PavellumPendulum
honey believe me, ill have your heart on a platter
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I'm so happy to get this going and show off all the talent that Iwaku members have to offer once again. The submission period has ended and we have multiple cool reads for you to peruse! The three winners will choose between our selection of prizes, including two separate Amazon gift cards or a digital commission from me! And don't forget about the cool trophies that the winners and participants get :D
As a reminder, this TFI's themes were:
- hubris
- imagination
- déjà vu
Don't forget to join the Iwaku Discord server in order to attend the live reading and discussion of these pieces on Saturday the 16th at 5 PM CST. The winners (chosen by our judging panel, featuring @Fluffy, @wren. and I) will also be announced during the call.
Before you start reading and giving feedback, please remember that this is not meant to be a thread where we viciously attack people's writing. Criticism is allowed as long as it is constructive and not an attack on the writer themselves. Let people know what they did right (they were brave enough to share their writing with us, after all!) and if there's anything that you think they could improve on, but do so in a respectful way! Here are some possible questions you can answer with your reflections on each submission:
- Are the themes apparent in the piece? Do they fit well?
- What struck you about the writing style?
- Did it surprise you at any point? Is the interpretation original or unique?
Please avoid assigning number or letter grades to submissions, since they are not only completely subjective, but they don't really add anything to your critique of anyone's work.
Without further ado, here are the submissions!
Title of the piece:
By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: 115 words
Chosen theme(s): Hubris
Chosen format: Poetry
One summer's day, I watched a rat
scramble into the space between
our neighbors' ceiling and their roof,
panels of corrugated metal
suspended by worm-eaten beams
of hardwood over plywood sheets
perhaps came closest to the trees
its forebears here called home.
The fruits they ate, the leaves they picked
to mattress beds for their striplings,
the twigs they wove to canopy
their fillies from the scorching heat:
all these, my ancestors had seized
for little more than kindling
and now we dare to call them pests!
What hand, I wonder, comes to saw
straight through the reinforced concrete
now sprawling past this shaven hill?
What fire, from aggregate and steel,
is waiting to be lit?
By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: 115 words
Chosen theme(s): Hubris
Chosen format: Poetry
One summer's day, I watched a rat
scramble into the space between
our neighbors' ceiling and their roof,
panels of corrugated metal
suspended by worm-eaten beams
of hardwood over plywood sheets
perhaps came closest to the trees
its forebears here called home.
The fruits they ate, the leaves they picked
to mattress beds for their striplings,
the twigs they wove to canopy
their fillies from the scorching heat:
all these, my ancestors had seized
for little more than kindling
and now we dare to call them pests!
What hand, I wonder, comes to saw
straight through the reinforced concrete
now sprawling past this shaven hill?
What fire, from aggregate and steel,
is waiting to be lit?
Title of the piece: Reprise
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1167
Chosen theme(s): Déjà vu
Chosen format: Short story
"You remind me of someone," the question flows and Cody cracks a smile, anticipating the conversation that is to follow. The club was full that night, elbows poking into ribs and sometimes faces, knees brushing past each other and the smell of sweat heavy in the air mixed with the scent of spilled beer. None cared, however, everyone was here for a good time and a bad pick-up line.
"Is that a good or a bad thing?" he returns the question, curious at the individual that had turned towards him from the bar, elbow resting boldly at the counter that was covered in the same substance that made the floor tack onto his shoes with every step he took. The line could have been meant for anyone trying to find something of a refreshment at the bar, but Cody knew that it was meant for him. He was certain of it, and the smile that flashed into his direction, broadening in such a way that forced those sparkling eyes into a squint, confirmed that.
They both have to raise their voice to be heard over the music blasting in the back, their throats sure to be sore tomorrow. Cody leans forward to catch the words, intuition telling him that tonight might be a good night like the song in the background sings.
"Depends if you want to be an ex," came the challenge that he had been unable to resist, and he offered a hand for a dance.
Cody didn't mind being anyone's ex. It meant another experience, and those weren't meant to last. Not for now, not in his twenties, he felt. Life was meant to be a fastlane then, until he hit the mid-thirties. Alex was no exception, meant to be another fleeting experience in his ever changing life of moving lanes.
"Your room? A mess," Alex exclaimed the first time he visited, the disgust clear as dirty laundry got kicked off the bed. Cody knew that his place was, but he only had himself and he didn't mind, nor felt the shame. He took it as a sign that he lived a busy life, the kind in which one doesn't have time for laundry and a full pantry. It is the type of life where the days follow after each other too quickly, filled with caffeine induced adrenaline.
The experience of mites was less of a welcome, however, but even that was temporary as Alex moved in with him. For quarantining together with mites was more bearable than having to do so separately. "This is your fault," Alex had hissed at him at the height of the itch, which Cody believed, for Alex was the cleanest person he had ever met.
Yet, the title of 'ex' never tacked on, the experience that was Alex rolling on further as Cody hit his thirties and then passed the mid-thirties, having long stopped clubbing every weekend or enjoying having hangovers even. Even his room got cleaner, gradually. A trend that continued as his studio was swapped out for an apartment and then a house with a garden. Most of the cleaning was still done by Alex, however, but there never was a mite infestation again, nor food in the fridge past its expiration date, and neither did anyone trip over his laundry.
"Remember when," Alex roared in laughter over a Sunday brunch with friends, a finger pointing in Cody's direction. It is the first time Cody observed that their conversations have turned reminiscent instead of anticipating, when conversations would start with 'shall we'. It scares him, the idea of his life coming to a lull as new experiences become memories instead of adventures of tomorrow. It daunts him, the thought of his days bleeding into each other as life passes him by without living it to its fullest.
He doesn't fight the lull either, finding an excuse every time to put it off. Long days at work, becoming a father, feeling too tired no matter the amount of caffeine he drinks. All the mundane reasons Cody called excuses before become legitimate reasons, like how everything becomes a factor in his moods, turning him more irritable, less excitable.
"Alex," Cody calls, annoyance flashing through him as no answer comes, his white socks now a bright pink and so is his shirt. "Alex," he tried again, finally finding Alex staring out of the window in the living room. "Alex!" he repeated, grabbing hold of a shoulder to force his partner to face him.
What stares back at him are dark eyes like a starless night, a deep dark void that takes a moment to fill up with a presence, as if needing to wake up from a dreamless dream while standing up. "Cody?" Alex sounds uncertain for a moment, before taking in the ruined dress shirt with a gasp, lips falling apart, aghast at the wreckage one single sock can cause.
Alex dismissed it to fatigue, Cody believed that to be true. One red sock is easily lost, after all, and it made for another 'remember when,' story that they could share over brunch or at a birthday party.
"What?" The question escapes Alex uncharacteristically, his tone annoyed and tired while reaching for a milk brioche, the type Alex usually avoids. "I don't recall doing that, ever," he admits in a clipped tone before allowing Cody to finish the rest of the laundry disaster story and the day that he walked into a deposition with a freshly dyed pink shirt.
It is fatigue Cody convinces himself as Alex falls asleep on their way back from brunch, missing their usual barter after the party.
"You remind me of someone," the question flows and Cody cracks a smile, anticipating the conversation that is to follow. It is his favourite conversation of all. The scene has changed, the music has as well. Something about the zeitgeist and personal tastes that change. Cody realises that he has become his youth's definition of 'boring' but finds that he doesn't mind it at all. Let him be boring now. As long as Alex was here, still here, with him.
"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Cody returns the question, leaning in closer so that he won't miss a word. It has been harder to hear, a constant murmur in the background distracting him from any conversation he has recently. The kids have suggested hearing aids, amongst other things that suggest that he is getting old. Ideas he has managed to dismiss so far, allowing denial its rule for now. It is denial after all that allowed the extra time with Alex after all.
Right at this moment, however, he feels young again, the noise in the background drowning out as he meets dark eyes. The ones that sometimes held its sparkle and appeared wherever mischief was afoot. A boldness rising up as Alex meets Cody head on, as if challenging him.
"Oh, I don't know. Depends if you want to be an ex."
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1167
Chosen theme(s): Déjà vu
Chosen format: Short story
"You remind me of someone," the question flows and Cody cracks a smile, anticipating the conversation that is to follow. The club was full that night, elbows poking into ribs and sometimes faces, knees brushing past each other and the smell of sweat heavy in the air mixed with the scent of spilled beer. None cared, however, everyone was here for a good time and a bad pick-up line.
"Is that a good or a bad thing?" he returns the question, curious at the individual that had turned towards him from the bar, elbow resting boldly at the counter that was covered in the same substance that made the floor tack onto his shoes with every step he took. The line could have been meant for anyone trying to find something of a refreshment at the bar, but Cody knew that it was meant for him. He was certain of it, and the smile that flashed into his direction, broadening in such a way that forced those sparkling eyes into a squint, confirmed that.
They both have to raise their voice to be heard over the music blasting in the back, their throats sure to be sore tomorrow. Cody leans forward to catch the words, intuition telling him that tonight might be a good night like the song in the background sings.
"Depends if you want to be an ex," came the challenge that he had been unable to resist, and he offered a hand for a dance.
Cody didn't mind being anyone's ex. It meant another experience, and those weren't meant to last. Not for now, not in his twenties, he felt. Life was meant to be a fastlane then, until he hit the mid-thirties. Alex was no exception, meant to be another fleeting experience in his ever changing life of moving lanes.
"Your room? A mess," Alex exclaimed the first time he visited, the disgust clear as dirty laundry got kicked off the bed. Cody knew that his place was, but he only had himself and he didn't mind, nor felt the shame. He took it as a sign that he lived a busy life, the kind in which one doesn't have time for laundry and a full pantry. It is the type of life where the days follow after each other too quickly, filled with caffeine induced adrenaline.
The experience of mites was less of a welcome, however, but even that was temporary as Alex moved in with him. For quarantining together with mites was more bearable than having to do so separately. "This is your fault," Alex had hissed at him at the height of the itch, which Cody believed, for Alex was the cleanest person he had ever met.
Yet, the title of 'ex' never tacked on, the experience that was Alex rolling on further as Cody hit his thirties and then passed the mid-thirties, having long stopped clubbing every weekend or enjoying having hangovers even. Even his room got cleaner, gradually. A trend that continued as his studio was swapped out for an apartment and then a house with a garden. Most of the cleaning was still done by Alex, however, but there never was a mite infestation again, nor food in the fridge past its expiration date, and neither did anyone trip over his laundry.
"Remember when," Alex roared in laughter over a Sunday brunch with friends, a finger pointing in Cody's direction. It is the first time Cody observed that their conversations have turned reminiscent instead of anticipating, when conversations would start with 'shall we'. It scares him, the idea of his life coming to a lull as new experiences become memories instead of adventures of tomorrow. It daunts him, the thought of his days bleeding into each other as life passes him by without living it to its fullest.
He doesn't fight the lull either, finding an excuse every time to put it off. Long days at work, becoming a father, feeling too tired no matter the amount of caffeine he drinks. All the mundane reasons Cody called excuses before become legitimate reasons, like how everything becomes a factor in his moods, turning him more irritable, less excitable.
"Alex," Cody calls, annoyance flashing through him as no answer comes, his white socks now a bright pink and so is his shirt. "Alex," he tried again, finally finding Alex staring out of the window in the living room. "Alex!" he repeated, grabbing hold of a shoulder to force his partner to face him.
What stares back at him are dark eyes like a starless night, a deep dark void that takes a moment to fill up with a presence, as if needing to wake up from a dreamless dream while standing up. "Cody?" Alex sounds uncertain for a moment, before taking in the ruined dress shirt with a gasp, lips falling apart, aghast at the wreckage one single sock can cause.
Alex dismissed it to fatigue, Cody believed that to be true. One red sock is easily lost, after all, and it made for another 'remember when,' story that they could share over brunch or at a birthday party.
"What?" The question escapes Alex uncharacteristically, his tone annoyed and tired while reaching for a milk brioche, the type Alex usually avoids. "I don't recall doing that, ever," he admits in a clipped tone before allowing Cody to finish the rest of the laundry disaster story and the day that he walked into a deposition with a freshly dyed pink shirt.
It is fatigue Cody convinces himself as Alex falls asleep on their way back from brunch, missing their usual barter after the party.
"You remind me of someone," the question flows and Cody cracks a smile, anticipating the conversation that is to follow. It is his favourite conversation of all. The scene has changed, the music has as well. Something about the zeitgeist and personal tastes that change. Cody realises that he has become his youth's definition of 'boring' but finds that he doesn't mind it at all. Let him be boring now. As long as Alex was here, still here, with him.
"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Cody returns the question, leaning in closer so that he won't miss a word. It has been harder to hear, a constant murmur in the background distracting him from any conversation he has recently. The kids have suggested hearing aids, amongst other things that suggest that he is getting old. Ideas he has managed to dismiss so far, allowing denial its rule for now. It is denial after all that allowed the extra time with Alex after all.
Right at this moment, however, he feels young again, the noise in the background drowning out as he meets dark eyes. The ones that sometimes held its sparkle and appeared wherever mischief was afoot. A boldness rising up as Alex meets Cody head on, as if challenging him.
"Oh, I don't know. Depends if you want to be an ex."
Title of the piece: The Colors We Forgot
By: @Orionis
Word Count: 1530
Chosen theme(s): Hubris, imagination, déjà vu
Chosen format: Short story
Tw: mentions of traumatic death, mental illness and disease
The sunroom reeked of paint thinner. I was focused on the canvas in front of me, my hands spotted with an array of color. I worked as slowly as I could, with veined, wrinkled fingers trembling with the effort. Every so often, I would glance over at the scraps of paper on the worktable scrawled with ideas and outlines. Writing everything down was important, now. Names, places, what I ate for breakfast.
"Hey, little dove," a voice said softly. I jumped, and whirled around to see my husband leaning against the entryway. He wore his age well; streaks of white shone like falling stars against his raven-black hair, while wrinkles aged his eyes and his skin had yet to sag towards the earth. The gentle love in his eyes made my heart stop.
"Joseph," I murmured. I set down my tools and strode over to him, pulling his face to mine to steal a kiss. He melted into me with a sigh. Joseph brushed his thumb against my cheek, smearing the bits of paint that had already started to dry. "You're so messy," he teased me. I only huffed at him before turning back to…
What was I doing? I blinked, then looked at the half-finished painting in front of me. Ah. Yes. I reached for my brush, but Joseph intercepted my hand with his. "It's time to eat, Alex." Obedient, I allowed him to lead me through our house to the dining table, where he pulled out a chair for me.
The table was set with care, but I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that I had already eaten. I frowned as Joseph placed a plate before me, filled with a colorful mix of vegetables, brown rice, and a perfectly seared piece of salmon. As he sat next to me, I looked at him with a furrowed brow. He cocked his head at me in response, with a small smile. "What's bothering you, Alex?"
"I- um." I shifted in my seat and looked down at my plate. "We haven't… already eaten, right?" He shook his head and patted my hand. "Don't fret," he assured me. "You were painting earlier and I came to get you for supper. We usually eat baked salmon on Wednesday nights." I relaxed as he spoke. His soft baritone voice was soothing, like the hum of a distant waterfall.
"Ah. Today is Wednesday."
We ate quietly. I struggled with my fork a little, but Joseph always saved the larger-handled ones for me. He cleared the table, replacing my plate with a glass of water and a few colorful pills. I took them slowly, cringing at the aftertaste. Joseph swallowed some medication of his own and held his hand out to me. I laced my fingers with his, and he led me outside. The cool evening air nipped at my nose as we wandered down our driveway.
My thoughts drifted as we walked. The woods surrounding our little home cradled us in a tapestry of emerald green. Shafts of dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a soft, shifting mosaic on the forest floor. I caught sight of something small hidden in the gravel next to the pavement. I let go of Joseph's hand to reach for it.
"This must be Leo's," I said. It was a small marble, royal purple and dented. "I remember that he used to come home crying because the other kids would break them in games. What did he call that game..?"
Joseph seemed to have frozen for a moment, staring at me with wide eyes. Heat rose in my face and I looked away. I was missing something again. I had forgotten something. I hated it. I hated this stupid disease. It was taking everything from me.
"Ringer," Joseph murmured, sliding his hand back into mine and touching my face, turning it to his. "The game was called Ringer, and those kids definitely weren't supposed to break them!" He smiled at me and the tension I had been feeling slipped away. The rest of our stroll was peaceful. I found my eyelids drooping low as I trailed behind my husband. "I am so glad our house is one story," he told me with a little kiss on the temple as he led me inside.
Moonlight painted a soft glow across our bedroom, the tranquility of the evening now enclosed within the four walls of our home. I stood before the mirror, its frame etched with the years we had spent together. The bedside lamp cast warm, soft light over everything, revealing a face that seemed both familiar and foreign.
I gazed into the reflection, and for a moment, I hesitated. I frowned, and the face frowned. Joseph peeked out from the bathroom and saw me staring.
"You're beautiful, but you do need a shave. Fly my way, little dove."
I turned away from the face– my face– and joined him in the bathroom. He was gentle, caressing one side of my face with his thumb while running the blades down the other. We finished getting ready for bed quickly, Joseph hovering but not taking over as I dropped my toothbrush into the sink several times. I wanted to do as much as I could. It helped me feel a little more normal.
Nestled in the soft linen sheets and down comforter with Joseph's arms around me, I drifted off into a restless sleep.
Blood. There was so much blood. On my hands. On his clothes. His eyes were glassy, but he still saw me. "I'm so sorry, papa," he whispered. Blood dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. I reached for him, broken glass drawing angry lines up my forearms. He was still buckled into the seat. His legs were pinned by the steering wheel. I held his face in my hands. His tears revived the crusted blood on his face, tinging them pink. "It's alright, Leo. I'm here. I won't leave you."
He smiled at me sadly. "But you never told me that, did you? You weren't here."
I awoke wailing like a toddler, disentangling myself from Joseph's embrace. His comforting touch reached for me, but the depths of my despair were beyond his immediate grasp. How could I have forgotten him? My radiant sun, eclipsed by the shadows of my own arrogance.
Amidst the accolades of exhibits and the predatory smiles of art connoisseurs treating my work as a feast, the silent screams of his suffering had been drowned out by the applause. Too preoccupied with my own ascent, I overlooked the signs of his descent into the abyss. Joseph had tried to warn me, once. Begged me to come home so we could help Leo together.
And what had I done? "Here's the number of a very good therapist," I had said over a Zoom call, throwing the digits into the chat box. "He takes after me, so he'll be fine. We've given him everything. What else could he possibly need?"
"You," Joseph had replied softly. "He needs both of his fathers, not one."
"It's my fault," I gasped between sobs, the realization clawing at the edges of my consciousness. "I killed him."
The brushstrokes of my arrogance had hidden what was lurking underneath the surface; each exhibition, each auction and overseas trip proved to be a dagger in the heart of my family. I saw myself not as the nurturing father I should have been, but as a shadowy figure consumed by the allure of the canvas—a monster of my own creation.
The disconnection with my own reflection in the mirror earlier echoed louder now. The face I couldn't recognize. I couldn't tear my gaze away from it now, even as Joseph slid his arms around me. I could feel his cheek pressing in-between the blades of my shoulders, the steadiness of his breathing and the tears that soaked the back of my shirt. He was crying with me. I did this. I ruined this family. How could I-
"Oh, my love," he whispered. "My turpentine-streaked dove. You have already paid that price. It's time to put it down now. I love you too much to let yourself clip those wings."
I couldn't remember the last time I cried like this. Great, heaving sobs with tears that soaked every inch of my face as I dropped it into my hands. Joseph hummed, rubbing my back in small circles soothingly until I was well and spent. I fell back asleep cradled in his arms like a small child, too exhausted to meet his eyes. I knew they were filled with love and sorrow as great as mine, even without looking.
The sunroom reeked of paint thinner. I was focused on the canvas in front of me, my hands spotted in an array of color. As the final strokes settled, a boy emerged— a boy whose smile was the embodiment of joy, painted in hues of innocence. Almond eyes crinkled around a forest of green and hazel, while ringlets of oak-browned hair framed a face frozen in perpetual delight. A warmth in my chest grew as I gazed at him.
"Hey, little dove," a voice said softly.
By: @Orionis
Word Count: 1530
Chosen theme(s): Hubris, imagination, déjà vu
Chosen format: Short story
Tw: mentions of traumatic death, mental illness and disease
The sunroom reeked of paint thinner. I was focused on the canvas in front of me, my hands spotted with an array of color. I worked as slowly as I could, with veined, wrinkled fingers trembling with the effort. Every so often, I would glance over at the scraps of paper on the worktable scrawled with ideas and outlines. Writing everything down was important, now. Names, places, what I ate for breakfast.
"Hey, little dove," a voice said softly. I jumped, and whirled around to see my husband leaning against the entryway. He wore his age well; streaks of white shone like falling stars against his raven-black hair, while wrinkles aged his eyes and his skin had yet to sag towards the earth. The gentle love in his eyes made my heart stop.
"Joseph," I murmured. I set down my tools and strode over to him, pulling his face to mine to steal a kiss. He melted into me with a sigh. Joseph brushed his thumb against my cheek, smearing the bits of paint that had already started to dry. "You're so messy," he teased me. I only huffed at him before turning back to…
What was I doing? I blinked, then looked at the half-finished painting in front of me. Ah. Yes. I reached for my brush, but Joseph intercepted my hand with his. "It's time to eat, Alex." Obedient, I allowed him to lead me through our house to the dining table, where he pulled out a chair for me.
The table was set with care, but I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that I had already eaten. I frowned as Joseph placed a plate before me, filled with a colorful mix of vegetables, brown rice, and a perfectly seared piece of salmon. As he sat next to me, I looked at him with a furrowed brow. He cocked his head at me in response, with a small smile. "What's bothering you, Alex?"
"I- um." I shifted in my seat and looked down at my plate. "We haven't… already eaten, right?" He shook his head and patted my hand. "Don't fret," he assured me. "You were painting earlier and I came to get you for supper. We usually eat baked salmon on Wednesday nights." I relaxed as he spoke. His soft baritone voice was soothing, like the hum of a distant waterfall.
"Ah. Today is Wednesday."
We ate quietly. I struggled with my fork a little, but Joseph always saved the larger-handled ones for me. He cleared the table, replacing my plate with a glass of water and a few colorful pills. I took them slowly, cringing at the aftertaste. Joseph swallowed some medication of his own and held his hand out to me. I laced my fingers with his, and he led me outside. The cool evening air nipped at my nose as we wandered down our driveway.
My thoughts drifted as we walked. The woods surrounding our little home cradled us in a tapestry of emerald green. Shafts of dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a soft, shifting mosaic on the forest floor. I caught sight of something small hidden in the gravel next to the pavement. I let go of Joseph's hand to reach for it.
"This must be Leo's," I said. It was a small marble, royal purple and dented. "I remember that he used to come home crying because the other kids would break them in games. What did he call that game..?"
Joseph seemed to have frozen for a moment, staring at me with wide eyes. Heat rose in my face and I looked away. I was missing something again. I had forgotten something. I hated it. I hated this stupid disease. It was taking everything from me.
"Ringer," Joseph murmured, sliding his hand back into mine and touching my face, turning it to his. "The game was called Ringer, and those kids definitely weren't supposed to break them!" He smiled at me and the tension I had been feeling slipped away. The rest of our stroll was peaceful. I found my eyelids drooping low as I trailed behind my husband. "I am so glad our house is one story," he told me with a little kiss on the temple as he led me inside.
Moonlight painted a soft glow across our bedroom, the tranquility of the evening now enclosed within the four walls of our home. I stood before the mirror, its frame etched with the years we had spent together. The bedside lamp cast warm, soft light over everything, revealing a face that seemed both familiar and foreign.
I gazed into the reflection, and for a moment, I hesitated. I frowned, and the face frowned. Joseph peeked out from the bathroom and saw me staring.
"You're beautiful, but you do need a shave. Fly my way, little dove."
I turned away from the face– my face– and joined him in the bathroom. He was gentle, caressing one side of my face with his thumb while running the blades down the other. We finished getting ready for bed quickly, Joseph hovering but not taking over as I dropped my toothbrush into the sink several times. I wanted to do as much as I could. It helped me feel a little more normal.
Nestled in the soft linen sheets and down comforter with Joseph's arms around me, I drifted off into a restless sleep.
Blood. There was so much blood. On my hands. On his clothes. His eyes were glassy, but he still saw me. "I'm so sorry, papa," he whispered. Blood dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. I reached for him, broken glass drawing angry lines up my forearms. He was still buckled into the seat. His legs were pinned by the steering wheel. I held his face in my hands. His tears revived the crusted blood on his face, tinging them pink. "It's alright, Leo. I'm here. I won't leave you."
He smiled at me sadly. "But you never told me that, did you? You weren't here."
I awoke wailing like a toddler, disentangling myself from Joseph's embrace. His comforting touch reached for me, but the depths of my despair were beyond his immediate grasp. How could I have forgotten him? My radiant sun, eclipsed by the shadows of my own arrogance.
Amidst the accolades of exhibits and the predatory smiles of art connoisseurs treating my work as a feast, the silent screams of his suffering had been drowned out by the applause. Too preoccupied with my own ascent, I overlooked the signs of his descent into the abyss. Joseph had tried to warn me, once. Begged me to come home so we could help Leo together.
And what had I done? "Here's the number of a very good therapist," I had said over a Zoom call, throwing the digits into the chat box. "He takes after me, so he'll be fine. We've given him everything. What else could he possibly need?"
"You," Joseph had replied softly. "He needs both of his fathers, not one."
"It's my fault," I gasped between sobs, the realization clawing at the edges of my consciousness. "I killed him."
The brushstrokes of my arrogance had hidden what was lurking underneath the surface; each exhibition, each auction and overseas trip proved to be a dagger in the heart of my family. I saw myself not as the nurturing father I should have been, but as a shadowy figure consumed by the allure of the canvas—a monster of my own creation.
The disconnection with my own reflection in the mirror earlier echoed louder now. The face I couldn't recognize. I couldn't tear my gaze away from it now, even as Joseph slid his arms around me. I could feel his cheek pressing in-between the blades of my shoulders, the steadiness of his breathing and the tears that soaked the back of my shirt. He was crying with me. I did this. I ruined this family. How could I-
"Oh, my love," he whispered. "My turpentine-streaked dove. You have already paid that price. It's time to put it down now. I love you too much to let yourself clip those wings."
I couldn't remember the last time I cried like this. Great, heaving sobs with tears that soaked every inch of my face as I dropped it into my hands. Joseph hummed, rubbing my back in small circles soothingly until I was well and spent. I fell back asleep cradled in his arms like a small child, too exhausted to meet his eyes. I knew they were filled with love and sorrow as great as mine, even without looking.
The sunroom reeked of paint thinner. I was focused on the canvas in front of me, my hands spotted in an array of color. As the final strokes settled, a boy emerged— a boy whose smile was the embodiment of joy, painted in hues of innocence. Almond eyes crinkled around a forest of green and hazel, while ringlets of oak-browned hair framed a face frozen in perpetual delight. A warmth in my chest grew as I gazed at him.
"Hey, little dove," a voice said softly.
Title of the piece: Where is the space between two pages?
By: @strangeatlas
Word Count: 1464
Chosen theme(s): Imagination, hubris, deja vu.
Chosen format: metafiction
You are in a dark, musky space. The air is warm and calm. You hear the echoes of a soft sound. Slowly, faint lights emerge and dance around you. Your hairs tickle from a draft as you catch a whiff of sweet perfume. Does it feel familiar? It should. It's a place you have been countless times before. Perhaps you may not remember, because you have never been here with me. Probably, you have been here with others. I'm certain you have been here by yourself.
It's a strange place for me. Tell me just what is here. What is that soft sound; is it high like a hiss or deep like a thrum? Or is someone whispering? I cannot hear it. I know there are dancing lights, but how many, how bright, and how do they dance exactly? I cannot see them. There is a draft, but is it on your neck or by your feet? I cannot feel it. The perfume is sweet, it seems, but sweet like candy, or like a flower? What flower? I cannot smell it. You can.
Do you really find the air warm? I feel cold. And it's too dark in here. I can feel the hairs tickling on the back of my neck as I pine for something to grasp hold of. Won't you take my hand? Tell me it's safe. Tell me I won't be taken and shut away. I know only a few things about the boundless expanse of this space, but you must know it well. Every little thing is here because you put it there, after all. Here, I am only a visitor, and I often worry I am an uninvited guest. I am afraid. Will you help me?
Hmm. Hold on a minute. You're just the reader of these words. I am their writer. Everything on this page is not yours, but mine! Perhaps I am not so powerless here after all!
The ground is shifting beneath your feet. You've become unsteady. A piercing wind gusts through this space, frigid, with specks of ice that sting your delicate skin. You hear wood creaking and cracking and splintering. Try to hide if you like, but there is no escape. The dancing lights flee as a roar approaches from the darkness. Lightning breaks the sky, because, yes, you are out in the open air, upon the brow of a tiny ship alone in the midst of an ocean. Heavy curtains of rain pummel the deck and mix with the spray of the sea. Flashes of lightning ignite an expanse of churning crests and troughs which shift and turn the ship beneath your feet, and although you are desperate to hold on to the rails, they are slick and wet and so again and again you slide across the deck. Salt drowns your mouth and burns your eyes. Another gust whips across your face, and with it, you hear the sail on your ship rip off the mast before it leaps and twists in the air and falls, crumpled, into the water. The sail disappears just after you see it drifting over the crest of an undulation in the fierce waters that surround you.
Do you think I'm done? I'm not. Because now, as the lightning flashes, you can see a fountain of bubbles rising and falling on the slope of a great wave. What is it? You've no time to guess, because a monstrous sea serpent has burst from the water. The sheer immensity is undeniable as its head disappears into the roiling clouds above. Lighting rakes its glossy black scales to no effect. Do you fear it? Do you think it will try to kill you or eat your pathetic ship? No, I can tell you for certain that it cares nothing for you. You are just a speck of dust in its mighty realm. The surge that it had created as it emerged is rushing forth, and before you can do a single thing it is upon you. You are thrown from your little boat, plummeting into the foaming sea as your ship is rolled and then crushed under the oppressive weight of the wave. And you? Well, you are plummeting into the dark water, splinters of wood churning and rising as you sink like a stone into the depths of my ocean.
Where are we now?
The water has dampened the sound of crackling thunder and dissipated the flashes into flickering beams of light that billow like curtains. Bubbles, silt, and detritus sweep and spin, reflecting the light, and create a swirling sparkle. Below is the darkness, and above is the storm. We are suspended here, together. I wonder what will happen next. I really don't know where we are—someplace new, I think. The water is so opaque, filled with the bubbles from above and silt that has been churned upward from the depths. I know what is out there, but I can't see it.
What can you see?
Before, I was sure that we were in your mind, because I heard your voice, and the only things that existed were the things you imagined. But then, I realized that I was hearing my own words, so I thought that we must actually be in my mind. Now, I'm floating here with you, and I realize that I'm hearing you speak my words. So then, whose mind is this?
Floating down from the stormy surge above, there are constructs of my memories, my thoughts, and my feelings, but among them there are others. The surging currents from the storm have churned up shadowy forms from the deep. I don't recognize them. They must be yours. So, I think we are in a place that can mix the imaginings of both me and you, a place that's not so concrete as my mind or yours, an incredible place that is created and destroyed within the span of a story. I'll make some room for you if you can do the same for me. Come, let's turn the page together this time.
The swirling silt has become a heavy mist in the air over a street. The dull roar of the thunder has become the distant passing of cars on a highway. The flashes of lightning have become the flickering of a lamp post, casting a halo in the fog over a bench, and upon that bench sits a gray-haired man. He wears a leather cap, a hoodie and jeans and a pair of sneakers with one of the laces untied. The crest of his brow casts a shadow over sunken eyes which cling to bags, and the corners of his mouth droop downward in a weary frown. He is crouched forward with his elbows on his knees when he looks up and sees us. Startled, he stands, and disappears beyond the flickering light and into the mists.
Now this part is very important, although it is quite unusual to talk about it at all. There is something about this man that was strangely familiar, although you cannot place it. Perhaps he looked vaguely like your father. Perhaps his face was the face of a man you have seen every day, but never really noticed, on the bus, or in a passing car, or selling magazines and candy in a small stand in the street. Perhaps, even, when you caught a glimpse of his tired eyes, you even saw something of yourself. I don't know! I've not met your father. I have not walked in your shoes as you go about your day. I don't even know what you look like. Even as you are reading this, I may be long dead. I may have no conception of the world you're living in right now.
So, it is impossible for me to say what is oddly familiar about this man, but you, on the other hand, might just figure it out. While I am stirring the currents with the words that I write, it is your thoughts, your experiences, your worries, your sense of humor, and your wandering interests that churn up from the ocean depths. In this way, every reader, on every read, imagines a different man, and so, this transient connection we have discovered in the space between two pages is truly unique, for every reader, in every moment, and in every corner of the world it may reach.
But, we barely know anything about this old man, really. Where is he going? Why is he dressed this way, and why did he leave? I'm not really sure, are you? Take my hand, and I'll lead you after him, but wherever we go, be sure to tell me what you see. I'm listening.
By: @strangeatlas
Word Count: 1464
Chosen theme(s): Imagination, hubris, deja vu.
Chosen format: metafiction
You are in a dark, musky space. The air is warm and calm. You hear the echoes of a soft sound. Slowly, faint lights emerge and dance around you. Your hairs tickle from a draft as you catch a whiff of sweet perfume. Does it feel familiar? It should. It's a place you have been countless times before. Perhaps you may not remember, because you have never been here with me. Probably, you have been here with others. I'm certain you have been here by yourself.
It's a strange place for me. Tell me just what is here. What is that soft sound; is it high like a hiss or deep like a thrum? Or is someone whispering? I cannot hear it. I know there are dancing lights, but how many, how bright, and how do they dance exactly? I cannot see them. There is a draft, but is it on your neck or by your feet? I cannot feel it. The perfume is sweet, it seems, but sweet like candy, or like a flower? What flower? I cannot smell it. You can.
Do you really find the air warm? I feel cold. And it's too dark in here. I can feel the hairs tickling on the back of my neck as I pine for something to grasp hold of. Won't you take my hand? Tell me it's safe. Tell me I won't be taken and shut away. I know only a few things about the boundless expanse of this space, but you must know it well. Every little thing is here because you put it there, after all. Here, I am only a visitor, and I often worry I am an uninvited guest. I am afraid. Will you help me?
Hmm. Hold on a minute. You're just the reader of these words. I am their writer. Everything on this page is not yours, but mine! Perhaps I am not so powerless here after all!
The ground is shifting beneath your feet. You've become unsteady. A piercing wind gusts through this space, frigid, with specks of ice that sting your delicate skin. You hear wood creaking and cracking and splintering. Try to hide if you like, but there is no escape. The dancing lights flee as a roar approaches from the darkness. Lightning breaks the sky, because, yes, you are out in the open air, upon the brow of a tiny ship alone in the midst of an ocean. Heavy curtains of rain pummel the deck and mix with the spray of the sea. Flashes of lightning ignite an expanse of churning crests and troughs which shift and turn the ship beneath your feet, and although you are desperate to hold on to the rails, they are slick and wet and so again and again you slide across the deck. Salt drowns your mouth and burns your eyes. Another gust whips across your face, and with it, you hear the sail on your ship rip off the mast before it leaps and twists in the air and falls, crumpled, into the water. The sail disappears just after you see it drifting over the crest of an undulation in the fierce waters that surround you.
Do you think I'm done? I'm not. Because now, as the lightning flashes, you can see a fountain of bubbles rising and falling on the slope of a great wave. What is it? You've no time to guess, because a monstrous sea serpent has burst from the water. The sheer immensity is undeniable as its head disappears into the roiling clouds above. Lighting rakes its glossy black scales to no effect. Do you fear it? Do you think it will try to kill you or eat your pathetic ship? No, I can tell you for certain that it cares nothing for you. You are just a speck of dust in its mighty realm. The surge that it had created as it emerged is rushing forth, and before you can do a single thing it is upon you. You are thrown from your little boat, plummeting into the foaming sea as your ship is rolled and then crushed under the oppressive weight of the wave. And you? Well, you are plummeting into the dark water, splinters of wood churning and rising as you sink like a stone into the depths of my ocean.
Where are we now?
The water has dampened the sound of crackling thunder and dissipated the flashes into flickering beams of light that billow like curtains. Bubbles, silt, and detritus sweep and spin, reflecting the light, and create a swirling sparkle. Below is the darkness, and above is the storm. We are suspended here, together. I wonder what will happen next. I really don't know where we are—someplace new, I think. The water is so opaque, filled with the bubbles from above and silt that has been churned upward from the depths. I know what is out there, but I can't see it.
What can you see?
Before, I was sure that we were in your mind, because I heard your voice, and the only things that existed were the things you imagined. But then, I realized that I was hearing my own words, so I thought that we must actually be in my mind. Now, I'm floating here with you, and I realize that I'm hearing you speak my words. So then, whose mind is this?
Floating down from the stormy surge above, there are constructs of my memories, my thoughts, and my feelings, but among them there are others. The surging currents from the storm have churned up shadowy forms from the deep. I don't recognize them. They must be yours. So, I think we are in a place that can mix the imaginings of both me and you, a place that's not so concrete as my mind or yours, an incredible place that is created and destroyed within the span of a story. I'll make some room for you if you can do the same for me. Come, let's turn the page together this time.
The swirling silt has become a heavy mist in the air over a street. The dull roar of the thunder has become the distant passing of cars on a highway. The flashes of lightning have become the flickering of a lamp post, casting a halo in the fog over a bench, and upon that bench sits a gray-haired man. He wears a leather cap, a hoodie and jeans and a pair of sneakers with one of the laces untied. The crest of his brow casts a shadow over sunken eyes which cling to bags, and the corners of his mouth droop downward in a weary frown. He is crouched forward with his elbows on his knees when he looks up and sees us. Startled, he stands, and disappears beyond the flickering light and into the mists.
Now this part is very important, although it is quite unusual to talk about it at all. There is something about this man that was strangely familiar, although you cannot place it. Perhaps he looked vaguely like your father. Perhaps his face was the face of a man you have seen every day, but never really noticed, on the bus, or in a passing car, or selling magazines and candy in a small stand in the street. Perhaps, even, when you caught a glimpse of his tired eyes, you even saw something of yourself. I don't know! I've not met your father. I have not walked in your shoes as you go about your day. I don't even know what you look like. Even as you are reading this, I may be long dead. I may have no conception of the world you're living in right now.
So, it is impossible for me to say what is oddly familiar about this man, but you, on the other hand, might just figure it out. While I am stirring the currents with the words that I write, it is your thoughts, your experiences, your worries, your sense of humor, and your wandering interests that churn up from the ocean depths. In this way, every reader, on every read, imagines a different man, and so, this transient connection we have discovered in the space between two pages is truly unique, for every reader, in every moment, and in every corner of the world it may reach.
But, we barely know anything about this old man, really. Where is he going? Why is he dressed this way, and why did he leave? I'm not really sure, are you? Take my hand, and I'll lead you after him, but wherever we go, be sure to tell me what you see. I'm listening.
Title: "The Pale Mother"
By: @rissa
Word Count: 1860
Chosen Theme(s): Hubris, and a bit of déjà vu
Chosen Format: A short epistolary piece
Holotape Data: Log 1
Date: [ 7/13 ]
Location: [jed's mirelurk farm]
Stupid fucking crone.
Stupid fucking rules.
If Doreah doesn't hurry up and get into the pale light of the Mother's embrace, I'm quitting. I'm burning this whole fucking place down. Nearly a hundred-and-seven and still telling us what to do. The audacity to not die already when the Pale Mother has stripped away both sight and smell. What's next? Death or deafness?
What's the point of becoming a Mother if the Dowagers are the ones pulling the strings? What was all that training for? To turn us into good little rule-abiding girls so we'll tell the Children of the Fen what they want done? Fuck that. I gave my vows to the Pale Mother, not to that puce-faced bitch.
But still, I'm making headway. Jed's farm is on the edge of the Expanse. After I leave, I'll be out in the black.
If I can make it to the Babel, maybe I can prove the Mother's Plight.
My eye hurts and my boots are soggy, but Old Jed did give me two big servings of mirelurk stew and even a bunch of dried jerky for the trip onwards. If I die out here, at least it won't be from hunger.
Holotape Data: Log 2
Date: [ 7/15 ]
Location: [the expanse]
That old coot tried to kill me! Not two hours past that farm and my raft was swarming with bloodbugs and leeches the size of two-headed Bessie back home! I can't believe it. That motherfucker could have warned me that fire dilutes the scent of food! Dilutes the scent of you.
I've been burning and paddling ever since. He's lucky. Pull that on anyone else and they'd be dead.
What's worse is I'm hungry.
Most of Jed's jerky ended up in the water the day I paddled out and if it wasn't fish food, it was ash from the flames that burned away those bugs. I'm still so pissed about that. What the hell was he thinking, ladening me down with all that food and not giving me some kind of warning?
Bah. Dumb old man.
Holotape Data: Log 3
Date: [ 7/17 ]
Location: [the expanse]
Mother save me I am so fucking bored. I don't want to record too many of these and get repetitive, but damn, it's nice to hear something, even if it's the sound of my own voice. It's weird, you know, there's wildlife everywhere. I can see them, hear them, smell them, but sometimes, even in the dead of night, everything'll go silent. Even the fucking bugs! It's creepy because that silence will last for hours.
At first I thought it was a snapjaw hunting me, but there's no hissing or bellowing to let me know I'm getting too close. Maybe it just gets quiet up here. Maybe all that paddling was worth it-- Jed did say the heart of the swamp wasn't but a week out. Guess I'm closer than I think.
I hope so.
Holotape Data: Log 4
Date: [ 7/18 ]
Location: [the expanse]
. . . . . . . . .
It's beautiful here. Oh, ow--ouch. Beautiful, but deadly, I think.
It's like a glade. Or a moor, maybe. The ground's soft but walkable and almost every square inch is rooted with thick blue veins and sprouting the tender and slim tartary petals. It's crazy looking! It's a tartary plant, obviously, but… it's not like any of the ones we grow back home. The leaves and petals are so vibrant and the largest seed has got to be as big around as my thigh.
Wow-- I just.
Praise the Pale Mother.
The petals are giving off some kind of… mist? No, well, yeah, kind of-- it's cold to the touch but maybe "spore" is the right word, cause it's not really wet.
It's so fragrant too.
I think I'll take a flower back with me and show it to the others.
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 5
Date: [ 7/20 ]
Location: [the expanse]
There's not much out here. Bunch of trees. Bunch of water between them. Just like home. Little islands barely afloat, top heavy with draping foliage. They bloom under the Pale Mother's moon. It's kind of pretty, actually, in it's own little way, I found tha—
. . . . . . . . .
There's a bunch of wildlife out here too. Caught a deerjack this morning, so at least I'm not hungry, but I can see eyes following me day and night. Following the fire and waiting for it to go out.
Decided the other night to make a little room on the back of the raft. Doesn't rain everyday here, but it does rain longer and harder and burns right through my robes. So I put a little roof and some stick walls plugged with moss and palm thatch. Isn't much, but it's better than burning.
The bloodbugs are the worst though, stirring up trouble—
What the fuck— Why's the raft moving like tha—
Holotape Data: Log 6
Date: [ 7/23 ]
Location: [just outside fort leftbend]
She told me her name was Bathsheba, the woman who overturned my raft.
Made it right by sheltering me for the night. Fed me too. I appreciated that. The whole thing was weird though. She didn't seem at all surprised to find me in her tin bath out back with water hot to the touch. Even if she didn't leave me anything to burn and I know I didn't make a flame when the raft was overturned, so I-- Eugh.
I don't know.
If anything, the old woman seemed happy about it. Honestly, so was I though. A nice hot bath was just what I needed. This blue flower can't be the only thing I return home with.
She called the place Fort Leftbend, by the way. It was just a house though, her house, in the middle of a random clearing out here in the Expanse. No bends or other forts to speak of. She asked me not to record anything until I left the grounds too… Which spooked me a bit, I won't lie. Guess she heard me talking to it before she capsized me. And even that was weird! I have no idea how she managed to pull that off.
Well, I have a theory-- kind of.
I think she's like me.
. . . . . . . . .
You know how many Children of the Fen are kissed by the Pale Mother and granted a share of her power? Those gifts primarily bless the individual in some manner; be it strength or intelligence or speed, or even folks like Arcadey whose eyes pierce through flesh and blood and bone to pinpoint injuries. But for some, a rare few-- their gifts affect the world around them. Other people and other things. Me, though?
The Pale Mother's Kiss gave me the ability to realize her almighty flames into this reality.
Maybe the Pale Mother gave her something… similar. All I know is she gave that woman something.
I could feel it. Sense it. I can't stop dreaming of her either. Every time I close my eyes I see her… and Mother Mora. The priestess that raised me and probably the creepiest and loneliest woman ever. It's weird too, Mora's the reason I worked so hard to become a Mother-- why I believed in them so strongly. Bathsheba gave off the same kind of reverence in a way, even if she did scoff and laugh when I introduced myself as a Micco Priestess.
Mother save me. She was a fine host, but my arm hair's still on edge. Bah.
Holotape Data: Log 7
Date: [ 7/29 ]
Location: [the expanse]
. . . . . . . . .
,uoy evig i stfig eht yned uoy
,yhtrow flah ylno era ohw wef tceles a ot rewop ym timil
!em esaeppa ton od taht sniag rof rewop ym esu dna
,UOY EVIG I STFIG EHT YNED UOY
,YHTROW FLAH YLNO ERA OHW WEF TCELES A OT REWOP YM TIMIL
!EM ESAEPPA TON OD TAHT SNIAG ROF REWOP YM ESU DNA
I-I can't! I don't know what you're saying!
YOU DENY THE GIFTS I GIVE YOU, LIMIT THE POWER TO A SELECT FEW WHO ARE ONLY HALF WORTHY, AND USE MY POWER FOR GAINS THAT DO NOT APPEASE ME!
MY CHILDREN NO LONGER PLEASE ME!
I'm s-sorry, I'll tell them. I'll cha--
NO. YOU WILL GO. PREPARE. WAIT FOR MY CALL.
I-- what? Leave the haven or the Fen? I-I can--
THE FEN AND MY BLESSING WILL REMAIN WITH YOU. GO NOW.
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 8
Date: [ 7/11 ]
Location: [micco haven]
I'm so hungry. It's all I can think about for some reason. I wish that mirelurk jerky had lasted a bit longer. Maybe I should have asked Jed for more stew after all.
Only one of the power-cells worked when I tried turning the holotape recorder on, so I guess the documentation will come to an end here soon. Wish I had gotten more than just a little blue flower.
My eye hurts something fierce, too. The fumes from that moor must've burned them.
I--
. . . . . . . . .
"Hello? Who—"
. . . . . . . . .
"Mearle? Mearle is that you? . . . Sisters, please! Stop whispering and go fetch Healer Arcadey!"
. . . . . . . . .
"Mearle? Hey, yeah, hey there Mearle, it's me-- Imela-- do you… Hey-- Are you okay?"
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 9
Date: [ 7/11 ]
Location: [outside the micco haven]
They say it's been a year.
An entire fucking year since I left for the Mother's Babel.
I don't remember passing back through Jed's mirelurk farm or the ever-expanding acreage of tartary that encircles the micco haven. I don't remember much, honestly. I don't even remember half of what's on here, but I damn well don't remember a whole fucking year passing. It was only a few days. I only have a few of these memories. If what they say is true, I'm missing an entire year's worth of memories. An entire year!
I don't believe it. I-I can't.
. . . . . . . . .
I-I don't know. Maybe it's true though. When I bathed off all that muck, there was a silver streak left behind that wasn't there before. That's when I noticed my eye— and that kind of degradation couldn't have happened in a few days. It just couldn't have. Before I left, Sister Arcadey said I'd have another year or two before it'd get that bad. Before it got this bad. Before I stopped being able to see out of it.
Maybe the fumes from that moor exacerbated it. Maybe it had been an entire year. Either way, it didn't really matter much when I plucked it out and lit it aflame. Hurt like hell, honestly, but Arcadey fixed me up quick. Disappointed Doreah fled at the lick of flame-- dusty ass bitch would have lit up right then and there too.
Oh well, I guess. Their banishment came moments after my declaration to leave. What's done is done.
I have a new life outside of the Fen to begin-- one with a new vow.
Not as a mother, sister, or dowager, but a Child of the Fen.
. . . . . . . . .
Anyways, I don't think anyone will ever hear this, but if you do, pray for the Mother's.
Pray for the Micco.
For the Pale Mother is not pleased.
By: @rissa
Word Count: 1860
Chosen Theme(s): Hubris, and a bit of déjà vu
Chosen Format: A short epistolary piece
Holotape Data: Log 1
Date: [ 7/13 ]
Location: [jed's mirelurk farm]
Stupid fucking crone.
Stupid fucking rules.
If Doreah doesn't hurry up and get into the pale light of the Mother's embrace, I'm quitting. I'm burning this whole fucking place down. Nearly a hundred-and-seven and still telling us what to do. The audacity to not die already when the Pale Mother has stripped away both sight and smell. What's next? Death or deafness?
What's the point of becoming a Mother if the Dowagers are the ones pulling the strings? What was all that training for? To turn us into good little rule-abiding girls so we'll tell the Children of the Fen what they want done? Fuck that. I gave my vows to the Pale Mother, not to that puce-faced bitch.
But still, I'm making headway. Jed's farm is on the edge of the Expanse. After I leave, I'll be out in the black.
If I can make it to the Babel, maybe I can prove the Mother's Plight.
My eye hurts and my boots are soggy, but Old Jed did give me two big servings of mirelurk stew and even a bunch of dried jerky for the trip onwards. If I die out here, at least it won't be from hunger.
Holotape Data: Log 2
Date: [ 7/15 ]
Location: [the expanse]
That old coot tried to kill me! Not two hours past that farm and my raft was swarming with bloodbugs and leeches the size of two-headed Bessie back home! I can't believe it. That motherfucker could have warned me that fire dilutes the scent of food! Dilutes the scent of you.
I've been burning and paddling ever since. He's lucky. Pull that on anyone else and they'd be dead.
What's worse is I'm hungry.
Most of Jed's jerky ended up in the water the day I paddled out and if it wasn't fish food, it was ash from the flames that burned away those bugs. I'm still so pissed about that. What the hell was he thinking, ladening me down with all that food and not giving me some kind of warning?
Bah. Dumb old man.
Holotape Data: Log 3
Date: [ 7/17 ]
Location: [the expanse]
Mother save me I am so fucking bored. I don't want to record too many of these and get repetitive, but damn, it's nice to hear something, even if it's the sound of my own voice. It's weird, you know, there's wildlife everywhere. I can see them, hear them, smell them, but sometimes, even in the dead of night, everything'll go silent. Even the fucking bugs! It's creepy because that silence will last for hours.
At first I thought it was a snapjaw hunting me, but there's no hissing or bellowing to let me know I'm getting too close. Maybe it just gets quiet up here. Maybe all that paddling was worth it-- Jed did say the heart of the swamp wasn't but a week out. Guess I'm closer than I think.
I hope so.
Holotape Data: Log 4
Date: [ 7/18 ]
Location: [the expanse]
. . . . . . . . .
It's beautiful here. Oh, ow--ouch. Beautiful, but deadly, I think.
It's like a glade. Or a moor, maybe. The ground's soft but walkable and almost every square inch is rooted with thick blue veins and sprouting the tender and slim tartary petals. It's crazy looking! It's a tartary plant, obviously, but… it's not like any of the ones we grow back home. The leaves and petals are so vibrant and the largest seed has got to be as big around as my thigh.
Wow-- I just.
Praise the Pale Mother.
The petals are giving off some kind of… mist? No, well, yeah, kind of-- it's cold to the touch but maybe "spore" is the right word, cause it's not really wet.
It's so fragrant too.
I think I'll take a flower back with me and show it to the others.
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 5
Date: [ 7/20 ]
Location: [the expanse]
There's not much out here. Bunch of trees. Bunch of water between them. Just like home. Little islands barely afloat, top heavy with draping foliage. They bloom under the Pale Mother's moon. It's kind of pretty, actually, in it's own little way, I found tha—
. . . . . . . . .
There's a bunch of wildlife out here too. Caught a deerjack this morning, so at least I'm not hungry, but I can see eyes following me day and night. Following the fire and waiting for it to go out.
Decided the other night to make a little room on the back of the raft. Doesn't rain everyday here, but it does rain longer and harder and burns right through my robes. So I put a little roof and some stick walls plugged with moss and palm thatch. Isn't much, but it's better than burning.
The bloodbugs are the worst though, stirring up trouble—
What the fuck— Why's the raft moving like tha—
Holotape Data: Log 6
Date: [ 7/23 ]
Location: [just outside fort leftbend]
She told me her name was Bathsheba, the woman who overturned my raft.
Made it right by sheltering me for the night. Fed me too. I appreciated that. The whole thing was weird though. She didn't seem at all surprised to find me in her tin bath out back with water hot to the touch. Even if she didn't leave me anything to burn and I know I didn't make a flame when the raft was overturned, so I-- Eugh.
I don't know.
If anything, the old woman seemed happy about it. Honestly, so was I though. A nice hot bath was just what I needed. This blue flower can't be the only thing I return home with.
She called the place Fort Leftbend, by the way. It was just a house though, her house, in the middle of a random clearing out here in the Expanse. No bends or other forts to speak of. She asked me not to record anything until I left the grounds too… Which spooked me a bit, I won't lie. Guess she heard me talking to it before she capsized me. And even that was weird! I have no idea how she managed to pull that off.
Well, I have a theory-- kind of.
I think she's like me.
. . . . . . . . .
You know how many Children of the Fen are kissed by the Pale Mother and granted a share of her power? Those gifts primarily bless the individual in some manner; be it strength or intelligence or speed, or even folks like Arcadey whose eyes pierce through flesh and blood and bone to pinpoint injuries. But for some, a rare few-- their gifts affect the world around them. Other people and other things. Me, though?
The Pale Mother's Kiss gave me the ability to realize her almighty flames into this reality.
Maybe the Pale Mother gave her something… similar. All I know is she gave that woman something.
I could feel it. Sense it. I can't stop dreaming of her either. Every time I close my eyes I see her… and Mother Mora. The priestess that raised me and probably the creepiest and loneliest woman ever. It's weird too, Mora's the reason I worked so hard to become a Mother-- why I believed in them so strongly. Bathsheba gave off the same kind of reverence in a way, even if she did scoff and laugh when I introduced myself as a Micco Priestess.
Mother save me. She was a fine host, but my arm hair's still on edge. Bah.
Holotape Data: Log 7
Date: [ 7/29 ]
Location: [the expanse]
. . . . . . . . .
,uoy evig i stfig eht yned uoy
,yhtrow flah ylno era ohw wef tceles a ot rewop ym timil
!em esaeppa ton od taht sniag rof rewop ym esu dna
,UOY EVIG I STFIG EHT YNED UOY
,YHTROW FLAH YLNO ERA OHW WEF TCELES A OT REWOP YM TIMIL
!EM ESAEPPA TON OD TAHT SNIAG ROF REWOP YM ESU DNA
I-I can't! I don't know what you're saying!
YOU DENY THE GIFTS I GIVE YOU, LIMIT THE POWER TO A SELECT FEW WHO ARE ONLY HALF WORTHY, AND USE MY POWER FOR GAINS THAT DO NOT APPEASE ME!
MY CHILDREN NO LONGER PLEASE ME!
I'm s-sorry, I'll tell them. I'll cha--
NO. YOU WILL GO. PREPARE. WAIT FOR MY CALL.
I-- what? Leave the haven or the Fen? I-I can--
THE FEN AND MY BLESSING WILL REMAIN WITH YOU. GO NOW.
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 8
Date: [ 7/11 ]
Location: [micco haven]
I'm so hungry. It's all I can think about for some reason. I wish that mirelurk jerky had lasted a bit longer. Maybe I should have asked Jed for more stew after all.
Only one of the power-cells worked when I tried turning the holotape recorder on, so I guess the documentation will come to an end here soon. Wish I had gotten more than just a little blue flower.
My eye hurts something fierce, too. The fumes from that moor must've burned them.
I--
. . . . . . . . .
"Hello? Who—"
. . . . . . . . .
"Mearle? Mearle is that you? . . . Sisters, please! Stop whispering and go fetch Healer Arcadey!"
. . . . . . . . .
"Mearle? Hey, yeah, hey there Mearle, it's me-- Imela-- do you… Hey-- Are you okay?"
. . . . . . . . .
Holotape Data: Log 9
Date: [ 7/11 ]
Location: [outside the micco haven]
They say it's been a year.
An entire fucking year since I left for the Mother's Babel.
I don't remember passing back through Jed's mirelurk farm or the ever-expanding acreage of tartary that encircles the micco haven. I don't remember much, honestly. I don't even remember half of what's on here, but I damn well don't remember a whole fucking year passing. It was only a few days. I only have a few of these memories. If what they say is true, I'm missing an entire year's worth of memories. An entire year!
I don't believe it. I-I can't.
. . . . . . . . .
I-I don't know. Maybe it's true though. When I bathed off all that muck, there was a silver streak left behind that wasn't there before. That's when I noticed my eye— and that kind of degradation couldn't have happened in a few days. It just couldn't have. Before I left, Sister Arcadey said I'd have another year or two before it'd get that bad. Before it got this bad. Before I stopped being able to see out of it.
Maybe the fumes from that moor exacerbated it. Maybe it had been an entire year. Either way, it didn't really matter much when I plucked it out and lit it aflame. Hurt like hell, honestly, but Arcadey fixed me up quick. Disappointed Doreah fled at the lick of flame-- dusty ass bitch would have lit up right then and there too.
Oh well, I guess. Their banishment came moments after my declaration to leave. What's done is done.
I have a new life outside of the Fen to begin-- one with a new vow.
Not as a mother, sister, or dowager, but a Child of the Fen.
. . . . . . . . .
Anyways, I don't think anyone will ever hear this, but if you do, pray for the Mother's.
Pray for the Micco.
For the Pale Mother is not pleased.
Title of piece: Fragments and figments
By: @unanun
Word count: 662
Chosen theme: deja vu, imagination
Chosen format: short story
Y awoke and checked her internal clock for the time passed. She circulated lubricant to engage her limbs and broke free from the mud that encased her, following the chain she gripped into the dirt until she found X. As she pushed her way out of the mound, she saw the ocean for the first time.
The shore had receded from the beach halfway to the horizon. It left behind an expanse that had dried and cracked into a tessellation of hexagons and pentagons. To her right, a green rain was slowly dissolving a colossal skeleton. She walked over to the new shore; several times, she sunk into the gap between the polygons, and once nearly fell through to a cave system below.
The water was brackish, and it was hard to tell where the water ended and the mud began, as the ground seemed to be trying to drink the ocean. As the shoreline moved forward and back, it combined with the seabed into a foam that wrapped her legs. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Y awoke, circulated lubricant to warm her joints, and looked at her companion. X and everything else was coated in dust that saturated the air, except where his leg had swept a half circle. She nudged the same limb this morning but received no response, so she took a morning breath to recharge her cells and went outside alone.
In front of her was the end of land, marked by a border of dunes that obscured what lay beyond. The unknown spoke to her in syllables as long as the horizon, waves of sound that she felt in the tremors of the sand and her body rather than the microphones in her ears. The ground, previously shards of concrete and steel grouted with mud, gave way to quicksand as she ascended, where she looked upon the ocean for the first time.
A black column poured rain and churned the waters below. Lightning arced between tendrils of the clouds, the system churning the whole sky into a violent spiral. In the distance rose a wave taller than any ruin she had seen. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Y warmed her body to circulate lubricant, checked her internal clock for the time passed, and brought her arm back online to touch the stapled gash in her cheek. A trail of oil ran from the door to where X was slumped against the wall. She took a deep breath to charge her fusion cells, and gathered the chain to drag him outside.
The first rays of dawn capped the dunes in gold. Beyond, the unknown roared, its mouth as wide as the horizon. X thrashed in his bindings, burrowing into the sand and slowing her climb, but she eventually crested and looked upon the ocean for the first time.
She descended alone. A white wave decayed into a foaming surge and crashed into the rocks, spraying her with the salt sea. Droplets ran down her face and through the hole in her cheek, wetting the teeth inside as a gust flapped the ragged edges. She gathered a fistful of sand; its core solidified inside her grip, but it dribbled out between her fingers no matter how hard she squeezed.
Y went back up the dune to pull X down. He was slack in her arms, and as she turned him away from the land the apertures in his eyes dilated, drinking in the view. In his ceramic cornea Y saw the ocean warped in miniature, the waves reduced to stars. At the horizon, the water was still enough for the sun to paint a golden path to where they sat. The wind drifted across the surface, decorating it with flowers that shimmered in and out of existence. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Back beyond the dunes, Y carefully isolated her memories of the day, deleted them, and returned to sleep.
By: @unanun
Word count: 662
Chosen theme: deja vu, imagination
Chosen format: short story
Y awoke and checked her internal clock for the time passed. She circulated lubricant to engage her limbs and broke free from the mud that encased her, following the chain she gripped into the dirt until she found X. As she pushed her way out of the mound, she saw the ocean for the first time.
The shore had receded from the beach halfway to the horizon. It left behind an expanse that had dried and cracked into a tessellation of hexagons and pentagons. To her right, a green rain was slowly dissolving a colossal skeleton. She walked over to the new shore; several times, she sunk into the gap between the polygons, and once nearly fell through to a cave system below.
The water was brackish, and it was hard to tell where the water ended and the mud began, as the ground seemed to be trying to drink the ocean. As the shoreline moved forward and back, it combined with the seabed into a foam that wrapped her legs. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Y awoke, circulated lubricant to warm her joints, and looked at her companion. X and everything else was coated in dust that saturated the air, except where his leg had swept a half circle. She nudged the same limb this morning but received no response, so she took a morning breath to recharge her cells and went outside alone.
In front of her was the end of land, marked by a border of dunes that obscured what lay beyond. The unknown spoke to her in syllables as long as the horizon, waves of sound that she felt in the tremors of the sand and her body rather than the microphones in her ears. The ground, previously shards of concrete and steel grouted with mud, gave way to quicksand as she ascended, where she looked upon the ocean for the first time.
A black column poured rain and churned the waters below. Lightning arced between tendrils of the clouds, the system churning the whole sky into a violent spiral. In the distance rose a wave taller than any ruin she had seen. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Y warmed her body to circulate lubricant, checked her internal clock for the time passed, and brought her arm back online to touch the stapled gash in her cheek. A trail of oil ran from the door to where X was slumped against the wall. She took a deep breath to charge her fusion cells, and gathered the chain to drag him outside.
The first rays of dawn capped the dunes in gold. Beyond, the unknown roared, its mouth as wide as the horizon. X thrashed in his bindings, burrowing into the sand and slowing her climb, but she eventually crested and looked upon the ocean for the first time.
She descended alone. A white wave decayed into a foaming surge and crashed into the rocks, spraying her with the salt sea. Droplets ran down her face and through the hole in her cheek, wetting the teeth inside as a gust flapped the ragged edges. She gathered a fistful of sand; its core solidified inside her grip, but it dribbled out between her fingers no matter how hard she squeezed.
Y went back up the dune to pull X down. He was slack in her arms, and as she turned him away from the land the apertures in his eyes dilated, drinking in the view. In his ceramic cornea Y saw the ocean warped in miniature, the waves reduced to stars. At the horizon, the water was still enough for the sun to paint a golden path to where they sat. The wind drifted across the surface, decorating it with flowers that shimmered in and out of existence. Behind was everything traveled, in front was nothing.
Back beyond the dunes, Y carefully isolated her memories of the day, deleted them, and returned to sleep.
Please give a hand for our amazing participants this time and I hope to see y'all in the discussion call!
