Mimesis

Lowell | The Magpie | 14 | Witch "Salvation comes only to those who deserve it."

[lowell-vasile]

theruinous:

Lowell stops, an answer given, and in a way that’s almost startlingly childlike. The bird held close, reservations written plainly on his features, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. In some ways it’s jarring, he just can’t feel it, the contrast between the image of a boy with too much innocence still reflecting back at Daniel, and the feeling of wrongness that resonates in his bones. It sets his teeth on edge, his thumb tracing the pads of his fingers in some idle motion, like it might summon sparks to the ends of them. 

Something to contradict the shadows that feel like they’re pressing down on him, and he still can’t figure out how they connect to Lowell. There’s the urge to ask now, if he’s got markings spiraling across his skin, but he doesn’t.

And somewhere a distant memory tries to claw its way up from the recesses of his mind. A small, dark haired boy, charging inside the house to tell his father about the baby bunny he found in the yard. It flickers quickly through his brain before he blinks and it’s gone again. And he’s left watching a boy he’d wanted to save once, who deserved a similar kind of life, and had never been granted it. He wants to soften under that knowledge; he doesn’t know if he can.

“Do you plan on keeping it?“

“No.” The answer comes immediately, without thought because he knew his plan from the moment he spotted the bird. Well, for the most part. The only unknown to him is how exactly one would go about curing such a creature of such an ailment, but there are wise adults here. Someone has to know what to do when he doesn’t. His voice falls to a whisper and it will never be clear whether he’s hiding his intentions from the bird or from Daniel, but he continues. “Not forever.” As if he could anyway. “When we move it can’t come with us. I won’t let it.” The creature’s protests and assault on his fingers become background noise now. The greater threat stands before him now, but he’ll learn from last time and he’ll try not to feel so afraid. 

All that keeps him standing here rather than walking off, rather than finding one of the grown-ups he trusts, is the possibility that Daniel might remember his job as an officer. He’s supposed to help. Still, Lowell stands between rationalities, conditioned already to come back to someone he feels has hurt him if it means they’ll be useful. “I want to give it it’s wings back. So it can stay here and tell my story; of how I helped. That’s the price it has to pay for my help.” He avoids believing that he needs reassuring, to know that he’s doing a good job and to know that someone notices and will tell others he’s good too. 

“Does that make sense?”

[lowell-vasile]

jaemacleod:

“i suppose they’re as real as magic and imagination are.  how real-real they are might just depend on how much you believe in them.”

magic and imagination are perhaps two of the things the illusionist does believe in.  it would be nice if more people did… the latter especially.  not everyone had magic at their fingertips, but imagining the fantastical, the improbably, the impossible and the inspirational was a kind of magic all of it’s own.

he goes back to fussing with the rug, finally pulling it from his shoulders and wondering if the massive bundle of floof in his hands might roll up and fit in his little backpack.  it’s very snug, and as far as jae is concerned, very cool.  perhaps the ultimate fashion clash with those bright neon shirts.  but he could give a rats ass.  he likes it.

“how old you are - and how old you look - doesn’t have any relation to whether you’re a ‘grown up’.  they’re two very different things.  if it was just a case of how many years you’d managed to survive, that would be… well, boring.  and most grown up things are also boring.  serious faces doing serious things and being too serious to remember how to have fun.”

“who wants to be boring?”

besides, looks can be deceiving.  he knows this better than most.

Intriguing as the man’s words may be, Lowell has to take everything he says with a grain of salt. As he does with most people. Old logic tells him what is being said to him isn’t true, some kind of trick being told to a kid who should believe it. Most kids aren’t as intelligent as he is and he knows it, but his thoughts don’t stop where they should. They reach further, into his new knowledge, into everything he’s seen since venturing out on his own. 

He wonders if it works: believing something into existence. He thinks of the alchemist who, with enough power and materials, could change anything into anything if he wanted to. He adapts that thought and thinks of his mother who could conjure demons with enough focus and energy when she wanted or needed to. He wonders if magic only works because they believe it does. A deep sigh rolls through his chest. He wants to take a nap. 

“I don’t understand.” A painfully difficult thing for him to admit. “You look like a grown up to me. Even if you dress different.” He thinks about the word, ‘boring’, and can’t guess even with the context. Most grown up things are boring, and years survived doesn’t equal being a grown up because that would be boring too. “Is boring safe?”

[lowell-vasile]

pvttycake:

“Plus, the hotter it gets, the more we’ll need our clean water for drinking, not bathing.” She grinned and nodded, running her sudsy fingers over the top of her hair. The rain slowly washed out the shampoo as she pulled it through her hair, but it was a good enough wash for what she needed and honestly, that quick-washed hair was such a look on her. Who would dare to disagree?

“Aren’t you wearing something under that?” She asked when Lowell presented the imaginary dilemma of not having anything else to wear while his sweater was washed. It was probably for the best…she sometimes worried he’d overheat in all that wool. But…maybe that was the wrong thing to worry about. Patty stood up tall and looked him over. Was that only reason he didn’t wash that thing more often? She hummed, suddenly feeling as though she’d been neglecting him in allowing that to go on.

Shaking the remnants of the shampoo from her hair, Patty stepped back across the pavement towards him with her intentions to take the sweater. But somehow, she knew outright demanding it wouldn’t work. She came to a stop just outside the awning the shielded him from the rain, stretched up on her toes and craned her chin up trying to get a clearer glance at the cutting board he had balanced on his knees. She smirks at the subtle read he dishes out towards the others, crosses her arms and sways to one side, looking down at the puddles collecting under her ankles. 

“If they wanna stink, that’s their business. Chasing everyone down is too much work. I only go that far for people I like,” she said, smiling down on him. “What are you writing?”

She asks if he’s wearing anything beneath the protective layer of wool and he only stares back; through her rather than at her. He doesn’t know why he would be, or if he should be, just that he;s never been told to before. Any desire or reflex to answer her question has passed by the time she’s coming closer. The feeling he may have been doing something wrong makes his stomach sink, and he feels his defenses rising as Ines chips away at the distance between them. 

‘Business’. He’s decoded her speech enough to know she’s swapping the word out for ‘problem’. He uses it the way she does as a test. “It’s the business of everyone with a sense of smell, I think.” An opinion shared so quietly it’s almost like the rain is talking over him. Angry adults respond well to quiet words, and he looks up long enough to see she’s smiling down at him but he knows better. Abraham always smiled too. He knows she wants something. “It’s, a spell. An inactive one. I’m practicing how to write it, and see if I can make it better or faster or less painful.” His words are slow and clear as he looks down at the board. After a shallow breath he turns it to face Ines, the symbols he’s carved reveal the lighter wood beneath the dark stained surface. 

“My mother taught it to me. We use it to heal and save people who need it and I think I came make it help more than just one person at a time. But I won’t know for sure until I use it for real.” He searches her face for a reaction before he stretches his legs and lays the board flat on top of them, “I know it’s hard to read. This knife isn’t so sharp anymore.”

[lowell-vasile]

jaemacleod:

“well, hello there and – winter with snowball fights and sledging, yep – murdery winter full of nasty things that are all about the slaughtering and killing… mmh, not so much.”

he swivels on the spot locating the voice.  it’s ‘the kid’.  that’s as much as he knows him by.  he wonders how hard it is - to be that young.  is it easier, being more adaptable to change, not so concretely set in your ways, or is it harder, without that comfort blanket of the world ‘as was’.

there is, however, a slight grin at the next notion – 

“what makes you think i’m a ‘grown up’?”

physically - yes.  mentally - no.  at least, most of the people he’d known previously did tend to think of him as a man-child.  someone who never really lost that wide eyed amazement at the world, who still finds it spectacular and inspiring ( with the added sprinkling of terrifying and panic inducing more recently ).  

however - jae’s brain does seem to glitch.  some kind of short out - a spark fritzing across those neural circuits when the short fella poses a question.

“what?”

there’s an honest incredulity in the word.  something that pings out from between his lips while his brain is still busy making sure that he actually heard what he thought he had.  and… even with a second ‘run through’ - those words still arrange themselves in the same order.

‘What is a dragon?’

what kind of kid doesn’t know what a dragon is?  well, this one, obviously but…

“dragons –  big teeth.  sharp claws.  made out of magic and imagination.  sometimes they’re the bad guy, sometimes they’re the good guy.  depending on what story you read.  they’re – beautiful, graceful, strong, and all different colours, different shapes, different sizes.  some look like snakes.  some look like birds.  some look like lizards…” 

as the other takes his seat, jae rounds off his little speech with a wide armed gesture - enunciating the word in the most emphatic way that he can.  obviously gleeful about the concept, and… still slightly puzzled.

“dragons…”

“no?”

“No.” The reply is given immediately despite very much looking as though he wasn’t paying attention. Lowell tends to dislike making eye contact, his gaze roaming between the lips and hands if he can feel a person’s attention directly on him. He stares down and pulls at the torn leather of the couch, trying to make up a dragon in his mind from the many descriptions he’s been given. “You said they’re made of magic and imagination. They aren’t real, are they? I’ve never seen or heard of them in any stories.” And so as a follow-up he has to wonder why he should make space in his mind to know about them; make-believe creatures he’ll never encounter. Granted, not many stories have graced his ears and as interesting as these dragons sound, he’s choosing to be critical. He would like to be proven wrong. 

The couch succumbs to his torment as he continues to pull the skin, breathing slow and looking in Jae’s general direction as he speaks. “And I think you’re a grown up because you are a grown up.” He takes a second to scrutinize Jae’s features. “You don’t look my age.”

[lowell-vasile]

wraithofthewasteland:

Lowell comes closer, his attention never straying from whatever it is he’s holding in his hands, and she can’t shake the feeling that she should recognize the odd sound. Maybe it’s the sheer unexpectedness – of all things, she’s not sure she would have anticipated anybody carrying a bird inside, and the sight of its head poking through Lowell’s fingers when he approaches has her straightening up in mildly startled concern. It doesn’t like him, he claims, and that’s certainly evident in the damage his hands have already sustained. She suspects the feeling might be close to mutual as she listens to him explain, watching the bird peck all the while and narrowly suppressing the urge to wince.

“Alright, well,” she starts thoughtfully, setting her sketchbook to the side and unfolding her other leg so she can hop down off the counter top. An injured bird is certainly more of a garden-variety crisis than she’s used to these days, and there’s some distant thought beyond all her mental troubleshooting that it’s… sweet, maybe. “If it’s too hurt to fly, it’s probably scared, that’s all. It doesn’t know you’re trying to help.” The words are calm, of course, not scolding, as she offers an explanation that might counter his irritation.

“Let’s find somewhere a little safer to keep it first, I think, see if there’s a… box lying around, or something- here-” She shrugs her jacket off, gingerly shaking it out and arranging it in her hands as she speaks. “We can wrap it up in this for now so it can’t keep pecking you, and then we’ll start looking around, how’s that sound?”

The hold Lowell has on his new charge loosens when Violet tells him it doesn’t know he’s only trying to help. Somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to him, that a creature scared and alone and in need of help might see anything that scoops it up as a threat. He relates to the bird even more closely now. He feels… remorseful. “I… ” but he doesn’t intend to say anything else, letting the rest of the thought unfold silently within his skull as he listens to the woman provide a solution. 

“That sounds,” his mind is divided between answering her and carefully placing the bird onto her jacket, “good.” Once the bird is nestled in Violet’s jacket it flaps it’s working wing wildly until it moves itself into what Lowell assumes is a more comfortable position. He takes the jacket and carries the animal in folded arms like he’s seen woman carry infants who couldn’t walk on their own. “I hope it doesn’t poop on your jacket,” he glares at the bird in warning, softening his gaze when he looks up again to Violet and then the children’s play area nearby. He walks ahead, briefly too focused to check and make sure Violet is coming along with him. He knows her intelligence will be useful in this endeavor. “Do you think there will be a box over here? Maybe a chest, with a lock,” his voice raises in mild excitement. “Then the bird won’t fly away when its other wing goes back to normal.” He sees nothing wrong with this. 

Looking behind him, he quickly walks back for Violet, “we’ll have to find something to do with it when it’s healthy again. I hardly think it’ll survive if we take it with us, at least in the van. There are too many large men, one of them will sit on it and not notice.” 

[lowell-vasile]

pvttycake:

Lowell’s reactions to things were always so different, so strange. Patty didn’t know if he was just sheltered, didn’t think much about it at all, really, because his strangeness and his curiosity all seemed like innocence in her mind.

“‘Inconvenient’?” She guffawed, placing both hands on her hips with a grin. “You’re too young to be this grouchy. ‘Listening to Kane too much. It’s summer rain; it’s warm!” Patty twisted her hips, looking around gleefully before flopping her arms down and laughing some more in his direction. She squats near the ground and starts to sort through her soaps, deciding to show him instead of just convince him.

“No, Lowell, listen. You wash the clothes while you wash yourself. Change out of them inside and put on dry ones when you’re done. You won’t get sick.” She stands back up, squirting shampoo into her palm before dropping the bottle and reaching up to lather her hair ends first, half-bent over to shield it from the downpour. “You know nature! We just call her mother because we couldn’t exist without her. See how that works? It’s a saying.”

“I understand.” It can be difficult to intentionally wrap his mind around concepts that aren’t literal, even if it something he’s doing on his own all the time. Mother Nature who isn’t exactly a mother at all, but a force that creates a space that allows them to grow or wither; if it’s befitting of her. She isn’t something he can see or touch and yet she’s there, she’s here. And he finds himself not only understanding this ‘saying’, but feeling like he knows it fondly. 

The downpour of rain lightens and intensifies periodically and Lowell modifies his volume to accommodate. “I take back what I said.” His head falls slightly to the side as he watches her, eyes narrowing still at how odd the sight remains. “This is inconvenient at all. It saves time, doesn’t it.” Eyes searching the sky reflexively, he works out a punishment for coming to a conclusion too quickly. After settling on a just action for judging Ines incorrectly, his gaze returns to the cutting board and his left hand returns to carving. “I would wash my sweater, but I have nothing else to change into.” A secondary thought, “shouldn’t you tell the other about taking a bath too? Some of them smell like they need it.”

[lowell-vasile]

jvstinames:

It takes everything Justin has to resist grinning when Lowell barks at him over the concept of fun. Such a serious little twerp. Words he’d always keep to himself, of course, but it was still funny to hear Lowell get so bent out of shape for nothing. Chastising him like his grandmother only with half of her heart and none of the goodwill.

“C’mon. Cut me some slack, kid,” he says, blinking up at the dripping sky. He gets through the words only as fast as he could manage, taking his time as if to keep the ride smooth. He’s straining for the focus necessary to do it, but the headache’s only minor. He just keeps listening to the comforting sound of the door handle being pulled and not giving way, keeping his voice calm in the hopes it would spread to Lowell as well.

“Depends on what you want. If it’s just…shaping or re-making you want, ‘shouldn’t be an issue. But if we start getting into charms or whatever, then yeah. It gets a tad more complicated.” Justin pushes his back of the windshield and turns his body on the car so he can look at Lowell directly, sloshing the can of water on his knee at the child’s question.

“Maybe so, after I distill it. But pure water’s more of a base…generally.”

The man orders Lowell to cut him some slack, and Lowell won’t do it because he doesn’t understand what the statement means. He keeps pulling at the door with no intention to get it open as he considers what he wants carefully. It’s difficult to settle on anything when he believes the man can make just about whatever he asks for. “I don’t know what I want,” he frowns further at this, thinking maybe he should go around asking the others what they would want if they could have anything. “I’ve never met someone like you, offering what you are. I think it’s,” he looks away like he’s hesitant to admit what’s on his mind, like he shouldn’t be impressed with anyone more than he is with himself. “Amazing.” The word sits on an exhale. Acknowledging it only helps to build the anger that such an ability is possibly being wasted. 

“And deciding is overwhelming.” He pulls at the door handle, letting go when it can’t be pulled any further so that his sentence is accented with the loud thud. Wanting to continue keeping the rain at bay, he tugs the hood of the poncho further over his head. “What would you want? If you couldn’t make things like you do and met someone who could. What charms would feel worth asking for?”

[lowell-vasile]

jaemacleod:

new places.  new places to explore.  new shirts to acquire.  and he has.  three in total.  each as brightly gaudy as the last.  after the pink flamingo shirt somewhat bit the dust at the monolith, he’s been on the search for another eyewatering garment.  the one currently framing the magician is something quite spectacular… black at the top, bleeding into something that resembled a psychedelic neon skyline of some city or other.  pinks, purples, blues.  not exactly camouflage, but he’s pretty good at not being seen when he doesn’t wish to be - which is nice.  and handy.  so there’s that.

however, he’s been distracted.  by a sheepskin rug.   an ikea sheepskin rug. which is now wrapped about his shoulders and arranged in such a way as to give the impression that he’s some kind of historical warrior, fresh from the fields of battle ( sans gore ), or perhaps… ripe out of a fantasy movie.

look, he’s john snow okay?   and john snows big floofy costume was legit made out of – you’ve guessed it… an ikea sheepskin rug.

“now all i need is a giant wolf.  or a dragon…  winter is coming my arse.  winter - got it’s backside handed to it…”

Lowell knows this man as much as he knows the other members of the group has hasn’t spoken to directly. He’s watched him, heard of him, asked someone his name despite knowing he most likely won’t ever use it. Names are important, a badge of honor to be earned who end up aiding him in some way, whether they know it or not. And he certainly won’t admit a bit of it has to do with how much he likes a person. Friends are against the rules. He thinks the creature adorned in bright clothing, shouldering some shaggy floor ornament, could be a funny exception. Like a bird with a broken wing.

“I miss the winter,” he walks around an overturned display couch, having heard every word the man said. And it’s true, he misses the winter like a companion he’d grown up with and grown close to. He misses the stinging wind that at night would remind him of the basement floor and everywhere he came from. “I wish you grown ups didn’t make it go away,” and he certainly doesn’t understand the gravity of the statement, subscribing to a different type of thought. 

But he thinks this grown up seems different. His sits down in whatever way he can on the couch, setting a woven bag of odds and ends he’s found around the area in his lap. “What is a dragon?” 

[lowell-vasile]

pvttycake:

She’d gotten used to it more and more in the last few months; although she was the one who’d told Lowell it was alright to call her by her given name, there were few that did even before and it took some getting used to. In the end, Patty liked how it made her feel, responsible and almost matronly whenever the young boy would call on her for answers. She grinned back in his direction, straightening her spine and holding her hand out above her eyes to stare out at him like she’d been caught at something.

“Having a bath!” She answered, her excitement making her oblivious to his worries. Patty let both hands flop out, palms up, shoulders shrugging in the rain as she became completely soaked. “Courtesy of Mother Nature, isn’t it nice?”

“A bath?” He abandons the cutting board in his lap and looks into Ines like she’s speaking a language he doesn’t understand. If she means to get clean, he wonders why she’s doing it in a place so open to attack, and while she has all her clothes on. He can only imagine how angry the leader of the van might be if they suddenly need to move and she’s forced to return to her seat soaking wet. “It isn’t nice. It’s, inconvenient,” a word he only recent learned and understood the meaning of. “Your clothes are wet and when the sun goes down you’ll get cold. What if you get sick, Ines? This isn’t how you take a bath.” He’s sure it isn’t. “And who is Mother Nature?”

[lowell-vasile]

theruinous:

The book’s one Daniel’s had for months, but he’s barely made any progress, and it’s been long enough since he touched it that it’s harder than it used to be to recall the pages that came before. It has him back at the start, fingers lightly tracing the words as he takes the moment of downtime for what it is. Something quiet, even if he wouldn’t label it peace. 

The sound of the boy’s voice shatters that quickly, even if the words don’t fully sink in. At least not with any real meaning behind them. What strikes him as immediately more important is who’s saying them, his head lifting from the pages to focus on Lowell as he comes in from outside. There’s a distant part of him that thinks he shouldn’t be off by himself. An old, half buried relic from his past, and it’s drowned beneath what follows. Like the boy brings a dark cloud with him, and he can feel the crackle of lightning more than he can see any sign of it.

It’s like sinking. The louder that ringing in his ears, the more aware he becomes of those divine instincts tugging at his frame, the less he feels connected to them. 

“Lowell.” His chin tips up, even if he doesn’t move from where he sits. Raising his voice only slightly to make sure he’s heard.  “What do you have?” 

“Birds have ears too don’t they?” He asks the little thing, bringing to his eye level to inspect the sides of its head. “You’ll be food if you misbeha--” he falters in berating his new temporary companion when he hears his name called by that voice. It takes no time for him to recognize Daniel by sound, by the lack of emotion whether negative or positive. He means to keep walking in and away, to the small corner of a fake bathroom he’s become familiar with. But conditioning has him stopping, turning his body to face an adult who could help or hurt in ways beyond his current predicament with the avian creature. 

He has to wonder if the man will even hear him this time. And now he has nothing but the frail bird in his hands to distract him, no snow, no great amount of pain to keep his mind steady. “A bird,” which he keeps close to his chest despite the animal’s protest, afraid Daniel might decide to snatch it away. “It was outside by itself and wouldn’t fly away.” He keeps his distance, frown on his face making it clear how he feels about the man’s presence. “I thought it would die in the sun. Or get eaten.”

[lowell-vasile]

wraithofthewasteland:

It’s an unshakable habit of Violet’s. She might even go so far as to consider it a mild talent. Neatly tucking herself out of the way, somewhere she can see the entrance, somewhere others might not think to sit. Or think to look for her. And while she stills finds comfort in her little pockets of invisibility, it’s not quite the avoidant tendency it once was. Only an easy way to find time for herself, when she’s not busy with the vehicles or the garden, to enjoy brief moments of solitude and the relative quiet.

And, often, to draw. That’s how she’s passing the time now, at least, perched atop the counter of what must have been a children’s play area, partially hidden behind the unmoving escalator. One leg dangles over the edge, swaying lightly to a song playing in some corner of her mind. Her sketchbook is balanced on her thigh as she studiously pencils in the furniture display laying eschew against the opposite wall. Chairs jutting out at odd angles, coffee table upended between them – if not for the faded advertisements adorning the wall behind them, the overt retail setting, it could paint a very troubling scene, imbued with hints of a hasty, violent escape.

Nothing she thinks to dwell on, of course. Her only concern now is the shadows, the shapes, the sizes, where they stretch across the floor. Until new sounds reach her ears – footsteps across the linoleum, and what nearly sounds like a one-sided argument, and the familiar mop of dark hair that catches her eye when she glances up has her frowning in thought.

“Hey- Lowell?” she calls lightly, tucking her pencil between the pages as she closes the sketchbook. He’s a curious boy in more ways than one, and the fact that he seems to be holding something in his hands taps into an odd sense of concern. “What’s up? Everything alright?”

The small bird pecks at his finger once more, leaving behind a reddened spot that has him jerking forward. Forcefully, he steers all his thoughts toward not letting the bird go, not wanting it to succumb to any damage he doesn’t mean to inflict on it. He hears his name called from some point in the area, immediately recognizes it as the car lady, and walks in the direction of her voice without looking. “I’ll throw you back to the lot, I mean it,” he whispers to the bird like it will some how understand and decide to be on it’s best behavior. And when he feels it attempt to flap it’s wings he only strengthens his hold. “My new friend doesn’t like me very much,” to Violet this time, loaded with irritation. 

When he looks up it’s first to see the space he’s walked into. There aren’t many points of entry or exit. He turns to look to where he came from to find it’s a straight line of sight to the door. Smart. Perhaps better than the fake bathroom he’s established as his temporary kingdom, despite Wes’ effort to help him discover a different type of home. He picks up as though he never paused between his last statement, “even though I saved him... or her.” The bird is positioned in his hands so that its face faces Violet and it goes between pecking him and squawking. “I found it outside and it wouldn’t fly away--stupid bird,” the insult comes after another jab, his voice as he speaks to it is low and serious. “You can’t hurt me as bad as you think you can. You need me.”

With a sigh he looks to Violet, “I don’t know what to do.”

[lowell-vasile]

jvstinames:

It’s Lowell. A kid, but for some reason, Justin can’t really treat him like one. He only acts like it as far as a lack of life experience; in every other way, he just feels mature, knowledgeable, even if it’s in areas Justin can’t understand. He’s an odd presence to be in, and brings a cloud with him when he comes. Justin blinks against the rain, his chin turned over his shoulder to try and keep his eyes on him.

“…I remember. ‘Wasn’t sure you did.” Not the greatest time to get into an intellectual bartering session with this brighter-than-normal kid, but then, Justin’s disorder would never act according to his schedule. The blonde blinked through the haze and took a deep breath for a second, closing his eyes to block out at least that avenue of distraction, while trying to steady the rest of himself to the core. His fingers circled the can of rainwater slowly filling as it balanced on his ribs. The texture kept him rooted just enough.

“But I’ve been practicing, or trying to. Got something fun in mind?” He only hoped Lowell’s favor wouldn’t cross into realms of more serious rituals.

“Fun?” Lowell questions the word as though he’s never spoken it, as though it’s a foreign concept. He thought to leave this interaction before it had really begun, his memory being questioned by the man carving a frown on his lips. Debts are never forgotten, and if there’s one thing he knows well, it’s that nothing comes without a price. This is the way the world he’s creating remains as balanced as the can atop Justin’s torso, one disturbance without counter and everything comes crashing down. 

The door handle he’s pulling doesn’t give way, but provides a distraction from his anger at Justin’s inability. A person as powerful and useful as he believes the man could be would be forced to practice day and night if he had his way. “What fun can I have in mind if you’ve only been trying to practice.” A statement rather than a question, because he knows the answer he seeks. “If I wanted something right now, would you have the tools? Do you need help finding materials so you can practice?” His eyes search the body before him, “are you lying in the rain to collect the water for a spell?”

[lowell-vasile]

The soft chirping coming from between Lowell’s hands is actual music to his ears. The feathers against his palms, the tiny body fidgeting against his skin reminds him of home. Birds would often flock around the house, along with other animals drawn in by the air of the place only to be scared away when they discovered what was living there. Mother knew how to catch the birds, complex enchantments that would send them hurling toward the house. It was something he was never able to do, the animals keeping far from him and behaving erratically once he was able to get even closer. It makes him feel proud to hold the bird with the broken wing he spotted in the parking lot, happy to be in contact with something that reminds him of himself. 

“Hey-- stop!” he whisper-shouts at the bird, pecking away at his index finger, “you would be dead out there without me. Frying in the sun or eaten. I’m saving you.” He flashes an angry face at the bird in his hands, walking through the doors of the ikea like nothing is out of the ordinary. “Ow! You-- you’re not even listening to me!”

[lowell-vasile]

jackwesson:

The trick with IKEA was knowing where to look. What to look for. The place had been ransacked pretty early, sure. Not much left in the kitchen, and plenty of the downstairs had been cannabalized for whatever survivors could get their paws on in the early days. 

Plenty left for somebody enterprising who had put together furniture for no less than 5 younger sisters. You’d have thought they’d never seen plasterboard before in their lives. Didn’t matter. 

So he wasn’t surprised when pushing the cart around a corner he was face to face with one of the others in the group. He’d found some of the kids cooking sets, a couple of the tarps hidden behind a shelf that had come down, and the real find; a handful of still in one piece blankets. Sure, it was almost summer and hot and humid, but come fall he’d want them.

“There’s more blankets back that way.” He offered. “If you’re lookin to stay a bit warmer.”

“I’m warm enough,” words pushed through an exhale forced from his lungs. Lowell had been busy running across this section of the store, in search of a cluster of ant he’d found and lost. Maybe they were on their own journey to better shelter. Backing away from the cart he almost ran into, he pulled at the loose collar of the over-sized sweater he has worn for two winters now. The man is old and tall, like most men found around this group, but not unfamiliar. 

The frown on his face stayed even after he steadied himself. For second, he wanted to be angry the man had turned the corner and interrupted him, but his attention was quickly taken by the contents of the basket. Perhaps they were treasures the man meant to keep him from taking note of. “Anyone cold enough to need blankets now must be sick and should be taken care of.” He had no plan to elaborate on what kind of care he had in mind. Late hour of the night would come to him with a chill, but he believed himself to be different. 

“What did you find?” A question coupled with authority, as though he had a right to know about the man’s loot. 

[lowell-vasile]

jvstinames:

All his life, Justin had felt comforted by rain. The heavier the downpour, the greater the relief, even better when he was out in it. The only time real life mimicked a static television, natural white noise. Thousands of tiny, cool explosions on his skin, all drawing his attention at worse. It was hard to explain, but he found it easy to just rest when it was raining, even if the rest of his brain rarely did.

Alone with his thoughts and himself, Justin laid out across the hood and windshield of a discarded car in the lot, soaked to the bone as it stormed above. He balanced a little pot on his stomach with his hands, just holding it there, listening as the impact of the rain around him miraculously drowned out the unintelligible whispering. 

Only, a few syllables hit his ear drums in a different way and Justin turned his head before he even digested it fully, looking for the real voice through all the fake. “…come again?”

It isn’t until after walking upon a device to keep him dry that Lowell decides to go out and brave the rain. ‘P-o-n-c-h-o’, the little package spells and he has no idea what it means, but there’s a picture on the front of a woman who seems happy not to be wet. The poncho (a silly word to speak aloud) keeps him dry enough to walk out into the parking lot in front of the building, within sight of whoever may be watching the grounds now.

The intent he goes out with is to continue digging a hole he created in the asphalt. Tools, teeth, and small belongings from the departed that have been drained of their power would be buried there; though not on a rainy day like this. For now, metal soup spoon in hand, he plans to chip away at the hard surface. That is, until he catches sight of a familiar figure.

What brings him closer is the desire to know if the man has died, thinking what a waste it would be to let a soul go missing. Even up close, he has to focus on the man’s lips to know the voice comes from the body and not a wandering spirit. He looks down at the car and pulls a door handle, his voice a soft hum against the rainfall. “You owe me something, alchemist.”

[lowell-vasile]

pvttycake:

“Oh my godddddd, finally!” Basket full of bottles and tools in her arms, Patty raced through the IKEA until she reached an open door by the loading dock, stopping just briefly enough to toe off her shoes and running onto the wet asphalt with everything else. Whether there’d be lightning or not, there was no way she was going to pass up the opportunity for a real shower, provided the storm lingered a bit and didn’t just pass right through. 

“Uh–Ines?” Lowell is outside already, using a tool he found inside the building to carve the beginning of a soul trap into a wooden cutting board. It will be harmless when it’s done and he knows that, he simply enjoys practicing his penmanship. The rain doesn’t reach him from where he sits beneath an awning over the door and he doesn’t move to far from it as he calls out to the woman again. “What are you doing?” He remembers the other children in the family who would run out to play in the rain in the dark. They would come in again, sick and cold, and Mother would make him stay away until she rid the house of the sickness.

[lowell-vasile]

kane-e:

Charging what?

Shitgoddammit. Kane’s head snaps up to see Lowell, the kid Wes had brought along for the ride. He probably should’ve realized it was him earlier. There was a faint, lingering smell to him. Of dirt and the outside. Like a misty forest.

“Never mind, kid,” Kane replies quickly, smile a little put on because… the kid was weird at the end of the day. Even as a child himself, Kane could never quite understand how to interact with them. They were too ‘innocent’ for him to really say anything near them. 

“It’s just an… adult joke.” Is the explanation he finally settles on. That, though, quickly stops being the focus. He’ll forget that choke, most likely, but Kane is curious about the fistfuls of weeds and grass he’s holding.

He’s looking around quickly for Patty or Wes. Lowell was originally a part of their group, he’s hoping they’ll appear and take the kid with them. Instead, it’s just Kane. He’ll have to play nice. Jeans abandoned in his lap, Kane tips his head towards him, “What are you up to? Collecting plants?”

‘Never mind, kid.’ ‘Forget this, child.’ Lowell translates the phrase in his mind, in Abraham’s voice, believing he knows when he’s being pushed from a truth. He’s understood many jokes told to him by adults and doesn’t understand why this one won’t share his. Maybe Kane already knows little will make Lowell feel the need to smile. Adults don’t have funny jokes. This is the only explanation he can make.

Before he can make any comment, he’s asked about what he’s doing, then the foliage in his hands. Why it’s any of Kane’s business is his first thought, looking down as though he’s discovering the grass and weeds for the first time. He considers his options. The two of them aren’t friends, he has no obligation to let the man in on his plans. But this is the leader of the van. He won’t risk being kicked out because he doesn’t trust this face.

Eyes on Kane again, a calm, blunt stare like he’s trying to look into the man’s thoughts. “No. I will be burning them.” As though it’s obvious. “If I kept them, in the van, they would die.” He wonders what Kane would think of the objects he does collect. “Do you have a lighter? Mine,” was dropped out the car window because he was angry the fire had burned him? “broke.” He hopes Ines hadn’t told the other adults about what she caught him do. “I need water, too.”