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I wanted to do a writing practice based on this prompt: I’ve been putting so much into revising, it felt good to rewire my brain for this. It’s not quite focused ALL on one sense, but I tried to center it around hearing/sound as much as I could. I also am trying to test out a new voice to see how it flows. The sounds of my little demons chittering to themselves in the blackness of my room at night are directly correlated with the bruised shadows under my eyes every day. I’m pretty sure the people at school just think it’s part of my ~aesthetic~ which is fine by me. Better than them thinking I’m flat out crazy, cause school is enough of a pain in the ass. But then, who’s gonna come up with the theory that Lex always looks like she was up all night because she was trying to shut out the demons who thrive on the darkness outside? ‘She.’ I did it again. I know I’m not ‘she,’ but they don’t, so my voices for them call me ‘she,’ and even though I can’t hear her, I know Helen’s slithering around my mirror thriving on the dysphoria. God, she’s such a bitch. I’ll look in the mirror tomorrow, and she’ll make sure to highlight all of the things that help the world see me as a girl. Because there’s nothing like having your reflection used against you as a weapon, showing you what the world will always see. Brenda hisses out a stuttered wheeze before her barbed feet dig deeper into my back. I hate that I know she’s laughing at me, even though I’m fairly certain demons don’t understand the concept. Or at least, if they do, they all failed stupendously at that lesson and should not have graduated demon school to stalking their very own fucked-up human. I know what’s coming, and even though I lift my hands to cover my ears, her voice sounds through my head. “What if they knew?” I don’t like the idea of that. Not even a little, but her voice is accented like what I imagine a cockroach would sound like if it were granted a voice box, all sharp angles and grating vowels. “Shut up, Brenda.” I sound stupid talking to my empty room because I’m the only one who knows it isn’t really empty. “You’d go from a loner to an all out freak.” The way she drags out ‘freak’ hurts more than her pincers in my back. My spinal cord is being tugged like a drawstring, and my vertebrae are collecting on themselves as I try to curl away from the sound. “Not all the way a girl, or all the way a boy. A bastardization of the two.” “I’m just as normal as everyone else,” I insist to the room, and the chittering continues. I know I’m normal. I know it. It’s like I have two brains. Logic brain and Brenda brain. Logic brain knows that non-binary people are real. Knows that I’m valid in my identity. Knows that there’s nothing wrong with being a ‘they’ and not a ‘she’ or a ‘he’ or a ‘s(he)’ or a ‘he/she’ or any other stupid way of enforcing a binary that isn’t real. That the punctuation barrier between the pronouns isn’t as solid as it looks typed on a page. The problem is the Brenda brain. The demon on my back whisper-hissing in my ear that I’m crazy. A freak. A bastardization of two genders. That I’ll never be accepted. I know she’s wrong. I know that I shouldn’t listen to the cheese-grater insults that she stabs through my eardrums. Brenda stutter-wheezes in my ear again, and this time it’s accompanied by the squelching ooze of Susan coming to play. I hate the suckling pops and gurgles of her tar-like tendrils winding their way up my blankets and sheets . I hate how they coil around my wrists, holding me on the bed. Covering my ears wasn’t working anyway, so no loss there, but it doesn’t mean I like the weight her sludge puts on me. Susan doesn’t need to speak for me to hear her telling me to give up. She tells me through the way she makes me tired, but not tired enough to sleep. Tired of trying to disprove Brenda. Tired of fighting with Helen in the mirror. Tired of being tired. Susan’s good at sucking my soul out of me through my skin, and the room gets darker every time she does it. Brenda’s engine-failure voice sounds once more in my ears, but I don’t fight her this time. What’s the point? “You can’t ever tell them. They’ll never understand you. Especially Finch.” Finch. I close my eyes, and it’s just as dark is when they’re open, but it feels a little safer. Finch’s voice in my head sounds so much nicer than Brenda’s. It’s higher than the other guys I know; not quite like hot chocolate—that’s too thick. It’s more like a warm tea with honey and milk. The perfect drinking temperature. I don’t quite sleep that night, but thinking about drinking in the tea of Finch’s voice lulls me into enough of a halfway place that I can reduce Brenda to nothing but clicks and snaps and white noise. I can forget that Susan is holding me to my bed and sucking my soul up through a straw. I can forget that I’ll have to face Helen weaponizing my reflection in the morning. I think maybe I can live in that space forever between half-real and half-dreaming, surrounded with the sound of everything that makes me feel safe. I can live forever in Finch’s voice. “What have you done?” the older man asked, eyes usually bright from smiling and lined in the corners now shining with tears.
“Please don’t be mad, grandpa,” Mina said gently, reaching out to wipe away one of the wet trails down her grandfather’s lined face. “Your legs…sweetheart, what have you done? What did you give up? How could you be so reckless?” he lamented, sniffing and making no move to hide his grief and fears from his granddaughter. He pulled off his delicately framed glasses—they were useless anyway with the tears catching in the bottoms of the frames. “I knew what I was doing. I’m okay,” Mina pleaded again, taking the glasses from him and reaching out to settle them on the table beside the couch, legs motionless beneath her skirts. Her throat was thick with tears, and her hands trembled a bit, but her smile and the set of her face said she was certain. The old man shook his head, insistent. “You’re not okay, love. You’re not. You were so gifted already—you’ve never been a greedy child, so I don’t understand.” “This isn’t about greed, grandpa,” Mina said gently, struggling to pull herself closer to her grandfather without the use of her lower body. “I did it for the cause. He will come to us—I know it. He will find his way to us and between your gifts of the mind, and now all of my circles, we can make him more ready than we ever could before.” The old man paled, all of the color draining from his usually warm cheeks. “ ‘All’ of your circles…?” he asked, lips parting. “You mean you unlocked more than one?” he breathed. Mina looked down, the corner of her lips turning up. “I unlocked three,” she replied. “I can use all four elemental circles.” Silence hung in the air, and Mina could tell her grandfather was warring between the two halves of himself. ‘The Professor,” one of the most powerful men in the circle of Mind, the man responsible for successfully unlocking the Knowledge in more people than anyone else—that man was fascinated, bubbling with questions. But the part of himself that was simply Mina’s grandfather; the man who’d almost lost Mina once before, who’d lost so many—that man could only think of how much of a sacrifice such an act would have required. “Your legs and what else?” he asked, tears he didn’t care to wipe away catching in his beard. Mina did not look at her grandfather. The smile of her achievement fell from her lips. She’d had no hesitation about what she’d given away for these gifts, and no doubt in her heart, but loss was still loss. “A quarter of my lifespan,” she whispered, wincing as the man choked a sob. “Please don’t grieve,” she pleaded, forcing her gaze up, pushing her mousey black hair behind her ears and taking her grandfather’s hand. “I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere. We know the prophet will be of age in the next few years. This seems like a tragedy, but it’s a beautiful gift, I promise.” “I’m sorry, Mina, but I can’t see how this could possibly be a beautiful gift. You cannot walk. You used to dance so wonderfully…” the man frowned. Watching the man a moment, Mina reached out to the potted plant in on the table beside her, fingertips grazing the edge of the pot. The air around the plant heated up, and the moisture in the air condensed into a little cloud over the pot, rain dribbling down. From the soil beside the plant’s original residence, a new one began to slowly creep out of the dirt, growing at a record pace until it was full and tall. “I can create beautiful things. And I can still dance,” she murmured, pulling the air in a little whirlwind around the plants, making them blow and wave. “I just do it a little differently now.” The Professor stared at the plant for a long moment before moving to sit beside Mina, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “I just want you to be okay and happy. Please promise me you’re happy. Promise you have no regrets. Yours is not my life to live, but I want to see only joy for you in your life.” Mina smiled. “This life is beautiful,” she promised. “It doesn’t have to be long to be full and well-lived. I have no regrets.” Prompt: "I don't know if I have ever met two people who are more suited to one another than you two." "Two weeks? He must be the most presumptuous, arrogant--," Kyden growled out, pacing back and forth between the bunks.
"I know. Get it all out," Maemi sighed. Kyden was still jacked up from his conflict with Tarin earlier, and all of this on top of it wasn't helping to cool his mood. "Total asshole. No training. Just thinks he can swoop in here, expect us to teach him all the circles in two goddamn weeks. What the fuck?" Kyden snapped, raising a fist to punch the concrete wall when his hand froze. Maemi looked unamused, their own hand lifted and clenched in a fist, using their gifts to keep Kyden from acting on his own stupidity. "You're going to bust your knuckles, and then you'll have to explain to Shatki why she needs to spend her energy fixing you. Sit down." Kyden's face fell flat as he glanced at Maemi. "Fine," he huffed after a long moment, knowing he could never really be mad at the kid. Huffing, he fell into the opposite bunk, crossing his arms petulantly. Maemi braced their chin in their hands, watching Kyden quietly, feeling the heat radiating off of Kyden from across the small space. "I know it's gonna be rough. We can't train him on a few of the circles, but hopefully he can at least learn the ones that matter the most for what we need. And I mean...he has the mark. Why would the prophecy be about him if he couldn't do it?" Maemi reasoned. "Bullshit. We all assumed the prophet was out training somewhere safe and hidden, getting powerful enough to take all of the Elites on. But what was he doing? Nothing. He's been unlocked less than a week, and we're all supposed to sacrifice ourselves for him?" Kyden scoffed. "Not me. No way." "You can't assume we're all gonna die," Maemi said quietly, frowning at Kyden. The boy softened at the look and shook his head. "I know, kid. I know...it's just...there's no way we all survive this, especially if we're the ones helping the idiot right to the gates." Kyden flopped back on the mattress, misjudging how far he was from the wall and clunking his head against the concrete. Spitting out curses, he grabbed his head and rolled onto his side, clutching his messy bottle-red hair. "You know, you probably deserved that," Maemi snorted, grinning over at Kyden. "You'll be staying in here, Blake," a voice called from outside, making Kyden sit right up, still holding the back of his head. "No. No way. I am not bunking with him!" he called right back. Maemi just watched their best friend with a knowing smile. "I don't know if I have ever met two people who are more suited to one another than you two," they murmured, quiet enough that Kyden couldn't hear them over his own complaining. PROMPT: "Paranoia’s simply a word for seeing things as they are." –Momus It was blinding. His parents told him this would be painless; that if he had the Knowledge, he would awaken, and they would help him find his circle. It would feel like waking up with clearer vision, and an even clearer mind. But everything was too bright, and too terrifying all at once. The boy’s eyes flashed around the room to his mother, his father, and finally his sister, Shatki. It was like seeing three monsters wearing his family’s skins. “Chetan?” his monster-mother called gently, stepping forward. Chetan scrambled back, afraid. There looked like there was a hole in her chest–in all of their chests. A white, glowing orb, dripping in black tar, and he knew, though he could not say how, that the tar was evil, manifested. Get back! he opened his mouth to say, but the words would not come. “Chetan, breathe, okay?” monster-Shatki murmured, guiding their mother-monster a few steps back. Their monster-father only watched on, a hand over his mouth and eyes grave and sad. Chetan’s chest felt tight. “Can you tell me what you see? What is it you are afraid of?” monster-Shatki pressed. Ever since he was a child, Chetan had a sense for people. He could tell if a person was a good person or a bad one. He just…knew. Shatki always told him he had a gift for intuition; that she would always trust his judgement because he had never been wrong. When he sensed a person was bad, he avoided them at any and all costs. A wall went up, and he would go quiet, and he would hope and wait for the person to leave so he knew he was safe again. His mother chastised him for being paranoid. His father said he wondered if Chetan was alright in the head, though only when they thought he couldn’t hear. Shatki understood him. A special sense for each other through their twin connection. Their souls were connected, she would say, smile warm and eyes like chocolate melted in the sun. But this was not his Shatki. This was monster-Shatki, and while the white orb in her chest was brighter and whiter than of his monster-parents, there were still ink-spills of black. Seeing that sticky blackness smothering the light gave him that same sense of dread he got around bad people–paranoia, like his mother called it–only it was tenfold, choking the air out of his lungs and killing his in his throat. “Chetan,” monster-Shatki murmured, kneeling down and carefully laying out twelve books, the covers worn, and the leather in the corners curling up with age. “We can help you if we know what circle you are, okay? I won’t come any closer, and you do not have to speak. Can you point to the book whose cover you can read?” she prompted. Trembling all over, watching his monster-sister to make sure she didn’t come closer, he eventually turned his gaze to the book covers, eyes scanning over the runes on the front of each, one by one. Each was as unintelligible than the last. Maybe he was broken? Maybe he was unlocked wrong, and his brain was too weak to handle the strain. Shatki had done well when their mother unlocked her. She woke up, looking normal. She looked over the books and grinned when she found she could read one of the covers. Circle of Body, their parents said. Shatki had always helped him when he was hurt, and she tried to save every life–big and small. Body seemed appropriate. But why had he gone so wrong? Chetan’s eyes skittered to the last book and stopped. He thought his heart might do the same. Soul, the cover read. The Circle of Soul. Those orbs…they were… “Soul?” monster-Shatki asked, noticing Chetan’s body language change. Though she couldn’t read the rune, she knew where it fell in the order. “Is there something that you’re seeing? Is that what is scaring you?” It was not paranoia like his mother said. He wasn’t crazy, as his father implied. He was sensing people’s souls. And now his sense was stronger than ever, and his eyes burned with tears. Even the people he thought were good–his mother, his father…Shatki–none of them were. There was evil in their souls. And if his sweet Shatki had evil, everyone had evil. Nowhere was safe. Chetan hugged his knees to his chest, pressing his knees to his eyes to try and push away the images burned into his mind. In that moment, he knew he would never be safe. His voice was lost in his throat, and he didn’t think he’d ever get it back. In that moment, Chetan knew he would never say another word. PROMPT: “Honestly, you’re kinda weird.” “Took you long enough to find that out.” “Honestly, you’re kind of weird,” Tarin mused, staring up from his coffee cup at the boy who had invited himself to sit at his table without any explanation. “Took you long enough to find that out,” the stranger grinned, wide and open as he bounced a little in his seat, sandy curls hanging around his eyes and sticking up like he hadn’t brushed his hair that morning. Which he hadn’t. Tarin raised an eyebrow. “It’s been five minutes, so I think I pieced it together quickly enough. I’m sorry, was there something I could do for you?” “Most people get there after two, but I’m flattered it took so long,” the blond teased back. “And no, I just like talking to interesting people and you looked like an interesting people. Person. You’re a person,” he rambled on, each word almost tripping into the next. “I saw you sitting here and you were doing this thing that you would start lifting your coffee up to your mouth and then your eye would catch on something in your phone, and it would just hover there until you put it down like you thought you took a sip and you didn’t and–,” “–Wow…” Tarin interjected, staring at the other boy in front of him. “That was a–,” “A lot?” he replied, finishing the stranger’s sentence. “Yeah, I sometime talk and I forget that I’m talking. Sometimes I get on these tangents because I think it’s happening in my head, but it’s coming out of my mouth. It’s why a lot of people think I’m weird.” Tarin’s lip quirked up in the corner, the environmental study he’d been reading on his phone forgotten as the screen had long since gone black. “I don’t think that’s why you’re weird,” he replied. “I think you’re weird because–,” The blond’s eyes flashed bright as he leaned in closer, making the faint freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks more noticeable. “Because I keep finishing your sentences,” he said, like a kid whispering conspiratorially about something he shouldn’t be doing. Tarin would have been lying if he said the odd twenty-something in front of him wasn’t intriguing. He wasn’t one for socializing, and he quite enjoyed not being bothered in public, but he couldn’t look away from the man in front of him. “Among other things,” he admitted. The stranger’s eyebrows twitched together a little bit. “What other things?” he asked. Tarin finally set his phone down, pushing one of his locs behind his ear. “Your shirt is on backwards,” he murmured. The lanky blond blinked, looking surprised a moment before he broke out in a loud, infectious, giggle, drawing the eyes of a few annoyed coffee-shop patrons. “Like I said, I’m an airhead sometimes,” he smiled, and damn if he didn’t make Tarin smile too. “I like you, Tarin. You’re fun.” Tarin opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, leaning back a little. “Did…I ever tell you my name?” he asked tentatively. The stranger shrugged and smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Your coffee cup,” he murmured. Tarin snorted, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” As abruptly as he had sat down, the boy with the inside-out shirt was on his feet, fiddling with the hem a little bit. “I should let you get back to what you were doing, but I wanted to say hi because like I said, you’re interesting, and I like talking to interesting people, and I’m sorry for bothering you, but I’m glad I did.” Tarin frowned, surprised that he was sad to see the stranger go. “Wait,” he said, standing up quickly and turning, hip knocking against the table. As the coffee began to spill, Tarin grabbed the table and the table, the wood almost seeming to reach up and grab the base of the cup, righting it. It was almost too fast to see–anyone would think it was a trick of the eyes. Or, most anyone. The stranger paused, staring blankly at Tarin a moment before he stepped in closer, eyes wide and excited. “You are unlocked,” He whispered. “Circle of Earth, right? That’s so cool and that was an awesome trick and like…wow, I mean I thought you might, but I couldn’t be sure, and it’s not like you can /ask/,” he snorted. Tarin froze. Of course he knew other people were unlocked, but he’d never actually met someone else before. “You…you never told me your name,” he said quietly. “Hugh,” he smiled, biting his bottom lip. “Well, Hugh…I’d like to talk about this more,” Tarin murmured. “Perhaps we can get a drink tonight?” he asked tentatively. Hugh bounced a little excitedly, grabbing Tarin’s hand. “I’ll make sure my shirt isn’t inside out,” he promised. “I wouldn’t mind it if you did,” Tarin chuckled. Winking, Hugh reached up, pressing a finger to Tarin’s forehead. “You know my number now,” he murmured. “Call me.” And with that, he turned and left. “Mind,” Tarin murmured, watching Hugh practically skip out of the coffee shop. Sitting back down, Tarin unlocked his phone, eyeing the environmental study he’d been reading before pressing the home button and opening his texts. Opening a new text, he typed in ten digits instinctively. Hey weirdo. Hope I got the number right. Tarin lifted his coffee to take a sip when his phone buzzed. Where am I meeting you tonight? I was thinking about this place off of 50th? It’s tiny and kinda dark, and they have weird pictures of cats on the wall, and some of them are wearing bow-ties and… Tarin grinned, coffee cup still lingering close to his lips. Reading it over twice, he set the cup back down and set about replying. Sounds perfect. |
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