He slumped back in his chair with a sigh, left hand raising his drink to his lips, while the other fiddled with his mobile phone. Relishing the quiet of his office, Dillian was more than a little annoyed when Shane barged in without so much as knocking.
"Yea. I got your message, what happened?"
Wordlessly, Dillian navigated to the text message in question, and tossed the phone to Shane, who, after reading it, looked as if he could not decide if he wanted to be sympathetic or to burst out laughing.
He sat down across from Dillian and lit a cigarette, sliding the phone across the desk as he did so.
"So this was yesterday?"
Dillian grunted in reply.
"Tried calling or messaging her?" Shane raised an eyebrow.
"Naturally."
"Any word?"
"Nope."
"Mm...Y'know? This is totally unexpected. Who would've thought?"
"Yea. Total riot. Hilarious."
And with that sarcastic retort, Dillian swive;ed in his chair to look out the window, his back towards Shane. On the street below, people scurried for shelter as raindrops the size of dollar coins fell from the menacing clouds. Tridents of light ran along the underbellies of the mercurial clouds, followed closely by thunder.
"Like one bloody cosmic fart," Dillian mumbled darkly.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Is Steph ready or not?"
"No, duh. You know her. Hey you know what? I know this song that would be really apt for your situation now, man." Shane started humming the tune to a song about being blind-sided in a relationship.
"Look, just shut up, okay? And put out that bloody cigarette!" Snapped Dillian.
"Whoa, chill out, boss. No point blowing your top off. It ain't productive," Shane took one last drag from his cigarette and offered it to Dillian, who at this time was thumbing through the messages on his mobile phone.
"Here, you could use this. And stop reading those, before you tear everything in this studio up."
"You know I don't smoke..."
"You used to," Shane cut in. "Come on, you know it helps."
"You're not exactly helping, you know," Dillian mumbled as he shoved his mobile phone into his pocket, and reached for the proffered cigarette, which was almost down to its filter.
He drew deeply from the cigarette, feeling the familiar slow drag as the poisons slowly snaked their way through his body. He held it in, savouring the high as it came to him. Dillian looked sideways at his friend as he grimaced through a cloud of smoke.
Friday, November 02, 2007
The End? HAHAHAHAHAHA *shoots self*
He stared back at her, eyes smoldering with desire, shap with angst, and just a hint of rage. His expression said it all. He hated her, but he also wanted her more than anything else in the world.
And her? She was the very definition of arrogance. She knew how he felt, and she cared not a whit. Taunting him, dangling him at the end of a string, but deep within, she knew she wanted him too, and was deathly afraid she'd gone too far.
The space between them was electric. It was a case of an unstoppable forace against an unmovable object. They held in their positions a moment longer, before pushing off of each other, spinning away in opposite directions. He looked back at her, still angry but slightly subdued; he was willing to compromise. She glanced coyly back at him from under long, curled lashes.
Taking their cue from the music, both moved towards each other again, crossing the dance floor with fluid strides. When they were but a few feet apart, she leapt. Her form and posture perfect, while he caught her in mid air, using her momentum to propel them into the next sequence of the dance.
Languid, almost lazy movements characterized this next phase of the dance. A vertical expression of a horizontal desire, their bodies moved as one. Their movements slowed as the music faded. The main lights came on as they entered their final pose, and the applauded, with a few giving a standing ovation.
Dillian glanced at Gwen. Sweat glistered on her exposed skin, and her face was flushed with the effort of the dance. But she was beaming, the exhilaration and energy that the dance gave her far outweighed the tiredness. It made her... Alive.
Grinning, Dillian took her hand and gave a slight push, giving her spin momentum, and at the same time providing her with support, as she moved in an 'open fan' position, one commonly used to present the couple.
Coming out of a deep bow to the audience and the judges, the couple shared another grin and proceeded off the dance floor.
"You did great," Gwen gurgled as they entered the holding area.
"No, we did great."
"That's an awefully overused cliché, Dill." Gwen said she she nudged him in the ribs.
"Whatever works, you know?" Dillian signed and moved to stand in front of her. "Gwen, I love you."
Her grin slipped, and she turned away from him, occupying herself with her makeup case on the table.
"Dill, we've been over this before. 'We' will never work. You know that."
"No, we don't know that. look at over dances. Are you trying to say that you felt nothing out on the Floor?"
"What we felt was the dance, Dill," Gwen sighed, exasperated. "You know very well what I mean. It's the dance that gives us life, that awakens us. We live when we dance. That says nothing about being life partners.
Dillian snorted, annoyed.
"It was our dances that made us feel alive. Dance gave us a direction, 'We' gave each other life," He took hold of her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "Why Aaron, Gwen? The least you could have done was to give a decent explanation, instead of sending a cheesy text message like some fifteen year old boy, and then disappearing for a quarter of a year!"
"Aaron... Understands me, Dill. He's known me longer than you, and he knows me inside out." Gwen snapped, trying to glare at Dillian but unable to keep it up for long.
"And I don't? Well, if that's the case, it certainly isn't from the lack of trying, Gwen. You say he understands you, but all he does is act like a...a...dense wooden block half the time. And when I try to...to...'understand' you, as you like to put it, you simply shut up. His questioning eyes drilled into her.
"And that's not all. What on earth drove you to do what you did? Did you think I wouldn't be willing to at least listen to you? Did you think that I would've gone berserk and wercked everything? What was it, Gwen? What, and why? If you thought that I would've been anything resembling a warmongering caveman, then lady, 'You', do not 'Understand' me."
He took a deep breath, his anger expelled after 4 months of being pent up. He was about to continue, but he felt so very tired, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed.
Her glare had softened into furtive glances between him and her hands, which were fidgeting with her skirt.
"It's our last dance together, Dill," she said quietly, eyes watering, threatening to ruin her heavy makeup. "Please don't make this a bad memory." And with that she turned and walked quickly away.
"Don't make this a bad mem..." Dill started, but she was already gone. He stared after her, hands balled into fists, before walking away in another direction.
He saw her afterwards, wraped around Aaron as they headed out of the competition hall towards his car, followed by their little entourage.
He felt much like the way he did when she first sent him that text: Cut adrift, lost, shell-shocked. He glanced at her from inside the hall a few times, emotionally off-center, and unable to decide what to do next.
Aaron caught sight of him looking in their direction, and murmured something into Gwen's ear. She started, shrugged, and got into the car.
She never looked at him once.
And her? She was the very definition of arrogance. She knew how he felt, and she cared not a whit. Taunting him, dangling him at the end of a string, but deep within, she knew she wanted him too, and was deathly afraid she'd gone too far.
The space between them was electric. It was a case of an unstoppable forace against an unmovable object. They held in their positions a moment longer, before pushing off of each other, spinning away in opposite directions. He looked back at her, still angry but slightly subdued; he was willing to compromise. She glanced coyly back at him from under long, curled lashes.
Taking their cue from the music, both moved towards each other again, crossing the dance floor with fluid strides. When they were but a few feet apart, she leapt. Her form and posture perfect, while he caught her in mid air, using her momentum to propel them into the next sequence of the dance.
Languid, almost lazy movements characterized this next phase of the dance. A vertical expression of a horizontal desire, their bodies moved as one. Their movements slowed as the music faded. The main lights came on as they entered their final pose, and the applauded, with a few giving a standing ovation.
Dillian glanced at Gwen. Sweat glistered on her exposed skin, and her face was flushed with the effort of the dance. But she was beaming, the exhilaration and energy that the dance gave her far outweighed the tiredness. It made her... Alive.
Grinning, Dillian took her hand and gave a slight push, giving her spin momentum, and at the same time providing her with support, as she moved in an 'open fan' position, one commonly used to present the couple.
Coming out of a deep bow to the audience and the judges, the couple shared another grin and proceeded off the dance floor.
"You did great," Gwen gurgled as they entered the holding area.
"No, we did great."
"That's an awefully overused cliché, Dill." Gwen said she she nudged him in the ribs.
"Whatever works, you know?" Dillian signed and moved to stand in front of her. "Gwen, I love you."
Her grin slipped, and she turned away from him, occupying herself with her makeup case on the table.
"Dill, we've been over this before. 'We' will never work. You know that."
"No, we don't know that. look at over dances. Are you trying to say that you felt nothing out on the Floor?"
"What we felt was the dance, Dill," Gwen sighed, exasperated. "You know very well what I mean. It's the dance that gives us life, that awakens us. We live when we dance. That says nothing about being life partners.
Dillian snorted, annoyed.
"It was our dances that made us feel alive. Dance gave us a direction, 'We' gave each other life," He took hold of her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "Why Aaron, Gwen? The least you could have done was to give a decent explanation, instead of sending a cheesy text message like some fifteen year old boy, and then disappearing for a quarter of a year!"
"Aaron... Understands me, Dill. He's known me longer than you, and he knows me inside out." Gwen snapped, trying to glare at Dillian but unable to keep it up for long.
"And I don't? Well, if that's the case, it certainly isn't from the lack of trying, Gwen. You say he understands you, but all he does is act like a...a...dense wooden block half the time. And when I try to...to...'understand' you, as you like to put it, you simply shut up. His questioning eyes drilled into her.
"And that's not all. What on earth drove you to do what you did? Did you think I wouldn't be willing to at least listen to you? Did you think that I would've gone berserk and wercked everything? What was it, Gwen? What, and why? If you thought that I would've been anything resembling a warmongering caveman, then lady, 'You', do not 'Understand' me."
He took a deep breath, his anger expelled after 4 months of being pent up. He was about to continue, but he felt so very tired, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed.
Her glare had softened into furtive glances between him and her hands, which were fidgeting with her skirt.
"It's our last dance together, Dill," she said quietly, eyes watering, threatening to ruin her heavy makeup. "Please don't make this a bad memory." And with that she turned and walked quickly away.
"Don't make this a bad mem..." Dill started, but she was already gone. He stared after her, hands balled into fists, before walking away in another direction.
***
He saw her afterwards, wraped around Aaron as they headed out of the competition hall towards his car, followed by their little entourage.
He felt much like the way he did when she first sent him that text: Cut adrift, lost, shell-shocked. He glanced at her from inside the hall a few times, emotionally off-center, and unable to decide what to do next.
Aaron caught sight of him looking in their direction, and murmured something into Gwen's ear. She started, shrugged, and got into the car.
She never looked at him once.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
sidenote
EDIT2: added a stupid flooble for fun. lol.
EDIT: I just released 3 half-fucked drafts that I fiddled with but never got around to fleshing out and/or was too disappointed in to complete. They are below this post. read, and be amused.
this post is completely Out Of Character. this is the author speaking.
I am stuck. HAHA.
-.-"
I have no plot, I have no direction, I don't know what the story is about. All I know is what my characters are, what they do, and all i've written is how they behave when interacting with each other, mainly Gwen and Dillian. The main 'theme', so far, is... hurr geez I don't really have a theme either... I guess it's the relationship between G and D, and... G's supposed homosexuality issues. *shrug*
All the posts that are up here so far are based on actual events that I've been through. I've been blogging here, in other words, except that I translate what's happened to me into either Gwen or Dill's viewpoint.
But, like I've said, I don't have a...Direction. A fanthomable ending. I, uh, need the box to work in. Else I'll just be rambling on and on and on.
So...yea. leave a comment or something. All 2.5 of you. >.<
EDIT: I just released 3 half-fucked drafts that I fiddled with but never got around to fleshing out and/or was too disappointed in to complete. They are below this post. read, and be amused.
this post is completely Out Of Character. this is the author speaking.
I am stuck. HAHA.
-.-"
I have no plot, I have no direction, I don't know what the story is about. All I know is what my characters are, what they do, and all i've written is how they behave when interacting with each other, mainly Gwen and Dillian. The main 'theme', so far, is... hurr geez I don't really have a theme either... I guess it's the relationship between G and D, and... G's supposed homosexuality issues. *shrug*
All the posts that are up here so far are based on actual events that I've been through. I've been blogging here, in other words, except that I translate what's happened to me into either Gwen or Dill's viewpoint.
But, like I've said, I don't have a...Direction. A fanthomable ending. I, uh, need the box to work in. Else I'll just be rambling on and on and on.
So...yea. leave a comment or something. All 2.5 of you. >.<
Taking a second plunge
Drafted: 7/7/06 1.10PM Posted 2/25/07 1.14am [random self-reflective scene]
I lay awake throughout the night. Exhausted as I was, I could not sleep.
Guilt, pleasure, excitement, uncertainty and a myriad of questions bounced around in my head like a herd of stampeding elephants, threatening to knock me out with a mental concussion.
I'd always believed, always known, that I was off-center in my sexual orientation. For years I'd been engaged in fulfilling homosexual relationships,.....................
I lay awake throughout the night. Exhausted as I was, I could not sleep.
Guilt, pleasure, excitement, uncertainty and a myriad of questions bounced around in my head like a herd of stampeding elephants, threatening to knock me out with a mental concussion.
I'd always believed, always known, that I was off-center in my sexual orientation. For years I'd been engaged in fulfilling homosexual relationships,.....................
Gwen finds that she's not a lesbo thru & thru!
Drafted: 5/16/06 10pm Posted: 2/25/07 1.12am [scene based on chalet. Gwen has first intimate encounter with Dillian]
The last of the dishes were finally washed and set aside. It had taken almost forever to get those of us who were not too drunk to stand to contribute to the clean-up effort.
With half of the gang high on alcohol and pretty much...........[end of draft]
The last of the dishes were finally washed and set aside. It had taken almost forever to get those of us who were not too drunk to stand to contribute to the clean-up effort.
With half of the gang high on alcohol and pretty much...........[end of draft]
Thoughts From The Back Of The Bus.
Drafted: 5/10/06 11.48PM. Posted: 25/2/07 1.28AM (unedited) [probably usable, too much rambling]
Reflective scene. Note: I forsee more posts like this. It's still early in the writing process and I think I'm spending more time getting to know my characters and letting them talk to me, to us, rather than having an actual plot at the moment. I have discussed several plot possibilities with 1 or 2 of you, and I will take those suggestions into consideration. Thanks for your input. Any more suggestions please lemme know? thanks.
I found myself taking the bus home the next day. This wasn't routine, for Dillian would usually give me a lift home, since we lived so close to each other. In fact, one of my schoolmates asked if we had an argument, and hoped that our 'relationship' was 'okay'. Relationship?! Did we really look 'together'? I shrugged it off. It was another straw in the hump of a bad day that I was having. Anal lecturers, impossibly long queues during lunch hour, and the incessant stares and wolf-whistles from half-baked guys from whom sophistication was gloriously absent.
I guess it was probably a good thing that Dillian could not drive me home that day. He was Not exactly good company when one was moody. Besides, there were quite a few good looking girls on the same bus I was on. But they did not rouse my interest for long. It was one of those days, I suppose. The bus hit the expressway and started to pick up speed. I extended a hand out of the window and let it dangle there, more exhausted than I'd thought. The wind flowed past us, brushing my hands and feeling very much like the reigns of some great chariot. I felt, for a moment, like Apollo in his chariot of the sun. And I was reminded of the myth of his son perishing because of his inability to control said chariot. I wondered if Apollo ever had any daughters worth mentioning. Everything in existance was male oriented. Even the language we used leans in favor of males.
I was about to nod off when we pulled into.....................[end of draft]
Reflective scene. Note: I forsee more posts like this. It's still early in the writing process and I think I'm spending more time getting to know my characters and letting them talk to me, to us, rather than having an actual plot at the moment. I have discussed several plot possibilities with 1 or 2 of you, and I will take those suggestions into consideration. Thanks for your input. Any more suggestions please lemme know? thanks.
I found myself taking the bus home the next day. This wasn't routine, for Dillian would usually give me a lift home, since we lived so close to each other. In fact, one of my schoolmates asked if we had an argument, and hoped that our 'relationship' was 'okay'. Relationship?! Did we really look 'together'? I shrugged it off. It was another straw in the hump of a bad day that I was having. Anal lecturers, impossibly long queues during lunch hour, and the incessant stares and wolf-whistles from half-baked guys from whom sophistication was gloriously absent.
I guess it was probably a good thing that Dillian could not drive me home that day. He was Not exactly good company when one was moody. Besides, there were quite a few good looking girls on the same bus I was on. But they did not rouse my interest for long. It was one of those days, I suppose. The bus hit the expressway and started to pick up speed. I extended a hand out of the window and let it dangle there, more exhausted than I'd thought. The wind flowed past us, brushing my hands and feeling very much like the reigns of some great chariot. I felt, for a moment, like Apollo in his chariot of the sun. And I was reminded of the myth of his son perishing because of his inability to control said chariot. I wondered if Apollo ever had any daughters worth mentioning. Everything in existance was male oriented. Even the language we used leans in favor of males.
I was about to nod off when we pulled into.....................[end of draft]
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Never Dance Again
(auth's background note: Gwen just sneaked out of drug rehab for a coupla hours because he was uncooperative with the program. more details later.)
I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping that Dillian recognized where we were. But he only stared out the window, bloodshot eyes looking at nothing.
Half dragging, half supporting him out of the car, I led him to the second level of the building. Leaving him propped against the wall, mumbling about 'needing a fix' and scratching furiously at his neck, I turned my back on him and fiddled with the door lock, all the while trying to swallow a huge lump in my throat.
Prodding the door open, I gently shoved him into the room. Caught by surprise, and his nervous system clogged up with all those drugs, he lost his balance and fell onto his knees. Ignoring his muttered curses, I stalked over to the light switches and waited for him to quiet down before flicking them on.
It took him a while to get used to the light, and more time after to realise what he was looking at.
Parquet flooring, lacquered and smooth, but still rough enough to provide grip; A mirror that stretched from wall to wall, floor to ceiling; and at one end of the room, set into stlyish cabinets, the sound system's control center.
It was a plain and simple room, yet it was enough to knock Dillian into a stunned silence. It was a dance studio. Our dance studio. The one that we spent so much time and effort trying to create.
Our dream, realised.
But a realised dream meant nothing if the dreamers were not around to enjoy it, and seeing the empty studio, being in it, Dillian realised all that.
He struggled to his feet, as I watched silently from my position beside the door. I know not how long we stood at our respective positions, his stare alternating between the mirror, floor and his feet; my stare centered on him.
Eventually, though, his involuntary shivers stopped, his sniffles lessened, and he stood up straighter as he took a tentative step forward. It was a wobbly step, and he nearly lost his balance, but as he recovered, he glanced back at me and gave a weak smile. He was still awfully pale, and weaker than a baby, but he was most definately feeling better than an hour ago.
He tried to pace the width of the studio, but fell, before he even got to the halfway mark. I started forward, worried that he might have injured himself, but he waved me away and tried again to stand.
Again and again, he fell back down before he even got halfway off the ground. It was no good. His legs could not support his weight, and his breathing became more laboured. Having danced with him as his partner for such a long time, I could tell that he was getting extremely fustrated, and if left alone, would push himself too far, till the time came when he just gave up.
I could not bear to watch this anymore, I brought him here in hopes of raising his sprits, reigniting his desire to recover, the flame to dance again. But all I managed to do was to raise him out of his drug induced haze, and drop him into a pit deeper than the one he was in. Some friend I was.
I rushed forward and tried to calm him down, feeling guilty at the sight of his tears. He looked at me with the visage of one who has given up all hope and spoke his first words in a month. The same words he said the last time he spoke.
" I'll never be able to dance again, Gwen. "
(auth's note: its 2 in the morning. my brain ceased to function 4 hours ago. pardon the quality of writing.)
I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping that Dillian recognized where we were. But he only stared out the window, bloodshot eyes looking at nothing.
Half dragging, half supporting him out of the car, I led him to the second level of the building. Leaving him propped against the wall, mumbling about 'needing a fix' and scratching furiously at his neck, I turned my back on him and fiddled with the door lock, all the while trying to swallow a huge lump in my throat.
Prodding the door open, I gently shoved him into the room. Caught by surprise, and his nervous system clogged up with all those drugs, he lost his balance and fell onto his knees. Ignoring his muttered curses, I stalked over to the light switches and waited for him to quiet down before flicking them on.
It took him a while to get used to the light, and more time after to realise what he was looking at.
Parquet flooring, lacquered and smooth, but still rough enough to provide grip; A mirror that stretched from wall to wall, floor to ceiling; and at one end of the room, set into stlyish cabinets, the sound system's control center.
It was a plain and simple room, yet it was enough to knock Dillian into a stunned silence. It was a dance studio. Our dance studio. The one that we spent so much time and effort trying to create.
Our dream, realised.
But a realised dream meant nothing if the dreamers were not around to enjoy it, and seeing the empty studio, being in it, Dillian realised all that.
He struggled to his feet, as I watched silently from my position beside the door. I know not how long we stood at our respective positions, his stare alternating between the mirror, floor and his feet; my stare centered on him.
Eventually, though, his involuntary shivers stopped, his sniffles lessened, and he stood up straighter as he took a tentative step forward. It was a wobbly step, and he nearly lost his balance, but as he recovered, he glanced back at me and gave a weak smile. He was still awfully pale, and weaker than a baby, but he was most definately feeling better than an hour ago.
He tried to pace the width of the studio, but fell, before he even got to the halfway mark. I started forward, worried that he might have injured himself, but he waved me away and tried again to stand.
Again and again, he fell back down before he even got halfway off the ground. It was no good. His legs could not support his weight, and his breathing became more laboured. Having danced with him as his partner for such a long time, I could tell that he was getting extremely fustrated, and if left alone, would push himself too far, till the time came when he just gave up.
I could not bear to watch this anymore, I brought him here in hopes of raising his sprits, reigniting his desire to recover, the flame to dance again. But all I managed to do was to raise him out of his drug induced haze, and drop him into a pit deeper than the one he was in. Some friend I was.
I rushed forward and tried to calm him down, feeling guilty at the sight of his tears. He looked at me with the visage of one who has given up all hope and spoke his first words in a month. The same words he said the last time he spoke.
" I'll never be able to dance again, Gwen. "
(auth's note: its 2 in the morning. my brain ceased to function 4 hours ago. pardon the quality of writing.)
Saturday, January 27, 2007
We walked.
We walked with the knowledge that each step brought us closer to the end.
I supposed I was sad to see him go. But truth be told I was too shellshocked to feel much of anything. It all seemed so simple a week ago. It did not even register an hour ago. But, as we neared the departure gates, the sudden realisation that it'll be akin to an eon before I'll see him again was like the lead ball and chain, coiled around my feet.
He felt the same way too, if the way he was squeezing my hand was of any indication, and somehow, that made me feel better. I felt that I could hide my emotions better, and put on a strong front, knowing that I was not alone in feeling this way.
One step...two...
The gates loomed in front of us like the gates to the Void. (auth's note: I actually wanted to put " like big looming thingys!" heh.)
three...four...
He came to a halt, and we glanced at each other, not quite able to hold the other's stare.
busy busy busy. will come back to finish this! i ...think.
We walked with the knowledge that each step brought us closer to the end.
I supposed I was sad to see him go. But truth be told I was too shellshocked to feel much of anything. It all seemed so simple a week ago. It did not even register an hour ago. But, as we neared the departure gates, the sudden realisation that it'll be akin to an eon before I'll see him again was like the lead ball and chain, coiled around my feet.
He felt the same way too, if the way he was squeezing my hand was of any indication, and somehow, that made me feel better. I felt that I could hide my emotions better, and put on a strong front, knowing that I was not alone in feeling this way.
One step...two...
The gates loomed in front of us like the gates to the Void. (auth's note: I actually wanted to put " like big looming thingys!" heh.)
three...four...
He came to a halt, and we glanced at each other, not quite able to hold the other's stare.
busy busy busy. will come back to finish this! i ...think.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Opening Cafe Scene
This is something really rough. I wrote it down when I was bored in school. Did not really plan what was gonna happen, and I did not have time to complete it. But yea. It's the first time so far that Vince speaks.
We were walking down that old path when Abel exclaimed, "Hey, ain't that Vince?"
We all paused in our tracks as we tried to get a clear view of the person Abel was pointing at. There, sitting at our usual spot in the cafe, was indeed, Vince.
"Hey, cool! Let's go beat the shit outta him!" Dillian, of course.
-~*~-
Transitional scene where the group enters and joins Vince at the table. To be written soon.
-~*~-
There was a lull in the conversation, and everyone got to work on their drinks. Vince absentmindedly stirred the golden-yellow liquid in his glass, looking thoughtful.
I glanced up at the counter and saw Grace, the waitress, staring over at Vince, eyes like that of a child peering through a candy shop's window. She noticed me and our eyes met. We exhanged smiles, both understanding what she was mooning at.
"You know what?", Vince looked up, a small grin splitting his angular face. "I think it's totally awesome that we actually meet up and have these get togethers."
I could almost feel Dillian rolling his eyes. Vince was too cloistered, too sheltered and too outdated in his book. I rolled my own eyes at that thought. Dillian was always the most 'plugged in', in popular culture. He was always the first one to have the latest fad. The first one to sport the latest fashions. He was the one who got picked up by both guys and girls where ever he went. I personally thought he was an elitist snob who only put up with me because I was his dance partner.
Men...
Vince smiled at me as he continued speaking, as if he'd heard my thoughts.
"I mean, look at the other kids our age. Tapping away on their mobile phones all day, even when they're meeting long lost friends for the first time in ages! I just don't get how some people can go through all the trouble of organizing, say, a luch with some friends, and then spend the entire session talking on the phone with people who wern't there. It's like, 'hey, let's get together in person, so I can ignore you while you do the same to me!' "
There were a few uncomfortable shuffles at our table. We were all guilty of what Vince said. He'd always like calling us 'sheep'; or rather, 'Ardent Advocates of the All-Annihilating Athrophy - Commercialism', to be exact.
"Well," drawled Dillian, trying, as usual, to snub Vince and his '4th century mindset'. "At least some of us do get out of the house. And it's not all exactly like you've described.
"I personally think that it's much better than being cooped up al home like you," Dillian continued, "Coming out of the shade only once in a while, and even then only because the girlfriend demanded that you did so. And even then, you adhere to an unspoken, unofficial curfew of 10pm. 10pm! Good gods man, you're twenty this year, for crying out loud! Isn't it time you started, oh I don't know, living, a little?
-~*~-
And I ended the writing there. Vince's reply will be something along the lines of not having to follow the myopic dictates of society to be himself, to enjoy himself.
You could probably guess by now that he is a little against the Establishment. Oh well. Until the next post...
We were walking down that old path when Abel exclaimed, "Hey, ain't that Vince?"
We all paused in our tracks as we tried to get a clear view of the person Abel was pointing at. There, sitting at our usual spot in the cafe, was indeed, Vince.
"Hey, cool! Let's go beat the shit outta him!" Dillian, of course.
-~*~-
Transitional scene where the group enters and joins Vince at the table. To be written soon.
-~*~-
There was a lull in the conversation, and everyone got to work on their drinks. Vince absentmindedly stirred the golden-yellow liquid in his glass, looking thoughtful.
I glanced up at the counter and saw Grace, the waitress, staring over at Vince, eyes like that of a child peering through a candy shop's window. She noticed me and our eyes met. We exhanged smiles, both understanding what she was mooning at.
"You know what?", Vince looked up, a small grin splitting his angular face. "I think it's totally awesome that we actually meet up and have these get togethers."
I could almost feel Dillian rolling his eyes. Vince was too cloistered, too sheltered and too outdated in his book. I rolled my own eyes at that thought. Dillian was always the most 'plugged in', in popular culture. He was always the first one to have the latest fad. The first one to sport the latest fashions. He was the one who got picked up by both guys and girls where ever he went. I personally thought he was an elitist snob who only put up with me because I was his dance partner.
Men...
Vince smiled at me as he continued speaking, as if he'd heard my thoughts.
"I mean, look at the other kids our age. Tapping away on their mobile phones all day, even when they're meeting long lost friends for the first time in ages! I just don't get how some people can go through all the trouble of organizing, say, a luch with some friends, and then spend the entire session talking on the phone with people who wern't there. It's like, 'hey, let's get together in person, so I can ignore you while you do the same to me!' "
There were a few uncomfortable shuffles at our table. We were all guilty of what Vince said. He'd always like calling us 'sheep'; or rather, 'Ardent Advocates of the All-Annihilating Athrophy - Commercialism', to be exact.
"Well," drawled Dillian, trying, as usual, to snub Vince and his '4th century mindset'. "At least some of us do get out of the house. And it's not all exactly like you've described.
"I personally think that it's much better than being cooped up al home like you," Dillian continued, "Coming out of the shade only once in a while, and even then only because the girlfriend demanded that you did so. And even then, you adhere to an unspoken, unofficial curfew of 10pm. 10pm! Good gods man, you're twenty this year, for crying out loud! Isn't it time you started, oh I don't know, living, a little?
-~*~-
And I ended the writing there. Vince's reply will be something along the lines of not having to follow the myopic dictates of society to be himself, to enjoy himself.
You could probably guess by now that he is a little against the Establishment. Oh well. Until the next post...
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Prologue
This would most probably be the official start of the story. The Letter post is more of like a Post-It for me, like some hastily scribbled bit of info to keep me reminded of who's who. So yea, discard that. The Letter is not going to be included anywhere in the story. Most probably.
"My name is Gwendolyn. I'm twenty one this year, I'm a dancer, and I am homosexual."
That was all I intended to say when my turn came. The trick to these dreary introduction games was to indulge the host a little, give them a little of what they wanted to hear, and then drop a totally unexpected bomb on their sensibilities. Not that I really cared how they saw me, or what they’d do to me after such a revelation.
Not that I really cared about anything at all, actually.
We were sitting in a circle, as these games tended to need us to do, and I was 7 positions away from the current speaker. She was rather sweet looking, with short, wavy brown hair, and eyes that seemed to catch the light just right.
The light that shone into the room through a small window with vertical iron bars embedded into the concrete ledge that served as the lip of the window. I glanced at the window, reminded that I would not be able to simply walk away from this silly game, from this silly room, at anytime I wished.
They tried to disguise the fact as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do. And what they could not disguise, they tried to mute its obviousness. As I glanced around the room, each small reminder felt like a dull thud within my heart. Like recalling your most embarrassing moments, and feeling the urge to alternately bury your face and groan and to pound your fists into something, as if doing so would expel the burning shame you felt.
The unusually large bolt across the door, both painted an earthy brown to make you feel at home; the door itself, made of sturdy iron, ensured that nobody was going to break in anytime soon. Or break out. Fans and light fixtures were too high up on the ceiling to be of any use in any hare-brained suicide attempt.
The girl with the wavy hair had just finished, and now there were only six people before it was my turn. I wrung my hands, suddenly feeling very confined and claustrophobic. I was starting to hyperventilate, but I was doing all of this quietly, not wanting to attract any attention. 'Keep your head low,' was what some of the older girls advised us when we were in the holding room for the morning assembly.
I forced myself to calm down, taking slow and deep breaths. I clenched my fists to stop them from trembling, feeling my nails dig into flesh. The pain was a welcome change. It was something… real, something I had some measure of control over. It was comforting. But most of all, the pain brought focus.
I sighed and cast my eyes to the floor, contemplating my life thus far, wondering again where I went wrong, and when did I start down the path that lead me to this falsely cheerful room, sitting in a circle with other women dressed in the same plain white uniform, playing an introductory ice-breaker game.
I suppose you could say it started with iced tea.
"My name is Gwendolyn. I'm twenty one this year, I'm a dancer, and I am homosexual."
That was all I intended to say when my turn came. The trick to these dreary introduction games was to indulge the host a little, give them a little of what they wanted to hear, and then drop a totally unexpected bomb on their sensibilities. Not that I really cared how they saw me, or what they’d do to me after such a revelation.
Not that I really cared about anything at all, actually.
We were sitting in a circle, as these games tended to need us to do, and I was 7 positions away from the current speaker. She was rather sweet looking, with short, wavy brown hair, and eyes that seemed to catch the light just right.
The light that shone into the room through a small window with vertical iron bars embedded into the concrete ledge that served as the lip of the window. I glanced at the window, reminded that I would not be able to simply walk away from this silly game, from this silly room, at anytime I wished.
They tried to disguise the fact as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do. And what they could not disguise, they tried to mute its obviousness. As I glanced around the room, each small reminder felt like a dull thud within my heart. Like recalling your most embarrassing moments, and feeling the urge to alternately bury your face and groan and to pound your fists into something, as if doing so would expel the burning shame you felt.
The unusually large bolt across the door, both painted an earthy brown to make you feel at home; the door itself, made of sturdy iron, ensured that nobody was going to break in anytime soon. Or break out. Fans and light fixtures were too high up on the ceiling to be of any use in any hare-brained suicide attempt.
The girl with the wavy hair had just finished, and now there were only six people before it was my turn. I wrung my hands, suddenly feeling very confined and claustrophobic. I was starting to hyperventilate, but I was doing all of this quietly, not wanting to attract any attention. 'Keep your head low,' was what some of the older girls advised us when we were in the holding room for the morning assembly.
I forced myself to calm down, taking slow and deep breaths. I clenched my fists to stop them from trembling, feeling my nails dig into flesh. The pain was a welcome change. It was something… real, something I had some measure of control over. It was comforting. But most of all, the pain brought focus.
I sighed and cast my eyes to the floor, contemplating my life thus far, wondering again where I went wrong, and when did I start down the path that lead me to this falsely cheerful room, sitting in a circle with other women dressed in the same plain white uniform, playing an introductory ice-breaker game.
I suppose you could say it started with iced tea.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Gwen does weed! Viva la bong!
I was almost nodding off when I heard the distinctive growl of Dillian’s car coming around the bend. I jumped up and scrambled to hide behind a pillar where I could watch him without being noticed.
He flicked his indicator lights to the right and turned into the small street a block or two from his flat. He snarled at a cat staring at him as he was getting out of his coupe before slamming the door.
He ran eyes over its gleaming, metallic blue surface, and look that was a blend between puzzlement and amusement crossed his face. I wondered what he was thinking about.
He shuffled a couple of steps in the direction of the general store, kicking up sand in to the wind with his slightly faded sneakers. I sighed...he really needed new shoes. He glanced about before he shuffled the rest of the way to the store's entrance, as if unsure of what he wanted to do. I clenched my fists in indecision. I finally decided to stay put and to fidget, getting extremely impatient. Curse that damnable Dillian for acting so strangely and making me stalk him like this.
10 minutes later he emerged from the store, purchase in hand, and walked towards his car. I sighed again. So it was true. He was back to his old habit, and it was going to be quite the struggle to bring him back to me. To us. I was getting annoyed at the way I kept thinking of him as mine in the singular.
I was waiting for him when he emerged from his car a few minutes later. I gave him a tight smile, one that told him I knew what he bought, but I wasn't going to say or do anything. I was just... going to be there for him. He seemed slightly surprised that I was there, but said nothing, eyes glazing over the way they usually did whenever he was 'zoned out, but still functional'.
With a barely audible 'Bah', he grabbed the item and walked out towards the benches in the common landing. Fingering his purchase, he finally sighed and ripped off the wrapper and flicked the cover open.
I sat down beside him, doing nothing more than observe, for I was as far out of my element as I had ever been. I was unsure what to do, what to say. I wondered what he was thinking of me being here, beside him. I hated this feeling of helplessness, of feeling around in the dark, trying to figure out something to do to reach out to the imbecile beside me.
He sighed and took one of the contents from the item, placing it between his lips. One hand offered me the box, while the other fumbled for something in his pocket.
I took a long hard look at the 19 remaining sticks within; there was a slight pang of guilt as I took one out. I could not recall when I'd decided to smoke along with him, but there I was; cigarette in hand, waiting. A small voice inside was telling me to stop being foolish, that I'd done this before, long ago, what was difference now? The main difference, I screamed internally to myself, was that these cigarettes were mixed with no small amount of marijuana. It was a well known secret that the store Dillian went to earlier was a front for the dealers of the weed.
The area around us was deserted, and the only sound that could be heard was the flicking of a lighter. This was it. He shut his eyes and took a deep draw from the stick, holding it in, before releasing the smoke through his nose with nary a hint of discomfort. That meant that he’d been doing it before today. That meant bad news.
He looked over at me, eyes dull and half closed. No words were said, but it was rather obvious he wanted me to join him. It was the only way he’d accept me being there.
I sighed. Sometimes men and their strange need to be macho puzzled me beyond all reason. But then again, I suppose we women do the same thing for the male mental constitution as well.
I lit the cigarette and took my first puff in over 2 years. The smoke rushed into me, filling every pore in my lungs, awakening long forgotten memories of the experience.
My lungs hurt, but not in a bad way. My whole body gave a slight shudder, as if embracing an old lover after a long period of absence. I could hold my breath no more. The smoke escaping from my mouth was like that of a spastic geyser. Coughing, I opened my eyes, and almost wished I had not. Slightly dizzy, I took another draw from the cigarette. And another, and another. Each breath hurting less, and feeling more pleasurable. My senses becoming more alert, more attuned to the world around me.
Just like sex, I thought grimly.
Time lost its meaning, and I moved to cuddle beside him, feeling insanely high and unable to keep my balance. He tossed his cigarette butt -now wet- away and took my stick away from me, and began to smoke that one too, the ambers glowing into a sizzling red every time he took a long drag.
(Auth's note: considering taking out the following bit. seems a bit redundant)
After an immeasurable amount of time my senses came back to me, and I got to my feet with a slight wobble, nodding in the direction of the elevator. My head was feeling really heavy, a polar opposite of just 5 minutes ago.
With a muted curse he heaved himself off the bench and followed me into the elevator. His movements were slow and you could tell that something was 'off' about him. He was still grounded in reality, but only barely. I supposed smoking 2 sticks right off the bat like that was too much, even for him.
I sighed. Was it really worth it? Granted, it was the second-best feeling in the world, after an actual orgasm, but was it worth the trouble of weaning myself of the damned sticks? Again?
And speaking of orgasms...
Okay, this piece TOTALLY SUCKS. omg. I am so not shiok with this. but what the hell, I do need this scene as a catalyst to move the story where I want it to go. I guess I'll come back to do some re-writing of this LAAAATERRRR on. heh. okay so i did come back to fiddle with it lol.
Some of you may find this piece familiar in some way. That's because I cannibalized one of my previous pieces. lol. Oh well. Until the next post, ciao.
He flicked his indicator lights to the right and turned into the small street a block or two from his flat. He snarled at a cat staring at him as he was getting out of his coupe before slamming the door.
He ran eyes over its gleaming, metallic blue surface, and look that was a blend between puzzlement and amusement crossed his face. I wondered what he was thinking about.
He shuffled a couple of steps in the direction of the general store, kicking up sand in to the wind with his slightly faded sneakers. I sighed...he really needed new shoes. He glanced about before he shuffled the rest of the way to the store's entrance, as if unsure of what he wanted to do. I clenched my fists in indecision. I finally decided to stay put and to fidget, getting extremely impatient. Curse that damnable Dillian for acting so strangely and making me stalk him like this.
10 minutes later he emerged from the store, purchase in hand, and walked towards his car. I sighed again. So it was true. He was back to his old habit, and it was going to be quite the struggle to bring him back to me. To us. I was getting annoyed at the way I kept thinking of him as mine in the singular.
I was waiting for him when he emerged from his car a few minutes later. I gave him a tight smile, one that told him I knew what he bought, but I wasn't going to say or do anything. I was just... going to be there for him. He seemed slightly surprised that I was there, but said nothing, eyes glazing over the way they usually did whenever he was 'zoned out, but still functional'.
With a barely audible 'Bah', he grabbed the item and walked out towards the benches in the common landing. Fingering his purchase, he finally sighed and ripped off the wrapper and flicked the cover open.
I sat down beside him, doing nothing more than observe, for I was as far out of my element as I had ever been. I was unsure what to do, what to say. I wondered what he was thinking of me being here, beside him. I hated this feeling of helplessness, of feeling around in the dark, trying to figure out something to do to reach out to the imbecile beside me.
He sighed and took one of the contents from the item, placing it between his lips. One hand offered me the box, while the other fumbled for something in his pocket.
I took a long hard look at the 19 remaining sticks within; there was a slight pang of guilt as I took one out. I could not recall when I'd decided to smoke along with him, but there I was; cigarette in hand, waiting. A small voice inside was telling me to stop being foolish, that I'd done this before, long ago, what was difference now? The main difference, I screamed internally to myself, was that these cigarettes were mixed with no small amount of marijuana. It was a well known secret that the store Dillian went to earlier was a front for the dealers of the weed.
The area around us was deserted, and the only sound that could be heard was the flicking of a lighter. This was it. He shut his eyes and took a deep draw from the stick, holding it in, before releasing the smoke through his nose with nary a hint of discomfort. That meant that he’d been doing it before today. That meant bad news.
He looked over at me, eyes dull and half closed. No words were said, but it was rather obvious he wanted me to join him. It was the only way he’d accept me being there.
I sighed. Sometimes men and their strange need to be macho puzzled me beyond all reason. But then again, I suppose we women do the same thing for the male mental constitution as well.
I lit the cigarette and took my first puff in over 2 years. The smoke rushed into me, filling every pore in my lungs, awakening long forgotten memories of the experience.
My lungs hurt, but not in a bad way. My whole body gave a slight shudder, as if embracing an old lover after a long period of absence. I could hold my breath no more. The smoke escaping from my mouth was like that of a spastic geyser. Coughing, I opened my eyes, and almost wished I had not. Slightly dizzy, I took another draw from the cigarette. And another, and another. Each breath hurting less, and feeling more pleasurable. My senses becoming more alert, more attuned to the world around me.
Just like sex, I thought grimly.
Time lost its meaning, and I moved to cuddle beside him, feeling insanely high and unable to keep my balance. He tossed his cigarette butt -now wet- away and took my stick away from me, and began to smoke that one too, the ambers glowing into a sizzling red every time he took a long drag.
(Auth's note: considering taking out the following bit. seems a bit redundant)
After an immeasurable amount of time my senses came back to me, and I got to my feet with a slight wobble, nodding in the direction of the elevator. My head was feeling really heavy, a polar opposite of just 5 minutes ago.
With a muted curse he heaved himself off the bench and followed me into the elevator. His movements were slow and you could tell that something was 'off' about him. He was still grounded in reality, but only barely. I supposed smoking 2 sticks right off the bat like that was too much, even for him.
I sighed. Was it really worth it? Granted, it was the second-best feeling in the world, after an actual orgasm, but was it worth the trouble of weaning myself of the damned sticks? Again?
And speaking of orgasms...
Some of you may find this piece familiar in some way. That's because I cannibalized one of my previous pieces. lol. Oh well. Until the next post, ciao.
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