Wanderings of a fay

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 12:59:07 GMT

A more Sugar-centric story. I did not come up with Sugar, he's mistr3ssquickly's! I only came up with Devin and his family. So, as always, this is for her.

Eden comes over to my apartment a lot; when I first moved out after high school, she'd come over after a fight with our mom, or a bad exam. She was sixteen, and how could I tell her no? I felt guilty for not being able to take care of her like a big brother should; she felt guilty for thinking I was insane when I first started telling her and Mom and the doctors I remember being a blue elf.

In a way, we're compensating for each other.

She's twenty-four now, out of college, but she still comes over, mostly because she loves Sugar. Not in love with him, a different kind of love. He doesn't mind because Eden doesn't clean up or re-arrange our stuff, she calls ahead of time, and she doesn't call me by any nicknames. He may not look it, but Sugar is a bit possessive of me and our life together (which is fine by me); he laughed himself silly when Eden told me over the phone, "You know what Devin? Sometimes I'm pretty sure Michael is the part I like about you best." She didn't know I had her on speaker phone while I was washing the breakfast dishes; Sugar swears he could "see" me blush bright red, and if he bet money on it, he'd be absolutely correct.

But later, I told Eden in private that Michael is the part I like about me best, too. She grinned, I could tell.

But it's true, Sugar breaks a lot of my rules, several times a day, like the no touching rule, no nickname rule, no asking questions about what it was like for me to see before I went blind rule (which is the longest-named rule I have, and is usually shortened to the 'no questions rule'). He doesn't just break them, if I were to think about it hard enough, he takes a moped and runs them over and I cheer inside every time he does.

Last week, we were laying in bed, curled around each other. The room was cool but not cold and I was tracing lines in his back. Sugar loves, and I mean absolutely loves for his back to be rubbed or touched. Makes him go practically boneless. He had his head on my chest, and we were fairly curled around each other; I couldn't tell where my limbs began and his ended. I thought he was asleep, but he moved and rested his chin on my ribs.

"What was it like, Devin?"

I knew what he meant, but I didn't want to answer. What was it like to see? I don't really know, even now; it was just different. I remember the sun, I remember flowers and colors but I never stared at them. Colors and objects and shapes were just there. My eyes went so suddenly, I never had a moment to study them and commit them to memory. I don't even know that I would, had I known what would happen. I was a kid, I concentrated on playing and, yes, took my sight for granted. What six-year-old doesn't?

I stroked his hair back, thinking. He's never seen anything, and you can't miss what you never had. I knew he wasn't asking for a sappy, sentimental answer, and in the past, we'd play little games, putting scents and flavors to color with me pressing a cherry candy in his mouth and letting him know it was "red", sips of tangerine juice for "orange" and the like. It usually ended up with us laughing and groping each other because he's tasted most of this stuff before.

"I guess it was just.... different," I said finally, lamely. "I do everything I did then, just in different ways."

I could tell he wrinkled his nose. "Everything you do now, huh?" Which made me laugh and curl around him some more.

"Well, not everything," I said, my face by his. He smelled like his body wash, real light and it kind of reminded me of a manly flower. I kissed him again, on his lips, his cheeks, his temples. "It's not the same, but don't worry. You're not missing out on anything, Sugar, I swear."

This time I felt his frown against my lips. "I already know that, Dev," he said to me. I knew I said something stupid, so I tried to make up for it by not saying anything else; Sugar's never lacked for anything, even if he's blind, and, damn I'm glad he knows that.

He climbed his way up on me; he does that a lot, sort of nests on top of me like a cat or a squirrel. "I gotcha something," he said, "I was gonna wait till tomorrow morning, but I wanna do it now."

...The last time he said "wanna do it now", he pressed something very different into my hands than the necklace he fumbled for and closed my hand around. But it was no less intriguing. "What is it?" I asked, feeling the pads of my fingers around it. The chain wasn't too thick, but it was heavy enough to be "not girly", and at the end was a smooth, ovalish stone, or what felt like a stone, hard and warm from Sugar holding it in his palm.

"The vendor lady said it was blue, swore it was sky-blue," he breathed into my ear as he slid it around my neck, nibbling my jaw line a bit. He sounded a little desperate, like he wasn't sure if she was telling him the truth but he really wanted it not to be a lie. "It's so everyone knows you're mine. I liked the idea of it being on your blue chest, so it matches."

I was stunned for a minute, my hands spread and pressed on his back, his arms around my shoulders and neck, the stone warm and light on my chest while Sugar stroked down the chain and its charm, petting it. "No one else can have it, and no one else can have you."

I don't inform him that never would I want anyone else, nor do I think anyone else would want me.

"It's blue, Sugar," I said to him as we slid down the bed, his legs tangled in mine. "Even if the rest of the world is too damn dumb to see it properly, it's blue."

~*~*~

So today, when my sister stopped by the apartment after work, I didn't bother taking her aside and asking if the necklace was really blue or not. It doesn't matter; it's blue and I'm Sugar's.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 12:58:34 GMT

Tag-teaming fiction, yes! Not the same story as my other drabbles on here, but mistr3ssquickly did an awesome fic with Devin, my blind character, and Sugar, her blind character. ^^ Devin came from a few years ago when I saw a blue-skinned, purple-haired fantasy drawing and I thought it'd be really cool to have a blue-skinned elf character, because I was tired of the perfect elf characters who were all Legolas-wannabes. Granted, this was years before I read Elfquest, so up at this point, all the elf characters I saw were these stately, strong, and variably perfect people, and I wanted a flawed one.

Thus: blue skin, navy hair, blind. Transferring him into a real-life world, like the one MQ's character, Michael, aka "Sugar" (his street name), is in, was tough. Devin was made for a fantasy setting, and even in a fantasy setting, he's odd enough. But we did it, and did it well. So this is entirely dedicated to mistr3ssquickly. *smooch*

My younger sister's friend told me about a movie she saw, where this blind guy suddenly gets his eyes back, but he can't identify anything without touching it, even years after he gets his sight back. Thought it was the coolest thing she saw. I was okay with it until she asked me if I'd like to have my sight back, and I told her no, I was used to it, that I'd probably be just like that guy in the movie. Disoriented and scared all the time. She laughed, hugged me, and skipped off to Eden's room, which is on the left of our old apartment, across from our mom's.

I didn't snap at her though, like I probably would have years ago. As long as she didn't touch near my ears, I was fine. I didn't tell her I don't like touching things all the time, and I don't particularly like to be touched. Somewhere after I turned six and lost my eyesight, I started equating touch with pity and saccharine sympathy. Everyone just had to touch me, console me, because I was blind and remembered being an elf.

I'm pretty sure they hugged and touched my mom too, because she was a single mother with two kids, one who was now blind and apparently crazy. But I remember. I remember having blue skin, and darker blue hair. I remember my pointed ears that I can still feel. I remember Eden's skin was golden brown and her hair was green, and my mother's hair was white like clouds. I remember her crying and holding me while I was rubbing at my eyes, and asking me to forgive her, she didn't have any other options left. I didn't know what she was talking about; I just knew my eyes were burning and nothing would stop the pain. Crying made it worse.

I remember her giving me something to drink, and then voices all around me, talking about aggressive degenerative eye disease, sudden onset, IV fluids, antibiotics, words I didn't understand. I'm pretty sure I slept for a long time. And when I woke up, I couldn't see anything any more but strange flashes of dark shadows, but I was awake, and the pain was gone, and that was such a relief, I didn't mind when I was told that this was as good at it could get.

I didn't cry when they told me I was blind, I would never see again. I didn't cry when I heard my mother cry, I didn't cry when Eden crawled up in the stiff mattress with me and patted my back; she was only four, she didn't know any better. When my mother said Doctor Sanders had helped me, I asked if he was scared of me. I'd never met another human before.

He was puzzled. "No, son, I was scared for you, but not of you."

I was impatient. "Then you've seen us before?" It was a little neat; I could tell he was frowning just by his tone of voice, and it felt a little like I had magic powers. I'd only been blind for an hour! Go little me.

"No, Devin, but your medical files were transfered over, all your history is right here. The dizzy spells, the fevers, the burning in your corneas. Told me everything I needed to know, to help you."

"It told you we're elves?" I asked. Sometimes in life, you can pinpoint when you've made a big mistake, or where you've just changed something very important. This was the moment I pinpointed where people first started thinking I was crazy. The room went quiet and my mom whispered to me, "Honey? What are you talking about?" and then touched my back in a slow, scared way.

I decided after that, I didn't want to be touched any more.

~*~*~*~

I guess when you're a kid, you don't get that people aren't calling you a liar when they disbelieve you, that maybe the reason is they're just scared that you're right. But in my mind, they were all calling me a liar, and liars, I had been told, were bad people. Following this train of thought, they were calling me a bad person, for remembering who I was. I'd felt for my ears; they were still pointed, and I could only assume my skin was still blue. I wasn't weaker or stronger than what I had been, but I wasn't living in a meadow any more; I was living in a cramped, disgusting place they called an "apartment". To me, it was called an apartment because it was keeping me "apart" from the rest of the world I'd known. I hated it.

I hated the food, and refused to eat any of it. I hated the clothing, but I couldn't refuse that. I hated our home, and I refused to let anyone touch me, especially my face and my back. My mother didn't know what to do, and people started using words I didn't understand again, about psychologically being disturbed at my loss, lashing out in anger, and that I really didn't mean it. But I did. It wasn't being blind that made me angry; I remembered that burning pain in my eyes that nothing could make go away. After that, I could be satisfied with not seeing. It changed my life, but not in a bad way; I could still do everything I could before, I just had to be careful. It would have been worse if they'd cut off my leg or arm. but this? This I could live with, if only the people around me didn't think I was crazy. Or stupid.

For a couple of years, I had this tutor who came by. I did not like him, but in my defense, neither did Eden and she could see perfectly fine.

"Now, Devin," he'd said, placing my hands over a raised math work sheet. "What is two plus two?"

..Was he kidding? I was nearly seven years old; I could fish, cut kindling, and hunt, and he was asking me two plus two? What was wrong with these people?

"Two plus two, Devin," he droned on, my fingers pressed into the plastic sheet with the raised bars, showing that as I well remembered, two plus two did indeed still equal four. "What is two plus two?"

I rolled my eyes (my shaded glasses were off) and crossed my arms. "Two plus two equals fish," I said sarcastically. Behind me, Eden, not yet in kindergarten, giggled. I grinned. The tutor didn't come back after that day

At night, when I was eight, I'd sit on our couch, a thick, heavy book with bumps on it spread out before me. Braille, they called it. Reading for blind people. I'd touched it, fingered it, and learned it, but I lied to my teachers at the City Walk School for the Blind and told them I hadn't learned anything yet. Mrs. Colien had the patience of a saint, the only reason why I'm sure they didn't haul off and boot me out.

"Why, Devie?" she asked one day, bending down to my desk. Secretly, I liked how she got herself down at eye level with her students, even though we couldn't see her. But I hated that she called me Devie; NO one called me that. No one.

"Because you all think I'm a crazy liar," I said tartly. "And I don't like people who think I'm lying and try to make me take pills because they think I'm crazy too." I kept my hands crossed over my chest and refused to look at her while I spoke, something they taught us we ought to do, if we knew what direction we were being spoken from. I wouldn't, I stared straight ahead.

"I don't think you're crazy, I think you're just having a hard time right now," she said and brushed her hands over my forehead. I guess it was meant to be reassuring, but at that moment, there was nothing that I hated more than that touch, and I slapped her hand hard enough to sting.

Patience can only go so far. The school had been patient with my "hostile attitude", my classmates were patient and learned not to bother me and let me have my space, and my mother had been patient with my cold silence and shrugging off her hand. But I had just hit a teacher and, like I said, patience can only go so far.

Mrs. Colien gasped out loud and I'm fairly certain she wouldn't have said anything. But our teacher's aide saw what happened, and did go tell the principle.

Outside the office, I gripped my cane and stared stonily ahead, but inside, my guts were churning with guilt. I had meant the slap, but in the same instant, regretted what I'd done. I could hear her murmuring excuses, that she had touched me without permission, I was really a good kid, just lost and angry, she was sure it was reflex, and then something about my father being gone. My hands tightened on my cane harder. I was only eight, and I felt older than everyone in that school, even the secretary scribbling notes behind the desk.

My mother came out of the office, following my the clicking heels of Mrs. Colien, who didn't stop to say anything. I didn't turn my head toward her, and would have been content to stay in that uncomfortable cold chair all night, but my mother grabbed me by the arm and hauled me out of there, all the while talking in a very stern (read: pissed off) voice as I jogged to keep up with her pulling.

"Young man, I am disgusted by your behavior! Just you wait till we get home; you think this week suspension is going to be a picnic at home? Oh no. Hitting your teacher? God in heaven, boy, what is wrong with you! Who taught you that behavior, hmm? It surely wasn't me." I felt concrete change to grass and then a car door opened before I was stuffed inside.

"Hitting! Devin, why, WHY would you hit her? A teacher, for Godssakes. You might as well spit on a police officer next, land yourself in jail instead of a suspension from school."

I didn't think that was an appropriate time to mention I didn't think you could get arrested for spitting. I kept my mouth shut, amazed at the boiling anger I felt and heard,shell shocked.

She ranted at me, half the way home, through the city traffic, into our parking garage. I kept quiet, feeling resentment melt off of me. Her tone got softer.

"Why, Devin? Tell me why."

"Why I hit her hand?" I asked, confused. Telling her the reason was because Mrs. Colien called me 'Devie' and touched my forehead didn't seem up to par.

"No, I mean why for all of it. Because of your eyes?"

My eyes? "No!" I said startled. "I don't care about them." Not strictly true, I did, but that was besides the point. "I mean, I don't mind that so much any more.... I mean, you know.. yeah, it happened. it's not good, but I can still do everything I did before, just differently."

"Then why? Why the temper tantrums and the anger if it's not about your eyes?" She unlocked the door, and I could tell my mom felt tired. I did, too.

"Because you don't believe me, when I tell you how things were before. You think I'm crazy." There. I'd said it. I could hear my mother put her purse down on the counter as she paused.

"No Devin, you're not crazy," she said and paused. "But you're not blue... either." I could have sworn she was about to say the word "anymore" rather than "either".

"But we all have to make choices for survival," she continued, "and when your father died, I did whatever I could to take care of you and Eden. So if this is how you can survive, it's fine with me."

She didn't admit anything, but I didn't press anything. It's the best compromise we can come to, I guess.

~*~*~*

I met Michael when I was twenty-six; apparently, he'd heard some of the books I'd recorded on CD and podcasts for the seeing impaired. I started doing that right after high school; the publishing companies gave me a book in braille, I'd read it over and over a few times, and then go in and record with "inflection in my voice" as the 'producers' said. It was an appointed job through the school, temporary, to help integrate the blind students into the seeing world, but they liked my work enough that they kept me on permanently.

He told me to call him Sugar; that sounded fine to me. I told him about my ears, that I was an elf; we'd had too much to drink, and ended up in bed. Afterwards, in the bath I'd run for Sugar but had been pulled into, I told him about my ears. I wasn't still drunk, just giddy and stupid. He, of course, didn't believe me, and thrashed about until I pulled him closer, enough to dare him to touch and feel.

He did.

"Oh my god," he said. I grinned and kissed him.

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 16:04:17 GMT

Gotta love flashbacks and explanations.

Hale was not a touchy-feely kind of guy. He gave hugs, sometimes, rough, manly sort of embraces that left the person with a pounded-on back and a feeling of being pummeled more than intimacy. But he saved the tear-drying, cradling sort of holds for Wendy, and often received exasperated looks from the pink-haired lady.

"You're such a cliché," she'd say, "It doesn't mean you're effeminate.” To which Hale would give a sheepish grin and slink off somewhere to the corner of the room for a little while until the non-hug could be forgotten.

He didn’t think it made him effeminate, and he’d been hugged plenty by his parents. Out of all three of them, Hale had the best, most normal upbringing until he went to NOVA. Disguised as a prepatory school for students who had a bit more to offer, Hale’s parents signed the then thirteen-year-old Hale, thinking it the best. The remote location outside the country made it seem foreign and exotic, a good, well-rounded education for their son who could move things without touching them.

But he didn’t blame his parents for placing him in the hands of a madman. He’d been duped too, after all, and it was to Hale’s parents place they went a week after the explosion. For seven god-awful days, hale knew his mother would be worried and there was no way to contact her, tell her he was all right.

What a sight the three of them had made. Disheveled, broken and travel-battered and looking like refugees from a thrift store. It took a week to find a working phone to call his mother, and an additional eight days to get to the house.

The payphone was out in the middle of nowhere. Hale eyed it suspiciously as Wendy crouched on the ground with Jonothan leaning against her. “I’m pretty sure that’s the last payphone in the universe,” Hale joked, simply to see if Jonothan, who’d been looking glassy-eyed for the last two days could crack a smile. He did, and Hale took it as a sign, hoping the phone would actually work.

It did, further proof that Jono’s smile was a charm. As Wendy leaned over the green-haired boy, quietly asking if he felt all right, Hale missed the answer about the buzzing in Jonothan’s head. His fingers trembled as he inserted the last few coins they’d found on the ground a few miles back. The number seemed to take longer to dial than usual.

After two rings, it picked up.

“Ma? Hey, Ma, it’s Hale…”

The sound of a woman gasping and shrieking on the other line made Hale wince and pull away as the shouts of “Oh my God, are you okay? Where are you?” before Hale heard the baritone voice of his father come through.

“Son?”

“Yeah Dad, it’s me. I’m safe, I’m okay. We’re… well, we made it through, we’re traveling. But we don’t know where we are yet and…”

Payphones are stingy on time, and in ten minutes, Hale had been cut off from his parents, but not before he promised them he was coming home. Wendy looked up at him, hey eyes hopeful. And even among the dirty and the smudges of dust on her face, Hale thought she was gorgeous.

“Yeah. We’ll go to my place,” Hale answered her unasked question. He bent down, gathering Jonothan in his arms. The other boy had closed his eyes and didn’t stir as he was picked up.

“He said his head is making a buzzing sound and… there’s a welt on the side of his neck.” Wendy pushed aside some of the baby soft green hair to revel what she had found. They were both thinking the same thing, and they knew it.

But still, Hale frowned. “Could be a bug bite.”

Wendy looked at him, her honest face frank. “It could be. But it’s not.” And you know it, her eyes seem to say.

Hale opened his mouth to further deny the awful possibility of what may have happened the night of the blackout, but he couldn’t. Instead, he swore. “Goddamn Ketan.”

They stood there for a moment, Hale holding Jonothan’s thin frame in his arms so that his head rested more comfortably in the corner of Hale’s shoulders and neck. Thinned-out, drugged, experimented on, and pushed off of a cliff to see if he could fly, what else hadn’t Ketan done to the boy?

“We need to head out, it’s night. The highway is just up there, we’ll walk till we find a sign and head south. It’ll lead us into a town of some sort. If the road number ends in an even number, it’s headed east-by-west, if it’s odd, it’s north-to-south.”

“Boy scout, huh?” Wendy ventured a smile as they walked in the fading light towards the long stretch of road.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, for a while. Pretty damn useful stuff, really.” Hale re-affirmed his grip on Jonothan, who hadn’t don’t much but breath long, shallow breaths.

Wendy always had at least one hand on the sleeping boy; his shoulder, his hair, his neck. Somewhere. And it made Hale feel much better to know that Wendy had a grip on Jonothan too, like she was in control as well and everything would work out as long as Wendy was there.

It felt like forever, or maybe it had only been fifteen minutes since the sun went totally down. They had walked in silence for the most part, with nothing other to say than how worried they were. Questions flittered in each mind; what did Ketan put in Jonothan, could they get it out of him? Was Ketan alive, were his men looking for them? Wendy’s pink hair stuffed under a cap could still be seen and Jonothan’s hair was as green as a flower stalk; would anyone believe the lie that it was dyed hair?

After a few more moments, Hale turned to walk a few yards from the road. Jonothan wasn’t heavy, perse, but he was still dead weight, and after walking for a long time, hale’s arms needed a rest. Wendy followed of course, sitting down in the dirt with Hale, palm over Jonothan’s forehead.

“It’s really dark now, Hale.”

“I know,” Hale answered softly.

“He hasn’t woken up yet, or moved.” Wendy’s voice was tight with worry and Hale felt his own firm resolve fray just a little more.

“I know.”

“He’s hot and clammy; we have to get him to a hospital, Hale.”

“I know! I know, Wendy, I know, but… God, where can we take him? We don’t know what they put inside his body and the doctors, they’re gonna know what we are. They will take him away, put us away too, you know that,” Hale felt the words explode out of his chest, felt Wendy wince at his harsh tone.

“We just need to get to my parents house. My aunt is a nurse, she can look at him, tell us where to go that’s safe.” Hale said quietly after a minute.

Wendy nodded and pulled Jonothan’s hand out, giving his palm a small kiss. Hale wished he had a jacket to pull over Jonothan’s frame, but they had nothing. “I’m sorry, Wendy. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“I know,” Wendy sat up, kissing Hale’s forehead as he closed his eyes. “We’re all scared. It’s why I didn’t hit you for it.”

Hale managed a weak chuckle, “I’m a lucky man.”

His mouth opened to say more, but a pair of headlights interrupted him. A strange mixture of apprehension and fear mixed with bitter-tasting hope. The passing truck could be a lifeline, or it could be disaster. Hale tensed, pulling Jonothan closer while Wendy moved in front of Hale, arms posed and body ready as the truck slowed down and stopped. She’d send a gale force wind if she had to, topple the truck, throw whomever it was inside clear across the road and then some; Hale knew this and felt some relief.

“Hey! You kids all right there?” The voice of an older man filtered out above the engine, and in the faint light, Hale could see a gangly sort of person with an old baseball cap covering his hair. “Where’s your car?”

The lie was swift out of Wendy’s mouth. “It broke down ages ago, by mile marker fifteen. We’ve been walking every since. Our cell phone doesn’t have any service out here, we couldn’t call for help.” Her tense stance didn’t relax much, but she tried to make it look like she wasn’t about to pummel the man.

“Did it now? Huh, real shame. Look, my name’s Chuck, this here’s my nephew, Laurence.” As if on cue, a small, pixie-faced boy peered out of the passenger side window, his blonde hair soft and spikey; his grey eyes looking hugely magnified by his glasses.

“Where abouts are you folks headed?”

Hale stood up now, standing by Wendy’s side. “Fairfield. It’s a bit away.”

Chuck scrutinized them, sizing them up; Hale could tell. “What’s wrong with your friend there? He doesn’t look so good.”

Wendy pulled closer to Hale, hand on Jonothan’s still-sleeping form. “He’s not feeling very well today. We’re trying to get… home. We have people there who can help.”

“That so? Well, listen, Laurence and I are on our way towards Fairfield, out by Jerson City. We’ll take you there, if you like.” Chuck opened the covered hutch of his truck. Inside there were foam pads and little pieces of wood scattered about. It was a clunky old thing, but it seemed to be their only option.

Hale looked at Wendy, at Jonothan before nodding his head. “That would be… great. Thank you. But, uh, we don’t have any money…”

Chuck gave a small laugh and climbed back into the driver’s seat, starting the motor. “Left it in the car, did you? No problem. Just hop in.”

Wendy put a hand on Hale, stopping him, whispering harshly. “Hale, we can’t do this! We don’t know this guy, what if he’s a serial killer!?”

Hale leaned back. “We’ll just have to do it first then, if he tries anything. But Jonothan is sick, we need help. It’s our only choice.”

A few more looks and Wendy finally nodded, climbing in to arrange some of the foam pads for Jonothan to lay on. Hale deposited him there, and aside from a shiver, the only movement Jonothan made was to curl up into the fetal position.

The truck gave a lurch and started down the road; the little boy, Laurence, gaped into the back hutch, the small slide window separating the driver’s bench from the hutch, and they were on their way.

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 01:23:16 GMT

I totally don't crave your approval of me, family members! Because I am an independent young woman with a full time job and her own car and friends who care, and it totally doesn't hurt me at all that I am still considered the loser of the family, despite the poor choices of other family members.

No, I am absolutely fine with the knowledge that I could be an ordained minister in the church of your choice and still be the black sheep of the family. Really. It's cool. I'm a big girl now. ^^

Oi!

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 21:05:58 GMT

Here's a drabble with Hale and Wendy, something sweet for those winter days.

She has her hair down and her legs bare and she's sucking on a tangerine; which is how Hale swears he will always remember Wendy. Even if his mind grows feeble, his feet stop working and he has to be fed his meals via a tube in his stomach, he will always hold on to Wendy looking relaxed and happy, nibbling a piece of fruit while the sun light streams down, making her bubble-gum pink hair look paler.

"Hey, gorgeous," Hale murmurs as he slides into the window seat beside her, wrapping a thick arm around her middle. Wendy smiles up at him, silently offering him a wedge of fruit, which he accepts. It's nearly autumn now, and the tangerine isn't ripe; some imported stuff from California, probably, but the color looks rich against Wendy's fingertips so Hale accepts it, pretending he doesn't mind the watery taste on his tongue or the sticky juice that drops on his shirt collar.

"Hey, yourself," Wendy says, shaking her hair off her shoulders and leaning back against Hale comfortably. They both sit there a moment, soaking up the warmth; it feels warmer and much better, and Hale idly wonders if this is because they both know the winds and sleet will come, bringing snow and ice, winter snowball fights, apple cheeks and runny noses.

But for now, it's good and warm, the leaves beginning to change, the sound of the faint breeze making the wind chimes sing. Wendy's skin feels warm, her weight resting against him trustingly, and Hale can't help but run his fingertips up and down her sides, making her polo shirt ride up a little bit.

But she doesn't seem to mind. Her head is tilted up, resting in the crook of his neck, her lips cool from the nectar, but her breath is warm against his neck.

"This... this is good," Hale says, keeping his voice at a low pitch. "Just being here. Listening to the wind, seeing the leaves blow around. Watching the paint on the side of the barn out back peel off."

"It's what we worked for," Wendy says without opening her eyes, but she grins to hear his joke. Her answers are slow, her body relaxed, just listening to Hale's voice and the fall wind stirring the metal chimes around and around.

No, Hale thinks in his mind, it's what we fought for because of some crazed man who lied to everyone, all to play God. But he doesn't say it; it's old news.

"Yeah, baby," he says, in exchange for his bitter thoughts against dead men and the brittle ghosts that seem to have followed all three of them here. "It's what we worked for."

Hale can feel Wendy's smile against his own lips when he dips down to kiss her. And it's sweet and good; it tastes like summer.

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 17:29:34 GMT

As I clean up my NaNo and add and take things away, I'll be posting them and trying to make sense of everything I did write. So, in all it's "glory", I present!

Jonothan speaks....

And then, everything went black.

And for the longest time, no one came, there was only the quiet and the dark. I didn't know why, because one time, a few years ago, Hale messed with the circuit breaker outside the dorms, to cut the power off in the classrooms so he wouldn't have to go to first session the next day, but he messed up and cut the power off in the dorms instead. Within minutes, the whole place was swarmed with people. Not just the doctors who run the place, but other people too, who live in other dorms. Wendy came that night, to get me. I could hear her shouting in the dark, "Jonothan? Angel, where are you? You okay?" and I knew she was calling out to me, since I'm the only one she calls 'Angel'.

She knows how much I hate being put in sudden darkness; I'm probably the one person over ten who sleeps with some sort of light still on when I room alone, and the only boy here who sleeps with a small light on, period. But when I'm not alone, it isn't so bad, so that time wasn't horrible. Because Wendy came to get me and I could hear everyone outside my door; when Hale came back, he said he was sorry, and that made it okay, too.

But this time.... This time, no one came. No one made a sound. It was just darkness, too dark even for shadows on my bare walls, like I had my eyes closed all the way, but I didn't. I couldn't move, either, all I could bring myself to do was twitch in the middle of my bed, frozen to one place like someone coated me in super glue and left me there to stiffen. I thought maybe that preacher man who'd been marching up and down the front drive way might have been right; this was the end of the world and we, all of us here, were devils and demons. My mother thought so, and even though Wendy shook her head and Hale sneered and said, "No, don't worry, JJ, he's so full of shit, you're not a demon," I thought this may have been the end and I was in Limbo or Hell or some place like that.

I could hear my heartbeat and my breath; I was breathing way too fast and not getting any air in. I didn't know I was moving again until I felt my fingertips at my door and felt my hands moving up and down, like I was trying to dig my way out. And maybe I was but it wasn't doing any good at all.

If I was dead, and this was my hell, I would have been there forever. But, as it turns out, I wasn't dead, because the doorknob turned and I could hear Wendy, like I could the last time, except she sounded really teeny, like she was far away.. But her hand was right there, she had both her arms and flashlight wrapped around me. I didn't know how hot and sweaty it was in there until Wendy opened my door and the air, the real air came back. I gulped it in with big gasps, so much that I couldn't talk. I just nodded my head to every question she asked me: was I okay, could I breathe now, did I think I could walk? The only time I shook my head was when she put her warm, dry palm on the back of my neck and asked me if I knew what happened. I didn't, so I shook my head.

"No, everything just....happened," I said quietly. We were the only ones, in all that long, big hall way, who were out. Which had never happened before.

And that's when the man came up behind Wendy. He snuck up behind us. He must have, because he was so quiet, and I never heard him until he stuck the needle in the back of Wendy's neck and she just fell. I think I tried to scream or yell or hit him, but then someone must have snuck up behind me too. After that, everything went black again.

I guess that’s when Hale and Aimon found the main control room, and where Ketan had the bomb.

Reality was, when Bryce Ketan, the director for the NOVA corporation and school, hit the self-destruct button on the headquarters, Jonothan didn't feel a thing. He saw no vision of the maniacal tyrant, didn't feel Hale at the time, fighting for his life, didn't see Aimon, one of the other boys, sacrifice himself for Hale. Didn't even know until later what the former "bully" had done, transforming himself from a tormenting living person to a heroic corpse.

And when Jonothan awoke from the drug-induced haze, was only aware of the ache in his head and Wendy's strong, gentle hands touching his shoulders, his cheeks, his hair, murmuring soft words that he only half understood through the static sound in his head. "Are you all right, Wendy?" was all he could manage to rasp out, gripping at the older girl, hoping his "older sister" was, indeed, all right.

Don't let me have done it. Not her. Not Wendy, please. Not like my mother... And all the while, Hale was fighting before being tossed out of a window, the only living thing that survived the monumental blast, and Jonothan never knew. All he could do was lie there and stare at the ceiling; he couldn’t have even told anyone where he was, or who he was, really.

His head hurt, his back hurt; there were gold and silver flashes dancing over his spine, and the leather restraint marks were still red and angry looking over the pale, vulnerable skin under his wrist. When Wendy had regained consciousness and ran to the mental ward of NOVA and told the guards that she would either walk Jonothan out the door or carry him out through a hole in the wall, they laughed flippantly until the girl did just that, without blinking an eye.

Psychic powers were handy for such escapades.

That Jonothan had Wendy to thank for his escape and Aimon to blame for his mental incarceration, he didn't know and would not know for several days. He was too busy curling up on the cushions of a bed, someone's bed, waiting for the pain and nausea to go away. He wanted to cry like he used to as a child, bury his face in Wendy's shoulder like he had after Aimon first told Jonothan that he, Jonothan, had probably killed his own mother, that it hadn’t been suicide after all (“I read your file, that’s how I know, geez.”), and listen to Wendy's reassurances.

Jonothan, you didn’t kill her, it was an accident even if you did. She wanted to hurt you, you had to escape and she... oh, Angel, she was sick, sick in the head. You didn't want her to die, you just didn't know she'd... you know...

Except now, she may have been murmuring, Angel, it’s not your fault, you didn’t hurt Hale, you didn’t kill Aimon, Ketan wanted to hurt you, we had to escape and he… oh, Angel, he was so sick, sick in the head, and no one wanted him to die, but he hit the detonation button…

But Aimon was still dead, along with Ketan. So was James, so was his mother, and thousands of other people caught in the cross fire, innocent bystanders in what was called a “international tragedy” and a “freak accident” in all of the news papers. One of the foremost hospitals, gone in a blink of an eye, most of the patients presumed dead, burned into dust, along with records and paper work. Leaving only the few hundred who escaped and had not even known they were patients in a hospital until the paper came out and told them so.

*****

In the beginning of it all, there had been a building, a group of people in uncomfortable looking suits, and a person calling himself Bryce Ketan, telling Jonothan that it was all going to be all right now. Ironically enough, the skinny, green-haired boy first met Bryce Ketan in a hospital, staring down at him. The too-bright fluorescent lights hurt Jonothan’s eyes, but the man’s palm against his forehead was soothing and fraternal, his tone of voice was just right. He had said something, that he, too, had a son who was a psychic too, that it was okay to be special. His mother was "gone", as they put it (never 'your mother is dead' just 'your mother is gone', as though she had packed up for a vacation), but it was all right that his mother was "gone" too, because it was all going to be just fine….

Jonothan slept some more.

And it was years later, after that first meeting, in the blurry-looking room, that it was deemed “over”. Hale had miraculously found Wendy and Jonothan in the abandoned, half-collapse hotel building that had been evacuated, Jonothan stared at nothing and concentrated on breathing in and out, he could still hear Ketan’s words in his mind, playing over and over.

Well, young man, it’s very nice to meet you. My name is Mr. Ketan. Oh, there, there now. What’s this? Crying? Now, son, don’t you know there’s nothing to be afraid of? You’re an exceptionally gifted boy and I’m here to take care of you from now on.

It had been all of them, a whole group of scared but capable people from all ages and lines of life. Jonothan could almost pick them out of his mind, see them standing there in his room, looking down at him. He’d been there almost the longest out of all of them, since he was six years old, shortly after his mother’s death. The only one who had been there longer was Ketan’s own son, James, a thin gangly boy with a shock of white-blond hair and light brown freckles all over the top of his nose and under his eyes. For a while, until his brown eyes became distant and even James’ smile became sad, Jonothan and James played together every day. They laughed and ran like boys often do, and for a while, Jonothan was able to forget he was a devil in disguise of a little boy.

Jonothan could remember that there had been people from everywhere, all different from humans, and how often they were told that they were all different from regular humans, but different in a good way, a special way, until the lines blurred so much it almost became human versus psychics.

A hidden “truth” that wasn’t really a truth at all. The humans went along in life, unknowing they were being plotted against. The psychics went along in life, not knowing the humans were being plotted against, only knowing the propaganda Ketan was starting to feed them, all about equal rights and humans feeling antsy about the psychic’s very existence. Subtle ideas about who was right and why they, the psychics, were the heroic underdogs; the truth of the matter was the regular humans had no idea the psychics even existed, outside of those who were residents at NOVA with extended family living still in the outside world.

How long did he sleep until he could wake up again, without the fuzzy, static feeling buzzing about his head? When the voices and pictures from memories long ago finally stopped, Jonothan turned over to see Hale in his own bed, next to Jonothan’s, wrapped in as many mismatched quilts as they could find. There were no more crumbled walls to tuck away in, no more burnt smells invading his senses, only Wendy and Hale’s mother were fretting about them as though they were infants. How did they get there and how long had they been in this suburban heaven? Jonothan tried to open his mouth, to croak out his questions, like, ‘Where are we? What happened?’ but nothing came out but a breathy gasp, and Hale had turned and given Jonothan’s wane face a weak grin, lips blue and pale.

"Well. Ain't this just a bitch of a thing?" he rasped out, and he and Jonothan could only look at each other and laugh.

So ends part one. Any ideas for a good title for the entire story arc?

Sun, 11 Nov 2007 23:49:25 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY onetruebelmont !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *HUGS wildly like mad-woah!*

Poem!

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 13:20:14 GMT

Flower in the crannied wall -- Tennyson

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower–but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 16:01:02 GMT

Films on my list to see:

Perfume, Story of a Murderer

The Scent of Green Papaya

I've been anxious to see these films, and I finally found them for rental.

Possible ideas for Sadako's night gown/costume: Terra cotton? Something breathable and flimsy looking, nice to feel without it being see-through. Although interfacing is a god-send.

My creativity fairy is nibbling at me. I want to write a fic. ^^

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 12:30:49 GMT

I feel creative today; I wonder why?

Cosplay ideas:

For the next batch of cons, I'll be making costumes for:

Gojyo- Saiyuki (Re-load version. What can I say, I like the jacket.)

Uo-chan- Fruits Basket (Metal pipe for the win!)

Kairi- Kingdom Hearts II (her school uniform, if I can find blue plaid)

and something a little different from my usual:

Trisha Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist

Sadako from Ringu (Japanese version)

Trisha will probably be the last costume I make, as I want to do Gojyo, Uo-chan, Kairi and Sadako more than Trisha. My friend Troy does props and he's pretty great at it; I wonder about how much it'd cost me if I asked him to make me a wooden Kairi keyblade?

Joined a new game a few weeks ago with a video game character I liked, Emilio Michaelov. Ah, people seem to like him! Which is good, I like him too. He's kinda shy and rather cute. ^^ I need to make some icons of him.

Fandom Journal number Entry, number 2

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 01:15:00 GMT

Finished up reading "Sensitive Pornograph", an explicit yaoi manga that rivals Haruka Minami in terms of Oh Em Gee Smut! But otherwise, it had some cute moments, I must admit.

On the flip side of the manga coin, I read a sweet first volume of a cutsey manga called "Me and My Brothers", which holds potential, though I have to admit in terms of appeal and eye-catching characters, "Crossroads" has it beat, hands down. Better characters who draw you in and a stronger story line; Crossroads for the win.

Also pining for Ouran High School Host Club number 10; gah, so cruel, making us wait like this! I adore Haruhi, she is one of my all time favorite characters. She has such a hysterical demeanor, yet she has her moments when she's so cute and I melt. She works has a manga/anime female lead because she's so unpretentious, so honest, and so endearing in that way. I know some people don't like her character, but I adore it.

My other favorite female character for manga/anime is probably Tohru Honda from Fruits Basket. I love her too, oh so much. So sweet and not perfect at all. She's also honest and sweet and pure, which is why I think she works. She tugs on heartstrings without pretention. I know a lot of people don't like her either, but still I think she's great. Onigiri-love, folks.

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 15:43:22 GMT

It's been 15 weeks since I got this LJ for fan stuff only (my other journal was simply too bogged down) and what have I done with it? Looked at free manga.

-_-

Anyway, time to get up off my tush and start writing my anime-manga-movie reviews!

Not all will be yaoi or yuri in nature, but some will, and synopsis, why it works, why it doesn't, or why it's a guilty pleasure.

Like this:

Why we like plotless Yaoi.

...Why DO we like plotless yaoi? Most who read yaoi are females (though I'm sure some males read it too), and in yaoi-verse, you're hard pressed to find even an introduction of a notable female character. This does not go to say that no yaoi has good femmes in it, far from it. Haruna from Level C is pretty good (Kazoumi's twin sister), and the little sister from Zetsuai/Bronze was golden too, smacked her brother to get his rear in gear and admit a few things to himself. So there are very few to none female character with which to identify with, or even like in yaoi.

But sometimes, to be honest, yaoi doesn't NEED a female. Indeed, some of the plotless, purely porn driven yaoi has uke's so feminine all they're missing are wombs and filled-out bras.

So why do the ladies like the yaoi?

Mainly because the guys in it are hot archetypes of cliches we all secretly love, deep down inside: the stoic quiet man who let's loose only with the person he loves, the punk-bad ass with a heart of gold, the pervy sensei. All different types of guys... loving other guys.

Perhaps it stems from my American up bringing of more equaling better. After all, I like men too, ergo I like penises. Two guys together equal more than one, and therefore, it is good.

Not exactly Freudian gold, but come on, it's (sometimes) plotless porn!

But it's a guilty pleasure that carries a stigma to it; a lot of people at conventions or anime fans in general will look down on the yaoi fangirl, and I'd like to know why. To be fair, very few men are dogged because they watch pornography, which is generally male and female; so why the unfair biased against yaoi? At least a lot of other yaoi has plot, often times very poignant stories with good dialogue and good character development. I can, easily, name five yaoi mangas or animes with fantastic plot and good story telling techniques for every one plotless porn I've seen.

So. WHY do we like the plotless smut? Same reason people still eat at fast food restaurants, folks. It's junk food, and we like it because it tastes good to us, easy-peasy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go read Level C and cringe at myself just a little more.