Collab Teaser: Landing (Chill Part 1)

This is my first written part for my latest project, a collaborative writing project for NaNoWriMo and #MakeWatchingWritingGlamorous. The full series of posts will be posted on DreamCollectivelier.blogspot.com starting on November 1.
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Chill stepped out of the bay of The Riffle, his hands shuffling through a floating faro, in honor of the ship. It was his favorite method of working the cards in idle moments, keeping his hand busy and fingers limber. They were thin and wiry, just like the rest of him, and his favorite deck danced obediently beneath their touch.

The gravity here on Three was a little heavier than he was used to, growing up on the moons of Seven. Both were planets in the Cups System, Three was itself habitable while Seven was not. Though he'd lived under domes and with the sky filled with the bulk of a planet most of his life, he didn't feel agoraphobic in this wide blue and empty sky.

He took a deep breath of the new atmosphere. It smelled of sweat and smog, and he immediately sneezed violently, knocking himself backward a few steps into the couple disembarking behind him. With understanding looks on their faces, they helped him steady himself, and then handed him a spare sanitary mask; they both wore one as well.

"First time on a new planet? Don't worry dear, happens to everyone. Here you go, it'll help you adjust. Go ahead, we're old hat at this."

"Thanks," Chill mumbled, quickly scooping up his dropped cards into one jumbled mess and stepped out of the way of the gate. He took a few moments to sort them out while he watched other passengers walk by, ardently counting their number and ensuring they were all there.

All seventy nine cards were present, and he let out a sigh of relief. He pulled out the card bag from his pocket, stuffed them inside and both back into the pocket, rolled his shoulders, then went in search of something to eat.

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All available parts of this storyline can be found here, starting on November 1.

Ment

A word to the whisperer
Is not a word to the wise,
It's taken my wishes
And left only flies

A cloud of shadow settles
Over my hope
And all I can think of
Is a clenching rope.

Pills made of money,
Homeopathy of the soul;
Keep making promises
To fill gaping holes

But break the word
That you never gave...
I've fallen from grace
And hit the pave...

Patience

This is a promotional piece for my upcoming collaborative work, which will become available Nov 1 on DreamCollectivelier.
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sitting by the roadside,
letting them all see,
what the homeless life is like,
what they won't want to be;

sitting behind my table,
watching the crowds pass by,
knowing one will come
open his mind to my

gift that curses me,
curse that runs this life,
keeps me out of work,
keeps me paying the price.

sitting by these people
who see less than I,
they are the best of what they can,
and watch the world pass them by.

S^4. Character: Jackson Phillip

Jackson Phillip was a skeptic. He didn't believe in many things, but he didn't not believe in anything.

He was plain to look at, medium height, a little thin, and had medium brown hair that was always pulled back into a stubby ponytail. He tended to wear neutral colors and was used to people looking over him without seeing him.

He also hated his name. People frequently reversed his names, thinking Phillip was his first name and Jackson his last. It made him angry when they did it repeatedly, but as he was the sort of person people tended to forget about, it happened often. He never lashed out, only quietly seethed, plotting various revenge scenarios in his head that never were acted on.

Phillip Jackson didn't speak much, didn't walk loudly, and didn't like drawing attention to himself. He didn't care for the company of others but would put up with them when he had to. His ideal jobs were data entry, overnight stocker, and cart pusher, in that order.

In his free time he wrote summaries for a think tank, simplify their ideas into a streamlined, presentable shape. He never participated in their brainstorming sessions, though he dearly wanted to. He received their data online and submitted it online, never meeting any of the members face-to-face, hearing their voices, or knowing their real names.

S^4, Character: Mr Schill

The Sundae Special Shopping Center was Mr Schill's baby. He pampered it. He helped it grow. And he bought out all of the other investors until he owned it in full. He was a bean counter and amateur accountant, and liked to keep his eye on everything.

Mr Schill joined the party after Charlemagne had been hired, and didn't like Charlemagne one bit. However, attempts to hire someone to replace him had countlessly failed.

He was a short, thin man with piercing blue eyes that peered out through his dark, tortoise shell rimmed glasses. He tended to walk like he owned the place, with a sense of purpose, even when he had simply wandered there.

He didn't know all the back hallways and service tunnels to the facility, and had a terrible sense of direction, but refused to ever ask for directions. He once ended up in a dry sewage tunnel several blocks away.

Mr Schill was an egotist, a narcissist, and an atheist. He didn't believe in anything supernatural, even if it was staring him right in the face; he excelled at logically justifying everything. He didn't believe in God, heaven or hell, ghosts, spirits, angels, devils, fate or destiny, or time travel.

S^4, Character: Charlemagne

Charlemagne didn't like new people. He actually didn't like any people at all, but held his dislike especially true for new people. He worked as the Lead Cart Shepard at the Sundae Special Shopping Center, and that suited him just fine.

It was funny, calling him the "Lead" Cart Shepard when he was the only Cart Shepard employed by the Sundae Special Shopping Center, but he didn't feel disillusioned by the unnecessary word. He knew what he was, under-appreciated and over-needed, a mere cart-pusher all the same.

To be honest, he frightened the patrons of the shopping center, but he was so good at his job, despite his appearance, strange behaviors, and absolute refusal to follow the dresscode, management left him be.

Charlemagne wore his long hair dyed black and brushed forward, obscuring most of his face and his ears which were weighed down by heavy metal studs. He always wore black, cargo pants and long-sleeved shirts, regardless of the weather. He wore a large silver gothic cross around his neck, which served as the only reflection for cars easing out of the parking lot as night.

Regular patrons learned quickly to be cautious of him. Close calls when backing out of parking spaces were met, first with a heavy fist thumping the back of their car in warning, and later with cart dings and scratches. Charlemagne was never prosecuted for the damages, as the carts could be tracked on security cameras, rolling sedately toward the victims of their own accord.

It was said the carts were haunted.

Interpretation: No Chocolate Candies (Mature)

Original post: No Chocolate Candies (Mature)

you're more fucked up than I am,
so how could I want you back;
for midnight all-night chats,
nothing wrong, nothing broken, nothing black...



It's not so much wanting the relationship (as I have been falsely accused of previously), but wanting the midnight and all-night chat sessions, where there's nothing "wrong" or "broken" or off-limits ("black") between us.

you've more ghosts than I,
but at least as haunted inside;
ghosts who keeping pulling us off track,
nothing matters, nothing's fine, nothing lies...



She's more reason and more issues than I, but we both seem to have similar responses to some of them, and similar turmoil inside our heads. "Nothing lies" is a lie in and of itself, the voices in our heads beating us up and beating us down, something we have to consistently wrestle with.

you're more welcome than I am,
bigger crowds cheering you on;
more commission made from your work,
and still you thanked me for that dawn...

Despite both of our issues, she finds it easier to make and keep friends than I do, to form alliances and audiences for her work, and through those, more income. "Thanked me for that dawn" is more applicable with respect to the next stanza.

for bringing you to that world,
for something I didn't do,
for em em, em em, em eff eff,
and where I fell you flew...

The third line is a poor attempt at filling in sufficient beats for the rhythm, and a slight disguise of "MFF," which is what I was thanked for, not too long ago at my sister's wedding. Our attendance to Midwest Furfest one year was intended to benefit us both, but didn't. The title itself also refers to this line, communicating that I'm not talking about the popular chocolate candies.