Wolverine Stew: Light

The orange-tinted western sky patterned with wisps of clouds

The fronts of rushing cars and trucks in the streets below

The windows of brick and steel buildings that I walk past

The waxing white moon above that can’t be captured by camera

The lamps that glimmer and shine in the dark and overtake my eyes

The intermittent yellow blinks of fireflies I hold in my palm

The strings of electrical white that illuminate a Toronto tapestry

The neon blue and melting wax of the lamp I brought with me

The monitor screen I write this on in the comforts of my room

All of them lighten my burden with their glow

Till when will we be tender

You tell me in too little words that our time is limited 

Your eyes staring straight ahead while stroking my arm

To what end will I time out 

Till you lose me while talking about the now 

In limited dim lit doom who am I to assume

That you would want to whether waning weather with me

Am I so semi permanent 

Is it so easy to slip away 

Still I find myself slipping to sleep

Slumped against some warmth 

Waiting while wanting

Wilting when knowing

The Kingdom of Tokavsk, Session 25: Words from Elshir, Personal Servant to Lord Eskyil

He had to have known Lord — had enemies. Everyone in this place does, yeah? The King and advisors running about with no one watching, not like. Ever seen them? Now Lord Azhan, he’s a type. A real quiet man he is. Always writing. Or Lord Grasz. The one with the old family name? Lost the Ceremony to the current King, may a thousand hawks guide Him to eternal warmth. Ever alive is the King, may He have a long and prosperous reign.

Yes, yes, the point. My language is not rude, this is how I talk. Mean I no disrespect. My Lord, well, he has a strange gift, you see. He knows when something bad is to come. Not what it is or how but that it is. Like magic if such a thing were given to mortals. Lord Eskyil is no ordinary mortal, now, he is a very important man. So even if he did not know what the event was, he in a way knew that it was. So I said this to another or two, yeah. No negative rumors would I spread to people. I only said it to those who knew. Don’t come after me like frosthounds with winterbite, yeah? And may I not be from around here, but I was selected from my village by Lord Eskyil, before that a roofer I was. I am not fully nothing.

S3 Scribble #6: Underneath

“There is no difference in what we’re doing in here,”

I’m in the home stretch of the semester. Lots of final papers, exams, and projects are coming up, but in the back of my mind, I know that there is a month of rest waiting for me once I complete them. I haven’t spent much time at home in the past year, and I’m looking forward to being able to have more than a few days at home for my upcoming winter break. 

“That doesn’t show up as bigger symptoms out there.”

Today, my mom bought Alanis Morissette tickets so we can go to her concert together this summer. Music has always been something that my mom and I have bonded over, and even though the concert is over six months away, I am very excited for it and grateful that my mom is as well. This inspired me to listen to Alanis Morissette on my walk to class today, and I was reminded of how her music makes me feel so understood. Right now, the song “Underneath” resonated with me because of its emphasis on the need to heal yourself before you are able to most effectively extend that healing outward.

“So why spend all our time dressing our bandages?”

This past year, I’ve learned something very important: in order to do my best externally, I have to feel good internally. This internal healing can happen through many activities: recharging alone, going on a run, spending time with friends, journaling, calling my loved ones, going to therapy, and more. For me, it’s been a combination of things, but as I gear up to finish the Fall 2023 semester, I feel great inside – I feel satisfied, hopeful, and capable. Of course, I occasionally feel doubt, anxiety, and unease. This is natural, and I now know that these feelings are not permanent and never are. As I keep working on myself and my inner mentality, I am confident that my strength, courage, and positivity will continue to see me through.

“When we’ve the ultimate key to the cause right here, our underneath.”

Listen to Underneath by Alanis Morissette here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVfz74FayzM

Wolverine Stew: Painted Mountain

There is a deep rolling green at the

Base surrounding a small, clear lake, where

If you tilt your head to listen to the ground, you can see

How the waters make a still reflection

Of the perfect circle of leaves to each tree

The lake is fed by streams of thawed lightning

Coming down from the grey clouds that are

The gold-wood upper borders of this world

I wonder if there is a peak

The greens meld together on the mountain

Unsure whether to be trees or grass or moss

But there is a gentle slope to it all

One to get closer to, to walk and rest at one’s own pace

And maybe you will cross that rainy border of the world

Into some vast sky, blue and shining

But me, I am content here at the base

Wrapped in green reflections and that thought

Of going just a little further up each day

LOG_024_THE_BARKEEP

E.Y. 2743-11-12
SECTOR G43, DELTA OUTPOST

This, she thought to herself, was becoming a problem.

Look for no trouble and you won’t find it here, was her policy, and it had served her and her customers well for a long time. Besides the occasional troublemaker looking to prove something, there was little out here in the way of fighting. God knew how even the most gung-ho and bloodthirsty of mercs tired of conflict from time to time, and her establishment was meant to be a place away from all of that.

There had been some unrest, lately, when a foreign peacekeeping unit decided to hunker down in their small port town. Ostensibly, they’d only been passing through, but as the days stretched on with no signs of their leaving, their week-long stay at the inn north of the city center said otherwise—they were here on the hunt. But nobody knew what they were hunting, so everyone who had a working brain (or brain-adjacent) between their ears had been on edge (well, more than usual, that is); a low-level thrum of tension colored every conversation, hands never straying far from concealed weaponry.

On this particular day, she discovered an unpleasant gift: trouble had arrived at her doorstep. As always, the troubles of men had inevitably spilled over like slow-moving molasses oozing city streets, leaving not even this sector unsullied, a shadow darkening the brow of an otherwise unremarkable and sunny afternoon.

This particular problem took the shape of a factory-standard sim slumped against the tavern’s disposal bin, near the back entrance. It was alive—for a given definition of the word—but with no signs of consciousness—also for a given definition of the word—returning anytime soon, battered as it was. This particular problem’s markings suggested prison break, or illegal indentureship, or one of many other nasty insinuations. She’d bet a lot of money that the peacekeepers were looking for this particular problem, and that spelled trouble for her.

As if just to prove her right, her portable comm unit crackled, and the tinny voices of the peacekeepers filtered through: they were on the move. And as if just to prove her wrong, the sim also chose this moment to stir, something that should have been nigh impossible for a sim this damaged. Even if it blocked all sensory input, self-preservation protocols should have shunted its systems into recovery shutdown. Nevertheless, it was definitely awake now, and dully staring at her, though it made no attempt to prop itself up or speak. Probably couldn’t, anyway, given its limbs and the lack thereof. And the concerningly dented cranial casing. It blinked at her.

“Oh, bother,” she said, and holstered her gun. If she handed them over to the peacekeepers, there was a good chance they’d implicate her anyway, and that would mean a definite end to the fragile peace she’d carved out for herself out here. There wasn’t a real decision to be made. She was not in the habit of picking up strays, she told herself firmly as she hauled them up. Her bleeding heart wouldn’t let her do anything less, and the annoying thing she picked up called morals would nag her about it to no end. In an unwelcome wash of déjà vu, she dragged the thing in behind her, kicked closed the back door, and set it on a stool in the storage room. It blinked at her again, and remained mum. Right. She’ll just keep the sim out of the way until the danger’s passed, and then send them on their merry way, somewhere preferably far from this sector. 

(In the back of her mind, a soundless voice laughed at her.)