Those Beyond the Wall (The Space Between Worlds #2)

by Micaiah Johnson

Bitterness is anger with nowhere to go. Bitterness and resignation are close and tempting cousins. Anger with a target is Rage, and Rage is sister to Hope alone. We rage because we do believe things can be better, by fire if necessary.

The night is long and dark, Rage says, but I will keep us warm.

I like to watch pretty things move. I like to make broken things fixed. I’m simple.

The true test of a runner is how expertly you can shut the fuck up.

You have to accept violence as a part of life to know it, to tame it like a pet, to keep it in your pocket and understand when to let it out.

It didn’t matter which version was true. They were all real. Stories should never be believed, but they should always be trusted.

“Walk small. Be shadow,”

“Small as the sand, shadow as the cave,”

As long as someone is stretching to reach you, you’d better bend to reach them.

I like the idea of stories and I hate the idea of truth.

He says it casually, like a dog that steals food slowly hoping you won’t notice it happening. Cara looks at him like he’s just asked her to fuck a cactus.

Don’t make a permanent decision based off a temporary feeling.

I’m not what you’d call a thinker. I’m exactly as existential as a wasp. I eat, I fuck, I sting back what stings me.

Rather than their night look of sequins and leather, Exlee has dressed today like the distant past. All light, gauzy, rose-colored lace in haphazard layers so that every step will produce the mesmerizing effect of something freshly bloomed dancing on the breeze. Exlee has a whole wardrobe like this, things more romantic than explicit. This one in particular has always reminded me of being in my mother’s garden, watching fallen blossoms get swept up by the false breeze from Wiley’s air recycling units. They look almost angelic, an effect heightened by the fact that the lace is so thin, their genitals and nipples are whispers of shadow underneath.

The body usually likes to fall apart at the joints, to say goodbye to its pieces where it’s already falling apart.

Is this what science is? Putting your blood and sweat into something that might be nothing? Well, I fucking hate it.

I’ve been gone long enough to have forgotten how hard up the city is about genders. They want gender like a border, something fixed, something to be defended from trespass. We like genders like landmasses here, like puddles that congregate, evaporate, and re-form. Even at the House, you choose each day which stage you want to dance on, and only then have you announced what space you’re occupying. Someone might bounce between the masc and femme stages, or they might exclusively dance enby.

We are not an army; we are a creature.

People seeing you negatively is a terrible reason not to do anything.

He’s our reminder that doing the right thing doesn’t protect you from consequences. All the medals in the world won’t take away the scars.

Whatever time you had, it was enough. Whatever you accomplished, it was enough. We will remember your good deeds for the rest of our lives. We will forget your wrongdoings forever.