Mr. Raemon

Isabella Winston laughed as she ran from her twin sister, Annie. They ran through the halls of the small apartment building, taking the corners quickly. They lived in a small, two-room apartment with their mother and her boyfriend. In their minds, their mother's boyfriend was, in fact, their father, as their father had vanished from their lives nine months before their birth. Ten years later, her boyfriend was all they could remember and all they had ever known.

Isabella could see the light streaming through the open door of the building. A grin spread across her face as she triggered a final burst of energy to speed her through the door. She ran through the door and turned hard to the right, skidding slightly and careening into a tall man. He stumbled backwards a little bit, accepting the blow to his lower body. Isabella jumped back and looked over at the man skeptically.

He wasn't a very tall man, but anyone of average height seems tall to a ten-year-old. He had a fairly large, hooked nose and his brown hair was cut neatly along his head, though the curls in it made it stand up slightly. He was dressed in a brown suit with a mint colored tie. A brown briefcase sat on the ground beside him, having been dropped due to the surprise caused by a small figure running into him at full speed. He seemed slightly distracted, straightening his suit. He stopped almost abruptly, as though suddenly realizing that there was a pair of large, green eyes watching him. He smiled. He had a lovely smile. "What's your name?"

Her skeptical look did not alter or flicker even slightly. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she mumbled, wondering suddenly why Annie had not yet run out of the building.

"I'm Juan Raemon. It's a pleasure to meet you. I take it you live here as well?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she said slightly louder.

Mr. Raemon laughed slightly, "Alright. Maybe I'll see you around the building." He gave her a slight nod, picked up his briefcase and walked into the building.

Isabella stared blankly forward, barely hearing her sister's voice ask her who the strange man was.

Doctor Archibald, Ph.D.

The whole castle shook as one of the doors burst open, forced by a dark green substance with the consistency of gelatin removed from the refridgerator two hours too early. The liquidy goo spread across the red carpet. walls, and ceiling in the study detailing how the door had failed to serve its purposed. A very short man, nearly half the size of a normal adult, emerged from the room, covered from head to toe in the green sludge. He wore large orange glasses that seemed to serve as a sort of compensation for the size of his actual eyes. His cheeks were large, his chin was doubled, and his body as a whole seemed much too large for small stature. He removed his glasses his his pudgy hand and wiped some of the sludge off of his forehead to keep it from sliding down into his beady blue eyes.

"Well that seemed like a success," Zachary groaned lazily from his chair.

"I doubt you could do much better, brainless oaf," the short man snapped.

The door to the study opened suddenly and Woodrow and Marcus ran in. "What happened?" Woodrow asked, nearly out of breath. His eyes revealed however, that the question was answered almost before it was finished being asked. "What was this, Archibald?" His tone changed from concerned to irritated.

"A cure... for Patrick," Archibald said, sounding frustrated. “Though I wish you would call me by my proper title. You make me feel so low, Woodrow.”

“When you gain the work etiquette of a doctor, I’ll consider it. As for Patrick, I was under the impression that Patrick was uninterested in a cure.”

“I sure as Hell wouldn’t be interested in a cure if he was the one making it,” Zachary tossed his head in Archibald’s direction.

“Shut up, you rotting corpse,” Archibald spat.

“Clean this up now, doctor,” Woodrow shouted over Zachary’s response as he turned on his heel and left the room.

Marcus

Woodrow sat in the brown armchair in his room reading. He looked over his book as the door to his room opened. A young man entered the room, his fiery hair spiked, giving it an even more fiery look than the redness already did. Woodrow sat silently and watched the young man sit on the couch next to the door. He looked somewhat forlorn, his eyes cast down, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his open knees.

“Marcus.”

The young man seemed to cringe at the sound of his own name. His head drooped lower.

Woodrow shut his book quietly and moved over to sit next to the young man. “Marcus, tell me what’s wrong,” Woodrow said warmly.

Marcus looked up just barely, his eyes slightly glazed. “She makes excuses. Bad excuses. It’s like she thinks I’m not even worth the effort. I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t say I’m the best to ask for woman advice.”

“Who else would you suggest? As much as I love and appreciate the people in this house, there’s no denying that nearly everyone is off their rocker.” He looked up at Woodrow and met a somewhat annoyed gaze. “Look, Woodrow, I know that Victor is your best friend and whatnot, but he doesn’t get around much. I mean, he doesn’t leave his room until sundown and won’t dare go outside until the sun is completely out of sight. Whatever his reason, skin allergy or not, he never goes out during the day. and has probably never even seen a woman, much less ask one on a date.”

“You’re assuming quite a bit, Marcus.”

Marcus seemed somewhat skeptical. “Either way, you’re the one who wants a family.”

“ Marcus,” Woodrow said sharply, standing, “that is beyond the point. We are not discussing this any longer.”

Notes on Anything:

Anything; definition- any object, or matter whatever- to any degree or extent; at all something or someone of importance- any object, event or action whatever- in any way- anything but, not at all

Anything is everything is anything. So anything can be anyone can be anything, anywhere, at any time.

Any possibility is an endless possibility.

Any moment can cause happiness, can cause pain, can be seized.

Anything is anyone, is you, is me, is our future together, is our future apart.

Love of any kind can hate. Hate of any kind can love. Love is hate is love.

Any person, any place, at any given moment is doing anything.

Anything is happening to anyone at any time, anywhere.

Anything can be anything, and anything can change at any time to be anything other than the original anything it was. Anything can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, so do it. Be anything.

As wonderful a fall back as 'anything' may seen, it isn't much good at catching. So don't fall. Jump.

Anything; definition- what we were when we were where we were; where we are when we are where we are; what we'll be when we'll be where we'll be.

Be anything.

Claudia Thatcher

The eyes opened to reveal bright green eyes. They looked frightened. The eyes flicked back and forth, examining the room around them with as little movement as possible. The room was very dark but for the star and moonlight shining through the open window. The entire room and everything in it was shades of grey—dark grey. It was a large room; a fireplace in one corner, a mirrored closet in the other, a door to some sort of outside balcony, a violin by one wall beside an arm chair beside a bookshelf, and a piano by the other wall. Arriving at the conclusion that the room was empty, she sat up.

“You’re awake, I see.”

Her eyes fell on the piano. The man sitting at it was so black and white himself that he blended right into the room. His skin was bone white, his hair was ebony black, and he was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and grey stripped tie. Her heart began to race as she looked at him more intently. He looked almost dead. His eyes seemed sunken, surrounded with dark rings, and his expression seemed blank. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound followed.

He stood and walked over to her. You’ve regained color, which is good of course.”

“Who are you?” she finally managed, barely a whisper.

“Victor Kinsey. I know it’s a bit redundant, but names are what they are.” He paused. Apparently her face expressed her confusion because he continued. “Victor means “victory” or “victorious,” and Kinsey means “victorious prince.” It’s a bit redundant. What is your name?”

She hesitated. She barely knew this man at all; however, judging from her memory, she owed this man her life. “Claudia Thatcher.”

The Stranger at the Gate

Night fell rather quickly--winter was setting in. Victor jumped out of bed, bursting through his bed curtains and crept over to the window curtains. He opened them cautiously, not sure that the sun had fallen far enough below the horizon to prevent some sort of reaction. Seeing the pink reflection of the sun in the sky, he pulled open the curtains and looked out at the snowy world around the castle. A movement below startled him. His eyes shifted downward. A figure was moving slowly, almost curiously towards the castle gate. Or maybe it was cautiously. Victor moved quickly, changing into his suit and flying down the spiral staircases to the first floor. He ran to the window and pulled the gold curtains back just enough so he could see.

"What are you doing?" he heard Woodrow ask.

"There's someone at the gate. I've never seen them before." He looked over at Woodrow with a smile. "Curiosity got the better of me, I suppose." He shrugged as he turned back to look out of the window, "I've always enjoyed having company anyway.

Woodrow stood beside Victor and listened as his friend described the intriguing being outside the gate. The figure seemed of average height and his hair was black and short. His skin seemed pale, almost blue. He looked cold. He stopped when he reached the castle gate, wrapping his fingers around the iron bars. He looked very cold.

It all happened rather quickly. The man's collapsed into the snow, his frozen body refusing to work any longer. Victor had his cloak and hat on and was out the door without much of a second thought. The sun, though down enough that he could leave his room, was not actually in a position that allowed Victor to go outside without consequences. He felt his skin begin to burn at an alarming rate. He ran to the figure, scooping his unconscious cold body up from the snow, and ran back into the house.

He fell to the floor, gasping for breath, still holding the cold stranger in his arms. Woodrow was already gone--running, no doubt, to the top floor to get Victor's allergy cream. Victor looked into the face of the stranger. It was a woman.

Dream- February 15th 2009

Sam and I were going to Prom together; however, he was going to be coming late because of a tennis thing. So I was there with Damayanti, who didn’t have a date for one reason or another, waiting for Sam. We were there barely any time at all, maybe 20 minutes, when Damayanti turned to me and said the dance was really boring and said she was going to leave. She took my hand and we left, I wanted to fight it, but I didn’t. I never saw Sam.

Then I was somewhere—I don’t remember where—thinking about how I hadn’t gotten a single picture, or what’s worse, I hadn’t gotten to dance with Sam. I thought to myself, “Well, there’s always next time.” My stomach dropped as I realized that I was at Prom, my senior prom. There was no next time. That was depressing to say the least.

Then, because my dreams like to change scenery quickly and without warning, I was in the car, being driven to school by Dad. Apparently we were both aware that there was some sort of construction going on up at school. Dad kept saying that he hoped they hadn’t made the building too modern—apparently that’s what was going on in most other places; over modernization, I mean. We came around the corner and saw the school. East was probably two stories higher than it was before the construction. Actually, it was all together larger. There was almost no space between the building and the sidewalk. All of the grass around the edge of the school was gone, and all of the windows were full-wall windows. The building looked as though it were made entirely of glass. There was a huge chandelier hanging in the main hall which now had a sort of marble flooring. I asked Dad how they managed to avoid the Hysterical Society with this one. The Hysterical Society is what my family calls the Historical Society because they have very strict policies on what can and can’t be changed on certain homes. I don’t remember Dad’s response (but the real life response would be that East isn’t in the Hysterical Society district). I got out of the car and Dad drove away. I looked at the severely transformed school and burst into tears. I kept thinking that I wanted Sam, I needed to find Sam. So continuing to cry, I began my search for Sam. I wandered through the school, having no idea where I was. I looked in all of the usual places, but the usual places were all very different. The student council room was now just a corner by the staircase with a single table and some chairs. I made my way down to the place where the band room normally is, and walked out of the doors that my family knows as “the band room doors.” I walked along the outside of the building, sort of balancing along the edge. I looked inside at one point and saw an elaborately decorated room, filled with circular tables covered in white table cloths. At each place there was a HUSH button signifying who was to sit where. I tried to look to see where Sam would be seated, but I could not make out any of the names. The dream ended before I found Sam.

Illness

Christina stood in the kitchen, leaning against the cold stove. Her eyes were shut tight, her stomach was knotted tighter, and a fowl taste sat in her mouth--a taste that she could not wash away. She felt herself growing more and more ill with each passing moment. Every fleeting thought resulted in the same churning in her stomach. She turned to face the oven, an empty pot before her, her mouth hanging open slightly, ready at any moment for the contents of her empty stomach to be forced upward.

The front door burst open, startling Christina. She spun around to see Charles walk in. He looked over at Christina, his eyes seemed sunk and the color in his skin was gone. He removed his hat and cloak quickly and ran upstairs, shutting the door loudly behind him.

She moved up the stairs quietly and opened the door to the bedroom slowly. She could see Charles' shadow stretched out silently on the floor. The floor creaked slightly as she stepped into the room, looking around the door to see only his silhouette against the moonlight pouring through the open window. He did not move. The air in the room was cold. She made her way slowly across the room. He seemed wholly unaware of her presence, his mind drifting off to other, less pleasant places. She stopped, standing behind him, and put her hands softly of his shoulders. His head turned slightly and suddenly from the sudden return to reality.

"Charles," she whispered, stroking the back of his head and neck gently. "Charles, you did all you could."

He turned to look at her, the tears welling in his eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Why wasn't it enough?" A tear began to roll down his cheek. "Why wasn't it enough?" He leaned into her embrace and silently wept.

Gah! Dangling Participle!

I'm afraid to say that I don't have much of a post today. I spent much of the day seeing if I could work with the Thatcher sisters and get them a part in the story they were supposed to be in (gah! dangling participle!). I did not succeed. As a result, today's post will be to simply tell any readers I may have, that the Thatcher sisters are no longer in the story, but will rather be replaced by Claudia Thatcher who, don't worry, has plenty of siblings to go around. I apologize to those of you following the story and assure you that I will get an updated installment with Claudia Thatcher as soon as possible.

William Clay

William Clay walked along the thin dirt road that followed the edge of Miss Carpenter’s land. He had spent most of the day planting. It was still somewhat early in the season, but he was confident that any frost that occurred would not penetrate the ground so deep as to harm the seeds. He looked over his right shoulder back at Miss Carpenter and Mr. Porter. He hated the sight of it. Edward Porter was an idiot. Sure, he was good looking, but that was no reason to fall all over him. He turned to face forward quickly as he saw Miss Carpenter begin to turn in his direction. This town was a joke. They called themselves Puritans, but deep down everything was the same as any other town back in England. People were limited by social class created by, usually, how much money they had or their position in society and occasionally their ability to express their faith without expressing it at all. Edward Porter, being the son of the only doctor in town, had a relatively high place in society, regardless of the fact that he would get no piece of the fortune upon his father’s death. Thus, no doubt, he eagerly chased after the fortune possessed by Louisa Carpenter.

Clay, however, was a farmer. He always had been a farmer and would remain so until he died. He didn’t remember much of his father. He had died when William was just a young boy when his father had died, leaving him and mother to fend for themselves. Though his mother worked as a seamstress as best she could, William had little artistic talent, and found himself better suited as a hired hand for whomever needed help with their farm work. Mr. Carpenter, Louisa’s father, had the largest farm in the town, and not only accepted William’s offer of assistance, but also bought him and his mother a small house just beyond the property line for ease of travel. William’s mother died from a fever a few weeks later. And so he lived alone in the small house just beyond the Carpenter property line and he worked on the farm every spring, summer and autumn that came and went for the next 15 years. His status in the society, though generally respected, was quite low.

Notes on Anything

Anything; definition-any object, or matter whatever-to any degree or extent; at all something or someone of importance-any object, event or action whatever-in any way-anything but, not at all.

Anything: The Ultimate Excuse. If used too many time in the presence of one individual, may cause anger, frustration and lack of understanding. USE WITH CAUTION.

Anything: The Ultimate Excuse. Anything; the perfect avoidance beacon from responsibility. When someone asks me a question for which my answer is clearly defined and may cause, shall we say, "controversy," my answer is 'anything.' "What should we do for dinner?" One of the most lethal questions a person could ever be asked. There is at least a 75% chance that the asked already has something in mind, so the answerer must be extremely careful on this unsteady ground. 'Thinking... dinner... thinking... not spaghetti... anything bu spaghetti.' "Anything." In my mind's eye it was decided that the likelihood that, of all available meals, spaghetti should be chosen, was so small that it would be better to appear indifferent. Of course, it works the other way as well. If my answer to the question is too particular, and therefore possibly open to ridicule, I will default to "anything." Anything is a fall back--a place to go when our fear of prosecution overrides our knowledge of freedom. Anything can go anywhere, be anyone, so anything, so why not fall back on it? It's so soft, so malleable, so open.

Anything: A Death Sentence. It's too open. As wonderful a fall back as 'anything' may seem, it isn't much good at catching. In fact, the result of falling back on 'anything' is nothing, which leads to back and neck pains. Ouch. 'Anything' must be used with caution. Answering the "what do you want to do in college?" question with 'anything' is a terrible idea. In an instance like that, answering with "anything" leads to follow-up question (which I personally despise and avoid at all costs). So now 'anything' isn't an avoidance beacon anymore, but a huge attracting beam. So unless you want the attention received during the follow-up questioning, avoid 'anything.'

'Anything' may help on occasion when you're in a tight spot, but don't use it all of the time. 'Anything' can be anything, and 'anything' can change at any time to become anything other other than the anything it was when it was first mentioned. Anything: The Ultimate Excuse, a Death Sentence, and the Most Dangerous Word in the English Language.

The Reason

My life is a constant stream of ridiculous ideas that often have no action connected to them. I am a person lacking in characteristics that are ecstatically significant. Beyond my ability to take just about any fictional “bad guy” and recreate them into a “good guy,” I’m nothing spectacular. I spend much of time in a fairly ordinary setting. There is nothing much happening. I’m alone in my room, sitting on my bed, with the boom box on my bed beside me, listening to something (probably J Williams or JC Superstar). I’m thinking of a story. I’m thinking of some elaborate plot, maybe with some romance, maybe just a friendship, maybe a story about loneliness and fear—something I think I’m not too familiar with. However, this is a problem. Often times, I am the only person who can solve a certain problem—or at least, solve the problem without causing some sort of cataclysmic reaction.

My greatest fault is silence.

I am a hero simply because I am alone. My friends are few and they mean everything to me. I make decisions based on others, but I act on them alone. I think of plots that will never become true stories to anyone but me. They will be lost in the elaborate fibers of my mind, never to be discovered by another creature. The stories will die with me and keep me company as I lie in the darkness of death. Perhaps they will become my heaven as now they are my haven. Perhaps they will become real and I shall be part of them. Or perhaps, as happens with the dreams of heroes, they will die. People may wish for their return, yet they will not come. As the world turns inside-out, destroying itself, and the people cry for inspiration, my thoughts will not arrive to help them. Why? Because I am afraid. I fear what people say and think and do. And so, I go into my room, shut the door and think by myself, to the brilliance that is music, and I let my thoughts die. Perhaps I am the villain. I am not a villain of action, but in lack there of. I am the character who sits silently in the dark corner, watching the protagonist destroy themselves, while fully aware of exactly how to solve the problem. I am the one who does nothing. I am the one who comes up with solutions yet tells no one the answer. I claim to be the hero, yet deep down I know the truth. I am the villain.