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I have grown to loathe academic writings. Papers on topics as mundane as "we live in a society" are impenetrable to the mass and dangerously time-consuming for young students. There are Big Words. There are twisted, Ouroboros-like sentences that are like vines crawling up around a tower. You beg at it to not grow thorns, and it laughs at you. To not grow thorns is to be twice as long, it says, going around the low walls of the tower instead of climbing ever higher up. You cry, because to dash recklessly to the top means more chance of falling to a painful death.

And at the end? At the end the vines fall away anyway. The writers look up to the tower and imagines it has reached the sky, even when the truth is that it lies in tatters at the bottom.

I found this in my computer dated 27 October 2018. The file name is "ThisIsGettingNowhereFast.txt". Academic writing is bullshit, people.

#academic writing #is bullshit #short rant

It rains again the next day...

It rains again the next day, a blizzard of water crashing irregularly on our rooftops. I know it's your doing today, too. Outside, the flags that aren't blown away are torn apart by the squall, the festivities cancelled. There's nothing left but the sound of rain and thunder. There might not be anything else for who knows how long.

I'm standing in the doorway, my raincoat draped around me. One step outside and I will be drenched; my coat won't save me at all. The others told me to give it up and stay, the witch doesn't have the power against a force of nature as strong as this, but I know better. It's your doing today, yesterday, and the day before too. Do you know some of the village elders are blaming themselves? Say it's because of their past mistakes that nature has punished us with interminable storm, right during the festival of harvest. But I'm a geomancer, I know nature better than that. And I know this isn't what nature intended either. It's all you.

The spell I cast on my coat and clothing are nothing against the one you're wailing from the sky. I'm wet and drenched, but I can still find my way in the storm, and I'm making my way to you. Your tower looms in the distance, up the hill from the village, a sight to behold. I know you don't think much of them, but the villagers do adore it. The Lighthouse of the Forest. They might avoid you at all cost, the weather-witch, but they know they'll be nowhere without your guiding light. There won't be a village here if it's not for you.

The rain is falling and falling and still falling. I slip and fall during the climb, once, twice. My coat is soaked in both dirt and water, but I don't mind, of course. They're part of nature once they hit the ground; I can spell them away once I'm out of the rain. But how can I ever get out of this rain if you don't stop it? The way to your tower is steep and far.

But soon I manage. Your light still glows up above, but it's hard to see with the wind buffeting my eyes, the water at my face. The rain has a voice, and it is a voice made by the hundreds, thousands of materials that it meets on the ground. The stone walls of your tower, the fabric of my coat, the dirt below, the dead, dying, undead flowers littering your yard, the trees of the forest, the rooftops of the villagers. Far too much voice to hear at once and yet I do anyway, and it's hard to hear anything else, not even the slow, comforting hum of your light.

I open the door, and the rain rushes in. A new cacophony of voices, rain within enclosed walls, echoing through the walls. I close it, and still I can hear it echoing around me. When a rain enters, it never really leave.

I call your name, and you won't answer, but still I can hear your wailings in the air. It's what fed the storm, don't you know? This rain is yours.

I climb the stairs, I walk the corridors. I've forgotten what your home is like, it's been so long since you last invited me here. I cast a spell for light, but still it is nothing against the constant noise of your storm outside. The voices seep into the wall and gather around me, compressing my mind. Nevermind, then. I will find you by force of will alone if I have to.

A thunder cracles in a distance, and I can hear you crying. The sixth floors, door number seventeen. You've never liked how I keep your home organised in my mind, but I can never help it. Your tower won't speak to me, and so I must make a map of it myself. I open the door, and the walls boomed at me.

You have mentioned before how you wanted to not be alone. I answered that you never are. The towers speak to you. The sky speaks to you. Even the sun will speak to you, if you call. The forest, the wind, the birds, they all speak to you. You shook your head, as if I was a child who you didn't expect could understand. I can't pretend I understand it now. Look outside your window, I say, holding your hand. The sky is listening to you.

And you won't answer. Only the sky does, and it is pouring.

2018/11/16

I remember only vaguely the circumstances I was in when I wrote this. I have ADD and chronic migraine and often they form a vicious cycle with anxiety/depression. Writing this was probably a way to cope with one of those episodes.

#story #weather #wizards #mental health

Imaginary

You're not really worth it.

#story #science-fiction #friends #schizophrenic-narrative

Three Rules

There were only three rules in the house. One, to come and have dinner at the designated place at the designated time. Two, to never leave the house for more than eight hours after dark. Three, to never run in the hallway at the back of the south wing.

Oh we're allowed to go there, the dark forlorn corridors of the south wing. It was a place of dust and cobwebs, spread around ancient antiques and vague offerings to fallen gods. It was where all the truly old paintings are stored, those that wouldn't fade, even after the subjects are no longer acceptable for human eyes. It was where we could see the statues, frozen mid-scream.

A long time ago, when we were children and new to the place and foolish, we made it a nightly challenge to explore the south wing. It only last four nights.

We were walking down the hall, that night, admiring the gilded armors and guessing as to how long they had stood there. That was when we heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of footsteps, not merely walking, but running down the hall, towards us.

The caretakers were explicit: as long as we follow the three rules of the house, we will be protected. But we were surprised and rattled and Calli, Calli was scared. For that one second, she forgot about the rules or the caretakers' promise. She ran, even as we yelled at her to stop.

It took two seconds. Calli must had only ran a couple of meters.

The footsteps stopped.

She screamed.

We were too scared to look, to think. We walked back to our bedrooms, numb.

The next day, the few of us who were brave enough to do it returned to the south wing.

We did not find Calli, but we found a new statue at the end of the hall.

28 February 2019

#story #horror #flash-fiction

The Language of Storms

When I was young, my father taught me how to tame thunderstorms.

He'd take me for a ride with his open-top jeep, the storm raging above us. I was easily startled as a child, and every thunderclap made me jump from my seat. My father laughed each time, told me there's nothing to worry about. He'd make sure none of the lightning will hit us.

His favourite spot was the hill at the far end of the valley. He'd park the car close to the top and asked me to help carry his equipments: a small radio with a long, long antenna. Inside of it I could barely see a small blue crystal, pulsing with light.

He'd set them up at the very top of the hill, where it almost felt like we could touch the sky. Above, the storm raged and raged, its lightning slashing, its clouds rumbling, a whirlwind of air and water.

We were soaking wet and I was still terrified of everything, but my father had a mad spark in his eyes. The same spark he had before trying out a new recipe in the kitchen, the same spark he had when he was with my mother and they thought they were alone. He hooked up his headphones to the radio and put it over his ears. Then he hooked up another, a smaller set of headphones, and gave that one to me.

I wore it, reluctantly, and all of a sudden the rain quieted down in my ears. The strike of thunder was now a tap on the table instead of a gunshot. He grinned at my reaction, then fiddled with the knobs and buttons of his equipments. He extended the antenna and aimed it up, up, up.

For a second there was nothing. And then, quietly, I heard a murmur. A purr. I huddled behind my father and closed my eyes. The rain still pelted me from every direction, but my ears were clearer. I listened.

They were words. No words I understood at the time, but words. The words rose and fell with the rumbling of the storm. A song made of clouds and wind and thunderclaps.

I opened my eyes. My father was grinning. He offered me a place next to the instruments and I took it.

13 February 2019

#story #weather #flash-fiction

A Pounding in My Head

I woke up with a pounding in my head, again. My eyes ached as I open them, even in the dark. My arms were sore, my legs nearly refused to prop me up as I pushed myself up. I dragged myself to the mirror, to see if it was time. The face that looked back at me was a haggard, hungry beast. My eyes were red and the fangs barely hidden. My head pounded. Something crawled up my throat. So it was time.

It was difficult to find food, as always, and always. Sometimes I hate myself for my indecision, but always I hate myself for not acting quick enough, as if ignoring it will make it go away. Mostly, I hate myself for not being able to end it, but also I hate myself for even thinking of it. The blood was raw and sweet and tasted like nothing. The man was an office-worker, blue collar, on his way home from a fruitful day at the pub. He was athletic, but overconfident. He thought he could take a shortcut through the alley. He didn't know I was there, not quite waiting, merely trying to pull myself together.

Back then I would bleed them dry, and afterwards I would be like a king of the night. But blood doesn't taste the same after the hundredth drink, and even killing had lost its meaning. Only the guilt remained, the indecision. Back then the pounding will stop after I feed. Now its ghost always remain, a memory of pain even when the pain itself has gone. When I was done with him, he was weak and haggard, like a man who has had too much to drink. He laid face-down for one second, and then he got up, groggily, and stared at me without looking at me. I dragged him out of the alley and pushed him to the light. He would find his way home, as everyone did. He would wake up with a hangover, a piece of myself, and he wouldn't remember a thing.

I walked back to the alley, considering my options for the rest of the night. The euphoria of feeding had long since left me, and the ghost of my hunger remain, but I look forward to a couple of days where I could pretend that I was not a beast.

"You need help, don't you?" said a voice up above.

An open window on the third floor. It was dark inside, but the girl didn't seem to mind. I knew instinctively that she was a beast as I am.

"What's it to you?" I asked.

"Oh no, I wasn't being insulting, I was just-" She cocked her head as if thinking of what to say next, then she seemed to give up with words. She climbed out of the window and jumped. Like a cat, she arrived on both feet.

"How long have you been a vampire?"

"Five years," I said, the words tasting like nothing in my mouth. I did not like to think of time, but it's always there. "You?"

"Oh, I'm not a vampire. I'm a witch," she said. "Same thing, mostly. Except I guess I get to choose what I want to be."

She gave me a look, and I turned away. "What do you want?"

"I can help cure you of your condition. It's not permanent."

"I know."

"Huh? Then why...?"

Why. Did she think she was the only witch to suggest that? I know what this means, I know where to go, I know what to do, but I don't trust that it will help. Get rid of the hunger, but then its ghost will remains. Does she think we simply forget the taste of blood, the pounding in our heads? It has been years since I last know the euphoria of my first blood and still I chase it again and again, and each time I fail, the pounding increases. If even that I cannot forget, what makes her think I will forget everything else? The ghost remains in the flesh.

"Wait, hey.

"I mean it, you know. I can cure you."

"It's not a disease," I snap. "It's not something you cure. It's just what I am."

"Do you want to stay this way?"

"I'm not one to run away from my problems." Brave words from someone who ran away every day.

"Well if you ever need a hand..."

"Goodbye."

Found this in my diary instead of the usual daily entry, dated 1 March 2019

#story #vampires #mental health

The Rabbit, the Monkey, and the Tiger

I miss him, with the ferocity of, uhh, an astronomer, for a clear sky full of stars

My journal. Cheesy a heck maybe, but I like it

It was an easy manner, to sit in front of your screen and pull out the deck and access the information centre of the world, right at your fingertips. You know this place, you live and breath in it since you've learned how to read, and more so soon after, when you learned how to enter the cyberspace. Thousand upon thousands of bytes lurch into your mind, and you rearrange them with ease. Visuals here and numbers there and everything else in between. Within seconds you find what you're looking for, within minutes you've compromised a gate, found a string of information you weren't supposed to know, but you do now. Easiest job you've ever had? Well, at this point almost everything is. You know how everything work, and few else does.

When you jack out, it was as effortlessly as when you came in, the unread information streaming back to their place. Your mind takes only a second to put everything as it were, and just like that, you're sitting in your small room with a gigabyte more in your head, and enough space for it and a whole lot more. You know how this works. You know how to handle it.

#garbagefic #schizophrenic narrative #??

"Hit the gas," she said. You hated how much it sounded like a command, but you did it anyway. Had to. What other choice did you have? Stay and follow commands for the rest of your life? Or you can hit the gas, get out of there while you still can.

It was not an option. You hit the gas, you drove the car as fast as you can out of the city, carrying nothing but you, her, and a bag of clothes and things you ramshakled out of your house as quick as you can, before they noticed what you were doing. What did you manage to bring, anyway?

* Your cell phone Your cell phone, of course. Despite the very real threat that they can track you down ith it, you still can't imagine a world without it. You keep everything there. Your life, your memories, everything.

At least your boyfriend had found a way to hack it. At least for the moment, there shouldn't be a threat that someone was still watching over it. (set: $items to $items + (a: "phone"))

* Your baseball bat Your baseball bat. A weapon that you can't live without. Sure, you aren't fighting zombies, but it certainly feels like it. When everybody has lose their mind and offered it to their overlord, maybe, just maybe, you can find some way to whack senses back into them.

* Your notebooks Your notebooks, your pens and pencils, because that's what you do. You write things down. You take notes. Sometimes you doodles. In this day where everything is connected to the hive, your notebook feels like the last precious strain of privacy you can ever get.

You glance at the shotgun seat, where the woman was sitting. She must be in her middle age, quite a lot of years older than you. She was watching the window outside, the road rolling behind the car. You could tell she was nervous, because her hands kept fidgeting, her lap wouldn't stay still. It suddenly strike you that you don't even know her name.

---

An interactive story I’m writing. I was planning to write it with Twine, but I’m too lazy to open up the app, and just wrote it in plaintext using Ink’s format. This one is codenamed NotZombiesbutCloseEnough.txt

#story #bits #plans #interactive fiction

It was late at night and I was figuring out how to play the song Warmth by Bastille on my guitar. It's a very lovely song. I wrote this odd thing before I fell asleep.

"Did you hear the news?" he typed, frantically, to his phone. "They're going for it. They're starting. We're doomed if we stay."

A minute later, having reached her home, and knocked on her door and received no answer, having went around the house and down the beds of tulips and looked into her shuttered windows and seeing nothing but darkness, he typed again, more desperately this time, "Where are you?"

"Anais, where are you?"

There was then, unmistakeably, the sound of gunfire in a distance. Up above he saw as silhouette of something that could be a battle copter, ready to shoot. He hunkered down by the side of her house, under her awning where he remembered being introduced to her parents. He stared down at his phone again, getting anxious at every second in which the network refused to give him a sign that she was reading it. "Are you okay?"

"Anais?"

That sound again, too loud for gunfire, more like a bomb in a distance. They've dropped bombs now? No.

"Anais? I need you."

He tried the front door again. He banged at its wooden know desperately. In better days he could imagine Anais's mother opening it, looking at him with only a very slight distaste, like she was expecting better for her daughter, but she'd still smile and let him in if her daughter so choose.

It didn't matter now anyway. Anais's parents died in the first skirmish two years ago, a month before their wedding. With the war looming, and Anais's inheritance uncertain, they had pushed off the marriage, hoping to reconcile when everything had settled down.

But things weren't going to settle down, wouldn't it? Not now that they've signed the papers and broadcasted it to the world.

Another gunshot in a distance. He banged at the door, he pulled his phone out again and again. The news were crazy, the status updates were streaming in. Jonas has left the city. Katrina's message was cut off right when she was saying where she was going. Layla's was black, like she'd seen things she'd rather not share, but desperately wanted to tell.

And then, amazingly, his phone beeped an answer.

#bits #songfic #warmth

A Talk about the Weather

This lil thing would be a major spoiler for a story that I’m writing, but with little chance of finishing that story within the year, and even smaller chance of seeing it published anywhere, eh. I like this bit.

"So what do you do," Jim asked, nonchalantly, like asking about the weather, "with the bodies after you killed them?"

Alfred flinched, just slightly, ever so slightly. He gripped his umbrella, started to eye around him as if worried that anyone would listen. But there was no one there at the intersection except for the two of them, their own umbrellas in their own hand. Overhead, thunder rumbled. The rain was still just a little ditty tune on the pavement. No one was listening, no one could be listening. No one was out to get him back.

"Depends," Alfred said, keeping the calm in his voice. "If they ask for it, I'll get rid of it. Dump it. Burn it. Mostly I just left them there."

"Yeah?" Jim said again, in a weather-chatting tone. Yeah, the rain's a big bother, isn't it?. But when Alfred turned to look at him, his eyes were far away. "And you were never caught?"

"Once," he answered. "But I got away by selling out my employers to the constables."

A car sped straight through the intersection as the colour turned yellow, then red. Alfred went forward first, Jim followed right behind him, and they made their way past the road in no time. He wasn't looking at where he was walking, Jim. He seemed to be thinking of something else entirely.

"Was that a good idea? Selling out your payer?" Jim asked. There was a shift in his tone this time. Less of a How are you? and more Did your day goes well?

"I already got paid," he said, warily. They were walking now, and though the streets were empty of pedestrians and the thunder would make anything by miles inaudible, he was still worried. "The man never communicated with me directly. He wouldn't know where to find me if he gets of prison."

"Oh," Jim muttered. "If, huh."

Alfred managed a noncommittal shrug. "I don't honestly know what they set him on. I gave my info and left."

They walked passed an alley and a couple of flats. Cars went by. Voices came from the windows, the lamps behind them lit up. Jim pulled out a map from his pocket, gave it a distracted look-though. "Should be on the right side, after the next intersection," he said, as if their previous conversation had never happened.

"You don't know the place?" Alfred asked.

"Never been to this side of the town, to be honest." There was a twitch then, a little fidget in his otherwise nonchalant gesture. "Kind of wary of the people."

Alfred took a deep breath. "Because you think they're after you?"

Jim made a sheepish, nervous grin, barely visible in the dark. "You've heard me say it."

They walked on again. Rain, thunder, and the wet, lonely pavement underneath. The lights were red when the reached the intersection, and even after they've passed it, and the lights went green, there wasn't a single car passing.

"Quiet night in the neighbourhood, huh?" Jim asked. Nice weather we're having, huh?

"Yes, it seems."

"Aren't you afraid, ever?" Jim asked, dead serious. Have you ever been hit by lightning? "That any of those people you killed had relatives? Friends? That they'll know it was you? That they'll find you, and do you in? Have you ever thought of that?" Have you ever wished you're hit by lightning?

Alfred pushed the collar of his coat forward. "Yes, I do."

"How do you deal with that?" He was looking at him, now. The first honest look that Jim gave him that night.

"I don't know," Alfred answered. "I've had it my whole life. I got used to the fear."

"Huh." Jim kicked absent-mindedly at a puddle, its water splashed to his coat but he didn't seem to mind. "I haven't. I don't know if I will. There's the door."

They stopped in front of a brownstone, identical to all the buildings around it. Its windows were shuttered, and its doors looked old.

"Do you think it'll be safe?" Jim asked. Do you think it's going to rain tomorrow?

"I don't think anybody's safe in this area."

"Eh. You never know until you find out."

The tone in his voice was the biggest lie that Alfred had heard.

#a talk about the weather #songs and death #story #bits #spoiler

"Last one for the night, I swear," said the skeleton. He grabbed the die and threw them into his metal tumbler. It made a desperate tingkling sound as he shook it with his thin skeletal fingers. Moira sighed and picked up the red bracelet she used to tie back her hair. The skeleton's hand reached up to her before she could touch a strand to it. "Don't leave! *Please*." "It's late. I have things to do in the morning." "No, please. You don't understand. I don't get to walk out of my grave every night," the skeleton's teeth chattered. "I don't get to do this... I might not be able to do this again." "You'll be fine." Gently, she pulled the skeleton's hand away. "Your grave is fine. You won't notice." "But." His eyesocket drifted left and right. He shook his tumblr sadly, the die trinkling inside. "But what if I don't come back? Please, you don't know how much I need this. I didn't have much of a life when I was alive." Moira did in fact, know about this. She'd checked the records; the man caught on schizophrenia in his young age, delirium before most people's life started, and died in his twenties after an accident that for saner man would count as suicide. Dying had freed him of his madness. She didn't know how much of his past the dead man still remembered, but whatever it was, she couldn't afford to make an exception. The anomaly itself had given enough exceptions. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you there. It's time. My die, please." "But." The skeleton stared at his metal tumbler, an object that Moira supposed some kids had thrown into the graveyard as a joke. He was fond of it somehow. The skeleton took out the die, at last. Dejected to his fate, returned it to Moira's waiting hands. "I'll see you again," Moira said. "Of course," the skeleton said sadly, not believing a word but powerless to argue against it. "Of course."

It was the second day in the row that he saw the woman on the field. From afar, she looked like any other lady, albeit one who was wearing an strange, almost menacing dress. It was black, and its skirt had a dusty white embroidery that looked almost like spider webs. The dress billowed with the grasses and the wind, but she paid them no mind. She was busy, as he had only found out after stopping and watching her, out of curiosity, for a little while. She was talking to the birds.

There were sparrows and pigeons and other little birds whose name he had never quite memorised. They flew by and they'd dive to her side and circled around her head as she spoke to them. They'd flew away after a while with what he imagined to be a clearer creed.

On the second day that he stopped by to watch her, she noticed him standing with bicycle and gestured at him with a look that wasn't unkind, but impossible to refuse. He put his bike down on the grass and walked closer, quite beside himself.

From up close she didn't look as ordinary as she had from afar. There were rings on all her left hand's fingers. None of them were the same, but they all looked like they were made of skeletons. She wore earrings made of breast feathers and her eyes were piercing like an eagle on its prey.

He asked her, despite his sudden fear, of what she was doing on the field. She told him, quite casually, that she was teaching the birds how to find the door to another world.

---

I was using a random prompt generator with my sis where she drew and I wrote whatever came out of it. I think this was for “A teacher with rings/earrings, and a bird” but I got kind of overboard with the lore. Didja notice how I kind of shove in the rings descriptions because I was running out of time?

#garbagefic #writing #bird lady #didja notice how I kind of shove in the ring description #I was running out of time

The meeting was once a year, but Albert felt like it happened almost every other day. They'd gather at the diner, a simple establishment on a lonely asteroid, one of many in the ring. They'd wear casual clothes, they'd drop their guards and friends behind, they'd leave their uniforms and togas at home. Some might even wear layman's hats, Earth-based caps, sunglasses, or they'd finally drop the thick glasses and wear eye contacts. Anything to become incognito, indistinguishable, untraceable.

They were still professors, of course. Specialists. The best mind in their fields. In these days and age, and with the existence of this meeting, they were basically royalty. They'd still sit with formal unease, would still happily talk with rapid fire enthusiasm for their field. Some would wait patiently until everyone had gathered, some would shift their plastic cup of coffees, other, the more optimistic of the bunch, would strike up conversations. How do you do? How is your family? Occasionally, when they aren't careful, *how is work?* And the quiet dagger in the other's eyes would be enough that they shouldn't be talking about that. Not yet.

Around them truckers and miners would walk around and eat and converse, the noise they made almost enough to drown whatever these scientists and engineers would be discussing. No one paid them no mind; in other tables, similarly sized groups of working people were making just as much banter. Only the diner's owner noticed, and the diner's owner was wise enough to take the money, serve the meal, and not ask question.

It was their fourth meeting, the fourth year since the Existence Directive was formed. Albert, historian, predictor of the future based on the stories of the past, came last to the meeting. He wore an blue jacket over his t-shirt, a baseball cap that used to belong to his brother, and a pair of worn jeans that he'd only ever wear once a year. The twenty other scientists and engineers were already seated, and they watched him with tense impatience.

He sat down, and among the noise of the diner, the cosmologist cleared her throat. "Alright, since we're here," she said, casually, or attempting to sound like one. "I'd like to thank all of you for coming to the fourth meeting." She was careful not to say what it was about. "I'm Nada Suryadewa, and as you know from the last rounds, I'll be the moderator this time around."

The man next to Albert tugged at his shoulder. He whispered, "Sorry, what happened the last round?"

Albert glanced at the man. He seemed at least six years younger, and for a second Albert was puzzled why he couldn't remember him from the last meeting. Of course. The last xenobiologist died a couple of months ago when the alien relay bombarded his laboratory to dust. This must be his replacement. As Suryadewa went on with the opening statements, Albert tried to explain their predicament to the younger scientist.

"Has Dr. Khan told you what we're here for?"

"He'd written in his will about the meeting, yes, but he was vague about the details. It has something to do with the," the man hesitated for a bit, a beginner's mistake, "the Bomb?"

Bomb. Capital B. Yes, Albert knew, the rumours must've been circulating. But he didn't think anyone from outside the circle knew the full story. If the new *xenobiologist* hasn't been briefed, then there were probably quite a lot to explain.

"I'll put it simply," Albert said. "Here we are discussing the fate of the human race."

"The fate of the what-"

#inderelict #story #hopefully I can get this off the ground

Found this in my cupboard, dated December of 2015.Might as well shoe it in here.

---

There was no sound left in the building, except for the screeching of rats hidden behind the wall or the yowling of cats outside as they step from one ceiling to another, chasing after another. When Erika took a wrong step, the wood under her feet creaked and she could feel the whole building shuddering for a second before settling back to its silence. At intervals, she could hear the wind tugging the broken windows, little drops of water from who-know-where, the faraway noises of the people who are still awake in the city. There are always people still awake in the city.

So it wasn't entirely silent after all. She took one careful step after another, steadied her foothold, counted out her steps. One two *creak*. Back. Two three four ....

A gecko climbed out from a crack in the wall, wordlessly it crawled across the room. A fly flew in from the broken window, a slight buzz that passed by Erika's ear. A quick yowl and there was a cat right outside the window, climbing pipes and the ornaments on the wall to the top of a broken air fan just outside. Erika stared at the cat, still standing on one leg as she practised her steps. Its eyes glowed like tiny moonlight.

Another step. No creak. No sound. The fly had went away, and the gecko was still. The cat's tail swished, but it made no noise, nothing she could hear. The wind rustled her ear.

She took another steps, more steps. She became more determined with each step, with each passing thoughts. She made a quick jump, a silent, wordless hop. The window opened on her first try. She didn't think they'd leave it unlocked so. The cat jumped up and out of her sight.

Erika took a deep breath. She looked down to the ground three floors below and prepared herself for the climb.

#bits #garbagefic #parkour and thieves

Writing. Or supposed to, anyway. I’m doing Nano, this year, picking up on and expanding the #ghost-hunter stories I’ve posted here. It’s going at a pretty good clip so far. Can’t post an excerpt because I’m doing it with pen and paper this time.

It helps in some ways, but not at everything.

#not a story

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