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    Love Stories on the River

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    Love Stories on the River Empty Love Stories on the River

    Post by ~Dylan Battle~ on Fri Jan 25, 2019 8:25 am

    Chapter One: The Chapter is not Important


    I want to say that I lived.

    I lived to do things that no other person could ever do, and maybe it wasn’t the best, not even exactly subpar to what I could’ve done, but hey, it was enough.

    I lived where the sunlight liked to sleep, away in hidden hills, tucked behind the walls of trees so ancient they knew Christ before he had hair on his lips. I lived to see and realize things that others couldn’t have even dreamed of seeing.

    And yes, I could’ve done more. But I did just enough.

    Now, if I had to lie and ask myself, what would your one great love story be? Well, it’d probably involve drugs, something with tattoos, some poetry written on a napkin, and some really good, very brave, very sappy fiction.

    And his name would be something interesting and offbeat, something warm on the lips and cold to the touch but left you always wanting more. Always wanting something greater than there could ever be on this small, picturesque planet.

    Something beyond the trees, beyond the smell of woods and pavement and burning smoke, beyond tasteless food and fairytales and black clothing.

    Ugh, yes, something beyond that.

    That’s the best of love stories, the love story you have right before you die.





    “Amery, listen to me, I’m not gonna say it again, you copy off of my homework one more time and I’ll incur the wrath of the ancients and curse your family down to the tenth generation!” I growled.

    Amery was a godly thing, golden crisp skin, golden hair, golden eyes, tattoos that sprawled from chest to toe, he dressed in light colors that killed whatever kind of threat he might’ve otherwise portrayed.

    He had this smell to him, like sugar cream and coffee, and it made his presence even more addictive, even when he was utterly repulsive.

    “Listen, Cotton, I’m not copying off your homework anymore than you just can’t keep your eyes off me, and you know it. We all know it.” He said smirking at me.

    I guffawed, “Peace be with you, I’ve never once laid eyes on you for longer than I could bare. And trust my heart when I say that I am foul to your moniker. Stinks up my nostrils like thick smoke and leaves me coughing thick until I can see past lives.”

    He laughed, and turned his eyes towards the front of the classroom where the teacher had just walked in. He looked tired, however still excited, like when you’re coming into your driveway after a long trip. He plopped down his things on the desk and clapped his hands, bringing the entire room to his attention.

    “No need in wasting time, gentle giants! Whose presentation shall we start off this long hour to?”

    Behind me came his voice, “Good sir, if you please. I’d like to present my findings before the devil comes knocking at my door. I’ve drank too much fizzy pop.”

    The class laughed, not I.

    The teacher smiled at him, motioning him up to the front of the class. “Then be a pleasure to the class and find yourself familiar.”

    Amery made his way up to the front of the room with applause from the students, nothing I’d ever seen before. He was a sorcerer unlike any other, able to cast spells upon the common folk without much of a twisting of fingers.

    “Gentle folk, my given name is Amery Talimaris, and I’d like to present to you my research project on Love Stories.” He said.

    Could it be, the red hooved thing disguised as Christ himself, talking up a storm about love stories? Boys of his stature loved their little dances with poetry, maybe even music, but love stories? The butter bean didn’t know his right hand from his left hand and yet still, true to his word, his lips rang soft the tails of Isaiah Roel, the pioneer of our love language.

    “The inventor of river poetry, Isaiah Roel, fixed up a language so tickling and sweet to the ear that it found itself familiar and deep sung in the hearts of gentle English talkers all across the land. Before his time there was talk of many different dialects, some of the polite southerners and some of the posh British, some talk of Canadians and Midwesterners, all of different speak. But time came when the governments changed, and so did so the talk of the century. Our grandgrands and their children found themselves in love with Roel’s love stories, written in River Talk, a talk he said he found true after spending an evening with the Lord’s daughter, in a gentle creek just outside of border lines.” He said.

    He started the presentation on the monitor, a poem appearing before us in red background and white text.

    “One of his first and lesser known poems is called Brilliant Form, where he talks about his time as a young one on the Isles of Manhattan. He spent many years alone with himself, a cloud of depression attached by silver chord above his head. While it sucked away many beautiful emotions and made his younger days a living grey mare, he loved the way it brought out his poetic and artistic spirit. I shall read aloud.”

    Brilliant Form, forth Isaiah Roel

    Children live longer
    In the glistening nights of my town
    They have play in dirty streets
    Red farrows of imagination grew up with them
    Drifting away in unseen moonlight
    Many of these loud noises
    Rang a godspell that brought to light
    A good fortune in me
    When the plays of the Broadway
    And the lights of Harlem went away
    A brilliant form emerged from street light
    There from stardust she rang
    In me I found something very tickling
    A thick ground cinnamon delight of energy
    With her glistening golden hair
    And high browned eyes
    She showed me good tellings of tomorrow
    Through a gentle spell of chemical
    And with no much glance did I see
    A world awake in the day as much as it is
    In unseen moonlight
    Beaten down to its purest substance
    I saw a utopia
    Where love was never ending
    And everyone sang and laughed
    In brilliant form
    Long long from now
    Long long from here I was
    For a night after the stars burned out
    And I sat cold on dirty streets
    Watching children play with red farrows
    Of imagination
    Did a dove in brilliant form come down
    And bless me with the words of a divine
    That sound supple symphony
    Washed away my sins
    And brought brilliant light
    Into my world

    “So what is the takeaway, Amery?” Said the Teacher.

    “Happy you asked, it’s a talk of drugs.”

    The class laughed.

    Amery grinned but never swayed from his speech. “Yet he somehow divines his entire future. Nay, the future of the entire world. And in such a simple poem does he convey a world of beauty experienced through his heartbreak and depression.”

    “And what of Brilliant Form?” Asked Teacher.

    “It’s a way of stating perfection, it’s been diagnosed that Roel was talking about a drag queen in his poem. But not only that, he had never seen someone like that before in his young life. Hence the way he speaks of her like a goddess, divide that by the fact that he wants to aid the reader in seeing that this is a sort of messenger from the Divine.” Amery says.

    “And how does this fit into Roel’s Love Stories?” I asked.

    He turned to me. “Better to raise your hand than to speak out of turn, Lord.”

    I rolled my eyes and raised my hand.

    He looked around the class, avoiding me. And then after a spell he turned and pointed.

    “You in the yellow garment.” He said.

    “Brilliant Form was written close to the Invasion of New York, yet we don’t hear anything by Roel until the after the Camerican Renaissance, why does Brilliant Form correlate with his Love Stories when Roel never published anything until then? This is like looking at Michaelangelo’s chalkwork before he learned to paint in three dimensions.” I asked again.

    “Because it’s important. You wouldn’t fly without knowing how to land and you would drive with a blindfold on, this poem- which is explicitly left out of the Edens Unending explains why he is the way he is. Truly if you were half the poet Roel was you would know that without question-”

    “Lord Talimaris.” Bellowed the Teacher. “Rudeness will not be tolerated no matter how extensive your knowledge in Modern Poetry is.”

    He turned and bowed to the Teacher in grace. Never letting go of his dastardly smile.

    He turned to me. “Apologies Cotton, sometimes I get riled up.”




    After a time, many of the students finished their presentations, and before my time had come the bell had rung and the teacher declared a second day to the unfortunate group that I was apart of.

    I zipped up my scriptures and pencils and made a b-line for the door, but before I could get my big toe across the threshold I heard a boy’s call from behind my figure. Turning to see him, I was amazed, how proud he must have been, to say my name in it’s true form, as if he knew me well.

    “Nola Ryse Cotton. May I take a minute from your hour?” Called Amery.

    I smirked at him viciously as the children bumped into me, parading themselves out of the corridor, and though I thought it good to speak my curses directly to him, I was raised proper.

    I lady should consult the Spirits before dancing with devils.

    So I walked steadfast, high and mighty, down that hallway. But I was not alone.

    He followed, the sound of his pardons egging me to turn around and smack the Ten Commandments right into his chiseled cheek.

    “Pardon, Miss Cotton!” He called.

    There was no exit.

    I turned to him, my eyes filled with red fire. “Better be quick.”

    “I know you hate Roel.” He admitted.

    “Pardon?”

    “Oh, am I rose-eyed? Pardon me, you referred to Roel like he was toddler still getting swaddled in the cloth.”

    “Keep your words still.” I breathed in heavy. “I never said he wasn’t talented.”

    “You didn’t have to say anything, Miss Cotton-”

    “What do you want, Mister Talimaris? I’ve got Roman Art in a godspell to get to before the good aprons are taken.”

    “You’re very pretty.”

    My eyes blinked wild.

    Had he caught the Queen off-guard?

    His cheeks filled rose. His eyes dancing around my figure, trying not to catch my prying (yet dazed and confused) gaze.

    I shifted my weight. “Elaborate, Lord.”

    “I think you’re a quick snipper-”

    “Pardon-”

    “But you’re gifted, a talented artist, and you’re soft on the eyes. You’re always helping out the slow readers, I always see you outside school in reading with them. I think that’s very philanthropic. Now, I know you and I don’t get along well-”

    “Like a quill in an alligator nest.”

    He giggled. “Aye, like that.”

    He unshouldered his satchel and reached into it. Pulling out a sealed letter.

    “I know you’re the outspoken type. But my father’s returning from colonies soon, and we’re holding a formal party for him. With all the generals and bougerours. I think you’d get along well with them.”

    I snatched the invitation. “What cause I’m a Archivist’s daughter?”

    He nodded. “That . . . and the fact that you don’t seem to fear anything big. You’re like Joan of the Arc.”

    I wanted to frown.

    Heaven’s above I wanted to frown.

    But I didn’t.

    I stared down at the invitation, then back up into his honeywell eyes.

    There was a moments silence in between us.

    “How do you know I’m straight?” I asked quick.

    “You have a renaissance painting of Adonis on your cellular.”

    "I could be an art appraiser."

    "You're in secondary school, Lord."

    I pursed my lips and nodded. “Fair point.”

    I checked my watch. “Damn the green, I’m tardy.”

    “So is it a yes or no?”

    “It’s a maybe.”

    He smiled.

    Damn that smile.

    “Carry on then, Lord. I’ll see you in Maths.”

    “Whatever, King.” I spat back.

    I turned, ducking out of view, clutching the invitation to close to my chest.

    Damn the green, I hate love stories.

    Especially those that take place on the river.

    _________________
    Love Stories on the River 64008dfad6ce0340d7c7f4b4bda49998
    "So tell me, about your friends. Those ones that . . . made you better or worse."
    ~Dylan Battle~
    ~Dylan Battle~
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    Love Stories on the River Empty Re: Love Stories on the River

    Post by ~Dylan Battle~ on Thu Feb 07, 2019 4:02 pm

    Chapter 2: An Artist Party

    “I don’t like space. Never thought twice about disappearing off of Mother Earth for more than sharp spell. Tell me, does your daddy leave home as much as mine does?” Said Epoch, before preciously sucking in a sugar cigarette.

    I turned to him, my back leaned against the bark of an Sycamore.

    “Never crossed my mind. Says there’s work farther out there, they speak different tongues up there, in the clouds. Especially in the Arkham district.”

    “The habitat circling Saturn?”

    “Aye.” I sniffed. “The parks there are grand scale, they say the cherry trees grow red and golden leaves with the nutrients they been fed. Artificial beaches, prolonged life. A luxury vehicle, god’s honest.”

    “You fixin’ to go?”

    “Gentle no.” I said, ripping up grass by the roots.

    He turned to me, staring harkingly into my soul. “But you’re going to go . . . what with your father and all.”

    “He’d smile grand if I did, the Archivist’s daughter, fit for to study in the colonies.”

    “What devils keep you from it?”

    “Little ones. I like the grass here, and the natural air, and the natural gods. Here there’s an illusion but it’s finite. Earth was made from something higher than us, with gentle fingers and a grand design- but Arkham, no. That’s by mankind, and what mankind is good at is destruction, and I don’t want to be destroyed, Enoch.”

    He nodded, looking up at the blue sky, grey clouds withered away in the hot sun, cooled down by breeze. We were taken along a journey with the wind, and though it’s sturn was a hard and stoic sway towards greatness, fear kept me doubting with the sinners.

    “You don’t have to be a poet, you know?” He said.

    I squinted my eyes. “Never wanted to be. I’m a storyteller, never been more than so.”

    “And you’ve got that gentle fire in you. Resting over cooling pits of ash, and had it not been for the Navy boy, you wouldn’t be using it’s magic. You’re talented, Cotton, a true wordsmith, and I think that poetry binds you to something alien to your nature.”

    “My nature?”

    “Your rules. They’ve never been defined. Always changing like rain into rising sun. Better a year ago, I would’ve been sinning if I said to you that you weren’t a gifted writer.”

    “Nobody writes anymore.”

    “Lies beneath me.” He lashed.

    I rolled my eyes and checked my watch. Almost close to fifteen. “I should get going.”

    “You don’t see it now, Major, but the second you step back and realize that this boy has just invited you into a world you could’ve never been otherwise, you’ll be proud of stepping into it. I know the Artists and Archivists don’t mix well anymore, however, you’re a special type of drink. Be it strong as hell and fit for a king’s men, but you’re good for the heart.”

    He gathered his things quickly, putting out his sugar cigarette. “Now bite your tongue and enjoy a day, because god forbid it be your last.”

    He went with the wind.

    And I stayed, laid back, dripping into the roots of the Sycamore, my uniform rubbing unevenly against the bark of the tree. I was speechless for once in my life.

    How far did this road go before it ended.

    Something was telling me I was going to find out, hard tail.




    “A general’s boy?” He repeated.

    “Yes sir, and he’s gotten straight marks all throughout secondary school. Takes Old English, Physiology, really intelligent young man.” I talked him up.

    My father stood tall, in crystal cline white boots and hand tailored body suit. He was always known for his statement pieces, high class, eloquence, it was something I did not carry naturally.

    “And why would this general’s boy be any good for you, young love? There are plenty of heirs looking for someone with half your candor. Please be gentle with considering these Artist-born individuals.”

    “He’s not just an artist-born, Father.”

    “Oh, tell me more.” He sat down behind the desk crossing his arms.

    I thought for a moment. Anything.

    “You’ve always taught me that education is of the utmost importance. That you can buy many things, but knowledge has to be earned. Well, tell me why it’s any different with this boy- whose name is Amery Talimaris.”

    “Talimaris? Of General Talimaris.”

    I shrugged in confusion.

    He thought for a moment. “It’s for the best that you take second thought in going, young love.”

    I guffawed. “Pardon?”

    “General Talimaris is a part of the Violet Brigade, they’ve been lobbying to take ill-prepared citizens off-world. To the Colonies and Beck.”

    “Ill-prepared?”

    “Non-educated commonfolk who don’t know the first thing about pioneering. Even his subordinates are second-base, I’m sure they’ve only ever learned their numbers and marching orders.”

    “This sounds very one-sided and patriarchal, Father.”

    He shakes his head. “You’re young, so you don’t understand. Everyone who embarks on the colonist journey is there to build something greater than could ever be built here. The best of the best, whether that be physical or mental. It’s expected that they’ll intermingle, and produce offspring which will embark on longer journeys, we can’t have the weaker people intermingling with our destiny, young love.”

    I waved his thoughts away. “I’m sure I’ll be able to judge that on my own volition. But not without weighing both sides. Arguing with me won’t help either, Father.”

    He smiled, and opened his watch to a holographic display. He tapped a few numbers into the watch, and then set another alarm.

    “You’re right about one thing, you’re stubborn, and the only way you’re going to learn anything is by experience.” He sighed.

    My watch blinked.

    “You should have enough for a dress, wear something white. Artist parties tend to have a dress code, don’t wear anything with an Archivist symbol on it, whether they like you there or not. And you must take Quiver with you.”

    “Father, Quiver won’t help me blend in, he’s a walking attraction.”

    “Whether you like it or not, there are many people out there who don’t take your best wishes to heart. Now hear me when I say there shall be no consumation-”

    “Ew, Father!”

    “I mean it! These boys are disgusting swine which roll around in their own dirt for play. Take your privilege and go, before I revoke it.”

    I nodded. “Thank you.”

    He waved me away, going back to work. “Be home before one.”




    On my body sat a walking white cream. Flowing down my figure in rivers of silk and satin. Glistening with crystals mined from the Lunar Colonies. I was wearing more than many pay for the trips off-world.

    In this mirror was a girl, dark hair, severally curly, laid down to the elbows. In my eyes I could see the darkest brews of coffee, and behind them sat a nervous and anxious demon. A demon who walked behind this girl and talked on and on about the Artists.

    Their a trivial group. Writing new art, breaking rules left and right. You know they like the Rougards? What kind of people like art criminals. I reckon they're just cowards, filled with jealousy, who can’t understand the appreciation of the Olde Arts.

    “Shut up.” I nashed.

    The door clicked open, and the voice went quiet.
    From the door peered a boy dressed in black, a roman tuxedo, coated in white laced. Diamond earrings, a honey brown complexion. His eyes, young but filled with history that I could see just through vision.

    “Duchess?” He said.

    I turned to look at him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

    “Aye, my lady, the vehicle’s ready for you.”

    “Quiver?”

    “Aye, my lady?”

    “What do you think about this dress? Do I look like an Artist?”

    He moved into the room, in full vision now. He was grande, and couldn’t be older than I but maybe a year. I had only known him for six young months.

    “It looks.” He stared.

    And stared.

    And stared.

    Then he blinked. “You look, like a Lady, ma’am.”

    I smiled. “That’s not the answer that I wanted but thank you.”

    “Of course.” He moved back to the door. “I’ll just be outside.”

    “Okay, dear.”

    I fixed my earrings, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

    As he closed the door, he peered one more time at me.

    And I knew that peer.

    I knew it well.

    I knew him.




    The door closes, and the boy stands next to me, quiet, staring out the dark tinted window, barely breathing.

    “We need to talk.” I blurted.

    He looked at me, wide eyed. “Of course, my lady.”

    “You know, relationships between people like us never work.”

    “Pardon?”

    “I know, you fancy me. Never out loud, but it shows. Don’t get me wrong, you’re extremely good looking but, I mean my Father is sponsoring your scholarship. And I’m not in the courting mood.”

    “Then what do you call this . . . outing that we’re going to?”

    I hesitated. “It’s an intellectual field trip.”

    He subdued a laugh. “Aye, my lady. You don’t fancy this boy?”

    “Let’s not use those words-”

    “But you’re the one who just said, ‘I know you fancy me.’”

    “I understand, however-”

    “I think you’re very beautiful, my lady. But to think anything more would be unethical.”

    I crossed my arms. “Unethical.”

    “Pardon the language, but you’re not exactly my type.”

    “And what is your ‘type’?”

    “Girls who know my name.”

    I gave a confused glance. “Quiver isn’t your name?”

    He grinned a handsome grin. “No.”

    “What is it then?”

    He reserved himself, closing his lips and dropping his smile, never looking at me again for a good spell.

    I egged him on. “You have to tell me now.”

    “Better to not get you confused-”

    “No . . . tell me.”

    He sighed, looking at his fingers, which were fiddling with each other.

    “It’s Romance.”

    I giggled. “Really?”

    He clenched his jaw.

    I took a moment, holding my smile away. “It’s nice to meet you, Romance.”

    He looked up at me, for the first time,right into my eyes. “You as well, my lady.”

    “I hope you like sugar cigarettes.” I opened my clutch. Taking out two sticks.

    I handed one to him, but he hesitated.

    “It’s just sugar and caffeine mixed with a little bitter alcohol.”

    He took it.

    I brought a heat lighter up to my lips and lit it.

    I patted the seat next to me, and he glanced back at it like it was a trap.

    I grinned. “I promise you I’m not a biter.”

    He moved seats next to me, and I lit his sugar for him. He smelled like a cheap cologne, weak and almost too synthetic, but it was undertoned by his natural scent.

    He took one puffed and coughed. “Just sugar aye?”

    “Sometimes.”

    His eyes lit up. “What do you mean sometimes?”

    I laughed. “I’m joking, I’m joking. I only have the originals right now.”

    We relaxed, our bodies becoming a little less tight. I could feel the pull of the engine fading as we began our descent down a speed tunnel.

    “Tell me your story.” I asked him.

    He sighed. “I don’t have a story.”

    “Everyone does. So tell me yours. Don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m quite the collector.”

    He giggled a little at the weak joke. “Okay.”

    He was born in Camerica, near Toronto, about nineteen years ago. His mother and father were both politicians, working under the Prime Minister at the time. They were deeply involved with the Archivist movement, and helped set up cabinets within the Northern American government before dying by the hands of Rougards, rebel fighters and activists that work against both the Archivists and the Artist parties.

    He says that he doesn’t understand the divide between the two. The Archivists, seeing that only the best and the brightest should be revered, and anything below that is just waste, are misguided in the fact that some of the most unrecognized innovations are indeed the best.

    He doesn’t care much for the Artists, either, their laws and customs provoke him. He likes the way they think, but the way they act is a bitter thought. His first love was an Artist, and he remembers her forging documents so that an Archivist girl couldn’t get the scholarship she needed to leave the planet.

    He doesn’t think the world is dying. He thinks it’s evolving, and with the rest of the world fighting over who gets to jump ship and who stays, he thinks time will tell all.

    Time.

    He uses that word a lot.

    His family pulled strings with the Cottons to get him a scholarship to Arkham, in exchange, his time spent here would be spent on me. Doing whatever I want, as the contract entails. However, he never really signed anything.

    “Nothing at all?” I gasped.

    He shook his head. “Not even a fingerprint.”

    He remarks that his family wasn’t close, like I to mine. That there were times when he’d lie awake and overhear his aunt trying to find a way to send him off. Taking up space, he called it.

    I grabbed his hand for a moment.

    That moment didn’t last long, he pulled away.

    “I’m coming with you, to Arkham. However, I don’t think that you’ll want to be around me by the time you settle into your life in the Row, and I in the Underguard.”

    “You want to be a scientist?”

    He nodded.

    I smiled.

    “Aye, I think you’d be well among friends.”

    He peered at me, words forming on his lips before he ordered them out.

    “Might I ask,” He said. “What your name is?”

    I fluttered my eyes. “Brave question.”

    His face flushed with worry for a moment. He knew he stepped over a line.

    But I didn’t mind it.

    “My name is Nola.”

    He let out a breath, relieved. “Nice to meet you, Nola.”

    “Likewise.”



    Romance handed me a green apple martini as I counted the number of people in the room.

    The boy was incredibly stealthy, tending to my needs and then disappearing before I could remember him every being present. He was a ghost in his own chapter, and yet I think that’s what intrigued me the most about him.

    I turned my head, and there the golden boy stood, dressed in royal blue fabric, hair pulled back and tied neatly, all of his tattoos and body art had been covered with either cloth or jewelry. His piercings seemingly nonexistent as he stood there, glimpsing me from only a few feet away.

    “Is that the artist boy?” Romance asked.

    He was loud in my ear, a call away by bluetooth.

    “Not that it’s any of your business, aye, it’s him.” I mumbled.

    I turned to look for Romance, who stood along a wall, like a stone statue, he blended well with the guards which walked the perimeter of the noble filled room.

    “Let me know if he’s any trouble.” He whispered.

    Amery walked towards me, grinning, a swagger in his step. As if he coming to collect something which he had won in a shooting contest.

    “Hush, Quiver.”

    “Cotton, I’m pleased to see that you accepted my invitation.” Amery cooed. He looked me up and down, either being astonished by how well I cleaned up, or surprised at an Archivist in Artist clothing.

    “Is something on my dress?” I asked.

    “Nay, you look ravishing. Cream white, how expensive was that dress?’

    “Not as expensive as that question, Talimaris. Are you going to introduce me to your friends so that I can depart? I thought Artist parties were supposed to be-”

    “Elaborate and flamboyant.”

    I shrugged. “Well . . . aye.”

    He extended his hand in invitation. “Well the night is still early, Archivist. Like a fine wine, this is a thing that ages well.”

    I looked hesitant at his hand. “Can I trust you?”

    He grinned devilishly. “Never. However, it should comfort you in knowing that I’m never wrong.”

    I laughed, grabbing his hand.

    I turned to Romance as Talimaris lead me away, his brown eyes stared at me, eyeing my figure as I walked farther from him. He looked away for a moment.

    “Be careful, my lady. Artists are notorious for their sleight of hand.”

    I chuckled. Talimaris quickly turned his head to me, giving me a confused glance.

    “I’m sorry, I think the alcohol is doing it’s work.” I lied.

    “Well we’ve only a few more minutes time before up is down then.” He replied.

    We left the hall of adults and changed scene into a room with holographic walls, walls which changed from vivid art piece to vivid scenery. Talking and laughing in this walking tesseract were many youths. Some of them dressed to the nines in expensive hand tailored clothing, others more humbly dressed in synthetic fabrics.

    All of them, seemingly painted to perfection.

    “They’re all so gorgeous.” I whispered to Talimaris.

    I touched the right side of my temple, and felt a buzz zip through my frontal lobe. A blue light appeared in the corner of my vision. Romance was now able to see what I was viewing.

    Incredible, are those Genetics?

    “They’re genetics,” Talimaris answered, “Some of them are Naturals, but most of them are Genetics.”

    I stared at a girl with neon blue hair that laid flat against her back, flowing far down to her calves. On her cheeks sat glowing freckles, and her eyes a deep and enhanced blue, her eyebrows a platinum blonde.

    The boy next to her looked even more incredible, his pupils were unnaturally oval, like serpents, and when he smiled, you could see sharp fangs point out of his lips. His skin was a shiny satchel brown, and tattoos (which moved like ocean waves) covered every inch of his figure.

    “Artist-born?” I asked.

    “The Genetics are like walking masterpieces. Friends of my fathers go incredibly insane detailing every inch of their creations. I guess the brush and canvas can get a bit tiring after a while.”

    “Aren’t they . . . you know, illegal on Earth?” I whispered.

    He giggled. “They have their own little worlds, just like you and I. Sometimes they overlap, like here, at an Artist party.”

    Oh, no. Rougards.

    “If it isn’t little Talimaris in flesh!” Called a loud, Martian voice.

    I turned to see a foreign looking thing. Blonde curly hair that contrasted deeply with his copper red skin, pale blue eyes with long lashes and thick eyebrows. Heart shaped plump lips, freckles that peppered his face like the rocks of his home planet. Dressed from head to toe in synthetic leather and fur. I hadn’t seen many like him before.

    “Ikano, this is Lady Cotton, Duchess of North Camerica.” Talimaris introduced me.

    I shook his hand, soft to the touch. Just like I thought.

    “Camerican? You must be from the Archive, interesting seeing one of you in the flesh.” He said, lackluster.

    “Pardon, I’m going off on a dog’s leg, are you Martian?” I asked.

    Talimaris squinted his eyes at me in confoundery.

    Ikano grinned, his teeth were toxically white. “Born and raised. I’m from the Iman State. North of the Mariana.”

    “Imanese, I knew I heard that accent well.” I grinned.

    “I’ve never seen someone with so many laser-cut lunar crystals before. Wait- no, Ri’Li had a handsome collection of crowns that he purchased on St. Lucas, nevermind.”

    “You know Ri-Li, the Ri-Li?” I hyperventilated.

    “Good friend of my uncle’s, his husband used to run trades with Iman before the Golden Crusade.”

    “I’ve been trying to get him Earth-side for years. Even went as far as inviting him to my Igante Ceremony.”

    “You don’t strike me as religious.”

    “I get that from many people.”

    “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure that I can send in a good word for you. Maybe he can make you a beautiful gown for your ceremony. When is it, might I ask?”

    “July twenty-first.”

    Ikano nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

    He reached out his arm, and his wrist lit up green, I tapped my finger on his palm, and immediately transferred my contact information.

    He turned to Talimaris. “If you’ll excuse me, one of the Naturals here looks a bit too drunk and I cannot have him messing up your gallery, now can I?”

    Ikano wipes off dust from Talimaris’ shoulder and walks away.

    I grin at Talimaris. “This is your gallery?”

    He sighed. “It’s an attempt at one, aye.”

    “Why didn’t you tell me? Here I was thinking that I was just supposed to be arm candy, you wanted my opinion-”

    “No I don’t-”

    “Yes, you do-”

    “I really don’t.”

    I surrendered, grinning. “Fine, young man. But on behalf of everyone in this room with good taste, I love it. I feel like I’m walking in a memory. A really natural and beautiful designed memory.”

    He looked at me, not like he had ever done before, but like a new heaven had opened up in front of him. His smile, inching only a step higher than it had ever gone before, his eyes smiling with it. He moved, a tad bit closer to me, and for once I didn’t mind, for once there was no tension between us, just a simple pull.

    A pull that brought us closer.

    And closer.

    And closer.

    Until-

    “We should meet some more of my friends, my lady.”

    I breathed in and let out. “Yes. And maybe we can look at some more of your artwork as well.”

    He nodded, “Yes, after all, this is an Artist party.”

    _________________
    Love Stories on the River 64008dfad6ce0340d7c7f4b4bda49998
    "So tell me, about your friends. Those ones that . . . made you better or worse."
    ~Dylan Battle~
    ~Dylan Battle~
    Adept Creator
    Adept Creator

    Join date : 2013-12-08
    Posts : 693
    Age : 20
    Location : Los Angeles

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