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yououui · 3 years

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" i'm trying so hard, but... i can't stop myself from falling in love with you. " - but it's kurogane saying it! because you know he tried to stop himself before deciding this was just his lot in life and it was time to wife that boy

I accidentally wrote a 5 page fic of Kurogane just being a lovesick idiot enjoy

They sit in silence after Tomoyo leaves them. Kurogane wants to yell at her a bit because what the hell is she playing at dressing the mage like that?! but it turns out that cutting off an arm is exhausting and he doesn’t have the energy to fight her. He does give her a glare as she exits the room and she winks back at him.

Tea is brought for them eventually and Fai carefully pours them each a warm glass. “How are you feeling?” Fai asks while handing Kurogane his cup, the first words spoken since he socked Kurogane upside the head.

Kurogane shrugs, a natural instinct that proves to be a mistake as pain shoots across his left side. Fai notices his wince and moves closer in concern, like he thinks Kurogane will need to be caught before fainting, but Kurogane waves him off. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“And in pain,” Fai says. He almost sounds angry, but the sad look on his face betrays his tone.

“It’s not that bad,” Kurogane tells him instead. “As long as I don’t move too much.”

Fai regards the empty sleeve hanging at Kurogane’s side and the white bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. “You’re such… an idiot,” He says eventually. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Thought I made it clear a while ago,” Kurogane responds, as easily as ever. “I’ll do anything to protect the people I love.”

Fai laughs, though it sounds more like a sob, and shakes his head. “If you love me then you’re even more of an idiot.”

“Trust me, I know,” Kurogane says. When Fai lifts his eye, Kurogane offers him a small smile just so the idiot doesn’t get the idea in his head that Kurogane is serious. Somehow, even for as upset as he is, it gets Fai to smile weakly as well. That gives Kurogane the encouragement he needs to continue. “Y’know mage, I’m trying so hard—I’ve been trying for a while, but…”

But…?

When did it start exactly? When did the annoyance towards the insufferable man sitting beside him turn into curiosity? When did he begin finding himself wanting to know more about him—when did he begin to care?

He can’t be certain but Outo springs to mind first. The moment Fai’s casual admittance that he wanted to die spiked anger in Kurogane. Anger not towards Fai, as Fai believed, but towards the mere idea of him going through with it. And the moment he saw the mage’s ribbon on the ground, no body to be seen as demons surrounded him and that anger returned like a tsunami wave engulfing him until he could barely see or breathe.

And the relief when he saw the idiot was actually alive. And the frustration at himself for feeling so relieved for someone that didn’t care about Kurogane or himself. Kurogane knew that it was pointless to let himself be interested in the mage; Fai was a liar that carefully kept them all at arms length and Kurogane had no idea who he would see when the mask finally fell.

But he didn’t want Fai to die. As grating as Fai could be, Kurogane wanted him to stick around. He didn’t care about Fai’s past, but he wanted to understand him more. He wanted to know what he liked—liquor, music, cooking, annoying Kurogane, cats, dogs?—and what he disliked—hangovers, waking up early, pickles, personal questions, green tea. He wanted to understand what had Fai so guarded, what had him so afraid, and he wanted Fai to understand that he could let the walls down every now and then, that Kurogane would protect him from whatever he was running from.

And then Yama, Piffle, Lecourt, seeing those walls break down brick by careful brick. Feeling the strength of Fai’s magic for the first time as it engulfed them, the sheer power of it suffocating and brilliant. And Kurogane felt a brief spark of hope that maybe, maybe, Fai was beginning to learn that caring wasn’t such a bad thing.

And then the fear that came with the weight of Fai’s limp body in his arms, the way his blood fell like morbid tears and stained usually flawless skin. Kurogane had felt that once before as a child, the night his life was burned to ruins but he still refused to let his mother go. Kurogane also refused to let Fai go; he needed to feel the mage’s breath and heartbeat, no matter how weak. He needed to know with certainty that Fai was still alive.

It may have began earlier, but it was then that he realized that his minor curiosity had grown into something he couldn’t control or bury or pretend not to notice. In that moment, his worldview narrowed down until he could only see Fai, the noises around them dulled except for Fai’s wavering breath and weak voice, and suddenly anything else he’d ever wanted didn’t seem to matter. He made the wish and paid the price and bound himself to Fai, a man who would keep running seemingly forever.

Well then, to hell with Nihon—he could find a new home or wander around new worlds with Fai until the day he died. He could give up his own life, tear out his own heart, anything it would take to keep that idiot alive for one more day.

It was only after it was over and the price paid that Kurogane reminisced about his parents and realized that there was a word for what he was feeling.

“But I can’t stop myself from falling in love with you.”

Fai says nothing but the breath he takes is sharp enough to cut the stillness around them. Because sure, Kurogane loved him, he cared, they were friends after all. But to fall in love…

It was something he knew he shouldn’t feel as soon as he realized it. He knew he should avoid it. If he tried to pursue someone who did not want to be chased, it would only end in disaster.

And gods did he try to stop it before it reached that point. Kurogane had heard of heartbreak of course, through others lamenting the loss of their beloved or reading about it in books, but he’d never experienced it himself. He didn’t understand how such a feeling could overwhelm someone completely and scoffed at characters in stories that threw themselves from high windows or drank poison rather than live a day without their love.

But then he felt it, that hot knife of rejection stabbing him straight through the chest. Each cold word and hostile glare twisted the blade until he was certain his heart had been crushed to a gruesome, mangled mess, and yet there were still tender bits of it left for Fai to sink his claws into. And then Kurogane understood the windows and the poison and honestly, he’d rather cut off his other arm than ever experience that again.

But at least Fai was alive. At least he was there, and Kurogane would take the bitter pain and more for Fai. Only for Fai.

Kurogane chuckles to himself now, the entire thing so miserable it’s almost humorous. If the person he was before Tomoyo cast him away could see him now, he’d probably call himself a moron, just like those characters in the stories. Kurogane never knew one person could change him so much. “Even when you hated me, I couldn’t help it.”

Fai’s head falls forward and he digs the heel of his palm into his eye as if it could shove his tears back inside. His other hand trembles and fists his kimono so tightly, Kurogane is worried he’ll tear right through the silk.

“I never—hated you,” Fai gasps, shoulders trembling. Kurogane feels bad for making Fai cry—Fai’s cried a lot recently. It comforts Kurogane to hear the truth, though, and he thinks the mage needs it. He has about five lifetimes of tears built up. “I couldn’t. So I tried to make you hate me but—gods, even after all I did... how I treated you…! You still wouldn’t...”

Kurogane turns his body a bit so that he can reach Fai with his right hand. He ruffles Fai’s hair and the indignant squeak Fai lets out as his head is pushed down feels entirely worth it. “Guess we’re both idiots then,” Kurogane tells him quietly.

Fai peers up at him through his hair that Kurogane has made a mess of. His face is shining with tears, his cheeks splotched red and his eye swollen and Kurogane marvels that such a beautiful person could ever exist in the mortal world.

Fai weakly—playfully—swats Kurogane’s hand away and wipes his sleeve against his cheeks. Kurogane snorts, humored that the outfit Tomoyo carefully picked for Fai to wear for a very specific reason has been reduced down to a rag to dry his face. “I think Kuro-sama must be on all kinds of strange medicine,” Fai says with a fragile but honest smile. “He’s in such a good mood and saying all kinds of weird things.”

“Mm. Don’t expect to hear this shit when I wake up tomorrow,” Kurogane tells him with a nod. He’s still smiling though, smiling like a lovesick idiot with hearts in his eyes but damn it he’s been through too much and has almost lost Fai too many times to care about it now. Hearing the slightly teasing tone in the mage’s voice and seeing him here, alive and at Kurogane’s side, soothes his torn up heart and begins stitching the pieces back together.

Fai’s smile grows as well, the fragile edges chipping away and leaving behind a look of pure happiness Kurogane has never seen on him before. Fai reaches over, letting go of his own kimono to grab the empty sleeve of Kurogane’s. “I’m sorry,” He says. “And thank you. But never do something like this again.”

“Don’t almost get yourself killed again and I won’t have to,” Kurogane tells him, grinning.

Fai nods, still smiling. “Fine. You’ll live a long, long life with me by your side, Kuro-sama. I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

It’s probably the strangest proposal in the history of any world, but it’s one Kurogane is happy to accept.

#kurofai

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dragonstoravens · 3 years

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Babylon Vol. 1: Bad Behavior, A Dancer in her Own Right

[ID: a blue patterned banner with text reading “BABYLON.” End ID.]

(Two chapters today, but this one’s a bit of a shorter update anyway. Believe it or not, we’re getting towards the end of volume 1 now!! It’ll be all posted by the end of December, and then in the new year at some point we’ll start posting 2. We’re also looking into Wattpad, and maybe even making an audiobook, so keep an eye out for those updates. Enjoy the chapters!)

Taglist (ask to be added or removed!): @charlottedotexe @glitterandstarshine @rainbowcoloreddays @the-starlight-chills @erased-in-stone

General: @elywritesbydarkness @residentofthedisc @humour-and-hyperfocus @skyfirewrites @viawrites-andacts

17. Bad Behavior

A tap on her shoulder alerted Azure to someone just behind her. She turned, smile plastered to her face. The woman was about her age, grinning conspiratorially. That was never good, in her book. Grinning usually meant there was a plan for the conversation, and conspiratorially meant she’d have to actually participate. She washed away her distaste for the idea with some champagne before speaking.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh no, we haven’t. Samantha Whitewater, my family owns the Whitewater mining firm.” The introduction was followed by a small bow, which Azure returned. A colony family, then. Whitewater continued. “I just wanted to congratulate you.”

Congratulate her? She hadn’t done anything of note to these people. She never made deals and she talked about herself as little as possible, trying to create a black box of a history no one would question. There was nothing to congratulate, and even less for a stranger to bring up out of nowhere. She touched the comm.

Hey Hotshot, you remember anyone from the Whitewater family?

I think I got a proposal from them once, he responded. More business than pleasure, though I think they wanted a marriage too. At least they didn’t keep pushing when I denied both.

That was all she needed. At least Samantha and her family had manners. Her smile relaxed to something more genuine. She didn’t know what she was about to be congratulated for, but at least it wouldn’t be underhanded. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, things have been awful slow for me lately.”

“Oh, nothing like that. I’m just congratulating you on making such a good match. No one else here could say the same, though of course the Jericho name is something of a hot-ticket item to many of us. My own family included, I have to admit.” She laughed like it was some kind of joke between friends, and Azure’s blood pressure rose. Trinity, seeming to just take notice of the conversation as Azzy’s burgeoning anger began to make itself known through their mental link, began to turn, a crease in his brow the only sign of confusion showing through the ice-sculpture poise he wore around these events like armor.

She blinked to cover for the twitch in her eye, tucking her hands behind her back to cover the sparking. She ignored the vague warning of Azzy, no, that buzzed in the back of her head from Trinity, bulldozing on. “I wasn’t aware he was on sale in the first place.” Her words came out clipped, stilted, and poisonously sweet. Speaking of her friend as though he was an item made her stomach churn, even in retaliation. These events often weren’t terrible until something like this came up, the word choice surrounding people objectifying and economic in the worst manner. But never once had someone brazenly spoken about Trinity to her face before, like it was normal or expected. That was her friend Whitewater was talking about, the one who’d taught her about shrimp forks and helped her reach high shelves in her lab and made poorly edited images of frogs telling bad jokes for her when she was sad. She seethed. “I suppose that would explain why you caught me off guard then.”

The woman blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it’s like where you come from--” the incredibly rude phrasing was somehow undercut by the fact that she still didn’t seem to think she was insulting anyone at all-- “but clearly you’re not used to this kind of society. We’re all a commodity here. The best he or anyone should hope for is to find someone equally as useful to him as he is to them, and maybe someone he can get along with-- though with someone as Icy as Jericho I never held out too much hope for that. That could have been me, but I guess it’s you.”

Azure opened her mouth to speak, but Trinity’s hand on her back stopped her just long enough for her to hear him out. Azure. She’s right. Drop it.

Azure shot back a response with a dangerous growl entering her mental voice, indignant and angry and protective. I don’t recall askin’ how anyone else here felt about it but me, so you drop it. She cleared her throat, her tone once more painted over with a thin veneer of polite but apparent disdain. “It is me, thank you very much Miss Whitewater. I wish you the very best of luck in finding someone merely useful to you.” If it wasn’t going to get her kicked out, she’d have spat at the woman’s feet like she used to when people bullied Crim in elementary school. Instead, she grinned conspiratorially with entirely too many of her teeth. “Because as we both know, that’s simply the most one can hope for in this wonderful little bubble.”

“Like you’ve done any better.” Whitewater finally seemed perturbed, angry that something was disrupting her sterile worldview. Her lip curled slightly. “That man touches you like he’d rather be doing anything else. Two inches away from anything that could be considered a little risque, even while dancing? At least someone like me would’ve known what I was getting into, with someone like him.”

Trinity saw Azzy draw in a breath, and knew whatever she was about to say would be even worse. So before it could leave her mouth. Trinity had turned fully to face the two of them, and in an instant his arm was wrapped firmly around her waist. His hand rested squarely on her hip-- right on the strip of skin her dress’ cutout bodice left exposed to the air. His fingers dug into her flesh just slightly. Not hard enough to even leave prints on the skin, but just enough to send a message. Azzy relaxed in posture only, looking for all the world like a guard dog that had just been told to sit as she looked up at him sidelong. “I’m sorry, Miss Whitewater, but my date and I have business elsewhere. Will this be all?”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Jericho. Garza.” Whitewater’s voice was stilted. Trinity turned Azzy around and used his arm around her to begin to shepard her away-- he wasn’t sure she was prepared to actually leave this alone, left to her own devices. They made it about ten feet before Azure looked back over her shoulder, sliding her arm around his waist as well and winking back at Whitewater, Garza’s supposed devious intention with Trinity on display. Internally, there was a small blip of take that, asshole, and then a self satisfied calm. Trinity sighed. He hated to play into whatever that was, but unfortunately a deserted hallway was likely the only place he was going to be able to talk to Azzy alone. He tugged her away into a winding passage off to the side of the main ballroom, gritting his teeth as he imagined the scandalized stare that Whitewater woman was probably still sending after them. He couldn’t deny that it was… amusing, to an extent. But he liked to avoid attention he wasn’t looking for at this kind of thing, and the last thing he needed was a jilted business-lover spreading around the fact that he’d pulled his date into a secret corner in the middle of an event. What was done was done, though, and he had to admit he hoped Whitewater felt sufficiently humiliated by the end of all that. Whatever it was.

Finally satisfied they were alone, he let go of Azzy-- careful not to let his hands linger a second longer than they had to-- and sighed, leaning against the wall with a slightly bemused smile. “What was that about? And why did it seem to have everything and nothing to do with me?”

Azure blew a stray curl from her face, absently rubbing her hip where he’d touched her with her opposite arm. The consequences of her actions appeared to be finally setting in, and her face was apologetic in that same way it was when she realized she’d started eating in massive bites at dinner instead of polite and small ones yet again. She looked almost bashful as she looked up at him. “Sorry Hotshot, I just...I don’t know, she started talkin’ about you like you were a thing instead of a person. I’m used to ‘em talkin’ about how hot you are, and that’s fine because it’s true at least, but no one’s ever said anythin’ like that about you right to my face before, it pissed me off.” She finally let her own hip go, shaking her hands to rid them of sparks and avoiding his eyes to avoid letting it be known just how honest she was about to be. “It’s rude, and it’s dehumanizin’, and I just believe real strongly that you deserve better than that.”

Trinity almost denied it, wanting to cite times he certainly had not deserved better, but the last thing he wanted was to open up that can of worms. The wound of his profiteering off that war-torn planet was still too fresh, his apology still somewhat inadequate. Instead, he just shook his head. “I know what you think, but whether that’s truly how I am or not, it’s how I’ve presented myself for years to these people. Besides, she practically called you a bumpkin to your face too, and I’m not sure you even noticed.” He felt something soften slightly inside him as he looked at his friend. She’d been defending him. God strike him down if he knew why. God would probably strike him down regardless.

She waved a hand, looking unaffected. “Who gives a shit about me? I am a bumpkin for all these people should care. But you’re…” she struggled, squinting her eyes and scrunching her freckled nose as the machinery of her mind ground its way to some kind of an end to her sentence that was eloquent. It failed. Instead, she came out with: “You’re cooler’n they are and they should admit it to themselves and act with some damn respect.”

Trinity tried and failed for several moments to hold himself together before he burst, doubling over with laughter. She’d never seen him laugh like this in person-- heard it, maybe, over a particularly good meme or something, but never like this, actual tears forming in his eyes. She grinned, wide and crooked, her job here complete. He slapped his knee, struggling to straighten back up. “Ah, Az. You’ve brought us full circle.” He wiped a hand over his eyes. “I give a shit about you. I am also what she said about me. And you are also ‘cooler’n’ them. Yes?”

Now suddenly she was bashful again. No one ever called her cool. Smart, maybe, or nice or even helpful sometimes, but never cool. She blushed. “Sure. At least I know how to act normal. Sorta. In comparison, at least.” Her hand reached up to scratch behind her ear, sympathy painting her features. “It’s a sad little life she’s about to lead. Honestly, I hope it’s what she actually wants or else she’s gonna be damn lonely without an actual someone to connect with.”

“It’s a sad life most of us lead,” was his only response. His face was turned slightly from her, into the shadows of the dark hallway, leaving his expression unreadable. “Sometimes there are things more important than our own happiness. Shall we?” He held out a hand, gesturing back down the hall towards the well-lit bustle of the ballroom. It struck Azzy that things in this world seemed to hide better among glitter and blinding lights than they did in the dark. Nevertheless, she placed her own hand gently in his.

“Now remember, act like you like me or else I might actually have to throw down one of these days.”

“Right, right.” Trinity huffed out a tiny little laugh, his fingers finding the skin of her hip once more. “As long as you’re alright with it.”

“I’m a bad actor, this is easier.” She leaned her head into his shoulder, wrapping her arm around his waist and leaning into him. “Plus, this way I don’t even have to stand up straight.”

18. A Dancer In Her Own Right

Her boots made a gentle beat against the hard metal of the floor. One step then another, sure of herself even as she looked in the opposite direction to her movement. There was a rhythm to her every sway, every object she tossed over her shoulder and caught in the other hand a step in a dance she was choreographing on the spot. Something from this drawer, cross the room to another cabinet, all of it swirling around that constant central point that was the examination table and her workbench. Watching her set up for a deep maintenance test was like witnessing a ballet. Her stretch for something off a high shelf was easy, graceful. She knew exactly how far everything was, exactly how many steps to get there. She carried the objects she collected as though they weighed nothing, a spring in her step the whole way.

Trinity sat on a counter as far out of her way as he could get, but he might as well not have been there at all, for all having another person in her space slowed her down. He couldn’t help but marvel a bit at the sureness of her movements, now that she was in a place entirely her own. In society and on a ballroom floor she stumbled occasionally, one might even assume she was clumsy. That thought would be long gone the moment they saw this dance, one made by and for her, the perfect combination of grace and power. Ballroom dances were as much for the observers as the dancers themselves, but being able to observe this felt like a privilege more than a right. Being allowed to appreciate this sight as an outsider, a friend but someone who would admit freely that he couldn’t even begin to understand her, was a gift. In this moment, Trinity relaxed, and let himself appreciate the organic yet mechanical beauty of her, without letting his brain get in the way. After all, dancing was supposed to be instinct above thought.

She held out a hand, and he automatically picked up a wrench that sat at his side, placing the handle in her palm. She took it without looking, and the dance went on. She vaulted casually onto a countertop like it was the most natural thing in the world, grabbing some gray box off a shelf near the ceiling and hopping down without a hint of hesitation, no signs of exhaustion as sparks flew in her wake. She made her way back to the center to drop both things off, to pick up something else, to continue this seemingly endless waltz. Individual curls of hair freed themselves from her braid, her beanie long discarded in favor of having the goggles she typically wore around her neck situated atop her head. She stopped briefly at the edge of her stage, only to map out a new path that carved the edges of the room from the center, a small bucket in hand to hold whatever things she needed as she went along. She needed a lot of trinkets and tools, and she knew what each of them were. She paused briefly in front of him, and pointed above his head. It took him a moment to insert himself into her rhythm again, then he knew what she wanted without words. He slid off the counter and held out his hands to make a step for her, boosting her up to whatever it was she needed to reach. She stepped lightly onto his outstretched hands, opening a cabinet and pulling a bottle down in the same motion as her descent back to the ground. She flashed him a grin, crooked and pleased. He heard a snippet of something she was humming to herself, low and sweet, her own orchestra to accompany her own dance.

Now that he was no longer needed for the moment, Trinity hopped back up on the counter, content to just watch her work in perfect harmony with herself.

#wip: babylon #writeblr #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #chapter update

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curious-minx · 3 years

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The Art Patron (SHORT STORY)

Somewhere in between purchasing a full set of decorative Simpsons plates, a perfectly cromulent companion to my custard yellow walls, and generating writing prompts for aspiring writers to never do, I made a discovery that will change my life forever.

My love language is tinsel wrapped gifts of the highest and personal order. I wanted my lady love to have a very special Kansas Day. She wasn’t from Kansas, nor did she care much for the Simpsons. She liked them just fine. Oh! A fellow is offering the artistic service of turning “ME!” into a Simpson! My walls could use all of the soggy rubber ducky yellow art it can get and seeing as the only pictures I have of myself are in the womb I think this would be one step closer to adulthood. Click, yes, sir please Turn Me into a Simpson button. Huh…$500. That’s really steep. I close the laptop and pace around my small, growing increasingly smaller bedroom, and I trip over a foam dumb bell. I am black and bruised. I have even made myself start bleeding. Dammit I guess I have no choice but to turn myself into a Simpson now. How else will I remember how I looked before I broke my face, but I don’t own any pictures of myself!

I have been grocery shopping recently at Sal’s Little Big Sega Bodega! She’s surely got me on camera. I huff down the thirty six flights of my storied building and tip my doorman handsomely. Listen to the heels click and clatter, Big City Blues are calling me. Sal’s Little Big Sega Bodega is one of the only approachable monuments to commerce on this fiscally icy block. I waltzed right in through the copyright infringing doors and blast a salutations to Sal herself. Sal puffs on a waterlogged stodgy and turns a page in a dirty magazine about Russian propaganda. There is a man dressed up in a Sonic the Hedgehog suit cleaning up a bloody mess pooling around the cramped store.

The man dressed as Sonic tells me,“Surf’s up, homie.” The gory puddle ripples and soaks. I step around armed with an armful of Clickers, a steady Shenmue stress ball and a pre-wrapped Alex Kidd Enchanted Castle hoagie, I will have to pick out the pickled capers but it’s still a nice mayo dense sammie.

“Sal, fair clerkess I am hoping you are having a good day.” I am going to crack into the Sal safe one chit at a chat.

“Nope. Keep it moving, kid. Take your change.” She slides my change across the counter and even though I typically despise when people refuse to make hand to hand contact with lending of money I can accept Sal when she does this. She has clearly lived a life.

“I understand, the ToeJam and Earl flavored condoms don’t stock themselves.”

Sal snaps back, “Look-I know you appreciate all of this geeky shit, but this is my livelihood.”

“Sal, I really think you should take an improv class. You would learn not to start all of these customer interactions marinated in sea salt brine saltier than Ecco the Dolphin’s home...I will see myself out.” Damn I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask for a simple favor. An old woman with a brawny pale tattooed man on leash has entered the store just as I am leaving. The old woman takes off her wig, revealing a bald shiny head and a pistol. She begins shoving the pistol at Sal. Sonic turns on the Jet Set Radio to full blast and slips in the bloody puddle.

I don’t want to call the police, but I call the police.

“Hello, I don’t like you.”

“911, what is your emergency.” The tone of the pig operator is harsh and accusatory. I try to swallow, but I am choking on my enchanted hoagie.

“Bang! Bang! Cops and robbers! 72nd and Pacific Ave! Be here or be square!” I hang up the phone and in my burst of adrenaline have to remind myself to not smash my own phone. I go around the corner and wait for the cops who show up. Hours go by and the Sega bodega burns, robbed and pillage. What a world. The cops finally show up when they finally feel like it and are asking Sal the typical useless questions.

“An old woman and her lackey robbed me blind and you’re just going to file some paperwork?!”

“Listen, sweetheart, this is a big bad world. Shit happens. Buck up.” Office Doomsdairy tips his cardboard hat at Sal and takes a Chocolate Milk that has one of the Super Monkey Ball Monkeys winking on the carton. The cop chugs the whole milk carton and slides Sal a twenty.

“Buy yourself something happy, you look like a miserable bitch. Also, I grew up in a Nintendo household you’re lucky I don’t arrest you for being on the wrong side of the console wars! God dammit! I hate all of these sexual harassment protocols! I used to have a partner I could wisecrack to! Thank you for calling 911, have a nice day.” The cop is leaving and I puff my chest like a mighty Maine puffin and say to the officer, “Wait!”

The cop responds, “Dude, I’m on break. Buzz off.”

“No officer, you should take a look at the security camera footage. You will see that Sal isn’t lying!”

“Yeah, sure whatever.” The filthy cop and I go back inside and now with the Wrong side of the Law by my side I can finally get my security camera footage.

“Why don’t you just take a picture of yourself? You have a phone don’t you?” Asks a nagging insipid voice that sounds rough and grainy against my thoughts. I shove the voice away and continue standing by the dirty Lawman’s side.

“So uh I think I need to see the security livestream. You do have a security camera right?”

“Yes, officer, I have security.” Sal makes a throat cutting motion over to the Sonic man behind her who sadly puts away his Golden Axe. Sal lifts open her gate for the officer to step through and he immediately turns on the bathroom security footage and begins fast tracking and rewinding the footage stopping at every womanly shape. He does this for a while and clutches at his foam padded pants.

“Hey kid, this technology bewilders me. Maybe you should find the crime.” The cop stretches and scrolls through his phone while I fumble with this alien technology hoping to click the right video feed. I eventually stumble, click onto a feed of the main entryway and rewind to the robbery. I look over and notice that the cop is injecting himself with a violent red powder and kicking at Sal’s managerial locker. I rewind further and find a good headshot of myself prior to my accident. Seeing as I stop in every day it doesn’t take long for me to find yesterday’s beautiful face. I cringe and take out my own phone and take a picture of my image on the security camera display monitor. I fast forward back over to the unfolding of the crime. Another cop appears, Officer Wrathsberg.

“Fuckin hurry up Doom! What’s the hold up? You jerking off to potty pics again? And who the hell is this civilian? Get out of here!” I take my leave and hurry back home with a visage of myself in tow. I tip my doorman again and rush back up my thirty six flights of stairs. Back home. My plants are still wilting, my cat still isn’t back from her shopping trip, and my walls are still the color of Big Bird’s sperm. I upload a picture of a picture of myself and take another $500 out of my savings. I am going to be turned into a Simpsons.

The Simpsonfy me fill out form is of a considerable depth. They want to know a lot of personal information that I am frankly insulted no one has ever asked me about before. Some questions make me reconsider my entire worldview. I am going to be one terrific Simpson. I finish the survey and look for a way to tip the artist, but their cryptic Paypal does not offer a tip button so I add on an extra $25 to the $500. I wait. In the amount of time it takes for someone to open and close an app I get a response.

“Thanks. I will see you tonight.”

“Wait, what?” I say out loud and really wish I hadn’t. Going to take hours to get this kind of negative energy out of my house. I type up, “No thanks, please find attached the photograph of my visual likeness to assist you on what I am sure to be a lovely portrait. Thanks again and I hope you have a nice Kansas day!”

I close my laptop and masturbate because I am grateful for being an artistic patron. I feel what Walt Disney must have felt every time he flexed and brought a new animated confection to the world. The wait for the portrait will be excruciating.

My lady love, who is totally not my sister, Franchesca has returned home! I rush to the front door like a toddler puppy hybrid too cute for his own good embracing the warm glow of the Feminine return, and she grunts out a hello. She peels off every article of clothing off from her body and leaves it behind like a scorned Pompei cast away and excuses herself to the shower. I bend down and sweep up her sticky and sweet bundle of clothes and fold them into the clothing hamper. I wait for her shower and she joins me in the rhomboid rumpus (and rumble) room clad in nothing but her Parisian robe.

“So, how was your day?” asks Franchesca, and I look into the depths of her expansive molasses colored eyes.

“Pretty good! I got you a Kansas Day gift! Do you want to open it now or later?” I hand her the wrapped stack of decorative Simpsons plates.

“Um sure? Kansas Day? Is this because I told you about that anime convention orgy I attended in Kansas? Either way, it is appreciated.” She unravels my gift which is wrapped in such a way to provide a user-friendly experience. She stares at the top plate on the stack, Lisa and Bleeding Gums Murphy saxing together in the moonlight. The best plate. Franchesca puts it down, not even considering the other four plates in the set.

“Thanks so much! I am sure one of these will look great hanging up on her walls the color of sick lemon. The purples will work real nicely. Now if you don’t mind me I think I will have a nice lie down for awhile. Wake me if you need anything.” Franchesca retires to her separate bed chambers leaving the pile of decorative plates and wrapping paper. I don’t bother picking them up. I don’t know what sort of reaction I was expecting, but this one left me cold. At the very least she could have dramatically smashed one against my head if she hated them so much. I slink away to the liquor cabinet.

I bend down to the liquor cabinets’ sleepy filigree doors and whisper into them, “I will take one big and brown, please.” I take out a mostly full bottle of pre-made Whiskey Sour. Too many times I have gotten super sloshed making my own cocktails and making a huge mess in the kitchen, and as anyone who has ever met me always leaves with one and only one impression: “I can tell that he’s not the biggest fan of messes.” I messily chug straight from the bottle until I sputter out the synthetic 65% concoction. I pour another glass in a frosted novelty glass of a franchise I don’t even like and sink into my chaise beanbag lounge. At least when I wake up I will finally be a Simpson.

////

My throat is too dry to swallow. My eyes, too blurry and caked over to blink. My arms were too roped and bound to move. I try to speak but only weakness comes out. Every inch of my body feels like it is experiencing a tingly chemical burn. I produce a groan! That’s progress. The room isn’t spinning, but it’s not a stable clear image for me either.

“Congratulations Mister Branche, you’ve officially been made into a Simpson.”

“Dooough.” I am trying to ask what the hell is going on, but my mouth is also too heavily caked over in a rubbery mask to move. My vision is starting to reappear and I am not too sure I want to keep seeing what I am seeing.

“Hush, now do you want an official Simpson name? I was thinking Albert Sacksworth, but I am always open to my clients suggestions. No rush, but I will need a decision in less than twenty four hours if we are going to sign your official Simpsons birth certificate.

“Dooough.” I am trying to say that this is an outrage and as a fellow literalist I am sickened by this criminal negligence, untie me you scoundrel!

I am released into the world as a Simpson character. I only have eight fingers now. I will use all eight of these fingers to climb my way back into my lady loves’ arms.

The End.

#the simpsons #short story #weird fiction #short fiction #sega #sega saturn #crime #sonic

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writetoremainsilent · 5 years

Text

10/15/19 the accompanying story 3

This one is called Ersatz. I don’t feel super confident about it, ‘cuz it’s kind of a deviation from the norm.

******************************************************************************

The word ersatz is funny to me in that it seems antithetical to its own definition. Ersatz (pronounced air-sotts) basically means an inferior substitute for something. But I think the word ersatz is a better alternative for ersatz terms like worse, false, and artificial. It’s just so much more gut-punching. It’s a fancier upgrade from those blasé other words. There’s no room for misinterpretation. Anyway, enough about that.

******************************************************************************

Her therapist had told her to treat sophomore year with a more open mind. Stop doubting. Start doing. She didn’t really leave any alternatives.

Her parents had told her that she was wasting her best years on feeling sorry for herself. ‘You’re fine, baby,’ they would say. ‘College makes everyone feel bad. This therapist is unnecessary.’ They didn’t really get it.

Her friends, if you could call them that, were dwindling. The few that tried to coax her into coming out with them did their best to show disappointment when she declined. They gave up, eventually. They didn’t really care.

Which was fine. She wasn’t really doing a great job on her end, either. She understood.

Despite the advice, despite the scolding, despite the concern, she just felt empty.

******************************************************************************

She wasn’t exactly sure when, or why it started. Maybe it had been all of a sudden. Maybe it had been a slow burn.

She had been so self-assured in high school, just two years ago. She knew what she wanted from life, and usually ended up getting it. She only did, never doubted.

And now...

Lately, it felt like she was playing a parody of herself rather than actually being herself: she responded how she thought she would’ve responded, and engaged in activities that she thought she would’ve liked. Doubted every action she made.

A shoddy replica of the person she wanted to be. An ersatz mockery of the real thing. A hollow shell, a melancholy reminder, of whatever she had been before.

She realized that she hated herself. She saw herself crying as she sat alone, scarfing down sorry excuses for meals between classes. When she could stomach food. She felt herself losing weight because she was too tired to do anything besides sleep.

(running shoes lay fetal, just as motionless as she was)

Her housemates didn’t care much to talk to her. She was a random, and they had all been a friend group before she moved in.

Her friends weren’t real. They were satellites, orbiting cautiously around her, and stayed that way because she was too scared to let them get close to her, but too needy to let them drift away. She was ecstatic when they opened up to her, and devastated when they found better friends.

Her romantic endeavors were nonexistent. It should be said outright that she didn’t care for relationships. She understood attraction. She understood physical intimacy, though she didn’t really want it. But she could not wrap her head around meeting someone and basing one’s life around them. She did not want to give up her time for someone else. She did not want to share in someone else’s problems. She had enough problems already.

******************************************************************************

Back in high school, she had had a best friend. They were like equal and opposite reactions. He was her exact counterpart: sharing humor, worldviews, and interests, but never sharing the same opinion as her. They eagerly argued about the same books and movies. They tried and failed to outwit the other. Their friends said they bickered like an old couple.

She still smiled as she recalled the many late nights they spent trying to do homework together, only to give up and watch T.V. instead. Just passing time with him made her feel good.

She was pretty sure it was love. She didn’t feel empty, back then. He was her everything. Fleeting thoughts of him would sprint through her head all day: a goofy laugh, a witty joke, a serious, handsome expression. Her lips would always curve into a smile at the thought of him, and she resented the effect he had on her.

Of course, it did help that he was terribly good looking. She would never have said so to his face, though. Like he needed the ego trip.

They didn’t talk anymore. They weren’t friends anymore. She had been stupid.

(what else is new)

It was like a cliché movie scene. High off of feelings, of nostalgia, of pent-up adoration, she had taken him aside on their senior night and confessed that she had feelings for him. That he felt like her soulmate. That she needed him to feel like herself. Back then, she only did, never doubted.

He held her shoulders gently and exhaled shakily. Equal and opposite clichés. Just like a movie scene, she was the first person he would ever come out to.

They could have remained friends. In fact, it was probably awful of her to have cut contact after he came out. Probably made him feel like garbage. Probably made him feel how she did. But it was too much for her to try and act like nothing had changed. She realized she had already thought of them as a couple. That best friends and lovers were interchangeable. Indistinguishable. She had expected too much, and it had scarred both of them.

The one silver lining was that she came to a very important realization: love, in all of its messy, convoluted, and emotionally exhausting glory, was merely a delusion that tangents from friendship.

A painful variation of what she had had with her best friend. A shoddy replica of companionship. An ersatz mockery of the real thing.

A meaningless reminder on how to lose your soulmate.

******************************************************************************

As she ruminated on her sordid backstory for perhaps the five-hundred-millionth time, she felt herself coming fully to consciousness. She groaned and flipped over her phone, which lay buzzing by her head.

It was half past two. Both her classes for the day were already over. She had slept through the day without having once really fallen asleep. It was upsetting how routine this had become.

Her roommate was long gone, having started her day at 6:30 as usual. There was muffled laughter coming from the room next to her.

One of her other housemates had their boyfriend over, and they were both giggling while watching some stupid show. She was surprised the racket hadn’t woken her up sooner.

She groggily flopped out of her futon and oozed onto the carpet. She felt like jelly, but she swore she heard her knees creak when she moved her legs. Her roommate had left the window open (‘The weather is so lovely in fall!’) and cold air continued to spill into her room, making her teeth clatter against one another.

Through sheer force of will, she stood up, slammed the window shut, and went to the bathroom to start her day.

******************************************************************************

She had been a pretty decent student in high school, so she acted how she thought she would have acted. She sat at the desk in her room and started leafing through a textbook that cost more than three sessions with her therapist. Idly, she mused that her parents found the book a worthwhile investment, but not their daughter’s sanity.

Another giggle sounded from the other room. She was starting to get annoyed.

She sighed and heaved all her school supplies into her backpack, and dressed to go out. Her baggy sweater and sweats made her look shapeless, and she smiled at the thought.

The walk to campus was uneventful. She realized upon reaching the library that she had put her headphones on, but forgotten to play any music. She shrugged and took them off. Music wasn’t fun anymore, anyway.

******************************************************************************

The library was abuzz with other students also desperate to cram information between the folds of their brains. The constant white noise of backpacks unzipping, papers rustling, and students quizzing each other was kind of comforting for her. She preferred noise to no noise. She preferred crowded places to vacant ones. She didn’t like when things were empty.

The table she decided to sit at was far in the back of the building, where students were less intent on focusing and more interested in socializing. It definitely wasn’t conducive to a healthy study environment, but she didn’t care. Studying while others slacked off inspired her. She had to be better than someone.

She got out her laptop and notebook and started copying lecture slides down. She had no context for them, so she heaved her textbook out, as well. From the corner of her eye, she could see a boy ask to sit down next to a girl and started talking with her. From their body language and expressions, it seemed like they weren’t previously acquainted.

They were hitting it off, though. And why wouldn’t they? They were both happy, healthy, attractive individuals. The boy seemed a little shy, which made his initial approach all the more endearing. The girl was laughing at his jokes and making a few of her own. And after maybe ten minutes of talking, they both had their phones out and were exchanging contact information.

Upon seeing this, she rolled her eyes. A part of her found the whole courtship ritual cute, but she felt committed to deriding romance as a whole. A waste of time. An ersatz companionship. She wanted someone to talk to her like that understand that.

A couple of times freshman year, she had been like the girl she was now furtively observing. There had been boys who had miraculously taken notice of her. Asked to sit with her. Asked for her number. She loved the attention, though she did not do anything with it.

Gradually, the attention stopped. She did not want it to stop, but it did. She had been ecstatic when people took an interest in her. She was devastated when they found better people to care for.

Her inbox had been empty for a while, now.

******************************************************************************

The budding couple she had been watching had left long ago. Others came and went as the hours waned on. She looked out the window once and was startled to see the street lamps flickering on and the horizon sporting a deep violet.

There weren’t many people left in the library. Even where she sat, the noise and conversation had significantly subsided.

But from the corner of her eye (which she made excellent usage of) she saw a lanky frame draw near.

Nearer.

Wait, too near.

The boy was standing right next to her. His lips moved, forming words, but she didn’t really register them. She took off her utterly silent headphones and made a quizzical expression. He looked familiar.

In a smooth, deep voice, the boy repeated his question:

‘Can I sit at this table?’

‘Uh, sure.’ Her voice was raspy from disuse. Her heart rate had quadrupled. ‘If you want to.’

He smiled disarmingly and put his things down, taking the seat directly across from her.

******************************************************************************

Half an hour had passed, and she was sweating. The boy had stuck around, studiously scribbling into a notebook. He was looking more and more familiar, too. Which made no sense, because she didn’t know enough people for anyone to look similar to another. She cautiously watched him, taking note of his dark hair and symmetrical features.

The boy looked up from his laptop and laughed at her pensive expression, and she quickly averted her eyes.

She realized why he looked so familiar, though.

He was the spitting image of her best friend.

It was uncanny, actually. Her throat closed. She tried to steal glances at him occasionally, but his soft gaze always greeted hers, his brown eyes twinkling mirthfully.

After a few such interactions, his lips curled into a rosy smile

(just like his)

and he spoke.

‘Hey! I, uh, snuck a peek at your textbook, and I think we might be studying for the same class. Do you–would you wanna study together? Today’s lecture went completely over my head.’

His voice was so smooth. She could only hope she sounded nearly as effortless in her reply.

‘...Sure. That’d be nice.’

He beamed and walked around the table to sit next to her. And she suppressed her desire to melt into nothingness.

******************************************************************************

There were a few key differences, she thought, between the boy and her friend from high school.

The boy had asked to walk back with her, because it turned out they lived in complexes near one another. Who was she to say no? And so they ambled on, side by side. The streets were empty, and the crisp fall air nipped at their exposed necks and face.

They had gotten to talking, and he was very much an open book. She was ecstatic that he was so willing to talk to her about personal topics. And she was devastated when he affirmed that he was like this with most people.

Yes, only a few differences, but significant ones. The boy wasn’t nearly as quick-witted as her old friend had been. He had struggled the entire time with learning the class material, despite having attended class that day. She had to explain the lesson to him.

She had tried cracking a joke, a stupid pun, and he stared blankly at her with a puzzled, but friendly smile. She gave up on humor, after that.

And somehow, she could feel his openness by the way his face looked. There was no extra layer to his smile, no hidden depths in his eyes. She could tell that she was interacting with the entirety of him.

Her friend from high school had been mysterious, like he was guarding some painful secret that tortured and ate at him. Well, actually, that was what he had been doing. With this new boy, she did not need to do any work to see his secret sides. They came up naturally.

She felt awful for constantly comparing this boy to her friend from years ago, but she continued to do so.

The boy was talking about feeling sad and out of focus after his breakup, which had happened about a month ago. He had looked meaningfully at her when he mentioned that. Her heart skipped a beat, but she convinced herself that she was overthinking things.

It turned out that he had always been with someone since his sophomore year of high school. She smiled inwardly. He couldn’t handle being alone, either.

There was something about the night air, or the boy, or maybe just having someone’s attention that made her open up, too. She admitted that she didn’t understand love. That she thought it was a waste of time. That it was like getting a dog: investing in future pain and sadness.

He laughed at that last part. ‘You’re quite the cynic,’ he chided.

Her friend would’ve had an ironic, fourth-dimensional quip about how the term cynic came from a Greek word that meant dog-like.

But the boy continued. He confessed that he didn’t know what love really was, either. He just knew he needed to be with somebody to feel like somebody. And he needed to feel like somebody.

They fell into comfortable silence.

They had reached her apartment complex. She shyly waved goodbye, but the boy stopped her before she walked away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, and asked if they could please exchange contact information. For talking. About school.

(don’t do it don’t do it you’ll be such a hypocrite don’t do it please don’t)

She smiled and said that that would be very nice.

******************************************************************************

Her inbox was no longer empty. It now housed a hey there! how’s it going? :)

******************************************************************************

She tossed and turned in bed that night. She was thinking about the boy.

Why had he taken an interest in her? Why was he so easy to talk to? What did he see in her? Why did he have to look so much like–

–the fact that the boy might have taken an interest in her was the last key difference between him and her old friend. It confirmed that the boy was just second best. A stand-in. A replica. An ersatz mockery of a soulmate. A reminder of whom she had lost.

And that was okay.

Eyelids suddenly heavy, she fell into a deep sleep.

******************************************************************************

A month after they had met, the boy asked her out. They had been hanging out frequently to study together, get meals together, and just pass the time together. He made sure she was eating. That she was waking up in the mornings. She didn’t feel quite so empty around him.

Apparently, she made him feel like somebody, too. At least, he said as much. So she said yes. She hated herself, but she said yes. She was scared of losing him.

She knew she was setting herself up for failure. That it would end badly. That love would screw her over, again.

But she said yes.

******************************************************************************

Having never been on a date before, she didn’t know what to expect. She kind of thought it would all crash and burn.

The food was nice. It was a fancier restaurant, so they shared a meal. She didn’t feel like eating much anyway, though. She was full off of a couple bites.

They didn’t really know what to talk about. Most of dinner was just them smiling at one another awkwardly. Sitting with one another. Ersatz companionship.

He paid for the bill (thank God) and they left. He took her hand and she resisted the urge to melt into nothingness.

He guided them to a part of campus that she wasn’t super familiar with. They sat on a bench there, side-by-side.

Empty words exchanged. Kind of sweet to hear, but that was about it.

Then he kissed her. She closed her eyes. Wasn’t bad. Wasn’t great. Too late to just stay friends.

******************************************************************************

One year after they had met, she had her last appointment with her therapist. She mentioned that things were getting serious between her and the boy. They were planning on living together after they graduated and found jobs. Her therapist had told her that their relationship was unhealthy. That it wasn’t love. That it was a shoddy imitation of it. That they were using one another as crutches. A reminder of their inability to live their own lives. The term codependency was thrown around quite a bit.

She decided to finally heed her parents’ advice.

******************************************************************************

Two years after they had met, she was heaving a suitcase onto his bed. He was smiling gently at her as she unpacked the last of her belongings for their shared apartment.

She was pretty sure she loved him. It was similar to what she’d felt for the better version before. She was able to feel without the constant fear of losing him, this time. He was her everything. His problems were hers. She didn’t feel empty when she was with him.

She was pretty sure it was love.

And she thought she was good for him, too. He was driven, focused. He always told her that she made him feel like somebody. She was happy to be of use.

He didn’t really tell her that he loved her, very often. But she could feel it through his actions. He stuck around because he had to have loved her.

******************************************************************************

Five years after they had met, they went out for dinner. He was paying, and she was thrilled. She kind of liked the big fuss he was making over it, especially because lately money wasn’t as easily come by for either of them. He didn’t usually make such gestures anymore.

A fancy restaurant. Like their first date. Roses and wine. They dressed to fit the part. He looked handsome in his black coat, which they both knew was a knockoff.

Prior to this anniversary, she had also done some research into gemstones. Diamonds. Not for any particular reason. She’d also left the tabs open on her computer for him to see. Not for any particular reason.

Here with him, she felt content. She felt a sense of pleasant inertia. She felt full to the brim. They had been looking for houses for a while, now, and she appreciated the routine. The safety of having someone to share her days with.

Briefly, she wondered if this feeling was her settling down

(or just settling)

and looked back up at him, smiling sweetly.

Dinner was served. They shared a meal. They didn’t talk too much.

It was there, after the plates had been whisked away and as the patrons began to dwindle that the boy, now very much a man, got out of his chair. He got down on one knee in front of her, and opened a small felt box that he produced from his breast pocket.

She grinned and felt, deep in her belly, the bubbling of what she thought was happiness.

She was nodding before he even asked the question, embarrassed to find tears rolling down her cheeks. Like a cliché movie scene. He laughed handsomely and slipped the beautifully shining ring onto her finger, and she raised it to the light to admire it.

The lack of discernible color, the lack of optical flaws, the obvious discrepancy in weight.

He had bought a fake diamond ring. Cubic zirconia, she recalled from her research. A shoddy replica. An ersatz mockery of the real thing.

She could feel something draining out of her, emptying her, and he hugged her, whispering sweetly, lovingly:

‘It reminded me of us.’

#short story #story

0 notes

storyunrelated · 7 years

Text

Stay The Course

This would be the 'guy called Lord Fleshgrinder jacking it' story I mentioned the other day.

It's...a silly story.

All of my stories are silly, really. It's kind of my thing.

That and, you know, bodily fluids. And cannibalism. And sadness.

[It's all fun and games until it affects you]

Lord Fleshgrinder cackled as he fed another screaming innocent into the gnashing teeth of his machine, shredding them to a bloody paste. There wasn’t anything about the process he didn’t like. From start to finish it was his favourite thing to do, and the horror of those watching only added to it. He’d never been happier.

There was some grumbling about this. Those who had cast their votes for the other candidate - Lord Generic - were understandably grumpy that they had lost. This was to be expected, but the narrow margin of Lord Fleshgrinder’s victory really just rubbed salt in the wound. That Lord Fleshgrinder also took time out of his day to sometimes go out and personally rub actual salt into actual wounds drove this home.

So they waited patiently - if unhappily - in the queue to be ground into a bloody paste for his enjoyment. He didn’t need to do it. He just wanted to. And so he was.

Not everyone was miserable though.

“I don’t know what you people are so unhappy about! Democracy is a hard-won prize!” Jemima said. Of all the people waiting in the queue she looked like she was one of the happiest. This was mostly due to her thinking that before she got to the grinding part she would be taken off in a different direction and treated specially on account of who she was. She was wrong, but she did not know this.

“Oh God noooo! Nooooo!” Someone further up screamed as they were reduced to slurry and sprayed against a wall. Lord Fleshgrinder hooted with laughter and deliberately slowed the machine down to really draw it out.

“I know a lot of you voted the other way but now is the time for togetherness, not bitterness! We wouldn’t be complaining if our candidate had lost!” Jemima yelled over the sound of screaming and flesh pulverisation. Those concerned people around her did not look convinced, and one - Bill - was moved enough to speak up:

“You’ve spent the last eight years complaining that your candidate at had lost, while also claiming our candidate was destroying the country,” said Bill, doing their best to remain civil. Jemima blinked, wiping some blood from her forehead where it shouldn’t have been. That machine really sprayed it around.

“Yes. And?” She asked. She was sincerely and legitimately unaware of what point the concerned person had been trying to make. Bill saw this and felt perhaps a different approach was needed.

“He’s grinding people to a bloody paste!”

“It’s perfectly legitimate!” She declared.

“At no point in his campaign did he say he would do this! He has no mandate to do this!” Bill said. He wasn’t wrong.

During a debate, when questioned on whether he would actually put his flesh-grinding machine into use (he brought it with him to debates and also slept with it in the same room) on the citizenry should he win the election, Lord Fleshgrinder had answered with an emphatic ‘no’. Turns out he’d been lying. Who knew?

Jemima was unmoved.

“I don’t have time to wrap my head around whichever technicality of procedure you’re trying to appeal to. I just know he has the best interests of the nation at heart,” She said, dismissing these issues with a wave of her hand. She barely felt a thing. Her resolve and her belief in the correctness of her position was such that she was unassailable. You could drop a mountain of evidence on her and she would not yield such was the strength of her convictions. Reality couldn’t hope to budge her by so much as an inch. Her own reality was far too powerful.

The queue shifted up as Lord Fleshgrinder finally finished with the person he’d been working on. He beckoned for the next.

“This is just like that time you said that it was ‘childish’ to complain whenever the Ultra Court ruled in favour of something I disliked and to celebrate them when they agreed with me. I’m just saying - they’re not to be trusted when they do things I don’t like! Activists judges!” Jemima said. Then she paused, considering, tapping a finger against her chin. “Unless they’re doing something I agree with. In which case, proper judges and honest defenders of the rights of the people!”

“But that is childish!” Bill said, despairingly.

“Oh posh. As if,” Jemima said, sticking her tongue out at him. “Your problem is you just hate it when you don’t get your own way! You people all need to accept what’s happened and to move on!

It was then that single bone shard flew from the grinding machine. Many such shards had done this before of course, but Jemima had not been in the path of any of those ones and so hadn’t been concerned. This one, however, went right for her. She was still busily preaching the benefits of sitting down and shutting up as the shard whizzed past her cheek, nicking her skin.

The instant she felt the sting her eyes widened and her words died in her throat.

“What...what was that?” She breathed, a shaking hand reaching up to her cheek. It came away with blood on it but for the first time it wasn’t the blood of someone she didn’t know and didn’t care about. It was important blood. Her blood.

“Me? This has affected...me?” She said, more to herself than anyone else, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mind reeled and her worldview crumbled. How could she have been so blind? Of course Lord Fleshgrinder was unsuitable for office! It was so obvious now! It had been obvious before too, of course, but how then could she have made such a glaring mistake?

Because she’d been misled. That had to be it. How else could she had supported such a willfully careless ingrate? There was no other possible explanation!

Wheeling around and raising an accusing finger Jemima stepped out from the queue.

“You lied to us!” She screeched.

Lord Fleshgrinder, noticing this, gave Jemima the ‘finger guns’ and then returned to plucking off the fingers of his present victim, who was hanging on for dear life in the mouth of the grinding machine. Not for nothing had Lord Fleshgrinder made ‘This Little Piggy’ his campaign song. The victim got down to three fingers before losing their grip.

Jemima didn’t care about the scream or spray of blood that followed. She just cared that Lord Fleshgrinder had been so rude as to look at her and dismiss her all with one flippant gesture. Her veins popped with righteous fury and she turned some of this fury back on her fellow members of the queue.

“What are you people doing? Why did you let this happen? Up! Up you wastrels! We must eject this rapscallion! This bounder! It’s all your fault, you know! Up! Up!”

None of them responded, of course. They were too stunned by this sudden about-face. It was so abrupt it had given most of those present whiplash. With at least one notable exception who came bursting forth to challenge her.

“Get back in the queue! How dare you insult Lord Fleshgrinder by doing something he doesn’t want you doing!” The notable exception said, wagging a finger in Jemima’s face. Jemima was impervious to this trick. She’d practically invented it.

“Damn and blast to Lord Fleshgrinder! Look what he did!” Jemima shouted, pointing to the tiny nick on the her forehead, now scabbed over.

“Who cares about you? He hasn’t affected me yet so you should shut up and accept it!” The notable exception said, puffing up their chest. Jemima was aghast at this basic and obvious lack of humanity being shown to her.

“Where is your empathy, man? Think about me! Think about how I’ve suffered!” She roared, grabbing a member of the queue and wielding them likea baton. The notable exception did likewise.

“I don’t want to!” They declared.

The two then fought. The members of the queue being swung around like weapons objected to this treatment, as did their immediate families. What started as sporadic disorder quickly became widespread disorder, then a brouhaha. Then finally just a riot.

Lord Fleshgrinder - his exalted position and ability to do whatever he wanted utterly unaffected by anything that was going on - watched the violence with the biggest shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“This is the best day of my life,” he said, unzipping his flies and extracting his disappointingly tiny penis. The things he proceeded to do to it were not normal, but worked for him. After a fashion.

He really hoped he saw someone get maimed. Not killed. Maimed. Specifically maimed. Something permanent. Something that would leave them crippled for life. He hoped the pain would show on their face. He hoped he would be able to see the moment they realised what had happened.

He doubted he could finish properly otherwise.

END

#Stay the course #Writing #Amwriting #Writblr #Writeblr #Short story #Story

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