CiCi-Arts

Moving out to the sticks wasn’t exactly what Persephone Black wanted. If she had it her way, she’d still be living in Chicago. Of course, her father had other plans. Persephone sat in AP Physics 2, playing with the peeling bat and skull stickers on her binder, almost glad to be at school. It was a place that felt oddly cathartic, as crazy as that sounded. Though she didn’t know anyone and sat in an unfamiliar place, she could breathe without being surrounded by boxes and boxes of crap. She instead distracted herself with schoolwork, not once needing to cross paths with ‘drill sergeant’ Dad, Ronald. Ever-invasive

“Vitals on the Project?” He heard it again. Voices. Sometimes, he couldn’t separate them from his own sparse thoughts and memories. Things mostly replayed in his mind, however. These voices were new. “Blood pressure, heart rate, breathing, and temperature all normal.” “It’s been steady for 50 years, you’d think we wouldn’t need to keep checking on it.” All those voices — agreeing, naysaying — he’d never heard them before. A sudden awareness of wet fur and quills crept up on his skin. Burning liquid filtered into his lungs, keeping him alive. Yet, he knew he needn

     It was difficult for Handwing to understand why he did the things he did. He often didn’t know why he had neither the ambition nor the motivation to change and plodded through life with a perpetually bitter expression because of it. Smoke flowed from his mouth and nose in an attempt to cloud his dizzying thoughts, to ignore the growing knot in his stomach left by acrimonious actions. It was how he’d spent his whole life, with one step forward and several steps back. He snubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, wondering how it seemed the only thing he could manage to do properly was get high — really high.