with stars on my shoes and strings around my heart. [ella]

[particles of me]

<center>


You and me,
Me and you,
There's so much that we've been through
Through it all I've come to understand
God's love.

And if tomorrow never comes
Know this twice
Know this once
Knowing you has made me able to
Go on.

You and me,
Me and you,
There couldn't be a better two
To be blessed and know the meaning of
True love
And if you leave me
I'll feel scared
I'll fall apart
Feel unprepared
But I dare
To make it through
On my own.

Yes I dare
To make it through
On my own.

<font size="1">rosie thomas.</font></center>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ August 28, 2006 01:12 AM: Message edited by: particles of me ]</font>

[particles of me]

Run fast, stand still. This, the lesson from lizards. A pair of eyes married to a set of text, thin fingers splayed about their pages hopelessly, plucking at the ribcage of a book whose spine was broken and face worn. Beneath a lamp whose solemn light flickered and ethereal hum eased on drowsily, Ella Calloway experienced the second coming of Christ beneath a breastbone who caged a swelling heart. Here, inside this book, there lay no impulse, only response. Folded down onto the bottom step of a run-down, beat-up bar, her symphony was the crass language spilled from wine-colored mouths and pale-skinned tongues, the monotonous speech slurring through her ears in pizzicato style. The bottom step was no place for a girl in a white sundress who made her look more like an angel than she should have, but it'd become a second home where she met monologues of lovers and suffered deaths of character upon character. It was in these moments -- who never lasted long enough -- that Ella found herself more alive than any other time. Black text in various fonts sung up at her in rich tones like those of Stravinsky and Webern, and while the small slope of her nose was hidden by golden bangs of hair that swept forward and licked at the pages she was enthralled in, the stopwatch of Heaven went dead.

Let's say that each of us has fed himself on life, first, and later, on books and magazines. The difference is that one set of events happened to us, and the other was forced feeding.

"Ella Calloway," his voice sang even when he didn't intend for it to, a thick Columbian accent crawling out through the corner of his otherwise nomadic lips.

"Hello, Valen," her shoulders jolted in a somewhat surprised response, though she'd smelled him long before he ever spoke. Oddly, he smelled like her mother when she returned from teaching. "How are you?" Smiling up at him, she folded the booked closed mutedly and curled her arms around it, hugging it safely in her lap.

"I'm good," his hands found their way into his pockets and he shrugged lazily, his eyes smiling like his mouth as he blinked down at her. "Can I sit?" Pulling a hand from his pocket, he motioned beside her on the step, and waiting for her nod, he sat down at her side. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles, blinking across the lawn. "It's rather dead tonight, yeah?"

"I'm glad," she answered honestly and turned to glance up over her shoulder, only a few people on the porch of a bar that bred liquor-coated mouths. It was obvious to everyone, not just those who knew Ella well, that a bar was not exactly the right type of 'fit' for her.

"Yeah," his voice seemed void of any emotion on the subject; a bar was a bar and a step was a step, and if Ella found herself reading on said step, so be it. He found himself doing much more strange things than sitting on stairs reading. "I haven't seen you in a while," he leaned into her and nudged her with his elbow, his head dipping curiously to the side while his mouth curled up into a boyish smile. "Have you been hiding from me?"

"Not intentionally," the brush of his elbow pulled laughter from her mouth that was high in pitch and light in weight, its rhythm impulsive, its song sweet. "I heard you are playing at The Muse," she changed the subject of why she'd been so distant, keeping her voice light.

"Did you?" It came quickly from his mouth -- excitedly, even -- and he shifted his weight for his rear-end to slide back on the step, his knees bending for his elbows to plant themselves atop his kneecaps. "Are you coming?"

"I am," he made her blush with his excitement and her thumb moved to feather pages over one another, toying with the edge of chapters and verses. "I might see if Oscar would come, too, since he's been doing some photography for you... I mean, if that's alright with you."

"I'd love it!" He beamed a smile that was almost too much for Ella to handle, his eyes lit up like spotlights that reverberated against the white flesh of his teeth. "It's been weird to see more of Oscar than you, really. I mean, you're the one I met first, so, you know. I just thought since I was close by we could hang out more and get to know each other better."

"Oh, I agree," she interrupted quickly (though she didn't clip off any words), a hand moving to rest lightly on his forearm without any thought. "I've seen some of what Oscar's done for you," she tacked on and pulled her hand away from him sheepishly, folding it down to settled atop her book, her fingers lacing amongst each other. "He's a bit private about it so I did a little snooping a few days ago when he went to the grocery store, and he's really doing a fantastic job. Has he gotten around to showing you anything yet?"

"Some," he nodded and tried to ignore the tingling in his arm from where she singed his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing stick-straight. With damp eyes that held stars rather than water, he glanced at her profile and took snapshots of his own. "The kid has a way of transcribing life into pictures -- or maybe that should be the other way around. Pictures into life."

"That's poetic of you," Ella grinned.

"I am a songwriter," Valen shifted and puffed out his chest in a mark of boastful pride, though he easily wilted when Ella sent her index finger into his side. Puffing out air from his lips like a trumpet, he fell into a small fit of quiet laughter, palming his side.

"Well," her mouth formed the word slowly, her tongue lapping at small fragments of language lazily.

"Well," he echoed her easily.

"It's getting late, I suppose I should get some rest."

"Right here on the stair? Won't you get trampled over by drunkards and sluts?"

Ella blinked up at him, her eyes slightly confused, her mouth unsure of whether to curl into a grin or dip into a frown.

"I'm only kidding," he interrupted her worries and smiled broadly at her, pushing up to his feet. Holding a hand down to her, he helped to pick her up from the stair, standing at her side while she adjusted herself and handled the book with kindness. "Can I walk you home?"

"Mm-hmm," she cooed quietly between closed lips that trembled with quiet nerves, her head dipping in small, bouncing nods that made her eyes shift in their sockets as they blinked up into his. "Please do."



<font size="1">Various quotes from Ray Bradbury.</font>

[particles of me]

With light chasing her heels and rain in her hair, her walk was peace and her eyes were joy. A bouquet of flowers failed her hands but, rather, bloomed on her mouth -- she was a walking testimony less tablets, a singing symphony less manuscript. The bottom stoop was her plank; a brother's meeting an oath, the book on her lap a blanket that kept her warm when left out to dry. From the pad of her thumb folded down page after page of inky text on yellowing pages, crumpled at the corners, and her eyes scanned the pages to find the last breath of text.

" 've you got there?"

"Bradbury. There's something warm about him, I think."

Her eyes searched the sky for something biblical -- historic at best -- and she wilted into a daydream that sagged at the edges and popped at the seams. With the needle of her heart, she wove memories into reveries and the like, the words from the pages spilling out into a jumbled heap of distorted thoughts that wove themselves into a blanket of memories that were not her own, but were realistic enough to make her believe she'd lived each and every one of them.

"You think, or you know?"

The stars blinked themselves awake and drew mirrors in her eyes that ran on witchcraft and Jesuit voodoo, and in the wake of her smile was the death of a frown that bit itself into the shape of a black hole, flat against the pink pillow of her tongue. Where the corners of her mouth tugged up and glossed a finish over her mouth in an open 'o', she blinked over at her brother and his insight, her fingers itching against the worn pages of a book that held answers to questions her tongue did not. Beneath the curtain of yellow curls that swooped across her brown and veiled stars cut out in the shape of eyes, she saw him for what he was -- the instigator -- and loved him more than she ever had before.

I know, it went without speaking, so she said it with her eyes.

In a flurry of pages, the book folded itself shut and slept on her knees, skirted by a sheet of thin cotton that wore lavender flowers against a backdrop of cream. The wheat fields of her fingers drummed on the cover of the book, and with her chin tilted down, she spoke quiet fables of a childhood she did not live, but knew. She reminded him of the way their mother baked apple pies and placed them on the opened window sill to cool in the heat of the blistering August sunlight. She drew outlines of snowflakes with her fingers to remind him of the times they went ice skating in Central Park, and it snowed two feet high in half an hour and they were sent to their bottoms to climb into igloos and fend off the cold with the warmth of their breath. The millions of (twenty-two) fish they caught in the creek to which they walked uphill both ways, on the ledge of April.

The magic of the memories was exhilarated by the warm touch of his fingers atop her hand.

There, on the bottom stoop was a siblings' secret waiting place that sheltered them each from the storm of reality, one more than the other, though neither would be rushed to safety.

There was nothing to be saved from.

[particles of me]

They were twins in that their eyes were light and their outfits modest, but while one was a musician, one was a painter, one was a linguist, one was a writer. They mirrored each other in the fondest of ways, pulling promises and secrets from one another's mouths in such a way that they knew, in the sake of that moment, they had unified in some sort of secret organization that would remain unbroken. Their silence was the creed, their tickling fingers the secret handshake.

"S'wrong?" He leaned in close to her on the bottom stoop of her brother's townhouse, the wide concrete stairs particularly hard and particularly empty that evening.

"I'm worried about Oscar," her breath was warm and she huddled closer to him than she needed to, given the air was stale and the weather was warm. Her tongue ducked out to wet her bottom lip, her shoulders rolling forward a bit as her elbows rested on her thighs, her arms crossing over for her left hand to palm just above the crook of her right elbow, and vice versa.

"He's been turning out some really good work for me," his tone sounded reassuring and he looped an arm around her, pulling her into an awkward, but comforting hug. "What's been going on?"

"He forgot his medication last week," she hated even remembering that night, and she often felt uneasy when she wandered into the house after being away for too long. "The man is in his thirties," she reminded herself worriedly, "--it's not right for me to want to seatbelt him into his couch and make sure he stays there."

"You're right," Valen's chin dipped in a nod, but he was quick to keep his voice gentle and his actions gentler. "He's his own person, Ella. You've gotta let him live his life and learn for himself, you know? After all, he's your older brother."

"You don't know," her tone was supple but growing taunt, "how long I've been looking out for him. You don't know how many dishes I've found broken and how many jobs I've tried to get him."

"But he has a job," he interrupted easily, "and a cabinet filled with fresh dishes. Maybe the kid just needs a fresh slate to go along with them."

"He met a girl," she was as close to whining as she'd ever been, only because she was as close to fear as she'd ever been. "Another one."

"The one who never matches?"

"Yes. And she isn't good for him. She isn't stable either and he loves her for that. And he can't be with someone not stable, Valen. He can't be with someone who can barely take care of themselves--"

"You mean," he interrupted again, but just as calmly, "he can't be with anyone but you?"

Her toes moved to kiss each other and she stared down the length of the steps, blinking into the depth of the sidewalk, and for a very rare moment, Ella Calloway felt completely helpless.

"Ella," Valen nudged her gently. "He's a grown man, you've gotta let him keep growing."

"I can't." Shaking her head, she palmed her face and hid behind a wall of skin her hands webbed out for her, a muffled sigh hot against the flesh she pasted to her mouth. "I can't," her mouth tugged down into a worried frown, and before she could stop herself she moved to lean into Valen, her arms moving to sling around his neck while his draped around her waist.

"You have to try," he encouraged her, and felt eyes on his shoulders and breath on the back of his head, though he failed to look up.

Oscar simply watched from his window, unable to process the fact that the one person in his life who always supported him was breaking under the weight of his illness.

[particles of me]

Ella Dear,

This letter will find you at the right time, when you are of the right age and in the right place in your life. Now, you are a beautiful young angel with bouncing curls and a brilliant smile, and I pray that your eyes shine like stars for your entire life. It has always been my wish to write a collection of things for you, just to show you in another way how much our love means to me. You have lit up my life in such a way that any damage that might have been done long, long ago has been repaired and my soul is renewed and restored -- it is in the light of your smile and the comfort of your laughter that I am able to let myself go and know that no matter what happens, it is all okay. It is all good and beautiful.

I love that you cannot carry a tune in a bucket to save your life, but you sing anyway. It encourages me to wipe off the limitations that encircle me from time to time. Anytime I feel like I am unable to to anything correctly -- parenting, writing, working, anything -- you remind me that life is for living, so let it be. I like that your smile brings sunshine, but does not frown when it is raining. I never liked the rain, but you always do, and every time we puddle-jump I remember what it was like to be a child who felt as though she could not experience such happiness because it was 'unladylike'. But you, Ella, are such a little lady, and hold such a grace that I believe everything you do in your life will be something beautiful.

I may not be with you for as long as you would like; life hands us strange (but wonderful) things, and it may be hard for you to accept at first, but please realize that even when I am not here with you physically, I am always loving you. Your soul shines so brightly that I believe it is the sun, and your eyes, my child, are the stars. Keep spreading your love, because it makes this world a better place one person at a time.

I pray this letter finds you, and when it does, you are in a better place than you are now, should that even be possible. I only want good things for you, GREAT things for you, and I want you to know you've been something incredible to me.

<center>All my love,
Mom.</center>

[shutterclick]

The thrum of her heart was no match for the deafening echo of each neutral-colored pump as its heel practically slammed against the cold shield of the floor. It wasn't that she walked hurriedly on purpose, or that she was trying to cause a commotion -- but when she'd gotten the call, she was half way out of the door before the nurse could say come quickly. Her wrists felt choked as she felt the brash heat of her pulse against spidery veins and vertebrae, and when she came to his doorway, she stopped and wilted against it, the backs of her fingers crushing over lips that should have been ruby-red, not salt-slick with remnants of tears.

Beneath a maze of wires and tubes and bleeping machinery, Valen Hent looked like a mummified corpse. With bruised and battered flesh and the remnants of dried blood spackled over his weathered limbs, he was hardly recognizable and this caused Ella to glance at the door, double-checking the room number. No, she whispered to herself behind trembling fingers and wavering lips, it couldn't have been so bad...

"Ms. Calloway?" The nurse's voice was soft and subtle, as though her mouth was reaching out to gently nudge Ella on the shoulder. "He's stable, just sleeping," she tried her best to reassure the young woman who stood with frozen posture, like a frail willow tree beneath the weight of icy, wintry weather just before it snapped. Behind the tree was a rosebud dressed in pink, with pink lips and pink cheeks and a smell that smelled like pink. All of her was love and positivity, and Ella wondered if she was a nurse or an angel, because after watching ER and other nonsense dramas, she was certain kind nurses no longer existed, just busy ones.

"Can he hear me?" She asked without blinking, still hiding behind the swell of her fingertips.

"He's not in a coma," the nurse laughed quietly and moved to touch her shoulder blade, nudging her into the room gently. "He's just sleeping," she reiterated with a motherly tone, though she couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than Ella.

His skin felt icy beneath her fingertips as the crept down his arm and over his hand, tripping over the small intravenous tube that connected to the back of his hand. She was a ball of nerves at his side and she shuffled around to pull a chair close to his bedside, folding down into it with a hand still covering his. She felt him twitch beneath her and she twitched back, swallowing hard, wondering how something so tragic could have happened to someone so innocent. Valen was a good man -- and young man -- someone who deserved nothing but positivity. There, in her seat of worry and dress of frustration, Ella grew angry. What have you got against him, she demanded silently, waiting for God to answer her. What has he ever done to you that you would be so bold and careless? You've got the wrong person! Fix him! Fix him now--

"Hey," he coughed up quietly and rolled his head to the side, trying his best to crack a smile, though it was short-lived.

"Valen," pity resounded in her voice and she tried to mask it by quickly asking another question, it's dialect fake. "How are you?"

"Alive," the jolt of his stomach indicated a laugh that failed to bubble up through his throat, and he turned his hand over to take hers, squeezing it. "I'm glad you're here."

"You don't have to talk," she reminded him easily, squeezing his hand gently in return.

"They couldn't get a hold of my family," he shifted uncomfortably in the bed and released her hand, moving to sit himself up more. "They're trying," his voice let off the extreme amount of hope he had in the administrators of the hospital.

"I came as quickly as I could."

"Haven't you got work or something?" His tone was strictly out of guilt -- he never liked for people to miss appointments on account of him.

"Don't worry about it; Oscar is on his way."

"Is he?"

"He was worried, too."

"I'm fine," his stomach jolted again, and he fumbled with a scratchy excuse of a blanket. "It was just an accident."

"What happened?"

"Rain," he answered easily, and scooted himself down as he closed his eyes. "Rain happened."

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ October 19, 2006 01:15 PM: Message edited by: shutterclick ]</font>