yejide jonquil • three • 1st hg (fin)
Aug 28, 2019 22:09:57 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Aug 28, 2019 22:09:57 GMT -5
fifteen
fc: aqhama faku
"keepers are coming."
it is passed on in whispers, then shouts, then screams.
Two blocks down we can hear them, smell them, the smoke wafting through the rafters and across the warehouse. ade bolts up with a start, moonlight glinting off his sweaty forehead as the refugees push past, streaming out the exit while i wait for him to find his left shoe. they leave us to our fates, a slowpoke and a fool.
a thought rings out, sweet with malice.
i shouldn't have waited.
no, i'm glad i did.
we rush out too loudly, and five seconds later there's the unmistakable slapping of boots against the floor, the pearlescent sheen of white light on white cloth. we settle in towards the dark instead, hiding in barrels of ichor, bitter tonic left to ferment as they walk past. the world spins as i stay put.
but the world spins no matter what. we are puppets in a toymaker's game, and still we swing our arms and pivot our feet, looking for a place to land.
when the sun peeks out from her hiding place, i tiptoe between long lines that stretch across the concrete, dipping beneath the concavities. ade calls them circuitboards, but those run parallel and perpendicular. intention in their soder. purpose in their structure.
there is no purpose. they're fault lines raised up to the surface. paint, dried and crackled in the heat.
many of us are here now, living in the in-between, sleeping when the keepers don't search and crawling through the wasteland when they do. junkyard ants in a world of scrapmetal, we turn down 8th - where the rich folks lived - and weave through nooks and crannies, hands searching for what comes next. it's ade who searches, really. i just watch, trace the cracks in the pavement with a tattered sneaker, gather the shriveled grass that eeks out its existence where the sidewalk meets the street.
we get lost coming back - turn down 10th and run into an overturned tank, reroute to 22nd 'til the river runneth over and soaks our only socks. take a left no a right down congress until the fallen trees are too familiar, until the bricks that lie at our feet shout of warm nights under blanket covers, coarse meal that filled our bellies, rich spices that dusted away the undertones. playing tag down the sidewalk with the neighborhood crew - aoife and trini and ambrose and oryza. ma's loud laughter. mom's strong hugs.
"ade," i say, softly but firmly. "we can't be here."
but i take his hand anyway as we stand at the precipice, overlooking the past.
"we could've taken back this street. if we-"
"not streets anymore. now they're just spiderwebs." networks, leading back to the queen.
he is quiet. jabberjays perch on the windowsills, and my mouth turns to obsidian.
