Beneath the Dust

"Maman, must I really stay

2006-02-22T15:13:00.000-05:00

in this room alone?" Casting her eyes about, she tries to hide her dismay in a low voice, but her attempted subtlety does little to aid her case.
     "Cecelia Marie, you ought to be ashamed!" The older woman's rebuke is sharp, but also murmured softly, to maintain polite appearances. "I know the Perkinses haven't done at all well keeping house, but that is why we ladies are here to help today. And I do think you are quite old enough to manage neatening up a few piles of clothing and such by yourself."
     Sighing softly, she forces a weak smile and nods her acquiescence. "Of course, Maman." She waits for her mother to leave the room, and listens as her cheerful accented voice weaves among the soprano chatter of her fellow members of the church's Ladies Society. Turning about, she then lets her eyes drift resignedly around the room. Though the piles of ragged, dirty clothing are large, the various pieces of furniture, fabric, knock-knacks, toys, broken diningware, and other sundry items are jumbled in hopeless disarray, it is not the mess which had prompted her childish request. Being both eleven years old and her mother's daughter, she knows well how to approach the work set before her.
     What troubles her is something far more nebulous, not easily explained to a bustling mother. There is some feeling of dinginess, some sort of ugliness, which her inner senses cringe at the thought of touching. She shakes her head vigorously, golden ringlets brushing against rosy cheeks.
     "Now, I mustn't disappoint Maman," she gently admonishes herself, as she straightens her gloves (her oldest pair, with the small stain of a drop of tea on the inside of a thumb). "Perhaps it is only the dirt and old dust after all. Certainly there could be nothing dangerous in an empty old room."
     After letting her gaze meander a moment and take in her surroundings, she decides to begin near the window opposite the door, thinking that perhaps if she clears some of the piles from the windowsill, the extra light allowed in will brighten things somewhat. She straightens the grey-blue cap on her curls, and runs her gloved hands down her apron, ensuring it is properly smoothed over her dress - it may be her work dress, but she has no desire to dirty it any more than need be. There are still a number of people about the house, and think of walking home with a smut-covered dress! She flushes brightly at the very thought, and sets gingerly to work, sifting through a pile of fabric and clothing.
     At first, her motions set dust into the air about her, and she coughs delicately, knitting her brows. The initial cloud clears most of the debris from the pile, however, and so she progresses through countless bits of fabric remnants and old clothing. Sorting them into separate piles of dresses, shirts, pants, and mere scraps, she wrinkles her nose occasionally at the dreadfully unfashionable old prints. It seems little wonder that they should be so dusty, and so long untouched! Before long, she has settled into a pattern of routine, nearly folding and placing in more careful piles the various fabrics. Though she would like to place many pieces in a pile for discarding, and knows that she ought not make such decisions for others, and waits for the adjudication of one of the ladies.
     She works diligently, and has soon reached the window, which stares blankly out toward the street, no curtains nor other dressings to often its gaze. The discolored paint is peeling away from the old wood of the sill, and she picks idly at one fragile curl. A long-dead vine lines the bottom of the window frame, its clay pot mottled from moisture and nutrients once pulled from now-barren soil. Clucking her tongue in unconscious echo of her mother, she gingerly sweeps the detritus on the sill into a small pile, then brushes it into a scrap of stained fabric to be thrown away. The pot, she sets aside a moment, intending to empty the depleted soil out the window into the neglected flowerbed beneath it. Frowning, she pushes at the window frame, making small sounds of frustration as it refuses to move. Pausing for breath a moment, she moves aside a child's chair, and steps up against the wall, directly in front of the obstinate window. From her new ground, she is able to gain better leverage against the stubborn wood, swollen by the warmth of late spring. Pushing again, se feels the frame give a tony, begrudging slide, and gasps in surprise as it quickly shoots upward, giving her barely time to stop pushing.
     She leans her light curls out the window a moment, feeling the late morning sun brighten her cheeks, and the rain-sweetened breeze freshen her spirit. "There now, a bit of air will help this old room loads, I bet."
     As she shifts her weight back to the drab interior, her hand jerks toward her apron in unconscious reaction, and she gasps involuntarily, having felt something brush against her glove. Her eyes quickly dart about - and she smiles abashedly to herself. "Only some old letters, the breeze must have moved them..." Inquisitively, she pulls the crumbling papers free from their place, jambed in along the window frame. Thin brows furrowing, she turns the bits of paper over and over, holding them up to the light, peering closely. Each piece is perhaps the size of her palm, the edges ragged and torn. The paper is a little thick, like that of a novelty book, however no lighthearted amusement is clumsily printed on the pages.
     Nothing at all is printed on the papers, nor written by any hand.
     Shrugging, she sighs and sets the scraps on the pile of trash. "I suppose no-one really ever finds mysterious old love letters... It certainly would be nice to." Turning back to her work, only half of her sight is locked in the room - the rest slips into idle daydream. A young woman, with her hair neatly pinned up and a soft flowing dress cascading down her slim frame, glides gracefully across the room to stand at the window. Peering out, her soft eyes scan the dusky, twilit street, and after a moment smile softly at her hopeful folly. With slender, delicate fingers, she carefully folds together a few small slips of paper, covered in fine script. She lovingly tucks he letters into the frame of the open window, fussing over them for a minute or so, tacking care hat they will remain in place until their recipient should come alone and retrieve them. Suddenly footsteps approach from another room, and---
     She turns quickly to a new pile, a few tattered jackets and old toys jumbled between long-unused furniture, bringing her attention back to the task at hand. Remembering the several small children in the Perkins family, she discards only those toys which are broken beyond all hope of repair - though most are quite aged, she knows they may yet be enjoyed. She smiles wryly as she lifts a rag doll from the pile, noting that one braid seems to be missing. Memory weaves through imagination, an she can see a younger brother, rather like her own, laughing and jeering as he runs from his sister's room, stolen doll dangling by her patchwork arm from his chubby fist.
     "Cecelia? How are you doing, dear?"
     Turning quickly about, she looks up at the beautiful yet imposing figure of her mother. hair tightly pinned, fine features firmly set, neat and exacting even in her work dress and apron.
     "I've gotten all the way to the window, Maman, and I'm almost to that cushioned chair over there. All of these are new, sorted piles."
     She nods, looking critically over the young girl's work. "You've done well, but do keep yourself from dawdling now, we still have much to do. I will send Ann in shortly, to help you here once she has finished her portion of the kitchen."
     She smiles and nods in acknowledgment, the dull, endless task ahead brightened by the prospect of someone to talk with. And Ann is an enjoyable conversationalist, always full of the most interesting stories about everyone in town, overheard from her mother's visitors at tea. And she had been meaning to ask if Ann had learned anything new about their school teacher's new beau - a few of their classmates had seen him once or twice, and he was terribly handsome, but little more is known of him, and they are all dying to uncover more.
     As her mother's footsteps recede from the room, she folds the coat in her arms, and adds it to a pile. Stepping in front of the window, she gazes through it a moment more, breathing in the spring air, her eyes passing idly through the years, seeing the trees grown smaller and larger, unnamed faces passing between them. her hands work of their own volition, folding a patched skirt, as she daydreams the ghosts of the room into amiable forms, changing them from fearful to familiar, extending her own fantasies of gossip, amusing herself while waiting for company to entertain her.

[note]

2006-02-13T00:59:00.000-05:00

That last story was the final one I worked on for NaNoWriMo, for anyone who was keeping count. I got most of the way through it, and then basically died. meh. And then.. that wasn't exactly the easiest story to go back to, as I'm sure you can imagine. So I wrote about a page more, somewhere between December and February, and finally made myself finish it. Then it took awhile to get back on track.. so as of five minutes ago, I've just about finished the next one. ^^; So yeah, a little bad. This'll be number eighteen, and I've gotta have.. oh goodness, really, like twice this amount for the site. Here's hoping I get lots of spurts of inspiration in the next few weeks. I'm thinking I might start writing some of them a good bit shorter, though.. thinking about the venue for these, that really might be a better idea in any event, and with some stories, they really don't need to be terribly long. (Part of the problem is that when I switched over into a new notebook, the new one was physically larger, as well as college ruled. Yeah. So I'd been used to writing like near ten pages per story in the first notebook, which is really like three or four pages in the new one. But I felt I should write like seven.. so, yes.)

I'm done rambling. Really. Just letting you know updates will be a little all over the place.. hopefully not too unreasonable though, I reallyneed all these stories done in like a month or two. So.. cheers of encouragement much appreciated. ^^;;

The room is dim,

2006-02-12T20:55:00.000-05:00

the only light that which spills beneath the door, trickling over the worn wooden floorboards, a pale gold stream caught and held back by the coating of dust on the floor. Small bits of dirt and debris cast disturbingly long shadows behind them, stretching back to merge with the deeper shadows which fill the rest of the room. There is little else which can be made out in the room, but there is a strong sense of isolation, of emptiness. The windows are blocked by heavy drapes, and behind them thick dark paper covers the glass, letting through neither light nor peeking eyes. There is an uneasiness here, a sense of fear and unrest, and a heavy, dank odor. Silence hangs heavily in the thick air, which seems to make mere breathing difficult. It is musky and warm, as an old unused attic in midsummer's heat, though the room is on the ground floor; there is no air movement, the blocked windows which have long been unopened drawing in only heat.
     Muffled by the dusky atmosphere, there is the sound of slow breathing, and what might be sobs, mixed with a few unintelligible sounds. The voice is human - but what it produces are far nearer the fever-induced mutterings of one long-ill then they are to words. Yet there is a plaintiveness to them, a haunting sense about the high, soft sounds, which give way for a moment to sudden light prattlings, as of a young child's first babblings. At times the sounds form combinations almost like those of words, but the tongue is clumsy and slow, even these chatterings slurred and unintelligible.
     A sudden loud thud resounds through the wall, causing it to shudder violently, and the voice to halt in a frightened gasp.

     For a long time, there is again only the faintest sound of breath in the musty silence and blinding dark.

     Some time much later, there is a knock on the door, and a low voice. "Stay back, don't come near."
     There is a slight soft scuffling, as of one being startled awake, but then silence returns, only breath and darkness. The warning is not necessary - she knows she cannot approach, and the pain from rebukes for her few attempts are more than enough reminder. Though she does not understand the words, she has learned their intent.
     Also, the brightness beyond the doorframe frightens her, she cannot look toward it without searing pain. She shies away as a sliver of bright light slides across the room, swallowing a whimper of agony. There is a light thump on the floor and a slightly louder grating sound - and though her voice is silent, she cannot hold back her stomach's eager plea nor her mouth from watering. In spite of her want, she dares not look up for fear of the brightness and the sharp words which might come. The words pain her ears; they have grown to hear the smallest details in the still room, and do not take kindly to sudden loudness.
     There is a sliding thud as the door closes tightly, followed by the shimmering sound of a chain and the heavy clunk of a bolt thrown, though she does not know what these last two sounds are. Nor does she stop to wonder, they are customary and she has long grown used to them. Besides, there are more immediate concerns: She immediately scampers across the floor, her palms and knees callused and long used to the rough wood, hardly noticing the occasional splinter unless they become infected, as they sometimes do. Delighted, she finds her prize well within her reach; there have been times it was not so.
     One particularly terrible instance persists in her vague memory - her sustenance had been once thrown to the other side of the doorway. By mistake or design, she did not know nor consider, for the motives of other persons are not a concept she has ever been exposed to. All she knows is the chain which bids her ankle to the immense wardrobe will not allow her to reach even the door, let alone beyond it. That time, she had tugged futilely at the chain, to be rewarded only a chafed and bleeding ankle for her efforts. She had tried to find something with which to reach out and move the food closer, but had found nothing which extended her reach more than a foot or so. Even in the dim gloom of the lightless room, she had known it was not nearly enough, and had cried until the wall again shook and made a loud sound, startling her for a time out of her hunger and thirst.
     And she had not eaten until food was brought to her again some very long time later - she has no concept of hours or days, but knew only that her stomach ached with want and her tongue felt large and dry in her mouth.
     But happily this is not the case now, and she eagerly begins picking away bits of the slightly stale bread she has gathered into her lap. She pinches off a tiny piece at a time, eating the smallest morsels slowly. After a few of these, she reaches for the crudely-made tin cup, obviously ancient and abused, never washed. Lifting it to her lips, she delights in the slick wetness as she allows a small trickle run over her lips and tongue, savoring it in her mouth a moment before letting it soothe her throat.
     She shakes her head in glee and contentment, feeling her long matted hair tease lightly over her face, but making no sound. The outside voice is still too near in her memory; she will not risk doing anything to hasten its return. It frightens her.
     She takes a few more pinches of the bread, and a second previous sip of the water, then almost reverently places them in a specific place against the wall. This is as she always does, eating only enough to quell the pangs which twist her insides and keep her from sleeping when she is tired. She does not know when she will be given more. In one certain place, demarcated by some means only she knows, is where after each meal she sets aside what she does not ingest, so she is always able to easily find it in the ceaseless twilight of her world.
     This place is all she remembers. She has no knowledge of anything other, only silence, solitude, hunger, the taste of bread and acrid water, the sleek restraint of metal around her ankle, the ever-present drag on her leg's every motion, the rough bare floor, the feel of dust and oil on her skin, hair falling into her eyes, darkness and thirst and a feral anxiety.
     Yet there must have been a time where once she had contact beyond the fearful voice through the wall and the door. For when her body has taken what it needs from her scant meals, her memory holds that she has always used a bucket to one side of the room. Though, it is possible that she merely used it without forethought once, and then upon realizing some days later that it had been emptied, she had continued to use it. There are times now when it goes for a long while without being mysteriously emptied. More than once its contents, gradually added to as they are, more than filled the bucket, and the pungent liquid spilled over onto the floor, gradually seeping in and between the wooden boards. Eventually the smell had grown so bad she had begun to constantly wretch dryly, and she had barely been able to eat, as the smell had soaked through her tiny store of water and bread, spoiling the taste. She fell into a troubled sleep, feeling hot and cold at once, waking in chill sweat and violent stomach cramps, but too weak to move. This continued for a very long time to her, until upon one waking, she found the smell greatly lessened. Her eyes slowly and hazily focusing, she saw new food on the floor near the doorway, and had eaten eagerly, no longer caring in what pain she had so recently been in. And she continued to use the bucket, and it was empty with slighter greater frequency.
     Having set her precious food aside, she sits still for a time, feeling her body digest. She curiously touches her hands to the small area of distended skin - what was meant to be the softly chubby belly of a child, but now hangs from frail bones with far less cushioning surrounding them than there ought to be. She gurgles quietly, feeling the inner workings of her stunted, scrawny body in amusement, her palms pressed flat against the thin skin guarding her insides.
     Once her stomach has quieted, she curls up near the wardrobe, on a patch of floor that is ever so slightly worn smoother by her having laid thus countless times. She closes her wide eyes, and sleeps, seeing no more colors with eyes closed than with eyes open.

     When she wakes, it is to a light trickle running down the side of her leg, and she scuttles over to hold her groin over the bucket. She shakes her hips a little to cast off the warm drops, then wipes herself with one hand, wiping her hand in turn across the peeling paper on the wall.
     Idly, she pads softly around the room, trailing her hand over the walls, her fingertips tracing an invisible filigree. Her lips move in motions of her own creation, though they make no sound. What games are played are all her own, and she has no words to describe them. Her ears perk - she skitters on all fours over the worn, dirty boards, to kneel up by the panes of paper-covered glass, ducking behind the rough drapes. She seeks no new and wondrous vision before her - sight is one of the senses she pays least heed, for she has long known there is little to see in a dim, bare room.
     Pressing her ear to the rough paper, she feels the smooth coldness of the glass window she has never seen. And she holds herself perfectly still in excited wonder, as she hears a soft pattering on the window, steady and soothing. The sound of the rain is all she knows of it, yet it is enough for her to love. The sound caresses her, as loving fingers she has never felt against her young cheek. She shivers in delight, the thrill inside her too deep for her usual expressions of happiness.
     She remains beside the window until at last the sound slows and fades away, when she places a palm plaintively against the covered window. The drops which seek out the windowpane are the nearest that she has to outside contact, the soft staccato of their conversation the nearest she has known to kindness.
     Lightly, she taps her fingertips against the silent hidden glass, in echo of her now-absent friend. Her eyes fall slowly closed, as the soundless darkness of her isolation again pulls her in to dreamless sleep.

Oh God, how could I have---

2006-02-11T15:23:00.000-05:00

I never meant--- I didn't know I--- Of course I knew, but I tried to forget I thought--- I thought---
     It was so easy to, I never thought I would do something like this, I never thought I could--- But she made it so easy, she told me time and again it had to be right, it couldn't be wrong if we felt it that strongly, and truly loved one another, and we did, but--- oh God, how could I have done it? All my life, I never understood, but now I do, it was so easy... too easy... and now I'm torn apart and so is all the world with me, or at least my world, and I can no longer see beyond that...
     And it was there, just there! Every thing in this room is now and then and for always connected to her. There, she often took books from the shelves, or left me notes hidden between the pages of my favorite books. There, she once perched on the table, holding her arms out to me, and I embraced her and we laughed, she felt so warm in my rms. There, her light foot tread on the golden-hued boards, as we danced to a new song which the radio played. There, her dress brushed against the chair, as I leaned her against the wall and kissed her with such passion... There, we closed the drapes, hiding as young lovers from the outside world... There, we lay together, on the sofa, and... and made love. We held each other so many times that I cannot begin to count, we embraced and caressed, there was madness of kisses, our bodies yearned so strongly for each other, we could never long resist.. And oh, it was such heaven to hold her, and to be held by her, to be so close against her warm full bosom, to feel the softness of her skin and gentle grace of her curves and--- and it felt so right! We were so happy while together, so filled with warmth and comfort... and she told me she loved me, and I knew - do I still know? - it was true, her eyes could not have hidden anything from me. We loved, and still she loved him, and I... I let her love me, for oh, God, I loved her! My every thought was to her happiness, all of my concerns were bent on how to please her... I gave no thought to myself, for I had no need to - she knew before I did myself what I most needed. She knew me far better than I knew myself...
     Ha. Far better, it seems... I would never have known I was a man capable of loving another man's wife. I wonder is she saw that within me, and so chose to--- No, I cannot believe that. She loved him, and loves him still.
     I was an unexpected accident, a small scratch on an otherwise smooth surface, a rough spot on a polished floor. I am a stain that can never quite be removed, as she is to me. I can never be rid of her, though I should never see her again.
     But I will... I shall see her on the street, or in the company of friends, at holiday parties and on social visits.
     For if I ended my friendship with her husband... there would be many questions I could not answer.
     And for all the times that I will see her, all the rest of my days, never again will I see her in my arms. May God strike me down if ever I do. I have sinned enough for one lifetime in my past, I will seek to make my future as blameless as ever I may, in hopes that I may be forgive. Does He not say that He will wash us clean, if we truly seek forgiveness of Him? But I have sinned so deeply, and...
     And do I truly regret what I have done? It tears me so deeply inside, thinking that I could, even now, when it has ended, the knowledge of this, I could ruin entirely what might otherwise have been a full lifetime of joy for them. I would shatter that trust, and true trust is so rare, and so precious, but I have jeopardized that for them. And that knowledge will forever blacken my soul. But... She gave me so much, together we had so much. Never had I truly trusted another soul as I did her, never had I felt my heart be so safe as with her, never had I felt confident in myself, as she allowed me to be... And she was - is - so beautiful, I remember her lips and skin and touch, so caring and tender and delicate, her fingers so sure and skillful. And her eyes, ah! They could melt me in a moment with love, or pin me to a wall with their dominating desire. And her desires ran so hot and passionate.... Her heart and body needed more than one man could provide... and I do not think that such a trait could change so soon, nor, by all appearances, has it. And I wonder what lies in the future of such a woman, when she has promised herself to one man, and already broken that promise once.
     I want with all my heart to have been different, I do not want to be merely one of a string of lovers. And... I do not want her to have to maintain a string of lovers. I do not want her to have to lie, or him to be lied to... and most of all, I could not bear to see her hurt. I know how I have hurt her... I, who knew her better than everyone but him (better, in some ways). And still I was insensitive, and still I broke her heart, and still I did not have it within me to keep her happy. I was not enough, no matter how I longed and how I tried, I always fell short, I could never---
     But we were not meant to be together, we should never have been... though then, it felt so right... God, why did You blind us so? Why fool us into feeling so strongly, and letting us love so strongly that it was more than enough reason for us, more than enough justification for anything we felt moved to do, why--- Oh God, why did You have us ever meet? We have each other so much but now all of that and more is gone, and even the memory is tarnished and stained, even the most beautiful moments have become disfigured, and my chest is torn open every time I think of her, I do not know if it is in hate or in longing but it hurts, God, why let me hurt so deeply? Why wound me so? What purpose could this disaster hold, I know I was wrong, I helped her to break man's most sacred vows but God! You gave us so much love that we grew intoxicated and could not see, I did not know--- but I did! I did and I ran from the truths which tore me from within, I ran from what I knew was right because I was happy. I was happy, I felt--- I felt loved, and important, and cared for, and...
     And I was no longer alone.
     And I knew she needed me. She needed to be told, so often, that she was loved, and she needed to be loved, body and soul, she needed to know she was beautiful. Mirrors lie and so may lovers but she trusted me...
     I do not know if she does still.
     And I do not know myself any longer, that I have done a thing like this... How can I trust myself when I have betrayed my own morals, which all my life I have held so tightly to? Who am I now, for I am not the person I claimed to be, I am no longer the person I made myself, I am---
     I am no longer who I once was, and never will be again. I cannot be what I once was...
     She made me feel so much myself, even as she was slowly siphoning my self away, too slowly for me to notice it... I was subsumed by she who was my only desire, I let myself be overrun. I looked only to her, and hers was the only opinion that mattered, I simply accepted that I had been wrong, and took the reprimands when they came, and then tried... oh God, how I tried! All I wanted was for it to work, but of course it couldn't, sin begets only sin and sorrow, what is grown of sin will never bear the fruit of true happiness. And yet I tried so hard to make it so, I nourished that diseased plant with all of my soul, letting it feed even on my very self, and did not realize it began to strangle me as it grew, taking more and more from me, and trapping what was left...
     I feel I make this too dramatic, yet... yet despite the distance I have forced myself from it, I can still feel her influence on me, I still... I know how easily I could go back, I no longer understand it but I remember how happy I was... I know how securely I blinded myself, though I do not know how it happened... and that is all the more reason I feel its power, for I know not what warning signs to look for. So I keep myself far away... though I long for the innocence of our indiscretions.
     I was happier in my sin than I am in my righteousness.
     I cannot return to her, but nor can I return to who I was before, I am changed and do not know how to find my way...
     I still think of her at night, when my arms ache from having no-one to hold, and my breast cries for hers to be against it... I remember what bliss it was, to lie with her, on the sofa just there, and see her eyes gazing with such love and assurance into mine, and feel her relaxed and trusting in my arms, and the taste of her lips and skin... There is no detail I do not remember, of her body, of her voice, of her laugh, of her gestures and expressions... There is no sensation which I cannot yet feel in my memory, through I shall never truly feel any of them again... I think of her at night, but she will not come to me, nor love me any longer, not even in dreams.
     And I fear that she might, and I miss her so terribly, and---
     I do not want... I wish it had never happened but I do not regret our love, I--- I am stained for ever and a part of me will always be dark with guilt. I am forever grateful for the love she gave me, so many things I needed I would never have gained were it not for her. There is nothing which can be reconciled, I am forever torn in twain, I do not know if I can ever be whole again.
     I had thought she was the answer, we loved so deeply, and gave so much, and shared and felt so much... and it was all--- The love was not wrong, we truly felt it, no regret will ever change that. How can loving someone be wrong? But I--- what we did was so wrong, I do not know if I can forgive myself, I only pray that God may. But what in my world is certain if I will betray even the principles I hold most dear? What sort of person would---
     But it felt so right, to both of us...
     We loved, and we loved fully and deeply... and I wanted to love, there was so much to love about her. So many things about her I admired, I found so much beauty in her, so generous and warm...
     It was so hard to let go, and I am so frightened of letting myself near her again, for I know how much power I gave her over me... and I dare not let it happen again.
     But we were so happy... When we were together, the thought of her being another man's wife never passed through my mind, all I thought of was what I could do to please her, and show her how deeply I loved her. I never questioned, only loved. And I know she yet loved him, as well as me, and I knew he did not suspect, on the rare times I thought of the truth of our situation....

     It would tear him apart if he knew.
     It would tear them apart.
     And I am the cause, I---

     Yet how can I say that love was wrong? It was true between us, it filled out eyes and thoughts and hearts, there was nothing we would not have done for the other, I gave her all I had... and sacrificed even my morals for love.
     And I no longer know what is left of me...

She often sits up late at night,

2006-02-04T16:12:00.000-05:00

when the house breathes softly and can rest, with no voices ringing off of its walls nor feet trampling its floors. The family wonders little that she naps frequently in the day, attributing it to old age alone, but she lets them continue in their illusions, for Heaven knows they would protest and insist it is not healthy for her. As if at this time of life, she cares two figs about what is healthy! In any event, this is the time she keeps to herself, and basks in as a cat in a warm sunbeam. The shadows drape around her as a comforting shawl, and the rich silences soothe her ears. Things move with a comfortable slowness at night, a pace she quite likes. She is no longer in any rush to reach the rest of her life - it has passed, and she is content, feeling no need to press ever-forward, but enjoying to its fullest each moment which comes.
     She sits for a time on the chaise beside the window, looking out past the heavy curtains to see the silvery landscape the moon has painted, with trees stretching dark fingers up to mingle among the stars. Smiling to herself, she remembers when she would have climbed the branches, unladylike as it might have been, just to get a little nearer to the alluring brilliances scattered over the night sky. Yet now, she feels far closer to them than that could ever have brought her - she has learned that the soul and imagination may travel many places the body cannot.
     Getting slowly to her feet, hardly noticing the stiffness she has long grown accustomed to. Crossing the room, she stands before the bookshelf, a thin frail figure, but yet retaining some of the grace it is clear she once possessed. The pale rose of her dressing gown and white of her hair stand in sharp contrast to the richly hued bindings of the books, particularly when an outdoor breeze brushes aside a tree's leafy branch, and a moonbeam falls further into the room to tangle in the shimmering silk of the dressing gown. Gently, she pulls from the shelf three books, setting them quietly down on a bit of empty shelf. She reaches back into the opening they have created, and pulls from the shadows a simple green-bound book, a navy blue ribbon marking a page. She folds this small book beneath her arm, and replaces the other three books, before stepping away and sitting in the rocking chair, which rests beneath the window nearer the bookcase.
     Setting the book in her lap, she reaches to the side, where an ornately-carved end table sits. On the lower shelf of the table is a wooden box with a prettily embroidered handkerchief laying atop it. Reaching inside, her long frail fingers fumble for a minute, then draw out a pencil, letting the box close again as she removes her hand. Turning her eyes back to the still-closed book resting in her lap, she lets her gaze linger, tracing lightly over the subtle entwinings of light and shadow on her silk dressing gown, and the contrast of the deep green suede-jacketed book against the soft rose. Smiling, she runs her fingertips tenderly over the time-softened forest tones, enjoying the pleasure of a nicely-bound journal in which to write. Opening the book, she flips slowly through the warm cream-colored pages fill with small, clear handwriting, written with the careful grace of many years spent in practice. Stopping every now and again to neatly cross out and change a word or phrase, or add a note in a margin, she continues through the pages, not in the least aware of the time which passes. At last, she reaches the end of the writing, and pauses, holding her pencil over the paper a long moment, before lifting her eyes and setting the pencil down to rest.
     She closes her eyes for a time, then slowly opens them. Though the light is dim, it is yet clear that time has not dulled their color, nor their sense of beauty. Again her eyes follow the moonlight, but now as it spills into the room, as a gently breath from the heavens. The golden wood of the floorboards is turned silver, and all the room is paled, coated in the brilliant dusk of stardust. She breathes deeply, sighing in contentment. She has never know another room which captures the beauty of night nearly so well as this. The moon makes graceful the room's age, turning the scars and abrasions of years passing into silver filigree. There is an ever-present sense of substance to the shadows and grey places, and she feels that if she only looks close enough, she will see the translucent figures of those who sat in the room long before herself. But her eyes have grown weak, though they yet shine with interest - she does not call the unseen forms aloud, for she knows that if she is silent and willing, they will whisper soft stories onto the pages before her.
     She gazes for a long moment on a particularly bright patch on the floor, her eyes tracing the outline of the light beside an area of slightly darker shadow, the light seeming to almost shy away from the old stain. After a long moment, her eyes grow brighter, and she immediately sets pencil to paper, nodding and smiling to herself as the words flow with hardly a thought from inspiration to inscription.
     Silently, her thoughts glide between the years, sifting through insight and memory and impressions, faces and voices, things both seen and dreamed. And as her mind finds things useful or especially pretty, it sets them aside, readying them for consumption by the every-flowing words. A lifetime of experiences seen and felt by one in constant sensitive wonder are funneled and channeled between the lovingly worn green covers.
     The light of stars and the moon lap softly against the draping folds of her dressing gown, which shimmers and quivers as she rocks slowly in the chair, and tangle gently in her hair pale as the light itself. All things shimmer quietly in the silence, as if touched by evening dew and then frozen into place, the only movement is that of her hand and the chair, yet neither is any more than that of branches in an evening breeze. All is still, yet filled with life, though it is contained, as breath hushed and excited. For a moment the peace is broken by a clock somewhere chiming the late hour, but even that seems muffled by the dusk, and she does not hear it.
     She writes, and her senses are bound within the world she creates, not in the least aware of things physically around her. She sees in dreams now, painting them real from corner to corner, in fantastic colors and extraordinary details granted to the senses. Each word is lovingly and perfectly chosen, her hand moving far slower than her thoughts, for in this way, by the time she comes to write a word, it has been revised many times and she is certain it is the right one, when it is written in all the clear beauty which it is deserving of.

     The time passes, the moonlight slowly moves on, gracing in turn each corner of the room, lingering a long while before leaving the room altogether. It is dark for a time, then dim but heavy with promise. The light holds back as long as it may, until the anticipation can be contained no longer, and the brilliance of morning light fills the silent room. Gradually the light warms, from new white to golden, bringing an opposite but equal beauty to the furnishings and decorations of the room, bringing the colors to fill saturation, rich and deep. There is a prolonged pause - and then sound arrives.
     Light footfalls outside the room, a few quiet clatters from another room, perhaps the kitchen, and later heavy steps from sleep-hazed feet stumbling from bed. Smell enters in next - bacon and eggs, rich and salty, floating lightly over the underlying sizzle as they cook; coffee a thicker cloud between the two, pungent and percolating. A distant hum of voices, the ringing sound of dishes and utensils, and finally the softer sounds and louder voices as people move into the day.

     Now:
     A figure in prim simple dress enters the room, moving toward the window to further open the drapes, but starts back suddenly, seeing the sleeping form in the chair. "Oh! I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you there, you surprised me... Ma'am?"
     Two other figures enter the room, older than the first but younger than the one just beginning to stir. "Oh, Mother! Whatever are you doing in here? You'll catch a death of a chill, sitting out here through the night, and really it can't be good for your back, you know how stiff it gets, now really, Mother..."
     Her eyes gradually open, slowly focusing on the anxious and frustrated faces in front of her. Smiling softly, she folds her hands discretely over the book in her lap. "Oh dear, did I fall asleep here again? Oh dear. Do give an old woman a minute to collect herself. Have I missed breakfast, then?"
     "There's some we kept warm for you, ma'am. Shall I set it out for you?"
     She nods graciously and smiles. "That would be lovely, thank you. Oh I don't need help getting up, do stop fussing!" she laughs softly, shooing the others out of the room.
     Though reluctantly, and not without further admonitions and words of concern, they are soon out of the room, and she is again alone. Smiling, she stretches, looking around her and drinking in the warm splendor of the fresh sunlight, noting with interest how complete a transformation the room undergoes with a change of light. Now, the long-used furnishings look lived-in and comfortable - though they have lost the ethereal delicacy the moonlight wrought of them, they now feel solid and reassuring, quite friendly really.
     She slips the pencil back into its box, then slowly rises to her feet, holding first the to chair arms and then to the bookcase for support. The stiffness is set deeply in her joints, muscles and bones, and though she has long since grown accustomed to them she is still aware of the various deep-seated aches throughout her body. Yet they do not by any means overwhelm her - she will not allow them to - and gradually she stands before the bookcase. Again pulling out the three books, she sets them aside, and holds her small book to her breast a moment in tenderness of affection, before placing it against the back of the shelf and replacing the other books as before. Taking a step back, she nods in self-approval, for there is no hint of her hidden book to any eye which might perchance scan the shelves.
     "Rest well, my little book," she murmurs softly, a light smile playing about the corners of her lips and in her eyes. "For some day, you will be held by the hands of many others instead of only mine. But for now, rest and keep silent your dreamy secrets."
     Chuckling softly at an old woman's whimsy, she begins moving toward the kitchen, fingers and eyes yet lingering on every detail of the room, ever searching for new tales to spin.

[note - btd project]

2006-02-04T16:04:00.000-05:00

For anyone who might not know, I am not finished with these stories. Not only am I writing a few more, but I'm also constructing a much larger project around them. For my capstone for graduation (big huge culminating project for us media arts kids), I'm making a website, flash-based, which will basically be the room all of these stories are set in. You'll be able to look around and see the room itself, some furniture and objects and things in it, and by clicking on different areas, different stories (final, edited versions - better than what you see here) will come up. Not going to be nearly as simplistic and straightforward as that, of course, there will be drawings and sound and some things that you the average viewer won't know about, but things will change and things, and it will be very good. I'm really excited about it. This won't be done 'til May, and even then, we'll see if I can afford web space right away or not, I don't know. But, if you'd like to see what progress I'm making, and pleasepleaseplease drop a comment with aaany feedback at all, idc how big or small or anything it is, it'd be hugely appreciated.. oh right the link. BtD update blog. Also a blog for class, so don't mind the occasional homework assignment.

There are only a few more stories left that I've finished writing, I'm starting a few more, but once I'm through the back-log, updates will be more sporadic.

She sits on the bare wood floor,

2006-02-03T12:09:00.000-05:00

her palms resting flat against the worn grain. Motionless, soundless, she sits, her very breath subdued, her very thoughts stilled, as if the very air has grown heavy and slowed every aspect of her body. Only there is not the slightest struggle, as there would be if she were not perfectly willing. But she is entirely calm, calmer than most five-year olds are able to remain at any time other than sleep.
     A light breeze brushes the delicate strands of her auburn hair, though no window is open in the little-used room. She smiles, her eyes remaining closed, as she greets someone unseen with a hushed young voice: "Hello. Will you tell me another story today?"

     "Oh yeah? Well my house has ghosts in it!"
     A small crowd is gathered in the largely-empty room, which is used by the ragtag groups of boys as a meeting place when the weather is disagreeable, as the rain is today. Their eyes look at him carefully, their expressions ranging from skepticism to awe to sheer terror.
     "No... how do you know?"
     "My sister hears them talking sometimes."
     "Wow, really?"  "Ah, no way."  "She isn't scared?"  "This house?!"
     "Hey, isn't your sister a baby still?"
     To his credit, he only flushes slightly before recovering his cool. "She's five, and a lot smarter than you, I'll bet."
     His remark is met with jeering laughter, but the other boy, perhaps a year older, does not back down. "I bet she makes up stories to tell just to get everyone's attention to herself, just like you do."
     Switching allegiance as quickly and surely as only young boys eager to look good can, they now catcall in the opposite direction.
     "I do not, I was just sayin' the truth! She really does talk to them, and no kid that little could make up the stories she says they tell her, and I sure ain't sittin' around all day tellin' my little sister stories."
     There are chuckles, but the burden of proof still rests on the younger boy - it is his reputation still on the line.
     "Sure, sure, easy to say, but how you gonna prove it?"
     Thinking rapidly, he glances around the group of boys in search of inspiration. In a moment, he finds it: "Say, Harry, ain't your older sister got one of those boards that lets you talk to ghosts?"
     "Yeah, she's got a talking board, sure."
     "Think we could borrow it somehow? That would settle things pretty quick, wouldn't it?"
     The boys nod in thoughtful approval, though a few of the younger ones look nervous about the endeavor.
     "I heard some preacher say the devil talks through those," a young voice pipes up, only slightly hesitantly. "He told my papa that it ain't natural to try talking to those as what's already stopped living."
     "No-one said you had to come if you're a little yellow chicken," jeers another in answer, and the group's laughter sends him back into the meek and humble posture of the smaller boys.
     "When can you get it, Harry?"  "Should we do it at night? That's when ghosts are out mostly."  "Wouldn't it be too dark to see nothin'?"  "Nah, ghosts light themselves up, everyone knows that."  "How many ghosts do you think there are?"  "Wow, right here, maybe even in this room, right now..."
     "Quiet!" commands the older boy, whose line of questioning had led to the proposed trial. "Now, Harry, when do you think you can get this board?"
     "Well..." He pauses a moment in deep consideration. "I suppose anytime after Thursday night. She's having friends over then, and they sometimes use it. But I know she'll be out Friday night, she always sneaks back in real late and sleeps most of the next day, so as long as I get it back by suppertime Saturday, it's okay."
     Turning to the boy who professed his house contains unworldly spirits, the older boy continues his stern questioning. "Tim, can you arrange sometime between Friday and suppertime on Saturday for us to meet here?"
     "It can't be too late, Mom won't want all of you in here keeping people awake, and she cleans most of the house on Friday, but Saturday is fine."
     "Then Harry, you be sure to get that board by Saturday. Everyone else, get your chores done early or sneak out, and be here by exactly one in the afternoon on Saturday."
     Various consents are called out, and the group begins to break up, heading for the door out of the room, the infallible clock in each boy's stomach alerting them it is nearly dinnertime. Gradually, they file out, chattering eagerly about the plans made for a few days away. Timothy is the last to leave, picking up a few stray pinecones and pebbles the smaller boys dropped, to prevent a scolding from Ma, before moving to leave the room as well.
     The older boy hangs back a minute also, and tosses a wadded-up gum wrapper casually at the younger boy. "Hey Tim... don't cut out on us, alright?"
     Grinning confidently, he crushes the gum wrapper in his hand with the rest of the debris. "Not a chance, Mike."

     Later that evening, he pulls his younger sister aside, taking her into the spare room, where they can talk in private. "Hey, Gracie, do those voices you hear still tell you stories?"
     She giggles, plopping down on the floor, playing with a small pebble. "They're not voices, silly, they're people, they just lived a long time ago. Well not all of them, some of them didn't live so very long ago. But they tell me such int'resting stories."
     He chuckles and rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. But you said they talk mostly when you're in here?"
     "Uh-huh. This is their favorite room, partly because it's mostly quiet in here, and there aren't other people bothering them. But they like it too because they remember a lot of things about it, and there are lots of things they recognize. They tell me lots of stories about things that happened in this room. I ask them to lots of times, because then I get to feel like I'm part of the story, too!"
     Smiling at her youthful enthusiasm, he pats her short hair gently. "Do you think they would mind talking to some of my friends on Saturday, Gracie? I promise I'll make them be very quiet. And the... the people you talk to, they don't even have to talk out loud to anyone, Harry's going to bring something that... Well, it will sort of let them write things to us. Do you think they'd come?"
     She shrieks with laughter, throwing the stone across the floor and watching it roll beneath the small end table in a corner. "Silly Timmy, they're always here! There are bunches of them, and some of them are always here."
     He shivers slightly, suppressing the sudden fearful urge to look around himself.
     "They don't really like your friends, they're too noisy and rough. But if I ask nicely, and they boys are quiet and not mean, and my friends don't really have to talk to them, I guess it's okay."
     He laughs happily, jumping to his feet and picking his little sister up, spinning her around as she laughs in delight. "Thank you, Gracie! I promise to buy you a candy, with my very next allowance, how's that sound?"
     Her eyes go wide. "Will you buy me a peppermint stick? Really truly?"
     He nods, grinning broadly. "Really truly."
     "Hurray!" she cries, and the moment he sets her down, she goes running merrily out of the room, laughing joyfully.

     Having gotten his mother's consent to have a group of friends over on Saturday afternoon - as well as her assurance that she would leave them undisturbed - he makes a final check of the room, pushing the spare furniture a little closer to the walls, to ensure there is space for everyone on the floor. Harry had given him a rough size of the talking board, and they had decided it would be best to lay it on the floor, rather than try to balance the thick wood on the small end table.
     Just as he pushes aside a box of old records, Grace calls out his name. "Timmy! Your friends are here!"
     "Okay! Show 'em inside, Gracie, have them come back here."
     Quarter of an hour later, after a prolonged period of disorganized scrambling, minor fights, and overlapping voices, the various boys are seated, excitedly but calmly, around the large board set on the floor. Being a few feet across, there is not enough room for all of them to sit directly beside it, which was cause for a great deal of initial dispute, but the internal ranking of the boys soon had the trouble resolved.
     A sudden moment of rare silence falls on them, uncertain of what should be done next. They look at the unassuming slab of wood before them curiously - though this is the first time many of them have seen one, all have heard stories. It is a rather simple thing, nothing inherently unusual about the large, heavy black letters which cross the warm gold colored board in a smooth arch. Beneath the letters are printed numbers in a line, and beneath them, the words "Good Bye". In one corner is a detailed man-in-the-moon, in another a crescent moon and star, each with ominous dark clouds behind. The words "yes" and "no" are set beside the two moons. In the lower two corners - well, there at least is an image giving indication of the board's true substance, sending shivers up the backs of the younger boys. Several hands rest on a planchette, but one woman has taken her hands from it - behind her is a shadowy face, floating in midair, doubtless a spirit long-departed from the living world.
     As the eldest boy present, Mike feels a duty to both begin and officiate the proceedings. "Well Harry, explain to everyone how this works."
     The principles have been discussed, debated, questioned, doubted, wondered over, gone over a thousand times in the days prior, but each one present now feels a formal introduction is proper. In any case, the younger boys might have forgotten, and should be told again.
     "Um, well... This smaller piece of wood with the glass in it is called the planchette. You put your fingertips on it, really lightly, like this. No pushing is allowed, that messes things up. You can do it with one person, but I think it works better with more. You ask it a question, and if there's a spirit nearby, it'll move the planchette to spell out answers for you. But you can't make it mad, or it won't answer you. And if you really make it mad---" He pauses his narrative for dramatic affect, as well as to look around and be sure his audience is paying full attention, then drops his voice: "Sometimes, the spirits will do things to you. Sometimes it's just stuff like messing things up when you leave the room. But sometimes, they'll attack you in your own brain and make you think of the most horrible things. One of my sister's friends told her that some man in her town had done something to get a spirit really mad, and a fire started in the room!" He looks around again with a solemn expression and smug heart, as he sees the grave fear stamped on every face from his warnings.
     After a horrible pause, during which every boy's worst nightmare plays out bin his imagination in the most excruciating detail, Mike clears his throat. "Well. We'll be real polite then, and no-one say anything mean about ghosts, alright? Especially things like you don't believe in them, they really hate that. And it's stupid anyway to be sitting here waiting for answers from ghosts if you don't even believe in them. So anyone who don't proper believe in ghosts and things, you better get out now. If you're scared, too. I won't say this isn't risky, but I'm gonna see what it says."
     There are nods of agreement all around, with only slight hesitations here and there.
     "So how do we start it, Henry? There's not a switch or somethin'?"
     "Well, like I said, some of us should put our fingertips lightly on the planchette, like this..."
     "We better only have a few of us, it'll get too crowded, and it has to be men we know won't push it. Harry and I, and Tim of course. And I suppose Rick, you can too. The rest of you, don't crowd or nothin', and keep quiet. It helps if we all focus on the question being asked, right?"
     Harry nods. "Right, and keep kinda quiet."
     Tim nods as well. "My sister told me the ghosts don't usually like you guys, you're too loud." A few chuckles answer his remark, some in agreement and just a few in scorn that he should so fully credit the word of his baby sister.
     "Harry, you know the most about it, so I think you should ask the questions. You can start whenever you're ready, and I'll punch out the first kid who makes too much noise."
     "Okay. So everyone, just think about the questions, and don't talk too much or make loud noises, especially all the sudden. And don't move real fast, no matter what happens." Harry waits a few moments, closing his eyes and breathing slowly and deeply, until complete silence has fallen on the room. He recalls to mind the words his sister always says when she and her friends start asking the board questions, and intones them in as grave and deep a voice as he is able to find. "O Spirits who yet linger in this mortal world, are there any of you present here with us now?"
     Feeling a slight motion beneath his fingertips, Harry opens his eyes again, watching as the planchette moves over the golden grains of wood. There are a few hushed gasps and whispers. Mike gazes sternly at the hands of the others, making certain no one is pushing it, watching for any betraying strain of muscle - but he sees none. Tim looks in awe, knowing that the delicate, smooth motion could not be cause by any of the young boys, or by any usual movement of wood against wood.
     As the motion stops, Harry reads out the word revealed by the glass eye in the planchette: "Yes."
     Further gasps from the surrounding group are abruptly silenced by a sharp glare from Mike, and only the faintest of murmurs pass between the gathered boys.
     "Now what?"
     "Ask who the spirit is," suggests Tim gently, his fingers tingling a little, his stomach fluttering with a volatile combination of uneasiness and excitement.
     Trembling a little, having only once actually used the board before now, and not a little worried about what they might be communicating with, Harry clears his throat. "O Spirit from the other realms, what is your name?"
     The planchette begins to move again - directly to the word "No".
     "No? What's that mean?" Mike looks in query at Harry.
     "I... I'm not sure. O Spirit, do you have no name?"
     More quickly this time, the planchette skims over the alphabet letters. It pauses on the letter "F", then slides until it reaches "O", where it pauses again, and so on through several letters, called out in turn by Harry.
     "F... O... R... G... E... T. Forget! It must have forgotten its name! Wow, I bet he's been dead a long time, then..."
     "Ask him how long!"
     "Shh! Anyway, anyone who doesn't remember his own name ain't gonna remember what day he died on, stupid."
     Harry now looks to Tim for a suggestion, sensing that he will have the right sort of idea.
     As well he does. "Harry, ask... ask if it's a man or a woman."
     "O Spirit, when you lived, were you a man or woman?"
     The planchette moves with frightening rapidity, eliciting gasps from even the boys touching it.
     "STILL ALIVE WOMAN NOT DEAD I AM"
     Following the veritable torrent of words, the planchette drops to a dead still. Every eye in the room is wide with fear, and every spine tingles with the sense of a ghostly presence, perhaps just behind them! A few of the boys do look around them, in sheer natural reaction.
     Mike swallows hard, trying to keep his voice even. "Guess that was the wrong thing to say... D'you think she's mad, Harry?"
     His skin uncommonly pale, Harry stares at the wood beneath his fingers. "I... I don't know. But we should be real careful. And ask something nice next."
     Softly, recovering from the initial fright, Tim speaks again. "Maybe ask how she's feeling? That's real polite, that couldn't make anyone mad."
     "Yeah, good idea!"
     "Try that."
     "O Spirit... um... How are you feeling?"
     There is a pause before the planchette begins to move again, and they wonder for a moment - some in secret relief - if it will move at all. But it does, much more calmly than before.
     "TIRED NOW SAD"
     "I'll bet saying so much before made her tired," suggests Rick.
     "But sad... I hope we didn't make her sad. Ask her, Harry," Tim requests.
     With understandable wariness, he does. "Spirit, have we made you sad?"
     The planchette moves calmly to the word "No", and the communal sigh of relief is audible. Yet the breath released is quickly drawn back in, as the planchette begins to move again.
     "ALWAYS SAD"
     There are looks of compassion here and there, but no-one will say any words of sympathy - to do so would break the unspoken code of this and every group of boys. No such weak emotion is shown, at any cost, to do so is to be unmanly, and is inexcusable.
     "Now what?"
     All faces turn to Tim, who thinks for a long moment, then shrugs. "If she's tired, maybe we better let her go. We could ask if there are other spirits here."
     "Good idea. Do it, Harry."
     "Spirit, we know that you and tired, and will let you rest. Are there others with you?"
     "TOO MANY NOISY" The planchette pauses a moment, as if uncertain.
     "Go and rest, spirit," Timothy whispers gently. "Thank you for talking to us." To their astonishment, the planchette moves again, this time running slowly over the words "Good Bye".

     Silence hangs in the air for a long moment, and several of them shiver, feeling as if a chill breeze had just moved past them. After a minute or two, the eyes of Tim and Mike meet across the talking board. "Well? Do you believe me now?" Tim asks - but has too much respect for the other's age and thus rank to allow himself a smile of satisfaction.
     Mike nods solemnly but grins as well. "Yeah, you proved it alright. But what should we do now?" He turns his attention to the group at large. "Since everything's set and we have a couple hours before we have to get the board back. Do we wanna get another ghost to talk? Or just stop now?"
     Inside each boy's mind there is some part which pleads to stop now, in some a larger part, in others a smaller. Yet before the thought has fully formed, it is overtaken by a louder one - the sense in each of them that the group would look down on such cowardice, even were every one of them to feel the same. Besides that, there is the overwhelming drive of boyhood curiosity, which rules over nearly all else. And so:
     "Keep going!" "Yeah!" "I wanna know just how many ghosts there are in here." "Can I try?" "Can't the rest of us get a turn?" "Can I ask a---"
     "Shh! What did I tell you? Keep quiet, or none of them will come near us," Mike hisses, his eyes narrowing threateningly. "And you can't all try, there's not enough room. And I don't trust all of you to not move it and mess things up."
     Harry takes his fingers off the planchette, sitting back a little. "Someone can take my spot though." He looks at Tim, who nods, accepting the role of speaker.
     "And mine," volunteers Rick, moving back among the others.
     "Alright, lemme see... Craig, Nate, you guys can come up," Mike decides. The two boys move into place, with a mixture of pride and anxiety. "Like this? Are we doing it right?"
     "Yeah, you're fine," assures Tim. "Should I start, then?" Mike nods his assent, and the group becomes hushed again in anticipation.
     "Is there a spirit here with us?" Tim asks, not choosing to speak in the impressive flourishes Harry had - but the rest had been tiring of those anyway. Somehow, this felt more real, as if they were really just talking with ghosts, same as they would talk to each other.
     "YES"
     "Spirit, do you have a name?"
     "YES"
     The boys sit in silence, waiting for the planchette to elaborate. But after a full minute has passed, it has not again moved. Puzzled, Tim asks again. "Spirit, what is your name?"
     At last, the planchette moves slowly and steadily over the large capital letters:
     "T...I...M...O...T...H...Y"
     Tim shudders, feeling a chill along his spine. There is again an audible intake of breath from the other boys, but to their credit, they do not speak.
     "Spirit, y--- your name is Timothy?"
     "YES"
     Taking a deep breath, convincing himself it is simply a coincidence, Tim continues. "Alright... Timothy, how many other spirits are in the room with you?"
     "FIVE NOW"
     "Five? Whoa..." "Five now? Does that mean there are usually more?" "Could be less." "Yeah but we know one just left..."
     "Shh!" Mike again reprimands, for though the boys had spoken barely above a whisper, he is becoming uneasy, and fearful of upsetting the spirit. There is something about this one which is creating a knot in his stomach, far more than the previous ghost.
     "Let's see... Spirit, how do you feel?"
     "HUNGRY"
     There is a hushed titter of laughter, quickly silenced by Tim, whose hair is prickling on the back of his neck. "Spirit, what are you hungry for?"
     The planchette begins moving with frightening rapidity, barely pausing on the letters: "H...U...N...G...R...Y...F...O..."
     The door into the room opens, but only Tim looks up, the rest are far too transfixed by the board. "R...B..."
     "Gracie, what are you doing in here?" he hisses quietly, his fingertips still on the moving wood. "Didn't Mom tell you not to---. Gracie, what's wrong?" he asks quickly, suddenly taking in her wide, scared eyes.
     "L...O..."
     She hurries over to stand behind him, eyeing the board in fear, words tumbling from her in a quivering whisper. "Timmy, you should stop. I know--- Juliet just told me, she was talking to you but she left because she was tired but--- she said someone else took her place and--- and Timmy, it's one of the mean ones. The others won't let him tell me stories, or even talk to me at all, I don't know what he did but Timmy you should stop---"
     Faces pale as her hushed voice breaks the breathless silence, and a few of the smaller boys whimper in fear.
     "O...D... Hungry f-- for blood---" Mike's voice squeaks out, his hands shaking, though still frozen on the planchette, which continues to move.
     "E...M...P...T...Y...W..."
     Tim takes his hands from the possessed wood, turning to Gracie and hugging her protectively to his side. "What should we do? Can you talk to them, can the others help us?"
     "A...N...T...H...U..."
     Her young body is trembling. "I... I'm scared. I don't know if I can talk to him, I don't know if he let me anyway---"
     "N...G...R...Y...D..."
     "No, Gracie, don't talk to him, it's too dangerous! But could you try the others, and ask them to help us?"
     She nods solemnly. "I can. Wait."
     "O...N...O...T...L..."
     Pulling herself free of his arms, she scampers to the other end of the room, near the window and bookcase, where a small patch of sunlight falls on the golden wood of the floorboards. She sits down, her skirt spreading in a circle about her short legs. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes.
     "E...A...V...E...D..."
     After a moment, her breathing becomes subdued, as if she is falling asleep. Tim watches her intently, anxious and concerned, but with a little curiosity and awe as well, having full faith in his sister's ability.
     "O...N...O...T...L..."
     She smiles, and speaks in a soft voice. "Hello again. I'm glad you're not sad any more. Can you help my brother's friends?"
     "E...A...V...E..." The planchette moves from the arch of letters to the corner showing the full moon, then the corner with the crescent moon, then the lower corners, back to the full moon, passing with increasing rapidity from one corner to the next, without rest.
     "Harry! What's going on, what does that mean?" No longer is there calm and leadership in Mike's voice - he is as frightened as the rest.
     "I... I don't know, I've never seen it do this before..."
     "Take your hands off of it!" "Yeah, don't do it anymore, I'm scared." "Don't touch it!" Yet despite the growing pleas from the other boys, those who remain touching the planchette continue to do so, transfixed and near frozen by fear.
     She giggles softly, nodding in sympathy. "I know they're loud, Juliet, I'm sorry... Can you please try to help them anyway? For my sake. My brother's over there too, and you know he's a nice boy."
     Their eyes go still wider, hearts pounding in terror, as the planchette moves back toward the letters, each of them scared half to death of what it might now spell out. Quickly, the planchette begins passing over the alphabet, moving from the letter "Z" back through, and they wait without breathing for it to pause on a letter.
     But it does not.
     Her breath is stilled as well, but a gentle smile remains on her lips, and she nods in apparent encouragement from time to time.
     Tim looks worriedly at his sister, ready at an instant's notice to scramble over to her side, but so far respecting her and her voices, knowing she needs space and no interruption. His stomach knotted, his heart pounding, a constant stream of emotion runs through him, chills and fear and an almost claustrophobic sense of being surrounded.
     The planchette is moving slower, but still it does not stop, as it continues its constant skimming through the alphabet. The boys sit silent, waiting anxiously for any hint of communication, uncertain and scared. Someone is whispering, and it takes a moment to distinguish the words, but gradually they can all make out:
     "Our Father, who are in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day..."
     Moving more slowly than ever, faintly, as if exhausted, the planchette finally reaches the letter "A", and haltingly, ceases to move. There is a long pause, with no one yet daring to speak, hardly daring to breathe, terrified it begin again to slide over the board.
     She smiles warmly, and whispers to someone unseen. "Thank you... I know you don't really like him, I don't either. Thank you very much. Will you come tell me a story tonight? I have to go now." A moment later, her wide eyes open, clear and happy. "Is everything okay now?" she asks her brother, who sits in still awe and relief, the dark feelings which had held him in silent terror moving away. He turns back to look at the board, and sees the planchette motionless. His still-soundless friends are just now beginning to take their fingers from the planchette, trembling not a little. Smiling weakly, he nods to her, mouthing a "thank you". She gets to her feet, and walks from the room, giggling brightly without a care, the sound a sharp contrast to the continued silence of the usually rambunctious boys.
     Shakily, they at last begin to move back from the talking board, though it is a few minutes yet before all feel secure enough to take their eyes from it. Harry reaches over, and nervously removes the planchette from the board, setting it on the floor, taking his fingers from it as quickly as if he had been burned.
     Clearing his throat, Mike is the first to speak, trying valiantly to regain mastery of himself. "Well, Tim, I guess you pretty well proved yourself."
     The group around him nods in agreement, a few of them now managing smiles. Tim grins brightly and nods, relieved in countless directions at once.
     "Here," Mike continues, looking warily back at the board. "One of you help me take this back with Harry, and we'll just have time to do somethin' else before supper."
     The boys jump up almost instantly en masse, laughing and chattering as the grave mood is broken, full of nervous energy and utter relief to be getting away from the now-ominous golden wood and black shapes - as well as the room they now know contains numerous ghosts. Noisily, a few of them carrying the board between them (out of the safety felt in numbers more than actual need for its weight), they begin leaving the room, moving only a little more quickly than usual.
     "And hey, Tim!" one calls out from amidst the small crowd. "Tell your sister she's alright."

[note]

2005-12-17T12:42:00.000-05:00

apologies for the lack of updating, final projects and exams got to be a little more hectic than I'd anticipated. and now I'm home, and I've forgotten my external hard drive at school. soooo.. there's a *slight* chance I'll re-type some things, this may end up being updated, but if there's nothing 'til mid-january.. yeah.

on the up-side, I did some reasearch online for the story which I'd started near the end of nanowrimo, and haven't finished yet, so I may go back to work on that later today (if I feel I can handle the depressing nature of it, wheeee!).

Her eyes shine with a thousand

2005-12-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

reflected colors, once blue but now filled with a rainbow of hues. Smiling, her face glows with an inner joy so rarely found in actual life, except for brief moments of abandon. For in this short time, all of her cares are forgotten, and she feels nothing but warmth, contentment, and love. She delicately hangs the last of the few but precious ornaments on the sprightly pungent pine bough before her, then leans back against the strong body which affectionately holds her own. "There... it's perfect."
       He smiles tenderly down at her, tilting her face up with gentle fingertips, his eyes gazing with complete adoration into hers. He presses his lips softly to her forehead, and her eyes close in utter happiness. "I love you," he murmurs quietly, his voice low and filled with rare emotion.
       "Oh sweetheart... I love you." She hugs his arms tightly around her, sighing blissfully. "I feel so at home right now..."
       He hugs her tightly, resting his chin against her hair as they gaze together at their first Christmas tree. "As do I, my love."
       For a few minutes, they fall into a comfortable silence, she daydreamily gazing at the many-colored lights, thinking of her childhood past and the childhood of her own children she hopes is yet to come, he thinking of how warm she is in his arms, and how glad he is for all the work and worry they have gone through to reach this moment. The tree is not terribly large, but they have scarcely enough ornaments to properly cover it, nor had they the funds to purchase a tree as tall as she remembered from childhood. Yet it looks well, the needles a rich green, and the scent alone carries with it all the happy memories of each Christmas they have had in their lives combined, as well as the promise of those yet to come. There are a few small gifts beneath the cheerily-lit boughs, though each is carefully and lovingly wrapped.
       "Everything looks beautiful, dear. I think we should just stay in this room, beside the tree, until New Year's. No leaving." He clings to her tightly, preventing her from movement.
       Giggling, she submits to his inescapable embrace. "Sounds wonderful to me. Your boss won't mind you being out a few days?"
       "Screw him. You're more important to me."
       She smiles warmly and snuggles closer to him in delight. "What about visiting our families, and the rest of our plans?"
       "Eh. Mine will understand, and do we really want to see your father anyway?"
       Laughing, she turns about in his arms and kisses his nose playfully. "You've got a point, I'll grant you that one. But won't you get hungry, darling?"
       He pauses a moment, pondering seriously. "Well, I guess you can leave the room, but only to bring back food."
       She laughs in amusement at the show of chauvinism she knows he hasn't the least trace of. "What if we just order in for a few weeks?"
       "Sure! We'll just leave a spare key by the front door--- no, better! We'll just tell them to deliver the food to the window here, we can just open that, and use the window instead of the door."
       "Safer that way, too. That way if the delivery boy is really a psychopathic serial killer, he can't shove his way past us and into the house as easily, he'd have to climb in and we could shut the window on him."
       "Unless he has a gun ready, he could shoot us as soon as we open the window to get the food. Or even before we open the window."
       "That's very true. But if he had a gun, we'd be screwed if he came to the door, too."
       "Yeah... So what were we talking about?"
       They both dissolve into the giggles which had been threatening for some time, collapsing to the floor and snuggling up merrily. And when at last the laughter subsides, it leaves behind the warm glow which has surrounded their hearts all evening. Cozy and content, they rest in each others' arms for a long while, perfectly happy and at peace.

       Later that evening, as he finishes putting away the dishes from dinner, she wanders back into the room, sitting on the piano bench and gazing at the still-lit tree. She allows her eyes to unfocus a little, smiling as she sees the colors blur and star, twinkling as they meet her fine lashes. Childhood memories flit gently by, of lying beneath the tree, gazing up at colored lights through bristled branches, reflected and refracted from the delicate shimmer of tinsel and glass. She remembers evenings spent sneaking about the house, looking for presents hidden, or poking surreptitiously at those already under the tree. There is a sadness which colors these thoughts, for she knows such innocent memories are no more than that, memories, and the childlike wonder and rapture can never quite be now regained. Yet she forces a smile, shaking her head gently, knowing she has gained much in the years which have passed, and that she would not trade the surety and warmth of the love she has found with him for anything.
       Turning on the bench, she faces the piano, and begins to casually flip through the pages of the old Christmas songbook which rests against the delicately carved music rack. Smiling, she finds a fairly simple arrangement of a longtime favorite, and lifts the cover of the keys. She rests her fingers gently on the aged keys of ivory and wood, letting the memory of years past relay the skill her fingers once had to them. Quietly, delicately, she presses the keys, gradually growing more confident as old habits return, and the harmonies flow sensitively from the long-silent piano.
       Without a sound, he enters the room, drying his hands on his loose-fitting jeans. Leaning inside the doorway, he gazes at his heart's love, smiling with a gentleness only she and the mirror are ever let see. He had not wanted to rent a house as old as this, the sense of age only made it feel dingy to him, but he saw at a glance how happy it made her. And together, they have made it feel like home for both of them, though they do not know how long they will remain here. Their lives are as yet too unsettled... and much as he desires to ask her the question they have for some time now been eager to settle, he still waits. He waits, because he does not want to have her take his name until he is certain he is able to give her the home and security she deserves. He knows she would only smile and say that he already has, but there is more to it, and he wants to be absolutely certain of the ground beneath them. It would break him if he could not provide his wife a safe and secure place to live, and food on the table, and---
       He smiles at himself, shaking his head in amusement. My wife... God, she's even got me thinking it now...
       But he does not mind, much as he might outwardly protest.
       "What should I play next, dear?" Her cheerful question startles him from his thoughts.
       He chuckles. "How did you know I was here?"
       Only now turning to grin brightly at him, she giggles softly. "I heard your footsteps, silly. I learned to recognize your steps by sound ages ago, remember? And, too, the floor creaks."
       He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're hopeless. Here," he says as he tosses an oven mitt at her. "Your cookies smell like they're about done. But I didn't want to check, because A, I would be wrong, and two, you would throttle me if you heard the oven door open without your permission."
       Her eyes laughing, she nods in agreement as she slips on the oven mitt, getting up from the bench. As she passes him near the doorway, she stands on her tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly. "Thank you," she says with a gentle smile.
       His eyes hold both amusement and confusion. "For..?"
       "Everything," she replies with a bright grin, before leaving the room for the kitchen.

       Settling onto the sofa on the other side of the piano, he finds the remote controller and turns on the television, flipping idly through the channels, not really paying particular attention to any one thing. Eventually finding a rerun of a comedy show, he leaves it on and lets his eyes drift around the room. Smiling wryly, he takes in all the small touches she has put into the room, photographs mostly, in cheap but nice frames. An old vase here, a souvenir there, little things that lend a homelike feel to the room, though he would have done things much more simply. Bit the intricately patterned scarf she has laid over the battered old end table by the TV, the varied figurines she has used as bookends on the bookcase by the door, the candles she has set on the piano, all of this he will admit he would never have thought of, but brighten the room and make it theirs, pushing back the ghosts of past inhabitants.
       Yet there are some things she has been unable to hide. There is a slight dent knocked into one wall, there are a few dark stains on the aging wood floor, though the rug largely hides them. No matter how many scented candles she lets burn, and despite the strong scent of pine now prevailing, there is a slight mustiness to the air in the room, which he has never liked, though he now rarely notices it.
       But just now a new scent attracts his attention - freshly baked peanut butter cookies. Leaping to his feet, he runs over to meet her, grinning brightly. "Can I? Please?"
       She smiles, her eyes shining brightly, thrilled to see her baking in such demand, as well as at how happy she is able to make him. "Yes, dear, you may."
       His face bright as a child's on Christmas morning (the fairy-lit rainbow of the tree behind him only adding to the image), he snatches the plate of warm cookies from her hands and falls back onto the couch, immediately shoving one completely into his mouth.
       "Oh honey! Careful, they're---" Her warning dissipates into helpless giggles as his eyes bug widely and he makes a sound of distress, fanning his mouth rapidly. "Hot! Oh hot, oh---!"
       Darting out of the room, she returns almost instantly with a cold glass of milk. He takes it from her and eagerly drinks it half-empty in a single go, sighing in contentment and sinking into the couch, the warm plate balanced on his legs. "Ahhh... thank you."
       Still laughing, but softer now, she kisses his cheek gently as she curls up beside him. "Good?"
       "Oh God, yes! you're amazing I love you I'm keeping you," he effuses in a rush, punctuating his praise with a solid kiss to her lips.
       "Yay!" she exclaims in girlish glee, beaming happily as she snuggles up closer beside him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and laying her head in his lap - careful, of course, not to disturb the cookies. "Mmm... remind me to get the next batch in about ten minutes?"
       "Okay. These will probably be gone by then..."
       Nodding, she chuckles softly, kissing his stomach affectionately through his shirt. "That's why I made double the usual batch, dear."
       Grinning widely, he gazes down at her in a warm blend of adoration and awe. "I love you."
       Smiling, he eyes closed, she hugs his waist happily. "I love you... tonight's really perfect, isn't it?"
       He lays a hand tenderly on her hair, stroking it slowly, his voice soft. "Yeah... Peanut butter cookies are the best."
       Laughing, she rolls her eyes and pokes his side. "I meant---"
       "I know what you meant, shh, let me hold you like this, I like this."
       "Me too..." She sighs contentedly again, letting her eyes close. "Nights like this... you really need, every now and again, to soothe all the hurt and worry from the times in between, y'know?"
       "Mmhmm..."

       They fall into comfortable silence, neither of them really listening to the TV, simply soaking in the peacefulness of secure companionship. She rests in his lap with eyes softly closed, listening to him breathe as she herself breathes him in. He rests a hand gently in her hair, letting his eyes and fingertips caress soft hair and skin.

       "Sweetheart?"
       "Mmhmm?"
       "...someday, will you let me be married to you?" She flushes; he is breathless a moment with happiness, before leaning over and kissing her temple tenderly.
       "Of course, my love... of course."

There is a ceaseless blaze

2005-12-04T19:31:00.000-05:00

which rages inside her, that nothing will quell. She has never been content to sit quietly at her studies or her needlework, she has no patience for cooking nor cleaning nor caring for children. Time and again her mother has lamented that she will never find a man willing to accept as a wife someone with so few feminine skills and graces.
       But as she has no desire to become a simple housewife, this suits her just fine.
       She was born just as a new century began, and the fresh breath of excitement which blew over the world as a zephyr from Olympus must have filled her lungs with her very first breath. A daring boldness has always been one of her most dominant traits, whether climbing out from her cradle as a baby, showing off the newest dance steps to her astonished schoolmates and shocked teachers, demanding her mother allow her the latest hair styles from a very young age, or taking part in pranks at school and with friends; she has always been the first to try anything new and exciting. Before the Great War ended, she became old enough to sign up for work, with the men still away and factory positions painfully vacant. To her mother's dismay, she began working in a factory, using this as an excuse to crop her hair "frightfully short", going to and from work in men's overalls. Yet with the money made and experience gained there, it was not long after that she announced she intended to put herself through college, at a co-educational school in the city. Even Mother had to admit to being impressed with her only daughter's courage and resourcefulness, though she disapproved greatly of a school which allowed unmarried young men and women to mingle so freely, as well as her little girl living in a boarding house so far from home.
       Though she was happy at school, it could not last for long, and in a few short years, she was in need of a new adventure. But with the men home, there were markedly fewer jobs open to her, and she abhorred the thought of teaching children. So, for the moment, she is employed as a sales clerk at a reasonably fashionable clothing store, living with an older woman and a few other girls her age in a house not terribly far from work. The house is charming, the old woman kind, and the other girls fun - one in particular usually up for a good time just as she is.
       But still, she burns, and there is a raging need inside of her which is never soothed for long... and there are many stories which Mother has never heard.
       Nearly every night, she frequents the nightclub in town. The jazz is hot and the alcohol available, the atmosphere both intimate and mysterious, with a sense of rebellion and free will, providing a decent escape from the drabness of work and the world. It, however, comes nowhere near the clubs in the city she was a constant patron of all through college. Though alcohol production had been outlawed not long after she began school, that only made for more of an adventure. Not that it was by any means difficult, for someone always knew someone else who had access to it or knew a new nightclub to try. And as the alcohol became sparser, it drove them to be all the more indulgent when it was available. Even when it wasn't, there were alternatives, often beyond smoking... And the riskier the high, the greater the thrill; the hotter the music and more risqué the dance, the music and the heat and the fire burning within her drove her to such delirious rapture.
       Sitting now in her room, on a cozy chaise beside the window, she looks unseeingly out at the dull grey view. Snow is late in coming this year, and she is glad it is not yet so cold, but it is horridly depressing to look at. Getting up, she wraps a knitted shawl close around her and stands in front of the small, carefully carved table which stands at the head of the chaise. Peering at the print on the label, she shrugs and lifts the large, fragile black disk which rests atop it. She kneels, setting the record gently aside, and pulls a box from the shelf, beneath the table's surface and just above the floor. Sifting carefully through the endless row of pasteboard and paper sleeves, she pulls out an empty one, replacing the record within it. After returning it to the box, she continues flipping through, until at last she smiles and pulls out a sleeve with much-worn corners.
       "Ahh, my Bessie... sing away the grey of the day, willya?" Gracefully sliding the record from its sleeve, she places it on the turntable, turns the crank on the side, then gently places the needle on the dark shellac, which is holding in its mysterious way voices which alternately enrage and soothe her passions.
       As the song begins, she lounges leisurely back on the chaise. Closing her eyes, she lets the waves of the sultry voice wash over her. The minor key, the sparse accompaniment, the passionate heartache of the singer, all form a direct connection to the longing in her own soul. The gritty dips and slides of raw emotion in the expressive voice are set in rich contrast to the casual elegance and conversational responses of the fluid cornet, and the interplay of textures meet her passions and take them by the arm, leading them where they need no longer be bound by courtesy and the demand to be ladylike. It is in the music that she is at last free, without constraint or crushing expectation.
       Opening the window the slightest bit, she reaches beneath the chaise, pulling out a hatbox of sundry items. After rummaging a moment, she withdraws a cigarette and matches. She lights the cigarette and sets the matchbook aside, with the same motion of her arm placing the needle back at the beginning of the song to play it again. Leaning against the window to let the smoke float away into the chill air outside, she watches idly the burning embers she holds before her. So many different shades of red, more than any painter could possibly mix... such rich tones, lit from within, as a summer sun pouring through a cathedral's stained glass.
       She laughs softly to herself, shaking her head. "Why do I think of cathedrals? I should be dead the moment I stepped within one... Music is my only god now, my only salvation and my only peace. I have committed sins only music will permit..."
       Tapping the ashes thoughtfully out the window, she watches as the embers brighten anew, just as Bessie's voices grates in a deliciously carnal manner. Grinning, she takes another breath from the cigarette, feeling its gritty heat spreading through her. "Ah, but who needs cathedrals, Bessie... temples of the flesh are far more interesting than a pure, simple life of abstaining from everything. I never liked white anyway, red's always been the color for me."
       The record ends, and she sits in still silence for a few minutes, listening to the hiss and pop of the needle on worn shellac, circling endlessly around the last groove of the record. Sighing, she feels the dullness seeping back into her, consciousness slipping into quiet disinterest. There are a few hours yet before the club will open in its night-time form, with the lights low and music loud and the crowd lost in chaotic release. Slumping down into the chaise, the calmness outside only irritates further the scathing force clawing inside.
       The pungent smoke no longer interests her, her tolerance has grown too high for it to have much affect any longer. She rolls up her sleeve to the elbow, letting the shawl slip away, then pushes the still-bright end of the cigarette into the tender flesh on the inside of her elbow. Wincing, she grits her teeth, yet she is smiling - the rush of feeling which courses through her, the blinding pain is electric, tearing through the fog which so often leaves her numb. There is little she will not do, if it provides any degree of excitement. She longs for visceral experience, loathing the idea of simply reading of things in books, or even seeing a film, though that is a step up at least, being an experience in itself.
       Her first cigarette had been at the tender age of thirteen, her first encounter with a boy a mere two years older. She regrets past actions only in that they are now no longer possibilities of interest to her, she must seek farther, more extreme, to fill her needs.
       As a birthday present when she turned sixteen, her mother had given her a necklace of pearls, which she had been given by her own mother many years before. She keeps them, of course, but the short delicate strand is tucked away in a jewelry box. Around her neck now is a long, double-looped strand of much larger pearls - not real, of course, she could not quite afford such luxury yet, and they would hardly be practical for such everyday use as she puts them through, particularly when dancing. Her favorite dresses flirt dangerously near her knees, and she has slimmed her figure as much as ever she can.
       So much that her mother does not know...

       An energetic knock on her door stops her varied musings, and she slips the now-extinguished remainder of the cigarette deftly in a corner of the windowsill hidden behind the curtains. Quietly closing the window and unrolling her sleeve back down to cover the burn, she calls out for whomever is at the door to come in.
       "Marjorie Williamson, why on earth are you laying about alone in your room, when I have such delicious news to impart to you!" The slim figure in the door wears a stylishly square-shaped cream dress, accented with a handful of tasteful sequins. The ubiquitous cloche hat covers her close-cropped golden-brown curls, and her light brown eyes sparkle with excitement. Stepping swiftly into the door, she closes the door securely behind her. Instantly, she rushes over to the chaise, her heels muffled by the handsomely woven rug on the wooden floor, dropping to her knees in front of her friend, clasping her hands in her own. "Madge, darling, you remember me telling you about that lovely man Gregory, don't you?"
       Smiling in an echo of the other girl's excitement, she nods with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "The one whose lap you spent the entire evening in a few nights ago? When you weren't throwing him against the wall and kissing him in the most outrageous manner, that is."
       Giggling, she nods in acknowledgement, grinning with a combination of slyness and pride. Neither of them blushes now, unless intentionally to further their purposes. "Do I detect jealousy in that sweet voice of yours, doll?" she croons, kneeling up and pressing her lips teasingly to the other girl's.
       Returning the sly smile, her eyes darken with seduction and desire. "If I say yes, will you kiss me again?"
       "Mmm, what if I want to kiss you anyway?" Nibbling lightly at the other's chin, she sinuously glides up onto the chaise, draping her arms gracefully around the slim frame, nuzzling her lips against the smooth ivory cheek.
       "Ooo..." Gasping in delight, she in turn wraps her arms around the other girl, drawing her close and turning her head a little.
       Immediately knowing the hint she is being given, she chuckles softly and trails the tip of her tongue ever so lightly around the delicate shell of the girl's ear. Seeing her shiver, she smiles. "Oh, my dear Madge... I really have half a mind to simply keep you to myself tonight."
       "If you promise to show me a good time, you can... ooo, your tongue is far too sinful, wherever did you learn such things, my little charity girl?"
       Gliding her tongue skillfully over the side and nape of the graceful neck offered her, she purrs softly. "The result of many good nights, as well as a few bad ones... But I needn't entirely give you up tonight - you are included in my plans."
       She raises an eyebrow in intrigue. "Oh?" Placing a hand on her friend's knee, she trails her fingertips lightly and devilishly along the inside of her thigh, beneath her dress, moving just far enough to cause her to squirm. "And what plans are these, that you have kept from your very best friend, my dear Evelyn?"
       "Ooo, oh heavens, dear, you'll get me all worked up..."
       "That was entirely my intent," she murmurs with a playful grin, brushing her lips lightly over the other's, fingertips still tickling teasingly along her stockings.
       "Mmmmm... But you see, I was about to tell you, when you began to create all of this distraction..."
       "I?" A dangerous and brashly amused grin curls her richly painted lips, and she grabs Evelyn by the shoulders, throwing her back onto the chaise and holding her down, leaning over her, hardly an inch of electrified space between their two hungry bodies. Both breathing heavily, faces flushed, she stares challengingly into the other's eyes, her own a molten deep brown. "I believe it was you, dear doll, who started this..." Slowly, she tilts her head down, and presses her lips firmly against the other girl's, their breath hot and hearts beating swiftly. She gently lets her slim body rest against the one beneath her, both sighing softly at the warmth and pressure and excitement of forbidden physical contact. With each quivering breath, their breasts press closer together, soft skin meeting and long legs entwining.
       After some immeasurable moments, Evelyn draws back, gasping quietly for breath. "Madge... not now, not... no more than this... Mrs. Avery will call us for supper soon, and I don't know if--- mmph! Madge! I--- mmmm, ooo, don't do this to me, you know I can't resist you..."
       Feeling quite pleased with herself, she sits back, legs on either side of Evelyn's as she sits lightly on her hips. "Well then. Whatever are these plans for the night you've been absolutely refusing to tell me about?"
       "Mmph, well if you'll just give me a minute to explain..." Catching her breath now, she continues. "Well. Gregory is a close personal friend" she winks at her own such friend "of the man who owns the Katty Korner down on Chestnut Street, and---"
       "Oh don't tell me we're going there," she groans, sulking prettily and tossing her short hair. "It's terribly seedy, full of aging men who think they're still attractive, and---"
       "Do let me finish!" she giggles, playfully nipping at the other girl's wrist. "As I was about to explain, it's only that way during the daylight hours - allays suspicion, you see. After eight in the evening, it's a regular black-and-tan, with more bootlegged drink than even you and I could waste in a night, and the absolute hottest colored jazz band in town."
       Her face now betrays a genuine interest and a growing excitement. "How's the crowd? Not full of fresh-faced schoolboys, or aging bachelors looking for more than they're worth?"
       Smiling, she shakes her head. "Not at all, as swinging and cool as we could hope for, Greg has given me his word."
       "He's given you a lot more than that, I'd bet."
       "Hey now! You're no white-clad little schoolgirl yourself, doll."
       "I can if you want me to be," she purrs, her voice low and sultry, again leaning down close over the other woman's body.
       "Oh let me up already!" she laughs, squirming to free herself, trying to tug Marjorie off of her.
       "Do you promise to buy me a drink once we're there?" she teases, struggling against her.
       "Yes! Oh heavens, if that's what you want, of course!" Still laughing, she sits again as she is released. Patting down her hair, she straightens her hat, which had nearly fallen off several times. "But please, not the most expensive drink in the house this time? Really darling, I had to flatter and coax all night last time to get enough drinks, you spent half my money in one go."
       "But for higher quality, you must be willing to spend a little more, in women as well as liquor," she croons charmingly, batting her long lashes.
       "Of course, of course. Now do make yourself presentable for supper and let me do the same, for one of the other girls might suspect how delicious you are, seeing you all mussed like this, and want a bite." Smiling as she stands, she kisses her forehead lightly. "Come to my room after supper, and we'll pretty our faces up."

       It is well into the dark morning hours when she returns to her room. Her hair is rumpled, her carefully done make-up nearly worn away, her dress clearly having sustained a great deal of activity throughout the night. Her skin is slightly chilled and clammy, for though she had been driven home, her jacket had been lost or forgotten at some point in the revelries, and she had not enjoyed the company of the man who had finally brought her home so much that she would wish a second meeting in which to return a borrowed jacket. Oh, he had been fine enough for a bit of fun, but that was all she wanted from him, and no more.
       Sighing heavily, she closes the door and falls onto her bed still-clothed, too tired and worn to move. There had been alcohol in plenty as promised, but its affects have largely worn off by now, and the blazing energy the music and liquor and fellow Dionysian revelers had give her is gone, leaving her empty and drained.
       "A cigarette..." she murmurs, digging vaguely in her small purse. "God I need a cigarette..." With as little motion as possible, she finds her cigarette case and a book of matches, clumsily lighting one and putting it to her lips. She breathes slowly and deeply, this time not bothering to open a window, simply watching the smoke drift gently upwards to soak into the wall and ceiling. The night had gone as well as any other, in fact the band was the best she had heard in some time, and had hardly stopped for a minute. The man who had brought her home, after a private encounter in the back of his car, had been the most promising of a small handful of men who had sought her attention throughout the night, all of them plying her with drinks, compliments, and promising caresses in plenty. He had been satisfactory, once she had overcome his initial bits of confusion and uncertainty. Clearly, he was new to the idea of the modern woman, and seemed astonished by just how much she wanted. Of course, she knows her appetite is voracious, and he could not have known that... but he soon caught on. Tonight, she had driven him to greater exhaustion than she usually did her various lovers... yet though her body grew tired, the need within her refused to be silenced.
       Everything was just as it should have been tonight, yet it was not enough.
       But in the privacy of her own room and thoughts, she knows - it is never enough. She seeks out so much, yet even at the height of pleasure or intoxication or a dance, there is still an ache inside her, but sharper, harsher than that, a rage, a fire... A fire which never goes out, which she can never expel from inside her, every minute of every day it sears her. She does not know for how long it has gone on, or how much longer she can withstand it.
       She thinks back.
       She fights it with all she has, but she is too exhausted now, she knows when it began. Fiery tears flood her eyes, she chokes on smoke, feeling her chest breaking inside.
       "Why, Mama? Don't let him--- No Mama, don't leave me, don't let him hurt you, Mama I'm scared, Mama don't leave me! I hate you! Stay away from me, I hate you, you left me alone! I can't--- Why, Mama? Why can't you stop him? Why does he always--- I hate you! Stop, please---" Choking and sputtering, she sobs and cries helplessly, all the pain closed inside the thick walls she has made flooding her entire self, her chest aching and body shaking. Curling tightly, she hugs her knees to her chest, the forgotten cigarette pressed against her leg, burning a small hole in her stockings and scarring her skin, but she does not notice, the pain without is so much less than the one from within.
       And still, the flood of tears does not combat the fire which torments her soul. She feels her body weakened by the tears, but her soul still trapped by flesh, her body an inescapable vessel locking her spirit in with a destroying flame, eating away at everything it can, her heart and will reduced to mere fuel, nothing left to her to draw on for herself--- There is nothing left but the fire within, if she could only let it out--- Her body keeps it trapped within, if she could let it escape--- If there was a way out--- If she could just let it break through, it might leave her---
       Scrambling out of the bed, she nearly collapses onto the floor, her muscles exhausted and vision blinded by forgotten tears. Staggering, she clutches at the furniture, working her way over to the small desk placed beneath a window... The moon appears from behind a cloud, the room is cast in soothing blue light - which she cannot see, for all is red and black to her now. Reaching the desk, she falls to her knees, digging recklessly through a drawer, not caring what sound she makes in the sleep-silent house. The moonlight paints her skin with an eerie pallor, and her eyes seem dark and colorless, as the pair of shears she pulls from the desk reflect the light.
       Sitting ungracefully on the floor, disheveled and irrational, she opens the shears as wide as they will allow. She runs her thumb along the exposed blade, pressing the fragile flesh against the unyielding metal. A stinging jolt dances through her - blood gleams darkly in the faint light, and she smiles broadly. "If I just give it a way out," she mutters, her voice low and calm. "That's all I need to do..." She presses the blade against her arm, slicing the skin in a haphazard line, smiling as the blood is exposed to the chill night air. "If it has somewhere else to go, it will leave me alone... It must be tired of being trapped in such a small place, no wonder it was fighting so..." The shears cut into her other arm, then along one leg. Beaming, she is happier than she remembers ever having been. "It's working! you're free, leave me now, you have a way out..." She feels a twisting yet in her stomach, a slight tightening of the chest. "I guess my arms and legs are a little far to go, do you not know the way? Here..." She struggles out of her dress, not noticing the stains of her own blood which meld into the fabric. Turning the blade toward herself, she furrows her smooth brow as she applies more pressure, until she feels the cold metal pierce her sweating skin. She slides it down and smiles at the stinging dark line against her pale flesh. "There now... can you find your way now? I'm sorry I tried to ignore you so long... I didn't understand... you can go now... go now..."
       Dropping the scissors, she lays back on the cool wooden floorboards, the still-sharp lines across her body standing out sharply, glinting in the moonlight, their darkness slowly dripping to stain the light-colored wood. She closes her eyes, and smiles, at peace.

       The fire has, for a time, at last left her alone.

[request]

2005-12-03T20:55:00.000-05:00

so I know I haven't got all of them up yet, handful more are written just not yet typed.. but, for those few of you who I know are actually reading these, if you wouldn't mind, I have a request.

for one of my more pointless classes, we had to come up with a project idea, ideally a film or movie, but he let us do websites as well. so rather than make up something that would be a complete waste of my time, I started drawing up plans for the website for these stories, and am using that. later this week, I have to turn in a production packet on it, nothing major really, but I need to include some excerpts of the stories themselves. my plan is to do a handful of short excerpts, maybe a paragraph from a few different stories, and then have one longer excerpt or probably full story (unless it's one of the ones that goes over like five pages or something).

so my question to you is: which one(s)? the short excerpts are easier, I can just grab bits that I feel I actually wrote well or are particularly gripping, but as for the longer/full one.. I know which stories I like, but they're all so different - which do you think would be a nice representation of them?

reply via aim or email or comment here, whichever you'd like. comments on this blog are open to all, blogger or not, anonymous or not. thanks in advance. :)

Running into the room,

2005-12-03T20:48:00.000-05:00

he throws his book bag onto the small couch, not even bothering to wriggle free from his jacket before landing in the desk chair. In one fluid motion he settles into the chair and leans over to flip the switches on the back of the unwieldy beige boxes resting on the desk. A low hum begins, followed by a familiar series of beeps and clicks and whirs. Instantly he jumps up again, sprinting from the room only to return within two minutes, falling back into the chair with a hand full of cookies, just as the tiny indicator lights on the beige boxes turn from solid to blinking slowly.
       "Jim, do you have homework to do today?" a voice queries from another room.
       "Did it on the bus, it's done!" he calls back absently, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting. The very instant the lights stop blinking and the text on the screen halts its scrolling, he types with furious speed in answer to the prompt, slamming the "enter" key and leaning back in satisfaction, at last taking a breath and cramming a cookie into his mouth.
       As the program loads, he squirms out of his jacket, tossing it easily over to land on top of his nearly-forgotten book bag. Barely able to keep still as he waits, he munches on another cookie and watches the lights blink and glow, trying as he has countless times to discern the bizarre link between the patterns of flashes and the growling sounds from the computer - they have never quite aligned as they should. At a brief pause in the quickly-scrolling text, he deftly flips a switch which causes a large black square of plastic to pop out from one of the bulky boxes, slipping in another in its place. A pause, a new light blinks, as fresh sounds burble from the box. Pouncing again the second another prompt appears on the screen, he types a brief command before turning to the odd looking contraption wired to both the phone jack on the wall and the back of the computer. Fiddling with switches, wires, and buttons for a minute, he is soon greeted by a series of static and electronic squeals, and he grins brightly at the grating screeches. He hums along with the varied pitches, which are familiar as a mother's lullaby to him, and just as welcoming. Taking a deep breath of contentment as the lights again slow, he poises his fingers in the air over the thick square keys, his eyes eagerly searching the screen of glowing green text for the prompt which will let him access his world. It appears - he types - he is in, and the room around him fades as he falls into a place filled with intangible company.
       His eyes quickly skim the list of file and announcements which fills his screen, soon finding the most recent one he had seen, late the night before. From there, he works his way up the list, looking for anything that catches his interest.
       "comic.txt", "gargband.txt", "mytapes.mus", "beefstar.hum", "partcoll.oct", "pezramble.oct", "rfpl.fun", "angela.art"... He has little idea what most of the files appearing on the screen are, his local service often neglecting to post titles or descriptions of the tiles it provides for exchange, yet the upload areas are his favorite to frequent. Though it takes longer to get the text onto his computer from theirs, he can read them later, after he has disconnected from the phone line. The damage to the phone bill following his first month on-line drove home a need to be conscientious of his computer time, and it had taken a great deal of convincing on his part to persuade his parents to continue using the modem.
       That, however, was a year ago, and since then he has become adept at the world of Bulletin Board Systems. He knows that he has about half an hour before his mother will want to call someone - her soap is on now, he has peace until it ends. After that, he will have about an hour before she asks him to do chores - that hour will give him time to read what he has downloaded, and then delete most of it, in the event his father should begin to snoop. (He has no evidence of his father ever having done so, but a light dose of paranoia and a good bit of discretion he has found often comes in handy for his sort of person, so any files he decides to keep, he hides deep within system folders to avoid detection.)
       Having started the desired files downloading onto his computer, he gets up and folds his jacket more neatly on the couch. Unzipping his book bag, he pulls out the various sheets of mostly-complete homework, grabbing a pencil and taking the ones in need of completion over to the desk. Shortly after he sits down, the first file completes copying, and he quickly keys in the command to download the next, noting the size of the file and mentally estimating how long it will take. Laying out the worksheets on the desk, he quickly fills in his homework, glancing up at the screen at decreasing intervals, waiting for the file to finish. Once it does, he begins to next download as fast as his fingers will type the command, then turns back to working on homework as he waits, repeating this cycle several times over.
       When he has obtained copies of the newly posted files, he enters several more commands, calling to his screen the main bulletin board, full of a long list of messages from various visitors, both known and unknown. Names are optional here, and what names are used are self-proclaimed, but even before his eyes reach the signature of each post, he is now often able to tell who the author is simply by the tone, content, and visual style of the message. CaptJack tends to alternate lines of capital and lower-cased text, endlessly plugging his own BBS, which no-one visits. ZERONE surrounds his postings with intricate interlaces of text and symbols, stunning fields of ASCII art, while cr4kd uses a simple dashed line to box in his posts. ThInG1 posts short cryptic messages to no-one in particular which make little to no sense, but are amusing anyway, particularly late on weekend nights. klepTo promotes his latest text files on cheating businesses and "the system" in general out of anything imaginable, while titrix specializes in lewd comments and simplistic but suggestive stick figures.
       But it is messages from KINGPIN and pyr01 that he watches especially for - the rest he will read later, when he has more time. KINGPIN is the board's operator, and as sysops go, he is pretty reasonable. He had initially "met" him on another board, not long after he dialed in his first connection. Still painfully new to the scene, he had made some rather egregious breaches in etiquette, as well as a general fool of himself. Yet KINGPIN had been kind, and contrary to the cruel, mocking barbs most of the others sent his way, had actually helped him out, in explaining some basic usage issues and pointing him in the direction of the right text files to read. And so, when he best friend Brad had gotten a modem for his computer as well, and wanted in on the BBS business, it was to KINGPIN's new board that Jim had sent him. Of course, this was not before hours of careful crafting of Brad's handle, pyr01. The choice of a handle could make or break your persona, Jim had soon learned, though his own had been surprisingly well-chosen, for as little as he had initially known.
       By this time, vector is fairly well known on the local boards, as well as making occasional appearances on some of the more prominent non-local ones, though his access to these is limited out of necessity. While he had culled a few games here and there from the warez boards, and laughed at the posts his computer teacher from school had put on the town boards, these areas are only of passing interest to him. It is the boards filled to bursting with text files that draw him in, with their endless variety of information and discussion, rebellion and sarcasm side by side with boredom and senselessness. He has read files on how to rig a traffic light to operate however he wishes, how to build a bomb in a chemistry lab, the history of the Apple Corporation, traded insults between different groups producing and distributing the files themselves, artwork made of ASCII characters, tips for sysops, along with endless gripes and mockeries of sysops, the study of gemology, ludicrous dating strategies, video game walk-throughs, virtually any topic under the sun is possible to uncover. All is relayed in a confidential and no-holds-barred manner, with incredibly liberal use of grammar, language, spelling, and style. Some formal, some hysterical, some knowledgeable and others laughably made up on the spot - the surprise of each file's contents is half the excitement he gets from them. Though by now he knows the names and affiliated groups of the best authors, he still seeks out new files with and endless voraciousness, wanting to know of every topic posted, to know the sum total of all the knowledge jumping through the phone lines - because it is possible.
       In midst of scrolling through the day's posts on his favorite message board, the screen suddenly halts, a prompt appearing at the bottom, the cursor blinking tauntingly.
       "CONNECTION LOST. RECONNECT (Y/N)?"
       "Jim? I need to use the phone, would you mind for a bit?"
       Rolling his eyes, what can he do but agree? "Sure Mom, I'm off." He knows she "accidentally" jostled the kitchen phone on the hook before asking, knowing it would disconnect the modem. His files have downloaded, however, and he will have time later to check the boards.
       Eagerly, he types rapidly, ending the telephone program and pulling up the directory of downloads. Knowing his vulnerability, that a family member might enter the den at any moment at this time of the day, he chooses from the less-incriminating looking files - avoiding the art files entirely for now, knowing they are typically images of less-than-clothed women, of varied quality.
       "gargband.txt" sounds innocuous enough - he keys in the command to open it, and his screen fills with an intricate title image followed by a page of so of text, everything a simple yet beautiful grouping of characters and symbols, flat yet intriguing, words made of light and carried by sound.
       He reads.

       After dinner, there is a phone call, and he panics for a moment, hoping it is not for his mother, or he may not be able to use the line for hours.
       "Jim? It's for you."
       Relieved, he runs to the kitchen and returns to the den almost instantly with phone in hand. Moving as far away from his parents as the cord will allow, he is just able to sit on the arm of the couch. "Hello?"
       "Hey, it's Brad, can I come over tonight? Mom's planning some big party at work, and she'll be on the phone all night. I was lucky to get it long enough to make this call."
       Grinning wickedly, he answers in a serious tone. "Well, I don't know, I mean, I had an awful lot of pretty specific plans for tonight, I'm not sure if I want them interrupted..."
       He can hear the returning smirk as his friend replies: "I can make it worth your while."
       He grins broadly now, all pretense gone. "Whatcha got? Text, game, a number..?"
       "A number. You know those awesome texts we got, written by some guy Slipped Disk? Found the number to his home board, some jerk must have replaced it with his own board when he distributed it, 'cause I found the same file we'd seen before on another board and accidentally downloaded it, but the tag at the bottom was totally different, and I realized it was the original one. So I've got the number. Can I come over?"
       He chuckles, nodding. "Awesome, yeah. Just bring your book bag with you so we can use a homework excuse if we need to."
       "Sure thing. See you in ten."
       "See you."
       Once the phone is hung up and his mother informed of his plans, he darts back to the den and boots the computer, not wanting to waste a minute once in possession of the new board phone number.

       A quarter of an hour later, a boy with ragged blond hair enters the room, dropping into the old floral couch, which is largely covered by a more tasteful beige throw. He flings his book bag into a nearby chair, and slouches comfortably. "Hey, how're things?"
       "What are you doing, give me the number already!" he laughs, jumping up from the chair and launching into his friend, punching him playfully. "C'mon. As rent payment for sitting on my couch."
       "Ahh! It's not even your couch, and like you sit anywhere but the desk chair," he retorts with a grin, flourishing a slip of paper.
       His hand moving too quickly for the other to see, he snatches the paper free and quickly rolls off the couch, scrambling back into the desk chair. "Mine now!" he proclaims with a victorious grin.
       "Hey! That's not fair, stupid asswipe."
       "Boog."
       The two dissolve into laughter as he begins to punch the number in. But as he reads the number to type it, he pauses, looking at the number with furrowed brows. "This isn't in our area code, and my parents will kill me if there's another long-distance charge... You got a code by any chance? Mine died a few days ago."
       Biting back a grin, he fishes in his pockets, pulling out a folded sheet of looseleaf covered in calling card numbers - another form of information available on the boards. All but two of the numbers are crossed out. "That's why you should always have a back-up code, never know when Ma Bell will shut you down."
       "Hey, that's why I keep you around," he counters, taking the paper and keying in one of the numbers, effectively granting himself free long distance for the time being, until the phone company realizes that particular number is being used by dozens of people. Once inside the system, he adds in the BBS's number, and they wait eagerly as the connection is gradually made.
       His eyes slowly grow wide as the green text begins scrolling, putting new color into his brown eyes. "Whoa... hey, come here, you've gotta see this..." In a moment his friend stands at his shoulder, munching on a Twix bar.
       "Mmm? What's so special abou--- oh holy mother, you're kidding!"
       Typing quickly, he logs in and moves through the directories of the unknown computer at the other end of the line. "Surprised there wasn't a busy signal, this place must get hammered," he mutters as he types and waits for responses. Finally, a long list appears on the screen, and he starts backward in his seat in sheer amazement. "No way... they weren't kidding, Brad, they've got twenty goddamn megabytes of text files here! Look at all this shit... I mean a bunch of them we've already seen, but... they must go to every board out there to get all this stuff! God, there must be thousands here..."
       "Hey look! More of Slipped Disk's, shit he's done a bunch more... Whoa, wait, go back, did you see that? Go into that directory there," he demands, pointing to a line on the screen.
       Nodding agreeably, he punches in the necessary commands and pulls it up. "You know these?"
       "You don't?" he gasps in disbelief. "You are always on the wrong boards, how do you not know AnarchyInc? They're one of the biggest and best groups out there!"
       "Nah, I don't usually go in for the bomb-building stuff, I'd rather---"
       "No no no, only maybe half of it is, see?" He gestures at the long list of files and descriptions.
       "Ooo... yeah, I guess you're right, there's all kinds of stuff here... an awful lot of stories, that's awesome... what else is---"
       "There! Oh my God, get that! It's "The Zen of Boog"! Get that, then we'll look around more, but we have got to get that."
       Joining in the other's eager laughter, he nods eagerly as he types. "Oh hell yeah! Wow, how long have we been looking for that? Man, I know what my new favorite board is," he adds, grinning broadly.
       "Think your dad will go for a new hard drive?"
       "More disks I bet, anyway... I really need to get a second phone line. Man... I think it's good that most boards have a time limit, I swear I'd forget to eat if I didn't have to leave or get busy signals."
       "Yeah I know... hey, when we're done looking around here, want to go nag old Crusty on the town boards? He put a note on my last report card saying I didn't pay attention or something, which got my parents all over my back, even though my grade in his class is perfect. Never really did get him back for that, and I'm feeling pretty creative tonight." Smirking, he shoves the now-empty Twix wrapper into the back pocket of his jeans, and cracks his fingers.
       "Sure, once we're done here..." His voice is quiet, clearly distracted. "But look at all this... I hardly know where to start..."
       "Hey, the Neon Knights' stuff is here too! Octothorpe, they're really new but they're pretty funny... Wow, I feel like such a geek, you know? I know so many of these names..."
       They both laugh, acknowledging their addiction, but also each feeling warm and comfortable, relaxed and excited at the same time. It is as if they have finally found the party where all of their friends are, and are just walking in the door to see a room full of faces they know well. For a brief moment they meet each other's eyes, and see the same jittery energy and curious enthusiasm doubled in strength.
       "Ah, Crusty can wait. This is way cooler."

The window glides soundlessly open,

2005-12-02T19:16:00.000-05:00

the darkness within the room merging with the darkness outside. A small piece of the black exterior begins to move quicker than the rest, its motions just visible by contrast. Silently, a light foot is set on the wooden floorboards, weight being eased onto it slowly, so as not to elicit a sound from the aging boards. Carefully, a lithe figure passes through the window, easing a second foot onto the floor, and gradually the darker shadow stands inside the silent room. The softest of breath is the only sound heard, and even that is muffled behind a dark scarf. It is with painfully slow motions that the figure moves, clearly aware of the old floor's penchant for loud sound.
      After some time, the figure stands before a glass-fronted cabinet, and dark-gloved hands search for the knob with which it will open. There is no lock - there have been few robberies in the town's long history, and the residents grow complacent and trusting.
      If he is careful, they may not even report a burglary, only wonder at some point in future where things were misplaced. Of course, he will not remain long in town anyway, as a mere precautionary measure, but he has already stayed longer than initially planned, due to the inability of the citizenry to be roused into worry.
      The cabinet opens, the glass panel catching as it moves a slight reflection from some faint light in the far distance. Straining his eyes, he waits until they have adjusted to the deeper shadow of the cabinet's interior before he reaches a hand inside. As cautiously as can be, he takes care to disturb nothing but the object he is after.
      An old watch, a family heirloom of fifty years, is his aim. Plated gold, the delicate engraving of a compass rose covering its surface is studded with small pearls, with a larger diamond placed in the center. It is not terribly old, and the family is not terribly attached to it, and has no son to pass it down to in future years. As he gently lifts it from the wooden shelf, he can both hear and feel the soft but steady ticking. For a moment, the sound causes his heart to race, reminding him that the longer he remains, the more chance of being seen. But in a few short seconds he has quelled the rising panic, knowing there is no rush, so long as he makes no sound to arouse any suspicions.
      After slipping the watch into a concealed pocket on the inside of his jacket, he moves a nimble hand over a lower shelf, seeking out a small figure of silver. Though not large, the delicate shaping of the swan hints at a greater value than its size would indicate, and the countless tiny colored stones which line its wings have a richness of hue that only true jewels possess. This, he wraps gently in a bit of soft flannel before placing in another, deeper pocket.
      Slowly and silently, he closes the cabinet door, then rises to his feet. The room seems much brighter now, after the darkness inside the cabinet. He resumes his deliberate steps, crossing to the immense wardrobe. Gingerly, he slides open the drawer on the bottom, smiling broadly as it glides smoothly and soundlessly. His planning has again worked greatly in his favor; his thoughtful considerations and attention to the smallest things have grown to perfection over the past few years. During his social call to the household a few days prior, having made the acquaintance of the owner the day earlier at a church gathering, his host had brought him into the room to sit down and have a cup of coffee. Just as they entered, a maid was putting away some fine linens in the drawer, and it had protested loudly to being closed. Reacting instantly, he suggested to the maid that she might try rubbing a candle along the sides of the drawer, as the wax would smooth the surface and cause the drawer to move more easily. Surprised and startled, she had stammered a thank you, and said she would be sure to do just that. Having closed the drawer, she left the room, and his host had chuckled and clapped him on the back.
      "You are a useful fellow! Really, some fine young lady may very well bait a hook for you, as short a stay in the area as you claim to be making. It's not often an available man with such good looks and a knowledge of practical things turns up, and you do seem to have quite a charming manner, just as I had in my day, you know. Why, even yesterday, I caught a few of the girls glancing at you surreptitiously at the social! You'd best watch yourself, Charlie!"
      He had laughed along with the older man, but had been thinking far more of the fine silk he had caught sight of within the drawer than any light-headed society girls.
      Pulling the folded length of silk from the drawer, he neatly replaces the cloth which had lain atop it, knowing it is not likely anyone will look inside for perhaps a week, and likely not find the silk missing for far longer.
      It is care such as this that has enabled him to continue in his business for several years now. He takes only things which will not soon be missed, and has never tried to remove anything of great size or value. There is too much risk, and too few maneuvers available should he be caught - besides, he has no need or desire to do so. A bit of silver here and there, a delicately worked tablecloth, an old heirloom which is only brought out to be shown off every few months at most. Small things of value which are simply taken for granted by those who own them. Always middle or upper-middle class, never quite high-class families. With wealth comes paranoia, he has found, and while he has found it easy to lift a tiny item or two in midst of a party in a mansion, it is in the homes of the rich that the servants search the pockets of jackets checked. And he has no need to take such risks or go to such extremes, as he lives easily enough on his usual purloined goods. What he has taken tonight will more then cover a hotel room in the next town, and what he has taken from other homes in the area will keep his purse quite full enough to purchase sundry accessories for both personal and professional use.
      Having closed the drawer, he pauses and glances around the room. He decides that he has taken enough, and tucks the silk inside his jacket, beneath his arm. Stealing back across the room without a sound, he moves toward the open window, following the sense of cooler air. (The night is without a breeze - this detail, too, was carefully considered, knowing that too chill of an influx of air might be noticed by anyone slumbering in a room nearby with an open door.) It takes him some time to cross the room, small as it is, with such care does he slowly let his weight fall.
      It is not from any sense of malice that he employs himself thus, nor any desperation. It is simply a good living, suiting him perfectly. From the time he was a child, he excelled at both acting and lying - to his mind, there is little difference between the two, and he views himself as more of a roaming actor than a shiftless hoodwinker. What he takes is merely pay for a superb performance, one so flawless that they have no idea there is any fallacy between the person they have met and the person who steals from them late at night. In the first, fresh from school, he had spent some time simply moving from town to town, uncertain of his desired residence. He soon discovered how easily people were willing to believe the words of a stranger. Unquestioningly acceptance of a slight embellishment he had once made when relating his history had emboldened him, and he began trying out entirely imagined backgrounds for himself. And with these as much as the truer details, he was completely believed. Astonished, he took this on as common practice for each new town he visited, enjoying the variety and the challenge.
      As his funds ran low, however, he realized he was in need of income. Though he had been doing small jobs here and there, it was not enough, particularly as his false histories began requiring occasional purchases to support them. Posing as a rambling, indolent son of a very rich man, for instance (one of his favorite parts to play), led to the need to pay admission to exclusive clubs and the consumption of expensive clothing and dinners. He makes it a point to never himself use any of the belongings he steals, however, taking them in mixed assortments and casual quantities to discrete pawn shops. In his travels, he had noticed early on how many needless things people collect and retain, though they hold no meaning to the owner. Even things of particular richness or beauty were often placed on a curio shelf and then forgotten, unless there was company present whom they wished to impress. Small works of art, carefully crafted, were reduced to mere status symbols, collecting only dust and the occasional disinterested glance. Though no artist himself, such neglect saddens him, seeing beauty so unappreciated. So, in a way, he is simply relocating the things to a place where they should be found by those who might appreciate them more, bought by those who desire things of visual appeal yet cannot typically afford them, and so will not use them as a sign of status but enjoy them for what they were meant.
      Ah, but such self-inflating things these sound! He knows these are reasons he has only gradually come to claim, they are only extra benefits. He lives in such a way because it suits him. He is free to do as he wishes, not tied down by relationships or mortgage payments, nor even limited by expectations of social class or personality traits. He is able to be anyone and do anything he sets his mind to. The freedom is exhilarating, and the challenges exciting to his intelligent mind.
      He has reached the window, and begins to ease himself through it, taking much less time than before, not needing to worry about squeaking floors once outside. Slowly he pulls down the window behind him, sensitive to its slightest noises, and gingerly closing it the very last bit.

      A few minutes later, a light-hearted tune floats back to the window - he is whistling casually as he walks up the street, acting for all the world as a man simply out for a late-night stroll. The room itself is silent and perfectly still. It will say nothing of the night's events, and keep to itself its judgment of the venturing young man.

He remembers.

2005-12-01T19:56:00.000-05:00

       It is this single trait which causes him the most pain. Were it not for his memories, he might have lived a normal life. He sits alone, a dusty aged man in a dusty old room, his only company the things around him and the intangible ghosts of things past.
       He remembers, though no-one cares to ask.
       He is surrounded by those no longer living, he can see and hear them, but they remain just beyond his reach. It is only when the drugs lie heavily within his veins that the ghosts draw close enough for him to touch. Most times, it is unpleasant, even nightmarish.
       But he would suffer far worse for companionship.
       Once, he had a family - supportive parents, sympathetic siblings, a loving girlfriend... but they have long gone, either by death's chill hand or their own interests. This house holds no meaning for him, he rents it only because it was cheap and available. He sits in this room only because there is an old rocking chair in it which he finds comfortable. There is no significance to most of the things which sit in the room around him, they were either left by previous owners or are small necessities he picked up along his way. The only object with any real meaning is a gold pocket watch, given to him by his father before he left for the war. Inside of it, opposite the intricate face relaying time he no longer finds use for, is placed a photograph of a beautiful young woman, soft waves of golden hair beside a smiling face. There were many times he realized he ought to get rid of the picture - he nearly had, when he came home to find that she had... But he found he was still reluctant to, even when they had called things off permanently. And perhaps it was for the best that they had, for he had also found that either she had greatly changed or, more likely, the beautiful face itself had gradually become his comfort, and gained a persona of its own, quite distinct from Cathy's.
       And so it continues, at times, to comfort him in his loneliness. Though some days the image is of her, laughing happily beside another man, most days she is an almost fairy-like thing, ethereal and gracious, kind and gentle, a goddess or perhaps an angel. But in either form, she is company, and he will not turn her away.
       The small wooden case with the needle and liquid inside is merely a necessity, not something which holds any meaning for him. First given him by a doctor, when he lay in a field hospital with his left arm shattered by that one explosion he could not dodge, it had stayed with him over the years. Once he returned home from the service, he was given a new supply by his doctor. He had been warned - his doctor seemed a little uneasy about renewing his prescription, but he had insisted, and the doctor relented, admitting there was no real evidence of its harm, particularly in his case.
       On the way out of the office, a younger doctor plucked his elbow. He introduced himself, speaking softly, and said that he worked at the hospital, and could get him more when his supply ran out, at a lower price. Though he was unsure at first, the younger man reminded him that his doctor would not likely give him more. And he knew, even then, that this was the only thing that would allow him to keep living, and ease the pains within him. The pain has largely changed now, from physical to mental, his soul aching in place of his arm, but the drug worked for this as well, he had found.
       He remembers, and his arm aches.
       Reaching over, he lifts the case from its place beside the wall, setting it on his lap, stopping for a moment his constant rocking in the chair. Working the dingy brass clasps, he pushes it open, the familiar sound of aging velvet greeting him. The crimson lining of the case has grown dull and murky with age, darkened by stains in some places. His motions are quick and deft with years of practice - it is hardly more than a minute before the syringe is again filled with the pale liquid. He remembers how clumsy he was the first dozen or so times, his arm grew bruised - though the pain was unnoticeable, compared to what the arm already felt. Though he used his good hand, it shook a little, and there were several times he had to inject himself more than once, knowing he had not properly found a vein. But now he hardly needs look, he slips the needle easily past his skin's surface, barely registering the sharp pain of punctured flesh and tense ache of metal pushing through to a vein. He can almost feel the liquid entering his bloodstream as he pushes the syringe, and instantly the world explodes in a familiar rush of sensation. For a moment his vision is lost in bright darkness, his mind seems to see a thousand stars in rapid succession, his soul flung up high beside them, as his body falls away...
       All too soon, he returns to his deteriorating body, aged before its time, yet he is still somewhat detached, rising and sinking in and out in soothing successions, as waves on a shore. And now the figures draw near, never quite opaque but closer now, he can begin to believe they are real, and he is not alone.
       "Hell, Mason, you look ragged. A simple wound in the arm did you in?"
       He chuckles. "Not quite, Berry, but you know how it is... Home wasn't exactly the place I'd hoped it would be."
       Nodding in sympathetic agreement, the young man in a well-worn but clean uniform leans against the bookcase. "Same for us all, Mason... What we saw, no man still living should see. But it gave us something, that none of them can understand. We are all bound closer than brothers, owing each other out lives so many times over. And do you remember, Mason, how beautiful the skies were at night? All lit up by death, but so beautiful, the lines of fire hung so delicately between the stars..."
       "I remember how pretty even the trenches looked by night, the candlelight in the dug-outs, how almost cozy it felt at times, surrounded by everyone..."
       "More comforting than home sometimes, wasn't it? Everything was so simple, so understood between us all. You just tried not to get killed, and when you could help a man, you did. And between times, we found comfort together, all knowing what we'd seen that day, not needing to ask or talk about it. No need to explain. We all knew each other, what troubled us and woke us in the rare times we were let sleep. No questions, just understanding, and the comfort of knowing you weren't alone. You were never alone. No matter what you'd seen or been through, there was someone else with you, and who knew you needed a cigarette or a night off from watch."
       "Always someone there... and you're still here, Berry, but I can't see anyone else today."
       "Ahh, they've all gone off for a drink, you know how soon they'd jump at the chance." They both laugh softly, nodding.
       "But who of us wouldn't? Even now, the cheapest beer tastes fresh to me, remembering how dry it was there... And God knows we all could've used a drink every day, seeing what we saw."
       "You remember the night old Boone managed to sneak some whisky from the medics, and went off his rocker after a few sips?"
       They both laugh aloud, recalling the tale together.
       "He jumped up and did something like a jig, but his foot caught on a rifle---"
       "He went down face-first, and kept dancing! He was bellowing out some chantey, we had to throw him into a dug-out until he sobered up, though I don't think even the Germans would go near a man so mad as that!"
       "He was on late duty for weeks, wasn't allowed near the medical supplies..."
       "Even when he had his finger blown off a week later, remember what a time he had getting in to see the doctor? Every minute they watched that son of a bitch, he always said after they didn't use as much alcohol on him as they should have, taking revenge most likely. But we all know they took a nip themselves when no-one was looking."
       "I can't blame them for that, for all they saw and had to do..."
       Their laughter turns to sobriety, their faces grim, lost in thought of the friends they lost, to fates more gruesome than any man should endure.
       "Hey, Berry... Thanks for staying awhile. I get so lonely here now, you know I've got no-one left."
       "Hey, don't go thanking me, no need, Mason. You do what you can."
       "Yeah... But you let me know if there's anything I can do for you, alright? I owe you, Berry."
       "Now don't you start that again, I told you I don't like being indebted, didn't I? So I won't let anyone else be owing me anything. You just do what you can for anyone, Mason, that's all."
       But even as the familiar words are spoken, his face begins to fade, his uniformed figure grow less distinct. "Well, I'm off Mason, got to go make sure the boys aren't starting anything, you know how it is once they start drinking." He touches his fingers to his forehead in casual salute. "Be seeing you soon, Mason, you know where to find us."
       As the figure fades, he realizes he is choking back sobs, his hand outstretched in a silent plea. "No... I'm so alone... You bring warmth with you, warmth and comfort, my heart forgets its pain... don't go... fellas, don't leave me... please... I'd go back if I could, death never held any fear for me, once I knew Cathy was gone. I should have died there, rather than this death here, this is worse than any Nazi bullet... I have died, it's just my body holding on... It's so cold here, I'm so alone, I want to be back there again. I haven't forgotten the cold and the hunger and the fear and the madness, but I'd suffer it all to not be alone with only nightmares and people I can't reach, I'd suffer it all to be back where I belonged. I don't belong here, an empty body in an empty room..."
       His body is trembling, his arm aches, but he does not notice. His mind begins to fog, he is uncertain where he is, or if he is dreaming or awake. He turns his face to a remembered sky, he smiles widely as he gazes at the white gold and scarlet tapestry being woven in the illuminated night sky. "It's so beautiful, isn't it, Berry? Almost makes this Hell worthwhile, doesn't it?"
       It is too dark to see his face, apart from the brief eerie light from the phosphorescent sky. "Almost does, Mason..."
       Everything begins to fade, the shining trails overhead stop moving, the darkness shrouds everything, it grows so cold...
       "Berry, you're still there, aren't you?"
       "Don't worry about watch tonight, I'll cover you. That arm of yours needs a rest."
       "Thanks Berry, I am pretty beat. Takes a lot out of a man some days, trying every minute to stay alive... Hey, I owe you one."
       "You don't owe me nothin', go get some sleep, God knows you need it."

       He gets up from the chair, automatically putting the wooden case from his lap back on the floor, then laying down beside it. Laying on his side, his aching arm away from the floor, he reaches for the jacket left on the floor nearby, pulling it over himself as a blanket. Soon asleep, his dreams are of an eerily-lit fairyland, where all is beautiful and deadly.

       He wakes in darkness, his heart pounding and sweating coldly. "Berry? Berry, are you there? Thompson? Hey Boone, you're not pulling one over on a fella, are you? Douglas, Polanski, is anyone there?" Frantically, he crawls across the floor in a straight line, breathing heavily. "Hey, Berry! Where is everyone? Don't leave me here..."
       He stumbles, his hand falling on a battered wooden case. Grabbing it hungrily, he rapidly opens it and prepares another dose, muttering all the while. "I need it I need it Doctor you can't keep a man from what he needs like this, my arm, you see, my arm, this is the only thing that lets me live with the pain, this is my only comfort, Berry where are you? I need someone who will understand, I don't belong here, take me back, men, don't leave me behind..."
       A sudden warmth of sheer rapture surges through his body fast as a heartbeat, his eyes grow moist as he looks around him and sees familiar faces surrounding him, laughing in the dim warm light of lit cigarettes and candle stubs. "Hey now, what are you guys trying to pull on a man while he's sleeping, huh?" And he joins in their laughter until the pain subsides, and a haze of contentment soothes his aching body. "Thompson, let me take the next watch, I'm awake now anyway. I don't feel like sleeping anymore, I'll keep Berry company out there. 'Least I can do, in thanks for these kind fellas for waking me up." More laughter, as he hits the one nearest him with his heavy jacket.
       Sitting just below ground-level near the top of the trench beside Berry, he pulls his jacket close around him. "Thanks for the offer, but I've had enough sleep. Mind if I sit with you awhile?"
       "Suit yourself. Nice quiet night up here, though not down there it seems," he comments with a chuckle, nodding at the group of laughing men in the trench.
       "Ah, let them have some fun. Cheered me some, anyway, to see them."
       "Mmm."

       Rocking slowly in the chair, he holds his jacket close around him, talking to figures only he now remembers, in a place only he was once in. And he is happy, for as long as the pale liquid passes through his heart. The memories hold no pain while he lives them, and he is no longer alone.

She gazes unseeingly out the window,

2005-11-29T17:15:00.000-05:00

her legs stretched along the cushioned chaise, leaning against the upper curve of the pale carmine fabric. Sighing, her mind rests dully, uninterested in the murky colors beyond the heavy glass. It is raining steadily, but with a sense of languor, the endless drops falling only because it is easier to do so than to remain with the drab heavy clouds. The vibrancy of autumn has dulled with the arrival of November's subduing showers, all is brown and grey, with a few small patches of tarnished gold. There are few distinct shapes now, the rain and pale light have re-formed the landscape into a muddy impression; there is no beauty for her eyes to find.
       The room is silent, but for the drops spattering the windowpane and churning through the drainpipe along the outside of the wall. Once there would have been the sound of small running feet, or company to call, or at the least other voices and the occasional creaking of the floor, but even that is lacking today. The piano sits silent, its keys hidden away beneath their cover, shy in their solitude. The phonograph is quiet beneath a thin brushing of dust, its raspy voice long unused - it was the children who had wanted it purchased. She has thought many times of using it, simply for the thoughts of them it would bring, and to fill some of the deafening silence, but she never could grow to feel anything but disconcerted by voices from a thin plastic disk. The disembodied vocals and ghostly instruments always sounded distant and scratched, as if an abused photograph were making sound, or old spirits long-gone were amusing themselves by playing the newest songs.
       She rests her cheek against the back of the chaise, a single strand of faded auburn hair slipping free from its bonds and resting against her light skin. Her brown eyes gaze dully at her hands resting in her lap, fingers idly twisting a bit of the soft blue cloth. She studies for a moment the interplay of light and shadow as she moves the fabric, but the changes are subtle and faint in such dim light as the overshadowed day provides. After a brief time, she reaches languidly to the small, ornately decorated table which stands near the lounge, lifting a small book with a delicately ornamental cover from it. She opens the book to the place marked by a bit of pale cream-colored ribbon, and begins to read.

       Some time later, the housemaid enters the room, humming softly as she lightly dusts the various curious and precious trinkets scattered around the room, cleaning and lightly polishing the many wooden surfaces of the furnishings. Turning to dust the beginnings of a cobweb in a corner of the window frame, she sees the softly dozing figure on the chaise, and abruptly stops humming, the notes replaced by an amused smile on her lips. With remarkable care, she lifts the book free of unprotesting hands, replaces the ribbon and sets it upon the table, after taking a quick glance at the page to which it had been left open.
       "Reading that same one yet again, ma'am?" she murmurs with affectionate amusement. "You do seem to be particularly fond of that poem... I can't myself quite see why, it seems so terribly sad! But perhaps your intuitions are more refined than mine, and there's a beauty to it I am missing."
       Moving lightly across the floor, the maid finishes her dusting and polishing as quietly as ever she may. Nearly having completed her circle around the room, she leans over to take special care with a small cabinet, a number of small knick-knacks resting atop it. Gently lifting each fragile piece, she dusts both them and the surface upon which they rest. Her curious eyes and fingers delight in the smallest details of paint and sculpting on the china figures, as well as investigate with a touch of wonder the visible age of a few family heirlooms. She has at this point greatly slowed her pace of working, so intrigued by what she typically dares not take the time to study, the knowledge that the mistress of the house is sound asleep emboldening her. Setting back in its place a tiny china cat, its fur and eyes depicted in minute detail, her eyes are drawn by something previously unnoticed catching the light. On closer inspection, barely daring to breathe, she sees it is a thin silver object, caught and wedged between two adjoining pieces of wood which in part make up the cabinet. Gently moving to a safe distance the sundry objects resting atop the cabinet, she attempts to poke and pry the unknown bit of silver free of its entrapment, without even a remote proximity to success. She pauses a moment, then quickly stands and scampers with the lightness of a young woman (as she ought, she is barely nineteen years of age) as quickly as she dares out of the room, and soon again back in, a small penknife in hand. Peering again at the trapped object, noting its small size and probable delicacy, she wraps the open blade of the knife in a handkerchief, to prevent causing any scratches. With all the care in the world, she gently slips the blade between the boards, trying to slide it beneath the curious trinket. Grimacing slightly, she jiggles the blade a little, then quickly glances across the room to the prone figure on the chaise - she yet sleeps, silent and still but for quiet measured breaths. Grinning, more confident now, she tries again, slipping the blade in on the other side of the gleaming silver. It is not greed or a hope to steal this obviously forgotten thing which drives her on so - it is simply curiosity, and a liking for a good mystery (good, of course, implying a forthcoming solution). The cabinet squeaks slightly, and she halts her motion a moment to look over the rest of the piece, satisfying herself that her work will do nothing to actually damage it.
       At last, she feels a slight movement of the object, the silver glinting as it rises just a little further into the light. Excitedly, she continues, fighting back her exuberance and trying to maintain her initial carefulness. Slowly, slowly, the thing emerges from the darkness of the wood. Breathless, she works until it is entirely free, then drops the knife and kerchief and takes the small discovery into her hands.
       It is a silver locket, tarnished from time spent forgotten and neglected, as well as having picked up a bit of stain from the wood it had been encased in, but it is otherwise undamaged. Peering closely, she can make out a delicate design engraved into both front and back of the metal, though the mixture of tarnish and dust renders it indiscernible. It is circular in shape, no more and probably less than an inch across, with a tiny heart-shaped loop at the top, where it must have once been strung on a chain.
       Her heart fluttering in excitement, she slips her fingernail gently beneath the locket's clasp, hardly daring but taking great care, and hears the faintest click as it opens. Her eyes wide and eager, she tenderly unfolds the sides, seeking out an image.
       She is not disappointed. On the right side, where the locket would lay against the owner's breast, is a tiny portrait of a young woman. Though the image is somewhat faint with age, it has been kept from stain over the years by the protective silver, and the woman's face is clear to be seen. Large deep eyes sparkle through time passed, and a shyly teasing smile lingers eternally on the inviting-looking lips. Soft curls spill around the gentle face, dark and luxurious - this must have been a private photograph, as her hair is let down. There is a compelling feeling about the image, an intimacy to her expression and eyes.
       "She was in love..." the transfixed maid breathes, her voice too soft to disturb even the bits of dust on the locket. "And she was looking at him just then, or at least thinking of him, that expression was for him alone. I wonder..."
       Ever so lightly, she brushes a fingertip over the forever-young face, a thousand questions and imagined answers flooding the back of her mind. There is nothing to be seen of the woman's dress that might help to identify the date of the photograph, and with her hair down, there is no help in that aspect, either. She knows too little of the art of photography to use the appearance or material of the picture to further her theories - all is a mystery to her inquisitive young mind. Yet for the moment she is content with not knowing, for her mind is conjuring all sorts of romantic tales, of love and loss and the enduring strength of affection.
       A quiet whimper from the sleeping form on the chaise brings her suddenly back to her place, and she realizes she has no time for such fantastic daydreams now. She lovingly closes the locket, then slips it into her apron pocket, intending to clean it as best she may when she has a spare moment. Quickly but carefully, she replaces the fragile objects on the cabinet top - their appeal has rapidly paled beside this new discovery.
       Standing, she gathers up her cleaning supplies, and takes a look around the room, ensuring that everything is clean and orderly, in place and as it should be. Her mistress continues to doze on the chaise, unaware of the maid's wondrous find. She does not now wake her - she knows how easily the older woman tires, and how much she dislikes being woken when she sleeps. There will be time enough later to tell her of the locket, when she will be more interested.
       Trying valiantly to bring her mind back to the rest of the day's work, she leaves the room, her leg tingling slightly through the layers of fabric which separate it from the locket. "I suppose the dining room may not need quite as thorough a cleaning today..."

       The day has grown only darker, and it is late afternoon when she wakes from dreamless sleep. She opens her eyes, and they slowly begin to adjust to the light and understand what it is they see - her mind is still fogged with drowsiness, with the added confusion of waking someplace other than her own bed. Gradually she becomes aware of her place in the parlor, as well as the figure sitting at her feet on the lounge.
       "You are home then, Elijah? Heavens, I must have slept so long... I did not realize how tired I was..."
       Smiling gently, he puts a hand gently over hers. "It's alright, you needn't worry over it. It is not quite time for supper, it grew dark more quickly than usual today, largely because of the rain I suppose."
       "Is it still raining, then? I grow so tired of the damp and drear it brings, everything it touches turns grey and unappealing."
       He chuckles quietly, patting her hand with tender affection, his eyes unreadable in the dim and dusky light of the room. "Yes, but things would not again be someday green were it not for the grey in-between." His voice softens thoughtfully, gently stroking her hand and wrist. "The joys will feel all the greater for the dullness between. The rain refreshes all things, bringing new life to even that which had appeared dead."
       "I always told you that you ought to have been a preacher, Elijah. Your name would suit it, and your gift for turning inspirational phrases only proves it." Though once the words would have been a playful jibe, there remains only a trace of the light-hearted humor she could once have given the jest.
       Aware of this, more so than she, he laughs softly, patting her hand again. "Yes, but I have not the faith for it, nor the generosity of spirit toward mankind in general as would be proper. My name didn't quite hold up to my parents' apparent hopes, it seems."
       "How many of us ever do?" she murmurs, to herself more than in answer.
       He is silent a moment, though inside his mind a thousand rebuttals scream at once. Moving gracefully from his seat on the couch, he kneels before her, holding his delicate hands in his much stronger ones, pressing a kiss to them. His voice low but unaccusing, he replies gently, "I know it is still in you to play, my dear... But come, it is time to ready for supper."
       Standing, he helps her to her feet, and leads her from the room, her arm holding to his, both silent... and the silence between them is far deeper and more withdrawn than the silence which falls on the empty room.

       Late that evening, she enters the sitting room again, lighting a few lamps to push back for a time the encroaching night. She stands to the side of the writing desk, waiting. As the master and mistress of the house had lingered over their supper, she had time in which to clean the locket, doing her best to carefully remove the grime of long years from each small part and every delicate engraving. Once the dishes had been cleared away and she had tidied up the dining room, she had intended to show the locket to her mistress. But rather than spend quiet time in the library or sitting room as usual, the master had whisked her into bed early, with little protestation on her part. The servants had murmured quietly amongst themselves about this fresh bout of melancholy she seemed to have fallen prey to, but they each had manners enough to say nothing outside of their own quarters.
       And so, she had needed to screw up her courage to ask him for a spare moment, at his convenience. (She does not fear him, but rarely has she occasion to be in his presence, working both early and late as he often does. So, a fair bit of nerves preceded her simple request.) He had asked her to wait in the sitting room, and that he would be there shortly.
       Thus, she waits, and while so doing, takes the locket again from her apron pocket, running gentle fingertips over the ornate surface. The tarnish all but gone, the intricate twinings of flowers and vines across the locket catch the light in graceful curves. Yet beautiful as the casing is, it is still the portrait it contains that is the most alluring. Lightly working the clasp, she opens the locket, letting it rest in her palm as she continues to study it. She had been extremely careful while cleaning not to disturb the photograph, for fear of damaging it. However her efforts had here uncovered another small hint - on the left side, facing the image, was the lightest, finest bit of engraving she had ever seen. So thin and faint were the letters, it had been some time before she was able to make them out:
       "All my love".
       Unfortunately, this shed little light on anyone's identity, but it did confirm the feeling she had on first sight of the photograph. Whatever the relation or names of the woman and the owner of the locket, it was filled with a love so strong it could still be felt, though the locket had been long since removed from those involved.
       A low creak from the floorboards - she lifts her head toward the sound, seeing him enter the room. Crossing before her, he deposits himself on the desk chair, resting his hands on spread knees. His demeanor is calm and open, whatever cares had creased his face earlier in the day have been released for the evening, leaving only echoes in the wrinkles which are beginning to stay permanently on his brow. "You said you found something which you wished to show me?"
       Her nerves allayed at his amiable manner, she nods, holding out the locket resting on her open palm. "It was stuck between the boards of the cabinet there, sir. I pried it out, and cleaned it off some. It looked as if it had been there for quite a long time, but I hadn't noticed it before today."
       He takes the small charm from her, holding it close to his eyes, inspecting the outside thoroughly. He then slips his thumbnail into the tiny clasp, which opens easily. "Either it is not so old as it looks, or it was extremely well-crafted, to yet open so smoothly as that," he murmurs, but halts his musings as his eyes fall on the photograph inside. It is not until a long moment has passed that he speaks again, and then his voice is hushed in wonder: "She is very beautiful..."
       She nods, uncertain of what etiquette is called for in such a situation, but her curiosity overcomes the uncertainty in an instant. "Do you recognize her, sir?"
       He shakes his head, now studying the inscription beside the image. "Not to my knowledge... This was my father's house before it was mine, I spent part of my childhood here, but I do not know her... You said it seemed to have been there for some time?"
       She nods again. "It was terribly tarnished, sir. I did not even see the message inside at first, nor could I make out the pattern on the outside. It was there, wedged in the space between the boards on the top of the cabinet."
       "That has been in the house for as long as I can remember," he acknowledges with a thoughtful nod, "though it was in the attic when I was young. But never have I seen this, nor this woman... She must have had some connection with the house at one time, but I confess I haven't a guess as to what or when it might have been. I wonder who she is?"
       "As do I, sir," she replies with a smile.
       He lifts his head and looks at her, returning the smile. "I will be seeing my father later in the week, I shall ask him if he has any knowledge of this." Running a finger over the intricate surface, he chuckles, eyes brightly turning back to her. "But I must say, you did superb work in cleaning this - I now know why the silver around the house has looked so well these past months. I thank you for your efforts - they do not go unnoticed."
       She flushes brightly at the unexpected compliment, and looks down at her hands, trying to keep her voice calm and polite, though she is beaming in delight. "It's really no trouble, sir, but thank you kindly."
       Still smiling, he waves her away. "I will let you go now, I'm certain you have things I am keeping you from. Thank you again, this is an exquisite piece, and I am eager to learn more of it."
       She smiles in return, as she drops a slight curtsy, then leaves the room, her heart still bright with excitement, and her thoughts full of yet more beautiful and mysterious imagined histories.

       A few weeks later, she is again dusting the sitting room, taking her usual care around the various small knick-knacks. When she reaches the cabinet, she lifts each piece to dust it and the area on which it rests, as she always does. She gasps, her eyes growing wide, as in the space covered by a china plate, she finds the locket, which she has not seen since the day she first found it, though its mysteries have often been in her mind. Lifting it curiously from the cabinet top, she realizes there is a folded note attached as well, written in a formal hand:
       "No-one knows to whom this belonged, so I felt it ought to go to the one who found it and had the most interest in it. As a reward for your fine silver-polishing. -E.M."
       Overwhelmed and overjoyed, she gasps in delight, hardly believing he should be so kind. Of course, being so wealthy, he might not have a need for such a small thing as this, but surely it would be worth something? She couldn't possibly---
       But she remembers the smiles and kindness he showed her that evening, and a realization forms in her mind. It is worth something, but what it means to her is far more than the monetary amount. And somehow, he was able to see this, and so in his generosity, he gave it to the one who would value it most.
       Folding her hands tenderly around it, she holds it to her heart, closing her eyes and whispering a thank you.

       The following day, she enters the room to the delicate sounds of a nocturne floating into the air from the long-unused piano. Looking over in surprise and delight, she sees the mistress seated at the piano, her long graceful fingers lovingly coaxing sweet nothings from the keys. She pauses a long moment, standing just inside the door frame, at first simply from uncertainty, not wanting to be a disturbance, but soon swept away by the beauty of the piece, both sweet and sad at once, richly colored by longing.
       "You may enter, it will not be a bother to me, I know that you work quietly."
       Startled, she realizes the song has ended, and she is the recipient of her mistress' attention. "Oh! Of course, I am sorry," she answers in a jumble. Setting to work, she glances over to the piano, and seeing her turning the pages of a music book idly, speaks up again. "You play beautifully, ma'am. That's why I was standing still. I could hardly bear to move and risk breaking the spell."
       Smiling warmly at her maid's admission, she plays a few gentle notes. "I once played quite often. I had lessons from the time I was very young, and my parents were quite proud of me. Yet when I grew older, and was asked to play for others, at church or weddings, parties, anything... I refused. I found that I was purely unable to. Oh, I could muddle through all right, but my fingers felt so clumsy. The emotion which swept them away and made the music truly beautiful was not there when I was surrounded by a crowd, and... to hear the music be so empty caused me great pain. I began to only play when alone, at most to dear friends, but even then, to no more than two or three at a particular time. Once I had a family, I had little opportunity to play... and for years I was too busy to realize how much I missed it. But once they grew and moved away, I knew I had been away too long, and feared I had lost all I had once possessed. That fear paralyzed me for quite some time, I did not want to try because I knew how it would crush me had it gone, but now..." She laughs softly at her past foolishness, but then smiles. The smile is soft, but with a deep joy which lights her in such a way as her young maid has not yet seen. "It does seem it has not completely gone from me, wouldn't you agree?"
       The girl grins brightly in answer, her eyes giving more assurance than any words could. "It certainly does seem that way, ma'am."
       For a minute or two, the only sounds in the room are from the soft swooshing of the maid's dusting, and the occasional test notes and brief figures from the piano. Then:
       "Such a lovely locket it is that you found, isn't it? Yet it was the photograph that truly struck me..."
       Pausing a moment in her work, she looks over to the woman seated at the piano. "I feel the same, the locket is beautiful, but the girl... there is something in her eyes which draws you in and will not let you go."
       Nodding, the elder woman's eyes gaze far beyond what lies before her in the present. "She reminded me of someone... not that I recognized her, not at all, but something about her, I recognized. It was several days before I realized that it was the vibrancy, the passion and endless desire for further passions, that she has. I haven't the faintest how the photographer managed to capture that, but he did, and it is her engaging nature which reaches us from beyond the years.
       "There is such an eagerness about her as well, an excitement for all the beauty and wonder she expects to find in life... and I remember when my eyes must have said the same of me. Never lose that, Mary, hold fast to your wishes and dreams, for they are what will keep old age away from your pretty eyes, as well as melancholy from your heart."
       Taking a slow breath after such a long, thoughtful soliloquy, she laughs softly. "Gracious, and it seems she has also brought back my prattling tongue! It appears that has not entirely left me, either."
       Both women laugh lightly at this, one turning back to the piano as the other turns back to dusting and polishing.
       Hesitantly, she clears her throat, certain it is an infraction of etiquette but feeling it needs to be said, and that the older woman will not mind. "I am certain that when the locket was lost, or perhaps hidden there, that it was thought it would never be found again. Yet simple chance could not have let me find it, or let it be seen by... by those who would understand it." Her voice drops off shyly, nervous about speaking in so casual a manner with her employer - and out of turn, at that.
       Yet she is answered with a warm smile, and a gentle laugh. "That is quite true, Mary... that is true indeed. I may yet find it again, before it is gone forever... I may yet."

He slams the door violently,

2005-11-27T01:56:00.000-05:00

the loud voice on the other side muffled by the thick wood. His face and fists clenched in frustration, his skin is flushed and his eyes dark.
       "I won't," he mutters darkly through clenched teeth, his voice low and half-choked by anger. "She can just fuck off, I'm sick of this." Pacing the room, his footfalls echo dully on the thick rugs covering aged wooden floor. Turning rapidly he throws his fist at the wall, the pain being let spread into the wall and out of himself for a moment before it wells up in him anew. His breathing deeper and heavier, he punches it again, but with less energy now, the pain seeping back through his knuckles, hand and arm, his nerves throbbing dully beneath the slight dusting of plaster which falls from the fresh dent in the wall. Staggering back, his eyes focus on nothing, his emotions rage and will not release control of him. Muscles aching from straining tensely so long without release, he struggles to move and not to move, everything within him blinded by emotion he cannot command. Grabbing the pillow off the bed he flings it across the room, not caring what it may collide with. Following through on the momentum of the throw, he lets his body fall onto the bed and lay inert. His eyes are turned blankly to the ceiling, he looks at but does not see the faded white paint, which peels slightly and is discolored from age, lighter in small places where once someone had placed small stars on the room's man-made sky.
       Sighing heavily, he turns on his side, closing his eyes. The voice outside the room has stopped, but he had no longer been listening to it. Slowly he opens his eyes again, letting them focus a moment on the bulky wardrobe opposite his bed, aged and obviously the purchase of some long-past owner of the house. The surface of the wood is pitted and scratched, scarred from the wear of years. On its often-stuck door, warped by time and moisture, are a few old star-shaped stickers he placed there one long afternoon, searching for anything at all to do other than schoolwork, or sitting still thinking.
       The anger in him has settled down to an uncomfortable simmer in the pit of his stomach, calm for the moment but capable of boiling over again without warning. His fist is closed around a bit of his sheets, clenching and unclenching the wad of thin fabric, refusing to let spill over the hot tears which he would rather die than let anyone see.
       "I hate it here, I hate everything. I can't do anything." His voice is constricted in his tightened throat, and muffled by the arm his face is hidden behind. he understands why they changed his school - the fights were starting to break out every day, and there were so many stories circulating around town about how many drugs were sold each day, but--- Knowing the reasons doesn't make change any easier.
       "I was doing just fine, now I don't know anyone and they all look at me like I'm too far beneath them to even acknowledge, which I am. Wish I could just take them all on and beat the living---"
       "Rich? Rich, will you unlock the door? I---"
       "No." His response is as sharp and abrupt as the rap on the door had been.
       A heavy sigh, and a gentle thud as she leans against the outside of the door. "Rich, I'm not trying to---"
       "Yes you are, you're never not stepping in and trying to control my life, just leave, alright?" The effort he puts in to keep his words civil is audible, his teeth set on edge and his muscles tightening. His chest and stomach ache from having been tensed so long, but he can't let go, there is no vent for it.
       Softer, almost chastened, sad but understanding: "Alright. ...but, Rich, just know... we don't try to make your life difficult. We care, we're only doing what we think is for the best... I know it sounds like a line but I mean it. I'm sorry if we make mistakes, we're not perfect..." It is safer to say "we", the blame becomes shared, and the guilt does not weigh as heavily on a mother's heart for having caused her son pain. She knows he is angry, but she does not know how to help him, with an overwhelming helplessness that seeps out in hot tears onto her pillow each night. She is afraid, and worried, and each time she sees another sullen glare, her heart breaks for the happy child he once was, and that she knows yet lies within him.
       If she could bear his anger for him, she would do so without hesitation. But such is not to be, he must learn his own means of living. She can not help him.
       "Yeah, yeah..." he mutters, but with less venom than before. He knows she tries - but he also knows how she fails. He listens vaguely as footsteps recede down the hallway. Slowly sitting up, he stretches, and finds the tenseness a slight portion lessened. Grabbing his book bag from where it lay on the floor, he hefts it into his lap and rummages inside. There are countless loose sheets of paper, unused looseleaf, torn notebook pages, Xerox copies and worksheets, a few carefully typed sheets with the administration's letterhead which his parents have never seen. A battered notebook, a few scattered pens and pencils, the ends chewed upon, caps and erasers long-gone. The remainders of a pack of pack, half a dozen empty rappers. Some folded notes, scraps with phone numbers and addresses scrawled on them, names of bands drawn out across ragged margins. A comb, a pocketknife, a small bag of cookie crumbs.
       He finds the scrap of paper he was searching for, and pins it to the wall beside his bed, between newspaper clippings and lewd drawings. Flopping back onto the bed, head falling back onto the pillow, he exhales deeply, trying to let go of the day's troubles - but they return as soon as he draws breath again, filling his tired mind as oxygen fills his tired blood.
       School. The drudgery, the endless routine, expecting of all students things only a few are capable of, the dull conformity of the minds around him. The students will talk only of their own petty social affairs, the teachers will talk only of what one textbook espouses, and no-one at all willing to consider what is outside of their pristine system of thought. The most "rebellious" thing any of the kids at this new school do is dip into their parents' alcohol cabinets every now and again, or smoke outside the school walls. Imitative little pushover pretenders, none of them truly wanted to be outside of their self-indulgent self-aggrandizing social ladder.
       He doesn't ever register on their ladder, he is a black cat which prowls beneath it.
       The art classes focus on still-lifes, the literature classes on the classics, the science classes on time-tested ideas, history on the successions of kings and presidents, everything in the whole of the old building reeking of established tradition and stagnant modes of thought, too bloated from feeding on the same notions for a hundred years to be able to move on to new things.
       Forced early mornings, endless grey hours pent up inside a stuffy old building, made to listen for an hour when he knows after five minutes he will need the information for an exam and then never again... Watching everyone form groups and alliances, friendships and romances, all to the mutual exclusion of himself. By the time he reaches home, his only desire is sleep and idle distraction, school and homework do not engage his mind, only numb it and leave it empty. Weekends are too short to be a true respite; by the time he is his own self again, it is Sunday evening and he must return to schoolwork again.
       Rolling onto his stomach, he fumbles beneath his mattress, pulling out a pack of cigarettes his parents would never guess that he has. He pushes up the window, then reaches over to the too-small desk near the head of his bed. Sharply twisting the stereo knob to turn up the radio, he then reaches behind it and a few old Coke bottles to grab a lighter.
       Leaning against the window, he lights the cigarette, re-hides the lighter and rests the cigarette between his lips. Inhaling slowly, he closes his eyes, letting the familiar heat and acrid smoke scald his mouth, throat and nose. He sighs with parted lips, the smoke warming his face and hand before being drawn out the window. The afternoon disk jockey at last finishes his weak attempts at humor and puts on another record.
       "Hell yeah..." he murmurs, the opening notes falling against his consciousness, soothing as warm summer rain. The bass comes in, a pause, and the full band rushes into the vacuum the moment's silence had created, raw emotion pouring into a void, pouring into the emptiness in his life as the nicotine into his veins. "God, I needed this..."
       He knows he will not be disturbed until dinnertime, once his door is locked and his music turned up. They no longer bother to try, knowing that only base physical needs will lure him from his room now.
       This is the one place that he lives, in the smoke and power chords, in the passionate cries, his own throat parched from the smoke, though he feels it is from screaming with the singer's voice, heart flying out past his lips into the open stratosphere of song.
       No longer do his many concerns haunt him, his world is only song, and here he feels at rest through the audible pulls and pushes of unleashed emotion. His anger is crowded out by the passions of sound, and floats away on the smoke, which creeps out the window and soaks into its wooden frame, leaving gradual stains on the wall and ceiling.
       And for once, the sense of prior lives, more attached to the room's walls than he, does not trouble him. his own emotions have blended into the layers of lives lived in this room, his is but one soul of many. And rather than feeling an unwanted outsider, for once he feels included, a part of some larger continuity. And perhaps it is only the song, but...
       He lets his eyes drift along the window frame for a long moment, gradually allowing them to follow the fading wisps of smoke which trace almost indiscernible paths out into the world... and it almost feels he might find a way to follow them.

I remember my life before you.

2005-11-26T01:15:00.000-05:00

I moved through each day as a man without a soul, as a mere cog in the world's machinations. I had no desire to continue, but nor had I any desire to stop. It seemed I should go on with my life, occupying it with what activity came my way, because it seemed I ought to do things if for no other reason than that I had a body capable of so doing. I do not mean I felt nothing at all - there was yet pleasure, pain, occasional sorrow, surprise, excitement.
       But viewing the landscape of my past from the vantage point I have since gained, I see only grey plains of a dry flatness, I see nothing at all worth having.
       I admit, I once rather disdained those who let loose their emotions so freely, as letting go a horse's reigns, rather than training it to a productive type of action. Such passions seemed only to add unnecessary difficulties and anguishes, I saw no reason why I should let them control me, rather than the logical intelligence I knew already I was capable of. it was then unfathomable to me why anyone would live otherwise. Living at the every whim of fickle emotions seemed not only troublesome, by virtue of not having control of your own self, but counter-productive to a useful existence as well.
       How could I have lived that long, never even realizing there had to be more..?
       But there - I did, I merely hid this from myself. Loneliness is an emotion, you see. Letting others close seemed pointless - could I not handle my own difficulties with my own intellect? What is a man if the problems which occur in his own life alone cannot also be overcome by him alone? It did not seem necessary for me to let anyone see my deepest self, it was too flawed and weak to be on the outside. And so, I carefully crafted a self to show - not a mere façade, for it was still myself, only without the emotions, without the guilt or concern for other persons that would complicate social matters. Purely utilitarian - this self was blunt, hiding no opinion, taking only what was useful from others. I was neither happy nor unhappy, and yet...
       In those few moments when I paused, in the times where there was no activity to distract me, when my world was for a brief space silent and my thoughts unoccupied... It was then that the questions spoke, that I felt and thus grew nervous and afraid - and alone. I knew that no-one should ever know me as I knew myself, and a part of me rebelled against the unfairness of my own barriers, but in larger part... I left alone. No man - nor woman - was meant to survive in utter isolation. There is no completeness in a life such as that, though I did as well as anyone could in trying to so convince myself. I was alone, and I knew I felt it, but I was certain it was possible for me to bear it. And it was...
       But I had never known fulfillment. And I had never felt the completion that a true love can bring... I should have laughed had the idea of completely caring and working toward more for another's happiness over my own. I held nothing against those who were "in love", I simply believed them to be weaker than myself, foolishly clinging to an easy answer, when I had found one better.
       Yet, for all that, I never quite permitted myself the touch of another. My body certainly longer for it, and many things suggested that physical desires tend to fall in separate from emotional ties, and yet... I could have sought to quench my flesh's thirst, and no-one, myself probably included, would have held me in any semblance of derision. Perfectly natural, in all likelihood far more healthy. only - something deeply buried chose otherwise. Sometimes harangued for it, sometimes sympathized with, sometimes merely given a knowing chuckle - I did not myself quite know why I refrained...
       Though I do now, knowing now how much a union such as that can mean... At the first, I could see it meant far more to you than me, and that troubled me some... but what concerned me most, I soon realized, was that I in my lack of feeling might hurt yours. And I was worried, I began to trust you, all my thoughts of the future began to include you in them, I saw you as an inherent part of my life... and I was uncertain of what bound me so closely to you, and so I worried about how strong that bond might be, and if it might hold.
       And you knew what it was, with hardly a moment's thought, you could see what lay deep within me, though it was hidden from even myself. I had spent so long studying myself, learning to read me inner motives and understand the interworkings of my thoughts and desires. I had thought I could manage my own difficulties, I had thought there was nothing within myself that I could not handle also within myself.
       It was trust. You, in your carefree naïveté, you in your passions and unevenness, you in your brilliance of thought but silly blunders in sense, saw what I could not. This was both unsettling and a relief to me... and I felt closer still to you because of it.
       And I knew then that it was in you that I would find what had never been in my life. It sounds such a cliché, that you complete me... but so it was, my love, you filled the hole I had sought to hide from even myself. I never knew such closeness was possible, I had long believed my inner self should never be seen by anyone outside of me. There was no reason to let such vulnerability be known, and who should understand it better than I?
       And I did have trust in you. Trust in you, and what we built together between us, and what we should form in future. I was frightened still at times, I acted cold on occasion to hide my own tentative hopes, I was afraid of relying too much on what could be taken from me...
       And so it was. But looking back, I would have no been colder and more distant, to protect myself from what I now know was coming, I would have held all the tighter to you... maybe if I held tight enough, you couldn't have been taken from me... No, I know I would have been hurt again, perhaps still deeper, but it would have been more than worth the hurt to have loved you fully for even a minute longer.
       You brought so much newness to my life, so many colors I never dreamed, nor could have dreamed I needed or desired. You found within me things I did not know I possessed.
       And you... so many things in you, I never thought I could love or understand. You and I are so different, in our beliefs and views of the world around us, in our reactions and manners of thinking... Yet you find the words I need, I find the explanations you cannot see, each of us supplies what the other does not yet have.
       The hole within me that I worked hard all my life to fill, the self-dialogues I developed to replace the need for interpersonal conversation, the consummating activity I enveloped myself in... none of that was what I truly needed, the answer was far simpler, I just had yet to encounter it.
       It was you, you and only you, the answer to questions I had tried to forget. you are the balm to my ills, the cure to a disease I could never have resolved on my own. Your grace soothed my rough corners, your brightness lessened my sadness, your passions reminded me of those I had hidden away, your weaknesses helped to find my strengths.
       But your weakness grew to more than my strength could carry, no matter what I--- I tried so hard, I--- Oh my heart, if only I--- I couldn't we always knew but--- oh---

       He breaks down, falling heavily to his knees on the floor, his body collapsing onto the wooden boards. He presses his hands harder against his face, vision breaking into a dark kaleidoscope, but still not keeping away the image of his lover's face, every moment hanging before him, ever present and always now beyond his reach. His body shaking, he presses his palms harder, hands soaked with tears, he fights to keep them from slipping from his face, trying so hard to keep the light blocked out. There is nothing he wants to see in this world, nothing but his love, whom his eyes will never again find.
       There is no control now, he has lost all orientation, there is nothing in his world but her face set against darkness. His consciousness is fallen into an endless loop, her face soft with love, the brightness of her smile, the pain in her eyes as they closed with a shudder---
       He screams at the pain which rends his heart in two, he is as helpless as he was to help her.

       Why? Oh God, why give me such an answer if You were only going to take it from me? All my life, I planned, I worked out every contingency for all that I did, everything was planned in full, I kept a control over each small aspect, but now--- I did all I could! And all for nothing, all my effort comes to nothing, what I have worked all my life to master in the end was of no use. I did all I could for you, all I could, and still---
       What more could I have done? I did all I could, I would have done anything, I did everything I did all a man could why couldn't I keep you here? Now more than ever I need you to balance my shortcomings, and you aren't here, you won't ever be here again, how am I--- I can't I can't, how can I face life without you? Now that I know what fills the hole in me is you... I can't be without you. you are my completion, there is no life for me without you...

       He is exhausted, his emotions having run so hot and hard, his muscles tense and breathing labored, his hands and face soaked with tears. His voice is raspy, worn from anguished cries and tormented pleas, his lungs have no power left, his muscles no will to continue. Even his thoughts grow weary, blurring and fogging, too full of memory and images and questions to focus on any one for any stretch of time. His soul has moved in such short time from love to longing to outrage to desperation to resignment. He feels even his physical self as a thing, empty shell, in the absence of his belovèd.

       Your eyes... I see your eyes and they look right at me, though I know they will never open again... It was your eyes I first saw, your eyes that first drew me to you. So large and so blue, but as with everything about you, even the color was not so simple as that. Blue skies with hints of a green living earth below, sparkling brightness resting atop an ocean deep, yet intimate as a pool found in a hidden forest glen. Wide and always searching, full of wonder at each detail they light upon. your eyes reflected back all the beauty they would find. Long dark lashes make them all the lighter, darkness only shows light to be brighter, you often said, and you were brighter than any star to me, my love...

       His eyes are clenched closed, he cannot bear to open them and see only her absence. Yet he knows this is what he will find - again the tears overcome him, dripping from his face and from between his fingers, slipping into the wooden floor below, soaking his sorrow into the room's very foundations.

       What can I--- I can't live without you, not any longer, you were all in the world that I needed. I once thought I needed a large house, a thick wallet, a well-paying job, everything latest convenience, a thick pocketbook, most likely a wife, and perhaps a son, but I soon learned... So soon after I met you, I realized my dreams had grown faint, and I did not mind that they had. All that mattered was to be with you, to feel the closeness that we share, to hold you and provide for you, to see your smile, and to be soothed by you when I am overcome by worry. Anything that you do not need, I find I no longer need. I--- you are my life, I can have no other, you are all I need... You are all I need... please, I want only to be with you... only you... I would do anything for you... my heart and will shall only ever be yours, always devoted to you... there is nothing I have ever cherished as I cherish you... you are the answer I did not know it was possible to find... in all the word, we somehow found each other... could we not find each other again? My heart is bound so strongly to yours, so tightly it feels as a noose now, with you so far from me... Could I not just follow that which binds us, and find my way back to your side?
       Is this selfish of me? Am I holding to you too tightly? If I appeared beside you now, tear-stained and overwrought as I am, would you only smile kindly and shake your head, as a mother to a child she has been away from no more than a few minutes? Would-- no! I cannot believe that! I was not alone, that is the reason it is so strong, our adorations of each other overlapped and formed something much stronger than either of us could have ever forged alone. you must be feeling the same pain as I, oh--! oh my love, I cannot let you be alone, not if your hurt is even a hundredth of mine (though I know this is not so), I never could bear to se you saddened... You told me how alone you once felt - and I know how deeply it hurt you, for I knew the same pain, though I never let it show as I am doing now - I would do anything to keep you from feeling it again. Whenever your eyes began showing the slightly glistening of tears, I--- I---

       Again he breaks down, the memory of her face in sadness tearing him utterly apart, making flood-ravaged mud of any last defenses he had. His own pain, and moreso, the pain of knowing his love is filled with sorrow, and is alone in it... this, he cannot withstand. he is helpless, he cannot go to her and enfold her in the safety of his arms and love as he had always done. Were there any distance to run, he would do it; were there any price to pay, he would pay it.
       But the barrier between flesh and spirit is so great, it cannot be crossed by any but the strongest wish a human soul can make, with all of its power. The river is wide, the current strong, and only one payment will the ferryman take.

       He knows he can pay it.

       If that is the hurdle I must reach the other side of, if that is the wall which now keeps you from hearing my voice, and feeling my touch... I will cross it, it does not matter to me what I must do to do so.
       I love you. I will love you forever. I do not know if I will find you, but I will expend every bit of energy within me, I will reach farther than my hands can grasp, I will call farther than my voice can reach.
       I still feel your love with me, it has only grown soft with distance, I know it is still there, it is only muffled by the barrier which stands between us, the border of flesh and spirit, I will cross it to find you, I am offering Hades no bargain, no trickery. I will not cheat him of his due, I have no need to bring you back, only be with you... I will come stay beside you, I cannot be whole without you, I will keep my promises to you, and stay with you always.
       I will love you forever, there is nothing that could change that, I would never want to deny our love, but even if I tried I could not remove your presence from me, I should still always be thinking of you, I would still worry and care for you. you are a necessary part of me forever now, I could not change that, nor would I. I love you. I am yours, you are mine. I love you, I love you, I love you forever, through anything, not even death's shroud can hide your face from my mind nor your beauty from my will to love. I love you...

       He is slowly moving upward from his place kneeling on the floor. Clutching at the low bookcase before him for support, he slowly, slowly pulls himself up. His usually strong frame has little strength left, his heart is no longer in the world of the living, it has already followed after his love down into the underworld. His empty body clumsily stands, leaning on the bookcase, bent and weary, as a man far older than his years.

       I will find you. I will hold you again. I will always love you. I will be there with you. I will not see you saddened, I will be there to hold you and keep it all away. I will keep you with me. Neither of us will be complete without the other, neither can survive with such a large part removed.
       I will find you... I love you... I love you... I need you...

       Resting on the top of the bookcase are several photographs in delicate frames, faces smiling gently from murky shadows. His hand, trembling slightly, reaches toward one photograph in particular - a young woman, with soft dark curls and bright eyes, a shy smile set in a gentle face. Not so beautiful that it should earn either of them any jealousy from others, but pretty enough, and a warm demeanor adding more beauty than a perfect face or figure ever could. "My love..." he whispers, his voice hushed and cracked, broken with emotion, as his fingertips brush faintly across the image of the face he has not for a moment stopped seeing. "My love... I will see you soon... I will be with you... don't go too far, I'm on my way to you..." Drawing back his shaking fingers a moment, he presses his lips firmly to his fingertips, then touches them gently to the sun-faded smile of his belovèd. "I love you," he whispers, voice breaking with tenderness, his already wet face warmed anew by fresh tears - but they are not from helplessness now, there are tears of relief mixed in as well. Slowly letting his fingers trail down the photograph, lingering on the image of his only desire, he rests back on his knees, even when closed his eyes never turning from her face. Reaching into the pocket of his black dress jacket, his fingertips skim lightly over cold steel, wrapping around it, the warmth of his skin doing little to alter the deathly chill of the metal. There is no fear in him, and the sadness is waning. His heart beats faster - but from its eagerness to reach its counterpart, not from trepidation.

       My love... so soon... do not wander far into death's domain... wait near the gate for me... you know I could not leave you to face it alone... my promises to you reach beyond life, beyond death.

       As one hand closes around a handle of inlaid wood, the fingers of his other hand yet rest against the photograph, holding to any connection, no matter how tenuous. His knees have grown sore and legs stiff from so long kneeling on the old wooden boards, but he does not feel it. The house is silent, but for a strong wind creeping in through aged window frames and his own husky breathing. He barely registers the scraping of metal against his teeth, only a slight chill in his mouth, slowly spreading...

       There is nothing in this world now that can fill this empty place within me. I survived it so long before only because I had hope it might someday be filled. And so it was. but now the only thing which could do so is gone, and will not return, and there is nothing in the world which could be to me as you are. you are the missing piece within me, and grew into so much more beyond that, entering every part of my being, complimenting and filling things within me I did not even know were incomplete. All of my self now revolves around you, all my cares and desires are only for you, every goal I once had has left, I want only to work toward your happiness. My life, my self, is nothing without you, you are all the meaning my soul seeks to have, I want nothing more than you, nothing more. I love you... I am coming to you, my only love...
       The metal is cold with the death it promises, but the chill which seeks to still my blood no longer concerns me, I feel only the warmth of your love reaching out to me beyond the borders of the flesh. I will see you soon, I am just behind you, I love you I love---

       A sharp pain explodes, the smoke spews acridly into my throat and nose and lungs, small sharp cuts and the taste of metal, steel and blood, I love you, dark explosions and I love you I'm burning seared by heat and pain and I love you, I love---

Taking a deep breath,

2005-11-25T01:25:00.000-05:00

she slowly opens her eyes, letting them glide across the freshly-papered walls and the welcoming openness of the empty room. Clapping her hands and clasping them together in sheer delight, her soft brown eyes sparkle in excitement and anticipation. Letting out a soft sigh of contentment, she strolls gracefully through the room, her stockinged feet quiet on the newly-polished floorboards, her dress swishing quietly as it brushes against the golden-lit wood behind her.
       "Oh... so many things I might do with this room! I think it shall be the sitting room, the sun should come in throughout the afternoon ---oh! My violets could live on the windowsill, just there, and that beautiful end table there... and perhaps we could get a small cabinet or shelves for a few knick-knacks and--- oh! And the china animals Mother gave us, and the crystal vase from Amy, and--- And some chairs around a low table there, and a chaise there by the window, where I might read of a warm afternoon, and oh, a bookcase! We ought to have a bookcase, just there, along the wall near the window, and certainly we might have some nice lace curtains? Of course there's not much money to spare yet on such things, but if we scrape and save a little, oh what a pretty room this might be!"
       A low chuckle sounds behind her, and she is soon enveloped in warm strong arms. She melts back into his embrace, happy and trusting, wrapping her slender arms around his, smiling at the whiteness of her own skin against the warmer tones of his. "Mmm... hello there."
       "Hello, my darling. Have you finished decorating our home so soon?"
       Eyes bright and laughing, she turns about in his arms, pressing soft cherry lips to his. "Almost, dearest. Only, I do need a few things..."
       His eyes widen and fill with mock-sorrow, his deep lips forming a pout. "Angel of my heart, you yet need more from me, when I would already lay down my life to fulfill even your slightest whim? When I have bound my soul to yours, and promised to do all within a man's power to provide for you and protect you, body and soul? When---"
       "Oh darling, darling!" she cries, flinging arms tightly around him, kissing him again and again, his lips and his cheeks, the bridge of his nose and the corners of his now-twinkling eyes. "Oh love, do smile again! Please don't ever look at me like that, even in jest, it tears my heart right from me to see sadness as that on your handsome face, oh, my love!"
       They are both laughing now, holding each other close, trembling slightly in the overwhelming rush of tenderness and giddy rapture and nervous excitement they both feel. The world is fresh and new to them, but such feeling is no cliché to either young heart; it feels as though they dance among thin clouds, which can become a solid ground to walk upon if they only wish it hard enough. Everything is open as possibility, everything is simply waiting for the two of them to mold into the lives they wish to have.
       "Hush now, my heart's dearest," he murmurs softly against her hair, holding her tight to his warm chest, as he rubs her shoulders gently. "I would not cause you pain such as that, you know I was merely looking so in play, but the littlest bit of sorrow on your pretty face, ah!" He clasps her more tightly still, leaning his head to press his cheek to hers. "I could never bear to bring you anything but the love and delight you are deserving of, my sweet. I shall do all that I can to ensure that heavenly smile is all that ever crosses such beautiful lips." He kisses her tenderly, and she melts close against him, soothed and feeling surrounded by caring, protective love.
       "Then, when we have a little money, do you think we might someday have lace curtains on the windows in here?" she asks demurely, shyly lifting her eyes to his, her voice soft and almost childlike in its simple request.
       He nods solemnly, stroking a hand over her soft chestnut hair, thinking of how lovely it feels when not swept up as it is throughout the day. "I promise you, my sweet Christine. You shall have your lace curtains. I want you to be able to get up our home as prettily as ever you may. I trust your eye for domestic things, and I know you will keep a house that any man might be proud to call his own."
       Her face flushed and beaming, she smiles warmly at her soon-to-be husband, putting a soft hand to his cheek, her fingers caressing his face with all the tenderness of youthful love. "I promise to do my very best to please you, my darling."
       Smiling in return, he kisses her forehead happily. "That is all I could ever hope for, and more than I could ever have dreamed."
       The touching mood is suddenly interrupted, by a loud rap on the doorframe and an amused chuckle. "Now. now, the lovebirds mustn't get ahead of themselves... shouldn't start populating the nursery before your things are moved in."
       She flushes brightly, he laughs and steps over to affectionately punch the shoulder of the newcomer. "Can't a fellow have a few minutes' privacy with a gorgeous thing like that, Carl?"
       "Not when he has a final meeting with the bank, Henry," he replies good-naturedly, his blue eyes warm with mirth and amiable sentiment. "Dear woman, I am afraid I must borrow this dishonorable shirker for a short while, but you have my word that I shall return him to you as soon as ever I may. Won't be able to stand his company even that long, I'm sure."
       "Hey, now!"
       "Now Carl, I do appreciate the wonderful help you have been to us both, but I simply won't have you insult my Henry in such a manner." her voice is exaggeratedly prim, and she speaks as though she is already mistress of the properties - as she will be quite soon. Yet a spark of mischief is in her eyes, as she gently pushes her fiancé toward the door to the room. "Out with you both! Insults and irresponsibility, my house is already tainted! I have much cleaning to do; you men will have to leave me space in which to work."
       Laughing, the men move to leave the room. Henry turns back for just a moment, and touches her hand gently with his own. Leaning over, he brushes his lips tenderly against her cheek, murmuring softly for her ears alone: "I love you." Aloud, he reassures her that he will return as soon as is possible, and the two men take their leave.
       She is again alone in the company of her plans and dreams, hopes and visions of a future she has long desired. Finding a small trunk on which to sit, she tucks her feet in beneath her long pale blue skirt, resting her arms on knees drawn in close and her chin in upturned palms. She lets her eyelids gently block her view of the room a long moment, then slowly, slowly, lifts them bit by bit, opening her eyes no more than halfway, leaving everything before them as a vague blur. From the time she was young, she has done thus. By not letting her eyes pin down just what lay within their view, she can more easily invent her own surroundings, building on both what is truly present and what she wishes to see. This halfway place between reality and imagination was a constant gift of both amusement and creativity as a child, and as she grew, it remained a source of comfort and help in visualizing various things. Though she now does it only when alone, it is a gift she has held on to into adulthood.
       She can not yet know, it is a gift her second child will have as well, a girl with wide eyes and a quiet voice, never quite certain of her place in the world, and so always and ever making her own worlds in which to exist. Her own mother will not quite understand just how far she removes herself, but will have a sympathy for the girl all the same.
       Her gaze fringed by delicate lashes, hazy and indistinct, her imagination fills the room as she would have it. Sunlight filters in through the windows, tangling laughingly in sheer lace curtains and falling onto the polished furniture and floor, the room colored warmly by golden light. Potted flowers line the windowsills, blooming soft whites and yellows and lavenders over rich green leaves. A lavishly-cushioned chaise sits beside the window, the warm light picking out the subtleties of pale scarlet fabric and the golden-brown grain of the wooden frame. To the other side of the window is a bookcase, narrow but tall, the shelves not yet full, enough room yet to allow the number of richly-hued and thick-paged books to continue growing as their lives progress. Along other walls, there is a small glass-fronted cabinet filled with trinkets of china, porcelain and glass, and a few sitting room chairs, comfortable and inviting. An ornately-carved table stands near the grouping of chairs, a bottle of fine wine resting upon a lace doily on the tabletop. The wooden floor shines with cleanliness, except where it is hidden beneath a soft deep rug, intricate patterns woven across it. The room is awash with tastefully muted color, open and inviting yet with the warmth of a definite sense of personality, home-like and amiable.
       A slight pain grips her hopeful heart - what if this life she has chosen does not work so well as she dreams? What if she could not keep up a room so well as the one she now envisions? What if money should run short, and they should have to leave, or some tragedy, a fire, forces them away from this longed-for home? What if there should be no young bodies to reprimand about climbing on the furniture, and tenderly cradle in her arms, and dandle on Henry's knee? What if Henry---
       She shakes her head violently, driving the images and forming tears away. "No, that won't come to be..." she murmurs softly, forcing a smile, which soon gentles into a true one. "I love him," she says simply, a warmth blossoming in her heart, gradually curling around it and forming a barrier to hold away any hurt, as she whispers: "And he loves me." Slowly she gets on to her feet, feeling the light brush of fabric against her legs and ankles, pressing her hands into her hips and arching her back a bit, stretching it after having sat still so long. Breathing deeply in and out, she lets her eyes linger around the walls which will not long be empty. Smoothing her dress, she glances at the window, her love-brightened eyes searching eagerly for the return of her soul's counterpart. No-one is yet visible on the street nearby, yet she knows he will not be any longer than absolutely necessary.
       Again, a fleeting moment of frozen panic - what if something should happen to him? A sudden fire at the bank, or a robbery, or some horrible accident that he does not---
       And again, she shakes her head to clear it. No, no... There are no reasons to believe such nonsense, he is assuredly quite safe. She must only be worrying so because more than ever, she knows how much she could not live without him, now, on the cusp of a shared life together.
       Patting down her hair, she regains a calm smile. "I ought to write a list of what each room will need, Henry would be quite pleased were he to find me so organized."
       And this time, she exits the room, shrugging off her fears again, in place of yearning hopes and dreams close-held. Finally, they should be happy together and their lives complete - what could stand to bar their way?

[note]

2005-11-25T01:21:00.000-05:00

..promise, these really won't show up every other post from here until forever. ^^;

just wanted to make a note that I am doing little bits of research here and there (mostly online) for some of these stories, particularly a few that show up a little later on (i.e., I just wrote them). so while most I'm just playing off of my own random assortment of knowledge, a few details here and there I've checked, and a few things and people and times in general concept, I've looked up.. but in no case have I ganked a story yet entirely from something I found, my researching has been for supporting details and smaller aspects of things, the characters' emotions and extended thought processes are entirely my own bizarre mind's creation. so if something's way the heck off..yeah it's cos I tried for something a bit beyond my reach yet. whee!

Uneasy and disoriented,

2005-11-24T14:55:00.000-05:00

she is unsure if her eyes are open or closed, her body locked in motionless torpor, her skin chilled and mouth dry. Her eyes move, she knows where she is but where is this, she knows what is going on but she's dizzy and---
       Her eyes open, the dimness of just before dawn slows her mind's recognition of her surroundings, and by the time she realizes she is in bed and it is morning, the dream has slipped away beyond her grasp, and she will never again find it. As her eyes adjust to the dusky room, she slowly discovers how cold she is, her thin frame shivering in the threadbare cotton slip she wears. Looking on either side of her, she finds the bed sheet - entirely wrapped around her younger sister lying beside her. Smiling a little in both wry amusement and amiable endurance, she carefully un-tucks the sheet from the small figure, gently pulling free just enough to nearly cover herself. Wriggling over close beside her sister, she wraps the sheet around her and waits for enough warmth to return to enable her to sleep.
       Nearby, she can hear the mismatched breathing of her brother and the baby, sleeping in the opposite corner of the room. Baby Joshie was finally sleeping through the night, so Mama had moved his cradle into the children's room and brought her sewing things back to her own room, so her nightly sewing would no longer keep them awake. In a way Mary was saddened by this, for having Mama so near at night was comforting, and the hums and clicks of the sewing machine had been able to soothe her into sleep far more quickly than she could do for herself. Mama is just in the next room now, but it had still been nice to have her right in the same room...
       Yawning, she stretches her legs and toes out - but quickly draws them back in, the chill of early morning air having attacked them the moment they peeked from beneath the nearly-too-short blanket. Teeth chattering, she closes her eyes and snuggles closer to Sarah, drinking in what warmth she can from the small body curled beside hers. Yawning again, her mind begins to meander of its own will, picturing the room as it will look in a few hours' time with morning light sweeping into corners the dusk of night... Mama's kind face and work-roughened but gentle hands... the song Mama sings to Joshie now, that she once sung to all of her children... she misses Mama's singing, so sweet and reassuring... why doesn't she sing much now?
       "If I could sing like that, I wouldn't ever stop," she whispers softly aloud, but loses the train of thought in another yawn, as sleep reclaims her body and mind.
       When her eyes open again, it is to the pale yellow light of a spring morning, the smell of breakfast and the sound of Mama cooking in the kitchen. No-one else seems awake yet, or maybe the boarders have already left for the day. But she is awake now, eager for activity and movement, yet still feeling the quiet of night, the purity and delicacy of early morning calming her energetic limbs into peaceful grace. Suddenly she smiles, her eyes lighting as morning dew, and she rolls carefully out of bed, silent and cautious, wanting no-one else awake. Kneeling on the still-chilly wooden floor, she reaches beneath the bed, unfastening the clasp on a small maple chest with the deftness of an oft-repeated motion. Slipping her hand inside, she pulls out a small pile of ragged papers. They are covered in print, smudged writing, crossed-out type, and lines - old receipts mostly, a few playbills, some flyers, some bills - but the backs are invitingly blank. Holding the assortment of papers in one hand, she continues feeling around inside the chest, until her searching fingers close around a stub of a pencil. Setting it on the floor, she re-fastens the chest, and moves to sit a short distance from the bed - but not too far, in case someone should wake or appear, and she has need to rapidly hide her secret writings.
       Mama often kept a journal, and once told Mary that she had done so constantly as a young girl. Mary longed to read about all the important things Mama had written about, but Mama had only smiled gently and said that perhaps she might when she was a little older. Besides, the journals were stored away in Grandfather and Grandmother's attic, far away. She had only visited there once, but when next she did, she wanted very much to find the journals. She can just remember their house, though she had been little more than a baby of three when she and Mama and Papa and John had ridden on a train for a whole day to get there. Sarah had been too little to go, and Aunt Martha, who lived far away but not nearly as far away, had taken care of her while they were gone.
       But she could imagine the attic, away up in the very top of Grandfather and Grandmother's house in the country, filled with dusty boxes and the intriguing scent which all old things have. The light would filter in through long-uncleaned window, and the dust, which would stir up at her every breath and movement, would catch the sunlight, turning into shining fairy dust hanging in the air. There would be so many boxes, and they would be full of all kinds of interesting things - beautiful old ball gowns, long-forgotten love letters, musty books with yellow pages and ornately tooled covers, collections of stamps and coins... But nothing would deter her from finding Mama's journals. Mama has such elegant handwriting, the letters so delicate and fine, filled with graceful curves and artful loops, just to simply look at so much of her writing would be a delight. And maybe someday, Mary's own daughter would find a small maple chest, filled with sheets of paper and lovely bound journals that---
       Oh, but there would be nothing for her daughter to read if she did not write! She shakes her head, clearing her winding daydreams away for a moment, and takes a slow breath. She sifts carefully through her collection of paper, at last choosing a slim rectangle of thin, almost translucent paper, which she had been given by the grocer one day, asking very nicely for any bits of paper he might be done using. Smoothing it out on the floor with spread hands, she glances around the room to be absolutely certain that she will not be disturbed, nor her private thoughts read from the paper. Silence surrounds her still. Sarah has again cocooned herself in the blanket, on her side with her face to the wall. John is sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, face half-smooshed against the pillow and breathing softly. There is only the quiet sound of small breaths from Joshua's cradle - not that he is a privacy concern himself, not for a long while yet, but were he to wake, he would undoubtedly wake the others. She draws a slow breath herself, taking in hand the pencil stub. There is hardly enough left to write with, but her hands are small and her nature determined - short funds have never quite deterred any artist. And so she begins to write.
       Some time later, after perhaps a quarter of an hour has passed, Mama enters the room with soundless steps, making no sound as she looks around at her children. A smile forms as her eyes light on her eldest daughter, lying on her stomach on the floor, nightgown bright and white as an angel's robe in the glittering morning light, her long dark hair spilling across slim shoulders and mingling with the rich tones of the wooden boards it lies against. A small hand curled around a pencil stub - Mama can see the scrap of paper is filled with remarkably tiny letters, so much control in the handwriting of one so young! But necessity leads to greater miracles than this, and she is quite aware of the young girl's ingenuity. Yet she winces slightly as her heart pains, wishing there were money to buy her daughter the loveliest journals to write in... but there is nothing to be done, at least for now. And Mary seems content enough, perhaps even happier, with her hard-won collection of paper.
       Mama smiles, knowing that the child's hand is still not from a pause considering the choice of a word, but in dream-visited sleep. Knowing too the girl's longing for privacy, and fear of her personal writings being read, she looks around to ensure none of the other children are yet stirring. Satisfied, she kneels down beside her sleeping daughter, and gently puts a loving hand on the slim bare shoulder. "Mary dear, it's time to wake..."
       Her small frame twitches, then stretches out full-length as she rolls onto her back and fists her eyes, yawning deeply. Eyes squinting and blinking in the light, she gradually focuses on her surroundings again. Voice muffled with sleep, she rolls onto her side. "I wasn't really sleeping, Mama..."
       Chuckling softly, Mama places a hand on the girl's head, slowly stroking the long smooth hair. "You'd best hide your writings, dear, before the rest wake up."
       Suddenly fully awake, she sits up with eyes wide, quickly leaning over to shuffle her papers back into a pile - yet despite her dramatic sense of urgency, there is a careful tenderness to the way she handles the pages which does not go unnoticed by Mama.
       A whimpering cry reaches their ears from the direction of the cradle, and Mama quickly goes over toward it. Reaching in, she pulls her youngest boy into a loving embrace, holding him close to her warm breast, kissing the top of his head as she gently turns side to side, soothing him. "Shh, Joshua, I'm here... Did the sun startle you? Hush now, he means you no harm, he's only here to warm your chilly little toes," she croons, her smile reassuring and caring, her face filled with the matchless warmth of a mother's love.
       A cranky grunt emanates from the bed nearby, followed by the sound of a body turning over, squirming and tugging at the sheet. Mary giggles softly at her brother's reluctance. Cheerful and eager, now that her work is again safely hidden away, she skips across the room and tugs at his arm. "Time to wake up! Can't you smell how yummy breakfast is going to be? Get up, get up, I'm hungry!"
       A soft whimper followed by an enormous yawn comes from the final bed, and a young voice begins chattering semi-coherently. Half-tumbling out of bed, her shift and sheets tangled together, she shrieks and giggles at the comparative coldness of the floor, jumping back into her bed.
       "No, silly Sarah, it's not time to go back into bed!" Elder sister dances over to younger sister, taking her hands in her own, and half-pulls, half-dances her out of bed. "Time for breakfast, silly Sarah!"
       "Brehfas!" she giggles brightly, jumping in place.
       "Urgh, can't a man get any sleep around here?" their brother grumbles, but even his voice is a little more awake now, the alluring smell of sausage and eggs reaching his nose.
       Mama smiles, seeing her children all awake and brightly-eyed. "Well, since the man of the house is awake, shall we have some breakfast?"
       He shrugs noncommittally, feigning manly indifference. "I'm not really hungry, but if everyone else is..." Yet despite his words, he has already swung his feet out of bed, and is neatening up the sheets behind him.
       A few cheerfully noisy minutes later, the room is empty, the voices and morning energy having moved elsewhere. Soft sunlight falls on the clumsily-made beds, and picks out the grain in the floorboards well-worn by constant passage of busy young feet. The walls look more cheerful now, the gentleness of early light being kind to the fading paper covering them. Thus it is with the room at large - the colors losing their hue with constant use, and lack of retouching, but warm and home-like for all that. Though the furnishings are a little rough, sparse and clearly economical rather than ornamental, the inevitable cheerfulness a child brings to a room is here four-fold. A drawing here, a rough attempt at embroidery there, a very few much-loved toys, a doll's bright clothes, a few wildflowers in an old cup on the windowsill. The room seems to breathe softly - with the boisterous family gone it is free to soak up the warmth of the morning sun, as well as the less tangible, but still warmer, sense of home and family which has been dispersed within it.
       A sudden patter of feet - she re-enters the room, a bit of milk clinging to her face above puckered red lips. Scampering across the room to her shared bed, she moves the pillow to the center of the bed, neatly pulling the sheet up over it. She carefully smoothes the blanket, with a grace unusual to hands so young. She then drops to her knees, reaching for the familiar clasp of the maple chest, unfastening it and reaching within. Moving her hand carefully beneath the sheaf of papers, she draws out a white handkerchief, laying it on her lap and closing the chest. She lifts the square of fabric, eyes tracing the trail of flowers embroidered across it, a delicate rainbow of color. Smiling happily at the small thing of beauty, she spreads it over the sheet-hidden pillow, smoothing it tenderly, as a thing precious - as this clearly is.
       "I miss you, Papa... I love you."
       She pauses a moment, still on her knees, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, the light falling on her shining dark hair gentle as a caress.
       "Mary? Mary, come finish your breakfast, we have a great many dishes to wash this morning, and I would very much like your help."
       The solemn moment broken, she jumps to her feet and skips out of the room. "Coming, Mama!" Her footfalls echo for a moment, and soon fade. The room again falls silent, but with a little more happiness, full of the warmth of a child's unconditional love, and the colors of small flowers.

Wrong, wrong, it's all

2005-11-22T01:32:00.000-05:00

gone so wrong! He yells wordlessly, his soul beyond rational expression, frustration and fear turning into despair at yet another failure. So simple! It used to be so simple, his only difficulty had been affording paint and setting up fresh canvases, but now those seem so trivial. The passion wells up inside him, from weeks of no work, little food, derision and ridicule, all of which he could have managed, if only he could harness it long enough to paint. The connection which had once run so steadily from his heart to his hand, emotion flowing as constantly as blood through his veins, has now severed, leaving his heart to somehow carry it all, immeasurable and insurmountable passion threatening to break open his breastbone and tear him utterly to pieces.
       "Angel..." he mutters, falling to his knees, his pigment-stained hands pressing into the wooden floor, his ragged hair hiding his tormented eyes. "Angel! How dare you desert me now, how could you--- God I would do anything, you swore to me you'd stay, Angelica, you fallen angel you lying bitch, Angel you stole my soul and took it with you to your lover in the flames..."
       He does not know what he speaks aloud and what he keeps locked within, he knows only that his weakened soul can carry this much no longer. He lifts a brush from the table beside his easel, rubbing it violently into the blaze of fiery colors which have consumed his much-abused palette. Hastily he stabs the brush over the already-thick layers of paint on the canvas, the colors smearing together, a mire which devours all. A face emerges in the garish tones, taunting, mocking, a face with haunting beauty but jeering eyes.
       "Angel, why did you change? Angel, God gave you as help to me, were you a spy all the while? Devil, enjoy your flames, but let them rise high enough to consume me too, burn away this exhausted body, I can hold it no longer..."
       Another wordless cry, he grabs the canvas and hurls it against the wall. Once covered in delicate paper, the walls of the room are now dingy with neglect, except where spattered with the vivid tones of paint he prefers - it is evident that such rough physical dismissal of his failures is a common practice. Yet his rage has never boiled so fiercely as now, his heart never set his body aflame in darkness from the inside.
       He is on his knees again, rocking forward and back, sobbing brokenly. "Angel! You betrayed me... God, You hide from me when I need you most! Why give me talent if You will take it from me when it is all that will save my soul from destroying itself? This series was to be to You! Why hide Your face when I was going to show it to all the world? Are you that jealous? Are You that conceited, that a mere human's try at capturing You insults You so much that You would strip him of all ability?"
       Breaking down utterly for a time, he falls to his side on the floor, curling into the form he knew before even breath, knowing nothing but pain. Slowly, his voice returns, creeping faintly around the room, crawling over the unswept floor. "Let the fires consume us both, let all the worst come to me, nothing more can hurt, my heart can hold no more... I see black and red, I see the stars falling from the sky, old beyond their time, worn beyond salvation, I see the ground scarred by their passing. Bare trees shiver, dry grasses whisper, I am alone and without any hope of aid. It is dry here, so dry, the air parches my throat, I am old beyond bearing, my heart has collapsed beneath heavy chains. Lightening crackles but no thunder booms, there is no rain in this barren place. My back is lashed by unseen nine-tails, pain sears weary flesh but still my chest aches deeper. I am split in two. My soul still seeks to rise but it falls, it falls..."
       Unknowingly, his hand closes around a stick of charcoal, and slowly he moves it over the wood floor, his eyes staring blankly at the heavy, intricate lines he is tracing without thought. His hand does not shake, his breath is deep and labored, his blue eyes hazy and indistinct - yet this is no trance, though he longs for it to be, anything to escape...
       "Father..." he chokes out, voice husky from his imagined desertscape. "You abandoned Your Son through His darkest hour, do you thus abandon all Your children? Why promise if You will only break it... Angel, I'm sorry I couldn't promise... Christopher, I'm sorry I couldn't promise, I'm sorry I---" Crying aloud, the charcoal breaks under the sudden pressure he pours into it, he continues his lines without pause, though tears fall freely and blur his careful work. "Why did you believe in me? You believed in nothing but me and I--- Mother I curse you for the pain you brought into the world, Angel I could never let you go through the same... I would paint with my own blood if I thought there was any worth left within it, but I am empty, I am empty. My wings were rotten from within from the moment of my birth, every fruit which touched my lips was only wasted, my blood is poured out into lifeless things, I create only empty vessels which no soul can fill... And I have used blood from beyond this dry husk, and I have called angels but they were only demons that came to me... My life is only darker now for all the light you gave it, I love you I damn you, leave my side while you may, you and your beauty poisoned me, I was drunk and you told me I could live and I believed you but see me now, Christopher, SEE ME NOW!"
       He screams now, his arm leaving its work for a moment and lashing out, knocking bottles from the once-polished end table, its intricate carvings long-filled with ash and dust. Water tangles with alcohols and oils, the charcoal lines blur but do not disappear, the liquids carry small portions of the black dust down to soak in to the thin cracks between the floorboards, there to ever remain. Crawling haltingly, his knees and palms are red from friction and pressure against the hard floor. His hand is blackened from the charcoal, yet he continues to draw, awareness of the spreading image slowly, slowly entering his mind, but still some way from recognition. He is silent for a few minutes, then his voice raises slightly into a low, husky mutter, growing steadily before fading again.
       "Hydras all, when one head is cut down another two rise in its place, and the blood covers my palette, I can paint only in red... soft greens and blues were once enough, but no longer can these tainted hands even touch them. I am no longer what I once was... once, I was worthy of your faith in me. Once, I could have--- I am no more, I am dryness, the stars fall, they seer my empty skin, what I thought you wanted I gave but then you--- What do you want from me?! What can I give, You have taken all, what have I left unto myself? I took more than I gave, and now I am repaid, but I--- I knew I knew I knew I wouldn't hear myself but I knew, Angel! I never wanted to hurt you! But how did you not know he--- Why didn't you stop him from--- Angel I'm so sorry... Hate ties knots far tighter than love, I still wish to--- I do not, I cannot, would that I could--- I can't I can't he gave me all but then took more from me, a devil's bargain at a cheap whorehouse, Angel take your demon and keep him far from me, I don't have the strength anymore... I don't have the strength... My hands... my blindness... heart's death... pain... please, please, I can't... Christopher, you... did you ever love me? Angel I'm sorry... how could I have been so happy then, how could it have fallen away, so wrong... in all things, was I only ever wrong?.."
       His movements are slowing, his words slurring and falling away, his lips and fingers losing the will to move, his breath slowing. The pain begins to cauterize, dull and covered in cloudy obscurity, his thoughts and senses fog and numb, everything is heavy and light. His eyes flutter wearily open in the all-consuming silence, tired and red but managing to focus at last... and he sees on the floor around him an angel... beautiful and sexless... perfect, so perfect, inhuman and perfect... the angel is at peace, its intangible wings encircle his tired frame, he curls up in its charcoal embrace, resting his head on the smudged floor... he feels a breaking within his chest, and all within his heart seeps into the floor... the angel of man's creation has been his salvation... his hand has touched God, though he cannot tighten his grasp on Him... peace is never certain, but lingers a moment, and for now a moment is enough... he has brought forth his own water in tears... he is comforted by his creation, a figure painted sightlessly contains all the beauty his soul has lost...
       He sleeps.

[note]

2005-11-21T02:38:00.000-05:00

just wanted to mention that any names that appear in the stories are largely random. I really haven't put much thought into them (for once), apart from trying to think of something I liked that fit the time period I was setting that particular story in. so if your name or the name of someone you know shows up..it's really pretty much coincidence please don't hurt me.

...

and I just spotted a typo spellcheck missed (in a story as yet unposted), "I took more than I gave, and now I am prepaid". *falls over giggling* this, is one reason I'm posting these here. please tell me if you spot something like that.. ack.

Scowling with all the fierceness

2005-11-21T02:32:00.000-05:00

an eleven-year old boy can contain, he glares past the sweat-soaked dirty blond hair which perpetually threatens his vision, watching the road crew on the street in front of the house in annoyance.
       "Why today?" he whines to the empty room, dropping his chin to rest on the couch, the back of which he leans against, bare knees on the cushions. Tossing back his damp hair, he lifts a glass of lemonade covered in condensation from the windowsill behind the couch, taking a slow sip, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth. For a moment, the chilled liquid slipping down his throat, and sharply frigid ice cubes falling against his lips allow him calm respite. A soft breeze filters in through the screen and brings with it the acrid scent of fresh asphalt. "What a drag..." Wrinkling his nose in disgust, but desperate for even the faintest bit of air movement, he leaves the window open, gulping down the last of the lemonade. He takes an ice cube into his mouth and slips off the couch, moving languidly across the room to the television set. Wrenching the stubborn knob to the left, the sound of his teeth crunching the ice cube is soon drowned out by the hissing static emanating from the television, the tubes warming quickly, the glowing dot in the center of the screen rapidly growing and taking over the darkness. Static, static, he continues to force the dial until he finds a picture, faded by the overpowering summer sun streaming in the window. Sighing, he grips the set, and moves it carefully but firmly, angling it as it sits atop a heavy oak cabinet so as to sidestep the glare. A sheet of notebook paper flutters to the floor, and once the television is situated to his satisfaction he picks it up. Large heavy letters, written in black marker and a consciously bold hand, but with hearts drawn around the name at the close:
       "THIS T.V. RESERVED BY SHELLY FOR 11PM THIS EVENING. (Not open for bargain, trade, or discussion. It's my Bowie.)"
       Rolling his eyes at his elder sister's latest obsession, he re-affixes the masking tape running along the side of the note to the top of the television. "As long as she keeps her glitter to herself. She's so weird." Sitting with legs stretched in front of him, he grabs a pillow from a nearby chair, sets it behind him and leans back, supporting himself on his elbows which rest on the pillow.

       "Oh Ronald! Please, don't leave me again, I couldn't bear it! You were gone so long last time... you don't... you don't know how hard it was for me... I did things I regret now, Ronald, I fear I would do them again."
       "Diane... I swear to you, I will always love you, and I hope you... Diane, I have to go, the government--- but I can't tell you, you'll have to simply believe that---"
       "But what of our son! He still doesn't know---"
       "Hush now, Diane. I---"

       He makes a gagging noise as he wrenches the knob further around. "Stupid soap operas. Grandma stuff." A new picture appears - he pauses, eyes now adjusted to the too-red colors of the purely audio-visual realm projected before him.

       "Maggie, you have to swear you'll never tell a soul, but--- I've started working. Robert can't know, but oh Maggie I need this! I finish the housework in the early morning, and am back before he returns, isn't it exciting?"
       "Oh but Linda! Does that mean you can afford that dress we---"

       Cut short, her voice changes to static as she fades into black and white diffusion, all the drama and emotion brushed away by a child's hand. "Arg! Isn't there anything but girly junk on?" He pauses on a game show for a few minutes, but soon switches it off, flopping back on the floor. "Too hot in here for turning stupid channels," he mutters, laying spread-eagle on the carpet, closing his eyes and concentrating on releasing all the hot air from his body. Breathing slow and deep, he tries to remember what his sister had tried explaining to him one day, something about letting go of the dark things inside you - the sun wasn't dark, but he sure wants it gone.
       It doesn't work. Rolling over, he gets to his knees, feeling the carpet burn against the friction of their movement and press into his palms, leaving on his skin an abstract reddened pattern of its texture. He stands - too quickly, his balance uncertain, and he staggers a moment, barely preventing himself from a sharp bruise on the old coffee table in the middle of the room by putting out his hand to brace his arm against it. He pauses a moment, steadying himself, initially staring blankly at the table, but gradually turning his attention to it as his center of gravity returns to its normal location. The heavy but graceful lines of the old table are largely concealed by the lace coverlet which hangs over it. He remembers his mother's insistence on keeping it there - and keeping it clean. Both table and lace had been in place there since the day they moved in, apart from the day just after, when Mom had carefully handwashed the delicate white threads of the lace, wondering if it had been made by hand, and how long ago. Pete didn't think anyone had made it, and had said so with all the confidence of his then-eight years. But Mom had simply smiled, a very subtle sort of smile, with her eyes and fingertips seeming to murmur things to each other just below his level of hearing. And then she had insisted that it remain on the coffee table, and that the barbarians of her family were to leave her this one bit of refinement undamaged, please. Dad had chuckled, and told them that though Mom didn't often make demands, it was best not to cross her when she did. He still doesn't understand, but all the same, knows better than to now disturb Mom's careful arrangement of never-lit candles and silk flowers in a vase on the table.
       A harsh clunk and sharp mechanical whine leap in through the window, as he to his feet at the sudden allure of the present. Bouncing a little as his knees settle back on the couch cushion, he leans toward the window, palms pressing into the old wood covered by new paint of the windowsill. The heavy machinery moves slowly, the possibility of movement for such bulky metal shapes astonishing in its very existence. The solid road, seemingly so stable and immutable, is torn open in places, pieces ripped away as bread torn from a loaf. The more complex trucks have just moved away, and now vulnerable flesh comes in to do less grandiose work, near-molten pitch asphalt spilling from the back of a truck and being spread by workmen in the already steaming mid-afternoon. Yellow and orange set against coruscating darkness, as a small swatch of the universe spilled into the suburban summer day, inestimable infinancy filled with aging stars. He watches for a few minutes, his limbs sympathetically echoing the strain of those he watches, muscles subtly alternating from tense to relaxed.
       A muffled creak from the old floorboards hidden by somewhat less old carpet; he does not turn to see who it is. The now-empty glass beside his spread hands is lifted, and replaced with a coaster beneath it, the soft clinking of bracelets against glass lingering a moment in the heavy summer air.
       "You know Mom would kill you if she found you leaving glasses sitting out without a coaster, right?"
       He grunts a noncommittal response, shrugging slightly, eyes still vaguely on the view out the window as he feels the couch cushions sink a little, his sister sitting at the opposite end.
       She yawns a little, stretching her arms and legs as far as they will go - a fair distance, given her tall and slim seventeen-year old frame. "Can't keep myself awake today, the air's heavy enough to flatten anyone's spirit to the ground." She leans her head against the back of the couch, her short-cropped hair tickling her neck, where it is not already plastered to her skin by humidity. "Not a thing to do today until he's on T.V. tonight. Well there's my room, but it's not as bad as it was last week, and anyway it's stifling up there, Mom can't expect me to do anything in that much heat. It's kind of nice in here though, there's a nice breez--- Ew! Oh God, they are paving today aren't they? Ugh that smells rancid!"
       He can't help but giggle at her disgust, his own nose having grown tolerant of the smell by now. She looks over at him, rolling her eyes but a smile teasing at her lips. "You were just waiting for that, weren't you?" He continues snickering, and she growls in playful aggravation, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
       "Ahh don't touch me! You'll contaminate me with all your glitter and weirdness!" he protests, holding back laughter as he tries to squirm away.
       "Oh it's glitter you're afraid of, is it?" she replies, voice low and eyes glimmering with mischief and shimmering eyeshadow. "But I think you'll grow to like it, it makes everything in this drab world shine, with all the brilliance our souls desire in their home... Here, let me just---" She grips one of his wrists firmly to keep him from getting away, and with her free hand fumbles in a pocket of her jeans a moment before pulling out a small clear container of glittering gel. "Now, hold still, just for a second---"
       "Nooo no no no!" He is shrieking with laughter and refusal now, struggling hard, but her grip is tight and her limbs far longer than his, though he is tall for his age. Laughing as well, she dips her brightly painted fingertips into the sparkles, and manages to smear some across his cheek.
       "Eeewwwww!" he cries out, finally wrenching himself free, slipping off the couch and writhing in overdramatic agony across the floor, rubbing at his face in feigned horror. "Oh no! It's spreading! The infection is spreading, it's going to eat my whole body! Nooo what have you done?!"
       "I thought you were both too hot to move today?" chuckles an amused voice, its time-smoothed decorum in sharp contrast to the high-pitched laughter of her children.
       Gasping for breath, laughter still lingering in their hearts and lungs, the two look over at their mother standing in the doorway, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the glitter spread across the two younger faces.
       "We are, but I had to get away from---"
       "I am, but he was just asking for---"
       Mom laughs again, gesturing them to stop their overlapping explanations. "In case you haven't found them yet, there are popsicles in the freezer downstairs, I bought a box yesterda--- No running in the house!" she laughs, the reprimand far too late as the two bolt past her, skittering through the house, heading for the basement door, for just a moment outrunning the day's heat. Content to let her children be young while they may, she smiles softly and walks gently through the room, letting her eyes linger on the mixture of old and new which inevitably settles into a family's home. Heirlooms and Christmas gifts, furniture appropriated from the house's previous owners and modern appliances, elements of traditional good taste and the kids' latest fads. She sits on the couch, her movements still graceful, if a little weary. Leaning forward, she takes between her fingers the delicate lace lying on the coffee table, her eyes and skin drinking in the beautifully crafted complexity, its intricacies drawing in both sight and touch, gracing them with just a little bit of wonder. The faint smile on her lips changes slightly, tinged with bittersweet yearning, a mixture of pleasant memory and future hope.
       "All the brilliance our souls desire in their home..." she murmurs quietly to herself, still fingering the lace, thinking of her children. So beautiful they are in themselves, yet they are nowhere near content with that - she has seen in their eyes the same longing that has haunted each mirror her life has carried her past. Always reaching for something more than the commonplace. Her daughter looks to the stars far beyond the earth, her son looks for the details others miss in the world around them. And what is it she is looking for? She gazes at the lace between her fingers, and the smile on her lips loses some of its sadness. "I look for ways to help them find it. If I never find it, maybe I can give them just enough of a nudge in the right direction to find it themselves. And then a part of me will have found it, too..."
       She gets to her feet, heart calm and soul at ease, the heat no longer bothering her refreshed self. Picking up the glass and coaster from the windowsill, she bends down to straighten the lace coverlet, and walks gracefully from the room.

Holding her breath,

2005-11-20T02:18:00.000-05:00

she remains crouched down inside the old wardrobe, staring blankly at the corner of her light blue plaid dress as it lays against the dark wood grain. Continuing her silent mental count, she listens to hear small socked footfalls on berber. The creak of the old wood panels beneath her feet sounds as a gunshot, until her nervous heartbeat drowns out any other sound. Silence, silence, she waits without motion, gradually allowing restrained breath. A faint hint of camphor tinges the spicy scent of mahogany, dust filling in the cracks of space and smell. She feels her nose tickling, and bites her lip hard, trying to turn her attention to the sharp pain and away from the sneeze that would betray her location. Slowly it recedes, and she allows a soft sigh of relief -only to hurriedly draw breath back in again. A moan from aged floorboards, and soft scuffling on carpet, husky uneven breath, obscured by a stuffed nose - she is found if she moves. A pain swells in her right foot, cramped from lack of motion, she swallows hard to keep back a whimper. Her small hand reaches down to hold the white-stockinged foot, her limbs yet retaining the soft pudginess of infancy, her young frame having far still to go before reaching its potential boundaries. Listening more intensely than ever after the brief distraction, she hears the footsteps and constricted breathing alternately growing louder and softer. Scrunching round blue eyes closed, her mind tries to find her pursuer’s location, placing the sound in the semi-familiar room, blindly picturing the carefully placed knick-knacks, the musty but elegant old end tables and cabinets, the floral sofa and presentable carpet. She tries to visualize the small, sniffling boy creeping across the room, his floppy brown hair in need of a trim (a seven-year old's petulance keeping it perpetually unkempt), suspenders holding in place rolled-up slacks, once-neat shirt rumpled by constant motion. Her mind's eye tries to keep him searching every place but the one she hides in, peering beneath the sofa and desk, behind red-checked drapes or the heavy oak door, around the richly toned shelves of books and large reclining chair. But now the breathing grows louder, her heartbeat following suit, he sneezes and she clenches her hand tightly around her foot in startled fright - he is just outside the wardrobe door. Imagination paints her over with invisible ink, her short light brown curls disappearing first, the pretended paint sliding quickly down over her dress, arms, stockings, until she cannot be seen.
       "David? David, you left your shoes in the hall again, please put them where they belong?"
       "But Mo---"
       "David..." Their mother's voice drops into unarguable sternness, and both children know their game must wait in light of such command.
       She listens as his feet pad rapidly over the carpet onto the linoleum of the next room, socks skidding slightly on the smooth surface. And the moment she is certain he is out of viewing range, she jumps up, flinging her hands against the sides of the wardrobe to brace herself, feet unsteady from lack of circulation. Moving her hands to press palms firmly against the door, she pushes hard, swaying a little as it swings open. Scrambling haphazardly out, not bothering to close the door behind her, she sprints across the room and out the door, skidding far more dangerously than her brother had just a moment before on the linoleum. Grabbing at walls, corners, and furniture for purchase, she darts through rooms until she reaches the refrigerator in the kitchen.
       "Olly olly oxen free!" she yells, voice bright with youthful energy, eyes lighting and cheeks flushing, her face rosy and sparkling with innocent triumph as she clings to a corner of the refrigerator. Her fingers brush against the rough paper of her own drawing held to the smooth cool surface by a small round magnet, and she shivers slightly as a chill seeps through her light cotton dress to her skin.
       A moment later, her brother bounds into the room, jumping eagerly through the doorway. "My turn to hide! Kate, you stand there and count to a hundred and don't peek because that's cheating."
       She nods solemnly, putting her hands securely over her eyes.
       "Okay count!" he cries, then instantly takes off through the halls. Without looking, she knows he is running toward the deserted front room. Most days, Mother would not let them play in the room, as she tried to keep it neat and tidy for any guests who might stop by. But today she was busy doing laundry, and had plans to clean the room tomorrow, so to a jubilant reception she had announced they could play there if they wished, and promised to be quite careful doing so. The happy news coming in midst of a game of hide-and-go-seek, David had told Kate they would use the room for hiding. She cheerfully consented, her hands tingling at the thought of having reason to look at, touch, and inspect every fascinating bit of the carefully-kept room. The air there smelled of old fabric and rose potpourri, and though Mother kept it dusted piously, she could do nothing to remove the slightly musty scent of old age which clung to the heavy antique furniture. Kate had once overheard a scrap of conversation between Mother and Father one evening, and Mother had asked Father if couldn't they maybe have things a bit more modern? That wardrobe was simply enormous, and what was she to do with it? But Father had had his heart set on an old-fashioned front room, he liked the noble air of well-made furniture and solid, warm things. Besides, the piano would not match more "modern" furnishings, and didn't she want her children to learn piano once they could afford lessons? She could hear the smile in Mother's voice as she agreed, and Kate felt the electric tingle in her fingertips that signaled the thrilling anticipation of some long desired pleasure.
       "...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred!" she calls out loudly, uncovering her eyes and turning away from the refrigerator. Walking slowly and cautiously, she steals as silently as ever she can across the kitchen floor, into the hall and around a few corners, until she stands at the threshold of the front room. Despite the eagerness which tugs at her young feet and inquisitive mind, she holds back a moment, simply soaking in the ethereal combination of pleasure and pain of the room's pull on her. Perfectly still, even her breathing hushed, she hears her heavily beating heart, the creak of floorboards as her mother carries clean laundry from room to room, and there, from under the coffee table hidden by a lace coverlet, the husky breathing of her cold-beleaguered brother.
       Yet through she knows just where he hides, she takes her time in approaching the table, enjoying to the fullest the opportunity her chance to investigate whatever might intrigue her in the room. Singing softly to herself, she moves across the room in a mimicry of her mother's grace, her fingers lightly brushing across the polished surfaces of the wooden furnishings - an arm of the sofa, the intricate ornamental carvings on an end table. Reaching the wardrobe, she tugs firmly at the door which always sticks just a little, and breathes in the dust and old wood she was enwrapped in a few minutes before. "Nope, he's not here!" she softly announces, feigning innocence in the naïvely obvious manner of a child. Her eyes fall on the heavy drawer beneath the main compartment which she had been hidden within, seeing it ever so slightly ajar. She folds her legs beneath her, kneeling in front of the wardrobe, her small hands gripping the brass handle of the drawer and pulling hard. A low rumble sounds as it moves an inch or so, but is abruptly cut short by a strained squeak as the warped wood is trapped by its own swelling. Her thin brows furrow slightly, as she leans forward to peer into the dark interior, straining to see the contents which had rattled dully. Squeezing a hand into the small opening she has created, she fumbles a moment, then gently draws into the light the first things her fist closed around - a folded square of embroidered fabric, cream-colored by age and covered in a faded rainbow of delicate flowers. A faint scent of old lavender wafts up to her nose as she carefully replaces the cloth, attempting to cover her disturbance of the drawer's contents.
       A sudden cough erupts from beneath the coffee table, causing giggles to burst from Kate's mouth. "I hear David!" she teases, toddling across the room - but still not to the coffee table itself. Instead she continues right past it, putting out her arms to brake herself by running into the piano bench, still giggling. She slips her fingers beneath the lid, prying it up and carefully extending her arms to push it back as far as she is able to reach, revealing the songbooks and sheet music stored in the small cubby inside the bench. Slowly she lets go of the lid, exhaling in exaggerated relief as it remains open. "Is he in here?" she asks loudly, sifting through the lesson books and aging sheet music from decades past. A giggle trickles out from the table, and she responds in kind, spinning about in a clumsy circle, raising her hands in the air. "Where could he be? I guess I lost my brother for good this time."
       "No you didn't!" counters the coffee table. "Keep looking, keep looking!"
       "But where?" she asks, again putting her hands in the air, tugging at a caramel-colored curl.
       "Over here!" answers the table with another bubbly gurgle, a bit of the lace covered it billowing outward.
       "Hmmm," she replies, tapping her baby-dimpled chin in playful pondering. "Maybe I'll look over---" She remembers the open bench, and turns to close it, before scrambling up to sit atop it. For a moment, she faces the piano, holding her fingers over the covered keys in a manner which they will become quite accustomed to in years to come, but for now only lends to such an excited tingle that a fresh smile covers her round face. "Someday," she whispers quietly, with a premonition she does not yet understand. Then she squirms around rapidly and slips form the bench, making a quick circle around the room, eyes skipping from one object to the next, seeing if there is anything more of interest---
       She jumps to a halt in front of a glass-fronted case, maybe a foot or so taller than herself. Wide-eyed, she gingerly lays her hands against the smooth transparent panels, staring at the unreachable contents. Four slim wooden shelves, with mirrors behind them, are covered with various small statues, antique photographs in old frames, a few pieces of colored glass, miniature china plates of a size just perfect for a tea party, and other sundry fragile things. Transfixed, her eager eyes alight on a small figurine, a young girl with arms outstretched, wings arching gracefully back from between her slim shoulders---
       "Olly olly!" shrieks a voice behind her, accompanied by hurried footfalls, heavy breathing and shrieks of laughter quickly receding as he runs to the kitchen. "Olly olly you can't catch me, olly olly oxen free!"
       Startled so suddenly from reverie, there is a moment of stillness before the direness of her situation sets in. "No wait! I knew where you were! David! That's not fair, David!" she squeals, scrambling after him as quickly as she is able, laughing breathlessly, the solemn fantasy of old things forgotten in the giddiness of children's play.

[intro]

2005-11-20T01:23:00.000-05:00

using a blogger template for now, eventually.. well, really, I plan to someday have a full, interactive flash site for these stories, once they're edited and polished and done up all nicely.. but long before that, I'll probably re-do the page here to do my own thing, though the template's nice and straightforward for now.

there's a blurb above on the general gist of this endeavor, but in addition to that.. there is no real order to these stories. read them in whatever order you will. (on the website, you will have little choice about this, intentionally. bwahaha.) each story is a different time period, different people, some may be related, others not.. watch for carry-over of objects and elements of the room, as the room the stories are set in will be the one constant. all of these take place in the same room, of the same house, with the same walls and the same floorboards.

I'm ganking story ideas from everywhere and everyone for this, I'm woefully behind schedule as usual but I'm doing much better than last year - possibly partly because I haven't been keeping up on typing this up. ^^; I have a story and a half typed so far, out of the bit-more-than-seven I have written, updates on here will most likely be pretty sporadic as I stress out over getting to 50,000 words by the end of the month (check out nanowrimo's site if you're new to the idea, it's a crazy but fabulous concept), but I will get the rough draft all here eventually. in fairness to me.. please don't judge too harshly, this is all written for quantity more than quality (though I have my lapses), and what you're seeing is.. well, about version 1.3, I'm making sliiight slight modifications when I type, mostly fixing spelling and the occasional tense error, I've added maybe five little bits of description while typing. so yeah, this is really, really rough still. no-one is under any compulsion whatsoever to read, it's just here cos people asked. *g*

but what I'd started out meaning to say just now *giggles*.. if something in a story sounds familiar, like you read it somewhere, or something similar happened to someone I know.. you're probably right. I've been very conscious of just how much I've been drawing from all sorts of sources with this, more so than before..not that it's by any means blatant anywhere, but it's interesting to me to look at, and be able to trace where things came from.. which, really, I guess just adds another layer to the concepts behind writing these. :)

super thanks to friends and family for encouragement and ideas and word-help.. especially to my tom, who's not only putting up with me holing up on my own and writing tons, but who's also given me some ridiculously good story ideas. thank you somuch, and thanks to everyone else for their help as well. <3

feel free to comment, whether on story, characters, ideas, or because I've got a spelling or grammar or typing mistake that got past the spellchecks.