“Hey, I made dinne–uhhhhhhh what did you do.”
The workshop, usually equipped with machines and materiel for the making of magical media, now also has a hole punched through reality. It’s seeping copious amounts of slime and that is definitely the worst thing a trans-dimensional doorway can do. Thematically, it’s the next logical step when it comes to Magicraft outfitting, but remember: the act of surprise is a more honest compass than the rational.
When a commenda was formed,
a swan feather and a handshake,
maybe a smile between the two,
officiated a single trading mission.
(An unofficial finger found its way
onto a pair of eager lips, exploring)
Outside that dusty Venetian office,
the sinking edifice becomes a feeling:
hope, confidence’s pendant. Though
it is anxiety that stops its swinging back.
One stayed precociously with the wares,
the other stayed with a silk heartache.
“The Dynasty has brought civilisation to the lowest corners of the galaxy. The truth of history fixates on our technology, our culture, our compassion. Yet, as you well know, there are some who would reject our native kindness. The Mutiny happened on this day, six years ago, an atrocity of betrayal. 13 of our discovered planets gripped their swords and slashed our Throats. They must be made to understand that only mercy will be met with mercy. And we will teach them through you, recruits, as you will be made merciless.”
Six years ago, I enlisted in the military. Two years later, I graduated as a pilot. Both ceremonies had the exact same set-up. Marshal-of-stars Goldenlove reading the same speech from a sheet of paper (even mistakenly saying “six years” again), a proud Ebru beside me mouthing along with the speech, Eeves smiling and waving despite the fierce scowl I shot him. Even the cheap plastic chairs that hurt my ass were exactly as I remembered. The only difference was that this time around, fewer seats were occupied: 87. 87 people didn’t survive, and none of their families were eligible for any recompense or grief leave simply because they were only recruits.
Flames in the air and steel in his hands, he moves as if he has mastered both. The constant heat enwreathed the workshop in a similar sensation as a sousland pleasure parlour – of intensity, proficiency, and purpose. No bigger than a wagon, between the entrance and the furnace lay a strewage of raw materials, sacks of sand, and flasks of oils labelled with penmanship teetering on the brink between logographic and proto-language, providing little in the way of comfort or an atmosphere conducive to decorum and posture. The blacksmith cocks his head at a small chairless table used for conducting awkward business and which, upon closer inspection, is just two anvils not even placed neatly together.
“With you in a sec.”
“Blacksmith Tewfik, I come on urgent business.”
“Yeah, and I’m runnin’ an urgent business. Be with you. In a sec.”
The first denial the young prince had ever received was, “Don’t open the door to the dungeons”. So unsurprisingly, the first thing the prince did when opportunity presented itself, the universe’s way of saying ‘teehee’, was to insert and turn a key. But to do so, the pampered royal rascal had to elude his caretaker’s ever-watchful gaze, a retired military scout once known as The Cat in part due to her sharp senses, and even now she retains that title, but only because she enjoys taking catnaps in her rocking chair.
Rain pours from clouds like malt whiskey, except it’s water. This is my city. Neo Noir Dark Noir City. It’s always been this way, and it will never stop raining. How did I, DICK HARDBOILED, end up here? That’s the thing: I’ve never left or known anything else. My office is gray and glum and I call it home. I haven’t cleaned this place in 36 years. Hard to believe I’m almost 37. Time goes fast, chain-smoking, crime-fighting, narrating a neo-noir story.
Adien is going to lie here for a while.
“No” says their body, to the choice of movement, as if mind and body had at no point ever been a uniform gestalt but operated as two incompatible partners. One is loud and ostentatious and needs everything to go a certain way, scared of chance, possibility, the unfactored, fate, used to being anchored to the self but never sharing ship with others, the other has been guised in independence through repertoire and repetition, reacting heavily and badly to authority, resistance is the only way for existence, often forgetting a reality outside of hardship. It is hard to remember this in such a deep dark sea, but, really, no core constituents – the building blocks of a life we might refer to them as – consist, federationally, of solely bad blocks, but these ‘good cubes’ might be hard to observe, obscured by that which is loud and ostentatious, and this dingy duo are starring in a comedy heist film together.
An astute reader who refuses to be content with only two similes might ask about the mind’s response, or how the spirit reacts, or how the will feels, but in this case, and the body is a case, as it is a shy prison for these would-be rebels, the body has the upper hand – it has hands! – and so because the body refuses, until recharged by some lovely interaction within life or a fulfilled promise of sleep, there is no intervention adequate enough to move it; the mind stays quiet and genuflects, even though it wants to scream.
Adien’s mind wanders and get lost. When the mind senses that life is ending, some believe the brain is a parasite that needs to preserve its host from danger, information is processed at a rapid pace, as if being more real for just a moment will help deter death. Adien skips this step, however. They have a lot going on right now.
Their phone vibrates, not because of a phonecall, perhaps a text message or mail, because that’s just one ‘bzz’, this was definitely two, so probably a clicker game notifcation. It’s rather disassociative, going into the minutiae of vibration settings of various phone applications to effectively explain away any reason someone might have to contact you (no one needs any reason to do so — actually, that’s phrased wrongly: everyone has no real reason for contacting you, yet do so anyway). They remain motionless, tenser than before, not even bothering to check if their phone is in a pants or a vest pocket, stuck inside of a bed that is by no means comfortable enough to warrant such a long-winded lie-down, a chiropractor might have to be called again once things settle down, when they become managable, become describable, quantifiable, though a magic 8-ball might have to say ‘Outlook not so good’ about the current situation — there is nothing ‘magical’ about this, you coward liar ball. So for now, they’re going to keep lying here for a while.
The giants wading through the sea don’t seem to notice Adien. Adien remembers the fairytales – best stay quiet.
That’s a relief. Hey, we good? That’s Adien to their body. Though their relation has never been amicable or agreeable, really, in fact their body has been historically recalcitrant in that it never is what Adien wants it — themself — to be. But as they both need each other, a makeshift contract of alliance is drafted, no quilled ink on paper but more of a quiet nod in candlelit studies, hopefully more can come out of this.
The giants shuffle in place, waist and torso rising high above sea level and into a mocking formation of clouds. What do they look like? Can they even see me? Do they care? Adien wonders why that is – are they like theatrical spotlights, only taking note of what is important to the stage, what a rude implication!, might it be simple noise that attracts them, or perhaps they are so attuned to the atmosphere that their sensory system, or sense of guardianship, extends to any molecule of air and stirring these tiny twins in unnatural way, for example with a sigh leaving the body after hearing unexpected bad news or a phone going off because a clicker game updated, is what triggers a reaction. Thankfully, Adien’s pants or vest muffled it enough to stay undetected. It’s not any of these things. Adien is just very good at making themself panic.
The bed continues to float through an ocean of endless purpure, a particular tincture of purple found on heraldries, but that bears no relevance to the water’s hue, it’s simply a descriptor, gently lifted from its specific meaning to mean ‘nice shade of purple’. Sorry. Adien has their eyes wide open, their breaths are heavy and long, lungs expanding and deflating like slow bellows against a furnace, forging the steel rings and hooks that keep you tethered and a metal frame that carries you into tomorrows per every daybreak.
The metal raft moves between the legs of a giant, two pillars rising from unseen depths, the foundation to something to be feared by way of its mystery. Humour can be a good way to cope with the surreal and the incomprehensible, but it murks your relationship to these very things, a lake becomes a swamp, you cannot be sincere with yourself anymore, do not confuse comedy with cowardice. Adien wants to joke and say “hi there”, but honestly anything this large, while not inherently violent or predatious, is inherently capable of applying more force (F = ma, after all, and inferring its size it must have got a lot of m). Realising this, they shut up before even saying anything, the quiet is self-preservation, their body silent and their mind sirens, we can feel so loud while staying our bodies perfectly still, together a paradoxical stealth.
The giant moves one of its legs, covered in barnacles and sheets of crackling or overhydrated skin. It’s wearing a loincloth, by the way, to dispel any rude descriptions you were fearing (hoping for?). The leg hits the side of the bed – not rapidly or forcibly, but as slowly and controlled as the waves that had been deciding Adien’s atlantic journey. Still, Adien and their bed-vessel are launched farther across the purple sea, a meaningless description, because without a landmass to decide its boundaries with, they are no relative position closer to salvation or doom than they were before. Adien can see the giant’s reaction and begins to count their blessings. Welp, might as well, they think as they check their phone.
The text, and it was a text, Adien was wrong, you see, but that’s fine, they have a lot going on right now, it says “im sorry”. Ah, at least I have reception out here. The giant bends down. It takes a while for it to complete this motion. Its face is angelic in a luciferian way: marble covered in grime. Adien is sitting upright in a lotus position on their bed, spine cracking in a nasty-sounding liberation. They then have a conversation with the giant, carrying words back and forth.
“Hello.” “Hi.” “We thought you were dead.” “I was pretending to be.” “A very serious matter.” “Will you not kill me?” “What an oddly-phrased question. It is almost like a request.” “Well, it’s complicated.” “What were you checking on that device?” “Someone I considered close sent me a message. They apologise.” “Oh?” “They kicked me out of our home, and now I’m on a bed in a strange ocean.” “Whyever for?” “I wish I knew why. It felt like the end of the world, I was paralysed with the heaviest emotions. But I have to reply to their text; any relationship is worth holding on to, I think.” “No, you simply wish they were. We know it is as important to let go as it is to preserve. Either decision should not be taken lightly.” “I wish I could do that. Stop lying to myself, for myself.”
“I will help you write a response.” “Are you an expert on resolving things over text? A textpert?” “…Yes.” “Cool.” “But I do not believe forgiveness is necessary here.” “Well, having a home is a thing. They’re my roommate and right now I am an atlantic vagrant, as it were.” “Time heals all wounds.” “Sure, but memory is the autopsy report.”
“What the mind remembers mustn’t stagnate the body. With other people, what the mind remembers can be blinded by the bright reflection of a coin that is really a forgery – a past worth going back to. We must be brave to face what is beside us, if only for a moment, clear the clouds, to see there is always a starlit sky beyond current hardships.”
“You are very wise for someone with their head in the clouds.”
Perhaps what follows is scarier than the initial panic Adien invented (but: a mental machination is no less real than the machines outside your body, so don’t blame yourself for faltering, instead give yourself a little pat on the back inbetween these conflictive moments). The giant’s fallen face crumbles into a smile, and they proceed to pick up our waterlorn hero. Adien is lifted upwards, like cherished porcelain, into the clouds, every fluffy drop pressed gently onto their skin, until they emerge beyond. The other giants out in the sea are on their phones, some calling, some listening to music, some tapping away at a clicker game. Adien is placed upon the shoulder of the big friendly one and takes a deep breath.
The text reads, so formal: “I’m sorry, too, for whatever it is I did to you. I’m sure it feels real and feels read bad for you, and your feelings are valid. I admit, I’m not great. Still, sorry isn’t enough for either of us here. We’re not good at being friends. So, yeah, bye. Don’t expect me to answer your calls.” Sent. Read. No reply.
“Hey, so. Um. I’m Adien. Can I stay with you for a while, up here?”