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warm palms sugared almost sticky shrink into a retreat at her sides like a closing bloom. ishani watches the boy vanish into the tide of grassy blankets and lemonade-stained napkins, all giddy limbs and noise; feels the shift in the air—like a window left open long enough to let a presence in that she will deny wanting. nety is a shadow before she is a sound. a figmented glimmer in ishani's peripheral before the calamity of pure, unadultered existence. ishani doesn’t flinch, but something in her stillness sharpens, turns inward, gleaming.

" i'm a terrible excuse for hydration, " only then does ishani allow herself to face the other. slowly. measured like ritual. there’s sweat drying at her collarbone, a tremble beneath her ribs she refuses to name. her gaze appraises nety like like ivy—careful, creeping, patient. when it settles, it holds. her voice lulls to something almost intimate. almost. happy. " is that what this is .. are we playing doctor again—will you diagnose me without consent? "

there’s a breeze, somewhere beneath the syrup-thick heat, threading through laughter and music and the crackle of speaker static. nety doesn’t follow the sound so much as the feeling — some pull behind her ribs like a compass needle that only points where she isn’t supposed to go. her shadow folds gently into ishani’s orbit, half a step behind. not cutting in. not quite. "i’d never be so rude." she says, soft enough that it might be mistaken for affection if someone wasn’t listening too closely. her eyes linger on the shape of ishani’s smile. she watches the boy go laughing back toward the cluster of picnic tables, sugar-drunk and dizzy.

nety lets the quiet bloom a moment, lets the space between them stretch taut. "you looked happy." then, gently. "or something close to it." her gaze is steady when it settles on femme. not prying. just… present. "i was looking for a bottle of water, actually." she adds, teasing laced like silk through her tone. "but since you’re here—" and her mouth curves, the smallest tilt, warm and unreadable. "—i suppose you’ll do." a pause. meant only for the space between them. "how are you?" a loaded question, anticipatory of something short.

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# INT. the town green, enough wine in her solo cup to ignore the poorly hidden pet dander, pretending this isn't the most fun she's had all day with @we1rdos

clementine is a frenzy of windchimes, or at least, that is the best descriptor for the sound she makes with the slightest movement: a woman who was an all at once clamor. it brought the most peculiar delight to ishani, she always loved a disruptor. even the ones who hadn't meant it. she finds clementine half-sunk into a lawn chair, slicing brownies into crooked squares with a plastic knife. there’s a wiry gray thread curled in the icing. no one has the heart to say anything. ishani stands just far enough for plausible deniability. arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the shade, voice like a slow bleed amid the laugh she bites back: " is that ... leonard? "

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# INT. the potluck table, making judgement calls with a raised brow and a doubled paper plate. shoulder to shoulder with, @emrgnces

ishani borrowed the sweater draped over her shoulders off someone with a larger frame from the way it swathes. it always gets colder in the evenings in a town where the summer forgets it's welcome. still, sunlight eats at the edges of ishani's composure. heels sinking into the soft earth. behind her, laughter breaks like a bottle. before her, a melamine serving platter balanced on one palm, half indulged—store-bought cookies arranged like she’d tried to make a presentation of them at all. " you know, " words form without looking, " you've got a talent for showing up when i'm just about ready to leave. "

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# INT. summer social, barefoot in the grass & giving the other potluck goers a steep run for their money one twirl at a time with anyone.

laughter’s lodged in her throat like a peach pit. sticky, small fingers pulling her into the ring of sound and sun. the music’s nothing special—something tinny and too fast, bleating from speakers that skip through of a rolodex of songs she hardly knew—but the kid doesn’t care. barefoot in the grass, t-shirt inside out. wild with sugar. she spins with him. slow, at first. then faster. lets herself fall into it.

sweat beads at her hairline. the dress clings where it hadn't before, cotton gone translucent at the seams. she’s aware of her body the way you’re aware of a bruise: not pain exactly, but the memory of it waiting. and when the child shrieks with joy, her mouth twitches—like a smile, but meaner. less about happiness. more about not flinching when it comes.

footsteps behind her. more certain than the wind. ishani's spine tightens like thread pulled through a needle. " careful, " but her mouth is warm like the sun, no sharp edge, only shine. " i'm liable to keep spinning. " then—slower. only just parting from her dance. deliberate: " —were you looking for me, or just trying to cut in? "

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FABLE OF THE FRONTWOMAN, AN ODE TO POWER AS YOUR GREATEST HUNGER: REVERED & CALCULATING, CHARM AS THE CURRENCY YOU LEARNED EARLY, AND THE PEDESTAL AS A RIGGED STRUCTURE — NEVER BUILT FOR YOU, BUT BALANCED ON YOUR BACK.

NAMED    ISHANI KAPAR.    KNOWN AS   ANI, MOST AFFECTIONATELY.    DOB    OCTOBER 27TH, THIRTY5 YRS OLD.    ORIGIN    WICKLOW RIDGE, VT.    RESIDENCE    AN IMPOSSIBLY CHIC, NEWLY RENOVATED TOWNHOUSE PERCHED ATOP OF THE BOOK NOOK, A LAKEHOUSE.    GENDER    CIS WOMAN.    PRONOUNS    SHE/HER.     ORIENTATION   DEMISEXUAL.     OCCUPATION   MAYOR OF WICKLOW RIDGE.    FACECLAIM   SOBHITA DHULIPALA.   

INSPIRED BY     OLIVIA POPE ( SCANDAL ), EVE HARRINGTON ( ALL ABOUT EVE ), NINA SAYERS ( BLACK SWAN ), THE MONSTROUS FEMININE, CATHERINE TRAMELL ( BASIC INSTINCT ).

HEIGHT    FIVE FOOT NINE INCHES.     HAIR    INKY BLACK, LONG ENOUGH TO COURSE DOWN HER BACK, TYPICALLY STYLED.     EYES    DARK BROWN, DOELIKE.     SCENT    WARM FLORAL, MUSK FORWARD WITH LAYERING OF TOBACCO & ALMOND.     DISPOSITION    SANGUINE.    POSITIVE TRAITS    INTREPID, CAPTIVATING, RESOLUTE.     NEGATIVE TRAITS    OBSESSIVE, DISLOYAL, SUBVERSIVE.

BIOGRAPHY.

there is a woman beneath a glass ceiling, but there wasn't always.

you weren’t born so much as assigned. eldest daughter. first draft of salvation. not a child. more like a litmus. a body molded for escape. a mouth rehearsed for thank yous and answers only made when you were certain. you were the one who had to be great. not for the applause but for the return. the investment.

people have always said they loved you, and maybe they did, in the way people love tools that work. they called you brilliant. you learned that brilliance was just obedience with better posture. you didn’t grow up. you were assigned forward motion. the only one shaped into something sharp enough to puncture the skin of the world. you had to be great. that was the arrangement. that was the cost.

you learned that your mind was only as useful as your ability to hide it. so you became good at pretending.

politics liked you. you were clean. efficient. good at not taking up too much space, but sharp when needed. you didn’t make promises you couldn’t keep. people resented how quickly you rose, but they couldn’t pin anything to you just yet.

the news didn’t say your name, but everyone knew. the scandal had a smell to it—clean but artificial, like bleach over something rotten. you hadn’t done anything illegal. you hadn’t even done anything wrong, not technically. but that didn’t matter. perception was everything. and suddenly, yours was off.

so you left before they could push you. you didn’t want to come back. but momentum matters. coming home was the perfect pause. let them believe this is a second chance. let them say you’re accessible now—their word for you. as if you’ve ever been reachable to anyone who didn’t earn it.

people vote for you. they want to believe in the arc—success, fall, redemption. it flatters them. it makes this town feel important.

but you don't intend on staying. this is laundering. a public rinse. you’re not here for potholes. you’re giving this town what it needs so that when the time comes, you can take what you want. because you refuse to make this place your home again. this time, you're only passing through. HEADCANONS.

she hosts salon-style dinners every quarter for "civic dialogue" ( read: controlled sparring matches ). the wine is good. the guest list is ever-changing.

got her start in d.c. in political litigation, eventually got bored of bending rules without consequence and turned to consulting on policy drafts; still has white house dreams.

perpetually hollowed out. which is to say that the poor thing is completely insatiable and will gorge on all aspects of life to fulfill herself. still, the hunger rumbles in her belly.

seldom seen publicly unless it is to do something profanely mundane like feel about the mango display at the local corner grocer or to make a mayoral appearance.

only stays in city limits for the sake of the people watching. the constituents. the old ladies in the grocery store who want to believe they know their mayor. the ones who’d think it was elitist, suspicious, distant, to live in a lakehouse. she lets them see her walk her dog at 7 a.m., shop at the co-op, host porch dinners in the summer. it’s all a choice.

doesn't like to be talked about but loves to know whats being said about her. will habitually keep tabs on the columns she is so frequently named in.

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* ㅤㅤthisㅤ is ㅤthe ㅤ𝙬𝙖𝙮 ㅤwhichㅤ a ㅤgirlㅤ becomesㅤ aㅤ woman ㅤ/ㅤ thisㅤ isㅤ theㅤ way ㅤwhichㅤ aㅤ woman ㅤbecomesㅤa ㅤwolf.

# ㅤfablecut. ㅤㅤaㅤ private, ㅤ mutually-affiliatedㅤ writingㅤ blog ㅤportraying ㅤ𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙸 𝙺𝙰𝙿𝙰𝚁 ㅤfor ㅤWICKLOW. ㅤ exploring ㅤdiplomacy ㅤas ㅤthe ㅤknifeㅤ dugㅤ from ㅤyourㅤ bosom, ㅤ slicingㅤ jagged ㅤ& ㅤsharpㅤ through ㅤanyoneㅤ too ㅤclose, ㅤgirlhood ㅤas ㅤgodhoodㅤ andㅤ accepting ㅤthe ㅤdeityㅤ within ㅤyou ㅤasㅤ perishable, ㅤwomanhoodㅤ entrapped ㅤbeneathㅤ the ㅤglass ㅤceiling ㅤof ㅤyour ㅤownㅤ creation.

ⁱⁿᵗʳᵒ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ ᵗʰʳᵉᵃᵈˢ ᵖⁱⁿᵗᵉʳᵉˢᵗ

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gossip girl s2ep25 / frankenstein, mary shelley

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#the unique female rage experience #when a guy tells you to calm down

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   —  Anna Akhmatova, "The Sentence," from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, translated by Judith Hemschemeyer

[text ID: Today I have so much to do: / I must kill memory once and for all, / I must turn my soul to stone, / I must learn to live again—]

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Ghismonda with the Heart of Guiscardo (ca.1650, detail) Bernardino Mei