fan-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.

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.

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.