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numinous-scribe · 2 months

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Siblings by trial and choice

So @noir-renard posted a prompt in Haunting Heroes a little while ago that's had me in a perpetual choke hold ever since.

When the Portal ZAPS Danny, he doesn't just get turned into a half ghost; he gets catapulted halfway across the galaxy. So now he's stuck on an alien ship, trying to deal with new powers, and desperately searching for a way home.

And my immediate thought was "How can I make this about Starfire?", from which everything spiraled.

[Click the pictures for better quality!]

Having assumed that the portal wasn't even supposed to be functional, Danny had absolutely no basis for anything that was happening to him. Not his new look or powers, not for wherever he was, and certainly not for the predicament of where he landed-- A ship he would later come to know as belonging to the slavers known as the Gordanians.

For all Danny knew, he certainly wasn't human anymore, and he might not have even been in the same dimension either; while Earth had been seeing more and more interactions with aliens, he'd never seen any quiet like these, and his parents had said that the portal was designed to view a whole other world.

And that was terrifying! He was Danny Fenton, just fourteen, and so far out of his depth it wasn't even funny. If it weren't for Koriand'r then Danny didn't know how he would have kept it all together.

As it were, Kor'i had already been enslaved for four years by this point. She knew what it was like to suddenly be cut off from everything she'd ever known, and the torment that was awaiting this strange boy that had appeared in a flash of green light. So even though she had nothing to give, Kor'i stuck by Danny's side.

Together, for the next two years, they fed each other hope.

Naturally, returning to Earth was a big ordeal for Danny, and by proxy for Kor'i as well. Over the two years they spent enduring harsh labor and torture from both their Gordanian captors and the Psions, Danny had confided in all sorts of stories about his home world and vice versa Kor'i about Tamaran. After confirming that he hadn't been transported to another reality, and that this was his Earth, Danny had been so excited to return home and to introduce Kor'i to his friends and family.

But while Earth was still the same, home... was not.

His parents were in jail; not only for their unethical and code violating lab, but because they were so neglectful to the point that minors were able to get into the lab unsupervised and one of them— Danny —was able to access their faulty machine and, presumably, died.

Jazz got picked up by the state, but quickly managed to get herself emancipated and now lived in some other state attending college.

The Manson's moved. Sam was a wreck and not coping well at all; her parents were considering having her committed to an institution for a bit to help her last anyone had heard.

The Foley's couldn't afford to move, so Tucker had to carry on with life as well as he could. He's quiet now, not as verbose and shameless as before, more of a hermit than anything.

And since he's been presumed dead, and can't figure out how to disprove that, honestly, Danny doesn't know how to pick back up where he left off. He can't. Because everything, including him, has changed as well.

But, like she's always done since the moment they met, Kor'i was there for him. And now they have a new family in the Teen Titans as well.

Bonus:

Close ups of Phantom and Starfire. Danny's suit design is a mixture of some of his original concept art and @the-stove-is-on-fire's designs :)

#scribe's work #tt!danny&starfire au #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #dpxdc art #dcxdp #dcxdp crossover #dcxdp art #long post

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dreams-in-blk · 3 years

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"It begins to tell round midnight. Round midnight. I do pretty well until after sundown."

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All the stuff you're not supposed to feel. Where are our sanctuaries and retreats to process, heal and integrate that stuff? We got all the restaurants (looking at you celebs). All the clubs. Where are our spas, cabins, gardens and wilderness walks? Where are our prayer and meditation centers? Our magical places?

They got: Kripalu, Esalen, Shambhala & countless others. What we got? I know. "Use what you got to get what you need." I've thought about going to one of those places for years. I guess I just never felt it would be that restorative for me. But, I look at the offerings when I feel like I need a retreat. And since George they got us splashed all over the home page. And they got a picture of Jessamyn Stanley above the fold. And they got a yoga sistuh saluting all the Sun she can see right up over the "pay here" button.

And don't get me wrong, they mean well. I feel the sincerity. But, I guess I just don't want Karen's sister Mary tending to me when my soul needs a little TLC. But that's just me. I gotta use my "white voice" enough on the daily. Maybe I just don't want to have to use it on retreat.

Because I'm tired. And if I slip up and call the "restroom" a bathroom, I just don't want Mary kindly reminding me that the "restroom" is on the right. Or, apologizing that they don't have hot sauce. And the menu is vegan, organic and all-cotton and personally designed by Gwyneth and did I get the complimentary Goop self-care pak and...But, like I said, that's just me.

But you know they had Pops flying all over the world, dead smack in the middle of Jim Crow, growling tunefully about, "Oh, what a wonderful world" and using his laser-cannon smile to sell "Capitalism" and "America" when back at Home he couldn't even enter through the front gate. A "Welcome" sign don't always mean "Welcome." And a black-face figurine on the lawn don't mean they got a "colored" bathroom. I guess even on Juneteenth I still feel weary late at night. "It begins to tell 'round midnight."

But we have come a long way down Freedom Road and that is reason enough to rest. Lay this ol burden down for a night. See if I can catch up with Mama'nem in Dreamland.

Excuse the bitter tone. I never knew I felt like this. And the question never occured to me before. I guess I need to get me a cut tomorrow and head on over to Church Sunday mornin'. And somebody better bring me some rib tips Saturday night too. So, I can do, like The Eternal Mrs. Edwina (Emah Ahkot Zamirah Baht Yisrael) Clara Baker Prim, My Momma, used to do: Put Anita, Luther and Peabo on repeat... Mix herself up a gin martini and sip on it slow. And when it got real good to her put some Bill Withers on over in there with a little taste of Al Jarreau. And before long Billy Paul would be talkin' about the kind of thing he had going on with Mrs Jones and Patty Austin would be cooing about how she wanted James Ingram to come to her and "Let me put my arms around you" and I would be called up for DJ Duty. And Q. (Better known to You by his nickname "Quincy Jones") would step up on the Bandstand and begin makin' all kinds of Mojo Moves. Because he was The Dude who could and would, by waving his magic wand, summon all the power of Field Hollers, Gospel, Ragtime, Big Band Jazz, New Jack Swing, Mambo, Cha Cha Cha, Rock n Roll, Disco, Salsa, Soul, Funk, Rhythm n Blues, Hip Hop and Bebop to make it so, that if we wanted to, we could just "PUT BACK ALL THE GOOD TIMES that we ever had. And even make them better, with just a little bit of Razzamatazz." And Grandma Nanny in the back like the sound of that. Because Cab Calloway (Sigh "My my, my...he was so fine!") had already taught her everything that she ever needed to know about Razzmatazz. ("Now, that man had Razzmatazz!") And toes would start tappin' and fingers would start snappin' and healing would start happenin' ...

...until Momma had to get on back out there on the battlefield...

And soldier on in the bitter, grinding, never-ending war with and for, that damn hydra-headed beast

The United States of America

Every Monday morning.

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You know? Maybe I am finally beginning to understand that when you have to wrestle daily with this monster named America, spiritual care, energy work and every other kind of hoodoo, conjure and new age metaphysical magic, is absolutely necessary. I guess my hard-as-rock know-it-all noggin done finally got soft enough to comprehend what she was desperately trying to find in all those Black Hebrew meetings, spiritual seminars, New Age book stores, video tapes and libraries. When you are wrestling daily with this monster they call America you got to find a way keep your spirit from dying or you end up homeless, alone, balled-up in the freezing closet of an abandoned house in East Atlanta, desperately trying to make it to your next drink or hit while your toes rot from gangrene and frostbite in your boots... just like me.

See. You/me/we, if we hope to survive our daily encounters with this Kraken called America, have to find ways to keep our souls and spirits alive or we perish or worse still, as I sadly discovered, become that feared and hated ghoul, what the descendents of enslaved Africans known today as Haitians called a Zombie. A tragic and frightful casualty of the ongoing struggle to survive as the descendents of enslaved Africans in the Americas. So, I guess I am just now beginning to understand and publicly recognize what Momma'nem, the original American badass mutha(shut to mouth) superpeople achieved - they survived, defeated and finally emerge triumphant - body mind and spirit intact, alive and free. I think I am just beginning to rekonize!

So I guess I can't be mad as hell, it only took them 57,877 days since the Emancipation Proclamation was decreed on January 1st 1863 to get around to officially recognizing our magnificent foremothers' and forefathers! But we here now. And I sho nuff appreciate that 'ol man Biden found the strength to lift a pen. I'm excited! Maybe in just about another 57,000 days they'll get around to sending us that 40 acres and a mule they promised.

See. Now I know I'm tired.

Be well Brothers and Sisters! Be hale and healthy and whole. Free in Black Mind Body and Soul! Tonight, in this not yet perfect freedom we are blessed by our divine ancestors and The Most High to enjoy, may we feel their unceasing care and love, and know each of us in our own hearts that we are their wildest and most cherished dreams realized and made real.

May all your Juneteenths be blessed and joyful and free!!!

- rp

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Sleep in peace when day is done: that's what I mean

Stars when you shine, you know how I feel

Oh, freedom is mine, and I know how I feel

It's a new dawn. It's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good.

From Feeling Good by Nina Simone

#dreams in blk #black tumblr #happy juneteenth #juneteenth 2021 #black mental health #black self care #black self love #cultural healing #black restorative care #black writers #black poets on tumblr #black pride #black creativity

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puppy-the-mask · 4 years

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You ever create AUs of your own self-insert fantasies? Hahahaha...

So I made an AU for my Epithet inserts... I call it the ‘Crypt!AU’

Basically one of the twins absorbed the other in the womb- like ya do- anyways the parents named her Lilith, which is a really pretty name!

But not to the parents, it’s got Symbolism!

There’s a myth about a lady named Lilith who apparently was supposed to be Adam’s first wife but refused to ‘lie under him’ and voluntarily walked out of Eden- which what a fucking power move! She was like ‘fuck no I’m not below you nor am I gonna sleep with you- bye bitch’- which apparently later on she’d represent lust and sexual desire??? Doesn’t make sense but I skimmed a bit

ANYWAYS! They’re basically calling her a demon that represents a heap of bad things cause she absorbed her sister and they wanted twins dangit! Also Lillies are the flower of death, sybolizing spirits gaining purity/innocence after death or something like that. So more death but better context! So she doesn’t mind so much when her friends call her that for short

Not that she has any cause ya girl’s INSCRIBED!!! And her epithet it ‘Crypt’

She makes Crypts (like how Percy makes her buildings but she only has 1)

And In her crypts are skeletons, and depending on how big it is, Lots of skeletons (‘skeletons are cool’ is my multiversal constant, if an alternate me doesn’t like them then she ain’t a me plain and simple)

Cause Crypts are used for 3 things, burying dead, storage, and apparently religious ceremonies? Idk what to do with that one honestly BUT I DO FOR THE OTHER TWO!

She can store things in her crypt, or summon skeletons to the material plane. It’s cool cause at first they were mindless but she kept summoning the same ones cause she got attatched and the thought of experiencing something with one only for it to stop existing after hurt her heart, so basically she accidentally gave them autonomy. She has 2 that have been with her since day 1 and she loves them dearly, crypts are where you bury important family members and stuff after all! She also has a hoard of animal skeletons, she feeds the town’s strays and so once they’re family they appear in her crypt after death. Those have the most sentience, since they had previous lives. She also tends to find strays on their last legs- comforting them and welcoming them to her family so they aren’t alone in their final moments. Then she buries them and they can decide if they’ll stay in the crypt, move in and reincarnate, or just move on/ stick around in the afterlife.

When it was discovered that she could conjure skeletons her already shaky reputation plummeted and everyone was afraid, there were even random rumors saying they were all victims of her murders which- she’s like 5 when this starts so wtf people??? She’s in your sight like all the time????? Anyways she only has 1 friend and that’s Chief (cause he’s also here and a living person) cause his epithet also makes him a outcast!

Things stayed like this- her regularly being sent to Eclipses house to learn how to be an upstanding citizen (really cause the parents are assholes who think they need to cleanse the house every week of their daughter’s ‘inherent evil’) she feed lots of strays here and even taught herself how to sew and make clothes for her skele-fam who liked to be discernible from one another to people other than her. Things come to a head when she’s about 11 and the family cat dies unexpectedly, they come home to find the cat dead and the mom is hysteric, she’s cradling the body when Lily feels a gentle but insistent, desperate nudge in the back of her head that tells her someone wants out of the crypt so she relents and lets the cat say it’s goodbyes. But when it rubbed against her and purred (or did the skeleton cat equivalent which is light bone rattling) the mother was disgusted and remarked it was devil magic and all that Jazz- condemning lily and ‘that thing!’

She was shipped off to Eclipse’s at the end of the day, having to pack as much as possible cause she was now banned from the house. The cat had lived a long healthy life and even though things were tense between the human family members they all loved and adored the cat, so it’s form had 2 tails (cause I’m a sucker). Initially it was going to watch over the family as a spirit but after the fiasco decided to stay in the crypt with lily and the others.

But sadly, word spreads and after 3 years of eclipse and her roomies trying their best they can’t give her the help/ life she needs. So she ends up getting adopted and moving a couples cities over. The fun thing is, Chief has been living with Eclipse too- cause he’s a runaway and the local neusance, but he was old enough to emancipate himself when she moved and found a place that was renting a stones throw away!

Some other fun facts;

-Lilith is selectively mute, all her crypt-mates learning asl with her so she doesn’t have to use a dry erase board 24/7

-I have a crossover idea with my CasSwap Bois, where they met online while the brothers were going through old PlayStation games and tried out online mode. And it just so happens that she moves to Ebott, it still takes like 5 years for them to start planning a meet up and realizing that ‘holy shit we’re practically neighbors!’ But wholesome ideas nonetheless

-Apparently Crypt and Catacomb are similies, eventually she can create a whole creepy-ass labrinth that she can set her skeles loose in (like the catacombs under Paris), and since she uses her epithet like all the time she’d be able to use stronger powers relatively fast cause training.

~someone catches her using an abandoned cemetery to summon her crypt and put a stray’s soul to rest? Labyrinth full of fog to confuse them and then suddenly everything’s gone and they’re still where they were (don’t know if she’d make a legit labrynth or an illusion of one, like you could wander for hours but then when she takes it awa you were just walking in circles in the same room)

-someone started a ghost legend about her random crypt appearances at the cemetery (she only makes a big ornate one for the whole respectful ceremonial vibe of a stray’s last moments/moving on, always in a cemetery/graveyard cause it takes a little less stamina there)

-she’s awkward so when someone catches her doing her thing she tells them to just call her ‘Stray’, cause like why would she tell them her actual name in this situation????

-this got longer then I thought

-OH YEAH ALSO! Apparently another Lilith thing was the thought that she murders kids so, that might’ve added to the wonky rep and rumors about the poor kid

#casual conversation #au ideas #not reading back over this before posting- we die like men

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fibrepassion · 5 years

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Metamorphosis

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Metamorphosis is an on-going project exploring the idea of how certain sounds transform a human being physically, emotionally and mentally. The project is made up of a theory that explores how the origins of certain sounds play a part in human transformation. The main idea of the theory addresses how one is taken back into a past time when hearing certain sounds, and even at times, is taken into the future.

Stemming from memories, dreams and images from our imagination, a short story follows the theory in order to put it into perspective and document its fundamental ideas. The story is based on a myriad of real experiences, but modified to relay a fantasy; it entails the transformations of a certain human being that is shaped by his surrounding sounds which shake him between his past, present and future.

The term metamorphosis refers to the biological transformation of an organism from one state to another. FIBRE’s project however, aims to relay the physical, emotional mental transformations experienced by humans from one state to another through sounds.

Theory

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Our relentless search for exciting, novel, and rewarding nourishment of the body, soul and mind is integral to our state of being. Our energy in making peace with the past takes precedence over forgetting it or even forgiving it. It should be acknowledged, embraced and should even evoke our sense of curiosity at times. Sounds are an essential element in our development as human beings and can relay a thousand messages that words cannot. Our appetite can be fed with the sounds of music that can both elevate and demote us physically, emotionally and mentally. How is our taste in sounds and music defined? When our subconscious rises to the surface, there dwell fragments of our written and unwritten history. Our conscious state is embellished with countless layers - awareness that our subconscious is lurking in a deep dark void shedding light on the conscious state, awareness of being aware, awareness of ‘self’ and awareness of ourselves progressing through multiple experiences. All these layers shape what sounds we embrace and what sounds we reject.

I was waiting for you somewhere

Then I came home, to my not-home

To a book marked with post-it notes

Instructing me

‘Meet me here’

‘Close the door’

‘Depart’

I came to meet you in the rain

You took me by the hand up some stairs

We sat down on seats neatly arranged in rows

We were told that through certain techniques and by making certain sounds we can sky rocket into space.

Unknowingly, with the constant flux of our minds, we rarely recognise that our taste for music is predetermined by sounds we’ve formerly known, loved or despised. We forever perceive and embody sounds delivering a whirlwind of questions. Why does this sound remind me of my mother? Why do I hate the sound of dripping water? Why do the sounds of sirens comfort me? At times the answer is obvious and often lies in a memory of the past – ‘the sounds of sirens remind me of crisp blue evenings in London.’ At other times, the answer needs a deeper understanding. Our metamorphosis through sound can be seen as both a connection and disconnection from our senses. The result is holistic; it is seen in how the mental and emotional affects us physically, the movement of our hands, our legs, our feet, our necks and the likes.

What we take from these physical, emotional and mental reactions is a profound understanding of our present state and of ourselves. These moments are able to fill the gap between our past and present putting together the fragments that were lost along the way. These experiences are tangible manifestations of the subconscious and the fleeting moments within our own history. At times it is difficult to decipher if what we think we remember is an honest account of actual events, or a memory of someone sharing the story with us, or if the missing pieces were left out purposefully. But what is certain is that there lies a true trace of these events, ideas or experiences. Similarly, with our taste in sounds, we are able to define and refine them based on what we want to keep and what we want to leave from our past. Our reactions to sounds help us define a new state of being – be it for a moment or be it a gradual step in the long-term project of self-discovery and understanding.

That late night jazz

Did I least expect,

To drop the chords and hear your voice

Consecutive verses and bridges in

These recordings now over-written by blank tracks

Now consumed by the black holes you left me with

What is it about you that leaves me confused?

White noise versus the mute

A street stump versus long steps

Your razzle versus my dazzle

We’ll see where our ruptured avenues will lead us,

But in the mean time, just let the photographs fall, Honey.

There is close to no definite answer or concrete explanation of this sensation so we envision our own through reinterpreting the old and branding it anew. At times our experiences are simply the fruitful means to an answer and an honest truth. Sounds are catalysts in elevating ideas through a very human, evolution like process. Sometimes it is our lonesome cowboy spirit that takes us to higher places, at other times it is when we travel around like a pack of wolves that we feel connected, integrated within a family. There are instances when we are taken into another realm, lasting a few moments only, and at other times these moments grow irrecoverable, forever leaving a stance on our being.

Changing colours on breaking news

Adrenaline on fire

The world is on fire

Hugging circles

Straight lines are a myth

Inhibitions left in the mews.

She’ll hold your hand,

In the blue and the white

But will not let go

When the clouds say goodnight

When they say speed carelessly, recklessly, messily.

On the stage, you will each take your stand

Knowing is fluctuating.

Hiding is dreaming.

Fighting is leaving.

Believing is lying.

Flying is dying.

Dying is living.

When the little hand and the big hand have reached their second round,

You’ll forget where you’re going.

The haunting revels in the emancipation,

Safety, as he shuts the door, shut the door.

Shut it quick before she hears that sound.

Short Story

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Whilst stirring the sugar into his morning coffee, in his aching sigh he would hear the sound of stainless steel knocking inside of a porcelain mug. The same sound he would hear under dark umbrellas sheltering strobe lights. It was happening again, he was getting sucked back into a black hole of memory through no fault of his own. The hairs on his arms were standing, like a plant growing towards the sunlight. His skin began to itch as his veins protruded nearer to the surface. He began to recall the tone of his mother’s voice. He remembered it as desperately sad in her banal day-to-day activities, and aggressively frustrated in the peaks of her day. The acridness in his mother’s voice and the acidic words that she would scream from rooftops was enough to send his skin crawling. Yet with this memory comes the image of boiling pots with the steam sizzling between the lid and the edge of the pan, as if lips, whispering stories of exhaustion and defeat. It was more like a shriek, the sound unforgettable and irreplaceable amidst the milky sunshine of hazy afternoons seeping into the white kitchen. A white kitchen wall blotched with irrecoverable yellow stains from her boundless cooking.

He would tie his shoelace and the feel of the cotton mixed with synthetic fibres was both unnerving and sensational. Perhaps it was symbolic of the beginning of his escape from home. This escape he would make daily right before his mother would remove the lid of the pan and the screeching would turn into a hefty exhale as the steam rose towards the ceiling. Dragging his feet out onto old white and red marble tiles decorated with cracks, it is the moment right after the gate screeches open then shuts, that he is ensued by the blissful silence of the street. A reflex, his eyes would squint fighting the airless light that dryly radiated from the sun.

In this daily ritual, he would see his father sitting on a white plastic chair holding a cigarette with a brown tip, accumulating ash on the end that would helplessly fall whilst in conversation with the neighbours. But for him, it was still silent, and the conversation was a mere murmur coming in from a distance in slow waves. He would stand on the chipping steps in front of the gate to his home for a minute absorbing the silence before moving further. As if in slow motion, the mumbling of soft banter would be crudely interrupted by the screech of the leg of the chair scratching against the uneven concrete. His father gets up, and time has come back to its normal pace, the haze of the sunlight has cleared out and the air is bland. Tasteless. His father’s hazel eyes would inform, instruct and pester him to go back inside, telling him to come up and sit with them at the table. All he could hear is the sound of his father’s lips parting, the dry swallow in his throat as a result of his endless smoking and the sound of his slippers roughly embracing the ground. Behind him, the slam of the metal gate would leave an after taste of blood in his mouth with the vibration and echo of each bar on the edge of falling out of its socket.

He was coming back but still felt tethered to the ground of his kitchen floor as he was slowly disconnecting from the sound of steel and porcelain harmonising in brown liquid. He was back. He felt lethargic and drained of energy. Yet he pushed himself to get on with his day. Dragging himself to stand under his showerhead, he turned the handle and the instant sound of water crashing into the tub jolted him back into a vague place of memory. His muscles started to spasm and his whole body tensed up. They were trying to tell him something, to fill in the gaps between a former time he knew and the time he was in now. A gap that was decorated by various hues of grey suits that defined him from 9am to 5pm, and that was abruptly stripped apart by no light and black ceilings in the late night hours that freed him. He was going back, it was happening again.

It was many years ago when he was on the commute from his home in the country to the city, that he now remembered being on a rickety bus that was the only means to his freedom - he had remembered falling asleep on the journey. It was a sunny morning but it was raining, the Gods were crying for him. He remembered his dream when he momentarily fell asleep – he was falling face up into a pit of fire. It was all black and there were only the orange and yellow flames of the blaze beneath him. It seemed never-ending until he woke up to find his head resting on the window of the bus and the sun glaring into his eyes. He could only hear the sound of the rain knocking on the top of the bus and spitting at his window. Why were they crying for him? They understood his desire to be free from the constraints of the country and also how little he could do to grab that freedom he longed for.

There he was, awake again and back under his showerhead being beaten by the scorching hot water. He was back and felt both revived and wearied. Revived, as he understood something he had let go amiss before, and wearied as to why it took so long to understand what was happening to him. It was in this instant that he understood better the man he had become today, at times devoid of sentiment and empathy and at other times, enriched with love and joy when he remembered how free he was. How he was so in control of his life now and relied on no one. He felt weary about the fact that the gap in time between his youth and adulthood was so unclear, shrouded by a mist of unfathomable events and reactions to those events. How he would desperately seek the adoration of others who gave him no face and how he would reject the ones who showered him with love.

He was out of his door with this thought still marinating in his mind and his red tie limiting the fresh air he should have been breathing in. The racket of cars and sirens swirling in and out of roads between gigantic metallic structures holding the homes of people he found liberating and saddening. Was it possible that behind these high towering windows rest people stomaching their past and present striving to make comprehensible their future? Or was it just him? It was when he was crossing the road and a car slammed the breaks, burned the ground with its tyres and its bonnet glided across a signpost that he was instantly immobilised. The sound of colliding metal shook him and made him shudder from his spine up to his temples. Everything around him got lost in a grey fog as the sound resonated through his nerves, seeping in and out of his bloodstream. He was going back.

It was during his daily escape that he spent one of the evenings sitting with his thoughts and leaning on the front of his car in the fresh and crisp air of the country. The sound of silence was partially penetrated by the singsong dance of crickets hiding yet calling to be recognised. His thoughts would merge with theirs and the line of difference between him and the crickets was thin. Two beams of light in the mars black night intrude on his vision from a distance. He clarifies that the light is coming from a car as the sound of its roaring engine makes itself known. The lights are getting closer and are glaring at him from a shorter distance now, the beams more circular and large as if two moons haunting him. With no more than several seconds to absorb what is happening, before he knows it, in an instant his legs are crushed between the oncoming car and his own. The heavy thud of the car overtakes the slight sound of his knees crackling after they collaborated in synchronisation. In his head, the sound had submerged into a thick liquid running through his body with the heat rising to his ears. No longer translucent but rather the sound had become opaque and ubiquitous.

The sheer force of gravity is what kept him pinned to the concrete floor of the street. He was back and was awakened by the racketing horns of cars demanding him to move, to get out of the way. 800 909 727 were the numbers flickering across his eyes and he could not fathom why or where they came from. He walked on leaving the mess behind him, as if a trace of evidence with 800 909 727 lingering in the background. He was being ensued by a dark void as he walked on through the city, crossing streets, passing strangers on benches accompanied by their ham sandwiches, filtering the sounds of chewing mouths. He could feel his tie being dragged behind him as he struggled through the wind as if in a grey sandstorm with black and white lines emanating from zebra crossings into mid-air. The numbers were spitting themselves at him, 800 909 727 – and he landed.

At the edge of the shore, not too long ago he was spread out across the white sand of his countryside’s near-by beach. Only his feet were immersed into the water that would hug his toes and spread itself between them. The sputtering sound of the waves breaking and forming took precedence over the distant sound of parents yelling at their laughing children. With every break of the water, a silence arose lasting a mere instant before the waves would roar and reform themselves. Almost in a trance, he would look down past his chest, stomach and thighs and see the number 8 and 0 forming as the water washed away around a tribe of seashells as if in ceremony. It was the 9th of September and it was 7:27 in the morning that he now remembered he had washed himself out across the shore. The pink and white seashells that encircled him were hissing at him, telling him he will be okay, that they understood his empty spirit - his empty spirit that would one day be enriched by perhaps trivial passions and the faint touch of others. A spirit that will one day be fully engrossed with and by another who would archive her trivial passions alongside his.

He was back to his metallic reality when he found himself sitting at his desk in a cubicle disturbed by the sounds of paper being picked up by printers and drooling them out from another end. A phone was ringing and its sound was piercing to his eardrum tightening his bones and cutting off his supply of air. His lungs suddenly grew minuscule as he was gasping for breath. The melody of a voice answering the phone quickly revived him and filled his chest with oxygen. He was quickly lapsing, going and coming back in a labyrinth of time with his feelings spiralling out of control. It was unfathomable until he realised that the voice that saved him was so sweet when it ushered pleasurable greetings and compliments into the phone. It reminded him of her and he understood how it was her who was now filling his heart with sweet somethings.

Battling his way back home after the day dibbed and dabbed frolicking with time, he shortly found himself at his front doorsteps. He treaded on a leaf stuck to the wet concrete ground and the crackle took him back aggressively - back to the street he grew up in in the country. That night was blue and his eyes were entwined with the light shining onto the dark wet street coming from underneath the umbrella of his daily corner shop. It was the only sign of life that night. All he could hear was the buzzing, frying and knocking of moths against the bright white tube. He looked up and saw his balcony, the balcony that his mum would sit at drinking her coffee every morning watching over her husband down in the street trying to make up for his lost time with her. That balcony and its never-ending stories always subdued him as he sat staring into blank poor lives hustling beneath him along his small road. When he looked up he felt an emptiness and a blank understanding of his mother’s love for him. He heard the flick of a switch and his balcony turned into a warm shade of orange decorated with black shadows of hanging clothes along the drying line. The silhouette of his mother swayed past and approached the front of the balcony. High above him, she was now much closer but moving slowly. Yet again, time caught up with him as the sound of her ring colliding with the metallic bar of the balcony sent an echo down the street and jolted him back to his now reality.

He found himself lying down on the wet steps of his front door when she nudged him and woke him up.

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