#everything about this: per-fection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tseneipgam · 2 years ago

Photo

““from the tensed heart came the gigantic tremor of a powerful, shaking pain, from the whole body a shaking--and with subtle grimaces of face and of body at last with the difficulty of an oil ripping open the ground -came at last the great dry sob, a wordless sob without any sound even for herself, the one she hadn't suspected, the one shed never wanted and hadn't foreseen- rattled like the strong tree that is more deeply shaken than the fragile tree- at last pipes and veins were burst, then she sat down to rest and was soon pretending that she was a blue woman because the dusk later on might be blue, pretends she's spinning sensations with threads of gold, pretends that childhood is today and silver-plated with toys, pretends that a vein hadn't opened and pretends that from it in whitest si- lence scarlet blood isn't pouring, and that she isn't pale as death but this she was pretending as if it really were true, amidst the pretending she needed to speak the truth of an opaque stone so it could contrast with the glinting green pretending, pre- tends that she loves and is loved, pretends that she doesn't need to die of longing, pretends that she's lying in the transparent palm of the hand of God, not Lóri but her secret name that for the time being she still can't enjoy, pretends she's alive and not dying since in the end living was no more chan getting ever closer to death, pretends she doesn't drop her arms in confu- sion when the threads of gold she's been spinning get tangled.”

“the knowledge that everything that exists, exists with absolute exactness and ultimately whatever she ended up doing or not doing would not escape that exactness; something the size of a pinhead would not extend by a fraction of a millimeter beyond the size of a pinhead: everything that existed was of a great per- fection. Except most of what existed with such perfection was, technically, invisible: the truth, clear and exact in itself, was vague and almost imperceptible upon reaching the woman. Well, she sighed, even if it wasn't reaching me clearly, at least she knew that there was a secret meaning to the things of life. So it was she knew that she occasionally, even if somewhat confusedly, ended up sensing perfection”

“Having glimpsed her whole body in the mirror, she thought that protection would also mean no longer being one single body: being one single body would give her, as it did now, the impression of being cut off from herself. Having a single body surrounded by isolation, made that body so circumscribed, she felt, that she'd then fear being a person on her own, she looked greedily at herself in the mirror and said amazed: how mysterious I am, I'm so delicate and strong, and the lips' curve maintained its innocence. It then seemed to her, mulling things over, that there wasn't a man or woman who hadn't chanced to look in the mirror and been taken aback. For a fraction of a second the person saw herself as an object to be looked at, which could be called narcissism but, already influenced by Ulisses, shed call: plea- sure in being. To find in the external figure the echoes of the internal figure: ah, so it's true I wasn't just imagining it: I exist. And because of that very fact of having seen herself in the mirror, she felt how small her condition was because a body is smaller than the thought-- to the point that it would be use- less to have more freedom: her small condition wouldn't allow her to make use of freedom. Whereas the condition of the Universe was so great that it wasn't called a condition.”

“What she was doing to herself was cruel: taking advantage of her raw living flesh in order to get to know herself better, since the wound was open. But it hurt too much to head in that direction. So she preferred to calm down and decided that, in the taxi, she'd think about Ulisses's straight nose, his face marked by the slow apprenticeship of life, his lips that she'd never kissed. Except she didn't want to go empty-handed. And as if she were bringing him a flower, she wrote on a piece of paper some words that would give him pleasure: "Theres a being who lives inside me as if it were his house, and it is. It's a black and shiny horse that despite being completely wild -for it never lived in anyone before nor has anyone ever bridled and saddled it- despite being completely wild it has for precisely that reason the primal sweetness of someone who is not afraid: sometimes it eats from my hand. Its muzzle is moist and fresh. I kiss its muzzle. When I die, the black horse will lose its home and suffer a lot. Unless he chooses another house and that other house isn't afraid of something at the same time wild and ten- der. I should mention that he has no name: just call him and You'll get his name right.”

“More than anything she'd now learned to approach things without linking them to their function. It now seemed she could see how things and people would be before we gave them the meaning of our human hope or our pain. If there were no humans on earth, it would be like this: it would rain, things would get drenched, alone, and would dry and then burn drily under the sun and get toasted in the dust. Without giving the world our meaning, how frightened Lori was! She was scared of the rain when she separated it from the city and the open um- brellas and the fields soaking up the water. Then the thing she called death would attract her so strongly that she could only call bravery the way in which, out of solidarity and pity for oth- ers, she was still bound to what she called life. It would be pro- foundly amoral not to wait for death as all others wait for that final hour. It would have been sneaky of her to leap ahead in time, and unforgivable to be cleverer than others. For that rea- son, despite her intense curiosity about death, Lóri was waiting. Morning broke, Whatever had happened in Lóri's thought in that dawn was as inexpressible and incommunicable as the voice of a hushed human being. Only the silence of a mountain was compara- ble. The silence of Switzerland, for example.”

“As intransmissible as humans were, they were always trying to communicate with gestures, with stutters, with badly said words and bad words. Morning was already well underway when she made strong coffee, drank it and got ready to com- municate with Ulisses, since Ulisses was her man. She wrote: "Night is so vast in the mountains. So uninhabited. The Spanish night has the scent and the hard echo of the rap dance, the Italian night has the warm sea even in its absence. But the night of Bern has the silence. We can try in vain to read so as not to hear it, to chink flickly so as to disguise it, to invent a plan, a fragile bridge That barely connects us to the suddenly improbable next day. How to get beyond the peace char lies in wait for us. Moun his so high thar despair becomes bashful. The ears prick the head bends, the whole body listens: not a sound”

“Enter. Don't wait out the rest of the darkness before it, just the silence itself. It will be as if we were in a ship so uncommonly enormous that we didn't realize we were in a ship. And as if it were sailing so slowly that we didnt realize we were moving. A man can't do more than this. Living on the edge of death and of the stars is a tenser vibration than the veins can stand. There's not even a son of a star and a woman as a merciful in- termediary. The heart must present itself alone to the Nothing and alone beat out in silence its palpitations in the shadows. You only sense your own heart in your ears. When it presents itself completely naked, it's not even communication, it's sub- mission. For we were only made for the litle silence, nor for the silence of the stars.”

“Sometimes shed regress and succumb to a total irrespon- sibility: the desire to be possessed by Ulisses without binding herself to him, as she'd done with the others. But therein too she might fail; she was now a big-city woman but the danger was the strong rural heritage in her blood from way back. And she knew that this heritage could make her suddenly want more, telling herself: no, I don't want to be just me, because I have my own I, what I want is the extreme connection between me and the sandy and perfumed earth. What she called earth had already become the synonym for Ulises, so much did she want her ancestors' earth.”

“Her immeasurable soul. For she was the World, And yetahe was living so litle. This was one of the sources of her humiliy and forced acceptance, and also kept her weak in the face of any possibility of action. Moreover feeling overly humble was paradoxically whete her haughtiness came from. For her haughtiness--which was reflected in her supple and calm way of walking--her haugh- tiness came from the obscure certainty that her roots were strong, and that her humility was not just human humility: for every root is strong, and her humility came from the obscure certainty that all roots are humble, earthy and full of a moist vigor in their gnarled rooted modesty. Of course none of this was thought: it was lived, with the odd rapid sweeping beam in the night illuminating the sky for a fraction of a second of thought in the dark. What had also saved Lóri was that she was feeling that if her own world weren't human, there would still be room for her, and with great beauty; shed be a smudge of instincts, af- fections and ferocities, a shimmering irradiation of peace and struggle, the way she was humanly, but it would be permanent: because if her world weren't human shed be a creature. For an instant then she scorned whatever was human and experi- enced the silent soul of animal life. And it was good. "Not understanding" was so vast that it surpassed all understanding”

“We haven't accepted what we don't understand because we don't want to look stupid. We've hoarded things and reas- surances because we don't have each other. We don't have any joy that hasn't already been catalogued. We've built cathedrals, and stayed outside because the cathedrals we ourselves built, we're afraid they're traps. We haven't surrendered to ourselves, because that would be the start of a long life and wére afraid of that. We've avoided falling to our knees in front of the first one of us who says, out of love: you're afraid. Weve organized smiley clubs and associations where you are served with or without soda. We've tried to save ourselves but without using the word salvation in order to avoid the embarrassment of be- ing innocents. We haven't used the word love so as not to have to recognize its contexture of hate, love, jealousy and so many other contradictories. Weve kept our death a secret in order to make our life possible. Many of us make art because we dont know what the other thing is like, We've disguised our indif- ference with false love, knowing that our indifference is dis- guised anguish. We've disguised with a small fear the greatest fear of all and that's why we never speak of what really matters. Speaking about what really matters is considered a blunder. We haven't worshipped because we have the sensible pettiness to remember on time the false gods. We haven't been pure and naive in order not to laugh at ourselves and so that at each day's close we can say "at least I didn't do something stupid" and that way we don't feel confused before putting out the light. Weve smiled in public about things we wouldn't smile about alone. Wé've called our candor weakness. We have feared each other, most of all, And all this we consider our daily victory.”

“-But on your travels it's impossible that you were never among orange trees, sun, and flowers with bees. Not just the dark cold but the rest too? -No, she said gloomily. Those things are not for me. I'm a big-city woman. -First of all, Campos isn't what you'd call a big city. And anyway those things, as symbols, are for everybody. You've just never learned to have them. - And that can be learned? Orange trees, sun, and bees on fowers? -It can when you no longer have your own nature as 2 powerful guide. Léri, Lóri, listen: you can learn anything, even how to lovel And the strangest thing, Lori, is that you can lear to have joy!”

“-Lóri, can't you at least feel what there is of profound and risky adventure in this thing we're attempting? Lóri, Lóri! Wére attempting joy! Do you at least feel that? And feel how wére venturing into danger? Do you feel that there's more safety in dull pain? Ah Lóri, Lóri, can't you recover, at least hazily, in your flesh's memory, the pleasure that at least in the cradle you must have felt at being alive? At being? Or at least some other time in life, no matter when, nor why? Lóri didn't reply, knowing that he could sense that the an- swer was negative. -Do you prefer pain? She didn't reply to that either, knowing he could sense that the answer would once again be: no. - What is it? To learn joy, do you need every guarantee? She remained silent, because Ulisses's tone had changed and instead of passionate had become sardonic and meant to wound her. He leaned back in his chair a bit tired and said: -You're the type who needs guarantees. Do you want to know what I'm like in order to accept me? I'll let you get to know me better; he said with irony. Look, I've got a verbose soul and use few words. I'm irritable and easily hurt people- Him also very calm and forgive immediately I never forget”

“My love for the world is like this: I forgive people for having a misshapen nose or lips that are too thin or for being ugly- every flaw or error in others is an opportunity for me to love. You see, I don't let anyone order me around, yet I dont mind for example simply following the teaching plan the uni- versity sets out for each class.”

“An hour and a half later- the time needed to buy a new swimsuit--she was changed in a cubicle, and without the courage to go out. She wrapped herself in the barhrobe and went out to find him sitting on the edge of the pool. She tried to hide her deep reluctance to appear practically naked, finally took off the robe, she wasn't even looking at him. They sat without speaking, he was drinking a gin and tonic. A lot of time had passed or maybe not much but for her the silence was becoming intolerable, while to hide it she was swinging her feet in the green water. Until at last he spoke and without crudeness said: -Look at that girl over there, for example, the one in the red swimsuit. Look how she walks with the natural pride of someone who has a body. You, besides hiding what is called the soul, are ashamed to have a body. She didn't reply, but, struck, became imperceptibly stiffer. Afterward, sensing he wasn't going to say anything else, she slowly managed to relax her muscles. She thought-inasmuch as she could think while wearing a swimsuit in front of him- she thought: how could I explain to him, even if I wanted to, and she didn't want to, the long journey shed taken to reach that possible moment in which her legs were swinging in the Pool. And he didn't think it was a big deal. How to explain that, coming from as far away inside herself as she had, being half alive was already a victory, Because finally, once the fright of being naked in front of him was broken, she was breathing calmly, already half-alive.”

“Why do you look at each person so carefully? She blushed: -I didn't know you were observing me. It's not for nothing that I look: it's because I like to see people being, So saying she surprised herself and that seemed to bring her to vertigo. Because she, by surprising herself, was being. Even taking the chance that Ulisses wouldn't notice, she said very quietly to him: -I am being ... What? he asked when hearing that whispered voice of Lóris. Nothing, it doesn't matter. Of course it does. Would you mind saying it againt She grew more humble, because shed already lost the strange and enchanted moment in which she'd been being: - I said to you -Ulisses, I am being. He looked closely at her and for a moment it was strange”

“that familiar woman's face. He found himself strange, and un- derstood Lóri: he was being. They didn't say a word as if they'd just met for the first time. They were being. -Me too, Ulisses said quietly. Both knew that a great step had been taken in the appren- ticeship. And there was no danger of wasting this feeling out of fear of losing it, because being was infinite, infinite like the waves of the sea. I am being, the tree in the garden was say- ing: I am being, said the approaching waiter. I am being, said the green water in the pool. I am being, said the blue sea of the Mediterranean. I am being, said our green and treacher Pus sea. I am being, said the spider and stunned its prey with is venom. I am being said a child whod slipped on the tiles and cried out in fear: Mama! I am being, said the mother who had a son who was slipping on the tiles around the pool-But the light was going quier for the night and they were surprised -Bain, the dusky light, Lori was fascinared by this meeting with herself, she fascinated herself and almost hypnotized herself, There they were.”

“She thought about people she knew: they were sleeping or having fun. Some were drinking whiskey. Her cof fee then became even sweeter, even more impossible. And the darkness of loners grew so much greater. She was falling into a sadness without pain. It wasn't bad. It was part of life, certainly. The next day she would probably have some joy, also without great ecstasies, just a little joy, and that wasn't bad either. That's how she tried to make peace with the mediocrity of living But it was late: she was already yearning for new ecstasies of joy or of pain. What she needed was everything the most hu- man of humans had. Even if it was pain, shed bear it, unafraid of again wanting to die. Shed bear everyching. Provided she was given everything. No. No one would give it to her. She herself would have to be the one to try to get it.”

“There was the sea, the most unintelligible of nonhuman ex- istences. And there was the woman, standing, the most un- intelligible of living beings. Since the human being had one day asked a question about itself, it had become the most unintelligible of the beings in whom blood circulates. She and the sea.”

“With the conch of her hands and the haughtiness of people who never will offer explanations even to themselves: with the conch of her hands full of water, she drinks it in great gulps, good for a body's health, And that's what she's been missing: the sea inside like the thick liquid of a man. Now she's entirely like herself. Her nourished throat tight- ens with salt, her eyes go red from the drying salt, the waves crash against her and retreat, crash and retreat since she's a compact barrier.”

“I write poetry not because I'm a poet but to exercise my soul, it's man's most profound exercise. In general what comes out is incongruous, and it rarely has a theme: it's more like research into how to think.”

“she'd teach secure in the knowledge that the boys and girls would retain what she was teaching them for later, when they could understand it. So she told them that arithmetic came from"arithmos" which means thythm, that number came from" nomos" which means"law of "norm'" norm from the child's universal flow. It was too early to tel them all that, bur she took pleasure in saying it, she wanted them to know, through their Portuguese class, that the taste of a fruit is in the contact of the fruit with the palate and not in the fruit itself. There was no apprenticeship for new things: it was only rediscovery.”

“They ate and drank in silence, unhurried. It was nice. Then they returned to the lounge, which was empty, and sat on the sofa in front of the hearth. There he smoked. When she thought about how, besides the cold, the rain was falling as if onto the whole world, she couldn't believe shed been given so much good. It was the pact between the Earth and something shed never realized she needed with so much hunger in her soul. It was raining, raining. The flames were blinking.”

“She clenched her jaw, looked at the frozen moon, looked at the zenith of the heavenly sphere. He was crushing a leaf that had fallen from the tree above the bar table. And as if to give her a present of something, he said: - Do you know what mesophyll means? - I've never heard the word, she replied. - Mesophyll is the fleshy part of the leaf. Hold this one and feel it. He held out the leaf to her, Lóri tapped it wich sensitive fingers and crushed its mesophyll. She smiled. It was lovely to say and touch: mesophyll.”

“she knew that if she showed him in any way that she already de sired him too much, hed see it was just desire and refuse. And for now she had nothing to give him, except her own body. No, maybe not even her body: for when shed had lovers it was asif she were only loaning her body to herself for the pleasure, just that, and nothing more. She was drinking her coffee and thinking without words: my God, and to say that the night is full and that I'm full of the thick night that is dripping with the perfume of sweet al monds. And to think that the world is all thick with so much almond scent, and that I love Thee, God, with a love made of darkness and flashes. And to think that the children of the world grow up and become men and women, and that the night will be full and thick for them too, while I shall be dead, full too. I love Thee, God, without expecting anything bur pain from Thou. Pain is the mystery. One of my former pupils who is fifteen by now had bought a carnation to put it in his bur tonhole and go to a party. À party, my God, the world is a party that ends in death and in the scent of a wilted carnation ind buttonhole. I love you, God, precisely because I dont know if you exist. I wan a sign that you exist. I knew an ordinary woman who didn’t ask herself questions about God-she loved beyond the question about God. So God existed.”

“But she did possess a miracle, The miracle of the leaves, Shed be walking down the street and the wind would drop one right on her hair: that line of incidence of millions of leaves transformed into the one that was falling, and of millions of people it would happen to her. This would happen so often that she modestly started to consider herself the leaves' cho- sen one. With fleeting gestures, she'd pluck the leaf from her hair and stow it in her purse, like the tiniest diamond. Until one day, opening her purse, shed found among the thousands of things she always carried the dry, curled, dead leaf. Shed thrown it away: she wasn't interested in keeping the dead fe- tish as a souvenir. And also because she knew that new leaves would coincide with her. One day a falling leaf landed on her eyelashes. Right then she saw God as immensely tactful.”

“-What am I doing, it's night and I'm alive. Being alive is killing me slowly, and I'm wide awake in the dark. There followed a pause, she started to think Ulisses hadn't heard her. Then he said in a calm and soothing voice: - Stand firm. When she hung up, the night was humid and the darkness soft, and living meant having a veil covering your hair. So with tenderness she accepted that she was within the mystery of living. Before going to bed she went onto the balcony: a full moon was sinister in the sky. So she bathed all over in the lunar rays and felt profoundly clean and calm. She slowly started falling asleep in gentleness, and the night was deep inside. When the night matured the fuller veil of the dawn breeze would come. For the time being, she was deli- cately alive, sleeping.”

“A year had gone by. The first heat of spring, ancient as a first breath. And which made her smile all the time. Without look- ing at herself in the mirror, it was a smile that had the idiocy of angels. Long before the arrival of the new season came its harbin- ger: unexpectedly a mildness in the wind, the first softness in the air, Impossible! Impossible that this softness in the air wouldn't bring more! says the heart, breaking. Impossible, echoes the still nippy and fresh warmth of spring. Impossible that this air won't bring the love of the world! Repeats the heart that cracks its singed dryness into a smile. And doesn't even recognize that it's already brought it, that that is a love. This still-fresh first heat was bringing: ev- erything. Just that, and indivisibly: everything. And everything was a lot for a suddenly weakened heart that could only bear the less, could only want the bit by bit. Today she was feeling, and there was a keen nip to it, a kind of future memory of today. And to say that she’d never, never given what she was feeling to anyone or to anything. Had she given it to herself?”

“Only to the extent that the poignancy of whatever was good could fit inside such fragile nerves, in such gentle deaths. Ah how she wanted to die. She'd never yet experienced dying. what a path was still open before her. Dying would have the same indivisible poignancy as goodness. To whom would she give her death? Which would be like the first fresh warmth of a new season. Ah how much easier to bear and understand pain than that promise of spring's frigid and liquid joy. And with such mod- esty she was awaiting it: the poignancy of goodness. But never die before really dying: because it was so good to prolong the promise. She wanted to prolong it with such finesse. Lóri reveled in that finesse, feeding off the better and finer life, since nothing was too good to prepare her for the instant of that new season. She wanted the best oils and perfumes, wanted the best kind of life, wanted the most tender hopes, wanted the best delicate meats and also the heaviest ones to eat, wanted her flesh to break into spirit and her spirit ro break into flesh, wanted those fine mixtures-~-everyching that would secretly ready her for those first moments that would come.”

“How she would worry that someone might not understand that she’d die on the way to spring's giddy bliss. But she wouldn't rush the arrival of that happiness by one instant- because waiting for it while living was her chaste vigil. Day and night she wouldn't let the candle go our--prolong- ing it in the best of kind of holding out. The first fresh heat of spring ... but that was love! Happi- ness gave her a daughter's smile. She'd cut her hair and was out and about looking good. Except the waiting almost no longer fit inside her. It was so nice that Lóri was running the risk of overdoing it, of losing her first springtime death, and, in the sweat of too much clammy waiting, dying too early. Out of cu- riosity dying too early: since she was already wanting to know what the new season was like. But shed wait. She'd wait while eating with delicacy and decorum and controlled avidity each tiniest crumb of every- thing, wanting everything since nothing was too good for her death which was her life so eternal that this very day it already existed and already was.”

“Then suddenly she'd calmed down. Never, until then, had she felt the sensation of absolute calm. She was now feeling such a great clarity that it was canceling her out as a simple, existing person: it was an empty lucidity, like a perfect math- ematical calculation that you don't need. She was clearly seeing the void,”

“"And so put out my flame, God, because it is no use to me for my days. Help me once again to consist in a more possible way, I consist, I consist' In some way shed already learned that each day was never common, was always extraordinary. And that it was up to her to suffer through or take pleasure in the day. She wanted the pleasure of the extraordinary which was so simple to find in common things: the thing didn't need to be extraordinary in order for her to feel the extraordinary in it. For days she seemed to meditate deeply but she wasn't med- itating on anything: she was only feeling the gentle pleasure, which was also physical, of well-being.”

“And now she was the one who was feeling the desire to be apart from Ulisses, for a while, to learn on her own how to be. Two weeks had already passed and Lóri would sometimes feel a longing so enormous that it was like a hunger. It would only pass when she could eat Ulisses's presence. But sometimes the longing was so deep that his presence, she figured, would seem paltry; she would want to absorb Ulisses completely. This de- sire of hers to be Ulisses's and for Ulisses to be hers for a com- plete unification was one of the most urgent feelings she'd ever had. She got a grip, didn't call, happy she could feel. But the nascent pleasure would ache so much in her chest that sometimes Lóri would have preferred to feel her usual pain instead of this unwanted pleasure, True joy had no pos- sible explanation, not even the possibility of being under- stood- and seemed like the start of an irreparable perdition.”

“And Lóri thought that might be one of the most important human and animal experiences: asking mutely for help and murely that help being given. Because, despite the words, it had been mutely that hed helped her. Lóri was feeling as if she were a dangerous tiger with an arrow buried in its flesh, and which had been circling slowly around frighrened people to see who would take away its pain. And then a man, Ulisses, had felt that a wounded riger isnt dangerous. And approaching the beast, unafraid to touch her; he had carefully pulled out the buried arrow. And the tiger? No, neither people nor animals can say thank you for certain things. So she, the riger, had paced languor- ously in front of the man, hesitated, licked one of her paws and then, since neither a word or a grunt was what mattered, gone off in silence. Löri would never forget the help shed received when she could only manage to stammer with fear”

“And Löri continued in her search for the world. She went to the fruit and vegetable and fish and flower mar. ket: you could get everything at those stalls, full of shouts, of people jostling, squeezing the produce to see if it was good- Lori went to see the abundance of the earth that was brought each week to a street near her house as an offering to the God and to men. For her survey of the nonhuman world, in or- der to make contact with the living neutrality of things that, while not thinking, were nevertheless living, she would wander through the stalls and it was hard to get close to any of them, there were so many women milling about with bags and carts. Ar last she saw: pure purple blood running from a crushed beet root on the ground. But her gaze fell on a basket of pota- toes. They had different shapes and nuanced colors. She took one of them in her two hands, and its round skin was smooth The skin of the potato was dusky, and delicate like a new- born's. Although, when she turned it this way and that, she could feel with her fingers the almost imperceptible presence of tiny buds, invisible to the naked eye. That potato was very lovely. She didn't want to buy it because she didn't want to see it shrivel at home and certainly didn't want to cook it. The potato is born inside the earth. And this was a joy she learned right there: the potato is born inside the earth. And inside the potato, if you peel it, it is whiter than a peeled apple. The potato was unsurpassed as food. She realized this, and it was a light hallelujah. She slipped through the hundreds of people at the market and inside her she had grown. She stopped for a moment at the stall selling eggs. They were white. At the fish stand she squinted and once again inhaled the tangy smell of the fish, and the smell was their souls after death. The pears were so replete with themselves that, in that ripe- ness they were almost at their peak. Löri bought one and right there at the market bit into the flesh of the pear which yielded totally.”

“And suddenly she saw the turnips. She was seeing every. thing to the point of filling herself with a plenitude of vision and with her handling of the fruits of the earth. Each fruit was unwonted, though familiar and hers. Most had an exterior thar was meant to be seen and recognized. Which delighted Lóri. Sometimes she’d compare herself to the fruits, and despising her external appearance, she’d eat herself internally, full of liv- ing juice as she was. She was trying to leave pain, as if trying to leave another reality that had lasted her whole life up to that point.”

“She looked in vain. So she wondered, as she had for years, since she often lost the things she kept: if I were I and had to keep an important document where would I put it? Usually this would help her to find the object. But this time she felt so pressured by the phrase "if I were I" that the hunt for the paper lost importance and she started thinking without wanting to, which for her meant feeling. And she wasnt feeling comfortable."If I were I' had made her feel awkward: the lie in which shed been living so comfortably had just been shifted slightly from the spot where it had settled.”

“No, no, she wasn't lost, she was even going to make a list of things she could do! She sat with a blank page and wrote: eat-~-look at fruit in the market--see peoples faces- feel love--feel hate-_have something not known and feel an unbearable suffering--wait impatiently for the beloved-sea-go into the sea--buy a new swimsuit -make coffee--look at objects--listen to mu- sic- holding hands- irritation--be right- not be right and give in to someone who is- be forgiven for the vanity of liv- ing-be a woman- do myself credit--laugh at the absur- dity of my condition--have no choice--have a choice-fall asleep- but of bodily love I shall not speak. After the list she still didn't know who she was, but she knew a great many things she could do. And she knew that she was a fierce one among fierce hu- man beings, we, monkeys of ourselves. Wed never reach the human being inside ourselves. And whoever did was rightly called a saint. Because to relinquish ferocity was a sacrifice. Which apostle was it who’d said of us: you are gods?”

“It was the next day when coming inside that she saw the single apple on the table. It was a red apple, with a smooth tough skin. She took the apple in both hands: it was fresh and heavy. She replaced it on the table in order to see it as before. And it was as if she were seeing the photo of an apple in empty space. After examining it, turning it over, seeing as never before its roundness and its scarlet color- then slowly, she took a bite. And, oh God, as if it were the forbidden apple of paradise, but this time she knew good, and not just evil as before. Unlike Eve, when she bit the apple she entered paradise. She just took a bite and put the apple back down on the table. Because some unknown thing was gently happening: It was the start- of a state of grace. Only someone who has been in grace, could recognize what she was feeling. It wasn't an inspirarion, which was a special grace that so often happens to people who work in arl, The state of grace she was in wasn't used for anyching. If Was as if it came just to let you know you really existed.”

“Afterward she slowly came out of that situation. Not as if she'd been in a trance- there hadn't been a trance--she was emerging slowly, with a sigh of someone who had the world as it is. It was also already a sigh of longing. Because having ex- perienced gaining a body and a soul and the earth and the sky, you want more and more. But there was no point desiring it: it would only come spontaneously. Lóri couldn't explain why, but she thought that animals en- tered the grace of existing more often than humans. Except they didn't know, and humans realized it. Humans had obsta- cles that didn't get in the way of animals lives, like reason, logic, understanding. While animals had the splendor of something that is direct and moves directly. The God knew what he was doing: Lóri thought it was right that the state of grace wasn't given to us often. If it were, we might pass once and for all to the "other side" of life, which other side was real too but nobody would ever understand us: wed lose the common language. It was also good that it didn't come as much as you'd like: because she could get used to happiness. Yes, because youre very happy in a state of grace. And to get used to happiness, that would be a social danger. Wed get more selfish, because happy people are, less sensitive to human pain, we wouldnt feel the necessity to try to help those in need- all because in grace we have understanding, and the sum of life.”

“she saw a street shed never forget. She wasn't even planning to describe it: that street was hers. She could only say that it was empty and that it was ten at night. Nothing more. She had however, been germinated.”

“A few nights later she was sleeping. And though it sounds like a contradiction, softly all of a sudden the pleasure of be- ing asleep had awoken her with a gentle start. She stayed lying down for a while and was still feeling the taste in her whole body of that rural area where, underground, she had spread from the roots the tentacles of some dream. It most definitely, by the way, was a good dream that had woken her.”

“She’d never imagined that the world and she would ever reach this point of ripe wheat. The rain and Lóri were as joined as the water of the rain was to the rain. And she, Lóri, wasn't giving thanks for anything. Hadn't she, just after birth taken by chance and necessity the path she'd taken -which?-and wouldn't she have always been what she now was really being: a peasant who is in a field where it's raining. Not even thanking the God or Nature. The rain wasn't giving thanks for anything either. Without gratitude or ingratitude. Lóri was a woman, she was a person, a watchfulness, an inhabited body looking at the thick rain fall. As the rain wasn't grateful for not being hard like a rock: she was the rain. Maybe she was this, exactly this: living. And despite just living she was full of a tame joy, that of a horse that eats from your hand. Lóri was tamely happy. And suddenly, but without a fright, she felt an extreme urge to give this secret night to someone.”

“in her childhood, couldn't even look at her father when he was happy about something, because he, the strong one, the wise one, became in his joys entirely innocent and so disarmed. Oh God, her fa- ther would forget for a few moments that he was mortal. And would make her, a girl, shoulder the weight of the responsibil ity of knowing that our most naive and most animal pleasures would die too. In those instants when hed forget he was go- ing to die, he would turn her, a girl, into a Pietà, the mother of men”

“I never knew myself like now, Lóri was feeling. It was a knowledge without mercy or joy or blame, it was a realization you couldn't translate into feelings separated from each other and hence without names. It was a vast and calm knowing that "I am not I, she was feeling. And it was also the very least, because it was, at the same time, a macro- cosm and a microcosm. I know myself as the larva transmutes into a chrysalis: this is my life between vegetable and animal. She was as complete as the God: except the Latter had a wise and perfect ignorance that guided Him and the Universe. To know herself was supernatural, But the God was natural.”

“It was in this dream-glimmer state that she dreamt seeing that the fruit of the world was hers. Or if it wasn't, that she'd just touched it. It was an enormous, scarlet, and heavy fruit that was hanging in the dark space, shining with an almost golden light. And that right in the air itself she was placing her mouth on the fruit and managing to bite it, leaving it nev- ertheless whole, glistening in space. For that's how it was with Ulisses: they had possessed each other more than seemed pos- sible and permitted, and nevertheless he and she were whole. The fruit was whole, yes, though in her mouth she felt as a liv- ing thing the food of the land. It was holy land because it was the only one on which a human could say while loving: I am yours and you are mine, and we is one.”

“Lóri, you are now a super-woman in the sense that I'm a super-man, just because we have the courage to go through the open door. It's down to us whether we manage painstakingly to be what we really are. We, like all people, have the potential to be gods. I don't mean gods in the divine sense. First we must follow nature, not forgetting its low moments, since nature is cyclical, it's rhythm, it's like a beating heart. Existing is so com pletely out of the ordinary that if we were aware of existing for more than a few seconds, wed go mad. The solution to this absurdity called "I exist," the solution is to love another being who, this someone else, we understand does exist.”

#book

7 notes · View notes

keeponquinning · 2 years ago

Text

I just wanna be like..... I know how Eddie feels, reading about Lazarus and Cybelle because it is 100000% how I feel reading this fic sdkfsjdf just warm, comforted, invested and sucked into a whole new world.

I still remain to this, your fic is my BRIDGERTON, HAWKINS EDITION. Fueled also by the fact I just got caught up with Bridgerton so ALL THE FEELS.

spoilers for those that haven't read this and if you haven't, what are you doing with your LIFE???

first off, I couldn't help it i had to send a message to you about it but TENDONS!!! I was GIGGLING LIKE A MAD WOMAN WITH MY HANDS OVER MY HEART. IT IS MY FAVORITE WORD. and yes, it is MY WORD NOW and every time you write it, i get giggly.

They are so FUCKING CUTE. I've said this countless times but the way you write Eddie is so perfection. Not too soft, but also such a goof and just..... we want him. carnally. romantically. emotionally. physically. just ugh.

when he starts GRADING HER?? AND THEN THEY FIGHT OVER THE CLIP BOARD?!

"What, you're gonna give me detention?"

"Yeah for being a smartass!"

"GASP. YOU THINK I'M SMART?!"

"I've been saying that if you'd pay attention."

"Oh, i've been paying attention"

and then... and THEN....

"Is this a love story?"

me:

i love them i love them I FUCKING LOVE THEM

also yes, you grab onto that STRONG THIGH OF HIS. YEAH HE'S STRONG. HE SO STRONG. COULD LIFT US UP LIKE IT'S NOTHING RIGHT ON THAT DES--

okay. okay. i'm calm. i'm calm.

it's gonna be june but mentally i was in november and at thanksgiving which is also one of my faves 😌 but god, reader has it ROUGH. but i do love the inclusion of the family members, it just... it paints such a solid picture, you know? reader is just such a solid character painted with a brush of broad strokes. ( does that make sense? idk! ) and i was dying at Uncle Larry every time like OH LARRY. SHUT. Helen is a bitch lmao and i love the animosity between Helen and our mother ( i'm just gonna call her that ) and i'd hate to admit it, i would probably eat that liver dressing ( SCREECHES IN HORROR ) if my mom looked at me like that. she was drowning and needed saving, bless her. i also laughed at dad being like, "okay, I gotta know what vinne did" LMAO SO REAL FOR THIS

but oh do we sympathize with reader fantasizing about eddie throughout??? like yes, me too, we the same. ( we literally are i'm reader hi ) and those Precious Moments dolls? PER-FUCKING-FECTION. you're so.... I... Are you sure you don't write for the show bc damn.

just everything you put in this fic is so --actually exactly what eddie said about reader's story. you just picture things SO clearly and it's such a perfect world, i can so see everything you write play perfectly without a hitch in my head, it's so amazing!

also you gave me something the show never did that i want so DESPERATELY...

EDDIE AND UNCLE WAYNE MOMENTS!

i love them so much 😭

THEIR LITTLE THANKSGIVING TRADITION. THE GUTHRIE. THE KNOWING THE WORDS. SAYING THE WORDS. WAYNE'S ENCOURAGEMENT OVER THE BAND AND ASKING ABOUT THE BAND WE LOVE UNCLE WAYNE SO MUCH.

and omg... when he brought up reader... and eddie just about CHOKED ON HIS MASHED POTATOES??? and wayne being like, "she's easy on the eyes" and eddie being like, "NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT" i CACKLED

honestly i kinda toyed with the idea that wayne was like, "...she mighty fine" or something LMAOOO when he met with her. I'M GLAD IT WAS JUST TEASING AND NO BECAUSE OMG THE AWKWARDNESS. but i fucking loved the teasing and it just fucking with eddie.

but then i felt bad because he got a little sad and our boy didn't even want to eat anymore but wanted to seem cool and collected and ahhhhh. i love our boy so much 🥺

and then it was back to reading the Lazarus and Cybelle story and omg woman. stop being so FRICKIN' TALENTED. I was HOOKED and almost forgot this was stranger things lmaooo it was so engaging and the way Cybelle fought back and then tended to him and the emotions. the TOUCH.

and then that last line.....

"This was, in fact, a love story."

..... DEAD. I AM DEAD. I.... D E A D

i love u.

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 12

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 12/? 10.7k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Grades are high, but stakes are higher.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: flirting, play fighting, heavy angst, drinking, pregnancy mention, a heaping helping of family tension, mild fantasy blood/gore

Special thanks to @storiesbyrhi for the beta reading on this one.

Monday, November 18th 1985

Hawkins felt different this weekend.

Perhaps it was the ashen sky that hung over the scattered remains of a brilliant fall. The way it bathed the world in a pale, sullen wash. The way it made the rust on the signs outside the gas station seem more corrosive, the streets seem smaller, the storefronts seem older. Perhaps it was because everywhere you looked, you saw him.

You were used to hearing Eddie in the cars that billowed smoke and blasted music as you pumped your gas. You had grown accustomed to seeing him in the crushed beer cans and cigarette butts that littered the weeds along the sidewalk, in the remnants of a good time. Those things were not unusual. But this weekend you saw him under the harsh fluorescents of the grocery store. On the crinkled label of a 99 cent can of soup. In the faces of small children as you stood in line with a cart that you could never fill alone. You saw him in the windows of subsidized apartments. Heard him in the squeak of wire hangers against the pole at the secondhand store. Felt him as you drove past the huddled rows of trailers.

On Monday after school when you sensed a tall figure in the doorway of your classroom, you half expected to look up and feel those grey skies again. To see those weed littered sidewalks and pothole riddled roads that led nowhere. But instead you saw something much brighter.

Eddie was smirking, rapping his ringed knuckles against the doorframe as he leaned into it. A look in his eyes like he was keeping a secret.

His dirty white Reeboks squeaked against the tile as he padded over to his spot in the wooden chair beside you and dropped his backpack irreverently to the floor. The gust of air that followed was painted with base notes of skin and leather, top notes of cigarette smoke and a bright hint of shampoo. Not a trace of rain.

You gathered the papers in front of you, shuffling them into a pile in the corner as you glanced over at him, unable to suppress the smile breaking out on your face. “What?”

The smirk twisted deeper on his lips. “I read your story.”

It was like he said he’d seen you naked. Heat crept up your neck. “All of it?” you asked with a nervous chuckle.

“Not exactly.” Eddie grabbed the seat between his legs and walked it closer. “I’m at the part where they’re, uh, cooking over the fire outside of Grimhold and Cybelle takes her mask off for the first time. Well, in front of Lazarus anyway.” He shrugged his leather jacket off to drape over the back of the chair.

It was strange to hear him say those names. Names you hadn’t thought about in years, dusted off from where you shelved them in your mind. It was like he was speaking a dead language, breathing new life into it.

You swallowed. “Oh, that part. Yeah, that’s an important moment.”

“I had a hard time putting it down, if that tells you anything.”

“I take that means you like it then?”

“Like it?” he said in a breathy chuckle, leaning closer. “I’m blown away.”

Your stomach turned to mush, unable to tear your eyes away from the soft earnestness of his features. “Really?”

Eddie gave a deadpan look. “Look, I’m a huge fantasy geek, but this world you’ve created is…” he shook his head as a soft puff of air left his lips, “unlike anything I’ve ever read.”

There was a weight to his gaze, so heavy that you needed to break it. “Oh wow, um, thank you,” you said, glancing at the paperclips on your desk as heat made a home in your cheeks again. “It’s been ages since I’ve read it myself honestly.” In the same span of time you still never learned how to take a compliment.

“Yeah—no, I mean it. It’s really good.” He tipped his head towards you, searching for your eyes. “I like that it’s, uh, based in a sort of… reality, if that makes sense. Like the whole thing about illness being a problem and how the change in the atmosphere makes Cybelle dizzy. The gold and how it powers machines. Stuff like that. It’s clever.”

You found the courage to meet his gaze again. “Well, thank you. I mean I’m definitely no Tolkien, but…”

Eddie scoffed. “Honestly? Tolkien takes three pages to describe a door. You never need to and yet the world is crystal clear.”

The ease that washed over you escaped through a chuckle. “You know, I always thought that killed the pacing.”

“It does! God, I mean don’t get me wrong, he is the grandfather of fantasy but Jesus Christ.”

Your laughter mingled, soft and easy, coloring the air in the space between you. It echoed off the tile floor and concrete walls as beams of golden sunlight poured in through the row of windows to your right. The rays made a halo of his hair, catching the frizz that escaped the pattern of his curls.

Eddie’s eyes sparkled, and you would search for the hurt in them. You knew it was there, hiding somewhere deep in those pools of molten chocolate, but in this moment there was no trace to be found.

“Hell, maybe I should consult you for my campaigns,” he said scooting his chair impossibly closer. Close enough to feel his aura. To feel the hair on his arm tickle against yours.

“Jeez, don’t flatter me.” You were surprised at how steady your voice came out.

“No, I’m serious,” he said, his eyes drifting toward your lips. “Okay, don’t tell the boys but I’m actually kind of stuck on this one part coming up.”

You snorted. “Right, because I have such a good rapport with the boys.”

The smile lines deepened around his smirk. “Ok, so… the final boss is coming up and I kind of want there to be a plot twist but I’m not sure how to like, make that work.”

“Alright, well what’s happened in the story so far?”

There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes before his voice dropped to a theatric narration.

“There’s a dark, evil force in the village of Hammerfall,” he began with a wave of his hand. “Crops are withering, livestock perishing. The villagers say it’s a curse put on by a spurned old crone who vanished into the forest, never to be seen again.”

The gooey smile breaking out on your features could not be contained. A new color in the lexicon of hues you knew his voice to be. Rich with iridescent animation, reaching deep enough to turn your heart to putty.

“Six brave adventurers investigate the cause and venture deep into the nearby woods where they encounter harpies,” he emphasized, flourishing his fingers, “dryads, and a forest teeming with dark activity. There’s something deeper going on…” he paused for dramatic effect, “or at least I want there to be,” Eddie chuckled, breaking character as his voice snapped back into its normal cadence. “Originally I was just going to have it be that the old crone is a kind of sorcerer but we already sort of figured that, you know? I feel like that’s too predictable. I want it to be something, I dunno, more interesting?”

You blinked as you willed your dopey mouth to move. “So she’s, um, going to be the final boss I take it?”

“Yeah, but that’s like, totally predictable right?”

“Hmm.” Resting your elbow on the desk and your finger between your lips, you thought for a moment. “What if she’s like, I dunno, possessed by something else? Like maybe there’s an even darker force at work and it’s just using her as a puppet or something?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “I like the way you think.” His voice was tinged with a playful darkness.

You tucked your fingers behind your ear in reflex. “I mean I have no idea what it would be, but…”

“No—no that’s a good place to start. I think I actually have an idea of who could do that sort of thing, like in the monster manual. He’s a sort of… necromancer.”

You nodded. “Oh yeah, that sounds plausible enough. Maybe there’s some sort of clue that gets left behind when she dies or something. Maybe there are like, markings on her body or some sort of strange amulet or… something that would lead to clues about who might be behind this.”

Eddie nodded along, his eyes growing wilder with every word. “Hey uh,” he began, leaning in like he was about to share a secret. “I don’t… know if anybody’s told you lately but…” his soft breath feathered your cheek, “you’re pretty brilliant.”

It was the way he said it. Soft in tone, heavy with intention. Peering under his lashes like he wanted to kiss you. You swallowed, hard, as your heart pounded into your throat. “No uh,” you choked on your laugh, “not lately.” Breaking his gaze, you fiddled with your green grading pen and pressed your thumb nail into the gummy gripper.

With startling animation, Eddie grabbed a spare piece of paper from the pile on your desk and snatched the pen out of your hand.

“Hey!”

“Not like you were using it,” he teased, swiping your attendance clipboard to prop the sheet against.

Your mouth fell open. “Well… no… but—”

He turned the pen over in his hand and clicked it a few times. “So much power in this little tool.” Putting it to the paper, he etched a green mark that would form the first letter of your first name. “Hmm what grade am I going to give you?” he tapped the pen against his lips.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh you’re grading me now?”

“Well you definitely have attention to detail down, so A for that.” His hand hurried across the page, flourishing as he marked the A.

You sat back in your chair, thoroughly amused. “How generous of you.”

His eyes crinkled as he scribbled against the paper, clipboard cradled in his left arm to shield it from you. “Let’s see, what’s next… oh I know. Creativity. A plus for that one.”

You rolled your eyes, a weak diversion for how hot your face was getting. “How ‘bout I give you an A plus for being a total cheeseball?”

“Ohh wit — A for that one too.” His tongue darted out, nimble hand dragging your pen across the page.

It was almost uncomfortable, the grip he had on you. How he could make you feel with a gesture, a word. “Ok enough flattery, give it back,” you said, reaching for the clipboard.

Eddie jerked it away. “Sense of humor, hmm, might have to give you a B for that one.” He shot you a smirk.

You balked. “Oh come on!”

“…B minus.”

A laugh escaped you. “Eddie!”

His eyes were full of mischief as he scribbled frantically against the paper. “What, never got a B before? First time for everything, sweetheart,” he jested with a firm shake of his head.

It was hard to be offended when your brain was short circuiting.

“Maybe we can work on it together,” he offered, biting back a snicker.

Your brain clicked back on with the glare you shot him. “Okay, that’s it.” You lunged for the clipboard, but he was slow on the juke this time. Your fingers made purchase with the masonite slab.

Gripping it like a lifeline, he practically dragged you across his lap as he lurched away. It all happened so quickly. The swift tug he gave, your hand jutting out to brace the first thing in proximity — his denim clad thigh.

There was a pause in the movement. Heat lit up your whole body, radiating from the point of contact.

His leg was warm and solid under your palm. So too was his shoulder nestled into yours as you reached across his lap, deeper into the bubble of his scent. You didn’t dare look him in the eyes, but in your close peripheral you could see his mouth; gaping just as yours was.

Recovered from shock, the tension resumed in his tugging, and you responded with equal and opposite force. Your hand remained planted. For balance.

“So serious!” Eddie teased, wild hair bouncing as he jerked.

“I am serious, give it back.” Maybe it was your bright, airy giggles that gave you away, but he didn’t seem convinced.

God he was strong. You could feel the tremble of his arm emanating through the clipboard. Feel the flex of his bicep against yours as you fought his strength. You allowed yourself, for just a moment in the struggle, to glance at the one furthest to you. To follow his white, angular knuckles down to his wrist and see tendons flex against blue veins. To trace the curve of his inked forearm, to the bend of his elbow, to the bulge of his bicep. Your eyes lingered there. At the swell under his velvet skin. It surprised you, how large the muscle was, so much that it caused your grip to slip for just a second.

It only made him tug harder, but not too hard, you noticed. Gentleman he was, trying to play fair. It was, however, hard enough to draw you further across his lap, further into his scent, close enough to slot your chest into his outstretched bicep and feel it tremble. You fought to regain your hold, hooking your fingers over the top and yanking back with an invigorated fervor.

“Wai-wai-wait I’m not finished! I haven’t even gotten to ‘plays well with others’,” he wheezed, breaking into a warm, bubbly chuckle right against your ear.

You could barely eke out words. Sweat dampened your hand against the denim as his thigh flexed with every tug. A large, strong muscle that glided and stiffened under his heated skin. “Give it back,” you gritted weakly.

Soft curls tickled your cheek, feathered your lips and nose. You could smell it deeper than ever; that bright shampoo, that warm musk radiating from his neck.

“What, you gonna give me detention?” he quipped, turning his head to steal a glance from you.

Your mouth hung open. It was the way he said it, so defiant and cocksure. Daringly taunting for someone whose face was blotched pink. “Yeah, write you up for being a smartass,” you choked out with a pointed tug while your other hand burned a hole in his thigh.

He gasped dramatically, pausing in the struggle. “You think I’m smart?” His tone was comically serious. It was scary how easy he could feign it on a dime.

You deadpanned. “I’ve been telling you that this whole time. Maybe you should pay more attention.”

“Oh I’m paying attention.”

“Oh yeah, to what?”

It was all you could do not to stare at the ridges of his neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed, pink lips twitching, eyes darting between yours.

“That’s what I thought.” You seized the split second opening in his defense and snatched your dignity back.

His fingers clung desperately to the clipboard. “Ok—ok, I’ll give it back, I promise, just answer one question for me… about your book,” he panted, ghosting your lips with it.

It was those goddamn Bambi eyes that defeated you. Large, almond, pleading. His last, pathetic line of offense. “Fine,” you sighed.

“Is this a love story?” he murmured, close enough to taste his words.

They hung like a cloud. Heavy and potent. Threatening to burst. Hovering in the fractional distance between you.

“I—” you balked, voice trapped in your throat.

The tugging ceased. Arms went slack. Fingers dampened masonite and paper. Eyes flicked back and forth. Yours caught the dip in his lids as they lowered to your lips, the long, gentle curve of his lashes as he peered at you from under them.

You could not will your hand to move. It was glued there like his eyes were on you. Clammy fingers twitched against warm denim, itching to snake them further, to pull him closer, to commit each aching second to memory.

Your eyes dipped next, quick enough to see his nerves make subtle twitches in his smile lines. To catch the parting of his plush, pink mouth that drew you like a magnet. Your heartbeat drowned out any sounds of pinballs.

You could have done it. Moved your chin two inches. Snatched his pout.

Instead you swallowed and summoned a whisper. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

______

Your childhood home had gone rather unchanged since you had moved out of it. A little one-story ranch built in the 50s. Looking at it from the outside, it always amazed you that it could fit three bedrooms within its four walls. Plain and unassuming. White exterior, green shingled roof, a brick flower bed underneath the big bay window in front. Your mother had planted a tidy row of mums in it for fall. There was hardly a stray leaf to be found fluttering across the small, manicured lawn.

Inside you were greeted with the same paneled living room walls, painted powder blue now. The same family portraits from when you were seven, another from when you were ten, and then thirteen. Clean white carpet. Neat and orderly. Your old room had become a craft room soon after college. There was hardly a trace of you left. The Led Zeppelin and Beatles posters were the first to go, replaced with more tasteful decor like cross-stitched landscapes. A singer sewing machine was now perched on the desk you spent countless hours huddled over in study. Nick-knacks took up residence in your bookshelves. The purple walls were painted over with a powder yellow.

Mickey’s room remained largely unchanged. Bigger than yours, though you never had the heart to move over. It served as a guest room now, the full size bed still dressed in the quilt he used, the one your grandma made. Same cobalt blue walls. Your mother still dusted his trophies.

What was most different was the table that stretched from the small dining room part-way into the living room. It was decorated with candlestick holders that looked like turkeys wearing hokey pilgrim hats. Those were definitely new. You wondered where your mother picked them up.

Both you and your mom would assume your roles — hers as host, and yours as helpful. You would busy yourself with the little things first. Details like folding linen napkins just how she instructed; in cascading triangles. You would sit at the end of the table and press daydreams into them. Quiet fantasies of warm nights and summer winds. Folding in details like the scent of leather and smoke inside the van, the sweet country air gusting through the windows. Details like how you imagined freedom would taste — slick and hot, hungry and lazy with room for seconds.

Once finished, you placed your folded secrets where they belonged — under the dinner forks.

You were making yourself useful with a can of cranberry sauce when your relatives arrived. The kind with whole cranberries. Clamping the gummy handles of the can opener and twisting as the teeth bit into the metal lid. Last year you’d made your own. Simmered sugar and orange juice in a pot over a real flame in your own house, added plump red berries and heated them until they burst. Dan’s mom said it was her favorite thing on the table.

This year you scooped cold, jelly chunks into an plain glass bowl, running the spoon down the ridges like a washboard. You were tapping off the bitter excess when the front door cracked open, ushering the sound of familiar voices colored in casual pleasantries.

They would find you there eventually — in the kitchen putting rolls into a basket. It was effort, to smile and laugh and act like you were doing great. It was easier to act like you were busy.

You hadn’t seen them since Connie and Cameron’s wedding. A sweltering day in mid-July. The last place on Earth you wanted to be. You’d spent most of it swallowing your feelings. Washing down saccharine cake with acrid mimosas. Sitting at a vacant table littered with party favors and sweating, half-empty glasses while your relatives slow danced to I Want To Know What Love Is by Foreigner.

Your Aunt Helen and Uncle Larry spared no expense for their daughter and her new husband, from the country club venue to the live band. From the four course dinner to the three tiered tower of a cake.

Connie’s dress was beautiful. An ivory silk with princess puff sleeves and a train that stretched down the aisle. Like a limited edition Barbie still inside the box.

You hadn’t said much to her then — a tepid congratulations from behind a tired mask. It was all you could offer besides cash in a Hallmark greeting card. You doubted she noticed. She was busy anyway, as all brides were on their wedding day. It’s not like you were really that close to begin with. Not close in age with her being seven years your junior, not close in interests or hobbies. Not even close in proximity for most of her adult life, until recently.

What you remembered more than anything was the way your grandma looked at her that day — like she’d hung the moon. She’d looked at you like that before of course — adorned with sashes in the parking lot as you clutched your first diploma. In the shade outside the the stadium as you cradled your second. When you reached across the table to present your ring to her.

You were reaching across the table to place the steaming basket of rolls by the cranberry sauce when you caught that look again — at Connie, the Sears catalog between them blanking the napkins you’d placed so carefully.

“See, I was thinking about this matching set with the dresser and changing table. See how it’s sort of built in like that?” Connie explained, leaning in toward your grandmother at the head of the table.

Your stomach did a sinking somersault, eyes magnetized to her pastel pink fingernail tapping against the full spread of baby furniture.

“Oh my, well isn’t that convenient. Yes I do like the natural wood grain of this one, the lighter color,” your grandma added.

You tried to swallow it away. Pretend like you didn’t even notice. Like the cheering coming from the living room was summoning you. You could still hear them as your stocking feet crossed over the divide from the hard wood to the plush carpet.

“I was thinking the same thing. It’ll go nicely with the paper we’ve picked out for the walls. Oh shoot, I meant to bring the sample. Sorry, I’ve been so spacey lately.” Connie’s sticky sweet chuckle clung to your hammering ears.

Suddenly your mother’s Precious Moments collection had never been so fascinating. Looking past your anguished reflection in the glass cabinet, you drank in their big, dopey eyes. Vignettes of little cherub hands clutching flowers, posing as firefighters and dentists. Droopy eyed children sitting on see-saws and garden benches. Frozen in their perfect little worlds.

“Oh that’s quite alright dear,” your grandma’s gentle reassurance echoed from the dining room. “I can come over and see sometime after my knees are healed, plenty of time between now and April.”

You tried to blink away the image — your old craft room on Clementine painted pastel pink or blue, filled with furniture from the pages of Connie’s catalog. It probably was at this point. Your eyes burned a hole in a ceramic cherub head as heat rose in your veins.

The sound of a whistle drew your attention to your uncle and cousins crowded around your family’s meager television.

“Oh COME ON!” Larry bellowed as the plastic cushions squeaked under his shifting weight. “There’s no way that was a foul, you see that, Kevin?” he gestured to his son, slumped against the couch half asleep. “Total baloney.”

Cameron adjusted his glasses as he shifted forward. “Oh yeah his foot was totally on the line, I bet we can catch it on replay.”

“Where do they find these damn refs anyway? The academy for the blind? HA!” Larry sat back in his seat and cracked another beer, amused with himself.

You raked your eyes over the blurring sea of dolls again, drowning in your thoughts until one of them pulled you to the surface. On the middle shelf behind the one in the lab coat and stethoscope, this one stood in front of a big desk with a stack of books and an apple on it and held a large slab in front of her. You crouched down to read the fine print.

Report Card

Kindness…A

Mercy…A

Love…A

Faithfulness…A

Your stomach twisted into knots. Phantom touches ghosted over your hands and arms, wrapped themselves around your heart and squeezed. You caught your own eyes in the mirror behind the dolls — sad and droopy just like theirs, only painted with shame and longing instead.

Uncle Larry’s voice boomed through the room again. This time it was coming from the television while the Larry on the couch shushed your cousins like they were even making noise to begin with.

“At Bessler Ford we’ve always got the best deals, and this Thanksgiving we’re practically GIVING these cars away!”

“Hey you guys seen the new one?” Larry called out to the rest of the house.

The question was met with weak replies from Connie and Grandma looking up from the catalog in the dining room. You wondered if your parents even heard him from the kitchen. With lukewarm enthusiasm, you humored him with your attention, mind swimming with pinball thoughts, eyes glazing over as you stared at the screen. Then, like a sudden apparition, your mother emerged from the kitchen and snatched the remote from the end table.

“ZERO down, ZERO interest, we’re prating BEGGING you—”

Like a Wild West gunslinger quick on the draw, the TV blipped off with a fizzle.

“Aw come on!” Larry protested.

“Dinner’s ready, time to eat,” she stated firmly, her expression unamused.

As your family peeled themselves off the couch and shuffled over to the table, you found your seat on the carpet side of the divide.

Even with the extra leaf there was no fitting nine at a six person table, so there had been some improvising. The two tables were covered in linens you didn’t recognize. Starchy and stiff, a cream brocade with a fall leaf pattern that shimmered in the light. Your mom must have steamed them to get the creases out from the packaging. Though matching, they couldn’t hide the fact that they were different shapes.

Your side of the family took their places at the smaller square table, and your cousins found theirs at the rectangle.

Aunt Helen’s green halo of fruit jello jiggled as your dad triumphantly plunked the carved turkey in the center of everything.

It rested awkwardly on the seam between the two tables, a sloping butterball bridge.

You watched the juices gather at the lower end of it as everyone around you lowered their heads to utter the words of a half-hearted prayer, the meaning long forgotten with tired repetition.

Barely a second of silence passed before a manicured hand shot out from your left, reaching to steady the platter so it favored her side. “You know, it really was nice of you to offer to host,” Helen said to your mother across from you, “but perhaps next year we can have the honor. We have plenty of space for it.”

The suggestion was met with a tight lipped smile. “Next year we’ll be back at mom’s,” she quipped at her younger sister.

The tension was thick enough to slice. A heavy backdrop to the clinking of silverware against ceramic as servings were doled out. You busied your hands with the nearest thing to you — a warm bowl of mashed potatoes, dolloping a generous helping onto your plate and pressing a crater into the center with the back of the spoon. You passed the bowl toward your right to your dad at the head of the smaller square table.

It was your grandmother who broke the silence. “Helen you do have a lovely home, if you really wanted to host I wouldn’t be opposed,” she said, breaking the molded perfection of the green halo with her serving spoon. “Less work for me to do anyway.”

You caught it. The flicker of dejection in your mother’s eyes, cast down at the crisp table linens. Fleeting and momentary before her shoulders resumed their rigid posture, before she corrected her expression and reached across the table to usher a thick slice of turkey breast onto her plate.

Helen looked delighted as she plucked a roll from the basket. “Well thanks, mom. Besides, this time next year there will be ten of us.”

You stared down at your plate, shuffling your green beans with your fork.

The conversation would lighten up over steamy, buttered rolls and Betty Crocker stuffing. It would soften to a casual cadence about Cameron’s new accounting job at the dealership. How the pay raise from his previous job could afford he and Connie a house on Chestnut street. How the decorating had been going. How your dad was managing the hardware store this time of year.

You would sit there in silence and unfold your secrets; smooth the linen against your lap and feel your sweating hand on his rigid thigh; the ghost of his breath at your lips when he asked you if this was a love story. You would prod at your potatoes and indulge in the fantasy of closing the gap. Conjure the cradle of his plush cupid’s bow and taste his wicked grin. Swallow the sensation of how it might feel to have a belly full of him.

Your spoon broke the gravy dam, flooding your plate.

“Dear, aren’t you going to have any liver dressing? You’re the one who made it after all. It’s quite good, isn’t it?” Your mother asked you, glancing at your grandma.

You choked on your daydream. “I—um…”

“It’s kinda chunky,” Kevin commented through a mouthful. “I mean compared to how grandma makes it.”

Your grandma offered a sympathetic smile. “It’s a tricky recipe.”

She wasn’t wrong. It was tedious to put it mildly. It involved bread crumbs, cooked liver and ham, and a food processor. But it was a family recipe and she just had knee surgery so your thoughtful mother volunteered you to take up the reigns. How generous.

“It’s still quite good, isn’t it?” your mom asked her before turning back to you. “Why don’t you try some, you’ll see.”

You stared down at the square, pyrex dish. You never liked liver dressing. It looked like cat food cut up into little squares, the crispy edges making it only slightly more appealing. It was the texture that always got you. Mushy and homogenous. Admittedly you’d never actually tasted cat food but you wondered how it compared.

“No thanks, my plate’s already so full,” you said through feigned laughter.

There was that flicker in her eyes again, like the flames above the new ceramic turkeys.

“Mom, come on, I don’t…” you glanced around at your relatives, busying themselves with the contents of their own plates.

Your mother set her fork down. Her gaze flicked toward your grandma tucking her spoon happily into Helen’s jello. “Why don’t you try just one bite, sweetie.”

Huffing through your nose, you stared down at the dish, then back up at her. There was only one way this was going and you didn’t want to cause a scene. With a placid smile, you picked up the serving spoon and scooped a bite-size portion onto your plate, giving a single, solemn tap against the ceramic before setting it back in the tray.

You glanced around the still silent table, then back at your mother, still watching you intently from across the flickering candles. Defeated, you started down at the lump of mushy cat food on your plate. Scooping it up with your spoon, you brought it to your lips with a resigned sigh before opening your mouth.

It wasn’t terrible. The rich umami of the fat and the seasonings almost made up for the texture, and quite honestly, the chunks helped. You still didn’t like it. You would never like it. You’d been forced to eat it your whole life and your opinion still hadn’t changed. Whether your mother could accept that was another subject.

You swallowed, finally, to your relief and probably everyone else’s, if they were paying attention. “I’d give it a solid C,” you stated flatly. Your mother was not amused.

“C’s get degrees,” Larry added, laughing at his own joke.

Your dad tipped his head to you. “Well I’d definitely give it a higher grade than that, but I guess you are the expert when it comes to grades, huh?”

You humored him with a soft, pained smile, tucking into your stuffing again in hopes of replacing the taste in your mouth. You washed it down with a swig of champagne and the sweet tingle cleansed your palate.

They left you alone after that, with thoughts too loud for your beverage to drown out. Pinball thoughts and summer thoughts. Echos of bright laughter off tile flooring. A rich, warm hum at the shell of your ear. Words like timeless and sweetheart. Loud enough to drown out dull conversations for the duration of the meal.

“Mom can I go to Vinnie’s after this?” asked Kevin.

Helen shot him a stern look from across the table. “You may absolutely not go to Vinnie’s. I told you I don’t want you hanging out with that boy anymore.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s not a big a deal.”

“It absolutely is a big deal. I said no, and that’s final,” she said, punctuated by the stabbing of her fork into white meat.

Candles wavered in the tension as orange wax dripped down the sides. Not a sound aside from chewing and silverware against ceramic.

It was your dad who broke the silence. “Ok, I gotta know what Vinnie did.”

Connie bit back a smirk, eyes shifting around the table. “Vinnie got suspended for bringing,” she glanced at your grandma before mouthing, “pot to school.”

There was an audible stir from the table.

Your grandma clutched her chest. “At St. Michael’s?”

You bit your lip at her reaction, cheeks quivering as you struggled to keep a straight face.

“I know, mom. It’s appalling,” said Helen, “I really thought we could have avoided this sort of thing by choosing a private school.”

It was then that Larry turned to you. “Yeah, I bet you see this kinda stuff all the time at Hawkins, don’t you?”

It was a dig. You might have been polite but you certainly weren’t stupid. “Not as often as you think,” you said flatly, taking another bite of cranberry sauce to busy your mouth before something regrettable came out.

“You know, Kevin, I had a friend in high school who smoked pot, you know where that got him?”

Just what everyone needed, Uncle Larry’s wisdom. You sighed and stared blankly ahead. It was everything you could do to keep your eyes from rolling back into your head.

“Flippin’ burgers at Benny’s, that’s where,” he concluded before taking a swig of his beer. He set it down with solid thud, as if that made his point.

Kevin huffed and sat back in his chair looking more disappointed than convinced.

You thought about Eddie Munson again, perfumed with cigarettes and covered in tattoos. Thought about him at this table and wondered where he’d fit. Between you and your Aunt Helen? Across from your mother pretending to enjoy liver dressing? At the seam between the square and the rectangle?

There used to be ten at the table. Before that there were eleven.

Your most secret daydreams wafted in on summer winds. They hinged on the changing of seasons and circumstances. You thought about this table without your chair. Of the flickering candles in your mother’s eyes; the way they hinged on you.

Your hands toyed with the linen in your lap. As far fetched as a future was, you wondered, desperately, if both ends could ever meet.

If the two of you would ever have a place among the dolls.

______

Thanksgiving was Eddie’s second favorite holiday. After Halloween of course, for obvious aesthetic reasons. Having no extended family in Hawkins, his Thanksgivings had always been small. Some better than others. There was the one shortly after his dad went to jail for the first time. He was only six, but there were a few things he remembered — that there was no yelling at the table, that his mom seemed happy for once, and that it was his first Thanksgiving with Wayne.

Nowadays Eddie and Wayne were like passing ships. Wayne would come home from work after Eddie left for school and go to sleep shortly after he returned. The weekends were a little better, though Eddie had a tendency to sleep in late, so that left them a few hours for early dinners together when he wasn’t galavanting around or getting into trouble.

Over the past nine years, the two Munson men had developed their own Thanksgiving traditions.

Wayne wasn’t much of a cook, but each year he would go out and get the smallest turkey he could find and gather some essentials. The thing Eddie loved most was that Wayne always made it fun. He would always encourage Eddie to help in the kitchen, even when he was younger.

The first staple dish was a green bean casserole. It was easy enough even for an eleven year old to open a can of cream of mushroom soup, to scoop out its contents and mix it with shredded cheddar and green beans. Simple enough to sprinkle crispy onions on top and pop it in the oven. Eddie always felt like a chef putting it together.

The second staple dish was a baked mac and cheese. Wayne picked up the recipe from a coworker in West Virginia. It was pretty simple too. More hearty than your traditional stovetop Kraft. It involved heavy whipping cream, eggs, and three different kinds of cheese. Nothing compared to baked Thanksgiving mac fresh out of the oven. It was thick, and rich, and the cheese was browned to a crisp on top. The noodles had just the right amount of chew and the center was melted perfection.

As Eddie got older some new traditions developed. Wayne started letting him in on the beer when he turned 18. Something about “I know you’re doin’ it, might as well be doin’ it safe under my roof.” Wayne was pretty lenient about most things. More than anything, Eddie got the sense that Wayne just wanted him to feel like there a place he could call home.

There was one Thanksgiving tradition that stood above them all — the sacred text, the soundtrack to every Munson Thanksgiving — Alice’s Restaurant.

Every year like clockwork Wayne would dig the record out of his collection and Arlo Guthrie would accompany the two of them as they strained pasta, cracked eggs, and opened cans. He would spin his long-winded sermon, his odyssey, about one fated Thanksgiving and the trials and tribulations of dumping trash where it shouldn’t go and how it can spare you from getting drafted. The song was nearly twenty minutes long and took up one full side of the record. Wayne would play it over and over to the point where both of them had most of the damn thing memorized, which was difficult to do considering it was mostly just Arlo rambling a story over chords with the chorus thrown in here and there.

Tucking his legs underneath him, Eddie cradled his heaping plate, shifting his balance so that it didn’t end up in his lap when the couch cushion dipped as Wayne took his spot.

“Damn boy, I sure do hope your stomach’s as big as them eyes. Mine’s hurtin’ just lookin’ at all that.”

Eddie cracked a wicked smile and leaned in like he had some kind of secret. “You know, you can get anything…”

Wayne raised his eyebrows, playing along. “Anything?”

“Anything you want,” he quoted Arlo before shoveling a heap of stringy mac and cheese into his mouth.

Wayne brought his broad, calloused hand down on top of his head and gave his mop of curls a playful ruffle. Eddie chuckled through a mouthful, balancing the plate in his lap.

It was good like this. Sitting on the couch with a heaping pile of food. The B side of the record spinning with fuzzy familiarity as Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving played quietly on the small TV in front of them.

He didn’t need a table to enjoy it. Besides, the couch was way more comfortable than any stiff chair. The paper towel tucked underneath his plate did as good a job as any to wipe his mouth. Eddie was thankful for moments like these, and Wayne more than anything.

“You still doin’ game night tomorrow?” he asked.

“Nah, school’s closed so I guess they get a pass,” Eddie answered, “I mean I thought about making everyone get together anyway but I dunno where we’d meet. Still gonna do band practice on Saturday though.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha been practicing?”

“Uh, been kinda on a Sabbath kick lately. Hand of Doom, War Pigs, early stuff,” he said, barely denting his mashed potato mountain.

Wayne took a stab at his turkey. “Y’all sound pretty good. An’ I’m not just sayin’ that.”

“Well… thanks.” Eddie toyed with his food, running his fork along the solid, jelly ridges of the of cranberry sauce.

“You guys oughta play more places, maybe after you graduate.”

He raised his eyebrows as he chewed. “You sound awfully confident about that last part.”

“I am,” Wayne started, “after last Friday anyway. Got to meet that teacher of yours who’s been givin’ you all sortsa help.”

Eddie choked, shielding his mouth with his fist as he hacked mashed potatoes from his windpipe.

“Y’ ok Ed?”

“Yeah—yeah, just uh,” he wheezed. He met you? Jesus. He wasn’t sure if his head was spinning more over the lack of oxygen or the implications.

“Y’ know, she sure had an awful lotta good to say about you.”

“Did she?” Eddie asked between coughs. A deep embarrassment bubbled in his gut.

“Sure did. You really lucked out this year. She really seems to… I dunno. Get it. Get you. Real sweet young thing, I’ll tell you what.”

Eddie thought his mashed potatoes might end up on the carpet.

“Ain’t hard on the eyes either,” Wayne muttered before taking a sip of his beer.

“WAYNE.” Eddie wanted to crawl out of his skin. Dig a hole. Bury his own skeleton in the back yard between the laundry posts.

There was a glint in his eyes, like he was catching onto something. “What? A fact’s a fact.”

“Ok enough, please.” Eddie ran his hands down his heated face, certain he was absolutely crimson.

Wayne just chuckled harder, like the torture entertained him.

Suddenly he was eleven years old again. Standing outside the auditorium with his guitar slung over his shoulder as parents and classmates filtered out in droves.

“Come on boy, time to go.”

Eddie fussed with his stiff pleather jacket, looking left and right with a growing desperation. “Can we wait just like… five more minutes? I wanna tell Chrissy good job.”

Wayne’s eyes sparkled with a curious mischief, “Oh I see. Got a little crush huh?”

Eddie hardened his lips into a line and fumed. “I do not, I just wanna say good job. God.” He glanced around, growing claustrophobic, jacket suffocating him with heat. “You know what, let’s… let’s just go,” he huffed as he marched toward the glass exit.

What was he going to do? Storm off? Slam the door like a fucking child?

No. Instead, Eddie just sat there, staring a hole into his heap of Thanksgiving as the plate grew heavy in his sweating hands. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Oh come on, Ed. I’m just teasin’.”

There it was again. The heat that lit his skin like fluorescent lights as he stared down problems he was too stupid to solve.

“It’s fine,” Eddie muttered, vision blurring as Snoopy doled out helpings on the television. The record skipped with a steady rhythm in the silence of its end.

You had met Wayne. He knew now, who you were to him. There was no unknowing that. What did he think? That he was going to bring you by some day? Introduce you as his girlfriend? Would Wayne even believe it or would that be a joke to him too?

In the countless visions of you that played out like tapes in his mind, this part always came in fuzzy. Now it was prickling static.

He wanted to get up; to wrap his plate in tinfoil and throw it in the fridge; retreat to his bedroom like he always did. But he was already doing a piss poor job at playing it cool and he knew that would only make it worse.

So he sat there and ate it. Swallowed his shame and frustration, chased it with a solemn resignation.

Sometimes he could almost forget. When the books sprawled out on the big desk came from his home and not his locker. When the names on your tongues were from fiction and not history. When impulse took hold of his hands and they took hold of yours.

Sometimes his visions were more unbelievable than his wildest campaigns. You, hammering your next novel into a keyboard. Him, surprising you with kisses and a sandwich prepared in a kitchen you both shared. A home together in some far off place that neither of you knew the name of yet.

Sometimes, in the bubbling laughter that clouded the space between you, he could almost forget his place.

By the time the credits rolled on the TV, he couldn’t stomach another bite.

“I think, uh,” Eddie looked down at the half-eaten mess on his plate, “I think my eyes were too big for my stomach.”

He got up without another word, dumped the scraps into the garbage, and resigned to his room.

______

Eddie fluttered open his heavy lids, adjusting his eyes to the darkness that swallowed him. It had been light out when he’d closed them, though he barely remembered doing so.

He wiped the drool from his face and peeled the now silent headphones off his sore ears. The clock on the nightstand painted his vision with a red neon glow; a tether back to reality. 7:07 PM.

Reaching toward his right, he pawed the air for the cord to the hanging lamp beside his bed and flicked it on when he made purchase with the switch.

Before the turkey’s tryptophan took hold, he had been enjoying the cool breeze at his face as he drove his wagon leisurely along the trail through the Ashmar forest.

Eddie squinted against the light and rubbed his eyes as he glanced down at your world in his lap, still open right where he left off. The weight of it was like an extra blanket; heavy like a hug. It beckoned him to stay in the toasty cocoon of his bed. Though he had half a mind to get up and take a piss, the world outside was steeped in November’s chill, so instead he took the path of least resistance and dove right back in.

As much as Cybelle was concerned about illness, it was difficult for them to travel together and still keep their distance, but they seemed to have figured it out. They picked up a small tent and collapsable cot while in Torgaard which worked well enough for sleeping arrangements. While on the move, Lazarus had his place; in the driver’s seat, and Cybelle had hers; in the caravan. She would busy herself over the wood stove, crafting strange food and concoctions while Lazarus tried his best to stay alert and steer the horse.

Sometimes she would peek her head out the large window atop the singular door and talk to him. He enjoyed those moments most of all. Lazarus was learning all sorts of new things; what daily life was like in Myrne, what the city looked like and how agriculture worked for them. What Myrnish people thought of the world beneath and what had surprised her about it so far. Namely the flora and fauna. The weather. How diverse it all was. The people too. He would often catch her studying plants when they stopped to camp; taking samples and storing them in jars, pressing them to pages, sketching little drawings in her thick leather book.

“You know I would love to visit Myrne,” he turned his head and called to her, “once this is all over anyway.”

Small, russet fingers curled around bottom of the ornate caravan window frame, followed by a pensive, crescent moon face. “Many people want to visit Myrne.”

“Right, well, not many people actually know someone from Myrne,” he added, “and I just happen to be so lucky.”

Cybelle’s eyes crinkled in a soft, sad smile. “I would love to show you,” she began, “but I know they will forbid it.”

The wheels of the caravan creaked along the dirt path, shifting their weight with a soft thud as they drove over a rock. “Even just one person? What if I wore a mask, like yours?”

Cybelle shook her head, “The council is very strict. Even merchants are not allowed beyond the docks. There have still been plagues, even with these rules. One in my lifetime. I was quite young but I still remember… more than I would care to. We lost… so many people.”

He could hear the sorrow twinge her voice. Lazarus gave a solemn nod, staring down at the worn leather reigns as they plodded along. “I’m sorry,” he offered, “I’m sure you knew more than a few of them.”

Cybelle hummed softly, folding her arms across the bottom of the window to cradle her head. “I know just about every family in Myrne.”

Sunlight laced through the trees, dappling the road in patches of shade and light. They hadn’t seen another soul in miles. Perhaps he was becoming a bit stir crazy from all the driving but the further they plodded, the louder the questions that rolled around in his head became.

“Forgive me if this is, uh,” he searched for the word in the leaves, “inappropriate, but with such a small population, how do you prevent, um,” his fingers toyed at the nape of his neck, “like, accidentally marrying your second cousin?”

To his relief, it earned a big, bright laugh from Cybelle, “We are not that small, around three thousand. But yes, sometimes you must be careful,” she chuckled, propping her head against her arm. “We do keep records of such things.”

“Ah,” he confirmed with a single nod as his face bloomed with heat.

It encouraged a glimmer of mischief from Cybelle’s umber eyes. “There was a… how you say… practice, I suppose, long before the plagues when we were more open to outsiders where—”

The words were snatched out of her mouth by a sudden halt of the caravan, jerking both of them backward with startling force. The horse cried out, rearing to her hind legs in shocked protest.

“Woah—woah!” Lazarus braced himself against the wood panel in front of the driver’s seat and whipped his head around. Unable to see anything behind the mass of painted wood, he stumbled out onto the dirt to get a better look. “Just keep Turnip calm!” he called to Cybelle as she clambered off the floor.

He scanned the perimeter of the wagon. There was nothing he could see right away, that was until he looked down. Two thick vines, moving like snakes, were actively coiling themselves around the spokes of the wooden wheel. They were covered in tiny, glass-like thorns, and they seemed rather perturbed. He imagined it might have had something to do with running them over. Lazarus cursed. “We’re gonna need uh—a blade of some sort,” he shouted.

“There’s the knife I was using by the stove,” Cybelle called back, running her hand gently along Turnip’s dapple grey neck.

“Uhh, I think we need something bigger, come take a look at this.”

Cybelle gave Turnip a soft, final pat as she turned to follow Lazarus’ voice around to the back of the caravan. She gasped when she saw it.

“Ever seen one of these… monstrosities in your books?” he asked, gesturing to the vines.

Cybelle crouched down, looking more fascinated than horrified, marveling at the way they moved, like prowling serpents. “No,” she whispered. “They must be very strong though, to stop us like that.”

Watching them coil around the spokes filled Lazarus with an eerie dread. He shuddered to think what he would find if he followed their length into the forest. That was when he remembered the wood axe. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Please just… keep your distance.”

The axe was on the floor when he found it, as was the kettle, and the utensils, and dozens of other objects that had been launched from their careful placement. Lazarus left the caravan with a heavy sigh.

“Alright, step aside,” he said, tapping the handle of the axe against his open palm.

Cybelle scurried backward, clearing a safe distance.

Gripping the smooth wood, Lazarus approached the vines. He shuffled his boots into the dirt as he widened his stance, taking aim about a foot from the wheel as the menacing serpents continued their slow coil. He swung with his full force, and just like chopping wood, he let the weight of the axe do its job. It severed the vines with a clean chop. Like snakes without heads, they recoiled into the forest. He swore he heard them hiss.

Leaning against his long axe with a proud flourish, Lazarus glanced over at Cybelle. She seemed more captivated by the what remained of the plants than his demonstration, much to his quiet disappointment.

Cybelle shuffled over to the wheel, fascinated by the green, glassy specimens. They had fallen to the road in a heap upon severance.

“Maybe we ought to invest in a sword when we get to Fenwood,” Lazarus half-joked, “More dangerous out here than I—”

The vine that shot out from the forest snatched the words right out of his mouth, morphed them into a scream as it seized his forearm with a searing sting. In an instant he was on the ground, clawing at the dirt with his other hand as the vengeful, severed serpent lurched him from the road.

With startling quickness, Cybelle stumbled to her feet again. She snatched the axe from the ground and chased after him.

The pain was blinding as it dragged him. Small, glassy hooks like a fire in his forearm. It made the sticks that scraped his body feel like tickles. The rocks that raked under him like a dull massage. Though his other hand flailed desperately at ferns and the damp, dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t pull back. He couldn’t stop. All he could do was scream and panic. It was hard to tell how fast he was really going, how much time had actually elapsed. The seconds felt like agonizing hours. But when he heard the dull thud of footsteps by his head, there was a glimmer of hope for his misery to end.

A guttural scream proceeded a loud THWACK.

It would seem Cybelle had decent aim, because he wasn’t moving anymore. Clambering off the forest floor, he righted himself as quickly as he could in his spinning, pounding world. It was anyone’s guess how long they had before the next retaliating strike, and he wasn’t about to play the odds.

“RUN,” Lazarus shouted, bolting toward the caravan as Cybelle kept pace. The axe seemed even larger clutched in her small hands. Under any normal circumstance he would have been a gentleman and taken back the burden, but this was anything but normal.

He didn’t even look at his arm. He didn’t have time. He didn’t want to. He could feel it though — the blood as it trickled down his wrist, the sting of the thorns that were likely still lodged there.

Both he and Cybelle were barely on the driver’s platform before he was at the reigns, commanding Turnip to move with a quick snap of the leather. The dappled grey horse trotted forward with a rare sense of urgency.

Lazarus leaned back against the driver’s seat, chest heaving, more grateful than he’d ever been in his life to feel the cool wind at his face. They were a fair distance up the road before he even looked down. The sleeve of his white linen shirt was completely saturated in a wet crimson that clung to his skin.

Cybelle emerged from the caravan with an armful of bandages and jars and took the seat to the left of him on the other side of the door.

Lazarus stared blankly ahead, mind still numb from the ebbing panic.

“Let me see your arm,” Cybelle said gently.

He met her large eyes, now brimming with a soft concern. Slowly, he raised his trembling arm to hover in the space between them; the gap between the seats.

Cybelle’s fingers twitched above the soaked linen. Gingerly pinching the cuff of his sleeve, she peeled it back to reveal his angry wound.

Lazarus turned his head toward the forest, unable to look. “How bad is it?” he asked dejectedly.

Cybelle paused for a moment, assessing the damage. “There are still some thorns, I need to pull them out. They are not too deep though,” she reassured. “You will be alright.”

It was the warmth in her voice that made him turn his head to face her, to face his wound — the mangled trail of lacerations that encircled his arm. Some of them did look quite deep, to him anyway. The bleeding seemed to have stopped on its own for the most part, thanks to his shirt.

Shifting so that her feet now faced him, Cybelle scooted forward in her seat so that her lap was below him and grabbed a pair of tweezers. Her hands hovered above his arm, and for a moment Lazarus wasn’t sure if it was the rocking of the wagon or her proximity to him that caused her hands to tremble. There was a deep fear in her eyes, and not just from the wound.

His palm faced up at her, close enough to feel the heat of her body.

In their brief time together they had always kept their distance. Lazarus in the driver’s seat, Cybelle in the caravan. Separated by walls and windows, tents and masks. At night, she would indulge him with her naked smile from across the campfire. Blinding and brilliant, like the crescent moon above them.

Lazarus held her eyes from across his offering; a bloody bridge that hovered in the space between them.

With hesitant acceptance, she lowered her fingers slowly, then her eyes, guiding his arm to rest across the bandage in her lap.

The wink of her tweezers in the sunlight encouraged him to study the trees again. He gripped the leather reigns to brace himself.

Her touch was delicate and tentative as she steadied his arm, like his skin was a hot iron, and hers at risk to burn.

He flinched when she pulled the first thorn.

“Sorry,” Cybelle soothed.

He flinched again when she pulled the second. And the third, fingers writhing against the warm silk of her dress.

“I know it hurts, but you must stay still,” she quelled.

Lazarus allowed himself a glimpse back at her large, uneasy eyes that shone over the crescent moon. “H—how many more are there?” He didn’t dare lower his gaze to count.

With deeply furrowed brows, Cybelle scanned his arm, “Perhaps…fifteen?” she guessed. “They are small, it is difficult to say.”

Lazarus gave a heavy sigh and slumped into the seat, straining to find some comfort in the greenery that passed them. His head bumped dejectedly against the wagon as it swayed along the path. Fifteen. He tried not to think about it, but instead found himself wondering how badly it would scar. His fingers trembled as he braced himself for the next sting.

Instead he felt a hand.

Featherlight touches at the heart line of his palm.

Lazarus glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find fear in those deep, upturned ovals. Instead there was something much softer.

It was hiding just under the curve of her lashes, in the tender brush of her fingertips — a quiet fascination.

His chest rattled, with more than just adrenaline. Her eyes would surely raise at any moment and he braced himself to meet them, but instead she did something much bolder.

She lowered her palm.

It nestled into the groove and slope like it belonged there. Her skin like warm, russet earth against the vast, snowy landscape of his. When her fingers got brave enough to curl around the back, he allowed his pale digits to follow suit.

They sat like this a moment, staring at the knot of palms and fingers with a gentle awe. Her cheeks dimpled under the ivory crescent, and despite the radiant sting, Lazarus found himself smiling too.

Finally, Cybelle met his eyes and readied her tweezers again. “Are you ready?”

Lazarus tightened his grip. “I am now,” he said softly.

There were sixteen thorns. Lazarus counted. They fell one by one to the floor of the caravan. He didn’t flinch at all this time.

She was quick and methodical, and when her work was finished, she painted his wounds with a soothing balm that smelled of mint and fresh green herbs. The sting faded to a tingle.

What he noticed more than anything was how her fingers lingered as they left his hand to wrap the bandage.

“Thank you,” Lazarus uttered, running his hand along the neatly spiraled ridges of the dressing.

Cybelle gave a singular, dutiful nod and shyly gathered her supplies. She resumed her place, inside, and got to work reestablishing order in the mess of objects strewn about the floor. It was quiet the rest of the ride into Fenwood.

As they approached the city, the trees grew denser, the path grew darker. Moss hung like tapestries over lichenous limbs. Frogs croaked in chorus from every direction. A peaty moisture hung heavy in the air.

All signs pointed toward the same conclusion — they were entering the boglands.

Eddie sat back against the heap of pillows and rubbed his arm. The one with the puppet tattoo.

He would always wonder what you said about him, to Wayne. The words you used. Verbatim. You were always so good with them. He would watch you wield them every day, like a weapon or a spell. You could paint worlds for him as quickly as his eyes could gather them.

It was when he was next to you that you seemed at a loss, like the concrete walls were listening, like they would shatter the illusion the two of you had conjured. It was safer to speak with your eyes, your hands, your laughter.

Despite the volumes left unspoken, the questions left unasked and unanswered, the volume in his lap had answered one:

That it was, in fact, a love story.

______

A/N: I want to thank everyone for their patience and support while I wrote this chapter. I fought a lot of inner dragons to bring it to you, but I’m in a much better mental place now. I’m learning so much about myself in the process of writing this story, my first one of this length, and how best to keep my inner flame alive. It can be scary when it dims, but it's bright as ever now.

I was admittedly very nervous about including so much family backstory for Teach, but I felt it was important for the telling of the story. The Precious Moments teacher doll does actually exist. It’s called “Love Never Fails” and it came out in 1984. I couldn’t have conjured it better if I tried.

As always, nothing encourages me to continue writing this story more than hearing what you think about it in comments, reblogs, and asks. It's truly the most rewarding thing for me as a writer.

I’ll be serving up some piping hot drama in 13 so stay strapped, folks!

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieddiesgf @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @shotgunhallelujah @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @alienthings @eddiemunsonsbitcch @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi

#yeah it's another novel #and i must rush to get ready for work #worth it #just worth it #read this #READ IT #eddie munson — fic recs

773 notes · View notes