𝙞𝙛 𝙞 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

FULL NAME : Jack Kiran Varma BIRTHDATE : February 28th, 1996 BIRTHPLACE : Boston, Massachusetts GROUP : Local OCCUPATION : Documentarian / Prairie Gas Station Cashier STRENGTHS: caring , witty , creative , patient , logical WEAKNESSES: self-sacrificing , insecure , awkward , lazy , reckless

☀

“Like mornin’,” she soothes, agile against apprehension. “Like there’s somethin’ worthwhile comin’, if you can hold out for it.” She recognizes the absence of this in herself, unable to trace its origin, fearing it might be hereditary – or contagious. Hope always stained Jack, and in rare moments, when Ridley appears less like herself and more like an extension of him, she swears she can almost feel it too. 

“Transcribing,” Ridley says, palms pressing to eyelids as she muddles through her thoughts, seeking their start. She finds the thread. She pulls. “When we get out of here, she can transcribe audio. It’s a shit job,” her nose crinkles with passing disdain, “but she’ll owe us. Then the three of us can keep doin’ this – stickin’ our noses in shit, stickin’ our necks out.”  Cotton-mouthed and heavy-headed, her lips mimic his in gentle echo, “Fuckin’ justice.” And they remain parted at his confession, sacred responsorial of me too caught in her throat. She flattens to stare at the sky instead, fingers finding his own between them, a shared moment of silence for the things too difficult to utter aloud.

They are decaying into the earth, branches fallen from sturdier bases – trunks that knew their limited resources were better allocated elsewhere, releasing them to compost and rot. Ridley forfeits control of her limbs, resigned to be reclaimed by this soil – as each Walker was before her. A thousand stories forgotten to time, flesh worn to bone and bone to dust: she rakes frozen dirt free from the land, exhuming with it a phantom chill. Obligation clings to her the way spirits haunt.

“Of course they are,” her fingers unfurl, dark soil glittering back to the earth. Hers to break, hers to gather. Walkers had led this community since it settled: one false god would not deter them – not when they had watched the world suck marrow from their region’s bones and survived. Labor exploitation, systemic poverty, the opioid crisis: they had weathered worse than one man’s religious grandeur – his delusions of divinity. They would not be driven from their homes. Pragmatism begins to permeate the haze, dampening her bones and returning her to form. She smiles, a watery thing, hope dissipating like morning fog. “I’ll be right here,” Ridley promises, an admittance at its core. “I’ll miss you more than you know.”

                  𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐒   within   his   chest   ,   a   brief   spark   of   anger   at   the   implication   that   Lillian   might   somehow   owe   them.   The   thick   blanket   of   intoxication   quickly   smothers   the   flame   ,   replaces   it   with   cool   ,   aching   ashes   that   are   carried   away   by   the   breeze.   “   She   won’t   owe   me.   ”   A   brief   shake   of   his   head   against   the   ground   ,   tangling   dirt   between   dark   locks.   “   I’d   do   this   for   her...   forever.   Over   and   over.   ”   Here   ,   in   this   moment   ,   time   loses   meaning   and   Holy   Cross   is   the   past   ,   the   present   ,   the   future.   He   forgets   what   it   feels   like   to   not   be   here   ,   to   not   fear   ,   to   not   hurt.      “   For   you   ,   too.   ”   A   mumbled   confession   to   his   other   half.   His   other   sister.   

                    Her   hand   is   a   line   thrown   to   sea   and   he   clings   to   it   ,   uses   it   ,   and   her   ,   to   keep   his   chin   above   water.   For   he   would   certainly   drown   without   her   ,   would   succumb   to   the   unimaginable   depths   of   the   future.   Amid   the   swimming   ,   spinning   world   that   his   tired   mind   cannot   keep   straight   ,   her   hand   is   warm   and   solid   and   real   and   he   holds   it   a   little   too   tight.   All   the   words   he   cannot   say   are   pressed   between   their   palms   and   he   hopes   she   feels   them   ,   knows   them   to   be   true.   

                   A   plane   drags   its   tail   across   the   lightening   sky   and   Jack   has   the   sudden   ,   frightening   urge   to   cry   for   HELP   ,   to   jump   and   scream   and   wave   his   arms   with   the   desperation   of   a   stranded   island   survivor.   We   are   here   ,   he   calls   silently   ,   don’t   forget   about   us.   Please.   The   thought   sends   a   chill   across   his   skin   even   as   the   damp   grass   soaks   through   the   back   of   his   shirt   ,   like   the   very   ground   of   Holy   Cross   is   lashing   icy   bonds   around   his   limbs   to   keep   him   in   place.   He   releases   a   shaky   breath.   Nothing   but   nightmares   ,   always   nightmares.

               Then   his   hand   is   empty   ,   shocked   with   the   sudden   cold   of   absence.   It   reminds   him   of   the   news   of   Lillian’s   disappearance   ,   the   way   it   left   him   shivering.   “   They   shouldn’t   be.   ”   A   frown   appears   above   hazy   eyes   ,   disapproving   ,   frustrated.   “   You   shouldn’t   fuckin’   have   to....To   do   that.   ”   Realization   is   slow   to   arrive   ,   bogged   down   by   tumbling   thoughts   ,   unravelling   threads   of   half-baked   plans.   She   would   be   here.   And   he   would   be   where?   Not   here   ,   this   was   certain.   “   I’ll   visit   you   ,   ”   He   LIES   ,   tastes   the   deceit   between   his   teeth.   “   We’ll   meet   up   at   award   shows....red   carpets.   We’ll   do   another   project   together.   ”

Location: Movie Rental Inc. With: Anyone @narrativestarters​

“One thing that I’ll never get used to, no matter how long I live here,” August said, muttering bitterly under his breath as he perused some of the DVDs – all of which had broken-ish plastic covers. He was sure he had seen all of these movies. Twice. 

He would see them once, with friends, just to be surrounded by laughter. Then, he would watch them by himself, just to feel like himself. It was strange to feel a certain emptiness set in, but he at least felt like he was forming his own opinion on any one of these movies.

“It’s the low movie selection. Not even a movie theater. They can’t even mail some newer fucking DVDs. Jesus.”

              𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄   at   the   harsh   accusation   ,   laughter   following   close   behind.   Jack’s   harder   to   ruffle   ,   he   supposes   ,   is   used   to   watching   and   rewatching   and   watching   again.   He   finds   comfort   in   repetition   ,   in   familiarity   ,   especially   here   ,   so   far   from   home.   One   of   his   favourites   has   found   its   way   into   his   hands   ,   and   he   smiles   down   at   it   fondly   ,   considers   renting   it   for   maybe   the   fiftieth   time.   

Azriel grimaces as he watches the hot coffee spill on the other’s hand, an “Oof.” escaping from his lips. He’s spilled hot drinks on himself before, he knows how much it can hurt. Internally, he feels guilty that his own lack of perception caused this, but he supposes it could have been much worse. Either way, he’s glad the other man isn’t seriously hurt.

“I’m sorry.” He gives the other man a sympathetic look, genuinely feeling sorry for what unfolded here. He makes a mental note to try and pay more attention to the people around him, in order to avoid more situations like this. When he processes the next question, a fleeting look of surprise crosses his face, he’s not used to complete strangers showing concern for him. “Oh, uh, I’m fine. Just a little bit tired is all, had a long shift last night.”

“   𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃   !   ” Jack   grins   ,   claps   his   collision   companion   on   the   shoulder   good-naturedly.   Like   a   wet   dog   shedding   drops   of   water   he   shakes   the   coffee   from   his   arm   ,   watching   it   fall   to   the   floor   and   regretting   the   choice   –   wincing   ,   he   looks   back   at   the   other   man   with   a   shrug.   “   Ah   fuck   ,   they’ll   kick   me   out   any   second   now.   ”   Joking   ,   he   raises   his   styrofoam   cup   in   a   mock   cheers. He’s   about   to   walk   away   when   he   remembers   the   documentary.   Ridley’s   voice   in   his   head   –   how   annoying   –   a   reminder   to   pursue   leads   ,   to   latch   onto   any   opportunity   to   chat   with   locals.   This   documentary   stuff   was   fucking   exhausting   ;   was   it   too   late   to   give   up   ?   “   Anyways   ,   where   d’you   work   nights   at   ?   ”  

                                                          ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Seeing who the customer actually was, she let loose a sigh with a roll of her eyes. “Could you be any more annoying?” Annoying to her, and yet, she was truly just as annoying to him. The two kept up this stupid silly game of fucking around with each other. Maybe friendly, maybe rivalry, maybe a little bit of both. Regardless, she glared daggers at him as he pulled out a bunch of items. Probably taken while she was busy with the other kid. “This is just insulting, jackass. Anyway, this is really the best you could come up with? Running out of ideas, buddy boy?”

“   𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄   𝐂𝐀𝐍   !   ” Jack   chirps   ,   a   tweeting   bird   insistent   on   annoying   her.   If   he   could   perch   on   her   shoulder   murmuring   smart-ass   quips   all   day   he   certainly   would.   The   victory   tastes   SWEET   ,   golden   and   warm   upon   his   shoulders.   He   can   practically   feel   the   weight   of   a   crown   on   his   head.   Holy   Cross   Gas   Champion   ,   the   sash   will   say.   The   crowd   in   his   head   roars   as   he   offers   a   royal   wave   ,   bows   ,   blows   a   kiss.   “   Uh   ,   actually   ,   it’s   just   Jack   ?   ”   The   correction   comes   with   a   wink   ,   free   of   charge   ,   as   he   grins.   “   Well   it   fucking   worked   ,   didn’t   it   ?   So   ,   maybe   not   the   best   ,   but   certainly   a   success   ,   wouldn’t   you   say   ?   ”

time pauses and at this moment there was him and her. whatever she was doing, whatever she was meant to be finishing, seemed lost in this moment for she has allowed herself to fall into his eyes as they stretched across the universe. he had eyes that she could imagine, seen only in paintings, beauty that cannot be explained. the twinkle inside of them as he joked, as he smiled back at her. it was enough for her breath to get stuck in her throat. if the stories of a princess meeting a prince weren’t just fairy tales, she wonders if this is how they felt when they met for the first time for it truly seemed like something out of this world, something strange and warm at the same time. 

‘ your name would definitely be a gift. ’

red grows across her features, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that she would be unfamiliar with. there is no explanation for it was a feeling she never knew before. and she liked it. she wanted to chase this feeling, to never want it go, for it to stay in this moment — or maybe she just wishes she would stay in this moment forever. the sound of her name escaping from his lips, nicknames he tried out, she decided then and there that she quite liked that, or perhaps she just liked the sound of his voice, liked to listen to him speak. another silent wish for the conversation to never end. the name he finally chooses, one she never been called before, and she can’t say that she didn’t enjoy it. or maybe she just enjoyed it because it came from him. “ you are more than welcome to call me seven, jack. ” jack, jack, jack. she repeated the name several times in her head, hoping to never forget it, never forget him. 

she allowed herself to take his hand, a shake felt odd but the feeling of his hand in her own? the hope of him never letting go rose to the top of her mind. she probably held on for too long, not knowing if this would make him uncomfortable. and with such regret, she let go, allowing her hand to rest on the broom once more – though the object was so meaningless at this time. “ so jack. what can i help you with? ” don’t leave. a voice begs inside her mind, pleading for the conversation to never end.

               𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓   she   says   his   name   he’s   addicted   to   the   sound.   Forget   his   pills   ,   all   he   needs   in   the   morning   is   her   voice   delicately   caressing   the   consonants   of   his   name   ,   shaping   the   vowel   sweetly.   And   though   he’s   never   been   religious   ,   his   name   on   her   tongue   feels   like   a   PRAYER   that   he’s   willing   to   sink   to   his   knees   for.   The   circumstances   that   led   him   to   Holy   Cross   ,   the   tragedies   he’s   chasing   ,   all   are   forgotten   in   this   moment   of   meeting   as   the   rest   of   the   world   ceases   to   matter.   Later   ,   he   will   lay   in   bed   and   laugh   :   at   himself   ,   at   his   thoughts   ,   at   his   stuttering   heart.   Jack   doesn’t   do   love   ;   he’s   not   built   for   romance.   

His tone seemed to suggest he had been just taking the piss the whole time. Well, Lucy couldn’t be blamed for the fact that people were just so goddamn hard to read. “Thanks for the apology.” She said, feeling ashamed that he had evidently noticed the dust on some of the sections. It also wasn’t her fault that most of the customers had such a limited palate that swathes of films here were left ignored. “It was uh, Tetris, actually.” She added. 

“Thought so.” She said. “I’m old in town. Name’s Lucy, but I answer to Ms Video Store. Though this is actually a video rental, you…you have to give things back.” She pointed to her nametag, realising she’d clipped it on at a weird angle. Irritated, she took it off to pin back on again, this time neat. Neat by Lucy standards, anyway. 

“I would ask permission to be honest, but I am going to be anyway.” She leant over the counter. “Jack? You don’t want to be visiting here. I could just say, like, for a holiday? I would recommend Philadelphia, or DC, Cincinatti maybe…” Lucy tried to remember places that’s she’d actually been to. That was about it. “But the truth is,  literally any other crappy little town in middle of nowhere Kentucky is better than here. Seriously. There’s…” She lowered her voice. “There’s a church that you really don’t want to come across, trust me.”

              " 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐒 ! "   Excitement   straightens   him   like   a   soldier   called   to   attention   ,   a   walking   exclamation   point   as   he   looks   up   at   her   from   the   back   of   the   store.   “   Tetris   is   a   sick   game   !   ”   His   voice   vibrates   with   a   boyish   enthusiasm   ,   dark   eyes   shimmering   with   a   sudden   energy.   “   What   score   were   you   at   ?   God   ,   I   haven’t   played   that   in   so   long.   ”   He   fades   into   another   memory   ,   shadows   clawing   him   away   from   the   surface   as   he   stares   at   the   films   in   front   of   him.   

                “   Pleasure   to   meet   you   ,   MS   Lucy   Video   Store,   ”   He   quips   good—naturedly   ,   traversing   an   aisle   in   her   direction   now.   “   What   happens   if   I   don’t   ?   ”   Stealing   isn’t   really   his   style   ,   but   he’d   forgotten   to   return   rentals   more   than   once   –   he   can   picture   old   films   stacked   in   his   parents’   garage   like   tombstones   ,   memorials   of   a   time   passed.   “   D’you   call   the   ranger   ?   ”   A   small   town   quirk   that   had   seemed   too   good   to   be   true   ,   straight   from   a   story   ,   Jack   had   laughed   until   his   stomach   hurt   when   Ridley   had   told   him.   

Dolores visibly softened as he replied. Everything she had heard about the newcomer had led her to expect insolence and entitlement – what she saw instead was an earnest young man painfully out of place. She remained immobile as he moved around the church, following his movements with an attentive gaze, sizing him up.

“It’s no Sistine Chapel, I’m afraid,” she said wryly after a long silence. She didn’t need to speak loud: her hoarse voice reverberated through the empty church. Perhaps it was her visceral disapproval of the vitriol with which her peers had greeted the young man, or her guilt at the sharp aggression with which she had greeted him, but Dolores couldn’t help but want to speak to him more. She recognized something in him that she couldn’t quite place. “If you don’t mind my asking…why here? What brings you to this corner of the world?”

She realized as she spoke that the question didn’t sound the way she meant it. She hadn’t meant how dare you come here? so much as tell me about your journey here. She wanted to know what would compel someone who projected such solitude and independence of spirit to come here, of all places. He was far from the first incongruous new arrival to set foot in the town of Holy Cross, but for some reason he was uniquely fascinating to Dolores.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she added hastily, “I just…I’m not from around here, either – as you can probably hear,” she chuckled, “I’m always curious to hear about my fellow outsiders.”

                 ' 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 ? '   The   question   on   repeat   since   he   stepped   foot   in   Holy   Cross   ,   the   ‘stay   away’   cross   borne   by   the   entire   town   and   held   out   to   repel   him   back   to   whence   he   came.   It’s   nearly   comical   at   this   point   ,   the   skipping   record   repetition   until   he   swears   he   hears   the   question   in   his   DREAMS   ,   wakes   up   screaming   it   to   the   sky.   The   woman   offers   it   innocently   enough   ,   at   least   ,   lacking   the   underlying   venom   he’s   accustomed   to   ,   and   her   explanation   bolsters   him   with   the   confidence   to   turn   ,   her   voice   a   warm   wind   beneath   tired   wings.   

                    “   I’d   hardly   call   this   a   corner   ,   would   you   ?   ”   He   drawls   ,   relief   apparent   in   the   relaxation   of   his   shoulders   ,   the   tension   dropped   from   his   face.   In   its   place   ,   a   dry   smirk   ,   lanky   limbs   stretching   to   fill   the   small   space.   “   s’more   of   a   PINHEAD   ,   I’d   say.   ”   His   journey   around   the   perimeter   continues   ,   and   maybe   now   he’s   the   animal   ,   prey   wandering   a   cage   seeking   escape   from   future   horrors.   “   I’m   here   to   film   a   documentary   on   Appalachian   towns.   My   fellow   director   ,   Ridley   Walker   –   d’you   know   her   ?   Well   ,   she’s   from   here   ,   thought   we   could   gather   some   footage   here   first.   ”   

…This was not someone Jude recognised. Damn. Just when he thought he’d recognised everyone in the town. He closed his notebook, hoping the stranger hadn’t seen it was just cats in it and thought Jude was working on something serious. “I don’t mind.” Jude said, moving his cup and copy of Kafka to him, stacking the novel over his notebook. He took a sip of coffee, and kept the pen in his hands to fidget with.

“It’s always busy in here.” Jude said. “At this time of day, at least.  When it gets a bit darker it’s actually quite peaceful.” If Jude could not recognise this person, there was a very high chance that he had not been to Holy Cross before, and would appreciate the advice. 

He wasn’t the worldiest young man, but Jude knew people did not tend to go to places like Holy Cross for a holiday. The only reason Jude was here was due to Mother’s creative whims, and this man being the son of an author studying Appalachia for research purposes would be too much of a coincidence. He was half tempted to straight up ask why he was here, butJude understood being so direct was frowned upon. He would have to find a more subtle way to find the answer.

“Have you never been in here, then?”

               𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍  caginess   to   the   stranger   that   Jack   recognizes.   Has   every   resident   of   Holy   Cross   read   the   same   manual   on   alienating   strangers   ?   The   slightly   glazed   look   ,   the   polite   ‘I-don’t-know-you’   smile   ,   the   uncomfortable   looks   around   for   safety.   As   if   he’s   brought   a   deadly   virus   from   Boston   and   will   infect   everyone   he   comes   in   contact   simply   with   a   SMILE.   “   Thanks   ,   man !   ”   Jack   offers   his   most   winning   smile   and   collapses   into   the   seat.   It   takes   a   few   more   awkward   seconds   before   he’s   assembled   his   assorted   equipment   on   the   small   table   ,   the   laptop   taking   up   nearly   the   entire   surface.   

                  His   knee   bounces   ,   half   out   of   habit   and   half   out   of   a   persistent   nervous   energy.   A   sweet   sip   calms   him   ,   steadies   the   shaking   of   his   hands   as   he   raises   his   eyebrows   politely   at   the   stranger’s   question.   “   Uh   ,   never   to   sit   ,   no.   I   should   try   at   night   ,   though   ,   how   late   are   they   open   ?   ”   Though   ,   to   Jack   ,   the   thought   of   solitude   is   disarming.   Far   too   much   room   to   think   without   the   cacophony   of   company.   “   I’m   sure   you   can   tell   I’m   new   in   town   ,   so.   Still   figuring   this   shit   out   ,   eh   ?   ”   

— 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐋’𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐄 , 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝒀 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑺

‘Please, Mr Varma, take a seat,’ Gabriel wanted to say sarcastically. However, as soon as he looked up from his newspaper he could see that Jack had something on his mind that he needed to offload. The coffeeshop wasn’t ideal for a private conversation that was more than likely to be medical related, but whenever and wherever Jack was happy to talk, Gabriel would be there. 

“Well, you’ve caught me at a good time,” Gabriel said instead, pushing his empty plate aside to make way for Jack’s own and taking off his reading glasses. “Considering I’ve finished my breakfast and don’t have surgery until this afternoon. So what can I help you with?” 

                𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐄  of   the   diner   is   nearly   overwhelming   ,   conversation   and   music   swelling   within   tired   ears.   There’s   a   pull   to   move   from   deep   within   him   ,   worse   than   usual   ,   a   jitter   that   begins   from   the   center   of   his   ribcage   and   extends   to   the   tapping   of   his   fingers   and   the   bouncing   of   his   knees.   He’s   perched   on   the   edge   of   the   vinyl   seat   ,   slouched   forward   on   the   edge   of   a   sticky   table.   The   arms   that   rest   on   the   surface   are   coated   with   goosebumps   ,   hairs   on   end   ,   and   there’s   a   sheen   of   sweat   barely   visible   at   his   hairline.   He   swallows   ,   tries   a   nervous   smile.   “   Hey   ,   thanks.   This   shit   blows.   ”

                  The   shit   in   question   ,   that’s   harder   to   put   into   words.   Impossible   ,   in   fact   ;   he’d   rather   pull   his   hair   out.   “   Do   you   ,   uh   ,   y’know   ,   prescribe   shit   ?   ”   He   nearly   winces   –   could   he   be   more   obvious   ?   This   is   every   movie   scene   ,   every   cautionary   self-help   video   about   addiction   and   he’s   playing   the   starring   role.   “   See   ,   I   fucked   up   my   ankle   a   while   back   and   ,   uh   ,   my   last   Doctor   ,   back   in   Boston   ,   he   had   me   on   these   pills   that   really   helped   ,   uh   Percocet   ,   I   think   ?   ”   Too   late   to   turn   back   now   ,   better   finish   strong   ,   Jack.   He   swipes   at   greasy   hair   ,   scratches   in   itch   on   his   scalp.   “   The   problem   is   I’ve   run   out   ,   and   ,   uh   ,   obviously   I   can’t   get   another   script   from   him   back   in   Boston   and   my   ankle’s   really   botherin’   me.   ”   He   finishes   with   a   sigh   ,   clasping   dirty   fingers   together.   “   So   I   imagine   you   can   understand   my   dilemma.   ”

*          𝒋𝒙𝒄𝒌𝒗          :          v   ,    jack      …

the   last   gust   of   air   to   hit   them   had   edged   onto   something   close   to   biting   as   the   sides   of   his   flannel   went   flapping   ⸻   and   he   didn’t   even   attempt   to   smother   the   squawks   that   left   his   mouth   at   that   ;   elbows   flailing   in   a   sad   imitation   of   a   bird   midflight.   (   ‘cause   that’s   just   what   he   was   ,   here   :   now.   he   was   as   free   as   a   fucking   bird,   ha   !   )   sure,   his   limbs   felt   loose   enough   for   him   to   be   fumbling   through   every   other   step   along   their   walk   ,   and   his   fingers   tingled   with   the   cold   ,   but   damn   ,   was   he   ever   fucking   free.   lunatic   was   a   pretty   good   word   for   the   way   he   was   grinning   ,   every   other   step   causing   him   to   brush   up   close   to   the   other.   proximity   was   good   ,   yeah   ,   jack   was   good.   

               ❛               dude   ⸻   dude   ,   m'pretty   sure   ’   weird   ’   doesn’t   even   begin   to   describe   the   shit   goin’   on   out   here.               ❜               seriously   ,   what   else   would’ve   driven   him   to   try   so   hard   at   getting   shit   faced   before   midnight   on   a   thursday   ??   even   then   ,   he   wasn’t   nearly   as   drunk   as   he   should’ve   been   for   having   just   vacated   a   bar.   he   did   however   ,   happen   to   trust   jack   ,   and   he   trusted   him   to   make   good   on   his   word   for   a   good   time.   (   it   was   a   beautiful   thing   ,   their   friendship   ,   and   the   proof   was   in   the   goddamn   pudding   as   they   neared   the   gaping   maw   of   darkness   ;   as   jack’s   next   words   rang   like   church   bells   for   what   they   would   herald.   )   goddamn   beautiful   was   right.   

               ❛               oh   shit   ,   you   good   !?   …   man   ,   how’re   you   gettin’   sloppier   than   me   already.               ❜               he   loved   the   guy   ,   he   did   ,   but   damn   if   that   wasn’t   embarrassing   for   him.   and   for   all   that   jack   might’ve   looked   stable   enough   once   he   righted   his   stance   ,   hughie   still   stepped   closer   ,   hands   on   his   arms   ,   on   his   shoulders.   checking   ,   bracing.   sure   ,   maybe   it   was   an   excuse   to   cling   more   than   anything   ,   but   he   was   cold   ,   and   it   wasn’t   his   fault   his   arm   fit   so   perfectly   when   slung   across   the   other’s   back.               ❛               alright   ,   alright   ,   moonman.   just   don’t   brain   yourself   before   you   finally   show   me   th'wonders   of   what   i’ve   been   missin’   out   on.               ❜

                     Nothing   like   a   near   DEATH   experience   to   suffuse   your   veins   with   adrenaline   ,   with   life   —   in   the   moment   following   his   false   footing   ,   Hughie’s   warmth   solid   and   sturdy   around   him   ,   he   tilts   his   head   back   and   WHOOPS.   Loud   enough   to   wake   the   sleepy   town   ,   loud   enough   to   draw   ghosts   from   the   shadows   ,   loud   enough   to   feel   ,   deeply   ,   truly   ,   alive.   Bring   all   of   Holy   Wisdom   to   his   door   :   with   Hughie   by   his   side   and   a   belly   full   of   liquor   ,   he   can   take   them   all.   

                   “   I’m   fucking   fantastic   ,   bro.   ”   It’s   insisted   ,   a   hand   clapping   on   his   buddy’s   shoulder   ,   arm   now   awkwardly   intertwined   around   the   other   in   a   lazy   half   hug.   “   Sloppy   lips   sink   ships   ,   right   ?   Er   —   no,   ‘s’not   how   it   goes.   ”   It   takes   little   more   than   a   tug   and   a   shift   of   balance   to   bring   them   both   to   the   ground   ,   a   hard   hit   that   he   takes   with   a   boyish   giggle.   Giddy   ,   heady   with   closeness   ,   invincibility   ,   FEAR.   “   Are   you   good   ?   Really   ?   ”   The   laughter   tumbles   over   a   cliff’s   edge   ,   leaves   a   sudden   vulnerability   to   the   question.   He   can’t   make   out   Hughie’s   face   in   the   swimming   darkness   ;   he   searches   for   it   nonetheless.   His   fragile   trust’s   too   easily   given   ,   he   knows   ,   but   Hughie’s   already   on   the   growing   list   of   people   Jack   would   follow   to   the   grave.   Less   than   a   month   in   Holy   Cross   and   he’s   collected   a   handful   more   ,   stacked   them   on   his   shelf   like   figurines   :   fragile   porcelain   china   ,   too   GOOD  to   be   broken.   

Status: open @narrativestarters​

Where: Carol’s Coffee

Seeing as it was the only coffee place in town, Azriel didn’t have much a choice but to go to this place for his cup of joe. He hadn’t felt like drinking coffee at home this morning, so here he was. Hearing his order being called out, a large latte with an extra shot, he made his way to the counter and picked up his drink. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the person behind him in his peripheral vision.

He suddenly found himself barely two inches from someone else’s face, coffee sloshing dangerously in his hand as he stumbled and attempted to regain his balance. When he knew he hadn’t burned himself, he turned his attention back to them. “Shit, I’m so sorry! You didn’t burn yourself did you? I really gotta watch where I’m going.”

              𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊'𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒  earbuds   in   ,   a   podcast   on   cults   and   Southern   religion   darkening   the   cheery   mood   of   the   busy   coffee   shop.   His   own   drink   chills   his   hand   ,   an   iced   oat   milk   latte   that   luckily   doesn’t   do   much   more   than   rattle   menacingly   when   the   other   young   man   bumps   into   him.   The   guy’s   hot   coffee   ,   however   ,   does   threaten   a   burning   splash   across   Jack’s   forearm   ,   earning   a   hiss   and   a   desperate   swipe   that   ends   in   a   barking   laugh.   

               “   I   did   ,   but   it’s   all   good.   My   arms   have   fucking   seen   worse   ,   I   promise.   ”   A   brown   arm   ,   sporting   a   number   of   old   scrapes   ,   scabs   ,   and   scars   ,   is   held   out   for   proof.   “   Tried   to   learn   how   to   skate   a   couple   times   ;   had   a   brief   parkour   phase   ;   tripped   and   fell   while   holding   my   camera...   The   list   goes   on.”   He’s   distracted   for   a   second   in   studying   the   map   of   his   careless   history.   “   You   all   good   ,   my guy   ?   ”

OPEN STARTER: @narrativestarters​ LOCATION: Galveston Gas

“Hey!” Ismayella shouted from behind the counter. Standing up off of her stool and throwing up her arm, she pointedly stared down the kid stuffing a bag of Cheetos down his pants. “Are you even trying, dumbass?!” After the kid, red-cheeked with embarrassed eyes, put the Cheetos back, she sat back down with a roll of her eyes. She looked at the person who’d just come up to the counter, taking their item and ringing it up. “Insulting. Am I wrong?” 

                  𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒  before   him   and   he   has   to   fight   to   curb   his   gleeful   laughter.   The   kid   storms   past   ,   shoots   him   a   glare   ,   and   the   dam   finally   breaks.   He’s   doubled   over   with   laughter   by   the   time   he   approaches   the   counter.   “   Yes   ,   you’re   WRONG   ,   considering   I   paid   him   to   do   that.   ”   She   rings   up   his   own   bag   of   Cheetos   while   he   gathers   the   loose   ends   of   his   composure   ,   then   :   his   own   pockets   full   of   loot   are   emptied   onto   the   counter.   Candy   bars   ,   batteries   ,   packs   of   gum   —   even   a   can   of   iced   tea   he’s   stuffed   in   his   jacket   pocket.   “   I   just   can’t   bear   to   steal   from   right   under   your   nose....not   when   you   make   it   so   easy   ,   Cabral.   ”   

–

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said Laura, putting her vape in her pocket. 

“No lobster, I’m afraid,” said Laura. “We’re a bit cheap to carry that, though don’t tell the owners I said that. However, we do have delicious cooked sandwiches—including roast beef. If you want anything on it, we can add whatever we have available. Deedee is in the back cooking today and she’s really flexible. Want me to bring you a menu to look over before you go in?” she asked. “I just needed a quick breath of outside air and now I’m good. Too nice of a day to be cooped up inside until dark, you know?”

There used to be such a peace in the stillness of Holy Cross, but time away had changed the sensation to stagnation, the air turned stale as old aspirations. Ridley had once found solace in the silence – in the liminal between moments linking one breath to the next – but now it rings in her ears, undiluted by buildings or busy sidewalks or bustling intersections. She misses the perpetual hum of electricity in old apartment buildings and the screeching sound of the green line braking on its way to the Boylston stop, enough that it has become difficult to sleep without the white noise.

“No, that’s too easy,” she shakes her head, which swims with sleeplessness and wine. “I could’ve told you that – you’re too soft to stay around here.” She takes the bottle in her hands, smile conspiratorial with gentle jest. “But what will you do when you go?”

Ridley picks at the bottle, tearing away part of the label with her thumbnail. It peels and splits, caught in a cold morning breeze. She sinks down beside him, turning on her side to watch the paper weave and tumble across the field. The earth smells so familiar, inspiring nostalgia for something that happened differently than she remembers. Ridley lets her cheek press to the rough grass, the small sting of it permeating her hazy thoughts.

“There’ll be pieces here to pick up here,” she weighs the question, adjusting to look up at a sky of streaking orange and purple. She knows the shards will be significant – the fallout proportional to the storm. “Then, I don’t know. Land a big, fancy contract deal for our footage and end up on Netflix or something. Take the money and run.” Her expression softens, a tender dream taking hold. “Spend it all seeing the world.”

                   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄   is   soaked   in   wine   ,   his   mind   even   more   so   ;   every   movement   feels   like   a   petal   stolen   by   the   breeze.   It’s   hard   to   understand   his   thoughts.   Instead   of   a   coherent   ,   linear   story   ,   he’s   thinking   only   in   feelings   —   a   flash   of   aching   ,   a   pull   of   longing   ,   a   rush   of   homesick   affection.   “   Too   soft   ?   ”   Nothing   more   than   a      throaty   echo   ,   tinged   with   a   muted   fear.   In   Holy   Cross   ,   he   couldn’t   afford   to   be   soft.   He   couldn’t   risk   failing   the   people   here   who   needed   him   to   be   the   exact   opposite   of   soft.   

                      A   sniff   of   cool   morning   air   redirects   him   to   her   question   ,   as   does   the   plucking   of   grass   between   his   fingers.   Reminds   him   he   is   here   ,   he   is   present   ,   he   is   alive   on   Earth.   “   I   don’   care   as   long   as   I   have   Lill   ,   y’know   ?   ”   He   hopes   she   doesn’t   hear   the   betraying   CRACK   of   his   voice   —   though   Ridley   ,   more   than   most   ,   has   collected   buckets   of   his   tears   like   rainwater.   “   Before   ....   this.   I   had   an   idea   for   a   short.   Wanted   to   film   it   and   go   to   ,   y’know   ,   fuckin’   festivals   and   shit.   ”   Each   word   needles   at   old   wounds   ,   at   a   past   version   of   himself   that   no   longer   exists.   “   But   now....   yeah.   Maybe   documentaries.   They’re   ,   y’know   ,   like   ,   a   form   of   fuckin’   justice   ,   in   a   way.   ”   There’s   a   nauseous   ,   skin   prickling   pause   before   he   tells   the   stars   :   “   I   hope   ,   one   day   ,   I   can   get   clean   ,   too.   ”

                       It’s   easier   to   speak   to   the   sky   ;   the   stars   wink   forgiveness   to   unspoken   sins.   Still   ,   he   turns   his   head   against   the   ground   to   look   at   her   familiar   face.   “   They   don’t   have   to   be   your   pieces   to   pick   up   ,   though.   ”   He   thinks   she’s   too   bright   to   burn   out   here   —   Holy   Cross   has   done   nothing   to   deserve   to   bathe   in   her   light.   “   Well   ,   you   better   fuckin’   be   splitting   that   with   me   ,   Riddles.   ”   He   watches   the   softening   of   her   features   beneath   the   morning   glow   ,   feels   his   own   face   mirror   hers.   “   Just   don’t   run   too   far.   ”   

Dolores whipped around, startled, at the sound of a voice clearing. The sight of a stranger was both a shock and a relief. On the one hand, she hadn’t been overheard by any members of her congregation – on the other, what was he doing here?

She had heard both her fellow church members and the town locals whisper venomously about this strange new arrival and his omnipresent camera. She had thought, in all honesty, that the gossip and outrage was ridiculous – the few times she had crossed paths with him he had seemed perfectly harmless. She had felt sorry for the boy, convinced that he was a disaffected young outcast bearing the brunt of small-town insularity. Though she had kept her sympathy to herself, she had resolved not to participate in the gossip and ostracization should he ever cross her path. She knew what it meant not to belong here. She knew the steely, glazed look the townspeople cast on a newcomer with a strange accent. She was determined never to cast that gaze upon anybody. But here he was, in her church, a camera on his shoulder, interrupting her at her most vulnerable.

“Are you filming?” She asked in a low growl, her eyes narrow with suspicion. Her cheeks were still wet with tears but her anguish had been momentarily displaced by righteous anger. Rage unfurled behind her ribs, filling her chest and stomach with a searing heat – and underneath it, a nauseating shame at the thought of what the young stranger might have just captured on film.  

               𝐀   𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃   𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋   ,   cornered   ,   will   bare   its   teeth.   HACKLES   raised   ,   claws   out   ,   poised   to   fight   till   death.   Such   is   the   stranger   in   the   church   when   she   turns   ,   growls   her   question   from   a   face   glimmering   with   pain.   He   sees   grief   in   her   eyes   ,   feels   an   echoing   likeness   clang   in   his   chest.   ‘ I   see   you   ,   I   know   you. ’   

                  And   yet   ,   silence   unfurls   in   which   she   awaits   a   response   and   Jack’s   anxiety   propels   a   sudden   EMPHATIC   answer   forward.   “   No   ,   no.   I   ,   uh   ,   shut   it   off.   It’s   off.   I   swear.   ”   Off   and   aching   against   his   shoulder.   He   sets   it   down   carefully   ,   wincing   and   kneading   a   hand   into   the   sore   muscle.   “   I   just   wanted   to   get   some   footage   of   the   church   ,   uh.   Didn’t   know   —   o-or   think   —   anyone   would   be   in   here.   I   —   sorry.   ”   The   explanation   trails   off   into   a   h o l y   silence   —   she   doesn’t   care   ,   likely   ;   no   amount   of   explanation   will   lessen   that   haunting   stare   that’s   pierced   him   ,   pinned   him   in   place.