koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

soru.

Grier stands center stage.
No costume, no props, no pretense.
Bare concrete, without curtains to close.

Motivation: none.
Objective: honesty.
Medium: simplicity.

His eyes bore into his audience, searing her to the core in the best of ways.
There’s no bolting from this, no hiding.
It’s in everything.
It is everything.
Has become, will become
Everything.

The word is ‘all-encompassing.’

Palms up, open.
Perfect imagery.
The time has come.
Uncover your eyes, now.
You knew this was coming.

Quietly, 
loudly, 
spoken:

The question.

“What void are you trying to fill? What blemish are you trying to cover? What answer do you seek? What, exactly, are you aching for? Do you know?”

She shakes.
She shudders.
She shivers.
She seizes.

She doesn’t.

Does he?

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...”

boira.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to do with her head.
M.P. doesn’t know what to do with her eyes.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with his feet.
Skye doesn’t know what to do with her smile.
Grier doesn’t know what to do with his soul.
Coggs doesn’t know what to do with his cerebrum.
Skeeter doesn’t know what to do with his shoulders.
The Master doesn’t know what to do with his clouds.
Elsie doesn’t know what to do with her inclinations.
Enna doesn’t know what to do with her cells.
Mismatch doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
Sphinx doesn’t know what to do with her answers.
Liege doesn’t know what to do with his pulse.
Chimaera doesn’t know what to do with his research.
Hedge doesn’t know what to do with Its alterations.

Uncertainty is entirely underrated.
Uncertainty is entirely overrated.

rovnavaha.

Grier is finding the balance.
Holding on and letting go only look converse from the surface.
Beneath the nail polish and overpriced dye jobs, they’re twins.

Not as close as Elsie & Enna, he thinks.
In their case, the line where one ends and the next begins is little more than a watercolor blur.

Shaking the thought from his head, he dumps the eggs down the garbage disposal.
He doesn’t eat eggs, doesn’t even like them. 
Why did he make them?

He likes French fries.
He likes pipe tobacco, and trout fishing.

A rusty old Festiva drives past the apartment window, a definite lemon.

He stiffens; he knows.

She likes eggs.

Fuck.

vidaus.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to say.
It’s been happening alarmingly often of late.

Her attempts to stave off this particular moment have made for a very lackluster performance.
She despises this most of all; she’s ordinarily very good at trying.

Grier just looks at her, with those matter-of-fact, judgement-free eyes of his.

She just breathes for a while. 

“I’m...”

He holds her gaze.
It’s the steady, unwavering kind.
His eyes don’t even probe. They just are. 

She looks down.

It’s the most concise apology he’s ever heard. 
And the most sincere.

They both know which of them it’s really meant for.
It isn’t Grier.