending stairs to the front and then to the side parking lot filled with futuristic vehicles, luminance following him.

Finding his VX-motorbike at the very back, he straddled the cushion and unhooked his helmet from the flank, pushing it down on his head. Flicking open the panel on its side, he pushed the button, the holographic visor glowing a green, showing coordinates to his location based on his brain waves, as he visualized where he needed to go. Squeezing his grip on the bars, his hands signaled the bike to start with a loud roar that was sure to piss off at least one of his neighbors.

Leading the long bike out with his legs, he revved it, nearly hovering off the ground towards the streets. However something jumped in the way of his bike just as he passed the threshold and he had but a millisecond to freeze the bike with his mind. Inhaling sharply, he glared daggers at the Doofy face of the person who got in front of him.

With a stupid smile, the upper corners of their mouth twitching, the man was immediately recognizable. “Sup, Clever?” He said, calmly.

Feeling a vein pulse on his forehead, Clever’s body tensed in pure rage on the bike, thinking of running him over after all. “Lucky, you dumb piece of shit, what the actual fuck?!”

The one known as lucky, giggled like a dork, making Clever immediately want to punch him in his dorky, punky face. “I could have run you over, you dip shit…”

“Nah you wouldn’t,” he replied with a laugh. “You got good reflexes!”

Though it was a compliment, it just pissed him off further. “What the hell are you doing out here so early anyway?” Clever grumbled.

“Walking Puff!” Pointing waggling hands downward, he proudly showcased the fluffy husky, pup, staring up at Clever with a silly face matching his dumb master. Puff gave a quick bark, acknowledging him.

“This fucking early?”

“Yeah…so?”

“Just get out of my way Lucky. I got to get to the school now.”

“This early?” Lucky Mimicked.

“You know. You consistently know how to piss me off.”

“I suppose that’s a skill.”

“Consider yourself Lucky, we are friends.”

“I am Lucky,” he chimed.

“Move,” he warned. “Or you’ll be a friend I used to know…”

Lucky tilted his head, the dog doing the exact thing. “I don’t get it.”

“Get the fuck outta my way or I’ll run your ass over you stupid, dumb, fucking asshole piece of monkey shit, bag of dicks!”

Moving away, he nodded, keeping the same light hearted expression. “Okay! Have a good day!”

Flipping off Lucky, with his metal implanted middle finger, he shot the bike forward, blasting a burst of air that ruffled up his friend’s hair and the dog’s fur into a fluff ball.

Leaving him behind, Clever revved the bike, soaring down the empty streets and overpasses towards the city. Before long, the roads suddenly filled with other vehicles of the early morning commute. Myriads of glowing colors zipped passed one another, leaving after images as they raced down the five lanes. His pathway was lit in a golden line for him to follow towards the school.

Soon, he was in the thick of the city, as buildings and sidewalks surrounded him, already bustling with people on their own missions. It still surprised Clever how different the city was compared to the slum lands he had lived and thrived in for the early years of his life, fighting to survive. These people had not the struggles he had once gone through. After the crazy events that led him to this path, things had definitely changed for the better. At least, for most.

Having to halt at a stop light, the gentle thrum of his bike rolling throughout his body, he happened to turn his head in time to see a group of men walking down a dank alleyway, dressed in much the same, punkish garbs as one another. Only a couple stood out between them, fear evident in their strides, encircled by this group. It left him with a foreboding feeling that set into his stomach. “A new gang huh?”

It was of course none of his business, and yet one last glance cemented the nagging irritation. A single, patch embroidered in one of the jackets of the men was the face of the Jester. His blood ran ice cold, brows furrowing over his dark eyes. A horn blared at his back, causing him to jump. Flipping off the one behind, he jerked his bike into the alley, silencing it before the noise would make it to the gangsters. Kicking the stand, he sat it upright, setting the thief lock that would send ten-thousand volts into anyone who tried to take his bike. Not that it would start for them anyway. Curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Taking off his helmet, he sat it on the seat and creeped after them, keeping his back to the wall. Something devious was obviously in the works and he was going to find out what. Though he was never the nervous type, he felt a slight shudder. “There is no way he can be alive,” he whispered. “Probably just remnants of his dead ass gang.”

Skittering towards a corner, he peeked out at the group who forcefully pushed the couple, Clever could now make out, wearing upper class suits and held glossy, briefcases. A robbing perhaps, he wondered. Probably procuring funds to restart their fallen gang that once ruled over the city and slums in terror. Though it was a pain, he knew he couldn’t let that stand. Though, he needed information first.

“This’ll do, you city slick, cock suckers,” a gravelly voice spat. It sounded much like rocks in a blender. “Now you wanna git out of this alley alive, we gonna need a million from each of you. We have our own bank account, all’s you gotta do is hand it over right now.”

Clever could already tell how stupid they were by their outrageous demands. Small timers. Should be easy, he thought. He could hear the couple of business men mumble incoherently.

“You don’t has it?! Then wire it from one of your business accounts! I aint foolin! I’ll bust ye up into a bloody mess, not even your money grubbing kids will be able to identify.”

That caused a cry of fear from one of them. It was obvious he would have to intervene and get information out of them the hard way. Good. Inhaling one long breath, he sighed loudly enough for them to hear him.

Rounding the corner, he pulled the hood over his head and shrugged his hands in his pockets. “It’s a nice morning isn’t it?”

A wave ran over the shoulders of the gang members, who spun on their heels to look at the newcomer. “What the hells you want? This aint none of Yo business!”

“What’s with the patch? You guys worship a dead bastard who was nothing but a bitch ass cockroach?” Clever inquired.

“The fuck you say?” They each replied, utterly offended, rage boiling on their ugly faces.

“Let’s not make this take long. I got places to be.”

The obvious leader, a man a bit wide in the middle threw his hand towards Clever. “Take that short fucker out!”

Clever shook his head. “I did miss this.”

The morons ran at him, sloppily, fanning out in front of him. The first one to make it to him swung his right fist, a pathetic move that Clever easily dodged, sending his own fist into the man’s stomach, knocking air and spit from his maw. Two next, swinging wildly at him, in which he simply moved around. Kneeing one in the groin, he kicked him into the one behind, toppling them over. A knife glinted past his face, nicking a strand of black hair free from his head. Another swipe. Stepping back expertly, Clever caught the man’s arm, his metal fingers pistons, hissing as he crushed the man’s wrist, the bone snapping completely. They wailed, in agony.

From the perspective of the leader, he could only see a mass of bodies shuffling around, footsteps and whines echoing out in the back alley with each thump and crash. “Git him good!” He urged them, still keeping the two businessmen in his grasp.

It was a pathetic fight in which Clever barely broke a sweat. However, they did get a couple of lucky hits which he glanced off, and countered with ease. Within a couple of minutes, they were all defeated, sprawled on top of one another, unconscious. The short man’s body was electric with adrenaline, his blood burning hot. Chuckling, he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. “Damn, I missed this!”

The leader glared incredulously at him. “Who the fuck are yah?!”

“Just a civil servant, keeping the streets clean of has-beens and wannabe fucks like you and your crew. What a fall from grace.”

Tightening his thick arms around the necks of the two men, whose faces paled, the group leader threatened to break their necks. “Come closer and I’ll fuckin kill em!”

“How would you get the money then? Not a smart business strategy.”

“We can find more!” As he blinked, he failed to notice the flash as something sharp punctured his hand, sinking deep. Rearing back, the two escaped and Clever demanded them to make a run for it. They of course obeyed as the gang leader wailed in pain, staring at the knife that was plunged into his flesh, oozing blood.

“With a weak grip like that, you probably can’t even wank yourself properly,” Clever teased.

Eyes bulging, the fat man’s lips moved over invisible words, drool leaking between his few, grit covered teeth. Grabbing the knife, he winced and then pulled it free, lining a streak of blood before him. Pointing the sullied blade at Clever his face burned a bright red. “I’ll fucking kill you here and now!”

With monstrous steps, the behemoth that towered Clever over a foot, bumbled forward, thick, meaty arms curved outwards. “Raaaaah!”

“I don’t want hugs, tubbo.” Sidestepping away from the downed fools, the short man circled the buffoon, easily escaping his charges, followed by a swing of the knife. It was the definition of sad.

With one leg sweep, the fat man tumbled, nearly smacking into the brick wall. Face scrapped against the pavement. He remained there unmoving as Clever stamped his foot on his back, pressing down with as much strength as he could on the patch of the Jester, which was enough to make the man grunt and clench his jaw.

“It’s like standing on a mountain,” Clever said. “Now, tell me, what’s the deal?”

“None of your fucking business,” he growled.

Clever stomped on him five times for good measure, letting his anger out on the fat man’s spine. “Fucking tell me! I don’t have time for this shit!”

“Fine! FINE! I’ll tell you! We are-“

Suddenly a blaring, ear piercing, siren cut them off, as red and blue lights flooded into the alley, dancing off the walls. Armored and armed officers filled the tight space, surrounding them. “Raise both hands in the air!” they demanded.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Clever complained, raising both hands as high as possible. “I was getting to the good stuff!”

He was jerked off the gang leader, thrown against the wall and searched, rolling his eyes as they brushed over his crotch. “Don’t forget your change.”

“Just be quiet while we handle this,” the officer hissed.

“I don’t understand the unnecessary force. I did your job for you.”

“Silence. You are coming to the station so we can get a statement.” They read him his rights, though he simply just nodded.

“Whoopee,” he replied, exasperated.

Hands cuffed, he was lead to the cruiser and shrugged into the back, glancing at the cops looking over the downed gang members. “Well, now I’m going to be late as fuck.”

And that he was. The station was packed and it took him three hours to get through the proceedings, talking with dispassionate cops about all that happened. Luckily for him, the testimony of the two businessmen got him freed with a slap on the wrist. Leaving, he shrugged. “Do your job and none of this shit would have happened!”

“Have a good day, sir,” the female receptionist said, smacking her lips, giving him a sarcastic smile. “Your bike is out front waiting for you.”

Pushing out the double doors, he ran towards his bike and slammed his helmet on and skid out onto the streets yet again, leaving behind a black streak of tire. He pushed the speed limit, making it to the school in five minutes. Bursting through the front door, he ran through the sleek hallways of lockers and pin boards, hurrying to his classroom.

Huffing in the clean fumes of the school, he bound the stairs to the third floor and slid across the paneled steps onto the landing and froze when he saw who was standing before the door of his classroom, shoulders dropping. “Fuuuck,” he mumbled to himself.

The old hag by the entryway, was glancing inside, her wrinkled, talon fingers flicking against her pointy chin. Her frigid, angular form was stuffed in a black suit, her grey, wiry hair tied in a tight bun. A witch in principal form. As if to notice his life essence, her vulture-esque face turned to him, beady, black eyes locked on her prey. The wrinkles in her face tightened as her mouth lowered into a frown that nearly sagged off her face. “Soo good of you to join us,” she seethed in witch speak, uttering the words as if she was addressing trash.

“Yeah,” he breathed, trying to calm his frantically beating heart. “I got held up by some thugs.”

“Your excuses do not interest me, Lucas. And as far as I’m concerned, the only thug I see, is you.”

“yes.” he gulped down the hate in his voice. “Mam. My sincerest apologies.” He hesitated to step closer but finally did so, reaching for the handle. “It won’t happen again.”

She locked her crinkled, bone hand on his arm, holding it in place, the cold of them seeping into his skin. “See that it doesn’t or it will be….is that blood?”

Peeking down, he noticed many splotches of crimson, soaked into his hoodie, he had not noticed before. “Um, yeah… I told you, I got held up by thugs.” He could already see her disbelief set into her countenance. “Don’t trust me? Ask the cops. Now if you excuse me, Mam, I need to teach my class.”

“Not with that on you won’t,” she snapped, jerking his hood, harshly.

He had the sharp urge to punch her but exhaled to stop himself. “You are right.” Unzipping it, he took it off and folded it under his arm. Luckily, the blood only left very light spots on his shirt. The kids wouldn’t notice. “Thank you, Mam,” he said as sarcastically as he could. “Have a great day, Mam.”

She let him escape, with but a single claw before her face, pointed at him as if she was going to be watching him. No change there, he thought. Composing himself, he turned to his class who stared at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Good mor….day, class.”

“Good day, Mr. Lucas,” they all rang out in unison. It was a nice, relaxing sound. He had enough of dealing with adults for the day.

Back at the precinct, the lights flickered, broken bulbs snapping and crackling sparks. Walls were bathed in thick splashes of runny blood, as countless bodies were strewn below them, unmoving. It was a macabre scene of pure hell, as all officers were diced and left in pieces along the floor. The Cell doors of the jail were left open, emptied, all convicts freed. However, the thugs that were brought in only hours before, remained in theirs, a bladed card embedded into each of their foreheads. Expressions of slack jawed terror were all that was left, glossed eyes staring upward, frozen in death. A flash of stuttering light revealed the cackling face of the Jester painted in blood on the front of the cards.

#My writing #original work #cyberpunk

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