“No,” says Sophie, quite confused, “they’re brown.”

“They’re brown now,” I correct her, “yesterday, they were blue.”

She raised her eyebrows at me like she thinks I’m stupid, too stupid to know what the expression means in the first place, “They were brown yesterday, Stenson. And the day before that, and the day before that, too.” She uses my surname, like every other living being on the planet. My mother would call me Albert, but she wasn’t a living being. Sophie won’t listen to me, regardless.

“But they were, I swear. You liked to brag and everything!”

She shoots me a glare the color of weak soil, and calls behind her without turning around, “Greg. What color are my eyes?”

Greg jerks his head up from where he is hunched over across the room. He was writing something, or reading something, I can’t tell. Either way, he wasn’t listening until he heard his name.

“Uh…brownish, I think?”

Sophie smiles her trademark smile, the one I’ve always thought looks like a snake, if they had lips, “And what color were they yesterday?”

Greg stares at the back of her head, the gears in his own moving painfully slow. It’s as if he is a student called on in class when he hadn’t raised a hand.

“…they were different?”

Sophie’s snake-smile becomes a smirk, “See, Stenson? Someone else must have had blue eyes. Maybe an old girlfriend.”

I stare into her eyes and they’re a dull brown, not chocolate, and definitely not the electric blue I remember them being. “One flash of these and, bam, I’ve got ya.” was what she’d say before blinking excessively. It was a joke, mostly, but not something I’d make up. If this is a trick, it’s a pretty damn good one. But Sophie wears contacts anyway; I can’t imagine that she’d go out and buy colored, prescription ones just to make a fool of me. She wasn’t above a simple prank, but nothing that cost money.

Maybe I’m just imagining it. I might have had a dream last night, one of the ones that are totally normal looking. Just your daily routine, no dinosaurs or falling off cliffs, and definitely no one in their underwear. Everything that happens in those kinds of dreams is totally plausible, and you only realize it didn’t happen when you mention it to someone else. Then the illusion breaks, and you say, “Oh, duh, I was dreaming” and move on with life.

Except that hasn’t happened yet. I’ve seen Sophie’s face and I still can’t believe her eyes are brown. Something’s not right with me.

"Fairytales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairytales tell children that dragons can be slain."
- G.K. Chesterton

...but there's nothing wrong with it, it's just human nature.
"There's no such things as human nature." says a voice in your head that isn't yours. (and you're not schizophrenic, this isn't madness, but a memory.)




{This has been floating around my head all day. I really don't know, although I blame the International Man of Mystery.}

I've finished the next part of Origin 8.
It's a rough, so if you see anything that could be changed, gimme a shout.

( The city was filled with children and the sky was filled with kites... )

Also, I just realized I haven't put any other parts to the story up here. I should probably do that. And make a nifty master-list. Oh yes.

So. Some revisions are in order...

( Read more... )

greatbriton gave me:
( Read more... )


I'm aware I never actually put 5 in the "your 3 favorite/least favorite characters" questions. Humbug.
Butbutbut you should totally comment so I can give you 3 fandoms so you can do this, yes?

"Pray for the people inside your head, for they won't be there when you're dead. Muffled out and pushed back down, pushed back through the leafy ground."
-The chorus from "Tickle Me Pink" by Johnny Flynn.

Really like this song, and when I heard this it got me thinking. If you think of characters as people (which I tend to, in a roundabout sort of way.) then when you make up stories you're making worlds and universes and such. But if you never tell those stories then all the characters and worlds you made up will die with you. But if you do tell them, then the characters will live on inside other people's heads. You can figuratively "save their lives". Like evacuating the humans to the moon when the world ends.

Maybe this is why I like telling stories. Hm.

I've had this weird feeling for the past couple days, like I have something really important to say, but I don't know what it is, or who I'm to say it too. It's frustrating...

Butbutbut you should all watch Life On Mars, cuz it's awesome. The UK version, mind you, not the US remake.

Uh.

I'm trying to figure out what to say, really. I know there's something. Honest.

Guh. Someone say something so I'll stop babbling.

So LJ just sent me an email alerting me to my own birthday, and then asking me if I would like to send a virtual gift...to myself. o.O

My birthday's on the 8th tho (same as Elvis!)