Love is a dangerous angel

 Love is a dangerous angel - LiveJournal.com

Renewing the Group

So two people have responded to my previous post to rekindle this group. That'd be three people total. A good start, I think. I'd really only be willing to get seriously involved again if we could get at least 8 people willing to make a commitment to at least biweekly postings for at least 6 months, so at least 12 posts.

If anyone is reading this and wants to advertise in other comms, please feel free to drum up interest, whether or not you are interested yourself. I'm also going to try to pimp it a bit, see what comes of it.

For the record, I would most likely be rekindling my role as nick_agate and possibly as angel_juan (actually, provided I can figure out how to access either of them. I'm not sure I remember the passwords, frankly, so I might have to create new accounts if I can't work that out.) I would also be open, however, to the possibility of playing in the Ecstasia/Primavera universe, if there was more interest for that.

Let me know folks! :)  more...

Out of the Blue?

I'm just feeling compelled to post here and say that I miss this and everyone who was involved.

I wonder if anyone else does? Maybe we'd be able to get it together again.... I'd be interested.

*hugs* to all who might be reading, regardless, you are a fun group and I had a lot of fun with you all.  more...

To My Prodigal Almost-Daughter

Dear Witch Baby,

Stella gave me the address of the last place you'd written from; I hope this letter reaches you somehow and finds you well.

I've read and reread your coffee-stained postcard, trying to figure out how to respond honestly and without sounding too clutchy and mom-ish. But I guess what it comes down to is this: I can't say I fully approve of what you're doing, but I probably would have done the same thing if I was your age. As you know, even now I'm not above taking the occasional escape to get my life back together. 

Though you'd quickly try to deny it, you and I are very much alike: both now poised on the edge of another precipice in our lives, trying to find our respective places in this beautiful, scary, complex world. At this point, all we can do is trust that the roads we choose will lead us to something meaningful and that whatever magic we trusted up to this point will continue to protect us.

I know from experience that the process of finding yourself is a long, involved, and sometimes frustrating one. But I have faith that your strength and determination will ultimately lead you to your desire, in whatever form it may take. Until then, please know that you always have a home here if you choose to return.

Love,
Weetzie

OOC: I know this is kind of a half-assed and sudden response, but I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow and didn't want to leave anyone waiting. Be back in a week!

  more...

Mother, Mother.

Dear Weetzie,
Remember the skeleton bracelet you gave me before I left for New York to find Angel Juan? It snagged on the edge of a trashcan at the Amtrak station while I was throwing away a nasty hotdog. All the plastic skeletons went flying on to the tracks. I almost jumped after them when a tiny old woman with cotton candy hair grabbed my hand and showed me the train was coming closer. It was like little, old, Weetzie jumped back in time to keep me from losing my head...literally.

I'm sorry I never told you about dropping out of school. I was just a number there, identified by 9 digits, barcoded. Everyone is in this big giant hurry towards nothing. I just couldn't be there anymore. I didn't know where to go but I knew I had to leave.
I've been wandering from state to state, through hundreds of cities and I'm still just another grain of sand slipping through the big giant hand that keeps scooping us up just to watch us fall in silky strands from thick fingers. I can't come home yet. I know home, but that can't be the only place where I belong.
I used to only want Angel Juan, my drums, my camera and Fig Newtons. I should want more. I do want more, I think. I won't be where I am for long so I can't give you an address. I'll write again. Sorry for the coffee stain. The waitress overfilled my cup.


Witch Baby   more...

Dancing with Demons

It happened as if it was a dream; maybe that's all it ever was. Maybe that is all my life has ever been. One long, nightmarish dream that sometimes seemed beautiful. Maybe I will never know, now...
I don't know where I found it; where I found the number, buried amongst bloodstained love letters and dried orchids, a phone number scrawled in a spidery hand long, long ago, on a matchbook from a bar that is no longer standing:
Shadow - 381-0666
Shadow. Goddess, I knew someone named Shadow, once? I barely remember meeting him. I close my eyes a moment and see a whip-thin boyish demon in blood-red leather pants, cruel mouth, laughing with Nick, with Flint Cassidy, one of those long-ago parties. Drug-drenched and often barely standing, eyes green as poison, as real as Celeste's were not.
And they glowed in the dark. Especially when he made me cry.
I remember now.

My hand is shaking as I dial the number. I get another number from the gruff voice who answers, and I write it down, next to the old one. I light a cigarette with one of the matches in the book. Inhale.
...taking your poisons, transforming them, saving you but losing my own fight in the madness
I dial this last number. After that, things move too quickly for me to stop them.
A dream...

He laughs when he hears my voice, and I am sickened as I ask for what he has. He agrees to come that night, and I pace the house, smoking, hardly noticing the tears coursing down my face.
The knock.
At first I think it is my heart, and I jump, and then my heart does start to pound when I realize who must be at the door.
What I am about to do.
I need to know what holds you in thrall, my darling, Nick, what drug courses through your veins so that you are afraid to live, afraid to feel anything but that? Maybe if I understand, I can heal us both. Maybe I can transform the poisons...
And maybe, maybe they will just kill me as they are slowly killing you.
I feel like a fraud. My magic is all gone.
I feel like a fool.

After, my body lies in bed, there but not-there, detached, watching Shadow swagger into my bathroom, naked, without looking back. The water starts to run.
My body feels bruised, broken, a wilted, filthy rose lost in a gutter. The needle lies next to me, on the nightstand, like a dull viper, metallic and deadly.
For this you sell your soul? You use what beauty you have left...for this?
Poison. Poison apples, thorns on roses, finger prick. Opium dreams. Poppies dusting powder.
Poppies broken and bleeding.
It hurts to breathe.
No one will be here to kiss you awake

The water turns off, and he walks into the room, pulls on those red leather pants, stands above me, shirtless. He says nothing, and I stare back at him. Pinned like a butterfly.
I see the lust mingled in with the swaggering pride, the disgust, in me? In himself?
Though I forever wonder what beauty I could possibly have left, to make men look twice at me anymore...how I can still use it at all.
Shadow tosses another little packet down, next to the syringe. I flinch.
"You more than paid for it, babe" he says, a sneer in his smile. I turn away, close my eyes, lie there until I hear his boots pounding
the way he pounded into me
pounding down the stairs, the door slam, the roar of the bike as it speeds away. It must be getting close to midnight, now.
Like a dream...
What we sacrifice. Is it worth all this?

Nick, I don't know where you are, I don't know how to find you, I don't know if you even want me anymore. But I need to know. What is stronger than love? Drugs? Magic? Hate?
I am so tired of trying to go down a road with no one beside me. I can't make everything all right with teas, with potions, with paint.
Not even with love.
So maybe your medicines are what I need. Maybe if I travel down myself I can come up with the answer.

I get up slowly from the tangled bed that smells of smoke, of blood. Demons. I take down the lace from the mirror, and catch a glimpse of my face reflected back in the light of the candle there, and I pause. My eyes burn, my hair is wild, my skin so pale...a bruise on my left shoulder, purple as my eyes.
I am almost beautiful. I almost see what they see...
I tear a strip of lace with my teeth, sit naked and shivering on the edge of the bed.
So strange how it all comes back to me now. Like it hasn't been years since the last time...
Tie it tight around my upper arm, making the skin even whiter. My shaking hand holds up the syringe. I wouldn't let Shadow do this to me, see me this way. I did not use this to dull the pain of what I did with him. I saved this for when I was alone.
Who am I fooling? I was always alone
I gasp as I feel the needle bite into the soft flesh at my inner elbow. Blood swirling, mixing with this poison heaven, hell, nothing. I don't know if it's too much, but it's too late to worry about that now. I stretch across the bed, half-wrapped in the sheet.

Warmth, radiating from my core, but I'm shivering with it, curling into myself. My breath feels light, so light, my body insubstantial. Maybe I have grown wings...maybe my roots have planted themselves further into the earth, iris, orchid, rose...no longer myself...flowers. The root of love...

When I close my eyes I'm not sure when or if I will be opening them again, but I promise myself I will remember these last thoughts, even if I am taking them with me to another place.
I feel as if I am spinning, spiraling, down, down...
My eyes snap open and I hear a little cry. Was that me?
All of a sudden, I am terrified. What have I done? But the world begins to grey out and I shiver, wrapped in the sheets. Too late. Frantically hoping...for what? I can't name it.
But I do anyhow.

Nick...wherever you are...oh, goddess, I am so sorry...  more...
i continue:

"i'm not back in LA yet; i had to escape, like you did. i'm coming back soon though, and i need to see you. i want to see you. i don't know what you think of me, but im sure it's not good. we need to talk. the best way to reach me is by calling xxx-xxxx."

i stare at the phone after setting it down, feeling like this is all a dream. it must be.

i wonder if she'll call.  more...
The housekeeper recognized me and didn't throw me out. I wish I had something better to say for how things are going, but that's been the last of my good luck.

I know that the car is out of gas, and I'm not sure I could drive it if it weren't. I don't see myself leaving this couch for a few days, and if I can't find the housekeeper again to bring me some water, maybe something to eat, I won't make it that long.

Sleep has been a good friend, but the dreams make even sleeping a fearful activity. Witches and vampires invade my unconscious and my waking hours. Demons and phantom needles hover above my sweat soaked skin.

Vixanne. A whispered prayer, almost unspoken. I don't know if I can stay with her, if I can even make it to see her, but I need to know that she is safe. Want to find her happy and beautiful. Selfish as always, I want to know that she is better without me, I want her to validate my decision not to wait for her. To prove that I made the right choice.

I need to know that I can go back to my slowly looping downward spiral without anyone but myself being damaged. But I don't. What I need is to be with her, to heal with her, but I have no reason to believe that I can, and I prefer my destruction to be self only.

Will I even see her, will I even leave this tomb of memories. Time, I suppose, will be the deciding factor.  more...

Desert running...

I don't know why I didn't get into my big overblown metal-monster of a car and drive straight into the desert when I hopped off the plane at LAX. Instead I am trying one of my dear Claire's time-tested relaxants; a hot bath.

Water has never restored me the way it does her. Even though I like my skin to stay pale, the searing heat and blowing dust of the desert is what revives me. The sun shining, the world's biggest spotlight, hanging in a sky so cerulean blue it hurts to look directly at it. Nothing but dust, and desert hares, prickly bushy things that seem so hard and guarded on the outside, but with a puff of wind, they blow away.
(Here's where the audience is supposed to realize that she, the girl, is just like those plants, guarded and tough, hiding a vulnerable child inside...but then, I've never been one for cliches)

So, where was I: in a bath, reading and rereading the headlines in the rag my agent left on the coffee table, some shameless thing that's halfway between People Magazine and The Weekly World News...but closer to the latter. And if the magazines are writing the television is talking too, I suppose. I try not to think of what the bitches at E! Entertainment Television! (*retch*) are saying about my abrupt departure from the city. Biting the hand that feeds her, that's me.
So, I suppose all of Los Angeles knows I'm back by now. Back from Italy where I studied silent film, talking to some of the most important foreign filmmakers of our time, trying to shoot the sorts of images that stay on the insides of your eyelids, long after the credits have rolled. I feel like I've been there for years, and feel almost surprised that my apartment is still here, just like I left it, down to the dirty coffee mug in the sink.

Jesus, I still can't help but think of myself living in one big movie, and does that mean that all my lines are written out for me? That these scenes are all rehearsed?

Hmm...I wonder when the calls will start coming?
The phone rings, and I chuckle to myself as I wrap a soft black towel around my hair and let the water out of the bath. How can I stop thinking of life-as-a-movie, when these things keep happening?
But then, the voice on the other line stops me cold.

'Violet? It's me, Flint.'

Flint? Flint fucking Cassidy?? I don't move, hardly daring to breathe, listening to that voice, crackled through the line, electricity traced with nicotine, dry as the desert I was just dreaming of.
But what the hell could Flint have to say to me, after all this time? After the madness...after...everything? My heart starts to pound in my chest, even as I try to maintain my cool-director veneer.
He's still speaking as I slowly pick up the receiver.  more...

Freelancing

is eating my creative soul.

I plan to update as soon as I manage to get my current story submitted to my editor this week, I promise!  more...
Plum is sitting still, letting the warm breeze flick locks of her choppy, blue-dyed hair into her face. Her eyes are on the bumpy-spined notebook on her lap, but they are unfocused, looking inward. The poetry workshop begins in fifteen minutes, and after watching everyone else go in to the tiny studio she feels tired, parched and fake. A girl walked in earlier wearing wings like the ones Plum and Sylvie used to wear to gigs, but on this blonde they look almost real. She was whispering with another girl whose skin was almost transparent, who had golden cups in her eyes.

And Plum who is not a faerie, not a pearl, whose hair is not blond but a colour imitating the ocean, who is only a small nymph in disguise (And a failed nymph at that, she thinks, remembering Santiago) looks at her poetry and sighs. How did I ever think I was good enough for this?

She shakes herself and closes her notebook with a snap. That’s right, Plum, she thinks. Snap out of it. She has been looking forward to this workshop for weeks, and the pages of her notebook are crammed with slanty writing, sidenotes, definitions and clusters of words.

Plum stands up from her perch on the low wall outside the studio and almost bumps into a surfer boy with sandy hair falling curled into his eyes. Her own eyes widen. The boy is not very tall, but muscular and handsome, tan as if he has spent all year in the sun. He is wearing khaki pants and a faded orange Val Surf tshirt. He has strings of shells on his wrists and at his throat. Plum can feel her own throat work with longing.

Oh, says the boy, spotting Plum. Sorry, didn’t see you there.

Plum opens her mouth to speak, but notices at the same time the girl who has appeared beside the shell boy. Her hair is the same colour as his, and long to her waist in waves. Her eyes are very blue, and she reminds Plum of the ocean. She is more real than me, Plum thinks. With my fake blue hair. Here is a real mermaid.

The mermaid girl smiles at Plum and pulls on the straps of the shell boy’s backpack. As they go inside, Plum can see the strings of shells the girl is wearing. Plum’s eyes ache. She shrugs her shoulder bag back up on her left shoulder and follows the shell couple into the studio, wondering again why she is here.

---

OOC: I was thinking this poetry workshop would be a neat place for some of our characters to meet each other in, especially as a lot of them are from different books and wouldn't necessarily know each other in another context. But that all depends on you guys. ♥ I'm really excited about the RP starting up again! xox Pixie.  more...
i've been holed up in the woods of michigan, contacting few, writing profusely.

i wonder what happened to nick...i should call him soon.

then i saw it.

the article...she's returned.

i used contact after contact to get her new number, and fortified myself with drugs to work up the courage to dial the phone.

i treated her horribly, but hopefully she'll see it was for her; for her career. i didn't want our love to kill her talent. i didnt want to see her turn into sibyl vane, giving up her gift for pretty dorian gray. i never wanted to have to yell at her as he did his love:

"you used to stir my imagination. now you dont even stir my curiousity. you simply produce no effect. i loved you because you were marvelous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of the great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art...without your art you are nothing. i would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. the world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name."

it was all for her; hopefully she'll see that.

it takes an eternity to dial the number, and when i hear something pick up (her? an answering machine? a live in lover?) the words rush out of me like water from a broken dam.

'violet? it's me, flint.'  more...

Hothouse Flowers

I am a hothouse flower, jacaranda blossom wilting in the heat of a wretched summer
A rose, translucent and pale on the outside, purple velvet within
You used to tend the roses, your strong yet gentle hands touching with such care...
I languish without care, I wander these empty rooms
Cursing myself, cursing you, cursing the curses themselves, until my voice catches in my throat and stays there, caged
caged
caged in my body
I think about Witch Baby burying herself in mud all those years ago. Wanting someone to lift her out of the dark, yet being desperately afraid of the one thing that could carry her.
Love.
Ah, my daughter...you are far more like me than you would like to believe...no wonder you cannot come to visit me too often. You see too much of yourself in my face.
But the difference here is, I am too old for this. For this fear, and longing, and utter disconnection
Disaffection
I am too old. The lines etched around my tilted eyes do not lie and I cover the mirror with black lace again.
The difference between you and I, my daughter, is that you are learning so much faster than I ever did. You will become wise and you will not be alone.

I dream of what I once had. And...and I don't know how to bring you back. Or if you were meant to bring me back instead. Once-upon-a-time lover, rock god, trembling boy..ultimately, the one person who didn't fear me, whose demons were just as dark as my own. I hope the all-too-brief time you spent in my dubious care healed you just a little...
Ah, but what am I thinking? You needed care far stronger and better than my own weak teas, brittle bones, paints upon canvases. I hope you are getting it.
Though I would paint you upon my own skin if I could. Tattoo you onto my heart, finally.
I was a fool. I am so sorry. But I can't even find you to tell you that much.

I paint myself closed within walls, the petals of my grey-streaked hair falling around me, lying on the ground, in a tomb, my heart in a cut-crystal box.
I paint the fire that still burns fierce in my tired eyes, the desire naked, impossible to hide behind the liquid glaze of my tears.
I paint myself taking your poisons, transforming them, saving you but losing my own fight in the madness.
I forget to eat, I don't sleep much, it is as if I am moving within a dream, a fairy tale.
Only this time, the victim is the Witch, and the villian is the same. I drift through the rooms and let my hair loose like vines, heavy-lidded eyes as in an opium dream, and I paint.
I paint, I paint, I paint...because I don't think I could hold these things inside of me any longer. I paint my love, I paint my fire, I paint my destruction.
Will there be a portrait of resurrection? I cannot see...

I am succumbing to the darkness and I have no one left to lift me out.  more...

(OOC) I'm back!

Hey y'all. I just got back from vacation, I am hoping to write something for at least Vixanne this weekend, and well, if anyone else wants a character (or two!) just let me know and I will keep the list updated and put it in the Memories, so we know what's going on.
Conversely, if anyone wants to STOP being a character, let me know, please, and then it can be back up for grabs.

All other relevant info is either in Memories or in the community info, I think. If you have any questions, please ask! I may not know the answer but I will try and help. :-)

Okay, yay! I am going to read what all you talented people have started writing!  more...
I like to make a good impression on people. Most of the time, I have a knack for it.

My former love's parents weren't one of my success stories.

They wrote me out of her existence all too literally. In the last letter she sent me, she told me how they'd excised me from the yearbook, the Yellow Pages, computer records. They scrubbed my handprints from the mirrors, paid the faculty to tell her that there was no student by this name, that she'd drawn the pictures, wrote the birthday cards, tossed rocks at the window. If they passed me in the street and she looked at me, they would touch her kindly, gently, and lead her away, explaining that Anastascia was only in her head, that she had a problem but there were kind doctors and medicine to take care of that.

Just call me fuckin' Harvey.

Months went by. She smiled and complied and dwindled away each day until one morning, her parents woke to an empty bedroom, an open window, and a brand new weeping willow sapling in the yard.

They made the bed, laid down some mulch, and moved to Charleston.

I still don't wear the rosaries we beaded, the rings we forged or the crystals she'd knotted with wire and Czech glass. My tan faded away, and I said good riddance to it-too much to worry about, why add skin cancer to the list? I'm going to UCLA Berkely, working in this ridiculously baroque and gorgeous artsy wotsits shop, wandering the streets and wondering who might be Ms. Right Now...  more...

Off on holiday!

Yep yep, I leave for a place with no internet access in about an hour! :-p I'll be back next week, either Wednesday or Thursday night. :-) So if you want characters, just email me or comment somewhere in my posts, and I will get them when I get back!

And let the RP live! ;-)

(unfortunately, I will not have time to update for either of my characters until I return. I am so sorry! I'll be back soon though!)

*hugs*  more...
I was wondering if anyone already picked Perdita? I really want to be a grown up version of Perdita (I'm 21 so my Perdita would also be 21, influenced by obviously the many people who have breezed through her life)... or something of the sort. it was just an idea. although so many of the characters that HAD been in perdita's life are still so young that I'm worried my idea will conflict with theirs.  more...

Lord, what fools these mortals be

It's amazing how much your life can change in such a short time. I never would have believed that I'd get the art scholarship -- my paintings seem so small and personal, not some sublime works worthy of reward. Truthfully I would have expected Witch Baby to get the prize; her photographs are beautiful chiaroscuro, profoundly displaying all the beauty and pain in this strange crazy world, much more suited for greatness then my little nature sprites. But somehow fate had another plan for me.

And, thankfully, Laurel would accompany me on the long journey ahead-- she got a scholarship as well and we both chose the same local art institute. Even though this place is much more openminded and enlightened then the various schools I've attended (no throwing eggs or snide comments about the wings I wore the first day of classes), I'm glad to have her around for some sense of comforting familiarity. I haven't heard much from my other friends lately; I got word that Violet had come back but I didn't get to see her at all this summer. Nor have I heard from Witch Baby or the mysterious dreamsong Native American man from the art show. Maybe he was my psychopomp, just there for the time I needed him and then he flew away to help some other lost faerie girl find her wings again.

Laurel and I go to clubs together, dancing wildly in the smog pits in our antique petticoats and white corset tops. She tells me about her friend Claudia,whom she never seems to see anymore, her Rose Red like Violet is the shadow to my light. We are two pale frail Rose Whites, floating along together, always searching,having found each other but still missing our other halves. But I think I may have found a new piece to my puzzle.

His name is Damien. We have a few painting classes together and sometimes I see him skateboarding around the campus, soaring and landing on the board like an angel come down to Earth. His paintings are whirling swirls of strange alternate universes, bursting into firework color and possibilities. He reminds me of Puck, his forest-green eyes glinting with mirth, his dark curls flecked with leaves from sitting under trees sketching, his sweet scratchy voice making me shiver despite the Los Angelean heat.

I want to paint him with opals pressed to his temples, dark red angel wings sprouting from his shoulders. I want to shine in his eyes as he sees me reading my poems on a stage like Orpheus pleading for his lost love. I am still afraid of getting hurt like I did with Peter and turning into my mother, shattered beyond recognition by the sting of love lost. But desire does not look with the rational eyes, only the wild wanting of the heart.  more...

My First Post

(( OOC: I made this journal for Echo, I am trite_cliche irl. I'm glad to be writing from Echo's perspective. I hope you all enjoy!))

I stretch my legs like a newborn faun and groan in the almost midday light. I rub myself down, don a dragon embroidered short kimono and make my way out of my retreat. The kitchen is full of sprinkled donuts, I grab one and the sprinkles are so sharp they cut my gums. I peek into Valentine’s room and make sure she is still snoring. Teenie Martini is perched precariously on the edge of her night stand.

Since I moved back here, every day, every night has been the same. All blurring into each other until they become one long cycle spanning weeks, even months. Sometimes it feels like the clock has stopped and yesterday becomes tomorrow. Coffee slinging most mornings then dancing with Valentine through out the night. On my days off, I don’t know what to do with myself. Of course it’s not just us. Men come, men go. The only constant is each other.

I swallow another bite of razor sugar death and my free hand floats to the chain dangling around my neck. My tin healer, my heart Milagro. Given to me by the girl passed out in the next room, I feel as though I need it now more than ever. I wear the chain longer so the Milagro can rest closer to my heart, send the magic directly to the wound.

Ever since things fell apart in New York

Ever since I came here

Ever since he spread his wings and took to the sky

I feel I need the magic more than ever. I can’t have any of my mother’s magic, I need my own magic. Magic made especially for me, so that I can become whole again.

I chuck the rest of the donut and polish off a glass of orange juice before I can tear myself from the sun bathed kitchen and pitter patter myself to the bathroom. Going through the morning ritual is surprisingly hard when one is avoiding the mirror. Since he left I can’t stand to look at myself. While brushing my teeth I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself and wish I could become nothing more but a voice, someone else’s voice. I rush through all that needs to be done in the bathroom and scuttle back to my room. I change from my kimono into a swirly green and lace skirt, a deep v neck light sweater that feels like wearing a cloud. All under the watchful, almost paternal eyes of Mr. Bones. I tie back my dull brown hair and write a quick note to Valentine telling her I’m just going to the market.

I grab a thrift store messenger bag and throw it over my shoulder, anchor the note for Valentine by securing it under her teenie glass. I grab my bike which has become my treasure. One of the only things I brought back with me from New York. It’s from the 60’s, red with white pin striping and a wicker basket on the front handlebars. And head into the Los Angeles heat.  more...

Character list as of RIGHT NOW!!!

Hey y'all! It's been about a week, and I am going on vacation soon (leaving Friday, back next Wednesday) so I wanted to make a start on this character listing! Sounds like so far, there are going to be no conflicts with characters, and everyone who responded to my last post should be able to be who they want!
So, here we go; the RP "cast list" as of NOW:

rantfaery: Vixanne Wigg (vixanne_wigg), and Violet Samms (violet_s)

brokenmechanism: Witch Baby (witchbabywb)

cynic2022: Nick Agate (nick_agate), Coyote (x_coyote_x), and My Secret Agent Lover Man (no rp journal yet, right?)...and are you staying with Angel Juan?

hateful_me: Flint Cassidy (postpunkeros)

hyper_faerie: Weetzie Bat (miz_weetzie) and Claire (tinker_claire)

_moonfairy: Laurel

trite_cliche: Echo (and Stella, but if you don't see her going anywhere that's cool)

dameelysia: Anastascia (the510girl)

autumnknees: Marina (marina_farrell), Plum


If anything has changed, let me know: I can come in here and edit the list as characters are added on and such, and hopefully we can get this RP rolling again!
And please note: I am by NO MEANS experienced in any of this stuff...so if I am a bad mod forgive me! :-/ I will do the very best I can, but keep in mind I am a mama to a 2-year-old so life gets a bit chaotic here sometimes! Hee.
I am opening up the floor for any of the characters that are not taken (first come first serve!), so let's do this thing!  more...

New Day Rising

I'm up before the sun, sitting on the front step of the gingerbread house where we found my baby witch so long ago, sipping my tea and feeling the cool morning air caress my skin. Being up this late-early is wonderful, because this time is yours and yours alone, a time for whispered secrets (like at the slumber parties I'd go to as a kid) and getting lost in the forest of your mind. A time for remembering. And I remember.

I stayed with the little girl, awkwardly humming snatches of lullabies until she calmed down enough to tell me where she lived. We walked back to the house to get the car--amazing that she trusted me enough to come that far--and drove through the swirly green canyons until we came to a turreted castle-like house pulsing with music. I knocked on the door and a man staggered to the threshold, naked from the waist up except for beads and body paint and clutching a bottle.

He looked at me, then the child, and slurred into the darkness "Victoria! This is your little girl, right?" No answer. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house.

Inside it was a wild bacchanal, people in lace and leather, beads and masks, snorting powder off of mirrors and each other, lapping up absinthe from vases, spinning wildly under the strings of Christmas lights and the fake rose garlands. Fire eaters. Needles. How could a little girl grow up amidst all this?

The man led me to a corner where a woman in an antique silk slip nursed a beer bottle while two men trailed kisses and bites down her neck. Immediately the girl ran to her, and the woman pulled herself away from the men long enough to give the girl a drunken hug, which would have been a somewhat tender moment if one of the men had not drawn the mother away again by massaging her thigh.The girl scurried off to watch a woman in a mirrored skirt twirl ribbons on sticks, as if this scene were commonplace and she knew she'd have to wait until Mommy sobered up before she could get a reaction.

I wanted to help her, but what could I have done? The only thing I could bring myself to do was numbly weave through the sea of bodies and escape. I was almost at the door when a woman in a caftan grabbed my arm and twisted my palm upward to face her. She traced the lines with her finger, then stared into my face. I shivered, feeling like the cloudy blue planet of her blind left eye was probing into my soul.

"You cannot heal her," she rasped, "until you heal yourself."

 She didn't have to say more. I wouldn't let her. I stumbled out of the hell-castle, numb and transfixed.

Since then, I vowed I'd turn my life around. I couldn't let my life break me like it had obviously broken Victoria and could potentially hurt her daughter. I threw out all of the alcohol my mother left behind. Started meditating daily. I went to a turbaned chiropractor with forest-colored eyes who gave me flower essences and counseling for my grief.

I don't know where the future will take me, for good or for ill. But whatever comes, I will embrace it as best I can, not letting sorrow have such power over my life. Maybe in time I will go back to the girl and help her.

The rising sunlight kisses my face and I smile.

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