Justric

Saving Anna

There'll be a small delay. We're in the middle of a snow storm and I've been shoveling since 10 am. News says more to come, too. Funny thing is, it was 55 degrees and sunny this time yesterday!!

Saving Anna

James blinked at her response. She may as well have said he was purple or a llama for all the sense it made to him. Dead? It didn't make any sense at all!

"What?" he gasped in astonishment. "What are you talking about? What horrible things?" There game a glint of understanding in his eyes, and he shook his head while holding up both hands as if in protest. "Is this some guilt trip your mother put you on, us spending time together being a sin or something? Crap, she found out about us in the classroom, didn't she? Well... Fuck her! It's none of her business! Look, I know we should have used protection but we both got caught up in the moment and the chances of-"

Memories started to finally slide into place. James paused. A frown flickered across his face as he tried again to reconcile the timing of events... They HAD been at the prom. Hadn't they? He and Sara had danced, he was sure of that because it had been a slow dance to some song from the 50's. That was the problem with letting the school janitor be the school's DJ. "Devil or Angel" was playing and they were swaying together in time to the music because neither one of them knew how to actually dance, and then they had kissed. She had led them off after a few lights popped for no reason. That's right, they WERE at the prom! They snuck out and gave each other to one another in the science lab, right up on one of the lab counters. It had been all fumbling and mistakes and apologies and giggling as they worked it all out, and while the experience was quick for both of them it was definitely memorable! Not just the sex, but also the confessions, she as to her powers and him as to his love for her. So how had he forgotten? And what had happened afterwards?

There were flashes, hints of what followed. James spoke hesitantly then, trying to use verbal cues to connect the dots. "We... went back afterwards, didn't we? Back to the prom. And... something about the King and Queen?" Looking up at her with confused eyes and a mouth slightly agape, he tried to soldier onwards. "Only... something happened... They pranked us. Blood. Somehow... they doused us in blood." More flashbacks, scenes of a nasty video depicting Sara in a panic within the shower room, being taunted and mocked in her nakedness as she bled. That truly despicable moment had been shared with the entirety of the prom-goers and teachers, and he had... he had been about to pull her off the stage and out the nearest exit only...

Blood. It all kept coming back to blood somehow: blood in the shower room, blood from his self-mutilation, blood from the prom, blood on her arms now. As he knelt there, the back of his head felt curiously damp. A trickle of something wet was running down the back of his neck. Sweat? His mind was still not making all the connections it needed to yet.

"Sara?" No, she had said to call her something else, and James could never deny her anything. "Anna? Anna, what happened? After... And why can't I remember?"

The look on his face was truly pitiable as he looked up into her teary eyes for answers.

Saving Anna

I thought it was a rather sweet proposal, myself.

Saving Anna

It felt good to have her in his arms. Sara felt... alive! That was the word! Alive! It was a warmth he found strangely absent in himself and he wanted to cling to it tenaciously. It was also nice to physically feel something, as well! James still could not piece things together in his mind but had come to the realization that very few things felt... real. Only why did she looked so confused, so frightened? Something had obviously terrified her. While she seemed happy to see him at first, Sara backed away to sit down as though something was horribly wrong. He didn't even notice the lamp passing through him. Her words made even less sense.

As she scratched at her arms and drew blood, he hurriedly knelt down before her and tried to grab her arms. Only his hands never quite connected with her arms. Was she moving that fast as to avoid him? There was something about the sight and smell of the blood that fascinated him, something that he had read about once but couldn't recall. Why was his memory such a mess right now? "What are you talking about? What's your fault? Look, Sara, stop, just... please, stop that! Please! Listen to me!"

James gave up trying to catch up her hands and attempted to look her straight in the eye. "Sara, listen! I've got something important I want to ask you, alright? I was going to wait until after the prom," (Wait, hadn't they already gone to the prom?) "but now seems as good a time as any. Sara. Will you marry me?"

At her look he shook his head. "No, seriously! We've been friends for years, and we've got a lot in common. Who understands us better than each other? I've loved you for... a long time now, I just... couldn't find the courage to say it until now! We can do this! After we graduate, right after we walk across the stage, we'll go to your house and grab whatever you want to bring. I've got an offer at Cornell, Sara. Cornell! You could come with me to New York, I've got a lead on a cheap apartment in Ithaca and we could... we could leave all of this behind us! Your mother, my father, all the shitheads at school. It'll be a fresh start for both of us! So what do you say? Will you marry me, Sara?"

Saving Anna

Name: James Chandler

Age: 18

Bio: James had little luck in life from the outset. His mother absent since just after his birth and his father a drunken auto-mechanic, he was both a reminder of said father's mistakes and nothing of what he had ever wanted in a son. Whereas his father was a powerhouse of a man with a thick torso and heavy paunch, James was scrawny and mild mannered from earliest days. There were no relative to take shelter with, no other family at hand to question the belt-wide bruises across his body and back. Even teachers at school tended to look the other way, for while James was certainly one of their brightest pupils he was also one of the oddest. It wasn't just a matter of his favorite foods, which consisted of ketchup and pickle relish sandwiches and milk flavored with curry powder. There was just something... off... about him. Perhaps it was the way he would stare at people others with a curious if innocent intensity, like people were puzzles to be figured out. In elementary school, his habit of answering correctly almost any questions put before him combined with consistently challenging back with his own questions earned him no amount of teasing from his peers. Skinny little know it all Jimmy. "Jimmy." How he hated that name! Jimmy was the name of schlocky comedians and bad actors. As far as he was concerned, he was James. Like James Monroe or James May or Professor James Moriarty or any of the hundreds of historical and literary figures he had come to revere.

By the time middle school had rolled around, the teasing had turned into bullying. He retreated further and further into his own world to escape the abuse from both his father and from his schoolmates. And what a world it was! James had developed a passion for science fiction and fantasy, compounded with a love of history. He found escape in writing and reading and dreaming. And then he discovered another way to escape the pain: cutting. After a slip caused him a paper cut, he came to realize the control it gave him. He'd heard of cutting before, of course. It was something that goth and emo kids did to both punish themselves and/or to cry for attention. That wasn't it for him. No, for James the small sliced he etched along his upper bicep were all about control. Others could hurt him and there was little he felt he could do about it; this was his, his own secret pain to covet because he could do it whenever he wished. He didn't want to be discovered, keeping the neat little cuts in areas least likely to be found. He even took great pains to make sure the nicks and slashes were kept clean and bandaged.

But it was also in middle school that he noticed girls. James knew he stood no chance of dating any of the popular girls and didn't even try; while their physical beauty attracted his attention, there was something about their personalities he simply could not stand. It might have had something to do with how their boyfriends tended to beat him up to amuse them. He was outside of the social pack, an exile in their midst. Lower class. Unclean. Sub-human to these bullies. James deeply desired revenge on all of them for making his life a hell. As powerless as he was, it was only a futile dream realized in short stories and near-novels that would never see the light of day. He couldn't say when it was that he noticed Sara. In many ways he was surprised he hadn't noticed a fellow outcast before. It was sometime before he worked up the courage to try and talk with the meek girl, waiting for her by her locker one day after school. As she approached, James found his normally overflowing mind completely empty. Somehow, they managed to strike up a conversation and soon were best friends. It wouldn't be correct to say that he didn't have his own ulterior motives in the relationship, and Sara featured in many of his fantasies from there on out. But they were both so meek and mild, he was too scared to actually ask her out.

The following years of middle school and eventual high school brought a camaraderie between them, a closeness that helped ease the loneliness in much of his life and he hoped did the same for hers. He never told her about the cutting, although he was sure she knew. James hated to be parted from her, only when his father forced him to get a job he had little choice but to comply. Forging student work papers, he managed a job at the local library; the result was another beating from his father for doing 'woman's work.' After a school fight that broke his wire-rim glasses, James begged the school shop teacher to teach him welding and solders so he could fix the frames; surely learning such a 'manly' skill would earn his father's approval? No, it resulted in yet another round of fists and the hated belt. Not only had James let an expensive (if highly outdated) pair of glasses get broken, he had let on how poor he and his father really were. He did everything he could to keep his wounds hidden from Sara, not wanting her to be burdened with his woes as she already had more than her own.

Their senior year had become something of a whirlwind of activity and anticipation for them both. Only a few short months and they would both be free of the school, leaving their old lives and torments behind them! He had plans, college acceptance letters and scholarships and loans and grants, all done on the sly! And she was not going to be left behind, not if he could do anything about it! He had saved all the money he had earned. James purchased his own car, an ancient but reliable mailman jeep that he fixed up himself and painted black (and for once in his life, meeting his father's grudging approval). After graduation, he was going to drive to her house like some knight to rescue her from her mother and they'd drive off together to start fresh. James had planned on asking her right after the prom, the biggest night of their senior year. He even spent the rest of his money on a new pair of black framed glasses for the occasion! That she agreed to go with him helped to solidify his plans. Everything was going to be different after the prom. During the prom, too, it turned out, as they shared their far more than just their first kiss together. When she confessed her powers, James was hardly surprised. She fit the type perfectly as described in almost every book he had ever read on the subject: teenage girl, socially outcast, retiring in nature... It was funny how both fictional accounts of such things and documented historical records agreed on such matters. After years of being her friend, he finally declared his love for her. The rest? He would save for later, after the dance. Because it seemed like after that night, anything would be possible for them.

When their names were announced as King and Queen of the prom, James was both startled and suspicious. They were the least popular kids in school, how the hell did they get elected?? Only Sara seemed so happy, he couldn't protest. Once on stage, there followed... something. He couldn't remember what. Something went wrong, he thinks, and remains so. If only he could put his finger on it.

Come to think of it, if only he could put his finger on anything...

Saving Anna

It was... cold. At least, if there was any name to give to the sensation that would be it: cold. A dry freezing where nothing moved nor lived because it was all, in fact... nothing. It was the first thing he became aware of, this absence of anything else including any true awareness of self. That came a few minutes (hours, days, years?) later when he did focus on the masculinity. It was a dim realization. Everything was in a fog for him, distant and intangible while still managing to obscure even his image of self. Self. Who was he?? A young man, scrawny in build with a thatch of unruly blond hair and ash blue eyes, and with a plain but honest face. Just another face, he had always thought, one that you'd never pick out from the crowd even if he'd had a crowd to stand in. He remembered loneliness, then. A long line of loneliness and self mutilation on his pipe cleaner biceps to give him some sense of control over his life; it was pain, but it had been his pain, not the pain received at the hands and belts and tongues of others. But then... there had been a moment... just a few oh-so-short days... where everything was different.

Someone was shouting something just then. No, not shouting but crying! It was name over and over again, name that stirred recollections: James. James Chandler. It was his name. Only why was this person crying it so, and for that matter why was she crying at all? He could hear her quite clearly now, so obviously he must be close by to her.

Her. It was about a girl. No, that wasn't quite right, it was a young woman. Shy, awkward, innocent, naive, frightened. Those were words that helped to form an image in his mind, clarifying it all the more he concentrated on them. Yes, those words applied, only there were so many others that drowned those first few out! Charming, pretty, honest, loving, kind, empathetic, understanding... the list went on from there. As that list went on, James discovered a form of warmth. It was like swimming against a current in darkness to reach a far, distant shore where someone waited for him, wanted him.

Sara. It was Sara who was sobbing and yelling. He grabbed that thought like a lifeline to pull himself up and out of the nothingness and into-

It was a hotel room, nighttime. James was having a hard time reconciling how he had come to be there, his memories faint and indistinct. He was feeling indistinct himself, as though he was walking through some twisted dream where everything was real except for him. Even his thoughts had a peculiar echo to them. It was surprising to find himself dressed as he did normally: untucked flannel shirt, second hand jeans, tough black workbooks that never quite fit his large feet right... James oddly thought he should still be dressed in his rented tuxedo! Still? Had there been an occasion to wear a black tux?? Some dark memory, something he couldn't quite bring to the forefront of his consciousness hinted that there had been and he was better off not knowing about it.

The room was filled with flying bits of feather and foam, a cyclone of power that centered around the figure in the bed. There was more to it, though. He could see flashes of blue and green energies within that miniature maelstrom, and those flashes of power seemed far more solid and real to him than anything else. Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid. He wasn't really... anything. Curious, perhaps, but that was all. The lack of emotion also was curious, and the more he dwelt on that topic the more emotions slowly trudged forward reluctantly for him to call upon.

Cocking his head (Head? He had a head? Why did seem so strange to have one?), he hovered near the bed as he watched her rant in bursts of raw emotion and power that he somehow envied. Had James looked down, that same curiosity as before would have arisen at the fact that his feet did not seem to quite touch the cheap carpeting. Right now Sara was far more important... for some reason.... and he focused instead on her.

"Sara?"

Why did his voice come out as such a pitiful whisper? It was almost like a whimper, if anything else! James grew disgusted with himself, an emotional state that was incredibly familiar now that he had a grasp of it again. Summoning his all, he tried again.

"Sara?" A little better, but not much. He could only hope that she could hear him. "Where are we? And why is it so cold, Sara? Why is it so very, very cold?"

The Orphan's Wedding

Victor shoveled a forkful of hashed root into his mouth and ate with gusto, hastily swallowing before speaking to her again. "You look it," he commented without heat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his work stained sleeve and took another hefty draught from his tankard. "It's probably the city smoke getting out of your lungs. It always puts up a fight 'cause it don't want to leave. Damn stuff's poison. You'll be right enough after a few days here."

She did look pretty worn, he had to admit. There were bags under his eyes when he had awoken, darken folds that he had chased away with cold water and hard work even as Feather handled all the domestic affairs. Victor also had to admit that the girl was a pretty good cook. She could obviously run a household as well. Whatever her limitations, it was clear as day that her mother and her grandmother had taught her well. It almost gave him pause about the whole idea of her family attempting to set up a marriage between them. Almost. No matter what coat of paint you threw on the wall, Feather was still a girl to him. Far too young and far too innocent to have to deal with the likes of him! No, Victor knew that if he and Feather joined, she would have a meek and miserable life as his wife; anyone he married would have to have far more steel in their spine than poor Feather if they were to survive being married to the ex-soldier.

Tearing his mind away from idiotic notions of weddings (and wedding beds, too, if he were honest), Victor glanced back up at his lodger. She really did not look well. Kijani had the all the markings of a person who had not slept much and what sleep there had been not being the sort anyone would want. Victor had a many nights like that himself in the army. Some few now that he was a civilian, too. Last night's flashback left him with a peculiar sympathy for whatever plight was afflicting the young lady. Her food was barely touched, too.

"Tell you what," he added after swallowing a mouthful of eggs, "You got take yourself a stroll this morning in the back lots. About an hour's walk due south'll bring you to Grandfather Apple, biggest tree for miles around. Apple trees aren't supposed to get that big. Thing damn near rivals most oaks! But you hie yourself there. Get Feather to pack you a lunch, you can take it out of my larder for today." Another helping of breakfast was quickly polished off. "Grandfather Apple's a good place to rest. Clear your head and lungs, if you like. No one to bother you, either."

The Orphan's Wedding

Feather shook her head in protest at Kijani's compliment. The fair skinned girl did her best to help guide her mistress down the narrow stairway and towards the table, filled with food and drink. "Oh, I'm not lovely," she replied in her start-stop manner. In many ways, Feather's way of speaking was much akin to the automatons in the great city: fully intelligent and capable of doing their duties as directed but having to pause and search their tightly wound magnetic coils for proper responses to any given situation. "Stone says I am pretty. So does my Da and Mum. Only pretty isn't beautiful, Mistress. You're beautiful. I am pretty." Her maid stopped for a second to cock her head to one side in thought before boldly declaring, "I wish I had dark hair like yours, Mistress, all nice and tightly wound in strands like that. Only my Mum said that's for city girls, and I should stick to simple braids and buns like everyone else here."

Bringing forth a kettle held with the hem of her skirt, Feather poured a dark cup of tea out for Kijani. A plate of toasted bread and a pot of honey to sweet both quickly followed. "I could not find any butter," she admitted simply. "There is some bacon fat if you'd like that on your bread, though!"

At this, Victor entered from the porch, a broad axe hefted over one shoulder while his other hand gripped his cane tightly. The orchard's owner was dressed more simply than the day before, in worn leather trews and plain work short that might once have been some shade of white. Still, there were the boots. Sturdy, black, well cared for if older. His hair was slicked back with sweat despite the morning coolness, and smell of fresh cut wood followed him into the room. For a moment, there was the look of surprise on his face at seeing the two women in the house, as though he had forgotten about them. The look was quickly replaced by a grim settling and nod of acknowledgement as he turned to hang the axe upon the wall by the door. "Hope you slept well," he grumped as he sat across from her at the table. The expression on his face was clearly that of a man glad to be off of his feet as he stretched his one leg out to the side.

Before any reply could be made, Victor then did something quite unexpected for a man of his seeming nature. Bowing his head and closing his eyes, the ex-soldier grasped his hands before his face. Fingers interlocked, he muttered a short prayer of thanks in a hushed voice.

After his obligations done, he proceeded to load a well worn wooden trencher with food. Without looking up, he address the younger girl. "Feather?" he said gently, "A little easier on the food, eh? There's three of us here, not thirteen. Thanks for the cooking, by the by. And the baking. And the dusting. And the sweeping. And the scrubbing. And the washing up." Victor shot Kijani a look as though to convey something to her by listing all the Feather had done that morning, and then he looked back to his plate. "I was out cutting wood in the back lots. Hauled it back just now. After breakfast, I'll stow it proper in the bins."

He looked a hefty swig of his own tea before glancing back at Kijani. "So, your ladyship. What plans did you have for the morning?"

The Witch Trials

Staring down at her, Ebenezer was taken aback by her statement. It was not one he would have expected her to state! Mouth slightly agape at he recovered from his confusion, he stared into the depths of her incredibly bright blue eyes to become slightly lost in them. It did nothing for his sense of guilt for blackmailing Mirabella to have her now so clearly infer that she not only accepted the fate he had forced upon her but was willing to see it through in every detail. He felt horrified at his own actions and intensely charmed by hers.

"Mirabella," he uttered softly, "I... You do not have to... do this, if you do not wish. I am well aware that what I have done to you is... not something a good Christian man should do, even though it solves many problems for us both. Enoch can no longer harm you, and I swear that I am not a man to raise his fists to any woman save in defense of my own life. I needed a bride to help... become who I need to be at this time. I know that makes no sense now, and I pray you forgive me for both that and for hoping you need never know the truth behind it all." Ebenezer left it unsaid that other problems had arisen from his hasty solution, but that was the way of the world anyway. "You have bound yourself to me. But I know you do not love me, and you should not have to sacrifice your maidenhead to a man who is not in your heart! Especially so soon after Enoch attempted to take you in so vile a manner. Look, you! I can take my pen knife and cut the heel of my palm so we might smear the sheets with blood! That will convince any who might pass by and see our laundry drying that the deed was done!"

"Only..." Suddenly, Ebenezer's throat felt dry. He had to lick his own lips as he began to recall how hard some temptations were to resist. Mirabella curled close against him where he sat, he could feel both her softness and her warmth through his clothing. It was a sensation that promised everything. And that she was a virgin, untested and ignorant, meant she was his for the molding! Mirabella may not love him, true. Had that stopped him at any other point in his time away? The only difference now was that she was his wife!

He started again. "Mirabella, I would have you take your own will in this," Ebenezer carefully instructed despite the heated beating of his own heart. "If it... If it is in your will to have a proper wedding night... then but kiss me now."

The Bonny Black Hare

James entered and was rather surprised to find the interior of the cottage in even better condition than the exterior! It was easy enough to imagine that the home had only just recently been built and occupied by this woman rather than having stood for several centuries to house generations of families. Even the sweet smell of dry grasses and hays seemed to indicate a roof recently thatched. The aroma of the hot herbal tea only helped to complete the sensation that he had somehow traveled back in time. Even her dress was somewhat dated, he had to admit, although it certainly made her none the less lovely for it.

"Magic, is it then, Miss Windwood?" he chuckled as he accepted the bucket and cloth. "My nurse would tell me tales of dark woods and faeries and witches and goblins at bedtime when I was a babe, warning me away from such black and unwholesome acquaintances. Though I must say that if this is magic... a warm fire, hot tea and a pleasant face in my time of distress? Then may I always welcome such enchantments!"

Slippin behind the screen, James drew off the wet and algae-slick clothing from his body. It was like peeling his way out of second set of skin by the way the fabrics clung tightly to his frame. His nose wrinkled as he realized just how badly he reeked of still water and mud. Still, it could have been worse: no doubt there were ancient middens and chess pits dug out here somewhere, and he could just as easily fallen into one of those! The warm water in the bucket was refreshing as it washed the chill from his body. The process did dampen his enthusiasm a little. Trying to clean the worst of his misfortune off in the dim and shadowy light was difficult at best, removing some of the cottage's charm and making him regret not having access to his own well lit bathing room with its scent soaps and oils. James clucked at himself as he thought of it. A few hours ago he had been looking forward to a night roughing it in the woods! Now here he was, sheltered and warm yet critical of the amenities! He had to admit, it was rather ridiculous of him to be comfortable one extreme to the other and yet find little satisfaction in the compromise. In fact, that longer he pondered on his own absurdity, he had to laugh out loud.

"So, Miss Windwood!" he gaily called as he scrubbed behind one ear, "It's a fair stroll to the nearest village from here, I imagine. What is it you do out here on your own?" A passing thought made him pause. His uncle had been... eccentric. "I say, you're not one of my late uncle's gamekeepers are you? I know the old man wasn't keen on people hunting or fishing on his lands so I shouldn't think it all that strange he'd hire some help to keep poachers away. Is that what you do here then?"

He peeked his head out from around the screen. "It is just you, I surmise? No husband that will come barreling through the door demanding whose horse is outside and whose boots are by the door?" James retreated again to finish his washing. "If there is, just tell him the horse is a sow and the boots are flower pots. With laces. All the rage in London or something."