+ i wrote stuff +
i'm trying to write more. here are the results. despite this only being a mere first draft, it took approximately two weeks or so -_-;
Firebird
The perpetually gray city was capped with layers of ash and snow, a mixture resembling the color of corpses.
Yellow caution tape flapped in the desolate cold, guarding a pool of coagulating blood. Pot hole-mottled roads were lined with dimly lit buildings that hunched together in the shadows, and in the grimy distance a family of housing projects towered into the black and starless heavens, utilitarian peaks obscured by a thick blanket of fog.
Phoenix stared out the window, fogging the panes. His irises were a pale green, washed out by the absence of sunlight. He resembled the ghost of an ancient nordic warrior, long dishwater blonde hair carelessly draped over his face and topped off with three days of beard growth. It was some time before he finally slid the blinds down.
Sebastian shivered in the horizontal slats of light cast across the bed and curled into the warmth of Phoenix’s chest. Fingers trailed over the nodules of Sebastian’s vertebrae, migrating to his ribcage, lingering over the contradiction of soft skin and rigid bone. Phoenix loved the bones, reveled in their strength and fragility, how they rippled under his palm in reflexive undulations.
“You scrawny thing,” Phoenix said in his southern drawl, trailing over Sebastian’s thrumming chest. “I could break you.”
The thin man smiled languidly, arched himself into Phoenix’s touch.
Lonely sirens screamed in the distance. Phoenix stroked the ring of purple-blue around Seb’s left eye.
“Why didn’t you carry the gun?” Phoenix asked.
Sebastian’s eyes were moist pools of black, smile dissipated. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.” The mattress creaked as Seb turned and showed his back. Bruises lingered there, too.
“It’s not safe out there anymore.” Phoenix traced the bursts of purple, navigating them like a map. “Sebastian.” His voice heavy and tender. “Sebastian, please.”
“So it’s come to this.”
“You knew it would.”
Phoenix pulled Sebastian close, and they listened to the feverish moans of the Haitian woman who lived next door emitting voodoo chants and incomprehensible gibberish in a voice brittle as a wasps nest, muffled behind the flimsy wall. A single gunshot pierced the night, silencing the old woman’s wailing and stopping Sebastian’s heart.
They lay frozen on the bed. Phoenix sat up and put his ear to the cold wall, faded irises alert and shifting in their sockets. With one hand he reached for the pistol that rested in the nightstand table. Sebastian watched intently. He had seen Phoenix handle the weapon days before, caressing it with calloused fingers, with a calm insanity. A hunter’s spirit twitched within its larval cocoon as Phoenix deftly loaded the gun, padded to the front door, and waited.
Sebastian pressed his lips together. And waited.
Lone footsteps in the hallway finally retreated. Phoenix lowered his firearm. “See that?” He gestured towards the deadbolted door, towards nothing. “That’s why you need a gun.”
With lowered eyes, Sebastian picked at a scrap of peeled paint on the wall that was off-white like curdled milk.
They drifted back to the bedroom to lie in each other’s arms and shift into dreamless oblivion. Between uneasy stretches of sleep, Sebastian found himself stroking Phoenix’s jawline which was covered in hair that was more soft and yielding than he’d imagined it would be. Later they wandered outside into the fallen ash, Phoenix tall in a ragged cowichan sweater and Sebastian wrapped in a military jacket once fashionable but now a necessity for blending into abandoned storefronts, murky shadows in the night. Warily they walked along Sycamore Street where there had been trees once, but now only dust and bloated bodies and black slush remained. Gutted cars with shattered windows lay strewn across the road, casualties of the past, ancient relics. A small group of vagrants huddled around a burning trashcan, black leathery faces trapped within haphazard bundles of fabric, scorpion eyes peering hungrily through the flames and smoke.
Nearly as tall as Phoenix, Sebastian walked daintily, taking care to avoid ice patches, garbage and rotting flesh. He absently raked a hand through his dark hair, wavy and unruly. He’d have to get Phoenix to cut it for him later. He quickened his pace to keep up with the Nordic.
Phoenix glanced at Seb, slowed his steps so they could walk side by side.
“Phoenix,” Sebastian said, softspoken.
“Yeah?”
“Think we’ll ever see the sun again?”
Phoenix paused. “Maybe. Been about two years since the Impact. The dust’s gotta clear sometime.”
“Yeah,” Sebastian sighed.
They walked on.
“Phoenix.”
“Yeah?” “Think we’re dead?”
“I didn’t get the memo on Hell being a cold place, Seb. I’m fucking freezing, I’ll gladly go to Hell. Take you with me. It’d be a goddamned vacation.” He marched indignant through the snow.
Sebastian cracked a lopsided grin, hollow cheeks shifting.
“...Phoenix.”
The Nordic smiled. “Feelin’ chatty today, huh?”
Eventually they arrived at the store, one of the few remaining in the gray city. Resources were scarce, but with each passing day people were scarcer still, fleeing the city in drab caravans, pilgrimage to nowhere, anywhere. Those that remained would fight for the scraps. Sebastian and Phoenix drifted past sullen and subdued faces numbed with grief and weathered by the elements. They stocked up on provisions--canned goods, a small bag of rice, ramen, a box of curly pasta, popcorn kernels, carrots, apples and potatoes, all imported from overseas. Lights flickered overhead as Sebastian wandered the scant aisles. Resting on one of the shelves there was a bar of chocolate wrapped in silver and gold, rare and expensive. Seb reached for the bar with worn and fingerless military gloves, stroked the shining wrapper.
Phoenix paid for the meager haul of food, emptying his pockets. The cashier, burly and hardened, scooped coins up from the counter with blunt squarish hands. The Nordic looked over at Sebastian, who was still holding the bar of chocolate. Fine featured, frail beauty, tapered fingers and cheekbones defined.
“What’s that?” Phoenix asked.
“Nothing,” Sebastian placed the item back on the shelf.
Phoenix picked it back up. “No problem. Made some extra money last week.”
And before Sebastian could protest, the chocolate was paid for. They left the store and began the trek home, Phoenix alert with his pistol tucked in his pants. The derelict streets were quiet, but ambush was possible at any time, orchestrated by desperate marauders who patrolled the defunct subway stations, hunting for easy prey as they emerged like shadows in the night flashing sharp blades and metallic barrels.
Tucked safe in their apartment, they frugally dined on roasted potato and a can of chicken soup over soft candlelight in the living room. MP3 players, laptops and cellphones lay useless in the dust, the television a blank monolith. Afterwards, Phoenix took his guitar out and sang to Sebastian meandering blues, transporting them to a hot day in Tennessee where people idly drank beer on their front porches and adopted whimsical nicknames. Phoenix also sang his blues to the few rich that remained, clustered in luxury hi-rise enclaves within the gray city. The money he earned was enough to pay for some daily comforts, which was more than what most could afford.
Sebastian gave a little, too. To help pass time he taught Phoenix languages, read him books and poetry. They talked about where their consciousness would go after they died, alternate dimensions, and parallel universes where perhaps things were as they always had been.
“We’re all Gods,” Sebastian said as they once again succumbed to unsettling dreams. “Every single one of us.”
Phoenix slipped his eyes shut.
In the dull morning he gazed down at sleeping Sebastian, who lay fragile on his pillow, barely breathing. Tears rose up like the tide coming in, overflowing his face in steady rivulets. “God help us,” Phoenix whispered to nobody.
Sebastian woke to the sound of a suitcase zippering shut.
“C’mon buddy,” Phoenix said. “We’ve gotta go.”
“There isn’t anywhere to go.”
“We’ll die here.” Phoenix held out his hand.
They were outside in less than an hour, tugging along their luggage on wheels, Phoenix wearing his guitar case on his back like a turtle shell.
“We’ll figure out where we’re going once we’re over the bridge,” the Nordic said.
“Yeah,” Sebastian replied. “Do you think w-” He stopped short, rearing into a straight and stiff position, like a forest animal paralyzed.
A man stood before them, barely fifteen feet away, at the top of a subway entrance, an apparition in the gloom. His leather jacket was gnarled and besotted with grime and dried blood that crackled with age. The pale face was twisted with hardship and smeared with dirt that ran horizontal like warpaint. The steps under his decaying shoes were speckled with blood that led a trail down into a black, gaping maw. Sharp knife in the warrior’s hands, poised and ready to strike.
“What’s in the bags?” The man asked.
“Fuck off,” Phoenix said, glaring from underneath his hair.
Sebastian began to back away. The man drew nearer, stepping out onto a patch of clean snow.
“Don’t,” Phoenix growled.
The man heard Phoenix but didn’t listen. His focus fell on Sebastian. How easily he could take him down and slit the throat, watch him struggle in the slush, squealing like a gutted pig.
Sebastian’s legs tangled and he fell to the cold ground, scrabbling at the snow, black ice under his fingertips. As the man with the knife approached Sebastian, miles above them the gray formless clouds began to shift, spiraling out of the way and parting to reveal columns of sunlight. Engulfed with alien warmth, Sebastian stared up at the sky through tears of panic and relief. “Shit, he said. “There it is.”
The knifeman descended upon him, but Sebastian wildly fought back, grappling at the man’s wrists, eyed his reflection in the blade that glinted in the nascent light.
The shot cracked through the air like thunder, blood fountain spurting towards the sky, Sebastian anointed with the obscene fluid as the crazed man collapsed face first onto the muddied snow. Phoenix trembled, barrel of the gun still smoking in his hands. Sebastian stood up shakily, and gazed once again at the newly lit sky, transfixed.
And Phoenix could only stare down at the dead man on the ground, the wound seeping into the snow, bleeding into a shape that almost resembled wings.
***
Firebird
The perpetually gray city was capped with layers of ash and snow, a mixture resembling the color of corpses.
Yellow caution tape flapped in the desolate cold, guarding a pool of coagulating blood. Pot hole-mottled roads were lined with dimly lit buildings that hunched together in the shadows, and in the grimy distance a family of housing projects towered into the black and starless heavens, utilitarian peaks obscured by a thick blanket of fog.
Phoenix stared out the window, fogging the panes. His irises were a pale green, washed out by the absence of sunlight. He resembled the ghost of an ancient nordic warrior, long dishwater blonde hair carelessly draped over his face and topped off with three days of beard growth. It was some time before he finally slid the blinds down.
Sebastian shivered in the horizontal slats of light cast across the bed and curled into the warmth of Phoenix’s chest. Fingers trailed over the nodules of Sebastian’s vertebrae, migrating to his ribcage, lingering over the contradiction of soft skin and rigid bone. Phoenix loved the bones, reveled in their strength and fragility, how they rippled under his palm in reflexive undulations.
“You scrawny thing,” Phoenix said in his southern drawl, trailing over Sebastian’s thrumming chest. “I could break you.”
The thin man smiled languidly, arched himself into Phoenix’s touch.
Lonely sirens screamed in the distance. Phoenix stroked the ring of purple-blue around Seb’s left eye.
“Why didn’t you carry the gun?” Phoenix asked.
Sebastian’s eyes were moist pools of black, smile dissipated. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.” The mattress creaked as Seb turned and showed his back. Bruises lingered there, too.
“It’s not safe out there anymore.” Phoenix traced the bursts of purple, navigating them like a map. “Sebastian.” His voice heavy and tender. “Sebastian, please.”
“So it’s come to this.”
“You knew it would.”
Phoenix pulled Sebastian close, and they listened to the feverish moans of the Haitian woman who lived next door emitting voodoo chants and incomprehensible gibberish in a voice brittle as a wasps nest, muffled behind the flimsy wall. A single gunshot pierced the night, silencing the old woman’s wailing and stopping Sebastian’s heart.
They lay frozen on the bed. Phoenix sat up and put his ear to the cold wall, faded irises alert and shifting in their sockets. With one hand he reached for the pistol that rested in the nightstand table. Sebastian watched intently. He had seen Phoenix handle the weapon days before, caressing it with calloused fingers, with a calm insanity. A hunter’s spirit twitched within its larval cocoon as Phoenix deftly loaded the gun, padded to the front door, and waited.
Sebastian pressed his lips together. And waited.
Lone footsteps in the hallway finally retreated. Phoenix lowered his firearm. “See that?” He gestured towards the deadbolted door, towards nothing. “That’s why you need a gun.”
With lowered eyes, Sebastian picked at a scrap of peeled paint on the wall that was off-white like curdled milk.
They drifted back to the bedroom to lie in each other’s arms and shift into dreamless oblivion. Between uneasy stretches of sleep, Sebastian found himself stroking Phoenix’s jawline which was covered in hair that was more soft and yielding than he’d imagined it would be. Later they wandered outside into the fallen ash, Phoenix tall in a ragged cowichan sweater and Sebastian wrapped in a military jacket once fashionable but now a necessity for blending into abandoned storefronts, murky shadows in the night. Warily they walked along Sycamore Street where there had been trees once, but now only dust and bloated bodies and black slush remained. Gutted cars with shattered windows lay strewn across the road, casualties of the past, ancient relics. A small group of vagrants huddled around a burning trashcan, black leathery faces trapped within haphazard bundles of fabric, scorpion eyes peering hungrily through the flames and smoke.
Nearly as tall as Phoenix, Sebastian walked daintily, taking care to avoid ice patches, garbage and rotting flesh. He absently raked a hand through his dark hair, wavy and unruly. He’d have to get Phoenix to cut it for him later. He quickened his pace to keep up with the Nordic.
Phoenix glanced at Seb, slowed his steps so they could walk side by side.
“Phoenix,” Sebastian said, softspoken.
“Yeah?”
“Think we’ll ever see the sun again?”
Phoenix paused. “Maybe. Been about two years since the Impact. The dust’s gotta clear sometime.”
“Yeah,” Sebastian sighed.
They walked on.
“Phoenix.”
“Yeah?” “Think we’re dead?”
“I didn’t get the memo on Hell being a cold place, Seb. I’m fucking freezing, I’ll gladly go to Hell. Take you with me. It’d be a goddamned vacation.” He marched indignant through the snow.
Sebastian cracked a lopsided grin, hollow cheeks shifting.
“...Phoenix.”
The Nordic smiled. “Feelin’ chatty today, huh?”
Eventually they arrived at the store, one of the few remaining in the gray city. Resources were scarce, but with each passing day people were scarcer still, fleeing the city in drab caravans, pilgrimage to nowhere, anywhere. Those that remained would fight for the scraps. Sebastian and Phoenix drifted past sullen and subdued faces numbed with grief and weathered by the elements. They stocked up on provisions--canned goods, a small bag of rice, ramen, a box of curly pasta, popcorn kernels, carrots, apples and potatoes, all imported from overseas. Lights flickered overhead as Sebastian wandered the scant aisles. Resting on one of the shelves there was a bar of chocolate wrapped in silver and gold, rare and expensive. Seb reached for the bar with worn and fingerless military gloves, stroked the shining wrapper.
Phoenix paid for the meager haul of food, emptying his pockets. The cashier, burly and hardened, scooped coins up from the counter with blunt squarish hands. The Nordic looked over at Sebastian, who was still holding the bar of chocolate. Fine featured, frail beauty, tapered fingers and cheekbones defined.
“What’s that?” Phoenix asked.
“Nothing,” Sebastian placed the item back on the shelf.
Phoenix picked it back up. “No problem. Made some extra money last week.”
And before Sebastian could protest, the chocolate was paid for. They left the store and began the trek home, Phoenix alert with his pistol tucked in his pants. The derelict streets were quiet, but ambush was possible at any time, orchestrated by desperate marauders who patrolled the defunct subway stations, hunting for easy prey as they emerged like shadows in the night flashing sharp blades and metallic barrels.
Tucked safe in their apartment, they frugally dined on roasted potato and a can of chicken soup over soft candlelight in the living room. MP3 players, laptops and cellphones lay useless in the dust, the television a blank monolith. Afterwards, Phoenix took his guitar out and sang to Sebastian meandering blues, transporting them to a hot day in Tennessee where people idly drank beer on their front porches and adopted whimsical nicknames. Phoenix also sang his blues to the few rich that remained, clustered in luxury hi-rise enclaves within the gray city. The money he earned was enough to pay for some daily comforts, which was more than what most could afford.
Sebastian gave a little, too. To help pass time he taught Phoenix languages, read him books and poetry. They talked about where their consciousness would go after they died, alternate dimensions, and parallel universes where perhaps things were as they always had been.
“We’re all Gods,” Sebastian said as they once again succumbed to unsettling dreams. “Every single one of us.”
Phoenix slipped his eyes shut.
In the dull morning he gazed down at sleeping Sebastian, who lay fragile on his pillow, barely breathing. Tears rose up like the tide coming in, overflowing his face in steady rivulets. “God help us,” Phoenix whispered to nobody.
Sebastian woke to the sound of a suitcase zippering shut.
“C’mon buddy,” Phoenix said. “We’ve gotta go.”
“There isn’t anywhere to go.”
“We’ll die here.” Phoenix held out his hand.
They were outside in less than an hour, tugging along their luggage on wheels, Phoenix wearing his guitar case on his back like a turtle shell.
“We’ll figure out where we’re going once we’re over the bridge,” the Nordic said.
“Yeah,” Sebastian replied. “Do you think w-” He stopped short, rearing into a straight and stiff position, like a forest animal paralyzed.
A man stood before them, barely fifteen feet away, at the top of a subway entrance, an apparition in the gloom. His leather jacket was gnarled and besotted with grime and dried blood that crackled with age. The pale face was twisted with hardship and smeared with dirt that ran horizontal like warpaint. The steps under his decaying shoes were speckled with blood that led a trail down into a black, gaping maw. Sharp knife in the warrior’s hands, poised and ready to strike.
“What’s in the bags?” The man asked.
“Fuck off,” Phoenix said, glaring from underneath his hair.
Sebastian began to back away. The man drew nearer, stepping out onto a patch of clean snow.
“Don’t,” Phoenix growled.
The man heard Phoenix but didn’t listen. His focus fell on Sebastian. How easily he could take him down and slit the throat, watch him struggle in the slush, squealing like a gutted pig.
Sebastian’s legs tangled and he fell to the cold ground, scrabbling at the snow, black ice under his fingertips. As the man with the knife approached Sebastian, miles above them the gray formless clouds began to shift, spiraling out of the way and parting to reveal columns of sunlight. Engulfed with alien warmth, Sebastian stared up at the sky through tears of panic and relief. “Shit, he said. “There it is.”
The knifeman descended upon him, but Sebastian wildly fought back, grappling at the man’s wrists, eyed his reflection in the blade that glinted in the nascent light.
The shot cracked through the air like thunder, blood fountain spurting towards the sky, Sebastian anointed with the obscene fluid as the crazed man collapsed face first onto the muddied snow. Phoenix trembled, barrel of the gun still smoking in his hands. Sebastian stood up shakily, and gazed once again at the newly lit sky, transfixed.
And Phoenix could only stare down at the dead man on the ground, the wound seeping into the snow, bleeding into a shape that almost resembled wings.
***