Also, I've been having some weird thoughts about the loss of innocence after watching [that series](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6y8XgGhXkTQ&list=PLJA_jUddXvY62dhVThbeegLPpvQlR4CjF) by Innuendo Studios. Something about how being confronted with new knowledge and being asked to internalize it feels like being robbed of innocence. I don't know how much I want to reference that directly or just make it a metaphor or what. Given the New Weird nature of it, metaphor is probably better: sudden change of those around (maybe sudden new knowledge?) leading to a challenge of prior assumptions. It'll have to be long enough to get all those words in there; maybe a novella?
Stigmata and Miasmata: Marks appear on *everyone's* bodies somewhere, intricate and fuliginous, sometimes shifting. It's as if they do not exist; appear to eyes, in photos, etc, but only when viewed by people, not electronics. Scans show that they are being seen and recognized by people, but even attempting to register the input in retinas fails. No one knows what they mean; it is apparently up to us to figure out what they are.
Traumata and Dogmata: It becomes divisive, but mostly among older generations. A small portion apparently have theirs on the inside, as visible by xrays, but they nonetheless attempt to declare themselves somehow more pure. Various other divisions begin to form, based on shape, whether to celebrate or hide, etc.
(unsure from here on out, it feels dangerously close to preachy)
Lemmata and Schemata: Some are drawn to the fact that it seems to draw attention away from other divisive factors, or at least prove their absurdity; what matters race when we so easily form groups around non-existent marks?
Anathemata: The generation who grows up in the era of the stigmata are universally changed in some ineffable way. More organized, more filled with light, more chill, resistant to adopting parents' attitudes, less religious, almost nihilistic except in that meaning in life is what you create, some shared knowledge etc. ~~Perhaps they can't see the marks?~~ This does not go well with parents. Try to war, doesn't work; drafts universally fail, etc.
Melismata: To whom does the future belong? Certainly not to you. It belongs to us, and then it doesn't. There is a taste of the metamodern to time itself which cares not for belief and meaning, cares not for us. It is our responsibility to create meaning, to believe as we will. And yet by virtue of that these things are melismata in the world: fluttering, changing, and then gone. And that's the beauty of the whole thing.
And that's how it began. It began with a shout. It began with a yell. It began with a name and with panic and with, in short order, a mad scramble to the bathroom.
With such panic, Yves felt acutely aware of the layout of the house. The living room, so packed with books, was cozy and warm-lit by sun, and the kitchen, filled with the scent of tea and reheated leftovers, was comfortably messy and warm-lit by the oven. The kitchen was also a single step down from the living room. Some architect's joke, perhaps, or some design element poorly understood by those who actually had to live with it.
And then a single step *up* to the entryway.
And then a single step *down* to the hallway which led to the bathroom.
Yves knocked his toe against the step from kitchen to entryway, and the dash from there to bathroom was less graceful than the rest.
AJ stood before the vanity mirror, wide-eyed. Stood, gripping the edge of the vanity, white-knuckled. Stood and stared at the steam-clouded mirror, fresh from the shower. Their skin, always a comfortable, warm olive, had been burnished into bronze by the heat of the water.
The way in which they relinquished their grip on the edge of the vanity and turned looked tightly controlled, anxiety kept from them by sheer force of will. It set Yves own nerves on edge, and he balled his fists up.
There it was. Night black. Blacker. Fuliginous. Beyond soot: it ate light. An utter dark. Harsh geometries and graceful curves, aciculate, full of parallels and careful angles. The lines were all of the same pencil-thin width, and stretched from AJ's hip up along their flank, slipping past the curve of belly, gracing breast, shoulder, bicep.
"Yves." Their voice was raw and spoke to all the anxiety their movements wouldn't show. "Your face."
He walked woodenly to stand next to his partner in front of the mirror. Carefully curated scholarly visage marred by, yes, impossibly black lines. No straight edges, but something that was floral without containing flowers, graceful, but somehow without the grace of AJ's new stigmata. Collarbone to mid-cheek. Undeniable, unmissable, unreal.
"The fuck."
They both stood still, staring into the mirror. Yves would trace the surreal lines of the mark covering his neck and chin, and then trace those covering AJ's side, chest, and shoulder. Minutes of silence. A rhythmic silence, tick-tocking between fear and bewilderment.
"What is it, Yves? What's going on? How..."
"I don't know, love. I don't know."
They turned again, movements no longer so well choreographed, and brushed their fingers over the tattoo-like marks covering his face. "It doesn't...feel. Doesn't feel like anything, I mean. I can't tell that it's there."
