Free Write 12/31/09

And it all just collapses down to little moments, little glimpses, when you look and you KNOW. When you know his arms are open, but it's over and he isn't right for you and dammit, you never loved her and were barely even curious. And the contrast through the camera makes you giggle just a little as the music plays and you dream of a not-so-faceless lover at your back platonically. (There's something just a little scary about the irony of all these wounds "healing" so close together.)

Why did you ever bother with all these wastes of time? You always knew each and every one for what they were, but would delude yourself quite happily and while away for countless hours. (An eighteen month fling.)

I've tried my best, given things shots - how frustrating when I haven't so much as passed out. My kaleidoscope greetings are rushing about in my head, and I'm getting tired of being asked about the same damn things. But I guess that's part of living. So I'll deal with it, since I am very much a fan of my heartbeat's pitter-patter.

And after awhile, even gold will lose its shine if it's not looked after with shininess in mind. Happiness is a conscious decision, and it takes maintenance. And no, it's not always easy. Hell, it's downright difficult drudgery, but it can always be done and the gold can always be shiny.

I like the smell of leaves in summer, and the sound of water in a creek. I love whitewater most of all. Raw power - to break and to propel into flight. You'd just better hope you're in the boat as it crests the waves on the rocks you guide around.

Social situations are a lot like white water. To the untrained eye, the current moves too quickly for anything to be seen, but to the river guide, every rock is laid bare beforehand. Each bit can be used to make the ride as wild or as tame as the rider wants. What am I up for? How is my white water today?

I think a declaration of love is a class three rapid. It could give someone inexperienced a broken nose, but anyone worth their salt will weather it nicely. A rock here. Another there. A third at a sixty degree angle. Easy enough to see coming. I wouldn't want to play in that hole, personally. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, like chocolate swallowed only a few minutes past. Unrequited. The only recourse the dreaded LJBF speech that we all love and hate so much with its damning and saving qualities.

Honesty. I'll never go so far as to swear off lying (I recognize the value in it) but I detest liars. (How is that for a wee grain of hypocrisy?) As such, I've grown accustomed to an odd, bold form of speech. (I actually say what I mean!) I rather like it.

And now I'm drifting farther back into the land of headachy powerlessness. It's twelve weeks today, did you know? (Well, duh. Otherwise I wouldn't be telling/asking you.) These past few weeks have been so difficult; I can barely think. And my thoughts are so scattered when present, and useless! (Exhibit A.)

I only want all this to end, and my life to go back to normal.

Deia/Zane (As Yet Untitled) Clip Two Draft Two

Some human beings are born as angels. Most aren't, mind you, and are simply human, with greed and darkness and depravity as much a part of them as their smile. But others, while being far from perfect, just seem as though such distasteful qualities cannot touch them. They radiate light, happiness, and enthusiasm from their very bodies. It's in their voices, their postures, their personalities.

I didn't believe in angels for a long time. I couldn't bring myself to. All the world had ever been to me was dark and I thought that something so brilliantly light as an angel would be obvious.

They must not exist if I couldn't see them.

But I didn't recognize her as one when I met her. Not for a long time was I able to figure out what was so different about her.

I had just been transferred to yet another home, another town, another high school, and I wasn't in the best of mental places. I knew that this one would end just the same as all the others. My only hope was to stick it out for seven months, until I turned eighteen. Then I could get myself an apartment, finish my education.

But it seemed unlikely.

It was on my second day at the new school that I ran into her. Literally.

She wasn't watching where she was going, reading while she was walking. And, well, I was staring at her.

She was in a couple of my classes, and even on the second day of school, it was obvious that she was the Smart Girl. All the other students always looked to her to give the answers and all the teachers had her sitting front and center. Besides, the girl was walking while reading a book! She definitely had her geek on.

But that wasn't why I was staring at her, walking down the hall during lunch break. No, I was staring because she was a sexy little thing.

She was on the short side, maybe about 5'2", but she had a great rack, just a little bit large on her frame. Her ass was excellent, too, a tight number that wasn't huge, but wasn't tiny either. The girl had curves to go with her geek, and that combination was a definite turn on.

She wasn't rough on the eyes in other places, either. She was pale, but not unhealthily so, with dark brown hair that was just shy of black and fell in waves down her back. She had large turquoise blue eyes in a heart-shaped face. Her lips had a perfect cupid's bow. I can still remember exactly how they felt on me.... But that is for later.

She held herself high, seeming to bounce and sway as she walked. This was the first time I had ever seen her without a smile. She vibrated with life, and seemed always to be doing something or other.

I was fascinated.

So, of course, I walked right into her.

"Ow!" she yelped, dropping her book to grab onto her wrist.

Oops....

"I'm sorry," I hastened to apologize then cover my tracks, bending down to pick up the book she had dropped. "It would appear that neither one of us was watching where we were going." Lie, lie, liiiiieee....

Curious, I glanced at the book she had been reading. It was a Signet Classics edition of Shakespeare's "As You Like It". I gave her props for reading the Bard, but "As You Like It"?

Ew, girly Shakespeare.

I glanced up, about to hand it back to her, only to find her staring at me. I froze, fighting the urge to tense up. I knew what she would see, and I didn't like the idea that she was just soaking it all in, like so much poison that she must inevitably expel from her system.

I was a hard guy with a harder past, and I looked it in my shabby jeans and t-shirt. My hair was towards the long side and my nose had been broken a couple of times. I had scars on my fingers and my abdomen, though she couldn't see the latter. It didn't matter. I knew they were there.

Why was she still staring?

I couldn't take it.

"If you're done staring, you can have your Shakespeare back," I said, brandishing the play at her, my voice perhaps a little colder and harsher than necessary. But I didn't want her eyes on me, judging me. This was defense.

"By the way," I continued callously, "'As You Like It' is just sappy. 'Macbeth' is much better." I felt satisfaction as her face creased with temper and she snatched the book from me. That had distracted her from what she'd seen.

"Thanks for the information," her voice cut at me, "But I like that 'As You Like It' is rather sappy. 'Macbeth' has its merits, like a truly beautiful portrayal of a psychopath," her glare tightened on me for a moment before she continued. "But it was a little grim for my mood when I woke up this morning."

Well, that put me in my place. You just have to respect a girl with an eloquent temper.

"But was he a psychopath or just your standard person?" I asked, eager to see what else she had.

She didn't disappoint.

Deia/Zane (As Yet Untitled) Clip One Draft Two

Sometimes you can see the darkness in a person's eyes. It's a shadow, right behind the irises, and it seems to spill out and over his or her entire face, etching it with hard lines before seeping down into the throat where it roughens and flattens the voice.

I always wondered what could be so bad in a person's brain that it couldn't deal with that negativity, somehow convert it to hope. Being a bit of a Pollyanna myself, maybe I don't really want to know, despite the curiosity.

After all, that shadow behind the irises is a damned scary thing to behold.

Zane had them, I remember. I had just turned seventeen when I first met him, and he wasn't much older than that. We were in the same grade in high school, but he was a transfer, so when he bumped into me at lunch, I didn't know him.

"Ow!" I protested, grabbing my wrist where he'd jammed it.

He blushed as he bent to pick my book off the floor, the color staining the back of his neck before he stood to face me.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was low, rough, deep, flat, beautiful. "It would appear that neither one of us was watching where we were going."

I sucked in my breath as I got a look at him. I was used to attractive guys, but I usually found them to have a certain irresponsible levity to them, or a deplorably whiny angst. This one was just... dark.

I was too naive to be scared back then.

He had golden-bronze blond hair, an equally golden complexion and deep green eyes that seemed to see everything. His cheekbones where sharp and high, his lips full and sensuous, the bottom lip just a little bit more lush than the top. His neck was long and corded with muscle that continued into his broad shoulders, but was hidden by his t-shirt. His chest was wide, tapering down into his worn, grey-washed jeans. His arms were muscular, and his hands proportionately large and disproportionately sensitive as one wrapped almost completely around my book.

"If you're done staring," his voice drew me back to his unsmiling visage, "then you can have your Shakespeare back." He shoved the book toward me. "By the way, 'As You Like It' is just sappy. 'Macbeth' is much better."

I accepted the book, irritation wrinkling my brow. He was questioning my taste in literature!

"Thanks for the information," I said dryly, "But I like that 'As You Like It' is rather sappy. 'Macbeth' has its merits, like a truly beautiful portrayal of a psychopath, but it was a little grim for my mood when I woke up this morning."

His eyebrows arched in silent surprise. He was a lit snob, I just knew it. The type that didn't think a story was literature unless it portrayed the dark side of human nature or society. Hmph. He was severely limiting his world view, provided that was the case.

"But is he a psychopath or just your standard person?" he asked, confirming my theory. "After all, his wife masterminds Duncan's murder."

"Yes," I shot back, "But she cannot bring herself to perform the actual act, and the guilt of it all eventually destroys her. Macbeth experiences no such remorse."

He looked impressed now, nodding slowly, upper lip stiff.

"My name is Zane," he offered, thumbs in his pockets, fingers framing his zipper. "I didn't expect to meet anyone literature minded in this town."

I pointedly held my hand out for a shake.

"Don't let the small town atmosphere fool you. Our library selection may suck balls in a painful way, but that doesn't say anything about what we appreciate."

I looked from my hand to his face to his hands, which hadn't moved from his pockets, back to my hand.

Nothing.

"However, we do appreciate good manners. At least, I do," I finally prompted.

"Oh!" He blushed again and hastily placed his hand in mine to shake.

He had a nice handshake, straight up and down, confidently firm without being crushing.

"I'm Deia Cohls," I introduced myself, repressing an 'mm-mm!' for his handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Zane...?"

"Astonse," he provided.

"Astonse," I finished, before getting wicked. "Well, after the initial nearly breaking my wrist part."

He smiled.

I wish I had known enough to keep my distance from such broken cheer.

Nobody - Nobody Special Draft Three

He came upon her at a party. She was dressed forgettably, her makeup done blandly, and her accessories were commonplace. Her hair was a background shoulder-length brown, neither remarkably long, nor remarkably short. She was of average height, standing at his chest (he was rather tall), and of average posture. If there was anything distinctive about her at all, it was in her utter lack of distinctiveness.

And yet, he was pulled to her. She was standing in the midst of a rather large crowd, smiling politely, making small talk. She was decidedly part of the conversation although no one seemed to address her directly.

She was a mystery, he concluded. A bland mystery in a little black cotton cocktail dress. He became determined to solve her.

He sidled up to her, tapping her lightly on one peach shaded shoulder.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I don't believe I know you," he stated, tilting his head politely.

She started, her smile slipping, replaced by a fleeting surprise. But then she smiled again, and he wondered if he had imagined that expression leaving.

"Of course you know me," she replied, her voice of a medium timbre, indistinctive, like the rest of her. "I'm here, at your party, aren't I?"

He admitted to himself that she had a point, and then was confused that such a point could be made. There was a guest list! He had not put a single person on it that he did not know, and no one else had been told of the party; such had been his express instructions to his guests. He had even had his security guards double and triple check all the party goers to ensure that his list was held to. How could she have a point?

She smiled wider, as though she knew the thoughts that flashed wild fire quick through his head. She extended her hand, unpainted nails glinting in the dim mood lighting.

"I'm Nobody - Nobody Special."

He took her hand, shook, now only further perplexed. She was joking, of course. Nobody named their child, well, Nobody.

"Of course...." he demurred, choosing not to voice his ruminations or laugh aloud. "I'm Somebody Important."

"No, you're not," she replied promptly, hand still in his. "You're a somebody important. There are many of you."

He held her gray gaze, entranced by her mystical averageness.

"I see...."

"You do not believe me," she stated. "I do not blame you. Few people do.... Fewer people ask."

"Ask what?"

"Anything."

He resolved that she was playing with him; it was the only explanation. So he would play with her.

"Of course. I suppose they find it hard to swallow that Nobody Special is so... personable."

For she was. She was charismatic in her classic invisibility, magnetic in her flattering subservience. Besides that, she was intriguing, with all this talk of Nobody and somebodies.

But she was unmoved by his statement, accepting it with the air of one who has heard it all many times before and has grown bored with the inevitability of hearing it again. Instead, she tugged her palm from his fingers (for somehow he was still holding it) and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

"Odd, isn't it? But that's the point of me, you see. I must be personable, else all you somebody importants wouldn't bother with me at all."

He stared at her, a strange breeze on his tongue as his jaw hung open.

"Huh?"

"Well," she explained, "You all know me. You talk about me often. That's the paradox of my existence. You know me, but you have forgotten me."

He nodded, having managed to manipulate his teeth and lips back into a barrier against flies.

Seeming to take that as encouragement, she continued.

"I am the background, the backdrop. I am in each and every life, and you do not appreciate me, but were I gone, I'd be sorely missed. " She smiled again, eyes holding his without trepidation, as though she were speaking of the weather rather than a complex system of insanity. "Imagine, if you had to interact with one somebody important after another, no break, just importance after importance after importance."

He twisted his head to the side eyeing her from that angle in the hopes that the new perspective would produce more sense.

"You'd die of stress. That's where I come in. I am there when you get tired of somebody important. Some people prefer my company more than that of others, actually. More people spend time with me." She was matter-of-fact, as though these were conclusions that could be reached through languid twitches of common sense. "So why shouldn't I be personable, despite the fact that I am not a person?"

"Of... course...." he drew out, not sure of his voice.

She glanced around the room, seeming, for the first time since he had approached her, aware of existences other than their own.

"I'd best be going. A somebody important wants to talk to you," she whispered confidentially. "It wouldn't be kosher for me to stay."

And with that, she turned and walked away.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to look. Immediately he smiled, pleased by the sight that greeted him.

"Who was that?" his girlfriend asked, looking after the average woman, although she'd already disappeared, swallowed by the crowd.

"Oh, Nobody - Nobody Special." He plucked an appetizer off a passing tray. "Mushroom? They're very good tonight."

Arsenicia's Story (As Yet Untitled) Clip One Draft Two

I'm one of those students whose names teachers dread seeing on his or her role. Not because I'm a trouble-maker, or anything. In fact, I'm at the top of my class, though I have been accused of possessing a wee bit of an attitude problem. But that's not the issue. No, teachers don't like to have my name on their roles because they can't pronounce it correctly to save their lives.

'So?' you must be thinking. 'Lots of kids have names that are difficult to pronounce. It's no big deal. Just use a nick-name.' But that's the thing. All possible nicknames are worse than the actual name. It's Arsenicia Malwrenataie Kilburn.

I tried to get people to call me Ann for awhile, but it just didn't stick. Instead, I get called Arsenic, Arson if peeps are feeling particularly lazy. When I asked one of my adopted brothers why Ann hadn't taken, I was told it was because my personality is toxic, and Ann sounded too sweet.

Joy, huh?

My parents must have hated me.

I'll never know for sure, though. They rather died when I was young, think infant. No one knows who they were, where they were from.... Really, no one knows anything about them, except that they were in a car, going somewhere, with me in a bassinet in the back-seat with a birth certificate with only my name and date of birth filled out, when they swerved suddenly and hit a light pole. They died, and I was put up for adoption, after some wonder at the convenience and mystery of my birth certificate.

The irony is that I was adopted by completely normal people with completely normal names. Seriously. The parents' names are John and Susan. Their two sons are popular, athletic, and go by James and Michael, respectively. Their daughter is a cheerleader; pretty, perfect, and well-liked. Her name is Hannah.

Bland, bland, bland. You might as well bottle it and call it 'American.'

I don't stick out like a stripper's hips, nuh-uh.

And it's not just my name, either. I mean, I'm WEIRD. My peers constantly point it out to each other. (You'd think that after this long, it could just go unsaid, but no.) Where the people I live with are annoyingly bubbly and effusive, I'm stony and reserved. I have all the personality of... well, arsenic. The family is the most influential in Great Hills and the contrast only ups my odd quotient.

When it's written out, it doesn't seem like I'm so strange. But, you'll see. I can't explain everything. Some information you'll have to pick up on yourself, and how truly out of place I am is one of them.

God, I can ramble. I believe that process has supplied enough background for you. I'll write down the actual story now. Or, at least, the narrative of it.

NOTE: This portion of the story may ultimately end up being excluded entirely. I would like feedback to help me make the call.

Who We Have Become Clip One Draft One

Hesta lounged in Her chair, watching the people pass before her. They amused her, with their constant interplay of emotions and desires.

They made her jealous sometimes, too.

But that wasn't important. Really.

She sipped her coffee and eyed a young man as he hurried past, glancing at his watch. Now he was delicious. Shaggy, caramel colored hair, muscles shaping his suit jacket, and fine, worn jeans.... Mmm.

-~-

Cander could have kicked himself. How had he possibly forgotten this meeting? He never forgot things, let alone important conferences that determined the success of his current business ventures.

Where was the office anyways? Argh!

Boo-dum da daah da dum...

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, still hurrying through the mall.

"Alexander Charday speaking. How may I help you?"

"Cander!" A feminine voice squealed. "Sweetie pie! I gotsa question for you."

He just barely restrained himself from groaning aloud.

"Not now, Avalonlea." He finally spotted a discreet sign pointing to the office. He'd only be right on time, but at least he wouldn't be late.

"Are you mad at me?" The phone whined.

"No, I'm not mad, I'm busy. I'll talk to you later. Buh-bye." He clicked the phone shut and strode up to the receptionist.

"M. Charday," she acknowledged coolly. "M. Augustin will see you now."

He smiled at her as he pushed through the door next to her desk.

"Thank you, Claire. You look gorgeous today, by the way."

He heard her giggle as he turned to face his potential business partner.

"Ah, M. Charday," the frenchman greeted him, proffering his hand to shake.

"M. Augustin. Comment allez-vous? (How are you?)" Cander responded, minding his manners.

"Très bien. Et vous? (Very well. And you?)"

"Le méme chose. (The same.)"

Cander settled in a chair opposite the mall owner.

"Let's talk."

"Indeed." Cander produced a file folder from his briefcase, placing it on the desk. "Here is my proposal. You give me three hundred square feet and I will open a magick shop, bringing the wizarding community into your mall, along with traffic from other dimensions, galaxies, and magickal communities, along with your standard pagans. The shop should preferably be located nowhere near the food court, but not in a corner of the mall, either."

"Why's that?" Augustin asked.

"Because we want it to be in such a location that our customers don't have to spend forever hunting us down, but out of the way of the ignorant masses who may be offended."

The older man nodded sagely, stroking his chin.

"How will this possible offense benefit my mall?"

"The new customers my shop will be bringing in are generally wealthy people who don't mind spending the money they make on quality items. The labels you offer will appeal to them, and they will buy a lot. This increase in profits will, in turn, attract a wider variety of upscale brands to your mall."

The man hmmed and flipped open the folder, studying the products that Cander had decided to offer.

"Nothing for satanists?"

"None! Of course not!" The wizard didn't bother to keep the affront out of his tone.

"Hmm...."

"You will, of course," the young man continued, calm restored, "have to consider my offer carefully. I would be delighted were you to accept, as I chose your mall for the venture because of your fine reputation for class along with your proximity to several large non-magickal cities with large magickal populations. However, yours is not the only such establishment in this country."

"He'll take your deal, of course," a new voice answered, cold and feminine.

Cander stood, and turned slowly to face her.

"Three thousand dollars a month for space 6B. It's three spaces down from the Starbucks, and well away from either Hot Topic or Hollister. You have three months to remodel as it pleases you," the woman continued, unabashed by the businessman's scrutiny. "That is at your own expense, of course. Then the store opens. What will you call it?"

"Honest Magick," he replied, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Try Honest Living instead," she commanded. "That better captures the store's relevance to the every-day."

He nodded.

She was gorgeous, with honey for skin, tiger's eye gems for irises, and spun maple for hair. She was tall and leggy, sharp-boned and sharp-tongued. She could easily compose either nightmares or dreams.

"Merci, Hesta," Augustin's voice punctured his reverie, the testy tones sharp to the ear. "Je peux parler pour moi. (I can speak for myself.)"

"De rien. (You're welcome.)" She didn't even glance from the young Charday's gaze.

"Merci, Mlle. Augustin, M. Augustin." Cander finally spoke. "I look forward to our continued business relationship." He picked up his briefcase, shook hands with the father and then the daughter. Her hand was cold but strong in his. "Au revoir."

He left, not entirely sure what had just occurred.

-~-

Hesta watched him go, and she smiled. He was an interesting one. Observing him on a day to day basis would be a treat.

"Tu as fait ça parce que... (You did this because...)" her father supplied, resignation coloring the tone. He had long ago given up any attempt to control the woman, though it still rankled when she interfered with his business affairs.

"J'ai fait ça parce qu'il a un bon idée (I did it because he had a good idea)," she mocked, turning to face him. "And father..." she perched in the chair the visitor had just vacated. "It's okay to speak English in America."

"It's vulgar!" He snapped, tugging his beard for emphasis. "C'est impoli et penible! Mais... si vous désirez, ma fille. (It's rude and tiresome! But... if you desire, my daughter.)"

She drummed her fingers on her knee.

"What made your business instinct kick in, Danielle?" He sighed. "I mean, Hesta."

The golden girl's lips curled, though whether the resulting expression was a smile or a smirk was debatable.

"He has connections, Father. Did you see the briefcase? Corlondi leather, made and sold exclusively in Glorbixon. It's ridiculously expensive and Corlondi will only sell to the upper crust of city society. Our boy, Monsieur...?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Charday. M. Alexander Charday," the man supplied cautiously.

"Right." That smile-smirk again. "M. Charday has a briefcase made of Corlondi leather, which I should point out is near impossible to counterfeit convincingly. That makes him a member of one of Glorbixon's key families." Hesta settled back in the chair.

"Whoooo...." Augustin whistled. "Merci beaucoup. Tu es très brilliante, ma belle fille. Brilliante."

She tossed her hair, and the smile was finally obvious.

"De rien."