Autumn’s arrival varied from year to year, and this year she was particularly early, something that no doubt caused much distress in the world around her. She swung her legs out of the hollow tree, a giant redwood that just encompassed her abode. She woke sweating, as usual – Summer never knew when to quit – and was greeted by the sound of drums. Autumn perked her ears and listened. After a short while, she realized it was a festival – and not just any festival, but her festival.
It was the festival that sent the blood pounding through her veins, that made her feel alive. The sacrifices sent her into ecstasy. And indeed, there was one of them now. A lone girl tugged a very recalcitrant sow up the trail up to Autumn’s tree. She felt herself smiling – she had never witnessed a sacrifice before, only felt them.
As the girl drew closer, she sensed the cool breath of the wind, the fluttering of leaves that heralded fall, and immediately looked around her. The girl was sharp – it didn’t take her long to stop Autumn, even in the patchwork dress of leaves and bark brown hair. The girl approached Autumn with something nearing on reverence, and with no hesitation dispatched the sow beautifully.
“We ask a good harvest and a simple fall. No more.” Her voice was soft, yet demanding.
Autumn gulped and fought back moans. Above her, the first leaves began to turn.
Finally, “You shall have it.” The girl nodded, satisfied, and with a gracious bow turned and began retreating back down the path.
The sow’s blood flowed freely, etching rivers into the ground, and with it flowed Autumn’s winds. They bellowed out of her, eager and excited. Above, more leaves began to shift. Autumn let out a contented sigh, and began the tedious art of turning the natural world as red as the sow’s blood.
The first thing to be noted about the woman before him was that her face – a perfect, pale, exquisite visage – was coated in frost. Further inspection showed that the ethereal, frozen face was framed by pale blue hair – or perhaps it was a crown of icicles that tinkled with the faint breaths of air that trundled in from the cave entrance.
The man was so lost in his examination of the rest of her – the inadequate, lacy, immaculate clothing, the pristine white furs draped about her – that he failed to notice her motions.
First it was her eyes, snapping open regardless of the ice that had frozen them closed. Then her mouth moved, cracking the frost around the wicked grin that formed on the once-graceful face. Outside, the wind blew from the north, bringing an unmistakable chill with it. And then, in a perfectly innocent, if slightly hoarse, voice, “What is it, dear mortal?”
The man yelped and leaped backwards, but landed awkwardly and ended up looking like a flailing mass of coats and furs. This elicited a nasty little giggle that sent chills down the man’s spine even as he floundered. The woman of white shifted and peeled herself from the wall, sending ice shards flying and ricocheting off of the cave walls. She walked past the man without a second glance.
Winter tottered like a child towards the cave entrance and emerged to see a glorious fall landscape.
“Autumn, darling, you’ve outdone yourself this year.” As she turned back to the cave, she saw the man staring at her with an awed expression. With a giggle and a wink, she blew a dainty kiss at him. Winter experienced no remorse at leaving him to be found days later in the cave, frosted over, dropped jaw immortalized in ice.
Another giggle escaped, and the first snows of winter began to fall.
Winter had awakened.
(Spring and Summer coming soon.)
All around her was gray, and brown, and a dirty color that might have once been called green. A car alarm was going off, somewhere to her right.
Molly looked down and frowned as sticky sweetness dripped onto her hands. That was no good, letting the wonderful treat waste away. She so rarely got something like she was holding in her hands – a rainbow Popsicle, to be precise – and she wanted to savor every drop.
She glanced up as another car alarm went off, this one right in front of her, and was rewarded with the whole Popsicle sliding off.
Molly glanced at the sticky stick. The newly-colored ground. The car.
Reaching a decision in no time at all (in the true fashion of young children everywhere), Molly threw the stick at the car and was rewarded with a startled look from the robber pillaging the rickety old thing.
Molly giggled, then frowned as she realized her Popsicle was still on the ground.
She looked at it again, a rapidly melting blot of color on the dirty expanse of gray concrete, totally out of place in her world of grungy grays.
Molly promptly burst into tears.
The world was black and green and white, and Nita was laughing for the first time in weeks. When she realized this, and realized that Kit must have been planning this whole thing for nearly as long as she hadn’t been laughing, she was startled into more jubilant laughter and the beginning of tears.
They were running, leaping, stumbling, all from their haste, and it was the best damn adrenaline rush Nita had ever had, even after the past few years fighting ambivalence and evil. No Powers That Be right behind her, no twisted cabs hunting her, no sharks after her flesh.
No racing against the clock.
Nita glanced at Kit, grinned even harder at the sight of him, all sweat and smiles and pure joy.
It was ecstasy.
Then another one fell, closer this time; the white streaked across the ink dark sky, burning afterimages into their eyes and outshining even the brightest of stars far above them. For once, Nita didn’t pause to wonder what the stars were or how far away they were or how tight the Lone Power’s grip on those far-away worlds was. Her attention was on the brilliant light of the burning meteorite, the jubilant aura emanating from Kit, the tears of joy and receding pain carving paths down her flushed face.
Nita laughed again, allowed the feeling of simple joy to envelope her, made a mental note to thank Kit profusely.
In the meantime, they had a falling star to catch.
The night sky watched them, the stars the lone witnesses to their momentary happiness, and in a world much closer to the heart of time, someone smiled.
((A brief excerpt of sorts from what will hopefully be my NaNoWriMo attempt. Fantasy, original world setting.))
Elysium, bruised and beaten, stared out through the bars of her prison with lifeless eyes. They had kept her there for weeks, and then weeks turned to months, and then months turned to years. She had aged as they bled the life from her, killing her slowly. Hope had faded, faded, faded, until it was nothing but a dull spark. She wondered, often, why that spark stayed. Why, as time progressed, the spark didn’t disappear for good.
Her once smooth and pale, lilac-tinged skin had been covered in wounds, some scarred over and some still oozing. For the millionth time – not that she was counting, really – she cursed her own mixed blood. Being half Fvelta and half Ruessa, Elysium was something no one had ever seen before. Or tasted. The humans – wretched, selfish, disgusting beings – that she was captive of were addicted to her blood. They bled her, dried her, laughed as they withered her.
Elysium cursed her blood again, this time out loud, and this time adding curses on Fveltans, on Ruessans, on her parents, on the war, on everything.
The guard, roused from his daze, kicked her and told her to shut up. Elysium had stopped trying to escape a long time ago, and so the guards these days were beyond pathetic. They even left the room sometimes, opening the door that was positioned tantalizingly close to Elysium. Every time that door opened and light rushed in, Elysium couldn’t help a sudden rush of hope of her own, a quick flare of the spark. Even when the guard opened the door to come back, she sat up a little straighter and glared a little harder.
Hope never faded. Someday, somehow, her Nathaniel would come. Or… someone would find her. She had only ever existed to Nathaniel, but surely – surely – there was someone else, if not him, who would see her. Free her.
For Elysium, hope sprang eternal.
Dylan’s room beat out a comforting tune as he lay wide awake, sheets tossed in odd configurations about him, limbs strewn across the bed.
A click, click, click, click from the fan.
A consistent hum from the computer.
The gentle tap tap tap of rain on the window.
The overall effect was a music of sorts.
It was almost enough to lull him to sleep, were it not for the thoughts roaring discordantly through his head. He turned this way and that way and jammed his eyes shut, desperately trying to get the past day’s events out of his mind and wrestling with the memories of his earlier phone conversation, which was really the root of it all.
It had been 2 am exactly – he knew, he had been watching the clock listlessly – when the phone had rung, disturbing the lullaby that almost led him into dreamland. Blearily, he had picked it up, and equally blearily, he had listened to the sobbing coming from the other end.
When he first discerned the identity of the blubbering on the other end, his entire soul soured with fresh hope, revived from a stinking pile of rejections and all around angst.
When he finally discerned the subject of the blubbering on the other end, his entire soul sunk even further under aforementioned stinking pile and buried itself within a nice cocoon of loss and misdirected rage.
Yet another loss to add to his record.
Dylan had hung up without a word, without letting the person on the other end finish.
Now, two hours later, he was still as awake as he had been right when the phone rang.
His mind beat out another music of sorts.
Dylan’s mind clashed terribly with his room in that aspect.
((Candycoated Toxins here.))
((Short story of randomness. Sort of a back story for a character. Entered in Burn. – Candycoated Toxins))
Mikhail stared at the bleak world from behind his mask. None of them needed to see what he really looked like. How he really acted. They didn’t need to know his past, his present, his hopes for the future. At least, what little hopes there were. So instead of being like all of them, with his mind practically on display, Mikhail wore his mask.
And he wore it well.
Nobody saw past the act of coldness, of barely suppressed rage, and there was never a person capable of having him take it off.
He had perfect control over his mask. Mikhail never, ever expected to lose that control. When he walked through the door to the condo, he was ready to assume the mask around a whole new group of people and get on with his life as ‘the twisted bastard’.
He was not ready to be blown away by the people inside. He quickly lost his temper, his nonchalant attitude, and his heart in rapid succession. They unknowingly knocked off the mask that had protected Mikhail for all of his life. He lost his wall along with everything else, and then he was entwined with the weird people of that weird condo.
Just by walking through that one door, Mikhail lost the protection of the masquerade he had kept for so long and so well. And in doing so, he gained so, so much more.
So there was this one anime I watched. The main female was an artist that chose to give up a lot to stay with her cousin, just because he could support her creativity the best. Her mind was often shown as a huge expanse filled with these boxes, and she’d open one and ‘ideas’ would come out, and she’d try to catch them and make them real.
That’s how my brain’s been feeling lately… but it’s been all ideas, nothing concrete. Sadly. The words and images swirl around and scream (and in the case of some of the writing ideas, this is pretty literal) to be made real.
And clamping down on this is the shit called life. School (even now I’ve got an English project, a Chemistry review, and the stuff for tomorrow’s math test staring me in the face). Drama (friends are such fickle creatures). Parents (give it all a rest, jeez). Ugh.
I’ve got angels and demons and goddesses and all sorts of things roaming around my head. And plot bunnies galore. And none of the energy/willpower needed to do it. I mean, geez. How sad is that. Instead I spend my time holed up in my room, jamming to hyper Swedish pop and retreating into the worlds of others’ imaginations (aka shitty manga).
Blug. What an excellent word to describe life.
Oh, and sharpies smell quite nice. [/rant]
… sorry that my first post in forever is a retarded, angsty, brain-spew rant.