PERFECT.

I  contain  nothing     ( … )     but  the  replay.

[baarra]

#BAARRA:     AN  ANGEL  ON  THE  CUTTING  ROOM  FLOOR,   WEARING  GORE.   PRIVATE  PORTRAYAL  OF  NICOLAS  BARRA,   DEATH  CAUGHT  IN  A  PLUME  OF  GREY,   FOR  HELLTOWNFMS.   AS  PENNED  AND  HATED  BY  KATY.

                    ENTER.

[svgarkanes]

ACT I. ALL DEAD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT. EXT. THE WOODS BEYOND THE COMMON HOUSE - DAY Enter DIMARIA and NICOLAS. ( @baarra )

The song in her mind goes like this: a long, drawn out riff. The low percussion ushering the sound of the cymbals. A thrum at the back of her brain. The vibrations of cord and muscle in response. A tightly wrung neck where damp cloth should’ve been. 

She hums when there is no one listening.

It is a tender sound. It must’ve been. But it leaves her mouth all wrong; turned careful and methodological. Echoing a distant memory. It was a wedding song. Her grandparents used to dance to it whenever they had the chance, holding each other in embrace. They sway too slow, not quite meeting the tempo. They did not care for that detail. She runs her tongue through the inside of her teeth, checking to see if it’s turned forked after all. 

The song in her mind goes like this.

An absent tune that nobody knows to sing.

The thick of the woods sing it back to her, during the quiet in between the cicadas’  own. She stops, her bare feet sinking ever so slightly in the damp earth. The cross around her neck weighs heavy and warm against her skin. The trek is easy; it is everything else that makes it difficult. The skin. Her clothing. The invisible rope. It is the tethering that drives her to madness. Soon the trees will begin to thin out. The stumps overgrown with moss will remind her to mind herself.

The Common House stands just beyond the clearing, but she does not go any further. She watches it in the distance, painting shadows on the ground. All of those faceless hands digging into the earth. She pulls back, hand slipping the sandals back to her feet just in time for that empty rhythm. A shift in the air. Prickling at flesh. The gears wind tightly back into place.

A knowing look.

“I don’t appreciate your tardiness.”  Her hand wiping the dirt off at the hem of her skirt, though not completely. A slow breath out. There is never a rush. Nicolas is only a few steps away, and she moves closer, bringing her hand up to smooth out a crease that did not exist. It stains in the shape of her fingers. “Let’s try to be on time from now on, hm? You look well.”

[baarra]

Midday sonata,   mourning truths in primrose-breath.     Watch this dishonest hour descend from the opaque skies with the glossy sheen of a newly swallowed glass,   water-clouds dappling around the rim,   smudged at the widest breadth of the curve.     An eye of the void at the centre,   for single dewdrop eyes to look upon these purls of performance:   the sun and the moon,   and the slow-blinking stars that surround like grass around a grave.     There is no shoreline here,   to well up at sun-fall and scab over,   sand- and salt-skin,   at the moon’s final look.     The hallowed tides reside along the wood-line.     Ebb and flow.     Land-locked.     At the white cottoning waves:   her,   the hollowed display of this truth.     She lives it as a lie.     Display,   bound.     Beneath this airtight showcase,   you would see a boneless hand,   held upright by its own breathlessness.     Hymnal.     Sunken.     A dough-skin sun-baked harshly to ceramic.     To lift that lustre would be cruel.     Peel the scap back,   root by root,   unravelling like wet sand during the night-tide.     Her blood is a resolve.     This mirror-shone fawning.     How it echoes off-key,   flat and anaemic,   when she bleeds from her confines.     A spoken feline greeting.     Purred   /   Clawed.     He raises his chin like she might smooth his jugular too.

‘   You waited.   ’     A remark drier than his tone.     Unsmiling yet noon-lit.     Shadowed by the leaves above.     His heartbeat rests under her hand.     WHEN OPPOSITE,   YOU ARE WHOLE.     And he,   selfish as gravity’s pull,   draws close to drag at her yolking edges.     The wound goes unfelt,   soothed by its own spill.     A thumb in the crease of her wrist.     It pulls her taut,   red seams and white-pressed skin,   until the muscle cedes to its fold again.     Imperfect.     Let it be known.     Truth will be obliged.     ‘   Aren’t you generous,   ’     he says without lilt.     It is not death hour,   and still you toll.     Day-cut silhouette.     Sometimes,   you’ll play the game.     Just for fun.     You draw close,   entering her breath-space:   the crest of neck into her shoulder.     There might be something to see,   but you can only focus on the said of the cavity shared between you and the woman that colours you.     ‘   Suppose I can be just so,   Maria,   if I keep that empty hand warm   ( … )   but I don’t only have my warmth,   no?     And you don’t only have your cold.   ’     He turns to her without pulling away.     An eye on her lashes.     ‘   What is la mosquita muerta¹ going to give today?   ’

[alsfcrds]

Though he tried to calm the muscles in his face when the other pointed out how tightly wound he was, it only had something else clenching in exchange. The man reminded Emmett of the kind of men he’d see passing pints around at the bar - grizzled and aged from manual labor, a look in their eye showing that they’ve been around the bend. Having grown up without a father, and the only father figures in his life being softer priests, he never quite knew how to be around the more… hard edged men that graced his small town. His eyes were dark and staring him down, and Emmett fought hard not to squirm under his gaze as they stood before each other, in the empty aisle, only their voices echoing in the tall walls of the church. “We’re all welcome in the church,” he mumbled, hating how he couldn’t seem to raise his voice over the pathetic murmuring. Then he frowned, realizing something - he’d never met the man, how did he know this isn’t where he lived? “Who are you?” Emmett asked, slow, suspicious. “Were you looking for me, or something?”

[baarra]

Lamb of God,   behold an innate sin yet unmarked.     What becomes of a flock,   when you pare back its teeth.     A blurred trace of a boy.     Yellowing in such a shaded,   blue morning.     He isn’t capable of red,   beyond an angry blush.     The tooth-cut,   accidental,   on a sucked lip.     A clotted sip of heavy red wine at a Sunday service.     You have half a mind to just stand and stare.     To show him the lamb of God,   in its truest bleating glory.     That definition would be truer,   when rended from your hand.     Pitiless.     Tired.     It would suit you better than this:   haunting a lord’s house,   for another view at gaunt hours.     Or,   put simply,   what was.     Your loose collar.     His hair,   askew.     In later years:   who could spit the farthest into the cemetery.     Onto a fresh-soil grave.     Nick ignores the boy’s question.     He begins a pace,   instead,   towards his tightening inner circle.     ‘   No one’s here,   but you and me.   ’     This voice is clearer than his sorry warbling.     You eye his shoes,   and how straight they are now.     The slow walk finishes,   now a few feet away from him.     You nod to those shoes.     ‘   And your disobeying feet   ( … )   are you afraid of them?   ’

[flcnnerys]

It felt like Chase struck a nerve, but it was so hard to tell with Nick sometimes. As irritating as the other man could be with some things, like when he removed the ladder to get up to Chase's room and Chase had to sleep in the room with the guy who never showered (who was killed about a week after that, anyway), he did enjoy the back-and-forth of their dynamic. It brought a little bit of color into his own life and he wondered if it ever did for the older man. The color was probably red, and he probably saw it consistently in Chase’s presence, but was it better than the depressing black and white this place often seemed to be? “I didn’t know you wanted me begging on my knees, I would have done that much earlier,” he noted, blinking a few times with an oh-so innocent smile on his face, before his eyes darted over to the way he was holding his arm. It was impossible to try and move his back or shoulders to try and get more comfortable, with the boot over his body, but he was sure making an attempt. “Need? Well, I don’t know about need, that might be a strong assumption–”

[baarra]

Your hand slips easily,   borne to his tart lip’s avail,   from his clavicle to his shoulder.     A light clench,   there,   as you imagine wordless pink lips.     Shut into a clenched jaw,   reduced to a pitchy whine;   open for a silenced yelp.     Either way,   it would be nicer than staring at this self-satisfied grin.     Salted and smug.     Igniting flame where it doesn’t belong:   deep in the boughs of a night-wood,   where slit-pupils would gleam at such a thumb-flicked match.     Were you a better man,   you would wonder,   idly,   whether your eyes seem brighter now,   reflective in this cruel light.     But what else could you do?     It’s already started.     So,   you lean into his shoulder and pull his arm,   by the wrist,   towards your own.     To cut off any further provoke:   that butter-knife barrage of tongue.     He does it to himself,   really.     ‘   Ah-ah.     Did that sound like begging to you?   ’     Reciprocated mock.     Almost a coo.     Here,   let pain comfort.     Here,   the question precedes you.     That’s it.     You already knew what he wanted.     A reddened arm-stretch,   beyond the pertinent limits of further.     Your forehead lowers.     ‘   Come on,   be a good boy and tell me how sorry you are.   ’

[tessaendures]

Tessa scrunches her nose, propping her elbows on her knees and considering the man a moment, rolling responses to his question around on her tongue before finally picking one. "I thought the answer was rather obvious." She indicates the rest of the room with a wave of her hand, the cot that she's still sat upon, the blankets ruffled around her. "Nor is it much of your business."

She's tired of strangers butting in like they own her, or something. Everyone around here thinking, what? That she was some sort of dainty little girl that needed a big strong man to look out for her? Yeah. Well. Fuck. That.

Her eyes roll again as he goads her. Her forefinger and thumb lift to swipe across her tongue just briefly before she snuffs the candle out with a pinch of two fingers - as if that is a remotely impressive act. She watches the small wisp of smoke dance through the air, then disappear like the flame that had birthed it. "So what time is it, then?" She finally remarks, though she's not sure he'll have an answer better than night given his first response.

[baarra]

Day can no longer engulf this infernal knocking.     Splintered yet thick:   it follows herringbone slants and resounds,   henceforth,   at irregular intervals.     Like a drowning lung gasping against contracting ribs.     Blunt and tight.     From a wintered knuckle,   or a fitted tooth.     A kneecap,   without thigh or calf.     Mud-found.     Held,   once more.     It could be any of these.     It could be none.     He hears it again.     Bookended by a cutting paired gaze:   the next toll.     Suppose it’s a baby-soft fingernail,   this time,   or a chiselled tongue-bone.     The candle-smoke curls close,   bristling along his moustache hairs,   which his nostril matches with a curbed pinch.     As if irked enough into forming a snarl.     Tap-tap-tapped into this moment of goad.     Nick defaults to sharp disinterest.     ‘   Too early for this,   girl,   ’     he deadpans slowly,   hands falling idly below his hips.     Together,   here,   they’re alone.     She could be a corpse before anyone blinks.     Her skull would yolk into the windowsill cracks,   down to the ground where the rest of her would curdle.     After a crack so sudden,   she would’ve bitten the tip of her tongue.     It would draw too many eyes.     You breathe evenly.     ‘   I’ll make it easier for you.     Did something wake you?   ’

[nikaxrootless]

Death has reared herself a throne.

Dagger unsheathed, sharp from whetstone.

It sits at sea, this chair of flesh,

upon the stern, with wind afresh.

Alone, but not, for there are two:

One that grows and one that endues.

Bred, not from the wet of sexes,

That which pulls pleasure and vexes,

But from the enmity of jaded lovers,

A baby propagated from screams of suffers.

The passage clear, pulled from dead reckoning

And he, flesh uncut, answers her beckoning.

A beast that drapes on leather hide,

He whimpers not, his language pride.

“A drink, deserved,” he taunts to her.

He knows no guest, no whisperer

which screams agony inside her mind:

Liquor now would be too kind.

The growth inside is bound to reject

any liquid which goes against the sect

of blood and bile and monstrous desire,

which permeates the womb with vengeful ire.

“Not for me, not right now,” she answers tight,

“Ask me later, after sunset I might.”

I might I might, indulge, in spite

And drink to split the soul; a rite.

This thing intends to be the death of me,

But at birth shall be no more than a memory.

The power drank, the meat consumed,

This vessel of evil from Reyna exhumed

From the grey matter of her troubled consciousness.

Its existence a torment, no more, no less.

It has not bound to mortal coil,

severed by a heated blade that makes blood boil.

Her talon rest upon his shoulder,

his heat, his want, makes her bolder.

“Shall I show you around, how about my room?” She had long fulfilled her oath.

“Come ‘morrow this dreadful evening shall be no more than a fading nightmare for us both.”

[baarra]

Binarised apropos,   here,   catch on instinct.     The spat teeth sinking,   knee-high,   into gaunt fields of flesh.     In this language:   into zeros.     For a numeric connect contains as many nerve-endings as its living counterpart.     A touch curtailed to a glance.     Zero traces the straight edge from its tenfold gaze;   one,   heavy-lidded,   doesn’t see the thin curve’s foot.     A straight angle accosted by a full-throat one.     Soot-print breadth,   engaged to the hellbent length.     They know each other the way a stiff neck knows the bottom rib’s pain.     With breath.     In time.     Spoken in the correct cadence,   for a voice you never see:   fates,   interlaced.     Fate.     Interlaced.     Inter.     Laced.     Ate.     At.     Lace.     And then,   a single letter in every sentence.     Enter stage left,   as begun:   instinct.     The known upended,   kneeling,   to that threadbare aureole.     Broken light,   burnt by its own burning.    Flame-licks.     Persisting into the night that cries wolf,   to a people that won’t listen.     Whose senses can’t attune to this dark.

Chaos,   decanted,   by time;   and you remember an old name.     Zero.     A baiting callsign which succeeded the half-man called Nicolas Barra.     You are,   again,   a nothing re-mannered into the high-pitched ring of a finger on glass-rim:   Zero,   who never thinks,   and never errs,   and always wanes.     A heartbeat at dusk.

Eyes on target.     Bug out.     Blue on blue,   the memory spasms,   bleedingly desperate as you give life to those you took,   blue on blue,   Zero—   Zer—     Before it can finish its script,   zero melts to a fallen one.     Its serif aloft,   for a hewn or halved curl to stick and complete a backwards two.     How she looks,   candle-lit amber-sheen,   with an elbow on the chair’s back.     Her hand outstretched for his shoulder.     Metaphor is not adequate.     Heaven-washed.     Moon-struck.     There are no words.     She lends herself,   solely,   to feel,   to that feel.     An amused scoff.     ‘   Are you bored?   ’     Drip-dropped assent.     Nick gently takes the short glass from her hand.     Swallows without taking a sip.     A sharp lustre to his gaze.     His head inclines further.     ‘   I could throw you to the dogs,   ’     he says,   like going out into the thickening night could constitute a roseate fever.     The antonym of apathy.     Teeth.     ‘   They might even enjoy the show.   ’

[hvneysuckled]

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, either at the audacious way he secured access to her leg or the shiver that burned through her when she felt his warm touch. Took great restraint keeping herself from reacting along to it. She blinked at his words then humor took over and she found herself fighting a giggle. She covered her mouth quickly, hiding the humor as she realized he wasn’t jesting. Curiously, Dee balanced on the thought. Her feet hurt bad enough as it was and Dee knew the sweet relief of getting rid of the heels was too good to pass up. 

Pursing her lips, she nodded. As she mumbled, she reached for the wall at her back -securing herself against it and sighing with content. The slight shift of her weight as she rid herself of all her weight instantly eased the ache and she offered her foot. “  I could do it on my own.  ” Not that he asked, but she said it just the same. Ensuring he knew she could handle herself just fine. That help was not needed. There were just too many people around - always. Too many eyes to watch her unsettled. But she was delighted despite herself. Thrilled by his mere interest, let alone his intent in providing her with a guiding hand. 

She couldn’t help but compare. An act as simple and chivalrous as this would have gone untouched by her husband. Their focus always set on business and mingling. Handling the world around them from two separate corners as though their bed went unshared. Disinterest lining her every step where he was concerned. Or so it felt. After a while Dilara became complaisant. Used to it all so she’d no longer notice. 

Her hand reached forward, absentmindedly digging into the strands of Nicolas’ hair with more comfort than she should have allowed. The strands of his hair were thick and shimmered with the oils of his scalp. Soft as they slid through her fingers.

[baarra]

Dove-aches,   enlivened:   bound to your heated palm.     Her clay muscle loosens,   swiftly feathering her outline quickly,   until it dissolves into the doll-damp crook of her knee,   of the high arch in her foot.     There,   you see the pain belying a boxed-stiff figurine.     Made within sight,   without lung and tastebud.     To be seen,   on the highest shelf,   beside a vial of hydrogen peroxide and a jar of pink painkillers,   and yet untouched.     A porcelain bird   —   on the slim shoulder of a limbed heirloom;   to say another way:   she cannot be distinguished from the gentle coo,   beckoning,   therein her lily-white neck   —   in its full moth-balled glory,   quelled by the low hum of a man’s nocturne.     Blood-breath   /   Purified coax.     Humid under an eclipsed sun.     Q.   Why coddle this released night-song?     Her hiccuped laugh and pulse-pinched lip.     She grips at her margins,   so needy and cold,   that will not crispen her into something real.     Minty nail-beds.     A naked wing.     Once landed,   it could not fly away.     A.   To will want into bloodless skin.     Hiss into heaven-flayed flesh.

Without much persuade,   she draws his gaze back up to her.     Her fingers pull at your hairline.     Unwitting   /   Natural.     An arm lives freer than a self.     Your own hand lingers closer to the down-curve of her knee.     Forbidden salt-warmth.     The ascent would be gradual.     How hushed and bitten her lips would become.     A furtive press of thigh against thigh.     Fingers meeting at her nape.     Instead:   his hand glides ankleward,   and her skin whispers.     Kitten heel balancing on his thigh.     Nick unlatches her foot from the possibility of straying on the hardwood.     She needn’t return tonight.     ‘   You could   ( … )   but why would you?   ’     A small pat on the bridge of her foot,   once bare.     For her next.     He hums,   almost contemplative.     ‘   Should I guess at what you’re waiting for?     It couldn’t be a reason,   or an offer.   ’     The grasp settles firmer.     Gaps of his own speech:   you’ve already invoked me.     In lieu of word,   he slides her shoes deeper into the corridor,   skipping like dewy flat-stones along morning waves,   falling beyond his field of vision.    A lure.     Oblique.     His complement to her dance.     ‘   For something bad to happen.   ’

[hvneysuckled]

Dee’s eyes jumped to his, guarded to not give too much away, though his silken touch sent her nerves ablaze. The image of the animal made her face shrink with distaste as he spoke, but Dilara couldn’t get past his question. You sure you’re the right doctor for me? Dilara bit down on her lip, eyes threatening to escape his angular visage but every cell in her body said to keep still. Her face had already betrayed her calm, the least she could do now was keep her words fresh. She held her head up and - with a slowly increasing smile - shrugged one shoulder. He couldn’t actually expect her to respond when options in Arcadia were slim to none. “  Feel free to find another.  ” she offered vibrantly, having found it close to impossible to not be elated in his unequivocally placid demeanor. Warmth dressed her once more while he gazed upon her, and in a similar fashion she followed suit. 

He was handsome, she noted. In that - relatively - tall , dark, and mysterious way she often read about in her books. Someone who spoke more with their silence than they did with their lips. More connected to the echoes in empty halls than the living traveling amongst them. Denying her curiosity - and therefore interest - should be foolish. Or it would have been, if his words didn’t spark her need to redress the conversation. With a huff, Dilara retrieved her hand to her side, brushing her hair forward as she took a few steps back. Dismissing him without words so she could pretend to go back to work like normal. “  You should be more careful out there. You don’t wanna anger the wrong beast. There’s not much I - or you know, a doctor of your choosing - can do about rabies while we're still here.  ” 

[baarra]

Their palindrome refines its die-cast shade:   to melt as one,   redder and redder.     His descent is her ascent.     His swallow,   her retch.     She balks at a coyote’s bite like she,   too,   is not an animal.     Flesh-swollen fruit,   awaiting a toothed mouth,   or succumbing to autumnal consume.     To him.     Redder.     Steel at one end,   scab on the other.     Carved and pallid under the same light.     That’s how you prepare meat.     With a soft lullaby,   it will weep and then rest.     Reach for the slab’s edge,   only to find air and more air to blink against.     Ah,   and there,   sleep,   when your fruit-heart loses its heft after hand-picked.     How beautiful her fallen head would look,   hair cascading down her jaw and then pooling under her ruddy cheek.     Like beef blood deepening its colour in the half-curve of a platter.     In the slivers between your teeth.     That crimson taste,   heaven-waxed.     Sin-soaked.     Tart from apple-skin remnants.

A corner of his lip twitches.     His muscles soften.     ‘   Don’t tell me you’re out of your depth,   ’     he drawls,   brows lowering and meeting in a faint wrinkle.     Because you’re not,   he doesn’t say,   or you wouldn’t frame yourself in blood-rust and,   instead,   long for another glimpse of the full-eyed moon.     Cold-kissed promise of death,   in night air’s midst.     A bare second of it.     Entrails,   glassier than tears.     Gone.     He stares after her,   lingering on the framing auburn tresses,   before strolling to the spare chair and her jacket slung over its back.     ‘   My life belongs to your capable hands   ( … )   it’ll be hard for either of us to escape,   yes?   ’     Collar curled into his palm.     Thumb curving along its back lip.     He returns,   jacket proffered.     Your name,   again,   in my absence.     She unmakes you into an I.     The eye blinks,   and cants its head.     ‘   Be good with it,   won’t you?   ’     More resides,   now,   in the unsaid:   in lieu of having me;   because of me;   for me,   Dilara,   for me.

[saintlcss]

Mouth jerked like a shiver, not a smile but a curve faint and unkind. No desire to learn what Nick had come for at all. Curiosity in Jude was frequent and continually treacherous but did not arrive much for people. The answers too limited, blatant. Even if he blurred. “Looks like loneliness is a luxury I can’t afford.” Only one visitor yearned for, kept for moments. Never with any hope. Never did she cling to something as breakable as it. Waited for each time still, with a breath held and doubtful. The return only ever dream. Something whole for a desolate doorway. Not the formation ahead now, more shadow and less slight. Solid and stout against barred sun. Acceptable to the rancher if only in the silence disseminated. No anticipation for civility. Left here, alone here. Creaked and weathered as the wood, only pestered by presence needless. Their noise persistent, a knife through the soft bleat of animal throat. An anthem of the less maladjusted who arrived for nourishment or worse, unwanted assistance. No such question or demand for her in this moment. Shrunk back into the gap of squandered days. “You still a lonely boy with all those housemates of yours?” She imagined it must be a cosy existence at the common house, wedged together in their numbered years, survival pressed against each other. What noise, being watched and watching. She would make the choice to be alone again and again—even if it had never been much of one. Slip away unnoticed for good one day.

Fingers dug into the temple as anything would ease. The headache lifelong and static. Long held by spine alone, extended still as if some invasion had been spoken of in the dark. Sigh rather than answer granted.

It had always been easy enough to leave, ungoverned by any courtesy, muted in recurring departure. Now, nothing or no one called. Wasteful with time, stretched on longer and barren. Jude watched on, the trail of an accepted hand given to the creature. Leant into touch with an ease not possessed by their keeper. Trust, then, for the humans they had been stuck here with, or more likely hunger—need for more than could be given. “Lucky gambler?” A sniff. What people clung to in the meaninglessness of any existence. “Not so much with his back leg. Like a tangled cable.”  A foal buckled from birth, sturdier now but still marked. How peculiar it was still to drag life into this place. The young that grew tall, ones she had once pulled from their mothers and placed on dirt where nothing was not quite permitted to live. 

[baarra]

This ravaged-dry paracosm,   this here mired to where,   thumbs a throat towards its next death-rattle.     A throat,   breathing in ticked clock-hands,   belonging to another red thread.     Another greening moonscape,   defined by its inability for synonym.     He cannot place her.     She avoids that pinch.     As elusive as you,   mirrored in slight inclines.     A mouth flatlined:   shared,   through time.     Exposed guts.     Saturated in oral folklore.     In the bygone ossify of him and her.     Him,   Nick,   and her,   Jude.     YOU ARE HERE,   TO REMEMBER.     Time,   on the slick runway of a trickled blood-bead,   forked sharply at the behest of a suffocated hiss.     A bare-tooth dog opposite a low-heeled dog,   neither reaching through the synapse to look upon this:   time has come to pass.     You are to elapse.     Alongside the rubric of your binary   —   her in line with him,   and him in line with you   —   surfaced along a rich backroad replete with verb tenses.     Past,   present and future.     A period,   a comma,   a colon:   the clotting membrane of memory.     Here,   at the ridge where you see a baby   —   shoulder-to-elbow with another:   you and another you   —   chew on a tender stretch of flesh.     Rabbit,   or lamb.     Something beyond the womb,   but not thickened,   yet,   into its full bones.     From you:   a single bile coloured dribble.     Even as a baby.     Especially,   then.     It’s normal.     It’s fiction.

And then here,   a brother lounging across a clean countertop,   grinning over the fogged curve of a morning coffee.     Meaner.     Vindictive.     He knows you will always have the stomach for dead things.     For the mundane lifting onto its hind legs.     Underbelly,   there.     What else is there to see?     A body,   place.     A body,   placed.     Hey Nicky,   hey Bicky,   hey F———     [   ROLL OFF THE TONGUE AS HE IS,   YOUR BROTHER DOES NOT LEND TO DIALOGUE.     YOU LISTEN,   AND YOU WATCH.     THAT IS ALL HE NEEDS.   ]     D’ya want to see what I got?     It’ll be a middle finger behind his other hand,   or a dried scruff from a buried animal.     Neither would make you love him less.     Nick stares at her.     Lets silence chew the questions he won’t dwell on.     The circle of discovery is far more interesting.     He whistles,   long and slow.     ‘   And still breathing   ( … )   this boy’s got the foot of a rabbit.   ’     For effect,   Nick claps his shoulder.     The horse snorts,   and otherwise loses interest,   as Nick’s own roots elsewhere.     ‘   Living badly won’t ruin his luck.     He might’ve been mine,   if I was a betting man.   ’     He leans his elbows on the fence,   angular against a straight line,   tilting his head to one side.     ‘   But instead,   he belongs to a broke,   betting woman.   ’     His head bobs with each adjective,   finishing heavily on the noun.     A deeper baseline.     You know you can’t place her.     Woman.     A woman with an appetite.     A blood-breath woman,   peeling deer tick from dense fur.     He taps an unheard tune against the wood.     ‘   What else can’t you buy,   hmm?     Peace and quiet,   fresh air and personal space.     Clarity   ——   a good night’s sleep.   ’

[interstellarsx]

location. ⁺ the ranch

"he's a beaut." her hand smoothed along the animals muzzle. the feeling traveled along the thick of his neck the hair feeling a little more course. a soft brush of bristles beneath the palm of her hand. stella's life had moments of therapy with the creatures. moments built for emotional strength within connection, trust, and the responsibility of care. a positive impact on her life where spots were splotchy grey. "ever ride ?" stella asked, but her focus was still on the tall animal.

how resilient. the animals untouched by the horrors of this town. a blessing. stella didn't know if she could withstand the harm the people took happening to the animals. her sensory cup was full. the horse evoked an escape from the horrors. a distraction for the mind— in a place such as arcadia, it was tough to pull oneself out of the dark depths. thoughts spiraled easily for most. "absolutely beautiful in the sun." how long had the town been swallowed in darkness ? a moment that felt terrifyingly never ending.

@baarra // closed starter.

[baarra]

The day is heavy,   humid after a long night,   like dead air trapped in a pale peach lung.     Porous and fat after denied a drier decay.     Tufts of horses and snorts hemming around dual silhouettes.     Sharing the spit of wet grass.     Overfull mouths would bode well for his hunt.     Its breath a better bait than a newborn wail.     A fear braised,   once looked upon.     The tap-tap-tap of night’s finger on a second-storey window.     Curious,   his head cants in the direction he stalks.     North.     To the animal’s keen snout.     Her blonde hairline,   curling down her brow-bone.     Embroidered high-points.     ‘   On occasion,   ’     he says languidly,   stretching the syllables beyond their constraints.     A fifth and sixth.     Your eye darts from her,   to the horse,   and back.     The highest angle of her nose bridge.     ‘   You’re a view kind of woman   ( … )   and out here is better than back there,   yes?   ’     He shifts in place.     Sleeping plains underfoot.     ‘   You’d prefer the vibrant paint,   wouldn’t you?     I can tell.     So.     Are these the Van Gogh or the Monet kind of fields?   ’

[tessaendures]

Flicking her gaze between his face and the darkened sky beyond the windows of the building, her shoulders lift to shrug away his judgemental words. What he says is true enough. In fact, it feels as if hours and hours had passed since the darkness had settled and that color should be at least blushing the sky in purples and pinks. But there is no sign of that, even on the lowest edge of the horizon. "I did say approaching, didn't I?"

But time had a habit of crawling in situations such as these, boredom or stress causing the hands of the clock to tick by at a sluggish pace. Perhaps she hadn't slept for as long as she thought. Or a combination of all things mixed into one to hold them all captured to the night.

As he scolds her she drops her hand from its dance above the flame, rolling her eyes in a sort of dramatic response to the words. "I don't think a little candle could do much damage to me right now. Comparative to all the other threats around."

[baarra]

This land grows teeth,   coarse and hungry,   when night swallows day and the moon outshines the sun.     Humans of the night,   doe-shaped,   sway as they hedge around the settlement,   though the gummy earth does not ebb far below their feet,   nor flow to their dry kneecaps.     Shoulder-to-shoulder with quiver-less trees.     Covered in the breath of a silver city.     Iced tongue.     Clear air.     In their skin:   a wet mirror,   to look upon your own transparency.     It wanes,   down to its amidst.     She doesn’t.     She is just as alight as the godless moon.     Ribbons of white,   pooling at both corners of your eyes.     You haven’t been awake long,   hmm?     He offers another short hum,   steeling swiftly into a locked gaze.     Barely perceptible breath.     ‘   Are you going to answer me,   or is there shame in your rest?   ’     This is not a repetition.     It is the silkier voice,   rather,   pearled at the base of your tongue.     Dreadful care.     Erose.     Parched and peeved.     He strides slowly to her and the candle.     An arm’s reach away.     ‘   Don’t cower now   ( … )   pinch it.     Like you said,   it won’t hurt.   ’

[margotaway]

lack of patience. margot wanted to grit the words between her teeth. grind them down in admittance until her mouth was full of white dust. clean of the truth. weak in his eyes. instead, margot stood a little beneath his height with a chest puffed and a tongue withholding. patience thinned with the bouncing knee — but she now stood unflinching. allowing nothing but a grin to stretch across her features. pleasant, but behind hollow pupils vibrated chaotic rage. hungry. they'd not waste it upon each other. "must save our energy for the hunt." if she didn't hold a childish nature, the woman would have set forth out the door. yet, instead, as the strap of her bag slid onto her arm...the other arm lifted and smacked against his own. strong. practically a brick wall. one that margot wanted to chip away at.

[baarra]

Thresholds,   cued splinters,   recede to a doorway.     This is true of each inverse.     Inward to the right,   enflamed flick from a barn cat’s ear,   and then inward to the left,   a sheepdog’s prompt snout twitch.     Flurry   /   Fed.     A wet collect of hand and stomach,   momentarily dried by her—   by the sharp unfurl of arm on firm arm.     His gaze snaps to her thin grin.     And he tuts.     ‘   Save it,   ’     he says,   lower than gravel:   deep as the coastal brontide.     Bloodlessly pale.     That face doesn’t belong to a pike,   hingeless mouth and heavenward eye,   though her hands might.     Despite what they share.     Because of it.     ‘   Speak to your game like that,   girl scout,   or else you’ll join them bounding across my scope.   ’     Before the next word,   Nick looks outward.     Open-palmed push on the heavy door.     ‘   Now,   don’t fall behind.   ’

[ryleecarnegie]

the sound of water filling the cast iron inside of the old kettle soothed parts of rylee. those hidden corners that were too overshadowed by running pairs of feet, needy minds — her daughters. this moment was a tender pause in the time she was needed. a moment to gaze out the kitchen window and allow her mind to drift somewhere more quiet. drift to a softness her children didn't provide throughout the day. " 'suppose i dunno how to unfold any other way." now, she softened still after the water was turned off. children occupied by the new excitement of having their own rooms. rylee, along with the girls, had been too stiff to be independent. they all had been sleeping together — limbs tangled in fear of loosening without the other during the night. " it's not much," taking notice of him glancing around, "but we make what we can." almost an apologetic tone. rylee placed the kettle on the stove top with a light clank. "i let the girls draw on walls and what not. let them have any freedom they can have in a place like such." the irish woman moved to the dining room table, hoping he'd sit. "don' suppose ye draw on your walls ?" smile was kind — always offering some warmth.

[baarra]

‘   On my arm,   maybe.     Under my sleeve.   ’     His answer almost rises to its appropriate level of interest.     Absent yet honest like a milked reflection,   father-dull,   beyond the periphery.     Stringed balsa-wood corpsing after tendon.     Crisp to the ear.     Half-swallowed to the throat.     Bare milliseconds in his head-shake.     A blinked meet of brown with marbled blue.     ‘   They would’ve given me a hot neck.     Dough-y,   you know?     Sticky.     Like we’d just baked.   ’     Again,   his attention trails.     Raised brows.     Following her smile and its offer,   sunken to a tabled undergrowth.     A shadow is originally,   after all,   a highlight.     ‘   That was nicer to learn.   ’     In theory,   you should say.     In practice,   the truest definition of you as a thing to define,   this memory would place a fresh roll in your hold.     Greyed by a wintered morning;   warmed by a mother’s rigid heart.     All for him   —   the he that formed last and left first;   the he once known as Luis,   now known as nothing   —   to steal one full-mouthed bite.     Just one single bite,   for an intent is greedy enough without a hunger to compete,   to spit into the toilet and leave love’s crumb to another open grave.     He would follow this,   of course,   after you wedge his head into the bowl.     An arc of light,   beaded together by water and flung hair.     The art of the scene,   he would say.     It would be a shame,   in this afterlife,   to not splice the dead onto the living.     ‘   Did they learn from you   —   to like painting?   ’

[maverickxbell]

Throughout his many years of ranch work, Mav had been around a lot of men. While this hadn't necessarily been a pleasurable experience for him (though this he attributed more to the idea of being around anyone; people talked too much, or breathe too loudly, or chewed with their mouths open— in fact much of his hatred of being surrounded by others could have been fixed by the simplest act of them hinging shut their jaw bones) there was something lacking at the majority of his time now being spent around women. They might have smelled better and looked prettier, but they talked a lot without saying what they were actually thinking. And the dynamics between women... well, lets just say Mav had a lot of ground to cover before he could even begin to understand how they communicated with looks or touch or intentions sometimes very obviously conversing in front of him without saying much at all.

There was at least a bit of relief sitting at this grungy makeshift poker table in this shithole bar and sitting with Nick. He didn't talk much, but Mav liked it better when words were few but purposeful. In truth, he couldn't have cared less about the outcome of the game, was just happy to have some time away from the ticking time bomb that was the ranch/clinic relation. Time away from Logan, confusing in her existence. "How about aah bet mah hat," he said gruffly, removing the cowboy hat and placing it on the table. "If ya win it, aah can always spend the next however many years he-yah tryin' to win it back. Or wait 'til ya die, aah reckon." It was as much of a joke as Mav was capable of making. "But ya have to bet big too. What do ya have?"

[baarra]

You are tactile,   and then,   you are the evoke.     The done before doing.     The wade after the ripple.     Bloodless rib as the underbelly for breath-thick water,   like pink meat in a fault-line lake.     Boiled of its coating.     Therein replete with cracked lily pads,   lavendered hastily by worm-food,   unearthed.     Hands,   five-knuckled;   eyes,   de-pupiled.     This ritual anticipates you,   fine-clothed and lazy,   and puts the deck,   pre-shuffle,   in your rigid hands.     Neutralised,   then,   by skinned use.     Nick lines the card-edges.     His head cants.     He hums curtly,   for a halved moment,   as he curves his thumb into the corners.     Ridge on bone.     A whispered flicker,   in this meet.     ‘   All your mouths to feed   ( … )   and you give the hat,   ’     he says,   depleted pitch and gravelled,   placing this man into his periphery.     This man who adheres to red hearts and black spades,   who makes haze of the inverse.     Of the decay that could cause such an old horizon.     Greyed by sand and salt.     Sweetened by bruised fruit.     Quiet.     The image catches on each of its synonyms.     As voice does when it broaches on sentiment.     Something heavier in lieu of weather or cattle or card.     ‘   You love them,   do you?   ’     His gaze blinks up to Maverick.     Harsh jawline smoothed,   post-jest,   for a coupled shuffle.     A long,   stoic moment.     Complete inertia.     Blink-less.     And then,   a bounce of smile.     He taps the deck on the table,   twice,   punctuated by a point and squint.     Slapped lips.     ‘   Ah,   I should bet what I love,   yes?     Take a guess.     See how well you know me.     I’ll let you.   ’

[hvneysuckled]

The shiver came before his proximity was noticed, though truthfully had he not spoken Dilara would have easily been none the wiser. Her focus never prying from the throbbing of her feet and her need to find a quiet place to sit. Though she paused in step, it took her an extra moment to turn and face him. Flushed as she was, and slightly mortified at the thought of him watching her stumble down the hall. Unsightly and bruised. Damaged in more ways than none. “  I beg your pardon?  ” Dee inquired, not daring herself to aimlessly ponder over his accusative words. The implication of them and not just who she was but what she was. Who in the end was not his, but anothers - though not anymore. It got harder and harder to decipher whether she was gone forever like Shaw had gone, or if there were ways to get back home, and if and when she got back home would she get to find home? Would she be whole? 

Her face zoomed past him, to the crowd that awaited their presence - though knew nothing of it - and shook her head. “  I’m alright. Just looking for somewhere to sit in silence for a bit.  ” Before she could fully get the words out he already kneeled before her. Gaze never leaving him as if a simple glance away would have him striking at her neck. Lion against gazelle. Wolf against sheep. Predator and prey. Ready to end the who that she was. That she IS. “  That’s not entirely appropriate, now is it? But thank you, I guess.  ” she continued on to say, while her chest ran a mile in place. " That can't be comfortable. "

[baarra]

In a different vignette,   there would be a balcony.     Her silk nightgown would trail with the cobwebbed curtains.     Bleached hide,   drying in the wind.     Potted milkwood bushes would sit on either end,   sticky as untouched doll-skin,   or maybe it would reach from the soil below,   to estrange her from cold stone.     She would be blue,   that night,   when you stare at her back,  and just as enthralled by her petal-picked interest.     Pulling at have-nots and will-nots.     And you:   the wish-fors,   the forget-nots.     Svelte in her ivory pinch.     Pillowed burial.     This image tapers flatly into nothing.     Evanescent.     Interrupted by the din of a cramped dance.     Landlocked,   here where none should live,   by virtue of your meet.     You were destined for dead earth.     For you are here,   awaiting her pained soles in the heel of your hand.     Lotus-sick.

The pollen-blister marbles her skin and scent and taste and—   and she doesn’t offer her shoe.

She is alight under her gaze   —   fluttering happily in her summer floret way like she was while glistening,   blood-slick,   along the floorboards   —   but cannot peel her gums back,   to reveal her true wants.     That is what his hand is for:   combing her cutely into a looser meat.    A pull as slow as a scream making orifice of a candle-lit mirror.     Her plush-petal meat.     His hand curls around her calf.     Firm.     Warm.     Her dress bunches midway between his wrist and elbow.     There is no pull nor grip.     It is just there.     ‘   Lean on me,   and hand me your foot.   ’     A slow cadence,   stern in this reprise.     Oil-spill heavy.     Absently affectionate like a knuckle pressing,   again,   against a greening bruise.     His thumb brushes her taut muscle once.     You can’t see her neck from this angle.     ‘   Be good for me,   Dilara.     I won’t ask again.   ’

[hvneysuckled]

His words forced her to straighten up and Dilara swayed the loose hair away from her face, “I was most certainly not mean to your arm.” she replied, disregarding his earlier comment for her own sake. Engaging with his taunt - or whatever it had been - would have only ensured the entirety of her face turned flushed. More than it already was, at least. Though, she did make a show of - lightly - tightening her hand around his bandage - assuring its seal, of course, as a loose bandage in this environment would only serve to cause more problems than either wanted to deal. “Should I perhaps examine your head as well?” she asked, a bit more cheeky.

Dee met his gaze with more determination and purpose - though prove him wrong, she did not - and offered a measured smile, “You are all set for now.” she said once more, though not at all dismissively, “Be careful to not injure yourself again. Seems like a far harder task here than back ho-” Dilara stopped herself abruptly, refusing to let herself finish the word and covered it with a cough instead. The majority of people she’s seen were all incredibly broken, varying in seriousness all throughout, Dee wasn’t sure she’s ever witnessed anything like it. Emergency rooms were less chaotic on the daily, but she was glad that there were ways in which she could help. That all her years of training and studying medicine did not go to waste. “How, uh- how did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.” As if he couldn’t put her words together himself, Dee motioned towards his bandage, “Your arm. How did you injure it?”

[baarra]

Her vein-work pops from its supple brisket-flesh,   betraying the tight gilt of a body’s need to exist alone.     The emerge is bleatingly soft,   far from overt,   and knots glimpses along the length of her arm.     Lace atop blood.     Frayed ends sewn,   unbeknownst,   to a mordant fibre.     Your desire is nascent,   here,   in the sweet grapevine scent of your joining.     Her hand-print on his skin,   prickled-pink,   to remember this wound after each moonturn.     Bark-bare indulge.     A tear duct salted with rice seed.     To root and enflame.     Corruption from within,   carving that in from a without.     This is your cavity,   look upon the whiteout eclipse:   a dewdrop star embossed,   somehow,   before the mortal moon.     How could you shirk her,   now that you’ve seen her?     And how could she retreat with a nail-brushed peel,   open and out before its bloom is due.     Raw and damp.     Like a chewed wad of cheek spat into wet grass.

Before she could slip away fully,   he palms the back of her hand until it returns to the bandage and the surrounding skin.     Saddled by his gentle groom.     ‘   You feel that?   ’     His muscles ripple.     There is no hard-set line on his face.     Grim for the fleece-dust of her red touch.     ‘   That means it hurts.   ’     Raised brows.     Quaint diablerie,   almost boyish,   in this coalesce of you and her.     Inflection borders on rasp,   now,   as her blush extends to his arm.     ‘   That’s also why the coyote hung from me for so long.     Don’t tell me it knows blood better than you do.     You sure you’re the right doctor for me?   ’     A wrinklet of a smile.     His calloused fingers catch on her knuckles.     And then:   his gaze catching,   like rain droplets,   along her bone.     Rabbit-cheeked.     ‘   Were you this quick to deflect before?     Waiting for someone to see you   ( … )   and too blushed to admit it.   ’

[flcnnerys]

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s on a delay.” What came out of his mouth is what happened first, and the comprehension either came later, or not at all. Rarely was it that Chase ever thought through his words, took the time to speak on things. This was obviously not one of those occasions. 

The wind was knocked out of him when he landed on the ground below and he was fortunate that he prepared a bit so that his head didn’t smack so hard against the pavement, but he did let out an - admittedly - somewhat pathetic noise at the heel of the boot digging into that space between bones in his shoulder. Turning over wouldn’t work, and he wasn’t strong enough to hit hard enough for him to let go. “Waitwaitwait— c’mon, you said you’d let me choose and I did,” he said, the words getting quieter when he realized he was essentially begging the man to break his arm. “You know what, papa, your life would be so boring without me, admit it.”

[baarra]

His shoulder blades must embed now,   tenderly,   into the weakening mud floor.     The foot-prints would melt together into a single groove,   to be re-named simply:   back-prints of pain.     An outline of yours,   for once,   not coated in blood.     And yet,   he persists.     Again.     This pain is not enough.     Paltry.    There must be more,   the itch says,   like the fine,   bone-skin of a hangnail.     It yearns for a long pull,   down to the knuckle but far above bone.     That would be too intimate.     In an earlier year,   you would’ve called this boy,   Luis,   and it would’ve been your father hovering over him like this.     Papa.     Ah,   Chase does nothing in halves.     You become angular,   discarding the board for a cleaner hand.     Your foot drags along his shoulder,   collecting fabric,   until you pin his shirt to the ground,   so you can root your kneel into this makeshift slab.     A deepened voice.     ‘   If you were on your knees,   at my door,   begging,   I wouldn’t save you.   ’     A hand placed squarely on his chest,   holding a lower fraction of your weight,   while the other loops around his elbow.     Your eyes darken,   somehow.     ‘   You need me to teach you some manners,   is that it?     A bit of discipline,   to colour your day.   ’