navette.

Is it the first or second Friday this month?

A calendar really should be drawn up.

For the record: Albertina hates being a child of divorce.

It’s not nearly as worldly & glamorous as it sounds.

She lines up her list of grievances as she packs her bag.

Yet again.

Beast looks up at her imploringly; he senses her approaching departure, and has begun to skulk already.

Poor animal.

She stares back at him glumly,  glaring at the box of salt water taffy on the dresser- her father’s latest attempt at being thoughtful.

She hates taffy.

Edible self-portraits don't really hold much appeal.

sudara.

The Rolling Thunder trips over a crack in the sidewalk and stumbles; his skateboard goes flying right into M.P.’s ankles.

The wheels spin.

Thunder lays sprawled on the pavement, ragdoll-style.

We won’t catalog the exact number of bruises just incurred.

Both parties will feel the evidence of this encounter in the morning. 

They follow the choreography, dusting themselves off and clucking apologetically.

M.P. isn’t sure what comes next. 

Thunder still isn’t sure what came first.

This is going to be interesting.

“You...okay?”

“Me? Oh, fine, fine...Um. I’m...sorry?”

“Yeah. No, it’s... don’t worry about it. Your board-”

“I got it.”

Weight shifts.

This is almost painful.

“Well...sorry again. I’m gonna...”

“Yeah. Of course. No problem.”

Awkward.

kalat.

Empty is a good way to describe it. 

It’s not the right word; but it catches the general feeling.

Sorella is empty. 

She picks at the cracks in her willpower despite her misgivings about its solidarity. 

A part of her wants it to unravel, dares it to.

It won’t. 

Will it?

From across the room, Orphan thinks snide remarks about her (lack of) sanity at her. 

She tunes him out, and thinks about nothing instead.

Catching sight of Orphan’s confused, annoyed expression, she can’t help but burst out laughing.

Befuddling him is one of her few joys.

Few.

She sighs at the word, and goes back to picking.

stat.

We’re not sure what Dr. Physician’s motivation is.

We know that when he moves downstage towards The Mistress, it’s supposed to be her treatment.

There’s a spotlight trained on the wicker chair where she’s settled.

Curled in on herself like that, there’s no other way to describe her but as a kitten child.

Which is slightly absurdist...

He stops moving somewhere around center stage.

She stands up.

The pink gel slides off the light; she’s bathed in pure, white glow.

“Stop that. Stop being considerate. If you have something to say, say it. If you want something, take it. Don’t protect me. I can handle it. If I fall, I want to feel it.”

upornik.

Simile (n): a figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind.

Eg - Fractal is like a stick of dynamite.

The subject of the previous sentence smirks as she fills in the provided space with her answer.

This ‘required course-study’ shit they make her do is such total bull.

She thought filling an entire workbook with expletives would get the point across. 

They just took away her toothbrush and gave her another book.

Maybe she should fill this one with death threats. 

Nah.

She doesn’t feel like dealing with solitary.

Again.

She scrubs out what she’s written.

Several.

Several sticks of dynamite.

astarael.

The Often Orphan’s sister had a name once.

It’s been long since forgotten.

We call her Sorella these days.

Sorella likes long walks on the beach, reading her tattered encyclopedias, and dreaming about the Upper World. 

Orphan doesn’t seem to mind it down here.

He always was good at entertaining himself.

It’s been too many years, and Sorella is bored.

She’s tired.

She’s done.

Change is necessary.

Right?

She glances cautiously over her shoulder.

Orphan would be incensed if he heard her thinking like this.

She must stop.

Must.

Should.

Ought.

Sighing, she shifts her weight.

She needs a new hobby.

For now, she creates puddles, sits in them, and attempts to remember her name.

Forgotten name, forgotten girl.

Oh, memory.

zellenkamerad.

It’s like college all over again.

Roommates can be such fun.

If they’d stop scrawling all over the walls with their contraband lipstick and speak, that is.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to make of Fractal. 

What little of her she knows, she should be frightened by.

Trouble is, she isn’t.

She thinks they’ll get along wonderfully.

Must be charisma.

This lipstick nonsense has really got to stop, however.

‘REDRUM’ is more than a little cliche, and a tad too cutting.

No pun intended.

Picking at her wristbands, The Mistress sighs and begins the ever-so-typical, ever-so-atypical conversation the only way it can be begun.

“Hey, Picasso. Over here. So... what are you in for?”

hirmutada.

The patients are silent.

Something must be afoot; the patients are never silent.

The Doctor supposes it must be her presence here.

They don’t like her.

They don’t trust her.

He’s not sure he does either.

She hasn’t spoken a word since she arrived.

Perhaps she simply brought the silence with her.

“...list this woman as armed and dangerous.”

The Doctor flicks off the television, shaking his head sadly.

“This is what happens when treatment goes rogue.”

He forgets where he is.

The passing mumbled admonishing remark elicits a glare from her.

Hate. Then, mockingly:

“I know. The apothecary always knows best.”

He sighs.

There’s much work to be done.

This will be one for the books.

gauner.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU BREAKING NEWS.

According to our sources, a woman known only by the moniker ‘The Mistress’ is now wanted by federal authorities for attempted murder. 

The victim, a man called The Master, was found earlier this afternoon.

Details of the crime have not yet been released, but authorities have already declared Mistress their prime suspect. On the screen is the number of the tip line police have opened specifically for this case. Any information regarding this crime, The Mistress, or her whereabouts should be directed there. Be warned: police list this woman as armed and dangerous.

ferino.

Life in the dark takes some getting used to.
After the first week or so, the eyes adjust.
A month into it, total acclimation is achieved.

At this point, it would not be inaccurate to compare The Often Orphan to a raccoon. 

Surprise is the natural reaction when light pierces Orphan’s pitch-black normality. 
The tall, fair creature standing in it is even more of an intrigue.

Orphan’s sister, ever-trusting and curious to a fault, gives in and breaks from his side.
Stupid female.
There were lessons about this.
Never trust the blonde ones. 

The Often Orphan readies his javelin hand, in case the fair one produces a lollipop.

inesperado.

Lazy southern Sundays aren’t always a bowl of cherries.
There comes a time when a body just needs a little mayhem.

Honora fidgets. 
This rocker is not, in actuality, anywhere near as comfortable as it looks. 
In fact, after calculating in the mosquitoes, the decidedly un-comfy rocking chair, and the muggy heat, the only really enjoyable part of this stereotype is the sweet tea.

She takes hers to the cellar.
The comfort of the underground chill always wins.

Sprawled on the floor next to the drainpipe, she isn’t prepared for it.

“Who are you?”

Honora jumps approximately 4.6 feet.
The little girl just cocks her head.

Since when do good Southern families keep small children in cellars?

terga.

Honora entered in the middle of the story.
Now she gets to be the one who works everything out via an oversized narrative monologue.

Read:
The Mistress won’t be heard from for a while.
She’s off listening somewhere.

The Master is licking his wounds in the recovery ward.
Hedge helps him get the bandage fuzz off of his tongue. 

Liege still plays in his sandbox, bubbling and brandishing his ever-peaceful beam of a smile at the world.

Swivel hides in dark corners.
With The Mistress gone, his confidence has been reduced to ashy flakes.

Elsie & Enna thought they owned their new house.
They were incorrect; they’re still in escrow. 

The neighborhood needs a newspaper.

ata.

Skye is dancing.

Liege leads.

It works perfectly, despite his small stature.

The Mistress stares in open astonishment.

Skye hasn’t danced a step in almost five years.

Her waltz is flawless.

The diamonds on her character shoes glint in the studio light as they glance off The Master’s broken limbs.

Hairline fractures.

For now.

His hands clutch tufts of Hedge’s feathers. 

Neither are completely incapacitated as of yet; the applicable phrase is “in hot water.”

Skeeter’s been bound & gagged- he’s old news.

Swivel will be his cellmate. 

All characters accounted for, the dance whirls on.

Skye is has been will be

^ dances.

ocito.

CAST: The Mistress
         Grier

SETTING: the unassuming street corner in Everytown where these uncomfortable-though-well-meaning confrontations inevitably occur.



“Obviously?”

“Yeah...? Obviously.”

“Obviously!?”

“God, yes, OBVIOUSLY. It’s an adverb. Get the fuck over it. That’s not even the point. Stop side-stepping.”

[Scathingly]“You don’t know shit about me, alright? JESUS H. CHRIST. Obviously. Hell. ”

[After watching her stalk away, he now knows that heels were meant to be turned on. He runs his hands through his hair and expels his responsibility with his air, but can’t quite manage to expirate his frustration. It begins to rain. He doesn’t notice, and lights up again. Contemplative/concerned look: he knows something is off. Knows.]

“Obviously...”