BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - DRAMA

ANOTHERSKY

ALBATROSS, 6
Sunday, March 14, 2010

River Tam while at the Academy, in her own words. Part 6: a few familiar characters appear, in different forms. Ongoing. For those who want to start at the beginning, Part 1: http://www.fireflyfans.net/sunroomitem.asp?i=22568


CATEGORY: FICTION    TIMES READ: 1053    RATING: 10    SERIES: FIREFLY

As usual, the entries are unordered, from different periods of her time at the Academy. Questions, comments, guesses appreciated. Have at it.

[Joss is boss, River is not mine, etc. ad nauseum, ad infinitum...] Thanks to Bytemite for the beta. _______________________________________________________________________ ___ __ _

ENTRY # ???? White Wisteria Into the quiet bower Hung with thick white sunlight And swaying perfume A curtain so immediate Separated from the blistering sun by the long buzzing of wings Deep in sculptural clusters, fragile softness, Green tendrils catching air and blue sky Binding it to the heat, stirring it with leaves: Still under shade So heady the trance Like fading dusk That you struggle out of it Only after a few steps to remember you've left it behind. -- Now you visit only for arrangements Taking for a purpose, Feet skiffing through curled leaves Crisped on dry brick. Watch from the outside As it tries to draw you closer. You bow your head, Slip under again- A girl and The parted tablecloth. Straightening up You let your notice fall Into the dried flowers So quickly burnt And realize this place Is no longer meant for sheltering your ghost.

___

ENTRY #????

There is something bitter in my mouth, and it weighs down my tongue like copper. Around it I cannot speak, without it I cannot remember what was there before—only the instruction to keep it remains. I want to spit it out, for my feet are carrying me towards what I can only see is a black and rushing void, a vast river of night. But I have already forgotten how.

I can only remember negative space, the spots on the wall filled only by a bit of twisted wire or a tiny hole pricked in the pristine blank where pictures used to stand. Fortune’s wheel has flipped with a disapproving tut, tut. I hold the winnings in my mouth—my compensation, small change. I must not spit it out lest I reach this sweeping darkness without fare, to fail, my task incomplete, and I must not swallow it, to choke on the amulet that protects me. That would be willful and capricious. I was always willful and capricious, but I am not my own. I obey because only they know what is good for me—it is better that I obey. If I don’t I may be hurt. I can’t put together why this is funny, but there’ll be a joke beside me in the morning. Leering in my face.

The sweat soaks my sheets in the coffin chamber and I twist in them, wrapped up in a comforting, strangling embrace. The thoughts and echoes are like bats. Swallowing up insects in a diving swoop, crunching them down between white fangs until the light spills out like a broken lantern.

___

ENTRY # ????

And I’m here again, the blank table in my mind, cleared away, though I knew what was there before. Cleared away for work that they will give me, set on the table, my only plane of understanding. I only care about what’s shown in the clear photonegative in my mind, the space beyond is fuzzy and nonexistent. It exists beyond the fourth wall, beyond my crystal box. I am a treasured collection of seashells cleaned of sand and context, echoing with their insignificant, fragmented, fading seas. Pulsing with blood. Glowing ears, the rooms are like seashells, filled with clean sealight, silent except for wisps, shreds hanging from the walls that do not reveal themselves to me. Not enough to grasp. Not enough to see what they were. Like erased butterfly wings.

___

ENTRY #????

The driving metal plane, like sleet, like aluminum through my tongue, my sinuses, my cornea, all the way back into my skull. Shrapnel that is impossible to grab before I wake again, the taste of mothballs in my mouth and salt on my tongue. Burning.

Suddenly the air is cold and swirling like water. A lone light left on is my only sign that someone was here, however long ago. Fingerprints on the slick metal disrupting dust. I caught them but they still win, I have gained nothing they did not want me to know. Time passes here, but like silt through the floorboards; in a way I cannot understand. A few grains float down lazily like dust motes, then sometimes it is a deep calciferous avalanche, the soft whump of impact. There is no dark clatter like the black lacquer tray that held her powder. White like snow, spilled across the polished expanse—the sweetest light sugar. Melting into footprints.

I met him today. He watched during the operation, but my hands, a hundred miles down, sunk like stones, wouldn’t let go of the shrapnel. Trying to see where those footprints went, stalking across boards burnished with sandalwood oil. The shrapnel was warm, as if it came from a temple with the scent of incense drifting through the shattered concrete. Gunpowder offerings. Fireworks and groans.

The Buddha smiling under a moustache of sprayed blood.

I was in too much pain, let go and swam up to see him. All my limbs went cold, the last warning I would ever receive. I couldn’t feel them and I felt nothing upon our introduction. His name is Mathias. I am to call him Dr. Mathias, all in white. And now the disciples are complete, a full complement of twelve. He looks too arrogant for a holy man.

I have made it very far.

But I can see her nose flare, the dark eyes dart into the corner before it fades out. Something is there, and the knife will meet it. Sharp flash, rending the bats shreds of nothing below in the powdered grit of lives.

___

ENTRY # ????

I don’t have the dreams any more. I don’t dream. It’s more disorienting than ever. I’ve always dreamed, and now there is nothing, blackness waiting for me, I don’t know for how long. The fear is real, the pain is real. The dreams are not. I cannot put images to these things, I cannot see them. And I no longer know when I’m dreaming, when I’m remembering, and when I am on the table. There are things I’d like to think I didn’t do because I think I don’t remember them. She did something too, the dream-friend that I follow but she never turns around. Her hand like a fluttering against my cheek.

Baba enraged a high lady once.

_ __ ___ ________________________________________________________________________

COMMENTS

Monday, March 15, 2010 11:59 AM

BYTEMITE


I have insights into the wisteria passage now. This is something about River's childhood. She, the ghost who can no longer inhabit it, her childhood is dead, a tomb.

Copper in mouth is blood, and also a coin the Greeks placed on the tongue, so the soul could pay fare to Charon to ferry them across the river Acheron (tears, lament) into Hades. This River is not the River Styx, that flows through only the most vile places of Hades, in Tartarus, and it's the river the gods swear by because to drink it would kill even them.

Bats are eating fireflies. Fireflies in eastern thought symbolize souls.

Monday, March 15, 2010 9:19 PM

ANOTHERSKY


Busy busy, aren't you, Byte?

What you've brought up are great jumping-off points...

Wednesday, March 24, 2010 1:22 AM

ALIASSE


Poetry in every phrase, as usual. Now I'm starting to wonder where her awareness of what had happened on Miranda begins - is all her striving to communicate about suffering about her own suffering or others' as well?

You've promised that things will come together more after 7, I think - can't wait!

Wednesday, March 24, 2010 6:56 PM

ANOTHERSKY


Ah, promises and results can be two different things, Aliasse. But I believe that you'll be happier once we hit that point.

And it's not just an awareness of Miranda.
Besides Mathias, do you see anyone or anything familiar in this entry? I think you might.

Monday, March 29, 2010 6:06 PM

ANOTHERSKY


Byte: Also, I couldn't resist the "copper for a kiss" allusion. The obol just fit the situation.


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River Tam was once a student at The Academy. Now she has disappeared into the black, and all official records of the years she spent in captivity there have been erased or smoothed over. They no longer exist. But the girl does. Her diary is the only remaining commentary on the horrors of a future deceived.

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______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks and big props to patient betas gilove2dance, Steamer, and most especially Bytemite, who has so far stuck through this moonbrain narrative all the way through with true browncoat tenacity. Bravo. Thanks also to ncbrowncoat and a few others who encouraged the concept.

[River copyright Joss & Co., text copyright me, Joss is boss, etc. et al, ad nauseum...]



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