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Ouroboros Snippybit - Family"Oh, my god."
"Oh...My god. Jackie?"
No. No. No. If there is a god in this world who still gives a damn about mortals...Please, please let this be a dream.
Jackson knew that voice. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that he could never again hear it in good conscience. The pitch was different, lower. It had had almost twenty years to mature, after all. But he could still recognize it.
The voice of his half-sister.
On a crowded street, in the city a day's drive from where they'd spent most of their childhood was the last place he expected to have a family reunion. He hadn't expected to have a family reunion at all - or at least not one that he would be involved in - any way.
They all thought he was dead. They had buried a body.
He couldn't just slip away. Even if he let himself get lost in the crowd, she would find him. He felt a presence alongside her. A tiny form reliving memories over and over like a home video player. He drew in a breath and
Not nearly drunk enough for thisShe is the hallow branches of withered trees and she is the buds that grow anew upon them
She is the smoke in a crowded room and the breath against a neck shuddering in ecstasy
I am the leg the wild dog chewed off to escape from a trap
I am the drops of rain on a leaking roof
Silence races through our veins and out our mouths even as articulations force their way through the air around us
And we are helpless against the promontory accusations of those who know better than us
And to those who know - I know
They are written colors and words with no meaning and they are shapeless images seen in the paralysis of midnight
They are lights dancing in air too thin to breathe but not too thin to exist within
But what better way to dance than to feel lies seeping in through the cracks in your soul
You are not concrete and you are not diamond and you are cracked
And you are ruined and that is not anything you should be afraid or ashamed of
Rivulets of imperfection straining out fallow water that
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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