Monday, December 18, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
I need a vote of who all reads this. I want to place smutty stories on this blog. Come on people, I know you're out there and I know what kind of mind I have. I'm going to start posting my more dangerous works if no one wants to stop me. Also, I'm running out of complete PG-13 stories and I really, really like it.
Will edit with results later, might switch to a darker theme for a few months.
Tell me what you think about smut. Don't worry, I won't bite. . . unless you ask me to.
Will edit with results later, might switch to a darker theme for a few months.
Tell me what you think about smut. Don't worry, I won't bite. . . unless you ask me to.
Monday, July 24, 2006
The Many Moods of Maran
[debating whether or not it's a good title isn't the issue. It's a damn good section of my story!]
Maran, a young woman in her late teens, stared at her plate of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots. Her gray eyes were avoiding the other two faces at the dining room table but it was difficult with her pulled back short brown hair to do anything that would hide her face. Not that she was one for supporting the hiding method. Nothing was ever solved that way. One of the inhabitants of the table was her younger sister, Kirsa. The fourteen year old girl with long brunette hair had been staying with their father for a few years, and had come back to her hometown of twenty-five thousand begrudgingly after being suspended from several schools in Marinette. The divorce had been hard on all of them, but so far the few months hadn’t helped her at all. It would take time, Maran thought.
Their mother Joan was an impatient blond in her mid-forties suffering from a divorce that should’ve been for the best according to the lawyer. She hadn’t been taking it well recently because the father dumped his daughter on her doorstep in order to pursue his own personal interests without the burden. This is the story Joan gave Maran when the news of being forced to take on another child she grudgingly took care of and treated like more like a burden than a daughter. “Even on academic probation we can’t help you, Kirsa. Why do we have to go through with this every other week? You’re hopeless.”
Maran’s eyes met those of her mother. Kirsa wasn’t going to accept help from a mother who was there for her about as often as their father would be for Maran. They had to at least act as though they’d lived together at one point.
“Mom, no one can be perfect.” Joan, looked at Maran in near contempt for talking back. The dinner table was often a battleground. They’d never had meals anywhere else, some were quiet and some weren’t. Joan was a lawyer who cared too much for her job and her boss, Kirsa was always getting into brawls at school, and Maran was the solemn one.
"You have proved that enough, haven’t you? I got a call from your principal earlier. You punched a boy in the hallway. Kovit Havelock.” Maran had barely a bite of her food before she was sick to her stomach. Every night she ate here she felt a little more sick and wondered if her mother had put something in the food. She didn’t believe her mother would do such a thing but the woman did regret many things in her life. Maran knew she was one of those things.
Kovit was a businessman with no calluses to pull him through the trouble he caused. She hit him because he tried to pay her off. Money meant very little to her and she ended up where she was because they wanted to prove her wrong.
Her father, Henry, was a good man, but it was right for he and Joan to get their divorce. He was in charge of a small publishing firm and valued good ideas. Joan was able to get custody of Maran and Henry was able to afford Kirsa for a few years. Kirsa had eventually gotten suspended in Marinette and was sent to live with Joan and Maran. Not too long after, she began to get into the same troubles as before. She unfortunately didn’t like the idea of their parents splitting them up or separating in the first place. Her older sister understood perfectly, though.
It was better this way. However, Maran and Kirsa were constantly being judged on their performance since their father was no longer in the picture. While Kirsa was away, Maran hadn’t seen her mother a lot; she was constantly working and made Maran make do with what she had. This grade issue was brought up every other week, if not more often. Her mother had turned into a bitter woman and Maran had tried to help Kirsa ignore everything, shut out the sounds coming out of Joan’s mouth. It didn’t work, so it resorted to defensive conversations.
“Lay off. This has gone on long enough. There are better ways to deal with--”
“Don’t you lecture me, young lady. I can send you out of this house at any time and I can send Kirsa into the foster program as well.” Kirsa hadn’t looked up from her plate yet. She was rigid.
“You won’t do it because you promised dad. Nothing that goes on inside this house is making the situation any better. You’ve been fighting it since he came back ”
The dishes were done in silence. Maran washed while Kirsa dried, their routine never really changing. Joan was in the den already, working on documents the firm had faxed to her. She was always in that room, distracting her from the life she forgot she had with her family which was part of the reason for the divorce. Kirsa was on edge. Even now after the two months she’d been here she didn’t feel comfortable in the house. She’ll get over it, Maran thought as she handed her sister another plate.
Kirsa hadn’t asked yet about the scar on the top of her hand or the one on her cheek. It was the only consensus Maran and her mother had ever come to in the few years they’d been living alone. The one on her cheek led to the one on her hand. Her father never knew, he was never around. When he dropped Kirsa off he spared her the rarest of glances. Sometimes it hurt knowing his was the face she saw when she looked in the mirror.
And it was because of the truce she and her mother had that no one was aware of the past few years. No one was supposed to know that the scar on her face was a cut from a fight or the one on her hand was from boiling water being poured over her knuckles. The scar she hid underneath her tee-shirt, large and reminiscent of a past, hadn’t seen the light of day since she’d actually gotten it. Gangs weren’t keen on helping those whose family name wasn’t on the roster.
When Kirsa was in her room and blaring her music Maran began to make her way up the stairs. Good thing I decided not to continue on that path, she thought as a knock came from the front porch. The pattern of raps was familiar but with the way things had been lately she was a little surprised. This does not bode well, she thought. She turned to answer the door, prepared for almost anything. The worst was a visit from the gang that gave her the scar on her cheek and hand.
There stood a man she didn’t want to see around her family despite the differences. They were incomplete but still related. She was half tempted to slam the door in his face. She hated being right. With ebony skin, a few inches on her height, and a large jogging suit, Malice of the Fang clan was here with intent to harm. Granted he had an intimidating look on his face, but she wasn’t convinced that he was the most dangerous person on the porch at the moment. She knew a well-placed jab to his left temple was entirely possible, and knew he’d fail to dodge without pulling out his weapon of choice, a sharpened ring which acted as a incisor. It was a deadly weapon but not so deadly as some of the other knives in the world. She’d been cut on the face with one, but she was worried more of the one in the small box in her own room.
“You exited the ring too early, Yoru. There are things you can’t walk away from so easily.” She shut the door behind her, and nobody would be getting through the door if she had anything to say about it. Looking away to gather her senses, she noted no other men or women in her eyesight. She kept her hand on the doorknob just in case.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Her eyes came up to meet his. “You obviously have the wrong house.”
“Once a Claw, always a Claw. Gang members can’t quit so easily.” A short white boy around her age was standing at the base of the porch stairs with his right eye missing. His name was Crow and he was Malice’s sideman. There was a fight he started with Maran a year or two ago when she proved that he was below her. Crow, though quick on his feet, had not been able to hold her arm back well enough before she pushed past his defenses and made the final blow that would win her the fight. Crow was difficult, though, sporadic in his fighting techniques; she blamed his obsession with action movies.
It was her fault that she let Kovit get on her bad side--she should’ve never broken his nose. She knew she was going to regret it later. What if he planned on this? Maran did nothing but stay quiet to collect her thoughts.
“And she has no idea what to do. She must be scared shitless.” Crow was a little wary, though. Maran tightened her fists.
“This look isn’t fear.” Malice looked back to his friend then back to Maran before she threw her fist into his face. She had been quiet. Her hand grabbed his dark locks and threw her knee upwards to break his nose. Satisfied with the crack she heard, she tossed Malice aside and stepped back when Crow landed a punch to her collarbone. After a quick recovery she landed a kick to his gut and a fist to his neck. She’d forgotten she could do that. Walking over to Malice and landing a hit to his temple, she lifted him so her voice was low and understood.
“I have no qualms with you. Havelock paid you off to get to me because he wasn’t strong enough to take me. If there were any doubts about my abilities they have been laid to rest. You, however, have been slacking off, Malice, and if you come near me or my family I will not hesitate to make your miserable life worse. It’ll be hard to be malicious if you’re dead.”
“The debt hasn’t been settled.” His hand came up and the fang dug into her arm. A trail of blood ran down onto his shirt and
“Tell him to take care of his own dirty work.”
Nix that, she thought. He planned on getting on my bad side. However, his broken nose probably wasn’t planned for at all.
“I think not.” Maran didn't need to look at the finger ring that extended along the man’s right hand. The ring symbolized a gang, the Fang. They were hard to get along with. Their leader, Malice, lived to fight, as did the rest of the Fang, but he toyed with his victims every once in awhile.
This was Malice. “We were given the right address and the right name.” Maran could only glare at him. “Don’t play dumb with me, Yoru. My employer was very irritated with your actions.”
“That person doesn’t live here. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Malice reached up to grab her shirt, and her hands came up, grabbing his limb and efficiently twisting it behind him. She pushed him away from her with unseen strength. “Leave now.”
“Or you’ll do what? There is a debt that needs to be settled and I won’t leave until it is.”
“It will never be resolved, Malice. Why take money from Florian in the first place?”
“Because he’s paying in advance. That and there have always been loose ends between our people.” Maran clenched her fist at her side. She was getting agitated, and when that happened there was usually an electric shock of a reaction. The thirst to strike out was becoming a bit stronger since she had taken liberties with Havelock’s nose, and her fingers tingled with anticipation.
“I don’t have people.”
“Once a Claw, always a Claw. That scar on your hand would be the proof.” She grabbed his throat quickly and tightened her grasp on his esophagus. She maneuvered him into the brick column of the porch and gripped his neck tighter. “You can’t just stop being a gang member.”
“Stay away from me and my family. It’ll be hard to be malicious if you’re dead.”
“The debt hasn’t been settled.”
“Tell Florian to take care of his own dirty work.” Malice grabbed the hand at his neck and made a deep cut in it with the metal ring on his finger. A steady stream of blood ran down her wrist and trickled down her arm. Maran let him go when her arm began dripping onto the floor as the blood. He watched as she bled, her face empty of emotion.
“More.” It was a game that had been played between certain gangs, the blood-letting. They sent the leader or second-in-command to get proof that a debt of some sort had been settled and the incident would be over. She made enemies easily, though, and they held grudges for years.
“There’s a time and place for everything; you’ll get your chance I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me I have schoolwork to do.” She opened the door behind her and entered the house, leaving Malice on the porch. He stood there, infuriated, but walked away with his nerves shot. She hadn’t lost her aggressiveness.
Maran leaned up against the door in shock and covered her arm with her shirt, tightening the material to cut off the circulation. Malice showing up on her doorstep, paid off by her worst enemy, was not a good sign of things to come. It meant trouble, meant that she might get forced into a very disturbing position to fight against her will. She gave up on her arm and ran her good hand through her hair; she started up to her room, feeling a bit dizzy.
“Maran, who was it?” It was her mother. Maran hid her arm behind her back and tried to stop a small trickle of blood from pooling onto the carpet.
“Prank kid, don’t know,” she lied. When Joan entered the room to face her, Maran hid behind a passive face and a darkened foyer. Joan had seen the face before, but would probably rack her brain for the significance of the look. If the light was turned on she’d see the blood. Maran was good at hiding, and she walked up the stairs, disappearing into her bedroom. Her mother, apparently satisfied with the explanation provided, promptly went back to the den to continue working. A trust had been established over the years that they wouldn’t ask too many questions or demand the answers no one would give.
After shutting the door to her room Maran walked over to her mirror. Her shirt had taken in the blood and she shed it off, walking over to her small bathroom and drawing some cold water in the sink. Her mother never snooped because she trusted her daughter not to get into anymore trouble. Maran took one look in the mirror and glanced at another scar on her stomach which spread for about twelve inches. Looking away she tended to more important things. Plugging the sink she drenched the shirt and left it to soak. She opened her drawer and found her band-aids, but looked down at her soaked shirt and pushed past the bandages to reach further back; she placed a large gauze bandage on the sink. Grabbing her washcloth and placing it next to the sink, she grabbed the peroxide.
Turning to lean over the shower, she doused her wound with the peroxide and waited patiently for the fizzing sound. The wound stung and bubbled up. The pain increased; she clenched her teeth. It had been a while since she had to do this, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last time. But she would be damned if she let Malice get a hold of her again. Though she didn’t fear him, the mere thought of having to go up against the whole gang unnerved her. She suppressed the urge to punch the wall and waited for the pain to go down; it was her first deep wound in a long time and she doused it again.
The sting came and went once again. She dampened the washcloth, cleaning the blood from her arm before taping the bandage there for the night. Over the years she had to learn to hide these things from her mother and tend to her own wounds before anyone realized she was injured; it didn’t stop her. The one time she was slowed down, she was hospitalized by her best friend after a spar, but that was different.
Walking back into her room she reached her bureau and pulled out an extra large shirt, pulling it over her front. It was true that she didn’t have much up front, but she had always thought it to be a gift so no man could hit her there and make it sting before she got her turn. She turned on the bed stand light and opened one of her other drawers which revealed a plain, black box about the size of a large fist. She paused there for a minute, just thinking about the past. A memory came to her for what seemed like the thousandth time, a harsh memory.
The gang wars and the ones who lead made the most trouble. She herself was involved more than willingly; she was one of the best. The rules were created due to Maran’s fighting ethics, in which others adopted them as well. And everyone adopted the rules for a time.
It was in middle school that Florian Havelock had pushed her into a fighting ring. This was during the summer before she became a seventh grader. When she had stumbled into the fighter’s ring, she had seized roughly and given a beating she would never forget by the once leader of the Fang, JJ.
He had given her one of the two scars she’d adorned. She was approached by a boy who wore a red bandana around his dark, bald head. He was there with an offer that would change her life. She was given the chance to learn to defend herself and quit when she felt satisfied with her techniques. She of course accepted and had to go through the initiation. It involved hot metal and the hand of her choice; she chose her left. The metal was molded over her exposed hand, and the initiation was complete when the weapon was made. Many questioned why she used her left hand. She could injure someone with her left and punch another with her right.
Composed and shaped of hot metal and human tools, the Claw was considered one of the most deadly weapons of the gang world. It took the form of brass knuckles, but on top of the metal was a solitary blade, curved towards the fingers like a small dagger sharpened to perfection. What better way to perfect it though, but to put it into the hands of a perfect warrior; they put it in hers.
Maran opened the box and gazed again on the beauty of the abandoned weapon. She had quit at the end of her sophomore year, four years of fighting as hard as she could. What had happened? She forgot why she fought when she struck a seventh grader so hard that he had been hospitalized; he wasn’t guilty of any crime. She finally understood her flaw, what it felt like to be dangerous. Afterwards she went to visit the parents of the boy to apologize and they pressed charges; she accepted the punishment. She vowed never to fight again.
She hadn’t fought for close to two years, and she wasn’t eager to start up again, especially if it involved the Claw and the Fang. If Florian is planning something, I have to be prepared, and if that means fighting back, she thought as she picked up the claw made for her and slipped her fingers into the holes, then I have no choice but to defend myself. I screwed everything up in one moment of emotion and now I have to face my demons.
Maran stared at the ceiling and closed her eyes. The Sun would rise again.
Maran, a young woman in her late teens, stared at her plate of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots. Her gray eyes were avoiding the other two faces at the dining room table but it was difficult with her pulled back short brown hair to do anything that would hide her face. Not that she was one for supporting the hiding method. Nothing was ever solved that way. One of the inhabitants of the table was her younger sister, Kirsa. The fourteen year old girl with long brunette hair had been staying with their father for a few years, and had come back to her hometown of twenty-five thousand begrudgingly after being suspended from several schools in Marinette. The divorce had been hard on all of them, but so far the few months hadn’t helped her at all. It would take time, Maran thought.
Their mother Joan was an impatient blond in her mid-forties suffering from a divorce that should’ve been for the best according to the lawyer. She hadn’t been taking it well recently because the father dumped his daughter on her doorstep in order to pursue his own personal interests without the burden. This is the story Joan gave Maran when the news of being forced to take on another child she grudgingly took care of and treated like more like a burden than a daughter. “Even on academic probation we can’t help you, Kirsa. Why do we have to go through with this every other week? You’re hopeless.”
Maran’s eyes met those of her mother. Kirsa wasn’t going to accept help from a mother who was there for her about as often as their father would be for Maran. They had to at least act as though they’d lived together at one point.
“Mom, no one can be perfect.” Joan, looked at Maran in near contempt for talking back. The dinner table was often a battleground. They’d never had meals anywhere else, some were quiet and some weren’t. Joan was a lawyer who cared too much for her job and her boss, Kirsa was always getting into brawls at school, and Maran was the solemn one.
"You have proved that enough, haven’t you? I got a call from your principal earlier. You punched a boy in the hallway. Kovit Havelock.” Maran had barely a bite of her food before she was sick to her stomach. Every night she ate here she felt a little more sick and wondered if her mother had put something in the food. She didn’t believe her mother would do such a thing but the woman did regret many things in her life. Maran knew she was one of those things.
Kovit was a businessman with no calluses to pull him through the trouble he caused. She hit him because he tried to pay her off. Money meant very little to her and she ended up where she was because they wanted to prove her wrong.
Her father, Henry, was a good man, but it was right for he and Joan to get their divorce. He was in charge of a small publishing firm and valued good ideas. Joan was able to get custody of Maran and Henry was able to afford Kirsa for a few years. Kirsa had eventually gotten suspended in Marinette and was sent to live with Joan and Maran. Not too long after, she began to get into the same troubles as before. She unfortunately didn’t like the idea of their parents splitting them up or separating in the first place. Her older sister understood perfectly, though.
It was better this way. However, Maran and Kirsa were constantly being judged on their performance since their father was no longer in the picture. While Kirsa was away, Maran hadn’t seen her mother a lot; she was constantly working and made Maran make do with what she had. This grade issue was brought up every other week, if not more often. Her mother had turned into a bitter woman and Maran had tried to help Kirsa ignore everything, shut out the sounds coming out of Joan’s mouth. It didn’t work, so it resorted to defensive conversations.
“Lay off. This has gone on long enough. There are better ways to deal with--”
“Don’t you lecture me, young lady. I can send you out of this house at any time and I can send Kirsa into the foster program as well.” Kirsa hadn’t looked up from her plate yet. She was rigid.
“You won’t do it because you promised dad. Nothing that goes on inside this house is making the situation any better. You’ve been fighting it since he came back ”
The dishes were done in silence. Maran washed while Kirsa dried, their routine never really changing. Joan was in the den already, working on documents the firm had faxed to her. She was always in that room, distracting her from the life she forgot she had with her family which was part of the reason for the divorce. Kirsa was on edge. Even now after the two months she’d been here she didn’t feel comfortable in the house. She’ll get over it, Maran thought as she handed her sister another plate.
Kirsa hadn’t asked yet about the scar on the top of her hand or the one on her cheek. It was the only consensus Maran and her mother had ever come to in the few years they’d been living alone. The one on her cheek led to the one on her hand. Her father never knew, he was never around. When he dropped Kirsa off he spared her the rarest of glances. Sometimes it hurt knowing his was the face she saw when she looked in the mirror.
And it was because of the truce she and her mother had that no one was aware of the past few years. No one was supposed to know that the scar on her face was a cut from a fight or the one on her hand was from boiling water being poured over her knuckles. The scar she hid underneath her tee-shirt, large and reminiscent of a past, hadn’t seen the light of day since she’d actually gotten it. Gangs weren’t keen on helping those whose family name wasn’t on the roster.
When Kirsa was in her room and blaring her music Maran began to make her way up the stairs. Good thing I decided not to continue on that path, she thought as a knock came from the front porch. The pattern of raps was familiar but with the way things had been lately she was a little surprised. This does not bode well, she thought. She turned to answer the door, prepared for almost anything. The worst was a visit from the gang that gave her the scar on her cheek and hand.
There stood a man she didn’t want to see around her family despite the differences. They were incomplete but still related. She was half tempted to slam the door in his face. She hated being right. With ebony skin, a few inches on her height, and a large jogging suit, Malice of the Fang clan was here with intent to harm. Granted he had an intimidating look on his face, but she wasn’t convinced that he was the most dangerous person on the porch at the moment. She knew a well-placed jab to his left temple was entirely possible, and knew he’d fail to dodge without pulling out his weapon of choice, a sharpened ring which acted as a incisor. It was a deadly weapon but not so deadly as some of the other knives in the world. She’d been cut on the face with one, but she was worried more of the one in the small box in her own room.
“You exited the ring too early, Yoru. There are things you can’t walk away from so easily.” She shut the door behind her, and nobody would be getting through the door if she had anything to say about it. Looking away to gather her senses, she noted no other men or women in her eyesight. She kept her hand on the doorknob just in case.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Her eyes came up to meet his. “You obviously have the wrong house.”
“Once a Claw, always a Claw. Gang members can’t quit so easily.” A short white boy around her age was standing at the base of the porch stairs with his right eye missing. His name was Crow and he was Malice’s sideman. There was a fight he started with Maran a year or two ago when she proved that he was below her. Crow, though quick on his feet, had not been able to hold her arm back well enough before she pushed past his defenses and made the final blow that would win her the fight. Crow was difficult, though, sporadic in his fighting techniques; she blamed his obsession with action movies.
It was her fault that she let Kovit get on her bad side--she should’ve never broken his nose. She knew she was going to regret it later. What if he planned on this? Maran did nothing but stay quiet to collect her thoughts.
“And she has no idea what to do. She must be scared shitless.” Crow was a little wary, though. Maran tightened her fists.
“This look isn’t fear.” Malice looked back to his friend then back to Maran before she threw her fist into his face. She had been quiet. Her hand grabbed his dark locks and threw her knee upwards to break his nose. Satisfied with the crack she heard, she tossed Malice aside and stepped back when Crow landed a punch to her collarbone. After a quick recovery she landed a kick to his gut and a fist to his neck. She’d forgotten she could do that. Walking over to Malice and landing a hit to his temple, she lifted him so her voice was low and understood.
“I have no qualms with you. Havelock paid you off to get to me because he wasn’t strong enough to take me. If there were any doubts about my abilities they have been laid to rest. You, however, have been slacking off, Malice, and if you come near me or my family I will not hesitate to make your miserable life worse. It’ll be hard to be malicious if you’re dead.”
“The debt hasn’t been settled.” His hand came up and the fang dug into her arm. A trail of blood ran down onto his shirt and
“Tell him to take care of his own dirty work.”
Nix that, she thought. He planned on getting on my bad side. However, his broken nose probably wasn’t planned for at all.
“I think not.” Maran didn't need to look at the finger ring that extended along the man’s right hand. The ring symbolized a gang, the Fang. They were hard to get along with. Their leader, Malice, lived to fight, as did the rest of the Fang, but he toyed with his victims every once in awhile.
This was Malice. “We were given the right address and the right name.” Maran could only glare at him. “Don’t play dumb with me, Yoru. My employer was very irritated with your actions.”
“That person doesn’t live here. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Malice reached up to grab her shirt, and her hands came up, grabbing his limb and efficiently twisting it behind him. She pushed him away from her with unseen strength. “Leave now.”
“Or you’ll do what? There is a debt that needs to be settled and I won’t leave until it is.”
“It will never be resolved, Malice. Why take money from Florian in the first place?”
“Because he’s paying in advance. That and there have always been loose ends between our people.” Maran clenched her fist at her side. She was getting agitated, and when that happened there was usually an electric shock of a reaction. The thirst to strike out was becoming a bit stronger since she had taken liberties with Havelock’s nose, and her fingers tingled with anticipation.
“I don’t have people.”
“Once a Claw, always a Claw. That scar on your hand would be the proof.” She grabbed his throat quickly and tightened her grasp on his esophagus. She maneuvered him into the brick column of the porch and gripped his neck tighter. “You can’t just stop being a gang member.”
“Stay away from me and my family. It’ll be hard to be malicious if you’re dead.”
“The debt hasn’t been settled.”
“Tell Florian to take care of his own dirty work.” Malice grabbed the hand at his neck and made a deep cut in it with the metal ring on his finger. A steady stream of blood ran down her wrist and trickled down her arm. Maran let him go when her arm began dripping onto the floor as the blood. He watched as she bled, her face empty of emotion.
“More.” It was a game that had been played between certain gangs, the blood-letting. They sent the leader or second-in-command to get proof that a debt of some sort had been settled and the incident would be over. She made enemies easily, though, and they held grudges for years.
“There’s a time and place for everything; you’ll get your chance I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me I have schoolwork to do.” She opened the door behind her and entered the house, leaving Malice on the porch. He stood there, infuriated, but walked away with his nerves shot. She hadn’t lost her aggressiveness.
Maran leaned up against the door in shock and covered her arm with her shirt, tightening the material to cut off the circulation. Malice showing up on her doorstep, paid off by her worst enemy, was not a good sign of things to come. It meant trouble, meant that she might get forced into a very disturbing position to fight against her will. She gave up on her arm and ran her good hand through her hair; she started up to her room, feeling a bit dizzy.
“Maran, who was it?” It was her mother. Maran hid her arm behind her back and tried to stop a small trickle of blood from pooling onto the carpet.
“Prank kid, don’t know,” she lied. When Joan entered the room to face her, Maran hid behind a passive face and a darkened foyer. Joan had seen the face before, but would probably rack her brain for the significance of the look. If the light was turned on she’d see the blood. Maran was good at hiding, and she walked up the stairs, disappearing into her bedroom. Her mother, apparently satisfied with the explanation provided, promptly went back to the den to continue working. A trust had been established over the years that they wouldn’t ask too many questions or demand the answers no one would give.
After shutting the door to her room Maran walked over to her mirror. Her shirt had taken in the blood and she shed it off, walking over to her small bathroom and drawing some cold water in the sink. Her mother never snooped because she trusted her daughter not to get into anymore trouble. Maran took one look in the mirror and glanced at another scar on her stomach which spread for about twelve inches. Looking away she tended to more important things. Plugging the sink she drenched the shirt and left it to soak. She opened her drawer and found her band-aids, but looked down at her soaked shirt and pushed past the bandages to reach further back; she placed a large gauze bandage on the sink. Grabbing her washcloth and placing it next to the sink, she grabbed the peroxide.
Turning to lean over the shower, she doused her wound with the peroxide and waited patiently for the fizzing sound. The wound stung and bubbled up. The pain increased; she clenched her teeth. It had been a while since she had to do this, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last time. But she would be damned if she let Malice get a hold of her again. Though she didn’t fear him, the mere thought of having to go up against the whole gang unnerved her. She suppressed the urge to punch the wall and waited for the pain to go down; it was her first deep wound in a long time and she doused it again.
The sting came and went once again. She dampened the washcloth, cleaning the blood from her arm before taping the bandage there for the night. Over the years she had to learn to hide these things from her mother and tend to her own wounds before anyone realized she was injured; it didn’t stop her. The one time she was slowed down, she was hospitalized by her best friend after a spar, but that was different.
Walking back into her room she reached her bureau and pulled out an extra large shirt, pulling it over her front. It was true that she didn’t have much up front, but she had always thought it to be a gift so no man could hit her there and make it sting before she got her turn. She turned on the bed stand light and opened one of her other drawers which revealed a plain, black box about the size of a large fist. She paused there for a minute, just thinking about the past. A memory came to her for what seemed like the thousandth time, a harsh memory.
The gang wars and the ones who lead made the most trouble. She herself was involved more than willingly; she was one of the best. The rules were created due to Maran’s fighting ethics, in which others adopted them as well. And everyone adopted the rules for a time.
It was in middle school that Florian Havelock had pushed her into a fighting ring. This was during the summer before she became a seventh grader. When she had stumbled into the fighter’s ring, she had seized roughly and given a beating she would never forget by the once leader of the Fang, JJ.
He had given her one of the two scars she’d adorned. She was approached by a boy who wore a red bandana around his dark, bald head. He was there with an offer that would change her life. She was given the chance to learn to defend herself and quit when she felt satisfied with her techniques. She of course accepted and had to go through the initiation. It involved hot metal and the hand of her choice; she chose her left. The metal was molded over her exposed hand, and the initiation was complete when the weapon was made. Many questioned why she used her left hand. She could injure someone with her left and punch another with her right.
Composed and shaped of hot metal and human tools, the Claw was considered one of the most deadly weapons of the gang world. It took the form of brass knuckles, but on top of the metal was a solitary blade, curved towards the fingers like a small dagger sharpened to perfection. What better way to perfect it though, but to put it into the hands of a perfect warrior; they put it in hers.
Maran opened the box and gazed again on the beauty of the abandoned weapon. She had quit at the end of her sophomore year, four years of fighting as hard as she could. What had happened? She forgot why she fought when she struck a seventh grader so hard that he had been hospitalized; he wasn’t guilty of any crime. She finally understood her flaw, what it felt like to be dangerous. Afterwards she went to visit the parents of the boy to apologize and they pressed charges; she accepted the punishment. She vowed never to fight again.
She hadn’t fought for close to two years, and she wasn’t eager to start up again, especially if it involved the Claw and the Fang. If Florian is planning something, I have to be prepared, and if that means fighting back, she thought as she picked up the claw made for her and slipped her fingers into the holes, then I have no choice but to defend myself. I screwed everything up in one moment of emotion and now I have to face my demons.
Maran stared at the ceiling and closed her eyes. The Sun would rise again.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Today is gonna be the day
| Your Love Song Is |
 "I'm sure you've heard it all beforeBut you never really had a doubtI don't believe that anybody feelsThe way I do about you now" You know what you want - but does that person want you? |
What Love Song Are You?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Tainted
The room around her was warm long before she entered it. She had taken her seat and then reluctantly let Jacob cover her eyes with a silken, maroon blindfold. They had brought her into their dark fantasies without thinking about her mindset, and now she grudgingly stayed. Their exploitation of her mother’s business was enough to bring her to them. They explained the rules of the exercise to her, that she had to adapt to their movements, be able to tell them apart, as though her existence depended on the knowledge. Then, while her awareness heightened to compensate the loss of her eyesight, they left after telling her one of them would be back and not to move.
Several minutes passed. Shifting uneasily on the uncomfortable wooden stool under her, she was unsure if someone would come in. It was best not to move. Her breathing quieted and suddenly she was aware of a second presence in the room. No door had opened, no breathing but her own was audible until a few seconds ago. Her ears perked up in recognition at the sound of breathing other than hers.
Then he began to walk around her. She could hear his Edmonds. It was embarrassing that she could recognize expensive shoes but not the person who wore them. As she sat on the stool, she noticed certain things like the space between his footsteps and the soft tap each shoe made along the wood-paneled floor. Jacob had a less hollow signature of sound when he walked, and it usually turned her stomach to the point of nausea. He was a little flat-footed. The man was impatient and menacing, unable to accept anything but the best in most situations. He lurked in hallways and had an air of intimidation to him. Alan, on the other hand, loved to make himself known to those around him, but he was able to control the motions rather well. He relied on his negotiating and coaxing skills. His graceful walk, his gliding step, was all he needed to fuel his confidence and win any girl he so wished to have. This, she thought, this felt like Alan.
In front of her the man stopped and there was the scent of flowers in the room--roses. It was a very familiar smell to her, and the good times it represented were no longer a linger worthy memory. The sugary smell grew stronger, a silk petal grazed her forehead and eliciting a gasp from her. Her shoulders almost sagged at the sweet aroma placed into her attention. She could picture a rose with velvet petals, her lips parted when a vision of Alan’s soft and experienced hands came to mind. Of all the things he was aware he could do, he was most confident with his hands. It was Alan. The rose made its way down the bridge of her nose and landed on her dry lips. At the touch of the velvet petal to her sensitive lips, she took in a quick breath.
His hot, wine-tainted breath landed on her neck, strong enough to reach her nose but nevertheless making her crane to the right to allow him space. He was applying all the touches he knew he needed to warm her, fought hard to dispel the ache in her lower body. She wanted to be right. The subtle differences between Alan and Jacob were vast. It couldn’t be Jacob, though. He would’ve never gone through such lengths. He hated her emotions, her confusion, her breasts being too small. Jacob didn’t try to provoke her to feel anything unlike Alan.
Alan loved making her aware of herself. She never thought about her breasts until he groped them in a deserted hallway last week. There was the ultra awareness of the breasts she had. He was clearly pleased with them. Why did that excite her? Was she so depraved that she needed him to touch her? God how she wanted him to be Alan. She would rather cater to Alan than Jacob. Her cheeks reddened from the memory of intense discomfort Jacob had caused over the past couple weeks. The hungry stares he’d sent her in public, the indifference he displayed when he spoke to Alan as though she weren’t in the room, or the way he preferred her not to show any emotion when they were together. She didn’t know which was worse, despising Jacob or desiring Alan.
He was applying all the touches he knew he needed to warm her, she thought again. The flower left her, his breath changed, and the warmth of his body disappeared. Alan knew those spots better than anyone, and when his name slipped from her chapped lips her voice broke. The door closed. There was a pause as she waited for one of them to acknowledge her. They both moved and she was confused. She wasn’t sure which sound came from which direction. Their footsteps were identical.
“Better luck next time, Dana,” Alan said. Jacob removed the blindfold and she stared into his cold eyes. His breath was stale from beer, unsettling. She stood up, someone still unsure of her conclusion. Not that they were any good. Walking past Jacob, Alan stopped her at the door. Their eyes met.
“You are dismissed.” Her eyes closing, she relished in his sweet breath.
“He wasn’t drinking Chianti, Alan.”
And with that she left the room.
Several minutes passed. Shifting uneasily on the uncomfortable wooden stool under her, she was unsure if someone would come in. It was best not to move. Her breathing quieted and suddenly she was aware of a second presence in the room. No door had opened, no breathing but her own was audible until a few seconds ago. Her ears perked up in recognition at the sound of breathing other than hers.
Then he began to walk around her. She could hear his Edmonds. It was embarrassing that she could recognize expensive shoes but not the person who wore them. As she sat on the stool, she noticed certain things like the space between his footsteps and the soft tap each shoe made along the wood-paneled floor. Jacob had a less hollow signature of sound when he walked, and it usually turned her stomach to the point of nausea. He was a little flat-footed. The man was impatient and menacing, unable to accept anything but the best in most situations. He lurked in hallways and had an air of intimidation to him. Alan, on the other hand, loved to make himself known to those around him, but he was able to control the motions rather well. He relied on his negotiating and coaxing skills. His graceful walk, his gliding step, was all he needed to fuel his confidence and win any girl he so wished to have. This, she thought, this felt like Alan.
In front of her the man stopped and there was the scent of flowers in the room--roses. It was a very familiar smell to her, and the good times it represented were no longer a linger worthy memory. The sugary smell grew stronger, a silk petal grazed her forehead and eliciting a gasp from her. Her shoulders almost sagged at the sweet aroma placed into her attention. She could picture a rose with velvet petals, her lips parted when a vision of Alan’s soft and experienced hands came to mind. Of all the things he was aware he could do, he was most confident with his hands. It was Alan. The rose made its way down the bridge of her nose and landed on her dry lips. At the touch of the velvet petal to her sensitive lips, she took in a quick breath.
His hot, wine-tainted breath landed on her neck, strong enough to reach her nose but nevertheless making her crane to the right to allow him space. He was applying all the touches he knew he needed to warm her, fought hard to dispel the ache in her lower body. She wanted to be right. The subtle differences between Alan and Jacob were vast. It couldn’t be Jacob, though. He would’ve never gone through such lengths. He hated her emotions, her confusion, her breasts being too small. Jacob didn’t try to provoke her to feel anything unlike Alan.
Alan loved making her aware of herself. She never thought about her breasts until he groped them in a deserted hallway last week. There was the ultra awareness of the breasts she had. He was clearly pleased with them. Why did that excite her? Was she so depraved that she needed him to touch her? God how she wanted him to be Alan. She would rather cater to Alan than Jacob. Her cheeks reddened from the memory of intense discomfort Jacob had caused over the past couple weeks. The hungry stares he’d sent her in public, the indifference he displayed when he spoke to Alan as though she weren’t in the room, or the way he preferred her not to show any emotion when they were together. She didn’t know which was worse, despising Jacob or desiring Alan.
He was applying all the touches he knew he needed to warm her, she thought again. The flower left her, his breath changed, and the warmth of his body disappeared. Alan knew those spots better than anyone, and when his name slipped from her chapped lips her voice broke. The door closed. There was a pause as she waited for one of them to acknowledge her. They both moved and she was confused. She wasn’t sure which sound came from which direction. Their footsteps were identical.
“Better luck next time, Dana,” Alan said. Jacob removed the blindfold and she stared into his cold eyes. His breath was stale from beer, unsettling. She stood up, someone still unsure of her conclusion. Not that they were any good. Walking past Jacob, Alan stopped her at the door. Their eyes met.
“You are dismissed.” Her eyes closing, she relished in his sweet breath.
“He wasn’t drinking Chianti, Alan.”
And with that she left the room.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Dreadfully Simple
Allison stood over a single cross which had been placed at the head of two large piles of dirt and stone. She wore a dress of light black and white cloth, her tears drier in her hazel eyes as they had been emptied of all emotion. She remained in a silent void of nothingness. They had been her only living relatives in this horrible world, this life which had been stripped of all happiness while her heart ached with death and suffering, pain and sorrow. It was a sad time, the present, where creatures of myth and legend lingered in the night as a name of horrifying origin lingered on ones' tongue. Creatures lurked at night, and town rules changed.
The girl dared not move, hoping the events were not real as she stood there alone dusk. Tears streamed down her face as the past weeks came back to her. There was an unprovoked riot against her family. Something unnatural happened which turned them against one another. The town had strung her and her parents up against the anger and hatred of themselves because of this invisible force. Someone had taken control of the villager’s minds and turned them against one single family. The men stood firmly behind the three, rifles in hand as their booted feet sat against the hanging block, ready to push it out from under them. When the support disappeared, Allison would feel a heavy weight pulling against her neck and it would be over quickly. Allison stood there, the world moving without her, her parents begged. She heard none of the names or obscenities. She merely searched for a kind face.
A man stood in the shadows of the grocer's building, his facial expression blank as he silently stood in black attire and watched her. His pale flesh and green eyes she could see from She remained in eye contact with the pale man--she’d never seen him before now--until she felt the men push the blocks abruptly out from underneath her feet. She fell to the ground as the rope snapped from above. It fell beside her as a dead serpent. She screamed as her mother and father hung overhead. The people around her, her friends who had been with her since the day of their birth, were white and sickly. They had been in a trance, and had just shaken it off. Allison leaned forward and waves of inescapable tears overcame her. Her long brown hair fell over her eyes and shoulders as she brought her knees up to her chest.
She hadn’t stopped crying for days. All she had ever loved had been taken from her. Her friends had tried to speak with her but even if they had gotten into her home, they could not have gotten a response out of her, the faces which had taken her parents from her. Those who had seen her had offered their condolences, then left. She hadn't eaten for days. Time had passed slowly around her. The villagers had buried her parents in the cemetery, which bore large crosses at the head made from wood which were carved to perfection by a boy her age, Aaron, who had been her best friend at one time. Even his company wasn't welcome in her heart.
She stood in the cemetery one night weeks later, weak and alone. There were none who could condone for their sins and her heart, though numb, cried for justice. The sun had lowered itself behind the distant horizon, leaving the sky violet and gold. As the graves grew darker, a silent medley of childhoods echoed through the air. For revenge she would’ve needed more strength, more resolve. She’d been too weak. Of all things, she shouldn’t have been out at night.
"Who's there?" Her voice was but a whisper. He was behind her. Turning quickly, she met the same cold eyes that had remained emotionless throughout the riot. Those eyes were darker than she thought they were. She was freed from the quick death by him. The man stood above her, his long black hair behind him as he stared through her. One glance into his eyes had told her he was the enchanter of the villagers. Though he was threatening, she didn’t fear him. He was adorned in black, his face smooth and free of any blemishes that would show him ugly. He was far from wretched. He was beautiful, bewitching. His hand brushed her cheek and sent chills down her spine. The corner of his mouth turned up. He spoke slowly, no louder than a whisper as if he knew it would shatter the night if he did so.
"Allison, I have searched far for one small glimpse of your perfection. Lo and behold, tragedy brings us together. . . " Fear arose but waned as quickly as it arrived. His silky voice, his radiance was beyond any she had ever encountered before in her life.
"Who are you. . . " Desire reflected in his gaze. She gasped and tried to step away from him.
"My name," He took her hand in his and kissed her pale skin. "is Viktor. I offer my condolences for your loss. . . " He didn't release her hand but pulled her closer. Allison hadn’t cared to look away from him".
"I thank you." Viktor smirked. He had been beckoning her to obey him, only him. Taking away those she depended on and isolating her, planting ideas of spite and dislike in her mind all the while. She almost involuntarily fought Viktor, but with a caress of her palm with his thumb her body had gone numb. His arm had snaked around her waist. She was dazed while his soft lips touched hers. Her arms lay limply behind her as he tipped her back. The black cape he wore draped over her and she felt her hands come up to rest on his upper arms. His lips left hers and touched her chin, then neck. The skin at her throat broke and she fought to release herself only to find herself being held forcefully by Viktor’s arm securely about her waist. Her hands trying to push him away, the pain quick as she moved. Red overcame her immediate sight, making her shut her eyes to block out thoughts of anguish and rage but unable to. Her sight began to fade as he squeezed her, pulling more blood to the surface. His now startling black eyes staring lustily into hers, he cooed.
“You are mine. . .” He gathered her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder as her arms fell limply over her side. His lips touched her forehead and disappeared into the night.
~~~~
Allison opened her eyes, so weak she could not bear to open her eyes. She couldn't forget Viktor’s changing eyes as they gazed into hers. The air smelled stale, moldy, familiar. She knew this smell, the haunting sense of death. She was hungry, not for bread or meat, but for something else. Her heart was still, cold. Shivering, she heard footsteps approaching in the darkness. She knew who it was, and she braced herself for the worst. There was a pause as she watched the darkness disappear. There was Viktor, illuminated in candlelight, stared down at her. She wasn't sleeping in the dark, but some sort of box. A casket. Her voice had gone. But something had replaced it. Something irresistible. Something delicious. She sat up with some difficulty, her eyes searching for the source of her thirst through the red. Even the candlelight glowed crimson. Viktor remained above her, the exposed throat his offer to her. “Drink.” Her lips touched his cool skin and sharp edges grew from her front teeth. She plunged greedily and took her fill.
His blood tasted so sweet, so exquisite, and she filled herself. Pulling away, she licked her lips as he smirked, his eyes reflecting the flames from the candles around the room strategically to get the full effect of brilliance. She watched Viktor, feeling more alive than she had ever felt. His blood was exhilarating, and she felt her heart soar with appreciation and love for Viktor.
“Viktor, thank you for this. I can't explain this feeling. I don't know how to repay you. . .” He held her close and they kissed. It was long before they parted, and her eyes felt glazed over.
“Be mine for eternity.”
“Always. . .”
“I have one gift more for you, Love.” Her gaze followed his into a dark corner.
“What is it?” she said with awe.
“Go and see.” Allison was only able to make out a dark figure standing in the shadows as if it were tied to a stake. When she got closer, she saw Aaron Kinney standing in fear before her. Her eyes had begun to see red again and she smiled in awe. He looked beaten, his face bleeding from a scrape that looked as if he had been thrown across a stone floor and rammed into a wall. The rage was turning into a thirst not unlike the one she’d experienced before. Her eyes flashed of desire, rage, and most importantly revenge.
“Hello, Aaron.” Her voice came out in a hiss and she touched his face, feeling a spark of excitement course through her. The urge got stronger, and she saw the crimson liquid coursing through his veins. His blue eyes were horrified, frozen. She was compelled to move faster. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation at first, and felt Viktor behind her, so close, so warm. His hands trailed down her arms, and he raised her hands with his own, resting them at Aaron's nape. “To kill, drain here. You can taste death when you find it.” He led her hands to another spot on Aaron's neck. “To create, drain here. In order to fully create, add your own blood the next night. Choose wisely.”
“This one was one of those who killed my mother and father. They deserve to pay.” She put her fingers over his eyes, and lightly slid them down his face, her neck bent slightly to the right as she smiled evilly. Viktor's hands didn't leave her waist. Allison grabbed Aaron's hair from behind his head, and she pulled his head to his left, revealing his nape. Licking her lips, she revealed her fangs and pinpointed the pulse. She’d decided to kill him. Aaron quaked from fear and Allison watched his eyes close tightly before plunging her fangs into the exposed skin. Hearing him cry of agony as she sucked the life out of him, Aaron struggled against her. Viktor left her side to hold him down. Her craving renewed itself, and she drank hungrily, taking as much as she wanted before the cry stopped. She withdrew herself from his skin licking her lips satisfied. The scent of blood lingered in the air, and she turned to meet Viktor's approving look, meeting his lips with her own, christened.
(present day)
"AAH!" Sitting up with a sweat and tear-drenched face, Sylvia stopped her cries, and began breathing laboriously, holding her head in her hands as she turned over to her other side, her long hair cascading over her eyes. Tasting blood on her lips, she almost jumped until she realized it was just because she bit her lip so hard she cut herself. Looking at her clock as soon as she regained her composure, she noticed that it was twenty past midnight. That horrible dream again, she thought, the memories remaining sharply on her brain. It looked like me. Who was he, that man who. . .The young woman searched her mind, trying to find an explanation. Why did she have this dream, why was she aching inside as if she had lost someone important in her life. “I have everything I need in life! I have no reason to have weird dreams and stay up at all hours at night. Why can't I sleep during the night instead of during the day.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, irritated. “Answers don't come to those who wait. . . They come to those who look for them. Stop thinking so much." The sixteen year old girl stood and wobbled over to her bathroom. She was wide awake. Too bad she didn't feel the same during the day.
Everyday, it felt, she was always so tired, and the sun irritated her eyes as if she had sun burnt them, then she was always so pale. Then, every time she felt the urge to eat something, she couldn't find anything to strike her nerve. She even went to the twenty four hour grocery store to find something, but then she would wander into the foods section, and the only thing she could find was fresh meat. Fresh. Juicy. Raw. Meat. She could eat normal food, but it irritated her stomach. It didn't even look like she wanted to eat the meat when she cooked it, but she would always squeeze the juice out of it, trying to drain it of all the blood before she ate it, but then she would find herself wanting to drink the juice instead. She felt weird whenever she saw a person walk by, all clean-shaven and, if they had long hair, their hair pulled back in a ponytail so their necks were uncovered. Why would someone's neck make her so hungry? First she figured it was hormones, but then again, she knew she wasn't gay or lusting at the time. Her lips would dry and she would lick them, smelling blood. Blood. The thought of blood made her hungry, but there were no such things as vampires, were there? She had to be sick. The young woman decided to watch some TV and look for something to eat, hopefully she wouldn't have a weird temptation for the one thing she didn't think she could stomach.
With her seventeenth birthday coming up within the next few weeks, she was arranged a doctor appointment. She couldn’t go to Europe with any sicknesses. She was barely ever sick, but this time she the depression hit her deeply, so she felt it would be wise to look into remedies that could stop the feeling. Her foster parents were worried about her, therefore they decided action would be best.
Walking into the square waiting room of the office building, she sat down in the not quite full room and waited for her name to be called. Near her, there was a small boy with flaming red hair quietly playing with a 'Mr. Potato Head' game, his mother, red-haired as well, watching him worriedly. The teenager watched the mother, and suddenly felt her sadness. The boy had an ear infection, a really bad one. She didn't know how she knew, the information came to her. Next to the little boy on a chair next to his mother sat a little girl with the same color of hair sitting quietly; she had a rag to her ear, holding it there and almost sobbing. Another ear infection, worse than the boy's. They were twins, and they seemed to be able to lock in on the other’s condition. Looking over to the other side of the room, she saw a man sitting with his face in a magazine which was about personal health, and felt his problem flowing into her. Heart problem. He was worried about needing surgery. Another group in the room was a couple, man and woman. From the way they sat, which was quite nervously, she guessed they were going to have a baby. Too bad they didn't know it yet. She was probably having some unusual reactions to food and couldn't stop throwing up in the morning. She felt herself staring at them harder than the others.
"Sylvia Thatcher," said a nurse, who just entered the room with a clipboard and a bright uniform which had prints of colorful elephants on it while she wore white stirrup pants. Sylvia stood up and walked through the hallway with the woman. "Third door to your left." The nurse cared more about her attire than her patients; a loss of confidence in the system. Allison noted this and the nurse left her; she watched the happy woman walk away and caught herself looking at the woman’s exposed nape. She didn't catch herself, though, when she licked her lips unconsciously. Turning her gaze, her expression changed to a malicious glare, and she cursed herself. For a moment, she almost saw red, and red was not her favorite color.
Sitting down on the examination bed, she waited for the good doctor. It was very boring, the examination room. The only things that seemed to bring color to the room was a picture of a forest scene, where there was a tall stone structure in the distance, and a poster of the human breathing system and its veins. This somehow made her stand up, and approach the picture. The 'person' was facing forward, and Sylvia stared at the picture, bringing up her hand to trail the veins. The combination of red and blue made it look more entertaining she guessed, and her fingers stopped as they trailed one vein in particular up to the neck, where there was an intersection of a vein and an artery. Pressing her forefinger and middle finger apart onto the spot she put them a bit to the side of them where just the vein remained, and put her fingers in a similar place there. Her mouth began to water and she shut her eyes as she started to see red, pulling her fingers away awkwardly as she heard the door open abruptly. Her ears began to hurt and she covered them up, forcing the feeling down. "Miss Thatcher, are you okay?" the doctor asked. Sylvia shook the feeling away, and then looked up feeling better.
"Um, yeah..." The doctor was a man, his short hair brown as his blue eyes seemed to show he cared. Well, she thought. If he cared about me as much as his golfing appointment in an hour, I'd have it made.
"Are you sure?" The feeling subsided and she nodded. "Have a seat. How are you feeling today?"
"Fine I guess."
"You wouldn't be here if you were fine."
"I've never been to a doctor alone before."
"Uneasy?"
"Yeah I guess."
"Well, we're going to take your pulse, and then we're going to perform a test or two." Sylvia nodded, and he frowned. "The nurse didn't tell you to change?"
"She seemed eager to leave."
"Eileen is like that." He said, putting down the chart board. Sylvia watched his stethoscope touch down over her heart. Confusion flashed across his eyes, and Sylvia had the sudden urge to laugh. She was more confused to tell the truth. He moved the scope up a bit, and tried again. More confusion. "Well, lets try something else." He took Sylvia's wrist and looked at his watch, which was not a watch but a five hundred dollar Rolex. He watched the second hand, looked at her wrist again, changed his position on her wrist, then tried again. "Impossible. Lift your arm." Sylvia did as told, and he, almost harshly, grabbed her upper arm from underneath where the infant pulse is usually found. After a few seconds, he let go and turned her neck slightly, going for her pulse on her neck. She grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip and glared at him. After a few seconds, he suddenly went numb and released her. She let him go. "You've never been to a doctor alone?" His voice was shaky. Sylvia shook her head no, and he left the room quickly.
In a minute, he returned with another doctor, a woman, older and calmer. "Hello, Sylvia, how are you?" Sylvia nodded, indifferent. The woman began the same checkup as the man, but she did hers a bit more thoroughly, but came to the same confusion in the end. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm wondering why this mook is in a panic. Other than that, I only feel depressed, which is why I supposedly came here in the first place."
"Dr. Reef is quite normal thank you very much, Miss Thatcher. What made him act out of character is that, why this may come as a shock to you but I assure you it is quite true, you don't have a pulse or a heart rate for that matter." She brought up a light and opened Allison's eyes wide, flashing the light into them.
"AH!" Sylvia pulled back away from the doctor, who dropped the light. "What do you think you're doing, lady!"
"Checking your eyes for sensitivity, what else?" Sylvia shut her red eyes.
"They're sensitive okay! I could've told you that!" The doctor picked up the light again.
"Just let me check your eyes for infections." She grabbed Sylvia's arm, who fought for it back, and she stepped away from the two.
"No. Get away from me."
"It won't hurt, now stop acting like a baby." Sylvia looked up abruptly, and the doctor gasped. Her eyes were no longer hazel but a deep blood red. She could feel two of her teeth grow sharp. Her hand clamped over her mouth and she looked at the frightened doctors, feeling the urge pull at her even more. Without much thought, she ran over to the door and yanked the door open, running out into the waiting room and leaving the office. The sun hit her at full force, but it wasn't painful like the light directed at her eyes. She ran down a street, and ducked into a dark alley which would empty out on a local park that was hidden by trees. The urge got larger and larger until she could no longer take it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw two shadows behind her, and then she looked ahead of her, gasping as she rammed into a man not much taller than her. The good thing was that she wasn't seeing red anymore, but she could smell the malice on the man in front of her, and attempted to feel fear herself; she couldn't feel anything.
"Well, lookie here, fellas. Looks like we gots a little girl in our midst." The two shadows behind her were men who had foul smiles on their faces as they sauntered over to the two. Sylvia knew she had to get out of there before anything happened. "What should we do with her, guys? She looks quite delicious if I say so myself." The first man grabbed her upper arms, then threw her towards a wall. She put her foot out, landing against the brick wall of the building and did a back flip down as if the wall were the ground. The three looked amazed at her reaction and were furious as well. Sylvia was surprisingly calm, and she allowed a smirk to cross her face. They approached her and the urge came back. She saw red. She hungered for something they had. Standing calmly, she faced the three, letting the redness enter her eyes. She couldn't resist. It was so strong, and she allowed the fangs to form at her teeth, and they stopped.
"You should've run." They were frozen, and Sylvia felt stimulated as their fear swarmed into her in the form of the urge. The one who caught her lunged at her, and she grabbed him by the neck, feeling strength beyond her imagining enter her. Lifting the man up into the air, she threw him against the opposite wall, and glared evilly at the fallen man. His friends were gone, she observed, and she sauntered over to him, her glare turning into a malicious smile. Kneeling down by him, she stared down at him, and felt his profane thoughts, but it was too late. He grabbed her wrist and arm, throwing her under him. He held her down with one arm across her neck as his other hand was busy trying to undo her button on her jeans. Her eyes were still red, her fangs bared as he tried not to look into them. "Look at me."
Her hand came up and, resting her fingers at his forehead, she moved them down lightly, getting his attention. Her eyes flashed gold, and he froze, making her smirk evilly. She ordered for him to let her go, and he did carefully, not losing eye contact with her. Grabbing a fistful of hair on his scalp, she gazed upon his neck, remembering what happened in the doctor's office with the poster. She pushed her fingers into his neck at the death point, and plunged her fangs into the man's neck, causing him to gasp and struggle as he came out of the reverie. She held him tightly, not letting him move.
The sensation of warmth over her lips made her roll her eyes in bliss as though she had been renewed, and she sucked the life from him with a newfound hunger. After he stopped struggling, she felt the last of his blood leave him, and she receded her fangs, licking her lips of the tasty treat. Letting his hair go, she threw his limp body against the brick wall behind her, and licked her lips again, a large, evil smile on her face. "Told you." The redness left her eyes and with it the evil. She suddenly felt quite normal, but very nauseous, and after the blood had already soaked into her skin, turning her a blush color, she saw the dead body at her feet.
A choice was presented to her. The nausea passed and she reveled in the sudden burst of energy. She just drank the blood of a human being and it felt good.
A smile crossed her face. She heard a tune she’d only heard in her dreams, one she could barely recall. Her eyes reached upwards and she let a name flow past her lips.
“Viktor.”
The girl dared not move, hoping the events were not real as she stood there alone dusk. Tears streamed down her face as the past weeks came back to her. There was an unprovoked riot against her family. Something unnatural happened which turned them against one another. The town had strung her and her parents up against the anger and hatred of themselves because of this invisible force. Someone had taken control of the villager’s minds and turned them against one single family. The men stood firmly behind the three, rifles in hand as their booted feet sat against the hanging block, ready to push it out from under them. When the support disappeared, Allison would feel a heavy weight pulling against her neck and it would be over quickly. Allison stood there, the world moving without her, her parents begged. She heard none of the names or obscenities. She merely searched for a kind face.
A man stood in the shadows of the grocer's building, his facial expression blank as he silently stood in black attire and watched her. His pale flesh and green eyes she could see from She remained in eye contact with the pale man--she’d never seen him before now--until she felt the men push the blocks abruptly out from underneath her feet. She fell to the ground as the rope snapped from above. It fell beside her as a dead serpent. She screamed as her mother and father hung overhead. The people around her, her friends who had been with her since the day of their birth, were white and sickly. They had been in a trance, and had just shaken it off. Allison leaned forward and waves of inescapable tears overcame her. Her long brown hair fell over her eyes and shoulders as she brought her knees up to her chest.
She hadn’t stopped crying for days. All she had ever loved had been taken from her. Her friends had tried to speak with her but even if they had gotten into her home, they could not have gotten a response out of her, the faces which had taken her parents from her. Those who had seen her had offered their condolences, then left. She hadn't eaten for days. Time had passed slowly around her. The villagers had buried her parents in the cemetery, which bore large crosses at the head made from wood which were carved to perfection by a boy her age, Aaron, who had been her best friend at one time. Even his company wasn't welcome in her heart.
She stood in the cemetery one night weeks later, weak and alone. There were none who could condone for their sins and her heart, though numb, cried for justice. The sun had lowered itself behind the distant horizon, leaving the sky violet and gold. As the graves grew darker, a silent medley of childhoods echoed through the air. For revenge she would’ve needed more strength, more resolve. She’d been too weak. Of all things, she shouldn’t have been out at night.
"Who's there?" Her voice was but a whisper. He was behind her. Turning quickly, she met the same cold eyes that had remained emotionless throughout the riot. Those eyes were darker than she thought they were. She was freed from the quick death by him. The man stood above her, his long black hair behind him as he stared through her. One glance into his eyes had told her he was the enchanter of the villagers. Though he was threatening, she didn’t fear him. He was adorned in black, his face smooth and free of any blemishes that would show him ugly. He was far from wretched. He was beautiful, bewitching. His hand brushed her cheek and sent chills down her spine. The corner of his mouth turned up. He spoke slowly, no louder than a whisper as if he knew it would shatter the night if he did so.
"Allison, I have searched far for one small glimpse of your perfection. Lo and behold, tragedy brings us together. . . " Fear arose but waned as quickly as it arrived. His silky voice, his radiance was beyond any she had ever encountered before in her life.
"Who are you. . . " Desire reflected in his gaze. She gasped and tried to step away from him.
"My name," He took her hand in his and kissed her pale skin. "is Viktor. I offer my condolences for your loss. . . " He didn't release her hand but pulled her closer. Allison hadn’t cared to look away from him".
"I thank you." Viktor smirked. He had been beckoning her to obey him, only him. Taking away those she depended on and isolating her, planting ideas of spite and dislike in her mind all the while. She almost involuntarily fought Viktor, but with a caress of her palm with his thumb her body had gone numb. His arm had snaked around her waist. She was dazed while his soft lips touched hers. Her arms lay limply behind her as he tipped her back. The black cape he wore draped over her and she felt her hands come up to rest on his upper arms. His lips left hers and touched her chin, then neck. The skin at her throat broke and she fought to release herself only to find herself being held forcefully by Viktor’s arm securely about her waist. Her hands trying to push him away, the pain quick as she moved. Red overcame her immediate sight, making her shut her eyes to block out thoughts of anguish and rage but unable to. Her sight began to fade as he squeezed her, pulling more blood to the surface. His now startling black eyes staring lustily into hers, he cooed.
“You are mine. . .” He gathered her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder as her arms fell limply over her side. His lips touched her forehead and disappeared into the night.
~~~~
Allison opened her eyes, so weak she could not bear to open her eyes. She couldn't forget Viktor’s changing eyes as they gazed into hers. The air smelled stale, moldy, familiar. She knew this smell, the haunting sense of death. She was hungry, not for bread or meat, but for something else. Her heart was still, cold. Shivering, she heard footsteps approaching in the darkness. She knew who it was, and she braced herself for the worst. There was a pause as she watched the darkness disappear. There was Viktor, illuminated in candlelight, stared down at her. She wasn't sleeping in the dark, but some sort of box. A casket. Her voice had gone. But something had replaced it. Something irresistible. Something delicious. She sat up with some difficulty, her eyes searching for the source of her thirst through the red. Even the candlelight glowed crimson. Viktor remained above her, the exposed throat his offer to her. “Drink.” Her lips touched his cool skin and sharp edges grew from her front teeth. She plunged greedily and took her fill.
His blood tasted so sweet, so exquisite, and she filled herself. Pulling away, she licked her lips as he smirked, his eyes reflecting the flames from the candles around the room strategically to get the full effect of brilliance. She watched Viktor, feeling more alive than she had ever felt. His blood was exhilarating, and she felt her heart soar with appreciation and love for Viktor.
“Viktor, thank you for this. I can't explain this feeling. I don't know how to repay you. . .” He held her close and they kissed. It was long before they parted, and her eyes felt glazed over.
“Be mine for eternity.”
“Always. . .”
“I have one gift more for you, Love.” Her gaze followed his into a dark corner.
“What is it?” she said with awe.
“Go and see.” Allison was only able to make out a dark figure standing in the shadows as if it were tied to a stake. When she got closer, she saw Aaron Kinney standing in fear before her. Her eyes had begun to see red again and she smiled in awe. He looked beaten, his face bleeding from a scrape that looked as if he had been thrown across a stone floor and rammed into a wall. The rage was turning into a thirst not unlike the one she’d experienced before. Her eyes flashed of desire, rage, and most importantly revenge.
“Hello, Aaron.” Her voice came out in a hiss and she touched his face, feeling a spark of excitement course through her. The urge got stronger, and she saw the crimson liquid coursing through his veins. His blue eyes were horrified, frozen. She was compelled to move faster. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation at first, and felt Viktor behind her, so close, so warm. His hands trailed down her arms, and he raised her hands with his own, resting them at Aaron's nape. “To kill, drain here. You can taste death when you find it.” He led her hands to another spot on Aaron's neck. “To create, drain here. In order to fully create, add your own blood the next night. Choose wisely.”
“This one was one of those who killed my mother and father. They deserve to pay.” She put her fingers over his eyes, and lightly slid them down his face, her neck bent slightly to the right as she smiled evilly. Viktor's hands didn't leave her waist. Allison grabbed Aaron's hair from behind his head, and she pulled his head to his left, revealing his nape. Licking her lips, she revealed her fangs and pinpointed the pulse. She’d decided to kill him. Aaron quaked from fear and Allison watched his eyes close tightly before plunging her fangs into the exposed skin. Hearing him cry of agony as she sucked the life out of him, Aaron struggled against her. Viktor left her side to hold him down. Her craving renewed itself, and she drank hungrily, taking as much as she wanted before the cry stopped. She withdrew herself from his skin licking her lips satisfied. The scent of blood lingered in the air, and she turned to meet Viktor's approving look, meeting his lips with her own, christened.
(present day)
"AAH!" Sitting up with a sweat and tear-drenched face, Sylvia stopped her cries, and began breathing laboriously, holding her head in her hands as she turned over to her other side, her long hair cascading over her eyes. Tasting blood on her lips, she almost jumped until she realized it was just because she bit her lip so hard she cut herself. Looking at her clock as soon as she regained her composure, she noticed that it was twenty past midnight. That horrible dream again, she thought, the memories remaining sharply on her brain. It looked like me. Who was he, that man who. . .The young woman searched her mind, trying to find an explanation. Why did she have this dream, why was she aching inside as if she had lost someone important in her life. “I have everything I need in life! I have no reason to have weird dreams and stay up at all hours at night. Why can't I sleep during the night instead of during the day.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, irritated. “Answers don't come to those who wait. . . They come to those who look for them. Stop thinking so much." The sixteen year old girl stood and wobbled over to her bathroom. She was wide awake. Too bad she didn't feel the same during the day.
Everyday, it felt, she was always so tired, and the sun irritated her eyes as if she had sun burnt them, then she was always so pale. Then, every time she felt the urge to eat something, she couldn't find anything to strike her nerve. She even went to the twenty four hour grocery store to find something, but then she would wander into the foods section, and the only thing she could find was fresh meat. Fresh. Juicy. Raw. Meat. She could eat normal food, but it irritated her stomach. It didn't even look like she wanted to eat the meat when she cooked it, but she would always squeeze the juice out of it, trying to drain it of all the blood before she ate it, but then she would find herself wanting to drink the juice instead. She felt weird whenever she saw a person walk by, all clean-shaven and, if they had long hair, their hair pulled back in a ponytail so their necks were uncovered. Why would someone's neck make her so hungry? First she figured it was hormones, but then again, she knew she wasn't gay or lusting at the time. Her lips would dry and she would lick them, smelling blood. Blood. The thought of blood made her hungry, but there were no such things as vampires, were there? She had to be sick. The young woman decided to watch some TV and look for something to eat, hopefully she wouldn't have a weird temptation for the one thing she didn't think she could stomach.
With her seventeenth birthday coming up within the next few weeks, she was arranged a doctor appointment. She couldn’t go to Europe with any sicknesses. She was barely ever sick, but this time she the depression hit her deeply, so she felt it would be wise to look into remedies that could stop the feeling. Her foster parents were worried about her, therefore they decided action would be best.
Walking into the square waiting room of the office building, she sat down in the not quite full room and waited for her name to be called. Near her, there was a small boy with flaming red hair quietly playing with a 'Mr. Potato Head' game, his mother, red-haired as well, watching him worriedly. The teenager watched the mother, and suddenly felt her sadness. The boy had an ear infection, a really bad one. She didn't know how she knew, the information came to her. Next to the little boy on a chair next to his mother sat a little girl with the same color of hair sitting quietly; she had a rag to her ear, holding it there and almost sobbing. Another ear infection, worse than the boy's. They were twins, and they seemed to be able to lock in on the other’s condition. Looking over to the other side of the room, she saw a man sitting with his face in a magazine which was about personal health, and felt his problem flowing into her. Heart problem. He was worried about needing surgery. Another group in the room was a couple, man and woman. From the way they sat, which was quite nervously, she guessed they were going to have a baby. Too bad they didn't know it yet. She was probably having some unusual reactions to food and couldn't stop throwing up in the morning. She felt herself staring at them harder than the others.
"Sylvia Thatcher," said a nurse, who just entered the room with a clipboard and a bright uniform which had prints of colorful elephants on it while she wore white stirrup pants. Sylvia stood up and walked through the hallway with the woman. "Third door to your left." The nurse cared more about her attire than her patients; a loss of confidence in the system. Allison noted this and the nurse left her; she watched the happy woman walk away and caught herself looking at the woman’s exposed nape. She didn't catch herself, though, when she licked her lips unconsciously. Turning her gaze, her expression changed to a malicious glare, and she cursed herself. For a moment, she almost saw red, and red was not her favorite color.
Sitting down on the examination bed, she waited for the good doctor. It was very boring, the examination room. The only things that seemed to bring color to the room was a picture of a forest scene, where there was a tall stone structure in the distance, and a poster of the human breathing system and its veins. This somehow made her stand up, and approach the picture. The 'person' was facing forward, and Sylvia stared at the picture, bringing up her hand to trail the veins. The combination of red and blue made it look more entertaining she guessed, and her fingers stopped as they trailed one vein in particular up to the neck, where there was an intersection of a vein and an artery. Pressing her forefinger and middle finger apart onto the spot she put them a bit to the side of them where just the vein remained, and put her fingers in a similar place there. Her mouth began to water and she shut her eyes as she started to see red, pulling her fingers away awkwardly as she heard the door open abruptly. Her ears began to hurt and she covered them up, forcing the feeling down. "Miss Thatcher, are you okay?" the doctor asked. Sylvia shook the feeling away, and then looked up feeling better.
"Um, yeah..." The doctor was a man, his short hair brown as his blue eyes seemed to show he cared. Well, she thought. If he cared about me as much as his golfing appointment in an hour, I'd have it made.
"Are you sure?" The feeling subsided and she nodded. "Have a seat. How are you feeling today?"
"Fine I guess."
"You wouldn't be here if you were fine."
"I've never been to a doctor alone before."
"Uneasy?"
"Yeah I guess."
"Well, we're going to take your pulse, and then we're going to perform a test or two." Sylvia nodded, and he frowned. "The nurse didn't tell you to change?"
"She seemed eager to leave."
"Eileen is like that." He said, putting down the chart board. Sylvia watched his stethoscope touch down over her heart. Confusion flashed across his eyes, and Sylvia had the sudden urge to laugh. She was more confused to tell the truth. He moved the scope up a bit, and tried again. More confusion. "Well, lets try something else." He took Sylvia's wrist and looked at his watch, which was not a watch but a five hundred dollar Rolex. He watched the second hand, looked at her wrist again, changed his position on her wrist, then tried again. "Impossible. Lift your arm." Sylvia did as told, and he, almost harshly, grabbed her upper arm from underneath where the infant pulse is usually found. After a few seconds, he let go and turned her neck slightly, going for her pulse on her neck. She grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip and glared at him. After a few seconds, he suddenly went numb and released her. She let him go. "You've never been to a doctor alone?" His voice was shaky. Sylvia shook her head no, and he left the room quickly.
In a minute, he returned with another doctor, a woman, older and calmer. "Hello, Sylvia, how are you?" Sylvia nodded, indifferent. The woman began the same checkup as the man, but she did hers a bit more thoroughly, but came to the same confusion in the end. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm wondering why this mook is in a panic. Other than that, I only feel depressed, which is why I supposedly came here in the first place."
"Dr. Reef is quite normal thank you very much, Miss Thatcher. What made him act out of character is that, why this may come as a shock to you but I assure you it is quite true, you don't have a pulse or a heart rate for that matter." She brought up a light and opened Allison's eyes wide, flashing the light into them.
"AH!" Sylvia pulled back away from the doctor, who dropped the light. "What do you think you're doing, lady!"
"Checking your eyes for sensitivity, what else?" Sylvia shut her red eyes.
"They're sensitive okay! I could've told you that!" The doctor picked up the light again.
"Just let me check your eyes for infections." She grabbed Sylvia's arm, who fought for it back, and she stepped away from the two.
"No. Get away from me."
"It won't hurt, now stop acting like a baby." Sylvia looked up abruptly, and the doctor gasped. Her eyes were no longer hazel but a deep blood red. She could feel two of her teeth grow sharp. Her hand clamped over her mouth and she looked at the frightened doctors, feeling the urge pull at her even more. Without much thought, she ran over to the door and yanked the door open, running out into the waiting room and leaving the office. The sun hit her at full force, but it wasn't painful like the light directed at her eyes. She ran down a street, and ducked into a dark alley which would empty out on a local park that was hidden by trees. The urge got larger and larger until she could no longer take it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw two shadows behind her, and then she looked ahead of her, gasping as she rammed into a man not much taller than her. The good thing was that she wasn't seeing red anymore, but she could smell the malice on the man in front of her, and attempted to feel fear herself; she couldn't feel anything.
"Well, lookie here, fellas. Looks like we gots a little girl in our midst." The two shadows behind her were men who had foul smiles on their faces as they sauntered over to the two. Sylvia knew she had to get out of there before anything happened. "What should we do with her, guys? She looks quite delicious if I say so myself." The first man grabbed her upper arms, then threw her towards a wall. She put her foot out, landing against the brick wall of the building and did a back flip down as if the wall were the ground. The three looked amazed at her reaction and were furious as well. Sylvia was surprisingly calm, and she allowed a smirk to cross her face. They approached her and the urge came back. She saw red. She hungered for something they had. Standing calmly, she faced the three, letting the redness enter her eyes. She couldn't resist. It was so strong, and she allowed the fangs to form at her teeth, and they stopped.
"You should've run." They were frozen, and Sylvia felt stimulated as their fear swarmed into her in the form of the urge. The one who caught her lunged at her, and she grabbed him by the neck, feeling strength beyond her imagining enter her. Lifting the man up into the air, she threw him against the opposite wall, and glared evilly at the fallen man. His friends were gone, she observed, and she sauntered over to him, her glare turning into a malicious smile. Kneeling down by him, she stared down at him, and felt his profane thoughts, but it was too late. He grabbed her wrist and arm, throwing her under him. He held her down with one arm across her neck as his other hand was busy trying to undo her button on her jeans. Her eyes were still red, her fangs bared as he tried not to look into them. "Look at me."
Her hand came up and, resting her fingers at his forehead, she moved them down lightly, getting his attention. Her eyes flashed gold, and he froze, making her smirk evilly. She ordered for him to let her go, and he did carefully, not losing eye contact with her. Grabbing a fistful of hair on his scalp, she gazed upon his neck, remembering what happened in the doctor's office with the poster. She pushed her fingers into his neck at the death point, and plunged her fangs into the man's neck, causing him to gasp and struggle as he came out of the reverie. She held him tightly, not letting him move.
The sensation of warmth over her lips made her roll her eyes in bliss as though she had been renewed, and she sucked the life from him with a newfound hunger. After he stopped struggling, she felt the last of his blood leave him, and she receded her fangs, licking her lips of the tasty treat. Letting his hair go, she threw his limp body against the brick wall behind her, and licked her lips again, a large, evil smile on her face. "Told you." The redness left her eyes and with it the evil. She suddenly felt quite normal, but very nauseous, and after the blood had already soaked into her skin, turning her a blush color, she saw the dead body at her feet.
A choice was presented to her. The nausea passed and she reveled in the sudden burst of energy. She just drank the blood of a human being and it felt good.
A smile crossed her face. She heard a tune she’d only heard in her dreams, one she could barely recall. Her eyes reached upwards and she let a name flow past her lips.
“Viktor.”
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Mistletoe Dreams
A/N: For awhile I wasn't sure if I wanted to pair Dana with Alan or Jordan. It's a lose/lose situation, with her ending up in major trouble. Alan = running from the law; Jordan = government big wigs getting angry and already having their hands on her. Dana's a real trooper, but I'd choose Alan just for the record.
~~~~
Dana walked into the foyer, reading her watch turn eleven-fifty. Jordan should be here soon, she thought, grabbing her coat from the hook and holding it over her arm. She had behaved and was completely sober, and she kept responsible company as she was told to. She was awake but extremely tired and glad she wasn’t driving home, but she wasn’t sure she liked her parting company. Jordan, though lenient enough to allow her attendance to a Christmas party, was an agent of the one national government she despised: her own.
The doorbell rang. Dana said her farewells to her acquaintances and the hostess, Cade, when Jordan stepped into the foyer.
“You ready?” he said. She nodded and he reached for her coat, taking it from her arm carefully. He held it up and let her slip into the sleeves. “It dropped twenty degrees since nightfall.” Dana zipped up her coat and both turned as Cade cleared her throat from the entrance to the living room. Plastering on the best imitation of a happy but tired guest, Dana looked at the woman, beckoning her to say her peace. When she said nothing, Dana searched for what she was trying to show her. After a moment, the woman glanced up to the ceiling.
At first the sight of the mistletoe didn’t and couldn’t faze her; but after a few seconds her logic faded away and her imagination began to fill the void instead.
Dana Winifred Eiseley never catered to a daydream. She had always believed that logical reasoning was enough to drive any reverie away, no matter how possible a situation may have seemed. It was always easy to change her mind about small, miniscule daydreams when they reared their ugly head. This one was made to be very vivid. She wasn’t prepared for it.
Jordan had leaned over and kissed her. It was a simple thought, really. Jordan’s dry lips touched hers softly and sent a single shiver down her spine. He’d been walking around in the cold. She could tell by his chilled nose which was pressed against her cheek. She had brought up her hand to touch his cheek, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him. Wait, she thought. Her logic was abandoning her to join the imagination. Her breath was short, her body warm with anticipation when his hands massaged the small of her back. Backs were neglected areas. Traitor.
The reverie faded. She looked up to see Jordan’s lack of interest in the decoration. She tried to calm her nerves as he reached for the doorknob, choosing not to humor Cade’s mistletoe. Upon Dana’s face came a burning sensation, something she hid. Looking away was something she’d never done before now. Boy, she thought with a twist to her stomach in case Jordan noticed her discomfort. There really was no limit to how much a person could discover about herself. Jordan opened the door and exited the house, walking towards the street where his sedan was parked. The air was colder than Dana had anticipated and she focused on the weather now which was the only way to calm the rapid beating of her heart. He was the only person whom she saw on an everyday basis; this was turning for the worst.
Most likely the only reason for her behavior was that she was lacking companionship, losing touch with people her age. The fact that she spoke with only those who were several years older than her hadn’t seemed that important until just recently, and maybe it was finally taking its toll on her. Since she’d only spent time with Jordan, it was natural that she would begin to feel affection for him. She would need to suppress the mundane sentiment so she could get on with her life. Government workers were not to get emotionally connected with their charges, so logic would say that she needed to trust her reason with this issue.
“Dana?” She looked up to see Jordan looking down at her with slight concern on his face. His hazel blue eyes reflected the overhead streetlamp. She blushed again. It would be impossible to tell if it wasn’t the cold air that made her cheeks red; and for this she was grateful.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you had fun.” Dana didn’t say anything at first. She thought back to the party. The guests and Cade made her feel at home, hadn’t judged her past. No one asked her where she came from or why she moved up north, but they did let her join in a game of trivial pursuit and scrabble. Everyone trusted her and she fit in well. She felt wanted, loved. She hadn’t felt that comfortable since before her mother died, when she met the blues band at J.D.’s Sandwich Shop. It felt as if a warm security blanket had been pulled over her, and she didn’t know how to respond to Jordan’s query. She couldn’t answer him truthfully. He wouldn’t understand.
“It was fine. I’m just a little tired.” When they reached the car, Jordan opened the door for her. Her manners had rubbed off on him since he’d come to know her. When he saw the mistletoe hanging from the roof beam, he had the oddest vision of kissing Dana, which was something he had dismissed almost immediately because of proper protocol. He admitted her lips had felt good during the small flash when he relished in the moment, but knew better. Being older than Dana, maybe not as old emotionally, and with proper training, he had some control over his actions. When he looked downwards towards the doorknob, he had gotten a glance of her reaction. She was pink in the cheeks as she thought probably the same thing as he. He wasn’t going to tell her he knew, though. Sitting down in the driver’s seat, he through it would be in their best interest to let the subject alone. He couldn’t bring anything so personal up to her.
“We’ve got some work to do. Colin sent us another case and wants information within the week.” The car switched on under his careful hands and drove forward while Dana fastened her seatbelt with a nod of acknowledgement. The case file would put them back on track.
~~~~
Dana walked into the foyer, reading her watch turn eleven-fifty. Jordan should be here soon, she thought, grabbing her coat from the hook and holding it over her arm. She had behaved and was completely sober, and she kept responsible company as she was told to. She was awake but extremely tired and glad she wasn’t driving home, but she wasn’t sure she liked her parting company. Jordan, though lenient enough to allow her attendance to a Christmas party, was an agent of the one national government she despised: her own.
The doorbell rang. Dana said her farewells to her acquaintances and the hostess, Cade, when Jordan stepped into the foyer.
“You ready?” he said. She nodded and he reached for her coat, taking it from her arm carefully. He held it up and let her slip into the sleeves. “It dropped twenty degrees since nightfall.” Dana zipped up her coat and both turned as Cade cleared her throat from the entrance to the living room. Plastering on the best imitation of a happy but tired guest, Dana looked at the woman, beckoning her to say her peace. When she said nothing, Dana searched for what she was trying to show her. After a moment, the woman glanced up to the ceiling.
At first the sight of the mistletoe didn’t and couldn’t faze her; but after a few seconds her logic faded away and her imagination began to fill the void instead.
Dana Winifred Eiseley never catered to a daydream. She had always believed that logical reasoning was enough to drive any reverie away, no matter how possible a situation may have seemed. It was always easy to change her mind about small, miniscule daydreams when they reared their ugly head. This one was made to be very vivid. She wasn’t prepared for it.
Jordan had leaned over and kissed her. It was a simple thought, really. Jordan’s dry lips touched hers softly and sent a single shiver down her spine. He’d been walking around in the cold. She could tell by his chilled nose which was pressed against her cheek. She had brought up her hand to touch his cheek, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him. Wait, she thought. Her logic was abandoning her to join the imagination. Her breath was short, her body warm with anticipation when his hands massaged the small of her back. Backs were neglected areas. Traitor.
The reverie faded. She looked up to see Jordan’s lack of interest in the decoration. She tried to calm her nerves as he reached for the doorknob, choosing not to humor Cade’s mistletoe. Upon Dana’s face came a burning sensation, something she hid. Looking away was something she’d never done before now. Boy, she thought with a twist to her stomach in case Jordan noticed her discomfort. There really was no limit to how much a person could discover about herself. Jordan opened the door and exited the house, walking towards the street where his sedan was parked. The air was colder than Dana had anticipated and she focused on the weather now which was the only way to calm the rapid beating of her heart. He was the only person whom she saw on an everyday basis; this was turning for the worst.
Most likely the only reason for her behavior was that she was lacking companionship, losing touch with people her age. The fact that she spoke with only those who were several years older than her hadn’t seemed that important until just recently, and maybe it was finally taking its toll on her. Since she’d only spent time with Jordan, it was natural that she would begin to feel affection for him. She would need to suppress the mundane sentiment so she could get on with her life. Government workers were not to get emotionally connected with their charges, so logic would say that she needed to trust her reason with this issue.
“Dana?” She looked up to see Jordan looking down at her with slight concern on his face. His hazel blue eyes reflected the overhead streetlamp. She blushed again. It would be impossible to tell if it wasn’t the cold air that made her cheeks red; and for this she was grateful.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you had fun.” Dana didn’t say anything at first. She thought back to the party. The guests and Cade made her feel at home, hadn’t judged her past. No one asked her where she came from or why she moved up north, but they did let her join in a game of trivial pursuit and scrabble. Everyone trusted her and she fit in well. She felt wanted, loved. She hadn’t felt that comfortable since before her mother died, when she met the blues band at J.D.’s Sandwich Shop. It felt as if a warm security blanket had been pulled over her, and she didn’t know how to respond to Jordan’s query. She couldn’t answer him truthfully. He wouldn’t understand.
“It was fine. I’m just a little tired.” When they reached the car, Jordan opened the door for her. Her manners had rubbed off on him since he’d come to know her. When he saw the mistletoe hanging from the roof beam, he had the oddest vision of kissing Dana, which was something he had dismissed almost immediately because of proper protocol. He admitted her lips had felt good during the small flash when he relished in the moment, but knew better. Being older than Dana, maybe not as old emotionally, and with proper training, he had some control over his actions. When he looked downwards towards the doorknob, he had gotten a glance of her reaction. She was pink in the cheeks as she thought probably the same thing as he. He wasn’t going to tell her he knew, though. Sitting down in the driver’s seat, he through it would be in their best interest to let the subject alone. He couldn’t bring anything so personal up to her.
“We’ve got some work to do. Colin sent us another case and wants information within the week.” The car switched on under his careful hands and drove forward while Dana fastened her seatbelt with a nod of acknowledgement. The case file would put them back on track.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Congratulations, you are a Jedi - guardian of peace
and justice in the Republic.
Star Wars - What would you be in the Star Wars universe?
brought to you by Quizilla
"We don't need to see his identification--move along."
Acceptance
She looked at herself in the mirror, the scissors lying in the sink still warm from their use. Dana didn't recognize the figure in front of her; it was her intent. Her black hair, the soft tresses which once tickled the skin at her midriff, was now lifeless on the wood-paneled floor.
Alan stood behind her as she ran her hands over the cropped hair. What was once long and luxurious was not short and silky. "It's different," he said. She was silent. "Is this way of escaping the fact that she's looking back at you right now, that you look even more like her since she went through chemo?"
"She never cut my hair. It wasn't becoming of a lady."
"It's rebellion then." She sent him a reproachful look. Alan of all people knew what she'd been going through these past few weeks, and it was a surprise he wanted her around after the funeral at all.
"Reminder." His hands touched her shoulders. She was somewhat comforted from the rare gesture, half expecting him to turn and leave. His hand was on her back, soothing circles into her tense muscles.
"It's hopeless to try and fight your emotions on the matter."
"I want her back and I don't." He was taken aback. She's been crying for days, weeks, and she was telling him something nobody else would ever know. Cancer, she thought, was unforgiving. She may have been a terrible person to let her personal life--letting Alan extort her in order to keep her mother's business up and running--but she was glad her mother was dead. She was selfish, but he was a bastard. She cut her hair to remind herself that her mother was gone.
"You'll make up your mind soon about that. I'll have Eve clean this up. Lets get brunch." She nodded and went to dress. Alan was going to be the strong one again, like he always was. The life she once had was over, everything important to her was gone, and she only had to move forward. The opinions of others didn't matter now that she was alone with Alan the Bastard.
Alan stood behind her as she ran her hands over the cropped hair. What was once long and luxurious was not short and silky. "It's different," he said. She was silent. "Is this way of escaping the fact that she's looking back at you right now, that you look even more like her since she went through chemo?"
"She never cut my hair. It wasn't becoming of a lady."
"It's rebellion then." She sent him a reproachful look. Alan of all people knew what she'd been going through these past few weeks, and it was a surprise he wanted her around after the funeral at all.
"Reminder." His hands touched her shoulders. She was somewhat comforted from the rare gesture, half expecting him to turn and leave. His hand was on her back, soothing circles into her tense muscles.
"It's hopeless to try and fight your emotions on the matter."
"I want her back and I don't." He was taken aback. She's been crying for days, weeks, and she was telling him something nobody else would ever know. Cancer, she thought, was unforgiving. She may have been a terrible person to let her personal life--letting Alan extort her in order to keep her mother's business up and running--but she was glad her mother was dead. She was selfish, but he was a bastard. She cut her hair to remind herself that her mother was gone.
"You'll make up your mind soon about that. I'll have Eve clean this up. Lets get brunch." She nodded and went to dress. Alan was going to be the strong one again, like he always was. The life she once had was over, everything important to her was gone, and she only had to move forward. The opinions of others didn't matter now that she was alone with Alan the Bastard.
Friday, February 10, 2006
How Benjamin got his stripes
Homework
Benjamin faced his enemy, a Crye, and his blood pumped loudly in his ears. The creature was tall and lanky with dilated eyes. It smelled of blood and didn’t speak, its muddy skin rotting away and peeling to reveal a vibrant crimson membrane underneath. Its stringy black hair was slicked with grease. For a moment, Benjamin considered not fighting just so he wouldn’t have to touch it.
Though Cryes had a humanlike form, they fought like wild animals, tore flesh with their rounded teeth, and were half as fast as a cheetah in the daylight. Responding well to motions, evading the creatures was relatively simple to those who knew what they were doing. They were quicker by night when the cover was most natural. For a creature that looked as though it had been buried for three months, it could possibly kick Benjamin’s ass.
He was regretting the whole I’ll gather info on the Crye this weekend for further study promise. . . thing, and wondered why he decided to come alone. It was easy enough to kill, actually; he’d seen a woman take one down with half a ruler once in a classroom full of terrified students-probably the most impressive takedown he’d ever witnessed. Like a lovely ballet. He could take one down with the pocketknife in his hand, needing only to gouge it in the main artery behind the eye to put it out of its carnal misery.
Only he wasn’t here to kill it.
“Lets get this over with, Ugly.” He said as he leaped back; it lunged for him. It understood him. He managed to sidestep it as a clawed hand shot out to gut him. A notion passed through his mind: this one where this one was smarter than the last one he fought last week. With his arm out to the right he watched as the Crye acknowledged it, then repeated the process with the other arm. The creature followed the motion, then lashed out.
Benjamin was winded as he jumped back unsteadily, feeling the iron in his mouth as there came warmth from his chest. Damn, he thought, should’ve been more careful. Adrenaline rushing to aide him, he relaxed his grasp on the pocketknife with every intention of concluding the session. Taking the offensive, he leaped forward and tacked it to the ground with it letting out a throaty moan - its call to the others too far away to help. The blade came down into the creature’s eye.
Benjamin watched as it ceased to fight, knowing what was coming next; he raced to cover his wounds as the eye throbbed.
Moments later, Benjamin was spitting blood from his mouth and trying to wipe the molasses-like substance from the rest of his body. His jacket hadn’t soaked any of it onto his torso, a great relief. Of all the things he wasn’t prepared to experience, fusing the blood of a Crye with his own was high on the list. Standing up, he removed his tattered shirt and bloody jacket. He hadn’t expected it, that was for sure, and he leaned over with a wince to retrieve the pocketknife from the corpse.
Walking away, he groaned, “And I’ve got school in the morning. . . ”
Benjamin faced his enemy, a Crye, and his blood pumped loudly in his ears. The creature was tall and lanky with dilated eyes. It smelled of blood and didn’t speak, its muddy skin rotting away and peeling to reveal a vibrant crimson membrane underneath. Its stringy black hair was slicked with grease. For a moment, Benjamin considered not fighting just so he wouldn’t have to touch it.
Though Cryes had a humanlike form, they fought like wild animals, tore flesh with their rounded teeth, and were half as fast as a cheetah in the daylight. Responding well to motions, evading the creatures was relatively simple to those who knew what they were doing. They were quicker by night when the cover was most natural. For a creature that looked as though it had been buried for three months, it could possibly kick Benjamin’s ass.
He was regretting the whole I’ll gather info on the Crye this weekend for further study promise. . . thing, and wondered why he decided to come alone. It was easy enough to kill, actually; he’d seen a woman take one down with half a ruler once in a classroom full of terrified students-probably the most impressive takedown he’d ever witnessed. Like a lovely ballet. He could take one down with the pocketknife in his hand, needing only to gouge it in the main artery behind the eye to put it out of its carnal misery.
Only he wasn’t here to kill it.
“Lets get this over with, Ugly.” He said as he leaped back; it lunged for him. It understood him. He managed to sidestep it as a clawed hand shot out to gut him. A notion passed through his mind: this one where this one was smarter than the last one he fought last week. With his arm out to the right he watched as the Crye acknowledged it, then repeated the process with the other arm. The creature followed the motion, then lashed out.
Benjamin was winded as he jumped back unsteadily, feeling the iron in his mouth as there came warmth from his chest. Damn, he thought, should’ve been more careful. Adrenaline rushing to aide him, he relaxed his grasp on the pocketknife with every intention of concluding the session. Taking the offensive, he leaped forward and tacked it to the ground with it letting out a throaty moan - its call to the others too far away to help. The blade came down into the creature’s eye.
Benjamin watched as it ceased to fight, knowing what was coming next; he raced to cover his wounds as the eye throbbed.
Moments later, Benjamin was spitting blood from his mouth and trying to wipe the molasses-like substance from the rest of his body. His jacket hadn’t soaked any of it onto his torso, a great relief. Of all the things he wasn’t prepared to experience, fusing the blood of a Crye with his own was high on the list. Standing up, he removed his tattered shirt and bloody jacket. He hadn’t expected it, that was for sure, and he leaned over with a wince to retrieve the pocketknife from the corpse.
Walking away, he groaned, “And I’ve got school in the morning. . . ”
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