Introductions: Space and Time

Space: 1972

Starman

The tall, thin man woke in the middle of the night, cold. It wasn’t an ordinary cold. It was the sort of cold he felt under the gaze of a thousand stars. He sat up in bed, the covers bunching at his hips. His wife made small, soft noises and tugged at his shirt.

“I’m just getting a drink, Angie.” the man stood and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, slipping a pair of shoes on and grabbing a bath towel from the wall hook.

His feet had memorized the walkthrough of his home. Even in the pitch black, he didn’t stick his arms out in front of him. He didn’t slip. His knees didn’t thump the walls. The tall man went past the restroom and down the hall, humming the strains of a song he didn’t know.

He found himself on the small balcony outside, staring up at a clear and moonlit January sky. His arms prickled with gooseflesh as he looked up.

Space was clear as ever.

The song he’d been humming, the one he didn’t know, became louder in his mind. His numbing fingers tapped out the beat on the banister.

The quality of light changed around him. The air took on a purplish-dark hue, the color of a white light shining through black-dye cloth. Streaks of blue rippled through the sky above as the stars grew bigger and brighter, orbs of white and red and even sparkling gold.

He stretched a hand out toward the sky. Someone took it.

The tall man walked back and seemed to pull a being of the night sky out of the ether. The newcomer hovered a few feet above the balcony, smiling down with teeth like packed stardust, bright against his deep indigo skin. His cloak reached all the way to the floor of the outcropping in folds and nebulous swirls of outer-space light, the spiked helm on his shoulders weighing it to his body, and his sunglasses--yes, sunglasses--reflected all of space in their aspect. A cloud of white hair floated against the young man’s (or woman’s?) head like a storm on the surface of Jupiter.

It took a moment for the tall man to recognize the newcomer, but he beamed when he did. “Starman?” he asked, one side of his mouth quirking up.

“That’d be me,” said Starman, otherwise known as Space. “How’ve you been, Dave?”

“I’ve been alright,” said Dave, shrugging, “never really thought I’d see you again.”

“Neither did I. Time and Mind are going to kill me for visiting. It’s been three years in your time since I last saw you.” Space’s ethereal face softened.

“Tell them I said hello.”

“I will.”

There was a long silence. The two stood together, looking up at the endless sea of burning stars and long-dead ghosts of light. Space took David’s hand for a moment.

David stiffened just the slightest bit, then sighed, patting Space’s hand with two fingers. Space kicked his feet in the air and sighed with a sound like a distant star breaking.

“I know, David. I know I can’t come back. So… I brought you a gift. Hope you enjoy.”

The song that had been coiled at the back of David’s mind for a week sprung and filled his head. The tall man laughed aloud when he heard the lyrics.

“It’s called Starman? That seems a bit egotistical.” teased David. Space’s skin tinged with blue-white light; it almost looked like he was blushing.

“I’ll be going now, David.” said Space. David sagged a bit, nodding. Space squeezed David’s hand and stepped onto the balcony.

“See you on the other side.” said Space

“Goodbye.” said David.

And Space was gone, fading into a field of pocketed starlight. The stars looked dim and cold.

David went inside, humming the song he’d been given. Maybe he’d record it.

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Time: 1964

Mr. Gray

Mr. Gray would be found dead, Sunday, December 16th, 1964. He’d have four bullet wounds in his torso, one in his thigh, and be labelled John Doe by the morgue.

His funeral would be held on a gray, silent day hung by droplets of smooth rain pattering down upon the Earth. A priest from Northern Abbenville Church would stand under a tree, Bible in hand, saying a few words for the boy.

The morgue wouldn’t advertise his funeral; he wouldn’t even receive an obituary. Better to keep happenings like this out of the public eye of the town.

Yet one mourner, shrouded in shades of black and ebony-tinted blue, would stand vigil as his coffin was lowered into the Earth. The priest wouldn’t notice her; perhaps he wouldn’t even see her. She’d stand in robes across a thick, wool-like dress, skin spattered with rain. The coffin would be lowered and covered, and the men would walk away, chuckling to themselves about having to bury on a day like this.

The woman would stay and kneel by the halfhearted grave. The mud wouldn’t to stick to her dress. She’d smile down at the rock, tears in her eyes like thin blue glass.

“Isn’t it funny,” she’d say, “how you can be so sure that a person will always be just behind you, walking with you, and they aren’t? How you look back one day and they’ve left, simply dropped off the path?”

There was no reply. Time would bow her head.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all.” she’d tell him.

The rain would continue to patter down, washing away the fresh Earth over his grave. She’d know that Mr. Gray had been fighting that night to forget her, that if she hadn’t gone to Earth all those years ago and pulled his unconscious form from the gutter where he was sleeping that he would be alive.

He’d died with her name on his lips.

She would kiss the tombstone one last time and stretch out her hands, weaving a thread of magic through the rock.

She’d vanish, abruptly and with a sigh like his dying breath, into the mist, leaving only a cobalt blue rose in her wake.

Fifty years later, two men would enter the graveyard, smoking cigarettes and kicking at faded graves with leering grins on their lips. They’d find the smallest grave in the yard, with “John Gray” written across it in scrawling blue text, a patch of royal-blue roses growing at its base. After that, they’d turn around and leave, faces grim for a reason they didn’t know, the crawl of time slowing around them. They wouldn’t kick the grave of Mr. Gray.

Sorry Brook, I can’t join this. I just don’t have enough time to make my charrie. Sorry! But I hopefully will be reading.

Mind and Emotion: 1929

Tuesday

They should have seen it coming.

Mind tapped her toe at a rhythmic beat, exactly one tap per .75 of a second. She wore men’s clothes today, a finely tailored suit with perfect symmetry on both sides, better than any mortal could have made.

Mind heard the tap of shoes against the pavement before she saw her sibling. She readjusted her posture, standing flush to the building, and squinted out into the crowds on Times Square.

Emotion wasn’t hard to spot. Her hair was tied in a burst of scarlet at the side of her head. She wore an evening cocktail dress with tangled fringe like twisted scarlet vines, and two different tap shoes. One was golden, the other black and scuffed. She beamed at Mind, giving her a wave, and Mind cringed.

The girl stumbled, giggling, through the crowd and stopped next to Mind, leaning against the wall as though drunk. “Hey, M-Mind.”

“You’ve been hanging around with Chaos, haven’t you?” Mind said, pinching her brow. Emotion smirked.

“Guilty.”

“She’s a bad influence. Why are you here, Emotion?”

“You don’t think I want to drink this in?” Emotion said, smiling, twirling her arms in the air, “The shouting, the anger… it tastes like cinnamon.”

“Emotion, pull yourself together!” Mind hissed, taking her arm before she faceplanted, “This isn’t what you’re like. You’re a good person, alright? Just go home. I’ll take you-”

“NO!” Emotion shouted, loudly enough to startle the passers-by. She then devolved into giggles. Mind huffed and took her by the arm.

The shouting began. Emotion burst into laughter and tears as men ran toward a tall building, shouting about a crash. Mind swore and half-dragged Emotion away as her hair became unpinned, scattering around her shoulders.

“They’re so angry!” Emotion screamed, lurching out in front of a man who had tears in his eyes and a newspaper in his hand. “It’s all my fault!”

She lay on the ground and laughed, waving her arms as though making a snow angel. Mind took a step back, crossing her arms. She was shaken. Emotion wasn’t like this, even when she’d been with Chaos.

“Emotion? Please. We need to leave.”

Emotion sat up and let out a hiss, eyes scarlet. Mind jerked back, eyes darting between her sister’s clenched fists and wild hair.

“No. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving ever again.”

“Emotion!” Mind admonished. Emotion stood and began running into the crowds, hands outstretched. It began to rain. Mind cursed Nature and tried to follow Emotion.

“There’s going to be war, Mind!” Emotion shouted, “War and hate and atoms splitting!”

Mind shook her head. “Emotion, don’t be an idiot. Humans will use their minds to split the atom and make the bomb. That’s my domain. So is war, in a strategic way. Let’s leave.”

“Idiot, idiot, idiot!” Emotion sang in the middle of the street. “You’re the idiot. You’re the one who makes them create the bombs. I’m the one who makes them use them!”

And she ran, laughing, into the smog-filled streets of a terrified New York City.

That Tuesday would come to be known as Black Tuesday, one of the single worst stock market crashes in history.

Mind wouldn’t see Emotion again for almost 90 years.

I sadly wasn't able to join this, but I'm reading along, and it's really good!

I really wish I had seen this sooner... anyway, amazing writing, Brookeira! I love it!