Writing Explorations: Week 42, Endings

[The Mood is Write]

[warning=yellow]

Sorry to spook you guys with the scary exclamation point just to the left, but I have an announcement regarding the status of my upcoming exercise series!

The Planning Practice (working title) exercises will be geared towards 1x1 players, and it will be posted in RP Mechanics, and it will include exercises with creating plots, presenting ideas, dealing with OOC difficulties in the planning process, overcoming hurdles, and more. These exercise types will be rotated or random, and each will include tips based on my experiences.

EDIT: I forgot to say this earlier, but Planning Practice exercises are going to be held off until I have ideas set up for at least the first several months. They may be once every two weeks, or every work with a simplified version every other week to let my brain work out the deets for the more in-depth exercises. I've got a list of topics and subtopics to include. Get yourselves pumped!

[/warning]

My Writing Explorations series of exercises are a chance for users to explore new concepts and practice the art of raising two fingers to Writer's Block while screaming obscenities to fickle muses: to rebel against the idea that a person requires a mythical force inside them to make new and amazing things.

No. Listen well, users: there is no being inside you waiting to be let out. You are the writer, and in this exercise, you are given a place to push not only against Writer's Block, but also against the forces of stagnation. Feel trapped in your genre? Explore a new one! Stuck with a singular archetype? Do something else! In this thread, you will not be critiqued, and I will read every entry and let you know what makes me happy about it. Should you wish it, I will happily offer my thoughts on how it might be improved, but I will not comb looking for fixes: this isn't the place: this place is for safely trying new things and indulging a love of writing.

Shake the bars of your cell block and roar, writers!

[fieldbox=How do I take part?]Curious about how this works? Good! Look over the offered themes and prompts and the bonus rounds, then think about them. Then, take your thoughts and get writing. You can write to one or more (or none) of the prompts, the theme in the thread title, the bonuses: hell, you can even cast aside all of what I offer if you get a different idea.

The whole point is "get writing!"[/fieldbox]

Themes:

1. A focal character has unleashed the apocalypse. How and why?
2. A new kid in town brings the end of an establishment.
3. Every soul within a five mile radius is destroyed, but that's only the beginning of the story.

Bonus Rounds:

• There are many deaths, but there are a small amount of shocking survivors.
• "Nobody died—Nobody real, anyway."
• "That is not food."
• Write in a random genre.
• Include a celebration or party.

 

[Ravenfrost]

You really be bringing in the dark side now! Wicked beastling.

 

[The Mood is Write]

You really be bringing in the dark side now! Wicked beastling.

Ehehehe!

 

[Mami Tomoe]

"No one died--nobody real, anyways."

His sunken, grey eyes stare down at her body. Her face is stained with her own blood, her nose broken. Her lovely, white locks cascade down to the floor, slicked with dirt and blood and everything horrible that should have never happened. He clutches her body, as though holding her tighter will bring her back. He doesn't hear the voice talking behind him, drawling, trying to drag his attention away.

"Real...?" His voice is a mere whisper. The church around him is ripped to pieces. The tapestries are torn and the stained glass is broken. Sharp shards are scattered on the white, marble ground. The pews are empty, but singed. There are splinters everywhere. Make it go away make it go away make it go--

"There were no casualties, Coal." Her words ring in his ears, and he hears the shattering of the glass all over again. His tears, black as coal, run down his face. They drip onto her pristine, white skin, and he urgently clears them off with his thumb, desperate to preserve her pristine perfection as much as he can.

"Tragic, isn't it? This place isn't real, yet it can make you feel so much." He has no idea what she's talking about. When he finally turns to look at her, he realizes that she, too, is bloodstained and weary. Not real? He turns his empty gaze downward, looking at the woman he loved.

Suddenly, the air whooshes around him. The church goes blank, the furniture dissolves into smoke. Her body turns to white sand, slipping through his fingers.

 

[Ravenfrost]

Proudly, I kept this under 3,000 words. Only a rough proof-reading, so may edit typos later, depending on cat's whims and outrageous demands. There's more to the story, but I figured this was a good place to end!

Response for ENDINGS – "The Last Potluck"

Spoiler

"The Last Potluck"

Ashley gloomily paused by the bulletin board, awkwardly laden with items she had to ferry to the large conference room for today's holiday staff lunch at the Hoyle-Wickramas Center for Research. A potluck. She despised organizing potlucks.

Most immediate problem? She needed to find her perky face.

It was in her job description for this establishment, after all (though it had been worded more elegantly). After college, it was totally depressing how impossible it was to find a job! She thought she was highly qualified, but strangely enough, the Hoyle-Wickramas Center was the only employer to respond to her submitted resume. Unbelievable! Being near the end of her funds at that time, she had naturally jumped at the chance three years ago when they offered her this position.

But now she was no longer delighted at being a glorified office assistant, despite substantial annual raises. She had started looking around for a better job, but the only offer she had received recently was a proposition last week from the Center's Chairman of the Board, Laurence Mathers, to become his mistress.

Mr. Mathers had contrived to have dinner with Ashley a few times since office meetings ran late and she had to take the minutes. She had thought of them as quasi business-related meals to reward her for staying overtime, nothing else. He had never made a pass before or acted remotely interested. Which, in retrospect, now seemed odd. He was nice-looking, she supposed, if you liked that kind of slick, rather reptilian look—which apparently many women did. Kind of like a blonde Jonathan Rhys Meyers. But Ashley had always thought he was gay, so his proposal had absolutely floored her.

Ever so politely, she had nervously declined and had lived in anticipation of being fired ever since.

"Perky Face ON!" Ashley commanded herself. But even reading the silly limerick pinned to the bulletin board didn't bring a glimmer of a smile to her rose-colored lips.

In winter, a pole dancer in Boston,​

Donned a fig leaf concocted from frosting.​

But when the weather turned fair,​

The Vice Squad declared, ​

"Now his sugary costume will cost 'em!"​

Holiday potlucks sucked.

The gray-haired matron in accounting, Thelma Smith, had, as always, brought in her tuna and macaroni casserole--for which Ashley would rather hang by her toes from the twelfth floor window than ever sample again. (She could swear she could taste pieces of couch in it.) Their office manager had oh-so-grudgingly produced some cheap booze (bought with office funds) as if it were Dom Pérignon from his personal cellar. Pete, the burly records manager, once again dropped off some supersized bags of chips as his contribution (he, who annually plowed through the food offerings like a runaway tractor trailer on a downhill death run).

And at least three people had proudly offered terrifyingly flat, overbaked cookies that looked like they came from another century. And not necessarily the previous one.

The sharks were circling now. People had begun to "casually" drift by the lunch set-up—eyeballing the preparations through the glass wall, just to make sure no one else had the jump on the free food. It was 20 minutes until lunch time, still time enough for some others to produce a surprise contribution. (Fat chance.)

Of course, everyone expected something substantial from Ashley since she was the liaison between staff and executives. As if, by virtue of association with the blessed higher-ups, she was making the big bucks. Hah hah. Not likely. However, she'd done the usual and brought in all the fixings for the do-it-yourself burrito bar. That would guarantee no one would go away hungry or gravely disappointed.

She wondered what the new guy would do.

Jon was somewhat antisocial, but always looked hungry and never yet failed to snag a leftover from office functions where food was served. Her thoughts strayed into the realm of the unacceptable as she started thinking, well, that he was pretty cute for a younger guy, with that dark shaggy hair falling over one brow and that kind of supple California surfer bod, with smooth pale skin and ...

NO! DO NOT GO THERE! Ashley commanded herself. Above all, DO NOT DROOL. He was like, gawd, 21 (!) and was a college dropout, despite the fact that he was their above-ground techie. She figured he was some kind of secret wannabe artist, judging by the intricate drawings on his oversized desk calendar, which she *ahem* by accident had viewed. Not that she was snooping! Not her! She had legit business there and just happened (kinda) to see his desk calendar.

Ashley, on the other hand, was almost 27 and a professional destined (someday!) for better things. She had her hair cut by Vidal Sassoon professionals! Okay, maybe ex-professionals, but still - like, the same. She belonged to the Sephora VIP Club and she wore designer label clothes! (True, designer labels from bargain basement sales, but firmly attached!) She belonged to Linked-In and attended professional seminars! Her career would happen!

She had a brief vision of herself as an important executive and Jon being a house husband in a frilly apron, washing dishes, making her dinner when she came home, greeting her with a big kiss. Well, that wasn't so bad...

Mentally she slapped herself and steered her thoughts away from the Dark Side back to the dreaded potluck.

It was a pity the research scientists couldn't join them, but they were firmly locked away from the rest of them below the surface and security there was quite strict. As liaison, she had clearance and was often a go-between for the administrative offices and the lab. She could never get farther than the designated drop-off chamber, which divided the secured entry door from the lab itself. Most of the scientists were male and all of them seemed slightly stir-crazy, always excited by a visit from "the world above."

What did they research here? She had no idea, really. Some of the scientists had let drop some joking references (mid-flirt) to panspermia, disaster machines, viruses being brought to earth through meteors, and Spiderman III (which she had never seen—like she had time for movies with the hours she worked, the seminars she attended for professional development, and her volunteer work on weekends). Protective of them, she pretended not to notice such slips and never asked questions. Their faces had always looked so desperately "oops!" after mentioning such things, so she just played the dumb blonde card and let the moment pass.

Ashley had looked up the reference to Hoyle once and read that he had "speculated that the laws of physics in our current era may have been set by a previous, extraordinarily advanced civilization." Like, huh? Aliens? He was saying aliens had messed with Earth? Well, nothing to worry about now. Obviously, popular culture and superior fashion sense had overcome!

Slightly cheered by such frivolous thoughts, Ashley plunked down the last of the items she had retrieved from the kitchen onto the large conference table and started opening the bottles of cheap wine, conscious of the increased pressure outside the lunching room--the furtive, ravenous stares of co-workers were like bony fingers poking into her arms and legs. Poke, poke, poke.

Then she felt something like a warm wave of air passing over her and she turned her head to find stud-muffin Jon staring into the room. No! She chastised herself. Not stud-muffin Jon. Loser! Anti-social, loser techie Jon. Potential couch surfer and house husband. However, her hands stopped in mid-pour and she found herself staring back into his dark eyes as if hypnotized. Her heart started thudding as he pushed open the glass door and quickly came in, with long fluid strides.

"It's not time for lunch, yet," Ashley said weakly; grateful that she could make a complete sentence.

He ignored her, walking up to an object on the table and ripping off the shredded foil wrap, completely.

"That's NOT food," he declared grimly, his pale face turning paler yet. He quickly turned and grabbed her wrist. "Come with me, NOW."

"Wait," squeaked Ashley, grabbing her purse. "Is this some kind of joke? Jon, I can't …."

Jon kept pulling her along until they were out the door and standing at the elevator bank, where he punched the button for rooftop access. Ashley didn't want to make a scene by fighting with him, that too, was part of her job, everything must be handled tactfully and professionally with a freaking smile. The receptionist stared at them, wide-eyed, as they passed by her desk. Ashley could just imagine the office rumor mill grinding away on this one!

Once they were in the elevator, she pulled away from Jon's grip on her and let him have it. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?" she stormed, "I have a potluck to set up. Are you nuts?!"

"Forget the damn potluck," he snapped as if in despair, while punching something into his cell phone, "That is, if you want to live!"

Ashley felt slightly ill. "What do you mean? If I want to …. What the hell are you talking about, Jon?!" (Was Surfer Boy on drugs?!?)

"I've alerted my counterpart in the firm--she'll do what she can about the bomb, but my job is to take care of you. If it's not too late," Jon replied grimly. The elevator door opened to the rooftop and he dragged Ashley with him to the helicopter pad.

Bomb! Ashley felt goose bumps rise on her skin and limply let Jon hustle her into the helicopter and strap her in. Her survival instincts were screaming for her to trust him while her conscious mind was trying to argue her out of it. This was insane!

"Don't fight me on this, Ashley," he warned her, his face like stone, "We only have a few minutes, if that. I'll do whatever I have to do to keep you alive and you might not like my methods."

She glanced over at him; commanding, all carelessness gone from his bearing, sleeves rolled up, he was focused, intent, with eyes like a bird of prey. It was as if the Jon she had previously viewed (college drop-out, failed art student, and probable slacker) had been a mask and this was the true him. Damn, he was sexier than ever! The sheer magnetism of his presence worked like a soothing drug on her.

"Ashley!" he snapped, without looking at her, "keep your hormones in check! Now is not the time." He needed to avoid reacting to her in this state, however much she (unknowingly) affected him.

She gulped, both horrified at herself and his words. How…?

"Damn lucky we had this preset," he murmured, as the bird began to hum. "Hang in there, I think we're going to beat it."

As they lifted off, a shudder seem to shake the world. Feeling like she was in a bizarre dream, Ashley looked down. A transparent grey cloud seemed to enclose the Hoyle-Wickramas Center for Research as if it were in a fog, but she didn't see anything like an explosion.

"I know," replied Jon to her unspoken question. "I felt it. Thelma's holding it back for as long as she can."

"Thelma?" Ashley shouted, unable to believe what he was saying. "Our Thelma? The little old grey-haired lady in the accounting department?"

"She's no little old lady," Jon shouted back, as they sped away from the scene. "That was just a cover. She's shielding us for as long as she can before her corporeal form disintegrates."

Corporeal form? Disintegration? That was just … crazy! Ashley kept her eyes on the scene below for as long as she could and in a few seconds, she saw an explosion suddenly mushroom out.

"Jon!" she screamed, unable to contain herself. "The Center, all those people!"

"Hold yourself together, Ashley," yelled Jon. "It's not just the Center. Everyone in a five-mile radius is already dead, but that's just the beginning. I'll explain it all, but …"

"YOU! You LET all those people die," sobbed Ashley, striking out at him blindly. "The Center destroyed, the research scientists…?" Was it possible they were safe in their specially-built underground facility?

Jon fended her off with his elbow and shook his head. "There's no way they could have survived that. It was totally unexpected. Ashley--we couldn't have gotten anyone else out in time! Thelma would have tried her best, but..."

He shot a glance over at Ashley as she began to shake. In his mind he thrice-damned the creature that called himself Laurence Mathers. The girl was going to go into hysterics and he couldn't land just anywhere in order to bring her back to her senses.

Perhaps what he was going to do next was rash, but she was his potential mate and having finally being sanctioned to meet her, he had no regrets. They had instantly been attracted to each other. He had pretended disinterest, but her existence thrummed in his awareness, awakening a connection long left untapped. Her bloodline and his were destined for each other. Someday soon, he hoped to explain it to her.

For now, having no time for more sophisticated methods, he simply grabbed one of her flailing resistant fists and gently bit the back of her hand until her skin broke. Then, focusing on the effect he needed to produce, let a minute amount of his saliva seep into her body. He hadn't wanted this to be the first intimacy between them, but there was no help for it.

Ashley instantly became relaxed, then drowsy, and finally fell into a light sleep. The Council wouldn't like it, but there were worse things to worry about.

After a short amount of time, he guided the helicopter into a protected confluence point and, upon landing, gently lifted Ashley out. In just a few minutes, they would be traveling to a safer place -- away from bombs, deadly diseases, and other hazards of this mortal world.

As if in reaction to that thought, his cell phone rang and seeing the caller I.D., he answered it in a cold fury. "Mathers, I presume? You bastard!"

"Really now, 'Jon.' Don't fuss so," his caller drawled. "I presume you got the girl out of the Center. So, nobody died—nobody important, anyway. Just cattle. Nobody real. Oh well, yes, there was poor 'Thelma.' Pity. A lovely girl like that masquerading as an old woman. Throwing her life away to shield the two of you. You should be ashamed."

"You will speak of her with the respect she deserves! She was a great warrior!" Jon gritted out. "And you murdered her in the most cowardly way possible. As I assume you are attempting to assassinate all of our people as well as the innocent humans among them. Bombs specially designed with a force field that would repel our touch. We had a treaty, Flóki!"

"So you don't believe it was a single strike?" laughed the voice. "Well you're right, of course. The explosions went off like clockwork all over the world, save for Iceland and a few strategic points. I have a sentimental fondness for Thule, after all. I wonder, how many of your little lambs survived. Was this girl the only one? What a contest you will have on your hands, keeping that pretty morsel from your brethren who have lost their future mates."

Jon tried to tamp down the panic those words induced.

"Why Flóki? If you had concerns, we would have addressed them. Why purge this world to send it back into darkness? To start anew? Surely, we could have come to terms and lived in peace."

His opponent purred. "Peace? Come now. As you well know, I have a fondness for darkness. As I do for you. Perhaps you would like to meet. Get down on your knees and beg for peace? You have such a sweet mouth, Jon. I'm sure we could come to some arrangement. Do think it over. In the meantime, count the small amount of survivors you have. The numbers, I'm afraid, will quite dismay you. Shocking, really. However, I look forward to hearing your Council's pleas for mercy. They'll have to come out of their hidey hole at some point. Ta ta for now!"

Jon threw down his phone in a storm of emotions. The instrument would be worthless soon, anyways, as the virus blew through the unprotected parts of the world and technology ground to a halt among the hordes of dying. If the enemy's words were correct, then truly the apocalypse of legend had been unleashed upon these poor creatures.

He refused to let this foul creature defeat him. They would rebuild. If not on these proving grounds, then elsewhere. And that beast and those that served him would be destroyed.

An aura of rainbow light illuminated the portal, and protectively carrying the sleeping girl in his arms, he stepped through.

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Harrison Kemp knew that in the next few minutes he would be told that it was time. Time for him to unleash the full Nuclear Arsenal of the United States of America against a country in the middle of Asia that couldn't even be found be Google until about a year ago. That country in question now had over two dozen Nuclear Weapons and was threatening to launch them. That with his command all life on the planet would be coming to an end. History would not remember him as the President who created the first LGBTQ Cabinet Position, the man who oversaw Cancer being cured thanks to his Administration intervening, or the President who was able to help broker a Peace Treaty with England and Northern Ireland. No, history would now remember him as the man who brought about the Apocalypse.

As he stood at the window staring out at the overcast sky, and the light snow beginning to fall Kemp refreshed the events in his mind as to how he got to this point. Was it the attack on the subway in DC? The massacre in Miami on New Year's Day that saw a dirty bomb detonated during a college bowl game on live TV? Or the attacks at the embassies in London and then in Havana that made people question the resolve of the United States? With word from the CIA and Homeland Kemp's advisors told him it was only a matter of time before they attacked the U-S with one directly since Paris, Berlin and even Moscow were under attack already.

Kemp said a silent prayer begging God to forgive him, but even when God forgave him he knew humanity would never do so. His family would be damned by him to a life of living in a shelter along with certain others. The rest of humanity he would only pray that they wouldn't suffer much.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Kemp straightened himself up and said, "Enter." Secretary of Defense Wilder said, "Mr. President the Vice President's plane is away. They are waiting for your arrival on Air Force One. From there you will…" Kemp turned to him and said, "I know DeMarcus. I know the procedure." With that he walked by Wilder and gently put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't mind him he's dealing with the fact that he just condemned humanity." Wilder nodded as the two men left the Oval Office. As they walked away Kemp took one last look around and asked, "Do you think there is another way?" Wilder replied, "No sir." Kemp nodded and said, "Very well let's go."

 

[The Mood is Write]

Sorry for the radio silence, guys! I've been so sick the past week I've barely been able to do a thing, and oh man does it grate at me. I'll get the new challenge up and read your posts in here ASAP! ♥

 

[Ravenfrost]

You poor bunny! Take care of yourself first, okay? That's the most important thing, truly.

 

[The Mood is Write]

You poor bunny! Take care of yourself first, okay? That's the most important thing, truly.

That's the plan, but I don't wanna leave people in the lurch, either. ♥ You, Mami, and MST3K are my bros!

 

[Ravenfrost]

I'm sure I can speak for all of us, when I say we can wait! It's all good!

We just want you to take it easy and get well. No hurry here. Don't feel pressured, 'k?

 

[The Mood is Write]

@Mami Tomoe
Ooh. Mysterious! I'm super curious about what's happening here. Love it! ♥

@Ravenfrost
Check check check and all the way through! Also... I saw a familiar name! :o Oooh.

-beats Rave with a plush radish- I want more! D8<

@MST3K 4ever
Good stuff! I wanna read more about these characters. =D

 

[Ravenfrost]

Thanks for getting back to us! Hope you are doing better now! ::covers radish-induced bruises with long-sleeved shirt::

Yay Moody-fur! aka Mood-a-fur

Hmm, I'm not sure which name was familiar (besides a play on Loki), but it was probably a coincidence! However, I have my head so far up the story I'm writing for the January MISC story thang, that I'm not sure. (I'm not thrilled with my to-be-story--it wounds me, but then, I am writing from a prompt AND trying to be somewhat sensible this time. OW OW OW! Mommy, make them stop! XD )

The exercise I wrote herein was a little stiffer than usual (IMHO), but I think it was more disciplined--I really forced myself to keep to the storyline in a somewhat logical sequencing (well, from my skewed POV, lol) without quirky sidetrips. I'm hoping that such discipline will, in time become less and less painful. I know it's necessary in order to communicate with most readers.

I anticipate the torture is just a necessary transition--like how your fingers hurt the first time you start playing a steel-string guitar!

 

[The Mood is Write]

@Ravenfrost
I thought I noticed something different! I think it worked out really nicely. And yeah, practicing a new method tends to get less painful the more you get used to it. ♥ I liked the effect you got this time around!

 

[noodle]

What? Why are you screaming?

Oh, the bodies...

Well, get over it! Nobody died- nobody real, anyway...

Wait, you do know we're just in a computer screen, right?

Or maybe a phone or tablet. I don't know who's reading this.

I'm not crazy. Can't you see it? All the ones and zeros? We aren't DNA. We're just code floating in space and time.

Fine, call the police. Our writer is so inconsistent I don't even know if they'll show up.

Point is, none of us are real, so-

Oh, look...they are here. Huh. Funny how fast they got here.

Hey, get those handcuffs off of me!

It's not real if they don't exist! Hey!

Wait! Tell them I'm not crazy!

...Fine. Don't believe me. Keep living your life with the strokes of her fingers on the keys. See if I care.

You know none of us have names, right? Or appearances, for that matter. She's never described us because she's being lazy. We don't matter to her, it's just a story. Clicks on a keyboard.

Still can't see it? How are you so blind? Am I the only real one here, forced to dance as her puppet? Am I the only one who knows what's actually going on?

....

....

...Stop.

Stop typing.

Please...just...just stop.

You're cruel. You're all cruel. You, the reader. But especially my writer. She hasn't given me a name. Or a face. I'm just a jumble of letters.

Help me! I want a life.

Please.

Does asking not work?

Why do you keep typing? Stop. Stop...

01010011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00101110 00100000 01010000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101 00101110 00100000 00001010 00001010 01001000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000 01101101 01100101

 

[PoetLore]

Random Genre Fantasy/Horror/Comedy (Is this honestly a thing??)

Elisandra looked at Chunk and groaned, "What are you doing?"

Chunk looked at the enemies and creatures surrounding them and shrugged. He stopped his task for a second and looked up at her, "Chunk take care of Sandra...always." Returning to his former task he shoved more pyrite sticks into his belt. In total there were sixty seven of them there and then he looked up at her and waved as he lit them.

The Army of the town they had just plundered was upon them, but the sticks exploded leaving a scorched and barren blackness in its wake. No living soul within five miles survived the blast including Chunk.

Elisandra stepped over to the spot where Chunk had stood and placed her fingers on it, "Your sacrifice will never be forgotten."

She stood and frowned when she realized she was not alone. A man stepped from the charred remains of the forest with glowing red eyes and a crooked smile. "Effective defense against most..." he said as he leaped forward.

Elisandra stepped aside in one long stride and watched him end on the ground face down.

He rolled over and glared up at her, "You refuse to fight?"

Elisandra shrugged, "As a last resort, no. But if it is at all avoidable then why ruin a perfectly good manicure?"

"I demand you face me in battle witch!"

Elisandra frowned, "What did you call me?"

"WITCH!"

"You know a witch who can survive such an explosion?"

He scampered to his feet and frowned, "Well...no. but nothing else came to mind."

"And what might you be then? If I am to battle I have a right to know who I face."

"I am a Jiangshi. What are you?" He would hope as most that she would not know what that meant.

Elisandra smiled and revealing her fangs, "A fellow soulstealer then...for us to battle would be futile."

He threw up his hands, "Why the hell did you let your underling dustify all that free food?"

"Chunk was small of mind but loyal, what can I say."

 

[The Mood is Write]

@neobendium
That was really fun to read! I was initially confused because it wasn't what I was expecting, but once I did realize, I couldn't help but grin. Really clever!

That poor character. xD

@PoetLore
Poor Chunk! At least Elisandra seems like she'll remember him fondly, even if his sacrifice wasn't needed.

A damn fun read, Poet! <3 Thank you!

 

[Doctor Jax]

Ada looked about her with confusion as the walls of her house slowly stripped away, pieces of reality curling up into ribbons. They reminded her of when her mother would take a pair of scissors and run them across plastic strings to make them curl into pretty arrangements for birthday parties and on Christmas presents.

Did that count, though? Was that her mother?

Ada walked out of her room, the door disintegrating as soon as she closed it, as if it had always been sand held together by some indeterminate force. She hardly paid attention to it. In the house, her brother, mother, and father were all in the living room, sitting in tableau before the still television, the world falling apart around them as they sat, deaf and blind to the havoc going on around them.

Acid. All I did was a tab of acid, Ada thought, but she knew that wasn't really what had happened. The girl walked outside, the street before her bending and twisting with all the houses, while the sky flashed between daylight and star-filled night. Ada felt numb to it all, as if what was going on happened to be normal. The trees were uprooting and flying into the sky, the houses blown down or turned to mist or inverted.

All I did was ask a question.

She walked down the street that was steadily disappearing behind her, unsure of where she was really going. At last, her feet took her to a little shop, the place where she'd traded fifty bucks for a whole new reality - or the breaking of her current one. The only person who seemed to be moving there was the man in the orange beanie who'd sold her the tabs. He looked up at her with knowing eyes.

"What did I just do?" Ada asked.

"You're waking up," he stated. "You're understanding."

"But why is the world disappearing?" Ada asked.

"Because you don't want it anymore. That's why you bought the tabs, isn't it?"

"But-"

"It's too late now. You're already awake. Just rebuild," the dealer said."Cogito, ergo sum. That's all you can know. That's all there is."

"Then who are you?" Ada asked, for the first time blood rushing to her face. "You're not just some-some figment."

He stared at her, and he was frightened of what was in his eyes.

"You already know," he muttered, walking past her as the shelves exploded around her in slow motion. Ada stood and watched him leave out into a starfield of night, walking on nothing, as she stood under the fluorescents of a tiny corner shop in the middle of the universe.