Wednesday, October 8, 2025

Early Dirtin': The Ballad of Dag Smashmouth


 

In the Western Lands, at the center of a forest the size of a city near a better one was a Druidic commune. Great Cat's Grove was one of the lesser known "Green Towns", as it's commonly referred to by the “ignorant insiders". That’s the nickname those of Nature faith have for those without the good sense to worship dirt. The proper term was "Community Settlement in Balance" or "CSBs". Insiders, both those who are neutral and those actively hostile towards nature tend to think Druidism is "worshiping nature". I mean yes, it is but it’s more complicated than that. Even an alchemical scientist touched by the divine like myself can recognize it. Lowering my mindset to that level is a challenge.

 

Young Dag Smashmouth once lived in Great Cat's Grove. He grew up there, moving from the deeply unfortunate city of Coughing Stack with his parents after they converted to Druidry of the Fields. Coughing Stack is as pleasant as it sounds. Even though it's almost two dozen miles away, on a hot summer day you can still see industrial waste creeping up on the sun. He had no memories of the city, but would later visit. Dag was a human and a rookie ranger of considerable talent, for a non-elf.. His parents were farmhands who converted to their Druidic practice after growing disillusioned with city life. They enjoyed the honesty of farm work and the satisfaction of watching crops grow.  What they hated was doing it for well-heeled, white-gloved nobles. They were tired of their sweat producing more food than they needed all for the benefit of someone with a fancy last name. If only they were smart enough to practice alchemy.

 

His father died shortly after Dag tumbled and cartwheeled into what humans call “adulthood”. According to the locals, it was the one mule nobody liked. His mother passed a few months before he had the pleasure of meeting yours truly. I wasn’t there but I know non-elfiods pretty well. I mean they are technically “people”. I imagine back then he was kneeling by her grave as the afternoon sun bowed to the oncoming evening. Dag would later tell me about himself and his history. Sometimes, his stories were even worth listening to. I’ve made a few corrections here and there. It goes without saying I know better, so I’ll spare you the chaff.

 

The elders of Great Cat Grove had designated a half mile plot from their main settlement for those who wished to be buried in accordance to past beliefs. It was not the sort of thing they thought of when the founders wrote their charter in (what they call) “holy” sap onto the walls of their long stone hall over two thousand years ago. It just kept coming up. Converts and pilgrims who lived here for decades or even more would often, in their last moments, want to be buried with the rites of their previous faiths. I can relate. I myself had a profound spiritual event that changed my carefully cultivated world outlook after my lowest moment.

 

This regression was the exception, not the rule. The vast majority of Great Cat's Grove citizens surrendered their bones, skin, muscle, and sinew to the community for what they call “recycling”. The dead continue to serve the community by becoming tools, fabrics, and decoration. The rest of their bodies were utilized as fertilizer for their underground mushroom fields. It's a beautiful ceremony that ends in a wheelbarrow. In this case, the elders were relieved Dag buried his mother this way. They were quietly worried her penchant for painting her fingers and toes might leech into the soil. 

 

Inscribed on his mother’s modest headstone, likely cobbled together in amateurish authenticity by non-elf paws or whatever was her birth, death, name, and the words "Marie Smashtooth, gone too soon". Dag planted a small tulip by the grave. Killing a flower and leaving its corpse at a grave was frowned upon. He thought of the day she died. It was in the last weeks of winter. Spring was in the air, eager to start but it was still cold. The slightly warmer air made the snow wetter and more frequent. Dag, Marie, and the whole commune were all set on hunkering down until it was over. There was still plenty of stored food. They hadn't yet broken the magic seals on their preserved supplies. These dirt worshipers are more sophisticated than one would thnk. This was one of the milder winters. 

 

They say Marie was painting her toes a crimson red when she first fell ill. The fumes in their stone apartment were not always ventilated properly. Dag was outside, making snowmen and then shooting them when she first passed out. He had been out there for hours. Dag loved archery. He loved to flip, dodge, duck, weave, leap, and showboat as much as possible. They say he was as graceful as an elf. I think he’s almost there. As a human, he knew he had a much shorter amount of time to learn how to be the best ranger he could be. That must be hard to cope with. He knew he have the luxury of an elf’s or even a dwarf’s years to master the bow and understand the art of forestcraft. When we shared a watch, he would tell me this was technically not his life's goal. He wanted to serve the Great Cat, her grove, and nature as whole. Still, it drove him. His work friend Ana thought it was endearing, she being an elven druid 200 hundred years his senior. Dag considered her his big sister in a short, wise, anxious package. 

 

Dag set out to shoot and play with himself that morning. He did not return until his body finally heated up enough in the cold to sweat. As a wood-elf, I cannot help but feel sorry for those whose bodies were so poorly made by cruel or incompetent Gods that they have to excrete bodily cooling fluid. Dag reckoned now was a good time for a late lunch. His mother told him of a legendary city recipe made of eggs, cheese, and whatever else you have lying around.

 

Dag had heard some of the other pilgrims and even some of the elders speak of this "Alm-Let". Marie was the only one who claimed to know how to make it. He walked back to the stone gate that guarded the main settlement of Great Cat's Grove. He had to yell out to the watch a few times before they saw him and let him in. Technically, he could've entered by just placing his palm on the round engraving. Their crude but effective magic would’ve recognized him as a citizen, but that was kinda rude. It made the watch feel useless. The elders had discretely asked the community, one at a time, to play along. 

 

Dag entered and descended underground. The stairs twisted and led to dozens of apartments, a barracks, food storage, the druid's prayer hall with accompanying library, an aquifer filled with barrels, the great stone hall, a few rooms only the elders had access to, and their treasure room. The people of Great Cat's Grove had no currency but frequently had a need to trade with others. Nature, even manipulated with magic, has its limits. As Dag was about to find out. He was shocked to see his mother in her state. She had fallen to the floor and was not responsive. "Mom!", Dag exclaimed as he flipped and cartwheeled himself across the room to her side. He tapped at her face. He shook her. There was no response. 

 

Dag shouted for help. He ran up and down the hallways, trying to find someone who could help. As a ranger, he knew the basics of "Firste Aide", except for how to check for a pulse. As clever as he was, for a non-elf, we all have our blindspots. He saw no signs of injury. He used his hard-wrought spell of the day to detect for magic. As a rookie ranger with some experience, he was required to learn a few spells. Dag would tell anyone who would listen he preferred to just focus on his bow and his footwork. He did not detect any magic that could've harmed his mother. It would've been hard to discern between that and the vast Druidic magic Great Cat's Grove used daily anyways. 

 

Every person he spoke to that frantic afternoon was unable to assist him. Many of them were not spell casters, or they had used up their magic for the day. The worst were the few hardliners, the fundamentalists who refused to use any healing magic at all. They believed sickness, injury, and death were part of the natural order. People like them believed they should only work to prevent harm, not undo it. They, like most played favorites. There were no healing potions in storage. They refilled in the Spring and that damn mean mule was really a hassle that year.

 

The stone apartments of Great Cat's Grove were particularly under-inhabited that day. Many of the community's elders and best spellcasters were away at a 3-day seminar at Coughing Stack. The topic was air pollution and avoiding smoke. The people of Coughing Stack were cynical. They had been breathing in smoke for generations. Why change now?

 

Running out of options, Dag decided to set back out into the cold to find a healer. There was a cleric of Othos 6 miles west of Great Cat's Grove. Locally beloved Mark Rosewater lived there in a makeshift temple he ran out of his modest hut. He dedicated his life to the mainstream, most popular God of Healing. His ecclesiastic career was healing travelers and anyone "decent" in need who made the trip. Dag thought surely, he would help his mother! Dag wrapped Marie in her cloak and carried her outside. He gently placed her in a wheelbarrow. He was pretty sure this one was designated for cleared brush and not one of the aforementioned corpse wheelbarrows. He was mistaken. The sun had already set and the wind was picking up. Dag took faith in the Great Cat and let her guide his steps through the dark. Through the snow he pushed the wheelbarrow for what felt like an eternity. 

 

Mark was a half-elf who had served Othos for nearly 30 years. A few winters into what a half-elf calls "middle-age", he was a jolly and studious sort. He had a busy day of healing and rites. The approaching spring had brought more visitors than usual. He was sitting near his hearth with a cup of blueberry tea. He got up and walked over to a locked chest. Despite living alone, there were a few things he didn't want to have out in the open. He grabbed a particularly steamy book of erotic drawings and sat back down. He opened the book and began to untie his robes. He heard a knock. He jumped out of his chair. "Just a moment". He stumbled back towards the chest and placed his titillating grimoire inside. He stood straight, retied his robes, and walked to his door. He opened it and looked at Dag.

 

"Greetings, traveler. How may I direct the light of Othos for you? By the way, I was not about to masturbate". He paused and then smacked his forehead. Dag did not register his comment at the moment, but would chuckle about it many years later. Dag clasped his hands. "Please sir, it's my mother". Mark beckoned Dag to enter. "Come in, come in.". Mark inspected Marie. Despite a career in magic, he was well versed in natural healing arts. People forget there is science in our world. Science is the magic of the mundane. Mark felt for a pulse while Dag wept. She had one, faint but clear. "Your mother is alive, young man. Do you know what caused her to fall in such a deep sleep?". Dag frowned "No, I just came home and smelled something strong, like a tannery, and found her". Mark put his hand on his chin. "Hmmm, perhaps she breathed in something toxic. That or she fell victim to a mushroom's curse. You people have mushroom curses, right? I can tell by how your tunic you're from Great Cat Grove"

 

"Great Cat's Grove", Dag muttered. "And no, she doesn't have a mushroom's curse"

 

"But you people definitely have mushroom curses? I'm not trying to be ignorant, I just heard from my buddy back in seminary".

 

Dag waved his arm with frustration. "Yes, we do, but it's more complicated than that. Our family follow the Druids of the Field. We don't do any of that shit. You’re thinking of the Chorus of The Fungus"

 

"Oh? That's interesting. ‘Chorus of the Fungus’; Tell me more" Mark went to another chest, this one without a lock, that was full of non-pornographic grimoires. He pulled a quill from his desk and started writing.

 

Dag sneered. "Can we stop talking about those freaks and focus on my mom? CAST A SPELL, PLEASE!"

 

Mark put his other than lewd book down. "Young man, I'm sorry. I can't". 

 

Dag stared at him, stunned. "Why not? You're a cleric, right?"

 

"I am. But I've cast all my spells for the day. You caught me when I was about to recite my prayers, so that I may heal again on the morrow. Again, I was not about to masturbate. I just want you to know that". Mark grimaced. I’ve met Mark and his elven half occasionally shines through his base human half but he tends to tell on himself. I don’t know why either. I’ve read the holy tomes of Othos and there isn’t a single verse on masturbation. I’m pretty sure you can just do it whenever. It’s a pretty solid faith! It’s nowhere near the sublime grace of Kossoth of course but don’t tell Mark that. I already did. He asked me to leave.

 

Dag threw his hands up. "So, finish your prayers and HEAL MY MOM!"

 

Mark turned away from Dag. He did not want to see his face. Like a good cleric of a good god, he had compassion for every honest soul that came to his doorstep. "That's not enough, we still have to wait until tomorrow. It takes a day. From the moment after my last spell until the next full day. You can't rush these things. My power, the power of all clerics and paladins are a covenant with a god. This is the deal"

 

"Can't you just say some extra prayers?".

 

Mark lightly scoffed. "No, it doesn't work that way. I can't get extra spells by saying extra prayers. This isn’t like ordering another round of ale. Everyone who can't even cast a cantrip thinks this and I'm sick of it! You're a ranger, you should know this. Can't you make the Sign of the Hunter or do something weird with a root? I don't know the rules of dirt worship".

 

Dag fell to his knees. He began to cry. 

 

"I'm sorry young man. I can't help your mother right now. Stay the night, maybe wait outside for about 20 minutes or so, and the moment I feel my magic return, I will heal her. She may even clear up on her own". 

 

Dag was a hotblooded young human. Kind and sometimes wise, after years of my mentorship of course, but he was quick to anger. Years later he would look back and wish he had made better decisions that fateful night. Dag rose to his feet and pointed at Mark. "FUCK YOU OLD MAN!". Filled with angry, dumb human strength, he picked up the wheelbarrow and barreled towards the door. He stopped and fiddled with the lock as it was old and a little rusty. "You got to jerk it back and forth a little bit young man"

 

"SHUT UP!". It was giving him a hard time. Mark and Dag could hear the latch scrape.

 

"Do you want me to come over and help...."

 

"I FUCKING GOT IT, SHIT!". Dag loosened the latch and kicked the door open. He set out a third time into the cold. He made it back to Great Cat's Grove by sunrise. He was frost bitten, as was Marie. Her fair skin was darkened on her extremities and lips.  Remembering what he saw Mark do through his tears, Dag felt for a pulse. He must've misremembered the technique, for Dag felt for a pulse on his mother's elbow. There was none. The words "She's dead" skulked their way across his mind. Only vaguely familiar with his family's former burial rites, despite witnessing his own father's funeral, he pitched Marie into the deepest hole he could find, and started packing snow on top of it. No one stopped him until it was too late.

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

"I miss you mom". Dag stood up from his mother's headstone. He wiped a tear from his eye. 

 

"I'm sorry you gave your mom an early dirtin", a deep but youthful face offered. Dag turned around. It was Dush Marshwood. Dush was half-orc and rumored to have an elven father. Good for him. That would make him a rare hybrid, a term I’ve been informed by muddled-blood persons is “offensive”, so pretend I said something else. His father died not too long after Dush’s birth but his side of the family were very involved. He and his mother were the closest thing Great Cat’s Grove had to “old money”.

 

He was a tall and muscular paladin. Dush, like his mother, took a paladin's oath to serve the Ancients of the Land. The Ancients aren’t Gods but instead something both greater and lesser. They were to be served, honored, and feared. Interpreting their holy decrees was another matter entirely. The Great Cat herself, Cernunnas straddled the line between God and Ancient of the Land. You could have a conversation with her, sometimes, depending on her mood. She is a cat, after all. Like all druids, he was dedicated to the preservation of nature. His faith was more non-denominational than Dag's. He saw "a little bit of good in all, or at least most" of the Druidic faiths". 

 

Dag turned towards his friend. “You know what the worst part is?”

“That you buried her alive in the snow?”

Dag winced. “Okay fine, do you know what the 2nd worst part is?”. He was too annoyed to wait for an answer. “That I did it wrong. I just dumped her. I didn’t put her in a coughing”

Coffin. I think they’re called coffins”

“THANKS DUSH!”. Dag picked up his quiver. He had two, one for combat and one for practice. He looked for his worst-looking practice arrow, knelt, and fired it into the air at a slight angle. It tore off into the horizon. For a moment, it looked like it was going to hit the setting sun. The two friends watched it go. “Dush, are you trying to piss me off?”

He smirked. “Maybe a little. You wanna spar?”

Dag did want to spar. “I think I do”. Dag loved archery but wasn’t passionate about combat. He loved doing flips and leaping off objects. He enjoyed identifying animals by their tracks, their calls, and what they leave behind. He liked stalking prey, even when he had no intention of harming them. He liked wandering into forests without a plan and creating his own path out.  Yet in this moment, Dush’s invitation to a sanctioned brawl felt like exactly what he needed. He couldn’t bring his mother back, but he could kick Dush’s ass. He started shuffling his feet. He wanted to get his heart rate up.

Dush preferred prayers before a battle. He closed his eyes and gave thanks to the Ancient’s of the Land for this beautiful spring evening. He felt the gentle breeze carry his words to the four corners of Slzewskia. He placed his hands on the top of his shield. It, like his armor and gauntlets was made out of wood. As per his vows. It was a carved, oblong sequoia stump with straps on the inside. The stump was reinforced with resins and enchanted prayers.  Dush broke combat tradition and held it with his dominant left hand. “It’s heavier”, he told his instructor. The veteran refused to let this go until Dush bested him soundly, upside his head on the day of his last lesson.  

He, in accordance to his traditions, vowed to never fight with metal. Insiders tend to think this puts paladins like him at a disadvantage against more metal-friendly warriors. They’re mostly true but it’s more complicated than that. Dush’s family, his mysterious father’s side in particular, were connected. They had resources. Dush planted his shield into the ground and unsheathed his sword. He pointed it at Dag and then towards the setting sun. His sword was a dull pink and made of diamonds. He could not use iron or steel in a fight but diamonds molded in alchemically-tinged blacksmithing was acceptable. I don’t understand why this exception is permitted or even how such a thing was made. 

Neither Dush nor his mother knew the history behind this blade. It arrived via courier a few days after he reached what his  half-people call “adulthood”. I suspect it’s Goblin made. Their attempt at worldwide conquest was a long, bloody failure but their wonderful toys still remain, despite their best efforts. I can’t blacksmith but I understand the science, the craft. I’d love to get my hands on one their fiercely guarded secrets. They melded magic, metal work, and alchemy in a way that makes practicing any of those skills individually look like child’s play.

The elfoids, the non-elfoids,  the devils, the celestials, and just about everyone else with half a brain love to give their “best” weapons flowery names. We’ve all heard seen something like a shortsword dubbed “Dawnbringer”, a greatclub named “The Giant’s Finger”, or a shield called “The Dragon’s Talon”. Not the Goblins. They save all the romance for the item itself. They could not be bothered to give one of their deadly masterworks a fancy name. A title. A legend. They let their weapons to speak for themselves. Dush’s garishly pink and rocky sword was what the Goblin Nation called “A plus sword”.

Just by holding it in your hand, you were a more skilled warrior. Your swings were more likely to connect. Your blows became deadlier. This sort of enhancement over a conventional blade was not uncommon outside of the Goblin Nation. The Goblins took it to another level. That level being +5, +6, or even +7 whereas the rest of us are lucky if we can find something greater than +2. Dush was already a skilled young warrior without this treasure.

“This will be my family’s heirloom”, he told the elders of Great Cat’s Grove the day it arrived. “It starts with me”. His weapon was feared but tolerated. Since losing their war, The Goblin nation had largely faded into memory. When they resurfaced, it was usually them violently reclaiming one of their lost weapons. Dush knew this. That autumn, he would leave Great Cat’s Grove and protect nature as a wanderer. He wanted to meet the other Ancient’s of the Land. He met Cernunnas once. It left him awestruck for days.

Dag reached into his sack for his practice arrows. This was a sparring match, after all. “Use the real ones, Dag”. He paused. “Are you sure?”. Dush grinned. “Yes, I’m sure. If I can’t handle a few pussy arrows, I’ll never make it. Give me the real stuff. I can take it”. Dag shrugged and  reached what he thought was his real arrows. “You wanna put on a helmet, Dush?. These things are flat but they can still stick you”. Dush said nothing as he charged towards Dag.

Dag lobbed three arrows immediately. Dush blocked two but the third managed to lodge itself into his wooden armor’s center mass. He felt a slight pinch as he closed in on Dag. He swung his shield outwards in a sweeping but it was already too late. Dag flipped over his large friend. He used his right arm to spring off the top of Dush’s head in a manner that should not align with what I thought was how the physical world without magical intervention works. Please do not tell him this, for he, like most humans, are insufficiently humble, but his movements can occasionally even surpass your average elf!

He told me once the flips, leaps, and cartwheels are his way of “Getting my blood up”. He feels more competent and emboldened with each athletic flourish. Yes, they do serve a tactical function of keeping a distance from his target and positioning himself for the best shots. He soared behind Dush, he fired a few more shots in a downward angle. One missed but two connected to the back of his neck.

Dag landed a few yards behind Dush. He prepared to lob more arrows. Dush turned around, dropped his shield, and extended his arm. Thick vines burst from the ground by Dag’s feet. They wrapped him in a tight, constructing embrace. He could not move. He could only thrash and sway. Dush picked up his shield again and walked towards Dag. He smirked and sheathed his sword. This was his friend in a sparring match, afterall.

Dag felt Dush’s fist slam into him. It felt like being kicked by a mule. Most rangers can’t take a lot of hits. Especially a young, inexperienced, dumb (even for a human) specimen like himself. His jaw was sore and a tooth felt loose. If he wasn’t so woozy, he would’ve made a mental note to see a healer next morning. The other two blows hit just as hard but were less shocking. Dag had only been in one real, life or death fight before. This would become an almost everyday occurrence once we started to travel together. For a moment, he forgot this was just sparring with his friend. He felt helpless.

He struggled to free himself as the blows continued. Creating strong, magical vines that would nonetheless dissipate after a few hours was a pretty common tactic of druids, rangers, paladins of the ancients, and the like. Dag himself learned how to a few weeks ago. He wasn’t into binding or trapping his target. He actually preferred that they move around a little. It kept things interesting. Dag thought it would be more fun to use magical vines the opposite way. To push threats away. To fling targets into the air. As the blows continued he thought; What about me?

Dush didn’t see Dag’s lips move. He didn’t see his hand glow. He did see another set of vines spread beneath Dag’s feet. He saw his own vines crack and burst as Dag’s supplanted them. The two vines enveloped each other in mutual strangulation. They fell to ground and would later do something between decomposing and disappearing. I always like to say; magic affects science and science affects magic. They are two roads that usually run parallel, intersecting only when a spell is cast.

 

Dag flicked into the air like a skipping stone. His rotation from right side up, to upside down, back to right side up did not affect his relentless volley. He drew. He nocked. He aimed. He released.

THUNK!

Dush felt a small pinch. He couldn’t see it at that moment, but Dag’s arrow drew blood in the small gap between Dush’s armor and his collarbone.  He reached for and raised his stump shield before the thoughts became words in his mind. Dag drew, nocked, aimed, and released twice before doing it again.

THUNK! THUNK!.......THUNK!

Two arrows barreled there way into his shield, piercing it ever so slightly in almost the exact same spot. The third came nearby. Dush felt a need to make his huge frame smaller behind his shield. It was the first time in his life he wanted to take up less space. Dag drew, nocked, aimed, and released again, and again, and again.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

Dush’s shield began to look cluttered with arrows. He could’ve swore it was starting to feel heavy. The stump was huge but so was he. He started to crouch, to cower in front of his shield. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK….pffft!

All the joy, all the novelty of archery was gone. Dag felt nothing. No excitement, no anger, no fear, no pain. Just a target. All the color in the world withdrew from his sight. Everything was a stark black and white as his aim sharpened. He didn’t like it but could only acknowledge this change after the fact. His friend Ana called it “the marksman’s trance”.

Another arrow made it’s way to the gap between his armor and collarbone. Dush was able to swipe the rest away with his sword but this one went in deep. He felt the warmth of his blood before the pain. He dropped his sword and laid his hand on the wound. He was lucky to have a spell left over, or maybe his god gave him a freebee that day. There’s a little more room for forgiveness, or spite, in divine magic over arcane. His hand glowed and the prayer slumped from his mouth. The blood didn’t stop but it slowed down.

“I” (Draw) “Ye” (nock) “eld” (aim) (release)  THUNK….pffft!

Dag instinctively drew again before his mind registered that his friend conceded. His last arrow struck Dush. Dush held his drawn bow for a few moments as color returned to his world. He slowly put his arrow down. Dag at this moment realized he had been drawing from the wrong quiver. He was using practice arrows the whole time.

“Are you okay Dush?”

Dag sat in the apothecary’s stone apartment. She was a young-ish dwarf with a thick accent. She was peering into his mouth. Ella was not a druid but a cleric of in service of the Ancient’s of the Land.

 

“Hey dere, I’m sorry it took me so long to see ya. You punched a lot holes into Dush! I thought you were just sparring?”

 

“We were. I guess I just…spared too hard?”

 

“Ha!” She slapped her knee and in one fluid motion, put her hand on Dag’s jaw. Dag winced as he felt the unique pain of a brand-new adult tooth growing beneath and displacing the one beneath it. He spat out a chunk of blood and something more pink onto the stone floor. She frowned.

 

“Ah okay, I have a bucket for stuff like that but the floor is fine too, I guess”.

The End

Sunday, November 10, 2024

Man of my dreams

 "Goodnight baby, I love you"

He wraps his arms around me. I feel safe. I know the moment I drift off, that'll change. 

Wednesday, April 12, 2023

Let's watch it again (Inc)

 I want to believe in time travelThat one day I'll come back for you.

 "Don't forget to finish watching Inside Job". Dave sneered at his TV. He hated getting homework from apps. He was just old enough to remember when they were called "Software". It was annoying but it wasn't at the forefront of his mind. It was a little after 10pm. He had a long day tomorrow. As a social worker, he was well acquainted with self-destruction. He had therapeutically advised against alcohol, harder drugs, unprotected sex, and the near universal-human tendency for the unhappy to lash out. Staying up too late watching one your ex's favorite shows should've been on that list too, despite the specificity.


He did like it, despite the sad vibes now attached to it. He had remembered hearing about before he started dating Shelia. It looked like yet another "Adult animation" algorithmically-generated show. She was a huge. She liked TV in general. She would watch a show she liked "At least three times". She had told him one day rewatching a show was like "Getting back together with old friends". His heart melted when he first heard that. Dave remembered his childhood was similar. He never really had a solid circle of friends until college. He remembered hearing in grad school the act of "cultivating gratitude". He kept that in mind when he thought about his friends today. Many men his age just plain didn't have friends.

Shelia was very close to her parents and big sister. She told him one day "Between my parents and my pets, I never really had time for friends". He was a little shocked to hear this because Shelia was so supportive and kind. It was the best romantic relationship he had ever had in his 38+ years. Until it just ended. Then restarted. Then ended again. 

The show that he used to both distract and maldaptively remind him of his ex girlfriend was about conspiracies. The main character, Reagan, was a 30 year old roboticist who worked for a central hub for conspiracies. The show diligently referenced dozens of "real" conspiracies. Everything from Bohemian Grove to hollow Earth was explored and satirized. He wound up liking the show way more than he thought he would. It started as something he did with Shelia because he wanted her to be happy. Over time, he started to enjoy it himself.

Dave was about 11 years older than Shelia, so there were a few times he felt a dumb need to point out that the real life references in the the show . He wondered if he had accidentally mansplained that to her. This behavior was something Dave was aware of but worried that he unintentionally engaged in. Dave was at a point in his life in which he assumed most women were smarter than him. He knew for a fact the average woman was a better driver than him! He also observed that most women were significantly more into sports than he was. He also knew this attitude was problematic it it's own way. 

His body wanted to sleep but his mind didn't. He had made a New Year's resolution to go to bed early each night with partial success. There were two episodes left. The first season had been split in half, with nearly a year between both halves. It was a little painful for Inside Job heads as the show had been greenlight for another season before the renewal being rescinded. It reminded him a little bit of the relationship itself. Shelia had ended it, then rescinded the break up, before breaking up again. All within about 3 weeks.  

    Do you want to watch again?

 

This was new. He had never seen this option before. Like right now, do I want to watch again what I just fucking saw? That was more her thing. She said she usually watched a show at least three times. They were her old friends after all. He imagined snuggling with her on a couch, decades from now. Old and happy together, he significantly more so, watching whatever she wanted to watch again for the umpteenth time. Both loving it. She didn't want children. He was ambivalent about it. Their shared passions would be their baby. It could've kept us together. Plenty of relationships were built on worse things. 

He took and swig and got up. Dave wasn't much a drinker but the past week had been an exception. He didn't really get drunk drunk. He just spaced out his $28 bottle of Mezcal each day to keep him feeling shitty. There was about 3 shots left in his Xicaru. He knew he would feel a small measure of relief when the bottle was empty. I'll wait another month and get another.

He clomped up the stairs. He ran the shower. It took a little while to heat up, so he clomped down the stairs again. There was enough time to pack and smoke a bowl. Back up the stairs he went again for a nice, indulgent shower. He read somewhere people who take too long showers are "touch starved". They make up for a lack of human contact in their life with hot water. This became one of those facts that seemed powerful and meaningful without any clear application to the knower's life. Dave got in and promptly sat down in the shower. He knew it was weird, shut up!

He had that feeling that you usually only start experiencing after the age of 28. He was tired and he knew that after a half night's sleep, he'd wake up  tired. There was enough alcohol in him to wake up him at the uncomfortably existential hours of 3, maybe 4am. He didn't really have anything to do the day after, it just felt like a bummer knowing it wouldn't be a full day. 

About 18 minutes later, he got out of the shower and went downstairs. Dave had never successfully grew a real beard, but knew the appeal of stubble. He remembered a client at work telling him "your facial hair grows in evenly. That must be nice". He did shave his. He knew neckbeard was both an attitude and a look he wanted to avoid. He took another long shower again. He wanted to get it right. He was excited to see Shelia again, despite the impossibility of doing it again. 

He drove to Farm to Table. It was right on the state road, which made the ride pleasant. His favorite college A Cappella station had ended it's decade long run, to the surprise of no one. He had found another one on a different app but it wasn't the same.


                                Do you want to watch again?

Was still on the screen. It hadn't even gone slightly dark, a screensaver function he was used to. Sure, whatever. I can't be in my head right now. The first episode was pretty good. Usually the first episode of animated series if awkward but they got it right. He picked up his Playstation 3 controller and pushed X. He liked that it still worked, despite being almost 15 years old. The only thing it could do was run Netflix, Youtube, and PS3 games of course. There was darkness. Nothing appeared on the TV. He waited. He waited. His neck felt sore. His chest hurt.

____________________________________________________________________________________

It was morning. He was sitting on the floor and looking at his plugged in cellphone. Good morning! I'm excited to meet you today! He was confused. Who's this? Why is it day already? I don't remember going to sleep. Dave felt pretty good. Well rested and not hungover. He did feel a little sweaty. Did I turn the heat up too much? It was the 2nd of January in a dry, bitterly cold winter. There wasn't even the wonder of snow flakes. He had nothing nice to look at during his work trips. Dave hated the snow like a true New Englander but he did miss looking at it. The trees were dead and barren, or at least they were...yesterday? Dave glanced out his window and saw that they were, in fact, fully leaved. 

He looked at the text msg again. It was Shelia. What was she talking about? Why does it say July 1st? He looked at the whole thread, there was only 8 texts, barely a scroll-downs worth. Shelia and Dave had texted constantly for most of the relationship, until it fell apart. He looked at the calendar. It said July 1st, 2022. That can't be right. He looked at his calendar reminders. It was function on his phone he used even more than texts or, uggh, gross, calls. Meet Shelia at Farm to Table, 1pm. That was our first date. That's when we met.

I'm excited to meet you too! He texted, sure of his action but not of the situation. He had about two hours before he had to leave. He packed a bowl on his coffee table that he was positive he had broken a few weeks ago and clomped upstairs. He had to shower and shave his neck. He knew the appeal of manicured stumble. He remembered one of his client's telling him "your facial hair grows evenly. That must be nice". David knew that being a neckbeard was an aesthetic and mindset he didn't want to have. He groomed himself and got into his car. His favorite A Capella station had shut down, much to the surprise of no one. He had found another one but it wasn't the same. It was a nice drive to Farm to Table. He got into the car, realized it was too hot for a long sleeve, felt the need to get out to take his button down off, then got back in and threw it in the backseat.

The heat made him a little nauseous. 80F was not that bad, by itself. Rather, Dave felt more acclimated to winter, the winter he swore he was in last night.  It would take a week or two, usually, for him to get used to the season. Dave was ready for the winter but his phone and the air was shouting summer. As person working in mental health, he felt his own decompensation would be inevitable. Am I going crazy? Was I really just one breakup away from Funky Town? He parked. He went inside. It was not too crowded. A good balance of people for a first date. Too many people make conversations impossible. Nothing kills romance like what or I'm sorry, can you say that again? over and over. Too few people tend to make dates a little too intense. 

"Can I get a table for two please?" The server lead him down the hall. By the time he turned around, she was right there behind. Shelia was short and curvy. She wore a red dress and she wore it very well. Shelia herself described her face as "boyish". Dave always thought she looked a little like Mike from the first season of Stranger Things. Her hair was black and curly at the ends. He looked at her and just paused.

"Nice to meet you Dave! I'm Shelia". Dave smiled. I'm just going to roll with this. If she wants to pretend we never broke up, whatever, fine. I'll do it. His own internal logic. His own frantic attempt to explain this couldn't account for why the season changed. Is she going to gaslight me into thinking it's summer? He didn't care. He was just so happy to see her again.

The conversation went nearly identical to what he remembered. The only variances he could think of came from him. They were distinctions without meaning. Dave wouldn't dare trying to change any response or statements. He didn't want to.  He spent weeks that felt like years wanting to go back 6 months. Somehow, he had, or maybe Shelia was willing to pretend it was. Again, this desolate narrative he was willing to run with just to feel better couldn't explain   yesterday being winter and today being summer. 

As the day went on, he cared about it less and less. Their second first date was winding to an end. It was time to go. He asked her if he could walk her to her car. She agreed, like she had last time. When they got there, she rushed in to kiss him like she did last time. Later that evening, he sent her a meme from her favorite video game Dragon Age. She loled, like she had last time. He went to bed, surprised to see his air conditioner back in the window. 

There was sharp pain, followed by a dull ache all over his body. He could feel icy rain on his check. It was foggy. He was about a quarter mile from Shelia's home. He was leaning slightly on top of the steering wheel. It was not a spot where a driver should be. It was a foggy, dark, rainy night but his own vision was spotty too. He thought he saw flashing blue and red lights. He felt something warm and wet as he tried to push off from the steering wheel. His body was not fully cooperating.

Dave sprung out of bed. It was still summer. He felt good. He didn't have that lingering chill he felt....yesterday? He remembered when he was a boy, his late maternal grandpa would tell him "when you get older, the winter gets in your bones". He went about his day. He lifted weights at a Planet Fitness. It was more enjoyable and quicker when he could just exercise and not troll through the dating apps. So, are we starting over or picking up where we left off? There was that uncomfortable ambiguity again. He liked uncertainty in his fiction, not in his life. Especially in his love life. He ended his workout on a treadmill. Dave got a lot of satisfaction about a long walk to nowhere. 

She texted him later that evening. What'chu doin'. The same thing she used to back when she was more... or first? interested in him. He left out his tiny terror over maybe losing my fucking mind! and said he was playing a video game. He was playing video game. One he swore he beat but his save file completion percentage said otherwise. 

The game was about a woman looking for her missing brother in a strange Federal Bureaucracy. The game was more odd than scary but was very unsettling. The monsters and the talking furnaces were creepy but what stuck with Dave was a poem. Sometimes the bad guys in the game would recite it while trying to kill her. Leave your insides by the door. 

We wait in the stains.

You have always been the new you. 

You want this to be true. 

They texted for a while. Dave didn't have a particularity great memory. Even before the pot. It was not photographic but it was very nostalgic. He remembered much of the beats and Shelia factoids she had shared before. She sent him a video of her cats, Simon and Marcy chasing after the more senior Mischief. She loved her pets. He liked her pets. He loved that she loved her pets. He scrolled through his phone to look for the picture of them together he loved but probably should've deleted by now but hadn't because he couldn't bear to. 

I like your pets. I can tell you take great care of them!

Thanks love :-) You're so sweet!

Dave couldn't remember if he had said that before...or now? Did it matter? Would it make a difference? He vaguely remembered Mischief dying around this time. Should I tell her? Will it make a difference or just creep her out? 

How's Mischief?

Is she going to tell me new? I don't remember if I asked her about him. I mean, I'm sure I asked her about her cats all the time but did I ask about Mischief at this day at this time?

His thoughts raced in a jumble of longing, relief, and worry over fucking it up again!

Am I changing the past or remembering it wrong?

The words pushed their way from his churning mind to his lips. It gave the impossible room to breathe. To be seen. 

He's a cranky old man but I love him to death!

She sent him a picture. He didn't look well.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

So I think this is a nice place for you and I to have a picnic. Here's a picture

Just like last time, the best Google picture of Sweet's Knoll had someone's wacky, teetotaler Portuguese uncle hamming it up in front of the sign post.

Is that your dad?

Lol, no, that's just some guy on Google. What do you think of the park? It's open, easy to navigate, and right off route 138 near the police station. 

There was a pause. Was there a pause last time? Dave wondered if he had a tendency to make himself too quick to respond to texts. 

It looks great! Do you want to meet there Saturday around 1?

Dave remembered their 2nd date was a Saturday. Today...? was a Thursday evening but he didn't know if it was the same one he lived before. Dave had been living in this time warp, acting like nothing was different but absolutely screaming within.  He was vaguely aware of news and the little pebbles of work problems ahead of him but he wasn't focused enough to act on them. All he could think about was Shelia. This, 2nd?...chance consumed him. Everything else was going through the motions as exactly as last time as he could recall. He was terrified of popping this little impossible bubble.

Sounds good! I'll pick up some snacks Saturday and see you then!

Okay! Bring your swimsuit ;-)

:-)

Dave smiled. He remembered how this picnic unfolded.

___________________________________________________________-


It was dark and cold. Did time switch back? He felt the pain in his chest again. There were "floaties" in the distance. The blue and cherry lights were crowding his vision.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Dave woke up again. He felt hot with a damp film on his chest. It definitely felt like July. He forgot to put his AC on last night before he went to bed. He got up, turned it on, and flopped back into bed. It was a comfortable half hour in the fog of half awake and asleep. His eyes darted open again. He knew there was no chance to return and got out of bed. 

He drank half an iced coffee from Cumberland farms he purchased the day before. Iced coffee was an all year sort of thing but days like today felt particularly suited for it. He lounged for a few moments before his stomach awoke. Dave liked doing his bio-business as soon as he woke up so the rest of the day felt more self-determined. He debated on the merits a full shave before deciding on 2 days of stubble and a fresh neck. Dave wondered if he would've been married years ago if he knew how off putting neck beards were.

He swung by the Stop & Shop on his way to the park. Shelia was a vegetarian with a sweet tooth. He picked up berries, humus, water, pita, and chocolates. It felt like enough. He remembered neither himself or her tatting much that day. At least at the park. They managed to work up an appetite later that day. He loaded up his goods and drove to Sweet's Knoll. He wondered if his algorithm suggested music was different this time around. 

This place is nice!

It's my favorite park. I come here all the time.

He unloaded the snacks and slung them over his should. She bounced up to him. He put his hand on her waist and kissed her. I missed this. It feels so good. This was when she liked the way he touched her. They walked into the forest. 

They walked into the forest alongside the old rail line. Trees now grew inbetween the planks like there was no hard feelings. The branches loomed overheard. The knoll was a small park. It was the sort of place you'd assume was just someone's backyard by the way it looked. Take a couple steps and it opens up to a woodsy loop, a river, and a foothill. It was the sort of place Dave would go to year 'round. 

 Here we are! We can put our stuff down on the bridge.

The abandoned track was broke up by a bridge. There was a 3 foot gap that could be crossed by balancing on the floating wooden plank. The perfect level of risk/reward for a teen. Dave and Shelia plopped down on a stone crevice. Dave took a few steps to the side and started changing into his bathing suit. For the...second? time, he left his bathing suit in the cooler and not his backpack. Both and future times, Shelia would joke about this in bed. It was bold. I liked it. 

She was in a black two piece. Dave tried to not gawk. He remembered liking her profile picture. She was cute and curvy. He eased himself into the water. It was cool and murky, but warming than you'd think. She hopped in as well. They swam around each other. They chatted. 

He remembered what she did..last? time. He knew he just had to look away for a little bit. She needed time to "suprise him". He knew what was coming but it still felt fresh. Exciting. A novelty impossibly fused with nostalgia. With yearning. He turned around and looked at the houses near the shore. He wondered if they were nice enough to be worth it. He turned around.

She took her top off. Dave remebered the first? time. She looked like naked what he imagined she'd look like. Better. Even the second first?time It was still amazing. Your top is off. I know. He drifted towards her. He put his hand on her waist and drew her close. Her bare chest rested on his. She closed her eyes as her cheeks flushed.

Let's go back to my place.

This time, he texted her his address when they got to the parking lot, instead as soon as he dried off. He remembered her saying that was weird the first time?.  

They went upstairs right away. The first? time Dave didn't catch her slipping out of her clothes. He didn't want to miss out. They rolled around in his king sized bed, a gift from another one that got away. Dave probably would've thought to get something that big for himself. He usually slept alone.

He put his hands on her waist and kissed her. He slowly guided his hands up her sides. He undid the strap and pulled her in.

It was seeing her take off her clothes. This was the one thing  about Shelia he couldn't remember. She had a knack for disrobing unseen. On land or sea.

  

               This feels so fucking good....!

He remembered/felt her play with his hair. It felt nice. David had a full head of hair but seemed to preoccupied with losing it to enjoy the ride. The dandruff felt like a fair tradeoff.

David rested his head in her lap. Everything was warm and damp. He walked his fingers down her thigh and turned to kiss her. Knowing one doesn't get a second first time with the one who got away, David drew her in again.  

           Sit on my lap

David definitely remembered being different last time.  She likes being dominated. She told you. Remember her crying? Do you want to make her cry or scream?

Stop being a pussy


Saturday, May 19, 2018

sad goals

I've had this blog for years. I'm going to make a serious effort to finish some of these stories this summer.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

A Social Disease (Inc)



A social disease

“Bitch! Bitch, you fucking bitch!”

He was back again. Liz did not know who this “he” was. She wondered how masculine this body-less, nasty encumbrance could really be? Was this once a horrible man or a toxic amalgamation? He started pounding on the glass door. She tried not to look but it was like an itch that could niether not be ignored or relived.Like getting insulted by a boar before he gored you.

“Ms. Arone? Ms. Arone? Hello”
She turned back to the interviewer. “Yes, sorry. I had a crink in my neck. It needed a stretch”
“I get that too Liz. Sorry, Ms. Arone”
She who should not be named “Liz” chortled. “We’ve been friends for two years, Courtney. Just call me by my name”
“I can’t. We’re not friends at this very moment! I’m sorry but I’m HR and I take objectivity very seriously. We’re not friends again until this promotion interview is over”
“So, we’re not friends for the next five minutes?”
“Don’t rush me, Ms. Arone. You don’t know where we are in the interview”
“I do, I helped you write it. Remember?”
Courtney curled her bottom lip under her top one. She did forget and it was embarrassing. All that righteousness evaporated in an error.
“Ok, fine. We are almost done. So here we go, ready? Last question: How will your e-sales outperform traditional phone orders and personal relationships with bulk purchasing customers?”
“I’ll FUCK YOU TILL YOU LOVE ME!!!” His fist barreled through the glass. It smashed to the floor. Liz knew he was starting to cross over again. She remembered to look as surprised as Courtney. She even timed turning her head in time with her too.
“What the Hell was that?” Courtney got up from behind her desk and inspected the wreckage. His bellows went right through her. She didn’t even flinch at his presence as he fumed and gestured at Liz through the half-broken door.
I need to get out of here. He’s going to be able to touch me soon. Let’s get this done.
“To answer your question, I don’t have an exact time table for my projective sales. I think a user-friendly website will supplement our sales significantly. Not matter how good it gets, some people are going to prefer phone sales. Or they like being wined and dined. They want their vendors to feel like friends. I understand that. This website isn’t intended to replace anything but rather open us up to more opportunities”.
 Courtney walked back to her desk. She picked up her phone and pushed one of the extension buttons. She looked at Liz and gave her a thumbs up while she waited for her call to reach the nearest intern.
“Hi, this is HR, but I’m also Courtney. Who’s this? Steve? Ok. I need you here with a dust bin. One of the glass doors broke. I don’t know what happened, it just broke. Yeah, it’s weird. I want this swept up and when you’re done, make the repair request. Great. Thanks” She grinned at Courtney. “Steve is kinda cute. But I want you to know I would have tasked the first person to answer”
Liz stared at him. In his rage, he hadn’t thought to simply reach and open the door from the other side. His arm darted in and around the gap in the glass.
Why does he hate me so much?
“Liz?”
She snapped back to her now resumed friend. “Of course. Steve looking like Steve is just a perk”
Courtney laughed and Liz tried to join in. A small part of Courtney could see the hesitation. The meek attempt to join in the levity.

He “let” her pass, somehow. It was more like he couldn’t get his “hands” on her. Liz would have more success in avoiding he if she let someone walk through him first. He seemed to be only able to hurt her. Most of the time. Even then, his ability to harm Liz with his touch fluctuated. He seemed to fade in and out of reality, in and out of observation or earshot. It was a persistent but inconsistent enough problem to keep Liz guessing. She’s had it for nearly two months.
I need some help. I thought I could beat this. I thought I could outlast this but enough is enough
Liz felt eyes resting upon her again. She did not anticipate a greeting. She looked around. There he was. Lingering. Not as haplessly endearing as he’d like to be was Jared, hunching at an angle that contributed to the awkwardness. She felt corned.
“Hi Jared”
“Hey Liz!”. He smiled. He lingered.
“What’s up?”
She flattened her lips. He was contributing just enough small talk to prompt a polite response from her. It was annoying.
“I just had my interview. I think I did well”
He leaned a little forward. “So you’re leaving us, huh? I’ll miss you. A lot.”
“I’m not leaving, I’m transferring. Or at least I hope to. This website is my baby”
He smirked. “There’s easier ways to have a baby, you know”. He pumped his eyebrows up and down. A gesture that is never not creepy.
“I think a week of codding is easier than 9 months and an additional 18 years”. It felt like just the right amount of polite push back to fuel her escape walk. He even backed up an inch. She trotted past him and waved. “See ya Jared!” She kept going.
“See ya Liz!”. She wished he wouldn’t. They were work friends and occasional bar buddy until he tried to kiss her. She wasn’t feeling it. She didn’t mind the attempt rather, it was the lingering aftermath. He seemed to alternate between a sad puppy and a problem dog. He often made her feel awkward and sometimes even threatened. It was vague and maybe even subconscious enough that she couldn’t bring it up with HR. She knew Courtney would have her back but she was right about her lack of objectivity. She was her friend, and the higher ups were not. Jared felt like an annoyance. Not the problem that was screaming at her. His cries of “CUNT!” kept interrupting the easy listening drifting through the lobby speakers.  
Normally Liz preferred to hand a human being some money but she was in a rush. There were no cabs in sight. She didn’t feel like calling and talking to someone. She fished blue notepad from her purse. She internally complimented herself for remembering to buy a new one and carrying over the tally from the last book’s last page.
15,735 miles, ¼ quarter tank full
Better get that oil change tomorrow
She added 9 to the tally and filled her gas tank with her pen. She pulled out a $20 from her purse. She looked around. A little busy.
“Magic is shy, Liz. It works better when the only witnesses are already on board”
Like most practitioners, she hated the M-word. But her friend, really her mentor, was right. She ducked to the side of the building and crouched behind a dumpster. She held the $20 in her hands. She looked at it. She believed in it. She tore it in half. The bill fluttered towards the ground before disappearing. Liz walked back to the front and waited by the curb. A blue Ford Escort rolled up to her. Liz was both delighted and horrified it was driverless. This usually worked but sometimes it would come with a “driver”. A silent driver composed of light, and the occasional comment. She hoped no one would notice it’s absence. The passenger’s door opened without a hand to guide it. She hoped in. She scooched herself to the driver’s seat. It felt like she was sitting on someone’s lap. He legs felt entwined with another. It was uncomfortable.
The car moved with Liz’s intended destination the only input. She didn’t like driving.  She saw him in the rear-view mirror. He was chasing her. Sometimes he went around and sometimes he’d go through other people. Other cars even! Sometimes he’d flicker into the sight of others. He caused swerving accidents. Sometimes he was angry enough to be hit himself. It made her feel guilty.

Samantha was in the zone. She had to concentrate if she wanted to more her fingers in the exact way. She couldn’t concentrate too much or her fingers would tremble. Talking to a friend was just distracting enough to find that balance. She flicked the paint brush on the little cheek. She wanted to get his complexion just right. She had to if she wanted to make this work.
“Do you think I made him too fat?”
Liz looked at the miniature. He was wearing the official branded vest over his button down. Samantha was glad she only had to wear the button down, tool belt, and khakis. She kind of liked khakis to be honest. Not as much as she liked her tool belt though.
“I don’t know what he looks like Sam, so maybe?”
She put him down. She got up and walked over to her digital camera. She fished through a few folders. “Here, look. This was from last month”. She handed Liz the camera. There was a beefy looking 40-something wearing the same outfit as his figurine representation. It was just blue instead of red. He smiled. He looked nice.
“Yeah, I think you got him. So you make the people too?”
“I don’t have to. It’s more about the building itself. I think it helps though. They get along with me better if I make little figures of them. It’s like they know!”
Liz furrowed her brow. “Did you make one of me?”
Samantha laughed. “Liz, we’re friends”. She got up and walked to her room. She came back with another diorama.
“Of course I made one of you, see?”. She handed it to Liz.
It was a miniature of the apartment they were sitting in. There was Liz, in what up until that moment was her favorite outfit complete with her “fun but functional” boots. Samantha was there as well. Hunched forward in sweat pants and She-Ra tank top. Sam gave her height, her stature, and presence an accurate adaptation. Their friends, their “coven” as they sometimes jokingly referred to was there as well. “I’d like to think we became closer over time, and we did, but this probably helped too”. She saw Liz frown. “Don’t be like that. It’s not as manipulative as I’m making it sound”
“I’ll take you at your word. It’s not like I understand anyways. This is your style”
“I’m really more about the building, the institution, than the people inside it. You know that. You can’t put a price on the peace of mind, the security you feel when you know you are the master of your home”
“I can put a price on anything”
Samantha smirked. “Can you put a price on this?”. She flicked her hand and drew circles towards her with her finger. The refrigerator opened. A pitcher of lemony water floated towards the two. A mug followed by another swooped down from a self-opened cabinet. They received the pitcher’s contents before landing on coasters. Samantha picked up her glass and sipped.
“Parlor tricks are always cheap, Sam. I’m not impressed with friggin’ cantrips anymore”.
“Did you have to use the c-word?”
Liz laughed. It felt good. She felt safe here. Samantha was queen here, master of her $1200 a month domain. She always made dioramas of her apartments. Her tools were usually the first thing she’d unpack.