#or or he could have gotten them from some punk wayward in secret

[you-have-been-frizzled]

@crymeariveronceagain LOOK!!! it’s flowers Tattoos Tam!

the *star* kotlc *star* server came in clutch with finding the artist, special thanks to roisin

More genius courtesy of @silveny-dreams

[deathbyvalentine]

Random Prose Prompts

Mattias - Grief

Usually negative feelings were fleeting, like summer storms. He would feel sad for a short time before his mind moved on, flickering onto more important matters like himself or whatever lover was presently occupying him. This was different. This wasn’t going away.

The loss of Sol was like nothing he had experienced. Something ached inside him, like a wound that refused to heal. Like a wound waiting for an infection. It was easy to pretend to have recovered of course, to pretend the mourning had turned to celebrations. Actions were easy to perform. Changing what was roiling on the inside had turned out to be impossible.

Not helped at all of course by the curse that still jolted him out of his skin every few hours, leaving him gasping and shuddering, the confusion of Winter making his head spin. He had been told community would help, surrounding himself with those who loved him the most. The person that loved him the most had been ripped apart by heralds. The person that looked after him, indulged him, kept him. Without him, he felt vulnerable, like his armor had not only been stripped away but had been utterly discarded. 

He curled up in his bed, pressing a scarf to his face. He wouldn’t wear it of course, but having it close helped. If he closed his eyes, it almost smelt like he was here. The thought he wasn’t was utterly terrifying, so pretense it was. For however long he could keep it up for.

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T67 - Selling Out

Oh, she had made a mistake. Once again, she had had several conversations when she felt like her head was full of cotton wool and it had ended badly. As it turned out, Syn was a street punk. A bit different from what she had signed up for. She had no idea what she had signed up for actually. She had followed Syn blindly, wanting to surprise her and now she was probably owned. Probably.

Two groups to prove herself to. The Saints who almost certainly thought of her as a bumbling barbie good for very little and the Syndicate who didn’t even know her, viewing her as disposable. Maybe she was. She didn’t know what she was good for, so it wasn’t exactly like she could pitch her talents forward. She looked good. That was it. 

Maybe she should just slide off entirely, go work for one of the Dreamweaver’s brothels. She had dabbled before, but never really committed. But people giving her money because they thought she was pretty seemed like an ideal situation. But it would pull her away from Syn.

Let’s just see how it goes.

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Wayward Road - Bar Fight

Ash smacked the chair leg across the vampire’s face, taking a grim satisfaction at the dull thud and splatter it produced. She loved fighting for many of the same reasons she loved dancing. The exertion, the pushing her body, the rush of chemicals, the catharsis and the ache that could be easily ascribed to a single action. She laughed, panting with exertion, standing over the body before pulling a stake from her belt and stabbing it deep into the monster’s heart. 

The bar now fell quiet. She stood up straight, letting the chair leg tumble to the ground. She walked behind the stained ebony, rummaging underneath until she found some cheap and nasty liquor. She poured out a shot, wrinkling her nose as she took it back, burning her throat. It would numb a little of the pain now crackling across her back. The vamp had managed to get the jump on her, just about, and her shoulder blades had paid the price. But it was a win as long as there were no teeth marks in her neck.

Idly, she pulled her phone from her pocket, scrolling through the contacts until she got to Kara. It had been a few weeks since she had last been in London, last crashed on the Valkyrie’s floor. And now there was a weird sensation in her chest. Something soft and gently sad. Something like missing someone. And not like grief. It didn’t hurt. 

She ran her thumb over the call button, considering. She didn’t want to seem desperate or weak. She definitely didn’t want to let on that she gave a damn. She wouldn’t call her. 

But she would text her.

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Black Moon

Constance could have watched her all day. Her movements were fluid, like mercury shifting. Her hips swayed with every step and every step was unerring in its certainty. She had no idea of the age difference between them but it couldn’t just be time that had made the woman into what she was. Constance could never imagine being this self-assured, this sure of her place in the world. She coveted what she could not achieve. Her love was one of both admiration, desire and jealousy. Not unusual for a student and her teacher.

The Priestess flicked her eyes up to her protege’s and smiled. She stood opposite her, the fire crackling high between them. Constance tore a page from the book she held, letting the breeze take it and cast it into the flames, saying the words she had written on the inside of her arm so she would not forget them. The Priestess nodded approving and continued her circuit, passing behind Constance and tracing her fingers across the line of her shoulders as she did so.

When the circle was completed, she took three steps into the center and plunged her hand into the flames. Her skin did not burn, the flames turning electric blue and calming a little, as if anxious creatures being soothed. Her hand found the bottom of the bowl and pressed, covering itself in ash. She withdrew and walked until she was a hair’s breadth away from Constance. She couldn’t help it. She looked down at her lips and watched them curve into a knowing smile even as her cheeks were flushing scarlet. The Priestess brought her hand up and painted the half-moon symbol on her forehead, matching the symbol in her own headdress.

It was done. They were bound together now. For better or for worse.

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Caterpillars

Aaron lay belly down on the grass, his eyes at leaf level. There was an entire world here, secreted where only feet disturbed their busy work. Their movements stirred only the leaves and grass, in twitches and starts. Ants crawled in seemingly arcane patterns, carrying crumbs or cuttings of leaves. A ladybird perched thoughtfully in the center of a flower, unbothered by the fat bumblebees occasionally alighting on the gently curling petals. 

But what fascinated Aaron the most was the caterpillars resting on the stems of the plants. They were green and as thick as his thumb, covered in tiny hairs, giving them a soft almost halo-like outline. When they moved, it was reluctantly, a curve moving through their entire body like a wave. It was hard to believe that one day they would transform into something bearing no resemblance to themselves. Did they know they had changed? Or did they feel the same as they always had, simply airborne? The world became wider to them, infinitely so. 

Aaron sat up and pitched backwards, his back landing with a thud onto the soft grass. The sky above him was so blue it made his eyes ache, only the barest traces of clouds interrupting the endless vista. He raised his hand over his head, watching the blue frame and embrace his outline. He was a part of this world, look how it clung to him so.

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Where Is It?

Kitty sat impassively in the chair, her flickering eyes the only indication she was paying any attention at all. Occasionally, her tongue would appear to lick away a fresh bead of blood appearing on her split lip. Other than this, she was as still as stone.

The other two however, were flurries of activity. The taller was on his hands and knees, ripping up the carpet with his bare hands, huffs of effort punctuated with low growls of frustration. The shorter was pulling out every drawer in the bureau, turning it upside down and discarding it to the side. He had already turned over the desk, the wardrobe and even the mattress, sending feathers flying into the air and drifting down like snow. This was going to be quite the clean up operation, Kitty thought, more annoyed by this than the aching of her flesh or the rawness of her skin where the ropes had rubbed.

She winced as her favourite mug shattered against the east wall, sending shards spraying across the room. She supposed all in all, she should be fairly thankful her cat had chosen to spend the evening out, seducing his way through the neighbourhood. Typical tom. 

There was nothing under the carpets. She would have told them as much if they had bothered to ask but they seemed to have decided early on everything she said was a lie. Usually a wise move, all it had done this time was much prolong an already laborious process. Worst of all, they had worked themselves into quite a bind. They were thieves, they weren’t killers. What to do if they couldn’t find what they came for? 

They didn’t have to find out. There was the unmistakable sound of jingling keys, metal against metal. Kitty raised an eyebrow at the two frozen men. They weighed up their options and quick as a flash had reopened the window, using the drain pipe to slide down. In a moment or so, it was only Kitty in a room that looked like an inconsiderate hurricane had torn through it.

Robert stopped dead when he entered, one hand holding keys, the other holding several shopping bags, straining at the plastic. He dropped them, sending some loose oranges rolling across the floor, rushing forward to work at the knots binding her wrists. When she was freed, she stood up instantly, stretching her legs and inspecting her poor skin.  ���Have we still got that first aid kit?” “Yeah, I’ll go get it.” She sat patiently as Robert shut the door, fetched the kit and began tenderly wrapping up her wrists with gauze and antiseptic.  “Did they find it?” “No, we were lucky.” She winced as the cream stung her skin. She was a terrible patient but Robert had gotten used to it over the years and had a lollipop ready to bribe her with. She popped it in her mouth and went over to the shopping bags, still resting near the door. She rummaged through until she found the small packet of dreamies. Over to the still open window she went, rattling the bag and tilting her head, listening for the patter of tiny paws.

It didn’t take too long. Sid skidded in, mewling furiously. Kitty cooed, scooping him up and feeding him a few of the treats. When the purring started furiously, she carefully hooked the small memory stick from his collar, moving it to her back pocket. “Good boy.”

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Alexei and the face at the window

He woke as suddenly as if cold water had been poured on him. For a moment, he just breathed, listening to the sounds of the tiny cottage. From the next room, he could hear the breathing of his parents. Outside, there was only the gentle wind and the forest sounds of twigs snapping, owls calling to one another. He had no idea why he had been awoken. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and as he did so, he saw what was looking in through the window. 

He had known for a little while now that he could see ghosts and other things his parents did not. Wisps of colour in the trees, stars behaving oddly, shadows up and wandering away. There was an entire world that pressed onto this one. It was lonely, being the only one that could see it, but it was good too. Like having a secret.

The thing at his window was a ghost. It was pearly and transclucent and had no eyes, just darker substance. It’s mouth was an ‘O’, making it look permanently in a state of surprise. Alexei looked at the dark stain above it’s heart and wondered if it had died like that. He slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window, pushing the pane up to open it. The winter air was biting and stung his cheeks. He loved it.

“What do you want?” He kept his voice to a whisper. The ghost shook it’s head and took a few (well not exactly steps) backwards, bringing up one arm to make a gesture which Alexei took to mean ‘come’. He considered. The woods were dark and deep and dangerous, especially at night. There were monsters afoot.

He put his hands on the sill to boost himself up and out, then reconsidered. A moment later he returned, this time wearing his scarlet cloak. He did not, however, remember his shoes. 

The ground beneath his feet was hard with cold and his breath misted in front of him. The ghost waited patiently as he clambered safely out the window. Then it started walking, straight out of the small clearing in which the cottage was situated and into the closely pressing trees. The ghost kept ahead of him, occasionally stopping to let the much clumsier Alexei to keep it in his sights. It could have been mistaken for a moonbeam flitting between the dark pillars that was the forest, glowing slightly and seeming fragile.

They seemed to walk for a long time, Alexei occasionally calling out to ask where exactly they were going and receiving no reply. His feet were half-frozen and his temper was starting to flare with frustration. He was about to give up the endeavour altogether and follow the trail of broken twigs back home when they arrived at their destination. 

Inbetween the undergrowth, there was a small gathering. Alexei could see a few rabbits, squirrels, even a fox or two, their eyes as large and as solemn as if they were in church. They were crowded around a much larger body. Alexei stepped forward, cautious. They surrounded a deer, a great stag, slowly bleeding to death. There must have been hunters here. The ghost stood anxiously near it, gesturing towards the body.

Alexei knelt and with indescribable softness, tucked his knees under the creature’s head. He ran his hands over the antlers, startled to find they were not hard and unyielding, but in fact covered in a soft fuzz. He must have been a king, Alexei realised. Beautiful and regal and with a court of woodland animals. And now he was dying here. Alexei’s heart cracked, just a little. He looked up at the ghost, confused as to what his purpose was here. He wasn’t a healer. He couldn’t save him.

But he could pull out the arrow that was in his breast, prolonging his death and his pain. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself, wrapping a small fist tightly around the arrow. With one sharp motion, he pulled, releasing it. The stag made one soft noise, then fell silent. His chest rose and fell until it stilled completely, no longer trembling with pain. Alexei bowed his head, tears in his eyes, pressing forehead to forehead.

The ghost lingered for a few moments, then almost gently began to drift back the way it came. Alexei stood, brushing the dirt off his pajama trousers and followed, unable to rub off the dark and sticky blood that stained his palms. When they got back to the cottage, the ghost stayed for a minute longer, then faded like morning mist. Alexei stood for a moment too, watching the first flakes of snow tumble down from the sky, until cold overwhelmed him and he climbed back inside, returning to bed.

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The Starry Night Swirled Above

Something was going to happen. You didn’t need to be an augur to figure that out. The stars in the dark above were restless, shifting, changing places as though unable to decide where exactly they should be. The light swirled, purple, blue and white drawing streaks across the sky. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be good. They hadn’t seen the sky change like this in centuries. It meant something was going to be born or something was going to end.

Layla sat on the side of the mountain, switching between looking down at the sleeping village in the valley and up at the shifting sky. Occasionally she tossed a pebble, to see it bounce and skid downwards, eventually disappearing from sight. She was waiting without knowing what she was waiting for. She half-expected to see a crack rend the sky and something come clambering out. Or perhaps the lake, the one behind the village, part and release a crowned being.

But the night was quiet. No gods appeared, no earthquake shattered the peace. She sighed, resting her elbows on her knees. Then, movement. The road that lead to the village was usually completely abandoned at this time of night. And yet, there there was. A black figure, walking alone. It paused for a moment, and turned to face the mountain. A shock went through Layla. Layla could have sworn it looked right at her.

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Tommy back from his walking holiday

He dropped his backpack in the hallway with a dull thud. It was morning in England. The birds chattered to each other excitedly and you could hear the sounds of Heywater getting to business. Buses, cars, bikes, people calling to one another. It felt both painfully foreign and achingly familiar. The house felt smaller somehow.

The kitchen had light pouring in through the windows, as it so often did. Tommy clicked on the kettle, picking up the post it attached. ‘Welcome back - Jones.’ He smiled despite himself. He supposed he was back. In more ways that one. He made his tea, curling his hands around it as though to capture the warmth.

He walked into the living room, planning on stepping into the back garden but the sight of his reflection made him pause. To those who did not know him well, he supposed he looked exactly the same. Still young, still bespectacled, still a little on the thin side. But to himself, he looked completely different. His skin had a tanned tinge, freckles more prominent across his nose. His shoulders were a little broader. He stood a little taller. He looked like an adult. He found himself almost fascinated. How could his inner image of himself been so very wrong?

Finally breaking the spell, he stepped outside and sat on the doorstep. Flowers were pushing through the ground, blooming. Daffodils and snowdrops and all the spring flowers that Persephone spilled from her fingertips. Everything was peaceful. He sipped his tea, breathing out steadily. He was okay. This was okay.

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The Shattered Mirror/Glass

A thousand shards pour from the sky like deadly rain. A child went to catch one on his tongue, mistaking the shimmer for snow before his father caught his wrist, pulling him inside the relative safety of a doorway. They watched the streets empty as people fled.

Not that the inside was any safer than the outside. Ballrooms were soon coated, the deluge over in seconds but the clean up expected to take hours. The rooms of ciscibeos became dangerous in more than one way, bureaus and drawers filled with broken glass. A few unfortunate souls were holding their hand mirrors when they were rended. It didn’t hurt them, but the image of their face suddenly breaking would stay with them, the more hysterical mountebanks calling it an omen. Perhaps they were right. The city had been revealed, as mirrors do, and nobody was sure what truth lay beneath. 

The people walked outside in sturdy boots, quite unlike their usual silk slippers or soft leather. They half expected to see the moon shattered too, her milky face missing from the night sky. But she was there, watching over the broken city, her face reflected in every piece of glass littering the streets. It would have been beautiful if it was not so terrible. A bravo stooped, tried to pick up a familiar shard and drew his hand back as if bitten, his fingertips gleaming scarlet. 

The streets were full of a different type of music. Crunching. Wailing. Shocked gasps and hisses of pain, the gentle clatter of glass on glass on glass against brushes and pans. It was not music any of them wished to hear but Sarvos, for once, did not grant its people’s wishes. Instead it mourned, for its magic and for its beauty and for its mirrors.

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The Honour is Mine

Her armour looked average from a distance. Silver steel, moulded close to her body with little flare or showy shaping. It was when you got closer you saw its beauty. The entire thing had been engraved with slow, looping patterns of ivy that started at the feet and crept up the entire body, until it was coated.

It was with these leaves Maria was suddenly intimately familiar. She was not quite sure how long she had been lying in the ditch, pain crackling up from her ribs and across her right arm, but it had been long enough that delirium was beginning to set in. The cold soaking into her dress from the mud below her had done little to numb the pain but a lot for turning her into a shivering mess. Then there was a sharp clack of metal hitting gravel, some clicks as a gauntlet was undone, and a gentle hand helping her up, a cloak around her shoulders.

She opened her eyes now she was convinced it wasn’t a dream to be greeted by a knight of spectacular beauty. She had chestnut hair that tumbled down her shoulders like a waterfall,  a kind face with a large nose painted with freckles. Her eyes were a dark, dark brown that would have been hard to read if her red mouth was not so determined to wear her thoughts. It was currently painted into a concerned frown. It took a moment for Maria to realise she was speaking to her.  “M’lady, are you quite alright? I spotted your horse making for the pasture and stopped to investigate and by God I’m glad I did. Are you hurt?” Maria, faintly, gestured to her arm, which wasn’t quite responding to her requests for movement. “Right. Um. Do you live far from here?” Maria shook her head. “My father is the lord, we reside just outside the next village. I was only going for a ride when a passing cart startled her. She’s a farm creature, not much used to...” Words failed her, partly from exhaustion and partly from the weight of the knight’s gaze on her. The exhaustion won out in a different respect however - her knees buckled a little and she pitched forward. Quick as a cat, the knight launched forward and caught her. Another moment and she swept out her legs, carrying her bridal style. She felt her cheeks heat up until surely they were flaming red and she tried to occupy herself by focusing on the carving on her shoulder.  “I have been most remiss. I apologise my lady. I’m Autumn, knight of the Dark Heath.” Dark Heath was a forrest not too far from here, filled with all manner of frightening creatures. Her own pet wolf had been rescued as a puppy from there and still occasionally had savage tendencies. Autumn must be very brave. She was certainly very strong as she was carefully lifting her onto her own horse, arranging her carefully. She also stripped a scarf from the animal’s pack, the scarlet scarf suddenly becoming a bandage for her arm. Autumn, still not done, caught the reins of Maria’s horse, and lead it back over to the road. She mounted her (a stunning achievement, Silver was usually extremely suspicious of new comers) and caught the reins of her own horse. “It would be my honour to take you back to your father’s village, if that is permissible to my lady?” Her dark eyes met Maria’s own green.  “The honour would be all mine miss.”

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Haunting

Horror was as much a part of the human narrative as love was. As someone that currently had neither, fear or love, it was particularly doubtful if Ash was human at all. Looking at society moving around her like a river she wondered - was she apart because she was different? Or was the mere worry she was enough to impose self isolation, consciously or otherwise? Cleverer people than her had pondered this, written entire books about it and not managed to come to a conclusion. She suspected she would not be any different. 

She wondered if she was afraid the first time she met a vampire, a werewolf, a vengeful ghost. She couldn’t remember the first - it was so long ago and obscured behind a compassionate curtain of grief and exhaustion. If you couldn’t remember something important, it was usually your brain being kind. Covering your eyes, guiding you away from what hurt. Helpful and annoying all at once.

Nowadays she didn’t feel fear in her work. Grim determination, occasional thrusts of survival instinct, frustration and rage were all second nature now. In her day to day life she only felt tired. She didn’t realise it could be an emotion until it had consumed her completely. It was much preferable to all other emotions. Because tiredness stayed. Happy, angry, normal sad would all eventually reset back to grief, and it hurt all the more once you had had a break. Better to not leave the state at all.

Dear God, if she died tomorrow, please just let her sleep. Heaven or hell, she didn’t want either of them if it meant she had to think. Even ghosts remembered. Better to have oblivion, better to have something like actual rest. Death was like sleep without the nightmares and could there be anything finer? Ash didn’t think so. She was so tired.

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Open Eyes In Darkness

Ash sat shivering on the bench, opposite the house. The glow of her cigarette matched the homely glow from the windows and both were the only sources of warmth she had. The leather jacket kept off the worst of the rain, but not the worst of the cold. Her grey hair, plastered to her skin, dripped persistently down her neck. Logically, she knew this job could wait until tomorrow. She was tracking and there had been no fatalities yet. But, of course, the question would then have to be asked about where she would go, who’s kindness she would fall on, who’s concern she would have to field and frankly it was easier to freeze.

She wished John and Sean would hurry up and come back. She could pretend to work with them out of necessity and they went along with the ruse without so much as a blink. She wished the rainbow of bruising on her ribs would fade and stop aching so much. She had managed to carve out most of her reactions to fear. She had not yet quite managed to find out how to quit pain. She wished the shivering was only due to the weather and not the barrage of nonsense that was hitting her as hard as the storm she was sat in. She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending she was stupid enough to just fall asleep here.

When she opened her eyes, it didn’t surprise her that she saw Violet among the trees on the east side of the park. She had been seeing her more and more. Part of the whole going crazy deal, she suspected. She blinked and she was gone. Instead, a man was close by. He vamoosed when Ash made an obscene gesture, muttering under his breath. She wasn’t adverse to making out with a guy and stealing his wallet but she drew the line at banging middle aged tories. 

It was a family inside the house she was watching. Two dads, kids, dog, the whole fucking lot. She hated them, even as she protected them. They were the reason she kept the pistol close to her skin, kept her limbs moving, kept doing this whole damn thing. 

Again though, that question. Persistent, burrowing into her brain. What else would you do Ash? What else could you do? Nobody wants a runaway, crim or someone with more issues than GCSEs. Hunting was not an option people who had options took. She stubbed out her cigarette, went to light another, cursed at the empty box. Her eyes flickered to the woods. She wondered if she was being watched right now, by the same people that sent the lawyer, that made her ‘special’.

On the off chance, she flipped off the dark trees. It made her feel a little better.

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Flight

She stole down the stairs, shoes in hand. She knew every creak and every loose floorboard and stepped around them with a ballet dancer’s grace. The way had almost morphed into muscle memory, something she didn’t have to think about at all. Mr Higgins in the staff room opposite was asleep as he always was. There was always meant to be one staff member awake, but it’s not like anyone followed the rules here, even the important ones.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her with a softness one would not expect from the look of it. Outside, the day was just beginning. The clouds were a pearlescent blue, the dawn light just weak enough to make your eyes strain. Stuck in the throes of Autumn, soon it would be winter. She paused on the stone steps to slip her shoes on, not fancying the slightly damp gravel versus her tights. She padded out of the grounds, backpack resting on her shoulders. 

It was early enough that nobody was on the streets and morning mist lingered, cutting off her vision at the end of every road. The moisture gathered on her skin, making her feel slightly damp, gathering in pearls in her hair. So far, freedom felt a lot like being in a dream.

Her plan, if it could be called that, was just to walk. It wasn’t a large village, it took less than half an hour to free herself of the winding paths and cobbled streets, finally breaking out into fields of crops. She didn’t know the names for even half of them. She had often dreamt of sleeping out here, under a hedgerow as if she too had grown here as naturally. 

She had been walking two hours when the sun finally emerged over the horizon, taking a little chill out of the air and draping everything in gold light. It was so bright it made her squint, it seeming to reflect off everything that had an opportunity. How lucky she was to be born at a time when there was sunrises and autumns to enjoy them in. How improbable to be born at any time at all, but yet here she was, a miracle among billions of miracles. If the human race wasn’t proof of God, what was?

The miracle stopped at the crossroads sign and tried to decide which of the quaintly named paths she should follow.

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Eyes/Petty 

I despised Imogen Golightly the moment I saw her. I hated her dark curls that looked like an unruly mane, her prominent chin, her mouth that had an unattractive habit of twisting as though thinking of an untold secret. I hated her untied shoelaces, her ripped stockings and the dirt under her nails. Most of all I hated her eyes which were large and uncommonly green, framed by thick black lashes. Often I would catch the sight of a loose one resting on her cheek and have to resist the urge to pluck it from her. All my urges were towards touch - to tidy her or pinch her or shake her. My hands fluttered like restless birds whenever she was around.

As was the nature of boarding schools however, I was forced to spend time with her. We were in all the same classes with twelve or so other girls of sixteen. They seemed nowhere near as vexed with her as I was though my cloest confident Ashley did whisper she thought she had an arrogant upturn to her nose. I replied that she had an arrogant upturn to everything.

She mystified as well as vexed me. When changing for bed one evening, a broken shard of something or the other cut my foot, sending a scarlet flower blooming up my stockings. I let out a little cry, limping over to the nearest bed. In a flash she was there, hand sliding up my calf to roll down the stocking. I found myself quite distracted from the pain. Her face was a picture of concentration, using the already ruined stocking as a bandage and then dashing off to find matron. My cheeks felt rather hot. The shock of the situation, naturally. Only when she was gone was I reminded of the painful throbbing and my attention caught once more.

It seemed from that point onwards I was unable to escape her. I bumped into her when on a nature walk. She sat close to me in art class, her elbow very nearly jostling mine. At lunch I would look up and see her looking at me from across the room with those uncanny eyes. It drove me to distraction. I had to do something.

I still despise Imogen. I despise how soft her hair is under my fingers and how her skin is smoother than velvet. I despise her laugh when I say something foolish and romantic. I despise her cleverness that is a competition to keep up with. I despise how my hands always reach out to touch her. I despise how free she is. Most of all I despise how those green eyes can see right through me, ignoring mistruths until they find my core, and love it all the same.

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Presumed

It was that time of year again.

Ash sat on the edge of the motel bed, elbow on knee, chin cupped in palm. She could have lied to herself and said she lost track of the date, but if she started lying to herself, she really was lost. Every year like clockwork on the six o’clock news. She picked up the remote next to her and pressed the volume button, sending the television from a whisper to a level voice. The press conference was in full swing, though each year a little more sparsely populated. The news liked new and shiny tragedy, not the same one rehashed over nearing a decade. And like an idiot, every year, she tuned in.

Her mother looked older, which surprised her every damn time. She had dyed her hair for the television appearance though. She could tell because last year there had been grey creeping in at the roots. Her father hadn’t bothered, though his salt and pepper colouring was more readily apparent in his beard. These images of her parents jostled against her memories of them. Her father had always been clean shaven. Her mother used to tease him about quite how long he spent in the bathroom preening. He didn’t look like he bothered about his appearance very much these days. Behind their shoulder was that same photograph they used every year. Teenage Ashley grinning, eyes bright, looking sunny. Just long enough ago she would have plausible deniability if anyone recognised her. ‘Sorry who? You must be mistaken.’

This year there was a new feature. A projected image of what she might look like now. She could have cackled. Her cheeks hadn’t filled out nearly that much, her hair had stayed long. Her freckles had mostly faded into a palor and no sketch artist on earth could have predicted how dark her under eyes had gotten. It was the her she could have been. It was fascinating, like looking into a broken crystal ball.

She managed thirty seconds of listening to her mother beg for her to either come home or for whoever had taken her to return her safe and sound. A personal reccord. It was their voices she couldn’t stand. Their voice’s pronouncing Violet’s name especially. She pressed the power button and flopped back onto the mattress. She stared at the ceiling, mapping the cracks across the plaster. She’d have to lay low her usual three days, just in case.

Another year missing, presumed dead. Being dead never got any more enjoyable. It just got more depressing.

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New Skin

We covered ourselves with lumps of clay, smoothing them out so they fit our bodies like a second skin. She did my back and I did hers, making sure we reached all the parts we couldn’t alone. By the time we were done, only our eyes were visible. Bright lights shining out from a statue. And then we slept beneath the earth, our hands not quite touching.

It was centuries before we awoke and we were stiff and the clay cracked a little when we moved. We came blinking into the new light and the only thing we recognised was the other. The earth had left its prints on us, the patterns of vines and leaves and beetles embedded into our bodies. We were the picture of our environment and we were beautiful.

Before too long we decided to lie down in the sun and a little while after that we decided to lie down in the fire. Then we held hands, so as we cooked we would be linked together forever, the only way to separate to break apart. We were surrounded by orange and red and heat and it was an apocalypse and a birth all at once. I held you hand tight and wanted it to never end.

I was more fragile when the air finally cooled. One hard touch could shatter me. But I trusted you and I chose to trust the world to be careful. There’s a hundred different ways to love and this was mine.

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innocently wicked

I picked worms up from the pavement, depositing them tenderly into the wet grass even as their writhing repulsed me. The only thing that repulsed me more was the sight of them crushed, minuscule guts spread out over the concrete. I wondered if later the same worms were plucked from the grass by hungry birds. There was no way of knowing but their tiny souls weighed on me still.

I was a fretful child. I was always sure that there was a schedule for which teddy got to sleep in my arms, so none felt excluded. Even the dolls that scared me would have a place on my bed, even then knowing that if I let my fear win, they were even more likely to harm me. Dangerous people had feelings too. That’s what made them so dangerous.

One of my earliest memories is trying to comfort a dying bee, stroking it’s soft fur with the gentlest touch I can manage. It stung me of course, one last lashing out at the world that had given it mortality. I didn’t blame it. My mother covered the wound in honey and stuck a plaster on it. This was how I learnt that sometimes it was only the product of what hurt you that could fix the damage done.

I could never hurt anything intentionally. I would step on an ant even though I noticed it in my path or turn on a tap to flush a spider down a drainpipe. I did these things and then a wave of guilt would come, so huge as to be catholic. A life was a life, no matter how small. 

For a time, I stopped walking on grass, convinced I was committing a massacre with every step. This only stopped when I learnt about the presence of insects too small to see and indeed, microbes. I killed unintentionally with every movement. I had to draw the line somewhere and I decided to draw it under ‘what I could notice’. 

Today I still feel guilty for tipping water over fighting cats, for flinching from a barking dog, for disliking spiders weaving webs on my clothes. I was not a pacifist by choice, only by nature. I’m not sure if I could claim a higher ground on morality when being cruel frightened me so much.

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what would you do for your family

Aeneas kissed his mother’s cheek goodbye, as he always did, donned his hat and stepped outside. It was pouring, rain tumbling down in erratic buckets. He didn’t mind. He was staying in a hotel not too far from here, you know, since his last house had crumbled under the weight of politics and flames.

The lights of the street glinted off every raindrop and he ignored the inviting calls from the doorways of those lit with red lamps. It wasn’t that he was adverse - quite on the contrary, he was happy to give money to professionals. It was that he was preoccupied. And when Aeneas was occupied, very little could sway him from his train of thought. It was one of his better traits and also one of his worse ones.

He kept walking past his hotel door. Walking helped him think. Running was usually the product of his thinking. He was bored of running. At least, he was bored of running away. He wanted to run towards something. Isn’t that what he was doing with this court case? He was standing and fighting. Like Hector. That thought sends a spear of grief through him so sharp he inhales. Hector fought fairly and he fought bravely and Hector died.

He wasn’t too concerned with his own life. What was a life when it was this unmoored? He had no home, no friends, no money, no family - well. He did have a family. That was indeed part of the problem. He wasn’t sure how well he could protect his mother once he showed his hand and his face in court. He wasn’t sure if she would try to protect him. It was a loyalty neither of them had tested yet and the question was in both of their eyes every time they looked at each other. 

Would it be better to just disappear? Into a fake name, a fake story. This was the type of city where such stories were easy. He could stay Pierce, become a minor player, not tread on any toes. He could get a spouse, a flat, enough money to get by. He clenched his jaw, looking up at the sky. No. His name was all he had. Even if it killed him, he would make it the one thing this city couldn’t forget. Someone had to oppose them. Someone.

__________________________________________________________

God knows he made a mistake.

The body on the table was still. Kit wasn’t sure what he had expected the experiment to look like, but he hadn’t imagined it looking quite so. Well. Dead. The skin near her fingertips was blue, as were her lips. The skin around her eyes looked almost bruised in its darkness. She didn’t look peaceful. She didn’t look like she was sleeping. She looked like shaped meat with nothing inside it, nothing at all. It didn’t frighten him - it repulsed him. This was a weakness that nobody could avoid and it was horrible and it was inevitable. 

If he ever needed evidence that God wasn’t real, here it was. The fact that death existed was one thing, the fact that it reduced an entire being to this was quite something else. It was like adding insult to injury. Was there anything more indignant than being dead?

The feeling didn’t fade when the corpse opened her eyes, sitting up and pushing her long black hair over a shoulder. His stomach twisted, his hand flying to cover his mouth. She moved naturally but wrongly, like a clock ticking backwards. Her eyes were preternaturally bright, the colour not dull as they should have been. Instead they were like circles of distilled moonlight. She crooked her arm, running a finger over the stitches that encircled her elbow. She looked down at her legs, washed clean of blood but not wounds. “That’s new.” She said, voice like a cellar door opening. She may have said more, but Kit did not hear it. He had been swept away in a dead faint. 

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Wings that block out the moon

The city that never slept stopped dead, a thousand hundred people looking up the sky, their mouths dropping open one by one. Even those inside the buildings paused, feeling a shadow pass over them. Even those asleep turned uneasily, their dreams turning darker.

Was it an apocalypse? It could be. They had always imagined it would come with high waters or trembling earth or even a fire ripping through the streets without mercy. Something real. Something sensible. Not this fantastical.

It was a dragon, black. If you thought the night sky was dark, you had thought wrong. The wings spread against it proved that, creating a void in it’s image. It’s eyes resembled stars only because they were pricks of light in that sea of nothing. There was an intelligence there, unflustered and calculating as it looked down at the city before it. It could hover like a kestrel, only the laziest flaps of it’s wings keeping it aloft. 

It was too big to know how to be gentle. It was too old to know how short life was for humans. It had awoken already tired and the entire world had changed around it. You’d be disconcerted too. Maybe that’s why they attributed malice to it’s steady gaze and began to load up the guns. They never stood a chance really. It would survive past guns. It would survive past the city and the lives within it.

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Once upon a time in Bognor Regis

The smell of the sea soaked through everything. It was embedded in the wooden piers and the awnings of market stalls, as much a part of the environment as the buildings that had been here since the place had decided to become a city. Seagulls squawked and bickered, occasionally getting up the moxy to attempt to steal the fresh fish from the fishermen’s nets and even more occasionally succeeding. 

It was a busy place. Ships were coming in, goods were being sold, families were waving each other off to war or a new life. Children weaved below waist height, picking pockets and chasing birds. A mage on the corner was making coloured fire dance around his hands, keeping one careful eye out for any law that would appear and demand a permit or to see his nobles. Harlots hung out of an inn window, cooing to the sailors stepping off the ships, tempting them to spend all of their hard earned wages in one fell swoop. A preacher waved pamphlets at them, attempting the very same thing but with a promise of a very different salvation.

Every day looked alike in this place. It was always thriving, always stinking, always a place that bustled and overflowed. It was easy to get swept up in, lost in and it was where things happened for the common people. News was spread here as well as rumour. It was the court of the working people and they performed to the highest standards they could, unconsciously mimicking their betters. The nobles would be appalled by the concept of such a thing of course, but they didn’t know. All they saw was a port and a market.

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Inimical to our way of life

It wasn’t that he hated Merrows. For Throne’s sake, he wasn’t Highborn, he didn’t hate any lineage. It was that they unsettled him and that they indeed refused to settle in. They never acted with their feelings or passion, always waiting for the logic or knowledge to fall into place first. They observed and kept themselves separate from it all. They only knew how to immerse themselves in water, not in a party or a love. 

The flourished in Urizen, able to look down on everyone from their towering spires, kept away from anything that could stir their feelings. Draughirs were terrifying and cold but at least they were passionate in their own way. They often acted on instinct which was good, even if those instincts were generally fairly frightening.

Mattias wondered what Inesh found in this Merrow that was lacking elsewhere in the Coast. They had clever people. They had calculating people - you couldn’t walk anywhere for tripping over Cambions. Was it his lack of passion that attracted her? If so, why bother making friends or lovers in the Coast at all? Mattias vaguely held out a hope he was rich and this was some sort of Prosperity driven romance. 

He had hurt Inesh with his disapproval, which didn’t fill him with joy. He loved his proxy-mother dearly. He wasn’t quite sure what he would think of her if he found out she had truly fallen for someone so opposed to their values and indeed, life.

___________________________________________________

Due for a good kicking

There were only so many ways you could get particularly creative with a beating. If you introduced implements the entire tone changed all together and that wasn’t what he was going for. Crucially, with weapons you really ran the risk of  ruining a face. In some ways, that’s exactly what Axis would want. Being a spiteful little shit, taking away the only advantage he had would only please him.

Instead bruises littered his ribs and chest and Dante suspected there would be quite the lump on the back of his head afterwards from where he had hit the floor like a sack of bricks. They had been through this routine a hundred times before. Axis struggled into a sitting position, eyes slightly unfocused and waited for the lecture that always followed. Learning opportunities, Dante called them.

Axis couldn’t remember the first time Dante had hit him. He certainly couldn’t predict when the last time would be but he suspected it might be a few moments before his death. Dante didn’t have as good a grip on his temper as he thought he did and Axis liked pushing him. Kill me. Every glare seemed to say. I dare you. 

Dante may have been able to kid himself that he loved Axis but Axis was under precisely no illusions about what he felt for Dante. He would very happily push him into traffic or down a well. The only reason he hadn’t tried was because he was reasonably certain it wouldn’t end well for him. He had tried once when he was fourteen, with a pen knife. His wrist had been broken in three places and that was that for that dream. Dante could see the thought flickering across his eyes. It seemed to mostly amuse him which obviously prickled at Axis all the more.

Which is why, this time, he was going to get his boyfriend to try it.

_______________________________________________________

Cyberpunk Les Amis

Enjolras lay back in the chair, gritting his teeth so not a single noise of discomfort escaped him. Feuilly, to his credit, pretended not to notice. Just as he pretended not to notice Combeferre looking over his shoulder with extreme interest at the inside of the arm. Enjolras had only had the damn thing for two years and it seemed as if it had been used for ten. There was often dirt and blood jamming the mechanisms, but in this case he had taken quite a nasty strike when trying to avoid a cyber mastiff. A wire had become dislodged and the resulting nerve glitches were driving him up the wall. Grantaire had of course not helped by remarking that he would be an absolute liability at an auction. This had been the straw that finally meant Enjolras consented to Feuilly’s tinkering.

Between Feuilly and Joly, they had a fair medical and engineering set up. Combeferre could sometimes be included in this umbrella but it was often fifty fifty if he didn’t decide to try something new and exciting half way through. Sometimes you just wanted your body and/or augmetics to work. Coufreyac of course always consented to new and exciting, which is how he had ended up with two eyes of varying colour and hearing that occasionally gave him far too much information about Marius’s nocturnal activities.

“It would be fine if it was sex.” He groaned, lamenting his situation with Bossuet over a glass of something that might once have been wine. “But no. It’s reading and rereading a hundred terrible pieces of poetry over and over. Someone needs to tell him that women don’t generally go for sadness as a personality trait.” Chetta patted his shoulder in a way he suspected was more sarcastic than comforting. He mumbled a threat into his arms but there was no bite. Jehan cheerfully offered to tutor Marius in the ways of true artistry. “No. Then I’d come home to animal guts and laments about how nobody knows what the colour green is anymore.” Jehan was offended but they truly had no leg to stand on, and they knew it. 

“There, done.” Feuilly sat up, pushing his welding goggles up and flexing his shoulders. Enjolras sat up, testing out the arm. Once it had been top of the line. Now, cut off from his parents credits it was more trouble than it was worth. He gave a small and satisfied smile.  “Thank you. Perfect working order.” “Please give me two weeks to get new parts before fucking it up again.” “No promises.”

_____________________________________________________

Furby gains sentience

Small children often have gods. They need very little encouragement to start cults. Leave them alone for ten minutes in a garden and you’ll come back to them daubed in war paint and circling a discoloured flower, asking it the questions its parents can’t or won’t answer. It is however rare for these gods to start responding.

Emilia had had the furby since her birthday on the twelfth of august. It was purple with pink eyes and a white stomach. She loved it instantly as she loved anything fluffy and cute. She already had quite the collection of stuffed toys. Bears and penguins and dinosaurs and cats, practically a menagerie. She never threw a single one out. Even the most grubby and torn up found a home with Emilia. The furby however was different in several respects.

It wasn’t really made for hugging. Underneath the fur was a plastic case, giving it a heft and solidness that didn’t encourage much affection. The next was magical however. Under Emilia’s watchful eyes her father had produced batteries and carefully unscrewed the base, popping them in and then sealing them back inside carefully. And the furby talked.

Nonsense words and noises, kissing sounds, crying sounds. Emilia’s mother quickly surmised that they had made quite the mistake in getting the creature but her father assured her quickly that the batteries would run out soon enough and by that time Emilia would have found something else to lavish love on besides. It was a necessary stage of parenthood and they would get through it with hopefully minimum migraines induced. 

Emilia named the furby Lilia and placed her reverently on a shelf, overseeing most of her bedroom. She chattered to it as she brushed the hair of her dolls, painted lipstick on toys and read the cheap magazines that came with plenty of sparkle. She took Lilia to school with her under strict instructions that she had to turn it off during lessons and be extremely careful with her as she had not been cheap. All as expected.

Until one morning two weeks later she came downstairs with a purple swirl painted on each cheek. She shrieked when her mother tried to rub them clean before class but this was not so unusual. What child enjoyed having their face cleaned after all? When asked about them, she called it ‘garb’ which seemed an unusual word but then they were studying vikings in school. 

It was two weeks after that when she uttered her first prophecy. In that time she had gained quite an obsession with the colour purple, insisting on wearing only purple clothes and begging for every purple felt tip she saw. When friends came over she would drape them in purple scarves and they would disappear into her room for hours, door shut, only hushed whispers managing to be heard past the door. 

The prophecy was not particularly groundbreaking. She had simply walked down the stairs and informed her mother (in the same tone one might comment on the weather) that she would be exactly fifty three minutes late for work. Her mother had laughed - her work was only a twenty minute drive away after all. But that morning there was an accident that sent queues snaking through the entire neighbourhood and when she finally arrived at the office she glanced at her watch to see she was indeed fifty three minutes late. How interesting, she thought before forgetting and going about her adult business and saying words like invoice and synergy. 

The third time it happened, to the exact minute, how interesting she thought, slightly more uneasily. 

On the fifth time of Emilia predicting a small but significant part of her day (apples running out for lunch, a speaker cancelling, a coworker announcing a pregnancy) she asked her baby girl how exactly she knew these things. Lilia she had replied, casually and continued eating her wheatos. She asked if Lilia knew the lottery numbers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Emilia replied. Why would a furby care about the lottery?  “Well why would a furby care about me being late or Susan being pregnant or anything else?”  “Because you’re my momma so she likes you. She thought you might like a heads up about these things.”

This was about when she started to think it was all going a little far.

________________________________________________________

Stolen gateway to heaven

It wasn’t that we wanted to go back. We wanted to nurture our hatred, give it material to help it grow. So we used it as a mirror, all of us crouching around it as though it was a fire and peering through with our ugly faces. There was something about heaven that made us want to ruin it. Perfection couldn’t last in hell so why should it get to last anywhere else? I wanted to pluck the feathers from every angel, snip every harp string and smear ash onto every clean cloud. I wanted to make the angels feel afraid of something and disturb their centuries long peace. We wanted, in short, a war. 

Because if they hurt us back we would be justified. We would have a reason for being the way we were and a reason was the next best thing to an excuse. We would not only be villains, but tragic villains, wronged by those so much loftier than ourselves.

Somewhere, Lucifer turned away from the image. After all he was the only one that had called this paradise home once. He probably could have even used the portal, enough angelic blood still in his veins that the door would recognise him. But to look with us would be to admit he wanted it and Lucifer was no stranger to cutting off his nose to spite his face. He turned away and called us fools for flocking like moths to the light of a pure existence.

_________________________________________________________

The first time she had to give a soldier an all-over sponge bath.

After last week’s embarrassment she was determined to do it. No more silliness, no more girlishness as matron would say. She had spent the weekend locked in her room (chair pressed under the knob) studying anatomy books until her cheeks had ceased to be fire every time she so much as glanced at an image of nether regions. She steeled herself, rapping sharply on the door and stepped inside.

And stepped promptly back out again. Straight into the linen closet where she stifled her giggles for several minutes. At least she had managed to leave the room before the giggles started. It was her nervous response to anything rude and it had been most inopportune last week. She had been fairly and roundly scolded for her immaturity which had just about been enough to stop her. Get yourself together she told herself sternly. Do your job. Nurse and heal him.

She wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her apron, took one more breath and returned to the room. Luckily with the fire burning to heat the water, the flush on her cheeks could be blamed on the heat. This was a new entry, Gareth. One serious leg wound, still needing cleansing from the battlefield but hopefully to make a full recovery. Marjie felt a small tug at that. The way his eyes were glazed off and looking through the window meant she doubted if he would ever fully recover. Oddly, it was this thought that gave her a boost of sensibility. The poor man needed all the help and comfort he could get and she was the only one that could offer such a thing. 

She started her chatter, rolling the sheet down to his hips. Pointless, stupid chatter. Mentioning things like the village fair, the flowers that were blooming outside, the chores the children were doing to snag extra sweets rations tokens. To her own ears her voice sounded utterly inane and irritating. But it kept her thoughts busy. Within moments her flannel was dark with dirt and blood. She rung it out over the basin, the repetitive rhythm that begun to occur naturally oddly soothing. Wipe, wipe, wipe, rinse, dip, wipe - She started at the injuries that hadn’t been crucial enough to warrant inclusion on the chart. Scrapes up his back, a cut along his cheek from stray shrapnel. Her hands were as gentle as she could make them and still did not feel gentle enough.

Her flush deepened when the time came to move below his waist. But he didn’t care and after a time, neither did she. 

___________________________________________

Katie’s Present

Dimitri had been by her bed for three days. Sometimes the others would come by, usually with books or chatter. He responded to neither. He simply kept sitting with his chin in his palm, eyes focused either on Esfir or the window above her head. The family would chat around him and eventually had given up trying to draw him into conversation. Classic Dimitri, withdrawing into himself once again.

Morgan had recovered after the first day, though the red welts the tentacles had left on him were definitely not going away any time soon. A little of the tension had eased out of Dimitri’s shoulders at this, but not enough. Still he waited, statuesque and focused.

Esfir woke up on the sixth day of his vigil. He sat up when her hand stirred, feeling a sudden surge of guilt. He was, after all, the reason she was in here. The demon hadn’t damaged her body. He had. Cut her legs down from under her and made it so that thing couldn’t puppet her any longer. Then, yet another miracle. The last one he would be granted for a while he suspected. He had asked a lot of the Light. Both of them needed a break.

Terror gripped him when she opened her eyes, half expecting to see the demon looking back at him. But no, he had been successful. Her eyes were the familiar softness she had in the early mornings, confused and exhausted. He had seen it a hundred times. He would know it anywhere. It was her. His throat clenched painfully.

“Dimtri? What - “ She trailed off, closing her eyes as the memories came back to her. She had hurt quite a few of them, enemies and friends before Dimitri had managed to take her down. A part of him wondered if he was the only one who could. “Why are you still here?” A hell of a good question. Looking away from her, he turned his head away and laced his fingers through hers, still scarred from the gauntlet all that time ago. “Because while it’s still you, things can better. Nothing’s completely destroyed until you’re gone.”

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100 Words, All True

The first time I visited my mother in hospital, I got lost. All the corridors looked the same, the directions given to me by the occasional nurse required a degree in arcane knowledge to understand and to top it off, the elevator was broken.

Still, I got there eventually. Despite her yellowing skin, her sleepy eyes, I recognised her. Alcohol withdrawal could do terrible things to a person but render them unknowable it couldn't.

Silently, I plucked a piece of banana out of her hair. "I wasn't allowed conditioner." She said by way of an explanation. Despite everything, we laughed.