Escapism Central

Sunlight pours into the kitchen like honey and drips down the counter. You wipe the sleep out of your eyes as you slunk down the stairs. It’s early, the only others awake before you are the birds singing their morning tunes. The world feels clean, like it had been wiped down with a bottle of orange pine sol. You pull your favorite mug from the cabinet placing it on the counter next to the coffee machine. You push up on the counter, listening as the coffee machine gurgles. Your sibling steps off the landing and glides groggily in wrapped in a blanket. They slide into a chair at the table. The air smells like rich earthy coffee. You look up at them, they look at you. Neither of you speak.The silence is sweet, comfortable, a simple agreement. 

Silence

I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak

I do not need To hear a word.

In your silence Every tone I seek Is heard.

- Langston Hughes

(cite where I got the poem from)

Inventory:

Your favorite mug

Vanilla creamer waiting in the fridge

A tube of unbaked cinnamon rolls

Your favorite hoodie covered in cat hair

You’re dressed well, and beneath your finery the sound of your black leather boots tap gently to the beat of the waltz.

One, 

    two, 

       three, 

            one, two, three. 

It’s a lovely ball, you wish you could enjoy it, but you allow for no indulgences while on a job. You watch your mark carefully as he floats across the dance floor. The imperial crown prince himself. 

You didn’t ask why, you have no interest in involving yourself further with the situation; the less you know the more deniability you have. Although, as your eyes follow him across the floor a bit of curiosity wheedles itself into your brain. 

He catches your eye and you nod to him, it only seems appropriate. His smile is kind, genuine. Does you’re employer have a personal grudge? A political goal? Greed or hate, both great motivators. You peg the job as political. The young man seems polite enough, and even if he is a bit of a prick you doubt that he’s bad enough to kill. So, political it is.

The song ends and you watch him bid his partner adieu. He begins his way in your direction and you have to stifle a laugh. He can’t be serious. However, it appears he is, because as the next group of dancers make their way to the floor he offers you his hand. You take it, ready to get the job over with.

Today's escapist playlist:

Expectation, Herold Lavrentievich Kittler

Oh the hills of Manchuria, Ilya Alekseevich Shatrov

Amur Waves, Max Kyuss

Masquerade Suite: Maskarad, Aram Khachaturian

Autumn Dream, Archibald Joyce

Remembrance, Archibald Joyce

Inventory:

Your invitation, written out to someone who definitely isn’t you

A lacy black masquerade mask that came with the invite

The collection of knives you keep covertly hidden

The emerald signet ring you wear with a secret compartment for poison

A lock pick in case you get yourself caught in a difficult situation

The air is filled with the rich metallic smell of earth and your nails are caked with a thick layer of dirt. You wipe the back of your hand against your sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of mud across your face. The farmer's daughter laughs and beckons you closer. She pulls a handkerchief from inside her overall pocket and gently wipes away the dirt. You feel a rise of heat flush your face as catches your eye, and you the thought occurs you might've been paying too much attention to her freckles. Her eyes are green, like pond reeds. You're stuck; you're too afraid to get closer, but with no intent of stepping back. Suddenly her mother's voice calls from around the barn. You both jump away, afraid what might happen if you're seen.

A nice playlist for you farm girl simps:

Woodland, The Paper Kites

Bitter Water, The Oh Hellos

June Hymn, The Decemberists

Sons & Daughters, The Decemberists

Naked as We Came, Iron & Wine

New Slang, The Shins

Inventory:

Her red and white checkered handkerchief with the red lace edge

Her mom’s famous lemon bars

A tall glass of iced tea

A lock of hair she gave you 

The picture she keeps of you in her locket

All of her pressed flowers

The Atlas she keeps bookmarked upstairs with all the places she wants to travel to one day

The ocean is the grey of Athena’s eyes, the air is thick with salt and the wind runs its fingers through your hair. You stare out over the horizon, there’s going to be a storm, you can smell it; salt mixed with the musty smell of your grandmother’s attic. You turn towards your lighthouse, you need to take the dogs in before it get’s bad.

Music for today’s escapist endeavor:

In the Woods Somewhere, Hozier

Metaphor, The Crane Wives

The Rockrose and the Thistle, The Amazing Devil

Elsa’s Song, The Amazing Devil

Summersong, The Decemberists

My Heart Is Buried In Venice, Ricky Montgomery

Today’s escapist inventory:

Cable knit sweaters

An ancient (and possibly linked to buried treasure) compass

Earl grey tea with lavender

The hearty rose bushes you planted around the lighthouse

Your dog, who is appropriately named Captain