Fiction

Part 1: the trauma Draco sprinted through the trees, his soaked cloak flapping in the wind, slapping against his skinny ankles. “Damn my ankles are cold” he thought, after all he was 7 feet tall, and most pants just weren’t long enough, even with the seams let out. His gay ass platform boots squelched in the mud with every step, a constant metaphor for his traumatic past bogging him down. Though in this case, it was quite a lot more literal, as it was exactly what he was running from.

Another day and another worthless account to make and use up like a bitter meal, forced to be swallowed. It seems like a daily occurrence for her as she sighs and glances upon the account creation screen, eyes glazed over at the numbness of it all. It seems so simple just to spew some garbage verification to play a new video game with her friends or sign up for another job board, but doing it every month or so is very soul heavy.

Photo by Haze Fog streamed around the headstones. Some were intact, others crumbling. Only a few stars managed to bleed through, the rest of the night coal black. The graveyard came to an awkward, jagged stop where the sand dunes began. Just like the city at large, it was always in a battle against the water and dunes. Filling in the bay to make more land was easy enough, but taming the sand was another undertaking entirely.

Amidst a dimly lit chamber, the Arditi del Popolo sat with a determination etched upon their faces by the tools of war, their eyes bright like gunfire with the fervor of revolution. One amongst them, a tall man with shoulders like a battle cruiser brought his fist down upon the table with a thunderous crash, the cups scattered around the table shaking with resounding force. “We can’t just wait around, pants down,” he declared.

He tapped his fingers against the soft leather of the armchair, staring at his feet. The woman across from him scratched her pen vigorously across the pages of her notebook, enraptured. Her black hair was slicked into an immaculate bun, her eyes dark, yet open. Holly Dao, M.D. “Do you need a moment?” he asked her. She lifted her pen, her gaze and smile flashing back to him. “No, we can move on.

Content Warning: Mental illness, Violence

Heavy moon full and fat shines bright in the pre-dawn, stars surrounding it made dull by its splendor. No light pollution, no cities nearby to blast photons skyward and ruin the illusion of pristine wilderness. Deciduous trees stand vigilant and block peripherals like porous walls. It is the moon, it is the night, it is the forest, the unseasonable warmth for autumn is expected. In the summer it is unbearable, in the winter it is uncanny, but right now it feels natural.

Before the bombs, in my younger and more optimistic years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “Just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that.

Amy kept pulling ahead of me on her bike. She was more athletic, and more eager about what we were about to do. I was a nervous wreck, despite my certainty of the righteousness of our cause. We were both in all black. Black pants, black hoodies, black shoes, black motorcycle helmets. It was cold, so the black gloves we were both also wearing didn’t look as suspicious as they normally might have.