#having to walk past that twice on my way to and from the trash compactor was really cool. man speaking of the trash compactor

[today-i-am-thinking-about]

the doppler effect

[ortizselene]

It was nice to hear.

Her insides twist at the contrast between how they spoke then, and now.

If Selene closes her eyes, she can listen to the crunch of Kieran's bite and her brain will fill in the blanks: the exact way his eyes squint, the motion of his jaw when he chews. It's something she's seen dozens of times, hundreds of times, probably thousands, performed in libraries and the packed dining hall and poorly-lit bars that smelled of dark hops and house-made chips.

It scares her to think that he might chew differently now. That this and thousand of other details have changed, and she had no idea when they did, how indicative they were of greater changes. How did she let this happen? Side by side, how similar were old Kieran and new?

Selene supposes she's going to find out now.

'Your office is across from mine,'

And that lands like an anchor: heavy and impossible to hold in her head. Across. From. Him. Trepidation, a sudden and strong flash of excitement compete inside her. Uncertainty, because she didn't know how to navigate it all. Them. Their past, and their future, the stark difference of it all. It felt almost .. tense, and the pang in Selene grows, desperate for a thawing, for a smile, but she can't really blame Kieran for not giving one to her.

She was marrying his brother, after all. Even though there was no way that he— Selene's subconscious balks, fighting against the earth-shattering revelations that lay curled in her heart and mind — felt the same, about this whole situation, it had to be weird. Probably upsetting. Selene wouldn't blame Kieran for hating her.

But still, the thought of it makes her feel like she was drowning.

'I'll be training you, so. I'll be close by, if you have any questions.'

Hope beats against her breastbone weakly. Training her, too. They would be in close proximity every day. It's agony, it's desperate wanting. It's impulsive thoughts slamming against her brain: that she can just pretend this engagement doesn't exist. That she can call up every vendor, cancel every tasting and showing and sampling, no, thank you, we won't require your services. She can burst into Kieran's office and tell him this whole engagement is a fucking fiction and pretense, her father kept pressing and guilting and disapproving.

You can't do this one thing for your family?

"Oh." Selene nods, once, twice, slow as if to conceal the upheaval of emotions inside her. "That's great. Thank you." There's the tightening of her fingers around the cool ceramic. "I know your guys' ERP system is a bit different than ours."

What was this? Why was she like this? What bizarro world had Selene stumbled into where any business conversation of theirs wasn't done shoulder to shoulder, smiling, confident they were going to take over the world together?

Misery just churns within her, Kieran mentions changing furniture.

Well that was nice, the offer. When Selene had become an executive at her father's company, at a sudden retirement, no way for her father to deny what she'd earned because nobody else had Selene's know-how, her backwards-forwards familiarity, she'd entered the space as the only woman there. Someone, some grinning executive who might have not have even considered it very mean, had left a box of tampons at her desk the first day.

Selene had chuckled, emptily, and personally walked the box down to the trash compactor in the sub-floors.

(When everyone else had left, of course. They'd receive no outburst from her.)

"I appreciate that. I'm sure I'll have a white noise machine in there soon. Or some other contraption that my father hates."

Another needed sip of coffee.

"Is it super different?" A beat. "Here, as opposed to your office in London?"

As he listened to Selene explain that Kieran had made some sort of short list, it made him wonder -- how many times did he come up in conversation? All those years that they'd spent apart. Did she keep up with him? Did she avoid his family's name at all costs?

When it came to Selene, Kieran had opted for the latter. There was always this horribly depressing feeling that came with thinking about Selene. The feeling of missed opportunity, and being too late, and watching someone you cared about slowly slip out of your life until they were a stranger.

Selene was a stranger now, but it occurred to Kieran in that very moment that she wouldn't be for very long.

No. In no time, she'd be at family dinners, sitting next to Kane. Selene would be exchanging Christmas gifts with the rest of the family, Kieran included. She'd be his sister-in-law, and he was just supposed to forget about ... everything. All the times he'd spent the night at her place, the moments spent curled up on the couch, watching their favorite show.

Kieran would have to spend the rest of his life pretending that he didn't know her favorite coffee order.

Kieran bit into the apple again. What a cruel fucking punishment from his father.

"That's nice to hear."

It was nice to hear that he was on some short list that he didn't give a shit about?

"Your office is across from mine," Kieran explained. "I'll be training you, so. I'll be close by, if you have any questions."

And then, once she was fully trained, Kieran was going to demand to move offices. Hell, he'd even move buildings. After the first thirty days or ninety days or however the fuck long it took to train her, Kieran wanted to minimize all contact with her. He wanted to pretend that she didn't exist.

"If you don't like the furniture in your office, I'm sure someone could do something about that," he mentioned. "You can just let Ashley know. She's in charge of stuff like that."

Or she could make the request from her fiancé. Future CEO of KNDY. Every time Kieran thought about either of those things, he felt like he was going to collapse.

[brianamorganbooks]

The reek of mothballs and disinfectant almost knocks me over. Wood paneling lines the walls. It’s not a big dorm. Just enough space between the twin beds to prevent awkward touching in the night, twin dressers and desks that have seen better days, and a gray-brown carpet. Beside the door, sitting on a patch of linoleum, is a sink with a tiny mirror. Still, the room looks clean, and the big window lets in more light than I expected.

I slide the strap of my guitar case off my shoulder, set the guitar on the bed, and walk to the window. Livingston Academy is sprawling. I doubt I’ll ever find my way around–even my residence hall is massive. Though there’s still a day before classes start, the lawn outside my dorm, Meyer Hall, ripples with activity. A few girls sit on the stone steps leading to the front doors. Others lean against the wrought-iron fencing or the building’s brick exterior, make small talk by the rose bushes, and stretch out on the browning grass.

A pang of yearning knifes my chest. I turn away.

I don’t have friends. All I have are my parents—barely. And once they go home, I won’t have anyone.

“Where do you want to start with these?” Dad asks.

I turn. He and Mom are standing in the doorway with several boxes at their feet. I didn’t hear them come up.

I shrug.

Mom chooses a box without my input. Dad cuts the tape and unloads my stuff. They chat like I’m not here, discussing my class schedule.

Nathan would never ignore me like this.

But Nathan’s why I’m at Livingston.

My parents are already starting on the second box. I feel so overwhelmed, like I’m trapped inside a trash compactor along with last night’s leftovers. Cold sweat beads on my forehead. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to lose it.

“I’ll be right back.” I head out in search of somewhere quiet. Anywhere but here.

A bathroom calls from the end of the hall. When I walk in, it’s another empty room. Humid air clogs my nose and mouth. Standard bathroom stalls line one wall; sinks and mirrors on the other. Shower stalls are tucked away in the back, marked by pastel-pink curtains. I head for the stall in the middle of the bathroom.

Behind me, someone coughs.

I let go of the stall door and spin around. A pale girl with long, red hair and fierce green eyes stands in a sundress, staring. In one hand, she holds an empty beer bottle with flowers sticking out of the mouth and liquid sloshing inside. I can’t see what’s in her other hand, curled into a fist.

She catches me staring and hides the bottle behind her back. “Excuse me.”

“I…”

“That bathroom stall,” she says. “It’s mine.”

I turn back to the stall. It doesn’t look special. My brow furrows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Holy Hecate.” She rolls her eyes brushes past me, shoulder smashing into mine. Her fingers curl around the handle of the door. I barely jump out of the way before she slams it shut.

I’m still standing, shocked, when a black girl with big, round glasses and even bigger hair enters the bathroom. She peers at me over the top of her glasses as she checks her hair in the mirror.

“Thought that was you for a moment, Charlie,” she says, voice tinged with an English accent.

“What? She looks nothing like me,” Stall Bitch—Charlie—answers from atop her porcelain throne.

She’s right. We’re both white, but my eyes are blue to Charlie’s green, my hair is dull brown unlike her scarlet locks, and my mouth is heart-shaped, while hers is more of a pout. I think Charlie has freckles too, but I didn’t get a good look.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Being scrutinized by other teenage girls is nothing new, but I feel exposed. It’s all I can do not to pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and hide my face as English Girl looks at me.

“Pretty,” English Girl says. “How about it? Are you new?”

“Transfer student,” I say.

Charlie’s voice floats out of the stall again. “Would’ve pegged you as a freshman.”

“Sorry, I’m a junior.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. “I’m sixteen.”

Charlie starts muttering something to herself, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

English Girl walks to the stall, eyeing me as she passes. She raps twice on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

Rude question, considering we’re in a bathroom. But Charlie’s reply is quick and breezy. “I told you earlier, setting the charm.”

Setting the charm? What is she talking about?

“Gods alive,” English Girl replies. “You don’t need it. Eddie’s head over heels.”

“You don’t know him like I do, and I like certainty.”

I still have no clue what they’re talking about. Maybe I should leave.

“Ouch,” Charlie says.

“Don’t do too much.” English Girl returns her focus to me. “I’m Billie. Didn’t catch your name.”

“Rose. Nice to meet you.”

“Brilliant.” Billie readjusts her glasses and fiddles with the door, like she can unlock it. “Let me in. I can help you.”

“Another potion? No thanks.”

Potion? I must have misheard. That can’t be what she said.

“You keep trying the same spell, you’re just going to hurt yourself more,” Billie says.

Spell? Come on. These girls have lost it. I need to get out of here. Besides, they won’t miss me. They’re friends, and close ones, by the looks of it.

I feel another pang. I press a hand to my chest to stifle it, but it doesn’t work.

I pee in a hurry, wash my hands, and go back to my dorm room. Laughter echoes down the hall and prickles the back of my neck. They’re not laughing at me. Probably.

The door to my room is still open. I stare at the gold placards on the wall beside it: MASTERS, C. & E. I guess they haven’t had time to switch one of those names for mine.

My parents are right where I left them.

I stand there for a moment, watching, more out of place with my parents than I was in the bathroom with those strange girls. I walk in and wander over to my guitar, slipping it out of the case. My fingertips brush the strings.

Mom pulls a pillow from a box. “Everything all right?”

No. “It’s fine,” I answer.

“Thought we heard girls in the hall,” Dad says. “Did you meet them?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. Please, anything but this. Anything but my parents pretending this is normal. Pretending this is a regular school transfer.

“A few,” I say.

Mom sets the pillow on my bed and props a hand on her hip. “Open up a little if you want to make friends, Rose. Not everyone is out to get you.”

What happened between me and Nathan is splashed in red paint all over the walls. My dirty little secret won’t be a secret for long. The media never released my name, but it wouldn’t be hard to put it together. It’s spelled out in my permanent record.

I cross my arms. “Are the boxes done?”

“Nearly, no thanks to you.” Dad smiles, but the jab still lands. I know he doesn’t mean it like it sounds. Neither of them ever does. “It’s normal to be nervous. You’re in a new place, and you’ll be making new friends. You’ll be fine.”

“It won’t be like last year,” Mom assures me.

Dad shoves his hands in his pockets. “That man—”

Mom glares at him.

“I mean, well… yeah. Not many men around here. You’ll be all right.”

I want to believe them. But in their eyes, what happened last year was entirely one-sided. They don’t know I loved him.

Still, maybe they have a point. In a school full of girls, where even most the teachers are women, how can I be tempted?

Mom crosses to hug me. “We’ll make this quick. You know how your father gets.”

Behind her, Dad sniffs. When Mom steps back, he moves in. His tears wet my cheek. “Be good now, all right?”

I turn away to wipe my face and give Dad some privacy. Maybe they’re worried about sending me somewhere they can’t keep tabs on me as easily, but maybe they should have thought of that before shipping me off to Livingston.

When he turns again, his eyes are bright and hopeful. I haven’t seen that look on his face in a while.

“Call us,” Mom says.

“I will.”

“You promise?”

I grab Mom’s purse from the bed and hand it to her. “Not like it’s forever. You’ll see me in November. Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Promise?” Mom echoes.

“Yes, Mom. I’ll call you.”

No one says anything else. My parents look me over and walk out of the room. The door clicks shut.

I sit on the edge of my bed and push my guitar away. My roommate’s unmade bed sits across from me. The blankets are all over the place. One poster hangs on the wall behind her bed—something by Monet—but I don’t see a single suitcase, and the closet rack is empty.

If she has the same room as she did last year, where is all her stuff?

We still have a whole day before classes start. Maybe her parents are coming tomorrow.

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Wood stares back. One stray match and this school would burn down in a second.

I’m almost asleep when keys jangle in the lock. I sit bolt upright as the door swings open.

“Shit,” Charlie says.

I think back to the placard. MASTERS, C. Her last name must be Masters.

“You’re my roommate?” I reply.

“Why else would I have the keys to this room?” She pushes the door shut and puts her hands on her hips. The light streaming through the window is kinder to her face than the lights in the bathroom. She has freckles like me, much more prominent on her paler skin. But there’s a fresh cut on her cheek. It must have happened in the bathroom.

“Your face,” I say. “It’s bleeding.”

“I know,” she says. “Guess I missed your parents. They coming back?”

“No.”

“Bummer.” She doesn’t sound bummed. She doesn’t even sound the least bit interested in me. Instead, she leans over the sink and reapplies her crimson lipstick in the mirror.

“What happened to your sister?” I ask. “Did she graduate last year?”

Charlie’s application falters, the point of the lipstick freezing at the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t turn, but her eyes in the mirror meet mine. Then, they narrow.

“Masters, C. and E.,” I say, lifting a hand lamely to point at the door. “Same last name. I thought—”

“Forget it.” Charlie goes back to putting on the lipstick. She frowns at her reflection, mutters something under her breath, and washes her hands. “Don’t drink this water. Old pipes.”

“Thank you.” My face must be crimson. “Um, your cut…”

“It’ll stop.” Charlie shrugs, grabs her designer purse from the floor, and heads out of the room. I glimpse something by the sink and walk over to investigate. It’s a small vial of blue liquid—and it glitters in the light.

I pick it up and run my fingers over its smooth surface. Something shifts and shimmers inside the liquid, like a fog trapped in a mirror. The swirling mist reflects my image back at me.

I shriek and drop the vial. It shatters on the linoleum. Shit, now I’m screwed. What do I do?

The liquid burns through the linoleum and I wonder who—or what—these girls really are.

tag list (let me know if you’d like to me removed/added): @lady-redshield-writes @smokescreens-n-otherillusions @cogwrites @nicholewrites @fireflys-locket

Read chapter two here!

[erintoknow]

Hurry Home

fallen hero: rebirth fan fiction with Crow and Argent ~2.2k words [ao3]

–––

2 AM in Los Diablos isn’t much different from 6 PM. The haze of streetlights defused into the smog taints the black in sickly yellows, reds, and greens. Crow pulls his arms tight against himself as he wanders down the street. No particular destination in mind. Sail the ship, onward ‘till morning. Normally this is Morrígan’s time to shine. It just makes more sense that way, a witch for the witching hour, when all the specters peer out from underneath their tombstones.

Not tonight, not for a while. Morrígan needs to rest still. Dr. Mortum did a good job keeping the girl out of harm’s way but when you’re dealing with criminals you can’t afford even the pretension of weakness. Morrígan can take it easy until the worst of the bruising fades. She deserves it.

Not like Badb Catha– not like you. Keep your guard up, feelers out. Walking alone, at night, in the closest thing that passes for dark in this sad excuse for a city. There’s a man across the street, that’s been walking the same direction you’ve been for a whole block now. Telepathy assures he doesn’t think of you at all. But–

Sometimes you wonder if you’re suffering bleed-over from Morrígan. She may not have telepathy but she’s always taking count of everyone in sight-range. Assessing probable threats as best she can without the benefit of your talent. But the details that rank her concern… Some part of you, or of her-in-you is screaming the man is a threat. That you should speed up, detour away from him.

But– Crow is a man. Decently tall, more in shape everyday, with his telepathy, Crow shouldn’t have anything to fear from a scrawny twig of a dude. What’s he going to do? Pull a gun on you? Worst case Crow can just reach into the empty head and crush it down like a trash compactor. It wouldn’t even be hard. No training, no discipline–

“Spare a buck, lady?”

A hand on your shoulder pulls you off balance, yanking you sideways towards an alley between buildings. Trained reflex takes over, snapping the offending hand away as you step back and fall into a defensive stance. Adrenaline pumping, mind on full alert and– you squint through the gloom at the unshaven man standing were your telepathy insists there’s nothing and nobody. Strain harder, and catch the faint pop of static.

The man raises both hands up and backs away, back into the shadow. Static or no, how did you miss him? “Woah, easy there.”

“I’m no fuckin’ lady, hey?” Crow spits, narrowing his eyes in contempt. The nerve. The very idea. This guy would piss his pants if he knew he was talking to Macha. She’d bring an armored fist down and crush his head like a ripe grape.

“Yeah, I can uh, I can see that.” The mean looks down on Crow, mouth twitching down at the edges. He shakes his hand and before sliding it into the front pocket of his sweater. “Just looking for help, anything you can spare.”

“Bullshit.” Crow doesn’t relax, little alarm bells ringing in the back of his awareness at least two more minds nearby who are entirely too interested in what’s happening right now. Future trouble? With this guy? Separate? To early to tell. He’s the most dangerous. “How many beggars keep guns in their sweater vests, dumbass?”

The man’s face is full-on frown now. “No need for that, my man.” He’s taller than Crow, not a lot, but enough. How firm is his grip? How quick can he aim? Whatever’s about to happen, Crow should be fine. This guy is nothing that hasn’t been pasted countless times before. It’s just an open question on if Morrígan will need to go fishing for bullets this time.

Crow would, admittedly, prefer that not to be necessary.

“So you feeling charitable tonight?”

Crow rolls his eyes. “You’re not too bright, are ya?” It’s too late in the night for this game. There are places to aimlessly wander, there’s no time to pretend to be held up by a two-bit crook that can’t find the right end of a razor.

Crow snaps to the side, out of the estimated field of fire of whatever gun the man must be holding in his pocket. The sudden movement gets him by surprise. This isn’t part of the script. Yeah, will neither is yanking his arm back 90 degrees in the wrong direction until it makes a gross-ass popping noise. The would-be assailant screams and drops to the ground, a pistol falling out of his hand and scattering into the dark. A revolver? Doesn’t matter, not a factor now. 

Kick the body in the stomach, and he groans. “Fuckin’ idiot.” Crow mutters, shaking his head. Well, they can’t all be Ortega. “Maybe think twice next time ya amadán, ya idiota, ya–”

A crack rings out off the walls and at the same time fire blooms in your leg below the knee. Shot? You’ve been shot? No grazed. Skinsuit under your clothes held up. This time anyway. Gonna be a hell of a bruise. Twist, keep yourself on your feet, feel for who– one of the two you noted as too interested earlier. She’s moving towards, you pissed mad. You fling up your arms, can’t risk another shot. Not until she’s in punching range. Damn your leg. Fuck.

“Get away from him!” She’s on full alert, pistol pointed at you, finger on the trigger. Hands aren’t steady. How much training has she had? “I said get the fuck away from him!”

You keep your hands up, take an agonizing shuffle back. Fight the urge to push up your glasses. “Ya know, back-up don’t mean shit if your on the other end of the block, right?” Reach in there, mind like razor blades. Can you shut it down before she pulls the trigger? Too tense. 

Would the skinsuit hold up? What make is that pistol? You can’t tell in the gloom. She doesn’t know either. Charming. Idiots. Fools. Both of them. Siblings? Cute. ‘Bro’ wanted to try the nice way. Sis’ here knows the real score.

Find the floor, something to smash and bring her down quick.

“–I said empty your fucking pockets!” She jabs the gun in your direction. So much for protecting family. Can’t forget the crime, can we sweetheart?

“Can– can I put my arms down, hey?” Stall for time while you reach in there. This has to be subtle-like or the shock might get her to pull the trigger regardless.

She glares down the sight at you. If she did shoot, could you get Morrígan here in time? Would Morrígan even know where ‘here’ is? You slowly lower one arm. Don’t think about the gun. Pull one pocket inside out. Of course. You weren’t intending to go wandering. Not prepared. Think if you come clean about not having any money on you, the three of you can laugh this off as a hilarious misunderstanding?

No?

Think of another plan then.

Or, consider this: The beat of footsteps and something now way too familiar on the periphery pulls your attention upwards.

As she twirls through the air the phosphor light gets caught in her hair. A tangled mess of reflections, caught however many times before bouncing free? She brings her arm forward, down, pulled in on gravity’s tether and– oh, wait, shit, fuck–

Your leg screams in protest as you dive to the side just in time for Lady Argent to bisect the air between you and ‘Big Sis.’ A shot echoes off the walls blasting your eardrums and you have to clutch at your ears.  “Fuckin’ hell! Are you trying to kill me?”

Argent turns to you, looking none the worse the wear for having dropped from the roof of a three story building. She shakes out her arm like an etch-a-sketch as she takes in the scene. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Holy fuck,” Sis is backing away from the scene, eyes darting between you and Lady Argent.

Argent watches the woman from the corner of her eye. “Street muggers? Not much of a challenge.”

“I had it handled.” You hiss. Now that you’re on the ground the idea of getting up and putting wait on your leg seems impossible. “Had them eating out of my hand.”

Argent tilts her head, looking down at you, paying absolutely no mind to the woman who had just shot at her. “Is that what the bullet hole is for, Catha?”

“Nah, just a graze, hey? Look, it’ll be fine.”

“Your bleeding.” Argent stresses the word. Why does she care? She doesn’t seem to know either. “You’ve been shot Crow.”

“Well, look.” You wince as you pull yourself into a sitting position. “Ya gonna arrest the bitch that did it, hey?”

That gets Argent to shift her focus to the sister, stepping over the still prone body of the first guy. You don’t think he’s actually out of it, if all the internal screaming you’re picking up means anything. Just as good, you guess. 

Argent takes another step forward. The woman drops the gun to her side and books it. So much for family loyalty. You let her drop out of your awareness, her panic is putting you a little too on edge. You’ve got plenty of your own reasons to panic. Such as: Lady Argent wants to chase after the woman, but instead she turns to face you. She’s not impressed.

That’s fair, you concede. You aren’t impressed by you either.

“You need help.” It’s supposed to be a question, but coming out of her mouth it feels like a statement of fact.

You bark back a laugh. Wince as touch your injured leg. You still haven’t actually looked at. It’s not necessary. “You offering a piggyback ride Starshine?”

Her eyes narrow as she stares down at you. “Fuck off.” She tenses, fingers flexing. She wants to move in, can’t make up her mind. “I meant an ambulance.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Unlike like some people present, I’ve got bills to pay.” You grit your teeth. The pain a dull throb. As soon as you get back you’ll have to have Morrígan look at it. It’s just bruising, you’re sure. “What are you doing here anyway, hey?”

Argent shifts her stance, mouth wrenched in a tight frown. “What do you think I’m doing Crow, I’m on patrol.” You watch her facial expression, body language. There’s more to it then that, you’re sure. But what, exactly you can’t place. “What are you doing out here.”

You cross your arms. “It’s a free country Starshine.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“My statement is not any less true on accountin’ of the hour.” You shift your position, grit your teeth as you try to get up. “Ah– fuck!” Argent’s hand grabs your arm before you can fall back down. She pulls you to feet with a disturbing ease.

“You need to see a doctor.” She doesn’t let go of your arm.

You scrunch up your face, stare down at the asphalt. “Don’t you have a mugger to chase down?”

“Small fry like that don’t matter.”

“That so…” You take a breath, try to keep your hands from forming fists. “And I do now?” Why won’t she let go?

“I’ll never…” There’s a hesitation in her voice. That’s hardly like the Argent you know. “Ortega will give me hell if I just let you walk off like that.”

Enough is enough. you tug at your arm. She lets go. “What does Julia fucking care?”

Argent doesn’t mince words. “She’s still in love with you.”

Something in your chest twists, you rub at your eyes with one hand, push your glasses back up. “Well, hey, tell her she’s seven years too fucking late for that revelation.” You pull back from her mind, in on yourself. You don’t want to know. Focus on the pain. The pain in your leg. It’s just a dull throb now but that’s real. Your leg is real. Not like her, or this city, or the rest of you. 

“Tell her yourself Crow. I’m not your go between.” She stands still. Doesn’t move after you as you hold yourself up against the wall. 

“Then don’t act like one, hey?” You push off the wall. Test your leg, hurts like a motherfuck but you can do this. It’ll be a long walk, but you’ve done worse. Maybe you’ll jack a car from somewhere to cut down the distance. Or just a taxi?

Argent steps after you, grabs your arm again when you stagger. “If you’re not going to the hospital, then where are going?”

“Where do you think, Starshine?” You snarl, “Fucking home, hey?” She’s close. Too close. Just a skinsuit under clothes can’t protect you. Why is she pretending to care? Does she know? Is this pretense for revenge?

“And where’s home for you, Crow?” You glance up at her, she’s not looking at you. Scanning the area. Empty street. Dogs barking in the distance.

Fuck it. Whatever. If she murders you in your sleep, you can’t say you didn’t have it coming.

You gesture to the left, down the street. “This way. Bit of a walk. Think you can handle it?”

[maxfieldandmorgan]

Prompt: “write about home”

feb 12

“Home”

Home... what happened at home? Outbursts at Christmas why even bother opening the presents anyway thanks for spending the money you worked hard for it fucking suffered for poured your life and soul and blood for countless hours on the road and spent most of it on shit no one needed and chocolate and lottery tickets to maybe escape and now we can’t even pretend to enjoy this i told you i didnt need anything, 

thanks for the toothbrush, no, really, thanks for the toothbrush

whispering in the stairs, money money money, not enough of it, pay the bills, that was your half, i need forty dollars for gas, i gave you my half of the mortgage, i need money for batteries for the remotes, why even whisper i can hear you the walls are fucking cardboard, and i have to cry silently, except you don’t even hear it, 

and it surprises you when i tell you i want medicine, when both my hands are broken and bleeding and where did this aggression come from, it was beaten into me and i have to beat it out, break your spine over a bagel, make you cry, your nose as a joke, that’s all a fucking joke, you people are just two dying children and i feel so sorry for you, 

and now i’m a fucking joke too, because i let myself become one of you

get off the stairs! you’re going to break them, only one person allowed on the stairs, stop running on the landing! why are you breaking things, please don’t break anything, who’s pounding! so worried, what are you worried about? what are you really worried about? what was it like to be 19? what was it like without him? what was it like when he came back, were you 3? what was it like to have them coming in and out of the house, cursing you out, worthless, good for nothing, using, cut a man in half with a hammer, hid in your house, the sirens blaring, the choppers, what was it like

i need to know because this is trapped inside me, these lives i didn’t live are boiling in my blood, i beat it into submission, fight it, hurt it, cut it, and it’s only me i’m killing, i need to know, i need to know, I NEED TO KNOW

throwing glass on the kitchen floor, i don’t even remember what we were fighting over, probably because you weren’t listening, play the victim, play the victim, learn to play the victim, where’d you learn it from? maybe because it worked. worked for you. worked for me. i refuse to play the victim. you refuse to listen. refuse to change. not my problem. i can change. i’m still changing.

 i still change, or try to change, day by day.

crying in the shower, maybe we should talk about it, maybe that’s what you’re worried about, maybe that’s what we’re all worried about, dying, all your friends are dying, you’re ignoring the fact you’re dying. letting it slip at the dinner table, in front of your parents, in front of your kids, how long? i mean the antidepressants, and then off the medicine, i mean how long? they weren’t working, but how long? sons crying while they hold each other, he thinks he would be the cause, can you imagine? 

letting it slip, you want to fucking kill yourself

dealing with it, dealing with it, dealing with it. Looking at the screen. looking at the screen. swiping, clicking, watching, passive, behind, ignoring, searching, always on the screen. 

Maybe not the home you thought I’d write about. But it’s the home I’m thinking about right now. 

How many homes. Years, homes, faces, people, changes, changes, welcome, love, hate, out the door, get out of my home, leave, Home. I left.

thank you for welcoming me into your home. nice to meet you dad. nice to meet you mom. sister. brother. i’m only here for a little while, don’t get to know me too well.

Home.

you have a lovely home. robbery. drugged, *****, twice, in your lovely home.

get me the fuck out of here. get out. i want to go. lying so we can keep driving through the crying. i’m going to drive onto the other side of traffic and kill us both. screaming. apologizing. lying to keep driving.

noise complaint. you have to leave. security is knocking. 3 am. sorry, we’ll keep it down. kicked, scratched, bitten, why? because you grew up in a lovely home.

How many plastic trash bags filled, and refilled, thrown, and thrown away, again again again. years torn up, piled up, bagged up, and thrown away. memories, dollars, minutes, bagged up, and thrown away. body bags of past lives thrown into trash compactors. one after one after one.

Raking leaves, allergies, asthma, hives, rash, throat swelling, onto the tarps, raking leaves, pulling tarps, dumping tarps into the woods, pulling the tarps back across the street. Raking leaves. ticks and the disease. is that the reason? searching frantically, purchasing and stock piling pills, is that the reason? is that the reason?

Late for jazz band. Late for breakfast. never talking about it. but talking about it in the pain, talking with the eyes. I wish we could talk about it. I wish we didn’t have to. I wish you didn’t have it. I wish I wish I wish. But even when I was done wishing and tried helping tried changing tried saving tried this tried that tried everything. who the fuck deserves it?

Even the cats are dying, fluid in the lungs, fluid in the lungs, fluid in the lungs, pipsi, halo, binx. are we dying?

I’ll put you out in the cold. we are all out in the cold.

Home.

Sharing a bedroom, sharing a mattress, sharing this sadness, sharing this life. days and days turn into years, and why were you the one who got kicked out? victim. i was still afraid of the dark. still afraid of the dark.

How many tears did we refuse to share. i couldn’t be the only one. i wonder how often.

Cold. So cold. Sleeping in the living room. Candles burning. Candles snuffed out. The smell of smoke. The smell of kerosene. Sloppy joe mix heated on the gas stove, 5 days straight. Snow melted with boiled water in the bathtub drink and flush the toilets. All the blankets, the flashlights out of batteries, cold.

Thunder. Thunder and lighting in the summer. Standing outside, strike me. Licking the rain droplets off the screen door. The taste of zinc, the smell of rain, the feeling of wood.

Railroad tracks. Pennies flattened by 10,000 tons of steel going a million miles an hour, the roar. Pressing the still hot piece of metal into my palm.

Fridge is empty.

Hot. The glass fogged, the mirror steamed, hot, the sound of crickets, cicadas, raindrops, hot. Baked in, sealed in. Laying on top of the sheets. Fans blowing dust.

receiving a letter in the mail just now, signed Christine I Coultrip, new signature, no Branson

Why is this the home I’m thinking about?

I want you to know where I came from. I want you to know the things that go unspoken. I want you to know why I think the way I think. I want you to know why I do what I do. 

I want you to know these things.

Where is home?

Is it a hot bath to come back to, after you can’t feel your fingers, your toes, your nose, ears, can’t feel not even your thoughts or feelings, a bath to relax in, to burn in. to get as far away from for as long, from you, and from it, and from it all, but how long can you really get away? and do you ever really get away?

is it a mattress to fall down on, to spread out, to turn off, to get hit by the fan, turned off entirely, to drown it out, to watch yourself from the outside, until you disappear, and then reappear, and walk through hell, just to fade away in the evening again, when does it end?

is it a desk to sit at, to scribble notes, to make plans, to check boxes, to create lists, to “work,” to list items, to count dollars, to save pennies, to open a letter, to put receipts, to make an attempt, an honest attempt?

is it a stove to make the beans just hot enough to eat right now because you’re so fucking hungry and you’ve got 22 cans left and you might as well.

What is home?

What does it mean to be homeless?

Maybe part of home, part of where you came from, part of who you are, are the things you can’t leave behind, or choose to grow out of, or choose to leave, or maybe if you can’t, have to come with you, are part of the deal, maybe home is where the heart is

We are the people who walk through these hallways, sleep in these beds, have these conversations trapped in the walls, knocking to get out, open and close doors, enter and exit, use and be used, we are these people... inhabiting these spaces, these moments, these memories, we are these people.

What choice do we have in the matter?

I struggle every day to understand.

I want to build a home. I want to be a home. I want to be home.

I want to show our son or daughter home movies. 3 years old, birthday party, birthday cake, icing, decorated, laughter, friends, old, birthday boy, running around, “look at me!” look at you. 

I want to hold my wife. to still kiss you, even though we aren’t 20 anymore, even though the years are there, everything in between the smiles is there, still kiss you, happy anniversary, i love you.

i want to put the kids to sleep, and talk about your day, how was work?

i want to pick the perfect curtains, no not those ones, you don’t like that color, does this come in a different fabric?

Home is miles and years away... behind me and in front.

5th grade art class drawing of my house, a way to teach us “perspective” now looking back, a different kind of perspective

I guess you can’t ever really run away from home.

---

Maxfield

[thekimmiandjackieshow]

Pilot 1 and the Ponchos

My trek working around the world was mostly complete. I had worked in Disney Springs, Magic Kingdom, and Hollywood Studios. All I needed was one resort and EPCOT. EPCOT was up next. Somebody was desperate to give away a shift at the Land Pavilion and I was desperate for hours. That was always the risk I took when I gave away a week’s worth of shifts. Finding replacement shifts wasn’t always easy, unless you were willing to work literally wherever. I didn’t even know there was a merchandise shop in The Land pavilion. I had certainly never seen it. I was told that it was a small location just outside Soarin’. 

To be honest, I wasn’t very excited. The costume was just khaki pants and a blue and green striped shirt. Soarin’ was closed at the time so they could add an extra theater, and I think even “Circle of Life” was closed. I was imagining the slowest shift of all time. 

I had dropped Dana off at work at EPCOT once or twice and had seen how small the cast parking lot was. I didn’t really feel like driving around and around for a spot when I could just take the bus, so I relied on Transtar. There was always a bus schedule floating around the apartment, so I grabbed it and figured out where I needed to be.

We got to the cast parking lot and a Cast Services building punctuated the front. 

It seemed as easy as Hollywood Studios, just bigger. I scanned my ID and walked through the zoom gates. The costuming room was on the left, locker rooms for changing on the right, and the door to the rest of backstage directly in front of me. I walked into costuming where most of the room was filled with white shorts and World Showcase Flag shirts. I went up and down the aisles, not finding what I was looking for. From a distance I saw the blue and green striped shirts. Upon getting closer, I was very surprised and really happy. 

The khaki pants were still boring and unflattering, but the blue and green shirt turned out to be so much more than just stripes. The picture I was going off of was taken from far enough away that the detailing was completely lost. In person, there was no mistaking it as one of the best shirts ever. While the blue and green stripes were there, inside the stripes were little tiny Earths. The top of the shirt was blue, with green lettering that said “Save the Earth” over and over again.

I was in love. The lack of subtlety had me in tears of laughter and I was ready for my shift. Chelsea, my old roommate who worked in Future World as Custodial the semester before, had drawn me a map of backstage Future World so that I could easily find my way. In Future World you can either walk to your location or take the bus. I thought maybe the bus would be more direct so I hopped on, double checking to make sure I boarded the right one. We went all the way around World Showcase and I got a nice tour of what everything looked like backstage. The second to last stop was approaching and I was prepared to get off. My phone had the map pulled up and I was about to get off when the bus driver said, “The land?”. I froze and nodded. “The land is the next stop.” 

The bus driver closed the bus door and asked me to get behind the yellow line. I wasn’t going to argue with them but I was slightly worried the map would all of a sudden be useless. I was right.

Surprise! I got lost again.

I got off the bus at the land stop and had no idea where to go from there. I should’ve asked the bus driver, but by the time I had thought of that the bus was long gone. I tried to figure out what was around me. Some sort of greenhouse... I had no clue. The map Chelsea drew all of a sudden didn’t match up with anything I was seeing at all. There weren’t even any other Cast Members back there to ask where to go. I was backstage completely by myself, 100% lost. After another few moments of staring at the map, I texted Chelsea saying I was lost backstage. She called me. MY SAVIOR! 

“Chelsea I’m lost!” Not that I was surprised. I had gotten turned around every single time I picked up a shift. Backstage could really use more signs and directories. I described to her where I was, but she didn’t really have an idea either. She told me to keep walking towards the buildings so I did, and eventually I ran into a trash compactor. All of a sudden, Chelsea knew exactly where I was. 

“Are there doors nearby that sound really loud every time somebody opens them?” That exact second, a Cast Member opened them up. “Yes!” She got me right where I needed to be. I was so impressed. She just navigated me through backstage EPCOT by a trash compactor. 

Successfully in the land building, I found the merchandise store next to Soarin’. “Green Thumb Emporium” was the official name, but it was honestly just a desk, a candy thing, and a shelf with some merchandise on it. 

I introduced myself to the only Cast Member standing there and she told me how to get to the break room. 

The start of my shift was the other Cast Member’s break. My assignment was “Pilot 1″. I guess the theme of the shop was some sort of airport stop. The shop was so small and it was right by Soarin’, so it sort of made sense. I couldn’t believe even they had themed assignments. This tiny hole-in-the-wall shop that most probably didn’t even know existed had more theming than the entire Main Entrance Merchandise area at Animal Kingdom. The store was slow. “Living with the Land”, the boat attraction, stayed at a solid 5 minute wait time for a while. I was bored. A few guests came up and asked me where the bathrooms were, another bought some candy, but beyond that I just talked to the other Cast Member working there. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t last long. She wasn’t feeling well, called a leader, and requested to go home. She stayed just long enough to cover my break (called a “layover” to fit the airport theming) and then went home. I knew I could manage the two shelves of merchandise by myself, I just didn’t really want to. Then, all of a sudden, it started pouring outside. 

The only reason I knew this was because the pavilion started to get really busy. Guests who were trying to stay out of the rain rushed inside. Of course they all asked where they could buy ponchos, and they all got sent to me. Being the only merchandise shop in The Land meant I was the only place nearby that was selling ponchos. I found a case of ponchos underneath the counter and set them out. It didn’t take long for me to have a line that wrapped around the building. I kid you not, they were lined up from my counter, around the corner, past the bathrooms, to the Cast Member only doors, and looped back around to the counter that offers specialty tours right by Soarin’. 

Time flew by. I restocked ponchos and sold them as fast as I possibly could. Every guest was incredibly understanding. They clearly saw that I was the only person working and could only go so fast. The Cast Member that had been with me told me to call for help if I ever needed it, and I was running out of ponchos. I called leadership and they told me nobody was available to come help. My saving grace was a hidden case of ponchos that I found after a guest let me pause to look for them. 

The end of my shift was near and no other Cast Members were in sight. I was still selling ponchos and the occasional candy bar like crazy. I hadn’t stepped out from behind the counter in a few hours, but I have to say, it was the best. I live for being that busy. The last half hour of my shift, another Cast Member came up to the counter. Her shift had just started and she asked how long it had been that busy. 

“Ever since it started raining a few hours ago.”

She was surprised nobody was helping me. I told her I had called up to leadership, but they told me nobody was available. Then she said, “That’s weird, there’s a leader standing right there.” A leader had just been hanging out by the tours counter, watching me. When we made eye contact, the leader walked over to me. I asked how long they had been standing there. 

“The whole time.”

They were pleased with me, but I was a little mad they hadn’t stepped in and helped. After all, there was a chunk of time there where I thought I was out of ponchos and couldn’t find any for a solid few minutes. I didn’t always get along with the leaders at my location, but I will say that quite a few of them consistently stepped in and helped out when it got rough. 

The other Cast Member told me to stay on register and she’d go to the stock room to pick up more ponchos. A few moments later, she was back with several more cases and all the guests in line (who had been watching my last pile of ponchos rapidly disappear) audibly sighed in relief. The desperation for $10.01 ponchos in Walt Disney World is VERY real.

That day, the Cast Member working gave me a 4 Keys Card for my hard work. I felt really good about leaving such a positive impression on a new place. After I grabbed everything from the break room, I followed another Cast Member dressed in the land costume out to the bus stop so I wouldn’t get lost on my way back. A short bus ride back to Cast Services and a brief wait in the rain later, I was on the bus back to my apartment. I wasn’t ready to pick up another shift in EPCOT any time soon, but I was glad that it had at least ended on such a fun and busy note. I learned that I don’t do well in slower locations, but I was thankful I had worked in all four parks in Walt Disney World. And, if you want to wear the best Disney shirt ever made, I highly recommend a shift in The Land.