Member Login  Not a member yet?Register Here  
Username Forgot Login/Password?  
Password  

under the radar

 

Downloadable Entire Thread (For Excel, use Save As...) 1 | 2 | Next
  Creator Post Date

Kit Shannon

Getting to London was fairly uneventful. Three hours in a crowded commuter carriage, still unsure of what was happening. The doctor had explained a little. Enough for me to understand that he finally believed me.

But it took seeing it first hand for him to accept the existence of vampires.

"Do you have somewhere you can go when you get to London?" he'd asked as we neared the station.

"Well yeah...my flat is in Alexandra Pal -"

"No. You can't go home. Not yet. Your release is undocumented. I need to - to readjust the paperwork. No one can know you're out for a week or so. Can you stay under the radar?"

*

So this is me, staying under the radar, wandering the early-morning London streets trying to figure out what the hell I was meant to do next. Now I'm out, without a paddle, well...I'm wondering whether it would have been better to stay until this could have been done, y'know, properly.

But the way the sunlight is currently cutting through the cold frost of the morning, washing over my face, reminding me of the freedom I now possess, it all seems worthwhile.

Freedom, for now, a roof over my head later.

**

"Penny, c'mon. You know I'll pay you back. Jesus, it's not like I'm Sam!"

"Hey!" Sam protested as they picked at the room temperature french fries left on their tray.

"Oh, you know what I mean," I replied, and Sam huffed in response, prodding one of the slightly burnt ends of a fry into their chocolate milkshake.

"Kit, it's not that I don't trust you. I do. You know I do. But I just don't have that sort of money lying around."

"But you have your AmEx. And I'll be able to access my accounts in a week. Two max. I can pay you back before you even get a statement. C'mon. I just need to go to New York for a few days."

"Why again?" interrupted Sam as they dipped again.

"You know why. I told you. I told you everything. And I can get more of the information I need in New York. I even have this number to call when I get there. But I just need the cash. Please, Pen. Please."

"Ugh."

***

Start spreading the news.

Or, well no, don't actually. Best to keep on the DL. But that damn song gets stuck in my head every time I land at JFK and today is no exception.
December 31, 2018 03:43 pm

Maycee Thomas

Sometimes, well, sometimes you just had to get the hell out of dodge.

Lately her illusions were getting...well, stronger wasn’t necessarily the word that she was looking for, but it was the closest thing she could find. They’d always been intricate, but they weren’t leaving her with as bad of headaches as normal. The nosebleeds weren’t as bad either. She was also able to manipulate things to look and feel different sizes.

The problem with that is that she was pushing her luck. Oh, she’d always been the type to push her luck. There was more to what she did than just survival. There was that thrill, that rush of adrenaline when she was able to pull off another job, another con.

She tried to act like it wasn’t, though. She would try to convince herself over and over again that it was just what she had to do to make money. It was what she had to do to keep a roof over her head and to fill her nearly limitless belly.

On the scales of good and bad, she would like to think of herself tipping at least towards the good side. A bit. In all actuality, she knew she was more grey...and day by day perhaps tipping the other way.

Paris was her home, and she was starting to feel like she was burning bridges. That was quite the feat for someone that was a self subscribed and chosen introvert.

A forged passport and carefully sized and cut scraps of paper tucked into her wallet later, she stood in one of the busiest airports in the world. Dark hair pulled back. Black leather jacket. Skinny jeans. Chucks. One single backpack slung over her shoulder with everything she would need.

The long flight was wearing on her and she needed caffienation. Then again, as a good Parisienne, she always needed caffienation.

One triple Venti latte sans flavor, two muffins, and a couple breakfast sandwiches ordered. She smiled to the barista as he rang up her order, giving her a strange look.

He was the typical New York hipster, hair slicked back into a manbun. Clean shaven except for a handlebar moustache. A red flannel on under the apron on a tall and skinny frame. He gave a total and she nodded, pulling out her wallet just under the edge of the counter to pull out a bill.

Except that it wasn’t a bill, it was one of those carefully cut pieces of paper. The size was that of an American dollar and once she had it in her grasp, the air around it shifted, blurred, and inaudibly popped until she held a fifty in her fingers.

There was a niggling of a headache at her temples, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She gave the man the money, getting change back, and watching him slip the larger bill under the til as most places did when it was over twenty. She carefully tucked the change into her wallet with her bundle of scrap paper.

The barest trickle of blood seeped from her nose. He pointed to her face. “You might want to get a napkin or something.”

“Oh, sorry. Thank you.” softly accented English replied. She grabbed a napkin as she slid to the side, dabbing at the spot as she waited for her name to be called.




January 01, 2019 06:44 pm

Kit Shannon

Somebody once told me that, when you get a song stuck in your head, you should listen to it in full to get it back out again. As if, by listening to the entire track, you are somehow allowing the earworm its freedom from your mind, and it can *poof* out of existence.

But I've listened to the same Frank Sinatra song three times while waiting to go through customs now and it's still there, clear as day, knocking out a steady beat on my temporal lobe.

"Reason for your visit?" asks the man behind the bullet-proof glass. I'd shifted my headphones down to rest around my neck and could feel them squishing my cheeks. With a mild struggle, I untangled myself from them and returned to the query.

"I've always wanted to see if The Big Apple is really an apple," I reply, and he narrows his eyes at me. I shrug and he lets me through.

Myself, Sam and Penny had managed to break into my flat before I'd left for Heathrow. And, along with my passport, I'd managed a few clean items of clothing and a mid-sized travel backpack. The backpack had been considered too large for cabin luggage and forced me to check it. And now, as I wait for it to appear at Baggage Claim, the reality of the moment hits me.

I was in New York. I mean, I've been to New York countless times for work, but this was different. I could call that number and never get a reply. This could all be a hoax. Not vampires; I knew them to be real. And I trusted my grandmother and her stories of being a slayer. But maybe this wasn't as organised as I'd been lead to believe. And maybe the man and the number and the woman at the other end had just been pissing around for the lols.

And here's ol' muggins, post a slightly illegal transatlantic flight, and possibly about to be the brunt of some sick joke.

I make it out into arrivals and over to a coffee shop to try and regain my bearings. Leaning my backpack against a small, round table, I fumble in my pocket for Penny's old iPhone and turn it back on, waiting for the roaming to kick in.

And that's when I see it. The party trick you all just witnessed up there. Maycee's scraps of magical paper.

And suddenly I trust everything again.

And suddenly I want to know more.

And suddenly, SUDDENLY...I'm staring, arent I?
January 01, 2019 07:23 pm

Maycee Thomas

She waited for her goodies, humming softly to herself and sitting in her own little world. It was a nice world, lots of fluffy clouds and cheeseburgers. The girl did have a penchant for greasy and unhealthy food, even if it didn’t show on her. Well, not yet. She’d have to wait and see what she looked like when she rolled around 40 and her metabolism went to crap.

Maycee had an idea that the large quantities of food that she ate and the amount of energy it required for her to cast her illusions were probably tied together. In that same vein, she would also guess that her eidetic memory was also linked to her ability to create those illusions, but she wasn’t sure of the science in that. It was all a theory, and for someone that had barely made it out of middle school before dropping out, it wasn’t one that she would ever be able to prove or disprove.

Not that she was stupid by any means. She just had other...ways...of doing things. And she also had a particularly great spidey sense.

Like now.

Like someone was watching her.

She pulled her thoughts out of her world and into the real one to make eye contact with the person staring at her from line. There was something on their expression that told her, just told her, they had seen something. She stood and stared back for a moment before forcibly pulling her gaze from the other person.

“Merde…” she muttered under her breath. Her nonchalant waiting changed with the rapidness of her heartbeat and she shifted from one foot to another. That singular word, pardon her French, quick fired through her brain with every breath. ‘Merde, merde, merde.’ It’s not that she felt bad about what she’d done. She very rarely did.

She was, however, very particular about getting caught.

Just as she was about to give up and make a beeline for the nearest exit, her name was called. “Maycee.”

Eyebrows cinched down as she winced. “Putain.” Should not have given her real name. Grabbing the bag and the coffee without so much as a Merci, she turned heel and walked as quickly as she possibly could without looking guilty. It was never a good idea to look guilty in an airport, especially nowadays.

Her heartbeat sounded like drums in her ears.

Act cool. Pull it together. If the stranger would have wanted to throw you under the bus, they would have. But she’d gotten away with her bag of goods and hot brew. The only thing she had to do was make it out, but how the hell did she get out of this monstrosity of an airport?
January 02, 2019 06:18 pm

Kit Shannon

Whoomp! (There It Is), the girl is on the run, and I'm still trying to figure out how to accept international roaming on this blasted piece of crap in my hand. But shoot, which one is more important?

Yeah, you know. I gotcha. I'm on it. Hold, please...

*

"Do the fireflies again!" I beg, six-years-old, wrapped up in a blanket on my grandmother's sofa. My grandmother, Maggie, narrows her eyes in my general direction.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

I nod.

"Did you wash your face?"

I nod again, more enthusiastically, as I know where this road of bedtime enquiry will lead.

"Did you say goodnight to Tintin?"

I look over at the comatose terrier asleep before the wood burner and nod again. "Tintin!" I call out. "Tell her I did!"

The dog, begin a dog, doesn't say anything. But, at the mention of his name, opens one eye and huffs.

"Okay, fine. But you have to promise to sleep."

I nod once more, snuggling back into the pillows of my makeshift bed.

My grandmother rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, wiggling her fingers, and I fail to hold back my excitement, shifting and squirming in place.

"One, two..." and on three, small, delicate balls of light grow from nothingness in her palm, dancing into the air between us like dust in a light breeze. I giggle, reaching out to touch one, and when I do, it disapparates into nothingness. I squeel and reach for another.

However beautiful the lights are, this is the same routine. Reaching for and touching each one until none are left, until the mysterious beauty is nothing but empty air once more. "The plate is hot..." the waiting staff will always tell you in a restaurant, "...please mind your fingers." And yet we all touch it anyway, lured in by the mystery of the unknown.

**

Pulling the backpack onto my shoulder as I start to move, I pick up a steady trot toward the woman, toward Maycee, until I'm within earshot.

"Don't. It's okay. I get it." I half-whisper, struggling with the straps and the weight of my few belongings. "Honestly, I do."

***

Yes, dear reader, I can assure you that closer, at this close proximity, she's even hotter.
January 02, 2019 07:14 pm

Maycee Thomas

”Don’t. It’s okay. I get it. Honestly, I do.” Okay, not the sound of someone that was going to tackle her and demand answers and all that. At least not in public. Because they were in public, obviously, and Maycee was still on her own two feet. For now.

And for now she slowed those feet so that the other person could catch up to her and properly strap their bag in place. They looked like they were struggling and Maycee wasn’t a monster after all. If she stopped walking completely, though, they were bound to get bowled over in the middle of JFK. This was her favorite jacket. It wouldn’t look good with shoe prints all over it.

Maycee gave them the side eye, getting a sense of the androgynous features and cooler hair than Maycee would ever be able to pull off. She sighed, and nodded. “Okay, so you get it. How much did you see then, mon ami? What do you want?”

Maybe she was jaded, but people always wanted something, especially when they have anything to hang over your head.

Before they had a chance to answer, though, Maycee held up a hand, turned it slightly, and beckoned Kit to follow her.

She bobbed and wove her way through the throngs of people. When you live in a large city it was something you become adept at, coupled with the fact she didn’t take up a lot of room. A glance of green eyes over her shoulder to make sure that at least one person was following her at the moment, hoping to see the blonde head bobbing through the crowd as well.

Maycee found a hallway that hosted a snack and drink machine, a janitor’s closet, and a women’s washroom. Now she could stop and take a breath. Carefully, without spilling her much beloved coffee, she managed to get her backpack off and lay it at her feet. She still held on to the precious bag of treats. Food and coffee, the way to any woman’s heart. Especially the food.

Especially now with her stomach starting to complain. Loudly.

She would wait here for the blonde to catch up, if she chose to follow at all. Something told her she wouldn’t have to wait too long. Then, maybe, she could get some answers. Maybe they would too.
January 02, 2019 11:27 pm

Kit Shannon

"I saw enough to know that...hey!" she's on the move again and I follow, though at least time she seems eager for me to be on her tail. In the process of moving through the crowds, I'm pretty sure I take out a few people with my backpack. And, ever the Brit, I'm apologising to everyone I pass, sorry's and excuse me's aplenty.

It's only when we reach the somewhat calm of the hallway that I'm able to get a better look of her, better than the fleeting glances from before. And only now that I'm able to finish saying what I had begun to say before.

"Paper to money was a pretty neat trick. Was it illusion or transfiguration?"

Now I'm passed cameras and security, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a thin, knit beanie and my glasses. Glasses on first, I spend a moment tucking the odd bits of hair beneath the edge of the hat, my eyes never leaving her.

*

Do I agree with what she did back there? No. No one has a right to screw over anyone else as she did. IF the trick was an illusion, that barista was going to receive a bollocking when the manager discovered paper in the place of cold, hard cash. And, if it was transfiguration, what right did she had to do that? To not work for her money?

Outwardly, I would keep my judgement at bay. But, inwardly, I wasn't the biggest fan.

While my grandmother configured party tricks out of thin air for my amusement, she's never have considered using her talents to take advantage of others.

Not like this stranger had.
January 05, 2019 10:27 am

Maycee Thomas

It was becoming more than obvious that Maycee had nothing to fear from this person. The fact that no security had been called and, well, she just didn’t get that sense from Kit. Not that she was an empath or anything like that, she was just very good at reading people most of the time. It was imperative to how she...er...passed the time.

She had been 16 when she had been kicked out of the house by her Grandma. Gram couldn’t handle her anymore, although she had been the one to help hone Maycee’s gifts. And exploit them. Nothing but the clothes on your back leads you to do things you’re not proud of to survive until it was all you knew.

So when she watched Kit, she was committing her face to memory out of habit, every line and curve. Every follicle. It was habit, after all, though she wouldn’t say she disliked this particular habit right now.

Her lips twitched up into a smile as Kit tucked their hair into the hat. She could relax a little now, tucked away from most of the crowd and not having to worry so much about what might happen. “Mignonne.”

She pushed an errant hair out of her face with the back of her hand. Not used to talking about her gifts so openly, it took her a moment and a breath.

Was it illusion or transfiguration.

That wasn’t a question a normal human asked.

Though something told Maycee that Kit wasn’t normal. Call it intuition.

“It was illusion. A little one, but an illusion just the same.”

Dark green eyes watched them. Offered Kit a baked good without looking at the bag that was thrust towards them. She tried to send out her witchy sensors, sort of like spidey sense but without the goosebumps and over-acted look of surprise. Not a witch.

Unable to keep her curiosity to herself, and with the propensity for being blunt when she wasn’t actively trying to pull something off. “So, what are you? Not a witch…so what?
January 07, 2019 01:39 am

Kit Shannon

'Cute'. Yeah, I heard it. She called me cute. And, well, f-ck it, I am. I won't lie. So when she says it, I wink back. But not the pervy kinda wink that guys think is charming. More of a subtle wink with a half smile as I finish seeing to my hair.

And I continue to keep eye contact as I do so. And, as she continues to talk.

"I'm not a witch, no. I can't do any of that. But, and I don't mean to be a drag, don't you feel guilty?"

I feel my phone begin to vibrate in my back pocket. 4G! Finally. And all the texts and emails are flooding in. I really shouldn't have set up my email to the thing. If there's one thing I'm a sucker for, it's a good email newsletter. And right now, I can only imagine how my inbox is filling with all the junk that was sent through will I was on the plane. And, well yes, while I was locked up in the psychiatric ward before then.

"That guy is going to get a bollocking when they realise it wasn't really cash. Doesn't that make you feel bad?"

*

My grandmother didn't make money via conventional means. And yes, she didn't really make money at all. And as a result, as a side effect of watching that happen, I have always been the complete opposite. No debt save for a mortgage and student loan which, let's face it, I'll never pay back. No credit cards, no (other) loans. I make...I MADE good money and I saved it. I spent what I had and nothing more. And it kinda urks me that this woman, this extremely hot, French woman, thinks what she did is okay.

**

Is it wrong that I want to somehow exchange the scrap of paper in the till for a real fifty without them knowing? Without her knowing? I mean, who is that guy to me? And, more importantly, how do I make this hot girl continue to talk to me and not leave now that I've blatantly offended her?

***

I smile. I poke around in my pocket for gum and offer her some while popping a piece in my mouth as mignonne-ly as I can.

Mignonne-ly. C'mon. I studied French in school. I'm not expected to remember everything, am I?
January 08, 2019 01:18 pm

Maycee Thomas

Maycee returns the wink with a sly little grin, lifting her eyebrows up and down once. A wiggle. A wee wiggle at least. Yes, they are cute, and they know it. What could she say? She was a sucker for confident blondes.

She couldn’t let the pastries go to waste, so she carefully pulls one out, still holding the bag and the cup of coffee, though the bag was now dangling precariously on the tip of her curved finger. Taking a bite, and nearly choking on it the next moment as she is asked a question that nobody has ever asked her.

’Doesn’t that make you feel bad?’

Wiping the crumbs off the corners of her mouth she stops for a moment. Not because she’s offended, because nothing in her body language or facial expressions showed that. In reality, it was extremely f*cking hard to offend Maycee. It did, however, make her think. And while she thought, she stared right at Kit. “Huh.”

It was a hard scone to swallow.

The coffee helped, though.

“Well, not really. Large corporations won’t miss a few dollars. And really, they are only out what...I think I got fourteen dollars in change? Most places, you won’t get fired for a fourteen dollar discrepancy. Then, I guess, the cost of the baked goods but they probably throw away three times what I got at the end of the night.”

So, the answer was, she didn’t really feel that badly about it. In her mind she was just doing what she’s always done. So, she shrugged. “Honestly, it’s just sort of habit. I don’t really think about it.” Did that make her a bad person? Probably. But she wasn’t -all- bad. Of course she wasn’t -all- good either. That didn’t mean that the moral tightrope she walked wouldn’t some day give out on her and toss her to one side or the other. Today, though, she managed to balance. She might stumble from time to time, but who doesn’t.

Maycee watched Kit for a reaction. Though they had literally just met, she wasn’t in a hurry to watch them go any time soon. That wouldn’t matter if Kit thought she was a pile of steaming dung. At least she’d still be hot, right?

Time to change the subject!

“So, if you aren’t a witch, how do you know about things like transfiguration and illusion? You don’t seem like a demon...but I suppose most demons don’t.”
January 10, 2019 09:45 pm

Kit Shannon

'Vampires.'

"Uh huh."

'Werewolves.'

"Really?"

'Mmhmm. I've met quite a few in my time.

"Ooooo...what else?" I ask, pulling my blanket tighter around my shoulders. It smells of smoke from the fire burning before us. Small flickers of ash speckle its surface and as another one floats toward me, I blow at it from behind my mop of light brown hair.

My grandmother takes a moment, tapping her chin in thought. It's all for show, we both know it, but I wait patiently all the same.

'Witches.' she whispers into the night, a devilish grin upon her face.

"Well derrr, I know witches exist. You're a witch!" I laugh, and soon my smile drops in reaction to her expression. Her brow furrows, she leans in a little and shakes her head. 'I'm no witch, Kitty.'

"Then how to you...?" I begin, and she places a fingerless-gloved hand on my blanket-covered shoulder. I shush.

'I only know a few tricks. Small illusions. Nothing more. Witches are something else. There's a darkness to them. One that doesn't belong here. Not with me, and not with you. They're servants of the devil. They do his bidding. Do you understand?'

I slowly nod my head, blinking back a slight stinging of the eyes brought on by the campfire. And for a moment, silence reigns. We sit. The sound of the night, of the crackling fire, and nothing more. And then finally, she speaks again.

'Demons,' she whispers, her smile returning to her face. 'Don't ever forget demons.'

*

I like how she eats. How she manages to keep everything balanced, in check as she navigates her way around the contents of her hands. There's a crump on her lip, dry and teetering on the edge, and I fixate on it until she speaks again and the action causes it to fall to the ground.

"I'm not a demon, no." I reply, sucking my bottom lip beneath my teeth. "I'm just a me."

Silence reigns once more.

I dislike it greatly.

"I need to get into the city. Do you?"

I look back over my shoulder. Back toward the bustle of the airport, of the people moving in waves of busyness and, for the tourists at least, a little confusion. I don't really like crowds. I can manage them, but I don't like them. And, despite living in a city, I don't really enjoy it. I prefer the open air. The countryside. Long rambles through the Peak District, picnics halfway up Snowdon. Anywhere where I can see for miles and know absolutely nothing about what's waiting for me if I just keep walking.

In a city, everything is just so obvious. Another Starbucks, another Big Issue seller, another arsehole on their phone. Yet here I am, stod in JFK, about to make my way into one of the busiest cities in the world. And, for once, the next step wasn't so obvious. Because, once I made it there, I'd be starting a whole new life. One of danger, of uncertainty. One where, yes, I was something. Where I was a slayer.

But I wouldn't tell this girl that. Because who knew which side she was on.

"Want to share an Uber?"
January 11, 2019 03:52 pm

Maycee Thomas

Food is life. Yes, everyone needs food to survive, but Maycee took it to the next level. It that she was a terrible foodie that judged dishes and posted non stop on Instagram. She did, however, love to eat.

And she loved to eat a lot. As in massive quantities. In fact, if not helped, she would eat the entire bag of pastries in one setting. If she used her powers? She could eat even more. This all probably contributed to her figurative sticky fingers. She had to keep up the habit!

It was also the reason she was able to finish the scone in nothing flat, keeping her mouth free to speak after sliding her tongue across her lips to capture any crumbs that might be clinging on.

“Imagine that. I’m just a me as well. A new that’s named Maycee.” French accent gives the emphasis to the ee. A bright smile. She would offer a hand but they are currently full or busy.

But would she like to share an Uber?

That...that was a great question.

Coming to New York hadn’t been preceded by any sort of plan. It had sounded like a good idea, and she was used to big cities. Paris had been her home for the last 9 years and she knew how to navigate easily in the bustling whirl of people and cars.

While she didn’t think it would be hard to get around, that didn’t mean she knew what to -do- here besides keep herself safe from those that might be looking for her in France.

So, her smile faded just a bit, wheels turning in rapid succession in that dark haired head.

“An Uber? Yes!” Okay, that might have come off too enthusiastic. Very smooth, obviously. “I mean, sure. I don’t have any plans anyways, so I can try to make a few on our way. Which way are you headed?”
January 11, 2019 04:37 pm

Kit Shannon

"The Village" I reply, shrugging as if the words meant nothing. As if the moment meant nothing. As if everything meant nothing and I am the chillest of all chilled. Such chill. Super chill. Uber chill.

Uber!

I fiddle with the phone and set the app downloading as I look back toward her. Maycee. Back toward Maycee.

"Kit," I reply, remembering that I hadn't answered yet. "I'm Kit."

I try to think of the French for kit. Football kit. Sewing kit. First aid kit. But I realise I have no clue, and I'm unsure if I ever knew the translation.

Kit, kit, kit, kit...

*

'J-,' my grandmother starts to say my name and I shake my head, holding out a hand to stop her. I'm five, maybe six, and we're sat in the front of her car, waiting in a carpark outside the Co-op.

"No!" I protest, and she stops, wide-eyed behind my tiny, outstretched hand.

'No, what?!' she asks, her worn, calloused fingers wrapping about my palm, lowering it until it rests on my lap.

"No, don't call me that," I reply with a frown.

'Don't call you J-,'

"No!" I shout again, thumping my fists against the seat beneath me.

'Why not?' she questions, knitting her eyebrows. 'It's your name.'

"It's her name too. And I don't want it. I want something else." I whine, resting my face against the back of the passenger seat with a huff.

'Okay,' she replies, a hand reaching to cup my shoulder gently. There's no more questioning. No argument to be made. She understands without further words and, with a sigh, she simply nods. 'You pick a new one. Take some time and think on it.

**

The app downloads and I begin to fill in the boxes, trying and succeeding (for once) to remember my password.

"You have any idea where you want to go?" I ask, looking back to her. "I can drop you off downtown?"
January 11, 2019 05:01 pm

Maycee Thomas

Maycee nodded at the Village. It didn’t matter that she had no idea what the words meant or where the Village actually was. That’s where they were going, and there’s where she would try to make a plan of some sorts.

Maybe she would even decide to stick around New York for awhile. Maybe she would even try to find a place to stay while she was here. Maybe she would even try to keep herself out of trouble.

Maybe.

The problem was that she sort of liked trouble.

She blamed the adrenaline, for the most part.

And the ideas of all the trouble she could get into filter one after another through her brain as she watches Kit stare at the device in their hand. Maycee, herself, only owned an old flip phone that she could call and text on. It had prepaid minutes, because making plans of any sort was never her strong suit.

“Kit. Comme un renard. Comme c'est approprié.” They are just them. That was something that Maycee instantly liked about them. Sure, she could speak English. She could speak several languages in fact, thanks to the eidetic memory. But it was sometimes easier when the words slipped out in her own tongue.

Maycee finished another pastry quickly as Kit looked back down at the phone. Wiped away the crumbs. Finish the coffee that was starting to cool below enjoyable levels. “I have lots of ideas where I want to go, but only a few of them are available by Uber. You can take me wherever you want, Kit.” Though, with the accent it came out sounding more like keet than anything else. “It will be my treat.” Was she flirting? Absolutely. Maybe even shamelessly so. She had very little shame to go around anyways.

She did have second thoughts about offering to pay, though. Her new acquaintance had moral objections to how Maycee paid for things, and right now she had exactly $14.52 in her pocket. Something told her, though she didn’t have much experience with Uber, that it would not be enough to go anywhere. Especially not the Village.

“On second thought...how about I just tag along this time. But then you have to let me make it up to you sometime, oui? And I will tip. Do you tip Uber drivers?” Already she was shifting things. Putting down things. Picking up her backpack and sliding it over the shoulders of her leather jacket. She would, obviously, pick up her garbage afterwards.

She wasn’t a monster after all.
January 12, 2019 12:48 am

Kit Shannon

I catch the jist of her words. While my French may not be fluent, I'm smart enough to figure out the best way for the words I do recognise to fit together. The choice of Kit wasn't based on foxes. It has an entirely different meaning. But still, it's nice that, well, it's nice to be thought of. For her to look for meaning in my name as if I mean anything.

"No need to tip. It's all on the app." I reply, waving the phone a little as if to remind her where apps live. And, in truth, when it came to money I don't think I'll ever be okay with her paying. Because I know it's not real. None of it is real. And it still irks me a little too much to be okay with it, regardless of her argument against the big corporations.

Because it always affects the little guy in the end. Always.

The phone signals for us to meet the car at the designated Uber meeting point and I hitch my backpack onto my shoulders, slipping the phone into my back pocket.

"I was going to pay anyway so you really don't need to worry, y'know?"

I nod in the direction we're to take as I pull at my hoodie, tugging down the folds of material that have bunched up between my butt and the backpack. It's awkward. I try my best to make it seem less so, but there's never going to be a time where rearranging ones clothing looks hot.

"I have a hotel booked already. Booked it while waiting for my bag. But there's a lot of places around Greenwich that'll suit...if you have yet to book anything. I'm sorry..." my sentences merge into one another as I realise the question on the tip of my tongue needs an answer. "...I'm just assuming. Are you, do you live in New York usually? I'm labelling you a tourist by default and that's just bad manners. Why are you in...nope, I'm doing it again. What are your plans for the day? If you don't mind me asking, 'random woman I just befriended at JFK'."
January 16, 2019 05:03 am
1 | 2 | Next
Home | Profile | Forums | F.A.Q. | Donate | Terms of Use | Privacy Policy | Cookie Policy | Contact Us
Created by Arctic Moon Studios. All rights reserved. © Bloodletting 2006-2016