чσυ αrє тнє ∂яєαмer;; and we are the dream

[catastrophes muse]

don't steal, all layouts and words originals by me.

[catastrophes muse]

_____________sweet, sweet summer song
______________________________________________________







xxDELILAH||BLUExxx
____________________________
`____________________________
✿xxx whisperxxxhelloxxxixxxmissxxxyouxxxquitexxxterriblyxxx





She awoke lazily, strangely; something was not quite right. Her blonde hair spilled across the pillow, blue in the darkness, moonlight glinting bluely, newly off her pale skin. She blinked, stirring vaguely, surprised at the sudden barrier: an arm. Slung across her chest, pulling her against him. Her blue eyes became wide as they met another, closed pair. Last night rushed in a blur in her mind; recalling a man, this man, the brown eyes, the easy smile, the five o'clock stubble and shaggy brown hair. She smiled instantly; he had that affect on her, or so she discovered last night. They were joking, and drinking and laughing and they had danced--and then later, as his body met harder against her own--the embrace turned to lips, kisses and hands in hair. Hands touching hands, skin meeting skin. She looked at him again, and felt a strange smirk curve her lips; feeling her skin bloom again, warm suddenly. She glanced down at her bare pale blue skin, wondering--did she? she couldn't remember... but she was quite bare save for her knickers--a quick pink blush in her cheeks; suddenly embarrassed. She knew this was when she should move (but she didn't know for certain, she had only done this one-night stand thing once before)but there was something comforting in the soft cage that that arm provided. No, she told herself as she glanced towards the window(aware suddenly of school and other extraneous and annoying things), and the strangely familiar (but strange, still) man before her. With a sigh she curved out of the embrace. As she rose, unfurling her tall body her head complained. She pressed her hands prettily to her head.

She had gone to the party last night to suck out the last drops of summer; today school was to be revived. High school. She sighed and then gave a contented smile; a tinge of pride filling her. She always got into college parties easily (a result of being 5"9, pretty and having older friends) and now--pretty college boys. The woman tiptoed around the house, a bachelor's pad obviously--but not too untidy, surprisingly--searching for her clothing and noticing details at the same time. She saw her boots, instantly brightening, inching her knee-high lace up boots onto her feet as she eyed the books scattered around the room, raising her eyebrows, impressed. The man obviously knew plays and theatre quite well, and no small amount of pleasure and surprise filled her as she took in some of the obscure plays cluttered on the coffee tables. They weren't the easily liked ones, not generic. But they were delightful. She gave an appraising glance to the man, visible through the archway, smiling. And then she caught sight of the clock next to his head, urgency filling her. She had to get home, or at least, to school.

She pulled on her dress--her stretching, willowy figure obscuring the light filtering in through the window. And with no large amount of grace, promptly bumped into one of his shelves with her hip. A corresponding stir in the other room. A quick pink blush. "Oh," she breathed as she heard a yawn, saw a stretch. And then he saw her, posed in the archway, figure paused in the act of dressing, hair dewy and mussed. "Hi," the woman, said, affectionately, automatically, a warm smile. A small, brief, warm, electric pause. His hair wanted her hands to be in it. She wanted to walk to him, curve to his body again, and kiss him. Her heart decided it didn't like her body, and hammered against her skin. She gave him an embarrassed, restrained but warm smile; awkward fumblings made pretty by a woman. "I've got to go." The woman said quickly. It was nice to meet you... Mr...?" She paused, waiting for him to fill in the blank, biting her lip in her silence. She nodded and smiled at his answer, ducking her head prettily--newly. She curved her way to the door, leaving her name behind, she cast one last, blue glance his way--lips curved and eyes bright. "Delilah." Her phone, forgotten sat on her bag on his table.

____________________________

School was eased into with the usual drudgery of introductions, "tell me about yourself" bullshit sheets, and the endless stream of syllabi (see that latin comes in handy for something!), catching up with acquaintances, and coping with the sudden restriction of freedom. The workload was already kicking in. An essay due this Friday, a math test Tuesday. Delilah was glowing, having accomplished quite the feat--arriving at school not only in time, but newly showered, newly dressed, and without her parents noting her absence (too preoccupied with business and their alternate families). She could feel the excitement around her, teeming around her friends and acquaintances sentences. They were seniors; only one more year. Nostalgia was already kicking in a little; as it always did, students trading stories during the summer. Delilah blushing, admitting to her best friend where she had disappeared last night. For some reason, she didn't give the details--his name, how his hands felt on her skin. And in quiet moments, her eyes became unfocused and she remembered how safe and warm and right the soft cage of his arm had felt. She had never had that before. Well, yes, she had had it before, but it was fleeting, and far more diluted, a muted murmur of pleasure. She trailed her fingertips on her skin, remembering the warmth. She shook her head; she was being silly. As her Latin teacher droned on about class rules, her hand slipped into her pencil pouch, reaching for her phoen to text a friend. Delilah remembering suddenly she didn't have her cellphone. Instantly both hoping it wasn't and knowing it was at his house. She caught her head in her hands, shaking it. Of course something had to go wrong. Well, hopefully he'd get it to her. She sighed.

Meeting up with a friend in a hallway, she talked as she went to her next class; brimming with excitement. She was going to Theatre. It was a favorite of hers. She loved the idea of acting--trying on ideas, and skins. She liked being able to say everything she wanted to say, and some things she didn't and some things that she would never say, all wrapped up in a pretty role. The people she didn't understand. Raw emotion, understanding at her fingertips. Contorting herself to someone else, becoming them. It didn't require a lot of thought for her. It just was. So it was with no small amount of pleasure that she put her school books on the floor, taking a seat on the edge of a desk, still talking with a friend. "So did you hear about the new teacher?"

"What?" Delilah said, intrigued, curious, and a more than a little disappointed, remembering how good the teacher last year was. How had she missed this? She normally knew everything about Theatre--last year she had gotten the lead role in the school play.

"Yeah, Mrs. Willoughby switched to Freeman Monosory," Morgan said, idly, shaking her head. "Wow, you've been out of it! Everyone's been talking about it all day. "

The bell rang. Morgan continued.

"The new teacher is really new..." And things started to click. Plays scattered around a room. "...just graduated from college..." A name, familiar "Mr.--" The door opened, her breath caught, she turned her head, not hearing the rest of her friend's sentence.

And just like that--things changed. He walked into the room; there was no mistaking it. It was the man who had held her skin to skin only moments before--his brown eyes, his easy smile, his five o'clock stubble and his shaggy brown hair. A dreadful, crushing silence greeted the meeting of their eyes; electric.







▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅

[catastrophes muse]

VALENTINA

The circus life was never the way for Valentina. She hated it--all of it. She hated the fake smiles, she hated the smell of popcorn, she hated that she donated her life every night to the August Lazzini fund without any promise of a return, but more than anything, she hated that those animals, no matter how pretty mother painted it, were imprisoned and forced to perform. It's funny, Valentina never sympathized. She suffered enough, hated enough, to know that this world was too damn hard to worry about everyone else. But those animals--goddamn. She knew them, and understood. She used to dream every night about them. She'd be walking through the tents, and cut the rope connecting the awful things to their posts, and they'd vanish. There was a stampede, they ran in every direction. They mowed down the city. It was gorgeous and bloody--the tigers had blood replacing their stripes and they made humans their mirrors with deep, painful scratches on their bodies. The elephants stomped into pools, screamed for all their worth, and crushed those unmoving fools beneath their feet. Valentina would watch it all--she'd laugh, and smile. It was fair enough. She curled a match--struck, lit--and dropped it into the tents, letting them burst into gorgeous red blooms of fire. Letting it all burn. All that was her childhood, her trap, all her cage. A flame would lick at her toe, and she was on fire, and ash--but alive, oh so alive, and then her arms were stroking the fire--wings of scarlet blood--reborn from the deaths and ashes, and she got to fly away.

Valentina bit savagely down on her lip as she stared at the gawdy goddamn tent going up. She could dimly hear Delilah complaining a ways away. The sound was vaguely comforting, the soft hum of a woman's words. Valentina scoffed, and ducked her head. Soon, she'd be expected to perform. Soon, she'd get to see her father whip animals and call it entertainment; she'd get to see her mother, liberator of liberators--false hero that she was, do the same and smile--pretty, ignorant woman for an ugly, sinister man. She released her lip, leaning on one hip with a casual sensuality. Valentina was a woman with allure and bravery bred into each of her movements--it carried into everything, the swing of her hips, the hollow, open o of her mouth as she let a sigh escape. She was alive, young, and she didn't give any shits. She shifted, stubbornly, jaw high as if bracing herself for a boulder.

There's Nino, and he's lying beneath a tree, with eyes that look through her, not at her--like she's a thousand paces back--maybe she was. But Nino always went to see Mother, never Valentina. Unless Valentina was conveniently placed in his path--he loved Mother, and she never understood why. Mother was so superficial, all these glorious ideals--and who did she settle with? ******** Augusto Lazzini, most controlling, racist b*****d on Earth. Sweet jesus. Hypocrisy didn't get any bigger than that. Nino was better than that. He had no idea though. He was better than Rosalie too, although the girl certainly loved him to all ends of the Earth. Valentina lets a few of her own soft women words escape--little nothings, the murmur is always reassuring, even if her voice is a pace too deep to be authentic.

His eyes focussed, and Valentina caught his gaze with her own steady eyes. She gives a quick huff, feigning anger as he pulls her down. His touch has always been reassuring, and the embrace is comforting and smoothes peace into her veins. They lie like that a bit, him a warm weight on her stomach, face curled into her chest. He's the closest she's ever come to feeling sympathy--and his mention of a headache is worrying. This time travelling thing can't last long. It's going to end him, I can feel it. She frowns, still feigning anger. She can't keep a wry smile away after he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Nino, you always know how to make an entrance. Such a charmer," Valentina remarks wryly, frowning at him again.

"Women would be more appealing if they could learn to stay quiet, especially the loud mouth Italian ones." He's smiling, but Valentina rolls her eyes at the comment anyway, and hits him lightly on the arm.

"a**." She's always had bad language. No amount of beatings from August could ever discourage it, nor could any polite reasoning from Mother. "Because you always hold your tongue," Such an interesting comment from someone with perhaps the most ill-timed outbursts. Well, mine are pretty spectacular, but at least I don't pick fights with August every morning.


"You still going to that ridiculous party, tonight? Find me some good looking college girls, m'kay? Do it because you love your big brother so much, but make sure she is actually attractive, you know how picky I am."

"Yeah right. What am I, your errand boy?" Valentina lets a laugh out of her lips. "Remind me to not get a girl for you. You're horrible with them. You throw them out like last week's trash." She laughs at him again, and rises to her feet--all of that bold grace--swaying onto one hip again. "You could always come. And maybe bring Rosalie?" Valentina was more observant than most, but she'd have figured that someone would have noticed the way Rosalie brightened and preened when he was in the room, tracking his movements in a room like a flower following the sun. The s**t was ridiculous. And all the while--Silvestro is wrapped around her little finger. Greedy.

"Well, I'm going. Come or not. It's up to you. I'm leaving." Her hips shifted out of view again, all dark sensuality and golden vitality.

[catastrophes muse]

xxEMELIE||GRAYxxx
____________________________

A woman laid in bed, her form unmoving, her sleeping breaths quiet sighs. Dark brown hair caught against her pillow and wound around her neck, a dark gash. Her hands closed in her sleep, tucked tight against her chest. A quiet dissatisfaction choked her sleeping breaths. Sleep would not take her. It would have been a blessing. Her mind was a disease today, unsettling thoughts spreading like a curse. Her eyes opened; she closed them again. Frowned. Her chest felt tight; she was too much, too much. And too little. She stared at the ceiling, opening her hands wide, spreading her palms on her chest. "No, no," she said, her words a hushed, placid murmur. Listening to her boyfriend's sleeping, regular breaths beside her--she didn't want to look at him. Her mind summoned a picture in it's place and she automatically cringed. He was so, perfect. God, perfect. A frustration built up in her, she turned suddenly. Perfect. He had no flaws, so mindnumbingly flawless.

He had just hinted at marriage today. She said she'd think about it. A sigh escaped her lips. He was frustrated at her answer, she could tell in the way his lips constricted, and the seemingly relaxed reply of "Of course." Sera put a hand to her forehead, and felt tired to her core; but her eyes would not close. She rolled to her side and out of his arm. He had a way of making her feel trapped. Her hair spread out like a dark halo around her head. "There must be something wrong with me," she breathed out, her head held up by her arms, looking dully at a clock. 3:03. She closed her eyes and laid for another moment, attempting to sleep, mind empty but restless. She blinked her eyes open blearily. 3:04.

Sera was drifting in and out of awareness in her life. What did she do last Thursday? Last week? Last month? She couldn't remember. She was going through the motions; she had her entire life. A line from Cyrano de Bergerac came to mind as she stared at the fuzzy red letters from her clock. "The sum of all that he felt was not necessarily disappointment, but a vague sort of disgust." Or something like that. What was she doing? She thought over her life carefully; over the calm, civilized way she did everything.

A restlessness was building in her bones. It had been for a while, ever since she had sat through a dinner with James and not said a word to him, nor he to her. Oh wait--no, they did. Calm pleasantries. They talked about the weather, and their parents, and how sweet the royal wedding was. And oh... should they have a wedding? Sera had always wanted to be married. Ever since she was a little girl. And it only made sense that it would be James--her childhood friend, who became boyfriend when they were fourteen and had stayed that way throughout college. It was the only logical step. Everyone said so.

"No," another word sigh escaped her lips. She soundlessly got to her feet, giving up on sleep. A strange, fragile beauty clung to her in that moment--that dark hair like a curse fluttering around her pale skin, her lips were a bloody gash, her limbs thin, too delicate with her height of 5"8; she always seemed smaller. People were always surprised at how tall she actually was. "I..." she said to no one, nothing, in particular. The word felt weird on her lips. "...need...." she looked at the clothes she had laid out for the next day--a neat black pencil skirt and pretty white blouse--and felt a wave of disgust. Prepared. Of course. Her hand automatically reached to put them on and she pulled her hand back. No.

Stumbling towards her closet, she pulled out a pair of skinny jeans with a hole in the knee and a blue t-shirt, with a band she had once thought was the s**t. She put them on quickly and pulled on her old pair of Doc Martins. She stumbled out the door, grabbing a bag on her way out the door. She paused at the threshhold looking at the bag, wondering why she had grabbed in it. Then, in a sudden trance-like determination, she filled it with clothes grabbed randomly from her closet. Mostly knickers, she would later discover. The woman continued about her house in this trance-like determination; her slim turn of a wrist grabbing random things--car keys, a loaf of bread, a couple of CDs decidedly rebellious, her favorite books kept in a box in a basement--and then she saw her cellphone, pausing. She imagined his frantic phone calls. She imagined calling into work, she imagined work calling her. She imagined friends, worried, calling her. So many chains linked to her through that phone.

She couldn't bring herself to care enough. "To hell with it," she said to the phone, a sly grin curling her lips as she left it, charging, on the counter. Her delicate hand spun on the counter, swooping and picking up the car keys with one finger. She held the car keys in her hand, tightly, contemplating. She walked out the door, locking the door neatly behind her, feeling her heart begin to hammer. Oh, oh, she was living. A smile wound her lips as she started to drive her car. She didn't know where she was going; it didn't matter. She was escaping. Sweet placidity fled her bones; her driving was determined--full of grace and force.

She had never felt so lost. It wasn't a feeling she could shake. Her mind was a storm, dark clouds cluttered her eyes; she looked like a queen tumbled from her throne. Lost, lost, lost. And that strange fading fragility clung to her. Surprised at the emptiness that filled her life, sucking at it. How had she missed this before? But now things were different. She went above the speed limit, pressing the pedal more than ever before and then---the same strange confident smile. (oh yes!) She actually gave a yell as she drove; brimming with excitement. She dove in her bag, and put in one of the CDs. Screaming along with the lyrics to a song. Years scraped off her in that moment; she was beautiful, gorgeous, vivacious, and yes, strange.

[catastrophes muse]

AUGUST LAZZINI

The suggestion of time alarms him. She's always been the one to bring out the best and worst of him--the best, she makes him kinder, considerate, open-minded. The worst--she makes him impossibly angry. The idea of waiting is idiotic. Wait, and wait. Wait and plan. This would be all she ever did--all the world did, if it was decided by her suggestions. He flares his nostrils in anger; reigning it in. "Wait? We'll be broke in two weeks. Two weeks, Adalina." He resumes, his pacing--steps abrupt and aggressive. The people? "They don't know what they want until we show it to them. They're uncreative; they are too normal." He frowns, pauses by the window. It's somewhat miraculous that his pacing has not landed him in horse s**t--well, other than the bullshit that are Adalina's suggestions and the very likely prospect of his career, his dream, ending.

"We could... suit the men--you know, have a dance show or something. Short skirts, pretty girls. We'll make a few pretty pennies out of that..." His voice drops off, he runs his hands through his hair. It's not enough, and he knows it. Putting that pretty new girl--what's her name?--in a "dance" show. That would totally corrupt their name. Ruin the appeal to a family market. Unless they expanded--a bit for everyone. August gave another frown, eyes furrowing. That would be impossible--unless they got lucky. Or he got a little crafty. Unless--he sabotaged another circus. Perhaps he could absorb the remnants of another circus? There were plenty of small ones around. He shook off the thought--that would take too long.

He startles at the sound of Adalina's voice, interrupting his thoughts. Oh of course! She wants to talk about the children, and ruin things even further. Sometimes he feels like he is talking to a child. Of course, of course Adalina is wishing freedom for the children. She doesn't have to pay the bills. She doesn't have to take care of the family. Adalina gets to say all the nice things, and wish for freedom and peace while August has to be the horrible, horrible man--always restricting. Always ******** practical. His hand slams against the wall, angry. "Adalina!" It's not quite a yell, it's quiet, but so forceful it commands attention. He directs his blue, stern eyes towards her. "We can't afford that. I know it's all wonderful, and beautiful to imagine those children branching off--getting loves!" His voice leaps into it--he's living it, those blue eyes are imagining entire lives--their children, growing up, laughing, travelling and then having their own infants--behind their lashes. He's impossible to look away from. And then his vision cracks, and he falters--"But that's not possible Adalina. It would mean the end of us...of this--" he gestures at the beautiful horses in the carriage. Her next statements startle him. Coming fast and hard--and his anger builds. He's no longer acting, no longer charming. His charisma builds with his anger, and his powerful, muscular body quakes with power and aggression.

"Don't. Don't you dare tell me how I am with my family." He steps closer to her, face inches from hers. "I never forget about my family. What do you think this--" he throws his hands in the air, gesturing expansively, eyes cold and fierce. "Is for? Why do you think I'm worrying so much? I've taken care of everyone. I always have--I love all of you. And sometimes--taking care of people means they can't go frolicking off into little fields, it means hard work, it means discipline. Sometimes, it means you have to be harder. Sometimes, it means I have to let Ninno know he's doing something wrong. This is how you raise children, Adalina. Not everything can be flowers and rainbows and I'm oh so sorry this isn't perfect, that this isn't the life you thought you were getting. But it's what you have. It's what we have."

"I'm sorry," he spits out, but it comes out as more of an accusation. Yes, he could let the children roam, but then the circus would fall. And then he'd lose them. Like they'd ever come back to see their father. They hated him. He could feel it, when he walked into rooms. The militant way the Valentina said August, not father. The way that Ninno curled his lips in resentment. They hated him. His eyes burned, he looked at the sky quickly, blinking fiercely. He shrugged, adopting his polite and disciplined stature once again. His family may hate him for it, but he had to take care of them. He had to find out an act.

[catastrophes muse]

keep calm, keep breathing



_____________AVERYGREENLEVINE

t h e o l d b u i l d i n g s d ow n t o w nx e m p t y s o l o n g ago x
w ɩ n d ow s ь r o k e n a n d dreaming
so happy to leave what was my home
w i t h a s k y b l u e sky xt h i s r ot t e n t i m e
wouldn’t seem so bad to me now

Reality came for her. Reality that crumpled metal, that made buildings quiver, that made mothers scream for long dead children. Bullets would ran past her, and she tasted the rusted metal in her mouth. Before it was beats away, felt through the last, gentle ripple, seen through thick glass. She never understood why their faces were painted that way, in pain, before. She never had to sweat, and she certainly didn't cry. Her head might have flicked up as she was cutting up string beans to hear, with detached weariness, about the latest bombing.

It was real now--the past few days had been real. The marks on her shins were from stumbling across the twisted metal spine of a block's clock tower. Gashes on her arms from being pushed to the ground behind a car so she wouldn't get killed by a nearby explosion. And these hands, covered in calluses. Hands whose sole job mere months ago had been to put books neatly on shelves, to turn pages. These hands had met with violence. Funny, how people who have never been in violent situations advise turning the other cheek--she would have said the same thing a month ago. Nothing against Ghandi or Jesus now, but s**t, she was thankful for weapons.

She signed up for this, she'd remember with a laugh in bad moments--she left a life of perfect comfort, an excellent job, abandoned her friends and family, for this. Maybe it was the lack of sleep but suddenly, the whole situation felt hilarious. She'd been hiding her pregnancy, because she wanted to participate in this so much. She was pregnant, she was a librarian, and she was an enemy to her country. Her mother would be appalled. Avery ducked her head and smiled to herself--God, she was such an idiot.

The feeling fled as soon as the truck went over a particularly hard bump and she was overcome with nausea. Avery wasn't usually so sensitive to carsickness, but being five weeks pregnant will change that. She was determined to not throw up though, she didn't want to be the weak one--she didn't want them to compensate for her. She was tough as s**t, she could handle this. Taking a deep breath of air, she closed her eyes, and told herself to calm down. She repeated this practice throughout the drive willing her nausea away. When the truck came to a stop, she whispered a hushed "Hallelujah," under her breath. When everyone walked away from the truck, Avery hung back--trying to not run to a bush to throw up.

Walking slowly back over to the group, Avery rubbed her arms, trying to brush off her self-consciousness. Slipping into the background, she watched the two figures up ahead, and glanced around those closest to her. Should she talk to someone? God, she felt so uncomfortable--but she had to get over that. Drawing herself up to her full height of 5"7, she turned to the girl close to her. Guess it was time for introductions. She looked extraordinarily young. Was she oldest one here? Avery wondered, taking one brief glance around. Seemed like it. Her eyes suddenly curved in sadness. Children. So many young people--and now they were fighting. She was instantly filled with a maternal protective instinct before she realized she wasn't that much older. But she was. They looked like they hadn't even been in college before. Especially that girl with the white blonde hair, she was all softness--she didn't look cut out for this, not even a little bit. She shook herself out of the thought, and offered her hand to the woman next to her. "Hello," a warm smile but she was never good at introductions or first impressions, so the energetic greeting withered. "I'm Avery."

skyblueskythisrottentimeoh, I didn’t die
skyblueskythisrottentime__I should be satisfied
skyblueskythisrottentime____I survived.
skyblueskythisrottentime( that's good enough for now )