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."

Quality Friends

"I'm not cynical!"

The three of them cast me a Look.

"I'm not!"

"We didn't say you were," Megs soothed. "We said you resembled your characters to a large extent."

"Like it's not the same thing!" I threw my hands up, exasperated.

"It's not." Karen rolled her eyes.

"Like hell, it isn't! My characters are poisonous vampires who lack tact!"

Ziggi chose that moment to make her opinion known.

"Which isn't cynical. It's poisonous and blunt."

"GAH!"

Megs eyes twinkled as she rolled her lips in between her teeth.

"It's not a bad thing. We can always count on you to be honest," Ziggi continued, patting my shoulder. "How many people in this day and age of humanity can say that about their friends?"

I glared.

They smiled back at me.

The X Factor of Attraction

There was something so incredibly sexy about men who could banter with her, but Marin could never quite put her finger on what the exact quality was that charmed her so....

Oh, that was bullshit.

It was that refusal to submit to her own verbal abuse, that streak of dominance that inspired certain men to spar with her.

Usually, it also inspired them to be aggressive in bed. Or on table. Or against tree. Whatever the appropriate or inappropriate place may be.

Marin sighed and drummed her burgundy painted nails on the table.

This guy just kept apologizing to her. Repeatedly. Over and over. And again.

As if he was the one being a bitch.

"So, David, you're whining pretty much full time now, huh?" she asked him when he paused in his ramble. "Since you're obviously not doing anything to convince your boss that you're not the lazy over-accommodator she thinks you are?"

The blond sitting across from her blushed, clashing horribly with the green upholstery of the booth.

"I'msorry," he mumbled. "Idintmeantocomplainsomuch. 'Sadrag. I'msorry."

Marin leaned forward across the table, seizing the opportunity to see where the waitress was with her check.

"What was that?" she asked, cupping one hand around an ear. If one was an astute observer, one would notice that her nails and her hair were exactly the same color. "I can't hear you over your tongue."

"Sorry," he said again, eyes down on the cheap formica.

Marin's eyes fluttered closed. She would not strangle the unconfident incompetent fool, she would NOT strangle her friend's favorite employee, not even a little TINY bit.

Even if doing so might actually force him to speak up and enunciate for at least one word of his life.

Nadea SO needed to send him to learn some speech skills. It would probably help him at work, too.

Why had she let her best friend set her up with this joker?

Marin desperately searched the room for their waitress.

Oh, thank the Summerland and all the lazy souls who resided in it.

"Here you go," the young woman chirped as she slid each of them a little leather book with their respective credit cards and a pen.

One pen.

"I'm afraid you'll have to share the writing utensil, but then you can get out of here." She smiled sympathetically at Marin before resuming her impartial facade. "Y'all heading anywhere in particular?"

"I was thinkin'-" he began.

"Nowhere!" Marin interrupted, voice high and too fast. "I'm going to my house and he's going to his."

Bless the poor child, he looked shocked and confused.

Oh, well.

Marin snatched the pen before he could, scribbling out a signature and a far too generous tip.

"Thank you, Karen," she said to the waitress. "I had a nice time tonight."

"Oh, me too, sweetheart," the young woman replied, hugging Marin as she stood to leave. "Drive safe and straight home."

"Yes ma'am!" Marin saluted as she backed out the door.

Hell, there was something sexy about anyone who could banter with her.

Road Trip Story (as Yet Untitled) Clip Chapter Two Draft One

Kali was playing TapTap when I slid back into the car, grooving in her seat as her thumbs danced across the touch screen. The girl had many vices, and TapTap was by far the least destructive of them.

Hands shaking, I started the car, my own iPod blaring to life.

Kali glanced up, the song ended, and frowned, slender fingers pulling her earbuds out.

"Where's the food? I am hungry, and I thought you said you were grabbing." Her mouth tugged to one side. "I NEED food." Her gaze fell to my hands where they were trembling a tattoo on the steering wheel. "You obviously need it, too."

I reversed out of the spot, then tore way too fast around the parking lot.

"Hey!" She protested, her nail polish stark against the beige OS handle.

"We'll get food, Kali," I reassured her. "Somewhere without a church busload of Jesus nuts." I glared at the offending vehicle as we passed it.

"Oh..." my friend grimaced in understanding. "They gotcha again, huh?"

"Cornered me in the bathroom like a little black sheep with fangs," I agreed, fighting a shudder as I looked for a more agreeable fast food place.

"In the bathroom? While you were taking a piss?!"

"No, thank God," I said, rather ironically. "I was washing my hands."

Kali stifled a laugh, and I glared at her as I pulled into a McDonald's, sliding into the drive through queue .

"I'm sorry," she giggled. "but it's just funny how the crazies seem to find you. It's like they know you're not Christian and too nice to tell them to fuck themselves."

She grinned evilly as she flicked a strand of fire-truck red hair over her shoulder.

"And don't tell me that you didn't want to tell them where they could stuff it."

The grin widened, showing that she had recently glued blue rhinestones to her canine teeth.

"Or better yet-"

"No!" I slapped my hand over her mouth. "If you disrespect their religion, you're as bad as they are! Ow!"

I jerked my hand away to look at the teeth marks. She hadn't broken the skin this time.

"You think way too much, Davide," she informed me. "As a result, you can be way to goddamn nice when people get in your way. Knowing why they are there does not remove them as obstacles."

I sighed, knowing she was both right and wrong, but unwilling to argue the point. Besides, now we were drawing even with the speaker and I WAS hungry.

"Hello welcome to McDonald's how may I help you?" A flat female voice ran out.

"Good afternoon!" I exclaimed, smiling widely, knowing that it would carry through my voice. "May I please order a six piece chicken nugget, a small fry, and a large sized caramel mocha frappucino?

"What sauce with the nuggets?" She asked, slightly more inflated this time.

"No sauce, please," I replied. "But it would be excellent if I could get lots of extra ketchup thrown in the bag. Say, six or seven packets?"

"Sure, we can do that," I heard the smile in her voice. Success! "Will that be all?"

There was suddenly a hard body across my lap and I had to spit out a strand of green hair.

"No, woman!" Kali called into the microphone. "Get me a large fry, a double cheeseburger, and a large triple-thick chocolate, and throw in even more ketchup to add to what excesso-woman asked for. That's it!"

"That will be $10.23." Her voice was now cold and angry and I had to resist the urge to slap Kali as she settled back in her seat.

"Thank you very much, ma'am," I chirped before driving forward.

Catching my discontent, Kali shrugged.

"What?"

I merely sighed and shook my head.

Road Trip Story (As Yet Untitled) Clip Chapter One Draft One

They told me the world was ending.

I didn't believe them, obviously, but then I never believe what crazies tell me. Something about the zeal in their eyes while they're blithering on.

I edged slowly towards the door, trying not to take my eyes off any of them. I didn't want to know what they'd do at my back.

"Uh-huh. Yeah... That's called entropy," I explained. "Bit of a proven fact, since there's no such thing as perpetual motion."

Their eyes seized upon me, opening wide as though to control me with their gazes.

"It is God," one declared, brandishing her gospel tract for emphasis.

"If you are among the saved, you will survive!" another chimed in, oblivious to the woman who was trying to get around her to use the sink.

My shoulder hit the hand dryer and I winced, but kept moving, inch by inch. That was going to bruise.

The third one held the cross around her neck with a trembling hand.

"Repent, sinner," she whispered. "You are dirty!" Her voice rose steadily, until she murmured hoarsely. "I can smell the damnation on you!"

My hand found the door knob, and I sighed in relief.

"No, sweetie, that's just the incense," and I let the door to the women's restroom swing shut behind me as I made my way back into the dining area of the fast food joint.

I hated evangelists.

TO ANDREW

“Oh, Andrew, Andrew – Thine eyes art too blue-“

“Your poetry’s lousy,” I said, without glancing up from the book I was reading. “Not everything has to rhyme, you know. And I thought his eyes were brown?”

A long silence answered, and I sighed. Leave it to Cara to sulk in response to constructive criticism.

I looked up to find her worrying her lip as she gazed into the fire, the scrap of paper with her latest ode to pre-teen crushes crumpled in her hand.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, chin trembling.

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t a good writer – you just try too hard sometimes, and it sounds stilted.”

She blinked.

“No, I mean, do you really think his eyes are brown?”

Well, she certainly knew her priorities.

I lowered my eyes back to my reading, the firelight dancing solemnly over the words. 
“I don’t know. He’s your soul-mate thingy,” I muttered.

“One can never know everything about one’s beloved!” She declared grandly as she flung herself on the couch, bouncing the tome to the carpet with a distinct crumpling of delicate pages. “That’s the charm of true and long-lasting love!”

I glared at the girl, her cheeks rosy with youthful exuberance, her grin wide with naïveté, and I felt a twinge of some strong emotion.

Annoyance.

“Cara…” I growled. “Are you aware that this boy doesn’t even know you exist?”

“Well, they didn’t know Nobody Special existed either, until they tried the magic mushrooms, now, did they?” She retorted, her jaw gone obstinate.

“That’s just a story!” I protested. “A philosophical musing that has no application whatsoever to real life, apart from reassuring mousy women that they are charming in their own ways! Besides,” I sniffed, plucking the text off the floor, “the mushrooms serve only to cast doubt on the reality of the situation – it is never explicitly said that seeing Nobody Special can be contributed to their effects. What, will you feed your Andrew hallucinogenic fungi until he notices you, and follows you as the dagger on the way to murder his sleep?”

“I can do that?” She asked, eyes lighting up. “Cool!”

She bounded up heading towards the kitchen before I grabbed her wrist, nearly falling off the couch.

The volume landed on the floor again.

“No!”

Cara pouted.

“But you said-“

“It in a sarcastic tone,” I finished. “By no means do I approve of you drugging some boy you like so that he has delusions that prevent him from sleeping at night.”

The determined indignance in her eyes did not lessen.

“Besides, they would probably be hallucinations of Pamela Anderson rather than of you.”

“Oh…” She looked down at her own undeveloped chest. “I guess that’s not such a great idea, then.”

I sighed in relief, releasing her to pick up my book, settling back into the comfort of the couch and the fire before flipping to the right page.

“I'll just write a really good poem, then. And I’ll give it to him and he’ll love me forever!” She burbled, spirits revived.

“Every fool in love will learn to dance…” I murmured, coming to the author biography and nearly swooning at the sight of my idol’s picture. “And every one in love is a fool.”

TO ANDREW FROM CARA

I am true-

I am no illusion,

Conceived in fantasy and raised in fiction,

Gone by morning’s light,

The intangible dagger that cuts away at your slumber.

I am real,

Perfect in my flaws,

Sewn of softer stuff than even dreams are made of.

Be solitary no more, my love,

For I will pad your sleep with satisfaction,

And still be solid and smiling for you in the morning.

Will you please proofread this for me?

-Cara ©

I set the poem back down on my desk beside my morning coffee and granted that some fools learned to dance well.

Musings on Forever

Forever is a really awfully damn long time. Or, so I've been told. There's actually no way to be sure, because once forever is a tangible possibility, I can't imagine that time would continue to matter. After all, I never know the days of the week when I have nowhere to be. They all blur into one long, stretched out, abstract painting.

I guess forever would still be long then.

Just hazy.

That would have to be amazingly frustrating. The lack of detail, of purpose, of little intimate webs to get caught up in... Forever would be so blurred, it couldn't be anything but boring. A study in apathy.

Perhaps if one could make every day count, pack it full of purpose and activity, then forever would be a manageable prospect. But then, one would be bound by time. One would have to know where to be and when and why and bother.

That's damn stressful.

And isn't the point of forever not to be tethered to time, to not be forced to rush to get everything in?

Forever is a really awfully damn long time.

And I shall never see it.

The Point

She was too comfortable in his arms, that was all she knew. The play had already started, but that was not the point. His fingers drew shapes on her neck, and she exposed her throat. That was not the point either. She wasn't sure what was. She mused on it as she lay across him and experienced a flash of annoyance when he dared to interrupt by trying to kiss her. One finger pushed him away, silence still in her brain. That was not the point at all. But, what... She glanced towards the sky and found it dark and upholstered. That wasn't right, somehow.... His lips were soft on her ear, but his teeth were sharp, and his breath, coming fast, was warm. Perhaps... She trailed her thumb up his thigh, stopping just short of scandal. His moan was deep, sensual, and brought satisfaction to her smile. The play had already started, but that was not the point. Not the having started already bit, at least.

Realism

The world is not worthy of respect. But perhaps because that is the case, you should respect the world all the more. After all, we're part of it. (Are we not?)

There are no exceptions from the rule of being flawed. So let us instead admire virtues, and be reassured that we have some of our own. (Do we not?)