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writing blog for caitthegreatest

[caitgreat-writing]

Hawkeye

EXT. ROOFTOP - EVENING

CLINT is dangling off the edge of a building, a rope around his ankle. His bow is in his hand, his quiver is empty, and a TRACKSUIT MOB GUY is peering over, shouting something menacing but indistinct. CLINT is trying to pull up to reach the rope on his leg, but has missed the last few crunch-days at the gym.

CLINT VO: Okay, so this looks bad. Maybe not as bad as the time Barney and I tried knife throwing in our Sunday best, but bad. The thing is, as bad as it looks? It’s worse.

CUT TO: SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER. CLINT’S APARTMENT - MORNING

CLINT is asleep, sprawled recklessly across his bed, wearing nothing but purple boxers. His body is marked with scars: knives, bullets, arrows, and just plain bad luck have taken their toll. His room is a chaotic mess; it looks both as though he just moved in and as though he’s lived there for years. Boxes, half-finished arrows, clothes, gear, are strewn about. The walls are bare except for a lipstick print, left by an old flame or a sarcastic friend. The alarm clock goes off, beeping and shaking CLINT’S bed (because don’t forget, he’s deaf, y’all.)

CLINT

(groaning) Aw alarm, no.

-excerpt of the fraction-inspired Hawkeye show I’m writing as a preemptive fix it for the Disney show

[caitgreat-writing]

there are stars in my eyes i put them there when i was young and refuse to let them go the stars in my eyes are my rose color lenses to keep the weight of the world from chewing me up and spitting me out leaving me behind like so much jetsam over and over and over again my stars have tried to leave me they run away with each tear and lightning quick i must snatch them back every day another straw is added to my back and i must take a breath and sigh and stand straight and tall and true anyway my stars make me special or i hope so anyway i try and share them with everyone a smile here, a nod there, a promise ‘your stars are waiting for you too’ i want to share the love i feel when i look at something precious and know that my stars are seeing it too and growing brighter for it i want to share the hope i have that this is not it this is not all there is this is not all there will be i want to lend my strength to those that need it most i pass my starlight to them invisible but vivid a shield made of beauty there are stars in my eyes i put them there when i was young and refuse to let them go

starry-eyed, 8/8/17

[caitgreat-writing]

i think my bones sound like thunder. it’s wrapped around my skeleton, dug deep into my marrow. there’s a low rumble in my ribs as they e x p a n d and contract reminding me with every breath that i am here i am alive there’s the sharp boom and crack in my hands as i struggle to create and build and leave something good in my wake a soft whisper in the distance weaves around my spine urging me stand straight stand tall shoulders back and chin up you can do it a loud rolling wrapping around my femur, lending its strength to mine “you are here” it says. “you are surviving” it reminds me sometimes all you need is something more than yourself to sink itself into the core of you and say hello i think my bones sound like thunder they creak and crash and rumble and roar and sync with the beat of my heart i am

thunderbones, original poem

[caitgreat-writing]

prompt: “sergeant, i swear i really love you” and gentle stabbing. that’s right, double for your money

There’d been an explosion, because when in his life was there never not an explosion, and then he was flat on his back. Nothing hurt, which was good, but he couldn’t move, which was bad, and made him revise his “no pain=good” assessment. From what he could see, he was pinned under a large chunk of scrap metal, and no feeling coupled with not being able to see his legs gave him a sneaking suspicion that there, perhaps, weren’t legs to feel anymore. At least, not fully functional ones.

“Cooper! Where are you?” Sergeant Calhoun sounded scared. She never sounded scared, not even the last time there’d been an explosion. “Cooper! Sound off!”

“Here!” His first attempt was barely audible, even to him. Working hypothesis of dust in his lungs, or possibly he was just dying. He cleared his throat and tried again. “HERE Sarge!”

He heard her footsteps headed towards him, then they stopped. “Cooper, there’s part of your workbench pinning you. I’ve sent Morales for reinforcements and the medics. I need you to stay as still as you can.”

Like a dumbass, he started to nod, then caught himself. “Yes, Sergeant.” After a pause, he followed with, “Give it to me straight. Am I ever gonna dance prima again?”

“Shut up, Cooper. You’re gonna be just fine,” Calhoun said. He still couldn’t see her, but she had to be able to see him at least some to know he was pinned.

“Where are you, Sarge? I can’t see you”

Cooper heard her sigh and shift, then she was leaning over him. “Here you go, Cooper. Better now that you can see my ugly mug?”

“You’re not ugly, Sarge. You’re beautiful, probably more than anyone has any right to be when we’re trying to topple a government.” Hm. Cooper reassessed again. He may not be in pain, but clearly he should be if he’s losing control of his inhibitions that quickly.

Calhoun had a decidedly odd look on her face as she responded, “Thanks, Ricky.”

“You- you never call me Ricky. Not even before I enlisted.” Yeah, he’s definitely dying. Ophelia “Hardass” Calhoun wasn’t even on first-name basis with her fellow sergeants, if scuttlebut was correct.

“Well, I’m sick of calling you Cooper. Terrible name. Now shut up and breathe. Morales will be here any second and we’ll get you out of this.”

“Got some notes for you, Sarge. First-”

He was rudely interrupted by her sharp voice saying “Don’t you dare give me notes for your family, Ricky. You can tell them yourself.”

“Sergeant, I swear I really love you, but don’t put words in my mouth. I want to dictate my incident report so I don’t forget anything.” Calhoun clears her throat. “Um, yes. I knew that. Proceed, Cooper.”

“I was modifying one of the camouflage units used on recon missions to be more efficient in snowy terrain. I think that one of the aerosolized chemical lines was cut when I took the cover off, so there was a leak. When I fired up my blowtorch, boom.”

“Understatement. We felt it four levels up in the briefing room, knew something’d happened before the alarm even went off.”

“Uh, my bad,” he says sheepishly. Before Calhoun can respond, there’s a shout and then a lot more people peering down at him.

“Well, nice to see the gang back together,” Cooper says. Or at least he hopes he says it. His vision’s definitely on the spotty side, and whenever he inhales there’s a gentle stabbing sensation in the general vicinity of his ribs. The no-pain-no-worries assessment was possibly one of the most inaccurate he’s made today, right after “That hissing noise is nothing to worry about.”

Lieutenant Morales fits him with a cervical collar as the medics start figuring out exactly what’s being crushed. He definitely makes some sort of noise when one of them prods his ribs, because Calhoun is back hovering above him like some army brat avenging angel. “All right Cooper, just hang on. We’ll have you out in a jiff. Just hold on.”

[caitgreat-writing]

lmao guess who’s several prompts behind it’s me. this prompt was “shitty gift shop souvenirs” so here’s a story about young adults and the liminal spaces that are gas stations at three am

The best part of road trips, hands down, is the utterly bizarre rest stops and tourist traps that litter the highway. Her favorite was one that the two of you had stumbled upon fall break sophomore year. There was a chill in the air (finally) and the leaves were just starting to turn (finally) and you were overcome with the worst case of restlessness. All you could do the first day was pace, back and forth and back trying to get the itch out of your feet. When it didn’t work, she grabbed her keys and shoved you towards your closet with instructions to pack a few changes of clothes and meet her outside.

The night was perfect: stars winking down, no ghastly cicadas screaming. (“I just don’t get why you hate them so much,” she’d said, not long after you’d met. “Simple. If I’m not allowed to scream all summer, neither are they.”) You slung your bag into the backseat and hopped up into the ridiculously high bed of the truck.

“Put this on,” she said, tossing a sweater of hers at you. “It’s too nice to have the windows up but once we get going you’ll freeze.”

“Do I get to know where we’re going?” you asked as you pulled it on. It was soft to a degree that you’d yet to achieve, no matter how often you switched detergent, and it smelled like her.

“Nope. I don’t either, if it makes you feel better. We’re going to flip a coin whenever we need to make a turn.”

“That’s like zero variables though! Let me get a die. D6? D12? D20?”

“Get your gaming ass out of my car right now.” A beat. “D6 would probably be best.”

After some squabbling over assigning actions to numbers, you were on your way down the highway. The coin flip had been in her favor, so you’d listened to classic rock and old school country as you hurtled down the interstate. This late, nothing is really open, so you’d decided to drive until something interesting shows up and hang around.

You must’ve fallen asleep because next thing you knew, the truck is stopped and she was pumping gas. When you sat up from your slump, she poked her head in the open window and said, “Hey, sleepyhead. Want to go in and grab snacks?”

Interstate gas stations at three am aren’t real places. The music is in an impossible key, the patrons are shifty in a way that calls to mind other universes, and the prices are inexplicably lower than daytime. You were idly scanning the racks of souvenirs as you waited in line with snacks (plain corn chips and twizzlers for her, doritos and gummy worms for you, and water to share) when something caught your eye. It was a t-shirt with a smiling cartoon cow with the phrase “HOME IS WHERE THE COWS CALL YOU BY NAME” emblazoned on it in a font you aren’t sure should exist in your world. Obviously you’d had to step out of line and grab two, one in your size and one in hers.

When you’d presented her with the shirt, her face had split with the biggest grin and she’d thrown her arms around your neck. You’d changed immediately and worn those ridiculous cartoon cows for the rest of the trip.

Sometimes, when you know she’s feeling particularly overcome by ennui, you’ll make some shitty joke about talking cows, just to see her smile. Sometimes, when she knows you’re on the verge of something indescribable driven by frustration, she’ll do the same.

[shinjobanjo]

super late flash fiction from october 2nd, prompt: “magical realism”. idk man here it is

She wears her father’s cologne, like it will ride the wind and tell him how to get home. Her mother hates it, and avoids her daughter as much as possible, a ghost with his scent and his eyes. Rather than be alone, she takes up the company of birds.

What are her friends telling her? Careen westwardly for yes, easterly for no. She follows them out of town. They are a compass, wind whipping all of them onward, cologne coming off her skin and running along her father’s magnetic pull. She passes the county line. Night falls. She can see the birds by the moon glinting off their black feathers. When clouds shut out that light, she follows by faith. Hunger and fatigue do not reach her.

The birds take her to several monuments. The creek (she pulls out her father’s wedding ring). The lightning-struck tree (she finds the father’s day card he kept on his desk). The 7/11 (she finds the lighter his father bequeathed to him).

The final monument is kept behind a wrought iron fence. It’s one she recognizes. The birds spiral and stop on a patch of land. She lays her findings in a row, adds the cologne bottle to the collection. When this is done, she steps back to admire her work. Her father’s voice comes to her, and the air is still. He says, ravens are scavengers.  The birds peck the dirt and find flesh. She thinks, they’d probably eat memories if you let them.

She leaves the cemetery. The birds stay behind. A car pulls up, the passenger side door opens. Her mother says, “get in,” and she does.

[mp3sea]

like in all fairness, fuck victor frankenstein ,, but tbh if i’d spent a shit ton of time on something and it didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted, i too would go to bed and let the situation go completely out of control, resulting in a body count and vengeance arc, honestly

[shinjobanjo]

still behind, here’s day 3 of flash fiction october challenge, this time with the prompt “homemade jam”

Sweat beaded down the thick glass. Made the dust run down the sides of the jars. Looked like there was fire inside, strawberry flavored, turning molten.

I wondered whether the glass would melt. A kind of return to its birth. Do preserving jars come from glass blowers anymore? I doubted it. You would have hated that. Always did your part to push back against mass marketing and artificial preservatives. I stored your jam in your wine cellar for lack of a better place to put it. It ate up too much pantry room. Would have outgrown it eventually.

When you died, I left the jam down there. The cellar turned mausoleum. These are your remains, more so than ashes in a decorative urn. I knew your spirit was in your preserves. Blackberry on the far wall. Apricot in the center. Strawberry near the stairs. The gingham cloth coverings were catching now, curling up black corners.

After cremation, bone fragments left intact are crushed into powder before being added back to the remains. Would there be skeleton shelves left in the wine cellar, too? There was a shrapnel-pop in the smoke— one of the jars had burst. I climbed up the steps to the ground floor. Imagined what the cellar would look like after. Maybe glass and jam would remain among the char, pockets of stars in an ashen sky.

[caitgreat-writing]

hello, it’s me. i slept thru my scheduled writing time and now i’m awake and suffering so here’s today’s prompts. i combined “reluctant animal companion” with “homemade jam” which sounds terrible but is actually fine. here’s return of todd, the toddening. 

You were displeased. You were always displeased, really, but today you were especially displeased. The people who ran the shelter were talking in whispers and glancing at you sidelong, which meant you had almost definitely reached the end of your stay. You briefly contemplated the idea of playing nice for the day, just to see, but quickly decided you’d rather go out with style. That in mind, you claw the unholy hell out of the poor volunteer assigned to feed you.

A surprise to your final day shows up ten minutes before close in the form of two people who come sprinting in. The taller one is brown and has dreads pulled back in a bandanna. She’s wearing overalls smutched with grease and paint and who knows what else, and you hope she’s not here for you. The shorter one is a bit neater, no grease on their clothes, but pencil marks and creases adorn their shirt. They’ve got short hair that looks like they’ve never once bothered to groom themselves, and you can’t help but sniff. The pair of them begin walking up and down the cages and wind up in front of you.

“Oh my god, he’s perfect, I love him already,” the short one says. You resist the urge to check and make sure they’re talking about you. Of course they are; everyone should see how perfect and majestic you are as easily as this human.

“Seriously, Eloi? All the cats in the world and you want Todd?” the tall one says, checking your tag. You really hope she’s not here for you, but it doesn’t appear you have a choice.

“Todd, the shelter workers told us that if you aren’t adopted by tonight, they’ll have to put you down,” Eloi says, crouching down to your level. “I’d like to offer you another chance. Haven here and I are going out on a ship and trying to get to the vortex. We leave tomorrow morning, and I’d like you to come with us.”

The vortex is impassable; even cats know that. You make the split-second decision that if these humans really want you along, they’ll have to work for it. When Eloi tries to pick you up, you yowl as ear-splittingly as you’re capable of and scratch them across the arm. Haven tries to grab you and you do the same to her, running up her arms and sinking your claws in along the way. You launch off of her head onto Eloi’s back, but before you can do any more damage, you’re wrapped in a jacket. Furiously, you turn and twist, but you’re thoroughly trapped. Without any ceremony, you’re stuffed in a carrier and taken away from the shelter.

The ship isn’t as grand as you’d hoped for someone of your status, but it’ll do. Haven and Eloi have left you to your own devices, which is insulting. You express your displeasure by leaving claw and teeth marks in several articles of clothing and rooting through the ship’s stores. There’s a glass jar that seems very important; there’s a lovingly decorated label and a very neatly tied bow. You knock it from the shelf and watch with satisfaction as it shatters on the floor. Apparently, it was jam. You give a cautionary taste and find that it’s strawberry, your least favorite. You leave the mess and go on a search for somewhere to sleep. Probably Haven’s pillow; she doesn’t like you as much as Eloi does.

[caitgreat-writing]

today’s prompt for me and and @shinjobanjo was from me: magical realism. i...did not do that. 

When you want to know the initial of the person you’re going to marry, you twist an apple stem and say a letter for each twist until it breaks off. Careful not to do it too young, though; it’s binding.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Try and make your sidewalks without cracks now: I dare you.

If you’re on a swing and you fall into pattern with someone on an adjacent swing, you’re in the bathtub together. There’s no going back. Hope you both like bubbles.

Catch a firefly as you make a wish and it’ll come true. Release the firefly immediately so that the resulting shift in the universe doesn’t consume you both.

Hold hands with someone you love as night is falling; if you see the same first star your love is true. Distant balls of flame dictate all your interpersonal relationships; you feel lucky when they let you in.

You’ve opened a can of worms. They are free and forever in your debt.

Circle circle, dot dot. Now you have your cootie shot. If only baby Mary had lived long enough to receive the same.

If you’re happy and you know it, are you sure? Share your secrets. The world is sad.

This is the song that never ends. It repeats and repeats until you beg for mercy. It goes past your lifetime, your children’s lifetime, the lifetime of the world, the lifetime of the universe. One day all there is is this song.

[caitgreat-writing]

Prompt 1 of the day from @anundine: “phantoms walk at noon”

No one breaks the rules. By 11:30 every morning, everyone is inside. The doors are locked, the shutters are drawn, and the parents tell their children that nothing is wrong, it’s just time to sleep. Children are smarter than parents know, and they know the truth. The world must shut down every day, because phantoms walk at noon.

There’s a story, told in whispers in the shadows, of a time before the shutters were drawn, before markets existed only after dark. The daylight time was idyllic, mostly, with the exception of the sacrifices. The story says that there was a brave young soul who was determined to find a way to save the young men who gave their lives every month at noon on the day of the full moon. The story says that the brave young soul read tomes previously lost to the world and worked a spell so dark and powerful that it consumed their young soul, leaving a brave husk. The husk proclaimed that the sacrifice would be ended and no one dared disagree.

The first day that the sacrifice is ignored, the unease is palpable. When the noon hour passed with no sign of divine retribution, the world let out a sigh of relief. That night, there are celebrations so hearty that by noon the next day, most of the town is still asleep. They were asleep through the day as the phantoms cut the throat of every third person.

Now the shutters are locked tight and no one ventures out. When the children dare each other to lift a corner of the shutter and glance out the window, there’s nothing there. Nothing visible, anyway. Every child who musters the courage to peek out into the forbidden is left with an unshakeable sense of dread that follows them to the grave. When they pass beyond the veil, they’re greeted by a brave husk, who intones in the voice of everyone they’ve ever known, “I SAID NOT TO LOOK.”

[shinjobanjo]

so @caitgreat-writing and I are doing an October flash fiction challenge together, and here is my piece from yesterday’s prompt: “are you sabotaging me?”

The tapestry was almost complete. Another foot of work, and the weave symbolizing devotion from wife to husband would be done. One more day, and Belinda would be Lady Maxwell.

Her maid offered what support she could, in weaving and in hearing out Belinda’s unease. Arranged marriages had an element of risk. There was no sure way tell a man’s true character before the wedding night. “If only I could know he is as loving as you.”

One more day.

Belinda’s maid offered what support she could. Undid the weave, re-wound the threads where they belonged, around her own spindle.

Two more days.

[caitgreat-writing]

Prompt: “are you sabotaging me” courtesy of @shinjobanjo

"Are you sabotaging me?" he asks incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I am,” I say. “I want to win and you’re a way better swordsman than me.”

“So you weighted my saber with lead?”

“Ah, now you’re catching on. Bye!” Before Tomas can answer, I’ve sheathed my own saber and started the final leg of the triathlon, horseback riding. I may not be much of a swordsman, but I can ride like I was born to it. Cinnamon responds like a dream to my commands and we’re over the finish line in a heartbeat. When I turn back, Tomas is still struggling with his saddle. I’m tempted to call back that bareback would save him a lot of time, but he’s stubborn enough to try it and crack his head open.

“Congratulations, Cadet,” the general drones. “You’ve somehow managed to win the triathlon, meeting all the expectations set before you. You are eligible to be promoted to lieutenant pending the recommendation of your fellow cadets.”

“Thank you, General. Wait, what? Recommendations?”

[caitgreat-writing]

edge of the world

The edge of the world is a vortex. It’s not a sudden blankness, because you’ve read that book, and it’s not a gradual tapering into incorporeality, because you’re pretty sure that’s not how physics works. Of course, you’re also pretty sure physics dictates that the world shouldn’t just stop existing a hundred and twelve miles out to sea, but no one’s ever managed to get farther than that. When you were young, the way to schoolyard fame was to have a detailed plan on how you were going to get farther than anyone had before. By the time you’d hit eight, you’d heard everything from submarine to hot air balloon and every altitude in between.

By nine, you’d learned not to point out the flaws in your classmates’ plans. No one wanted their pipe dreams destroyed with logic, and it was better by far to be the quiet kid in the corner than the snotty kid getting the crap kicked out of them on the playground. You didn’t realize you were lonely until halfway through the year when there wasn’t a single person you knew well enough to want at your tenth birthday.

The year you turned eleven, things seemed to be taking a turn for the slightly less miserable when, for the first time since before you’d started school, a new family moved to town. Your new classmate had too many freckles and too many curls in her hair to be immediately popular, and the second she opened her mouth at recess, any lingering interest from her novelty evaporated like mist at sunrise.

“You know that you couldn’t actually build a cutter ship fast enough to get through the vortex, right? It’s not speed that’s been preventing other people from getting through, it’s a physical anomaly in the makeup of the water.”

You’d had that exact same thought, but bitten your tongue. The person who’d suggested the cutter ship turned away, clearly done with the conversation. The new girl sighed and went back to writing in her notebook, and you take a deep breath.

“You’re right. The way to get through would be to run a series of trials to determine the nature of the anomaly then structuring a voyage accordingly.”

She looks up, and you’re startled at how sharp her brown eyes are behind her glasses. “Who’re you?”

“Eloi. I stopped trying to teach them ages ago. They don’t want to learn. I want to break the distance record, they just want to toss ideas around like rubber balls.”

“I’m Haven. I don’t want to break the record, I want to leave it behind and go to the other side. Do you want to work with me?”

No one took you seriously then, and not many more take you seriously now, but at the age of twenty-two, you’ve run every test you can run, calculated for every variable, and all that’s left is a trial. Haven theoretically took charge of building the ship, since all you’ve ever managed with a hammer is a broken thumb, but you still ended up at the dock every day, scribbling notes and passing tools and generally doing your best to be useful. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the fact that in a week at most, you’d either be dead or legends.

“Get your head out of the clouds and hand me the tar, Eloi,” Haven yells from where she’s suspended on the side of the ship. “This bastard isn’t going to waterproof itself and I’d rather not have to unstick you later.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m coming,” you say, carefully passing the tar up. It’d only taken one mishap for you to learn the value of deliberate speeds. You missed your long hair, but you missed not being constantly teased about tar a bit more.

“This is the last coat, you know. In a day we’ll be seaworthy and you won’t have any other way to delay this. Last chance to back out.”

A small part of you hates that she knows you this well, knows that you’ve been plagued with doubt since the first nail was driven, making your dreams concrete. A larger part of you reasons that of course Haven knows; you’ve been each other’s person for a decade.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just weird.”

“Master of the understatement as always, E. How do you want to spend your last night among the living?” she says, jumping down. With a few brisk movements, she knocks most of the dust from her clothes and pulls off her bandanna, shaking her dreads loose.

The answer that immediately pops into your mind you dismiss just as quickly; no point in taking a risk now. “We should get a cat.”

Haven lets out a surprise laugh. “Seriously? We might be signing our own death warrants based on nothing more than theoretical calculus and you want a cat?”

“Yes. We should go to the shelter, find the meanest, snarliest cat, the one who’ll be put down if they aren’t adopted in a heartbeat, and adopt it. Every good ship needs a ratcatcher, right?”

“Firstly, I resent the implication that my beautiful creation has rats. Second, that’s an incredible idea and we’re leaving right now.” She grabs your hand and pulls you up and after her.

An hour later, you both have scratched arms and fingers. As the person who had the idea, you’ve been designated to carry the crate that you’d eventually cajoled the cat into. His name is Todd: he’s overweight, mean, with patchy fur and torn ear, and you think you’re in love.

“You have your stupid asshole cat, now it’s my turn,” Haven says after you drop Todd at the dock. “We’re going to see my brothers and you aren’t allowed to pick a fight with any of them.”

“Not even-”

“NO. Not even Harold.”

“Fine, but Todd gets to sleep on the furniture.”

“Neither of us could stop that stupid asshole cat, so deal.”

Haven’s brothers, despite the number of times you’ve almost decked each of them, are wonderful people. By the end of the evening, the five of you are lazing around full of good food and better alcohol, and you’re getting ready to call it a night when Harold gets a glint in his eyes.

“Hey, Haven, there’s something we gotta do before we send you off,” he says.

“Oh no.” You’ve been to enough of these gatherings to know where this is going.

“Oh yes. We’re going to play one last game of yard hockey.” Haven whoops, echoed by Hunter, but Henry rolls his eyes.

“You three go ahead. I’m too full,” he says. “Eloi, you don’t want to play right?”

“When in my life have I ever wanted to play?” you retort.

The three ruffians spill out into the backyard, shoes gone and beer in hand. In no time, there’s shouts and arguments and laughter coming in through the open screen door. Henry pours himself another drink and passes you water before sitting back down.

“So you’re telling my sister you’re in love with her before you sail off the edge of the world, right?” he says abruptly.

“What?” you sputter. “I’m not-I don’t-that’s not. I’m not in love with Haven.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “You’re telling her though?”

“I-yeah. I think I have to,” you sigh. “I’m 90% sure we’re going to make it through the vortex, but that 10% says I really ought to say something.”

“If it makes you feel better, 90% is better than anyone else has been able to guarantee,” Henry says. Before you can respond, Haven, Hunter, and Harold tumble back into the house like puppies, still arguing over the winner of the game. You clear your throat with a glance at your watch, silently reminding Haven of the ghastly time you need to leave in the morning. She nods and you both say your goodbyes. You hug Henry last, and as you pull away, he says, “You can do this, Eloi.” The meaningful look he gives you is lost on no one, and you know Haven isn’t going to let it go.

To your surprise, she doesn’t say anything about it on your walk back to the docks. She doesn’t say anything at all, and you realize she’s terrified of whatever tomorrow holds. In a moment of bravery, you grab her hand as you walk up the gangplank to the ship.

“You know we can do this, right?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be saying that to you?” she says in a shaky voice. “We’ve made it this far and we might be completely off base.”

“We aren’t,” you say with confidence you aren’t sure you have. “You and me? We’ve never been wrong about anything.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” she says, facing you. There’s a distinct moment where the you could swear the universe forgets to breathe, and just as you’re about to do something, there’s a yowl and you have a very large, very angry cat on your head. Apparently, Todd has some residual separation anxiety to work out.

“You deal with Satan’s Own Feline, I’m headed to bed,” Haven says. She’s inside before you’ve even disentangled Todd’s claws from your hair.

The morning dawns drizzly and gray, which pleases you. A bright shiny morning would’ve felt falsely cheerful, and outright storms would’ve been too ominous. The in-between weather is perfect, and you’re underway within an hour of dawn. Haven sets the course, then has you take the wheel while she adjust sails and ties knots or something equally as sailor-like.

The day goes far too quickly, and by nightfall, you’re ten miles from the vortex. If you listen very closely, you can almost hear it: the place where the waves stop and the silence begins. Under Haven’s eye, you drop anchor for the night. Neither of you talks much over dinner; the awareness of your potential last supper weighs too heavily on your minds for chitchat, and the big things have all been said. Mostly.

As Haven clears her plate, preparing to leave, you catch her arm. “Haven, there’s something I have to say.”

“Tell me tomorrow,” she says, unusually serious. “I know what you want to say, and tell me when we’re through the vortex.” And again, she’s gone before you can find two words to rub together.

In the morning, after a sleepless night of giddy anticipation and dread, you rig the specially tailored sail Hunter had helped you sew. Haven makes the final adjustments to the ship before the two of you haul in the anchor. The wind is at your backs, something you hope is a sign of godly benevolence rather than the other. In minutes, the horizon is swallowed by the vortex. Haven joins you at the wheel and you stand shoulder to shoulder watching it approach.

“This is it,” you say. Your entire life has been building to this moment, but somehow all you can say is “this is it.” Anything else feels small as you approach the vortex at incredible speeds. “Time to tie in.”

Haven wordlessly passes you your line and you lash yourselves to the mast. “Eloi?” she says, shouting to be heard over the wind and waves. “I shouldn’t have walked away. I should’ve let you talk. I love you so much, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah I do, Haven,” you say, and you aren’t sure if the tears in your eyes are relief or terror. “When we get through this, I’m going to kiss you, ok? And then Todd is going to interrupt and scratch one of us for not giving him enough attention and we’re going to laugh.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says. There’s less than a hundred yards between the prow of ship and the eerie barrier. Haven says something else, but the words are snatched away as you barrel directly through the center of the vortex. Your last thought is a prayer to anyone listening that she survives, then the world goes black.

The edge of the world is a vortex. No one’s sure of much but that, because no one’s ever gotten more than a hundred and twelve miles from the shore and made it back, but one day that has to change.