138π

    With a thunderous banging Noelle was distracted from her letter. Someone was knocking on the metal door to her chamber, generating vibrations strong enough enough to rattle the set of writing utensils beside her. She sighed, setting her favorite red pen beside the pad of paper she was using before standing up, stretching, and walking to the door. Noelle did not frequently have free time, working near constantly despite her lack of husband or child. Those living in the commune knew not to interrupt her for matters that were not urgent, though many ignored this in favor of harassing her simply because she never said she hated it aloud. In the two seconds it takes her to stride from her desk to her door she quickly checks her hair, done neatly in a bun earlier that morning. She found nothing out of place with it and thus did not hesitate to throw open the entrance to her room.

    Her younger brother stood at the doorway, sweaty and tense. Such a thing was no cause for concern, however- Noelle’s younger brother was sweaty and tense regardless of situation, the sort of man to be equally mortified in spilling a drink as witnessing the mauling of his last fertile cattle by yet another stray dog. Work in the fields had rendered his skin dark and hands callous, and like his sister the sands of time eroded his body such that he looked considerably older than his age. His composition was to be expected from a man who had made it his life’s work to tend a farm that had produced a smaller and more wretched crop every year since before he had inherited it, and in her humor Noelle found it endearing. Still, his attitude was infectious, and every minute spent in his presence put her more on edge, so she thought it best to be done with him quickly.

    Upon asking what the problem was her brother straightened like a soldier on trial, chin held so level one could use it to determine whether a board had been laid straight. They were out of water again, he informed her through a throat hoarse with overuse and possible cancer, and unless she got the pumps working again he and the other farmers would be unable to irrigate their crops. Noelle laughed, patting him on the shoulder and telling him she already knew, in fact, she was planning to head down to the basement soon anyway, so she might as well go now. Her brother nodded and thanked her before marching down the hallway without another word, the sound of his boots slapping the metal floor echoing obnoxiously and stinging her ears. Still smiling, Noelle turned back into her room so as to grab her pen and notepad before she began to make her way down to the basement.

    The path from her chamber to the basement was one she had walked many times. Having lived there since her teens, Noelle was no longer intimidated by the many sharp turns and difficult stairways her path presented. So often did she go to maintain the water pump that her tools were kept outside the door to the basement in a carry-on box, ready for her to pick up whenever she needed. No one else in the commune touched her tools- not that she would mind, really, they were just things- and thus she had no need to worry about their being misplaced. Sure enough, when she reached the heavy metal door to the basement her tools remained right where she had left them, each sitting in their rightful place in the red carry-on box, and she swooped up the bag before opening the door.

    Within the bunker every step echoed, the metal reverberating and vibrating harshly wherever someone went. In the basement, however, these sounds became strangely muted, though the steps leading down to the water pump were constructed in the same manner and of the same material as everything else. Lights which were glaringly bright outside of the door became dim and soft once through it, and all sound was replaced with a pleasant mix of white noise. A machine hummed gently, water dripped steadily, and every once in a while a quiet release of steam would resound. Noelle felt the tension leave her body, her shoulders relaxing, her breath coming out in sighs, her heart rate slowing to a comfortable rhythm. She ran one hand through her hair, slowly undoing her bun, letting it fall to her shoulders and down her back.

At the bottom of the steps a two inch layer of water had collected, soaking into Noelle’s boots when she stepped in it. She sighed, kicking her feet around so as to splash it as she walked, wetting her pants and the hem of her trench coat. The Geiger counter within her open toolkit ticked quietly, its tones spaced far apart. Had this been the first time, it would have caused her concern, but after so many years of hearing its sound even at the late hours of the night while she slept in bed she could no longer find it within herself to care. Instead she began to run through the large basement towards the water pump, following the soft blue light it emitted before finally coming face to face with it.

Noelle pressed herself against its large central chamber, feeling its hum on her skin. After resting there for a moment or two she took a step back, observing as water slowly percolated through the filter at the top, every few minutes a single drop falling to the thin puddle of water at the bottom. Once she discerned there was nothing to be done she went to inspect the other sections of the machine, working methodically so as to check every section of it. The process took a few minutes, but was easy and almost soothing. Satisfied with her analysis she stood straight, pad of paper held tightly to her chest with her right hand while the slowly ticking toolbox rested in the left. In the corner of the room a small work desk was stationed, along with a simple wooden chair. When she went to sit in it her weight shifted uneasily, the ends of its feet having rotted after so long submerged in water. Still, she seemed at no risk of falling, so she set the toolbox down on the table, laid her pad of paper and pen before her, and flipped to the page of her started letter. The pen suddenly seemed to hold considerable weight as she picked it up, more than it did in her room. She held its tip over the paper, hesitating. A small bubbling noise emanated from the machine behind her, causing her to glance back and smile. Finally, she turned her attention to the paper and began to write.

To my dearest,

It is with a heart of lead I write this to you, announcing that this shall be our last correspondence. Though we have both long anticipated this development, its arrival rends me nonetheless. I cannot remember when we first realized the impending realization of your passing, it being so long ago, but as a girl I had convinced myself that I would not live to see you go. It seemed impossible to me that I would outlive you, yet the truth of our predicament is such that it would be more cruel to ignore your degradation than acknowledge it in mourning.

With that said, I’ve no intention of dwelling on our loss of one another. I know it is your desire for me to be happy, always, and I feel the same for you. You yourself have taught me- to remain entrenched in memories of what we no longer have destroys all happiness they have brought us, an insistence upon lying only with the body of the past forcing us to eventually violate it. At some point we must allow the lover that is our memories to break from our grip, leaving our bed so that she may go to the bathroom to clean herself up. She will be back when we want her, but for now, she must go.

The sheer number of memories we have together seems utterly inconceivable, despite my having lived all of them with you. My life has been entirely defined by the people in it- my brother, my father, my husband, my coworkers, all those I have ever seen. Despite all of this, however, none of these landmarks have come close to being as luminant and monumental as you. In all the ways I have loved, none has ever come to be as tender, or as heartfelt, or as absolutely robust as my love for you. My love for you fills me as a flower’s roots does the soil of its pot, fills me as tea does the space of a well-loved cup, fills me as a warm body does a bed. So complete and wholesome is it that no longer is it my action, no longer is it my emotion- it is my person, and I would not have it any other way.

You had met my father, before me. That was only sensible- I had no business with you at the time, and my time spent with you would have been substantiated with boredom. How thankful I am, that I had not met you then! To think there was ever a time where I was not enamored with your every action- how horrifying.

Noelle paused to glance back at the water pump. Water continued to drip in its central chamber, slowly, and she absentmindedly began to count the seconds between drops. After a minute or two she realized that her counting had come to be in sync with the dripping of water, and not the actual time passed, such that she always counted to four between every release though the interval between each drop was clearly inconsistent. She sighed, laughing, and one of the outside chambers of the pump makes a gurgling noise.

Strange, how life progresses. If the world had been any different, if we had met at any other time, under any different circumstance, we may not have given each other a second thought. My father had discovered you in a time when I was bored. Had I thought of any other means of amusement beyond coming to the basement with him and asking to be allowed to watch him tinker, nothing about you would have interested me. Before our arrival in this commune I could always busy myself with foraging, or with reading, or with taking care of my brother since my father had always thought that a loathsome task best suited for older sisters. If I had waited another two years, my father would have passed and I would have had no means of connecting to you.

Yet, here we are. Did I ever tell you how much those two years of learning with my father meant to me? Those may have been the happiest years of my life, all thanks to you. Prior to our acquaintance I had been so shy, a quivering, shapeless mass of a girl. What with our constant moving, friendship seemed fleeting and shallow. Though my brother and I were consistently subjected to my father’s friends- my eventual husband among them, as you know- they, in their old age, could not have connected to us in the manner that children should with other children. My brother and I took refuge in each other, but even as a small girl I could tell he held me in bitterness, whatever part of his young boyish mind blaming me for our father’s distance.

Even now, the fact that it was my father’s fascination with you that made us finally stay in one place makes me feel the slightest bit guilty. As children, my brother and I would beg him not to make us move again, but that never seemed to incite any sympathy from him. Though it hurts to say- and I do not wish for this to impinge upon your conscience in any way- his willingness to stay for your sake made me wonder what exactly it was that I had done wrong. That makes it seem almost as though I blame you, doesn’t it?

With a sigh Noelle shook her head, striking through her last paragraph, her favorite red pen gliding smoothly across the page and bisecting her lines. She knew her dearest would forgive her- no, they would not even take offense- but guilt still permeated her chest, sinking deep into her heart and stuffing it with steel wool so that it tears at her viscerally, growing wet and heavy with blood. Behind her, the water pump began to pulse, its soft glow growing stronger then fading again, growing stronger and then again fading, repeating this cycle every few seconds until Noelle got up to check for signs of damage.

She walked in circles around it, first circumferencing the center chamber, its warm blue cylinder the slightest bit warm to her touch as she traces the tips of her fingers around it. It took only three or four paces to go around twice, and she easily stepped over the elevated tubes connecting it to the left and right chambers. Seeing nothing wrong, Noelle shifted focus to the left chamber, moving behind it to look at its many release valves. Water soaked into the knees of her pants as she stooped so as to better inspect them. All was right, every one of the left chamber’s ports and valves and exhausts absolutely impeccable. She counted the number of seconds between each gentle release of steam, and was certain of its consistency- so regular and faithful was it that she felt her heart begin to beat in time. With nothing observably wrong with the left chamber, she moved to the right one, with its many dials and registers. The right chamber was small relative to the center and left, only slightly larger than Noelle’s head. There was little to inspect, there- the right chamber did not much but display the production of the center chamber. The numbers lined up- five liters a day- so Noelle simply hummed, using her thumb to wipe away a bit of debris which had been stuck to a dial.

A Want for Understanding in Corrosive Mentality [WRITING BACKLOG - INCOMPLETE SHORT STORY]

A Want for Understanding in Corrosive Mentality.

By London Oscuro

Once there was a race of people who could drink each other's words.

They did not speak as humans do, but through their saliva. Their throats did not adapt to produce sound, but to alter the structure of their spit in order to communicate. Humans could not understand him, nor could they understand humans, but the two never met. So the people were happy to talk to each other as they did, by exchanging saliva and drinking it.

Normally, the people would drool into cups and then exchange them. This method of communication was, for them, polite. It was impersonal, requiring no touching, only that the speaking party has something to hold their words. This method was not perfect, however, as it also bred miscommunication, words from previous conversations, sometimes even from other people, mixing into what they wished to say. It was difficult to clean out the cup each time they spoke to someone, and carrying many cups was simply too impractical for anyone to do it.

Thus, when the people wished to communicate in its most pure form, without worrying about miscommunication, about their words becoming clouded with words meant for others, they would kiss. This held a much deeper meaning to them than it does to us, as not only was it a form of intimate personal contact, but it also allowed them to know each other’s most true thoughts. Two people could come to understand each other more deeply in two seconds than a human might understand someone in several years. The people reserved this way of talking only for the person most dear to them, since such an intimate method of communication should not be taken lightly.

The people continued with this method for many years, believing they had no other option. They built cities and their own civilization, living together and talking to one another without questioning it. As their population grew, though, they became dissatisfied. They soon realized that their way of life was incredibly limiting, restricting them to talking to one person at a time. They realized that their leaders had only ever been heard by a dozen or so out of the thousands, that their leaders would hear none of the people below them. They realized there was no chance for the rest of them to be heard, that their words would be forever confined to the small group of people around them.

Despite this, the feelings of the people eventually made their way up. The leaders too felt isolated, as even they wanted to hear the voices of others. They admitted that they felt trapped in their ivory towers, and said that they wanted to come down and see what the people below had to say. Their leaders decided to create a solution. After much deliberation, the leaders sitting in a circle and exchanging their cups, they finally reached a conclusion on what they were going to do. The leaders, who had all (but one, who sat out) agreed to say the same thing through their saliva, all poured their drool into the same vat. They then mixed it together, so that the people could not tell which person said it. In this way, the leaders could be unified, and the people could all hear their words.

Their idea worked wonderfully. While it took a bit for all of the people to catch on, the words of their leaders soon spread to every common person in their civilization. The people felt enlightened, they felt united, hearing the voices of many all saying the same thing. It filled their souls with joy, knowing that the people above them were so wise and clever to have thought of such a thing. The concoction distributed by their leaders was like a brilliant orchestra to them, full of sound and life that made one’s heart full and satisfied.

With time, however, the people once again grew dissatisfied. They had heard their leaders’ words, found them to be filled with hope and promises- but what did that all mean? Some of the more determined formed coalitions, hoping to send their own words to the rulers. It was agreed that they would all ask the same questions, as the leaders had all made the same statement. Agreeing on what questions to ask soon became more of an issue than anticipated, though, and they began to argue. Some people felt that their idea had been unfairly discarded, while others were frustrated by their peers’ lack of introspection.

One of the debaters had an idea. They suggested that all of those arguing combine their spit in the vat, but do not try to say the same thing. Once mixed, those present would be able to drink the ideas of all the parties involved, with similar ideas presenting themselves most strongly. They would all be able to speak at once, their opinions equal, without fear. The true outliers would learn their place while coming to understand the views of the whole.

Those present agreed reluctantly, each taking a turn to fill a cup with their saliva before pouring it into a vat. They were more hesitant than their leaders, discouraged by their lack of unity. If the unintentional mixing of thoughts had caused them so many problems, why would doing it on purpose be any different? Yet eventually the vat was filled, and all of their words were mixed together into a single conglomerate.

The people were shocked to discover that the plan had worked. It seemed that when the words had a target and goal in mind, their meaning carried even when mixed. They were able to understand each other, find a common ground, and give everyone an equal opportunity to present themselves. They yet again felt enlightened, elated that they were able to enact such a wonderful plan. The liquid had become a collage, communicating so many ideas in such a beautiful way. They thought it was groundbreaking. It was decided, then, that once they would send their leaders two vats: one containing their grievances and the other explaining their discovery.

Once they received their messages, the leaders were shocked. Never before had they considered that the lower class could create such a wonderful invention. They replied quickly in awe, saying that they would take the council's thoughts into consideration. A peace had been reached, the people feeling comfort in knowing that their leaders could hear them. Reassured by the establishment of communication, the council became more well known and widely accepted. The people began to form many different groups, all wishing to communicate with the leaders.

To keep up with the new exchange of vats- which had started growing larger as the groups they represented did- many were hired to manage the trade, ration them out to the people and maintain the flow of information. Such work was very lonely, being able to see the whole world communicate but not being allowed to do so themselves. They kept quiet, though- it was essential that they not take from the vats. It was decided that were they allowed to drink from them themselves, they would prevent the arrival of ones they did not like. If they complained, they would lose their jobs. So they kept quiet.

Such lonely work. Such lonely work. One of the laborers had thought, Why are we the only ones not allowed to communicate? Why must we be alone? And though they themselves attempted to earn the attention of their leaders, they were ignored. The workers were quite frustrated- not only was their work lonely, but it was hard, having to lift and move all of those vats, having to make sure they all arrived on time, having to decide when on time was- and now they were being looked over?

It's the vats, they thought. If we didn't have those, we could be free. So the workers thought long and hard, and decided they needed a way to replace the vats.

Not a Single Doubt is Held in Mind [WRITING BACKLOG - COMPLETE SHORT STORY]

Not a Single Doubt is Held in Mind
By London Oscuro

Staring into the glass wall, seeing nothing behind it. With knowledge that there are billions of little lights all shining brightly and yet still seeing nothing. Not even a reflection. It is too dark here. Aware still that those little lights that all vary in size and color and intensity all see they all see, beyond that glass wall. With the view it provides it may as well have been painted black. But it is glass.
Girl behind whoops and it hurts. It hurts and knees are curled into chest and hands are curled to cover ears because the girl whoops and it hurts. On stage there are more girls. That is why she is whooping. The girls are all beautiful and their dresses sparkle and one has been chosen, and not only behind but all around girls whoop. A woman hands the chosen one a sash and presumably she smiles. She is too far away to be certain.
Glass rings hollowly when struck. No it doesn’t. In aquariums the glass is five inches thick because sharks will beat their heads against it and it is already supporting all that water. There is no water here. Breathing is not difficult. Glass does not ring hollowly when struck it thuds with no satisfaction no triumph no ringing. That awful obscuring glass wall. There is so much behind it. It watches through that glass. The dark empty room.
After a woman stands at the cash register. An ID number she says. There is no ID. Only a number she says. Everyone has one. The girl at the other register pulls out her ID number and hands it over. Happily the cashier there gives her a stack of textbooks. An ID number. There is a line and their faces are displeased. They twist and blend in ways that are remarkable only in that they are identified unambiguously as displeased. The woman is kind and speaks gently. Perhaps she only feigns kindness. No matter. There is no ID. Goodbye. Come back when it is found.
No lights are in this room. It is not hot or cold. It just is. The glass is in this room. It will not shatter. Maybe there is something in here which would break it. The room is too dark to tell. Only one person can be blamed for this. Probably. No sound can be heard from outside the room. Though sometimes footsteps and thuds and the clapping of hands can be mistaken for human voices. Muffled. Scraping along the floor the human voices. Searching for something and it sounds almost like speaking. Almost like laughing. No reason why they are laughing. Probably laughing at what is inside the empty room.
Books and IDs are not the only things in the world. Rain falls and soaks through what is ostensibly a rain jacket. No human voices here instead only sound from headphones and Wait. Wait. The signal to walk has not changed. Wait. Go. The building is old. It has green chalkboards. Even the poorest public schools do not have green chalkboards. Seats are mostly full. A girl to the left has round cheeks and black hair and is mostly dry. Her face is sweet. Please state your name. She does. It was a name. She has a black cat living at home in the capital. Two hours’ drive. The cat is missed. A few months ago a dog died. The only part of her body that is wet is a palm sized splotch on her right breast.
Another strike upon the glass. What material makes up the club is uncertain. It is hollow probably because it rings and it hurts. No knees to curl to chest. No hands to curl to ears. Standing and the glass is struck. If there is noise to indicate shattering it cannot be heard over the ring of the club. Nor can light be seen. It is so dark here. The sight of the other side bores holes in glass and flesh. The former is visible only to them. The latter is visible only to flesh. Perhaps they do not know they make those holes. It hurts. There are so many holes. No holes in flesh are needed. And only one hole in glass.
Thirty six dollars left. Sixty are needed. Sixty paid would leave none but that is OK. Food and shelter are not issues. The girl to the right is short and dark skinned. She has no money to spare though she would if she did. Neither does that old woman have anything. That is OK. They are kind and speak gently. Nothing should be feared of them. The man is what is feared. He is angry often and strong. Food and shelter are not issues because he gives it. But no girls have lived in his home since the death of his wife. That is not why he is so enraged. It is a statement of fact. Too often statements of facts are taken as reaches for pity. There is no pity in this home. That is OK. None is wanted. Sixty dollars are wanted. But there are only thirty six.
Finally,
Finally the glass shatters and it sprays in a great arc of every color having not broken simply into large clean pieces but shards smaller than an eyelash clustering together into a single cutting whole which now cuts flesh further and eyes as well and skin as well and it's all beautiful how it rends that which breaks in its final act of solidarity. Those glass shards will be melted down and reformed and no light shines upon the body it so bravely violated.

The Things Which Were Said [WRITING BACKLOG - COMPLETE SHORT STORY]

The Things Which Were Said.
By London Oscuro

“Are you enjoying yourself?” the woman sitting at the other side of the table asked me, smiling. Apologizing, I realized I had been staring, caught up in looking at her. She was a beautiful woman, with a gentle, caring face. Her dark brown hair had been braided to frame her innocent countenance, falling to her covered breasts. She wore wine red, and I fondly recalled the last time we met.
“Oh, dear- I spilled the wine…”
She looked distressed, and a slight blush dusted her face. I couldn't restrain a smile. “I think you look cute.”
I reached out to touch her manicured hand, nails painted the same color as her dress. “Yes, I am. You look lovely tonight.”
The woman grinned brightly. She took my hand in hers, leaning closer. Her white teeth shone behind her red painted lips, and I sighed. She really did look lovely. Her long lashes, accented by mascara, fluttered flirtatiously as her other hand moved to pick up her glass. I watched as her long fingers snaked around the stem, the glass held precariously between them.
“Careful,” I said, noting her unfocused eyes and the awkward way she held it. “You might spill it.”
She giggled. “Yes, I remembered what happened last time. That's why I wore red.”
What a thoughtful, beautiful woman. Knowing she had remembered just as I had made my heart flutter. “I hope you're enjoying yourself as much as I am,” I murmured. “I'd hate to be disappointing.”
“Mmm, you're not,” she hummed, looking to our joined hands. “How about I finish my wine, and then we head to your place?”
I smirked, drawing my hand back. “Sounds lovely to me.”
We chatted as she finished her wine. It was cheap- we both knew I couldn’t afford a high quality one, no matter how much I wanted to. My low income never seemed to bother her, though, and she was more than happy to go to whatever chain restaurant or hole in the wall I suggested. Her voice was light, musical as we spoke. She put her hand on her chest as she laughed, pressing her dress between her cleavage. I wondered if her nails were fake- I could never tell, though I had been told the difference was obvious. Could they be taken off?
She finished her wine, laughing about having addressed her clumsy ways. I flagged the waiter and paid the check. She pressed herself against me as I pulled her out of the chair. I could feel her breasts against me, and I wondered whether she knew. She continued to cling to me as I lead her to my car, and when I opened the car door, she wrapped her arm around my neck as she sat down.
She pulled my face to hers and kissed me. “Hey,” she whispered. “Are you gonna be good to me tonight?”
“Hmm, maybe,” I replied, being coy. The possessive way she held onto me until the last moment she could did not escape my notice, and I chuckled as she finally let go.
I got in the driver's seat, and she placed her hand on my thigh. “I hope so.”
The car was nothing special- it was actually over ten years old at that point. It was a gift from my father, one of the last ones he ever gave me. Still, despite its age, it was comfortable and gave me no trouble. I didn't drive often, choosing to walk when I could, but when I did I would do so safely. I had managed not a single accident in the entire time it was in my possession.
She shivered as we sat on the cool seats of the car, the air hanging on to the last remnants of Winter. It had been an unusual season, with record breaking snows followed by strange periods of warmth. Going outside had become, at best, a chore, with every forecast describing seven different types of weather, all uniquely horrible.
The night sky glowed dimly as I stared up at it. It was long past sunset, but the stars could hardly be seen through the pollution of the city. The woman stared outwards with me. Her hand curled and drew away as she stared out the window. Her eyes were wide as she frowned ever so slightly. My chest became heavy with sympathy.
“Hey,” she mumbled. “It's all going to disappear, isn't it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew.

She leaned back on the car seat. “Everything's going away so quickly,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “Everything… everything I remember from… even ten years ago. It's all gone.”
I leaned back as well, huffing and closing my eyes. “... I suppose it is,” I said, turning to look at her. “Humans… are destroying everything, aren't they?”
Humans.
“I…” the woman mumbled. “I love you.”
I looked at her to see tears in her eyes. I’m overcome with the urge to reassure her. “I love you too,” I said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.
I felt warmth on my face and realized she has begun crying in earnest. “I'm afraid,” she sobbed. “I'm happy sometimes but I can't forget being afraid.”
The dark car hid her features, and I could only see faint reflections of the light from the dim sky. Still, I heard her quiet choked noises, her pitiful sniffs in an attempt to maintain her composure. I traced my hand on the side of her face, dragged it through her soft hair. “You won't be afraid forever,” I told her, and pushed her face to my chest. I could feel her tears through my dress shirt, warm against my skin. I hoped she felt the way it made my heart beat faster. “Your fear will end one day. It won't be forever.”
Her sobs tapered off into whimpering, and she clutched my chest. “Right,” she said. “It's… this fear... is going to disappear too.”
I hummed, petting her head in agreement. “It's all going to disappear. All of it.”
The car had heated, cleared of the cold winter air it once held. I expected my shirt would stain, but I didn't mind. Such a thing seemed so pleasantly warm, and emotional, and close. It was lovely. I wished desperately to see her as she gently pulled away- see her hair a mess, her makeup smeared with tears, see her face colored red with anxiety. Turning on the light would have been inappropriate, though, so I held back, instead listening to the soft sounds she still made. They were weak and high and barely audible, but they made my chest ache with a feeling I could not place. That, I felt, compensated for being unable to see her cry.
“Let's head home,” I said.
“Yeah.”
She kept mostly to herself for the duration of the car ride, and I took the opportunity to let my own hand wander over to her whenever we stopped at a light. She leaned into my touch, her sounds not as desperate or pitiful when I was close. Her breathing steadied, and her heartbeat did not feel as frantic under my hand. I smiled, though I knew she could not see it.
We finally arrived, and I lead her out of the car, this time pulling her close myself. She latched on to me and pressed her face to my chest, and I felt her long nails dig into my back through my dress shirt. She nearly fell as I lead her inside, but I held tightly onto her body to keep her upright.
“You're alright,” I said as she struggled to get her footing.
“I suppose I am,” she replied, some of her former mirth entering her voice. “When we're inside, would you read to me? Your voice is so nice.”
I laughed. She was so sweet. “You're going to kill me, you know!” but I didn't object. “I've written a few chapters since the last time I showed you my work, so would you like to hear them?”
She stood straight and nodded. Her wide, inquisitive eyes stared straight into mine, and I could see her adoration for me through them as I brushed a stray lock out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. It wrenched at my heart, and I had to resist the urge to knock her off her feet and ruin what was left of her composure. I struggled to maintain my own.
“I would love to,” she enthused.
We entered my house and went to my bedroom, where she took her shoes off and sat on my bed. I watched as she crossed her long legs, her foot tapping idly. She wore tights- I wondered if I had ever told her how attractive I found them. I didn't take my eyes off them as I pulled my printed draft off of the nightstand.
“I've not sent it to my editor yet,” I told her. “So you'll forgive me if anything sounds a little weird.”
She chuckled. “Of course. It just means I'll be first to hear it!”
The sheets moved between us as she pulled herself closer to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She looked to my face, then to the papers as I began. The story was one I had been working on for a while. She listened intently, resting her chin in her hand and smiling gently. I made a noise of contentment as I read, more focused on her than the story. I suspected she was the same way. Once I finished, she giggled and pulled me down to lie on the bed with her.
“It was really good,” she laughed, “Very… you.”
I put the papers on my lap and smiled. “I'm glad. I was worried it would've killed the mood.”
“No, no,” she assured me, taking a lock of my hair and twisting it around my finger. “I thought it was fascinating. It was… so close to the heart. I could tell it was written by you.”
I kissed her again, and she smiled. “I'm glad.”
She took my hand in hers, grinning and bringing it to her breast. “You can go ahead,” she whispered close to my ear. “If you want.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. She looked at me in anticipation, blushing slightly. Her makeup was a mess, her mascara and eyeliner streaking down her cheeks. Her hair had fallen out of place, now sticking out every which way. She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
For a moment, it was completely silent. Then, I smiled. I laughed, I laughed at this beautiful human before me, and there was confusion in her eyes. I flipped her onto her back, straddling her hips and placing one hand lightly on her shoulder.
“You idiot!” I cried, unable to contain myself. “You idiot, you think we can do something like that?”
She stared at me, and I couldn't make out whether it was fear, or disgust, or despair she felt. Her lips parted slightly but she didn't speak, instead choking on whatever words she may have had.
“It's not that easy,” I told her, leaning close to her ear. I grinned, my voice low. I heard her breath hitch. “Being happy… is not that easy.”
Her mouth closed, and she gulped nervously. She blushed even more profusely, and I felt her heartbeat quicken beneath me. “I… can you explain?”
I pulled.back, smiling approvingly. “I think you understand already.” This woman was so lovely, after all.
Her eyes darted downwards to where our bodies met. She looked briefly afraid, but soon an expression of relief crossed her face. “Ah,” she gasps. “I see.”
Her free arm wrapped around my back and I released her shoulder so she could pull me down. She began laughing. “Ah!” she cried, ecstatic. “Ah, I love you!”
She kissed me again, this time opening her mouth to allow my tongue inside. Her hand moved up my back to my neck before grabbing onto my hair. Her hand was possessive, twisting and pushing so as to keep me close but not enough to be painful. I pulled her into more of a sitting position, and she wrapped her legs around my waist.
I reached for the zipper of her dress, pulling it free once I found it. I had long become used to undoing bras, and I was able to slip it off with the stabs of her dress without problem.
“Hey, Aza,” she whispered. “Will you ever tell me your real name?”

Two days later, I thought about her. We both fell asleep afterwards, but I ended up waking before her. She had looked gorgeous then, her hair completely undone and her makeup smudged beyond recognition. I felt a bit awkward, having nothing to do but look at her. It seemed like the kind of time where my sort of character would begin smoking, but I had never touched a cigarette.
In fact, I'd just lost my virginity.
I enjoyed it. I didn't have to do much- she barely touched me, so I didn't need to worry about how good it felt for myself. I only needed to watch her reactions, act accordingly… and I'd long figured out how to elicit desired reactions from others. I was happy to see her pleasured beneath me, happy to see she was so willing to go along with me.
I did not orgasm, but I fell asleep beside her, smiling. At some point while we slept, I wrapped my arms around her. It was peaceful, and gentle, and fulfilling. I was grateful. I was very grateful to her.
When she woke, her sleepy face seemed angelic. I helped her get ready to head out, gathering her clothes, brushing her hair, giving her a kiss on her way out of the door. She laughed brightly, grinning and I offered to drive her home.
“No thank you,” she told me. “I'll just take the bus.”
Thinking about that, I smiled. She was an angel. Something like an angel. I had remembered her, thought back to that angelic face of hers. Two days later, I remembered her.
I remembered her because that morning our college released a newsletter announcing her death.
It was vague, of course, and overused words like “tragedy” and “shock”. I couldn't help but laugh as I read it. A picture of her dressed in white accompanied the newsletter, along with some fine print saying her friends and family would be contacted with details. I suspected that would include me, but would not be surprised if it didn't.
Her death was not a tragedy. It most certainly was not a shock. That girl died happy, and her death had not been in vain.
That girl “disappeared”, along with everything else. That hopelessly human girl recognized her angelic soul, saw her path to salvation. She realized the tragedy of her human form, the fear and evil that came with it. She made the choice to destroy that fear, destroy that evil…
I told her my real name.
She was so happy.

Repeated Exercises in Impermanence [WRITING BACKLOG - COMPLETE SHORT STORY]

Repeated Exercises in Impermanence.
By London Oscuro

    Remember the fable? Of which a great king asked his wise men, please, would you show me a phrase which shall be true, always? And then so did the wise men toil, so did they scratch their heads, hoping to procure that single indisputable sentence? Upon a magnificent tapestry was it written, that single truth: This too shall pass. So delighted was the king that we have remembered it since.
    I remember the fable. Scattered about are pictures, everywhere, of things which have passed. Pictures, and nothing more, for I have forgotten their contexts, the names of the people depicted by them. That great mural conjured by the images surrounding me shows nothing but the faces of strangers from a bygone era, and, every once in a while, a small child who looks remarkably like me. This too shall pass. I remember that phrase often.
    Remember, yes, remember, not the face of my mother or the voice of my father or the love of my grandmother or the touch my friend. Be not reminded that that has passed, for you will fall into another low, another pointless exercise in fleeting emotion. That too has passed.
Instead remember the feel of the bar as it came down on my head, having failed to support my weight along with the rope. Remember when I bit and scratched and scrubbed at my hands until they bled, covered with scabs, and when I looked at that poor school counselor and told her where they came from she knew I was lying. Remember when my father told me I was a punishment from God. That too has passed.
    And pass things will, and I am the better for it. I've a good relationship with transience, which has done so much for me. Long gone are my days of depression, in which I would be unable to speak at all for fear of retaliation. The era in which I would refuse to leave a small corner for fear of attack by entities only I understood has passed. Today I work, and I sing, and I live, because transience has made my sorrows pass.
    Today I look upon another with great love. Then, remember: This too shall pass. My memories, as with everything, will leave. Leave far too soon, the difference between two days and two years forgotten, all thrown into the abyss of amnesia. Though I look upon them now, I will soon turn around. In that moment that too shall pass and I will remember not their face nor name nor voice only that I had loved them, for whatever reason.
    "Remember?" My date asked me. I think she smiled, but I do not remember. I do not remember, I tell her, and she leaves. I do not remember why we were together in the first place. The pain of heartbreak soon faded. That too had passed.
    I do not remember what they looked like. Too long has it been- that is, five seconds is far too long. Today I forgot to water a plant of mine, and today I found out that I had forgotten for a week. My plant is dying, now. Oh well. That too has passed. I remember that phrase as I hold its wilted leaves between my fingers.
    Remember, no, remember not of the things I wish I could. Instead remember why my mind is so dead-set on forgetting. In that way, you will remember what really matters. That great king's phrase, so proudly displayed upon the tapestry by his gaggle of wise men. That is all that must be remembered, that fable: This too shall pass.

In a Perfect World Only Paper Will Age [WRITING BACKLOG - COMPLETE SHORT STORY]

In a Perfect World Only Paper Will Age

By London Oscuro

It’s quite simple, you see. Given any amount of time, the human body will begin to break down. This is simply a natural process of the object- were its gears not to start grinding to a halt we would be nothing more than shifting, cancerous masses, or lobsters who grow so tired from moving their own body they simply die. These physical processes are relatively easily defined and understood and there’s absolutely no reason they cannot be averted.

    The process is simple: press the body flat. Crush it against a smooth, white surface to see how it stains. In this form your body is no longer susceptible to the most grating of scrutinies; that is, its perception by others. Sure, they may still look at you. As a matter of fact, they will- they will most certainly look at you. They will judge the quality of your crushed form. They will look at your stain and assess it- its color, its shape, its thickness, its sex. They will most undoubtedly do that. The solution then is to twist your splattered stain-body, twist it right up and around your canvas into whatever form you so choose.

    There have been such a great number of chosen forms- really, it’s incredible, you’d do right to look at a catalogue- that any and all debate as to the ‘correct’ one has reached a point of inscrutability. Still, some claim that the only reason the issue is so complicated is because we went ahead and made it such. Of course there’s a correct manner of staining- they say- but you all had to go and change it, argue about it. How stupid. You’ve gone and crushed a person’s body against a big canvas and now you’re saying, ‘Well, they shouldn’t have done it the way they did,’ like you’re looking at something deliberate and not some awful two dimensional splatter of cells.

    In any case, with the capability to reform yourself at will, you are no longer subjected to natural bodily processes. Good for you. You’ve become indistinguishable from your idols, those images you see every day and look up to undoubtedly. Now you can take their form, and none can tell you otherwise. No need to restrict yourself to pre-existing forms, either- something of your own design is perfectly acceptable.

    Now, you may say- ‘You’ve gone and divorced yourself from all extant forms of reality,’ and you’d be correct in doing such. Is that so horrific, though? Is it not natural to long for a complete separation from your reality? Of course it is. To denounce humanity in all its forms is the ultimate desire of all human beings and for that purpose we will go to any lengths. It is a fair assumption to make that a human is defined by their body and, as such, only reasonable to utterly destroy it.

    No shame will be felt in that new form. For all that it is, no shame can be felt. Your body is nothing more than a small stain upon the Earth, now more its true form than ever before. Perhaps in a few days the public servants will come with their hoses and wash your body away but for now it’s here, and you’ve got to make the best of it. For now you are immortal and imperceptible and completely yourself, and that is what you were meant to be.