Toby:
Oak, birch, aspen trees, sunlight filtering through the leaves, the rush of the north wind. Babbling brooks and creeks, a trout jumping and splashing on the surface. Campfires, woodsmoke, ash and dust rising from a glowing plume into the starry night. Bonfires. House fires. Dumpster fires in the cold icy streets. Car exhaust and drunk drivers on empty lonely highways, flat energy drinks in the cup holders. The sound of splitting wood, cracking ice, falling stone. Granite sparkling in the dusk light. Icy cold fingertips pressed against your palm, nails gently biting your skin.
Kate:
Stale cigarette smell in old musty carpet. The clack of billiard balls against each other, quiet chatter and laughter, low blues music crackling through old speakers. Blues, classic rock, hard rock, headbanging to old punk music in the car with your friends, parked in the lot after a highschool game. Smiling so wide your cheeks ache. Pounding throbbing feet on concrete, the rough grooves of brick and mortar under your nails. The chokehold of terror in your chest, the moon through douglas firs and redwood trees. February breeze at 3am, cold air seeping under your jacket, the flannels of your pants. Cold fingers, cold toes, steaming hot water that stings like pure bliss. The taste of medicine that follows the ringing of an alarm.
Liam:
Larks and robins at 5am. The smell of black coffee and old books, the rustle of papers and shuffle of feet. Linoleum tile under leather doc marten soles. Rye grass and blue river water, stormy gray skies. The thwap of latex gloves against your wrist like a second skin. Bubbling, fizzing, foaming, colors shifting from green to gray to blue to orange. Apple slices as you scratch note after note onto old notebook paper. Losing your voice after screaming for hours, dull migraines and illusory palinopsia. Lyssavirus, crutzfeldt-jakobs disease, marburgvirus, all neatly labeled in perfect little vials. Lying in wait.