Flicker. As early morning sunlight flooded in, and Luke felt himself
pulled toward the land of the Waking, there were dream-like splashes of
colour cascading along the insides of his eyelids like this and this and
this: Ravencroft (so pretty so perfect with hair that isn't really hair but
feathers plucked from the wings of ravens and rammed right into her scalp
without pain) stepping lightly down a hallway that has no smell, hips
swaying and eyes like big black pools (and he is seeing the world from
Ravencroft's eyes and is perhaps Ravencroft herself).
And Ravencroft (Luke) reaches a mirror and sink at the end of this long
hallway, regarding herself (himself) in the mirror. Ravencroft is in
control. She knows the score. She doesn't need the mirror. She doesn't need
the sink. She maintains herself with ease. And she smiles a smile like light
off of razor blades in the middle of spring (and in the haze Luke doesn't
remember ever smiling like this himself), but then the image gets kind of
smudged like somebody has run fingers across the film and distorted things.
And then there are cracks in the image.
Ravencroft (Luke) is gone. The reflection in the mirror (Luke) is a
goth boy squinting at himself sharply, mascara running down his cheeks,
black hair in need of a comb. This goth boy (Luke) is squinting at the
pimple forming on his forehead, because his pores are all clogged up from
the pale greasepaint he's been keeping on his face for far too long. He
scratches at his cheeks, but feels nothing.
And so very carefully, this goth boy (Luke) leans over the sink, hands
grasping around the handles of scissors, long and silver. He begins to cut
his (his) hair, and the hair (not feathers) is bleeding red. But this isn't
the red of blood or roses, this is the red of electric punk rockers and four
colour heroes. Red hair that spikes itself up with each snip, leaving this
goth boy (Luke) to ponder the droplets of makeup which have hurled
themselves from his (his) face to disappear down the drain, and there are
cracks in the mirror like cracks in the dream.
Someone is standing behind this boy (who is goth no longer / who is
Luke). And the boy (Luke) pirouettes around to face his foe, failing to
notice the black-and-white visual vibration which has snaked across his
(his) shirt. Look at the someone's smile. The kind of someone that the boy
(Luke) wished he could have been like, back in high school. Before running
off to the big city. Hair like a weeds of some speckled platinum plant, eyes
like nobody's business. Silk. Silk pulled from one thousand silkworms when
they weren't looking. And for the first time, there is a voice: "Hi." The
kind of voice from someone who is more well fed than he looks. A sleek word,
punched with emphasis.
"Are you her gentlemen caller?" The voice of a someone copying a
British accent, but doing it far better than the boy (Luke) can ever hope to
do. This someone runs fingers through the boy's (Luke's) hair, without even
asking; streaks of platinum are left, woven into the red of electric punk
rockers and four colour heroes, twisting through the spikes like snakes in
the grass. There is a crash...
Blankets went everywhere, Luke suddenly sitting in his bed, a bright
sunbeam screaming into his eyes. His hand went up immediately and he gave a
slight cough, feeling his heart beat away inside his chest. His forehead was
damp with sweat, and he coughed again. Fingers ran through his hair - black
as pitch, not as ravens. "A dream," he gaped, hand rubbing across his face.
And then Luke stared across the room, the mirror wedged between some
boxes he hadn't unpacked yet. The glass, so cool, so clear - he closed his
eyes tightly to the room, begging his brain to not let him open those eyes
and look in that mirror.
"Emily. I should call Emily," he said grimly, pulling himself from the
bed and staggering over to the desk, eyes still shut tightly.
He only stubbed his toe once on the way.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
blue light productions presents:
TEENS IN TRENCHCOATS
episode eight,
"Waiting to Shrivel,"
by Ben Rawluk, with help from Jen Whitson
Soundtrack: Portishead's "Portishead," Scooter's "Rough, Tough, and
Dangerous."
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
>From the "Trevor Blount School of Trenchcoating and Shoe Repair" brochure:
The forces of darkness, much like the forces of light, will often wander
around making pointed statements. These are the kind of statements that
always show up on quotation webpages run by pale-faced necro-nerds who maybe
quiver a bit more than they should, and look slightly underfed. You'll find
that you honestly can't tell whether evil or good flows from the speaker,
but you'll definitely learn to like the quieter occultists - they, at least,
don't sound like a fortune cookie waiting to happen.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
"Why don't you come with me, little girl," he said, "On a magic carpet
ride?"
Emily stared at the puckish youth, eyes widened with disbelief. He was
not lanky; lean, that was the word - like after you've been in the hospital
for a few weeks, and the disinfectants and the hospital food have gotten to
you, left an indelible mark on you. His hair was platinum, and was perhaps a
little too vine-like for Emily's tastes. And his eyes were hidden behind
mirror shades - all she saw was herself, twice over. "Let me guess? That was
a pick-up line, right? Or you're really crappy at the 'incarnation of evil'
routine. You're her brother."
"Perceptive as ever. And so /strong/." Thin fingers curled into a
vaguely-defined fist, and the figure craned his neck to look at Emily from a
better angle. "Most people would crumble as soon as I'd said one word.
Sister Wicked always had taste, I suppose."
"Sister Wicked? Fits, I suppose." Emily narrowed her eyes. "You're
Winterthorne, yes?"
"You remember, of course. Most dreamers forget their dreams. Especially
the prophetic ones. The people who run the show," Winterthorne coughed,
pointedly, "Don't like it when just anyone knows what's going to happen, you
see."
"What do /you/ want from me? What does Ravencroft want? Do the two of
you spend /all/ day making cryptic and nevertheless patronizing aphorisms
and such?"
"A failing." Winterthorne bowed his head, and then regarded Emily with
laughing eyes.
Emily squinted, vaguely. "Don't even bother, I think we've established
that glamour stuff doesn't work for me."
"True, true. If you must know, I plan to use you and your soul and
leave you a shriveled husk, devoid of substance and certainly devoid of
style. I can't speak for my sister, she's not what you'd call a
'communicator,' you see."
"Uh-huh." Emily frowned slightly, and brushed some auburn hair away
from her face. "I should probably warn you, the direct approach isn't going
to work either. Don't be devious," she added, "By trying /not/ to be
devious."
"Ah! You wound me, Emily."
"After admitting you're out to steal my essence or whatever, cuteness
won't work either." Emily stepped forward, lightly, until her nose was
inches away from the Winterthorne's. "Even if you two aren't demonic, I'm
certainly willing to try and banish you, so don't try anything."
"I'm afraid, /girl/," dripped Winterthorne, "We're quite beyond you.
I'm quite beyond you. The Wicked are not pathetic demonbreed, dear child. We
could 'steal your essence' in a second. If we chose. If /I/ chose, anyway."
He stared with large eyes through the mirrors, Emily could feel them beating
down upon her face, invisibly.
Emily drew slightly closer: "It took me a whole week to get those
damned roses out of my bathroom. Bastard."
"You didn't appreciate my gift?"
"Ultimate Ninja made me retile the floor myself."
Ravencroft knew how to lounge; she sat on the couch, back stretched out
and hair like raven feathers cascading down to her shoulders as she held a
black grape up, gently. She regarded it; a slight shine to it. And then she
thought: eyeball, freshly plucked from a corpse on the battle field. She
licked her black lips in anticipation, except that there was a lengthy pause
in the word "anticipation." The grape looked so perfect, and Ravencroft was
ready. Ready to plunge it into the gaping abyss of her mouth, to taste the
idea of wine held within that grape. Gently, her hand lowered. And lowered.
And...
"Hi." Single syllable, but enough to throw off the entire world. The
hand was brought down to Ravencroft's side, and she stared across at the new
arrival: auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, decently ordinary-looking
clothes concealed by what looked like a trenchcoat - after it had been
attacked by a pair of scissors and a mid-Eighties fashion magazine. "Met
your brother," growled Emily, and she plopped down beside Ravencroft
unceremoniously.
"Bastard, isn't he?"
"You said it. Which fits, because he's your brother."
"Now, Emily - perhaps that's a little harsh?" A thin, shadowy smile
fell across Ravencroft's face. She leaned forward, eyes intent to lock on
those of Emily.
"I just finished telling him to quit with the mojo, don't you start."
For a split second: a scowl, unfolding across Ravencroft's face, lines
on her forehead. And then: all smiles and sweetwater. "Very well. You know,
/you/ could be so much help to me - making him go away and everything. My
brother is tedious. Did he use the mirror shades, or the cocaine eyes?"
"Er?" Emily stared. "He had sunglasses on. What the hell do you mean?"
"Family thing." Ravencroft looked away.
"So."
"So."
"Says he wants to leave me a shriveled husk, or something."
"Sounds like my brother."
"So."
"So."
"Sister Wicked, huh?"
"Don't call me that," scowled Ravencroft. She oozed irritation. A
pause; Ravencroft glanced with a slight smile at Emily. "Mind you, it is
rather lovely for you to call me sister." A smile, cast in shadows, crossed
Ravencroft's lips.
"Don't even try /that/ routine."
Ravencroft's smile froze. "Whatever do you mean?"
"The glamours. The magic, or whatever it is. That you do. That your
brother does. I'm not about to let it work, okay? Don't bother."
"Very well."
"Pfft." Emily looked away. "So. My brother a shriveled husk, yet?"
"Not the last time I checked." The black feathers quivered.
"If you hate him so much, why don't you just make him go away?"
"Luke?"
"Winterthorne."
"Ah. Well. It's complicated."
"You guys have parents, right?" Emily shot a glance across at the girl
with vanilla skin and raven colour scheme. "Or did we step out of the
primordial ooze by ourselves?"
"Parents?" Ravencroft stared at a mote of dust, hovering in the air. "I
suppose. Yes."
"So call up Daddy Dearest and be a tattletale."
Ravencroft shifted her focus; there was the grape, lying on the floor
in the dust. She had dropped it. A long, lingering look. "Perhaps that's
good advice, Emily dearest."
"Doesn't mean I don't hate your guts."
"In /my/ family," breathed Ravencroft haughtily, "That means we're
practically sisters."
Occultism Kid drifted through vast cities of dust and ancient creatures
that spoke in mute symbols and held no care for mankind. But beneath it all,
like an ancient drumming of shamans beating up through his bones, from the
past held in his blood, in his history, came the broken emptiness of lost
things. There were lost things like car keys and wallets and slips of paper
with phone numbers on them that were all right. They would be found, or not
found, and the universe would onward turn.
But there were things lost that should not be, ever, and yet were. A
book linked to demons and darkness, each page a key to a thousand thousand
hells, a thing of such pristine evil that only the greatest sorcerers could
be trusted to lay their hands upon it. It was a thing that should not be
gone from him, from a protected place, under any circumstances. Stolen by a
boy for a girl, a step in that most ancient of human dances.
A concussion echoed through him, ripples from a pebble thrown into the
water and sinking fast. Then another, even as he began to struggle upward
into Wakening.
Someone was knocking.
Annoyed and still blurry, Occultism Kid rose and stalked toward the
door. He growled and did his best to shake off the last vestiges of his
dreams. After the great mess with the sheep, he didn't want to be bothered
any longer. He didn't think to check who was knocking until it was too late,
with the door already half-open.
A sense of power hit him the same time he saw the girl with the ram's
horns curling out of her head, her eyes alight with neon green. The air
around her smelled of death and sacrifice, not only from her actions but
growing from deep within, a poisoned vine that that was already choking off
her life, her soul, dragging her down moment by moment, toward an inevitable
end, tightening even as he watched. And around her, beating in the
background like her own set of patterned drums, within her eyes and somehow
within the vine and holding it up, existing in spite of its twining growth,
or perhaps because of it, a defiant sort of joy.
"Thanks," she said. "Needed this."
She plunked the Net.crominicon straight into his hands.
"I left her in the lounge."
Ravencroft regarded the gothboy with a keen delight, her eyes lit up at
his presence in the winding corridor. Perhaps it was a bit much, but she was
/trying/, after all. Luke smiled weakly, and nodded. "You two were actually,
like, hanging out? She doesn't trust you."
"Oh, sillyboy!" Ravencroft rubbed Luke's arm through his trenchcoat,
and giggled - a strange, echoed sound that filled Luke's ears and almost
threw him off balance. "It's /all/ peaches and cream, now. We're /sisters/.
I was going to get popcorn, we were going to watch a movie."
Luke stared. This was insane, this was a farce, he'd obviously appeared
in some strange, alternate universe - it was the dream. It was some kind of
portal into another reality...
Darkness fell across his face.
The horns cast a mean shadow, and for a second Luke was completely out
of it - the girl walking towards him, silhouetted in the darkened corridor,
eyes glowing ever so slightly with neon green. His breath caught. His head
was full of nothing, strands of black hair matted across his forehead. Emily
wasn't around, but he wasn't thinking about his sister anymore. He wasn't
thinking about Ravencroft, a look of bland disdain across her face as she
stood beside him. All was - Paytan.
"Hi," he croaked.
"Hey," said Paytan, her voice slightly hoarse and awkward. "I've been
looking for you. I'd like to say forever and a day, but more like, since
this morning." She coughed, and smiled - but Luke could see, could recognize
it: a smile of exhaustion, a smile because there wasn't nothing else to do.
It was the smile of the nasty, evil counterpart to not having a care in the
world. When he smiled, he was always trying to get that effect.
He heard Ravencroft mumble something. Something like "this ought to be
good."
"I just wanted to apologize." A rough, unpracticed attempt at a sincere
smile. "You know, for getting you to get me that book. I hear you got in
trouble with - what?" Her eyes were away from him, looking over at
Ravencroft.
Ravencroft's face was, for a brief moment, contorted into a frown. This
didn't last, her features smoothed themselves like water like magic, the
muscles barely seeming to move. Almost like she hadn't changed her
expression, but merely - changed. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure,"
Ravencroft muttered.
"This," said Luke, "Er. This is Perdition. Paytan. Um. Paytan, this is
my friend - Ravencroft." His eyes moved to stare intently at the floor.
Ravencroft's smile was not laboured, but even, and she regarded Paytan with
a narrow look; her eyes then darted back and forth, regarding both Paytan
and Luke. The way he looked at her. And with some purpose, she shifted her
attention back to Paytan.
"Do you want to hear your fortune?" asked Ravencroft softly. She glided
forward, taking Paytan's hand in her own before the horned girl could do
anything. By then it was too late, the glamour too strong, the world
twisting through Ravencroft's gaze in candy-colored shards. She opened
Paytan's palm and traced her nails down the lines, smiling just a little
when Paytan shivered.
She told Paytan's fortune.
The bones. The taste of blood in her mouth, the searing heat against
her cheek. It was a vortex, a whirlpool dragging her down.
Paytan's face didn't change as Ravencroft spoke, not even for a second.
The power of it soared into the girl... and met no resistance. Nothing
shattered. The fortune simply sank in, as if it were part of the landscape.
Ravencroft narrowed her eyes and kept talking, let the words do
the work. She felt Paytan's hand gently cover her own, the other girl
leaning in until they were only inches apart.
"Yeah," smiled Paytan. "I know. Wanna hear yours?"
Neon green whiplashed around them. Ravencroft's entire right arm went
numb, and she almost screamed. Almost. Time slowed, ideas moved and shifted
inside their heads - the future, fortunes told and there was no escape:
bones screaming / intestines pulled out / stolen time / stolen memories
/ her eyes, forgotten by everyone / who was she? / nothing / empty torsos /
the silence / the rumbling / other horns, curled and sharp / the end of her
dreams...
She could hear Paytan whispering in her ear, through the rush of pain
and sight. "You think I care about my dreams dying? You think I ever
believed there was any way out of this? I /deserve/ what's coming, you
little feather-haired bitch. But it doesn't matter because I already /won/."
Paytan laughed, bitter and full of pride at the same time.
forgotten / who are you / who am I? / screaming / a fade to black / a
fade to black.
It stopped.
Ravencroft stared, her hair quivering in the cool draft of the
corridor. The shine had dissolved from her eyes, her shoulders seemed bony
and disjointed. Silently, Ravencroft brushed her hair back - it didn't
contort on its own, couldn't it seemed. A few, shallow breathes. And then
she regarded Paytan again.
"You're crying," she said flatly.
Paytan turned her back on her. "Of course. I'm going to die, aren't I?"
Suddenly a riot of color burst through the door and into the room.
"Hello!" it caroled. "We're all going to lunch wanna come?"
It was a girl, dressed in pink jeans, a blazing blue tank top and a
lime green baby trenchcoat with fur trim. Completely human. Nothing out of
the ordinary about her except for her incredibly bad fashion sense.
"No, she doesn't want to come," said Paytan evenly. "Did you ask Luke?"
"Yeah. He's out in the Lobby with Savannah, Bryan, and this guy who
refuses to admit he's from the IRS." She cocked her head at Ravencroft.
"Sure you don't want to? Pizza."
"Not going to happen, dear," said Ravencroft, smoothly - her eyes
stayed on Paytan.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Luke, Emily, Winterthorne and Ravencroft are (c) Ben Rawluk, in the year
2000.
Paytan and Brittany are (c) Jen Whitson, also 2000. Whee!
Occultism Kid is (c) Josh Geurink, 2000.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
