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YOUR MOMENTS OF JOY HAVE THE PRECISION OF MILITARY STRATEGY.

#ALULARS. independent original side characters from the narrative world of @soothfog (follows back from that account). modern surrealism, loosely biblical. (s)low activity. written by jordy (they/it/he), ‘95, other accounts here.

PROMPTS /// ABOUT + RULES ⤵

#*pinned.

008. the back row of an empty movie theater . ( dean -> mr. johnson )

Above Johnson and Dean, the film projector trumpets conical colors. Dust roves through the levitating light like tiny alzheimer's patients.

Hours prior, an elderly woman crept across a busy city street. Solitary and silver-headed (as all her age are, as if to articulate that cobwebbed memory). In lieu of a crooked cane to support her, her shrunken body assumes that crooked form instead. Her spine hunched so severely forward her chin aligns to the height of her caved-in shoulders. She's slow. Her knee joints friction together—bone to bone—painfully augmenting her speed and curating, without choice, a self afflicted patience Johnson studies from a detached distance. He prefers to watch the old over the young. Flabby skin and crabby disposition: oddly likable. Before the oncoming stoplight can disrupt her crosswalk migration, Johnson, at the adjacent street corner, flicks his thumb off the side of his index finger as if shooting a glass marble. The electromagnetic field swaddling the Earth temporarily flares and snares on the pole the stoplight is affixed to and twitches erratically between the triplet bulbs then tires to red once more. Too powerful a diversion, lights down the entire block sneeze off-on: lit windows, lampposts, cellphones, car headlights. Undisturbed or unaware, she reaches the other side and waddles down the sidewalk. At her accumulated age, the clock hands of her mind function like chopsticks, pinching whatever materialized memories she can. She passes Johnson. She passes Johnson because he reconfigures his atomic structure (what humans call 'teleportation') to several meters ahead of her path. She sees him staring. I look like a three-titted hag. Well, hold my bag. He assesses the accuracy of that ludicrous claim. The purple purse hooked under her purple cardigan armpit does sag like a third breast. He understands: this is a joke. Though, he fails to metabolize the humor. He is literal. That is to say, he is sincere. He would say, reality. Former to possessing this human form, Johnson was the outer, objective world: reality itself—wind carrying a child's red kite, the bluing distance that frames it, gravity juggling every hopping creature. When he takes her purse, she confides in him that she hasn't worn a bra since the twentieth century, and then, her name offered kindly like tea—Doris.

Around a year ago, this movie theater began playing old black and white reruns. Nothing new. Doris sits in the middle of the dim auditorium. How, Johnson wonders as he stares at the back of her wispy scalp, does forgetting feel? He remembers every moment with indelible clarity. Ontologically, he is closer to this film projector than the young man sat to his left. Physically, Johnson wishes that distance were as vast—Dean stinks. Smoke and sulfur spackles the leathery cracks of his coat and clings to his short, crested hair and his black, cotton t-shirt. Dean might understand the molecular revulsion given a simpler reference: the odor is as deeply permeating as Dean's hand is in the paper bag of popcorn he helped himself to upon approaching the concession counter where Johnson, surreptitious minutes preceding Dean's arrival, smote the attending staff (there, peered through the glass candy case, a cashier's headless body lies, curdling amongst the slushie machine's leaky, blue runoff). They quickly discovered they are here for the same reason.

Aside from the typically glassy entrance, movie theaters are bereft of sun. One could view the actual viewing theaters as communal caskets. This establishment is not overrun with vampires, it is run by them. Cheap, undesirable movies and low ticket sales are intentional. It is easier to feed on a near empty audience. Dark and unseen.

Doris serves as their oblivious bait for the remaining few alive.

Dean wipes his buttery hand on the red, velour armrest between them. Johnson scowl-growls. His attention abandons Doris and fixes to Dean. "Your— pop...corn..." the word is costive and manually precise: onomatopoeias, like rhymes, are difficult for angels to say due to their subjective, transdimensional tempos. "—has ground up anticoagulants tablets in it." Demeaning: "Can you not taste it?"

#sorry most of this is me writing about an npc elderly woman rather than johnson or dean. im emotional and she matters because everyone does.#npcs needs to feel sincerely alive and real otherwise what is the point.#i will keep writing her. but you have joint custody of her should you wish to write her / add. jsyk.#(thank you for all the prompts btw. i have a lee one in the works)#*ask.#ic #ic: johnson.#m0tel #m0tel: dean.

divineandmajesticinone

Federico Bonelli as Victor Frankenstein and Steven McRae as the Creature in FRANKENSTEIN | The Royal Ballet, 2016

#and what if i said:#*johnson and elfgar.#eviji #*moodboard: j.

lovewillbreakyourheartforever

Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks, trans. Richard Rees

#uugugggghh #johnson being pulled from that 'impersonal' objective precise but limited array of feeling having possessed a human.#*words.#*moodboard: j.#*moodboard.

trekdaily

STAR TREK: THE ORIGINAL SERIES (1966-1969) 1.23 • “A Taste of Armageddon”

#*johnson and hara.#*moodboard: j.#*words.#petitsdieu

owenology

#*moodboard: k.

alysmond

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE | Season 3, Episode 5, "New York"

#he's sooooo:#*moodboard: j.

newyorkcitywater

why is the human body composed of such capricious tubes

#*moodboard: j.

something something god left his faucet-eye on lee and lee left his loving eye on kaye. that divine, omniscient trickle down dying the narration and irrevocably altering you.

#ooc #still experimenting with her narration and the daughter/sister/mother holy trifecta balance.#i plan to add a bit more of that to the crowley ask.

stay-close

“I want to infect you with the tremendous excitement of living, because I believe that you have the strength to bear it.”

— Tennessee Williams, The Selected Letters: 1920-1945

#*kaye.#*kaye and lee.#*moodboard.#*moodboard: k.#also dare i:#*johnson and hara.

a summer carnival at night, lights too bright / crowley & kaye

I wasn't there. Even if I was, I wasn't, because I never entirely am. I know what the carnival looks like; it's the same each year. Kaye once asked me (my modern Holden Caulfield) where do the tents go? after the last June day, having snooped on the workers de-boning the booths. I knew how I would answer a decade before she asked which was three long years before she was born. I told her, but I won't tell you. Sit. Wonder. What an indulgence I am never permitted.

I am selfish. I want to always be with her. I could tell you what I mean is I want to always be there for her. That's true. But some things are truer. Her honey-brown eyes shine like heart-shaped gold lockets that appear as if they carry you. You, who she is looking at.

I'll describe the scene before it is too dark to matter. Dual-striped conical tents blight the night like chicken pox. Mosquitoes stipple the bright, boxy floodlights: a small inversion of the starry sky. Crowds congeal and heel at carnival rides and game booths. With every passing hour, and every passing step, the tamped field balds more and more. Grainy pant stains; people too engrossed to complain. Crowley walks along the greener edge, avoiding the muck as—Kaye does not say, so I am left to suspect on her behalf (and she has a fine mine-sweep detection that she uses not to avoid the calamitous but collect the luminescent)—a mother-having child would a sidewalk crack. She likes to view Crowley kindly. A toddler shoves between them with a pale blue cotton candy tuft-stuffed into a thin, paper cone. The fluff catches on Crowley's cufflink and yanks free like a cheap toupee.

Someone tosses a red ring—the size of Kaye's dainty, bird-bone wrist, of the beaded friendship bracelet she made me when she was six—at a honeycombed grid of empty milk jugs painted-white. It jitter-chitters around a rigged rim, glassily drum rolling its own suspense. Kaye, seeing this, fists her hands: as full of life as the day she was born when that same tinier, pillowier palm balled around her mother's index finger. Inertia ridden, the small hoop slows into one last loop and stoops on the bottleneck, winning, not duped. That has a sound, too. Wooped hoopla.

Kaye looks up to Crowley. Yes, in more ways than one. "You're nicer." She says it because she has the contractual privilege to believe it. And because she knows Crowley does not. "They don't have to give a person what they want to make a profit. Just the chance for it." She stares at him and I imagine she imagines him in the jointee uniform: a red and white cabana-striped shirt. She laughs. Lungs wringing-singing like church bells chiming Mass; everything, to her, is momentous and worth an orchestral broadcast. "Sorry. Sorry." She dressed as a carnival worker for Halloween when she was eleven. I carried her pillowcase. Anyone would. She carried ((forgive the tenderness, it is sickly) she didn't know, my heart) a mommade wacky wizard wire for the doorside candy-givers to try.

#ic #ic: kaye.#inl4ndempire #inl4ndempire: crowley.#*ask.#i love making your crowley deal with the in-it mundanity of humanity. aka i love your crowley.#i might add a line or two of narration. but i wanted to get this out today.

MOODBOARD: johnson & crowley.

@alulars + @inl4ndempire

#*moodboard: j.#*johnson.#*johnson and crowley.

JOHNSON & CROWLEY: and the old, empty church. [x]

Far enough in the background, tucked behind the church, the graveyard looms, hidden, like a nicotine patch under a smoker's shirt sleeve. At exactly five o'clock in the evening, the church's sheer shadow perfectly shawls the dead with the cool tenderness of a diurnal pillow fluffed-and-flipped; that's how the sexton imagined it as he marveled by the marigolds. — @alulars ~~~ half-rotted, the empty church has leeched its substance into the ground, a sacred alluvium spoiling the earth around it. he can feel it out by the cabin, clinging to the soles of his shoes, stinging him within the flesh of his borrowed body. persistent and pernicious, in a way that promises gradual madness. — @inl4ndempire

#that's The Church. this is nuts.#inl4ndempire #*moodboard: j.#*johnson and crowley.

MOODBOARD: kaye kennedy.

#ooc #*kaye.#*moodboard: k.

apoemaday

You're

by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools’ Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail. Farther off than Australia. Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn. Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels, all ripples. Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right, like a well-done sum. A clean slate, with your own face on.

#*words.#*moodboard: k.

i haven't written her yet, but i have mentioned her in lee's writing: kaye. she's lee's niece. but lee has future memories of her at every age of her life: infant to adult.

kaye is her own person/character. she has her own unique plot that i'm still mapping out.

but the vibe i'll be trying to imbue her with is: the effective but misled rebuttal of "what if that girl was your mother or daughter or sister?" to prevent others (i.e. men) from doing harm. what agency and autonomy do you lose when seen through this lens?

the narrative itself has imprinted on her. she can't exist outside this beloved relation. she has, to some degree—real or entirely cultivated, it's never clear—an aura about her that evokes that relational closeness. she's the maternal holy trinity: daughter, sister, mother. you can feel it. she's like a universal brood parasite egg. you want to love her. you do love her.

lee's future memories of her at every stage of her life really aid/amplify this affliction for her: in world and/or narration.

it's ultimately a successful (figurative? literal? does the difference matter? are they entangled?) expression of imbedded, persuadable love. we all want everyone to understand how uniquely and profoundly lovable our daughter/sister/mom is and have everyone feel that for them, too. this story has done that.

though no character can quite put their finger on what it is they're feeling.

#*kaye.#*kaye and lee.#ooc #kaye is like the accepted/strange interest of the kennedys or princess diana. except the parasocial layer is entirely evaporated. and you #don't actually know her. you just feel like you do.

JOHNSON & ELFGAR.

If you are the dealer, I'm out of the game. If you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame. If thine is the glory, then mine must be the shame. You want it darker? We kill the flame.

#*moodboard: j.#eviji #*johnson and elfgar.#the johnson/elfgar song of all time.

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