Special

Kate hurts and she's angry. Per result Katie's slightly upset. Schultz is stressed by play. Scrap of paper reminds me of the Roses so much it hurts me. I don't want to talk to Katie on our car ride home because the more I talk, the more I'm tempted to say, "Take me? Please?"

They're busy, but I'm staring at my empty room and silent phone with a very stubborn frown.

Perhaps I will clean....

Special

Does your heart hurt?
Does your heart hurt?

Sing it loud and give a cry
beat your breast, ask yourself why
It doesn't matter;

You're alone
sitting in an empty room
checking a cellphone hopefully
facebook open on a window
still alone.

Does your heart hurt?
Does it hurt?

Is it tearing like the standard from some defeated army?
Is it falling like the always-dying moon?
Is it lit on so hot, like fire from a grassland when lightning strikes?

Sitting in an empty room
 Check the cellphone
check the internet
who the fuck cares?

Your lives dance for the eyes of your will,
and no one answers me when I'd beg for it.
I'd get on my knees to look into the eyes of a friend.
I'd scream in the streets to get into their car
I'd roll naked down a hill of thorns to hold their empty hands, hands they won't offer me tonight. 

I needed my friends,
and they don't need me.


Finley was so angry....








Nothing more to say.

Special

"And in my wild heart what did I most wish
to happen to me: "Again whom must I persuade
back into the harness of your love?
Sappho, who wrongs you?
For if she flees, soon she'll pursue,
she doesn't accept gifts, but she'll give,
if not now loving, soon she'll love
even against her will."
Come to me now again, release me from
this pain, everything my spirit longs
to have fulfilled, fulfill, and you
be my ally..."

Sappho, I understand your pain. More because of Constance Pendregast, who I understand most especially of late. Constance is a book character from a book called "The Book of the Dead", by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. It was her illicit lover, Diogones, a wild man who puts fire in my soul despite his lack of existence, who introduced me to Sappho... 

Like Constance I, too, am hungry for love. I, too, am hungry for life. 

And the quote above reminds me so much, so much of Katie that I was overcome. But for now, let me be lost in that melting Greek of Sappho. Let me be lost in the love that ended with only death on this lonely, cold, and bitter night... 

Special: Hurt by assumptions

Banned from writing lab. No matter how much I try, to maintain a professional atmosphere, it appears I have somehow done the wrong thing for not touching Finley while he is a teacher. I am not to attend Prom. I am not to be in or near the writing lab, not at all. If I do, Finley's position is liable to be cancelled and I will not walk. The threats are clear, the implications truthful.... I will endanger Finley's career.

Kate trusted me today. She told me a trouble of her heart and I soothed her. I let slip Finley and I, how we... and How I have only ever known two people who needed a Payton. Only two....

And Kate looked at me and--after I'd carefully tested a few things I'd spoken of before--sighed, said, "You know, Payton, I can be pretty dense sometimes."

I know. I can be too. "You can always talk to me about shit, Kate. I'll listen."

She looked at me. Beautiful and vaguely surprised both. "I'm figuring that out." Alarm at the implication. "Oh, not--not that I couldn't before, it's just..."

I nod slowly, look at her. I know what she says.

She meant it.

Hannah Engstrom comes over. "Payton, what's the first thing you think about that's bigger than an elephant?"

"Ms. Linde's Penis?"

Wild laughter. I do that, sometimes. Oops.

Nathan's been given the boot, last I heard. Dalton asked me how I felt about it (in private, he's not like that) and that's how I found out. Don't know how to feel about it. Dominic's not there with his lines yet, poor thing, but he's working really hard. He won't be at rehearsal tomorrow and I'm freaked about it, even though I know that.

After that, I flocked with Hannah Nathan. Flocking involved flamingos on a stranger's lawn for purposes of fundraiser. At first she was awkward with me, but by the end she was smiling and laughing. Friendly and kind. I love that one. The gentle-heart.

Special

I am disappointed and hurt by reality today. I worked and painted and screwed and made braces and tried, tried really hard, for Katie. That part made me happy, that I was of use, that I was needed--! What made me unhappy is the tremendous amount of drama that goes on. I'm not even talking Katie and Kate, that's going on for a very justifiable reason. I'm more talking about Val being bossy, Molly crying her eyes out just 'cuz, my friend the Schultz trying so hard not to be angry about the happiness of those naive stereotypical high school couples with me seeing the pain in-eye, the looks she and Hannah give each other that I can't help....

I felt useless, so I tried twice as hard. We got stuff done, but in the end...

When I'd walk up to the little back-of-auditorium group Schultz had, it got real quiet once it was just her and Hannah. Like they were talking about things they didn't trust me to hear. That insulted me, that stung. I understand Schultz has been scarred by things in the past--more than that is impolite to discern, though if you've read this blog, you know I could--but happy people certainly don't go out of their way to flaunt that in front of her. If anything, a lot of people want her to be with someone that makes her happy. I hope she finds that.... she deserves it.

I'm so angry at the silence in the eyes of my friend and hero.....

Because I deserve trust. I will soothe the hearts of men, if they were only mine to soothe.

Special: heart-halves

It's funny when you think you have something and you realize you didn't.

Like today, I thought I was okay. Not unhappy, but not happy either. A reasonable medium.

And then I saw Katie, and my whole heart lit up like hers had from that dream, when she kissed my hand and I felt a surge of that special happiness and general Payton-tenderness that only my heart-halves give me--and she was smiling and happy with those beautiful eyes--and I realized I felt human. Suddenly I was happy. Instantly, like somebody had flipped a switch, I was myself.

And then she left and it was gone again, and it was almost worse for having me noticed the difference at all.

I had to take off my ring to really get into Beatrice (and not get ink on my fingers) and I danced around like I had a hernia. I wasn't Payton Wiese while it was gone. Just plain old Payton Thompson again. Oh, lord, I hadn't missed that.

Though it was Ms. Schultz herself who donned my ring with a comforting nod and smile, I couldn't hold still back stage. I moved nervously and danced... and oddly enough, it was Kate who comforted me. Kate who looked at me with concern when I unconsciously moved my foot or my eyes twitched with that unnatural speed; Kate who took me into her arms and told me it'd be all right.

I felt like I'd stolen something, but she was...she was happier, after she had. Only a little, but she was, and it boggled my mind.

Nathan knew his lines, but not well, and he won't work to make it better. It's so frustrating to see Dalton literally mouthing Hollister's lines while Nathan struggles to even look at me. Dalton is always checking on how we can make stuff better as a ''couple'', how he can say this differently, should he move here at this point, what about this line? Nathan was apparently born to think he's too good for the rest of us and that arrogance is sickening. We had to go over Beatrice and Hollister's mini-moment over and over and over again, because he just... just couldn't understand love.

If there is something that frustrates me truly, it would be that... to not understand love!

Then I saw Finley, and I sat in his arms for awhile, and my heart was there again, healed, perfect, happy. I smiled and laughed and was myself. Like nothing had ever been missing.

Oh, how I love those two. How they make me happy... they make me myself. Sometimes I don't feel so much like myself unless they're with me. Because... because I did it. Not just me. More God than me, I have to remember that. My friend, God--He sent me friends! Not just any friends, but two true, true, close friends, friends who understand and listen and love like I do...

Two halves of my heart. Two blessings on my life. Two friends. Two lovers in the non-conventional sense.

Finley, who shows the dark I had once, who lives through it through love and support. Finley and Katie share my music, my art, my words and my spinning tongue. Katie, who shows what I want to be, always smiling against the grim and fighting to make herself better even at the worst. Finley, who smiles at the moon. Katie, who says 'fuck it' and plunges to the unknown.

How many words could I write about them? So many. There are so many good things to say about my heart, my soul-friends.... the ones I love.

Tonight I'll hold tight to a coat and a bear...

Because sometimes love dominates me. Sometimes it swallows me up and makes life worth it. Really worth it.


Oh, Katie.... Finley....


My friends...

Special

Sometimes, I dream about seduction.

A silent creeping towards my bedside... a harsh overtone, a growl.... fingers against my face.... clothes on the floor.... screaming... blood dripping from my neck or arms....


But in the end, I wake up, face flushed, clutching my sheets, sweat dripping as I sit up.


But I'm always alone. Always ugly.


I sigh, get up, and watch the Golden Girls.



Who'd want to talk to me? Touch me?





After rehearsal today, everybody made plans with one another. They left me, smiling, laughing, forgetting I existed.

Finley took me home and leaned against me and cried, totally broken by life without any other reason than he's only happy with me, angry and sad when he isn't, and worried about a million things. Talked to Katie. She's taking me to Church tomorrow.



Maybe I won't feel so lonely that way.

Maybe...

Special: Blackwood Manor

Rumpling his dyed, platinum-blonde hair (formerly a very uninteresting brown through and through), Tom realized his life-long dream was finally complete. To start, Tom’s full title was ‘Alias Tom, the Spectrological Photographer Extraordinaire,’ legally changed from ‘Tom Farrell, the underpaid High School graduate’ the day he turned twenty-one less than twenty-four hours ago.

He had moved away from his mother, he had grown tall, he owned his own, if shitty, residence; was in possession of an ideally mysterious job, and his girlfriend out stocked Jessica Alba in every physical aspect in addition to being happily uninterested in a long term relationship. Also, he was getting a raise.

All in all, this good turn of event had caused Tom—excuse me, Alias—to actually answer his boss for a change.

“ALIAS!” His slave master crowed (several of the pillars and workers alike shivered in fear), “GET YOUR SORRY LIFE-FORM IN HERE, YOU STILL-BREATHING PILE OF DISCONTENTMENT!”

Mr. Robert Coswell had believed himself legally dead for twenty-seven years, and had in fact thrown a temper tantrum when it had passed ‘thirteen’ years of being in so devoid-of-life a state. He was perfectly ordinary. He had brown hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes—and he was short. Very short. The only truly remarkable thing about Coswell was the fact he was still alive—or, ah, among us—after so many years of shouting for such long periods of time, still breathing after the massive amounts of illegal drugs he inhaled like pop rocks, and still single after the high-rise of his salary.

“HURRY IT UP, YOU POINTLESS THORN IN THE SIDE OF JESUS’ LEFT THIGH! I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”

Then again, thought Tom, maybe not.

“Yes, sir?” He inquired respectfully.

“ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP!” He snarled.

Suddenly Coswell glided, graceful as a cough-ridden ballerina, to his chair, sank down, and smiled the most handsome smile ever seen.

Tom knew he was in trouble.

“Shut the door,” he twittered, almost kindly, flipping his hand like a stereotypical cheerleader. Reaching into a drawer labeled ‘’Happy’’, he withdrew a handful of glitter and did then proceed to fling it into the air; the low-hanging fan spreading it around like a cheap form of toxic gas. Tom coughed helpfully; Tom did as he was told.

“Sir?” He repeated. Coswell fluttered his strangely-long eyelashes.

“Be a darling and run out to seven-and-main, would you?” The employer required in an alarmingly tone-correct falsetto; “The house is just a darling setting, and it would be nice—“

He stopped mid-sentence. Some of the glitter convalescing off the fan fell onto his dark-blue suit sleeve.

Reaching into another drawer, this one labeled ‘mysterious’, he withdrew a pair of sunglasses smothered in fake blood, clapped together his hands—and the lights went out.

“—it would be nice,” whispered Coswell, his voice somehow coming from everywhere, “If you went to check it out.”

Tom swallowed normally.

“Of course, sir,” he said, “Anything for you, Mr. Coswell, Sir.”

The aforementioned Coswell clapped his hands again, the lights came on, and somehow the sunglasses were nowhere to be seen.

“WELL BE QUICK ABOUT IT, YOU POOR EXCUSE FOR A TONGUE DEPRESSOR!”

With a sigh of resignation, Tom set himself to the task.
                                                                 ***
The residence of the ancient and most noble family of Blackwell was nothing less than enchanting. At least, Tom reasoned, it must have been, once. He could almost imagine the rusty lattice polished, the dead ivy pieces—not brown and cracking—but alive, creeping flourishingly over the greenhouse and the house itself—the burgundy-colored paint fresh, not peeling and scratched at the bottom—could imagine picnics in stunning livery upon the surely well-groomed lawn….

Tom looked at the dirty windows and blinked exactly twice. What was he doing here?

He wondered.

Alias walked to the door, only to discover another remnant of well-groomed wealth now past; a fine door of Cherry-wood with a solid silver (and rather gruesome) gargoyle-shaped knocker.

Tom knocked. Once, twice, three times. Glancing impatiently at his watch, he reached for the doorbell, which sounded with a doldrums’ boom.

And the door opened.

“Aaaaaaah! You have come for a reading, yes!” Squawked the opener with a certainty that reminded Tom very much of a hungry grandma, “So wonderful! I’ve been expecting you for days!”

“Um….” Said Tom, staring with confusion and shock at her ragged Fortune-teller costume, complete with blue-feathered turban. The feather bobbled as she spoke.

“Of course! Of course you have!” she straightened her broad shoulders. “-I- am Madame Bacteria, the greatest teller of the tells in the entire great planes of existence!”

Tom wondered if she knew that the word ‘Bacteria’ had nothing to do with the mystical world in anyway shape or form. Also, she was fat.

“My name is Alias Tom,” he said, “and I’m actually here for a Photograph--“

“Autographs!” she gave a wink with just enough gusto to convince Tom she had entirely the wrong idea regarding his opening statement. “Of course! TAAAAESHA!” Bacteria screamed through the doorway this last, turning back to Tom with a smile that would frighten a Crocodile. She smelled like coffee. “Tea?”
                                                                ***
Tom did not like Tea.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me,” Alias began in his most professional voice, “I’m a Spectrological photographer.” Bacteria blinked confusedly.

“What?”

“I take pictures of Ghosts,” he said calmly.

“G-ghosts!” Tom, who had expected this strange—and borderline insane—woman to be rather excited, looked instead like she desired to run to the supermarket, buy some matches, and burn down the house. “Don’t let them g-get me!”

Tom sighed.

“Look, Ma’am,” he chided, “You’re being an idiot. If you’re really a Psychic, as your sign implies, you should know that most ghosts have a message, a problem, something to go about—“

Bacteria ran.

Looking at the door, Tom finished his Tea.

At this point a cat —a black cat with great, golden eyes— prowled into the room. It curled up around Tom’s feet, it purred a calamity, and did proceed to lick his shoe.

Tom liked cats.

“Hello, cat,” he said cheerfully, “seen any ghosts?” The cat stared at him pointedly, letting out a long, doleful crowl.

And a girl came into the room.

“Edvard!” She snapped, “You know our rules on visitors!”

“Speaking of Visitors,” said Tom, “Who’re you?” He scratched the cats’ left ear.

“My name is Tay,” she said, “but my mother calls me Taesha because of this newest obsession with ‘the fascinating world of the occult’.” Tay’s impression of her mother was devastating in its accuracy, and Tom snickered. “Before this, it was Biology.” That would explain Bacteria, at least, thought Tom.

Tay was very pretty, he noticed.

“I’m here to take pictures of the Ghosts, and any information if you have it,” he said, deciding to trust her. She nodded.

“I suppose you’re the underling of the dog, Coswell,” said Tay. Tom wondered two things: firstly, how she knew his boss, and secondly, why he had not compared Coswell to an undead dog.

“He’s called six or seven Times, but my mother always answers the phone, and you’ve seen her reaction, so—“ her voice lowered in volume “—I know exactly where to find them, but not much of their story.”

Tom withdrew a small legal pad and a pen that had the ‘Ghostbusters’ symbol on it.

“Try,” he said.
                                                            ***
Tom walked into the Piano room of the Blackwell house two minutes before midnight.

“Hello?” He whispered, almost dramatically, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve heard a little about your story, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sharing it with me like you did Taesha?”

There was no reply.

“Please?”

Tom surveyed his environment. The Piano room was lit by the moon, the beams bouncing off the fine, black instrument to light the huge glass windows that made up the walls.

Suddenly—

“Hello,” said a translucent, beautiful woman dressed in thirties’ attire, “I believe I’m your ghost?”

“I believe so,” replied Tom, surprised she had come out this easily and slightly delighted nevertheless, “Just to be sure—not that I think you a fraud, miss, but you understand, it’s an old house—but you are Mrs. Delia Blackwood?”

“Delia?” she answered, surprised, and a little color came back into her form; so in appearance it seemed she was almost solid, “No one has called me Delia since I was a toddler, dear. It’s Dray.” Tom nodded politely.

“Right. Sorry about that. So, Mrs.—ah—Dray… if you don’t mind me asking… why are you still with us today?“

Dray sighed, brushing a semi-solid lock of curly, honey-colored hair from her face. “’With us?’ What a sad phrase. Pray, before we begin, enlighten me of the story knowledge you already have, sir.”

Tom slowly pulled out his legal pad, handed it to Mrs. Blackwood.

She opened it, and it was very strange to see the yellow pallor of the paper against that almost-there hand.

“’Subject one Mrs. Delia Blackwood, dead at thirty-one on May first, nineteen thirty nine. Mrs. Blackwood has been making benign appearances early in the morning from the period of exactly ten years following her death. Circumstances of Death unknown. Family holds memorial yearly on the same-day mark…’” she read aloud, her voice smooth as wind over a fresh coat of ice on a lake.

Dray handed back the legal pad. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “You know even less than I thought. You would like to hear the tale?” Her eyes glanced at the piano with a longing Tom knew he was too young to understand.

“Play for me,” he said, without really knowing why.

Sinking her docile-looking form onto the silver-edged bench, she played. She played harmonies and scales and notes and breaths and magic—she played things Tom didn’t have a name but could guess, like True Love and Death and a terrible, terrible loneliness—and when she stopped, Tom realized he’d been holding his breath.

What’s more, Dray was solid. True, there were still things about her that looked dead, like her corpse blue lips, her un-trembling fingers (for it was cold in the glass Piano Room), and so on.

But she was there.

“I have not,” Mrs. Blackwood said, “Been able to play since...”

“The music was your passion,” he said idly, surprised that not everyone had taken a similar course in college—was Spectrology around in the thirties? He wondered—“it grounded you, it kept you sane. It can still ground you and keep you sane, because your love for it has not diminished.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense.” Dray seemed trapped in her own little world, but Tom was the best, and he knew how to stop her from staying there.

“Mrs. Blackwood? The story?”

Dray’s piercing green eyes stared at him. Then, to Tom’s evident delight, she began to speak again, still smooth, but now with a haunting accent of a French Gypsy—“when I was young, when the world was good, was clean, it was in the nature of the time to treat that cleanliness as a dirty thing. I was alive in the roaring twenties, did you know that? And I had been taught to be a wild, unstoppable thing, to challenge the ways, to doubt the stable and rejoice in the unjust.” She paused.

“But they were wrong,” pressed Tom. Typical enough story, at least, he thought. Girl disregards parents’ advice and ends up with a baby instead of a bob. I should, perhaps, be taking pictures now?

“Yes!” She snarled, “Yes, they were wrong. I was happy to be married, to keep my hair long; to wear olden-time dresses, to glide and speak in good English. I rejoiced in my strong, handsome husband, my beautiful house, my delicate little boy…”

“But your death,” Tom pushed again, “what about your death? I mean, how did you die?”

Dray flickered in and out of solidity. For a minute, Tom feared he would lose her altogether, but her hand clung to the piano and she was again human.

“Poison,” she whispered. “My husband…” Tom leaned forward.

“Yes?”

“My husband was strong and handsome, Tom. But he was also mad. He believed himself a vampire, believed that the more human blood he drank, he would stay young, would be young, lively, strong and vigorous again—and oh, how he desired that vigor…” She trailed off into silence slowly and without warning. Just as Tom readied himself to ask her to proceed, she went on:

“It was only me at first,” said the ghost, strangely resigned to this horrifying tale and even pulling over her v-neck dress a smidgin to reveal a myriad of wounds, “But when he went for our baby…”

Thunder smashed itself against the earth; the Blackwood house shook in the beginnings of a storm.

“No one could know. That I should disgrace the honorable and anciently pure line of the Blackwood would be the most terrible scandal, and the crowd in which Jacob and I stood was the most awful one for scandals… By personal pride, being impromptu-ly kicked from that circle would have been the end to me. An end to the future of my son. And so I said nothing; I coaxed his teeth to my neck, to drink my blood—to keep this insanity quiet as long as I could…”

She stopped.

“Well?” Said Tom, rather breathlessly, as he was still an amateur, “How does it end?”

“He still wanted the child,” she said. “He poisoned me—and now I am dead. And so is my son…”

“He ate him?” Alias said disgustedly, with a wave of hatred rising in him, “He ate your son?”

Dray began to weep. “B-bones and all,” she sobbed, “Not even the bones…” Mrs. Blackwell’s beautiful eyes looked at him pleadingly, her very soul open to his gaze. “Please,” she said. “My baby. Where is my baby? I know he’s dead—but he’s somewhere, somewhere in this house…”

“He’s buried in the backyard, probably—near the graveyard, I think?” said Tom. “Tay—Taesha?—took me through this afternoon. Do you think he’d stay there? I’m sure he wouldn’t wander far.”

“I am sure my Edvard would hide from you,” she said. “He was clever for a toddler. Cleverer than most adults—saner than his… father...”

And was gone.

“Dray?”

No reply.

“I’ll bring him to you,” he promised, furious at this terrible story, this damnable husband, “I’ll bring him as soon as I can!”

Ghostly echoes of the piano masterpiece played by this awe-inspiring housewife stayed with him for the rest of the night.
                                                              ***
The hour was late. Above, the heavens twinkled, whispering their secrets through the shining of the stars. The grass was soft and green, mostly, though a few dead bristles had come with the frost that morning. It was warm, decadently so.

Behind Tom and Tae, the house of Blackwell loomed protectively.

It would, for a date, wedding, or rock band, be a perfect setting. However, Tom found it a rather objectionable setting for the looking of a ghostling child. Then again, is any place reasonable for the looking towards so terrible a thing?

“His name,” Tom whispered to Tay, “What was his name?”

“Edvard,” she crooned softly, “Edvard Blackwood, are you with us?”

“Lord Edvard!” Whispered Tom pointedly, “Edvard, we’ve spoken to your mother. Come out, please?”

The cat called Edvard prowled from the trees—and suddenly it was a baby which crawled from behind the retreating tree line of the forests which surrounded the manor.

“Hello,” it said in a grown adult’s voice, a strong, male voice. Tom shivered.

“You’re Edvard?” He asked.

“Yes, I am he,” replied the child. It was disconcerting to see so large a voice from so small a body, even after meeting Mr. Coswell.

“Ah,” said Tom, though slightly shaken from this baby; this baby of the ghostly blood-red eyes and dead-like skin. Pieces of his arm were missing. His gaze was fiercely terrible—yet somehow naïve—and above all, angry. Horribly, horribly angry.

Tom stepped away, and, after a glance at a wide-eyed Taesha, took a deep breath. “Your mother is looking for you,” he said softly, his eyes downcast. “She’s waiting in the house.”

“Hmmmm. My mother.” Edvard’s voice dripped with distain. “I have heard this ploy before,” he said, and though it sounded calm; the voice was thick, forceful, and nearly British in tone; so unlike the smooth caresses of his mother’s voice. “Give me a reason,” continued the ghost, “to believe you, sir.”

“Believe him?” said Taesha, slightly frightened but still with that determined warble with which all who knew her were accustomed; “He’s a Spectrological photographer, for Christ’s sake!”

“You will be,” said Edvard with a huge, fanged smile, “Silent.”

And Taesha turned to stone.

It began up her legs, her waist, her arms; and by her chest she was screaming—and then a statue, frozen forever in a grimace, the breath and sound lost to the age of the stone.

Noticing the triumphant leer of Edvard, Tom made it a point to barely look at her.

“Lord Blackwood,” he said. “Is there any reason you have to disbelieve my motion to reunite you with your mother?”

The baby hesitated. Tom could see his bright red eyes puzzling, thinking, reasoning, contemplating; the gears in his head turning faster than rabbits could breed.

What on earth was he so afraid of?  Wondered Tom.

“The real Lord Blackwood,” continued Edvard, “is also looking for my mother, Tom Farrell.”

Tom started. “What?”

“He hung himself,” continued Edvard. “Ironic, is it not, that my father’s death was by suicide—not out of longing for his beloved”—here, a very un-baby-like sneer spread across his face—“but only after he had read those books on immortality? Oh, I doubt your not-so diligent research could lead to the countless hours, the illegitimate Faustian bargains; the prayers to upsidedown crosses…”

He stopped.

“And then,” said the former heir, his voice creeping upward in tone, “of course, there’s always the fact that he murdered me. Oh, it took me years to come to grasp with that, to realize what had happened to my mother—“

Suddenly, the ground shook, the trees burst into a bright purple flame which was horribly hot—somehow, bones surrounded Tom and Edvard (and of course whatever Taesha could, at this point, be realistically called).

“YOUR INSOLENCE SHALL BE PUNISHED.” The flames came of the words, and even sounded like flames; flickering and sharp—terrible.

“Father,” whispered Edvard. “Run, Tom! Leave the girl.”

Tom looked at Taesha’s stone-walled form, imagined running his fingers through her hair as she whispered to him.

“I can’t,” he replied.

So perhaps Tom was interested in a long-distance relationship, after all.

“Sunlight will reveal her,” pleaded Edvard, “go!”

“TOO LATE… Son.” And from the flames, emerged Mr. Robert Coswell.

"And thank you so much," Said his falsetto voice, "For coming this far! Tee-hee!" Before vanishing— and somehow there came a handsome, ripped gentlemen dressed in a fine suit of Armani; red like blood and shining like immortalized fear. His black waves of shoulder-length hair were bound in an expensive-looking ribbon—and Mr. Coswell's body, frozen on the ground, did not move a single muscle.

“....And bringing me straight to him. My son. May I introduce myself? I am.. Lord Blackwood. Lord Jacobus Blackwood.” Said the ghost pleasantly. “And who might you be?”

“I am here,” said Tom, “to take your Son.”

"No!"

Without warning, the ghost leapt at him, tearing, scratching, biting; and horrible gashes appeared in Tom’s shoulders, his arms, his chest—

but the sun had begun to rise.

“TOM!” Screamed Taesha, her stone prison smashing in glowing gold and blue pieces and then leaping upon the not-so ghost, pushing him away—

the cemetery ground opened.

“The sun!” Cried Edvard gleefully, “My father cannot abide the sun by the conditions of his passing. He must cross! He must enter the light!”

Thousands of grey, yellow, blue, and red sickly-looking hands emerged, pulling him down even as he struggled in vain against those secrets whispered in Hell.

Down, down, down…



“Good morning,” Tom said finally, breaking the silence, holding the fallen Taesha in his arms—and somehow, no trace of the Lord Blackwell remained; no tombstone cracked, no grass blade bent…

“Take me to my mother, please,” said the boy. “I want to go home.”
                                                           ***
“Edvard!” Cried Mrs. Blackwood, taking the baby in her arms. “You’ve come back!” She turned to tom in delight. “Thank you, so much… so… so much…”

She took her son’s hand.

“Come,” she said. “We have to go.”

There was a bright light, and they were gone.

Silence.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Asked Taesha.

Setting down his camera, Tom pressed his lips to hers.

                                                            ***

“So in short, Mr. Coswell,” finished Tom shakily, half expecting the Lord to emerge again from his pathetic, unwashed body; “I cannot give you pictures. I can only tell you what happened, that I sent them on and they are safe together, that I—“

“NEVER ASSUME, TOM FARELL,” came the horrible voice of Jacobus Blackwood, “I WILL BE BACK.” Mr. Coswell blinked sleepily, as though he had recently taken a wonderful nap.

“Tom?” He asked, again in the falstetto. A different color glitter came off the fan.

Tom lay motionless on the floor, and was, upon awaking, declared certifiably insane—except at nights, when he lay with his wife, with his wife called Taesha whose mother had once been a psychic—

And at the Blackwood manor, there are nights when occasionally a mysterious yellow-eyed cat will yeowl…

Special: the train of Fate, mine for the taking

Finley was busy today, but I had rehearsal. Tomorrow I have a field trip. I think Kate might like me, she waved at me again in the hall. Now that she's known me and not seen my mask per result, she sees me as human. She sees me as Payton.

She sees me as myself.

Not the point, but a quiet pride assuages me that honor. Also, today, I read--continued to read--"The Reluctant Heiress". If there is a book that could make the burgeoning soul feel love, it is that one. For me, my heart flies to know the opera Magic Flutes. I don't know them, but tonight, sitting on the sidelines of a stage while the devoted cast did scene work, I felt it. Truly, utterly, as she had felt when writing it, and knew it per its success. Felt the moment, too. Smiled, lost in the dreams of a fool, as the others interacted and lived.


But oh, those dreams, and oh, the feeling. The legend of the Lilly and the Opera; the lines which I wanted so much to read to my friends...


Falling in love with Hollister was easy tonight, and I think I know why.


After rehearsal--skipping the T-shirt business--Johnny took me home. Box Elder bugs ambushed me; seriously all over me as I spun around, crying, "Get them off me! Get them off me!" Ugh. Ugh. Ugh!! But they were all right, and....


And I noticed Johnny was looking at me differently.


I suppose it's my fault; I danced with him. We were playing as players do, back stage, pretending to dance, and suddenly he got sexual... and I moved like a lustful woman who was wild and free.... and we got closer...


"Shut up backstage!"


He looked at me with a longing I recognized, if only vaguely, but it didn't register. After all, it was only a brief moments. A few heartbeats, breaths, moments, and we were laughing.

He took me home, though, and I saw that look, and with Johnny... I realized I always, always feel like I am dancing. From how he speaks to me and looks at me, or doesn't, depending, I realized he was mine for the taking if I wanted him. Yes, he loves men, but he also loves me. I imagined following a white-clad Fate with a train full of diamonds, imagined picking one up and keeping it.... and then I realized Fate had probably dropped it on purpose.

Johnny was that diamond.

Oh, the music he listens to would normally appall me, but with him, my blood races. And when I got out of the car, he said, "I love you" with that cheeky grin, and pulled me into a hug that ended with his head on my chest, me instinctively nuzzling into his shoulder.

There is a danger in freedom. For my happiness, for my youth, I must remember that. After all, it is Finley I love.



That said, I am, of course, a woman. A wild, beautiful, clever woman with gypsy dances and smiles that could caress you.  For that moment, I felt like Eliac again. I felt... dangerous.




That said, let me play.

Special

I wish I could give you
all that you wanted,
all that you needed,
all you deserved...

But I understand dragons better, for it.

Dragons roar and dragons fly
high above the mountain tops
their silver wings dare pierce the sky
they take what they want with long fangs and a riddle.

Dragons fight against their sorrows,
Dragons compromise for their wars.
Dragons live with uneasy peace.

Dragons have seen the future become history,
have seen men crumple and men rise
empires rise, empires crumple
it's all the same;
they're immortal, we're not.

They aren't happy for their wealth
their peace, their easy diet
they aren't happy for their nearest friends
they are clever, beautiful, smart
mysterious


And very alone.
Very unable to connect without effort, a lot of it
very like....




I wish I could hold you
but it wouldn't change a thing
I had like this day dream you'd lay in my arms and cry
like I've lain in yours and have done prior
that's what friends do, and you're mine.

But if you leave, I'll remember this debt
sure as Heaven, I'll be waiting
to hear about your heroic deeds
the wings you fought so hard to win
when they aren't cut by grief.

But oh, how I would miss you
--how idle that is to say!--
would miss my heart and confidant
my bird, my friend, my heart-half.

You know my secrets
and I knew a few, too
we don't worry about them coming out,
we trust
we're friends...

You'll be happy, soon.
I know you will.
You have to be.

Heroes pass their challenges.
Knights pick up their swords again.


But their hearts still hurt.


Sorry to be a Negatron. Also:

"I just wish someone could love me as much as I love her."

I patted her shoulder, looked at her eyes. "Done." She sighed.

"Different."

Not to me.





Never to me.

Special: Fuck you all, it's Festivus

Festivus is a Seinfeld holiday where friends sit around a pole and insult each other. It takes place on Christmas day. Some people even celebrate Festivus instead of Christmas, which seems strange to me. Then, Christmas must sure seem strange to them.

We had one at rehearsal yesterday, and I told them a lot. People said a lot about me, to, but it was more to me, and it wasn't negative. Schultz told the others she was leaving, as she had when I found out... but this time, sitting in a room full of people she's saved from themselves, it really was hard to contain myself. I cried. We talked about how Schultz had impacted our short lives so much, and how we'd miss her, but how proud we were of her. Dominic said he'd felt like a freak before he'd met Schultz, and that he was glad that he could go to her room whenever he wanted to. Also, he's not joining the Marines anymore. He's going to college, getting a history major. He said Schultz was a big impact, not only on that choice, but his life.

And I said, "Raise your hand if Schultz is your hero, too" and everybody did. Everybody. Even quiet Jacob, my friend, and Conner, even sassy Kellie Grob, even Johnny Friedl, who looked a little embarrassed about the thing to begin with. Everyone.

Schultz was.... Schultz seemed.... I don't know... surprised. Like she hadn't really thought about how much we mean to her. I think sometimes, she really thinks her "children" don't care for her... but we do. So much, we do. I don't want to be all, "Especially me" but...

I raised my hand after the others had put them down, after April had started to cry--tiny, dainty lady tears that faeries would keep in bottles as an ingredient of human innocence and pure, pure love--and said, tearfully, "Schultz was the first person who made me a person," and April hugged me.

Of course, this was after I had said, "Please don't label me as 'Payton', because I'm different than what you know, and even though nobody in this group is outright mean to me, you don't exactly go out of your way to be kind or learn about me. I'm trying to reform, I'm trying really hard to be like you, so help me..." and they told me not to. Told me they loved me as I was... Kate even apologized to me. She hugged me. She whispered into my ear, "I love you, Payton. I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I..." Sorry she hurt me. Sorry. She doesn't hate me.

I nuzzled into her shoulder, smelled her skin.

Felt like a creeper.

"I love you, too, Kate," I whispered, and I meant it. Still mean it, now.

But it wasn't just her. Everybody hugged me, and I felt their hearts and they were happy, and we were a family; we were wild and safe and free....

My heart felt bare, but I did not feel vulnerable for it, and neither did many of theirs. I would have known, if they had.

Oh, how happy I was to not be afraid at Play practice again... I didn't feel hurt once tonight. Not once. Stung briefly, yes, but never hurt. Not like I had been before. I feel like I have friends. True, some will forget me after this show. True, some of them are only trying to be kind temporarily because of Festivus, because their arms felt my sorrow in theirs and is sorry for it. True, some of them are faking it to not look like assholes.

But I don't think like that. It is not my nature to do anything but forgive, to love, to live, to smile.... and to hug. Most especially do I like that.

Kate is acting like.. like my friend. I am hoping so much she doesn't forget that I'm not.. not a liar. Not a freak. That I did what I did for good, and I love her.

Tonight, when I acted as Beatrice, I had to act like I was worried Allegra would hurt me. I didn't do it naturally, I had to act it, and though I'm sure the scenes suffered a smigdin for it, I do not regret the lack. I'm not a freak. I'm not... I'm not a freak.

Also, I'm a "Goddess" of Connect Four, if you ask Johnny, Ms. Schultz, Kate, Mr. Yoder, Mr. Torrenga, my entire 4/5 study hall, Molly Ebel, Dominic Anderson, Kelly, Taylor, Finley, or... um... well basically anyone...

Things are okay. Things are better than okay. It'd even be perfect if I'd seen my Katie-bird today... my heart has a little ache for her, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps I am merely paranoid, it is an entirely plausible suggestion. And Molly, too... but Elizabeth can handle Molly. I can give advice. Molly's a lot like I was, only, like I was in the seventh grade, not too recently. I can put her back into her normal self easily, carefully, and with the right encouragement. I have taught Elizabeth to do this, do it well.

I'll miss you, Ms. Schultz. I really will, I'll miss you. Not from the High school.. I'd never tell a hero to pass their dreams.... but.... not seeing you? That will hurt me. A lot of my success comes from knowing you are alive, are sitting tall with a smile.... it makes me feel so brave, so strong. I worry.

But I have friends. I do, I'm making them again. They smile, they greet me in the halls... they wave at me. I talk to them. They answer.

So simple, yet you cannot understand how much it means.... not to feel.... like there's something wrong with me.

What the fu--! Katie-bird just messaged me!

...Guess it's a perfect day, after all.

Happy Friday world.... And thank you, God.

Special: Glad to have girlfriends, misplaced love

So I've spent the past couple of days freaking out about this, and I really should write it down. Maybe I shouldn't be so preoccupied with it? I don't know.

Before I get into that, though, I'll go into Church today. Katie didn't sing, and Taylor only got a little bit. Disappointed in that. I'm not going back for awhile. A church should keep its promises.

When I greeted people, I did it differently than other people. When they took my hand to shook it, I spun around, or I surprise hugged, or I leaned against their shoulders and said, "Oh hey, I'm glad you're here today, friend".


A few smiles, even laughs and the bases of stories (you can always tell), but more often than not... a readiness for disapproval. Like I wasn't doing the thing properly. I did my best to avoid those people, but I'll always remember dancing around like a hooligan among those Methodists. Those *United* Methodists. Haha. Get it? Get it?

...Okay, that was bad. But you get the idea.

Now, I'm on to the thing that's been freaking me out.

Seriously. I was on the Facebook late one night, as I'm pretty often these days. I'm a creeper that way. And Elizabeth messages me in a big frenzy. 'Oh Payton this happened and that and the other thing and I really need you ramargah' stuff... when you're a friend and somebody says 'I need to see you', how do you say no? So of course, I said yes.

When she came over, though, she was different. She brought presents for everybody, which no one's ever done before, and she was way over-apologetic. She'd said there was a specific thing she wanted to talk to me about the night before on the facebook, and I kept waiting for that to come up, but it didn't. Every time we were alone, she looked around at the assembled chaos, never at me.. and then as soon as somebody was back in, she was happy, smiling, laughing, like we were bffs who'd never fought about anything.



Eventually it came to me that maybe she just didn't want somebody to walk in on us talking, so I suggested she take me to rehearsal a little early and we could hang.

When we pulled into the parking lot (crowded from some kid-related event, balloons and sugar everywhere), everything was quiet. Then:

"So what were you mad at me about?"

"Damn you, Payton---do you know how angry I've been at you lately?"

"Why?"

"Because Finley makes you happy."

"I'm sorry if we've offended you... it will amuse you to tell me why?"

"Because... because... El, do you have any idea how much I fucking love you?"

"Well I love you, too, Liz, but I'm a little confused how this constitutes into anger..."

"You're hot, Payton. Seriously. I love every move you make, and I work really hard to make you laugh, because your smile is important to me..."

"Um... thanks..."

"If you had asked me, I would have left Adam in a second for you, El. I feel like whenever you're with me, I'm touching the soul I'm supposed to be. I'm touching on what I've always wanted. Sometimes I think for hours about kissing you, about telling you, but I can't do that. I'm not a poet like you are, Payton. I can't make words come alive on a page."

"You're just as good a writer as I am, Liz, but I still don't understand what you're trying to tell me. Why are you pissed at me?"

I'm staring at her blankly when she starts to cry.

"I just want you to forgive me," she whimpers. "You're so beautiful and wonderful, and I've never been able to get over the fact you aren't mine--but I want you to be. Always, I want that... But Finley makes you so HAPPY." She groped my knee, "How can anybody object to that? But Payton.... El...."

She looked at me, and I saw it. I saw just how much I'd hurt her... I just didn't know how I had. And she leaned in very close, and her hair touched my face, and she took me in her arms and kissed me. Hard. Unyielding. Firmly. Like it was all she ever wanted. I guess I responded, but I can' recall too clearly... I was just so shocked. Of all the things I expected, this wasn't one.

When she let go, I sat up like a bolt of lightning, all the words gone from my tongue. "L-liz--!" I sputtered uselessly, "--!"

"I know it isn't what you want," she said, still crying (am I that bad a kisser? The world may never know), "no matter how much I want you, want to be in your heart like you are in mine, that isn't how it's going. That isn't how fate glides. But I'll wait for you, Payton. Because love like I have for you... when you really know how beautiful and... and... perfect somebody is.... it won't go away." She paused, ran a hand down my arm, and I shivered against my will. "It won't... go... away." The tears had thinned now, and she regained herself. "So please forgive me for being mad at you. It isn't me--it might never be me--that you love that way, and I know it. But... I'll wait. I'm sooooo sorry I was mad." And she kissed me on the cheek.

And for whatever reason, she pulled out of the parking lot and then pulled back in again, started talking about everything and anything but us.

Talked to a few people with me and then left me at rehearsal, shell-shocked, lonely, angry, violated.... and really confused.

I don't love her that way, I never have, and I never will. Finley's my husband, my future, my stability. I love him, I really love him.

But even though you won't read this ever, Liz, I do love you... just not like this. I'm sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to do that... and I've cried since that I have.

Wish I had somebody to talk to about this. Wish I had someone who'd been through it and knew what to say.