Welcome to Gaia! ::

Title: none thus far
Date written: about a month ago
Connection to other stories: yes, nearly all my stories are connected in one way or another
Format: Intro
Genre: horror, modern fantasy


Life has never been easy for Jake--and being the only albino in town didn't help matters. He was used to the stares, the mutterings, the jokes....he was practically immune to it by the time high school rolled around. School was the worst place for him to be: there he had the privelage of having multiple eyes burning into his back and when he turned, having others stare into his front.

The cirriculum wasn't that bad. His grades were pretty good. In other ways, life wasn't really so bad for Jake: nobody ever really bothered him, he was keeping his place in the honor roll and, most of all, he had a loving family. A huge family. Four sisters--two younger, two older--three brothers--one younger, one older, the other adopted--, his mother was seven months pregnant, and they were in the process of becoming a foster family. The first child was expected to visit next week. Jake never knew how good he had it until his life changed...for the worse.

No-one knew exactly how it happened, just that it happened--at 8:25 p.m, Saturday on Broxsville Road. They had been coming home from their bi-weekly trip to the bistro.

It was the most violent and deadly crash in the history of the town. Smashed windshield, crunched front end. Burst into flames. Nine dead. Only one survivor. Jake was lucky enought to be projected through the windshield instead of being burned alive. Some said he was lucky he wasn't wearing his seatbelt.
Jake didn't feel lucky at all. For the first time in his life, he was utterly alone. And worst of all, there was no-one willing to take him in. Maybe his white hair scared everyone off. Maybe some thought he was 'disturbed'. For a while, he was. He didn't eat more than a half a plate a day for over a month, he spoke sparingly, as if it were painful to do so, and his grades plummeted, so much so, he dropped out of school. Whatever institution took him in would supply him with knowledge. One thing he certainly did not have to be taught about was how cruel the world could be. Cruel and unfair. The admittance papers were already signed when a strange lady with a pink bowler hat strode up Child Service's steps. She claimed she was the boy's aunt (by marriage only) and that she had been away on a trip and only got back yesterday, and that she was so sorry she came late, teary eyed about the news. She said she would take him in; it was her obligation.
"Well, someone has to," she said.
It was at that moment Jake decided he didn't like her. There was something not quite right about her, though he couldn't pinpoint what it was. He went away with her reluctantly, with each moment getting more the feeling he was better off at the orphanage.

It turned out he was right. This woman had never seen a child before, and especially not a stark white one. Her actions were robotic; clueless, at times mindless. Her friends were no better: they were both proud and dreadfully sorry for her. She had accepted the burden of raising a disturbed teenager. In the eye of the world, he did seem that way. His actions, like hers, were understandable in a way...he did just lose his entire family.
This poor woman couldn't handle it. She lived on her own, of course (no man could ever stomach living with her) and travelled a lot, mostly to warm countries--company retreats, she called them. Their life became a painstaking routine: he went to a learning disability school, she went to work until late, and on weekends he would stay home and watch the house while she planned her horrid little "parties" with the other strange ladies of her golden age. With this routine, she found this new life quite retainable. Maybe raising a teenager wouldn't be so hard after all.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

The Strange Things didn't begin until well after the accident, and she wasn't really aware of them until much later, when she decided she drank a little too much sherry and came home early, a little tipsy. She had no idea what Jake did in the house when she wasn't around, and frankly, as long as he wasn't trying to hang himself in the closet, she didn't care. But, when she saw for herself, she bagan to care very much.
It was not just Jake's hair that made him different....

She fainted dead away.

oh....crap.
o well. sweatdrop
(i heart timbits) XD
i don't have anything else written for this, but I got the plot in my noggin'. maybe i'll write a lil more. i'm working on a chapter outline for hytheira right now, so i dunno...
i'll have an entire week off in a few weeks, so i should be able to get that done.

Sexxxaaaaay! I can't draw like that. crying You're realllllllyyy good.

Only two things, 'cause I'm being nitpicky and am high on a Shirley Temple.

-His fingernail doesn't exist. right thumb. *shrug*

-It's a bit messy. Mine get like that too; what I do is I tape the original to a window (bright sunlight outside) and another piece of clean paper over it, adn trace the lines. Tis fun too. ^^

cooooooolll!

thank you muches ^.^
guess wat? i originally had the nails penciled in...but I FORGOT TO INK THEM gonk i didn't realize that until now. i made it look all sketchy in PS. the original is very neat looking and boring. >.> yes, i just learned about tracing a good copyyy....might be a good idea considering my paper is UBER bumpy. took me forevers to edit out all the pencil lines.
i have a new timbit coming up soon. stay tuned!
(that sounded lame)
-sakura
(don't feel bad kirby, i've been drawing for forrrevverrrs.)

nonsense. yur a fine writer, kirby. u gotta be some form of good if you've been writing yur whole life.
3nodding

format: introduction
date completed: Mar. 29
connection to other stories: a tale of one of the 'dimension cities', connected to hytheira, project tsubesa and the musicbringer.
genre: modern fantasy/drama




NEW TIMBIT. YAY. : D

Story Ideas: City of past or present. Haven't decided yet. Wrote on a whim. Hope you like it. fixing the typos. i typed half of it in a program with no spell check.


C-clang. C-clang. C-clang.

The sound cut through the silence, the baton hitting every bar on every cell. The tenants whom were asleep jumped from their slumber, looking a bit disappointed that another day had came. The others just glared, trying to see through their captors' tough skin. None of them spoke. None of them made a sound. They couldn't--any fight they had left was needed to keep alive. A piece of bread and an apple a day just wasn't enough.

Not a single one of them looked like a criminal; their faces--helpless, their bodies--beaten, their eyes--pleading, their voices--gone. Very few in that place were really guilty. The only real crimes that put them there were extortion, racism, hatred, kidnapping and prejudice. They weren't the guilty ones.

Darren rolled over in his cot, trying to muffle out the noise. He stared at the old, tired walls, counting the marks upon them. There were hundreds of them, lined up in tallies.

"Three years..." he mumbled into his musty pillow, "Three damn, bloody years." He added another mark, using a stone he'd chipped off the wall.


C-clang. C-clang.


"Damn."


He sat up and waited for the noise to stop. Far up the hall he could hear them, the guards. They must have been underpaid; they certainly didn't get their kicks from the job description alone. They picked one every day. They picked one sorry, doomed soul to kick, to yell at, to spit on. For a moment, he felt a twinge of relief--and then disgust--that it wasn't him today. Last week he had been. He had the scar to prove it. He tried to muffle out the pitiful cries for help, but it was no use. The sound had already burned its way into his mind and soul. He found a tear on his face, but quickly wiped it. Tears were usless. Plus, tears got you another club in the face.

C-clang. C-clang.

The screams quieted to a whimper as the gaurds moved down the hall. Darren breathed a little sigh and ruffled his silver hair. He was not old (he appeared only twenty or so), but it was a stark grey, right down to the roots, as it had always been. Despite being a prisoner, it was left long and matted, bits falling into his eyes at places. His ears poked out from underneath, a bit oddly. Well, oddly enough... they were pointed.

"Hey you!"

One of his ears twitched, but he did not speak. Instead Darren stared at the guard who was grinning back at him. Why was he there? This was unusual. They did not beat up more than one person per hall. He opened his mouth and took a dare. He spoke.

"Are you not satisfied?" his English accent rang. He risked a smirk. The guard snarled back, and hovered a threatening hand over his knife.

"That's fifty demerits, asswipe," he spat, "for talkin' back." Darren rested his head against the wall and let out a cold laugh.

"I had the impression you spoke to me first." He set the pillow behind his head and closed his eyes.

"Another fifty!" The gaurd began fingering the keys. "For bein' a smartass."

"Hmmm...." Darren made a little note on the wall. "That's over three hundred this week. I wonder....sir, are you trying to starve me?" There was a little hint of irony in his voice. Darren, like all the others, were thinner than healthy. His eyes had sunken in, his hands showing their bones, his knees shaking with stress when he walked. Each twenty demerits was one portion of food gone, anytime they wished. He would die if he had any less.
The guard gritted his teeth, his face red.

"Shuddup. Startin' tomorrow, I don't hafta see yur sorry face no more."

Darren sat bolt right. Surely he hadn't been convicted....?

“Ha! Wiped that smile off yur face.” He looked very pleased with himself. Reaching inside his shirt pocket, he spat to his right, not even realizing he did so. “See this here?” He pulled out a little envelope and threw it at him, it landing on his lap. “Take a damn good look at it. Yur bein’ moved.”

A lump formed in his throat, and he fumbled with the paper. Surely they wouldn’t be changing his sentence now…He opened it. His tired eyes scanned the paper quickly, his head unmoving. Darren’s throat went dry and his lips struggled to say the words.

“D-death row?” he stumbled, his thoughts falling away. If the starvation didn’t kill him…they would. He sat there for a long moment, staring, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Never seen you shut up that fast!" He laughed darkly, looking pleased at his horror. "Hey, I’d stay to enjoy it, but I gots more important things to be doin’.” He gave him a final smirk, and waved to a guard down the hall. He took a few smart steps, stopped, turned and scowled, screwing up his face in thought. “They gotta ‘nother piece of paper for ya. Dunno why.” He threw it between the bars at the prisoner, and this time he caught it. What could it be now? An execution date? He stared at the golden paper, hoping the envelope would open itself. Moments ticked by, and soon the old mans' footsteps disappeared into the air. Darren tore his eyes away for a moment, and thought. He thought about his stay here…coming to an end. Recently he’d been seeing death as a blessing rather than a burden. So many others had been here for so much longer, and they had been cruelly denied an end to their suffering. It wasn’t fair.

He opened the envelope, unfolded the pink paper, and his mouth fell open.

“Collin!” he squeaked, awakening the prisoner in the next cell with a start. He heard a thump and a curse beyond the stone wall, and son a brick began to shift, like someone was prying it loose. Soon it fell away, and a tired--and slightly annoyed--face appeared. The annoyance quickly disappeared when he saw the look upon his friend’s face, and the papers in his hands. He gulped.

“What are those?”


Darren gave a weak smile, and went to sit by the hole. He sighed, and handed the first paper over. While Collin was reading, he spoke.

“I don’t know what to think now,” he breathed. “I thought the second one was an execution notice, but…” They exchanged papers. It only took a moment before Collin shouted,

“No way! Darren, this could be your ticket out of here!”

A few prisoners looked up, and leaned in to listen. Darren sighed, unperturbed. Sure. That was what he said last time.

“I don’t think so Collin.” His voice was small; defeated.

Collin shuffled and turned, the two now sitting back to back, sperated by only a few inches of brick. So close, but yet so separated. Silence soon engulfed them, thick enough to hear each-others' breathing and the pained whimperings of the poor soul down the hall. Darren continued, as if they hadn’t been interrupted:
“I don’t even know who this person is.”

Collin laughed.

“Well,” he suggested, “it could be one of them, you know. I know they’re still out there; they’re too stubborn to give up that easily.”

Darren smiled at the memory of them. He was their leader, their brother, and for many of them, their saviour. They were so close to victory.

“No. I told them not to come for me. I told them to continue without me.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. Collin sighed and handed him back the paper.

“Well, if it is one of them, you can’t blame them.” He narrowed his eyes in thought, though Darren couldn’t see. “After all, a group is only as strong as its leader.”

Darren shook his head and jabbed Collin in the side. He gave a squeak of surprise.

“You know very well I don’t believe that,” he scoffed. “A group should not be dependant on one person. They should be dependant on each-other. That way, the Cause will not fall.” Collin laughed. It was a cold laugh.

“Must you always talk like that? You sound like one of those dead scholar guys.”

“Trust me, you will miss it.”

And then it hit them. Starting tomorrow, they would be separated---for good. The fact had numbed them; confused them. What would happen now? Would death row be much different that this hall? Surely the faces lining it would be even more pained; pitiful; lost. He imagined the hall would be shorter, dimmer, grungier, with thicker walls. But would anything else change? Would he rot there, waiting for a death that would never come? There hadn’t been an execution there for decades, maybe even a century. All the deaths in that place were suicides, the result of batterings, and killings by other prisoners. The next thought wave hit him. Why was there an opening in death row? It always had been full to capacity…the timing was just too convenient.

“Well, let’s hope you’ll have someone interesting for a replacement,” Darren said, his voice flat. For a moment, his ears twitched. While they were speaking, an explosion of whispers had spread around them; a message was being carried down the hall. “Hmm? What’s that?” Darren asked, more to himself than to Collin. He looked across the hall, and sure enough, the boy inside was staring at him.

“Darren Blackwater!” he called, standing up. Darren raised his brow, listening. “You know of the prisoner at the north end of the hall?”

That was a stupid question. Everyone knew everyone; there wasn’t much else to do. He knew the speaker’s name--it was Nathan--but he did not bother to speak it. Instead, he skipped to the answer.


“Yes…Lucious is it?” Darren remembered him vaguely, once seeing him when he was admitted, the other time in the showers. Collin told him he was not human, like him. Rumour had it he was arrested when he was just three years old, for just being what he was. His parents were called murderers and bloodsuckers, and he guessed he was, too. His parents were killed, and he had ended up here. He never talked to anyone. Ever. He never really learned to speak that well, anyway. When the moon was full was when he was most active: he scratched the walls, groaned and occasionally threw things. They must have been giving him the drink, otherwise he would have been dead by now. Darren couldn’t see that far down the hall, so he wondered how they administered it….without anyone seeing, that is.

“Lucious received a letter also. I had to read it to him.”

Darren stood up.

“You mean he…?”

“Yes. He is moving to death row.” He paused, and both of them moved closer to the bars. “Yes, there have been two deaths up there. One is a mystery, the other a suicide. And yes, there is a replacement for you.”

Well, let’s not have everything happen at once, Darren thought, backing away from the bars. He felt the eyes turn away from him again as he sat back down. The chatter and whispering subsided.

“Darren,” Collin whispered, “I have something for you.”

“Hmm.” What could he possibly have? Any why was he speaking so soft?

“Hold out your hand.” Darren was puzzled, but did what he was told. He felt something light and crunchy fall into it, like plastic.

“Take it. You’ll need it.” Collin sounded grave now. He could only imagine what his face looked like.

“What is it?” he pulled he arm back through the hole, and let it rest in his hands. The plastic was just a covering. Inside the clear bag was a black ball, a bit lumpy in texture. It was almost perfectly round, except for a little chunk that was missing.

“It’s a drug, Darren,” Collin sighed, “I took a bit of it last time they wanted a piece of me. When you take it,” he paused, and exhaled a breath he was holding, “nothing hurts. And you won’t remember a thing. When they come for you, take it. Take the whole thing at once. There’s no way you can hide that thing.”

A knot tied in his stomach. All of it? At once? Wouldn’t that be dangerous?

“Trust me Darren, you will need all of it. This hall is nothing compared to death row. Just eat it, crunch it up and snort it, whatever. It’ll work any way you take it. I gotta’ warn you though. There are a few nasty side effects. They won’t come until later, though.”

Darren unwrapped it, and took a little whiff. He coughed, feeling light headed, and wrapped it back up. It smelt strongly like smoke. Wait a moment, he pondered, Why should only I…. His lips barely formed his words.

“Shouldn’t Lucious…?”

“What? Get some? It’s impossible to move anything across the hall without the doctor. You know that.”

Darren’s heart sank. Now he felt guilty. Collin must have sensed this, for he said,

“Don’t worry about him. He is living in a world of his own. He’ll find a way to deal.” He screwed up his face. “Darren, look at me.”

Both turned around. Collin’s amber eyes greeted Darren, for the last time. They were sad, but still strong. His face was pale as it always was, but it was faltered into someone he didn’t know.

“Darren,” his eyes trailed for a moment, like he was changing his mind at what he was about to say. The moment passed, and their eyes locked again. “I’m no good with goodbyes.” He tried to smile, but he failed. “So, let’s not, OK? I’m going to bed now. Best you did too, it’s late. Nathan will wake you up in good time.” Collin’s words flew over his head, but he did his best to reel them back in. Somehow, he managed to say,

“Alright. Good night.” He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying ‘see you in the morning’, as he always did.

They went to their beds. The last of the lamps went out, and a quiet sob began to ring through the hall.

Death row, and a visitor’s letter. Someone from the outside knew he was still alive--and she wanted to interview him-- but the people here were one step closer to killing him. What would happen now? He put the mystery drug in his pillowcase. Soon a black and dreamless sleep engulfed him, mercifully. Tomorrow, while they beat him and dragged him away, he would be soaring. He would soar high above this world; high above this hell hole. For a short time, he would be free. This alone gave him the deep, restful sleep of a dead man walking.