this is my diary screaming out loud --

<center>


Head under water,
And they tell me to breathe easy for a while.
The breathing gets harder, even I know that.
You made room for me but it's too soon to see
If I'm happy in your hands.

I'm unusually hard to hold on to; blank stares at blank pages.
No easy way to say this,
But you make this hard on me.
I'm not gonna write you a love song
Because you asked for it,
Because you need one.
I'm not gonna write you a love song
Because you tell me it's
Make or breaking this.
If you're on your way
I'm not gonna write you to stay.
All you have is leaving,
I'm going to need a better reason
To write you a love song today.

http://www.loleg.com/blog/images/gir...-Casta/012.jpg </center>

<font color="#a62a2a"><font size="1">[ March 01, 2008 06:31 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font></font>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ April 11, 2008 08:13 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

August 15, 2004

Inside the walls of Saint Vincent's hospital on the corner of 82nd and Madison a virtual cinema of life was shown daily, with more times than the average round of matinees and early evening glimpses, and there still remained a special rate for children and the elderly. Trapped behind the sterile walls, a morality play was winding its way towards the inevitable conclusion within the confines of the ER as a preacher's heart succumbed to the strain of attempting to herd a flock of gutterborn saints and sloe-eyed madonnas towards the crystallized view of salvation, while a streetwise businessman was returned to his corner a mere hours after being wounded while continuing his sentence as a slave to the grind. A common belief that infection and despair were bred right along with the medications and whispers of false hope that all of the doctors murmured into the ears of their patients could be witnessed lurking in the corners of the eyes of various patients scattered throughout the ICU and their wide-eyed supporters, crowding into the cramped quarters of the waiting rooms that were peppered throughout the hospital while their minds tripped along the path of their own vain thoughts and self-obsessions.

The silver lining, if such a thing could exist in a building where many checked out in ways other than walking out the glass doors situated at the front of the hospital, was the maternity ward on the fifth floor. Swathed in pastel colors and signs of faux affection, it was a haven in this realm of shadows and false promises. Bundles of joys were wrapped in matching blankets of pink and blue, safely tucked away from the population at large by planes of clear glass and the confines of their small beds. Though they would all choose different roles to play in the mosaic that made up the population of this urban jungle, for now they were the same. Each had ten fingers and ten toes, sleepy eyes and healthy screaming voices. Perfection at its core.

In the fourth room on the left resided a creature more comfortable in the realm of paint-smeared ambition and socialite ways than a sterile room lacking in color or any other distinguishing feature. Free of paint and all her other tools of distraction, she was nothing more than a delicate woman who was creeping steadily closer to the age where childish dreams and pursuits would forever be abandoned and the sentence of 'mature adult' would forever be linked with her name. In the growing months, she would begin to study herself a little more intently in the mirror in the mornings, searching for any hints of her age, any tiny wrinkles that might have appeared overnight. But for now, her focus was on plotting her escape from this place and returning to her life outside these walls, though it would be forever altered.

"How are you feeling, my dear?"

Leaning against the doorway was Virginia Maguire, perfectly composed, wrapped in a tasteful display of conservative apparel with coordinating accessories and a designer handbag. The dream of every soccer mom approaching the age when retirement was a real possibility and not some landmark far off in the distance, she was the ruler of her small town's society and quite content to continue her reign for quite a few more years.

"Good morning." Roused from her contemplation, Shannon glanced away from the window in order to regard the woman who was an older version of herself, though with glittering eyes of sunsoaked hazel and not her own water-drenched gaze. "I'm a little tired," she confessed with a flicker of a half smile.

"Mm, well since this hospital has no idea what a decent blend of coffee is, I stopped by Starbucks on my way here." One should always come bearing gifts, after all. Drifting closer to the bed, she handed over the warm container while glancing down at the paper that was settled on the small tray nearby. "And what's this?"

"Thank you." Shannon settled the cup down on the tray, in no real mood for whatever caffeinated concoction her mother had decided to order on a whim, and glanced down at the document in question. "Oh, it's the birth certificate."

"Oh? You've decided on a name then? That's wonderful, darling." The words were laced with her mother's own drawl, a mixture of soft syllables and perfectly planned airy tones that was slower than Shannon's but equally as pronounced. Inviting herself into the matter, she picked up the document to better inspect it, having left her reading glasses at her hotel. "Jacob William -- we'll isn't that sweet of you. And how did you decide on Jacob?"

Shannon eyed her mother intently, watching for any signs of a reaction that might appear on the canvas of her face. "I just .. liked the sound of it, I guess."

"Although.." The pause was drawn out for dramatic effect and Virginia glanced at Shannon over the rim of the document. "I thought it was customary to use the mother's last name when the father was ... elsewhere." Gesturing pointedly with her left hand, she flared her fingers in the direction of the window.

"I didn't think it would be fair to exclude him from this." The lines of her mouth tightened in a show of displeasure for the way the conversation was (d)evolving.

"Exclude him? Darling, he would have to be present for that to happen." Virginia clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a show of sympathy for her belle's plight.

"He is present -- or well, he will be." Her defense was arranged as securely as a house of cards, while her mother was in possession of a blow torch and a hammer.

"Why you insist on defending him, I'll never know."

"He will be involved." Firmly.

"And how exactly do you know this? Has he written this week? Or this month? Or how about in the last six? Hm?" A sharply penciled brow arched higher while she gestured about the room. "Your brother isn't here because he is fighting a war -- but what is his excuse, exactly? I don't believe you've ever told me."

"He has his reasons." The cards on the upper level were beginning to waver.

"We'll see." Wisely recognizing the signs of the belle's stubborn streak rearing its head (one that surely came from her father -- no one on her side would dare to be so disagreeable), she returned her attention to the certificate.


"Well, you'll certainly have your hands full. Leo's are always unpredictable."


http://www.imnotobsessed.com/image/gisbbyne.jpg

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 04, 2008 11:04 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

<center>She only drinks coffee at midnight
When the moment is not right
Her timing is quite, unusual
You see her confidence is tragic, but her
Intuition magic. And the shape of her body?
Unusual...

Spun from sugar-coated visions of porch swing lounging and humble country values,
she spread her wings in a frenetic world of looking-glass skyscrapers and urban jungles
of concrete and steel. An oracle in a new-age Delphi, she weaved stories as intricate
as Homer's from the corners of her imagination, sharing them with the world through hasty
brushstrokes on an aged canvas. Sunstruck, she burned with an effortless energy that would enthrall
any foolish traveler in a siren's call of mysticism and mirth. The patchworks of a beauty queen - she rose from
the ashes of mismatched choices in all her paint-smeared glory, viewing the world through cracks in
smoky lashes, hinting at the unwavering optimism that lurked beneath in a sea of Mediterranean blue.

Escaping the tunnel of a quarter-life crisis she was a little wiser, a little more foolish. The
matchbook love affair with a town of gutterborn saints and black magic sinners had her
following age old bread crumbs to return to the place where black turns to white and time follows
its own rhythm. It was the tale of Humpty Dumpty all over again, though when she fell off the wall she did not
use the wiles of a modern day feminist to charm the King's knights into putting her back together
again.

She used her own special brand of magic and intuition instead.</center>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 02, 2008 12:46 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

June 20, 2005

Dear Bjorn,

I discovered a new outdoor market on the outskirts of town during one of my rambling sessions, it's located near your first flat here. Do you remember it? I find myself wandering back to those times now and then. It amuses me that everyone considers memories to be of "simple" times -- but when have any of us ever experienced something simple? Perhaps you can remember a time, you've always had a better memory than mine.

I wish that you could have been there. There were vendors stretched out along both sides of the streets, and some creeping every steadily closer to the actual street, much to the dismay of the locals. There were brightly painted booths and the usual brand of pushy salesmen and I couldn't help but wonder if you have such a thing where you are. Where ever it is that you are. It must be someplace exotic and completely off the map, given that I have a stack full of letters that were recently returned to me by the post office.

Along the way I found a vendor for one of the local bookstores in town - one of those tiny little gems that haven't been forced to merge with a chain store, you know? But anyways, I found this journal there. I've never been very good at keeping a journal. I bought my last one when I was sixteen and merely doodled a few notes about my newest crush before eventually losing it somewhere. So, I make no promises. But perhaps this will be the best way to include you in Jacob's life since you are unable to be here to see it.

If you do return, that is. I've known you too long not to be aware of the fact that you may simply never come back. You have always been built of wanderlust and there are far too many exotics places in this world (and any of the others that extend beyond our realms) to keep you from finding a new place to discover throughout your life. I hope that you are not being reckless, however. Please don't come back missing a limb.

Summer has finally arrived and I cannot contain my excitement. The humidity is steadily creeping back into the air and I am finding more and more reasons to slip outside to frolic in the sun. This is Jacob's first summer, though the temperatures are rising too high for him to stay out for very long, he seems to enjoy our adventures outside. I cannot believe that he will be one soon! This past year is a blur of sleepless nights and an endless routine of misadventures -- though Lola assures me that I'm doing fine, I can't help feeling like a fool sometimes. I'm sure if you were here you'd merely laugh at me and then do with ease. You always make everything effortless.

Jacob has started shuffling about and it won't be long until he's walking easily. He's constantly exploring his newfound freedom by running around the house and getting a few bumps and bruises along the way, but he seems to be happy.

I miss you, lion.

August 13, 2005

Dear Bjorn,

Your son's birthday was today. A year has flown by so fast! Lola and the twins dropped by to help Jacob celebrate this afternoon and my brother was able to visit as well. He's on leave from the Army, but he'll have to return to his base in Germany in a few days. I'll miss him desperately while he's gone, but I console myself that Germany is far safer than Iraq. Caleb claims that his post in Europe while not be changed due to the war, but there seems to be no end in sight and I worry that he will be sent there eventually. Lola looks as radiant as ever and she misses you, lion. I wish that you would write her -- and, well, selfishly I wish that you would write me as well. But I try to understand your reasons for not doing so. Late at night, I think about our last few conversations and try to search for the trigger that sent you rushing away from this place. From me. Perhaps if I had been able to know of Jacob's existence sooner, or if I said the right things .. I fear I will drive myself crazy with this questions.

Jacob seemed to enjoy his party, though he was more interested in the texture of his cake than actually eating it. His laugh can light up the room and he seemed to be utterly fascinated by the twns, and they with him. Hopefully, Lola and I will be able to find time to take them all to the park later this week, depending on the weather. Roman's children weren't able to attend, but hopefully he will be able to see them soon. He is always such a comfort to me, it breaks my heart that he does not have custody of them more often. Did you ever meet Lola's brother? I can't recall. I think that you two would become fast friends if you had. He reminds me of you -- though he is far less impulsive. He doesn't burn quitely as brightly as you do, more of a quiet soul. But a good friend, nonetheless.

Jacob is far from being able to talk, but he and I have our ways of communicating with each other, so I'm not complaining. I wonder if I will miss his soft sounds when he finally does change from grunting to forming words and sentences. I tell him stories of you sometimes before tucking him into bed. I hope you do not mind me speaking on your behalf when I tell him that you would have loved him had he been able to meet you.

Take care, lion.

A week later, Bjorn found himself pacing the perimeter of his rented room at the local tavern -- stopping to tug the bedcovers tight and straight, fixing the angle of a picture nailed to the wall, even rearranging the furniture in miniscule one-at-a-time steps -- because he no longer owned local real estate, as he always preferred to acquire new property when he wandered through; these were not his true roots, after all. It was six o'clock but already the sun was collapsing behind the mountains that bordered the metropolis on one side and he'd lit all the antiquated oil lamps to illuminate the simple, impersonal surroundings (he hadn't planned on being there longer than a month or two at best, that time around). The room contained nothing more than a wide queen-sized bed, a round wood table for two, a 'couch' that would've sat two easier than three, an armchair, coffee table, the standard dresser plus mirror -- one door to the closet, the second to the narrow but private bathroom. By the time a knock was issued to the door, he had arranged two empty tumblers and a faceted bottle of whiskey on the coffee table with an ashtray playing witness. Other than his goatee (which he seemed likely to keep for it'd been several years since he'd gone without any facial hair), he was clean-shaven and casually but well-dressed in a pair of tailored trousers, a colorless buttondown with long sleeves rolled back to three-quarters, thick suspenders keeping it all neatly together, polished boots. "Good evening," he started, widening the door for her so that she could slip through. If she wore a coat, he would naturally help her in the discarding of it once he'd bolted the door shut. "Can I offer you a seat and drink?" He hadn't met her eyes yet but the anger had faded from his countenance, releasing its vicious grip, and he was nothing but gentlemanly. Now, at least.

Catscratch fever and wildberry fantasies and white-picket fence destinies had been altered sharply, cut and chiseled by a utensil harder than diamonds. Fate had always been known to deal residents of this concrete jungle a heavy hand, whether it was due to the intricacies of their DNA or the choices they made upon reaching a fork in the road. Shannon had certainly strayed from the perfectly framed structure of a suburban life that was the ideal of any true southern belle, a fact that had been driven home by the arrival of her son. He was blessed with the sign of Leo, and perhaps predestined to inherit all of his father's gifts, but for now he was merely an amber-eyed wildcat with more energy than the Energizer bunny and a charm that would certainly come to good use when he reached the age where the opposite sex no longer seemed to be infected with the oh-so-dreadful cooties. It was difficult to tell where the belle's mood lingered on the scale of emotions, the ease of her stride and unconflicted expression lingering as she navigated the maze of city streets before spilling into the tavern with a flicker of a grateful smile for an exiting patron who had been kind enough to hold the door for her. Inwardly, her mind was in a tailspin, over-analyzing and pre-packaging phrases as all women were wont to do. Fingerswept curls were given a last minute grooming before knuckles graced the wood of the door in a gentle rap. Subtly conservative in a simple pencil skirt and knit sweater of black and white, she was far from the paint-smeared madonna that made up her usual persona. "Good evening," she returned smoothly while drifting inside, glancing about the interior briefly while allowing him to take her coat. "That would be lovely, thank you." Once she had found a spot for herself on the couch, she'd level the weight of that too blue stare on him. "And how have you been?"

"How do you think I've been?" Bjorn countered, though there was nothing (especially not accusing) in his attitude; all in all, it was a fair enough answer. Her coat was draped carefully over the bed as the closet space had been overcrowded with the belongings he'd brought with him before he dropped into the armchair directly across the coffee table from her. Uncrowning the bottle, he poured her glass to the halfway point and his full before recapping it -- and it was there, as his blunt fingertips moved hers closer to her side of the table, that he made eye contact. Gold glimmered, diamond-like in all their varied facets, and the usual lazy tilt of his eyelids was solemnly absent. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior, and for how long it took me to meet with you. I didn't know how to wrap my mind around it all at first, I suppose. I wasn't displeased that I had a son; I was displeased that I'd missed this much of his life. I'm so sorry, Shannon-- I would never have left if I'd known, I would have been here for both After the initial shock wore off after several days, I realized how hard this must've been for you... all these years," so quietly. "Please forgive me. I'm here now, and for good, so long as you are. No more journeys, no more adventures, no more traveling. So if you could... find it in your heart to forgive me, I would like very much to make up for the time I've been away. I want to be a real father to my son."

"I really have no idea, Bjorn." Which would explain why she had asked. It had been a week since she had last heard anything from him and while the time had seemed to creep by at a snail's pace for her, anything could have happened in his neck of the woods. Secretly, she has hoping that something overly dramatic or unexpected had occurred and would allow her to dismiss the prickling sense of irritation that was traveling down the ladder of her spine. She bite back any further retort, flicking a glance downwards to watch the trickle of liquid fill her glass, the corners of her mouth twitching ever-so-slightly in response to differences in amount between their two glasses. She would make no complaint, however -- it had been awhile since she had indulged in a glass of straight whiskey. The glass was left to wait on the table for the time being, the tale he was weaving with his words was far more interesting to her at the moment. Intent and silently assessing, she listened with keen ears for any hint of insincerity (not that she expected to find any) or an outlet for some of the misplaced anger that had been simmering in the pit of her stomach over the course of the past few years during his absence. It was unfair, to be sure, but that was life. "I suppose that it would be quite a shock," she allowed after a moment, swallowing softly before forcing herself to continue. "And I did try to tell you. I did not realize until after you had left..." It was a bitter pill to swallow now that hindsight allowed her to see the selfish way that she had hoarded the secret during the first few weeks after his departure, partly out of a belief that he would stray back into town with the same devil-may-care attitude as always well before the baby's arrival. "To be honest, I didn't think you were coming back," she admitted softly, before moving to take a healthy sip of her drink and stop herself from exposing anymore vulnerability. After a moment, she would let the weight of her gaze travel the length of his form until it met his own fiery gaze, her own softening as it accepted the warmth of the nearby light and drawing the comparison of a tranquil sea at sunset. "Forgive you? It is not as if you walked out on Jacob by choice, Bjorn. I have no doubt that you never would have left had you known. But don't make promises that you can't keep. It isn't fair to either of you. Your .. role in life will always require some traveling, some form of adventure." Focusing primarily on his impact in Jacob's life and leaving herself out of the equation completely. It was about Jacob now -- wasn't it? "I have no desire to keep him from you."

So far, his own whiskey had not been touched; it shone a soft tawny on the wood surface, its surface too still, but his long fingers worked the svelte leather cigarette case instead -- the matchbook held to the top by the clip was removed as well as one of the smoothly hand-rolled fags, but only long enough for him to tear a match out and set it away. The underside of his thumbnail scratched it to life and it flickered, forcing out the narrow shadows that'd lurked below his strong, angular cheekbones -- the terrain of his face had further developed over the years he'd been absent, and though he'd lost the completely wholesome carefree demeanor that he'd initially prowled through the city with, he was a more complicated man now: and seductively more handsome with that thick lion's mane that swung fairly tousled around his shoulders even after a recent brush-through. His skin still inhaled the sun, exhaled its heat. His eyelashes had swept downward until that first hit off the strange, exotic tobacco but as they edged up, the sheen of withheld tears lit the amber lines though it was almost imperceptible; strong men rarely cried, but that didn't mean they never wanted to. "I didn't know I would be unreachable that long, or gone that long for that matter. There's things about me that even you don't know, Shannon, but I swear to you that I didn't know them either." Intensely sincere, his other hand extended to try and find hers across the table while his pretty mouth smoked out its secrets. "I didn't grow up like this, you know that. I grew up the same way you did," in the USA and all the wonders of the modern world, he meant. "A long time ago, my grandfather came here, to this very town, from a distant land -- and from there, to the vortex so that he could start a new life with his wife. He was a bloody coward.A king that had abandoned his people in a time of war, and I never thought..." He drifted off, his throat closing as the sheen started to fade away from his tawny eyes, and he shook his head. "I didn't know, I never would've thought that I didn't belong to the world I was born into, but I don't. I found some relics before I left town last time... and when I left, things started happening. I found a continent called Vhamere far from here in the course of things, and.." God, it was such a long story, how could he fucking explain it to her? "Before I knew it, I was involved in a war that I didn't even know for sure that I'd live through. There's no phones there, no modern technologies, it's... a very old place. I wrote you up until I left, but the only means I had was messengers by ship and it's a long journey." He swallowed thickly, sure that everything was coming out in a jumbled mess, and clasped her hand tighter if she'd allowed him its comfort. "I'm here for good. I'm not going anywhere. This is my home now. Do you understand?"

He would always be an impossible puzzle to Shannon -- one part wild-eyed heathen with a laugh she could feel in her bones and a touch that was unexpectedly tender, another that of a firmly grounded businessman whose every move was perfectly calculated and planned to the slightest detail. To be truthful, he had ruined her for anyone else -- but that was a windswept fairytale better left for other times. It was not fair, the glint of unshed emotion caught the light and caused a mirror effect in her own. However, her own self control was not as strong as his own iron-clad will and a drop of moisture betrayed her by leaking out of the corner of an eye before she brushed it away. "You've always been a man of many secrets. I've always wished you would've trusted me more." There were so many things left unspoken between them, so many things left to the silence of the night. His hand would find hers and instinctively she would let the soft pad of her thumb travel along the side of his palm, and, aside from a few soft sounds of sympathy or understanding as she listened, she remained silent. "I hope that you mean it." I want so desperately to believe you. Releasing his hand, she did not move to pull her own away from the table's surface. "I have no desire to see his heart broken... or have him harmed in any way." There was a directness to her gaze that had never existed before, a firmness that haunted the edges of that softly-lined drawl composed out of porch-swing lounging and freshly squeezed lemonade. Swallowing, it was with some difficulty that she continued (for this was the most frightening part of this whole mess). "I .. am not naive enough to have not considered the fact that your... new life may have brought some changes to your situation. I understand if you have began to lay the foundations for a new family and do not wish to involve Jacob in that part of your life." Or me. While she had already discreetly studied his left hand in search of any new golden bands, there was the distinct possibility that his new culture had other means of signalling one's status as a married man.


Here from the king's mountain view, here from the wild dream come true: Vhamere had utterly decimated all the remnants of boyhood that might've lingered and hardened his signature masculinity into something unspeakably indomitable that one could only perceive when he was unguarded (though the beloved dimples in his grins would mislead to tempt the opinion otherwise). His thighs, his arms, his scars -- all were thicker due to the war to the point where even buttondowns couldn't conceal the sunbathed muscles lurking sinuous (and one hundred percent deadly) below. If asked, he couldn't recall the number of faceless supple and warm bodies he'd shared hot nights with, but that wasn't appropriate conversation -- as neither a man nor warrior, he couldn't expect her to understand what compelled a man in a time where life's extent was no longer certain; it was composed of wild hours where collectives of thousands were allowed to think of nothing but the struggle of battle, death trembling just behind every corner, and so great men tore the clothes from willing delilahs in order to clasp some kind of sanity in a universe that'd suddenly turned red (from the blood of your enemies and your comrades) -- he remembered none of their tongue-twisting names now. "If you think the two of you are not going to be a huge part of my life, you are completely mistaken," he told her, his jaw setting as the sheen was swept away from the curves of his eyes and smoke rolled forth over his tongue. "Things've changed, that couldn't be more true, but Jacob is my son -- and I apologize for the changes it is going to cause in your own life, but I will be here for you. I imagine now that I'm staying, it won't be long before the news it out that your son is mine; and that's going to cause problems, Shannon, I won't lie to you. I know that she comes across very dominantly, but Ciramina is wise, and powerful. I completely agree with her that the two of you need to share a roof with her, and besides, now that I'm here, you don't have to support yourself, or Jacob, alone anymore. I forbid it. It's far too dangerous. For you as well as him," because every bad guy loved a pawn so pretty.

He was changed -- she could not trace the exact reasoning behind her decision on this matter, but it was there. Perhaps it was in the movement of his face as he spoke, or the edge of wildness that clung to the finger-tousled mane and whiskey-gold stare that was leveled on her. She was certainly not one to assume that he had spent the countless nights (perhaps far more than three years worth, given the potential time differences between their two worlds) celibate and dreaming of her. She had seen enough war dramas on Cinemax to know that bloodshed and loneliness required some heated embraces if only to celebrate the fact that they were not being sentenced to the same mass grave of their comrades. It was a fact of life -- though, selfishly she would have relished some false confidences had they dripped from his tongue in an attempt to soothe her. But he had changed, and there were no false promises of romance and true love. To be fair, she was not such a pristine image of faithfulness, given the few short interludes of other men that had paraded through her life, though they checked out as soon as Jacob's presence was whispered in the quiet of the night, or during a candle light dinner at some upscale restaurant. She had become a statistic -- a fate that caused her much irritation, especially given how strongly she fought to keep from being trapped into a single category or stereotype. "Out of respect for Jacob, I haven't broadcasted his existence to the gossips in this world, but I can see that he cannot stay hidden forever." Quietly, and now she would withdraw her hand from the table, raking fingers through loosely tousled curls while her sea-swept gaze narrowed subtly. "Dominantly? It is interesting that you would let your grandmother do your dirty work, Bjorn." Surely the fact that her life was going to change and the dangers in store for her son should have come from him and not some other relative that had shaken herself loose from the family tree in order to settle in this town. "I am glad that you agree with her, but I think you two are forgetting my say in all of this." Carefully choosing her words, as if she were picking a path through a mine field. "She already has a stranger living in my house, I do not see why I should have to force Jacob to learn combat or move into an unfamiliar house." Stubbornly, she was clinging to her peaceful ways. "If he ... does develop your gifts then we will deal with them, not now. Not while he is too young to understand the implications." She sidestepped all mentions of any possible threats to her, choosing to believe that she meant far too little to him to matter in the grand scheme of things. "Don't you think you should at least meet him first?"

"Ciramina is older than Christ, Shannon -- she's not my grandmother, but thousands of years ago, I suppose she probably was the grandmother of one of my forefathers." Glancing into an unseen distance when she withdrew her hand, he exchanged the comfort of it for whiskey, silent for the moments it took to swallow half of the glass. "You could not imagine how powerful she is. I do not pretend to have the ability to control her actions, woman, she does as she pleases." Glass set aside, he pushed up to his feet and part paced the surrounding area, pointing at her with his ash-tongued cigarette. "Do you think I've just been sitting around this room with my head up my ass? I've been working nonstop with only a few hours of sleep in order to prepare to provide for the both of you! Do not be so stubborn, you're being completely ridiculous. I respect you, woman, but if you think you can have your way in this just because you flash your pretty blue eyes at me, you can think twice. I know that you're used to being in charge, but that's over now. He's as much mine as yours, and you will share that responsibility with me in the future. I will not be held responsible for my son's death because his mother does not want to be reasonable about the situation!"

Her eyes flared at the sharpness of his reponse and her mouth set in a firm line; stubborn as a mule. Not to be outdone, she moved to finish her own glass before returning it to the tabletop with an audible thud. "Either way -- you sent her instead." It simmered still, the unreasonable anger that stemmed from how long it had taken for him to contact her, how long it had taken for him to traverse the endless terrain between their two worlds and seek her out again. Leaning back, she watched him rise to his feet and pace the small expanse of the room. "I have no idea, Bjorn." She ground out, her brows furrowing slightly as she listened to him. "Do not call me woman. I have a name, you jack ass." The profanity dripped from her tongue with all the grace of a foreigner attempting to speak a new language for the first time, though the anger behind it was very real and natural. And now it was her turn to rise, pointing a freshly-painted nail at him while she carved a path around the table in order to stalk closer to him. "Used to being in charge? Do you think I chose this? Do I think I chose to be a single mother?! Do you think I chose to deal with every fever, every cough, every bruise on my own. For christ's sake, Bjorn, don't be ridiculous. I had to make that choice because you ran away." Her eyes were wild and flashing, like the sea during a hurricane and her cheeks were burning bright red with the infusion of warm irritationthat was flooding her veins. "Oh, I will be more than happily to share that responsibility -- as soon as you stop trying to shut me out!" And then he pulled out his trump card and she barely restrained the urge to slap him. Barely. "Don't ever say that again. Ever." Jacob's death was not something to be thrown about as a possible option. It was not possible.

"Jack-ass? Jack-ass?" Bjorn's expression under any other normal circumstances might've been laughable and he gaped at her minutely before his mouth pinched shut around another draw off his cigarette. Oh, hell no. Within seconds he was in her face, intense and hard-jawed, taking her arm up in the coil of strong, long fingers firm enough to contain her without hurting her -- nonetheless, he was establishing his dominance subconsciously, as if they were animals in the wild vying for the upper hand. "If I didn't respect you as much as I do, woman, I would have you bent over my knee right now so that I could spank the nonsense right out of you like some of the knights are forced to do with their wives back home. I did not send Ciramina to talk to you, I did not agree with that, and I did not run away! Do you understand me?" Gold eyes flashed terrifyingly bright. "I didn't know you were pregnant and I was having these dreams of someone calling me for help. I had to go, Shannon. If I hadn't, thousands more people might've died. I didn't ask to be the rightful living heir to a kingdom that knows more about long-forgotten magic than what a telephone fucking is, but I had a duty -- and I still do. I can't make my life more important than millions. It's not right, and you should know that. You have one of the most beautiful hearts I've witnessed in my life, and if there was any woman in the world I'd want to bear my son, it would be you. So stop throwing a tantrum. So stop holding it against me. Stop being angry. Calm the fuck down and listen to what I've been saying to you. Cry if you have to, but let me be there for you. Now that I'm finally here, don't try to push me away."

"Yes! JACK ASS." She drew out every syllable of the insult as if he was incapable of understanding English. He grabbed at her arm and she gasped in audible dismay and outrage -- Scarlet O'Hara eat your heart out -- and tugged at her arm in order to free it from his dominant embrace. He was used to being the dominant male, a role she had happily allowed him to maintain during the long history of their relationship, but now she was a raging mother bear and no longer willing to simply roll over and say, 'Yes, dear.' "I told you to stop ca---" Oh, that was it. "Don't you dare. If you dare to spank me I will make sure that Jacob is the only son you will ever be able to father!" Her other hand was still loose and she used it to poke the strong wall of his chest to further emphasize her point. However, the steaming engine that was her anger was not thundering so loudly in her ears that she was unable to hear the very .. rational things that were coming out of his mouth; tiny breadcrumbs that were laid out to lead her back to sanity. However, it was not so immediate as a pin popping a balloon, but more like a subtle unwinding, a car that slowly ran out of gas until it finally came to a sputtering halt. The fact that his choices caused a greater good, saved so many lives was not a fact to be taken lightly. Slumping forward as if that burning rage had been the only thing holding her upright, she buried her face against the cusp of his collar, free hand splaying outwards to curl fingertips into the fabric of his shirt. And she would do something that she would later regret: she cried. It started as a quiet gasp for air, but soon enough he would undoubtedly be able to feel the droplets of emotional raindrops as they left the confines of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks before dripping onto his shirt. "I hate you," muffled mumble that was no more true than any child's taunt after a parent enforces their will. It was a lame taunt that was thrown out as a last ditch effort to salvage some of her pride, given that he had effectively won this round. "I hate that you make me feel like this." So achingly vulnerable and lost. If he allowed her other hand to tug itself free, she would wind it about his neck, allowing her the anchor to curl herself further into the warmth of his own sun-scorched frame.

I don't mind if you don't mind, 'cause I don't shine if you don't shine -- immediately Bjorn Andrews found himself wishing that life had been somehow different; that their once-normal paths hadn't overlapped at such a volatile nexus, that they could've met on the cobblestone-floored caf? patios of Boston at some art show where he could've married her, had a litter of precocious children, and never worried about anything worse than how to meet all the bills between hard work, his art, and the time he spent with his family. Bjorn still remembered a time when that's all he wanted (and that's all he expected to find); he might've still wanted that life, but it wasn't so easy a choice anymore. His cigarette went out on the dresser he'd cornered her with before he swept his arms around her securely, jaw tilted so that he could bury half of his mouth in her soft, fragrant hair. "Shhh, beauty. I know, but it's all going to be okay, I promise you that. I know it's not how either of us expected things to turn out, but life happens the way it does for reason. I believe that, y'know? I'm not trying to come in here and sweep you off your feet after years of absence, but you are the mother of my son, the best friend I've ever had, and I'll never love another woman th'way I love you. What I can promise you is that I'm here to stay this time around, and you'll never have to cry alone if you don't want to -- 'cause we should always be there for each other from now on, right? We're family now."

Their life had all the foundations of a 'normal' love affair that would have ended with a house in the suburbs and the average brood of priviledged children that made up the landscape of the usual American family. But along the way, patchworks of other lives and rules had blended themselves into the tapestry and there could no longer be a 'normal' future in store for them. Later, she would broach the discussion about his smoking habit and how Jacob's esxistence might have to force an eventual removal of that habit. But for now, she relished the way the hand-rolled cigarette coated his skin with the scent of the Orient and all of its exotic temptations. Breathing him in, she allowed herself a few moments to privately grieve for the loss of the white picket fence dreams that had haunted her every day since he had left. Slowly but surely, her tears stopped flowing and she was able to feel the flood of soothing calm as it swept from him into her, drawn into life by the lullaby of comfort he was whispering into the shell of her ear. Beauty was a better nickname than 'woman' and so she did not remind him of her earlier displeasure at being called anything other than her name. Releasing his shirt from her stranglehold, she wiped at her cheeks with a few hasty strokes of her palm and silently prayed that she didn't look blotchy and red. "Are you sure? You have a chance to make a new life now, Bjorn. You could .. go back to Vhamere and find some woman who would fit into your new role as King. Someone ..better than me." And now, she was confessing the true reason behind all of her fears -- not that the potential threats to Jacob weren't enough, but the thought of being replaced was utterly terrifying. "Because if you really want this .. if you really want us to be a family than you have to make me a promise, Bjorn." Drawing back so that she meet his gaze, her fingers would idly comb through his golden strands, brushing them back from his face. "You have to promise that if you have to go back .. if you have to disappear again, that we go too. I'm not going to wait years for you again." Where you go, I go. Don't make me ache again.

"A man of my responsibility, by law, can only marry another of noble blood," he admitted quietly, gently dwarfing her hands with his so that he could lower them. "But I don't plan on fulfilling that role, ever. It's not a requirement as I already have an heir." It, also, didn't mean that he could never experience love or carry on some form of relationship outside the bonds of marriage; it would never be formally recognized, but he cared little about what other people thought. Ciramina had remarked that she'd experienced multiple great loves in her lifetime, and while she'd never been able to officially claim a marriage to any, they'd lived as lovers happily until the mortal's dying breath. Bjorn didn't know what to think, personally. "It's been years since we've been together, and I don't expect to come in here where we left off as if that's possible. I don't want to confuse Jacob, either. What I vow to make sure that you have is first my unfaltering friendship, and I don't think we should rush into anything as quick as we have before. We need to... be around each other, and be around each other with Jacob, so that we can raise our son together, but life is about to get a lot more complicated, Shannon. There's so much heartache in our past that I think we should work on repairing that, and strengthening our friendship, for our son." If they were ever to be together, it would also be necessary -- but he couldn't press that until they both adjusted to their new lives, or roles, and they both knew where the other finally stood.

It would be a lie to say that didn't sting, and she closed her eyes briefly, as if that would block out the pain from realizing that some portion of her dream would never come to pass. When she opened her eyes again, she'd lower them to focus on their clasped hands, studying the differences in size between. It was, of course, not a complete denial of a life together -- but Shannon could not help but feel as if a door had been slammed shut, He was being completely rational and she could find no fault in the logic so she merely nodded before stepping back, releasing his hands in order to rake fingers through her hair once more. To be truthful, she was in complete agreement though it was still a hard pill to swallow -- and perhaps would be for some time to come. Coughing softly, she covered her mouth with the slender line of her wrist before easing around him in order to cross the room in the direction of the bed. "Of course." Finally murmured once the silence between them had stretched too long and a response was unavoidable. It would not be long before she had gathered her coat, bid her goodbyes and left the confines of his rented lodgings.


<center> ----------------------------- </center>

A few hours later, the last hint of the sun had disappeared behind the horizon line and the moon had firmly settled onto its throne as the new lord of the sky. A half empty glass of wine lingered on the coffee table near her loose-limbed perch on the carpet of the living room, lidded gaze watching the flickering motions of the fire burning in the nearby fireplace. Eventually, she turned her gaze away in order to push to her feet, drifting across the room in order to locate her coat on the coat rack, searching the large pockets for a moment. Withdrawing the packet of ribbon-bound letters that she had been too cowardly, or perhaps too selfish, to hand over to their intended recipient that evening -- the haze of aggression and unreciprocated affections had made it impossible for her to hand them over during that fateful meeting -- she ran her fingers over the front of the first one, tracing the postage stamp idly with one fingernail.

Retracing her steps back to her perch near the fire place, she loosened the ribbon's knot, discarding it carelessly before ripping open the first letter. There was a mixture of nostalgia and sadness in the serpentine stretch of her smile as she scanned the letter's contents before moving on to the next one, and the next one after that. When the inspection was finished, ten envelopes lay scattered on the floor about her (each bearing a postage mark from a different country and 'Return to Sender' marked in their respective languages) and countless pages of hand-scrawled sentiments. A random page was selected and crumpled into a ball before being tossed into the belly of the fire, her sea-swept gaze watching it crackle and burn intently before sentencing another to the same fate.

"What are you doin', mommy?" asked Jacob as he glanced up from his game of dinosaurs and cowboys that he was playing on the couch nearby, assorted action figures sprawled out on the cushions in various poses that aided to the story he was telling in his mind.

"Hm? Oh, just stoking the fire, dahlin'." She slanted a glance over the sharp line of one shoulder to focus on him, smiling softly in order to reassure him that all was well.

"Can I do it?" Excited about the prospect of playing assistant, he hopped down from the couch and crawled closer quickly.

"Oh, well I ... " She slanted a wary glance at the fireplace before nodding her assent. "As long as you stay back here by me. Just throw the paper in like this," ordered while she demonstrated with her next victim.

"What is this?" He inspected one of the pieces of stationary with a frown, though he was far from being able to read at his tender age of three. Crumpling the paper up excitedly, he tossed it at the fireplace in an overly-exaggerated motion, golden eyes widening in fascination as he watched it burn.

"Just some junk mail, dahlin'."


(Portions from live play, posted with permission.)

She was far from the catcalling sin machine that walked the streets during the twilight hours and had no desire to be compared to the sloe-eyed madonnas that haunted the doorways of various late-night establishments, their eyes reflecting the artificial glow of the neon lights. Shannon had always been a softly coated creature with her feet firmly glued to the straight-and-narrow and her sea-swept gaze firmly trained on the white picket fence life that lingered up ahead, tempting her to continue onwards in the daily grind of the so-called rat race. The pieces of her life had been put together into a puzzle that made sense, that fit.

But now it was starting to unravel.

(De)evolving, it had begun with a persistent itch along the nape of her neck, a prickling sensation that always tempted her to scrape nails along the soft skin. There were old wives tales for the itch of an ear or nose, but Shannon could not recall any story involving the nape of her neck -- not from her southern-bred history that is. There were other tales, seeped in mysticism and stained with the sharp edges of shame, but she had removed them from her memory banks as easily as the tattoo that had once haunted that stretch of skin had been burned away.

And then a few nights later, a restless edge invaded the hollow lines of her veins, warming her blood and making it impossible for her to stand still. She took to wandering at all hours of the day, expanding her boundaries further and creeping steadily closer towards neighborhoods which she never would have dared visit during her more sheltered years. At the end of the evening, she would always slip back into her role of gracious belle, trading in her wandering shoes for those of the sturdy sneakers of a society soccer mom. She may have been drowning in playdates and macaroni, but she never breathed a word of it. Everyone lived a life of quiet desperation as the saying went, and Shannon had more than one reason to keep her ducks in a row, keep them protected from the hawkish stares of the outside world.

But the true impact of all these strange events did not align into a single message until one winter-frenzied night when the recent blast of weather had finally moved on, leaving the concrete jungle coated with a fresh layer of pristine whiteness -- as it were some angelic haven, and not the primitive jungle of sin that it was. Sweat-soaked and reeling, her sea-blue eyes snapped open to stare at the shadows covering her ceiling while her mouth slid open with the remaining gasp of a scream that died out quickly once enough of the dream-haze had left the realm of her mind. Her breathing took on a ragged tone as she brushed a hand along her brow, removing beads of the cold sweat she had broken out into, head turning to the side in order to try and make out the glowing numbers on the digital clock resting on her night stand. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she was able to make sense of the display after a moment and sighed with disgust for the hour. It was too early to be awake -- and yet her mind was still reeling and there would be no hope of returning to sleep anytime soon.

Rubbing at her brow, she eased out of the bed and padded barefoot across the soft carpet in the direction of her bathroom. Hand fumbling along the wall in search of a light switch, she stubbed her toe on the door frame and bit back a curse (another one of her favorite vices that she had given up in favor of being a responsible parent). Hopping slightly, she settled her hands on the marble counter while waiting for the sharp edge of the initial pain to pass, head bowed and teeth sinking into the plushness of her lower lip. Finally, it passed and she slanted a glance up at her reflection in the mirror, frowning sharply for the hints of lines that were starting to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Stepping back from the counter her eyes lowered -- and stayed. Nestled near her toothbrush and all of her other assorted items, was a simple white lilly. Classic and delicate, the flower matched the color of the counter top perfectly and, once all of the blood had drained from Shannon's face, it matched her too.


It was only then that Alice realized she was tumbling down the rabbit hole.


http://www.andrewsmithgallery.com/im...tz/al_1385.jpg

The cab idled at the curb for an extended period of time, so extensive that the cab driver slanted a glance at the woman in the back seat via the rear view mirror.

"This is it, no?"

"What?" Roused from her thoughts, she removed her thumb from the curve of her mouth (she had recently developed a habit of biting her nails when she was upset) and tilted her head in his direction. Rumpled, in more ways than one, there was a hollow tilt to her sea-spun gaze as she met his own dark one in the mirror. "Oh .. yes, of course. Would you mind waiting? I shouldn't be long."

The man hesitated for a long moment, watching the belle gather her things: a small handbag, an umbrella, and a white lilly. But the meter was running, and a lengthy wait would always ensure that he would receive a higher payment.

"Of course, miss."

Her mouth twitch with the impulse to smile, but it never fully stretched onto the curve of her lips before she angled out of the cab. The house they had parked in front of was a typical suburban dwelling, a cookie cutter match of the other houses on the street, hinting at the eventual death of creative architecture in favor of rampant commercialism and mass production. The rumble of thunder in the distance made her grip on her umbrella tighten and she allowed herself a few quiet grumbling about the relation between the weather and fate.

The twitch of the curtain in the front room had her attention drawing back to the house, the gentle flutter signaling that her arrival would no longer be a surprise (if it ever was). Shannon was hardly a religious creature (her upbringing had educated her on the fact that religious excursions were merely thinly veiled excuses for social gatherings and fashion shows instead of a pursuit of spiritual awakening), but she found herself sending a silent prayer upwards towards the powers that be before making her way to the door.

It opened before she could touch the bronze knocker, an ornate display of a dragon with the slender circle clenched between rows of sharp teeth. The effects of time were beginning to catch up with Shannon, but Serena seemed to have been spared from such cruelties of fate. The dark-haired woman was the picture of health and composure, just as she had been five years earlier.

"Good morning, Shannon. Please, come in," she invited, stepping away from the door. She would close it behind the belle once she slipped inside and after making the expected offer to take her coat, Serena would move to lead the way into the carefully coordinated display of Americana splendor that made up her living room. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Thank you." Shannon murmured, picking her way across the living room in order to sink down onto the sofa. She noted the tea seat that had been laid out already on the coffee table, as if Serena had been expecting company. "Is this a bad time? I could come back later.."

"Oh, don't be silly, Shannon. You know how I like to have tea ready, just in case." Smoothly, Serena settled down into one the arm chairs across from her. "I was wondering when you could come to see me. You've been in town for what -- four months now?" Dark eyes intent, she slanted a glance up towards Shannon's face while pouring the tea with a graceful ease to her movements. "I did not think I would have to resort to such measures to reach someone I count as an old friend, Shannon." A pointed glance was directed towards the lilly, resting innocently on the table.

Shannon swallowed lightly, swiping palms along her thighs while flicking her glance away briefly. "Yes, I've been meaning to come by ... I just got .. you know, busy."

"And how is our dear Jacob?" Perfectly manicured nails pushed one cup and saucer towards Shannon before Serena took up her own seat, stirring the dark liquid idly while she watched the belle's movements.

Shannon started at the use of the possessive term, but she tried to brush it away. "He's doing well. He loves his new preschool."

"And his father? Any word?" It was difficult to tell what Serena knew, but the twitch of her mouth hinted that she knew far more than she had let on.

"Bjorn has returned, yes. He and Jacob are attempting to bond -- they seem to be doing well." Uncomfortable with the current subject matter, Shannon fidgeted with her spoon, looking anywhere but at that too-dark stare.

"And how are you two doing?"

"We're attempting to raise Jacob together and maintain an amicable relationship." Which was harder than it seemed. She took a testing sip of her tea, and was unsurprised to find that Serena had remembered the ratio of sugar to cream that she favored.

"Hm, so not everything is going as you had originally hoped is it?" A sympathetic cluck of her tongue and she tipped her head to a delicate angle while watching the seemingly high-strung belle flit and flutter in her seat.

"I ... No, I suppose nothing has turned out the way I thought it would," she admitted, softly.

"A pity, that," Serena agreed, setting her cup and saucer down on the counter before rising to her feet. She wandered over to the nearby bay window and peeked out onto her perfectly manicured lawn as it absorbed the bands of morning light. "I did warn you, Shannon, that men can never be counted on -- did I not?"

"Yes, you did." Shannon's shoulders curved inwards subtly, as if preparing herself for a potential blow. "But it's not like it's his fault -- Bjorn had his reasons." Even in such times of strife and heartache, she would defend the lion until she died.

"Men always have reasons, darling -- but no matter what the reason is, the fact remains that you were not important enough for him to stay. After everything you sacrificed, he still left without a word." The poison was dripped into her ear with all the tenderness of a mother attempting to comfort a child. "It pains me to have to point it out, Shannon, but I do not want to see you hurt again."

"I .. I know, Serena."

"I hope that you will bring Jacob by soon? I cannot wait to see how he's grown." Smoothly changing the subject, Serena turned away from the window in order to focus on Shannon once more.

"Oh -- I don't know, Serena. Bjorn and his family are keeping a close watch on Jacob at the moment and I know how you adore your privacy.." Vainly searching for an excuse to keep her golden son away from her. When one danced with the devil, it was always a game of delicate balances and half-truths.

"Mm, I see." Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Well it can wait, I suppose. We have another matter to discuss, as you well know." Though she had made no move to cage her, Shannon had the distinct feeling that a trap was slamming shut.

"I don't know what you mean, Serena?"

"Don't play coy with me, Shannon. I'm not some cotton-headed man that you can outwit with a flash of your eyes and that pretty little drawl of yours. We had a deal. You know that as well as I do."

"That debt was paid," firmly, there was an icy tone to her usual warm drawl.

"I don't think so, my dear."

"Good day, Serena."

"It's already begun, Shannon. You know it as well as I do."

Palming the nape of her neck, Shannon made short work of the distance between the sofa and the front door, spilling out into the sunshine with no small amount of haste. Perhaps it was merely due to the fact that a subtle chill still lingered in the air, but Shannon was not able to absorb any heat from the sun as she crossed the short distance to the waiting cab.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ April 17, 2008 10:28 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

<center>Two AM and she calls me because I'm still awake,
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?,
I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season."
Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes,
Like they have any right at all to criticize.
Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason.

Beause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable.
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe.
Oh breathe, just breathe.

http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y19...es/shannon.jpg
</center>

(Lyrics by Anna Nalick.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 17, 2008 10:29 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Shannon had always had a caustic relationship with Time: she was never one to follow the rules set forth by any of the number of clocks that existed in her household, choosing instead to judge the passage of minutes and hours by the movement of the sun, or her own exhaustion levels. She was not one for routines and regulations, having deliberately chosen a profession that applauded such deviations from the status quo, and even encourage their employees to push ever-closer to the edge of pure madness. For years she had existed in this way: eating when she remembered that food was a necessity, sleeping when she could no longer hold her eyes open, and working whenever the mood struck her. There was no eight-to-five daily grind, no difference between day and night, no set days off.

But it had all changed when Jacob appeared. At first, it was merely adjusting her schedule to fulfill his needs: halting her day?s work when he needed to be fed, waiting until he was asleep to catch a few hours of rest herself, etc. But as he grew and required more attention and education, Shannon found herself becoming roped into the carefully monitored confines of a permanent schedule (with only a bit of deviation allowed on the weekends). There were early mornings and breakfast (a meal Shannon had always heard of, but never encountered before now) before shuffling Jacob off to preschool and herself off to the gallery where she?d slave away for a few hours before picking up Jacob and return home for dinner, after which there was playtime and stories of ancient fables before sleep was required. Rinse, repeat ? day in and day out.

However, their routine was becoming so distorted that Shannon could not find traces of it anywhere. There were days when Jacob did not even make it inside the hallowed halls of early childhood education before he was whisked away by his father for a day of manly pursuits (whatever those were), lessons with the ancient Ciramina, and Shannon found herself with far more free time than she had ever encountered in the past three years.

Which would have been delightful, if the well of inspiration that resided in the pit of her stomach hadn?t dried up as easily as a river during a drought. Flashes of inspiration tickled at her mind during her usual rambles about the city, but by the time she had rushed back to her private sanctuary the image vanished from her mind, drifting away as if held together by nothing more than smoke and mirrors. She would find herself pacing a circuit about her easel, fingers shaking like a junkie?s in the height of withdrawal, until she could no longer bear to clutch at a brush and would send it crashing towards an adjacent wall. It did not matter where it landed, all that mattered as that the commotion was loud enough to quiet the terrified screaming in the deep recesses of her mind.

One day, she was driven to counting everything in her small studio, if only to give her mind a simple task to wrap itself around and keep the doubting demons at bay. She had thirty different brushes of various sizes, twelve blank canvases, five pieces that were unfinished (and she would not dare to attempt another brushstroke in her current state), over sixty different colors of oil paints, two easels, three storage racks, seven windows, three hundred and seventy-two paint splatters on the floor, etc.

She never felt more like the ?crazy artist? stereotype than she did in the moment where she caught herself counting the raised dimples on the popcorn-finished ceiling. The ladder of her spine settled against the wall, with her knees drawn upwards towards her chest, she distracted herself before she could go blind by removing the slender vial from her pocket. Twirling it about between slender fingers, she studied the dark liquid as it reflected the light from the afternoon sun as it bled through the nearby window, pooling onto the hardwood floor around her.

?I won?t,? she promised the vial sharply, jaw tightening to an almost painful degree. ?It won?t happen.? Ground out between the rows of clenched teeth.

The vial remained silent, seeing no need for a response.

?God damnit,? snarled violently, she lifted one hand as if to throw the vial across the room, but checked herself at the last possible moment. Burying her face against her knees, her shoulders shook with the weight of her emotions.

Hours later, her assistant could not help but notice that one benefit of insanity was obviously cleanliness; she had never seen the studio look so well-organized and tidy.

I knew she would come. The poor dear, she?s never been very strong. She?ll always seek out a savior. I listen for the sound of the car door slamming, watch her square her shoulders and charge across the lawn towards my door. Her lips are moving, but I cannot tell what she is saying. Perhaps she is speaking to God, ala Saint Joan.

She has always loved playing martyr after all.

I wait for her to pound on the door, let her work herself into a higher state of emotion with every rough rap of knuckles against wood. Yes, that?s it. It hurts, doesn?t it? I?ll fix it, my dear. I?ll always fix it.

Opening the door, I smile at her ? not a grin, just a tiny smile. Forcing my brows to draw together as I take in her bedraggled sight; I?m so worried about the little thing, after all.

?You have to stop it.? How interesting, she doesn?t even wait to say ?hello? first. I turn to watch her charge past me into the house, take my sweet time closing the door behind her. She?s still speaking, but I don?t pay attention until she?s near the end of her little tirade. ??have no right! I will ? I will not allow you to do this!?

What on earth can she be talking about?

?I have no idea what you mean, darling. I think you had better come inside and sit down.. I?ll make some tea,? I offer while stepping forward, making to brush past her and lead the way into my domain. But, all of I sudden, she lunges forward and shoves me back against the wall, her nails digging into my arms. My, my. I do my best to control my temper, to not discipline the little twit for daring to do such a thing. But I don?t ? I wait it out, gritting my teeth against the tension of her grasp. She?s gotten stronger since we?ve last met. I?ll have to remember this.

?You will not hurt them.? I think she has confused me with Jacob, or that tool of a lover, given the way she?s fiercely grinding out the words ? not shouting, the quiet rage that is all the rage in parenting magazines these days. I?m sure it works wonders on a three year old, but I am not impressed.

?I ? I don?t know what you?re talking about, Shannon. This ? you?re hurting me.? I am pleased that my voice wavers at the end and I lightly struggle to free myself, though it is all in vain. I want to see what she will do next, now that she thinks she is in control.

?I know exactly what you are trying to do, Serena! Your business is with me, not him. You have no right ? no right to threaten him. I swear to God, Serena, I will kill you myself ?? Christ, now she?s on the verge of tears. I?ve seen that look a thousand times. But this is interesting. Someone has been sending out threats, hm? I wonder who is closing in on my territory. I need to know more.

?Why ? why would I have any desire to hurt him, darling?? I sound shocked. How delightful.

?You ? you?re not involved?? Now she?s uncertain. Her little fit of rage is crumbling away; I expect apologies any second.

She releases me and I straighten my spine, smooth hands along my designer suit to make it clear my indignation at her taking such liberties with my person. Ah, here we are ? the apologies start flowing. I let them continue for a few seconds before cutting her off with a wave of my hand.

?No, no my darling, there?s no need to apologize. You?re under a great deal of strain aren?t you?? I pet her lightly, wrinkling my nose slightly in distaste for her new perfume. I hate jasmine. Goodness, she must have it bad. ?This is what happens when you don?t listen to what I tell you, Shannon. Have the other symptoms started??

?I ? yes.? She looks like a lost child now, concerned that she may have caused all of it. That?s it, dear. Do what Mother Serena wants you to do. ?My hand. It?s never hurt this much,? she mumbles while flexing her right hand. The magic is working far better than I anticipated. ?I haven?t been able to sleep.?

?I warned you that denying ? the most important part of yourself would cause you to feel side effects. We age much quicker when we deny our true selves, Shannon.? I curl an arm about her shoulders, attempting to be sincere.

?But before ? you said I had to stop.? She stares at me in confusion and I do my best not to let her see the triumph I?m feeling. I?ve got her now.

?Yes, because we must sacrifice some measure of our lifespan to allow new life to grow, dearest. It does not simply appear out of thin air, you know.? I think of how my plans had almost been ruined, how the seed growing inside of her could?ve been the end of this. But thankfully, she trusted me too much to ever seek out a real doctor. It had to have been my help that brought this miracle upon her. ?But I saw how much you suffered that year, not being able to give life to that part of yourself and do not want you to feel that anymore.?

I?m guiding her towards my study; make a show of searching through my collection for the infusion that is required for such a task. ?So ? you don?t want me to stop painting??

?No, my darling. I want the exact opposite.? I cannot help but grin when I find it. It had taken me weeks to gather all of the ingredients, pieces from her life and mine. But now it?s ready ? she?s ready. ?I want you to paint in a way that you have never painted before.?

?What?s this?? She asks while she studies the strange liquid in the tiny vial.

?Inspiration.? Her eyes light up.

I have her now.

Unlike her last tumble down the rabbit hole due to the push of artificial stimulants, there were no scenes of dizzying landscapes and melting faces to frighten her until her throat grew too hoarse to handle anything more than soft whimpers and carefully chosen words. No, Serena was far more skilled at her craft than any back-alley junkie who blended the powder with supplies strung together from visits to the local drugstore and a little bit of blind luck.

Shannon's willpower was little more than a hastily constructed mess of intention and disproportionate desires and was no match for the allure of the tiny vial burning a hole in her purse as she wound her way through the maze of traffic in the direction of the gallery. At every red light she would stretch a hand across the slender console and shift through the contents of her purse until she had found the glass container, reassuring herself that it existed -- that it was real. She had never felt so empty as she did during that drive across town, aware that all of her hopes now rested with the ingredients that Serena had mixed together for her (a mixture of herbs and dark mana -- not available in stores).

The other vial that was entrusted in her care, clinked against the new addition during her latest search and she felt a pang somewhere deep inside. She should be worrying about the dark clouds gathering around them, should be heading for the safety of her new home with extended family members.... and yet, she was parking in front of that quaint townhouse. Hastily silencing the engine, she gathered her belongings and fairly ran up the steps, jamming her key into the lock before disappearing inside.

Out of habit, she pressed button on her answering machine while dropping her bag and keys onto the kitchen counter. The first one was a wrong number, the next from Lola, and the last was a politely concerned message from her agent inquiring as to whether she had any idea when she intended to end her little "vacation."

"Today, Mr. Adams," she replied as his nasally voice continued to drone on, so intent on being ever-so-polite and delicate about the matter (for artists were a prickly bunch and one must tread carefully) that he ended up repeating himself about a half a dozen times. "I'm starting right now." It was almost purred as she inspected the vial in the glow of the afternoon light, removing the stopper with trembling fingers. Calling on skills from her wilder days, it only took two long swallows to devour the liquid, and a hand raised to swipe at her mouth as it burned a path down her throat. It did not contain the heat of an alcoholic burn; it was like tiny shards of ice slicing their way through her insides until they reached the pit of her stomach.

Coughing harshly, she settled the vial on the counter, fingers grasping onto the lip of the marble finish to help anchor her while the rich after taste took her breath away. It was like the low rumble of an impending stampede, the tiny tremors that began to trickle through her body. And then there was an all-out rush. She was unable to stop from slamming to the floor, from succumbing to the darkness.

Hours later, consciousness returned little by little. She was able to hear the gentle chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking away until it reached twelfth stroke. She could feel the cool linoleum pressed up against her cheek, the ache that was throbbing in the joints that had been injured during her fall. But somewhere deep inside, was a new sensation -- an awareness that was tingling at her senses, heightening them. Humming a low sound, she cracked open her eyes enough to peer through the cracks in dark lashes, watched the shadows of the dark kitchen swim in front of her eyes as they tried to come into focus. But they were slightly hazy, blotchy -- as if prepared by the hasty brushstrokes of Monet. Sitting up, she rubbed at her brow while staring about the kitchen, attempting to brush the cobwebs away.

But it still remained.

Pushing to her feet, she staggered over to the wall in search of a light switch. The brightness dazzled her, the glow from the light bulbs swam before her eyes like living prisms of light and the marble glazing on the countertop flowed with the constant movement of high tide. Lines distorted themselves, shapes blurred subtly. It was like walking through the boundaries of a Van Gogh, or Matisse; it was wild.

She stared down at her hands, watching the color of her own flesh distort into the multi-faceted hues of one of her portraits. Unbidden, a low laugh built up in the back of her throat, and once it spilled out of her mouth she could not stop the sound from continuing to flow. Fumbling for her keys, she escaped the solitude of her empty home, taking to the streets in order to explore this wonderland with new eyes.

She was alive again.

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The brush the lawman's beast had infused the darkness within with a sense of purpose, a desire for violence that simmered between the surface, like a vampire's primal urge for bloodshed. Inspiration welled in the back of her mind, tugging at her until she was unable to avoid its call and blindly trailed through the maze of alleys until she reached the door to her studio.

Unaware of the passage of time, she feasted on the spoils in the studio. Splashing paint on the canvas with a reckless glee, the flick of her wrists following the beating of her heart, an echo of the drums of war. By the time she was finished, she was drenched in paint, as if it were the spoils of war. Primitive trophies of the devastation she had caused the poor canvas to endure.

The end result was far more De Kooning than Renoir, the distorted figures bathed in the abstract horror that coated every inch of Picasso's Geurnica. The sight had shocked the belle when she had awoken from her slumber on the floor next to it, fingers tense and cracking from the paint that dried on her skin. Intensely fascinated, she had wasted no time dragging Mr. Adams over to see.

Walter Adams had seen many things over the course of the years, tracked the rise and fall of countless careers. Shannon Maguire, while one of his favorite clients due to her gentle nature and southern charm, had never been the sort of talent that he thought could challenge the memory of the great masters that had come before her. And yet, he could not shake the grim fascination that filled him as he studied the lines of this new work.

"And what, uh, brought about the change in -- ahem -- style?" His grey brows drew together subtly while he flicked a glance towards Shannon, taking in the sharpness of her grin with a hint of surprise.

"Inspiration," she replied, simply.

He quit the gallery a few short minutes later, rubbing at his brow to try and ride himself of the pounding headache that had appeared quite suddenly. He must not have gotten enough sleep last night. That could be the only reason to explain the tension that caused his spine to remain ram-rod straight -- and for why he felt the need to slam his weathered fist into another man's jaw when the man dared to try and steal his cab.

Yes, he must be tired. Just tired.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 30, 2008 10:25 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Jacob asked about his father today -- he wanted a story. A real story, he said. I found myself at a loss for words. But it brought up so many memories:

We met in the way most do in this volatile world of travelers and would-be phoenixes, desperately seeking a way to carve a niche in the world, unable to see our true selves aside from brief glimpses in the mirror hanging behind the bar, in the puddles after a recent rainstorm. He was full of laughter then; the corners of his mouth always curled upwards subtly around one of those hand-rolled cigarettes he favors, hinted at an unspoken desire for mischief. A love of life that was bone-deep, absorbed into his soul the way the body soaked in the sun. I loved him instantly.

It would be years before we ever admitted it, however. I linked my name to various paramours in half-hearted attempts at settling down -- I even made it to the alter once, and Bjorn was there to witness it. Likewise, he found himself involved in various romantic entanglements over the years. I thought he was lost to me, in that way, forever. But he was my confidant, my soul mate. I cannot think of any moment in our life during those days that did not involve him and I would have been content with merely counting him as my friend if fate had never brought him any further into my life.

Our first kiss reminded me of the first embrace between Rhett and Scarlet: her reeling from the loss of her second husband, and him being so steadfast, so determined that this was right; that this was it. I doubt Bjorn would appreciate me calling that; he always would attempt to find some reason to leave the house whenever I wanted to watch that film. He was never one to sit still and I would always find him working on various projects at all hours of the night, and he was just as likely to find me knee-deep in paint at three in the morning as he was to find me curled up in our bed at two in the afternoon. It was unexpected, and entirely unlike any relationship I had ever had; but it was ours and it worked.

If we were still in school, and needed to justify our relationship by having a song, it would most certainly have to be "Stand by Me." Whenever we were reeling from the after shocks of an argument all he would have to do is turn on the Temptations and draw me into a dance (he was always such a lovely dancer, though I doubt he'll ever admit it) to allow us to forget all of the anger and start again. He was romantic when I least expected it, and distant when I craved his touch far more than I ever should have. He was like the sunrise: leaking gold through the corners of his stare, shining far more than any man should, and left everyone unable to turn their faces away from his brilliance. I never was more envied then the days when our names were linked together on the society columns in the local papers.

I can recall the exact dimensions of the spare room we had decided to turn into a nursery when the time came to dream of starting a family together. And I know exactly how many boxes it took to pack all of the items I had purchased to decorate the room in order to move them into my new home when things fell apart between us. Jacob was merely a whisper in the back of my mind in those days, merely a collection of cells that would one day turn into a living, breathing testament of our love.

He was the only man to truly break my heart, everyone else merely offered passing blows, and he was also the only man to put it back together again. He was as lion-hearted as any would-be knight in shining armor, and would often try to save me from my troubles. Old-fashioned in the best ways, he was the type to always remember to open the door for you; let his hand linger on the small of your back to guide you, even if you already knew the way. There were times when I would imagine it was still there while walking down a busy sidewalk; insistent and knowing.

The sound of his name will always bring up memories of quiet moments in Spring, a good whiskey ---


The rustle of movement brought her attention upwards in time to catch the arrival of a nurse and she shut the journal, setting it aside in order to push to her feet. She moved closer to the window, in order to provide enough room for the woman to go about her business without infringing on either of their personal bubbles. Her gaze trailed over the line of parked cars before settling on hers -- and lingering.

"--should be all set."

Abruptly, she realized that the woman had started speaking to her, and with a quirk of a brow turned her head. "Beg your pardon?"

"He should be able to go home today."

"Oh -- that's great. I -- have to do ... something. Will you tell him I'll be back in an hour to take him home if he wakes up while I'm gone?"

Without waiting for the woman to answer, she rushed out of the room, leaving the journal behind. Due to the fact that she avoided the long wait for the elevator by taking the stairs, she was able to make it to the parking lot in no time at all. Her steps slowed as soon as her feet met the pavement, and she carefully picked her way towards her Jeep, and the man sitting there.

African-American, he was lounging on the hood like an idle king in need of a good war or seduction to bring some flavor to his daily grind. Coated in black from head to toe, he sucked air between his teeth with an idle sneer while slicing at an apple with his pocket watch.

"Hospitals are funny, yah? Always keepin' the balance."

"--Excuse me?" She faltered slightly, staring at him in confusion. Did she know him from somewhere?

"Y'can check out through two doors. Most folks only get one."

Glancing up, she noticed that his stare was so dark, it was hard to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. "Can I help you, sir?"

He flashed teeth in a jagged grin, moving to jump down from his throne. "But others -- well, they know that dere be rabbit holes elsewhere." He waved his knife at her with a lazy gesture before snapping it closed and tucking it away in his pocket.

"I don't know what you mean." But she did -- it showed in the flare of her nostrils, the wideness of her sea swept stare.

He laughed softly, drawing in close, too close. Letting his face glide along the space inches away from her cheek, as if he were drinking in her scent the way animals do in the wild.

"It's time for you to paint us another pretty picture, artist," he breathed against the shell of her ear before disappearing into the sea of parked cars. Staring straight ahead, she was unable to move for quite a few minutes, her gaze locked on the lilly tucked under one of her wiper blades.

Rain lashed at the panes of the glass that surrounded the corner phone booth located in a part of town where the residents were more likely to know the going rates for heroin and crack than they were likely to know the Dow rates for the day. They were brokers of bullet wounds and hollow-point love affairs; Shannon had no business being in this neighborhood. The restlessness that heralded the skeletons that lurked in the roots of her family tree had mixed with the ever-growing sense of paranoia that had seeped into her skin like a lover's knowing touch. Insistent, lingering, and unable to keep from triggering goose bumps to coat her sunscorched flesh.

The weather was to be expected on a night in the middle of April and Shannon had no desire to sing away the pouring showers. Soaked to the bone, even her sea swept stare was leaking rainy grey, and she couldn't help but notice the way her cheekbones had hollowed out over the past few weeks, reflected back to her in sharp relief by the pane in front of her. The electric sign posted in front of a local bank across the street forced her to realize that the time was creeping steadily closer to midnight and she had to get this show on the road.

Fumbling through pockets, her mind tripped through what little knowledge she had about the time differences between this town and those of her world, adding in the time differences found in different regions there as well -- inevitably, she gave up and merely prayed that he wouldn't kill her for calling this late (early). Dropping the few silver coins she had been able to find in the depths of her pockets, she tried to ignore the tremor in her fingers as they tripped along the stainless steel buttons, receiver held close to her ear. She counted the rings while watching the movement of the shadows; any number of them held a dangerous Hansel or Gretel who had followed her trail of breadcrumbs to her location.

"..hng, hello?"

The sleepy mumble caught her just as she was about to hang up and seek shelter elsewhere. Quickly returning the receiver to her ear, a grin flashed briefly at the familiar tone.

"Paulo?" Urgency was hot and heavy in her drawl, to the point where his name was a slippery slur that made her own voice impossible to recognize in his tired state.

"i--yeah? Who is this?" Somewhere in the crowded streets of Rome, a man fumbled around the contents of his nightstand in search of his lamp switch, checking the numbers on his alarm clock. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" He fairly growled, swiping a broad palm along the hollow near his left eye.

"I'm sorry -- I'm so sorry," she whispered, sinking down along the glass while teeth dug into her lower lip, moisture coating her rain-soaked stare. "I just --" Am in over my head and I'm so scared. I just needed someone to talk to. "I made a mistake. I should have stayed for breakfast." She settled for in the end, head turning to catch sight of a shadow that appeared to be on the move.

"---Shannon?" Surprised, to say the least, he sat up and stared at the wall opposite his bed. "Shannon, where are you?"

But she was already gone, the receiver left to dangle violently on its cord.

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<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ May 19, 2008 08:26 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Every city had a special season, a moment where all of the natural landscaping blended in seamlessly with the concrete monstrosities of modern life to create a picturesque scene to fascinate the parade of tourists and briefly distract the natives from the trivial concerns of their daily grind. For Paris it was spring: flowers blooming, lovers strolling by the Seine with their hands entwined and secret longings spilling from the corners of their mouths. The echoes of history lining every cobblestone in old London, mixed with the pristine whiteness of a fresh snow made it the perfect location for a wintry getaway, and nothing held a candle to the bayou splendor of a New Orleans' summer. But there could only be one city once autumn caused all of summer's heat to fade away, sentencing the leaves to turn a brittle shade of brown before tumbling for the earth: Rome.

A modern day blend of Scarlet O'Hara's charm and Persephone's restless nature, Shannon made no attempt to avoid the flow of seasons and followed them in her normal trek around the cities of America and Europe. While it was no journey around the world in eighty days, it was a whirlwind affair that left her constantly spellbound by the beauties of the natural world. Jacob soon picked up words from languages dotted all over the northern hemisphere, peppering his speech with a seemingly sophisticated fare and amused the southern belle to no end. But in Rome, he was always Caesar, and she was the Cleopatra of the art world: regal and always somewhat withdrawn, cautious.

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Sunlight splintered through the fabric of linen curtains, painting the bed in a prison cell pattern of perfectly organized rows of light. Winter was fast approaching, the falling temperatures caused a chill to prickle at the skin left uncovered by the tangled mass of sheets that clung to her form. Even in the clutches of the sandman, the sensation of cold air gliding along her body caused her nose to crinkle with dismay and she rolled over, instinctively seeking out a warmer section of the mattress. The texture of the sheets, mixed with the unfamiliar scent of a different fabric softener crept through the layers of her consciousness until lashes finally lifted, her piercing stare narrowing as they tried to focus on her surroundings. As soon as she realized that she would never be the type to own navy sheets (the color was far too drab), she heard the sound of a throat clearing from the doorway.

"Coffee?" Paulo inquired, lifting up one of the mugs in his hand in a friendly invitation. His dark hair was ruffled from sleep and his grey sweat pants hung comfortably about his hips; sharp as a battle ax.

Sitting up, she delicately held the sheet up to preserve some sense of modesty, drowning in an anxious free-fall of jumbled memories and a blinding headache. "I --" Abruptly, she noticed the lack of a shirt and peeked down discretely at herself, mouth pinching in a tight line when she found that her under garments still coated her frame. "-- where is my dress?"

Chuckling, Paulo ticked his head pointedly towards a nearby arm chair while drifting forward to settle the two mugs on the nearby nightstand. "You were concerned about it getting wrinkled," he informed her, somewhat successful in keeping any hint of amusement from entering his voice.

"I -- did we..." She gestured lamely at the bed with one hand while the other continued to hold the sheet against her chest tightly. Attempting to judge the distance between the bed and the chair, she was caught by another stab of pain along her temples. "How much did I have to drink?"

"No," he answered quickly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "I slept on the couch." He wisely turned his head and busied himself with looking for his watch in one of the nightstand drawers while Shannon slipped from the bed and padded over to the chair. "You had a few drinks, bella. But you deserved to; the show was quite a success. No one even noticed my work." A rueful quirk to the stretch of his mouth.

"You're just trying to make me feel better." She neatly avoided all of the compliments hidden in his words as easily as if negotiating a minefield with nothing more than instinct to guide her. Drawing the dress over her head, she smoothed hands over the fabric briefly before snaking hands back to begin working at the zipper. "I -- I have to go. I'm sorry that I ... that you... I have to go." Sighing, she awkwardly settled into an arched posture in a desperate attempt to drag the zipper upwards for those final few inches.

"Hush," he murmured gently while carving a path around the bed to settle in behind her, carefully pushing the mass of dark curls aside to tumble down one shoulder before he nudged her hand away from the zipper. "You don't have to rush off. You could stay.." Easing the zipper upwards easily, the pads of his fingertips brushed against the nape of her neck before withdrawing. "Have breakfast with me." It was not merely a request.

"I .." A tiny hint of heat lingered once the contact had stopped and Shannon palmed the nape of her neck instinctively while teeth scraped along the plush line of her bottom lip. She had weathered her fair share of workplace flirtations, it was to expected in a profession where bedroom antics were just as well-known as painting techniques, but this was different. It had never come from such a gentleman. Never come from such a dangerous source. "I can't. I just .. can't. I'm sorry -- I have to go."

Turning, she avoided any further contact by carefully circling around him and heading for the door.

"Shannon -- stop, you don't have to rush off. You should stay. I want you to stay." He caught her at the door, catching it with one hand while the other reached out to grab her arm before she disappeared down the hallway.

"Goodbye, Paulo." Shaking off his arm, she hurried off with a swish of silken fabrics.

The next day, they left Rome.

The steady flow of tourists into the city was another sign that summer was fast approaching; nothing brought more people into the air-conditioned halls of the gallery faster than the threat of a heat index and a mid-afternoon swelter. If Shannon had ever been concerned by such things as attendance records or financial gains, she might have been pleased by this development, but for her it merely meant that there were more exchanges of polite small talk penciled into her daily schedule and that she would have to carve a more circuitous route from her office to the door of her studio.

There were those who obviously had no clue about art, much less how to properly inspect a piece, others who studied a painting in terms of its potential relationship with the sofa in their living room or the stain on their wood furniture in the guest bedroom. It was all a game of cultural ladder-climbing and facades, and the strains of conversation that could be overheard from the safety of her office caused her mouth to subtly curl upwards into an amused smile.

In the midst of arranging some of her travel plans for New York, and researching a certain dance production that she might be interesting in seeing, her attention had wandered (as it so often does when one was allowed to toy around on the great Internet). First, she checked her email and the day's headlines, before she found herself drifting towards gossip sites and finally Google. Glancing down at the slender business card that she had discarded onto her desk beside her computer (close to her phone, just in case she felt the urge to take the initiative and call), she hummed softly while typing in a few letters into the search bar: chr--

"Oh, lord. This is ridiculous," she chided herself with a hint of a chuckle, closing out of the window.

"What's ridiculous?" The question came from the doorway as her assistant, Samantha, neared the threshold. A creature bred on the exotic streets of Soho, her style was a wild assortment of wild colors and differing trends that did not always mix well together.

"Nothing." Shannon waved the question away with a hint of a smile, drumming fingertips along the front of her desk before she pushed her chair back and made to rise. "Did you need something?"

"Sanders called to ask when they would be seeing prints of the new collection for the show next month..." Samantha glanced down to consult the page on the tiny notepad she held in her hand, and did not notice the wince that crossed Shannon's face. The mental picture of a half dozen blank canvases waiting for her in the nearby studio did little to help the restlessness that was crawling down the ladder of her spine and her body was already in motion, heading for the small rack where her purse was hung up, before her mind caught up with it. "...And Ms. Maroon asked me to remind you that you have an appointment for lunch and a visit to Dolce's this afternoon."

"--Yes, I haven't forgotten. I think I'll leave now for that -- it's a nice day for a walk, you know?" Babbling, and sadly unaware of that fact, Shannon settled the strap of the bag onto the jut of her shoulder. Surely a long lunch with her closest friend and some retail therapy would shake the restlessness from her veins; she had a grey dress to look for, if nothing else. "I have my cell should you need anything," she called over a shoulder before slipping out of the side door and out onto the sidewalk.

The flow of pedestrians drifting in every direction among the urban sprawl of concrete sidewalks and glittering skyscrapers made it easy for her to become distracted from the plan of carving a direct path in the direction of Lola's offices, whether it was due to the flashy coloring of someone's clothing, or the snippets of conversation she overheard. It may have accounted for why the itching feeling that began to creep along the skin between her shoulders went unnoticed for as long as it did, but once the chilling sensation of a pair of eyes watching you finally seeped through the layers of her conscious mind, she knocked a curious glance over her shoulder. The flash of a feather protruding from a brim of a trilby had her biting down on her bottom lip and she changed course abruptly, ducking between a couple in order to head down the stairs and towards the subway station.

The feeling intensified as she trickled down the last flight of stairs and fished her pass out of her purse, but she did not dare glance back again. Feeding the card through the slot, she shoved her way through the turnstile and carved a path through the milling crowd to wait near the lip of the platform for the next train, humming a soft sound of impatience as the seconds ticked away. Once the train arrived, she bolted onto it and found an empty place to lean near the door on the opposite end of the car, curling an arm about the steel post for support. It wouldn't be until the doors closed that she chanced a glance upwards towards the window in front of her.

When her eyes met those of the pitch-black raven, she could nothing but simply stare. As the train drew away from the platform, she hissed a sharp sound through clenched teeth while she watched him lift a hand to his mouth; a mockery of a farewell gesture between loved ones or friends.

That moment alone gave her plenty to think about during the rest of the train ride, so much so that she missed her stop.


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Two Days Prior.


Humming a low tune under her breath, she carefully navigated the maze of streets that led from the Jing Wei estate on the outskirts of the town to her delicately fashionable townhouse. She could have chosen to segregate her private life from her public one by planting roots in some far-flung plantation like so many of her other friends, but she had never been able to remove the grit of the city from her soul. It had infected her veins like a virus, and now she could not live without the pulse of the city echoing in her ear, just as a diabetes patient could not skip a dose of insulin in their fight against the erratic nature of their blood.

Glancing upwards, a hint of a smile tugged at her mouth for the sight of Jacob, slumbering contentedly in his booster seat. Everyone said that children resembled angels while sleeping, but Shannon was sure that no one looked more beautiful than her little prince. Carefully worming into a spot at the curb in front of the tavern, she parked the Jeep before turning off the engine and switching off the headlights. Reaching across the console, she snagged her purse and caught sight of a dark smear on the cloth of the seat. A grim reminder of the morning's events, she made a mental promise to call the hospital and check on Aden's condition.

From here it was a game of finesse and skill. The first round involved the careful extrication of Jacob from the car seat so as to not wake him and the journey up the front steps of the townhouse, the second involved the juggling act of keeping the slumbering child securely against her while she attempted to search through her purse for her keys. There was a minor hitch when she tried to find the correct key in the dim lighting, but otherwise she was successful in her mission.

After tucking Jacob into his bed and making sure that he would remain asleep, for at least a few hours, she drifted from his room to her own. She left the silver dangling earrings on her dresser, kicked off the stilettos near the foot of her bed, before drifting into her closet to remove the silver cocktail in favor of more comfortable clothing. A few calls were made before she finally crawled into her own bed and settled in for a good night's rest.

<center>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>

Shadows. Crawling, grasping, choking. The threat of pursuit was whispering at the nape of her neck, teasing like a lover - but with a far graver purpose. A sharp, sickening crunch came from somewhere in the darkn--

Lurching upwards, she raised a hand to the brittle line of her clavicle, skin sticky with sweat, and listened to the sharp pounding of her heart while her gaze stared at the opposite wall; unfocused. Slowly, her racing pulse settled and details crept into her conscious mind. The blackness of the sheets -- hadn't she always used white? Raising a hand, she was struck by how pale her skin appeared in the dim lighting and hummed a surprised sound when anxious fingers encountered a feather in her hair.

"What the hell?" She murmured before slipping out of the bed and picking her way across the dark expanse in the direction of the door leading to her bathroom. Or well, what would have been the bathroom in her house. "Ah--huh." A confused hum of sound against the tight press of her lips when she found herself in an unfamiliar closet. Back-tracking, she found the bathroom and flicked on the light while slipping inside. It only took one glance at the face in the mirror for her to start screaming -- before her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the tile floor.

Swish. Swish. Swish. The delicate flare of her wrist sent the small stack of tarot cards shuffling into her waiting hand, beautifully crafted miniature paintings flashing briefly in the bright light of her studio before the process was repeated all over again. Major and minor, figural and literal blending together in a seamless motion. She could have been a dealer at a high stakes table in the gutterborn wonderland of Las Vegas given how well she handled the cards, instead of an artist taking a mere interest in something far beyond her world of brushes and paints. Aden could not have guessed how well his gift would be received when he selected it; he could not have chosen better.

Unbidden, thoughts of the Master and his caustic Ten drifted through her mind. If she could have chosen a card for him it would be the Magician. Focused on the divine, he was the eternal guide with various tricks up his sleeve. And, according to the beginner's guide she had picked up at a local bookstore, it symbolized a journey out of darkness and into light. Mercurial, she was never sure what to make of his shifting gaze and crooked smiles. And yet, and yet, there were moments, as fleeting as a shooting star and just as rare, when she had caught glimpses of a true gentleman and not the sight of a broken down scarecrow with lead in his pockets and predators nipping at his heels.

From Aden her thoughts spilled over to Persephone and her gaze lifted from the circle of cards she had created on her workbench to focus on the glass vase filled with a wilting collection of hand picked pansies. A few even had roots dangling from their stems which only made them appear more quaint, childish. Adorable, and sometimes utterly perplexing, she was grateful to have the little maid's presence in her life.

Their paths were not linked, he said. And yet -- it made her wonder.

She was most certainly linked to the fate of Lola, Ghost's cruel trick aside. Even now, encased once more in the shell of her sweetly golden skin, she could not shake the sour sensation that had filled the pit of her stomach during her odd transformation; block out the fear of creatures hidden in shadows. Side effects from being caught in the trap of a nightmare not meant for her fragile soul to witness. She loved the avian as deeply as if they had been born of the same blood, forged in the same fire. They were two sides of a single coin; her other half, her better half. She wished Christian would understand.

Christian. Had he not explained to her just the other night how Alessandro was his other half? Of all people, she would have expected him to understand why Lola was so important to her, and why the bird was so protective. But .. he didn't and she was at a loss as to what she could do to rectify the situation. Grade school rules lingered in the back of her mind, but perhaps the golden rule would simply not be enough in this case.

On the tail end of a sigh, she gathered the cards together once more and tucked them away into their elegant burgundy case before pushing to her feet. She had work to do -- an attempt had to be made before another distraction caught her attention.

The scent of jasmine hung in the air like an incomplete love song, lingering and bittersweet, and the soft sound of the breeze rustling at the paper mobile Jacob had made for Mother's Day served as background noise as the artist dipped her toe into the world of mysticism and shadowed secrets once more. It was a journey she didn't have a map for, aside from a few picture books that Persephone had loaned her at Aden's request, but she felt no reason to be concerned. Her fingers drank in the stiff texture of the new cards as she shuffled them idly, letting her eyes drift shut as the brush in her mind began to work, coating her inner canvas with the image of the cross formation, before she moved to replicate the pattern with her own cards. Humming the refrain of a song she couldn't quite remember, she carefully organized the cards before leaning back in order to inspect her work.

"Something's not right." A soft sound of disappointment escaped while she set the remaining cards aside, head tilting ever so slightly.

"I'll say," cut in Raven from the studio door, his dark frame blocking out the light that had been filtering in from the hallway. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows in response to the heat and when he crossed them in front of the sharp lines of his lean torso, her eyes were immediately drawn to the strange runes tattooed into his skin. She didn't recognize any of the markings, but they made her wary nonetheless.

"What are you doing here?" Years of lessons in poise aided her in maintaining a calm exterior as she pushed up from her sprawl on the studio floor, tucking fidgeting fingers away into the back pockets of her paint-smeared jeans.

"I came for da paintin'," he answered simply, his eyes locked on her from underneath the brim of his trilby. His dark stare was as deep as Alice's rabbit hole and brutally unreadable; she did not like Raven. Shifting away from the door frame, he passed scan the studio intently, once, twice, and then a third time before asking. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Shannon turned about while trying to unlock the mystery behind his question. "What painting? You didn't order --"

"The painting she saw. Don't be playin' no games with me, girl. It's supposed to be right dere," he told her while jabbing a thick finger towards the middle of the floor, where a few splashes of black and grey paint lingered on the concrete floor. "The shadows -- dey called to her, girl."

"I .." Following the accusatory line of his hand, she felt her stomach escape through a hatch in the bottom of her body once her gaze landed on the empty space. 'I .. I just painted that. No one saw it. How?"

"Ya don't know, do ya?" For a brief moment the dark man appeared to be ... surprised? Perplexed? Though it vanished a moment later, she could see the tension in his jaw, could almost feel the way he ground teeth together in her bones. "It don't matter none. She saw it an' she wants it -- and you owe. You owe," he reminded her, pacing further into the studio. "Where is it?"

Instinctively, she retreated for every step forward that he took. "I .. I .. I sold it," she confessed, attempting to ignore the strangled feeling that curled about her slender throat.

"Ya did what?" He shouted, dark eyes widening. "Where -- to whom?"

"I don't know," she lied, hoping the weak sound of her voice would be attributed to fear.

Pacing away from her with a furious sound, he palmed the nape of his neck while surveying the ceiling, lips moving at lightning speed, though no sound escaped. When he finally turned to face her once more, his expression was far more frightening than the snarling display she had just witnessed. He was grinning. "Ya have work ta do den, girl. I'll find ya when da time comes."

Heading for the door, he paused in the doorway to offer a tap of fingers to the brim of his trilby, making a mockery of a gentleman's farewell, before vanishing from sight.

<center>She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes.
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies.
And she only reveals what she wants you to see;
She hides like a child, but she's always a woman to me.

She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you.
She can ask for the truth, but she'll never believe.
And she'll take what you give her as long it's free.
Yeah, She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

And she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden,
Then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding.
But she?ll bring out the best and the worst you can be;
Blame it all on yourself 'cause she's always a woman to me.


She's frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel.
She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool.
And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree,
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me.

http://absolutelyfabulo.us/wp-conten...chico_bialas_1 </center>


(lyrics are billy joel.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 04, 2008 06:18 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Night came fast tonight, Shannon mused while watching the shadowed blur of darkened buildings and lonely sidewalks flash by her. Like a nickelodeon, the images grew hazy around the edges and the silent conversations she glimpsed through the window of the luxury car left her feeling uneasy; she was lost in translation. The subtle smell of a new car wafted by her nose, mixed with the spicy taint of Raven's hand-rolled cigarette, and the soft leather of the seat felt rough against her skin.

Turning her head, she eyed her fellow passenger and captor, observing the deliberately negligent way he handled the cigarette, letting it dangle loosely from two fingers while shards of ash tumbled towards the expensive leather. Though his trilby hid his eyes, she knew that they were pitch-black and soul-shattering; a rabbit hole that only a foolish Alice would jump into.

"What?" he asked quietly without turning his head in her direction, as if he sensed the moment her attention left the window.

"Cigarettes kill, you know," she remarked, as close to a viper's remark as her softly-lined tongue could manage.

He laughed and she felt the sound roll over her with a prickling sensation lingering along the nape of her neck. "Dey won't be what gets me, girl. Don't ya worry 'bout dat."

Her nose wrinkled with a delicate scoff. "I'm certainly not worried about you," she said, almost sullen.

With another low chuckle, he raised the cigarette for another drag before waving it towards her with a lazy gesture. On the verge of saying something, he was distracted by the car coming to a halt. Shannon turned her head to glance out the window once more, searching for any sign of life or a recognizable landmark to orient herself around.

"We're here," he informed her while leaning forward to snag a crumpled pile of clothes from the front seat and toss it at her. "You'll need to change."

"What?" She caught the bundle, hands flying up instinctively, before turning it over to inspect the contents. It was a blue cover-all, like the uniform that professional painters or window washers wore while focusing on their daily grind. "I am not changing in here," she said, flicking anxious glances between him and the driver (whom she did not recognize and did not like on principle). With a nod slanted towards the rearview mirror, Raven signaled for the driver to exit the vehicle and it wasn't until the door was closed that he turned back to her.

"Ya don't want to get your pretty tings all messy, girl, do ya?" His smile was sly, like a dealer's when he knows the deck is stacked in his favor. "Now, I'll be waitin' right outside -- unless you need some help, ya?"

His grin was subtly mocking as he left the knuckles of the hand still clinging to the cigarette brush along the bare skin of her upper arm. Chills crawled up her skin and she leaned away as soon as she felt the brush of ash against her skin, free hand lifting instinctively to slap him as only a lady could. Whip-like, his hand shot out to catch her wrist in a flash and his low laugh filled the interior of the vehicle once more.

"I don't tink so, girl." Laughing still, he released her arm in order to angle out of the car. A low huff escaped her for the indignity of it all and she turned another frantic glance towards the window to search for anyone who might help, but this was not the kind of neighborhood where people went for leisurely strolls. Gang insignias lingered on vandalized signs and brick walls, trash littering the sidewalk and carelessly shoved aside by the homeless and hopelessly addicted as they searched for a new corner to claim for the evening.

There would be no hope of escape tonight.

Her fingers were shaking as she went about changing clothes, and coupled with the cramped quarters of the back seat, it caused the procedure to last far longer than it should have. Finally, she angled out of the car to see that the Raven was waiting near the mouth of a nearby alley, mouth curling into a sardonic line around the glow of that hand-rolled cigarette.

"What are we doing here?" Self conscious, she smoothed a hand over the front of the musty cover-all while creeping closer to the mouth of the alley, teeth scraping along the plush line of her lower lip.

"Ya sold our pretty paintin', girl. But she's not mad -- it gave her a better idea. We want somethin' a little bit larger," he informed her while watching her drift closer, a spider inviting a fly for a harmless tea party.

"L--larger? What do you mean?" She glanced about the alley for a moment before she noticed a collection of spray paint cans littering the ground near the wall and a slightly rusted metal ladder.

"Ya see dis wall, girl?" He waited for her to nod before continuing, "Ya need to cover it with dese." A wave of the cigarette in the direction of the hastily assembled supplies.

"Wha-- I don't use spray paint. I'm an artist. Find some kid to do that for you."

"Nah, girl. Ya know to use dem. Or ya will." His tone caused her attention to skip back towards him and every muscle in her body (including her poor broken-down heart) went still for a moment when she saw the vial in his hand. The dark liquid inside the glass reflected the delicate glow of his cigarette as it wobbled about in between his lips, and her fingers burned with the impulse to grasp it.

"No," she choked out, swallowing harshly. "I won't."

"Now, now. Ya know ya want it." He coaxed with a low tone, subtly seductive, as he edged closer.

Her nostrils flared with alarm and she rocked back a step, preparing to run. "No!"

In a flash, she found herself slammed back against the wall, one strong hand curled about the slender column of her throat to keep her in place and the other holding the vial in front of her frightened gaze.

"No no no no no no," she repeated in a pleading mantra with fingers clawed at the hand holding her throat -- but it only left her more vulnerable when he moved to force the harsh liquid down her throat.


<center> --------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


Hours later, she emerged from the alley with the harsh scent of aerosol paints clinging to her hair like a heavy dose of cheap perfume and her hair was a medusa mane of colorful streaks and wild curls. Her eyes glowed like molten silver in the pale moonlight when she spotted Raven, lounging against the side of the car like a chauffeur with nothing to do while waiting for his client's return.

"It's done," she purred, raw-voiced and sleek.

He nodded before easing away from the car in order to inspect her work, the sound of his rich laughter echoing off the old brick before he returned once more to the sidewalk. "Ya did good, girl," he murmured against the shell of her ear while guiding her towards the waiting car with the urgent pressure of hips against her back, snaking an arm around her waist while the other moved to open the door. "Real good," he murmured again, breathing in the scent of her madness before brushing a harsh kiss to the crux where her neck met her shoulder and pushing her into the waiting vehicle.

"Now it's time to find an audience," he informed her with a trickster's grin before slamming the door shut. He was gone before the car even left the safety of the curb.


<center> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


Beep. Beep.

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking news bulletin. A riot has broken out in the southern part of the city around Nebraska avenue. Local businesses near that area have already begun to be vandalized and we are receiving reports from eye witnesses of violent activity continuing in that area. Police are on their way to the scene -- and wish to advise everyone to avoid this area if you can."

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 06, 2008 06:53 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Riot on Nebraska Avenue

RHY'DIN -- June 6th


A mostly intoxicated mob of at least 1,500 18-to-25-year-olds caused extensive damage on Nebraska Avenue in the early morning hours.

Rioters knocked down street lights, started fires in the street, smashed windows in three local businesses and destroyed car windshields. Twenty people were arrested when police dispersed the crowd at about 4:15 a.m., but not before rioters caused minor injuries and upwards of $150,000 in damage, the City Police Department said.

"It is still unclear what caused the violence to start," said a policeman on the scene.

Based on eye witness accounts, the riot began outside of an old warehouse that was to be remodeled into an outreach center as part of the Mayor's recent "City Rehabilitation Plan."

The building was recently vandalized with disturbing images.

"It was horrible," one eye witness said. "I've never seen anything like it."

At the time of publication the Mayor's office could not be reached for comment.


http://atlasshrugs2000.typepad.com/a...iots_day_9.jpg

<center>http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y19...es/aden2-2.jpg</center>

<font face="Freestyle Script"><font size="5">Persephone,
Thank you for the lovely note. I'm so glad that you like the peacock and that your Master enjoyed the muffins. The brooch was made for you, sweetling. And you were correct, he neglected to mention that when I saw him last.

Will you be coming to play soon? Perhaps I will see if Lola can come and join us.

I've included the sketch of your Master I finished recently. He mentioned that you would want to have it. I would love for you to visit my studio and let me sketch you. Perhaps you would like to see the paintings I am sending to New York? They might appeal to you more than the painting your Master chose.

The books you selected for me to read were wonderful and I certainly appreciate your help. I will stop by soon to return them.

Let me know if you need anything, dear. I am always here to help.

Shannon </font>
</font>

<font face="Freestyle Script"><font size="6">

I forgot I had this thing. I thought I threw it away a long time ago, after everything ended. For the second -- or maybe it was the third time? I'm not sure. I am learning to be better -- to play it safe. There won't be any need for destruction this time around.

I found a record by a band called the Spill Canvas the other day in a music store downtown. I bought it for their band name alone. The lyrics are rather haunting and I mind myself humming a few melodies while I'm working. It makes me think of my life, and reminds me of how selfish we humans are, even we try so hard not to be. But it's all merely a game of projection.

And if I am just projecting... well, <u>I don't care.</u>

Last night I dreamed of a hurricane.</font> </font>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 10, 2008 04:15 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

<center> http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y19...laetitia-1.jpg



Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?
I walk as far as i need to recover
For how long?

I want to carry a piece of who I was before,
So when I hit the wall, I really hit the wall.
I want to tear away the death again;
A whiter shade of fucking meth again.
I want to stick to clues; I want to come unglued.
I want to shape the world to fit the way you move-
Oh, should I listen for a dress size?

I owned up. I've grown up, do you remember me?
I showed up and so what if I'm the used to be.
I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry I was sorry,
But I'm happy that you're happy.
This is no longer about me.

Pull my hair back, look me in the eye.
There's a self-destructive meaning in the bleeding of a guy.
It's the guilt of what reality has given me,
Making sense of all mistakes and my stupidity.
And when you're sick you seem to think
You've failed eternally.

And that the people you let in are only crumbling-
When you're sick of thinking life is just recovery.
When my decision paved the road
That lies in front of me.

So to my friends that even call but I don't call back:
I want you deep inside my heart upon a hill.
It seems to hide sometimes and run away and wonder;
I'm really sick of saying sorry but I will.

I want to learn to walk with others as an equal.
I want to treat the ones who love me with respect.
I want to tell the world I'll give them all a piggyback,
And try to take away my negative effect.
I want to kiss the boy; I know I'll never lie again.
I want to call my dad and tell him that I care.
I want to let my brother know,
He saved my life a thousand times.
Throughout the years he's been my friend
Who's always there.

Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?

</center>

(lyrics are blue october.)

In the few days since she had stumbled like a tumble-down Alice to the Mad Hatter's door and let him blow her house down two things had occurred to Shannon: Fate was a fickle bitch and she hated trilbys. Her eyes no longer glowed like molten silver, painting the world with the hazy brushstrokes of a Van Gogh nightmare, but when she dared to rest she dreamed of the cruel winds of a tornado. The gusting winds left no corner of her mind uncovered and made it clear that it would send her to a place very different from Dorothy's Emerald City if allowed to take control of the citadel in her skull. When the winds died down she spiraled into a world of shadows, guided by the residues of the Tengu and the case of the bodysnatcher.

When she was awake she passed floral stands on every corner, having seemingly appeared overnight (and likewise disappearing faster than a chop shop) and making it impossible for her to avoid them during her daily rambles through the city. White lilies waved at her as she passed, blossoming before her very eyes until she was unable to avoid thinking that the Heavens must be allied against her. Trilbys had become the newest trend, appearing on the heads of various men from all walks of life and her lip curled in a subtle show of distaste every time she spotted one, but the image never failed to make her pulse leap into her throat like a frightened rabbit in the presence of a sly fox.

After a week of this torture she had no choice but to seek the solace of a dive that Dillon had introduced her to a while ago (it seemed a lifetime ago now). It was a seedy place with crumbling walls and glasses that appeared to be fighting a losing battle with the dishwasher, but even cheap tequila held onto its kick when it was subtly watered down. The bathrooms were coated in personal ads and subtle warnings about the health of the regular crowd and Shannon did her best to avoid them whenever possible. It was easy to do when the bartender had control of her credit card and a strict order to keep the drinks coming.

It wasn't until the second drink that she started to feel the burn of cheap tequila burning at the sensitive lining of her stomach and the apprehensive edge that had been licking along her spine throughout the day was forced to fade into the background of her mind. Returning the glass to the counter with a subtle thud, she ignored the sheen of film that coated the glass' interior while glancing towards the bartender with a faint smile. Idly, she considered the possible consequences of asking about the meaning behind the odd tattoos that coated his arm while she watched him go through the motions of making her next round, and was therefore caught by surprise when a hand settled on the small of her back.

Stiffening instinctively, she caught the scent of spiced tobacco and tried to ignore the prickling sensation when Raven's breath tickled the sensitive slope of her ear.

"Now what do ya tink you're doin' in dese parts, girl?"

She carefully leaned away from him, turning her head to watch him settle down onto the stool beside her. He took in the sight of her (clothes drenched in smears of white paint with a few dried bits in her hair and the bruise-blue shadows that lingered underneath her eyes), with a curious tilt of his head.

"None of your business," she said, heated and obviously feeling the need to play defense, though they had not even passed the coin toss.

He glanced aside to take in the sight of her drink, turning to rumble an order to the bartender before glancing back to her with a narrowed gaze. "What did ya do?"

"Nothing." She shot back immediately, before raising her glass for a healthy swallow of liquid courage. "It's done -- there's nothing you can do about it."

He paused to pay for his drink before turning on her once more, pointing that hand-rolled cigarette in her direction. "Y'be playin' wit' fire, girl. Be careful or you'll get burned."

"I'm sick of your huffing and puffing." It was possible she was already tipsy.

"Ya have no idea what I can do, girl." He ground out, dark eyes flashing from beneath the brim of his black trilby.

"You're nothing more than a lap dog -- and I hate your hat." A point of her drink towards the brim before she finished it off with one long pull. Slamming it onto the counter, she moved to grab her handbag with trembling fingers and pushed to her feet.

"An' where do you tink you're goin'?" He watched her movements, taking note of all the cracks in her brave facade with a darkening expression.

"Away. I'm out. Stay the he--- ow!" In a flash his hand had snapped out to catch her wrist in a vise-like grip and he was on his feet in an instant, towing her towards the bathroom. She cast a glance about for help in vain; the patrons of this bar were used to couples needing to use the restroom to take care of unfinished business. No one even glanced up as she continued to shout and struggle against his hold.

Slamming open the door the brute force of one shoulder, her shoved her back against the steel frame of the closest stall. Sucking air between her teeth in a sharp gasp, she could do nothing but stare up at him in horror. Caging her in with the breadth of his body, he settled one hand on either side of her shoulders and leaned in to growl menacingly in front of her face. His black gaze was boiling over with dangerous emotions. "I am no one's lap dog, ya hear me? If you want to stay alive then ya need to start playin' dis game a little smarter, girl."

Teeth scraped along her bottom lip and she tried to break the eye contact before she was permanently burned by his bristling stare. "Why are you doing her dirty work, then? What does she have on you?"

He growled and shoved her back against the steel wall once more, mouth tightening in response to the pained gasp that escaped her lips. "That is none of your business! Dis is a dangerous game you're playin' girl -- are ya tryin' ta die? Or maybe ya want that little boy --"

"Do not threaten my son! He is not involved in this."

And then, quite suddenly, he laughed. "Ya foolish girl. He has everything to do with this."

She stilled in the face of his sudden amusement. "What do you mean?"

"Ya don't know?" Incredulous, he took in her expression before leaning in to whisper fiercely against the shell of her ear before releasing her in an abrupt motion.

The last thing she heard while sinking downwards to a crumpled mass of limbs on the ground was the sound of his cruel laughter.

What will you do when I've horribly disappointed you?

Underneath the glow of strobe lights and lost in the tangle of writhing bodies moving in time with the music blaring from expensive speakers, the stars aligned before her eyes and a constellation formed to point in the direction of a drunken nirvana. Beneath the undeniable force of a pulsating bass line, another rhythm was echoing in her mind with unyielding precision, a lilting phrase that could not be denied:

Murderer.

It was her own personal mantra, born from the taunts of a petty harlot's viperous tongue and the firelicked memories of her sins hung like an albatross around her neck, leaving her with no choice but to melt into a tequila-coated haze and melt away from the ties that bind. Lola excused herself to seek out the restroom while Shannon came belly-up to bar, unconcerned about anything aside from the neatly sliced pieces of lime and row of shot glasses being displayed before her like an offering to a (blood)thirsty animal.

The first thing she noticed about the man who settled into a parking spot next to her after the third shot glass had been slammed onto the counter, as sharply as a judge slamming the gavel to decide a person's fate, was that he was blonde. While licking the leftover lime juices from her fingertips, she realized the breadth of his shoulders and unkempt style of his hair was faintly familiar. He'll do.


Hours later, while attempting to crawl into the waiting cab alongside Lola, fingers already flexing to delete the number that had been clumsily programmed into her phone by Rex, a single thought broke through the haze of drunken abandon.

It's time.

<center>http://www.timboucher.com/journal/wp...tarot-card.jpg </center>


I should have known.

<center>I would dial the numbers
Just to listen to your breath.
I would stand inside my hell,
And hold the hand of Death.
You don't know how far I'd go,
To ease this precious ache.
You don't know how much I'd give --
Or how much I can take. </center>

Flipping through this thing, I've noticed that all my entries are organized around the men in my life. It's funny, I never really looked at it that way. But isn't it the duty of a lady to be so connected? Even the sun is chained to the orbit of the planets. The house is quiet now, Jacob is off fishing and doing other manly activities with Cooper at a nearby watering hole. I'm so relieved that they are getting along. The burden that Cooper has been forced to carry eats at me even now, it reminds me of my own struggles with conception all those many years ago, and it's cause. I know he doesn't mean to, but over dinner I was once again reminded of why I instinctively avoid spending time with him alone. It's not because of the unspoken emotions that I can sense in the way he touches me, the mumbled reminders of a childhood crush that I never noticed at the time. It's the fact that he always has to remind me of <u>him</u>. That he has to try and clear his conscious by reminding me that he was always in the wings, desperately trying to protect me from the monster that I happily invited into my life. It burned inside of me, the desire to show him how awfully he failed at that mission. How no one was able to stop him, to remind him of Jeremiah's status as the beloved son of small town royalty. He was my perfect match, in that life -- I deserved exactly what he did to me. For Jeremiah never would have done any of it if I had been perfect. Thinner like my mother always wanted, more docile as my father often demanded. <u>Better</u>.

Though I will never verbally acknowledge the taunts that woman launched at me from seemingly out of nowhere -- to be honest, I cannot remember the last time we even spoke, aside from the ridiculous shot she took a few months ago. But I need to acknowledge them here, to you, my dear diary. To myself. As I sat there, waiting in the coffee shop for Mesteno to arrive (my sweet, wonderful, practical confidant) this morning, I found myself trying to recall dates and memories from years ago, recall information that I had locked away once the pain became too great. I don't remember when I ever met the wildcat, I know that we were decently acquainted during the second round of my relationship with Bjorn, but we merely discussed my engagement and her marriage in the casual, guarded tones of two people who were merely occupying the same space and seeing no harm in indulging in a little small talk. I never would have considered us friends; we're far too different. Once this past year, we likewise discussed our children, promising to arrange a play date that we both knew would never actually happen. And yet, I knew that she was dangerous, knew that she was prone to fits of jealousy, but I had no idea that she would need to lash out that intensely to mark her territory. That she had any territory that needed to be claimed aside from her husband.

Aden. I can smell the cinnamon flavor of the muffins I'm making as it wafts through the house, but I find no comfort in the scent. It was all I could do to keep his secrets when Mesteno pressed for information, to easily avoid any of his hints about how connected he thought we were. But I have always been excellent at denial.

As Mesteno so gamely mentioned, the only person that ever really drew Sutton's attention away from me was himself, but that was well after I had made the fatal mistake of letting him walk out on me. Let him give the escape he thought I wanted. And I did, though hindsight makes me wish that he had never given me the option. Years of counseling have allowed me to see that it wasn't me that caused Sutton to choose that path -- he had always had suicidal thoughts. And as Mesteno pointed out, the only thing Sutton ever really cared about, aside from wearing his body to the ground, was me and the need to have a child. It ruined us, the way he refused to believe me when I said I was too damaged to conceive. The way he wanted to use a band-aid to fix a gaping wound.

I didn't realize it until that moment in our coffee shop (as I have come to think of it) that rather cruelly, I've linked myself to not one, but two men who were desperate to get me pregnant. It was all Sutton wanted, and the only thing Bjorn could think of to mention while wooing me away from my lover at the time. Even when he was with Adam, Bjorn made sure to gain my promise that I would bear a child for them one day. And, just like Sutton, he never really believed that I was damaged.


And so, the wildcat's words stung me to the core, though she surely has no idea how deeply that knife went, how perfectly she had chosen her weapon of choice. For while I do not believe they were ever unfaithful, the very <u>thought</u> was enough to make me see red for a moment. To wound me. For -- if he had been, if Bjorn <u>had</u> ever looked her way (though he would never, she's not his type), then everything I went through for Jacob, for the little dream in my head would have been for nothing. That I am indebted to a witch and her violent raven for no reason at all.

I would hate to think that I am killing myself in vain.


(lyrics are melissa etheridge).

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 15, 2008 05:09 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

http://www.laetitiacasta.com/albums/...na_Buchman.jpg


Shannon Maguire has always been a well kept secret in the art world, a regular diamond in the rough, but her latest collection entitled Dreams and Provocations has the potential to change all of that. Set to debut next week at the Cast Iron gallery (159 Mercer St.) in New York City, this show is marked as Maguire's return from a lengthy absence from the American art scene and I sat down with her to discuss the themes and her plans for the future:

Thank you again for speaking with us. Are you excited about the show?

Of course! I'm always excited about the opportunity to share my work.

This is your first show in America since your Intimate Conversations series in 2005. Why the long break?

I became a mother and wanted to fully relish in the new experience. It was a chance for me to recharge my batteries, so to speak, as well.

Speaking of your son, your recent style has changed dramatically from your former work. Do you think your new status could be the reason behind it?

Every painter changes their style from time to time. It's part of the growth process. I don't know of any painter who would want to paint the same thing over and over again -- or any audience that would want to look at a whole series of the same image.

You have focused solely on portraiture in the past but there isn't a single portrait in this collection. Any particular reason?

Not really, no. I'm still incredibly fascinated by people -- the human condition, you know? But I found that I was more inspired by the inner workings of a person. Their dreams and secret obsessions.

Some of the pieces are quite exquisite. I especially like the one called Torn Tarot. What was the inspiration behind it?

I'm quite fond of that piece as well. For me, it represents the way we are fascinated by the future. We as humans have always been trying to figure out what's coming. Trying to learn what path we are meant to follow.

Do you believe in fate, then?

I do, but I also believe that we have the ability to change our destinies.

Do you have a favorite piece?

I am fond of all of them.. I suppose I would say I am in love with Peacock in Repose.

That one is about vanity, I'm assuming?

They are horribly vain creatures.. But no, that painting means something to me. To me, it represents the one main obsession in every person's life -- to become connected to someone who adores you. To become bound to them and serve them in any way possible. That painting is about love.

And hopefully everyone will fall in love with it as well.

I hope so, yes!


<center> http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y19...persephone.jpg

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>

"I sound like an idiot," Shannon complained while tossing the magazine down onto the small desk that was situated just inside the main doors of the gallery.

"What?" From behind to ornate wood paneling, Samantha turned about in her comfortable office chair in order to stare at Shannon from underneath the brim of her crimson beret. She thought it made her look like one of the characters from Sex and the City; Shannon could only think of tomatoes.

"I sounded like an idiot," Shannon repeated with a sigh, pushing the magazine closer to Samantha's side of the desk before she pushed back a few steps.

"No, you didn't," she soothed with a flutter of a smile. Samantha was used to Shannon's swiftly changing moods and weathered it all with her usual grace, the same way a breeze lazily slices through the humid air of a summer swelter.

"Oh well. Better luck next time right?" A wry tilt to her mouth and she shifted her wrist to glance down at her watch and its unmoving hands. When the time comes, you'll know. The voice of the raven drifted through her mind and she moved to retreat to her sanctuary.

With the ease of someone who was familiar with a task, she settled on the floor and reached for the stack of tarot cards, shuffling them languidly before dealing them into the usual cross pattern. One glance down at the collection of her cards had her cursing softly and moving to gather them up in order to repeat the process all over again.

It didn't change anything -- everything was still in reverse.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 17, 2008 11:12 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

<center>It started out as a feeling,
Which then grew into hope.
Which then turned into a quiet thought,
Which then turned into a quiet word,
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry.
I'll come back when you call me,
No need to say goodbye.

Just because everything's changing,
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before.
All you can do is try to know who your friends are.
As you head off to war,
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light.
You'll come back when it's over,
No need to say goodbye.
You'll come back when it's over,
No need to say goodbye.

Now we're back to the beginning:
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet.
But just because they can't feel it too,
Doesn't means that you have to forget.
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger,
Till they're before your eyes.
You'll come back when they call you,
No need to say goodbye.
You'll come back when they call you,
No need to say goodbye.
</center>


(lyrics are regina spektor.)

Perhaps it was the frighteningly dull combination white and steel without any hint of vibrant color that caused Shannon to dislike hospitals so intently, or perhaps it was the distinct sensation of death that haunted the faces of the employees as thoroughly as acne haunted the skin of the average teenager. As jittery as the junkies who were being forced to cleanse their bodies of their current dose of toxins on a floor above her, she slipped out of the exam room with quiet footsteps. Having excused herself in order to get the car ready and see about the necessary paperwork that needed to be completed before the left, she found herself quite unsure of where to go once she had escaped that tiny room with the doctors, the machines that beeped so loudly it sounded like sirens were blaring in her ears.

Once she had escaped the sight of her lover with his broken heart.

"Mrs. Cole?" A pause. "Excuse me, Mrs. Cole?" The voice tried again.

It dawned on Shannon that she was the only person in the hallway -- and that Cole was her last name now. A weight had suddenly settled on her left hand and she glanced down, taking in the sight of that glittering diamond, and the simple golden band that was wound about her ring finger.

"Mrs. Cole," the doctor said once he was sure that he had her attention, his wrinkled face peering at her from over the rim of dark spectacles with the air of professional concern that was a graduation requirement, given how it hovered on the faces of any number of the doctors they had spoken to over the past few months. "I was wondering if I could ask you a question about your husband?"

She allowed him to steer her further down the hallway with a light touch to her hand, though she craned her head in order to glance back towards the door that led to Sutton's room. "Yes, of course."

"Mrs. Cole, I'm afraid the medication we prescribed doesn't seem to be working as well as it should be," the doctor told her, pausing briefly to gauge her reaction before continuing. "I have to ask, given your husband's history.. Is he using drugs again by chance, Mrs. Cole?"

Shannon could not help the images that washed through her mind like the montage during the climax of a silent film: Sutton's fingers twitching faintly as he reached for his silverware, the distant glaze that coated his dark stare when he came home sometimes, the anxious tapping of his toe, the determined set of his shoulders when he had left to handle some important business a few weeks prior. Doubt sliced through the tender underbelly of her stomach, mixing cruelly with a few other emotions she dared not give a name.

"N--no, doctor. I -- He promised that he would stop before we got married," she finished, almost lamely.

The doctor eyed her for a moment, mouth pursing with a faint frown. "Well, I hope you're right. Narcotic use has already caused his condition to deteriorate and they do not mix well with the medications I am going to start him on," he warned, gently.

Condition. Deteriorate. Deteriorate. Deteriorate. The doctor's expectant expression caused her to snap out of her momentary daze and she offered a faint smile that was in no way reassuring. "Of course, doctor. And thank you -- for everything. Sutton and I, we -- thank you."

"Of course," he murmured, offering her arm a comforting touch. "You're husband is free to go. I'll leave his medications with the nurse at the desk -- and be sure to remind him to get plenty of sleep, hm?" His mouth hinted at a private joke, surely a veiled reference to their status as newlyweds.

Shannon could only summon a faint smile in response before stepping away in order to return to Sutton's room. Settled on the bed in the plain gown that seemed to make everyone seem far more fragile than they really are, his skin had taken on a sallow cast and his shaggy hair was clinging to his forehead subtly. But his eyes were the most terrifying sight of all; they glowed intensely from the force of his relief and adoration at the sight of her.

Though there was a flair of something in the pit of her stomach, she pushed forward in order to brush a kiss to his cheek before nudging the neck of his gown lower so that she could brush her mouth over her name, tattooed in permanent ink on the skin covering his heart. The rest of his skin was coated with the names of his past paramours, but hers was the largest and held a place of honor.

"Let's get you home, baby. This place is making me twitchy," she murmured while stealing another kiss before drifting away to find his things and help him get dressed.


<center> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


A half-full bottle of whiskey was settled on the floor next to her folded position on the sparkling linoleum of the kitchen floor. Leaning her head back against the wooden face of a cabinet, she turned the Colt about in her hands with a peculiar expression, studying the way the metal flashed in the dim light. Reckless in her drunken state, she lifted it to peer at the barrel, memories dancing in her mind.

Her kitchen was replaced with one in a building much further downtown, the pristine white linoleum was exchanged for yellow tile, smears of blood and other substances staining the surface. Her own bare feet were exchanged for a pair of white sneakers with faint scuff marks on the toe, laces untied and dragging on the ground. Off to the left, where her stove was nestled now, her mind's eye saw an empty archway and a Australian Shepherd mix of speckled grey and white lying on the floor with his chin resting lightly on his paws. His mismatched eyes of blue and brown were watching the slumped form of his master intently, whining softly when he didn't move, tail wagging lightly in an anxious motion.

"Loki," she crooned to the dog, softly. "It's okay, Loki -- he's okay now. He's at peace now. He--" She paused, pressing lips together while peering down at the gun in her/Sutton's hand. "He's probably with you right now, huh? Playing ball like you loved to do. Tell him -- tell him I'm sorry, hm? I tried to be perfect. Tried to save him. I really did try."

Closing her eyes, she forced the memories of her old house (it was never really a home) to recede from her conscious mind, return to their cubicle in the office that housed her long term memory. Setting the gun aside, she raised the bottle towards her lips before recoiling as her memories of Sutton were replaced by another set: a chalk circle, blood smears, growing tree, the scent of ammonia. She'd had enough for tonight, she decided abruptly, returning the bottle to the floor.

"I won't fail again," she promised the silent kitchen. "No matter what it takes."

"You aren't drinking your tea."

"Hm?"

"Is there something wrong, dear?" Serena inspected her curiously while lowering her delicately painted tea cup to rest on its matching saucer. She reminded Shannon vaguely of her mother; elegant in ways that could not be taught. "You seem .. distracted." Stretching forward, she returned the saucer to the freshly polished wood of the coffee table, mouth twitching ever so subtly at the corner. In a secret corner of her mind, amusement was warring with impatience; this game has gone on long enough.

In the midst of a breakdown behind the scenes, Shannon was the spitting image of someone who was trying too hard. The neckline of her sweater was perfectly conservative and her hair had been severely drawn back from her face, coiled neatly at the base of her neck. She wanted to rip out all the pins. Chewing on the tip of a nail, she glanced away from the window to take in Serena's seeming concern, cheeks flooding with color as shame raked through her.

"I'm just -- It's nothing to w--" Sluggish tongue made it impossible to tell the lies that were usually so easy to say. You lie until you can't see the truth anymore. That's the key to a healthy relationship, her mother would say from time to time. "He's going to leave me," she confessed with a weak furrow of her brow.

Serena drew very still. Carefully, my love. We must tread carefully. "Oh? Why do you say that?"

Her shoulders rolled in a helpless shrug. "I can tell. I've seen that look-- I know him well enough to know. I think he's starting to believe." Her lips pressed together to ward off any other emotional time bombs to drip from her tongue.

"Believe?"

"That I really am b-b-bar--" She winced sharply, glancing down towards the arm of the sofa. "Barren."

"Oh, my dear," she murmured, the very image of sympathy.

"He doesn't come into the nursery anymore. I've painted it three different colors and he hasn't said anything. I'm sleeping all the time. We talk but I can see it -- he's beginning to doubt everything." She stared at nothing for a time before glancing up towards Serena. "We -- we were together the other night. Maybe .. Maybe you could check?"

Her expression was so beautifully hopeful; Serena wanted to vomit. Clearing her throat, she took a moment to compose herself before nodding. "Of course, my dear."

Shannon pushed to her feet, breezing around the coffee table in a graceful stride of a natural dancer. A fluid motion that was even more pronounced now that it was fueled by desperation. Serena shook out her hand lightly before moving to place it the artist's stomach, eyes falling shut.

And it was there. A subtle spark of life -- the very worst thing there could be. Impossible! Her mind screamed in outrage. But as quick to change direction as a sidewinder, she formed a plan.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I don't feel anything," she murmured, withdrawing her hand in order to drift away from the chair. She gave the artist a moment to digest that information, to crumple, before continuing. "There might be something we can try -- No, it's much too dangerous." Shaking her head, she seemed to change her mind abruptly, and yet that subtle twitch remained.

Swiping at eyes that had suddenly grown moist, Shannon's head snapped up quickly. "What? What is it?"

"It's .. Well, I wouldn't want to get your hopes up, dear, but there is something else we could try. It .. would require a great deal of sacrifice on your part, however."

"Sacrifice?"

"Oh yes," Serena whispered, triumph drifting through her stomach like the sinuous glide of the serpent. "Life is a very, very precious gift, Shannon. You have to be sure that you would be willing to give up everything to have it. Be willing to do anything to keep it safe."

"I -- Oh, I would do anything, Serena. Anything!"

"Very well." Turning towards the tiny cabinet at the north end of the room, she removed a decanter with a thick, dark liquid sloshing against the glass. Nothing more sinister than a foreign liqueur, it nonetheless looked strange and exotic. "You will have to give something up for the length of the pregnancy -- and the first year afterwards, to prove that you are worthy of this gift," she explained while pouring the thick liquid into a glass. It was a pity it wasn't raining outside, she did love the drama of a good thunderstorm. "Your art, I think. Yes ... that would be sufficient."

"My painting?" She wavered briefly, but the sight of that glass and the promise it contained was enough to wash away all of her fears. "Yes, I'll do it."

"That's not all, my dear. There will come a time when you will have to complete a task for me. To maintain the balance, you see."

"Yes, yes. Of course, Serena." Her hand extended as if she might rip it away from the woman's grasp.

"Very well." Serena offered it over, unable to keep from smiling subtly when the power of persuasion made the liquor difficult for Shannon to choke down.


<center>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>

"He's early -- He's too early!" She gasped in between sharp cries of pain. Sweat stained the slope of her brow and she eyed the anxious faces of the doctor and nurses intently. "Don't you se---" And from there it was nothing more than screaming and the movements of her body as it tried to push the tiny being out.

<center> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


"Is he -- is he okay?" She gasped in between cracked lips, voice raw from screaming. She was only able to watch the nurse bustling around the room from out of the corner of her eye; she was too tired to even try moving her head.

"Hm? Oh sure, honey. He's just fine!" The nurse assured her, her wide face glowing with natural warmth and amusement at the fears that were echoed by every new mother that crossed her path.

"Really?" Relief washed over her. "But -- but he was so early. He -- He's really okay?" She tried to sit up but found she did not even have the energy to move her hands.

"What? Early? I don't think so, honey. He's just the right size and everything..." The nurse eyed her curiously before shaking the odd feeling away with a laugh. "We'll bring him in to see you soon. You try to rest now, you here?"

She watched the nurse bustle out of the room. "It's a miracle," she murmured, subtly awed.


<center>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</center>


Pressed against the steel wall of the bathroom, she no longer needed the Raven's hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. The poison he was dripping into her ears recalled a string of memories, now turned about from the source of his revelation.

"You lie," she whispered fiercely when he drew back to seek out her eyes once more.

"Do I?" He asked with a pointed arch of a brow before releasing her in order to quit the bathroom, adjusting the fit of his trilby while he walked.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 18, 2008 10:55 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Coventry Hills was a quaint neighborhood of middle class morality and urban addictions. The tiny townhouses were crowded in together with nothing but the delicate fabric of curtains and wooden fences circling the small backyards to define personal boundaries. Good fences make good neighbors. Families of all shapes and sizes were concerned with nothing more than how to pay the bills and how to keep the neighbors from noticing their lives of quiet desperation. It was with some surprise that a few recognized the all-too familiar form of the lead singer of Traffic (made even more familiar by the racy column in the Post) settled on the doorstep of the genteel -- and positively eccentric -- artist that lived in number 408. They watched the careful treaty negotiations with low murmurs, eyeing the way neither woman seemed particularly pleased to be in each other's company. Noticed the way Shannon avoided any hint of contact, as if she were afraid that the singer's scandalous nature was an infectious disease; they always liked the sweet-faced artist, even if she did entertain an odd assortment of friends at her residence.

But even as remarkable as that encounter seemed to be (and they had watched it all; the slumped form of the artist as she dragged herself into her house as if in pain, while the proud singer sauntered back to the safety of her Aston Martin), what was even more remarkable was the sound that echoed off the quiet buildings in the early morning hours and split the street in two, like the early rumblings of a earthquake.

The residents of Coventry Hills had never heard an actual gunshot before.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 19, 2008 11:08 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

I feel like the fucking alien from "Little Shop of Horrors." Though my glasses (a gift from Dillon, much like the red tie that's wrapped around my throat) are much better looking than Rick Moranis' -- and the beast is inside of me, not some plant for me to tend to. I can't stop shaking. My spine is coated in sweat and my eyes are so dark that I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I'm so close. So close to giving in. I don't think I'm strong enough. Inspiration, she promised. You'll never be sad again, she said. God, I'm such an idiot.

I shot a man last night. I don't remember why.

I remember screaming so loudly I thought the sound would break the walls of my house, tear my throat until there was nothing left but a ragged collection of vocal chords and muscle. The sound of shattered glass. The relief that I was inside when it all went black -- not outside with her. I'm glad she's so self-absorbed. I don't like being weak.

Then I was in my room and he was standing at the front of my bed --

So I lied I do remember. I remember all of it.

I'm a fucking murderer.

He lunged and I fired. I don't think either of us thought I had it in me. All I could see was that vial in his hand, hear the rush of hunger that crawled through my veins in anticipation.

Have I really come to this? In the beginning it was so innocent. It was like I was in that Japanese animated film I saw once in college, where the man placed himself in the village paintings by Van Gogh. I was <u>in</u> a painting. Everything I saw was painted in the hazy brushstrokes of my genius. And I could paint <u>them</u>. Dillon's beast roared in approval when I painted with the red of bloodshed and discord. Dylan was coated in the earthen tones of a lovely Spring. Bjorn was coated in the golden hues of a hero. And Aden --

I called Christian this morning. I wonder what time it was in Ireland. I was half-drunk on tequila -- which reminds me, I am out of alcohol now. Not that I had much to begin with. No, no. Couldn't let the fancy lawyers think I'm a bad mother.

What was I saying?

Oh, yes. Christian. I don't even know what I said when I left that message. Probably some slurred request for him to come home as soon as possible. I think better around him. I can be rational. I am controlled. I'm a just a pretty painter who knows how to play the game and there is nothing but the careful motions of my thoughts to hold my attention. No madness. I'm don't have to bend over backwards to try and understand concepts that are far too complex for a dumb farm girl like me to ever understand. I'm not drowning like when I with

I am not even going to finish that sentence.

Today is Thursday and so I had to visit Syemon's grave. It's pathetic that my calender is filled up by weekly visits to the resting places of my old loves. I found myself clawing at the dirt as if I was going to carve a hole for myself. I wish he had given me that disease. Would I still be coughing up blood? Or would I be on the ground next to him? Finally at peace.

I'm haunted by him and Sutton when I dream. On the rare occasions that I do sleep. Last night I slept in Jacob's room because my room smelled of fire and there are invisible stains on the carpet. I need a new carpet, new bed -- fuck it, I'll buy a whole new house. Not that it matters. I'll be damned where ever I go. Not such a beautiful sunshine anymore, am I?

It'll be better in the morning. I'll take a shower, go to the grocery store to buy some seafood for tonight. Put on some gentle music, light the candles. Play the game. I'll be fine. I'll be normal.

I just wish my hands would stop shaking.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 20, 2008 04:33 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Harper: I'm undecided. I feel ... that something's going to give. ... Maybe seeds will be planted, maybe there'll be harvests then, maybe early figs to eat, maybe new life, maybe fresh blood, maybe companionship and love and protection, safety from what's outside, maybe the door will hold, or maybe ... maybe the troubles will come, and the sky will collapse and there will be terrible rains and showers of poison light, or maybe my life is really fine, maybe Joe loves me and I'm only crazy thinking otherwise, or maybe not, maybe it's even worse than I know, maybe I want to know, maybe I don't. The suspense, Mr. Lies, it's killing me.


-- from Angels in America; Part One: Millenium Approaches, Act One, Bad News, Scene Three.

Flicking a glance up towards the mirror, she wrinkled her nose and let her jaw grow slack, stretching out fragile skin while contorting her expression in order to better inspect the shadows that had set up shop in the hollows beneath her eyes.

"Naomi," she murmured, thoughtful now. Letting the focus of her eyes zoom outwards to inspect the entire canvas of her face. "Naomi," she said again, tasting the name against the roof of her mouth, the way her tongue rolled the vowels along its length.

"That's not me." Firmly.


Narrowing her eyes speculatively, she let her gaze wander over the collection of tools once more while her mind tripped along memory lane, searching for the order in which the make-up needed to be applied in order to create the best facades. A hand extended to curl about the thin cream of pale white and she began dabbing it along the skin beneath her eyes while her mother's voice drifted through her mind.

"You're looking rather tired this morning, Shannon."

"I'm fine, Momma. Just had a little trouble sleepin' last night is all."

"Well, I certainly hope you don't plan on letting that boy see you like this. You're a mess."

"I seriously doubt Jer's gonna care if I look a little sleepy, Momma."

"I don't know, Shannon. Trudy Sanders was telling me just the other day that Jer's been comin' by to see Alison. Now that girl knows how to put herself together, which is more than I can say for you. I'd be careful if I were you."


"We can't all be like you, Momma," she murmured wryly to her reflection while setting aside the cream in order to reach for the setting powder -- and promptly dropped it, scattering powder all over the sink. "Shit," she groaned in response to the mess, but her hand froze in the act of reaching to collect the tiny container as another memory blasted through her mind.

"Come on, Jer, we're gonna be late."

"What's the rush? Damn, woman."

"C'mon now, you know Cooper's expectin' us..."

"Oh, so that's it."

"What?"

"And here I thought you got all dolled up for me."

"--Well, baby, it is his birthday and his parents are throwin' a real nice party... So, I just assumed--"

"Do you think I'm that fucking stupid?"

"--Jer!"

"I see the way you look at him. Don't even try to deny it."

"At who? Cooper? Jer, baby, I think maybe you've had too much to drink."

"Don't play games with me, woman. I ain't dumb! You been makin' eyes at him. And I see the way he stares at you -- it's enough to make me sick!"

"He's .. he's just a friend. He's your best friend! Ain't I supposed to be nice to your friends?"

"You're tellin' me I'm supposed to let you act like a whore because you're tryin' to be nice? Well, I'll show --"

"--OW! Jer stop it! I'm sor---"


"That's enough," she scolded herself, forcing her hand away from the tender line of her jaw, purposefully forgetting the memories of bruise-blackened skin and painful insecurities. She returned to the task at hand with an air of purpose, straightening her appearance before drifting out of the room in order to grab the Colt off of the top of the dresser. The bullets were left behind. She was gambling everything on her ability to lie, to bluff.

"It's over," she said, defiantly, while staring at the empty space near the foot of her bed before charging out of the room.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 23, 2008 11:37 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

Patient ID: 65309
Admitted: 6/22/08 20:28
Admitted by: RN Sheila Weber

Patient originally admitted as Jane Doe, due to unconsciousness. Later identified as Shannon Maguire of 408 Highland Row, Rhydin, Rhy'Din 80345. Collapsed in ER waiting room from minor head trauma and smoke inhalation. Contusions on face and laceration four inches above left ear are indicators of potential abuse. Suspected sprain of right wrist was negated by X-ray. Cleared of concussion or other serious injury by CT scan. Scheduled for social services visit after patient refused to disclose the reason behind injuries, would not list next of kin or other emergency contact on forms. Treated for severe smoke inhalation and was given two sutures by Dr. Alexander Madison, attending on call. Signed AMA forms and was released at 02:40 on 6/23/08.

I am overfilled. I am in a coma. I am drowning. Why, why, why must it always be in threes? Why must I always be surrounded by triangles. I am tired. I am sick. I cannot be torn in five million directions anymore. I want to be selfish. I want to be good. I want to stop staring at my face in the mirror in search of a stranger's face. I find myself pondering my departure for New York in a new light -- but it would be wrong. I have to stay away. I will not search for a glimpse of a ghost who does not belong to me.

Why, Trent, do you have to come back now? Why do you have to push me? Why do you let me push you? She is already stretched so far from me. I stretch out my hand in my sleep, begging for the shadows to come back. I cannot be so disconnected to my sister -- there is no sun without my moon. I remember her words that were breathed against the shell of my ear, the hollow cage her body made around my soul. I drift through the forest to the place where we would lounge in the grass, watching the stars and confessing all of our secrets. I walk there and I cannot find the way.

Lola, Lola. Please don't fade away. We are creatures of the seasons, you and I; it is not time to hibernate. Soon, perhaps. I know how tired you are -- but we have to try. And he loves you. You know he loves you. It is not our fault that the we have chained our hopes and dreams to falling stars -- they fly away so far sometimes. But they come back. <u>He</u> came back.

Christian is back. The prodigal sons of this town are all returning now. Please don't ask something of me that I cannot give. I can feel the warmth in your voice and it makes me wary. What can you want with me? I should save you from this. I have failed everyone who has ever deigned to care for me. I don't want to fail you too.

I have been sitting in my closet for over an hour now. I was going to start packing for New York (can I really be leaving tomorrow?) but all of my clothes seem to be relics from an ancient past. Like the mummies and other artifacts that clutter the shelves at the museum downtown. Was it only a week ago that I wore this to that silly dinner with Aden? Was this the dress that Jacob liked because it was so sparkly? It is too much. I am too much. It's time for something new.

I think I am going to clean out my closet now. Perhaps Persephone would like some of my things.

<center>How I wish you could see the potential,
the potential of you and me.
It's like a book elegantly bound but,
in a language that you can't read.
Not yet.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love,
I will possess your heart.
You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love,
I will possess your heart.

There are days when outside your window
I see my reflection as I slowly pass,
and I long for this mirrored perspective
when we'll be lovers, lovers at last.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find, love
I will possess your heart.

You reject my advances and desperately,
I won't let you let me down so easily.
So easily.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love
I will possess your heart.

I will possess your heart.


http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y19...ries_Laf-1.jpg </center>

(lyrics are death cab for cutie.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 26, 2008 07:08 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>