Gremlin Hours

(They/Them) I only ever write between the hours of 1am and 4am. Gremlin hours are 24/7.

[crazed-rambling]

Explaining myself feels like a gut wound A demand that I carve through my skin for them to see To broadcast the public execution of the person I am trying to build Each word pulling back the skin I made myself All to reveal the raw festering hurt beneath

I am tired of haemorrhaging for others approval

[crazed-rambling]

After The Tower

You are unnamed and yet still unproven when you awaken among the bloodbath of your own corpse. You look more breakable from here, like this, as though made of brittle sparrow bones and spider silk. But you are not. You can see bone and flesh clearly. It is a long time before you awaken again.

 You are a princess. You are kind and graceful and beautiful because a princess must be all these things. One day you shall be a queen and you shall be humble and modest and wise because that is what a queen should be. But you are a princess right now so you are none of those.

You are silent though, because your governess said it was a virtue. You also lack something to say - it’s the first time you have seen a prince. At least you think he should be the prince; he is rescuing you but the lines on his face make him look more like your father than you. This might be how it was meant to be, princes become kings after all. You are confused all the same.

It wasn’t that you weren’t expecting this, it was common sense. A prince rescues a princess, they fall in love, they get married, they are happy. Mother had told you not to worry, that last day you saw her, in the carriage, gripped your hands too tight in her own and told you were a princess so a prince would save you, like she had been saved. That hadn’t made sense at the time, your mother was a queen not a princess, why would she need to be saved? You were young then and a bit stupid because your uncle said it was cute for a little girl, but you riddled it out in the end. You think you might be a bit less stupid now, you are a woman grown after all. Bled your first blood here, then one every after, here among your stories and your needlework and your dragons. But somehow blood is redder as you are lifted from your fallen dragons.

You are Antoinette when you wake again, is what they tell you. Sleep soon finds you.

 You are unsure how to go about falling in love, maybe you have already done it, you are married after all. You’ve done it, you will be happy now, mother said so. It feels deceptively easy, a few words, a kiss and you are a wife. Everyone around you seems to be doing the work for this marriage; servants laden with plate after plate of food, musicians playing songs you do not know over the sound of toasts to the couple, to the kingdom, wine spilling over onto silk sleeves and tablecloths that you imagine must have been weaved from gold.

The prince, your husband, has not had a chance to speak to you, there always seems to be someone for him to talk to. He does not introduce you. These men already know you; they call you ‘the bride’. It isn’t your name. You smile anyway because you’re happy now. The pins in your hair are pulling too tight.

  You are loved they tell you when you awaken this time, aching in places you’d never thought to burn before. A wife, a princess. You suppose those things mean you’re loved. There is a musky smell in the air, it tastes heavy on your tongue. You cannot help the way your upper lip curls in some imitation of disgust, humans are just always so damp. It is the softest mattress you have ever known yet still too hard against all your aches. Worse; you are not alone. Another clammy body lies sprawled beside your own.

 You sit up, ignoring the spike of pain between your legs to examine it. And stop. Because you know this one. He lives among your siblings screams, flames and the burning cold left behind sword slashes. Your murderer sleeps defenceless as though you are not a predator. But you are not. Your teeth are blunt now. You do not want to be here.

 You have a daughter now, a child all your own, and she is so small in your arms. You love her more fiercely than you ever though yourself capable of. Each time you hold her you feel as though the world has been made anew in your arms. If this is how your mother felt for you, how did she ever let go of your hand that day in the carriage? The thought of your sweet daughter leaving your sight is a knife, you think abandoning her in that tower would kill you.

She has taught you what love is, true love. Your mother was wrong. It was not love you felt on your wedding day and it has not been love since, you think the only thing you could love your husband for is giving you Therese. You do not understand how he cannot feel the way you about her, it is as though when you were given this all-consuming feeling you took all the love allotted to her parents. Your husband wants another child – a boy, an heir this time. You still ache from the birth. He visits your bed still.

Sometimes you long for the days in the tower, dull as it may have been. You imagine yourself there again, Therese in your arms because you do not think you could bear to put her down even in your mind, you are there once more. Making a home for yourself among stone walls; you’d place the crib in the alcove you used to read in, far enough away from the window that she wouldn’t catch a chill, tell her the stories sing her the songs that built you all those years ago. And you are always safe. Dragons are as dangerous as people say, you heard many knights try and fail to save you before, but you were never once in danger. Your dragon was as close to a companion as you had all those years, you may never have spoken but you understood one thing all the same. She would never have hurt you. She would yell and her gold eyes were cold but she’d bring you meat from her hunt, let you touch her smoothest scales near her neck, allow you let you feel her children move inside their eggs. They were so fragile and warm under your palm in that moment. That is the moment you prefer to remember of them, your first memory of them, your last is coated in blood.

Sometimes when your husband is angry you look down at your child, think about those baby dragons and wonder if this child is worthy of the mercy he never showed them.

 You are a wife, a mother the next time you are awake, with a stinging in your cheeks and aches beneath your sleeves. You are still loved apparently; you think that love must be a painful thing. You look down at a babe that looks nothing like you and wonder if this girlchild is as breakable as you were. You wonder if the next time you awaken it will be to this child’s corpse instead of your own. You fear sleeping that time.

 It is stressful waking up in the palace, you are never quite on your own anymore and you never quite know who you will wake up to. You have learnt to feign sleep, in the seconds after you wake, to listen unnoticed. It makes all the difference on bad days; to know the part your husband needs you to play. His moods change like the winds and like that tower you left so long ago you must simply weather through them. It is a relief to wake to the chatter of maids, the footsteps of guards, in those moments you allow yourself to feel safe. Just for those moments, you know they do not care for you - only for the son your husband will get from you, but in those short moments you dream.

Still, you are used to waking up not knowing who is there. You are not used to waking up not knowing where you are. You do not even remember falling asleep, you would not have fallen asleep. Your husband was angry, it is not safe to sleep. But you are here in your room, your bed, the setting sun bathing the room in an amber glow. It had been morning and you were afraid. Afraid the door might open once more and it would all begin again, afraid that you could do nothing about. It was not morning anymore and you are lost to how you got here. And that somehow frightens you more than anything behind that door ever could.

But your beautiful, perfect daughter is soft and safe and sleeping in your arms, your body curled around her as though you might protect her from all the world. Maybe it was you, in that time you can’t recall, this person who slept peacefully when you were shaking with fear. You too would protect your daughter from anything.

 The child is a fleshy thing, the next time you awaken, soft and weak and fussy in your arms. You must hold it certain ways or it will fall apart under its own weight, and you do have to hold it because it can’t seem to do anything on its own. Humans confuse you still. You had hatched with a hunger and the teeth to sate it; this child offers gummy smiles.

So, you take it to see things, things you had seen from the tower walls, things you never had a chance to see. It is far more fragile than you and you did not even last a year, you may as well make what time this child has worth it. But princesses it seems are not allowed to see much. It is not a tower, not like you’d known, it sprawled across the land soaking up the sun but its walls work the same. Despite this you hold this daughter of the body which is not your own and show it the world, limited though it may be.  And each time you awaken you find yourself understanding just a little more; how it smiles for the colourful blooms and things that shine, but wails when you hold a mint leaf to its nose – you do that less often now.

 You are a queen now but you are not wise, not like a queen should be. Maybe if you were things would not be like this, maybe you’d be good enough and things wouldn’t hurt. But you are not. You are never enough to soothe your husband’s rages. The child in you – his maybe son – does not make him softer, only more careful. You favour long sleeves.

The maids whisper stories, stories about you, from the times you cannot remember. They tell you of a woman who looks at your daughter with confusion and pity in her eyes but holds clumsily close all the same. Apparently, you take Therese for walks, stroll from one end of the garden to the other, skirt the walls of the palace as though there will never be enough room to run. They whisper of a woman with your face who speaks to your daughter as though she is a tiny adult. You wonder if you are losing your mind; you’ve lost so much already. It feels as though you are never alone here anymore, that someone is always there, watching you, now it feels as though you cannot be alone even in your own mind.

Worse is that some days you are so tired that you welcome it, that sleep. Those days you submerge yourself in the feeling of nothingness, to let something else live for a day. You are filled with guilt when you wake; you abandoned your daughter, your life. It just reminds you how weak you are, that you would rather sleep than live. It’s just that your Therese is safe and laughing, toddling along after you wherever you go. You always wake to a happy, content daughter and bandaged bruises. You wonder if it would be ok to leave your children to them. You wonder if it is time for you to rest.

 You are awake as often as you are asleep now. You have seen that girlchild find its feet. Watched her unsteady steps find confidence. Listened as she learnt to call for a mother who is not there because you are. Part of you aches at that. It makes you feel hollow. You have felt the sting of a blade before but this, this lingers far longer.

You are not used to feeling, not like this. Fear, hunger, rage they came easy, but this, this feeling has swept you up into its clutches. Raises you high with the laughter of the girlchild you watch grow, leaves you falling as you remember what it means to watch her. This body made a home for you in her, found a place for that child dying long before its time, let you live if only for moments at a time. And with every breath you take you steal one more from her.

 There is no happiness in you, what you have you have given your daughter, you accepted it. This was the life that you have been given. Cowered and cried, curled into yourself, drawn his attention away from her. Let yourself fade day by day so that she might grow more vibrant than you were ever allowed. You have carved away at pieces of that girl in the tower to make yourself palatable, to fit the space they gave you. You accepted it. For her.

But this – this will not stand.

Your precocious, vibrant daughter who just wanted to see her father, is sobbing in your arms. Violets blooming on her cheek to match those that grow on your arms.

You would have his heart for this; carve it from his chest like some deranged thing. You might be. You’ve been breaking for five long years of marriage, only this time your sharp edges face outward. The fear is gone though, or is just quietened, lost in the tides of rage that sweep through each and every corner of your mind.

You do not fear breaking anymore, the monster you married will have to shatter you entirely to lay a hand on your daughter again. This time you let yourself scream and rage, he comes home expecting a subservient shell of a wife and finds your claws at his face and poison on your tongue. But you are not a creature of fangs and claws and even if you were this man has killed dragons – your dragons. You fight. You do not win. You fight anyway. Kicking, biting, scratching at the weight on top of you. Letting your nails draw blood from the hands around your neck.

 Dying is unforgettable, well maybe not dying but the moments before are. The pain, the world growing cold, unable to move and forced to listen to the dying screams of your siblings. You are dying again. Your murderer has his hands around your throat, you can’t breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe. The world is cold again and he has come back for you like a nightmare brought to life. You can’t breathe as your hands scramble for purchase, clawing at his face, his eyes. You have changed bodies but the cold rage in his eyes is the same. You cannot breathe. You are dying again. You want to run.

And isn’t that worse. That princess with soft hands and a soft heart is dying with you. Yet you do nothing but sit inside a body that is not your own and think of how to desert her. She opened up a part of herself, took you in and all you can think of is finding another place to run, to hide. Wanting to leave the only person to show you mercy and that smiling child to the hands of this monster. As though you are nothing more than some human.

It is time you remember what you are.

You are not a queen, not a princess, not a wife, not a mother. You are a dragon, unnamed and unproven. This body has protected you for many years and as it has protected you. You shall protect it. You are a dragon and dragons do not fear kings.

 You open your eyes to the weight of your husband still on top. For a moment you are afraid. You think it is well past the time for fear. Because it is not your husband anymore you suppose, though it may be wearing his face. It is difficult to care. That girl who saw the good in everyone died by his hands, drowned in the blood of her dragons. Yet as this creature that is not your husband, is not you, falls over itself like a new born fawn to get off you, and your body is your own for the first time in years, you start to think you may still have a protector remaining.

[crazed-rambling]

Mother I wonder what you have raised Let some sickly creature crawl into your nest Too kind to speak of my otherness Kept warm all the same

Mother did I disappoint you in the end When my scales remained and no feathers sprout I imagine you must have been For you looked away when I showed my venom, my teeth

And flew to all the places I can’t reach

[crazed-rambling]

Just a suggestion but What if we didn’t  Rebuild ourselves this time Didn’t mend these bridges between us to watch them crash again Is it not time to rest They’ve fallen so many times I’ve come to think That may be this gulf between us Is too deep to lay foundations

[crazed-rambling]

KR-4872

 Sometimes you just got to spend seven hours writing oc star wars fanfic because you have strong feelings about what happens to the stormtroopers after The Rise of Skywalker.

________________________________________________________________

KR-4872 hated this pillow. They supposed it was their pillow now but it wasn’t. Every night their head would sink into it then fall and fall and fall and the hull was breached and it was cold. So cold. They tried to breath tried to think. Think back to training, let the commander’s voice echo in their head. What is your directive trooper? But this wasn’t like the sims. The sims were always outside. Missions were outside. Not the ship, the ship was tasks and orders and training and rest cycles. And the grav had given out they were spinning, screams and shots reverberating inside their helmet. And they couldn’t breathe.

They slept without the pillow, kicked it down the bunk every night. They hadn’t slipped on their programming, even here even now, they still woke up well before their warden came for them, and each morning they returned the pillow to its usual place. There was no telling what was a test here and KR-4872 had not been informed of the consequences of failure. They had not witnessed a failure here yet, but it always came eventually and they would not be an example. Settling into the familiar at ease stance they waited.

“Kid? You all ready to go?” A woman’s voice sounded through the doors; their warden had arrived. Originally their warden would not come in without a verbal response, another example of these rebels’ weakness, but KR-4872 was a good trooper and would starve before giving in to rebel scum not matter their pitiful attempts at coaxing. Three silent days later they stopped waiting for a response, but the question allowed them chance to switch from them at ease to at attention stance before the warden opened the doors. KR-4872 refused to salute them each morning as though they were their unit leader, but they wouldn’t let anyone, even rebels, think they were a defective trooper.

Their warden was a slight woman, seemingly unarmed, but they didn’t like their chances against her. For all KR-4872’s training they had significantly less reach which would be detrimental in a close quarters fight, and once they’d seen the warden working on the rebel ships they’d given all hope of a physical assault. With her dark skin and coiled hair and her smile, the warden looked somewhat like YS-8251 had under their helmet, after two weeks, sometimes it still hurt to look at her. YS-8251 was dead.

It was just as well, since the warden seemingly took pleasure in laying out little tests for them, telling them they didn’t need to stand at attention, that they could ask her questions, to call her ‘Amakt’. She’d clearly been ordered to make them break programming; the rebels were far behind on their interrogation techniques, and KR-4872 had been trained to resist even First Order techniques. It was both dangerous and deviant to allow any feelings other than suspicion towards this woman to develop, no matter what she tried. KR-4872 was a good trooper.

She still tried to make conversation, to get them to open up, ready to spill the First Order’s secrets as they were led through the corridors towards the mess. KR-4872 wasn’t used to answering questions about how well they’d slept, it was not important to the quality of their work, still this woman asked each morning.

“I slept well ma’am.” KR-4872 lied each morning. Yet these unnecessary questions acted as some form of distraction from the disorder of the hallways. No pattern or order to the speed or direction they walked, droids of all makes dodging around the slower moving species. Sometimes they even stopped to have meaningless conversations with people they saw. In the hallway! And everyone else was just supposed to walk around them as though they weren’t showing off their own lack of discipline. The worst thing was that sometimes the rebels’ eyes followed them as they passed. They weren’t used to being looked at, stormtrooper armour made them all look the same, perfect order. Perfect troopers did not stand out. The rebels had been looking at them ever since they’d forced the helmet from their head. One of the rebels had even teared up after they’d wrenched KR-4872’s helmet off, back when they’d found them among the wreckage of their base. ‘They’re so young,’ they’d whispered, turning away to hide the tears that only a truly defective troopers let show. As though they weren’t the ones who brought disorder and death to the entire galaxy, as though they hadn’t prolonged this war for so long that the order was forced to use cadets just finished basic programming on the front lines. They cried as though they hadn’t just hours before cheered as her unit burned. They’re so young hadn’t mattered then. It must have mattered enough that now. They must thought it would make them easier to break, that their unfinished training would cause them to spill The Order’s secrets. As if they were too young to have gone through programming. These rebels were naïve in that way. It was why they weren’t suited for bringing order to the galaxy. It was why The Order would rise up again someday.

If KR-4872 found the corridors distracting, they found the mess hall both overwhelming and more familiar than anything else in this place. The layout an inferior echo of the perfect regimented rows of tables where their unit had eaten their rations, but this place lacked any of the calm order of those meals. It was as though the chaos of the hallways intensified hundreds of times over as they stepped through the doorway; walking into the wall of chatter that spilled out from this place. Words, voices, accents all spilled over each other, combining into the sort of cacophony which left them scrambling to keep track of every sound. Combined with the sight of rebels sitting around tables, donning all sorts of colours, with seemingly no pattern in position, role or species. The first moments in this room always made KR-4872 feel as though the connections in their brain were all firing at once, in entirely the wrong directions, as they attempted to catalogue the scene.

Two weeks of visits had done little to relive the intensity but the routine their warden seemed to have set for them both brought a comforting predictability to the situation. They hadn’t had time to cover authorised improvisation in their training before they were needed at the front. Their warden did not trust them to collect their food, walking them over to sit at the same table under supervision of more rebels eating their rations until she returned with theirs. It was clear the rebels were trying to bribe them, letting a prisoner eat the same food as they did and such a variety at that. It had taken time to get used to how much flavour the rebels seemed to put in their meals, so much brighter and less efficient than the Order’s nutritional rations, an obvious ploy to win them over. But they would enjoy the benefits of their attempts while they lasted.

KR-4872 wasn’t sure who the rebels they sat with were meant to be, they were not the warden’s unit-mates as she seemed to be the only mechanic among them, they had none of the markings of squadron-mates, they weren’t of the same species which meant they couldn’t have been produced together. Besides the two other humans both being from Coruscant they had seemingly no connection between these rebels or reason that they should gather like this for meals. Still they liked the rodian best, he was quiet, nodding to them once as they arrived then leaving them to their meal in peace, occasionally giving them some of the sweet stuff the rebels called ‘dessert’. KR-4872 had not figured out what he was aiming for by doing this but he currently seemed harmless.

“So kid any progress on your name?” They liked the male human ‘Ko’ least; he always asked the same question trying to trip them up. Talking during meals wasn’t allowed but he always wanted an answer. They hated the question as well, it always seemed to be some kind of test but they could never work out how to pass. When they were first asked for their name KR-4872 had given their designation, but the rebels did not seem to accept that answer, asking them what they’d like to be called. KR-4872 still didn’t understand what the purpose of the question was, but at least there seemed to be no repercussions of giving a wrong answer. Although they had been assigned the temporary designation ‘kid’ until they claimed KR-4872 was able to come up with their name. They shook their head in answer and the attention slid off of them back onto the pale female human who he’d interrupted.

“So like as I was saying Ko.” They liked when the attention was not on them, the rebels were content to talk among themselves so long as KR-4872 ate their food at a reasonable pace. The first meal they’d eaten too slowly and had been asked if they ‘didn’t like the food’ or ‘if they wanted something else’, an obvious trap and obvious warning. They made sure never to give the rebels any reason to believe they were ungrateful; they had no intention of letting the rebels reprogram them.

“….overheard Conn saying he heard that the generals said that we might be getting more leave soon, ya’know since we almost finished cleaning out this sector.” These conversations didn’t really mean much to them but they never knew when these rebels would let something slip. “I can’t wait to go home; I just want my leave now. Two weeks in the city. My own bed, dad’s cooking and none of these kriffing massive jungle bugs everywhere.” So far they’d learnt far more about these rebels’ lives than about the resistance’s plans or any remains of the First Order but they listened anyway. They’d mention things KR-4872 had never heard of before, music and foods and cities and parties. They still hadn’t figured out the purpose of a party, or even what it was, but they were too smart to draw attention to themselves by asking a question unprompted.

“Forget home. I just want my own kriffing room to myself again; there’s no way I’m getting laid with Lin snoring three feet away.”

“Ko! The kid!” Their warden’s scandalised yell of their temporary designation was enough to snap them back to attention, orders should never have to be repeated twice. But from she simply raised on hand in their direction, a gesture they’d come to realise as some sort of apology for calling their designation, she’d said it was an apology for ‘startling’ them. But troopers were always ready to respond to direct orders, so they didn’t understand the need for any sort of apology, they also didn’t understand why she was so scandalised. KR-4872 had long since learnt the mechanics of reproduction and understood that one day they’d fulfil their duty to the Order and reproduce with a trooper of the opposite sex. The rebels overreacted to many things though. They had started to get used to that as well.

“Ready to go kid?” Their food was gone, their warden was standing up, smiling down at them. Their warden smiled at them a lot. Troopers didn’t get much opportunity to observe expressions but they couldn’t help but feel that when she smiled at them she was always a little sad. They weren’t sure how to feel about that. Not that it made a difference if a rebel was sad, KR-4872 was a good trooper and it was time for the next part of their routine. Return the plates to the dirty pile, then to work. Not that it was really work - they got the feeling that the rebels did not quite know what to do with a prisoner, at least they seemed to be the only prisoner like them, so they just left them under the supervision of their warden as she went about her day. KR-4872 mainly sat reading whatever manual or book someone had found lying around, watching their warden repair the rebel transport ships.

The hanger was never quiet, too many pilots and ships and mechanics all in one place, but in their corner when their warden was focused on her work KR-4872 could almost believe that they might wake up back in their real bunk surrounded by their unit. It was their favourite part of the day. But feelings are a weakness and troopers should know anticipation leads to mistakes. They should have known better. So caught up in their next task they lost track of their surroundings, asking for death on a mission. Something, someone brushed against their shoulder. Close. Too close. They walked into someone; they weren’t meant to walk into people. They weren’t meant to be in the way. The punishment for obstruction was three cycles of reduced rations. They jerked away, metal plate slipping between their grip. They could only watch it fall.

The echoing sound of metal on metal. The loudest sound.

Their warden was looking at them. The rebels were looking at them. The hall hadn’t gone silent but the kitchen and the line for food and enough of it had. They’d all seen. They’d all seen the mess they’d made. They’d all watched them fail. They would tell everyone. The officers would know, their unit leader would know. They’d know KR-4872 was a defective trooper. They were going to reprogram them again.

They were going to be reprogrammed.

They were going to be reprogrammed.

With every beat of their heart, with every breath becoming louder and louder, the knowledge reverberated in their head. And between each repeat was nothing but a deafening silence like the moments after a bomb drops.

The silence shattered, “Kid-“ they ran.

Out of the mess hall, right then left then left again. Which way to the room? No they’d find them there. They had to hide, had to get away. Couldn’t let them catch them. Wouldn’t let them reprogram them. They wouldn’t let themselves be emptied out again just to become a rebel puppet. They wouldn’t go back to that dark cold room. They’d been good, they’d been a good trooper. They’d passed their basic programming. They didn’t want to go back. They just have to keep running. Keep running until they couldn’t hear the footsteps behind them. They just needed to find somewhere to hide then regroup with their unit when the danger passed. That’s what they said in training. Just follow the training.

There! The next room on the right! An empty storage room filled with crates and rebel supplies. No one would think they hid here; they’d think they was trying to escape. It was perfect. They slid themselves between the gaps in the crates, into the small shadowed space behind. Too small for any of the rebels to pass, perfect for them. For the moment they were safe and KR-4872 buried their face in their knees.

Here in their hiding place it was dark and the sounds of outside were muffled just enough, like the inside of their helmet. KR-4872 missed their helmet, they missed the comforting feeling around their ears, how it protected them from the seemingly endless variety smells which just seemed to be everywhere, most of all they missed when nobody could tell if they let a few tears slip. They didn’t have that here, they let all those rebels see their weakness, how defective they were. Incapable of handling a single task, incapable of facing their punishment like a real trooper, incapable of even breathing. As though they were back, trapped in that helmet stuck endlessly spinning in zero grav as their unit was crushed and burnt around them. If they’d been a proper trooper they would have died with the unit, would have died before letting themselves be caught by rebel scum. KR-4872 was nothing but a defective trooper.

A shadow fell over the entrance to their hiding space, they froze still frantically trying to quiet their breathing. Look away. Look away. Look away. KR-4872 didn’t want to be reprogrammed again.

“I found her! Get Amakt!” They’d never heard the rodian shout before, he sounded almost frantic. They must not want to get punished either, they’re all going to be mad. There were more rebels now, they could hear them outside. They were all going to drag KR-4872 to reprogramming, scrape them raw from the insides until even their tears dried up. They didn’t even try to hold back the sob that escaped at the thought.

“Don’t crowd her!” Their warden. Amakt. Their warden. She sounded mad, yelling loud enough to drown out the crowd waiting to see them punished. They were going to be in so much trouble, they were going to get punished and she was going to get punished because of them and then they’d never get to eat that food again, and they’d never hear about the city or music and the rodian would never give them the sweet food. They’d ruined it all.

“Kid? You ok?” Her voice was quieter, closer now too. The shadows above her had moved away and through their teary eyes they saw her face at the entrance to their hiding place. An expression KR-4872 couldn’t quite understand on her face. Something like fear and sadness, not the type they felt when they got punished but the type they felt as they watched YS-8251 being taken for reprogramming.

“It’s me, Amakt. You can come out.” She was talking to them as though they were one of those wild weasel-like creatures that wondered in the from the jungle. Something weak and afraid. Maybe that’s what they were. It wasn’t like they were a proper trooper. Even the rebels could tell.

“You’re not in trouble. No one’s mad at you. It’s all been cleaned up, it’s all fixed.” Lies! They saw, they all know KR-4872 is defective now, the rebels knew they were weak. They were going to drag them off into one of those cold dark room to take all their secrets then wipe them clean after. If they didn’t just dispose of them once their use was up.

“Please come out. I just want to know you’re ok.” They were defective! How could they be ok? What did it matter if a defective trooper was ok? They could still feel snot and tears dripping onto their knees, they weren’t a proper trooper. Proper troopers didn’t hide away and cry like children.

“Everyone else has gone, it’s just us.” The shadows were gone, they couldn’t hear them either. The base was quiet for once in a way it never seemed to be, no chatter echoing off the walls. For a moment maybe it was just the two of them. Maybe they could leave, they might be able to get past her, find a new hiding place. But that wouldn’t work. They know that wouldn’t work. She’s taller and stronger and she has them trapped.

“We can go back to your room if you want kid. Or I could show you some of the X-wings in the hanger? We can do what you want today, ok?” It was clearly a trap. She’d noticed them looking at the X-wings across the hanger, they’d been too obvious, too childish. They should have kept their eyes front and centre. Trooper’s eyes didn’t wander. They didn’t get distracted by ships they’d never seen up close, decked in colourful paints so unlike the uniform TIE fighters they were used to. She’d noticed them and now she was using it against them, trying to lure them out with false promises only to spring the trap the moment they left their safe place.

“Whatever you want today kid. Just say the word.” But she sounded almost desperate, she’d never spoken to them like that before. No one had begged KR-4872 to do anything before, they were a trooper, they followed orders. But it didn’t matter because it was clearly a trap. They’d got too comfortable around these rebels, let their guard down. And now it was all crashing down.

But what if she was telling the truth? What if she was worried about them? Maybe they wouldn’t get reprogrammed. That was stupid, KR-4872 shouldn’t be so stupid and naïve, it was obviously a test. But they were already trapped, the rebels had them, the only way out was toward her. There was no need to lie to them. And if there was no need to lie then it was the truth? No! This was all a tactic to get them to come out so they could reprogramme them. But they were surrounded anyway, they could drag them out at anytime and they didn’t. Idiot! It’s to make reprogramming easier. They wanted them to spill all the Order’s secrets! But…. But if….

But if they were going to be reprogrammed either way….                                                        

                                              …maybe it didn’t matter if they failed one more test.

“Amakt? You promise?”

[crazed-rambling]

The Day After The End Of The World

Let tomorrow be a genesis

If today we must bear witness

To the final revelation of this warmongering god

That last long awaited omen come to pass

An apocalypse straight from scriptures

They once ground our faces into

Let today be their end of all things

Tomorrow we shall plant Eden anew

In the ruins of these hallowed halls

[crazed-rambling]

Whisper me all your worries love Let me drink them down Dig out those nails buried in your heart Let my bloody hands sate them for now Pass me that fire beneath your skin Permit me to burn in your place

I’d take it from you all of it If I thought you’d let me Hoard your misfortunes jealous as a miser Carve out a place in me To hold your worries with my own But you’re kind you’d hate that And lately my worst fears Have taken the form of your crying face I know you’d never allow me To take your burdens as my own But for tonight I’m begging Indulge me for I’m selfish my love

[crazed-rambling]

My Greatest Fear

My greatest fear in life is to die lonely and alone surrounded by no one,

to simply live my final years as a ghost

a memory in the minds of others distant but never important.

I do not want to die empty and alone –

and it’s always there in the back of my mind buzzing

below my thoughts ready to rise and consume me if I let it.

 I am anxious by nature; I know how to deal with worries:

things I can’t change, things I can,

worse case scenarios which spill out of my nightmares and into my brain.

But I can’t get rid of this one

because part of me always knows that I might die lonely

I felt that from the moment I understood that there was something missing.

 People have drawn road maps for me;

centuries of tradition, or ongoing fights for rights

and I can see where they lead. A life together.

I’ve traced my steps so carefully since I was a child

following the instructions waiting for myself to change, to realise,

to love like I have seen all my friends do

I do not think that moment will come for me

I think I shall have to wave them off down paths I cannot follow

and wait for the day they forget to look back.

I am 22 and I am so very scared of dying alone

[crazed-rambling]

Origami For Beginners

There was a plan when we started

Folding ourselves into each other to make new shapes

I’m not quite sure what shape we’ve become

But our edges aren’t right, don’t you feel us tearing?

Maybe we need unfolding love

Packed too tight too close to see what we were

But not right to be what we should be

Maybe holding me so close has left us creased

I think it’s time we right ourselves

Let’s untangle ourselves to smooth our creases

Take a step back to fold the way we should

With enough care we might become something beautiful

But if not, we can always begin anew

With another sheet.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 31 Sexy

Of all the things Rea was expecting to see in the bathroom, it was not Claire in the world’s tiniest sexy vampire costume, complete with a tiny cape. She looked great but it was an odd choice of attire for many reasons, not the least of which being…

‘It’s a full moon tonight. We’re all going to turn into eight foot super buff wolf amazons’ ‘It’s stretchy’ She pulled at the material to demonstrate. Rea hadn’t really been worried about the costume issue but it really was quite impressive how far it could go. She pulled on part of the top, amazed at how far she could pull it.

‘Wow it is’ Wait no. she was getting distracted again, the frankly amazing outfit wasn’t the point. ‘I thought we were gonna stay in and watch horror movies with the girls.’ She may be the president but she certainly wasn’t above whining to try and keep her pack under control, it was far too successful.

‘Ok but those fanged assholes from Pi Kappa Phi are going out for Halloween, I’m gonna follow them all night. heard them saying it’s much easier to seduce a girl into letting them have a drink when they’re drunk and already in the spooky spirit. Good luck with that, it’s gonna be a lot harder to seduce anyone with a giant werewolf wearing a tiny sexy vampire costume behind them,’ she paused to give a little twirl for effect, stopping in an exaggerated sexy pose before continuing. ‘The only thing those assholes are gonna be sucking on tonight is my dick’

’Claire!’ She really hoped it sounded like a scandalised admonishment rather than laughter she was trying so hard to repress. To be honest though, Claire probably already knew, they’d been friends too long.

‘What? You hate them too.’ She sighed; Rea couldn’t deny that. The hatred between the all vampire fraternity and their sorority was legendary across campus, while most vamps and wolves could get along Pi Kappa Phi seemed to solely recruit assholes who had decided being a female werewolf was somehow gross. But still she was meant to be president, which apparently meant being responsible.

She made sure to lay on the disappointed teacher voice real thick to say, ‘Claire. We agreed that we were gonna take the moral high ground this semester. Because unlike them we aren’t petty children.’ She must have hit close enough to the mark or Claire had been pre-drinking because she seemed to fall for it. Eye’s widening as though she’d been caught doing something far worse, rushing to justify herself.

‘Ok ok ok I have a really good reason’ Rea raised an eyebrow, as if saying go on, careful not to display any of her amusement on her face in case Claire took it as encouragement.

‘So I was just on my way to stats, minding my own business and those assholes just started yelling and being you know, themselves. So I was like trying to ignore them, but like guess what one of them yelled. This asshole asked me if we were sure we were werewolves, or whether we just had really bad PMS. He called me a wolf bitch after I told him where he could shove that.’ Rea physically paused at that, recalculating based on this new information, and decided that she’d never heard of the moral high ground.

‘I saw nothing. I was not here. And I definitely did not tell you that they planned on going to Electic this evening.’

‘Thanks Pres’

-------------------------------------------------------------- 

The next morning found Rea sleepily eating her way through an entire box of cereal, the change always took it out of you. Once the rest of the girls had woken up they’d head to Waffle House and eat their weight in junk to make up for it, but she’d been woken by some groaning noises across the house and couldn’t wait. Just a girl and her entire box of cereal. Nothing to see here.

Except apparently Claire and a dishevelled looking blonde trying to sneak down the stairs, the stranger clearly still tipsy and giggling. Clearly it had been those two who had woken her up. Some revenge against her friend was in order. They didn’t notice her in the kitchen and she heard the door close behind the blonde.

‘Who was that?’ She asked as Claire attempted to sneak back upstairs without anyone noticing. Watching her jump at the sound of her voice nearly made up for the trauma of being awake before ten after a change.

‘Chad tried seduce her last night, she couldn’t keep a straight face with me twerking in wolf form behind him. She decided she’d rather go home with me’ Rea was not awake enough to follow that logic. Clearly Claire’s plan had worked and the fanged fucker had had a bad night but…

‘You were in wolf form last night!’

‘Not this morning I wasn’t.’ It was far too early to watch her friend wiggle her eyebrows looking unpleasantly smug over what had apparently been a very good morning. She hoped it showed on her face how done she was with this. ‘What? Don’t give me that look you told me to have something to eat after a shift’

[crazed-rambling]

Day 30 Scream

Why was she stuck with an older sibling like this? She was far more mature than Mark and yet she was the one who needed a babysitter. Anyone who looked at this scenario would not call this successful babysitting. She could totally be kidnapped right now. He left her alone in the car. In the dark. She could barely even see outside; they’d driven so far out into the fields for this that she couldn’t even see the lights of the town. It had been so unnerving to look out of the window and just see blackness, solid and unending as though it had been painted on, that she’d turned the heating up on high to fog up all the windows. Not that she’d ever admit she was afraid, especially not to her brother. The sense of dread had been growing though, every moment since she’d watched her brother and his friends vanish into the dark, telling her to entertain herself until they returned.

She only agreed to stay because she didn’t want to look like a baby in front of Mark’s friends, they’d laugh at her if she demanded to come with them or to not be left alone. She could do this; she wasn’t a baby. Although sitting here surrounded by darkness and choking on the smell of Mark’s weed felt a lot like being in limbo, they’d taken the keys and the car was off, she couldn’t see the clock. She had no idea about how much time had passed, no idea when her brother would return. There was only the sound of her breaths and the darkness around her.

It must have been a while, right? She’d tried singing all the Disney songs she knew, no one could murder her to a Disney soundtrack, right? Truthfully it was somewhere between a failed attempt to pass the time and an attempt at dragging some of the safety those movies gave her into the car with her. It hadn’t really worked, the tunes seemed to ring hollow and empty, a depressing reminder of how alone she was. And once she realised how alone she was, she remembered how afraid she was. She wouldn’t cry, she didn’t want to have to listen to the sound of her sobs, the laughter when they got back, the silence was better than that. So, she would sit in silence once more.

She’d imagine herself somewhere completely different, an elaborate daydream where she was strong and surrounded by friends and no one laughed at her, the type she’d come up with lying in her bed when it was dark and quiet. She’d be some form of warrior, a mage, someone special and she would never have to feel afraid again. She’d let those daydreams fill her head, drive out all thoughts of what could wait in the dark, all the silence that sat heavy on her. So long as she had those dreams, she wouldn’t be afraid of the silence.

The silence that was abruptly cut short by a scream.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 29 Wings

Rows upon rows of feathers lay before her, she’d always thought that feathers would be soft and fluffy like the multi-coloured craft feathers she used as a kid. Now faced with the real thing she couldn’t help but think that they looked more like shards of metal, sleek and glinting in the low light, carefully formed and fashioned to make up each wing. They were shorter, sleeker near the base, tinged a warm honey gold colour that just seemed so dissonant with the situation she found herself in. But the feathers darkened and grew as her eyes made her way along the wings until the primary feathers at the tips were longer than her arm and the type of black you could fall into. She idly wondered what they would feel like under her fingers.

She had no plans of finding out, even at this distance the creature was painful to look at, her eyes stinging from even the small glances she had taken of the very edges of its wings. It was already like staring into the sun and she felt with a certainty she hadn’t known she had that if she was to look, to get any closer, she might burn away just from its presence alone. She might burn away still, but she would silently look on. A god, a monster had come down from on high and she would bear witness.

Distantly she could hear the fearful chants of the priest, the muttered prayers echoed around her, the crunch of dry grass beneath fleeing feet. The sudden silence of it all.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 28 Photo

She had never realised how much she had appreciated sunlight before these last few weeks. Term was ending and her final project was due so soon now that she almost lived in her dark room these days. Fixing, developing, selecting, all to make that perfect photo. The room had been intimidating at first, the red light never really enough to illuminate as though a black fog had descended over the place. She’d been afraid of the dark as a child, she though it had gone away, this room reminded her of that fear, the endless questions of whether you were really alone, whether something was watching you while you remained blind to it.

Those feelings had faded over time, the exhaustion that comes from long hours and ever encroaching deadlines gave little time to her fears. All that remained was apathy towards the place, some artistic appreciation for the sharp shadows the red-light cast, illuminating a type of beauty she’d never though of before. She hadn’t really thought much about this whole project in general but she was aware that she was never going to be a skilled as her classmates so a unique idea or method was necessary for a good grade. No one had used the darkroom in years apparently, digital photo manipulation was so much easier and more varied, but the room had never given off the feeling of being abandoned. There was no dust on her first arrival, no broken lights or missing parts, everything was perfectly as it should be. Well loved despite being locked away for years.

This was her final photo for the evening, eyelids drooping in the low light, she’d fall asleep on her feet if she went on any longer and that would do nothing but ruin all the work she’d done. The motions had become familiar to her over the course of this project, she no longer fumbled for the tweezers on the shadowed surface of the table, fluidly picking up the paper and pinning it to the line to dry. She inspected the image closer, squinting in the darkness trying to make out how the image had developed, so close that the sharp scent of the fixer burnt her nostrils. She held her breath, closing her eyes to prevents any unconscious tears from building up, it was already hard enough to see. The room was already so dark that closing her eyes plunged her into darkness, the sort of dizzying darkness that made you feel untethered, as though you were the only thing that existed around you. A cold hand grabbed her waist.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 27 Language

“Kevin isn’t this a little much?” No in fact he did not think this was a little much, this was in fact a perfectly reasonable response to the problem at hand. It just so happened to look slightly suspicious without the full explanation.

“No! He is possessed and we are not taking any chances.”

“Is he though?”

“Am I though?”

“Shut up you!” he didn’t have to take this from a demon “And give me my friend back!” All he wanted was Matt back and then they could go on with their lives and he could ignore this whole mess. Well if he was gonna get everything he wanted, he would also like to tear the demon out from under his skin and hurt it for ever thinking it could take anything from Matt. It was only the fact that this creature was in Matt’s body that he stayed his hands. He wondered what Mark might think, hearing these thoughts? He’d always been the softer of them and Kevin had worked hard to shield him from the worst of himself. Demons would not get the same curtesy.

“Look, do you have any proof that he’s possessed?”

“He was speaking in tongues.” Start with the classic sign of possession. A good move, safe and easy to explain. Also, if he doesn’t believe possession talking gibberish is a sign of madness so he could still convince Mark something was wrong.

“He’s bilingual.” Never mind, he forgot he was friends with the dumbest of bitches.

“I know what Spanish sounds like Mark. That was not fucking Spanish.”

“I’m pretty sure it was.” It was actually becoming uncomfortable to hear Matt’s voice in this scenario, something he’d always associated with safety was clashing with the knowledge that this was not his friend. The dissonance of the feelings getting louder with each word spoken.

“You don’t count as a witness. You’re possessed.”

“Anything else?”

“He stabbed a guy!” Probably should have led with that argument if he was perfectly honest but he was stressed so it’s not his fault.

“That just doesn’t sound like something he’d do. Look at him.” That was the thing, he was looking at him and all he saw was the way that this creature had twisted Matt’s face in ways he never did. Nothing that could give him away as inhuman but every little detail screamed not Matt, even as he used his face to try and manipulate them both.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 26 Faces

Meg found it easier to sketch people’s faces, people said she was an incredible artist, so creative. But she’d always found it easier to recreate what she saw than look at it, the closeness and awareness of another human being rubbed her just a little too raw for comfort. Her mum had never understood it when she was young, they’d all assumed she was a shy child, eyes flicking this way and that, a single glance then away. She had known that label never fit even then when she didn’t have the words to explain why it felt so wrong; shyness implies fear, she steered closer to disinterest. A single glance was enough. Not that she really saw ‘faces’ in the way others had described them, she was very aware how a human face should be composed but that knowledge was rather more theoretical than from any observation. What she saw was rather more a mess of colours, pictures and intentions. They were her little shortcut.

Still she enjoyed drawing the faces of others, sketching the lines and building them up with each small idiosyncrasy of their personality. She enjoyed the feeling of just letting her hand move as what she saw dictated, to her this wasn’t the kind of talent that required planned. But then again this wasn’t the type of talent people assumed it was. People assumed she drew so well because she was talented at it, she wasn’t she’d been awful when she first started doing this. She’d gotten better, one terrible drawing at a time, but that wasn’t the point of these drawings. Instead it was a reminder, since looking at faces during conversation was so distracting it did her well to remember what she saw beneath.  

[crazed-rambling]

Day 25 Time

Before there were mourning dresses, before the tears of my daughters and the silence of grandchildren. Before births and weddings and yet more births. Before my days passed with all the languid motion of a person with absolutely nowhere to be. Before all of it, there was the girl on the bridge.

I was so young the first time I saw her, young enough to be so enchanted that I looked passed all her oddities. She reminded me of a doll I’d seen once before, glimpsed through the window of the fancy toy shop a town over. Mother hadn’t let me stop to look, no point, not as though we’d be allowed to linger in a place like that. She’d bought me a sticky bun from the bakery, a rare enough treat that I forgot any sadness I might have felt, but that doll stayed in my mind. I can still see it now; delicate lace on blue silk, porcelain hand-painted with the softest of blushes. I imagine she would have been smooth and soft between my clumsy fingers; they were already work worn at that age. But this girl looked how that doll did in my mind, where time and my imagination had smoothed its rough edges leaving only beauty behind. She didn’t speak to me but I wasn’t expecting her to; rich girls like that don’t need to talk to people like me. Still I remember dragging my mother to the bridge to see her, this beautiful girl who looked just like a doll, my mother half playing along as she followed me along the town’s dirt track. I tried many people after that. I soon realised that she was something only I could see.

People forgot about my ‘imaginary’ friend as I grew older, shooting up like a weed while she was constant like a memory captured in time. I never could stay away, she never spoke back but I though it might get quite lonely for her, being alone all the time. People assumed that the bridge was my favourite place, that I loved the river or the way the trees on the banks bloomed in spring, or something along those lines. I remember my husband even proposed to me there, trees blooming around us, under the watchful eyes of that little girl. I think maybe she smiled that day.

I married, built a home, built a family and there she stayed, watching it all from the bridge as beautiful as the day I first saw her as time and hard work carved line after line into my own skin. I brought my daughters to see her, just once, when they were very young, young enough to forget. To see if my gift was something I had passed on. Walked them out of town on a crisp autumn day, their father at work but ours long finished, I lead them like my own little ducklings down to the river and asked what they saw. My eldest loved watching pebbles sink beneath the current as she tossed them from the bridge and my youngest told me how she loved the autumn leaves on the trees by the banks. I didn’t take them back with me again.

My girls married in their own time, had their own families for me to spoil in their place. I spent years with my husband, not always easy but always together, I mourned him for some too. And she watched on, each passing year every story of my life. I too shall run out of time soon and I wonder whether she will still be there for me even then.

[crazed-rambling]

Day 24 Blood

Drip.

She swore she’d turned off the taps properly this time.

Drop.

There it was again damp and tinny in the darkness of her room.

Drip.

She wished she could ignore it. Roll over and surrender herself to sleep. Her eyelids had been weighing more and more ever since she came home, she’d been biting back yawns for even longer. It had been the type of day where her whole body protested getting out of bed; dark, over clouded and endlessly dreary. Autumn in London was nothing if not perpetually damp and the perpetual haze of drizzle had begun turning the autumn leaves to mush on the pavements. Just looking outside sucked the energy out of her. It had been a long day. And yet –

Drop.

There it was again, louder for the darkness around her. For all that she loved to sleep her brain did not, she was ever distracted by every light, every sound, ever driving her brain round in circles late a night. She’d hoped this would be the time she could ignore it, teach herself to be better at falling asleep, exposure therapy of a kind. She’d really hoped, her bed was finally warm and wrapped in her duvets she finally felt as though the chill in her bones was thawing.

Drip.

She really did not want to leave. The air on her face was cool and even the edges of her sheets were cold to her touch. She just knew the floor was colder. It was obvious the moment she got up she’d let all that cold air back into her bed, the chill would seep from the floor to her bare feet and her skin would be littered with goosebumps by the time she got back. Then she’d have to start all over; relaxing, warming up, checki-

Drop.

Screw it.

She probably didn’t need to put that much power into throwing off her duvet but any less and she’d give in to the temptation of staying in the warmth. When you leave a warm place, you get a few seconds before the cold come crashing down on you as though you’ve been somehow propelled into a wall. It fell on her as though a waterfall had opened up above her bed, and that was all she needed to get moving.

Drip.

Into the hallway, the house creaked beneath her feet, she was far too tired to avoid the louder floorboards. It wasn’t like she had to worry about waking anyone else up. Dan hadn’t come home in the end – the asshole. He’d done this before, swore it would be a couple of drinks after work, he’d be back before ten. Then slam open the door at 1am, forget to kick off his shoes, then trek mud up the stairs he didn’t clean. Just thinking about him made her more irritated, he’d asked her to make dinner then just fucked off with his friends instead. The dinner, the cold, the dripping. She just wanted to be asleep, to leave her problems for tomorrow.

Drop.

The bathroom mat was a blessing for her cold feet, it even felt warm after fumbling through the unlit hallway. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights, it would have just woken her up more, and she didn’t want to deal with the pain as her eyes adjusted to the light. It wasn’t like she didn’t now where the taps were and she could see well enough with the street lights seeping through the blinds, enough to see an outline anyway.

Drip.

The cold ceramic of the sink against her hip she fumbled for the taps, trying to feel where the water was coming from. Both felt dry beneath her finger tips. She turned them, once, twice, as hard as she could. But they did not budge. Then where was the drippi-

Drop.

Something warm and wet and viscous landed on her cheek, stark against the cold night air. She stood frozen, the heat a brand on her skin. She felt it slide down her face, felt the damp trail left in is wake as she finally caught the sent of iron in the air.