#wither.threads

it’s been a long running joke between philomene and himself.  an excess of cost, of wealth, a sign of something unnecessary and one would sigh to the other: lawn culture.  alec knows he started it; one of few possibly bad habits or odd quirks installed into his daughter that he’s rather proud of.  from new york to now here, the quiet air of south dakota, every home they’ve owned he’s torn out the sod no matter how big or small a lawn.  fresh dirt, clean lines to make sure there’s no mud slide.  here there was room enough for a pathway of stones snaking between the types of plants that came last, chosen on one of the first days of spring when philomene ached too much to dance.

alec’s planted most of them.  it’s just maintenance now, chasing away the weeds and pruning the wild growths of daffodils and tulips that come back yearly with vengeance on their minds.  he finds it peaceful.  the feeling of dirt instead of paint on his skin a welcome change, and the work so mundane that even the golden thing grows still and sleepy inside of him.  it does not flare or twist around when he is surrounded by leaves or blossoming flowers.  bored, alec imagines, as he sits up and wipes his hands on his jeans.  i’ve made a monstrous thing bored.

cracking his neck left, right, alec pauses when he sees someone on the sidewalk peering his way.  a smile grows on his face -- laughter barely held back as he knows how it must look.  an almost haphazard garden in place of the lawn his neighbors have cultivated, trimmed and then groaned about whenever alec’s in ear shot.  he raises a hand in greeting, stained dark with wet soil.

rarely does noah get to spread her wings outside of astoria for the lunch hour.  such is the effect of an open door policy -- she requests trust from her students, offers availability and loyalty in return for the long, ticking hours between classes under her guidance and meetings where she sits silently.  how funny, to be more comfortable with those she teaches than her coworkers and peers.  is it the hunger for learning?  that so many students are also new, and anxious under their skin?

she understands that.  eleven months and she still barely found her way to kaffeine, bag heavy on her shoulder and a thin sheen of sweat across the back of her neck as noah finally slips into line.  shifts the book bag from left to right.  sighs.  then orders as she reaches the front -- chai tea, the peach grilled cheese.  oh sorry, yeah it’s for here -- before shuffling towards the nearest open table.  

binders are pried from her bag as soon as she lets it settle onto the ground.  a supplementary for the old books, the beautiful things that noah cannot hold for more than minutes let alone bring with her.  the local museum, who’s name she can’t fully recall was kind enough to offer her photographs of each and every page in their collection.  noah took the time to compile them, print them, and now carries them in these binders labeled with shorthand that no doubt reads as nonsense to anyone else.  

Dahlia loved everything about being a weyrwolf, but there were some things she wished she had. Now, for example, she wished she had an extra arm. Her hands were full of cases of beer bottles and she stupidly let the heavy metal door shut behind her. She could easily have set the cases down and opened the door, which is what she was going to do, until she noticed someone down the alleyway. “Hey!” She yelled down the echoing path. “Not to sound like a damsel in distress or anything, but I could use a hand over here.”

“Stare too long and you’ll go blind,” he teased to the person a few seats down from him, amused by their inability to remain inconspicuous. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?” 

“This doesn’t taste like the stars at all.“

She has her feet in the water, ankle deep in the froth of the cascading fountain and from a distance her skin under the waterline seems to shimmer an iridescent pink and purple. Once closer--it’s a trick of the light hitting the water perhaps.

She holds out the bottle of champagne. “I read it somewhere--that Dom Pérignon said this tasted like bottled stars but it’s just too much air. It hurts my throat.“ The normally pleasant curl of her mouth is flat as Maya offers the bottle. “You can have it.“

she’s not careless when she tries to blend in.  it’s all very particular, full of choices from clothing to the color of lipstick, the curl of her hair or the wig that she wears.  erzsébet has never considered herself a fool to fashion.  just someone who weaponizes it enough to belong no matter where she wants to be.  tonight is somewhere far more mundane than her preferred choices.  no bare women dancing through the rooms, no silken curtains or scents of perfume beyond her own wafting from the corners of her pale wrists.   

instead the silk is her shirt, a knot tied at her waist against the slacks that hang down to sharp stiletto boots.  classic, just on the edge of casual that matches nothing about erzsébet’s soul.  but still enough to stand out.  to speak of money and a humor that she wears in a near constant, playful smile.  true boredom in her eyes as she orders a drink, the martini cool in her already icy fingertips.  stretches her legs out slowly as she leans on the bar and takes her eyes over all those around her.  

so many lost to their own thoughts.  a sorrow, or bitterness that knots up their features.  and then -- ah.  perfect.  plucking her olive from her drink, erzsébet pushes it between her lips and tears it apart with her teeth.  swallows the acid that leaks from it before leaning chin on her hand.  

“It’s a waste of energy to keep yourself standing.” Vik offered coolly from her perch at the bar, offering a soft smirk to the person waiting to get served. They had been part of the lucky collective that had been regarded by Vik Naerth, a discerning judge of aesthetics. Deadwood had been so kind to her, offering divine specimens of all species; though wytches remained unwanted, unwelcomed and uncared for. “You never know what the rest of the night could entail.” 

●︎ when: may 8th, 2019  ●︎ where: deadwood park ●︎ with: open thread