Kat’s Pause 

I’m feeling the itch to photograph something, but I don’t have a clear idea what. I feel very limited by my lack of equipment, which I know is just an artistic cop-out; nevertheless, every idea I come up with is met with a little voice whining, “that would be so much better if you only had a (studio/better camera/willing model/miscellaneous prop).”

With writing, I don’t even have that excuse. Writing is possibly the cheapest art in existence. My problem seems to be that the only way I’m able to produce anything these days is with powerful emotional stimulation. I think that’s why I like fan fiction so much: it’s easy to recall feelings from somebody else’s well-written story, so memory is really all the inspiration I need. But then I get caught up in plot details and authentic character representation and historical trivia, and I find myself stuck. Hence Ico and the Dark Prince remain tragically unwritten about.

If I could find the time to play Twilight Princess, I bet I’d be in a better place. Alas, school, work, boyfriends and friends demand all my hours and minutes, and I’m afraid I’m no longer hardcore enough to blow off any of them for videogames. Sometimes this whole Growing Up thing sucks.

Got the annual letter: my poem won second prize. Don’t try to talk me out of my disappointment.

The warm smell of you in the morning,
lying curled into yourself,
still
breathing
shallow;
I’ve woken up first again.

Envy,
of quiet sleep and a peaceful mind,
of contented aloneness,
will doubtless be my downfall.
Looking at you, I crave what I am not.

More than your turned back,
it’s your finger on my cheek that breaks my heart,
your brown eyes opening into mine
so wide that I can’t help fall in.
You will be my beacon on the shore,
smiling warm and dry,
anchored safe.
Rock-strong.

And I, the weak swimmer,
call to you from waves that wash above my head
and though your face lights up the sea,
the water is colder than stone
and I’m too far from you to latch on.

You could sleep forever.
I watch your motionlessness until you rise,
smiling, and whisper to me words I can’t stand
to not hear.
My impermeable darling:
One day I will slip off your smooth surface
and melt into the liquid cold below.

UPDATE: Submitted.

There is a small
grey monster who
slavers on my left shoulder,
gobbling up inspiration
and spitting out sense,
and I don’t have the heart
to swat him away.

He muses and peruses
the words he sees,
pointing tiny talons
at subject-verb disagreements
and awkward phrasing
and the tritest of clichés.

Sometimes I shout at him
to be quiet and leave me alone,
and he sullenly slinks back, grumbling
into the hollow of my collarbone
and tapping his claws
until I let him out again.

He’s a necessity, you see—
There will always be essays,
stories, poems, emails,
and no one knows
better than him
where to break a line in two
and when to mend it whole again.
My monster thrives on revision,
picking apart precarious prose and
knocking the bits into place
until they’re constructed sturdily enough
to weather the harshest critical storm.

The glint in his eyes:
so eager to fix me,
the brute,
and it hurts when his pointy nails
dig into my skin.
He cackles with every corrected word.

But I love my little pet.
Without him,
those subjects and verbs would
continue to quarrel
until the neighbours complain.

I forgot to post this a little while ago when I wrote it.

—

We climbed onto the roof of a laundromat
and watched the city writhe
under redandblue police car glow.
The ghetto was romantic, then
when we had plans to escape.
The city was supposed to be temporary.
You liked horses and I liked space;
we talked of a farm, grass, woods,
alone together.
Dreams were easy, then,
when we were young enough to keep them safe in
plastic knapsacks.
Why waste our faculties worrying
when there were trees to climb,
rinks to skate, songs to dance to?
Happiness was simple, then,
because there would always be
trees and skating rinks and danceable songs
and kittens were a blessing, not
a nuisance.

Maybe we stayed in the city too long
and it grew up around us like ivy,
refusing to let us go.

On my balcony now,
between the background music of
car horns, child wails, cat brawls,
I hear an old promise to
get out.
I realize that I still remember
your phone number,
though you live elsewhere now.
Perhaps your balcony looks not on
parking lots and chain-link fences
but on endless green,
and you are smiling.

The time of year when I start scouring the poetry I’ve written since last summer for something to submit to my city’s teen writing contest. This year will be my last; soon I’ll be too old.

I’m favouring My Little Editor right now, but my friend thinks the more recent April’s Fool is a candidate. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Not a word from Mac yet, by the way.

On a bed too small for
a quarrelling couple
we lay silent,
hands guiltily clasped.

In the morning
you will go,
I know,
and then
my bed will be too big.

But for now
keep your hand here beside me
until tomorrow’s sun
comes to cleave us.
Tomorrow is someone else’s life.

My darling,

I will wait for you to drip
feather-gentle
from my thoughts.
I will remain
still
here
quiet
covered in pieces of sky.

After my last post, I decided to give one a shot just for kicks. Spring is on my brain so I wrote about crocuses. Other things are on my brain too and they probably found their way in.

- - -

Why reach your thin and hopeful fingers up
To peep above the comforting brown earth?
No gentle hands will your bright blossoms cup;
No eyes yet gawk and marvel at your birth,
But stubbornly you push to reach the sun.
Sweet crocus, do you never worry that
Before your delicate unfurling’s done,
The frost will creep night-soft and murder what
Your light green toils strove thus far to get?
O crocus, for the sake of human spring,
Do hide beneath your blanket warm and wet
Until thief Winter ends its spiteful sting.
Yet rise you will, until at last I know
Your slender strength outlasts the cruellest foe.

On brownest grass, the matted leaves lay blanketing
Our last-year lawn, whose green we don’t remember now
While flowers dare to dream of bright tomorrows, and
Now peep like finger-submarines below.

…even if we can’t see it yet.

I want to create but I dunno what to make, other than essays for school… so here is a bit of something I wrote last year and tweaked tonight. I’m sad to say I haven’t come very far in the way of poetry since then — rhyme schemes are still my Achilles’ heel. I’m trying, though. I would really like to be able to write a sonnet one day. I know, I know, I want it all.

Have I mentioned this story on my blog yet? I added about 900 words tonight. It’s being irregularly updated as a Lemonfingers notebook entry until I decide what to do about chapter breaks.

I finished the PoP bath scene I’d been neglecting for a while. You can read it here.

It was brighter here… wherever “here� was. Farah blinked until the hazy glow resolved itself into warm candlelight. She gasped at the scene it illuminated.

Steam rose from a pool of clear water which glittered in the golden light. Surely it was too beautiful to be real. She walked in awe to the edge of the water and dipped her hand in; it was warmer than blood.

The practical parts of her mind told her the place could not exist – why would it? Maybe that’s why she found herself stripping off her sweaty, sand-caked garments and dipping her sore feet into the deliciously hot pool. If this wasn’t really happening, then it could cause no harm to rest here for a while, just to regain her strength. As the panic of battle drained from her, so did her energy – when was that last time she had slept? Before she could argue against her more indulgent side, she was chest-deep in the water.

A thought floated up to the surface of her conscious mind: Where was the Prince?

He must still be up in the mausoleum. If only he could see this wonderful place, she thought with a luxurious sigh. Well, he was bound to find his way eventually. She hoped he would stumble upon the exit soon.

And just why was she hoping he would join her? a sly part of her asked the other parts. Well, that was clear enough – the Prince was an attractive man with a good heart and any fool who had been through what they had would be falling for him. She smiled to herself; there was no point in denying it. She ran a hand down her naked hip under the water and wondered how far away he was.

Was that his voice? She wasn’t sure. “Where are you?� she called, sitting up. She listened intently for a response but heard only the quiet lapping of the water.

After some minutes had passed, she took to languidly treading water, occasionally murmuring delighted things to herself – it was so blissfully beautiful there – and calling to the Prince in case he was nearby, although she did not hear him. Surely the way out was not so hard to find… unless perhaps, she mused, there were another… but no, that would be ludicrous, two exits from a seemingly inescapable tomb. Still, the possibility that he had ended up elsewhere chilled her for a moment before the warm water reassured her that everything would be fine.

She was not startled when he finally came in; it was not the sort of place for surprise, or for shame. She merely smiled and beckoned him in, making no effort to hide her smooth body where it rested under the water.

If it was not real, it was the kind of dream one cannot dismiss as mere night-fancy. No, it was something in between; perhaps the solid part of them was elsewhere, but some part of both of them was together there, she was certain.

He joined her without a word; speech was no longer necessary. Still it did not stop him from teasing her with a hushed “kakolukia� – she tried not to giggle at his frisky tone – before they leaned in together for a long-desired kiss.

Much thanks to Ren for putting up with my neverending questions… both now and in the future.

—

The dark silence of the mausoleum brought a new kind of terror after the whirling sands in the hourglass room.

“A tomb,� the Prince said heavily. How apt. He moved to join Farah.

The princess was still reeling. “You were there,� she cried. “The dagger was in your hand. Why did you hesitate?� When she received no answer, her eyes and voice narrowed harshly. “You think you’re cleverer than everybody, but you’re just like the rest of them. Those soldiers…� She shuddered a little at the memory of the sand monsters. “All they can do is fight, destroy.�

The Prince sat against cold stone, cradling his head. She didn’t know whether he had taken in her words or not, but his guilt was weighty and obvious. Kneeling down to his level, she spoke bitterly but with a softer voice, “Why did I trust you?�

The Prince could not face her. She lifted his chin to force him to, quietly begging, “Why didn’t you trust me?�

The two were surprised by sudden darkness. “Ow!� Farah complained as a limb hit her, eliciting a quick apology from the Prince. “Where are you?�

“I’m right here,� his voice assured her.

“Hold my hand,� she commanded. He found the slender thing and obeyed, smiling to himself despite their fear. “Don’t let go.� In response, he gave her hand a slight squeeze and some of his guilt was transferred to her. After a few long seconds of silence, she said gently, “I didn’t mean what I said.�

“No,� the Prince said miserably. “You’re right. All that’s happened is my doing; I wanted honour and glory.� He shook his head in disgust. “I brought this on us.�

Farah held his hand tightly in the darkness. “You are brave and good,� she insisted, and continued on resolutely, “If this tomb is to be ours, at least the dagger will be buried with us. And…� Just say it. “We are together.� Her heart beat faster at the confession.

It was matched by a sudden acceleration of the Prince’s breathing. “What is it?� she asked. Had she gone too far?

“Nothing,� came the quick reply, but his hand shook in hers.

“You’re trembling!�

“I just don’t like close spaces,� he lied. He remembered his confident decision to ask her to marry him. Where was that brashness now? He kicked himself for all opportunities he’d missed. Now it was too late. Well, perhaps it would amuse her. He took a breath to share his thoughts when her hand suddenly pulled at his – she was searching the room for an exit. Of course she would not give up so easily. “There must be some way out of here,� he declared hopefully.

“When I was small,� Farah began lightly, “my mother taught me a secret word. She said that when I was afraid, all I had to do was speak that word and a magic door would open.�

How sweet, the Prince thought with some disdain.

“I’ve never told that to anybody,” she admitted.

He retorted, “I can see why. It’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard of.�

Her hand left his. He could imagine her slightly hurt expression. Alright, he would indulge her. “What was the word?�

It spilled easily from her lips, familiar as a childhood friend. “Kakolukia.�

“Kakolukia,� the Prince tried the foreign word while groping around for her hand. He was astonished to hear a grinding sound, as of moving stone. He grinned. “You did that – didn’t you?�

There was no answer.

“Farah?�

Light appeared from somewhere, but Farah was nowhere to be seen. Had she found a way out? His eyes fell upon a stone tomb, its lid removed. He was sure it had been covered before. Shivering with superstitious thoughts, he climbed inside.

“Foreign” has been tweaked and polished and even somewhat proofread (!) and uploaded to ff.net. I kept most of Ending A - he’s going to graduate but there’s no word about college because that was just too much.

If you’re not too sick of it by now, I would humbly recommend reading it in its entirety. I’ve made a lot of changes to almost all the different bits of it since posting them here, not to mention the ones to the ending this morning, and I think it came together rather nicely as a whole.

I’m not sure I like this ending. The alternative I have in mind would be a much shorter version without the dramatic changes which feel a little cheesy to me — it would basically skip to the very end written here without exposing or even implying Ico’s lovely little life. Please tell me what you think.

–

He waited for her to return, for her tiny smile to come into his courtyard. He waited for weeks and then months. He listened to the rumours – hospitalization, death, foster homes – until the rumours quieted down – the students stopped caring and forgot about her. It made him furious and very sad that he was the only one continued to care. At home, as the months went by with no news of his friend, he grieved the loss of her. When his parents asked what was wrong with him, he told them his friend had gone missing. They tried to sympathize, but they didn’t know he meant his only friend, and they could not begin to understand the depth to which Yorda’s impression on him extended. He couldn’t stand to drink apple cider. He developed infatuations with pale girls and tall girls and foreign girls.

And she affected him in ways no one could have foreseen. When on a black day in English class he happened to catch his teacher’s reading of Keats’ “To Hope,� he heard the word ethereal and inexplicably (to his mind) thought of her. After class he approached his teacher with wide, suspicious eyes and fairly demanded to hear the poem again. His teacher was shocked at the request but pleased to oblige and spent an hour after dismissal that day explaining the poem’s more accessible parts to the boy. Ico found himself paying just a little more attention in the class, as much because of the teacher’s patience with him as his newfound interest in written expression. By the end of that year, his English marks had improved enough for the other teachers to think there might be some chance of the boy’s success, and their renewed efforts made all the difference. With vast amounts of encouragement and praise, Ico became more articulate, and his innate sensitivities began to show through beneath his crude exterior. Over time, his tentative studies in literature led to an appreciation for intellectual pursuits.

It was as much a surprise to him as to anyone else when he reached his coveted age of licence and found that he no longer intended to drop out of school. He was passing his classes, so he figured he would try to stick it out until graduation. Then, an even greater shock: he wanted to apply for college.

His parents had never been prouder than the day they opened an acceptance letter from a local school.

And although he missed her, as he knew he always would, he grew content there. He adapted to his new life as a student, and even surprised himself by using the fresh start to make friends. People were not as cruel as he remembered.

On one cold day in March, he went walking around campus, watching the grey sky and remembering snow. That magical day seemed a lifetime a way. He thought of Yorda and tried not to pay undue attention to the pale girls and the tall ones and foreign ones he saw as he walked. That is why he almost didn’t see one lanky girl, whiter than fresh snow, sitting against a tree reading a book.

He tried to look away but found he couldn’t; there was something very different and equally familiar about this girl. So he approached the tree.

Pale violet eyes looked up at his, and he saw a tiny smile make room for itself on her face.

“Hello,� said Yorda.

I haven’t been able to update lately because my internet’s been screwy. Here’s the latest Ico. Only one or two more sections left.

–

They watched in awe from the cozy fan as the white stuff fell. In minutes there was the faintest film on the ground, and by the time lunch period was over, everything had been thinly coated with white, and still the flakes came, thickly now. Yorda didn’t get up and run to class when the bell rang. Even if she hadn’t been glued there watching the snowfall, clutching Ico’s arm for support, she was too tired to go to class – or so she told herself. Some part of her knew that this was an opportunity that should not be missed. The other children would be gawking at the windows anyway; this was not a day for learning, except for that particular kind of lesson which cannot be taught in classrooms.

The children sprang up from the fan, curiously energized, to delight in the snow. It caught and stuck in Yorda’s hair, sparkling like a crown of diamonds. She was shivering and smiling and Ico could not figure out why he found his eyes fixed on her. She was not so much beautiful as untouchably different in the most exquisite way. He laughed and she laughed and she began to spin in circles under the falling snow, ethereal, a ghost, a dream. She was impossible, he knew; yet she was here beside him.

If Ico had been a little bit older or smarter, he might have struggled for words to describe that moment and settled on spiritual. If he had been younger he would have firmly declared it to be magical. Yorda was so obviously part of another world, a place outside from her cruel mother and her meagre life… she belonged to an entirely different set of realities. She came from the same place as the snow. The quality inherent in those things was wrong, and so undeserved by mortals such as him, but it was so wonderful that he had to breathe it in or feel as though he was not really living.

Much later, Ico would look back and wonder if he had been in love. In a sense, he fairly worshipped the girl, but he couldn’t get past the sensation that he was supposed to, independent of his feelings for her – as if it was the right thing to do, as if awe was the appropriate reaction to her, as if her very existence demanded reverence.

But none of those thoughts crossed his mind on that cold January day. He was wholly taken by the white on white on white of Yorda spinning in the snow. Then the moment turned terrible as she swayed and fainted.

It was like watching a leaf fall, but also like seeing an iceberg crashing majestically into the ocean. There was something inevitable about her turn from liberated excitement to the confines of unconsciousness. He shouted in her ear, but she would not rise. Her lips were slightly open and he could barely feel a breath.

He knew he should go for help, but he could not bear to leave. The delicate snow melted when it met the tears running down his face, until at last he ran into the building, sobbing.

A teacher who knew of the “troubled child� spotted him and, once she understood through his gasps what had happened, peeked her head into the courtyard and then hurried off to call an ambulance. Ico ran back outside to be with his friend.

When they arrived, they had to pry the boy off her before they could try to resuscitate. He hugged his knees in a corner of the courtyard and wept quietly while they did all kinds of things to her that he didn’t understand. He jumped up when they picked her up and began to carry her away, demanding to know where they were taking her and declaring that he was coming too. They barely gave him a glance as he followed behind them. Soon she was in the back of an ambulance and he was screaming to come with her. One of them tried to explain to him why he wasn’t allowed to, but Ico thought the reason was stupid and refused to listen, instead attempting to push through them into the vehicle. But in the end he was left crying in the street, numbed by the cold and the lovely snow, as the ambulance rushed away.

Continued my fanfiction tonight, at the expense of sleep. (The best kind of trade-off.) I knew it would be easy if I just got past my laziness because I wasn’t really stuck in any of the stories I’m working on. I still have only a hazy idea of what will happen next in Ico, but I know what’s happening now so it’s easy to write. The current situation has been building for a while.

Words written today: 740. I’ve been musing on and off about including a daily count or even a fancy meter, but the fact is I don’t blog every day (although I would like to) and also it’s not usually the last thing I do that day. It would be more practical to have a “words yesterday” feature, but I think that’s terribly unexciting.

Hmm, hmm, I was going to wait until I finished this little section of Ico before uploading, but I realized I haven’t posted any of this story in ages, so here it is, cut off in the middle just before a big climax I have yet to flesh out. I included the last paragraph of the last uploaded bit as a refresher.

–Ico–

Since then, her mother had mostly ignored her, giving her gruel for breakfast and dinner and snapping at her if she tried to say anything. Worse than her mother’s rage, Yorda said, were the times when she kept her resentment quiet. She could overflow at any time, and that was sure to happen tonight when Yorda returned home with a torn and bloody sleeve.

Ico tried to console her, but after hearing her story he was almost as worried as she. At the end of the day, they parted with gloomy faces and he hoped for the best.

~

It was cold the next day, colder than usual even for January. But Ico was warmed down to his skinny ankles by the sight of Yorda’s smile as she entered the courtyard. She showed him the mended tear and excitedly told him that her mother had stitched it without so much as a harsh word. He tried to share in her absurd happiness despite the pity he was sure he couldn’t keep out of his voice.

Some of the hope drained from him when he saw that it was another one of her tired days. They sat side by side against the wall and he struggled to keep her awake, saying anything that came into his head on the chance that it might arouse her interest and provoke a response. Anything to keep her clear, timid voice from dipping low and sleepy as her words turned to murmured gibberish. Anything to keep that soft head from slipping down onto his shoulder.

That day, nothing he did could keep her conscious. He watched her violet eyes disappear under the white eyelids as they talked. In desperation, he probed the subject of her mother, but even that failed to excite her. He was beginning to think her suffering distressed him more than it did her.

Then, a miracle.

Ico sat slumped against the wall, despondent. He had given up trying to talk to Yorda and instead turned his mind toward his own gloomy thoughts. As if to add to his melancholy, he began to feel bits of cold pricking his skin. What could make this day any better but rain, he thought bitterly. The courtyard offered no shelter, so they would be forced to move indoors and find a secluded spot for Yorda to doze. But there was something odd about this rain. It wasn’t as cold, he thought, puzzled. No – it wasn’t as wet. And it was – was it? – it was, he realized joyously, white.

Thrilled, he shook Yorda awake. When her bleary eyes finally showed themselves, he shouted, “It’s snowing!� She looked more confused than ever. He laughed as he realized that he had never taught her the word for snow because it was unheard of in their climate.

Really tired today. This is surely in need of editing but the words blur when I look at them too hard.

She seemed healthier the next day, and Ico’s worries began to dissipate. He figured it was probably just a stomach virus. He discovered to his dismay that the illness seemed to have sapped her strength; she had never been hardy or possessed of his youthful vigour, but she was noticeably weaker in the following days. He held off on activities like climbing the lone tree – something he had always enjoyed more than her anyway – and instead sat against the wall with her, quietly conversing, and waited for her to return to normal.

To his frustration, the wait stretched on. If anything, she seemed to be growing feebler. Soon all she wanted to do was sit and talk. Once when she tried to join him in sitting on a tree branch, she didn’t make it onto the first limb before tripping and badly scraping her arm against the rough trunk, tearing the sleeve of her dress in the process. She dropped to her knees and began to tremble. Ico jumped down from his perch to comfort her. By now he was used to her reacting with fear whenever she dirtied her dress or hurt herself or did other things she knew would irk her mother, but she was especially anxious this time. Her mother would have to sew the ripped part, and the blood on the fabric from her wound would be difficult to get out. And lately her patience had been shorter than ever.

Before the break, Yorda confessed, she had left for home in high spirits after she and Ico parted with a quick hug, still tasting the unfamiliar phrase “Merry Christmas� on her lips. Upon arrival, she enthusiastically repeated it to her mother, and then quaked at the furious expression that crossed the woman’s features. Her mother demanded to know who had been filling her head with stupid ideas. She stammered that a boy she met had told her about Christmas and what fun it was. Immediately she was ordered up to her room without supper and ignored until the next day. She asked for something to eat and was slapped for her “insolence,� instead receiving a lecture on how she was becoming disrespectful and “wild.� Her mother threatened to punish her manners didn’t improve. Bewildered and already confined to her bedroom, Yorda could only imagine what consequences might follow. She kept fearfully silent all day despite her rumbling stomach. Later, she heard the sounds of her mother entertaining acquaintances downstairs and smelled lovely things cooking, things she was never allowed to eat. The stabbing hunger pains became too much and she started crying. Minutes later, her mother came into her room and shouted at the sobbing girl for embarrassing her. How dare she be so ungrateful after being cared for all her life? How could she cause her own poor mother so much trouble? Yorda tried to apologize, but her mother slammed the bedroom door behind her so hard that the wood cracked. She curled up on her bed – a mattress on the floor – and tried not to cry.

She woke up, weak and confused, some time later to her mother entering her room again. This time she bore a smile and a steaming mug, though her eyes were the same icy grey as before. Setting the cup down on the floor, she warned Yorda not to spill it, then turned and left.

Yorda rubbed her eyes and gawked at the cloudy brown liquid. She had smelled it earlier and knew it to be cider, but she had never expected to be offered some. She took a tentative sip and burned her tongue. It was delicious. When it had cooled enough to swallow, she gulped down every drop, then promptly fell asleep.

Since then, her mother had mostly ignored her, giving her gruel for breakfast and dinner and snapping at her if she tried to say anything. Worse than her mother’s rage, Yorda said, were the times when she kept her resentment quiet. She could burst at any time, and that was sure to happen tonight when Yorda returned home with a torn and bloody sleeve.

The fan is from my elementary school. I could never figure out why it blew warm air in the cold — it seemed like a waste. The teachers wouldn’t let us stand on it. The courtyard, by the way, comes from a similar one in my high school.

PS: I remembered today that Yorda’s hair is light brown, not white. Durr. I’ve corrected it in the file.

—

December. The wind made everything twice as cold and Ico didn’t have a winter coat. Yorda had even less. Their city’s winters weren’t hard or even particularly cold compared to other places, but the wind still bit at bare skin.

He brought a hated sweater of his to school, an ugly wool thing from a second-hand store. They laughed at how funny it looked on her, baggy and comically short in the arms, but it was warm and she was grateful. He helped her climb on top of the big grated fan, which blew straight upwards, and they danced in the heated air. She gripped her dress tightly to keep it from blowing up above her waist, but a few times it did anyway and neither of them cared.

She skipped her English classes to join him on the fan and learn how to speak the language. Even though he was young, he made a good teacher because English was his second language too, and he remembered the struggles he’d had with it. She was an earnest, diligent student, slow but determined, and she made steady progress. Within weeks she was able to describe the most important part of her life: her mother.

To Yorda, she was God. To Ico, she was controlling almost to the point of abuse. Although the woman knew English, she refused to share any of that knowledge with her daughter, instead forcing Yorda to speak in only their native tongue. (Yorda was still not able to tell him, in English, what that language was.) Most of the time, she kept Yorda locked in her bedroom with no toys or comforts. Occasionally she would yank her out and dress her up for display when she had friends over. She brushed the girl’s hair fanatically and refused to let Yorda do it herself, saying she couldn’t do it well enough. She fed her as cheaply as possible, usually with gruel or potatoes, and sewed her a new dress only when her current one wore embarrassingly thin. When Yorda made a small mistake such as tripping when she walked or dropping a dish, she would belittle the girl until she ran out of tears.

Ico asked about her father. Yorda had never known of one since as far back as she could remember. She recalled asking her mother about it once, because all the other kids in school had fathers, and was answered with a slap and the sharp response: “I need no man.� She was still not sure what that meant.

Ico was familiar with strict parents and poverty, but his family was never cruel to him the way hers was. No wonder there was a cloud of hesitation around everything she did or said. The girl had grown up afraid her own shadow would rise up and smack her.

I’m really enjoying writing my ICO story. It would be easier to just create parallels and analogies to the game, like I considered doing with PoP: SoT, but analyzing their characters and transplanting them to a different environment is a far more interesting challenge. I’m replaying the game and paying careful attention to their dialogue and actions. The way Ico and Yorda move says a lot about them, I think; at any rate, there are all kinds of possibilities to be inferred from studying their presentation. So much is left to the imagination, but not so much that I feel like I’m creating entirely new characters, just exploring what’s given. What makes Ico decide to save Yorda — is it despite his status as the Rejected Other, or because he sees that aloneness in her as well? With how much compassion or pity was he treated back home? Why does Yorda follow him? How much does she trust him or come to care about him? What was it like for her to grow up, if that’s what happened, with her maybe-evil mother?

Ning remains uninterested in the game because he says it’s too simple and linear, although he admits it’s beautiful. We disagree in terms of gameplay, but I think the player is provided with plenty of information about the characters. The first few times I played it, Yorda wasn’t much more than a limited-AI sack to drag around and occasionally drop in places for puzzles. Now she seems like so much more. Why does she sometimes rush ahead through magic gates rather than hang behind and wait to be called? How much does she know about the castle and especially about herself? Why does she seem surprised when she uses her powers?

Anyhow, I’m having fun rambling through my story without planning everything out to the last detail like I did with Lost Time. If it turns into something presentable, that would be great, but for now I’m flattered that anyone would enjoy my speculative musings on an old game.

I have some ideas for what will happen later.

I feel like there are a lot of repeated words — white, pale, courtyard, stared, etc. That’s something I’ve always tried to avoid, particularly using the same descriptor twice in one chapter (although I have yet to figure out how I’ll section up this story). Does anyone else find that bothersome?

—

She left soon after, to go to class, he assumed. He stayed in the yard because class wasn’t important, and he had enough wits to know that no textbook could teach him about anything as significant as secret courtyards or peculiar pale girls or friendship.

~

He didn’t see her again for several weeks until one unusually warm day in November, when he found her huddled in a corner of the courtyard. With one arm she held her knees tightly to her chest, while the other hand obsessively stroked her hair.

For several seconds he deliberated staying or going before ultimately walking over to her and asking what was wrong. In response, she raised her head enough for him to see her wet, reddened eyes. Her long white hair fell in front of her face and she cried harder. When she bent her head back down, he finally noticed that a large piece in the back had been harshly cut off to less than half its length. He asked her what had happened.

She grabbed a chunk of the hair hanging in front of her face and mimed cutting it with the other hand, then went back to crying.

So they didn’t always leave her alone. Ico thought he knew who might have done it – the trendy girls who wore makeup and sometimes watched Yorda with hatred in their gaudily shadowed eyes. They were universally despised for their subtle cruelty and easy, spoiled lives.

He sat down beside her. “Those bitches.�

She looked at him with surprise and he wondered if she knew what the word meant. She was still clutching her hair. He tried to gently lower her arm. “It’s okay,� he attempted. “It will grow back.�

She shook her head quickly. “Mother…angry.�

“Well she shouldn’t be; it’s not your fault,� he declared. She just shook her head. But she had stopped crying.

They sat there in silence for a while longer. Yorda clearly had no interest in leaving the yard. Ico stayed with her, poking around the courtyard with a stick, looking for anything to alleviate his boredom. Finally they heard the dismissal bell. Yorda jumped up and ran out before it stopped ringing. Ico followed after a few minutes, neither in a rush to go home nor wishing to delay it.

~

The next day, he was climbing the lone evergreen tree in the courtyard when Yorda entered, part of her hair tied back to disguise the short section. She was carrying something. He dropped down, startling her and causing her to drop the object. It was a very old, battered paperback book. He squinted to see the cover but couldn’t make out the words. “Can I see?� he asked, sticking out his hand. She looked at his dirty palm for a moment before cautiously giving him the book.

The picture on the front was of an old castle under a grey sky. The words were in a language he couldn’t recognize; many of the letters weren’t even in the English alphabet. When he asked her what language it was, she shrugged and pointed to herself. “Japanese?� he guessed. She stared blankly, squinted her eyes as if thinking, and shook her head. “Umm…Ukrainian?� She shook her head again. He had never been good at geography or learned much about languages in school. Two languages were enough – one for home and one for school.

He noticed her staring very intently at the book, so he offered it back to her. She took it and thumbed through the pages until she found a particular spot and started reading.

“What’s it about?� he asked.

“Story,� she replied.

“What happens in it?�

She stopped reading and struggled for words for a minute before giving up and returning to the book.

“Is it an adventure?� he suggested.

“Not know.�

“You don’t know?�

“Don’t know,� she corrected herself.

He tried to think of the kind of books girls read. His little sister liked fantasy novels with dragons and magic. “Does it have magic?�

She repeated the word slowly. “Magic?�

“Yeah, like…fairies or wizards, magic spells. Stuff that doesn’t happen in real life.�

“Magic,� she said again.

“So it is about magic?�

She shrugged. “Don’t know magic.�

“Neither do I,� he said with a grin. She looked confused. “Never mind.�

After a few minutes of watching her read, he ventured, “Your hair looks better.� When he received a now-familiar blank stare, he pointed to her pale tresses. “Better…nicer…more good?�

“Good,� she said, showing a hint of a smile. “Mother fix.�

“Was she mad?�

Yorda nodded and rubbed the side of her face, wincing.

“She hit you?�

“Hit…yes.�

He nodded as well. Parental discipline was a fact of life. But his father never hit his little sister as much as he did Ico. He had become used to the unspoken law that girls were more fragile and needed protection as much as they did punishment. Looking at Yorda, that had never seemed truer. She was skinny and slow and shivered in the wispy white dress she always wore. Her feet were tucked under her because her thin white slippers did little to keep out rain or cold. She was the very picture of frailty, tall and awkward and graceless in her timid movements. An odd thought came into his head: if she were my daughter, I wouldn’t hit her.

The school nurse eyed them as they came in, the boy supporting the girl with an arm around her shoulders. It was the kind of school where the staff knew the students’ social standings almost as well as the kids. So why, she wondered, should these two outcasts have found each other? The girl was several years older and neither had shown interest in ending their isolation before.

“She hurt her foot,� the boy explained.

The nurse nodded and took the girl’s hand free hand. “What’s your name, dear?�

Wide-eyed, the girl responded in a strange accent, “Yorda.�

“Yorda, that’s a very pretty name. Why don’t you come with me into the back here and we’ll see what’s the trouble?�

The boy stood uselessly near the door as the nurse led Yorda away, then he bolted, expecting never to see the pale girl again.

Sitting in his private courtyard the following day, he couldn’t have been more surprised when a tall white form limped into view from behind a tree. She clasped her hands together and nodded, by way of a greeting.

“Hello,� he replied.

“Yesterday,� the girl said, “the nurse. Thank you.� She bowed from the shoulders.

The boy shrugged and gave up trying to place her accent. Hungarian? Swedish? The other students thought she might be Dutch. Some of the girls whispered that she was a foreign princess who had somehow gotten left behind here, and was lost without her jewels and servants. “I’m Ico,� he said.

“Ico,� she repeated, and smiled, her eyes turning into little crescent-moon-slits. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile; her countenance was invariably tragic or frightened or both. This was a noticeably pleasant change. He smiled too.

I coaxed and cajoled Ning into trying ICO tonight. Earlier, I had a bit of an idea for fanfiction, and I managed to make my word quota for the first time in a while.

He had seen her in the hallways between classes or at lunch. Like him, she ate lunch alone. He had come across her once or twice, nibbling an apple in a quiet corner.

She was almost inhumanly pale. Her hair was as white as paper, and her skin nearly so. He had never felt more awkward in his dark Slavic skin with his dark home haircut. Muttering an apology, although he didn’t really know why, he stumbled away from her. She watched him curiously but did not rise or speak.

The other kids generally kept away from her. She was different, she was weird — they weren’t even quite sure she knew English. They avoided her, but they didn’t tease her like they did him — he was strange in ways they understood: he was short and awkward, he wore funny clothes, he didn’t always smell nice, he wasn’t particularly good at anything. He didn’t have friends so he didn’t make friends. He played by himself and he was okay with that.

His goal was to get through school until he was old enough to quit. By then he would have a job at the shoe plant where his father worked. He had grown up with the smell of hot rubber clinging to his father; it was what made his classmates squinch their noses when they caught it on him. His parents were immigrants; they didn’t have much, but they didn’t need much, and he was raised to be grateful.

There was one spot in the school that he liked: if you ducked through the janitor’s door when nobody was looking, another door led to a small courtyard where a giant fan for the furnace was kept. It was loud enough that you couldn’t hear anything, and the fan spewed warm air in winter. That was his favourite place to go to eat or to be alone.

It was a cold sunny day when he found her there, crouched in the soft overgrown grass. He felt a stab of irritation, injustice even, to see his secret place disturbed. But he couldn’t help but notice the glow her fantastically white skin seemed to give the air around her. He was about to turn and leave when he heard a whimper.

The girl was holding her ankle, which as he came closer he could see was swollen and ugly against the beautiful white. She looked up at him and tried to pull it in closer to her, but cried out from the pain.

“Are you alright?� he asked, feeling stupid. Of course she wasn’t alright; she was hurt. “What happened.�

Her eyes darted from him to her foot and back again several times before she whispered, “Fell.�

“You fell? Did you see the nurse?�

She shook her head.

“You should go see the nurse,â€? he said lamely, and was met with a stare. “Come on, I’ll help you.â€? He extended his hand, which she gazed at with some terror before shakily taking.

Yesterday’s attempt to write despite the pain and the painkillers.

The blissful, drowsy
numbness;
sharpness dulled as the room spins too fast,
The extraordinary effort required to move.
Painkillers are a dizzy white blanket:
the ache is not dead, merely sleeping,
and my mind has joined it.

Wrote nothing Friday, wrote 1300 words at 4am last night in a fit of guilt. Ning wanted me to write more porn for him (Soul Calibur this time). After he fell unwakeably asleep, I got bored of it and started the Dark Prince story I’ve been thinking about since finishing T2T.

I bought a three-CD classical piano collection at Zellers for $7. For the most part, the songs sound as if they’ve been played on a toy keyboard, and I dislike the pianist’s style, but he/she somehow manages Chopin decently well and that’s all I really cared about. Also, I’ve fallen madly in love with Claire de Lune.

Today is the first day since my last post where I haven’t justified my Communication Studies paper as fulfilling my daily word quota. Reluctantly inspired by the course, I’ve been planning out a possible plot for my modern PoP story — yet another ripoff remake of The Shop Around the Corner, wherein Farah is a profressor of some department that criticizes big companies (e.g. Media Studies) and teaches a course on Corporate Ethics or some such thing, the point being that she hates the Prince’s daddy’s company. But when they meet anonymously on a discussion forum for Hourglass Enterprises (or whatever), they get to be friends online. Et cetera.

I’m still fiddling with their names. The Prince, needless to say, is the hardest to work with. So far it looks like Sharaman will become Shah “The King” Raman, with his son Sanjar “The Prince” Raman, and Farah will get the surname Maharaj or the feminine form Maharani. (As far as I know, Shah means King and Sanjar means Prince.)

Ning cajoled me into writing a Jade/Mei fic with the explicit requirement of graphic sex. I acquiesced for experimental purposes.

Haha, it’s fun.

Update: 1224 words later, I think I’ve more than made up for yesterday’s slacking. I doubt anyone’s interested, but it’s on my Lemon Fingers if you get curious.

Update #2: I think I’ll take a moment to mention that I am now second-last from the bottom of the Geek Hierarchy.

Formal night.
The stench of twenty
moderately-priced perfumes
leaks from my dorm hallway;
The girls flit between rooms
in too-alluring dresses—
And I, still swimming in my lab coat,
that academic garb which confesses
my tension from three hours of plant diagrams.

I can tell you where to find
the vascular cambium in a pine root,
but even though my bangs sometimes
get in the way of microscopy,
I will never smell like they do.

Four poems and some BGE scribblings later, I’m at 303 words.

Watching the colours fly
above the school’s soggy field
makes the storm worth it.

White is the colour
of your dormitory walls,
but your hair: fuchsia.

Update: Exactly 500 words today.

Inspired by NaNoWriMo.

There is a small
grey monster, who
slavers on my left shoulder,
gobbling up inspiration
and spitting out sense,
and I don’t have the heart
to swat him away.

He muses and peruses
the words he sees,
pointing tiny talons
at subject-verb disagreements
and awkward phrasing
and the lamest of clichés.

Sometimes I shout at him
to be quiet and leave me alone,
and he sullenly slinks back, grumbling
into the hollow of my collarbone
and tapping his little claws
until I let him out again.

The glint in his eyes:
so eager to fix me,
the brute,
and it hurts when his pointy nails
dig into my skin.
He cackles with every corrected word.

But I love my little pet.
Without him
those subjects and verbs would
continue to quarrel
until the neighbours complain.