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?”