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Table of Contents
Here we will put Magenta's secret crap.
Write, said the world
As you are parking the car in the terminal's parking lot, you get a phone call. Unknown number. There is noise on the other side as you answer. Sounds like a digital interference sort of thing, which is more something Dotan can imagine than something Magenta will note.
Then there is a monotonous voice. Sounds like a recording, but filtered. Stretched. The voice says “take out your notepad and start writing”. Then more noise and the call hangs up.
In the voice, scrambled as it is, you detect more than a slight lisp.
So I Write
Magenta parks the car, taps Derek on the shoulder and asks him to go fetch a trolley.
Derek gets out and wanders off, not really questioning why they need a baggage cart without any bags. He's blood-bonded to Magenta after all (since this night, I think), so if she says jump, he'll put on his tutu and leap.
Magenta grabs her bag, pulls out the moleskin and nib pen she picked up in an LAX stationary shop, and begins scribbling. She's not focusing on what exactly she's writing; she thinks of Smith, infuriating child(no e) that he is, crippled by his power. she thinks of O'Hara and Arafel, which the wolf which the fox, Derek and the burnt-out lab, Sisko and his spraying flowers, she thinks of the angle of the moon, and she writes.
But the World writes better
Angry thoughts rush through you while your hand quickly scribbles a few lines and then crosses them over, and then you write some more and cross it over (let me know what you scribble), but the very act of putting pen to paper calls forth deeper emotions and memories, and slowly, as you write and cross out, they wash over you. Then you begin to put words together again, slowly this time, and with less sense of direction.
“Hope, all but lost among the Ludites (sic), heard the word of fairy thus:”
Thoughts of politics and Gehennas and outside things make room to things of the inside. To long lost childhood memories, from when centuries were in their teens, not in their twenties, and from when age was countable on the fingers of a girl.
“In the desert you seek the Drops of Dew, while my Ocean beckons you.”
You can almost here the lisp, like you heard the words before, in a meadow, looking at the sun shining through a sparkling spider's web. The flooding memory fills you, and your writing - still slow, still devoid of intentional meaning - picks up.
“Pretty girl… Ready yourself. You are the house of the holy. The old must judge with eyes of new, setting us free is up to you.”
You feel, for the first time in decades, “in the zone”, writing-wise. It is getting harder and harder to tell whether you are writing this, or living this - the wind and the flowers in your hair, the blue of the sky in your chest and the buzzing of the fairies in your ears.
“Hope squinted at the sun, furrowed her brows and said:”
It feels good, so you continue.
