Snippets from Kipper

welcome to my story garden. here you’ll find fragments—small moments, unfinished thoughts, one-page ghosts. sometimes they’re stories. names you’ll see: ava grey (elowyn kaida), tasi (tasia, fantasia) themes: grief. regret. love in strange places. sometimes magic. sometimes fire. always feeling. read, linger, leave quietly if you need to. or say something. you’re always welcome here.

[kippakip]

Too Warm

These walls never change. And still—I never feel at home. There’s no noise that is unfamiliar. No smell that I don’t commit to memory. And yet, I never seem to find myself relaxing. Many of the nurses feel differently, though. They’re chittering on and on about the General’s dinner happening tonight. 

My eyes trace the lines of the ceiling, fixated on a stain that has always looked like a ruffled cat, fur poking in every direction. Its long tail curls down the center of the ceiling tile, probably marking the trail of a water stain making its way through the cracks. There’s a small green vine peeking through the seam of the two tiles, as if surveying the scene below.

At least something in this hell hole of a bunker gets to thrive.

“Ok, hun. You’re good to go.” The nurse chirps in my ear. She takes the needle out of my arm very carefully, making sure to put a cotton ball right over the area where they just drew my blood. I sit up, my head feeling instantly light. 

She’s just a child, Lucas! Stop it–Stop–

A cold palm grips the bare skin of my forearm, instantly jarring me out of my thoughts.

“Geez, Maria. Did you take enough?” The man before me reaches for the tray in between us, the blood swishing around erratically at the lightest touch. As my thoughts return to me, I realize that there are three extra tubes in the tray. No wonder I feel so dizzy.

Maria gives him a stern look, gently laying her hand on the tray to steady it. “I’m just doing what is best for her, Wes. Did you forget that I’m the nurse here?”

He scoffs before looking at me, his gaze meeting mine. His eyes are a rich blue, the hue making me forget most things and remembering others. Most of the time, the color reminds me of the ocean. My mom and I would travel to Oregon to see my aunt and uncle every other year. The ocean was so vast, I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. If I jumped into the water, how far would the tide take me? 

I ask myself this question every time he looks at me like this. With so much care and gentleness that I don’t know what to do with it. If I jumped into his warmth, how quickly would I drown?

“Tasi? Are you feeling ok?” He shifts his palm on my forearm, raking his thumb over the sensitive part of my wrist. Most people would find the touch of the one who is responsible for making sure you never leave to be repulsive. There was a time when I did hate it, shoved him away, cried my eyes out and begged him to give me a quick death.

But he never did. He only watched as I crawled along the ground, tears and drool pooling onto the cold concrete between us.

And then one day, he cried with me. He picked me up off of the ground, held me, and cried with me. 

That was the day things started to change. He must have found himself feeling particularly dutiful, because he requested that I be his permanent assignment. When I first heard the news, I think I should have dreaded the inclination that I was enough of a prisoner to be a permanent assignment. But all I could think about were his eyes. His smile. His warmth.

My wrist was beginning to feel that warmth. Too warm. Burning, even. I gently pull my wrist away from him, withdrawing it into my lap as I begin to nervously play with the brand new bandage around my arm.

“Yes,” a hoarse croak of a word followed by me clearing my stupid, embarrassingly closed up throat, “I’m fine. Just a bit light headed.”

Wes’ gaze drops to me nervously picking at my bandage, a small crease forming between his brows. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to push Maria to answer some more questions. I don’t care. I want to get back to my room. 

But he just sighs, gives me a small smile, and then shrugs. “Not like you needed it anyway, right? It’s just blood.”

Maria huffs in disapproval. “Good grief, if you’re going to continue insulting me, can you at least do it out of earshot?” Her arms flail about in front of her, ushering us to the door.

“Well, that’s no fun. How could I annoy you if you can’t hear me?” He chides, a big grin overtaking his once small smile. The smile reaches his eyes, the ocean of his eyes now turning into a small lake. I find myself returning a small smile as I push myself off of the exam table and begin walking towards the door. 

Wes grabs my jacket for me, opening the door and sending a playful wink at Maria all in the same motion.

She is at a loss for words. I turn to look at her, shocked by her silence only to see that she is becoming red in the face. “Uh oh. She’s gonna blow.” I whisper to Wes, stepping through the threshold of the door. 

He quickly follows behind me, his chin barely grazing my ear as he whispers back to me. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

I let myself laugh now that he has closed the door behind us. We’re both laughing a little now, and it’s now that I realize something that the so-called qualified nurse should have noticed: his laugh is infectious.

[kippakip]

Die Well, Sister

The woman before her is covered in blood. The blood is so plentiful that she can smell the copper in the air. It’s tangible on her tongue—a smell and a taste that she will never be able to forget. The woman gasps for air that is not giving her life. There’s a small gurgle in what’s left of her throat, bubbles popping that contain the last bit of air her body is trying so hard to keep inside.

There are no sounds coming from the woman in her arms, but she can see the agony creasing every plane and hard line of her face. What can she do? Why isn’t she doing anything? All she can see—all she can hear—all she can smell—all she can taste is the life leaving her sister splayed out in front of her.

“Elara…Elar..” The words escape her lips in a choked sob, fear and loss already clouding her vision. She is so focused on the fear, the panic, and the uncertainty of what to do. Her eyes involuntarily follow the trail of blood seeping from her sister’s body, tracing it all the way to the dress she wears, the fabric pooled around her knees. The white linen has soaked her sister’s blood into every fiber, creeping its way to her mid-thighs.

It’s there that she sees the blood now. On her hands. Under her fingernails. Down her arms. The blood of her sister has enveloped every part of her. Her hands begin to shake with uncontrollable panic. There’s a sharp chill jumping up and down her spine incessantly. The beat of her heart is in her ears. She can’t hear anything anymore. She can’t feel. She can only see the blood covering her own hands.

Suddenly, there’s a hot, blinding pain in her abdomen. She looks down at the source of the pain, grasping for something that is not there. Her eyes meet those of her dying sister, her arm bracing the hilt of the sword that is now plunged into her stomach.

“Die well, sister,” Elara grinds out, twisting the blade so that it makes her pain that much more unbearable. Just as Ava begins to scream—

She hits the cold, hard floor. Her body is soaked in sweat, her palms slipping on the hard stone floor as she tries to push herself up. A droplet of sweat trickles off her nose as she sits up, the liquid soaking into her linen top. She instinctively reaches for where she should be bleeding, hands splaying across her stomach in panicked horror. Alas, there is no sword and no wound. Ava takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, relief filling every part of her. The pit inside her stomach is beginning to fill again as her grip on reality tightens.

Upon opening her eyes, her senses flood back to her. She can hear the quiet chirping of crickets and cicadas outside her window. The floor is cold and smooth to the touch. She’s at home and has fallen out of her bed. Feeling a little more than humiliated by her own night terrors, she forces herself to stand. Her breathing has steadied, and she now feels the material of her clothes clinging to the sweat generated by her panic. The heat is too much to bear.

Her eyes settle on the unlit candle at her bedside, and she decides that she could spare a match to take a trip to the pond outside her home. With a quick snap of her fingers, she lights the candle and takes it with her, being careful not to let the light go out as she walks. Her quick and quiet steps evade the ears of the sleeping tenants of her house. She can’t help but feel a small amount of comfort as her bare feet meet the soft grass on the other side of the door.

It’s not a far walk to the pond, but the early morning air can make the trip feel like it takes a lifetime. Clutching her sweat-drenched clothes, she tries fanning them off her body, the chilly air seeping into her skin. She approaches the pond and kneels down, the moon casting a beautiful reflection across the natural ripples that mark the pond’s surface.

She meets her reflection with disdain. There’s nothing there—just the trees above her and the stars spanning across the awakening sky. Sometimes Ava is grateful for this. She knows roughly what she would see: freckles, auburn hair, dark red eyes, and all the liveliness of a dead woman walking. Her mother always said that Elara was her better twin, even if they were born three years apart. Elara was the epitome of natural beauty. She didn’t have all the perfect angles and all the perfect placement of features.

She had all the perfect markings of someone who had lived. Her smile was so bright. Her eyes were full of a wonder you could see in their eloquent emerald hues. Her hair had startling copper hues, and her face was marked with evidence of her days in the sun. Elara was a woman who had lived without fear and had the marks to prove it: the scar beneath her chin, the split across her lip. Her teeth weren’t perfectly straight, and her smile had a crook in it. Everyone loved her for it. They loved the life they could see in her.

What life could anyone see in Ava? The answer was none. She saw nothing in her reflection—only the absence of life. A reflection of not only who Ava was now, but as she always would be. Some days, she wondered what she would look like now. Probably like Elara, but with some of her own angles. From what she could remember, they shared the same nose. Elowyn had a longer chin. Her father always told her that she had the markings of someone who said no a lot. Her brow was stitched tighter, her mouth a bit more thin. She had shorter hair than Elara now; she knew that for sure. The same auburn tone that shines a bit brighter thanks to her vampirism. She shares the same green, but the boys in her village always likened it to the grass of a pasture rather than the glint of emeralds like her sister’s.

Some days, she was thankful for the lack of reflection. She had always wanted to look like she had life. Now, Ava was sure she wouldn’t find any.

[kippakip]

An Empty Palm

The bustling sound of the market never failed to make Ava uncomfortable. The noises were too shrill or too close, and the constant brush of people’s shoulders only justified her aversion. Just beside her, a small child grabbed the loose material of her pants. The child looked around warily, not bothering to glance at the person he was holding onto. Her mouth opened to throw a quick, venomous word at the child to make him let go—it was too close and hot to feel any affection for a spoiled knee-scratcher right now.

Just as the start of a word began to form in her throat, the child called for his father. Despite herself, her heart softened. This child knew he was holding onto a stranger. Out of everyone in the market, he had picked her. With a heavy sigh, she shrugged off the rucksack on her shoulder and let it fall to the filth-ridden ground of the square. The child’s gaze instantly flew up, tears in his eyes as he flinched away from her.

As soon as their eyes met, her aggravation dissipated. The world around her fell away. Her eyes scanned his features—his hair, his eyes, his cute nose. Without her permission, a flash of someone she once knew filled her mind. A similar face, eyes filled with tears, sitting in the mud before her.

“Get off your rear and help me with this carriage or we’ll never make it to Bothmir’s in time!” The voice echoed distantly in her memory.

“You’re the reason I’m in this mess in the first place…” the boy grumbled in return.

A new figure entered her thoughts: soft features, a graceful aura, and a genuine smile. “You really should be more careful, Elowyn. Dorian really does love those pants.”

Her mind cut off the memory, pain shooting sharply through her heart. She visibly flinched, her face taking on a stern look as she mentally built a wall around the soft memory. She extended her palm to the boy before her. The same chestnut eyes peered up at her warily.

“It’s alright. I won’t hurt you. Where did you last see your Papa?”

The boy sniffled once more, rubbing his arm across his nose. “Fish,” he mumbled shyly, pointing a shaky finger toward the dock.

Ava sighed heavily. She hated the smell of fish. With a restrained groan, she threw her rucksack back over her shoulder before extending her hand. She quickly opened and closed it, signaling for him to grab hold. The boy obliged, a shy smile forming as he took a few confident steps forward, leaning slightly into her as they walked.

They approached the dock slower than she would have liked, but she had forgotten how tedious it was to guide a toddler through a bustling market. Her mental mortar workers paused for a moment, letting a memory slip through the wall. She found her heart warming, faintly remembering the times she had hauled Dorian around the market when they were young.

She missed him dearly, but he had refused to speak with her after the attack. She didn’t blame him, but a part of her constantly grieved the memories they would never make.

“Papa!” the boy cried, instantly releasing her hand. The suddenness of it jarred her, ripping her from her train of thought as she stared down at her now-empty palm. Was that what it felt like? Once, she had his trust, his hand to guide, his happiness to protect. Now, she had an empty palm that would never again be filled with the warmth of those she loved.

The mental mortar workers resumed their task in her mind.

Ava looked up from her palm, now refocused on the boy and the man he had run to. She dearly hoped this was actually his father, as she couldn’t bear to hold the boy’s hand any longer. The man chuckled heartily, bending down to pick his son up.

“I see you didn’t find any balsam after all, Rhys.” He shook his head, with only a small amount of disappointment, as though his expectations had been low to begin with. “We’ll try again next week, alright?”

The boy buried his face in his father’s neck, clinging to him for dear life. They turned away from her, their line of sight obscured by the bustling dock workers. Ava took this as her chance to leave. Pivoting, she took a step—only to walk face-first into the stone wall lining the dock.

With a resounding “oomph,” she stepped back, rubbing the newly formed welt on her cheekbone. She heard the father approach, but kept her gaze averted, feigning ignorance.

“…Elara?” the man inquired, his voice gruff with emotion as he extended a hand toward her.

Her heart sank instantly, recognition hitting her like a painful wave. She fought hard not to look up, to keep walking. But the same force that halted her mental wall now prevented her from moving away. Their eyes met, and she saw the face of her little brother. His cheeks had the same roundness, though he was no longer pudgy. He was tall, built like an ox, with broad shoulders and a healthy belly. Probably from many trips to the local pub. Her eyes twinged with the pain of realizing she had missed so much—never there for a pint, never there for his binding ceremony, never there for the birth of his child.

“I…I’m…” The words left her lips in a hushed, broken whisper, trailing off as her lip trembled more than she wished. The tears broke through the walls she had built, rolling down her cheeks, leaving a scorching trail in their wake. Her eyes throbbed with the pain of emotions she could no longer contain.

She turned to leave.

[kippakip]

Nothing Lived Like It Should

The distant thudding of footsteps on the other side of her bedroom door wasn’t the usual foot traffic this inn was used to. Hushed whispers quickly found their way into nearby rooms, followed by doors slamming shut and bolting. Ava could barely make out the sound of a man’s voice, likely coming from the ground floor. She pressed her ear gently against the door, holding her breath to listen without distraction. Her grip tightened on the whip loosely mounted at her waist, the material giving the faintest squeak under the pressure. Every small sound seemed amplified, drawing her focus to the voice below.

“Make this easy for yourself; give us what you have, and we’ll let you live,” one gruff voice said, his boots scuffing lightly on the worn floorboards below. She could hear his confident step forward.

“Please. There are children here,” the innkeeper’s voice wavered, feet shifting back in small, careful increments.

“I’ll say it again, and not so nice this time.” There was a quick scuffle, followed by the sharp ring of a blade being drawn.

Ava wasted no time imagining what might happen next. Her fingers quickly turned the latch on her door, easing it open softly as she made hurried, silent steps toward the banister. She kept low, peering over the railing to see a group of five below: a dwarf, an elf, a tiefling, and two men. The men were the largest in the room, with broad shoulders and beards reaching down to their stomachs.

I can’t take them all on…

She sighed quietly, her mind racing as the small squabble continued below. She could hear the innkeeper pleading, crying, and begging for mercy as one of the men pinned them against the wall with enormous hands.

Suddenly, the elf looked up, locking eyes with her. She quickly ducked, but it was too late.

“Maybe little miss prying-eyes can help us, yeah?” the elf sneered, pointing up at the rafters. All eyes shifted to her outline, leaning against the banister with her back to them.

She groaned, throwing herself forward and quickly making her way back into her room. As soon as the door closed, she bolted it and dashed to the window. But what she saw made her freeze in her tracks.

The window was already open. Her drawers were open as well.

“No…” Her heart plummeted, dread settling in her stomach. Her mind raced, her eyes scanning the remaining contents of the open drawer. She wasn’t even sure she was processing what she was seeing—panic clouded her vision. Her chest heaved as her lungs filled and emptied too quickly. She felt light—too light. She was hyperventilating.

“I’m sorry, Ava. I didn’t know what to do. I–” a small voice came from behind her.

She whirled around, whip already out, wrapping it around the throat of the person behind her. The tension had cut him off mid-sentence.

Simon pleaded silently on his knees, fingers clawing at the whip around his throat. Ava found herself hesitating, almost enjoying the way he squirmed. If she had lost her most prized possession because of him, she wouldn’t mind watching him die right here and now.

Somewhere in the distant fog of her memory, she heard a voice—the same voice she usually kept locked behind solid walls. “Ellie–let him speak,” the voice urged, sounding terrified.

She wasn’t sure if it was her own or Elara’s, but she found herself not caring much either way.

Her grip shifted on the whip, releasing the tension around his neck. He gasped for air, his hands clutching his throat as his wide eyes stared at the floor, everything probably looking different to him now that he held his life in his own hands again.

“Explain. Now.” Ava muttered, hatred seething in her gaze as she glared down at him. Simon took deep breaths, and as she waited for him to speak, she heard footsteps climbing the stairway.

“I’m sorry…Ava…They…” he gulped for air.

Impatience flared in her; she grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him up to her level. “Speak, Simon.”

“They only took the bracelet in your drawer! I swear!” He began to weep openly in her grip, fearing once more for his life. Any empathy she might have felt before vanished as she dropped him to the floor.

The memory flooded her in an instant, that dreaded voice filling her thoughts again. Fear gripped her, ice-cold. Her body froze as she could practically feel his hands around her throat, blood smearing across her skin again.

Her sister lay before her, a pool of blood surrounding them. She had remained here for quite a while, waiting for her family to return to the village to find the carnage unleashed in her once peaceful home. The pain had once been raw, but now it had settled deep within her. Her bones felt fragile, her eyes heavier than they had ever been, yet panic and fear kept them wide open. Death would be a release from this misery, but she couldn’t muster the strength herself. Nothing worked like it should.

Nothing lived like it should. Nothing died like it should. This slaughter was unnatural. Unfair. Unbalanced.

Minutes passed. Hours passed. And yet, it all seemed too fast. The agony she felt could only have been borne over millennia. It seemed impossible for it to have only been hours. A voice called to her, but she could not turn to identify the source. Her body chose this moment to finally collapse.

Ava felt relief. Perhaps she got her wish.

She woke to find herself in the same place, shadows cast gently over her face. Confusion knotted her brow as she lifted her head, a stickiness crackling on the side of her face. She raised a cautious hand, lightly tapping the substance. Blood. She was still lying in her sister’s pool of blood. Her heart wrenched with pain, the agony starting all over again.

Just as she dipped her head to release what little tears she had left, something shone brightly in the corner of her eye. Her sister’s arm, once coated in blood, had absorbed much of it. The bracelet on her sister’s wrist now shone, glinting in the morning rays.

She reached for the bracelet, her fingertips brushing the material. Pain blazed through her hand, and she cried out, pulling her hand back. Her skin felt as if it were boiling, her blood scratching to escape. Tears poured from her eyes as the pain began to subside.

The bracelet had burned her?

Her heart felt hollow. Her mind, once racing to find solutions, now spun aimlessly. The bracelet was gone, likely stolen by one of the party members below, already weighing it in their palms. She fought back emotions pressing to the surface, closing her eyes to keep any unprocessed feelings from spilling over.

“Where did they go…” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible.

“I saw them head into the forest,” Simon answered cautiously, inching toward her bedpost to steady himself.

Her eyes opened, fixing on the forest. The emotions she’d just fought so hard to suppress flooded back, but this time she molded them into something fiercer. Something deadlier.

“They won’t make it very far.”

[kippakip]

Something Secret, Something Sharp

With a deep sigh, Ava opened the window and breathed in the morning air. The birds were chirping their ritualistic tunes, and the crickets never stopped singing. The heat was already beginning to slip its way into her room, but she was more resilient to temperature changes these days.

She returned to her writing desk, pulling open drawers and taking out various tools that no one else in her house knew existed. She had worked hard to keep this a private hobby, knowing full well she’d never hear the end of it from Simon, in particular. Her housemates rarely tried to speak with her one-on-one, but when they did, she found herself counting the seconds until she could escape back to her room. The people of this town were usually temporary guests. Those who chose to take permanent residence kept to themselves—which was why she felt so comfortable here.

Her fingers delicately pulled at the material, carefully lining up the individual stalks along her desk. She’d paid quite a lot of coin for these materials and didn’t want to ruin the quality by rushing. Keeping the material in place with one hand, she reached into another drawer, sliding it open to retrieve a small knife. This knife was unlike any other she owned—sharp, polished, and honed to perfection.

After quietly closing the drawer, she brought the knife to her work, gingerly applying pressure to the bamboo sticks. Each stroke created intentional strips, ensuring the size and thickness were even throughout. She began to form a small pile of strips, separating them by width and length. Her fingers grew numb against the rough texture of the bamboo as she finished her work in contented silence.

She lifted her hands to her mouth, blowing warm air onto them in an attempt to regain feeling. It was becoming harder to keep her body warm; the chill clung to her, more persistent than the heat seeping into the room. The air was thick with humidity, yet her body seemed to reject the notion of warmth, her heart beating slowly, just shy of lifelessness.

Suddenly, a sharp sneeze echoed from outside her door. Her panic was swift and calculated, stuffing her materials and tools into the top drawer just as a loud knock sounded.

“I swear, Simon, if you need another antidote, I’m not making it this time.” She groaned, pushing her chair out and approaching the door. Before she could open it, it swung inward toward her. Instinct kicked in as she reached for the rapier hanging on the wall. Adrenaline hummed through her, driving her to act fast. But in her rush, she missed the hilt, her fingers brushing uselessly against the weapon stand. Panic surged, her heart pounding harder now that it seemed to fight for life.

A man with a stern expression stood in the doorway, one brow raised in mild curiosity at her failed attempt to grab her weapon. He waited patiently, watching as she composed herself and tried to push aside the embarrassment creeping into her cheeks.

Clearing her throat, she fought to steady her nerves and quiet the thunderous heartbeat that had betrayed her. Funny how when her heart did beat, it only led her to do foolish things.

“How can I help you?”

[kippakip]

I’m Not Breathing

Something is making my ears ring, but I’m not sure what. My head is spinning. The lights are too bright. The air has a taste I’ve never experienced before.

“…si…Tasi…Tasi!”

My left arm is seized by a firm hand, shaking me violently. I can’t turn. I can’t look them in the eye. 

Who is it? What’s going on?

“Tasia.”

The ringing in my ears is starting to sound more and more like a name. Is it my name? The firm grip on my arm loosens as warm hands gently hold my face, guiding my gaze upward.

Oh. Yes. My mother. I analyze the planes of her face—the soft edges, the hard ones—but I can’t seem to meet her gaze.

A shrill, piercing sound breaks me out of my haze. I’m standing in the middle of a road. An interstate. There are cars everywhere. People shouting, screaming. 

Am I breathing?I can’t feel my lungs filling.I’m not breathing.

“Tasia, we have to get back in the car, okay? We can’t stay here.” My mother is talking to me. I can barely hear her. Her voice is soft, breaking through the chaos surrounding me—outside and in.

“Breathe in and breathe out, honey. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

I hear the crack in her voice, the emotion slipping through.

I’ve never seen my mother this way.

She was scared last year when the hurricane came through, but only because the farm was losing yield. Even then, she just made a few calls and sighed every few minutes.

This is different. 

I look up into her eyes.

Tears are running down her cheeks, desperation in every detail of her expression.

She’s terrified.

The shrill sound surrounds us again—but this time, there’s only silence that follows. I see my mother’s mouth moving, but I hear nothing. My brows furrow in confusion as I concentrate harder to pick up on anything coherent. Nothing.

I open my mouth to ask what’s going on. I try to speak. Well, I think I am speaking? I can feel the vibration in my throat as if my voice is coming out—but I hear nothing.

I hear nothing.I can’t breathe.I’m not breathing.What’s happening?

Warm arms wrap around my middle as I’m lifted into the air. I’m being brought to a vehicle. Is it ours? I can’t tell. There’s so much debris.

My head thuds hard against the backseat of the car as I’m thrown in.

The gentle hands that held my face a moment ago are no longer gentle. They’re fierce. Desperate. Anxious. I can feel the vibration of the car below me—the lull of the engine beneath my feet.

My lungs fill with air. I can smell smoke. I can taste it.

I look up, and all I see is an orange ball of destruction. The smoke clears for a moment, just long enough for me to see the source of the panic—the only thing that’s ever made me question everything.

A giant, black void. A void that consumes everything.

It towers high into the air, higher than I’ve ever seen anything go. It’s planted itself right in front of us on the road, an abyss that has swallowed all I hold familiar.

I look as far left as I can—there it is.

I look right—it’s the same.

A giant black void.

If I blink, it might consume me.

Terror takes hold of me, forcing me to the window nearest me. My eyes dart across the scene before me, unable to take in any detail with recognition. There are cars—piles of them.

People lie on the ground.

…Parts of people lie along the ground.

Ahead of us, a tank is ablaze. The military has formed a blockade around the traffic, but people aren’t trying to get closer. They’re trying to get away.

“Mom? What’s happening?!” I can finally hear my own voice, feel the breath in my lungs. The air is stale, smoky, and pungent with the smell of copper. I try not to think about where that smell is coming from.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t know, Tasi.” She’s crying now, sobbing into her hand as she tries to hold herself together. She’s looking at someone in the driver’s seat. I lean forward to see who it is—and I see a face I’ve only seen in pictures and holographs.

My father is in the driver’s seat, staring blankly out at the void.

“Lucas. Look at me, Lucas.” My mother pleads, a shaky hand reaching out to touch his face. He looks lost. His eyes have lost their focus. For a moment, I fear he may have died from the panic—but I can see his chest moving. I can hear his deep breathing.

I lift my hand to reach out too, sure that if I stretch it any further it’ll pass right through him. That this is just a figment of my imagination. Before I can get close, a hand darts out to grab mine. I gasp. My mother has stopped me.

“Don’t touch him, Tasi. Something’s wrong.” Her voice is low, her gaze darting between me and my father. I lean to the side, getting a better view of him in the seat.

His eyes are wide, distant… unnatural.

There’s no color in his irises anymore.

They’re becoming pale.

I flinch back, struck by the realization.

“…Dad…?” My voice is hoarse, barely audible.

He blinks and starts to turn toward me—but stops halfway, as if halted by some invisible force. His face is losing color. My mother cautiously picks up his hand, turning it over in her palm. His fingers are wrinkled and pickled, like he’s spent too long in our hot tub.

A painful stab of emotion slices through me at the thought that he will never see our hot tub.

An explosion tears our focus away. The military is trying to shoot the abyss. To my surprise, the blasts are landing—but the wall remains untouched. There is something profoundly unnatural about it.

No glare.

No light deflection.

No reflection of the massive fire just fifteen yards in front of it.

People begin panicking even more now. Some leap from their cars and run—not toward the military, I realize, but away from something. I press myself to the rear window and look up at the sky. There are planes flying overhead. Our planes. But they don’t look like any I’ve seen before.

They’re bigger… wider… deadlier.

I watch them climb, higher and higher, attempting to fly over the wall.

Until I can’t see them anymore.

Until I can’t hear them anymore.

They never came back down.

[bee-rosmyth-art]

White coats. A plant, sickly and leafless, growing under dull fluorescent lights. A splash of water on tiles, the glint of a needle, a bright curl of sweat-twisted paper, and- and-

-Blue Sky, Chapter 8: The Cold Hard Truth

Written by @wafflebloggies

Details/title version under the cut

[rongrii]

Cold hands

Reblogs help a lot, thank you!!

/Yesterday, in the evening i looked in the mirror and saw that the lightning was soo beautiful!! It was orange, from the sun setting, mixed with green shadows

My phone cant capture that, so i tried to redraw it from memory

[bee-rosmyth-art]

Chelley week, day 1 - Cuddles

She had to admit she was sleeping better. Having an actual bed was easier on her back, her nightmares were becoming increasingly less common, and for the first time in memory, Chell was getting full nights of rest. It defied logic how, even with Wheatley interrupting every single one of her routines, rituals she had carefully devised to keep her body and mind safe, she now felt more comfortable than she ever had before. Before he gave it a try, she had been sure that if anyone had tried to wrap themselves so tightly around her while she slept, they would have recieved a series of kicks and elbows to their shins, stomach, and potentially their face. Now, she sunk back into him, listening to the way he quietly snored into her back, and she couldn't imagine sleeping any other way.

[bee-rosmyth-art]

He hadn't exactly managed to have a proper conversation with her yet, but he'd said something two weeks and three days ago- he couldn't remember what he'd said and he was fairly sure that it hadn't been anything particularly witty or insightful, but she'd actually laughed and that had been brilliant. If there ever ended up being a movie about his life- yes, granted, not the likeliest of possibilities by this point, but you never knew- that bit was definitely going in the highlights reel.

-Blue Sky, Chapter 8: The Cold Hard Truth

Written by @wafflebloggies

[stargezza]

He's got distracted (as always)

[nataspair]

He stood up to get another fork, glanced absently over the partition in the direction of the photocopier-

-and fell helplessly, hopelessly, in love.

[bee-rosmyth-art]

King moron and his mute princess or whatever tf glados said

[bee-rosmyth-art]

I've been thinking about Garret a lot lately and his friendship with Wheatley and how much I love any time they interact, and also about how Garret is gay probably.

Incredibly sappy bonus pic:

[bee-rosmyth-art]

You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling

[bee-rosmyth-art]

Wheatley, who spent who knows how long as a robot, struggles with the concept of covering yourself in water as a daily ritual to get clean. Despite constant reassurances that the water won't cause him to short circuit, rust, or any other terrible thing, Chell has to babysit him while he showers to make sure he doesn't bolt. He, of course, protests against the practice the whole time. Luckily, it doesn't take long for him to get used to it, and Chell gets her mornings back after about a week.

[bee-rosmyth-art]

Re-draw of a picture from last year :) I got Chelley wedding on the mind

Old drawing under the cut