(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))<a href="https://revenant-chaos.neocities.org/writing"; target="_blank">''<-''</a>
(color: #a866cc)[''Our Writing'']
(color: #a866cc)[''Poems'']
• [[1:11am poems]]
• [[a speckled constellation]] (smls)
• [[a useful vessel]] (smls)
• [[burning love]] (ph; 1)
• [[confirmation]] (ph; 4)
• [[Christ in their faces]] (ph; 6)
• [[i was home]]
• [[leeches]]
• [[mosaic]] (ph; 3)
• [[running]] (ph; 2)
• [[simple song]]
• [[the eyes]] (ph; 5)
• [[there's a dragon in my flowerbed]]
(color: #a866cc)[''Other'']
• [[acted / acting / act]]
• [[cosmic ikhthū́s]]
• [[HELLO WORLD]]
• [[in other waters]]
• [[longnosed hawkfish]]
• [[revenant]](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''possible unreality''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(color: #a866cc)[''acted / acting / act'']
"hey have you ever like, realized that everyone you know loves a fake version of you?"
"huh" denki says, mumbly, "no, i haven't"
cam's silent for a moment, before "yeah that's— probably more of a me thing than a you thing, now that i think about it."
denki sits up, before laying back down on his bed, adjusted slightly. it's quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of a buzz humming in his skin. soft, golden light floats into his room from the flowing curtains, a light breeze, barely felt, filling the space around us.
"like," cam starts, "it's my fault, really. i— i mean like, i know that they love a fake me cause i don't... i'm not being— well, real."
denki hums something, encouraging, listening.
"i don't really know how to fix that though." cam says, "if i could just like— be real, i would, y'know? but i can't. i just can't."
denki hums again, thoughtful this time, before saying "i think, you'll get there eventually. you'll... find the real you, and others will see you and love you."
"...that's a nice thought." cam says quietly
"it's one i believe in." denki says, his voice lifting, lightly, "so you gotta believe in it too, alright?"
cam smiles, softly, "alright."](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(color: #a866cc)[''longnosed hawkfish'']
perfectly still, minus my fins flaring curiously, hands buried in a layer of sand, as i stare at the fish in front of me.
it's small, white, and covered in red crisscrossed lines, with a long snout. its eyes look more like they're attached to its head, compared to being in it.
i tilt my head at it, and it swims away.
i pause and blink, before gently lowering myself back onto the ground, sand flowing into the water around me as i do.(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''body and species dysphoria''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of cam's "shake my little soul" collection]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''a useful vessel'']
I am not me as I am.
This hair, these eyes, this body.
Belongs to another.
Not from here, not from me.
A useful vessel. Not my own.
I want mine.
My hair, my eyes, my body.
The one with soft locks.
The one with no chest.
The one with no eyes.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''body and species dysphoria''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of cam's "shake my little soul" collection]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''a speckled constellation'']
there is a beautiful blend across my skin.
a color mesh of reds and yellows, pinks and blues
a painting like, soft spoken skin
there is a spaded tail, half my height
a soft flowing, curling, shaky tail
that wraps and comforts
there is a maw of teeth
sharp stands all of them,
a purple tongue
there is a scattered sky
a speckled constellation, of lines and swirls
that I know my eyes would hold if I had them](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion and abuse''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment one]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''burning love'']
Mama pours the tea, always in the same set of china.
the clean porcelain reflecting the bright light of the room.
Papa calls for Jaja and me,
and we always answer.
he gives the tea to Jaja first, and he takes a sip.
and then he gives it to me.
it burns my tongue, a
raw,
fiery
thing
that covers the taste of it.
but i don’t care.
Papa calls them “love sips”,
Papa is sharing his love for us
through this small thing, this small gesture,
his burning love that he
burns
into us,
into me.
his burning love](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion and abuse''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment four]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''confirmation'']
Papa had bought me a white lace dress, and a soft veil.
the women in Mama’s prayer group touched the veil after mass,
tracing their fingers over the texture, as they stood around me.
the moment was special,
the moment was soft,
the moment was sweet.
when the Bishop lifted the veil,
made the sign
of a cross
on my head, and said //Ruth,
be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.//
all i could hear was Ruth.
Papa had chosen it.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment six]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''Christ in their faces'']
i remember when Father Amadi said
//I see Christ in their faces, in the boys’ faces//. i remember how i couldn’t say the same,
couldn’t see the same.
i think i can now.
i think i see him in Aunty Ifeoma’s laugh. i think i see him in Amaka’s smile.
i think i see him in Mama’s face. i think i see him in Jaja's eyes.
i think i see him in me.
i think i see him in every kind look, every happy moment.
i think i get it now.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion and abuse''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment three]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''mosaic'']
Jaja didn’t go to communion.
Jaja didn’t go to communion– i can’t imagine why he would do that.
i can’t imagine how he looked Papa in the eyes.
i can’t.
his words bounce around in my head,
//then i will die.//
how did he say that? how did it bubble out? how did he–
it happened so quickly.
he picks up the missal, he throws it toward Jaja.
but he misses,
he
misses.
i watch the book hit the étagère, where Mama keeps her ballerina figurines.
i see the pieces
fall
to the floor,
watch them turn into the mosaic they now are.
a broken beauty.
a smashed peace.
a fragile home.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion and abuse''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment two]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''running'']
Ezinne says the other girls think i’m a snob. that i’m too high up. that i act like i’m better.
…i don’t feel like i act that way.
i don’t think i could act that way.
Ezinne says that i should walk with them to the gate. that i always run.
Ezinne says that why i’m a snob
(Ezinne says that she doesn’t think i’m a snob).
i tell her i like running.
i just like running.
(i feel like i’m always running–)
i don’t tell her that i can’t be late.
i don’t tell her that Papa doesn’t like it when i’m late.
i don’t tell her it hurts when i’m late.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(text-style:"subscript")[//(text-colour:grey)[a part of our "Purple Hibiscus" collection; installment five]//]
(color: #a866cc)[''the eyes'']
we’ve always talked with our eyes.
when we didn’t know what to say.
when we couldn’t speak when we did.
always the eyes.
but his have been blank.
his have been glazed over,
his have been empty.
it’s so quiet(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''apocalypses''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(color: #a866cc)[''HELLO WORLD'']
//It was fortuitous, accidental, a mistake. An impetuous and rash decision that would cost me all I’ve ever known.//
Every morning, I wake up and check the perimeter, making sure no wall is damaged. I make sure the dome is still intact, and that the generators are still running. Then I head to the kitchen and take stock. My once copious supply of can goods is getting smaller each day. What once was full of succulent and delicious food has turned into the perfect image of the apocalypse.
I spend the rest of the day doing chores and checking livestock. The animals all look ill and abject, not a sliver of hope in their eyes as well as mine. Soon, I’ll have to put them down, with barely enough food me as it is, that will be a mercy.
Then finally, when the sun is setting, I can go back to my work.
On the table of my lab sits a blue metal cube. The lines carved into their shell paints a picture, a nebulous painting of humanity and these unclear times. After I was privy to the once-secret outbreak, I knew what I must do in clandestine, for my colleagues would be better off not knowing the truth.
But through it all on thought stayed with me; //Something has to live on, to tell whatever lives what the world once was. Before the fighting, the fear, and the end.// And as I sit here threadbare in health, with the minutes getting longer. I understand the irrevocable ending we have caused. And I know this box will be a treasure.
With a push of a button, and flickering lights, theirs eyes open and I hear the angelic chime:
//“HELLO WORLD.” //](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(color: #a866cc)[''simple song'']
It's such
a simple song
the dance that comes with living
the tango of happiness
the waltz of love
the
tapping
of alone
the wall lean of
unwelcome
the head nod of pretend?
i've always loved to dance
but i can't seem
to move my feet right
to
watch and adapt with my dance partner
to stop
caring
about those who watch
it's a simple song
i
wish
the music would carry me(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''religion and possible unreality''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(color: #a866cc)[''1:11am poems'']
What do you earn?
From little butterfly kisses
And soft chocolate voices
A mix of misery and love
---
111 a time
111 angelic choir
111 fresh starts and new beginnings
111 a solid song
---
the night is quiet
i am warm with a bumbling brain
hug me won't you hug me?
i wish I knew you as I did then
my love so kind so sweet
i miss you now
i miss you then
i miss you in every world where we've met
and every universe we didn't
---
my love, my dear, my darling
to see you, to hear you, to love you
when we meet again I will sweep you off your feet
(even if I can't)
and give you my mantra
I love you I love you I love you
---
I hold your hand gently
Intertwine your fingers with mine
My starlight, my love
I'd cross the galaxy to meet you](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''gore''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(text-style:"subscript")[(text-colour:grey)[//this was just titled as blackout poety?//]]
(color: #a866cc)[''leeches'']
leeches
anxious leeches
burn. twist. writhe. shrivel
realise burning was best
leech
and let
blood flow
scare them
and get worse](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(color: #a866cc)[''in other waters'']
You step out of the waypoint, the mechanical push of your exosuit sounds as you settle in the water, a mix of ultramarine and seafoam green. The stalk-like plants wave in the current, their yellow-gold filling your vision.
The exosuit starts moving, you had told it your destination before you left, and you can’t help but wonder what took it so long to start. What could an AI have to consider? It leaves you curious, but you can’t dwell on it now. You found a signal for Minae’s exosuit 2 days ago, and you’ve finally managed to upgrade the exosuit with jets to send you over the chasm preventing you from reaching her. However, you need to gather samples to fuel them.
Everything is left up to the AI. You can’t do anything from within the exosuit, a strange modification that leaves you puzzled. You had to trust the AI when you first arrived on Gliese 677Cc, your life depending on the exosuit that hadn’t been used in who knows how long, but the AI was functional, it gathered samples when close enough and made sure the oxygen and energy levels never sank to low.
You check to see how many samples you have, and deem it enough. You tell the exosuit to head towards the chasm and to prepare for the flight over the rift. As you float over the abyss, you can’t help but focus on the dark inky water below, the only contrast being the flake-like spores drifting around you. You make it to the other side and notice something immediately.
The water here is wrong. Clouded and muddled, grey particles like a sand storm covering everything. An ecosystem of its own, The Bloom.
You will not be able to use your rebreather here, your only option is stalk samples converted into oxygen. It’s dangerous, but you need to find Minae, she had called you here after all. After years of nothing, how could you leave now?
It’s hard to see or hear in The Bloom, your only saving grace being the AI scanning the ocean floor as you traverse. Every now and then you find a spot inside The Bloom where the water is clear, creatures you get to name sifting in the sand. You find skeletal-like remains in those pockets of fresh water, not human enough, but dreadfully close.
The worst part is when you’re in The Bloom for a moment too long. You see your oxygen rapidly depleting, only saved by the fan-like stalks that blow the effects of The Bloom away. It’s darker the farther you go, The Bloom thickening, its effects worsened.
You, after an hour, reach the location of Minae’s signal. A cave leading down. Inside you find more stalks, like the one’s near your waypoint deemed “home base.” You also find Minae’s research, Minae’s exosuit, torn off and left on the ground, covered in the fungal-like stalk, like an outer layer of protection, but no Minae.
(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''possible unreality''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(color: #a866cc)[''cosmic ikhthū́s'']
Glowing-eyed mechanical beast. A mocking still-life of something so small, now covers the stars. Speckled paint and orange bright light, giant fins as powerful as an engine. Dorsal fin for show, head crest the same. A spectacle of the empyrean.
](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(color: #a866cc)[''i was home'']
Plastic sheets cover my floor.
Empty rooms, dark rooms.
Paint buckets and brushes all about,
gloves and stains on their skin.
Empty rooms, dark rooms.
An old white covers me.
Gloves and stains on their skin.
Dirty floors and chipped walls.
An old white covers me.
Outside the children play in the field.
Dirty floors and chipped walls.
Butterflies on their skin.
Outside the children play in the field.
I am older than the children.
Butterflies on their skin.
My future outside in boxes.
I am older than the children.
Plastic sheets on my skin.
My future outside in boxes.
The lights are off.
Plastic sheets on my skin.
The old house that needs to be fixed.
The lights are off.
Stuck at the end of the road.
The old house that needs to be fixed.
Empty rooms, dark rooms.
Stuck at the end of the road.
Paint buckets and brushes all about.(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
//Content Warnings; This piece depicts or mentions ''death, time loops, and possible unreality''. If you wish to contine, press ok. If you wish to go back, press the arrow.//
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(color: #a866cc)[''revenant'']
He wakes slowly, soft sunlight drifting in through the curtains, the room pleasantly warm. He sits up, his head feeling like cotton, and glances around. Everything is quiet, and his room feels a little too clean for someone like him. He stands up and sees himself in the mirror, dull blue jeans, an off-white shirt, and a dirty brown jacket adorn him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and leaves the room.
The whole house is quiet, it seems. The tv is off, there is nothing on the stove, and no plate of lukewarm food waiting on the table. He rummages around the kitchen for something small to eat and ends up with a granola bar. He sits curled up on the couch in the quiet, dark room and eats.
He goes back to his room and checks that his backpack is packed (it always is), and slings it over his shoulder before putting on his scuffed black boots. He checks the house to turn off anything that shouldn’t be on, finds nothing, and leaves.
Outside is brighter than the house, though not by much. He walks down the sidewalk, listening to the soft chirping of birds, and the light rustle of the wind. His destination is in mind, and his body on autopilot, as he makes his way downtown. When he passes the corner store, the same one that has been there for years, he stops and pulls his wallet out of his bag. He pulls out exactly $2.75, stuffs the wallet back in his bag, and continues his walk.
As he descends the subway stairs he can’t help but feel something is off, wrong, uncanny. He tries to brush it off, but it lingers in the back of his mind. He buys his ticket, makes his way to the platform his subway train will arrive at, and waits—//the same spot he waits at every day, close to the edge of the track, but a safe enough distance away//—for the train to arrive.
Minutes pass, and then he hears the rumble of the subway as a train approaches. He grips his backpack straps tighter just to give his hands something to work with. This train doesn’t stop here, it keeps going at the same speed to its next stop. His train arrives 23 minutes after, like always.
As the train that never stops starts to roll in, he feels hands on his back, and the body of someone else follows. The full weight hits him, and he realizes, dimly, that he isn’t standing on the platform anymore. Time seems to slow as he falls towards the tracks he won’t ever hit as the train gets to him first.
Then time flashes fast and he can’t even open his mouth to cry as the train hits him and— h i s b o d y s e e m s t o e x p l o d e i n t o l i g h t, b r i g h t a n d w a r m, a n d h e f e e l s n o p a i n.
He wakes, soft sunlight drifting in through the curtains, the room overly warm. He sits up, his head aching, and looks around. Everything is quiet. He stands up and sees himself in the mirror, clean blue jeans, a bright white shirt, and a brown jacket adorn him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and leaves the room.
The whole house is quiet, it seems. The tv is off, there is nothing on the stove, and no plate of lukewarm food waiting on the table. He rummages around the kitchen for something small to eat and ends up with an apple. He sits curled up on the couch in the quiet, dark room and eats.
He goes back to his room and checks that his duffle bag is packed (it always is), and slings it over his shoulders before putting on his black boots. He checks the house to turn off anything that shouldn’t be on, finds nothing, and leaves.
Outside is brighter than the house, though not by much. He walks down the sidewalk, listening to the soft chirping of birds, and the light rustle of the wind. His destination is in mind, and his body on autopilot, as he makes his way downtown. When he passes the corner store, a recent addition to the street, he stops and pulls his wallet out of his bag. He pulls out exactly $2.85, stuffs the wallet back in his bag, and continues his walk.
As he descends the subway stairs he can’t help but feel something is off, wrong, //uncanny//. He tries to brush it off, but it lingers in the back of his mind. He buys his ticket, makes his way to the platform his subway train will arrive at, and waits—//the same spot he waits at every day, close to the edge of the track, but a safe enough distance away//—for the train to arrive.
Minutes pass, and then he hears the subway rumble as a train approaches. He grips his backpack straps tighter just to give his hands something to work with as he reasons with himself. He doesn’t need to take the next train, he could even walk to where he wanted to go. He doesn’t have to stay here with the off feeling, so he starts to leave.
As the train that never stops starts to roll in, he watches someone push someone else in front of the train. Time seems to slow as he watches them fall towards the tracks they won’t ever hit as the train gets to them first.
Then time flashes fast and he can’t even open his mouth to cry as the train hits them and he closes his eyes. He hears the screams of witnesses, the anger pointed at the perpetrator, but he does not open his eyes.
He walks back home after the officer questions him about what he saw. He makes his way to the house, his room, his bed, and sleeps.
He wakes slowly, soft moonlight drifting in through the curtains, the room cold. He sits up, his head pounding, and frantically looks around. Everything is quiet, and his room feels a little //too// much like someone else's. He jumps up and sees himself in the mirror, dull blue jeans, an off-white shirt, and a dirty brown jacket adorn him. He rubs at //something// smeared across his face, a black substance, and messes with it between his fingers.
He goes into the bathroom across the hall and turns on the light, looking at the substance on his hands. It doesn’t reflect the light, or feel like it has a temperature. He blinks, slowly rinses it off his hands, and goes back into his room to sleep.
He wakes and tenses. Something is wrong. He listens carefully to the sounds of the house, and notices a noise coming from the kitchen. He rises from his bed slowly and creeps out of the room.
The moment he steps foot into the hallway the noise stops. He quietly checks around the corner of the hall, and into the kitchen. On the stove is a pan, the mess of whatever was made still on its surface, and there is a place of steaming food on the table. He blinks, and rubs at his eyes before running into his room, grabbing his backpack, and running out of the house.
He walks down the sidewalk quickly and tries to remember the last time he was at the warehouse. He goes every day, and hasn’t missed a day since he started so //why is this happening//. He nearly falls down the subway stairs in his rush, quickly buys his ticket, and waits for the train.
Minutes pass, and then he hears the subway rumble as a train approaches. He grips his backpack straps tighter just to give his hands something to work with. This train doesn’t stop here, it keeps going at the same speed to its next stop. His train arrives 23 minutes after, like always.
And 23 minutes later his train shows. He steps on and makes his way to the farthest seat from the door and waits. He still can’t remember if he went to the warehouse yesterday. His ride is spent leg bouncing sporadically, twisting the straps of his bag.
He’s the first off the train and walks out of the subway. When he finds himself alone he breaks into a sprint, running out of town. Usually, his walk to the warehouse feels peaceful, but today it is far from it.
It’s tiring running up the hill, but if he truly didn’t go to the warehouse yesterday, then his pain is nothing compared to what will happen if it gets out. He finally makes it to the warehouse, legs aching, as he pushes open the metal doors.
The warehouse is dark and silent. There is a choking stillness in the air as he makes his way through the warehouse, his footsteps echoing through the room. As he walks he listens for the hum of life that comes from it. Every day when he checks up on it, he always hears a low hum emitting from the room it’s in, a sign that it’s still there.
He doesn’t hear the hum. He hopes the hum is just too quiet to hear from where he’s at, and if he just gets //closer// he’ll hear the hum, and everything will be //fine//. It’ll be fine and he can check up on it and go home and repeat the same routine he has done for years.
He does not hear the hum. He’s standing outside the door, and he hears no hum. He stands paralyzed, waiting, hoping the hum will come back, but it doesn’t. Slowly, like his pace will fix the problem, he opens the door. The room is empty. It. Got. Out.
He rushes out of the room, heart racing as he runs through the warehouse. He needs the notes he’s kept for so long and never hoped to use. He burst through the door of a different room, runs over to a desk, and shoves everything off of it. Underneath the desk is an old file box, he pulls it out and puts it on the desk.
He skims the papers inside, looking for something specific, keywords flowing through his head as he hopes to catch one. He finds it and pushes the box away and brings the paper close to him. //How does he fix this how does he fix this how does he-//
Sleep. He needs to sleep, it’ll reset the day and give him a chance, or at least it should. The train ride back home is not one he enjoys. His face is blank, fist held on tight to the ends of his jacket.
When he finally gets home, he makes his way to the bathroom and opens the wink mirror, inside is a bottle of melatonin. He doesn't count how many he takes, he barely even looks. He lays down in his bed and sleeps.
He wakes up in his room, on his bed, if everything worked the day should be reset, he needs to make his way the- wait, if the day reset he shouldn’t…remember that it needed to. He sits up in bed slowly. Something is wrong, besides the obvious. He walks towards the mirror, scared of something he isn’t sure of, and looks.
What he sees…still looks like him, to some degree. The face shape is the same for the most part, his hair is the same length, and he’s the same height. But his skin color and hair were never the same thing, the same material, the same color, and never the color he is now, a yellowish off-white. His face never had those, details, those spikes on the right side, and his eyes were never empty.
He thinks he did something wrong, forgot something important in his worry about it. He doesn’t think this was supposed to happen, it’s never happened before, never in anything he’s read about it.
He’s tired, he decides. He gets in his bed, pulls the covers up to his neck, and goes back to sleep.](align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[=(enchant: ?Passage, (background: #eeeeee))[[''<-''->Writing]]
(color: #a866cc)[''there's a dragon in my flowerbed'']
There is a dragon in my flowerbed.
It sits, curled up between the flowers it’s crushed.
Sometimes it rolls over them, or stomps,
or breathes burning sparks across the petals.
I sit, curled up beside the flowerbed I’ve made.
Sometimes I stare, or cry,
or try to lift the broken flowers in futile.
The purple heathers, marigolds, and peonies
lay dead, slain by the dragon.
Ruined mashes of their colors.
I do not know what it wants.
To destroy? To sadden?
To make me give up?
Though I wonder, that why,
in all its ruthless play,
the yellow tulips are untouched.