#bugdown

Wonka is teaching Charlie how to detect each and every chocolate flavor solely by smell when he feels the soft thud of a sudden weight at his side.

Charlie is sound asleep, his head resting on Wonka’s velvety shoulder.

In a situation such as this, Wonka would normally summon the Oompa Loompas through flute-iful means to whisk Charlie away. However, playing his flute would surely wake up Charlie. It wouldn’t do Wonka any good calling the Oompa Loompas, anyway. They’re hardly tall enough to carry such a growing boy. Wonka peers down at Charlie. He certainly looks asleep. Best to be sure. Wonka pinches the end of Charlie’s long sleeve, raises his hand above his head, then lets go. Bonk! His hand falls right on top of his bright, blonde head and slides down into his lap.

Wonka sighs and then—quite light and distantly as though not entirely committed—strokes Charlie’s hair. A soft whisper:

          “We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

In one great twirl, Wonka stands, curls an arm around Charlie’s back, and scoops his legs up with his other arm.

Wonka carries Charlie through the winding rooms and corridors of the factory. He does not take the time to turn the lights of each room on and then off again simply to see where he is going. He does not take the time because he does not need to. He could travel these halls by scent alone. With his eyes closed with one leg tied up after spinning thirty times. He could do all of this and get them to anywhere in the factory without a single bump. Although, the hopping might disturb Charlie’s slumber.

After ten minutes of brisk walking, Wonka finally arrives outside of his office. He taps the end of his cane (held craftily to his person between his elbow and his side) with his foot once, twice, thrice times and—pop!—out shoots a gold key from the tip. He uses his elbow to push the handle of his cane towards the ground to tip the tip of his cane up until it’s perfectly level with the keyhole. A quick shimmy of his shoulder and the key is in and turned. His foot pushes open the door and he slides sideways through the threshold, careful to not hit Charlie’s head against the doorframe.

Wonka walks over to the halved couch and gently lays Charlie down. He pulls a spherical piece of candy out of his pocket and places it just below Charlie’s nose. He strides over to his desk, sits, watches, and waits until Charlie jolts awake from the smell. It should work in (he counts on his fingers) three, two, one... Now.

          “Pitch dark chocolate! The darkest chocolate in the whole wide world. Maybe even the galaxy. So dark you can see it.”  Ah. More accurately:  “Can’t.” 

Pluto’s sheep have sunken into the bog, so deep their bodies look like a congestion of white, briny foam you could reach an arm into and still not touch water. Without seeing them, Pluto knows he is here.

         ‘ what is that? ’

dennis makes the climb to his boiling point a little differently these days: instead of meeting each checkpoint with increasingly high-pitched expressions of displeasure, he corks it until he’s all the way there, until it’s physical, until his teeth and his throat ache with the effort of keeping quiet. all at once, he’s unpinned—his gestures are too big for his misery. he’s a deflating inflatable car lot guy.

@bugdown      +      charlie. 

          “You’re really harshing my mellow, man.”  The intonation comes out far too Eleanor-esque. Michael’s heard her sling so many insults with ‘man’ attached at the end it’s starting to feel like a suffix. It’s a word, right? ‘Man’ is a word you can use and have it actually mean what it means. Or are words just meaningless confetti for Eleanor meant to be thrown in his face?

Michael shifts his weight forward and gestures a vague hand at her.

          “Oh, fine. You know what you humans say, ‘four wrongs make a right’. Is that how it goes? Or is it four lefts? No, three?”  He waves a dismissive hand.  “I’ll get that one right next time.”

you know who for you know who :////

his face is salty-wet with tears, his shoulders damp with snow now melting, and his throat raw from begging. not for anyone to hear or for anything more specific than a ‘please’ until, of course —

— ‘ i wish i’d never been born. ’

he’s no longer alone, though the weight of his self hatred eases not one ounce. he’ll drown in this. (he’d like to.) he looks at the stranger like an inconvenience and a conundrum at once.