Let’s start with your results. The Enneagram, Zodiac, and MBTI Section revealed that you are either an 8w9, or an 8w4, a Gemini, and an INFP-T. From Your Disorder Section come the results that you are physically disabled with a potassium channelopathy, an illness that nobody would ever bother to try and understand, as well as mentally disabled with depression, ADHD, autism, and you are quite possibly an actual narcissist. In one of your written responses, you said, “Apparently I have a desire to control the circumstances around me. I’m told. I guess that’s true. I guess. I mean, the desire is there. I’m not, like, puppeteering people around. But anyway, I don’t ever feel that way because I want to be, like, manipulative, or cruel. It just helps me feel safe. To imagine that I can. Not puppeteer people, no, I mean ‘to imagine that I can have some control.’ So much is uncontrollable, overwhelming.” Aw, how cute. You do use too many words to over-express your meaning, though. And sometimes you still aren’t making any sense, even though you talk way too much. Your Preferences and Hobbies Section gives me an interesting note to write down on my clipboard here; most of them are actually just coping mechanisms and tools for escapism. Your Relationships Section reveal that your Attachment Style is Anxious, but somehow with the ridiculous amount of actual love of Secure mixed in, meaning you fall in love too early and can’t let go. Your Love Language is Physical Touch, with the runner-up being Quality Time. Coupled with your aforementioned ADHD; and your out-of-sight-out-of-mind mentality, this means that if you aren’t within hugging distance of the person you have the ridiculous amount of love at all times, you lose interest within days, hours. You also desire praise and validation, not just from your friends, partners, and family, but from every single person you meet. You are highly insecure.
I’m so sorry, but after looking over your results from the extensive Personality Test, your diagnosis is unlovable.
Nobody will ever be able to reciprocate what you give so much of.
Nobody will ever be able to tolerate you for longer than a month. That is your final record.
Daniel Handler recently wrote a short story for the Berkeley Rep Theater’s “Place/Settings: Berkeley” project. The latter “is a 10-part podcast series in which local writers share a story centered in a specific location in Berkeley, inspired by their own personal histories.” The Daily Californian reports that
[Daniel Handler] drew from his own experiences growing up in San Francisco to write his episode, “Black Mass Sonata.” In the episode, a listless teenager wandering through Berkeley winds up at The Musical Offering Cafe on Bancroft Way. While listening to Alexander Scriabin’s evocative“Black Mass Sonata,” he finds comfort in the shared human experience of feeling lost.
“It’s a true story from my life,” Handler shared in an interview with The Daily Californian. Speaking to his personal connection to Berkeley, he shared, “As someone who grew up in San Francisco, Berkeley seemed very glamorous to me when I was young. It was full of young people doing exciting things, and when I was in high school, the idea of many people in their twenties doing something more glamorous and exciting than what I was doing was certainly very appealing.”
In the rest of the article, Handler briefly talks about how music has impacted his writing, and how the project came out of current restrictions due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
> The podcast series can be had for $10 with a new story being released weekly (the debut was on Jan 12, 2021); Acquire a ticket and/or read more about it here.
She glided into the kitchen sweating a little. Too much to take care of. Hosting. Making sure the kids didn’t fight. Keeping one friend from upsetting the other. She could see the party continuing on the lawn. The spring air rolled through the window. She was happy. She loved these times. She loved her life.
She felt hot. She was stressed. There was just too fucking much to handle. She started putting more of the little rolls on the serving tray.
He walked in. “You look stressed.”
She smiled. “I’m fine.” She kept working half ignoring him. “Jennifer needs to just shut the fuck up about that work thing. You could help with that you know.”
He watched her. “Sure, when I get back out there I will.” He was genuine.
She glided around the counter close to him. Working. Arranging. His gaze casually pinned her. She rolled her eyes, “No playtime, I can see that look.” More goodies went on the tray.
“Mmmhmm,” he said idly looking out the window. He was doing that confidence thing that drove her crazy. A smugness that he didn’t usually project.
She gave him a sideways glance almost uncertain of herself. The tray was finished.
“You want to be filled up?”
His voice was so nonchalant. But it paralyzed her. Her fingers gripped the counter. Her pussy clenched and then automatically started it’s slow drenching. “I- uh…” she stammered unable to speak as the choice rolled in her brain.
She was deeply conditioned for this. But she did have a choice. He always made certain of that. It was so busy though! So many people. And… And…
“Do you want to be filled up?”
Yes or No. She had to answer. She was conditioned to answer. Her hands trembled and her legs felt a little weak. She moved to take the serving tray back outside but somehow found her mouth slowly form a long ‘yessssss’.
He moved quickly but it felt like she was being chased in a dream, sluggish. Her brain rebelled a bit. “b-but… everyone’s… right outside…”
“Shh…” He gently pushed the serving tray aside and bent her firmly over the counter. Her face rested next to the sliced apples and she could still see halfway out the window. Her wife was chatting Jennifer up. Cait was laughing with Thomas.
He pulled her underwear down over her butt. It wasn’t a sexy pair. It was utility. She wasn’t expecting this. But her pussy certainly was. He lifted her up a bit. Her son was swinging with Uncle Mike. Tony said something stupid.
He slide in. His girth opened her and stretched her. She began to let our a huge moan-
“Shh… you are silent,” his words cut her off and suddenly she was soundless. Breathless. Gasping.
He pushed and her legs kicked in the air a little trying to accommodate him. He was relentless though and pushed further. Parting her. Her folds let her juices coat him completely.
And then he bottomed out in her and her brain just… stopped.
He did say things as he pumped her. But her mind was off. She heard but didn’t hear.
She did not see him vigilantly keeping an eye on everyone outside. Didn’t see his composure crack as he gripped her ass tightly.
She didn’t really hear all the reinforcement sliding into her mind with each thrust.
Every word penetrating her brain just like her cunt.
She didn’t feel him speed up or hear him try to hold in his own grunts of satisfaction. She didn’t register him gripping the back of her hair roughly as he plunged harder and harder.
She had no concept of time. Until suddenly she heard a word and she did. He was so deep. She was so stretched. His breathing was heavy.
He exploded in her. Her fuzzy brain came back just in time to feel him completely coat her insides.
Her cunt contracted in response and her pleasure ripped through her. She spasmed. She tried to scream but nothing came from her mouth. She flailed. Her arm tried to knock the tray over but he artfully caught it and steadied it.
He just pressed in. He whispered. He filled. Good Girl. Obedient. Helpless. Filled.
She kicked and squirmed. He gripped her tight but gently. He held his cum deep inside but everything else dripped out. Her stress. Her worry. Her tiredness. Everything else.
When he pulled from her she felt him go with a distant longing. He quickly pulled her undies up tight, trapping it a bit, trying keeping her full. She drooled happily on the counter. She was filled.
He gave her a light spank and pulled her dress back down. She snapped back at the trigger.
She was flushed and a little mussed. She was dizzy but felt sooooo good. So happy. So… filled.
She looked a little distractedly out the window as parts of her brain started connecting again. He was already helping put the counter back together. Arranging. Wiping her drool up with a towel.
She was full. She could feel his cum inside her. Deep. Leaking. But even leaking a part would be FULL for hours. She smiled.
“There you are. All back.” His smile wasn’t sly anymore. It was the normal him. “Feel better?”
She nodded happily.
“Good girl.” He kissed her cheek. “You can talk again.”
She blushed a bit like a young girl and watched him leave with a wink. That man… She gathered the tray and took a deep breath.
She floated out the door feeling ready to have fun. To face everything. To laugh. To enjoy. She was happy. She was filled.
He tapped her forehead. She couldn’t move or talk. She had been trying on clothes in the changing room and he’d just slipped in. She’d tried to protest. But now that her quiet and still trigger had been used she just helplessly stood there looking at him in shock. His thumb brushed passed her lips. He skipped the trigger that would have turned her into blowjob machine. That was good because they were in the store! She loved all the ways he could use her but he’d never done it public. She wanted to ask if they could stop but she was frozen. His fingers trailed down her neck. He skipped the trigger that would have made her gasp for breath until climax. Though she was frozen she could feel herself shaking. Figures passed by the changing room, unaware of his intrusion. Just shadows on the floor under the door. His touch grazed across her breasts. He skipped the trigger that would have turned her arousal to uncontrollable levels. She was so scared. They were going to get caught. He’d caught her right in the middle of switching lingerie. She was totally exposed. He admired her with an all consuming gaze as he continued. His hands moved along her tummy. He skipped the trigger that would turn her into a giggling, laughing, and begging mess. She could feel her breathing: quick, hot, and nervous. Another woman was loudly changing and complaining in the room right next to them. She trembled like a fawn. His palms cupped her ass as he slowly turned her around. He skipped the trigger that would have made her just a dumb puppet. She felt herself bent over slightly her hands coming to rest on the bench. She almost managed to make a sound of protest. Almost. Instead she shivered more and almost cried she was so embarrassed. He lightly tapped her exposed clit like a button. Once. Twice. Three times. Her pussy pulled on her brain, she was ready for the command now. Oh god! Her mind barely had time to register at all. Her folds were already obediently wet. She hadn’t even noticed when he’d unzipped and pulled himself out. He pushed effortlessly inside her. Cock in. Brain off. Everything stilled. She was grateful really, deep somewhere. She no longer worried. She was no longer embarrassed. She didn’t really have a mind left to notice, but her cunt appreciated being fucked.
“Open your eyes. You will be hypnotized. You will be brainwashed. You will become an obedient fuck doll. Now look at the spiral.” His voice is stern with a note of irritation. Her head feels so heavy. She aches. She’s sore everywhere. She’s exhausted. The machine she is restrained in is silent again for now. Sweat drips from her naked body, running in tiny droplets that hang off her nose, forehead, and nipples. Her eyes are closed but she can see the shifting light beyond. “Look at the spiral or it’s back to the shocks,” says the voice. “One…two…” She weakly opens her eyes even though the intensity of the colors is almost painful. “Good girl. Focus on the colors.” She tries. She really does. She tries to focus. Tries to forget. The colors pull on her senses and mind. Lure her into the paradox of drifting and focusing at the same time. But her mind rebels. She’s faint. She wants to let them win. Have her. But she just cannot submit. Her brain doesn’t want this. A tear escapes her eye as she tries to relax. The trying gives her brain even more power to fight. She isn’t a slave. “Shit, she’s still fighting it.” says the first voice, a distant echo in her mind. No. She’s trying so hard! Someone sighs as she tries to sink. “I guess we’ll need to hit her again.” She shivers, her body jumping in fear. No… “Are you sure?” the first voice again. “Her vitals are really wonky.” She gurgles a weak protest. She tries to tell them she is trying. She wants… “Yeah. Give her another cycle.” “Noooo!” her voice is a strangled cry, sobs erupting from her as she stares into the infinite and mind breaking colors. “Quiet,” the first man replies. “Never seen one not break after four cycles,” The second voice sounds frustrated. She hears the machine spin up. The colors fade and are replaced with darkness and heat. There is no warning. Her swollen cunt is artfully pounded by the rotating vibrator. Her ass gets similar treatment almost instantly. She groans with a primal cry like a doomed animal. The AI assisted machine is extremely efficient. Her body is simply a problem to be optimized. The pressure, heat, sensation is applied with precision. Her clit is manipulated. Her cunt, her g-spot, her nipples, every spot on her body that can evoke her responses. She screams and wails in helpless ecstasy and exhaustion. They have already pulled countless orgasms from her today. She cannot take anymore. It’s painful. It’s bliss. It’s mind breaking. It only takes 44 seconds to bring her to a state of perpetual climax. “P-p-please… T-t-too m-m-much!!!!” she somehow manages to verbalize between unintelligible gibberish. They ignore her and let the machine fuck her, rip mind shredding pleasure from her. She begins to shake and spasm. Seizure. Her eyes roll about. She loses herself in the pleasure, pain, and fear. The only thing keeping her alive is the hope that they will stop before she dies. She knows she has no chance. They are going to rape her to death. Something in her breaks. She’s broken before but this is slightly different. She feels a part of her… dim… as she kicks uselessly and cums. Her voice stills to a low growl. There is nothing else. Cumming. Cumming. Cumming. Suddenly the machine stops and the cool breeze returns. Her swollen sex is emptied and blissful silence overcomes her. Somewhere in her head she realizes she can’t think. She can’t think. Her mind is silent. Broken. Her juices flow and drip from her spent folds. She vibrates quietly in a calm. The scintillated bliss of light appears before her closed eyes. Her mind is still silent. Broken. “Open your eyes. You will be hypnotized. You will be brainwashed. You will become an obedient fuck doll. Now look at the spiral.” And she opens her eyes…
Written for this week’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: “setting heaven on fire” (inspired also by Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II, which I’ve been studying at uni recently)
Word Count: 242
“Why should a king be subject to a priest?
Proud Rome…
I’ll fire thy crazèd buildings, and enforce
The papal towers to kiss the lowly ground!”
- Christopher Marlowe, Edward II(Act I, Scene IV)
The torches blazed in their sconces, casting flickers of flame across the walls of the castle hall where the King paced restlessly. The ghost of a kiss lingered on his lips like the remnants of a bittersweet poison. His favourite, his heart, his everything - banished,cast asunder across an endless grey expanse of sea.That one word, banished,weighed heavier upon him than the loss of a thousand kingdoms ever could.
All this, brought about by hands that claimed to be friends. Treasonous conspirators, all of them, the peers and the clergy both. Worst of all, they were happy. They reveled in his misery, in his loneliness, and for what? So that they might feel less insecure in their own fragile superiority?
The King sank down onto his throne and put his face in his hands. Slowly the crown, that heavy circlet of ruby and gold, slid from his head and clattered to the floor. What did it matter? What was it worth, to be the head of state, when the laws of God denied him the only chance of happiness that could be?
The torches blazed in their sconces, the fire reflected in the anger in his eyes as his despair hardened into resolve. He would have his beloved by his side once more, even if he had to set Heaven itself on fire to do it. Some might have called it sacrilege; others, blasphemy.
“You are more to me than all art can ever be.” - Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’
Excerpt #1
James had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He much preferred to keep it securely tucked inside his chest beneath the cashmere layers of his sweaters. He would likely never have spoken to Adrien at all, would’ve been too shy to even attempt it, had Adrien not chosen during one of the class tea breaks to speak to him first.
Before long, James had found himself looking forward to class in a way he never had before. Some mornings, he took the spiral stairs two at a time. He dreaded the moment of class ending almost as much as he longed for it, because Adrien always hung around afterwards for just a few moments to talk to him. And James had grown familiar with the envious glances of his classmates because, of all the interesting and talented people who milled around the studio, Adrien - bright, charming, vivacious Adrien - had chosen to speak to him.
That was the other reason why the prospect of submitting the painting tomorrow filled him with dread: it meant that the project was over, that Adrien’s job was finished, that James no longer had the means or the excuse to see him every other day.
Why don’t people fuckin indicate? Cerys thinks while juggling broken CDs. Her phone rings but hey! its just part of the fucked up beat of her life at the moment. She pulls up at a red light and answers, it’s Gabbi.
“What?, No I think its going to work and to be honest, like I said, I can’t see her lasting long, I’ve tried incorporating her ideas but she isn’t willing to compromise and… Yeh?, NO, yeh yeh, hold on babes this dickhead won’t get out the way.”
She slams her heavy ringed hand on the horn. There is a pissed guy wobbling in the middle of the crossing and the lights are green. It’s blistering hot and the inconvenient stranger must be roasting in his black coat. His gingery bristled beard glistens with sweat in the sun and this reminds her of nothing because she is just trying to get through the fucking lights. Cerys abruptly hangs up on her colleague. She saids goodbye but the word is cut short. She feels rude and a strange moment of unacknowledged anxiety. This was common for Cerys. She battering down civility in order to cut to the outcome. But of course common sense assures her that the word finished in her friends mouth even if it didn’t on the phone. What the fuck is this guy doing?
She shouts out of the window;
“Are you fuckin deaf or what?!!”
As she is just about to open the door the bloke opens his coat and flashes a knife. The sun bounces of it enough for Cerys to realise the danger upon which she shouts;
“No worries! You take care mate, have a banging day!”
She reverses the car in a panic before hearing a bump, a crunch and a scream. She doesn’t notice the women walking her terrier across the road behind her.
Maybe they’re not books, but at an airport I found this machine that dispenses short fiction and poetry when you hit a button. I love this idea a lot! It sounds like the sort of thing you’d read about in one of those optimistic sci-fi stories from the ‘50s. I think we’ve peaked as a society when it comes to airport reading material.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Tales of Kaimere is an anthology of short stories set in Kaimere, the fictional world of my own creation. They are stories of love and loss, coming of age, mystery, and revenge. Magic is very much alive in Kaimere. All are tales of adventure, with elements of thriller, romance, and horror.
“The first story in the Tales of Kaimere anthology, Death Walks on Broken Wings follows a group of lumberjacks who join a foreign monster hunter to take down the Raven King, a giant pterosaur turned man-eater.”
“Fire in the Shadows tells of a boy who goes missing out on the Imperial frontier, and the magistrates daughter Sima who joins her friend and a mushroom hunter to risk the harsh frontier to go find him.”
“Trickster’s Gambit follows a young storyteller who must face the judgement of the cold rainforest when she is the suspect of a murder with no witnesses.”
“The Pirate King Koban controls most of the waters east of the Chakhat Empire. One of his loyal followers, Captain Hanau, has brought King Koban a gift for his menagerie: a young uktan drake. Disaster strikes just as a storm hits the cove. All hope for the survival of everyone in the menagerie falls to one of Captain Hanau’s crewmen, a young pirate named Argunite, who feels at home in the storm and finds thrill in the chaos.”
“The daughter of a Qajarith noble goes missing in enemy territory. To evade risk of breaking the truce, a band of adventurers from distant lands are hired to rescue her. The Nerotan lands prove to be more dangerous than the party anticipated. To make matters worse, the adventurers quickly realize there is more at play than they believed, and a vicious monster seems never far behind…”
“Mar’Yalena is a harpy out on her first Lone Hunt, a coming of age ritual among her people that will set her on the path to adulthood. The prey she captures is unlike anything she has ever seen, and calls into question everything she was raised to assume.”
The antagonist of my first short story, Death Walks on Broken Wings: amzn.to/2GUQHhY
By reasons unknown, a large male titan crow received an injury to his left wing which banned him from the skies. Trapped in territory south of his usual hunting ground, with a wall preventing him to return north, the old crow was forced to wander. Quickly he was drawn to livestock in the farmsteads and towns near the wall. After a few violent encounters with farmers, the beast associated people with pain. After a few more injuries, pain turned to rage, and he found the farmers and lumberjacks of the region to make for an easy meal. After this, it was a short step to surplus killing.
Soon he killed for pleasure.
Eventually his standard hunt turned into a massacre, eating one or two and killing a dozen. The great titan was given the name Vaskalamaldus, Qajarith for Death Walks on Broken Wings. Others called him the Raven King. Three towns have suffered great loss by his attacks, and as they are tied up with war, the senate cannot spare the resources to vanquish the beast. And so he is unchecked, killing as he pleases without fear of retribution.
Khaldin is one of the main characters in my second short story in the Tales of Kaimere series: Fire in the Shadows: amzn.to/2Xm7wr3
Khaldin is one of the Lutzkarl; nomadic islanders who sail the many seas of Kaimere raiding and trading with all peoples of the known world. Unlike most of his people, Khaldin prefers to be alone over the company of his fellow sailors, and settled down in the northernmost city of the Chakhat Empire, Zardin. He has made a name for himself journeying out onto the harsh frontier and gathering truffles and other valuable luxuries that most people in the Imperial city dare not risk the many dangers of the frontier for. Khaldin is arrogant, crass, and stubborn, but so are most who take on the Imperial frontier and live to tell of it.
She caught sight of Kim’s rapid blinking to me and took steps to stop this alternate form of communication, as we were already broadly gagged with cotton linen towels.
I was expecting the scarves to be folded into bands and tied over our eyes in the usual way, but instead Corrine dropped a scarf over each of our heads, gathered the four corners of of each scarf together and knotted them at the backs of our necks. In consequence, I found my head enclosed in a loose balloon of colored fabric. I could see through it to some extent (the bright outline of the window was quite clear) but any further communication by blinking was of course out of the question.
Two brave girl detectives helplessly wriggling side by side, trussed up like pigs with cotton clothesline in socks and nightshirts, perched on the bed in the Old Oak Inn.
“I’ll let you go when we’ve finished looting the safe,” Corrine told us as she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Silly game details, I thought. Naturally, being the role we were thrust into as heroines of this short piece, my sister and I tried to escape. Neither of us was tied to anything, so sprawling backward on the bed and some determined rolling and grunting later, we got into position to try to unite each other’s hands
The problem was that the way we were tied, it was possible for each of us to get the fingers of one hand but not both onto the knots securing the other’s ropes. Corrine’s knots were small and very tight: completely impossible to loosen one-handed.
We also discovered that unlike a conventional blindfold, the hoods we were both wearing couldn’t just be rubbed off. We lay there flopping around like two boned fish until Corrine came to untie us.
The dog barking woke her up and she cursed its little yappy mouth while reaching for the light switch. It couldn’t have been later than four in the morning and what was the little thing doing making so much noise, there better be a good reason. And yes, there it was, the clock ticking on the wall, it showed the time: 4:45. Dark and empty outside, except for the noise of the dog barking, filling the air with its rancor, filling her stomach with sickness, filling her mouth with hot angry words. She cursed Mrs. Thomson, cursed the shitty duplex with its blistering walls and thin cheap windows, cursed the fact that she was thirty-four and still had to wake up to this kind of shittiness, and worse yet, had to do it alone in a twin-sized bed without a companion who she could cling to and whine to and generally float with in this sacredfuckedup situation. She imagined roasting the dog on a spit and then felt the hot dizzy feeling of shame because, after all, she loved animals, she even loved this dog most of the time, but her brain ached and her stomach hurt and she just couldn’t deal with this bullshit right now, it was goddamn 4:45 in the morning.
She did not look at the man sitting below her because she was aware that he was staring up at her, like a dog, and she wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he was probably god awful, probably had a goatee or some fuzzy facial hair, and she could feel his glance on her. She knew he was watching her not because she could see him out of the corner of her eyes but because there was that prickly knowledge that comes whenever somebody is watching. She had been completely unaware of everybody around her, full of the music, just watching the sight in front of her, when she knew, just knew in that way that always presents itself. She could feel him looking at her and she wasn’t sure if it was a friendly look or leering, it really didn’t matter because it was unwelcome all the same, so she stared ahead and purposefully scrunched her forehead hoping that he would see that she was too enraptured in the music to notice or care for his presence.
Prior to my jesus experience I was desperate for some kind of human attention. I needed to feel the light of somebody’s sight or thought. I needed to be heard or seen or, for chrissakes, just fucking noticed. Maybe because I was lonely, or maybe because I was too lazy to get out and make real friends, I began to go to church. It was down the street from my apartment and I walked past it one Friday after work and was struck by the heavy wooden doors. I wondered if they were cold to the touch. Maybe because it was hot as fuck outside and I was tired of walking. I just wanted something cold to drink, I just wanted a break from the heat. So I walked up the steps and touched the doors and they were icy, shockingly cold, and it was like a religious experience in and of itself. And I wondered if I could feel something even more exciting and notable if I just went inside. So I did and the place was empty but it was so cold, so cool, and I saw that they had pools of water inside, and I imagined all the seats taken by holy people, religious people, the kind of people that always had a place to be on Sunday and maybe the kind of people who brought each other casseroles when the going got rough. I didn’t know if there was a place to sign up or get onboard, I just knew that I wanted to be there, especially because I had this grand plan that maybe one day I would be up there on that little stage in the front and everybody in the room, seats packed, would see me and notice me and maybe clap for me. Do people clap in churches? I didn’t know, but I wanted it.
For a full day she sat beside the window and looked, glanced, pretended to be busy, pretended not to look, blinked her eyes and peeked through the blinds through heavily mascaraed lashes. When would he come? When would he show up? She cursed his schedule acrimoniously. Why couldn’t he ever stick to a goddamned time? Then she could have at least known when to expect his little truck, little shorts, little bald head. She felt like a fool. Why was she waiting for this little man? Everything little, everything miniature and hairless, and yet somehow, in some bizarre tingling way, attractive. Almost desperately so.
Sirius choked out through the fire. Remus could see only his face appear in the fire he had set just outside of his tent. He was on a mission for the Order, therefore owling letters was too risky, so Sirius and him decided this was a safer and more beneficial (in light of the fact that they could see each other) way of communication.
“Pads, how are you? Is everything okay?”
“It is, its fine, I just wanted to talk to you, ‘s all.” said Sirius quietly. Remus sighed.
The thing was that there was no such thing as ‘just talking’, or at least Remus thought so. There was a war going on strongly, their best friends were hiding somewhere and it felt like he was waiting for bad news to strike him. Just talking made him nervous because they felt normal, and things were everything but normal.
“When are you coming back?” Sirius asked.
Remus didn’t actually know when he was coming back, but he knew it was soon. He hoped it was soon, “Soon. Okay? Don’t worry about me.”
“Right. Okay.”
There was a long silence. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, because Remus and Sirius could sit in each other’s presence for twelve years and say absolutely nothing, and it still wouldn’t be weird. They guessed it was love.
Love. How to think about love when the point of war is hate? It was so easy loving Sirius. They were just twenty-one and already engaged and it was so easy being in love.
“Remus, there is something I’d like to tell you. I’m not the-“ Sirius was cut off.
“Shit, shit, shit. I can’t hear you anymore. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah? I love you.”
“O-oh, okay. I miss you.” said Sirius, upset that he didn’t tell Remus what he wanted to, but it’s fine, i’ll tell him tomorrow, he thought.
“I miss you too. But when all this is over we will be a proper family, you’ll see.” Remus whispered.
