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x_projectAnd... my turn. (Drabbles were being exchanged tonight. Can you tell?)
Alison wonders if people get it, sometimes. If people understand that when Terry is being short and nigh monosyllabical with someone, it's because she is quite busy contemplating the inscrutable depths their stupidity can attain and that's no small task at all.
She truly wonders if people understand that when Terry isn't joking or flirting with you, it's because you're being so monumentally dumb that if you can't figure it out just by the change of tone in her voice or her writing, then you don't deserve to get told anyway because anyone that dense deserves what they've got coming to them, frankly.
And sometimes, just sometimes, Alison wonders if Terry was always like that, or if she picked that up from her.
~*~
Talking to Illyana is simple, really.
All you need to do is play with her. Talking is Illyana's playground, words the only toys she knows. You just have to always remember to do it on her own terms. To Illyana words are also weapons and her language is pure offence, each expression used to gain some ground, each sentence a careful trap lying in wait to be sprung. Talking is life and death for her, literally so.
Alison delights in that game – it's the one she knows as true as her heart, the one she's always been best at.
Words are not just Alison's trade, they're also her love and her passion. Talking to Illyana is all about crafting – a story, a song, a moment in time that will mean just as much to her as it will to the girl with daggers in her mind.
Illyana will remember it all.
And being able to just leap into the fray will wild abandon and know that no matter what blades come her way won't be about the hurt but about the duel itself, all about the contest and the razor sharp wit is what really makes Illyana an open book, aching to be read and understood.
Alison reads her only one page at a time, carefully so and as Illyana allows, and treasures each new secret revealed to her.
As it should be.
~*~
She remembers the first time they met. Flashing green eyes and in a too delicate face framed by brown hair, oddly dull and out of place somehow. The sass and laughter hiding the desire to be accepted which Alison had seen often enough in the faces of those girls left on the sidelines. Those refused from the cheerleading team, those not part of the popular social circles at school.
The day they first met, she remembered being in high school, where being blonde and pretty wasn't a guarantee of popularity, no matter what some might think. Being blonde, pretty and ruthless enough however, was. Being rich just made the rest of the road to popularity easier. Being smart as opposed to cunning meant victory was assured.
She remembers the day they first met, how the other girl hovered in the doorway of her new roommate's bedroom, sarcastic quips interspersed with barely noticeable pauses, hesitation overrun by the need to live up to expectations both social and personal, both real and imaginary. Alison remembers turning around and catching a glimpse of green among the brown and smiling to herself, enviously wondering how the glimpses of brilliant green must have sent all social expectations out the window and tumbling to the road.
She looks out the window, at the fading grass outside, its slow death marked by the progress of brown and gold across the lawn. Alison remembers the first day her friend decided to walk outside of the mansion and how winter's slow win over fall was suddenly halted for a moment, life blazing under the sunlight as Lorna's hair gleamed in all its brilliant, verdant glory.
The only reminder of this now is the green gleaming on her fingernails, the same color of green she wore as the last day they spent together, giggling like schoolgirls cutting school.
It is the only shade of nail polish Alison wears these days.
~*~
It was a very delicate procedure, really, and the small boy knew well enough to plan every step of it accordingly. Hammer safely wedged in the belt of his pants (the haft stuck out one pant leg, nearly hitting the ground which each step the boy took), bucket carefully held up just high enough so that the bottom did not scrape the ground, a careful path was picked along the snow bedecked ground towards the treehouse neatly tucked away in the patch of trees in the middle of the cornfield.
Tongue sticking out now and then, though never when the metal handle wavered near his face (there was no way he was repeating that experience ever again), Jamie peeked inside now and then, grinning in delight at the haul of still steaming hot chocolate chips cookies safely nestled within, neatly protected by a red and white napkin. The smell was all he needed to move along, intent on reaching the tree house and nailing in the last few steps he'd need to be able to climb up inside and celebrate in grand old country farm style.
That each cookie he had was nearly as big as his face only made the whole venture that much more fun for the five year old, really.
---
"Wow, Miles. Those sure are big..."
The small boy grinned up at Jamie and nodded enthusiastically, carefully balancing the cookies on a plate, careful not to bend or snap a single one of them in the process.
"...you know... I know the perfect spot to eat cookies like these."
An interrogative look greeted that remark, curiosity dawning at the nostalgic undertone to Jamie's voice. It only took following Jamie's gaze out the kitchen's large baywindow to get the idea, though.
"Race you to the treehouse!"
A napkin, red and white, was snapped down on the plate to keep the cookies safe and with happy whoops of delight, both boys raced out the kitchen and towards the main door.
Alison wonders if people get it, sometimes. If people understand that when Terry is being short and nigh monosyllabical with someone, it's because she is quite busy contemplating the inscrutable depths their stupidity can attain and that's no small task at all.
She truly wonders if people understand that when Terry isn't joking or flirting with you, it's because you're being so monumentally dumb that if you can't figure it out just by the change of tone in her voice or her writing, then you don't deserve to get told anyway because anyone that dense deserves what they've got coming to them, frankly.
And sometimes, just sometimes, Alison wonders if Terry was always like that, or if she picked that up from her.
~*~
Talking to Illyana is simple, really.
All you need to do is play with her. Talking is Illyana's playground, words the only toys she knows. You just have to always remember to do it on her own terms. To Illyana words are also weapons and her language is pure offence, each expression used to gain some ground, each sentence a careful trap lying in wait to be sprung. Talking is life and death for her, literally so.
Alison delights in that game – it's the one she knows as true as her heart, the one she's always been best at.
Words are not just Alison's trade, they're also her love and her passion. Talking to Illyana is all about crafting – a story, a song, a moment in time that will mean just as much to her as it will to the girl with daggers in her mind.
Illyana will remember it all.
And being able to just leap into the fray will wild abandon and know that no matter what blades come her way won't be about the hurt but about the duel itself, all about the contest and the razor sharp wit is what really makes Illyana an open book, aching to be read and understood.
Alison reads her only one page at a time, carefully so and as Illyana allows, and treasures each new secret revealed to her.
As it should be.
~*~
She remembers the first time they met. Flashing green eyes and in a too delicate face framed by brown hair, oddly dull and out of place somehow. The sass and laughter hiding the desire to be accepted which Alison had seen often enough in the faces of those girls left on the sidelines. Those refused from the cheerleading team, those not part of the popular social circles at school.
The day they first met, she remembered being in high school, where being blonde and pretty wasn't a guarantee of popularity, no matter what some might think. Being blonde, pretty and ruthless enough however, was. Being rich just made the rest of the road to popularity easier. Being smart as opposed to cunning meant victory was assured.
She remembers the day they first met, how the other girl hovered in the doorway of her new roommate's bedroom, sarcastic quips interspersed with barely noticeable pauses, hesitation overrun by the need to live up to expectations both social and personal, both real and imaginary. Alison remembers turning around and catching a glimpse of green among the brown and smiling to herself, enviously wondering how the glimpses of brilliant green must have sent all social expectations out the window and tumbling to the road.
She looks out the window, at the fading grass outside, its slow death marked by the progress of brown and gold across the lawn. Alison remembers the first day her friend decided to walk outside of the mansion and how winter's slow win over fall was suddenly halted for a moment, life blazing under the sunlight as Lorna's hair gleamed in all its brilliant, verdant glory.
The only reminder of this now is the green gleaming on her fingernails, the same color of green she wore as the last day they spent together, giggling like schoolgirls cutting school.
It is the only shade of nail polish Alison wears these days.
~*~
It was a very delicate procedure, really, and the small boy knew well enough to plan every step of it accordingly. Hammer safely wedged in the belt of his pants (the haft stuck out one pant leg, nearly hitting the ground which each step the boy took), bucket carefully held up just high enough so that the bottom did not scrape the ground, a careful path was picked along the snow bedecked ground towards the treehouse neatly tucked away in the patch of trees in the middle of the cornfield.
Tongue sticking out now and then, though never when the metal handle wavered near his face (there was no way he was repeating that experience ever again), Jamie peeked inside now and then, grinning in delight at the haul of still steaming hot chocolate chips cookies safely nestled within, neatly protected by a red and white napkin. The smell was all he needed to move along, intent on reaching the tree house and nailing in the last few steps he'd need to be able to climb up inside and celebrate in grand old country farm style.
That each cookie he had was nearly as big as his face only made the whole venture that much more fun for the five year old, really.
---
"Wow, Miles. Those sure are big..."
The small boy grinned up at Jamie and nodded enthusiastically, carefully balancing the cookies on a plate, careful not to bend or snap a single one of them in the process.
"...you know... I know the perfect spot to eat cookies like these."
An interrogative look greeted that remark, curiosity dawning at the nostalgic undertone to Jamie's voice. It only took following Jamie's gaze out the kitchen's large baywindow to get the idea, though.
"Race you to the treehouse!"
A napkin, red and white, was snapped down on the plate to keep the cookies safe and with happy whoops of delight, both boys raced out the kitchen and towards the main door.
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Date: 2005-10-12 03:41 am (UTC):: whaps! ::