sanhi.

the clack of her strict black boots delighting her with every step,

Enna circles her charge & puts on her game face.

she’s not being paid to look pretty... er, menacing, after all.

she pats her patient on the rump & lets her hand slide up the girl’s spine & close around her throat. lowering her gaze to match her charge’s, she squeezes.

‘alright, my darling. game time is now over. playtime, however, is just beginning.’

making sure he’s watching,

Enna brings the whip over her head & down on the girl’s back in one swift, clean motion.

the customer’s eyes burn with desire.

the charge utters not a sound,

& faints.

occupational hazard.

kesan.

Enna french inhales & gives the whip a crack for effect -

some fetishes tend to overlap.

the charge looks up at her,

eyes sunken & will-less;

complete control -

it’s a nice job perk.

letting the black leather slither & snake across the backs of the girl’s bare thighs,

Enna moves to check the bindings.

they’re holding perfectly. this one barely struggles at all.

she-bari’s still got it, she thinks, then laughs aloud abruptly at herself.

gotta love a little mental domme-humor to break up the night.

she flicks her cigarette & steadies her hand for a second blow.

[shrug]

it’s a living.

undertrykke.

The man with the mirror-fingers emits a low whistle.
“Boy, you really did the number on these babies, huh?”

Unsure whether a response is expected/required, Yvaine - or is it Charybdis? - grunts noncommittally.

“I haven’t seen a sitch like this since ’74.”

The disembodied mouth in his chair doesn’t seem amused.

“So, ah...what’s the story? Unfortunate encounter with a...jackhammer?”

His patient’s garbled gurglings are of the indecipherable variety.

“What was that?”

She spits out the gadgets & wipes the blood from her lips.
“It must’ve been the bullets.”

His eyebrows rocket to his hairline & his eyes slither to the floor.
“...ah.”

She shrugs.
“I bite things.”

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...

prezrene.

The Neighborhood has seen better days.

The shorthand-
The line of angry red [ants] marches down her thighs.
And it’s no picnic.

...one by one; hurrah, hurrah...

Additionally-
We have a Hyde situation, folks.
The casting director isn’t sure how to list The Banshee on the credits-
She’s making more than her alloted cameo.
There is panic in the screenwriting room.

Clawing & ruckus are commonplace in this industry.
Both are usually figurative, however.
This phantasm lends a new and far more literal meaning to all of the above.

Spectral anger is a thing to behold;
The interns agree dumbly to her every demand.

A wise choice, by all counts.

The neighborhood has definitely seen better (read: less haunted) days.

ensam.

“I’ll cover you.”


Foreign words; unknown language.
She is not covered-
She is entirely exposed.
She is bare.
She is naked.
She is as unprotected as they come.

The words ring out impossibly.
A promise never made, an oath never heard, an echo of something that never actually happened.

She’s not sure which is stronger, the knowledge or the feeling.

Metaphorically spread-eagle, realistically curled in the fetal position.

Empty, she will not be filled.
Lost, she will not be found.
Shield-less.
Guard-less.
Feckless.
Reckless.

Un-covered.

sottosopra.

She’s grabbing at straws.
M.P. knows this.
The knowledge just makes her cling on all the more frantically.

Her eyes wild, she searches room after room for a solution.
Doors slam, pigeons flutter hastily to quieter trees.

‘It’s all for naught, it’s all for naught, it’s all for naught.’

Who says pigeons can’t talk?

Meanwhile, the chicken of the sky is doing what she does best.
She’s a hollow little hen, too frail for flight, always nesting where she oughtn’t.
Birds never learn.

(It’s twelve o’clock midnight and all is not well.)

Tired of roosting, merely existing, one day she joins the cockfights.

virvel.

There’s an awful case of identity crisis going around the Neighborhood- no one is safe. 

Neither M.P. nor The Rolling Thunder are sure which of them is which anymore.
It hardly matters; both are disengaging. 

The Mistress and ESquared are in cahoots.
Enna’s running the show, Elsie’s calling the shots, and The Mistress sticks to cowering in corners and waiting to be called on.

She haunts the halls while Dr. Physician practices his practice, breaking habits & breaking hearts. 

Also: somone’s been trying to resurrect The Master.
Imhotep-style.
Everyone’s more than a little worried.
Voodoo is almost always cause for concern.

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.

su.

The Mistress is proud of herself.
She wasn’t aware she had the power to avert tragedy.
‘You learn something new every day.’

M.P. sees The Mistress’ self-made radiance and desires nothing more than to vomit.
Inwardly pointed disgust tasers will do that to you. 
On paper, she drowns her jealousies in gin and uppers.
In reality, she doesn’t have the balls for either; her cup holds nothing more than coke. 
Non-diet. 
Here’s to living dangerously.

Back in the original story-line, The Mistress gardens as the phone jangles incessantly in the background.
White noise.

The Master can dial until his fingers fall off.
Her parade has no need for his rain.
Never did.

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.

sadar.

It’s Sunday in the Opus household, and M.P. is vexed with her father.
Not all of summer recess can be beautiful.

Coggs Opus is a difficult man to reckon with.
His grasp of argument is iron-clad,
and he’s not given to the premature release of that which he captures.

M.P. exhales at him over toast and orange juice.
Serenely applying a thick layer of marmalade to his slice, he acknowledges her displeasure with a steady glance.

“Yes?”

She stages a mini mental chess game to judge the potential outcome of an altercation.
Conclusion: she will not be named victor.

Another sigh.
Loaded.

“Nothing.”

He returns to chewing, infallible.

ausus.

Comm 101 sounds so helpful in the course catalog.
Reality is sobering.

Every Wednesday from 2-5 in hall 312B, the honeysuckle-and-burnt-eraser smell of wasted potential fills the air. 
It’s not a nice odor.

M.P. chews on a strand of hair absently, watching the student in front of her check his online profile for updates.
He reeks of desperation; mingled with the room’s smell, the effect is rather nauseating.

She wrinkles her nose, and finds herself wishing his persona was as forthright as his scent- she's in her post-adolescent idealistic phase.

Oh, the joys of self-analyzation, Classroom Distraction Syndrome style. 

She smiles ruefully.

It’s five o’clock somewhere...

makiramay.

M.P. would like to say she swept into the room.
It’s the only way to make an entrance. 

It would be a lie.

On the swing, Skeeter gnaws a toothpick lazily.

“Quit trying so hard and just siddown already.”

She bristles; reaches into her dress for a retort.

“You’re fresh out. Besides, a porch doesn’t count as a room anyway.”

Scowling, she plops down beside him and starts in on the bag of cherries she holds.
The fruit has never been consumed with such a vengeance.

Mid-chomp, she squints up at him.

“How do you do that, anyway?”

He chuckles.

“Easy. You’re not me.”

M.P. avoids his eyes and wishes she didn’t understand.