The Storm

Here in my lovely little New England state, we've been in the middle of a heat wave. For the last week and a half, every day has been at least 80 degrees. The last two nights, however, we've had storms

Last night, the storm was SCARY. It came out of nowhere; high winds, thunder, and lightning you've only seen in National Geographic pictures. Sorella and her friend were tearing up the walls, they were terrified (until Friend this point of morbid calmness). It got worse when I had to drive over to Pater's house and close the windows. There was a lot of screaming in the car.

Sorella: OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO DIE.
Friend: DID YOU SEE THAT LIGHTNING?!
Arc: YOU TWO NEED TO CALM THE HELL DOWN SO I CAN STAY CALM AND NOT DRIVE OFF THE ROAD.
Friend: *Shuts up*
Sorella: *really tiny squeaky voice* Okay!

By the time we reached Pater, Friend had reached her morbid calmness ("If I'm going to die, I'm going to die. It's all cool.") and she and I just stroll up to the house. Sorella is tearing towards the house and yelling at us about "WHY ARE YOU WALKING SO SLOW WE'RE GOING TO DIE!!!".

In the end, we didn't die. We closed the windows at Pater's, went back to Mater's, and Sorella and Friend sat on the front porch and watched the lightning. I found that kind of ironic, considering how panicked she was earlier. I envisioned her hiding under her bed.

The second storm is happening right now, though it's mostly just thunder and rain. When it was just starting, I stood outside and enjoyed the wind.

I remember when Sorella, Fratello, and I were little, and whenever it rained really hard in the summer (or even late spring or early fall), we'd go play in the rain; dancing and laughing and splashing each other with the pools of rain water against the curb.

The rain is slowing now to just a drizzle, but there's this deliciously cool wind blowing in through the windows. I think I might have to go sit on the porch swing and enjoy the change in weather.

Wander safely (and play in the rain every once and a while),
Arc.

Ps. - I finally finished cleaning out my room! It hasn't been this clean since....I don't even know when!...It's a bit intimidating XD

Stories

Since I was really small, I've been doing stories in my head. Now that I'm older, I still do stories in my head  (and sometimes with Sorella). I know it sounds a bit dorky, but it's really rather fun. Lately I've been going back to old stories that I completely ruined by kidnapping the characters and running away from the plot and reworking them.

When I get really excited about a story, I share them with Charna. In my experience, there's very little that can compare to the feeling of telling someone a story you've created and having them actually be interested. Charna sat and listened to me for about two and half hours tonight as I shared what I was working on with rapt attention. Not only did she offer ideas, but she also inspired me to start a whole file of character information, family trees, and general knowledge relating to the world.

As corny as it sounds, the story I'm reworking is a vampire one. No, it has nothing to do with Twilight (and it makes me a bit queasy to know I just mentioned that horrible series in the Arcana Files). If it draws from any already created vampire series, it would be Vampire Knight (almost a little too closely in one particular plot line).

My favorite part of writing a story is making the characters. I love flushing out their personalities and then putting them in situations. In some cases, characters happen organically. For example, in this particular story, there are two women, Cornelia and Marion, and I think they might be closet lesbians. I don't know what happened; because I skipped around throughout the story, I don't even have a scene for them meeting or even interacting much, and yet all of a sudden their relationship is much closer than friends (but not quite lovers). It was weird.

When I make characters, they become very real for me. In the stories I create with Sorella, it's almost as if the characters are very close friends we haven't seen in ages. We go to the mall and look at clothes and say, "Wow, that vest is so Remy" or "Aid would wear that". It's really fantastic, considering we haven't worked with those characters in a good three or four months.

I think what I find most interesting, however, is that I still find this story worth working with even though I have a definite ending planned out. Usually, once I know the end, the story dies for me; I don't see the point of filing in the blanks if I know the final result. Maybe the difference is that I'm not creating, but rather twisting, embellishing. I'm still very in love with this story.

This story almost makes me want to write it all down, but we know where that leads. Maybe once I have all my character files, world comments, and plot outlines created, I might do so. I might even share it with you. You never know. Whimsy might be able to get a NaNoWriMo out of me yet ;)

What kind of stories do YOU make up?

Wander safely,
Arc.

The Final Project

My final project for Parapsychology and the Occult was to write a short story. Now, originally, I didn't hand it in like a bad student, because I had A's across the board and thought I could get away with a B- or so without it. Unfortunately not true; my professor gave me an Incomplete instead. However, he's nice enough to let me hand it in late and change my grade. 

Ironically, I actually really enjoyed writing this, so I'm kind of glad I got the Incomplete. And now I'm sharing it with you lovely individuals. One thing I'd like to point out, though: in the middle, Lucy lists behavioral traits of someone who's been sexual abused. These are completely made up. I have no idea if they're true or not. I just needed something.

Enjoy!

x(X)x

“Have you ever felt uncomfortable around certain people in your family?” Lucinda “Lucy” Marr the I’m-so-high-and-mighty-because-I’m-a-therapist adjusts her glasses. I don’t like her. I knew that from my very first meeting with her three weeks ago. It didn’t make much difference to the Woodward Asylum, though. She was the only therapist here that was “qualified” (whatever that means) to deal with my psychosis since Madison, my last therapist, left. 

“Arielle,” Lucy the I’m-going-to-treat-you-like-a-child-even-though-you’re-twenty-six said with a sigh. “You aren’t going to get anywhere by staying silent.”

“I know,” I said, not looking up from the candy wrappers. I needed them to be smooth. Perfectly, completely smooth. No wrinkles, no lines. Just flat against the glass coffee table, as if they’d never been wrapped around circular butterscotch candies.

Lucy the I-think-peroxide-orange-hair-is-cool shifted in her seat, writing something down in that infuriating pad of paper. One day, I’d get my hands on that and see just exactly what she’s been writing down about me. Probably something about being insolent. “You mentioned an Uncle Harold once. Tell me more about him.”

“Eppie thinks aliens are going to abduct him in his sleep.” I say instead. The wrapper wouldn’t lie flat. I’d need a book or something else equally heavy to make it so, and I wouldn’t get to one until after the session. I couldn’t wait that long. I dig one nail under another instead. The skin under my thumb starts to bleed. I ignore it, just like I ignore Lucy-the-wearer-of-too-much-sickly-sweet-perfume when I’m with her three times a week for an hour.

Lucy the possessor-of-all-the-knowledge-of-the-universe-because-I-went-to-grad-school writes down something else. Might of been about Eppie. “We’re not here to talk about Jacob Eppler, Arielle. We’re here to talk about you.”

“I know,” I grab another candy. Maybe I could get this wrapper smooth. I toss the candy onto the table with the others and set to work on the wrapper.

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me mess with my wrappers, and occasionally writing something down on that pad. I like to think I’m her most troublesome patient in Woodward Asylum. I know I’m definitely not the most agreeable. I don’t want to be here. My fiancee signed me in, and I can’t sign myself out. Apparently once I’m in, they get to decide when to discharge me. I almost got out once. Almost.

“Do you believe in aliens?” I run my bleeding thumbnail across the wrapper. It works better with a spoon, but the cafeteria workers never let us keep those. I tried once. They wouldn’t give me any utensils to eat with for two weeks after that, even on pasta days.

“I never gave it much thought,” Lucy I-think-blood-red-nails-match-maroon-shirts said. “There’s so much space, who’s to say?”

“Eppie believes there’s a microchip in his head that the aliens use to watch him. Says he has to get it out before Marshall Applewhite’s comes back for him.” He’s terrified of Marshall Applewhite. Sometimes he refuses to drink anything the cafeteria serves because he thinks it’s poisoned and he’ll accidentally become a part of Heaven’s Gate.

“Do you believe that?” Lucy I-really-need-to-learn-how-to-put-makeup-on-without-overdoing-it raised an eyebrow. Today the space between her eyelashes and her eyebrows are bronze and cakey looking. But they’re always cakey-looking.

I shrug. “Eppie does.” I sit back on the couch, giving a lock of hair a good pull. A few strands come out in my hand. Knowing there’s less hair on my head makes me uncomfortable. I clench my jaw and glare that the wrappers. If they’d just comply, I wouldn’t have to feel so uneasy. She writes down something else.

“What else does Jacob tell you?” Lucy the I-believe-in-the-power-of-feng-shui tilts her chair so she can sit sideways. 

I shrug again, staring at the wrinkled wrappers. I don’t see Eppie much. Mostly in the free room. He’s nice, but a bit funny. Taught me how to fake taking my pills. Not that I’d tell Lucy-the-annoying that. I don’t want to take my pills. Sometimes I think Eppie should, though. He’s easier to understand when he does. My reflection stares back at me on the glass table.

“Arielle,” Lucy it’s-really-Lucinda-but-only-my-mother-calls-me-that prompts. I look up. I can see the brown of her roots. “What else does Jacob tell you?”

“The president is an alien.” I say softly. “He put us in the war in Iraq so it’d be easier for them to invade the planet.” Lucy-the-insensitive stifles (badly) a snicker. I don’t care what they say, I know she judges us. We’re in a freakin’ asylum, aren’t we? 

“Do you believe that?” Lucy-who’ll-probably-become-a-crazy-cat-lady asks. My fingers find the hole in the cushion, picking at the foam insides. I pull out chunks slowly. It makes the couch cushion uneven. I shift so I can’t feel it.

“I don’t even know who the president is anymore.” I tell her. I don’t. I don’t care to know, either. They don’t like to let us watch the news channels here. Probably because of people like Eppie. He’d find something new to freak out about.

“You’re using Jacob as a shield.” Lucy-the-obvious comments. I hadn’t noticed. No, really, I had no idea. I roll my eyes. She must be sick of aliens and Eppie. That sucks, because Eppie’s session is after mine. “Uncle Harold. Tell me about him.”

I scoot forward on the couch again. Grabbing the wrappers, I start wrapping pieces of the foam couch insert in them. They’re bumpy, unlike the candies, and it bothers me. But I can’t put the candies back in them, they’re covered in germs. “He’s my uncle.”

Lucy I’d-make-a-better-secretary-than-a-therapist scribbles something else. “Do you like him?”

I untwist a wrapper and add more foam. It needs to be round, and it’s not. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it bleeds. Uncle Harold is the most crass person I know. He’s loud, perverted, and likes his drink a little too much. “No. He’s crude.”

Lucy the I’m-getting-annoyed-by-your-short-answers nods several times. I don’t like how interested she looks right now. I don’t like her, but that’s not the point. “Has he always made you uncomfortable?”

I pull more foam from the cushion. Lucy I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this-job gives me a chastising look, but doesn’t comment. For once. “I guess. After we moved to Arizona, I didn’t see him very much.”

“Were you ever alone with him for long periods of time?” Lucy I-think-I’m-two-sizes-smaller-than-I-really-am writes something down furiously. I doubt whatever she’s writing is legible at that speed.

“A couple times,” I nod. “He used to babysit me before Nate was born.” 

Lucy I’d-love-to-have-children-but-I’d-traumatize-them-and-I’d-probably-never-land-a-husband-anyways takes a swig from her bottled water. She has a new one every time I see her. I know because none of them have that horrible pink lipstick on them until the middle of our sessions. I wonder if she knows it’s just tap water.

“Did Uncle Harold ever...touch you? In a way that you didn’t like?” Lucy I-belong-in-an-asylum-as-a-patient-not-a-therapist says carefully.

My eyes widen. “Are...Are you asking if he molested me?” I don’t like that suggestion. My heart rate spikes and I can feel my palms grow sweaty. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Deep breaths, Arielle,” Lucy-the-insufferable says. She just doesn’t want to deal with the paperwork if I have a panic attack in her office.

“Why would you say that?! Just because I don’t like him?” My voice is hysterical now. I can’t believe her. “Why?! Do I seem that dirty to you?!”

“No, Arielle, that’s not what I meant at all,” Lucy I-want-to-punt-her-face-across-the-room takes my hand in hers. I pull it out of her grasp immediately. After an accusation like that she has no right to be touching me. Or talking to me. Or existing.

“You exhibit some behavioral qualities of women who’ve been molested or raped when they were younger. Panic attacks. Uncomfortable around new people, especially men. Dislike of touching.” Lucy maybe-I’ll-burn-her-alive-instead continues. “Arielle, it’s very possible you were and repressed the memory of the event.”

I stare at her. Could I have been? I don’t like Uncle Harold, but could he really be that vile? “How..How do you know? If I had?”

“Tonight, after lights out, I want you to imagine you’re little again, the same age you were when Uncle Harold used to babysit you. Imagine him coming in and getting into bed with you. Touching you. It might make repressed memories surface.” Lucy-the-tart says, trying to keep a comforting tone, but really, there’s no way to say what she just did in a comforting way. “It’s very possible you created a screen memory to hide those events.”

I stare at the wrappers. They’re not flat. I need them to be smooth. I lean forward and run my thumb over it, pressing it into the glass. “Okay.” I say softly. Could he...? I bite my lip to stop the thought, pressing my thumb almost painfully against the wrapper.

Lucy-the-most-insulting-person-in-the-world sits back in her chair. “We’re almost out of time, Arielle. Remember your homework assignment and tell me about it next week.”

I nod, still smoothing out the wrappers. The foam is mixed in among the candies, vile, unnecessary. They’re both yellow like Uncle Harold’s hair. Vile like him.

x(X)x

Leave me a thought. What did you think?

Wander safely,

Arc.

CHICKENPOX?!

As many of you recall, I'm nineteen years old, and like most kids, I had the chickenpox when I was little. I didn't have a raging case like Sorella and unlike Fratello, the freak of nature, I didn't have it twice.

Until now.

I came home from Collegeland and within six hours, I didn't feel good. I had this pain behind my ears that we deduced to be swollen lymph nodes, and I starting having a vicious cough. My energy was sapped. I have really bad sinus to begin with; I have to take medication from October to May or I get sick about every six weeks (I'm allergic to dust and animal dander). So, going from an open, relatively dust free college dorm to a closed up, dust infested home of two cats isn't the best idea.

When I woke up on Monday with a swollen eye, Mater sent me to a walk in clinic. The diagnosis? CHICKENPOX.

Or, more accurately, Shingles (the adult version).

.....WHAT.

I have no idea how I contracted it. According to the clinic, you don't need a sick kid. When you're little and get the chickenpox, you assume you're safe from every having it again, and so your parents don't get you the vaccine. Bad idea.

The chickenpox virus is like a sleeper solider; it stays in your system even after you're cured. Then, it waits for your immune system to be weak, and it attacks. This explains how Fratello had it twice.

As far as sicknesses go, it's really not that bad. I'm not sapped for energy and I can breathe through my nose. The sucky part is the swollen eye, the intense pain in my eye muscles, and the headache. It trumps all headaches I've ever had. I'm ridiculously sensitive to noise. Example: Pater keeps the TV volume anywhere from 35-50. For me, anything about 12 is too loud. It sucks ass. Worse than that, if I move too fast or cough, it feels like my brain is trying to explode out of my skull.

Oh, and the most entertaining part? Chickenpox and cold sores are variations of the Herpes virus. In order to get better, I'm on Herpes medication. They're freaking HORSE PILLS.

Wander safely (and don't get the pox!),
Arc.

I am a Pack Rat

Packing for college is hard. Packing to come home is harder. Over the last year, I amassed so much stuff in my dorm room. Extra clothes, trinkets, text books, papers. It was ridiculous.

Upon returning home, I started to wonder how I was going to fit it all in my room again. Over the winter break, my room shrunk to about a forth of its size from my college boxes alone because I was switching campuses. At the moment, most of those boxes are in the garage. However, something possessed me to think it was a good idea to clean out my room.

BAD. IDEA.

I HAVE SO MUCH STUFF.

I have a fairly large room. I've been aware it was getting close to bursting. But right now? I've only cleaned out my closet and my dresser, and that turned into eight bags of clothes for Salvation Army and about five bags of trash. I had stuff from my elementary school field day. Clothes from middle school. And I haven't even TOUCHED my desk.

Look at that disaster, and imagine all the stuff in the drawers.

I've dug such a grave for myself. Maybe one of you can throw Arc a rope? Pretty please?

Wander safely (and don't be a pack rat!),
Arc.

Winding Down

In just nine days, I will officially be a college sophomore.

How weird is that to think about? I'm almost done with my first year of college! I mean, I have to haul ass because I've got so much to do between now and then, but that's not the point. This year went by so incredibly fast, particularly this semester.

Between now and then, though, I have to:

- Read four chapters for Parapsychology
- Write a short story for Parapsychology
- Read six chapters for Propaganda
- Finish a take home midterm for Juvenile Delinquency
- Finish an Italian composition

And then there's all those finals themselves...Oh, the hole I've dug for myself. And we all know how well Arc does with procrastination (as proven by this post, which is taken the place of school work, and eating, seeing as the food here just doesn't appeal and I've only got nine dollars left on my meal card).

Then there's friends, and a boy, and Beltane is this weekend...I'm so screwed.

Wander safely (and say a prayer for me, I'll need it XD),
Arc.

I'm the Green Fairy

This is a story piece written especially for you all, based loosely on real events. Enjoy!

x(X)x

It was actually pretty stupid, if you cared to stop and think about it. You’ve known the boy for all of three hours, when Orchid decided he was your ride to a meeting you were already late for and honestly didn’t want to attend. Three hours of sitting next to each other, making stupid faces and wishing the “we-don’t-want-to-attend-but-Orchid-has-this-way-of-twisting-you-into-doing-anything” meeting would go faster. 

He had this way of catching your eye every time you glanced up to make it look like you were paying attention, and god did he have a nice smile. It lit up his whole face and it was just so sweet looking. And you’d smile back, then scrunch your nose and purse your lips to show your disdain for budget approval when you couldn’t actually vote on anything because you weren’t an official club yet, and you didn’t think his smile could get any bigger as he stifles a laugh. You’re suddenly incredibly glad you aren’t prone to blushing.

And here you are, three hours later, sitting in his dorm room and sharing a bottle of absinthe, the green liquid swirling in real glasses you made a special trip to his house for, because “you can’t drink absinthe from a plastic cup; it’s disrespectful to the liquor!”. And you know you shouldn’t be this stupid. He seems nice, sure, but so did Ted Bundy (not that you think he’s a serial murder, but a girl can never be too careful).

He has this habit of rambling, but at least he rambles about something intelligent, or at least funny. Like the time he and his friend agreed they weren’t going to get smashed, yet end up needing several people to retrieve cars just to get home, because god only knows where he ended up (he certainly didn’t). 

He teases that you drink too slowly, and you tell him he drinks too fast, already pouring himself his second class of absinthe. You toss him the partially frozen bottle by your feet and he mixes the two liquids together. He’s surprisingly coherent for starting his second glass of 140 proof liquor. More coherent than you would be, but he’s got two years and at least 30 pounds on you, so that’s to be expected. Absently, you wonder how on earth you’re going to write your paper (or exactly what you’ll end up writing) if half a glass of now more-blue-than-green liquid leaves you this light headed. The room already swirls if you move your head to quickly.

You hear your phone ring from your bag. Dad lights up on the screen, the little picture flashing with the music. “Oh, hell,” you mutter.

“Think you can pull off sober?” He asks, laughing softly.

You return the grin. “We’re about to find out,” you say before accepting the call.

He pulls out his laptop while you talk to your father, fingers only slightly clumsy on the keys as he searches for “the most beautiful music video I’ve every seen, you have to watch it”. The video leaves tingles down your spine, but you’re not sure if it’s the music or the alcohol. 

He’s sitting next to you now, instead of at the other end of his bed. You can’t help but notice how his arm rests on your knee so he can reach the mouse (you don’t understand how he can hate the trackpad). The previous uneasiness returns, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy; it’s been a long time since someone was interested in you, much less a guy. He keeps it casual, though. No bubbles invaded, just an arm resting on your knee and his shoulder against yours (but that’s more your doing than his. 140 proof liquor makes it hard to balance). 

And so it goes. Music video after music video, balance slowly getting worse as you get closer and closer to the end of your glass. But it’s okay, because he sways just as much as you do. At some point, you decide it’s high time you start that paper (it’s due in three days anyways). Despite your inebriated gyroscope, you mange to give him a hug (though by the way he titled his head as you got closer, you think he might have been expecting a kiss), and despite your overly-intoxicated fingers and blurring-if-it-moves-too-fast vision, you type your number and spell your name in his phone without too much trouble. You make an off handed joke about hoping you make it upstairs without cracking your head open, and he calls you a lightweight. You call him an alcoholic. 

You only almost fall down the stairs once and don’t fumble with your keys for too long before you’re in your room. You’ve had a horrible case of the munchies since the night before, but honestly, the idea of six flights of stairs, one of them spiral, just to get food doesn’t seem like a particularly feasible act right now. Instead, you steal a soy pudding cup (though it tastes just the same) from your suite-mate’s fridge, and laugh at yourself when you realize you really aren’t stealing anything; you bought the damn cups and they let you keep it in their fridge. 

Pudding is apparently a good way to sober up. You keep that in mind for the next time someone offers you a sober-coffee. Although if you’re more thoroughly smashed, a sober-up pudding might make things worse.

Later, when you figure you’re more hungover than drunk because of the massive headache you’re sporting, you can’t help but find it a little pathetic that you’ve gotten drunk and sober on a Friday before 9 pm. You smile, though, as you think about the last thing he said.

“We should make this a regular thing.”

x(X)x

Wander safely (and I mean safely. The above story really wasn't all that safe),

Arc.