#but for his lover of a quarter-century? he would BAWL.

[inarmes]

i know haymitch HATED to see this coming right towards the end of the games. chaff was so close to getting out. so close and YET his body likely went with the explosion or it was just dumped in a pile somewhere and neither was a correct end for him. after not seeing him for the whole games he died unjustly and so, so swiftly.

[kiraawrites]

2MSS #3: Silken Guilt

Day 3 of the 2 Month Short Stories Challenge w/ @flyingfalconflower12

Word count: 1984

Constructive criticism welcome!

Putting my hands in front of the fire somehow made everything seem better. The night sky had engulfed the village; I could swear that I was the only one still awake. Tomorrow’s the day. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. The next day would be extremely important. My family had forced me to run for the chieftainship trial.  

“Maybe you’ll prove that we aren’t weaklings,” they said. “Maybe we’ll matter to others.”

I looked over the hunting gear that was lying on my lap. This day had been spent nocking arrows and shooting at the targets my father had fashioned for me. In my head, I ran through the motions. A deep breath. Arms out before me, a sturdy grip on the bow’s wooden body. An arrow ready to slice the air. An eye trained on the quivering target. Hunt the most prey and then I can be chief. It’s not that hard. Running a hand through my bushy hair, I walked over to my bed. The stars are beautiful tonight. Hope they grant me luck. Sleep blanketed me in thick darkness.

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“Gareth! Big day today. How’s my boy doing?” asked my father as I stumbled out of my room. 

“I’m scared, Dad. I am.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Here, have some baked beans. I had to sell the eggs to repair the hole in Ayla’s bedroom yesterday.” 

He pushed the dish of beans across the rickety dining table. It’s the biggest day of my life and I’m having breakfast in a bowl that I can wrap my hands around. My sister was smiling sheepishly at me, her cheeks pink at having her name being mentioned. 

“Ayla, I’ve been hearing that you’re being bullied at school. Is that correct?” 

Her eyes turned a stormy grey as she nodded. Eyebrows creased, she answered, “They’ve been making fun of our house. I told them that I do my homework on the floor and they keep mocking me. ‘Look, Ayla’s worksheet is covered in orange dust because she does it on that ugly floor!’” 

I took her hand in mine and rubbed it. “You need not listen to them. People love picking on others and we’re just unlucky. But I’ll do my best today and make the rest respect us. Believe in me, Ayla.” 

A tear escaped from her eyes and dropped onto my palm. I cradled her head with my right hand and petted her hair. She was a mild sister. Mute when others laughed at her, wringing her hands together as she saw them overturn her chair and look through her school bag for the “poor people pencils”. These are the people I’ll provide for. I took my hands back and started on my breakfast. The beans were cold and mushy in my mouth, making my throat turn clammy. My father was watching us and now sat beside Ayla, putting her head on his shoulder. 

I finished up the last scraps of my breakfast and rinsed the plate with the water in the dishwashing bucket. As I put it on the kitchen rack to dry, I gazed at my family’s small cottage. The roof built with straw was torn in some places, fine in others. I remembered the burning sun that attacked us relentlessly as my father, mother and I were putting up that roof. My mother was heavily pregnant with Ayla then. She would pant and heave continuously but was the hardest worker among us. She never stopped (despite us begging her to do so). 

The spray paint vandalism had not washed itself off over the years. “Gareth’s a coward”, “F*CK THE FRUGS” and “move out of this place” were some of them. I could recall the first one fresh in my head. The school day had ended with the bell clanging, setting us free. I was the first to bolt out of class as there were no friends or parents to wait for; I had none of the former and the latter were wrapped up in farm work. Then came a shout from my back. Someone rammed themselves into my shoulder and spat into my ear. 

I glared at the figure beside me. “Whaddya looking at?” the boy shouted. At least four others were gathered behind him. My pulse in my throat, I sprinted out of there. My shoelaces were trailing in the air as my school bag moved up and down. They were light-footed and kept up with me easily. Trailing me all the way back home, I shut the door on them with the greatest strength I could muster. Sweat ran down my body and mingled with the tears that dotted my shirt. The click of a cap being taken off. The hiss of the spray paint running down the walls.

I shook as the boys painted my house with those red words of shame. Stuttering, I asked them to stop through the locked door. They burst into laughter. “Never erase it, or we’ll come for you again.” My father returned home half an hour after they had left. He glared at the fresh paint and gasped when he saw my bawling figure at the doorstep. Taking me in his arms, he kissed my forehead and told me that everything would be all right.

It was after that day when my father taught me how to fend for myself. We would box in the small patch of land behind our house that was not dotted with crops. I grew familiar with close-quarter hand to hand combat. It was the only thing I was respected for, as I could break apart brawls with ease. But the reality was undeniable: their taunts, now only with words, were still no less painful than before. 

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“All young men of Thellinde! Step right up to claim a taste of power and glory!” hollered a burly man behind the registration counter. 

Hordes of other guys from the ages of 18 to 25 were in the buzzing plaza that barely fit them. Each had their bow in hand. Some had it polished, engraved with their name or that of a lover’s. Mine was plain and fashioned from a fallen branch that curved enough to be a bow. I felt tiny. My head barely reached most of the men’s shoulders. Perhaps because I was 18, but it was not much of an excuse. Murmurs trailed me as I worked my way to the desk. 

“Are you really signing up, Gareth Frug? Run home to your farm. I think it’d be better if you never came here instead,” said Anthony Winter, flashing me a sceptical look. “My dad gave me this dagger. Neat, ain’t it?” 

It was more than neat. The handle was engraved with his full name and the silver blade was symmetrical. It glinted threateningly in the morning light. Without thinking, I placed a finger on it. 

“Back off! You dirty rat, I’ll make sure you pay for this,” he roared. Ashamed, I sprang back into the shadows. After signing up, I stayed away from him as much as I could. They gave all of us huge cloth sacks the size of our bodies. 

“Remember the rules. The man with the greatest number of prey hunted is the new chief. As the current chief, I look forward to meeting the new one after these four hours,” he said, puffing his chest out before the crowd. “If you want this silken mask, you shall have to prove yourself.” 

-------------------------------- 

The forest was neither dense nor sparse. Light easily illuminated its depths. I soon caught two rabbits, unaware as I snuck behind them. Those long ears have failed them. The wind seemed to encourage me; the breeze was gentle and whispered with delight. I grinned despite my own struggles, as I slung my catch over my shoulder. Minutes passed slowly as I crept through the forest, ears and eyes alert for any movement. 

It took just about an hour to ruin my mood. Anthony had spotted me and ran over with a smug smile on his face. His catch was heavy and near-bursting. It hung behind him like a trophy; he was an obvious front-runner of the competition. 

“Hey, peasant. Give me your bow.” 

I turned and shook my head, looking at him in confusion. 

“Mine broke. You know you’re not winning, so hand it over.” 

My eyes stung as I strode over, my hands balled up in fists. He raised his eyebrows in amusement as my smaller figure approached him. I spat, “Say that again. I dare you.” 

“You know you’re not winning.” 

“Idiot. I’m never giving this to you.” 

“To your detriment,” he replied. His arms encircled me as he forced me against a thick wooden trunk. My sack fell to the ground and the animal carcasses spilt out. His large palms seized for my throat, but I punched him in the jaw. His head spun as he backed away, drawing out his dagger. I lunged for it. Landing on him, I pushed his arm to the side.

We wrestled for the weapon. Prying it out of those huge hands was no easy feat. Rolling around in the fallen leaves, our limbs flailed about. At last, I grabbed hold of its handle. I was choking on my breath as I swiftly plunged it into his throbbing chest. He gave out, limp, beneath me. His tongue lolled in his mouth as his eyes rolled back. 

No. Did I kill him? Tell me I didn’t. Heck, the punishment for this is an exile. My family! What have I done? Blood rushed through my head as I gathered up his load. Might as well seize the dagger. I could sell it in some faraway marketplace. Just have to hide it. Racing away from the crime scene, I proceeded with my hunt. 

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The four hours had passed and a cry of the bugle called us back. I tried to dispose of the guilt that had been haunting me but it only took deeper roots in my conscience as I struggled weakly. At the plaza, the other men seemed to have had the time of their lives. They beamed at one another, showing off their catches as a display of prominent masculinity. Names were read off as they counted prey. 

As I pulled up to have my bag — Anthony’s, actually — measured, I shivered. What if they can tell? Their approving nods comforted my aching heart. I returned to my previous position at the outskirts of the crowd, now unburdened by the remnants of the hunt. Except for the dagger. What if I accidentally left it in the sack? At once, I grabbed the pouch slung about my hips to check. It was there. Sighing, I turned my attention to the village chief. The silken white mask gave him the appearance of a ghost with a live body, his muscular arms twitching with excitement. 

“We have totalled the number of prey. A shocking feat, for this, has been the highest in centuries! Of course, there are some hunters still out there — too enraptured to hear our glorious bugle, I suppose,” his voice rang out among the hundreds gathered. “Let us announce our winner!” 

My throat tightened. I clenched the pouch tightly as I gritted my teeth.  

“Gareth Frug! An underdog of our society has proven himself. Come here, new chief!” 

If only they knew.

I stepped up to face the surprised audience, bodies still in their disbelief. The regular speech breezed through my lips. It was difficult not to break down from the crushing weight of wrongdoing. The chief handed over his silken mask to me tenderly. As I faced what was now my people for the first time behind this mask, I wept. 

“I am filled with the greatest joy. I have worked hard for this day. Thank you, thank you for letting me be chief.”

Taglist

@galaxy-charm @rhyseoshaughnessy

Author’s note

I’m so happy that I managed to write this much in a day! I didn’t get to do much else, but I did wake up pretty late so perhaps that’s why.

[pb1138]

Thank You for Teaching Me How to Love

So, it’s almost 3am. I still have to pack a week’s worth of shit to go home tomorrow. I have to study vital information for my job and read a contract for a new job. I have to clean my room. I have to finish some work. And I have to get to bed by at least 1 because I have work at 9.

SO HEY LET’S WRITE SOME FANFICTIONS THAT LITERALLY NOBODY ASKED FOR!!! :D

Summary: Data experiences grief (data x oc)

Warnings: Death

That feeling when your own writing makes you bawl your eyes out. Holy shit. I need a life.

The Enterprise bridge crew and some visiting friends, including Chief O’Brian and Keiko, were gathered around the urn pod, listening to Captain Picard talk about her accomplishments: top 5% of her class in Starfleet, an ingenious engineer, a multi-world-renowned vocalist, the list went on and on. A few feet away, one of her songs was playing on an old gramophone. She had frequently praised the ancient machine for the “depth” it gave certain kinds of music. This particular song she had sung in an imitation of a famous French singer of the 1940s, a song called “La Vie en Rose.” More than a few people were crying, Deanna had had to excuse herself before the service had even begun because the wealth of grief and sorrow surrounding her had begun to affect her deeper than she realized.

Picard finished his speech as the song came to an end, wiping his eyes as he said, “Vikara Nellenryll will be more than missed. Her absence will affect us all in a more profound way than some of us have ever experienced.” With this, he walked over to Data who hadn’t moved a single inch since they had arrived at the forest. He put his hand on the android’s arm and squeezed it firmly, drawing his attention. “Data, my old friend, we are all here for you in this hour of need.”

Data nodded slightly, giving a weak smile that lasted .13 seconds. Picard turned back to the urn and was the first to reach down, dropping a small handful of wildflower seeds onto the soil around it. Everyone else followed suit, said their goodbyes, and walked away, not a single dry eye among them. Geordi waited until it was just him and Data left before he turned to his friend. “Data, are you alright?”

Data turned his head toward Geordi, his face void of all emotion. He went to open his mouth but no words came. He tried again and managed to let out a quiet, “I have… I have no words for what I’m feeling. All I can say with certainty is that…no. I am not alright.” And it was true. Data wished with all his might that he hadn’t damaged his emotion chip. He wanted nothing more than to turn this feeling off and to never let it come back on. But for now, he was unable to deactivate it. He could not avoid this feeling, this hopelessness, this despair.

Geordi nodded, swallowing down a lump of tears and he hugged the android tightly for a few moments. He pulled back and patted his arm. “I’ll leave you alone to…say your goodbyes.” He bent down and put his handful of seeds around the pod. As he left, he put his hand on Data’s shoulder for a second again, and then continued on his way.

Data stood rigid still until Geordi’s footsteps were approximately 74.43 feet away and then all strength he had failed him. He sank to his knees in the dirt, dropping the seeds he had been clutching in his hand. He let out a choked sob, sinking back onto his ankles. Artificial tears streamed down his face as his entire body shook with grief. The raging ball of searing heat in his stomach rising up to his throat and radiating down to his palms.

“V-Vikara…My Vik. I can’t—I don’t—How can I?” Even without the necessity of breathing, Data could not help the shuddering intake of air into his chest cavity. He tried to speak again but all that his vocal processor could produce was a strangled cry and he dug his nails into the dirt.

He stayed like that for a few hours until he managed to get his crying under control. His voice was weak and hollow when he managed to finally speak again. “I knew this day would come, but how could I have known it would come…so soon?” He wiped his eyes, staring desolately at the pod. “I hope you find this to be an appropriate means of…” he swallowed the word ‘disposal’ and left the sentence unfinished, unable to vocalize the idea of departing with her body, the body he had spent so many nights lying beside, watching, studying, worshipping. “I know how fond you a…were” he swallowed hard, looking up into the sky to blink away a fresh wave of tears, “of the forests. And this planet has no species even remotely resembling arachnids, which I know you hate…d. Why do I keep doing that? I know that you are…gone… but I can’t, as they say, ‘wrap my head around’ the idea of you being…” He couldn’t say it. He just could not bring the word “dead” to his lips. The pain coursed through his body again and he lost control. For another hour, he could do nothing but sob.

As he settled down, he contemplated the way other species handled death. Klingons released battle cries when one of their own died. Multiple species throw parties to celebrate the lives of their loved ones. Some species preserve their loved ones, some even go so far as to live with the corpses for a while. In some ancient cultures, lovers would throw themselves on the funeral pyres of their lost lovers. Data couldn’t help the bitterness in the back of his mind that cynically wished she hadn’t been terrified of fire so there could be a pyre to throw himself upon.

Instead, he moved so that he was sitting, staring at the picture of her that had been engraved upon the simple headstone they had prepared. It was a picture that Deanna had taken at a party. It had been one hell of a party, too. Someone had gotten their hands on Guinan’s stash of real alcohol, not synthehol, and several of the attendees had taken it a bit too far, Vikara included. In this particular picture, her freckled cheeks were flushed with drink, her curly brown hair was wild owing to the fact that she had broken her hair tie, her gingerbread eyes were lined in flawless eyeliner, her nose ring sparkled from the flash, her painted rosy lips were stretched over a wide smile. Mid-laughter, he thought. She was leaning over him, one arm draped across his shoulders, her other wrapped around his own. He was looking up at her with a bewildered expression. She had caught him by surprise, having just left a raucous discussion with a coworker. He smiled as he remembered that night. That had been the first night she had told him she loved him, but he never mentioned this to her in case it had just been the alcohol. It had taken her another three weeks to say it again, sober this tiem. He had made an authentic Italian dinner for her, spaghetti and an entire loaf of garlic bread. (Garlic is…was Vikara’s favorite food, as she very frequently said.) She had taken his hand after she finished eating and she smiled at him over the candles, blushing. “Data, there’s, I mean, I have something to… Well, Data I love you,” she stuttered out. He had risen from his seat and walked around the table to her. He took her in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I love you, too, Vikara,” he had breathed.

The picture on the headstone changed to a picture of their wedding day. He let out a soft chuckle, a sad smile coming to his lips. She had worn a green dress, off-the-shoulders with floor-length cut sleeves. She said it was an almost exact replica of the green dress worn by a Marilyn Monroe in the later-mid 20th century, “except I made the underside mulberry instead of red,” she had said. She had been breathtaking. Her bouquet was a mixture of Betazed and Thorian wildflowers. Her hair had been braided in one long, thick wave with those same flowers weaved into it. She wore only eyeliner, and very subtly so, but somehow she was glowing. He had worn his usual formal Starfleet clothing, but she had said he “never looked more handsome.” Picard had officiated the wedding, which was held outdoors on Risa 7, on a hill overlooking the ocean at sunset. The way the fiery sunset danced in her eyes and along her skin, she looked absolutely incorporeal. The picture on the tombstone was of their kiss. He had bent her into a low dip, and the way the sun shone behind them, it was though the sky itself had been celebrating their union.

There were eight other pictures that cycled through on the tombstone: her Starfleet graduation picture, a baby picture with her two older siblings, a picture of her performing at a Bajoran music hall, a picture of her with the bridge crew, another of the same setting but with everyone making funny expressions (she had pulled her cheeks apart and gone cross eyed, he was in the middle of asking Picard what expressions were considered “funny,”) a picture of her lounging on a tropical beach in the holodeck, a picture of her with her parents—a human father and a female Trill who had married her father when she was 6 months old, and a picture of her sitting on the floor of their quarters, surrounded by the innards of a broken replicator she had been fighting with. He had taken the beach picture and the picture with the replicator himself. He had hundreds of pictures of her, most of them candid, that he had collected in their six years together. The smile faded from his lips as he realized that was basically all he had left of her, of his wife, of the woman who taught him love.

He sat with her urn a while longer before he lowered it into the ground. He sprinkled growth activator over the seeds and her urn and stood back. Betazed and Thorian wildflowers rose from the ground, surrounding the sprouting weeping willow to which her urn contained the seed and would nourish for the next six months.

He leaned down and picked one of the flowers, a Thorian rose, and tucked it into the lapel of his coat to press later. The Thorian rose had been her favorite flower. He would put it on his desk alongside the picture of her draped across him at the party.

He plugged a chip into the side of the tombstone and music began to play, a mixture of violin pieces which he performed, some vocal pieces she performed, and some pieces they performed together for the Enterprise crew on occasion. The tombstone was solar-powered, so as long as this planet orbited a sun, her voice would grace this forest.

He stood at the edge of her burial plot and tears rose to his eyes once again.

“Vikara, my love, it is time for me to leave now.” He wiped his eyes and clenched his fists once or twice in an attempt to make the pain go away. “I… I will cherish you in my heart, always. I will never forget you, because as you know I cannot forget. But I will miss you with every fiber of my being.” He turned to leave but stopped. He turned his upper body to look down at the budding tree. “Thank you. Thank you for teaching me how to love.” And then he was gone.

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