#bonsai warner

[ageeksnerdyworld]

Shameful in the Light

Characters: Zale Young, Bonsai Warner, Mayor Whiskers

Word Count: 5,870

Trigger Warning: Swearing, Drug Use (kinda), Death

A/N: The only thing I actually had inspiration for so here ya go... As always the Cyber World belongs to @voiceoflarka

Summary: Life tricks even the best of men into avoiding the truth. Often subconsciously their daily thoughts and actions only aide and abet. Burying a man deeper into his sins and his ignorance. But nothing, not even the deepest love, can keep the demons out forever. Click that read more if ya want...

~~~

The bed was cold. Cold and oddly comforting. The sensation pulled him down and silently begged him to stay. Beckoning like a siren's song from the deep. It didn't matter that one arm hung off the side. Or that barely a corner of the thick blanket covered his person. Or that he couldn't properly breathe with his face buried deep in the pillow. He would've gladly kept laying there and slept the day away.

But the force on his back had other plans. The motion, the light push, was far too familiar for him to ignore. His eyes slowly fluttered open; blinking against the sunlight. What sleep continued to linger, attempting to call him back, made his dark lashes stick to one another.

"C'mon Mayor Whiskers," he groaned. "It's too early for this, man."

"Mmrow," came the response.

Turning over onto his left side he pushed the gray tabby off his back.

Laying on his side Bonsai's face filled his vision. Despite events of the previous night, the state of her hair and makeup, she looked at peace. Her chest rose and fell in perfect time with her deep slumber. She was clutching the blanket close to her chest. He didn't want to wake her. He didn't want to bring the moment to an abrupt end. But at the same time he couldn't not touch her.

Reaching out he softly pushed a couple strands of hair out of her face.

She instinctively moved away; turning her head in the opposite direction of his touch. A quiet, annoyed, grunt escaped her lips. She flung her right arm over her face to block out the light.

"Mrrow," the cat called again. The annoyance in his voice was clear despite the lack of human speech.

"Chill out wouldja? I'm up, I'm up," Zale whispered.

Pulling the blanket off he swung his feet over the side of the bed. Mayor Whiskers took this as a sign and jumped off the bed. The cat hurriedly rushed out of the room. Zale took a few seconds to stretch before stepping onto the bedroom floor.

A low, very aggravated, meow came from down the hall.

"Fucking relax," Zale muttered to himself as he left the room.

Outside the open door he stood in the short hallway. From there he could see the front door to the apartment and the kitchen beyond it. There was the gray tabby cat; standing by the food and water bowls. As Zale walked over the cat rushed back to him and rubbed against his leg. Mayor Whiskers continued to walk with Zale to the kitchen. All the while airing his grievances with drawn out meowing.

Stepping onto the cold tile floor sent a shiver through Zale’s body.

The cat rushed to the spot, adjacent to the small kitchen closet, where his bowls were kept. Once again he started meowing with an annoyed urgency.

When Zale saw the empty bowls he sighed. Bending down he ran his hand along Mayor Whiskers' head before scratching the cat's chin.

"No wonder you're so pissed, huh, bud? You must be starving," he said.

Pulling himself to his feet Zale shook his head. This wasn't the first time either of them had forgotten to feed the cat. It wouldn't be the last either. Even so each time he woke to a hungry, thirsty, Mayor Whiskers his heart sank.

"Some pet parents we are," he muttered to himself.

Bending down again he picked up the bowl on the right side. It was a light gray with a red line along the bottom rim. Crossing the short distance to the sink he turned the faucet on. Letting the dirty, hot, water run for a few seconds he waited for it run cold and clean.

You think you can take care of yourself and her when you can’t even take care of a fucking cat?

He blocked the thought out as he filled the bowl with water.

“Here ya go, Mayor Whiskers,” he said as he set the bowl back down. The cat quickly lapped up the water. He was clearly dehydrated as he didn’t take a single pause for a good minute or two. And when he did finally take a second it was only to lick the excess water droplets off his mouth.

Zale turned back to the sink and reached for the cupboards. Gripping the old, rusted, handle as gingerly as possible he lightly pulled it. The cupboard didn't open but the handle came off in his hand. Sighing deeply he put the handle on the counter. Putting his fingers underneath the lip of the door he pulled. This time it opened. Reaching inside he pushed the other one open as well.

The sagging, nearly empty, bag of cat food sat sadly in the cupboard.

He took the bag out and set it on the counter, next to the sink, before opening it. The sounds must have alerted the cat as he quickly jumped up on the counter. He was circling the bag; sniffing and pawing at the paper.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Zale said as he picked the bag up again.

He took a couple of steps to the empty food bowl. It was the same size and shape as the other bowl. The only difference was the coloring; opposite to its twin. Red all except for a thin line around the bottom rim. Zale quickly filled the bowl and returned the bag to the cupboard. Mayor Whiskers took the short window for what it was and began eating.

The loud, crunching, sounds filled the small space. Zale knelt down next to the cat and began slowly running his hand along the cat’s back. A thousand yard stare overtook him as the thoughts, that he had blocked out earlier, came back in a flood of self-defamation.

Suddenly he realized that the crunching sounds had stopped. Shaking his head, knocking the fog out of his mind, he rose to his feet. He quickly walked back to the bedroom.

From the doorway he could see that Bonsai was still in bed.

She had shifted onto her stomach at some point. Her arms and legs were sprawled out over the mattress. Zale tiptoed back into the room as quietly as he could. Stopping at the foot of the bed he reached over and walked his fingers up her leg. Grunting quietly and annoyed she tried to kick his hands away.

"Morning, gorgeous."

"Go away," she replied; voice groggy and muffled. "I'm sleeping."

"You can't fool me, miss black eyeliner."

He crawled onto the bed; closing the space between them. Sitting on his knees he grabbed her hand and curled his fingers in between hers. Pulling her onto her back Zale leaned in and softly kissed her cheek. He let go and hopped off the bed once more. He crossed to the short dresser that sat a few feet from the door frame. Opening the drawer he grabbed the first thing he saw.

Pulling the shirt over his head, he turned to her and, asked; "Wanna head out?"

She nodded.

~~~

“Gonna tell me where we’re going, babe?”

Zale shook his head.

They had barely left the apartment before she began asking. And even after a few blocks, and a half-assed game of twenty questions, she kept at it. Zale continued to keep it a secret. His silence ticked her off more than the secret.

"Better be worth it,” she said with a bitter voice.

“Oh it is, trust me.”

Bonsai rolled her eyes and scoffed.

She wore an over-sized gray shirt under a red flannel. Layered on top was a light blue jean jacket. The fabric was distressed and faded. Various patches covered the surface in a randomized pattern. A pair of black fishnets covered her legs under a short, pale pink, skirt. Ends of the fishnets were tucked into the galaxy printed high tops which covered her feet. Days, maybe weeks, old polish colored her nails a deep black. Except for the top edges where it had cracked and peeled off. The aviator sunglasses on her face glinted in the afternoon sun. Her makeup was still a mess but she didn’t care.

And neither did he.

To him she was always the most beautiful person anywhere they went.

Like a moth flying dangerously close to a flame he caught himself staring and looked away.

But he was too late and she already noticed. Turning away from the passing cars she side-eyed him. Bonsai pulled the sunglasses down over the bridge of her nose. Looking him up and down she nodded approvingly.

“Mm-hmm.”

Zale chuckled and shook his head in embarrassment.

He mindlessly echoed her gaze and looked down at himself. His eyes glued to each article of clothing for a long time; analyzing every tiny detail. The old and discolored white t-shirt with its peeling black triangle. A pair of faded, over washed, black jeans haphazardly shoved into a pair of boots. Various sized patches of different materials covered the larger holes. One of the zippers had broken. It was stuck half open and the pull tab had fallen off. He wore an aging, and tattered, navy-blue hoodie. The hood covered his head; blocking his peripheral like a pair of blinders.

How in the hell did you get lucky enough to have her? Fucking look at yourself, dude. Look like you crawled outta the fucking dump. Probably smell like it too.

Zale started to zero in on the things he couldn’t see. The hard calluses on his fingers. Scrapes on his knees that burned painfully. Heavy, dark, bags under his eyes. Bruises, scabs, and strangely shaped dents covered his skin in various places. Fading veins, originally a deep oxford blue, were now barely visible. A few had died from overuse and turned black.

All with track marks to match.

Nobody’s gonna see 'em. Even if they did who the fuck cares? Mom? Dad? Cove? Fae? Don’t make me laugh.

As these thoughts ran through his mind he began picking at his sleeve.

Bonsai reached over, standing on her toes, and pulled his hood off.

Before he could fix it she ran her hand through his hair. Pulling her close he wrapped an arm around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her long, wavy, black hair cascaded down his chest.

“This is it,” Zale said after a few minutes.

She peeled off him and looked around.

The couple stood in front of a bookstore. Its exterior was long and rectangular. Square transom windows ran along the top of the storefront; metal latticework spacing the glass apart. The square designs were echoed on the masonry pillars and the bulkhead. Two old fashioned street lamps hung from the top of the pillars; along the extended cornice. Everything that made up the storefront, that was not glass, had been painted a dark turquoise color. Large, square, glass panes sat on either side of the recessed entryway.

Display windows gave passersby a clear view inside.

Above the transom windows, and cornice, the facade was painted white. A sign was affixed to the building on the space. The nameplate shaped sign matched the turquoise color of the rest of the building. Painted on the stylized metal, in thin and sharp cursive, was the name of the store. Bright golden letters stood out against the dark black behind it.

“The Book Nook?” she turned to him and asked.

Zale dug into his back pockets; pulling out a Sharpie and a couple of pens.

He held the items out to her with a smirk. She took them quickly and opened the door. He followed close behind.

The interior of the store had a cozy, welcoming, atmosphere. Two or three tables were set up behind the large display windows. A deep, dark oak, counter jutted out from the wall not too far from the large window on the left-hand side. An elderly woman stood behind the counter. Her white hair was tied back in a neat bun; except for a few strands that had fallen around her face. She smiled at them as they entered but did not approach. Zale nodded at her as Bonsai rushed to the shelves at the back.

As he walked over to where his better half had rushed off to Zale noticed that not that many people were in the store. It was a bit late in the afternoon so it made sense. Most people, with normal lives, would be at work or school. Catching sight of Bonsai he quickened his pace.

She was standing near the back of the aisle; near the emergency exit. Book in hand she seemed to be intently reading whatever was typed on its pages.

But he knew better.

“Whatcha got there, B?” he asked as he stepped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Some stupid self-help book,” she said; the disgust clear in her voice.

The Sharpie was in her hand; hidden under the spine of the book. Her brow furrowed as she searched for something. Flipping through the pages she finally found what she was looking for. The empty space under the title of the eighth chapter gave her a perfect canvas. With a delightful chuckle she pulled the cap off the permanent marker and went to work. It didn’t take long. A minute or maybe less and then she moved to place the book back on the shelf.

“Lemme see that again.”

“Enjoy,” she replied with a wink as she passed the book to him. She walked away and went about perusing the aisles once more.

He quickly flipped to chapter eight.

The chapter was entitled Horrors of Hate. But a dark, thick, line ran through the word “hate”. Above the text, in harshly scribbled handwriting, was the word “youth”. Under the title was a drawing of a girl’s crying face. Her hand was outstretched with an unclear object in her palm. The overall shape of the object matched a small hole in the girl’s chest.

Chuckling to himself and shaking his head he replaced the book.

He wandered through the store once more. Taking a red pen out of his back pocket looked around for the bookstore’s owner. Not seeing her anywhere near him he turned toward the nearest shelf just in case. He held the pen in between his fingers and hid it under the sleeve of his hoodie.

Randomly picking up various books he scrawled his own messages in the blank spaces.

Zale wrote stupid things that were funny in the moment. Short phrases like “doing a book burning? start with me” and “only read when high”. As he finished a small drawing of a dog pooping on the title of a rom-com piece of erotica he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Zay! Look at this,” Bonsai said as she shoved a book into his face.

It was a children’s graphic novel. The superheroes, in their brightly colored costumes, were fighting the villain. All of the typical violence that was associated with the heroes in question was nowhere to be seen. Or it was supposed to be as the book was for children. The heroes were supposed to talk the villain out of doing whatever damage they had planned.

Bonsai had taken it upon herself to fix the problem.

Red and blue ink turned a docile scene into a bloodbath. With the dialogue bubbles untouched the text remained the same. The juxtaposition of the flowery language with the added violence was hilarious. Now the scene ended with the villain, still claiming to be reformed, beaten and bloodied.

As Zale laughed she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really needed this.”

“Anything for you.”

She took the book from him and went to return it to wherever she first found it. He watched her go and smiled. After the night they had previously she was in dire need of a pick me up. Thankfully this did the trick.

He returned the book to the shelf and pretended to scan the rest of the books for another. After a minute or so of this miming he shrugged and walked away. Taking his time as he went he looked around for Bonsai. He knew that she couldn’t be far off as the place wasn’t very big. Walking around the store Zale felt the phone in his back pocket vibrate. He slowed to a stop as he took out his cell. A text came through from an unknown number. The message was a simple two word phrase.

In stock.

Before he could text back the phone buzzed again. The vibration was longer than the first time; signifying that a call was coming through. He pressed the green phone icon and put the phone to his ear.

“Howard Boulevard, green-gray,” the familiar voice on the other end said before hanging up.

~~~

The street was busy despite the odd hour. Most people should've been at work or school and yet cars practically flooded the street. Zale turned and gave Bonsai a confused look from under the weathered, dull, navy hood. She echoed his confusion with a cocked eyebrow. Turning back to the street they scanned the opposite side.

He felt her hand harshly squeeze his own.

A slew of parked cars lined the curb. A couple of bikes were neatly corralled by the edge of the sidewalk that turned down a narrow alleyway. But, mysteriously, only one appeared to have the engine on.

From this distance all they could see clearly was the profile of the car. Even with the bright lights above it was difficult to discern the color. They had no idea if this car belonged to who they thought. But already late they quickly rushed across the street. He held her hand as they ran; clutching it intensely. Like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

Calm down, he mentally shouted to himself, nothing’s happened.

Slowing to a leisurely stroll once they reached the correct side of the street. Zale looked around for a car matching the color he was told. His head whipped around as he searched. A sharp exhale left his body when he saw it. Pointing it out to he lessened his grip on Bonsai's hand. She ran her hand through her hair; trying to shake out her nerves. As the couple walked the silhouetted shape of a person came into view.

The shape was leaning against the trunk; facing away from them. A thin reflection of the car's rear lights shined on the figure's dark jacket. Seeing the man's face Zale felt the tension leave his body. He heard Bonsai exhale a deep sigh of relief.

"Fuckin' took ya long enough."

Klynn Buffett was never a patient man.

He stood with arms crossed over his chest. An old, weathered, light gray jean jacket covered his chest. The sleeves were cut off in a very disordered manner. Fabric strands of varying lengths hung from the edges. He wore a white t-shirt underneath. On the fabric was an image of a skull; black on one side and white on the other. Behind the skull image was a series of pixels. Reversed coloring to the skull the pixels were of different size and shape. Dark blue jeans collected in a series of folds at his feet. On his feet were a pair of bright red street sneakers. The soles were white with black writing all over.

Klynn’s bright auburn veins cut through the dark.

Silver ink shone along the left side of his neck; illuminated by the car’s rear lights. Stylish filigree curled around his skin in an intricate manner. Inside the decorative ink was an image of raven feathers. Underneath the feathers was the Latin phrase; volenti non fit injuria. An impatient annoyance twisted his lips into a snarl. The emotion was perfectly reflected in his hunter green eyes. His white hair, shaved except for the top of his skull, was wavy and long. Swept to the right side of his face the curled locks covered his eye.

Zale shook his head and looked at the ground; "Sorry man. Lost track of time."

Kylnn scoffed. It was clear that he wasn't satisfied with that answer. But he pushed off the car and moved towards the front door. His dark eyes dug daggers into Zale.

"Gonna let it slide. This time."

Clutching the door handle Kylnn pulled it to open the door. It didn't budge. He chuckled and shook his head.

“You good, man?”

“Yeah,” came the struggled reply. “This piece of shit gets stuck all the time.”

Zale nodded and shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets. Bonsai moved closer and hooked her arm through his. Bonsai nudged him slightly. Looking over to her he gave her a questioning look.

“You ok?” he mouthed.

She shook her head.

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. Without saying a thing she nudged her head in Kylnn’s direction. Then she motioned to the area around them. Zale took a minute before he understood. Clearing his throat loudly he took his hands out of his pockets and stepped in front of Bonsai.

“Kinda noticing your boys aren’t here, Kylnn.”

“Yeah, so? If yo...” he suddenly stopped; freezing in place.

"Let's go," Bonsai whispered.

"What? Why?"

Bonsai's pleading eyes shifted back to where Kylnn stood. They took on a deep look of suspicion. A sprinkling of fear lurked inside as well. She crossed her arms over one another and hugged herself.

"I just have a bad feeling. Please, Zay."

Zale chuckled, smirking, "For real? We've been buying off him for years, B. If he wanted to rip us off he woulda done it already."

She nodded reluctantly. Zale could see that she was still bothered by something. He didn't know what it could have been but he pulled her into a hug. Holding her close for a minute; hoping it would help ease her nerves. Uncurling from the embrace he held her at arm's length. Zale looked at her for a few seconds before cupping her face in his hands. He kissed her on the forehead and rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. You're my tree of life, B. This soul," he said; laying a hand on his chest.

“This soul is useless without you.”

BAM!

The sound of the car door slamming made the couple jump. Turning in the direction of the sound they saw Kylnn walking around the car to the front side. He winked at them as he passed. Bonsai’s suspicions grew but she kept them to herself. Her veins began to glow just a little bit brighter as if to echo her feelings.

Zale put his hand on her shoulder.

Another loud slamming sound rang through the night as Kylnn let the hood of the car fall back into place.

“Why, man?”

“Just part of my charm,” Kylnn said with a smirk.

“So, the whole thing with the door was--?”

“Lost track of where I put it. That shit happens to the best of us.”

Kylnn joined the couple on the sidewalk and he approached Zale. He held his hand out. Zale took it and pulled him into a man hug. The exchange only lasted for a few seconds before they let go. As their hands moved apart a small plastic bag was passed into Zale’s hand. He curled his fingers around it before shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“Pleasure doin’ business.”

Zale nodded and wrapped his arm around Bonsai again. As they walked away he leaned to kiss her head.

~~~

Once inside the apartment he pushed the door closed with his foot. Turning around to lock it caused the paper bag to shift in the crook of his left arm. He shouted over his shoulder.

“B? I’m back!”

Shoving the key into his pocket he simultaneously kicked his shoes off. After that he turned around once more. Now facing the inside of his apartment he could see that everything was exactly how he left it. An open carton of milk was still on the table. The small stack of books that held up the broken table leg was still askew from when he rushed out.

Exhaling the breath he didn’t know he held Zale walked across the floor.

“I got you something,” he called to the empty air.

He thought that maybe she had taken a nap. She had done that ever since they’d known each other. It didn’t matter what the argument was about, or who it was with, she always ended them the same way. When he asked why she explained that she didn’t want people to fight for too long. He always thought it was sweet.

So he turned the corner and walked to their bedroom. He took a breath before quietly pushing the door open.

But the room was empty. The bed, a small mattress on a thin metal frame, only housed a few pillows and a blanket. The beanbag that sat in the corner opposite the bed was also missing it’s typical occupant.

Walking out of the room he made his way back. It was clear that the kitchen was empty so he didn’t bother looking. As he moved to set the bag on the counter he turned to his right; scanning the small living room.

There she was.

Bonsai was sitting on the sofa with her back towards him. Her long, black, hair cut off at the base of her neck by the back of the sofa. It was clear that she hadn't heard him. Zale smirked and crept over to the couch.

It was the perfect time to surprise her.

Walking on tiptoes he approached the sofa from the left side. Turning the corner she had fully come into view.

She wore the same outfit from earlier minus the aviators. Her arms were on either side of her person. Palms facing up her thin arms were quietly laying by her side. A bright green colored rubber band tourniquet hung loosely off her left arm. Barely past the crook of her elbow was a syringe. The plunger had been pushed all the way down.

The needle was still in her skin.

On the old, dented, and stained wood table was another tourniquet. It was a bright yellow color. Next to the tourniquet was another syringe. Empty. There was an old, burnt and bent, spoon on the other side of the syringe. Also empty. A lighter and a couple cotton balls also lay on the tabletop.

The small plastic bag also lay on the table.

Most of its contents remained.

Zale’s eyes rapidly darted from each item he saw, to the next, and back again. His mind couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It just made no sense. In a daze, unaware that he was even moving, he rushed to her side. His knees slammed into the floor and he ignored the pain. His bottom lip quivered in fear.

With shaking hands he carefully pulled the needle from her skin.

He tried to call her name but the sounds remained in his throat.

The pulse of her veins was getting slower with each passing second. Slow and progressively more faint. Deep black broke through the bright orange every few beats. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. It seemed like there was something blocking the air from filling her lungs. Every couple seconds she would choke on nothing. The edges of her lips were turning pale. And a blank thousand yard stare glossed over her eyes.

"No, no, no," he repeated; anguish heavy in his voice.

"C'mon, c'mon stay with me, B. You were right. You knew and I... Fuck. I'm so sorry."

She pressed a finger to his lips and shook her head. The message was clear. Nothing he could say would change anything. There was no point wasting what time they had left on apologies.

"Babe," her voice a choked whisper, "can you sing something for me?"

He nodded as the tears ran down his cheeks. Clutching her hand in his own, a hand against her back holding on, he could feel the heat leave her body. A whirlwind of emotions ran through his mind as he started to sing. It was quiet and shaky. Completely off tune. He didn't even know if he sang any actual words.

But none of that mattered.

She wanted to hear his voice and so she did.

Lifting his head he took a deep, shaky, breath. Only then did he notice that the gray tabby had sat next to Bonsai. He had been purring quietly.

"Don't go, B. Please."

But she was already gone.

Panicked, afraid, and in pure disbelief he grabbed her shoulders. Shaking her lightly he called her name again and again. She didn't respond. Her head jerked back each time he moved her. Her entire body was limp, although still warm, and didn't put up a fight. Couldn't. Her eyes were dull. Veins now entirely black. Running his hands along her neck he cupped her face in his hands; thumbing her cheek.

He sat there, sobbing, until there were no more tears to shed. The grief poured out of his mouth until his throat was raw.

Why? Why? Why? the question repeated with the rapid, fearful, pulse in his veins.

Kylnn.

Shoving his hand into his jeans he aggressively searched for his phone. Pressing the button on the back brought the dark screen to life. The black void was immediately replaced with a picture of the two of them. He quickly tapped out the code on the screen.

But his nerves got the better of him and the screen informed him that he messed up. Shaking his head he bit his bottom lip and tried again. And again. And again. The screen stayed on the picture, the digital clock changing, as if to taunt him.

He screamed and tightly grasped the phone in his hand.

Mayor Whiskers walked over to where Zale stood. He let out a quiet meow to get the young man's attention. Rubbing his head against his leg Mayor Whiskers started to purr again. The sound was usually low and comforting, but, not this time. In the dead quiet apartment every minor sound, that typically wasn't easily distinguished from the rest, was now obvious. The loud mechanical hum of the fridge. A dull, rattle-like, sound emanated from the air vents. The creaking sounds from the neighbors' walking around their apartments. Even the cat's purr was loud.

The overwhelming sounds pulled him back into the moment. He took a breath and tapped the screen one more time. The picture disappeared. It gave way to the slew of apps that covered an image of gray squares varying in size and shade. Ignoring every other app in view his thumb moved to the dark, blue-green colored, phone icon. Pressing the square brought up his most recent calls.

Without a second thought he pressed the first number in the list.

Putting the phone to his ear Zale found himself hoping that the call went unanswered. But his hopes were dashed as the phone abruptly stopped ringing.

"What did you do?"

"Huh?" the voice responded.

"What the fuck did you do, Kylnn?!"

"Look man I don't know what this--"

Zale cut him off; "She's dead. So, I'm gonna ask again and you're gonna give me an answer. What. Did. You. Do?"

The sudden change in tone was shocking. Violent threats, subtly hinted at through his words, went unspoken.

“Alright, alright, ya got me. I put a lil’ somethin’ extra in it.”

Kylnn paused on the other end as if he was choosing his words carefully.

“Thought you two woulda got hooked on the combo. That’s it. Scout’s honor.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Zale could practically see Kylnn shrug. He could, very clearly, see Kylnn lounging in whatever hovel he currently called home. The man was most likely sitting on a dirty and ratty couch counting his earnings. His phone would be held in place by his shoulder. Even in his own base of operations Kylnn always had his cronies around for protection. He knew that one of the many girls and boys Kylnn kept would be there too.

"I was gonna marry her."

“Well, look, I gotta go. Same time next week?”

Kylnn hung up before Zale could respond let alone tell him off.

He quietly sunk to his knees; no energy to scream nor tears left to shed.

The shock overtook him again and he mindlessly scrolled through his messages. Quickly finding what he needed he typed out what he could. He didn’t look it over. He didn’t care. He clicked send and let the phone fall from his hand as his body melted into the floor.

Barely a minute passed before the replies came in. His phone loudly buzzed as it vibrated on the floor. At first it was a few short notification buzzes. Then it turned into longer, drawn-out, vibrations. Calls began to flood in.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t pick the phone up.

He didn’t move even when his front door slammed open.

Zale stayed in that spot, frozen in place, until his band-mates, his friends, pulled him to his feet. Someone wrapped a blanket around him. Someone else was pacing the floor; loudly yelling into a phone. Zale vaguely took in what was going on around him. Even as he did everything began to blur and blend together. He swore she was fine. He knew that she hadn’t shot up without him.

“She wouldn’t leave me,” he said. “Not on purpose.”

“’Course not,” Zephyr said.

“It’s my fault,” he continued; ignoring what Zephyr had said. He stared out at nothing and pulled at his hair. “It’s all my fault.”

They tried to talk him out of saying that kind of thing. It wasn’t true and they knew that. Emery interrupted at one point to tell the others that the police were on their way. Running a hand through his hair he looked around the room and whispered.

“Bro? Wanna go out into the hall? Cops are gonna be here--”

Zale cut him off with his ramblings; “She didn’t want to. I said it’d be fine. Same guy as always. She didn’t want to and bought it anyway.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dexterity said as they put a hand on his shoulder and quietly guided him out.

“I bought it! I left her alone! I was gone for five minutes all because I had to buy her some dumb fucking mini cactus! I bought her a cactus and now she’s dead. It’s my fault!”

Dexterity didn’t respond and continued to guide Zale out into the hallway. Their hand continuing to rub his back. Looking back to the others they saw Zephyr and Emery standing in the middle of the living room. Both of them were looking around for things they thought Zale might need. After they grabbed a few things, water and snacks, they followed Dexterity into the hall.

Mayor Whiskers followed the group closely behind.

The three of them stayed by Zale’s side until the police arrived.

[coolstockmarkettips-blog]

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[indiotismo]

TIMOTHY WILLIAM BURTON. La rarità del gotico reso umano. La dolcezza del nefasto EDen di pupazzi morti. Creazione di un pianeta invertebrato semprevivo. Dove lo strano siete voi.

Ecco, io in un modo mio, stavolta, proprio non riesco a dirlo. Ho una sorta di ossessione-megaloMANIa nei suoi confronti che mi paralizza. L'uomo che mi fece avere i primi brividi di paura, quella d'amore verso l'io recondito dell'animo creativo, fu lui. Tim Burton, alla maggior parte della popolazione vivente, conosciuto come il regista peculiare dal bizzarro dark-side che nasce con carente normalità per crescere in forte solitudine, ma mai effettivamente solo. Per me, è evidente, il mio mentore.

Città natale, Burbank. Una sorta di succursale triste della California allegra, dove Warner e Columbia erano i vicini importanti da scrutare. È nella sua esclusiva adolescenza cucita su un velluto di sbieco, difficile (?), che trova a fianco a sè gli amici immaginari che lo fanno sentire bene. Fantasia è la strada di casa, non la distrazione infantile. Lui è attirato da cose che voi umani trovereste brutte, senza senso e soprattutto dark. Nel vero senso della parola, oscure, lugubri e oggettivamente catastrofiche! E invece lui ne resta lucidamente sedotto.. Le guarda, le assorbe, le fonde insieme e poi le rigurgita come un neonato consapevole che quel modo-mondo espressivo lo salverà. E quindi esprimere queste storie anomale diventa un comandamento. Disegna i soggetti in modo talmente fiabesco che anche le scene di maggior inquietudine non appaiono come tali, velate di una gentilezza che solo Tim conosce e sa infondere. Pipistrelli, bimbi senza faccia, vampiri, uomini-forbice, giganti inguardabili, inventori, fantocci, fanciulle, mostri di ogni specie, e misteri in fondo al mare.. ossessivamente curati nell'immagine, moralmente nobili, naturalmente normali.

Tutti partoriti autenticamente in quella macchina che gli scienziati chiamano cervello e che si aziona premendo il ☑ cuore. Tim ha il cuore più vicino alla mente di una persona “normale”, secondo la mia sensibilità antropologica. La sua sceneggiatura bipolare inconfondibile, ne è la prova. Il diverso si contrappone al normale e non esiste senza quest'ultimo. Impossibile dividere gli opposti, vincolati da un’empatia quasi umiliante. Ognuno deve convivere con l'altro nel proprio mondo, non con poche difficoltà ma conservandosi.

Un modo credo gentile e visionario, di dare considerazione a tutto ciò che viene discriminato per avvalorare la differenza di ciascuno di noi. L'individualità. Siamo fatti così male. O così bene, chi lo sa. Siate. Sì a te.

Ogni dettaglio è un ordine. Una stravaganza. Un ordinato disegno composto del caos, come i capelli di Edward, come i suoi. Equilibrio disordinato del benessere, lo chiamerei.

Borsa di studio al California Institute of the Arts. Il suo praticantato lo vuole in Disney, dove con scarsa fatica, cercherà di delineare il meglio possibile ciò che la sorridente azienda priva di spettri, cercherà di imporgli in matita. Fu così che, travolto dal suo solito destino, abbandona i felici facciali lasciandosi coccolare per sempre dagli irresistibilmente tristi, buffi, macchiette-mascotte come molteplici specchi della sua vita. Dalle origini alla carta stampata. Alla pellicola. In un turbinio di disturbi creativo-sentimentali inesplorati.

Tutto gloriosamente messo in scena con la sua appassionata tecnica dello stop motion, artigianalità di prestigio (ovvero sommare centinaia di fotogrammi dei modellini equivalenti ai personaggi per tradurli in movimento). Nascono schizzi, in essenza figure dissacranti e grottesche, pacchiane ed eleganti che scivolano via dal foglio e divengono reali nei suoi fantomatici film. Come un pilota luminare vola su orbite orfane di luce e scrive il suo essere sole, pardon solo, sopra un disegno di stelle eccentriche. Ma prima di salutare la casa dei cartoni animati, firma il suo primo corto ufficiale nel 1982, (un anno strano), intitolato Vincent, un estremo shot autobiografico, dedicato al più noto Price.

Non a caso, stesso anno, stessa platonica onorificenza.. Michael Jackson lancia la sua perla grezza, Thriller, che risulterà essere negli anni avvenire il singolo più venduto della storia della musica, precursore di nuovi generi che si formeranno, con oltre 100 milioni di copie vendute ad oggi. Il particolare? Oltre al fatto che il Jacko balla con gli zombie e si trasforma anch’egli,per la legge di attrazione + sex-appeal coreografico comprovato…è Vincent Price! Voce narrante che si identificó in quella risata orrorifica inimitabile di chiusura canzone.

Insomma nasceva un legame pop gotico dietro le quinte a nostra insaputa.

I personaggi hanno tutti un carisma che li accomuna paurosamente. La scelta dell’attore diventa determinante, lui lo sa. Qualche chicca...

Saltellante e smaliziato nel cimitero di un plastico nella mansarda di due neo sposini già morti, come scordare l’incredibile sudicione di Betlegeuse, (Beetlejuice – Spiritello porcello ), impersonificato da un Michael Keaton da panico nella parte del bio-esorcista attizzato ed insolente! O il ghigno beffardo studiato ad hoc interpretato dal fascinoso bastardo Jack Nicholson nella parte di Joker, in Batman (1989) firmato Burton. Pigmalione di Johnny Depp, che scopre verso i ’90 scardinandolo dal palchetto del talentuoso attore sexy, grazie a doti interpretative sviluppate in simbiosi con la sua radicata natura gotica, lo incorona ad alter-ego personale..in Edward mani di forbice, ispirato alla figura di rockstar punk del frontman dei Cure e alla camminata goffa di Chaplin, di certo emotivamente alla sua identità di bambino. 

Originalissimo in ogni personaggio caratterizzato dal viso pallido e da quel non so che di mortem in corpore. Winona, colei che fece impazzire il tasso alcolico del bel tenebroso pupillo di Burton ed in scena dolcemente pudica, incarna la purezza, vuoi da necrofila teenager un momento, vuoi da cheerleader teenager in un altro. Ne esce un duo di attori esplosivo che non fa altro che accrescere la magia che si cela dietro ad ogni pellicola invasiva di questo uomo scapigliato. Innamorarsi fra anime perse perché di esse sarà il regno dei matti. Helena, la sua unica ineguagliabile musa, che si plasma e si contorce maniacalmente bene alle sue richieste di sceneggiatore, concedendosi totalmente al suo volere per amore.

Tenebre al limite dell’ironico, trash come se piovesse, nei suoi film si alternano condizioni eccessive, perché le misure per un vero creativo che si rispetti, non esistono. Esiste la demenza espressiva che le legalizza in fretta. Oserei dire che sbucano esempi di tendenza fashion nei suoi cult movies, particolari che ritroveremo molti anni più tardi nel settore.. dai pantaloni a righe bianche e nere del pazzo spiritello Beetlejuice targato 1988 che fanno tanto quelli griffati di qualche anno fa; al total black dei moderni darkettoni europei; al look frankensteiniano ricongiungibilissimo ai nuovi androgini maschi in passerella, o le scarpe alte come ferri da stiro identiche alle calzature tipiche della moda punk rock inglese, da poco riscoperte commercialmente.

Tim precursore dell’emo. Una cassaforte vivente di diversi input d’avanguardia stilistica, tendenzialmente sempre un po’ cupi e teatrali.

Per gli amanti sui generis, i torbidi, i meticci, i castrati, i malati, i colti, gli stolti, i bonsai, i nonsai, i crisantemi, i finti astemi, i sensitivi, i radioattivi, i ciechi,… sono impronte tangibili di timburtonite: il castello mai abbastanza gotico tanto da riproporlo in altre esperienze cinematografiche; la divertente sessualità perversa, latente; l'amore incondizionato di un essere più fragile rispetto agli altri; l’ironia superficiale filo-americana che rappresenta le sue glam commedies.

Tutti suoi lati,..oscuri? Non credo. Forse sfumati. Di certo il regista ha saputo tradurli e simpatizzare con le sue paure: le ha condotte in metamorfosi e fatte risorgere sotto forma di opere d’arte. Forze magnetiche. Ma come per ogni artista non tutto è cioccolato. La fabbrica del cinema nasconde insidie e sentieri brevi e pericolosamente tecnologici che non sempre appaiono per Tim i più esoterici. Quelli che lo fanno sentire “a casa”. Ecco allora, lasciamolo fermentare nel suo spirito. Perché ci riporti sé stesso imbevuto di sogni.

Curiosità: si sappia, che Michael (Jackson), tremendo collezionista, acquistó le “mani di forbice” per inserirle nel suo strampalato emporio dell’isola che non c’è. Ma non è elementare il concept Michael Scissorhands?! Credo che quei due abbiano pensato davvero a qualche progetto insieme che purtroppo non si realizzò.

Musica maestro!

Danny Elfman, (uno con un cognome così azzeccato per il genere), un pezzo di Tim, colui che sa comporre la musicalità tetra e fascinosa come un ragno tesse la sua struggente tela. Lui ci mette le note come prede sulle righe del pentagramma, e divengono subito travolte dalla melodia madre. Condensandosi alla pellicola in un completo capolavoro. Costruisce la cornice all’udito che confeziona il progetto. Non mi stufo mai di ascoltare le sue colonne sonore, in un vortice di passione a rischio convulsioni.

Tim Burton è ai suoi film come le mie mani sono al lavoro.

Il mio oggetto vivente ossessivo, strumento seducente organico, le mani. Le forbici, il mio oggetto metallico creativo. Strumento sessuale artificiale. Inconfutabili coincidenze. Anima. Tagliamola rimescoliamola. A Mani. Tutto si muove sulle mani. Sensualità gotica. Banale qui confessare il mio alter ego burtoniano tatuato simbolicamente che tutto significa e nulla spiega.

Le analogie si sprecano.

Non ho studiato il suo vissuto per vivermi lo stesso da infante solitaria, con tutte le mie terribili stranezze, e come avrei potuto? Ero piccola e avevo gli stessi occhi magici, nutrivo simili abitudini quasi da far paura! Conobbi visceralmente Tim Burton intorno ai 17 anni. Cresciuta un poco più, mi accorsi che la mia asse era in linea quasi perfetta con la sua per non so quale misteriosa o mostruosa ragion d'essere. E’ così. Vivo addirittura rimandi personali, in alcune sue storie, intrecciata a lui dai primi anni di età ai trenta superati, in questa maniera singolare, speciale, non descrivibile certo a parole per quanto mi sforzi. Un amore ombelicale incondizionato, non controllato.

Ambizioni per un'artigiana, blogger, designer di moda che si esprime attraverso tentativi di artisticità contemporanea ce ne sono, ma fra tutte, la più sentita è quella.

Incontrarla, sir.

A te Tim, come una figlia clandestina,

che sente di appartenerti nella più forte forma d’espressione che esista: animica. Chissà, può sembrare assurdo se un giorno ti giungeranno queste parole o ci incontreremo in qualche strana vicenda della vita. Confido nell'universo, attraverso i disegni e le idee, che sprigionano energia tale da fluttuare telepaticamente. Al nostro albero, l’inappropriato, il seme evolutivo del nostro espressionismo moderno.

È in arrivo ‘La casa per bambini speciali di Miss Peregrine’ che sembra essere, dopo anni di impotente riscatto nei confronti della critica, una pellicola del tutto primordiale, che scava nell'epidermide psicologica di Tim.

E nella mia infanzia. Temo.

Indiot.

NOVEMBRE 2016

[whatsupsac]

What’s Up Tonight, 4/13/17:

ArtMix: Sakuramento: Karaoke, anime, manga, and maybe a Bonsai or two – things pop off Japanese-style at this monthly adult party that keeps you guessing. Dance to the best global beats with DJ Sam Sascha Keshavarz, exciting performances by The Kazuhiro Group, Ayakashi and Kohaku will amaze, Nichi Bei Foundation and Sacramento Asian Pacific Film Festival are proud to present films East Side Sushi and Hidden Legacy: Japanese Traditional Performing Arts in the World War II Internment Camps. Crocker Art Museum. 5-9PM. 21+ Free for Members, $10 for Non-Members.

Meridian, New Work by Sculptor Kris Lyons: The opening of Meridian, new ceramic sculpture from Kris Lyons & Flourish, as well as artwork from painter Mary Warner. Jay Jay Art Gallery. 5-7PM.

Salsa Loca Live: The Salsa Loca Club, a student-run organization at Sacramento State, offers free Latin dance lessons for Sacramento community members including lessons in Salsa, Bachata, Merengue, Kizomba and Reuda de Casino. Immediately following the lessons will be a performance by Pacific Mambo Orchestra (PMO), a Latin Big Band that plays Salsa, Mambo, Latin, Jazz and Cha Cha’s. The University Union Ballroom. 6-9:30PM. Free.

Josh Fernandez & Ian Kappos: A night of superlative spoken word by Josh Fernandez and Ian Kappos presented by Joe Montoya's Poetry Unplugged, Northern California’s longest running weekly poetry reading.This event will also feature its multiple-award winning open mic, delicious fresh-fruit liquados, food, beer and wine. Luna’s Cafe. 8-10:20PM. Free.

[ageeksnerdyworld]

These two are the only decent looking drawings I did today... hope ya like them

As always The Cyber World & the viruses therein belong to @voiceoflarka

[ageeksnerdyworld]

A Facade Well Fed

Characters: Zale Young, Emery Becker, Dexterity Burrows, Zephyr Allen & Esteem Wells

Word Count: 4,934

Trigger Warning: Drinking, Drunk Shenanigans, Drug Mention, Death Mention

Notes: Good news is I figured out what to do with my cow boy. Bad news is this story is like all over the place. As always The Cyber World and the viruses therein belong to @voiceoflarka

Summary: After finishing a set at local bar the members of Midnight Decoy decide to celebrate. With drinks, and friends, to go around everyone seems to having a good time. Except for Zale who's having a very difficult night. His past won’t leave him alone tonight. So he heads off on his own to clear his head. But the night is just about to get even worse. Click that read more if you'd like.

~~~

"Now get the hell out," Emery shouts into the mic.

The small crowd, that actually stayed to listen, yelled. A few people called for an encore. But that wasn’t their shtick. Emery yells again, more vulgar and aggressive than the first time, and a few people back off.

As the band dismantles their equipment, and instruments, they chat about the show. It seemed that tonight, for whatever reason, was one of their better performances. They all thought so anyway. But the band didn't care. They made music they wanted to hear. It didn't matter to them if anyone liked it. A few people stuck around and voiced their opinions. Some were fans but most were wannabe critics. Most of them were screaming their thanks for the end of the impromptu concert. It seemed that everyone had something to say about each band member.

“Everyone always thinks they know music better than we do,” Zale mutters as he sees a few people approaching the stage.

The other three nod in agreement. Emery notices that he doesn't want to deal with any of the people tonight. So he gives Zale a nod; a verifiable go ahead to sit this one out. In turn Zale mouths his thanks before heading upstage. He starts to pack their equipment in the respective cases.

Alone, with the sound of chatter at his back, he feels a hand at his back.

Biting his lip he tries to ignore it.

Most of the comments Dexterity receives weren't really about their drumming. The viruses who walked up talked about the music, but, the words were nothing more than an excuse to get close. Dexterity approached whoever was speaking with a smirk. They did what they did best; flirted excessively. Dexterity pulled some of the viruses aside and spoke to them in private. Those then left with the drummer's number and the promise of a good night.

Emery just smiled, eerily, in each angry face. When each critical roast was over he told them all the same thing.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you think."

Zephyr was always the nicest of the group when it came to fans and critics. He knew of course that nothing anyone outside the band could've said would make a difference. Midnight Decoy was never going to make music everyone enjoyed. The band wasn't going to go on tour. Nor would they mass produce an album. That was selling out; something none of them wanted. But Zephyr Allen still spoke to each person with a genuine smile and an interested brow.

As the others dealt with the people as they saw fit Zale stayed upstage. He didn't say anything to any of the viruses who called out to him. Despite the excited screams, and the occasional jeer, he kept his head down. He was focused on packing up the amps and his guitar. Or so it seemed.

Something else was occupying his thoughts.

Someone else.

“You alright, man,” Zephyr asks; stepping behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Liar, liar, a voice whispers darkly in his ear.

With the meet and greet, and clean up, done Emery hops off the stage. He lands on the barroom floor with a light thud. His bright purple eyes shine with excitement and leftover adrenaline. The lime green veins that cover his skin pulse rapidly. Hollering to the others he points out the bar. Zephyr nods and also jumps off the edge of the stage. When he lands he runs a hand through his long dark blonde hair; moving it out of his eyes. Dexterity smirks and gives the young man they had been flirting with a soft kiss goodbye. They rush over to catch up with the group.

Zale, somewhat reluctantly, follows the others’ lead.

As the group makes their way a very excited virus rushes up to them.

The virus wears a black leather jacket over a thin, green tartan, shirt. Light blue jeans are tightly tucked into his black boots. Dark boysenberry colored veins glow beneath his gingerbread brown skin. Wide, round, ears emerge from either side of his face. A brown tail, matching his skin tone, hangs lazily behind him. Small, curved, white horns poke through his side-swept hair. The virus’s hair is a light orchid purple with a few streaks of dark eggplant running through it. His eyes are blue at the edges but shifted to green. The bright green colors the rest of his irises.

Eyes that shine brightly with enthusiasm.

"That was your best set ever, guys," he says passionately.

Zale, Dexterity, and Emery simultaneously roll their eyes. This guy came to every random concert they had. His name was Esteem Wells and he was the group’s, self proclaimed, biggest fan. Every time he saw any of them he talked rapidly about how he wanted to buy merch and hear their music on the radio. In reality he annoyed the whole group. He completely missed the point of their band and the music they made.

But as always Zephyr talks to him with a smile and an open ear.

“Thanks, man. Glad ya liked it.”

“It was awesome. And the way Emery did his screaming thing when you played that riff? Epic.”

Before he could ramble on Emery pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. This guy was full of shit and he knew it. There was something else he wanted. It couldn’t just be the music. No one in their right mind would go see the same band over thousands of times. Running his hand through the hair at the base of his skull he looks away for a split second. He gathers the words and then outright asks the cow virus.

“E, my dude, my guy, how the hell can you be this excited about something I do every show?”

“I’m getting a drink,” Zale mutters to Dexterity. “Meet you at the bar.”

“See you there,” they reply with a wink.

As he leaves the others the thoughts come floating back again. It happens whenever he's not occupying every thought and movement with something else. He tries to shove them out and focus on something else. But he knows that neither his mind or his body are truly occupied at the moment. He's alone and oh so helpless against it.

Against her.

Bonsai Warner haunts his mind like a ghost. An ever present feeling, but, only showing up when no one else is around.

As he winds his way through the other patrons he feels her presence slowly materialize. He can see her in his peripheral. Every part of her is a pristine version of the last time he got a good look at her. Her white skin and long, midnight black, hair. The light coffee brown eyes and bright tangerine colored veins. She wears a white tank top, one of his thicker hoodies, ripped jeans, and thigh-high black boots. A silver and blue ring sits on her right hand. Thin, leather, bracelets cover her wrists. A thin metal ribcage, with a small red stone, hung from a chain around her neck. Her winged eyeliner is perfectly done. Bonsai takes his hand and leans her head against his shoulder.

He doesn't resist.

Her voice whispers in his head.

You did great out there, Zay. I miss you so much.

He looks down at his feet and smiles; embarrassed. To him their relationship never made much sense. She deserved to be with someone who could give her things she wanted. Not a punk with a skateboard, a guitar, and a drug problem. Not to mention the fact that Bonsai Warner was completely out of his league. But he doesn't say anything.

Zale makes it to the bar without any sort of incident. He sits at the only empty seat, the last stool at the very end of the bar, and signals for the bartender. The centaur virus nods and returns a half-empty bottle of scotch to the shelf. He trots over at a causal pace.

He orders a double bourbon with no ice.

The others still haven’t arrived.

A minute or so later his drink is placed in front of him. The drink comes in a tulip shaped glass with a short, round, bottom. The liquor itself is a rich and see-through amber color. The hanging lights above the bar hit the glass and reflect a bright orange glint in the bourbon. Zale picks it up and brings the glass to his lips. It has a strong caramel smell with a small hint of vanilla. The liquor is smooth going down and tastes sweet. As he swallows, the caramel and vanilla flavors linger on his tongue, he turns around on the stool.

The image, only he can see, of his once girlfriend stands next to him.

Looking for the others he accidentally makes eye contact with a woman on the opposite end of the bar.

Her hair is a deep, dark, red. It flows down her back in large, swooping, waves. She wears a black ribbon style choker around her neck. A tight, black, dress with a plunging neckline, and a slit along her right thigh, leaves very little to the imagination. Even from the distance he can make out the ink in between her breasts. The tattoo is of a knife surrounded by peacock feathers. This mysterious woman gets up and makes her way to where he sits.

Zale downs the rest of his drink as the woman steps through his vision of Bonsai. The image of her dissipates like fog clearing. He turns back around and rests his arms on the bar. She whispers one last message before she goes.

Say hi to Mayor Whiskers for me. I bet he misses me.

"Hey there, stranger," the woman says as she sits. She speaks with a slight twang and a soft, comforting, voice.

"Hi," he says; staring straight ahead to avoid really looking at her.

"Heard y'all playing earlier. You were really good."

He shrugs and puts his glass down. Signally for a refill he mutters; "It's just the bass. Nothing special."

"Don't sell yourself short, sugar. Name’s Lotus, but, you can call me Lo."

With the drink quickly refilled he picks it up again. Zale smiles at her comment but tries to hide it with the rim of his glass. This is the last thing he wants right now. The memories, and the love he felt, are far too recent. Far too strong.

"You seem familiar," he says; turning to look at her.

As she starts to speak her face shifts. Her nose changes shape; becoming shorter and more round. The woman’s eyes change color. Shifting effortlessly into a light coffee. The crisscross of veins lining her face also turn from a light daffodil yellow. The woman's face morphs into Bonsai's and he freezes.

"Like your dead girlfriend?"

Deep down he knows that wasn't real. He knows this woman didn't say what he heard. But his mind and his heart drown out his common sense. His eyes go wide and his lips part, just barely, in shock.

What the fuck?!

He mutters the expletive to himself and quickly turns away from her. She gasps, audibly shocked and offended, loudly. Her thin, white, fingers grasp whatever's nearest. They close around the short, thick, glass some other bar patron was drinking from. She throws the rest of the drink on him and stomps away. The liquor soaks his hair and plasters the fringe on his forehead. He sputters; spitting out the bit that landed in his open mouth.

Apparently I said that out loud, he thinks as he watches her leave.

He downs the rest of his drink and orders another.

Bonsai materializes once more at his side. Zale wipes the liquor from his face with a napkin. He blinks as the image of her comes into focus. But before he can say anything to her the voices of his band-mates ring loudly through the bar. He sighs, relived, and turns to see the group with their unwanted groupie close behind. Dexterity sits on the open bar stool to his left. Emery sits on the opposite side.

“Can’t believe Zeph invited this shithead to drink with us,” he says through grit teeth. “Why can’t the guy grow a fucking backbone?”

Dexterity nods in agreement. They lift a hand to get the bartender’s attention. The centaur virus trots over and takes the order. But before he goes to fill the drinks Dex touches the man’s tattooed hand. The bartender blushes at the touch and turns back to face Dex. They lean in to whisper in the man’s ear. The man takes a napkin from somewhere behind the counter and hurriedly scribbles a phone number on it. As he passes the napkin to Dex they take the pen from his hand. They take his non-inked hand in their own and writes an address on his skin.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” they say as the bartender leaves.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Emery exclaims with an annoyed expression. “Some of us wanna get shit-faced, Dex!”

“Oh, you will,” they reply with a wink.

Let’s get out of here, babe.

He thinks about it and his gaze shifts to where Zephyr and E sit. They’re in deep conversation about the logistics of doing a pub crawl/concert tour. His gaze moves back to the friends sitting on opposite sides of him. Dex and Emery started a shot contest. Both are currently on their fourth shot of vodka. The bartender is excitedly watching the face off and pouring shots. But his infatuation with the drummer makes it more difficult than it normally is.

Zale reaches over the bar and takes a bottle of bourbon from the shelf. Thankfully the bartender is far too busy with the others to notice. He shoves the bottle in the inside pocket of his hoodie and zips it up. Flipping the hood over his head he steps off the bar-stool. He quickly gives his goodbyes to the others. Emery seems the most upset by his hasty exit. But Zale has his reasons; a lonely and starving cat at home.

So they let him go.

He weaves his way back through the crowded bar. Shoving past other viruses he heads straight for the backstage area. Zale quickly finds his way to the greenroom. Looking around he takes a minute to find his backpack. The faded blue material blended into the gaudy 50′s decor. Almost everything in the room was blue. He swears that the place didn’t look like this when the band came in earlier in the night. Unless it was and he just didn’t notice.

Thankfully his board is still sitting underneath his bag.

He slings the bag over his shoulder and carries his board under his arm. As he walks through the room to the rear exit someone loudly clears their throat. He turns to see Esteem leaning against the door frame.

“Need a lift?” he asks with a surprising sincerity.

“Nah, man, I’m good,” Zale says; gesturing with the skateboard.

“You sure? My bike’s right outside. Pretty sure I can get you home faster than your board.”

An annoyed growl escapes Zale’s lips as he steps up to the cow virus.

“What’s your plan here? Weasel your way into the group? You want an in and you’re trying everybody. And that’s why you’re offering me a ride. You want some reason to have an input on what we do.”

Esteem shakes his head and pushes himself off the wall. He chuckles and closes the remaining space between the two of them.

“You’re a helluva lot smarter than you look.”

Zale scoffs but says nothing. He turns away and crosses to the exit. The last thing he wants to do is talk with this guy. But the other man isn’t backing down just yet. He follows Zale like a shadow; barely even a step behind. He puts his hand on Zale’s shoulder as he pushes the door open.

“Hear me out, okay,” Esteem says. “I know what I’m talking about. My uncle owns Renegade Records so I can hook you guys up. Think about it, Zale. Do you really want to spend your entire goddamn career playing in shitty bars?”

“Newsflash, asshole, we’ve hated you the entire goddamn time,” he says; turning on his heels and walking through the door.

~~~

He walks through the cold night air with hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The dark gray hood is pulled over his head. His light brown fringe pokes out from the edge of the fabric. As he walks he lays his board down on the concrete and steps on. Using the bit of momentum he had he pushed the skateboard forward with his left foot. Cars, and a couple motorists, pass by ignoring him. Headphones in both of his ears, blaring music, block out the sound of the cars. The sidewalks are empty. Zale is as alone as he could have ever been.

But he wasn't.

He feels her at his back; looking over his shoulder. He hears her voice despite the music.

I miss you. Come with me.

He ignores her words and keeps his eyes forward. He knows that she isn't really there. She can't be. Ghosts don't exist. But he still feels her body against his, her arms around his chest, her head on his shoulder. He hears her familiar melodic voice in his ear.

Zale, c'mon baby. You know you want to.

He shakes his head violently as if he's trying to physically push her off him. That doesn't work. She's still there. Digging his foot down on the concrete he tries to move away from her. But she stays on him like a fly on a wall. His thoughts can't escape her on nights like this. She's always with him whenever he's alone.

As is his guilt.

Biting his lip he brings his left foot down again; pushing as hard as he can. He places that foot on the back portion of the board. Gliding down the sidewalk from his own force.

Zale rides his board for a couple blocks before turning into a driveway. The driveway turns into a gravel covered lot that leads up to a fence. Two sections meet in the middle to form a gate. A large lock and chain runs through the front of the gate. Thanks to the streetlights he can make out that much. But everything else beyond that is dark shadows against pitch black night.

Stopping with a hard grind he simultaneously slips the backpack off his back. He unzips the front pocket and takes out a flashlight. Setting it down on the gravel next to him he fishes a large pair of wire cutters from the bag. Picking up the flashlight he clicks it on. The light illuminates the ground in front of him. He shines the beam on the fence and the gate. A pair of bright yellow signs with black symbols warn of the dangers within. One has a silhouette of a fire and the other has a skull and cross bones.

Leaning in closer to the fence he moves the light around to attempt to make out what sits inside.

This isn’t what I meant.

“Yeah, I know,” he says aloud. “But this is what I’m doing so deal with it, babe.”

Picking up his board he walks to the eastern side of the fence; away from the front gate. Holding the flashlight in his mouth he kneels down a few inches in front of the metal. He makes quick work of cutting the thin metal. Returning the wire cutters to the backpack Zale then grabs hold of the cut fence. He’s careful as to not grip the sharp bits. His face scrunches up in a grimace as he pulls the fence away enough to move through.

Before crawling through the gap he shoves his board and his backpack through.

With flashlight in hand he wanders the area.

He walks quietly, passing building after building, with the presence of Bonsai at his side. Surprisingly she stays quiet for the moment. After some time he sees an open door to a building on his right. With an excited smirk he rushes over.

The door is barely open but he squeezes through.

“Well, would you look at that,” he mutters to himself.

Standing in the doorway he looks around the building. A series of furnaces line the farthest wall. Large, grate covered, windows hang high above the structures. Everything about this place forms the coolest looking ramshackle indoor skatepark he could have ever wanted. Thick, curved, metal sheeting forms a half pipe. One overturned metal table sits in the middle of the empty floor. Just looking at it he knows that it would make a good rail.

He sets his backpack down near the door and takes out the bottle. Opening it he takes a long drag and returns the cap. Carefully setting the bottle down by his backpack he gets on his board.

As Zale rides around the empty building, landing a few tricks, exhilaration rushes through his body. He runs the same routine and tricks until he gets bored of it.

With a tired sigh he slowly cruises back to his backpack.

Clutching the bottle by the neck he takes the cap off and throws it behind him. Taking a long chug from it looks around and sees a staircase near the door. Pulling the bottle from his lips he wipes the excess off with the back of his hand. He walks to the staircase and stumbles on his feet.

Sitting down on the bottom step he drinks his way through the rest of the bourbon.

When the bottle’s empty he throws it on the ground and it shatters. He chuckles. Rushing over to his board he picks it up and throws his backpack over his shoulder. Zale trips on his own feet and almost falls on his face but he catches himself. He rapidly turns the edge of the bottom step; his hand grazes against the rail.

Climbing up the rusted steps he grips the side rails as tight as he can. Looking down he sees the glass, and dust, covered floor. He can see the furnaces that sit along the far wall. The metal structures have large black spots around their doors. Signs of the fires that burned in them some time ago. Something near one of the furnaces catches his eye and he slips.

But he quickly catches himself.

You’re gonna get hurt, you know.

"I'll be fine," he says to no one.

At the top of the stairs he sets his board down and carefully steps on. The metal underneath him shifts and creaks loudly. Zale can feel that it’s dangerously close to collapsing. He feels his heart jump in his chest as he grabs the rail to avoid falling. He laughs out a shaky breath. Righting himself on the board he pushes off.

As he skates the air whips through his hair. The feeling sends a shock of euphoria through him. He rushes from one end of the catwalk to the other. When he realizes that he did so and made it out without a scratch he laughs. Pushing harder this time he shoots off and immediately turns the corner instead of stopping. Much to his surprise Zale makes the turn without a problem. Slowing down just a bit he cruises atop the catwalk and feels the air on his face.

Remember what else felt like that, but, times a million?

“Yeah, I do,” he says to the voice of Bonsai in his head. “But this doesn’t come with a side effect of death.”

Not a problem for you anymore, though, is it? Guess it isn’t for me either since you already killed me.

“I didn’t know,” he cried to the empty building. “I wouldn’t have done it if I did and I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you do it.”

THEN MAKE IT RIGHT!

"I'm sorry. If I could take it back I would! I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat but, dammit B, I can't."

He sighs audibly with frustration and turns another sharp corner. But his mind is otherwise occupied and so he misjudges the timing. Instead of cruising with the rail he sharply collides with the rusted metal. The half-broken rail gives way and he crashes to the floor.

Zale lands on his board and his head harshly hits the concrete. The force of the impact knocks him out almost instantly.

Toldja.

~~~

An hour or two, he has no idea, later Zale wakes up. He’s lying on his back facing the night sky above. As his consciousness returns he feels something poking his back. He smells the uncanny reek of lighter-fluid. With a groan he reaches behind his back and grabs hold of the object. He pulls it out and looks at it; more confused than he already was.

In his hand he holds a small plastic wheel.

Once again her voice floats through his head; Don’t you remember? Or is your mind that worn?

He ignores her. Struggling to his feet he stumbles slightly. He barely notices when the wheel falls from his fingers. Zale reaches out to the nearest thing in an attempt to keep his balance. His hand touches a cold concrete pillar and he latches onto it. Even with that stability he feels like he can’t stand. Bile rises up in his throat and he puts a hand over his mouth. 

“Hey kid,” someone yelled from across the street. “You’re not a kid anymore. What the hell are you doing?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Zale shouts back.

The stranger says something else but thanks to the blur in his head and the white noise in his ears Zale doesn't catch a word of it.

Shaking his head he tries to shake the fog from his mind. Nothing about this makes any sense. But then again not much made sense when it came to Bonsai. Sometimes he felt like he never actually knew her. And now he’ll never have the chance to see her again. To hear her voice.

He hears her in mind, but, that isn’t really her.

With a sigh he pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

He isn’t the least bit surprised when the screen is shattered. Small bits of glass fall out into his palm. Muttering under his breath he curses himself for putting his phone there. Carefully as possible he taps the screen; bringing the phone to life. The images of the screen and the apps are a mess of static lines and blocks of black.

Oh, poor baby. Calling for help?

Clicking the small white text box icon he opens his messages. He stares at the screen; scanning for the group text. After a minute or so he finds it. The text thread sits near the bottom of the list. He hadn’t sent anything through there in awhile. But the thread underneath it had been empty for a very, very, long time. It had been at least a year. Maybe verging on two now.

Her name glows brightly through the screen.

Zale’s thumb hovers over it for a minute.

But he clicks the one above it. He doesn’t type a message to the others. Instead he simply sends an emoji. A red square with a white capital “B” inside it. Leaving the phone in his hand he leans against the pillar. It’s cold and strangely comforting in the moment. He slides down into a crouching position as he closes his eyes. Closing his empty hand into a fist he taps it against his forehead.

Times melds into nothingness as his consciousness fades once again. Blackness covers his vision and he lets it overtake him.

Wake up, Zale.

“Go away,” he says with a tired, drunken, voice.

“Zale,” the voice repeats over and over again. Each time the voice repeats his name it’s louder than the previous time. But with each new iteration of his name the voice of Bonsai Warner fades away. It deepens and drops a series of octaves. The typical subtlety on her tone is replaced by a brash, loud, attitude.

He blinks slowly. His vision is blurry and he can only see swatches of color. Most of what he can make out is white. The edges are black. But there is a bright, almost blinding, watermelon pink at the top of what he can see. Zale blinks hard but the sensation of a harsh slap across his face brings him to.

“Wake the fuck up, dude!” Emery shouts.

“Hey,” Zale says, still tired and drunk but, happy. “You guys came for me.”

“You texted us,” Emery replied as if that explained everything.

“Of course we came, man,” Zephyr says; wrapping his friend’s arm around his shoulders.

“You think we’d leave you when you need us the most? I’m hurt.” Dexterity says with a fake pained voice.

They shoot Zale a wink and a smile. They take the other side of Zale, wrapping their arm around his waist, and help Zephyr walk him out of the building. Emery leaves and comes back after a few minutes with Zale’s bag in his hand. The parts of his skateboard are in Emery’s other hand. He apologizes to Zale and promises to buy him a new one. Zale shakes his head and declines the offer.

The quartet exits the building and walk out into the night.

[ageeksnerdyworld]

I know she a ghost but Bonsai and idk CATS

umm she isn’t a ghost... she’s just dead

1. She found Mayor Whiskers during a really bad rainstorm. He was about a couple weeks old and really tiny. He was curled up under an old, rusted, truck; trying to hide himself from the rainstorm.

2. Bonsai used to have this black-light poster of a tiger on the living room wall of the apartment. It was a normal tiger head on one side and the other was a skull. Without the black-light only the normal half showed.

3. When she was little, I’m talking like four or five, she thought she could actually talk to cats. This was thanks to a very social alley-cat that approached her when she meowed at it. In her mind they then shared a deep, five-minute, conversation before her mother pulled her away. She didn’t stop trying to talk to every cat she saw for a month.

4. Aristocats is her favorite animated film.

[ageeksnerdyworld]

Coupla meh doodles of some OCs I did cause I was feeling shitty yesterday

(As always the cyber world & the viruses therein belong to @voiceoflarka)