#burning bright fanzine

[outer-stars]

🌟 Guest Spotlight 🌟

Introducing our next guest, @jopajopovna1 ! She will be contributing as an illustration artist! 🐸🌈

As a reminder, artist and writer contributor applications close on February 10, 2025! Links to contributor applications are available on the Burning Bright Fanzine's Caard! 🫶

[spirk-trek]

Spock Fanzine | Greg Franklin, 1983

T'HY'LA by Jane Callard

No man is free -- There are many things that claim his time -- And all other parts of him To those around him.

The deep needs -- Often hidden; I must yet admit they exist But they too have been satisfied; And I thank the Deity That has seen fit to grant this so. My friends that overlap in me -- Dear Bones, the healer, the sharp one An acidic joy in my days; Uhura, dark beauty, Heart of a warrior, jewel bright; Sulu, Chekov, so eager -- I feel so young and yet so old Watching them. Christine - strong and gentle, I respect and admire her; Scotty - so rigorously loyal His energy enormous. A man of machines, his mind is a gift That he hands me many times a day -- And every time I accept it I thank the stars and heaven for him.

There is another -- One other who is much to me. To be close to another being Requires great effort;

You have to give and give -- Yet also learn to receive: I love him Without shame or fear of ridicule; Too many times my life has been his To pick up or lay down; I have seen his joy, his pain I have watched his anguish and his peace I perceive him, he perceives me I am linked, mind to mind Spirit to spirit, with him -- My existence as a free agent Has willingly come to an end, Yet I am strangely liberated; Living with and through New hands, eyes A singing flaming mind -- My friend, brother, lover, Loved one. He burns -- coolly, logically, clearly He parts the clouds And throws light into the dark places Where I am kept by responsibility. Living, being alone Once......... Now I have a companion And though my home is in transit I have all I need close beside. I am satisfied...................

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Path to Totality

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin, Shar, Selûne, minor Aylin/Isobel Length: ~2000 words Rating: T, for canon-typical violence

Summary:

Dame Aylin has a goddess aunt as well as a divine mother - and what one calls her own, the other lays equal claim to. A look at the fraught relationship between the Nightsinger and her Nightsong through the centuries.

Also on AO3.

This was my contribution to the @bg3womenswrongs fanzine, and I had a lot of fun writing it, mulling over some staple Shar horribleness and Aylin's stubborn, bright defiance to it.

You can still get your copy of the full zine by reaching out to the mod team - which I wholeheartedly recommend, because it turned out great! You'll also be able to read this fic with @teelahselai's lovely spot art included. The zine will be made freely available on March 8th.

—

Path to Totality

The Nightsinger becomes an aunt on a day that would have otherwise swiftly faded into the sheer vastness of her existence.

It is par for the course for her vapid sister; this insistence on life and creation, this blemish she sears into the world. Selûne's lurid intrusions writ small, contained to a single being. The puny scale is pitiable, when before her efforts resulted in teeming swarms and the cacophony of an entire universe under the burning sun she lit. Shar takes offence just the same, and so it will be snuffed out just the same.

A babe, conspicuously placed at the temple's entrance in a basket - not even a thing ostentatious and silver. No; plain wicker, with plainer wrappings to keep it warm against the autumn chill.

At the first cry that tears itself free from its garishly powerful lungs, as the wail goes on and on even as some poor moon-bedecked acolyte rushes out to fawn over the detestable little creature, Shar knows her one desire is to silence it forever.

-

The temple in whose care she was placed is put to the torch by ill-omened purple-clad figures before Aylin learns to walk. Enclave to enclave in secret, from temple to monastery to cloister, Aylin grows up hunted, a blazing target for agents of her Mother's greatest enemy.

She grows up honed to perfection, trained and taught and sharpened to an edge so keen it threatens to cut even when she might not mean it to. 

But she also grows up loved. Even if her Mother is a distant lodestar, She is present in ways Aylin does not think anyone understands, no matter how much she tries to explain, how deft with words she becomes in her efforts to convey the peculiarities of her own existence.

-

Selûne calls her handiwork daughter and whispers cloying lies to her as she sleeps. Fawns over her, dotes on her, lavishes her with gifts, pays all lip service possible to the futile illusion named love.

Shar's niece grows up a spoiled brat, indulging in everything life has to offer.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the wailing babe has become a monster; invasive and aggressive, a perfect picture of her creator. For a little while - insignificant, in the grand scheme of things - the brute foils Shar's plans with great insistence and vulgar, stomping relish.

-

The joy of dismantling a well-hidden Sharran conspiracy; the satisfaction of sheer righteousness coupled with the ever-rousing rush of battle - there are few things as intoxicating.

One of the acolytes accompanying Aylin in her assault on the cloister approaches, ornate scroll in hand. Aylin glances over to where her fellows are ransacking a collection of Sharran texts and accepts the proffered scroll.

Tenets of the Enduring Night: A Caution

Let all who seek to lose themselves in the Nightsinger's eternal embrace heed this warning: there is no reward for work left undone. And no lone servant of the despicable moon has cut short as many worthy efforts as the Moon Daughter herself. A creature violent and merciless--

She lets her eyes slide off the rest of the overly-decorated drivel and crumples the parchment in one gauntleted fist, raising it above her head, grinning. "How right they are, to fear Dame Aylin." 

Amidst answering jeers and cheers from her comrades, Aylin cries out: "Hark, Nightsinger! Accept this most personal offering!"

She calls holy fire into her hand and watches as her grip fills with ash.

-

Her plans are on a scale unfathomably larger than her sister's decision to produce gaudy progeny. Yet Shar returns her gaze to the insufferable wretch, again and again, even while plotting to twist the very Weave to her own ends, to corrupt or obliterate Selûne's staunchest support.

So Shar watches as one of her faithful finally strikes her niece down. It takes a dozen trained assassins catching her unawares, unarmoured. But even barely out of squirehood she is as resilient and strong as an ox, and shrugs off a good number of blows.

A slit neck, however, is difficult to ignore, even for her. And so she gargles her final little ditty and falls to her knees, hands clawing not at her gushing wound but at the nearest assailant as if she wants to take them down with her. Then she collapses into a silent, dead heap at their feet.

A disappointing showing, in the end. Shar has learned how much creating this one cost her sister - she keeps giving of herself, dividing among her allies, basking in her own shameful weakness.

But then, bathing the alleyway in a rancid glare, as the few surviving adepts gape in fear and begin to scuttle away, useless failures all, the godspawn rises.

-

When Aylin awakens from her first death, as she struggles to breathe with flooded lungs and feels her briefly stilled heart bursting into a flurry of activity to pump life through veins once more, a woman stands calmly before her.

Dizzy, Aylin clambers to her feet, gulping air greedily through a newly gold-knit throat.

Her assailants are dead - but though she gave a good account of herself, not all of them died by her hand. The woman steps through the smoking shadow-laced ruin of the assassin who succeeded, and Aylin knows who this is as surely as she knows her own Mother.

"Have I thwarted one too many of your plots, Lady of Loss?" There is no fear lancing through her as the woman looms over her, no - this is all the thrill of a battlefield distilled into a single, fateful encounter. Aylin would make of herself a liar if she denied yearning for this: a chance to face the true architect of much of her existence. She squares her shoulders, grins, and taunts through bloodied teeth. "Go on then, strike me down. Even you will find it a futile exercise."

"You will die when I will it," Shar speaks, voice absent all inflection. "But die you will."

Aylin scoffs, spits at her feet. "I have accepted my duty as my holy Mother's sword. Her blessing, by my birthright, lies upon me. You and yours will never snuff me out. As surely as the Moon returns to the sky--"

"You will die," Shar repeats, as if Aylin hadn't even spoken, "but first I will take from you and take and take, until nothing is left. Until, having lost all, you finally approach my perfection, my void. This, my kin, is your birthright as well."

Then, in a swirl of dancing shadows, she is gone.

-

Her niece finds a mortal to fawn over; an insipid little moon cleric.

And throughout it all she is as a loudly buzzing fly, entangling herself in webs she cannot even comprehend.

-

She is adored, or she is reviled. Aylin has yet to inspire indifference. 

Hunted, from the moment she drew her first breath on Faerûn. Smuggled amongst her Mother's faithful, concealed as a Sharran hiding from the world  - she thinks it shameful, now. Endangering those who only sought to give their anointed protector a chance to grow into her own strength, to protect in return.

She is an emissary of light, but her whole life her baleful aunt has made her a herald of woe, as well.

Fitting, then, if unbearably bitter, that Reithwin was ultimately the same. Where, instead of merely passing through, unmoored and unshackled, Aylin once dared to think she might be afforded something like home, a morsel of a life, a moment of peace.

With Isobel.

Without her, a grim blanket of mourning has draped itself across the town and its surroundings. Even Selûne's light seems muted and distant - and so all manner of dark creatures have decided to crawl out of the woodwork.

Like this one: an assassin, pouncing upon Aylin on an ill-lit forest road. Burying a scimitar in her shoulder and sending her sword flying.

"You seek to test me?" Aylin wheels around to face the man. He is dressed to remain unseen, but with hints of telltale purple. "Reconsider."

"The Moonbitch's chokehold on this place is finally weakening," her would-be challenger cackles. All sense is gone from him, gorged far too thoroughly on what his ilk so reverently term loss.

Her arm shoots out before she has even thought to command it to. A gauntlet seizes the man around the throat, grip merciless and unshakeable. He chokes as he is lifted to the very tips of his toes - still not high enough to face her eye to eye. In her long life, Aylin has found Sharrans never quite managed to.

"Her will is made manifest through me," Aylin growls, hold tightening until the man gargles audibly. "I have urged you to reconsider. Now I urge you to make whatever peace you wish with your lady."

She knows Shar's ways, how she lures the unsuspecting, the weakened, and the lonely in with her siren song. Shar will not help you carry your burdens, no; she will make you forget they ever existed, and would that not be such a relief?

Aylin does not forget; the utter infallibility of her memory stands against everything Shar represents. It is the haven where Isobel now resides.

The Sharrans are misguided, and targets of her pity - until they are not. And the line, in recent times, has crawled so very close to not to start with.

When one assassin becomes three, Aylin's prayer is the same as a hundred times before.

Guide my hand, to guide your blade to victory. Guide me to my foes, to guide them to their deserved doom.

Then, a more recent thought; one just barely suppressed so that duty could be allowed to take precedence: Guide her back to me, Mother.

The answer is not new; a mournful sigh, fresh grief mingled with ancient woes. She is lost to us, daughter.

But Aylin replies, even as she spills blood or feels hers spilt. For her entire being chafes sorely at the invocation of loss, at the injustice of this being her lot.

Find her. I beg you.

-

No army, no conquest, no devotion or offering Ketheric Thorm makes is as sweet as this one: her sister's brutish champion, brought to kneel at last. Safely ensconced in the heart of Shar's realm.

When from her pool of silvery blood the hateful creature whimpers for her mother, only to be met with nothing but the perfect silence of her perfect domain, Shar knows her victory is at hand.

"Why not call to me, my kin, when your poor mother cannot hear?" She taunts, letting her shadows caper at the edges of the cage. "Do you not know? Whatever Selûne calls her own, I lay equal claim to. It is time you sang for me. In return, perhaps, your own burdens--"

"Never," the Nightsong rages in vain, as is her wont, chin jutting proudly, her rag-clad arrogance driving her to speak over a goddess.

Shar has not killed her niece just yet. But she has made her hers, and that, perhaps, is the greater triumph.

-

Though it takes a century, she is found.

-

Aylin revels in bonds undone, in love regained, in glory restored.

Through a haze of joy and triumph tinged with such bittersweet ache, Aylin knows: as surely as the Moon returns in the sky…

…it is only a matter of time.

Even with the blows struck against her - her choice of a Chosen denied, her curse undone - it will not take long for the Nightsinger to make herself heard once more.

Aylin is a proud beacon against the encroaching night. But she has perhaps felt too keenly the reality of wading through the darkness in order to spare others its bite.

When she sees Shadowheart - fresh from her fateful battle, her promised resolution, with questions brimming in her eyes under newly-silvered hair - she feels the fist of familiarity tighten around her heart.

"Come," Aylin beckons. "You are not the only one whose life she has made a battlefield."

[librivore42]

Fic: The Weight of Waiting

The Weight of Waiting (1172 words) by Librivore42

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Mummy (Movies 1999-2008) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Imhotep (The Mummy Movies 1999-2008), Anck Su Namun, Rick O'Connell (The Mummy), Ardeth Bay (The Mummy Movies 1999-2008), Jonathan Carnahan, Evy Carnahan O'Connell

Summary: Sometimes the waiting is worse than anything else. A series of drabbles of major characters from the movie and how waiting bears down on them.

You can find this and other wonderful works over in @themummyzine's 'Death is only the beginning' fanzine. It's a free digital download so RUN don't walk and get yourself a copy!

It was hell to wait for the brief moments that she could steal away. An ache, every night he couldn’t shade her from the burning sun of Pharaoh's ever-watchful eye. They had known, always, that it would burn them both at the slightest mistake, and he had always been ready to die for her. But when the time came to do so, nobody had asked for his opinion. They ripped the chance from him, turned his end into a shameful thing, floating uselessly a breath away from death, from her. Eternal waiting. For her, Imhotep could wait a thousand years. A million. He would wait until Ra’s bright eye swallowed the stars, the sky, until nothing was left that could keep him away. But oh the waiting, the waiting, it ached.

Read the rest on AO3

[happysaddca]

You are. Very tired.

This is probably why, when Moon asked what was wrong, you didn't brush him off or come up with an excuse as you've done the past... however many times it's been (you think it's been five. You also think that it might be possible for traumatic brain injuries to carry through the loop because you're feeling extra scrambled this time).

Instead you tell him the truth. Mostly about what was going to go wrong today: a broken faucet that was currently fine, a kid that won't be able to nap because she has a rash her parents neglected to share at drop off, Sun overdoing it and twisting a wire around until it gets pinched in a wrist joint.

Moon doesn't seem to entirely believe you at first. Until there's a bathroom flood. And naptime is interrupted by the cranky toddler and you're equipped with rash cream and gloves. And then Sun is playing gymnastics with the kids and one of his wrists give out, giving him an impromptu tumble. After clean up, Moon corners you, stretching one long arm over your shoulder to pull you close.

"I believe you," he says, 'leaning' against you and carding through your hair. "About the time loops --- you got it three for three today."

"Of course I did. It's hard to forget a day like today." You scratch absently at your cheek, adjusting your head so Moon isn't resting against a budding headache. You open your phone, dimming the brightness as you run through your end of day checklist one more time. "Especially little Grace. That was a torment the first time for everyone." You're pretty certain, not positive, it was the first time you saw Moon have to leave his post as Naptime Attendant to you and the other assistants. Trying to minimize negative stress seemed to help. You hope it helps.

"I'd like to think we would believe you about the loops every time." You hum an acknowledgement but honestly, you're pretty tired and this isn't a theory you've tested. You're not sure what Moon is looking for. When his voice drops in volume, you look up in concern. "Do --- did I, we, ever do something embarrassing in the loops?"

You don't know how to reply to that. And you can't move your head too much, so you mostly just get to watch Moon's fingers fidget in the open air. Watching the thin, sharp ends that are very nearly claws.

"Do we ever fall in love?"

Oh, oh, is he serious right now? You don't know how to reply; you can't reply. There's a buzzing in your chest that makes your throat far too warm, and you --- he can't know, he doesn't know, he's surely teasing you right?

You are silent, and you forget for a moment the large animatronic waiting not-so-patiently for your reply. The click and whirr of his inner workings is drowned out by the constant daycare music playing in the background, so you almost miss when his fans start up, indicating a change. The weight on your head disappears, and you start to look up, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and shaken like a doll.

"Starlight?"

"M-moon," you manage, grabbing at his wrists, the bells clinking against your nails. "Ssstop it; you're going to shake me to death." He does, but he pushes you against one of the windows that look into the daycare, his face close. His eyes burn as red as your face. "Moony?"

---

Maria when did you find this blog I was gonna tell you it was me but you're already here

also I'm almost free from school so soon I will be reveling in all the writing ever. Right after I catch up with the fanzine apps v.v

Ok bye.

*trying to flirt* id believe you… by the way. yeah-about the-the time loop. id believe you about it. every time. do-did i ever do something embarrassing during the loops? did…. did we-uh…. did we fall in love during one of them?

….no?

*panicks and then immediately kills the person i was flirting with, restarting the time loop*

[pocketseizure]

The Legend We Create

The courageous hero loves the wise princess, but they are bound by their fate and must put their feelings aside for the sake of a world floating above the ruins of an ancient kingdom.

…or so the legend goes, but some storytellers have a slightly different interpretation.

This is a tale of the Great Sea and the founders of New Hyrule, and how their descendants transform a grim and silent past into a joyous hope for the future.

( This is my contribution to @zelink-fanzine​! ) ☆ ( It’s also on AO3. ) 

.

A Boy on the Sea 

The wind was at his back, as was the setting sun. The Great Sea was dangerous at night, but Link had no time to lose. It had already been far too long. Every hour he spent away from Tetra felt like an eternity, and it had been days. Weeks. Perhaps months.

He was too young when he first met her. He hadn’t known what she meant to him until he was forced to leave her behind. He’d wanted to say something, but what? Standing in the shadows cast by old gods and ancient heroes under a sea that shouldn’t exist, the thoughts racing through his mind seemed inane and inappropriate. What was there to say – I’ll miss you? I’ll come back for you? Do you want to leave this horrible place and come with me?

He tried to be brave when he turned his back on her, but he was only pretending. Perhaps some heroes were born with courage, but the strength of will to continue onward was something he had to discover for himself.

He was sent to seek eight pieces of a mystical artifact, but when they fused together they formed a triangle no bigger than the palm of his hand. How could such an insignificant thing be so precious that it caused wars to be fought and kingdoms to burn? If he had a choice, this fading golden glimmer would remain under the sea forever, and the living girl left behind in a haunted underwater would not have remained there for even a single day.

The spirit of the boat was silent, as it so often was. The would-be hero was alone under the vast sea of stars with no companion but the briny wind and the oily creaking of the rigging. As the bore of an ancient and terrible tower slowly rose above the horizon, he considered the wish he would make on the last remnant of the long-buried kingdom – to ride the waves with her under a bright and open sky, all the while knowing that such a wish would never be his to make.   

.

 A Girl Cast in Stone

The darkness was never complete. Sharp rays of sunlight pierced the gaps in the warped floorboards of the deck during the day, and the soft glow of lamplight was a gentle comfort at night. There was always light, but it was easier simply to sleep. Tetra had no way of counting the days, and she had no way of knowing how long it had been since she was touched with stone. Weeks. Perhaps months.

She was calibrated for action. She wanted to be the one charting the course, not moldering away below deck or confined in a castle below the ocean. Once she got out of this mess, she promised herself, she would never be forced to remain inactive ever again. She might be young, but she was filled with ambition. Her ancestors once ruled the sunken kingdom below the Great Sea, and there was no reason why she couldn’t establish a kingdom of her own on uncharted soil.

She knew she couldn’t do everything on her own, but she hated not being able to guide her fate with her own hands. Tetra comforted herself with the possibility that this was a trial of her spirit, and that the gods sought to teach her to be patient and rely on the kindness of others. She was strong and capable; she knew that. But perhaps she needed to learn how to ask to be rescued.

No, that wasn’t quite right. She wanted to be rescued by Link and no one else. She loathed being dependent on anyone but herself, but Link was different. He had been all but helpless when he left his island, yet he had changed. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Tetra knew she could rely on him – on his quiet smile, on his hidden strength, on the courage of his kindness. If she could make one wish on the Triforce, evil thing that it was, it would be to go back in time and create an opportunity to tell him how she felt. Such an opportunity had never arisen of its own accord, and now here she was, as still and silent as stone.

Sometimes, while the captain was snoring away at the wheel, Link would venture below deck alone. He would gaze at her with intense eyes, studying the lines of her face and tracing the curls in her hair. Sometimes he touched the tips of his fingers lightly to her outstretched hand. Tetra wondered how he would react if he knew that she could see him, that she could hear every word he didn’t say. She would tell him, surely she would. Someday. When the time was right.

Until that time came, she settled into the dusty shadows of the hull, content to be surrounded by the aroma of brine and machine oil. Beneath her feet, the engine hummed its tuneless song, pushing the craft forward over the endless pitching of the ocean waves.

.

 A Story Retold

“So?” Link smiled at Zelda from over the top of the last picture card. “What do you think?”

Zelda tapped her chin with her fingers and tilted her head as she considered her reply. “It’s better than the last version,” she offered.

Link squared the edges of the thick mulberry paper cards as he returned them to their proper order. Niko had been nearly as insistent as Alfonzo that he show the proper respect for his tools. Link rode the rails across New Hyrule as an engineer, just as he had always dreamed, but he had also taken up the craft of storytelling during the long and pleasant evenings he spent in far-away villages. He never realized how much he liked to talk with people until he began his journey with Zelda. She brought out the best in him, gradually helping him to find the courage to speak. He enjoyed his conversations with her, and he loved the sound of her voice, especially when she praised him.

“You think so?” he prompted. “Which parts were better?”

“I like the parallel structure. It shows how the two characters’ thoughts are in tune, even if they haven’t yet confessed their feelings for one another.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but.’ You can go ahead and tell me. I can take it.”

“Can you, though?” Zelda grinned. “You’re awfully sensitive for a legendary hero.”

“That’s why I’m going to be the one telling the legends from now on. I’m going to add all sorts of sensitive bits.”

“You might want to add a few inches to your height while you’re at it.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Anything else?”

“I should get a say in this too, seeing as how Tetra is my ancestor.” Zelda raised her chin and straightened her posture, but her smile was playful. “She seems far too passive for the pirate queen who founded New Hyrule, wouldn’t you agree? I don’t think she would be silent like that. If she wanted something, she would have come right out and said so.”

“But that’s the drama, Zelda,” Link explained. “They love each other, but they’re trapped inside their roles in an epic story and can’t admit their feelings. The knight has to pine for the princess. That’s what makes it romantic.”

“Sure, I understand that, but you’re forgetting that they were real people. We traveled together for a good long time, and we communicated with each other just fine. If I loved someone, I would never keep it a secret.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“When are you going to admit that you love me? Or are you going to spend your life waiting for the right opportunity?”

Zelda laughed and batted Link away as he leaned in to kiss her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I love you. That’s exactly how the story should end. What’s the point of the hero and the princess having grand adventures if they don’t have a happy ending?”

Zelda was right, as she so often was, but Link couldn’t help object to the idea of a “happy ending.” Their role in the legend may have ended, but their story was just beginning.

[regenderate-fic]

All I Dream of Is Waking Up to You

Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thirteenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Thirteenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Jack Harkness (mentioned), Ashildr | Lady Me (mentioned) Series: Fanzine Prompts Rating: General Other Tags: Pining, Dreams, Reunions Word Count: 2,604 Read on AO3

Summary: The Doctor keeps seeing Rose. First in dreams, then in real life. She's still not sure if it's real-- but she won't stop looking until she finds out.

@thirteenfanzine Prompt Week 2021-22 Day 6: Petrified. But mostly a thank-you/you-inspired-me gift for @jolivira ❤

NOTES: EVERYONE IS LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO LOOK AT THE ART THIS IS BASED ON (link)

joli made me this art and it made me want to write thirteenrose and THEN she immediately came into my dm's with a full fic idea so OBVIOUSLY i had to write it <3 and i made it vaguely fit today's prompt too so. be proud of me!

It starts with a dream.

The Doctor is drowning, thrashing and flailing in a deep pool of water. A flat, grassy field surrounds her on all sides, but every time she thinks she can touch the shore— it retreats, evading her desperate fingers.

And then, just as she’s about to give up and sink below the surface, she sees a face she only ever sees in dreams.

Rose Tyler, hanging above her, holding out a hand.

The Doctor reaches up.

Rose disappears.

It’s always like that, in her dreams.

She wakes up empty.

The next time she sleeps, she can’t move. She’s stuck watching the sun and moon speed past her at a thousand times their usual speed, rising, setting, rising, setting. And then she realizes if she stays frozen, she’ll be here when the sun expands, at the mercy of the final cremation.

Even she has her limits.

Fear fills her chest, expanding with no place to go. She can’t scream. She can’t even tremble. She just has to stand there, petrified, unable to even close her eyes against the light as the dot in the sky gets bigger and bigger.

And then it blinds her, and suddenly from behind her, she hears a voice.

“Doctor.”

It’s Rose.

But the Doctor can’t move. She can’t turn around. She just has to listen as Rose repeats her name, getting further and further away as each moment passes. Rose’s voice fades away, and the Doctor’s skin begins to burn.

She wakes up restless.

She launches the TARDIS. It doesn’t matter where she’s going. She just wants out: out of her ship, with its winding hallways and softly glowing light; out of her dreams, which threaten to encroach on every waking moment; out of her mind, her racing thoughts and deep, deep sadness.

The TARDIS understands perfectly, as she always does. The Doctor is starting to hate her for it: she doesn’t want to be understood, even by her oldest friend. It’s too much responsibility. But when she steps out of the TARDIS into a throng of noisy people on a dark street, the Doctor is grateful all the same. She needs to get lost in a crowd right about now. She needs to be surrounded by unfamiliar faces. She doesn’t even care where she is: it takes her a moment to process her surroundings, the people around her, the music, the people dancing in the streets.

She sniffs the air. It smells of the 1980’s, with notes of Brazil. That combined with the samba music and the bedazzled feather-and-satin outfits leads her to the obvious conclusion that she’s landed in the middle of Carnival. She feels a little underdressed, actually, in her regular coat and T-shirt, but that doesn’t stop her from pushing through the crowd, trying to fill her senses on the things happening around her so she doesn’t have to think about her dreams. It works, sort of: the music is loud, and everyone around her is yelling to be heard over it. The bright and busy costumes keep her eyes occupied, and the simple motion of walking gives her something to focus on. She doesn’t care where she winds up: she just needs to walk.

And then she sees her.

It’s just a flash of blonde hair at first. Could be anyone. It’s not uncommon, actually, for the Doctor to mistake strangers for old friends, especially if the always-present pangs of loss are sharper than usual. Which they have been, lately, when it comes to Rose. The Doctor doesn’t dare get her hopes up, but she pushes closer, cranes her neck to get a closer look—

There’s a sudden jolt in her stomach. She’d know that hoodie anywhere. It’s just a regular purple hoodie, but the specific shade— the blue lining inside the hood— the Doctor has a fleeting memory of leaning against a wall, a young Rose Tyler wishing her a happy new year. She wore that hoodie often enough in their travels, but it’s that last first moment that sticks in the Doctor’s head.

But even with that, the Doctor is frozen in place. It’s just like her dream, except now there’s nothing stopping her but her own fear, the certainty that when she takes a step forward, the woman will turn and her face won’t resemble Rose’s at all. The Doctor closes her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them, the blonde woman is gone.

And then she has another dream. It’s a nice one, for once. They’re in the TARDIS library, sitting together on a sofa. Rose is reading one of her favorite books out loud while the Doctor listens, her head on Rose’s shoulder, one of Rose’s arms around her. Warmth fills the Doctor’s body, and she lets Rose’s voice wash over her, her eyes sliding shut.

When she opens them, she’s alone in her bed on the TARDIS. She rolls over, burying her face in the pillow. This is why she never sleeps: even the good dreams are intolerable upon waking.

But— she’s had three dreams now, in a relatively short period of time, in addition to a flash of blonde and a familiar hoodie in Rio. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? The Doctor doesn’t usually pay much attention to dreams— her mind is always processing her past when she’s asleep. That doesn’t mean she needs to dwell on it when she’s awake. But she can’t get Rose Tyler out of her head. Can’t let go of the question: what if she’s out there somewhere?

It’s not impossible. Or, it is impossible, but Rose was always good at circumventing the impossible. Maybe she’s done it one more time. A tentative excitement rises in the Doctor’s chest, and she squashes it down. It won’t do to get her hopes up. (But she does direct the TARDIS to keep a scan out for vortex energy. Just in case.)

She continues on her way, having adventures here and there, trying her best to not spend all her time wallowing inside the TARDIS, and after a while she almost forgets about the dreams, about the flash of blonde. They were just dreams, after all, and she could’ve been wrong about that hoodie.

So she doesn’t expect it at all when she’s watching luge at the Anti-Grav Olympics in 2085 and she sees another flash of blonde in the stands, coupled with that same purple hoodie. Once, she could write off as a mistake, but twice? She can’t write it off twice. She calls out, “Rose!” but it’s no use. It’s only 2085, and anti-grav technology still roars if you so much as boot it up: between that and the cheering crowd, her voice is lost.

But now she knows to keep looking. Rose is out there somewhere; she’s sure of it. She remembers taking her to the 2084 Anti-Grav Olympics, back when they traveled together, and decides to try other places they went: New Earth, Cardiff in 1860, even Satellite 5, in the years between their first visit and their last stand. She doesn’t see a trace of Rose anywhere. Usually, the Doctor loves having the entire universe to explore: it means she never gets bored. But right now, she hates it. Having the whole universe means she’s looking for a Rose-shaped needle in an infinite haystack, and she does not care for that one bit.

She tries to forget about it. Tries to distract herself with other trips, other adventures. But every time she leaves the TARDIS, something in the back of her mind is asking, Will I see her?

Until she’s in a chippy in the year 2112, just for something to do while she tries to decide where to go next. She’s picking at her chips, barely hungry, when the glass of the window behind her shatters, and two tussling bodies fall through. One is a Slitheen, of all things: large, long-necked, and slimy, it flails to gain the upper hand. But the other— well. The other is Rose. There’s no doubt about it. She’s beautiful, just like she always was, her eyes blazing with a too-familiar mix of determination and adrenaline-fueled joy as she pushes away from the Slitheen.

But it all happens too fast. The moment the Doctor processes what’s going on, Rose darts out of the shop, escaping the Slitheen, and the Doctor is sitting, frozen in shock, with a basket of chips covered in broken glass. When she manages to get up and look outside, Rose is nowhere to be found. And when she tries to research Slitheen encounters in the area, she finds nothing.

Well, whatever the danger is, the Doctor is certain Rose has it handled. And all the Doctor has to do is pretend she’s not devastated she missed her chance.

But at least she has confirmation. Rose is in this universe, somewhere, and all the Doctor has to do is find her.

It’s easier said than done.

She asks Jack first. He pretends to be offended that she’s only visiting to ask about Rose, but he was there when they fought the Daleks on Satellite 5: he knows how much Rose means to her, and how far she would go for Rose. That’s why she went to him to begin with, actually: she knew he would understand.

He doesn’t have any information.

“I’ll call you if I hear anything,” he assures her, and she stays the afternoon with him, wandering around Cardiff and poking their heads into the shops. When she leaves, she promises to come back soon for an actual visit.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll have extra company with me,” she says with a grin.

Jack just winks.

And the Doctor goes back to the TARDIS, trying not to let the hopelessness that’s welling in her chest fill her up completely.

And she keeps looking.

On a whim, she tries Lady Me, who’s still running her trap street in the 2110’s: since her research came up empty, the Doctor has had her suspicions about where the Slitheen came from, and she goes to Lady Me to confirm. As always, Lady Me is polite bordering on hostile, but she tells the Doctor what she wants to know: a Slitheen was executed on the day the Doctor saw Rose.

“What for?” the Doctor asks, her mouth hanging open, her brows drawn together.

“Attacking a civilian,” Lady Me said. At the hitch in the Doctor’s breath, she adds, “Don’t worry. She didn’t die.”

The Doctor lets out a long breath. “Did you see her?”

Lady Me shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor.” She hesitates. “I understand Rose meant very much to you.”

Somewhere, in her shelves and shelves of journals and reference material, she must have a list of all the Doctor’s friends, with pictures and lengthy summaries. The Doctor shudders to think of it, but all she says to Lady Me is, “Thank you.”

Lady Me just smiles.

The Doctor keeps looking. She has to. Now that she’s seen a face she thought she’d lost forever, now that she’s on the brink of hearing a voice she’s so achingly missed, she can’t stop herself. She’s got the TARDIS looking not only for vortex energy, but also artron energy and Rose’s psychic footprint: none of those methods are certain, but they’re better than nothing. The Doctor is practically haunting the places they visited together now: she even, once or twice, lands on the planet orbiting a black hole, a few days before it fell in. She tries the places she meant to take Rose, too: Barcelona, for one, both the planet and the city for good measure; an Elvis show in the ‘50’s; the new Roman empire. And she comes up empty. Every single time.

Finally, after a fruitless day wandering the streets of London in 2010, she decides she might as well give up. She won’t see Rose again— for all she knows, she was hallucinating those other times. She slumps against a wall, the city streets blurring around her. It’s broad daylight, and people are staring, but she doesn’t care.

Until she hears it.

“You all right there?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. Her hearts stop beating. She knows that voice. She’ll always know that voice. No matter how many years pass, no matter how many more people she loses.

She looks up.

Rose Tyler is standing a few feet away.

She looks different, but also the same: she’s still wearing that old hoodie, but her hair’s longer than it was the last time the Doctor saw her. There’s a calm confidence in her eyes, a self-assuredness that was just beginning to bloom when she and the Doctor were traveling together. She’s looking at the Doctor with concern, but when their eyes meet, the concern morphs into something else.

The Doctor can’t breathe. Her chest is too heavy. Her throat is too tight. “Rose?” she gasps, taking in every single detail for fear Rose will disappear again.

“Doctor?” Rose’s voice has softened almost to the point of breaking.

The Doctor doesn’t think. She doesn’t have time— any second now, Rose could disappear. She launches herself forward— and Rose catches her, presses their lips together without a second thought, and for a second the Doctor thinks she’s dreaming again, because how else would Rose Tyler be here, kissing her? But when she lifts her hands to Rose’s face, her skin is warm and soft below the Doctor’s fingers, and if this is a dream, it’s the best one she’s had in a while.

Time suspends itself: the kiss seems to last forever, their bodies pressed together, their mouths moving in tandem. For a long moment, fear catches in the Doctor’s throat, and she’s scared to open her eyes— what if she finds herself alone in her bed again? But when she dares to pull away and check, Rose is still there, her eyes closed, a contented smile spreading on her face.

“It’s really you,” the Doctor breathes. “After all these years. Rose Tyler.”

Rose opens her eyes, and the Doctor almost has to look away. The full force of Rose’s love after so long without it is overwhelming. The only thing she can do is pull Rose into another kiss, one hand behind Rose’s head, tangled in her hair, holding her close, the other tracing its way down Rose’s jaw. Rose tightens her hold on the Doctor’s waist, and the Doctor holds every single moment in her mind, capturing the joy and awe and love that’s flooding every cell in her body and tucking it away for future reference. Rose’s body is so warm, so soft, and it’s everything the Doctor has been missing.

A passerby jeers, and they’re both brought back to reality. They separate, filled with breathless laughter. Rose keeps a hand on the Doctor’s arm, and the Doctor trails her hand down to Rose’s waist: she can’t let go yet. Not after so many years.

“We’d better go,” Rose says through her grin. “They’re going to arrest us if we keep this up.”

“Are you coming back to the TARDIS, then?” the Doctor asks, as if she thinks in a million years Rose might say no. “She’s redecorated. I think you’ll like it.”

In answer, Rose’s hand skates down the Doctor’s arm until their fingers are intertwined. “I’d love to,” she says. “If you’ll have me.” But there’s no uncertainty in her tone either: it’s a formality, a ritual. Long gone are the days when a new body gave either of them pause.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor says again. “I would be honored.”

[cipheramnesia]

The rise of the post-Burn celebrity put Closers in the spotlight. The FCC had just got the lockout working, real basic and square as anything but it was all sunshine and capitalism, chrome and cherry red smart bombs for the future. Rebuild was up, rebels were out, and the radio was sweet and soulful on a breezy summer night.

So they said locking out the burn wouldn't wrap it up, but all that was for tomorrow and today was to appreciate a world that just wasn't on fire. Rows of new houses and apartments, old ones coming to life, shopping malls bright and bustling with all their white facades and storefronts, skylights to drop a truck into. So what if nothing was taller than five floors? Brick was in and anything that was everything came in a swappable plastic cassette case.

The rooftop of what Alice eventually learned was the Center for Scientific Research: Disentanglement & Biology Division (New York) felt nice under the wind and the heat and the one beer Dr. White said it was safe for her to have. It tasted awful and she savored every sour cold sip while once a while slapping mosquitos. Fanzines got around, lay lurid side the plastic beach chair she'd squirrelled away for her two bit paradise. Caught a good gloss shot of her, mid-jump lettered over with "Buzzsaw Babe?" and it made her feel weird and proud and unhappy.

Joey walked up and cracked a beer, finally showing his age just a little, clacked the cans and watched the shared sky, stars gainst the grid and city lights. "Oh!" He said, "Oh! Looks like we got a celebrity here." He dangled up the fanzine all fish flopping in the wind.

Alice laughed and took another sip of the disgusting beverage. "You keep it then, I'll give you my autograph even." She'd got half used to the shunts and new syncup locks all bedded in her bones. Now her blades moved as her body. Goggles still sucked though.

Joey skinned the magazine to the side, lay back on the filthy tar. "You could get outta here you know. Anytime. Couldn't stop you no more, I doubt they'd much care to try."

"Could go look for em, find some new people, new friends. Girl your age oughta have some normal friends, not some old man and creep doctor." He took a long pull that shuddered Alice good - how did he stand it.

Tapped the can on her head, eyes inward, let the stars take up her thoughts. "Where'd I go? I don't know anyone, mom and dad have been dead for years, no idea about the rest of my family." The can was almost done, kinda relieving, but she wanted that awful bitter taste to linger.

"You know, I got a nice room now and my own stuff and food and the creepy doc is really... at least he's got a sense of-" She waved at the stars, trailed light finger sparks. "Look at down there, look at Jill." Last bit of beer curled a drizzle out, she chucked the can. "You know thats a future we won't survive. No place for it."

Couldn't argue and didn't have much other place for words. Joey couldn't see much use in the glossy chrome plate and plastic clacks out there but it wasn't any good place to grow old maybe. He drank down the rest of the cheap beer in a few more lengths, wished Dr. White would drop a little more on something better. No beer priority.

"Not to mention, free drugs." Alice stood, clapped up Joey's arm to his feet, slapped cigarette butts and tar crumbles off his back. He headed back, but Alice took a knee and an impulse to the fanzine, folded in the back of her jeans. Why not have something to remember herself by?

Part 2: The Lonely Extermination of Athena Six

Awhile after Dr. Stevenson left, and after Dr. White's visits were rarely more often than once or twice in a month, Athena began to notice the iron cage. It grew very slowly between the earth and the sky, deep shadow bars tinting narrow strips of the world. The first ones she saw were in the sky, on a day where she could feel the sun inside her room. She felt the slim bands connect to each other overhead.

The small transistor radio at the nurse station had a square of dark bands around it. Dark lines grew from light fixtures and intercom speakers. While she sat with an orderly doing a geometry workbook that Dr. White was supposed to supervise, Athena noticed dark lines on the overhead fluorescent lights. The orderly said it was okay for her to go back to her room and read, so she sat at her desk to re-read a set of old fantasy novels. They were about a prince who was always beset by tragedy and sickness. Now matter how much good he tried to accomplish, he always hurt someone important. In some of the stories he traveled to other versions of his story and met happier versions of himself, or sometimes sadder versions, but mostly happier. Athena thought there were probably happier versions of herself somewhere.

The dark bands grew and crossed and multiplied. The more of the bands she could see, the harder it became for her to find the dancing light. She wasn't supposed to make the light dance anymore since Dr. Stevenson's accident, and the times the orderlies caught her, they stuck a needle in her and she fell asleep right away. That was also okay, but the lights made her happy, so she played with tiny sparks against her wall, too tiny for the camera in her room to see. Except with the dark bands the lights were harder to coax put and she was usually exhausted after trying.

Eventually the grid of darkness covered the sky in its iron cage. She only sometimes saw little dark smears from the radio or people's eyes sometimes. No one else noticed the grid, but she could tell because her thread was less bright and the omnipresent iron bars were visible through the walls and ceiling. She wished she could take them down and so she practiced more and more to control her lights. They were still waiting for her, only a little more out of reach, but she got stronger and reached further every day.

A little while after the grid was in place, Dr. White visited her. He was always very nice, but Athena noticed he didn't listen very much to what she talked about. He seemed to care more about if the orderlies and nurses liked him, but she could tell they didn't anyway. He opened up a box and laid two flat rectangles of woven metal on the table, then pulled his hands away quickly. Athena noticed he always did that.

"Athena, for the next few weeks we're going to try some new games and I think you'll like them very much." He gestured at the smaller, darker screen. "Closers call this a spark buffer, do you know about them?" He kept his arms close to his body, she shook her head for no. "It's okay, not a lot of people do." He gestured at the larger screen, with shiny metal weaving, and some kind of stone under it. "This is possibly a new prototype, and I hope you can help me make sure it works right."

Athena looked blank. "I don't know how... how it works."

"Don't worry," he laughed the fake laugh a little. "All I need is for you to make the dancing lights, and make them touch the buffer."

"The cage makes it hard," she said. "Can we go somewhere out of the cage?"

"Cage? What... I'm not sure what you mean."

Athena just shook her head and Dr. White slotted the new buffer into a small box. He stood up and took several steps back, suggesting Athena begin, so she did.

It was harder than ever before but eventually a flicker of light danced in her palm for an instant. Then there came a spark out of the buffer like a mosquitos into a bug zapper, and her light blinked out. She jerked back her hands as well, feeling a sharp stab of pain at her fingertips.

Dr. White wrote notes and she sucked her fingertips because they hurt. He said "Okay, let's repeat it and then try the other one."

Athena wished Dr. White would go away again.

[ineloqueent]

rooftops untouched by the frost

Brian May x Reader

also published in issue #2 of the akom fanzine, which you can read here

synopsis: in which you seek an escape from a rowdy New Year’s party, and encounter a young guitarist seeking precisely the same.

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 2k

a/n: happy new year, happy new year, may we all have our hopes, our will to try.

⭒

31st of December, 1972

You’d never liked these parties.

Student parties, they were, full of people who thought that the best way to enter the new year was with a headache and a roughened throat, bodies racked by the alcohol consumed the previous night, and the results which followed. 

When your friends mingled, you stuck to the corners, where you wouldn’t be seen, wouldn’t be found. 

But the corners grew stuffy, or occupied with people who could not keep their hands off of each other, and so you drifted. 

It was in 1972 that you discovered the respite from the rest of the party guests. 

Wandering the house, you’d found that the owners were far more wealthy than you had initially believed, which was saying something for people living nigh upon the centre of London, and a hallway led to a bedroom, led to a hidden ladder, led to a roof. 

Outside, it was cold, and the night was blue-dark, in lieu of the black which was not possible in such a light-polluted place as the Big Smoke. 

Still, some light splintered the darkness of the sky— stars. 

There were always buildings to obstruct them, clouds both natural and spurned of human activity in factories or transportation, but up here, on the roof, you suddenly had a clearer view of them than you’d ever had before. 

You had not seen stars this bright since leaving your home in the north.

Wrapping your arms around your upper body in an imitation of a winter coat, you lifted your eyes to the heavens. 

You shivered at the sight, at the light of the stars which brought to mind some of your fondest memories, warm and bright, in contrast to the cold, bluish glint of the burning spheres of gas themselves. 

“Cold?”

You nearly leapt from your skin at the sound of another voice. 

A lanky young man with curly hair and soft eyes smiled up at you from where he sat perched near the edge of the roof, clutching a mug with both hands, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders, though he now pulled it tighter around him.

“Yeah,” you laughed. “Suppose it’s my own fault, coming up here.”

He shrugged. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to spend any more time down there than… well,” he smiled, “than you.”

You returned his smile easily, feeling strangely as though a mutual understanding had just passed between the two of you. 

“I’ve got another blanket, if you’d like.” He held up a mound of wool, offering it to you. 

“Thanks,” you responded earnestly, and the blanket fell from his fingers to yours. You unfolded the bundle and swept it around you, sitting down beside him at a distance you dubbed respectful.

With a quiet sigh, you looked upward again, until from beside you, your companion asked,

“Irish coffee?”

“Pardon?”

He raised a thermos. “Would you like an Irish coffee? I’m afraid the cream’s gone a bit flat, but other than that, it’s completely sound.”

You eyed the thermos with the practiced eye of someone who often walked London alone, wary of strangers and their intentions. But this stranger had already poured his own drink from the thermos, and he could hardly have lain in wait up here, for someone to come by and drink his offered Irish coffee. If he’d been ill-intentioned, he would have mingled downstairs, taken someone off to one of the many shadowy corners. But he was not downstairs. He was up here, avoiding people, just the same as you, and prepared to share the source of his warmth. 

You could just as easily have said no, and so you said yes. 

“If you’re willing to share,” you replied, and he smiled amicably in return. 

“‘S why I offered, isn’t it?” He unscrewed the top of the metal bottle, before giving you an apologetic look. “I’ve only brought one mug with me, which I’ve already put to use, so you’ll have to drink from the thermos cup,” he indicated the lid of the bottle, which doubled as a handleless cup. “Tastes a bit metallic, sometimes.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you answered. He nodded, and poured your drink. 

You thanked him when he passed it to you, happy that your hands could now regain some of their former warmth. 

“You come here often?” you asked, taking a sip of your Irish coffee. 

He nodded. “Every New Year’s Eve.”

“Since when?”

“Since 1968,” he said. “Or, rather, 1967, seeing as it was New Year’s Eve.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Never any friends to party with?”

“I could ask you the same.”

You rolled your eyes good-humouredly. “Guess I should have seen that one coming.”

“Yeah, you really should have.”

You feigned astonishment at his sass, but his gentle smile coaxed a response from you soon enough. “Plenty of friends,” you said. “Just not one for partying.”

He inclined his head. “Ditto. Always been more of the head-down academic type.”

“Oh?” you tucked your feet beneath you, having discarded your rather uncomfortable party shoes. “What do you study?”

“Astrophysics,” replied the stranger, and you let out a vague whistle from between your teeth. 

“Makes you quite clever, then.”

“Not particularly. It’s all relative.”

You scoffed in return. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well,” he laughed, “that makes one of us. Unless of course you mean you don’t believe in me, because that makes two of us. Some of those lectures make me want to bash my head against a wall.”

“Astrophysics that hard?” 

He sighed heavily. “Oh yes. But I’m in love with the stars, so I’ve no bloody choice but to study them.” He turned to you, then, and in the sudden moment of eye contact, a tingle ran down your sides. “What about you?”

You looked down into the still-steaming cup held snugly in your hands, and lifted your shoulders in a noncommittal manner. “I’m between things, right now,” you imparted. “I’ve got an okay job, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I work in the record shop near Tower Bridge.”

“So,” he said thoughtfully, “you like music, then?”

“It’s my whole life,” you answered. 

He shifted to face you, pulling on the edges of his blanket. “Ever heard of a little band called Queen?”

You thought for a moment. “No, I’m afraid not.”

He ducked his head with a smile. “I didn’t think so. But maybe one day, you will have.”

“Any connections to this band which you seem rather confident in?”

He smiled again, a small expression, half smug, half shy. “I’m the guitarist.”

“Any good?”

He grinned fully. “Very good.”

“Well,” you sipped your drink, “maybe I’ve heard of you, then.”

He gave a vague shake of his curly head. “I doubt it.”

You felt suddenly eager to know more about him, allured by his kindness, his sudden shyness, the cryptic details he offered of his life, in pieces like shards of glass, but soft at the edges like faded photographs. 

A faintly nervous feeling bubbled up in your stomach. 

No, not nervous. 

You had butterflies. 

It’d been a good while since you’d last had butterflies. 

“It’d be easier to tell you whether or not I’ve heard of you if you gave me a name,” you said. 

He blinked, then seemed to realise your implication. “Oh, god, I’ve forgotten to introduce myself.” His cheeks had already been flushed from the cold, but now he blushed. You smiled amusedly. “I’m Brian,” he told you, and extended his hand.

You offered your own name in kind, and shook his hand. “So Queen,” you said with a flourish, “hasn’t made the papers?”

“No,” Brian conceded. “But,” and here he raised his mug, as though proposing a toast, “I think that our luck could change this next year.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Really?”

Brian seemed to retract his statement “I don’t know, of course. But I just have this feeling. I can’t explain it. It’s completely irrational.” 

It was irrational, certainly, but you understood him. There was a particular excitement to the unknown, and as someone who had spent several years in rather uncertain circumstances, you knew the spirit of anticipation that arose the slightest opportunity.

“No,” you said. “I know what you mean.”

A light seemed to brighten in his eyes. They were hazel, reminiscent of the coffee you were drinking. 

“Cheers to that,” he answered, and tapped his mug against your cup. 

The ceramic met with the metal in a dull clink, and the two of you drank in silence. 

Raised voices could be heard from below, a multitude of men and women, before one louder voice shushed them all. 

You frowned, puzzled, then asked Brian, “Have you got the time?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Two minutes to twelve.” The corner of his mouth turned up as he eyed his watch. “Or should I say, two minutes until 1973.”

There was something thrilling about putting it that way. You realised suddenly that it had been a long time since you had been excited for the new year. This time, however, you were. You were excited, and you couldn’t explain it. 

You tugged your blanket more tightly around you, not because you were cold— the Irish coffee had seen to that— but because another shiver had sparked along your spine. 

“It’s a bit exciting, isn’t it?” you said. As the chatter downstairs grew louder for each passing moment, you were beginning to feel the full weight of the anticipation pent up inside of you. 

Brian smiled. “A bit, yeah.”

You wondered if he felt it too. 

A countdown began down below, accompanied by the sound of Brian setting down his mug.

You told yourself it was the Irish coffee, the cold, the stars, the fact that it was New Year’s Eve. The fact that it was about to be midnight.

You told yourself you were alone, and that he was too, and he’d been kind to you, and he was just there. 

But the truth was, you weren’t the type to go around kissing strangers. This was a first. 

His breath stilled in his throat and he stiffened momentarily, before his lips grew soft and his hand rose to your face, and the blanket fell from his shoulders. 

He tasted of coffee and whiskey and cream, and of the night, and his touch was as gentle as the curling of his hair. He had breathed into the kiss and you felt the flutter of his heartbeat, the pulse of his wrist where his skin rested warmly against yours. 

Dimly, you were aware of people cheering, and then a cacophony of sound, shrill and suddenly booming, and you and Brian jolted apart. 

Sparks sputtered across the sky in bursts of light, and Brian laughed upon realising what had startled him.

“Fireworks,” you murmured breathlessly, as he brushed the pad of his thumb over your cheek. 

“There were always fireworks,” he said, and drew you closer, to brush his lips over yours again.

And when he kissed you the second time, you knew that it wasn’t the Irish coffee, the cold, the stars, the fact that it was New Year’s Eve. It was you, and it was him, and the lights of the city which glittered in the dark, as surely as the stars.

Below the high house in the midst of London, people flooded the streets. They danced and sang and threw confetti, and welcomed home their hopes of what 1973 would bring. 

All about the country, there stood thousands of people, haloed in rainbow lights and looking up— not at the stars, but at fireworks. Still, the stars were not upstaged by this, because the essence of fireworks is the same as stars. Amidst the pure and simple act of watching lights dance across the sky, beautiful and ephemeral, the hearts of onlookers remain untouched by the frost of human affluence. 

And perhaps, for just a single moment, in gazing up instead of down, all sorrows are forgotten. 

[pixelsandpins]

Ich Erinnere Mich -Fruits Basket Fanfic

Good Times: A Positive Fruits Basket Zine originated in 2019 as a fun Fruits Basket fanzine. As 2020 hit and the world became...well...you know...it became clear the zine wouldn't get the physical release originally planned. Instead, we decided to make it totally digital and offer all proceeds to various charities. This is one of my pieces for it, posted with permission. Buy the full zine on itch.io to see more great fanwork and fan art. Link in source

Hangers of clothing slide, scraping the bar, rattling my ears. I'm searching, searching for the day's apparel. Something light to pair with the boxy, manly, swimming shorts I've crawled into. I murmur to myself. Verdammt. I press my fingers to my lips. How vulgar to say such things even in the solitude of my own house. I consider a lacey pink shirt with bows on the sleeves. A memory flits through my head. A boy, faceless, nameless, one of the multitudes who hover ceaselessly around me, dodging in and out of the shadows of my periphery. "Do you where girl's underwear, too? Paaaannntties? Braaaas?" And they giggled and gagged on their laughter. I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered it. How much of a fuss would it be were I to appear on the beach in a bikini? Polka dots and frills? How even the friends I love like family and the family who've become like friends would have no choice but to waver in their defense of me. I know that's the line even I couldn't cross, that it would be too much. That I should relegate myself to these horrid things I'm wearing now with their straight lines and muted colors. With their total lack of vibrancy and life. Insubordination is also not the point. Satin and ruffles and ribbons and bows are not rebellion, for me. They're not naivety or delusion or stupidity. They're a memory. A memory of when things were softer, simpler, quieter. Before I knew how harsh the world could be, before I waited for the darkness around every blind corner. A memory I can live and breathe in, that I can pull strength from when the walls close in. A light in a pitch black room. A memory that I'm unwilling to let go of. Not yet, at least. Not while I still can. While the mask still sticks to a baby's face and a tiny frame. I find it. A lightweight, white t-shirt, unisex and boring. But it rebuffs sand and sun from pale, easily burned skin. A hat, too, wide-brimmed and beige, to cover blond hair. Partially from the sun but mostly from prying eyes that don't understand. Eyes that just see "different." That see "not one of us." Sandals click and clack as I run across the family grounds to the gate. "Different" and "not one of us" starts even here, the moment I cross my own threshold, and I flee to escape it. If only I had a high collar to hide behind, a curling eyelet sleeve to cover my face and soften the blow. On the street, a car is already waiting. A benefit of the Sohma name. A gift by unfortunate association. I fling my body into the back seat, pressing my knees up to my chest as I land. I take a deep breath then let it out slow. "Guten Morgen!" I chirp like a bird, bright. Squeaking. Is this my voice? It must be, though I don't recall it carrying this broken cadence. "To Shigure's house, please. Danke!" The driver gives me a helpful nod, smiling tightly. I lean my shoulders back against the seat. I breathe it in, black leather worn soft in spots. A memory of my father. One that lives in the present but maybe also the past. A recollection spread thin through time. Of briefcases and polished shoes. Of quick half-embraces behind closed doors. Of secrets and solitude and watching through the glass at a life I could have had. Should have had. I crease my nose against the thought. Try to bring up the scent of my mother. Of her soft, soapy warmth. Like paper and linen and candle wax on a cold, winter night. But I can't find it. It's lost somewhere in the wash of memories, drifting away across the salty sea. I shake my head, trying to dust off the deeper parts of my mind, but it's no use. I sink back into the seat and try not to think.

The driver doesn't say anything as we pull up to the house, just stops the car with a shudder and a shake. "Danke für Ihre Dienstleistung!" I say to him, falling over my feet to escape the car. He doesn't understand me, but that's just part of it, isn't it? The earth is soft and it tries to grab the sandals from my feet. I hop to the path instead, padding across the stones. Branches, flower buds just peeking out from their homes, reach out to me from the forest that encircles the house. This, too, is Sohma land, but the soil here is free of that name, disinherited by those expectations. I feel light. Airy. I waft through the summer air, bask in the morning heat. I let my backpack fall down to my elbows. It's a shield of fuzzy ears and cute, embroidered faces. I don't need it here. "Momiji! Hurry up!" I know that voice, that purr that cracks through the sunshine. It lifts the corners of my mouth, softens the edges of my thoughts. He bullies me. Sharp reflections of pinched noses and flicked ears and punched arms. But they pair with soft hands that pat my head and lay themselves warmly on my shoulders. Love and affection that doesn't know how to express itself. "Did you bring the sparklers?" I nod to the other voice, the soft one that's been shored up with nihilistic anticipation. That's been beaten and broken. Those are not my memories, though I sometimes wish I could share them with him. Not to take them, but to help him bear them if only a little bit. Up on the porch. Through the sliding door. "Momiji!" Tohru, arms wide, stopping herself from falling into a hug. And the world is flowers and fruits, spun sugar petals that kiss my skin and melt into syrup. Every memory she inhabits, no matter how bittersweet, wraps around me like fine wool, hugging me close even though her actual arms can't. I lock that smile away, one of a thousand. A hundred thousand. A million. Unendlich. A voice that reaches back into my everything and paints it all pastel just because they would come to lead me to her. And, yet again, I think if every memory I make from now on should have just a little bit of her in it, I might never dread the creation of them ever again.

[fancy-creamy-mocha]

Tanabata たなばた

https://www.deviantart.com/artcrawl/art/Zutara-Week-Day-2-Reincarnation-Part-1-748477733

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanabata

In the land where its people have a fire that still burns brightly within their souls whispering old stories from generation to generation.

There’s a festival celebrated across the seas. It’s pure waters withholding ancient magic that has long been forgotten by many. 

A celebration is held every year in honor of the stars from the heavens. 

The stars shine brightly on all who come together to honor the Goddess Orihime and her beloved  Hikoboshi. 

Empress Koken wise with old age, yet still upholding the fire arts and its magical practices to this very day introduced this legend to the people long ago. 

These magical attacks were once known as “bending”.

Orihime, gifted with the magical water arts, was a firm believer in uniting their nations together to work in harmony and have an everlasting peace for all.  

She was very beautiful. Dark skin from her mixed Japanese and  Iñupiat heritage. Long flowing wavy dark brown hair with bright crystal blue eyes that could make any man’s heart stop beating with one look. When it came matters to her heart Orihime was conflicted between duty to protect her people and other things she wanted in life. 

Plagued by a father who never accepted him for who he was, Prince Hikoboshi developed a hot temper at an early age. He found it difficult to open up to others and rarely trusted anyone with his real thoughts and feelings. 

Despite the ugly scar on his face from childhood, Prince Hikoboshi was very handsome with a muscular build. His skin was pale and delicate like porcelain. He had short black hair and piercing amber eyes that glowed brightly like the morning sunrise. There was so much rage behind their beauty. Pain that no one could heal. 

War raged on between the two nations of water and fire. 

Orihime did her best in helping her people by crafting clothes for the poor and wounded. Hope was bleak as the fading stars in the sky. 

Prince Hikoboshi watched those very same stars start to disappear. 

He too felt all was lost maybe catching the magpie in the form of the next Avatar, known as Aang. would end the cycle of hatred between all nations. The Water nation had to submit to the superior Fire nation eventually. 

His plans of submission were lost when his amber eyes locked with crystal blue.

 https://www.deviantart.com/matereya/art/ZW2013-Spark-386884130

It was love at first sight and the pair settled their differences and came to a compromise. The heavens weren’t happy with Orihime and Prince Hikoboshi coming to an understanding. There was too much conflict to be fully be amended. The afterlife sent a raging spirit from its depths. Fueled by the anguish of all who had died up to that point attacked the star crossed lovers. 

The Fire Nation Prince forgot about his title in selflessly sacrificed himself to save his beloved. He died in Orihime’s arms. 

Broken-hearted, Orihime took her own life unable to live without the man she fell madly in love with. In the Spirit World, Orihime and her prince Hikoboshi were able to be together, but their absence from the living world fueled the Spirit’s anger and their people continued to rage war against each other. 

The Magpie deeply angered by his friends’ nations actions ordered all four nations to shape up or their bending to be completely destroyed. Grudgingly the nations eventually bowed to the magpie, their avatar. Aang wasn’t able to calm the raging spirit so he split it apart releasing the darkness and anger from its heart. 

The darkness seeped into the afterlife forcing Orihime and Prince Hikoboshi to be torn apart by the milky way. A sea of stars separated the two lovers for thousands of years. Their friend Aang granted  them one night a year  on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month to be able to meet in each other’s arms. 

Tanabata is the celebration of these star-crossed lovers and their tragic romantic tale. Sometimes if you look closely into the starry night sky, you can see their spirits embrace at long last. 

https://www.deviantart.com/matereya/art/You-can-t-win-me-back-330317207

Perhaps one day the tragic lovers will be together again in another life. 

https://www.deviantart.com/matereya/art/ZW2013-Euphoria-385670510

https://www.deviantart.com/matereya/art/Zutara-Fanzine-1-Bliss-403385240

[outer-stars]

Contributor applications are now closed, applicants will receive their result emails on February 14, 2025! 🐸🌈

Good luck to all who applied! 🫶

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[sibilantwhisper]

For any of you Villain AU lovers, @blackguardfanzine​  is a free Boku no Hero Academia fanzine featuring some of your favorite heroes taking a walk on the dark side for a change. I decided to show love to my best girl Mina not once but twice, so be sure to check out my pieces when the PDF drops if you like what you see.

Viral Valentine He tensed, eyes wide and searching until he spotted the faint imprints of bare feet leading away from him in the dust; an emergency exit up ahead was wide open. His mind jolted back into action--Shit, she’d fooled him! Made him overly cautious to buy time for herself to get away... The sound nearly escaped his notice: a sizzling creak of weakening wood as weight bore down on it, coming up right behind him in an odd sweeping rhythm. The proximity had him whirling around, on guard. Dark eyes and a bright smile, the pink figure rushed towards his vulnerable back in a charge, bare feet sliding on the acid drenched floor at a wicked speed.

She was too close--!

He just managed to get his guard up but she acted sooner, a sharp jab flashing out between his raised arms to crack against his nose before he had a chance to think. Protoman's head snapped back, pain blossoming across his face in a distracting burn that threatened to bring tears from the force. He pushed past it, raising his finger as he stumbled backwards and firing off a narrow white beam in her direction. Her timing made the dodge look effortless, one foot sliding out and dropping her form low as she swiftly ducked and lunged. He tried to retreat, anything to create distance but she closed it in seconds, swooping in low right under him, quicker than his eyes could follow. He glanced down just as she came rising up as a vicious blur, and right before her fist crashed into his chin, he swore she winked at him. 

[betterthedevilyouknowuk]

Film censorship: How moral panic led to a mass ban of 'video nasties'

Mutilations of bodies. Cannibalism. Gang rape. That is what a video nasty is.” So said Graham Bright, the Conservative MP who introduced the Private Member’s Bill that was passed as the Video Recordings Act (VRA), 30 years ago yesterday. Giving statutory power to the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), the act made it illegal to sell or supply a video that the board hadn’t examined and classified.

It effectively banned certain examples of exploitation and horror cinema which the media had labelled “video nasties”, and more to the point, helped quell the hysteria surrounding them. This had been fed by newspapers such as the Daily Mail, which, in July 1983, launched a campaign with the front-page headline “Ban video sadism now”, described the “Rape of our children’s minds”, and in a story headed “‘Taken over’ by something evil from the TV set”, suggested that a boy had been possessed by one such film.

Horror film-maker Jake West directed a comprehensive 2010 documentary about the pre-certification era, Video Nasties: Moral Panic, Censorship and Video- tape, and has now made a follow-up, Video Nasties: Draconian Days, timed to coincide with the anniversary of the VRA and dealing with its after effects. “You had the Daily Mail causing people to believe they were evil. And politicians, who needed to say that video was dangerous to get an act in place to regulate it, stoking the fear,” he says.

The first video cassette recorders (VCRs) went on sale in the UK in 1979, and by 1984 they could be found in a quarter of homes. But Hollywood reacted to this technological revolution in the same way as it would to internet file-sharing 20 years later. That’s to say, with horror. The head of the Motion Picture Association of America told a 1982 hearing: “The VCR is to the American film producer... as the Boston Strangler is to the woman home alone.”

Hollywood held back its biggest titles, and so an unregulated rental market was flooded with cheap imports: Italian zombie films and American slashers bought up and distributed by enterprising one or two-man operations. This was the sort of entrepreneurial enterprise of which the Tory government of the day was usually in favour. But Margaret Thatcher’s faith in free-market capitalism was matched only by a puritanical morality that titles such as The Evil Dead, I Spit on Your Grave and The Driller Killer were calibrated to offend.

Distributors of films without recognisable titles or famous stars had to resort to attention-grabbing marketing. The boxes featured wonderfully lurid artwork: frequently making promises to the gore-hungry that the films didn’t keep. In March 1982, distributor Go Video sent a copy of its release Cannibal Holocaust, along with a faux outraged letter, to the moral crusader Mary Whitehouse. It had wanted the free media coverage that a little bit of controversy brings, but what ensued was a full-scale moral panic.

The term “video nasty” was first used in a story in The Sunday Times in May 1982 with the headline “How high street horror is invading the home”. Responding to political pressure, the Obscene Publications Squad began raiding video rental shops. And in 1983, to save the police the trouble and the cost in overtime of watching the seized material, the Director of Public Prosecutions drew up a list of 72 films that it suspected might be in breach of the Obscene Publications Act. Titles that were found to be so were burned by the lorryload.

The VRA brought some legal clarity to an industry in chaos. But as has historically tended to be the case, prohibition had the opposite effect to the one intended, and the campaign against video nasties had made a lot of people want to see them all the more. Indeed, the DPP had provided a handy list of recommendations.

West is nostalgic about the era. “As much as I am opposed to censorship,” he says, “it gave my generation of film viewers a thrilling sense of the forbidden. That thrill is gone from cinema now.”

Horror fans set up clubs, wrote fanzines, and traded tapes at film fairs and in classified ads. These third- or fourth-generation copies of tapes smuggled in from the Continent had muffled sound and blurry images. “But that was very forgiving of bad special effects. And your imagination took you the rest of the way.”

“We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality,” wrote Lord Macaulay in 1830, and West is inclined to agree. “Horror fans were branded as weirdos, but we weren’t. We were just enjoying cinema. We weren’t being depraved or turning into zombified killers. The reaction of the media was clearly ridiculous. That was the first time in our lives as teenagers that we began to question what we were being told.”

No other country had the same conniptions at the arrival of video technology. “One of the problems with the British,” West says, “is that they do like a bit of a nanny state. There was also a very British class element.” After a screening of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre for British Film Institute members, the chief censor, James Ferman, in a perfect echo of the prosecutor in the Lady Chatterley obscenity trial, said: “It’s all right for you middle-class cinéastes to see this film, but what would happen if a factory worker in Manchester happened to see it?”

We also have an island mentality, West says: “A majority on the list were foreign films, so there was also the insular view that we needed protection from outside forces.”

Almost all of the nasties have since had UK DVD releases, and while a handful remain potent – The Evil Dead, Last House on the Left, Cannibal Holocaust – the majority are tame, trashy or downright inept. Rewatching them today, the 1980s hysteria seems laughable. But the nasties saga should be taken seriously as a reminder that moral panics provide distractions and simplistic explanations for difficult social problems, and so laws made in response tend to be arbitrary or draconian.

While the VRA remains in place and the BBFC retains its statutory power, the internet has made censorship increasingly untenable. It would be sad to have to look back at the present from a less libertarian future in which the internet had been made a scapegoat and restricted the way video once was. Thankfully, says West: “With the access to communications, nowadays we have a voice, and it’s a lot harder for them to get away with that sort of thing.”

[ombreecha]

The Uchiha’s Wife

FF.NET Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Rating: M Summary: She was an otherworldly being of healing. An absolute nymph of spring. He was an otherworldly being of destruction. An absolute god of war. In a world where war makes him death, and chaos she will be the life, and love his people will talk of for years to come. AU x Warring States Period. 

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: I will be writing an exclusive one-shot for The Uchiha’s Wife for the Connected: SasuSaku Fanzine! This one-shot will never be posted online and can only be obtained and read if you purchase the fanzine. You can find more details about the fanzine over at @thesasusakufanzine !

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Chapter 17 The Reaping

It doesn’t matter how bright the sun is. There’s no warmth to be had in his retreat from the war. His uncle is gone from the world of the living, having made his way beside his mother and father. The list of family continues to grow shorter. His grandfather stolen right after—of old age or stress—it didn’t matter. Brows pinch at the thought as he settles his chin upon his knee. Subconsciously he swings his free leg over the engawa. It’s rhythm was barely felt as he gazed out upon his garden. It bloomed with the colors of spring.

This war sought to take everything from him. This war sought to render him with nothing. One had slipped between his fingers. Another no longer awoke days later.

Fingers curl turning white within the cloth of his pants. Perhaps this was punishment—divine intervention. The gods must truly be angry with him for all that he’s done since his first time upon the battlefield. They demanded an exchange—for all the lives he took they would pluck away what he sought to keep protected and safe within his hands. They sought to show him the cruelty he showed others.

No—the Senju took Izuna, and their cruelty had taken Tajima days later. The gods could not possibly reside in this world.

If they had they never would have allowed this war to go for as long as it had. They never would have allowed children to become fodder. They never would allow so much blood to cover the terrain.

The sun seeks to warm him but it can’t make its way deep enough. He’s numb to it’s attempts to heat deep within his skin, and it cannot make the home painted in sorrow brighter with it’s rays. The endless nights continue to maintain their hold—sleepless.

He cannot defend and he cannot protect.

He cannot bring them victory and he cannot return home.

He can only choke as he rises and stares at the ceiling as he lays.

He had lost so much. He had done all he could to maintain his grip upon that which was left. It was pointless. He’s reaping what he’s sewn.

Never would he had considered his uncle’s passing a possibility in this world filled with impossibilities. Lifting his head he can only close his eyes to try and ease the pounding of his head as the subtle breeze brings the scent of the garden to his nose.

Earthly and floral. It’s the only thing that can seem to quiet the never ending thoughts within his head. He knows he’s leaving soon. It only took a word from Madara and soon enough he’ll be away from this garden he looked to for solace. Exhaustion would continue to coat his being, and his mind would remained muddled by the uncertainty of what the future holds deep within the scrolls besides him.

His village needs him to command. They all needed to look upon their leader, and see him walk away from another loss. They needed to see him stand firm and proud. He needed to be what they looked to in times of sorrow, and pain—he must be the one that does it all because that is the role he is meant to play as an heir.

There would be no time of weakness for him. Weakness only brings fear to those that looked to him to guide, and bring them the peace look for in the horizon.

He could not fail them anymore than he had. That Senju had gotten the better of him. That battle had been lost because he had allowed the Senju to plant that consistently growing doubt—was he good enough?

Desperately. Unmistakably. He wants to be. He has to be.

Was he good enough to lead their armies should Madara fall? Was he good enough to have her stand beside him through the hardships of war? Could he stand firm and not fall?

It’s under the waves he’s sure he’s sinking like a stone. This quake within his being only seeks to plunge him deeper within the waters that rippled with his lack of conviction. That Senju’s hands had dragged him down with no remorse. His will has been questioned, and he does not know how to answer. What could he answer when this is where he sits unprepared to brief his men—unprepared to inform them of the changes that would be coming.

Unprepared to explain the unknown.

There would be no more peace talks. There would be no more playing with ideals.

Madara sought to eradicate the Senju from the earth. Madara sought to paint upon the land with the blood of Uzumaki. There would be not turning back with Izuna gone from his side.

Where they go from here is unclear with such convictions.

His leader had lost just as much as he had—he had lost his last sibling and his father had only joined days later. Their losses sustained during those times had been great, and those that chose to defect only continue to grow. He’s not alone, and yet he is. He’s never been more alone than in this moment, because Madara has never been close with him. Madara only saw him as a chess piece upon the board.

This fear in his head would not subside—it’s as if he’s battling against the tide.

Ebony drag themselves across the rolled up scrolls once more. Swallowing thickly he knows already what lies deep within. He just has to make the moves necessary.

He’s truly reaping what he’s sown. The fear he feels is pungent within the air.

Could he be the leader they needed now when it was clear they needed him more than ever? Could he be the—

That man. That Senju. He was deep inside his head. He was rearranging all he could touch. This man had struck him deeper than his blade could possibly reach. Here he sat concerned with his birthright, and now just as strongly he sat here knee deep side-by-side the spring nymph who had fallen beyond his reach once upon at time.

I will take her back.

She was here in his home, and yet he could not find a way to reach for her. He could not find how she had managed to pull herself from a place filled with such petulance and desperation. He feels crushed beneath it all—he was required to bring forth an heir.

Madara’s demands were clear.

It’s passing down the bloodline. Because it’s his birthright.

How had his wife possessed so much strength that night? How had she made her way back to his side with her heart upon her sleeve?

His wife was not a weak woman—he was a weak man.

An heir was no longer a thought to dismiss. His bloodline would end with him if he did nothing. The Uchiha leader would no longer listen to his demands to remain outside of the world of infidelity. His order was clear, and the punishment far more severe.

Far more than what it had been at the funeral when he had lashed out in defense of his wife. So much more severe.

He’s not against an heir—but he wants it to be not from politics and demands. He wants it to be from the heart.

He wants it to be from her. He wants it to be from this woman with glowing viridian eyes, and seemingly endless pale-rose colored hair.

He had wanted to know the secrets that lay within her heart. She had told him clearly what she had wanted when she expressed her love so openly to him among the financial books and across the table. Had he ever expressed what he wanted? Did he even know what he sought?

This want of his—is it not because this is love? He had lost the knowledge of such things long ago. He had trapped himself behind large walls made of thick stone. He had wrapped himself within protection and security in order to keep him from feeling such loss again. His brother had left him alone and alone he had made sure to keep himself.

He couldn’t feel loss if there was nothing to lose.

Yet, here he is seriously considering—seriously thinking of what lies beyond. Here he sits—the irony of it all—daring to think of what he wants. When has he ever expressed such a thing? When had he not just followed the commands from above? When was the last time he openly told her what he wanted? When had he openly given his thoughts?

When was the last time he had put such care into them?

The swallow he makes is thick and stops in the middle of his throat. If he disobeyed. If he was selfish as he always was—if he dared to bring forth a child from this ethereal woman—would they be accepted?

Would they be slaughtered? Would he watch as his leader ended its life?

She deserves. . .better!

She deserves a husband who is not bound by his bloodline. She deserves a husband who does not bring her through the chaos. She deserves a husband who does not sit deep within their home, cowering before her and all that resides outside of his walls.

He can’t let that happen regardless of his wants. He couldn’t watch a child made of her love be taken from her like that.

His mother could no longer be his protection, and now he would be the one who would destroy the still mending foundation of his marriage. Would his wife understand where he sat? Would his mother become distraught that she is unable to continue her protection?

Nausea fills his throat and it overwhelms—it burns as guilt does his conscience. Light floods his eyes as he dares to open them. The thud within his head never wavering as he brings himself to his feet and away from this place meant to give him peace—it’s done the exact opposite. It encases him in that world of spring she hails from. He wants to run and he wants to hide. He wants to be the twenty year old he was meant to be and not the next heir to a clan.

He wants to be the man that she deserves. He wants to be the man that his people see. He wants a child with his wife—not a child with a distant relation to please the masses.

His leader is going blind. It will be him who stands upon the throne. With a wife—who deserved so much better than a man tied by blood.

Ebony eye the door his fingers have yet to pull upon—this is where he runs within the dark. Desperate, and crawling for a place to find peace from the responsibilities that lay out before him.

Heart thundering. Palms sweaty. Tears threatening.

Fingers pull and the door slides with a crack as he goes where any child should be able to when the world has settled it’s inescapable pressure upon their shoulders. Crushed beneath the weight, and knees sliding deeper within his own insecurities. There’s no telling if the thunder within him is the heart or his head. He’s struggling to maintain balance against the tides of his darkest fears.

It’s a form of madness misunderstood. It’s a panic that cannot be describe.

Their pictures sit before him upon this shrine meant to give them prayer beyond his grasp. He’s come to them every morning he’s awoken since they’ve passed. He’s prayed to them within the camps. He’s whispered to them on the battlefields. He’s apologized more times than he could count for not being the prodigy their first born was. He’s apologized more times than he could count for every day they don’t stand be side him. He’s apologized over and over with no end in sight.

This is the thing he dares to want—dares to dream.

He wants a child from this woman because she has stood firm against him and all that’s come her way. She is a woman had gazed upon those walls he had carefully built. This woman had planted the seeds with care, watered them daily for two years, and nurtured them until they scaled the height of these stone walls.

That’s what scares him. This woman scares him far more than any Senju or Uzumaki could.

She’s dared to plant the idea that he could actually have something—want something.

The waters pour down, and he knows he’ll have to apologize to them for the fear he should never have allowed to overtake him

You will never—no matter what you do—be good enough for her. She’s made him dream for something—made him want more than just peace.

He’s kneeling before them, fingers twisted upon his knees. He’s lost his strength of will as his lip gives way to a tremble and his brows come to pinch within their frustration and their anger.

Who was this man to say those things? What did he know of him? He had done all he could in the name of war. He had done it all with hopes of a future where the children of his clan did not have to come run to their parents memorials for guidance.

He is doing it all for an unknown future that whispers of children with her. Remember you reap what you sow.

He’s sinking deeper. Endlessly. Unable to find air. Unable to discern rights and wrongs. He let this man inside his head. He’s shot down the walls his wife had carefully scaled, leaving them brittle and broken.

He’s opened the gates to the foundation that is his marriage.

He’s lost his resolution and now hope too was slipping from trembling fingers. This otherworldly woman was home. He wants nothing more than to seek her out and the escape she provides. He wants his foundations stronger. He wants their travels unquestioned. He wants her upon the throne. He wants her to give him a child.

You will ruin her. You will dirty her. You will defile her.

He’s left alone in this darkness as he gives in against the tides of all that seeks to flood his world, and bring him down from upon his place as heir. There’s no confidence as his grinds his teeth in an effort to keep the sound at bay that threatens to leave his mouth.

“Why have they forsaken me?” his voice is a tremble as he stands before these two no longer there to help pick him up.

The tremor of his shoulders comes as the air stops within his throat. Sasuke Uchiha cannot let out such a sound in his home. This son cannot let himself fall before them both—he cannot fall before his father, and his mother. This heir needs the discipline, and the strictness that he’s been taught. The power to keep it all held in his but a thread before them both—he needs to do at least this for them.

He’s already shamed himself so deeply before them.

The blur of his vision comes and goes. It’s here and now he’s finally taking a moment to let out a shudder of a breath that sends his ebony to fall upon his father. Lungs fill with the much needed air—he’d forgotten how to breathe—forgotten to keep his voice from escaping.

Those darkened depths are beckoning him further still. When all those prayers he prayed feel lost like tears in the rain. The shake of his iris comes as he stares upon the mats below. There’s no missing the way the drops fall darkening them in this dishonor. He’s embarrassed them all.

He’s left to fight alone.

He’s nothing more than the Senju said. A coward.

He’s petrified of his wife. He’s afraid of his people. He’s terror-stricken of his leader. He’s terrified of all of them.

Is there a way to do right by all of them? Can he have this dream and still be the man they need him to be?

Under these waves he’s falling so endlessly. He’s sown this weaved plight. It’s that firm grip upon his shoulder. He’s lost far below the ground and hope has long since left his side.

He has no hope to maintain. The end has finally begun.

Fingers tighten their hold upon his shoulder before disappearing to slide around his front. The squeeze is tight and there’s her breath upon his ear. This sorrow weighs upon his shoulders openly for her to see. This fear can no longer hide from her.

Everything he had sought to keep within his hands has slipped through and gone where he cannot.

He’s has been knee deep for so long—he’s had been overtaken.

The sun is eclipsed by the moon. The ending that he knew would come has finally begun.

Arms twist around him and it’s as he still cannot bring himself to reach out for her that she gives him no choice. She’ll bring him from this world of torment he’s encased himself in. She is ethereal with all that she does and has become the hope that lies deep within the spring. She won’t leave him alone with his trepidation.

There’s no missing the way her fingers ghost across him in affectionate comfort. The gentle squeezes and the brush of her cheek against his own. Another firm grip as she’s sought out one of his hand white within their squeeze upon his knees.

He cannot breath—he cannot find the oxygen he needs to live.

He told her he would never leave her alone. If he does not let out this sound he will have failed her completely, entirely, and unforgivably.

The throw of his head back upon her shoulder comes and the scream he lets out is the highest of wails as he lets the sobs take control of him in heavyhearted anguish. The press of her fingers comes upon his chest, and the fingers that have dug their way into his tightened fists give but another squeeze.

She intends to hold him together when he cannot do it for himself. She’ll keep him whole where he seeks to break under it all. The quake of his chest comes, and it’s here he wonders when the last time he cried was.

He needs this woman far more than she needs him.

It’s clear before him and obvious to see. He’s sorry he’s reaped what he’s sewn.

He’s sorry for all the pain he’s brought within the world upon those shoulders so small and petite. He’s sorry for his shamelessness in needing her comfort when he should be standing tall with nothing to fear. He’s sorry for all the things he’s neglected over the years.

He’s sorry he ever thought her weak when he has always been so much weaker.

This woman was strong. His wife was strong.

Those impossibly soft fingers have trailed his arm as she continues to press him against her still. They linger further up as if one wrong move will have him running from her side. They continue their ghosting across his neck, and patiently come to cover his eyes removing the ceiling from their strained and tear-filled sight.

Lashes flutter down feeling her palm where she keeps it. His breathing, erratic and choked, is slowing and it’s as if all he’s needed is to be shielded from all that is before him.

“I will wait for you. I do so gladly.” her voice is just a whisper in his ear.

It’s calming, and it’s bringing down his heart that dares to burst just beneath her fingers. He knows what she entails and he knows the meaning behind those words she’s let fall between them. It’s all he needs to coax him forward to take her hand and finally reach for her as he knows he should have already.

The Uchiha.

They love far deeper than anyone else.

Nor do I know what it is you truly feel for her—only you can answer such things.

He can answer those things—they’re not the answer his leader demands. It’s the answer he wants.

Calm has come over him as he sits upon the futon. She’s pulled him from before his parents, and she’s taken him within their bedroom. She’s taken care of cleaning his face and changing him to gain the sleep his body needs. Not once does she ask what had finally been too much. Not once does she ask for him to tell her the things that had finally overwhelmed him and dragged him down beneath the surface.

He’s followed every move she’s made. Cautious so as not to bring him more suffering—he remembers when he had done the same. He had wanted to braid those pale rose colored strands back then, and he still had yet to learn. There’s no doubt though that he’s learned more as they continued to travel through gravel and stone. She had given him something belonging to her father—she had said it herself she hoped to protect him.

There’s wonder if she had found the scrolls and read the contents inside. There’s desire to know what runs through her head in this moment as she slides beneath the comforter to sit beside him. Those fingers press against his shoulder blade. She’s creating a closeness for him and him alone—she’s not giving this to anyone else.

This otherworldly spring nymph continues to try and sooth him patiently waiting for his next move. Oxygen fills his lungs, and it’s the smallest of pushes to speak to her since falling to pieces before her, “I leave in two days.”

“I see.” she’s letting out a hum between them and it holds understanding, and the subtle touch of longing.

She thinks he is before her still out of reach, and she thinks he sits before her shattered. It’s as if she does not realize she had retrieved him from the depths of his petulance, and desperation already.

It will be him who stands upon the throne. With a wife who stands beside him as if it’s her birthright.

The Uchiha.

They loved deeper than anyone else.

She loved him deeper than anyone else.

Reaching out those seemingly endless strands call out to him. He’s taking them within his fingers.

Madara’s demands were clear.

It’s passing down the bloodline. Because it’s his birthright.

This man demanded an heir.

He would give him his heir. She would be the one to produce this heir.

She is an otherworldly being of healing. A nymph of spring. She will be the life, and love his people talk about for years to come.

She is an Uchiha. It’s her birthright.

He can’t continue to be afraid of this man. He can’t continue to coward before his people. He will protect a child brought from the heart. He will be selfish and dream of this. He will be selfish and want for this. He wants a child, and he wants it with her.

He’ll become the husband she deserves. He’ll become the man who will lead his people forward.

Sasuke Uchiha will move forward—because that is what she’s taught him to do.

That is what she has always done—with a smile on her face, and her heart upon her sleeve.

Leaning in he feels her still for the briefest of moments—it’s a second in time—before he’s brought his mouth upon her own. It’s that part of her lips that has him allowing himself to try more. Roughened fingertips release the strands so coaxing before taking hold of her shoulder. Hesitance rings within every movement he makes. There’s an unknown to it all. There’s uncertainty behind these movements.

He’s never dabbled in such things before.

Pulling gently upon her shoulder has her following his lead to come closer. She’s held him together long enough today—he longs to hold her instead. Those legs come slowly across his lap, and those hands of hers are so small, just as everything about her seemed to be, have made their way into his hair. The pitch within her breathing has increased, and there’s something about those viridian glowing down upon him that has him capturing her mouth once more. Fingers tug upon the sleeping robe in hopes to feel that skin beneath.

That scent of hers, floral and intoxicating, is leading him, and it’s this look upon her face that has his insides heating. His body feels warm and it’s caused by her. Those half lidded eyes—there’s nothing childlike about this expression. There’s nothing demure about it. There’s nothing innocent in those viridian in this second. Nothing of what’s displayed across her features is a look he’s seen before. He wants to see more of it.

She’s displayed before him with that robe slumped upon her arms. It’s that skin, soft and inviting, beneath his fingers as he dares to press them against her hips that’s making him bolder—surer. Pressing his forehead to hers and then another moment where he takes another kiss. It’s gentle at first, and rougher in the next. Those arms that once wrapped around his neck hours just before encircle around his neck trailing upon his shoulder blades as the smallest of noises leaves her lips. The mixing of their breath only seeks to heighten their already steadily increasing pants for air. There’s this need to press her harder against him that increases the more he sees those eyes of hers half lidded, and the reddening tint across her cheeks. Squeezing her hips has another sound coming from her before he pushes her down upon him. The need to rub against her is instant and the satisfaction it brings has a rasp falling from him. She’s moving quicker and becoming less patient as she’s getting lost within this closeness he’s taken control of. There’s something absolutely erotic about the way she’s quick to reach for his own robe.

It pools behind him as he slides his arms out from it. There’s a desperation to his movements as his fingers slide within her underwear and begins to slide them down. A brush of kisses makes their movements seem far more difficult, but she’s removed what she’s sought. His hands make their way up taking in the feel of her before sliding back down to continue removing her underwear.

The urgency is there when she breathes out his name. He wants to know what he has to do to get her to say it again. He wants to hear it repeatedly. He wants to hear more fall from her, for him. Curling his fingers inside her, and pumping into her with nonexistent remorse is the answer to that.

Her hips move and seek to match this pace he’s set completely. He’s overwhelmed by the sounds that never seem to stop pouring from her. There’s a need to kiss her more, but no desire to lessen these soft sounds, and heightened moans. Warm and wet is the only words he can think to describe how she feels. That soft skin is turning dewy and it only makes the heat he feels throughout himself burn hotter.

Arched back. Breasts out. Voice echoing against their bedroom walls.

Her voice pants out his name as she tries in vain to recover from this high he’s brought her to. Visually, she was as ethereal as ever.  Those pale rose colored strands are tangled and sticking to her skin. That floral scent is all he can smell—that scent is encasing him as it always has—yet it’s brought forth an entirely different sensation.

He wants more. He wants to feel her. He wants to claim her in these moments. She is his wife, and he is her husband.

She is his and he is hers.

Those strands that dare to cling to her are grasped within his fingers and it’s clear he seeks to claim her whole. It’s no more than a few seconds before he’s pulled her down upon him—he’s thrust unforgivably—without so much as a pause. She’s taken him with a sharp cry panting as he pushes in and out forcefully.

Warm and wet. Warm and wet. All of this is warm and wet.

It’s hard to keep himself together. It’s hard to not be completely bewitched by her voice.

It’s hard to not be completely robbed of control with those lids closed, and that mouth open and letting out the whimpers she gives out with each thrust. It’s hard to not lose himself the moment she gasps out his name.

She’s immersed him completely with all of these things she’s showing him for the first time. These looks make him question if he’s drowning once more, but for an entirely different reason.

The release comes rushing forth—it was that voice of hers whispering against his ear that’s made him lose it all, “Sasuke-kun. Please.”

He feels himself empty inside her at those breathless and exhausted words. He twitches as he spills into her and rides it out coming down from his urgent pace to a slow rock before stopping completely. He feels unable to look away as he gazed up at her with viridian eyes glowing helplessly in adoration at him. His breathing still heightened but slowly falling back down to earth.

He releases her hips but only long enough to wrap his arms around that petite neck of hers. The press of her cheek against his shoulder allows him to feel her own breath coming back down alongside his own. The press of her fingers against his back is an entirely new comfort.

Shifting her slowly he’s settling her down. Tugging upon the comforter discarded in their actions brings them nestled within it. Once again he’s wrapping his arms around her and pressing her against him.

“I’ll come home. I’ll—” he’s lost his words unsure of what more he needs to say to provide her with reassurance that he’ll be okay once more.

“And I will welcome you home.” her voice is but a hum laced in exhaustion, and on the edge of sleep.

It’s one more deep inhale of that floral scent he’s come to love, and a press of his lips upon her hair before his lids fall and he finds himself within the comfort of sleep.

Finally.

That tickle upon her neck is what has her shifting. Her body feels heavy and her legs even heavier. The muscles ache, and the soreness is foreign. The attempt to shift her hand has her registering a lighter weight upon her own and lifting her lids to take focus of what's prevented her. That hand is large and the pads of his fingers are rough. They’re so different when compared to the small slender ones she’s been born with. That palm and those roughened pads had touched every part of her. They had ghosted across sticky skin and gripped her so firmly the night before. Now one lays upon her own so relaxed and without tension.

There had been no warning—there had been no foreseeing the night before. She had found him so broken and torn. Shattered and without self-remorse.

He had crumbled under the weight of his losses. He had lost his uncle, and the loss of his grandfather had come right behind it so unexpectedly.

These days had been long. They had been riddled with pain and riddled with unspoken anguish. That wail he had given way too caused her heart terror and fear of what was to become of him.

Never would she want to see him like that. Never would she have wanted to see him so lost and unsure of where to go.

Her fingers make their way to his. There’s no tight squeeze upon this hand so worn. There is just the desire to comfort him even now. That even breathing gives her hope his mind has settled. Those bags deep under his eyes perhaps lessened instead of continuing their growth.

There’s a fear of what comes when he awakens. Will he regret what they have done? That fear is sprouting and that fear makes her wonder if she had taken advantage of him in such a state. They were husband and wife—these things were normal.

Yet, not once had she ever thought he would look at her in such a way—find comfort in her in such a way. This man so broken and torn had sought her out as a woman. She’d consent again and again.

Yet, that doesn’t lessen the fear of what reaction he’ll have soon enough.

She needs to find faith that this is in fact what he intended—but she doesn’t know what lingers inside his thoughts. She still wont dare to ask.

Would it be better if she left his side before he wakes?

Or would it anger him and feel as though she is rejecting the closeness he created last night?

She doesn’t want to cause him more grief. She doesn’t want to hurt him unknowingly. —but she doesn’t know what the right answer is.

His hand is so much larger than her own in this weak hold she has upon it. That breath of his is calming and that deep inhale of his scent so much louder with them tucked so close together.

All of these things are soothing—and yet it doesn’t stop her own mind from wondering what she can provide more of. What can she do to keep him falling into such a state again?

The twitch of his hand has her breath caught within her throat, and then those fingers of his slide from her own and the panic is loud within her heart. He’s waking—and she hasn’t decided upon an answer still. She needs more time. She needs him to sleep longer. She needs him to give her more time to decide what she needs to do next.

He’s not giving her that time though as his hand slides over her arm almost comfortingly before gripping her upper arm and providing the lightest of squeezes. He’s pulling her closer and he’s sliding his arm over her collarbone.

His lips are so much closer to her neck and the warmth of her cheeks has her far more awake, “Sasuke-kun?” She dares a whisper in hopes he’s actually still asleep.

“A little longer.” The feel of his nose within her hair follows that sleep ridden voice of his.

They’ve already done so much, and yet this is what makes her feel shy. This gentleness he’s giving while half awake. This unusual and blatant affection—is this what had lied beyond the walls of his heart she had hoped to find herself within?

The slide of her hand across the futon comes and finds its way upon his arm wrapped so snug against her. He hardly ever asks for much. He hardly ever gives way to his wants. He’s asked her for something once more and she will give it to him gladly. The panic she had felt at him stirring to life had disappeared and vanished within that little request.

He wants to lay here longer with her. He wants to stay within the sheets finding comfort in her. It’s not just as a woman—but as his wife.

She had not taken advantage of him in his grief and loss—he had willingly come to her.

He had reached out and brought them closer than she would have ever dared try alone.

He had made this joining of two deeper. This was a marriage. She was his wife. —and he was her husband.

The press of her head against the pillow is deeper as she inhales a deep breath feeling so content within this morning. How many days had passed since their mornings had not been painted with sorrow?

There is no way for her to replace those he’s lost. She cannot bring them back to him. She can though stand beside him and help mend him back together.

Slowly but surely there will be happier times ahead. The distance is unknown and the time unfathomable.

She’ll travel to the ends of the earth for it if she has to.

It will come to them both, and she will do so holding his hand and walking firmly beside him.

He has given her so much comfort in her title of wife. A comfort she did not know possible when she had first laid her eyes upon him.

The dip back into sleep is quickly interrupted as the voice of her handmaid calls lightly through the door. The squeeze upon her tightens as if to keep her from responding and then it lessens just moments later. The slide of his skin against her own comes as he releases her. That warmth he had provided suddenly gone and in its place is the coolest of air. Pushing up upon her forearm has her twisting upon her stomach from her side to look up, and it’s only moments later as he speaks with the maid that her attention is gained by the sound of wings just out the doors leading to his beloved garden.

Soft in rising she pulls upon the comforter holding it firmly against her unclothed form. The pull upon the doors leading to the engawa are equally as soft as she walks forward. Leg muscles give off a wave of ache but that doesn’t stop her from walking forward and out of their bedroom.

“Sakura?” Her husband's voice is behind her and high in pitch making it clear he’s questioning what she’s doing.

Raising her arm the animal she had heard comes down. Brown with sharp eyes, and talons strong it sits awaiting for her to take the scroll from around its neck. There’s something deep within her heart—she can’t place this feeling. She doesn’t know if it’s a sense of foreboding or perhaps something lighter.

She doesn’t have to shift much to release the scroll from around his neck. The whisper of gratitude comes out and then and the slow motion of her arm lowering before raising up has the hawk taking off and expanding their wings. Fingers fiddle with the flap and it’s as she unrolls it that her eyes fall upon the written text. This where she decides perhaps it wasn’t such a foreboding feeling.

“Sakura.” He’s come to stand at the doorway.

The smallest of hums falls, “It’s nothing to worry about Sasuke-kun.”

She’s been summoned to join him on the battlefield and lead their medics. Whatever is to come—whatever sat within the scrolls her husband had received before her own now has reached her as well.

Sakura Uchiha would no longer be forced to sit within camps or deep within their home. She would be traveling beside him. She would be there to walk him home.

She wouldn’t have to wait this time.

[mystacoceti]

In a couple of essays and the odd poem, W. H. Auden makes the point that you have four modernist worldviews: One Auden called New Jerusalem. New Jerusalem is the technological super-city where everything is bright and shiny and clean, and all problems have been solved by the beneficent application of science. The underside of New Jerusalem is Brave New World. That’s the city where everything is regimented and standardized and we all wear the same uniform. The two may just be the same thing, looked at from different angles. It’s not so much a real difference in the cities themselves as it is a temperamental difference in the observes. In the same way, Auden pointed out, you have a rural counterpart to this pairing. There are people who see rural life as what Auden called Arcadia. Arcadia is that wonderful place where everyone eats natural foods and no machine larger than one person can fix in an hour is allowed in. Throughout Arcadia the breezes blow, the rains are gentle, the birds sing, and the brooks gurgle. But the underside of Arcadia is the Land of the Flies. In the Land of the Flies, fire and flood and earthquake—as well as famine and disease—are always shattering the quality of life. And if they don’t shatter it, then the horrors of war are always in wait just over the hill to transform the village into a cessridden, crowded, pestilential medieval fortress-town under siege.

But once again, Auden points out, fundamentally we have a temperamental split here. Those people who are attracted to New Jerusalem will always see rural life as the Land of the Flies, at least potentially. Those people who are attracted to Arcadia will always see urban life as some form of Brave New world.

For some years, I thought SF could generally be looked at in terms of a concert of these four images: All four, either through their presence or absence, always spoke from every SF text. That interplay is what kept SF from being utopian—or dystopian, for that matter. You’ll find the argument, at least as it progresses up to this point, detailed in an early essay of mine, “Critical Methods/Speculative Fiction,” finished in March of 1969, the second year in which (after fanzines like The Australian SF Review and Lighthouse convinced me that the enterprise was worthwhile) I was seriously writing SF criticism.

To take the argument a bit beyond that essay, however, I think the post-modern condition has added at least two more images to this galaxy—if it hasn’t just broken down the whole thing entirely.

One of these is the urban image of Junk City—a very different image from Brave New World. Junk City begins, of course, as a working-class suburban phenomenon: Think of the car with half its motor and three wheels gone which has been sitting out in the yard beside that doorless refrigerator for the last four years. As a kid I encountered the first signs of Junk City in the cartons of discarded military electronic components, selling for a quarter or 75 cents, all along Canal Street’s Radio Row. But Junk City really comes into its own at the high-tech moment, when all this invades the home or your own neighborhood: the coffee table with the missing leg propped up by the stack of videogame cartridges, or the drawer full of miscellaneous walkman earphones, or the burned out building of the inner city, outside of which last year’s $5,000 computerunits are set out on the street corner for the garbage man (or whoever gets there first), because the office struggling on here for the cheap rent is replacing them with this year’s model that does five times more and costs a third as much: Here we have an image of techno-chaos entirely different from the regimentation of Brave New World—and one that neither Huxley in the early ‘30s nor Orwell in the late ‘40s could have envisioned.

Junk City has its positive side: It’s the Lo-Teks living in the geodesic superstructure above Nighttown in Gibson’s “Johnny Mnemonic.” You can even see it presaged a bit among those who enjoy the urban chaos in my own Dhalgren—or the unlicensed sectors in the satellite cities of Triton.

The country landscape polluted with technological detritus is perhaps the corresponding rural image. And there is even a positive tradition growing up within this essentially horrific ‘scape; I mean such haunting works as M. John Harrison’s “Viriconium” series, in which the polluted, poisonous landscape becomes a place of extraordinarily delicate and decadent beauty, among the “cultures of the afternoon.”

The problem with this extension of the argument is the problem with all thematics: Themes always multiply, if only to compensate for the reductionism that first formed them. The argument began as a Cartesian space of two coordinates, at which point it was fairly wieldy. For most people, however, a Cartesian space of four coordinates (which is where the expanded argument now leaves us) is just too complicated really to see. I suppose, at this point, I’d have to junk the whole thing—however illuminating it was for a while. Finally I have to stick it out on the sidewalk in the Junk City of our own endlessly abandoned critical detritus.

It’s always possible someone will come along and find some odd and interesting use for it—or a piece of it.

from “The Second Science-Fiction Studies Interview”, Samuel R. Delany