swirlsofblue

Title: Moon sinks

2022-03-05T14:05:43Z

Moon sinks, come awake,
With bars blurry in mind, still half-man half beast,
An unthinking thing, like waking dream, sleepwalks,
In mind’s eye,
Reach for coherence- fail,
Growl or swear or something in-between,
Teeth too big for mouth.

She shakes off the last vestiges of her transformation,
Aware of her nakedness once more- she clothes herself,
Sluggishly,
The beast sits at the root of her skull still,
Scratch-scratching her brain-stem like ghosts,
She wants to scream,
Clambers noisily around the kitchen instead,
Banging cupboard doors, slamming pots onto the counter,
Coffee.

The sun pours warm into the room,
She sinks back into herself,
Only an animal in the way humans are,
The day slides by, back to evening,
The thought-stealing blanket encroaches,
She tries to just let it come, violently,
Moon rises, sleep.

The Storm

2022-02-21T19:12:42Z

On Friday it’s slightly windy as I walk to work, and the rain is oddly violent considering there’s so little of it. The weather doesn’t seem unusual though, or even particularly bad. It’s February and torrential rain and howling wind is the norm in most months here. And so the assumption is that the storm is finding its feet elsewhere.

One of our co-workers doesn’t come in because of it and we think it must be bad where he is. There’s the occasional pondering of whether we will be able to get home again at the end of the day, but the tone is more joking than serious.

Intermittently throughout the day one of us looks out of the window and says: the lamp-post is swaying slightly again.

And then someone on their phone finds a picture.

Oh fuck. Definitely worse elsewhere then. A deep pit in our stomach as we stare at the phone. The chunk ripped out of the large dome of the arena.

Was anyone hurt?

*

I leave work, stepping outside tentatively. The sky is blue. The wind a mere whisper. And I think maybe it missed us almost entirely. And then I see the branches littering the ground.

The path I walk is lined with trees and I keep a wary eye out for if any might fall. I come across a wall, broken down, bricks strewn across the pavement.

As I near my road I come to a police line. I ask the officer if I can cross as I’m fairly nearby. She asks me to explain where and I do so.

She shakes her head, pointing at a tall, multi-story building. The scaffolding is coming down. Debris is flying everywhere.

*

I walk away, turning to go the long way around. I get closer from the other direction, but find another police line: from another point of damage. I don’t need to ask this time- I can see it right in front of me- the building yawning across the street.

I turn away again, walking to come at it from yet another direction. Trepidation sits unsettled in my bones as I consider all the damage near where I live. I wonder if my home is okay. I wonder if my neighbours are okay.

There’s no police line on my third try but there’s too much on the pavement to walk on it. I walk on the road instead.

I reach my home. It’s fine, my neighbours homes are also fine. I give a sigh of relief.

*

At times I think what really matters is different to us all. We all have different drives, passions, loves, the things we know- down to our marrow- that we live for. But then comes a reminder like this, and I think: we are all just humans, wanting somewhere safe and secure, to live and love and be.

LJ Idol sign up

2022-01-02T08:23:19Z

Hello,

This is my sign up for LJ Idol 3 strikes

Week 14, Title: Ramshackle

2020-02-20T19:30:48Z

We climbed up the mountain together,
We skipped the trellis, we fought the weather,
We put together these ramshackle pieces,
Held with Sellotape and old wire,

And the world was waiting for us,
And the winds ready to-
Knock us down,
And the seas ready to drown us,

But Oh, oh look at us now.

(This has been a sacrifice entry).

Week 13, Title: The Dark Sacred Night

2020-02-10T21:43:50Z

There’s someone starting today. They gather around and give the new worker soft but sombre smiles. This is not a celebration: this is a place of the desperate and the damned. The monstrosity continues to whirr loudly, spanning the entire wall: its blades wider than the breadth of any man’s shoulders.
They run about the place, quick but careful, long used to the water beneath their bare feet. Too used to the miss-steps, the injuries, the deaths. No one works here if they have another choice.

“Don’t let any of this stuff touch the water,” he says, gesturing at the wires hanging about the place, desperately taut to prevent them from falling.

The newbie, Lem, stares bewildered. “Why is there water everywhere?”

He shrugs. “The machine; blows it in. Can’t be helped. This place ain’t called Hell just ‘cos it’s deep underground.”

Lem furrows his brow. “I suppose that makes sense. Why are there wires everywhere then?”

“Got to power the thing.”

“And why do we need to do that?”

He cracks a wry smile, which breaks into a loud, dark guffaw, “To save the world of course.”

*

An announcement comes over the speakers, congratulating them on their achievements: on the work they’re doing- on their progress in saving the world. As always the announcer speaks of lush fields and a thriving earth.

None of them believe the propaganda, not even Lem.

“Wouldn’t it be something if it was true though?” Lem asks, moving slower than the rest of them, his muscle memory isn’t wired to the place yet.

“Tch. Even if it was, that world wouldn’t be for the likes of us: they’d never let us step foot in it.”

Lem says, “But wouldn’t it be something if they did?”

*

Lem’s heart sinks. He’s stepped wrong. He knows the moment before his foot lands. Pain slices him through.

He wakes in a strange room, it’s fancy, far fancier than he could ever afford. There’s even a window.

(Though why anyone would want a window he doesn’t know).

He reaches for the curtain, to peer at the charred blackness of the world.

Instead he sees hills of vibrant green, trees with orange-red leaves, and a pale blue sky.

Week 12, Title: Dear Friend

2020-02-01T15:04:40Z

Dear friend,

When I say, ‘Happy Birthday’, I hope you know I mean:
I hope this day is good to you,
I hope this year is good to you,
We should all be celebrating,
Because the world became brighter the day you entered it,
My life became brighter when I met you,
You have helped me more than you know,
I wouldn’t be where I am today without you,
I don’t know if I would be anywhere today without you.

When I say, ‘Congratulations’, I hope you know I mean:
I always knew you could do it,
And watching you on this journey has been wonderful,
I’m so, so proud of you,
You’ve earned this,
I’m so happy for you,
I hope it’s everything you want it to be,
Because you’re amazing and if anyone deserves this,
You do.

When I say, ‘Goodbye, take care’, I hope you know I mean:
I care about you,
I worry about you,
I love you,
I’m sorry that society’s laws on platonic friendship don’t give us space-
To tell each other we love each other,
I wonder what you would think if I told you I loved you,
Would you think I was being weird,
Would you think I wanted something more,
I think you would know exactly what I meant,
You’re good like that,
And if I was going to say it, when?
When we hug hello, when we hug goodbye,
When I see you walk in the door,
Where’s the space to fit these words in my mouth.

When I say, ‘I miss you, I’ll come visit’ and then fail to buy a plane ticket, I hope you know I mean:
I miss you, but I’m a bit of a mess,
I really do want to see you,
I think about the way we laugh together:
The way you made me laugh,
The way I made you laugh,
I think about what we would do together if I visited.

When I say, ‘Get well soon’, I hope you know I mean:
When I heard I stared out of the window for a time,
I don’t know how long,
My mind buzzing emptily,
And when the buzzing stopped-
I thought about how everything would be less without you:
I would be less without you.

When I say, ‘she was a wonderful person who touched all our lives’, I hope you know I mean:
I’m sorry I failed to tell you any of this when it mattered-
That I failed to make you understand how cherished you were,
That I wasn’t enough to keep you here,
I’m sorry I failed you,
Forgive me.

Week 11, (II) Title: Sea bound

2020-01-21T22:14:09Z

There are people across the water. And they’re starving and dying because of the sea: or rather the sirens who have begun to dwell upon it. The island people are in desperate need of supplies of food and medicine, but all ships who attempt the cross have been wrecked and now all are reluctant to try the treacherous journey.

She has no such reluctance: she has a plan. First: she’s planned a path that will have them avoiding as many rocks as possible, and also the areas that are well-traversed by the sirens. In addition to this she has taken precautions: ear plugs of course, but these sirens are beyond just sound, they show visions of whatever a soul most desires. And so she has also decreed that the entire crew be made of couples, happy ones. That they have plenty of their favourite foods and that no one who has someone or something they could long too strongly for is aboard.

She has picked her crew out meticulously, and done extensive checking, to ensure this is the case. She will answer the peoples’ plight. She will ensure they get their desperately needed food and medicines.

*

And she’s overjoyed when she sees the people waiting on the shore for her, the cheering, clapping, laughter, and wide smiles on their faces. She made it. She did it. Her fellow crew members are trying to grab at her and at the steering wheel. She’s not sure why, maybe it’s the sirens; she must keep on course and not let her crew members be lured. They’re close now, so close.

She holds firm to the wheel, even as the others try to pull her away. She plants her feet, letting her desperation grant her strength. There are so many of them, but she’s determined. She won’t be moved.

They are screaming at her. So wild, manic, urgent: they’re definitely in thrall of the sirens. She wonders what desire they have that she missed. And hopes she can hold on.

She manages, somehow, to hold her ground. She can hardly hear her crew though, they’re so far away.

So close now.

*

She’s about to call for the anchor to be thrown, but narrows her eyes, squinting, the people on the island look ever so slightly wrong. Actually it’s not just the people, it’s the whole scene.

It’s at this moment she realises, too late, why her crew-mates were screaming.

Tears slip down her cheeks.

This isn’t the island. This is a vision. And they are about to crash.

*

The correct thing to do would be to try to steer out of it, to call together her crew, and champion them into action. To do all she can to avoid the rocks.

But that hasn’t worked for anyone before.

She lets go of the wheel. And kneels on the deck, shouting to be heard against the waves,
“Please, please listen. I know the Gods have been cruel to you. I know people have been cruel to you. But you know our desires, you know what we want: we don’t want to hurt you. And those people on the island don’t want to hurt you. They’ve been hurt too and they need help. We just want to help them, will you help us?”

And the rocks are growing bigger, bigger, bigger. Closer. Closer. Closer.

Everything stills.

*

The sirens swim alongside the ship, guardians leading her to the shore- and to the people waiting there.

Week 11, (I) Title: Sky bound

2020-01-21T22:01:42Z

He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure. This newest machine is a thing to behold: a pair of wings to give mortal man the power of flight.

As he attaches the device to his arms and shoulders, his father says, “Remember: not too high…”

“I know, I know, if I go too high the sun will melt the wax, too low and the water will dampen the feathers.”

He gives his father a hug, holding onto the thought that they’ll be together again soon; even though the opposite notion sits heavy beside it in his heart.

He runs at the wind, moves his arms and lets himself be carried up and away. It’s an amazing thing, to soar, fast and free, the crisp breeze wild against his face.

But he doesn’t allow himself to savour too long. He needs to be careful, his father’s warnings ever-present in his mind, the potential grip of hades sitting in every heart-beat. He’s hyper-focused on the minutia of his movements; going faster when he sinks too low, and pausing when he moves too high.

He keeps going and going and going, seemingly forever over the endless sea. And the constant vigilance tires his head, just as the weight of the structure tires his body. The strain urges his arms to drop, rest, sink downwards, and he pumps harder to fight against it.

And he’s still moving, the cold does well at keeping him awake. But he’s tired, so, so tired.

*
He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.

He watches in confusion. What an odd dream, he must’ve heard his father working and thought about the journey ahead as he slept. But still, heeding the omen, he asks,
“Is there a way to make it lighter? It is a long way.”

His father hums for a minute and begins reworking the model.

With the lightened load, he flies much easier than in the dream. But the air on his face feels remarkably the same.

As he keeps going though, he finds no shore, long after he should have. Still he continues, until the sun is pulled across the sky and the moon pulled up into her place.

*

He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.

This is odder than a dream, surely, he thinks. Perhaps the work of the Gods. Still he doesn’t mention it, just says,
“Maybe add some weight to the left flank, so my stronger right side doesn’t send me in a circle,” and when he notices the heavier previous structure adds, “And could you make it lighter for the long journey?”

His father gives him a puzzled look, but nods and makes the changes.

This time he is discovered by the guards. He swerves and dives to avoid their projectiles, cursing the lack of agility in the device’s movements; hades has a grip on his lungs for sure. He twists, and twists, and twists again, falling, flying, panting, as the weapons come close, too close.

There’s white-hot world-consuming pain: and everything fades to black.

*

He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light. He sees his father work carefully by candle-light; meticulously tipping the candle to anoint the feathers with wax, laying the feathers in rows against the bigger structure.

It is certain then. He’s trapped in a repeating day.

“I should set off from a different place, so I’m not caught.”

Moving the structure to another area he comes across a man dressed unlike anyone he’s ever seen: even clothes from other lands are not like these- legs clothed in a bizarre blue material and torso in a strangely shaped top of a colour unknown to his eyes.

“Are you tired of this yet?” The man asks.

“Who are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter. You are the important one. You have a choice to make: you can keep repeating this day forever, or you can fly, high, higher than any mortal man has flown. Let the sun melt your wings and let yourself fall.”

“What? Why? Why would you want me to do that? Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s the only way out.”

*

He flies out across the sea. And wakes to see his father working.

He stays on land, refusing to use the device.

And he wakes to see his father working.

With heavy heart, he suggests his father be the one to try out the invention.

And he wakes to see his father working.

He seeks out the strange man, to make a deal, to anger him, to kill him.

And he wakes to see his father working.

He tells his father of the happenings. They together make a list of possible solutions, possible options, possible trials.

And he wakes to see his father working.

And he wakes to see his father working.

And he wakes to see his father working.

*

He lives, maybe a life-time, or two or three, like this, inside the same day. Sometimes he talks to the strange man, with his strange clothes and strange words:
“There’s a saying in my day: the house always wins.”

He thinks he understands the meaning though. It was not enough for them to kill him by catapult or force. They want it to seem a personal failure: for all of time to know- that they must know their place, for if they reach for the sky they will fall down.

*

It’s a sad lesson, he thinks, as he flies out over the sea. One he doesn’t want to believe. As he soars, he wonders: is this madness, is it exhaustion, is it the cold certainty of cruel capricious logic, or is it simply plain human defeat.

He drifts higher and higher, a bittersweet joy fills his lungs. He expects heat on his face. But it’s cold, very cold. Another lie. The air pinches at his body and his breaths are painful.

The wings don’t melt. Instead, frost-painted, they stiffen.

No strength for sound, he laughs silently.

And ponders Hades’ embrace.

He falls and falls and falls.

Week 10

2020-01-05T19:10:30Z

It's Amy's bachelorette party and she hasn't drunk once.

In a desperate attempt to get the bride-to-be to drink, Gina says, "Never have I ever watched a movie without watching the credits."

Amy doesn't move.

"Oh, come on!"

It’s true. Amy has never watched a movie without also watching the credits. Though if her younger self had known she was going to end up having to watch the same movie over and over and over and over again she may’ve been more cautious about how hard she maintained this stance.

(It’s a mere two weeks into The Bet (over whether Amy Santiago or Jake Peralta would get the most felony arrests in a year) and both she and Peralta are running on adrenaline. The challenge is still new and fresh and they’re both determined to win, breaks are for the weak.

“You have been at work way too long! Go home. Both of you!” Terry orders.

Amy quickly attempts to memorise her case file as Jake tries to convince Terry to let him stay.

“Sure thing Sarge, as soon as I close this case, I’ll head off.”

“Now Peralta!”

“Yes, right now, I just need to…”

Terry’s mouth pinches into a circle, the standard Terry scowl.

“Okay fine,” Jake says, pulling on his jacket.

Amy silently picks up her things before Terry’s gaze can turn to her. As soon as they’re out of their superiors ear-shot Amy can’t help but gloat, “While you were wasting your time arguing with Terry, I got my entire case file memorised. Have fun waiting around while I get another solve.”

Peralta makes an outraged face that quickly transforms to a grin. “Unless Terry finds out you’re planning on disobeying his direct orders.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Do you know me at all?”

Amy sighs. “Fine. But if I don’t work, you’re not working either.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Nice try. We’re spending the next day together so I can keep an eye on you.”

And that's how they end up on her couch watching a horror flick.

Peralta reaches for the remote at the end of the movie.

“What are you doing, we have to watch the credits.”

“Ugh, no one watches the credits; that’s so boring.”

“The people worked hard on the film.”

“You’re such a dork,” Jake replies, but even though he mocks all the names he still watches the entirety of the credits with her.

In future months they will stop spending all of their time working and go back to their routine schedules of just spending most of their time working. But in those first few halcyon months of The Bet they gain a tradition of watching movies in their breaks, so they can ensure the other wasn’t working. They take turns picking the films. Jake almost always picks one of the 'Die Hard's.

As they watch Die Hard for the second time and it reaches its end, Jake snatches the remote, with a gleeful expression. “We have to watch the credits. You said every time: it’s your rule.”

From the look on his face he’s expecting her to balk, to say they watched the credits the last time and it doesn’t count. It’s a challenge. She’s signing up for sitting through the credits every time they watch Die Hard.

Really, though, how many times is that possibly going to be? It’s not like the two of them are going to ever end up spending that much time together. Besides, Amy really wants to win.

(Also Amy’s kind of looking forward to it, Jake had been so animated the last time they watched the credits, explaining details about all the cast members and bits of behind the scenes information, and she enjoyed it. But Peralta is the enemy and she’s not willing to admit to herself that maybe she likes him more than she should).

She smiles back, just as gleeful. “Of course.” )

Now he's her fiance, and Jake watches the credits with her for every film they watch together. They still watch the credits every time they watch Die Hard. And while past Amy would’ve definitely not agreed to it had she known. It’s one of Present Amy’s favourite things and she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

This is the story of your anchor point

2019-12-06T16:57:31Z

This is the story where you murdered yourself.
This is the story where you made yourself anew.
This is the story of your God, your celebrity, your idol.
This is the story of your family, your mentor, your crush.
This is the story of your anchor point.

This is the story of the talisman around your neck.
Of well-worn photographs and keep sake boxes and old VHS tapes.
Of superheroes and the twig that was your wand.
This is the story of the thing you hold onto.
This is the story of the thing that keeps you holding on.

This is the story of the time your anchor isn’t quite strong enough,
Of the time it’s still enough to keep you here.
Of the red line on your wrist, bandaged.
This is the story where you ask for help.
This is the story where you begin to recover.

This is the story of a stormy sea,
And of the water-sodden ground on the other side of it.
This is the story of the time you look into the mirror,
And finally realise…
Oh, hello. This is me. I’m here. I’m home.

Week 7, Title: If you immediately know the water is cold, the tale has died too violent

2019-11-24T16:30:04Z

Pellie hums in delight as Alec massages her too wrought shoulders. It’s been far too long. For this moment she’s content to lie on her stomach, boneless, to be taken care of for once.

Between spending all hours of the day at work or taking care of their kids, time left over is mainly spent sleeping.

But now the kids are at their grandfathers for the weekend.

(And that in itself is an oddity. Alec had been reluctant to let their girls form a relationship with his father after all the pain the man had put him through. The tenuous peace had broken anew and Alec had asked the questions he never had…

Why did he leave?

And why did he say he was coming to see him, raising his hopes and excitement, only to cancel every time?

Why did he leave him feeling like it was all his fault?

And the answer was simple really, his father had been young, and feckless, and not at all ready to parent a child.

The wounds were fresh again and seemed like they might last forever.

But they hadn’t.)

“I have an idea,” Alec says.

And she groans at the loss of contact as he moves away, while languidly turning to her side to watch him.

He opens their closet, pulling out a familiar slither of grey, his eyes sparkling.

“I can’t,” she says, her gaze sliding to the left, to the window, to the dark-pebbled beach and the beckoning sea beyond it, “What if something happens and one of the kids need me?”

“I will be right here.”

“Okay,” she says as he brings it to her, she wraps it around herself, remembering a time when they were without the responsibilities of having small children who depended on them.

III

They lounge in deck chairs on their balcony, kissing and laughing and running their hands over each other. Their bellies empty except for the cheap wine they had taken from the corner store. They had no money for food, but would probably steal some later. Pellie knew that stealing was wrong, but they were alone; his father for years gone and her parents in the ocean and though they weren’t children, they were still too young.

And the world had hurt them too much already.

At night they would wade into the dirt-addled lake and she would dream of living on a stretch of the palest sand reaching out into the clearest water.

Pellie knows many stories of women like her, who run away to never be seen again. She should probably do the same. But the thought sits ill-fitting inside her. After everything, he shouldn’t be left to carry on like everything is normal.

He’s a kidnapper and a rapist.

So she takes a knife to him while he’s sleeping. And has no qualms.

She’s not going to hide in the shadows. She has a world to explore.

“You need to be more careful,” Pellie’s mother says.

She pays no heed, all the tales seem like scary children’s stories.

Daily, she casts aside her seal-skin and transforms, into an otherworldly creature, into a human.

She runs along the shore. It’s exhilarating and wondrous and new.

One night she can’t find her skin to return home, she searches and searches and searches. It must just be lost. That’s all. It can’t have been taken.

And then she sees him, a large man with a feral smile, tucking a patch of grey under his coat. He walks towards her and says, “Never thought I’d find myself an honest to God Selkie.”

Week 6, Title: And touched the sound of silence

2019-11-14T21:18:15Z

The plagues hit the news on a Wednesday. By Friday the word zombies is being thrown around.

They wait for the world to end.

(Supermarkets overflow with crowds filling up their trolleys, emptying the shelves. Doors are locked, chained, bolted. Every channel is showing the news and all the news is the mounting disaster).

But it doesn’t.

(The shops re-stock and the shelves are full. Doors tentatively open, and there are people stepping softly into the outside. The television is still running, the news tucked back into its regular slots).

The time between becoming infected and becoming symptomatic is short and the time between becoming symptomatic and turning full-zombie is long, and this helps to prevent the catastrophe becoming apocalyptic.

This is aided by the quick creation of quarantine zones. The situation is contained.

And life outside the zones goes back to normal.

*

Even inside the quarantine zones, many of the cities are okay; with security forces shooting down zombies around the clock. And the occasional straggler is easy enough to walk away from; zombies aren’t the fastest of creatures after all. There are also metal skirts, adorned with spikes ready to impale any zombie that does get too close, and axe-mounted Roombas ever-ready to assist those less able to walk away.

*

Ania is not in one of those cities. She lives in a ramshackle town in the middle of nowhere. And she has a three year old, which makes walking quietly for a long period of time much harder.

At the beginning the eyes of the world are drawn to their town’s plight and charities and volunteers and helpful packages are in abundance.

But time moves on, and so does peoples’ attention, and the little zombie towns are forgotten.

Ania watches a grainy video of the latest reality star talking about the zombie problem as a thing that happened long ago.

And she wants to scream it, but instead says quietly into the dark, “We are still here.”

*

Her son’s cries from hunger are too loud. And she knows it’s not safe to leave this place, but also that it’s deadly to stay.

Ania carries her son in her arms (his pushchair wheels are too loud against the cobble-stone). And she thinks about how her parents came to this place with nothing but the clothes on their backs and now she must leave it much the same way.

Oh, the hopes they had. Oh, the hopes she had. This was supposed to be the safe place. This was supposed to be salvation.

*

“Where are you going?” The towns-folk whisper. Their voices are too loud. Everything is too loud.

She keeps walking, holding her head high and not answering, lest her resolve crumble. She imagines she’s already outside of this place and the thin ephemeral glimmer of safety it contains.

She walks until the cobble-stone turns to dirt-track and then until the dirt-track turns to sand.

And she’s come a long way, but there are still people here, fewer, and stranger, but some semblance of civilisation.

She knows there won’t be for much longer though, if she’s going to turn back she should do it now; before she puts them both through Hell for a chance at safety.

She keeps walking.

*

Inexplicably, there are no zombies out here. But the sands are endless and the sun is burning hot. And she half-dreams that it’s turning her into a zombie, the blisters on her skin seeping poison to her insides. She’s walking slow enough to be one.

Her son has stopped crying, and she never thought that would be so terrifying. It’s a dead weight pulling at her soul. She puts a water bottle against his lips, he drinks, but they stay too cracked.

*

Ania thinks it’s a mirage, when she first sees the tall metal-link of the fence, she’s lost track- didn’t think they had come this far. She cries tearless.
She presses a kiss to her son’s forehead, “Only a little longer now.”

They are going to make it. They will be put into one of the quarantine cells and will wait. And when no symptoms are shown, they will be let through.

(It’s not that simple, she knows).

*

She ambles towards the structure, barely moving.

The man at the gate looks heart-broken: not the sharpness of a fresh heart-break, but an old one that’s lasted too long, and cut too deep, and sunken into his bones, reshaping his face. And she knows his answer before she asks.

“I’m sorry. We’re full.”

There’s a time where Ania would’ve fought and yelled, but she has no energy left, and her voice has been too quiet for too long. Besides, there’s only time for the most important thing. She lets her heart break quietly as she lifts her son in her arms.

“Take him.”

“We can’t.”

“You! You take him.”

The man takes her child and goes inside.

She sinks down, into the sand, and screams.

Week 5, Title: I know a place where no one's lost

2019-11-04T18:01:08Z

“To grand new alliances; and the joining of our kingdoms!”

Everyone cheers, though some of them still strained. It’s a good alliance, one that will lead both kingdoms to prosper, but there are better ones.
The king of the East sea lands wanted her hand and would’ve brought great wealth and power to them, but the man also had a reputation as a brute and she had told everyone very plainly that if he left bruises on her she would murder him in his sleep. She had also composed essays, which were eloquent, compelling, well-reasoned, and dreadfully long (the record length being thirty four pages) of why every other suitor for her hand would lead to a poor alliance. And she would read them out for everyone.

There seemed to be an inherent promise that if they tried to push her into one of these marriages they would be listening to these essays until the end of their days (and she would out-live all of them to ensure this was the case).

And so, they had eventually given in.

*

“We shouldn’t until we’re wed, it’s improper,” she says, even as she unbuttons his undershirt.

His fingers untangle from her corset strings and he steps away. “We can wait.”

She pulls him back towards her, mouth aching from the stretch of her smile. “I don’t want to wait.”

*

She spends the winter planning for their kingdoms to be combined, which things need to be merged, and which sloughed away, and how they’re going to do so. (Wedding planning also happens when she gets breaks in between). And in the evenings they curl up by the fire together, each with a different book on their laps, all wrapped up to keep out the chill of the cold castle air.

And she can see his breath when he tells her he loves her.

And her heart is full and light at the same time.

And the fact that their alliance isn’t the strongest that either of their kingdoms have is unimportant.

Until it isn’t.

*

It happens so quickly it feels as though she’s left her body and is floating in some unfamiliar nether world.

One of his aligned kingdoms and one of her aligned kingdoms go to war.

And then the betrothal is off and they are at war and they are enemies.

She’s determined to spend more time trying to fix it than she does crying, but she’s tired.

*

Years pass, she fights the war the best she can, not because she cares about it, but because she cares about her soldiers, and the people waiting for them at home, her people. Her hands are hard and maps and strategies flit behind her eyelids when she sleeps. And she tells herself she’s moved on from the childish dalliance of so long ago.

She seeks out good alliances: a way to win the war once and for all. The girl who was determined to only marry for love died twenty battle fields ago.

*

A small group of her soldiers get captured, by his men of all people. (And she wonders if maybe she let him know her too well). He says he will let them go, in exchange for her going to speak to him.

Her advisors try to stop her of course.

“You know it’s a trap, we can’t afford to lose you.”

“He’s not going to kill me,” she says, certain.

“There are worse things men wish to do.”

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she says, still certain.

*

There’s a beaming smile on his face as he walks towards her, and says, “I’ve missed you so much.”

The words are happy and light-hearted and yearning: as if she’s just been away on a trip, not fighting on the opposing side of a war. She stiffens and steps back.

He stills in response. “What’s wrong? It’s not like either of us wanted to fight this war.”

“You! You are wrong. We can’t just act like nothing has changed, everything has changed!”

His façade cracks at that and she sees the fissures underneath. “Look, I’ve found a way, both of our forces are stronger now, if we stand together we can beat everyone else.”

She has to stop herself from laughing hysterically, she can’t go back; her heart has hardened, hollowed out from too much pain for too long. Her hands have been buried in blood that he’s wrought. Her people have lost too much, she has lost too much, there’s no way to switch sides now. (But oh, how she wants to).

“No. I can’t.”

“There’s a plan, a full-force attack coming, if you don’t do this, there won’t be any way out.”

“Am I a prisoner?”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Am I a prisoner?”

“No.”

“Then if you will kindly release my people, I’m leaving.”

“You’ll die,” he says.

She doesn’t look back. “Or you will.”

Week 4, Title: Insurmountable

2019-10-26T17:55:58Z

The measuring tape is well worn, many numbers faded, but he can still read it, knows every crinkle and tear and smudge. He slides it around his waist, around his arms, around his thighs (and ankles and wrists and neck). He writes the numbers down.

He stares in the mirror, pinches his flesh between his fingers. It’s still crazy to him that the image he sees isn’t the truth; the concept sometimes feels like something out of a sci-fi novel. But he’s accepted the fun-house mirror nature of things.

He can’t take the thought of eating anything.

He’s tired. He’s supposed to be better now; he’s supposed to be beyond this. He worked so, so hard, for years: endless therapy sessions and months of forcing food down, even when it felt like torture, again and again and again. He made himself better. He can’t go back, he can’t do this again.

It’s crazy. How can one comment leave him reeling, trembling; sitting back at square one?

He needs to be better now. He is. He is better. He doesn’t have the strength to do the insurmountable twice.

And he doesn’t know what to do. He wishes it was his turn to cook; he could beg off; claim exhaustion; go to bed. But it’s not his turn and he knows his girlfriend is already getting their meal prepared.

*

He takes a bite. It’s large in his mouth; the morsel sits too big in his stomach, bloating, an expanding fatty lump, he feels sick and gross. It’s too much. He moves the food around his plate and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see his girlfriend trying to not look disappointed.

It’s crazy that she stuck with him through all this before. She’s way too good for him.

Fuck, he can’t put her through this again.

*

He will simply refuse. He is not doing this again.

He tries growling at his food, holding on with sheer will, he puts the fork in his mouth. He doesn’t swallow.

His voice is small, garbled, “No.”

She takes his hand, it’s crazy that she doesn’t look disappointed, “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ve walked this road before, we know its turns, and we know we can come out the other side.”

It’s a crazy idea. But then again, what isn’t?

Week 1, Title: Cybervision

2019-09-29T18:57:37Z

Cybervision

No more glasses. No more contacts. No more eye exams.

Say goodbye to the expense and hassle with a Cybervision chip. The insertion of which is simple and painless. With Cybervision you will be able to see the world in crisp, high definition as well as having zoom functionality and night-vision which you can control from your phone.

And unlike laser surgery, Cybervision chips are inexpensive and affective with all ages and against all types of eye-sight problems.

Book your appointment today!

This was the earliest of the Cybervision adverts, from 2035. Due to the low cost of the chips and the high quality of visual capability, sixty percent of glasses and contacts wearers had switched to a chip by 2038. And Cybervision had become a multi-billion dollar company.

Cybervision causes plane crash

A Cybervision chip malfunction caused pilot Mitchel Lo to lose his sight during flight 8601 from New York to Texas on the 4^th of May at 4.37am. Co-pilot Andy Rawlins managed to get the plane mostly back under control, resulting in a controlled crash with only minor injuries sustained by passengers.

This was the first instance of a chip malfunction that was publicised. Later it would come to light that there were several earlier malfunctions that had been suppressed, though they were still rare enough to be considered freak accidents.

Cybercore: because we care about your vision

Cybercore (a charity founded by Cybervision) is dedicated to providing free Cybervision chips for all who can’t afford them, wherever they are in the world.

The launch of Cybercore happened in July of 2039, and was thought to be a response to the plane crash two months earlier.

Video excerpt transcript:

Technician supervisor: Did you find the problem with the Lo chip?

Technician: There wasn’t a problem. It’s in perfect working order.

Technician supervisor: Then what happened?

Technician: It looks like an outside source intercepted the signal and gained control of the chip.

In March of 2041 footage was posted on youtube (a video platform of the time similar to today’s U-watch) suggesting that the pilot’s chip had been hacked and Cybervision had knowingly covered it up. Though there was tremendous public outcry and some people had their chips removed, the majority still kept their chips.

The number of new chips being bought slowed down, but Cybervision launched a massive marketing campaign and by the end of 2043 eighty seven percent of people who required visual assistance (and many people who didn’t) had Cybervision chips.

Cybervision! Now in Definition 8! Higher definition than ever before! Get it now!

In 2045 a higher resolution quality was introduced, a small subscription fee had to be paid to receive it. And tens of millions of people paid for it.

Protests break out over new Cybervision tiers as they state they will charge several thousand dollars for chip removal.

In 2046 the subscription for the highest resolution increased in price and new levels were introduced for different resolution quality. The only free one was low resolution and as people couldn’t afford chip removal, many were stuck with low visual capability. And glasses, to survive in the market alongside Cybervision, were by then incredibly expensive.

Cybervision leaves users who can’t pay blind!

By 2050 the subscription fees for every level were much higher and failure to pay resulted in a disconnection of service, which- irrespective of the users pre-chip visual capability- left them blind until the payments were made. Lawsuits were filed; Cybervision’s powerful legal team beat them easily.

Cybervision Life-time! Have your child chipped at birth and save them from the risk of costly fees later!

And then the life-time plan was introduced. It was much cheaper than the other plans. But it required the owner of the plan to be chipped at birth, in most cases meaning there was no way of knowing whether a chip would ever actually be needed. It wasn’t a well-liked plan, but it was a protective measure and people were scared and desperate.

In the years that followed babies being chipped at birth became more and more common. Now, over a century later, we are mere weeks away from a new law being passed. The law states that if a person doesn’t have their child chipped at birth it’s a criminal act of neglect.

Cybervision’s power is so vast that it seems normal, but it’s not. It will hurt the most desperate and needy. And it will do so in the name of making more money.

Now is the time to fight.

Week 0, Title: Let's go on a QUEST!

2019-09-19T17:45:15Z

“Do you want to go on a quest?” She asks.

“What’s the quest for?”

“Technically it’s for a square.”

“A square?”

“Well digital squares are the only true squares, because a paper square includes the thickness of the ink so technically has depth and is a cuboid.”

“What?”

“The square is symbolic: an icon as a decorative badge of victory. Anyway, I don’t think we get them anymore.”

“So what’s the point of the quest then?”

“It’s not really about the destination, more about the journey.”

“So is it really a quest or is it just a hike?”

“It’s a quest, we’re seeking things.”

“Okay, I’ll play along, what are we seeking?”

“A myriad of things: friendships, new perspectives, community, fun, ideas, practice, aspects of our craft, reading materials, readers, and the chance to write something that unlocks an existential truth about ourselves that we didn’t know before.”

“Oh. Is that all? Fine, I’m in. What’s first?”

“The introduction. I’ve put all these labels about myself on slips of paper into a hat. We need to go through them meticulously and decide what we want to reveal.”

“And why have you done this?”

“We’re on a quest for a non-existent square stop asking stupid questions and take the hat.”

A gust of wind unexpectedly blows the slips out of the hat. The little pieces of paper sit on the grass, words loud in bold comic sans:

Fangirl. Gisher. Geek. Nerd. Nerdfighter. British. English. Londoner. Asian. Writer. Introvert. Bisexual. Left wing. Rota manager.

And the rest of the pieces sit blank, face-down, either hidden forever or waiting to be revealed…

LJIdol

2019-09-07T13:20:34Z

This is my sign up for LJIdol season 11

week 9, Title: Sucker punch

2018-12-16T18:28:01Z

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

The words hit her hard and for several moments the world loses all cohesion. She can’t breathe. She wants to scream. Who did this to you? Who hurt you? Who made you think it was okay for people to hurt you? But he’s just looking at her with confusion. As though the words aren’t dark and cold and bloody, as if the words are just a simple statement of facts.

She takes one step and two and three and takes him into her arms and just holds him.

*

“We need to talk about consent,” she says.

Shock blooms onto his face. “Okay…did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No. You’re always very good at making sure everything’s okay,” she says. He has always been overly careful of ensuring she wanted what was happening. And she’s not entirely sure how he could be so oblivious to his own needs.

“Okay so…”

“Have you ever said no to sex?”

He smirks. “Why would I say no to sex. Sex is awesome.”

“And you’re always up for it? Even if you’re exhausted?”

He shrugs. And she can tell there’s more there, she rests a hand on his thigh; gentle, encouraging, imploring.

“It’s not a big deal. I just know that I’m not much of a catch, and if I want someone to stay, then I have to please them, I have to do what they want. Or they’ll realise I’m not worth it and they’ll leave. It’s not a big deal though, it’s not like anyone was forcing me into anything.”

“If someone threatened to leave if you didn’t…”

“No. It was nothing like that. It’s just my ex, she was amazing and she was so much better than me and she would tell me that and say I was lucky to have her and it was true. And she would say I had to be worthy of her. I had to earn her love.”

Her stomach feels like it’s hollowed out and she’s falling and falling and falling. “She sounds like a manipulative asshole.”

“It wasn’t like that. Anyway, you’re so much more amazing than she was. And I love you so much. And I don’t want you to leave. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me. And I’m never going to leave just because you tell me no.”

“Okay,” he says, but she’s not sure he believes it.

“Have I ever done anything you were uncomfortable with?" She asks.

“What? No! Never!”

“Okay. Promise you will tell me if I do?”

He squirms. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It really is.”

He sighs, looking at her almost forlorn, “I promise.”

Week 7, Title: Missing her was dark grey all alone

2018-11-29T21:05:32Z

Jake stands in line for lunch, his hands gripping the tray too tight, and his heart-beat pounding in his ears. He wants to look around, but can’t afford to seem skittish. Tries to hold steel in his spine and isn’t sure he succeeds. Jake’s not sure whether he should be more concerned about being a cop sharing a cell block with guys he’s put away or being Jewish and sharing a cell block with Nazi’s who’ve been convicted of murder. He moves through the day with muscles coiled, fear wrapped around him like a skin.

“I’m innocent,” Jake says to anyone who asks what he did. The words ring hollow, it’s what everyone says- he knows. It’s the first time he’s considered that that doesn’t make the words untrue. He suddenly finds himself itching to pour through his old cases. To double, triple, quadruple check whether he’s left anyone innocent in this position, having to live like this. It’s so unfair.

Jake side-steps and ducks into corners, keeping his head down. And it feels so unlike him, the anti-thesis of his being. The darkness presses in. He’s not doing so well.

He enters his cell with relief that he never thought he’d feel at entering a cage. He’s locked in but everyone who wants to hurt him is locked out. He sits on his bunk, fingers pressing urgently against the picture of Amy that he’s stuck to the wall, and counts the minutes until he’s allowed to call her.

*

Jake holds the phone in his hands like the lifeline it is, savouring the sound of Amy’s voice, letting her be his guiding light in the dark. He needs to memorize this, capture it. He longs to touch her again.

He wants to avoid the showers. He’s almost certain there are people waiting to jump him. But waiting for his badass girlfriend to prove his innocence and bust him out is starting to feel unrealistic. And he’s never felt such a need to be clean.

Jake tries to be quick, but there are guys waiting. He fights, but his cop skills are useless against the four heavily muscled men. Just as he’s beginning to panic someone else enters.

“Let him go. He’s ours.”

The men grudgingly walk away.

“Thanks,” Jake says.

*

He learns that the mysterious man belongs to an old crime family- the Cortez’s. He also learns, after two further incidents, that the dude wasn’t lying. The Cortez’s have apparently decided that Jake’s one of theirs and deserving of their loyalty. It’s bemusing and he knows he should be wary, nothing in here comes without a price, but as the ever-present fear eases up and breath flows easier into his lungs he can’t help but be grateful. He should know better, but he needs this and he’s always been a little too impulsive.

Jake spends most of his time with The Cortez family. They’re alright guys and he gets on with them well. But they tell all these stories, almost legends, about this amazing little girl who they lost, and Jake has to grit his teeth against spitting out, ‘well why did you have to kill her?’

*

Everyone has heard the story of Pedro Cortez’s daughter, Lilia Cortez, the girl who was a genius, who wanted more than anything to be a cop, who single-handedly landed her entire family in prison and paid the price with her life. Tears almost spring to his eyes just thinking about the kid. The others nod in joint commiseration and he has to stop himself from calling them hypocrites.

Jake wanted to be a cop since he was a kid too, but he can’t imagine having the guts and the talent at the tender age of twelve to pull a collar like that off. He thinks about the amazing cop- the amazing woman- she would’ve become if given the chance.

They light candles for her, even twenty years on, because even though she betrayed them- she’s still theirs.

*

Jake makes plans, endlessly, for how he’s going to propose to Amy once he’s out of here. It keeps him sane. But every day it feels more like a bizarre fantasy. Any real proposal will be across a dingy visitors table. And Jake won’t do that to Amy. She deserves so much better.

It’s during one such fantasy that he’s moving around without thinking, imagining he’s in the precinct bullpen, figuring out the final stages of The Plan. And he bumps into someone he really shouldn’t, some mafia dude.

Jake tries to say sorry, he really does, but apologies have never been his strong-suit.

And then The Cortez’s step forward, and the mafia step forward.

For ten terrifying minutes Jake’s certain he’s started a war and then the mafia dude backs down. He fills with relief. But he can’t keep ignoring that he has no idea why they would risk going to war for him.

*

Jake steps into the boss’ cell, as respectfully as possible, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Pedro answers, gesturing to the bunk opposite.

He sits. “Why are you protecting me?”

“You’ve heard the story of Lilia?”

Jake nods.

“Well, let me tell you anyway, you can hear it properly.”

“Okay,” Jake says, forcing his expression into something other than disgust. He still doesn’t understand how anyone could have their own child killed.

“I always taught my children of the importance of family, of looking after family, protecting family, that you do whatever you have to do to achieve this. That is the point of having this power. But Lilia, she had a big heart, she saw the whole community as her family, as people who needed protecting. She thought that we were the ones the community needed protecting from. And, just as I’d taught her, she did whatever it took to protect them."

“She sounds like an amazing kid,” Jake says.

“It wasn’t easy for her, you know, and I don’t just mean that it hurt her to do it. We were good at hiding our shit. But she always had that investigative instinct. And she did what she did knowing what would happen. She was a special one. Two decades later, I still miss her every day.”

Jake for a moment wonders if he reminds Pedro of her, whether the protection is some form of atonement. If so, Jake doesn’t feel at all worthy of the comparison.

“The feds tried to put her into witness protection. But I found her and I knew that meant others would’ve. They would’ve made her death slow and long and agonising and I couldn’t let that happen to her. I made it quick. What I did was mercy.”

Jake stays, still for once, angry and sad and knowing he still has to push for an answer. But he senses more is coming, he waits.

“That’s the story you’ve heard. Don’t tell any different story, it won’t be good for anyone,” Pedro peers at Jake as if looking into his soul before continuing, “Would you like to see a picture of her?”

“Yeah sure.”

Jake unfolds the old weathered photograph carefully. The kid looks surprisingly familiar. It takes him a moment to put it together and even then he doubts, but looking further, he’s certain. It’s Amy.

Week 5, Title: Like it's someplace that you've been

2018-11-09T16:55:05Z

Ellie is good at pretending. She watches and listens and mimics what others say, mimics what others do. By the time she reaches adulthood she can feign compassion and caring like a pro. She doesn’t tell anyone about her desire to rend and maim and kill, to taste blood on her lips and feel broken flesh beneath her fingers.

She puts on her face in the morning, expressions well-learned and laboured over. Everyone knows she would never hurt a fly. And if everyone knows- it must be true.

No one can control what they think and feel. They can only control what they do. So if she’s only doing good things. Isn’t that what matters? Doesn’t that make her good? This is what she tells herself, staring at the mirror at some unknown facsimile.

But she’s lying, lying to everyone. It isn’t an honesty anyone wants. Truth filled with blood and bone and unmeant platitudes.

Her mask never slips.

Sometimes she says odd things though. She’s quirky that way,
“I saw a show; it had this guy who was always doing good things. But his wife said she could always see the true darkness hidden inside him, even though he never acted on it. She said he was a psychopath. That never made much sense to me.”

“Maybe he was just a sociopath,” Gabe says.

“Sociopathy isn’t a diagnosis used by psychologists anymore. People only use it to make the word psychopath sound gentler.”

“I suppose the thing of it is the waiting game, when does the mask fall away?”

“What if it never does?”

“Well that’s no fun at all.”

And she knows Gabe’s joking, but wouldn’t it be a lark if he wasn’t. “The wife also said he had no emotions. That’s weird. Why do people always make that assumption?”

“What assumption?”

“That just because someone is incapable of caring about others, or feeling empathy, that they must also be incapable of joy and excitement and sadness and regret and every other emotion under the sun.”

Gabe shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I used to think maybe people thought that was only fair. That if people didn’t care for others’ happiness that they didn’t get to be happy themselves.”

“And what do you think now?”

“I think it scares them. The idea that someone can be unable to feel for others and still feel the whole gamete of emotions. It makes those people too much like everyone else.”

*

It’s a struggle sometimes, to not tell the truth. But she reminds herself that it wouldn’t do any good. It would only ruin everything. Besides, she makes her own truth.

Harder still is holding a knife in her hands, imagining sliding it into someone’s neck, and then determinedly putting it back down- unused.

One day Gabe says, “You haven’t gone off the rails yet.”

“There’s no yet. I don’t intend to.”

“Boring,” Gabe says. It’s a joke. He has a morbid sense of humour. Except in that moment, looking into his eyes; she knows it’s not.

She should leave, she thinks. He’s not good for her. Being good is hard and she doesn’t need the temptation.

She stays.

*

She watches and she waits and she follows Gabe.

She finds him dripping in blood.

He grins, wide and maniacal, “I knew you would come around.”

She nods.

This is the moment, the precipice her life teeters on. This is everything. Maybe her problem is that she isn’t brave enough to take the leap. Maybe her problem is that she’s spent too long lying to herself.

She can only choose her actions.

She waits until he isn’t watching. And calls the police.

*

Ellie visits Gabe in prison, just the once, for the satisfaction,
“So you didn’t drag me down with you after all.”

Gabe smirks. “Everyone will know now. You can’t hide who you are any more.”

Her responding grin is wild and wicked, “Well, if that lets me catch more guys like you, maybe that’s alright.”

Writing Prompt

2018-07-06T16:24:52Z

Hello. These are the second writing prompts for July. Everyone feel free to write something. The next prompt will be on Thursday, and will be given by the first person to post a piece. Comment in this post with a link to your piece.

You can write whatever you want, as long as it includes the following words:

balance
perspective
compromise
sock

And the line: Things that drift away

Fic; Summer

2018-07-04T20:11:22Z

Canicule –can-i-cule- noun- heat wave

Jake remembers the word being an answer in one of Amy’s crossword puzzles. He never thought he would come to know it so well.

The world ends quick, a snap-back of too-stretched elastic, a cacophony of too much heat and too much melted ice.

Jake always thought he would do well in an apocalypse scenario. Between being the amazing detective that he was and his great taste in movies, it should’ve been easy. But then his pesky moral compass got in the way.

So here he was, with a skill-set in high demand and a face that lent to creeps leering at him to ‘give them some sugar’, he’d swiftly been kidnapped and sold.

Addicted -e-dik-tid- adjective- physically and metally dependent on a particular substance

Jake remembers Amy telling him the old meaning of the word. After prison, when he was sometimes too rattled to sleep, he would curl up in her lap and she would talk wonderful nonsense to make him feel better. It used to mean slavery; being addicted to a person meant that you were a slave to them. And the meaning had changed over time to being a slave to other things.

He’s standing, at a slave auction, a disobedient slave waiting to be sold yet again. When he sees Amy, this old random moment is the first thought that pops into his head. The second thought is terror. She shouldn’t be here. Not amongst these vicious, ruthless, murderous people. Probably just to get a glance of him- to see that he’s still alive. He wants to call to her, tell her to run. But he can’t, he won’t dare draw attention to her- sitting between men twice her size (who let’s be honest she could take down, but there are far too many of them here for Jake’s liking).

Summer – s^me – noun – the warmest season of the year

There are no seasons anymore, just unrelenting heat. Sticky and unpleasant, just like life in general. Jake almost thought he was getting used to this hell. But watching as Amy raises her hand to bid, he thinks this is a fresh hell where he has to watch the love of his life get eaten alive.

Jake watches in confusion as she keeps bidding as the other bids dwindle, her hand steadily rising every other turn. He’s thinking, trying to catch her eye, he needs to know what the play is. She must have a plan for them to get away without paying. He needs to figure it out before he gets her killed.

They are in with the auctioneer afterwards and the man and Amy speak like old friends. Jake is still beyond confused, but he’s also still ready to run at a moment’s notice. But then she hands over more money than anyone is this freaky dystopia has. And they’re walking out, away, into the sun.

Longing – lanin- noun – a yearning desire

Jake remembers Amy making binder after binder after binder, preparing and over-preparing for everything imaginable. Enjoying the act of organisation, it was a thing to watch, a form of badass-ness few understood. Amy always planned for the long-game, yearning for something to rise to, something to plan for.

Jake had made the mistake of interrupting to suggest something wild and spontaneous. Amy had smiled at him and said a line both beautiful and elegant, her lips curving soft and sweet around the words, as she talked of the benefits of planning, of having something to look forward to. Of a once ethereal nostalgia of something that would never be again, a childhood of endless free days of sun and water and siblings, of how, with Jake, maybe they could reach the ethereal once more. And oh, how he loves her in that moment.

This time her tone is sharp and crisp and slightly dark,

“Summer is about longing for summer.”

Week 23, Title: But none of them are ours

2017-07-05T21:36:16Z

Yana enters her new master’s home, keeping her head down and fighting the urge to fidget. It’s a new place. There will be new rules. And she’s never good enough. Never follows them properly. She’s too stupid. So stupid. She doesn’t do things right and has to be punished. And that still never works, her masters always tire of her and sell her off. But this is a new chance. And she has to be good. She has to be perfect. She just has to. Tears spring to her eyes. But she can’t, she doesn’t know how. She’s a terrible, useless, slave who doesn’t deserve to be alive.

Yana holds her arms against herself to keep them from moving as she’s lead to the slave quarters. Once the door is shut behind her she finally lifts her eyes. The room is bustling with activity, children and adults alike. Their clothes, though well-worn, are oddly lacking in holes. The table is overflowing with food and there’s even more cooking. Bile rises through her. This can’t be the slave quarters. She must be in the wrong place. No, no, no, how has she messed up already. She can’t do this. She hunches in on herself, wants to become invisible.

Someone shouts, “Greetings!”

She freezes. Everyone turns towards her for a moment, there are waves and smiles and then most go back to what they’re doing. She doesn’t understand. Where is she? What’s going on?

A grey-haired lady smiles softly, “I’m Potter Nan. Come, sit, eat.”

Yana obeys- it’s an easy order to follow. But her bowl isn’t filled with dregs. They've given her actual meat. Maybe they don’t know who she is. And now she’s sat down with them, they’re going to be so angry. She whispers, “But I’m a slave.”

The others stare weirdly at her. Potter Nan intones, “We all are sweetheart.”

Yana looks around in confusion. “And this is all for us.”

She’s met with assorted agreements. And she’s forced to turn the thought over in her head. She speaks slowly. “Our master must be very generous. And you must all be very good slaves. I’ve never been worthy enough for this.”

“Nothing generous about it. Udir just wants us strong enough to work.”

Yana thinks about her previous masters, working her half-starved and exhausted, and doesn’t really understand the words.

*

She meets her new master, Udir, the next morning. Yana serves his breakfast and pours his drinks. She’s careful, so careful, she has to do this right. She has to convince him she’s good enough. He smiles at her and asks how she’s finding the place. And she has no idea why. He says please and thank you and he speaks to her, looks at her. She doesn’t think anyone has looked at her like that before. And he’s kind, unbearably so. She wants to please him. She needs to. He praises her, assures her she’s doing well. Something hopeful and light and unfamiliar blooms inside her. Her smile is too wide.

Back in the slave quarters she can’t quite contain her excitement at this marvellous, amazing, man.

Potter Nan sighs and says gently, “Be careful. He only wants to use you.”

Yana frowns. “Of course. I’m meant to be used. That’s my purpose.”

“Oh child. That’s just the nonsense the masters want you to believe.”

“I’m not a child,” Yana says sombrely. Her masters made her a woman long ago, if that’s what they’re worried over.

Potter Nan purses her lips. “Hmm. I know you’re more used to brutality. But there are other, more devious, kinds of cruelty.”

*

Yana holds her tongue from telling the other slaves they don’t understand how bad it could be. The hunger so deep she feared it would scrape out her insides. The exhaustion stretching the skin of her face and eyes and fingers. The keen knowledge of every movement sending explosions of pain through her limbs. She knows it’s not that simple. But they still find her stance odd. Potter Nan is the only one who will talk to her. And though the lady is lovely, Yana tires of her warnings. So she sits alone, gazing at the tap. There’s water flowing from it in an endless stream. It amazes her. How can there be so much water? How can anyone need so much water?

As she draws away from the other slaves, she finds herself drawn towards Udir. Her master is always pleased with her company and they talk about many things. She doesn’t understand a lot of what he says but he’s always patient explaining. Yana expects a hand on her wrist, prepares for the eventual lead into the bedroom; but it never comes. She’s astonished and relieved. Udir truly is a good man.

*

They are sitting by the fire one night when Udir says, “I try to treat everyone well.”

Yana stares in surprise. “You do! You are by far the best master I have had!”

“It’s not enough. I want all the slaves to be free.”

Yana can’t breathe for a moment. It’s treason. It’s a great wrongdoing for a slave to say such things. But what about when it’s a master saying it? It’s too much. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. People have told you you’re stupid, but you’re not. You’re the opposite and that’s why they’ve spent so much time convincing you otherwise.”

“Okay,” Yana says. It would be rude to disagree, even if she doesn’t believe it.

But Udir explains his ideas. And they are magnificent ideas. As treasonous and wrong as it is; the notion of no one having to suffer like she has is appealing.

And when he turns to her, imploring, “Will you help me?”

She has only one answer. “Yes.”

*

Udir trains her, tells her not to worry. Yana isn’t convinced the plan will work. She’s only a silly slave girl after all. But Udir thinks she can do it and that makes her believe.

She pours the king’s wine, unsure how Udir got her here; but knowing she has a job to do. She forces her body to move naturally, even as it wants to coil inwards. Yana’s unsure whether she’s more terrified of success or failure. Udir assured her that she’s the sort the king likes. The minutes at the end of the meal stretch, and she’s convinced that she’s going to be dismissed without opportunity. And then his fingers are around her wrist.

She shakes. It’s okay. It’s okay. She’s just doing as her master told her to. And that has to be right. She wants this. She can do this. She is strong.

Yana waits until they’re in the royal chambers, pressed close, and then slides a dagger into the king’s neck. It’s silent, she quickly cleans herself and breaks the window. And then starts screaming. When the guards run in she points hysterically at the window and they overlook her from that point on. A few questions about the assassin are sent her way but she’s quickly dismissed as useless.

*

There’s news of the massacre of the king and several high ranking members of the Royal Court. Yana is overjoyed at the success of the revolution. She gives Udir a too-wide grin. He doesn’t look at her.

The next day she’s sold. And once more she’s in a state of not understanding.

Until, settled in a far off land, she sees the picture of the new king: Udir.

The slaves are not freed. Their treatment isn’t changed. He didn’t kill her at least, probably to avoid suspicion. And no one in this foreign place would care even if they believed her story.

Yana thinks on the things she doesn’t understand for a long while and comes to a realisation. No one is going to free them.

They will have to free themselves.

She smiles, determined, Udir will rue the day he showed her how.

-----

Written for the topic 'Backing the wrong horse'

Week 22, Title: Better by far you should forget and smile

2017-06-25T17:44:19Z

A four-foot box, a foot for every year
- Seamus Heaney

Juanita screams. It’s not a cry. It’s a feral, angry thing. A mother lion reaching out to tear her too-young child from death’s maw.

*

Andy, almost catatonic, paws ineffectually at his clothes. Juanita, already dressed, pins the last strand of hair into place and then helps her partner out of his pyjamas and into his funeral suit.

Some family members comment on the horribly ironic sunshine of the day. She doesn’t think much of it.

Some friends mention Heaven. She doesn’t think much of that either.

Andy’s fingers are clasped onto hers, desperate. She finds it cloying. She can’t give him what he needs. She doesn’t have the strength.

Juanita stands up and says words and forces inflection into them. Forces the feeling her daughter, Marie, deserves. She feels empty.

*

She burns the photo in her wallet and throws the pictures on her desk in the trash. She can’t bear the reminder.

Their home is terrible, every room, every door, every piece of furniture has memories attached. She needs to pack up, start anew. She can’t carry on here. She can’t move on here.

“No,” Andy cries, voice cracking on the word, “We need to stay here, where she was.” He clutches Marie’s stegosaurus teddy bear to his chest. There are tears in his eyes.

They can’t support each other. It’s a stark realisation. Instead of holding the other up, they’re pulling them down.

They compromise. She moves all the things that remind her too much into Marie’s room. Andy builds a shrine there and never leaves. Juanita never enters. It hurts them both.

*

Juanita buries herself in work. She’s moving forward, moving on. This is her new life; her career. She gets home at eleven every night. Takes a few bites out of a microwave meal and puts the rest outside Marie’s door for Andy. And then crashes into bed. (At least this way she doesn’t have to think).

She should talk to Andy, she knows. What he’s doing isn’t healthy. (What she’s doing isn’t healthy either). But that would mean she’d have to talk about the happy little bubbly child they’ve lost. And she can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

They’re both dealing in their own ways that’s all. It takes time. It hasn’t been that long. Actually she’s not sure how long it’s been, as is the timelessness of grief.

They don’t talk anymore. Their opposing griefs crash into each other. It’s too painful. She hears him sometimes, talking to Marie like she’s there, burying himself in memories.

*

One night she finds Andy standing in Marie’s doorway. “We need to talk. What we’re doing here isn’t good for us.”

For a moment Juanita can’t speak. It’s too much. Too much. Too much. She takes one shuddery breath and another. “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“We need to process this,” Andy says.

“There is no processing this. It just is. Our daughter is dead. People aren’t supposed to lose their children. Your entire life revolves around them. And there’s other stuff, sure, but that… that doesn’t matter…that’s insignificant… like planets. And your child… is the sun. And now there’s…there’s just a hole where that part of you was. And there’s no fixing that. That will always be there. And all we can do is accept that and carry on.”

“I can’t.”

“Well maybe it’s time you got a therapist.”

*

Juanita actually organises a therapist for Andy because he won’t for himself even if he wants it. They’re reluctant to come to the house, say it would be better if he came to them. But she talks at them until they agree. They send him to a psychiatrist who puts Andy on medication for depression.

She gets a promotion and Andy starts working from home.

At some point something dislodges and her work actually feels more fulfilling than a mere distraction.

They are getting better. But then the unnamed thing of their relationship needs to be addressed. Their grief has moulded them into strangers. Inhabiting the same space civilly, dealing alone.

The weight of their mutual abandonment in a time of such need is a painful one. And he is part of her old life. Another reminder.

She needs to decide, whether she tries to bridge the distance or walks away. It’s time to move on, she thinks.

*

She finds a little studio flat with a view of more flats, but she likes it.

Juanita starts working saner hours than before. It gives her more time. She starts cooking again and going out with friends.

She finds a well-built man in a bar. And as he fucks her she remembers how much she loves Andy. It’s surprising. As though there was no room for love against the pull of grief. But that was long ago and too much has changed. She sighs when the man is done, wordlessly pulling her skirt and underwear back on and leaving.

*

Juanita sees Andy at a bus stop. It’s been years. She pauses between walking past and stopping and waits too long. They are different people now, with these holes inside them that they’ve papered over; that they’ve adjusted to. She doesn’t start with hello or how are you, the words spill from her as though she was nineteen again.

“We should go out. On a date.”

“We’re not who we used to be.”

“So maybe we start again, new, from scratch.”

“And get to know each other. That makes sense. Coffee?”

She smiles. “Sure.”

----

Written for the topic 'Turn back or forge ahead?'

Week 21, Title: A vision softly creeping

2017-06-15T21:50:03Z

Lydia has worked at the Uber-mart for a long time. She’s been there through loves lost and found, through raising kids and babysitting grandkids. She’s been there for countless birthdays and anniversaries, births and deaths (those of both personal and work families). Innumerable people have come and gone; retirements, graduations, promotions. She’s taken joy in their joys and pain in their pains. She’s watched the store through corporate restructurings and recessions, through bustling holidays and quiet lazy afternoons, through mass hiring and mass firing. Through take-overs and remodelling and the slow-grinding changes of stock. She’s seen the chaos of product recalls and was there the day the last pricing gun stopped working.

She knows the store, knows the people, knows the products, knows the cracks on the shelves and the sight-line of every mirror. And she knows something is different. She knows something is wrong.

*

It starts small: one of their regulars walking up to the counter glassy-eyed, grumpy and not their usual chatty selves, too tired or too drunk she thinks.

The next glassy-eyed regular two days later is an oddity. The third one is a pattern. That’s the point at which Lydia starts looking.

It’s a lot of little things, nothing extreme; nothing noticeable.

Some of it is reminiscent of the last bad corporate takeover. The new method of contract negotiation is a mass email stating that said negotiating employee has 'decided to leave'. Staff turnover is always high, but it’s higher now, also not unusual in a bad corporate takeover. But the replacements are… strange.

Lydia mentions this in whispers to her co-workers and receives rolled eyes in return. They tell her she’s not down with the kids. Except she hasn’t been down with the kids for generations, it’s not that.

She makes lists in a small notepad and keeps a pen tucked behind her ear. She sneaks around because no one suspects a little old lady.

*

Time goes on and Lydia finds nothing significant. Some references to product lines in tones that seem too static. It could easily be genuine shop-talk or just as easily it could be code.

She’s beginning to think she really has just lost her marbles like everyone says. Just another old woman, going senile. She has to take a breath against the horror of the thought. It’s going to happen eventually, death or senility; it’s just a dice throw for which comes first. She always thought she would prefer death. But standing here, now, in this moment, she can’t imagine going so soon. She’s still so awake, so alive. She gives a hiccup-sob and gets back to work.

*

Lydia still hasn’t stopped her search, even though she knows she should. It’s probably not helping matters, indulging whatever instability is going on in her head. But there’s this niggling doubt, strong and steel-like and unquestionably real. And so she continues.

Late the next night she spots another oddity. One of the new employees is restocking, removing the old stock and replacing it with new. It looks perfectly ordinary. Except Lydia knows those shelves were just restocked, and those items are well within sell by dates. She’s about to note it down when someone else steps towards the re-stocker.

They speak quietly, but freely, with no reason to suspect anyone else would be around at this time.

“How are the replacement products working?”

“The subjects are responding as expected.”

“Good. Soon we will gain control.”

*

It’s something. Lydia is certain. It could be referring to a marketing strategy, but Lydia suspects it’s something far more ominous. She takes note of the people who always buy the things she saw being replaced. And realises that several of the glassy-eyed customers do so.

But proof is needed. She sets up hidden cameras and microphones; she knows the nooks, the crannies, the forgettable places.

Day after day she watches footage, only managing a few hours a night- she curses her age. They talk in long dull sentences, numbers; sales and population statistics and areas of control. So when- head nodding and eyelids drifting shut- she sees it, she knows she must be dreaming. But she pauses, anticipatory, rubs her eyes awake and watches again.

The men’s faces change, contort, reshape, until they stand there with mouse-heads.

*

Lydia watches over and over, not understanding. Her palms are sweating and she feels a little dizzy. She hates to admit it, but she’s scared.

She knows that the first thing she has to do is make sure they can’t keep selling whatever it is they’re selling. The most efficient course of action seems to be a little anonymous whistle-blowing.

She gives the most rational interpretation of the truth: says that the store has a secret mice infestation.

*

The store closes. Lydia spends time with her grandkids and puts the mouse-men out of her mind.

But then, freshly refurbished, new and improved, it opens again.

Lydia and one of the high-schoolers are the only ones from the old workforce remaining. Everyone else has moved on.

The difference is this time stark and clear and terrifying.

Every customer becomes glassy-eyed, obedient.

Lydia posts footage on you-tube (and yes, she knows how to do that thank you very much). Everyone either laughs or gives her a pat on the back for the genius production. She cries into her pillow in frustration.

*

She’s stopped consuming Uber-mart products and urges her family and friends to do the same. They give her concerned looks and talk about assessments and care homes.

It’s soon obvious that it’s not just the one store. The glassy-eyed obedience is spreading.

People begin to notice, but they have no idea what it is, no idea what’s going on. Lydia’s videos and blog-posts float in obscurity.

*

There are armies of glassy-eyed obedience. Every day the unaffected lose more to the glassy-eyed prison. They have no idea how to stop it. It’s in some foods, they’ve figured out that much. But it’s impossible to track. Especially with the world working against them.

Until someone with a voice, someone who is listened to, in their zealous research comes across a hidden post. And then they know.

The rebellion is wild and vicious and gloriously alive.

*

It’s not long before the mouse-men find Lydia. She doesn't really have the constitution for running away.

They stalk towards her, expressions placid. One is holding a large needle.

She grits her teeth against trembling and holds her head up. She spits at them.

“I’ll die knowing I ended you.”

Needle-man chuckles. “No. Now it's our turn to do the experimenting. People will be angry for a while, but then they will settle, our reach will expand and we will have the whole world in our grip. After all, everybody has to eat.”

*

Lydia likes her little room at the home. She likes staring out of the window and watching the people walk by. Sometimes her children and grandchildren visit and she works hard to entertain them. They’re growing up so fast. And her kids worry too much about her, it makes her sad. She shouldn’t be a burden, so what if her eyes aren’t as clear as they used to be.

------

Link to article: http://www.wimbledonguardian.co.uk/news/15334029.Mitcham_Iceland_re_opens_after_mice_problem_and_promises__surprising__experience_for_customers/?ref=mrb&lp=4