#I wanna thank disco(rd) for being the best people in the universe

[clairles]

So, khmm. I kind of created my Discosona, and because I can’t draw, I decided to write about her. 

I present to you:

Dana, The Lorry Driver  (Her stats: Int-2, Psy-5, Phy-1, Mot-4. Signature skill- Inland Empire) ** In the morning mist, between dozens of lorries, there was almost silence.

The “almost” was a result of one old, indistinctive lorry, the one facing the peculiar, half finished monument. 

The “almost” was a rhythmic, tragic beat coming from its cabin.

In contrast to the outside, the cabin interior was invitingly warm, scent of apples and fuel filling the air. Half the space was occupied with firm seat, covered with pillows, each of them in different shade of red and green. The back of the cabin, except of the driver backseat, was covered with countless polaroid pictures, every one of them with different sight, all connected by the small and loopy handwriting. The place and the date. 

Sad FM was blasting from the radio, filling the small space with weeping violin and martyred voice. The woman, occupying the front seat was looking out of the window, completely unmoved by the distraught voice in the speakers. Her green eyes, hidden behind the cat eye glasses, was glued to the statue before her. Legs crossed, eyes haunted, she meditated. 

She sat without a move for a long time, her mind filled with thousands of thoughts concerning the past, lost battles and secret drug addictions. Her fingers, lost in too long sleeves of too colorful sweater, beat the chaotic rhythm on her knees. 

Suddenly, she shook her head, previous trance immediately forgotten. There was a new day, and she prayed to the fortune gods to solution for her Martinaise problem. She looked at her reflection in the small mirror; her red, curly hair was a mess, the humidity not doing them any favors. She sloppily used her thin scarf as a headband, put her long, leather shoes on and got out of the warmth to face the reality. 

The outside greeted her with cold breeze, which reminded her of the old, leather jacket hanged on her backseat. It was few sizes too big, but the weight and scent of apples and memories was comforting. The small tag was sewn on its front, announcing everyone who its owner was.

“Dana. The Lorry Driver.” 

Out of habit, she put her hands into the pockets. Both small notebook and polaroid camera was safely hidden into the depths of the bottomless pockets.

Her shoes sunk into the ugly mud-snow muck with every step. The small raindrops settled on her glasses. 

Dana shivered, missing the warmth of her cabin already. At least her walk wouldn’t be long.

Tommy, her new friend and lorry neighbour stood at the same place she had found him past days. He was humming under his nose, unlit cigarette forgotten between his fingers. 

She came closer, without disturbing him. His voice was soothing. She could’ve listen to him for hours. 

He noticed her, but spoke only after finishing the song. “Hello, Sunny girl,” he smiled. She returned the gesture.

“Still nothing?”

“Gate’s still closed.” 

They sat on the back of his lorry, Tommy sharing his cigarettes with her. He lit hers first, then his own. 

Then, there was silence. 

Past two days, Dana did nothing more than sat on the back of that lorry, looking into the distance and ripped her soul out in front of that man, in return getting no less than the same. They understood each other, on that floating, meaning full or less level, and she knew that her spirit would remember him always.

“What do you think, how long will we hover in that limbo?” Tommy asked, the air thick from smoke between them.

“I don’t care,” she replied, eyes on the grey sky above. “I like it here. It’s real, you know? Reality harsh and bare, you know? You don’t need to pretend to be someone, you can just sit and watch,” she let out the smoke. 

“I feel you, girl,” he nodded, his long fingers beating some rhythm on the metal. “ We’re still young, still have the time to wait, yes. What would you do, if you won’t be stuck here?” 

“Travel, somewhere else, as I always do. Don’t have a place in world yet, so there is no barriers. There are so many things I haven’t seen yet, you know? So many adventures to have.” she thought about something, making vague shape with her left hand. “So many things nobody ever saw… Maybe I would see some of them, you know?”

For a moment, there was a silence, but in her mind, there was a storm. All the thoughts, compiled in one. Which one to say? Which to forget? She had to say something, or she would explode. “I want to have a boat, you know? I would live on it, take all kinds of people in the deck and sail with them, wherever the wind would take us. Maybe, perhaps, finally, would see the pale and it’s magnitude. Just imagine…”

Tommy nodded, lost in his own thoughts. He was visibly tired, even she noticed. Different than a day ago, when they talked about dreams and past and their beloved lorries, conversations without a purpose or syntax. She didn’t want to ask; not yet. Their friendship was still fragile, still fresh.

The cigarette burned her finger; she forgot about it, driven by her restless mind. It was hard, sometimes, to keep track of her thoughts.

But the smile, the smile was always there, on her face.

“So many mysteries, Sunny girl,” Tommy muttered, watching the clouds go by. “Around us, in us. Just imagine, understanding all of that, would be…”

“Wow…”

“Yeah, that.”

Around them, the silence abruptly end. First, the flock of seagulls screeched, then the loud sound of a machine filled the air. Beautiful, blue car parked outside the Whirling-in-Rags, and the noise stopped.

“Ahh, the Coupris Kineema again?” Dana muttered, watching the man with orange jacket getting off, heading to the hostel entrance without any side glances. 

“Ten says he won’t find what he’s looking for, again.” Tommy said, but she just shook her head with a laugh.

“I am so not gonna bet on something we both know is true,” and they were, of course. 

The same day, the sun finally found its way towards the Martinaise. The same day, she argued with racist lorryman and listened to scabs. The same day, she bought another ugly sweater and wore it with pride.

The same day, Dana took the photo with her and Tommy and the sea of lorries behind. The same evening, she pinned it onto her cabin wall, signing it with small, loopy letters:

Martinaise, March 13th, ‘51.