you can have it all: michael donovan

[secondhand_stars]

<center>Well I can't tell you anything
You don't already know.
I keep on trying.
I should just let it go.

I keep on singing.
Your eyes, they just roll.
It sounds like someone else's song
from a long time ago.

You already know the story.
And the chords are just the same.
You already know I love you,
and I sound like what's his name

But you can't stop me.
I want you to know,
I know it sounds like someone else's song
From a long time ago.

Someone Else's Song - Wilco.

</center>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 13, 2005 11:18 PM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

When I was a child -- before my mother's unfortunate breakdown -- we would spend our summers at the del Valle family estate in Southern Spain. We would arrive each May with our winter-pale skin clean and British accents crisp. By September, our gypsy blood would be thick with spice and sun again. We would forget trade in our stilted grammar for the lyrical play of Spanish and familiar dialect: a witch's language that cast a beautiful, heat-shimmering spell over everything. There was no ugliness there. In fact, there wasn't much reality either. The estate was a wonderland of the peculiar and surreal. Days were spent in study (for my Tias said we had much to learn about our way. And we did.) and, during the hottest hours, in siesta. It was at night when we roamed and played like child-ghosts. We, Lani and I, would play shadow-games and pocket the lingering heat in our palms. We would dance to our abuelita's old records. Being the only boy, I had to dance the most. I have eleven aunts. The summer would pass all too quickly, like a dream. When we returned to London, we were always overwhelmed by the busy city-streets and traffic. Traffic was everywhere there -- outside our window, inside the closets were monsters roamed, beneath our nails, in the shells of our ears. After Mami left us, there were no more Spanish summers. After Mami, everything changed...

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Cadiz.

Michael hated driving. There were so many variables and unknowns that the average driver faced everyday as he loaded himself inside the small vehicle and took off. His own were multiplied by a thousand more. It was necessity rather than whim that had Michael in the driver's seat with white-knuckled grip on the cracked wheel. The rental car had been a faded red when he pulled out of the lot. Now the paint was covered in a thick layer of dust caught off the hard packed road that the vehicle roared upon.

He still remembered as a child how it felt to drive down this narrow, barren stretch of road towards the sprawling home. He remembered how the leather made his legs sweat and itch at the bends of knees. He remembered the quiet. Lani had been shy then. The first week of the summer was always spent with Lani's face buried into Mami's leg or Michael's shoulder. He wondered now as the worn path was taken why she had ever been so shy, or rather, why she had changed so dramatically.

Branches reached their spindly limbs out in greeting, catching upon the dusty panes of glass set into doorframes. Upon them, stunted leaves broke away and spiraled down to into the shadow that car cast. The enchanted forest, they had once giggled back and forth in child's voices and finger-play. Everything had been magical then. That was before the magic turned into a strange alternate reality. It was then that the faery-powder dimmed to mere dust.

Foliage parted abruptly and the flat plane of sun scorched earth replaced it. Ahead, the house loomed upon it's hill. They were already waiting -- The living and dearly departed alike . A row of women with greying hair and bare heels: the sisters Del Valle.

There were titles for each. Rosa the knowing. Clara the lovely. Maria the dark. Carmen the holy. Adela the witch. Emilia the frail. Paulina the red. Blanca the pale. Elena the graceful one. Luisa the round. Ysobel the golden one. And then, his own mother, Mireya the unexpected. Of the twelve, only seven carried the same genetic key Michael possessed that unlocked the door to that other world. Of the twelve, only nine of them stood in flesh and bone waiting. Two others, outside of his mother, Paulina and Emilia floated just above the ground in and out of sight like shadow-play.

Killing the engine, Michael didn't immediately move to unlock the door and let himself unfold from the three-hour journey. Instead, he simply sat there and stared out in a daze until Rosa broke from the line and tapped an index finger upon the windshield. "Che!"

The nickname struck an odd note in him, sending eyes to widen and blink out. He had almost forgotten it. Almost. Michael had never had the luxury of forgetting. Smiling warily at Tia Rosa, he lifted a hand off the steering wheel to wave. The term's origin was lost. He was no guerilla revolutionary, nor was he their Argentinean buddy. Slowly, the car door was opened as the flock of matronly women pressed in. He was greeted by the roar of Spanish chatter and dark limbs as they all picked and hugged at him.

"You need a hair-cut, Che! You look like a bum!"

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The house was laced with Moorish influence with it's curved doorways and tiled floors. Plaster walls lifted high and built in a square around the home's center patio where all gathered to fill the dark stained lounge furniture with it's immaculately white cushions. At the center, Michael sat obediently as Ysobel began to trim away the overgrown sections of his hair. Overwhelmed by the heady brew of magic and estrogen, he could only answer questions and stare at the flock of women that called them out."You got a girlfriend, Che?" Rosa queried slyly. She was the most feline of the bunch with her wide, slanted eyes set at half-mast and husky purr. The eldest of the women, her hair was as white as snow against deep brown skin.

"No."

"Why not?" Lusia interrupted as fingers lifted to scratch a plump cheek.

"Are you gay?" Maria's green eyes -- the same blown-glass green as his own -- widened curiously as she twisted her attention towards him. At sixty-two, her hair was as black as the day that she was born.

"Hey!" Carmen countered protectively as Ysobel snickered and narrowly missed clipping Michael's ear at its curve. Crossing herself, head shook at her younger sister. "Michael's not gay."

"Chi-Chi is." Maria countered giving a look to her twin, Blanca.

At the mention of her son, Blanca looked up cooly from her sewing towards Maria the dark. They had always been opposites, as their titles had prophesied. Her silence gave Michael the opportunity to jump in, "No! Not gay. I just... Am busy?"

"Che is building his craft." Adela the witch spoke, though green eyes remained trained upon the worn deck of tarot cards that she was laying out in neat rows before her. Her words cut through the chatter and left only the metallic hum of scissors and rustle of card against splintered table to fill the patio. "You came at a very good time. The moon is high. You must stay until it descends again. We have much to discuss."

Michael swallowed harsh as Ysobel nearly nicked his ear again. The itch upon his neck was not from the hair that fluttered off sharp points, but from what Adela's cards would thread together.

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A storm brewed outside the open window. In sickly shades of green and yellow against the black of an hour just past midnight clouds gathered and lightning illuminated everything at a strobe light's pace. Those flashes of light pulled Michael from his sleep. Mumbling incoherently, the length of forearm was pressed against his eyes as other hand scratched upon the flat of his chest. He clung to those tattered and fading shreds of the dreamworld. It was a safe place for him and composed of crackled, freeze-frame images that he could scarce make sense of most times.

The rain began without the soft, scattered warning-sprinkles. Instead, the sky opened and poured out sheets of water. Lightning cracked again and water formed a wide puddle just beneath the window sill. Mentally, the window halves were joined again with a sharp sound and rattle of loose triangles of glass.

"She is coming. You must prepare." A voice sang through the electric-air.

"Who is coming?"

"Che, you will teach her."

"Who is she?"

"The queen of wands." Adela the witch spoke laughingly. Though her voice held nothing but warmth, the sound of it chill Michael to the bone. Pulling thin layers of sheets up around his shoulders, he frowned into the darkness that loomed in every corner and seemed to seep down from the ceiling like cobwebs.

"When?" He finally asked. Wariness pulled his hoarse, exhausted voice thin.

"Soon. She will come with another."

"Another?"

"Yes. The unexpected one."

"My mother?"

"No, another. Good-night, Che. Sleep well."

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Lan,

In Madrid and drowning.

M.


As they spoke, Michael imagined a dotted line stretching from Spain up, across the Atlantic straight into the heart of New York City, New York. Her voice was faint, even stretching into a tin-hum at moments, against the churn of his-and-her urban traffic. Fingers reached over touch a pane of glass set into the large window beside him. The index finger set against the tiny cars revolving like a child's toy around the circular street appeared as some great, invisible road-block. He cleared his throat before continuing, "So -- How are things?""Same as they ever were, Mikey. I've been busy." Lani laughed out.

"I know."

"Of course you do. You never miss a thing, do you?" A pause. "Why Spain?"

"Why not?" He countered with a grin stretching wide across his face. Somewhere between Seville and Madrid, he had grown lean and dark with the sun. He stood against the window's corner in a casual pose, his bones settling into plaster.

"The semester starts soon for school. I saw kids boarding their buses this morning." Lani's voice was lined with thin wisps of impatience. She wanted Michael home. It was rattling to have him so far somehow.

"I'm taking a sabbatical."

"Oh. What's there in Madrid that you can't get here in New York? Come home, Michael." Lani finally sighed out.

Michael laughed then, fingers settling at the bridge of his nose. "Trouble."

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Morning was little more than a gray smudge upon the horizon when he woke. In the brief moments before a flirtation with consciousness became a full-blown affair of the mind, he could watch hazily as clothes and various bits of his-and-her personal effects floated above dusty floorboards and warped furniture pieces. But when eyes caught upon the sleeping mess of a girl across from him in her matching twin bed, all things fell back in a clatter and ring upon whatever surface they could touch. He sat up then, swinging legs over the side of his narrow bed. Michael watched her sleep, though expression was more or less covered by wild, wavy strips of hair. Yawning and shaking his head at her, the lanky man lifted up from mattress and padded towards the narrow table that occupied their room.

Grabbing messenger bag in process, he shuffled through its contents until notebook and pen were found in the half-light. All three things were settled upon crooked legged table, his own frame settling down in a chair. Teeth catching at the plastic cover, pen was uncapped and page was found.

...But he had no words to fill in the blanks with. Story arcs and character designs filled his brain, fighting against drowsy haze, but refused to form fully. He sighed, dropping the angle of jaw into palm. Again eyes rolled to where the Briton slept.


There was once was a girl with many secrets. She carried them well though -- In lockets and things that caught in the light like pretty toys. Only she knew what the contents were. Only she...


He only stared at the words -- The curious things they were and smudged from the drag of hand that passed over words as he wrote.

Like a mirage, she shimmered and surfaced from the wastelands that stretched between the two cities. He touched her wrist at the knob of bone that jutted up from pale skin and murmured her name. Heat and liquor had made him a drowsy, reckless creature with a loose tongue and head full of stranger's past. She wore danger and mischief like a perfume: sparingly dabbed upon the insides of wrists and behind ears. And he, he was perfectly enchanted.

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New York.

A flat noise rumbled in his throat as head dipped low enough for chin to touch chest. Pushing glasses up to his forehead, fingers then dropped to rub against his eyes. Auras swirled around him, creating distraction and confusion. Michael wanted peace. He wanted most of all, quiet. The city was in full swing, even for a midweek night. In front of him, laptop sat open with an empty word page waiting for him. The screen glowed patiently. Straightening upright with a sigh, frames were settled back into place upon the bridge of his nose. Leaning in slightly, fingers fell back over keys.

Those wispy, jewel-toned shades swooped in to swirl around him. He saw the world in violet, crimson, and turquoise. The effect caused his stomach to turn violently. Something was coming. Like a storm, he could taste it's salt upon his tongue and feel the ache grown in his joints. Michael could only wait and stare at that blank page.

An hour later, as he was pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee in the kitchen, the sky opened. Like a thunderclap, he heard the shrill scream of his sister fill the apartment. Then, the china within cabinets and filling kitchen-sink began to rattle. He watched as papers flew out from the briefcase he had thrown atop dining room table. Cursing loudly against the wild, incoherent stream of words that filled his brain, mug was dropped down upon countertop and Michael rushed to collect the papers that now scattered his living room. It was all his own doing. Clutching the loose documents to his chest, he forced himself to calm and separate Lani's fury from his own system. She was like an electrical current though. Every time he made an effort towards it, he felt the vague jolt of shock.

Leaving the papers in a haphazard pile atop counter as he passed it by, Michael rushed back to his desk. Fumbling with the blazer that was thrown over computer chair, he found cellphone. The screen was dark against silver frame. Pressing a button, the tiny device woke and hummed with tone. He dialed in Lani's number.


Across town, Lani stalked down the stripe of pavement silently. Like a wounded lioness, she kept sullen eyes low and pace at a chilling evenness. He walked beside her. Though hand remained tangled in his fingers, she didn't acknowledge him past that connection. Instead, she sulked and raged internally.

Her cellphone rang. Like the blare of a taxicab, the sound ripped through silence and sent both hands to fumble blindly around in the strappy purse she wore across torso. Telephones always had the most obnoxious sound to them, she realized then as it was lifted to ear. "Hello?"

"Lani, what's wrong?"

"Michael?" Lani blinked, sending a sidelong look to Asher. "Why would anything be wrong?"

"You are screaming in my head. What happened?"

"Nothing happened, Michael." Lani muttered, touching fingers to an eyebrow.

Michael fell silent now. Everything layered over itself sending the shallow breath she rattled out over telephone wire to drown out, then fade against the ramble that replaced scream. Without explanation to why or how, the twin realized. Wincing to the neat row of framed photographs that were nailed into wall, he sighed. "Give the phone to Asher."

"No!" Lani bellowed.

"Please?"

"Whatever you have planned? It's so not going to work, Miguel."

Michael rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He could already hear the cellphone being passed from hand to hand. Before the Briton could speak, he was already rattling off guidance. "So, you've got to be wondering how you will ever possibly get Lani to snap out of it. I'll tell you it takes time. Time and gifts. She likes pretty little things that come in turquoise boxes with white ribbons -- If you haven't noticed that already. So, I have only one word for you: Tiffany's. Good luck and godspeed. If you need my help, my phone number is in the book."

And with that -- and an audible groan -- Michael allowed the telephone line to be severed. Now, if only things were so simple with the sister who would surely give him no rest tonight.

[secondhand_stars]

He woke in the same fashion that a drowning man surfaced. Michael gasped violently, sending lungs to slap against ribs. It was too much oxygen too fast and head began to spun from it. As he pushed himself upright from his sprawl across paper-strewn desk, green eyes shot around the office-space. Nothing had changed, everything had changed. Something, was horribly wrong. Trembling with some unseen, laboring fright, he stumbled out of chair with stiff-limbs unwilling to straighten and a back full of knots. Like a caged animal, he prowled around the room with suspicion narrowing his wide frozen stare and dread gnawing at an empty belly. Stopping at the window, he stared out at a window. The city was just beginning to wake. One by one, cars pulled off curbs and filled pavement stripe to a congested point. Horns began to wail.

It hit then, an immense sort of sadness only made more acidic by... Tasting the sourness at the back of his throat, Michael's vision blurred with tears. He attempted to place that strange, awful feeling that replaced dread. It hit him then, stomach lurching painfully. The professor gagged, nearly doubling over as a hand shot out to grab at the window sill. Guilt. It was guilt that he was experiencing. Yes, the most terrible sort of guilt imaginable. The room spun then and his vision narrowed.

The scene came and went as abruptly as a camera flash. At first, he could scarce understand what he had been pulled into. The feeling remained, even if the vision did not. He could only wait -- involuntarily so.

In the back of his mind, Lani's wails began again. As if underwater, the sound came blurred and incoherent. Frantic. Then, clearing all he heard was a string of obscenities and apology.

His vision ran red then. Blood. Everywhere. Pooling like a dark smear against sheets and streaking down floor. It was only when he saw the source, those ragged and gaping wounds that pulsed off back that Michael choked. In a dizzy spiraling, he fell in a pile of limbs and shudders upon the floor. Palms rubbed into the sockets of his eyes, as if that would clear away the violent, gruesome sight.

Fingers itched to call, though mind knew she wouldn't answer her phones. He could have rushed over, but something else kept him from it. Lani wouldn't have wanted it. Left with idle hands and a brain full of violence, he was unable to do anything but watch. And wait for a phone call.


...A phone call that never came. For the first time in their lives, the unspoken remained untouched between the twins.

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His office was a glorified closet with sickly white walls and a stripe of florescent lighting set into the square panels of the ceiling. The highlight of the office was the small window that overlooked the quad. Most days, he prefered the cool, dusty walls of the library over the tiny room. There the luxury of youth turned him into a student again with his messenger bag sprawled open upon one of the tables and head in hands.Today though, he sat behind the desk that was wedged into the small space and slowly worked through the stack of essays. For all the luxury of youth, the penalty was that he was left teaching the summer composition sessions. Fingers pulled at the buttons of his Oxford, undoing the top one with thumb and index.

Through the narrow window, sunlight poured in at angles. Within them, dust danced and floated in plain view. Distraction was everywhere -- in the summer scene set into untouched plaster, in the space between door and the carpet, and in the phone. He stared at it the most -- until he had memorized the curving grip of handle and line of names and extensions alongside pre-programmed buttons. A number itched at the back of his throat. He saw his fingers dialing the series of digits in and waiting before hands actually ever moving from his backwards lean in the desk-chair.

Michael gave into the whim with fingers dancing over keypad before he could change his mind. The ringtone startled him as line purred with waiting. Two rings. Three. After the fifth, the answering machine clicked on and her voice lifted from the plastic holes of the earpiece. She was followed by a beep.

"Right." He began lamely. "So, It's Michael. Just called to say, hello and check-in. You must be at work. Of course -- since most people, including myself, are. You must wonder how I got your telephone number. What can I say, but magic? Harry Houdini whispered in my ear by the water-cooler, you see. Though really, I'm starting to think it's a voodoo enchantment." He laughed and rolled his eyes at the faded poster that was pinned to the wall behind him. His tendency to ramble was ridiculous and he fell into it's trap every time. " Either way, I thought I'd beat you to the punch... With the whole odd messages bit. What can I say? I know your devious ways and plots and things. Anyway -- I called, I confused, I conquered. Talk to you later, Thea."