WIP-ness
1. I'm a hopeless WIP whore. I start stories, leave them alone for a couple of weeks...months...and then the interesting ones I'll come back to and play with.
2. If you don't like WIPs, you're really not going to want to click on the cuts. Just saying.
Started this one back in April. And randomly played with it tonight since my brain wasn't up to playing with anything else in depth.
----
“Dammit Truck! Leggo!”
Truck rolled his eyes and twisted his little brother’s ear harder as he led Patrick up the front step of the old, slightly decrepit looking cabin. “Look, I told you not to listen to all those little snots you play baseball with. You’re lucky that all mom’s making you do is return it and apologize.”
“You don’t understand,” Patrick whined, and Truck had to roll his eyes. Actually, it was all too easy to understand. A bunch of bored eight year olds making up ghost stories to entertain themselves since there wasn’t a damn thing else to do on the island.
“I can’t believe you thought he was a modern day Frankenstein. Or that Mrs. Jagger was a mad scientist. For God’s sake, you’ve known her since you were in diapers, dumb ass.” Truck gestured to the door, and after leveling him a baleful glare, Patrick knocked.
“Maybe she was just being nice so she could pluck out my brains and rearrange my face,” Patrick whispered furiously.
“Maybe all this sunshine, fresh air and friendship has rotted what little is left of your brain,” Truck let go of his ear in favor of smacking him upside the head. Every summer since Truck could remember, their family had summered on Christopher Island. The island itself didn’t exactly have a very big population, but every summer it was inundated with vacationing families.
The only difference was, when this summer ended, their family would be staying behind. Something about his father needing space, his mother wanting to get away from the suburban sprawl. Embracing a simpler life. Blah, blah, his parents were weird. But, since his father was a novelist and his mother an heiress to old money, he supposed they were entitled to their eccentric ways.
Which kind of made Patrick’s offense all that much worse, since there wasn’t any room to throw stones.
The front door opened, and Truck sucked in a tired sigh. Mrs. Jagger was pissed. No two ways about it. “Terrence, Patrick,” she greeted them each sternly. And really, Truck didn’t blame her in the least.
“Patrick has something he wants to say.” Truck shoved Patrick forward. When he didn’t say anything and stared sullenly at the ground, Truck accompanied the shove with another smack upside the head. Whoever said that kids needed socialization at young ages had obviously never been socialized at a young age. Truck had much preferred Patrick when he was a creepy little genius outcast brat. There was way less maintenance involved.
“I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologizing to, Patrick Michael ,” she glanced at him over the tops of her glasses. Personally, at age eight, that would have had Truck sobbing out a tearful hearfelt apology and promising to never, ever do it again.
Patrick? He shrugged and rolled his eyes.
Truck took great delight in smacking him upside the head again. Who knew, maybe enough slaps would knock some sense back into Einstein’s tiny little pea brain.
“Fine. Where is he?” Patrick mumbled. Truck valiantly resisted the urge to strangle him.
“He’s on the davenport in the living room,” Mrs. Jagger sniffed before turning towards the kitchen. Grabbing Patrick by the neck, Truck steered him towards the living room.
There was a kid lying on the couch watching TV. He had scraggly blond hair and a blanket over his legs despite the fact that it was a billion degrees outside and the AC inside only made it only slightly more bearable than living in the desert. “That him?” Truck muttered under his breath shoving Patrick forward.
Patrick, of course, chose this moment as the one to reenact every klutzy moment he’d ever had as his previous egghead self, and tripped. He stumbled over the smooth wood floors, careened into the coffee table, dropped the leg brace that had necessitated the whole trip and pulled the blanket off the boy lying on the couch.
“See! I told you, Truck!” Patrick scrambled back up from the floor with surprising agility as he waved the brace wildly at the kid’s leg. “He’s Frankenstien!”
“Boy, that is some hole in your head where your brain belongs,” Truck growled, grabbing the brace out of Patrick’s hands and reaching out to smack him yet again, getting frustrated when Patrick ducked and then getting furious as his twerpy brother made for the door. “Ick, you get your ass back here,” he barked.
“He’s gonna eat me! You’re on your own,” Patrick squealed before turning tail and running.
Growling, Truck looked at the brace in his hand and then turned to look at the boy on the couch. His hand was covering his mouth and his eyes were crinkling at the corners as his chest heaved. He was crying. His stupid little brother had managed to shame and humiliate the crippled kid.
Truck was going to kill Patrick. And his politically incorrect elementary school idiot friends.
“Look, I’m sorry. He’s got a mental illness,” Truck apologized. Well, stupidity had to classify as some kind of mental illness.
“Oh my god, I want to have a little brother.”
Blinking, Truck watched as the boy moved his hand from his mouth to reveal that no, he wasn’t sobbing over hurt feelings. Oh no, he was practically cackling with laughter.
“Excuse me?”
“See, I stumbled across their chats online. Overheard them in the library and from there, it was easy to slip in,” the kid’s eyes practically glowed with mischievousness. “So I started a rumor about this Frankenstein kid who was living with this mad scientist witch.”
Apparently Patrick’s mental illness was catching. “You started a rumor about yourself to a bunch of impressionable eight year olds?” He arched an eyebrow. This, however, only made the crazy cripple kid laugh harder.
“Oh man, it’s the most fun I’ve had since I got here. Your little brother gets bonus points too I have to say. Very creative planning.”
“You’re crazy,” Truck told him flatly.
“Quite probably. Can I have my brace back?”
Truck handed it over awkwardly, hoping as he did so that Patrick hadn’t managed to break the stupid thing.
“Riley, you’ve got twenty minutes until we head to the mainland for your PT,” Mrs. Jagger popped her head in, sparing them both a glance over her glasses.
“Doesn’t it give you the creeps when she does that?” Truck muttered out of the side of his mouth as she left. Riley burst into laughter again, almost startling Truck right off the couch. As much as he liked to puff his own ego, he had to admit, he didn’t think he was that funny. “Uh-huh.”
“You don’t understand,” Riley said. “But I got twenty minutes and some burning questions. First, ‘Ick’?”
“What?”
“Your little brother, little mini-Hawking.”
“I once convinced him that he could give all the fish on the planet ick because he was so smart his brain emitted waves that corresponded to the last three letters of his name,” Truck offered, a little freaked by the way Riley was staring at him.
“Smart little shit, but really naïve,” Riley cackled. “Gotta love it.”
“You’re weird, and I’m going home,” Truck decided.
“Ah, c’mon. It’s okay for you to mess with his mind because he’s your big brother. I got no one. And all this mischief to manage. Cut me some slack.”
“Goodbye crazy person. I’ll send Ick over later to attempt his apology again.”
Riley’s face fell for a second before it brightened all over again. “Come with him. Come for dinner. I’m begging you, I’m bored out of my skull. I need mental stimulation.”
“I dunno,” he eyed the kid distrustfully.
“We’ll have some of Aunt Suzy’s famous three point one four.”
“We’ll see.” The things he did for his idiot brother.
“Well, you know, whatever,” Riley tried to play it cool.
Truck let out a put upon sigh. “Add a one five nine two six on there and you might be able to out geek Ick. I’ll try to get him here by six.”
----
So, the thought process for this one went:
Rachel watches Ice Age-->wants to write story based in late Pleistocene-->realizes that I know nothing about the late Pleistocene-->gets sidetracked googling about mammoths-->decides to try to see what legends/myths exists for the first horse-->gets sidetracked and stumbles upon GLBT site which has this: Chin -- Chin is a dwarf god in Mayan mythology. He is said to have introduced homoerotic relationships to the Mayan nobles. These nobles took youths from the lower classes to be lovers to their sons. These unions were legal marriages under Mayan law. -->Thinks that would be a freaking cool plot...if I knew anything about Mayan culture-->says screw it and it now takes place in a remote country that only exists in my head. Plus, there are temple prostitutes because I stumbled on them googling too.
----
Jita did as his mother had commanded him that morning outside of their small hut on the edge of the village. He kept his head down, letting his normal shoulder length black hair fall forward into his face. He kept his knees slightly apart and had his palms laid flat on the ground.
All the young men of the village had come out for the occasion. Most were dressed in their best. The most colorful clothes of the best weaves. Some had their hair braided to the best advantage, while others had bright strips of exotic fabrics woven through freshly washed and combed hair.
Jita’s hair hung loose with no adornments and no braids. He’d had neither the time for such frivolities nor the money to go to such lengths. His breeches were old, soft as butter not because they’d been made that way, but because he’d worn them down almost to nothing. But they were the best that he had, and they hugged his body to the best advantage. They looked shabby, however, in comparison to those around him.
And when the country’s royalty descended from their mountain to choose amongst the male village youth, appearances mattered. The men standing before him were not choosing for themselves, of course, but for their noble sons.
The other village boys had their illusions. After all, there was prestige in being chosen. And if the match went well, there was the life of royalty to be had. Matches were as good as marriage. With status came wealth, and then a boy could pull his entire family into a new social standing.
Jita wasn’t stupid. There was no way that he’d be able to bring his family to nobility status. No boy’s match could do that. But getting the favor from a noble family? That could seriously bring a family up in prestige within the village. Money and food wouldn’t hurt either.
His sisters’ earnings at the temple went to the temple. They were married to it now. He was the only boy of the family and it was to him that supporting his mother fell.
“You,” a voice above him barked. “Stand.”
“Yes sir,” Jita kept his head bent as he stood slowly. From behind the curtain of his hair, he could see the man circling him like a vulture over a kill. He stood still, didn’t fidget during the inspection and did not raise his head or attempt to stare anyone in the eye. Instead, he stared at the bejeweled shoes and the rich fabric of the breeches of the man before him, marveling over the fact that someone this wealthy would need to descend to a village such as theirs looking for companions.
“Name?” The authoritative voice demanded.
“Jita, sir,” he said softly, keeping both posture and voice submissive. Not necessarily because he felt that way, but because no noble wanted a headstrong idiot running around their home and stirring up trouble with their sons.
“How old are you?” The question was whispered as a hand touched his chin, pulling his head up.
“Sixteen summers,” Jita returned with greater calm than he was feeling. He looked the noble in the eye, knowing as he did so that he was pulling himself out of the contest all together. No one would want to bring someone with his eyes home to their son. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but it was probably the only thing that betrayed what he was feeling.
The man before him was obviously of important stature. Not that the other nobles weren’t but from the interest that the other nobles were displaying over this man’s interest in Jita, he had to conclude that this noble must hold a rather lofty position. He was old enough to have been Jita’s father twice over, it seemed. But his grip was strong, and his dark brown eyes kind.
“Those are unusual eyes,” the man whispered again, deliberately keeping the conversation between them and keeping the other nobles, attendants, and village boys out of it. For that, Jita respected him. Although, it wasn’t hard to divine from the surrounding villagers’ smirks that they knew exactly which route the conversation had taken.
“I can’t change them,” Jita answered, just as quietly. Because unlike everyone else’s, his eyes were a pale blue. They stood out sharply on his face against his features. He fought the urge to glare defiantly. Maybe the plan had been to get chosen, but he couldn’t hide what he was either. And with the game up before it started, there wasn’t any point to try.
“No, I rather doubt you could,” the noble said thoughtfully, pulling back slightly. He surveyed the group of boys gathered once more, and Jita fell back to resume his original position. The other boys would be vicious, he was sure. He’d have to run to keep out of their reaches once the noble entourage left.
The ones who would be picked would be headed off to the capital, and those who hadn’t would be angry in their disappointment. It didn’t take a wise man to figure out that Jita, the lowest of the low, would bear the brunt of their frustrations.
“My youngest son has need of a companion,” the man who had spoken to Jita declared loudly, spurring on the last part of the festival. “I have come to your village today in hopes of finding someone to offer as a match.”
A great many boys shifted slightly at the words. Out of fear or out of anticipation, Jita couldn’t tell. He didn’t really care either. He was too busy trying to plan a quick escape through an alley and past the pastures until he made it to the edges of the jungle. They wouldn’t follow him too far into the trees for the sake of their own superstitions.
“Gealin, Halit, Kamert, Tiene,” one of the attendants dragged on, and Jita tensed. It would only take the chosen boys a few moments to gather their things and follow the procession up the mountain to the capital. And once they were out of site, the village boys would pounce. They’d probably pounce even before, and there was only a short period of time in which Jita could make good an escape. He’d have to make it count. “And Jita.”
Jerking his head slightly in confusion, Jita found an assistant standing in front of him, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Shakily, Jita accepted it, hauling himself up without using the attendant as leverage.
There had to be a mistake. He was an outcast. He was foreign. His eyes were the wrong color, dammit. His mother had been a temple prostitute, and his sisters were now married into the same business.
Someone like him just didn’t get chosen for a match. He’d tried because he was desperate, not because he thought he had a chance. Blinking, he allowed himself to be led to a rather impressive horse. The noble who had addressed him earlier, sat smiling benignly down at him.
Jita was beginning to have some misgivings. What exactly had he gotten himself into? He, better than most, should understand how while tradition presented one thing, it could represent something else entirely. For all he knew, he could be headed to the capital, destined to be a slave sacrificed to the gods or given to neighboring kingdoms to do with as they pleased. It would certainly explain why they had chosen him amongst the many other, better clothed and better dressed, boys.
Underneath his fancy headdress though, were the kind eyes and an understanding smile that Jita had seen earlier, and the man offered him an arm. And attendant chattered indignantly, bringing up another horse and the noble waved him off with an exasperated look before turning back to Jita and offering his arm once more. Forcing back any indecision, Jita quickly took it before he could talk himself out of it and swung up on the horse behind the noble.
“You’ll make a good match to my youngest,” the noble muttered before spurring the horse on. Holding on for dear life, Jita sure hoped so.
----
1. I hate that it's in first person. But I don't think I could write it any better in third.
2. I got stuck. Story of...well, everything I write. It's been in the back of my head for days though, so I'll probably revisit it while frustrated on other things.
----
I’m flopped out spread eagle on the bridge with my legs bent at the knees and dangling off the edge when I hear the telltale sputtering of Gracie’s car. There’s a shirt over my crotch, but only because Kyle refused to say more than two fucking words to me until I was ‘decent’. It’s actually starting to get dark outside, but that’s never stopped us before.
“Oh, you two are in such shit,” Jon whoops, being the first to clamor over the railing. It’s amazing he can even do that considering his lack of grace makes me look like I’m capable of performing Swan Lake. He’s peeling off his shirt and trying to toe his shoes off at the same time as he comes too close to the edge and falls in.
Being the kind and considerate friend I am, I laugh like a hyena as he surfaces, sputtering. “Way to go, twinkle toes!”
“Fuck off,” he flips me half a peace sign. “Just wait, I still owe you for the Aunt Myrtle snot.”
“She is a nice lady, and you should respect your elders,” Igor announces solemnly, but there’s a vicious gleam in his eyes. Cheeky brat. My aunt Myrtle, despite Jon’s supreme disgust with her, is in her early thirties and built like a brunette Marilyn Monroe. It’s just that she seems to believe herself to be the lead actress in the soap opera of everyone’s life. Drama Queen just doesn’t quite cover it.
“Right, like we didn’t see you ogling her double D boobs,” Gracie snickers, elbowing Igor as they climb over the edge. They’re still wearing their caps and gowns, but Gracie’s already peeling hers off to reveal a motor oil smudged muscle T that obviously once belonged to a brother and a pair of old cut offs that barely cover her ass. Igor peels off his gown and I’m treated to the wonderful sight of him in a muscle T and a pair of cargo shorts. I say if he gives Aunt Myrtle two years she, not to mention the rest of the female population, will probably be creaming their pants over him.
“No, he has a point,” I pipe in, “we should always respect our elders. As long as they represent some kind of eye candy appeal, of course.” I sit up, shrugging.
“And when we need etiquette lessons in how to be a shallow Neanderthal, you’ll be the first person we come running to,” Gracie says sweetly before peeling her shirt off. I sneak a look at Kyle, snorting slightly as his eyes bulge out once more. Poor kid. We’re probably the most action he’s seen in his entire life.
“You’re gonna make her nervous, man. And then she’s gonna put the shirt back on, and really, wouldn’t that just be a crying shame?” Snagging an arm around his neck, I ruffle his hair less than gently until he snaps out of trance long enough to shove me away.
Gracie is used to me and my crassness, so she ignores me and my comments completely. Igor, however, rolls his eyes before smacking me upside the head. “Don’t be an ass. Behave.”
“Bite me, bitch,” I laugh as he peels off his clothes. The display of so much skin seems to be too much for Kyle, because he’s looking pointedly out across the bay in the opposite direction from us all.
Other things I need to work on:
1. SMP...I'm so late with this, but I have Sunday off, and I'll try to pull it together then.
2. BWH...have 1078 words written on it, but it's still a ways from being done. I'm not even sure I like those 1078 words. -_-
3. Sin!! I want to write Sin. ;_; Tobin and Gino and Os and they all exist in my head and no one knows what I'm babbling about, I'm sure, but that's okay. ^___^
4. Switching Places
5. Finding Sanity
6. Escort with AJ and Talbot
7. Boy, this list could go on for a while if I wanted it to...
2. If you don't like WIPs, you're really not going to want to click on the cuts. Just saying.
Started this one back in April. And randomly played with it tonight since my brain wasn't up to playing with anything else in depth.
----
“Dammit Truck! Leggo!”
Truck rolled his eyes and twisted his little brother’s ear harder as he led Patrick up the front step of the old, slightly decrepit looking cabin. “Look, I told you not to listen to all those little snots you play baseball with. You’re lucky that all mom’s making you do is return it and apologize.”
“You don’t understand,” Patrick whined, and Truck had to roll his eyes. Actually, it was all too easy to understand. A bunch of bored eight year olds making up ghost stories to entertain themselves since there wasn’t a damn thing else to do on the island.
“I can’t believe you thought he was a modern day Frankenstein. Or that Mrs. Jagger was a mad scientist. For God’s sake, you’ve known her since you were in diapers, dumb ass.” Truck gestured to the door, and after leveling him a baleful glare, Patrick knocked.
“Maybe she was just being nice so she could pluck out my brains and rearrange my face,” Patrick whispered furiously.
“Maybe all this sunshine, fresh air and friendship has rotted what little is left of your brain,” Truck let go of his ear in favor of smacking him upside the head. Every summer since Truck could remember, their family had summered on Christopher Island. The island itself didn’t exactly have a very big population, but every summer it was inundated with vacationing families.
The only difference was, when this summer ended, their family would be staying behind. Something about his father needing space, his mother wanting to get away from the suburban sprawl. Embracing a simpler life. Blah, blah, his parents were weird. But, since his father was a novelist and his mother an heiress to old money, he supposed they were entitled to their eccentric ways.
Which kind of made Patrick’s offense all that much worse, since there wasn’t any room to throw stones.
The front door opened, and Truck sucked in a tired sigh. Mrs. Jagger was pissed. No two ways about it. “Terrence, Patrick,” she greeted them each sternly. And really, Truck didn’t blame her in the least.
“Patrick has something he wants to say.” Truck shoved Patrick forward. When he didn’t say anything and stared sullenly at the ground, Truck accompanied the shove with another smack upside the head. Whoever said that kids needed socialization at young ages had obviously never been socialized at a young age. Truck had much preferred Patrick when he was a creepy little genius outcast brat. There was way less maintenance involved.
“I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologizing to, Patrick Michael ,” she glanced at him over the tops of her glasses. Personally, at age eight, that would have had Truck sobbing out a tearful hearfelt apology and promising to never, ever do it again.
Patrick? He shrugged and rolled his eyes.
Truck took great delight in smacking him upside the head again. Who knew, maybe enough slaps would knock some sense back into Einstein’s tiny little pea brain.
“Fine. Where is he?” Patrick mumbled. Truck valiantly resisted the urge to strangle him.
“He’s on the davenport in the living room,” Mrs. Jagger sniffed before turning towards the kitchen. Grabbing Patrick by the neck, Truck steered him towards the living room.
There was a kid lying on the couch watching TV. He had scraggly blond hair and a blanket over his legs despite the fact that it was a billion degrees outside and the AC inside only made it only slightly more bearable than living in the desert. “That him?” Truck muttered under his breath shoving Patrick forward.
Patrick, of course, chose this moment as the one to reenact every klutzy moment he’d ever had as his previous egghead self, and tripped. He stumbled over the smooth wood floors, careened into the coffee table, dropped the leg brace that had necessitated the whole trip and pulled the blanket off the boy lying on the couch.
“See! I told you, Truck!” Patrick scrambled back up from the floor with surprising agility as he waved the brace wildly at the kid’s leg. “He’s Frankenstien!”
“Boy, that is some hole in your head where your brain belongs,” Truck growled, grabbing the brace out of Patrick’s hands and reaching out to smack him yet again, getting frustrated when Patrick ducked and then getting furious as his twerpy brother made for the door. “Ick, you get your ass back here,” he barked.
“He’s gonna eat me! You’re on your own,” Patrick squealed before turning tail and running.
Growling, Truck looked at the brace in his hand and then turned to look at the boy on the couch. His hand was covering his mouth and his eyes were crinkling at the corners as his chest heaved. He was crying. His stupid little brother had managed to shame and humiliate the crippled kid.
Truck was going to kill Patrick. And his politically incorrect elementary school idiot friends.
“Look, I’m sorry. He’s got a mental illness,” Truck apologized. Well, stupidity had to classify as some kind of mental illness.
“Oh my god, I want to have a little brother.”
Blinking, Truck watched as the boy moved his hand from his mouth to reveal that no, he wasn’t sobbing over hurt feelings. Oh no, he was practically cackling with laughter.
“Excuse me?”
“See, I stumbled across their chats online. Overheard them in the library and from there, it was easy to slip in,” the kid’s eyes practically glowed with mischievousness. “So I started a rumor about this Frankenstein kid who was living with this mad scientist witch.”
Apparently Patrick’s mental illness was catching. “You started a rumor about yourself to a bunch of impressionable eight year olds?” He arched an eyebrow. This, however, only made the crazy cripple kid laugh harder.
“Oh man, it’s the most fun I’ve had since I got here. Your little brother gets bonus points too I have to say. Very creative planning.”
“You’re crazy,” Truck told him flatly.
“Quite probably. Can I have my brace back?”
Truck handed it over awkwardly, hoping as he did so that Patrick hadn’t managed to break the stupid thing.
“Riley, you’ve got twenty minutes until we head to the mainland for your PT,” Mrs. Jagger popped her head in, sparing them both a glance over her glasses.
“Doesn’t it give you the creeps when she does that?” Truck muttered out of the side of his mouth as she left. Riley burst into laughter again, almost startling Truck right off the couch. As much as he liked to puff his own ego, he had to admit, he didn’t think he was that funny. “Uh-huh.”
“You don’t understand,” Riley said. “But I got twenty minutes and some burning questions. First, ‘Ick’?”
“What?”
“Your little brother, little mini-Hawking.”
“I once convinced him that he could give all the fish on the planet ick because he was so smart his brain emitted waves that corresponded to the last three letters of his name,” Truck offered, a little freaked by the way Riley was staring at him.
“Smart little shit, but really naïve,” Riley cackled. “Gotta love it.”
“You’re weird, and I’m going home,” Truck decided.
“Ah, c’mon. It’s okay for you to mess with his mind because he’s your big brother. I got no one. And all this mischief to manage. Cut me some slack.”
“Goodbye crazy person. I’ll send Ick over later to attempt his apology again.”
Riley’s face fell for a second before it brightened all over again. “Come with him. Come for dinner. I’m begging you, I’m bored out of my skull. I need mental stimulation.”
“I dunno,” he eyed the kid distrustfully.
“We’ll have some of Aunt Suzy’s famous three point one four.”
“We’ll see.” The things he did for his idiot brother.
“Well, you know, whatever,” Riley tried to play it cool.
Truck let out a put upon sigh. “Add a one five nine two six on there and you might be able to out geek Ick. I’ll try to get him here by six.”
----
So, the thought process for this one went:
Rachel watches Ice Age-->wants to write story based in late Pleistocene-->realizes that I know nothing about the late Pleistocene-->gets sidetracked googling about mammoths-->decides to try to see what legends/myths exists for the first horse-->gets sidetracked and stumbles upon GLBT site which has this: Chin -- Chin is a dwarf god in Mayan mythology. He is said to have introduced homoerotic relationships to the Mayan nobles. These nobles took youths from the lower classes to be lovers to their sons. These unions were legal marriages under Mayan law. -->Thinks that would be a freaking cool plot...if I knew anything about Mayan culture-->says screw it and it now takes place in a remote country that only exists in my head. Plus, there are temple prostitutes because I stumbled on them googling too.
----
Jita did as his mother had commanded him that morning outside of their small hut on the edge of the village. He kept his head down, letting his normal shoulder length black hair fall forward into his face. He kept his knees slightly apart and had his palms laid flat on the ground.
All the young men of the village had come out for the occasion. Most were dressed in their best. The most colorful clothes of the best weaves. Some had their hair braided to the best advantage, while others had bright strips of exotic fabrics woven through freshly washed and combed hair.
Jita’s hair hung loose with no adornments and no braids. He’d had neither the time for such frivolities nor the money to go to such lengths. His breeches were old, soft as butter not because they’d been made that way, but because he’d worn them down almost to nothing. But they were the best that he had, and they hugged his body to the best advantage. They looked shabby, however, in comparison to those around him.
And when the country’s royalty descended from their mountain to choose amongst the male village youth, appearances mattered. The men standing before him were not choosing for themselves, of course, but for their noble sons.
The other village boys had their illusions. After all, there was prestige in being chosen. And if the match went well, there was the life of royalty to be had. Matches were as good as marriage. With status came wealth, and then a boy could pull his entire family into a new social standing.
Jita wasn’t stupid. There was no way that he’d be able to bring his family to nobility status. No boy’s match could do that. But getting the favor from a noble family? That could seriously bring a family up in prestige within the village. Money and food wouldn’t hurt either.
His sisters’ earnings at the temple went to the temple. They were married to it now. He was the only boy of the family and it was to him that supporting his mother fell.
“You,” a voice above him barked. “Stand.”
“Yes sir,” Jita kept his head bent as he stood slowly. From behind the curtain of his hair, he could see the man circling him like a vulture over a kill. He stood still, didn’t fidget during the inspection and did not raise his head or attempt to stare anyone in the eye. Instead, he stared at the bejeweled shoes and the rich fabric of the breeches of the man before him, marveling over the fact that someone this wealthy would need to descend to a village such as theirs looking for companions.
“Name?” The authoritative voice demanded.
“Jita, sir,” he said softly, keeping both posture and voice submissive. Not necessarily because he felt that way, but because no noble wanted a headstrong idiot running around their home and stirring up trouble with their sons.
“How old are you?” The question was whispered as a hand touched his chin, pulling his head up.
“Sixteen summers,” Jita returned with greater calm than he was feeling. He looked the noble in the eye, knowing as he did so that he was pulling himself out of the contest all together. No one would want to bring someone with his eyes home to their son. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but it was probably the only thing that betrayed what he was feeling.
The man before him was obviously of important stature. Not that the other nobles weren’t but from the interest that the other nobles were displaying over this man’s interest in Jita, he had to conclude that this noble must hold a rather lofty position. He was old enough to have been Jita’s father twice over, it seemed. But his grip was strong, and his dark brown eyes kind.
“Those are unusual eyes,” the man whispered again, deliberately keeping the conversation between them and keeping the other nobles, attendants, and village boys out of it. For that, Jita respected him. Although, it wasn’t hard to divine from the surrounding villagers’ smirks that they knew exactly which route the conversation had taken.
“I can’t change them,” Jita answered, just as quietly. Because unlike everyone else’s, his eyes were a pale blue. They stood out sharply on his face against his features. He fought the urge to glare defiantly. Maybe the plan had been to get chosen, but he couldn’t hide what he was either. And with the game up before it started, there wasn’t any point to try.
“No, I rather doubt you could,” the noble said thoughtfully, pulling back slightly. He surveyed the group of boys gathered once more, and Jita fell back to resume his original position. The other boys would be vicious, he was sure. He’d have to run to keep out of their reaches once the noble entourage left.
The ones who would be picked would be headed off to the capital, and those who hadn’t would be angry in their disappointment. It didn’t take a wise man to figure out that Jita, the lowest of the low, would bear the brunt of their frustrations.
“My youngest son has need of a companion,” the man who had spoken to Jita declared loudly, spurring on the last part of the festival. “I have come to your village today in hopes of finding someone to offer as a match.”
A great many boys shifted slightly at the words. Out of fear or out of anticipation, Jita couldn’t tell. He didn’t really care either. He was too busy trying to plan a quick escape through an alley and past the pastures until he made it to the edges of the jungle. They wouldn’t follow him too far into the trees for the sake of their own superstitions.
“Gealin, Halit, Kamert, Tiene,” one of the attendants dragged on, and Jita tensed. It would only take the chosen boys a few moments to gather their things and follow the procession up the mountain to the capital. And once they were out of site, the village boys would pounce. They’d probably pounce even before, and there was only a short period of time in which Jita could make good an escape. He’d have to make it count. “And Jita.”
Jerking his head slightly in confusion, Jita found an assistant standing in front of him, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Shakily, Jita accepted it, hauling himself up without using the attendant as leverage.
There had to be a mistake. He was an outcast. He was foreign. His eyes were the wrong color, dammit. His mother had been a temple prostitute, and his sisters were now married into the same business.
Someone like him just didn’t get chosen for a match. He’d tried because he was desperate, not because he thought he had a chance. Blinking, he allowed himself to be led to a rather impressive horse. The noble who had addressed him earlier, sat smiling benignly down at him.
Jita was beginning to have some misgivings. What exactly had he gotten himself into? He, better than most, should understand how while tradition presented one thing, it could represent something else entirely. For all he knew, he could be headed to the capital, destined to be a slave sacrificed to the gods or given to neighboring kingdoms to do with as they pleased. It would certainly explain why they had chosen him amongst the many other, better clothed and better dressed, boys.
Underneath his fancy headdress though, were the kind eyes and an understanding smile that Jita had seen earlier, and the man offered him an arm. And attendant chattered indignantly, bringing up another horse and the noble waved him off with an exasperated look before turning back to Jita and offering his arm once more. Forcing back any indecision, Jita quickly took it before he could talk himself out of it and swung up on the horse behind the noble.
“You’ll make a good match to my youngest,” the noble muttered before spurring the horse on. Holding on for dear life, Jita sure hoped so.
----
1. I hate that it's in first person. But I don't think I could write it any better in third.
2. I got stuck. Story of...well, everything I write. It's been in the back of my head for days though, so I'll probably revisit it while frustrated on other things.
----
I’m flopped out spread eagle on the bridge with my legs bent at the knees and dangling off the edge when I hear the telltale sputtering of Gracie’s car. There’s a shirt over my crotch, but only because Kyle refused to say more than two fucking words to me until I was ‘decent’. It’s actually starting to get dark outside, but that’s never stopped us before.
“Oh, you two are in such shit,” Jon whoops, being the first to clamor over the railing. It’s amazing he can even do that considering his lack of grace makes me look like I’m capable of performing Swan Lake. He’s peeling off his shirt and trying to toe his shoes off at the same time as he comes too close to the edge and falls in.
Being the kind and considerate friend I am, I laugh like a hyena as he surfaces, sputtering. “Way to go, twinkle toes!”
“Fuck off,” he flips me half a peace sign. “Just wait, I still owe you for the Aunt Myrtle snot.”
“She is a nice lady, and you should respect your elders,” Igor announces solemnly, but there’s a vicious gleam in his eyes. Cheeky brat. My aunt Myrtle, despite Jon’s supreme disgust with her, is in her early thirties and built like a brunette Marilyn Monroe. It’s just that she seems to believe herself to be the lead actress in the soap opera of everyone’s life. Drama Queen just doesn’t quite cover it.
“Right, like we didn’t see you ogling her double D boobs,” Gracie snickers, elbowing Igor as they climb over the edge. They’re still wearing their caps and gowns, but Gracie’s already peeling hers off to reveal a motor oil smudged muscle T that obviously once belonged to a brother and a pair of old cut offs that barely cover her ass. Igor peels off his gown and I’m treated to the wonderful sight of him in a muscle T and a pair of cargo shorts. I say if he gives Aunt Myrtle two years she, not to mention the rest of the female population, will probably be creaming their pants over him.
“No, he has a point,” I pipe in, “we should always respect our elders. As long as they represent some kind of eye candy appeal, of course.” I sit up, shrugging.
“And when we need etiquette lessons in how to be a shallow Neanderthal, you’ll be the first person we come running to,” Gracie says sweetly before peeling her shirt off. I sneak a look at Kyle, snorting slightly as his eyes bulge out once more. Poor kid. We’re probably the most action he’s seen in his entire life.
“You’re gonna make her nervous, man. And then she’s gonna put the shirt back on, and really, wouldn’t that just be a crying shame?” Snagging an arm around his neck, I ruffle his hair less than gently until he snaps out of trance long enough to shove me away.
Gracie is used to me and my crassness, so she ignores me and my comments completely. Igor, however, rolls his eyes before smacking me upside the head. “Don’t be an ass. Behave.”
“Bite me, bitch,” I laugh as he peels off his clothes. The display of so much skin seems to be too much for Kyle, because he’s looking pointedly out across the bay in the opposite direction from us all.
Other things I need to work on:
1. SMP...I'm so late with this, but I have Sunday off, and I'll try to pull it together then.
2. BWH...have 1078 words written on it, but it's still a ways from being done. I'm not even sure I like those 1078 words. -_-
3. Sin!! I want to write Sin. ;_; Tobin and Gino and Os and they all exist in my head and no one knows what I'm babbling about, I'm sure, but that's okay. ^___^
4. Switching Places
5. Finding Sanity
6. Escort with AJ and Talbot
7. Boy, this list could go on for a while if I wanted it to...