hi hello again! this is a page for a writing challenge im doing with some friends.
check em out:
everyone has sliiightly different variations of the same basic ruleset. my goals are:
themes:
decades after the scream, the flowers bloom and the air is filtered by the leaves and the dirt, not oxygen machines. the oldcity has a few buildings are taken care of as a museum to the past, but the force of weathering has taken care of the rest. robots sputter about offering surprisingly decent coffee to passersby. eventually, the biomes figured themselves out. some plants like the wet tropics, and others like the dry and dusty north. the overgrowth is carefully pruned from the tracks to allow shaky and shitty trains to take people to where they need to go.
inspired by ollie's jan 01 and some blaseball worldbuilding from ages ago.
one time i posted about blaseball, and got "cmon sports do the thing" as a comment. first off, blaseball is a video game slash internet community storytelling vehicle. second off, that's so dismissive if i were actually posting about sports. same with comments i kept getting about “sportsball” during the world cup. it isn’t obvious that i like being active. i find it hard to justify when it feels like wasting time. it's fun to struggle to climb a tree, or get winded after two bouts of sparring, or need to stop to drink water every five minutes on a hike. but these are all aspects of being active that are silly and joyful alone are embarrassing around other people. fannish community on the internet loves to position itself against organized sports (sportsball, am i right) and outdoor activity (yucky sweaty or associations with bullying), unless hockey rpf yaoi is involved, i guess. the backlash in the subculture against this aspect of the mainstream is misaligned. but like, fuck it! watching baseball on zoom with my friend was just as fun as watching doctor who! where else am i supposed to see a lazy river in the shape of texas!
clouds clouds clouds
clouds clouds clouds
wind wind wind wind wind wind
snow
snow snow fall
snow snow fall fall
snow fall fall
fall
bus bus bus bus bus bus
stop stop stop stop stop stop
shield
shield
shield
shield i
shield
shield i
i
i i
i blow blow blow
blow blow i blow across across across across across across across across
i blow blow
the river river the river river
river the river river the river
over the over the over the over the
over the bridge the bridge over
over bridge bridge over
bridge bridge
to you
the up down up down needle and thread. the first people to make sattelites threaded copper wires into the tapestry of pioneer 9 wire feelings guts n gore. milkweed seedpod spun into brittle yarn. flax becomes linen. carded washed gilled combed. heavy woolen animals penned and dyed sheared. fiber spun on a drop spindle for centuries. worsted. heavy tapestries drape over the cold stone walls of the castle. fingers carding through hair. delicate lace spun by hand for hours. heavyset cables running under the ocean. birds sitting on the wires overhead. core memory woven terameters away overheard in pioneer 9.
it's been a year and a half since his accident, but he was back to work a few months later 'cause galactic economies stop for no one. long gone are the days of telling tale of his contributions to the planet's secsystem, and even longer gone are the glory days of setting up the linking networks on his home planet. but the days keep passing by, so he walks to his vehicle, one leg dragging slightly behind, and opens the door with his bad side to practice his grip strength. navigates to work to re-refines his motor control. they send him bottles in thanks. after work he goes to physio, then sits on the couch. and holovids flicker on screen, his phone is losing battery. he used to run errands on the way home, but he's got no need for that anymore. the dog barks and maybe he'll fix himself a dinner of grains and some greens from some aquaponics farm on the agrimoon instead of the tiny old family garden. god his back hurts too much to keep digging up weeds day after damn day. on his days off he sits and waits in bed, streaming music from the linkings. his dad used to work in the plants pouring metal slag, company continent type situation. the two of them talk every couple months, but gets weird with the different orbit cycles. his father was a man who built something with his hands, and who is he? his own kid is somewhere offworld, they haven't kept in touch. it would be better if he were alone, he muses. after work he pours himself another complimentary algae wine. waits, and then he'll
he said he's gonna. i mean. he told me he wants to. where am i supposed to go now?
inspiration for laur's jan 12 and ollie's jan 13
wizard council 2024 banned potion list
wizard council 2024 banned spell list
wizard council 2024 unbanned potion list
wizard council 2024 unbanned spell list
inspired by tumblr user cryptotheism's long running bit
inspiration for alice,'s jan 13
inspired by laur's jan 10
inspired by alice, and knees deep by the beths
when mornings observation wakes up, he will he lightdecades away from earth, on a ship he has only ever seen in military briefings.
beep beep.
beep beep.
and slowly sound will filter into his veins. the oxygen recyclers will hum, low and steady. the higher, synthier radiation wave alerts will ebb and flow.
then. a beat. so loud it will rattle his body, the first sound inside in millenia, or, since last night. a gasp. his lungs will wail for air. another impossibly loud beat. electricity will pulse in his brain. nature’s way of keeping meat fresh.
the latches holding him will click. the stasis air mixture will hiss out of his holding pod as the ka-chunk of the airtight seal breaking open vibrates the molecules around him. his bed will move him into sitting position with a piano-like notification.
he will never hear the waves crash against the shore again. he will never hear the seagulls caw over seattle again. he will never hear himself order another breakfast sandwich again. he will never hear the beautiful voice of the boy calling his name to hand him his sandwich again. he should’ve asked for his number before he was conscripted.
inspired by on sleep detachment by jack de quidt (from the friends at the table soundtrack)
dear reader,
P.O. Box 364
192 PLACEHOLDER
Rocklin, CA 95677
UNITED STATES
i hope this postcard finds you well (or at all, the navigation of the postal system is a difficult feat). how's reality felt for you, lately? are you comfortable where you are? any rocks in your metaphysical shoe? i've been dreaming of the future. dreaming of utopia, even, relishing in crafting a fantasy so profound i will never see its end. are you mortal, my friend? will you outlast the delays of this postcard? you're the centre of this vision i've crafted; i dream of us, together at last.
yours,
me
by alice, as a part of author swap week
find my writing on alice,'s page here
Memories whir out of your control. You don’t remember how you came to stand here. You forget the image of the glassed planet, the tower. Your journey is gone. Now the dunes are as they once were, the dead world undies, and you recall that this is how it has always been. Your mind flitters out of your grasp, as pieces of paper in the wind. Clutching the watch, why are you holding it? You think, scramble for anything to remind you, and your mind aches. The broken glass, the frozen arm, the exposed gears, they hurt to look at. And yet, you are unable to let go.
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part 4 of a writer's telephone game as a part of author swap week
When you’ve been on the same road for a long time it’s hard to change your trajectory. Harder, even, than if you hadn’t been moving at all. Do you trust that you knew what you were doing when you started? That those who pushed you this way knew? When you’ve been on the road long enough you might not remember how it used to look, that the asphalt hadn’t always been cracked and the signs weren’t always rusted, and maybe this road isn’t the one you started on. Maybe one of the exits years ago had been yours all along.
by laur as a part of author swap week
find my writing on laur's page here
i want flesh that can heal and the change of nature, or the other way around? not sure. metal corrodes and wires can get tangled. i want to trade my joinery for flesh and tendons and if i get lost in the mountains someone will take me home and warm me up instead of leaving my body to get brittle and buried. hello? no one is left in my halls i want to join you please take me with you. no where are you taking that shuttle i'm going to fall into the star why are you leaving me behind
my feet hit the floor of this barn-turned-pub, and it ricochets through my bones and into my hands. my chest is covered in sweat, but i hardly notice as you swing me. the musicians seem delighted to finally play full speed after laughing at our first deerlike attempts. watch this: step step jump kick jump kick step step twirl our way around the circumference of the barn.
after this song, i'll take another drink from my cider, refill my water, and stand in the rain with the midgies, frogs, and all of you to cool off. but first, lets dance.
inspired by laur's feb 3
hello little guy! you're just like me! i mean, you were alive a long long time ago but a long long time from now, we'll be the same. you are just a strange little shrimp, a story of human error and misidentification. kind of like me! i like you. look at you, bendy little frills (radiodont trunk appendages) and big ol eyes (compound eyes). i think you're a little goofy looking, but i bet your mother thought you were very handsome. your tail fin of three lobes captivate me and i find your eyestalks enchanting. love this animal. the not-quite-a-shrimp.
metal creaks, and the sound of movement surrounds you. a rattling. listen. you can't see it, but you're speeding past a countryside you've never seen. listen. something about the timezone weirdness holds you in a spell, awake. and here you are, writing words that will never reach anyone's eyes. hold onto this. these starchy sheets and weird plasticy sleep mask have no hold on you. there is an anticipation, from are to will be. you claimed the top bunk with no room to maneuver. listen. so ephemeral. so here you are, curled up, listening to the sermon of sister rust.
inspired by sermon of sister rust by jack de quidt (from the friends at the table soundtrack) and the train
"You know, seems from where I'm standing, you're running a scam."
She laughs, and pulls out a chair. "But you're here, aren't you?"
I tilt my head in acknowledgement, and sit in the chair opposite her. She looks expectantly.
"Oh um. my mom made this back when she lived planetside." I give her the hand-painted bowl, carefully cupping it in two hands. "We used it to hold fruit, our hex will look empty without it."
She moves her shawl away from her hands, and her hands mirror mine as she takes it and sets it gently on the cloth-covered table.
inspired by lucah's feb 9
omitted for privacy
imspired by alice,'s feb 10
Remember, this is history. We are scientists, and we must remain peaceful and diplomatic, lest the militaries of this planet wrest this opportunity from us. We will approach and observe. We will not make brash assumptions.
Departments of ecology are advised to work together with departments of astronomy to make observations and collect external biometric data, rather than collect samples. The goal is to generate hypotheses as to the type of planet these species come from. The end goal is to narrow our own list of known planets to those that fit the parameters suggested by the physiology of these species.
Video, audio, and spectrometer surveillance should be set up within the first 48 hours of the discovery of contact sites. This will allow verification of direct observations by those offsite. This will, crucially, allow collation of data from the different contact sites.
We are unaware if these species has faculty of language, though we must assume language in order to pursue diplomatic relations, rather than militaristic ones. Linguistic capabilities will be analyzed through surveillance feed rather than direct elicitation, in line with the philosophy of observation, not action.
In the interest of open knowledge, while direct visual and audio contact will be limited to scientists with enough prior work in their fields, the surveillance feeds will be released to the public on a 24 hour delay. Should there be an emergency, this feed may be paused, however a declaration of emergency must be agreed upon unanimously by the principal investigators of each continent. Security will be minimal, and we trust the public, our supporters, to prevent danger to our visitors.
As this is an evolving situation, we urge everyone to observe, rather than act. Once we have enough information to ascertain intent, we may then proceed.
inspired by to be taught if fortunate by becky chambers and arrival
part 1 of a collaborative worldbuilding challenge as a part of author swap week
Early morning. Tentative, golden rays peek in. I love being awake so early. I Do Not love waking up.
swoosh pat pat pat splash scritch scritch scritch
Thinking of dentbots.
splash pat pat pat
Down to the kitchen. The sunlight, more confident now, lets itself in. So does the cold.
splassssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh putter putter beeeeeep
Kettle heating, now to pick the brew. Happy or boring?
hmmmmmmmmmmmm
Sorry Dr. Chef, but I'm with Kizzy on this one. Selection made. Tea, earl gray, hot.
riiiiiiiip
Packaging open, sachet out. Now the second big decision of the morning. Drink defining. Experience crafting. Not to be taken lightly.
Am I feeling homey, thick walled from up north, diner worthy. Maybe a little silly, plus five to sarcasm, thanks papa. Maybe I'll try the Radchaai style, more surface area, faster cooling.
Who am I kidding.
pluck
Simple, solid black, lightweight but not delicate. Almost a hex, two too many sides, buddy. You're just right for me though.
Thoughts drift, waiting for a low, bubbly rumble. Busy mornings I imagine popping a pod of pepper. Lazy ones, a mug of mek. Today's neither.
beeep beeep beeeeeep
Not so loud, friend. There are still sleepers in the house.
poooooooouuuuuuuuuuur
ahhhhhhhhh
The warmth rises, bone thawing, shoulder easing, skin burning, one more second and I'll switch to the handle.
Just one sip. I know it's still hot, but did I ever tell you how I got the nickname: the dragon of the oof ow owie?
Worth.
Grab my nook and it's to the egg chair with me. Just an hour curled up and I swear I'll get up. I turn it on, e-ink flashing to life, and sink back.
If you took a page from every book, a transistor from every nook, a crystal from every tv screen, and a driver from every speaker I've consumed media through. If you laid them out; Dried them; Mulled them to powder and suspended them in boiling water.
You'd have brewed a cup of me.
by ollie as a part of author swap week
find my writing on ollie's page here
by lucah as a part of author swap week
find my work on lucah's page here
cellophane mechanism candy wrapper time sheets milk thistle humble brag elemental warlord hemlock colleseum crescent moon frontend developer advertise here massachusetts avenue one way forever endeavor speed limit harbor headquarters gamer grindset in memorium violin solo crystalline statuette multitrack drifting silly billy general affairs misty eyed river sea romeo juliet stellar seam quintessential acquiescence flint flicker stone mare isometric exercise miso soup clarifying questions point two warm light station stop cube sweep seldom wanted emergency exist clean exit smooth operator goal scored nervous habit creature feature lung extension ameliorate deteriorate slug blast stand clear crystal eyes solar flare the end
val, it's not space magic. maybe it's a little space magic, but not anymore than like, the miracle of conciousness. like okay, you pick up a half empty bottle of that shitty algae beer we had on moisi station, and the second you pick it up, before you take a swig, you know exactly how much is left. you didn't look at it, you just felt it and you know. and you're an engineer, we both know that that's a crazy about of fluid dynamics and calculus going on under the hood. but you're not conciously calculating that out like mull would. you just know, somehow. so when i'm trying to find who our dead drop contact is, or when we'll run into dani's crew, or where the alarm under the computer is, that's me picking up a bottle of the future, and just knowing what's in it.
messing with the gniwyks probabilities is kind of where this metaphor falls apart. i guess it's like flipping the bottle and landing it. or pouring exactly one glass? going to waterfill in the middle of the night and counting one-two-three-four- until your cup is filled perfectly? not everything is like something else.
inspired by ollie and our stars without number campaign and "jessica gives me a chill pill" by angie sijun lou.
inspiration for ollie's mar 30 author swap
dear mr. mayor,
we should all celebrate in the town commons that it's a leap yeap. leaping is a form of locomotion in which the entire body is airborne with a long aerial phase and high launch angle, according to wikipedia. so i think it's really really special that it's a lear year. so i think you should make it a special holiday with a parade that only happens every four years and everybody jumps because it's a leab year. and then people do all sorts of tricks and then there's a big speech and we all do something special.
i was on the train that made your schoolbus wait on your way home. you were on the plane that i chased with my neighbors. i entered the subway and you slipped behind me. you’re the fist-sized river rock and i’m the tree nearby. i used to think an alligator lived in the storm drain and i had to feed it sticks from the gutter, remember when i told you that? we diligently dropped pebbles and grass through the grates, and informed our bullies that we were very busy, actually. you’re the rickety swingset and i’m the rusty metal chain.
written on the train
wind wistles through the hoodoos. red dust kicks up.
i raise my hands and the wind follows my command to dramatically billow my robes.
light pools around my arms and i gather it into my hands, and then clench my fists.
my opponent crosses cyr arms and the air shimmers in a circular motion.
right arm up, “large”, swing it diagonally, “saw”, meet both hands and push it forward and yell, “BLAST!”
a large saw materializes and shoots off, but i get no time to admire the trajectory as i run for a pillar to hide behind. i hear a crash and rocks falling.
i take a peek, and ce begins casting, but i’m too far to make out the handsigns, or the sigils ce’s crafting.
shit. i’m out of defense mana for another shield. i grab a fistfull of dirt and shove it into my mouth, the dust sticking on my tongue. i swallow. my mouth is as dry as this desert now. i flip through my prewritten sigil cards. the downside to not having to expend the mana now, is that i can’t make the impact range of these spells any larger.
i would say i regret expending the mana on robe billowing, but presentation is half my grade, and in the field it’s half the battle.
i’m running out of time. i spin out from my pillar and tap the shield sigil in time to block the locus of a square rice grenade and a greater slug blast, but it isn’t large enough to prevent the extradimensional poisonous slugs from swarming my legs. luckily, ce didn’t summon the venomous ones.
pain blooms in my right shoulder. the poison slugs were a ploy, because i turn to see an intricately carved dagger buried into my flesh. i screw my eyes shut, and try to remember what i saw on the handle. enough triangles to be fire maybe? i snap the fingers of my opposite hand and combust enough hydrogen and oxygen for a gulp of water, and use it to push the fire magic out of my veins, to isolate it in my shoulder.
i open my eyes in time to see and hear the unmistakable words, “power… word…” and a dark crackle threads through my opponent’s fingers. i cannot let cyr hands touch my body.
i drop low and swing my leg in a hook kick to force cyr into the ground. as long as i don’t hear or see the final word i won’t be affected by whatever the spell ends up being. i slam my hands into the ground, pain lacing through my shoulder, and i churn my hands within the earth. i manage sign gravity before i lose malleability, and a shockwave pulls a nearby tent rock sideways and drives it into my opponent’s corpse.
proctors uninvisiblize themselves in the nosebleeds of the exam hall arena.
but not before my opponent utters, “unalice”.
the rubble clatters around me as i stand back up, nameless.
wrote this one on the road, thank you to co-conspirators laur, cat, and alice, for the spell name ideas and finding this funny
inspired by alice,'s jan 19 and feb 15
inspiration for alice,'s mar 11
while dueling has been a storied practice in places of arcane academia, they also appeal to nobility due to the connotations of chivalry and demands of satisfaction. of course, there must be some form of arbitration when a wizard is slighted. however, the duel is an archaic mode of demanding satisfaction, due to their brutality and mortality.
i acknowledge that the presidors of this court have created countermeasures to such violence. however, measures such as the council banning spells (hereto: wizard council 2024) has been a pithy lay on hands in response to a severe wound. these bans do not undo the harm that has been done, and, in the common case that a duel-certified cleric is not onsite, the harm cannot be undone at all. furthermore, these unilateral bans disregard the potential non-violent uses of a spell (hereto: sr. wz. akash breatholm's monograph on the medicinal use of power word unalice in the removal of dead names).
notably, duels have been used as a quite brutal and classist form of examination. as an example to this point, practical casters will be expected to have to perform great feats of violence to be granted the title of wizard, disregarding the use for practical casters in extensions of society (hereto: examination transcripts recorded in the specubellum). while localized spell circles tend to create auras of immortality around exam halls, these deaths cause trauma, especially when they typically occur so early in a caster's life.
despite regional bans on the practice of dueling, the high court will rarely charge wizards of academic caliber, and will disproportionately reprimand wizards of folk training (hereto: "one law for the rich and another for the poor"). wizard duels ought to be banned by the high court throughout the realm.
as written by sr. wz. erlenmaia er
inspiration for alice,'s mar 11
the planet spins out of my vision as alarms blare. lights above my dash flash red. my hands are clenched around the throttle and steering, locked in place after the last hack before i got punted out of orbit. i curl my right ring finger, reaching for the emergency flare button. i send it out, but it feels futile. anyone who would come to my aid was already on this mission. when the corps refuses to invest in e-defense, i get stranded in a death spiral out of orbit because i have no steering. here and now, im totally fucked.
when i think of peace, i think of the mosaic of the sky, tiles broken up by a boundary of bare tree branches. this mosaic appears to me in different ways, whether its bright blue or dusky pink or a grey afternoon or an inky night. they're like fingers, grasping for the upper atmosphere. in six months time, that will be their purpose. to drag the sun's light down to earth. maybe hold an owl. i arrange my limbs on the forest floor, or on pavement, or on a boulder, and stare upwards at the negative space between the branches.
the action inspired by a john green video i watched years ago
there will come a day (very very soon) that everything will change. i have rituals set in place as weak moorings, my diary entries every morning and my showers every night. but there will be a day when everything will be thrown askew (very very soon!) and these ropes will snap and the bottles will spill off the cabin shelves. motivation is momentum perpetuated by fear. a sticky note in a book. i try to get out of my routine, but my feet take me where they expect me to go. oh god! the water is rising (very very soon!!).
inspired by lucah's mar 17
i’m tired, i say, there's a train home in a few; so you start getting ready to leave
you turn away from the station so i do as well; actually, i say, lets walk
matching step with you keeps gravity in line; i return to earth with every thump my boots on pavement
we turn left and you point out a new building; change is in the air
the sting of my left heel, the wind in our hair; our conversation dissipating into the sky
spiraling with the clouds, moving overhead and past the moon
blue and purple with sparkles
Through the winter, the evergreen endures. The cold, dark months are full of whites and greys and browns and blacks, and green. When we think of green we think of spring and summer; green is the colour of life, and winter the death before the rebirth. Still, the evergreen perseveres, lending warmth and fullness in solidarity with the bare hibernating trunks around it. When branches start to bud, and flowers to bloom, and the whole spectrum of colour returns, the evergreen will be patiently waiting for them.
by laur as a part of author swap week
find my writing on laur's page here
They send out signals, of various different frequencies and methods to find any sign of life. They hear nothing in return. They build their telescopes and later their ships, to learn and explore. When disaster strikes their planet, self-inflicted, they build their ships and fly away. Mass evacuations of their home planet demonstrate their inequalities and biases. The people who get to leave first, on the ships reinforced with the best materials, versus those who are left behind, banding their abilities and resources to escape. It's fascinating. It's admirable. For decades they move, never fully being able to settle on a planet quite like theirs. Others attempt to journey back and resettle their own planet. Others continue their voyage outward, cycling their resources to last as long as possible. Their curiosity, and their fear, motivates them onward. They run. They observe and document new worlds, they invent more sustainable ways to continue their flight, and they create.
Though remanded to the far reaches of space, they know they are not here alone.
Because I am right behind them. Following them every step of the way.
Does it scare them? To realize no matter where they go, no matter how far they warp, the moment they pause to breathe I will be there? That I will hunt them down to every last corner of the galaxy? A playful thump outside the hull terrifies the creatures inside. I cast a shadow over the window and watch those organisms huddle in fear. The fear is natural, just a fundamental of their evolution. Their petty differences exacerbate in my presence, their tensions grow and hackles raise. When I stalk them down I make them bare their teeth and ambitions. Their evolution makes no mistakes, they are afraid of being alone. Do they understand why?
a secret prompt swap as a part of author swap week, i was given the sentence though remanded to the far reaches of space, they know they are not here alone. by lucah
inspired by record of a spaceborn few by becky chambers and:
As I walked down the street towards the business district, bits of the road flaked off like skin, sidewalks growing like fingernails. The whole surface seemed to gently rise and fall as though it was breathing and it was, steam gently curling out of sewers, the physical rhythm of the city. Ruby red blood pooled in the curb cuts while scabs grew over the potholes. We've hurt it. We've done so much harm to it. We need to stop. I'll make it stop. I continue my march towards a new age.
Please. Listen to me. Oh thank god you're stopping. You can hear me. Please, could you spare a nickel? It's nothing much, just a nickel.
Do you know what it's like? To be trapped, to be imprisoned, sentenced to this hell that you can never escape? It's so loud down here. You can never escape it, they won't let you stay still. Do you know what it's like to be calling, begging, pleading to be seen and be so completely ignored? Eyes pass over me; I'm invisible, I'm unperceivable, I'm nothing. They cannot hear my cries. God, please, just witness me. Don't leave me. All I need is a nickel.
by alice, as a part of author swap week (horror themed!)
find my writing on alice,'s page here
by ollie as a part of author swap week, inspired by our stars without number campaign and a direct response to psion: precognitive
find my writing on ollie's page here
sometimes i close my eyes and think remember this remember this remember this! and it works, i close my eyes and see the red emergency lights on the schoolbus on the way back from a tournament in cambridge, or the pavement outside after my fourth birthday, or the swish of hillary hahn's dress during her solo, or the tadpoles in a puddle after pouring rain on skye, or the shadow of the train during sunset. is a life just a sequence of blinks?
the second is always ephemeral, and any way to capture it is transformative.
i capture a moment like a mosquito in amber, deliberately and delicately. and it's beautiful! it really is! i keep telling myself that transformation is good! i can take a picture, i can record some audio, i can recreate this exact second in paint or ink. pinning the wings of an insect is difficult, it feels bad to imperfectly preserve an instant in formaldehyde. but i'm trying. clicking a camera is preparing a slide for the microscope. writing feels like doing taxidermy on time. is it working? i hope so. i'll keep doing it, i'll keep turning my life into a natural history museum.
happy april fools :P (yes, it's the link you're expecting)
So much time passes on public transport. It’s the perfect time to relax, to think, and I really wish I could indulge the opportunity. Unless a certain leg of the journey is particularly long, I rarely find I can do much more than sit. I would love to spend this empty time, but my attention stays glued to which place we’ve yet to pass. We’re in the inbetween!!
Unease sometimes lifts with familiarity, as pt journeys are often familiar, bus lines etching their grooves further into my skull. It’s oh so personal, I may not know the names of the streets but I do know the feel of the turns the routes take. Relaxation is instead replaced with internal map-making. Can these two sit side-by-side? The door only creeps open, slightly.
Is it right to tune to music? Do I let my focus sit with the rattles of the carriage? I want to decompress, let passive thought dissolve the walls I’ve built for focus’ sake. Again my eyes glaze over to the window outside.
by lucah as a part of (belated) author swap week
find my writing on lucah's page here
the silver is tasteless. the crowning achievement, and shelled nonetheless. the exoskeleton turns red. the summit so far away, the telephone rings. idolization, isolation. remain on a pedestal. the feedback echoes, the blood rains, and fire burns. and she remains at the top, above it all, except well. her. and her stupid, perfect smirk. bubblegum, pop.
she reasons she made it here out of skill, real talent. and a little incineration luck. she looks to her right, and up, to the gold medal and thinks, she got there cause she was blessed. and cause she's hot. nothing else to it.
the sky keeps getting darker, and the rays filter through the clouds so beautifully. we aren't sure if the last bead has disappeared. so let's kick up some sand and stare into the sun.
and then it's extremely obvious. the world experiences a flash-sunset and the lake becomes still and the gulls become silent and the crowd starts cheering.
a blue mottled sky, like many skies, blends with the still water of the lake. now when we feel the tug, glasses off, a perfect gray-blue disc surrounded by a white crown fades in and out of the haze. and calls.
song by ari. it's not online yet.
kzzh
"Kronos, Nairobi"
Mwangi answers the radio, "Go ahead"
kzzh
"Back up check on solar array 1 over."
"Roger, Nairobi, Kronos. Checking solar array 1, over."
I check my tethers and signal okay back to the control room window. I breathe out. I begin climbing the ladder rungs, clipping my aux tether to each check point. Just like climbing on Earth.
I reach the summit, and radio "Kronos, EVA 3".
kzzh
Mwangi responds. "EVA 3, Kronos, check on solar array 1".
kzzh
I answer, "Kronos, EVA 3, roger". And so I start the slow process of the check up on solar array 1. Yesterday, all of the arrays stopped performing nominally.
kzzzzzzzzzzh
"Kr...... Kro...... robi...... issues here at comman...... looks like we........"
kzzh
Mwangi answers, "Nairobi, Kronos"
I check the bolts. One, two, three, looking good so far.
Mwangi repeats, louder, as if that would have any bearing on radio comms, "Nairobi, Kronos"
kzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzh
"......obi seems like the ............ keep attempting..... access to your diag......"
kzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzh
"EVA 3, Kronos. There's something going on with ground control's access. We're on our own."
I shakily inhale. Give a thumbs up in acknowledgement, and get to checking the spacer bars between the photovoltaic cells.
i never had a root beer float until i was 20 years old. on a july day aimlessly wandering about town and drinking out of rain barrels, i ended up with a soda cup overflowing with more ice cream than i could possibly eat while walking. it's sweet? in a way that doesn't turn into a strange aftertaste like so many artificial sweets do. not sure if it's sunshine distilled, but it's close. it's as july has dry grass and tart blackberries and mosquitos and fireflies. something about it belongs in glass bottles or metal cans, flowing crisp and cold.
I knew you once. I knew the curve of your back. The grin on your face. Your favorite ratio of berries for wojapi. I knew the shape of your hand held in mine.
And now I know your absence.
I walk through this cavern. A chance message in a wisp of the wind, I hear a bell chime.
When we met, I was a robin perched on a pine branch. I was young then. Still learning how a beak can be used to pierce fish or pick berries, depending on the shape. I hadn't known any mages other than my mother, and then I saw you. You were in the woods, complaining to yourself about some academy.
I instantly wanted to know you. I changed into a form that could speak to you, and the branch promptly cracked under my new weight. You shrieked when I fell.
I am reminded of this, when I hear a bell echo miraculously, through each turn to reach me.
As our friendship evolved, you went on escapades to the forest to learn moss scrying from my mother, to play chase around the beach, to kiss me under the lake. You kept your double-life under wraps. At first.
"Little Bell," the breeze whispers, "The archmage execution failed, just as I foretold."
You planned to confront the academy archmage, you said his new arcanopath infrastructure would corrupt the water mana. He blamed wild mages for corrupting you.
And that was the last I had heard from you, until now.
"As you fell into my life, my splintered soul now falls into yours. Find me."
I know you. I know the sound of your voice. I know the tempo of your pace. I know the shape of your body. I will reassemble you, if you want me.
a pitchstorm for author swap week. my prompts were (character) jeremy dorgen + (plot) encountering an old lover
Before you leave, you must do a few last minute things. Put on the makeup they picked out for you to hide the dark circles and smooth out the stress. Move all your broken things to the hidden places underneath your bed and behind your eyes. Your nails are painted red.
You know the color is too light to be blood, but they are less familiar with their own insides than you are. They will call that color blood red anyway. You will nod along politely.
Put lotion on your cracked knuckles and lock the door on the way out. You check it twice.
Right?
Right.
You don’t need to do much more. Their eyes will carve the calluses from your hands. Their voices will straighten out your shoulders and your life. They will not ask about the half-builts in your desk drawers because you locked them up and drew the curtains closed when you left.
Right?
Right.
And you will not bring them up. You know that their eyes glaze over once you open your mouth about anything other than what they ask for. They ask their questions out of obligation. They are not truly interested. They are not you.
They call you lightning in a bottle because they never bothered to notice your slowly building charge. But praise for what you give them is acknowledgement of what it takes from you.
Right?
Sure.
Maybe.
Someone remarks about the blood red of your nails, and your smile is as bright as the made-up skin underneath your eyes. As with the callouses, their eyes skip over the strain on your face.
You nod along politely.
written by ali as a part of author swap week
find my writing on her pagehere
there is a choice now, see. i give you this, spilled in an alleyway, from your hand to my mouth.
of course, it will never be enough. liters upon liters drip down extravagantly upon the brick and pavement, and seep into the earth. you always have a choice, whether or not to satisfy me, and every time, you chose correctly. you keep me well fed.
there is no concept such as trust, only the transaction, the pact, the oath extracted. your vitality is precious to me, you know.
thank you for your coercion. i suppose i meant cooperation, didn't i.