#ejslit

[aredpainting]

The Dissection of Teenager Teenager by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu: Experience versus Innocence

EJS, UNLV

UNDER SUPERVISION OF DR DAVID GRUBER

2022

Abstract Popular American media controls the narrative of how we age. When we are young, we are curious, free and impartial to the reality of the world. And as we grow older, we are illustrated as static, subservient and somber. This essay identifies the following methods to explain the physical and emotional interspace between the elderly and the youth: the vernacular method and metaphor criticism. By utilizing these two methods, we can digest why the distance exists, and why it is crucial for our society to move past these dated ideals. First, with the vernacular method, we will understand the common interpretation of the elderly and the youth. With a foundational understanding of what it means to be an experienced elder versus an innocent youth, this essay outlines the metaphoric implications of a ‘stone head’ and a ‘boxed child’. Further, this study analyzes why Sun Yuan and Peng Yu’s Teenager Teenager is a social commentary of how society categorizes separation, communication, power and culture. We will discuss the greater implications of Teenager Teenager and its role in our community. Finally, this essay will reveal how we evolve from a dilapidated perspective of how we treat our elderly and our youth. Introduction

We face our parents across the dining room table. We see ourselves in their eyes, and they see themselves in ours. In American society, it’s essential for our wide-eyed wonder to stay within our youth. Before our pre-frontal cortexes were able to form, we were expected to choose our political parties and vote for a presidential candidate, decide whether we’ll be shuffled into college or lose ourselves in an endless cycle of part-time jobs after high school, and on top of that, we shouldered the burden of being an adult at the age of eighteen. And as we evolve, society expects us to neglect our naivety and welcome worldly responsibilities. There is a physical and emotional distance between our younger selves and the version we will become. In the following paper, I argue that Teenager Teenager by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu connect the differing values between the elderly and the youth. I find that the meaning behind Teenager Teenager is to showcase the youth’s bountiful curiosity while the elderly are depicted as observant, dormant ‘stone heads’. There is a clear dissonance between innocence and experience in these phases of life, and the brittle connection that bridges them is in dire need of re-ignition. I will analyze two rhetorical methods to expand the disconnect between these two age groups. Respectively, I will use the vernacular method to build a foundational understanding of the concept of innocence and experience, and then I will utilize metaphor criticism to grasp the bigger picture. This study will highlight how we can encourage the reconnection between the youth and elderly; it will also reveal what this implies for our society.

Methods

Before we begin our analysis, we must understand the two presented rhetorical methods. Vernacular method A vernacular is not a tangible thing. Instead, it is the reaction, the response and the language of a community. Cara Finnegan, the mind who developed “Image Vernaculars” writes that we’re inclined to understand another individual when we use our own “vernaculars” to make sense of an image (Finnegan, 2008). She emphasizes that vernaculars are the “tacit topoi of argument” and that it’s crucial that we’re aware our social competency to grasp our own vernacular and our peers. Finnegan wants us to be creative in our interpretations, as there is no wrong way to interpret a piece. The vernacular method is a way that helps us assess and decide the function of an image. It helps us uncover the imbedded layers of a piece.   When an author uses the vernacular method, there are four steps. The author first reviews a situation, then they explore what others say about their situation; they make common interpretations. Then they add their own comment, they compare and contrast and choose the best interpretation.

Metaphor criticism Metaphors are also not tangible, but we use them in our every day life. A metaphor is a type of figurative language that allows us to say exactly what we mean, without truly saying it. A common metaphor is, “You have a heart of gold”. A heart of gold is not realistic, but we connect this phrase to someone who is genuine and kind. These types of metaphors are called dead metaphors; we use them so often the meaning is engraved to our mind. However, when we dissect complicated metaphors, we can separate the metaphor as the vehicle and the tenor. The vehicle is the description, and the tenor is what is described. The key to an impenetrable metaphor is to create ground; we want our audience to have enough knowledge so they’re able to make their own assumptions. Without ground, we would be comparing a thumb tack to a small nail. Similarly, a metaphor needs tension. If there is too much tension, the audience cannot make a connection. They would compare a thumb tack to an axe: these two items have no correlation. In order to dissect a metaphor, we identify the vehicles and the tenor. Then we unpack the ground, and the tension. Finally, we explain how the metaphor acts rhetorically and if this metaphor aligns with our interpretation.

Analysis Vernacular method In Teenager Teenager by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu, we observe a gathering in a familial living room. The adults sit next to one another on the couch, all within reasonable distance from one another. Instead of their regular human heads, they are replaced with stones. The children roam the floor, hidden in a box with four peep holes. Occasionally, children outside of the exhibit play around the boxes and the stone heads. From this exhibit, we watch the children play around the floor, oblivious to the world around them and only aware beyond the four peep holes. The adults lounge with indifference. Before I interpret the scene, I will identify what the stones, boxes, and the peep-holes symbolize. The stones symbolize stability, wisdom and time. On the contrary, they can also symbolize denseness, stubbornness and ignorance. The boxes symbolize protection and shelter, but they can also depict isolation and inexperience. Similarly, the peep-holes force the audience to understand that the children within the boxes look at the world with limited lens. I believe that Teenager Teenager forces the audience to digest the separation between two generations. The elderly, immovable and aloof, do not interact with the life inside the boxes. They choose to sit still, perhaps weighed down by the weight of their stone heads — a comment that emphasizes the burden of adulthood. Meanwhile, the children continue to play their games, unbeknownst to the world around them and to the heaviness of responsibility. Then we look at the children who play around the exhibit. Yuan and Yu did not hire these children to be apart of their exhibit; instead, the children are free to run around the boxes, and they are encouraged to play their games because people believe they are truly apart of the exhibit. Their freedom and existence outside of the box symbolize the connection between the elderly and the youth. These children take the stone heads and their boxed kids into perspective; instead of isolation or the burden of the world on their shoulders, they are liberated. They are free to be children. They are free to enjoy art. They are free to enjoy one another’s company. With all our symbols identified, we can compare and contrast similar exhibits that showcase innocence versus experience. In Oscar-Claude Monet’s Madame Monet and Child created in 1875, Monet paints his wife and baby in a beautiful garden. Because of his Impressionist style, the audience is consumed with a mirage of colors; from pastel pinks, to passionate vermillion and shades of emerald, a sense of serenity and calm captivates the viewer. At the center piece, Madame Monet knits peacefully while her daughter scribbles in a small notebook. The stark contrast between Teenager Teenager and Madame Monet and Child establishes what an aloof family looks like, versus a nurturing one. By using the vernacular method, I conclude that the best interpretation for Teenager Teenager is a wealthy, impassive family, accustomed to distance and separation. The stone heads are the adults of the family; they are dressed in rich fabrics. Their accessories scream wealth, while their children are caged in simple boxes. By using their experience as adults, they shelter their children from the harshness of the world. They neglect the children’s needs, despite their pure intentions, and keep them from experiencing a world where they feel burdened. They want to keep their children from feeling responsibility and reality. Meanwhile, the children are oblivious to the invisible force that holds them within the box. To them, the box is all that they know; the box is safety. And through the peep-holes the stone heads provide, they see all that they need to see. They see their siblings, and through their peripheral, they can play their games. The children’s innocence is reserved because of the box. They will never know the truth of the world. Metaphor criticism Sun Yuan and Peng Yu create an interesting narrative in Teenager Teenager. Through the vernacular method, we are able to understand the common interpretation of the symbols used in this exhibit. But as we delve deeper into Teenager Teenager, the vehicle and the tenor become exposed. There are two sets of vehicles and tenors in this exhibit. The first set are the adults. The vehicle revealed is the stone, and the tenor are the stone heads. When we think of stone, we think of weight. Like the metaphor, “You’re my rock,” the stones hold something in place. In Teenager Teenager, the adults are weighed down by the stone. Without context of Sun Yuan and Peng Yu’s work, the viewer may find it difficult to understand what the stones represent. The adults are weighed down by the pressure of life. When we look at their body language, none of the adults look remotely comfortable; one of the stone head woman sprawls along a couch. She seems completely disinterested in her environment. As we explore more of the stone heads’ body language, we should consider the substantial space between their bodies. None of the adults look interested in the children, and they share no interest in one another. The pressure of life absorbs any life they have, and it weighs — nearly sinks — them into their sitting position. The second set are the children. The vehicle is the boxes, and the tenor is children and wonder. The implication here is the weightless child. The children are not weighed down by the stones. Instead, they float throughout the exhibit. By being weightless, they are free to wonder; they are able to move beyond the pressure of life and continue in ignorant bliss. However, the second interpretation that could be made about the children is that they are imprisoned. By implying the children are imprisoned, we can take a closer look at how the box is constructed. The design itself is simple, except for the tape that wraps around its perimeters. The juxtaposition that lays between the weighed adult and the weightless child are the differences in material; similar to my approach through the vernacular method, the audience sees the opulence in how the adults are dressed, versus the cheap bindings over the cardboard box. Akin to a prison cell, the tape represents steel bars meant to hold the inmate; the peep-holes that allow the children to see glimpses of the outside world are callbacks to the limited perspective inmates face when they are in the system. In both of these metaphorical sets, both the adult and the child are weighed down by different systems.

Discussion

Based on a study conducted by Jenny Padilla, Susan McHale, Michael Rovine, Kimberly Updegraff and Adriana Umaña-Taylor called “Parent–Youth Differences in Familism Values from Adolescence into Young Adulthood: Developmental Course and Links with Parent–Youth Conflict," they discover that a parents’ view on familial values directly impacts their children’s perception on dyadic relationships. Familial values is defined as “…family support, solidarity and loyalty” (Padilla, et al. 2016).  Their goal for the study is summarized by their curiosity in family dynamics; they wished to uncover how an individual parent could influence their child’s view on family support, and if this could increase relationship quality. To an extent, they find this hypothesis to be correct. The development of family values may increase or decrease how a child views their relationship with their parents. In another study named, “Changing times,
changing perspectives: Reconciling ‘transition’ and ‘cultural’ perspectives on youth and young adulthood” by Andy Furlong, Dan Woodman and Johanna Wyn explore the ways sociology can help the youth advance as a generation. They focus on the different lives of young people in different locations over time. There is a distinct separation between youth and emerging adulthood. They write that, “To ignore or sideline youth culture results in a one-dimensional picture of young lives in which the active way that young people negotiate constraint and opportunity is portrayed as marginal to the process of social reproduction” (Furlong, et al. 2011). Furlong and other contributing authors acknowledge the inequality that youth studies face, but they also advocate for change.

In relation to Teenager Teenager, I believe these two studies generate an underrated conversation we dismiss in academic and social circles. In a society dominated by authoritative figures, the youth’s voice is lost among the elderly. The youth is continuously silenced because of their lack of experience in the real world. Even in their homes, their connection to their families is distilled because of the belief that the youth is just too innocent to grasp the straws of reality. We learn from a young age how to survive in this world; from how our parents raise our familial values and how we navigate through society with only our instincts, it is crucial that we form solidarity. But how can we form strong bonds when the bonds we view in our childhood are through a limited lens? We watch our childhood through rose-colored lens; or in Yuan and Yu’s case, we watch our childhood pass us in an isolated box. I think the bigger picture of this exhibit is to dismantle the relationship of power between the elderly and the youth. The gimmick of experience versus innocence is another form of control poured onto us by a capitalistic society. By designing a society where one individual holds all the power and the other holds none, we are doomed to repeat the cycle of Teenager Teenager. I believe that if society continues to play along to the power dynamic of the elderly versus the innocent, we will eventually become stone heads and limit our children into boxes. I promote a dynamic where adults extend their wisdom to the youth, rather than see them as liabilities or hinderances.

Conclusion

In Teenager Teenager by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu, an exhibit of stone head adults and boxed children capture the attention of on-goers and art critics. Yuan and Yu are revolutionists in the contemporary art sphere; they are champions of social awareness and force their audience to contemplate the systems of life. The conversation they invented in Teenager Teenager bridges two timelines of life, the elderly and the youth. The topic that dances around the academic sphere is of experience versus innocence; but the truth is, the dynamic is unhealthy and unfulfilling. In this essay, I covered two rhetorical methods that summarized why Teenager Teenager is able to persuade our pathos into understanding the dire bond that is deteriorating between our elderly and our youth. I find that the meaning behind Teenager Teenager is to showcase the youth’s bountiful curiosity while the elderly are depicted as observant, dormant ‘stone heads’. The key to avoiding an unfruitful life is genuine, real human connection between our elderly and our youth.

References

Finnegan, C. A. (2008). Recognizing Lincoln: Image Vernaculars in Nineteenth-Century Visual Culture. In L. C. Olson, C. A. Finnegan, & D. S. Hope (Eds.), Visual Rhetoric: A Reader in Communication and American Culture SAGE Publishing. Furlong, Woodman, D., & Wyn, J. (2011). Changing times, changing perspectives: reconciling 'transition' and 'cultural' perspectives on youth and young adulthood [Paper in special issue: Youth: Identities, Transitions, Cultures. Geldens, Paula; Lincoln, Sian and Hodkinson, Paul (eds)]. Journal of Sociology (Melbourne, Vic.), 47(4), 355–370. https://doi.org/10.1177/1440783311420787 Padilla, McHale, S. M., Rovine, M. J., Updegraff, K. A., & Umaña-Taylor, A. J. (2016). Parent–Youth Differences in Familism Values from Adolescence into Young Adulthood: Developmental Course and Links with Parent–Youth Conflict. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 45(12), 2417–2430. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10964-016-0518-y

[aredpainting]

freewrite 12/21/22

ejs

    The night air kissed at the sleeping town. A small corner store stood bravely at the outskirts. Perched at the door, a plump but strong tabby scratched at the thin glass. It separated the cat from the clerk, who looked slightly inconvenienced at the noise. It's too cold out, the clerk thought, and he turned his body to show the cat he could care less about its existence. No one in their right mind would step out into a snowstorm. No one in their right mind would welcome the cold. Except Mr. Wolfram, and his daughter, Amelia.     The town regarded the Wolframs as black sheep. They kept to themselves and preferred the company of animals than townsfolk. The town's lost and discarded pets would flock to their doorstep. And they showed mercy and kindness. They gave them shelter, food and rest. In return, they earned the respect of the creatures, and the wild beyond the walls. The Northern Valley, the bitter and unlovable sister of the Southern Valley, settled far into the country. The mountains acted as great sternums to protect the fragile town from Mother Nature's wrath. The Northern Valley beat slowly, carefully and almost neurotically. No one from the Northern Valley really chose to live in an isolated, snow globe. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew that the Northern Valley was inescapable. No one chose to leave, but no one truly chose to stay. It was all that the townsfolk knew. The outside world scared them. And they were happy to live in a globe, hidden from the world. Occasionally, the townsfolk from the Southern Valley would visit; the stark difference of character was like comparing red to blue, the sun to the moon, a rose to a weed and summer to winter. The Southerners would never stay long. Only for their farmers to trade, but the Northerners enjoyed their company. The farmers made them feel human; they were friendly people. But they would never stay. Who would stay? Only folks scared of the world.     "Evenin', Mr. Wolfram, Amelia," the clerk said when the bell rang. Its soft chime, followed by the tabby's deep rumble as he entered the store, became a nightly occurrence. The clerk peeked over his shoulder and frowned at the tabby. Stupid cat, he thought again, you're lucky the Wolframs are here.

"Evenin', Turner." "The usual?" "Yep."

    The clerk faced the counter, his scowl loose on his mouth when his gaze moved from the smug cat to the Wolframs. "Oh, don't be so hard on him," Mr. Wolfram chided and gestured over to the tabby, "he's cold, too, y'know." He spoke quietly, despite the absent store and the close distance between the clerk and himself. His voice, gentle and deep, did not match his appearance. Mr. Wolfram towered well above six feet, and his width took the entirety of the doorway. He was not an eyesore, but he did not maintain a trimmed beard or care to tailor his clothes. Despite the warmth that radiated from his words and actions, Mr. Wolfram looked inhuman; the clerk swore his skin looked like the peel of a grape. It was flimsy and thin. Mr. Wolfram's veins pulsed from underneath the sheer layer, and they looked blue. The clerk was not brave enough to stare.     The clerk said nothing as he grabbed a pack of Marlboros from the wall. Mr. Wolfram smoked a pack a day. He reached for a lottery card, the crossword ones, and he placed it beside the Reds. He waited for Amelia to surface from the aisles with her arms stacked with cartons of milk. Similar to her father, Amelia's disheveled appearance did not match her personality. She doesn't look much different from when we were at school together, the clerk thought. He took in her unkept hair, her thin skin and the deep circles that bore under eyes. But she smiled when she walked up to the counter and lowered the cartons onto the marble landing. A pretty smile.     Mindlessly, the clerk rang up their items. It was the same total every night. Mr. Wolfram always paid in cash, and he always paid the exact change. They exchanged no words, but the clerk bagged their items diligently. "Thanks, Turner," Amelia said as she reached for their bags.

    Briefly, their hands grazed against one another. And she recoiled. "Sorry."     "It's fine."

    Mr. Wolfram did not notice their interaction. He moved the rest of the bags into his arms, said goodbye to the tabby and nodded at the clerk. "Have a good night, son," he smiled and showed his teeth - pristine and square. "You too." Amelia bobbed her head awkwardly, grabbed the same bag and started for the door. When her father stepped out into the cold, a breeze crept in and swept her hair from her face. From this angle, the clerk could see the moles that speckled around her chin and neck. He inhaled her scent out of impulse, and he found himself pleased. Amelia turned to him then, her knuckles white as her fingers pressed into the brown, paper bag.

    "We're leaving for the Southern Valley tomorrow morning." The words rattled out from her throat. "Are you?" He replied, his eyes now glued to the yellow high beams that illuminated Amelia in entirety. "Yes," she whispered, suddenly discouraged by his disinterest. But he wasn't indifferent, not really. In fact, the clerk felt a little sad that the Wolframs decided to leave. Before, he'd heard of stories of families that moved from the Northern Valley. But they'd always return; the Southerners weren't so open to mountain people in their city. "And we aren't coming back."     The clerk stared at her now. She read my mind. Tonight, through the high beams and the snow flakes that started to form around the crown of her head, Amelia looked beautiful. She's always been beautiful.

    "So?"     "I just thought you'd like to know."     "It doesn't make a difference to me. Maybe it'll make a difference to Jemma, 'coz she'll be real sad to lose business when the weather's been actin' up."

    Amelia's shoulders drooped; she exhaled through her nose and slowly angled herself towards the exit. For a moment, the clerk thought she would speak again. Instead, Amelia walked right out the door, and the tabby followed behind her. Neither of them made a sound. The door closed with the wind, and he listened for their car to back out of the lot and through the snow. When he knew they were gone, the clerk pushed his back against the counter and sighed heavily. "Why'd I say that?" He rubbed his palms over his jeans, deeply annoyed and disappointed by his words. Before, when they were in school, when they were children, Amelia and him had been close. Their mothers were very good friends. But when Mrs. Wolfram passed from a heart murmur, things changed. Then his mother left to be with another man at the opposite end of the Northern Valley. And he'd never seen her since.     He imagined because the memories pained him, he did not like to be around Amelia. He started to avoid her when they started secondary school; he made friends with kids on the sports teams, and Amelia opted for home school. Because It was difficult for Mr. Wolfram, and it must have been difficult for her, too. When the clerk graduated secondary school, he started to work for Jemma. He'd apply for college - outside of the Northern Valley - when he saved enough money. He dreamt of leaving the Northern Valley, but it was winter now, and he freshly turned twenty. He looked out the door again, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Why'd I say that? I couldn't have just said goodbye?"

    The clerk shook his head.

Why does it matter? Why did she think I'd care? Because we were close as kids? Who wasn't in this town? I'm too old now to care about this stuff. I have to restock the shelves.

[aredpainting]

freewrite 07/19/2016

EJS

#1

Today it seemed like gravity was working against her. The second she woke from her numb slumber, the impact from a pillow being tossed across the room hit her. She stayed still, knowing all too well that if she returned hostile actions, the bruises scattered around her body would increase. Instead, a soft laughter graced her lips as she sat up. 

     "Why are you laughing? Don't you know what time it is?" A lanky figure appeared from the corner. A student, no older than Kara, hovered over her small figure. The figure hunched down, her finger smacking against the bandaged forehead. "You sleep so much! You know the rules–so, get up already!"

Obediently, the two-toned head lifted from the cushions. She followed the commands wordlessly, sitting up and standing to head towards the bathroom. "Sorry," she murmured in response. Shutting the door behind her, Kara found herself leaning against the sink. 

     In one swift motion, she heaved violently. A series of vomit–mixed with blood splattered across the counter. Her actions were silent, for if her roommates overheard the commotion she made each morning, she was positive they'd file for complaints. Once she finished, a sloppy hand guided across her mouth to clean the residue. Her free hand lifted, casting a spell to undo the mess along with the harsh stench. If there was one lesson she appreciated the most in class, it was certainly the series of spells that completed any house work. 

In less than ten minutes, she finished the process of washing her face, brushing her teeth, exchanging the old bandages for new ones and brushed her hair. While she did this, the voices outside her door happened to be the only background noise. 

     "She's so hopeless,"

     "I can't believe she was invited here!–Hey, you know what I heard?"

     "What?"

     "She's literally failing physicals! Like, how hard is it to move around and run? It's so sad! Her summons don't cooperate at all with her, too!"

     "Heh, what do you expect from a handicapped? I wouldn't be surprised if she's kicked out next term…"

     Her first classes were lax as usual. She sat at the very back. Her eyes roamed the paper, absorbing nothing while half-heartedly tuning into the lecture. Though she received fairly high marks in her general classes, the administrative insisted she attended periods that suited her age range. She already had a difficult time fitting in–they could only imagine how it would be in the next grade!

 Absently tapping her wrapped fingers against the paper, Kara found herself staring–unintentionally–at the student beside her. In seconds, they caught her gaze. "Hey, freak," they whispered, clearly disgruntled, "what's with the face? Can't you pay attention? I'd imagine all that's in your head is air." 

The group of students around them snickered. The girl blinked, returning to reality. Judging by the distasteful glances and scoffs, she was, yet again, the center of attention at the worst time. Smiling gently, she peered away. "Sorry." 

     By the last class before lunch, she could feel her heart sink into her stomach. Another drill? They had one yesterday–and the day before! Were they trying to kill her?! Many of the students grinned, eager to work with their partners and some had already casted their creatures. 

Standing aside from the crowd, Kara worriedly glanced towards the two capsules that disguised themselves as bracelet beads. Biting down on her bottom lip, she made the decision to summon Scout. Sha was never an option–he would only lash violently at her commands. Removing the bead from the assortment, she rolled it to the ground. 

In seconds, a mist of lavender air appeared. It only took moments for the familiar face to step from the smoke. "Yo," they said, waving a casual hand to the girl. 

With a quick survey towards the rowdy groups, a look of disinterest placed their content features. "Again?" They asked, already displeased. "I'm still worn out from the last two rounds," they grumbled, arms crossing, "and it's almost lunch!"

     Awkwardly, Kara shifted. "Yeah," she replied, unable to find the right words. Still, she turned to them, a look of determination replacing her furrowed facade. "It's going to be better today, though!" The girl said, a grin coming to her lips. "Let's do our best!"

Despite her clumsy nature, persistence always seemed to be the rebound. 

Scout shook their head, adjusting the hoodie they adorned before looking away. "I guess." 

     A sharp whistle cut through the festive chatter. Promptly, the students hushed. 

"For this exercise, we will be releasing three groups into the dome," explained the instructor, reading through the clipboard. "All three groups must complete the gym, along with the mock battle before the alarm goes off. You will be graded independently by strength, agility, reflexes and teamwork. Understood?" 

 "Yes," buzzed the students. 

     'No,' she thought, her grip loosening from the bar above her, 'please–for all that's holy, please don't let me fa–' As the thought passed, her fingers began to slip. The scene was excruciatingly slow–as if it was being played in effect for laughs. 

Swearing under her breath and meeting the wry expression of her partner, Kara fell back. Her head hit the mat, body sprawling pathetically before she shut her eyes in pain. 'I'm sorry,' she thought again, the stinging sensation of tears rising, 'I'm so useless.' 

They were doing so well, too! The two—for once–happened to get through the first rounds without any issues; she was fortunate that Scout was so willing to carry her about. The duo flawlessly breezed through the mock battle; the actions were rather predictable and with her quick thinking, they advanced early onto the gym. 

     Unlike Scout who saw no problems with the obstacles, Kara stressed immensely with the high platforms, complex sprints and dangerous leaps. She knew well enough her legs wouldn't respond well to the pressure followed by impact. So, as the weapon witnessed her bitter downfall, the alarm sliced through the terse silence. 

Her breath hitched, sitting up finally. The static rumble of laughter and disappointment around the crowd was all too familiar. Cautiously, Kara stood. She kept her gaze to the floor, absently dusting her skirt and adjusting the tie that became loose through the drill. She watched as another pair of feet appeared before her; glancing up, she was met with the agitated expression of Scout. 

     "What happened?" They snapped, arms being shoved into their jacket, "God, Kara, do you realize how dumb you made me look? For once, I actually thought we'd finish this thing." They sighed, exasperated. 

Her lips went agape, an apology beginning to form at the tip of her tongue. However, once she began to speak, her voice was drowned out by the harsh scream of the bell. The hordes of students rushed through the doors, eager for their free period. 

"Don't say anything," Scout continued, staring her down. "I'm tired of your apologizes. Don't you learn? Can't you see that you're the one being difficult?" With a snarl, they turned away, back facing the girl. "You know," they began, beginning to exit the dome, "maybe this was a mistake." Before she was able to retort, or reassure the weapon, they had already left. 

     A mistake…? Kara stood still, the burning effect of her nose increasing. Her breathing staggered, unable to take the backlash–unable to comprehend what she had done wrong–unable to wrap her head around the fact that she… she–this was a mistake. Their words held truth. She wasn't cut out to be a conjurer, nor was she cut out to even really be accepted in such a prestigious school. She wasn't cut out to possess magic, nor was she cut out to be alive. Why was she here? Why was she resurrected? Why didn't they leave her rotting? Why was she always the one who took the bitter end?

With the thoughts running through her mind, Kara hardly realized she was frantically chasing after Scout. Pushing through the doors, she searched for the bright jacket. The girl pushed her way through the crowds, hysteric to talk through her mistakes with her partner. When she found the tinted jacket, her fingers wrapped around their arm. 

"Scout," she said, her voice seeming to crack, "please–I'm sorry! I can do better, okay? I'm sorry…" Her words trailed off, falling into incoherent hiccups. "I'm sorry… Please look at me! I–I can make it up to you, alright?" 

Her grip tightened, desperately squeezing their arm. In a single jerk, Scout pulled away. Sparing a rather disgusted sneer, they resumed to walk away. 

     Ashamed, embarrassed and wordless, Kara watched as their figure immersed into the crowds. She stood still, shoulders drooped and expression left with pitiful agony. Why–why did this happen? Why was she so stupid? Why was she always messing everything up? Her delirium only rose once catching the disapproving remarks from the groups scattered around. 

     "Her summon left! I guess that's what she gets for being such a lazy conjurer."

     "Is she crying? Seriously? What is she, ten?"

     "Hey, if I was her summon, I'd leave, too. No way in hell am I putting up with someone like that."

No matter how much she wanted to deny the negative feedback from the crowd, Kara aimlessly found solace in their bitter words

They were right. 

Abruptly, she turned away. Faster than she sought possible, she sprinted from the building. No place to surely settle for, she escaped to the only area that would give her the silence she craved. 

While she ran wildly through the town, she thought of the countless–dauntless mistakes that occurred. The tears that she held so tightly began to spill. There was no use in hiding it now; she was a lost cause, nothing but a child that bit off more than she was able to chew. 

The water felt cold against her skin, unwilling to wipe away the mess once she arrived. Her cheeks were of stinging peach, large brown eyes filled to the brim with tears as her bottom lip trembled furiously.

 The house was tall, slim and held a very soothing atmosphere. She inhaled shakily, passing through the doors only to meet eyes with the man behind the counter. Her visits were common; however, the occasional stir of emotions that caused her to erupt were not. Still, he handled it quite well. Watching as she stumbled past the counter and into the yard that eased her roaring self-loathe, the man anxiously pulled at the hem of his sleeve. He was still very new to the idea of empathy, but quickly learned that despite her gloomy aptitude, Kara enjoyed her solitude. 

Once she was far enough from the patio and standing at her usual area, she very carefully let herself down. For the first few moments, the girl was silent. She stared aimlessly at the meadow before her, attempting to regulate her breathing and put her spinning mind to rest. This did not help. Instead, she lolled backwards. 

Her arms stacked around her face, blocking the sunlight from her eyes while the spiteful tears once more washed through her woeful features. ‘This isn’t fair,’ her mind screamed, ‘why am I the one who gets the tragedy? Why am I the one that’s always being put down for my efforts? Why am I the one who is so insufferable that no one sticks around? Why am I the sad excuse for a magician?’ The quiet cries became frantic sobs now. Her voice croaked, letting out an anguished yell before hopelessly cupping her face. Her volume peaked, aimlessly screaming at the sky, swearing and pointlessly breaking apart the persona created by the dejected pieces left of her younger image.

Worthless, no good, weak, disappointment, pathetic, naive, clumsy, irritating, waste of time, foolish, dopey, ignorant and most of all, a mistake. 

She rolled over to her side. Her wails piped down now. The field was once more hushed by silent sobs, rigid hiccups and flimsy exhales. 

Today, gravity was working against her. 

[aredpainting]

the hand hold

EJS

It was loud–a lot louder than she expected it to be. Blue was damned to ‘polite person purgatory.’ She weighed her two options. One of which was to remove her hearing aides and feel at peace; though, be at the mercy of Arin’s wrath. The other was to simply baggage the noise and carry on with the rest of the night.  She chose the latter. 

Idly, she scanned the area. Blue half-hoped and half-prayed someone would saunter to her, throw a pick-up line and they would talk for the remainder of the night. But, no one did. She stood there, like an idiot, and held the red cup close to her chest. This was painful. This was awkward. She wanted to sleep. Blue pursed her lips together and leaned into the counter. There was no one  there she wanted to talk to. Arin’s friends were cool, but they were weird. They were young, a little reckless–a lot more than Blue was, and they all had their personal connections with Arin. It felt weird to fit herself in that equation. Blue also noted that nearly all of Arin’s co-workers huddled together, too, in their own little clique. 

It was loud, she was upset, and she was exhausted. Fuck it. Blue downed whatever was left in her cup and began to make her way down the hall. It was packed. There were people she had never seen before, but assumed Arin had the bright idea of inviting, loitering here and there. She excused herself, her voice soft and almost a whisper, through the crowd, and they let her through. The moment her door came to view, Blue immediately slipped inside. Instantaneously, her hands weaved into her hair, then to the cords that wrapped deeply into her ears and she yanked. 

Silence came quick. The familiar sting and rumble of her head came fleeting after; Blue didn’t have the energy to care. She tossed her hearing aides onto her desk and fell face first into her bed. Whatever. Arin could live without her absence, she always did. Blue’s arms stretched across the bed. She felt the cold blankets, the plumpness of her pillows and– Blue shot up. Her eyes widened and they were met with the set of gold she grew to adore. “Sombra,” she said a bit mystified. “Sombra?” Her voice came finally, as perplexed. Her hand lay across a singular claw. Neither of them moved. 

“Kica.” He replied, his form piecing together from the corner of her bed. He looked at her, his signature grin spread across his features as he made himself comfortable. The bed was small, but it would do. He hunched to where she could read his lips. “It is good to see you again. This is a night of celebration,” he paused, “are you tired?” 

The only acceptable noise, Blue found, was the pounding of her heart. Blue was precisely diplomatic when it came to reading lips. Her gaze would never leave his mouth–not that she minded, and she nodded. “I am. It was a little boring, no one would talk to me, so I figured I would sleep. Can you blame me?” She offered a smile and sat up. They faced each other, the moonlight spreading into the slit of her window. His eyes lazily trailed to her mouth. 

“I am here. Is there reason for you to be tired now?” He could feel her stare; he wasn’t exactly discreet about his wandering eyes, but it was only her lips. Maybe he was lip reading, too? 

“Maybe.” 

“Then what will make you more awake?” 

Suddenly, though briefly, everything was loud again. Blood rushed to her head and she gave a choked laugh. Flustered, her fingers twitched subconsciously against his claws. “What?” Blue said, unable to keep her attention on him now. She looked away, then back to him. “I-I think this is fine. I don’t want to be too awake, ‘cos then I’ll never sleep. But, I like it how we are now. I always feel better when you come around.” 

When she laughed, Sombra snorted. He took in her expression; she looked so happy, who was he to take that from her? Besides, he thought to himself, this was all apart of his foolproof plan. Make her happy and he’ll get the reward. Right? Even then, he continued to stare at her. “This is nice,” he agreed, waiting for her to calm down. 

“Actually,” she sighed, her shoulders easing, “can you stay here for the rest of the night? I don’t want to be alone.” Blue’s fingers moved again and she looked back up at him. It was so in the moment, she couldn’t help herself– he wasn’t moving his hand, and she wasn’t either– the signs were all there! His hair began to bristle and for that moment, he was stunned. despite himself, he let his claws twine with her hand. 

“Of course, Kica. I will not go anywhere.” 

[aredpainting]

the bone breaker and zealot red

EJS

The Meeting

The sky, mixed with the brilliant shades of an ember orange and deep cerulean, swam across Port Banner’s horizon. A gentle breeze carried the smells of the local restaurants, primarily the aroma that wafted from the charming pizza parlor. The parlor, snug in the nook between Billy’s Books and The Second Eye, offered sanctuary to the young woman seated comfortably in their outdoor patio. She leaned over her Brooklyn-style pizza and hungrily ripped the pepperoni from its home. Across from her meal sat an open book, one filled with detailed accounts of holistic approaches used by the Natives of North America. Her favorite subject, really, as it became blatantly obvious to any regular patron, her heritage allowed her to relate to the struggles of the Natives across the globe. And as she tore the pizza apart with her teeth, engulfed in her peace, she ignored the glint of light across the street. 

But the glint did not allow her any more tranquility. In fact, as it barrelled towards the pizza parlor, the newly cemented pavement began to quake; it shook violently, and the small pebbles that once sat dormant started to dance at the intense vibrations. Paz, the woman so ignorant to her surroundings, finally lifted her head to observe the scene. 

Another Port Banner phenomenon, she thought to herself as she grabbed the table’s napkins and her hand-sanitizer. Despite the clear impending doom that started merely a few feet away from her, she showed no signs of urgency. A sense of calm painted across her face. A sense of firmness, maybe laced with a little annoyance. When she cleaned up, she closed her book, stood and turned in the opposite direction. In truth, Paz felt no obligation to investigate the ruckus that allotted a few screams from bystanders and city collateral damage. The Bannermen would surely arrive, save the day, and she would read about the incident at a later time... 

“You there!” A booming voice called behind her. Paz kept walking. 

Until the voice claimed a face, and then a body, and then a hostage. A man, whose identity hid behind a professionally made mask and impressive armor, towered over her. And she hid her surprise, because no one towered over her. “You will help me, citizen. And if you choose to walk away again, this elderly man will die.” His emphasis made her eyes wide; now the situation called for action, but unlike the villain that stalked towards her, and the old man slung over his spiked shoulders, Paz could not hide her identity or her Augmented Capacity. She could not hide at all. “Hey,” she finally said and reached her arms out to placate the villain, “we don’t need hostages at all. I’ll do what you want, no questions asked.” And it was true- she could never understand why the Syndicate encouraged reckless behavior, like hostages. But the Syndicate never revealed their roster, and the man looked to be a veteran villain- one she had never read about in the papers, or watched on television. Though as he tossed the whimpering hostage aside, Paz took in his impulsive behavior; while his loyalty lay with the Syndicate, his actions belonged to only himself. With no ulterior motive except to cause destruction- as it looked like- a familiar fear rose from her throat. 

Shit. What did I get myself into? 

The Plan 

  “And that’s your part, woman. Follow these orders, or you will die.” 

Paz rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and crumbled the paper in between her fingers. The man, who she’d come to be known as Bone Breaker, planned a less-than-elaborate-robbery. Great, another villain, another stupid plan to rob a bank. They’re never good with originality. He stomped away, in his dumbness and arrogance. At least he didn’t have the brightest mind, and with her clear upper-hand, he seemed to forget the most important part of taking hostages... 

Restraints.

She walked around freely in his impromptu hide-out. The hide-out happened to be her bookstore, and she didn’t want to imagine how terribly Billy would react. Hell, she didn’t even want to think of the clean-up of this place! Apparently, Billy’s insurance could only do so much against villain-hero damages. Most of it came out of his pocket- or Paz’s, if she felt sympathetic. Regardless, Paz knew she wasn’t made into this world to sweep pebbles into a dust-pan. So, she created a counter-plan; and it wasn’t hard. The Bone Breaker- or just Bone Breaker- he corrected her multiple times when she tried to add the article before his name- lacked any sense of fundamentals to his heist. Paz wanted to nit-pick, she wanted to give him pointers, but she reminded herself that she herself was no villain. She had no major part in his scheme besides a ransom note and crocodile tears. 

Most importantly, this guy was dangerous. Her snippy and cynical nature became subdued when she caught the lifeless bodies of innocent bystanders littered across the street. Paz thought them to be simply unconscious, but when she pressed her forehead against the cool glass earlier, she saw their necks twisted inwards like pretzels. It made her sick- it made her blood boil- it made her afraid. And if the Bannermen did not arrive on time, the high-end bank across town would face their destiny. “Woman!” Bone Breaker called from the front of the store, “it’s time!” 

Paz reluctantly pulled herself from the counter. She kept her head down as she moved past the villain, and he bonked her head to ensure her compliance. “Ow,” she muttered and surveyed the empty street. The patrons of the pizza parlor and The Second Eye evacuated long before she had the chance or the willingness to leave. And besides the corpses that now started to etch themselves into her memory, a lone van parked in front of her. Its back doors welcomed a temporary shelter. She stepped in, folded her arms once again and waited for Bone Breaker to slam the doors shut and reside in the passenger seat. A film separated the privacy between Bone Breaker and his getaway goon. Paz could make out distinct conversations; most of it consisted of how hungry Bone Breaker was, or how excited he was to return to Port Banner and... in his words... “Make hell.” 

The Heist 

Paz played her role perfectly. Not that it was hard, but the fake tears really made the clerk jolt from her seat and sprint to the secured safes in the back. And Paz wasn’t stupid; the banks across Port Banner implemented procedures when danger came to their doorstep. They’d alert the police, the Bannermen, shut down the system and throw cans of explosive paint in the goody bags. And maybe Bone Breaker wasn’t aware of these procedures, because as he bustled in through the front doors, his gloved hands wet with blood, he ripped the structural pillars from the grounds. “What’s taking so long!” He yelled and swung the pillar into the nearest desk; he didn’t even take into consideration the people that wept and hid under the tough oak. Not tough enough to provide them shelter- in fact, it broke into pieces, similar to the bystanders and their fragile bones. Paz looked up from the clerk’s desk, held her palms out again to placate him and warily walked forward. 

“They’re getting it,” she said, her voice hoarse- the last thing she wanted was to look like an accomplice to this villain. To a villain who killed without remorse- no doubt the Syndicate would blame his spree on infrastructure casualties. He lowered the pillar, stared into her eyes and grunted. Something about this woman- something about her preternatural serenity and stillness- it irked him. Decisively, when they stood a foot away from one another, Bone Breaker spat, “Who are you, woman? You do not fear me. You do not cry for the people beneath me. You did not run. Who are you?” Paz shuddered when he shouted. He liked to raise his voice, she noted, and she tried very hard to create a certain distance between them to alleviate her eardrums. “No one,” she sputtered in response, desperate to keep herself as a citizen, “no one.” 

But her answer did not satisfy him. Bone Breaker reached for her neck, so slim and frail in his robust hand. “Who are you?” He captured her in between his fingers, and Paz knew, in an instant, he would live up to his name. She would suffer the same way others had before her; with her neck snapped in two, and the light from her eyes gone. Her heart sped, flipped and jumped. It begged her to react, but she needed to think- she needed a plan, and a quick one. It wasn’t enough to be a distraction for the clerk who ran through the hallways, silently alerting her coworkers and the PDU of the monster that thrashed the bank. It wasn’t enough to distract Bone Breaker- she needed to stop him. And whether that meant her secret identity would be at risk, she didn’t care. At that second, Paz could only see her home, her girlfriend’s wry grin and the friends she’d come to protect. 

His fingers started to squeeze her neck. Paz inhaled a big breath- the last breath she’d think to have- and swung her legs around his own neck. It took a drastic amount of core strength to strangle him between her legs; but it took her power to surprise Bone Breaker and release her from his grasp. She sat up straight, scrambled to where her thighs pressed into his head gear, and she tried- tried her hardest to pop his head. Nothing worked- nothing happened; it was like her power went null against his own. Bone Breaker flew his arms up, an attempt to pick at Paz around his shoulders. She recoiled, released herself from his shoulders and landed squarely on her feet. “A fighter!” Bone Breaker announced, “A challenger!” 

She moved fast. Paz darted for his legs, pushed her power towards her forearms as she tackled him off his feet. They fell to the ground with a loud thud, and the ground under them exhaled tile and dirt. Before he could react, she mounted him, pummeled his face with her powered hands. But nothing- Bone Breaker guffawed at her attempts. “You are nothing. You are like a bug to me.” He reached for her hair, pulled Paz in mid-air and dangled her like an ornament. “You think you can hurt me, but your attempts are futile.” Paz gasped, and pain started to pool into her neck and her head. She started to panic, she started to kick and pull his hand away. But he was so strong- stronger than her- which was a feat in itself. But how?! 

Bone Breaker flung her to the floor. Again, the ground under her exhaled- tile flew in every direction. Her back arched, threatening to give out in any second, but Paz hardened her upper body to ensure her healing elements to kick in. He raised another fist to slam into her torso, but Paz scrambled to her feet. She created distance, and again, she inhaled. I won’t give up, she thought to herself as she sprinted towards Bone Breaker. He expected another tackle, but she slid under his left arm, grabbed his spiked wrist and used her power again to bend his arm. If punches and kicks did nothing to this monster, perhaps she’d follow in his footsteps and bend him like a pretzel. As if Heaven’s gates opened, Bone Breaker howled in pain. Paz churned his arm, pinned him to the floor and dug his spikes into the soft of his back. 

For a moment, she thought she’d become the victor. But as his face pressed deep into the crater they created, his right arm hit hard into the floor. This time, the pipes, rooted in the bottomless dirt, sprung up. One hit Paz straight into the nape of her neck. The steam, combined with the water that sprayed everywhere, was enough to knock her unconscious. 

The Aftermath

When Paz awoke, clad in a hospital gown and arbitrary tubes that snaked into her skin, she sat up. Her heart felt tight- actually, everything felt awful, but she couldn’t shake the fear from her bones. Alive- that’s what she was. The heart monitor sped up, and the inconsistent beats alarmed nurses and doctors alike of her panic. They flooded the room, but their proximity and array of questions did not help her anxiety; it felt suffocating, and they stared at her like an animal. “Miss Rosario!” One of the attending nurses said and placed her hands against her chest and back. Paz squirmed at her touch but silently compromised when she lay back into her pillow. “What happened?” Paz asked, her voice raspy- she looked to her wrist watch, the only item they allowed on her body. The last time she’d check the clock, it was six o’clock. Now it was eight in the morning. A whole night... 

“You were a casualty from yesterday’s robbery.” 

“Right. And what about the robber, did he get caught?” 

“No... he escaped.”

“And the rest of the people? Are they okay?” 

Silence fell over the room. 

The doctor cleared his throat and approached Paz, clipboard in hand. “Your vitals are looking good, you’ll be released later today when we run the last of your lab-work. It’s a miracle you survived. You have a burn behind your neck, and we worried that your spine would shatter.” Paz subconsciously rubbed her neck, and to the doctor’s grievances, she felt a bump of tender skin, indicating a burn mark. “The Bannermen did what they could.” 

Of course they did. 

“And, Miss Rosario, you have a visitor. He claims to be your brother.” 

“What? Jesus Christ, you guys are insane. I hope you didn’t let him in. I don’t have a brother.” And as her criticism echoed through the near-silent room, a man with an ugly hat poked his head in. “Hey, Paz.” 

[aredpainting]

freewrite 12/29/14

EJS

The recurring nightmares had made her restless for weeks on end. She couldn't understand what the source was, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Her life was situated comfortably in a place where she couldn't imagine leaving; she was dating the most breathtaking woman known to man for several months now, her father's store was running smoothly and sales were going up. Not to mention her indescribable breakthroughs towards her potions–everything almost felt surreal. 

In the witch's eyes, there was no reason to fret over a silly dream. It wasn't real and it wasn't going to happen—at least, that's what she told herself. Winona knew–god forbid she ever admitted it–that deep down, her intuition would prove her right one day. That was the day she dreaded; she couldn't imagine her life crumbling to pieces. That would be too much and too painful. 

Through the dream, she recalled vividly of the events. The first scene would always take place in her home: it didn't matter how many potions she downed to get rid of the nightmare, it would crawl back with shaking fragments and livid toxiciation. Somehow, some way, Lucy was furious with her. She couldn't remember what she had done to make her girlfriend so wrathful, but the anger was so immense, that even conversations towards the Red Sox would turn into an argument. That was what she feared; she was afraid of doing the wrong thing unknowingly to tick her off—the thought alone made Winona's heart sink. 

After the banter, there would be a fight. The witch would leave for days, refusing to talk to the red head for whatever reason immaturely. Only in seconds, the next incident would play out. In this scene, the apothecary was falling to its knees; her family was to be bankrupt, and her father was sought to be a fraud. It was an aching thought, yet somehow she found the willpower to continue. This occurrence would leave Winnie homeless and reluctant to give into empathy; she had too much pride to gravel for anyone. Still, the last phenomenon seemed to be blur to her. She knew it was horrid—rather, she savored not knowing. The Cosmos only know what withdrawal she would be going through. 

It was five o'clock in the morning again. Her head was throbbing and sweat trickled uncomfortably slow over her pale body. Winona's chest rose and fell sharply, as if she was suffocating in her own thoughts and drowning in self-loathe.

Her dark eyes darted towards the dozing figure beside her; Lucy's freckled but ethereal features stood out wonderfully in the hazy light. It was no surprise to Winona that she was the only thing that could calm her nerves during the ungodly hours of the morning. It was always so refreshing to stare at the girl, too. Words couldn't describe the butterflies–no, the pterodactyls swarming in Winona's stomach at the sight. The smooth curves of her nose, the swoop of her eyes and the crease over under her brows made the witch's heart flutter pleasantly. She could never make sense how such a celestial being was made—celestial was an understatement. The Heavens couldn't make someone as stunning like this: it made sense that she spawned from the fiery depths of Hell to become so unearthly. 

Not only was her appearance simply a gift to everyone around her, but there was no one Winona knew of that could make her legs turn to jello and form knots in her throat. Her candid and cheeky aptitude was wholly something the dark-haired witch wished to indulge in. She had no problem expressing what she wanted, how she wanted it and when she wanted it—Winnie loved that. Lucy was a mystery to her and everyone else, but she'd be damned if she were to ever lose interest in the woman. It was thrilling to even breathe her scent–how was that possible, she would never know. 

What did she even do to be blessed with Lucy's presence?

Winona caught herself smiling as her gaze rested comfortably on her girlfriend. She stayed like this for two more minutes, stare lingering longingly before deftly, and stealthily removing herself from the series of sheets. 

'She's going to leave you,' hummed the thoughts in her mind. 

Slowly, she stood up, silently making her way through the corridor and into the living room. It had been weeks since they returned to her complex in Baltimore; she was grateful that her father was away for yet another business vacation. Alone time with Lucy was the best 'welcome home' present she could ever think of. As her feet glided inaudibly against the wooden pavement, she found herself roaming into the kitchen. Often, she'd stare blankly at the countertops, deep in thought or even out the window where snow splayed itself across the pane. It was a habit she formed only a few days ago, but Winona happened to find solace in these actions. 

Tonight was an exception. This time, her anxieties welled deeply into her mind, engraving itself into the core. 

'You have no chance with her,' the voice said again, this time making her fingers twitch as she reached for the cupboards. 

"She's not." Winnie murmured to herself, retrieving the mug from the shelf and occupying her brain with fixing tea. It was humiliating to be so meek against nightmares; they weren't real–they were bogus! 

It was all in her head, she had to understand that. Nothing was going to happen; their relationship was all that she could ever ask for. Winona loved her, and Lucy loved her in return. 

Why was she spending so much time on this if it was just a dream? If she was so confident in their relationship, why would she bother becoming so fragile at illusions? It made no sense to Winona, but as much as she tried to repress her fears, she could only become so frustrated before snapping. 

“Shit,” she withdrew her hand from the kettle, hissing in pain as the burn breached her skin. Good job, Winnie. This damn thing needed to quit it. It was ruining her internally and eventually externally! 

“Baby?” 

Winona paused, her back still turned to the girl behind her. She couldn’t bring herself to face that lulling sight— it would only make her mind blank yet again. Absently, her hands clutched the handle of her cup, easing the tea bag into the liquid. 

“Sorry,” she said finally, lowering her head briefly before mustering the courage to turn and face her partner, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She smiled gently, shoulders somewhat relaxing at her appearance. The pink tints that danced around the windows casted beautifully upon Lucy, highlighting the bridge of her nose and the sprinkles of marks over her body.  Winnie didn’t think anything else could look so divine in that second. Her eyes glazed over her expression, catching the concern and grogginess pressed onto her face. 

“No,” Lucy answered, shaking her head as she sauntered over to the witch. Her arms wrapped fluidly around her waist and Winona easily returned the gesture, letting the smaller girl codle herself into her body. “It’s whatever,” there was a terse silence before she spoke again, “I’m worried about you, though.” 

Those words alone made Winona’s content facade melt away faster than she could see possible. Sure, Lucy knew of her strange sleeping habits and devious nightmares, but whenever they seemed to talk about the subject, neither of the two would dig into matters. Had Lucy been waiting to tell this to her? 

“Mm,” was all Winona answered with, her hands gliding towards the familiar lock of hair and stringing it around her finger lovingly. “I’ll get over it eventually, I always do.” 

Yet another concise stillness coaxed the room; however, this time, it was Lucy tilting her head upwards, fixing her eyes onto hers. 

“What are you afraid of?” 

She swore, that girl knew exactly what was on her mind every living second. Her breath caught in her throat again and she could hardly strangle a response before peering away timidly. What was there to lose if she confessed? 

“I’m afraid of you leaving me.” 

Instead of another sincere pry, Lucy laughed. Her voice alone was capable of doing many things to the witch, such as shutting her eyes and pressing her mouth against the freckled forehead. The melodic cackle swayed in the air for another few seconds before Lucy had induced to strings of giggles. 

“Don’t be dense, babe. I’m never leaving you, never in a million years.” 

Before her words were able to continue, Winona swooped her head down and met her warm lips, slipping into an affectionate, yet chaste kiss. They remained like this for a minute or so, the witch being the one to pull away. Still, their skin grazed smoothly against one another and she could feel Lucy’s eyelashes batting gently across her cheeks. 

It didn’t seem to matter how many kisses they shared, there would always be the same spark that ignited her heart and flushed her cheeks. God, she loved it. 

Winnie smiled, her left hand moving up to smooth down her girlfriend’s hair and bringing her into another kiss. 

“What about a trillion years?” 

“You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

They both laughed, their bodies resuming to steer into each other and eventually onto the couch where they fell sloppily onto the cushions. Lucy rolled ontop of the witch, her hands moving up to cup her pale face and drag her lips across her features, leaving trails of kisses. 

“I love you so much,” Winona murmured, her eyes following the familiar figure around fondly with a lopsided smile. 

“I love you more.” 

The recurring nightmares weren’t so recurring after that. 

[aredpainting]

freewrite 09/25/21

EJS

Morgana

Ocean Yamai wasn't entirely sure why his station across the harbor deemed so important to his superiors. In truth, he figured he belonged better in the gambling rings, where his magic could scope out any potential schemers or moonlighters, ready to doom the den with their fist of justice. Instead, he heard his comrades murmur something about how his rounds around the clashing waves, the call of seagulls and sailors seemed fitting. Of course it does, he thought to himself as he placed his rifle against the rough of his palm. He found his mouth in a frown- a deep frown, unsettled and irritated. He wanted to call out to them earlier, his comrades- damn, he hated that word. Comrades, barely; they were not brothers to him. The men that crowded the Peony Publishing House, the men who acted as the local witchwatch, did little to stir his loyalty. Ocean remembered his real comrades, back in the war. It seemed so long ago. So long ago, another war took Raecan by its hair and drowned her beauty into the deep, unforgiving waters.

It took Morgana nearly five years to rebuild after Saphria's wrath. In Mogǎian, the native language of Raecan, they called her the i̊kǔn. The Bloodhunter. Sometimes they would refer to her in a more distinctive way, the way anyone would recognize her- the Homunculi, or the Alchemist. He shuddered. Ocean tried to remove the talons of her destruction from his mind, but it became difficult over the years; he watched friends and family alike fall apart. They struggled to find financial stability after Morgana's shops- shops that they all worked for, most of them employed since birth- became nothing but rubble amongst her army. Or their homes, once warded to keep the i̊kǔn at bay when she was only a legend. All of it, the foundation of life as they knew it, snatched away from their fingers. And he felt sorry through all of it. Most of his time in the Second War he spent as intel. He watched his brothers in arms come back into their make-shift hut, created by faulty elk skin and dried wood, all battered and bloody from combat. When he was younger, he would've cursed himself for being weak. But his strength lay with his affinity for water; from the hut, across the shores of Awuna into the Gorge, he could feel every pull from the waves. He'd been granted a high position among the Raecan Navy Forces, but mostly to direct ships and such into the correct ports. And now, as Ocean stood over the harbor, his clammy hands now deep in his grey witchwatch uniform, he felt smaller than he felt before. His comrades must've realized this, as a fat hand clamped over his shoulder and shook him from his reverie. "Yamai," his comrade said in a thick Khemeian accent, "we're switching off now." One glance into the Khemeian's dark eyes, full of humor and life, made Ocean nod sheepishly. He said nothing, but he trapped his rifle across his back and started for the street across the Peony Publishing House. But before he could stagger another step towards the gravel road, his unfocused gaze met an open window. At first, he imagined the gamblers in the House needed fresh air- a waft of the sea breeze could clear anyone's mind. Of course, the Publishing House wasn't truly a home for books; but a poor front for the local cerulean-clad gang, the Pearled Oysters. The witchwatch, a city-council made unit, became the biggest bribery known to Morgana. Their Commander's faith lay in greed, and in greed the men followed. Most of Ocean's comrades were freshly released prisoners, and they applied to the witchwatch as an opportunity to turn their lives around. And it was honest work. Ocean told himself many times that it was not illegal to work as guards for the second-most feared gang in Morgana. They worked under a contract, a contract overseen by the City Council of Raecan. So it was fine. Then another window opened. Ocean shifted his weight onto his left leg, and he craned his neck in hopes he could see the interior of the Peony Publishing House. He heard stories of its magnificent leather seats and velvet throw pills. The pretty girls who worked the bars, the men who walked in with bags filled with gold and women who dressed themselves in real fur coats. All of them hoped to make some impression in the upper-levels of Morgana. Ocean one day wanted to be apart of that, if his luck granted him. And before he could divulge into a deeper daydream, three windows opened, then the front door, followed by a winded scream. The hairs on his arms bristled, and his fingers found their way over his bandolier.  He awkwardly threw his rifle into his hand, his thumb set prematurely onto the trigger as the rest of the stationed witchwatch fell into a fighting stance. "Help me!" cried out a voice, deep and smooth, like a siren's call. No one moved- not yet. Another window slammed itself from its hinges, and the force allowed the glass to give into its pull; clear shards fell from the second floor. The day-lit street grew quiet. The shoppers and tourists paused to watch the scene; but the eerie silence and the cowered cries from inside the Peony Publishing House only seemed to grow. "Help me!" The voice called again, but this time closer. Ocean braced himself, and he cursed under his breath because he took the clearest position across the front door. "Help me!" From the threshold limped out a girl- no younger than his comrades, fresh into their adulthood. Her cream hair fell over her shoulders and pooled across her chest, and her bronze skin looked pallor. Her palms, flat against her tattered dress bunched the fabric together as she came into the sunlight. Patrons across the street gasped, some grabbed their children and fled further from the House. "What is your business," said the Khemeian as he pointed the mouth of his rifle to her. Her honeyed eyes turned wide. "No- no, please! I mean you no harm- please! There are slavers inside, they have come to take me away again. Please, please!" The girl scrambled onto her feet, approached the Khemeian and opened her hands to him. "You keep your wits about you, girl. There are no slavers in Morgana. Only rich men and women who pay for their indentured servants." He raised his boot and crushed his heel into her stomach. Ocean winced. She fell back with a thud, her head slammed into the gravel as the Captain approached her. His heel found its way to her forehead, and he pressed. "Now return to your House, qengkhů." Ocean continued to stand, shaken by the cruelty and ashamed at his own fear. He wanted to interfere, to show the qengkhů  kindness, but he could not possibly risk his rank for a stranger. "Yamai! Escort her inside." He swallowed hard, nodded and walked towards the head of white hair. With his rifle turned onto his back, he reached a hand for her- a hand for her to stand up. But she didn't move. Apart of him wondered if she fell so hard, she became unconscious. And as he crouched to move her body upright, to see her if she were awake, her body folded into a knelt position. Her breathing became harsh, and the hand that was once outstretched pushed onto the ground to stand. "Good girl," his Captain said, satisfied. Ocean pursed his lips together. He didn't know what to do. Strangely, while he anticipated her to burst into another plea, he knew deep inside his heart another i̊kǔn was released into the world. Or perhaps... something worse? "I have been sent here by the Codex." Her deep voice, once filled with silk and earnest evaporated. An ancient rage, one Ocean could not place, started to reverberate through his bones. "You are a fool. The Codex has ceased to exist. Now stand do-" The Khemeian Captain jolted up. His chest heaved, and he rose from the ground. Ocean watched as the girl's hands lifted into the air, her fingers curled together. The Captain's neck split. Creamy bone peaked from his flesh as blood started to stain the streets. "I have been sent here by the Codex," the girl repeated as her arms fell to her side. In a timely fashion, so did the Captain's corpse. She looked to Ocean then, her gaze far away, "And I see no future for this town." ---

Kloadou

Sonja

Sonja Linch wasn't entirely sure how she arrived at the run-down, mildew infested tavern. The clock struck half past three in the morning, but the life of the small building looked to be immortal. She snorted to herself, silently amused by the drunkards who stumbled and slammed their scarred fingers against the birch table. They'd been so far gone, she supposed they looked past the compact mirrors of the woman beside him. She looked to be a natural thief, gifted with the sleight of hand and a bold demeanor. The type of woman Sonja admired. The type of woman she'd typically arrest. But tonight, she was off-duty. After her week long travel across the globe, from Aurium back home to Raecan, she swore to herself when her feet hit land. Sonja could remember her initial thoughts when the muggy city of Morgana came into the horizon. She gave her thanks to the Deities who listened, and she promised herself never to embark on another sea-wrought voyage. And now, as Sonja settled into the poorly dyed leather chair, her gloved hands splayed across the bar, and her eyes fervent to the patrons around her, she felt the vague yearning for the sea breeze and the salty air. As much as she loved her home, she loved to travel. While Saphria's wrath took hope and lives from the majority of her country, Saphria gave her an opportunity. Naturally, Sonja would never admit this to her peers, or even her closest relatives. They'd brand her as an extremist, link their as i̊kǔn heritage together and make do with her as they did with all sympathizers. She would spent her long, long lifetime in the Wyvern's Mouth. Then they'd say she committed treason of the highest degree, and any chance of normalcy would escape her. In any case- the Bloodhunter did  give her a chance at a new life. Previously, Sonja worked as a Colonel for the International Enforcers of Magi. They did little against the ruins of the worlds, its cities, towns and farmland alike. They failed. In turn, Kara De la Cruz, the Overseer and Controller of the Magi Council deemed their services... useless. A brutal way to end her dream career, sure, but Sonja never had the guts to aspire for something greater. It was fun, sometimes, when she'd run around the metropolis of every large country- she would catch criminals, fugitives, felons of the highest degree and conspirators against the Somnum Deities. Whatever that meant. Sonja took a swig at her cognac, sighed in relief and craned her head to the clock. "Little bastards are late," she muttered to herself as she waved the barmaid for another drink. Sonja propped her cheek into her palm. Three years ago, in the midst of the country's reconstruction, Sonja spied three monsters that would change her life forever. Maybe four monsters, but Neryee Lloyd Song had been a constant pain in her ass for as long as she could feel the thrums of blood course through every living soul on Somnum. The three troublemakers, her trouble makers- as her Lieutenant would say- arrived at the front door of their Embassy. They looked crazed, dazed, but worst of all, they looked alive. From her window on the second floor, Sonja could make out their features; they looked to be in their late teens, possibly pushing eighteen to nineteen. She remembered how young they looked, how fragile and rosy they seemed compared to the hardened Lieutenant and his stern expression. They came to the Embassy in hopes of mentorship. Sanjeet Mayhews, the Lieutenant General of her brigade laughed in their faces. He slapped a hand into his knee, ushered the children back onto the front steps and told them to leave when Nornya, the capital city of Aurium and home to the Embassy, needed demolition men. Demolition men because they couldn't keep their wits about them. Something in their youth made them frenzied, earnest and hungry for action. In the Embassy, they would find none of that. Only paperwork and hard labor; the occasional monstrous protocol, but the field magi deployed by the Creature Council often took the limelight. But the damned pests had been relentless. Even when the notorious Nornya fog cloaked the streets, haunted the shops and dimmed the Enchanted street lamps, they arrived at their front steps. When the fog grew so thick, it looked like a fire had started in the forest, the thunder and lightning would roll in to emphasize the bad weather. Only when they were soaked, and when Sanjeet could hear their teeth chatter beyond the door, did he provide them shelter. It had been a particularly slow day at the Embassy, so Sonja felt silently grateful he allowed some entertainment into their cave. When their days looked gloomy, or impossibly burdened because of the Magi Council's incessant paperwork to terminate their services, those three troublemakers always seemed to make their days. The eldest of the three, Tess Yang, a winged boy gifted with the power- or perhaps curse- of foresight, broke the air of familiarity when he walked in with broken wings. His friends, Lesley and Ecru arrived before him, already warm in their coats and steamed milks. They looked bewildered- more than usual- when Tess bursted into tears. It amazed Sonja how vulnerable he appeared to be. She could feel his heart break and the tremors of pain consume him with every wail and write in Ecru's arms. "Who did this?" Lesley finally asked wher ehen the room went quiet. Lesley Abe, the apparent leader of their ragtag crew, had created a particular reputation for himself around Nornya. "Who did this?" He repeated, his words now laced with anger, fear and grief for his friend's loss. Sanjeet already rang up the local healer to mend Tess' wings as best as they could. He only hung around the threshold, his huge arms crossed over one another in an observant manner. His chiseled face had been set into a look of sympathy. The faintest look of rage pinched his expression when Tess started to speak, so mangled and somber. "I didn't see it coming. I was out by the Alma Mater, I only wanted to fit in with the students. I got in trouble for mingling with them, the Head Boy scolded me when they seen I was dressed like a commoner." Tess frowned, tried to flex his wings but instead winced and continued. "I said sorry. I said I was going to go, but they pulled me by my feathers and-" "You don't need to say any more, Tess," Ecru interrupted, her voice soft. But even with her indecipherable face, she wrestled with the fury that bubbled from her eyes. "It will be all right." She reached out to rub his shoulder, and he murmured something in Aurlish that only they could understand. "It will be all right." Only Lesley stood from his seat. His burnt hands bunched into fists as he moved from the lobby into the foyer. He grabbed his coat, flattened out his auburn hair and said to no one in particular, "I'll handle it." ---

Neryee

"What do you mean they're missing?" Sonja hissed, her teeth barred when she slapped away the muslin divider. In the Fortuna, there was no telling what hallway would lead to door, or a divider. Neryee enjoyed the open space. "They're missing, love," Neryee replied as her gaze set along the sharps of her nails. A vermillion red, her signature color, the color of her Fortuna and her power. "Lesley darling hadn't checked in this morning. I sent my girls out for a sweep over the town. Nothing over Kloadou or Morgana. Do you understand?" She set her nimble fingers over the desk. "It's out of my control now." "Well, how long have they been missing? Perhaps only Lesley's gone out for holiday." Sonja pressed, her gloved hands a stark contrast to the manicured set across from her. She knocked her knuckles into the oak, desperate for an answer. "That would be unlikely, Sonja. You know it." Neryee sighed, impassive and eager to dive into her paperwork. A rare occurrence, but she had no time to deal with the emotional outburst Sonja throttled. She felt nearly nothing for the children who wound up as her minions in the Fortuna. Sonja would have corrected her, told her they were not children, they were young adults who wanted to fight for a cause. Perhaps not a good one, since the Fortuna operated as the biggest gang across Morgana and Kloadou. She kept merchants, councilmen and the witchwatch across villages and towns in her pocket. She had no time for heroes. Neryee Lloyd Song was a criminal, through and through. With every han that fell into her pocket, another life became indebted to her. And with every life, meant more han. There was no time for affection, no tenderness or love in her life. All that mattered to Neryee was riches and more riches. "Can you do something about it? I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't concerned, Neryee," the Blood mage asked, her voice quiet. Rarely did Sonja plea. On better days, Neryee would've enjoyed it. She liked to see her former enemy, the holy Enforcer, on her knees. But apart of her, the part that lived in humanity and cherished every thrush of emotion, felt sorrow for Sonja. They lived completely different lives now, and if Neryee wasn't so consumed in her own work, she would've believed that Sonja began to lean on these children for support. Ever since Sanjeet passed away in the Second War, the Blood mage was lost. She prayed every night, asked sages of every kind to cure her ailment- the ailment of a broken heart- but nothing quite helped. Only when Lesley and his small crew returned, she saw a semblance of light in her eyes. And maybe when she had humanity, when she wasn't so captivated by greed, Neryee would've liked to be the cause of her recovery. But things were different. Before the Second War took all of their lives in an impossible grasp, Neryee imagined a quaint and quiet life with Sonja. Even when they nipped at one another's throats, she loved the bravery that shone in her eyes. She had been deeply jealous of Sonja's friendship with Sanjeet, and she hated to admit it, but they completed one another. If soulmates existed, if souls mattered in the grand scheme of things, Neryee could acknowledge how fated they were to be in one another's lives. It crushed Sonja when her brother in arms, her mentor and her best friend died in the Second War. Not only him, but his family, too. Neryee likened Sonja's panic now to the last thread of her sanity; if not for Lesley, Tess and Ecru, she thought Sonja would go mad. And she looked to be on the brink of madness. After a long pause, Neryee tossed her golden hair behind her shoulders and sighed. "Fine." She waited for Sonja's reaction, a habit she formed when they were closer. All she could hear, with her eyes averted to the window, was a breath of relief. "I'll send my best tracker, but you're indebted to me now, Linch." She smoothed out her surname like a drink of whiskey and smiled to myself. "We'll discuss payments later, but I'm sure you'll be happy to sign my contract now." A single snap of her fingers and a wave of her hand summoned a smooth sheet of paper and pen onto her desk. Small remnants of flame danced at the edges, a token of her magic. Sonja said nothing, hunched over the contract and started to sign her name. "And another favor, Neryee. I'm sure you've heard of the commotion up in Morgana, no? Your biggest rival just fell out of the market. Have you heard why?" The question lingered in the air. Neryee turned in her chair, retrieved a slender cigarillo from her draw and lit with the tip of her index. "Another Codex zealot, but with a killer's instinct." She replied and huffed out smoke from her nose. "I like to stay out of sectarian news, you know that. I figured you wouldn't care either, seeing how you got cut from the Magi Council." "It would be nice to have another Blood mage on your crew, zealot or not. If you'd be able to recruit her, you'd have the entirety of Raecan tied over your finger." "I appreciate the kibitz, love, but I don't need another Blood mage. You would've been fine, or if Ecru ever continued her studies with the sages, I would be satisfied. But my girls don't need another witch to rely on. They need to focus on their smarts, their guts and their fists." Neryee sucked in her teeth, lowered her cigarillo from her mouth and contemplated her next words. "And it does matter if she's a zealot, by the way. The Codex does not exist anymore, and even if it did, I make my own fortune." When the gentle scratches of the pen's blade ceased, she threw her hand up, and the contract disappeared in a whimsical flame. "Now, leave. I'll keep you updated on your brats, but you must let me work." Sonja said nothing. She shoved her hands into her pockets, bowed to the back-turned Neryee and slouched out the curtain. Stupid Neryee, she thought to herself when she escaped the pangs of music, the ambience of laughter and dance and stood outside the grand Fortuna. I would've liked to stay for a chat.

Xurio

Copen

Esra

In the grand scheme of things, as Neryee liked to say, nothing truly mattered. When Esra was no younger than ten, he'd been recruited by the Fortuna. He found himself in Morgana with only ten han to his name. The slavers who carried him from Xurio and somehow managed past the Raecan borders told him he'd be no good in the whorehouses, gambling dens or even as a runner because of his ugly mug. He didn't understand then, because the men spoke only Mogǎian. It was quite different from his own language, the standard language that most Xuro spoke. Mogǎian sounded rough and gritty. It lacked any particular roundness. If he'd been kept in school longer, Esra thought he might've learned the bare bones of Mogǎian. But he only spoke Xurohan. So the slavers dropped him into the heart of Morgana. They kept his clothes, his shoes and even his hair. Esra couldn't survive on the streets for long; even as a boy, he knew that. The winter in Morgana felt like a mild summer compared to his home in Copen, the second largest city in Xurio. And it made him feel grateful, because despite the terrible reality that awaited him, he could at least feel safe when the cold pinched his cheeks. It took a week for Esra to wind up in an alley, dehydrated and starving. He used his last han on a glass of milk. For days, he couldn't stomach food, so he survived with cups of milk and the occasional drink of water. Esra could remember the cement beneath his ribs, his clothes so thin that even his hardened Xuro skin could not battle the cold. He felt a gentle nudge against his back. And when he looked up, the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his entire life stood before him. She looked to be as old as his eldest brother, probably fifteen or so. Her conic amber eyes pierced through his frail body, and the waves of blonde washed out her pale complexion. A hand moved in his direction, and he felt arms thrown over his body. "Take him to the carriage." The girl said in perfect Xurohan. She sounded like a princess. Or an evil step-daughter, like in the fairytales. "I want him cleaned and dressed before father comes home. Tell them I've brought home a new tracker." She only spared him one last glance before she disappeared further into the alley, followed by armed men of the witchwatch. "A tracker?" Esra managed to say when he arrived at the Song Manor. In the carriage, they fed him pieces of bread and cheese, careful to watch his ravenous feast. They didn't want Neryee's new prospect to keel over from food poisoning. He didn't know why he didn't fight when they grabbed him. Perhaps he understood that the Reaper waited for him, at the end of the alley in where Neryee glided through. That if he didn't take the opportunity that thrusted into his lap, he would die. "You're Xuro, yes? Xuros make excellent trackers, this is known across the world, boy. Your kind have a special connection to mana. They didn't teach you this in school?" His kind? Esra hopped out of the carriage. His fingers felt warm when the handmaidens took them into their gloved palms. "I didn't get to see a lot of school," he replied softly. "The slavers took me when I barely finished my third term." The handmaidens didn't reply. They entered past the doors, and Esra was greeted by the sickly-sweet smell of cinnamon. The whole manor- cinnamon. There stood ivory pillars around the foyer, the floor glistening with marble so clear, he saw his reflection. Around him, servants, maids and butlers of every kind walked through the grand halls; they dressed in chiffon, a special linen guaranteed to make them feel and look wealthy. Esra gawked for hours when the handmaidens explained to him his new life. Esra's life would be indebted to the Song clan. While he was no slave, he was an indentured servant. But the handmaidens reassured him that this was the best servitude that one could dream of. A well-cared for life, where everyone was fed, clothed and shared a brilliant roof over their heads. He would undergo special lessons to enhance his tracker abilities, and he would learn the art of combat, stealth, learn to read and write. Most importantly, he would speak not only Xurohan, but Mogǎian, Khemeian and Aurmese. Only his freedom would be taken, but there was little freedom in the world, anyways. By the time Neryee sent word of his new mission, he finally arrived home to Copen. He spent the next eleven years under her; as her spy, her intel but favorably, as her tracker. He looked to her as nothing but his boss. He knew she only remembered him when she needed someones' hands to get dirty. And he could live like that. One day, he would tell her that she saved his life, but Neryee didn't like theatrics. Which was why the letter she sent him that morning took him by surprise. Neryee wrote to him: "My underling, Your newest mission is dear to my heart. Sonja Linch requests your services in finding her kin. Their names are Lesley Abe, Tess Yang and Ecru Belmont. You're expected to return them to Kloadou, alive and well. Do what you must to track these three. Spare me the gritty details, and only report when you've found something monumental. I've added particular descriptions of these brats further in the envelope. Your payout, when you return to Morgana, will be fifty thousand han. Good luck. Best wishes, Neryee Lloyd Song. PS: Keep me updated on that Codex fanatic, will you?" Esra slid the letter into his breast pocket. He lifted his hand there, a reminder of his work and freedom. Fifty thousand han was not enough to pay his servitude, but he saved every payout in hopes to live a life where he could enjoy what he pleased. Where he could thank Neryee for her kindness all those years ago and move forward in life. He owed a rising accumulation of over forty billion han to the Song clan. Apparently, Xuro lives were very pricey. He spent the majority of his day roaming the art district of Copen. Esra felt determined to finish out his holiday with another loop of the city. It was very lovely, but he grew accustomed to Morgana's muggy and unbreathable conditions. And what a shame it was- Copen was is my hometown. But now he could not remember anything about his friends or family. He wasn't sure if they remembered him. Still, he savored the sights. Esra liked the chiseled mythical beasts that danced across the town's square. The fountain that sprouted from the evergreen grass bellowed its crystal water into the grated streets. The water would melt further into the sewer system, then dance again across the sprinklers that would activate every so often. It looked more like a show, and less of a regularly scheduled irrigation trick. Tiny droplets would make their way into the beast's mouths, and they would hang off the mandibles of the stone like frothed saliva. They looked alive every day; throughout the night, Esra would watch them from his hostel window to make sure they wouldn't patrol the streets. Beyond the town's square, the Copen Castles overlooked the town. Its great cobblestone towers protected the patrons from any weatherly disaster. They made for good cover whenever Copen happened to throw themselves into war, too. But the moss that entwined deep within the crevices of the cobblestone was the real allure. Even from a distance, the moss and vines hugged the castle. It looked like a painting, where the pricks of the vines slouched against the bouncy petals of gardenias. Sometimes, they would shift. It was a phenomenon that  only Copen harbored. The tourist guides would say that magic lived within the castle walls. The great Deity of Riches favored Copen, they'd say, and that's why the vines moved. Esra didn't know if that were true. He didn't know much about Xurio's history with the Deities, as the handmaidens in his makeshift school only told him of the foundation he needed to know to be a good pawn. It shamed him, a little, because he wanted to feel pride when he watched the tourists gape and contemplate the mystery of the Copen Castles. He finished his cigarette and tossed it into the nearest bin. Esra dusted his hands, pulled on his assigned gloves and started for his hostel. Now was no time for tears, he reminded himself once he entered his room. The payout han he separated from his savings into his expenses made him a very agreeable man in Copen. The hostel was quite nice, fancied with fluffy pillows and bed silks that made him feel like an angel. Even the food and coffee tasted expensive. Esra fell into his bed, his arms outstretched and eyes trained on the angled ceiling. It was autumn now, and soon, Xurio would drop to freezing temperatures. He wagered that tomorrow some snow would come in and coat the beasts and drown out the fountain. In Morgana, where the Fortuna stayed, Neryee would ask some of her girls to ward off the area and warm the roof so no snow would stick around her building. He wished he possessed magic like she, but lämsaaj, or Firewelders were almost as rare as Blood mages. They lived in embers, while Blood mages lived as ghosts. The warmth of his fireplace brought him comfort. His eyes started to feel heavy, but his skin, clad in the thickest wool with three layers, started to tingle. The gooseflesh occurred only when magic touched the air around him. Esra sat up, his hand to the revolver around his waist, and he searched his surroundings with a blank face. "Come out," he beckoned and stood from his bed, "I know you're here." A clatter came from under his bed. Esra froze, took a cautionary step back and clicked the safety of his revolver. How long did the intruder stay hidden? Why wasn't he able to sense their magic- their mana, the very lifeblood that swelled within their body? The thought made him shudder. If his rumination about Blood mages or lämsaaj were correct, they could very well soothe their mana into a quiet line to bypass a Xuro's skill. Once, they called Esra the Tarka, the Observer in Xurohan. But he didn't feel so strong in his legends now. "Come out." "Geeze, will you give me a minute?"

Sabine

It started when she double-crossed the Fortuna. Sabine wanted to say it was an honest mistake, but she lied to Neryee intentionally. She lied to her sisters, and at one point, she lied to herself. She did it because she wanted to hurt the lämsaaj. She didn't like to see Neryee with so much power. It made her like a zombie. Sabine desperately wished for someone to feel the same as she did. But it was impossible; because either they feared they'd be burned alive, or her disapproval would spread like a plague and infest other gangs, too. No one wanted to be without a home. No one wanted to be without a family. And for once in her life, Sabine felt truly stupid. All she wanted was for Neryee to feel something- feel a glimpse of anger or even disappointment when Sabine sold her loyalty to the Pearled Oysters. Instead, her punishment consisted of a cold laugh and a dismissive wave. Their interaction in her office lasted seconds. Sabine was found deep within the Pearled Oyster's dens, her red hair a sore thumb in a crowd filled with lost souls and depressed monsters. When the Fortuna girls found her and strung her into the Song Manor, a private estate used only by Neryee's inner circle, Sabine swelled with shame. Her head hung so low when she entered the office, she swore it could've fallen off her shoulders. "You've come home," Neryee said to her and drummed her fingers nonchalantly against her face. "I don't want to know why you blabbered my stocks to the stupid men at the Pearled Oyster. I want you clean, dressed and fed before you're off on your next mission." A sigh left the lämsaaj's lips when she finally shooed them away. It had been the first time Neryee lied to her, too. There were no missions to be dressed for, and Sabine felt like a ghost in her own home. When she wandered the moonlit corridors, back to her own room, she listened for the voices of her sisters. No one came. Not even the candle that greeted Sabine when she'd return home from missions lit when she crept through her door. Her exciting life, full of privilege and danger, halted. It stayed like that for months. Her admiration for Neryee started to go sour; every chance she wanted to tell Neryee- explain to Neryee- apologize to Neryee- it always came short. And Sabine hated it. Only when Sonja Linch, a prospect and a dear friend of the Songs, visited did Neryee step out of her office. The girls of the Fortuna were no fools; they could see the long stares they cast to one another. Their lingering embraces, and the soft smiles Sonja would pass to Neryee, only for the lämsaaj to blanche and look away. It filled Sabine with shame when she watched their exchanges. Not only did Neryee prefer the company of an outsider, but she looked to be wholly invested in the news Sonja brought to her only a fortnight ago. And as if the good graces of the Deities heard her confusion, pain and desperation, Neryee came to her room late last week. She stood by the threshold, her arms crossed over one another and her red-stained lips pressed into a tight line. "Sabine," she said and tossed an envelope in her direction. "You're to protect Esra on this mission. Do not interfere with his tracking." She should've felt elated that Neryee even breathed the same air as her. But as she lay so still, still like a corpse, under Esra's bed the following night, she wanted to hit him. He'd been out all day, and he didn't notice- not once- they took the same fare to Copen. Idiot, Sabine thought to herself when she heard his footsteps through the hall. To Sabine, Esra was nothing but a lowly grunt. He was a man, and the Fortuna did not particularly take men. Not when there were plenty of women in the world to carry on their tasks. Despite this, Neryee quite enjoyed Esra; he would often find himself on the most dangerous missions as her glorified tracker, and he would be rewarded with a firm clap on the back from Neryee. To Sabine, she saw Esra as competition. It was almost hilarious when he clamored his revolver once he felt her presence. When she scampered out from his bed, she flicked her nose and lay her hands on top of her hips. "It took you long enough. I thought they called you the Tarka. So much for that, huh? What else are Xuros good for, if not sensing magic?" Sabine brushed off any debris from her wool coat. Esra looked at her with a straight face, his eyes unreadable. He lowered his revolver, removed his boots and kicked them in her direction. She grunted, stomped them away and pointed at him. "What's your issue, Esra? Can't you see I'm here on good terms?" "You're a traitor, Sabine. I know Neryee set you up to this, but you shouldn't have hidden yourself." Esra replied and tossed his tapered vest onto a lone chair. He turned away from her, his dark hair now glistening from the low light of the fireplace. "Now leave me alone, please. I'll draft something up to Neryee in the morning and see to your arrival back home. I want to be alone now." The hairs on her neck bristled. "I'm not a traitor. I did what I had to do!" "And what would that be? How many times have you sold us out to your friends at the Peony Publishing House? How many more times will you jeopardize our sisters' lives?" "They are not your sisters. You don't even belong at the Fortuna."   Esra managed a scoff, but his tense shoulders revealed her words hit a tender spot. "Go away, Sabine. I want to be alone." She slammed her fist into the wall, shoved over the chair that stationed his vest and started for the door. "Goodnight, you horrible man." When Sabine met the hostel hallway, quiet and misted with sleep, she could feel hot tears bubble at the corners of her eyes. She didn't know why her exchange with Esra caused her to be so angry. He was moronic, and she couldn't understand why he reached everyones' good graces. Why couldn't she liked be like him?

[aredpainting]

A Thousand Years by Damien Hirst: How Does Mortality Persuade Us?

EJS, UNLV

UNDER SUPERVISION OF DR DONOVAN CONLEY

2022

The perpetuating cycle of life and death is the last, stubborn nail in our coffin. It digs through our oak wood exterior, eager to imprint its inevitability into our consciousness. The light at the end of the tunnel beckons for us to come closer; as we progress through our years, we abide. Our society is fascinated with life and death: its natural order gives us a set deadline of how we should perform our roles as individuals. The morbid curiosity that breeds from our inescapable fascination with death inspires many artists. Damien Hirst, a British contemporary, is consumed by our mortal Sisyphean cycle. He designed his exhibit in 1990, A Thousand Years, to showcase his compulsion towards our impermanence. A Thousand Years persuades the audience in the three following ways; our mortality is mirrored in the box, our death is unavoidable, and we should feed on satisfaction when we are allowed. In this essay, I will outline three persuasive techniques that emphasize Hirst’s purpose in A Thousand Years. I will use Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium is The Message”, Helena Bilandzic and Rick Busselle’s “Narrative Persuasion” and Kenneth Burke’s “Psychology and Form” to examine the persuasiveness of this exhibit; the criteria I will follow is the effectiveness, impact and cultural response to A Thousand Years. Finally, I will offer recommendations to A Thousand Years to increase its persuasiveness.

Damien Hirst is a staple in the contemporary art scene. When A Thousand Years initially exhibited at the Young British Artists exhibition, Francis Bacon called Hirst personally to tell him of his admiration for A Thousand Years. Hirst, at his highest degree, enchants his viewers with his grotesque performances. Similar to A Thousand Years and exhibited a year after its release, Hirst launched The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. The title itself is an indicator of Hirst’s obsession with death; it tells the story of how death plagues our every day thoughts and behavior. It shows a tiger shark cloaked in formaldehyde encased in a steel-structured, glass cube. Hirst makes an example of living animals and often captures their mortality in formaldehyde; in a way, he is making them immortal. However, A Thousand Years is slightly more complicated than its predecessor. A Thousand Years is a large cube; inside the cube there are two sides. On one side lay a cow head, or in some recent renditions of the exhibit, a slab of meat. Above the deceased animal is an insect electrocution device. The second side is another cube. There are four, singular holes on each surface and inside the holes are maggots. The maggots evolve into flies and through the slim piece of glass that separates the two sides, the flies feed at the slab of meat. Alternatively, they become attracted to the light that glows off of the electrocution device then meet a shocking death. The exhibit is bizarre. It is full of gore. It is messy. It is an immediate juxtaposition to the sterile environment of an art museum. But it captivates the viewer because of its carnage. The sight of the decayed animal is alarming; some may say its cruelty. Though the real treat lay within the flies. When the audience examines the isolated cube, almost similar to a die, the birth of the maggots is brutal. They squirm out and away from their birth place, eager to develop into a fly; they amongst peers, unbeknownst to the limited fate they are presented. When they become flies, two paths unfold before them. They can choose to live a life of satisfaction, oblivion, and bliss through consumption of the decayed animal. Or they can wander beyond their bounds and fly to their death. Even when they see their companions die, they still choose to dance around the light, engrossed by its luminance and starkness to the world around them. Similar to Icarus and the Sun, the flies know nothing of consequence and prefer to live a life of grandeur rather than logic. A Thousand Years symbolizes the cycle of human life and how innate our desire to be alive, to be satisfied and to die truly is. We see the paths the world paves for us, and through our own reasoning and experience, we choose the route that is best fit for how we feel in the moment. Regardless of the outcome, we decide our fate.

Hirst does a fantastic job of persuading the audience of our mortality. He sends the message of our fragile state of being through three persuasive techniques. Through McLuhan’s “The Medium is the Message” he writes, “For the ‘message’ of any medium or technology is the change of scale or pace or pattern that it introduces to human affairs” (McLuhan, 1). He explains that the medium is an extension of ourselves, and that the consequences or successes that follow align with our personal beliefs and society’s expectations. The medium controls how we interact with the world, how we interpret the world and how we connect with our peers. McLuhan quotes General David Sarnoff who says, “Apple pie is in itself neither good nor bad; it is the way it is used that determines its value” (McLuhan, 3). There is no objective opinion of whether apple pie is delicious or disgusting. It is varied by the individual. Like art, which is entirely subjective to the viewer and the artist, there is no correct way to understand the “message” presented by the medium. However, Hirst uses his medium to tell the story of an endless cycle of life or death, the audience is persuaded by our transience. This changes our behavior through fear, perhaps even through admiration for his work. Like Francis Bacon, we are allowed to feel appreciation for an exhibit that outlines a mundane, underrated chapter of our lives. Second, Helena Bilandzic and Rick Busselle’s “Narrative Persuasion” tell us the difference between narration and persuasion. They write, “This distinction between persuasion and narrative also is reflected in the view of audiences as processing information in either a paradigmatic or narrative mode” (Bilandzic & Busselle, 200). When we differentiate the paradigmatic and the narrative mode, we take into consideration their purpose. The paradigmatic mode weighs quantitive data; typically the paradigmatic mode evaluates facts and information. Versus its narrative counterpart which interprets qualitative data. The narrative mode is primarily focused on what events and characters caused this situation to arise (Bilandzic & Busselle, 200). An example of this is, “I got into a car wreck.” The audience is naturally curious what caused this event; was the wreck my fault, or was it the fault of an outside character, yet to be introduced to my narrative? An important key to the narrative mode is the story realization of the audience. Our minds are quick to use our own vernacular to assess the scene. We realize what we know, and this is explained further by Bilandzic and Busselle, “Story realization is the audience member’s cognitive and emotional understanding of events based on the text and their own pre-existing, relevant knowledge of the topic” (Bilandzic & Busselle, 201). When we apply the narrative persuasion to A Thousand Years, Hirst reaches the audience through an impractical method. He shocks the viewer with an outlandish performance; the narrative we can understand from A Thousand Years is a dead metaphor. It is a pattern depicted through our real lives, but it is also a subject we see regularly from media. As the viewer approaches the cube out of pure attraction, their subconscious makes an instant connection between the maggots, the flies, the slab of meat and the electrocution device hung so proudly above the rotation of mortality. The viewer’s vernacular expands their understanding of the impression Hirst is painting. With their prior understanding of life and death, how quickly flies die from electrocution and their compulsion towards meat, the realization is clear: death is inevitable. We move forward into how Kennth Burke’s “Psychology and Form” applies to Hirst’s A Thousand Years. Burke opens his essay with an excerpt from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He specifies the Act where Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus wait on the ghost of his father; the audience is aware of Hamlet’s mental deterioration, and whether we’re consciously anxious of his father’s arrival, we watch with anticipation. Instead of his late father’s entrance, we are met with a blare of trumpets, an indication of the king’s arrival. This in itself is form. Burke describes form as the “psychology of the audience” (Burke, 2). He goes on to make the interpretation as the following: “Or, seen from another angle, form is the creation of an appetite in the mind of the audience, and the adequate satisfying of that appetite” (Burke, 2). As we dig deeper into Hirst’s work, the form of his piece truly affects the viewer. Because the audience is initially shocked by the presence of a decaying animal, maggots and flies, the form is essential to A Thousand Years. Burke writes about a type of form, eloquence, which is greatly apparent in A Thousand Years. To quote Burke, “The methods of maintaining interest which are most natural to the psychology of information (as it is applied to works of pure art) are surprise and suspense” (Burke, 7). Eloquence is a tool that is exacerbated in Hirst’s work; when we are uncomfortable, our vulnerability allows room for growth and change. It allows introspection and cognitive function to pull forward and grasp our subconscious; it forces us to look at A Thousand Years with more than face value.

With the criteria I created in my opening paragraph, I will evaluate whether A Thousand Years is persuasive. Hirst, the sender, delivers a message of gutsy mortality. Its effectiveness is renounced in its structure; I admire the dedication to gore, despite the critiques that come with using live and real animals. While my personal values tell me to flinch and waver at the face of animal death, this is the reality of our world. There is no hiding from death, and even when we imagine a happy world where somehow everyone is immortal and pain-free, that is not the truth. It creates a productive conversation within the contemporary art sphere, and it is present in the rhetorical sphere now, too. Hirst also demonstrates the impact A Thousand Years holds by its presence in an art museum. As previously stated, the evident disparity between the aseptic white walls versus the bloody, lifeless head of an animal is an image that will burn into anyone’s mind. Another perspective I’d like to add is during COVID-19, the exhibit was still open to viewers; when we observe A Thousand Years behind a mask and through its glass walls, it intensifies the feeling the art museum instills. We observe our lives in a barbaric, unsafe and uncensored fashion in a sterile environment. Finally, the cultural response speaks for itself. While PETA succeeded in dismantling A Thousand Years in some museums, others let this exhibit live. Minds like Francis Bacon and the YBA association admire A Thousand Years for what it is; a critical piece that propels us into a state of savagery. A piece that peels away the beauty we paint onto ourselves and reveals our true nature, and our unavoidable fate. There are no recommendations or changes I would make to A Thousand Years, as it a phenomenal standalone exhibit that speaks volumes for itself. Damien Hirst produces artwork that is refreshing, frightening and rhetorical. A Thousand Years persuades the audience in the three following ways; our mortality is mirrored in the box, our death is unavoidable, and we should feed on satisfaction when we are allowed. By applying the works of Marshall McLuhan, Helena Bilandzic and Rick Busselle and Kenneth Burke, we are able to digest A Thousand Years in a way where we’re able to utilize the medium, narrative persuasion and psychology and form in an evaluative fashion.

Bibliography Burke, Kenneth. “Psychology and form.” The Dial 79, 1925. Bilandzic, Helena & Busselle, Rick. “Narrative Persuasion.” SAGE Knowledge. (2012, October 11). Retrieved December 11, 2022, from https://sk.sagepub.com/reference/hdbk_persuasion2ed/n13.xml McLuhan, Marshall. “The Medium is the Message.” Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, 1964.