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 Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 2:52 am
He tried to swing at whatever it was that held him (he considered for a delirious moment swinging at the mirror instead but there were too many variables and so far doing one thing after another hadn't done him a damn bit of good), but the movement was stilted and difficult. The only thing he managed to do with any sense of strength was to yell for America, and maybe, he thought, he'd only imagined that. The last thought he wrangled into existence was that maybe it was OK, if he had.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 3:16 am
Through Fiona, he'd stay aware a little longer, hearing the bright voices chatter as he slipped into what felt like a warm bath, comfortable and comforting and all around him. "Another few weeks and we would have been set." It was a different voice, huskier but still feminine. "We wouldn't have had that long, not if this one and the other mean more on the way." The woman's had lost her bright, dreamy tones. She was determined and there was a hardness there that hinted at all costs."Risky to capture them, Cinna." "Then we'll have to work quickly." A pause and then, "Children, Dew, sprites of our very own." America picked up the bell, startling as it rang once and then quickly silenced it, expression tightly worried as she looked for further sign of Taym. The conversation was interrupted by a bright ringing that filled the area, power shivering through the air. "It's the other...but only the once?" "Don't worry," Cinna stated in a fading voice, "the second is inevitable." And finally Taym fell into the dream, into the perfect life on the best day. Every regret and failing, every if only answered. If the world were clay to be moulded by his shaking hands and demanding vision of what it meant to be a good man with a good life, this was the world he'd create.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 3:45 am
With every mistake that unraveled there was a little less atonement required. With every ******** effaced from his record there was a little less heroism necessary to settle the balance. Life, unwound backwards far enough, stripped from him a need for greater acts of self-sacrifice. The man in the dream was undoubtedly one that would sacrifice himself for a greater good, but he'd do it because it was the right thing to do, and not because he needed to. Heroism has no place here, anyway. The thought is the furthest thing from his mind. Tuesday's perched on the edge of his desk with her feet swinging back and forth, spilling out to him all her skinned-knee, nervous, fifth-grader secrets. She's still Tuesday but there's something off about it, a niggling final doubt that eventually dies down, because there's something about her that he doesn't understand and can't pin down. ( A perfect life has Tuesday in it, of course. What he can't remember, because there's nothing to remember, is that in a perfect life he'd never have been camped outside waiting for the needle exchange to open when he met a tired-eyed, pretty girl, reading Lolita and flexing her toes back and forth in boredom and already halfway to dopesick.) He's got a pen in his hand, even though there's a laptop six inches from his elbow, because the thoughts come easier this way. They come at his beckoning, of course, organized and one at a time, clear and sharply-reasoned. They've called his writing brutal and stark and sterile and meant it as compliments, every word. It's stripped of fat. It's spare and beautiful, articulate, a tidy reflection of the ease with which he navigates his own head. The occasional moments of warmth and human understanding in his pages are lent more savor by their juxtaposition with the detached, incisive quality of the lines around them. He makes enough to live on, to feed his children, to fund Tuesday's riding lessons and (he has a name) the boy's (he has a name) soccer gear; the baby's everything. He's lauded enough by the minority who actually read his books to feel gratified by their understanding of him. He's tired, the good, bone-deep tired of work done well and more of it to come. He's been tuning his daughter out for the past few minutes but he tunes back in now, in time to catch her plaintive rants about her little brother. They're at the ages where arbitrary dislike is at its strongest, and maybe theirs isn't a perfect, tidy family but he doesn't need it to be. He just needs it to be what it is: content, nuclear, strong. The small battles make the rest of it more piquant. "Maybe," he tells Tuesday gently, "you should tell your brother--" The front door's opening; the dog's bark is sudden and joyous. "Go help with the groceries," he says, giving her a little shove. "I'll be down in a minute." His books, his life's work, are lined up neatly on his desk, bristling with post-it flags and notes. There's an argument breaking out downstairs, half-hearted but one that he'll need to go resolve anyway. His hairline's receded but she (she has a name) will kiss his forehead (she has a name) and he's sure she's never loved him more, that he's never loved her more, and every petty bickering is just an excuse to make up. She loves him because he's a good husband, a good father, a good man. There's a new nursery at the end of the hall, painted yellow because they'd wanted it to be a surprise. The window's open and it smells like the trees he grew up with: live oak and peach trees, the windowsill painted with rain-damp mimosa blossoms, the cicada-cries settling into their metallic rhythm as the sun is setting. There's an evening in front of him, and then a morning.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 4:32 am
The smell of peppermint filled the air and America was embraced with a welcome warmth that pulled a single thought, unsought and unwilling, out of America the Girl before America the Hunter took over once again. Mom?And then it was gone, and clear, chiming voice offered her joy and worlds of happiness. She clenched the bell tight in white knuckled hands, the clapper firmly silenced as the world shifted and swayed and there was no peaceful darkness that followed, but instead it sprang up whole all around her. Home, her old home and Pa settled in on her right as the rest of the clan sat down at the table and began that old tradition, the one where you say what you're thankful for. He'd rarely made it for Thanksgiving. Christmas always, her birthday never, but here he was now and it was his turn. "I'm thankful for..." Family. That was always his answer when he was here for it, that was always... "...my daughter, Meri. I'm blessed to have such a daughter as this." And then he reached and arm over her shoulders, nearly knocking over the bell beside her plate, and pulled her close in a hug. She felt small and loved and cared for and
"Ring the bell and you can stay."Her hand was already reaching when she glanced at the table and realized, there I people I love who aren't here. Bringing her hand back as if burned, America shook her head tightly. The world shifted and once again she stood in the room, staring into a mirror and there was Taym and was that his girl she was too old but it was Home, her house on Peach Tree Lane and it was beautiful and loved and it would shelter her family, her friends. It would offer a connection and a reminder, they were people and they could have lives and happiness if only they sought it out, if only they built it together. Everyone was at the table and they were happy, even Konstantin, even one Obadiah Thompson who settle into the seat on her right and looked like he belonged there. Standing up, Peyton on his other side began that old tradition, the one where you say what you're thankful for. Turning she grinned at Kon, fussing at the food and ignoring Taym's muttered critique until Peyton sat down and it was his turn. "I'm thankful for..." she waited for the smartass comment, the mocking cover for his own sentimentality, "...my home. Here, with all of you and specifically, here, with you." He quickly sat back down in a cool guy slouch, but out of sight he took her hand and held it tight. Smiling fiercely she got ready to "Ring the bell and you can stay."Her eyes slid to the walls as she reached for it, noting their emptiness. In her old home, there'd always been pictures. Why didn't they ever hang pictures, why didn't they show off their family... Head bowed and jaw tight, America shook her head. The room again, and now that older Taym was bickering fondly with the indistinct figure of a woman in that particular way and Home, was not so much a house. Not a place she grew up in or a place she built with determined hopes in her heart. Home was a bed beside a window that looked on an familiar unfamiliar nightscape. Home was a story that never quiet ended as she told it night after night. Home was the beautiful unlovely boy trying to stay awake. There was a bell beside the bedstand, gleaming silently as she read on about the most fantastical Thanksgiving ever, and when they reached the part where everyone sat down at the table and began that old tradition, the one where you say what you're thankful for, she paused and beamed down at the boy. "And the Dread Pirate Georgia turned to the Knightly Bandit Dragon Wolf Prince on her left and said, I am most grateful for this fellow named Justice. He's saved my world a thousand hundred million times over!" He nodded along sagely with this, as there was never any doubt, not even for a second, that he was loved and loved well by both his mother and the Pirate Queen. "Ring the bell and you can stay."She reached for the bell. rejam ok just continue prompt and lets each roll 1d20 to determine which of them gets to actually pull out of it
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Rejam rolled 1 20-sided dice:
15
Total: 15 (1-20)
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 4:43 am
The itch at the corner of his head grows as he maneuvers nimbly through the controlled chaos of the kitchen, as he sneaks in an attempt to pinch his wife's a** through her dress that almost but doesn't quite succeed and gets his hand ungently swatted for his trouble.
He ignores it. He'd long ago learned to tune out all the insistent voices under his skin, mastering them, beating them into submission through sheer force of will. They have no sway over him.
At some point he trades a gallon of milk for a fussy baby, grinning and trying to herd his son out of the way at his wife's exasperated insistence
please, sir
that it'd be easier if they just gave her room. Tuesday flops down on the other side of the bar to supervise
don't, don't
and tell her how one of the horses at the barn is going to foal any day now and they've promised her she can pet the baby when it arrives, and sit in on the vet's exam. It's all pleasant ruckus
sir, listen--
and wonderful settling chaos and the baby's calming down on his shoulder, sucking sleepily on tiny hands and smelling like babies smell, milk and powder and endless fragility
taym--
he can't focus on the baby, nor on Tuesday who is not quite right, nor on his son. The room blurs and shifts.
His wife is April, with her dark blonde hair still dyed black and a butterfly tattooed on her shoulderblade. She is Jada, with her elegant stubbled head and her dark brown eyes and perfectly-manicured fingernails. For a flickering, bizarre instant she is even Bird, sexless and waifish with her froglike mouth. She is a succession of women, although Tuesday is always Tuesday. She is
taym, please, sir--
tall and straight-backed with a grin that makes his knees buckle, with a tattoo splashed beneath her collarbones. She's kneeling on the floor to pet the dog while she smiles up at Tuesday, at her son, at him holding her baby, the tips of her red hair nearly brushing the ground.
"America," he says tentatively, suddenly afraid. This is not right.
I'm so sorry, sir, says Fiona, and for the second time since she's lived in his thoughts he hears her weeping, and this time for much the same reason as the first. I'm so sorry, sir. Please.
"What's wrong?" she asks. She's too-much-eyeliner and tired green eyes. She's a dainty nose ring and perfect dark skin. She's that grin, that one, fading into concern.
"Nothing," he says brokenly. "Nothing's wrong."
"You're shivering," she says.
"I'm cold," he says.
I'm sorry, says Fiona, one more time, a desperate, pleading wail. Please.
"I'm cold," he says.
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lizbot rolled 1 20-sided dice:
11
Total: 11 (1-20)
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 4:44 am
Taking a deep breath, America rang the bell. The scent of peppermint filled her senses and there was a brief sense of movement but then justice asked what happened next, and settling in she gestured to indicate how very huge the turkey was. It took 8 woodsmen just to remove a leg!With Fiona's help, Taym would wake from the dream to find himself in a rusty bathtub full of ice. They were in the basement of course. It was always the ******** basement.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 5:20 am
Air fills his lungs like it hurts, and for a second he's not cold, he's burning and there's sand under his arms as the noose is cut. It takes a few long seconds to realize where he is, and he thinks someone is crying somewhere and for a moment that's soothing, here, that's a familiar sound in a dilapidated house with the power out. A moment trickles by before he is aware that the sobbing is inside his own head, and he does not ask her to stop. He curls up in the silent sound of it and crawls, shivering and shaking and numb out of the bathtub, falling to the ground with a noise that isn't nearly as loud as it feels. He recognizes the bearded man, and he recognizes Ida, who's beaming, and his heart breaks for her in a world where she is lovely, and he doesn't recognize any of the others but one, and that one catches his breath in his throat and he hesitates, reaching for America's hand, transfixed by that grin, that one, before he thinks better of it and yanks his hand away. Shivering, helpless, with Fiona quietly weeping in the confines of his head, he mechanically sets about looking for some clue as to what to do next, the search impeded by the film of silent tears that he cannot stop when he breathes in to steady himself and thinks he can almost, almost, smell milk and powder still clinging to his shoulder.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 5:23 am
The basement holds only the slightest scent of peppermint. Above him, there's the sound of several very different footsteps walking through the house.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 6:14 pm
Shivering, he wrings the water out of the bottom of his jacket until he's not leaving a dripping trail any more, and summons Fiona to hand. He wants to pull all of them out of the ice, see if that will wake them up, but he'd woken up before he was out and all he can do is worry that it might somehow be worse to remove them with unknown consequences than to leave them, for now at least, until he can better understand what's happening. "I'll be back," he promises them in a whisper, a stupid promise on deaf ears, their smiles unchanged. And he notices, then, what he hadn't before--that America's flame-red hair seems muted and dull, the color sapped out of it, gone strawlike. And now that he's seen that he sees the rest of it--the pale non-color leaching into all their faces. Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering he fumbles out into the hallway, cautiously looking this way and that before he sets up the stairs, pausing every few steps to feel out the stealthiest route, to listen for anything but the sound of feet overhead. Maybe he can get the drop on them, he thinks. But when he reaches the first floor there's no one to get the drop on. There's just the constant restless sound of movement, and he pursues the closest set of steps that he can, the knife trembling in his hands. It's when he walks past the third doorway that he's met with the smell of bread and coffee. Paris stinks, in reality, but this isn't reality, of course. There's no filthy smelly thriving ancient city, build on bad sewers and poor disposal practices. There's bread and coffee and a clear blue sky with scudding clouds, and he pauses, and he watches Ida smile, half-flustered, half-proud, at a passer-by calling to her in French that she is lovely. He has some vague idea, then, of what he needs to do. But he is not ready to do it. He doesn't want to do it alone, and every inch of him is screaming that his obligation is to the civilians and not to his mission partner but he's weak and he's helpless and it will be easier, much easier, to have help. (He wants to see. He wants to see her perfect world.) He averts his eyes from the next strange doorway. Soon he'll be forced to confront what's inside but seeing a stranger's idea of joy is intimate, intrusive, taboo. Seeing that of someone he loves is more so, but he's weak and he's helpless and it will be easier, much easier, to know. (He wants to know.) So he finds her. He finds the room that has her in it, moving as quickly as he can, hoping their footsteps mask his own, and he pauses at the threshold to collect himself because what he sees buckles him. The knife vanishes. He schools his face to calm. For a second he just stands, watching the woman and the little boy, listening to what of the story he can catch, and then, praying that it's the right thing to do, he steps inside.
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 6:52 pm
She looks up at him and her mouth forms a surprised little "o" but before America can say anything, the boy is speaking in the shy tones of love and familiar awe, "Hey Dad."
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Posted: Sun Nov 30, 2014 8:17 pm
Everything tips up, tilts, unsettles, blurs. Fiona's begging him again but it seems strangely muted, as though coming from very far away. It sounds like something he could live with, if he had to. He is motionless and expressionless and then his face softens and he's looking for himself in the little boy: looking for stuck-out ears and low-drawn brows and high cheekbones and long eyelashes and restless hands. It doesn't matter whether he finds them or not. The only spell he's under now is one of his own making, willful. It would be so easy. This isn't his perfect world but it's a perfect world and he is selfish, greedy, and exhausted. Maybe if he makes it his too, maybe if he tangles himself up in it and pretends, maybe there's other bedrooms down the hall, and one of them's got a row of plastic horses marching down a sticker-covered desk. Maybe there's not. Maybe there's just this room. He's given up on the other one, his own perfect story, over and over again. This isn't real, he thinks. But it doesn't need to be. He's not going to stay. He's not going to fall in. He's going to pull America out of this--the word "rescue" does not fit here--and the two of them, together, are going to fix whatever is happening in this house, and they're going to go back to their own miserable broken lives like they've done something good and right. "Hey, kiddo," he says quietly. This isn't real, he thinks. He's not going to stay. Not forever. It only has to be real enough. Just for a minute. He's not sure whether his clothes are wet or dry. He crosses the room to sit down next to America, looking across her at this boy who suddenly makes him shy and desperate, and he touches her shoulder, crawling into the space next to her, just as April used to crawl up next to him while he was lying on the bed, playing with the baby, talking nonsense. Just the three of them, one warm little lamplit room, and it's not real, he thinks, but it's real enough, just for a minute. Fiona's wailing at him, and he bites back: shut up. Let me have this. Let me have this. "Don't leave us hanging," he says. "I need to know what happens next."
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Posted: Mon Dec 01, 2014 3:59 am
She relaxes against him, hand ruffling the boy's hair and he's the worst sort of mismatch of their features but he's gaining her confidence and his charm and there's no doubt in anybody's mind that the kid will do just fine, beauty pageants notwithstanding. He shakes off her hand with a grimace and tries to sit up and look cool for his dad, but in the end just flops down, head by her stomach, hand very carefully feeling at the almost indiscernible swell and adding his voice to the demand of what happens next. What follows is a round of what I'm thankful fors from a large and varied cast of characters, America doing the voice for all of them, each and every one. They implied dozens of small stories that had been told in this very room. All too soon comes the faint sound of deep, slow breathing. "...and it was," she finishes, eyes holding a softness that the girl on the island, the hunter, could never quite manage in all her banked hungers and quiet desperation, "...the happiest day of Thanks that had ever been known." Not turning her gaze she continues in the same storytelling tones, "But it wasn't over just yet, least not 'til the King of the Word Bandits had his say. So before the feast was done he stood up and in that voice of his, all quiet and carrying, told everyone what he was most thankful for."
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Posted: Mon Dec 01, 2014 4:17 am
It's as well that he'd long ago learned to cry silently. Fiona's fallen mute, an exhausted, aching silence lingering behind the buzzing numb of his thoughts, and he's watching the rise and fall of a lanky little boy's sides under his pajamas, his own fingers, steady and unshaking, resting on the soft curve under her ribs where a flat space ought to be, one that he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it and of course it was there. Of course it was. He tries to tell her what he's thankful for, for her and the little boy and the curve of her belly and this house, and the words stick in his throat because he lies to her so much, so often, and he can't do it now. It would be wrong, to do it now. It would be so easy to make it true. It would be so easy to just say it, make it real. He lies still with her for a very long time, listening to her breathing and the little boy's, as if he's thinking of what to tell her. As if he's so full of thanks to give that he doesn't know where to start. He thinks of Tuesday. "I love you, Meri," he whispers into her hair, and there's no tears in it until he continues and the words break up and fragment. "This is a good dream," he whispers, broken. "It's such a good dream. And I'm thankful I got to see it. But you have to wake up now. Please, please forgive me."
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Posted: Mon Dec 01, 2014 4:28 am
There is innocent confusion as she turns to look at him with an incredulous little smile. "You okay...?" Reaching up to touch his face there is the seed of realization, the apple in the garden and nothing too attractive about it. "Maybe you should take a little lie down as well, been a long day for both of you." She shifted herself and the sleeping boy further in to make space for her husband to simply fall asleep there, curled in with them, surrounded by the warmth and the rhythms of family.
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Posted: Mon Dec 01, 2014 4:37 am
He's shivering now, a full-body hard tremble against her, and he closes his eyes and leans into her hand when she offers it, his cheek damp, his beard matted with tears against his jaw, and he whispers to himself, over and over, and it takes a second for the words to become audible, sorted out from the frantic mantra that they are. "Cherise Ness. Delyth Arthur. Maya Bhat. Tuesday Thompson. Bird Bohannan. April Forsythe. Grace Yin. Hope Yin. Joy Yin. Cherise Ness. Delyth Arthur. Maya Bhat. Tuesday Thompson. Tuesday." He takes a deep, shuddering, tearful breath, and he doesn't raise his voice, afraid of waking the boy who isn't really there, not really. "Please, America. Please listen to Stryker. Please wake up. I'm so ******** sorry."
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