#the self indulgent web weave i have been promising.

[joeyclaire]

THE PASSENGER (2023) // BLACK MIRROR - SHUT UP AND DANCE

[reaper2187]

Countess Chelsea x sinner female reader

In the twilight's embrace, you sauntered towards Chelsea's lavish estate. Your heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. You had heard whispers of her reputation—a femme fatale who ensnared men with her magnetic charm and left them shattered in her wake. But tonight, it was different. Chelsea had sent for you, the notorious and unapologetic sinner.

As you approached the towering gates, a shiver coursed down your spine. The air crackled with an enigmatic tension. You lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall with a metallic thud. A moment later, the gates swung open, revealing a world both alluring and menacing.

The sprawling gardens were bathed in golden moonlight, casting an ethereal glow on the manicured lawns and towering trees. You followed the winding path that led to the magnificent mansion, its opulent facade a testament to Chelsea's wealth and power.

At the top of the grand staircase, you paused, your breath catching in your throat. Chelsea stood before you, an enigmatic figure enveloped in a shimmering gown that revealed glimpses of alabaster skin. Her piercing gaze held you captive, sending a surge of electricity through your body.

'My dear, I've been expecting you,' she purred, her voice a velvet caress. 'Chelsea, they call me. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?'

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling slightly. 'You...you sent for me.'

'Indeed I did,' Chelsea replied, a knowing smile playing on her lips. 'Your reputation precedes you. A temptress who revels in the forbidden. I have a proposition for you.'

She extended her hand towards you, its touch sending shivers of desire up your spine. 'Become my mistress, and I will grant you untold riches and indulgence. But be warned, my love, your soul will belong to me.'

You hesitated for a moment, torn between the tantalizing offer and the perilous path it would lead you down. But curiosity consumed you, and you couldn't resist the temptation.

'I accept,' you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

Chelsea's lips curled into a triumphant smirk. 'Excellent. We will begin our illicit affair immediately.'

She led you down a private hallway, her hand gently guiding yours. As doors opened before you, you were transported to a world of forbidden pleasures. Lavish banquets, aromatic wines, and seductive company awaited you at every turn.

Chelsea was like a spider weaving her web, luring you deeper into her lair. She showered you with attention, whispered sweet nothings in your ear, and ignited a fire within you that you had never felt before. But with each blissful moment, a seed of doubt began to germinate in your heart.

Chelsea was not just a woman of beauty and desire; she was a predator who fed on the souls of those who dared to love her. Her promises of riches and happiness were nothing more than empty words. You realized that you were not merely her lover but her puppet, a pawn in her treacherous game.

As the days turned into weeks, your once-strong spirit began to crumble under Chelsea's relentless manipulation. You found yourself consumed by guilt and despair, your life spiraling out of control. But even in your darkest hour, a glimmer of hope emerged from the depths of your shattered heart.

You knew that you had to escape Chelsea's clutches, no matter the cost. One night, as she slept soundly by your side, you slipped out of the mansion and ran for your life.

The world outside was cold and unforgiving, but you were determined to rebuild your broken existence. You sought solace in the depths of your pain, vowing never to become entangled in Chelsea's web of deception again.

And so, my dear sinner, your journey continued. A journey of redemption and self-discovery, where the scars of the past became badges of your resilience. You emerged from the darkness, not as the temptress you once were, but as a warrior who had escaped the clutches of the wicked and lived to tell the tale.

[diabhals]

as promised, i have no fucking self-control, so below the cut is approximately 2k words of sappy wedding fluff. no i’m not sorry.

 Bea's fingers run, fleet-footed, tap tap tap over the mahogany. A dance conducted by her thoughts, and the orchestra sails on, minutes ticking down to seconds of tap tap tap. Now she misses her little finger; now the dance is disjointed, the beat faltering as it comes to that knotted scar, tap tap stop. Now her hands move to straighten her tie again, for the fifth time, and they shake.

 "How do I look?" Flicking her gaze to Matei, she licks her lips, expectant. A clock ticking over before the chime.

 "Horrendous." He reaches up to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her forehead. "I'm sure he'll run away in horror at the sight of you."

 "Oi." Bea huffs a laugh, her breath hot enough to blossom into a crystalline cloud; her jacket keeps out the cold of the room, though it still knifes at her fingers. "He wo-- what if he does?"

 It's not a joke when it's a possibility, when she's stamping her feet in the antechamber and wondering exactly what part of the ceremony calls for husband and wife to freeze to death. For contemplation, Kiriya had said, in case you get cold feet. It's not a joke when those words are breathed into a fine mist of physicality, when she knows her Kit and she knows there's always some knife in his broken soul, ready to cut all mooring ropes and cast him into the stormy seas again. Such sharp things must be handled gently, softly, kissed by cherry lips and told they are beautiful, or they will not stay. They will not come to the call of a woman whose lips are chapped and whose hands are hard.

 "He won't." Matei's words are a firm finality, even as the breath that spoke them dissipates. Bea returns to her pacing and tap tap tapping.

 Looking around the antechamber, she can't believe this is where the last moments of her unmarried life are slipping away: the same place where they prepare bodies, the same place where squalling babies are brought in nests of blankets and greeted by the priest for the first time. She understands why it's so cold, now: it keeps the bodies from rotting on that marble bed, white shot through with tear-tracks of black. It keeps the soon-to-be-weds on their toes, keeps them walking, walking, needing to hear the sound of their footsteps echoing into the vaulted ceiling to know that they are there and this is real.

 The door clicks open to admit an altar-maiden, her spider-spun skirts rustling over the threshold. Everything about her is soft: the hair that cascades over her shoulders, the milky, blue eyes that stare up at Bea.

 "It's time." What was her name again -- it escapes her, but Bea follows the girl just the same. One last glance over her shoulder to make sure Matei is coming with her, then into the body of the church.

 It never fails to take her breath away, the stone pillars like ribs stretching up and bowing together overhead. The way her footsteps echo, a heartbeat filling the cavity of space between her and the stone as she hurries to the altar, taking her place in front of it; she longs to savour it, light pouring in, a sticky-sweet blood, through a stained glass window, but her own heart is hammering. Her eyes are too fixed on the other end of the aisle, the door that seems to do nothing but stare at her. Asking, do you consider yourself worthy?

 If the waiting room was supposed to still her doubts, it hasn't worked. They all flood back in a rush: if she were him, this is when she'd do it. She'd spend the whole night pacing as she was, debating, only coming to a decision the moment before she sealed her life away. She'd run, though Bea can't imagine he'd get too far, he limps all the worse these days, and a bad leg is an easy weakness to spot. What she can imagine is that he's afraid, that he'd fold himself into some dark crevice and dissolve into the shadows, to reappear somewhere else, under a different name.

 He may also persuade Tammy to put rat poison in her whiskey, but in light of all they've been through, Bea considers that quite rude.

 With a sound like the groaning of gears, the door opens, letting in another shaft of sugared-pink sunlight.

 Letting in Kit.

 Her first thought is that dress must cost a fortune; her second thought: no, it's alright, we have the time and the money for a dress now. Her third thought is nothing at all, just an intake of breath.

 Walking slowly, supported by Micah, Kit's skirt rustles across the stone like a whisper. The dress is white, white as a funeral shroud, as a newborn's shawl; its train stretches back, a wave of taffeta topped by the veil, a frothing of lace. She barely gives the dress more than a cursory glance, though, searching underneath that veil for his familiar face. Even through it, the white deepens the colour of his skin, a warm brown almost set alight by the sunrise's caressings. Even despite it, she can piece together the contours of his face, the scar, the freckles, and lose herself in them: call him beautiful, call him majestic, call him mine. Hers because she knows him in every detail, knows him down to the rhythm of his steps -- even in a good dress, they don't change. Quick-slow, soft-heavy, the weight always falling on his good leg.

 She's just about ready to succumb to wonder when Matei elbows her in the ribs.

 "Stop it. You're embarrassing yourself." His wolfy grin says wait until I tell the others about this, as if they aren't already watching.

 "He's going to be my husband, you know," Bea whispers, pouting. "I'm allowed to look."

 "Don't I know it." Matei snickers, loud enough that the altar-maiden shoots him a venomous look. "Beatrice Poisontongue, scourge of two kingdoms, a blushing bride. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

 "Fuck off, it'll be your turn soon enough." Doesn't she know that; she would tease him about the way he drapes himself over Vall, but Micah is handing Kit up the altar steps, and she reaches down to help him.

 As Bea takes Kit's hand, Micah's eyes meet hers, the message in them clear. Look after him. It's something she's heard from Matei, Tammy, even Kiriya -- a promise she's already made, and intends to keep.

 Handing Kit up the steps, she gives him a smile, as gentle as she can muster. Beneath the veil, it's returned; his hand grips hers, tightening like the fastening of a good rope to a mooring post.

 Finally, they both stand before the priest, before the Stitched Goddess, or at least her stained-glass effigy. It seems to smile at them, perhaps a touch indulgently, making Bea want to spit in its eye and hold Kit all the tighter. I know I've not earned him, but I have him. And I don't know why either of us decided to get married before you.

 "Beatrice and --" The priest doesn't manage to say it and earn himself a kick in the teeth before Kit interrupts.

 "Kit. It's just Kit." He returns the squeeze of Bea's hand, and she wonders whether she would've had to get in line to deliver the teeth-kicking.

 The priest gives Kit a nod, one Bea supposes must pass for understanding.

 "Beatrice and Kit, we are here today to celebrate your union before the Goddess, and before your family." Family -- she glances back across the audience, mostly full of Sewer People. Free citizens of Den Tiel now, part of her family. "Do you understand the commitment you are about to make?"

 Last chance for you to back out, her eyes say.

 "We do." The unison surprises her; Kit's shrouded eyes whisper back, why would I want to?

 "Very well. Beatrice, repeat after me --"

 Bea doesn't need his prompting, not when she's been repeating these words to herself for weeks, perfecting their exact cadence. For a moment, everything else fades away, and she sees nothing but Kit as she speaks:

 "Kit, I promise to be your safe harbour and your mooring post. I promise to be your lighthouse and your wind. I promise to keep a lamp lit for you in my heart wherever I am, wherever you are, in poverty and in riches. In happiness and strife. With this necklace--" somehow Matei remembers his cue, pressing it into Bea's hand, "I also promise you myself." Til death sees fit to take me, she's supposed to add, but just let death try and take her without him.

 Slipping her hands under the veil to clasp the necklace, her stomach churns with excitement. There's something strangely illicit, an open secret, in breaching the lace, feeling his pulse flutter beneath warm skin. She had wanted to get him something more ornate, but in that silvered moment the simple gold chain seems fine, a single ruby dripping like a drop of blood onto the white dress.

 "Now, Kit, if you would--"

 "Bea." He almost cracks; she can hear the laugh in his voice before he continues. "I promise to be your compass and your road home. I promise to be your north star and your map. I promise to keep a lamp lit for you in my heart wherever I am, wherever you are, in poverty and in riches. In happiness and in strife. With this necklace, I also promise you myself."

 Tammy hands him the necklace; it's equally simple, an emerald-eyed snake on a gold chain. Clasping it, Kit's fingers brush the back of Bea's neck, sending a shiver webbing across her skin.

 All too soon his hands are gone; the priest smiles, placid and fatherly.

 "My children, at the dawn of the world, the Stitched Goddess knew you. She sewed every part of you together, and wove the paths of your lives; now she has seen fit to weave those two colourful tapestries together. With the utmost joy, and my heartfelt blessing, I charge you to cherish each other always, as husband and wife." Say it, Bea thinks, say it. "You may now kiss."

 She lifts the veil almost reverently, revealing the divinity beneath -- and Kit pounces on her, drawing her into the kiss. Rapacious, hands cupping her cheeks as if afraid she'll slip through his fingers. All she can do, all she wants to do, is offer herself up, leaning into the kiss. Every part of it is known to her now: the way he tastes, bittersweet, the way his passion washes over her, the way it baptised her the first time she knew it. They way it wasn't exactly freely given, not this vulnerable, and that -- she must've done something to earn it.

 Somehow, that's the best part of it all: that when they pull away, everyone's clapping, and she finally knows the answer. She is worthy.

  Her slips her hand into his, wanting to never let go. A look passes between them; Bea's heart swells when she catches his smile, a genuine smile. Turning back to the aisle laid out before them, she gives his hand a little squeeze, then one more glance at her new husband.

 "Walk with me?"

"Always."

They begin to descend the steps; idly, she wonders how much the house with the turquoise door costs.

[possiblypeachy]

paints.

--; summary: the quiet periods in Jericho are to be cherished.

--; pairings: markus x fem!deviant!reader

--; word count: 2.1k

--; themes: fluff, angst if you squint really hard but not enough to make you leave feeling even slightly sad.

--; warnings: n/a

--; note: howdy! this is just self indulgent fluff. i wanted to write something cutesy before i go back to angst for requests and other ideas i’ve had swimming around so here ya go: enough sweetness to make your teeth fall out! enjoy.

masterlist

if you liked this, read these rules and request here, maybe? ;)

More and more androids had been arriving at Jericho as of late and, while you adored the aspect of helping those who were truly in need, the constant flitting between biocomponent-filled containers and injured deviants was starting to wear on you. You couldn't remember the last time you had a few minutes of quiet. It even brought you to think: 'Is there anywhere in Jericho that isn't stocked with people now?'.

“I don't know how I'll ever thank you, (Name). Truly, I--”

You took the AP700's hand-- his name was Michael, if you do recall correctly-- and gave him the sort of divine smile that made the androids in this freighter believe you were a gift sent by RA9. “I want no gratitude. You being alive is all the thanks I need.” He looked at you with such admiration that it made you remember why you spent all of your time doing this and his hand squeezed your own momentarily. “I'm sure Lisa is missing you already. You'd best get back to her; I'm sure she'd love to see your new eye.”

With that, his hand slipped from yours and he left, leaving you sat atop a storage container with a gentle curl to your lips. It would only be a few minutes until another battered android came to sit in front of you, begging for a working leg or a bottle of thirium. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it-- you were helping your people towards a more promising future-- but an hour or so alone with friends is all that you desired as repayment.

A hand came to your shoulder. You gestured toward the seat in front of you. “Please, sit down. Tell me what you need.”

“I'm in need of an android called (Name). She's just as beautiful as you and has the same ethereal smile but,” You turned toward the voice, your teeth already showing in a grin, to be met by the amused expression of Markus, “She usually has more... spring to her step.” Then, you stood and his arms made their way around your body as though it was second-nature for him. Your hairline received a small kiss before he pulled himself away from you-- just enough in order to for you both gaze at one another. “You're worn out. Why didn't you say anything earlier?”

Your sight averted his for a second or two before returning, a certain reluctance weaved through the depths of your eyes. “These people need help, Markus-- and lots of it. I can't just... throw my towel down and tell them all to leave me alone while I rejuvenate.”

That laugh of his-- a noise so rarely heard-- made the pump in your chest feel like it stuttered for a moment. Small wrinkles appeared around his eyes when he looked back to you and it made you mirror his expression, a flush of blue appearing on your cheeks. Markus' arms dragged themselves away from your body and instead one rested on your hand, intertwining his fingers with your own. “Close your eyes.”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

A chuckle-- the kind that comes out in a breath rather than a true sound. “Close your eyes. I want to take you somewhere.”

You were apprehensive at first but your second wave of thoughts slapped you back into a rational state of mind; what would Markus ever do to jeopardise you? And so, you tightened your grip on his hand and allowed your eyes to flutter shut.

He whispered something akin to “Good.” before tugging you away from your makeshift station. Your feet were clumsy as he weaved you both between small groups of chattering androids and over debris that had not yet been tidied. The sounds of living things slowly drained away, leaving you with soft footsteps and moaning metal.

His hand left yours and, before you could open your eyes, Markus' request of “Don't look yet.” met your ears. You had to admit, the mix of apprehension and excitement was near overwhelming and you could feel your fingers twitching with each pulse of your artificial heart.  

There was a horrible creaking noise then you felt him behind you, his grip gentle on your waist. “Make sure you don't trip; take a big step.” You did as he asked but the heel of your boot still got caught on the door frame. Your body wobbled somewhat and a strange, concerned noise caught in your throat but Markus' hold on you was sure enough that you had no fear of falling.

“Look.”

When you opened your eyes once more, it almost felt as though you'd been thrust into another place. Jericho was safe, though not often described as comfortable. But this? This was beautiful.

He'd scouted the ship for the past day or so-- whenever he had free time-- to find a room that was spacious enough for the two of you to be comfortable yet small enough so that he was only centimetres away from you at any one time. The otherwise rusted bed frame had a pale blue sheet draped over it and was complimented by an array of green and purple cushions. Though some were a little worse for wear, it only added a certain... intimate feel to the place. By means that you would ask later, candles were set up on small boxes littered around the room. A soft orange glow was cast across your face and the reflection of them all in your eyes made small galaxies whirl in each iris.

For a time, you were confused; if Markus wanted to talk, he wouldn't have made it all so... spectacular. Then, your gaze flickered to the table in the corner of the room and your brows furrowed.

“Paints?”

His sight followed yours. “Body paints.”

“What paints?” Your torso swivelled so that you could look at him properly, eyes narrowed.

“Body paints.” He repeated, flickering his attention down to you and giving you an amused half-smile.

“The paint's supposed to go where?”

Markus sighed-- though not in annoyance, as made clear by the small grin that tugged up to his eyes. He shuffled past you, gesturing for you to sit down amongst the sea of cushions. “If you couldn't gather from the name, on your body. I thought it might be fun to--”

You interjected as you sat, resting your arm on a particularly soft, lilac-coloured pillow, “Markus, I love you and I love spending time with you but I'm far too... drained to--”

He reciprocated your interruption, “No, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted to show you something that... means a lot to me.” He sat opposite you, on a box covered by a thin blanket. His attention wasn't on you but on the tubes of paint and the palette beside him. “And having you as my canvas would make it mean the world.”

It was then that his eyes met yours and your lips curled into a sweet smile-- something akin to the expression a noblewoman would have were she being courted. “How romantic.” You mused.

“I try my best.” Was his reply. He held his hand out toward you, his knuckles brushing your knee. His other was still fiddling with the paints. “Give me your arm.” You gave him a considering look and you could've sworn he almost rolled his eyes. “Please.”

With a soft laugh, you extended your arm, pushing up the sleeves of your shirt to ensure he had your whole arm to work with. He gave you a nod of thanks, to which you shot him back a smile that said 'My pleasure'.

You had no inclination on what he was planning on painting on you-- Hell, you didn't even know that he enjoyed painting. That thought alone made you feel somewhat... melancholic? You adored Markus, truly, but both your positions in Jericho-- him even more so as the leader-- left for very little time to get to know each other. You'd insisted that you didn't want there to be a menial memory transfer because it would make things too artificial; you wanted your relationship to be natural-- to grow as though it were something alive. Yet, sometimes you almost regret not knowing much about his past. But, each new discovery made it certain that your adoring smile would be wide enough to reach your eyes.

The base colour he was using was such a dark blue that you nearly mistook it as black. Each stroke of the brush ensured that the paint settled into each curve and crease of your palm. It felt cold on your skin, though not uncomfortably so-- perhaps that was simply your android side determining that but you were so enraptured by his movements that you hardly thought about the sensation for more than a few seconds.

“What are you painting?” You questioned, your sight dragging away from your arm and to him.

“I don't know yet.” He answered, his gaze never leaving the brush.

So, you continued to watch. Occasionally, your eyes would flit to him, taking in the way his brows twitched when he had to paint a particularly small detail and how his jaw would clench whenever the colour smudged. His movements were almost professional and, honestly, you'd remove your arm and sell it to an art gallery just from how gorgeous his work was turning out. It almost made you sad to think that you'd have to wash it off.

On your palm was the night sky-- a cacophony of blues and violets-- with dashes of blended pink weaved throughout. The stars seemed random but were certainly deliberate. Clusters and constellations littered your skin; he'd grinned when he'd pointed out the stars that shaped a heart, to which you'd grinned and, had the paint on your arm not been drying, you would've leant forward to kiss him. The sky, from your wrist, began to crack and shatter-- intricate lines like a web decorating your forearm. Then, there were flowers. Lilac and rose petals blooming from each jagged line, as though the beauty was born from the destruction. They branched toward your elbow, curling and winding perfectly around every groove your arm had.

Dual-coloured eyes looked up at you. He seemed hopeful. “Thoughts?”

“Beautiful.” You didn't need time to think because you were so certain. It truly was beautiful; there were no other words to describe it.

A moment of silence passed over the both of you-- a product of you both gazing at your arm. Then, you spoke, “Were you... a painter before Jericho?”

Markus seemed to think for a moment and, though you could tell it was something personal to him, you were glad that you hadn't struck any nerves. His fingers patted gently at the paint on your palm, as though testing that it was dry, before responding. “No, not exactly. I lived with an... indescribable painter.” The smile gave you when he looked up from your arm held such a deep mixture of fondness and regret that it made your own expression almost pained. “He was the best teacher I could have asked for.”

“Markus, I'm sorry if I--”

“No, (Name), it's fine. He's not a sore spot; I just miss him.” This time his smile was reassuring and his hand held yours, obscuring the stars on your palm. Then, he pulled away, placed his hands on his thighs and gave you a look-- one that you couldn't quite decipher the meaning of. “One thing I do know that he would've wanted me to do is this.” The palette was passed to you and your gaze darted between the paints and his face. He was grinning. “Give it a try. Here.” He held his arm out to you.

Your gaze flickered between the palette and his skin. With an almost mischievous smile, your eyes met his. “A true artiste has no need for a paintbrush.” He looked confused for a few moments but, when your index and middle fingers planted themselves into two separate colours, he began to chuckle.

“What are you doing with those?”

“Creating a new entity.” You replied just as your fingers created two rather ugly dots on his arm. One was green and the other was blue. Then, you dipped your thumb into a crimson coloured paint and created a long curve beneath both dots. You leant back, acting as though you were considering your piece-- like a true artist. “I call him 'Marcus' but with a 'c'.” You placed the palette back down then allowed your gaze to dance up Markus' arm and to his both puzzled and highly entertained expression. “Thoughts?”

His sight met yours and, though such a large smile that he was barely able to speak, he said: “My only thought at the moment is: 'I love you'.”

You leant towards him, the most adoring smile painted across your features. “Well, you'll be pleased to know that I love you too.” Before your lips met fully, your hand came up to his cheek-- staining it with fingertip-shaped marks of paint-- and you whispered: “More than anything else in the galaxy.”

[islandofkiwi-blog]

Time’s Mirror Episode 2 - A Web Series by Steven Embers

Chapter 2

 School is a cunning trap set in place by a higher power to repress young peoples’ individuality, I theorized morbidly to myself as I strolled down the nearly empty halls, three minutes to the bell, searching for my first period class. I felt trapped inside this brick box, this place that presumed to be a citadel of learning, but felt more like a factory of assimilation. It was an assembly line of teachers unscrewing the heads of their students and filling them with the government’s mandated material. And the more you learned, the more you became like a “functioning” member of society. They made it seem like you were becoming a free thinker, but how were you supposed to think freely with all their rules running through your head?

           And the politics. The pecking order and the formation and generalization of human beings into cliques: supposedly constructed and run by the students, but was, in fact, surprisingly similar to the nonsense that went on in the “real world.” It was all a plot to ensure the proper orientation of new blood into the work force. Or maybe high school never really ended; maybe the class structures that teenagers and those who instruct teenagers can conceive and operate is the limit of human organization.

           Maybe I was just crazy. No; I was probably crazy. Most definitely probably crazy.

           I was spiraling and forced myself to go to Physics. What I wanted was individuality, and I felt like I would never achieve that if I stuck around any longer. I knew what I liked about myself and also what I wanted to change, eventually. What I wanted to know now was that I fit into a bigger picture and I wanted a hint at what that picture was. I wanted my life to have some kind of meaning.

           A meaning beyond Physics. Mr. Smith, the science guru at our school, was a good teacher. Some might call him a great teacher. He had such a passion for his job, which was very clear right from that first day of the new semester. He bounced around the room trying to teach us something about aerodynamics, because he wanted us all to become rocket scientists and bring humanity to Mars. He made it his mission to ensure that we would succeed in our college careers and he was always talking about our “future endeavors.”

           “Future endeavors,” however, annoyed the living daylights out of me. For some reason, it was a well-known fact that what you did today always led up to “something else.” It was that way as soon as you start kindergarten and through grade school and all the way up to right where I was then, and there was supposedly going to be another four years of this leading-up-to-something nonsense.

           I was starting to wonder why it takes somewhere between twelve and twenty years of schooling to start making a difference in this world. It was perplexing to me that we were expected to dedicate so much time to preparing for the future when we could be doing something productive right now…

 Okay, that was the longest rant ever. This story isn’t about my views on the American education system and I’ll try not to insert any more of my bitter philosophy. The rest of the day went like this…

 I slept through the History slideshow presentation; smiled at the pretty, blonde, foreign exchange girl in Spanish whose name was either Melissa or Anissa or something that the teacher pronounced different every time; added to my 3-D cube doodles in English; ate a sandwich at lunch; threw notes across the room to my friend, Derrick, in Math; tried to sketch a picture of the pretty blonde from Spanish in Economics, resulting in the revelation that I have no talent for drawing; hid in the bathroom for most of Gym; and took the bus home, nearly missing my stop because I was dozing off.

           I had decided that I wasn’t going to find the answers to my questions in the robot asylum, so I went through the motions like my teachers and friends expected of me and I indulged in the basic pleasures of a simple school day. Home was really the place for self-actualization, anyways; it was quiet and familiar and people weren’t making out against the walls. Plus, my mother was there.

           I had a very unconventional relationship with my mother. “Unconventional,” being the best, single word to describe a relationship with her, because she didn’t have a conforming approach to parenting. The best way to describe her was that she was a lioness who, after feeding her cub and raising him until he can stand for himself, kicks her kid out of her pride and goes right back to the hunt.

           Her hunt was a never ending journey to tell the perfect story; she was an author and she was constantly looking for a new adventure to inspire her. And the insane, restless feeling that I felt earlier that morning reminded me creepily of the quality that I sometimes resented in her.

           As the lion’s cub, I was treated like an animal at times: forced to act out strange scenarios for her writer’s madness. Most of the time, she ignored me to focus on her writing and let me do my own thing, but when she needed help visualizing anatomic positions or she had the sudden urge to do something outside the house, she found some way to turn me into her personal test subject/butler. Since she was a stay-at-home mom there was no end to the experimentation, but I learned to appreciate having her around because she would call me in sick or even finish my homework for me if she really wanted my time. She made sure I knew how to think for myself and when I needed it, I was able to pick at the interesting misfires of her creative brain.

 As soon as I opened the front door of my house I could hear my mother tapping away at the keyboard in her office. It was a nostalgic, rhythmic sound that had haunted me ever since I was a kid; I remember falling asleep on the carpet next to the fireplace in the office just listening to the sound of the crackling flames and the mechanical keys of a typewriter drumming a tune, with every beat breathing life into a story.

           At that particular moment, however, it spelled bad news for my quest for self-fulfillment, because once my mother was focused in her writing, it was hard to peel her away without a well-reasoned argument. And sometimes even food and sleep weren’t satisfactory reasons.

           I left my backpack at the base of the stairs and then knocked on the open office door. The room was organized so that the first things that you saw were bookshelves and the bindings of a hundred books, and the second thing you saw was the woman with her back angled towards the window, her desk positioned so that the rising sun could peek over the computer monitor to remind her it was time to go to bed.

           I didn’t expect her to turn around to look at me, but she did, and she spoke with a kind of grace that surprised me, considering she was prone to biting people’s heads off when they bothered her during work.

           “Oh. Hey, Bailey,” she said. Her long, golden wheat colored hair fell onto her face as she turned her head and she pulled it up so that I could see the lines under her eyes and on her brow. She wound her hair into a ball and stuck a pencil through the weave to hold it in place. Then she spoke gently, almost like these were the first words she’d spoken all day: “How was school?”

           I hardly ever had small talk with my mother, but I played along. “Oh, you know, all work and no play. Are you working for a deadline right now?”

           “Mm, no.” She shook her head. “Well, not really. I promised Mayor Johnsten that I’d help him draft a speech for this coming town hall meeting.” She paused and touched her hair to make sure it was staying put.

           “If I can give you any advice it’s to never bet a favor on pocket Jacks.” My parents sometimes played poker with the influential people around town. For being a reclusive writer, my mother was surprisingly well-connected.

           “He told me to ‘make it pop.’ What do you think he means by that?” she asked aloud, but she was looking back at her computer screen. “How am I supposed to make increasing the spending budget for garbage disposal ‘pop?’ And why is he still trying to get this bill to pass for greener grass? God, he’s probably just screwing with me; I hate men, sometimes.”

           She was beginning an inner dialogue that was looking to escalate pretty quickly. I still had no idea what I wanted to say but I knew I had to start before I lost her to her thoughts.

           “Hey, Mom?” I started with a pitiful uncertainty that made her swivel around in her chair to fully face me with a concerned look in her coffee-colored eyes.

           “Yeah,” she said attentively. “What’s up?”

           It seems to me that, in the moment right before you begin to talk about something that you have rolled over continually in your mind, you finally realize some inspiration for the truth. And with the truth being so very often trivial compared to how much time you spent worrying, continuing to ask about the matter would seem foolish. I didn’t realize any truth in that instant, but I still experienced the feeling that my question would just make me look stupid.

I managed to push through my insecurity and I understood that it didn’t matter what I had to say or if it sounded crazy because the same thing that made my mother give me her full attention would force her to be non-judgmental. A mother is a nature-ordained psychiatrist for her child.

           “Mom,” I started again, “I think I want to quit school.”

           It clearly was not the statement she had been expecting, but her eyes flashed curiosity. She formed a chin rest with the back of her hand elevated by her elbow on her knee and she leaned forward. “Go on,” she prodded.

           “Well,” I began, and my thoughts began to take form. I took a seat in the plush chair in the corner of the room. The distance that separated me from my mother made it a bit easier to talk because there wasn’t the looming fear that she would lean over to hit me.

           “I don’t think school is doing anything for me – most of the things we talk about in class I already know, and anything I don’t know I can learn by myself in less time than by doing this early morning, full-time student job. So I want to quit. My time could be much better spent and I want to quit.” Not my most eloquent.

           She gave a fake nod and added some respectful silence like she was actually considering my plight, but responded quickly.

           “Counter-proposal:” she offered, “No.”

           I sat with a dumb look on my face and she made sure to speak first before I could protest. “Here’s why: Do I believe you could be using your time better? Yes. Do I believe you have the discipline to sit down and learn the things you’re supposed to? Maybe. Do I believe that quitting school is the answer to solving your boredom and sleep deprivation? Ab-so-lu-te-ly not.

           “I can’t lecture you about how lucky you are in this world to even have access to education, because that’s something you would have to go out and see for yourself. But Bailey, before you can go out and see you have to have some degree of self-awareness and knowledge. And that’s where high school comes in.

           “Even if you think you can learn everything on your own, high school is still a place where the classes you take can make you very well-rounded. You can learn how to conceptualize mathematic functions that change over time while at the same time considering the brilliance of the master bard. You can find historical evidence of cyclical class warfare on the same day you dissect an animal just so you can see for yourself what it looks like on the inside. More importantly, you have time to discover who you are and what you like and the people with whom you want to share your life. It looks bleak now, what with all the busy work and long days, but it’s up to you to find value in your daily life. That’s not going to change if you decide to pack up now and become one of those people who film themselves sticking things in places they shouldn’t so they can put it on the internet.

           “And let me be honest with you, Bailey, unless you have a million-dollar idea that you’re able to complete before you graduate you’re probably going to have to go to college to get anywhere in this world, so finishing high school while it just requires you to show your face in the classroom isn’t so bad.”

           As I expected, she killed my not-terribly-well-thought-out idea pretty quickly, but what happened next was a little unexpected because after I said “Okay, fine. I just don’t understand why I’m expected to spend the next six to seven years of my life preparing for my future when I’m ready to grab it now.” she smiled a smile I had rarely seen. Like she was proud of me.

           Her voice came out softer, less of a pacifying reprimand and more of a pleased whisper. “You want to drink from the cup of life, and stop waiting for someone to spit in it.”

           It wasn’t the metaphor I was looking for, but it seemed to fit. She read the look of agreement on my face and responded properly.

           “So what was your game plan, Bay? If I had told you that you could stop going to school, what kind of adventures would you seek?”

           “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Write poetry; learn music; I’d try to make people’s lives a little bit more enjoyable.”

           Her eyes reflected so much of the reckless abandon that I felt. I could see the same passionate longing that made me squirm, and I knew that she had been in my exact position at some point earlier in her life.

           She spoke from experience as a writer, as a creator of ideas, “The biggest thing I’ve learned from my writing career is that you need to live among your audience to truly understand their situation. That’s how you get a perfect story, a perfect song, a perfect rhyme: by being a part of the culture of the people you want to influence. If you want to write for the individual you live in New York. If you want to connect with lonely, cold people you live in Canada. And if you want to hit the masses you go to school.” There was a beat before she chuckled and I grimaced.

           “I can see that you’re on to my ulterior motive, but this part is serious.” She slid her chair smoothly over the hardwood floor towards me. Her citrus scent washed over me, and her normally brown eyes looked an earthy shade of red as she leaned in and crossed her hands on my knees. “Whatever you decide you want to do, do it for you. Because the perfect life comes from doing something that you love.”

           She watched me reflect for a moment and then pushed herself back to where she had been when I first knocked on the door, saying “Of course, I use the word ‘perfect’ pretty liberally, but you get the point. Now go make your Momma some tea, would you?”

           I nodded silently, but I still had this feeling like something was missing and I hadn’t gotten what I wanted from the conversation.

“I just don’t feel happy going through the motions,” I said and I started to walk away, but my mother stopped me one last time.

           “Bailey,” she said. “Teenage angst – or whatever it is you want to call what you’re going through right now – manifests itself in one of two ways. Either you feel like you hate yourself or you feel like you hate the world around you. You usually don’t hate either of these things, though, you hate being content. And that’s good; that’s normal.

           “Contentment and satisfaction might sound like the same thing – they’re different words for being happy – but they have some delicate nuance to them. Satisfaction is like hiking three miles to watch the perfect sunrise over the ocean: it’s sometimes hard to find footing in the dark, but when the light breaks the horizon you can find happiness after your struggle. Contentment is like sitting in a fishing boat at midday on a stagnant lake: the mosquitoes are swarming but you’re still casting your fishing rod into the water, because what the hell else are you going to do? You’re still happy, because your friends are all inside your tiny little boat, tossing their lines into the water right along with you, and you all wait anxiously for someone to get a catch that might rock the boat a little bit. But that’s not the way a boy should be living, Bailey, you should be chasing your fish with a stick of dynamite.

           “Don’t be content with the life you’ve been given, Bailey, be satisfied with the life you make for yourself. All you can do right now is try and find a way.”

           She looked back down and started typing again, having inspired herself with her speech. I thought she was going to say something more, but she had entered work mode and I didn’t need to disturb her again. She had given me what I was looking for. A thousand more questions had opened up to me, and I left her office reflecting on the life I had been given, and how I could make it better.

TO BE CONTINUED!