The light Blancwood winter snow bowed with a series of crunches under the limousine's tires like a line of docile servants bending down for it to ride over. Slowly, deliberately it followed the girl trudging along in her rumpled school uniform until she became self-conscious enough to stop and wait for the car to pull up to her. The tinted window closest to the end rolled down, taking its time, as if it knew all the world would wait for it.
After her customary imperial glance around at her surroundings, Eugenia Valentia's eyes finally came to a rest on the young schoolgirl's timid face. This girl was afraid of her, and she knew it. Too afraid to open her mouth and deny anything that Eugenia wished to tell her to do. She would listen now.
"Dear, may I speak with you a moment?"
The question was merely a formality. The girl wouldn't dare refuse.
"...Si, Signora Valentia, I'm coming..." she stepped obediently up to the window, hefting her pile of books in her arms and attempting to look as though the prospect of standing around even longer with those heavy textbooks wasn't going to bother her immensely.
"Por favor, dear, we know one other quite well by now, do we not? Then you know you may call me Eugenia. Dona Eugenia, if you insist on a title."
"...Si, Dona Eugenia."
"Well, do not just stand out there, chiquita, it's like a freezer. Come, come, sit in the car with me."
At her command, her driver got out and came along to open the side door. Cadenza refrained from commenting on this--she'd never understood why Eugenia couldn't just reach her arm out a foot, if it was even that much, and nudge open the door herself. It seemed wrong to make the driver have to do it.
But, it wasn't her place to speak. Not when the woman concerned was Paris' stepmother, at least. She checked her watch, made peace with the realization that she would, most definitely, miss her bus and that Eugenia was not likely to give her a ride all the way to Santa Mariela, and got in with only the slightest bit of a sigh. This was not going to be pleasant, she could feel it.
"I do hope your shoes aren't too muddy. I was going to request that you wipe them off, but now whatever damage is already done, I suppose..." she gave Cadenza a look that suggested this was the greatest of transgressions and that she was being almost saintly in allowing it to be forgiven. When the girl didn't respond, she smiled a little. Of course, there was nothing to say. An "I didn't know" was never going to pass with Eugenia.
"But yes, onto other matters... Cadenza, I stopped you for this little chat because I wished to speak to you about my Paris..."
"My" Paris, yes, it was hard not to notice the emphasis there. It was going to be another one of those conversations. The girl sighed inwardly again and prepared herself for the worst. The only good things about this by the end were going to be that the seat was comfortable and the limo warm--she settled in for the long haul.
"Dear, I heard the other day that Paris was ditching class because of you... this is very unacceptable..."
"We... we didn't miss class... we were just late... he was showing me the snow. I'd never seen it before..."
"Yes, well, I believe he's getting far too serious about this relationship of yours far too fast. He's been speaking of marrying someday, even. Marriage, Cadenza. And children! And what do you have to offer him? Your beauty? Purity? Those things will be lost someday, dear, and you'll just be living off him, leeching off our family's money. The Valentias are expected to marry a certain kind of person."
Cadenza found herself sinking lower and lower in the limo's plush leather seats. Never mind that you were a waitress at some dive diner before Rogerio met you... you just picked him up after Claudia died and he was lonely... but now, you've completely turned around, and you're looking down on people who were just like you... how can you...
"...I... I have a dowry, ma'am," she tried.
Eugenia almost chuckled. "Oh yes, honey, I'm aware. A gold necklace and some earrings, is it? I have at least six times your little dowry in one drawer of one of my many jewelry boxes, dear."
"The... the necklace is made of rose gold..."
"Cadenza, please. Three of the six rings on my fingers just right this moment are rose gold."
The woman stretched out a hand adorned with the superb jewelry, gleaming a rich blush color. The light coming off them was so brilliant it would almost be blinding were it not for the tinted windows. There was, again, no reply that could be made. Eugenia went on.
"Also... you know, dear, that people say your father is... not quite mentally stable. And your poor, dear mother has that drug problem... there's also talk of your eldest sister being involved with a felon...? Obviously these are not people we could have associated with our family."
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Colors (Writing exercise, Cadenza, past)
It was like having synesthesia, and it was one of the most amazing experiences she'd ever had.
She could see her own music; see it like she'd never dreamed. The chords of her flamenco guitar were vibrating vermillion reds, with wailing, high, strident tones of yellow, and deep brownish ochres, almost mournful in their baritones. The castanets' clacks were dashes of Spanish orange and gold, sharp lines and brilliant neon yellow triangles that appeared and disappeared all within an instant. She could see her own voice, a lighter, richer red, see it go orange and bright and spread when it rose and crescendoed and go in curves and faint shapes of violet when it was softer and soulful.
She wanted to see more; she wanted to see the thrumming of a car engine running, see the sounds of love-making. She pulled Johnny close without a word, wanting to savor the colors, save them for the moment. With only the look in her eyes and her firm touches, she let her actions do the speaking as she pulled him into their bedroom and let the symphony of senses begin. Every pant and every moan was a new experience; his husky voice in her ear was a deep, robust, warm reddish brown, enveloping her and sending shivers through her body. Finally, when her last cries of passion came, they were pangs of the brightest reds and oranges she'd ever seen, with short green, softer gasps, and then the colors relaxed, and cooled, and she watched their soft bluish breathing together until she fell asleep.
Since that night, she'd kept the name of them tucked away in a little corner of her mind, for another day... the name of those magic little compounds; they were called, simply, "red caps".
She could see her own music; see it like she'd never dreamed. The chords of her flamenco guitar were vibrating vermillion reds, with wailing, high, strident tones of yellow, and deep brownish ochres, almost mournful in their baritones. The castanets' clacks were dashes of Spanish orange and gold, sharp lines and brilliant neon yellow triangles that appeared and disappeared all within an instant. She could see her own voice, a lighter, richer red, see it go orange and bright and spread when it rose and crescendoed and go in curves and faint shapes of violet when it was softer and soulful.
She wanted to see more; she wanted to see the thrumming of a car engine running, see the sounds of love-making. She pulled Johnny close without a word, wanting to savor the colors, save them for the moment. With only the look in her eyes and her firm touches, she let her actions do the speaking as she pulled him into their bedroom and let the symphony of senses begin. Every pant and every moan was a new experience; his husky voice in her ear was a deep, robust, warm reddish brown, enveloping her and sending shivers through her body. Finally, when her last cries of passion came, they were pangs of the brightest reds and oranges she'd ever seen, with short green, softer gasps, and then the colors relaxed, and cooled, and she watched their soft bluish breathing together until she fell asleep.
Since that night, she'd kept the name of them tucked away in a little corner of her mind, for another day... the name of those magic little compounds; they were called, simply, "red caps".
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Damien
Name: Damien
Occupation: No fixed occupation, tends to pick up odd jobs as he wanders from city to city but is rather unskilled.
Age/Birthdate: 19
Apparent Age: 19
Gender: Male
Race: Angel
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 140 lbs
Eye Color: A muddy, turbid brown color that's rather unremarkable, but look somewhat friendly if they give off any impression.
Hair Color/Style: Skunky blonde and wavy, cut in a rather messy, shaggy style in short layers, the bottom-most reaching to his jawline. Has a cowlick in the front that never seems to want to stay down, no matter how much he wills (and excessively gels) it to.
General Appearance: Damien is neither cherub nor like an adonis from a classical Michelangelo canvas, and cuts a rather gangling, tall, lanky figure that slouches because it's most comfortable for him and would more so belong to a lazy college freshman majoring in general studies with a nickname like "Pizza Face" than an angel. His face is neither handsome nor particularly unattractive--the best way you could really describe it would be to say it's "average", and still rather youthful. He gives off the appearance of having yet to grow into his features, and has a slightly bigger than normal nose, thin lips, and eyes set a little wider apart. He has a somewhat strong brow with decently trimmed eyebrows, and his face is longer than it is wide. His chin and jaw are a bit weak and not particularly overtly masculine or mature looking. His first set of wings were stubby, pathetic, irregular-shaped things too flimsy to support flight and too embarrassing to pull out in front of the other fledglings--they have grown since then into more functional things, but are still not the perfectly plumed kind that one would expect from an angel (at least they're white, he often says.) Sometimes they make his back itch when he retracts them. He has large, skinny feet and hands, and fair, more or less smooth skin that sunburns quicker than most. He has never been able to grow more facial hair than boyish peach fuzz.
While in Heaven, Damien sticks to wearing the standard toga, leather belt, golden sandals, and laurels behind each ear. On earth, he likes to sport old, comfortable, worn-in t-shirts (often band t-shirts, thrift store, or rummage sale items), similarly old and battered jeans, brown leather sandals or well-worn white sneakers, and a blue South Carolina Tar Heels college windbreaker he feels helps him blend in more. He carries an off-brand backpack with his few possessions, covered in buttons and stickers of various places he's been, with the straps loose so its weight sags comfortably on his shoulders.
Weapon(s): A slingshot, which he feels is rather pathetic and not worth pulling out, made of oak. The pellets are simply old, hard acorns. He's attempted to purchase a gun, but has always been too afraid to follow through and hasn't got an ID to prove his age.
Armor: None but his cloth kneepads and a helmet he occasionally wears when skateboarding, but feels is too dorky to be seen in.
Carried Possessions: Inside his backpack (described in appearance), Damien has a scuffed old red Walkman, repaired countless times with duct-tape, with a skip button that tends to stick; an assortment of CDs collected from yard sales all over the United States; a thermos with a slight leak, some pens, a spiral-bound notebook he sometimes likes to jot down thoughts or notes in, covered in band stickers; and a few changes of clothes which, when lucky, he scrounges up enough change to wash at local laundromats. He also carries a threadbare, fabric fold-up wallet with a few useless membership cards, whatever cash he may have on him, and a library card that is the only proof of his identity. Buried underneath the clothes is an old gray Gameboy Advance he picked up at, yes, a yard sale, and he has a small collection of games in cheap plastic cases to go with it. He carries a blue, mesh-and-fabric South Carolina Tar Heels ballcap for the days when he simply can't tolerate his cowlick any longer. If he's got some extra cash, he tries to keep at least one package of batteries in his backpack, but has always been afraid of them getting damaged and leaking acid all over his things. His backpack often smells of half-finished food.
Powers/Magic/Skills: As an angel, Damien has decently serviceable wings that can fly for short distances and/or medium altitudes. He also possesses a few holy talents. If he visits a church or other holy location, he is able to return to Heaven with God's permission.
Blessing: Damien possesses the power to heal small wounds, minor illnesses, and injuries, by using a specific prayer. He needs to focus to perform this, and then clasp his hands together, speaking the words earnestly and with genuine and selfless care for the person, plant, or animal he wishes to heal. The prayer takes about a minute to recite, and he cannot perform it repeatedly without tiring himself in the process.
Sanctify: With a different prayer, Damien is able to bless a certain area or building (or if he wishes, a person), and make it holy for a limited period of time (at most, two days.) This blessing protects the area or person from any manner of dark or sinful magic or power. It can also purge an evil or demonic spirit from a person or place. Depending on how long the blessing lasts, this skill will consume more of his energy.
Battle Strengths: Being a holy being, Damien is unharmed by gunshots and most mortal wounds that would kill a human, as well as lesser dark magics and curses. He can fly for short periods of time, and his wiry body possesses some strength, but not much.
Battle Weaknesses: He's awkward and often clumsy on his feet when under pressure, and does not possess much in the way of offensive magic or physical dexterity or power. He's not really very sure how to fight; his punches are sloppy, and he sometimes does not know where he should hit to make an effective blow. This leads him to waste a lot of energy punching someone in their sturdy shoulder when he should have gone for, say, the vulnerable Adam's Apple of their throat. More powerful dark or sinful magic can harm him and require him to flee or return to Heaven injured.
Personality: Damien is not your typical angel. He can't carry a tune when singing, and harps and bows have never agreed with him well--he'd always hurt a finger on either. He goes through life feeling as though he's the butt of most jokes, and therefore has become rather mellow, jaded, and skeptical of any luck that comes his way. He has low expectations and takes little seriously. He's awkward around girls, but tries to pretend he's not. Feels most at home around earth, because people are more "average", he thinks, and he can fit in better. After about seven years on earth he's fairly well assimilated into the culture, especially the teenage culture, but still finds some habits and other things about humans strange or incomprehensible. He's unused to kindness and can be easily flustered, but often tries to hide it and play things "cool" and not looking too eager. Damien speaks slang to even the most dignified of audiences and when he gets excited, he has trouble controlling how quickly or loudly he speaks. He gives off the impression of a grungy teenager slacker, and is well-aware of this perception others hold of him. Someone can easily endear themselves to him by not judging him in this way right off the bat. He doubts his own merits and has low self-confidence, despite the image he tries to project of a more laid-back, socially competent young man. He likes to sometimes try to act older or more mature and manly than he is.
Likes: Video games, burgers, rock music, television, skateboards, girls, cars (despite never learning how to drive), movies, magazines, thriller novels, pizza, tea, cocoa, sugar, Dance Dance Revolution, thrift stores, dogs, cities.
Dislikes: School, math and science in particular, artificial sweeteners, bullies, snobs, over-priced things, trains, elevators, car horns, car alarms, broccoli, beets, socks, harps, bows.
Fears: Being rejected (especially by girls), being judged, being the worst.
Virtues: Modesty, honesty
Vices: Overeating, laziness
History: He was an angel named Damien, and he had always felt there had been rather a mix-up between babies when he was being named. He was an ineffectual angel, been told he would never amount to much, and had been that way from the very start; when all the other fledgling angels had been practicing their hymns and stringing their harps, he was getting his fingers tangled and squeaking off-key, and tripping over his own sandals (just learning to strap those things had been a monumental chore--like shoe-tying, but with pointy metal buckles.) Something about him just always "screamed" average, and in a world of flawless divine beings, he always stood out like an awkward sore thumb. For many of his childhood years, he tried to ignore this--ignore it even though it stared him in the face each day, thwarted him in nearly every effort, followed him around like a tiny, personal stormcloud. He grew miserable and yet tried to stay chipper for as long as he could manage, until finally, someone noticed.
Damien did not, actually, get an audience with God when the day came. But he was assured that the big man upstairs was very sympathetic to his plight, and yadda yadda, some heartening jabber they put together for his sake. But he at least got a brief sit-down with an Archangel, and a decently comfy cloud to sit on during it. The blonde, chiseled superior angel sat across from him, pulled out some impeccably clean reading glasses, and a file that materialized out of thin air. He spent some minutes skimming it, with the occasional half-interested "hrrm".
"I see that, perhaps, you have not been particularly happy here in Heaven, Damien, my boy," he said, without much feeling. "This seems somewhat contradictory, seeing as how this is... well, Heaven, the eternal paradise and all. Even if this place is meant for humans, angels are normally quite content here as well. Most don't know much else beyond this place."
"B-beyooond, sir?" his twelve-year old voice cracked.
"Yes, Damien, beyond--Earth, the living world, inhabited by humans and all of God's other creatures. Some angels have spent time there. We believe... perhaps you would like to spend some time there."
"M... me? You'd let me go...? Even though only a couple angels get to...?"
The archangel gave him a small smile. "Yes, Damien, we will let you go. He has decided it."
Damien was not sure what he could expect on earth, but even so, for the first time he could remember, he was thrilled. He was getting a chance to start somewhere new, where he could possibly fit in, and a chance to see a world few of his kind had seen and experienced in person. That made him different... and in a good way. He couldn't wait. He had no belongings aside from the clothes on his back, and after some further discussion with Michael, the archangel who had first talked with him, he soon learned that his clothing would not be well-suited for earth life anyway. He was given a small wad of bills, and directions to seek out some kind of place called a "thrift shop". They would become his new favorite sight, more welcome than a fluffy cloud or a bright patch of sun. They guided him and left him in a small city in South Carolina, where he would start his first day, as an angel on earth.
He has seldom wanted to go back to Heaven since.
Occupation: No fixed occupation, tends to pick up odd jobs as he wanders from city to city but is rather unskilled.
Age/Birthdate: 19
Apparent Age: 19
Gender: Male
Race: Angel
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 140 lbs
Eye Color: A muddy, turbid brown color that's rather unremarkable, but look somewhat friendly if they give off any impression.
Hair Color/Style: Skunky blonde and wavy, cut in a rather messy, shaggy style in short layers, the bottom-most reaching to his jawline. Has a cowlick in the front that never seems to want to stay down, no matter how much he wills (and excessively gels) it to.
General Appearance: Damien is neither cherub nor like an adonis from a classical Michelangelo canvas, and cuts a rather gangling, tall, lanky figure that slouches because it's most comfortable for him and would more so belong to a lazy college freshman majoring in general studies with a nickname like "Pizza Face" than an angel. His face is neither handsome nor particularly unattractive--the best way you could really describe it would be to say it's "average", and still rather youthful. He gives off the appearance of having yet to grow into his features, and has a slightly bigger than normal nose, thin lips, and eyes set a little wider apart. He has a somewhat strong brow with decently trimmed eyebrows, and his face is longer than it is wide. His chin and jaw are a bit weak and not particularly overtly masculine or mature looking. His first set of wings were stubby, pathetic, irregular-shaped things too flimsy to support flight and too embarrassing to pull out in front of the other fledglings--they have grown since then into more functional things, but are still not the perfectly plumed kind that one would expect from an angel (at least they're white, he often says.) Sometimes they make his back itch when he retracts them. He has large, skinny feet and hands, and fair, more or less smooth skin that sunburns quicker than most. He has never been able to grow more facial hair than boyish peach fuzz.
While in Heaven, Damien sticks to wearing the standard toga, leather belt, golden sandals, and laurels behind each ear. On earth, he likes to sport old, comfortable, worn-in t-shirts (often band t-shirts, thrift store, or rummage sale items), similarly old and battered jeans, brown leather sandals or well-worn white sneakers, and a blue South Carolina Tar Heels college windbreaker he feels helps him blend in more. He carries an off-brand backpack with his few possessions, covered in buttons and stickers of various places he's been, with the straps loose so its weight sags comfortably on his shoulders.
Weapon(s): A slingshot, which he feels is rather pathetic and not worth pulling out, made of oak. The pellets are simply old, hard acorns. He's attempted to purchase a gun, but has always been too afraid to follow through and hasn't got an ID to prove his age.
Armor: None but his cloth kneepads and a helmet he occasionally wears when skateboarding, but feels is too dorky to be seen in.
Carried Possessions: Inside his backpack (described in appearance), Damien has a scuffed old red Walkman, repaired countless times with duct-tape, with a skip button that tends to stick; an assortment of CDs collected from yard sales all over the United States; a thermos with a slight leak, some pens, a spiral-bound notebook he sometimes likes to jot down thoughts or notes in, covered in band stickers; and a few changes of clothes which, when lucky, he scrounges up enough change to wash at local laundromats. He also carries a threadbare, fabric fold-up wallet with a few useless membership cards, whatever cash he may have on him, and a library card that is the only proof of his identity. Buried underneath the clothes is an old gray Gameboy Advance he picked up at, yes, a yard sale, and he has a small collection of games in cheap plastic cases to go with it. He carries a blue, mesh-and-fabric South Carolina Tar Heels ballcap for the days when he simply can't tolerate his cowlick any longer. If he's got some extra cash, he tries to keep at least one package of batteries in his backpack, but has always been afraid of them getting damaged and leaking acid all over his things. His backpack often smells of half-finished food.
Powers/Magic/Skills: As an angel, Damien has decently serviceable wings that can fly for short distances and/or medium altitudes. He also possesses a few holy talents. If he visits a church or other holy location, he is able to return to Heaven with God's permission.
Blessing: Damien possesses the power to heal small wounds, minor illnesses, and injuries, by using a specific prayer. He needs to focus to perform this, and then clasp his hands together, speaking the words earnestly and with genuine and selfless care for the person, plant, or animal he wishes to heal. The prayer takes about a minute to recite, and he cannot perform it repeatedly without tiring himself in the process.
Sanctify: With a different prayer, Damien is able to bless a certain area or building (or if he wishes, a person), and make it holy for a limited period of time (at most, two days.) This blessing protects the area or person from any manner of dark or sinful magic or power. It can also purge an evil or demonic spirit from a person or place. Depending on how long the blessing lasts, this skill will consume more of his energy.
Battle Strengths: Being a holy being, Damien is unharmed by gunshots and most mortal wounds that would kill a human, as well as lesser dark magics and curses. He can fly for short periods of time, and his wiry body possesses some strength, but not much.
Battle Weaknesses: He's awkward and often clumsy on his feet when under pressure, and does not possess much in the way of offensive magic or physical dexterity or power. He's not really very sure how to fight; his punches are sloppy, and he sometimes does not know where he should hit to make an effective blow. This leads him to waste a lot of energy punching someone in their sturdy shoulder when he should have gone for, say, the vulnerable Adam's Apple of their throat. More powerful dark or sinful magic can harm him and require him to flee or return to Heaven injured.
Personality: Damien is not your typical angel. He can't carry a tune when singing, and harps and bows have never agreed with him well--he'd always hurt a finger on either. He goes through life feeling as though he's the butt of most jokes, and therefore has become rather mellow, jaded, and skeptical of any luck that comes his way. He has low expectations and takes little seriously. He's awkward around girls, but tries to pretend he's not. Feels most at home around earth, because people are more "average", he thinks, and he can fit in better. After about seven years on earth he's fairly well assimilated into the culture, especially the teenage culture, but still finds some habits and other things about humans strange or incomprehensible. He's unused to kindness and can be easily flustered, but often tries to hide it and play things "cool" and not looking too eager. Damien speaks slang to even the most dignified of audiences and when he gets excited, he has trouble controlling how quickly or loudly he speaks. He gives off the impression of a grungy teenager slacker, and is well-aware of this perception others hold of him. Someone can easily endear themselves to him by not judging him in this way right off the bat. He doubts his own merits and has low self-confidence, despite the image he tries to project of a more laid-back, socially competent young man. He likes to sometimes try to act older or more mature and manly than he is.
Likes: Video games, burgers, rock music, television, skateboards, girls, cars (despite never learning how to drive), movies, magazines, thriller novels, pizza, tea, cocoa, sugar, Dance Dance Revolution, thrift stores, dogs, cities.
Dislikes: School, math and science in particular, artificial sweeteners, bullies, snobs, over-priced things, trains, elevators, car horns, car alarms, broccoli, beets, socks, harps, bows.
Fears: Being rejected (especially by girls), being judged, being the worst.
Virtues: Modesty, honesty
Vices: Overeating, laziness
History: He was an angel named Damien, and he had always felt there had been rather a mix-up between babies when he was being named. He was an ineffectual angel, been told he would never amount to much, and had been that way from the very start; when all the other fledgling angels had been practicing their hymns and stringing their harps, he was getting his fingers tangled and squeaking off-key, and tripping over his own sandals (just learning to strap those things had been a monumental chore--like shoe-tying, but with pointy metal buckles.) Something about him just always "screamed" average, and in a world of flawless divine beings, he always stood out like an awkward sore thumb. For many of his childhood years, he tried to ignore this--ignore it even though it stared him in the face each day, thwarted him in nearly every effort, followed him around like a tiny, personal stormcloud. He grew miserable and yet tried to stay chipper for as long as he could manage, until finally, someone noticed.
Damien did not, actually, get an audience with God when the day came. But he was assured that the big man upstairs was very sympathetic to his plight, and yadda yadda, some heartening jabber they put together for his sake. But he at least got a brief sit-down with an Archangel, and a decently comfy cloud to sit on during it. The blonde, chiseled superior angel sat across from him, pulled out some impeccably clean reading glasses, and a file that materialized out of thin air. He spent some minutes skimming it, with the occasional half-interested "hrrm".
"I see that, perhaps, you have not been particularly happy here in Heaven, Damien, my boy," he said, without much feeling. "This seems somewhat contradictory, seeing as how this is... well, Heaven, the eternal paradise and all. Even if this place is meant for humans, angels are normally quite content here as well. Most don't know much else beyond this place."
"B-beyooond, sir?" his twelve-year old voice cracked.
"Yes, Damien, beyond--Earth, the living world, inhabited by humans and all of God's other creatures. Some angels have spent time there. We believe... perhaps you would like to spend some time there."
"M... me? You'd let me go...? Even though only a couple angels get to...?"
The archangel gave him a small smile. "Yes, Damien, we will let you go. He has decided it."
Damien was not sure what he could expect on earth, but even so, for the first time he could remember, he was thrilled. He was getting a chance to start somewhere new, where he could possibly fit in, and a chance to see a world few of his kind had seen and experienced in person. That made him different... and in a good way. He couldn't wait. He had no belongings aside from the clothes on his back, and after some further discussion with Michael, the archangel who had first talked with him, he soon learned that his clothing would not be well-suited for earth life anyway. He was given a small wad of bills, and directions to seek out some kind of place called a "thrift shop". They would become his new favorite sight, more welcome than a fluffy cloud or a bright patch of sun. They guided him and left him in a small city in South Carolina, where he would start his first day, as an angel on earth.
He has seldom wanted to go back to Heaven since.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Quick Fic: Magic Dialogue
"Tia..." Greene began, "how does your magic work...? What makes you different from me...?"
"Well, to be honest, Greene... most of it works off just sheer, barefaced will," Cadenza said, chuckling as she added, "in other words, my strength is my stubbornness. I've got to demand it to work, or to exist, want it so badly that I pour all the energy I can spare into bullying whatever spell it is to work. Coax it, coerce it. It's harder the first time I do a spell... and you know like that songs says, 'You can't always get what you want.' It won't always work. Sure, it's focused magic, it's controlled magic... but it's limited magic. That's why... sometimes I need one of you dreamers. Those people who've got that creativity... that purity, that belief, that innocence I haven't.
"You can make life, wish it into being, hope, imagine... and it comes true. You have faith in things like miracles that I just don't buy--not when I've seen far too many people hurtin' for one and had their prayers, their pleas, and their cries go ignored. Instead, I've just got that want, that motivation to help 'em... help them in a realistic, immediate, practical kind of way... 'cause I'm too rooted down to earth to dream those big magical dreams you do... so keep on dreamin', Greenie. The world needs people like you."
"Well, to be honest, Greene... most of it works off just sheer, barefaced will," Cadenza said, chuckling as she added, "in other words, my strength is my stubbornness. I've got to demand it to work, or to exist, want it so badly that I pour all the energy I can spare into bullying whatever spell it is to work. Coax it, coerce it. It's harder the first time I do a spell... and you know like that songs says, 'You can't always get what you want.' It won't always work. Sure, it's focused magic, it's controlled magic... but it's limited magic. That's why... sometimes I need one of you dreamers. Those people who've got that creativity... that purity, that belief, that innocence I haven't.
"You can make life, wish it into being, hope, imagine... and it comes true. You have faith in things like miracles that I just don't buy--not when I've seen far too many people hurtin' for one and had their prayers, their pleas, and their cries go ignored. Instead, I've just got that want, that motivation to help 'em... help them in a realistic, immediate, practical kind of way... 'cause I'm too rooted down to earth to dream those big magical dreams you do... so keep on dreamin', Greenie. The world needs people like you."
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Short Story: Eve on la Isla (past)
The doors banged open in the middle of yet another Isla do Noir storm, on an otherwise clear December night. By the moonlight, Vice-Warden Collins, an employ from the States who often wondered how he’d ended up with this job, watched as a familiar lady strode in and shook the raindrops that clung to her cloak and long black hair. Considering the downpour outside, this took some time. Collins bustled up to her in mid-shake, hands already raised to usher her back out into the storm.
“Whoah, whoah, heeey,” he began, and then realized he wasn’t saying much of anything. He paused, and she looked up from her wringing out and drying off, “The day one of you all can waltz in here unannounced like this is the day hell freezes over. What are you up to, Madrigal? It’s Christmas Eve, we haven’t got the guards on duty to deal with you.”
The woman looked up at him with a look of injured innocence, her blue eyes wide and shining. Completely fake, Collins thought, trying to brush it off. Or at least mostly. He was prone to cut her some slack for being pretty.
“Tonight I’m just a lady visiting her dear old dad, warden,” Cadenza said, “Can't you respect that…? No tricks, honestly.”
Collins sucked his teeth. “Yeah, and I’m a camel’s uncle.” He’d been around long enough to know how a Madrigal operated. They were good actors, and even better liars when they needed to be.
The woman just shrugged, “Hey, I’m not knockin’ your family tree… if it swings the furry way.”
The vice-warden saw that he was outclassed. Perhaps his boss could have had the patience and willpower to quip back and forth with Cadenza Madrigal-Valentia on a Christmas Eve night, but he had to get home sometime soon. He figured the easiest way might just be to give in. “…Hn,” he grunted. “Well… all right. Scout’s honor, you’re not up to anything?”
“I don’t even know what that means, but sure. Who the hell around here is a scout?” She gave the warden a sardonic look, but it quickly faded and she waved the whole subject off. “Never mind. Just let me see my pai…”
Collins nodded and fetched the keys from by the desk, taking special care to obfuscate where he’d kept them from Madrigal’s sight. He dug in unnecessary desk drawers, opened small petty change vaults, pretended to leaf through the pages of a phone book. Somehow, when he’d finally fished them out, he felt the woman still had figured out where they had been hidden. Tomorrow I move them to the bottom of cup of pens, he thought, making a metal note. You could never be too safe… no one ever really used any of those pens to document things like they should anyway.
He unlocked the door, and led Cadenza down the corridor, past sneering prisoners and a number of wolf whistles, his thoughts filled with the image of a hot dinner waiting at home for him by the stove until he realized he’d nearly passed the cell he was headed to and stopped abruptly with a lurch. His belly wobbled under the gray uniform and again, he thought of pot roast and potatoes until the woman gave him a nudge, and one of her most impatient looks.
“Some privacy, yah? Personal family moment here, and all. Thanks.”
“Right right,” Collins grumbled, and hurried off, back to his desk, hoping he still had that corner of sandwich left in his lunchbox from earlier.
When his footsteps had finally faded off down the hall, Cadenza turned to the cell, wrapped her gloved hands around the bars, and peered in. On the dingy cot inside, Galliard Madrigal was slumbering fitfully in the hideous lime-green jumpsuit that was the prison uniform she so hated, his beard untrimmed and going gray at the ends, his hair bedraggled and matted to his head from heat. She sighed, and rattled on the bars with the metallic knuckles of her gloves.
“Moorning, sunshine…”
Galliard stirred but didn’t get up. She rattled again, louder this time, until some of the other prisoners complained in rather colorful language. Cadenza shot them all a glare, fingered a dagger hilt by her belt, and silence quickly reigned again on Death Row. “Bloody lot of rats, filthy little…” her grumbling trailed off as her father eased himself off the cot with a groan and glanced towards her.
“Hija…” he breathed, his deep fatherly voice ending in a parched rasp. The tired, saddened lines of his face and brow smoothed themselves out, reshaped into the laugh lines Cadenza knew so well. He managed a smile. “What are you doing here…?”
“I… brought you a little something, Pai.” She reached into her inner cloak pocket, pulled out a tall bottle of eggnog and two metal tumblers. “You always loved eggnog at this time of year… so… cheers.”
She poured until the two glasses were filled to the brim, and squeezed her slender arm through the bars to hand his to him. A tear glinted in his eye as he took the tumbler and drank, savoring the taste for many moments.
“It’s… perfeito. The sweetest thing I have tasted in some time… gracias, hija…”
“You needed a little pick-me-up… heh, yeah, that’s an understatement, I’m sure… but… I had to bring you something,” she looked down at her soaked boots, unsure of what else to say. It didn’t feel like enough.
“No, no… this is a great gift… my favorite holiday drink… a visit from my hija… I’m glad…”
“How… how can you be!? Here? In this place?” Cadenza tossed her arms in the air, believing the awfulness of the prison needed no description. It spoke for itself. “You shouldn’t be here, and we both know it!”
Every year she got like this, Galliard knew. Every year at Christmas, for the… past seven years now, it had been, she would come to visit quite calmly, albeit maybe sad, at first, and then the slightest thing would throw her into a fit. Her care for him, for his situation… it was always endearing, yes, he loved her greatly and felt comforted by the fact that at least one of his daughters missed him so. But… he knew there were other places she should be, other things she could be doing with her time… rather than visiting her condemned father.
He reached his hand out from the bars, and rested it on one of hers. “Hija… it’s all right… I’m all right… if I am truly innocent, God will see it that what should and must happen will. But right now… shouldn’t you be at home with Paris…? Where is he tonight…?”
Cadenza took on the slightly pouty look that he could remember seeing countless times during her childhood. Even now as an adult, when she tried to hide it, he always knew when she was deeply upset. “He’s at a party, for the soldiers. There’s an armistice declared for Christmas… a party is being thrown on a yacht somewhere in the Seria. It was too short notice, and… too far away, so… he couldn’t bring me.”
“Hija…”
She crossed her arms—the next step of her shutting herself off in anger. She looked away, voice even and cold as she said, “…Not like I care anyway. You know I hate being around stuffed shirts like that… they’re not… my kind of people. I wouldn’t know what to do or say at a party like that.”
The excuse, the defense, the reflection. Galliard knew all these so very well. Cadenza thought she was putting up a good front, but to him, it was as easy as peering through a clean glass window. He knew all that was inside to know. “Hija, I’m sure Paris would have been much happier with you there… he’s probably missing you right at this moment, miserable without his ‘gorgeous sunflower’ to brighten the event for him.”
“Heh… maybe,” she conceded, but it was half-hearted. She poured off another glass of eggnog and tossed it back like it was plain milk. This was the last part, her father knew… the drinking. Ever since that baby was lost, a year ago… she had taken to the bottle, and only gotten worse and worse. Only he even knew all the details of what had happened…
“Cadenza… how is your mother…? Have you visited her recently?” This was always a sensitive subject with Cadenza. Galliard knew he had to tread with care—he had even made sure he’d waited until she was at least on her third tumbler before he asked.
“…Went yesterday with Arietta and Luminari to take her something Ari’d knitted her. She seemed… okay. Same as always… you know, frail, coughing…”
“Ari knitted her a gift…? That was sweet of her…” his thoughts drifted to Sonya, to the smile he imagined must have lit up her beautiful face when she’d gotten a visit and a gift from their beloved daughters. How he wished he could have been there…
“Yeah, well… Ari’s the sweet one. I think she went back over to see Sonya today, took cookies or something like that. Some pretty good cookies, I’d have to say,” she gave a very small smile as she patted her stomach. Galliard could tell the alcohol was slowly loosening her up. It was both a nice and worrying thing. He did miss her smiles, too.
“How long did… the warden say you could stay?” he looked out of the window, at the moon amidst the clouds. He had gotten real good at guessing the time of day or night by the sky over the years. It could have almost been past midnight.
“As long as I damn well please, and I’d like to see him try to kick me out!” she nearly shouted back, voice echoing through the hall. She was getting to the point where she was forgetting to control her volume—a second bottle of eggnog appeared out of a cloak pocket and popped open to fill her glass. “Want more?” she held it out towards him.
“…All right, yes, thank you, hija…” he put his tumbler underneath the mouth of the bottle and let her pour generously. Then he sat down against the bars, on the dusty, cold flooring, and she did the same on the other side.
“…It should be me in there,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’ve done… far worse things… it should be me…”
“Cadenza… don’t say that,” Galliard pet her shoulder gently, wished he could do more to comfort his daughter. Even though she was grown-up, this was a time when he knew she was really in need of support…
The young woman went on, stubbornly, as she always would, “…All the people I’ve killed… all the lives I’ve ruined, the things I’ve stolen… but I get to run around out here while you rot away in this cell and miss Sonya everyday…”
“You’re not going to turn yourself in, are you…?” each time, every year, Galliard answered with this same thing. It usually snapped her back to her old, tough self. He hoped it would now.
“…Hell no, of course not!” Yes, that was the answer he’d wanted. “I can’t… not… not at least until I’ve found a way to bust you out of here… something… I’ll figure out something, I have to…”
“I know you will,” he told her with a smile. That was his little girl for you… his caring, determined little girl. He felt relieved that she hadn’t changed so much in these past years he’d been gone that he still knew her better than she knew herself. Or at least could tell himself that he did. It helped him feel… like he was still someone’s father. He still had a life and identity beyond these bars that he could someday, one day, return to. It was what kept him going.
“I think I’ll come by again tomorrow, Pai… bring you some pictures from Paris and my trip to Sereia when he had a week’s leave… he went on some boats out with the fishermen and I stood on the docks very stubbornly and watched…” she gave a small chuckle, and then a slight hiccup. A third bottle of eggnog appeared like the rabbit out of a magician’s hat, from another cloak pocket, and began filling her tumbler. “It was a nice trip…”
“I’m sure… you… you pay a visit to your mae too tomorrow, all right?”
Another hiccup, and she drained another tumbler. “S… sure, Pai… I’ll visit ‘er. Tell ‘er ya love h… her…”
He was losing her now, he could tell. There was the faraway, glazed look in her dark blue eyes. Cadenza was elsewhere, and here, now, was the drunken parody of herself, slurring and jolly and stumbling about. It pained him to see it.
She was humming a little bawdy song to herself as she plunked down the bottle of eggnog by the bars and winked conspiratorially at him, “F…for ah… nightcap, for ya later… dun… don't tell the warden.”
Galliard just nodded a little sadly and watched as she staggered off towards the doors, guzzling another bottle now and then and singing her little song. Her footsteps clacked and echoed until she disappeared from sight and hearing, and with her, took his bit of joy for the night. God, he prayed, grant us a happy Christmas Eve…one of these years, please…
“Whoah, whoah, heeey,” he began, and then realized he wasn’t saying much of anything. He paused, and she looked up from her wringing out and drying off, “The day one of you all can waltz in here unannounced like this is the day hell freezes over. What are you up to, Madrigal? It’s Christmas Eve, we haven’t got the guards on duty to deal with you.”
The woman looked up at him with a look of injured innocence, her blue eyes wide and shining. Completely fake, Collins thought, trying to brush it off. Or at least mostly. He was prone to cut her some slack for being pretty.
“Tonight I’m just a lady visiting her dear old dad, warden,” Cadenza said, “Can't you respect that…? No tricks, honestly.”
Collins sucked his teeth. “Yeah, and I’m a camel’s uncle.” He’d been around long enough to know how a Madrigal operated. They were good actors, and even better liars when they needed to be.
The woman just shrugged, “Hey, I’m not knockin’ your family tree… if it swings the furry way.”
The vice-warden saw that he was outclassed. Perhaps his boss could have had the patience and willpower to quip back and forth with Cadenza Madrigal-Valentia on a Christmas Eve night, but he had to get home sometime soon. He figured the easiest way might just be to give in. “…Hn,” he grunted. “Well… all right. Scout’s honor, you’re not up to anything?”
“I don’t even know what that means, but sure. Who the hell around here is a scout?” She gave the warden a sardonic look, but it quickly faded and she waved the whole subject off. “Never mind. Just let me see my pai…”
Collins nodded and fetched the keys from by the desk, taking special care to obfuscate where he’d kept them from Madrigal’s sight. He dug in unnecessary desk drawers, opened small petty change vaults, pretended to leaf through the pages of a phone book. Somehow, when he’d finally fished them out, he felt the woman still had figured out where they had been hidden. Tomorrow I move them to the bottom of cup of pens, he thought, making a metal note. You could never be too safe… no one ever really used any of those pens to document things like they should anyway.
He unlocked the door, and led Cadenza down the corridor, past sneering prisoners and a number of wolf whistles, his thoughts filled with the image of a hot dinner waiting at home for him by the stove until he realized he’d nearly passed the cell he was headed to and stopped abruptly with a lurch. His belly wobbled under the gray uniform and again, he thought of pot roast and potatoes until the woman gave him a nudge, and one of her most impatient looks.
“Some privacy, yah? Personal family moment here, and all. Thanks.”
“Right right,” Collins grumbled, and hurried off, back to his desk, hoping he still had that corner of sandwich left in his lunchbox from earlier.
When his footsteps had finally faded off down the hall, Cadenza turned to the cell, wrapped her gloved hands around the bars, and peered in. On the dingy cot inside, Galliard Madrigal was slumbering fitfully in the hideous lime-green jumpsuit that was the prison uniform she so hated, his beard untrimmed and going gray at the ends, his hair bedraggled and matted to his head from heat. She sighed, and rattled on the bars with the metallic knuckles of her gloves.
“Moorning, sunshine…”
Galliard stirred but didn’t get up. She rattled again, louder this time, until some of the other prisoners complained in rather colorful language. Cadenza shot them all a glare, fingered a dagger hilt by her belt, and silence quickly reigned again on Death Row. “Bloody lot of rats, filthy little…” her grumbling trailed off as her father eased himself off the cot with a groan and glanced towards her.
“Hija…” he breathed, his deep fatherly voice ending in a parched rasp. The tired, saddened lines of his face and brow smoothed themselves out, reshaped into the laugh lines Cadenza knew so well. He managed a smile. “What are you doing here…?”
“I… brought you a little something, Pai.” She reached into her inner cloak pocket, pulled out a tall bottle of eggnog and two metal tumblers. “You always loved eggnog at this time of year… so… cheers.”
She poured until the two glasses were filled to the brim, and squeezed her slender arm through the bars to hand his to him. A tear glinted in his eye as he took the tumbler and drank, savoring the taste for many moments.
“It’s… perfeito. The sweetest thing I have tasted in some time… gracias, hija…”
“You needed a little pick-me-up… heh, yeah, that’s an understatement, I’m sure… but… I had to bring you something,” she looked down at her soaked boots, unsure of what else to say. It didn’t feel like enough.
“No, no… this is a great gift… my favorite holiday drink… a visit from my hija… I’m glad…”
“How… how can you be!? Here? In this place?” Cadenza tossed her arms in the air, believing the awfulness of the prison needed no description. It spoke for itself. “You shouldn’t be here, and we both know it!”
Every year she got like this, Galliard knew. Every year at Christmas, for the… past seven years now, it had been, she would come to visit quite calmly, albeit maybe sad, at first, and then the slightest thing would throw her into a fit. Her care for him, for his situation… it was always endearing, yes, he loved her greatly and felt comforted by the fact that at least one of his daughters missed him so. But… he knew there were other places she should be, other things she could be doing with her time… rather than visiting her condemned father.
He reached his hand out from the bars, and rested it on one of hers. “Hija… it’s all right… I’m all right… if I am truly innocent, God will see it that what should and must happen will. But right now… shouldn’t you be at home with Paris…? Where is he tonight…?”
Cadenza took on the slightly pouty look that he could remember seeing countless times during her childhood. Even now as an adult, when she tried to hide it, he always knew when she was deeply upset. “He’s at a party, for the soldiers. There’s an armistice declared for Christmas… a party is being thrown on a yacht somewhere in the Seria. It was too short notice, and… too far away, so… he couldn’t bring me.”
“Hija…”
She crossed her arms—the next step of her shutting herself off in anger. She looked away, voice even and cold as she said, “…Not like I care anyway. You know I hate being around stuffed shirts like that… they’re not… my kind of people. I wouldn’t know what to do or say at a party like that.”
The excuse, the defense, the reflection. Galliard knew all these so very well. Cadenza thought she was putting up a good front, but to him, it was as easy as peering through a clean glass window. He knew all that was inside to know. “Hija, I’m sure Paris would have been much happier with you there… he’s probably missing you right at this moment, miserable without his ‘gorgeous sunflower’ to brighten the event for him.”
“Heh… maybe,” she conceded, but it was half-hearted. She poured off another glass of eggnog and tossed it back like it was plain milk. This was the last part, her father knew… the drinking. Ever since that baby was lost, a year ago… she had taken to the bottle, and only gotten worse and worse. Only he even knew all the details of what had happened…
“Cadenza… how is your mother…? Have you visited her recently?” This was always a sensitive subject with Cadenza. Galliard knew he had to tread with care—he had even made sure he’d waited until she was at least on her third tumbler before he asked.
“…Went yesterday with Arietta and Luminari to take her something Ari’d knitted her. She seemed… okay. Same as always… you know, frail, coughing…”
“Ari knitted her a gift…? That was sweet of her…” his thoughts drifted to Sonya, to the smile he imagined must have lit up her beautiful face when she’d gotten a visit and a gift from their beloved daughters. How he wished he could have been there…
“Yeah, well… Ari’s the sweet one. I think she went back over to see Sonya today, took cookies or something like that. Some pretty good cookies, I’d have to say,” she gave a very small smile as she patted her stomach. Galliard could tell the alcohol was slowly loosening her up. It was both a nice and worrying thing. He did miss her smiles, too.
“How long did… the warden say you could stay?” he looked out of the window, at the moon amidst the clouds. He had gotten real good at guessing the time of day or night by the sky over the years. It could have almost been past midnight.
“As long as I damn well please, and I’d like to see him try to kick me out!” she nearly shouted back, voice echoing through the hall. She was getting to the point where she was forgetting to control her volume—a second bottle of eggnog appeared out of a cloak pocket and popped open to fill her glass. “Want more?” she held it out towards him.
“…All right, yes, thank you, hija…” he put his tumbler underneath the mouth of the bottle and let her pour generously. Then he sat down against the bars, on the dusty, cold flooring, and she did the same on the other side.
“…It should be me in there,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’ve done… far worse things… it should be me…”
“Cadenza… don’t say that,” Galliard pet her shoulder gently, wished he could do more to comfort his daughter. Even though she was grown-up, this was a time when he knew she was really in need of support…
The young woman went on, stubbornly, as she always would, “…All the people I’ve killed… all the lives I’ve ruined, the things I’ve stolen… but I get to run around out here while you rot away in this cell and miss Sonya everyday…”
“You’re not going to turn yourself in, are you…?” each time, every year, Galliard answered with this same thing. It usually snapped her back to her old, tough self. He hoped it would now.
“…Hell no, of course not!” Yes, that was the answer he’d wanted. “I can’t… not… not at least until I’ve found a way to bust you out of here… something… I’ll figure out something, I have to…”
“I know you will,” he told her with a smile. That was his little girl for you… his caring, determined little girl. He felt relieved that she hadn’t changed so much in these past years he’d been gone that he still knew her better than she knew herself. Or at least could tell himself that he did. It helped him feel… like he was still someone’s father. He still had a life and identity beyond these bars that he could someday, one day, return to. It was what kept him going.
“I think I’ll come by again tomorrow, Pai… bring you some pictures from Paris and my trip to Sereia when he had a week’s leave… he went on some boats out with the fishermen and I stood on the docks very stubbornly and watched…” she gave a small chuckle, and then a slight hiccup. A third bottle of eggnog appeared like the rabbit out of a magician’s hat, from another cloak pocket, and began filling her tumbler. “It was a nice trip…”
“I’m sure… you… you pay a visit to your mae too tomorrow, all right?”
Another hiccup, and she drained another tumbler. “S… sure, Pai… I’ll visit ‘er. Tell ‘er ya love h… her…”
He was losing her now, he could tell. There was the faraway, glazed look in her dark blue eyes. Cadenza was elsewhere, and here, now, was the drunken parody of herself, slurring and jolly and stumbling about. It pained him to see it.
She was humming a little bawdy song to herself as she plunked down the bottle of eggnog by the bars and winked conspiratorially at him, “F…for ah… nightcap, for ya later… dun… don't tell the warden.”
Galliard just nodded a little sadly and watched as she staggered off towards the doors, guzzling another bottle now and then and singing her little song. Her footsteps clacked and echoed until she disappeared from sight and hearing, and with her, took his bit of joy for the night. God, he prayed, grant us a happy Christmas Eve…one of these years, please…
Monday, September 7, 2009
Short Story: Past Events Glimpse -- Erik
"Get off. Get off me and get dressed."
"But sheila, I was so comfortable there... I don't think I could move..."
"I said get off. You understood this arrangement from the beginning. We're done here, so... go. Hurry up..."
Erik rolled away off the bed, finally grabbed his things. His eyes kept lingering on me as he buttoned up his shirt by the moonlight through the cheap blinds. If he thought I was going to return his lovey-dovey look, he was dead wrong. He bent down to retrieve his pants, then paused and said, "...You'll come to my show tomorrow night too, right? Same time, same club?"
As badly as I wanted to refuse, some part of me couldn't. I... needed this guy, for now. Maybe for a while... "Yeah, I'll be there. Nine sharp, right in time for the guitar solo. Keep those fingers nimble."
He grinned at the innuendo, but I didn't smile back at him. Already I was turning away onto my other side, onto the cool half of pillow. I felt I needed a shower. He came over to try to give me a kiss on the cheek and whisper into my ear, but I just brushed him away, covered my head with the sheets. "Night, Erik," I told him, faking a yawn.
"...Goodnight, Cadenza..."
I waited until the door shut behind him and then finally let out a sigh. How long could I keep this up? I kept asking myself, after nearly every night where this same situation repeated itself. How long could I stand the meaningless meetings after his shows, our tussles in the bed where my mind was never there along with my body, where I felt dirty and cheap after each time we finished? It was eating away at what feelings I had left... made the tequilas at the bars every evening that much more appealing. That was now all I looked forward to each day. It was bloody pathetic. I knew that, and yet... I couldn't stop it anyway. It was an endless, pathetic cycle.
It wasn't until I heard Erik's car drive away from the motel that I finally heaved myself out of bed and went over to the grimy little bathroom, with a clean towel I'd brought and unpacked myself. The cold water poured down from the tap, made me shiver as it washed away all the unclean things from that night. I stood under it for a while, my head bowed, goosebumps going up my back. Back in the room, I could hear the phone going off, another check-up call from Viv...
I dared to let it ring. And ring. She could kiss my ass. I was all the way in damn Camilla and there was no way she was gonna reach me anytime soon. I needed this break. She had been working me to the bone these past months, "travel to Castile," and "negotiate with this mob boss", and all this other bullshit that I knew for sure had nothing to do with helping out Pai. I didn't even care anymore... it'd been so long, twelve years now... it seemed hopeless. We definitely weren't going to succeed following Viv's orders. She had her own plans... I could finally see that. I just... didn't have the energy to go against her...
Someone was banging against the wall. It was the couple next door, complaining that I'd been in the shower too long. This amaaazing gem of an establishment here only had enough filtered water for each guest to shower for maybe four minutes. Guess that was why it only cost $40 a night. I didn't feel like complaining. I shut off the water, toweled off, got out. No idea what time it was, but I knew I needed a drink. So I went into my room, threw on some clothes, and went down to the motel's bar. It was, I thought, probably where all the funds for the place went to. They had a decent selection of stuff.
A few (and by that, I mean like a half dozen) shots of bourbon and a couple of tequilas later, and I was high on life. The room was spinnin' a little, the birds were singing, yah, at night, and I was happily mumbling a song to myself and the bar counter I was resting my head on. It was a real nice bar counter... polished oak, kinda cool, just the right height... I traced dizzy little circles along the wood grain on it. Someone started to talk to me, but their voice was just a whole lot of vibrations in the wood. I was long gone...
Tomorrow, I'd repeat the whole thing over again.
"But sheila, I was so comfortable there... I don't think I could move..."
"I said get off. You understood this arrangement from the beginning. We're done here, so... go. Hurry up..."
Erik rolled away off the bed, finally grabbed his things. His eyes kept lingering on me as he buttoned up his shirt by the moonlight through the cheap blinds. If he thought I was going to return his lovey-dovey look, he was dead wrong. He bent down to retrieve his pants, then paused and said, "...You'll come to my show tomorrow night too, right? Same time, same club?"
As badly as I wanted to refuse, some part of me couldn't. I... needed this guy, for now. Maybe for a while... "Yeah, I'll be there. Nine sharp, right in time for the guitar solo. Keep those fingers nimble."
He grinned at the innuendo, but I didn't smile back at him. Already I was turning away onto my other side, onto the cool half of pillow. I felt I needed a shower. He came over to try to give me a kiss on the cheek and whisper into my ear, but I just brushed him away, covered my head with the sheets. "Night, Erik," I told him, faking a yawn.
"...Goodnight, Cadenza..."
I waited until the door shut behind him and then finally let out a sigh. How long could I keep this up? I kept asking myself, after nearly every night where this same situation repeated itself. How long could I stand the meaningless meetings after his shows, our tussles in the bed where my mind was never there along with my body, where I felt dirty and cheap after each time we finished? It was eating away at what feelings I had left... made the tequilas at the bars every evening that much more appealing. That was now all I looked forward to each day. It was bloody pathetic. I knew that, and yet... I couldn't stop it anyway. It was an endless, pathetic cycle.
It wasn't until I heard Erik's car drive away from the motel that I finally heaved myself out of bed and went over to the grimy little bathroom, with a clean towel I'd brought and unpacked myself. The cold water poured down from the tap, made me shiver as it washed away all the unclean things from that night. I stood under it for a while, my head bowed, goosebumps going up my back. Back in the room, I could hear the phone going off, another check-up call from Viv...
I dared to let it ring. And ring. She could kiss my ass. I was all the way in damn Camilla and there was no way she was gonna reach me anytime soon. I needed this break. She had been working me to the bone these past months, "travel to Castile," and "negotiate with this mob boss", and all this other bullshit that I knew for sure had nothing to do with helping out Pai. I didn't even care anymore... it'd been so long, twelve years now... it seemed hopeless. We definitely weren't going to succeed following Viv's orders. She had her own plans... I could finally see that. I just... didn't have the energy to go against her...
Someone was banging against the wall. It was the couple next door, complaining that I'd been in the shower too long. This amaaazing gem of an establishment here only had enough filtered water for each guest to shower for maybe four minutes. Guess that was why it only cost $40 a night. I didn't feel like complaining. I shut off the water, toweled off, got out. No idea what time it was, but I knew I needed a drink. So I went into my room, threw on some clothes, and went down to the motel's bar. It was, I thought, probably where all the funds for the place went to. They had a decent selection of stuff.
A few (and by that, I mean like a half dozen) shots of bourbon and a couple of tequilas later, and I was high on life. The room was spinnin' a little, the birds were singing, yah, at night, and I was happily mumbling a song to myself and the bar counter I was resting my head on. It was a real nice bar counter... polished oak, kinda cool, just the right height... I traced dizzy little circles along the wood grain on it. Someone started to talk to me, but their voice was just a whole lot of vibrations in the wood. I was long gone...
Tomorrow, I'd repeat the whole thing over again.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Short Story Follow-Up: Doctor's Visit (Draft, Still in Progress)
"Ahh...! Gods, you couldn't give me a warning before you stabbed me in the ribs with that needle!?"
Doctor Rivers withdrew the needle full of fluid and gave it an experimental flick before adjusting his glasses and finally addressing me for the first time since he'd walked back in. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Madrigal, but this is just a routine test. One of many... so far, our results have been quite unfruitful--we expected some kind of irregularity... a unique, telling feature, but there has been nothing. Even your hands, albeit heavily scarred and rough in some places, proved to be normal... the skin chemistry was normal, your fingerprints were normal patterns, magic flowed from them in a regular way. We're baffled. You seem to have the body of a normal, and rather fit and healthy, young woman."
"I could have told you that, Doc."
"Even despite giving birth to... was it three kids? A boy and then twin girls...?"
"...Yes, three."
"...Even despite that, you seem to be in impeccable shape, with everything in its place. There isn't a sign of aging since your last regular physical at age twenty-nine... not a single wrinkle or even a gray hair. It's quite puzzling..."
His eyes lingered on me, questioning, pleading with me to give him some sort of lead or answer.
All I said was, "Huh... fancy that. Can I go home now?"
"Oh no, Mrs. Madrigal," he replied a little apologetically, but still managing to sound as if this was the silliest request in the world, "I'm afraid we have far more tests to perfom. You'll have to stay overnight. You will be permitted a phone call to notify your family."
"...Thanks," I muttered.
The young doctor murmured for a while over some color change in the vial of stuff he'd just gotten out of me, and then left me to my own devices. Which, sitting there in just a sports bra and shorts without even a purse with me, were considerably limited. I shifted a little on the examining table and waited impatiently for one of the orderlies to bring me my phone. I was getting more irritable by the second thanks to the antiseptic they'd put all over my arms and anywhere they'd stuck a needle. Someone had better get their ass here soon.
About ten minutes and several cursings and peeks into the hall later, some pasty-faced Rochesterian orderly came in and forked over my phone, offering only a half-sincere sounding "sorry" before rushing back out of the room. But that was well enough, because I didn't need them to be listening in on my calls, too. They'd already invaded my privacy enough with the physical. Then again, there always was the possibility they had cameras in the room...
Best not to think of that and start my only phone call home off angry, I told myself. I started to dial, waited through the rings. After the third one, Kate picked up, Bandit chittering and the TV going on in the background. Even ordinary, everyday sounds like that... ones I usually took for granted made me feel homesick. I wanted to be there just goofing off and relaxing with them...
"Hi Mommy! Are you doin' okay? Did they hit your knee with those triangle thingies? I hope you're not sick..."
I chuckled at her rush of questions and felt the pang of homesickness hit even harder. She had to be the sweetest little girl in the world... she worried even more than I did sometimes. "No, sweetie, Mommy's not sick... it's just a check-up, but there's a lot of things to test, so... I won't be home until tomorrow..."
"B-but why aren't you...? Who's gonna tuck me in? How long have you gotta stay?" her voice got sadder and sadder with each new concern and my heart was sinking.
Doctor Rivers withdrew the needle full of fluid and gave it an experimental flick before adjusting his glasses and finally addressing me for the first time since he'd walked back in. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Madrigal, but this is just a routine test. One of many... so far, our results have been quite unfruitful--we expected some kind of irregularity... a unique, telling feature, but there has been nothing. Even your hands, albeit heavily scarred and rough in some places, proved to be normal... the skin chemistry was normal, your fingerprints were normal patterns, magic flowed from them in a regular way. We're baffled. You seem to have the body of a normal, and rather fit and healthy, young woman."
"I could have told you that, Doc."
"Even despite giving birth to... was it three kids? A boy and then twin girls...?"
"...Yes, three."
"...Even despite that, you seem to be in impeccable shape, with everything in its place. There isn't a sign of aging since your last regular physical at age twenty-nine... not a single wrinkle or even a gray hair. It's quite puzzling..."
His eyes lingered on me, questioning, pleading with me to give him some sort of lead or answer.
All I said was, "Huh... fancy that. Can I go home now?"
"Oh no, Mrs. Madrigal," he replied a little apologetically, but still managing to sound as if this was the silliest request in the world, "I'm afraid we have far more tests to perfom. You'll have to stay overnight. You will be permitted a phone call to notify your family."
"...Thanks," I muttered.
The young doctor murmured for a while over some color change in the vial of stuff he'd just gotten out of me, and then left me to my own devices. Which, sitting there in just a sports bra and shorts without even a purse with me, were considerably limited. I shifted a little on the examining table and waited impatiently for one of the orderlies to bring me my phone. I was getting more irritable by the second thanks to the antiseptic they'd put all over my arms and anywhere they'd stuck a needle. Someone had better get their ass here soon.
About ten minutes and several cursings and peeks into the hall later, some pasty-faced Rochesterian orderly came in and forked over my phone, offering only a half-sincere sounding "sorry" before rushing back out of the room. But that was well enough, because I didn't need them to be listening in on my calls, too. They'd already invaded my privacy enough with the physical. Then again, there always was the possibility they had cameras in the room...
Best not to think of that and start my only phone call home off angry, I told myself. I started to dial, waited through the rings. After the third one, Kate picked up, Bandit chittering and the TV going on in the background. Even ordinary, everyday sounds like that... ones I usually took for granted made me feel homesick. I wanted to be there just goofing off and relaxing with them...
"Hi Mommy! Are you doin' okay? Did they hit your knee with those triangle thingies? I hope you're not sick..."
I chuckled at her rush of questions and felt the pang of homesickness hit even harder. She had to be the sweetest little girl in the world... she worried even more than I did sometimes. "No, sweetie, Mommy's not sick... it's just a check-up, but there's a lot of things to test, so... I won't be home until tomorrow..."
"B-but why aren't you...? Who's gonna tuck me in? How long have you gotta stay?" her voice got sadder and sadder with each new concern and my heart was sinking.
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