Bleeding Ink

Danse Macabre

2010-11-20T22:35:00.000-08:00

The smoke stung the chilly January air, and followed Nami as she headed through East Clocktown to her home. Nami did not cry. She had lit the pyre, and then viewed her job as done. As the body caught fire and friends and acquaintances came forward to pay last respects, Nami slipped into the crowd and away. Eastern tradition demanded the deceased's closest relative light the pyre, or she would not have attended at all. The complete numbness she felt towards Kendra's death hung on her like a wet dress. It had been a long, wasting illness. She was better off now. The pain was finally over.
None of this came as a comfort to Nami. Her older sister's death had carved a hollow in her ribcage. Simply put, Kendra had completed Nami. She made up for Nami's awkwardness with her friendliness and bright smile. She made up for Nami's mousy cropped hair and sharp nose and plump figure with her own shimmering beauty. She had been a living, breathing apology for Nami's existence.
And now that she was gone, the only thing that remained was Nami herself, a pitiful reflection, bearing only her sister's curious golden eyes to identify herself as being from the same bloodline.
Nami was seventeen years old now, and she knew how to take care of herself, but only in theory. She tried to steer her thoughts away, as she made her way to her house, which was tucked away in a far corner of the East, near the orchards, flanked by the Forest. The seclusion appealed to her, though her sister had craved human contact. The hollowness threatened to overcome Nami for a moment, and she paused, shaking her head.
The feeling passed and she entered the empty house. Perhaps, in the morning, she would wake to find her sister sitting up in bed, smiling and asking for company. Nami shut the door, and her legs felt weak. She fell against the it and slid down to the floor. Nothing would ever be that simple. Not ever.
#
Dreams bloomed in her head like alien flowers. She was simply strolling along the border of the Forest and the East. The Clock tower struck midnight and began booming out the time. As it began, Nami felt a pain in her chest.
No.
It was not the Clock, it was her.
She put her hand over her heart, and the deep booming muffled and pain seared.
#

Her eyes snapped open. Her neck ached and her heart was pounding. But it was not booming like a distant bell. She stood, and tried to pop the crick out of her neck. She sauntered around the little, three-roomed house. It was never lavish, but it had been comfortable. Now it simply seemed open and exposed, and a chill caused by more than the October winds hung in the air. She went to her room and lay down on the bed, pulling the quilt Kendra had sewn over her head. Nami wanted to cry, but she could not.
Beyond her house, she heard the wind rustling the golden leaves of the Forest trees. She thought of the individual leaves, all being pushed so gently, one into the other, until they roared fierce as fire. Her mind began to swim in the dark depths of half-waking dreams. She was riding the wave of those leaves. She heard a deep, insistent pounding. Her hand leapt to her chest, right out of her dreams, but found her heart sound. No. That insistent cacophony of sound was outside, flying on the wind.
Nami sat up and shook her head. There was a gentle rapping on the door to the house. She ran a hand through her mess of hair, but made no movement to answer. Her heart seized up at the thought of speaking to anyone right now. The idea shook her to her core, the very marrow. After a few minutes the noise ceased and whatever sympathetic acquaintance gave up and left. Nami climbed out of bed then. The sun outside was high, and the air crisp, but she simply pulled the patched curtains over the windows. She sauntered into the kitchen area. However, she made no effort to prepare food. She simply leaned against the table for a while. Then she shrugged to herself and left the house.
Further into the heart of East Clocktown, there were many huts, tents, and little houses, crowded together in a pleasant society, and the very center of the heart was the market, already bustling with people. Nami did not head towards the writhing center of humanity, but stuck to the edge of the Forest, safely away from most people. In spite of herself, she began to enjoy the brisk air, and the fading noise from the center. She strolled along thoughtlessly, avoiding Kendra's memory or her own uncertain future. Suddenly, her eyes flicked up to the huge Clock tower that divided East Clocktown from West. It loomed over the East, even at Nami's distance. She wondered about the West. Perhaps it was not as bad as the East would have her believe. It was so different from anything she had ever known, so utterly foreign. She could not fathom buildings that pierced the sky or houses with hundreds of rooms.
Kendra had always adored the East, with every fiber of her being, yet to Nami it was just a place with some occasionally interesting people, some who could do rather extraordinary things, who she sometimes enjoyed to observe. Nami could not work any magic, so the appeal was purely from an observational point of view. Nor could Kendra, but Nami had never fit into the boisterous, carefree lifestyle of the East.
It was not simply the lack of powers, as plenty of full-blooded Easterners had also lacked them, but the lack of understanding. She did not attend the bonfires or listen to the musicians play the night to sleep. She had consistently avoided the market place. In the East, people were everywhere at every event. Her mind could never wrap around the desire to be with other people constantly.
She shook her head, and turned her gaze away from the Clock.
It probably was as much the same there. Full of bustle and indifference towards her. And even if it wasn't, she had no papers to get herself into the West, anyhow.
And Kendra wouldn't be there.
She would likely be the same in the West as in the East.
Completely surrounded.
Alone.

She continued her walk along the edge of the Forest. She had heard stories from Kendra's friends about the pull of the Forest. How sometimes people, even from the West, simply dropped everything and ran off into it. She had heard of how the Forest could reflect a person's feelings because the magic was so potent. Nami stared up at the trees, so tall the sky was nearly blocked. It was beautiful, but she felt no overwhelming desire. She did not feel anything. No longings, no sorrows. Just empty. She studied the plants for a while. It certainly was beautiful, though. And so quiet. She turned to look towards the Eastern gardens and orchards, now mostly full for the harvest. Her house was back there somewhere. It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed into the lush embrace of the Forest. She shrugged, turned, and began heading home. Another day, perhaps.
She entered her house and shouldered the door shut. She made some thin broth and sipped it quietly. The day dragged on, melting slowly into night. She crawled back into her bed. Across the room, her sister's bed, where she had lived for so many months, lay unmade and undisturbed. Nami rolled over and pulled the quilt back over her head.

The Clocktower began banging out that heart attack tattoo as she shuffled along the edge of the East and the Forest. This time, vague figures, neither human nor shadow, began approaching her, translucent hands outstretched. She turned and they were there. The beating of the Clock, her heart, was unbearable. The figures began to close in around her. She tried to speak, but her mouth would not work. She backed away, but her chest began to ache with renewed intensity. She held her hands up over her face as they closed in around her. The clanging grew deeper and deeper, and the ache grew so wide she felt the world split in two.
#
Nami jolted awake. But the banging had followed her into her waking life. She placed her hand on her heart and found it pumping fearfully, but it was not banging. And she realized that it was not the metallic boom of the Clock either. It was something else. It was invasive and permeating, and she resolved to find the source to stave off the nightmares. She pulled on a fur-lined coat and boots over her hodgepodge pants and the overlong shirt she had fallen asleep in. She opened the door and the icy wind assailed her. She was too far from the Clock to read it, but it was early morning, a few hours shy of sunrise. Here, the noise was more tangible. It did not sound like any music, certainly not from any instrument she had ever heard, and the bonfire was long ended by this time, so Nami knew it was not coming from anywhere in the East. She gazed up at the trees. Now seemed as good a time as any to enter the place which had caused so much debate and awe among the people around her. Pulling the suede straps tight around her coat, she set off into the tangle, all the while haunted by that rhythmic banging, booming.
She was instantly overwhelmed with unease as her foot touched the Forest floor. The vines hanging from the ancient wood seemed bent on entangling, the branches were outstretched like vile hands, poised to grasp and mangle. Nami turned to look back towards the East, but trees had swallowed up her path. Her only option was to follow the constant sound. She walked on, her eyes blinded by the dark, so much deeper than normal darkness. She tripped, and stumbled, and her anxiety rose. She fell into an enormous tree that had inexplicably leapt onto her path. When she pulled herself back, she found her cheek bleeding. She stood still and tried to get her bearings. Above her, only a leafless canopy of branches. Leafless, though at the edge the trees were full. And behind her... Which way was behind her? Could she even get back to the East?
Her apprehension grew as her path took her deeper into the dark heart of the Forest, darker, even as the trees grew more naked. Panic began to seep into her nerve endings, and then flared up. She ran blindly, as the sound of banging became louder and louder. She fell and hit her knee, and pain jolted her. Trees and thorns shredded her clothing and tore her skin. She stood and ran again.
Suddenly, a clearing opened up before her, lit by a massive bonfire. The panic in her heart fled like a mist before the sun. The booming sound was much louder, seeming to come from everywhere. As her eyes adjusted to the firelight, she saw that situated all around it was an elaborate drum set. Countless skin drums of every shape and size filled nearly the entire clearing, with the fire flaming at their center. Nami slowly approached the drums, and as her heart ceased its frantic flight, she saw a figure moving among the drums. Its back was to her, but she could see it was very, very tall and deathly thin. It was moving fast, a blurry shadow in the fire's light, rioting among the drums, producing that constant, ceaseless rhythm. As it hit a deep bass drum, the noise slammed full into her chest and hummed. Nami approached the figure slowly, letting the painful buzzing in her chest grow stronger. The drummer's hands were a blur, constantly in motion, though she could see they were long and very pale as he rushed among the drums, hitting this one, now that one. The drummer's back was to her, and was so focused on his instruments that it did not notice Nami, even when she stood only a few feet away. It whirled around, dark cloak skimming the leaves, and saw her face to face. Then it froze, and the music with it.
Nami's mind could scarcely comprehend what her eyes were seeing. Of course it was extremely thin. Of course it was pale. No. That wasn't it. It wasn't even that its bones stuck out. It wasn't that it was grinning happily. It simply... wasn't alive. It was a skeleton. Dead yet living. An animated set of bones, with a frozen grin and empty eye sockets.
After a long while it moved its skull to the side, as if to catalog her. The skeleton's mouth did not, could not move, but from somewhere in his bones a voice rushed out.
"How did you get here?" Unexpectedly, its voice was very soft, and obviously male, but sounded as if it came from a great distance away, or issued from a cave.
Nami's own voice seemed to have flown away. She choked.
The skeleton shook his head side to side. "It isn't possible for you to be here. Leave." A long, naked finger bone pointed behind Nami. "You should not be here at all. It isn't possible. Go."
The insanity of it all washed over Nami. Her knees gave out.

#
The pounding was more intense, those hundreds of drums were all inside of her, being beaten by a skeleton man. She screamed out in agony, feeling as though her heart would explode.
Her eyes snapped open. It was dark, but near her, a bright fire flickered. She sat up and found that she had been tucked into a soft bed under a thick pelt from some animal she could not recognize. She sat up and shivered. The walls around were smooth stone, completely unadorned. The floors were the same. The fireplace was against the far wall, not so far, as the place appeared to be only one room, and before it was a large wooden chair and nothing else. The pelt began to slide off of her, and she realized with some horror, that she was naked. She quickly wrapped the fur back around her. She turned her head and saw that thin figure unexpectedly standing by the fireplace. She stifled a a scream and pulled the pelt better around her.
"What... What do you want?" her voice came out higher than she hoped it would.
The figure turned its skull to face her, and stared at her with vacant eye sockets. "Answers," its voice replied. It was a much kinder voice than she had been expecting, but awkward, like it was pronouncing words for the first time.
"Wh...What kind of answers?"
The skull tilted on the side, slightly. "The ones I need."
"Are you going to hurt me?"
The skeleton moved closer. Nami tried to quell her shaking.
"If I was going to do that, you've been unconscious for several hours."
"Maybe you did," she blurted. "Where is my clothing?"
"Gone." He lifted a skeletal hand and pointed a long finger at her. "It was ripped and stained. You were wounded."
She touched her side and found a deep scratch she received during her manic flight in the forest. It seemed to be healing.
"You... Cleaned my wounds?" She shuddered to think of those naked bone fingers on her bare skin, even as she was grateful for the healing.
The skull nodded, slowly. "Such as they were."
"Ah. Thank you." Nami's mind was reeling. Her opinion of the...creature... Before her was constantly changing. Was it more monster? Or more man? Or something so strange her mind could not fathom? She knew that he did not deserve her fear though, and tried to steady her voice. "What do you want to ask me?"
"How did you get here, girl?"
"I, um, what do you mean?"
"My realm."
"I just went into the Forest."
"But how did you find me?" His non-vocal voice seemed frustrated.
"I... suppose I followed the drums."
The skull tilted. "You heard my drums?"
"Yes. For days. In my dreams. And last night, when I woke."
"You are sure?"
"Very." Even now, Nami's heart seemed to hurt at the sound of the drums.
The skeleton turned away. "This is very, very bad."
"I don't understand," Nami leaned forward slightly, her fear momentarily giving way to curiosity.
"No one should hear the drums, " he said solemnly, though it was impossible for him to sound otherwise.
"But I have. Every night." The skeleton turned to face her once more. "I am sorry."
Nami nodded, because she did not know what to reply. "Um, why shouldn't anyone hear the drums?"
"The living simply never hear my music."
"Oh."
The skeleton gestured to the chair near the fire. "You may get out of bed if you wish."
She tightened the pelt around herself and shook her head.
"There is something wrong?"
"I...I don't have any clothing to wear."
The skull stared for a moment. "Ah. The Living." He left the room, and carefully closed the door behind himself.
Nami stared after him, confused. She debated staying or rising, and after a few moments, heard only silence from outside. She slid out of the bed. Suddenly cold and feeling exposed, she turned back to the bed and began to pull the pelt off to wrap around herself. Then the door burst open with a blast of cold air, and the skeleton stood directly in front of her. Nami was so stunned she dropped the pelt and stood in horrified embarrassment before him. He stood still, but his face betrayed no similar feelings. After a few infinite seconds he moved his head slightly to the side.
"My apologies. I did not mean to-" Without turning his head, he proffered a bundle to her. She took it quickly, and the skeleton shut the door.
She unwrapped the bundle and found it was apparently her old clothing, though seemingly newer and a good deal cleaner. She quickly dressed herself. She did not know whether to stay inside or see what was without, but curiosity won out. She opened the door. Wind whipped around her. She was grateful for the coat she wore.
She found she was standing in a clearing, and the house she had been in was a cave nestled in a sheer rock wall. The wall took up the entire northern and western sides of the clearing, and thick trees fenced in the rest. It was a secluded little place. At the far side of the clearing, the skeleton stood, not facing her. He was draped in a black cloak of some sort, long and velvet and surprisingly lavish.
She approached him, and when she was a few feet behind him, he turned, and apparently regarded her with his eye sockets. A wave of nausea at the wrongness of him overcame her, but she tried not to let it show.
"I am sorry if I caused you embarrassment. One in my...position... forgets about such things," he said.
"You fixed my clothing," she said simply.
"In a way. I restored them, you could say."
"Thank you."
She listened to the wind rustle the leaves. It was a peaceful sound. She felt peaceful, despite circumstances. The chaos of the last few days was gone, replaced with nothing but the rattle of dry autumn leaves.
"Can I go home?" Nami asked, after a while, carefully not looking at his empty eye sockets.  "I don't know."
"What do you mean?" she asked, trying not to sound desperate.
"No one should find their way here or hear the drums. There is no way to leave."
Nami did not bother to panic. She had half-expected this answer. "What does it mean that I could hear your drums?"
While he offered no expression, there seemed to be some hesitation as he said, "You are close to death."
Nami was also calm about this information. She found it difficult to be surprised when the answer was so matter-of-fact. "So then, is this what happens to the dead?" She asked quietly.
"No," the skeleton said. "This is what happens to me." He turned and looked at the trees again. "Has someone recently died in your life?"
"Y...yes." She said quietly.
"I can smell it. You must have loved this person very much."
"Yes," she whispered.
The skeleton turned back, and his skull tilted, as he looked at her. "What do they call you?"
"My name is Nami."
"That's lovely."
"And... you?"
"Me?" The skeleton said, surprise in its voice.
"What do they call you?"
"Nothing. There is no they. Just me."
"Well, there is me now too."
A silence stretched out so long, Nami was afraid she had offended him.
Then he said, "I will correct this. The living have no place with the dead."
"How will you..." Nami's question died as she noticed the skeleton's eye sockets fixed on her.
"You will have to stay here for a while, perhaps longer than you'd like. I will return you, but it will take some time, and you must understand this."
"That is okay. There is nothing to hurry back to, honestly."
"Nothing?" The skeleton's voice was surprised.
She nodded. Despite her best efforts, she found his eyeless gaze unnerving, and looked away. "So what happens now?"
"Breakfast."

#
The skeleton, of course, ate nothing. Over the fire in his cave-house, he had prepared boiled eggs, which he placed in delicate crystal egg holders. He gave them to Nami as she pleased, and she tried not to shudder at the thought of his finger bones handling her food, much less the logic of how he obtained it.
When she had finished eating, he waved off, with an eerie skeletal clattering, her offer to help clean up, and seeing nothing to do, she sat in front of the fireplace.
"I'm sorry," she said after a while.
He turned his skull. "Whatever for?"
"I'm not very good with people at the best of times but especially now..."
"I wouldn't expect you to be fine with... someone like me."
Nami turned and traced images in the ash.
"You don't talk to people much." The skeleton stated, after a time.
Nami looked up and raised her eyebrows.
"I can hear it in your voice. The hesitance. The fear of saying something wrong."
"I... I guess."
"You don't have to qualify it, I was simply making an observation."
"It was a good one," she said to the fireplace.
"That is okay. I do not do much talking myself," he said. "Not that I have anyone to talk to, even if I did." He spread his arms to indicate the otherwise empty room.
Nami turned back to her scribbling.
The skeleton wandered the room, vacantly straightening and arranging things. Finally he said, "I am going to play my drums." And without further comment, he left the house.
Seeing nothing for her in the house, Nami left as well. She once again felt the pounding in her chest, but she could not see the skeleton or his drums. The clearing was empty, but a path had opened up on the eastern side which Nami was sure she had never seen before. She followed this path, which wound through and around knots of oak and cedar and pine and willow, all growing haphazardly, practically overtaking one another. When she was sure she must have looped around twice, the path deposited her in a new clearing, smaller than the one with the skeleton's cave house in it. This was the clearing, she was sure, where she had met the skeleton before. His drums were all set up here, and he was beating them as seemingly furiously as ever. It was hard to tell if he truly was furious, seeing as he could wear no expression.
He did not slow his cadence as Nami approached, nor did he make any attempt to acknowledge her presence. Nami watched him in fascinated silence for several minutes, ignoring the growing dull pain in her chest. Never before had she thought how versatile the drums were, how, in fact, musical. She had always heard them used for rhythm, never as melody, and yet the skeleton could create a lovely, haunting, pounding tune.
After several minutes, the song ended, and the skeleton turned his skull. "You enjoy this song?"
She turned her face away from the hollow eyes. "Yes, I suppose."
"Most people hate it. It is the song of death, you know."
"I did not know. But I do not hate it."
"I'm afraid that my existence, such as it is, is dull. I play the drums. That is all."
"Why do you play them?"
"I do not know...but I am obliged to play them all the same."
Nami raised an eyebrow but did not question him further.
"You may have guessed," the skeleton said after some time. "That you are not in the Forest you entered."
"I had heard that the Forest could reflect someone's strong emotions," Nami replied.
"And yet... you believe you feel no emotion."
"I don't."
The skeleton's fingers rattled together, as if he were teasing the air. Then he slammed the bony hand into a skin drum and began the song again.
She watched his thin, tall form, blur between the drums as he beat them, more and more wildly. Nami's chest began to hurt, but the pain was duller than it had been the night before. Still, stars teased at the edge of her vision, and the back of her skull seemed to be bursting. Briefly, she wondered if she truly were trapped in the skeleton's little realm of the Forest. Perhaps he were lying, though she couldn't imagine why.
As the pain in her chest increased the thought nagged her more and more insistently until finally she broke off into a run, and flung herself wildly into the trees. The trees seemed to swallow her up. Where it had been day before, a pervasive gloom that made it almost dark as night overpowered her. She felt as if she had fallen inside one of that horrible skeleton's empty eye sockets. But her chest kept hurting, her head kept spinning, and her legs kept pumping, taking her deeper into that strange darkness. She became aware of the fact that trees seemed to disappear around her, that the darkness increased into utter darkness, beyond mere gloom. Suddenly she stopped moving. She was frozen in place. Time seemed to melt away. Hours, days, months trickled by. She felt like she were flattened out, like a word in a book, stored away on a dusty shelf. She could not remember to breathe, then discovered she could not feel her lungs expand when she tried. She could not feel her body. She could not feel at all. She was nothing.
Suddenly, the feeling was wrenched away, and she stood shaking, on the edge of the clearing. It was still day, but the drumming had stopped. The skeleton stood nearby in the clearing, his hollow skull blocking out the sun.
"No one likes the song," his voice said solemnly. "Even if they think they do."
"What was that?" Nami gasped, trying not to panic. "Where was I?"
"I thought you understood that there was no way out of my realm once you were inside."
"I thought that you were lying."
The skeleton tilted his skull to the side. "I have no reason to lie."
She nodded silently. Despite her best efforts, she found that her vision was blurring up, and when she blinked, tears seeped down her face. The weight of the last few days spilled over and her entire body was wracked with heaving, ungraceful sobs.
The skeleton stood by as she cried. He did not speak or move, he simply stood there. Unreal, strange, terrifying. But present. That was good enough for Nami.
When she had calmed down, she sat silently for a while.
"Who died?" the skeleton asked after a while.
"My sister," Nami replied, digging her fingers into the yellowing grass beneath her.
"What was her name?"
"Kendra," Nami replied.
"Talk about her," the skeleton said.
Nami looked back at him, the feeling of revulsion at his form less intense. "She was older than me by four years, but we were very close. We took care of each other. Well...." she choked. "She took care of me. Our parents left us when we were only kids."
The skeleton seemed expectant.
Nami continued through the rising flood. "She was kind and everyone loved her. She never felt lonely, even after she fell ill. She loved everyone too. She loved this stupid Forest. She even loved me." She blinked and tears slid down her face. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.
The autumn wind picked up and tossed her short hair around. The skeleton's cloak rose up, dark and lush, but he stood perfectly, inhumanly still.
The skeleton inclined his head and turned. He wandered away from the clearing and followed the neat little path to the house in the side of the sheer rock wall. Nami followed after him, and caught up to his long stride as he reached the house. He opened the door with a rattle of dry bones, and stood aside for Nami to enter.
She stood near the table and waited for him to close the door and block out the chill autumn wind. She caught herself, once again, staring with horror and revulsion at his frame, and quickly averted her eyes.
The skeleton seemed not to notice, and instead moved towards the fireplace, and after kindling a cheerful flame, he placed a copper kettle over it. Nami moved towards the fire and sat near it, warming herself.
"Are you making tea?" she asked, nodding over her shoulder.
"Yes," the skeleton's disembodied voice replied.
"Do you enjoy tea?"
The skeleton standing inhumanly still, replied, "I do not know,"
"Can you even," she paused. "Can you even drink?"
"No," the skeleton said, not unkindly. "I cannot taste or consume."
Nami felt a chill up her spine at the thought, wishing dearly she had not asked.
The kettle was soon hot and with his bare bone hand, the skeleton pulled it out of the fire. He poured it into a fine porcelain teacup, and gently placed it on the table. "For you," he said.
Nami nodded and politely sat at the table with the cup. She swallowed a wave of disgust at the utter wrongness of the situation, and forced a few sips. It did warm her up some, but she pushed it away, saying "This is very nice, but I'm exhausted."
"Very well." The skeleton waved towards the bed with a dry rattle. "You may sleep."
She forced herself to make what she thought of as eye-contact with his skull. "Thank you."
"It is nothing," he said.
Nami climbed into bed, and exhaustion folded over her, even blanketing her apprehension and sorrow in a deep, dark cloud.

When Nami woke the next day, she looked around the room apprehensively. It was cold, and she was grateful that she had slept in her snug clothing. She did not see the skeleton anywhere, and did not hear his drums, nor feel them. Not wanting to spend an entire day alone, she decided to look for him. She pulled on her boots and wrapped her jacket closely around her. As soon as she opened the door, she was nearly bowled over by a gale that splashed icy rain into her face.
Blinking through the torrent, she could see the skeleton, carrying two heavy cylinders across the clearing. She understood the meaning and rushed out into the storm. She fought her way across the clearing, slipping, nearly falling into the mud, opposed in her every step by the furious wind. The carpet of dead leaves under her was slick, and she strained her legs just to stay upright and she made her way down the path to the adjoining clearing. She grabbed a large drum, which was lighter than she thought it would be, and lugged it over her shoulder. Her balance was more precarious on the way back, but the wind was at least no longer against her.
She met the skeleton on the way back, but he did not speak. His bare bone feet made unpleasant noises in the mud and he seemed to be not so much walking, as stalking. She did not linger on him too long as she focused on getting the drum out of the rain. In the house cut into the sheer rock, she looked around for a place to even set the instrument in the small, low room and there was a door she was sure had never been there before, leading away from behind the fireplace into an even lower room. The other drums were already in here. She deposited the drum and rushed back into the storm. It was wet, laborious work, and while the drums were not heavy, Nami's arms felt limp and exhausted by the time she and the skeleton had rescued all of the drums from the storm. She was so far beyond cold that she barely even noticed until she heard a steady trickle coming from her clothing. She looked down at herself, at her pale hands, the veins showing through the bloodless skin, at her waterlogged clothing.
The skeleton, who had been arranging the drums in the low room, exited, and turned his attention towards his guest. "Are you alright?"
"Just a little tired."
"You overworked yourself. And you're soaked."
Nami smiled to herself to hear the skeleton express a concern like this. As if he could possibly worry about someone catching their death.
The skeleton's cloak seemed dry and fresh, utterly undisturbed by the storm, and she found herself longing to have her heavy clothes off and to warm herself by the fireplace.
"You're shivering," the skeleton said after a while.
Nami put her arms around herself, but she shook even more intensely.
"You need to get out of those clothes."
Nami nodded. "I don't have anything to change into."
The skeleton went to the bed and pulled out a chest from underneath it. He lifted the lid and found a bundle within that he presented to the girl. "It is the best I can do," he said, placing it in her hands. Nami was too focused on the cold to give it much thought, even touching his bony fingers as she did. The skeleton turned away politely as she peeled off her sopping clothing, which fell on the floor with an audible plop. She pulled on what the skeleton had given her, a shapeless shroud or maybe an ugly dress. It was far too long and she had to pull the excess back with a strip of loose cloth in order for it to stay on her. It smelled musty, but it was dry and clean.
"Thank you," the skeleton said, turning to look at her.
"For what?" she asked, squeezing the water out of her short hair.
"The drums," he replied.
"Oh. Well, they'd be ruined out there."
"Yes."
"Why don't you keep them closer to the house?"
"It doesn't rain much."
Nami did not feel that this was much of an answer, but she kept silent. The skeleton dug through the chest again and found a large thick cloth, almost the size of quilt. He went into the back room and Nami sat bemused for a while, while her hair dried and the fire sputtered. When she could toss her hair and droplets did not shower everywhere, she went to the doorway to the back room. The skeleton was using the cloth to wipe a drum off, sopping up water from the barrel, then from the skin, then he turned it carefully upside-down and wiped down the inside.
Nami watched him repeat this process for three more drums. She finally decided to make her presence known by coughing politely.
The skeleton tilted his skull upwards, and inexpressively looked at her.
"May I help?" she asked.
"I suppose." he replied. He gestured to a bare spot of floor. She went over to it and folded her legs as the skeleton tore the large cloth in two and gave her one piece.
She pulled a smaller drum towards herself and shook it out, then carefully wiped it down inside and out. She remained intent and focused on the task for a while, drum after drum. She noted how beautiful some were, carved with ornate designs around the barrel, whereas others seemed almost unfinished, with tree bark still lingering on them and rough knots in the wood.
"Did you make these yourself?" She asked after laying aside one covered in a rich black lacquer.
"Not all of them."
Nami knew this was not a proper answer either, but decided not to press it. "I'm sorry for bothering you so much."
The skeleton laid aside the drum he was drying off. "It's no bother."
"Well, you make it seem like it is."
"It is simply," he said meditatively. "That you want to know things I cannot explain. Some things just are." He pulled a large upright drum towards himself. "And for a girl with apparently such minimal social skills, you still talk more than I am used to."
"Oh." Nami decided not to reply beyond this, and wiped off a small bongo drum furiously.
"It's all right." The skeleton said. "It is nice."
Nami felt a pang of unexpected pity for the skeleton. She wondered how long he'd been out here alone, uncommunicative, unemotional, and unable to leave, forever compelled to play drums. To be something that just is.
"Tell me about where you come from," the skeleton suggested.
"Well, I live in the East," she paused for a minute. "Of Clocktown. I've never been to the West."
"West," the skeleton said, his disembodied voice sounding almost wistful. "What is the difference?"
"Well, lots apparently. East is for magic, West is for clocks and things. They built a giant Clock tower and put a wall around it to keep the sides separated. Going through the tower is the only way to get to the West, but it's guarded too heavily to get past unless you have papers."
"Why must they be separated?"
"Well they... I don't really know," she said lamely. "They're too different I guess. They manufacture, we farm, they make rules, we live free." She paused. "I guess it doesn't make a lot of sense."
The skeleton did not reply, so she plunged on.
"In the East, anyway, there's a big market in the center of the town where everyone trades their goods, there's a bunch of farms along the edge of the Forest where we grow our food. Every night there's a bonfire and musicians play and things. Kendra always loved it, but I only went few times."
She fell into silence as she dried the inside of a barrel. "Most people in the East can do magic. All kinds. They say it's because of the Forest. But Kendra never could and neither could I. Some people just aren't gifted."
She laid the drum aside, and looked around the room, surprised to see that all of the drums had been dried.
"Where do you come from, if not from Clocktown?" Nami asked after a moment.
"I don't know."
It seemed to Nami that the skeleton was full of mystery, an empty void. She had reasoned that he was once a human, covered in skin and sinew, that nothing was created dead to begin with. But now she wondered.
"You've stopped talking," the skeleton observed.
Nami nodded. "We've finished."
"So we have."
Nami opened her mouth to say something, but sneezed several times instead. The skeleton, as much as an inexpressive being could, seemed surprised. "You are ill."
"No, no." Nami said surreptitiously wiping her face in the shapeless clothing she was wearing. "I'm fine."
"You haven't eaten either. Shall I make you something?"
Nami was surprised to find that she was hungry, and the thought of food, even food prepared by a skeleton, was tantalizing. She nodded. "If it's no trouble."
It wasn't. He somehow managed to pull together the ingredients for pumpkin soup and boiled it on the large pot over the fire. As it bubbled and the air in the little house filled with the aroma, Nami sat at the table watching him.
"Where do you get the food from? Or is that another thing you can't answer?"
The skeleton tapped his face where his nose logically would have been, were he covered in skin. The motion struck Nami as rather funny, as if he were play-acting at life.
"Can you do magic?"
He tilted his skull thoughtfully. "You'd probably call it that."
"Were you alive once?" The question leapt out of her mouth like a snake. She put her hand over her mouth as soon as it were out.
The skeleton's hollow eye sockets seemed to bore into her.
"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to... never mind." Her face burned red, and she turned away.
"Would that be a comfort to you?" the skeleton asked, moving across the room to stand in front of her. "To know that I was once like you?"
Nami did not look at him. The comfort she had felt while dealing with the drums was gone. He was a strange, impossibly wrong creature again. A wave of sickness crashed over her.
She shook her head. His inexpressive grin was impossible to escape, even though she was not looking at it. She hated it.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Please, please go away."
The skeleton moved off and Nami looked up. He turned his back at her. With his cloak obscuring most of his body, she could imagine he was a living human. She hated herself for it.
The skeleton moved to the pot and scooped out a large ladle-full of soup. He put it in an ornate glass bowl and placed it on the table in front of her.
"I'm sorry," Nami said, looking up at him.
"You cannot help being frightened," the skeleton said calmly. "It is a natural response."
Nami reached out and touched the edge of his cloak. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. Then again, and she said "I don't want to be afraid any more."
She slid her hand down his arm, feeling the small imperfections of the bone, amazed by the smoothness of it, holding her nausea at bay. Her hand came to rest on his. She looked at his hand for a long while, the sharp ends, the sockets that held the fingers to knuckles without the aid of muscle or skin. It was wrong and strange, but she began to feel self conscious about her own skin, it seemed bulky and tiresome compared to the skeleton's lean figure. Her mind began to question why he alone had the luxury of surviving without it.
But not so different. She could not fault him for it.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
The skeleton's face betrayed nothing, but his voice was soft. "Apology accepted."
Nami took the bowl of soup and sipped it quietly.
It rained again the next day, and after that a chill settled in the air. Nami's breath made smoke in the air while the skeleton said little and breathed never. Three days after the first storm, they fulfilled the task of carrying the drums back to the smaller clearing and arranging them on the now hard, frozen ground. Nami cast less nervous glances at the skeleton, focusing her stray worries on the question of whether she would ever get home. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep track of how long she has been with the skeleton, despite her days being long and monotonously dull, as the skeleton went out to play the drums for hours, and Nami was left alone. She cleaned, and arranged meager furniture in the little cave-house, and explored the immediate trees but there was nothing interesting in them, neither fruit nor small animals. About a week after the rain, Nami had climbed into a tree not far from the cave-house at the edge of the clearing, and was wondering whether she could make herself new clothing from scraps. She was braced for the pounding of the drums, and when they never began, she was startled. She was coming to think of the drums as a constant. To not hear them as she sat there concerned her. She was about to climb down from the tree when she looked around and saw the skeleton standing near the tree, staring up at her with his eager eye sockets.
"You're bored," he stated.
"Yes," she answered truthfully. "It's not your fault."
"I'm a poor host." He held a bony hand out to her for a moment as if to offer her assistance, then pulled it back quickly, as if surprised. Nami, wondering, swung down from the tree and brushed the bark and needles from her clothing.
"Well, what is there to do in the two great clearings?"
The skeleton grinned, as always. Without a word, he stalked off in the direction of the drum clearing. Nami followed him, wonderingly. He nearly reached the path to the other clearing, then veered off to the left. There a new path seemed to open up in front of him, Nami could almost see the woods readjusting themselves from the corner of her eye. It felt like the door in the corner of the house she had not noticed until it was needed. But why look for sense in a realm ruled by an animated skeleton? They wandered along, and the constantly shifting path led them farther and farther from the clearings. She wondered if he was taking her home, but remembered the flat, empty feeling from her failed escape. Escape. It was dull, but why escape? And to what? An empty house? A city divided for no discernible reason? A world without Kendra?
As she walked in silence along the constantly shifting path, she started to notice the trees. It was late autumn, and most of the leaves should have been brown and shriveled by now, but these were tinged with deep reds, fiery oranges, sunny yellows that were still chasing the green out of their veins. With each new turn in the path, new trees with new beautiful leaves were revealed. She stopped and knelt at by one sapling oak, and touched the leaf longingly.
"It's beautiful," she exclaimed.
"Yes," the skeleton said.
"Are you doing this?"
He did not reply.
They remained a while longer and Nami noticed a sharpness sting the air that it had not had previously. It cut through her like glass. She stood. "Let's continue."
They walked a bit farther and the leaves here were a perfect symphony of red. All of the leaves, everywhere she looked, were uniformly red, like a beating heart of trees. She did not speak, simply stopped walking. The skeleton looked back at her, then paused too. They remained still for a long moment, Nami soaking it all in, as if she too would be painted red if she stood long enough.
"Where are we?" She asked after a while.
"Somewhere else." The skeleton said. He turned his skull to its side and observed her. "Do you like it here?"
"Most of all." She said quietly.
When she had finally drunk her fill of the red leaves, she stepped forward and was surprised to hear a faint crunch. She looked down at her foot and found that the thin frost had formed on the ground, and as she stepped forward she saw that the beautiful red leaves ahead where icing over too.
"Oh no," she said. "Your lovely leaves will be ruined."
The skeleton simply nodded towards her. "Everything passes, you should know that."
Nami nodded. "I wish the best things lasted a bit longer." She stopped again, and stood in front of the skeleton, looking up at him. "Thank you. Really."
"You do not need to thank me."
"You haven't had to do any of this."
"What makes you think I have?"
She smiled. "I just know."
They walked on, crunching across the advancing frost, and found themselves back at the main clearing. Nami looked behind her, but there was no path, as she had suspected. She smiled again to herself, and looked back at the skeleton. He had been so kind to her. How could she fear some like him?
They went inside the cave house and Nami seated herself on her bed.
"I wish Kendra could have seen those leaves," she stated. "She had an eye for the truly beautiful."
The skeleton put a kettle over the fire, and approached the bed. He tilted his head, implying that he wished to listen.
"She understood it, I guess," Nami continued, more softly. "Beauty likely understands beauty, that makes sense. And Kendra was beautiful."
"So are you," the skeleton said.
Nami looked up at him, her mouth slightly agape, managing to close her mouth, then reopen it and ask very simply, "What?"
"You are beautiful," the skeleton replied. "I can see it very clearly."
Nami looked away and waved her hand at him vaguely. "You are kind, but mistaken."
"What exactly do you disagree with about my statement?"
"Well, it's not true. At all." Nami's face was burning, she almost felt angry at the skeleton for bringing up her appearance. Here, with him, the last place it should have mattered. "You never met Kendra. She was beautiful, her hair, her skin, her figure, even when she was ill. I am nothing like her."
The skeleton's voice sounded confused. "Nami, you are not supposed to be like Kendra."
The statement hung in the air, like he had just slapped her in the face with his bony hand. The burning in her face suddenly intensified and tears welled up in her eyes. "What would you know about it?" she muttered quietly, feeling angry that she felt so angry at him. He did not understand the world of humans, why would he? Why should she fault him for it?
Tears slid out of her eyes, and she tried to blink them away.
"I have made you sad." The skeleton quietly stated.
She shook her head. "No," she said, and she instinctively reached out a hand as if to lay it on his, before realizing that he was only bone. She pulled away.
The skeleton tilted his skull. "I do not lie."
The kettle shrieked and he moved away to make tea.
Nami pawed at her face. "What must you think of me, constantly falling apart?"
The skeleton's grin seemed genuine. "What indeed. Miss Nami, let me tell you a story."
Nami looked up, puzzled, the typically taciturn skeleton man had never really spoke beyond responses.
"There was a man once who loved a woman, she was very pretty, very desirable. The man thought he was too, and he was rich, you know, drank out of crystal goblets and fine china cups. He pursued her, sent her flowers and berries and dresses, and she would have none of it. It distressed the man so much, he wondered what she could find disagreeable about him. He took to sneaking around her home, shadowing her movements as she visited friends and markets and the like. And he discovered that she was denying him because she loved another man. And he was not handsome, he was fat and freckled, and he never sent her a single exotic rose because he was too poor, but he opened doors for her, and he never followed her home and he saved the money he had to buy her a lovely diamond ring, and she married him. The rich man who drank from crystal goblets and fine china cups could not understand why the woman loved the fat freckled man more than he, and his distress grew so much that he could think of nothing else. So after he took tea one day, in his fine china cups, he strung up a rope and hung himself."
Nami looked up from the depths of her teacup. "Why?"
"Because you will go mad if you always compare yourself to someone else."
"But the girl, she was pretty, that's all that mattered about her, that's all that mattered to the men."
"Is it? She saw that the fat, freckled, poor man better than the man who drank out of crystal goblets. Seeing the good in people that others cannot see is a trait that is worth more than beauty. And you're deliberately missing the point."
She ventured a small smile. "Yes." She shook off a sudden shiver, and absently sipped at her tea as the frost crumpled the leaves outside.

It was cold outside the next day, and Nami pulled the blanket off the bed and curled it around herself, dragging it across the stricken leaves. The drums were pounding in the distance. Her chest ached, but it was dull, like a bruise, not the crippling sensation it was before, when she had first journeyed into the Forest, and trapped herself in her beautiful prison. Beautiful? Is that what it was? The leaves yesterday had certainly been a sight, but was the entire situation, skeleton and all, beautiful? She thought of his peculiar actions yesterday, the walk, the leaves, the story... yes. Nami found herself, without horror, realizing that staying here forever would not be so horrible at all. She and her skeleton man and their strange little home together. She could not only endure it, but enjoy it. It was more than she could expect in her old life, even before Kendra's illness.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, and set off down the path that led to the clearing with the drums. She found the skeleton there, beating the drums with that inexpressive fury, a soft rap on one, a steady barrage on another, seeming to dance among them. The pain was more insistent, but hurt far less than it had the day she tried to escape. Or the day she arrived. Both felt like they were worlds away. The skeleton did not look up, but dutifully continued the strange melody. Nami felt like she were swept away on the steady rhythm, and before she really knew what she was doing, she spun around, still clutching the blanket. It whirled around her like a proper lady's skirts. She spun and spun, until she was so dizzy she nearly fell. She paused, and the world swirled around her. She stumbled and crumpled into a heap, the blanket pooled around her. The music ceased after a moment, and she found herself looking up into the hollow sockets that seemed to be the skeleton's eyes.
"You should be more careful." He said, a strange softness to his voice.
Nami tilted her head. The ground, covered in delicate frost, was freezing.
The skeleton extended a skinless hand to her and she took it, without thinking. The points of his fingers shocked her, but only slightly, and with a surprising strength he lifted her to her feet. He released her quickly, and put his hand behind his back, as if ashamed.
"Thank you," she said, looking away.
When she turned back, he was nowhere to be seen. The drums stood dutifully, but the skeleton was gone. Confused, Nami stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then she shrugged, trying to rationalize an explanation for his sudden disappearance, and began to head back to the other clearing. She heard a creak in the trees behind her, and turned to find the skeleton again, holding a bundle of leaves.
"Where did you-"
The skeleton splayed out the leaves and held them up to her for inspection. "Which do you like best?"
She raised an eyebrow, but it was impossible to tell if the skeleton had an ironic bone in his very visible body. She looked at them. There was a vibrant red, a buttery yellow with hints of orange, and one, still partially green, with a red just peeking around its edges, and spots of brown and yellow about. She pointed to the latter.
"I like this one, just starting to change."
The skeleton nodded in a way that seemed solemn.
Nothing about the exchange made any sense to Nami, and when she looked at her feet, and then back up again, she was only mildly surprised at the fact that the skeleton had disappeared again. She wondered if he made a habit of vanishing, and she had simply never noticed because she assumed he was at the drums. But then, the drums had been playing less and less lately. She wondered who or what compelled him to play, and if there were any punishment should he stop entirely. She approached a nearby drum, a large black lacquered one nearly three feet high. Seeing as the skeleton could not be accounted for, she traced her right hand across the skin on top, and tentatively rapped it with her knuckles. The low resonation sent a shiver down her spine. She hit it a little harder, and the sensation was almost crippling, sending an anxious pain down her arm and into her her veins, causing her heart to pound almost out of control. She felt the panic again, but tried to suppress it. After all, the skeleton could hit them to no ill effect, day after day, why not her?
She hit it again, and the pain seemed even worse, and her fingers and hand that she had hit the drum with seemed numb. She held the hand up and tested her fingers, feeling sharp pinpricks along them, her hand regaining sensation. She gritted her teeth and hit the drum again, with her left hand. The same pain shot through it, but she felt something else this time, an overwhelming loneliness. She looked up and saw that she simply stood in a clearing with drums, somewhere detached from a big Forest, detached from the entire world. She flung herself away from the big drum. She was detached, always, even before now. Kendra had been her only link to the world, and without her she was drifting away. A few minutes passed before her mind returned from the dark depths it was exploring, and she realized that her hands were freezing, and, upon closer inspection, definitely turning blue. The ground crunched softly beneath her feet as she stamped off towards the cave house and the promise of a fire.
The path back to the clearing with the cave house seemed loner, with her head down to the wind and the frosted grass crunching away beneath her feet. She felt like a giant in a glass world. She hated the feeling, of being huge and indelicate. Kendra had been a dancer, so graceful that Nami doubted she ever broke an eggshell.
The clearing opened up before her, it seemed bigger, more exposed that before. The long walk across it seemed like an endless, overwhelming task. Her chest and arms ached terribly. She idly wondered how pathetic she was, it seemed all she had ever done with her life was be too weak for this, or that. It seemed unfair that Kendra was the one whose physical weakness had ultimately taken her away. Her mind trailed across what the skeleton had said the night before, about comparing herself to others until she went mad. But then, he was a living skeleton. She wasn't entirely sure if she should heed his advice on sanity.
Consumed in her mind, she was almost surprised to arrive at the door of the house. She did not want to go in. It was the same everywhere, she supposed. Nami never wanted to be anywhere, because she would always be there. She pushed against the door, then stopped, and paused. She turned around suddenly and found herself face to face with the skeleton.
"How long have you been there?" she gasped, her heart in her throat.
"Were you expecting something worse than me?"
Nami considered this, then shook her head.
"See, nothing to fear. I have a gift for you, miss Nami."
"A gift?"
The skeleton presented her with a small bundle, tied up with a silky red ribbon. Nami looked at him.
"Whatever for?"
The skeleton did not reply and simply placed it in her hands, with the slightest brush of bone on her skin.
Nami carefully untied the ribbon, and found a bundle of cloth inside, she held it up, and it unfurled in the wind. It was a dress, with a billowing skirt and train that flung out for a foot or two. It was all one piece, not very Western, but neither very Eastern. Most remarkably, she realized, it was a mimic of the leaf she had picked out. Mostly green, but tinged with red towards the sides, with spots of yellow and brown about it. It even had veins roped across it, she realized. It was made out of some soft, shining material, not quite like silk, nor like velvet, but the best parts of both textures. The design was very fine, the work exquisite. It was the most beautiful dress Nami had ever seen.
"What is this for?'
"You," the skeleton's voice replied.
"But it's..." her voice died. It was a beautiful dress.
"Yours." The skeleton said.
"How did you-?"
"I made it," the skeleton said vaguely.
The dress was too much, Nami knew somewhere in her rational mind. But she could picture herself wearing it, the bell sleeves dropping off of her shoulders, the skirt pooled after her.
It was lovely.
"Now all of the leaves won't catch frost," the skeleton intoned.
Nami clutchd the dress, and pulled it close, as if it would fly away. "Thank you," she breathed, overwhelmed, and without thinking, she threw her arms around him. He was, as can be expected, pointy and sharp and thin and strange and uncomfortable to embrace. She pulled away from him carefully. He said nothing, his hollow eye sockets void of any emotion. Nami's face shot red, and she turned away.
"Thank you," she mumbled again. She then darted into the house. She determined not to wear the dress. Not ever.
#
It was quiet the next day. A sort of muffled quiet, as if there were noise just beyond it. The drums were there, pounding away, but other than that was a blanket of silence that stretched across the world. Nami went outside after scarfing down a bit of breakfast (toast and cheese that was laid out on the table for her) and some tea, and discovered why. The whole clearing was overlaid with snow, soft and clean and bright, glittering white. It was not very deep, but fat snowflakes whirling down lazily from the grey sky promised it would get there, given time.
Nami saw her breath dance before her in the air, and despite the drumming, the silence was impressive. It was as if the entire world were holding its own breath. Or at least, the little world here, with her and the skeleton. She saw no footprints across the snow, and wondered how long it had been falling. And how long the skeleton had been playing.
She had always liked snow, crisp and freezing as it was, and this gentle downy snow was best of all. She threw herself into the snow, laughing to herself. She began to pack the snow nearby into ball, then added more and more. Once it was a good size, she placed it on the ground, and built more snow up around it. She began forming a second ball, this one she rolled around the ground until it was a good size, and much more round than the first. This, once it was a decent size, she placed on top of the first. She began grabbing up more snow to form a third, smaller ball, when she realized the drumming had stopped again. She looked around, and sure enough, the skeleton was looming over her, silent, his empty eyes vast as the grey skies.
"I'm making a snowman," she said, answering what he did not ask. "You don't seem to play much anymore."
"Yes," the skeleton replied. "The drums will always be there, but not the snow."
Nami placed the top on the snowman, and used her fingers to poke holes in it, making a sort of face.
"Are your hands cold?" the skeleton asked.
Nami looked down at them. They were very red and she realized, had been burning in pain for quite a while. How had she not noticed?
"Yes." She said. Then she realized that she was cold all over, that her skin clothes weren't nearly warm enough to fight the early snow. She started shivering.
The skeleton, without prompting, pulled his cloak off and threw it over Nami's shoulders. It was very warm, and the rich crushed velvet was luxurious. Nami pulled it closer. It was unsettling to see the skeleton there, though, completely naked, all bony and anything but alive.
"It was strange," Nami said, averting her eyes out of politeness. "Like I'd forgotten I needed to stay warm until you mentioned it."
"Yes," the skeleton replied.
Nami lay back on the snow and spread her arms and legs as far as they would go. She stood up carefully and admired the misshaped impression in the snow. The cloak made it bulkier, but it was undeniably a form of a creature with spread wings and a trailing dress. The skeleton stared at it for a while, and while his face told nothing, Nami had the feeling he was confused.
"Have you never made snow impressions before?"
"It never snows here," the skeleton responded distantly.
Nami somehow doubted that was the reason.
The skeleton turned his skull to look at her, and he stared for such a length of time that Nami grew self conscious, and began to shake snowflakes out of her hair.
He extended a hand to her, and she was drawn inexorably towards him. She took his hand, sharp and unpleasant as it was, it seemed oddly warm and inviting. She felt something about her change, and realized that her clothing had somehow transformed into the leaf dress he had given her the previous day. She felt even more self conscious, as he pulled her towards him, her skirt leaving a trail across the snow. There was no music, but she felt as she had before, dancing, and whirling, and spinning, and she could not explain why, but she felt compelled to keep dancing. And this time it was the skeleton, not the drums, that seemed to compel her to move, and she did, even though his strange bony fingers were at her waist, and clasping her hand, and even though his naked feet followed hers across the snow. They danced in the new snow, the living girl in her leaf dress, and the skeleton, bare and dead. The frozen world was perfectly silent, like holding its breath, barely daring to even kiss them with stray flakes.
And yet, there was a sort of music in the silence, in the rhythmic spins and turns, the pas-de-deux seemed to mimic the beat of the skeleton's drums, or perhaps just the pounding of Nami's heart. Against all reason, it beat and beat and beat, and for every beat, a footfall, a dance that would not end, a whirl that she dare not leave. In all their already small world, there was now only they, and the frozen world could wait.
Time seemed to pass, the sun seemed to join their dance, he sliding unseen behind his grey shroud. Nami was aware of the cold as others are of a dripping faucet, it only bothered her when she put her mind to it. She thought they must have been dancing for hours, and that her legs should be very sore, but she found her mind sliding off of anything but the steps, the silent rhythm, the music of their movement. But the one thing she could not ignore was the pain in her chest. It was dull, and ached, but as the dance wore on, it became unbearable. She danced by sheer force of will. She bit her lip, and was surprised to find it tasted of blood.
The skeleton suddenly let go of her, and she spun to a stop, the snow crunching beneath her suddenly graceless feet. She looked at him.
"I am sorry," the skeleton said.
The world seemed to still be in a whirl and the exhaustion fell over Nami. Her hands burned with cold, her feet were numb, her head pounded, and her heart pounded so fiercely she felt like it would give out She collapsed, her skirt billowing after her, a perfect image in the snow, beside the impression she had left, and a million footprints tracing a dance between the living and dead. New snowflakes continued falling, and the skeleton knelt to pick her up.
#
Nami was slow in waking. She body hurt. All the blood in her veins seemed to be pounding out the rhythm of the skeleton's drums. As she opened her eyes lights danced in front of her and she nearly fell back into the black abyss she had struggled from to wake.
She felt a touch on her skin, and it brought her back. It was smooth and ever so pointy, the fingertips of the skeleton's hand on her. She opened her eyes and twisted her head around, the skeleton seemed to be pressing against the pressure points on her leg.
"You're awake," he stated.
"Yes," Nami agreed.
"You've been asleep for a long time." His strange, not entirely unpleasant touch traced up her skin, and he placed it on a point along her forearm. The drag of his bony fingertips along her skin chilled her, she got goosebumps. He released the pressure, and the knot of pain and tension in her arm lessened. "But you'll be fine."
He pulled his hands away with an odd, delicate movement, and hid them in the folds of his cloak, as if ashamed of them.
"You don't have to stop," Nami murmured. The words hung in the air, and she could not take them back.
The skeleton tentatively touched her face, traced the curve of her cheek. Nami found that the drumming in her chest had not stopped this whole time, and when he touched her the pain seemed to die down.
The skeleton turned away from her, and hurried away, out of the cave house, as if he had forgotten something important.
Nami sat up, and felt the pain in her chest stronger. She dressed herself, carefully, so as not to cause her body any more distress, and went outside. The skeleton was standing at the other side of the clearing, staring into the barren trees.
The snow was hard, and slippery beneath Nami's feet, and the wind bit into her and threatened to rip her skin clean off as she approached him.
"What is wrong?" she shouted over the wind. When she got closer to him, she repeated, "What is wrong?"
The skeleton turned to regard her and said, in his strangely polite, disembodied voice, "You were right about me from the very start." He said it so quietly, Nami almost thought she had imagined what he had said.
"What do you mean?" She asked, trying to keep her hair out of her eyes.
"I have lied to you. I've been lying this entire time."
He extended a hand to a hitherto unnoticed path through the trees. Nami could see through it, even at a great distance, that it led into East Clocktown.
She looked up at him. "Why would you do that?"
The skeleton turned to face her, and his unchangeable face seemed desperately sad, his voice and demeanor wretched. "Because I wanted you to stay with me."
"But... why?" Nami's mind was reeling.
"Because you were so lovely."
"But..." Nami paused.
"The living," the skeleton intoned, as if it were a memorized verse. "Have no place among the dead. You must go home."
Nami put her hand down, and her hair blew into her face. A great chasm seemed to have opened up before her. She could see herself trudging home, and she knew it was the last thing that she wanted. "I do not want to leave. I..." Tears were stinging her eyes. There was too much to take in. "I love you."
The skeleton sighed deeply, a sigh as lonely as the moon, and he folded his bare bony arms around her. Nami blinked more tears away. Her chest ached terribly.
"I almost let you lose yourself yesterday and if that happened, I could never, never forgive myself."
"Why?" she mumbled.
"Because when you lose yourself here, you will never find yourself again. You will die if you stay here with me."
"Why is that such a bad thing? There's nothing there for me."
"Nami," he held her at arm's length. "There is truly nothing here for you. This is a phase, no one wants to dwell nowhere forever. You must move on."
"I can't," she sobbed, fresh tears pouring down her face. "What will I do?"
The skeleton tilted his skull to the side. "Why, Nami, you will dance."
She looked down and found that she was wearing the green leaf dress again, shot with red and a million veins. It was beautiful as ever. She looked up at the skeleton.
"And this time, it will not hurt you." He looked at her, for a long moment, or seemed to, and his endless, empty eyes seemed more empty than ever before. "You will see me again, someday." The skeleton's voice seemed already distant, and he gave her a push down the path through the trees, and she seemed to float forward, compelled by a force she could not control. And in a few minutes Nami found herself blinking in overcast sunlight.
She looked behind her, at the trees she had emerged from. There was no path. She could not go back. She bit her lip. Her chest, she found, did not ache, nor her head, nor her limbs. The whole thing could have been a dream, but the dress was still there, as lovely as ever. She leaned against the biggest nearby tree, and thought of the skeleton, forever drumming the song of death.
"Goodbye," she whispered, and shoved herself up from the tree. She blinked back tears and held her head high, and walked the long way back home, through the market.
"Nami?" A voice asked, in genuine surprise, as she neared the edges of the bustling marketplace.
She turned and looked. It was a young man she had seen around a few times, possibly an acquaintance of Kendra's, but he seemed completely foreign to Nami.
"It is you, Nami!" the young man said, smiling kindly. "No one has seen you in ages, how have you been?"
Nami did not reply.
"I heard about your sister," he said solemnly. "My sincere condolences."
Nami nodded. "Thank you, that means a lot."
She moved away, unsure of her surroundings, back to her house. The world seemed large, and the people unpredictable. She sat outside and watched as the grey sky shifted to pink. It had seemed like such a long time since she had seen the world not framed by trees.
She heard a drumming, but it was different from the drumming of the skeleton, and soon joined by singing and stringed instruments and laughter. And Nami couldn't help but smile despite herself. And she stood up and twirled, and her skirt whirled around her. And the music did not hurt, nor the dancing. The ache was gone.

Absinthe

2010-08-30T15:51:00.000-07:00

The Bohemian Method

When Amelia woke, she knew she was not alone in her room. She sat up too fast, felt lightheaded for a moment. She tasted blood in her mouth and felt a slight trickle from her nose. The room felt dry, warm. The air smelled like fresh tobacco.
“I like it when you bleed,” a voice said from the corner of the room.
She turned and saw the man, lounging in the chair by the vanity, cigarette in hand, the glow reflected in the mirror behind. He grinned. His teeth were very white, very even, even in the darkness of the room. Her heart was hammering.
“You,” she said, struggling against the quaver in her voice.
“Me,” he responded. “Always me.”
He stood and approached her bed. With his free hand, he pulled a tissue from the pocket of his suit coat and offered it to her. She averted her eyes and took the tissue, dabbing at the blood.
He was incredibly tall, and his features, while attractive, were almost unremarkable. Almost, were it not for his eyes, which, even in the dim moonlight seeping in from the window, were the most brilliant shade of green, a neon color, a digital color, a toxic color. Up close, he smelled too sweet, like cotton-candy and peppermint, and his pure black suit was tailored perfectly, his black tie practically gleamed in the dim light. He hurt Amelia’s head.
“It’s been so long, darling,” he said, pulling his free hand through her hair while in his other the cigarette steadily burned. “Or is it sugar today?”
“It’s nothing,” she said, turning her head from him.
“Never nothing. You’re not being fair.” He grasped her hair and pulled her head up to look at him. “Never nothing.” His tone was even.
She looked into his strange eyes and wanted to shiver. “Why are you here?”
“For you, of course. I can’t leave you alone for too long, stupid girl,” he said, showing her his white teeth again. “Out of bed.”
She cast a sideways glance at the clock. “Why now? Why not till morning?”
“Because you are so very special,” he said, grasping her hair again. He pulled until she simply toppled over. He raised an eyebrow. “Ugly little girl,” he hissed. “You get out of bed immediately.”
Amelia slid off of the bed like some sort of invertebrate. She was tempted to lie in a heap at his feet for a long time, but the toes of his shoes, gleaming and brilliant, were pointed at her stomach. She raised herself, and was surprised when he offered her his hand. She reluctantly took it and stood. He took a drag on his cigarette as he led her out of the room, into the gloomy hallway. The air seemed stale in here. The sweet smell of him was even more pronounced. Her heart was still, she realized, beating too fast. He led her to the tiny living room and left her standing in the middle of the room.
He flicked on a light and scrutinized her as she squinted her night-adjusted eyes. “You’re getting fat,” he said.
She nodded silently.
“Can’t blame a man for leaving if you’re all hips and stomach now, Amelia.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.
“Of course it does,” he said. “What matters to you matters to me.” He pushed his hand into her plump stomach until she fell onto the couch.
He pinched her nose and closed his hand over her mouth for a long while, taking another drag on his cigarette, watching her expression change, her brown eyes widen, her eyebrows raise.
“If you would learn to just listen.” He said. “You hear me talking but you never listen to me, darling.”
She shook her head side to side, but his hold on her held.
“Quit being useless and pathetic. Just listen.”
She stopped struggling against him, and he let go of her face. She gasped for air. He looked at the indents his nails had left, and frowned.
“It’s easier if you obey me,” he said, kissing her forehead.
She nodded, silent.
He smiled and swept a strand of her bed-tousled brown hair out of her face. He pushed himself up from the couch and did a turn around the room, his brilliant eyes missing nothing.
“You haven’t been dusting,” he noted, almost to himself, running his free hand along the bookshelf.
“No, I haven’t really had time,” she said, watching him carefully.
“Books are out of order too,” he said, fondling the spines of a paperback trilogy as he took another drag from his cigarette. In a swift movement, he pulled the three books off of the shelf and tossed them onto the floor.
“You should rearrange them. Why haven’t you time?”
“My work, the illness, I-”
“You can’t leave them on the floor, can you?”
“No, I-” Amelia slid off the couch and picked up the books.
“Honestly,” the man said, eyeing her. “I give you every opportunity.”
She stood and shelved the books in their proper order.
“If you’re so ill,” the man continued. “Why are you still bothering to work at all? Don’t you hate the drudgery. Isn’t it the real illness?”
“I have to work,” Amelia replied, her hands lingering over the spines of the books.
“Still out of order,” he said. “This shelf has no theme. Try again.” This time the man pulled most of the books from the shelf and tossed them at Amelia’s feet.
Silently, she knelt and began gathering the books, trying not to crumple their pages as she did.
“You have to do something with your life, Amelia. You have so much to offer. Your body, your soul, they’re dying from this little house, this little job, this little life. Your illness is you.”
She stood and began lining up the books alphabetically. The man stroked her hair as she did so. Goosebumps formed on her skin. Amelia clenched her teeth and finished shelving.
“You don’t understand, little girl,” he said. He clenched the cigarette between his teeth and pulled the bookshelf over. Books spilled onto the floor, some with covers bent and spines broken from the shelf.
He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke. “You just don’t listen,” he said, as she stared at him, tears forming in her eyes.
“I own you, darling.” The man said sincerely. “You have to follow.”
She knelt to pick up the books that had fallen around her feet and he shook his head. “They don’t belong there.”
“Where do they belong?”
He stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and motioned for Amelia to follow. She did, still clutching the books she had retrieved from the floor. Across the room was the kitchen, and in the kitchen was a door to the backyard, little more than a wide swathe of grass before the woods. He opened the door and she followed him outside. The warm summer air smelled like ash, and the sky seemed ablaze with orange and red. The man did not seem bothered, or to even notice. He simply led Amelia into the woods. He knew the path he was taking well. He did not get so much as a wrinkle on his impeccable suit, but Amelia tripped over roots and struggled across slippery patches of moss in her barefeet. She started when an racoon ran across their path, and the man glanced back at her.
“You’re such a child,” he said, continuing.
After several minutes, they arrived at a tight clearing, where the orange blaze was revealed to be a large bonfire.
There was an old white chair sitting out in front of it.
“Sit,” the man commanded.
Amelia did, clutching more tightly the paperbacks she had brought along.
“You know, the Hindus believe that fire is a reflection of the supreme being,” he said conversationally. “To throw yourself in is to achieve a sort of oneness with him.” He leaned over her chair and exhaled smoke onto her shoulder.
She nodded, almost to herself.
“You’re scared,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “You never need to be. I’m here to protect you.”
“Would you protect me from the fire?” she said, looking up, into those strange eyes, for maybe the first time that night.
“If you beg me for it.”
She looked back at the fire. She heard him begin to hum, a slow, lilting melody.
“I know that song,” she said, watching the flames lap up the wood piled high beneath it.
“Lavender Blue,” he replied.
“I had a music box once that played it. It was supposed to be happy, but it made me sad.”
“Everything is sad when it’s slowed down enough,” he said quietly.
“Lavender's blue, lavender's green, When I am king, you shall be queen. Who told you so, who told you so? 'Twas my own heart, that told me so,” the man sang softly.
“While you and I keep ourselves warm,” Amelia said distantly.
“That comes later,” he said, flicking his cigarette into the fire. He pulled the books out of her hands, and she did not resist. He set them, almost reverently, in the ashes of the bonfire, where their paper covers curled up under the heat and caught the blaze instantly.
Amelia watched for a while, she reached out instinctively, as if to pick them up again, but the heat rose up to meet her and she pulled her hand away.
“I’m scared,” she said looking up at him helplessly.
From the recesses of his suit-coat he pulled out a small gold box. “You’re gonna beg before it’s over, little girl.” He placed it in her hands.
She pulled it close to herself. It was a music box, she knew. And she was sure she knew what song it played, even before she wound the key.
“I will be queen and you will be king,” she murmured.
“Not exactly,” he said. He leaned down and he closed his mouth on hers, kissing her fiercely. She released the key in the music box and the melody spilled out, as she grasped the collar of his perfect white dress-shirt, and returned the kiss.
#
When Amelia woke the next day, her head pounded, but the air was easy to breathe. She had tangled up the sheets and took a minute to detach herself. Her body ached when she sat up, as it always seemed to anymore, and visions of fire danced around her mind. She placed her feet on the floor, which was surprisingly cold. She wandered into the living room on her way to the kitchen for breakfast leftovers, but she paused at the bookshelf for a moment. There was nothing missing.

The French Method

Amelia sat on her porch, watching the sun escape the sky. It was cold, not cold enough to snow, but the chill hung in the air, like a delicate butterfly. Amelia’s nose was red, her cheeks red, her fingertips almost numb. She saw him approaching for a long time. She did not call out to him, the man who was a speck on the darkening horizon. He had seemingly materialized onto the uneven pavement leading to her little hidden away house by the woods. The closer he got, the more she remembered of him, the forgettably good-looking face, broad, tall body. It wasn’t until he was standing on the porch that she remembered the best and worst part: those eyes. Green like spring at the end of the world.
The man was wearing black leather gloves and a dark wool peacoat over his suit. Not greeting him, she reached a hand out and stroked the coat, admiring the thick material.
“You’ve been a while,” Amelia said.
“Have you missed me?”
“No,” she said, stifling a sneeze.
He dug in pocket and found a tissue, which he rubbed her face with. “You’re cold.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re such a stupid little girl.”
She had a coughing fit. The coughs were deep, pulled up form her lungs.
He took her bare hands in his gloved. They were pale and he could have traced the mass of blue veins roped through them. He rubbed her hands with his.
“Why do you hate me?”
“If you love me, I will love you,” she responded.
“My beautiful idiot, are you trying to prove something to them?” he spread his hands to indicate the world at large. “The job that never fulfilled you, the man who left you, the parents who failed you, the friends who never check on poor weak Amelia?”
She turned her face away.
“So alone, girl. All alone.”
The wind picked up and began to toss her hair across her face.
“You’re here for me, only me.”
“I’d rather die,” Amelia replied bitterly.
“Then do it.”
He put his gloved hands around her neck and squeezed. Her windpipe closed, begging for immediate attention. She grabbed at his hands and moved her mouth noiselessly. He increased the pressure until she felt that her neck should snap, then suddenly pulled his hands away.
“You’re disgusting.”
She choked. Tears slid out of her eyes. The wind began to feel wet, sharp, and cold. Thunder crackled and lightning arced across the sky.
“Come with me,” the man said, tugging at her hand painfully.
She stood and her dress twisted around her thick thighs in the angry winds. He led her off the porch, never relenting his grasp on her hand. He led her off of her property, through a line of trees that separated her property from wilderness. There was a narrow path that led between the trees, distinctly not forest, but not cultivated or inhabited.
The chill from the wind and the violent it threw rain against Amelia did not dull overtime, and the man led her steadily uphill, as if to drag her into the very heart of the thunderstorm. They crested the hill, and the trees moved away from the path, spreading away from them to reveal a massive natural pond, or perhaps a small lake. While the wind here had no break, the water was only bothered on the very surface, shifting and rippling in the wind, but the depths seemed still and silent. The water seemed deep, nearly black.
“Why are we here?” Amelia asked, looking up into the man’s terrible green eyes.
“For you, silly girl. Always for-” he pushed her forward. “You.”
She was thrust into the water up to her ankles. As cold as the wind and rain were, this cold was divine, like jaws of ice clamping around her. Overhead thunder continued to grumble.
She stepped forward, the icy black water now biting into her calves. She shivered and looked back at the man.
He nodded and she moved forward. The bank suddenly disappeared under her feet, and she fell into the waters, suspended in the cold. She fought the enveloping cold, and managed to break the surface, gasping.
“Christians believe that water baptism represents dying to self and living in spirit. Care to find out,” The man asked. “If their metaphor is accurate?”
“It’s cold,” she breathed between her teeth chattering.
“Quit whining, stupid girl.”
Amelia tread water and the sky lit up momentarily.
The man stared at Amelia for a long moment, then abruptly, he threw his peacoat and suit jacket off. He walked to the edge of the water and knelt.
“Come here,” he commanded.
She kicked her freezing legs, and swam closer to him.
He reached a gloved hand out and stroked her wet face. “Good girl,” he said. “Just do as I say.” He smiled. “It’s so easy.”
“He ran his hand down her face to her neck and grasped it again. He pushed her under the water. She struggled and screamed into the uncaring blackness. Without warning, the man jumped into the water, the weight of him puling her father down into the freezing darkness. He put his arms around her, and closed his mouth over hers, pushing his warm breath into her lungs. He kicked his legs a few times, and pulled her up, their heads finally breaking the surface.
“We shall be safe, out of harms way,” he intoned. He released her and and they tread water together, his black gloves slicing through the deeper blackness.
Lightning crackled across the sky. The wind more forcefully blew rain against Amelia’s raw face, but the chilly water around her shoulders seemed still.
“Will you save me?” she asked, looking right into the man’s green eyes.
“Just ask me for it,” he said.
“Just ask?”
He grinned. “Beg.”
She swam up to him. “Save me, please.”
Thunder seemed to crack the realm of sound in two. The wind finally affected the water more than superficially, whirling up great rippled into small waves, breaking against her face. “Save me,” she said louder. “Please!”
He pulled her close and dove under the water, as lightning split the sky.
#
Amelia opened her eyes. She felt cold water lapping at her heels, a million tiny rocks cutting into her soft skin. She curled her legs under her and raised herself onto her hands. Her skin looked waxy, her veins stood out easily on her hands. Her hair, full of mud and pebbles, fell across her face. She pulled herself up and looked around. Overhead, clouds fled across a blue sky. There was a clear set of footprints leading to the lake. She shivered and picked herself up and started the long, downhill walk towards home.

Are You Eating Enough?

2010-07-05T02:52:00.001-07:00

He's gettin' thin.
I wonder if the world is toast
and he's scraped across it,
strawberry jam.

He saved my life,
blackberry sundae,
Bridge and prickle thorn,
I never jumped.

Do I say that?
Is that how we talk
or are we milk white
and grave silent?

Only the world turns
on an axis, sweet
and sour. Flavorless,
no eyes or buds.

I bet this breakfast,
Sunday, never cared.
But I do, I'm peach preserves.
And him, he's gettin' thin.

Bluomo

2010-06-16T03:48:00.000-07:00

Hwin watched the creatures in the Siberian Tiger enclosure at the West Springs Zoo. They were pure white, and lolled about on the artificial rocks with satisfaction. Hwin was interested in their thick fur, their lazy attitudes, their sharp teeth. She had been standing there for upwards of ten minutes when she felt a sudden gust of warm, sweet smelling air and looked up.
"Sister," she said evenly. "Early, aren't you?"
"There's a botanical garden here!" the other woman said brightly.
Hwin smiled wide at her sister. She went under the current monicker of Chwun Hwa, but her appearance did not suggest anything even vaguely Asian. She was plump and her skin was pink. Her round face was half obscured by rambunctious honey-brown curls, and her big, quiet eyes were a shocking shade of green. She was pretty, and soft, and always had the hint of a smile on her bow-shaped mouth. Chwun Hwa was Hwin's youngest of three sisters, and her age could have sat anywhere from 15 to 35.
Chwun Hwa gave Hwin a tight hug. "It has been too long, Hwinny."
"Yes it has," Hwin said. "You have no idea."
"How is dear Sunny?"
"Perfect, as usual."
"And lovely Autumn?"
"She's fine."
"Oh my, Hwinny, but you look like mother sometimes. That stern face you just made when I mentioned Sunny."
Hwin frowned, and said nothing. She followed Chwun Hwa away from the enclosure, and did not look back at the tigers. There was a chill in the air, this early into March, but Chwun Hwa wore a simple yellow sundress that fell just past her knees. She wore no shoes. Nor anything else, that Hwin could discern, except a big Gerber daisy, half buried in her hair. There was no stylistic or even familial resemblance between the two women. Hwin wore a leather jacket, she was tall, and blue-eyed, sharp featured, and her thick black hair pooled around her shoulders. The only common feature was that both of their eyes had a deep, endless quality to them. The sort of eyes that one could not only get lost in, but wander in forever, searching for a way out.
Hwin noted the reactions of people around them. They smiled at Chwun Hwa's pleasant face, and frowned at her own, trying quickly to get away. But luckily, they did not pass many people.
Chwun Hwa twittered at the tropical bird enclosure when they passed it, and pointed out the various breeds of snakes in the reptile room, which they did not even step inside. She did all of this in a sort of obligated way. Where her excitement really showed was when they passed under the archway into the botanical gardens. Her face lit up and split into a wide smile, and she began running from plant to plant excitedly.
"Hwinny, come see this crocus, isn't it sweet?"
Hwin came up next to her, and observed the flower. "I suppose."
"Oh and these periwinkle!" she exclaimed, bouncing off.
"Flowers aren't really my thing, you know. I don't know if I should be here," she called after her.
"Oh please, they'll let you stay, won't you?" Chwun Hwa asked the Jade Vine, which she was petting lovingly. "They do whatever mommy tells them."
"Yes, but you know how it works, sister. I can't stay long around them or else-"
"Things get complicated, yes, yes," Chwun Hwa waved her sister's sentiments off.
As Hwin watched, the vine doubled its reach and seemed to be stretching out towards her. She shook her head, and stepped away from the rapidly growing plant. She followed Chwun Hwa, who had taken off down the path, towards some enticing snowdrops. In Chwun Hwa's wake, tiny buds were bursting open, and little sprouts shoved up out of the ground. It was a phenomena that never ceased to impress Hwin, who had the exact opposite effect on plant-life. Normally the leaves would already be folding in and shriveling before her, except that Chwun Hwa's enthusiasm negated all of Hwin's effects, at least for a short while.
"Japanese apricots!" Her sister squealed with delight from somewhere up ahead. "Oh aren't they precious?" When Hwin caught up to her, Chwun Hwa was kissing the tops of the flower buds.
Hwin felt it was fortunate no one was around to witness Chwun Hwa's enthusiastic greeting to all of the plants.
"Sister," Hwin interrupted firmly. "I'm not very comfortable in here. I feel... I can't breathe."
Chwun Hwa turned her bright gaze on her sister and reluctantly pulled herself away from the plant. "I am sorry. I have been gone too long, I think." She smiled and grabbed Hwin's wrist. "Let's be off then."
Her touch was like a mild sting, but it became comforting after a while, and Hwin did not pull away.
Chwun Hwa walked with too much movement, her feet seemed to naturally find indentations in the walkways, cracks to step on, uneven patches of the pavement. As Hwin followed her she noticed how the whole sky seemed a little more blue, the air more delicious.
"I love to look at those," the younger one said, pointing to the brightly colored toucan birds. "But I'd never take a pet, you know."
"I did not know," Hwin said, realizing she could no longer feel her wrist where Chwun Hwa held it, and her fingertips seemed to be losing their feeling.
"Would you like to eat?" Chwun Hwa asked, after they crossed a wooden bridge near the butterfly exhibit.
"I could."
"Of course. There is a lovely little restaurant around here. We can really catch up better sitting down."
She pulled Hwin along to the nearby zoo cafe. Inside, the ceiling was low and the walls were brightly painted with a gaudy safari theme. It was air conditioned though, which Hwin counted as a blessing. Her sister released her wrist as they sat in the booth in the far corner. While Chwun Hwa observed their surroundings, Hwin stole a glance at her wrist, and found that there were red marks all around the area her sister had touched. She flexed her hand a few times and pulled her sleeve down.
"Hwin, your eyes are wet," Chwun Hwa said.
"What?"
Chwun Hwa reached to touch Hwin's face, but stopped in mid-reach by a polite cough. The waiter was there, looking sheepishly at them. It was clear by his expression he did not know how to feel about them.
"Do you need more time to look at the menu?"
"I want a Greek salad with no cheese or dressing," Chwun Hwa replied.
Confused but compliant, the waiter made a note of it. "Mmkay, and you?" He didn't quite make eye contact with Hwin, though he wasn't sure why.
"Um, the soup of the day, whatever it is. Sounds good to me. Does it have any meat in it?"
"Yes, it's gumbo it has beef and-"
"That's fine," Hwin said shortly. She did not appreciate the way he did not look at her.
The waiter, now with a bad headache, wandered off with their orders.
"Now Hwin, must you really eat those creatures?"
"When you're deprived of something for a long time, you tend to crave it, sis."
"I can't stomach it, Hwinny, I really can't. Animals are practically human. The way they feel and give birth and make milk and things." Chwun Hwa's eyes seemed unfocused. "I sometimes wish they didn't exist at all."
Hwin felt something slide down her face and dabbed at it.
"See, I said your eyes were wet," Chwun Hwa said.
"Yes, you did."
The waiter brought them water and left without a comment.
Hwin asked. "Why the new name?"
"I was so moved by the lotus blossoms near Zibo that my eyes would not stop being wet. It was such a storm I had to change my name, then and there."
Hwin nodded, and took a sip of the water.
"Anyway," Chwun Hwa said, shrugging. "Tell me more about the others. I haven't seen anyone in such a long time."
"Sunny is the same as ever," Hwin said firmly. "Lazy and stubborn and impossibly likable. She's doing her job pretty well at the moment though."
"Mmm, I see," Chwun Hwa said, staring out of the window. "And Autumn?"
"Had a sad time on the East Coast recently, I think. She seemed kind of attached to someone there. She doesn't really want to talk about it."
"A human?!" Chwun Hwa's bright eyes suddenly turned full on Hwin. "She was involved with a human?"
"I don't know if she was involved so much as-"
"But Autumn is smarter than that. I thought she and I saw eye-to-eye, Hwinny. How can she go and be interested in humans all of the sudden?"
Hwin opened her mouth to reply, when the food arrived. The waiter looked them over for a while, but still refused to speak, and left in a hurry.
"Sis?" Hwin asked.
Chwun Hwa put her head down. "I know what you want to say, so say it."
"You've been gone for too long, Bluomo. They're different."
"It's Chwun Hwa," she said distantly. "We're all different now."
"Yes we are," Hwin said, stirring her soup. "And we need you."
Chwun Hwa picked a cucumber chunk up with her fingers and crunched it in her mouth.

#
Hwin stood outside the Siberian Tiger enclosure. As she watched the creatures inside her cellphone rang. She flipped it open.
"Hwin?" The voice on the other end asked with an obvious warble. "I heard that you were with her. That you saw her. How is she? How's my baby sister?"
"Calm down, Sunny. She was here. She just left. Work to do. We've all got work. I'm leaving for the Andes tonight."
"I... I'm going to kill her," the voice replied angrily.
"You can't possibly do that."
There was a loud sniff, then the voice continued more softly. "So how is she?"
"Worse," Hwin said softly, leaning against the glass. The red mark on her wrist was still there. "But everyone prays for her, you know. She'll be okay."
"And how are you?" The voice asked seriously. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Everything," Hwin said firmly, watching a tiger flick its tail lazily. "Is coming up roses."

Staring at the Knot

2010-06-11T23:42:00.000-07:00

There's the knot, tied so elegantly,
Clamping shut the jaws of some distant dragon
Or, tying the hands of captives lined but
Seems to me like the knot is holy,
God himself tied it.

It's the ropes from the cross, I think
Tied so harsh that dark Friday.
And yet, there's an animal about it too,
A tail, maybe, swinging from a lion's hips

But no cat ever crossed such a knot, and why?
The knot is brass and iron, yet see this here,
The knoll it's round is green and grassy.
A knot for gravestones on a hill.

Fate and I tied together with this knot
Spun from All-Father's rope
I see it now, as we lope down Bifrost.
That's the knot there, and here the knife.

Somewhere in Los Angeles

2010-04-15T02:43:00.001-07:00

Somewhere in Los Angeles, at one in the morning in the middle of July, there were eight patrons in a Norm's Restaurant off of a busy highway. In the corner was a man with a very unkempt beard and several slices of pie, at a table in the middle were three guys who seemed very intoxicated, there was a very small woman who silently ate a dish of ice cream in a booth, and a man who was fingering his wedding ring nervously two away from her. The remaining two patrons were a Writer and a Musician in a booth in the corner. Even despite the odd diner company, they stood out.
The Writer herself seemed subdued at a glance. She simply wore a long, black cotton dress with a lacy fringe, and dark blue boots. She swung her feet slightly as she alternated eating pancakes smothered in syrup, and scribbling down notes in a worn Moleskine notebook laid open next to her plate. Her dark hair was tied into a loose braid, and her big pale eyes tended to look at everything but her companion, and on many occasions, nothing at all.
By contrast, the Musician looked only at his companion, to the exclusion of everything else, and his eyes were brighter than you would expect, rising up from the general exhaustion of his entire face. Due to that exhaustion and his own clothing- He wore a dark green pinstriped suit that had seen lots and lots of better days and a brown fedora, which he wore very well- he seemed older than he actually was, which was 33 at the latest.
"So," the Writer asked. "Are you gay?"
The Musician looked up from his sunny-side up eggs. "What?"
The Writer smiled. "Are you gay?"
The Musician dipped a triangle of toast in egg yolk, which split and began running all over the plate. "No, I'm not."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"Not even for David Bowie?" The Writer asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Not even for David Bowie."
"What about Iggy Pop?"
"No."
"Jimi Hendrix? Paul McCartney? Bob Dylan?"
The Musician shook his head.
"Tom Waits?"
The Musician stuffed the toast in his mouth, mumbling as he did so, "Look, that was one time, okay? And it won't ever happen again."
The Writer's lips curled up. "Well, that's good."
"Yeah it is." The Musician agreed. Then he widened his eyes, and backpedaled. "Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, you know."
"How do you mean?" The Writer asked, raising one of her thin eyebrows.
"That there's nothing wrong with being gay."
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
The Musician rolled his eyes. "Some people would call you intolerant, you know."
"Well, I'd call them intolerant. They can't tolerate my alleged intolerance, and I find that intolerable." The Writer delicately stabbed at her short stack of pancakes, frowned, then poured more maple syrup on them. "Anyway, I'm not intolerant, I just don't like the idea."
"Whatever, bigot. " The Musician said, waving off her remarks. "What are you writing about?" he asked after a long pause.
"Well, the story I'm working on is a sort of drama comedy... slice of life type thing. I was thinking of setting it in a diner like this one."
"So when you said 'lets grab a bite' what you meant was 'I have writer's block.'"
She shrugged unapologetically. "I was going to write about a gay man, I think."
"Why don't you talk to someone who is actually gay, then?"
She bit her pen. "I'm afraid of offending, what with my general bigotry."
"If you don't approve of their lifestyle or whatever, why write about them?"
"Because they exist."
The Musician considered this. "Okay, I'll buy that."
Their conversation was interrupted briefly by a loud argument between the three drunk men. They watched in fascination until the most sober of the three calmed the other two down. The Writer and the Musician returned to their food.
"Anyway, you're looking shockingly less sober than usual. Drink a lot this time?" The Writer said.
"Nah, just tired."
"So what exactly have you been doing?"
"Just haven't been able to sleep much. You know how it is."
"You should hit on the waitress," the Writer said suddenly. "She's been eying you all night, you know."
"What?"
"I'm sure she could solve your sleeping difficulties."
The Musician looked around, bewildered. The waitress was indeed looking at him with intense interest. "No, I'm good."
The Writer raised an eyebrow mischievously. "Ollie, I'm surprised at you. Do you have something against waitresses?"
"Nah, I've got this whole thing about being faithful to my wife."
"Oh your wife won't mind. Ask her over."
The Musician had been tapping out a constantly changing rhythm on the tabletop all this time. He stopped suddenly and pointed his butter-knife at the Writer.
"Stop it, Iris. I'm too tired. This run really beat me."
The Writer frowned, and took to watching a man with dreadlocks saunter by outside.
The Musician took a few more bites, then set his utensils down. He pushed up his hat with his forefinger. "Though, I have to admit, she is totally cute." He winked at the Writer, who just shook her head and continued with her with her drowned pancakes and scribbling.
"And those legs they just don't stop."
"Sure they do," the Writer said blandly. "Right where her feet start."
She fell into watching the cars outside after one squealed out onto the road.
"How long are you back this time?" She asked, looking back at the Musician and setting down her pen.
"Next tour isn't for six months."
"So that's... December?"
"Yeah, I think we start out on the... 12th, 13th, something like that."
"So you'll be gone for Christmas again?" The Writer pursed her lips.
"Looks like it."
The Writer stood up suddenly. "Excuse me." She wandered off in the general direction of the restrooms. The Musician admired the unconscious, full-body sway she walked with, then, once she was out of sight, reached across the table and picked up the Moleskine. He ran his thumb over the outer edge, but then sighed, and returned the notebook to its proper place. He started a new beat on the table, this time employing the use of the sugar container, to great success. The Writer returned to the table, and eyed her notebook protectively. The Musician pointed at the ceiling, where music was apparently emanating from.
"This has to be the absolute worst version of 'Wish I Had a River' ever."
"Agreed," The Writer said, still eyeing the notebook. She shrugged and looked just past her companion again. "The man in the corner, do you think he's a trucker?"
"That or a politician," The Musician replied. "Both maybe?"
"I like the idea of that. I bet he has an exquisite name. 'Beauregard,' maybe."
"No no, he's a traveling pie connoisseur," the Musician said. "Note how none of the slices are a la mode. He's trying to fully experience the flavors."
"He should get with the girl with the ice cream, wouldn't that be sweet?" The Writer pointed with her fork at the subject.
"Please tell me that pun wasn't intended."
"Give me some credit, puns are the lowest form of humor," the Writer said primly. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have normal impulses?"
The Musician listlessly moved the untouched strips of bacon around his plate. "Normal?"
"To not channel yourself into art? Not to be driven to, you know, hang around in a van for months at a time with a bunch of guys... or take notes on the people around you."
"Well, I guess, but it's just something you... have to do, you know? If you've got those feelings in your soul you have to get them out. No one else can."
"Do you ever feel lonely, Ollie?"
The Musician tilted his head. "Come again?"
The Writer was staring at him fixedly with her pale eyes, for perhaps the first time that evening. "Are you lonely?"
"I guess so."
"Do you think it's because of what you do, or you do what you do because you're lonely."
"All of the above, I guess." The Musician said. "Anyway, you just got shockingly pensive."
The Writer's gaze slid off of him and she resumed her observations of the room. "It happens. So have you made a decision on the waitress?"
"Yes. I think I'll say something like 'I play the piano and you're hot.'"
"Mm. That had a kind of poetry to it." The Writer said, pushing away her plate.
"Yeah, I think I'll make that into a song. Key of G."
"I can see the weeping teenagers now."
The Writer picked up the book bag next to her, and stuck the Moleskine and her pen inside of it. "I'm ready when you are. Call her over."
The Musician waved his hand to get the waitress' attention. She came over in a tired sort of way, but her eyes were fixed on the Musician.
"Can we have the check?"
"May we," said the Writer automatically.
"That too."
The waitress looked at them for a moment. "I've seen you guys before," she said. "You're like brother and sister, right?"
"No," the Musician said.
"Oh." She said. "Well I'll grab these," she said, leaning across the table with more effort than seemed necessary, taking their plates as she did so.
The Musician looked at the Writer as the waitress walked away and they both started laughing.
"Golden opportunity!" The Writer said between giggles. "Did you see how she leaned over you?"
"Unfortunately yes, and her perfume was nauseating."
They continued laughing until said waitress, clueless to her role in their amusement, brought them the check. The Musician plunked a twenty and a five on the table and stood, adjusting his fedora. The Writer grabbed her bag and joined him. They exited the diner and stood outside for a moment.
"Despite us accomplishing nothing, this was nice," he said, looking at her.
She had her head turned up, looking at the half-moon above them. "Looks like melted butter, doesn't it? All wobbly and golden."
He gazed up at the moon. "I missed you."
She smiled and leaned up against him, brushing her lips against his, for just a second or two. "Public displays of affection are an abomination, but I'll make an exception since it's been so long."
"Gee thanks, dollface," the Musician said, smiling at the Writer.
"Anytime, babycakes," the Writer replied. "I can almost see all of Orion tonight."
"Whadduya need to see him for? I'm right in front of you."
"Right beside me, actually."
"It's a nice place to be," he said as they wandered across the parking lot.
"I just thought of a new story," The Writer said as the Musician opened the car door for her.
"Does it involve devilishly handsome pianists in any way?"
"No, it's about flying cats," she replied when he got in the car. The Writer finally flicked her gaze over to him as he started the ignition. "I missed you too."

Amnesia

2010-04-08T03:08:00.001-07:00

I don't have a very good memory. At least, not for things that matter. I feel sometimes like I've lived a life I don't remember. That's why, when I least expect it, my mind travels to a forest. The forest is not a wood, not a stand of trees, but a place of ancient pines, of untold mossy reaches. It's a place I can only describe as being musical. Musical is too little, it is inexpressible. Music is another sort of magic, I suppose.
I feel like I must have been a child of the forest at some point, it and I bound together like the roots of two gnarled trees. I am just a child, barefoot, dipping my toes in the mud of a sputtering creek, jumping from log to log. Perhaps I lay to sleep on a bed of moss at night, watched over by kind adoptive deer, lulled by distant birds.
But I wake constantly in a bed, in a house, in a city. I live between worlds, feeling the pull of some place I've never been. You may find me staring sometimes at a picture of distant green moors or haggard old willows with tears in my eyes. The forest must be close. I remember it so well when I don't mean to. And sometimes I can no longer tell where this forest ends and I begin.
Before I grew afraid, I used to love pretending to drown in warm waters. And I see it in my mind, a pool of mist nourishing the roots that dig deep into its bank. And I see a figure in the mist, beckoning me to drown.
Perhaps he is the forest. Perhaps the forest is not a location at all, it is this man, and these depths are another form of love. And maybe, just maybe, I'll see him in the waters again. If I jump without looking. Perhaps he remembers what I cannot, that helplessly lost girl, curls askew, and barefeet sore and scarred, tugging at his sleeve asking if he knows the way home.
He knows the way, of course. The way has been there all along. In that forest. I'll find it again someday. This time I'll never leave.

Orchid Dogs

2010-03-22T23:03:00.000-07:00

In vogue, in a dusty suit
A rabid dog, marked like an orchid.
In style, yet smooth;
Americana.

Gleeful cynic, old eyes
Painted up like the walls
In the new hotel on Main
Poised to strike.

Any minute, glory riot
Pretty flowers and piano strings,
Then rise, bow, disappear
Like the dogs they are.

To drink, and change color
And withering, crush paper.
That's the way musicians think-
The way writers dream.

Cry Wolf

2010-03-11T14:55:00.000-08:00

You're a wolf with the voice of a coyote
You got me by the collar when you started
Howling up my spine.

You prickle me like a desert cactus
You fill my head with grand literature,
With day-old cigarettes.

Your skeleton is too small for you,
Should take off your skin and stay awhile.
Let me steal your vocal cords.

I'll hide them in the bottom of a bottle,
In an alleyway in old Germany.
Where I stuck to you like peanut butter

In an old dog's mouth.

Castitias Lilium Chapter 2: "Rational Fears (aLL mAd)"

2010-02-27T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Rational Fears (aLL mAd)"

He had never learned sign language. He never saw the point. In learning sign language, it would only be useful if there were people around who understood it, which, in his experience, was a slim chance to go on. He was sitting in a restaurant in a booth alone. A waitress asked if he wanted a kid's menu, to which he raised and eyebrow and shook his head. How could she possibly know how insulting it was? He looked like a nine year old child, perhaps a bit sickly, but still very young. Humans, after all, follow the evidence of their eyes more than anything else. He waved at the regular menu, and pointed at steak.
"I think that might be a bit much for you, hon."
He shook his head.
"Well, are you waitin' for anyone? Big ole t-bones cost a lot of money."
He rolled his eyes. He motioned for a pen and paper and searching about her person, she offered him her notepad for orders. He flipped to a blank page and wrote, in slightly too curly cursive handwriting,

I need the steak rare, and I can certainly pay for it.

It always seemed to work, when you wrote it down. He had learned, over the years, the power of ink and paper. The waitress wander ed off, looking a little confused but deciding not to argue with a paying customer. He sat at the booth, watching the people around him. Humans, he had decided, believe themselves to be infinite. Even the most nihilistic likes to believe that some part of himself will continue forever. It's a defect of creation, he had decided, to long for infinity. That's why so many legends are based on the pursuit of it, be it the result good or evil. There is some human draw to immortality.
He closed his eyes. There was a young woman nearby, laughing with the young other young woman with her. She was joking about their friend, who had gone to the restroom. Her laughter was loud, louder than he would have preferred. He slid down in the seat, though he knew that he could not block out the sound. Around his neck, on a very long chain that hung almost to his waist, he kept a golden watch. He focused on the sound of its ticking, patterned his breathing on it.
When he had successfully blocked out nearby noise, he picked up the watch and opened it. He stared at the watch face. It was 5:15 P.M. He nodded at it and looked up as the waitress set down a plate before him. He nodded at her, and she, confused but not arguing, asked if he wanted steak sauce. He shook his head and waved her away. He resisted his urges, and carefully cut the steak, and carefully chewed, and carefully swallowed. Everything was a life of careful. Humans, who longed for infinity, had no idea what to do when faced with the object of their desire. He had to be very careful, and focused only on the ticking of the watch.
He finished without apparent hurry, and laid a twenty dollar bill on the table. He slid out of the booth and moved, more than walked, out of the restaurant. Outside, he sniffed the air. He was seeking something, and the air was saying he was getting closer. He continued on his way.
#

Alice was staring at the tapestry in the circular room November had shown her. She couldn't understand the story it was telling. There was a lack of proper perspective. People near and far, all the same size, were fighting. Some had dark armor, and others had more silvery armor. Some had swords, some had bows, some had cruel-looking spears. There were some severed limbs, but a sense of surreality suspended any horror she would have felt, as if they could simply pick up a missing arm and keep going.
She was so engrossed in this, she didn't realize that November had come up behind her. "Don't touch."
She shivered. "Sorry. I. I've never seen anything like this. It must be ancient."
November shrugged. "It is old."
"I've given it some thought," she said quietly. "I want to free you from service. Please, go live your own life and allow me to go back to mine."
"With respect," he said in a tone that suggested anything but, "The pact between your family and me is stronger than your word."
"I never asked for any of this. If you go away, all of this will go away."
"That isn't true, and you know it."
Alice didn't like the way November looked at her. It was a gaze both condescending and hungry.
"What are you?" she asked quietly.
"Yours." He replied.
"What sort of thing are you? You changed into a cat, you move faster than any... Anything... Human."
He grinned. "I'm a nosferatu, a vorvolaka, a monster." He came very close to her, and gazed at her with those unsettling, wild eyes. "A vampire."
Alice had seen enough from him to not question this statement. If he said he was a vampire, she was prepared to believe that he writhed before crucifixes and Italian cuisine. "What.... Exactly... Does that entail?" It sounded lame. She knew it did.
"What do you think?" He seemed amused. "We drink blood and gain eternal life." He said it nonchalantly, as if he were talking about baking a pie, though Alice was doubtful if he'd ever done something so wholesome.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand. "You do not have to trust me. But I will not leave you."
"Why... Are you in the service of my family?" Alice asked quietly.
"It is a very old pact. Vampires cannot be counted on for much, but we always keep our promises."
"And you have promised... To protect me?"
He bowed his head solemnly. "Absolutely."
"But, what do I need protection from?" she asked, her eyes wide. Goosebumps were forming on her skin. She did not want the answer. But she knew she needed it.
"You have seen with your own eyes that vampires exist," he grinned. "Surely you are prepared to believe that anything can."
"And you-" she swallowed. "You were in the service of my parents."
"Yes. And many a generation before."
"I don't remember seeing you, when I was little."
"Your father did not want you to know about me until you were old enough to handle knowledge of me. As I said, we keep our promises."
"How did they die?"
November's face twitched. "Quickly," he said simply.
It struck her momentarily that he had answered very little. Still, she was talking to a what was, by all appearances, a vampire. She did not want to press the issue. She sank to the ground. November watched her with an amused expression.
"It would insult you to ask if you'd break the pact out of hunger, wouldn't it?" she asked carefully.
He raised his eyebrow. "It would."
"You... Drink human blood." she mumbled, her mind a complete muddle.
In response, November licked his lips. He seemed to poured himself onto the floor next to her. He grasped her shoulders and stared directly into her face. His eyes consumed her. There was an endlessness to them, an infiniteness she could not comprehend. She had never once toyed with the idea of living forever. She was too afraid of life as it was.
"How... How long have you served my family?" she almost whispered.
November's lips curled and he suddenly pulled her head back by the hair and moved as if to bite Alice's jugular. A quiet shriek escaped her lips. She could feel his breath, freezing cold, upon her neck. She felt a pointed fang against her skin. Her heart pounded wildly.
"A very long time," he hissed. "You must know that I do not enjoy this task any more than you do, but that I will fulfill it until your family is nothing but a memory." He let go of her and pulled away. "I can't and won't hurt you."
She nodded, too shocked to speak. As her breathing slowed she pleaded, "I want to go home."
"You can't." November replied, flowing upwards until he stood. "You do not have to stay here forever, but for the time being, my home is where you will be safe."
"Where is your home?"
November shrugged. "Nowhere special. It looks like nothing more than an unassuming split-level from the outside."
"You are the man who was at my window every night. Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Would you have believed it?"
Alice shook her head. "No. Not in a million years."
"There you have it. Besides, a vampire can't civilly interact with a human unless they are invited."
"But uncivilly?"
"We can't cross thresholds," he replied, grinning.
Alice was about to reply, when a pain shot through her stomach, accompanied by an overly loud rumbling.
November raised his eyebrow. "Hungry?"
Alice shook her head, but her stomach growled again. November offered her a long, pallid hand. "I can't let you starve. Take my hand."
She did. The overwhelming cold of him struck her, it was like being gripped by an ice block. He pulled her up to her feet. He did not release her hand, but simply led her back through the hall to what seemed to be a vast living room. The irony of the name was not entirely lost on Alice. It was furnished in a mish-mash of styles, seemingly representing every era in the past thousand years. The plush red couch was very clearly Edwardian, but the black leather recliner was probably only twenty years old. It was filled to bursting with furniture, in no apparent style theme, though there seemed to be a preference for deep colors; emerald, scarlet, eggplant, sapphire, onyx, and a midnight black. Alice had never missed pastels more.
Off of the living room was a dining room. There was an ornate table with seven wooden chairs placed around it, and there was a tall, silver candelabra placed in the middle, though there were no candles in it. The table was clean but seemed unused, more like something to put in the room than an actual useful object.
Through an open doorway off of the living room, they entered a kitchen area, which was small and simple, with chrome appliances, sparklingly clean and unused.
"Don't worry, there aren't any bodies in the freezer." November said, releasing her. "I prefer to eat out."
The nonchalance unnerved her, but she was hungry. She opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents. Cheese, milk, eggs, lunch meat, apples, peaches, bottles of water, sodas, condiments, everything.
"Why do you have all of this?" She asked, looking back at him.
"In preparation for you," he replied, simply.
As she reached in the refrigerator, she pulled out some cheese and meat, trying to keep her mind focused on the mundane task, instead of the... creature lurking behind her. She took a plate out of the cabinet nearby, and two slices of bread from the package in the cupboard. It was laid out exactly for her convenience. Everything was where she expected it to be. She shivered when her mind suggested he knew.
When she had made a simple sandwich, she went and sat at the dining table. November sat immediately to her right. She did not look at him, but his gaze was steady. She put her sandwich down after a time.
"Please, don't stare at me." She said it as evenly as possible, but the fear still quaked in her voice.
"Does it frighten you?"
"Yes."
"I just said you were safe with me."
Trying to keep despair out of her voice, Alice replied, "I've never wanted to believe in... in vampires."
She leaned forward, on her elbows, and put her hands in her hair. November watched with fascination.
"But somewhere inside, you knew."
"I did." She looked up at him. "You've scared me my entire life. Why would you do that?"
November did not reply.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Whatever you want. I am yours."
"Can I go back to school?"
November's unblinking gaze was unsettling. "Whatever you want."
Trying to avoid hysteria, trying not to listen to the concerns voicing themselves in her mind, Alice finished her food.
"What about you?" she asked, putting the dish in the dishwasher without thinking too hard about it.
"What about me?"
"What happens when you get... hungry?"
"I satisfy it."

#

Alice browsed the house, her steps hounded by November. She wondered if it was some sort of elaborate practical joke- after all, she hadn't seen him drink blood, nor had she proof he could live forever, or even that he knew her family. But the way he had been a cat- that couldn't have been smoke and mirrors. True, she had been light headed, but it was too real even so. And if he was a mere stalker, why go to all of this trouble? He hadn't tried to hurt her, true to his word. He was just eerie. And no one could fake eyes like his.
Despite the anxiety she felt, she rather liked the house. It was, she could see, really just a split level, a bit large but hardly an architectural feat. The walls were mostly paneled in a dark wood, carrying on with the decorator's preference for dark colors. There were hardwood floors in most of it, though the entry hall was tiled. The door was heavy mahogany, she noted. There were no windows in it. The windows in the rooms were covered by heavy gold colored curtains. Gold. The color seemed as shocking as a slap in the face in the midst of the gloomy colors all around. It was not particularly vibrant, but it stood out in contrast to the furnishings in the rooms. So far she had noted seven rooms. The bedroom she had woken up in, the living and dining room area, the kitchen, a washroom with a rather enormous bathtub in it, which seemed as unused and well-maintained as the kitchen, a smaller sitting room off the entry hall, the highly unusual circular room, and a locked room at the very end of the hall with the bedroom and circular room.
When Alice jiggled the handle, November, who had been silently looming during her exploration, said, "That room is mine."
Alice withdrew her hands as though stung. She had no desire to see what sort of room would belong to a monster.
She wandered back into the living room and sank down onto the couch. She tried not to think.
November sat next to her. He watched her silently.
"If I go back to school... what happens? I have nowhere to go except... back here. I don't even know where here is."
"If you need me, you can call me," he replied.
Alice did not much like the idea of having a monster on call, but she nodded. "And, how do I do that?"
"Names have a power. Even false names. If you call for me, I will answer as best as I can."
"What about daylight, though? Is that a problem?"
"Fortunately for you."
Alice assumed this meant yes. She did not wish to quiz him further. "What, ah, time is it?"
He pointed at a clock above the mantle. Two twenty-three.
"I have... class in an hour," she said vacantly. Class. How strange that word sounded now. As if class mattered in world like this. She could feel November sitting near her, and if she thought about it hard enough, she could feel the cold of him.
"Can I go now?" She asked, not looking at him.
"You can do whatever you please. But in the daylight if you have need of me-"
"I won't," she said hurriedly. "I'll be fine."

#

Without looking back at him, Alice left the room, and tried the front door. It opened without protest and she ran outside and onto a normal street, into the normal afternoon. She looked back at the house and found she couldn't tell it apart from its neighbors. In the sunlight, it felt like any other day, and she found the whole idea of monsters ridiculous, except that she could feel the eyes of November on her, from behind those curtains.
It took her a while to get to the end of the street, and from there, she was a bit disoriented as to the street, christened Farehart, which she eventually realized was on the far side of town, in the Heights, which was an upper-middle class area. It took Alice a quarter of an hour to leave the labyrinth of neighborhoods surrounding Farehart.
Once out, and back on a main road, she felt incredibly drained. She realized how grimy she felt, and how she still smelt of stale, old smoke. She did not particularly want to go to class, but to run, as far as possible, except that she was so tired.
She sat glumly at the nearby bus stop, half-heartedly digging in her pockets for change. She did not really look at her surroundings, except to acknowledge that they were perfectly normal; a gas station, a coffee shop, a shopping center, nothing to fear. She slumped. There was nowhere to go, not really. The bus did arrive, and she got on, depositing a handful of coins in the box. She wearily sat on the nearest seat and closed her eyes. Then for a few glorious moments, there was absolutely nothing.
She woke with a start as the doors opened. She felt sure that a significant amount of time had passed, so the bus must have stopped a handful of times before it could wake her.
"Where are we?" she asked the driver.
"Moore Bridge," the driver answered unaffectedly.
Knowing the area, she disembarked from the bus. She had only her wallet on her, with very little money in it. She was not hungry, as she grudgingly remembered the sandwich from earlier, but she went to a nearby cafe anyway. It was a pleasant enough place with a lively view of the Flustrom river and Moore Bridge beyond. It was very foggy on the river, with mist seeming to curl up and out of it.
Alice ordered a soda, hoping the caffeine would clear her head a little, allowing herself to think. That November was real, she had no more doubt. But nothing else made any sense. Her thoughts swam as she gazed into the soda.
The waitress tapped the table with a pen. "What can I get you?"
Alice wanted to say help, either psychological or otherwise, but instead replied with "Nothing, just soda is fine."
"Suit yourself," the waitress said, wandering off.
Alice looked around the room. There was a woman and a man sitting across the way, having lunch. A young family trying to convince their toddler to eat peas instead of throwing them, an older couple smiling at one another over their shared club sandwich, a pale boy sitting alone a few booths away. He managed to catch her interest because, while looking no older than 10 years old, he seemed to be all alone, and what's more, no one seemed to notice.
The boy suddenly looked up at Alice, who was so surprised, she uttered an audible gasp. His eyes, even from this distance, were shocking. They were watery blue, but there was something about them that reminded her of November. She shuddered at the thought, and looked away, but she could still feel the boy's gaze on her.
She threw a five dollar bill on the table and rushed out of the cafe, feeling kind of silly, once she got outside. But then, vampires were real, so what else might be?
She decided she did not want to be alone, and went back to the bus stop, this time paying attention to the lines. She somehow managed to maneuver her way back to the university, standing for a long time in the crowded hallways. She was late to class, but she didn't mind. She couldn't focus on the lecture on Greek artifacts anyway, and constantly tapped her foot and looked at the window, checking that the sun was still there.
To her relief, it remained there for most of the class, and on into the next. She was idly sketching on the desk to keep from thinking, and when she looked down, she found she had sketched a pair of eyes, with that ravenous gaze she'd seen in both November and the boy at the cafe. She rubbed it out, and stared ahead, not paying attention, nervously watching the sun descend. Class dragged on, and when it was over, the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, to ward off nightmares for people on the other side of the world.
As her classmates trickled out of the classroom, Alice debated whether it was safer to follow them out or to cower where she was. She decided to leave with the crowds, watching her classmates chatter and giggle as they went, unaware of the reality of monsters, blissful in their dreams.
Alice vaguely wondered where she was going. She couldn't follow them forever, even in the hallway her fellows were dispersing. Her car, she guessed, was still in the parking lot of Motel 6, and she did not want to ride the bus at night. She pulled a hand through her now tangled hair as she exited the art building. The last stragglers wandered off into the darkened parking lot, and Alice found herself again alone, except for a fair haired girl she had not noticed before. She took comfort in the girl's presence as she stood wondering what to do. Alice noticed the girl was approaching her. She looked up at the girl, and realized that it wasn't a girl at all, but a shriveled old woman, with flabby arms and bow legs, her face a web of wrinkles. She continued moving towards her, and Alice began to sidle away, but to no avail. When the old woman was within reaching distance of Alice, she opened her wrinkled old mouth and began to wail.
Alice's body physically seized up as the noise rose to an absolute shriek. The ringing in Alice's ears was so complete she could hardly even acknowledge other sensations, even fear seemed to die in the noise. She wanted to run, as fast and far as her legs could carry her, but there was something holding her in place, and while Alice's terror was absolute, she could not act on it. She tried several times to open her mouth to scream for help or beg for mercy, but the muscles simply would not respond. The old woman was directly in front of her now, and Alice's legs felt compelled to collapse under her. She fell to the ground, paralyzed by the shriek that would not end. It rose higher and higher, Alice's eardrums barely able to withstand it, and time seemed heedless.
Help. She screamed as loud as her thoughts could scream. Oh someone please help. She registered a look of triumph on the old woman's face, and saw her hand reaching out to grab a fistful of Alice's hair, when suddenly the shriek ended.
Alice's head was pounding and spots played before her eyes, but she saw that the old woman was bodily picked up and tossed across the parking lot by a tall dark figure.
"Not this one," the figure hissed. His voice was positively furious. In spite of everything, Alice felt a new wave of terror engulf her at the sound of it.
The old woman shrieked again, one small piercing note, and then seemed to be folded up into the shadows on the far side of the lot. The dark figure turned and knelt down beside Alice.
"They will not stop," November said softly, picking her up as lightly as if she were a ragdoll.
Alice clutched his jacket and hid her face from the scene, her breath coming out in hyperventilations, and her heart pounding. She barely even noticed the cold of him. A strange sensation poured over her, as if the world around her were melting, and she were being stretched and pulled at all eight compass points at once. When the feeling passed after a few minutes, she was in the house of the vampire.
With hands violently shaking, she clung onto November's jacket more tightly, and closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear into the folds. She did not care what or who he was. Now, at this moment, he was protection.
"I've... I've never..." She couldn't continue.
"You will be fine," November said, trying to ease her down.
She held her grip on him and sobbed, "I'm so scared."

Annalise At the Ball

2010-02-16T19:56:00.000-08:00

A chill swept through West Clocktown, where society was everything and magic was nothing, almost unseasonable in its fervor. A shiver ran down Annalise's spine as she rushed from the Clock tower to Carroll Street. The sun was just beginning to slip behind the Wall which bound West Clocktown, into the waiting arms of the Forest beyond it. It was a strange time of day, gold and orange and chilly.
She was panting slightly as she wearily pushed herself through the wrought-iron fence surrounding the house. It was one of the richest streets in the West, and this house stood out sorely from the surrounding ones with their perfectly manicured lawns and broad doors. This one looked like a frown on a lovely face. It was laid out beautifully, but nothing about it was inviting or bright. She hit the door squarely with her fist then pulled back and sucked on her hand.
The door opened. She looked up into Chester's face. Typically it was almost ethereal in its beauty, but now it was wane and pale and wasted.
She noticed two things. One, that Chester was wobbling slightly, and two, that he was not looking at her. He fell suddenly onto her shoulder.
"Chester!" Annalise gasped. She grasped him, feeling his ribcage beneath her fingertips, and began shuffling him into the house. She propped him against the nearest wall and slammed the door shut, bolting it.
"Chester, you cannot keep doing this."
The man's eyes stared at her blearily, unseeing. Annalise ran a hand through her dark mess of hair nervously. She bit her lip.
"You always take too long," he weakly murmured. "You should come when I call you."
"I do."

She left him in the empty front room and hurried into the kitchen. She pulled open cabinets and drawers and found nothing. She scurried back across the main room and into the library.
Dust filled her nose and she stifled a sneeze. Wall to ceiling were lined in books, ancient and new, and stacks formed whole cities across the floor. She found a golden letter opener on a far stack and returned to Chester. She knelt down next to him and, clinching her teeth, pulled the letter opener quickly across her palm. A wound blossomed open across her palm, bleeding relentlessly.
Chester's eyes burst open, black, and empty of thought. He grasped her hand to his mouth and began to gnaw and suck at the wound. Annalise closed her eyes, wincing occasionally.
She pulled her hand away after a few moments. She reached out with her mind, and an intangible, powerful force pinned Chester down, as he trashed about, desperate for more. Annalise began to wrap her hand with the handkerchief from Chester' pocket.
His eyes suddenly faded to grey. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.
"Annalise?"
"You named me."
She released him. He looked at her, strangely. "What have you done?"
She stood. "You haven't been feeding yourself."
Chester sprang to his feet. "Annalise, what have you done?"
"What have you done?" She shot back at him. "Are you trying to die?"
He grasped her shoulders, hard. "Did you give me some of your blood, Annalise?"
"I had no other options readily available."
"Why did you do something like that?" He emphasized his words by shaking her.
"I just told you why!"
He released her suddenly, and strode across the hall to the library. Annalise noticed that he was barefoot. She stared after him for a moment, then followed.
"Chester, have you been drinking?" He stood, looking blankly at the stacks of books.
"Of all of my vices, Annalise, have you ever known of alcoholism to be one of them?" He looked up at her, his long hair falling across his face.
"No, but I wouldn't be in the least surprised," she replied calmly.
He shook his head.
"How long has it been since you had any?" Annalise asked.
"Alcohol? Three months."
"I meant blood."
He gave the question some thought, with a peculiar tilt of his head. "One month and three days."
"Chester you can't keep doing this. You can't. You're going to kill yourself."
"One can only hope. Have you seen my shoes?"
"No. Chester, I think you will need more."
"I have plenty of shoes."
"You know I meant blood."
"Your conversation is leaning so morbid today."
Worry and frustration creased her brow. "Why did you wait so long?"
He sat on the nearby couch and began pulling his fingers through his long, faded-gold hair.
She sat next to him. "I hate it when you do this. You are not yourself."
"Oh indeed? Who am I then?"
Annalise began to run the fingers of her uncut hand through his hair and pulled it into three sections. He sat silently. She twisted his hair into a braid. He wrapped it around his left arm when she was finished.
"Chester, are you back?"
He looked at her with wintery eyes. "To be honest, I thought I might actually die this time."
"Why do you starve yourself?" She asked again, anxiety thick in her voice.
He stood. "How has my conduct been? You know I am not entirely responsible for my actions when I am starved."
She sighed, "You've been a villain."
"Then I am exactly as I am otherwise." 
"Only less eloquent."
"Few people are as eloquent as I am currently." He turned suddenly and stared at her very directly.
She looked back at him, curiously.
"It was very stupid to give me your own blood."
"I am sorry."
"I do not want to become addicted to it." He leaned down until his face was uncomfortably close to her own, his lips nearly brushing hers. "It was," he said softly, "So very delicious."
She felt a chill from the ice in his eyes, and wrapped her arms around herself.
"May I give you a present, Annalise?"
She nodded, not speaking.

Chester turned and went out of the room, and she followed him. He padded barefoot up the staircase, and down the hall to the room that had been hers. Dust rested on the dresser and the vanity and the side-table. Chester sat on the edge of the bed, and dust billowed up around him. Annalise stifled another sneeze. On the bed near Chester, there was a strip of bright cloth. As Annalise came closer she saw it was a new pink dress, perfectly Western.
Chester ran a slender finger across the front of it. "You may have it if you would like it."
Annalise stared at it, wide-eyed. It had a lace petticoat with it, and lace cuffs around the wrists and throat and pretty folds and it gleamed in perfect satin. She looked back at Chester, her eyes glowing bright violet and her face flushed. "Can I put it on?"
He nodded. She grasped the thing quickly and pulled off her regular clothing. She threw it on with abandon, and laced up the bodice. Chester made no motion, but twisted his braid tighter around his arm. Annalise approached the mirror against the far wall and cleared the dust from the surface. She stared at herself and spun around.
"It's much prettier than I am," She turned back to Chester. "It doesn't suit me."
He ran his eyes up and down the dress. "We'll just have to improve you." He twisted his fingers and it seemed as if the dress had come alive, pulling at her and twisting itself out.
Annalise looked back at her reflection. Her hair now fell in lustrous curls and her lips were bright and pink. The dress fell to her knees and billowed out like a child's. She smiled with delight. Then her face fell, her eyes reverting to milk blue, and she turned back to him. "You never give me presents, big brother."
"I just have."
"You only give me presents if you are going to force me to do something," she said.
"You wound me. Are you claiming I try to bribe you?"
"That is exactly what I am claiming."
"I will not force you to do anything, little one. But it would be a great help if you would accompany me tonight."
"What do you need?"
"Your body."
She frowned, nervously.
"Tonight, there is a ball. And I have recently decided I should attend."
"That is an awful idea."
"I thought so too, until I stopped utterly starving. Now I have decided that there will be many people there that shall never be missed. And as mayor, should I not make a public appearance once and a while?"
"Two birds," Annalise said softly, her eyes beginning to glow once again.
Chester smiled fiercely and hissed, "One stone."

#
Daina Bonville's annual ball was the toast of West Clocktown. If one was fortunate enough to be invited to this illustrious event, it would be the talk of the town for approximately one week, and one would be regarded as traveling in the proper circles for at least as long. To accommodate the event, Daina cleared her entire first floor of furniture, and installed a hundred new electric light fixtures in the ballroom.
This year, the ball was well underway, with wine down by the gallons and enough garnished dainties consumed to feed several score of wild dogs. This was at nine o' clock at night; Daina noted the chiming of the Clock. The chimes had not yet died away, when a man, waving off the ushering of a servant, entered the room quite unassumingly. He was pale, with long hair a milky blonde, tied in a neat braid and wrapped smartly around his left arm. He was very tall, and aside from a crisp white blouse, was dressed in perfect black, from tails to cravat.
Daina gasped and the conversation she was having faded into the background.
"What is it?" Eudora Priéveilleux asked, following Daina's gaze. "My word. The mayor!"
"He is always invited, of course," Daina hurried to say. "But I never expect him to attend!" Without another word, the flustered hostess scurried off towards him.
"Why, Mister Mayor," she called as she approached.
He smiled genially and gave a perfect little bow. "Good evening, Miss Bonville."
"I had no idea we'd be honored by your presence this evening."
"Yes, it turns out there was an opening in my schedule, and here I am."
"And unaccompanied, I notice."
"Quite," he replied. "Would you then do me the great honor of introducing me to your guests? I am out of habit."
"Why, of course!" Daina nearly fell over herself bringing him to her friends.
"Why it's the young Mister Mayor," Naomi Whiteridge exclaimed. "Fancy that!"
"And how are you keeping these days?" Eudora Priéveilleux inquired.
"I suffer some small illness, but it is nothing," Chester replied nonchalantly.
"And how is work with all of the complexities of the city?" Naomi Whiteridge asked.
"Oh," Chester said flippantly, "Dull, but necessary."
The women smiled.
"Are you much for dancing?" Daina suddenly asked.
Chester frowned beautifully. "I am afraid I've no sense for the stuff."
The women's faces fell.
"Though," Chester said, taking Daina's hand. "From a hostess so gracious and lovely, I could stand an education."
Daina's face went visibly red, as Chester led her to the floor. As she soon discovered, Chester was something of a liar, for he was very well versed in the dances. He knew how and when to step, and where to put his hands, and when to pull her close, and when to move away, and he did it well, so well, in fact, that Daina, whose life's passion was dance, felt clumsy and embarrassed by comparison.
She was also very pleased. Chester's appearance alone ensured that the ball was a first rate success, but the fact he had singled her out as partner besides was the icing on the cake. She also enjoyed the feeling of his hand on her back, nearly as much she enjoyed the envious looks she was receiving.
So in a whirl were Daina, and her many guests, that the entrance of a young woman in a pink dress was not noticed. She slipped into the crowd easily, being of average height and plump build and thoroughly normal, except perhaps for the shortness of her dress, and the slight redness of her face as she watched Chester, which was not particularly unusual, as most everyone in the room was doing the same, at least, those were not dancing or fanning themselves and downing champagne by the buckets.
What was special about her was that, unknown, to anyone but them, Chester's eyes were fixed on her from the moment she entered the ballroom, and having her gaze, Chester pulled his dance partner even closer. Annalise's milk-blue eyes briefly turned a bright purple, before fading back again. Chester grinned, then returned his attention to his hostess, whom he abruptly parted with as soon as the music changed.
As Daina breathlessly returned to her socializing, Chester, stating he needed air, left the room. There, in a vast hall, was Annalise, leaning against the far wall. He crossed over to her.
"You were certainly the center of attention," Annalise said.
Chester raised his eyebrows and propped his arm against the wall.
"As it should be," he said.
Annalise, standing on the tips of her toes, grabbed him by the collar and kissed him fiercely.
Chester pushed her into the wall and parted from her after a long, furious moment.
"So," he said, running his tongue along his bottom lip. "I did manage to make you jealous."
Annalise pushed him away. "Do not forget why we are here in the first place."
"I," Chester said. "Am a very important political figure. You know this, little one." He fingered one of her curls. "Have some fun, I promise I won't mind."
"I don't like this, big brother."
"Yes," he said, crossing the hall. "I know." He returned to the ballroom, his grey eyes slightly darker.
#

Daina's ball continued. Chester rejoined her and her guests who fluttered about her like so many hens. Many women approached Chester during the evening, some boldly, some more timidly, but he danced with them all gallantly, talking freely, and asking many questions about them and fellow guests.
Chester's eyes were often elsewhere, but his hands were on them, and there was not a man in the entire place who did not mumble nasty things about the mayor under his breath.

#
When she reentered the ballroom, Annalise did not look at Chester. Instead she looked around. Many men were now only too anxious to have a dance partner, and she offered her hand, with a soft smile, to the nearest, who practically dragged her to the floor in his haste. The man was attractive, but as Annalise unpleasantly discovered, very free with his hands. Still, she dared to attempt a conversation, asking, "Are you here alone?"
"Well, I had a girl here, but she's all eyes for the mayor, that cheeky bastard."
"I see," she replied.
"But you now," he continued, running his hands down her back. "Are a pretty bird. We should find a more private location, eh?"
"That," Annalise said sidling up close to him. "Would be improper."
The song ended, and she promptly left him on the floor.
She found a new partner instantly and they stepped onto the floor. Unlike her last partner, this gentlemen bowed to her, and took her hand carefully. He was attractive, but forgettable. His moves were well executed, but not memorable. He had dark, blank eyes and the clothing of society.
"You are an eye catching lady," he said quietly.
"Thank you," Annalise responded, staring very directly at him.
"Do you have a party here?" She asked, as he twirled her.
"No," he replied. "I came alone to find young ladies worth socializing with. Such as yourself."
"I see." Annalise said.
She whispered in his ear and they parted from the waltz.
He left the ballroom, and Annalise turned, looking meaningfully at Chester, who kept a steady gaze on her. She then left the room, through the door her dance partner had taken.
After a while, Chester too excused himself, claiming he was not feeling well. He bowed to his partner, and also went in the door Annalise and her dance partner had gone through.
The door led to a small red dining room. Annalise had the man in her arms, and she dropped him when Chester closed the door behind him. The man fell to the floor with a shocked expression. Annalise pulled a knife out of his stomach and looked back at Chester. The man on the floor coughed and sputtered blood.
"It's a bit messy, little one," Chester said disapprovingly.
"I did not know how long you would be."
She swiped the recovered knife across the man's throat, and the sputtering stopped. Blood poured out of the wound, thick and bright.
Chester's eyes almost instantly turned black. Annalise backed away as Chester knelt over the man and drank up the blood.
She stood by the door, to ensure that there would be no intrusions. There were none, and after several minutes, she extended the invisible force from her mind, and pulled Chester back.
He writhed in fury for a minute, then his eyes faded back to grey, and he recovered himself. He stood and staggered.
"It was... too heavy after such starvation," he said, leaning over the table.
"You will be fine," Annalise said, approaching him. "You'll need to clean your mouth, though." She rubbed his back.
He twisted his fingers at painful looking angles, and several small crystal bottles appeared on the table, filled with a thick red liquid.
The man on the floor's blood was gone, as were the spatters across the floor, and the stains on their clothing and around Chester's mouth.
"What will we do with him?" Annalise asked.
Chester twisted his fingers up again, this time Annalise turned her face away. The man's corpse shifted and changed, and in its place was a thin book. Annalise went to get it, but Chester grabbed her hand. "Just leave it."
She pulled away from him and picked it up, thumbing through the pages. "It's blank."
"It would be. He was drained."
Annalise placed the book on the table. Chester looked exhausted, but his eyes were unexpectedly bright. He tucked the bottles into his jacket and left the room.
He was met with many greetings.
"Are you feeling any better?" Daina asked.
"A touch," Chester replied. He smiled at her, though his eyes followed Annalise as she exited the small dining room. "If I may beg my hostess' pardon," he said politely.
Daina nodded and she watched the mayor approach the young woman in the pink dress, asking for her hand to dance, which she declined.
"Well, I dare say he danced with every other lady in the room," Eudora Priéveilleux said. "She's likely the only one who did not seek him out."
"True," Daina agreed, taking a sip of wine as she watched the mayor finally coax the young woman onto the dance floor. "And men always seem to want what they cannot have."

animalmasquerade

2010-01-04T17:28:00.001-08:00

we wore our true masks
and they told tale
of the things we kept inside.

you were Lion,
king of the jungle,
with fierce and mighty teeth

i was Anemone
unmoving but stinging
sucking in and consuming

we never meet on normal plains
but at a masquerade
anything is possible.

anything- like a stolen glance
and broken artifacts.
and being disinvited by the Cat.

making enemy of Peacock and all
and telling ourselves we'd make a ball
and leaving the animals to their Zoo.

while being chased out by the Wolf
and being courted by the Canary
and finding ourselves in a back room.

with the lights low and
our faces on for everyone to see
our weaknesses; claws and tendrils.

in there, thats me, a silly Sea Creature
not a Glowworm or a Mountain Goat,
what is Real is what we wear most often

Aquarium

2009-12-15T03:50:00.001-08:00

When Claudia Rams woke, the Clock tower was sounding off, six bells, one for each hour. Six hours of day, so much time wasted. She gazed at her husband. He was curled into his pillow, blissful in the warm embrace of sleep. Claudia shrugged off the quilts and placed her bare feet on the cold tile floor. The shift in weight of the bed caused him to wake.  "Another early morning?" he groaned.
"I am afraid it can't be helped. Progress doesn't sleep."
"Will you be home for dinner?"
"We shall see."
She hurried to the lavatory and briefly glanced at her complexion in the mirror. Her skin wore a touch waxy as of late. She had bathed the night before, to preserve precious time in the morning. She dabbed some pale makeup onto her face, and a soft pink to her lips. She cinched her bodice as she hurried back into her bedroom and flung open the armoire, pulled out a dress from it. She stepped into a mass of black satin and silk, simple but elegant, refined, but stylish. The skirt was long, and the whispering tool beneath it made it slightly inconvenient, but she would never dare wear a curve hugging, straight-lined dress, like those masked prostitutes in the Pit. She felt as though she could hear the Clock tower ticking away her life as she hurried down the stairs in the sleeping house.
As she made her way outside, a vehicle was already hovering there, waiting for her. The driver barely nodded at her as she pulled herself into the vehicle.
"Any breakfast or straight to the Hospitals?"
Isabelle rolled her eyes. "You know the answer to that."
Claudia was still only in her early thirties, but she understood the political machinations of West Clocktown. Whatever they were accomplishing depended largely on how quickly it could be done. There was no telling the sort of things that could be brewing in the shuddering ancient trees beyond the safety and sanity of the wall. Pulling off of MacDonald Lane, her vehicle paused, but there was no traffic on Carroll, nor any on Allen, which curled directly into the Hospital District. It was quiet. She instructed the driver to roll down her window and inhaled the morning mist as electric lights snapped into vision. Everything in the Hospitals was golden and glowing like a land constructed by and for fireflies. She traced her gaze up the massive mirror windowed towers. Here was the soul of West Clocktown. Here was sanity and sanctuary. She pushed her pale hair away from her face, and sat primly in her seat, instructing the driver to seal the window.

She burst into the twelfth building down the strip, her steps dogged by the ticking away of the Clock. She pressed the button for the elevator, and it arrived in exactly 16 seconds. She tapped her foot with impatience as the elevator took her up to the 18th floor. When she stepped off the elevator, her secretary, a thin, mousy-looking young woman with tightly pulled auburn hair, stood from her desk.
"How are we today, Mrs. Rams?"
Claudia waved her hand vaguely, and started hurrying past. "Driven, Beth, driven."
"Very good," Beth agreed, and picked up a tray as they passed her desk, changing her pace to keep up with Claudia. She offered her a plate from the tray. "Breakfast, Mrs. Rams."
Claudia took the pastry off of the plate and scarfed it down as they walked. She handed the plate back to Beth, who replaced it, then offered her a glass of juice from the tray. Claudia gulped it down, then handed Beth the glass. She replaced it, then offered Claudia a glass of water, which she also gulped down, and returned to Beth. They arrived in Claudia's office, and Claudia shut the door behind her. From the corner of the room, Beth picked up a small black pail. Claudia took it, and instantly began heaving. Beth held Claudia's hair back as she wretched up a portion of her already meager breakfast. When she finished, Beth offered Claudia a napkin which she wiped her mouth with delicately then put in the pail, which Beth took. Claudia picked up a fresh glass of water from her desk and drank it more slowly, then popped a clove, which was laid on her desk near the water, into her mouth.
"Ready for the day then, Mrs. Rams?" Beth asked.
"Yes," Claudia said, holding her hand out.
Beth picked up the leather book and ledger from Claudia's desk and placed them in her hand.
Claudia thumbed through the book, nodded and held out her hand expectantly again. Beth placed an ink pen in it, and Claudia used it to make quick notes in the ledger as she turned and walked out of the office. Beth hurried after her. They continued down the hall of offices, and made a sharp right turn. Here, the offices ended, but the hall continued, empty and seemingly devoid of purpose. There was nothing here but the sound of the two women's heels clacking on the polished surface of the floor. The hall veered off to the left suddenly, and then they were standing in a large room paneled in aluminum on the floor, ceiling, and walls. There was a large circular glass tank filled with murky water in the middle of the room, and a few people milling about, making notes and inspecting wires and tubes leading to and from the tank and a console nearby.
Claudia walked straight up to the tank and stared into it. She nodded at Beth, who announced in a loud voice, "Mrs. Rams needs to work alone."
The room quickly emptied out, and Beth flicked a switch on the wall, which dimmed the room lights, and brought up a dingy, colorless glow from the the tank. It lit up a creature floating in the midst of it.
Claudia approached the tank and pressed her hand against it. There was a desperate banging from the inside, and a hand pressed against the side, only the glass between it and Claudia's. The hand from inside the tank had no pigment. It was beyond pale, it simply had no color. Another hand hit the glass near Claudia; its fingers were strained trying to grasp the smooth sides of the tank. Claudia did not so much as shudder as the rest of the figure in the tank floated into view. It was all as colorless as the hands, and completely naked, save wires hooked up to several points along its spine, and tubes that ran into the nose and mouth. It was obviously human and biologically female, and looked quite like Claudia, from what could be made out of the face that wasn't obscured by the tubes. It had hair, also without pigment, and its wide eyes were an almost nonexistent blue. It stared down at Claudia with those eyes, the color of the bottom of a flame. Its pale eyebrows were turned down.
Beth approached the glass and stood by Claudia.
"It looks angry," Beth noted.
The woman in the tank noticed Beth and pushed herself away from the side of the glass into the murky water. The tank was not terribly wide, so she was never completely obscured when the light was on in it, but she swam to the middle anyway.
"It does," Claudia murmured. "It's all for it's own good, you know."
"Of course," Beth agreed. "Not to mention the good of others."
Claudia nodded. "Poor creature. It has no idea."
She moved off to a control panel nearby. She tapped a few buttons and the light in the tank flashed on and off rapidly. The figure inside put her hands up to her head and swam back to the side. She hit the glass several times. Claudia turned the flashing off.
"There, now no pouting."
The figure looked at Beth resignedly and covered her breasts with one arm, and with the other covered the space between her legs.
"I don't think it wants me in here," Beth said.
Claudia rolled her eyes. "It's under observation, it can't pick and choose who watches."
"I could leave," Beth replied. Her eyes were fixed on the woman in the tank's.
"Nonsense," Claudia said. "It doesn't feel things like we do."
Claudia typed in a sequence on the buttons on the panel, and suddenly one of the wires along the figure's spine began to vibrate. The woman in the tank began hitting the glass desperately, her eyes wide.
"It looks like it's in pain," Beth said.
"Interesting," Claudia said. She made a note in one of the books she was holding. "This is a development."
She turned a dial on the console. The figure suddenly seized up, and her pale eyes rolled back, showing the whites before her hands slid off the glass and her body drifted away, weightlessly.
"Mrs. Rams?" Beth asked, a squeak in her voice. "Did you just uh, kill it?"
"No, it just had a sensory overload," Claudia said, making more notes in her books. She stopped scribbling and looked up at Beth. "Do you feel pity for it?"
"Well it's just that she seems so much like us."
"It was hard for me as well, at the beginning. But I know what it is, and I know what our work here will accomplish."
"If you say so, Mrs. Rams."
"I do." Claudia glanced at a clock stationed above the console. "It should wake up approximately 3 minutes. Go fetch me another glass of water."
Beth nodded. "Of course Mrs. Rams." She hurried off.
Claudia watched her assistant exit then turned back to the tank. She tapped the glass with a fingernail. "You," she sighed. "Have always made it so difficult for me."
The figure weakly began to tread water.
"One minute is an impressive recovery. You may be getting better at this."
The figure in the tank swam towards the edge again, staring daggers.
"Now, you must behave. It would be easier on all of us," Claudia continued.
Suddenly the woman in the tank began clawing at the tubes on her nose and mouth, struggling to pull them free.
Claudia slammed a fist into the side of the tank. "Stop that, you'll only hurt yourself."
She continued struggling with the tubes, and managed to pull the one out of her nasal passage.
"Stop it, Bridget. You'll drown!" Claudia rushed over to the console and turned the dial.
The woman in the tank seized up again, but quickly recovered and succeeded in pulling the other tube out of her mouth.
Then she began to scream. The noise was muffled by the gallons of water the woman was suspended in, but Claudia could hear it.
Beth rushed into the room with glass of water.
"Mrs. Rams! What's happening?!" She gasped, seeing the figure flail in the tank.
"It's trying to kill itself," Claudia said quietly. "It doesn't want to be observed anymore."
"Well, we've got to stop it," Beth said. She rushed to the console and turned the dial all the way up. The trashing in the tank stopped. Everything went still. Claudia shook herself and pressed a few more buttons on the console. The tubes attached to the figure's spine contracted and began to retract into the ceiling.
"Thank you, Beth. I was momentarily shocked," Claudia said primly. "I will take it from here. Just set that glass down anywhere."
The woman was lifted out of the tank, dripping and hovered in the air by the tubes attached to her spine. She spun slowly, water falling all over. Claudia pushed a stair dolly over, and climbed up it until she was slightly higher than the tank, and slightly lower than the woman now hanging over it. She instructed Beth on how to slowly release the tubes so that the woman was close enough to grasp. Claudia pulled the woman over, and reinserted the breathing apparatus into her mouth and nose.
"You've made a terrible fuss, Bridget," she said quietly, a slight quaver in her voice. "Now, behave."
The woman from the tank's glazed eyes flickered with light and she stirred while Claudia still held her. She began to struggle, then looked up at Claudia's eyes. She reached out a hand to touch Claudia's face. Claudia frowned and pushed the body off of the staircase, into the the tank below. Beth gave the tubes maximum slack, and the figure disappeared into the murky water.
Claudia walked down the staircase, and pushed it away dismissively. She headed out of the aluminum paneled room, waving off her secretary's offerings of ledgers and water glasses.
"We'll resume tomorrow then, Beth. Good work today."

#
"Home early?" Her husband asked when Claudia entered his study that afternoon. "I don't believe you've come home early in a year."
"Two years," Claudia replied. She sank wearily into the chair opposite her husband. "But I am exhausted, I realized. A day off won't kill anyone."
"Well, I think it's terrific, darling."
"I... talked with my sister today. For the first time in a while."
"Oh, so did she give you the sound advice to stop working yourself to death? Always was a smart one, dear Bridget."
"Oh yes, Bridget is very smart," Claudia said vacantly.
"I'll have the cook make us some soup then," her husband said.
"Yes, well I won't be making a habit of this, you know," Claudia said. "I intend to be at work just as bright and early as ever tomorrow."
"Of course dear," her husband replied. "I know you can't abide the Clock ticking away precious minutes of your life."

Other Breakable Objects

2009-11-11T02:22:00.000-08:00

Gemma balanced the groceries precariously on her hip while she knocked on the door of the little brown brick house.
"Hayley, it's me. And it's freezing so hurry!" She called when she heard footsteps approaching the door. It creaked open to reveal a tall woman with somewhat unkempt dishwater hair. She looked at Gemma for a moment.
"What on earth is that?"
"Treats! Open up."
Hayley pulled the door open wider and stepped aside as Gemma hurried in with her bags. She nearly toppled onto the kitchen counter with her load as Hayley shut the door behind them. Gemma brushed snowflakes from her hair and pulled her gloves off, then she rummaged in one of the bags.
"Rocky Road for me," she said, holding up a pint of ice cream. "And Banana Berry for you," she held up the other.
"Gemma Brunson, you are a mad devil," Hayley said, reaching for the pint.
"'Deed I am."
Gemma fished two spoons out of the drawer in the kitchen, then wandered into the living room. She plopped onto the couch and held out a spoon to Hayley.
"Well?" she asked, seeing her friend's reluctance.
"You're gonna eat an entire pint of Rocky Road?"
"Yeah, why not?" Gemma smiled. "Worse ways to die."
Hayley took the spoon and sat on the arm of the couch. They nursed the pints for a while in silence.
"So," Gemma said after a while. "How are you?"
"Wow, you're getting the hang of this conversation business."
Gemma grinned between gulps of ice cream. "Yeah well."
"And I'm fine."
"Liar."
"Fair enough. How are you?"
"Usual. Fat."
Hayley rolled her eyes. "I'm not gonna bother arguing."
"S'okay. How're you then?"
"Miserable."
Gemma set the pint on the coffee table. "Still?"
"I know, I should be able to pull myself up by the bootstraps."
"No," Gemma began. "I mean, I don't think that's the way to deal with it, but I hoped you'd be dealing with it somehow."
Hayley slid off the arm of the couch, and put her arms around Gemma. "Sometimes I wonder if it'll ever stop hurting."
"It will."
"When?" Hayley asked. "It's never soon enough."
"I know."
"I loved him so much."
"I know."
"Even after all he did."
"I know."
"Why can't you say anything else?"
"I don't know what else to say."
Gemma felt hot tears soaking through her sweater. She held Hayley while she sobbed, stroking her hair. After a while, Hayley pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.
"God, I must look awful," she said, her voice still quavering.
"You've looked better."
Hayley laughed in the midst of her tears. "You're such a bitch."
"That's why you love me."
"Yeah." Hayley said, smiling.
Gemma slapped her thighs. "Well, I had this great idea."
"Mmhm?"
"You know what day it is?"
"Uh, December... 9th?"
"Righto. You haven't put up Christmas decorations, heathen."
"Oh Gem, I couldn't without-"
"Yeah, so we're gonna do it ourselves." She flexed her arms. "Show him that us womenfolk can do anything!"
Hayley's face burst into a smile. "Okay, then we gotta drag the stuff out of the garage."
"'Kay, I gotta go to the bathroom first."
Gemma closed and locked the bathroom door behind her. She dug the bleach solution out from under the sink and set it nearby, then knelt on the rubber mat in front of the toilet. With her right hand she held her auburn hair back, and with her other she stuck two fingers down her throat. She wretched instantly, but waited until she had done so three times to flush the toilet and spray the bleach solution around the rim and wipe it with a piece of toilet paper.
"You're being awful industrious in there," Hayley's voice came from the other side of the door. "I asked if you could eat the whole pint."
"Just being supportive." Gemma said, as she stood and began to rinse out her mouth in the sink.
"You're not fat, you know." Hayley continued.
Gemma looked at her apple-cheeked reflection in the mirror as she splashed water on her face. "Yeah, sure."
"I've gotta spare toothbrush. Left drawer."
Gemma quickly brushed her teeth with it, then opened the door as she wiped her face with the hand towel. "Right as rain."
"And flushing your life down the drain."
"I could've said that to you a few months ago, but I didn't, did I?" Gemma said, looking at the wall past Hayley's head.
"You're gonna hurt yourself."
"Hey, if anyone's gonna do lecturing today, it's me," Gemma said. Then she smiled wryly. "We gonna do this Christmas thing or what?"

#

In the garage, Hayley pressed the button and the door raise, pouring in glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glittering snow on the ground. Gemma scanned the Rubbermaid boxes with their neat labels like, "Breakable" and "Wedding" until she found the one that read, "X-mas Out Lights."
"I'm gonna need a ladder!" She called, her breath lingering in the chilly air.
Hayley tapped on the one propped against the wall. "Right here. You're really gonna climb on the roof?"
"Yes, indeed," Gemma replied, hauling the Rubbermaid box outside the garage.
Hayley held the plug end of the lights and the ladder steady as Gemma climbed up to the roof, arranging the string of lights along the nails set there from past years. She occasionally called out for a spare bulb where she found one broken or seemingly blown. An hour passed, full of muttering and cursing and chapped hands and slipping and cries of "oh, careful," and the lights were finally up.
Gemma climbed back down the ladder. "So, what are you waiting for? Plug them in!"
Hayley went into the garage and plugged in the extension cord.
Gemma and Hayley crunched across the snow and stood back in the sidewalk, looking at the house. The lights on the roof were a bit lopsided, and the ones around the door were missing a few bulbs, but it wasn't so bad, really.
"So, dinner?" Gemma asked, blowing on her hands.
"What did you have in mind?" Hayley said, pulling her jacket close around herself.
"Pot pies!" Gemma said brightly.
Hayley raised an eyebrow. "And how will you handle that?"
"The same way we handle everything."

Blue Rose

2009-11-05T02:08:00.000-08:00

The doorbell rang. Ezekiel Contadino closed the worn paperback he had been reading, and looked at his watch. It was nearing midnight. But the doorbell rang again, then came knocking. He stood and stretched, hearing the satisfying pop from his shoulders, and walked around the couch to the front door. He unlocked and opened it. His breath caught, and he involuntarily stepped back.
"Samantha," his voice came out sounding dry, dusty, lost.
The woman smiled weakly. She looked, simply put, awful. She was thin, her hair in need of a brush, her oversized grey hoodie practically dripping off of her shoulders. In her hands she loosely held the strap of a worn duffel bag. Her usually bright brown eyes were vacant looking. Her smile was entirely hollow.
"Hey Ezekk. I... I wouldn't ask this of you ever. Not ever, but I... I just need somewhere to stay. I mean, for right now. I won't be offended if you say no. I mean, it makes perfect sense if you did. I'd say 'no' too if I were you."
Ezekk found his voice. "Yeah. Yeah! Of course!" His expression changed from shock to overwhelming relief. "Of course you can stay." He opened the door wider for her. "Come in."
Instead of entering the house, Samantha dropped the duffle and embraced him. "It's so nice to hear your voice." She had to stand on her tiptoes to get her arms around his neck, he was so much taller than her.
Shocked, Ezekk gingerly put his arms around her. "You had us so worried," he said quietly. "We thought the worst. When you didn't call. It's been-"
"Eight months." Samantha finished. She pulled away from him. "I know."
She stooped and picked up her duffel, then let him usher her into the house. It was a small place, inexpensive, but functional. The curtains were drawn in the front room, but from the open doorway into the kitchen, the full moonlight came in through the big windows.
Samantha stood in the midst of the crowded front room, and she did not move. She seemed to be taking it all in. The painting of a tree above the bookshelf, the overstuffed leather couch, the somewhat beaten up dining set, the dandelions lazing in a Mason jar on the table. She stared at the latter for a long time.
"How is Celeste?" she asked, not moving.
"She's fine. She's asleep upstairs." Ezekk replied.
Samantha nodded. "Maybe I'll see her... later." She dropped her duffel bag and sank down onto the couch. "I forgot how much I liked this place."
Ezekk nodded. "Yeah."
He moved around the couch and stared at her. "Samantha... what happened?"
She shook her head. "Later."
He straightened up. "Do you uh...want anything to drink? Iced tea?"
"Just some water."
Ezekk wandered into the kitchen, flicked the light on and found the glasses where they always were. He pulled the pitcher out of the fridge. He tried to hold it steady over the glass, it was such a simple task, but it seemed impossible. He made to come back into the room, but he paused. Samantha was looking around, seemingly soaking it all in. He saw her swallow. A picture-frame on the edge of a bookshelf, turned slightly away from the room, immediately caught her attention. She stood and went to it. Her fingers caressed the image in it. Ezekk decided to enter the room and placed the glass on the coffee-table.
"So, you found it."
"I'm actually kind of surprised you kept it out," Samantha said quietly.
"Well, it was our wedding. I can't forget easily."
A silence wafted over them like a shroud.
Ezekk turned his face away from her. She looked back at the picture. Ezekk already had it memorized. In it, he was several years younger, and making a rare appearance in a suit, but he looked as much the same. He was a big man, lean, but broad-shouldered and tall, with arms and legs like tree limbs. And Samantha was there too, radiant, plump and glowing and so happy. The person in the photo was Samantha. But then so must be the stranger before him. She touched the photo gingerly, tracing the outlines of them, then replaced it. She did not face him.
"I don't know," she began, then paused, then began again. "I don't know how long I'm going to stay. I thought I could maybe sleep on the couch."
Ezekk nodded vacantly. "Yeah sure. I keep the sheets in the same place."
He immediately went to the cupboard on the landing and pulled out some plain white sheets and two quilts. He brought them back. His actions were mechanical. He was trying desperately to silence the screaming of his brain.
"Just so you have them for when you want to sleep. You know where everything is. Please, make yourself... at home."
"I can't thank you enou-"
"Don't," he interrupted. "No need."
More silence.
Finally Ezekk shrugged. "I need to check on Celeste,"
"Oh, yeah. No problem," Samantha replied, not looking at him. "I'll just be down here."

Ezekk climbed up the stairs, trying not to give in to the tightening in his chest. He reached the landing and extended his hand out to steady himself against the wall. He stood there a minute, then, clinging to the banister, made his way to the second floor. He stood outside of the door to Celeste's room for a long while, listening to his own breathing. When he was sure it was quiet enough, he entered the room. He was very proud of Celeste's room. He had, in a burst of creativity, crafted the nightlight himself, and it cast star-shaped patterns on the walls. They danced across his body when he entered. He leaned over the mahogany crib and watched the toddler breathing quietly in her sleep, her tiny chest moving up and down. Against all reason, considering Ezekk's dark coloring, her head was covered in soft blonde curls that wreathed her like a halo, and the nightlight cast stars across her soft skin. The way she slept, her mouth pursed, her baby fists balled up, reminded Ezekk of her mother. He exhaled as he watched his daughter rest.
"Be good," he said quietly. Then he left the room, shutting the door slightly.

He came back downstairs and found Samantha still sitting on the couch. Her eyes and nose were red and slightly puffy looking. She looked up at him and hurriedly tried to shift her face into a different expression.
"Everything okay?"
Ezekk nodded, sitting down next to her, but not too close. "You wanna take a shower or something?" He asked, glancing at her worn, dirty looking clothing.
"Yeah, sure. That would be great."
"I've got some of your old clothes upstairs," he said. "If you'd prefer that."
She smiled, and reached out and touched his face. "You're such a good man, Ezekk."
He shifted and she pulled her hand away.
"Do you still have my green sweater?" she asked.
He nodded. "It's in a box under the bed. I'll get it." He stood to do so, but she shook her head.
"It's alright. You don't have to run get it right this second."
"Well, shower hasn't moved, you know. You can go. I'll set the clothing outside."
Samantha frowned and looked down at her hands. "Okay."

Ezekk trekked up the stairs again. When he arrived at the landing, he heard the water turn on in the downstairs bathroom. He paused, then went to the master bedroom. He went to the big walk-in closet, and flung it open. He knelt and dragged out a large cardboard box. He dug through it and found some worn, faded exercise pants and the equally worn green sweater, soft with wear. As an afterthought he dug out some undergarments as well.
He peeked into Celeste's room on the way back down, and found everything unchanged. He continued down. The door to the bathroom was slightly open and steam billowed out. He set the clothing down outside, and turned away, but paused, listening to the sound of the water falling. He pushed the door open.
The curtain was drawn of course, but Samantha's called out as soon as he entered. "Ezekk?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Her voice sounded strange. Ezekk realized it was coming from near the floor, that she was sitting in the tub, letting the water pour over her.
"What are you doing?" She asked quietly, after a few seconds.
"Nothing."
"Yeah," she said with a humorless chuckle. "Me too."
Ezekk sat down on the counter next to the sink. He lightly drummed his fingers on the countertop, listening to the sound of the water.
"I need a towel," she muttered after a few minutes
Ezekk slid off of the counter, and dug a towel out of the cabinet. Samantha's hand reached out for it from behind the curtain, still beaded with a million water droplets. She grasped it and pulled it in.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he opened it again. "I'm going to go to bed. You... know where I am if you need anything."

#

When he woke in the morning, sunlight streaming in, pillow clutched tightly, the dream seemed to fade out of his mind. Of course he had dreamed of her. He dreamed of her all of the time. But then he heard a soft knock on the door to the bedroom, and Samantha walked in, wearing the green sweater, her hair tangled, but clean. She still looked thin, and foreign. But there she was. He sat up.
"It's alright," she said quietly. "Don't have to stand ceremony for little old me."
She sat on the far edge of the bed, away from him.
"I had an affair." Her voice was so quiet Ezekk could have imagined it. "And it didn't turn out well." She exhaled, and pulled a hand through her hair. "Nothing I can say or do will ever change what I've done, but I won't keep it a secret at any rate."
She stood, the bed groaning in protest, and left the room. Ezekk remained motionless, until a wail across the hall shook him. He untangled himself from the blankets and hurried to check on Celeste. He lifted her out of the crib and changed her diaper. Then he carried her downstairs while she babbled in her mystery language and pulled at his hair.
In the kitchen, the sunlight streamed in the windows. As he mixed a bottle for his daughter he gazed blankly out the window, barely catching the image of Samantha in the backyard, digging hurriedly at the ground by the rose bushes.
He lingered on the image, and putting the bottle in Celeste's grasping fingers, rushed outside with her. Samantha was scratching at the soil with her fingers, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"They've gone all bad," she said quietly. "They're all bad, all rotted, even at the roots."
Celeste suddenly pulled her bottle out of her mouth and tossed it. It rolled to the far side of the lawn. Ezekk knelt down next to Samantha.
"I don't know how to take care of roses," Ezekk said. "I'm sorry."
Samantha's whole body started to shudder with sobs. "What for? They were my roses and I just left them here!"

Falling

2009-10-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

She sat on the bench on the south side of Central Heights Park and watched him. She watched the man as he walked past with his big chocolate labrador on a leash, one headphone stuffed in his ear while the other dangled loose, swaying side to side as he trotted past. He was in no hurry. He did not see her on the bench watching him. She could have been any age between 20 and 35, and her appearance, though her features were sharp and her auburn hair was appealing, was on the forgettable side. He saw her and immediately his mind slipped away from her. She could have been anyone. She wasn’t.
       It would have been given away if he looked into her eyes, but he never did as he and his dog hurried past. Her brown eyes went back a long way, endless chocolate pools a body could drown in. No one ever looked in them, so no one ever drowned. Autumn blinked, and shook her head as he once again passed her. She stared up at the nearly nude trees, shedding golden leaves everywhere.
       “Maybe I’ve been here too long,” she mumbled to herself.  “Maybe.”
       When the man was clear from view, Autumn stood up from the bench. She never carried any personal belongings, simply came as she was. She liked being unattached. She wandered the paths at the park, admiring the multitude of  leaves on the trees, and enjoying the satisfying crunch of them under her feet.
       Parks were her favorite. She liked seeing people in sweaters and scarves, out and about, walking, holding hands, whispering things to one another, smiling, laughing, jogging, swinging, fighting, humming, playing. The countryside was lonely, and a city flat could place her anywhere. Parks were the best place. A small boy ran in front of her path and tripped a few feet in front of her. She widened her eyes and hurried to help him up. From under his mop of curls, the child smiled at her and took her hand.
       “Careful,” she said.
       The boy made no reply. He was already forgetting her. He hurried off to his friends at the playground.
       A chill wind swept up and tossed her hair about, as she stared, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. She continued her trek, passing the playground, entering a sort of pleasant avenue. The trees here still had most of their leaves, which were ruby red. A young couple walked by. She watched them earnestly. They were holding hands. Autumn watched as they chatted quietly and walked about the avenue aimlessly, their bodies bumping lightly against one another. The young man suddenly turned to the girl and kissed her.
       Autumn averted her gaze, and turned out of the avenue.  She crossed the rest of the park, and ended up on the street corner. She looked back at the park. Then at the street. She saw the chocolate lab tied up outside the coffeehouse. She shrugged and when the road was clear, made a dash across the street.
       Once on the sidewalk, she peered in the coffeehouse. The man was there. She knelt beside his dog and gave it a pat. It licked her hands appreciatively and smiled in a doggy sort of way. She kissed it’s head. When she stood the dog still looked after her and barked plaintively.
       “None of that now,” she said, and the dog was silent. It lay down, head on forepaws and twitched its eyes guiltily.
       Autumn went in the coffee shop. It smelled of bitter coffee and also sweet things; pastries like the pretty orange icing cookies displayed in the case, and walnut bread, and fudge squares. Her mouth watered. She walked up to the counter and bought two orange icing cookies. She sat down at an empty table near the door and watched. The man had run into a friend of his at the shop, and they were chatting excitedly. Autumn sighed as she watched this exchange, trying not to strain to listen. The man was standing in an unexpected patch of sunlight. Autumn admired the way his brownish hair caught fire in the light.
       She watched him for a few more minutes, carefully unwrapping the first cookie, and taking small bites out of it. She took to heart all of the details about him, the way his lips closed around the cup as he took sips of his latte. As she saw him shift more often from one foot to the other and nod more frequently to his friend, Autumn finished the last bites of her cookie, and headed out the door. Outside she unwrapped the other cookie, and fed pieces to the appreciative labrador until she looked up at the man.
       “You’ve got a beautiful dog. I wanted to give him a treat.”
       The man’s gaze was settled on her. She liked the way it felt. His lips curled.
       “It’s alright, he’s just getting fat on the stuff,” he knelt and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Aren’t we, boy?” The man indicated his jogging outfit. “That’s why we go for walks so much.”
       “I know,” Autumn said quietly.
       The dog looked up at Autumn longingly, but she had spent all of the cookie. He nuzzled her hand until she pet him.
       “Wow, he’s treating you like an old friend, isn’t he?”
       Autumn nodded. “I don’t mind. He’s sweet. What do you call him?”
       “Raleigh.”
       “Well, perhaps Raleigh and I will meet again,” she said, scratching his ear.  Her gaze searched for the man’s and grasped it.
       “I think that would be great.”
       “My name is Autumn,” she said, looking at him intently. “Please remember that.”
       The man returned her gaze and nodded. “Very well, Autumn.”



       #

       It was late November at the Central Heights Park. The trees were bare, save for a few clinging brown leaves. As the man approached the bench where Autumn sat, Raleigh strained at his tether and barked. Autumn’s face did not burst into the smile it had every time she saw them. Noticing, the man sat down next to her.
       “Autumn, what’s... what’s wrong?”
       Instead of a reply, she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
       “Autumn?” he asked, rubbing her shoulders. “I know we haven’t been friends for long or anything but this is a little...”
       “It’s too much. It’s too big for you,” she said quietly. “Your friendship these past two months has meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”
       She was slow in pulling away from him, inhaling the smell of his sweater, feeling the shift of muscles in his arm, the sound of his heart, beating strong.
       “I’m going to miss you,” she muttered into his chest
       “Are you going away?”
       “Yes.”
       “But I... I had hoped...”
       “Me too. But I’m going to be late,” she said, finally pulling back and straightening.
       “I don’t understand.”
       “You wouldn’t,” she replied.
       She smiled and patted Raleigh’s head as he nuzzled her hand. “You won’t forget me, will you boy?”
       “Of course he won’t, and neither will I,” the man said insistently.
       “No.” Autumn’s voice was quiet but strong, she met his eyes. “You will forget.”
       Suddenly the man’s gaze looked distant, and he stood, and pulled at the tether on the dog. “Sorry, miss,” he said vaguely. “I’ve never seen him so taken with a stranger.” The dog gave up resisting, and looked back at Autumn with sad eyes. Autumn returned his gaze for a long while, watching man and dog retreat. A curled brown leaf fell from the maple nearby and fluttered on a gentle breeze to her open hand. She closed her hand on it, hearing the crinkle as it broke into a million microscopic pieces.


       Suddenly the wind was even colder than before, cold enough to chill the bones, and Autumn looked up to see a tall woman with sharp features, bright blue eyes, and wild black hair approaching from the north side of the park.
       “Hwin,” Autumn’s voice almost choked on her sister’s name.
       “The very same. You’re almost late in leaving.”
       “Yeah, I...”
       “That’s highly unusual,” Hwin said, raising an eyebrow. “Something about this town more special than the others?”
       Autumn looked at the retreating form of the man and his dog, already small. Already out of mind. She squared her shoulders and stood. “Of course not. I just didn’t see any sign of you.”
       “Well, I’m here now. Fall is officially over here. You’ve got business elsewhere.”
       “Hwin?” Autumn looked into her older sister’s eyes.
       “Yeah?”
       “I missed you.” She said.
       Seeing Autumn’s expression, Hwin put out her arms, and gathered her sister up in them.
       “Do you ever feel like it’s not worth it?” Autumn muttered.
       “Yeah. Sometimes, I think we all do.”
       Autumn pulled away and straightened up. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you soon,” she said, and without another word she turned and moved away across the park, heading west.
       Hwin watched her go, watched the last of the brown leaves fall in Autumn’s wake as she left the park, and the city, and the county, and the memory of the man walking his dog on that cold November day.

Asura

2009-08-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

I made a wish to the Gandharvas
That the gods would rend me limb from limb
And create from the ashes a new human.

I begged that I be spared the fire.
That I should have myself cut up,
Drained of the milk from my stomach.

That I forever lock my spirit in stone,
Become a senseless, beautiful, whirling creature
Without known purpose or reason.

Lost in the eyes like a motherless child,
Or a woman exhausted by caring for them.
Insensitive, infertile, innocent, alone.

The Music Box: Chapter One Dark

2009-08-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

Jack Northton never slept anymore, for fear he would never be able to wake. All through the endless night, he would thrash fitfully in whatever he called his bed, finding rest in short supply. Jack no longer remembered what he was doing, or what purpose it served. It seemed that he never spoke. He never drank. He never thought. He simply moved, as though in a trance.
He was a transient, not only in the city, but in his own body. He had long since stopped caring for his appearance, his hair scruffy and directionless, his clothing crumpled, his very soul disheveled. If Jack had caught his reflection in a mirror, he would have turned away, rather than face the fathoms of his own black irises. His skin was ashen, and his body near-emaciated; he seemed more ghost than human being.
He rose from his palette, his blankets pouring off of him. He paced the room a few times before sitting down again. He put his head in his hands.
“I have to get out of here.”
He picked up his tattered knapsack and placed his fingers on the lacquered object inside. He withdrew, as though stung, and tossed his thin blankets inside. He then fled the derelict apartment, never to see it again.
The wind had nearly torn Jack’s thin shirt from his body when he arrived at a pub called the Silver Serpent. He took a booth in the far corner, away from the few grubby patrons.
A waitress in a very short skirt bounced up to him, asking, “Can I getcha anything?”
Her giggling, flirtatious manner annoyed Jack and he replied to the table, “I’m waiting for someone.”
It was the line he delivered in every pub, to every waitress. It was only half a lie. Around midnight, Jack became anxious. He had soaked up the warmth for nearly two hours. He dreaded going out into December, but he could not keep up his charade for any longer. It began to snow. Then Jack heard the noise. The electric and metallic, the puffing exhaust and the hull groaning of a ship.
“What kinda craft lands at this godless hour? There’s never no rest here!” He heard the bartender exclaim.
Jack had lived, or rather existed, in a port city for long enough to know what a hovership docking meant. The whole crew would stay at one lodging and spend the night, leaving early in the morning. Apparently, this ship had selected the Silver Serpent. Jack looked out at the winter night with growing apprehension. He would have to give up his seat for some unruly crew and wander in the snow until he dropped.
The door opened and in trooped some fifty-odd exhausted looking people. Cold wind followed them in, as they broke off around the tables in ragtag groups. Jack, an old hand at invisibility, simply ignored them, his muscles tensing around his shoulders.
Several seconds after the entire group had settled in, the door opened again. Snow flurried in with a deadly wind, then in stepped a figure that froze the blood in his veins. It was average in size, not very tall, had black hair gleaming with hitchhiking snowflakes. It appeared to be a woman, but something about her was distinctly inhuman, unnatural. She was frigid in beauty, the envy of a goddess. Her skin was pale, almost as pale as the snow pouring in. Despite the layers of black canvas and leather upon her body, Jack could tell she was slender, almost perfectly shaped, a way that he only thought possible in marble.
More striking than any feature, however, were her eyes. They were two glacial orbs of blue that inhaled the world around her. They tore into everything they consumed, the iris almost luminous. Without looking, Jack knew the freezing stare was fastened on him.
Then the door closed, and Jack inhaled. He had to leave. He spotted the waitress and calculated his escape. Braced and bent, he was prepared to fly, when he heard the seat across from him settle with a body’s weight. He turned to see the ocean-eyed woman sitting there, gaze fixed on him.
“Sorry I’m late, we were behind schedule.”
She spoke quickly and calmly, her voice deep and pleasant. She waved a pale hand in the air to alert the waitress.
“I hope he hasn’t been burden. You may get us two hot meals and drinks. I don’t care what, but make it quick.”

Jack stared at the woman across from him. “I... I don’t...”
“Hush,” she commanded. “Simply be grateful. Say, ‘thank you’.”
Jack nodded. Her fierce, freezing gaze made him nervous.
“What is your name?”
“Jack...Jack Northton,” he mumbled.
“You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Northton?” She was tracing circles on the tabletop.
“No. No, I’m not.”
He shifted his gaze, desperately trying to avoid hers. Two plates of food arrived. Jack stared at what appeared to be edible. The woman smiled at him. It was a strange smile, lacking real warmth.
“You could use a good meal. Don’t worry. It’s on me.”
He could not keep the apprehension from showing.
“I don’t have any ulterior motives,” she said quietly, spearing the substance on her plate with a fork. “At least, none involving you. You may have tricked the people in this place, but I’d know a drifter from a mile away.”
She bit into the substance, which crunched softly. Juice from it slid down her chin.
“Maybe two.” She wiped her face daintily with a napkin. “Eat. Honestly.”
Jack nodded and vacantly picked up his fork. He ate in silence. He looked up at the woman. There was a feeling arcing up his spine, pounding out a steady cadence in his heart. It was the feeling of not being in control. He hated it.
Despite his anxiety, however, his appetite won out. He ate unceremoniously, not tasting what slid across his tongue. The woman ate as well, but she seemed to take more pleasure in watching Jack, her eyebrows slightly raised, her eyes boring holes into him. Her lips curled into a grin.
"You're afraid." She said matter-of-factly. "There's no need."
Jack could not help but be afraid of her. It was her stare, her grin, the way she seemed ready to devour him. He looked at his now empty plate, feeling her hungry gaze.
"However," she said, raising a finger before he could reply. "I suppose I cannot control you, just based on the price of dinner." She flicked a long forefinger towards the corner of the room. "If you want to run, as your skittering eyes tell me, the waitress is over there, and the door," she flicked her finger towards it, "is there."
Jack stared at her, feeling stupid. He did not want to leave the warmth, but he did not want to endure this woman. She frightened him more than what he was running from, what he would face outside. He did not know why, but there was something in her, behind those endless eyes, that struck terror into him. He nodded vaguely.
"Thank you," he mumbled. He stood and hurried to the door, feeling her eyes follow him.
As the door closed behind him, the woman's grin faded, and sipped her tea.
"Where will you go, Mr. Northton?"

Jack was assaulted by the cold. He was grateful for the woman's generosity, and wondered why, exactly, he felt safer in this blizzard. Jack knew he was losing it. There was nothing to fear in the ocean-eyed woman. But now he could not return. It was better to not maintain familiarity in any case. It made the running hard There was no need, but every need. He had to keep moving, wandering, running. He'd been doing it so long, stopping even for a moment, hurt more than the ache in his bones when the wind tore through him.
This city was a port city, and an old one at that, but it had been allowed to waste in recent years. Its streetlights had started shorting out, and the darkness hung thick. As soon as Jack had wandered out of view and glow of the pub, he found himself enveloped in darkness. And then the cold became unbearable. His shirt did nothing against the winter fury of the wind. He felt cold pierce trough his skin, into the very marrow of his bones. He struggled against it, trying desperately to remember the direction he should be heading, only realizing too late he had no real direction to be heading. He realized he was no longer able to move against the crippling power of the wind. It stood before him, strong and impassable as a wall. And Jack, underfed, poorly clothed, and lacking in sleep, had no strength to fight it. The wind sucked the air from his mouth before he had a chance to use it. Jack wanted to return to the pub, apologize to the woman, but now he was stranded only a block away in a world of never-ending whiteness. After minutes that stretched into decades of struggle, Jack’s thin legs collapsed beneath him. He fell forward, into the freezing embrace of the thick snowfall. The callous winter continued on, burying Jack’s body furiously and emotionlessly. Jack would have cried for help, but his voice was carried away from him with the chill wind. Weakly, moving infinitely slowly, Jack pulled his pack off of his back and curled his body around it protectively. He could hear nothing above the screaming of the wind, but he could feel in his freezing veins a soft melody, high, lilting, sad. And it seemed right for now. Jack had, perhaps, lived too long without a soul. He would die unmourned, buried by an uncaring blizzard.
And that was all Jack knew. Then sweet nothing.

White light streamed across Jack. He blinked experimentally. Somehow, despite his best efforts, he knew he wasn’t dead, which came as something of a disappointment. He realized the light was coming from a somewhere beyond him, and that he was staring at a ceiling. Most deliciously he noticed that he was under a multitude of blankets.
He closed his eyes, to bask in this luxurious purgatory, but then suddenly sat up urgently. His eyes scanned the pure white room. A woman was standing near a window which took up the entire eastern wall. She was cast into a relief by the overhead light, outlined against the dark world beyond the window; She turned.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Her voice was cheerful.
Jack’s mind whirled into action, realizing he was in a strange place, with strange new people.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” The woman came closer to him. He saw she was a plump, pretty woman soft blonde curls hanging down to her shoulders and wide green eyes. She had a cheerful expression, if her eyes seemed a bit guarded.
“Our Captain found you in the snow and brought you onboard,” she continued. “I’ve been watching over you. You were out for almost a day.”
“Onboard?” Jack repeated, puzzled and his mind mildly reeling.
“You are onboard the hovership Moonstrung.” the woman replied, smiling. “We were docked in Madis during the blizzard. I’m a crew member here.”
“You... make a habit of picking up strangers in the snow and kidnapping them?”
“Me? Never. Captain doesn’t do it often, but it’s always for good reason, I think.” She smiled then, and Jack took a second to realize she was joking.
“I’m Rachel Bloomshed,” she continued. “It doesn’t roll off the tongue so divinely so you can call me Rae. It’s nice to finally meet you, as it were.”
Jack smiled. “I’m Jack Northton.” He suddenly realized he felt an intense thirst. “Could I have some water?”
The weakness of his body sat heavily on him. He realized how pathetic he was, all at once. It was almost overwhelming. Rae did not notice any of this, and walked across the rather vacant looking room to a cabinet bolted along the far wall. She pulled it open and took out a glass bottle. She brought it to Jack. He drank greedily. He put it back in her hand then, as his memories started to realign themselves, he gripped her wrist tightly.
“I had a bag. Where is it?”
“Your old knapsack? It’s in the cabinet. We weren’t snooping, but we have to keep free things locked up in case the ride gets rough.” She smiled. It seemed to be an expression that came easily to her. “Would you like me to bring it to you?”
He nodded silently, releasing her arm. Rae took the bottle to the cabinet and replaced it. She returned to Jack’s side with the worn black knapsack. He grasped it a little too eagerly, and undid the straps. He felt inside and when his fingers touched the box, he relaxed.

“So, what’s in there?” Rae asked, observing this. Jack looked at her and sighed. He had nothing to fear from her, and he knew his fears were irrational to begin with. He pulled the box out of the knapsack. It was lacquered smooth, painted black with delicate gold spiral patterns across it. Around the central spiral, on the lid of the box, a series of lines spun out, stretching over the ends of the box. The lid was attached by a hinge, and the front of it was clasped with a delicate curve of gold colored metal.
Rae’s eyes widened. “That’s lovely.”
Jack ran a forefinger across the top of it. “Yes. It is beautiful.”
“These designs.. they remind me of the children’s stories, you know. Of the sun. Those were always my favorite stories.” She settled down on the bed next to him. “Couldn’t you see the Prince carrying this across the sky?”
Jack raised an eyebrow and looked at her. “The sun?” He looked back at the spirals. “I suppose...” his voice trailed off. “I try not to linger on those stories.”
“Do they upset you?” Rae asked.
Jack frowned. Rae returned her gaze to the box.
“What’s it for?” She asked. “I mean, what makes it so important to you?”
Jack eyed her. But of course, Rae had no intentions. She was simply curious.
“It was my wife’s. She loved this box more than just about anything in the world.”

Jack twisted a metal crank located on the back of the box, and unclasped the lid. From within an ocean of soft white velvet, a delicate porcelain woman rose. She was minutely detailed, with motionless black hair and a white ragged dress. She spun as a melancholy song issued from the box. It was an emotional lullaby, a song of immense sorrow and longing, a song that lilted carefully and repetitively, a song easily caught in the back of the head. After a time, the music grew slow, and the dancer grew weary. With a mechanical catch, she became motionless, and the box, silent.

“I... can see...” Rae said falteringly. “Why she loves it. It was as if the song of all of my worst and best dreams were playing.” Rae shook herself. “I’m sorry that sounds ridiculous.”
“No, I feel the same way. So did she.” He closed the box and carefully clasped it. “She’s dead now,” he said simply. “I thought I would join her,” he continued after a moment. “In the snow. I’m tired.”
Rae studied his face for a moment. “Our Captain took you onboard because she said she met you earlier, and she said you had no place else to go. Was she right?”
Jack’s muddled mind did not latch onto this statement, beyond the question. “Yes.”
There was a light hiss as the door to the room unsealed and slid open mechanically. He heard another woman’s voice, but his mind was already drifting away.
“Rest well, Mr. Northton.”

Rae looked up at the icily beautiful woman standing over Jack.
“He just drifted off, Captain.” She paused, and looked at Jack, before looking back at the Captain. “I wonder, if saving him was what he needed.”
“It was,” the Captain replied. Her ocean colored gaze fell across the music box. “What is it?” she asked.
“Just a music box.”

When I'm Gone

2009-07-19T03:19:00.000-07:00

October Brown walked through the Northbay General Hospital, as if under a spell. The call had jolted her. She wanted desperately to believe it was not true, long after she was directed to her fiancé’s room. But there Jake was, his torso bandaged, his face badly bruised. He was apparently sleeping under the thin hospital blankets. She leaned over him, and gently touched his swollen face. Jake opened his eyes. She smiled, a trembling smile, like a delicate bird poised to flutter away. He smiled back at her. She could see, deep in his eyes, that it was painful to do.
“Hey pretty girl.”
“Hey handsome,” her voice broke a little. “I’m so sorry I took so long. The traffic....”
Jake put his thumb against her lip. “Shhh, Tobes. It’s fine.”
“What... did the doctors say? Can you....?” She choked on her words.
Jake shook his head, but more slightly than he normally would have. “Lets not talk about what the doctors said.”
Her whole body shuddered, she turned away from him. She bit her trembling lips. Seeing him like this, broken like a used doll, was more than she could bear. Jake leaned up as well as he could. She felt a slight tug on a piece of her long hair.
“Come on, honey, don’t do that.”
She turned back to face him. Under the fluorescent hospital lights she looked pale and fragile, rubbed raw.
“You’re gonna make it,” he said quietly.
She took his hand and held it tight. She tried to speak but found herself choking.
“Look, Tobes. We can’t do this. I’m... scared too. But I told them, I told them not to let you see me.” There was a catch in his throat as he spoke. “Not to let you see me when I’m... gone.”
The world fell away beneath her. “You mean...”
“This is the last time, babe,” he said weakly.
Her eyes filled to bursting. She didn’t even try to brush them away. Sobs racked her body. She did not want to waste precious time crying, but she could not help it.
“Why?!” She moaned. “Why did this happen to you? It wasn’t your battle.”
She kissed his heavily bruised arms. She wanted him to hold her, to admit it was a cruel joke, to say everything would be fine tomorrow, that they could get a latte on the way home. She let herself sob, holding his left arm for dear life, for several minutes. She could feel Jake watching her quietly, and occasionally felt his fingertips rub against her forearm.
When she had cried, not nearly as long as she would have liked, she sat back in her seat. Behind the bruises he was the same as the man she had met what felt like forever ago. She carefully studied the way his veins roped through his arms, the way his tousled dark hair fell. Tobes’ mind followed the paths into their past, and she allowed herself the reprieve.
He had met her outside a coffee shop, when she was sitting alone at a table, her head in her hands, crying to herself. He had simply sat himself in the chair across from her and smiled, soft and reassuring.
He asked what was wrong, and before she knew it she was babbling. She had told and trusted few people, and far between, and the weight of it was burying her alive. She did not know Jake then, but he soon knew her. And, shockingly enough, he did not judge her. He simply listened, and as that night drew on into day, into another day, into weeks, into months, into years, he had somehow saved her, just by being who he was.
Jake was her hero. Jake was her friend. Jake was the rock she clung to when the waves of life threatened to sweep her away. Jake was everything.
And Jake was leaving her.
She couldn’t accept it, but for the sake of time. He would be gone. There was so much she wanted to say. But he was studying her, in that surprisingly quiet look he got whenever he wanted to speak.
“Tobes. I... I can’t possibly tell you everything I want to tell you,” he began.
She struggled to keep her newly found brave face.
“And I can’t give you every explanation or advice,” hto fit tofgdfgddgdfgis voice was calm and serious, as if he had been practicing what he was about to say for many weeks. “The only thing I can say is that... it was my fight.”
It was not what Tobes was expecting. She leaned forward. “What?”
Jake sighed. “My backpack. Just... open it.”
She found the worn black Jansport on the chair nearby. She picked it up and brought it back to where she was sitting. She unzipped it. Inside was clothing, a costume of light material, brightly colored. Tobes eyes widened. Her mouth dropped. Her bottom lip trembled.
She looked back at him, her wide gold eyes pleading, for what she did not know.
“I’m sorry I never told you.”
“S...sorry?” she repeated, almost to herself. “Sorry.... sorry’s not good enough.”
Her voice was not fierce, but confused. A million emotions fought for precedence in light of this revelation. All of them seemed to be winning.
“I know,” Jake muttered. “It’s never going to be enough. But it’s all I have, Tobes. It’s all I’ve got left. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to so much. But I couldn’t bear... if you couldn’t handle it.”
“I could have.” Tobes said quietly.
“I know that now. Really, I always knew. But, how you’re looking at me now. If you saw the news, saw what was happening...”
Tobes knew he was right. Watching the odd hero on the television, even as a stranger, she had wondered at his safety. If Jake had told her, she would have pulled her hair out. Or prevented him.
But she was his fianceé. Closer to him than anyone in the entire world, especially since his father was a drinker and his mother had been completely out of the picture. She and he had been a complete, more than a cliché to be called an item. For something this momentous to be kept from her.... it was unfathomable.
And yet things began fitting together, the puzzle suddenly became a complete picture instead of a series of malformed pieces.
His heavy, dreamless sleeps. The continual bruises he claimed he got from sports. The way he planned days carefully, leaving whole blocks of time for himself. His sudden, abrupt departures. He had hastily explained each habit at the time, and she had never doubted him, despite the oddity. Now it seemed so glaringly obvious. She found herself less surprised at who he was, than at him keeping it from her.
She nodded, as if to herself. “All this time, I thought you were just my savior.” Then, despite herself, she smiled. “To be honest, I should have known it was you. You care. And I knew someone who did what he- you did- must have cared. It’s such a rare quality.”
“Do you want to know why I did it?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“When I was fifteen, I was selfish. Because I was young and stupid. My mom had left us and my dad was angry and I felt like the world owed us something. I wanted so badly for the world to feel my own pain.”
Tobes nodded. Jake had spoken of the feeling before, of how he had changed since then.
“On the anniversary of mom leaving us, I was so furious, I simply wanted to hurt something, anything. I had tried channeling my anger into creative means, even learned some kick-boxing, thought it would help. But it wasn’t satisfying me, so I wandered the streets. The alley ways, the places you never walk alone, between stinking low-rent apartments. I hoped for nothing more than to fight the people who I felt deserved it, that’s what I told myself. And you know what I found?”
Tobes shook her head, lost on this part of the story.
“While I was foolishly looking for a fight, I found a young woman, crying in the back of an alley. Her eye was swollen shut, her mouth dribbled blood, and her clothing that was left was ripped off. Worst of all, she raised her left hand to show me she had a corsage on. She was nothing more than a high school girl on her way back from prom.
“She looked at me one dark sad eye and she opened her mouth to speak and just said ‘Please, help me get home.’
“And I did. And it was as if the weight I had been carrying fell off of me. All I wanted was to.... to make sure people could make it back home. So that maybe people would know that it’s possible to make it back.”
Jake was speaking more ardently than Tobes had ever heard him speak before. He had believed in the person he was in that costume. Believed in it heart and soul. And she found herself believing in him now, even as he lay before her, blood spilling out inside of his body, draining him before her very eyes. She believed they could make it back home.
“Are you angry?” He asked when he had finished.
Tobes shook her head. “No. No, I could never be angry. What you’ve done is amazing. What you’ve done.... all I’ve ever done in my entire life is plead for help, and you dedicated yourself to helping. You’ve saved people’s lives, Jake. You’re a hero.”
She put her hand up to his face. “Mine and everyone’s. You led us all back.” She gently kissed his swollen lips.

Jake died that night, in the hospital bed due to complications from internal bleeding. He had been brutally beaten about the chest, arms, torso, and neck. It was revealed he had multiple scars from previous encounters. He died an enigma to everyone but October Brown.
He had saved 1,254 lives over the course of twelve years.

Tobes couldn’t sleep on the night of his funeral. She sat on the couch in her suddenly vast apartment, blankly staring at the wall, still decked in her solemn black dress. It had been a quiet funeral with only a few dozen in attendance. The engagement ring on her finger caught the light. She glanced at it. Then back at the wall straight ahead.
Quietly, she stood, and went to the worn black Jansport she had thrown in the corner. She carefully pulled out the strange costume her fiancé had worn in his secret life. She embraced it lovingly.
“Sorry’s not good enough,” she whispered quietly to herself.
It would never be good enough. Nothing would, for Jake had been something that comes along only when the moon is blue.
She pulled the somber dress off, and slipped into the costume. It fit awkwardly in some places, but she was already planning on stitches she could make to the material, contemplating times in her schedule she could take karate lessons, maybe some jiu-jitsu.
She flung open the window and smiled, staring down at the city below.
For the first time in a long time she felt right where she belonged. Jake was gone, but to her surprise, he had brought her home.

The Cellist's Wife

2009-06-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

Aubrey is holding her again. As he has held her everyday for many weeks. She is his one true love. I watch him from the doorway of his studio, embracing her. I envy the way he lays her body against him, the way his legs fit around her so perfectly, the way they seem made for one another. He told me, when we married, that he would never love another more than me, but I can see it. He adores her. And how can I deny him the beauty and purity of his love? The world is so lacking in a love like theirs. When he slides his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, there is nothing like it. Aubrey’s cello is the woman he longs for, the one he desires. Late at night, I know her music fills his dreams. When he and I make love, he is filled with her humming.
       Aubrey is playing in legato, the notes flow like water over one another. He is unwilling to part from her. I lean against the doorway to watch. From the corner of his eye, he sees me and looks up sharply. He is still sliding the bow across her strings. His fingers are poised over her delicate neck. He pauses.
       “What is it, Sherri?”
       “Oh, it’s... it’s nothing.” My reply is weak, he can sense it.
       He narrows his eyes. “Honey? You seem-”
      Whatever it is I seem, he doesn’t finish. He sighs and turns back to the sheet music before him.
       “I should practice a little more. Why don’t you start dinner?”
       I nod. Dinner. It is what the cello cannot provide. I go into the kitchen. The music wafts over me. The noise is so strong it fills my chest. I long to be a part of it. I’ve never had a head for the wonders he and the cello can create. When I tried my hand at music, I could not throw my passion into it fully. Now I wish I could, to save myself from loneliness. When Aubrey is not creating music with her for himself, he is performing in the philharmonic orchestra. His love for her has taken him farther than ever his love for me could. And far from me. It is not simply the hour and a half commute, it is that pure passion for her.
       And the music he makes is so stunning. I can feel his romance with her in every note. The slow sonatas are a love story in which the prince always finds his princess. When he plays a suite, I see dancers in glittering dresses throw sparkles across a spotless dance floor. Such is the power of their love. I know it is silly, always silly, to be envious of an instrument, which is, by all appearances, inanimate. But she seems to have a soul under Aubrey’s ministrations, and he is unwilling to part with her.
       From the studio, I can hear the mood of the piece he is playing seamlessly change. The notes rise and become sharp and quick. This new song is upbeat, almost has a bounce to it. I open the refrigerator, and stare at the contents. I realize how low we are on anything that could possibly pass for nutritious. We- he rather, makes good money (I am a book editor and would  struggle to just make ends meet on my own), however he is so preoccupied with her, he hasn’t bothered to grocery shop, and I have been swamped for the past month. Today really has marked the first day I haven’t had piles of pages to mark up and retype for all of February. I sigh and walk to the front door of our flat.
       “Aubrey,” I shout.
      The music continues to pour out of his studio.
       “I’m going to the grocery store,” I continue half-heartedly.
      His music is ceaseless. I gather my coat from the nearby rack and a grey wool scarf. I open the door. The hallway is chilly. I sigh. I have no desire to shop, I realize. I have no desire for anything. I close the door. No, that is not correct. I have a desire. I desire my husband back. He has been seduced away by the magic carried in his music. I bite my lip, and turn away from the door. I toss my coat and scarf on the floor. I move towards his studio.
      He has paused in his music momentarily and is leaning over the gorgeous cello to scribble a few notes to himself. He sees me in the hall.
       “I thought you said you were going shopping.”  He pushes a strand of dark hair that has fallen loose from his ponytail behind his ear.
       “I’d rather you came with me,” I said quietly. “It’s cold outside and the city is so...” my voice trails off when I see the look on his face.
       “Forget I said anything.” I say stupidly. What else can you say to a musician?
       But the look he gives me is not what I expect.  His eyes hold mine captive. I remember the first time he caught my gaze from the stage after we were married. He was playing a concerto. I remember the way he played her, as if playing for me, and me alone. The auditorium dimmed, the orchestra became muted, and it was only he and I and the music. The cello was not a figure at all, but a conduit for our love. I think we glowed that night, brighter than any silly star-crossed lovers. The intensity of the gaze he is giving me, in silence, his arms draped uselessly over his cello in his studio, is the same. But, I cannot read its intention. I am afraid of what he will say to me.
       “I’ll order out, and go shopping tomorrow okay?” My voice is pleading. I’m not sure what for.
      He breaks his gaze and nods. “That’s fine.”
       His playing is different now. He is playing spiccato, by hitting her strings with his bow. The song he is playing sounds downcast. My mind conjures images of storm clouds, gathering to form a funnel over some distant plain. I leave the room and wander down the hallway. Our flat is fairly large, painted in warm tones of deep red and occasionally a muted orange. We’re the sort who decorate with Mason jars and Gerber daisies, or used to. But despite our efforts, there is a chill in the place that cannot be lifted. Even Aubrey’s love for his cello cannot expel the invisible threads of ice. I pick up the telephone, located halfway down the hall on a little side-table that we typically throw our keys on. I dial the number for the pizza parlor a block or so away. I order a large half-pepperoni and half-Hawaiian. Sometimes compromising is easiest. Anyway, I don’t want to consult with him anymore than I can help it. Interrupting his love affair with the music isn’t the best idea.
       I decide to head to the bathroom, right across the hall from me. It has a large, spacious bathtub, the kind with soothing jets. I hardly ever use them, but their comfort is not lost on me. I sit on the side of the bathtub. I usually shower, so I don’t waste precious time I could be spending changing “their” to “there” on a shoddy manuscript. Besides, this bathtub seems full of memories. I turn the handle on it and warm water gushes out. I take my slippers off and dip my feet in the water.   Over a year ago, I had rushed to show Aubrey a plus sign on a pregnancy test, and he had loved me then, and loved the unborn inside of me. And, a few months later, I had spent almost the entire day in this tub, after a doctor’s appointment, contemplating how my body had become a coffin. I was inconsolable. Aubrey had sat on the toilet next to the bathtub, leaning over me, rubbing my hand. There was nothing for it. He left the bathroom and came back with his cello, bulky as she was, and sat there and played, and the humming filled my chest as the tears would not stop. He played for me then, but I think he was playing for himself as well. His music has always been where he has thrown himself, and the way he played her that night, he may as well have been sobbing.
       I would not return to that day for anything, but he had used the cello to love me. Now he only loves her. And I guess I cannot blame him. After that day, I had another similar night some months later. Children could not grow inside of me. I began to feel like I was a poison to them. And it was Aubrey who became inconsolable. He had never said he wanted children, not aloud, anyway. But the way his face lit up each time I told him, and the way he played when they passed from me... I knew how much he wanted to be a father. Perhaps that is why he prefers her to me. With his cello he can create. She is superior where I have failed.
      I kick my feet softly in the water. I realize that Aubrey’s playing has stopped. I hear the front door shut.
       “Honey,” he calls from the front of the room. “I have the food.”
      There is silence for a moment. Then I hear footsteps coming closer to the bathroom.
       “I suppose you didn’t hear the door. It’s on the counter if you want any.”
      He pokes his head into the doorway, and pauses before speaking. “Sherri, is something wrong?”
      I don’t look at him and slowly shake my head. My feet make ripples in the water.
       “Have you....” he hesitates. “Have you been crying?”
      I don’t answer. I want him to take me in his arms and hold me, but I know he won’t.  I wait a few minutes and he has gripped the door face, tightly, before turning away.
       “Don’t let it get cold,” he says unenthusiastically, as he wanders back down the hall.
      I pull my feet out of the water and drain the bathtub. He never takes food into his studio, so he will be sitting at the table, or at the very least, hovering over the counter. Dinner together, even in this state, sounds more appealing than the alternative. I step out on the floor. There aren’t any towels nearby, so water puddles under my feet, and forms little footprints on the hardwood floor as I walk into the kitchen and dining area. As I suspected, Aubrey is leaned over the kitchen counter, methodically chewing on a slice of Hawaiian. He has set a plate out for me near the pizza box. I open it and take out a slice of pepperoni. I try to smile at him, then give up,  taking the plate and pizza to the table.
       “Sherri?” he says after a while. I look up at him. He walks up to the table and sits. He seems to be grasping for words. Then he seems to mentally shrug.
       “The new piece is difficult. I keep getting distracted, wanting to play older pieces. They come more naturally, I suppose.”
      I nod slowly. “It sounds nice, from what I can hear.”
       “It will be better when I can play it smoothly, of course.”
       I stare at my plate. Then I stand up.
       “Do you want anything to drink?”
       “Yeah sure, just orange juice.”
      I open the refrigerator, and am again reminded how low our supplies are.
       “I guess I should have gone shopping. There isn’t any.” I pour two glasses of water and bring them back to the table. We both eat. We both sit. Neither of us speaks.
       “How has the manuscript been?” He asks after a while.
      I shrug. “Nothing to write home about.”
       “Maybe you should,” he said after a while.
       “What?”
       “Take up actually writing instead of tearing other people’s to pieces.”
      The suggestion strikes me. I’ve thought of it many times myself, but always come up with excuses, both real, and imagined, to avoid actually doing it.
       “Oh please,” I say, trying to sound amused. “One artist is quite enough in the house.”
       “I’m sure you’d be good at it.”
      I shake my head. “No, no, I’m... I’m content.”
       “But are you really happy?”
       I force a smile as I look up at him. “When I’m not, I know it will pass. You just be concerned with getting that piece down in time for the spring concert.”
       He sighs and picks up his plate and carries it to the dishwasher.
       “It’s not a piece for the spring concert.”
       I can’t hide my confusion. “Are you not playing? You are almost always the solo cellist. You can’t possibly be considering sitting it out.”
       “I can be,” he said, rubbing his bottom lip with his long musician’s fingers.
       “Come here.”
      He leads me back to his studio and sits me down on the window seat. With extreme care he picks up his cello from her box and situates her snugly between his knees. He positions his hands across the fingerboard and steadies his bow over her strings. All thoughts leave my head. I have heard him play her all day, but in this instance he has made it clear he actually wants me to hear.  So I listen.
       Describing the song he plays without poetry is difficult. There is a sadness to it, but a passion, an immense passion. I can see it in the shift of his expression, in the concentrated frown of his mouth and seriousness of his half-closed eyes. The song trails off into a sweet, deep melody, and then jumps up into lightness with sudden staccato. I’m sure this song is one I’ve never heard before, but there is something familiar to it. It wraps around me, filling me with its deep vibration. I feel the song binding me up, but softly, and carefully. What makes this song different, I realize, is that Aubrey is not playing it to hear the sound his cello makes. He seems to be waiting for something, in the playing, and when he finishes he looks up for my opinion.
       “That was....” I begin, standing up.
       “For you,” he said quietly.
      My eyes widen. Unbidden tears begin pooling in my eyes. Blinking only makes them spill over.
       “Sherri, are you going to leave?” He asks suddenly, looking at me intensely.
       “Wh-what?” my voice shakes.
       “I have seen the way you... Like the rooms you are in no longer matter. Like you are planning on getting out. Of all of this.”
       Now I am truly crying. I shake my head. “I don’t even know anymore, Aubrey.”
      He puts his cello down, in her box, because she has played her part in this. Then he takes my hand and pulls me close. He embraces me, and the warmth it floods through me is far greater than any music. Or perhaps, constructed of it. I hold on to him, and bury my head in his chest. My heart is beating fast, allegro. But in his chest, I could swear I am hearing symphonies.

©2009 ~stardestroyr

Rose Red

2009-06-02T02:40:00.000-07:00

The man I love is a promised land.
And my skull is filled with thorns.
They pierce, but never separate
The beauty of the petals from the plant.

So it is in my chest, pumping, never beating,
Hidden in a mirrored mask.
But he can see, as he always could.
Just ask me one last time.

My answer is divine.

©2009 ~stardestroyr

Chester Blinded

2009-05-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

Outside, in West Clocktown, the sound of the Clock boomed out the hour six times. Twilight was settling on the city, slow and pink. In the Mayor’s offices, Chester was leaning against the side of his desk, drumming his fingers lightly across the side of it. He stared out of the window, watching snow flurries spiral down from the chilly January skies. His eyes were shifting, a cold gleaming grey faded to a pitch black, then back. It was odd. He kept blinking, even knowing it was futile. When Annalise came into his office, he stared at her hard, and his eyes ceased their shift, settling firmly in a cold grey. He tossed his long braid of faded gold hair over his shoulder, and wrapped it around his left arm, carefully. She shrugged her grey wool coat off of herself, and tossed already melting flakes off of her hair.
Not looking at her he asked, “Why must you play whore?”
Annalise blinked. “What do you want, Chester?” She said it petulantly, but there was a slight warble to her voice.
Chester approached. “I will say it on no uncertain terms that when I hear news of the men you have slept with, it makes me furious.”
Annalise swallowed. She could not find words to form a reply.
Chester narrowed his eyes and slid his hand across Annalise’s jugular.
“Why do you hold such a power over me?”
He could feel a shiver running across her skin.
“You have bound me up, and tangled so many men along the way. What is it about you?” he was circling her, almost predatory.
“I don’t...”
“Hush, little one,” he said, in almost a whisper.
He stopped in front of her and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her to look up into his eyes.
“Why must other men love you? There is nothing here to love.”
He moved his hand and outlined her eye socket. “These are dull and faded and teary.”
He ran his hand down her neck, resting it on her upper collar bone. “Your breasts are too small and your stomach too round.”
He moved his hand, and through the fabric of her skirt, she could feel his long forefinger trace circles on her upper leg. “Your thighs are thick and your feet are small and your wrists are completely disproportionate.”
He backed away from her and gave her a slow look, processing each imperfection of her body. “You are worthless as an object of desire.”
The vehemence of this statement hit her full force. She made an effort, but it was useless to hold the tears at bay. They slid out of her eyes and ran across her face.
Chester cocked his head and watched her silently sobbing for a few moments. Then he moved towards her, and caught a tear with the tip of his finger. His face was unreadable. Her milky blue eyes swam, trying to capture what he was thinking.
“You are,” he said quietly, pressing his body close to hers, “so beautiful.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, gently, carefully, almost as if unsure of how he should accomplish the task.
He moved, and pushed her dark tangle of hair away from her shoulder, and planted soft kiss after kiss on her neck and shoulder.
“Chester,” Annalise’s voice was weak, almost defeated. He could feel goose-bumps on her skin, and he kissed her more deeply.
“I frighten you,” he said, pulling away from her skin. “Is that correct?”
Annalise nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “Chester. Please, don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Force me, and pull me, and prod me.” Tears were glittering in her eyes, but she tried admirably to fight them. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Chester loosened a string at the throat of her dress. “I want everything, Annalise.”
She buried her hand in his hair.
“Chester,” her voice was small.
Behind her, a chair sprang up from what had been a stray piece of paper. He pushed her roughly into it. The back of it was upright, and stiff. Chester straddled her. He seemed to be analyzing her face, shrugging slightly to make up for the difference in height. His long braid unwound slightly from his arm.
“I want all of you,” he said quietly.
She swallowed hard. “You know how I feel about you, Chester.” She said quietly.
“You show it so oddly.”
“So do you,” she replied, staring hard into his grey eyes.
He grinned at her, pressing even closer, his hands on either armrest, pinning her back.
“You never fight me.” He stated. “You could.”
“You only desire to fight me,” she replied, finding strength. “You don’t have to.”
“Kiss me,” Chester commanded.
“Kiss me first.”
They stared hard at one another. It was strange. But being honest with themselves, they both wanted it to go on forever.
“You have goose-bumps,” Chester point out. “Does anyone else give them to you?”
Annalise did not break eye contact with him. “No one.”
“Do you love me, Annalise?” he asked, as if inquiring about the weather.
“More than life itself.” She said fiercely. “Do you love me?”
He looked at her, curiously. “Why do you bother to ask?”
“The same reason you do.”
“Yes,” he said dismissively. “Yes, of course I do.”
“You what?” Annalise asked, digging in deep. “You’ve never said it.”
“Said what?”
“That you love me.”
“I love you.” He answered quietly. “I love you.”
“Why? Aren’t I worthless?”
Chester’s gaze suddenly faltered. He looked back at her. Annalise’s milky eyes were glimmering with unspilled tears, but for whatever reason, she was not backing down. It was immensely interesting to him.
“You are my daughter,” he said quietly. “And my sister. The only woman in the entire world.”
This moment of honesty was difficult for both of them to handle. They were not used to it. It was painful.
Annalise ran her hands up his neck, behind his ears, and pulled him closer. She pressed her mouth to his and kissed him, if nothing else than to end the moment. She pushed loose strands of his long faded hair away from his face, and closed her eyes. She kissed him for a long time, tasting his mouth, then pulled away. She had been holding her breath for some reason, and gasped. Chester watched her for a while.
“If I were to ask, would you marry me?”
Annalise smiled softly, as if they were some sort of normal romantic couple, and he had muttered a passing flirtation. “I don’t know.”
“At the end of the day, I think that you do know.”
Chester pulled up from her, and stood.
Annalise looked strangely exhausted. “What is it you want so madly from me? I’ve... I’ve given you my body, hold over my feelings, everything. I’ve killed people for you.”
Chester cocked his head, he was straightening the books on his desk absently. “I merely want you.”
Annalise lowered her head until it touched her knees. “I’m so frightened.”
Chester pressed a button on the silvery box on his desk.
“Tea.” He ordered.
He sat at his desk, and straightened his clothing, carefully.
“Has it occurred to you that we cannot carry on like this forever?”
“Of course,” Annalise answered, raising her head. “We’ll either murder one another or...”
Chester’s eyes caught the light. “That’s a very fascinating ‘or.’”
“One I give an irrational amount of thought to.” Annalise replied.
“Is this while you tangle yourself in the arms of other men?”
She shrugged. “On occasion.”
“Marry me, Annalise,” he said it almost urgently. “You could easily end this ridiculous cycle between us.”
“Or, you could simply stop hurting me, and then I would stop hurting you in retaliation.”
“Where’s the fun in that, when we could legally go on hurting one another with no major changes to our lives?”

She opened her mouth to reply, when Chester’s secretary arrived, carrying a tray of tea accouterments. She stared out of the corner of her eye at Annalise, set the tray down, then shook her head and hurried out.
“No one even knows what goes on between us,” Annalise said quietly. “Whatever goes on between us. I’m invisible to all prying eyes, as per your own request. Marrying me would hardly be a good political move.”
Chester put his head in his hands. “I could have any number of people assassinated with nearly no repercussions.”
“Why do you want this, all of the sudden?” Annalise asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Because you freely, stupidly sleep with anyone who gives you a kind glance,” Chester said coldly. “And, plenty of men who do not. It is as if you enjoy being hurt.”
“Maybe I adore it.”
“Hardly.”
“Maybe I just crave it,” Annalise said, standing up and moving towards him. “Maybe it’s the only way I’ve ever known attention.”
Chester looked up at her. “What are you suggesting?”
“I have no idea. I’m just antagonizing.”
She picked up a cup and sat on the edge of his desk. She poured hot water in and let the tea steep.
“It’s a bad idea, Chester.” she said, staring into the cup. “A person cannot go against their nature.”
“You suggest, we are destined to go on, like this, fighting for one another’s affections?”
She shrugged. “That is up to you, big brother. You are the villain.”
Chester popped his neck. “Yes. I am.”

Annalise picked up her cup of tea and added cream and sugar. She stirred it. She raised it to her mouth and took a sip. Chester’s hand reached out and grasped her wrist. The tea in her cup teetered, but thankfully did not spill. She looked at him.
“I am losing my eyesight.”
Annalise set the cup down and stared at him. “What?”
“I am losing my ability to see. It occurs in random bursts. Sometimes I can see perfectly and a few minutes later there is nothing.”
Annalise put her hand up to her mouth to hide the tremble of her bottom lip.
“How long has this been happening?”
“A few months.”
She shook her head. “Why did you not tell me? Chester, why haven’t you gone to the Hospitals?”
“Because they will be of no help.”
“It’s the... The thing inside of you.”
He inclined his head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chester did not answer. Annalise bit her lip. She leaned down and put her arms around him. He remained upright in his desk-chair.
“Chester?”
He did not reply, but she felt his hands against her back. His grip tightened and he laid his head against her.
“My dear,” his voice was soft. “I mean every word I ever say to you.”

©2009 ~stardestroyr

No Diving

2009-05-07T18:52:00.000-07:00

I like watching people swim
As the ocean rolls past,
Buoying feet up from false footholds
Breaks in clouds say God’s not dead.
Anything but.

I like untying my top just to tie it back
So skin burns cherry tomato
And please, hold the onions.
I prefer myself waterlogged and dripping.
But no diving.

I like to watch people steal kisses
Like experts at thievery
I fold my skirt under me.
Water’s fine they say,
Fine, fine, for me.

©2009 ~stardestroyr

Breakfast Served All Day

2009-04-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

She’s got hands on fire.
She’s been poured down like
Too many cups of blackened coffee
And she doesn’t realize,
As I try my best to explain.
So I let her go because
Deep inside, everyone grows.

Her minds full of unappetizing shots
Of greasy food on black backgrounds.
I tell her to send me
Postcards from the next town
I say that “no man is an island”
But she’s too busy
Dipping toast in egg yolk.

©2009 ~stardestroyr

Adam Steps Out

2009-04-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

While trudging through a day in junior year, I saw the beginnings of this story forming in my head. Since then, many people have read it, and I even got it published in a school anthology where it won me an award. This is the start of my Clocktown series, and I have always had a fondness for it.

"Adam Steps Out "
Karly Noelle Abreu

Adam had not set foot outside his house in nearly a year. He had spent most of the time lying on his bed or a sofa, claiming terrible illness.
His skin had faded to a greyish white, and his pale blonde hair fell to his back. For no particular reason, at 10 a.m. on March 15, he decided he was going to go outside.
He untangled himself from his bedclothes and stood, wobbly on unused legs. He unsteadily made his way to his wife's vanity and observed himself. His hair cascaded around him like a personal curtain, his grey eyes were bright with oversleep.
Adam exhaled.
"Today is a day to dress upon!" He declared.
Elsabeth, his wife, opened the door, and stared in miniscule horror at him.
"Adam you must get back in the bed this instant! You are far too ill!"
Adam did not turn to look at her, but instead focused all of his attention on his reflection.
"Ah, my dear, I have never felt better."
He continued to gaze at the mirror.
"I have looked better though."
He began to pick through Elsabeth's makeup while she stood by nervously. He tossed lipsticks and perfumes aside and came across her flour-like powder. He dabbed it on his greyish complexion and observed the results.
"Ugh. This will do no good. I must simply get dressed."
He stood and, nearly falling on his way, went to his ornate wardrobe and flung it open. He gazed at his attire for a long while before he casually looked over his shoulder and said, gently,
"You may tell the man downstairs to leave now."
Elsabeth clasped and unclasped her hands.
"What are you talking about?" She asked nervously.
"Oh, surely you know who I mean. The doctor who is downstairs. He has been aiding you quite frequently, dearest."
Here he turned and faced her directly.
"I must tell you," he commented. "I believe you are catching some sort of illness from this gentleman. I've heard each of you moaning in such agony."
His wife's face flushed.
"Adam, you are the one who is ill. You surely have a fever."
Adam pulled the gentleman's attire from the wardrobe and tossed it behind him, piece by piece.
"If I am ill, it is only with passion, fair Elsabeth."
He smiled suddenly at her.
"I am going to give you an ultimatum. Kindly take your leave of my home and presence this evening, and live quite comfortably all of your days."
His smile was radiant.
"Adam," the woman pleaded. "You must understand-"
"I have understood for far too long, my love. I dedicated my entire life to the pursuit of it. I am simply tired of understanding."
Elsabeth's skirts swayed, her corset felt too tight.
"I am quite sure you can relate to dedicating your life to something and then getting very much tired of it."
Adam spoke calmly, moved calmly, but there was a slow killing poison in his delicately spoken words. He rifted through his many uncomfortable suits and once positive all of the wardrobe's contents were piled on the floor, returned to the vanity. His slender fingers picked a brush out of the mess he had made, and he began running it through his long hair.
"This entire society is dreadful. Living in a city so divided. We think ourselves so much better with our technology and science. Our lives revolve around placing ourselves higher than those who truly believe in something."
He smiled once more, and put the brush aside.
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to monologue."
Elsabeth began to nervously pick at her fingernails. Adam went to the bed and pulled back the velvet pillows, then put his hand under the silken dust ruffle.
"I have a present for you."
His hand withdrew a mauve box ornamented with elegant gold designs. A crank protruded from the side. He carefully placed the box in her hands.
"You must wind it," he said quietly.
She wound the crank slowly, intensely. A melody spilled out. A giddy nursery song. She continued winding. Suddenly a porcelain clown leapt from his prison in the box, bearing a painted grimace and a piece of paper. Elsabeth dropped the box in shock.
Adam tossed his head back, giggling. "It is only a children's toy."
He took note of her apprehension and embarrassment and pitied her, in a small way. He stooped and picked up the jack-in-the-box from the floor and led her to the vanity chair. Once she was seated, he told her to untie the note. He then proceeded to the hat rack. With shaking fingers, Elsabeth released the note from the clown's glass hand. She read over the note, while Adam tried on various bowler and porkpie hats. She looked up in raw distress at the thin, pale, handsome man throwing hats about.
"A letter of divorce?" She said in astonishment. "But... what will the neighbors say?"
Adam's voice and demeanor remained cheerful, but his eyes became colder than frozen clouds.
"If that is your only concern, then you have understood nothing I have said, or ever have."
He fixed a black silk top hat on his head.
"Adam, you must be mad! You have such a high position! And this lovely house... and I have so many connections! You cannot simply toss that all away."
Adam approached her slowly and held his closed hand out to her. Elsabeth stood and embraced his slender body, but he did not return it. He pulled away and opened his hand in hers. She felt the cool metal band and did not look at it.
"A ring for your thoughts, my dear."
Elsabeth made no reply.
Adam turned away from her and swung open the windows.
"Gorgeous day."
Staring outside, he tossed his head playfully.
"You have until tonight."

She moved towards the door, and her hand shook on the doorknob.
"I was very lonely, Adam. Even when you were here."
"I loved you very much. If I have seemed aloof, I do apologize. It is because of your own desire for status."
A robin alighted on the open window's sill. Adam returned its song in a perfect mimic. Elsabeth left the room quietly. Adam's delicate hands picked up the tiny bird. He stroked the feathered head.
"Pretty bird," he whispered. "Fly far away from this city, lest you too are thrown in a cage."
He tossed the bird and watched as it took flight toward the East. As he watched, he began chuckling. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

Adam descended the oak stairs as a prince. The cavernous house was eerie and silent. Without a glance to the tousled blankets on the sofa, he pulled on the polished door's handle with weak arms. It opened, pouring brilliant sunlight into the house. Adam stepped outside, on that day, March 15, as the sky began turning pink. He locked the door behind him. The light made his pale hair glitter. Treading carefully on his unused feet, he made his way across his estate, then he ducked and weaved and slipped through hedges and gates and streets. He found the gatehouse separating him from the East, and slid past unseen. No one else saw Adam on that day, or ever again.

If one had, they would have seen a thin, pale, beautiful man in a top hat, his grey eyes bright with oversleep.

He had failed to get dressed.

Can't Cope

2009-04-16T16:28:00.001-07:00

I hate this house.
I’m trapped inside,
All the doors are blocked.
I’ve never seen the sunlight.

I’d burn it to the ground,
Were my matches not
Waterlogged from the floods
Running through the floorboards.

The windows are cracking
With the pressure of a million
Sunless days, like today.
I find infinity alone.

The tide is sweeping me,
This creaking house,
All away.

©2009 ~stardestroyr

Chester/Fury

2009-04-15T13:45:00.000-07:00

An as of yet contextless scene for a Chester story. The actual series is to be posted soon.

Chester was leaning against the side of his desk when Annalise came into his office. He stared at her, his grey eyes cold as December. He tossed his long braid of faded gold hair over his left arm, and wrapped it up, carefully.
Not looking at her he asked, “Why must you play whore?”
Annalise blinked. “What do you want Chester?” There was a warble to her voice.
Chester approached. “I will say it on no uncertain terms that when I hear news of the men you have slept with, it makes me furious.”
Annalise swallowed. She could not find words to form a reply.
Chester narrowed his eyes and slid his hand across Annalise’s jugular.
“Why do you hold such a power over me?”
He could feel a shiver running across her skin.
“You have bound me up, and tangled so many men along the way. What is it about you?” he was circling her, almost predatory.
“I don’t...”
“Hush, little one,” he said, in almost a whisper.
He stopped in front of her and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her to look up into his eyes.
“Why must other men love you? There is nothing here to love.”
He moved his hand and outlined her eye socket. “These are dull and faded and teary.”
He ran his hand down her neck, resting it on her upper collar bone. “Your breasts are too small and your stomach too round.”
He moved his hand, and through the fabric of her skirt, she could feel his long forefinger trace circles on her upper leg. “Your thighs are thick and your feet are small and your wrists are completely disproportionate.”
He backed away from her and gave her a slow look, processing each imperfection of her body. “You are worthless as an object of desire.”
The vehemence of this statement hit her full force. She made an effort, but it was useless to hold the tears at bay. They slid out of her eyes and ran across her face.
Chester cocked his head and watched her silently sobbing for a few moments. Then he moved towards her, and caught a tear with the tip of his finger. His face was unreadable. Her milky blue eyes swam, trying to capture what he was thinking.
“You are,” he said quietly, pressing his body close to hers, “so beautiful.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, gently, carefully, almost as if unsure of how he should accomplish the task.
He moved, and pushed her dark tangle of hair away from her shoulder, and planted soft kiss after kiss on her neck and shoulder.
“Chester,” Annalise’s voice was weak, almost defeated. He could feel goose-bumps on her skin, and he kissed her more deeply.
“I frighten you,” he said, pulling away from her skin. “Is that correct?”
Annalise nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “Chester. Please, don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Force me, and pull me, and prod me. I can’t... I...” Tears were glittering in her eyes. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Chester loosened a string at the throat of her dress. “I want everything, Annalise.”

Woman in a Refrigerator

2009-04-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

A short, imagined monologue.

"Woman in a Refrigerator"

I’m not like you.

I cannot leap a tall building in a single bound. I cannot hold when I want to move and move when I want to stay together. I’m falling apart, a little bit each day. Watching you, watching this, watching them. Every window broken is a wound in my heart, every scratch a scar on my soul.
This and you, and them, it’s madness. Insanity. They use you, they wind you up and pit you against their enemies, thankless, faithless idiots. They fear you, as all humanity fears redemption, and fears itself but also anything greater than itself. But, despite this, in fact, because of it, you hear their cries, and you answer the call, despite the difficulty. Despite your love for humanity, you do not always give them what they want. You give them what you think they need. And it is bigger than you, and it’s bigger than me.
I do not see the world through laser vision, I see you reflected in my eyes, shattering. No matter how many times I see it play out, I can never picture you winning in the end. I see you dying without death. And I’ll die myself, even before you, but I am living a cause less just than yours.
I’m only in it because I love you. You’re in it because you love the world. They can tear me into tiny pieces, store me up, a woman in a refrigerator, but they will only break a person. When they break you, they break a hope, a chance for something that humanity needs even though they do not deserve it.
They are hoisting me over their shoulders, to tie me up, gag my mouth, retrieve an answer, but all I have, as I remember you falling like a star, are questions. I’m not like you. I have nothing to offer this world but a cardboard existence, a light that can be flicked out when the universe grows too bright. And I will be flicked out, and the world won’t notice, because to me, the sky is always glowing red, red as the gates of hell.
But to you, there is always, and forever, tomorrow.

Welcome!

2009-04-11T11:14:00.001-07:00

The purpose of this blog is to post my writings for easier access than deviantART.

That being said, most of my stories and a handful of poetry from this point on will also be posted onto this blog.

Stealing anything posted here would be a bad idea since web publishing grants me an automatic copyright.

Thanks for following!