starters

It was early morning in the beginning of December, and the leaves of the trees were mostly changed now the cold spell of winter had gripped the city. People wrapped up against the cold in their winter gear. A few commuters wound their way down the vacant avenues to beat the rush hour that would come soon. The sidewalks had a harshness to them that caused those in transit to hurry to their destinations rather than mingle on the benches that lined the streets. On the other side of town, the river flowed through the city. Glassy but black, and in the cold air it looked as hard as the slate floors in his home.

The crisp winter morning offered blue skies and a warming sun that caused the dusting of snow that had fallen the prior night to glint prettily. It wasn’t uncommon for him to head out for a walk with Cooper on mornings like this. In the little free time he had before the all-consuming shift at the hospital would demand his every attention. His path today brought him from his house and through Central park, the tips of the high-rises winking through the trees in the early morning light. A remarkable sight. On all sides surrounded by the absolute forest of sheer-sided sky scrapers. There was a complex interplay of energy in the park, one he found quite soothing on a morning such as this. 

Pulling his coat tight against the wind that attempted to burrow in any gap it could find in his attire he’d stopped in the middle of Bow Bridge to simply admire the view. Cooper, his short-coat beagle was wrapped in a plaid vest to take the edge off the winter chill. Typically, Alistair would never put his dog in clothes but the biting chill demanded some extra protection for his canine companion that common sense dictated it necessary on this occasion. Normally, Coop was never an issue when they walked and didn’t often require leashing; content to trail at Alistair’s side wherever they happened to be headed.

Today, seemed to be a different matter entirely, as Cooper had gotten it into his head that a stranger wanted to play and was currently bouncing and bounding in zip-lightning like circles around someone’s feet barking with every bound. The sudden commotion drew Alistair over looking thoroughly apologetic as he tried to rein the animal’s excitement though he was by far much slower than the young animal “I’m so sorry! He’s normally better behaved than this… I’m not sure what got into him today…”

If she let her mind slip out of focus, she could almost imagine she was standing back on a balcony in Troy listening to the waves and watching the sun set as she waited for Paris to return to her. It was easy to pretend, to fall back into that lightness, pretend she was wearing a flowing dress rather than jeans and a pearl studded sweater, barefoot rather than shoes that cost entirely too much, and the longer she stood still, the easier it was to forget New York City at all. Serena, the girl who loved double shot espressos and puppy breath, easily faded to the background and so Helen, the weaker woman, could take hold, and it was in that moment that a small scoff escaped. Immaculately lined eyes widened, and her head canted as she realized no one missed Helen of Troy, not even her.

A white knuckled grasp on the rail was reminiscent to a stunningly revealing moment of the past, but there was no one sailing to drag Serena home, no one to rain on her parade except for the memories infringing on her new life. Muscles in her jaw flexed as she pulled herself back to the present, and after a moment, she turned to the person at her side, suddenly driven to feel connected to the present more than she wanted to give in to the call of the past. “You know, I’ve always been more of a sunrise person,” she murmured, turning back to admire the color streaking the sky. The sun was nearly gone now, leaving behind dark shadows among the peach and rose hues. “But my mother would say that’s because I’m better at starting things than I am finishing them.” Her brows rose on her face as she wondered which mother inspired that truth. 

To outsiders, she must have looked like she had lost her mind. Idly standing in Central Park, just watching everyone walk by. Perhaps she really had lost her mind. Her jaw was set and clenched, eyes steely as she watched the mortals with a pity that filled them. Black backpack filled with her sketches for work tossed on the ground. Norah would have been appalled with tossing her beloved work on the cold, harsh concrete. But since her memories had came flooding back she was no longer a meek little girl just longing to be liked. She was no longer a simple tattoo artist.

Oizys was so much more than that. Even as her mortal Norah she felt as though she was overlooked and stepped over. Much the way that she had been in Olympus. Maybe this mortal shell would give her an opportunity to prove that she was much more than a minor being. Oizys wasn’t focused on that at the moment. Right now she was assessing her peers. Carefully watching them in the way they walked and carried themselves. None of them knowing how truly fragile they really were.

After growing up in New York City, Elsie had developed an ease and comfort when it came to getting around. Though Eurydice still wasn’t sure how much of that childhood was true, she was still able to find her way around with the confidence of someone who had been here her whole life, and had found that her favorite spots hadn’t changed with the onslaught of the truth.

One such spot was a small tea shop, not far from the bookshop she had taken a job in. Working wasn’t entirely necessary, but she found a kind of peace among the well stocked shelves, and sometimes, after the energy it took to complete a rehearsal or performance, the overall hush of the place was a sort of refuge.

The door gave a small ding as she entered, and she let the air warm her for a moment, before shrugging off her jacket and making her way to the counter. It seemed another had had a similar idea, but they had positioned themselves in such a way that it was hard to tell exactly what they were trying to do. “Ah - sorry,” she tried her best to get their attention, “Were you in line?”

was it stalking to follow someone for a few blocks? probably yes. but theo didn’t seem to care too much. the darkness of the night around them helped to hide her intentions. plus someone who looked like she did now never really seemed to flag as a threat for someone. she felt nearly invisible as she followed the other through the streets until they came to pause on the sidewalk. theo had enough of waiting in the shadows so she made her move finally. stepping up to their side, she stared at them getting to see them closer this time, studying their face close up. after a moment she gave them a smile. “nice night is it not?” she said. maybe trying to approach this as normally as she could would be the best answer here. but subtly was not her strong suit. “i begin and have no end. eventually, i will be the ending of all that has begun what am i?” very subtle.

There was something strangely soothing about books that always made him lose himself. Every time he went to the cafe near his place to sit outside, a cigarette burning between his fingers and a book open in his hands, Ambrose forgot what was around him. Noises, people passing by, time itself. It all fell to the background, eyes too busy with the words floating from the pages to even bother looking up. More than once, afternoons turned into nights with more cups of tea than he cared to count and an endless list of french songs he didn’t actually recognize. The bartenders already knew him by name, memorizing his habits to perfection. They knew what table he liked, what drinks he usually ordered and how easily he could forget to stop to go home.

The perks of living in such a big city: there was always a level of anonymity that allowed him to sit in the same place for hours and not be bothered. Yet, it wasn’t enough so as to let him fade away completely. Ambrose liked that feeling. Smoke leaving his lips, wind on his face, overwhelming thoughts. This time around, though, he found himself amidst an extensive discussion about death. How clothing, monuments, languages and rituals were designed to remember all that was and all that could be. A different approach to memory that actually pleased him, – though Ambrose sensed it would be a rather melancholic way to teach a subject his students otherwise would like to discuss. 

But that realization soon became unimportant. Realizing he had closed his eyes for a moment, a voice forced him to come back to reality, staring at the other’s face as the words escaped him in a rather strong accent: “I’m sorry, what was that?”

With the significant amount of time that had passed since Astraea had lived among the mortals, she had forgotten how utterly frustrating it was. That frustration had only grown with the current state of the world, and the current state of her being.

Orelia was fine, Astraea supposed. But being so young meant that no one actually listened to her, and Astraea found herself growing increasingly tired of being stuck in such a place. Changes needed to be made, and it was becoming clear that while stuck in Orelia’s body, she would not be able to effectively petition for any of them.

Still, there were some aspects of mortal life that she had found that she did not mind as much. Dusk had settled over the city, and the stars would be out soon. Even now, Astraea found comfort in the celestial sky, and she moved through the park, eager to find an empty bench to settle in to for a bit. When she did, she happily took a seat, pulling out a book, content to stay put until the stars would guide her home.

What she did not anticipate, however, was the shadow that covered her page. Looking up, she raised a brow, “Can I help you?”

it’s a strange notion that carries phoebe’s thoughts afar; how she watches her daughter play on the swings. she watches how her hair swings between her shoulders blades, and how her small feet carry her towards the monkey bars. it’s a strange sense of melancholy that tickles her bones, making her entire skeleton shiver before she tightens her coat round her frame; blaming the wind rather than her far from perfect mind. “iris, careful!” she calls, stood by the iron fence as she shares small talk with other parents, her lids hooded and heavy due to the boredom of conversation - after all, young-ish mothers had few words to entrance phoebe faithfull, who had heard it all. feeble gossip-worthy for the poor, whispers about the handsome fathers who went to the teacher meetings - yes, there was little to grasp in terms of knowledge. 

looking  at  the  other  ,  the  brunette  cleared  her  throat  before  putting  her  phone  away  with  a  twisting  of  her  lips  .  “  sorry  if  you  saw  my  eyes  go  black  for  a  second  ,  i’m  not  a  demon  i  just  get  EXTREMELY  passionate  about  my  line  of  work  .  “  astrid  lifted  her  phone  ,  trying  to  ignore  the  tension  she  built  within  the  room  - a notification pinging.  

“   oh  ,  ben  affleck  relapsed  .  ouch  ,  he  used  to  be  so  handsome  .  now  he  looks  like  he  constantly  smells  like  beer  .  &  not  good ,  craft  beer  but  like  bud  light  . “  

Ever take in the majesty of sharks before? Truly stilled to watch as they moved through captivity. How massive their teeth appear behind thick glass, yet still so devastatingly small. If there’s any metaphor to be had, their basal instinct continuously propelling them forward despite no real end in sight would surely stand as top contender. ( Not that anyone trapped in their rat race life would give pause for such thought. )  

Aiya made their cage possible. Claiming they were owed her unwavering attention only the second most oxygen - wasting sentiment shared at her in the last hour. And while hailed successful by colleagues, she couldn’t shake the feeling this impressive display ( likewise ambitious installation to the aquarium ) dwarfed their magnificence. 

Creaking door triggers lights decorating a dark show floor, pulsing blues and greens and yellows not the most discreet were that this visitor’s intention.  “Area’s still off-limits to guests,” luckily, her slight uptick in tone suggests lacking willpower to enforce those very same rules she herself ignored. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

Tadasana. Urdhva hastasana. Uttanasana. Chaturanga. As Calla moved into the low push-up pose, she could feel the muscles working in her arms. Rising into an upward-facing dog and then a downward, she exhaled heavily, stretching out her legs. The yoga instructor often did a couple of sun salutations before her early morning class at the studio near midtown. As she reached tadasana one more time, she exhaled and brought her hands into prayer position, a peaceful expression on her face.

There was a rustle near the door and Calla’s head turned toward it. “You’re early,” she said with a smile on her face as she gestured to the empty room, darkened except for some small lights in the corner. The studio was in the penthouse of a large skyscraper and one wall was windows that looked out over Manhattan and into Queens. The sun had not yet risen. “But pull up a mat. We’ll get started soon enough.”

Calla took a long sip from her bottle of water before speaking again. “There’s something poetic about doing sun salutations as the sun rises, is there not?”

It’s all she’s been thinking about since she rolled out of bed, feeling and looking half dead, and now it’s finally in front of her. It smells divine and it looks an absolute mess. Fuck, she’s excited. She’s got the kind of hangover that only food can cure. Greasy, unhealthy, wonderful food that fills the soul up and leaves the body feeling heavy and slightly disgusting.

With abandon, she digs in. In this regard, Audrey has no manners, no shame. There’s food all over her face, it’s dripping down her arms, and it’s even getting on her clothes. Not that she cares, though. She’s still in her pajamas, with last night’s mascara caked under her eyes and her hair a mess. She even smells vaguely like last night, still covered in the scent of vodka, self loathing, and revelry. Surely, if she gave a single shit about how she looked, she wouldn’t look like this.

Brown eyes flicker across the diner counter top to where someone sits watching. With the sleeve of her sweatshirt she wipes her mouth. 

Despite the high cost of living and the mound of student debt she did her best not to think about, there were some little luxuries that Laurel would not go without. One was her cup of coffee from a small hole in the wall cafe that she indulged in every morning. She would move to something herbal by lunch but there was nothing like a swift kick of caffeine to perk her up ready for the work day.  

Spread before her on the table was that day’s paper, and specifically, the obituaries. There were a large number of deceased mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. But Laurel was always surprised by the number of people who had passed rather than died; like the deceased were an object, a ship passing in the night, perhaps, but not a person. She often wondered whether society would not be more comfortable with their mortality if they could at least speak about their inevitable end less euphemistically. 

She turned a page not seeing any names she recognised as she wondered aloud, “Why is everyone so afraid to talk about death?”

even in the city as busy as new york, its streets packed with people almost regardless of the time of the day, sonya gets to enjoy her luxuriously large personal space. she walks and people will do whatever they can to avoid getting too close to her. they will step aside; the crowds will part. maybe someone would find it unnerving and distressing, the lack of contact between you and the rest of the world. 

sonya, however, is not one of those people. 

her heels click sharply against the sidewalk as she moves forward, and she is utterly unbothered by the reactions others might display at the sight of her. she truly could not care less of them, not when her gaze suddenly fixates itself on a figure standing not too far from her. sonya’s movements come to a halt. she tilts her head to the side, lips pressed together in consideration. ah well, she muses, running into one of them was inevitable. 

and she moves again, though this time she does not stop until she is standing right next to the person. “humor me.” sonya does not ask; she commands. “what do you think will happen to”—her slender finger points at a young couple ( late twenties, two working professionals, no human children, just a pet or two ) chatting across the street—“them in the next ten years?” her most consistent source of amusement? hearing their whimsical ideas.

The rich black leather of her purse met the top of a corner table roughly, practically mimicking the way she fell into the booth behind it. Hers was a frustration that could not be confined by her form. Hell, she practically emanated it, changing the energy of the otherwise peaceful room. The little cup before her spilled a few drops on the table from such jostling, and she paid them no mind. 

“I should become a psychiatrist,” she sneered to herself. “Everyone tells me their problems anyway. Might as well make a little extra money for it.”

she was tangled up in a case at the moment. the vines of intrigue had snagged at her ankles, the blossom of importance sat at the forefront of her mind. it meant she saw people even less than she usually did, and that wasn’t particularly much anyhow. once upon a time, hesper was much more sociable. she’d made more of an effort before her mom’s death. but now, she preferred her own space and hanging out with her dog. there were a few people she liked and got on with; a few people she’d call friends. but mostly, she stuck to herself. her immediate family was inaccessible, so the only family she had in town was a cousin she wasn’t all that close too; they were probably both partially to blame about that.

the bottle of beer she’d ordered sat atop a branded coaster, papers scattered across the booth she saw in. nothing too personal that someone could see if they passed, but it was important to her case. she’d ordered a bowl of fries to come but as of yet they hadn’t appeared. she looked up as a shadow cast itself over her work.

“can I help?” she asked.

A dream is defined as a succession of images, thoughts, or emotions passing through the mind during a state of unconsciousness. This term, however, did not seem applicable. Another term of the same word, conversely, is a wild of vain fantasy. This term seemed more appropriate when associating the word dream, to the present. Wild and vain indeed. His egotistical nature seemed to be everywhere at once as he closed his eyes. It burned there in the pictures that were painting themselves in his mind. And suddenly it was as if he were hearing his own thoughts. Thoughts, that seemed to struggle to obscure themselves from him. If he didn’t know better, he would assume he was dreaming. Daydreaming perhaps? Absentmindedly dreaming while awake? Ah, but his mind wasn’t absent at all. In fact, the thoughts that clouded his mind seemed to be bleeding out onto the sun-glazed concrete floor. 

Long, icy fingertips spun the ostentatious glass that gently rest between them. The temperature seemed to tapper off somewhere along the arm, the dark eyes hovering above them warm and thoughtful as they opened to glare at the far end of the stone bar. The distance bounded by his brows puckered so that the space between them dissipated with a slight wrinkle.

Day drinking was largely frowned upon by an aspiring member of congress but something about the grace that accompanied Theo and the elegance to which he lifted the expensive crystal to his slack lips seemed to offer him a rare exception. This was lucky for him. 

As of lately space and time seemed to fold in on himself, images of a lost time flashing through his mind in the night, echoing through the field so that it banged against the walls of his skull. Muting it called for an afternoon rhy.