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dazed-nymphsss · 2 years ago

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⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪

┕━» stranger things holy trinity x gn!reader

❕warnings❕: drug use (weed), fluff, some sexual innuendos, comfort

a/n: been having a hard time recently so not only is this entirely self indulgent, but this is also for some other people having a bad time, so I hope I can help

『•• stranger things characters comforting you ••��

not proof read at all.

steve harrington

hot drinks, teakwood candles, grandpa sweaters, stars, and old film

steve has a radar for this sort of thing. he can pick up on emotions at the drop of a hat, so the moment he sees you, he knows something is up.

he'll start with just wrapping his arms around you, a simple gesture, but he'll hold you as long as you need. he'll hold you for hours, his gentle touch running through your hair.

if tears are rolling out of your eyes, he'll wipe each of them away gingerly, whispering small sweet things, "oh, honey," he'd say, voice sickeningly intoxicating, "no tears."

in true mama steve fashion, he would make you your favorite meal, along with some hot tea or some hot cocoa, whichever you prefer, and wrap you up in a nice cozy sweater.

he would search through his most treasured VHS tapes to find the perfect comfort film, turning it on and sitting down next to you on the couch.

eventually, sleep will find you, and when steve finally notices, he simply pulls the blanket over you more and gets more comfortable, soon joining you in sleep.

eddie munson

the smell of weed, colorful quilted blankets, fast food, and metal music

he would kiss every single one of your tears away

you would come to him in a wreck, and he would be frantic trying to figure out what was wrong, hating to see you in pain.

he would be quick to work you out of your clothes and stuff you in his own, dressing you carefully, placing kisses as he put the shirt over your head and pulled up the sweatpants over your hipbones.

much like steve, he would hold you until you felt alright, or at least until you felt comfortable enough to tell him what was wrong.

he would talk you through it. every step of the way. he would help and give advice or just sit and listen, if that's what you needed.

gentle words of affection and gentle touches

eddie is the kind of guy who offers you a cigarette or a joint to calm your nerves, whether you accept or decline he's 100% alright with him.

(doesn't mean he won't spark up himself)

would offer a scary movie and some food to help you through it, along with some music on standby if that's what you wanted.

would absolutely slow dance with you in the living room and just hold you, rubbing your back and telling you just how perfect you were to him.

billy hargrove

cigarettes, jean jackets, and the smell of leather seats

billy isn't one for comforting others, so he'd just think of what calmed him down, and that was late-night drives.

He would hug you and throw his jacket over your shoulders before giving you a kiss on the forehead and a sly smile, "wanna go for a ride?"

would drive you where ever you want, and if you didn't know, he would give some suggestions.

Music from the radio playing softly as the windows are rolled down, one hand holding yours and the other on the steering wheel.

When the car would stop you would talk for hours, working through everything to a point where you felt at least a little better getting things off your chest.

therapist billy is canon.

To anyone else, he would tell them to grow up and stop being such a pussy. But with you, he actually cared and wanted to see you happy.

if there was someone who was bothering you, he would most definitely make a plan to beat the shit out of them, and if it were a girl, he has many many friends who would do it for him.

(with your consent of course, if you didn't want to start a problem, he would respect your wishes... maybe.)

would possibly propose some... alternative comforting techniques that he would be more than up for.

I know, I know, this one is really short but I have something in the works, but let's hope I don't jinx it and just never finish writing it. Love you guys.

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tenmyoujump · 2 years ago

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Check it out, I’m in the house like carpet

And if there’s too many hits on my blunt I won’t spark it

I’ll put it in my pocket and save it like rocket fuel

‘Til everybody’s gone and it’s cool

Then I’ll spark it up with my brother

His mama named him Moe, but I call him Moe Lover

And he’s more than a cover, he’s a quilt

We’re putting shit together like the house that John built on the hill

‘Cause this shit’s gonna feel like velvet turtle

If you hate it then you can just leave it, like beaver

But in a day or two I’ll make you a true believer in me

‘Cause like the alphabet you’ll see

The ism kicks a rhyme, not your everyday soliloquy

Like Chef Boyardee my rhymes are truly cooking

Peace to Matty Rich, ‘cause he’s straight out of Brooklyn, New York

I don’t eat pork or swine when I dine

I drink a cup of Kool-Aid, not a big glass of wine or a Heineken

If you’ve got time, I’ll drop rhyme again

#adri.txt #sorry

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chaosnightmare · 3 years ago

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check it out, im in the house like carpet, and if theres too many heads in my blunt i wont spark it ill put it in my pocket and save it like, Rocket Fuel. to everybodys Gark and its cool then i spark it up with my brother. his mama named him MooM but i call him MooM. lover. and hes more than a cover, he's a quilt. we're puttin shit together like the house that john built on the Hill!! cause this shit gonna feel like velvet. TURTLE? my style fits tighter than a girdle. if you hate it, then you can just leave it like beaver but in a day or two ill make you a true believer in me, cause like the Alphabet you'll SEE(C)....... there isng mfk Rhyme not your everyday SoLiloQuy, like chef boyardee my rhyme is truly cookin. peace to (???) cause he straight outta brooklyn NEW YORK i dont eat PORK or swine when i dine, i drink a cuppa KoolAid not a big glass of wine, or I Gih. Hi mn. if you have time, i drop rhyme again.

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mamaspark · 1 year ago

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I finished another quilt top while in the camper. Pattern is called Take Me to the Magic by the Sterling Quilt Co. I love how it turned out!!!

#take me to the magic #pixilated Minnie #Minnie Mouse #mama spark quilts

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sophisticated-creepy · 4 years ago

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Love is Stranger than Fiction by: Melissa Sain

She loved his hands the most. They were strong, confident, and long of finger; firm in the ways of an artist, and masterful in the ways of a lover. Her sight trailed from his hands up to his forearms where she lingered her half-lidded gaze on the tight planes, watching as he turned the pages of his book, causing the muscles to shift and flex ever so slightly in their movements. Her heart skipped a beat at the image and a smile began to curl the corner of her mouth. From his forearms she watched his bare chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was gentle. Lying there, stretched out on the bed as he was, with sheets pulled up to his waist and pillows supporting his broad shoulders, Lola drank in the appearance of her husband. Of all the places her eyes drifted, however, she daren’t cast a look upon his face. An unsound fear gave her pause, believing if she were to take in his countenance, the comforting spell of tranquility would be lost.

“Lola, my love, is there something I can help you with?” her husband asked. He closed his book, letting it rest in his lap as he turned his head towards his wife with a mischievous smirk upon his lips. Lola blinked, startled from her reverie. She stared at his impish grin and cocky eyebrow before blushing violently and burying her face into the pillow next to him as she shyly giggled at being caught staring.

“You were thinking awful loudly,” he continued playfully. “Care to share with the rest of the class what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Lola regained her composure, peeking over the pillow before turning on her side, propping herself up on her elbow to answer him.

“Well, I was thinking of you,” she replied.

“Perfect.”

“And us,” she continued.

“Go on,” he encouraged roguishly, turning on his side to mirror his wife.

“And how lucky I am to have you in my life,” she concluded with a sigh. “Sometimes, I can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here, with me. It feels like a dream, and I find myself trying to memorize you in case I wake up.” Lola stared deep into her husband’s passionate, sapphire colored eyes. “Raphael,” she breathed, “promise me I won’t wake up.” Raphael smiled warmly at his wife and leaned into her so their foreheads touched.

“I hate to break it to you, my sweet, but you are awake, and I am here, with you, and I am most assuredly real.” His warmth was infectious, and Lola melted under his words while nuzzling closer to him. He assisted her towards him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, embracing her against his firm body. He placed his chin on top of her head as she rested against the side of his neck contentedly. “You know, if it’ll set your mind at ease, I could prove to you how real I am,” Raphael suggested, feigning innocence. Lola grinned as she felt his deep voice vibrate from his throat on the top of her head.

“Oh? And how would you go about proving something like that?” Lola inquired.

“For starters, I could kiss you,” Raphael stated, and to prove his point, softly kissed her forehead in the place slightly above the spot between her eyebrows. “I could touch you,” he added, and began to lightly tickle her over the sheets. She girlishly squealed and swatted him away. “Or,” he continued, “I could do this.” Raphael sat up in bed, placed his hands on Lola’s hips, and gently positioned her to sit directly across from him so they were eye to eye. Once settled, he scooped up his wife’s left hand and placed it so her palm rested on his chest over his heart.

“This is how you will know I am real,” he tenderly spoke. “My heart is your heart. You need never doubt that it is the beating heart of a man who shares his life with you, who will protect and keep you as your husband, as your lover, and as your friend.”

Lola stared at her hand concealing Raphael’s heart. She could feel the soft rhythm beneath her palm, the consistent thrum of the muscle reassuring her that the man before her was real and loved her. She felt wrapped in a blanket woven of honey, hypnotized from the warmth of her husband’s speech and intimate gestures. She knew she was being silly in thinking her husband wasn’t “real”, but the fact that he indulged her whimsy revealed the depth of his love for her.

“My heart is your heart,” Lola repeated. She mimicked his actions and led his own hand to splay between her breasts. His massive palm covered the vulnerable surface and then some, and feeling him pressed against her chest made her heart flutter with the beginning stirrings of passion. Husband and wife met one another’s gaze as an unspoken yearning began to manifest. Lola felt Raphael’s heart quicken. His eyes betrayed his thoughts of desire. Her own heart was quick to join him, and the two became in sync with the thrill of feeling the other’s response to the growing heat between them. Lola’s breath caught short with eager expectancy as Raphael began to lean towards her, a sultry grin playing on his lips for what lay in store for his beloved. With his free arm, he encircled her waist while getting to his knees, and dipped her backwards, lowering her to the mattress, hovering over her. The hunger of wanting the other was maddening.

Raphael came to his wife, breathing in her aroma, the lingering notes of vanilla and roses of her perfume wafting towards him as he gently pressed feather light lips to her neck. Her skin prickled pleasantly at the touch. She closed her eyes, absorbing his lips explore her neck, her ears, her jaw, until finally, her lips. The spark that ignited whenever they kissed went beyond predictable amorous description. It was the kiss of a soulmate; a sensation of true love’s purest form. Eventually, they parted. There was no sense delaying what they craved. Raphael took his man tool---.

“Eww. ‘Man tool’?” Lola glared at her computer screen, scrutinizing the last paragraph in the middle of the word document. “’There was no sense delaying what they craved’,” she read aloud. She gave a short, critical laugh of derision at her own poor choice of words. “If that doesn’t kill a mood, I don’t know what will.” She shook her head in disappointment, the harsh clack of the back space key erasing any trace of the husband character’s unfairly ill-described lower anatomical region. Lola sighed, leaning back in her desk chair, tapping her forefinger impatiently against her laptop as she debated on how to handle the scene in front of her. Should she expound upon the interplay of the lovers or just go straight for the sex?

“Come on, brain,” Lola encouraged herself. “Don’t quit on me yet.” She could feel the writer’s block beginning to cloud underneath her forehead, slowly crawling its way towards her temples, blooming into a full blown fog of nothingness. Too little too late, she knew the creative muse was gone. “Damn. And just when it was getting good.”

A breeze rustled the trees outside Lola’s window, sweeping through the leafy foliage, causing the little chickadees to alight from the dense crowding of branches. The springtime sunshine warmly lit the area where Lola had set up her writing space, and with a slight turn of her head, she had a perfect view of the lush greenery of the historic city park just below her eaves. The old train station was across the way, and behind that, a river cut through the land, its banks dotted with willow trees. The old Catholic church’s bell tower began to sound the hour, its deep tenor resounding boldly through the town. Lola blinked away her daydream, the peal startling her back into the present.

“How is it already one o’clock? I’m gonna be late!” Lola shot up from her chair, her hip colliding with the edge of her desk causing her to jostle her half-finished cup of coffee, sloshing lukewarm liquid over scattered pieces of scrap paper. “Shit,” she cursed. “I’ll clean that up later,” she mumbled with annoyance, dabbing at the puddle with a nearby potholder from lunch. She saved her work then closed the lid of her laptop while turning towards the main living portion of her tiny loft. “Okay, babies, Mama’s leaving,” Lola called out to her sleeping cats. They were used to her frantic movements and so stayed comfortably dozing on blanketed dappled chairs or patches of sunbeam on the carpet.

Lola grabbed an oversized denim button front and an old linen backpack she used as a purse before calling out to her babies once more. “Behave, my honey bunches. Mama loves!” And with that, she was out the door, skipping down the fire escape. She rounded the railing towards the side of the house, found her bike, and quickly hopped on, pushing off with a spurt and began gliding down the sidewalk. She gave a final wave to her home before riding away. Lola lived in the heart of historic Main Street, the epicenter of antique shopping and restaurant-ing, in a renovated loft above a quilting shop. Like the little shop she lived above, the town was quaint and charming, embodying the nature of a quilt: diverse, close knit, and with a story at every turn.

This pie in the sky town was perfect for a young woman such as Lola. At the end of the historic district, the night life came alive with popular bars and coffeehouses. Up the street were more modern accommodations such as the Cineplex and highways to local malls, shops, and other normal day-to-day activities, but for this one strip of road, all of that noise faded away. What was left was a peaceful park, a murmuring river, and the clattering of footsteps on cobblestone walkways as shoppers visited one store to the next. Or, as Lola simply called it: magic. Lola fully believed magic encompassed the town. The buildings, the trees, even the wind itself bore magic, and for the enthusiastic dreamer that Lola was, she thrived in that type of creative atmosphere.

Even now, as she rode her bike to her job at a high-end lotion and bath boutique, Lola was lost, yet again, in another daydream. She perpetually lived in a state of dreaming, which often got her in trouble at work for accidentally ignoring customers. She was the cliché character who stopped to smell the roses, but where she differentiated from others, was to then follow the bee she found in the fragrant blooms, and thus become its companion, and accompany him on the journey of its winged flight, getting lost in the adventures and mysteries of a new dream. Most would call her weird. Some, naïve, but for what truly mattered, was that Lola called herself happy.

Usually, she was happy. There were times when Lola found herself unbearably lonely. Yes, she had friends and family to keep her occupied, yet when the day had ended, and all had gone his or her separate way, she was left alone, in a tiny renovated apartment above a quilting shop, with no one aside from her cats and her writing. Lola turned to writing when her soul yearned intimacy the most. At first, she wrote little paragraphs of made up characters doing made up things, and though that helped to stem the void, she still felt lacking. Her characters were flat, her “plots” laughable, until one day she decided to place herself in her stories, and there with her side by side was the figure of her heart’s desire.

Raphael was literally everything she wanted in a counterpart because that’s how she wrote him. It was odd the way he fit into her life. His persona flowed onto the page in ways Lola found unexpected, and going where her pen led her, let his words challenge her. His actions strengthened her, and his romance filled her. Lola was able to explore with Raphael all aspects of their fictional life in a numerous variety of genera. She placed them in fantasy, the supernatural, adventure, it made no difference. When the two of them were together, it simply worked. In the heart of her stories was just that: her heart. And this character, Raphael, had hers.

Lola sighed, her mind elsewhere as she rode through the town. The boutique she worked at was near the end of the historic district next to the start of the coffeehouses. With the wind at her back she made good time and reached the boutique with ease. She gave the bike one final push of the pedal before kicking her left leg over to join the right so she was in a side-saddle position the remainder of the distance, gliding to a smooth and, in her opinion, fashionable stop. After hopping to the ground and chaining up her transportation, she turned to face the park, not wanting to part with the beauty of spring placed before her. She breathed in the honeysuckle drenched air before finding the doorknob to the back of the store, and with a final glance at the splendor of spring, turned, and went inside.

~~~

#renaissance faire #short story #fantasy #adventure #romance #fun

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factanswer · 5 years ago

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7 Short Stories for Students

1- “Neighbors” – Raymond Carver

When the Stones ask the Millers to house sit for them, it becomes the Millers’ own “vacation” that sparks their sexual desire for each other, prompts them to shut out reality and reveals their jealously of the Stones. The Millers go through the Stones’ things, eat their food, drink their alcohol, take their pills and even try on their clothes.

2- “A Rose for Emily” – William Faulkner

All that is known about reclusive Emily is hearsay: her strange behavior when her father dies, her relationship with a man from the North and her purchase of arsenic at the drug store. When Emily dies, the townspeople discover something gruesome in her bedroom, and we finally learn what she did with that arsenic.

3-“A Hunger Artist” – Franz Kafka

The artist’s fasting is at first celebrated. When he joins a circus, people start to lose interest and his feat is unacknowledged.

4-“First Confession” – Frank O’Connor

On the surface, this is a cute, humorous story of 7-year-old Jackie, who fights with his sister, hates his grandmother and is terrified about making his first confession. A closer look reveals that the narrator is likely this boy grown up reflecting on his past by showing disdain for women and religion.

5-“Everyday Use” – Alice Walker

Dealing with heritage, culture and generation gaps, this story focuses on Mama and her two daughters, Maggie and Dee, who comes for a visit to inquire about a quilt that has been in the family for several generations. The story is packed with symbolism showing the many divisions that can exist in one family.

6-“The Lesson” – Toni Cade Bambara

Miss Moore takes Sylvia and other neighborhood kids to an expensive toy store to teach the value of money and its unfair distribution in society. Sylvia, the narrator, uses rich, colorful language – colloquialisms, slang and curse words – to reveal inside information about the children’s lives, and that they not only hate Miss Moore and her “lessons,” but they actually get what she’s trying to teach them.

7-“The Story of an Hour” – Kate Chopin

Irony abounds in this story as Mrs. Mallard celebrates the freedom that will come with her husband’s death, rather than grieves. Allusions to her weak heart foreshadow what happens when she learns that her husband is actually alive.

#books #student #factanswer #short story

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madamdirectorz · 6 years ago

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For the prompt request Aubrey reunites with Dani for the first time since she was taken? You don't have to but if it sparks an idea maybe it'll get you writing :D

thank u so much for sending this!! this got. a Lot angstier than anticipated but … here you go!

Aubrey doesn’t get to see Dani until the day before the funeral. The lodge has been too frantic, even after things outside mostly calmed down, for her to slip past the watchful eye Barclay maintains outside of Dani’s room. But that night, Barclay has to run downstairs because Mama started burning something while trying to cook. Aubrey hears the commotion from her room and darts across the hall as soon as Barclay disappears down the steps.

“Dani?” she stage-whispers as she cracks the door open. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah, I - Aubrey?” Dani’s voice is quieter and rougher than Aubrey’s ever heard it, even as it catches on her last word.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Aubrey says. She steps inside and quickly shuts the door behind herself. “God, I’m so glad to see you, babe. Are you okay? I’ve been trying to see you for days, but Barclay hasn’t let me, and everyone’s been so busy, I mean, you probably know, but, uh, I think things are starting to calm down, there’s just the - um, well there’s the funeral tomorrow, and -“

Dani sits up in her bed immediately, even though the movement looks like it hurts. Her eyes still glow a faint yellow - Aubrey can’t help but think that they match. “Wait,” she says, “wait, Aubrey, whose funeral?”

Aubrey freezes. The small flame she’d been playing with in her hand instantly goes out. She hadn’t even thought that Dani wouldn’t know. Barclay must’ve told her, right? Barclay would’ve, he must’ve. But - “Uh, uh, just, you know. Um. No one important.” That’s a lie, Ned is, was, so important. “But uh, anyway, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Barclay thinks I’ll be back to normal soon, but, Aubrey, who died?” The glow of Dani’s eyes is slightly brighter now, and Aubrey can see her hands twisting in her quilt.

“Babe, it’s not a big deal-“ it’s a huge deal, Ned deserved so much better and he died thinking I hated him and - “just take breathe, okay? Um. Can I just - what do you, uh, remember?”

“I … not much, there was all this light, and then I don’t … everything was kind of fuzzy until Barclay got me back here and into the springs. He’s told me a little about the shifter and how you all found me out by the archway, but…” Dani trails off. The light in her eyes dims, but her hands remain white-knuckled against the fabric of the quilt. Her voice is almost below a whisper when she says, “Aubrey, what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Aubrey says, praying her voice doesn’t sound shaky. “Just lie back down, okay, is there anything I can get you or anything? I probably shouldn’t stay long, I don’t think Barclay will-“

“Aubrey. Who died? What did … what did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, it wasn’t your fault,” Aubrey says, and even though Mama had eventually explained the exact sequence of events, she knows what she says is true. “There was just an accident.” What happened was a horrible, horrible accident. A terrible accident. “There were a - a lot of people at the archway when you came back. And you weren’t in your right mind, no one blames you for anything, but you moved towards some of the people. And - and - someone tackled you. But someone else had already, uh. The person that tackled you, he got shot. And he didn’t make it.”

“Who was it?” Dani asks, and her voice is level now, and this is so, so much worse than if she was crying.

Aubrey almost wishes she hadn’t come in at all, but she forces herself to take a deep breath and says, “It was Ned.”

Dani doesn’t say anything. She looks down, curls her knees up to her chest, and Aubrey’s heart breaks a little when she sees Dani’s shoulders start shaking.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Aubrey says. She climbs onto the bed next to Dani and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, of course, but at least Dani is here. She’s here, and she’s okay, and Dr. Harris Bonkers, PHD, is okay. It’s not okay, but at least some things are. Aubrey doesn’t realize she’s been speaking out loud until Dani mumbles out a shaky, “Yeah,” in agreement.

It’s not okay. But sitting here, with Dani in her arms and the gift of a moment to breathe clasped tightly in her hands, Aubrey knows that it will be, eventually.

#i don't know if i should post this on ao3.. thoughts?#ok to rb #fic #taz #taz amnesty #taz spoilers #aubrey little #danbrey #taz dani #angst

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salaciouscrumpet · 5 years ago

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Whumptober Day 9

Whumptober Day 9 Prompt: “Shackled”

Sorry for the delay, folks! I got busy with the (Canadian) Thanksgiving weekend and didn’t have the time or the solitude for writing. (Although I did get the opportunity to brainstorm a bunch of ideas and bounce them off my partner, who doesn’t write but is very enthusiastic about supporting my writing.) This one didn’t quite go in the direction I had planned, but that’s pretty much par for the course at this point ...

CW: mentions of childhood abuse and neglect (although not the focus of the ficlet)

Characters: Luke, Kate

Takes Place About 10 Years Before the Series Begins

Luke remembered this strangely disconnected, floaty feeling from his childhood. He’d been around seven or eight, and although he hadn’t realized it at the time, it had been the last time his mother had done anything approaching ‘coddling’ him. His parents had never been big on physical affection (or, indeed, any signs of affection whatsoever) and had shied away from anything that might risk turning their future warrior soft. Bumps and falls were not fussed over, nightmares were not comforted, and anything that might be seen as weakness was pushed down, hidden, or stomped out entirely. But this one time – this last time – Luke had suffered a cold that, through neglect, turned into a bad bout of pneumonia that had required hospitalization. As a general rule hospitals were to be avoided; as a child, Luke had assumed it was admitting weakness, to need medical treatment. As an adult he realized it was because he had injuries that his parents didn’t want to have to explain to authorities: mended breaks, old bruises, older scars. The doctors and nurses would see the injuries and would be obligated to report them to the police, or to children’s aid. And while most of Luke’s injuries came from training – most of them – some were the result of ‘punishment,’ and in any event the police were not going to sympathize with a hidden order’s need to produce and train soldiers, or the methods they used in doing so.

He remembered waking up in the hospital and smelling that disinfectant smell, and hearing the beeps and whirs of medical equipment. Everything was too bright and too loud and he wanted his mama – and for once, Mama was there, at his bedside, fussing over him and smoothing down his wild dark hair and bringing him ice chips to suck on. Adult-Luke knew that his mother’s fretting was partly for show, to demonstrate to the hospital staff that she was a good mother who loved her baby boy very much. Child-Luke had just been grateful she was there, taking care of him. It hadn’t lasted, of course – it never did – and days later Luke was back at home, being interrogated by his father because the police had come calling, and just what had Luke said to them when the doctors and nurses asked him how he got those scars and bruises? He’d earned himself a new set of scars and bruises by the end of that interrogation, but at least he had the memory of his mother fawning over him once last time.

This time he woke up to the floaty, disconnected feeling and he wasn’t in a hospital at all, although the air still smelled faintly of sanitizer (and muscle liniment, another odour he equated with comfort). He was lying on the lower half of a set of bunk beds in what looked to be the small bedroom of a cabin, and there was a soft quilt draped over him and the lights were turned down low. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, but it was quiet and peaceful and it felt safe in a way that few places in his life had.

The memory of the last time he’d felt this way intruded on his present surroundings, and a pang of disappointment thudded through him as he saw his mother wasn’t there – and then, suddenly, the memory of why she wasn’t there rose to the surface of his mind and reality came crashing down upon him.

There is no Knight Lukas Kandarian.

Panic flared, and Luke tried to bolt upright only to realize his left arm was restrained, bound by thick Velcroed cuffs that looped around and kept him pinned to a railing beside the bed. The back of his hand was covered with medical tape that held a needle and tubing connected to an IV stand hung next to the bed, and he couldn’t read the tiny lettering on the bag that would identify what drugs he was being pumped with. And his other arm, his right arm, was gone, or it had to be because he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything below his shoulder, and the last thing he remembered was fire pouring through his veins and searing over his flesh and –

Alarms blared and the dim lighting in the bedroom was suddenly turned up and the tiny, crowded room filled with people. Hands pressed Luke down; he felt fingers at his throat, weight against his shoulders, and he was being pushed back into the mattress. He flailed, trying to wrench his bound arm free, and every movement made his entire body scream with pain, just as it had when –

“Luke!” A cool, dry hand cupped his cheek, and a pair of pale blue eyes swam into his field of vision, blocking out everything and everyone else. He blinked, trying to get the face to come into focus, but the world remained hazy. He recognized the voice, at least: Kate, his half-demon girlfriend, who he’d been seeing behind his parents’ backs for the better part of a year.

He opened his mouth to say her name but all that came out was a raspy croak that bore no resemblance to words. His mouth was terribly dry and his lips felt cracked and torn; he remembered biting his lips – and tongue and the inside of his cheek – to keep from screaming, and he tasted blood now, along with the sticky, cottony feeling of dry-mouth and dehydration. Kate held something cold to his lips and as he sucked on the ice chip and felt that blessed wet coldness on his tongue he blinked again, fighting back the memory of his mother doing the same thing for him years ago.

While Luke slowly and cautiously nursed his ice chips Kate turned and motioned everyone else out of the room. The rest of the crowd remained an indistinct blur, all his attention and focus fixed on her. She looked tired and pale, with deep bags under her eyes, and there was a small cut along her cheekbone that was patched with a butterfly bandage. Her dark auburn hair had been pulled back in a braid, but somewhere along the line curling wisps had come loose to frame her face. Even exhausted and battered Luke had never seen anyone more beautiful.

The panic had receded somewhat but Luke was still painfully aware of the restraints holding his arm in place – although he had enough presence of mind to notice that his right arm wasn’t gone, was in fact covered in stark white bandages and strapped to his chest. He still couldn’t feel it, but the fact that it was still there and not sparking endless waves of agony throughout his body seemed like some kind of miracle.

Kate saw the direction of his gaze and smiled, small lines pulling at the corners of her mouth. She had a lopsided smile, the result of an unconscious attempt at hiding crooked teeth, and it made a tiny dimple appear in her right cheek that she would deny the existence of. Her hand, when she brushed it over his face, was surprisingly cool. He frowned at that; Kate always ran warm, which normally he appreciated since he typically ran cold, but for some reason her cool touch felt just as welcome. Maybe it was just that he always welcomed Kate’s touch, no matter what.

“You’re safe,” she said, speaking quietly, as if to a skittish animal. “Your arm is … It’s healing.”

Luke frowned again, because he was pretty sure that shouldn’t be possible. He remembered the Scions of the Unforgiven, and a sorcerer with a willingness to use blood magic, and he knew they’d intended to cripple him before they killed him. And then he remembered that the Knights of Oberon had left him to them, and that his father – his own father – had written him off, and suddenly nothing made sense because Kate certainly didn’t work for the Scions or the Knights and Luke didn’t know where he was but he was pretty sure he wasn’t in that horrible dark barn.

“Where’mi?” he managed to slur out, although it took several tries to make himself even that intelligible. “Why’m I ‘strained?”

“At the camp,” Kate replied. She gave him a stern look, then began pulling the Velcro restraints loose. The rasping noise was very loud in the otherwise quiet bedroom, and when she drew the strap away from his arm Luke managed to hold back all but the smallest sighs of relief. He couldn’t believe how agitated being restrained had made him feel, how vulnerable – even though he knew, intellectually, that there was no way a simple fabric-plastic mesh would keep him pinned if he really wanted to break himself loose. There were methods of restraining Incarnates and Knights of Oberon like himself – as his captors had demonstrated – but he couldn’t imagine Kate, of all people, using such means on him.

“As to why you’re restrained,” she went on, “You kept trying to rip the IV lines out and escape. And, I mean, I get it, you didn’t know where you were and you have some pretty good reasons to want to run, but we were afraid you were gonna hurt yourself.” Luke heard her unspoken “or someone else.”

He hung his head, embarrassment rippling through him at panicking in front of strangers, but then glanced up at the IV bag. He still couldn’t read the tiny lettering, and the contents of the bag were clear like water. “What’s in the IV?”

“Now? Saline, painkillers, antibiotics, I think. Before? I know we had to give you some blood, and you were pretty dehydrated and malnourished, so there was more saline and some kind of ... mixed meal replacement stuff? I’m not sure on the specifics, but Charlie can explain it better than I can.”

As Kate went to put the restraints away in a nearby cabinet Luke settled his uninjured arm in his lap, studying it closely. There were red marks from when he’d pulled against the fabric, and underneath that he could see faint bruising from the manacles the Scions had used on him, but overall his left arm was undamaged aside from the silvery scars he’d had for years. Every Knight had their share of scars; his weren’t even all that dramatic or impressive. He looked down at his other arm, with its crisp white bandages, and suspected the same could not be said of that limb. He wondered what it would look like with the bandages off, and felt a mixed sense of curiosity and dread at the answer. On the one hand, he shouldn’t even still have a right arm, not after what that sorcerer had done to him. On the other, what if it was grotesque and misshapen? What if the limb had been saved, but what was left was so badly damaged as to be useless? What would become of him? The Knights of Oberon had no use for broken warriors. Then he remembered that he was no longer a Knight of Oberon, and the panic set in once again, because if he wasn’t a Knight of Oberon, what was he?

He forced himself to calm down before the alarms started blaring again, and focused on his current circumstances. “The … camp?” he repeated, latching on to the first thing he could think of and looking up at Kate through his lashes.

Kate shrugged, sitting down again in the chair beside Luke’s bed. From the looks of things she’d become accustomed to that perch: she sat, and folded her arms on the bed, an inch or two shy of touching his quilt-covered legs. She rested her chin on her arm and looked at him. “The Alliance camp. Our headquarters.”

Luke sucked in a sharp breath, then forced himself to let it out slowly. The Alliance were very secretive about where they made their main camp. The Knights of Oberon had been looking for years, and every time they thought they were getting close they’d arrive only to discover that the allied supernatural forces had moved, or that they’d never been there to begin with. It made him sad, the mistrust between their two organizations, but there were supernatural species within the Alliance that the Knights of Oberon had hunted for centuries, and just because those species worked together to keep one another – and the mundane world around them – safe didn’t mean the Knights weren’t still considered the enemy. Luke was amazed that the Alliance would permit him within their headquarters – then he realized why.

“Oh,” he said, voice coming out soft and just a little bit broken. “You know. About …” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t acknowledge his being disowned out loud. Kate just nodded, chewing on her lower lip, and Luke decided to switch topics: “How did I get here? Why am I here?”

When Kate looked up again the expression on her face took his breath away. Her eyes shone with ferocity and her jaw was set in a hard, sharp line, her mouth pinched.

“Because you’re mine,” she said fiercely, unfolding her arms so that she could reach out and place one hand on his leg, just above his knee. Even through the quilt she felt cool to him, and he realized he was perhaps a little bit feverish and that that was why Kate was cold in comparison. “You’re mine, and I don’t give a fuck if your stupid fucking family and your stupid fucking order want to throw you away. I want you. I want you, Luke.”

“Oh,” Luke said again. He felt a little breathless and a whole lot lost.

Before he could find the words to express how Kate’s declaration made him feel – and honestly, he wasn’t sure the words even existed to express his gratitude and the warm kernel of happiness that arose inside him at the realization that Kate wanted him as much as he wanted her – his attention was drawn to the doorway. A tall, angular woman with rich dark skin and hair pulled back in a pile of elaborately-sculpted dreadlocks leaned up against the doorframe, a tiny small on her full lips. He didn’t know her, but he recognized Ardyn LaSalle, the leader of the Alliance – the woman known as the General for her precise and competent leadership style. According to the files the Knights had on her, the General was a werewolf – turned, not born, and therefore seen as ‘lesser’ among fellow werewolves, and yet she had risen to a position of power and respect. No one would dare put this woman down for not being a pure-blooded were, not if they valued their skin.

“Ma’am,” he said, feeling an absurd urge to stand and salute her, or at least to stand and fall into parade rest before her. He wasn’t even sure he could sit up without help, however, so the urge remained unfulfilled, and instead he gave her a tight nod of respect.

“Mr. Kandarian,” she said in return, giving him a nod of her own. The tiny smile widened a little, becoming something toothy and almost predatory. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at least. Katherine’s had a lot to say about you.”

Beside him, Kate ducked her head, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. Luke found that hilarious, that she could flat-out admit to wanting him, but the idea of him knowing that she’d been talking about him to other people made her blush. He let his good hand fall over hers on his knee, and his large fingers covered hers entirely. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand; he wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to soothe him or her.

“So,” Ardyn LaSalle continued, still smiling, “In answer to your question about why you’re here, specifically, it’s fairly simple: The Alliance wants you, too.”

#whumptober2019 #day 9 #no. 9 #original fiction

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girlslikeguyswhosmoke · 5 years ago

Text

There’s Something About Mrs. Kendall, Part 2

Justin Feldman nervously fidgeted for his fork, which he dropped in his lap. Embarassed, he picked it up and began eating. His mother took notice.

“Been eating long, Son?”

Justin became angry.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He shot back at her.

“Watch your mouth,” another woman said to him.

“Sorry, Mama,” Justin said to his mother.

He then to the second woman across the table.

“Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry too.”

“What is it with you lately?”

“Nothing,” Justin said. “Just forget about it.”

The rest of the family dinner was rather uneventful. The three of them ate silently: Justin and his two mothers, LuAnn and Lorraine.

After dinner, LuAnn picked up the plates from the table and joined her wife in the kitchen. Justin, once again wildly fidgeting with his hands, put on his coat.

“Hey,” LuAnn said. “Don’t forget to take the trash out.”

Justin rolled his eyes at her.

“You want to try that again, young man!” Lorraine yelled.

“Don’t think for one minute you ain’t too old for a whoopin!”

Justin sighed, walked over to the sink, and grabbed the garbage bag from the trash can...his hands still fidgeting.

“I’ll be back later,” he said as he began to walk out the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” LuAnn asked.

Justin, trying to control his facial expression, forced a smile.

“Over to Mrs. Kendall’s place,” he said.

LuAnn and Lorraine looked at each other, disgusted.

“Justin,” LuAnn said, “You’ve been going over to Mrs. Kendall’s house every night after dinner for the last week. Don’t you think you should...I don’t know...give her a break?”

“It’s fine,” Justin said.

He continued out the door, but LuAnn stopped him.

“What do you do over there?” she asked.

“She gives me a few chores to do, I play some video games, then I come home.”

“Uh-huh...”

Justin grew impatient and angry.

“What!”

“Watch your tone or your ass is staying right here in this house!” Lorraine scolded.

“What does she pay you to do these...chores?” LuAnn asked.

“She gives me rides,” Justin said.

“Isn’t that what we bought you a motorcycle for?” Lorraine asked.

“Look,” Justin said. “Do you mind?”

LuAnn and Lorraine finally gave in.

“Be back no later than ten,” Lorraine said.

“Alright,” Justin said, before finally making his way out the door.

LuAnn turned to Lorraine.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said.

“LuAnn, honey,” Lorraine said, placing her hand on her wife’s shoulder, “It’s called a nicotine fit.”

A short while later, Mrs. Kendall heard the all-too-familiar sound of a motorcycle steadily increasing in volume, before coming to a stop in her driveway. She looked at her clock and noticed it was 7.

“Yep,” she said. “It’s about that time.”

She walked to the door, only to be hit in the face as it burst open.

“Oh my God!” Justin said. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

Mrs. Kendall was angry.

“Do you ever knock?” she said.

“Sorry,” Justin said. “Next time I promise.”

He stood there, smiling at her while wearing his black leather motorcycle jacket. He had grown a little bit of facial hair since that first day they met. And he was looking more like a man with each passing day. Mrs. Kendall was always disarmed by his smile. No matter how irritated she got with him, seeing his face made her feel good.

It made her day.

Mrs. Kendall was a lonely woman. Until she met Justin, nobody ever paid her any visits. For the last week, however, she had company. And as annoying as Justin was, he made her feel good.

She smiled back at him as if to say I’m so glad to see you. I feel like it’s been years. But she said nothing.

“What?” Justin said, taking note of this.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Make yourself at home I guess,” she said, returning to her annoyed demeanor. She did not want him to see that he had become her weakness. Unfortunately, it was too late. Justin was already well aware, and had been for a while.

He walked into her living room and put his helmet and jacket down on the table next to his Playstation-- this had become his home away from home. Next to the playstation was his ashtray and his fresh pack of Newport 100s.

That was why he came here.

Justin had taken over her sofa. That was his place in her home. She sat down in the recliner, which required her to turn her head 90 degrees to watch TV. Meanwhile, Justin had the perfect spot to watch TV and play games.

Justin reached for the cigarettes and packed them against his hand. He wasn’t even really sure why smokers did that. It was just part of the ritual. Then he opened it up, and took one out. He put it up to his nose and sniffed it, taking in the beautiful aroma of fresh tobacco.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he said.

He put the cigarette to his lips and reached for his lighter. The jitters grew uncontrollable. He had gone nearly 18 hours without a cigarette and all that was about to end in just a few seconds. To Justin, everything went by in slow motion as he put the lighter to his cigarette and sparked it up.

That first pull was absolute heaven.

A stream of heavy toxic smoke burst forth from his 16 year old lips.

Mrs. Kendall, a lifelong non-smoker, found herself strangely enjoying the smell of that first puff. For some reason, the first one after lighting up always smelled good, while progressively getting less enjoyable to her nose as he continued to smoke. She could not figure out why that was the case.

“Thank you,” Justin said, finally calming down from his painful nicotine fit. “I really appreciate everything you do for me, Mrs. Kendall.”

“So do you think maybe I can take these with me tonight?” he asked, holding up his pack of cigarettes.

“No,” Mrs. Kendall said, “We talked about that, remember? If I’m gonna commit a felony, it’s not leaving this house.”

Justin blew a stream of cigarette smoke her way and smiled at her.

“It’s a misdemeanor,” he said.

“Besides,” he said, “My moms are cool with it. They know you buy my cigarettes.”

“Well they’re not that cool with it if you have to come over here to have a smoke,” Mrs. Kendall said.

Of course, they both knew that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t want him taking his cigarettes home with him. But that elephant in the room wasn’t going to be discussed.

Justin definitely took note of her watching him as he smoked. He slowly took a deep drag and then exhaled in her direction, flashing a smile that told her Yeah, I see you.

Mrs. Kendall smiled as his stream of smoke penetrated her space. He had found the window to her soul and her ability to hide what was going on in her mind was being eaten away by every chemical that moved from his lungs to hers. Finally, her darkest thoughts condensed into a complete sentence: I really do like it when you smoke.

Yes, he read it loud and clear. Even though not a word was said.

“Oh I almost forgot,” he said, quickly reaching for his jacket.

He pulled out a small clay ornament that was shaped like a yin-yang. He gave her the white half.

“I made this for you in ceramics,” he said.

Her face lit up.

“Justin this is so sweet,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I keep the other half,” he said. “It’s a token of our friendship.”

This was the first time he had made any kind of gesture that she meant more to him than an ID to buy smokes and a place to smoke them.

“This means a lot to me, Justin,” she said, holding back tears.

“I know,” he said. “It’s supposed to.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” he confessed. “And I know you don’t either.”

She wanted to hug him, but she would not allow herself to.

“You can come here and give me a hug if you want,” Justin said.

This stopped her cold.

“I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” she said. “But thank you so much.”

“Can I ask you something?” Justin asked.

“Okay?”

“What’s your first name?”

It suddenly occurred to her that her new best friend had been addressing her as Mrs. Kendall-- a misnomer, considering she had never been married.

“It’s Jasmine,” she said.

“Wow!” Justin said, “That’s a pretty name.”

She laughed.

“What did you expect? Something like Mildred or Edith?”

“Yeah, actually,” he said.

They both laughed together before he took one final deep drag from his cigarette. He then put it out in the freshly cleaned ashtray. Jasmine had made sure that every night he came over, he had a clean ashtray and a fresh pack of Newports waiting on the table for him. It was not a one-way street, however. Justin did in fact do lots of chores around the house for her.

“Justin,” Jasmine asked, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah right,” he laughed.

“It’s not an unreasonable question,” she said.

“Don’t you have a husband?” Justin asked. “I mean everybody calls you Mrs. Kendall.”

“No,” Jasmine said, “I’ve never been a Mrs. I just figured once I got past 50 years old, I was too old to be called Miss.”

“And I’m not likely to ever be a Mrs. But that’s okay. I don’t need a husband.”

“Can I tell you something,” Justin asked.”

“Okay,”

He reached for another cigarette, put it to his mouth, and fired it up.

He pulled it from his lips, allowing his words to flow with the smoke that poured out of his mouth.

“I’m a virgin,” he admitted.

“Justin, you’re 16 years old,” Jasmine said, “There’s plenty of time, believe me.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t like to tell people that.”

“Are you a virgin,” he asked.

“I’m not having this conversation with a 16 year old boy,” she said. “Sorry dude.”

Justin settled in and spent the next few hours playing video games and smoking cigarettes. Jasmine retired to her sewing room and and reached into a drawer, where she pulled out several quilt patches she had sewn together. One of them betrayed her secret. She turned around to make sure Justin hadn’t got up to use the bathroom. Then from the stack of quilt patches, she pulled out the one with a name on it: Justin.

A few hours later, she had a complete quilt. A few steps down the hall was the intended recipient, but she could not bring herself to give it to him. She heard his footsteps coming down the hall and folded it up.

“It’s almost ten and my moms want me back home,” Justin said.

“Okay, honey,” she said.

“Honey?” Justin said.

“It’s a term of endearment,” Jasmine said. “Don’t read anything into it.”

“What would I read into it?” Justin asked.

He walked into her sewing room and noticed the quilt.

“This is pretty,” he said, reaching for it. She stopped him.

“Don’t touch that!” she said.

“Sorry,” he said with a smile.

Their eyes locked for a moment as he pulled out one last cigarette and put it to his lips. She watched, anticipating him lighting up. He hesitated deliberately so he could search her eyes. She looked down and then back up, as if to say Aren’t you gonna light that thing?

But this time he wanted to make sure she knew he was on to her. He moved closer to her and maintained eye contact with her as he put the lighter to the end of the cigarette, locking eyes with her as the flame gently touched the tobacco and ignited it into a cherry.

Following the bright orange glow as it began to burn, a strong whiff of smoke flew from his mouth. He reached for his cigarette and took a long drag.

Then he moved closer to her and placed his hand on the back of her neck.

He gently met her lips with his and kissed her, filling her mouth with the full exhale of his first puff.

Jasmine invited his smoke into her mouth and savored it as their tongues bathed each other.

Then she shoved him back.

“What are you doing!” She shreiked.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a few days now,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said. “Alone!”

“And when I get back, you better not be here!”

She grabbed the quilt and stormed out of the room.

“Jasmine,” he said, “What’s wrong? What did I do?

What she heard in his voice was the desperate cry of a little boy. And this sickened her. She hated herself.

“It’s not you, Justin,” she said. “It’s me.”

She stormed down the hall toward her bedroom.

“But wait!” Justin said.

“Justin,” she hollered. “Just go!”

And so he did.

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scendant · 5 years ago

Text

Pink clouds drizzled away in the distance as twilight quickly fell.

At the top of the hill, surrounded by houses that twinkled and looked rich and lovely with beads of light that hung from spandrels of different ornament and patterns. Streetlamps colored the outside in orange, lighting up the light rain’s puddles that scattered across cracked asphalt. At the top of a cold, empty hill, she listened to the sound of her slow footsteps on orange-tinted sidewalk and closed her eyes to the heat that escaped her lips in slow puffs. Her breath was colored orange, her skin was wet and sparkled in gold, and her hair--ever-so red--followed her steps like a fire catching unto brush in the night.

The city far away twinkled and twizzed with bustling rainbow glass, distant and glittery--magic in the night. Every step she took brought her deep into blue and back again, basking in orange tonnes, chilled in the cold after the rain and the clarity of the sky after its tears ceased to tumble to the earth. Every movement made the city shift and run further and further. It would take a dream or several to walk there. A day or several. She had all of that time in the world----the universe ticked its useless time away in the bosom of her chest and pulsed with her heartbeat.

Without understanding a single thing, without knowing a single word. Just set to wander. She glossed over the night with distant red and took to blinking in tune with the cadence of her steps. The tips of her fingers were frosted over. The little metal boxes under the plentiful lights glimmered and moved every time she walked past. Every cricket’s cry, every bird’s shift, every grass shaken and cat running across her way----it invigorated her. Kept her moving, going, watching intricacies of familiar things scurry by and enamor her with their familiarity.

Not a day goes by when she thinks about how long she’d been here. Things written on paper that made no sense to her gradually caught up the words she’d been speaking out of her mouth. Aernas seemed far and distant----a dream midst a nightmare---a language that seemed chaotic and ancient to the different and grey world of a sphere unwatched and unloved by Gods of any sort. The air ran thin and the cold was sharper than any blade she had crossed. The sound of metal slicking metal, iron kissing iron, the spark of friction----even that seemed distant to her. In this world of late-night transit and glowing promises of words on a billboard, it overwhelmed her senses and sent her looking from the outside towards her own figure.

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday----how long will she be here? As the days pass and the distance between the kaleidoscope's seeing-opening and patterned glass end grew longer and longer. When she put those colors to her eye, they spun & spun without an end in sight. Every day was another revolution of the same colors and patterns, as if mocking her distance, making fun of her running and, above all else, sighing at her insistence to chase. Facing the snow that dotted the moon in a brilliant, speckled white, she tenderly sang, for the only thing that stayed the same was that bright vibrancy that lit the pitiful night no matter how many greens & reds & blues dotted the distance in false guidance.

Fluorescent tubed lights seemed blue to her eyes and it hurt, so bad. The gross yellow dyed her skin languid. Moths and other bugs preyed upon the light, buzzing and mounting and mating and pilling and popping out eggs in trees & places she did not think bugs could even nest. Mantis shells trampled on, ticks and spiders scuttled and jumped, and she----a lion outside of its savanna----observed, distant and natural. As if she did not exist, life spun its world around her and for the first time, she thought of this world as something dirtied by people rather than colored by it. The vibrancy she’d seen in her earlier wanderings faded with each subsequent world. The fire that beat in her heart with the light of her sword had been extinguished to glowing coals, black and truly immortal, waiting for something to spark her. Someone to spark her. Something to color her sanguine once more, like the color that ran through peoples’ veins, color that rested rouge on her lips. Gold colored her pretty every week and topaz drowned her miscellaneous thoughts. Topaz drowned the ghost of herself that could not recognize a woman speaking in another language, a ghost that could not date times to when her scars etched her skin, a ghost that could not tell how deeply the purple had settled under her eyes.

It was unreal.

A fallacy of unreality.

Her head was above water, looking into the reflections of mercury & glass waves as distorted reflections of her buzzing red being the only indication of her. Neck-deep in an ocean, yet she needn’t kick nor fight nor do anything but feel that familiar wet of clothes sticking to her skin.

Cold and damp, like a night after the rain, on top of the hill, drenched in tangerine and the sweet scent of oranges and honey and things that wrapped her up, words of pages in books that she could not read, words of pages in books that floated out and rendered her tongue-tied and dull. Glazed over and empty.

------“You’re like the sun lighting up the moon, a campsite fire that takes me back to where you are, Elesis.”

She took her father’s hand and opened her eyes to the light of the marketplace. Attached from hook to hook were clotheslines pinned with flags of all colors. Quilted blankets took in the sunlight and bleached their color into the sky. The sky in Kanavan was more azure and more vibrant than any sky she had ever seen before, and her braid flopped and followed heavy on her head as she watched all around. Her brand-new armor glitzed and caught the reflections of the first oxen she’d ever lain her eyes on. Lazy day; the bustling epicenter of town was littered in napping cats and dogs. A pretty shopkeeper lady hung her apron over sacks of rice and meal, the greens and yellows of her drapery catching the red girl’s eyes as she was dragged along the street. Her feet fought Father’s insistence on whisking her away, skirting along the smoothly worn cobblestone of the capital’s streets.

The castle was draped in crystalline chandelier cloth. The entrance itself was an embellished love, colors glittering, stone set in between brilliant facets of the blood and tears of builders, death’s past. So pretty, and so lovely, she could hear the movement of the sparkle of her earrings in the mirror-marble and the whinnies of white-coated horses and---oh! The carriages. With their red-lined openings and gold-trimmed doors, far from the quaint thatched roof of her wooden childhood cottage and hay-topped roof.

You’re the sun lighting up the moon, a fire that takes me back to where you are. Elesis.

This world was a dreary, lonely nothing that gave her nothing for all of the color it drained from her. In dimly-lit motels and stained bedsheets, the songs of silver-earrings and golden light through her kitchen window’s morning disappeared into gibberish and she could not even understand her own words. Topaz at seven in the morning became topaz at the strike of nine. Light that drowned out Mama’s pregnant belly poured smoothly into another drink, and she took it in like a champion. The smooth stung and the sting hurt, yet the warmth it gave soothed her spark and rendered her coals again and again. Atop the orange dotted hill that overlooked a display of fake lights and distant rainbow twinkles, she could feel her fingers lose the grip of the sword she’d taken so deeply to her bones. Her grip strength faded past the hilt and her fingers wound up balled in her palms, cold and tipped with air that she did not know.

She was the sun that lit up the moon, yet she could barely remember the voice of the boy who whispered it to her. On that day, she pretended to be asleep. She’d closed her eyes, taking in the warmth of the campfire, enjoying the ground beneath daytime emerald tree--and he, like the foolish boy he was, naively silver and bold for once, gave her a poem. If she could remember how old she was, that day’s events would run through her head in seconds. If she could recall the language of her world so quick as she could where she were, she could finally feel tears glitter down her cheeks. Purple, green; cyan and indigo. Beyond her reach, in the city where they glittered, she stopped on the incline and sat on a metal bench. Wishing for a sky more azure than anything she had seen before. Wishing for those blinding white facets to reflect her rose’d cheeks of her youth. Wanting the days she’d been bratty and demanding, angry and full of a fire so blue it sparked over uncontrollably and became vibrant, uncontrolled. Her at fifteen, when she was at her most colorful.

For him, who she could not mouth the words to in her pretend-sleep, she wished she asked him what he meant with his blue.

Trapped in shifting colors of glass and light, she reminisced when she’d loved and lost. Those eyes she’d loved so much, filled with the reflection of her----to cross the universe with them was only a dream. To cross it by herself was a nightmare. The things she wished she could see the looks on their faces of quickly became routine to wonder, and she oft wondered if her past was even real. Memories faded lest she touch the bumps and ridges of the scars that littered her body from battles otherworldly and incredible in caliber. Her experience seemed like a lucid dream every new night she slept, every sun that lit up the moon at night, every moon that became the gentle crescent of a smiling and unconcerned God with the days that passed. Questions did not mean a thing to her, and she could feel her head being dragged down and under, bobbing up again, and faced with murky water that clouded the vision of herself every time she stuttered over her answers.

The clothes in her bag still fit her. Gold and all. Tassels and all. The Kanavan insignia, sewn time and time again to the lapel of her coat, still colored her past brilliant and real. When she ran her fingers through the cloth, she was reminded of her, truly, yet soon as her fingers faded from contact she seemed forgotten it all in the blink of an eye.

At the top of a Christmas-lined hill full of houses, under the orange light of warm streetlamps, in the cold after-rain and sat on a bench drowned in cold, she closed her eyes and wished on her chest for the fiftieth time. Yet, trapped in a lucid nightmare, stuck running after the end of a kaleidoscope that grew further and further from the seeing-eye glass her eyelashes tapped, she opened her eyes to that same grey, brick & mortar empty of a world unpretty.

A fire that took her back to where she were. Like the sun lighting up the moon.

On two distant sides of growing gold, pink dyed the fabric of the sky again. And the sun rose up on her left. The moon faded to the right. As far as they could be, it was the distance of her soul to her home.

#DRABBLE / post #( it's 5:25 AM )#( and I feel the Sads )

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