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.”

gyventi.

The uncertainty is palpable; the confusion is tangible.
It’s all drawn to a point, & now hangs on a zip line, mid-canyon.
We won’t say that it’s waiting for rescue, but,
We’ll whisper that it’s waiting for rescue.
Current status: in a holding pattern.

She used to be a hammer.
She used to be a piece of well-oiled machinery, accustomed to giving commands & seeing them obeyed.
But these days, there’s no follow-through; no one hears when she shouts into the wind.

Now, fallen into disrepair, she sits in her own little corner in her own little chair & listens to the calming cacophony of a cigarette’s crackle on chapped lips.

& she’ll just do it all again when, on the radio, she hears November Rain...

surojas.

The taps in both rooms are running, & the sink basins are unwashed; kitchens are messy things by nature, & the laundry always needs done.

Rolling over, she listens to the sound of another life existing in the next room & momentarily laments its approaching absence.

:Yvaine speaks in parables & lives in rhetoric.

-beauty is true, love is real, & destruction is inevitable-
(they’re called universal truths)

Eurydice paints in red & relief- the bas variety.
(art snob reference for the win)
She’s damn good, too,
but hates her finished works.

‘In progress’is [her element/more her style].

The Rolling Thunder is apprehensive; Yvaine is catching.

...it’s all crazy etc etc...

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...

parandama.

Yvaine is replacing The Repair Man.
Yvaine is The Repair Man.
And if there’s one thing her mother gave her, it’s work ethic.
She does not shirk.
She does her job.

Commencing re-storation: now.

Having never seen a single episode of This Old House, she’s Brand New to this.
It’s obvious that the foundation is the first order of business.
Vital organs & all that.

The contractors will hear the news & wait for calls that aren’t coming.

This is her project.
She’s quite determined.
No matter how many times she hits her thumb with the hammer or how often the nail gun turns on her.

The journey begins at the local Barnes & Noble.
Settling into an armchair with her latte, she pulls out Step 1:
The Idiot’s Guide to Home Repair.

suku.

something like word association:


Spirals: present. tribal tattoos are back in.
Triangulation: a pattern, unavoidable? shE thinks not.
Extricate: word of the...day? Life. What she must do. But it’s not bad, we promise- said with a smile. It's healthy.
Explosions: par for the course. A given in any action movie.
Shrug: the gesture of the moment. Not dismissive; nay, indicative of peaceful acceptance. We like shrugs.


something like the setting:

[img src="ground zero"]


something like the circumstances:

They’re all trying.
They’re all abandoned.
They’re all strong.
They’re all weak.
They’re all lost.
They’re all fucked up.
They’re all okay.


something like the Indie-movie ending:

The castle continues to crumble behind her as she walks blissfully onwards.
Reaching for his hand,

“Don’t worry, love. Don’t you worry, dearest. We’ll find our houses by the sea.”

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.