CONTEST ENTRY----
Raife couldn't decide what season it was. He could feel the onset of that unavoidable changing of the guard, the moment when the arid dust of summer and the splattering droplets of fall mingled to form the thick, crusty layer of clean grime that enveloped everything. That that had once been green or shiny turned a disreputable gray and the leaves clung stubbornly to the trees. Truthfully, Raife didn't find the colorless not-fall so so distasteful that he couldn't stomach it. The contradiction between the two seasons seemed to be no less than necessary to spur the pre-winter mindset of the animals in the forest that surrounded him.
Although Raife himself didn't hibernate, he had his own business to attend to. It was time to suck up the last dredges of summer and celebrate the last of the lazy days. It was a creaky flight of stairs to his favorite place in the house, an ill-fated half-built attic, one of his early attempts to compensate for growing house guests and diminishing space. He'd eventually decided that, without any neighbors, a ranch-like sprawl was a much more appropriate choice, and the attic had gone into disuse and the perpetual state of half-assedness that effervesced from most of Raife's building attempts. There was something charming about the attic however, and a few years later, Raife had returned to it for refuge. In between wall-to-wall stacks of lopsided cardboard boxes, he'd wedged an over-sized, over-used beanbag. He spent so much time up in that little crawlspace that the bag recognized his form as he settled into it, sighing and shifting beans to accommodate him.
The boxes wrapped around Raife were also part of the reason he ventured up into the cramped but cozy space. They were an heirloom and they were his childhood, all wrapped up in one. Full to busting with comic books from every decade in the last half-century, they had breath, life and history all their own. When he curled up in the chair, surrounded by them, he felt as giddy as a child, as warm and safe as a newborn and part of something...bigger than himself.
Picking a particularly ancient favorite from a teetering box carefully nudged between two others, he tapped it lightly against a pant leg and watched a puff of dust circulate around him for a moment, then disperse to whence it came. It was as happy amongst the stacks as he was.
There was something special about this particular comic. It was like a rush of every positive feeling he'd ever had about comics, all the hopes, fears, excitement and triumph from every comic book in these stacks concentrated into an almost tangible force. As it warmed and pulsed around him like an external heartbeat, it felt like coming home.
Superman #76. It'd been with him since his birth, one of few things inherited from an older brother that didn't visit anymore. It'd been cherished before him and Raife had seen to it that the comic had been continued to be cherished. Cared for, certainly, but read, enjoyed as comics were supposed to be enjoyed. He remembered the stories his brother had told him about saving up his pocket money towards what would have been a young boy's ultimate dream.
Maybe the colors were a little brighter and the pages were a little smoother in the newer comics, but some things never changed. Superman and Batman graced the worn cover in all-too-trademarked costumes, looking every part the broad shouldered pillars of dependency. Some things gratefully never changed.
Just as he turned the cover, a sudden breeze swept wildly through the room, rifling the pages across Raife's lap, filling the room with the fluttering sounds of comic books rifling and rattling boxes. It was as if something was everywhere and nowhere all at once. The comic book clattered to the floor and Raife gripped the bean bag beneath him in alarm, crinkling beads and plastic. What the hell was going on?
All at once, only moments later, it all died down to still again and the room settled. Raife sighed long and hard and ran his fingers over his face, understandably a little shaken up. What had happened? The attic hadn't any windows and the breeze hadn't been cold. It had been a rush of life and energy and the supernatural feeling from that was all too unusual and unsettling.
He supposed that was his cue that the attic wanted to be left alone for now.
Every once in a while, since he'd started using the attic as a reading lounge, strange things had happened, so he was fairly used to it. Usually, however, they were minor: a light flickering, a chime without a clock. But nothing as sharp and lively as that had felt. Tucking the comic book under his arm, Raife jogged back down the stairs. The rest of the house was untouched, as if nothing had occurred. Not a thing seemed out of place. It was obvious that the wind had belonged to the attic and had been meant for Raife to feel. Flopping back over onto the couch with a sigh, he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Why did he always attract supernatural phenomenon? Was there something about him that screamed 'unwilling victim'?
He nudged half-heartedly at the comic book resting lightly on his chest before picking it up to read again. Or, at least, he tried to read it. As he attempted to split open the pages to where he'd left off, they seemed stuck together...and something was
dripping. Forcibly prying the pages apart, Raife cursed himself mentally. What had he done to his prize comic book? Had one of the boys done it, and tucked the book back inside the mylar, hoping he wouldn't notice?
Twin drops of red and yellow spattered onto his lap and he bolted up from the couch. Mustard? Ketchup?! Which one of those careless, idiotic...
And then a blue and purple stream joined them and Raife's brain clicked off, puzzled and disturbed. Whatever it was was dripping at far too steady a pace to all be contained in that little comic book. Holding it up by its binder, Raife watched the steady flow of paint with abject fascination. Suddenly, as abruptly as it started, the flow stopped and Raife felt that same rustle of breeze surround him and the book. The pages of the comic book fluttered as if they'd never been stuck together. The illusion was almost complete...except for the stain of paint still dripping over his hardwood floors. The swirl of colors seemed to pulse, shift and swirl with a life of their own. Concerned as he was for his prized comic book, the color swirl was transfixing, energetic and it seemed to be directing all of its efforts into captivating Raife. He had to admit, it was a beautiful contrast to the dreary day.
Well, he would have admitted it if he weren't so weirded out.
Then it started to move. My god, where was it going?! Hadn't it done enough? That villainous technicolor swirl was heading towards the hallway, towards the rambling arrangement of rooms where Raife's house guests lived. As it circled near his youngest child Declan's room, Raife held his breath. So far, everything the...apparition -yes, that was an appropriate moniker for the little devil!- had done had been fairly innocuous but he didn't want to trust it with a baby! He breathed a thankful sigh as the swirl moved on.
Then cursed the air blue as it slipped under the crack of his son Mikhael's door as quick as air.
Raife rushed to the door and burst inside, startling Mikhael, who was already standing...staring at the strange colored phantasm. It was shimmering now, and both Mikhael and Raife could see the outline of a figure standing over the paint. The paint wasn't the being itself, but rather a dripping excess sliding off its limbs and pooling onto the floor at its feet, only becoming visible as a snail-slime like trail as it walked. As it reached out with one hand toward Mikhael, Raife rushed forward, but Mikhael held up a hand, waving Raife away. He stared into the small being's eyes, hard, before softening, with a smile.
"Lonely. He's lonely. He just wants company." Raife felt a pang of guilt. He'd come from the attic, hadn't he? Of course he was lonely, tucked up there all alone with only the dust mites and mylar to keep him company. Raife hadn't had the time or the energy after the kids had come along and he hadn't had the time to stop by and read as much as he used to. He felt a wash of shame and rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the comic book he still clutched in his hand. It wasn't fair for him to have to give up his childhood just because he was growing up. But maybe...he looked up at the apparition and Mikhael. Maybe he could share. Smiling at Mikhael and the being, he gestured to the edge of Mikhael's bed and opened up the comic book for both of them.
As he read, he looked over at his son and the lonely spirit...
...
and the multicolored mess spreading over Mikhael's sheets...
and figured it might be worth it to invest in a few packets of rubber sheets.
-----
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Concept By: Raife
Spirit: A 1950's Superman comic book.
Name: Connor
Gender: Male
Appearance: His hair is ink black(har har), short and a little messy. He probably never remembers to comb it. His eyes are gray. Through his younger years, he's whippet thin, with the body of an active child. As he gets older, it turns into an athletic swimmer's build. His skin is where it gets a little interesting. He's fair-skinned and rosy cheeked, but random patches of his skin are literally splashed with permanent stains of paint in multicolored hues. They look like slashes of a paint brush. The 'paint' is liquid, and on a hot day, it drips, but they can't be wiped off or hidden. They stain any clothing he wears, and get on anything he touches, including himself, so he's often smudged. Each of the pads of his fingers on one hand has a different color, repeated on the mirroring digit on his other hand. (i.e. If one of his thumbs had purple 'paint,' the other would too.)
He's anything but conservative in his dress. He favors bright colors and flapping capes, all stained with the marks from his body. Doesn't have anything against wearing underwear outside his shorts either. Anything goes as long as it's bright, attention getting, and comfortable to move around in. Or at least, completely
awesome. ------
Full name: Connor
