Snapshots

Perhaps all of those my age fall into my same fallacy. That blissful remembrance of days that were forever ago. Days were everything was steeping in warm august sunlight, were years passed by like sitcoms airing on TV during evenings when nothing was going wrong, or perfectly right for that matter. Those years, oh those years how we lived. I recall the beach shores with salty wind whipping my hair. I recall smiles and kisses and hugs and music throwing itself out into the endless skies. Yet, as I peer deeper into the past, its dark shadows lope back into my vision. Heavy, disgruntled beasts, hungry for my mind and sanity. Tears might prick my eyes as I recall. But I have to. In this case, what hurts me the most is what I must most do.

Arthur leaned back, twisting the pen between his fingers. He smiled briefly. His memoirs, the collection of his life, waited to be written.

. . .

Lovino stared at the video, his brows furrowed lightly. His lips were pressed together. The video faded into dull orange. His "sad music" began to play. He felt that that evening, late summer early fall, was the perfect time to allow for some melancholy reflections over life in general. Not that he felt particularly sad or lonely. It simply needed to be done, a purge if you will.

. . .

"You really need to quit." Arthur snapped.

Francis looked at him, a cigarette hanging from his pale lips.

"I quit when you do." He said, staring between Arthur's fingers, where the same carcinogen smouldered.

. . .

Perfect. So, undeniably, royally perfect. Snow falling like angel's tears, drifting down to earths. Feathers on a bed of other glittering plumage. Chimes rustling in chilled wind. Silence shrouding the world like a mystery.

Kiku stared outside longingly. Instead, he was met with a moderately warm september day, speckled with clouds and the calls of birds. The longing for winter passed quickly, just as it had come. Suddenly, unexpectedly, and devastatingly beautiful.

. . .

The ache to touch throbbed in him. Peter tossed in bed, glaring at the ceiling as if it was its fault, then accusing the pillow with his fist, then kicking the bed sheets, and finally tormenting the last of his stuffed animals he had kept out of memory's sake. Totally, a kid like him - fifteen - didn't need the plush faded frog for comfort or anything. Psh.

Peter grumbled something. "Why can I gets first kiss…" He contorted his lips angrily. It blasted his heart like a shockwave. If only one person would just… no, he was going to be alone FOREVER!

He rolled onto his back, huffing away the tears in his eyes. He might as well get used to it. Better make plans to live in an old castle in Barcelona and live off of potato peels and sawdust. That's just what the universe ordered, amiright? He asked no one in particular. The night drew on, sleep encroached, and the dilemma crept into the base of his mind.

. . .

Ghost pepper. Ghost pepper. Who the hell thought of this? Antonio gazed with moist eyes at a smiling, diabolic Alfred, gulping passive aggressively from his glass of milk. His cheeks were flushed. Antonio burst out laughing. Alfred followed suit, spraying milk on to the plate of shrivelled, hellish hearts.

. . .

Alfred neatly penciled on graph paper. Limit as x approaches 0. Neatly graphed. The line badly reached x=1. The arrow was fine tipped. Sweet, delicious satisfaction of having completed a math problem sincerely and finely flashed through him. He loved the art.

. . .

"They made a great mistake in that news reel." Arthur commented.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"They glossed over the important bit of world news, that war going on, and skipped straight to a social dilemma that in a few minutes no one will even recall."

"Yes, but what viewer immediately cares for a war they have no part in? Unless they're a veteran, they can better relate to a pressing social issue."

Arthur shrugged. "Society is getting dafter each day."

"I hear you." Yao butted in, stepping between them. He stood a head shorter than both. They stood at a railing at a house party, facing a luxuriously expensive curved television. People sifted by, ignoring the group completely. Most had stayed away from Arthur, fearing his poignant rhetoric and debates no one but an elite few quite understood.

Arthur nodded solemnly, pulling another point out as if they were endless. So the party continued, Arthur not caring whatsoever about his rumoured antisocial, crazy smart behaviour.

. . .

"Sukiyaki?" Kiku sounded aghast. He raised his slim eyebrows so they peaked out from under his thick rimmed glasses.

"Yeah. Pretty catchy and upbeat." Alfred said, glancing at the radio as it played.

They rolled in the car, down the street which spilled cars into the highway. Kiku shook his head.

"It's asinine."

"Nah." Alfred said, whistling loudly along.

Kiku crossed his arms. "What's a serious song you enjoy, that is American?"

Sukiyaki, called "I Look up as I walk" in Japanese had nothing to do with beef stew. Kiku brewed in anger.

"Uh," Alfred stuck his hand out of his car, signalling his merging. It was the glorious 1980s. He wondered why that song had cropped back up after twenty years. "Another Brick in the Wall I guess."

"Imagine if that was called Hamburger."

Alfred laughed. "I see."

Kiku fumed silently.

. . .

Yao paused in his writing, closing his eyes. Something sullen and quiet washed over him. A feeling perhaps only writers understood. Before him, on his screen, the title sat loftily above a block of text. A Thousand Hidden Pathways. Rule of thousands. Rule of paths. Rule of metaphors.

Some irresistible beauty drew him here. Something else held on. Yao sighed. Slowly, softly, glancing outside. His blinds were drawn. Slits of nightfall slipped through the cracks. His lamp hummed with electricity. Somewhere not far from his room the washing machine rumbled. Quiet. Still. Words hanging above his head like tempting fruits to be picked.

So, he took one, and bit into it.