ace
"Look; there's no mystery here."
"I've heard that before."
"And it's just as true now as it was then."
"There's no mystery here?"
"There's no mystery here."
"Then explain to me why you're acting like-"
"Like?"
"..Like you're hiding something from me."
"I'm not hiding anything from you."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"I'm not."
"You're not?"
"I'm not."
"You're not."
"Indeed. I am in fact sure of one thing, and I am sure you are hiding something."
"What are ya; Joe Hardy? I'm not hiding anything!"
"From me."
"From you."
"But you admit you're hiding something."
"Not from you."
"Then who?"
"What?"
"You admit to hiding something, not from me, so what is it and from who?"
"Whom."
"What?"
"Whom. It would be from whom."
"Stop trying to deflect with your thing about grammar. *Who* and *what* are you hiding, and *why*-"
"Do you *ever* shut up?"
"Only with the proper incentive."
the bay is stained with patches of white
linen, stretched, sun-stained, stiffly settling among silvered docks
gone are the deep blues and shimmering aquamarines of the manikin of the marina
here instead are the flashing flaring reds and oranges
whistling shrapnel shooting overhead
gifts bequeathed by the armada
to the newly dead
Inertia- **n.**- a resistance to changes in state of motion or rest.
"I'm your new partner."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm your new partner."
"I heard that part."
"Then-"
"Then there's been some mistake."
"There hasn't been some mistake. It says it right here."
"I don't care what that paper says. You're not my partner."
"I am your partner."
"No. I work alone."
Gravity- **n.**- a force of attraction between two objects.
"She's a 10, easy."
"Hm."
"You don't agree?"
"Hm?"
"You don't agree that she's a 10?"
"I don't agree with you ranking strangers based on looks."
"I could rank our team based on looks."
"Don't-"
"We could start with Mandy-"
"I thought it was Sandy?"
"Mandy. *Madeline.*"
"Right. Randy."
"You're impossible."
"I'm impossible?"
"Yes, indeed."
"If I'm impossible, then you're insane."
"I'm insane?"
"You're insane."
"Your logic being-"
"-flawless, in that by associating with an impossible thing, you are in fact insane."
"Ma did always say I was too quixotic."
Orbit- **n.**- a regular, repeating path an object takes around another.
"Here."
"Not coffee?"
"Not coffee."
"How did-"
"You never drink coffee past 10 p.m."
"It's not about the caffeine."
"Right."
"It's not! I could stop any time."
"I know."
"I don't- Wait. What do you mean 'you know?'"
"What do you mean: 'what do you mean?' I meant I know, plain and simple."
"We've been partners for almost 10 years, man. Nothing with you is 'plain and simple.'"
"Like you're one to talk."
"Eh, you love me."
"For all your faults."
"For all my faults."
"Including your caffeine addiction."
"Including my- Hey!"
Orbit- **v**.- to center around.
"You know there's no going back right."
"Yes."
"No changing your mind last minute."
"Yes."
"We sign this, and it's sealed. Set in stone. The whole shebang."
"Yes; I'm *aware.*"
"Solid as the Rock of Gibralt-"
"If you don't shut up, I'm not signing."
"..."
"That's what I thought. Hand me the pen, *partner*."
-# it's 2015, and two names finally become one.
-# a stellar collision, 27 years in the making.
The field is sparkling in the morning light.
The world is still, silent. Quiet. At peace.
Hot breath turns to mist as it hits the open air, the sunshine painting it white.
The grass crunches beneath too-thin slippers; rainbows refract from barren trees.
It's early June, and the strawberries have been dusted with ice.
"C'mon; get 'im!"
Tin foil sword swishing, and he backs up, feigns fear and all kinds of surrender.
Bright blue eyes are narrowed, a bright grin in place as his son backs him closer to the edge of the slide.
"Walk the plank, Dad."
"Kiddo-" he pleads, and the kid shakes his head, tries to poke the sword higher into his chest; it barely reaches.
"Don't ask for mercy, Old Man!"
"Your own father..."
"No; don't listen to him!"
He catches a flash of plaid before he feels a thump, taking a tackle from his nephew before he ultimately lands three feet down, woodchips digging into his back.
When he hides the pain with a dramatic groan, he's relieved to hear two equally delighted sets of giggles.
Each inhale is stuttered; each exhale is punctuated with another gasp, another ache in the abdomen.
A crooked grin is waiting as he resurfaces for air, fond and amused a little too proud.
He likes that smile.
He hates that smile.
"I hate you," he informs the owner.
Another self-satisfied grin, and it's followed with another uncharacteristically bad pun.
He loses precious oxygen yet again as the laughter finds him once more.
There must be a hole in the roof.
He laughs at the absurdity of the thought.
Buried under several hundred feet of rubble, and his first thought is that there must be a hole in the roof.
Obviously there is a hole in the roof.
More accurately, there is no longer an actual roof, rather just one gaping hole, a ravenous mouth aimed towards the heavens, greedily swallowing the rain and the hail in desperate gulps.
He can hear it, just like he can hear the distant cries of would-be rescuers, the pained breaths of his team.
He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against broken concrete and shards of steel.
Another raindrop hits him on his forehead.
There must be a hole in the roof.
Time trickles slow, days passing like drops of sap, dripping rhythmically into galvanized steel.
The cold has no interest in lifting its heavy hand from the ashen woods.
Another day passes, sticky sweet and unremarkable as the last.
Days to weeks.
More sap stains the steel.
Weeks to months.
Sap finally ready to be reshaped into something new.
The flame burns orange and blue and green; the barren woodland smells deceitfully sweet.
The first tumbleweed was an immigrant, a stowaway strain of thistle sneaking into some flax seeds and find its way across the Old West.
Some folks call them a nuisance these days, a threat, a danger.
Maybe some are; things aren't inherently good or bad, as much of an inconvenience as they can sometimes be.
The tumbleweed remains restless, wandering for miles and miles from the only home its ever known, roots rotted and ripped apart, the soil no longer able to support it.
It rolls ever on, leaving pieces of itself in every beautiful place its lucky enough to find, until, eventually, it finally reaches the end of the road.
The journey finally at an end.
The winter winds would rattle the window panes.
Cold air sweeping down along the coastline, bringing sleet.
Bringing snow.
Harbingers of devastation.
He loved those storms.
Layers of white, sometimes six feet deep.
His brothers would scheme and plot and plan convoluted tunnels, caverns carefully carved and excavated through the snow.
He was happy to watch the sunlight filtering through the icicles, painting the porch in rainbows.
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writing since 2019 · 34 entries · 33 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Rebecca showed up.
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the words Rebecca reaches for
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