#i might consider drawing him without his apocalypse clothes in the future

[so-called-yokai]

What's Your Favorite Flower?

A little thing I wrote after considering what Eshra's answer would be. Takes place during the Bad Future™.

Rating: G

It’s such a minuscule thing, really, and in a normal world, a sane world, he never would have noticed it. Why would he? But the world isn’t normal, and it isn’t sane, and it hasn’t been for years, and so in this hellscape of shattered shades of gray all overlaid with a hellish red sky, the tiny splash of yellow catches his eye.

On feet as quiet as a cat’s paws, the yokai dips and darts across the torn up, rubble-strewn asphalt of… Bleecker Street, he thinks, near 11th, his dancer’s steps carrying him towards that incongruous dot of color. Every sense is in overdrive, like they have been since the invasion, but nothing trips his internal alarm, and he allows himself this brief moment of curiosity.

It’s a dandelion, he realizes after a frankly embarrassing number of seconds. Miraculously, the little yellow blossom is still clinging to life in this broken world, stubbornly reaching for the demonic sky and spreading its leaves to catch what little true sunlight might still filter through the red haze.

Eshra’s breath catches in his throat, an unexpected upsurge of emotion he has to swallow down hard, lest he risk making a noise and giving away his position. He reaches out almost without realizing it, his fingers stopping a hair’s breadth from the sunny petals. Somehow, even here, at the epicenter of the apocalypse, life endures. It persists, in spite of death, in spite of ruin, in spite of the krang.

The urge to protect the tiny flower, to uproot it and carry it somewhere safe, out of the reach of careless hound claws and crushing droid feet, is almost overwhelming. The fear of some mindless krang zombie shambling across this particular patch of broken concrete and heedlessly snuffing out this tiny spark of life has Eshra reaching for the dandelion again, for a moment intent on digging it up and spiriting it to safety. He nearly has his claws in the dirt before he stops himself, something that might be his conscience nipping at the edge of his mind. What right has he to impose his will on this precious, stubborn little thing? Why does he think he knows better? He draws his hand back, clutching it against his chest and instead simply taking a few cherished moments to just… look. Look and breathe and have just a minute’s worth of peace.

He goes back every day after that, each time terrified he won’t remember where the dandelion is, or worse, that something has happened to it while he’s been away. Each time, though, his fears are unfounded, and he finds his flower right where he left it, still as bright as the sun they can no longer see and still as insistent that it is going to live.

The day he spots a puff of white instead of the usual splash of yellow, Eshra’s heart jumps in his chest. Almost without care he hurries the last few dozen yards and crouches down next to the dandelion, which has turned from a sunburst blossom to a tiny cloud, and he's smiling a smile he’s forgotten he has. The yokai cups his hands around the seeded flower, a scrap of cloth in his fingers as a shield between the dandelion and the rest of the world. Then carefully, so very carefully, he blows on the puff, which shivers and quivers and at last releases its grip on its scores of minuscule seeds, allowing them to float safely into Eshra’s makeshift net.

After folding the cloth into a secure little sachet and tucking it into one of his supply pouches, Eshra finally lets himself touch his flower, a single delicate fingertip resting on the now bare seed head.

“Thank you,” he whispers, soft as the dandelion’s seeds, “for reminding me.”

#my writing #eshra's stories #rise of the tmnt oc #rise of the tmnt

[plumpromises]

TUA S1e2 between scenes snippet

From Hello Apocalypse, Goodbye 2019

“I never figured out what killed the human race…” His words repeated in her head as she scooped grounds into the French press, the kettle on the stove beginning to whistle. “The world ends in eight days…”

She was the wrong person to be telling this to. If she knew nothing else, she knew at least that much. She would listen to him though; hear him out. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it yet, the notion of the world ending just too – too much to accept, but she would listen anyway. Maybe he would convince her, though she wasn’t sure she wanted him to. This was not something ordinary people were meant to worry about.

After pouring the water into the beaker so that the grounds could steep and setting an alarm, Vanya looked over her shoulder. Five was staring off into space, a distant look in his eye. She thought back to the conversation from the family kitchen. He’d said he was fifty-eight, but he looked exactly as he had the day he left. It was impossible to reconcile his words with what her eyes were showing her. She lifted a hand and look down, noticing the tremor. The anxiety hadn’t crept back yet, but she was sure it would soon. Glancing at the clock on her mantle, she decided she could wait. Her evening pill wasn’t too far away, and she didn’t want to get back into old habits.

With a sigh, she went and took a seat on the couch again, waiting for the coffee to finish. They sat in a companionable silence that felt familiar and safe. A lot like when they were young. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t be ready to talk until he had a coffee in hand, and she knew, or at least she thought she knew, that he could feel confident that she wouldn’t expect anything before then either. Some minutes later the timer on her stove began to beep, and when she made to stand, he held a hand out to stop her.

“I got it.” He said, climbing to his feet. “Where are the mugs?”

“Um. Just hanging right there.” She pointed a finger towards the smattering of mismatched mugs hanging above her counter.

He walked to the kitchen and pulled one down, and after pressing the coffee, he filled the mug, the inviting aroma drifting through the room. It was pleasant. Reassuring. He took a sip and sighed.

“You want one?” He asked then, looking over his shoulder.

“No thanks.” She declined.

The last thing she needed on top of this nerve-wracking day was coffee to fuel it further.

On his way back to the living room, Five fished something out of his pocket, a rumpled wad of cloth, then set it on her small dining table. When she frowned with curiosity, he gave a stiff smile.

“We’ll get to that.” He said before walking to the armchair and taking a seat again.

Neither spoke for another a stretch. Five took a sip, then folded both hands around the mug.

You remember the day it happened?” He asked at last. “The day I left.”

She swallowed. Yes. She did remember. But she didn’t want to think about it.

She hated that day; had played the events over in her mind a thousand times wondering if there were anything she could have done differently to change the outcome. Her brain insisted she had failed him in some way, that had she done one thing in some other manner, the entire day might have ended with him staying home. Still, she wouldn’t lie to him. Whatever it took to help him talk, she was willing to do.

So, she nodded, allowing that awful day to resurface.

“Yeah. Me too.” He agreed.

Vanya was sure they were both thinking back on it by the way he stared down into the coffee, as if it could provide better insight into why it had all happened. He’d been fuming all day back then. It had been—

“A Friday, right?” He asked, as if reading her thoughts.

“Tuesday.” She corrected. “Dad had been telling you ‘no’ the whole week before that. Through the weekend too, and then again that morning. You only got extra training that day because Allison was still getting over her laryngitis.”

“Shit. Forgot about that. Always thought it was Friday.” He murmured with a frown, taking another sip.

The entire week prior, Five had insisted to Dad that he was ready to travel through time, that he could handle it. Every day he’d been denied the opportunity, and then he’d had enough. He’d never been one to accept a ‘no’ without a fight, and the only person whose will was more steadfast than his own, was their father.

“I’m ready.” He had told her as they waited to be called down for supper. He’d jumped to her doorframe as she sat on the edge of her bed, listening for Mom’s bell. “I’m telling him that, and if the old bastard doesn’t listen, I’ll just do it anyway. Not like he can stop me. Right? What do you think?”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” She asked after considering the question.

He stepped into her room and sat down beside her, their shoulders bumping as they stared out into the hall together, the tips of their fingers touching. Vanya liked it when he sat close to her like this. She liked any contact with her siblings but didn’t get it often. Ben would hug her every so often, and when Klaus was smoking or drinking, he might spin her in an impromptu dance if the mood hit him, but it felt different with Five. Everything felt different with him. He made something in her stomach flip and flicker to life. Not many things seemed able to reach down and strike a chord that wasn’t related to sadness or anger or jealousy, but he managed to tug new responses to life every time.

“Sure. I could bring you back something from the future. Something that doesn’t exist yet. Prove him and his stupid theories wrong. What does he know anyway? Not like he can even do a spatial jump. He doesn’t understand anything. He’s just guessing. He has no idea what I’m capable of and it pisses me off. I can do more.”

Vanya listened to his words and turned them over in her head. It took her a while to understand things most days. She heard people talk or read things to herself, but her brain seemed to filter everything through a thick cloud of miring fog. Often, she would have to think about things at length before they made sense. And so, she considered Five’s statements; laid them out and reviewed them with care. Nobody else had the patience for her, but he never rushed the process.

“I think that you should wait.” She said after a minute.

They’d had similar conversations over the last week, but she’d been hesitant to voice her disapproval until just then, when it so suddenly seemed an imminent affair. Before it had been theoretical, but today felt different. There was an intensity to him.

“What? Why?” He looked at her, confusion curled between his brows.

She hated disagreeing with him; hated her reason why, even more.

“Because what if Dad’s right? He’s right about a lot of things.”

“Not everything.” He insisted, and then his jaw clenched.

She recognized that look. He’d made his mind up, and no amount of arguing would change it. She tried anyway.

“It could be too dangerous.”

“I’m doing it.” He confirmed her fear, narrowing his eyes in a challenge, but she didn’t say anything more.

They were close enough that she could see the intricate detail in his eyes, see the darker flecks within them. She wanted to tell him she was worried for him, wanted to reach up and brush his bangs out of his face. This wasn’t the first time she’d had the arrant thought to do that, but she had yet to be so brazen. Instead she did nothing, merely stared back at him, willing him to please listen to her, to please not do anything rash. She hated to see any of them get in trouble. Him most of all. And he always had such a knack for it.

But Five had been true to his word.

After his display at the table, and after ignoring her final, silent plea that he not go through with it, he had left the house, had left her life for what amounted to forever in the eyes of a teenage girl.

“I did my first jump in time before I even left our block.” Five spoke after their long silence, drawing Vanya out of the past.

She found him concentrating on his coffee.

“Just some months into the future.” He said. “I think. It was summer, I know that much. Was so excited by the success I had to do it again. Jumped straight into winter next. Might have been less than a year from the day I left; might’ve been ten. I was…” he paused. “I was so damn happy. I’d won. Stuck it to the man,” he added the last bit with a mocking twist to his tone and lips.

Vanya understood that regret.

“I was stupid.” He went on. “Wasn’t paying attention to the calculations. Then I jumped again. For the last time.”

He sighed and took another sip.

“Next one took me to an apocalypse, the apocalypse. It was…” An agonized expression flashed across his features. “Something catastrophic had happened. Everything was destroyed. Trees. Cars. Buildings. All of it. Everything was on fire. If it wasn’t burning or shattered, it was dead. Everyone, everything. Just gone. I ran back home, but the whole building was in ruins. The whole block was. There wasn’t a damn thing left. I was on my own after that. For a long time.”

His eyes rose, but when he found her staring, he dropped them. She couldn’t think of anything to say, and she didn’t want to interrupt him, so she let his pause expand and contract. He took a deep breath and continued.

“I left the city as soon as I… As soon as I could. Too many dead,” he hesitated before settling on the word, “things. Walked for days. Weeks. Months. But everywhere I went it was the same. Whatever happened, it wasn’t just localized. The entire sky was blotted out, V. For years.”

Vanya thought she saw a tremor pass through him. She wanted to pull him into a hug, but he looked tense and distant, ready to spring out of the chair and out of the apartment without a moment’s notice. The idea of him disappearing in a flash of blue injected her with a pulse of panic.

“You’d be surprised how fast most food goes bad too.” He said, shifting topics. “Took what I could from stores and houses, but nothing outside a tin lasted too long. Couldn’t nuke anything in a microwave without electricity. So I did what I could after that. I survived on scraps. Canned food, cockroaches, anything I could find.”

He chuckled then, but the sound was strained.

“You know that rumor that Twinkies have an endless shelf life?”

She nodded.

“Well it’s total bullshit.”

#five hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #the umbrealla academy #fiveya

[angelanimedesaray]

Survive Or Live Chapter 4: Baby Steps

AN:  I am soooo sorry its been so long, guys, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been putting off this chapter, but as soon as I did, I jumped right on top of writing it again, I did not mean to neglect it for a whole month, whoops!

Characters:  Levi, Reader

Pairing:  (Eventual) Levi x Reader

Warnings:  Language, aaaaaand that’s pretty much it.  They’re feeling each other out (Not that way, you filthy minded peers of mine, bwahaha) so there’s not much going on outside of that right now.

Word Count:  4229

<---Previous Chapter    Masterlist      

*Mae’s POV*

Thankfully, there wasn’t that much gore on Mae’s clothes from today’s trip because of the scarcity of Rotters while she’d wandered the town.  So it didn’t take long for her to scrub out the stains that were on her shirt--it just took some elbow grease and some numbness in her fingers after her hands were plunged in the water so long.  There was a shaded spot by the bank that was thick with trees, giving her plenty of cover away from any unwelcome eyes while she worked while she had a clear view around her immediate surroundings.  It was a decently long walk away from the farmhouse, which meant she was going to have to haul water back an unpleasant distance so Levi would have water to do his laundry.  He could probably rest comfortably on the steps with his leg elevated on one of her gas tanks or something.  On the bright side, she just needed to haul the water over, he was the one who had to scrub all that gore and grass stains out of the clothes, not her.  She could settle for that trade.

Though, on another downside, it was going to take about six trips, three to the river and three back, simply for the laundry today.  Thank God she wasn’t out of shape.

Six trips later, with her laundry put up on a line in the backyard between two trees, two buckets of water sitting at the foot of the steps as well as a large gas cannister for Levi to elevate his leg on, and her arms aching far more than she wanted to admit, Mae skipped up the steps, heaving a sigh as she walked back inside.  Levi was still stretched out on the couch, though considering he was facing the front of the house and could see out the window, he’d probably been watching her make three times as many trips as normal simply to get him set up to do his laundry.

“All right, I got you all set up to do your laundry on the steps, if you’re okay with doing that now,” Mae said, clawing back some sweaty strands of hair that were plastered to her forehead after lugging the full buckets all the way from the river to the house.  Levi was already rising off the couch halfway through her sentence, being mindful of his leg but still moving with overall ease as he started for the door.  His hand trailed across the occasional surface, looking like a simple passing touch, but Mae was suspicious it was actually for a bit more added stability as he did an odd sort of stubborn hobble to and out the door.  Considering all the fuss he’d made so far about helping him, Mae let him be stubborn, so long as he wasn’t putting any--or at least not much--weight on his injured leg.

“I’ll make dinner while you’re doing that!” she called after him, the only response the sound of the door shutting behind him.

Not too friendly...I guess I understand why, he has an injury that could put him on bedrest for a month or longer which could be a death sentence in certain sticky apocalypse situations, he’s stuck with a stranger, I can only imagine what happened to draw practically all the Rotters in town to him…but still.

Shaking her head, Mae started flickering through different rooms of the house both upstairs and downstairs, gathering the things she needed for dinner, getting a fire started in the fireplace, and even remembering to grab a few things for Levi to pass the time with since he was going to be stuck on the couch for a while.  Dinner ingredients was the last thing she gathered, already grabbing one of the bouillon cubes she’d found on her scavenging trip today, a mix of white and black beans, water she’d already purified and stored for drinking and cooking...

She hesitated in the kitchen, hand hovering over a stash of some of her more...richer ingredients.  Or at least, ingredients she was hesitant to use because she’d noticed her guest was so sharp.  Sure, she was trusting him enough to let her into her home, but he was also injured, so she felt she might be able to take him in a fight if things turned sour.  And while she had shared some of her medical supplies with him, she hadn’t showed him where she was hiding them because she didn’t trust him that much, yet.  Did she really want to use ingredients that could tip off her sharp guest to the fact that she was a little more well off than most, that she had a comfortable set up that allowed her a source for fresh seasonings?  Did she want to suggest that what she was putting in their dinner wasn’t all scavenged, that some of it...was grown?  That the beans weren’t canned and pilfered from town?  That she had a spot she could grow green chilis?

Not to mention, she liked using those chilis in the winter, so she stored as much as she could.  Did she really want to tap into that storage now?  Normally what she was making she’d save for the winter, but Levi was injured, and she wanted to cook something a little more feel-good because of that.  He was in a shitty situation, she knew that, and she was willing to try and make it better for him.

Cause even if she still did have the survival sense and caution to not blindly, completely trust him right away, she was trying to build a bridge here, not raze the entire forest to the ground.  Even if the basic caution levels of today’s world wanted her to not do certain things, she had to in order to extend an olive branch and hopefully get someone to talk to.

She didn’t want to go crazy from the isolation, especially while knowing what was happening to her but being unable to do anything about it.

She didn’t want to survive if it meant withering away forgotten in some quiet corner of the world.

She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Was it too much to ask that she had someone in her life again, someone that--from what she had seen--was perfectly capable of taking care of themselves so she wouldn’t have to worry about them.  She didn’t care if he was a friend, a neighbor, or even the old world equivalent of that delivery guy you saw so much you were on a first name basis, she just wanted another human being somehow involved in her life again.

Screw it.

Mae shook her head, grabbing green chilis, onions, garlic, oregano, and cloves without any further hesitation.  If she wanted to make a change, she had to throw caution to the wind.  She was gonna be kind even if this ended up being a mistake and her guest turned on her.  She had to be willing to trust and make an effort with people if she wanted people in her life again.  Sure, there were a greater amount of dangerous people left in the world that meant she had to be careful, but that didn’t mean there weren't any decent people left.  She wasn’t going to know if it was the right choice if she didn’t try, and she was already this deep into this situation, what was the point of hesitating now?  He hadn’t hurt her, he’d let her help him, even with his stubborn ‘I can take care of myself’ attitude.  So far, she had no reason not to trust him except paranoia.  She’d keep giving him more trust little at a time until he gave her a reason not to.

*Levi’s POV*

With his turtleneck sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his leg propped up on the gas canister as comfortably as he could manage, Levi scrubbed at the plethora of stains on his clothes.  He was glad to have something to do with his hands, something he enjoyed, nonetheless, but his gaze still roamed across his surroundings while he worked.

There was plenty of open space stretching out in front of the farmhouse that gave Mae enough of a warning if one of the ghouls or a group of them were coming--something that would come in handy if and when that horde in town decided to migrate, which could lead them this way.  He didn’t care much for the treeline, though.  It gave too much cover for an approaching horde or a hostile group of people--by the time either broke through the forest, it would be too late to try moving.  It was either standing and fighting, maybe escaping with next to nothing in the truck if Mae managed to avoid getting shot by a hostile group in the process, escaping on foot out the back, or, in the case of a horde, she could try to hunker down and wait it out until it passed.  That all depended on if she had the nerves to withstand being surrounded by a horde for an unknown length of time, and enough supplies to last a week or more in case the horde took a while to pass.  He didn’t know what her food situation was--yet--though she seemed to be set with her other supplies.  She was apparently comfortable enough to willingly give him pain meds--not the cheap kind, either--and was confident enough to not even ask for anything in return from him when he’d asked for her hay.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

This was some sort of trick, right?  Was she trying to get him more and more indebted to her before asking something truly taxing from him?  Did she just want him indebted to her indefinitely so she could continue to ask things of him in the future, no matter how much he didn’t want to do them?  She couldn’t be doing all of this for him out of a good-hearted nature and a simple desire to talk to someone.

Then again...if she was as well off as he suspected with what he had seen of her supplies…

He hadn’t been the most sociable person even before the world went to shit, so it didn’t bother him being alone, and he’d still had Scout and Ash to talk to if he really wanted to.  But Mae really was out here by herself from what he could tell so far--that could wear a person down after so long, he was pretty sure there’d been studies about that to prove as much.

Only time would tell if she was truly genuine or if she was planning on pulling the rug out from under him when she thought he least expected it.  He’d have to stay on guard, and wait and see what her true intentions really were.  It wasn’t like he was able to do much else in the meantime.

As Levi finished with the last of his laundry, his gaze returned to the far end of the field, attention caught by the sight of movement amongst the trees.  After a few more moments of following the distant motion with his gaze, a ghoul finally broke through the treeline, stumbling blindly towards the farmhouse with a lazy, unguided gait.

Levi was already getting to his feet, hand twitching towards the katana at his side before the door opened behind him and Mae appeared, strolling casually past him with bow and a single arrow in hand.

“Dinner’s nearly ready, if you want to head back inside.  I’ll go ahead and hang your clothes up with mine, so you can just leave those there,” she called, knocking the arrow and partially pulling the string back.

Mae whistled, just loud enough that the lone ghoul would hear, but soft enough it was faint even to Levi’s ears, which lowered the risk of drawing any other ghouls towards them.  Levi started to head inside, still watching Mae as the ghoul turned its attention towards her and starting running at her.  She simply brought her bow to a full draw, held perfectly still for maybe two or three seconds, then released, the arrow sailing right through the ghoul’s eye before it could even close half the distance to her.  With one last glance around the treeline, Levi tore his gaze from Mae as she made her way to retrieve the arrow, and made his way inside.

If she was good enough with that bow to hit infected barreling towards her with one clean head shot, surely she was decent at game hunting, too.  Sure, you couldn’t get a rabbit or a deer to come at you like you could an infected, but moving around towns to scavenge also required a certain level of stealth to avoid drawing the attention of too many ghouls.  Put that together with her aim, she was probably perfectly capable of bagging a few rabbits or squirrels, perhaps even a deer if she was lucky enough to come across one.

Levi paused, halfway to the couch.  Was he really already calculating what more she could possibly offer him if they did enter into some kind of agreement going forward?  He hadn’t even decided if he trusted her or not, yet.  Then again, it wasn’t like he could shut that part of his brain off--it was all about survival these days, and whether he decided she was a potential ally (something he hadn’t had in a long time) or a threat, he needed to know what she was capable of, and what she had.

Levi resumed his position on the couch with his leg propped up on throw pillows, breathing in the strong scent of...chili?  He looked over at the fireplace to what must have once been a metal gallon paint can now being used as a makeshift campfire pot, the source of the smell.  The scent opened his airways as he tried to pick out what he was smelling exactly, able to pick out the smell of chicken easily.

There was no way there was actual chicken in that can, was there?  He hadn’t seen any chickens running around the farmyard, and from his experience finding a can of chicken that was still good was like winning the lottery these days.

Aside from the distracting aroma of whatever was in that makeshift pot, Levi also noticed there was now a candle, a flip lighter, and a few books on the coffee table, all within arm’s reach.  He picked through the titles to see what options she’d given him, a small frown on his face as he did so.

A compilation of a thousand poems, a compilation of short stories, the novelization of the original trilogy of Star Wars, and the last two Lord of the Rings books.  All but the short stories were pocket book sized, so maybe she could justify packing them around if they looked smaller...even if they were still thick books.  You had to keep some kind of entertainment when it was just you out here, right?  For him, it was pretty much survival work and cleaning what he could with what he had.  For Mae, it looked like books were what she preferred.

Well, at least there was some variety and he wouldn’t be stuck looking at the same book over and over again.

Mae came back inside, not a speck of blood on her and hands shining with water after putting his clothes on the line, setting her bow back in its spot by the door before she disappeared briefly into the kitchen  After coming back with two bowls and spoons, she started divvying out what was in the can.  Levi noticed a lack of white meat in what he could now visually confirm as a chili of some kind as Mae passed him his share, though he definitely smelled chicken, much stronger now that he had a steaming hot bowl in hand.

She’d managed to get her hands on broth, then.  A find he envied her for, though the envy was abated since she was sharing it with him right now.  And even though the chili was missing the meat, it looked like it had everything else.

As they ate in silence, Levi mulled over the taste, doing his damndest not to look at Mae and tip her off to the fact that he was coming to quite a few conclusions simply from the chili.  There were herbs in this, and onions, maybe garlic, not to mention two different kinds of beans--not only was it the fact that she had these ingredients that caught his attention, but it was also the fact that it tasted fresh.  He knew the difference between processed shit that had been sitting for a long time on a shelf, and actual, fresh foods.  He hadn’t seen a blatant garden around her farmhouse, yet, but now he was sure that she was comfortable enough and had been here long enough to be growing things.  The only thing that was definitely scavenged for this was the broth and maybe some of the beans.  She didn’t have livestock (clearly, who did, in times like these?), but she was growing things.  And here she was, wasting more of her resources on him, wanting him to come by regularly and at least take her hay--he could probably work out a trade of some kind for whatever she was growing if he kept an eye out for something she didn’t have, something he could give in return since he was positive the currency of companionship only extended so far.

Slow down, don’t jump the gun, you’re smarter than that.  Figure out if you can trust her or not before you start planning for a trade partnership of some kind.

This all had to be too good to be true, there had to be a catch somewhere.  He just hoped he could figure out what it was sooner, rather than later.

*Mae’s POV*

Even if her current guest was frustratingly hard to converse with, at least she wasn’t alone anymore.  Levi was a man of few words, it seemed, while Mae seemed to have too many to spare.  He didn’t stop her from chattering at him, but he didn’t respond much, which made it hard to continue conversations.  As such, Mae found herself continuously trying to think of ways (with increasing complexity) to get the stoic man to have to respond to whatever she said.  It was starting to get to the point she was sure she was simply making a fool of herself every time she tried.  At this point, she was positive he knew what she was doing, and was purposely making it difficult for her for his own amusement.  She hadn’t forgotten that one time she could have sworn she saw his lips twitch towards a smile, or the amused glint in his eyes when she’d finally thrown in the towel one day with a pout and a huff of frustration.  If he really was doing it on purpose...well, it was frustrating, but at least she knew he had a sense of humor, even if at the moment it was at her expense.

Of course, she was also rapidly running out of topics to talk about that didn’t intrude into personal subject matters she knew for a fact were still far, far off limits.

Today, however, there was bound to be a conversation of some sorts, since she was finally checking his leg to decide once and for all if it was fractured or sprained.  Which meant she was also going to be telling him whether he was stuck on her couch even longer, or if he was going to be allowed to start moving around again.  For the time being, Levi’s steel blue eyes were trained on Mae as she prodded at his leg, eyes looking for bruising or swelling, fingers feeling for sensitive spots along bone or muscle…

“Well, it’s not fractured,” she eventually announced, noticing that some of the tension seemed to leave Levi’s shoulders at the news.  “But it is still a rather nasty sprain.  You’re going to need another two, three weeks out of the action to make a full recovery.  More time off your feet at the start, and then slowly getting back to moving around--”

Levi was already shaking his head, moving to sit up and pull his leg away but finding himself stopped by Mae keeping a vice grip where her hand was still resting just above his calf.  “I can’t wait that long, I have to get back--”

As he tried to stand again, Mae pushed him back down with more effort than she cared to admit.  “You’re going to stay on bedrest if you don’t want to fuck up your leg any worse than it already is.  Would you rather be stuck on bedrest for a month or more?” she pointed out sharply.

Levi scowled, looking out the window once more and stewing silently with his thoughts as Mae got started re-wrapping his leg.  He seemed like a rather practical person, so Mae figured that after telling him trying to go running around on a still healing leg was going to simply restrict him to more bed-rest to heal a worse injury, that would be the end of it.

Apparently not.

“There’s a horse where I’ve been staying.  It's why I need the hay.  What I left for him will be running out either today or tomorrow.”  As Levi spoke, his entire posture was taunt, like the information was being forcibly pulled from him by necessity.  He wasn’t looking at Mae, either, gaze still stubbornly fixed out the window.  “That’s why I can’t wait.  I need to get back.”

Mae leaned back, feeling her molars start to grind together out of annoyance as she let out a long breath through her clenched teeth.  “What the hell?”

Levi’s gaze snapped back towards Mae, and he appeared genuinely surprised to see that her reaction to the news was annoyed anger.

“You should have said something earlier, this could have been handled better,” she huffed, pausing in her wrapping and taking a moment to consider what she could do.  It wasn’t like she was going to let his horse starve.  He needed to be off that leg as much as possible, but she didn’t have a trailer or anything to put a horse in if she was going to make a retrieval trip by herself, not to mention she doubted Levi was going to let her go to his safehouse by herself when they hardly knew each other.  Sure, she’d let him see hers, but that didn’t mean he trusted her enough to show her his--or at least let her wander around unsupervised.  At least while Levi was here, he couldn't really move around, and the ground floor was open enough she could see if he tried hobbling about.  They’d both have to go.  That way he could be sure she wasn’t sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, and they could have one of them drive back while the other rode the horse--preferably Mae, so Levi wouldn’t be jostling that leg too much.  As for what to actually do with the horse...well, there was plenty of hay, here, and it was a farmhouse for a reason.  She’d have to do some work, but she could set something temporary up in time for the horse to come down tomorrow, at the earliest.

Shaking her head, Mae resumed wrapping his leg.  “Today, I’ll go make sure the barn is in stable condition--no holes or anything like that, set up a spot for your horse, get some hay out of the field, and tomorrow we can bring...you said him?  We can bring him down here so he’s looked after and fed, and I can still keep an eye on you so you don’t mess up that leg.  And I can start looking at fixing that fence so they’re not cooped up in that barn the whole time you’re recovering.”

“I don’t want--” Levi started to say in what was surely protest at the thought of Mae finding out where he was living, but she quickly cut him off.

“Well how else are you going to get up there and back down without me?  I don’t have a trailer for you to put a horse in, and if you try getting your horse down here yourself, you’ll probably put a lot of stress on that leg and end up stuck down here with me even longer.  I’m coming so life is easier for both of us.  End of story.”

Levi’s eyes flashed in annoyance.  “If you’re so keen on getting me talking, are you ever gonna stop interrupting me?”

“Probably not when you’re just going to be difficult,” Mae sassed.  She wished she had a pair of glasses to peer over as she looked up at him, simply to complete the effect.  Levi���s scowl only deepened, retreating back into that silence that Mae had been going nuts trying to crack all this time.  Ah, well, at least they’d had something of a conversation today.  It was a hell of a lot better than talking to the sky or the occasional rotter.

Tags:  @humanitys-hottestsoldier​ @arthurmorgan-wiki​

#levi #levi ackerman #captain levi #levi heichou #aot levi #levi aot #snk levi #levi snk #levi attack on titan #attack on titan levi #levi x oc #levi x original character #levi ackerman x oc #levi ackerman x original character #captain levi x oc #captain levi x original character #original character #zombie au #zombie apocalypse au #survive or live #angeldesaray #language #slow burn #levi fanfic #levi fanfiction #levi fan fiction #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fan fiction #captain levi fanfic

[theoriginalladya]

28: any scene/line you wrote that you didn’t expect to write/that surprised you once it was written?

Simple answer:  ALL OF IT!  

Longer answer/explanation:  No, seriously, I first started getting interested in writing when I was in high school.  I’d go to every writer’s workshop they had whenever I could get out of class, and I really enjoyed it.  But then college hit and any/all creative juice I had just .. vanished.  WRITER’S BLOCK.  That lasted through college and on through grad school and even through my teaching years.  That didn’t mean I didn’t read or do research for potential story ideas - I did, but nothing ever got written but the notes.

After ten years or so, after I left teaching and moved to where I live now, after I got away from academia and started my life ‘over’, the muses started to poke at me.  Slow at first, but it started trickling out.  (I look back now and shudder at those pieces - which I still have, some 25 years later)  I found encouragement in unexpected places (my now Ex, for starters; I sure wasn’t going to get it from my family, even if they knew I was trying to write), and it kept on going.

The biggest push was when my Ex got me Dragon Age for Christmas in 2009.  That changed my whole world!  Story ideas started to flow.  Mass Effect created a TIDAL WAVE, and it hasn’t stopped yet.  My fandoms are relatively limited (DA, ME, Horizon Zero Dawn (maybe), Werewolf: The Apocalypse), but I’ve now ventured back toward writing original fiction too, and so ... yeah.

ALL OF IT.  

But, if you want something more specific, hmm ...  *rolls d20 ....*

~~~~

(taken from my WIP, Mari’s Men; this is the initial draft and needs editing, but it’s a story I am incredibly invested in and will some day be satisfied with)

“Someone approaches.”

Little John’s whispered warning was just loud enoughto catch Marian’s ears.  Carefully, sheeased her way far enough out onto the tree branch to glimpse the figureapproaching them.  From this height andstill distant, all she could determine was that he was dressed in darkclothing.  It was several minutes beforeshe could narrow it down to the black robes of a priest.  He stood tall, broad shouldered, and had thegeneral shape of a man who might be a soldier, she thought.  

“Black canon,” Much mumbled from below.  The shrubs surrounding him showed only theslightest hint of movement as he altered his position, resembling that of abreeze blowing through.  

Her gaze turned again to the man approaching.  Much, as a hunter, had excellent eyesight andcould see more detail than she or even Little John from further away.  She quickly considered her options.  She had inherited Robyn today, so thedecision was hers to make.  There weredangers in approaching men of the cloth and incurring their wrath or the wrathof the good Lord above was not on Marian’s list of duties this day.  “I will speak to him,” she murmured beforescurrying backwards on the limb.  Shecarefully lowered herself to the ground behind the base of the tree andadjusted her hood.  Drawing her bow andnocking an arrow into place, she took a deep breath before stepping out ontothe path.

Robyn’s timing was, as always, excellent and thepriest, now near enough to recognize as a black canon as Much suggested, wasbrought up short.  “Why do you block myway?” he demanded irritably.

Robyn, bow still lowered, stood casually before him,hood drawn far enough forward to hide the upper half of his face fromonlookers.  “You travel through my landswithout permission,” he replied.  “Paythe tax and you shall be free to continue.”

The priest scowled, eyes narrowing as if trying topeer beneath the hood.  “These are theking’s lands.”

“And I am caretaker for good King Richard,” Robyncountered.  “Know this, you will pay oneway or another before we are through. Either the tax with coin, or with your life for trespassing on theking’s land.  What say you?”

The canon straightened, rising to his full heightwhich was substantially taller than Robyn. “And you expect to enforce this law of yours?” he scoffed.  He took a step forward towards Robyn.

Robyn, quicker than it took to blink, had his bowraised, aimed at the man’s heart, pulled the bowstring to its fullextension.  The canon wore no armor; thepiercing would go straight through.  “Ido,” Robyn replied, “and I should think you would see that.  I wish no quarrel with you, canon.”

“No,” the prior replied, “you wish only to rob me ofwhat I do not have.”

Robyn’s head tilted slightly to the side.  “The nearest priory is that of Thurgarton,”he decided.  “Do not tell me you aredestitute.  The conditions of the canonsthere are well known among the rest of the world.”

“I am a prior of Fiskerton,” he said.  Another scowl, darker this time, marked hisface.  “I was banished from Thurgartonbecause I opposed Prior Thomas.”

“Don’t believe him, Robyn!” shouted Little John fromthe left.

“Aye,” Much called out.  From the way his voice carried, he had workedhis way around the priest without notice. “They tax us as heavily as the king and his family!”

“We don’t!” the canon insisted.  Sighing, he pinched the bridge of hisnose.  “Or, rather, I don’t.  I was banished fromThurgarton was because I protested the deviation from the traditions of ourorder: poverty, chastity and obedience.”

“Banished?” Robyn challenged.  “I find that difficult to believe!”

“He lies!” Much shouted, now further to Robyn’s rightbut still behind the canon.  Robyn had nodoubt the man’s bow was aimed and ready.

“My disagreements with Prior Thomas run deep,” heinsisted.  “We both were in the runningfor the position.  Unfortunately for me,Thomas has a better relationship with Prince John.”

Betterrelationship.  They acerbic tone he used left no doubt thatthis prior was, like many others within the church, expecting to be brought upthrough the ranks along with the future king.

“And if you had succeeded instead of Prior Thomas?”Robyn asked.

His eyes were dark to begin with and the slits theynow became were enough to hint at anger, deep and profound.  “Thurgarton would be a better community,” hereplied, “and one not so closely tied to a spoiled prince.”

It was that last that caught Robyn’s attention and thepure hatred (??) in his tone that made the final decision.  Carefully relaxing hold on the bowstring andlowering the weapon, Robyn said, “If you are from Fiskerton, why are you notthere now?”

“Even that has now been denied me,” he replied.  “Prior Thomas, with Prince John’s support,has relieved me of my duties.”  Hesighed, eyes looking upward toward the tree-filled sky.  “I was heading north and considering myoptions.”

“Why north?”

“It is where the road leads?”  He shrugged, eyes falling to settle uponRobyn again.  “I have little but what Iwear,” he admitted.  “I have no coin forlodging or food.  Kill me if you must, butI leave nothing behind.”

Stepping forward, Robyn waved a hand so Little Johnand Much could see it.  “What if I wereto offer you a cathedral beneath the skies, canon?” Robyn asked.  “According to those in positions of power, weare nothing but a group of misguided souls. But we are more than that, and we could use spiritual guidance, if youare of a mind.”

He drew back a step or two and the startled expressionwas easy to identify.  “To what end?”

“Chastity. Poverty.  Obedience,” Robynreplied.  “The poverty we can provide,the chastity, well, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that count.”  Both Little John and Much chuckled.  They were nearer now, but still remained outof easy sight.  “The obedience would beup to you and your skills of persuasion. Do you search for a challenge?”

The canon blinked a few times, looked around them fora moment, then back at Robyn.  “Acathedral under the skies, you said?”

Robyn nodded. “Our camp is in the forest.  Yourcongregation among those most persecuted. This is the only home they have. They come to us willingly, each aiding according to their ownabilities.  We have bakers and tanners,blacksmiths, armorers, seamstresses and ….”

The prior nodded, cutting off Robyn’s speech.  “And outlaws,” he concluded in a voice loudenough for Much and Little John to hear, “in desperate need of Divineintervention.”  Taking a deep breath, hesaid, “I will gladly take on the duties of spiritual advisor, master outlaw,but with one stipulation.”

“That being?”

“I get to speak to you face to face and see you eye toeye.”

A moment of stunned silence rippled around the area,and Robyn heard sputtered protests rise from Much and Little John.  Raising a hand, they silenced.  “I am but a name, priest,” Robynreplied.  “A rumor, a legend among thelocal folk.  I am nothing but --”

“You are their leader, are you not?” hecountered.  “I will give my pledge toyou, and you alone, but I would do it face to face.”

Sighing, Robyn nodded. Shouldering the bow, gloved hands rose and carefully eased the hoodback, settling it around Marian’s neck. She looked up at the priest, green-grey eyes meeting stark brown for along moment and not flinching.  Offeringher hand, she told him, “Welcome to Sherwood, prior.  Have you a name we can call you?”

Unfazed by the appearance of a woman beneath thearcher’s clothing, he extended a hand and took hers.  “Tuck,” he replied.  “I am called Prior Tuck.”

Marian smiled, full recognition settling in.  “And you might have heard of me as LadyMarian FitzWalter,” she told him, “if you have been in these parts for anylength of time.  But these days I am LadyMarian of Loxley.”

His eyes widened in surprise.  “Lord William’s sister?”  She nodded. “I was sent to Fiskerton just after your brother’s return as lord,” heexplained.  “I heard that you came withhim to visit his lands.”

“It has been a long time, and things are certainlydifferent than I hoped,” she said.  

“I thought you were governing in your brother’sabsence?”

“I am,” she agreed, “but Providence has given me anotherpurpose as well.”  Little John and Muchjoined them then and Marian introduced them. “The legend of Robyn and his hoode has taken on new meaning these days,and we try to put it to good use.”

“The Lord has truly guided me then,” he murmured.  “In all honesty, once I was relieved of myduties at Fiskerton, I had no idea where to go. I thought perhaps to York or other points north, but I know no onethere.”

Smiling, Marian nodded towards the north andeast.  “Come with us, prior,” she encouraged.  “We have just what you need.”

#ladya replies #original fic #robin hood #Mari's Men #Robyn Hoode #Much #Little John #Prior Tuck #writer's meme #you asked! lol #long post #guileandgall

[comicteaparty]

May 4th-May 10th, 2020 CTP Archive

The archive for the Comic Tea Party week long chat that occurred from May 4th, 2020 to May 10th, 2020.  The chat focused on Dead City by Michelle Parker and Jey Pawlik.

Featured Comment:

Chat:

Comic Tea Party

BOOK CLUB START!

Hello and welcome everyone to Comic Tea Party’s Book Club~! This week we’ll be focusing on Dead City by Michelle Parker and Jey Pawlik~! (http://topazcomics.com/deadcity/welcome/) You are free to read and comment about the comic all week at your own pace until May 10th, so stop on by whenever it suits your schedule! Discussions are freeform, but we do offer discussion prompts in the pins for those who’d like to have them. Additionally, remember that while constructive criticism is allowed, our focus is to have fun and appreciate the comic! Whether you finish the comic or can only read a few pages, everyone is welcome to join and chat with us!

DISCUSSION PROMPTS – PART 1

1. What did you like about the beginning of the comic?

2. What has been your favorite moment in the comic (so far)?

3. Who is your favorite character?

4. Which characters do like seeing interact the most?

5. What is something you like about the art? If you have a favorite illustration, please share it!

6. What is a theme you like that the comic explores?

7. What do you like about the comic’s story or overall related content?

8. Overall, what do you think the comic’s strengths are?

Don’t feel inspired by the prompts? Feel free to discuss anything else that interested you!

Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn)

I don't know how long these are in the queue, but wow, "infectious outbreak that focuses on characters coping with limited resources while self-isolating from anyone contagious" is hitting awfully close to home right now...

Miranda

1. What did you like about the beginning of the comic? I really liked how it jumped right in. It didn't feel the need to explain the outbreak, the history of it, what the symptoms are, etc. It simply showed a zombie, showed a non zombie, and the stage was set. 2. What has been your favorite moment in the comic (so far)? I think the Vending machine incident and Mikael ust straight up getting naked to take a rain shower. 3. Who is your favorite character? I like Mikael and his personality. He's just very blunt and to the point 4. Which characters do like seeing interact the most? So far there are only two, but their interaction, while simple, says a lot about their personalities and experiences with the outbreak so far. 5. What is something you like about the art? If you have a favorite illustration, please share it! Black and white is usually hard for me to read, but this one does it well. I love Mikael's freckles. 6. What is a theme you like that the comic explores? How people handle crisis 7. What do you like about the comic’s story or overall related content? It's so simple, but even with few words, you can tell a lot about the character's and where they've been and what's brought them to where they are now. 8. Overall, what do you think the comic’s strengths are? Drawing the characters to show without having to tell.(edited)

RebelVampire

@Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn) I looked out of curiosity. This was submitted January 13th. So it's a big happy coincidence.

Queenue

Oh man I love Dead City! It was nice to refresh myself on the comic since I last read. I will say, the artist handles black and white beautifully. This is such a great comic with such a limited palette (almost pure b&w with some spinkles of gray). The style reminds me of really great classic American comics, and I dig it a lot. And as an intimate character study of two guys struggling in a post-apocalyptic world, it is fantastic. JP is my fave character as I find him really relatable. Overall, I feel his and Mikael's relationship was well built up and realistic. All of those cute, quiet little moments between them really make this story. One of the major themes that I gather is that humanity endures, even in the face of the apocalypse. The end of life as we know it isn't the end of us, we can still thrive, and even fall in love when the world's falling apart. That's kind of a theme in a lot of zombie media, but Dead City really hits on this. While I kind of wish there were more zombies in the comic (lol), I understand that it's mostly a romance/character-driven story. But, it also tackles the issue of isolation in these types of situations in a really genuine way. You get the feeling that these characters are the "only two people in the world" and that they felt so profoundly alone before they found each other. That's powerful writing.

But it also knows how to use humor and light-hearted character moments to lighten the mood, which I like. I've never seen a piece of media in this genre that wasn't super dark and gritty and that's one of the things I love about this comic. And, I don't know if I can pick a favorite moment, but I do like their whole time spent in the suburban house just lazing about, drinking wine and trying on the previous owners' clothing.

RebelVampire

I like that the beginning of the comic begins kind of typical to a zombie story. Where character A meets character B but then oh no trust issues cause survival of the fittest. And then the story just completely deviates from it in a lot of ways. I really kind of like how it used the tropes to establish the setting quickly, before becoming its own thing. My favorite moment in the comic so far has probably been when Mikael froze and JP had to step up and take action against a zombie. I actually wasn't sure JP had it in him tbh, so for me that was a cool moment of just seeing another side to this character. I also liked seeing confirmation that nah, Mikael has been affected by the scenario and the whole has-it-together vibe isnt entirely accurate. My favorite character is probably JP if not for the fact I see myself in him a bit more just for the fact he never quite feels like he knows what he's doing and is just kind of winging it. Considering there's really only two characters, it's obviously JP and Mikael. Their relationship builds up in a very organic way that feels natural, so it's really enjoyable. As for the art, what I like the most is the attention to detail. Like Mikael's freckles, the fact JP's facial hair grows, etc. Those small things really just kind of give the comic that extra bit of polish that's really nice. As for a theme the comic explores, I think I enjoy most right now the human need for connection. Cause sure Mikael didn't trust JP at first (and possibly vice versa), and yet, are you really going to turn away perhaps one of the few ppl left? I think this story really captures that need for people to have someone else in their life.

As for the story's overall content, what I like the most is just how un-zombie of a zombie apocalypse this is. Sure we see them, but overall they aren't the focus. I also like that the zombies aren't treated as like this OP always have to worry about thing. One line that super sticks with me is Mikael noting the zombies got slower cause they're, ya know, dead and rotting. So I like that there is this hope that maybe it won't be a forever thing. As for the comic's strengths, again, probably the premise where it's a zombie apocalypse but that is so far from the focus it makes it really unique and stand out.

Comic Tea Party

DISCUSSION PROMPTS – PART 2

9. Do you think JP and Mikael’s relationship will be able to last, or will the situation of the apocalypse get the better of them? In what unexpected ways do you think their relationship will be challenged despite the situation?

10. JP and Mikael’s backstories are both decently vague, so what sort of theories do you have surrounding them? Do you think we’re in for a shocking truth bomb that may drive a wedge between the two?

11. Given what we know about the world at the moment, do you think the apocalypse will last forever, or might things get better someday? What do you think will happen if JP and Mikael run into more survivors?

12. What story moment about the harsh realities of survival hit you the hardest? In contrast, what moment about human connection hit you the stronger? All in all, what do you think the comic says about connecting with other people, even in survival situations?

Don’t feel inspired by the prompts? Feel free to discuss anything else that interested you!

RebelVampire

I think JP and Mikael's relationship will last. But, what I think will challenge their relationship is the idea that maybe the apocalypse won't last forever, or things won't always be super dire. Cause I think that forces them to reexamine who they were as people in the past and talk about that a lot more than they do at present. At present I get way more of an impression they're living in the now, so once the past and future can be relevant again, I think that will prompt some interesting discussions. I don't have anything concrete at the moment regarding background theories. However, I do think there's a dark edge to Mikael somewhere in there that will make JP go "I'm not sure if I like that." Given my opinions above and it being mentioned the zombies aren't as fast as they used to be, no. I actually think we're already seeing the signs that as long as humanity can whole themselves up somewhere and implement proper containment procedures, things will get better. As for more survivors, I actually don't forsee that being an issue anytime soon. And if they do meet other survivors, that is when I expect something super bad more zombie apocalypse like will happen cause humans are the most trustworthy bunch in this genre. I think the moment for harsh realities of survival that hit me the strongest was really when they realized they had to move and couldn't stay in one spot forever due to factors beyond their control. It's really hard to leave a place you feel safe, so that hurts the heart that they really didn't have a choice. As for the moment of human connection, it was when the freezing scene happened and Mikael was upset someone he knew was a zombie. Cause I didn't get the impression they were super duper close, and yet that hurt was too real. As for what the comic is saying, I think it's a message about how regardless of situation, we need to feel connected to others - even more so in survival situations.

Comic Tea Party

DISCUSSION PROMPTS – PART 3

13. What are you most looking forward to seeing in regards to the comic?

14. Any final words of encouragement for the comic?

Don’t feel inspired by the prompts? Feel free to discuss anything else that interested you!

jestershark

13: I think seeing JP and MIkael's relationship change and grow over the course of the comic has been a delight so far and I think it's going to continue to be interesting into the future. 14. I wish more people were reading it! It's definitely got all sorts of hooks...

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

I've loved reading Dead City! I really like how this story feels like... progress? Like a lot of zombie survival stories are about the protagonists slowly falling apart as more of them get picked off, but this felt... hopeful. Like, the two get better at surviving as time goes on. Especially given how JP & Mikael's relationship is such a major part of the story. The fact that they can find love in the zombie apocalypse shows that there is hope for humanity after all.

RebelVampire

I am most looking forward to them dealing with more zombies actually or survivors. Unfortunately, resources are gonna become scarcer as time goes on, so I'm interested to see how they change to deal with that. My final words are that this comic is super unique in its storytelling and, to me at least, is a beautiful story about human connection and how there is always hope even when humanity is struggling

Comic Tea Party

BOOK CLUB END!

Thank you everyone so much for reading and chatting about Dead City this week! Please also give a special thank you to Michelle Parker and Jey Pawlik for volunteering the comic and creating it! If you liked Dead City, make sure to continue to support it via some of the links below!

Read and Comment: http://topazcomics.com/deadcity/welcome/

Jey’s Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/jpawlik

Topaz Comic’s Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/topazcomics

Topaz Comic’s Shop: https://topazcomics.com/shop/

Topaz Comic’s Twitter: https://twitter.com/topazcomics

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #book club #bookclub #webcomic bookclub #webcomic book club #comic tea party #ctp #dead city #jey pawlik #michelle parker #topaz comics

[bellatrixobsessed1]

A Flame For A Cabbage (Part 1)

Summary: The world is at war, it has been for a hundred years or so. The tribes have fallen and the Earth Kingdom is next. In the midst of a war, an ambitious merchant simply tries to sell cabbages. Azula-Cabbage Man Role swap AU

The sky hanging above the wall is an incredible sight, a canvas of orange with splashes of pinks and golds. It is a fine opening to what may very well be a final day. In her travels, Azula has heard tell of it. Of a device that set to breech Ba Sing Se’s walls. Even still, she has a job to do. She isn’t particularly worried about trifles outside of the wall. She fashions her hair into a scraggly topknot--she can never seem to tame her locks--and slips into her day clothing. 

She doesn’t have much in way of possessions just a  small cabbage stall--already twice destroyed by the Avatar and his companions--and the essentials, a few changes of clothes, a makeshift comb, a waterskin, a few pairs of shoes, and some kitchenware and gardening tools. She puts on her conical hat and heads out and into the streets. 

She can hear the rumbles even from this distance and considers that maybe it is a horrid idea to find herself outside. But then, maybe she can sell a few doomsday cabbages. She pushes a cart full of them into the center of the market square. 

The square is bustling and jovial. Azula can’t help but be intrigued, it perplexes her how they can be so happy with their sanctuary seconds away from a breech. A woman passes by her stall. “Would you like to buy a cabbage?” She asks. “It may be your last chance to buy one, now that the war has reached Ba Sing Se.”

“Excuse me?” The woman tilts her head. 

Azula conceals an exasperated sigh. “The city is going to fall and we are all going to die today. I recommend buying a cabbage as your last meal.”

The woman gulps and walks away. A rather brisk and hustled walk. Azula pouts to herself, she never has been particularly great with people. Not friendly conversation anyhow. She wonders if she may have come on too strong. She approaches the next passerby differently, “would you be interested in a doom’s day cabbage?”

“Doom’s day?” The man asks. 

“Yes. Doom’s day.” 

“What do you mean?”

Azula blinks, “I mean that the wall is about to be breeched so I am offering you a good quality final meal.” She pauses, looking at the tray of food that he is already holding. “Rather something to enrich the one you already have.”

The man seems to consider for a moment and Azula dares to get her hopes up. She thinks that today will be her lucky day. With the Avatar and his friends preoccupied with the wall, there is no one to make a mess of things. The man pats his pockets. “I think that I just spent the last of my money on this.” He motions to his meal. 

Azula nods. “You should make better spending choices in the future. Good day.” 

The man frowns and makes his way away from her stall. She is almost certain that she has offended him somehow, but she opts to pretend that he had simply been mournful of his lost opportunity. 

She greets a second man and offers him a cabbage. 

“Maybe tomorrow.” The man smiles. 

“But there will not be a tomorrow.” Azula insists. 

He halts in his tracks. “Why wouldn’t there be a tomorrow.”

Azula founds herself staring in bemusement again. Could it be that they really don’t know about the drill. That they are absolutely oblivious to what transpires just on the other side of their walls? Azula parts her lips. “There’s a drill.”

“A drill?”

She nods. “It is Fire Nation. They are going to breach the outer wall very soon.” 

The man gives an uneasy chuckle and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He mumbles something before taking off much like the first woman. Azula sighs. She wonders if the Earth King knows about this, perhaps word has not reached him yet. Mayhaps it is she who should bring it to his attention. Her expression dims, who is she kidding? She can’t even sell a single cabbage much less be able to deliver profound information to the king himself.

She re-adjusts her hat and decides to herself that if she can sell just one cabbage, she will bring her news to the Earth King. She tries to draw consumers in but she doesn’t have the spunk nor vigor that the woman running the meat cart does. And she doesn’t have that suave and slick voice that the man running the jewelry stand boasts. She certainly doesn’t have the perky, cheeriness of the brother-sister botanist duo. 

She is just Azula. 

She supposes that her voice is pleasant enough and that her appearance is at least somewhat charming. But the baggy cotton pants and shirt she wears do her no favors. She is exceptionally average in those regards. But she has a sharp mind and she is something of a prodigy. She knows so, her father has said as much. Even if he hadn’t, she hasn’t seen anyone grow a cabbage as fast or as large as the ones she grows. The sheer amount of them is impressive if she must say.

She decides that she is wasting her talents on people who can’t recognize her talents. If she wants to do this, if she wants success--and she will have it one way or another--she will need to be bolder. 

She looks towards the sky; it is clear and blue. Early afternoon. She still has much of her day to accomplish what needs accomplishing. 

.oOo.

“This drill is a feat of scientific ingenuity and raw destructive power. Once it tunnels through the wall, our troops will storm their city. The Earth Kingdom will finally fall, and you can claim Ba Sing Se in the name of Fire Lord Ozai. Nothing can stop us.” Vows Qin.

Tylee taps her chin, “hmmm, what about those muscley guys down there?” Once quick glance into the drill’s binoculars reveals a team of well chiseled men. They slam rocks up against the drill’s framework. 

Sie listens intently to the conversation, wondering just were his life has gone wrong. He doesn’t wonder for too long, he thinks that he can pinpoint the exact moment when things had taken such a stark turn. 

Qin flashes a confident and boastful smile. “Please! The drill's metal shell is impervious to any earthbending attack.”

But that doesn’t alleviate the queasiness in Sie’s stomach.“Oh, I sure hope it is, War Minister Qin…” He trails off, he knows how these things usually go after a healthy amount of experience. “...but just to be on the safe side.” He looks to Mai and TyLee. “We should probably take care of that.” He cringes to himself as another rock collides with the drill. 

Twirling knife around her finger, Mai remarks, “Finally.”

Sie winces to himself, he hates when she does that. One of these days she is going to take someone’s eye out. 

“Something to do.” Her words are punctuated by a clunk and a shout. There it is. The moment he had dreaded. Mai apologizes less than half-heartedly. 

.oOo.

There, that should do, Azula thinks to herself. She knows that her task is no longer going to be easy. She is well aware that she has maneuvered herself right into the general vicinity of the Avatar himself. But she is a girl of goals and plenty of determination.

“Excuse me! You can’t be out here right now!” Calls the general. 

“I can be! And I will be! Maybe you don’t have the nerve to come down here and do what is necessary, but I do. I’m stronger than you.” Is what Azula would have declared had she heard the man over the sound of whirring mechanics and rebounding rocks. Instead she continues arranging her stall as though he hadn’t spoken at all. Because, as far as she is concerned, he hasn’t. And really, if a plea falls on def ears, has a plea really been made at all? Azula doesn’t ask herself this question because she has no reason to. 

Instead she taps one of the earth warriors on the shoulder. “Would you like to buy a cabbage. Battles are exhausting, you will have an advantage if you aren’t fighting hungry.”

“WHAT?” The man hollars over the noise of the drill. 

“These cabbages will help you prevent the apocalypse.” Azula speaks with more volume.

“WHAT!?” He repeats again. 

She flinches as the man drops to the ground. The man’s attacker waves before cartwheeling over to the next. Azula narrows her eyes, to think she had a sturdy sales pitch going for her too. 

.oOo.

Sie is growing more and more anxious. Mai and TyLee have returned and the earthbenders have been dealt with. But he knows that there will be more of them. He just knows it. He is also well aware of just how much trouble the Avatar can cause after having run into him in Omashu. But where is he? Where. 

A horrid noise violates his ears. “Congratulations, crew. The drill has made contact with the wall of Ba Sing Se, start the countdown to victory.”  

So why is it that he begins counting down to their defeat. It might be that he knows deep down that the protagonists always win. That those are the rules and he can deny them no more than he can deny the knife-related background death of one of the drill staff. His corpse has already been drawn out of the frame (blood and all) with no trace of it ever having been there. But with no place for it to have been reasonably moved to. 

He decides that it is also worth noting that a cabbage stall has been erected just outside of the wall. He wonders what kind of ploy this may be.

“War Minister, an engineer was ambushed! His schematics were stolen!” Declares one of the personal, confirming his suspicions about that damn cabbage stand. 

“Titans, go!” He coughs, “Sorry, I mean, let’s go ladies.” Whatever that cabbage merchant has planned, he won’t let it succeed. Too much is at stake here. His nation is depending on him and the Fire Lord, his father, has set expectations high. He dreads to think of what could happen if he comes home without victory. He can’t allow himself to end up like his banished and scarred brother. 

.oOo.

She watches them fall left and right, her potential customers drop like flies. The worst of it is that they actually seem interested in buying cabbages off of her. The problem is that by the time she has successfully communicated over the drill’s volume, they only have time to smile and say, “yeah, I’d like one” before a Fire Nation soldier intervenes. 

Feeling utterly defeated and rather useless, she makes her way to the infirmary. The least she can do is offer them a free cabbage for their troubles. She has an excess of them and she decides that it wouldn’t pay to waste a perfectly good cabbage. 

With a pang in her heart, she gathers a few of them into her arms and wanders back within the wall. This, of course, would have been a pristine opportunity for Sie to make a move but he has already opted to go after the ambushers. So, as most mishaps accidentally are, Azula blissfully avoided her own.

For some reason she ponders what everyone used to say of her; that she was born lucky. 

The sky is still blue and the temperature is pleasantly warm. Several of the soldiers take comfort in her cabbages. She supposes that, that is what matters; that people know the value of tedious and painstakingly grown produce. Particularly of the cabbage variety.  

Despite their suffered injuries, they seem happy. 

In fact, they thank her for the cabbages. 

No, she decides, she has hasn’t been born lucky. She forges luck for herself.

#Avatar #Azula #Cabbage Man #Team Avatar #Fanfiction

[writingcommons-blog1]

“What Wasn’t to Grow” by Zemerluan M.

There was no sweet. No sesame chicken. No black-eyed things with swollen breasts and broken legs. No primal howls, no lions or dinosaurs. No train cars, no homeless. No wealth. No coffee grounds, no fingernails, no love. No suffering. No pretenses. No sadness, no guilt. No glass and concrete, no cemeteries. No spaceships, no novels, no paints or brushes or skinks or centipedes or headaches. No urge or misappropriation. No chocolate, no comic books. No sidewalks. No bullets, no more words or spines or salad forks. No endearing smells. No more plastic or supermarkets or child locks in car doors or memory or wet clothes on cold radiators. No more wading into rivers, no falling out of love, no votes left to cast, no hands to construct cheap furniture, no brains to consider their own senselessness, alone in the dark. No more hurry, no more keeping score. 

No timestamps or routine or overpriced drinks. No sociopolitical spectra, no tuxedos. No rice or viruses or computer mice or record collections or formalities or false modesty or flags to wave. No more photographs or affairs or vows or laughing, or even the very last whisper of fleeting, desperate hope before it all went.  

None of it.

None of anything I could think of, none of anything anybody could think of remained. The reality was that there were too many people in the world, too many things remained that resembled people and implied people and hurt people to continue. Too much pollution in the air and the water and in ourselves. Too much dissonance, disparity, noise. There was far too much. There needed to be quiet, so the world would tremble. So I could breathe. It was fairly easy, to know restriction removed from everything, about as easy as getting up from your bed and flipping the light switch. The softness of the motion wove over the continents and the seas, and it all just went. How easily it all uproots itself completely and just melted, gone into something warm and far away. All of the noise was gone. The universe becomes lighter, duskier. A slight, thin shadow is cast over the prairie and the forest floors and the bottoms of the seas. The sun spins sallow and turns a sloppy pirouette as it begins to fold. No act of god, no armageddon, no apocalypse. No greater plan or power. There just was. That what wasn’t, simply never was at all, wiped from the annals of the souls of atoms, only a sliver of a ghost left in the machine to feebly and unconsciously serve as a vessel for that which was to peer into this new time and wonder. And there, in what would have been the fields of asphodel, that is, if there were any around to recount the myth, is where I sit and let it all wash over me, too, waiting in vain for something to return, or for me to end.

I was there in the long, gilded grasses, and wondered at the sky and how much longer the world would last like this, without anything to keep it up. The sun was a little more than a day old now, and nothing faced it but feathery, golden grass, the kind that seems almost fake. But for all of it, there was no judgement to be passed or scorn to be flinched at. I might have done the same thing if I had the will. To just stop it all. It is a comforting idea. But even as the forests slowly cracked and fell to stone and the lichen of forever ago, and the seas grew wider and denser and spawned voids of almost-memories and deep cold in of themselves, and I simply sat and let myself be rubbed out of the world, I felt a pang of regret for all the bumblebees and ladybugs that had to have gone away for this to come about.

The grass and the chaff and the mountains and the willows. Rocky cliffsides grown brittle, old footholds, and brown leaves in the pebbly riverbed. Through the trees, moonlight dribbles through cracks in the bark, pooling emerald on the forest floor. Moss is creeping silently, mushrooms unfurl. The spaces where whales never were still moves like them. I remembered the old world and could not find anything in me for it, save a quiet sense of urgency. The wind rises and pulls a current through the fields where I sit. I have not known my fill of this place, but I am an oversight here all the same, so I am content. I can feel it come for me, too, the absence of force, like memories that are only real between sleep and waking. I am swept up in it, the grandness and the wind and the ancient and the valleys. I don’t even get a chance to breathe. _______________________________________________________________________

Quietly, and without much tact, the world pulls the pieces of itself together as best it can, adroitly assembling its soft, sunken edges before the foot of a white, rigid bed frame swathed in an unapologetically red bedspread. Splaying out in the ink before morning, there is no alarm decrying the start of a new day, no immediate resolution that needs to be met; instead, the small room is darkened, the frigid radiator, standing stock still, shameless in its dusty corner. There are modest metal shelves plastered in novels and biographies and mementos, gone brittle and almost forgotten. The closest thing to a nightstand is a little blue step stool next to the bed, the unwilling receptacle for keys, mostly used gift cards, post-it note lists, a few dollar bills, and a pair of beaten-up headphones. Dark, abstract forms lying dejectedly on the tiny shag carpet come into focus as the sky begins to stretch and shudder- pairs of pants and a multitude of t-shirts with fading graphics seem to slip into being, leaving the odd sock or pair of boxers to their own futures, somewhere neither here nor there. It is a strange little place, molded from the desperate scramble of goings-on with heavy eyelids and a wonderful bedhead in mind. Nelson Algren, Haruki Murakami, and Roxane Gay tough it out together in a plaintive little stack next to an arm melting off the side of the bed, absorbed in corduroy lines and spasms of involuntary movement.

Dusty sunlight begins to feed through the blue-cloth blinds; ignorant birds stationed outside in the tree next door take their time making as much noise as possible in the archaic hopes of finding a suitable mate. The little garden curated by the elderly Chinese landlord is out of place and struggling to survive, cut from the rest of the concrete in a slapdash, innocent fashion. That garden looks as though it was hewn from fever dreams and charcoal drawings, earth lumpy and rich black, wiry sprouts shooting out at odd angles, solid and still in the June sun, but it is all happy to be nonetheless. The promise of winter melons and squash and bean sprouts tended by that earth have lasted a lifetime already, strapped tightly to the earth by the fear of the shadow cast by the red brick, two story apartment.

Inside, it is carpeted foyer stairs and dark hardwood floors throughout. In the apartment he lives in, records line the hallway, just below coats and hats set out all year long; there was almost no more room to spare. Forgotten maps and twenty-year old illustration sparsely decorates the wall. A white ceiling fan sits motionless overhead, collecting dust above the bulk of a vast record collection- all of the visible artists vaguely unknown to him. Tiny, hexagonal tile plasters the thin bathroom floor, beyond which his parents’ room sits warmly in its part of the home; secluded and welcoming.. Metal molds of teeth and eyes and the new National Geographic sits below a frosted window in the bathroom with a large plant beside it. Everything is close together, every possible space is used, but there remains an idea of cohesion and nothing is claustrophobic, surprisingly. Photographs of David Bowie and John F. Kennedy and himself as a child are strung along the walls- cards and paperwork lies across the top of the piano and table his family found in the alley some years ago. A machete adorned with traditional leatherwork sits peacefully behind a lamp next to the flat screen television sent to his family on accident.  There are a multitude of things and ideas and halfway done projects, but almost nothing seems like it’s out of place. It’s lived in and old and there are memories of good tidings and friends come and gone and cold winter nights and pensive yelling and familiar smells. It’s exactly what you’d expect, and that counts for a lot.

Pulling his mind out of the tar pits of black dreams forgotten before conception, he knocks over his keys before finding his phone. A few messages, but the important thing is the time.

11:46 a.m.

A summer breeze floats into the room and reminds him of outside. He sits up and stretches hard. His body feels good today. He patiently listens for other footsteps before deciding that he is alone. Swinging his legs off the bed and hoisting his frame awkwardly towards the shelves that hold most of his clothes, he considers the day and pulls on blue shorts and a white shirt. Figures breakfast is a good idea. Meandering into the pantry, he snorts at the cereal and goes about toasting a bagel. Yawning twice while it heats up, he collects a butter knife and the cream cheese. The birds have gone, from the sound of it. The screen door lets the same breeze into the kitchen. Things are okay. Letting the bagel crisp a little, he walks around the apartment for a minute or two and reacquaints himself with the space. Removing the bagel, he sloppily handles the cream cheese, sucking his thumb clean of the stuff a few seconds later. Everything is returned somewhat carefully. The bagel is plain. The cream cheese is plain. The kitchen is almost aglow in the dark. No lights are on. Natural light only proliferates the areas by the windows. It is quiet. Slowly eating his bagel, he checks his phone, dully excited about the messages.

Wait. He forgot to get water.

Sitting back down, water in tow, he scrolls through his friend’s 1 a.m. masterpiece, horribly sweet and unmistakably drunk. He considers the world again before he carefully swallows the next bite of bagel. He takes a breath.

Cleaning up the bagel crumbs, and in the mood for something interesting, he pees and flosses and brushes his teeth and combs his hair and puts deodorant on. Retrieving his keys and opening the screen door, he walks barefoot out into the backyard and stops for a second or two to look at the sky. Looks like rain. He opens the gate and walks carefully down the gangway. He made a note to leave his headphones inside. He feels a little naked without them, but it is good to remove oneself from comfort zones sometimes. The concrete is warm and nobody is on his block. Walking down the street, he makes mental note of the absence of the college kids who sometimes walk around. He sees a beer can left next to a sapling.

Silent, he goes to retrieve the can. He’ll throw it in the recycling bin when the alley begins at the end of the block. Having something in his hands, the sudden occupation of the warming, negative space between his fingers, is unpleasant this morning. The slight calluses on his feet rub pleasantly against the sidewalk, and he remembers to take a deep breath. The breeze continues at uncertain intervals, and the trees shake drily. Definitely looks like rain. He reaches the bin and tosses the can. The sound of it hitting the bottom of the bin surprises him. He fears he might have disturbed everyone in the neighborhood. Quickly walking past the alley, the noise still rings in his ears for a few seconds. Remember, he says to himself, it is 12:30 p.m. His face is hot. He reaches the end of his block, and takes a look in both directions. On one side, a sleepier, greener few miles of apartment buildings and aging houses. On the other, the sound of cars and his train stop and a college campus and more beyond but he cannot be bothered to remember it now.

He turns left. The sky is an absence of melody- simply bright shadow where there once was a sun. A more profound awareness of himself and his body begins to prod at his skull. He always forgets how much hair grows out of his legs. Most of the buildings he passes were built a century ago, he’s told. He always takes his shoes off before entering a home with hardwood floors. He figures that the craftsman who created those pretty, timeworn pieces would not care too much for shoes tracking nonsense everywhere. He blinks twice, quickly, and returns to the middle of the sidewalk. He had been straying back and forth, but since there didn't seem to be anyone walking with him then, he figured he could be a little selfish with the space. The sidewalk, he decided, is much too solid. Not meant for the likes of bare toes. It is interesting to him, that the human body had developed feet with arches, with curvature and definition, to adequately traverse the hills and uneven ground of a pre-human world. And yet, everything now is flat. Probably doesn't help that he wears skate shoes most of the time. The wind becomes cooler and he wonders how early man survived without heating and indoor plumbing. A silent thank you to distant ancestors and their dogged perseverance. A porch groans some feet away. The noise is not sharp enough to startle, but some uneasiness sets in. Quickly moving now, he seeks to remove the chill from his skin. Turning another corner, still keeping to the left, dark red apartment buildings and old limbs arc wildly overhead. It is almost silent. The trees whip violently in the wind for a time. It begins to drizzle. The filling stench of rain on asphalt is in his throat. He wants to run, but there are people on this street. He’s not in the mood to be glanced at. He settles for a slow jog. After he passes the couple walking down the street, he turns another corner onto a more shaded block. The rain comes down a little bit harder. He looks directly up at the sky. A raindrop falls directly into his eye. Gasping a little bit, he shakes his head down and trips over his own feet a little bit. This sobers him, but also rekindles his burning desire to run, to reinvent the bagel-making and the stretching from an hour ago. There is nobody but the stormy wind and the sedans lining the street and the almost-white columns of the church across the street. Given the city, this is nothing short of a miracle.

He consults himself.

He reaches a decision quickly.

He remembers himself as a small child, head newly shaven, infatuated with ancient creatures in a younger world.

His feet are taloned, scaled, primed to beat through the impending downpour.

The breath before the kickoff is always empty.

His calf constricts.

His newly-made body rips through the smell of wet asphalt, shoving sideways against the wind, hurling it back for breath and the illusion of strength amidst the forest growing in his lungs. Everything is green and wet and the impending storm whispers at him to stop. Red brick and a passing police car collide noiselessly behind him in the vacuum of his wake. Every clamp that stretched his bones and forced him cast his own flesh down, forgotten. He feels like his insides are made of heatless, open light, older even than the sensation of walking on one’s own feet. His heart is gone. His nerves are shot. His pulp is evaporated, sweetly rising into the sky, beckoning the storm thunder. He is something old, so old that it has forgotten what it is, how it was, how it went. It is in these moments and never again. The second he remembers to wish that this moment would last but a minute longer, the light goes and his insides go dark once more, clumped wetly together in a fashion that barely churns at all. He slows, and finally stops. The storm starts at this moment. His skull is awash in a tingle that maddens him. He takes several gulps of air, and then a deep breath. He keeps walking forward on his raw feet, looking for something more in the curtain of rainwater and his dripping hair. His shirt is stuck to him. He crosses another alley. He takes a few more steps before he feels something grating in him. He goes another half block before he looks down and sees a trail of pink behind his waterlogged blue shorts. Turning his left foot over, he sees a reasonably large piece of glass stuck in the toe immediately next to his big one. Wanting desperately to break something precious, he hobbles awkwardly back to his darkened apartment, hoping beyond hope that the lights are still off.

Fumbling for his keys, he keeps one hand on his leg for dramatic effect, as though he wanted to guilt trip the powers that be. Opening the back doors and dragging his leg in, he retrieves a paper towel and holds it there with his heel, scooting it along the floor so as to not get blood anywhere. Flipping the light on in the bathroom, he hoists his foot up to the sink and assesses the damage. It definitely is a piece of glass in his toe. That much is certain. There is something calming about it, a clear, difficult-to-define form gently resting in the red and the pink. The glass is angular, and if he were to look into it, he could have made out a rich rose hue. The more he stares, however, the more it begins to hurt. Uncomfortable with the thought of having to pull the glass out of his foot, of disturbing that picture, so completely natural, worried him. He sighs, positions his thumb and index finger as cleanly around the most rigid corners of the glass, and draws his hand swiftly towards himself, constricting his fingers as he did so, so as to grip the glass and pull it free in one motion. A new dribble of blood makes its way lazily out of his toe, falling past his foot to find the white ceramic of the sink. He laid the glass aside and began to dab at the cut with a cotton swab doused in isopropyl alcohol. It starts to sting. He retrieves a band-aid, wraps it tightly around his toe, returns his foot gingerly to the floor, and cleans everything up. He holds the glass in his palm for a moment or two, considering whether or not to trash it. He compromises, and shoves it deep into the soil of the potted plant sitting on the windowsill. He let the band-aid wrapper flutter into the garbage, and strode gingerly out of the bathroom, off to change out of his semi-drenched clothes.

He steps into the living room and sits down on the couch. He considers turning on the T.V., but it’s been years since he’s watched anything substantial. He’s not even sure if people make television programs worth watching anymore. He sits and wilts, eventually focusing on an arbitrary point on the wall, an arbitrary point in space. Any other. He leaves himself for a little.

so he stares | his tongue slowly sticks to the roof of his mouth | so he stares | his pupils unfocus | his head cocks to the right | he does not notice | so he stares | he is in the white noise on the walls and the brown and black and blue and more white around | it is cloudy and sparse  a visitation to a stable, unmoving sky saturated with warming plaster | so he stares | he is clean but his mind is muddy with the memory of red glass and pitch and it is not too much here | so he stares | now |so he stares | he is clean again |  so he stares | slow breeze in him | so he stares |  warm snow and | cold grass | so he stares | he is a charcoal drawing on black construction paper | so he stares |  his phone vibrating | scraping him from the mountain again |

he sighs

His phone is still damp from the rain, and it is warmed by his hand, shaking slightly. He rubs the screen on the sofa cushion, and lets it rest there for a moment, appreciating the quiet and the moments in between concerning himself with things that must go on in his life. We all confront things and deal with potential problems, and a lot of technology kind of exacerbates that shit, he thinks. There will always be too many things he does not want to have to think about. Beginning to take a deep breath, his lungs stop him short with a spasm and a hiccup, which detaches him from the last of his catharsis. He is now consciously aware he is alone in the apartment. It’s nice. Turning his phone over, it is a slew of emails demanding to be attended to, loan offers and paperwork to be filled out and reminders of his high school graduation only weeks before. He will most likely never see any of those people again. He hated high school, but he liked the folks he had to suffer alongside. Blankly deleting emails while he remembers walking across the stage at the Navy Pier ballroom, he sees another text, and gently cherishes the beauty of a vested interest in that which has not yet seen the light of day..

Outside, the sky darkens.

It is not text, but a picture. Quality is lacking, but it is obviously a sunny beach with many smiling countenances fighting for space in the photo. It is of a place that is very far away, and probably, from the looks of the buildings stretching above the beach in the distance, very expensive to reside in for any period of time. He recognizes only one face- it is just as jovial and playful as the rest. The sky there is cloudless and more shades of blue than he knew could fit in the atmosphere. For a moment, he is swept up in the giddiness of that beach. If any were still around, he might have contracted a classical painter to immortalize this scene forever. Soon enough, the twisted, smiling forms jostling for position and the amateurish quality of the photograph and the resounding aura of happiness and completeness overwhelm him, and his hands, shaking slightly, quit the app.

Quickly standing up, he does not anticipate the head rush that overwhelms him. He nearly topples to the floor. Annoyed by his own clumsiness, he walks shamefully to the bathroom, touching his chin, absentmindedly massaging his stubble. It took him three days to grow it. Stopping before the mirror, he is momentarily confused yet again by the sight of his own face glowering back. He often forgets what his own face looks like, never certain of its complexion or features besides the skin tone mildly reminiscent of an undercooked gingerbread man. Other than that, his face is a mystery to him. Looking at it now, in the low light of the bathroom, it seems gaunt, hastily chiseled. If only Picasso was known for his sculpture. He admires his own features for a moment, before the body in the mirror seems more fitting for this world than his own. Turns away. Holds his head in his hands and sits down on the toilet. Stands up again. He does not know why he happens as he does.

He begins to speak. This is the only way he can quiet himself, the pieces of his mind pulling at every conceivable thing to waste his time on, every frustrating burning isolating screaming quiet terrible tender thing confronting him, mired in the rest of the world. The sound of his voice is terribly low and strange, like some sinister incantation in a language long dead. He does not know why it happens. He speaks faster, stumbling over words that so many public speakers handle with ease. The parts of his arms that have not touched the sun are much whiter than the rest of him. He is the in between. There is still nobody home. He is still talking, not aware of any of these things right now. He is saying that he does not know why it happens, why the thing at the back of him insists on violently squeezing his heart, intent on unearthing things in him that he has forgotten exist. He does not know why the world is not fair. He is wondering if equal unfairness is fair. Yes, he says, it must be so. The sun suddenly hits his face, and he has to squint to catch a glimpse of the innumerable shapes before him, writhing silently in assent. The invisible America beyond murmurs with him. He is the President, he is aide to the President, he is Undisputed and Complete Ruler of the World. He wants to make it better. He will make it better. For everybody. Yes, did you know that if all of the food that is wasted by Americans is instead redistributed to those in need, world hunger would literally come to an end right then and there? And if the governments of the world simply got over themselves, if all of the terrible politicians and worse leaders simply grew a pair and pooled their resources for the betterment of the world, we’d all be much better off. He is not sure if he is a socialist or a democrat or a Marxist or communist. These things mean little to him. He just wants a peaceful world full of an environment that is not choked with smog, that is not on the verge of the verge of collapse. He wants a world in which everyone has equal opportunity. He is not an idealist. He is not a pessimist. He wants a world that publishes interesting things in the news and reigns in big pharmaceutical companies and the fast food industry and the prison system and intersectional inequality and he wants it better. It would not be difficult. It would be really very easy, if we all put everything down and worked towards it. He wants to see the redwoods one day. He wants to drive his partner out to national parks and little diners off the side of the road and interesting pit stops in an environmentally friendly, inexpensive car and just enjoy being together. His audience shudders in delight and triumph. Maybe it can happen. He has a vision in his cloudy, disagreeable head. One of a life well lived. He is older, perhaps in his forties or fifties. He has seen many things, but he sits at a little chair in an elderly home somewhere pretty, maybe on the edge of a little wood under a mountain, and he would just write what he liked with some whiskey on the side. There would be a lake somewhere nearby, and he’d maybe have a cat that would come and go and winter and spring would be distinct parts of the year. He wants to be alone. He almost wants to have a child, just to prove that he could raise it well. The house on the edge of the wood recedes into the gloom when he remembers the five-thousand-dollar private loan he still has to fill out some paperwork for.

He doesn’t want to be famous or important, so long as he can have his little house and his cat and his liquor and his forest. But it seems like he’s going to have to fight to make it there, and he is just

he’s just so tired.

He stops pacing . Looking back into the mirror, not much has changed since seven minutes ago. He wants his reflection to beat the shit out of him. Dares it move independently. Lightly grazing the mirror with his knuckle, he stumbles  out of the bathroom and moves to his bed at the back of the apartment. It is the same as he left it. Things are strewn all about, but he finds his earbuds and his phone and lays down. The wi-fi doesn’t extend to this part of the house, but he plays a YouTube video anyway, since he doesn’t have the song he wants downloaded. A full, melodic anthem of abuse and righteous, illegal dreams enters his head, and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to loop this song. He falls asleep on the seventh run through, rain still pattering, sliding down the windows, and the soft glow of the sun setting in him pours out into the room. He will wake up ravenous and parched and confused as to why his toe hurts.