#my brain is filled with useless comic book knowledge

[theblackbirdisinvolved]

The abbreviation for the Memphis Public Library in the Firefly courier (the Tennessee inter-library loan courier) is TMN. My brain translates this to TMNL. They are the teenage mutant Ninja Library.

[thebrotherswholoved]

Day Two: “Secret Santa”

“How much homework d’you got?”

Sam’s sitting there, staring at the eraser of a number two pencil, trying to make it implode. Maybe if he has no pencil he won’t have to take the exam?

“Sam?”

Oh, yeah. Jessica’s sitting cross legged on the table beside him, legs knocking into the nearby bookcase just filled to the brim with knowledge: useless and obsolete knowledge, at least. That section of the library is history. Oh, shit, will Gottesman put Assyrian culture on the test?!

“Samuel Winchester, what is going on inside that big head of yours?” Jess flirts in that shameless, up-in-the-clouds air about her that made the entire junior varsity football team fall for her.

Sam thinks she’s cute. That said, he doesn’t think she’s hot and she’s definitely not his type, but she’s sweet and bakes delicious pastries for the environmental awareness club’s bake sale. She’s the type of girl any guy, girl, or anybody in between would be lucky to have—just not him. Jess would be his type if she had short hair. And a more phallic pubic area.

He’d usually make conversation and let his dimples do the talking to protect her from eminent rejection on his part, but he’s too fucking stressed right now to do anything but dissociate and stare at the damn pencil he’s holding.

“Mostly elephants,” he mutters, flicking at the wood like a syringe. He just came from his anatomy course, so he’s in a doctor-y mood.

The blonde snorts a bit, covers her nose, and tries to cover up her ‘crudeness’ with a dainty chuckle. “Elephants? Why the hell are you thinking of elephants, beautiful mind?”

“I’m trying to remember who they trampled in that one damn war, I think it’s the Persian one?” He blows air through his teeth and rolls the writing utensil away until it hits his pre-calculus book. “And I’m wondering if they can trample me.”

“You’ll do fine, Sam,” she slides off the table, tiny plaid skirt pleating with her in the motion. That just reminds him of how scratchy his own plaid tie is against his throat. Damn uniforms. “It’s Reid you need to worry about. He’s gonna kill my grade.”

This draws a chuckle from the lanky freshman, long hair—that just barely abides by the dress code—dangling in his face.

“Like, with the test or wielding a sword?”

“Yes,” Jess sighs and prepares to leave to her next period. “Alright, nerd. Good luck with your elephants, or whatever.”

Sam lets out a breathy laugh and turns to look out the window at the snow falling into the bleak mid morning air. He wishes he could go and frolic out there—maybe even practice his physics by zigzagging around an open area to prove his hypothesis.

“You Sam Winchester?”

Jumping out of his skin, he turns around and is met with the sight of Benny, a boy in his English class he’s never spoken to.

“Uh...yes?” He stutters. This boy is intimidating: he’s a sophomore in remedial English, a jock, and a total dickhead to freshmen. Especially nerdy freshmen on the robotics team—great, this is exactly what he needs right now.

Before he can offer any explanation up for why this guy is even in a library, a tiny package is being tossed into his hands and Benny is trudging away to go beat up a mathlete or something.

The small box is wrapped in what appears to be the Sunday comics from the newspaper, and judging by the date on one of the sides, it was yesterday’s paper. The job is poor, but the haste the person who wrapped it was in seems to be kind-of endearing. There’s a dollar store bow taped onto the top of the gift, and Sam feels an impulse to be as delicate as possible.

Unwrapping the thin pages covering the present and opens the box, he feels his heart drop into his lungs at what he finds. It’s a necklace with thin black thread and a golden pendant in the shape of some ancient figure’s head. Whoever this is, they know his style—it’s absolutely beautiful.

When he takes it into his hands like a wounded dove, a note falls out as well. It’s written with erasable ink on loose leaf notebook paper and folded into uneven quarter squares. The handwriting betrays the presentation, however: beautiful cursive glides across the page in narrow strokes of the shitty blue-inked pen used. In shock, he holds the note in both hands while still thumbing over the blunt edges of the pendant.

“Sam—

God, that’s a pretty name. It suits you, you know: you’re totally a Sam. A pretty name for a pretty boy.

Sorry, I know I suck at this. I’m only writing because I’m too fucking scared to talk to you. I know I’ll blush and make a fool of myself, and that’s not attractive.

We’ve met twice before. Once in September when you worked as a library aide and helped me find a barcode on a Stephen King novel, and again last week when I picked up your pencil for you. Each of those times I had to walk away and breathe for a minute because you just stole my suaveness and tore it to shreds.

I want you to wear this necklace all week, okay? My uncle gave it to me, and I don’t do jewelry, but I thought it’d look good on you. It’s supposed to bring good luck to the wearer, not like you’ll need it. You just seemed stressed.

If I have the balls, I’ll try to talk to ‘ya soon in person.

Awkwardly,

Your Secret Santa”

Sam’s hands are trembling with excitement and trepidation at the note. Someone likes him—and it’s a boy! He’s never had another guy like him, ever. Then again, who the hell is this boy with beautiful handwriting?

He helped a lot of people check out books in September, and lots of Stephen King novels were read. Plus, he’s fucking clumsy. Literally everyone has had to pick up his pencil for him!

It’s gonna be a long week.

•••

For the love of god, let his suffering end!

Sam wants to bang his head against his locker until he passes out. This secret santa gig coupled with the seven midterms he’s taken this week have successfully steeped his brain in anxiety. His last exam period just got let out and yes, elephants were included; but now, he has no distraction from the whole crush scenario.

The brunette fumbles with his amulet in stressed anticipation as his steps quicken, eager to escape the hallway and get to his locker. Over the course of the last five days, he’s received four more notes in the same penmanship, each one making his heart melt. Sure, it’s no Shakespeare but it’s unique and genuine.

His fingers tremble as he twists the number dial lock: 11-02-83. Expecting a note, he begins scanning the blue walls of the metal rectangle but finds nothing but that same handwriting in erasable marker on the door:

“Turn around.”

By the time he whips around, brown hair following the action, he’s neglected to notice that everyone has cleared the hallway and is standing with giddy smiles and phones on video. The only person in this vacant zone is a tall, sandy blonde, freckled junior boy.

Holy shit. It’s Dean fucking Smith.

His hand finds the necklace and he tries to breathe but can’t find the willpower to do so. His brain is running into overdrive trying to decide if this is real or not. The footsteps nearing him seem real and so do the calloused, motor-oil-stained fingers wrapping around his hand in a cautious way, Dean being afraid of something Sam can’t quite place.

“Do you like it?” The boy runs his fingers through his spiked hair and bites his lip, cheeks blushing beet red.

“I love it.” Sam blurts out before his sense of reason can muffle his heart. Exhaling, he relaxes a bit. “I really love it.”

Dean lets out a breath and lets his thumb roll over the soft skin on the back of the younger’s hand. “Good. I hoped you would.”

Sam’s heart is beating out of his chest like in one of those wacky cartoons, but he steps forward and rocks back on his heels. Bravery rising, his hand moved from his own to cup under his chin, emerald eyes scanning his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. Sam’s head seems to nod before the taller man can even finish his question, and Dean’s eyes flicker with excitement before closing. The gap between them is closed and chapped lips meet peppermint chapstick as their worlds collide. The crowd is cheering but they can’t hear anything. Both boys are far too focused on the taste of each other on their tongues and when they part, Dean drops his bad boy act and wraps him in a hug.

Arms tightening around his neck in response, Sam brings his lips to Dean’s ear and smiles.

“You have beautiful handwriting.”

[hellomrroboto]

On Drawing and its Utility as a Communication Method

Given the reaction to my methods the last time I pulled a linguistic subversion of an implicitly visual assignment, I want to take a moment to discuss written forms of representation in the context of the discovery process. 

While blue chip design firms like IDEO aspire to be visual in all things brainstorm, they are also in the business of selling a product and the magic behind their services. For IDEO, drawing is a crutch upon which they lean heavily; it effectively separates those who have visual communication skills (e.g. IDEO and its army of well-trained right-brained influencers) from the monolithic members of the Fortune 1000 who are largely represented by non-visual thinkers and from whom IDEO and firms like IDEO seek to win monetary favor. The trickery of your friendly neighborhood Blue Chip Design Firm is sales and marketing genius- they utilize an apparently common skill (everyone drew when they were kids, right?) and strongly demand that their clients engage in this same practice. By comparison to the trained designers, it quickly becomes apparent to the client that visual communication is actually incredibly difficult. This makes sense because visual communication is incredibly difficult. In fact, it’s so difficult that the client would rather pay Blue Chip Design Firm to visually communicate for them. Blue Chip Design Firm won the business of the Fortune 1000 company the moment that the Fortune 1000 company agreed to come in for an exploratory meet and greet.

If there’s such a thing as a B2B micro-aggression, that visual brinksmanship is it. Design and engineering education are irrevocably intertwined with the latent desire of the consulting design and engineering firm; students go to school to get hired and the firms look for students with a talent profile which will ultimately command the highest labor resale value. So, we all draw despite its flaws as a communication method and its steep learning curve.

Before coming to Brown, the scenario I laid out above was my life on repeat. I hired people that could draw well simply because it worked when trying to sell services. This may be apocryphal: Henry Dreyfuss, one of the early titans of industrial design, realized that he could win clients every time by drawing their solution at the pitch table in front of the client and upside down so that they were looking at it in the correct orientation. Can you imagine the majesty of that trick unfolding in front of you in real time? While we can all aspire to the apparent cleverness of Dreyfuss, reality is far different:

1. Even those people who can draw incredibly well only draw well when they have time. No one draws well on a Post-It Note or in a free flowing brainstorm session because there’s not enough time to actually render something well. Drawing well- and therefore communicating by drawing- takes immense time and effort. When such time and effort is allowable, drawings communicate effectively in the sense that they can be made relatively information dense but even then they are generally limited in their ability to communicate nuance and complexity. Don’t come at me with some comic book stuff; those people are masters and they have all the time in the world.

2. Drawn ideation, and especially drawn ideation that is well-rendered, sets expectations at a point where they are unmanageable and ultimately leave the client unhappy. Either the drawing is garbage and the client fills in the missing details with their own inscrutable minutiae which they fail to communicate as they believe their insight is common knowledge or the drawing is perfect and the client expects it tomorrow and exactly as shown on paper. Either way, the client is disappointed at best.

I left the world of commercial design specifically because I wanted to break free of such short sighted methodology like drawing as a means of communication. Communication should be just that; there’s no room for anything that doesn't strongly prioritize the complete transfer of information.

Alternative Methods of Holistically Communicating New Ideas

As those who are responsible for building what comes next, it is critical that we move beyond the sales and marketing tactics of the design and engineering firm and into something that didactically honors the value of our own intellectual output. The methods of the design firm are immediately persuasive but are ultimately empty calories at a time when the growth of novelty is increasingly demanding of nutrient. There are alternative methods:

Writing/Discussion

While it takes more time to ingest a new idea when it’s written, this increased time on task is precisely what makes the method so successful. On a level playing field, good writing stands above because it demands attention and requires that the reader ultimately comprehend and it implicitly encourages reflection. Good writing is only as successful as a following discussion and it is this discussion where the design work is really computed. Discussion offers an opportunity for consensus building which is critical in the collaborative bloodsport that is design.

Prototyping

Whereas drawing is limited by the contortionist translative abilities of the visual thinker, prototyping- and especially prototyping that encourages or displays some degree of functionality- leaves nothing on the table. Even the worst prototypes beat the best drawings because they allow a group of people to collectively and physically interact with an idea in a way that fosters discussion, collusion, and progress. 

Material Studies

Material studies are often reserved as a back-end means of finding a substitute to a physical inadequacy in material properties. The reality is that material studies are an effective front-end solution to opening the discussion around form and function. Think processionally from the user perspective; when interacting with an object or arrangement of digital glyphs, we first notice that which requires the least amount of translation by the brain: color, texture, smell, temperature, etc. It is only after all this is processed that we begin to digest complexities like utility or desirability. 

Design Research

Design research is highlighted in many different forms using many different descriptors by any number of adherents. Prior to the era of the consulting design firm, design research was known as market research. In that era, companies sought to understand the market as an entity. What does the market want? What does the market think about XYZ? This is a flawed line of inquiry as it undermines the agency of the individual in a purchasing decision. Rather than understanding the market as a whole, design research seeks to understand the needs of an archetypical individual or a group of individuals so as to better address their needs directly. Data collection is imperative as a front end exercise because it immediately uncovers insight which can be iterated upon for the sake of the creation of the new. Without inquiry into need or desire, subsequent creation is ungrounded in reality; success at that point is a matter of chance and not a matter of the intelligence or ability of the design team.

Experiential Journeys

Tune in, turn on, drop out. Experiential journeys could be considered a subset of design research on the whole but, given their power as a stand-alone methodology of inquiry, I think it’s important to separate the two. Pontification about the nature of existence as an idea is useless without the facts that back those assertions up. When in the early stages of designing a chef’s knife, is it better to learn about the anatomy of the hand from a textbook or does it make more sense to find a chef and work with them to understand their desires? Both are important for the success of the knife but the answer should be obvious given the context here. Experiential journeys are also different from design research in that they nearly always develop empathy for the problem and for the people experiencing the problem within the creator and researcher. This development of empathy, above all else, is the most critical element of the design process. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

[commanderquill]

One Step Closer

Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd

Rating: Not Rated

Genre: Adventure/Mystery

Words: 100K+

Summary: Tim Drake can’t help it, he’s a sucker for mystery and there isn’t a mystery like Batman and Robin. There’s something taboo, forbidden and thrilling to hiding on rooftops for hours just to catch pictures of them in action -- pictures no one else has ever taken. These misadventures lead him to an odd acquaintance with a tire thief named Jay, who becomes an unexpected constant during Tim’s nighttime escapades.

When Jay disappears and no one will tell him where he’s gone, Tim figures it’s up to him to rescue his friend. But for some reason, amongst his investigations into the strange uprise of human disappearances around Gotham, Robin is there, preventing Tim from getting into too much trouble -- and trying to keep him away from his search for Jay.

The network of kidnappings only seems to keep getting bigger and bigger, until Tim finally turns his sights to the one percenters of the city, because Bruce Wayne is acting suspicious and Tim will find a connection to these human disappearances if it’s the last thing he does. After all, rarely are people ever what they seem, and in Gotham, rich money is always dirty.

CLICK HERE TO READ

Excerpt From Chapter 2:

“I ripped him off.”

They’re sitting on a low rooftop sandwiched between two taller buildings. Beneath them, Tim can feel the pulsing of a nightclub, the beat thump-thumping through his thighs and into his chest. The sun is low in the sky but not yet fallen, though it’s well into the evening anyway due to the summer time hours.

“You ripped your broker off?” Tim asks. Their conversation is oddly quiet despite the loud music. Slow and almost emotionless. That’s fine by him. They’re both still digesting the day’s events. “I thought it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“It is,” Jay says. “That’s why he’s pissed.”

“Oh.” Silence.

“Y’know, I wouldn’t of done it if he’d give them their fair cut,” Jay frowns. “What he’s doin’ isn’t right. The other kids’ll pick pockets and steal and bribe to get a handful of shiny things or whatever he’s callin’ for and he sends them off with barely half of what it’s worth and they can’t do nothing about it ‘cause he’s the only one in town. Only broker. So I lied ‘bout the tire. Carved in new tread, made it too thin on purpose so it wouldn’t last. Polished over the name, lied about the type. Ripped him off by a couple hundred bucks. He barely gives out hundreds to start, but he thought it was real nice.”

Tim nods.

“And then I threw a bottle bomb in his office. His favourite couch has a hole in it,” Jay finally smirks.

Tim doesn’t even mind. “And of course, I pepper-sprayed him and his buddy.”

“Of course.”

“Twice.”

Jay huffs a laugh. Another moment passes before Tim joins him with a small smile of his own.“Y’know,” he says, finally turning to Tim. “We make a pretty good team.”

“Yeah,” Tim admits shyly, looking down at the muddy toes of his sneakers dangling off the edge of the roof. “I guess we do.”

Tim ultimately decides that the day has been given enough thought and turns his attention to attempting to judge what song is playing based on the beat reverberating through his limbs. He thinks it might be a remix of Mama by David Guetta, not like that song doesn’t have enough remixes, when Jay speaks. Tim almost doesn’t hear him.

“You’re still lookin’ for Bat and brat, right?” he asks innocently. Tim turns to him in surprise.

“I--uh,” he stammers, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Lemme know if you catch ‘em.”

The comment is so absurd that Tim can’t help but hang his head and laugh at it. “I’m not trying to catch them. They’re not Pokemon.”

“They probably were in another life,” Jay shrugs. He’s trying to hide his mirth but Tim can see it in the quirk of his lips. “What are you tryin’ to do, then?”

Tim has to think about that for a moment. “Not sure,” he finally says. “I think I just want to know that I did it. That I figured out who they are. The biggest mystery in modern-day Gotham, solved by the little kid nobody thought anything of. Plus, they’re...kind of my role models. Robin is, anyway.”

A smirk. “You wanna find out who bird brains is so you can ask ‘im out?”

Tim elbows him. Jay winces for a split second, his ribs must be bruised, but he recovers before Tim can apologise. “No. I don’t know. Knowledge is power, I guess.”

Jay nods in understanding. “I get it.”

“You do?” Tim asks. “The people I know don’t. They’re all thinking about...other things. Social status and stuff. What people are posting on Instagram.” He pauses, not sure if Jay wants to hear more, but the boy doesn’t say anything, just looks at him blankly and Tim finds himself talking before he can think about monitoring what comes out. “Like, no one pays attention in my science class, but my teacher loves to talk and he’ll go on about anything, and last week he started talking about what Gotham was like when he was little. He’s really old. And no one was listening, but then he started talking about the abandoned Subway tunnels. So I looked it up, and you wouldn’t believe how big it is. It connects anything and everything and no one remembers it exists. But there’s these pictures on the Newtown construction page. It’s at the very bottom of this 90-something page paper about politics and rules and stuff, but it’s there, and I found it and printed it out and put it in the box under my bed.

“I like to learn more about anything I hear, no matter how useless people think it is, because you never know when you’re going to want it. Sometimes I’ll hear something and my first thought is, ‘That’s useful’, but I don’t know why it’s useful and I don’t know what I’d use it for,” Tim finishes. “But I keep a note of it anyway, just in case.” Jay doesn’t say anything for another moment, just kicks his legs. “It’s not like that here,” he says finally. “I mean, yeah, what’s useful is a bit different, but… If you know these streets, you control these streets.” He looks at Tim, trying to see if Tim understands, and must see that Tim doesn’t because he tries elaborating. “Like Tommy. My broker you pepper-sprayed? He knows the street kids in these parts, and he’s all buddy-buddy with the gangs. He knows where to walk and where to not. He knows who to rip off and who to stay away from, so he can get money in all the right places and no one can stop him because then he puts a stop to them. Gangs don’t bother him because he knows enough secrets that he can hold it over them, make sure they don’t mess with him because he has something in his head they’re afraid of.

“It’s all about the secrets. A street looks like any other street, it’s what’s goin’ on behind the walls that you gotta worry about, that you gotta know, because if you have nothing to take from someone else, someone else is gonna take from you.” Jay nods to himself. “Yeah. Knowing too much is better than knowing nothin’ at all.”

It’s...comforting, hearing Jay say all of that. “There’s a lot I don’t know, though,” Tim says cautiously. “Like how the streets work. You’re the one with the street smarts. I’m just book smart.”

Jay cocks his head curiously. “Yeah? Don’t expect you to. You’re not from ‘round here.”

“Doesn’t mean I should be stupid about it.”

“What’s your point?”

“If I hang around long enough, you’ll teach me, right?” Tim asks. He knows he’s asking for a lot, but he doesn’t know whether or not it’s too much.

Jay frowns. “Teach you?”

“Yeah. Show me what it’s like here. Or at least, how to live here.”

That earns him an eyebrow raise. “You’re gonna have to actually live here for that. But…,” Jay continues before Tim can feel disheartened. “Sure. Hang around me. Shouldn’t be too bad. But I got rules.”

“Like?” Tim prods.

“Like, you gotta listen to what I say. If I say do something, you do it. Even if it seems weird. Also, I do all the talkin’. I can make you look like a rat, but anyone hear the way you talk and they’ll throw you to the wolves. You gotta learn how to not paint a target on your back.”

Tim nods slowly. “I have a rule, too.”

Jay’s eyes narrow. “Yeah?”

“No throwing either of us to the wolves,” he smiles. “You have my back, I have yours.”

Jay looks surprised, like that’s the last thing he expected to come out of Tim’s mouth. Oddly enough, that fills Tim with a sense of pride. He sticks his hand out. Jay looks at it like he can’t figure out what a hand is, and Tim feels a bit comical, but he’s nothing if not determined. He leans forward to whisper conspiratorially: “You’re supposed to shake it.”

Jay scowls and grabs his hand. Tim gives it a single, firm shake. “Then it’s official.”

“What is?”

“Our friendship.”

A sense of victory floods Tim when Jay’s mouth breaks out into a grin. “Whatever, Sherlock.”

They sit in companionable silence before a thought occurs to Tim. “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

“Isn’t Watson an idiot?”

“Only in some versions.”

“Go figure.”

[definitelyameatbag]

Perri meets the Biker

A quick fic inspired by @drawbauchery‘s Biker/Librarian AU and the art they’ve done for it.

---“...and she had spent the entire night locked in there!”, concluded Laplace, giving an anecdote about her coworker as they returned through the doors, “It was good we had a group from Medieval Studies come in the morning, I can assure you they had the scare of their lives!”

The tale of the archivist’s plight had Perri in a giggle, her stomach aching, all the while sparing some pity for Amy, Perri remembering a traumatising experience involving locking herself in the bathroom as a little girl. “God, this Amy sounds like a riot!”

 “If you mean she’s unplanned and uncontrollable, then I’ll have to agree with you!”, beamed Laplace, laughing as well, although still trying to keep it reserved. “But she’s a sweetheart when you get to know her.” Shrugging her shoulders, she walked around her desk and took her seat again, noting the meager pile of books in her ‘Return’ bin. “Ah, this can probably still go a few hours before sorting. The year is young, and when the work for the students gets harder, so it will for us. But, for now...”, she peered into the bin, tongue stuck out, rather like a kitty, Perri observed, “Hmm, Homer, Voltaire, Yeats, good places for anyone to start as far as all are concerned...”

 Perri once heard a saying, ‘Make sure you are friends with a librarian.’ This did her good service when getting her degree, her old librarian was the best search engine she could ever have. He wouldn’t give her 100,000 searches, but he’d give her the three that she needed. She looked into the bin, seeing The Iliad on the top of the small pile. She reached in and--

 “Ah. Ah. Nope!”, interrupted Laplace, raising a finger. “No removing books from the bin. Those are the Rules.” Picking up the book herself, she checked the front page, and turned to her computer, typing one key at a time. “I cannot ever get used to typing.”, she admitted, seeming regretful. “I’m useless at it. I suppose you’d be much better at it than I.”

 “Uhh, I suppose.”, responded Perri, cheeks going rosey as she scratched her head. “I once clocked myself at about 80 words a minute.” At the corner of her eye was an open notebook on Laplace’s desk, half filled and with one of those old-style fountain pens sitting on top of it. Perri could see it clearly enough that it was some of the most beautiful calligraphy she ever saw. She hadn’t written in cursive since she was eight years old, and she could hardly remember the last time she wrote something down longer than a shopping list.

 “My word, I wish I could be that fast!”, complemented Laplace, finishing the processing of the book. “And here you are, Ms. Fifecksgee, I present to you Homer’s Iliad.”, she handed out the book with two hands and a bow, in a way Perri imagined was a little more dramatic than how she regularly did it, but she couldn’t be entirely sure. She grabbed the book with both hands, instinctively returning the bow. “Wow. Thanks for the...suggestion, I guess? I’ll give it a read when I can.”

 Laplace smiled from ear to ear, “Great! Just pop it back in when you’re done, don’t try to put it on the shelves, and obviously don’t fold the pages. Oh!” She ruffled through her desk to find something, picking up a strip of paper. “You can borrow one of mine!”

 Perri accepted the bookmark. She could see that it had a drawing of two cats, one green and the other blue, having an eskimo kiss, with a heart above their heads. Noticing which one she had just given Perri, Laplace blushed, “Umm, I have other ones if you--”

 “No, no, this is lovely.”, Perri cut her off, pulling in to emphasise, “You been very...friendly, to me. I never thought I would ever pick up a book like this. Usually it would just be some New Wave Sci Fi or mang--well, comic books.”

 Laplace gave a warm chuff. “Well, you’ll have to bring me some issues to make it fair. I suppose Superman always appealed to me.”

 “Heh.”, Perri answered, nervously, “Yeah, I’ll bring something at some point.” Leaving unmentioned exactly what kind of comics she collected. She’d probably be fired if she brought them onto campus grounds.

 “Well, I suppose I shall see you later, Perri. Thank you for the tea.”

 ---

 Perri’s mind buzzed as she went back to her desk. She always thought artsy students were, well, dim, but the deep knowledge Laplace had was impressive. She had a habit of running her tongue, but she never seemed to be ‘snooty’ about it, probably out of the sheer, although collected, enthusiasm she had about talking about such things. Perri never thought she would do anything but hate poetry and history and mythology, but Laplace had something to her...sweetness?...that made it all sound wonderful. She passed the library’s section on calculus, think about how she talked about her work. She never thought of herself as being particularly good at explaining to people her work, she’d slip and stutter and then she’d see them getting bored and finally she’d just stop talking. She was proud at managing to graduate, extremely proud, but even her own parents couldn’t ever see the beauty of something as basic as running a simplex algorithm, aside from being told about the salaries that await people who are good at it.

 But Laplace, she was so patient, so genuinely interested in her field, even if she herself was terrible with computers. She felt good about sharing her expertise with her, and she felt better learning about her interests, she wanted to know more about them, she wanted to know more about...her...

 Her legs wobbled as she walked into her office. She felt queasy, but swallowed it down. Must’ve been the tuna sandwich, she told herself, falling into the chair. Maybe it was just the flu returning to campus. She shook her head straight and turned her eyes to the computer. A bead of sweat feel from her forehead as she finished reading the line about someone, somehow, managing to turn off antivirius in every computer in one of the admin offices, half an hour ago.

 Taking a deep breath, she checked her watch. 2:00PM. She checked how many computers were infected. She reckoned she’d have the job done by six.

 ---

 On Mondays, buses ran from the campus until 11:00PM, and Perri managed to get halfway through the light rain until watching the last bus pull away from the stop.

 “Wait, WAIT! STOP!”, her sprint quickly burnt out, like the Shooting Star of Hope promptly disintegrating upon hitting the Atmosphere of Despair, and blew off the urge to curse with a few stomps on the ground.

 Through the darkness, through the rain, she saw something glisten in the corner of her eye, as she walked towards administration to call a taxi. The carpark nearest the library was nearly empty, aside from two forms near the bike railings. The larger one reflected the Moon and streetlamps like metal, and the smaller one seemed to be moving around it.

 Paying closer attention, it seemed to Perri that the light it reflected off was a familiar shade of blue.

 “Hey!”, she shouted, frustrations with infected computers boiling over any rational human response to probably not try to start business with bikers. She stomped towards bike and biker as intimidatingly as possible. In short, ‘not very’. “Yu nearly ran me over this morning! I demand to be given an apolog--”

 She stopped in her tracks, about ten feet away from the bike and its rider, who turned to face her, not in a combative stance, as the rational part of her brain had tried to scream at was likely, but in surprise, recoiling back with a gasp, bring their hands up to their mouth. “Perri?”, came a familiar voice.

 The thought offended Perri’s common sense that she was reluctant to name it. It sounded mad.

 “Laplace?”

 The form took a few steps forward, coming into the light. It revealed Laplace, without her sweater and scarf, instead wearing a black leather jacket, unzipped, and a white tank top.

 Laplace was the first to react, speaking in a rushed tone, “Oh Perri, I’m so sorry for this morning! I rode in and I nearly didn’t see someone walking out and I just swerved at the last second and--”

 “Laplace, it’s ok!”, Perri nearly shouted over what seemed to be Laplace’s dive into a panic attack. She reached out with her hands, not entirely sure way, and Laplace lowered down her own hands and grabbed them. Laplace seemed to have the start of tears in her eyes, but her hastening breathing slowed down again as she squeezed Perris hands. “Listen, I’m not angry. Hey, I didn’t look both ways, it’s as much my fault as well.” Perri’s brain still ticked over the confusing sight before her.

 “No, don’t apologise, I should have turned around and apologise to you this morning. It’s just...” Laplace huffed. “I was too shy.”

 Perri was confused, unashamedly so, and the face Laplace saw told her she needed to explain further. She blushed, presumably at having been ‘caught’ by someone she knew for one day.

 “I thought it would attract unwanted attention if people found out the Librarian was a...’Biker Chick’. I worked in other places before this, and I would just get...followers. People who wouldn’t leave me alone.” Her face flashed in panic, and she pulled Perri towards her. “Please don’t tell anybody! Please!”

 Perri stared straight into her trembling eyes, she heard her give a soft whimper and she pleaded.

 Perri regained her footing, raising both pairs of hands up to chest level, and smiled, “Your secret is safe with me.”

 Laplace sighed in relief, releasing Perri’s hands and throwing her arms around her back, squeezing tight. “Thank you, Perri.”

 Perri was left winded from the sudden grip around her lungs, but just about managed to return the hug. She was almost reluctant to ask any more questions less the night get any stranger.

 “So, why do you...well, why do you ride a bike?”

 Laplace released her slowly, before turning to look at the motorcycle beside her. She spoke slowly, some reluctance behind divulging it, “When I was little, I had trouble...talking, to people. Not responding to cues. Or sometimes just repeating what was said to me. ‘Like talking to a mirror’, my grandmother used to say. So, I got put into equine therapy by my parents, and it...helped. Learning to focus my brain on multiple things at once, bonding with the horse, it helped me...’rewire my brain’, to some extent. That is probably just how I imagine it, rather than how it helped, but I could understand people better after it. Obviously, I can’t afford to own a horse, but then, when I was 17, I got my first motorbike. A tiny thing, it was a surprise it stayed together, but when it’s feels a lot like riding a horse. I can feel myself becoming more confident just putting on the jacket, I can practically walk on air after a ride. You feel like a knight leading a charge as you fly down that road.”

 Laplace turned to Perri again, noticing her looking at the back of her jacket. “Oh, heh, it was a gift from my parents when I came to the city. Artificial leather, of course.” She turned again to show Perri the full pattern on her back, two blue angels wings unfurled in a ‘w’ shape, with words along the top.

 “Blue Bird.”, read Perri.

 She turned and faced Perri, sitting down on the seat of the bike. “So, yeah, now only you and Amy know.”

 “Oh, you can trust me, I won’t tell anyone.” An awkward silence loomed, which made Perri realise that it was no longer raining. “Well, uhh, I need to call a taxi, so...”

 “Oh?”, Laplace’s cheeks began to blush again. “Well, I can give you a ride home if you want.”

 Perri suddenly felt short of air. “Ah, um, isn’t that called...?”

 Laplace interrupted, “Well, the proper way of saying it is ‘Riding Pillion’. I have one installed, Amy sometimes needs a ride.”

 Perri looked at the bike uncertainly. “I’ve never rode one before, but...well, I can hardly afford to use taxis on my budget, so I guess I’ll say yes.”

 Laplace jumped in the spot and flashed a grin. “Yay! Well...” turning to the bike and boarding it, swinging her left leg around and falling onto the pad, she kicked off the stands. “You better hold on tight!”

 Something about the sight before her made Perri quake. We wanted it to be anxiety.

“You..do wear your glasses when you ride, though?”

Laplace looked offended, “Of course! I’m not an animal.”

 Before her brain told her to stop, Perri duly boarded the pad behind Laplace. “Oh, here’s my helmet, if you want.”

 Perri automatically took the black helmet and slid it onto her head. “Alright, tell me when you’re starting o--”

 With a kick of the starter, the bike revved into life, causing Perri to grab tightly onto Laplace. “Ahhh!”

 With a laugh, and turning to see the helmeted Perri clutching tightly to her shoulder, Laplace hit the pedal and drove out of the campus grounds.

[abbyisawriter]

The Contract

Part 1:

Existence was boring. It had no substance. Was the place light or dark? Was I floating or standing? Did I even have feet or a body? I was there for God knows how long, but I could never tell what was truth. Not that I cared much at the time. I don’t think I even knew that there was anything else other than what I was. I existed, content but bored, drifting through time and space as a thoughtless thought. Nothing happened, nothing changed, and nothing was.

Until it was.

Suddenly, there was shape, color, clarity, and knowledge. I stood in a garden, surrounded by every flower, tree, and animal that ever was, is, or will be. I could hear the bubbling of a brook, the songs of birds, the buzzing of bees, and the sound of a voice calling my eternal name, which I didn’t even know I had before it was spoken.

“Dayaanidhi!” The voice, full of warmth and love, greeted me. That’s me, I thought delighted, I have a name! “I have been waiting for you.” A smile appeared around the voice; it was the best, and only, smile I’d ever seen.

I tried to answer. I wanted to shout with glee, but I remained silent, having never learned how to speak. Eyes above the smile which belonged to the voice glinted knowingly at me, and a hand reached out to me, touching me and granting me the knowledge of words.

“Thank you!” I mimicked the smile, forming one of my own around my words of gratitude.

Then I heard the best sound, the king of all sounds; it was more bubbly than the brook, more melodious than the birds, more joyful than the busy bees. It was a laugh. “Such first words!” The voice congratulated me between chuckles, “I knew you were a good one from the beginning.”

I felt pleased, proud, overjoyed that I was a ‘good one’ to the voice. I vowed to myself that I would do anything to make that voice laugh again. We, the voice and I, laughed together. It introduced me to the animals, gave me knowledge of the flowers, and encouraged me to wade into the brook, roll on the grass, and climb the trees. With every new thing I was taught, the voice told me the importance of taking pleasure in it--I should enjoy it--and I did.

“I’m afraid, my friend, that the fun part is over.” I looked at the voice, saying nothing for I did not yet know how to express doubt. A head nodded. “It is true. We have business to discuss.” We sat under trees filled with brightly colored fruit, and the hand gave me a parchment. A touch from the hand, and I knew how to read.

Having been properly introduced to the life of the living world, I have decided to become a part of it temporarily by allowing myself to be placed inside a living, human body so that I may enjoy the wonders of life fully for a lifetime.

By the signing of this contract, I hereby agree to live and die, taking any punishments or rewards I earn in life after I return to the world which is not a world. I forfeit my current existence for a new one, which I will, in turn, forfeit for the next. I agree to die when the time comes, which will not be decided by me. I agree to live.

X______________

“Is this a human?” I asked, petting a small, fluffy creature with a twitchy nose with the hand that was not holding the parchment.

The laugh came again. “No, dear one, that is a squirrel. There are no humans here. This is the place before and after, not the place to live.”

I waited, expecting to be touched with knowledge so I could understand, but I was not. I looked deep into the eyes above the smile which formed around the voice, and I told it, “I do not understand.”

“You will, if you live. Would you like to live?” From the gleam in the eyes and flash of the smile, I knew that I did want to live. Everything I had been shown and taught by the voice had been awe inspiring. I trusted that this living would be too.

It knew my answer before I spoke it. The hand plucked a feather from a passing quail and offered it to me. “Sign.” It commanded, and I did.

The garden sped away from me or maybe I sped away from it--I don’t know. It was dark again or maybe it was light. I was how I had existed before the voice, but then I wasn’t. I became something else in the darkness. I could feel more than I could in the garden, but now I felt pain. I heard more intently than I did in the garden, but now I heard screaming. Everything the voice had taught me was lost in the power of the new, strong feelings.

That was the day I was born.

Part 2:

As I lay dying, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t old enough to die yet; I should be at least in my hundreds. There were so many things I still had to do! I wanted to write a book when I was younger; why didn’t I do that? I vowed to myself in college I would travel to all 196 countries; I had only been to 10. I wanted to climb mountains! Swim with sharks! Speak latin! Ride an elephant! See the Northern Lights! Play piano! Well, I could kind of do that one, if chopsticks counted. I still had shit to do, dammit. I couldn’t die now.

The more I thought about what I wanted to do still, the more annoyed I got. I might still be able to do some of it, but I doubted it. I could no longer travel, no longer climb mountains. I was constantly chained to oxygen and shackled to dialysis. I could not leave. I could not do things. I was stuck here, too sick to really live and too stubborn to die.

My life hadn’t all been useless, I told myself, trying to cheer myself up. I was a successful businessman! I had created an empire and placed myself at the top of it. Even now that I was no longer able to work, I was still very well taken care of. My company was strong still, though I was not. I could pass it down to a more capable, younger man. If only I could move on into a more capable, younger body. I had done great things with my money too. I hadn’t let it all go to my head like some of the other CEOs I could name. I gave to charity! Sponsored children in Africa! I often paid for dying children’s last wish (usually going to Disney World, but once it was to name a star--I liked that girl).

When I was a young boy, I had asked for a little money for some sweets from the corner store. My grandmother had scolded me, smacking at me with a rolled up towel and telling me that I needed to work for everything I got and “what have you done, boy?” I still remembered the slight sting on my arm from where the towel hit. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant either. I had nodded, muttered a yes ma’am, sorry grandma, and I turned away from her. My grandfather had winked at me and quietly slid a nickel to me that he pulled out of his shirt pocket. I could hear the argument that followed as I ran out the door and down the street the to corner store. I had loved my grandfather and the kindness he showed me, but I never forgot the sting of the towel. I always worked for everything, but I tried to remember that kindness.

I had been a good man. I had done good deeds. I had created jobs for many people. Why did I feel like I hadn’t done enough? Was my second wife right when she told me that when I was dying, I would miss her? No, that wasn’t it. I didn’t wish she was here with me. If she were, she would’ve just told me I was being ridiculous for not wanting to die and to just get the damn thing over with. I chuckled in spite of myself, which only lead to a coughing fit. The pretty Nigerian woman who worked as my nurse hurried in to check on me, but I waved her away. I had been coughing long before I hired her. I could do it by myself.

Perhaps that was my problem, a small voice in the back of my head said to me. I wanted to do too many things by myself. That was what my first wife had said to me when she took my son, and half my money, away from me. “Marriage,” she had said, “is about two people living together. Not about one person doing whatever they damn well please by themselves.” Ah well, Carla, I thought to myself, where did any of it get us? You died of cancer, and I’m dying of everything else. Would it have been any different if I hadn’t stayed late at the office every night? I think not.

Nothing in my life had ever hurt as much as lying in bed dying did. I used to relish the time that I spent doing nothing. The hour of television I watched a night, before I got sick, was one of my favorite times. Reading the comics in the Sunday paper was a weekly joy. Useless nothings that simply allowed my brain to rest. But this was not restful. This was not fun. All I could do was in front of me. I had watched so much television, I knew the weekday schedule. I had gotten a book of Calvin and Hobbes and read all the comics in it. My former joys of nothing became all I could do, and I hated it.

And yet I was still refusing to die. I continuously told myself that modern medicine would get better and save me, allowing me to continue to live my life. I repeatedly told myself I would get better by myself; I was stronger than this weak body that was giving up on me. Sighing, I opened a book on sports metaphors that was sitting next to my bed.

Then I fell asleep and didn’t wake up.

Part 3:

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Would that horrible beeping never cease? I knew that sound meant that I was still alive, but I hardly felt alive. I could not move, I could not open my eyes, and I could not respond to the nurse talking sweetly to me. It felt like I was in a dream, a lucid dream. I could control my thoughts, but I could not wake myself up.

And it was such a damn boring dream too. Everything was black, black like the back of my eyelids. There was nothing there except for me, and I couldn’t even see myself; I could only see black. AndI could only hear my own thoughts and that dreadful beeping. It was blank, everything was blank.

Until it wasn’t.

I heard a voice. It sounded so familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t the nurses or the doctor, it wasn’t a friend or business partner, and it wasn’t even an ex wife or my son. It wasn’t the voice of my mother or grandfather or Uncle George, all of whom I had loved dearly and were all dead now, calling me to the afterlife, which I had half expected to happen when it was time to die. Yet, I knew it better than I knew my own.

“Hello again.” The voice said to me, as if we had met before, though I could not remember who the voice belonged to.

“Hello?” My thoughts asked the blankness in my mind. “Who are you?”

“I know who I am; do you know who you are?”

“I’m Jon Williams.” I said, as indignantly as I could muster. “Founder and former CEO of The Williams Company. Everyone knows me, or at least my products.

The voice chuckles in my mind. I tried to be offended, I knew it was laughing at me, but I couldn’t get mad at such a chuckle.

“I’m glad you have found worth in your life, Mr. Williams, but again, I ask you, who are you?”

“I just told you!”

“No, you have not. You have told me what your mother named you and the job you performed in life. Surely there is more to you than that.” Then the voice sounded concerned , or perhaps it was my own thoughts that had become concerned at its words, for I was now upset with myself. Was I more than my job? Of course I was!

I desperately began telling the voice in my head all of the things I was proud of in life that I had used when I was stuck in bed to comfort myself:“I gave to charity! I have a son! Who is a great lawyer! I once sponsored a scientist who discovered a cure for a disease plaguing the Third World! I had a dog named Moses once! I kept my mother’s ashes on my desk and burnt a candle for her everyday! I have a good legacy! I am more than a job!”

The words sounded desperate even to my own ears. The beeping grew quicker. These things I was proud of, that I boasted about and used as a comfort, were all lies. I only gave to charity for the tax breaks. I hadn’t seen my son in fifteen years. He was married and had a couple of kids that I had never met. I got a kick-back from selling the cure. Moses had been my dog when I was a child, and my mother had given him away because I hadn’t paid him enough attention. I used the urn as a paperweight, and rarely remembered to burn a candle.

“I am no more than my job,” I spoke to the blankness in my mind, giving up all precedence, “which I cannot even do anymore. I am nothing.” I felt a hand on my shoulder. Could the voice have taken a form? Or was it the nurse?

“No. I will tell who you are. I will tell you the truth.” The voice was firm, reassuring, and certain. The voice knew who I was, though I did not. “You are man born into poverty who spent his entire life working to get out of it. You are man who hated to be alone, but pushed others away from you for fear of losing them. You never knew your father, you lost your mother young, and your high school sweetheart died from a disease you would later fund researchers to try to find cure. You avoid your son because he has always looked too much like her. You take great pleasure in nature, and, tax breaks or not, you gave to charities fighting to preserve it. And your dog? You didn’t play with him or take him on walks because you were busy taking whatever odd jobs you could, at ten years old, to pay for his food. You are many things, Mr. Williams. Your great fault is that you focused too much on the money and not enough on the joys.”

The voice’s words comforted me more than my own ever could. They gave me hope that I was truly a good man, and I could still do good things--if I just stopped worrying about money. “I can change.” I whispered. “I can do better.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. WIlliams. Your contract is up.”

Part 4:

Never in life had I imagined such a feeling as this existed. It felt like floating on a river, gently, but firmly, being carried away. Only the river wasn’t water. It was thick like jelly and hot as flames, but it didn’t hurt. The horrible beeping flatlined and then grew fainter as I was pulled away from my body. For a brief moment, I could see it, my body, lying in a hospital bed. Nurses--one of whom was the one I had hired to take care of me--were checking screens and vitals and things. My son sat beside the bed, holding my shoulder and crying. As I was pulled down the river of jelly-fire, I could vaguely hear him apologizing to me! As if he didn’t know it was I who owed him the apology.

As I died, memories I had long forgotten came back to me. Some memories were from my life: the things I was too young to remember, learning to walk and learning to talk, the things I had repressed, the last and only day I saw my father and the day Uncle George hit my mother, and the things I hadn’t considered important enough to remember, the advice my grandmother gave me on how to make perfect cookies and algebra. And then there were things I shouldn’t be able to remember but now I did: being born and the place before birth.

I remembered the voice. The Voice. The voice that brought me from nothing in the beginning and returned to me when I had become nothing in life. I cursed myself for forgetting the voice. It had taught me everything I should have known in life. I had known how to take pleasure in everything! And the voice had sent me to a place where I forgot to take pleasure in anything.

So I cursed the voice too. It had convinced me, tricked me, that I would like life. Life wasn’t so bad, but compared to what I had before, it was terrible. I could have stayed in a place of peace forever, but I was compelled to leave it, convinced it was something better when it was not. Surely the voice knew that living wasn’t better than the pre-living. It knowingly sent me into a trap. The voice was like the salesman who had sold me my first car, with sleaze hiding behind a too-white smile.

The river ended suddenly, like a waterfall I didn’t know was coming. I was dumped into nothingness. I knew this nothing. This was the same nothing I was in before the voice had spoken to me the first time. I cursed again, but this time, I cursed my fate. I went from nothing, to everything, to pain--for that is what life was, pain--to nothing again. This nothing was so much worse than the first nothing because this time I knew what could be, what I could have.

I don’t know how long I was in the nothing this time. It felt like I spent weeks crying, weeks cursing my fate and the voice, and weeks simply sulking, but it could have been seconds. How do you tell time in a place without time? I was almost glad when the voice appeared again. Almost.

“Do you know who you are now?” It goaded me with a laugh hidden behind the words. I would have hit it if I had hands and it had a form.

“You called me Dayaanidhi; my mother called me Jon; I call myself I.”

“Well said, Mr. Williams! Glad to see you understand now.”

“Oh, yes. I understand. You tricked me. You sent me into a world full of pain, when you told me it was the best. False advertisement. Fraud. It is a crime! The contract is void.”

“I never said it would be the best or better than what you had. I believe I lead you to believe it could be fun or enjoyable, which it could have been. Do not hold me accountable for the decisions you made in life. Besides, Mr. Williams, when last we talked, did we not decide that you had a fairly decent and nice life?”

“You told me I was better than I thought I was, comfort to a dying man. You did not tell me that it was what I was lead to believe it was. Bait advertising.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but, unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about that. Once again, Mr. Williams, there is more to be done. Your contract is not yet settled.”

Part 5:

In my life, I had imagined what the afterlife would be like. I read many books on theology and religion. I studied many different ideas and traditions. But never in my life did I imagined a conference room. I should have, since I more or less lived in a conference room for many years of my life, but I hadn’t. I imagined clouds and angels, I imagined fire and demons, I imagined being a flower or a cow, I imagined a new world or planet, and I imagined swirling into blankness and forgetfulness. But the voice didn’t lead me to any of those places. It lead me to a conference room.

The conference room was long, and the only thing in it was a long, wooden table, with a surface so shiny that it nearly glowed. There were many, many beings sitting along the table, fading in and out of focus and form. Sometimes they were solid, human-like, and sometimes I couldn’t see them at all; I could only feel their presence.

The voice and were also fading and changing from solid to nothing like the others. We took the only empty seats along the table. I recognized the setup, the atmosphere, of the room. This was a business negotiation. These were lawyers, representatives, salesmen, and smooth-talkers. In life, I would have paid their wages, but in death, I was at a loss at what to do or even what was going on.

The being at the head of the table, where I was used to sitting, cleared its throat. “As you all know, we are here to discuss the final clause in the eternal life force known as Dayaanidhi, or in life, Jon Williams. Dayaanidhi,” it took shape long enough to nod towards me, “I hope your life was satisfactory.” Before I could answer that no it was not and I would greatly appreciate going back to fix things thanks, it continued, “I represent the neutral party and original contract holder, to be referenced as the Life Giver.”

The voice, the one who haunted my life and death, said, “I represent Dayaanidhi’s interests.”

“My interests in what? What final clause? What this about?”

A parchment appeared before me. I recognized it at once; it was the contract in question. The thing that I signed that got me into this whole mess to begin with. A hand belonging to the voice pointed at a line, which read By the signing of this contract, I hereby agree to live and die, taking any punishments or rewards I earn in life after I return to the world which is not a world.

“We’re here to discuss the punishments and/or rewards which you earned in life. I represent your interests. I am here to make sure you get as many of the rewards and as few of the punishments as possible. I’m your friend, Dayaanidhi, I always have been, whether you choose to believe me or not.”

The being at the head of the table nodded at me again. “That’s right, that’s right. Everyone who lives must die, Dayaanidhi, and everyone who dies must fulfill their contract. Now, who else is here?” It addressed the rest of the table, no longer paying any attention to me.

“I represent his mother, Sally in life and Bahula in eternity, whom he took care of all her life.” Said one of the beings.

“I represent his father, Jim in life and Ekaksh in eternity, who abandoned him when he was small.” Said another.

“I represent his grandmother, Frida in life and Laal in eternity, who scolded him unjustly.”

“I represent his grandfather, Ralph in life and Chandraayan in eternity, who doted on his grandson and on whom Dayaanidhi doted.”

“I represent his uncle, George in life and Prayag in eternity, who was abusive towards him and his mother, but he still loved and helped until the day he died.”

“I represent his first wife.”

“I represent his second wife.”

“I represent his son.”

“I represent his business partner.”

“I represent his nurse.”

“I represent his secretary.”

“I represent the boy he beat up in grade school.”

“I represent the homeless man he helped get a job.”

“I represent his various employees, whose names he didn’t know.”

“I represent the girl he coerced to have sex with him in college.”

“I represent the lives he saved from the medication for which he funded the research.”

“I represent every person he ever passed on the street without a glance or a smile or a thought.”

I stared at the contract while each being announced another person with whom I had interacted in life. I would have wept if I did not feel too empty for tears. I would have screamed if there was a will to make a sound left in me. I would have run if I could convince my limbs to move. But I could do nothing. Nothing but stare at the damn contract and my damn signature.

Having been properly introduced to the life of the living world, I have decided to become a part of it temporarily by allowing myself to be placed inside a living, human body so that I may enjoy the wonders of life fully for a lifetime.

By the signing of this contract, I hereby agree to live and die, taking any punishments or rewards I earn in life after I return to the world which is not a world. I forfeit my current existence for a new one, which I will, in turn, forfeit for the next. I agree to die when the time comes, which will not be decided by me. I agree to live.

X   Dayaanidhi__

(circa: April 2016)

[moonshroooms]

I’m bored and feel like answering random questions

and also no one is gonna ask me them so I’m gonna do it A++

Do you prefer city lights, or stars?

Stars. City lights are pretty since there’s much more color variety, but stars mean you’re probably around nature and less civilization. And city lights mean I have to go somewhere near the city. not my cup of tea. Unless we’re talking about photos. Then stars still win. What is the most romantic thing that's happened to you?

You know I’m not sure if this really qualifies. But one of my close friends had a crush on me, but hadn’t told me yet. I don’t remember the conversation, but I’d said something along the lines of “cause I’m fantastic!” And I’d been walking away and I think I heard him sigh “and beautiful” and I don’t think he really intended for me to hear it (if I did infact hear him right), but I did my brain kinda went ‘wut the faaack’ cause it was really sweet and a little embarrassing to hear. And while I didn’t return his feelings, I kinda think about sometimes and get a little twitterpated.

Describe the image that comes into your head when you see the word "ethereal". 

Most often the image that comes to my mind is something of a ghostly creature. I think what creature comes to mind depends on the moment. But they might be white, with just the faintest blue tinge. And whether the blue is from their body or the faint glow around them you aren’t really sure. An eternal mist flowing from their body and dissipating into the air. They have bright eyes that glow stronger than the rest of them. And they move with a slow grace, a calm walk, a flowing movement. And when you lock eyes you’re frozen, and it pierces you. And you can’t describe the emotion that is evoked from their gaze, you only know that it’s strong, and changed something in you, even if it’s only a small thing.

What would someone have to do to earn your trust?

Die.

Describe the outfit you truly want to wear. Anything, a spacesuit, an Elizabethan style gown, a cape made from spider silk, reality doesn't matter.

To be honest, I like a lot of stereotypical ‘jungle warrior woman’ type outfits. Those ones that are basically a bra and a skirt with those leg slits. Kind of like what you see in the Disney move Atlantis. I’m far too self-conscious about showing skin to wear revealing things in my day-to-day life (I think only just started wearing shorts when I was like, 20. And even then I have like 2 pairs and barely wear them). I find it funny that while I could barely bring myself to wear basic shorts, I wear a bikini when swimming. I think that’s attributed to the fact that a lot of people wear skimpy swimwear though, so I feel like I stick out less. But I digress. A ‘shirt’ that goes across the chest, like tropical wear you often see. A really long skirt that’s knee-length or nearly floor-length, but there’s no real sides to the skirt. And like, cool swirly or squarish symbols all over my skin. And I want multiple ones of different colors. Also a robe/robe + hood for when it’s cold and because whipping those around is cool.

What impossible thing do you wish was real?

For me, and anyone I deemed worthy, to have super powers. 

What kind of adventure would you like to have?

Something dangerous, something exciting. Traveling amongst nature, having to fend for myself. Exploring new lands, meeting interesting and previously unknown cultures, finding mystical creatures that are truly of magic. Keeping in mind in my adventure I’m perfectly equipped and knowledgeable to handle all of the things and wouldn’t die the second I poked the wrong plant. 

What is the worst way for you to die? (In your opinion).

Parasites. OR, being stabbed to death by thousands of dirty and contaminated hospital needles. Just. Things that can eat me that are difficult to punch creep me the frick out. And as for hospital needles: there are so many infections and diseases on those things, and they sit there in their plastic containers. Festering off each other. And as if being stabbed by needles wasn’t enough, if you managed to survive the impaling, your body would fall apart because of the hundreds or thousands of festering plagues you just contracted.

(P.S. the hospital needle horror happened to be spawned from a really good comic called Awful Hospital located right the flip here: http://www.bogleech.com/awfulhospital/intro.html)

Seriously go check it out it’s really good, funny, dramatic, weird, interactive, and (as of May 3, 2017 as I post this), regularly updated!

Can you dance? 

No. And I desperately want to. I think I can keep beat, but I have no idea what to do with my legs really. Most of my dancing includes acting out what the mood/lyrics of the song are, or aggressive tribal dancing. Make an obscure reference.

“Greetings my Tallest, it is I, invader Kiiiiish!”

What is your favorite color for a balloon?

Blue looks good on everything.

What store would you be the least likely to be found in?

A weed shop.

Bowties or Ties?

Bowties. They can be on your head or on your neck.

What’s wrong with taking the backstreets?

Being mugged or someone or their dog probably pooped back there and left it.

What is your favorite Pokemon type?

Poison and Dragon (though I like the concept of poison types rather than the actual Pokemon in it. When a poison eeveelution comes out I can die happy). And dragons are just dragons.

What if I told you that you were pretty?

Ikr, thx m8

What turns you on?

Stomachs, sour punch straws.

Sign?

Scorpio! :D

Who is your OTP?

Kisshu x Ichigi from Tokyo Mew Mew, and yes I know they’re unhealthy, dysfunctional, and also not canon, but dammit they were my first OTP and remain stubbornly at the top after all these years. They are my guilt OTP.

Shion x Nezumi from No. 6. Best part is I went into No. 6 not reading the description and going in completely clueless, so their romance blindsided me. Either way they’re just really cute and I’m not sure why I like them better than some older ships I like.

If you could dye your hair any color right now, what would it be?

A sunset gradient or a silver/blue gradient! 

Put your songs on shuffle, and tell me the first song that plays.

What Can I Do For You? - Steven Universe

How do you compare to people’s expectations of you?

I fail them completely.

A fictional character you familiarize yourself with.

Rin and Razo from the Books of Bayern (Forest Born and River Secrets are their books specifically).

Favorite Animal?

I’ve been in love with beluga whales for my whole life. White lions are a close second!

Name a few of your insecurities.

Whether or not people think I’m stupid, and whether I am intelligent or not. Being myself, because I fear people would find me annoying. My opinions on the world, and if others would view them as childish or ignorant or naive. Mostly just a lot of how others view me.

What brings out a mean streak in you?

People that slight me.

Describe a person who would be the polar opposite to yourself.

Confident, social, aggressive, forgiving, outgoing, worldly, a people-person, strict, self-righteous, noticeable, impressive, rebellious, happy.

Have you ever helped/rescued a wild animal in trouble?

When I was younger my cat brought in a lot of animals she hunted as gifts. I did my best to nurse them back to health (mostly lizards. Anything warm-blooded was dead if she brought it back). Some lived, some didn’t and I was always happy to watch them zip back into the wild like a bullet.

Describe the backstory for a character you’ve created.

A siren who comes across a werewolf child she takes interest in and befriends. Through some ups and down she decides she won’t eat the souls of humans anymore, despite the fact that means she also gives up living forever and growing new powers/strengths as a result. If/when that kid dies, however, she plans on going straight back into her old ways. She believes that she is an inherently evil creature, and no amount of pretending to be good will ever change that.

What’s your signature scent?

Cherry Blossom lotions/perfumes, mint chapstick.

Favorite school subject?

Science, P.E.

What is the closest framed picture around you a picture of?

My late cat, Princess.

The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?

Their face.

Is cheating ever okay?

No.

What’s a nickname only your family calls you?

Peanut. Cause apparently when I was born I was shaped like a peanut.

What was your first stuffed animal and it’s name?

Probably not the ‘first’ per-say, but the first I remember was a big, sparkly, rainbow, beanie-filled boa constrictor that I named Bo-Rainbow. I still have him to this day :’D

Whats drink you always order at Starbucks?

Water.

Do you sleep with your closet doors open or closed?

Whatever position I happened to leave it in.

Do you sleep with your sheets tucked in or out?

No sheets, useless piece of fabric and makes the bed to hot >3<!

Do you have freckles?

Kinda? Not typical freckles, but a few sun-kisses on the right side of my face and on random spots on my body.

What size is your bed?

Twin.

Ever used a gun?

Yes, a few times! But thankfully not against anything living!

Can you curl your tongue?

Yup, yup!

Are you open about your feelings?

Depends on the feelings. Usually no.

If you could choose between being able to play any instrument in the world, or being able to speak any language, which would you choose?

Speak any language. Singing’s the only instrument I like!