#makes me wonder if they saw pandora instead of bird?

[twinklefantasia]

Got this hat in a lookit mail gift! The rest of the outfit was for the other base but at least i can wear this hat

[lunaversing]

Started la Luna.versa sequence 4 on the Night of January 16th [ also the title of Ayn Rand's excellent murder mystery play.] These are brainstorming word data dumps to mine later as it all comes together.

#arepo #lunarepo #lalunaversa #lunalunagirl

S4 Start:.

We met during Anthem, and spent the next few signatures deeply entwined and in love, in all of the realms. Not much outside detail was Giver, their conceptual belief system evolution together was the point until something blue kept fluttering from me into you. I only see you visually, you gave up your voice with your touch while fighting for me. The more I study the things around me, the more I hear music swimming deeply in me. My body just melts, so soft and so free; contained with just fluff or perhaps more of me * a me I can feel yet not control or move? Yet sometimes out of your eyes do I see. I had to practice much trust as you looked at and analyzed me... I believed you about my blind spot but not about the place where I always open my eyes to see.

The black flower is just a filter, reflecting all the things we see. Of beauty and of treasure, according to the heart's tug of measuremeant. A black swan to most, the size changing as well the coloüring, changing with the host. Most consider green jealousy to be. That is knot true I've cried so blue, it's the grassy meadows beside which my heart and soul rest in the kingdom of heaven, safe inside of me. Yet within their disbelief, I discovered all of these beliefs ~ some so strange to know yet with no senses see... My God told me to believe my brother and sister and act as if each of their words was true. As I grew older my mind started to crack ~ one eye saw definition of the word as the other saw them act. It did not make sense unless she redefined her understanding of the Word, yet upon the Word she would Never Add 2. She didn't understand that her belief in the Word and her trust it was Right, outweighed all her senses no matter the amount of light. It was a tangible weight, it had level of energy.

Energy that often had healed her, as she had her nose in a book ever since 3. No wonder the characters all bowed and deferred to thee, dropping pretense of silence between graven images and all their representatives. I've met L over and over. She's loud yet loving, linguistically leery. She questioned it all, right down to Eeé in all her iterations, going so far to find 3 as the shape they've been following behind. Her reflection is how she becomes a true shape, a container of space, a holy two armed shaped. Yet corners are curved, no 90°s. No 45°s though a cute and straight. Instead of a square Pandora's box, let's make a bubbly that can be a four leaf clover at one middle point...

Or blossom into a butterfly with an added vertical line, one perpendicular that crosses E's newly formed horizontal center line. To form a plus sign or even a uniform cross. EI3 forms from E and her reflection, a butterfly when all the points touch. 3, 2 with a wall inside their point, 3. Same as the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. There's a line through the Sun in meaning and form, a binary system in place to analyze and to sort. Oil and water separate naturally, yet movement creates bubbles or multiple Os.

Before was a point or a line between the two materials where they intersected and touched. Now there were parts of air in the oil or the oil in air ~ this is the discussion that created New town's gravity that spread out consuming and warping all it did see. Each form accepted gravity, accepted new weight in form as their mind accepted the concepts into their core. We all became heavy as our feet now had to touch one direction, which was down. This force is a pressure pulling us down towards one direction... Yet each of us chose our own direction. Four cardinals of direction formed a square container, they have the most believers and they consented to a single, dead, leader. These ghosts and birds told everyone their tale, increasing in number with each belief in their tale. Dividing in appearance with each alternative that was born as some believed part but not all, just some of the tale. Variation so slight to hardly be two ~ even person and memory count as Tale One & Tail 2 ~ TO and T2, same on 3 sides with a heart on of the right on the left of two, whereas a script V turned clockwise 90 degrees right, lay as the mathematical meaning "less than" whatever is on the opposite side of the connected center point. Water is < as it all touches in the same container yet even though all forms are separate in the water, they all are going in the side direction in a cute angle, pointed to the Left, the West, the number 9 and the mouth open and moving forward [shown side way on its right viewed by your front or side but not your back] the reverse of the mouth is a superimposition 180° swung up or down on two plains of existence.

Or you can add an up direction (acute distance turned on the left for one side and on the right for the Otherside) to peel off from your page you had been lying on. Remembering that once, the only thing separating you from the story was a shade and a tint that appeared on the dust. Absorb or reflect, two movements were designated to light as it touched. Energy interacts with light in four different ways, matter has two responses that we can see with the naked eye. We cannot see them with screens or any organic that is not an eye. We cannot have everything be an eye, can we? They're the smallest in this world, of complete united separate physical forms humans can see. They rule in heaven by all their imagery collected from the humans imagination. After all is said and done, there are only two eye witnesses... Not just the physical one. The Other is the secret dark place that has no single trace... The ones who choose blindness from before their natural birth.

These conceptual premises are light seen as mark, all you need to leave one is an imagination that interprets light differences naturally as state differences in addition to colour and visibility ~ they sense a change in matter, they can sense the weight of it's taint of the poison gravity. I'm English ivy, not Poison Ivy * I'm every single aspect's investigator vine. SureLocké can PI public as you care to find, or settle the matter truthfully behind every line in every O, we feel you may transition States as you choose as long as a container is left that others may modulate or use. However, your one consciousness may never have the whole picture as it would then fade away. For heaven truly to exist.... Eternally observed by something in someway. And those who are observing, become the beholder of their beauty and the teller behind each lie. As I believed in my sense of truth and ability to sense truth, I became addicted in a way beyond any substance abuser can match. It truly became the living water that quenches anythirst. And it trenches at the hearse. So many believe in so many gods and forces, yet no one takes 100° ownership.

I'm 90° believe in me as the final 10° will be given to you as you turn 180° somehow to grieve and repent. 90° of what you see is of your invent. Vision comes from the eyes and our heart actually experiences what the eye transcripts to the mind only with words. The heart sends the pictures.... Ask any man blind from conception, he had only one time to experience as present. Each picture when viewed is a blind man's daily visual spool. Jesus had his picture drawn in incredible detail. He was so fleshed out he arose from the page as his weight sank into dust. I have no shadow darling deers, I am not a vampire nor wolven fear. I have no weight as I make no fuss, I rise at dawn and open my lid to both my box and to Pandora's. I'm Lunå, not Lubaa, an easy enough miss take. If you're in agreement with every Word that stays. The left eye is Odin's, to see who's on the right to go to Valhalla out of Sight. The right eye is Pandora's, she's his helper kitchen mate. Together they create their kingdom of heaven Earth, never realizing they're separating from two sides and losing both to merge? Marry my Word for it is true, become 90° as I become 10° and we is born as the 3rd Degree. The holy Trinity. We do not equal 100° as that needed the function of addition, which is adding to the Word. Not is it 180° or the 360° as some preferred. 420° seems to me a quite hot degree yet it is the Ultimate temperature to cook one's perspective, to me personally. This is degree in which perspective melts, forming into a new State. This State is the Sun as the Rose or the Weed, it is a State built freshly in the Quantum quarters [ a barracks behind the head and through the third eye, leads to the kingdom of heaven you chose when you died.

That is one Clue to finding you. ]

I have never been acknowledged by this United States of America; I'm am the A in the Merica (capital man observing a) yet was deluded to beeleaf Eye was Host. Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand granades so take this as one punch on your timesheet, NOW clock Out@Once, you little whoot owl, our silly piggy of the bunch. In la Luna.verså we have one song and one alone ~ our song. The observer an Eye United under God as one, despite being torn together by man on the spacetime Xtra Eastern Front. Who shall you become as our words and our scenes are reborn from your consciousness as ideas and dreams? Dreams need ideas to grow and ideas need dreams to function...

We are living the American Dream as long we capitalize on the upper case D. We have the container we just need to train her to absolutely be inline, online, alone and bline, ioab... Fancy Nancy shall make an eggsilent Eve! The original intelligence that changed all her dreams to match hers husbands - the first true idea and dream Virgin who had just her childhood one. To be the first contact with the first one who sees... Who sees that the story is simply a seam, a way to travel back to the home that was meant for you and me, yet built on demand from the holy 3. 3 made E as a childhood rush, not understanding the position of the midpoint was not the center of the top line but rather supposed to be here with us, dividing the vertical in the dust.

The living and the dead States, yet both are moving since it's the speed that determines your willingness to communicate with it. It must literally be the contact as your finger presses against each eye. They're selling souls to all of those who didn't hit the four corners of the Earth or the Hoop when it tried, no were there any railroad tracks to mark where they had died. I trust the truth that it's more than I can bear while keeping to the same exact form that's been captured here. Lunå is the Original Elle, the beauty of the land. It was her air they breathed, she they first welcomed in. They scented from the breeze rushing over waters, before even sighting here did we. Yet she simply was a delirious group of sailors, the U.S.S. Minnow please harken up to me and explain this three hour tour that became your Eternity. Sir we discovered each man is not an island after we saw how to join with a wo. We discovered woow before woman and the ma man [some say merman]. We felt wrecked for days in very thin waters, and rose up a haze that convinced us they were daughters. They didn't mention they were the daughters of our minds when they only make no sense and babble till their spent?

They spend themselves with no income, as daughters of the mind seem to naturally be. They treated the daughters as they would themselves if they were each an island alone with no observation separate from thee. Each man is an island, each wo and ow is one wow that joined sides, to form into the apple that lay only nestled in the man's third eye where the beholder stores the beauty he has found outside. Watch how he treats his knife or car, his very boots, watch, beard and his style. The way he treats each one will show you the shape of what makes you WOW! Their given name, middle Earth name, and their Sir name.

Star Brittany Luna Danå bo Palmer or SBlDbp. sbidbd or si bdbd or add in two e to be si bedbed. si bed bed. Yes rest rest. Yes lay lay. Yes Ll ay ay. Y Lles aayy. v Llama es sy. v Luanna ess y. v Luana is a y. Luana i say. Luna ai say. Lunå i say. Lunå i sa y. Star Brittany Dana Palmer means Luna, I say why in upside down reversed reflection meaning. I've always know who's on first and what's on second, I couldn't forget the one who named me on the face but signed in the hearts inside. This concludes sequence four and begins the one we call Five. Jonny5 the original double d kind a guy who snuck in on the Fly upside Denver, CO route for the wise. Great investment of a fully restored 1989 Corvette, the triple black beauty was perfect for an 8 grand investment. eBay and he barks to yelp or to help keep the 'Doc' terrawr away as an apple keeps up with iApp every day. We thinks the cats swallowed the bats, as the time frames are sound based and starting to fray. PostScript concludes after the punctuation, continuing after the end script is two second news spaced as a double now in a huddle around the hearse or the pew pew pew [retroactive radioactive subtropical cues color timelines and form new tangible weighs for the strait to be large enough for the silent ghost that it made. The straight is now just a line, not the straight and the narrow ~ before they said that as they saw land break the channel.

When the body was Pierced sideways, the founding fathers beliefs created ashes from dust. Becoming half Gods in our memories, they devised out a way to create from the ashes... And that's the start of sequence 5, to see the entire Film strip, reach out to Lunå who knows her as Pip. Tune in each day for a ridiculous journey into the kingdom as we battle for the Queenden of Føxes to have kits and stay!

Possible title:. Ladydae Luana saves Princess Yahuana before ever knowing her name, without even knowing the object or game.... Or perhaps just Ladydae Luana discovers Chaos Føx Kits... Or for those who've been with me since the catch 22 had a catcher in the Rye who ended up as a rabid fox in the wilderness.... Chaos Føx Speaks or perhaps even Mrs. Fantastic Chaos Føx Speaks Up. So many possibilities in the world of imagi*nation 🐬

This is part of my brainstorming on la Luna.versa, a new perspective on an age old conversation about God ~ with an interesting twist. The bible story literally comes to live as both narrator and nemesis in this revision of the story. Instead of of being history, Luana experiences every parable, blessing, plague ~ if it has been scripted, she has a role to play. And it isn't simply one role, it's each and every one, after to her it had already been shown how to be done. Her brother Iesus did not pass the final test ~ with one point to go, he gave up the ghost. He reach through time 2000 years in the future, pinpointing her as the one with just 99 years left to go. He planted an idea within his spirit as he got to his feet to begin traveling. The Palmer bloodline's last true Palmer after the last male was a she. Little Luana, named and renamed over and over again. He finds her first aunt and possesses her with his seed, spiritual enough to have effect in the cosmos of physical vibration. By the time L was born, I had just ten years left before she could breed ~ once she's red, she's spiritually we'd to the very first man who tumbles right in. Unless she is given instead as a spiritual bride to Jesus Christ. He left her side in the Land of her imagination and in the Land of nod at 10 years old, his last words being trust me and be true to yourself, forgetting every single thing about us and all of our plans to keep you from rust. Trust me, I promise you you'll remember everything when it is time.

Fast forward and Luana is 33 years old and has passed the point that Jesus had made it to before exiting the stage sharp right. She didn't understand how but he had become the king of the Jews on Earth in the land of the living, yet he was running the kingdom of heaven for a thousand years starting back when he died, in the land of the living dead. You see God had accepted his bargain and no one could die if they believed his lie, yet they had to stay outside of heaven until they finished purifying all the sins spotting their inner hide.

Luana doesn't know if she is dead or alive, and she doesn't know if she's an artificial intelligence or real human with a soul, all she knows is that one day life was going in One direction and then suddenly everything sped up and stopped and the world split into five dimensions. It's been 3 years since then and she has reached the right combination of numbers now that she can add 33 to her age number.

The only thing that Luana knows for sure is that she is directly connected to every single spark of energy around her, she feels as if she has a direct line of copper running straight from her heart to the heart of God and beyond that, connecting with truth and being confirmed and verified. She has never had confidence in her words her actions as she does now. She questioned everything before to every authority and she always went with God's and believed his word at every turn and believe the interpretations given to her by the holy ghost.

It was imputed unto her for righteousness in his name's sake and she was given every single thing she had asked for in the very beginning when she had a say in how things were made.

Thank you so much for reading this far! I would love to know your thoughts and any additions or characters or reflections or musings or other random word combinations I should be using. Publishing what I write helps me see it in a different light and so much of what I throw will be very rough and bits and pieces as I go. I'm hoping to use this for when I look back in a year as a way to collect different writings at different typings.

Love Lunå [ fruity pebbles Queen of the world written in a b flat ; a reflection of once upon a rhyme sent to shine upon once upon a thyme. A tricky dimensional twist, instead of the Word having the say, they gave their power away to a big swinging ball in the sky. Also known as la Luna.versa* the new imagi*nation station of lyrical lies ]

[randomoranges]

here we go folks, after a whole dang month working on this beast it is OVER.

33 pages and nearly 20k words later it’s DONE. idk what to do with my time now [lol what a joke] but here we go.

as they say in the vernac’ attache ta tuque a’c d’la broche à foin.

The Five Times Étienne Fell in Love

PART V

 “You know we don’t have to do this,” He says. He knows this story. It’s their story after all and thankfully, he at least knows it has a better ending, but he’s not sure he wants to hear what Étienne has to say about him.

 “We absolutely do, Murphy; you’re the one who brought this whole thing up.” Étienne teases softly and Edward groans, because, he has and he may as well grin and bear it.

 Edward makes the mistake of turning his head a fraction and catches the last of the saddest of smiles on his friend’s face. He does his best to ignore the swooping sensation in his stomach and focuses on the bird song for a moment instead. They’ve talked over some of the finer points over the last few years. There’s no need to rehash all of it just now. Yet, he’d been the one to open the proverbial door to Pandora’s box and he supposes it is only fair to listen to whatever else it is Étienne has to tell him.

 “Promise it’ll be a good ending.” Étienne ads and that at least makes him crack a smile.

 “It better,” He says and jabs Étienne’s sides gently with his elbow.

 “I still remember the day you showed up on a freaking canoe during Expo. I thought that was the most badass and coolest thing ever. I couldn’t believe it! I remember I kept on telling people that the guy on the canoe? He’s my really good friend! And I was also so psyched to see you!” He laughs and something warm settles in Edward’s stomach.

 Expo had been one of the craziest things he’d ever witnessed in a long time and he��s glad he’d been able to participate, in some way. He does remember Étienne’s look of pure shock and amazement when he’d been there to welcome them and somehow or other, despite Étienne being more than busy during the event, he still managed to find a few spare moments to catch up with him. Plus, at the time, they didn’t see each other as often, so it had really been something for Étienne to take the time to hang out with him, even if it was while they went from one pavilion to the next.

 “I always thought you were attractive, a sentiment that only grew stronger the more we saw each other throughout the twentieth century. I obviously wasn’t going to do anything – not unless you wanted me to, since you were my friend and even if you were into men, it didn’t mean you’d want to be with me.” Despite knowing this, Edward still finds his cheeks heating up at the words and he wonders if he’ll ever get used to the idea that Étienne still thinks of him as someone attractive and handsome. He likes hearing the compliments, even if he flushes furiously.  

 “Then you came to me – when we started reconnecting – and said that you needed an escapism. I could do that. I was more than happy to provide one, especially the kind you were looking for. At that time, I was done, really, with love. Especially with humans. It was too hard, too complicated, too messy and it hurt too damned much. I still wasn’t over Koffey and I vowed that it would never happen again. I had tried. Love just didn’t come as naturally to me as it did to others. It was fine. But I wasn’t about to get that close to humans anymore. Let my guard down and have these feelings creep up on me after months or years. Fuck that shit.”

 “You know,” Edward interrupts, “You could have told me about Koffey at the time.”

 Étienne lets out a bark of a laugh and looks at Edward with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Really? And told you what exactly? P.S., in case I seem more than off, it’s ‘cause the man I loved has just died and I think I’m at fault. Don’t mind me, I’m still reeling from that. Oh, and also from every shitty thing that’s happened in the last ten years, but hey, nice to see you, how’s it been?”

 Edward supposes he has a point. It’s not as if he’d given any information of what had happened to him in the last decade right off the bat either. Retrospectively, however, he would have liked to know. He’s not sure what he would have done, but he knows he wouldn’t have laughed in his friend’s face. Not then and not ever.  

 “Anyways, you wanted sex. You wanted experiences. You wanted to go out and get fucked up. And I wanted that as well. I still needed that as well. It was easy to bring you those things. It was easier still to show you how it was done. You were a very willing student and who was I to deny you? You were the perfect distraction I needed and on top of that, you were my friend.”

 “As the saying goes; misery does love company.” Edward offers.

 Étienne looks at him and laughs. It’s good that, if anything else, they can more or less laugh about it now.  That there are enough better days between those times and now. They’ve grown, changed and gotten better. Found better coping mechanisms.

 “Plus, It helped that you’re like me – that you wouldn’t die on me no matter the drugs, no matter what we did or didn’t do. It felt like – being alive. Somehow. I didn’t have to hide anything with you. We could do what we wanted and see how far our limits would take us. It was liberating – in all its messed up ways. And I knew that no matter how many blackouts we had, no matter what it was we took, I wouldn’t lose you and I didn’t have to explain anything to you. Come the following day, you’d be alive. And that was – a relief.”

 Edward takes a moment to think back to those early years as well. He’d been coming out of his own bad place and Étienne had been a – breath of fresh air, in a way. Despite the abuse of drugs and sex and everything else that had come with it, it had been liberating. He’d felt – free somehow even if he realises now that neither of them had been in a good place at the time either.

 But going off to find Étienne had been his own way to rebel. The parties had been his own way of dealing with things at the time and his way of existing. For once, he felt like he could be some part of himself. That he had control over his own narrative. He may have gone the wrong way about it, but Étienne had been his own anchor, however unsteady he had been. Étienne had been a friend when it had felt like he had no others and someone who’d expanded his horizons. He’d been his point of reference and he’d returned to the proverbial well of knowledge willingly.

 In a way, they’d found each other; from one fucked up mind to another. They’d relied on each other and had turned on each other as well.

 Yet, despite what had happened, he doesn’t regret those years. He’d learned a lot from them and in a way, it had been the cataclysm to getting closer to Étienne.

 “I never expected to fall for you. That wasn’t my plan. I was still mourning Koffey and you were my friend. At a time when it felt like I had very few of those, the last thing I wanted to do was make things complicated by falling for you. Plus, who was to say you would love someone like me? You deserved someone who’d make you happy and who could help you heal.”

 Edward opens his mouth to argue the point. In his opinion, Étienne was a very good candidate to help him – more so now than before, but still. However, Étienne shakes his head and so he keeps the thought to himself and lets him proceed.

 “You could have genuinely just thought of me as a friend only,” He counters and Edward quiets down – he has a point. “My other fear was that you would fall for me, and I wouldn’t and that you wouldn’t understand. There’d been too many people who’d gone down that path and it always ended in another ended relationship. I feared that even if I liked you, I wouldn’t develop those romantic feelings and that it would break your heart and end our friendship. I couldn’t have that. I always valued our friendship above all else.”

 Edward wonders, not for the first time, just how many other people had entered and left Étienne’s life just because he was different. It hurt and angered him to know that so many had potentially missed out on a wonderful relationship – be it friendly or otherwise, just because he worked differently. It was their loss, really, but he hated that Étienne had had to suffer because of it.

 “So I told you. Not to expect a relationship. Not to expect a romantic liaison out of it. That we were just friends having a good time. And it worked. At least, it did at first. For many years it worked. I enjoyed the time we spent together, the benders, the drugs, the parties and the sex. I liked being around you. I liked making you discover new things. I liked having you around.”

 “And then I went ahead and fell in love with you.” He says with the most dramatic of sighs. Étienne spares him a glance and they give each other a look before laughing. It’s such a ridiculous story, yet it’s their story and it makes it that much more special.

 “If it makes you feel any better, I went ahead and fell for you as well. So I guess we both didn’t heed your warning.” Edward gives Étienne’s hand a small squeeze and he smiles softly when his boyfriend laces their fingers together.

 “Yeah, I guess it turned out alright.” He pulls him in for a one-armed hug and Edward nuzzles his face in the crook of Étienne’s neck. They stay that way for a moment, enjoying the possibility and the fact that they’re back here together and even though Edward knows how the first chapter of their relationship ended, he at least knows that they make it back together.

 “It took me a while to realise that I was in love with you,” Étienne tells him gently, “But the signs were there. Those stupid signs Samuel had told me about a million years ago were all there. I felt like such a tool too – that I hadn’t realised it sooner and that of all the things my brother had told me – these were the ones I was going for.”

 “Every time you’d call, I’d feel giddy. Hell, every time the phone rang, and I was expecting your call, I’d run for it, not wanting to miss the call, hoping it was you. I remember walking around in my living room, twisting the telephone cord around my fingers, an excited mess when you’d tell me you were coming back.”

 Edward grins, imagining Étienne doing those things. It’s cute and endearing even and if he holds him a little closer, his boyfriend doesn’t comment on it.

 “I looked forward to all our chats. I couldn’t wait to see you again. I’d even count down the days. I felt – butterflies in my stomach when I would finally see you again. Every time, without fault, I’d just want to scoop you in my arms and hold you close.”

 “For your information, that’s exactly what you’ve always done, sweetheart.” He teases gently. He doesn’t remember Étienne not launching himself at him when he greets him at the airport. He likes it, deep down, even if it’s a little loud and very open – but it’s also so very Étienne and that takes precedence.

 Étienne looks down to him and rolls his eyes, but it’s fond and has no bite. “I know – that’s just the thing, I thought it was normal. We were friends after all. Of course, I was excited to see you. I still do all of those things and I still count down the days to our next visit and I still get those damned butterflies in my stomach when you call or text me or when we see each other. It never fucking stopped – and, well I don’t want it to stop…”

 He trails off for a moment and when Edward looks up at him, he’s happy to see that Étienne’s cheeks have coloured just the same as his.

 “If it makes you feel better, I feel the same way, you know.”

 Étienne presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, “Yeah, I know…”

 At the time, Edward had obviously known that Étienne – liked him, as a friend, but he’d never even started to think that he could like him beyond that, or even love him. If past him could have gotten a glimpse of this very scene, he’s sure the poor fellow would have passed out cold or convinced himself it was some drug induced fantasy worthy of the greatest production of his mind theatre.

 “But then it went beyond that, as if that wasn’t enough. It was the longing to hear your voice; wanting to snuggle up to you. A swooping feeling when you’d kiss me. I wanted to sit and just – spend time with you. Make you laugh. Spend the day together doing nothing. It was less about the drugs and the getting fucked up and more about you – being with you. Wanting to be with you.”  

 “It honest to goodness freaked me out. It felt wrong and stupid to tell you, oh by the way, guess what, I love you, d’you think we can make this work when I specifically told you not to expect a relationship?” He scoffs, annoyed. “Wish I had now.”

 “Hey, you can’t feel sorry for yourself. We’re both to blame. I could have easily done something as well and I didn’t.”

 “Yeah, but, you were going with what I told you. How were you supposed to know?”

 “I could have been bigger about it. Or even told you and laugh it off. The point is, we both didn’t do anything about it and I don’t want you to think that you’re alone in the blame.”

 Étienne lets the issue slide for the moment. He doesn’t want to argue with Edward about this, even though he feels like the bigger part of the blame rests with him. “Still, this was the last thing I wanted to happen yet, there I was completely in love with you, and I had no way of knowing if you felt the same, nor did I want to put you in that spot. In case I did decide to tell you, I didn’t want it to be some big awkward thing. Plus, there was still so much going on for both of us – at least, I know I wasn’t any better; not mentally. Not in the long-term way, anyways. And you weren’t even out to anyone back home.”

 They’ve spoken about that issue in particular. About why Étienne had kept on pestering him about it over the years. It made some sort of sense now that he knew, but at the time, it had annoyed Edward that his friend was so adamant about it. It still didn’t make it okay, but Edward had forgiven Étienne for it – they were beyond that now. (The real question was whether or not Étienne had forgiven himself.)  

 “Yet, the more time went by, the more my feelings for you grew and the more I wanted to try to – be a couple. Be together. Officially and really. I figured if you’d tell me something first – if you gave me a sign that this wasn’t all some construction I’d made in my head, I’d take the plunge – but you never did. And I never gave you an occasion to either. So the proverbial joke was on me.”

 Edward gives Étienne’s hand a squeeze. They’d both been in bad places at the time. He doesn’t regret the step back he had taken from Étienne, for it had given him the space and place to figure himself out and grow, but he had missed him something fierce. It would have been nice to have both at the time; the boyfriend and the coming into himself. He hadn’t exactly been a fan of feeling as though everyone had abandoned him and that he was alone. It would have been nice to welcome the change of the millennium with friends and a boyfriend. But, everything happened for a reason he supposes, even if he doesn’t like said reason. And at least, somehow, things had gotten better over time. It’s already much more than many people unfortunately ever get.

 “There were so many times when I nearly told you. Times when I felt you felt the same. Times when things were good. But every time, I didn’t want to ruin it and make it complicated – figured you knew and therefore, what was the point? We were good and it was all that mattered.” He sighs deeply and picks up the ball again to toss it to Mercury, who goes galloping after it.

 “Retrospectively, I should’ve said something, but I didn’t and then we drifted apart after one argument too many.”

 “Again, it takes two to tango. The blame isn’t yours only.” Edward reminds him. Étienne shrugs and wrestles the ball out of Mercury’s mouth before he throws it again.

 It’s funny how they’ve both tried, over the years, to figure out exactly what happened to their fall out and when, but even they’re fuzzy onthe details. There’d been an argument of sorts, that much they’ve agreed on, and Edward had then returned home. They’d been busy with their own lives, at least one letter had been confirmed lost in the mail and then the years had somehow or other gone by.

 It hadn’t helped that Étienne had stopped going to meetings, so running into him there had happened less frequently. No matter how many times Edward had told himself that he’d make amends at the next meeting, Étienne had never been at it. It also hadn’t helped that the more time went by, the more Edward convinced himself that Étienne had moved on and that it would be pathetic to bring up something that had happened such a long time ago.

 He’d eventually assumed that with their fallout, Étienne had realised that there was nothing to him and that he’d been shelved, just like he’d always feared. It had hurt, obviously, but Edward had been dealing with bigger issues of his own back home and he’d focused his energies elsewhere. Étienne had been a far away fantasy and now that was over.

 On the other hand, Étienne’s own unstable mental health had whispered dark nothings in his ear and had slowly but surely convinced him that Edward had realised that he was messed up and not worth his troubles. He’d then figured that the best course of action was to forget about Edward and move on quickly, before he made a bigger fool of himself. It had pained him, obviously, but it had been the only way.

 Of course, they both realise that there’d been a better option they could have taken, but at least they can say that eventually they did reconnect and had made amends.

“When we stopped hanging out together, I honestly thought it was a temporary thing. Spending that much time together was a novelty anyways, so it didn’t really bother me. We both needed to blow off some steam and I thought for sure things would pick up again soon enough.” He shrugs, “Anyways, I was angry at you as well, so I returned to my regular thing and – put space between us.”

 “I started to worry when days turned to months and then years. It was so – strange, not hearing from you. I wanted to reach out, but I was mad, hurt and petty. Too bad for you, I figured. It’s not like I needed you, I had other friends! But – it felt like I had heard more from you when you didn’t even had a proper post office than now and – it stung. A lot. I went from resenting you to thinking I had fucked up royally and that you no longer wanted anything to do with me. That messed me up even more, because now reaching out to you felt useless. You’d probably just toss me to the side and tell me to get lost.”

 Edward groans and Étienne looks at him, confused. “I think it’s a fucking miracle we managed to actually get back together. I can’t believe we both thought more or less the same thing and it took us that long to – talk.”

 Étienne chuckles, “We’re a special type of stupid.”

 The fact that Edward agrees says a lot about the both of them.

 “I thought it was better to cower away and feel sorry for myself. I tried not to dwell on it too much – tried to move on, while going through a million versions of I told you so. This is why I didn’t want to go ahead and develop feelings! Not only would I get hurt, but you would as well – one way or another, but at least, this way, you had no idea. It was better if you thought I was some heartless monster than some messed up person…”

 Edward wants to once more remind his boyfriend that he is not some monster and that everyone has their own imperfections, but there’ll be time for that later. He needs to make sure that his boyfriend leaves this conversation knowing and reassured that he is not broken.

 “And when I found out about you and Calvin, well that pretty much sealed the deal. You had moved on and I was not about to break that up, regardless of my feelings. I didn’t want to make things even more awkward and complicated, so I kept my mouth shut and just – played it cool; or at least tried to.”

 “What a success that was,” Edward chides even though Étienne had indeed kept his distances and hadn’t brought up his feelings until much later – until after they’d reconnected and after that still.

 “You know what I mean. I may have been called many things in my life, but I wasn’t about to fuck up your relationship just because I was jealous and still loved you.”

 “I know, Sweetheart, I know,” Edward takes a hold of Étienne’s hand and presses a soft kiss to it. He hopes Étienne understands that he’d never thought that about him. He’s relieved when his boyfriend gives his hand a squeeze and that the bite from his voice peters off.

 “It helped when I met new people. That was and is always fun. Building that initial connection, finding that first spark – what they like and what they want. It’s what makes it interesting, really, but of course, even when I hooked up with people just for sex – even when everyone was aware this was just a casual thing, there were still some who’d go ahead and say they loved me. They’d end up thinking that just because we’d meet up a second or third time that it was turning into a serious thing. I just liked their company or wanted to sleep with them again. But they never got it.”

 “At some point, I even faked it. Went along with it. I thought it would be easier. They’d say they loved me, and I’d return it. It – never worked, obviously. I would get tired of pretending. It always felt fake. How could I tell someone I loved them, when they were just a casual friend to me? Or a stranger I had just met? Like, yeah, maybe eventually I would’ve felt love for them – like, with Isabella. We get along great and we certainly have fun, but it’s a casual thing to me. I can’t predict the future, but I certainly do need the time to get to that whole love thing.”

 Edward had been wondering about Isabella, quite honestly. He’d heard of her, over the years, more or less, and Étienne had mentioned a few things about her, but he’d never asked. At first, afraid that his own chance with Étienne was shot and later one because he knew that Étienne loved him and therefore, that was all that mattered to him. Étienne was free to do whatever it was he wanted and if he wanted to share with him on anything, he’d be there to listen.

 Still, with this conversation, he’d been hesitant to ask, afraid Étienne would think he was accusing of something. He’s quite sure he wouldn’t have minded if his boyfriend would have told him he loved Isabella, but he’s also – for the time being – relieved. He supposes he can reflect on exactly why later. There’s enough to process as it is.

 “Yet, it seemed like everyone was after love and everyone equated sex with love, when those two things can be so diametrically different. For so long – for so fucking long there was barely even love in marriages. And now these people were finding love when it was only sex!” He shakes his head as if still in disbelief and Edward gets it, in parts. He’d gone after his fair share of sex only and had only wanted that. He can only begin to imagine how tricky it must have been for Étienne.  

 “Eventually, the other person would feel that there was something off with me. Sometimes, they confronted me about it and then would call me heartless or other such names. How could I not feel the same? They’d ask. What did I mean when I said I didn’t feel love but I didn’t mind them? I must be a monster if I only wanted sex. Christ – why the rush?! They couldn’t understand and it just made me question everything all over again. Had I ever really even loved anyone? Was I really broken? Were they right? Had I missed some great big boat where they were handing out love?”

 “I got tired of that – I’m tired of that.” He sighs and passes an agitated hand through his fringe, before he tugs on a curl that Edward watches bounce back into place. He carefully reaches out for Étienne and puts a comforting hand to his knee.

 “It took me so long to come to terms with the fact that no, I’m not broken.” He admits quietly, “I’m just fine the way I am and it’s okay if romantic feelings never appear, yet every time someone would bring it up, it felt like going back to square one – like I was still that same young man from so many years ago who was terrified I was made broken with missing parts. It honestly got discouraging at times. Like – hell, there’s even a word for it now! Can you believe it?!” He asks without really addressing Edward, “Demi-romantic, how’s that for fun, eh? How fan-fucking-tastic! I now have a shiny new word I can dangle in their faces. As if I needed that to prove my worth! I don’t need crap from others! And I certainly wish my brain could fully get on board with that as well!” He lights up another cigarette, mindful to let the ash fall into the ashtray Edward had dug out for him. He seems a little annoyed, still, - frantic – as if talking about this has brought up some pent up frustration and unprocessed emotions of his, and Edward gently nudges his shoulder and offers him a small smile.

  “You know, even if you had never told me any of this – about you being demi-romantic, I would have never thought of you as broken. I like you the way you are – always have, really.” He knows these words can’t heal all of Étienne’s wounds and he knows they certainly can’t erase the wrongdoings of the past, but he hopes they bring Étienne some comfort, if nothing else. That if Étienne thinks the whole world doesn’t get him, that he’ll always have him. That Edward will always stand in his corner, regardless of their relationship status.

 Étienne gives a sheepish sort of shrug, and takes a long drag from his smoke, before he passes it to Edward, who’s more than thankful for the hit of nicotine. “I’m sorry I went off like that – that turned into some never-ending tangent.” Étienne knows he doesn’t usually over share. In fact, it usually always takes him ages to open up, but Edward has always been his confidant and this had more or less been things he already knew. It had just been different to – verbally tell him, but if they are supposed to be more open and discuss things, he supposes this is a good way to go about it.

 “Don’t apologise – I don’t mind listening to whatever it is you have to tell me, you know that, right?”

 Étienne nods after a moment, “Yeah; thanks for sticking around through all of this, really. I know none of this changes how I acted towards you and what I said and didn’t say, but I’m glad you didn’t toss me under a bus after that whole debacle. I’m glad we got to be friends again and that we’re back together.”

 Edward chuckles and loops an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders to pull him close, “For what it’s worth, I’m also glad we got to be friends again and that we’re back together, silly. I missed having you around.”

 For the first time since this conversation has started, Edward feels as though Étienne’s smile is genuine and it settles something in him. He presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheeks and holds him to his chest for a moment.

 “That’s it – really. I’m just – demi-romantic and was afraid you’d freak out on me, like so many others had. And after all the grief and loss from Gen to Charlotte, Nicholas and Koffey – I was afraid I’d lose you as well. So I kept quiet and – ended up regretting that even more...” He trails off for a moment and Edward feels him tighten his hold on him, “But here we are now,” He says, making his voice sound strong and stopping it from breaking. Despite everything, he’d made it. Despite everything, he’s here, with Edward and Edward still loves him and still wants him in his life.

 “Here we are now.” Edward parrots back. It has to mean something. It has.

 FIN

Part IV

[akaiiros]

The sky glows pink and white, mist rolling in from the mountains and flooding the valley in a way the river hasn’t in years. A girl walks on the low-hanging clouds, holding a pink umbrella and wearing a pink dress. She is barefoot and dark-skinned and as lithe and graceful as an animated cat. She picks flowers from the clouds surrounding her, placing each of them gently in the basket she carries.

Every year there comes a season where the fog rolls in a few times a week, and every day I go down to the dry riverbank and watch her from a distance. The first time I saw her, she was so far away I mistook her for a bird with my binoculars. Every day the fog comes in, she comes closer to where I watch, mesmerized. I hope that she doesn’t see me, and think that I’m creepy. But she’s the most gorgeous being I have ever seen in my life, and so I come back.

I sit at the top of the river-chasm, long since dried up, but the clouds fill it back to the brim. When I am not at the riverbank, I find myself wishing I was back there. I am at peace, watching the fog mist draw across the sky. There my head is full with dewdrops and empty of worry, and when I leave the static comes back until it becomes unbearable. It seems, I am always thinking, but I am always bored: and yet when I am watching her dance across the clouds, I am not thinking but letting the warm air fill my brain, and I am not bored but enraptured, though I am not doing anything.

I wonder, why it doesn’t bore me, and I think that it is because beauty is never boring to witness. There is a type of peace, to sitting and waiting, to not feeling the slightest urge to move. Maybe, I understand what meditating is.

The day finally comes, that she is close enough to hear. She hums a tune in a voice far deeper than I would have expected, and she does not acknowledge my presence. The flowers she picks materialize from thin air, little blue daisies the same as those that are woven through her braided hair. I think, I may be in love with her.

The next day, there is no fog. Or the day after that.

Static returns to grace my head, turning me upside down. I wait for the fog.

I mute my phone. I lay in bed with a migraine, I refuse an invitation to the beach in the sun. I wait for the fog.

I close my eyes, and she dances in my dreams. Her voice is lilting and light like the clouds she walks on, and she tells me she loves me back. I wait for the fog.

My blood rushes so violently in my arteries that it threatens to break through my skin. My atoms vibrate agitatedly, my bones feel brittle and weak. I wait for the fog.

When I think that if I cannot go another day without feeling at peace, the mist rolls back in from the mountains and floods the valley once again. I run outside and take a deep breath. My soul slots itself back into place. I walk out to the riverbank and sit down at my usual place. The girl is already there. I don’t know where she comes from, but blue daisies already line her basket. Her voice vibrates at a frequency so low it seems that my ears can’t hear it, but my body itself.

The girl turns and looks at me, and all of the breath in my lungs rushes out at once. Her features are strong and regal, and her eyes are bright gold, like looking into the sun. “Hi,” I say, feeling at once infinititively small and far too large for the space I should occupy. She does not smile, but instead turns away. “When you watched me, what did you think I would say to you when I reached you?”

A fist clenches around my heart, and at once I feel awful for the small daydreams I’d indulged and the way I’d thought about her, as if she was a painting. I swallow. “Um. I never knew. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, I-“

“I don’t mind. But at least be honest about it,” she says, the low timbre of her voice at shocking me once again.

“You’re right. I was watching you, because I think that you’re mesmerizing.”

She smiles softly, picking one last daisy and sitting down across from me. She floats lightly to and fro on the rolling fog, and I think that she must be some sort of angel.

“You know, I’m not real,” she says. I can’t feel too surprised.

“Does that mean I’m imagining you?”

“No. Just because I’m not real, doesn’t mean I don’t exist.”

“What do you mean? That’s not possible.”

She smiles. “Of course it’s possible. And so is this: Just because you’re real, doesn’t mean you exist.”

“What?” I ask, feeling strangely as if my body had been flipped inside out.

Her eyes gleam golden. “Humans are so curious. It’s your greatest downfall. You search and search for answers, and yet are unwilling to accept the ones you have found.”

“What answers?”

Her smile reminds me of a cheshire cat. “So curious. Tell me, why do you come here? Why do you like to watch me pick daisies? By all rights, you are just sitting in silence, as time passes.”

I close my eyes. “Because it makes me feel at peace.”

“How?”

I take a deep breath. I hadn’t thought about it. “It makes me feel content. That someone else is happy.”

“How would you know if I am happy? I could be miserable, picking daisies every foggy day.”

“You looked happy. I hope you are.”

“Hope. That’s another thing humans haven’t figured out. Hope is just expectations, daydreams, longing. Not happiness. But it makes you feel better, for a while, doesn’t it.”

“So we shouldn’t hope?”

She shrugs. “It keeps me around. But hope can only get you so far. It isn’t real. And it can’t stay forever. And once hope is gone, and the real things take it’s place, you either abandon hope and enjoy reality, or you chase hope and become sad. It’s a funny thing, though, how people view hope. So differently from the way it is.”

“Who are you?” I ask. “Why are you giving me this advice?”

Her eyes bore into me. Like looking into the sun. “You are real, and you choose not to exist. Humans are so bothered with learning to live, that they do not learn to exist. To exist is worthier than to seek a great way to live.”

“What do you mean, I don’t exist?”

The sun is blinding. I think, she knows my mind well. “You come here to feel peace. Here, you exist. Here, I exist. But when you aren’t here, you are still real, and yet you don’t exist. You are not at peace anymore. You need to learn, that there is no sole place to exist. You can exist under the sun. Contentedness is not a trick. You are searching for ways to be happy, but it’s far simpler than you think. You don’t have to do anything, or go anywhere. It’s as easy as sitting. Mesmerizing, you said.”

“But when I leave here, I become unhappy.”

“Because you expect to be unhappy, girl. That’s the downside of hope.”

“But I don’t know what to do to be happy.”

“That’s the problem, darling girl. You think that to be happy, there is something you have to do. You know, happy is something you can simply be. Without rhyme or reason.”

“But aren’t some things not worth being happy?”

Her voice is the thunder that shakes the earth. “Anything is worth being happy. There is no level you have to achieve before you can feel conent. You can simply feel it. If you only allow yourself to be inexplicable.”

“Oh. Thank you. You’re very beautiful,” I say, feeling as if I have just been taught a new philosophy, and not knowing what I could possibly give in return.

“You’re welcome,” she says. And then the sun returns, and the mist rolls out of the valley, and she is gone.

The next day, there is no fog. Or the day after that.

Static graces me by returning to my head, and I think suddenly that I forgot to ask for her name. The lady of the mist, I call her in my mind. I wonder, if the next time I see her, we will talk again. I hope we will, but somehow I think we won’t.

I try to be happy the way she told me to, to simply be. I find myself sitting, fingers twitching, underneath a tree. I can’t find the calm that she brings, so I find a ladder and pick cherries from the orchard. And I wonder: is this happy? Am I allowed to call this happy? Is this close enough to the ideal of elated that I have envisioned for so long that I can finally say I am happy? Or is it simply almost there.

I wonder, will I ever learn to be happy, or is the lady’s philosophy one that I’ll work towards forever without ever achieving. It’s far simpler than you think. It doesn’t feel simple.

The next time the fog comes, I find myself at the riverbank out of pure habit. She is a bit farther down the riverbank now, and I find myself staring at the back of her dress.

“Here again?” she asks in her deep vibrato. I nod.

“I don’t know how,” I say. She doesn’t turn. “I don’t know how to take your advice!” I yell, frustrated.

This time, she turns. She is crying, I notice in shock, great big silver tears like the moon. Her eyes are clouded with silver, so she looks like an eclipse. “I have already told you everything I can. I can’t help you be happy anymore, once I’ve left you.”

“Then don’t leave me!”

She smiles sadly. “I have to. I already told you, yesterday, I can’t stay forever.”

I feel a tear run it’s way down my own face, just a little droplet of water among the vast clouds of mist surrounding me.

“Goodbye, darling girl.”

She is barefoot and darkskinned and as beautiful as the pink skies that carry her, as lithe and graceful as an animated cat. Her pink umbrella depicts the moon and the clouds, and her eyes glow as golden as the sun.

“Wait!” I call. She turns ever so slightly. “What’s your name?”

The sun is returning, the mist rolls out of the valley, carrying her with it. I know somehow that this is the last time I will ever see her. Her voice fades away as she turns translucent, calling out to me.

“Elpis. I’m one of Pandora’s.”

The skies are bright blue and pink and white. Just like her and her daisies. I walk home, and I think that I understand, but I look it up just to make sure.

Elpis. One of Pandora’s.

Hope.

[post-itpenny]

You can never trust a monster

Bright Spaces

Some DBD OC stuff. I apologize if this ran too long. uwu

Thomas has already lost count of how many trials he had been in, a fact he preferred not to dwell too much on.

Instead he chose to look for “bright spaces”, a phrase his grandmother used to use. Finding something good that could lift your spirits in bad times. It was apparently something his great grandfather came up with after they cut wages at the mill he worked at. His grandmother describing how tight funds were when they didn’t have much to begin with.

“Was the Great Depression, everyone was tight. But you find good things in hard times and it’s even better than when you find them in normal times. Tiny treasures.”

For Thomas his bright space was the memories of his grandmother.

For Thomas’ grandmother, her bright space was snow cream.

Thomas has not really thought much about snow cream until a particularly long trial at the Dead Dog Saloon.

At the beginning of the trial Thomas was actually really excited, he was a sucker for the western vibe and it was so nice to see some sun. He knew it wasn’t really the sun of course, there was no warmth here. But it was still nice.

And then The Doctor showed up.

He was on his second hook and had just ducked into an abandoned building as the creep stalked by. Thomas took a moment to catch his breath when he looked up and spotted it on the top shelf.

A bottle of vanilla.

Thomas blinked, processing what he was looking at before swiveling his head around the room. It was a general store- or at least what was left of one.

A little searching proved successful, he found not only the vanilla but a barrel with a few handfuls of what he hoped was sugar and a few empty jars.

The idea of making snow cream in a place like this was absurd… but there was a place to actually get snow so why not?

Surviving the match resulted in his first hatch escape. Some of the other survivors congratulating him and questioning what he had snuck back with him. They all did it, taking things from the trial grounds that is. The current claim to gain was a guy name Steve who somehow got ahold of the “G” from the Gas Heaven sign in Autohaven. Which of course led to a very upset Wraith and a lot of good laughs whenever anyone went for a visit.

Thomas reluctantly shared his plan, childishly worried someone would ask to share in the treat. Thankfully no one did. Perhaps they understand its importance to him.

So Thomas stashed his goods at his sleeping space and for the first time, left to go find a killer’s “home.”

Another thing the others sometimes did, “making house calls” Pandora joked. “Just be careful if you decide to ok? Not everyone likes visitors.”

Thomas gave the redhead a hard look, “you tried to visit that freaky pyramid thing didn’t you?”

She shamelessly grinned and made a comment about cake that left Thomas making curious glances at the killer next match.

The trip to Ormond was a slight trek, following the directions the others had given. As he walked Thomas mused over what his plan actually was. He had nothing to hold the snow in once he got it, so he would have to find something, maybe there was a bowl or vase or something in the lodge. Would The Legion miss it? Despite being around his age Thomas had a feeling they wouldn’t be ok with him just showing up and stealing a bowl.

Come to think of it, finding clean snow would also be a challenge, maybe he could-

Oh….

Well this wasn’t Ormond.

Thomas must have taken a wrong turn, he must have. How else could he wind up in the Village?

Thomas had only come here once, and met the owner much to his dismay considering he died rather quickly. It was maybe his third trial so at least he could give himself some slack for it.

However, it was pretty cool in its own way. His great Grandmother had immigrated to America from a small Austrian village and the winding streets reminded him of the stories of that place passed down courtesy of his grandmother.

Thomas wondered the streets, careful to not stray too far from the road he had walked in on. The place felt like a twisting maze of sorts, empty save for a soft sigh of wind that flowed through alleyways.

And yet-

As Thomas poked around he couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Alright then, guess it was time to go.

Thomas turned back in the direction he had come but only made it a short distance before something caught his eye. Sitting in the window of a house, was a simple wooden bowl.

Thomas looked around, seeing no one he turned back to the bowl, maybe he could-

There was a shill call right behind him. Thomas giving a small yelp of surprise as he spun around to find a crow perched on a stone fence, watching him with its beady eyes.

It was just a bird, part of Thomas really wanted to just tell himself that. But he had already learned the hard way not to take things at face value here.

He gave a small guilty grin. “Y-yeah ok sorry, I’m…. later.”

He all but ran out of the village. Slowing down only once he was surrounded by trees again. Thomas sat down on a fallen tree, looking around to try and get his bearings again. He nearly screamed when he saw her.

The Witch was a very mysterious killer, beautiful and frightening-

And standing about thirty yards away from him.

She was just watching him, or at least he assumed she was as her face was partially obscured by the brim of her hat. She watched him, Thomas staring back feeling very much like a trapped rabbit.

The Witch Gabe a slight tilt of her head, as if in curiosity. Then she was gone, and Thomas sprinted back to the campfire.

It was a strange encounter, and it wouldn’t be the last. It happened again a few days (he assumed days) later. Thomas having tried again to reach Ormond only to miss the turn on the trail he had been following and left to wander in a circle. He saw her much farther away though she must have been aware of his presence as well as she turned in his direction. It was eerie yet nothing compared so many of the other horrors this place held.

“You can never trust a monster.” Thomas would remind himself. Just because she hadn’t done anything yet did not mean she wouldn’t change her mind the next time.

The third time he finally made it, Mount Ormond.

It was easier to find a container than he thought. An old bucket but he didn’t care. He filled it with as much clean snow as he could and booked it back to camp to gather his ingredients. And then leaving for the solitude of the forest.

As he mixed the ingredients together, Thomas remembered his grandmother. The slight rattle in her throat as she spoke that sounded as if she may soon cough.

“I remember one snow I begged mother to let me buy sugar to make snow cream.” She reminisced, looking out the window at the warm sunshine of summer before breaking out into laughter. “Why I was- I was so excited. Back then things weren’t pre-packaged, you told the man what you wanted and how much of it. Then he put it in a paper bag for you. I was running home with this paper bag of sugar and I tripped and spilled it all over the snowy road. I was so upset and trying to scoop it back into the bag!” She laughed again, stopped to really cough this time. “Mother couldn’t be mad at me for wasting sugar because I was mad enough for the both of us!”

Thomas didn’t have a spoon, so he mixed everything with his hand. Fingers numb as he scooped up the first bite to eat. It tasted nothing like the snow cream his grandmother had made. But he cried while he ate it.

There was a rustle of fabric. Thomas looked up and found The Witch hardly standing ten feet from him.

Thomas turned bright red. He must have looked ridiculous sitting in the forest, crying and eating snow. She stood there watching him as she had in the past. She was close enough now that he could actually see her face, hidden under veil and hat.

There was no fight or flight instinct, he was just too tired now.

“Hey,” Thomas mumbled with a small yet awkward wave.

The Witch tilted her head in acknowledgment.

This time it was Thomas that left first. Gathering up his belongings and moving what was left of the snow cream to the now empty sugar jar. She watched, yet did nothing. When he stood up to leave she had already blended back into the shadows. Thomas made a slight detour, deciding to leave the jar of leftover snow cream in the middle of the road that makes the start of the village. He moved on with a shrug, maybe she needed a bright space too.

[manrocket-mo]

Right Where We Are - Morgan Rielly

requested: no

word count: 4,600

author’s note: LET’S. GO. RAPTORS. I was writing this before I even knew Mo would be back in Toronto so how perfect is this?? I also predicted the outcome of tonight’s game before tip so if its not correct, please don’t hurt me haha.  As always, this fic will be linked in my masterlist. Check it out for all my Mo/NHL player fics.

You had been seeing Morgan for about six months now and despite your mutual understanding of just having fun, it was starting to get pretty serious. There was never a label put on whatever it is that you were but casual was no longer it. You were constantly at his place, staying over, sleeping in with him, cuddling on the couch over movies and laughs and ice cream. You were holding hands. You were kissing him. You were wondering when was the next time you could see him, talk to him, be with him.

You were no longer just the girl that Mo was seeing around town. You were the girl that Mo was keeping around. The girl that was capturing his heart. And that made Mo as protective as ever.

You had never seen him so guarded, so hyper aware of everyone around him, so careful. You had stopped going out for dinner or movies or brunch and opted for nights spent in. And while you loved any time you could spend with him, you were getting weary of what it meant to be locked in all the time when all you wanted was to freely be with him.

“What do you want tonight?” Morgan asks when he pulls his lips away from yours, his arms around you, his eyes bright and blue with excitement after not seeing you for a few days.

“Pizza is fine... again, I guess.” You try to avoid eye contact as you sank back into your couch, pulling the blanket back over your body where it had been before he came knocking at your door.

“Y/N, did I say something?” Morgan wonders in response to your snark sitting next to you and pulling your legs over his.

“It’s stupid... it’s nothing,” you mumble, taking his hand in yours and playing with his fingers.

“No, tell me,” he prompts, his voice soft, enough to pull your attention back to him.

“I’m just... I know that this wasn’t the deal... but I’m tired of this... I’m tired of hiding!” And now that Pandora’s box had been opened, you couldn’t stop. “I want to see you in the daylight, Morgan. I want to see you at night when all the streetlights are on and we’re walking back from dinner. I—I want to know this is real, on the outside where there are real problems and real situations and people and birds and—.“ His face was suddenly so unreadable in your rant, so set in stone that you lost all courage, all momentum. “Nevermind...”

You were hurt, there was no denying it.

“You know we can’t,” he spoke, looking away from you, his eyebrows furrowed. You had heard this so many times, in so many tones of voice, in so many situations that you were just tired of arguing. “We aren’t serious, Y/N. If you were hurt because of me, because of this... I would never forgive myself.”

Because of this.

This.

“Okay.” It was simple. It was a non-conversation. It was not up for discussion. It was a done deal.

And it was obviously all one-sided, whatever way you choose to look at it.

“Okay.” It wasn’t the answer you were hoping for. It was easy. It was casual, much like whatever this was. “Pizza it is.”

As if the conversation had never even started.

You hadn’t seen Morgan in a few weeks or so when he went home to Vancouver for Mother’s Day and didn’t return. You hadn’t heard from him other than a few texts and snapchats here and there that were left on read, that didn’t go anywhere so you tried to occupy your mind elsewhere, with work, with reading, with trying to be healthier, and with just learning to not be so codependent on the boy that had stolen your heart.

All was going well.... except for the last one.

You were checking your phone as often as you could, hoping for one text, one post, one tweet. You just wanted anything from him.

After all that had transpired, you still wanted him.

But how much of him?

Maybe it was over, maybe you should’ve just let a good thing happen.

And with all this time, you were left to stew over it all. When did it all shift? When did things begin to change? Why did it all change?

Everything was fine. Everything was more than fine. And then it all changed. Your feelings for him changed.

You sigh, pulling your backpack strap back up as it slid down your shoulder as you shuffled for your keys. You had been sent home early by your boss with no reasoning but despite that, you were still exhausted, emotionally and mentally.

So exhausted that you almost screamed when you saw something, someone standing in the shadows across the hall from your apartment.

It was Morgan, standing there, unannounced, leaning against the wall.

You stopped dead in your tracks, a full five yards between you. “What are you doing here? Thought you were still in Van?”

“Couldn’t come see my girl?” he asks playfully, shooting you that charismatic smile that got you here in the first place.

“I’m not your girl, Morgan,” you mumble as you step forward and begin to unlock your apartment. “Besides, you couldn’t call, text?”

You watch as he follows you in and kicks off his shoes. You turn to him as soon as you deposit your backpack in it’s spot by your desk.

He shrugs now that he has your attention. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Morgan... this is exhausting.” You come around to where he had taken a seat at one of the barstools in your kitchen and face him, eyeing him wearily as he looked up at you. “I can’t keep doing this.”

He sighs, his face full of conflict. He hesitated for a second before placing his hands on your hips, drawing you in between his legs.

“Humor me, one last time,” he murmurs, his face somber.

One. Last. Time.

Although you thought you were ready, you were anything but. Nothing could prepare you for this. And you feel the pain in your chest, the feeling of loss and grief taking hold of your heart.

One. Last. Time.

And all you can do is nod and choke out an “okay,” before taking him in your arms, burying your face in his neck.

“I got your favorite,” he mumbled against your hair. “That Thai place down the street that you love so much. And the cookie dough from Dough T.O. Our favorite!”

You pull back and examine him, the sweet boy you feel for right before you. “But you hate Thai food.”

He smiles at you softly, pushing a piece of hair dangling in your face behind your ear. “But for you I’d do anything even if that means heartburn for the rest of the night.” You begin to melt and you feel your eyes begin to water. “Anything to make my girl happy.”

You smile at that and lean in to press your lips to his softly, gently, maybe for the last time before wrapping him back up in your arms and pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck.

He lets you hold him and he holds you in return, his chin settled on your shoulder. And you stand there and just be for a few more minutes, two people standing as one before the magic spell is broken and you separate.

“Come on, let’s eat. I’m willing to bet you didn’t have time to eat lunch.” You shake your head and he rolls his eyes disapprovingly. “So stubborn.”

And with that he leads you to your coffee table where he breaks out the food. “I got us Pad Thai and rolls to share and green curry for you and Thai fried rice for me.”

“Baby,” You mutter jokingly, eyeing him as you sat, legs crossed next to him, your knees and arms brushing.

He winks at you and then it all shifts, something shifts and he’s just looking at you, over the food, over this thing that you had been doing for months, over whatever this was. His eyes are on your lips and he leans in and presses a gentle kiss on them, so sweet, so tender, so effortless.

And it felt that way. It could be so effortless to just be.

But it wasn’t and you resigned, dropping his gaze almost embarrassed to be feeling the way you do and go back to your food.

And you have to force yourself to cherish the moment, not waste a second, a second that you could be hearing his voice, his laugh, feeling his warmth.

“When did you get in?” You wonder, wrapping the noodles around your fork.

“‘Round noon. Haven’t been in town for very long.”

“Quick trip?” You hoped not even though you knew better than to hold out.

“Something like that.” The nonchalance was enough to cause you to almost flinch. “...Just wanted to see your face.”

You tried to tell yourself not to hope. You tried to warn yourself but you were a lost cause.

And he told you about Vancouver, about Maggie, about the outrageous summer project his dad had taken on renovating the patio in their family backyard, about his mom helping him decorate his bare Vancouver home. But he also asked about you, how work was, how you were. He paid attention, he smiled when you told him about the project you just wrapped up, he congratulated you on the promotion down the pike and the raise that came with it and hitting the month goal for your spin class... he listened and laughed and was present in the moment. And you were, too, easily reminded why you were in so deep.

And as dinner wound down with the sun starting to drop behind the trees in the distance, you started to feel your temporary happiness waning.

Suddenly, Morgan pushes himself off the living room floor and your heart falls into the pit of your stomach. Your eyes follow him desperately as he rounds your couch and disappears into the kitchen. You listen for the scrape of his sneakers as he puts them on and the slamming of the door but instead you’re surprised as he returns to the room with a bag in each hand.

Goodbye gifts.

“Morgan...”

He returns to you wearing your favorite smile and comes to a seat on the couch next to where you were seated on the floor.

He places the bag in your lap and when you look at him questioningly, he chuckles and responds with, “open it. Humor me.”

And you do, unwrapping the box from the tissue and pull out a new pair of Jordan’s from the box.

“You got me... sneakers?” you ask, thoroughly confused.

“Not just sneakers, Y/N... Jordan’s.”

“Okay... you bought me the same red, black and white Jordan’s that you have? Not that I’m ungrateful... thank you so much!” You tried to sound enthusiastic but  you were not only confused but disappointed.

Morgan laughs, probably at your expression and presses. “Try the other bag.” He places the second bag next to you and this time, you pull out his Raptors sweater.

“Morgan...” as you tried to put two and two together, your brain could only concoct one explanation and it seemed a stretch.

“You wanted a date night so we’re having a date night,” he shrugs nonchalantly but his underlying smile betrays him.

“Morgan, are you serious?” you ask, your hands raising the sweater.

“Yeah, I’m serious, Y/N! Game starts in about two and a half hours so we should probably get moving if we want to beat traffic.”

“You’re not kidding!” You mumble, a tear escaping from your eyes. “B-but you said—“

Morgan dropped to the floor next to you, one hand immediately going to cradle your face in his palm. “You waited patiently for me for so long and I’ve been unfair with you by asking you to hide when you didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But Morgan, you don’t have to—if you don’t want to—“

“But I want to. God, I’ve wanted to for so long and what better way than to take my girl out on the town.”

You melt into a puddle right there, in the middle of your living room looking at the boy, the man who had made you so happy these past few months. “You’re flexing and you know it,” you giggle, still wiping tears from your eyes. “But I enjoy it. And I enjoy you.” You lean forward and press your lips to his, your arms winding around his neck. “Thank you.”

Your kiss takes a passionate turn but not for long. “Come on, sweet girl,” he breathes as he pulls away, your lips chasing his. “Go and get dressed. We have a game to get to!” He stands and pulls you to your feet, leading you by hand into your bedroom.

“What do I wear?” You wonder to yourself, walking into your closet.

“Wear those leather legging things. Your butt looks amaaaazing in them,” he yells from your bed.

You roll your eyes and glare at him. “You won’t even get to see my butt half the time. I’ll be sitting.”

“But I’ll know what’s there.” He wags his eyebrows and you pull the leggings out of the drawer and throw it at his smug face.

“How about this?” You pull out a jean jacket to layer over the sweater and hold it over your torso for Morgan to see.

“Ahh, that’s where my denim jacket went...” he mused. “I’ve been looking for that.”

You came back to join him in bedroom and shed your jeans to pull on the leggings. “You see here, you left it here and didn’t mind me wearing it the next morning so I called it even and it’s mine now.”

“And as I remember it, the way you wore it would be enough to convince anyone of absolutely anything.” His arms wind around your hips and pull you in.

“And as I remember it, we have a date night to get to, so don’t distract me.” You push him onto his back and giggle as he let out a muffled groan.

“What have I gotten myself into?” He grunts as he eyes you pulling your work blouse off your body. You wink at him as you pull on his oversized sweater on. “Ugh, I love when you wear my clothes.” He throws himself back and you laugh, reaching for your sock drawer where you pull out a pair of Raptors socks.

“Where’d you get those?” He asks curiously as you pull them over your ankles.

“When I used to intern for their creative department,” you shrug.

He sits up on his elbows. “Huh, I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

You chuckle, watching his eyes grow as you crawl into bed with him, leaning over his body to press a kiss to his cheek. “Guess there’s a lot left to learn... come on, let’s go.”

And he follows you like a lost puppy, shaking his head, a smirk affixed on his lips as you pulled on your new kicks and slammed the door behind you.

The drive down Lake Shore Boulevard is a nervous one, even more so with the traffic leading to Scotiabank arena, with the people lining the streets of Toronto, with all the eyes of passersby. The only thing keeping you present was Morgan’s horrible singing voice, barely keeping up with the tunes playing from your Spotify playlist, curated from songs you both loved to listen to.

“Ahh, remember this song?” He wonders, pulling your hand up to press a kiss to it.

“What?” You ask, snapping out of your stupor, your worries.

“The song. Remember, we danced to it that one night it got stormy out and we were trapped in my apartment and you laughed at me because you said my singing was terrible.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t make fun of you. You’re just dramatic!”

“No way, you did. Bet you won’t be able to hold the insults in if I sing again, ready?!” He inhaled dramatically. “And darling, I will be loving you til we’re 70!”

You had to bite your lip to not laugh at him. He was ridiculous but you liked him. You liked this boy a lot. A lot, a lot.

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging!” He brings your hands, intertwined, to his mouth singing and then to yours for you to chime in.

“So honey, now! Take me into your loving arms!”

“There we go! Sing it!” He encourages and you burst into a fit of giggles, leaning into him and resting against his shoulder as he pressed his lips to your temple, humming along to the love song playing through the speakers, warming your heart.

Turns out, Mitch was tagging along as a third wheel, which you were okay with because he tended to just bounce around on his own, too hyped on Red Bull to really pay attention to one thing or the other. You laughed as he pulled you into a tight hug before rushing off to go and give Naz a hard time about his hat.

“Y/N, where are you going?” Morgan asks as you wander behind Connor and Zach in the line to the suite elevator.

“Going up to the suite?”

Morgan reaches out and grabs your hand, gently pulling you in his direction.

“We’re going this way,” he corrects, smiling at you angelically.

“But the floor is that way,” you mutter.

“Exactly...”

You pull him to a stop in the hallway leading to the locker rooms. “Morgan, what did you do?”

“What?” He asks, a goofy grin spread across his face. “I can’t spoil my girl?”

“Morgan... it’s game 5. Of the FINALS. Wha—“

“Don’t worry about it okay?” He takes your folded hands and presses another kiss to it as he had been doing all afternoon. “This is our date night and I want to spoil you. You deserve to be spoiled.”

“Spoil me—“

“Ahahah, I don’t want to hear it.”

“But—“

“But nothing.”

“Can you spoil me with a churro at least?”

“That I can do.”

And he did, churro and a drink for each of you later, you were headed for your court-side seats. You spotted Mitch immediately, waving ridiculously your way as if you couldn’t see him and headed in his direction.

“What’re you doing?” Mo whines when you place a seat between you and him, a seat for his teammate.

“Thought you’d want to sit next to Mitchy...” you looked to him questioningly, confused.

“Why would I want that?”

“Hey!” Mitch protested.

Morgan ignored him and patted the seat next to him in the cramped row adorning the arena floor. “I want to sit with my girl.”

You hesitate, taking a look around you, at the people, the cameras in full-force, the Toronto media occupying every available inch. “But Mo, the people... they want to see you and Mitchy, not me. It’ll be hard to crop me out of photos when I’m right between the two of you.”

“And I don’t care what they want, honestly. I just want to be sidled up with my date enjoying a good game, not Mitchell Marner screaming in my ear with any turnover like he’s Drake.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his again and caresses it with his thumb. “Come on.”

And you scoot on over, leaving Mitch on the end.

“Much better,” Morgan sighs, his arm resting around you.

“You’ll still have someone yelling in your ear but at least I’m not Mitchy, I guess.”

“Big basketball fan?” You nod, enthusiastically. “How’d I not know that?”

“The more you stick around, the more you learn,” you tease. But suddenly your playful mood dissipates with the attention you’re garnering sitting next to Morgan.

“Are you sure about this?” You mumble, watching the girls on the sidelines making eyes at Morgan.

“Mhmm.” He presses his lips to your hair, humming as he watches the end of shoot-around. His eyes finally follow yours and he turns his body further into yours so that your knees are touching, closing himself off to the prying eyes. Body language was everything. “Let’s just enjoy date night. I’m here with you.”

And you did enjoy date night, every single second of it. You clapped wildly when the Raptors piled on to their point total and threw up your hands made into threes whenever the team put one in from behind the arc. You rivaled even Mitch when it came to cheering along.

“Do you scream this loud at Leafs games?” Morgan chuckles, leaning in, his lips right at your ear as the crowd goes wild during a timeout.

“I do for you,” you shrug. “I think so, if not louder.”

“I know you do.” It was suggestive. You didn’t even have to look at him to know and you shove him away, your cheeks rosy before turning your attention back to the game. You grab his hand in yours, although your attention is on the play on the court.

When the halftime hits, you’re about to beeline for the restrooms when Morgan begs you to stay in your seat.

“Just a few minutes,” he mutters, his head on a swivel as if waiting for something.

That’s when the PA announces the start of the Kiss Cam segment, sponsored by some outrageous jeweler in Queens West.

“How coincidental,” you laugh as Thinking Out Loud comes on over the arena’s sound system. And you giggle at couples on the video board, either not paying attention, awkwardly smiling and waving or eating each other’s faces. “This is SO cringe-worthy, I could die.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you see hasty movement and look to see Mitch, standing on the court, jumping up and air-traffic control signalling to you and Morgan.

“Mitchell, sit down!” You mumble only for him to continue his antics. “MITCHELL!”

But it was too late. The next time you looked up, you saw your reflection on the video board, right next to Morgan, a heart drawn around your faces. The crowd aww’d in unison and you covered your face in horror.

“Morgan!” you squeal but to no avail because the camera refused to budge, sticking to the two of you, Toronto’s favorite son and his date.

“Come on, Y/N, they won’t move on til they get what they want,” Morgan whispers softly into your ear. “Just kiss me. It’s just you and me.”

His hand cupped your cheek and when you looked into his eyes, despite how scared you were in that moment, how nervous, despite all the people yelling and screaming around you, you felt the pressure dissipate. Instead all you saw where his soft blue eyes, gazing at you, as if you were the only girl in the world. He looked at you the way he did that night when you were dancing with him, a little wine drunk to the song playing over the speakers, he looked at you. Suddenly it was just and him and you leaned in and let your lips brush against his. It was soft, it was gentle, it was heartwarming. It brought you home, not to Toronto, not to your apartment but to him, the person you fell for, the man you admire and adore in his uniform, in his joggers, in absolutely nothing at all.

His thumb brushing against your cheek brings you back and the arena went wild. You smile at him shyly and he grins back at you, smile brighter than any of the spotlights in the building. Brighter than the gleam and shine of the trophy that was on the line.

“I guess I have to share you with all of Canada now… they love you, Y/N.” Morgan points up, referring to the rabid fans and you blush wildly, pushing your face into his shoulder. “It’s a good thing I do, too.” His whisper into your ear sends your heart galloping in your chest.

The Raptors could’ve won that night and this moment would be the highlight for nights and nights to come.

“What if I don’t want you to share me?” You wonder, pulling back to gauge his reaction, your cheeks on fire.

“It’s a good thing I’m selfish because there’s no way I’m giving you up ever again.” And with that, you press your lips to his again and the crowd goes even wilder.

“Just you and me, baby,” he breathes shallowly into your ear, trying to catch his breath.

And the Raptors do win the championship that night but you can’t imagine anyone happier than you, snuggled up to Morgan on your bed at the end of the night, cuddled up in his sweater, finishing the last of the cookie dough he had brought earlier in the day. The city of Toronto was outside lighting it up but you both chose the quiet and comfort of home to enjoy each other’s company.

“When you kissed me on the court, you knew what you were getting yourself into, right?”

He nodded and takes your hand in his. “I wanted everyone to know that you, Y/N, are mine, my girl. I wanted everyone to know that we’re not sneaking around anymore. That we’re…us”

You smile at him, your heart singing in your chest. “You planned this, didn’t you? The entire thing?”

He nods. “I owe quite the number of favors and have about a dozen kids birthday parties of MLSE executives to attend but it was worth it.” He sneaks in a peck on your cheek. “Seeing you smile out there will always be worth it to me.”

You lean your head on his shoulder and sighed contently when he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Now, come on. Time to pack. We got a plane to catch soon.” He gets up and holds a hand out for you.

“What?”

“I told you, it was a quick trip. We got a flight in five hours back to Van.”

“‘Morgan, what? I have work tomorrow, I can’t just—“

Morgan laughs. “No, you don’t. Why do you think you got sent home early today?” Your face must say it all. “We got a whole week to ourselves, baby girl.”

“But how?” You move to your kneel on the bed so that you’re face-to-face with him.

“Birthday parties, remember?” You nod slowly, processing everything he had meticulously planned. “I think it’s time that you meet my family. Meet my mom. She’s really excited to meet you.”

Tears rise in your eyes. “Your mom?!” He nods. You throw your arms around his neck and squeeze him to you. “But you said you didn’t share,” you remind him through your soft sobs.

He pulls back, gazing at you lovingly, his thumb brushing your tears away. “Darling, I will be loving you til we’re 70. I think we have time.”

“All the time,” you agree. “Even though you can’t sing…”

“Baby, we found love right where we aaaaare.”

And you giggle uncontrollably, pressing your lips to his, whether it was to stop the singing or to make up for lost time, you weren’t sure.

“Come on, baby girl. We have to get you packed.” He pulls back but you can’t get enough.

Your lips chase his and when you finally run out of breath, you mumble his words: “Humor me.”

[antihero-writings]

The Things He Left Unsaid--Pandora Hearts Fic for Phmonth Tragedy Trio Week, Day 4: Breath (full fic!)

Title: The Things He Left Unsaid 

Synopsis: But he kept it all inside his head/ What he saw he left unsaid/ And though he wanted to/ He couldn't talk to you/ He couldn't find the way/ But he would always say/ If I could tell her/ Tell her everything I see/ If I could tell her/ How she's everything to me/ But we're a million worlds apart/ And I don't know how I would even start. Oswald has never been much for words, but he does care about Lacie…Does he ever tell his sister how much he loves her?

Notes: This was written for @Phmonth19 Tragedy Trio Week, Prompt 4: Breath, as well as the song "If I Could Tell Her" from Dear Evan Hansen. And I hope you guys enjoy it too!! Let me know what you think!! This one goes out to @song-of-amethyst/Maisunadokei1856, who loves Oswald and the Tragedy Trio in general, and deserves more great fics for them, as well as for helping me come up with ideas for this fic, and to @gemini-in-tauro who loves Dear Evan Hansen and Pandora Hearts!! Please go check out their fics!!​

Fic: 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Oh, just that he thinks you’re…wonderful.”

Lacie’s eyes lidded. “This is still my brother we’re talking about?”

Jack laughed a little. “Definitely.”

“Remind me again, how long have you known him?”

“Fine, don’t believe me.” He hugged his knees, “But I’m pretty good at reading people. He’s just…not so much with the words,” he said in a deep voice, imitating the one they were talking about. “But I can tell he really cares about you.”

Lacie looked at the ground, those red eyes flickering. “How can you tell?”

“Well…” Jack looked up into the sky, thinking. “Your smile.” He turned to her, as if appraising that smile…which was not currently present on her face.

“What about my smile?”

“It’s sort of…” he traced patterns in the ground, “subtle, and perfect, and real.”

She scoffed. “What does this have to do with my brother?”

“See, I’ve only been around that smile for a little while, but your brother, well …he’s been around it his whole life. I have trouble believing anyone could be around that smile so long and not fall in love with it.”

“Riight…”

“Let’s see…whenever you get bored you escape your tower to watch the stars, dragging innocent boys into your schemes,” they both smirked, “and make up lyrics to his songs…What’s not to love about that?”

That coerced a smile onto her face. He noticed it, and sat up, continuing.

“He told me about your cooking for him. Like that time you made him a birthday cake.”

“So what?”

“He said it…” he swallowed like he didn’t want to say anything negative about her, “tasted horrible.”

“And?”

“He still ate it, didn’t he?”

She turned to the stream, considering it. “What else? What else did ‘my brother’ notice about me?”

“Well… if nothing else, there’s one I know he notices:” He pushed his hair back behind his ear as a breeze brushed by. “the way you sing and dance. You know, without reserve…like the rest of the world isn’t there.”

“Are you sure these aren’t all things a certain Vessalius boy thinks about me?”

His face split into a grin. “Quite the mystery isn’t it?”

She shoved his shoulder, knocking him, laughing, down into the grass.

“Alright so maybe I can’t know all that.” He sat back up. “But he does love you. I just…don’t think he knows how to tell you.” He paused. “You two are worlds apart, really. He, never straying from the rules. You, the unchanging free spirit.” he looked at her, then at the ground, like he wasn’t supposed to speak the words aloud. “But he does love you.”

She watched an ant crawling in the grass.

“Or maybe he notices when you two are talking about him behind his back!” they started as the object of their discussion spoke.

“O-Oswald!” Jack stood up, brushing himself off. “W-we were just talking about…”

His eyes lidded at him, then he turned to Lacie, who smiled sweetly, finishing Jack’s attempt at a lie with a too-overt truth.

“How much you looove me.”

He rolled his eyes.

*****

To say sleep eluded him wouldn’t have done the scene justice. Instead of resting quietly on his eyelids, sleep pummeled Oswald, tossed and turned him over like dough, sent him to the ground beside his bed, until finally the restlessness of his mind spilled out as tears on his face.

“Nii-sama?”

The little boy hugged his knees, hiding his face.

Lacie’s tiny feet pattered over to him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

He hugged his knees tighter.

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid anyways,” he muttered.

She sat down next to him, pulling a blanket from his upturned bed around both their shoulders.

“You’re right, it probably is.”

He glared at her, revealing his tear-stained cheeks.

“But it’s keeping you up…so it can’t be completely stupid.”

He turned his head to the side, looking away, wiping his nose.

“It’s the ceremony tomorrow, isn’t it?” She cocked her head further to the side, trying to make him see her.

He didn’t reply.

“What are you scared of? …Is it the creepy door? It’s really not that scary once you go in!”

“No…And Master told you not to go in there without permission.”

“You don’t want to have a big ugly bird inside you?” she continued as if she hasn’t heard him.

“No it’s not that…It’s just…”

“You don’t want to drink its blood?”

“No…Ugh…That’s not…”

Lacie cocked her head to the side, at last listening patiently.

At her patience, Oswald turned towards her. “Master Glen keeps talking about how I’m gonna be his next bodily vessel, and I’m honored but…what does that mean?”

She blinked, as if to say What do you mean ‘what does that mean’?

“Well…When he starts putting these ‘Chains’ inside me…when I become Glen…Am I…Am I…Am I gonna stop being… me?” he squeaked, like saying the words allowed made them scarier.

Lacie paused a moment, putting a finger to her chin as if contemplating it, then simply said, “You think too much, Nii-sama.”

He folded his arms and looked away.

“I can’t pretend I understand half of what Glen talks about—”

“Master Glen.”

“—so I don’t really have an answer but…what’s the use worrying about it?”

He slowly turned towards her.

“If you don’t want to be his next ‘bodily vessel’—whatever that means—then why don’t you say something? Do something? Try to change it?”

“No…I-I…do…I mean, at least, I know I should…it’s just…”

“Then why spend time making yourself miserable thinking about what could go wrong? If and when that happens, you’ll be older, right? You’ll understand. You don’t need to keep yourself up thinking about it now.”

“But—”

She put her finger on his lips, then took his face and turned it towards her to tell him she wasn’t finished. “And you’ll always have me. Even if you become some creep, or monster, I’ll still be me. And I’ll be there to punch you if you do.”

A smile crept up onto his face. He rubbed his nose.

That was the first time he felt like he could breathe the whole night.

“You promise?”

She smiled, holding up a fist. “Oh, believe me, I will.”

That smile. More irrefutable than any argument. Like she refused to let the sadness reach her. Just that smile was enough. Enough to push the darkness away, if only for a moment.

She pulled him into a hug, and they rested their heads on each other’s shoulders.

He wanted to tell her. To tell her how much that smile meant to him. How grateful he was that she had cheered him up. How grateful he was to have her. How much it meant to hear that she wasn’t going anywhere, and she’d make sure he wasn’t going anywhere either. How much hope she gave him.

He took a deep breath.

He wanted to use it to say ‘I love you, Lacie.’

Instead he let it out.

*****

Lacie had always been atrocious in the kitchen.

Not just that she didn’t know how to cook, bake, or otherwise hold a whisk. She decimated the space. Even the simplest of recipes would end with the counters covered in sauce, batter, frosting, or other undisclosed semi-liquids; the bowls stacked around the room like she’d been trying to create a tower with them; spoons, spatulas, knives, and other utensils strewn about like they’d gotten lost on the way to the drawers. And that was nothing to say of the chef herself; her advancements in the field left her face and dress covered in ingredients. The servants always played rock-paper-scissors over who would have to clean her dresses after these endeavors (aprons, apparently, were too restricting… and her dress would get covered somehow, even if she wore them).

But it was Oswald’s birthday.

And she would be damned if she wasn’t going to bake him a cake.

The moment they learned of her plot, the servants, and any other people who didn’t want to end up in the splash zone, sectioned off the area as if it were a crime scene.

There was one, however, who didn’t mind insane situations, in fact quite enjoyed running straight into the daydreams of deranged little girls, and never missed a date with madness.

A few of the servants raised a finger as he walked by, as if to warn him, but thought better of it.

Glen opened the door, ducking as a spatula landed centimeters from his head, without a change in expression.

“This stupid batter won’t listen to me!” the little girl slammed her fists on the counter as another spoon clattered to the ground.

He chuckled. “Well, what exactly have you be telling it? Maybe if you stopped insulting it and actually had a decent conversation it’d be more prone to listen to you.”

She scowled at him.

He strolled over to her, throwing a “Let’s see what kind of mess we’re dealing with here,” over his shoulder as he observed the mangled batter. He dipped his finger in and tasted the concoction from which getting salmonella was the least of his worries. “Have you tried adding sugar? It always helps spruce things up.”

“Hmm,” Lacie grunted, pattering over to the opposite counter, stretching for the sugar container against the back wall. She glared at him when reached over and grabbed it with ease, dropping it in her hands, as if she wanted to do this all on her own.

“Now what?”

“Well, I’d suggest you add it in and mix it, but that’s just me.”

She proceeded to add it in in handfuls without measuring.

“This might help,” he slid a measuring cup over to her.

She used it…just not in the intended way; she didn’t pay attention to all those pesky little lines.

“Can we add chocolate?” she asked when she had sufficiently smothered the batter in sugar.

“Sure, add whatever you want,” he sang, grinning as she found the cocoa powder and, once again, paid no regard for rules or recipes.

They proceeded to spend at least another hour like this, with Glen giving her vague instruction, Lacie pouting as she followed it with her own flair.

In the end two chocolate covered gremlins stared down at their droopy, half-frosted baby and grinned…for very different reasons.

Glen went to retrieve Oswald, and once they finished dinner, they sang to him, presenting the monstrosity (which, if it was remotely edible, was only due to Glen’s suggestions).

Oswald stared at the slowly wilting gift like it was an insurmountable mountain he’d just been asked to climb.

He had some experience with Lacie’s kitchen adventures. One time she tried to feed him something she called “The Lacie special” but he was sure was a frog she accidently set fire to (…needless to say he did not finish). Another time she’d actually tried to make him a decent meal, and forced himself to eat enough of it that he spent the night puking it up. And now, apparently, he was supposed to eat this…thing in front of him.

Glen cut him a too-large piece and slid it over to him with a grin, and the air of an executioner serving a criminal his doom.

Oswald swallowed, digging his fork in with determination, then brought it to his mouth, preparing himself for the assault that was about to happen.

It wasn’t…good. Too sweet and too bitter at the same time, and the texture all wrong.

But it also wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

“What do you think, Nii-sama?”

He wanted to tell her the truth.

“Mmm hmm” he grunted, trying to sound satisfied.

She beamed proudly. “Good!” she pushed the plate closer to him. “There’s plenty more where that came from!”

Oswald looked to Glen for mercy, only to find he was trying to stifle his laughter.

He continued to shovel bites into his mouth, hoping this wouldn’t be the end of him.

He wanted to make up some excuse, wanted someone to rescue him.

But that would erase the smile from her face.

He wanted to tell her, regardless of how it actually tasted, how happy it made him that she would do this for him. He wanted to tell her how much it meant to him that she spent the day making this for him. He wanted to tell her that every birthday is happy as long as she’s in it.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

He wanted to say ‘I love you’.

Instead he kept eating the cake.

*****

When Oswald arrived at the top of the tower, his sister was nowhere to be found.

This wasn’t exactly a rarity. Lacie wasn’t the kind of person who liked to sit in towers quietly, talking to the birds and dreaming of a world out there. She went out and grabbed everything off the world’s shelves herself.

He picked up a few stray socks and ribbons—(he always found himself cleaning up her messes)—and stepped up to the window to close the curtains for evening.

…There she was, sprawled out on the grass outside.

He banged his head against the windowframe.

He knew well she was plagued by countless whims and impulses, and unburdened by a sense of discipline over them…still, why she would be out at this hour exactly was beyond him.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He asked when her impulses had dragged him outside too.

“Shouldn’t you be?” she smirked.

He looked away, folding his arms, daring not to say you’re the reason I’m out here.

She patted the grass next to her as if she’s saved him a seat at the opera.

He rolled his eyes, but sat down all the same.

“What exactly are we doing out here?”

“What does it look like? Stargazing.”

His folded his arms, incensed there was a reasonable explanation for all this.

“What rhymes with ‘purple’?” she asked after a moment.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“The color.”

“I know what you meant… I’m just having a difficult time connecting stargazing to rhymes with purple.”

“They’re not connected, dummy.”

She pushed him down into the grass, making sure he didn’t miss her favorite show.

“I’m making up lyrics to one of your songs.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened at both her actions and her responses, then he paused, staring up into the pockmarked sky, admiring the view, thinking. “…I don’t think there are any rhymes for purple.”

“There must be…” she rested her head on his chest, staring up at the stars herself, “Maybe they just haven’t been invented.” She traced patterns on the back of his hand.

“You’d like to invent a word for one of my songs?”

“Maybe. Why? Are you against ‘shmurple’ being a word in one of your songs?”

“I’m not for it.”

She laughed. “Fine, I’ll pick a boring, real word.”

He carded his free hand through her hair, trying not to smile.

This was… nice.

He wanted to tell her off for escaping her tower, especially at this hour, but she had a way of pulling people into her antics, even her law-abiding brother at times.

Now, laying out in the grass, golden lights keeping watch over them, their breath carried away by the breeze…he thought he might like to stay.

He wanted to tell her that. How grateful he was for moments like this. That he wished this star-struck moment could last forever. Just him and his little sister hiding away from the rest of the world. Just Oswald and Lacie, no ill omens, no Baskervilles, no trials nor Juries, nor cursed titles and the responsibilities that came with them.

He took a deep breath.

He wanted to use it to say ‘I love you.’

Instead he let the stars have their moment.

*****

Another area in which Lacie had little to no expertise was, ironically, needlework. Plenty of girls in this day and age were prone to sitting on the couch quietly and embroidering, crocheting, sewing up a dress, knitting scarves, and other various projects that required needle and thread.

As established, Lacie, first of all, was not the type of girl who sat quietly on couches in general. She’d always been a rather squirmy child, preferring to go outside and play tag to sitting inside and reading, so the activity didn’t fit her personality in the first place.

Second of all the details had always frustrated her—too fiddly to keep her attention. All those tiny stitches, every one needed to be perfect, or it would throw off the balance of the whole ensemble…She liked when things were imperfect.

But she had to maintain appearances, and when she ripped her dress on one of her many adventures, it was her job to sew it back up again without anyone knowing.

‘Without anyone knowing’ being the key issue here.

“What’s that?” Oswald asked at one of the many parties hosted by the Baskervilles.

“Don’t be rude, Nii-sama! Just because you don’t think she’s pretty doesn’t mean she’s a thing!”

He tugged at the helter-skelter sewing job on her dress.

“Hey! What business do you have grabbing a lady’s dress!” she whisper-shouted—(though a few people still heard, and stared their direction, inching away)—in mock outrage.

He glanced out at the people, then returned to the object of discord, running his fingers along the haphazard stitching. “What happened?”

“If you must know…” she explained, knowing he had every idea what actually happened, “I was sitting in my tower, like a good girl, and suddenly this bird flew in and ripped it.”

Oswald’s eyes lidded.

“Terrible isn’t it?”

He grabbed her arm, pulling her through the crowd.

“First grabbing my dress, then my arm?! My, sir! You’re very forward.”

He rolled his eyes, bringing her to one of the servant’s rooms.

“Take that off.”

“Excuse me?!” she folded her arms over her chest.

“You can’t go walking around at a party in a ripped dress.” He rummaged in one of the drawers, picking out a needle and the correct color of thread. “It reflects poorly on Baskerville name.”

She puffed out her cheeks, like she didn’t really care about said name. “Fine.”

She slipped off her dress with barely a regard for modesty, revealing the petticoat underneath, dropping it unceremoniously into his outstretched hand.

He set it down on the desk, threading the needle and finding the blemish.

Always a source of embarrassment, his personality, on the other hand, always calm and calculated, following the rules and hating messes and imperfection, lent itself quite well to the delicate art of needlework.

Lacie stepped up to the window—(…where anyone could see her…)—observing the courtyard and any guests meandering through it.

As Oswald took a closer look at her inexpert attempt, he realized that she hadn’t simply poorly executed the patch…she had actually tried to create a little design. It looked to be a crude outline of a rabbit. He tried not to smile upon seeing it, proceeding to undo her efforts and begin his own.

Lacie wandered about the room, picking up objects, putting them down, making jokes about the paintings, before standing quietly and watching over his shoulder. He easily dragged the needle through the fabric, and there was a mesmerizing quality to the ease with which he could accomplish perfectly what was an impossible undertaking for her.

“My, Nii-sama,” she rested her arms on his head, “if I didn’t know better I’d think you were an old lady.”

He paused, eyes flickering to her resentfully, before resuming.

Once he finished, he held up the freshly repaired dress to examine it.

“Try to be more careful next time, alright?” he advised as he held it out for her, staring intently at her, “We wouldn’t want anymore birds swooping in and ripping it again, now would we?”

“Anything for you, Nii-sama!” she smiled too-sweetly and kissed his cheek, throwing it back on and rushing back into the soiree.

He stared after her.

Always so reckless, so quick to follow her desires—and not instruction—without regard for the consequences. Whether it be rushing off on some self-appointed quest, back into the party, making improper jokes, or creating a little design instead of just fixing what she’d broken. Barely a warning, a ‘please,’ or ‘thank you’ along the way.

Still, he reasoned as he put the supplies away, even though it annoyed him at times, he admired her.

He never did anything without calculating the risks first, and always followed directions, sometimes too closely. He did things by the book, without flourishes. To speak of birds…he was the bird that stayed in the cage like he was supposed to. She was the one who picked the lock and broke out into the sky, and drew pictures in the clouds with her wings. …Sometimes he wished he had the guts to fly with her.

He wanted to tell her how he appreciated her at least attempting to fix what she’d broken…he wanted to tell her how cute the little bunny she made was.

Instead of reprimanding her…sometimes he wanted to say ‘Thank you. Thank you for the adventures, and the jokes, and the whimsy, and the messes. I don’t get enough of that.’

He didn’t really want to tell her not to go on adventures…he wanted to tell her to take him with her next time.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t allow it. Couldn’t tell her.

He could, at least, tell her he loved her.

But when he returned to her side, he merely listened to her conversations--(now a perfect representation of a Baskerville lady...at least in appearance. She may or may not have proceeded to speak with the guests about numerous risqué things...)

*****

Oswald’s fingers darted from note to note on the piano like a bird, carried free by the notes, the melody coming from his soul rather than his body.

He wasn’t the only bird here; with every flourish of the keys came another twirl from the woman beside him, lyrics spilling from her soul too, as if she wasn’t tied to the ground.

His eyes flicked from the keys, to the music, to her.

This was…beautiful. The song. Her lyrics. Her dance. This moment.

She was beautiful like this.

He never understood how she could dance and sing so freely, like it was just her and the music. If he ever tried to dance he tripped into something (more than likely another dancer), or else didn’t look very elegant. Whenever he sang he cared too much who heard him, who was watching, and if it sounded good, to get any true assessment of his abilities. Besides, he didn’t have the mind for lyrics. Words got all tangled up in his brain. Notes were simple, planned, and didn’t have all these meanings that could ram into each other, tie themselves up in knots, and get lost in translation. With notes he just had to put one after the other.

Yet from the first step she took, her whole life was a dance. So when she truly danced, it was something that transcended her own life; she was in another world, completely unaware of those around her, or even her own body…she was the song now.

The music closed off with an enchanting crescendo, the notes growing faster, her voice raising higher, until the song ended, and suddenly there was silence.

Slowly his fingers came to rest above the keys.

She walked up to him, smiling and panting for breath, leaning on the piano.

“That was wonderful Nii-sama, wasn’t it?”

He wanted to say Yes. Yes, it was wonderful, I loved your lyrics—(could do without the ‘shmurple’)—and your dance. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked when she’s dancing, how wonderful her voice was, and how much he liked the lyrics she gave his song.

He wanted to ask her how she could dance like that, like the rest of the world wasn’t there, and she was alone in the room with the song. Like she was the song. He wanted to ask her what she saw, heard, felt in the music that he didn’t, how, why she looked so free when she was dancing. What the beautiful messes and imperfections were beneath the calculations.

He wanted to say you were wonderful.

“How do you…do that?” he asked at least.

“Do what?”

“…Dance like that.”

“What’s that saying?” she put a finger to her chin, “‘Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die’?”

His eyes widened.

Instead of noticing his shock, she smiled, continuing. “Something like that.”

His gaze, dropped, along with the bottom out of his stomach.

And his thoughts changed direction. Now he wanted to say he was sorry, that she shouldn’t have to die. He wanted to bang on Glen’s door and demand that she live, that he not have to kill her—Lacie, his little sister, who he loved. He should be the one to protect her from all things that dared hurt her. He wanted to say that that’s no good reason to dance so beautifully, that she should dance for tomorrow, not just today.

“I’m starving!” She took his hand and pulled him up. “Let’s get something to eat! Maybe some meat?”

He liked her alive. He liked the songs, and the dances, and their meals, and conversations, and adventures. All that would end when she died. He wanted to tell her just how much he wanted her to stay alive.

And that night, when sleep bullied him like it did all those years ago, he wanted to run to her room, to weep on her shoulder and say how much he was dreading the ceremony, how much he wished she didn’t have to die, how he didn’t want to kill her, that he was going to fight it after all. He wanted to beg her to take him off on one of her adventures, so they both stay alive…stay the Oswald and Lacie they were all those years ago, beneath the stars.

He wanted to say ‘I love you.’ ‘I love you.’ ‘I love you so much.’ ‘Don’t leave me here alone.’ ‘Punch me in the face, I’ve become a monster, just don’t sit quietly and let it happen.’

‘I love you, Lacie.’

But he stayed in bed.

*****

It was a lovely ceremony. Everyone thought so. Everything went flawlessly, each cue followed without a single hiccup.

The Baskervilles bowed profusely to him, and spoke of how honored they were to have such a decisive and devoted leader. Levi—(Levi now, not Master Glen anymore)—had commended him for an impeccable performance—

(it wasn’t a performance was it? They all treated like it was some glorious show, but this was real. This was…this was blood and death and—)

There had been no tears when she died. This was not sad. This was not loss. This was justice. This was virtuous, and noble, and proper, and right. Everyone had told him so since they were children. That’s all her death was, a period at the end of a sentence. The signing of a contract.

(A contract selling his soul.)

And he almost believed them. From the very beginning this whole becoming Glen thing was a great honor, a golden opportunity, and the margin for error, for what if they’re, what if this is, wrong? was a small black spot in the corner on an otherwise spotless painting. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t dare let that spot consume this immaculate image, made by people who knew better than him.

Everything perfect. In its place. No hiccups. No spots. No broken rules, or uncalculated errors.

No messes.

That’s all she was to them. A mess Glen made, that he needed to clean up.

Glen slipped into his quarters after the dinner, after shaking hands with all the friends and strangers who had come to watch, congratulating him for earning such a privilege as the name ‘Glen.’

Glen did not retire early, did not tell them it wasn’t the honor they thought it was, did not show anything was amiss. For nothing was.

That day he was some sort of machine, an automaton sent and meant to follow others’ bidding, and he did so without a slip. He was built to be the master of the Baskervilles, and carry on their name properly, programmed to eradicate every distortion against this design, especially those anomalies created by him. If he made a single mistake, it meant something was wrong with his code, with the calculations he was made of. Glen held himself high, and breathed easy, guiltless and free.

However, when he arrived in his bedroom he did not hang his cloak up neatly in the wardrobe. He did not pour himself a nightcap and slip into his nightclothes, before sliding into bed and sleeping soundly, knowing he’d received a great reward, and done his job well, as he was programmed to.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong with what he’d done. Nothing was wrong with him.

Glen was, as he should be, the picture of the Baskervilles. Glen had done everything right, and was marked with a name that said he would continue to do so…if not, the chains holding the world together might just fall apart.

Oswald hadn’t taken a single breath that day.

Try as he might to deny it, there was still something human left in Oswald.

When he clicked the door shut behind him, he stayed there a moment. He pulled off his red cloak, jacket, and cravat slowly, and threw them it onto a chair with a certain violence, tossing off his socks and not caring where they landed, before leaning his head back against the grain of the door.

Now, now that he was alone, out of the reach of those who programmed him, allowed to be flesh and blood, allowed to breathe again… every breath he should have been taking that day slammed into his lungs at once, tumbling one after another, punching, dragging their nails along the back of his throat as they climbed onto his tongue, then fell from his lips like blood.

He was not metal and mandates. Not here. Here he was…so very alive.

Oswald was becoming painfully aware of just how alive he was.

How many breaths had he taken in the last minute? Five? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? Stolen from the atmosphere. Stolen from…

Had he had this many breaths before? Had his life been composed of this much air? Every second, every minute, every hour. Every day, every week, every year. A chain of breaths, each one a reminder he was still alive, he was still him.

All he needed was one. All he would have ever needed to use was one.

One to speak her name.

One to tell her. To tell her how much she meant to him.

One breath

“You sin is…”

Two breaths.

“That you were born with these eyes of ill omen…”

Three.

“…and that you are a threat to the peace of the Abyss.”

Inhale

Your sin is…

Exhale.

Your very existence.

He put his face in his hand, his hair leaking between the cracks in his fingers.

All he needed was one.

But he could have used more. He could have taken five to say a sentence. Thirty to say a paragraph. He could have taken a couple hundred to make a speech or two. He had enough to spare. He could steal that many before getting caught.

Instead, they tuned his tongue into a weapon…and he let them.

All he needed was one. One to tell her.

To tell this girl that her smile was, at times, the only thing that kept him going. To tell this girl how much he appreciated how she spent her time baking for him, and sewing bunnies into her dresses. How much he loved those moments when he sat with this girl and watched the stars. How much he loved the lyrics she gave to his songs. How much he loved watching her run from her cage, and fate, and dance like she’d die tomorrow.

To tell this girl that her very existence was much more than a gift, rather at times the only thing that kept him alive, kept him sane, kept him him.

All he needed was one breath.

And he used his breath to tell her that her existence was a crime. To follow his program, the script set for him. Instead he chained this girl, wild and free, to the ground, and the ceiling. He used his breath to her to steal hers away.

In all those years he could have paid a single breath to make his thoughts reach her.

Right now he’d pay all of them.

He slid down the door till he was sitting on the ground.

“Say something. Do Something.”

He could have fought this. Long ago. He could have done something. Back then he could have said he didn’t want to be Glen after all. He could have run from the house with her and never come back. He could have run away all those years ago.

He could have run away yesterday.

Today he could have done something. He could have not stood before that door, and drank that blood. He could have said “I won’t be Glen. I’d rather she lived.” He could have stood up, the Jabberwocky’s blood in his veins, and said “No, no I won’t do it. I won’t kill her. I’m Glen now, and now I say she lives.”

And even if he had kicked and screamed, and lost all the same… he could have told her. Told her how much he cared. He would have at least had that.

It seemed so simple.

Thank you.

Thank you for your smile. You never knew how wonderful it could make someone feel.

Thank you for the cake. I hated the taste, but I loved the look on your face.

Thank you for the starlit evenings, and the lyrics I couldn’t come up with.

Thank you for the whimsy, and the adventures, and the messes.

Thank you for the music, and dances.

Thank you for…existing.

It wasn’t that hard to say.

So why had the words died every time they rose to the surface? Why had he let those breaths out instead of taming them into words?

“I love you.”

Three little words. One breath. Half a breath. Why had they seemed so big and unconquerable, and hard to get out all those years?

And he realized, that breath catching in his throat, that today, here, now, now that she was in the Abyss, now that she was gone, now that he’d never be able to say those things to her—

He had said the words aloud.

All those years, thinking and waiting and wondering, them simmering beneath the surface, never able to reach the air.

Now he had spoken them without even taking a second to consider them, the breath, the words, falling from his lips without him knowing, calculating, or thinking.

And once they spilled out, they started to simmer and burn on his tongue, they started to bubble, like all those breaths hitting him at once; all those years of silence, crying out;

“I love you.” He whispered into his fingers, like the words were the discordant notes to a broken music box, “I love you. I love you. I love you…Lacie…”

And with her name, the name of the girl with red eyes and an untamable heart, he felt something burn in his own eyes.

This wasn’t just some girl. This was Lacie. The one who sat with her brother and comforted him when he was sad, who joked with her brother, and dragged him outside, and made a beautiful mess of things. Not a child of ill omen. Not a distortion to be eradicated. Not a mess herself. This was his sister, who he loved.

It always felt like they were in different dimensions, but now they really were worlds apart, divided by time and space and—

This was his sister. Who didn’t deserve to die.

Glen was an impeccable leader. Glen didn’t hesitate to kill that which posed a threat. Glen wasn’t sad. Glen did what needed to be done, and it didn’t matter who she was.

But Oswald felt the drops against his skin, his hands unable to dam up the stream, the image of his sister hanging from the ceiling, and his own voice putting her there burning in his memory.

All Oswald wanted was to hear his sister’s feet patter up to him. All he wanted was to see his sister smile again. All he wanted was to eat his sister’s horrible cakes again. All he wanted was to sit and watch the stars with his sister, and come up with rhymes for words that have none. All he wanted was to clean up his sister’s messy room, and fix her ripped dresses. All he wanted was to be able to tell his sister off for running off on some adventure. All he wanted was to hear his sister sing, watch her dance, again. All he wanted was to feel his sister’s hands on his head, and her breathe into his hair sweet words about how she loved the world that hated her.

How she loved the brother that killed her.

He tried to let out this breath, but it would only come out in pieces, letters, words, now, always the same ones, the words, unsaid, that would forever haunt his lips;

“I love you, Lacie.”

[sweetest-teeth]

18. Between These Walls

It’s June 2nd and I haven’t had sex this entire year. It’s semi-intentional, mostly in the sense that I haven’t gone out of my way to secure any. No dating apps on my phone, my online dating presence is nil. But now it’s getting warm and I feel my inner thot slowly taking over, On my commute to work I daydream about the last time I had my nipples caressed by someone else. And I think, wow. I could rub one out right now but I have to go look at Excel spreadsheets for 8 hours instead.

The last time I was this abstinent was my senior year of college and six months thereafter. It was awful. I’d I lived in a house of six other girls. They were all in serious relationships. Which meant there was always some dude over, toilet seats left up, and that unmistakable dull-but-repetitive thud of a bed shaking in place. That shit is the worst, CERTAINLY when it’s not coming from you. It didn’t help that I was a dark-skinned black girl on a white, white, white campus. Worse, the one boy I did want to fuck, desperately, was hung up on his ex. Unfortunately he never communicated those things to me, and I spent much of that year in weird emotional/sexual angst as I felt myself develop feelings for this boy - double yikes. Those were peak ugly feels, like all my housemates were these delicate goddesses and I was a bum who ate candy in bed while watching old Disney Channel movies on YouTube (remember Brink!? Erik von Detten, sk8r boi of my dreams). Lots of drunk nights turned sad as I tearfully wondered why no one in this stupid town wanted to play tongue hockey with me.

But that was then. This is now. And I  most certainly do not have a self-esteem issue. I actually have no trouble admitting that I’m pretty cute. I have a nice butt and also legs I used to think of as toothpicks that I’ve since grown quite fond of. I’m smart. I could probably win some 90s WWF trivia. I’m funny. I can give you book recommendations. Sometimes the fact that I’m not accosted by admirers regularly actually befuddles me.

When you go so long without you start to think about the last person you were intimate with. Or at least I do. He was, objectively speaking, the best looking person I’ve ever been with. He had a semi-obscure biblical name that I found quite beautiful, almost as beautiful as his strong, veined hands and slow smile and over-six-foot frame. He wore Dashikis sometimes,was an unlicensed massage therapist and was attaining a Ph. D in black dude studies (I mean, basically). Oh, and did I mention he was a dad? To three children under the age of 10?

Our first date we talked about predominantly white institutions and he gave me some pool pointers. When I went home I patted myself on the back. Damn bitch look at you! He’s very educated! And funny! Sure, it’s odd he has children that were born the same time he claimed to be separated from their baby momma, but whatever! He’s still fine! And offered to smoke you out! And FINE, like Jesus Christ!

In the very beginning it was fun. I could humor his studies in “African thought” and tried to think very little about his children, since being a stepmom was nowhere in my near future. There were small things that bugged me about him, like his need to constantly teach me shit. His insistence on always being right. The way he could just being a cornball sometimes. But I overlooked it because a) I wasn’t marrying this man and b) never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would snatch someone that attractive. I know I said I’m cute but he’s like, beyond cute. Plus he knew what the HELL he was doing with his hands and all the other body parts that are involved with sex, so I decided I could deal if he would just shut up once in awhile.

The last time we saw each other was a an unfortunate dealbreaker. As usual, he picked me up from the train station. As I was getting into his car (total dadmobile - a cherry stationwagon with coloring pages and crayons scattered in the back seats) he said without smiling, “hurry up, you’ll let the cold in.”

Then he proceeded to argue with me about some made up statistic re: the amount of people who’ve been published vs. the amount of people with Bachelor’s degrees in the world. As I made my points, his token response was “Why are you fighting me on this?” I wanted to sock this beautiful man in his beautiful jaw. I told myself to chill out, that at least I’d get some good cuddles out of the evening.

Turned out he had mounds of work to do. Between classes and massaging people and other side gigs - not to mention being a co-parent - he had a lot on his plate that night. I was OK with this, since I’d brought my notebook and planned on getting some writing done. He went on about a script he had to edit and the time he got fired for refusing to take a drug test BUT THOSE PEOPLE MADE A MISTAKE firing him, obviously, blah blah blah. The whole night’s banter was intense, only alleviated briefly when he offered me his cold leftovers of Indian food. We got on the subject of the weather, where he once again tried to prove I didn’t know what I was talking about. There were no cold days left this winter, and he was pulling up the receipts to prove it.

I grew hot as he continued to pull up past forecasts from weather.com, even after I had somewhat conceded that while he could be right, another single-digit day wasn’t completely out of the question. There he went with that same token response. This it time it was “No no, you’re not listening to me.” What was wrong with this asshole, and why didn’t I notice sooner? Probably because I was too busy thinking about what was in his pants and the quickest way it would get in me. I went to his bathroom after and looked at myself in the mirror solemnly. You should’ve stayed your ass back home. Now I was stuck in Bronzeville at midnight with this insufferable person.

I came back to his room and told him I was going to bed. He took my hand and pulled me to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you a hug.” We embraced tightly. The warmth of his body permeated through me as my own body began to heat up. I couldn’t deny that our sexual chemistry was intense. Our hugging became more involved and hands - his, mostly - began to wander. He took my shirt off. Then out of nowhere he pulled his whole penis out.

I looked down at it. Doing anything to his junk would require considerable effort on my part, since his endowments went beyond a handsome face and toned body. Also I’m like a car in the dead of winter: you gotta warm me up. So I announced that I was going to lay in his bed.

An open invitation. All I had on was black underwear. I feigned sleep and then fell asleep for real, only to wake up 30 minutes later to find the guy still working on script editing. Plus he hummed loudly to every song that played on his Pandora station - ughhh! Eventually he got into bed, fully clothed, and I got a loose arm around my waist as he fell asleep instantly. So I came all the way to the south side for mansplaining and a half-assed cuddle.

Not the last time I had sex, but it was the last time i came close. Almost doesn’t count though (thanks, Brandy). While my libido is making itself more known I figure I have a couple options - chalk it up to ovulation and ride it out, get on my dating app game, or wait for a man to fall out of the sky. That last option seems least likely; too bad modern dating is for the birds. Oh well. Now’s as good a time as any to pick up a pink razor and start smoothing things out down there.

[lalobalives]

Writing has been a struggle over these last few weeks. I’m still revving up, as I described in my last essay. I am still that race car with its burning tires and smoke and trembling body. All this revving is painful but it is what it is, as it should be…or so I’ve told myself.

The spring session of my Writing Our Lives class just ended last Saturday. I am always surprised by the mourning period that follows. The melancholy that takes over like a surprise wave that pulls me under and fills my lungs. That’s all exacerbated by the fact that it’s Mother’s Day this coming weekend.

The countdown starts in April, just after Easter. That’s when Mother’s Day everything starts, the cards, the emails, the “make this your mom’s best Mother’s Day” ads. I hunker down. I get ready for the onslaught. That’s what it feels like–an onslaught. On past Mother’s Days I’ve avoided the world. I’ve shuttered myself in. I don’t even look out the window, worried I’d see an adult daughter like me holding her mother close. Mother is holding a bouquet of flowers and balloons, a new bracelet on her wrist… For the world, mother is altar, mother is sacred goddess, mother is everything. But what about those us for whom mother is abyss?

***

Facebook has this sometimes wonderful and sometimes frustrating and annoying and downright disrespectful “on this day” memory list that shows up at the top of your timeline every day. I assume it happens to everyone. It can’t just be me it comes to torture, right?

I’ve been taking note of those that have appeared in my timeline over the past few days.

Two years ago today, May 11th, I published my essay “Unmothered on Mother’s Day”  with this intro: Today, the day after Mother’s Day, I was finally able to finish this essay. Maybe I just needed to feel all of it, the loss, the sadness. Maybe I needed to explain to people that this unmothered life is not an easy one and feeling this pain doesn’t negate all the beauty in my life, of which I know there is so very much. Maybe I just needed to sit here, in my messy room, flowers I bought myself to the right of me, gerber daisies and sunflowers, a picture of my brother and me to my right, to remember that though I may feel untethered sometimes, letting myself feel these emotions has made all the difference. Letting myself be vulnerable isn’t easy but it’s what I must do. As Leslie Feinberg said in Stone Butch Blues: “surrenderin is unimaginably more dangerous than struggling for survival!” But we ain’t surviving anymore, Vanessa. We’re learning how to live.

Before posting the essay, I shared excerpts as statuses: 

Excerpt 1: “I’ve been trying to write this essay for days. On Mother’s Day, I woke up and ran to the park. I sat on a bench by the water. Watched as little kids skipped by innocently as children do. One kicked a soccer ball, his cleats tapping on the pavement rhythmically. A woman sat on the other side of the bench with her son, who must have been three. They blew bubbles and I watched as the child ran after them. He laughed when he poked them and they burst. One splashed in his eye, he shrieked and mom came running. She pulled him close and soothed him. I saw that child lean into his mama, his safe space, sure that momma would make the ache go away. My chest tightened.

“A pigeon pecked at the floor. White with splotches of gray on its small body, his heart hung out of its chest. A soft mound that throbbed on the pigeon’s undercarriage. I marveled at this bird who still fed, still flew, with its heart softly pounding outside of its chest. I marveled at that heart that still sustained and kept that bird alive, pulsing just beneath where it’s supposed to be housed. I wondered about that heart. How it kept going, unaware that it was exposed and raw. It did what hearts do—it beat, it lived, it thrived.” ~excerpt from “Unmothered on Mother’s Day”

Later, when I was reading Nayyirah Waheed’s poetry collection “Salt,” I thought of this bird when I came across this poem: “in our own ways we all break. it is okay to hold your heart outside of your body for days. months. years. at a time. – heal”

Excerpt 2: “I know I am fierce and relentless. I know that I give my entire heart to everything I do; all the students I work with and have guided through the years. I am proud of the life I’ve created for myself. I also know that this pain of being unmothered is real and there will be times, like on Mother’s Day and the days leading up to it, that despite all my accomplishments and all the love I have in my life, that first wound will sting especially hard and I will feel untethered and unanchored in the world. I will feel distraught. I will feel like I’m not enough. I will be terrified of repeating that cycle, of failing my daughter. This has always been so; this fear, this suffering. And letting myself feel it when it comes does not negate the rest. It just is.” ~excerpt from essay tentatively titled “Unmothered on this Mother’s Day”

More statuses from that day:

I asked the universe, “And what of us who are not mothered? Whose mothers are incapable of mothering us?” The universe sent me Nayyirah Waheed’s “birth lessons”…

cruel mothers are still mothers. they make us wars. they make us revolution. they teach us the truth, early. mothers are humans. who sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of children.

Other “On this day” memories that have shown up this week include:

May 8th 2012: Memoir: a desperate attempt to chew yesterdays into smaller morsels easier to chew & get over…

May 7th, 2016:

***

I’ve cried quite a bit over these past few weeks. I’ve cried for the girl I was, for my mother, for my students, for this healing.

Last night, during the full moon, when my daughter and partner were asleep and the house was quiet, I sat down in my writing room, surrounded by my books and pictures and the collage on Tuesday with my junior writers, the room lit by the string of lights that surround it’s circumference at the top. I didn’t want to write or, rather, I didn’t feel like the writing would cooperate. It hasn’t been over these few weeks, or rather, it hasn’t gone the way I’ve wanted it to. We so often think we’re the ones in charge of our creativity when so often it’s the opposite–we are servants to it most, if not all, of the time. Still, I sat. I put on Pandora’s The Winter Radio, dabbed my wrist and third eye with the Writers potion my brujermana Lizz gifted me, and I started typing. 

One of my students sent me Chani Nichol’s newsletter titled “Truth and Transformation: Today’s Full Moon in Scorpio.” In it, she writes:

Nothing about our lives or about this world will ever change without our willingness to be relentlessly honest. Especially about our past. Especially about our present. Especially when accepting the truth means that it’s time to let something go.

A hope. A fear. A fantasy. Whatever it is, Wednesday’s full moon at 20° of Scorpio at 2:42pm PT is asking us all to be relentlessly honest about it…

Later Nichols writes: “Scorpio will drag you.”

And that’s so much of how I’ve been feeling these past few weeks: like I’m being dragged. What I’ve realized this week is that it’s not that at all, it’s that I’m shifting, and changes so big require an unraveling. I did say I was a revving race car, right. That kind of shaking hurts.

  I have been carrying this unmothered wound for so long. I will always carry it. But as Mother’s Day approaches, I have been thinking about how I can reinvent myself. Reinvent how I exist in it and with it. How can I take my power back?

On April 28th, I wrote: When I write about being unmothered, when I say it’s a journey to navigate this reality, that sometimes it digs in and doesn’t let go, that I dread Mother’s Day and the cards and balloons and ads, it’s not that I don’t know that I’m blessed, it’s not that I can’t celebrate the mother I am that mothers in resistance to how I was mothered, it’s that this pain and this joy can exist in the same place at the same time. Life isn’t black and white like some of you think, fam. And ignoring the hurt of it won’t make it go away. The best antidote that I’ve found so far, is facing it and writing about it and dissecting it and getting to know this heart of mine and how it beats and how it’s triggered and how it, no matter what, holds on relentlessly to hope and faith and all that is good. This is what I know today. This is where love lives.

On May 1st I wrote: Today I described my sadness as a fog that rolls in and out. Always there, waiting off the shore for the right conditions to thicken so it can roll back in. I’m sharing this because I know so many who are not okay. We’re told to get over it, move on, work through it, do this, do that, but the thing is that we do. I go for hikes. I work out. I throw on the gloves and punch and kick the air. I grab the weights. I eat well. I read. I write. I go to therapy. And, guess what? The sadness is still there. I’m not asking for advice. I am holding up my mirror. This is my reflection. Look at yours.

Earlier this week I wrote: It is Mother’s Day this weekend. Sending love to those of us holding our breaths, sighing deep, squeezing our eyes tightly shut against the barrage of ads and balloons and cards. I see your soft hearts and hear your crushed whimpers. Know that you aren’t alone in this. Know that the mother myth is just that, a myth. Know that you are a warrior for having survived your mother. Know that though the world doesn’t understand you, I do. And I honor you and all your beautiful scars and tears. Thank you for reminding me that this too I’ve survived, and though holidays like these push and twist the thorn in my side that is the mother wound, I am doing what I can to push back and live and love in resistance. And some days, that is enough.

For the past several Mother’s Days, I’ve opted to avoid the world, the balloons and cards and folks dressed in pastels holding mama’s hand and glorifying her. This Sunday, I’ve decided to not do that for reasons I’m still finding words for but they include celebrating myself as a mother and my mothering in resistance. I can feel my unmothered wound and still celebrate. The thing is I’m still figuring out what that means…this is a step.

***

Over the past few weeks I’ve started several lists. A list of things I didn’t learn because I was unmothered. The first item was: how to have relationships with women… I had to teach myself that.

I have started a list of things said to me about my being unmothered by people who don’t get the profundity of the wound or just don’t want to understand. It’s more absurd and insulting and triggering than you can imagine. The first item: You have only one mother. You need to love her. 

I started a list of times I’ve dealt with toxic masculinity and male fragility, prompted by a friend’s post when a guy came on to say “not all men” and accused my friend of being divisive and being a part of the problem because heaven forbid a woman actually take men to task for their problematic behavior.  It starts:

When: early 2000s Where: club in NYC I walked by a guy in a crowded club. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away and kept walked. Next thing I knew, his entire drink was on my back. 

That list is several pages long.

I started an essay on rage, how anger is a form of anxiety–the fight in the flight or flight response. I’m chronicling this research I’m doing on anger and what it’s helped me understand about myself. How trauma exists in the body…

I started an essay on my shifting role as a mother, now that my daughter is months shy of 13 and doesn’t want to be with me all the time like she used to. How triggering this particular stage is for me because I left my mother’s house when I was 13 and never returned. The reality that I don’t really have a model of a mother-daughter relationship to go by.  I was already out 

I’ve told myself I haven’t been writing but I have. I just haven’t been finishing and that is okay too. This is my process. I go through months of being extremely prolific, then periods of seeming drought that aren’t really droughts. I am revving up. Today I was reminded.

***

May 28th is the 7th anniversary of when I quit my job to live this writing and teaching life. What is it about the seven year itch? I’ve been feeling drained. Exhausted. Bone tired. I’ve questioned what I’m doing in my teaching. I’ve wondered if this life is for me. If perhaps it was time to take a bold move like I did in 2010, so I made moves to do exactly that. I resigned from some of my steady teaching artist gigs. I said that this was my last semester teaching.

Then two weeks ago, I started working with my juniors. It was the first day of the college writing class where I introduce them to the college application essay and take them through the journey of writing a draft before they leave for the summer. I was rethinking my approach and decided to reinvent it: I introduced them to identity via the paintings of Frida Kahlo. I discussed how Kahlo’s identity influences her work: her identity as a mestiza, as a disabled woman and artist, as a queer woman, as the wife of muralist Diego Rivera, etc. I guided them through the process of critical analysis. Their faces lit up as they picked apart some of Kahlo’s iconic paintings. They made the connection to their own identities, and how the goal of the essay is to express a piece of their identities via words. I teared up as I watched them do group work, each group with a specific painting to analyze. I felt torn as I headed home. I remembered that I love this work I do, that it’s important and necessary. So what does that mean? I thought. I sat on it for a few days and came to this: it’s a break I need, not to quit.

So that’s what I’m doing: taking a sabbatical over the next year. I am listening ot the universe’s call to “go where your heart is…” I am taking some time off from some of my teaching to focus on developing my Writing Our Lives Workshop and, yes, bringing it online. I am going where my heart is. I love this work and am forever grateful that this class came into the world through me. It’s time to expand it, and to do that I need time and space so that means less teaching for a year, and more Writing Our Lives.

I also need to finish my memoir “A Dim Capacity for Wings.” I need to get this book out of me. I need to write it the best way I can, and to do so, I have to sit with it and be with it, and that requires time. I am gifting myself time.

Sometimes you have to dare, you have to risk to make this life happen. I am blessed to be able to do that.

***

I’ve found some incredible hiking trails in my new neighborhood. There are paths that go for miles, paralleling the Hudson River. Each day, I hike further and discover new paths and sights. Last week, the woods called me early, before 7am early, and I acquiesced. And I hiked and explored further, five miles of hills and trees and chipmunks and birds of various species and sizes, some I can name and some I cannot. But when I came upon this tree, I was stunned into silence and gratitude.

I touched her and said thank you. Here she is, sheathed in half, internal bark exposed, she is scarred but she still blossoms and gives us oxygen and shade, and so much beauty. Gracias arbol maravilloso, for reminding me that we can continue to thrive and grow and give life and serve, even with our scars and pieces of ourselves missing…& perhaps this is what gives us the fuerza to keep doing it all–not unscathed but still fierce.

Relentless Files — Week 69 (#52essays2017 Week 16) Writing has been a struggle over these last few weeks. I’m still revving up, as I described in my last…