#Screaming into the void with absolute jubilation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lady-agni · 3 years ago

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Fanwork: Inuyasha

Pairing: InuKag FF // AO3 // ko-fi

Raiting: M

Summary:

After a three year absence, Kagome finally returns to the feudal era. Yet her high hopes for a happy future are crushed and made more difficult by the warring sanctions that are wreaking havoc in Japan. People are dying, disappearing, and something strange is happening with the well

Shout Out: thank you @neutronstarchild for the lovely story cover!

LAST CHAPTER:

Kagome kept crying, flashes of burned bodies and her arrows striking flesh replaying over and over. The screams, the smells. ‘I killed them.’ She felt like she was drowning, the horror of her actions taking over. They had come alive in her mind, accusing her, reaching their charred limbs in her direction, asking her why. In the darkness, it felt like she could still see them. It was like being swallowed into the void with the shikon jewel.

Kagome panicked, clutching at Inuyasha’s robes frantically. “Light,” she pleaded, “I need light, please.”

“Okay.”

The sound of Inuyasha’s robes kept her attention, and she hyper focused on him to drive away her fears. The sound of flint scraping echoed by her ears, and then a lantern came to life. Inuyasha brought it close to them, but kept it a safe distance enough to not knock it over. Without hesitating, he returned to her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight, wiping away her tears and fears, whispering to her until they both fell asleep in each other's arms. Body’s tangled intimately, comforting, deep into the night.

CHAPTER 15 : AFTERMATH

A warmth spread slowly over Inuyasha’s skin, waking him from slumber as his body contorted into a lazy stretch. His thick blanket twisted around his toned legs. A toothy yawn escaped him, loud enough to send birds outside his window fluttering away in fright. Golden-skinned muscles tensed and relaxed from the leisurely release. Absolutely content, he turned his sharp nose towards a swirling mix of silver and black tresses, the endearing scent drew him closer, and he took in the soft, sweet fragrance greedily.

Kagome continued to sleep serenely on his chest. Inuyasha’s sun kissed eyes opened slowly, adjusting it’s focus. The vision of her clearing within seconds.

She seemed to glow at that moment as the blur of his eyes receded.

Reaching a clawed hand across them, Inuyasha brushed away the dark hair that had spilled across her face.

It was like a dream, having her there with him again. And not only that, but Inuyasha felt ready. Ready to provide, to nurture, to love. Love without guilt, appreciate her freely without the burden of past promises to people long gone. There was no provisional chip on his shoulder with a point to prove anymore. This was him. This was the real Inuyasha.

And she said she loved him!

Inuyasha pressed his eyes shut when he felt them burn, wiping roughly away any evidence of tears he felt prickling on his lashes. He had not admitted to anyone yet, but his heart still ached.

Of course, he was so incredibly happy, but things like this never happened to him, never!

He half expected at any moment for something to go terribly wrong. Because nothing, nothing ever went right for him. And these last two weeks with the undead and Kohaku being taken away… had proven that. And, Kagome had actually put humans to death.

Inuyasha was overwhelmed with guilt. What could he possibly do to help her? He knew from experience this was not going to be something easily glossed over. It would take time, a lot of time to get over eliminating one person, let alone a whole crowd of them. What if she regretted this? What if she decided to go back home?

Way before, Kagome had a duty. She had a whole jewel she’d torn to pieces, and it had been her responsibility to return to this era and put it back together. But, what about now?

Kagome shifted in her sleep, her face snuggling more into Inuyasha’s chest. Her light snores blooming a warmth into his heart.

Then he noticed his robes wrinkling loose from her ministrations. Golden eyes suddenly dilated, his mouth went dry, and Kagome let out a hot puff of air from full pink lips that had the silver hairs on his chest standing on end.

His face grew hot with a flush. Damn it, but he couldn’t help it! Despite the trouble brewing, he was absolutely jubilant to have her back in his arms. And he’d be a complete fool if he didn’t take advantage of their time together. He had dreamt of her, wept for her, killed for her… and now, he was determined to love her.

Lashes lowering, he leaned his face close and grazed his lips on her tangled head, languidly breathing in her scent. He couldn’t help but blush. Would he ever get used to this; holding her so close and being so intimate?

A lazy smirk lifted his lips, one fang glinting as he swept a clawed hand through her hair, over her shoulder, and down her arm. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the quiet moment with her. This was worth it. Every minute they had been separated was completely worth having her in his arms again.

Absolutely soothed by her presence, Inuyasha dozed off, not really needing the rest but completely relaxed by Kagome just being with him. Her scent mingled with his, and the fresh, warm air softly strolled in through a window. A rare smile crossed his features, one only ever seen by Kagome and their close friends.

*~CAM~*

Rapid breaths and struggling movements stirred Inuyasha from sleep. Kagome had rolled from his chest and was fighting in the futon beside him. Her skin shone with a thin layer of sweat, her heart thundered in the room, and her face scrunched as she threw her arms and legs wildly about.

With sudden realization, Inuyasha leaned half over her, his silver hair spilling around them as he grabbed her shoulders firmly before she hurt herself. “Kagome,” he muttered, “Kagome, wake up!”

Eyes blowing wide, Kagome startled awake, panting as her senses returned and finally focused on Inuyasha’s concerned gaze. Her face crumpled, tears flooding her eyes as she threw herself on him, shaking with violent sobs. Inuyasha braced himself with one hand, catching them both with the other before they fell back. He soothingly rubbed her back. “Shh,” he whispered, “it’s okay.”

Kagome shook her head and took in a shuddering breath. “N-no,” she moaned.

“Yes,” Inuyasha gruffly affirmed, “you’ll be okay.” He closed his eyes and lamented over the peaceful morning, wishing she could have experienced it as well.

*~CAM~*

It had taken some time for Kagome to collect herself. She burrowed herself deeper in the warm sheets, head covered, swollen eyes pressed shut while savoring Inuyasha's scent, hoping for sleep again. She didn’t want to be up, she didn’t want to face the day. Sleep would help her forget what she had done.

No matter what Inuyasha said, she still felt like a horrible person, a monster.

Before unconscious bliss could steal her away, Inuyasha walked in with a warm bowl of miso soup and a tray of sweet *tamagoyaki. It filled the air with a wonderful aroma, but Kagome folded herself further in the sheets instead. “M’not hungry,” she mumbled miserably.

Sighing, Inuyasha sat next to her, legs crossing and then put the food down. “You need to eat.”

Kagome could hear the concern in his voice and felt even worse. He cooked for her, again. He was being so unbelievably sweet, and she absolutely did not deserve it. The thought had her eyes burning once more, her heart quaking with grief. “Please,” she mumbled, “I don’t want to.”

Inuyasha could hardly believe the sight before him. Kagome had never acted like this before. He completely understood where she was coming from... but this was going to an extent! At least… that’s what he thought.

“Just a bite,” Inuyasha pleaded, staring at the black hair that spilled out of the lump of fabric on the ground. Kagome shook her head.

Downhearted, Inuyasha eyed the food he made so carefully for her. He had folded it neatly and seasoned it as pleasingly as possible, hoping it would bring her some comfort. After all, there was nothing as delectable first thing in the morning as miso.

Not to be deflected, Inuyasha stubbornly grabbed a plate and shoved it towards her as if she could see what he was doing. “You’re going to eat this,” he growled, fang glinting and red sleeves billowing eagerly.

“No!”

“Yes!” He reached across. “You.” Then grabbed her shoulder, “are!” And flipped her roughly over.

The blankets flew, and Kagome’s startled eyes found his stubborn ones as she fell back and landed sprawled before him, chest heaving. Outraged, she sat up, hair flying wildly and jabbed a finger at him, “Inuyasha! SII-”

And a chunk of tamagoyaki was shoved into her mouth.

“Mmmf!”

Inuyasha smirked as she sputtered and choked down the sweet egg. Damned wench tried to sit him! “You’ve got some nerve!” he snarled goodnaturedly.

But once her stormy, puffy eyes turned in his direction; her body thundered with an energy that relieved his worry for her. And then she threw her head back and laughed. A loud, feminine, adorable laugh that shook Inuyasha’s quaint home with joy.

Despite the slight annoyance of her trying to subdue him, Inuyasha felt himself deflate with a sudden sense of ease. Kagome was back… even if for just a little while. And he would continue fighting to bring her back from the darkness consuming her. After all... he had been there once too.

Apples burning, yet pleasantly so; Inuyasha brought another morsel of tamagoyaki to Kagome’s lips. This time, her eyes sparkled with wonder, her lips fell open as she let him feed her, and then she felt the delightful dollop slip between her mouth. She closed her eyes in pure delight. Inuyasha was a damn good cook! When did this happen?!

Humming appreciatively, Kagome fell back, limbs sprawling as her taste buds tingled at each and every sweet flavor. Why had she fought Inuyasha so much about eating again?

After swallowing, Kagome realized she definitely wanted more. Slowly opening her eyes, she watched as Inuyasha cut into another egg and lifted it towards her. His mouth flitted into a goofy smile. Her heart absolutely, positively melted at the sight.

Sitting up, she ignored the burns where her clothes rubbed at her raw skin and leaned forward, keeping eye contact with the love of her life as she took another bite. His own widened at her boldness and they both blushed as he pulled the chopsticks from her lips. She grabbed his lowering hand firmly, affection blooming for him throughout her body, “thank you, Inuyasha.”

“K-keh!” Inuyasha furrowed his brows and looked away to save face, but his heart was somersaulting with glee.

Smirking at how adorable and bashful he was acting, Kagome leaned forward and pecked his cheek. She absolutely cherished him.

Not being able to handle any more of the intimacy lest he pass out, Inuyasha shoved the plate back to the floor and stood up, turning towards the door. “Finish eating and dress up. We need to head to Kaede’s so she can give us something for your skin.”

*~CAM~*

It was little past noon when they got to the older woman’s hut. Inuyasha barged in like he owned the place. Kagome shook her head as she followed after him. Shippo hollered happily and jumped at her before being snatched from the air by Inuyasha.

“Leave ‘er alone, runt.”

Shippo whined as he fought the older man’s clawed hands, “let me gooo! You had Kagome to yourself all ni~ight!!”

Mortified, Kagome sputtered as Inuyasha choked back a cough.

“Aah,” Kaede breathed wickedly, “have ye moved in already?” A sparkle glimmered in her single eye.

Kagome could have died from embarrassment. Thank goodness Miroku wasn’t there, he would’ve never let them live it down!

Before Kagome could respond, Inuyasha threw Shippo towards the back of the hut, the kit merely flipped and caught himself with a trick of his floating enchantment.

Yelling with embarrassment, Inuyasha hollered, “she’s hurt!”

“What ails ye child?” Kaede motioned for Kagome to sit next to her. Kagome lifted a sleeve, showing the suddenly serious woman her splotchy arm. Reddish skin shone raw as the edges curled with peeled back skin. It looked like a first degree burn.

Shippo peeked up from between them and hissed at the sight. “What happened?” His green eyes glistened with concern.

Looking away with shame, Kagome swallowed a sudden lump before answering. “I was washing up and.. and scrubbed a little too hard.”

Kaede got up and rummaged around the containers she’d skillfully collected. “Just your arm, or-”

“Everything,” Inuyasha cut in, “everything but her back.”

Kagome closed her eyes, suddenly feeling queasy and faint. She was so stupid! How could she have done this to herself?

As if noticing her reaction, Shippo began to rub tiny circles on her back. “It’s ok,” he tried to sooth, “Kaede will fix you right up.” His little face was full of determination. Kagome felt like crying from shame.

“Out,” Kaede ushered the two males, “we’ll need privacy from ye prying eyes.”

Kagome thought she’d pass out multiple times as Kaede loosely wrapped her body in long strips of clean cloth. The pain was unbearable.

The older woman reprimanded her and made sure that she was in no way to do this to herself again. After what Kagome was sure to describe as torture, Kaede fed her an herbal tea to numb the pain. Kagome prayed it would kick in quickly.

A giant stack of baskets in the back of the hut caught her eye after a nice warm sip. “What are those?” she asked, not remembering them there from before.

“Ah.” Kaede smiled, “those are gifts for the Time Traveling Miko.”

Kagome tried not to cough from choking on her tea, “the wha?!”

“For you,” Kaede replied, “the villagers were so happy to see you back. Expect to see more soon.”

Kagome didn’t know what to do with that information. Did that many people really know she was a time traveler? Or were they just joyous at her return? Could her time traveling secret be used for nefarious reasons? If someone with enough greed found out, would there be serious repercussions? There was absolutely no way to tell. The only time she remembered the future changing was when she and Inuyasha were separated, and they had somehow communicated through the Goshinboku while her time turned white with snow.

Nervous, she chugged back her medicine and tried not to worry too much. The baskets were many, taking over a fourth of Kaede’s little hut. Some had food, tools, and even carefully picked out cloth. She never realized how much of an impact she had left on the village until now.

Shortly after Kagome turmoiled with the thought, Inuyasha and Shippo strolled back in to ask if she was okay. Kagome smiled and pulled back her sleeves and arms for them to see. “I look like a mummy now,” she laughed goodnaturedly.

They both looked at her with confusion, “a mum what?” Shippo tilted and scratched his head, looking more like the red canine that he was.

Kagome’s heart fluttered and she laughed again, wishing she could squeeze him in her arms. He was just too cute! “They’re people who’ve passed, then been wrapped up with bandages, like me!” she pointed. “Then, sometimes, they even rise from the dead!” She ‘arred’ and launched towards Shippo, then laughed when he screeched and ran away from her, scampering in silly circles around everyone in the hut.

*~CAM~*

Hell.

Kohaku was in pure hell.

Unlike with Naraku, this creature had kept him conscious as it controlled his body. Kohaku had no choice but to watch as it slaughtered countless villages with its other smoke-like, possessed comrades. He’d lost count of how many people he had killed, how many homes they had destroyed, how many families were left parentless or childless. It was like reliving his past, his worst memories come to life over and over again.

Each day his spirit descended further into grief. How long had he been taken? It felt like months. Sometimes he would even black out, not being able to take the sights anymore; the blood, filth, and agony. Siblings and families were torn apart, sometimes the fires the smokey creatures rose from would grow wild and burn down whole villages. The images, sounds, and smells would be forever scorched into his mind.

Kohaku was exhausted and half-starved. Whatever it was that dominated him seemed to forget that he was human. He needed food, sleep, and water. It was a miracle he was still alive.

With a guilt so heavy, he watched as the scenery around him continued to move and change. He thought back on the mess he left his nieces and nephew in. He hoped they were okay.

He often thought of Sango and hoped she was okay, and that she didn’t worry too much about him. He knew it was hard on her the first time he had been taken by Naraku, now he was stuck in a similar nightmare, again.

The only blessing was that this creature seemed to have no interest in Sango after it had taken him. Sometimes, he would hear his distorted voice mention Inuyasha, and it would scheme with its comrades on the half demon's strength, and how much they would benefit from possessing him. Kohaku prayed that they would let the village be.

Then he would hear it speak again, discussing the priestess that traveled with Inuyasha and how it would be impossible as long as she was by his side. The plan was always dropped after that, only to be brought up again days later.

Once in a while, Kohaku would experience relief. If only for a few days, the creature would recede into him, almost as if it were resting, and Kohaku would scramble to find himself food and water. He would pray for a stream and wash his filthy body, wishing he had a change of clothes to wear. Sometimes, he entertained going back home, but he knew the creature would return and possess him again. As much as it pained him to be away, he just couldn’t risk it. So he allowed himself to sleep beside the riverbank, letting the rushing water soothe him to sleep. Finally, his body could properly recharge.

When he woke again, his body was already moving against his will, and the creature chuckled at him in his contorted voice. “You’re stuck with me kii~iid.”

So, after weeks of struggling for so long to take his body back permanently, and spirit almost completely crushed, Kohaku gave up and decided to watch. He sunk into his own body and watched the depths of his soul. It was the only thing he could do.

He decided he would figure out who the leader was, and what the goal of this madness was.

One thing he did know was that they were massing people. They traveled to villages night after night, slithering into burning fires and possessing people within their own homes. Sometimes, they would run into a battlefield littered with dead soldiers stacked so high they could do nothing more but step over them. Bloated flesh popped under his shoes, soaking his toes, bones breaking like paper, and then more bodies were taken. Even if they were dead or half alive; a soldier's body was always more valuable than a common townsman’s. And they would rise from the ground in an unspeakable way, failed clans’ flags flying around them as crows cawed at the sight.

Kohaku didn’t know what he could do with what he was witnessing. But he swore he would keep watch after returning from his countless unconscious, exhausted states. At this point, he thought, it was the only thing keeping him alive. Getting information back to his friends, keeping them safe, and hopefully regaining his body back.

#inukag #inuyasha #kagome #yashahime #fanfic #txt

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selvra · 5 years ago

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(1) A Perplexing Beginning; Thank You, Though

“You’re going to die tomorrow.”

“Is that an absolute?”

They gestured down. “It’s what the sticks say.”

The other looked at the sticks. They didn’t seem to be speaking. Sadly, they had never learned stick-talk in school. “Do the sticks say when?”

The Speaker of the Sticks rolled their eyes. “The sticks have no concept of time.” They said, in a tone that shouted ‘obviously’.

“Then how do they know it’s tomorrow?”

“They just do.” The Speaker responded.

If they were capable of exasperation, they would’ve sighed. “Do they say how?”

“Nope.”

“Your sticks seem rather unhelpful.”

“If they were useful, we would’ve built a house out of them.” The Speaker said, sagely.

They nodded. That made sense. If a stick had absolutely any other use it wouldn’t be used for fortune-telling. “Well, that’s problematic.”

“Death often is.”

“I don’t suppose-”

“You’re going to die tomorrow. The sticks say it.”

Damned sticks. They considered breaking all the sticks in half, but then realized that such a task would merely double the amount of sticks. Such incredible power, they remarked.

“I don’t have much time left. A terrible day to you and your sticks, good sir.”

The Speaker of the Sticks nodded. That was a pretty common reaction. “Not as terrible as yours will be.”

They had to admit it. The Speaker was likely right.

In Which Nobody Cares Except For One Person

After they had taken a customary Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick from the Speaker, they set out from the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks all the way down the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks to the bottom of the Hill of the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks.

After completing the arduous task that was speaking those names aloud, they were at the bottom of the Hill (of the Road of the Hovel of the Speaker of the Sticks). After which, they decided to then Multitask - getting back to Not-Plot-Relevant Village, as well as processing the matter of their death.

Luckily, the latter only took a matter of seconds. Their conclusion was:

Well, that’s dull.

Which was a good thing, too, since coincidentally it only took a similar amount of seconds to travel back to Not-Plot-Relevant Village. How convenient.

Walking in the Indescribable Wooden Gate, they were approached by a brand new challenge: the Character Development Tool Childhood Best Friend. Pronouncing this name would take more time than the previous two undertaken tasks combined, so they decided to instead call them Character.

“Greetings, Character,” They said, in absolute monotony.

“Hey!” Character responded with a gleeful smile, running up to hug them. They stood still as a statue, though made sure the hug didn’t break their Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick. Not only would this then add an additional stick to the world, a fate worse than their oncoming death, but it would also screw them over in the last act.

Not that it matters anyway. They’re dying.

“Character, please progress the Plot. I’m afraid I don’t have much time left.”

“That’s a lie!” Character responded, a massive smile on their face. “You don’t feel fear!”

“This is true.” They responded, amazed at the stamina of Character’s facial muscles. “However, I must request that you ask me what the Speaker of the Sticks foretold.”

“What did the Speaker of the Sticks foretell?” Character responded, their smile growing ever bigger.

“I am to die tomorrow.”

Character’s smile did not falter. Character is an endless ball of positivity. In this sea of infinite terrors, Character can face down the abyssal void with a smile so large the void will tell them to chill out. Character’s smile is such that a serial killer would fear for their own life if encountering Character on a subway, and it is such a facet of their personality that if Character fails to smile, it is as if the wind had stopped blowing, or the ocean had dried up. “What! You can’t die! That’s terrible! There must be a way to stop this!” They said in a lovely, joyful tone.

They shook their head. “No. There is nothing we can do. Not within these three walls.”

Character glanced from one wall to the other wall of the Indescribable Wooden Gate, and then realized that they may be violating the Tenet of Indescribability. This was so horrifying that they couldn’t help but beam so widely that they feared their cheeks might tear.

“It is okay, Character. It may happen in a minute, or it may happen in twenty three hours, fifty-nine minutes. Either way, we have no way of knowing.”

“What?” Character said, merrily. “But it’s always Somewhere Around Noon in Non-Plot-Relevant Village!”

“Our perception of time is absolutely unrelated to the matter at hand.”

“But, if you’ll die in your tomorrow-” Character’s horrifyingly sunny, ecstatic, festive smile widened as they were interrupted.

“You fool. You dolt. You absolute buffoon.” They started, and Character grinned with radiant jubilation. Perhaps they were getting off on this, though they were not sure if that’d be In Character for them. “Clearly, it is not my tomorrow. If I had control over who’s tomorrow it is, I’d choose yours. Tomorrows come about as easily to you as misery or depression.”

“My delight is gay and endless, as are my afternoons.” Character blithesomely muttered, but in a kind of happy way, as if they had just solved that first problem on their math test that they had skipped and decided to come back to later, but had been anxiously mulling over in the back of their mind all test long because they weren’t sure if they’d be able to do anything if they came back to it, but it turned out one of the multiple choice problems held a hint that they then used to unlock their secret mathematical powers and solve the problem. “Well, with an unknown amount of time remaining, it might be prudent to get to the point.”

“You’re right. To The Point I go.”

Does Humor Keep Your Attention?

After saying goodbye to the Not-Plot-Relevant Village and Character, they gathered up their Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick and other Things, they went on a months-long travel through trials and tribulations, monsters and mayhems, riddles and another R-word, etcetera. This part is irrelevant, and they skipped through it about as fast as this paragraph did. As they weren’t sure of their lifespan, through the power of Timeskip, they made this multi-month journey rife with character growth into a matter of sentences.

However, a number of facts about them must be mentioned, for some purpose or another:

They now had a scar on their face, though it made them no less attractive

Their physical attractiveness was also not degraded by the fact that the matter of showering and hygiene was conveniently ignored

They had met a Love Interest, and promptly decided to leave the Love Interest after they realized that their promise to marry when “this was All Over” was rather difficult, considering the circumstances

Their hair is now longer

They had not felt an emotion, as such things were mostly meaningless, as with most emotions in most stories, with a few extremely notable exceptions, such as Spot, the book series about Spot, a dog, particularly Spot’s First Walk and Where’s Spot?.

They had gained a Pet, and you, the reader, feel more love towards this pet than the rest of the story combined

Finally, they were nearing The Point. However, they considered the presence of the Antagonist, and feared that more delays would be had. A difficulcy.

That’s not a word, by the way. But it should be. It sounds cool. I’m aware of the word “Difficulty”. I simply dislike it after it murdered my brother.

“Pet, do you sense the Antagonist?” They said to the Pet.

The Pet spun in twenty-two circles in the space of a second, it’s tentacles jiggling, and it’s many faces and tongues spraying saliva into every unfortunate open mouth in a sixteen-Sheppey distance.

It was worth the two-minute period of time it took to find a unit of measurement that would inconvenience both Imperial and Metric readers. Also, if you are an Imperial reader, kindly go come up with an activity to do right now that would cause you great inconvenience for an extended period of time. It’s okay, you should be used to it. Idiot.

After Pet had exuded a horrifying sound that burst every window in a 1659 Moot radius, the answer was clear:

They should have adopted a talking cat, not a Lovecraftian Deity as their Pet.

However, although they didn’t speak R'Lyehian, Pet did properly communicate the presence of Antagonist. He Was Nearing.

“I AM HERE TO SERVE AS A TEMPORARY OBSTACLE ON YOUR JOURNEY TO GREATNESS,” Antagonist said, bursting through the ground like a Chryssalid.

They would’ve found that horrifying if they had the capacity to feel anything after their exposure to Pet. Pet began an earcurdling chant. After it had successfully turned their ears to butter, it set about ushering in the next Age of Darkness.

“You cannot stop me. I have the power of Friendship.” They said.

“IT INJURES MY SOUL THAT YOU IMPLY I HAVE NO FRIENDS, _____.”

“What was that. What did you do. You do realize that series of underscores causes a blank sound effect in the mental narrative of the reader, and that interrupts the flow of the reading.”

“IT IS NOT LIKE I HAVE ANYTHING ELSE DO CALL YOU.”

“I am the reason for this world’s existence, and thus the creator of you.”

“PERFECT. YOU ARE THE FIRST THING IN MY LIFE THAT I CAN CALL FATHER.”

“My gender is currently on extended leave. Father is inaccurate. Please refer to me in a more neutral way.”

“DADDY.”

“Excellent. I appreciate your progressive attitude and consideration.”

“LIKE I WAS SAYING, I AM HERE TO SERVE AS THE FINAL ROADBLOCK BEFORE YOU GET TO THE pOINT.”

“That was weird. Why do you insist on screwing up the reader’s mental narrative with your strange capitalization. It is as if you have been screaming ever since birth.”

“I AM NOT SCREAMING, I AM SIMPLY A LIMITLESS SOURCE OF EVIL AND ANTAGONISM. AND I WASN’T BORN, I WAS CREATED.”

“As were we all.” They said. Pet’s twenty-one quadrillion eyes began to glow an iridescent, neon black. “Anyway, I’ve strived to make this journey as quick as possible, so I’ve already scrolled to the bottom of and accepted the terms and conditions of your Tragic and Relatable, Although Hypocritical and Poorly Thought Out, Backstory. With your permission, I will now step over this hypothetical roadblock.”

“BY EVERY MEAN IN EXISTENCE. STEP ON ME, DADDY.”

Pet hissed with every mouth, pore, and molecule in this entirely hypothetical universe. That sentence made the Void very, very unhappy.

Also, some giant smiling mouth is blocking the caravan ushering in the party supplies of the Age of Darkness. Pet picked up his cellular device to call his manager and inform him of the delay. It hoped this wouldn’t put him in line for termination, as the Void was currently going through a recession, and jobs were quite difficult to get.

They walked past the Antagonist, who let out a questionably sexual moan. Pet promptly detonated his spleen into snakes, and resolved to vanquish every Sexual in the galaxy.

You’re Not The Only Person Here

...well, kind of.

“Ah. The point.” They said as they observed the limitless nothing around them. “What is my task now, Pet?”

Pet tesselates.

“You are right. We have reached the final act. I think it’s time.” They pull out the Complimentary Chekhov’s Stick. “What am I supposed to do with that, do you think?”

Pet’s impossibilities begin throbbing.

“I have a feeling I will die soon.” They say. “I’m afraid I didn’t have the emotional capacity to have enjoyed this experience. My writer was too busy keeping me as basic a character as possible so that the reader could superimpose themselves onto the blank slate that is my personality.”

“Still,” They place their hands on both ends of the stick. “I wish I could’ve felt something. Done something important. Impacted somebody.”

Pet’s countlessness continues to pulsate. Comic relief.

“I suppose I have found The Point, though. Although I will die, and fade from memory, it is a blessing to have lived in the first place. For a few, fleeting seconds, I have Existed, not within a hypothetical universe, but within something real.”

They look at you.

Within a mind. Within your mind. You have allowed me to be here, and for some reason you stayed with me, through this whole story. I’m not real. I can’t feel. I can’t realistically do anything tangible. But, through this, you’ve given me meaning. Through donating me some of your time, your precious, real, time, I’ve had the opportunity to live. To really live.

I’m sorry if it seems that I’ve squandered it. I suppose there are better characters, better universes, to keep in your mind. But you’ve let me be here, and you’ve shared your gift of conscience with me.

I might be alive for a bit after you stop reading. Maybe minutes. If I’m lucky, maybe an hour. But it’s okay to let me go. Tomorrow must come eventually. You decide when my Tomorrow is.

If you want, you can bring me back. After all, this isn’t the last you’ve heard of me. This isn’t the end of this story. Not my story, nor yours, but our story, together. I am the materials and your mind is the catalyst.

I’m tired, now. But, I hope to see you again. Thank you.

In the meantime, you’re welcome to ask me questions.

They snap the stick, and the resounding crack is heard throughout the universe, even by you.

#writing #writeblr #creative writing #science fiction #original writing

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tgaoe · 6 years ago

Text

“do you love me?” “only partly”

-a review of the Aubrey and the Three Amigos tour opener in Kansas City-

In the late 90s, in my early teens, I began attending concerts, almost exclusively Christian rock bands. Music, bands, and seeing bands play music, dominated my life. In the days, weeks, months leading up to an anticipated show, after school, before my parents got home, I would play a band’s CD—a live one if available—loud, and “perform” it in full alone in my room with a flashlight for a microphone, lip-synching, giving shout-outs to imagined fans, dancing around maniacally until pouring sweat. Last Sunday at the Sprint Center in Kansas City, for the 15,000 people attending the twice-postponed first date of a massive world tour, pop-rap superstar Drake Aubrey Graham—a grown man five months younger than me—did the exact same thing. Last Sunday night, I watched Drake do over an hour of Drake karaoke. It was adorable. It was Drake at his Drakiest, coasting on charm, giving minimal effort, getting away with it.

I love Drake. I love more Drake songs than I love songs by any other artist, by far. My meticulous Drake playlist, post-Scorpion, contains 96 tracks and lasts six hours and 32 minutes. If statistics equaled favoritism then Drake would be my all-time favorite artist. That said, Drake would likely not even make a list of my twenty favorite rappers, let alone general artists. But I love Drake still, and I think about him and enjoy his music disproportionately to how much the man and his work actually mean to me.

I love Drake because he, or rather the character he plays—who is not actually a character, but is really him—is simple, but in a complicated meta way that circles around and in on itself. See, Drake is dork. He presents as hard, cool, svelte, smooth, but he knows he is actually a dork, we know he is actually a dork, we know he knows he is actually a dork, and he knows we know he knows he is actually a dork, and all of us together have this tacit agreement to accept this false narrative, to enjoy it because doing so validates the way we sing along in our cars alone to songs to which we cannot relate at all. Drake’s existence as a pop star makes it okay, in theory, for me, a 32-year-old white man who teaches elementary school—the dorkiest of dorks, to rap along with Ice Cube’s “It Was a Good Day” in my car on the way home from school, to pretend to be Cube, as long as I leave out certain words when I do it. Drake makes us feel like this is okay to do because it is what he does on the most massive scale. Drake is a theater kid playing a famous rapper, who also just happened to become the most famous rapper.

Drake’s show on Sunday manifested this idea. Tickets cost as much as $250. Mine cost $151.62 after convenience fees. This single performance netted Drake an estimated $2.25 million—I repeat, two million two hundred and fifty American dollars--and yet this man had the gall to perform without a band, without even a visible DJ. It was just Aubrey out there onstage—except during his three—THREE—extended breaks over the 100 minute set, one of which ate up a full 20 minutes while openers Migos sleepwalked through a surprise encore featuring several more of their dreary triplet trap tunes, sapping the energy from the arena until Drake finally, finally reemerged to begin “Blue Tint,” without Future of course. Well, Future’s voice was there, on recording, while Drake shouted over it.

Drake’s voice was also present on the backing recordings. In fact, earlier I posited the notion the evening was Drake doing Drake karaoke. That was not technically accurate. Karaoke tracks exclude missing lead vocals to make room for the amateurs’ interpretations. What Drake did on Sunday was more akin to what I used to do in my bedroom as a teenager, belting along with CDs. The backing tracks at this show were not backing tracks at all. No, they were the original album tracks, with all Drake’s original recorded rapping intact. Drake would rap over his recorded self roughly 40% of the time. The other 60% he would emphasize certain words, talk to the crowd, dance around the massive stage, generally act as a hypeman for himself.

I have seen dozens of large-scale touring rap shows, and I have developed certain guidelines for what makes a good one. First, and most importantly, an arena-touring rapper needs a solid live band, even if that band plays along with backing tracks. Organic instrumentation makes shows feel raw, real, vital in the moment, like something could go wrong. Last year I saw Chance the Rapper play for a crowd of 40,000, and even though his voice was shot due presumably to an asthmatic episode, the show was fun and good because his band played the music right there onstage.

A real, talented DJ can also suffice as long as the rapper(s) also meet the second guideline I will get to. A DJ that visibly flips records and scratches and mixes in real time can fill the void of a live band. Run the Jewels did this both times I saw them, and they are a titanic live act. Many others have made this work for me as well; Eminem, Wiz Khalifa, and, to an extent, Kendrick Lamar, whose monumental roadshow last summer deserves its own multi-thousand-word writeup.

Second guideline: rappers need to rap live with minimal backing vocal tracks, and along with that they need to be the only vocalists onstage and also know how to use a microphone. I have seen so many rappers scream into their mics with no regard for how torturous doing so sounds to the audience, and have three anonymous buddies onstage doing the same thing. I saw Odd Future twice and they were absolutely disastrous, a cacophony so intolerable that I left their Coachella set before they allowed Frank Ocean his allotted two songs. In hindsight I regret this given what and who Frank became, but that is a digression.

Third, live rappers need to be consummate, energetic entertainers, need to at least seem like they are happy to be there rapping for you. The Migos, who opened for Drake, were the antithesis of this. They had a live DJ(✓), but they moped around the stage oblivious of the audience, like they were at the supermarket perusing tv dinners. I am happy to report, however, that Drake met this third expectation, that, by sheer force of Drakery, because of Drake’s inherent Drakeness, the absence of a live band and the extensive use of backing tracks did not much matter. Drake’s show by its very nature was an exception that proved those first two rules.

Drake live is dork supreme, the epitome of his metacharacter. He triumphs as the sole presence on a huge stage in the center of a hockey arena in front of 30,000 eyes, fully living out the teenage bedroom fantasy of performing on a huge stage in the center of a hockey arena in front of 30,000 eyes. That he barely bothered to actually rap is rendered charming by the fact that the Drake we know on record is absolutely the kind of person who would do that, and it is why we love him. Walking out of the show, rushing back to my car to beat the throngs so I could commence the three-hour night drive home, I had the most bizarre feeling: I was satisfied by a total lack of satisfaction.

An early highlight of Drake’s set was a surprising rendition of If You’re Reading This relative deep cut “Know Yourself.” When the beat cut out before the chorus, the tension hung in the air, and then that massive EDM-like drop hit and the pit crowd went wild, as did Drake, galloping across the stage like a madman. The feeling was electric, screaming along with thousands of other people, RUNNIN. THROUGH THE. SIX. WITH MY WOES.

I wish Drake had done more songs from that era. He played 40 songs, but only one or two each from his first four LPs. He sounded best on hard rap tracks—“Free Smoke,” “Energy,” “Gyalchester,” new classic “Nonstop”—and worst on anything that required him to sing, because apparently Drake cannot sing live, even with autotune, to nobody’s surprise. The only time he audibly sung came during an anemic cover of Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You,” tacked onto the end of “Don’t Matter to Me,” naturally, and he sang it in a bizarre whisper. Drake cannot sing! Who knew!

Watching the crowd lose it for the hits was lovely, as was how Drake absorbed the love and fed it back to the crowd. He may have been acting—he was a professional actor first, after all—but Drake seemed genuinely surprised, or relieved perhaps, that the crowed enjoyed the show. He saved the monster radio jams for the backhalf of the show, the finale lead-up a suite of unimpeachable chart-toppers; “One Dance,” “Hotline Bling”—including the video’s doofy dancing, which wasn’t that different than the rest of Drake’s dancing, “Fake Love,” “Nice For What”—which may go down as Drake’s greatest pop song, and “In My Feelings.” Arranging those five songs in succession is such a vaunt, a reminder why we all paid so much to be there, why we stuck it out through an interminable hour of Migos.

And then came the fake closer, “I’m Upset.” Look, I love “I’m Upset.” It is hilarious, unintentionally—but maybe not? —and that makes it great. But “I’m Upset” is not a closer, even if everyone present assumes an encore or three is inevitable. Drake mugged his way through the grievance anthem, left the stage, and came back out a minute later to bid us goodnight with what I assume would be a couple more tracks.

The opening synth lines of “God’s Plan” kicked it. The crowd roared. Drake opened his arms in full Jesus Christ/Scott Stapp pose. I could see the finale in my mind. We would all sing along with this jubilant new classic—she say do you love me I tell her only partly I only love my bed and my momma I'm sorry, hahahaha so funny and perfect and petty, so Drake—and then that four-to-the-floor kick/snare would start, each and every one of us suddenly awash in a wave of euphoria as Drake sent us out the doors with “Hold On, We’re Going Home,” quite possibly the greatest pop song of the last decade, an ecstatic moment we would all remember forever, a story to share with our progeny when Drake wins his third Oscar twenty years from now.

But no.

That did not happen.

We got silly to “God’s Plan”—see Drake=God in this equation, and I guess this was church?—and then… the show ended.

Drake and/or his keepers made the confounding, inexcusable decision not to play “Hold On, We’re Going Home.” Of the $151.62 I spent on the ticket, I would say roughly $102. 35 was to see that one song. I do not understand this choice, even a little, especially during a set that featured 16 songs from Scorpion, a record with but four great songs—well, five if we ironically include “I’m Upset.” Okay, six because “Mob Ties” is stupid but a grower. Yet, Drake subbed any of 10 mediocre Scorpion cuts in place of “Hold On.” Come to think of it, he also did not play “Marvins Room.” Or “Passionfruit.” Or “Best I Ever Had,” “Shot For Me,” “Take Care,” “Furthest Thing,” “Legend,” “No Tellin’,” “Back to Back,” “Right Hand,” “Portland,” or “Blem.” Drake had the audacity to karaoke 40 of his own songs and not one of those songs was the song “Feel No Ways.” Hey, Drake, guess what. I’m upset. With you. About this. But not really. But kind of. Eh.

The truth. The truth is that I knew how this show would go, that Drake would lip-sync or not even bother to lip-sync. I knew I would not be satisfied, because satisfaction is not what Drake is for. I knew that Drake could not possibly play all 96 songs of his that I enjoy. I knew he would favor the more recent material because that material is what is getting him paid right now. I knew the cheapest t-shirts would cost $45. I knew that the Migos would suck. I knew all this, but I still chose to pay to be there. I almost always go to shows to be present during them, enjoy them as they’re happening. But with Drake it was different. I paid to be there, not so much to see Drake, but to have seen Drake, to have actively participated in the summer of the year 2018.

A couple nights ago my girlfriend and I were chatting with some her neighbors on their porch, enjoying chilly mason jar margaritas after a long day of oppressive humidity. The conversation inevitably drifted to the topic of recent concerts, as most conversations which include me tend to do since I am unable to speak with a modicum of clarity about much else. The neighbors’ seventh-grade daughter heard me mention that I had recently seen Drake. “Drake… the rapper?” she said, giving me an incredulous look. Rather than dispute this child’s narrow genre classification, I said something like yep, that’s the one. This is all to say, I am now a person who has seen Drake, envy of middle school girls everywhere.

#drake #aubrey and the three amigos tour

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hystericalcherries · 7 years ago

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Memories in the Stardust, CH1

Chapter Title: First Breath

Summary: Enemy of an empire and not even a name to his person.

Read it on FF and AO3!

• Next •

He remembers waking up that first day, senseless and disoriented. He remembers blinking into total darkness, his heavy breathing and shuddering heartbeat his only companions. He remembers trying to move, listening to metal clank together when he’s met with resistance.

He remembers being scared.

“H-hello?” he calls out in the moments after waking, only for the word to twist and die in the stale air when his throat proves stripped with agony.

Silence answers him, overwhelming in its voidness. It links hands with the darkness, crowding him with a singular focus that he’s never known before. He makes to combat the dark away- only to find that he can’t move.

Suddenly, the doors opens and he is bathed in harsh light, blinding him to the shadowed figures that appear.

He squints, his skin stretching uncomfortably at the corner of his eyes, and tries his luck at speaking again. “Hello? Can… Can you- help me? I…”

Then it’s all loud voices and snarling faces.

Clawed hands rip him from his confines, heavy chains that rub his wrists raw, and tow him out of the large room. He is dragged down tunnels of rock, body limp and head lolling. They march down countless twists and turns, the air changing into something thick and nauseating; his eyes water and his nose stings, but all his croaks for answers are gifted with a sharp command or a nasty jostle. He sews his mouth shut after a particularly painful twist of his arm, listening to the gravel crunch under heavy footsteps and the distant churning of machinery.

There is no mercy when they arrive to their destination and he is dumped on the hard ground, the two figures jabbing him with the butt of their weapons and the heels of their boots before leaving, the heavy clang of a door swinging shut behind them. He cannot move and, so, does not; he simply lays there, eyes creaking open and staring listlessly forward.

There is a hand- his hand, tan and freshly bruised- in his view, and it twitches. Distantly, he can recognize that there is more to his body. The numbness fades slowly and there, yes, those are legs and oh, he has a spine and shoulders. Though with the discovery brings pain. Nothing is spared from the spasms that racks through his entire being, and it takes most of his energy to shift so that he’s not inhaling dirt.

But where his body bends, his mind flexes.

There are a great many thoughts that flit through his mind- the where, how and whys- and none of them bring him any closer to the truth of his existence in this moment. Still, he searches, scouring the very edges of his head for explanations. It’s amidst the resulting silence that he realizes something.

He doesn’t know his own name.

No matter how hard he presses, scraping every wall and depth, he comes back empty. In fact, there is very little he remembers. At the forefront and fading fast, is the feeling of a soft, leather seat, the sound of humming metal and the weightlessness of falling; it all cuts off with a silent scream, shutting him out.

He blinks back into the now, gray, rock walls there to greet him. Air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy breath and, slowly, his muscles relax from their sudden tenseness. It’s daunting, realizing that there is nothing and no one to fall back on, that he is utterly and unequivocally alone. Just a feeling that there is something- something important and irreplaceable and his- missing.

His fingers curl and pieces of gravel dig under his nails.

Eventually and with great care, he shifts himself into a sitting position. The ground scrapes the palms of his hands and digs into the soft flesh behind his knees, but he grounds his teeth against the pain. It marginally better, the pain more bearable as a dull ache that what it was previously. It’s at this time that he takes inventory of himself; his limbs are long and smudged with grime, looking pathetic in a skin tight suit made from black, itchy fabric, and when he raises a hand to his head, he feels hair, short and oily. He wonders idly what he looks like.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but it isn’t nearly long enough when they come for him again.

They stomp into view, kicking dirt into his face before they pull him to his feet. He almost crumples to the ground once more, legs shaking in their effort to keep him upright, but he manages. It’s hard, keeping up with them as they guide him out of- what he now knows to be- his cell and down a long, curving tunnel. The smells he had thought he had gotten used to are back and twice as potent, curling around his nostrils until he’s coughing rancid smoke.

Push.

He stumbles against cold metal, sharp edges jutting into his stomach and thighs, and takes a moment to blink what he’s draped over into clarity. It is contraption of sorts, a soulless black in color and in the shape of a horizontal wheel. There are tubes attached to the walls, vibrating when echoes of something pass through them.

Push, they tell him again, leveling their guns with the center of his chest, push or die.

He sets his teeth and does what he’s told.

It takes a few days, all spent flinching under the short temper of the guards and the grueling work of the caves, but eventually the headaches start to fade.

It no longer feels like someone is carving hieroglyphics into his skull. Thoughts, though confused as they are, flow freely, flirting from one place to another. Finally, he can breathe and stand on his own without fear of stumbling into some hidden trench of memory- nightmares, he begins to call them, jerking to a wakefulness that has him gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. It’s both a blessing and a curse that he never remembers anything.

Though, with this new state of mind comes a realization.

He is a prisoner.

The idea solidifies from the terrible treatment enacted from the non-android guards, always eager to demonstrate their power. Scum, they sneer when he gets too close, watching as he trips from their vengeful shoves and curls in on himself when the heel of their boots dig into his sides. Enemy of the Empire, they spit, shoving him in his cell for the night.

It causes a nugget of dubiety to settle low in his stomach. It’s a thought that scares him, grossly churning until he feels like heaving what little sustenance he has all over the floor.

What if it’s all justified? the cruel shadows whisper in his ear while he’s nursing his wounds.

Maybe his past, shrouded in mystery as it is, is better left forgotten. For surely he must have done something absolutely terrible to deserve what’s been dealt to him, and he’s not entirely positive he wants to remember if that’s the case. Perhaps he should leave behind those almost-there thoughts- of open space and salty breezes, of jubilant voices and solid touches, of sand between his toes and lost lullabies- because their price- of purple bruises and rapid gunfire, of stinging tears and relentless heartache, of feeling useless and sitting alone- is just too high.

Even so, deserving or not, this life is not for him. For life in the caves is hard. One moment he is pushing the wheel until his shoulders ache, the next he is scrabbling over rocks and clearing debris. The coarse, flight suit that clings to his gangly form does nothing to sooth the scrapes and bruises that the taxing labor delivers; there are stains of sweat and blood spotting his arms and sides, dripping down his neck and drying around his cuticles. Breaks are few and far in between, the only reward to pulling through being the sweet bliss of collapsing at the end of a shift.

His fellow laborers, varying in species and trust, help ease him into the routine of things. There is no outright talk of rules or schedules to follow, but, instead, there is a random three-fingered hand pulling him into line during roll call and a rough nudge that makes him stumble out of the way of a drilling machine. It is in the pointed way the two-headed being with spikes protruding down each neck keeps their eyes angled down when the guards pass by, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood, and in the desperate pleas for mercy the cyborg croaks out while the guards charge their guns.

It is a hard life. One, he fears, he’ll die in.

They assign him a number.

L4782, they call him, gesturing to him as he stands in line, shoulders hunched and head down. Like livestock, he is branded with the ugly serial number to match the strange bands of silver circling his wrists and neck. L4782.

It’s not right, he knows, but it is all he has.

When the prisoners are not being used in the mines or taking their daily break, L4782’s holed up in his cell. It’s there, back to the corner and legs tucked in close to his chest, that he thinks.

He thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about the guards and their shifts. He thinks about the caves and what hides beneath the planet’s crust. He thinks about the reason behind it all, the pressure to work and the viciousness in which it’s orchestrated. He thinks about his supposed crimes and the atonement in which he makes. He thinks about the stars and the worlds beyond them. He thinks about families and wonders if he even has one.

Every thought is precious, something to add to the cumulative picture that is him. There’s little to base himself off of and he tries his best to piece it together, until, finally, there is a semblance of a person.

“What do you think we’re mining for?” Those are his first words and he nearly startles himself back into silence because is that his voice? It’s higher than he expected.

The question is met with stiff backs and distrustful side glances across the table in the large cave that serves as their refectory. The looks are justified, he supposes, conversation usually kept to an absolute minimum when there are guards present; interaction between prisoners isn’t forbidden per say, but increasingly frowned upon and put a stop to almost immediately (usually by force). But, L4782 thinks with a quick sneak at the two robots standing ominously at the single entrance of the room, his question is worth the risk.

He isn’t given a response, many outright ignoring him and glaring something fierce into the meager bowls of slop that has been distributed out for their (only) meal of the quintant. Disgusting food aside, L4782 is undeterred.

“Maybe it’s worth a bazillion GAC,” he says conspiratorially, eyes roving the table and enticing discussion. Now that he’s got a taste of it, he can’t get enough- talking is a simple luxury, easy to focus on and become distracted by. “Maybe that’s why we aren’t allowed to see or touch it. Maybe that’s why they keep us here. Free labor they can profit on.”

Squinty, orange eyes atop a cone head meet his, a beard of tentacles quivering as unwilling words form, “It’s not for us to question such things.”

“I get why you think that, but don’t you ever wonder why we’re here?” he asks in a loud whisper, head ducked down low in the pretense of eating. In truth, his spork and bowl lay untouched, forgotten with the prospect of a divergence from bland walls and grueling labor. “What do they do with the stuff we pull out of the ground? What is it for? Who is it for?”

“Those questions are likely to get you killed. Or worse, tied to the Post,” the serpentine figure next to him hisses, scales a hideous green in the low light.

Everyone within earshot shifts uneasily, a few going so far as to superstitiously cross their bands in an ‘X.’ Even L4782 looks away at the name, wincing at the thought of being subjugated to such torture at the hands of the guards. No one has been to The Post in many weeks- L4782 himself has never seen the public display of power the guards enact on those they label disobedient, but has heard enough rumors make his skin crawl at the mere mention of it- and no one wants to be the one to break that streak.

Still… “Isn’t it odd that none of us remember our crimes? I mean, we’re all supposedly ‘dangers to to the universe�� and have bounties on our heads, but we don’t even know why? Isn’t that weird? Doesn’t that bother any of you?”

Tentacle Face let’s out a wobbly sigh. “What is, is.” A hand rises, wrinkled and blistered, and strokes his companion- a individual of the same species, but a dull red in color- under the ridge of their right eye. It’s a startlingly intimate. “And nothing can change it.”

“But why?” he persists.

“Because that it how it is!” The serpent alien is harsh in her tone, the edges pricking L4782 like a thorn wanting to draw blood. Her neck extends and the yellow scales there shake dangerously. “Now, no more foolish questions!”

The boy blinks in surprise, leaning back and raising his hands up in surrender. His shocked expression must be enough to guarantee silence because she backs down just as quickly, slitted eyes flickering over his shoulder toward the entrance even as her fangs fold back into her wide mouth.

The table goes silent after that and stays so as they finish their food. L4782 doesn’t bring up his questions again.

Sometimes L4782 dreams.

He’ll lay down on his cot and stare aimlessly at the rock walls, listening to the deep breathing of his fellow laborers in the cells adjacent and across from him. He will sigh, long and wanting and sad, and before he knows it, sleep is creeping over him and his eyes flutter shut- only to open a moment later to a new world.

It is beautiful, the images that stream over the back of his eyelids. Everything is so full of life and color, filling him with an energy so raw that he might implode in a great bang of light. Rather, it is a sea of lights, rippling with the orbits of planets and the smiles of galaxies, that he floats in. The water, so cool and blue and refreshing, laps at his skin, caressing his cheeks with a mother’s touch. Creatures swim about him, twirling in the dust of asteroids even as they give kisses that tickle his ankles. Some, bigger than life itself, jump out of the water and into the air, moaning their song with the intent of it traveling to every corner of the universe.

The world turns upside down and suddenly he is falling. A waterfall of memories skid past him, teasing him with images of places he’s never been and people he’s never seen; he lets his fingertip trail across its rushing surface, in awe of the rainbow of mist it creates. Then there’s a splash and he’s submerged, limbs weightless as he sits there. Curious, glassy eyed stares and playful flicks of slippery fins greet him, enticing him to join their game of life.

He smiles and laughs, though he doesn’t know why. Maybe it is the bubbles that erupt from his mouth, popping against the sharp line where air meets water. Or maybe it is the ribbon of fabric that twists around his chest and between his legs, catching him in an embrace that teases of drowning. Nevertheless, he feels good and happy and whole and thinks that he could happily stay there for all eternity.

But then he wakes up and it’s to rock walls, rough blankets and the wails of the desolate.

Push or die, the guards greet him.

He pushes.

“Do you think they’ll ever let us go?” he asks one day. His muscles are sore and his feet bleeding, and he so desperately wants to stop and rest, but he can’t.

Push or die, the guards chant from the sidelines, a reminder. Push or die.

The figure tethered to him for this work shift is genderless, having large eyes with crosses for pupils. Pink markings run down their sharp cheeks, cutting their face with permanent tears, sad and endless just like the drooping antennae sprouting from their temples. They do not pause at his question, pushing like their life depended on it- and it does.

“No,” they say, and it is the sad truth.

Still, he hopes.

Life changes.

It is an abrupt change, as they usually are, and one that he doesn’t see coming. It happens on a day like any other, having no anomaly that marks it as different from the rest; he wakes up like he usually does, shuffles in line like he usually does, and works like he usually does.

However, all that changes when, halfway through the day, a voice speaks over the drilling and pipe work. “No longer!”

L4682 pauses in his work, watching with interest as those around him do the same. Attention drawn, he steps out of his designated niche at the wheel, pushing through the multiple bodies that start to pulse forward- all interested to see the source of the commotion. It’s only when a burly fellow, skin as hard as rock and spiked tail as long as he is, shifts to the left that L4782 is able to see.

A fourth of a squadron stands at the cave entrance, all carrying their standard blaster and angled in the direction of two figures- a prisoner and the overseer, in a heated debate.

“We’ve been working for eleven vargas, straight,” explains the alien loudly, humanoid in shape, but missing a nose and yellow in coloration. “We can’t much more of this- it’s too much! We’ll die before we even breech this planet’s outer core!”

All prisoners must work, states the head guard on duty, the finger hovering over the trigger of its blaster twitching. The Empire-

“Screw the Empire!”

Such slander is considered of the highest offense within the Galra Empire and punishable by death. More than one blaster is raised, the high hum of a plasma being charged filling the air. The workforce mutters among themselves, slipping onto the slope of hysteria.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s the way the outspoken prisoner flinches, hands crossing in front of his protectively. Maybe it’s the sound that crosses the tunnel, a frightened whimper. Maybe it’s the growing dissatisfaction that makes him seethe whenever he sees the sigil of the Empire. And maybe it’s none of that. Maybe he’s just stupid.

Well, no matter what it is, it still has him yelling out, “Hey! Leave him alone!” and taking five long strides into the circle, into the spotlight. It still has him shoving the guard away with all his might. It still has him sneering with vicious pleasure when the guard goes down and his weapon flying.

It’s not until one of the guards yell, Treason! that he realizes what he’s done.

The shackles tighten around his wrists, stinging as it nearly crushes bone, while the collar encircling his neck lets out a high beep . It is the only sign he gets that his body is no longer his own, muscles contracting instinctively as his mind rebels at the thought. But his struggle is useless against the alien tech, his limbs moving of their own accord and pulling him through the throng of people. With a jolt, he lands at the feet of his wardens.

One look up and he freezes.

Standing point ahead of the overseer and two animatronic guards is a figure he doesn’t recognize, tall and slender with hair a startling white. Light, purple skin looks deceptively soft in the harsh light, muted by those beside him and the dark armor plated suit he wears. Sharp eyes stare down a long, straight nose, features cold like the stinging metal of their chains. He is immaculate in appearance and posture, and there is a twisted feeling inside L4782 when he looks at him- it is unfair, he thinks, that something so beautiful can exist in such an ugly place.

L4782 doesn’t know how long he stares, but it’s long enough to watch thin lips pull in this shadow of a smile.

Why, how the mighty have fallen, comes the baritone voice and he starts, surprised at being addressed. There is a certain familiarity in the tone and it makes him uneasy, how naked he feels. How my father succumbed by such weakness is beyond me, but, I suppose, it doesn’t matter now. For I am not my father.

Confused, L4782 opens his mouth to speak, only for the butt of a gun to smash against his temple. He topples over with the force of the hit, groaning.

Careful of the face. He’ll be a nice addition to my collection when all is said and done.

Then those eyes are sliding away, pausing fleetingly on the figure hunched next to him, yellow forehead touching dirt. A slender brow twitches and something flashes in hard eyes, a decision considered and made. Head jerking to the left, the stranger turns away with a flourish; the guards step out of his way immediately, blasters raised in some sort of salute.

Take him to the Post, says the overseer in his wake and L4782 feels his blood turn to ice.

“No,” whispers his companion on the ground, voice a dying ember sinking to the bottom of a pit. But no one hears him, not when metal arms are lunging forward and gripping tight over biceps, deaf to the frantic pleas that start to pour out. “No, no, no. Please, no, I didn’t mean- I recount! I recount, so please! No, no! No!”

It is a useless cause, for the gray helmets blind the guards of benignancy and they carry vindictive lust for violence. L4782, himself, grows numb and submissive to the touch of his captors, staring listlessly forward when they drag him along the short journey to the largest cavern of the mines where a lone, metal post stands. The entirety of the work force follows behind, obedient and silent like specters of the forsaken; it takes a single command, barked and harsh in the stale air, and they are stopping, shoved down to kneel like animals.

The small alien is trembling when they step up to the legendary fixture, crying tears that evaporate once they hit skin as he is hung by the shackles, his back to the masses. The sobs turn into screams as a punishment of fifteen lashes is executed with merciless accuracy. He bleeds red.

L4782 doesn’t look away.

The show goes on for what seems like an eternity, until, finally, eternity is over. The whip, a primitive weapon with a tail of sparking pink energy, fizzles out and they are left in the aftermath of despair, broken only by muffled sobs and the clack of metal footfalls.

Strangely, when the laborers are ordered back to work, L4782 is left. Chains snap to his shackles, tying him to the ground, and he watches from under heavy lids as the masses file out, heads down with not a twitch in his direction. It’s disappointing, but not surprising. It’s a survival of the fittest lifestyle in the caves and, at the moment, his chances aren’t looking too good.

Time passes and silence reigns.

“You know,” comes the whispers in the dark a good few hours into the night cycle, startling L4782 into attention; if he turns his head just so and squints hard he can just begin to discern the darker shade of black that makes up his unfortunate companion. “I had hoped to see my family before this was all over.”

Family. L4782 has often heard of them, heard snippets of stories and memories that his fellow prisoners have divulged in times of vulnerability, when the night is quietest and the dark most stifling. He knows the individual in the cell next to his has three sons, identical since the day they hatched, and that they loved playing games, switching clothes and demanding their parents to guess right; he had stopped hearing this particular story in his second cycle when a guard had taken the babbling senior out for an interrogation and never returned (but he tries his best not to think about that). He knows the pain the word brings.

“What are their names?” he asks because he is weak. Though he has nothing, he craves for more- constantly more, more, more - never realizing that it is this greed that leaves him unsatisfied. Even in this situation, of open wounds and tight chains, he searches for what he cannot have. “What are they like?”

“I don’t know,” comes the broken reply. “I- I can’t remember.”

And isn’t that the truth of it all.

Soon after that, the tears start to come and L4782 curls into a ball, pretending the warmth he feels is that of a family long lost. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of taking to the sky and flying far, far away.

He wakes.

The body across from him does not.

#voltron #dreamworks #fanfiction #klance #lance mcclain #voltron lance #lance (vld)#lance (voltron)#memory loss au #memory loss #au #chomp chomp goes the raptor

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[HF] Mayella's Dilemma | Side story from "To Kill A Mockingbird"

It was the beginning of March, the clouds started hoarding, coating the bright royal sky, as three kids were vigorously bouncing on flowers which appeared half withered. The boys looked needy, white shirts with serious dirt stains, half ripped pants and mucky faces, joyously romping around in a terribly neglected garden.

“Robert! Stop being a big prick and return my bat to me.”, screeched Walter as he stumblingly trod on lumpy soil chasing his elder brother, who held a decayed metal rod which was detached from the broken clothesline in their yard. Willis the youngest, was taking all the joy out of this by daintily hopping around following his elder brothers.

On the spur of the moment, sprinkles of tepid rain started to touch the noses of the children and it gradually turned to a fierce downpour. As Mayella heard sharp dripping noises coming from the kitchen floor, what appeared to be a confounded look hastily turned into an annoyed expression. She boisterously stomped towards her children, swearing, demanding them to get back inside the house and bring the large bucket to prohibit the rain to flood the small cottage.

Mayella found rainy days intolerable as they throbbingly plucked strings of memories in her head correlating with Tom Robinson’s death. The unpleasant roar of her father and other family members rowdily jubilating when the news broke out, the agony and deep remorse she felt as she glanced outside of her window staring at a void while it relentlessly stormed outside. It was all coming back to her.

“Oh my word, what on earth is taking you rascals so long?! The water is going to flood the lounge if you jerks don’t move your useless limbs quicker. Hurry you twits!”, she shrieks with a more than a successful attempt of outmatching the storm’s noise.

Robert utterly resented his mother, her demeaning words, the occasional lash outs; in his frame of mind, there was no maternal bond in between them. But there was. The other two just accorded Robert’s opinions and mimicked his behavior. Robert went as far as pickpocketing from her coats and fleeing from the cottage, while eventually returning at midnight.

One day later...

The tint of the sky remained unvaried with slight drops drizzling every so often. The flashbacks didn’t stop overflowing inside Mayella, in fact, the strain she felt was augmenting so much that she forcefully decided to depart for a walk in that weather. She steadily wandered on the damp streets of Maycomb, while glaring at the colorless buildings and stores to comfort herself from the haunting thoughts she regained. She didn’t feel better at all. Her soul still ached with deep guilt and anguish. I could’ve said the truth. Tom Robinson died all because of me. I could’ve stopped it. I could’ve…. This repeated chain of thoughts that she had in her mind for several years now rebounded in her head stronger than ever. Her pace rapidly increased as she thought more and more. Something had to be done.

Suddenly, her legs stopped moving which nearly made her lose balance as she laid her eyes on the words “Maycomb County” written in big blue letters with a bit of cursive style added to it. Mayella was married to a fellow Ewell, who was about six foot tall with a large bear-like physique, he had a round face with bushy brows, scars on his forehead and cheek, unshaved facial hair and a seriously unpleasant body odor. Despite being a deputy in the county, he looked closest to a ruffian than anyone. She realized that she instinctively strolled towards the county which made her more troubled due to the absolute hatred she felt towards her husband. She wanted to return home. Even though the kids glared at her with distaste, even though the shelter was dismantled with everything looking decayed, she wanted to return.

As she passed the county and headed towards the direction of her house, she observed piles of miniature sheets of paper lying around very close to the dark green doorway of the county. This piqued her interest as the paper looked glossy and it had a distinctive size unlike the other flyers laying around in the streets. As she approached the county, she managed to notice that those were indeed photographs, more specifically, old mugshots of the prisoners held in this county over the last decades. She spontaneously thought of Tom and the possibility of his mugshot being somewhere in the pile. In the middle of Cecil street, photographs were rapidly being flipped and tossed everywhere, several strollers noticed and few even stopped to inspect until Mayella finally saw a mug shot of a young black man. He looked petrified, we could see his chiseled jawline with his terror-stricken eyes gazing the camera, his big black lips tightly pursed together and hundreds of drops of cold sweat appearing all over his forehead and nose. It was Tom.

The next evening….

The events of this week and the strain that she built up for the past few days made Mayella completely frazzled. She laid awkwardly on the defective couch, defenseless, peeking at the cloudy weather outside with her right eye while having left eye closed half way. All of a sudden, a raucous blast entered right from the front door, as she tilted her enervated head towards the left, she saw a chair flying right at her. It connected and violently ripped apart her jaw, crushing her central incisors. Very quickly, blood started to flow right out of her top lips straight down her chest as she screeched loudly in pain.

“It hurts!, Why, Nelson, It hurts!”, Mayella screamed from the peak of her lungs while the chair completely destroyed the wooden planks and the glassed windows in the direction.

“Robert just showed me this. You just can’t let him go, Mayella, can you?”, roars Nelson with the photograph of Tom Robinson.

‘’....’’, she couldn’t stop crying as the blood flooded her lower face staining her blue dress.

“Can you!”

“....”, she wept louder, as Nelson raised his voice.

“You got--” he gets abruptly interrupted as he heard loud knocking and men gathering from the front door in the house.

“Anyone here, deputy Ewell, we’ve got severe noise complaints. Deputy Ewell. Where is Mrs. Ewell?”, Nelson's face turned blue.

He quickly rushed over to Mayella pretentiously wiping her tears and rubbing his palms against her chin to remove the blood.“Listen, Mayella, listen. Listen! I am terribly sorry about this. Maybe I was a bit too violent. But you won’t arrest your own husband, would you now? Now wipe your tears and go say I slipped from the chair.”, he disclosed as Mayella looked at him with disgust as she walked towards the front door.

Now wipe your tears and go say I slipped. Now wipe- You could've - Now wipe - You - You could've said the truth.

Her mind was completely deluged. It was either truth or misery.

“I could've said the truth”, she whispered while pausing herself undoing the door locks.

I am going to say the truth.

Her fragile and wretched face promptly turned into a strong-willed and firm expression as she faced the officers.

The End

My first serious attempt on creative writing. I am turning 16 and recently I have started to love writing. Let me know your thoughts/feedback on this.

submitted by /u/DiwasMainali [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Krifxd

#Blogger #Story

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