#fuller ficiton

[kajaono]

Everyone who says they are now a Bryan Fuller hate page

1) You have an icon from characters he wrote (you do not have the book characters, but the NBC characters)

2) “Please die” is a hate crime in many countries, could be reported and is illegal because it is literal death treath... over a ficitonal ship. Are you insane?!

3) please please block me! I am begging you all!

[fuller-writing]

Images of Cabarete

Behind the street bustling with workers and racing motorbikes, and through the string of tourist resorts planted thick as corn in autumn, lies the coast of Cabarete. 

The rain pours down in sheets so thick that even the most experienced kite boarders dare not test the waters. On the shore, only tiny oases of un-submerged sand islands of the wide beach remain, but the visible ocean is almost calm, protected by the reef; raindrops pelt the ocean relentlessly—they ripple, splash and then peacefully accept the water to its swelling depths; and the only evidence of the storm is the mountainous, untamable waves crashing fifty meters out beyond the reef. The roaming beach dogs that usually garner the affection of the kiters are cowered under any available shelter. The unlucky ones crouch near walls, which provide little protection from the torrential rain that seems to come from no set direction at all.

The palm trees usually bleached from the sun appear darkened to a cedar brown. The coconut pickers refuse to admit defeat and still pillage the swaying trees for the chance to earn a couple of pesos. The only change in the city locals’ persistent routine is that the motorbike riders hold pieces of cardboard or plastic over their heads in a fruitless attempt to keep dry. The vacationers hunker down in their hotels, the pessimists complaining about the loss of beach time and the optimists making jokes about how ‘at least it isn’t snow’ which becomes exponentially less funny at each telling.

      The only human evidence was the pieces of glass and garbage left on the beach. Everything else had been eaten by the tempest. Logs and driftwood blew like tumbleweeds on the beach, never halting in their march downwind. The sound of laughter at first blended into the whistling wind but became more distinct as it drew nearer. The soaked and miserable dogs perked up their heads at the sounds of humans and squinted into the rain to find the source. The figures seemed to appear as though conjured by the rain.

       They ran sporadically, in circles and over debris. They were similar of face and both held worn shoes in their hands. The girl wore a chartreuse bathing suit decorated by splashed sand. She was short and squat, even for her young age. Every part of her was soft edges: round eyes squinted against the rain, button nose, full cheeks, twists of charcoal hair pulled tight against her scalp, a small mouth missing teeth. Her remaining teeth were blindingly white in contrast to the gloom of the night and her equally dark skin.

       Her companion trailed behind, only a few years older than the former, adorning a shirt advertising a beer, barely covering his lanky figure. He carried a box the size of a chessboard against his side. Pointed cheeks framed the same round features as the girl. His hunched, bony stance, even in running, was reminiscent of a bird, walking cautiously, delicately.

       The girl caroled the boy into tagging her by yelling “¡Topame!” The one of willowy stature complied, taking short, hesitant steps, letting the younger child run ahead. He ended the game easily despite his cumbersome load, letting the girl feel as though she had almost beaten him by sitting down, panting in the ankle deep puddle that was the beach.

He grabbed a hold of the little girls hand to stop her from racing ahead.

“Adriana, we should go home. Mama will be worried.” His thick Dominican accent slurred his words together, but Adrianna understood and pouted at his suggestion.

       She rubbed at her arms as though only now that she was standing still she registered the cold rain. Her toe picked at a fresh footprint, disturbing the water that had already gathered there.

       She said something almost unintelligible but it was obvious from her tone of voice that she was protesting.

       He knelt so that he was looking up at Adrianna sincerely.

“I have work tomorrow morning and it’s already late.” He said with reluctant finality, swallowing a mouthful of rain as he did so.

       Adriana glumly accepted his excuse. Without a word, she began to retrace her footsteps. Her head hung low and even her hair looked soaked and dejected.

       Her brother gave her a lopsided grin that didn’t change her stubborn composure.

He perked up at the sight of a group of Europeans braving the rain and deftly opened his box.

He shouted in accented English. “Bracelets! Only 250 pesos! Very cheap, very cheap!” The group of foreigners shied away, and the boy didn’t pursue them.

He lowered his voice. “See, Adrianna? It’s not a bad job. It’s fun.”  

“Sure, Jesus.” Her voice was small, tired, as if from the lips of a much older person.

He closed the box, signaling the end of the conversation. Adrianna continued to toe the growing hole in the sand without looking up at her brother. For a long moment, they stood as if rooted to the spot, the conversation clearly not over, despite Jesus’ intentions.

“You could still be in school.” Adrianna finally suggested, the wind almost drowning out her words.

Jesus wrinkled his nose like a dog that smelled something off. “I don’t want to go to school like all the girls.” He scoffed.

Adriana looked insulted for another silent minute before Jesus terminated the conversation. He kicked sand into the hole that Adrianna had dug and pulled her, mule-like, towards the edge of the beach.

“¡Topa!” He yelled, and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

Adrianna’s smiled, her dimples on coffee skin looking like the hole in the sand. She chased after him, tripping over her feet as she ran up the dunes.

       The storm and the dogs were once again left alone to wait out the night. The palm trees bent to an even steeper angle, and the tide crept up the beach, as if waiting until the children left before unleashing it’s full torment.