( * sei incantevole. )

                       ❝ hey! you should quit that stuff. i’ve heard smoking kills. ❞  a chisel through the ice, a crack! because the silhouette of raven hair is familiar a MISSED familiar a familiar she thought was long disintegrated in the storms. and to think she could have missed her. NUBA isn’t a place she wanders by often ( not to be DISLOYAL to her home’s local bar but – med’s can get you far in the trading world if you’re desperate for that burn. ) but the building is opaque with a veil of NOSTALGIA ; ash & shadow layering it’s quarters —– it reads LOSS, and loss is something briar frequently dodges to avoid the nasty remnants of something missing to attach to her heel & weigh her down. PEOPLE DIE ALL THE TIME, it’s how to world revolves, she’s accepted that ; you give, it takes – over and over and over until you let it spin you into a mess of confliction… . .but NAZLIE?  briar was disappointed to think the world could take down such a woman.   

                          eyes remain on the revenant, footing ( timberlands! ) slowing to a stop a few paces before walking straight into the ghost.  ❝ nice boots, li. ❞ a tilt of her head, a twitch of her lips ; a GREETING.  but there’s an almost PAINFUL pause that follows ; a silence that screams so loud —— ( YOU’VE BEEN GONE AWHILE, WHERE’D YOU GO? ARE YOU STAYING? HOW ARE YOU? I’M GLAD YOU’RE O K A Y. )  —— she takes care ; a rise & fall of her shoulders, palms that shove into the empty pockets of a worn khaki jacket. small gestures, but if you know her well enough you can spell them out: you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but i’m here if you do. ❝ so — when did you get back? ❞    

            IT’S JUST LIKE YOU TO COME AND GO… lucky strike original red on the UC san diego campus, golden nameplate chain with a metallica shirt and a loose bun. nazlie remembers staring up at martín báez with a sheepish grin as the hum of whistle for the choir by the fratellis brushes past his lips with the strong lucky strike scent. it’s just like you to come and go—those plump lips are tugged into a frown, taking the heart of the sheepish girl plummeting with them—don’t you get lonely without me? nazlie remembers drawing the tattooed hand towards her lips before taking a drag of the lucky strike, laughing, smoking kills. again, nazlie laughs—a lucky by her chapped lips. ❛ not any faster than the biters but the luckies go down a hell of a lot SMOOTHER. ❜

When Nadja was small, she cherished any moment of freedom within to oppressive scans of wallpaper that lined the walls of the craftsman her father had bought her mother. The lines of faded rose bouquets ran from the ceiling to the floor like bars of a cell–it would be years, however, before she would draw the comparison, waking up still drunk from the night before, wrists sore from handcuffs. On the rare opportunities that she was given a few hours of PEACE inside the place, she could remember the novelty wearing off with the waning sunlight. EMPTY HOMES AREN’T HOMES AT ALL. Nuba has remained Nadja’s headquarters, even reopened after a bender, but it’s not the same to her. It’s not FUN anymore, she’s the caretaker of a graveyard now–a lighthouse keeper, a LAMPLIGHTER.

The worse part about all that time alone–as a child, as a GHOST–was the strange sounds and sights. At night, every shape looks like a monster, even creak a killer. Nadja’s too stubborn to welcome death, but she’s never been a hardliner for LIFE either. She sleeps in one of the long booths most nights, if she sleeps at all, and so it’s not much to pick up her spiked bat and head for the door. She’s not even truly SHAKEN by the experience until she hears the familiar sound of keys in the lock. There’s no cigarette between lips that don’t smirk. And when the door opens and the bat SLIPS from fingertips like her lanky arms through a trusty leather jacket. The words don’t come like she thought they would in every dream and scenario played on repeat in her head–a favorite song. Instead she lets out the breath she’s been holding. “I thought you were DEAD.” It’s not tender, but Nadja’s never been sweet words, and broken hearts are bad at soft.

           THERE IS A CITY UNDER TIRED BONES TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF NAZLIE, like it is unhappy living underneath her skin. the dwellers stick out their tongues as they look to the skies for a taste of rain and close their eyes before the wetness hits, but nazlie is A DROUGHT.  biology says humans are little more than seventy percent water, but the ATOMS IN NAZLIE are flowing—leaving to find home.  today, IT WILL R A I N.  the breath of relief rolls over like an early morning fog on an EMPTY beach; a small smile curls around the lucky strike hanging from cracked lips—SMALL… dull, shy of the eyes. the truth is… nazlie hides pieces of herself in anyone that makes life worthwhile. the best of nazlie? it is with nadja; a woman that is a MOB HIT on the hardest callouses nazlie wears proudly, settling in the dips of the ribcage like a lion overlooking its KINGDOM. sure, nazlie is home… but what if home is e m p t y?

the smell of nicotine was an odd sensation that nixon should have been repulsed by, like most people were. yet he stood there inhaling the second hand smoke as if it was a memory he yearned to RELIVE again. his father was a smoker, a HEAVY one. so much that the smell of nicotine was permanently soaked into everything that belonged in the hale household. he remembered coming home from school and following the trail of smoke into his father’s office where he sat for hours “playing lawyer” with his brother. it wasn’t PERFECT but the memory was so pure and wholesome it was better than where he stood today. he followed the smoke like moths to a flame only to be greeted with a face that he assumed LONGED for a place to belong  —- careful  child, assumptions can get you killed. ❝ no food, barely any water but there’s still cigarettes. funny how that works. ❞ he exhaled these words as a gust of cheyenne wind kissed his cheeks.  ❝ you look lost. ❞ he added with uncertainty. ❝ i don’t mean to pry, it just can be dangerous here alone at night. ❞ 

            NEVER MUCH FOR POETRY---well, at least, not the woe is me and sad girl poetry about how young girls pick up smoking because of an ( emptiness ) someone’s dusty ain’t shit son left in the wake of a terrible break-up. nazlie likes rumi, khalil gibran, al mutanabbi---BEAUTIFUL POETRY FROM FARAWAY LANDS, hard to get your hands on in the midst of, y’know, the apocalypse. the smoking is not to replace anything or anyone, but the small remnant of who NAZLIE EL HELANI used to be. it was to hold on, to remember. ❛ are you surprised? habits are harder to kill than people. ❜ GOOD ONE---real nice; ONE friend in the whole damn city and nothing good or warm to say. nazlie isn’t real good at keeping friends---not after the sudden and almost SPOT ON imitation of fuckin’ amazing amy. ❛ i am lost--- ❜ the shrug seems impassive as nazlie draws the cigarette in for a slow inhale, ❛ i am staring at my home with the keys in my pocket... but i don’t know where to go. where do i go from here, BOY WONDER? ❜ 

       “walkers can’t use LOCKS, babe,” he comments back dryly — though there’s a smirk on his face as he flicks the safety back ON and slips the gun in the back of his pants as he looks down the flight of stairs at the woman “and i can kick the ass of anyone who comes in here uninvited,” he gives her a pointed look.

            he gives her another look; at her words.  of course he knows it’s not exactly smart or the time, but he can’t resist.    nazlie has an intoxicating effect.    he strides down the stairs - barefoot, bare chested with a gun in the back of his pants, and moves past her to the door, locking it and deadbolting it.    “don’t have a vore kink, naz,” he comments over his shoulder - matter of factly before he turns back to face her, “eating out, yeah - not so much the eating people thing.”   but he does take a few steps out into the loungeroom where she stands; large, STRONG hand coming up to grab at her throat, squeezing with enough force to cut of her air flow; “but you know how i feel about choking,” he gives her a long, dark stare - the sound of the siren draining away for a few more beats - and then he backs her against the nearest hard surface  ( A WALL )  and he grins; hand still at her throat.     and kisses her with the same darkness in his eyes.

             “even when things are going crazy - i still don’t really like it when people come BARGING into my house,” he could hear someone closing the door behind them and shoving something in front of it.     the siren was LOUD, but his hearing was better.

             “friend or foe - because i’ll shoot you and feed you to the walkers if you don’t fuck off!”  he called down stairs as he moved, gun raised and safety OFF.

physically im here but mentally im always in a cave home off the coast of greece eating pomegranates and drinking fresh juice but it’s whatever