#and the remains of miraculous energy drifting over their heads like stars

[aduckwithears]

That was a class-A surreptitious half a miracle.

Good Omens S2/Ep1

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[tallstars-rewrite]

Chapter 24

chapter list / previous / next

Tallpaw was instructed to remain in camp for several days, and regularly check into the medicine den. Miraculously, none of his bones were broken, but the nasty gashes across his back were still at risk of infection and nearly every part of him was horribly bruised. It was torment having to remain still. Dawnstripe came to see him regularly to bring him food, and he wished her presence brought him the comfort it used to. For the most part he couldn’t help just feeling bad that she was having to deal with him at all. Her first apprentice that she’d been so excited for had become such a mess.

 Briarpaw was in and out of the den. Hawkheart, providing his apprentice more sympathy than he offered anyone else, did not give him duties. Tallpaw wasn’t sure where Briarpaw had been going the rest of the day. He didn’t speak much when he came in save for the same pleasantries. “How are you feeling? Is the pain manageable? I’ll get you some wet moss to drink from.” The words were caring but his voice was stiff, like the life had been drained out of it. Sometimes he just sat in the dark corner of the den and stared at his paws. Tallpaw wondered if he still saw his mother's blood on them, or if any amount of grooming would make them feel clean. He was too ashamed and afraid to reach out. Briarpaw might see him as responsible for his mother’s death like Shrewpaw did; someone Tallpaw gratefully had not seen at all. 

Tallpaw's relationship with him had always been a bit precarious, the easy affection he and Briarpaw had--or at least used to have--was never Shrewpaw’s strength. They had been as much friends as rivals could be, but Tallpaw sensed that night, in the hate in his eyes, that something had broken in him as well, and their unstable foundation crumbled.

Woollycloud was around him the most, just as subject to bed rest as Tallpaw. He offered him friendly chatter which Tallpaw rarely reciprocated, but Woollycloud graciously pretended not to notice. He had a nasty cut on his head where a rock had struck him, but unlike Tallpaw, his legs and movement were fine and he was able to be more active. In between the comforting talk Tallpaw had to endure, there was nothing to do but sleep. And he really did not want to sleep. When he closed his eyes, the rumbling of the earth and world collapsing on top of him returned, along with his father's voice calling out from far off. But it was only when he was asleep that he didn’t have to suffer the pity and concern from his clanmates. Or worse, their uncomfortable silence. As if a frightening air surrounded him, a discomfort that remained since the formerly well mannered and quiet apprentice’s violent outburst against the rogue. The rogue the rest of the clan apparently cared for more than Tallpaw and his father. The fear in his dreams was, marginally, still preferable to facing others.

After nearly a full day of not speaking, Tallpaw was staring absentmindedly up at the stars. Each star a warrior of the past, so he’d been told. Brackenwing would be among them. But a horrible thought nagged at his mind the longer he stared at those stars. So at last he dared to speak to Woollycloud.

“What about Sandstone, Woollycloud?” He could barely manage more than a whisper. “If we couldn’t lay his body out, how will he be free? How can the wind carry his spirit if it can’t find him? He’s trapped. He’s trapped down there alone, isn’t he?”

Woollycloud curled his tail behind Tallpaw.

 “Don’t worry, Sandstone will not be lost. There is something we can do for him, but the tunnelers want to wait.”

“What for?”

“For you, of course. You should be there. StarClan knows to welcome him, and we will help his spirit how we can. I’ll show you as soon as we’re strong enough to.”

Tallpaw nodded quietly and lay his head back down. 

Woollycloud continued, “You and your mother will have closure. Did Palebird not tell you about the tunnelers tradition?”

“I... have not seen my mother.” Tallpaw said. He didn’t want to think about her. Of all the cats whose presence filled him with a deep set guilt, Palebird was among the worst.

“You haven’t? I...I see.” Woollycloud sat up and hummed in concern. Tallpaw wished he wouldn’t do that. “I haven’t seen her myself...I should look for her.”

“You don’t have to.” Tallpaw said quickly. “Really.” The last thing he wanted was for any cat to pressure his mother into seeing him. Before Woollycloud could argue, he continued, “do you think I’m strong enough yet? I know the third sunrise hasn’t passed, but the herbs have been working and I...I really want to do something.”

Woollycloud sniffed at his shoulder, “Perhaps we could ask Hawkheart. I understand why you don’t want to wait. In the meantime, I’ll see if Mistmouse can find Palebird. She must be grieving heavily, and I know she’ll want to come.”

Tallpaw had a hard time imagining his mother wanted to do anything. But with Hawkheart’s begrudging blessing, and a small lie about not feeling any pain anymore, Woollycloud led him to the camp entrance. Mistmouse had told the other tunnelers it was time, and they were waiting for them. To Tallpaw’s surprise, even the retired tunnelers Fennelpelt and Whitetooth were waiting. 

Woollycloud gazed at Whitetooth with a slight trace of worry. “You’ll be alright making the journey? I hope the pain in your legs has eased some.”

Whitetooth sniffed proudly. “I won’t let anything stop me from doing this for Sandstone. He always spoke up for us and didn’t let anything stop him. I’ll be fine.”

Fennelpelt nodded “It’s only right for us to give the proper send off in the place his body rests, or as close as we can get. I know StarClan can find him wherever he is, but...this has sadly become a new tradition, the more we lose to the tunnels. I always hope the present one may be the last.”

Woollycloud nodded sadly, “StarClan willing it be true this time.”

Hazelnose turned to Mistmouse “So...did you find Palebird?”

Mistmouse shuffled her paws “No, but Lilywhisker told me she has an idea where she might be.”

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning,” Crowfur said with a displeased flick of his ears. “She can’t mean to miss her own mates’ remembrance.”

“She doesn’t want to, perhaps they will meet us there," Mistmouse said quickly.

Tallpaw couldn’t help sharing Crowfur’s frustration. Palebird was so rarely where he wanted her to be. It was one thing to avoid him, but she shouldn’t avoid Sandstone at a time like this. Unless...it was because he was there? It was hard for him to ignore how out of place he felt here. Once he had assumed these cats would be his closest companions, but that was before his apprenticeship. He’d never been able to figure out if they were as disappointed in his choices as Sandstone was. They ought to be, he thought bitterly Because if I had made the right choice...maybe I would have known how to save him. Maybe I could have gotten to him faster.

The patrol made the trek quietly, as the last light of the sun started to vanish and the sky turned from orange to cool dark blue. Tallpaw had some difficulty keeping pace, even Whitetooth walked faster than him, but he forced himself not to wince. He wished his muscles didn’t still ache from the bruising all over his back. That restless feeling of being somewhere he didn’t feel he had a right to belong still gnawed at him. Unfortunately Woollycloud, in all his endless sympathy, padded behind with him. I wish you wouldn’t waste your energy worrying about me, Tallpaw wanted to say. 

Instead he asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Right now, we are going to collect every strong smelling moor plant we can find. I’ll explain when we arrive.” Woollycloud replied.

Tallpaw couldn’t pretend he wasn’t nervous about returning to the place where he’d nearly been buried twice, and where his father had disappeared forever. But he wouldn’t let that apprehension stop him now. Some of the patrol split off on the way, returning with herbs and plants plucked from the ground, smelling of new-leaf growth. Woollycloud gestured for Tallpaw to take his heather flowers as he picked additional sprigs of sage. Tallpaw hadn’t a clue what they were doing, but he followed obediently. 

When he finally caught his mother's scent, he almost thought he was imagining it. But as they approached the hill that led down to the soft earth where the old rabbit burrow tunnels used to be, he saw her approaching the group. Lilywhisker was with her, and carried some brightly colored flowers in her jaws that she passed off to the small white molly, but as she watched Palebird come to join them, the former-tunneler did not follow. Palebird padded soundlessly into the muddy clearing, placing a rather large bundle of marigold on the ground. “I wanted to find the best flowers I could,” she said quickly, as if expecting someone to ask for an explanation. Her voice sounded weak and cracked. “I apologize it took so long.”

“We are here now,” Woollycloud replied gently, “that is all that matters.”

No cat asked why Lilywhisker had not joined them. Perhaps it was because she’d left tunneling behind so long ago. It made Tallpaw wonder even more if he deserved to be here himself. Because he was family was surely the reason, but Sandstone saw his tunnelers as better family than he ever was. None of them know how Sandstone really felt about me… he realized miserably. 

Tallpaw felt incredibly on edge to finally be in his mother’s presence. He could feel her gaze drift toward him. She at last padded over to him, and gave the scar on his ear a soft lick. He looked up at her timidly. He hadn’t noticed before how awful she looked. Her eyes were dull and tired. She looked smaller and thinner. Palebird had been a frail, skinny cat for as long as Tallpaw could remember, but now he could more clearly see the bones in her back. Her fur was messy with bits of dust clinging to her legs, showing she hadn’t been grooming much. 

She offered him a weak smile “I’m glad you’re doing better, Tallpaw.”

Her voice carried that familiar hollowness he remembered from when he was a kit. When she told him things would be ok in that empty way. Even back then her words felt practiced and obligatory, with little feeling behind them. As empty as her eyes. She seemed to be looking through him. He quietly nodded in response.

Woollycloud padded closer and leaned forward to touch her nose in greeting, which she stiffly reciprocated.

“We were worried when we couldn’t find you earlier,” he said “Where have you been?” He looked at her with deep concern in his soft orange eyes, surely noticing her disheveled appearance as well, but not wanting to comment on it directly.

“I’ve...been sleeping in my own den. Not far from camp. I just wanted some air. I’m sorry, I really didn’t realize I had been gone so long. Time just slipped away from me.”

Woollycloud didn’t look fully content with that answer, but he didn’t want to push it. The tunnelers had placed down what they carried and gathered around the collapsed entrance of the tunnel. It was hard to discern where the hole had been, as the mud around it filled in the cracks. Slowly and meticulously, they began to dig.

Tallpaw looked to Woollycloud “What are they doing? I thought...I thought we already tried to dig through to the tunnels.

“We did. Believe me, Plumclaw especially was out for ages digging holes above and below. We will not dig into the tunnel anymore. Only a shallow ring around the entrance. Come with me, and I’ll tell you.”

He led him to the muddy ground, and together scooped out small pawfuls of earth. Tallpaw suppressed a shudder from the feel of the cold dirt seeping into his paws, and he tried not to remember how it felt to sink into the ground while it buried it from above and below. He focused on Woollycloud’s voice.

 "In the rare cases where we have no body to lay in our sacred place, we will go as close as we can to where we know the body is and lay a separate grave, as we do in the Sleeping Glade's burial grounds. We’ll collect every strong smelling moor plant we can find. The familiar scent of the open air will guide the lost spirit out.”

“How will he sense anything trapped underground?” Tallpaw asked quietly.

“He will. Trust me.” Woollycloud said firmly, “The Wind Runner never abandons her children, wherever they are, she will find them again. Her son knows the earth and hidden places of the moor. It may be a harder journey, but Sandstone will hear him and find his way to our ancestors.” 

“But...how long will it take? How long will he be trapped?”

“Worry not, young one,” Whitetooth croaked. He was doing his best to dig, making slow progress, but there was a sureness and prescivion to his movements that spoke of his experienced seasons in the tunnels, even despite the stiffness in his joints. “Your father wore the tunnels like a second pelt. He will not be afraid.”

Tallpaw struggled to imagine anything alive in the ground. Well, not alive exactly. But he’d only ever felt hostile eyes on him down there, the kind belonging to monsters that frightened him as a kit. Could there be anything else? He felt his fur tingle as he struggled to pull one last pawful out of the earth. He imagined Sandstone watching him with that cold disapproving glare at how much clumsy effort it took to do this small task. It felt like the ground wanted to suck him down, just waiting for him to put his weight on an unstable patch. He backed up from the hole, but luckily it seemed the other tunnelers had decided they dug far enough. All around the burrows entrance, they weaved the flowers and herbs in a ring bordering the shallow dip. When they had finished, all the cats sat around their work, and were silent. Tallpaw was silent with them, but he didn’t expect to feel any peace wash over him. All he felt was empty and sad. In that stillness, Tallpaw could only dwell on what he really lost. 

His father had not loved him for some time, not really. Perhaps Tallpaw would not have to fearfully creep around camp anymore, or carefully check over each rise on the moor to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally run into him on a bad day. But Sandstone being gone also meant that the cat that had loved him once, the cat Tallpaw dutifully waited for everyday in the nursery, the cat who made him his entire world for those often lonely cold moons...that cat was gone too. Some part of Tallpaw, even at his most frustrated and scared, still held onto hope that maybe someday they could figure things out between them. Sandstone could at last let his guard down when the clan wasn’t facing so many outside threats, and he wasn’t putting himself under so much pressure. There was still a small chance that Tallpaw could have that old father back, and this wouldn’t last forever. Sandstone would tell him he didn’t really mean what he said before, and he was only harsh because of all the troubles weighing on him. But no. Those words could never come. There was only one last cold glare of disdain, and now that was all there ever would be.

After what felt like a lifetime, Whitetooth stood, bony shoulders weighed down by grief. “May StarClan welcome you as you find your way to them,” he rasped.

One by one the other tunnelers bowed their heads and left. A solemn Plumclaw followed Mistmouse away, and Hazelnose and Crowfur offered to walk back with the elders. Woollycloud, Tallpaw, and Palebird sat there alone. Woollycloud was surely waiting for them, but Tallpaw felt like his paws had rooted to the soil as he stared into the shallow hole. How could he feel like those he lost were still with them, when the air around him felt so dead and still? What good was their presence if he couldn’t really speak to them, couldn’t see them, couldn’t show them that he could be better than he was when they left? It was one thing to imagine they were far away in the stars, but even here, even in the earth, he couldn’t feel anything. There was no solace here.

“Woollycloud?” he whispered “do you really believe that there are spirits on the moor that watch over us?”

Woollycloud was quiet for a moment.

 “I do. I feel them with me often. Our moors are so close to the sky that on the right nights, StarClan can touch the ground and walk alongside us, even in the darkest places. WindClan’s guardian spirits are not only with us when we hunt,” Woollycloud looked a bit wistful. “I believe they led me to save you that night.”

Tallpaw stared blankly into the earth. “But why would the spirits make the tunnel collapse in the first place?”

Woollycloud grimaced “I don’t believe they did. I think...These tunnels were our own doing. And perhaps it was only a matter of time. Not every cat can be saved. But it was not your fate to die that day. And I’m glad of it.” Woollycloud touched his nose to Tallpaw’s head “You’re father will always be with you Tallpaw.”

Those words were clearly meant to comfort him, but they didn’t. Not at all. Woollycloud didn’t know how disappointed Sandstone was before he died. Even if he was here in some way, all he would see was his son's continued failure, continued hesitance and fear. It should have been you buried here, the shallow burrow seemed to growl, perhaps Woollycloud could have saved Sandstone instead. He’d do more good for the clan than you. 

Sandstone died angry. He died resentful. What if he couldn’t find peace? A frightful chill was working its way up Tallpaw’s spine. He was too afraid to ask.

Woollycloud pressed softly to Palebird for a moment, and said he’d be waiting for them at camp. He wanted to give Sandstone’s family time to grieve, and Tallpaw didn’t want to tell him how uncomfortable it was to be with his mother. 

He couldn’t remember the last time they were alone together. The few times he’d spoken to her...Brackenwing was usually there. He never really realized until now how she rarely left his mother's side. When Palebird wasn’t with Sandstone or Woollycloud, as she was less and less often, it was Brackenwing fetching her prey, taking her on walks through the moor, Brackenwing who knew her pain from the kitten she’d lost moons ago and who remembered her grief when the rest of the clan hardly knew the kit existed. It was Brackenwing who would encourage them both. 

But Brackenwing wasn’t here anymore. And neither was Sandstone. Instead, it was just Palebird and Tallpaw. They were both there together, and they were completely alone.

The silence between them hung thick in the air. 

“Are you going to be alright, Palebird?” Tallpaw asked. He had to know.

Palebird took in a small breath. “I am…” her sentence trailed off. “...I am alive.”

She sounded so far away. It wasn’t really an answer so much as it was a statement. Yes, they were both still alive. For whatever that was worth.

Tallpaw shifted. “...Where were you really? Before, I mean?”

“Not far. Mostly I was walking where she used to take me...I didn’t realize I had just been wandering the same short trail for so long. I should have been back sooner.”

She didn’t have to say it for him to know she was thinking of Brackenwing. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, and he meant it. He didn’t want her to feel worse.

“I should have been there…” she whispered, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear it.

“Where?”

“The patrol. She really wanted me to go. But I was…” she sunk to the ground and lay her head on her paws. “I shouldn’t have left her side.”

 Tallpaw felt his heart twist in a knot. I wouldn’t have left her like you did, he imagined her saying. It was surely what she wanted to say. Then at least, Brackenwing would be here to comfort her for Sandstone. Yet another death he was present for, and couldn’t stop. He wanted to ask her if she blamed him. If she resented him. If she had ever stopped thinking of that kit she lost so long ago, and if she wondered if Finchkit would have been strong enough to save the ones she loved, in a way that Tallpaw wasn’t. If she never wanted him to speak to her again, he would honor that. He wished he was brave enough to just ask, so he didn’t have to wonder anymore. But he wasn’t.

“Palebird?” he whispered.

“Yes, Tallpaw?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For... everything.”

Palebird’s expression was unreadable as she stared into the earth. “I’m sorry too.” 

Tallpaw wasn’t sure if either really knew what specific thing they were referring to. Sorry for Brackenwing. Sorry for Sandstone. Sorry they were in so much grief. Or worse, like Sandstone, sorry that he turned out the way he had. He didn’t expect her to elaborate, and she did not. 

All Tallpaw’s life he had simply had to guess what went through his mother's head. He’d long since given up on her telling him. She had cared for him just as much as was physically necessary, and all the while he felt like a stranger to her, like there was a wall of brambles between them that perhaps had always been there. But right then, he felt like he understood her a little. The emptiness in her voice. The hollowness in her eyes. She was quiet and drowning in her grief, in a hole no one could see. But he saw it now. How much easier it must be to simply feel yourself be swallowed up by that hole. He used to wonder when it was exactly that she had started sinking, what had first set the seed for the thorny wall separating them. She wasn’t always like this, his father's voice echoed. But she had been at least as long as Tallpaw had known her. Perhaps it really was as simple as that. Still, he was not brave enough to ask. 

But now he felt certain that he had no parents anymore, all in one terrible fell swoop. Palebird did not speak after that. Her mouth hung open and empty. She didn't even have any practiced phrases of comfort left to offer.

After that night, Tallpaw would not hear her voice again for a very long time.

chapter list / previous / next

[the-elusive-libbin]

The Hungry Boar Prince - Hunger fic

Dimitri, Felix and Sylvain set up camp after a battle but can they get any sleep with the prince’s grumbling belly? Contains slightly painful hunger, tummy rubs and sweetness between the three boys. Lighthearted and SFW with blushing and hungry grumbles ^_^ Enjoy~ ************************************************************************************

What is the meaning of war? There are hundreds of possible answers depending on who it was that you asked. This skirmish that had occurred today was a minor one, a small-scale battle and though true enough not a war, it had been exhausting nonetheless. The clanging of steel meeting steel and the ‘whoosh’ of tightly pulled bow strings that supported arrows as they released had long since faded with time. A few hours had passed since the battle’s end and three of its participants had gotten themselves in quite a predicament. The battle, for these three at least, had been won and a celebration was becoming largely overdue; yet the three found themselves not in celebration but in mutual disagreement. Each wanted something different and so bickering had occurred. The warriors were not lost but were hindered and it would take a while to return to the monastery. 

Sylvain, the red haired lancer was all in agreement for stopping and resting but first wanted to go back to the battlefield to procure his horse that was lost in the skirmish, doing so would allow him to run off ahead or at least use the animal to carry what little provisions they owned; there was no way a single horse of that size would carry the weight of the three men however. Felix, the most agile and equally most argumentative, wanted to carry on straight to their destination and get the trip over and done with, he did not want to waste his time waiting around. Dimitri, the wayward prince, had thought it through and as the leader had decided that the tree should make camp and rest, revitalise their energy and travel back to the monastery by foot the next day. What good were they to be if they carried on straight with no energy? They may collapse. Thinking it best to not go back for the horses either, Dimitri relayed his opinion and ended up getting the other two to agree, one more reluctantly than the other of course. 

So it was that Dimitri, Sylvain and Felix created an encampment in a small, hollowed out cave (if you could even call it that. It was not very deep) and started a controlled fire for warmth in preparation for nightfall that was encroaching at a slightly more vigorous pace than they had expected. Time had flown by, their exhaustion taking a hold and making them much more subdued and sluggish as they moved. Soon the three had rolled out their bed rolls that had miraculously survived the skirmish on the back of Sylvain’s horse which had coincidentally fled from the battlefield after being hit and found its way back to its master, much to the red headed flirt’s joy, and prepared to settle in for the night. They had found warmth, a horse and shelter. That was the good news. The bad news? The knight’s provisions were lost and the other members of their group would be halfway back to the monastery by now with their own food and water rations. They would have to go hungry.

“Ahhh~ I’m beat. That was tougher than we thought it was going to be huh?” Sylvain flopped backwards onto his bed roll, his hands behind his head as Dimitri took the centre mat to his right and Felix took the last roll the other side of the prince, lying down and immediately turning to face away, shunning out his two companions. He would rather squeeze his eyes closed and try to sleep, avoiding the pair’s rambling, uninteresting conversations. “It was.” Dimitri sighed in response. “We won and luckily, with very few casualties. But that does not mean we are out of the woods yet, we will need to think up a new strategy for next time. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that I have no energy left.” “Yeah, we really exerted ourselves.” “Hmph. Speak for yourselves, I’ve still got energy to carry on.” Felix gave his input with a scoff and a snide tone. “Oh yeah?~ What are you going to prove that Felix? Go run back to the monastery and grab us some food will ya.” Winked the older male. “Tsk! Shut up, you know I can’t do that.” “Awh why? Too tired? Too hungry?” “Will yo-” “That is enough. Felix we all need to conserve what little energy we have. Let us sleep so that we may return home early.” Dimitri interrupted, he did not want his comrades wasting valuable energy and frankly did not want to have to deal with their bickering throughout the night. “Whatever you say your highness.” Sylvain smiled and with a yawn, closed his eyes. “Whatever…” Mumbled the swordsman as he wrapped his arms around himself and subconsciously backed up closer to the prince for warmth just as he used to when the three were younger. Dimitri himself had lay down, resting a hand atop his stomach. It felt unusual, as though something was stirring up inside, waiting to come out. He opted to ignore the feeling for now and eventually the three men managed to drift off. There was no way to tell how long the men had been asleep, aside from the placement of stars as they threw light upon the land in a cloudless, night sky. *Grrrruggllglgggllllle* The prince’s eye shot open. What was that? He checked to his left. Sylvain, snoring gently, inoffensively. Checked his right, Felix, breathing so softly it was barely audible. Both asleep. So then what was...? “Urk!” Dimitri winced and clutched at his middle as it cramped up. It was that feeling from before but way more intense and a lot more painful. The knotting feeling twisted and turned in his stomach making him feel slightly nauseous and if not a little hot. His stomach ached and would not cease in its flipping. He had felt this before and slowly but surely the prince began to realize what was occurring. He was famished. All of his energy had depleted and to make matters worse, Dimitri had an incredibly fast working metabolism with a rather demanding stomach to support his innate strength. By the goddess he was hungry. Pressure was building and the prince knew that he would not be able to quell what was to come. ‘Please.’ He thought. ‘Please do not…’ He mentally begged his stomach and he wrapped his arms around it tightly, feeling that pressure building up, about to release. He fidgeted. ‘I-I cannot hold it.’ His single eye widened as the pressure released and his stomach let out a deep, guttural, roar.

*GGGRRRRRROOOOOOOOAAAAARRRRRRRRRgggggglllll*

Dimitri flinched, unable to stop the groan that he could feel erupting from his poor, empty tummy. Patting and rubbing at his midsection didn’t even come close to stiling the offending sound. He could feel the heat of embarrassment rising, burning his cheeks and ears and sending his face into a hot flush. There was nothing he could do but wait for the noise to peter out and hope the other two didn’t hear. There was no way they didn’t hear. Sylvain’s eyes shot open and he bolted upright immediately, looking around for the source of the noise. Felix awoke of course and had gripped the armorslayer close to his chest but lay still, waiting to slay whatever beast should sneak up on them. “Wha!? What!? What the heck was that?!” Sylvain panicked, wishing he hadn’t left his spear by the wall. He looked around. No sign of threat, his horse was mostly unperturbed but Felix and Dimitri seemed to be awake too. Did they also hear that noise? They must have! It was too loud not to! “You guys definitely heard that too right?” Felix loosened his grip on his sword and rolled over to face the other two. “Of course we did.” he sighed. “I can’t sense a threat but it sounded like a wild beast.” Dimitri remained quiet, he had long since wrapped his arm over his eyes, blushing madly. He was too embarrassed to say anything at this moment. “Well it had to have been something.” Felix continued. “Damn animal woke me up.” “Yeah woke me up too…” “Maybe it was a wild boar.” “What kind of boar have you heard that makes that kind of noise?” “An annoying one.”

*Grrrrrrgllll* 

An audible gurgle came from Dimitri’s belly and the prince moved his free hand to rest atop it without saying a word. Sylvain looked at the blonde male and processed the information. “Oh! I see~” He smirked at the sudden realisation. Felix raised an eyebrow at Sylvain and Dimitri flinched in place. “Awww man! I can’t believe it took us this long to figure it out! Hahaha!” laughed the red head. “What’s so funny?” “Felix, surely we’ve both known his highness long enough to know how his stomach works. You’re starving, isn’t that right Dimitri?” Sylvain winked as he looked at the prince, earning a gulp in return. “So then..” Felix’s mouth widened in shock. “That was his…” “I-it was my stomach.” Dimitri whimpered, finally managing to push through the initial embarrassment. “I apologise. I did not m-mean to wake you both. I could not stop it.” Sylvain was sure he could see the steam rising from the blonde’s head and honestly he felt a little bad for the poor prince but there was no way he could hold back his laughter. ���Hahaha! I knew it, you always did have a powerful stomach.” “I-I cannot help it. I do not see what is so funny.” The prince pouted, taking his arm from his face and using it to hug his belly tightly. “I am famished.” The swordsman sighed and clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Seriously?! Your stomach woke us up? I’m going back to sleep. Keep the damn thing down.” “I am sorry Felix…” Dimitri sighed and the three tried to once again get some sleep. No luck. Dimitri’s belly had become more and more active by the minute. His stomach’s verbal complaints coupled with his pained moans and whimpers were ensuring that none of the three got any sleep that night. “God damn it! I told you to keep your damn stomach quiet Boar prince!” Felix yelled when he decidedly couldn’t cope with the increasingly loud noises anymore. “I c-cannot s-s-stop them.” The prince stuttered softly. Sylvain sighed. There was one thing he could do to try and help. He remembered back to a time where the three of them were younger. Dimitri always had problems like this. His father Lambert was much the same, no doubt he had inherited that trait. The red head recalled a time where King Lambert‘s stomach had once shook the plates and cutlery on his tablet at a banquet he held. He had laughed it off and made a joke of it but Dimitri had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince Ingrid, Sylvain and Felix that he could do the same after a young Felix (still with a glint in his eye and admiration for Dimitri) had asked if he could. Of course he couldn’t actually copy his father at the time but there was no doubt he probably could now. “Hmmmm...” Sylvain sat up and kneeled by the prince’s side. “Let me try something.” “W-what are you going to do? Surely you cannot believe that you could st-stop this incessant rumbling?” “I may be able to do just that.” The lancer reached his hand under Dimitri’s back and undid his metallic, abdominal armour plate much to the prince’s embarrassment and Felix’s disgust. He placed his hand upon Dimitri’s abdomen and slid it under his clothes. “W-what are you doing Sylvain!?” The prince shrieked in embarrassment. “Relax, I used to do this all the time, do you remember?” He could feel the deep, rumbling groans vibrate through the prince’s organs and muscle and on his own hand. Little tremors, an aftershock of an earthquake. After waiting a moment, Sylvain began to press, rubbing deep circles into Dimitri’s empty, concave stomach. “O-Oh my…” The prince flushed and threw a hand to his mouth in a feeble attempt to hide away. Sylvain chuckled. “See it’s helping right?” “Why are you doing something like that?” Felix scoffed. “It’s not appropriate.” “C’mon I can’t be the only one that remembers. When we were young we used to sneak out with Ingrid to go and look at the stars on the castle grounds when we visited. That one time Dimitri was starving, he missed a meal because he was training so hard and forgot. His belly wouldn’t stop grumbling so I massaged it like this to ease the pain. It worked and if I recall Felix, you asked me to do the same to you.” “I had..F-forgotten” Dimitri mumbled. “I did not!” Felix retorted.” “Yeah you did! You were like “Sylvain my tummy hurts, rub mine too!”” A blush shot to the swordsman’s cheeks as he remembered. It had happened. It had and it was wholly embarrassing. “Sh-shut up!” Felix blushed and once again lay away from the others. Sylvain and Dimitri both chuckled at that. The red head rubbed and kneaded the prince’s stomach as it gurgled and moaned, favouring two hands now instead of just the one. “Hush now, I know you’re empty. My belly is too.” Cooed the lancer to Dimitri’s stomach. “P-please do not talk to my stomach like it is a misbehaved child.” “It’s not misbehaving, just hungry and complaining a whole lot.”  “Even so..” A moment passed and Sylvain could feel some form of pressure in the prince’s stomach just under his ribs and began massaging that space too. “S-sylvain d-don’t” Dimitri moaned causing the other male to blush. Flustered, he pressed harder. “It’s s-sensitive there.” “Urk! D-don’t moan like that! People could get the wrong idea.” Second hand embarrassment set in and Sylvain massaged harder to snap himself out of it. “I can’t stop, I need to loosen this knot. I think that’s what’s causing the pain.” “B-but I..” “No buts just- Oh! I think i’ve got it!” “S-Sylvain No I-!”

*GRROOOOOAARARRRRRRRR!!!!!!*

The loudest groan yet erupted from the prince’s stomach as his friend loosened the knot in his belly. Dimitri and Sylvain both were too embarrassed to say anything for the moment. “......” “......” “W-wow…..” Gulped Sylvain. “I told you I thought I had it. Feeling better?” He asked with a smile, patting the belly before him, it still visibly shook from the aftershock of that monstrous groan. “Much….I….T-thank you…” Blushed the prince. It did indeed feel much better. Sylvain always did have the magic touch. It wouldn’t stop his stomach from moaning but it would keep it quiet and alleviate the pain. “No problem~ Though do wish we had some food to stuff ourselves with instead.” Dimitri’s mouth began to water at the thought of a feast and he retaliated by wiping away the saliva with his sleeve. It was best to not think of such things lest he set his stomach off groaning again. “Don’t talk about food.” Felix moaned, his eyes closed, arms wrapped around his belly. “Awh why? Are you hungry too Felix? Am I making your stomach growl?” Sylvain teased.

*Grrrruglee*

“Urk….” The swordsman flinched, his blush returning to his face, grateful for the fact he was facing away. “Haha! I knew it. Want me to rub your ‘tummy’ better too?” “G-get lost will you! Just go to sleep.” “Haha suit yourself~ I think we’ll do just that.” “Yes.” Dimitri agreed. “Sleep sounds good at this moment. Goodnight.” “G’night.” “.....hmph.” Perhaps it would be a restful night after all.

[noaoats]

look me in the heart and un break broken

“Why are you out on your balcony so late at night?  Marinette, it’s freezing.  Are you okay?”

“No.  I’m not.”

“... Come with me.  It won’t fix anything, but let me at least give you a better view.”

Marichat hurt/comfort one-shot. Cross-posted on ao3 here.

The night atmosphere above the city was usually exhilarating.  She would prowl across the rooftops while the stars and dusk created a thrill rivaling the rush of a rollercoaster.  Sneaking out always caused a bit of guilt, but there was something about owning the dark- the nighttime sounds of a sleepy city drifting upward, the moon hanging low from above- that always pumped her full of adrenaline as she slipped about in the shadows.  She imagined Chat Noir enjoyed it even more.  Their complimenting Miraculous stones had her thriving in the day while Chat ruled the night, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t relish in the quiet as well.

Now, however, Marinette sat curled upon the top of Notre-Dame, her energy sapped.  Her chin rested on her knees as she wrapped her arms around herself.  The baggy sweats she wore protected her against the chill better than her spandex did, though her hair still fluttered behind her in the breeze.  Lights twinkled and pulsed below her like bioluminescent particles in a vast sea, but the awe that usually accompanied the sight was missing.  Her dull gaze simply passed over them and focused on nothing.

Chat Noir was sitting beside her, one elbow resting on a knee while the other leg dangled over the edge.  He had been silent while carrying her from her balcony, and while the break had been nice at first, she could tell he was getting anxious.  His fingers were tracing rapid patterns across this thigh, the claws on his other hand tapping to some unheard rhythm.  One of his cat ears was trained solidly on her but the other twitched in the wind.  The desire to comfort her was almost tangible, but it was obvious he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“It’s funny,” she started, looking down as she started to pick at her sneakers.  It was easier to talk when she couldn’t see him worrying.  “I spent three years trying to build up the courage to confess to him.  I had so many chances to tell him, but I was too scared.  And in the end it didn’t even matter.”

His fingers stopped twirling in her peripheral vision.  They hesitated above his leg for a moment before he spoke.  “What happened?”

“I prepared myself to finally confess, and he… he said that he was in love.  With someone else.”  Her aglet was bent and cracked, and her fingernail dug under it to peel it fully away from the lace.  Her mother would likely scold her for further ruining her old shoes but she didn’t care.  The nervous habit was comforting.

Chat leaned to the right, his shoulder brushing hers in what she assumed was supposed to be a comforting touch of support.  She appreciated the gesture but her eyes remained fixated down at her quickly deteriorating shoes.  “It’s okay to cry, you know.”

Her lip trembled and she bit it to keep it still.  “I’m not going to cry.”

“Okay.”

They returned to an uneasy silence.  She had fully stripped away the plastic from her lace, and now she started pulling apart the threading.  The weaving of the lace was small and uniform, obviously not hand-done, but the machine processing made it simple to pull apart the whole structure.  Soon a tiny river of loose threads pooled around her ankles as she made quick work of them.

She had thought that today would be the best day of her life.  Alya and Tikki had trained her- separately, of course- on her confession, letting her practice over and over until she was confident she wouldn’t stumble.  Marinette had grown closer to Adrien over the past few years, and while she was mostly over her stuttering, somehow her confessions always went awry.  It was finally going to happen, though.  She was ready to tell him.

Marinette had gotten to school early for once.  It had been unusual to see the courtyard so empty, but she knew that Adrien often arrived early and she had hoped to talk with him before the rest of their friends rolled in.  The two had found a private bench to use and she had taken a deep breath.  This was it.  But when she went to confess, Adrien had interrupted to ask for advice.  Advice about a different girl.  One who, he claimed, he loved.

She hadn’t bothered to confess after that.  She hadn’t even asked Adrien what the girl’s name was.  It had taken everything in her to smile politely and answer any questions he had.  And then he had admitted that he had been in love for three years.  The whole time she had known him.  The memory made her eyes start stinging despite her attempts to remain calm.  She only hoped that Chat’s night vision didn’t pick up her struggle.

He resumed trailing his fingers in an absent pattern, so she assumed he either hadn’t noticed or was purposely pretending he hadn’t for her sake.  She found she didn’t really care either way.

“The girl I love doesn’t love me back.”

She stopped at the sudden break of silence and hastily tried to blink back her growing tears.  It was hard while looking down, but she refused to turn his way.  It took her a moment to actually process what he had said.  “You’re in love?”

He shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against hers.  “Yeah.  I’ve tried to tell her so many times, but I don’t think she realizes how serious I am.  Either way, she’s confessed that she loves someone else.  I think she thinks I’m just some playboy.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“I don’t know.  I flirt with her a lot but she always treats it like a joke.  And when I try to be sincere, she just… doesn’t get it.  She isn’t trying to be dismissive, but it’s hard to know that she won’t ever see me the way she sees that other guy.”

Marinette struggled to think of a response.  She didn’t know much about Chat’s civilian life but she was certain that he would have told her about being in love.  Then again, she didn’t typically like to talk about her love life with Chat.  It sounded like it was something deeply upsetting him, so she could understand why he would want to keep it private.  Still, she wanted to be able to support him.  “I’m sorry, Chat Noir.  Is it… is it something you could talk to Ladybug about?”

Chat flinched for some reason.  “No.  Not really.”

Knowing that her partner couldn’t trust her with that information should have hurt, but she was guilty of withholding the same kind of pain.  She couldn’t tell him, though.  Chat Noir was a goofball, but he reminded her too much of Adrien.  They had the same gritty blond hair, charming smiles, and kind personalities.  The similarities made her feelings for Chat too confusing, and she didn’t want to upset herself further by adding Adrien into the mix.  It was something she’d have to deal with on her own.

“What is she like?” She knew it was unfair for her to ask after he explained that he didn’t want Ladybug to know, but he looked too hurt for her not to try comforting him. 

His dangling leg rose for him to sit cross-legged.  He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cup his chin in his hands.  “She’s perfect.  She doesn’t think she is, but she is.  She’s just… she’s beautiful and strong, and the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t let anyone tell her what to do.  I find her so inspiring.  And she cares for me, deeply.  I don’t worry about that.  It’s just not the same kind of love I have for her.”  He paused to swallow.  “Um, what about you?  What’s your guy like?”

“Oh.  I could go on for days.  He’s been through so much but tries his best to be as kind as possible.  He’s funny, and handsome, and radiant.  He’s ridiculously talented but is so humble.  He doesn’t realize how much people care for him because he has a lot of tough relationships in his life, but he is so loved.  I just wish he knew it.  I wish he knew how much he means to so many people.  I… I wish he knew what he means to me.”

Chat shifted and she spared a glance his way.  She had assumed he was looking out at the city lights so she gasped when his concerned eyes were staring straight at her.  They widened as she gazed back.  “Marinette, are you crying?”

Her head shook, but when she brushed a hand under her eyes she was surprised to feel it come away wet.  A shaky laugh bubbled out of her.  “Oh.  I guess so.  I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid, I just-”

Strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.  She waited a moment before sliding her knees down to return the embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck.  The leather was smooth against her cheek, and his body was warm and solid even in the cold.  The wave of security that rushed over her broke down the last of her reserves and she began to cry.

Chat pulled her half into his lap, his hands rubbing circles on her back as she pressed further into him.  Marinette knew it was dumb to cry over a boy, but she had spent so long daydreaming and longing over him.  And then he said he loved someone else.  If she had gotten over herself years ago she could have moved on, but instead she had continued to pine for a guy she didn’t have a chance with in the first place.  It just wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry.  I know that it’s good to get closure, but-”

Chat shushed her.  “I know, I know.  It’s okay.”

Her shoulders shuddered as she shook her head.  “No, it’s not okay.”  Her voice cracked.  “I’m too old to be breaking down over a boy like this.  And the worst part is, I don’t know how I’m supposed to get over him.  It hurts so much to love someone who won’t ever love you back, you know?”

His body stiffened, and then he squeezed tighter.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I know, Marinette.”

The two stayed embraced for a few minutes longer, Marinette’s crying slowing down to quiet hiccups.  Eventually she calmed down enough to hear Chat whispering soothing words, his lips pressed in a kiss on the top of her head.  She sniffled and raised her hands to try and clean off her face as best she could.  His hands stayed resting on her shoulders, but his grip was light.  He still looked concerned so she gave him a small smile.

“Thanks,” Marinette murmured, her voice hoarse.  Her eyes still stung and she could feel that they were puffy, but she didn’t care.  She felt better after the emotional release.  “I’m sorry that you’re going through a similar situation.  It sucks.  But it’s nice to know that I’m not alone.”

Chat returned the smile and his hands squeezed her shoulders.  “Of course.”  He leaned back some, and she took the space he gave her to compose herself.  Blinking rapidly, she cleared her eyes of any lingering tears, and another swipe with her sleeve made sure her face wasn’t wet.  She was grateful for his patience, but soon she realized that Chat was avidly inspecting his suit, a deep frown tugging his lips downward.  Had she done something to it?  Guilt began to rise in a hot wave of nausea until he interrupted her thoughts.

“I should change my name to Chat Vert, you got snot all over me.  I thought princesses weren’t supposed to be gross.”

Her face flushed and she laughed loudly, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the noise.  They didn’t want to draw attention from the few people milling the streets below.  His frown disappeared as he chuckled with her.  They leaned over to see a few people peering upward, trying to find the sound of the noise.  The two shuffled closer together and away from the edge.  They both knew the joke wasn’t funny, but they laughed anyway, the shaky atmosphere relieving as they giggled.

Marinette quieted, her body feeling lighter as she shifted sideways to rest her head on his shoulder.  He lowered his head to rest on hers, the two once more looking out over the city.  She had sat next to Chat and admired the Parisian view countless times as Ladybug, but never like this.  It was nice to enjoy his friendship without the pressure of being a hero.

“Thank you, Chat Noir.  For bringing me here and letting me talk.”

“Of course, princess.  We can be broken heart buddies.  Lovestruck losers, if you will.  A pair of pining pals.”

She snorted and elbowed him.  “Sounds great, just watch the puns.”

“Are you feeling better, though?”

His voice was earnest.  Even while dealing with his own broken heart, he was so determined to help her.  She really had the best partner in the world.  Learning that Adrien loved someone else broke her heart, but she knew she’d be fine.  She wasn’t alone.  She had Tikki and Alya, and the rest of her group of girls.  And she had Chat Noir supporting her, on both sides of the mask.  He would never let her fall.

“Yeah, Chat,” she whispered.  “I will be.”

[cobraonthecob]

Date Flowers

So I finally get around to posting this, a week late, but here is my Lukanette Exchange fic! This one is for @thenovelartist, I’m so sorry that my fic is late by a few days.

@lukanette-exchange, here I am, yip yip. Ao3 link will be in the reblog.

The requirements were: Fluff is required, otherwise, open to anything: AU, aged-up, I like

Excludes: No angst (like, drama and tension okay, but don’t make the whole thing angsty)

So hopefully I did it justice!

Also, I wrote this before I found out the Snake’s powers in-show, and then I said “Nope, not in this fic. I’m keeping it to Hypnotize.”

-------------------

She brings a hand made cloth flower to each date.

At first it was small and plain, but each date, it got bigger and bigger, more complex each date.

He made a garden arrangement in his living room, the smaller, simpler ones at the edges with the larger and more ornate ones in the center. 

Five years of dates, Luka thought as he stared at the floral arrangement. He had no idea where he was going to put any new flowers, he wanted to keep the flowers as private as possible. 

This time, they were going to celebrate her twenty-third birthday. He nervously thumbed the ring box, before putting it into his pocket. He drove over to her apartment, and his jaw dropped as she walked towards his car.

Her qipao went from dark blue to purple, with a faint hint of a reddish hue at the hem. Silver dots - stars, Luka realized, formed constellations in the fabric. The qipao was sleeveless, her arm muscles too large for a normal sleeve, and she probably didn’t have enough fabric for a sleeve anyways. Besides, she liked sleeveless dresses, keeps the creeps away, she says. Her upper arms were adorned with silver bracelets in the shape of snakes, one had green-blue eyes, the other red. A black bracelet - from their first date - was on her left wrist. Her hair was down, grown out to mid-shoulder blade after two years of a pixie cut. In her hands was a massive red flower, the stem beautiful and long. Luka scrambled to open the door for her.

“You take my breath away,” Luka murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheeks in greeting. Marinette did the same. 

“For you, love,” Marinette said, holding the flower out. Luka took it in both hands and nearly fainted from the sheer detail. The petals alternated between red and pink, some shades lighter or darker.

“You are absolutely amazing, I wish I had a gift that could compare to this,” Luka said, finding his words. Technically, I do have something that could compare but I had help to make it. 

“You don’t need to. It’s something I like to do.” Marinette said. Luka smiled, and gestures for her to get in the car. Marinette obliged.

<>-<>-<>-<>

“Thanks for the dinner, Luka,” Marinette said, as they got into Luka’s apartment. Luka grinned, and picked up his guitar.

“Your birthday’s not over yet,” Luka said, beginning to strum his guitar, briefly playing her heart song. Marinette raises a brow.

“Oh?” 

“You might as well had the Snake Miraculous, you hypnotized me with your art,” Luka began to sing. 

“Sass helped you, didn’t he?” Luka shrugged, and gestured that he had a little bit of help with the words.

“You are the love and the light of my life, and I will always listen to your singing heart,” Luka continued, “For it brings me joy and happiness to hear you happy, and I love you even when the days have you snappy. I’ll love you forever, if you’ll have me, and even if you don’t, I still will. You taught me the greatest and purest form of love, from the battles to just standing still. And you, whether you’re Marinette or Ladybug, I will stand by your side, as Luka and Viperion, and I’ll do so even if the world ends. I sing this from my heart, with the most sincere melody that is you, I’ll love you forever if you’ll have me…”

“Always, Luper,” Marinette said, leaning in for a kiss. 

“I’m not done,” Luka said, “for I, Luka Couffaine, wielder of the Snake Miraculous ask one Marinette Dupain-Chang, wielder of the Ladybug Miraculous, will you marry me?” Luka set aside his guitar and pulled out the ring box, presenting the ring. 

“YES!” Marinette practically shrieked, launching herself at Luka, nearly taking him to the ground. Momentarily forgetting the ring, Marinette kissed Luka, joy rushing through her body. Luka pulled away, panting.

“The ring,” Luka gasped. Marinette chuckled.

“Sorry,” Marinette said, her hand reaching out as Luka put the ring on her finger. 

“I love you, high energy and all,” Luka murmured, going back for another kiss. 

“And I love you for everything,” Marinette murmured, then closed the gap between the two.

<>-<>-<>-<>

Her wedding dress is white with pinkish tones, flowing, sleeveless, and in the light, sparkle due to the hidden stars she sewed in. In short, she was drop-dead gorgeous.��

The wedding is just as beautiful as the bride, and the entire venue radiates enough joy to power the entirety of France, if such a thing were possible. Compliments and well-wishes poured onto the new Dupain-Cheng couple, as Juleka threw a smile from across the room every time Luka’s new last name was said. He and Marinette jumped back onto the dance floor, the music surging in his veins, a siren to dance with his wife. Couples swirled around him, but Luka didn’t care about them. He only had eyes for Marinette.

“Mr. Dupain-Cheng,” Marinette teased, dropping into the most faux reporter voice she could manage and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “How does it feel to take on your wife’s last name instead of traditionally keeping your last name and hers changing?”

“The best decision ever, since the only other option we thought of was to go with ‘Couffaine-Dupain-Cheng - “

“Bullies would have a difficult time,” Marinette noted. 

“Oh my goodness, last-name-only-basis-bullies. No wonder why you’re such a great Ladybug. You think of every possibility.” Luka whispers so that no one else could hear, but before Marinette could respond, the music changed for something with a faster tempo, and Luka couldn’t help but roll along with it, he and Marinette danced in sync, moving together effortlessly. The crowd’s hoarse from cheering them on all day, but they cheer nonetheless. Sass and Tikki enjoyed watching the festivities from afar, their chosens moving with each other. A dance floor isn’t so different from a battlefield after all.

<>-<>-<>-<>

Ladybug and Viperion were on patrol that night. Chat couldn’t make it, said that he would be too tired from his day job. The others mentioned a big event that day as well, and big days the next day. Ladybug and Viperion thus decided to step up, enjoy Paris as newlyweds and hope that an akuma wouldn’t attack that night. They rendezvoused at the Eiffel Tower ten minutes before midnight, one last look at the night Parisian skyline before heading home. 

“I never did ask how Queen Bee fought in those high heels,” Ladybug said from her perch, massaging her feet. 

“She was never one for practical battle outfits,” Viperion commented. Ladybug shrugged, then scooted herself across the beam to spoon with Viperion.

“Think this is safe?” Ladybug asked. Viperion glanced down at her.

“We’re the heroes of Paris, we can do this. I can sit here all night, considering I have a Ladybug on my lap. It’d be bad luck to remove her.” Viperion teased. Ladybug gave a fake gasp.

“I’d say it’d be bad luck to offend Lady Luck,” Ladybug responded, but remained where she lay, grinning at her husband. 

“How would you feel if Falena released an akuma tonight?” Viperion asked. Ladybug rolled her eyes.

“I’d snap her neck myself,” Ladybug growled, “Because it’s our wedding night, and all I want to do is be with you. So sue me for being selfish on wanting to be with the ones I love.” 

“I’ll be right beside you if that happens. Ready to head home?” Viperion asked. Ladybug sighed, then pulled herself up.

“I’ll race you home,” Ladybug said.

“Not fair, you have the yo-yo,” Viperion mock-protested. 

“Fine, I’ll carry you bridal-style across Paris,” Ladybug said.

“Please do. Broadcast to Paris that we’re married.” Viperion said.

“You’re on,” Ladybug said. She and Viperion leaped off, Ladybug’s yo-yo snagging onto something so they could swing around as she grabbed him out of the air. Whooping, the couple swung onto a rooftop, Ladybug easily running across the rooftops, Viperion moving his body so that he was balanced and so that she could see. Easily, they dropped onto their balcony, making sure no one saw the heroes of Paris before making their way inside. 

“Sass, scales rest,” Viperion said, opening the fridge as soon as Sass came out from the bracelet. Luka quickly put the small plate of chicken into the microwave, Sass eagerly waiting for his food.

“Tikki, spots off,” Ladybug said, Tikki dropped out of one of the earrings, and eagerly dove into the plate of cookies that they left.

“Good night, Sass,” Luka said as the microwave dinged and Luka pulled the chicken out for Sass. Sass mumbled good night back, mouth full of chicken. 

“‘Night, Tikki,” Marinette said, gently kissing the kwami. 

“Good night, you two,” Tikki said, smiling. Smiling, Luka and Marinette left the kitchen and into the darkness of their bedroom.

“A rarity, a Snake and a Ladybug,” Sass observes from his plate. Tikki smiles.

“The Black Cat and Ladybug don’t always have to be together. Sometimes they work as platonic friends. Other times, the relationship fails completely. Ladybug and Chat Noir are lucky - they get to be friends even after all these years.” Tikki says, then drifts over to Sass.

“In this day and age, love and life are easier,” Sass muses, a note of sadness in his voice. Tikki pats his back gently, as both kwamis thought of their past holders who more or less martyred themselves; such as the more well-known Joan of Arc and the lesser known Snake holders during World War II, making the ultimate sacrifices that never failed to bring the kwamis to tears. 

“Indeed they are. After all, how often is it that you get Music and Creation together?” Tikki asked.

“Don’t remember the last time that happened,” Sass said, “Shall we celebrate with the other kwamis?” Tikki giggled.

“Of course!” Tikki said, swiftly darting out the apartment, Sass hot on her heels, “Race you!”

“You’re on!” Sass hissed playfully, and the two kwamis darted into the night, to celebrate with their fellow kwamis, as their holders slept, holding each other close.

[jtownraindancer]

noctuary

  The terrain was barren, dark. Scraggly shrubs had carved through the cracks in the earth, dried to decay and dust within days of their ascent. The air was warm and arid, parching you despite the lateness of the hour. But it was peaceful, quiet. So far were you from any signs of civilization that the canopy of stars above remained uncorrupted by artificial light, traces of blues and violets and subtle greens shimmering ever-so-slightly across the midnight sky. Serendipity beckoned you, a deep inhale filling your veins with contented bliss. Your arms folded beneath your head, and you passed several tranquil moments lost in the ceaseless wonder of the heavens. Your eyes drifted shut, ears familiarizing to the sounds of this new landscape, allowing the unfamiliar lullaby to guide you into an even deeper state of relaxation. But then there was a shift, a shuddering rifling on the breeze. Despite not having moved, you felt your stomach drop, hair standing on end at the sudden rush of adrenaline. You longed to ignore it, wishing, hoping, praying to have your comfort restored, but fortune seemed to have fled you. The evening sounds fell silent, a rising pressure on the air frightening away your nocturnal companions. You opened your eyes, glancing to the sky to determine if, perhaps, a storm was brewing. The horizon was clear however, sprinkled only with starlight and the faintest impressions of cloud. You reclined once more, readjusting your position on the ancient blanket, successfully ignoring the frantic energy coursing through your chest. And then there was a shuffling sound, a ruffling like birds' wings. Your brows furrowed at that, the sound growing louder, as if a whole flock was swarming around you. Above you, a cluster of agitated wings fluttering in a sphere, blazing beryl and garish golden light shining in countless sparks. The light was searing, the sound deafening, but you were inexplicably at peace, mind calm at the sight of the colossal being hovering leagues above you. So bright was his form that the night was forgotten, the stars you had been so languidly studying now eclipsed by the sheer brilliance of his Grace. He was formidable. Terrible. Magnificent. But above all, he was beautiful. A gasp of awe, of worship, of overwhelming adoration and all-encompassing love escaped you, attracting his attention. Wings, wings, midnight gales and gentle whispers and turbulent thunder- six behemoths moving together to slowly approach you, legions of eyes tracing over you, through you, within you with restless intensity, leaving each inch of you trembling in fear, trembling in anticipation. He held back however, dozens of yards between you, stilling, hovering, waiting. His form was so vast even from such distance, it was impossible to perceive anything of the sky, anything beyond his illustrious wings and celestial radiance and rotating halos of raw energy. There was nothing in the cosmos that mattered to you in this moment- Nothing save you and the Seraph, who was still patiently waiting for your acceptance, for your rejection, heads of lioness and raven and fox all watching, wings never resting, shape never losing form, light never dimming. Electricity burned in your veins, warm trickles of blood slipping from your nostrils and ears and eyes. But these sensations were set aside, overcome by the twitching in your fingers, by the tumultuous yearning to touch, to caress, to protect the very being whose appearance alone should have been enough to end- nay obliterate- you on the most intimate, microscopic level. But he did not, you did not, and that restless, desperate energy flowed between you, growing exponentially between each breath from your lungs, hair raising once more as the static in the atmosphere increased in intensity, buzzing within and without with a  brutal, aching need. Never having risen from your position, you lifted your hand, a placating motion to indicate your devotion, your desire, your demand. There was a want, frantic and chaotic, resounding in your very bones to consume, to be consumed. From above, from around, from below, from within- There was another distinct shudder, stronger than the first, roaring echo carving through the canyons. Then- a swift descent. The enticing aroma of stardust and ozone and petrichor and thousands of other sweet and sharp scents flooded you with his approach, your soft sigh reverberating in the motion of dark feathers, a lilting ricochet on the breeze carrying across the plateau and down the ravine below. He shifted as he neared, honeysuckle rings condensing into a singular sphere, heads joining into one, wings surrounding him entirely, folding smaller and smaller the nearer he drew. Your awe only grew, smile only more fond as his wings retracted, faded from sight, familiar trench coat and shoes landing only several feet from you. You had known his true form must be radiant, ethereal, beautiful in a way beyond words, though you had never expected the Commander to ever trust you with the sight, nor could you have ever hoped to imagine just how breathtaking he truly was. He healed you with the sharp sting of hail, lips fastening to your own with the violent ferocity of a tempest. A growl like thunder, a touch that summoned liquid lightning in your veins, clouded irises tracing between your own- all served to secure your desperation, fingers clawing in sable tresses to drag him even closer. The fury faded, replaced with the gentle brush of fingers beneath your chin, touch light as the press of maple leaves, sweetest praises falling from his lips dancing on the whispers of the desert winds. You fell back to the dirt- sated, humbled, mystified- fingers entwining with the Celestial's and the brush of feathers teasing you. You studied the stars, listening to his heartbeat settle, the melody of your newfound paradise slowly resuming its serenade. Sense replaced sensibility, securing the knowledge that the encounter, the sensations, the exchange- You had not survived completely unscathed. Your ears still tintinnabulated; your eyes were still haunted by kaleidoscopic phantoms of empyrean rays each time you allowed them to slip shut. You knew you had been near death; it was miraculous you had not perished within the first glimpse of his true form. But if this had been the last sight you would have seen- With hands capable of razing empires holding you close to his frame and ballads older than Creation whispering throughout your conscious, you allowed yourself to drift peacefully in the warm alabaster glow, surrendering with a contented sigh. There was nowhere between Heaven and Hell where you’d rather be, safely slumbering in the soft embrace of the Seraph.

[thesaltwaterdaisy]

Hi! So I wrote another fic again! But it’s not exactly a happy one. My tag warnings include physical pain, a lot if it, so please check the tags first. I’m sorry in advance for this. Thank you to @happylyneverafter for being just awesome for reading this first . I’m really hurting and excited and I have never been so much in the zone like this but then again PAIN I tell you, PAIN-

This is set in TCS, when after Lucy finds Mailer and the three men come around to “silence” her. With one stuck in a window and the other two struggling with the chase, Lucy runs and slips away. But what if it didn’t happen like that? What if the chase didn’t end like that? What if, for example, the silver knife… What if, Lucy…?

—

My mind was quick and my body, quicker. My legs were bruised and my hands were scratched, but I ignored it all. I had to run. I had to keep running. Through the window, onto the roof and onto the next. I had to run. I had to, or else-

I felt a sharp piercing pain, and I cried out as I looked to see that a silver knife had dug it’s way into my shoulder. I cursed under my breath. The pain it triggered was revolting. My arm stung as I caught myself before I stumbled to the ground. I pulled myself up and flung myself onto the next roof. My sleeve was wet. I heard heavy steps and an angry voice behind me, and when I turned, one of them had slammed a long metal bar against my face. The contact of the violent metal on the the side of my head made painful vibrations. I fell hard on the ground, and everything spun. I thought I tasted blood in my mouth.

I stood up as quickly as I could, wobbled and struggled with balance, then unsheathed my rapier. The man in front of me was definitely larger than me, and he looked like he could easily strangle me with one hand.

I had to find a way out.

He dashed towards me. My eyes were fixed on him. I ducked and slid my leg across his feet. He pathetically lost his balance and fell hard and heavy on his side. I dug my rapier through his coat to pin him. With all my might I ran and leapt for the next roof. Mid air, another of the three had caught my boot and pulled me back. I kicked him twice or thrice with my free leg as I also grabbed a canister from my belt.

Fortunately, I hit him good and he lost grip of me. Unfortunately, the explosion was so strong that I got blown into the air and I fell down into the alley below.

I opened my eyes wide in shock, and I knew I was falling. For a moment, time had stopped, and everything else was sort of… distorted. The sky was there. It was dark blue. It calmed me in ways that I feared for what was to come next. I braced myself.

Then, impact.

There was a loud noise somewhere. And then I realized it was my own voice. I was shrieking, crying, weeping in the pain of my fall. My bones moved in a way that they shouldn’t have, and I knew that somewhere, blood was seeping out of me. Around me, dust rained down all over. I had broken a few things in the alley too, but that didn’t matter.

Without thinking, I struggled to bring myself up, and collapsed immediately. I rolled over and I felt my shoulder and back wet. My head was pounding, like drums banging over and over again, not even giving me a second to recover.

His face flashed across my mind again.

Tears filled my eyes. I slammed a fist on the ground. I gritted my teeth and gripped dirt in my hands. Blood was dripping down my face and from my hair. It was hot and it made me feel sick. There was pain all over me, and it hurt like hell.

The wall was near, so I leaned against it. I was able to get on my knees, but I wasn’t moving fast enough. Above me, I heard their voices again.

What should I do? I couldn’t think straight.

Run. I. had. to. run.

But much to my dismay, just when I had gotten all my strength back to get to my feet, one of the men was monstrously on his way already jumping from one window to another. Despite his bloodied face, his anger was evident. A chill travelled down my spine and I knew I had to move immediately.

I ran. I didn’t care how I looked like. I didn’t care about the pain. I placed one foot in front of the other, and I sprinted to anywhere.

A few more blocks, and I knew I would reach the crowds. I just needed to get there.

As I passed through an intersection of the alleys, out in the corners of my eye, another was fast approaching from the side. And even though I was steps past from him already, I felt the whiff of air as his arm stretched to grab my hair. The force pulled me backwards, then, a grip had tightened around my neck.

I won’t say it, but it is what it is. I couldn’t breathe. The air… air was gone. It’s there, but my lungs couldn’t get to them. I felt myself panicking, and then becoming dizzy, and then feeling my neck being crushed by bare hands. With remaining strength I had, I dug my nails into the man’s hand. I kicked the air, wiggled around, slamming my palms on him. But nothing. When I had stopped fighting, he let me go, and I fell to the floor.

Everything came back to me slowly and fiercely. Air filled my lungs, my nerves, and my head. It also filled my gaping wounds open and gushing again. I had fallen to my side, so now I could see that all the other two men were emerging from behind. I squinted. They were talking, but I did not understand. One was slightly burned, the  other had blood dripping down his face. The last, the most disheveled of them all, had pulled out a gun.

I lay there for a while, catching my breath, awaiting what was to happen. It sucked, I thought. How the day had drastically turned upside down. This was all real. Too real. But I started to sense my finger tips, and I gripped the earth again. That was enough for me to know that I could most probably move my entire body again. Somewhere, a flock of birds flew.  And I, had thrown another canister into the air.

I didn’t see if they were hit spot on, but I heard explosion of glass and shrieks of pain, so that was good enough for me. As soon as I had thrown it, I was already up and running with the blast way behind me. I was a fighter. I wasn’t giving up. The sound of  the explosion rang in my ear.

Run.

I was panting heavily. My heart was pounding. My lungs were burning. From my forehead, to my hair, to my shoulder, and down to my arms, I was already drenched in my own blood. I could only imagine that it was the adrenaline keeping me up and about. My bones, probably broken and crushed, we’re miraculously  listening to my pleas. I was going to survive this. I was going to be safe.

Behind me, the voices of the men were confused and angry. But they were far and I was fast. Our heavy steps were many many meters apart.

And then, I felt another sharp pain pierce right through my chest, followed by a louder noise that echoed through the skies.

I found myself crashing violently to the ground.

First, the shock electrified everywhere. It burned like a furious fire  and then turned into an icy numbness. My breath were shallow gasps. My vision was edged in black. And then, slowly, everything started to fade. I tried to catch it, but I couldn’t. My consciousness drifted, floating into thick empty static. I didn’t know if my eyes had shut or not, if it had turned evening , or whether the thought of running away had lingered or faded too, but all that was left for me was my weeping inside, constantly apologizing and pleaing for a reason I both knew and didn’t. My heartbeats pounded loudly and it echoed inside the space I was in. A cold lace of silver was burning in my chest. How long had it been now? I couldn’t stop anything. The world was hard and cold below me. I lost all feeling as it drained away, until everything was dark and inky and gone.

…

A silver of moonlight spilled into the roads of London, lighting up the inky blackness of the night. It was not so bright too as to dull the scattered stars across the sky, glistening and shining so far away. In the distance, buildings marked silhouettes against the horizon. It was like all other nights, when people waited eagerly for day. Hour after hour, the morning sun finally rose up and sunlight illuminated the shadowy world. Dawn came. With it marked the end of the night and the beginning of a new day.

Somewhere, a flock of birds flew.

—

The house echoed with the ring of the unanswered telephone. A boy in pajamas had emerged from the stairs with his fingers keeping his eye glasses from falling. He yawned lazily. He was obviously not hurried by the call. Finally, he answered it.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“No this is Cubbins speaking.”

Silence.

“Uhm. Okay…?

And then, as if he was kicked awake, the world popped in color. Slowly, his expression turned hollow. His eyes stared blankly at the walls as he listened to the voice beyond the line. Calmly, he made sense of the words being told. At some point, he reminded himself to breathe slowly.

“Okay. Yes. Thank you. ”

He dropped the phone. Silence again. The boy stood there for a while.

“Hey, who was that? Have we got a case?” Another boy was coming down the stairs. He wore his usual calm and cool demeanor. Hair tousled,  Lockwood was standing with renewed energy from a good night’s sleep. Immediately however, he noticed that George was off. “What’s wrong?”

He cleared his throat before speaking. “So Lockwood… listen…” George started. Then he removed his glasses, rubbed them with the ends of his sweater, then placed them on again. He raised his head and tried to look Lockwood in the eye but failed. The silence in the air was uneasy. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and continued. “… It was Inspector Barnes on the phone. It’s about… Lucy.”

—

Thanks again for reading! Also, sorry too. I don’t know why I started this, it crushes me. *ugly sobs* But I wanted to write it, so here it is. Let me share my suffering! xD 

[taenchanted]

the ways of the world

☾ a story of the planet

⤖ pairing: jimin x reader

⤖ genre: magic!au, soulmate!au

⤖ word count: 2k

⤖ warnings: none

⤖ author’s note: this one was a bit of a wild ride for me! I haven’t written much fantasy before, but I wanted to try something new (: please enjoy ♡ 

Nestled in the ravines of the deepest sea, the gusts of sunlight-kissed wind, the untouched groves of the forests, and in the quiet murmurs of secrets and desire, was the heart of a boy who loved the world more than it could ever repay him for.

Park Jimin was laced into the fabric of time, existing simply as an inherently good soul. He was extraordinary, in every sense of the word, but even he did not know how he came to be. Years slipped by and he remained the same, untethered to the Earth by age. He simply lived, hovering in the nature that he was such a pivotal point in.

He loved his planet, and he was determined to become a part of it.

He lived everywhere that he could, exploring the corners of the world in the hopes that maybe it would provide him with answers. He lived on the tops of mountains, where he learned what it meant to accept being alone. He sailed the oceans, where he learned how to flow with the rise of time just as the water flowed through currents. He ran to the forests, where he learned about the fragility and importance of all life. He took his time, making sure that he felt content with the lessons he had gained. He did not know his purpose, but he wanted to make the most of his eternal gift, so he dedicated himself to the Earth. And in time, he melted into it, fell in love with everything he saw and felt because it was impossible for him not to.

Jimin thought that he could never love anything more than the world.

He was happy in the only way he knew how to be, perfectly content with the forest in which he had chosen to live. He thrived in the cold just as equally as he thrived in the warmth, so the winter did not bother him. In fact, he adored the snow, the frost, the rain. The only complaint he had was the lack of woodland creatures. They had all burrowed away for the season, so he was back to the company of the plants and the weather. He was utterly alone, as he always was during the winter, and he had already learned not to mind it. He had lived for too long to mind a few months of solitude.

But he did not expect to venture out of the woods.

He had no reason to, no inclination to. The heart of nature was his home. He was the most comfortable hidden away in the forest, so he never chose to leave it. The outside world was concrete and unfamiliar, a landscape that he no longer recognized.

And then something unusual happened.

A bright energy, pulsing and transforming, appeared out of thin air.

Jimin was quite attuned to the ways of the world. He saw life as more than just what he could see, he saw it for the beautiful swirls of energy that it was. He saw it in everything, in the animals, in the plants. But he had never felt it so strongly before.

He did not see what was emitting this energy. He was too far away to see it. But he could feel it; the sensation was unlike anything that he’d ever felt before, something raw and powerful and enrapturing.

Jimin did not hesitate to go out on a search for this energy. He would accept the temporary abandonment of his home to go find this light because he knew that surely it would not have affected him if it was not important.

He followed it obediently, focused on its path, the way that it danced. There was nothing in him that shied away, and that fact alone gave him confidence. If it was dangerous, his senses would not lead him straight into its trap. So he ran through the woods, leaping and dodging, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt more than acceptance, he felt exhilaration.

With a final bound over a log, the light glowed as brightly as he had ever seen it, and he skidded to a halt. At first, its presence was so blinding that he could not see what it actually was, so he lifted a hand over his eyes and waited for it to dim.

When it finally cooled, he saw a human, you, standing on a path, looking very confused and very concerned.

You saw a boy, dressed in various loose-fitting fabrics, squinting at you as if you were the sun.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

“Are you… okay?” You asked tentatively, wondering why there was a person crashing through the forest when he was clearly not dressed for such an excursion. He had no shoes on, just a mismatched shirt and baggy pants. His skin was nearly glowing, his hair fell in a perfect frame of his face.

“Are you?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed.

You stood there for another moment. “Well, yes, I’m fine. But it’s freezing out here, and you’re barely wearing anything— and why were you running through the woods like that—”

“That’s where I live— but what are you doing here?”

The forest that Jimin had resided in for the past few decades saw very few visitors. Primarily, they arrived in the spring and the summer, since it was a lovely area to hike in if you knew where to look. But in the winter, no one came. It was blustery and snowy, located snug against a towering mountain. Jimin adored it, but ordinary humans couldn’t stand it. He could not fathom why only one human could.

“I…” You paused, glancing down at the ground, and Jimin tilted his head slightly. He did not encounter many people; in fact, throughout his life, he had only met a good few. They had taught him about the complexity of their race, and Jimin recognized that he was more human than he was anything else, but he was simply not a human being. He had lived for a very long time, and he had become more a part of nature than humanity. Yet there you were, confusing, uncertain, and spectacular. You were so radiant, so much more so than anything else that he had ever seen.

He pursed his lips, and suddenly it dawned on him why you were there. “Were you… drawn here?” The question was not as articulate as he wanted it to be, but it was the only way he knew how to formulate the sensation into words. 

You refused to meet his gaze, because of course that sounded ridiculous and obscene and strange, but you did not know that he didn’t think it was odd.

“Yes, I was.” You shuffled nervously. “I don’t know how to explain it, and I know that that sounds fake, but— something drew me out here.”

He moved forward, coming down from the hill, and you did not shy away from him. In fact, you watched him with wonder, as if he were something miraculous.

“I don’t think it sounds fake,” he said carefully, raising his hands in a submissive gesture.

You bit your lip, surveying him cautiously, and he was abruptly certain that you knew. You knew that you weren’t just here for anything, you were there because of him— there was nothing else that it could be. The reason had to be behind this stranger— this stranger, who looked human but was clearly not. The way he moved was not human, it was too elegant, too poetic. He was poetry come to life.

“No? Do you have an explanation for it, then?”

He frowned slightly. “No, I don’t. I just know that I understand it. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it.”

You nodded warily. “What’s your name?”

“Jimin,” he murmured, as if he had not said his name in a very long time. “What’s yours?”

“Y/N.”

He smiled gently and the expression lit his face up, made the world seem brighter. You felt your heart clench, felt the strange magnetism of his presence flare up. You didn’t know why you were there, all you knew was that this was the most singularly important thing you had ever done. Listening to that instinct was more than just a curiosity, it was an irrevocable need. When you had seen that forest, something within you had flared into existence, something that had been dormant for as long as you could remember. And standing there, in front of this boy, made you feel like you were sinking into the earth, like you were a part of his steady gaze.

You wanted to say something else to him, but there was nothing that felt right to say. Nothing about this encounter was normal— it was the most bizarre and wonderful thing that had ever happened to you, and yet being there felt like you were home. You felt like this beautiful stranger and the enthralling forest was your home.

Jimin had never felt like this before. He thought that there wasn’t much left for him to learn, but he had never been so wrong. You were there for the same reasons that he was: an innate need to meet. He knew that everything he had ever done somehow had led him to this point, and he was astonished. His mind whirled, diving through oceans, soaring up through the clouds, springing through meadows— all of his memories were stained in gold. He slipped through the centuries, kissing the sunsets and the stars, and then he was in front of you, and nothing was as concrete as he had thought. You were muddled with every color, tangerine and cerulean and mahogany, and he had never seen anything so beautiful.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he said softly, grinning.

The words seeped into your soul, sent a strike of shock through you. You had never known it before, but he was right, you had been expecting to meet him. You had never been aware of it, but this light inside of you had, and that was enough.

“It’s good to finally meet you too, Jimin.”

The wind picked up, but the biting chill felt more like a caress than a slap. A few moments later, a light fluff of snow touched your cheeks, melted against your skin. You looked up at the sky, saw the puffs of snow drifting lazily through the trees.

Jimin stood a few feet away from you, staring up, and you swore that you had never seen anyone look as happy as he did. The snow moved around him differently, as if the snowflakes were waltzing around his frame. He looked inhumanly hypnotizing, surrounded by twirling snow, hair rustled by the wind, eyes far more ancient than his face appeared.

He looked over at you and slowly extended his hand.

“I’ll show you the world, if you’d like.”

You smiled reluctantly. You could never explain it. Jimin was simply what you had been waiting for your entire life, an enchantment, a spell that had captivated you. He was not human, not of this time or any other, but he was there, and he was home. Jimin was a phantom, a ghost that could easily fall through the grip of reality, and you knew that it was already too late. You were slipping alongside him.

“You might want to start with something smaller,” you said, taking his soft hand in yours. As soon as your skin touched, a kaleidoscope of color unfurled from every corner of the planet, glowing too brightly to see anything but each other.

You fell into the world together, becoming as much a part of it as you were a part of each other, hands clasped and hearts aligned.

[mrevaunit42]

Marulous Gentlebug and Chat Noistar part 1

hey everyone, Mr.E here and trying my hardest to keep up with wholesome week. but as i write the prompts i figured I make good on my promise. So I’ve been writing about a year and a half now with about 96 chapters to show for it. All of them are up on Fanfiction but be warned, grammar and some spelling mistakes  because I was getting back into the swing of things and sometimes I am horrible at proof reading. I decided to put some of those stories onto tumblr in case people don’t do the FF site and here is the first of the batch my Miraculous Ladybug AU for Star vs. I change some things because i personally do not like just directly copying things. 

this part 1, this is looooong and i cleaned it up because I could. So enjoy, let me know what you think and have a great week. time to catch up! 

It was a quiet, peaceful day in this little place known as Paris.

The sun was bright, the skies clear with puffy white clouds lazily drifting overhead.

The sounds of life filled the city of love as people went about the daily grind, countless footsteps echoing from every corner as cars switched between the smooth pavement of the newer roads and the cobbled streets that survived throughout the years.

As usual the Diaz bakery was overflowing with customers, the family of the tiny store/home never once having believed they would ever be considered the best bakery in all of Paris.

Above in the attic of the building was the room of the youngest Diaz, Angie and Rafael’s son Marco who was hiding a rather large secret.

There was a cute, little yawn as the morning light broke through the window, basking a small palm size sprite-like ladybug creature in its glow. The creature opened her bright blue eyes for a moment before blinking sleepily. Her two antennas twitched as the sounds of someone approaching shocked the creature awake and caused her to dive out of sight as the little trap door that led to the bedroom began to rise.

“Don't worry mom!” Marco called downstairs, the excited murmurings of the customers filling the empty room with noise “I still got a few minutes, I'll be fine!”

Marco shut the trapdoor with his foot, stretching his tired body as he began searching for everything he would require for the following school day.

The little creature peered out of her hiding place, watching the young teen carefully as he doubled checked the sliver badge pinned to his gray undershirt, attacking his wildly messy light brown hair with a brush, the other hand blindly groping for a nearby red hoodie but missing the article of clothing by an inch.

The creature giggled to herself before taking off skyward, soaring through the air while slowly tugging the hoodie towards Marco's waiting hand, shaking her head as Marco took it and slipped it over his head.

“Up a little early aren't you Marco?” The little creature asked, taking her place by his shoulder. Marco's head popped out of well loved jacket and grimaced at his newly wild hair.

Marco frowned, reaching for the comb he just put down “I was helping my parents with the morning rush. Today's Monday and the people of Paris can't survive without their coffee and horde of sugary Parisian sweets.”

Tikki frowned at what Marco was saying, wondering if he realized what was going on.

“You woke up at 5:30 in the morning?” Tikki questioned, hoping to get Marco to understand what the problem was.

“Yep”

“After staying up until 3 in the morning studying for future chapters.”

Marco nodded in agreement.

“Which was after fighting The Musketeer?”

Marco frowned “Wasn't the Musketeer during the carnival?”

“Which you volunteered to watch the kissing booth after you realized Star was going to be assigned to it as well.”

Marco turned bright red, letting out a dreamily sigh at the sound of Star's name being said by the kwami.

“Star.” Marco smiled brightly as he glanced around his room, the beautiful face of Paris's most popular model Star Butterfly staring at him from every direction. There she was in her viking battle armor, promoting some sort of horror movie about a human butterfly hybrid, holding onto some mysterious figure at a dance basked in blood red lights and of course his favorite picture of all that was tucked away in a sliver picture frame on top of his desk.

Star had wrapped her arm around Marco's neck, drawing him close and causing the young man to let out the goofiest smile ever recorded on film while she threw a peace sign over her own head, lips puffed out while the two stared into the camera.

Marco didn't really know Star but they were classmates at Echo Creek Academy and while she was on the reserved side, she was very friendly. More than willing to be friends with any and everyone, even Marco!

That is if Marco could get over his inability to talk properly in front of the seemingly magical girl. Or walk....or breath.....or carry and hold things. Or any basic general functions that ceased to work anytime he was anywhere near Star Butterfly.

He knew he should just stay cool, be calm but he couldn't help it. With her bright, oceanic blue eyes, long, sunshiny blonde hair and armed with the most beautiful smile, Marco Diaz's brain turned to mush every time.

Tikki laughed at Marco's awestruck face as he moved the picture frame Tikki hid behind back into its proper place. Tikki found it very adorable how much he liked Star even if he couldn't express it.

“What I am trying to say Marco” Tikki told him after a moment “Is that you are taking on so many responsibilities! Between your school work, trying to prepare for future class subjects and your duties as Lady...”

Marco's ears perked up, turning to face the little kwami with embarrassed cheeks “Ah ah ah! No no not Ladybug, Gentlebug.”

“Gentlebug” Tikki gracefully corrected, finding Marco's defensive tone about his superhero name amusing “you haven't been getting much sleep! You're going to run yourself into the ground if you keep this up!”

Marco scoffed, waving off Tikki's concerns “I'm young and I took karate, I am at my physical prime! I have energy to burn!”

and just to prove his point, Marco began unnecessarily striking at the air with lightning fast attacks, chopping and kicking invisible foes before dropping into a dramatic pose.

Marco grinned slyly at Tikki before a groggy yawn escaped his lips, causing the kwami to shoot him a knowing look.

Marco sheepishly scratched his head “Look I'm fine Tikki. Maybe a little tired but I can handle it.”

Tikki opened her mouth to say more but the sudden ringing of the alarm clock drew both of their attentions to the device.

“WHAT!?” Marco screamed at the top of his lungs “It's 7:56?! I'M GOING TO BE LATE FOR SCHOOL!”

Star let out a quiet sigh, dejectedly stirring her scrambled eggs with her fork as the scraping of her plate echoed emptily all around her.

Star looked up in hopes that her mother would be willing to speak more than a handful of words towards her but given how Moon Butterfly's blue eyes were glancing downward at the various papers on the dining room table and how absentmindedly she was playing with her long, straightened to perfection natural periwinkle blue hair, it wasn't going to happen.

“Star.”

Star nearly fell out of her seat at the sound of her mother's voice calling her name.

“Yes Mother?” Star excitedly called back, firmly planting her hands onto the table to steady herself in case she could not handle any more surprises from her remaining parent.

Moon Butterfly stared coldly at her daughter, eyes filled with a stoic calm that a politician would kill for.

“You say you wanted to go to school.” Moon began slowly, her voice rigid and unfeeling “You even disobeyed me, sneaking off to enter such a place without your bodyguard and overall were displeased with the idea of not going.”

Star's joyful expectations faltered for a moment “Mother, I...”

“And yet if I am correct, and I always am, the time is currently 7:56”

“Mother...”

“And what time does your school begin Star?”

Star's smile did a complete 180, the frown plastered on her face physically aching her muscles from the lack of experience with an upside down grin.

“It begins at 8 mother.....”

“So you are going to be late” Moon provided “And thus the entire folly of your desire to go to school has been wasted....”

Star held back the tears, determined to get her mother to see her point of view “But mother, it is your day off. I was hoping perhaps we could spend it together? You've been so busy that I hardly see you anymore.”

“Nonsense.” Moon answered, returning to the papers that were apparently more important than her daughter “I see you at breakfast and dinner.”

“Mother, please. I...”

“Go to school Star” Moon's voice held the sharp, finality to its tone “Or I will pull you out of that silly institution first thing tomorrow.”

Star said nothing, elegantly strolling out of the room, refusing to allow a single shred of despair and hurt she was feeling to show upon her face.

Moon watched Star carefully, shaking her head disappointingly “She is far too fragile....she is safe amongst these walls but on the outside?”

Moon trailed off, returning her attention to the various fashion problems that plagued the older woman.

“Oh man how could I be late?!” Marco cried, leaping over a parked bike and its unmoving owner, sliding under approaching cake held table, even narrowly skidding past a car that decided to the best way to deal with a pedestrian was to speed up.

Marco glanced down at his phone, trying to ignore the 8:24 that his internal clock showed, mocking his failure and his attempts to reach the school at a reasonable hour.

“Can this day get any worse?!” Marco shouted at the top of his lungs, whirling around the corner at breakneck speeds only to find himself colliding with something solid.

Marco flailed backwards, nearly steadying his footing when a gentle breeze pushed beyond him, sending his entire body wildly sprawling facedown onto the floor.

“Ugh...” Marco grunted in pain, rubbing his chin softly as he rose to his feet, trying his hardest not lament the twist of events he found himself in.

“Owie.” A familiar voice cried below him, a girl with bright blonde hair blanketing her face as she gently rubbed where she made contact with the ground, the devil horn headband looking very familiar.

“oh geez.” Marco muttered, running forward to help the girl to her feet “I'm really sorry. I'm super late to class and I was rushing and I wasn't paying attention.”

“It's okay” A cheerful voice answered, tickling his memories but producing no results “It happens and I was late too.”

The girl flipped her long mane out of her face and Marco could feel his heart stop dead at the sight of Star Butterfly's bright blue eyes staring back at him, a flicker of recognition dancing within her irises.

“Marco!” Star cried excitedly, trapping the red hoodie teen in her quick embrace.

“S-Star!” Marco shouted unnecessarily loudly, wincing at the sight of Star flinching at his volume “S-sorry I...well...”

Marco could feel his cheeks heating up, turning a brighter red each passing moment until Star finally broke her hold on him, the step back she took doing nothing to help his nerves.

“Wow Marco, are you okay?” Star's concerned look was worse than Tikki's had been. She leaned in, her bright blue orbs focusing solely on him and Marco swore he could feel the steam coming out of his ears “You look really tired.”

Marco's nervous chuckle was equal parts embarrassing and horrifying. Before he could stop himself, his hands were flying this way and that way in an attempt to help him explained what happened

“I was running and I was late because I was helping my parents bake today's inventory andI'vebeenstudyingallnightandIreallyreallywasn'tpayingattentionand....:”

“Marco” Star raised her own hands to stop the erratic movements of his “Marco it's okay. I'm fine! See?”

Star presented her arms and legs, gesturing to each individual limb like she was posing for one of her photoshoots.

“R...right....” Marco muttered quietly.

Star smiled gently at his embarrassed, shy tone, a trait Star always found endearing in Marco. She moved forward to give him another hug but stopped, remembering that she was in public and she couldn't be touchy feely with everyone.

Instead, Star placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly as she gave him a little grin of reassurance.

Marco could do nothing but stare in wonder towards the famous Butterfly, her beauty up close completely melting his brain and any reasonable thought process.

“Now come on, we got school!” Marco felt all the blood pool in his face as Star gripped his hand tightly in hers, pulling him forward to ensure the two finally arrived for their class. Though there was one little problem...

Marco's legs had ceased to function, failing to even move an inch as Marco fell towards the ground once more, landing ontop of his chin a second time but with an audience this time.

Star leaned over Marco carefully, anxiously biting her lips as she wondered if she had done something wrong “Marco?”

“.hmm?”

“Are you okay?

“Mhm....”

“Did you want me to help you up?”

Marco shook his head, no longer able to trust his body if it became paralyzed by a single touch from Star Butterfly.

“Monsieur Diaz, Mademoiselle Butterfly thank you for joining us” Mademoiselle Skullnick, the trollish teacher spoke loudly to the rest of the class “I do hope you were not doing anything....inappropriate with one another instead of being inside my classroom.”

Marco felt faint, the snickering of a dozen or so students causing him to hang his head down low in a desperate attempt to draw less attention to himself.

“Not at all Mademoiselle Skullnick” Star confidently answered “ Monsieur Marco was assisting me, I had tripped over a rock and scattered my things all over the floor. I was working an early photoshoot and lost track of the time.”

“Are you sure you tripped?” Brittney sneered, smirking knowingly towards Marco's direction “That whole falling down bit sounds more like Senior Accident over there.”

Marco glared openly at Brittney, fist clenched in anger at the sound of Brittney's mocking Spanish accent.

Skullnick sighed, feeling disinterested and annoyed already and it was only the first class “Please you two take your seats and stop being a distraction.”

Marco grumbled his way over to the seat behind Star's, elevated and a perfect view to catch glimpses of the beautiful Star Butterfly.

Marco let out a loving sigh, dropping his head drop onto his waiting hand.

“You know if you keep staring at her, you're going to burn a hole into the back of her head.”

Marco let out a strangled yelp, trying his hardest to bit down the surprise from escaping his throat but Skullnick let out a frustrated sigh, turning back only to see the entire class focusing solely on Marco who gave a nervous chuckle and shrugged his shoulders.

“....do I have to send you out Marco?”

Marco bit his tongue so he wouldn't shout at Brittney to stop smirking his way with that knowing glint in her eyes.

“No..I...it won't happen again.”

Skullnick narrowed her eyes “good or else you will be sent outside. Understand?”

“Oui”

Marco took his seat with all possible haste, the orchestra of teenage gossip and conversations filled the room as Skullnick began writing on the black board once more.

Marco shot a dirty look to his best friend Jackie who simply smiled in response.

“Don't surprise me like that Jackie!” Marco harshly whispered

“Don't make it obvious you're staring at Star” Jackie countered, reaching into her bag and fishing out her phone.

Marco frowned before looking back towards Star, joyfully talking to her best friend Patrica “Pony Head” Harrison without a care in the world while Patrica braided her long, pink horse-like mane.

“I can't help it if she's pretty” Marco muttered back “She's perfect and I totally embarrassed myself in front of her coming to school.”

“ooooh” Jackie cooed, nudging Marco playfully in the side “did you at least manage to talk to her?”

Marco puffed out his chest with pride “Better, I managed to speak an entire sentence to her!”

Jackie's face slipped into one of playful disbelief “Let me guess? One long, run-on sentence that started calmly then broke down into rapid fire speed?”

Marco's face was everything Jackie needed to confirm her theory.

Marco slipped his head lower as Jackie patted his shoulder “I'm sure you'll be able to talk for reals to her next time!”

Marco tried to retort when Jackie shoved her phone screen directly into his face, a website whose theme was red and black ladybug pattern with the words “Gentleblog” on a banner written in some sort of unnecessary fancy writing.

“Now for my news, I got actual footage of Gentlebug and Chat noir fighting Musketeer yesterday! And it is amazing!” Jackie gushed, pulling her phone back to her, absentmindedly putting on her attention on the little video she uploaded to the blog.

Marco shifted uncomfortably. Ever since he found the miraculous and it's kwami Tikki, he'd been using the power granted to him by the little badge and its guardian. Luckily the suit change came with the territory and was not something he needed to carry around.

While he was growing more relaxed and confident in his role as a superhero, he did not like keeping secrets from anyone, especially his best friend Jackie or his parents and he always felt awkward whenever Gentlebug was brought up since everyone spoke highly of the teenage superhero but Marco knew they would be severely disappointed with the person behind the mask.

And yep, there he was.

Marco still was unsure how anyone took him seriously in his superhero outfit: A crisp white collared shirt always pressed to perfection, a red vest black slacks and loafers with the ladybug pattern tie and mask completing the look. He looked more like a theme waiter than a superhero.

“He is the coolest! And I even got when Chat Noir entered the scene.”

Marco stifled an eye roll when his fellow superheroine leapt flamboyantly onto the scene, soaking in the attention and admiration like a sponge.

Honestly, Chat Noir wasn't that bad. Reliable, passionate about doing the right thing and was a key member of their superheroing duo.

And she was really pretty with her long blonde hair tied up into two long braided ponytails, two adorable green cat paws on her cheeks. She wore a regular black blouse with 3 horizontal green stripes on her sides with a black skirt with an alternating pattern of green and black trim, black leggings and boots with her green and black elbow length gloves.

The thing about working with Chat Noir was...

“Hey, aren't we looking purfect today sir” Chat Noir's flirtatious voice called from the tiny speaker “And very dashing to boot.”

The flirting and the puns. She loved them no matter how serious the situation.

“Oh come on!” her perky voice shouted through the screen “You need to be arrested! You've stolen my heart!'

Marco frowned at Chat Noir's confession as Jackie quickly murmured under her breath about how cute the two would be paired up together.

Marco didn't know if Chat Noir was sincere or not. Most of the time it felt like another one of her jokes, her puns. Something said simply for the sake of saying it.

But there were those rare moments where....where she felt like she was bearing her heart to him, like she truly loved him and want nothing more than to be with him.

But that was impossible. She didn't know him, only what she thought she knew of him. If she knew who was really under the mask.....she'd.....

“Mademoiselle Thomas” Skullnick's voice appeared from nowhere, covering Marco and Jackie in her enormous, frightening shadow “No cell phones in class” Before either could say anything, Skullnick swiped the phone away from Jackie with a speed greater than anyone could've guessed.

“Hey wait a minute!” Jackie cried out, rising to her feet in pursuit of her phone, her foot accidentally kicking her beloved skateboard away from her.

“Are you arguing with me? Skullnick snarled, unable to believe a student had the nerve to talk back to her.

Jackie opened her mouth, only to close it under the older woman's dreadful gaze, shaking her head submissively before taking her seat once more.

Skullnick sulked away, the entire classroom's attention shifted onto what transpired rather than the skateboard slowly descending towards the middle of the steps.

The slow movement caught the sight of Brittney who smiled to herself, an evil plan forming in her mind.

She stood up without permission, strutting her way over to where the skateboard lay and, with purpose, put her left foot on its surface, her hands gripping a nearby desk for support as she pushed off.

Skullnick snapped the chalk in her hand, her tolerance for any more outbursts finally extinguished.

She turned around in time to see Brittney holding on for dear life as the skateboard slipped under her foot, propelling itself far away from the rich girl with forceful speed. Brittney managed to steady herself with the desk, taking deep dramatic breaths as Skullnick bellowed “WHAT IS GOING ON!?”

“J-Jackie's skateboard!” Brittney accused, pointing her finger directly at the confounded girl “It rolled over here and I nearly tripped over it! Jackie must've shoved it towards me when she stood up.”

“Hey!” Jackie shouted, standing to full height “It was an accident, I didn't mean to trip her even if she deserves it.”

“Mademoiselle Thomas!” Skullnick's voice threatened.

Jackie shook her head, unable to believe this was happening “But I...”

“Principal’s office. NOW!”

Skullnick's yell shook the whole building causing trails of dust to fall from the ceiling.

Jackie said nothing, opting to angrily grab her bag, roughly shove her things within and storm off, stomping her feet loudly as she picked up her skateboard and exited the class.

The class was quiet for a moment before Ferguson called out “So she's going to turn into an Akuma right? That's got to be like the shittiest thing to happen to someone today.”

Marco felt his blood run cold. the idea of Jackie becoming an Akuma, better known as a evil solider of the master villain The Papillon, was a scary thought indeed.

Everyone stared at Ferguson, silently praying that he'd say it was all a joke and that he was kidding.

Ferguson stared back at everyone “You know it's true.”

Jackie fumed, holding onto the strap of her bag tightly, her self righteous fury spreading all over her body in waves.

“What's this?” A smooth, slick voice called out, the window to their beautiful chamber opening and allowing the light to pour in, scattering the countless white butterflies that inhabited a room “Such despair, such fury. An injustice caused to an innocent? The perfect mix for a dangerous foe.”

The person held out their hand, allowing one of the beautiful butterflies to rest upon their palm, unable to escape once they clasped their free hand over it, dark energy surging into the creature, turning it a blackish-purple tinge.

“Go my little akuma, fester and feed on her sorrow, on her anger.

The butterfly flew into the sky, easily reaching the school within moments and finding a home inside Jackie's skateboard, completing the link between puppet and puppeteer.

Jackie felt a fog swirl inside her mind, clouding and confusing her thoughts, the feeling of a mask lightly touching her face as a soft, sleek voice called to her.

“Slipstream, I am The Papillon. I saw the injustice done to you and wish to help you correct it.”

Jackie smiled evilly, her rage and fury bubbling to uncontrollably heights “That little brat always ruins everyone's day. She needs to be punished!”

“Agreed but in exchange for this power, I expect something in return.”

“Name it Papillon!” “The heroes of Paris: That stupidly named Gentlebug and Chat Noir, their miraculouses. Bring them to me.”

“and what do these Miraculouses look like?” Jackie questioned.

“You...you don't know?” The Papillon hesitantly replied.

“Well unless you are imagining them and can transfer your thoughts to mine, no, no I do not.”

There was an awkward pause “Well most of minions don't really ask up front. I mean when they finally fight them, I usually tell them.”

Jackie scoffed “So you distracted your minions with information they needed to know before during a crucial moment of battle?”

“umm...well....”

“and what does your name mean anyway?”

Papillon's voice was indignant “You're french, how do you not know?!”

Another awkward silence.

“It's a badge and a ring.”

Jackie grinned slyly as she nodded her head in agreement “Consider it done Papillon.”

The class was quietly working when the sound of something approaching at high velocity broke the silence.

The windows began to shaking violently as the rumbling grew louder and louder, cracks breaking the glass's surface steadily as the door was blown in by a powerful gust of air.

Papers scattered, tables trembled from the force and everyone was knocked around while a lone figure stood in the doorway.

“Told you!” Ferguson cheered, raising his arms in victory “Jackie's an Akuma! Ferg for the win!”

No one celebrated with the overweight teen while Jackie rolled her way inside the room, her skateboard now blacken and covered with spikes.

Jackie wore a white helmet with a single streak of blue trailing across from the back to the front, a clear visor in front of her blue eyes. She was now dressed in a white skintight motorcycle suit with several blue strips crossing from one side to the other. There were three sharp, dangerous looking claws protruding from her closed fits.

“Brittney Wong!” Jackie called out, pointing a set of her claws directly at the terrified teenager “It's time to show you what justice can really do!”

Jackie pulled a seashell from her back pocket before throwing it as hard as she could at Brittney. the shell embedded itself deeply into the desk near the girl's face but remain still.

Jackie ducked low, her body tensed as both her and the skateboard shot off with an amazing display of speed, a wooshing, swirling cone of air current spinning around her so quickly that it produced gusts of wind that knocked everything and everyone off balanced.

Brittney scurried,shoved to her feet as Jackie smashed her bladed fist into the desk, the force of her attack causing the wood to splinter and fold under the weight of the assault

Marco covered his face as the air current caught up, slamming into the remainder of the desk, the weakened wood crumpling while a powerful burst of wind spread out from Jackie in all directions.

Jackie let out a maniacal laugh “You can't escape Brittney, I'll show you what happens when you push the wrong person aro...”

Jackie glanced around the room, the moaning of every student but one filling her ears.

Jackie turned to the door way to see a disheveled Brittney trying to sneak out of the room, more than content to leave her fellow classmates behind.

“BRITTNEY!” Jackie screamed with a bull-like roar that shook the building ferociously.

Brittney let out a little eep before bolting down the stairs.

Jackie narrowed her eyes, drawing out another seashell and tossing through the open doorway, trailing behind after a moment of preparation. The air current and speed of Jackie shattered the already cracked glass panels and spread the broken shards throughout the bottom floor of the school.

Jackie hovered in mid-air for a moment, the lure of gravity not yet grasping her or her board. She drew another seashell, arcing her arm backwards before tossing the item through the front doors of the school. Jackie quickly followed after the little object and blasted the doors off their hinges with her powerful gust.

Marco groaned, tiredness biting at his eyes as his body cried out in a sore pain.

Uneasily, he reached for support, using his desk to lift himself to his feet and steady his body

“Yep” Ferguson's bushed voice called from the back row “She's an akuma.”

“Shut up Ferguson” The class chimed in as one.

Marco shook himself out of his stupor, looking around to see if anyone was in dire need of assistance.

He spotted a pale hand reaching upwards, clawing at the air in hopes someone would help.

Marco limped over, taking the hand firmly in his own and, using all the strength he could muster, helping the person to their feet.

“Ugh, what happened?” Star muttered, leaning on Marco for support as she recovered.

Marco felt his whole body stiffen up at Star's touch, his cheeks blazing red as Star embraced him tightly, whispering into his chest “Thanks Marco.”

Marco cough loudly, pulling away from Star and sheepishly waving her off “No problem Star. I need to go to the bathroom! All this akuma thing has really made me....”

Marco trailed off, deciding that shutting his mouth and getting as quickly out of sight was the best course of action.

“me too” Star said to no one in particular “I need to freshen up my face. I feel so faint after such a dangerous attack.”

Marco ducked into the empty boy's restroom, covering his eyes with his open palms.

“Ugh, I have to go because the akuma freaked me out so much I have to pee? Seriously Diaz?!”

Tikki flew out of his pocket, staring down the distraught teen.

“Marco, this isn't the time! Jackie's been turned into an Akuma and we need to stop her.”

Marco peered at Tikki with one uncovered eye, letting a sigh escape his mouth before standing straight and agreeing with the little kwami.

“You're right Tikki, we need to get a move on. I can worry about how badly I embarrassed myself in front of Star later.”

“That's the spirit!” Tikki concurred, smiling brightly towards Marco.

“Tikki, spo..” Tikki closed her eyes, prepared to be sucked into the miraculous badge and fuel its power.

But Marco didn't finish the phrase.

“Tikki, do I have to say it?”

Tikki stared at him, unable to believe Marco was bringing this up now “Really Marco? Now?”

Marco raised his hands defensively “I know, I know it's silly but isn’t there another way to transform? I mean the phrase seems kinda silly.”

“Marco!”

“I mean it sounds like someone made it up to make it more...I dunno.....superheroy? You know? Why can't I say 'Tikki, transform me!'? I mean it's straight forward and to the point.”

“Marco!”

“I mean is the phrase region locked or something? I can only say it depending on where I live? I...”

“Marco Ubaldo Diaz!” Tikki forcefully called “this is not the time for this.”

“Right, right. Tikki....s...spots on!”

Tikki closed her eyes as she spiraled into Marco's exposed badge, turning it from sliver to red as a surge of magical energy coursed through his body, his superhero outfit forming around him. Marco could imagine a red splash background behind him as he dance this way and that to ensure that the costume properly tailored itself onto his body.

Marco look at himself in the mirror: Mask check, fancy clothes check, weaponized yo-yo, still wondering why it's a yo-yo but check!

“Here we go!” Marco shouted excitedly, propping open the bathroom window and tossing his magical yo-yo outside it, pulling on it once it secured itself around a suitable chimney and taking to the sky like Spider-man.

Star locked the girl's bathroom door behind her, letting out a sigh of relief once she was in a private, well secured area.

There was a lazy yawn that filled the room as a small, black cat creature floated out of Star's pocket and glanced around tiredly.

“Hey, this is the girl's bathroom” The cat creature whined, quickly covering it's feline green eyes “I can't be in here, I'm a male.”

“Plagg” Star scolded “This isn't the time. Besides no one else is here! Now come on, we got to hurry. There's an Akuma on the loose!”

“Oh” Plagg answered disinterested “Who is it this time?”

“Jackie. She turned into this bullet like speed demon.”

“Jackie?” Plagg paused thoughtfully “Isn't that girl you're envious of? The one who hangs around that guy all the time? What's his name...?”

“Plagg” Star cried, trying to wave off the cat creature from finishing his train of thought.

“Oh right” Plagg smirked “Maaaaarco”

Stat felt her cheeks flush and decided to glare at the mystical creature “I will starve you Plagg.”

“Then you can't transform into Chat Noir” Plagg countered, sleepily stretching his muscles “Besides I thought you were in love with Gentlebug?”

Star's flush worsen “I..well..he's...I mean....”

“You can't believe in love with two people, it's silly” Plagg teased, lightly pinching at the girl's blushing cheeks.

“I know I know but...sigh. It's hard you know? I mean Gentlebug is so confident, talented, amazing! And Marco he's so sweet. And kind and adorable and I...ugh...”

“You know” Plagg replied in a matter of fact style of voice “how can you be in love with Gentlebug if you don't even know who he is?”

“I know who he is Plagg” Star shot back “he's a hero, a handsome, great hero! And I love him.”

Plagg blew his tongue at the model “Love is overrated and way too mushy.”

Star stared at him, a partly annoyed and partly knowing gleam in her eyes “Love is not overrated.”

Plagg nodded in disagreement “Sure is!”

“Nah uh”

“Yeah huh!”

“Nah uh”

“You love Camembert cheese, don't you?”

Plagg gasped, appalled that Star would go that far “How dare you! Leave the Camembert out of this!”

Star smiled triumphantly “Check and Mate.”

Plagg pouted, sticking his tongue at Star “That was low...bringing the cheese into this. By the way, do you have any?”

Star shook her head “No time Plagg, we need to transform and meet up with Gentlebug.”

Plagg laughed “I can't believe Tikki found a guy to be ladybug. She's never done that before. I mean he must be really girly if she picked...”

“Plagg” Star's voice called, devoid of any emotion “Claws out.”

Plagg let out a surprised yell as he tried his hardest to escape the pull of Star's white ring but it was pointless. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shirk his responsibilities as a kwami.

Plagg was sucked into the ring while Star posed with the accessory, putting it near her face as the ring switch from white to black.

Star smiled to herself as her devil horns transformed into her cat ears, the cute blouse, dress, gloves and boots forming at once. She could see the green splash screen behind her as she couldn't help but pose for the invisible camera.

She checked herself in the mirror, satisfied how especially cute she looked today. She winked at herself, confident that she would win over Gentlebug this time.

“Well time to get to work!” She told herself as she kicked open the locked bathroom window, drawing her staff out before leaping out the window gracefully.

[shipsbcshesdiabetic]

Chapter 28

Tuesday, June First, Thirty Thousand Seventeen, 9pm- Space, I Guess

Our bright, blue home planet melts into obscurity as The Commander and I venture out into the endless horizon of the universe. It’s silent, save for the clicking and whistling of the buttons plastered on the interior walls. There’s nothing to do out here except observe the beautiful star-laden cosmos, each electrified dot gleaming brightly and brilliantly. The ship propels us farther and farther from our base and our people with each passing second, thereby inflating the painful loneliness shared by us two space cadets. We’re smaller than ever before, a mere quark in the presence of all that exists. We are alone, but there is glory in insignificance. We are in control of nothing and are nothing, yet we are the sole masters of time and space.

Adventure is laced in our gasoline, propelling us through the airless blackness. The fundamental laws of physics that rule over Earth no longer rule over us. The concept of time stretches into an ever-thinning straight line, the passage of each moment no longer having to find its way through the bend of gravity. Entire lifetimes on Earth pass in the time it takes to blink my eyes. Everyone I love is dead. And I don’t care. Their bodies and memories will all fade out into nothingness and revert back to stardust, but we’ll still be here, dying on our own time.

It’s hard to believe that death will ever come for a person living in a science-fiction thriller. I feel immortal, like a character in a story. Space never ends; it goes on forever. I’ll never run out of stars, even as the particle accelerator kicks into full gear and propels the rocket forward as the g-force turns my flesh into a blanket of lead and my organs into stone. I unzip my space suit and float out to the back window. The solar system is nothing but a speck, the planets moving around the sun like electrons revolving around the nucleus of Bohr’s model of the atom.

Back home, everything revolves around something else due to gravity, or perhaps due to stubbornness. The moon orbits the earth. The Earth orbits the Sun. The Sun orbits the black hole at the center of the Milky Way. The Milky Way orbits the Local Group. The Local Group orbits the Virgo Supercluster. The Virgo Supercluster is a thought swirling within the Mind of God. The adults revolve around stress, the sad revolve around sadness, the depressed revolve around their vices, and the idiots revolve around the more powerful idiots. Girls revolve around girls, boys revolve around boys, boys and girls revolve around each other, and it’s all very stupid and very lame.

A field of stars dies before our very eyes, exploding into bundles of color and energy. The supernovas let out sprouts of light that form bouquets of flowers laid out in an endless grave. Vermillion poppies and purple painted daisies bloom and explode within and around the bright streaks of the goldenrods. Cherry-red hydrangeas adorn the space below the fiery, burnt orange chrysanthemums and the pastel pink carnations. The colors of the orchids’ petals ebb and flow from the inside out, melting the milk chocolate and the honey and the bubblegum flavors into one candied bundle. The irises expand and contract with the light in the midst of the blush-colored pansies and the hot pink lipstick of the tulips. Soon, our ship makes it through the field, and we coast along another patch of nothing.

Specks of colored pollen drift out from the blasts and watercolor the blank starry sky. The electric neon nebulas hold in glittering pennies and smoke and seafoam. The dust blows into nothingness as The Commander presses the accelerator.

The cartoon rocket’s autopilot jolts us forward at a million miles a minute into a crazy collage of constellations. The Big Dipper points us to where we want to go, allowing us to navigate through the celestial soup. We dive deeper into the sea of the sky, exploring the world beyond our own world. We take a left at Polaris, then a right at Ursa Major. The bear’s claws scrape the window as we escape its sudden wrath. Canis Major barks loudly and kicks around our spaceship with its paws. We fly out and land in the circuit of Orion’s belt, spinning around in it twice before escaping once again.

The territory of the zodiacs comes into view next. The stars seem to have fallen out of line. A disrupting energy has been cast over their dominion, preventing them from properly ruling over the hearts of humankind. Where there should be love and peace, there is conflict and discord. The crab and the scorpion antagonize the twins until they have no choice but to climb into the cradle of the scale’s cups. As the lion nips at the archer’s heels, he fires arrows at the bull and the ram just when the two of them interlock horns in a battle. The maiden and the water-bearer mercilessly take away the life-giving fluid, letting the fish and the sea-goat flop around and choke.

We nosedive to avoid Halley’s Comet, the force lifting me out of my seat a little. Unfortunately, we zoom straight toward the asteroid belt. An assault of flying boulders heads right for us. Miraculously, the first ten or twenty rocks miss us by a hair. But when the first one hits the underside of our ship, my throat tightens. The Commander overrides the autopilot and takes control over our direction, but it’s still not enough to save us. For a while she manages to weave in and out the path of impact, until a large one takes her by surprise and shatters the front windshield.

Everything immediately goes into slow motion as we prepare to die. In the midst of my shock, I lose the ability to hear. The blunt force of the impact rattles my insides, giving wake to a sudden wave of humility and listlessness. We are not in control. We are at the mercy of fate. The factor separating our life from our death is completely out of our hands. The universe will decide the outcome of our trial as everything implodes at a snail’s pace. White shards of glass lick our exposed skin, slowly falling into our laps like fresh snow. I try to shut my eyes, but all the glass is gone by the time I manage it. I hold my breath to conserve oxygen as the frigid cold crystalizes under my skin. My fingers are turning blue. A plume of flame explodes to my side. The raging fire quickly consumes the rest of the shoddily-drawn up ship around us, eventually reaching the fuel tank.

The rubble spits me out, sending me spinning in every direction at once. In an instant, my lungs go flat and I grow even colder. I desperately flail my arms around, grabbing for support that doesn’t exist. The momentum eventually begins to lessen as I continue to slowly roll through space head first, my headache near unbearable. When I come to a complete stop, my vision clouds, and there’s nothing left to do except suffocate in the stillness. The stars turn into streaks of muted light in the distortion of my tears.

           My last heartbeat reverberates into itself, my blood painfully searching for any remaining oxygen, but to no avail. Little red dots evaporate out of my skin, leaving behind a pale corpse-like figure. A quick hotness stamps itself onto my stomach, and I look down to find a pancake of liquid silver slowly spreading from that point. The strange fluid runs over my clothes and my skin, eating away through both and replacing them with itself. The last little bit flows down over my fingers, completing the transformation. Tendrils of air reach my lungs and knock the life back into my body. My mechanical eyes click themselves open. I breathe in easily, the manufactured life turning the cogs in my new system.

           The scope of the darkness expanding in every direction for an infinite number of miles hurts my head. It’s all so intensely blue it’s back and so intensely black it’s blue. I swim up, kicking my legs and moving my arms for a while, forever. There’s no way to know how far I’ve traveled, because there are no landmarks, and I have no clear destination. And in the vastness of the universe, what is the significance of the distance I have gone? I may as well be travelling by treadmill.

           I stop and stand where I am, surprised to find that the bottoms of my feet touch a made-up surface, as if someone laid out an invisible floor for me. The corner of my eye catches a spot of gray in the distance. It looks different from the all the stars freckled across space. A feeling catching in my throat, I start to run as fast as I can toward it. The thundering sound of metal clanking against metal pushes silence out of the way. After cresting a hill, I happen upon my old home: the solar system. The unfiltered, blinding sunlight hits my glittering silver skin.

           I immediately see her a short ways away. The Commander. Relief sends an electric shock through my programming. I’m not alone anymore. I am a part of something other than myself once again. I sit down and let myself revolve around the sun, like I’m on a carousel. The planets, once too large to comprehend, seem to be small enough to hold in my hand.

Just when I begin to relax, a golf ball-sized object hits the back of my head. I quickly get up and turn around to find The Commander looking at me with a smug look on her face. I lean over and pick up Pluto, the closest one to me, squeezing the foam ball in my hand before launching it at my opponent. I miss and hit the sun. A brown plume of dust bursts out from where it entered.

A war of planets sends dodgeballs flying through the field one after another. I run for it and catch Mars in my hand, steadying myself so I don’t fall. Some of the blood red dust rains into the void of space before I toss it back. She ducks behind the sun, letting the planet roll out into obscurity. The Commander then, with great effort, manages to throw Jupiter back to me, the side of it grazing my leg. I fall to the ground, laughing due to the sudden, fresh adrenaline.

I chase after her, and she retreats into the distance. We speed away from home again, likely moving at a pace of a thousand miles per step, reality trailing along behind us. Giant plumes of new nebulas of every shape and shade appear to either side of our path as we skate across the universe. The variety and kind of the vibrant colors surpasses the magnificence of every work of art I’ve ever seen before, putting even the Renaissance to shame. Out of energy, The Commander stops and turns around, and I do the same once I catch up.

           We humbly lay our eyes on the disks of white and gold littering the dark with hurricanes of stars. I open my mouth a little without meaning to, allowing a breath that doesn’t exist to escape. Our own Milky Way Galaxy blends right in with the rest of them, a small pool of pure milk amongst others just like it. It’s weird how the universe wouldn’t notice or care if our galaxy disappeared, but we sure would. It’s everything to the insignificant nothings, and nothing to the significant everything.  

           The Commander carefully steps onto the Andromeda Galaxy, letting it hold her weight. She leaps for the Triangulum Galaxy next, careful to land where she wants, and not into the nothingness. Farther into the beyond, ten or so white whirlpools ahead, I spot a fissure in the fabric of space glimmering like a fresh gash. I tag along now, using the stepping stones as a makeshift path to another plane of existence, a portal to anywhere, a guide to new realms of existence.

           The wormhole sucks us into its woven tapestry of pastels and neon lights, gently and swiftly passing us from one end to the other like we’re liquid in a straw. The plasma surrounding and enveloping my metal casing grows hot, smelting me into a single bullet-shaped capsule. Time doesn’t exist anymore. Numerically calculable movement has ceased. Instead, everything occurs in a singularity of motion, a mere blast of Now. The Big Bang happens as man lands on the moon as dinosaurs rule the Earth as I walk into Alcorn High School for the first time as hot liquid rock spins out and forms spheres of baby planets as the Civil Rights Movement begins as the Civil War ends as Beatrice kisses me as everything and everyone dies. A wrenching headache pulls my mind out of the present just when the forces in charge flatten my being until I’m only one atom thick. We’re flat paper planes fluttering by on flimsy paper wings. As we finally near the exit, we’re compressed once again, this time into a single, so-small-it’s-imaginary dot. This is the epitome of not mattering.

I wake up in a small room with harsh lighting. I’m back in my pink dress and boxers. Despite how hollowed and atrophied my body feels, the weightlessness allows me the strength to fly to the door and open the latch. I drift from room to room in the International Space Station, being careful to not disturb the white wires and machines on all sides of me. I reach the airlock room and open the door without thinking over it.

I slide out of the hatch and swim into the open nothingness directly above the vast Earth. I look at the space station one last time, and I spot an astronaut working on the exterior wiring. He looks back at me and releases his grip on his wrench. It stays afloat right next to him. I stare at my reflection in his helmet as I finally allow Earth’s gravity to take hold of me.

I’m falling. The moon shrinks like a white balloon that someone let the air out of. Everything becomes smaller and smaller with each microsecond, but I feel as though I am still in space. Everything that exists is space. I spread out my limbs, but the added wind resistance does little to stop me. I involuntarily flip over stomach-first, looking down on North and South America. I fall through the clouds, and I’m able to see a residential area with big houses and gardens. I can feel the clocks in every one of those buildings ticking faster and faster as I return to the surface of the earth. I hit the hard dirt next to the road at the same time that a black truck speeds past on it.

I wake up to the sound of a struggling motor and Kirsten yammering on about something. It’s completely dark outside now. I yawn. Still too exhausted to think or move, I watch the yellow lines flow into and out of the glint of the vehicle’s old headlights. A cloud of unsuspecting gnats hits my half of the window, a few of them sticking to the stains of random crud. I feel heavy. And exhausted.

“Lily,” Kirsten says, snapping her fingers. “Lily!”

“Huh?”

“We’re at Jacob’s house now.” She swerves into his driveway. The bright lights from the massive house’s windows shine on the freshly power-washed brick driveway.

I’m not going to ask her why we’re visiting him. I’m too tired and heartbroken to talk about anything at this point. Besides, I daresay I’ll find out what kind of fucked-up adventure we’re on now sooner than I’d want to anyway.

I prepare to unbuckle my seatbelt. Just two seconds before the wheels stop rolling, the truck jolts upwards as a terrible, animalistic sound twists around in my ears. My throat goes dry and I stop breathing. For a moment, neither of us wants to move. Still shaking, I open my door cautiously. Then Kirsten does the same.

She extracts her phone from her jacket pocket and turns on the flashlight, pointing the beam at the front tire. My breathing stops again. I hear hers hitch too. The exposed mass of orange fur slowly soaks up the blood running out of the crushed veins of the animal. All four paws look unharmed, which only makes it all worse somehow. Two white triangles, which I suppose are the ears, peek out from the front of the tire. It’s an awful sight.

“How are we going to tell Jacob that we ran over his cat?” I blurt out.

“We don’t.”

“But… isn’t he going to wonder what happened to it?”

“That’s not our issue. We’re not telling him.”

“Well, Kirsten…” I begin, breathless still. “He’s going to find out. It’s bleeding out in the middle of his front driveway, for fuck’s sake. How did you not see it? You had your headlights on, right? And…”

“Shut up,” she says curtly. “What’s done is done. You have to clean this up so he never finds it. We need to forget it ever happened. Otherwise… we’re just done. We’d be so screwed. I have a plastic bag in the back that you can use to pick the thing up.”

“Me?” I respond angrily. “Why should it be me? You’re the one that ran the damned thing over!”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that I’ve moved enough dead bodies to last me a lifetime. I just need a break from cleaning up bodily fluids, you know?”

I think it’s shitty of her to use her sister’s suicide as a way to guilt-trip me, but if I call her out for it, I’ll definitely be the one in the wrong.

“…well, I still think you should clean it up,” I insist, though I’m less sure of it.

“You’re doing this, or I’m going to call your parents and tell them to pick you up, and you can explain everything to them and drown in your own self-loathing on the long car ride home. Then you can spend the entire summer with no friends and nothing to do, so all you do is cry and think about why Beatrice left you as your parents try to distance themselves from you. So unless you’d like for that to happen, I’ll drive the truck back a few feet so you can clean it up.”

           “You’re a complete piece of shit, Kirsten. You know that, right?” I seethe, talking through my teeth.

Kirsten smiles sarcastically. She throws a box of tissues and a plastic bag at me and shuts the passenger side door. “Have fun,” she deadpans as she walks away.

I pull out a generous amount of tissues from the box and divide them up into both of my hands. The lighting from the front windows of the house provides just enough light for me to get this done without casting too much detail onto the corpse. I put my nose in the crook of my arm for a moment to filter out the sickening smell of fresh blood. Cursing all the choices that brought me to this point, I bend down and get to work.

Chunks of cat debris fall out of my tissue-hands as I scoop the bloodied fur pile into the bag. A few handfuls later, I reach the bowels. I spring backwards immediately at the smell, retching. I throw my fluid-soaked tissues onto the ground so I can reach around and unzip my dress a bit. Quickly, I pull the loosened fabric in the front up and over my nose and mouth. My nose doesn’t want to smell. My eyes do not want to see. My brain does not want to think. Losing my mind, I rip a bunch of tissues out and then pace around quickly, trying to keep it together. My consciousness cuts in and out as I force myself through the grueling process. I don’t feel like I’m crying, but tears are relentlessly streaming down my face as evidence that I am.  

Jacob’s recliner is really soft. I slowly sip the iced tea that Jacob’s mom gave me. He and Kirsten are here with me in the living room, sitting on the couch in front of me, playing a video game together. Kirsten legitimately seems to be largely unbothered with the events that just transpired. There are times when I think that she doesn’t actually care about anyone or anything but herself unless it’s convenient for her to do so. It’s like she has the demo version of empathy. Jacob’s mom looks up from her computer and notices me staring down the back of Kirsten’s head. I give her a quick, nervous smile to make myself seem less on-edge. She says something that I don’t focus on, and I give an automatic response. She shuts her computer and goes into the other room.

Jacob keeps looking at me about every ten seconds, and I don’t know what that means. Sometimes I think he’s creepy on purpose just to make people uncomfortable. But at the moment, all I can think about is how his acne seems to have gotten a whole lot worse. The large red circles in combination with his greasy skin give him the exact appearance of a fresh pepperoni pizza. His skin even has a sickly tinge of yellow, just like the melted cheese. He never goes outside, so his only light comes from the glow of his TV when he plays video games or when he watches, I’m assuming, tentacle porn.

“Why the hell are we here, anyway?” I ask Kirsten as Jacob turns around for the tenth time. I get up and stand between them and the TV.

“Oh, right.” She puts down the controller for a moment. “Jacob, I’m going to have to borrow a lot of money,” she says bluntly.

           He doesn’t even question it. “How much do you need?”

           “I don’t know. As much as you can give me, I guess. I’m willing to do something to earn it, if you have any suggestions.”

           He looks at me as if he wants me to disappear, then whispers something into her ear. I find this strange, since Jacob’s generally an open book with everyone about everything. I analyze Kirsten’s face to try to make a guess at what he’s saying to her, but she’s not reacting in any way.

“No thanks. As much as I love dick in my mouth, I’ve had more than enough of it in one 24-hour period.” I squint at her. Kirsten seriously concerns me sometimes. “On a related note, do you have any mouthwash?”

“Alright, well…” I begin, uncomfortable. “I’ll be… in another room.”

“Did you not hear what I said? I’m not sucking his dick.”

“Yeah, I know.” I feel their eyes on me. I quickly dab. Kirsten grabs her forehead in disgust.

Whenever something awkward happens, I usually dab to try to make it go away. My philosophy is, the best way to make someone forget something cringey and stupid you did is to do something even cringier and stupider. It usually stuns everyone around me enough to where it actually works.

I leave anyway, because I have to use the bathroom. For some reason saying that in front of Jacob would make me feel unsettled in a deeply unexplainable way.

Somehow, I forget to pee and end up standing at the sink for ten minutes, staring into the middle distance as water rushes down the drain. I wish I could flush myself down the toilet and escape into the ocean. I start to half-heartedly tear up. I’m too tired to even cry properly. It’s the kind of pitiful, lazy cry that comes from simply forgetting to blink out the warm water. I would just hang out in Jacob’s bedroom instead of in here, but I’m really afraid of what I might find in there. You only make a mistake like that once.

Jacob has an unhealthy obsession with Hitler and all things Hitler related. I really don’t think that he’s a neo-Nazi, or even agrees with anything that Hitler stands for, especially since he and his family are incredibly Jewish. But for whatever reason, he’s completely, undeniably in love with his image. His room is covered top to bottom in various articles of Hitler paraphernalia. His white carpeting has hundreds of tiny Hitler pictures on it. I have no idea where he bought something like that, or any of it, for that matter. Like, where the fuck do you get Hitler pillows? Or a Hitler bedspread? Or a life-sized Hitler doll?

It doesn’t stop there. Every single day at lunch, he watches a Hitler-centric Taiwanese amine series that loosely translates into “Hitler My Love”. The language is in Portuguese, and the subtitles are in Spanish. Don’t ask me how that makes any sense. Based on what he’s forced me to watch of it, it seems to be centered on a crack ship pairing of Hitler and the Buddha. And honestly, it’s not that bad.

Jacob also likes painting, even though he isn’t that good at it. He has about a thousand pieces of his work in this bathroom. It’s mostly random landscapes, different animals, or, of course, Hitler. However, a single painting of a yellow car on the wall catches my eye as I sit on the toilet. A twinge of pain hits me in the chest. A flash of headlights breezes through my mind’s eye, and an imaginary gust of wind moves past my face. And then, all at once, I’m gone.

 ------------------------------------

           FOUR MONTHS AGO- 1am

The rapping at my window makes me drop my phone onto my face. My stomach drops and I stop breathing until I realize what’s really happening. My hands scramble to pick the glowing phone back up as I look at the window. Beatrice smiles at me and waves. I glance down at the time on my phone. A little mad, I unlatch the window and open it so I can talk to her.

“What are you doing here? It’s past 1.”

“I texted you ten minutes ago, saying that I wanted to hang out, and you said sure.”

“Yeah, but I thought you meant, like, tomorrow.”

“I even told you I was on my way.”

“I thought you were kidding.”

“I wasn’t. But that isn’t the point. Are you going to come with me or not?”

I shift my weight onto my other foot. I don’t know what to do. “Uh… I don’t know. I want to hang out with you and everything, but… it’s really late at night, and… I’m tired, and…”

“Come on. I have something I want to show you. I think you’re going to have a good time tonight, Lily. Just go with me.”

“I really want to get some sleep…” I begin.

“Oh, come on. Please?” she begs, folding her hands and batting her eyes.

I force myself to not smile in awe of her. She doesn’t need to know how cute she’s being, because she’d have complete control over me if she only knew her effect on me. “Okay, I’ll go with you,” I finally say, unable to resist it.

I put on a jacket over my pajamas and slip on my sneakers. I grip my forehead as my vision clouds. My body isn’t used to moving this late at night. Regardless, I’m glad that this is happening. If I’m being honest, I’d probably spend another ninety minutes or more on my phone if Beatrice wasn’t dragging me out of here. I turn around to see if she’s still watching me. She is. I hurry up and exit my room, go down the hall, and leave my house, careful to slowly rotate the knob so it doesn’t click too loudly. If my parents heard me, that would be the end of me and Beatrice, and, by extension, the end of the most interesting period of my life.

Classic rock softly sounds from the speakers in her car. The second thing I notice is that it smells a lot different in here. I sniff the air and look around to see what’s changed. Beatrice eyes me weirdly. “What is it?” she asks.  

“Nothing. It just smells like…”

“Flowers?” She glances sideways at me as I nod. “Yeah. It’s a rose-scented air freshener that I bought recently. It masks the weed smell.” She turns off the internal lights and starts the engine.

“Oh. Cool.”

“I bet you’ve never snuck out of your house before.”

“Nope... I’m not really that kind of person.”

“I don’t think I could ever live like you do. All you do is go to school, eat, and take naps. You literally never do anything. I love you, but you’re really boring sometimes, and that annoys me.”

“Gee, thanks.” My brain fogs up with regret as I realize that she’s right. “You know… my life really is kind of… flat. I’m fully aware of that, and I’ve always been. I don’t do much of anything. It sucks.”

“I mean, of course it does. You never take any risks, ever. You’re glued to one spot. I think if you did something out of your comfort zone for once, you’d be a lot happier. That’s why I’m taking you out here tonight. For a little while, I’ve had to listen to you complain about how boring your life is, and how much you hate it. About how you do the same boring shit every day, and that you want to break out of it. Here’s your chance.”

“I never said that I hate my life. Just that it’s dull.”

“Still, you need to take a risk sometime. Just do something without thinking twice. I do whatever I want in the moment without thinking about it much. It makes living a lot more interesting. There’s so much more to life than taking naps and playing it safe all the time, you know.”

“Maybe, but I honestly think that if I had your lifestyle, I’d be dead by the end of the week,” I say, thinking about all the stories she’s told me.

“I don’t do things that are unsafe. I’m not an idiot. I just say yes to mostly everything, and do mostly everything I want to do. Any time I make a decision, I ask myself if it will almost certainly kill myself or others, and if it won’t, I do it. I don’t think about it. I do it.”

“You see, I prefer listening to your stories rather than living them out myself. It doesn’t take much for me to not be bored, but you risk everything you have every time you go out to do something fun. That sounds like a terrifying way to live.

“It isn’t, once you get over yourself and think about what really matters. I don’t think many people at all think that way. It’s not like people can punish you for being direct, or for doing things that are out of the ordinary. I just say whatever I think, and it’s not a big deal to me how they respond to it. And almost always, the things I do go well. You’d be surprised by how many people will give you what you want if you just ask for it.”

“I still don’t get how you are the way that you are. I couldn’t imagine just letting it all hang out. I think I’m content with being boring, because I don’t think I could handle the alternative.”

“Do you want to know how I had sex with a girl for the first time?”

“Uh…”

“I was in a park, and I saw a girl, and then I went up to her and said, ‘Hey, do you want to have sex with me?’ and she said yes.”

“…Is it really that easy?”

“Everything is that easy.”

She can’t see the color of my face in the dark, but I look out the window anyway. A slow coolness radiates off the glass and into my skin, my forehead barely a hair away from it. She gets everything she wants from people because she asks for it, and she lives like she doesn’t know she can bleed. It’s so wildly different than how I live.

“Hey,” I say subconsciously, catching myself off-guard. “Where are you taking me, anyway? I just realized that you never told me, and it seems like important information.”

“I’m taking you out to an abandoned warehouse so I can murder you and leave you there without a trace. You’re the first on the list of many killings I will carry out tonight.”

“Ha-ha. You think you’re clever,” I say, even though I half-believe it. We’ve only been dating for a week. I don’t really know her well at all.

I barely make out the basic shape of her facial expression. By the look of it, she knows I got a little scared. “Of course I’m not killing you, you idiot. I’ll tell you that, at least.”

After a good bit of driving, Beatrice goes off the road and into a seemingly random field of overgrown grass. It’s the kind of place that you would never think about or recognize, even if you went past it every day of your life. For a couple of minutes, she doesn’t get out. She sits there, her eyes closed, motionless. She’d never admit it, but she’s just as exhausted as I am.

The night sky here is endless. There’s no major source of light pollution around for miles. The black is solid black, and the white is solid white. No barrier lies between us and outer space. The natural light of the cosmos throws a faint, blueish pallor onto the dead stalks of grass. It’s simply perfect out here. I want to say something to her about how pretty the stars are tonight, but that seems like it would be stupid somehow.

My eyes lazily open as I hear her door pop open and slam shut. She opens my door, allowing the slightly chilly air into the car. I stretch my limbs and get out.

“Okay. Don’t turn around just yet.” She puts her hands over my eyes. “Okay, turn around 180 degrees and walk forward a little.” It’s a bit awkward to walk like this, but we make it work somehow. “Behold,” she shouts enthusiastically. She quickly removes her hands from my face. The lights at the top edge of the billboard faintly illuminate the message below.

  Marriage =

1 man + 1 woman

Sponsored by the Fordville Baptist Church

 “I like my dad, and I usually like what he preaches, but this was stupid of him. I’ll make him pay for this eventually, somehow. ”

It’s too dark to make out what face she’s making. “How so?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I want it to be something big, something that will make him reconsider what kinds of messages he decides to put on display. And unless he wakes up one morning with an insatiable urge for dick, it doesn’t seem like he’ll come to that sort of conclusion on his own.”

“Does this sudden thirst for revenge have anything to do with the church dance class he made you sign up for recently?”

A look of mild terror washes over her face. “That dance group is so fucking gay. It makes me want to backflip into a pool of acid.” She sighs. “If a genie gave me three wishes, all three of them would be used to take my face off of that ‘Dabbing for Jesus’ album we made.”

I laugh. “This is the first time you’ve told me about that. You need to show it to me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you still like me somehow, and I don’t want you to stop,” she jokes.

“Well… I won’t.”

The moon and the halo of stars above her head cast a bright, heavenly glow on her face, allowing me to see a smile creep onto it. The night sky is on full-blast at this dark, quiet hour, but my eyes have completely adjusted to it in this moment. I stare at her; the darkened, blue figure that I suppose is Beatrice. She stares back with the same amount of intensity.

“You’re so cute,” she says, getting a little closer to me. Before I can even process her statement, she walks past me and heads for the billboard.

“Where are you going?” I choke out, flustered.

She turns around and gives me a mischievous sort of grin. “We’re going to the top,” she says matter-of-factly.

 ---------------------------------

The bathroom lights are off. The world is gone. All that exists is the feeling of my pulsing fingertips on my burning face. Every cell of my head is on fire, and the smoke is choking me, and I can’t breathe anymore. I reach up to flick on the switch, done remembering. I messily unravel a wad of toilet paper and wipe my tears and blow my nose in it. I open my legs and drop it into the toilet.

When I’ve least expected it, memories of her have been coming back for the past two hours. Smatterings of details rush in and knock the wind out of me, like someone ripped a carpet out from under my feet, and then kicked me straight in the teeth. Usually, it’s simply a brief glimpse- a single muted Polaroid clipping depicting her touch, her smile, the corner of her face, or simply the emotion of those things. And in the rest of the image, she is lost in abstraction. A swirl of muted color surrounds the most striking details of her essence.

But, on rare occasions such as these, the memories are as strong and life-like as the experience itself. The faded clippings are taped together and digitally enhanced against my will. They all run through a system that orders them, and they’re printed and taped together seamlessly. And then, frame by frame, photo by photo, the memory reel rolls through my mind’s eye, producing a stunning HD motion picture that’s as good as any cringey romantic comedy out there.  

The result is a strong memory unlike any regular memory. Normal memories are made and forgotten. This memory of her transcends flimsy synapses between neurons. The actor in my head that plays Beatrice speaks each act, scene, and line with cruel accuracy. Each element of the story is personified and exaggerated like it would be in big-budget movie. Her Hollywood charm pushes through the human weakness of forgetfulness and allows the film to replay with stark clarity. Every feeling is a knife flying and gleaming in the harsh stage lights. The roses are elegantly sad pools of freshly bled love.

There are so many details about her that I wish I could forget. Her pink lipstick. The smell of her perfume. Her smooth voice. How her face would light up whenever she saw me. The way the endless sparks dancing in her eyes looked exactly like the stars in the sky. The way she does anything. Her soft hugs. Her intoxicating kisses. Her lightning bolt earrings. Her yellow VW bug. Her blonde hair and blue eyes- just like what Hitler would have wanted.

I go back into the living room, trusting that nothing mentally scarring is going on in there. The flat screen TV in the living room displays the results of a video game they just finished playing. I breathe out a sigh of relief and walk in. Jacob has a smug look on his face, signaling that he was the winner. I look at Kirsten’s half of the screen, then at her.

YOU LOST

GAME OVER

Kirsten’s hands are still going strong, quickly flicking and clicking at all the buttons, her mouth half-open as she stares blankly into the screen buzzing with static. She looks dead. The sight of her makes me feel deeply unsettled. It’s like watching someone trying to walk through a wall over and over again.

“Stop it, will you?” I say, trying to yank the controller out of her death-grip. Arms aching, I lift her up out of her seat for a second before she falls back down. It’s like there’s not even a person in there.

“Hey,” Jacob begins, “After this game, I have to let the cats inside,” Jacob mentions, staring intently at the screen, poised and ready for Kirsten’s video game persona to show up.

I watch the remaining broken flicker of light die in Kirsten’s eyes. Her right one twitches. She puts her controller down and covers her mouth with one hand. Jacob swoops in quickly, gunning her character down. Kirsten looks at me with a panicked expression.

“We have to go now,” I say, speaking for her. “It’s getting really late.”

“Oh,” Jacob responds, disappointed. He sets his controller down. Discomfort hits me. I know he wanted us to stay, because he never gets any visitors. He hardly has any friends at all, besides us, maybe Jordan, and his cat.

           The start of the car ride is silent. I know for a fact that Kirsten is thinking about the sack of cat purée sitting in the back as much as I am.

           “How much money did you get?” I ask.

           “Enough.”

           “How much is enough?”

           “Something like… nine hundred or a thousand or something.”

           I choke on my spit. “That’s… that’s a lot of money. Think of what we could do with that. We could go anywhere we wanted. This could actually be good. Great, even,” I suggest, desperate to believe that all of this can be good for me.

           Kirsten says nothing. I look over at her. Her lips are pursed tightly, and her eyes look even more dead than usual. She stiffly reaches for a button on the CD system. The sound of a blender being grinded up in another blender penetrates my eardrums.

“Is… is that, uh… an Anal Cunt album?”

           “Yeah,” she says, turning it up. She accelerates, staying unnaturally still as she does so. Even over the tortured screaming, I can make out her sniffling.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That’s a stupid question.”

“…sorry.”

Admittedly, Anal Cunt is really good at cutting out invasive thoughts. If I listened to this all the time, I’d be having a better time at blocking things out. As the “music” keeps playing, I really get into it and let the screaming take over my head. However, the brief seconds of bliss are kicked out from under me when Kirsten decides to turn down the volume to finally express her feelings.

“The Earth is still spinning. Society is still functioning. And the world isn’t on fire and burning to the ground. That’s what’s wrong.”

           “…oh.”

“It’s weird to see how the rest of the planet goes on just fine without her. Her death didn’t leave so much as a scorch mark. Nothing fundamental about anything is different, as if she never even existed. It’s strange how insignificant we are, in the scheme of things.” She pauses. “Also, you really suck at talking to people. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“Another thing. Other than the smoothie I just had and half a sandwich, I haven’t eaten in three days. I’ve barely even slept in three days…” she mentions.

“Oh. That’s… not good.”

           “I want to eat somewhere. Chin But would be the only place in this area open past 9. Does that sound good to you?” she asks hollowly.

           “Yes,” I agree, only because I’m afraid that she’d run over me and put me in a plastic bag too if I said no to anything.

           Chin But is a Chinese buffet that honestly sucks actual shit. It’s like school cafeteria food that was left in the back of a freezer and became too old and disgusting to feed to students. The congealed mix of pig assholes and duck tongues they call their “mystery meat special” isn’t even the best part about this place. Parts of the sign shorted out at some point, leaving the sign with the letters “Chin--- Bu--et”. Later on, someone decided that it would be funny if the sign read “Chin But”, so they knocked the “e” off by throwing a bottle at it, as made evident by the broken glass littering the space under it. It’s a really classy place.

           The original Chinese buffet that was in this building turned out to be a front for money laundering, so it was shut down. Later, it turned into a Walgreens, but its profit margin wasn’t high enough to justify its location, so it moved to the city. Now it’s a Chinese restaurant again.

           The exterior of the restaurant isn’t super inviting. It’s been repainted over and over again by the staff in a feeble attempt to cover up the graffiti, but it hasn’t worked out for them yet. New vulgar messages spring up on occasion from people who feel the need to confess that they banged my mom. The thick, red paint peels off a lot, especially at the bottom where kids can pick at it. Homeless men scream at sometimes as customers enter the door, sometimes for a reason, and sometimes for no reason. The inside smells like dead fish and undercooked horse meat, and the lights flicker every five minutes.

           “Mac n’ cheese, my favorite,” I say in a monotone, too tired for vocal inflections. I take the cheese-crusted ladle’s handle in my hand and scoop out the sludge, plopping it liberally onto my plate.  

Spaghetti is actually my favorite food. Macaroni and cheese is more like my side hoe.

Kirsten’s already sitting at our table with a plate full of food. Even with the array of pungent foods violating my nose, I can still detect her BO from here. It’s revolting. I aimlessly walk around, looking for something that looks edible, but I’m not in the mood to eat at all, and the crawfish and questionable-looking oysters aren’t doing much to bring my appetite back. However, if we weren’t in this shitty Chinese restaurant right now, I’d be at home, all alone, crying myself to sleep. I guess the fact that I’m not a hysterical mess right now is my one small victory for the day.

           I sit in a seat in front of Kirsten, noticing that the table is oddly sticky. I cringe. I lift my spoon and dig in.

           “You’re not sitting with me,” Kirsten says as I take a mouthful, as if she’s some popular girl in a bad teen movie. “I want to eat alone.”

           “You’re kidding, right?”

           Her eyes slowly move to the left, then to the right, and then back onto me. “No.”

           “Well, fine,” I say, getting a little angry. “I’ll sit over there then.” I point to the table across from the original one.

           She doesn’t even care enough to respond. In a huff, I sit off by myself like I was told. The strip of yellow florescent lighting above me begins to short out. The little taste the mac n’ cheese did have is gone now. I set my plate to the side and go over to get a new plate, dragging my feet.

           I listlessly mix my bowl of egg drop soup around with my spoon as I try to psyche myself up to eat it. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to go to sleep so I can forget about how much I suck. This has been the longest day of my life.

           I jump a little when a homeless man sits down in front of me. A few seconds later, I notice a blow-up doll with yellow hair and large blue eyes stuffed into the space beside him. It slides into the ground and grazes my leg. Stiff and uncomfortable, I wait for him to look up and say something to me, or acknowledge my presence in some small way. When he doesn’t, I get really confused until I eventually realize that he doesn’t even know I’m sitting in here. He must be so far gone that he can’t detect when another human being is in his presence. If no one gave me the time of day for long enough, that’s what would happen to me. He starts to shovel his plate of rice into his mouth with his fingers, spilling it all over the table and his lap. I don’t mind it too much. He seems interesting.

           I’m wondering how long he’s been like this. Judging by his smell and the layer of dirt covering him, probably a while. All homeless people seem to have the same tired face and matted hair, no matter their age. He really could be anywhere from thirty to sixty. From what I can see of his eyes as he’s hunched over like that, they seem to be hollow and vacant. His black leather jacket, riddled with holes and unidentifiable stains, is sliding off his thin, gaunt shoulders. It’s awkward how much he looks like Kirsten.

           My stomach drops to floor. The question of whether or not I’ll end up just like him screams in my head. My breathing slows down as I try to remain calm and gather my thoughts. I slowly take a sip from my cold soup, gagging immediately as my brain registers the new taste as an old person’s ass, and then letting the vile liquid run out of my mouth and back into the bowl. I sit there for a couple of minutes, not moving. I look around at the near-empty restaurant, as if it could distract me from my future image.

This man has fallen out of the social web as I have, and as Kirsten has. This man’s story will forever be a mystery to me. Maybe he’s out here because the ones he used to be close to dropped him, or maybe he’s here because he dropped them. As for me, I know which one I am, and I feel like a shit-rag for it. I can sit and look down at him and feel sorry for him now, but I could very well end up being just as unkempt and pathetic as the meth-scabbed homeless man in front of me.

The weight of what I’ve done hits me fully. It’s evil, sinful. I’ve cut myself off from the entire world. I don’t matter anymore. It’s a selfish thing Kirsten and I have done, to run away from ourselves. I’m now a stain of darkness on the lives of those who know me, now that I’m gone. I’ve ruined the people who love me. The people who sat with me at lunch every day. The people I would have met and affected throughout my life in Fordville had I stayed. My classmates. My parents. My teachers. My friends Trinity and Tyra. And Jacob and Molly and Jordan. I have left my world. I’m not in a web of people anymore; I’m a meaningless dot in the sky. I’m untethered to anything; there is no gravity to save me.

I would be willing to return if Beatrice wanted me, loved me. But she doesn’t, and I’m going to have to learn to live with that. I have to keep on going out into the dark unknown and leave everything behind if I am ever to find myself again. Everyone else can go fuck themselves. Maybe that decision makes me crazy, or even unusual, but I don’t care. It might be fucked up, but I don’t care. I simply can’t be bothered to think about anything but myself today, and I hate myself for that. I feel so guilty about this, but not guilty enough to change anything about how this night is going.

The homeless man glances up at me. A look of vague disgust washes over his face as he finally realizes that I’m there. Grunting, he hobbles away, carrying the sex doll under his arm. I look to my right at Kirsten. She’s smirking at me. I put down my fork and look up at the ceiling. I’m about to file a complaint with God.

“I’m sitting with you, and there isn’t anything you can do about it,” I say, trying to hide the tone of desperation in my voice.

“Okay. I couldn’t give less of a shit, so…”

“I’m going to go ahead and leave the check with you,” the waitress says, setting down our cups of water and then the piece of paper. “We’re closing up soon.”

“You too,” Kirsten says. I raise an eyebrow at her, but then I decide not to question it.

She still doesn’t look at me. Taking the cup in both hands, she takes huge gulps of the water, not stopping until half of it is gone. She slams it down on the table and wipes her mouth.

“Do you even breathe?”

She belches. “I wish I didn’t.”

There are many paths I can choose from where I am right now in this place in time. All of them are bad. Half of them will get me killed. The other half will also get me killed. I’ve got crosshairs on my neck no matter what. Tears start to well up in my eyes, because I never know what the right thing is. It would be crazy of me to return.

The tension inside me builds up as I fight with myself over whether to go home or to go with Kirsten. The closing restaurant’s silence is getting to me. Any remaining sounds are drowned out by the buzzing of the confusion.

“I’m scared that I’m doing the wrong thing here,” I begin, unable to contain it. “My parents are probably so worried. And yet, if I contact them in any way, they’d be so mad. I can’t call them. I can’t go home either… I’d rather die. I’ve badly messed up and I don’t know what to do.”

“Whatever you decide to do is whatever you decide to do. It doesn’t even matter, in the vast scheme of things,” she replies unhelpfully, passively picking a hair out of her noodles with her fork.

“It’s just that I don’t want to disappoint them, you know? They’ve come to expect more than this from me, and-”

“I don’t think you understand how much I don’t care about your problems.”

“- it would hurt if I saw a world where they didn’t think so highly of me. I don’t want to crush them. I can’t stand people being disappointed in me. Maybe it’s dumb, but I’d rather never come home than face that. And besides, after the whole Beatrice situation I mentioned earlier, I don’t have anything to stay for.”

“You can fix what happened between you and your stupid girlfriend. You have no right to feel like this is it. She’s still alive, isn’t she?” she says as if she’s genuinely asking.

“Yeah?”

“Well, then. There you go. Everything can be fixed, and everything can be mended until someone involved in the shit-fest dies. All it would take to fix your problems would be a conversation. As for me, I need a time machine.”

“Still, I just can’t go through with it. I’m not strong enough to crawl to her and beg her to hang out with me, and I’m definitely not strong enough to talk to my parents ever again.”

Kirsten takes out her phone, seemingly in order to actively block me out. She touches the screen a few times, and then quickly looks at me. “I’m calling your parents.”

My insides fill up with knives. “No. You can’t. I swear, Kirsten, if you do that…”

“Then you’ll… what?” We both look at the screen as she flashes it toward me. “It’s ringing.” She gives me a smug look as I try to grab for it. “Do you want to do this, or do you want me to do it? Because it has to happen, one way or another.”

“Give it,” I spit, desperate to end it. “You promised that you wouldn’t call them.”

She places a hand gently over the screen. “This isn’t the end of the world. It doesn’t matter if I tell them everything. It doesn’t matter if I don’t. One day, we’re all going to be dead anyway, and our useless monkey skeletons will evaporate as the sun swallows the earth whole. If you look at the small shit, it just seems so pointless to believe that anything we do matters. So, stop panicking, because it’s really annoying. The universe isn’t going to disappear over this.”

“But…”

Kirsten shushes me and puts the phone to her ear. “Hello, is this Mrs. Sandoval? Yeah. Hi. This is Kirsten Bloom – you might remember me from the book club- and… uh… your daughter’s with me. I just thought you should know that she’s safe, since it’s so late and everything,” she says with an unusual level of calmness. It’s really weird hearing Kirsten speak in a polite tone to someone. It sounds so artificial.

I fold my arms and put my head down, desperate to block it out. My conscious digs itself deeper into the table as I do everything in my power to pretend that this isn’t happening. My fingers somehow find my ears, and I plug them. Nonetheless, pieces of the conversation somehow reach me from miles away, entering me about once every seven seconds. They build up and bounce around in my head, unnerving me with each syllable.

…asked her to be the one to talk to you, but she didn’t want to. I think she’s…

…found her at the gas station, and…

…but she really wants to stay with me. I’m going to keep her with me for…

…I swear I’m not her girlfriend.  I swear I’m not. I barely want to be her friend. Goodbye.

She taps me on the shoulder. My sense of sound slowly comes back. The chatter of the employees closing up the place fills my head.

“Is it all over?” I ask, peeking out from over my arms.

“No, the universe is still here, unfortunately. I checked a few seconds ago.”

“Fuck off. You knew what I meant.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

She slaps a handful of 1s on the table and stands up. “I’m going out to smoke. Meet me by the truck when you’re done.”

I grab several cookies from the desert bar and rush out the door a few minutes later. The homeless man is sitting outside on the sidewalk, setting up his camp for the night.  Kirsten’s over in the far side of the parking lot. A large plume of smoke billows up every so often, each particle lighting up in the neon Chin But sign. I look up. The sky is a lot darker now, but not dark enough for the stars to show up yet. As I eat the last cookie, I circle around to the back where we parked. I try the passenger’s side door, but it doesn’t open.

Kirsten comes back five minutes later, looking more disheveled than ever before. However, the first thing that catches my eye is the sex doll she’s dragging over here by the ankle. My eyebrows come together as she unlocks the door and throws it into my seat.

“Did you seriously steal that from the homeless dude?”

“Yeah,” she says, like it’s the most obvious and sane thing in the world.

“Why?”

“Because I’m fucking tired, Lily, and I need some fucking sleep. And I didn’t bring a pillow or anything with me. This will have to do. And you’re going to have to hold onto it while we’re driving, because she’ll fly away if we put her in the back.”

I give her a quick nod and get in, forced to let the doll stay in my lap because there’s no room elsewhere. I don’t have the energy to pursue any kind of argument with her. If anything, I just want this day to be over. But above all else, I just want to leave her and go off on my own.

There’s something deeply absurd about running away from the person you’re running away with, but it’s definitely something I should consider. Kirsten is completely unstable, more so than usual. She keeps getting us into horribly complicating situations, and since she’s grieving her sister’s suicide so heavily, there’s a very probable chance that she’s going to end up getting pissed enough to murder me if I don’t get away soon. However, I have a sick feeling that I wouldn’t get too far.

Runaway Teenager Found In Ditch Clutching Heavily-Used Sex Doll

           I blink back that image as I buckle myself in.

           The sex doll’s plastic beach-ball-like material is sticking to my legs from all my nervous sweating. I wrap my arms around her waist because I don’t have another decent place to put my hands. I rest my head on her back and breathe in and out, trying to fall asleep again. A disturbing thought shocks me back to life. My eyes snap open. For a while, this is probably the closest I’ll ever get to the loving caress of a woman.

 “This is my new girlfriend,” I say.

 Kirsten laughs hollowly. “We should name her,” she says flatly. “How about Lexi?”

“Lexi? You mean, like that girl in our second period?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never met a girl named Lexi that isn’t a total whore. It just seems to fit.”

           I go into a haze as Kirsten begins to accelerate at an unsafe speed. It’s not making much of an impression on me. No adrenaline comes. I may as well be watching Wheel of Fortune at my grandfather’s house. In this moment, I’m speeding on the highway in the middle of the night. I have a sex doll named Lexi sitting in my lap. I should feel like I’m on the top of the world, but I’ve never felt more constrained. I’m past caring. I’m past thinking. I’m so tired that I’ve floated off to the world of dreams without my mind. My brain keeps tuning in and out, but each muscle fiber in my body is painfully tense and very much awake.

The engine shouts out an incessant roar as Kirsten continues to press her foot firmly on the gas. She moves up the gear shift until it won’t go any farther. The windows on either side depict an image of only dark brown. My consciousness is ripped from my body as we reach ninety-five miles per hour.

 -------------------------------------------------

Highway 16 is quiet. There is nothing but chirping bugs and tall, rustling grass for a hundred yards around. The world is so still that one could hear the energy from the stars buzz. Everything is deathly peaceful.

A disturbance comes in from the distance, a little ways away down the road, the vibrations finding their way into the high-tech microphones near the edge. The low rumble of an overworked engine grows from a whisper to a scream as the seconds pass. Headlights blind the darkness as the engine cuts through the silence. From light-years away, beacons of starlight slowly penetrate the hazy gray-blue night sky. Earth and space melt into one once again.

               Tires screech as the driver makes a sudden turn to the left. The camera catches the blur of the worn tires as they zip past, disturbing the sleeping flowers and grasses. The camera then pans over to the front window of the truck. The mics pick up remnants of the sound waves from the Anal Cunt song blaring from the speakers. Through the foggy, messy window, two girls are detected, and the lenses quickly focus on them. Both of them look tense, yet blank, with their mouths slightly agape. The shorter one is holding Lexi’s hand. The taller one is smoking a cigarette. And all three of them have the same facial expression.

               The film crew can’t keep up. The director wipes his forehead and ushers everyone to pack up the equipment. The drone comes back and flies into its compartment. They drive back into the city as the truck continues to speed on to nothing and nowhere.

-------------------------------------------

I grab Lexi’s plastic tits so I can move her out of my line of vision. I squint at the road, making sure that I’m really seeing the two yellow lines to my right, and the single white line to my left.

“Oh my God… You’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”

She’s not listening. I shove Lexi’s flaccid body down into the floorboard and lean forward. I passively watch for oncoming traffic with a glazed-over feeling in my eyes. I’m still not fully absorbing the weight of the situation.

A pang of fear does whisper in my chest when I see the faint glint of lights of the 18-wheeler headed right for us, at about two football-field lengths ahead. I quickly look at the driver. She isn’t changing her speed or her direction. If anything, she’s going even faster than ever before.

I mindlessly grab the steering wheel and jerk it to the side. My neck nearly separates itself from my head as the vehicle spins out of control. Kirsten takes her foot off the accelerator, but the momentum still has us going. The front tire hits a rock, deflecting the vehicle, making us spin around a few times. The tires eventually stop running away from our control. Kirsten gets out immediately, completely unfazed.

It takes me a few more seconds to recover. I sit there stiffly, staring at nothing but the fuzz in my tired eyes, my back as straight as a perfect line. I get out, dizzy, but I walk it off and pretend that none of that even happened.

I help Kirsten fix our bed in the back of the truck, which is basically just carelessly shoving boxes and trash onto the ground and putting layers of blankets on top of the rest of the mess. Kirsten gets Lexi out of the front and tosses her where our heads are going to go. I climb in, my bones filling with lead. A crippling wave of exhaustion overtakes my body as I touch the soft blankets draped in the back of the pickup. It bowls me over, and I have to fight to not collapse and die from how badly I suddenly need sleep. It’s like not knowing you’re hungry until you smell food.

There are still random articles of clothes and garbage surrounding me where I lie, but I’m in no place to complain. My breath stops when I see The Bag. It’s still here. Neither Kirsten nor I ever got rid of it. I pluck it from beside me and set it back down again immediately. I can’t do it.

           “Kirsten… can you dispose of the cat, please? I don’t want to stand.”

           She sighs. “Sure.”

She stands and takes the tied ears of the bag and grips it firmly in her hand. She carelessly swings it until it gains momentum, allowing it to make three full rounds before she lets it go. I lift my head to watch. The carcass lands a good distance away from us, making a sickening rustling sound as it hits the ground.

           “Christ…” I mutter.

I slowly flip myself over and lie down. My body joins with the softness underneath me, and my heat begins to recycle itself in the best way. I lie there motionless for a moment, taking in the feeling, and looking at the empty land around me. I glance in the direction of the road.

My throat constricts, and I gasp for air. My heart starts to pump too quickly, thumping and thrashing and trying to get out. I shut my eyes and try to get the pictures to stop swirling, but they don’t. Of all the vast, empty fields we could have crash-landed on, why did it have to be the one with our billboard? My eyes widen, and the memories swarm them, sending me to the past.

 ---------------------------------------------------

“C’mon,” Beatrice says gently, slowly letting go of my arm. Sparks fly out from the trail of her fingertips. She smiles at me.

“Okay,” I say without thinking twice.

I awkwardly trail along behind her, trying to tread and move through the tall grass. I can’t help but feel like I’m catching a bunch of gnats and crickets in my clothes. My skin grows hotter as I keep running after her, my lungs getting tighter and tighter with each pathetic gasp.

We finally get to the circle directly under the billboard that has been recently mowed. Without saying anything to me, or even looking at me, Beatrice starts to effortlessly, thoughtlessly scale the weak-looking ladder, like it’s nothing. I swear exasperatedly under my breath. My vision clouds with fear, and I consider yelling up at her that I’ll be waiting in the car. I grab a bar with one hand, and it is frozen cold to the touch. Looking up, I realize that the ladder is straight up, with no incline whatsoever. There’s no way my clumsy ass could get up there without falling and breaking my back.

I do it anyway. I force myself to breathe out and climb the ladder without thinking. My eyes are closed, but my head is still spinning anyway. Some deep part of me knows that I’m doing this, no matter how much I try to not care about it. I decide to open my eyes despite the wind-chill. My hands are sweating, but my death grip is more than enough to keep me anchored as I keep going. The nerves in my hands are jumping around, waiting for me to let go and fall backwards in a moment of carelessness. Every time I lose my grip and my hand slips even a tiny fraction of an inch, avalanches of nerves rumble and cascade through every spot of skin on me, supplying me with bursts of adrenaline and power. I’m not afraid of falling anymore; I could swear I could fly.

I crest the top and climb onto the wooden platform, breathing heavily as my muscles buzz and ache. I feel alive, crazily alive, and more awake than I’ve ever been in my life. Weakly, I stand, and look down at the ground. Fighting off the weirdly instinctual urge to jump off, I back away slowly from the edge. I walk toward Beatrice, and I sit down next to her, both our legs dangling off the edge. We silently look at the vast swath of land below, knowing that nothing down there matters at all. This is purely exhilarating, and nothing less.

“You know…” I begin, reluctant to break the perfect silence. “Before tonight, I was scared of heights.”  

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, you’re different. You’re not actually scared of anything, and then you do things like this, and drag normal people like me along. And to be honest, that alone about you is slightly terrifying.”

“You should take notes from me. Life is better when you live recklessly.” She looks up at the stars. I do the same. They’re a little more prominent, now that we’re so high up in the air. It’s a black ceiling covered in Christmas lights, and we could touch the wires and tear it all down, if only we jumped just high enough.

“Do you ever wonder what’s out there?” I ask.

“You mean, in space?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I guess so. You know, I’ve always kind of wanted to be an astronaut. I think I’d like to experience what it’s like to be completely weightless.” She looks out into the world. “I’d like to be the first person ever to do something uniquely groundbreaking, like figure out once and for all what dark matter is made of, make contact with intelligent aliens, or visit an alternate universe. The last thing is especially interesting to me. The idea that everything and every situation that can exist does exist somewhere, out there, is just… neat.”

“That is cool, actually. Like, in one alternate universe, everything is the same as it is in this universe, except I’m wearing blue pajamas instead of green ones.”

“In another alternate universe, you don’t exist at all, and neither do I.”

“And in another alternate universe, we exist, but we exist at different time periods. And we are, like, immortal and famous. Imagine getting to meet every single president ever. Imagine all the things we could change about the world. That would be cool.”

“And in another, I’m fucking your mom.”

“She’s straight.”

“Not in that dimension, she isn’t.” She pauses. “And in another dimension, at this very moment, I’m getting gangbanged by all the presidents at once. That’d be great.”

I laugh, because it’s just so ridiculous. “So, you want to go to space just so you can fuck every single president?”

“Don’t judge my fetishes. It’s rude,” she says, pretending to be deeply offended.

I squint. “What even made you come to that idea randomly? That’s so weird. And, like…”

She smiles shyly and plugs her ears. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of Abraham Lincoln’s balls slapping against my ass.”

We wildly laugh again because there’s no one around to judge us for our sheer cringey stupidity.

“I just realized something,” I say.

“And what would that be?” she asks.

“Nothing is awkward with you. Well, okay. That was a lie. I still feel awkward around you. But I don’t feel as high-strung around you as I do with other people. I feel comfortable talking to you about things I’d never talk about with anyone else.”

“I’m glad.” She pauses. “In an alternate universe, everything is the same, except you’re cool and not awkward,” she says just to tease me.

“In an alternate universe, you’re normal.”

“That’s fair.”

As the night turns, we connect and flow together as we enjoy the high of being young and dumb. It’s a calmness that reaches the sub-atomic level. Each beyond-microscopic string of particles and waves in our beings are vibrating at just the right frequency as we delve into the throes of cosmic love. This newfound power allows us to defy the known laws of quantum mechanics and to defy time itself. She is the only place where hours feel like seconds and seconds feel like hours.

Time is my enemy, and I must defeat it somehow. If I don’t, I will have to return to my regular life and leave this feeling. If I can stop the rotation and revolution of the Earth, I might have a chance. Perhaps if someone, anyone, stopped the moon’s gravity from pulling the tides of the ocean, time itself will stop. If the wind stopped blowing through the tall, blond grass, if our blood stopped pumping heat into our connected hands, if the conductor of movement stopped waving his baton, then this might last forever. If my breath and blood in my body halted for only a moment, perhaps I could catch and savor a new high vertex of the happiness in me, hold onto that single photograph and in some small way, become timeless. But even if all these things could be achieved, there is still the wind blowing cool, soft air into our faces. It is relentless. The wind carries feelings, and the wind carries time.

“I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to come back down to Earth, ever. But morning will come eventually and ruin this perfect night. I like hanging out with you, and I wish this could last longer,” I say quickly, interrupting her and the natural flow of our conversation.  

“Maybe it can,” she says slowly, looking down at her swinging feet.

“And how would that work?”

“We could just run away. We could just get in my car and leave this shithole town.” She looks at me. “I’ve always kind of wanted to go off on some kind of adventure with someone.”

“I can’t,” I say, my voice cracking a little. “I can’t just uproot my life and everything. I’m sorry. I think I’d like that too, but I just can’t,” I ramble, trying to explain myself.

“No- you don’t have to say anything else. I get it,” she says quickly, looking down again. “I’m sorry for asking. It’s just been at the back of my mind for a while. Let’s talk about something else now.”

  ----------------------------------------------

The sound of the wind blowing atop the world ceases abruptly. Literal crickets fill the silence. Fireflies dance around in the blackness, blurring the barrier between the sky and the ground. Everything is serene, and so still that it seems as though I’d break the landscape like glass if I so much as breathed too heavily or thought a single negative thought. It is too sacred a place, with the chirping of the crickets and the twinkling of the bugs and the stars, to ruin it with anything other than exhaustion.  

My throat suddenly becomes raw with a fresh wave of regret. I look around and find a can of whipped cream near my head. I’m not hungry or anything, but I figure that maybe the sound of whipped cream jizzing out of the can will drown out the sound of my imminent ugly-crying.  

“I wouldn’t eat that. It’s been sitting out for nearly a week,” Kirsten says.

I let it roll out of my hand and clink against the bed of the truck. “Oh.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll go to the grocery store and get some more food. And then we’ll get out of here.”

There’s some kind of itch deep inside myself that I can’t scratch. Looking up at the stars isn’t cute or whatever when you’re in a terrible mood. It blinds you from the fun version of thinking about space, which involves wondering what’s out there, and having the desire to wander through its eternalness in order to find out. The depressing version of space is the one I can’t get out of my head now. In the vastness of the universe, why do I, a particle, matter in it? When I think about the stars, this reinforces this view. They’re the only break in between the dark nothingness expanding in every direction for an infinite number of miles. Each one is pure and beautiful. It’s strange how I wouldn’t notice one star missing, but I would definitely notice if every star was missing. Everything is insignificant, especially when you’re alone. I’m swirling in the toilet of Not Mattering, staying awake instead of going to sleep.

Honestly, if there are any aliens out there who are willing to abduct me, I’d be open to it.

“Lily, I need you to promise me something.”

“I’m scared, but continue.”

“Don’t ever die.”

“…okay.”

“I mean it. You have to be immortal.”

“Okay.”

This insanely impossible promise is the only thing that is making me hold on.

This universe alone is bigger than the human mind can comprehend. To think that everything that exists is so big that it goes beyond the infiniteness of our own home is mind-boggling. Our world is just one bit of water in an infinite hall of glowing raindrops. Every situation conceivable is playing out somewhere, no matter how impossible it would seem to us. For example, somewhere, out there, there’s an alternate universe where Beatrice gives a shit about something.  

She was the only thing that made the usual melancholic, mundane life I live worth it. Everything was inherently interesting. The mere act of waking up became an event. I’d wake up every morning, thrilled to go to school just so I could talk to her in class. Even on stretches of days where I couldn’t see her or talk to her, every color was a more vibrant shade. Every second, no matter what I was doing, no matter what was happening, I was happy. I was on a constant, delirious high, whether I was doing my homework or climbing to the top of a billboard.

Today, I went to space. I helped my friend steal from a homeless man. I hid in a gas station trashcan, naked. I’ve almost been shot. Twice. I nearly died in a head-on collision at a hundred miles an hour. I scraped a dead cat off a Jewish Neo-Nazi’s driveway. I ran away from my home and the only life I’ve ever known.

And it all felt like nothing.

A low hiss screams out from our makeshift pillow. I guess she couldn’t hold our weight anymore. Kirsten and I glance at each other, neither of us knowing what to do. Wordlessly, we let our heads slowly lower themselves as the sex doll beneath us farts out its hobo breath.

“Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kirsten.”

[lim-lifeinmotion]

The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma

By Junot Díaz  I found a story amidst my delving into the depth of childhood trauma, I suppose I just wanted to know what someone else had been through and if they managed to somehow over come it. It’s unusually comforting to read the feelings he had, the same “cut-off” of disassociated presence he felt with not only himself but with everyone else around him. To shed light on the sexual trauma he experienced and how it mirrored my own sexual intimacy blocks. Among all the amazing things he created from this experience it was really hard to hear the profound affect it was still having on him decades on. Perhaps this is just me now, forever? I suppose it was all well and easy to say I wouldn’t change it for the world because it has made me who I am today, beautiful, kind, gentle, and above all, a dedicated and passionate lover, but to think I will live with this for the rest of my life, that Perhaps i may never be able to break down these barriers even with professional help, thats not something I would want of anyone, not of myself. Perhaps if i could rewind it all I would change everything, I may not be who I am today but perhaps I’d be able to give and receive love openly from others and to myself, even if I was a complete asshole, a close minded, non-empathic person, to be happy and free from all of this pain i carry, is all I ask from the world. I wan’t to be able to love myself so damn badly, but I can only keep on trying until one day I do finally make it because I will, it’s not living otherwise.

Last week I returned to Amherst. It’s been years since I was there, the time we met. I was hoping that you’d show up again; I even looked for you, but you didn’t appear. I remember you proudly repped N.Y.C. during the few minutes we spoke, so I suspect you’d moved back or maybe you were busy or you didn’t know I was in town. I have a distinct memory of you in the signing line, saying nothing to anyone, intense. I assumed you were going to ask me to read a manuscript or help you find an agent, but instead you asked me about the sexual abuse alluded to in my books. You asked, quietly, if it had happened to me.

You caught me completely by surprise.

I wish I had told you the truth then, but I was too scared in those days to say anything. Too scared, too committed to my mask. I responded with some evasive bullshit. And that was it. I signed your books. You thought I was going to say something, and when I didn’t you looked disappointed. But more than that you looked abandoned. I could have said anything but instead I turned to the next person in line and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I watched you pick up your backpack, slowly put away your books, and leave. When the signing was over I couldn’t get the fuck away from Amherst, from you and your question, fast enough. I ran the way I’ve always run. Like death itself was chasing me. For a couple of days afterward I fretted; I worried that I’d given myself away. But then the old oblivion reflex took over. I pushed it all down. Buried it all. Like always.

But I never really did forget. Not our exchange or your disappointment. How you walked out of the auditorium with your shoulders hunched.

I know this is years too late, but I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me. We both could have used that truth, I’m thinking. It could have saved me (and maybe you) from so much. But I was afraid. I’m still afraid—my fear like continents and the ocean between—but I’m going to speak anyway, because, as Audre Lorde has taught us, my silence will not protect me.

X⁠—

Yes, it happened to me.

I was raped when I was eight years old. By a grownup that I truly trusted.

After he raped me, he told me I had to return the next day or I would be “in trouble.”

And because I was terrified, and confused, I went back the next day and was raped again.

I never told anyone what happened, but today I’m telling you.

And anyone else who cares to listen.

That violación. Not enough pages in the world to describe what it did to me. The whole planet could be my inkstand and it still wouldn’t be enough. That shit cracked the planet of me in half, threw me completely out of orbit, into the lightless regions of space where life is not possible. I can say, truly, que casi me destruyó. Not only the rapes but all the sequelae: the agony, the bitterness, the self-recrimination, the asco, the desperate need to keep it hidden and silent. It fucked up my childhood. It fucked up my adolescence. It fucked up my whole life. More than being Dominican, more than being an immigrant, more, even, than being of African descent, my rape defined me. I spent more energy running from it than I did living. I was confused about why I didn’t fight, why I had an erection while I was being raped, what I did to deserve it. And always I was afraid—afraid that the rape had “ruined” me; afraid that I would be “found out”; afraid afraid afraid. “Real” Dominican men, after all, aren’t raped. And if I wasn’t a “real” Dominican man I wasn’t anything. The rape excluded me from manhood, from love, from everything.

The kid before—hard to remember. Trauma is a time traveller, an ouroboros that reaches back and devours everything that came before. Only fragments remain. I remember loving codes and Encyclopedia Brown and pastelones and walking long distances in an effort to learn what lay beyond my N.J. neighborhood. At night I had the most vivid dreams, often about “Star Wars” and about my life back in the Dominican Republic, in Azua, my very own Tatooine. Was just getting to know this new English-speaking me, was just becoming his friend—and then he was gone.

No more spaceship dreams, no more Azua, no more me. Only an abiding sense of wrongness and the unbearable recollection of being violently penetrated.

By the time I was eleven, I was suffering from both depression and uncontrollable rage. By thirteen, I stopped being able to look at myself in the mirror—and the few times I accidentally glimpsed my reflection I’d recoil like I’d got hit in the face by a jellyfish stinger. (What did I see? I saw the crime, my grisly debasement, and if anyone looked at me too long I would run or I would fight.)

By fourteen, I was holding one of my father’s pistols to my head. (He’d been gone a few years, but he’d generously left some of his firearms behind.) I had trouble at home. I had trouble at school. I had mood swings like you wouldn’t believe. Since I’d never told anyone what had happened my family assumed that was just who I was—un maldito loco. And while other kids were exploring crushes and first love I was dealing with intrusive memories of my rape that were so excruciating I had to slam my head against a wall.

Of course, I never got any kind of help, any kind of therapy. Like I said, I never told anyone. In a family as big as mine—five kids—it was easy to get lost, even when you were going under. I remember my mother telling me, after one of my depressions, that I should pray. I didn’t even bother to laugh.

When I wasn’t completely out of it I read everything I could lay my hands on, played Dungeons & Dragons for days on end. I tried to forget, but you never forget. Night was the worst—that’s when the dreams would come. Nightmares where I got raped by my siblings, by my father, by my teachers, by strangers, by kids who I wanted to be friends with. Often the dreams were so upsetting that I would bite my tongue, and the next morning I’d spit out blood into the bathroom sink.

And in no time at all I was failing everything. Quizzes, quarters, and then entire classes. First I got booted out of my high school’s gifted-and-talented program, then out of the honors track. I sat in class and either dozed or read Stephen King books. Eventually I stopped showing up altogether. School friends drifted away; home friends couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

Senior year, while everyone was getting their college acceptances, I went another way: I tried to kill myself. What happened was that in the middle of a deep depression I suddenly became infatuated with this cute-ass girl I knew at school. For a few weeks my gloom lifted, and I became utterly convinced that if this girl went out with me, if she fucked me, I’d be cured of all that ailed me. No more bad memories. I’d been watching “Excalibur” on heavy rotation, so I was all about miraculous regeneration. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her out and she said nope, it felt as though the world had finally closed the door on me.

The next day I swallowed all these leftover drugs from my brother’s cancer treatment, three bottles’ worth.

Didn’t work.

You know why I didn’t try again the next day?

Because my one and only college acceptance arrived in the mail. I had assumed I wasn’t going anywhere, had completely forgotten that I had any schools left to hear from. But as I read that letter it felt as if the door of the world had cracked open again, ever so slightly.

I didn’t tell anyone I tried to kill myself. Something else I buried deep.

I often tell people that college saved me. Which in part is true. Rutgers, only an hour from my home by bus, was so far from my old life and so alive with possibility that for the first time in the longest I felt something approaching safety, something approximating hope. And, whether it was that distance or my bottomless self-loathing or some desperate post-suicide urge to live, that first year I remade myself completely. By junior year, I doubt anyone from my high school would have recognized me. I became a runner, a weight lifter, an activist, had girlfriends, was “popular.” At Rutgers I buried not only the rape but the boy who had been raped—and threw into the pit my family, my suffering, my depression, my suicide attempt for good measure. Everything I’d been before Rutgers I locked behind an adamantine mask of normalcy.

And, let me tell you, once that mask was on no power on earth could have torn it off me.

The mask was strong.

But as any Freudian will tell you trauma is stronger than any mask; it can’t be buried and it can’t be killed. It’s the revenant that won’t stop, the ghost that’s always coming for you. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they didn’t go away just because I buried my neighborhood, my family, my face. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they followed. All through college. All through graduate school. All through my professional life. All through my intimate life. (Leaked into my writing, too, but you’d be amazed how easy it is to rewrite the truth away.)

Didn’t matter how far I ran or what I achieved or who I was with—they followed.

Do you remember how during our chat at Amherst I talked about intimacy? I think I said that intimacy is our only home. Super ironic that I write and talk about intimacy all day long; it’s something I’ve always dreamed of and never had much luck achieving. After all, it’s hard to have love when you absolutely refuse to show yourself, when you’re locked behind a mask.

I remember when I got my first girlfriend, in college. I thought that was it—I was saved. Everything I’d been would officially be erased, all my awful dreams would disappear. But that’s not the way the world works. Me and this girl were into each other something serious, were in our narrow college beds all the time—but you know what? We never had sex. Not once. I couldn’t. Every time we would get close to fucking the intrusions would cut right through me, stomach-turning memories of my violation. Of course, I didn’t tell her. I just said that I wanted to wait. She didn’t believe my excuses, asked me what was wrong, but I never said anything. I kept the Silence. After a year, we broke up.

I thought maybe with another girl it would be easier, but it wasn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. Took me until I was a junior before I finally lost my virginity. I saw her first in a creative-writing class. She was an ex-hippie ex-hardcore sweetie who wrote beautifully and had a tattoo on her head and the first time we got in bed she didn’t even ask if I was a virgin; she just pulled off her dress and it happened. I almost threw a party.

But I should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. Me and J⁠— dated for two years, but I was always acting, always hiding. The mask was strong.

I’m sure she sensed I was all sorts of messed up, but I’m guessing she chalked it up to typical ghetto craziness. She loved the shit out of me. Brought me home to her family, and they loved me, too. It was the first truly healthy family I’d been exposed to. Which you would think would have been a good thing.

Wrong. The longer we were together, the more her family loved me, the more unbearable it all got. There was only so much closeness a person like me could endure before I needed to fly the fuck away. I had long bouts of depression, drank more than I’d ever drunk, especially during the holidays, when they were all at their happiest. One day, for no reason at all, I found myself saying, We have to break up. There was absolutely no precipitating anything. I had just reached my limit. I remember crying my eyes out the night before (in those days I never cried). I didn’t want to break up with her. I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t stand to be loved. To be seen.

Why? she asked. Why?

And I really had no answer.

After that it was C⁠—, who did a ton of community work in the D.R. And then B⁠—, the Seventh-Day Adventist from St. Thomas. Neither relationship worked. But I kept going.

And that’s how it went for a while, from college to grad school to Brooklyn. I would meet intimidatingly smart sisters, would date them in the hope that they could heal me, and then the fear would start to climb in me, the fear of discovery, and the mask would feel as if it were cracking and the impulse to escape, to hide, would grow until finally I’d hit a Rubicon—I’d either drive the novia away or I would run. I started sleeping around, too. The regular relationship drug wasn’t enough. I needed stronger hits to keep the wound inside from rising up and devouring me. The Negro who couldn’t sleep with anyone became the Negro who would sleep with everyone.

I was hiding, I was drinking, I was at the gym; I was running around with other women. I was creating model homes, and then, just as soon as they were up, abandoning them. Classic trauma psychology: approach and retreat, approach and retreat. And hurting other people in the process. My depressions would settle over me for months, and in that darkness the suicidal impulse would sprout pale and deadly. I had friends with guns; I asked them never to bring them over for any reason. Sometimes they listened, sometimes they didn’t.

Somehow I was still writing—about a young Dominican man who, unlike me, had been only a little molested. Someone who couldn’t stay in any relationship because he was too much of a player. Crafting my perfect cover story, in effect. And since us Afro-Latinx brothers are viewed by society as always already sexual perils, very few people ever noticed what was written between the lines in my fiction—that Afro-Latinx brothers are often sexually imperilled.

Right before I left graduate school and moved to Brooklyn I published my first story, about a Dominican boy who goes to see another boy, whose face has been eaten off, and on the way he gets sexually assaulted. (Seriously.) And then in one of those insane twists of fortune I hit the literary lottery. From that one story I got an agent, I got a book deal, I appeared in The New Yorker, I published my first book, “Drown,” which sold nothing but got me more press than any young writer should ever have. Anyone else would have ridden that good-luck wave straight into the sunset, but that wasn’t how it played out. I clearly wanted to be known, on some level, had been dying for a chance at a real face, but when that moment finally arrived I couldn’t do it; I clamped the mask down hard. After “Drown,” I could have stayed in N.Y.C., but I fled to Syracuse instead, where the snow never stops and the isolation was a maw. I stopped writing altogether.

Entire literary careers could have fit into the years I didn’t write. In the meantime I met S⁠—. If Black Is Beautiful had a spokesperson it would have been her; S⁠—, who would have thrown away a thousand years of family to make it work. Didn’t matter; we never were able to have sex. The intrusions always hit where it would hurt the worst. Never knew who I could have sex with and who I couldn’t until I tried. S⁠— found someone else, ended up marrying him. I moved on to other women. The years passed. I never took off the mask; I never got help.

And for a while the center held. For a while.

No one can hide forever. Eventually what used to hold back the truth doesn’t work anymore. You run out of escapes, you run out of exits, you run out of gambits, you run out of luck. Eventually the past finds you.

What happened was that I met someone: Y⁠—. In the novel I published eleven years after “Drown,” I gave my narrator, Yunior, a love supreme named Lola, because in real life I had a love supreme named Y⁠—. She was the femme-matador of my dreams. A state-school girl raised in Washington Heights who worked her ass off, who never ran from a fight, and who could have danced Ochún out the fucking room.

We clicked like crazy. Like our ancestors were rooting for us. I was the Dominican nerdo she’d always dreamed about. She actually said this. She didn’t have a clue. I fell into her family, and she fell into mine. And her mother—Dios mío, how the señora loved me. I was the son she never had. And before you could say “Run” I had created another one of my romance stories, but this one was more elaborate and more insane than any I’d ever spun. We bought an apartment together in Harlem. We got engaged in Tokyo. We talked about having children together. Even the writing started coming again. Negroes I’d never met before were proud of our relationship and told us so. Two “successful” Dominicans from the hood who loved each other? As rare and as precious as ciguapas.

Of course, there were signs of trouble. I spent at least six months out of the year depressed and/or high or drunk. We could have sex but not often—the intrusions often jumped in, a hellish cock-blocking ménage à trois.

Sex or no sex, I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone. I even told her, in an unguarded moment, that something had happened in my past.

Something bad.

And because I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone, and because I had revealed to her what I revealed about my past, I cheated on her more than I had ever cheated on anyone.

I cheated on her como un maldito perro.

I knew plenty of men who lived double lives. Shit, my father had lived one, to my family’s everlasting regret. And here I was playing out the patrimonial destiny. I had a double life like I was in a comic book.

Y⁠— got as much of the real me as I was capable of showing. She lived with my depression and my no-writing fury and with the rare moments of levity, of clarity. The other women saw primarily my mask, right before I ghosted them.

The mask was strong.

But no mask is that strong. No one’s G that perfect. No one’s love that dumb. One day Y⁠— didn’t like an answer I’d given her about where I’d been. I’m sure she’d been having doubts for a while—especially after one woman showed up at a reading of mine and burst into tears when I said hi. Y⁠— decided to go snooping through my e-mails, and since I wasn’t big on passwords or putting old e-mails in the trash it took her less than five minutes to find what she was looking for.

A heartbreak can take out a world. I know hers did. Took out her world and mine.

Another woman might have shot me dead on principle, but Y⁠— simply printed out all the e-mails between me and all my other girls, all my bullshit seduction attempts, all the photos, had the evidence of my betrayals bound, and when I came home from one of my trips handed them to me.

When I realized what she’d given me I blacked out.

Which is what tends to happen when the world ends.

A few months later, I won the Pulitzer Prize for a novel narrated by a Dominican brother who loses the Dominican woman of his dreams because he can’t stop cheating on her. When I found out I’d won the prize my first thought wasn’t “I’m made” but “Maybe now she’ll stay with me.”

She didn’t. A few months later Y⁠— got her head together and kicked me out of her life completely. She kept the apartment, the ring, her family, our friends. I got Boston. We never saw each other again.

When I was a kid, I heard that dinosaurs were so big that even if they received a killing blow it would take a while for their nervous systems to figure it out. That was me. After I lost Y⁠— I moved to Cambridge full time, and for the next year or so I tried to “walk it off.” For a little while I seriously thought I was going to be fine. The mask had exploded into fragments, but I kept trying to wear the pieces as if nothing had happened. It would have been comedic if it hadn’t been so tragic. I tried to use sex to fill the hole I’d just blown through my heart, but it didn’t work. Didn’t stop me from trying.

I lost weeks, I lost months, I lost years (two). And then one day I woke up and literally couldn’t move from bed. An archipelago of grief was on me, a wine-dark sea of pain. In a drunken fit I tried to jump from my friend’s rooftop apartment in the D.R. He grabbed me before I could get my foot on a nearby stool and didn’t let go until I stopped shaking.

In the treatment world, they say that often you have to hit rock bottom before you finally seek help. It doesn’t always work that way, but that sure is how it was for me. I had to lose almost everything and then some. And then some. Before I finally put out my hand.

I was fortunate. I had friends around me ready to step in. I had good university insurance. I stumbled upon a great therapist. She had dealt with people like me before, and she dedicated herself to my healing. It took years—hard, backbreaking years—but she picked up what there was of me. I don’t think she’d ever met anyone more disinclined to therapy. I fought it every step of the way. But I kept coming, and she never gave up. After long struggle and many setbacks, my therapist slowly got me to put aside my mask. Not forever, but long enough for me to breathe, to live. And when I was finally ready to return to that place where I was unmade she stood by my side, she held my hand, and never let go.

I’d always assumed that if I ever returned to that place, that island where I’d been shipwrecked, I would never escape; I’d be dragged down and destroyed. And yet, irony of ironies, what awaited me on that island was not my destruction but nearly the opposite: my salvation.

During that time I wrote very little. Mostly I underlined passages in my favorite books. This line in particular I circled at least a dozen times: “Then darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”

And then there was this section from my own novel:

Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say words that could have saved us.

But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that’s how you know it’s never going to come true.

Never, ever.

It’s been almost a decade since the Fall. I am not who I once was. I’m neither the brother who can’t touch a girl nor the asshole who sleeps around. I’m in therapy twice a week. I don’t drink (except in Japan, where I let myself have a beer). I don’t hurt people with my lies or my choices, and wherever I can I make amends; I take responsibility. I’ve come to learn that repair is never-ceasing.

I’m even in a relationship, and she knows everything about my past. I told her about what happened to me.

I’ve told her, and I’ve told my friends. Even the toughest of my boys. I told them all, fuck the consequences.

Something I never thought possible.

So much has changed. But some things haven’t. There are still times when the depression hammers down and months vanish out from under me, when the suicidal ideation returns. The writing hasn’t come back, not really. But there are good stretches, and they are starting to outnumber the bad. Every year, I feel less like the dead, more a part of the living. The intrusions are fewer now, and when they come they don’t throw me completely. I still have those horrible dreams every now and then, and they are still foul as fuck, but at least I have resources to deal with them.

And yet—

And yet despite all my healing I still feel that something important, something vital, has eluded me. The impulse to hide, to hold myself apart from my colleagues, from my fellow-writers, from my students, from the circle of life has remained uncannily strong. During the public talks I’ve given at universities and conferences, I’ve sometimes commented on the intergenerational harm that systemic sexual violence has inflicted on African diasporic communities, on my community. But have I ever actually come out and said that I was the victim of sexual violence? I’ve said elusive things here and there but nothing actionable, no definitive statements.

Over the last weeks, that gnawing sense of something undone has only grown, along with the old fear—the fear that someone might find out I’d been raped as a child. It’s no coincidence that I recently began a tour for a children’s book I’ve published and suddenly I’m surrounded by kids all the time and I’ve had to discuss my childhood more than I ever have in my life. I’ve found myself telling lies, talking about a kid that never was. He never checks the locks on the bedroom doors four times a night, doesn’t bite clean through his tongue. The cover stories are returning. There are even mornings when my face feels stiff.

And then at one of my events, another signing line—this one at the Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge—a young woman walked up and started to thank me for my novel, for one of its protagonists, Beli. Beli, the tough-love Dominican mother who suffered catastrophic sexual abuse throughout her life.

I had a life a lot like Beli’s, the young woman said, and then, without warning, she choked into tears. She wanted to say more to me, but before she could she was overwhelmed and fled. I could have tried to stop her. I could have called after her me too me too. I could have said the words: I was also raped.

But I didn’t have the courage. I turned to the next person in line and smiled.

And you know what? It felt good to be behind the mask. It felt like home.

I think about you, X⁠—. I think about that woman from the Brattle. I think about silence; I think about shame, I think about loneliness. I think about the hurt I caused. I think of all the years and all the life I lost to the hiding and to the fear and to the pain. The mask got more of me than I ever did. But mostly I think about what it felt like to say the words—to my therapist, all those years ago; to tell my partner, my friends, that I’d been raped. And what it feels like to say the words here, where the whole world—and maybe you—might hear.

Toni Morrison wrote, “Anything dead coming back to life hurts.” In Spanish we say that when a child is born it is given the light. And that’s what it feels like to say the words, X⁠—. Like I’m being given a second chance at the light.

Last night I had another dream. It wasn’t a bad one. I was young. Just a boy. No one had hurt me yet. A plane was dropping flyers announcing an upcoming Jack Veneno match, and all of us kids in Villa Juana were racing about in great excitement, gathering the flyers in our arms.

I barely remember that boy anymore, but for a brief moment I am him again, and he is me. ♦

[ratherhavetheblues]

ABBAS KIAROSTAMI’S CLOSE-UP “This is a case of petty fraud…”

© 2017  by James Clark

   We live in one of those eras where whole nations (or nation-links) have been widely regarded as irredeemably perverse and evil. Over the years, Catholics, Jews, Communists, gays, Japanese, Germans, etc. have been subjected to fierce and massive opposition. Therefore, when approaching a film notable like, Abbas Kiarostami (1940-2016), a rare artist refusing to cut ties with (though not a supporter of) militant Islam (within Iran), there is a special preparatory requirement to make very clear that our stalwart is, first and foremost, a citizen of the contemporary world, which is to say, the secular, cosmopolitan world.

   In view of this, we’ll put forward a glimpse of the heart of Kiarostami’s work, a glimpse which Michelangelo Antonioni would be touched by, not to mention many other modern filmmakers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rh9-uKavbu0  

  Only an artist alerted to an imperative of dynamics brooking no capitulation to ancient enthusiasms would find necessary that those enveloping thrusts comprising Roads of Kiarostami take the spotlight. Kiarostami’s eventual semi-exile (the regime being happy about his festival winnings, but increasingly suspicious about the content of the material and therefore suspending any further financing), whereby his final two films—Certified Copy (2010) and Like Someone in Love (2012) were produced in, severally, Italy and Japan—comprised a distress that the oddity (uncanniness) he had romanced from the days when Persian Iran was Muslim-Lite had been targeted by a stream of volcanic, though tempered, spleen. But in our film today, Close-Up (1990), that ingredient of nausea is abated. Our special investigation of this surreal saga, then, has to do with those winning roadways and their comedic (Jarmuschian) whimsy remaining a viable navigation even where Paterson-like thought-police pose challenging roadblocks.

  Therefore, we put into abeyance the convolutions of this narrative, in favor of that spectacular jigger of mirth which constitutes, in flash-back, the onset of the bemusing difficulties hogging most of the attention. In Jarmusch’s Stranger than Paradise (1984), Eva, bored with snowy Cleveland (and, before that, bored with antiquated Hungary), can’t resist getting taken for a ride to exotic Florida by her deadpan and big-talking cousin, Willie. In Kiarostami’s delighted reinvention of that sputtering shot for the stars, he brings to our consideration the lady of a bourgeois house in Tehran, Mrs. Ahankhah, boarding a local bus on her way to a very predictable home, and—bus experience lacking the heights of Persian excitement—she’s more than merely tolerant of a fellow-swarm (Hossein Sabzian), reading in the seat next to her, from a book he’s just bought, pertaining to the hot auteur, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, and his hit, The Cyclist, and going on to tell her that he is the golden globe who wrote the screenplay in question and directed the film and (with the lady urging, “I hope we [particularly herself and her film-arts-avid two sons] meet again) soon declaring  that he’d love to put her and the rest of her family into a new creation. (Herewith we have not only the useful precedent of Jarmusch; but also Federico Fellini’s The White Sheik (1952), where a bored honeymooner, Wanda, runs off (as against a visit to the Vatican, with her far less volatile groom) to play a part in a photo-comic shoot starring a big-talking celebrity the romantic aspects of whom she has been crazy about for years.) Though Mrs. Ahankhah does not take her marching orders, as Eva does, from Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and his “I Put a Spell on You,” she does, in the presence of the rough-edged fellow-passenger, come into a realm of fantasy. (“Please take it. I wrote it… If you like, I’ll autograph it,” the big talker proceeds. She, like Wanda, cues up her windfall to settle her mind about the implausibility: “Famous directors have their own cars…” (He’s researching new scenarios.) She also rushes his way, due to her sons’ having graduated as engineers but only having found less impressive work, the notion, “My boys will be thrilled!”

    Exaggerated thrills do in fact constitute a veritable implosion defining one of the two phenomena which Kiarostami sends our way with sensuous panache and thematic wit. The film begins with a sensationalist/ journalist, Farazmad, accompanying two military police, in order to cover the fraud’s arrest at the home of  Mrs. Ahankhah (more accurately known, in line with customs confusing to us—as is a local police force run by the federal government—as Mrs. Mohensie) and her quasi cinema pre-production family artists, roped in by way of Hossein having obtained the phone number of the thrilled boys, from which the troupe forms up at a theatre showing The Cyclist, as a first step to more magic. The SWAT trip has been made in a taxi for the sake of not alerting the supposed hardened criminal, another nod to big-deal, Willie, and his excursion to supposed wild things. (Kiarostami’s trade-mark setting of the interior and immediate exterior of cars having much to do with Jarmusch’s motif as to automotive [mis-] adventures.) “Things might be tricky,” the sensationalist hopes, not having a clue about how really tricky this matter is. We would soon be privy to the law and order timbre of Tehran, by way of Kiarostami’s interviewing the police captain and hearing the latter maintain, “As you can see, we’re very busy here…” We can see, as the interview proceeds, more than a dozen officers standing about, eavesdropping on the welcome novelty the interview represents. That picture of drift includes a trooper re-lacing his boots, and thereby providing another bemusing diversion.

   Unimpressive sensationalism hits the jackpot, though, in one area we might overlook, namely, Hossein, the sputtering powder keg, whom the judge, in hearing him defend his bizarre trespassing, declares his reality to be “a case of petty fraud.” Before casting some light on the defendant’s erudite sophistry, it does, I think, make a lot of sense to hear from his mother (in a hijab, but still revealing her vigorous rural roots), who petitions the court to “forgive” him. She cites his unemployment, forcing her to support them all. (“The first seven years were peaceful; then his wife began complaining about the poor housing, and she left with one of their two children.”) Perhaps, like Mrs. Ahankhah’s college grads, he does some odd jobs; but, like them, his heart is not there (though Mrs. Ahankhah does at one juncture point out that the mechanical engineer has become a going concern in his bakery sideline). Hossein derives from a far more modest socioeconomic strata; but he lacks not only certification but a will to forego that fantasy fixation upon his entitlement to crafting “thrilling” cinematic discoveries. During his long-winded moment in a court being, from his perspective, a more sombre jumbotron usually touching off any number of well-rehearsed, orgasmic ingratiation, he insists that as sublime as it could get would be his showing, as an actor, his pain as elicited by an unforthcoming horde of public enemies. The filmmaker he impersonates, Mohsen Makhmalbaf (b. 1957), was an ardent supporter of the populist theocracy coming to power in 1979. He was an outspoken enemy of those, like Kiarostami, who had produced something other than hurtin’ sagas, when the Shah was nudging the country into the modern world. Kiarostami, then (almost miraculously fending off that tsunami—but a tsunami comprising those finding diversion in watching someone tying his shoe-lace), would find in his coverage of the trial itself and the more or less bombastic self-dramatists being part of that “petty” blip, a way to, while seemingly giving a break to the pains of marginal energies, quietly disclose that second phenomenon transcending the farcical first—that first which Jarmusch pinpoints as “jerking off.”

    Hossein, after a lenient imprisonment of a few days, tearfully meets his hero, good old Mohsen (invited by Kiarostami to bring his celebrated skills to the architectonic of who walks and who talks), and heads off behind the auteur of The Cyclist’s moto (under the other than teary camera of the master of ceremonies, who tracks the ride under the auspices of a deliberately sputtering sound-system). The salt of the earth stop at a flower market, where the one who was told by his hero, “Stop that!” [blubbering] has chosen a bouquet of yellow blossoms, setting off a stern demand, “Not yellow!” At the now-familiar locked gates of the victims of the scam, the latter part of the ride being restored to unhindered kinetic possibility of a world without excuses, the celestial figure chirps into the security phone, “You’ll see him in a different light!”

   You’ll definitely never see him in a different light—that incipient light which Mrs. Ahankhah displayed in the bus. From Kiarostami’s perspective, the only different light that matters has to be light-years distant from moralist caretakers. Close-Up brims with multi-layering, self-serving verbosity. Its Antipode, which, in the best of all worlds, would be its salient antithesis, is a phenomenon of sensuous dynamics absolutely or nearly silent. The way this latter sphere comes to bear confirms the film as part of an agile reflective task  to convene a full-scale consideration of what has not, to date, been taken into account. (During the trial, the defendant pleads, “My love of art should be taken into account.”) After the journalist’s non-stop gabbing in the taxi— “It’s a hot news item!” [as hot as all those wonderful YouTubes keeping people up all night]—the taxi driver, waiting for the arrest to take place, has some quiet time. He had mentioned being a former air force pilot, on which the populist newsman rattled off a dopey formula which carries a sense far beyond populism: “Air forces on the ground; ground forces in the air…” (The latter also, on seeing the location of the scene of the crime, poses the unintentional wisdom implicit in, “How strange, my greatest story should take place on a dead-end!”) The cabby steps out to the deserted road and soon his eye catches the long-range presence of jet-streams coming from each wing of a big jet, against a deep-blue sky. Dynamic cogency that requires no hype. From a pile of rubble by the curb, he finds a discarded bouquet of tiny flowers (by contrast with the huge spray ferried by the two revolutionaries to the family more or less dreaming the Persian Dream). His final bit of free-time involves nudging with his foot an aerosol cylinder having lost its jet. It jauntily rattles downhill, a reminder that air forces on the ground can stage a kinetic rally of ground forces in the air. (This Heraclitean dialectic comprising another aspect of the Persian Dream. Kiarostami has found an actor who resembles the Shah of Iran to play the part of a grounded high-flyer.) Farazmad, the dispenser of smallish dreams—his headline off the presses in deliberate cliché-style reading, “Bogus Makhmalbaf Arrested”—scrambles door-to-door along the street where the Ahankhahs live, trying to find a tape recorder to use in covering the official incarceration. As he enacts this let-it-all-hang-out idiom, he, in his frenzy, kicks into the air that aerosol can, sending it along that trajectory as before; and the promise therewith of some improvement revisits us at a level of wit and wisdom only one of the greatest filmmakers could manage. (One later rare shining moment occurs during the police raid, as seen from inside the comfortable home. There are a few graceful trees in the yard, their golden autumnal leaves being a relief from the virtually non-stop gracelessly calculated opportunism. We learn that Hossein—dead to anything living—moots cutting them down during the “pre-production.”)

   A frequently floated interpretation of this subtle filmic disclosure is to enthuse about the methodology of filming an actual event by including those who lived it. (“Based on a true story,” the credits point out.) The nub of this insistence is to construct, in the Makhmalbaf style, a great heart stirring in the midst of marginalization, having become a slam-dunk for the patrons of hot docs. In Kiarostami’s interview at the jail with Hossein, pertaining to filming the trial, he asks, “Is there anything I can do for you?” “You could make a film about my suffering,” he quickly replies, failing to have well perceived or cared that that is not the kind of film Kiarostami wants to make. (During that interview, our helmsman asks if the prisoner knows his body of works. Hossein’s affirmative lacks any enthusiasm for a mode of production clearly intent on energies he does not wish to experience. Solidifying this impasse is the filmmaker’s reply to the request to construct a vanity vehicle. “I can’t promise anything…” The gulf separating the two figures captured by Kiarostami’s camera in the visitor’s area of the prison could be said to center upon the ego-drenched melodrama of The Cyclist, wherein an Afghan refugee in Iran stages a sensationally self-destructive 7-day marathon bicycle exhibition with a view to gaining funding for the sake of his critically ill wife. So sold on the ultimacy of that intent, Hossein insists the lesser-in-his-eyes obscurantist convey to his superior that “The Cyclist is part of my life!”  

   What does soon transpire (due to Kiarostami’s intervention with the court to expedite a court date) is the product of Hossein’s many years of portraying himself as, first of all, a directorial genius—on the basis of a deluge of saccharin films from many sources (Makhmalbaf’s The Cyclist being a recent craze, released in 1989)—and, in a whimsical pivot, an even more gifted actor. The Ahankhah family spokesman for the plaintiff is the (double-threat) arts-enthusiast-civil-engineer who describes incidents where the pious charismatic very much harbors monetary predations upon the star-struck affluent, by which his long purgatory could be ended. With “rehearsals” underway, there comes a moment when Hossein, leaving for home, asks the now-accuser for a ride on the youngster’s motorcycle, a gambit drawing from the fantasy-auteur a threat that, were the kid to get into a crash, thirty or forty of his cronies would ransack the tidy home. This quip engenders a chuckle; but then the opportunist asks for and receives 2000 tomans for travel expenses and contingencies he’s not inclined to describe. “I needed it,” he maintains to the judge. His argument that the fraud (from the perspective of others) is essentially a failure to understand that he is indeed at the heart of cinematic verity— “I really was him” [Makhmalbaf]—is delivered with soap opera keening and self-pity. After a day with the star struck family, during which he feels their “respect,” including their still vague consideration to fund the scenario for the up-coming hit, The House of the Spider,  he describes himself being “confident” on the basis of the multiple “trust.” But, every melodrama needing a shot of conflict, he tells the assembly (at one point he tells Kiarostami that he’s his audience), “I had to shed that role” [on leaving the “set”] … I was still the same poor guy… I developed a complex” [about living the hero of Makhmalbaf’s The Cyclist and not being able to thrill the world with rare skill], which “audience” Kiarostami would describe as bathetic, if he were not making his statement in film action.

   Within Hossein’s desperate obsessions, there may obtain jets of sterling possession having nothing to do with Makhmalbaf’s plodding and occasionally murderous self-importance. Just as kicking an aerosol can can hardly be understood as engaging a cycle of creative sensibility, the predatory quagmire Hussein has chosen to settle for has virtually nothing to do with art as an elicitation to a lifetime of vigorous daring and buoyant joy, which (given the fondness for antiquity) must always seem strangely new. At the beginning of the interview with the family of unwelcome notoriety, Mr. Ahankhah tells Kiarostami, “I don’t know what your intentions are…” We, having been given the opportunity to contemplate a case of pettiness far outstripping the con man who would maintain he is above jerking off, can come to terms with the vast outrage darkening world history while still, as with the lady of the house, keeping options open, such as they are.

   We’re left thinking not of the presumptuous pest, but the far more nuanced maturity of Mrs. Ahankhah. After her first coming aboard Hossein’s vision of 1001 Nights—from her purchase, forestalling the deadly boredom of her family and circle—she fades into the background. Sitting, silently, in the court, she seems to have startlingly aged (with far more grey hair apparent than on the day when she first saw some daylight in the situation of Hossein). Within the domestic scene visited by Kiarostami, the stilted and phoney self-promotion by the men relegates her to the function of servant. Her husband brags, “I knew from the start exactly what was going on. And I always had the situation well under control. I led Mr. Sabzian along, as a lesson to my children…” The prissy civil engineer reams off a river of excuses and others’ faults to impress upon the notable that he’s an overlooked treasure. He denounces the lack of “raw material” as a factor of the poor employment picture. (The irony of a dearth of “raw material” far more appreciated by the interviewer than the interviewee.) He slaps down the only remark that day his mother finds to hold promise, concerning his brother’s beginning to find value in his bakery management work, with the vacuous snobbery, “I prefer artistic work to selling bread… My brother didn’t study all those years to sell bread…” He finds outrageous that the reporter (getting something right for a change) has portrayed them as simple folk. And that brings us back to the lady of the house and her apparent dead-end.

   Kiarostami, like Jarmusch, knows that the gift he can generate with his films is as much about the alert viewer than the dazzling architectonic Hossein being, in addition to his fixity of primitivism, near [close-up] and yet so far. The taxi driver, being brought up to speed by the reporter about the identity theft of the filmmaker, declares, “I don’t have time for movies. I’m too busy with life…” And yet his readiness to track dynamics far surpasses the cinephile’s going nowhere, within the purview of what a movie means to Kiarostami. Asking for directions to that dead-end which may not be entirely a dead-end, they come to a couple of pointed conclusions: “Ask an adult.” And, confronted by a farmer taking his livestock to market, “We’re off to see a turkey of our own.” Mrs. Ahankhah mentioned enjoying The Cyclist. She didn’t add that it was a highlight of her life. Where would such superior judgment go, in a place like Tehran? Houdini-like Kiarostami had his ways. The already straitjacked lady might decide, after the farcical fling with Hossein, to cut back on her viewing (migraines being so useful). Were she ever to encounter a Kiarostami film, would she become intrigued? Were she never to see another film, her being on the spot would not be over.