To keep it short - I had a baby, and along with her, a bout of Severe postpartum depression. So, along with a lot of other stuff, all my beloved projects came to a screaming halt.
Iâve been working hard on myself and learning how to do things again, this time while raising a tiny human. Iâve known for a long time Iâd want to continue this project someday when I felt ready, and folks, that day has come.
We canât promise an update tomorrow, but we can promise you this: there Will be more Peach Bottom. It is, essentially, already written. If you want it in your eyes, youâll get it. Just stick with us, cuz weâre coming back!
The rich built towers during the war. Pillars of electric light, perfectly contained, complete communities, protected from the rising tides and the violence of the ground below. Outside these steel bubbles, however, the poor struggle to survive in the flooded wreckage of the old city. The greatest threat goes beyond nature, though - when SkyLife Corp buys up the ground-level neighborhood of Mt. Danu and schedules it for demolition, a neighborhood mobilizes. A mother embarks on an epic journey to find her daughter. A daughter embarks on an epic journey to figure herself out before her mother finds her. A young activist learns to raise her fist, and a complier attempts to find justice in the laws she lives by. Peach Bottom is a story about a neighborhood, and neighbors. Itâs a story about survival - strength and softness fueling a journey of love and community. More than anything, itâs a story about finding home - and what, exactly, that means.
VOLUME ONE IS AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORM!
Bonus content! Gorgeous designs! Support for your local peachy peeps! All for four dollars. Go check it out!Â
To keep it short - I had a baby, and along with her, a bout of Severe postpartum depression. So, along with a lot of other stuff, all my beloved projects came to a screaming halt.
Iâve been working hard on myself and learning how to do things again, this time while raising a tiny human. Iâve known for a long time Iâd want to continue this project someday when I felt ready, and folks, that day has come.
We canât promise an update tomorrow, but we can promise you this: there Will be more Peach Bottom. It is, essentially, already written. If you want it in your eyes, youâll get it. Just stick with us, cuz weâre coming back!
The first day brought Tye to the edge of the Manayunk swamplands.
She saw the wrecked valley first from a high rise, the half-built tower a stark slice of ruined modernity falling into disrepair in the swamp below. It had been one of the first built in Philly, and it was started too late - ruined in the rainy season by a hurricane that had brought the river up into Manayunk and kept it there.
The ruins of the old ground houses themselves were bizarre - at one point, they had clearly been bright, expensive. They had that clean, outlined look, and through some crumbling walls and broken windows she could see arches and high ceilings. Most were row homes, but on the edges of the neighborhood, she could see mansions - great, sprawling stone and wood homes, porches now almost entirely submerged.
Shockingly, she saw boats and makeshift rafts, even two girls laid out on the roof of one of those porches. She glided around the high rise slowly, looking down, searching, though she knew it was unlikely that a group on foot wouldâve ventured into the swamp, even if it did seem like there were folks still living in the second and third stories of drowned homes. There was even something like the Mt Danu market set up on the roof of what couldâve been a school in a previous life.
She hover-burst over the edge of her high-rise, let herself fall a while and then caught herself with another burst on an old rail line winding around the outside of the edge of town, just distant enough to be separate - water lapping at low, sunken arches, the buildings abruptly slumping downwards, drowning out into a lower plane. Distant enough to see.
Distant enough to be seen, Tye thought. She remembered when Sandy had said - two policemen, shot. This would be a real hunt, then.
A real hunt. And her baby-
There was a sudden flash - a reflection off the road ahead, that was all, but the fucked up parts of her took that moment and made a spark into a bolt, leaping through her.
Tye pumped the brakes, teetering for a second and then veering for longer, and then, for only an instant, scraping against the sideboards before she and the bike slammed against the side-rail, a thick old thing that bent with a screaming bang, catching the bike, which in turn caught her handles to gut, air wrenched from her like a solid thing that gagged her, legs flying over her head in slow motion, and she went over.
It took longer than she expected for the smack, and with a frothy gulp the river swallowed her, and then there was a universe of sparkling bubbles against an emerald sky above, a stunning instant before the cold, and the dark, and the sloping decay of that brilliance into nothing but a murky sun.
Something slammed into her shoulder, but instead of falling, instead of something real like that, the world hurled itself around her as she spun off to the side and down, the last desperate bubbles like pearls slipping between her teeth. A momentary cocoon of darkness, with that line of bright, ungraspable - the world slowed, and -
A telephone pole, sheâd knocked into a telephone pole, and there were buildings, buildings draped with algae, an old highway clogged with cars that never made it out before the storm, a fallen stampede, a graveyard of desperation encased in steel and flooded fuel.
Fish flicked between, around, through houses and cars, and there must be clean bones down there, and at least she would be among them, she found the thought like a thorn through her soul, because this could be peace. This could be peace. It could just stop, finally.
Xena.
The water was thick as sand pressing down around her, her limbs clunky and frozen, her big boots like boulders at her ankles.
Her hands were claws in front of her, scraping against the black.
The sun was nowhere, now. And then, through frantic force, everywhere.
She burst up in a searing flash of light and a raw gasp, static blooming over her vision as she tried to even her breathing, slow her frantic flailing, breathe, breathe, breathe.
Breathe. Xena whispered it the fourth time, her voice a drop on the surface, rippling out.
Tye leaned back in the water, letting her boots drift as the rest of her body floated, suspended in the arch of her back. She breathed.
The swim to shore always takes longer than you think it will, her mom had said once. Tyeâs arms burned and her mouth stung with salt and something sour and chemical that was probably currently cancering her up. Eventually the buildings rose close enough to the surface that she found herself pushing off the sides of roofs and chimneys, superhero soaring over the sunken world below.
When the sun was high and her arms seared too much to work against the current, she clambered up a surfaced roof, the wood bending, groaning with rot beneath her, but the sun shucked water from her in wavering steam, the skin tingling, muscles relaxing despite themselves.
She shut her eyes and the sun stayed there, bleached into the lids. After a moment she sat up, groaning. She pulled off her shoes and sopping socks, stuffing the latter into the toe of the former and knotting the laces together after. The boots hung like weights when she lifted them to hang around her shoulders. She felt stupid for not doing this sooner. Free, her feet felt raw, delicate brown toes curled into each other. Dimly, she noticed pink and red ankles, rubbed raw, blisters like waxy paper where theyâd burst.
She couldnât even feel them.
Tye reached forward, intent on picking one off, but as she stretched her shoulder popped and a jarring jolt of vertigo rocketed through her, the slapping sound of the water fading into a piercing, static whine, her vision greying out and and pain popping, sparking down her spine.
Her head hit the roof with a wet thump.
In the flat disc of bright water before the shore, she saw a shadow she hadnât noticed before slipping quietly across the way - a boat, a simple rower, and a child standing at the steer, dark skin shining in the sun, her face too far to see, but the familiar shape of her - of baby girls, small and shining and needing.
âXena!â she shouted, but her mouth betrayed her, whispering it instead.
Too far away to have heard, the girl tilted her head. Turned behind her, and then there was another little girl, and another, and they squabbled in their nest - needing, needing, needing.
The sun burned. Her ears fizzed, and the world was a solid, steady whine.
Tye shut her eyes. For a moment. Just a moment.
-
First came smell - the scent of disinfectant, mildew, and cloth. The cloth was a blanket, she thought, but when she opened her eyes she realized it was a sleeping bag, wrapped intimately around her vulnerably unconscious form. She sat up quickly, head spinning, and took in her surroundings - an empty room that looked as if it had been a classroom in a previous life, dusty desks shoved off into one corner, chairs stacked, a cracked screen hanging lopsided at the front.
What was beside her interested her more, however - a backpack. Not her backpack - that was back with her bike up on the high rise, oh fuck, let it still be up on that high rise - but this backpack was green, and made of thick, rough fabric, and overburdened on all sides with different bundles and wraps, an enormous water-bottle bulging out of a pocket.
The top was unzipped. Inside, an open medical kit, and -
Granola bars.
As if suddenly remembering itself, her stomach moaned.
Tye snatched the granola bars and stood up, swaying for a moment before steadying herself. The room was devoid of the backpack owner, but theyâd surely be back soon. It was odd that theyâd trusted her, an unconscious stranger, here with their stuff at all. Unless -
Tye tip-toed over to the door, trying the handle. It opened easily, and with one fervent look up and down the hall, she ducked out and into another classroom, where she promptly devoured the granola bars, sucking water from a dripping sink after.
Satiated, she made her way back out into the hall, moving quickly from corner to corner, then down a flight of concrete stairs.
Here, she stopped, frozen. Here, she heard voices.
â... should be fine. You did excellent, bringing her here. Very mature.â A deep voice, slightly accented. Jamaican?
The murmur of a child, and then a great, bellowing laugh that made her jump.
âI think I have some granola bars, if youâd like those,â the voice said, and to Tyeâs terror, footsteps started towards the door sheâd perched behind.
With nothing else to do without making too much sound and betraying herself anyway, Tye flattened herself behind where the door would open, holding her breath.
In a moment, out came a man - tall, Black, locks tied up behind his head and the flash of glasses. And following him - two little girls, one with a round dark head that leapt out at her - the girl from the boat. Not Xena, then. Not even Xenaâs age - so young.
She waited - the urge to breathe thrumming in her chest - until theyâd passed her, heading for the stairs, where - she realized - they would turn on the landing and see her cowering behind the door. She caught the door quickly before it closed, not daring to look behind her as she slipped out and around, heart hammering.
The sun was a familiar burn on her face. She felt odd - dry and sticky where sheâd been exposed, but whoever had put her in that sleeping bag - probably the man sheâd seen, by the looks of it - hadnât bothered to take off her wet clothes (praise), so she was clammy everywhere else.
Once outside, it was easy to find her way back up the highrise to where her bike was thankfully still lodged between the edge of the road and the low wall that hadnât done shit to stop her from flying over the edge.
Casting one last glance across the water to the school sheâd snuck from, Tye started up the bike again, heart still hammering away despite the lack of danger, a ferocious, pointless guilt now lodged in her granola-bar filled stomach.
Late update this month, folks. Real life is catching up to us. In the meantime! Hereâs a wip and a sneak peak of the upcoming chapter!
She hover-burst over the edge of her high-rise, let herself fall a while and then caught herself with another burst on an old rail line winding around the outside of the edge of town, just distant enough to be separate - water lapping at low, sunken arches, the buildings abruptly slumping downwards, drowning out into a lower plane. Distant enough to see the town in full.
Distant enough to be seen, Tye thought. She remembered when Sandy had said - two policemen, shot. This would be a real hunt, then.
The Schuylkill river ran directly through what had once been central Philadelphia, before the war, before the bombs, before the river swelled up. Before towers connected by high-rises, accessed primarily by hovercraft, so distant from the perils of the ground that the rising water was a crystaline dream. These days, the river was slightly South of what was considered âCenter Cityâ by official standards.
The Schuylkill river ran directly through what had once been central Philadelphia, before the war, before the bombs, before the river swelled up. Before towers connected by high-rises, accessed primarily by hovercraft, so distant from the perils of the ground that the rising water was a crystaline dream. These days, the river was slightly South of what was considered âCenter Cityâ by official standards.
Despite the fact that it was deemed a flood zone and the homes there werenât registered, there were homes - some folks squatted in the partially demolished buildings, ones that used to be considered âskyscrapersâ before the scraper communities. The old Peco building was a popular squat, and the barren, partially collapsed art museum was still a grounder Philly tourist attraction, in its own way.
The primary attraction, however, was the house boats. Docks had been shoddily created and connected, homes that could survive the encroaching flood flocked together and pinned down. This is what was called the Schuylkill, maybe even more than the river.
There were many ways down into that shifting maze of color and bleached wood, but to Martha, there was a familiar rope ladder beside an ancient, crumbled bridge, down into the quickly filling concrete revine, and then the docks, solid and worn beneath her sandals. All of this connected by more ropes, the whole thing moving just slightly, dizzily, around her.
This was where Martha had been born.
That babyâs parents hadnât named her âMartha,â though, and as she stood before her auntâs flaking pepto-bismo pink houseboat, this is what she was thinking of. Her name - her real name, Martha, perfectly plucked from a proud branch of her family tree and affixed where it had always been meant to sit, before her: Martha.
It was important. She didnât even care much, most of the time - let the waitress say âsir,â and greeted an âoops, I mean missâ as if it was some welcome kiss smacked wetly on her cheek, just a plucky forgiving trans girl, friend of the cis! But her name. Her name.
Martha Ortiz the first had been a soldier, gone awol, gone activist, gone prisoner, gone writer. She was a legend, and had had soft warm hands and flowers on her houseboat.
Sheâd died when Martha was four, but she liked to think-
Martha took a deep breath and knocked. No point delaying it.
There was a shuffle from inside, a dainty cough, and then silence. Martha could feel an eye peeking at her through the window, but she didnât glance over until the silence stretched long enough that she began to wonder, the thought sudden and prickly, if she was going to be let in at all. Then there was a click and the door swung open and her aunt Claudia was there, arms open. âMi amor! Bienvenio, oh, I was so worried!â
The words came over Martha like a balm she hadnât realized sheâd been needing, the familiar Spanish placing her solidly in the world again, where things made the most sense and she could understand. She squeezed Auntie Claudia tightly, trying not to cry as she was hustled in and had a cup of tea handed to her before she could get so much as a âthank-youâ out.
Martha took a deep breath. The air here smelled musty, incense, and she could see a candle lit at Claudiaâs alter with - and this went over Martha in a wave - a picture of her.
But.
There mustâve been a thousand pictures taken between then and now, and Martha knew her aunt had access - her parents sent out personalized cards for every holiday - a whole slew, just for her QuinceaĂąera a few years back. But this picture was old. This picture was from before.
Martha looked away, quickly. She told herself the intentions were pure, even though they werenât. She told herself it would be fine, and sat down on one of the squat cushy chairs her aunt had crammed into a corner of the only real room in the boat. A familiar collection of small figurines perched crowded on a side table, most all religious, beyond a one - a tiny, cheap looking porcelain boy with a soccer ball. Martha had gotten it for her as a child - because she liked these fragile little dolls, just like mama, and because it was a soccer boy! A soccer boy, like Martha!
Martha picked it up. It felt cool in her hand. She had an odd urge to put it in her mouth.
âOh chico, you must tell me everything! Have you contacted your parents yet?â
Martha put down the figurine. âI - not yet, no, I was actually wondering if I could-â
âAh yes, of course, of course! I got an email from your mother earlier, chico, she is so worried, Iâll get the tablet-â
âAnd Auntie?â
âYes, love?â
âI donât mean to - I mean. Uh, just. Can you please stop calling me chico?â
There was a hefty silence. Auntie Claudia was in her room, supposedly getting the laptop. She was barely five feet from Martha in the tiny houseboat, but when she responded, Martha couldnât hear her - just an odd mumble.
âWhat was that?â
âNothing, love, here, take the computer. And - you are staying here, of course. Until your parents get homeâ
Martha couldâve cried. âThank-you, Auntie,â she mumbled, and  took the computer, grateful to her core, and quickly logged in. She had thirteen emails, almost all from her parents. They were on their way, they said, but travel into Philadelphia had become difficult. She responded to the last email, and then typed out a quick note to Tye, too, while she had access. Auntie Claudia, of course, had laid out around three meals worth of snacks at this point, and Martha devoured them hungrily - she hadnât realized how starving she was.
âHow did you get out, my love?â Auntie Claudia was still talking. Sheâd ranted nonstop about Marthaâs parents gall, leaving their son alone like that, and Martha had gritted her teeth and typed through it, mumbling responses when necessary.
âI didnât. They arrested me for a while, but a friend⌠well, she paid my bail.â
This got a response. Silent, but deadly. Martha quickly added, âIâm paying her back, though! I just needed to borrow money, itâs not - I mean, Iâm paying her back.â
Martha bit down hard on her tongue. It didnât work, though. âPlease stop calling me that.â
Claudia lowered her teacup from where sheâd been holding it before her mouth, hiding her words like a secret - an intimate, funny kind of habit Martha recognized from her mother, Claudiaâs sister.
âYou would really punish your Auntie for using pet names?â
âThatâs not what-â
âCarlos, your parents would be ashamed-â
âThatâs not my name!â
Silence on the boat. Claudia took another sip, shaking her head like Martha was being childish again, telling a story rather than the truth. âI believe I remember your baptism better than you, Carlos. I know what name you were given before G-d.â
âMama had a new ceremony for me! She knows my name, she-â
Auntie Claudia slammed her tea down; the cup cracked, the liquid spilled, she she hissed like a snake, lifting her hand, which was bloody.
Martha leapt upwards, dashing over to the sink to grab a towel - she wet it with warm water before returning to her aunt and, after a hesitant moment, handing her the cloth rather than cleaning the wound herself, as she mightâve done in another life.
Her aunt didnât take the cloth, though. She was staring at her hand. Martha swallowed.
When she finally spoke, the words were hard, and plain. âIn your own home, or in your motherâs home, you may live whatever sin you like. I worry for you, but I have no control. But in my house, Carlos, you will live as our heavenly father sees you,â she reached out suddenly and clutched at Marthaâs hand, her eyes fever-bright, âmay it give you the chance to atone-â
Martha jerked her hand back. She grabbed her things, not looking at her Aunt, who was quiet. Until she wasnât, of course, because she couldnât be - just as Martha was about to make her exit, she broke the silence with a low voice, dangerous in its meekness, its victimhood.
âYou were always so⌠so manipulative. As a little boy. Turning on the doe eyes anytime someone might give you something, always managing to be the only one out of trouble, though I know, I know you lead my little ones astray every now and then. Never any malice, but - it was a game, you liked it, to play this game. Is that-â
Martha could hear each thumpthumpthump of her heart in her ears, steady as a drum. Could feel the hot bile of anger rising in her throat, her face was burning with rage-
âDonât you dare-â
âIs that what this is? A way to get closer to girls? Break into their secret world, their bathrooms? I know you like the girls; remember Iâm the one that caught you watching that girlie movie, I know youâre not a homosexual, even if you think this is-â
âI am, though! I am! Iâm a fucking dyke, auntie, I -â
âYou will not swear in my house! You will not sin in my house! You will-â
SLAM.
Martha stared down at the tiny porcelain figurine, cracked on the floor, a dent in the wall beside her auntâs head. The tiny boy head had been decapitated from the tiny boy body. She looked at her hand. âI didnât mean -â she started to lie, but when she met her auntâs eyes, she gave up and allowed herself to burst into tears.
Her aunt picked up the pieces of the little figurine. She looked uncomfortable, but Martha knew she couldnât ignore crying - never could.
âOh, Carlos. Fetch me the glue. All he needs is glue - just a little fix. Chico, you must watch your temper,â and then she looked up, a smile like sheâd won a tiny victory, âAll the men in our family have this passion, though. That is what weâve always said. You must figure out a way to use it righteously! Be a good man, like your grandfath- Carlos! Carlos, come back!â
On her way out, Martha blew out the candle. She didnât touch the picture, though. It was from when she was nine - she was in her soccer uniform, a ball under one skinny arm and a toothy grin on her face. She might even have liked it, before this moment. It was still her, after all. It was a picture of a little girl doing something she loved. But it had been poisoned, now.
Marthaâs self-righteous rage lasted until sheâd climbed the ladder back onto solid ground again. Then, with the earth not moving beneath her, what had happened hit her full force.
She had nowhere to go.
Martha wandered a bit, but it was getting dark, and soon she found an old, overgrown park that felt like safety, felt like faeries, and Martha loved faeries. She curled up on a bench with her backpack under her head and cried, softly, until the shouts and sounds of a group of drunk men roused her and scared her into leaving, creeping by them not creepily enough, jeers and laughter following her down the street, though thankfully, they didnât follow far.
The AedosDynamic tower caught her eye as she turned down a small alley. It was a shining beacon in the dark danger of the old city. She wished she could call it ugly, but none of the towers were - they were pillars of pure light, vegetation bursting from parks up high, the whole thing fractured in some kind of important architecture way that made it disappear sometimes, turn into just the sky behind it on a rainy day, make that bursting garden top look like it was floating.
There were stairs up to the first floor of the tower. And then, buttons besides.
Martha did the only thing she could think to do. The thing Tye had told her to do - and Tye was smart. Smart and hard and loving in a way Martha couldnât be. So she could only trust Tye, really.
Lemon answered on the second ring. âHelllooooooo?â she said as her image clipped into view on the display screen. Her eyes widened at Martha, and Martha opened her mouth, ready to engage her prepared speech, but Lemon got in there before she could, âSweet! I was wondering when youâd turn up, girlie. Come in - 744B. I ordered takeout.â
There was a long drone as the door unlocked, and Martha quickly ducked under the motion sensor and passed through.
A wave of air conditioning smacked her in the face.
Sheâd forgotten what that felt like.
Ignoring the odd looks from the receptionists, Martha made her way across the lobby, which was so posh it hurt to look at - plants everywhere, a fountain, a chandelier, dripping with crystals. Martha felt like a plain stone in a box of diamonds.
Lemon met her at the elevator though, cheesesteak in hand, and to Marthaâs shock, she handed it over immediately. âI ate the other one. One and a half. Whatever. Anyway, sorry. You were late.â
Martha laughed, despite herself, and took the cheesesteak. It was heavy with grease and loaded down with fried onions and mushrooms. It felt like the first real thing in this sterile world of wealth. âI wonât stay long. I mean, my parents are-â
Lemon grabbed her bag for her and then strutted down the hallway on a mission, calling back, âWell then itâs time to get the party started! We gotta have some fun before they get here. Come on in, then, babe. Bet you canât beat my deaths-per-game count in Overwatch.â
âWhatâs Overwatch?â
âOh man, I am gonna love showing you, come on come on, letâs do this!â
Martha followed, an odd hope alighting in her chest.
She could do this. Alright. She could totally do this.
Weâre looking for someone to rough out 1-2 illustrations per chapter for our visual novel, Peach Bottom.
Hi, Iâm Christine- the only illustrator for Peach Bottom. Iâve been doing all the art for PB for about half a year now, and during those months Iâve been really feeling the need for someone to help me with the workload, especially re: environments, and Iâd love to have someone help me get updates done faster!
Martha Ortiz the first had been a soldier, gone awol, gone activist, gone prisoner, gone writer. She was a legend, and had had soft warm hands and flowers on her houseboat.
Sheâd died when Martha was four, but she liked to think-
The first time Xena fell, someone grabbed her, hoisted her upright. Someone who was on her heel like they were connected, someone who was sticking close by her side, and she had assumed, without thinking about it, that Tye was there.
The first time Xena fell, someone grabbed her, hoisted her upright. Someone who was on her heel like they were connected, someone who was sticking close by her side, and she had assumed, without thinking about it, that Tye was there.
Later on she tried to pinpoint the exact moment her motherâs presence had vanished, and she couldnât, couldnât place it, could only think âbefore the barricadeâ because that was the last time sheâd been sure, but that couldnât be, couldnât be, she couldnât have just left her own mother that far back, took off without realizing.
Sheâd been near the front of the horde.Â
Climbing - twisting limbs, stumbling, someone almost going over her, the pressure of the world beneath her, her own weight a tether on the screaming, soaring spirit within, the world moving too quickly and not quick enough, Goober practically carrying her. Falling off the other side and rising in one motion, gripping Gooberâs harness. And thatâs when the hands had come - theyâd grabbed her shirt instead of her arm, she remembered, pulled her up by the collar. That was why - why she hadnât known then, hadnât gone back.
The mistake was a stone in her gut, enormous, making the only possible breath shallow.
It had been Hava. She found that out later, when they were already far away, when there were sirens chasing them and people kept yelling about it being too dark, about the street lights being down and the houses empty blackness and the light from the towers too far away now, they were on the fringes of the ground city, and sheâd known, had been used to keeping track, the world a textured map in her head, the world there, bright as anything, and sheâd said softly around the pounding of her chest, âWeâre on Allegheny⌠if we get to Henry⌠more isolated,â
Thatâs when Havaâd spoke, in a shrill, warbling voice that was not Tyeâs, not Tyeâs smooth, low rumble, and Xenaâd started like a spooked bird at, âHey, she says weâre on Allegheny! If we get to Henry, we can find the park, lose âem in the woods!â
Xenaâd stumbled, had stopped, had tried to say, âMa!â but her voice came up empty, pressure building in her chest and head, feet carrying her in a small circle, because Tye wouldnât, would never be far, not now, not here, never, but no, no no no nonononononono-
Havaâs hand gripped her again, held her arm hard, âXena, sheâs not here,â
âI gotta go back, I gotta go back,â her own voice came out in a muffled echo, like it was underwater. At her feet, Goober was reacting to her energy, and Hava stepped back, letting go of her. Such an old hand, a different texture, pressure, shape than Tyeâs, how, how could she have ever thought-
âYou canât. Thatâs a fact. You canât, Xena.â
Girlie. Tye, Tye talking about her grandmother calling her that, âgirlie,â how uncomfortable it made her, and how it helped her know it wasnât what she was.
Negatives opening the possibility of positives, ignorance gleaming knowledge, the world, this intricate world. Thinking that stopped Xenaâs mind for a moment, allowed a jolt, and in that jolt, Hava spoke.
âWe need you. Your mama canât be helped right now. Youâd only make it more difficult for her, going back. But we need you. You know this part of the city, right?â
âRight,â Xena whispered, because she knew the whole ground city, practically, knew it all, âRight, right, right.â
Hava spoke quicker, the sirens getting closer, the group getting antsy. Xena could hear a smattering of footsteps break off, others crying out at being further separated, and she put a hand out behind her, leaned back for a moment against the pillar of the high-rise she knew was there.
This city lived in her head. Her head was a balloon, stretched thin around this city. Her entire world. The entire world.
When blind Xena started, the second thing Tye did was start taking Xena on walks. âWalking the dogâ sheâd called it, and theyâd set out at five am and get in at least an hour, every day. And every day, Xena had to name the street they were on, describe what was around her, smell, sound, light, the very quaking of the earth. Through this, and through her own static mind, easy to take something in if it was Important - she knew.
âSo you have a job here, kid. Donât you?â
Xena nodded, pushing up her glasses. Something solidified in her. She took a breath, and then started ahead, rallying Goober beside her and holding tight to her harness. She glided through a world of slides, slices of light and dark and the memory of shape to rely on from times sheâd walked these streets at a calm pace, smelling them, and repeating their names. Now a rush - oddly free in the openness of it - the stampede in one direction, finally, the motion only forward, no dodging from side to side, the way she did when these streets were at their normal, crowded state. Hava in her footsteps, yelling back, âWe just gotta make it to the park! To the park, come on, letâs move!â
She took them down a side street, and then another. The crafts had started after them late, and while they had the advantage of height, gliding over the ground city like birds of prey, Xena had the advantage of darkness. Once or twice theyâd shine a light on the group - blinding, incredible, the world going white-hot for a second - and they would all be running again, running instead of sneaking, and Xena would have to wind them tighter into the hidden world of quick turns and shadows, sometimes even ducking through old subway tunnels, wading through dirty water to the other side and waiting till the lights passed to exit. She threaded them through until they were solidly, spectacularly hidden, the sirens a distant wail, her heart in her throat, slamming against the surface of her skin, her bones.
By the time they reached the park, she could hear birds, could see the hazy brightness of morning breaking over them, familiarity gone. So in light, she let Hava lead, let the other woman take her hand.
She could still hear the sirens, distant now.
Hava led them to where she claimed she knew about an old bridge, covered now in foliage, part of the old roads. Though they stayed on paved paths, Xena found herself tripping, now, stumbling over cracks and sticks and the plants that had pushed their way through the asphalt in the years since gasoline-fueled cars had used these streets.
Eventually, though it seemed no different a place, they stopped. Went off the road a bit, into the sloping green. Xena could hear water, and her chest burned, a low throbbing in the back of her throat, thirst like a wound.
Only a few people had brought things like cups, pots. Someone said something about boiling the water first, but Xena, along with many others, was already upon the stream. The water tasted like pennies, and chemicals, but in a thirsty enough mouth out comes something else, something almost like fresh spinach from the Aquaponic farm stand in the market - deep, dark life. Xena couldâve cried into that water.
When she could speak again, she reached out and gripped the arm close by her, âMy Mama, I have to go back, I have to find my Mama.â âMama.â She hadnât called Tye that in years, but something raw and young seemed to be bleeding out of her core.
âHava says you shouldnât,â a voice that wasnât Havaâs said. Xenaâs hand shot back, her whole body startled, and then, even more frighteningly, she began to cry.
Sobs quaked through her in waves, uncontrollable, and the voice - a girlâs voice, awkward and scared as anyone called, âOh, um⌠Hava? Hava?!â
Then Hava was there, and old arms, warm and thick, were wrapped around her like she was a baby, and a voice said, âOh, hon,â and Xena found herself hating her, hating Hava for not being Tye, for putting the burden of their safety on her, for making her leave.
âItâs going to be alright,â Hava whispered, âYou did the right thing.â Hate, hate, hate, hate. âIf youâd stayed, they woulda taken you, too. She woulda had to pay bail. And, this pup,â Goober had started licking Xenaâs arm, concerned, her head lulling on Xenaâs hip, âThis pup wouldnâtâve been with ya! Never. She might even be dead. And G-d knows, we mightâve been, too, if it werenât for your smart noggin. Itâs alright. You did good. You were brave, so brave. You did good, girlie.â
Xena stopped crying, eventually. Hava kept holding her, though, until the tears came back, and then left again, back and gone, like tides. Then she was lying down, her head in Havaâs lap, Hava stroking her forehead along her bandana, humming gently. Others were crying around them, other forms moving, the world all hot tears where they were, the world changed, and Xena fell asleep thinking that - the world changed, the world changed, the world changed.
WANDERLUST, A Mythology Anthology Kickstarter is now LIVE!
Check out the Kickstarter right here!Â
Created for all lovers of mythology, WANDERLUST, A Mythology Anthology is an all-new anthology of original comics, illustrations and short stories that reimagine and retell mythological stories. WANDERLUST is a fresh, new take on mythological inspired fiction, and sets out to give a platform to a diverse range of creative voices. WANDERLUST is proud to celebrate ethnic diversity and queerness in both the contents of the book and in the selection of talented writers and artists.
The final book will be 8âłx11âł, perfect bound, printed in full color, with 200+ pages. Inside the book will be 42 original works by our creators, exploring myths from 25 different regions. We will also have Kickstarter-exclusive rewards, such as our 5âłx7âł print pack!
Our campaign will last 30 days, starting TODAY (Nov 21st). Follow us for more updates on the anthology as we move forward towards our Kickstarter. We need your help to get the word out!
Guest Post: On Peach Bottom and Speculative Fiction, by Jackie Snax
âQueer ecofeminist speculative fiction adventure.â If that sounds like your jam, read up on Peach Bottom, a series story by Jackie Snax thatâs just that! Thereâs a nuclear power plant in Peach Bottom, Pennsylvania. Itâs a small town. A bar, a church, a few trailers. A boiling cauldron, brimming with radiation. That kind of town. Peach Bottom (the story) is a speculative fiction piece, which meansâŚ
The rich built towers during the war. Pillars of electric light, perfectly contained, complete communities, protected from the rising tides and the violence of the ground below. Outside these steel bubbles, however, the poor struggle to survive in the flooded wreckage of the old city. The greatest threat goes beyond nature, though - when SkyLife Corp buys up the ground-level neighborhood of Mt. Danu and schedules it for demolition, a neighborhood mobilizes. A mother embarks on an epic journey to find her daughter. A daughter embarks on an epic journey to figure herself out before her mother finds her. A young activist learns to raise her fist, and a complier attempts to find justice in the laws she lives by. Peach Bottom is a story about a neighborhood, and neighbors. Itâs a story about survival - strength and softness fueling a journey of love and community. More than anything, itâs a story about finding home - and what, exactly, that means.
VOLUME ONE IS AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORM!
Bonus content! Gorgeous designs! Support for your local peachy peeps! All for four dollars. Go check it out!Â
