"The Long Road"
A writing begins like a painting. The first sentence strokes the paper and lights color to that world. This one begins in a white world that hasn't been frequented much lately, on a silverish street, with a lone child. She has dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. She's clad in a blue jeans bell bottoms, a white tank top that doesn't reach her jeans, and sandals. Her hair waves in the wind behind her as she stared forward.
"We've all lost so much haven't we?" her voice whispered on the wind around her curling like a choking wind, something to clutter the throat. It was ominous and pain filled.
"Yes. Gained some too... but yes."
That was the answer, and she heard it, even if he wasn't standing there beside him. He couldn't be, because here she was always alone. She only heard him because then he'd been the only one close enough to understand and in some ways he'd always be that person. He'd seen her through it all. She was in the whiteness that she'd paved, created, driven and destroyed only to rebuild. This was the place that crated on her emotions, her drive, and her crazy impulses.
True, it wasn't only hers, but at the moment, this part was.
"What are you doing?"
The long ago driver turned to one side, to see a figure who came through the wall at her. The sight made her smile softly. The young woman was beautiful. She was the kind of person she'd want to grow up to be like. Beautiful dark brown hair tumbling down her back, dressed in close fitting blue jeans, a leather jacket, and what looked to be a white shirt under it. Curios expression, touched with a slight tinge that told her the girl wondered why she asked. They all knew their writer could be weird.
"Thinking." She said.
"About?" Another voice asked.
The writer blinked and almost laughed. The woman with the bright green eyes had walked all but literally out of nowhere, right in front of her. Not that it was at all the unexpected from the Subreality or from Jean. She was dressed in stretch pants and body suite with an X in a ring over her heart. A towel was around her neck. But in the next second, her clothes changed to her costume. The beautiful Phoenix across her chest.
"Can't you tell?" The watched asked, with an amused sound to her voice as she watched Jean move toward her. How could she deny herself a favorite in my mass, when it was this fiery incarnation that had brought her back to the game after her lapse in faith. She saw Jean smile almost, and turned to looking beyond where she'd come from.
"What do you see there?"
"I see," Kitty started, taking a stance and staring up, a hand covering her eyes from the sudden brilliance of the sun appearing and drawing the sky in with it. "My foundation and my beginnings. The lessons that taught me the most important things and the people who sculpted my future."
The writer ventured a glance at Jean who was still staring in the direction and waited. Nothing. And a few minutes passed and just as she opened her mouth to ask the red head, she finally spoke, breaking silence with golden speech, and gentle emotions reflected inside it.
"I could stare forever and I'd still see the same time." A smile touched the woman's lips as she hugged her arms to her chest. "I see sanctuary. I see family. I see home."
"Are you two daft? It's just a building."
All three heads spun to look up at this fourth voice. It was pure silver turned into spikes to poke them all, but she couldn't turn herself into one ever. She sat on the top of the wall that was off to their left, looking like a child poised to jump or to sit calmly, but she was anything but a child. Everything about her scream danger, perfection, and eroticism. Everything from the painted on leather pants and loose white shirt that barely covered, to the danger blue eyes, in the milky smooth face.
"It'll never be just a building, Casse. Not even if you wished it so."
The woman bristled under her writer's tongue, especially at her name, but only scowled in response now. Perhaps she didn't want to speak ill of the writer for fear of what she might do in the next post now that she was being cruel or perhaps it was because the words were true, but that they'd never know as she looked off in the distance. Always more comfortable with the look at, than the being in or around.
Kitty squinted to one side and then finally said with a sound of disbelief in her tone. "H-hey! Is that what I think it is?"
There was more squinting, one "ah", one "uck", and a general feeling suddenly that this wouldn't be ending very soon now.
"Yes. I do believe it is." The writer was smiling faintly, neither happy nor sad, just simply smiling softly looking at it. "It's the van."
"Do we have to do this mopey thing about our stupid beginnings?"
Kitty glared at the woman suddenly, fierce were her brown eyes. "Well, you could stay on that wall. It wouldn't bother me in the slightest if you stayed right there. I personally had enough of you the first time we sat in the van. No wonder she doesn't put you with people. The more your away the better."
With that Katherine started on her way toward the open garage and the van parked about twenty feet from it down the path. The van was chipped of its paint in large in places, and looked dented in others. Their writer seemed to falter staring at it, but was stopped by the hands of the red head beside her.
"Don't stop now," she said softly, and for a moment the writer stared at her and then nodded. Then she stood and looked at Casse silently. A completely silent conversation, just a simple exchange of expressions. Neither mean nor nice, simply accepting, and Jean wasn't sure she caught it or it was the sunlight reflected on her writer, but for a moment she thought she saw her smile before turning to walk after Kitty.
It wasn't a lonely walk, walking with the one woman who she felt she fit perfectly into the skin of. She could almost laugh and point to one of those stupid quizzes she'd taken saying they were so alike. But she didn't. There was no need for speech, or drawl, no need to explain or conversate. Between the two there was something none of the other characters had with the writer. A simple being.
By the time they'd got there, Kitty had slung open the door of the van and was standing there staring in, but not doing anything. An audible shiver ran through her spin that they could see, and she tightened her hold on the door handle.
"Something wrong?" The writer called out, and she missed the fact that even Jean hesitated to step forward in the same steps. That the writer didn't know what this was, was a touch unnerving. For both women.
"No--" Kitty said slowly, like she wasn't saying everything at all. "Not wrong."
Except it still wasn't everything. Her tone was a little off, confused, appalled, trembling. As the writer approached, Kitty moved aside for her, and when she stepped up, Kitty stepped back. She stared forward for a long while before saying anything. She'd never considered this before. When had this all happened? What had happened to all of them?
The center of her heart hurt.
"Are they-- ?" she gasped. "Dead?"
"No. Not dead." Kitty swallowed and said, reaching out to touch her writer, who waved her hand off without seeing her reach out, and glancing over as if demanding an answer. "Their...ah...kind of asleep."
She looked back, peering in. The back corner held a small long haired blonde curled up with a white blanket, a soft glow around her, looking like she might wake any second. Next to her was another blonde child with her hair in braids who looked like she'd half faded away in the darkness that kept the light from the outside from reaching inside the van.
A seat up from them, a man with sunglasses and a black trench coat was slumbering across the entire seat. He had the entire seat to himself, except the very edge where a woman with curves, small daisy dukes and a maroon play boy bunny shirt was curled out of the seat, her head on her arm on the top of the seat. The front row held far against the window a woman in white robes, and another child in her lap with soft brown hair.
How interesting and terrifying and how shocking all at once.
"Well, not all of us."
The writers head snapped to the voice. On the floor beside where the man on the seat laying across was laying, was a woman on the floor. A lab top was laying open on the floor in front of her. She closed it slowly, and the light from the screen that had illuminated her face quickly brought her shadows in the darkness of the bus. How could she have not looked for this one after seeing the man on the seat?
How could this have happened? What was wrong with them all?
"Nothin," Kylie said softly. Her writer jumped slightly, and Kylie tapped her forehead slightly. "It's not mine...but when he's around and not using his shields, when he's down, sometimes thought from around me slip in. Give me some interesting dream scene's."
She almost pouted then. The writer hadn't smiled and she'd been going for just that something to smile for. She could tell their writer had never been here, never thought about this place. Never considered what happened to them when....Kylie moved to sit up and scoot toward the door, but no light came in so she didn't illuminate at all.
"Don't worry. None of us are hurting. It doesn't hurt at all. It's like being asleep, except it's not sleep." Watching her creator begin to look more confused as she nodded acting like she did understand, her emotions reading panic and fear and confusion still.
"It's what happens to us. We go back to the beginning. When...." Kylie stammered slightly and looked at the other two over the creators shoulders. She didn't doubt their stepping back. She'd do it, too, this close to here. "We come here when you don't have time for us anymore."
"But I always-"
Kylie shook her head and interrupted the sudden outburst from the girl at the door, who was younger than her, and nevertheless, more powerful without powers. "It's not a bad thing. It just is. You have school, friends, a life. Your own burdens. They are good things, too. We go...to sleep and wait for you to call on us when you need us again."
"But I need you guys always," the writer said, shuddering a bite. "-and I love you guys."
"And we love you, too." The small brunette replied from the darkness as she raised a hand to cover a yawn that opened her mouth now. "You come back when you miss us. We'll be here for you. Only a thought away. Remember?"
The writer nodded slowly, feeling such an urge to cry at these peaceful faces and their complete silence in here, even from those written to snore. It was a lot more than she been prepared to see just looking back at her beginnings. She thought it was about the two moderators, and the fight, and the betraying. She didn't think it meant taking all the newer pains, too.
"I 'member," she whispered softly.
"What do you remember?"
"Her. From before."
The Californian angel suddenly burst into a soft laughter, that startled her writer and she stopped and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. You mean you think she's gone? She's not gone. She can't ever leave you. She's a piece of you and she's not the one out there now."
"What do you mean?"
Kylie pointed to the seat beside the drivers seat. It had once been taken by Baby Jane in her first appearance to the Mutant Mansion, but it seemed fitting to see who was sitting there, and some how it comforted her heart to see it, too. Curled in to her seat, her legs in the center between the drivers seat and the passenger seat, was a woman who seemed best separate and alone. She had a creme suite on, with white heels, and perfectly cultured hair.
The writer smiled sadly moving her gaze from Emma to the twin moving for her brother slowly, yawning deeper now. She moved his arm and curled up, with her head on his chest, still facing this direction. "Remember every once in a while, okay?"
"I promise, Kylie." She said with a small nod.
"Mmm." The smaller Summer's girl murmured, as her eyes clouded and she closed them slowly. Her writer took a step backwards and started to close the door slowly. She didn't want the sunshine to touch them right now. Let them rest peacefully. Let them have peace for a while.
Turning to look at those behind her, she was surprised to see all three of them regarding her with almost matching expressions. That in its self should shock the entire world. The three of them couldn't have been more different in every way, from their looks to their personalities. They were all staring at her with things varying between confusion and worry all in one expression.
She thought she understood at least. They didn't know if she'd brought one of them here to stay. They hadn't known what this place was either, except they understood it on sight, they way she couldn't. She opened her mouth and almost laughed when she was cut off again.
"What'd you see?" That was Casse, acting brave though she was cared. How she could ever think she might be sacrificed, was beyond her writer, but not commented on. "I mean, when you look...in there."
The writer looked a little confused and looked back at the closed van and then at the people gathered around her, fictives written by others and by her imagination. "Peace. Quiet. Relaxation." She looked at all of them not at ease at all and nodded toward the building as she saw Jean relax finally in a light degree before she spoke. "We should be getting back. They'll be missing us."
As she took off, she heard sighs of relief, held breaths released and felt a weight drop from each of their shoulders. There was no talking. None of them, not even Casse, had something to say now. They'd all stared their own abyss in the face, straight on and lived to tell the tall, they'd walked away unscathed, but with the knowledge it would always be there.
The writer though was in other thoughts. Of those she had loved and would miss. Was that all she had to remember? Was that all that lie behind her in her beginning till now? Was it only a blank slate for when she didn't have time? Why wasn't there some warning about this when she'd first drive in? Why hadn't someone thought about this?
"Have you forgotten me already?"
The writer was startled by the voice she heard, and felt a spasm of denial held within her chest as she looked up at the woman before her. A yellow uniform, full body, with a brown jacket over it. Bright eyes and corn colored hair. Her words said in jest had twisted her lips into a smile and her body was relaxed and she radiated joy. And for what seemed like minutes her writer just stared at her.
And then tears began to fall down form her eyes and Crystal's eyes went wide. She hadn't meant to make her cry. She came down the stairs, as the others moved a little closer into her, too, all of them not sure what had happened. All, but Crystal, who hadn't been there, blaming the van. It seemed good enough. They had their own daemons in that van now.
But it was Crystal who their writer hugged, who looked startled and then hugged her back at the soft whisper. "Not sad. Happy. You've made me happy. You made me remember."
Crystal who was her fresh start. Her unknown element in a game she knew like th back of her hand from so many of her years. Crystal who symbolized everything. The new moderators. The new rules. The new players. Tentative, flowing with joy and concern. That excitement in the first post from a new writer. Those nights getting to know people you never knew before. Finding out you had something in common that linked you.
And she remembered those words. They had gained, too.
She took a step back and looked at those people near, still half in Crystal arms and looked at those so close to her, filled with concern, relief and flowing with love. She reached up and wiped her tears away, as they fled like the clouds from the sunny sky when her shy smile came.
"Well, we're still here."
"That we are," Jean replied softly.
At her side, the red head took her open side, and as all five of them turned and started walking up the stares the writer looked over her shoulder for a moment to the van that was vanishing again from being visible as they crossed the threshold. Sounds filled echoes in the long hallway that marched only from Monday to Tuesday, and some moved from discussion to fight to tears to laugh, and off of a list to back, and still stayed the same, in which fictives laughed and told jokes, and others groused about meaningless trivialness.
A writing begins like a painting. The first sentence strokes the paper and lights color to that world. This one begins in a white world that hasn't been frequented much lately, on a silverish street, with a lone child. She has dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. She's clad in a blue jeans bell bottoms, a white tank top that doesn't reach her jeans, and sandals. Her hair waves in the wind behind her as she stared forward.
"We've all lost so much haven't we?" her voice whispered on the wind around her curling like a choking wind, something to clutter the throat. It was ominous and pain filled.
"Yes. Gained some too... but yes."
That was the answer, and she heard it, even if he wasn't standing there beside him. He couldn't be, because here she was always alone. She only heard him because then he'd been the only one close enough to understand and in some ways he'd always be that person. He'd seen her through it all. She was in the whiteness that she'd paved, created, driven and destroyed only to rebuild. This was the place that crated on her emotions, her drive, and her crazy impulses.
True, it wasn't only hers, but at the moment, this part was.
"What are you doing?"
The long ago driver turned to one side, to see a figure who came through the wall at her. The sight made her smile softly. The young woman was beautiful. She was the kind of person she'd want to grow up to be like. Beautiful dark brown hair tumbling down her back, dressed in close fitting blue jeans, a leather jacket, and what looked to be a white shirt under it. Curios expression, touched with a slight tinge that told her the girl wondered why she asked. They all knew their writer could be weird.
"Thinking." She said.
"About?" Another voice asked.
The writer blinked and almost laughed. The woman with the bright green eyes had walked all but literally out of nowhere, right in front of her. Not that it was at all the unexpected from the Subreality or from Jean. She was dressed in stretch pants and body suite with an X in a ring over her heart. A towel was around her neck. But in the next second, her clothes changed to her costume. The beautiful Phoenix across her chest.
"Can't you tell?" The watched asked, with an amused sound to her voice as she watched Jean move toward her. How could she deny herself a favorite in my mass, when it was this fiery incarnation that had brought her back to the game after her lapse in faith. She saw Jean smile almost, and turned to looking beyond where she'd come from.
"What do you see there?"
"I see," Kitty started, taking a stance and staring up, a hand covering her eyes from the sudden brilliance of the sun appearing and drawing the sky in with it. "My foundation and my beginnings. The lessons that taught me the most important things and the people who sculpted my future."
The writer ventured a glance at Jean who was still staring in the direction and waited. Nothing. And a few minutes passed and just as she opened her mouth to ask the red head, she finally spoke, breaking silence with golden speech, and gentle emotions reflected inside it.
"I could stare forever and I'd still see the same time." A smile touched the woman's lips as she hugged her arms to her chest. "I see sanctuary. I see family. I see home."
"Are you two daft? It's just a building."
All three heads spun to look up at this fourth voice. It was pure silver turned into spikes to poke them all, but she couldn't turn herself into one ever. She sat on the top of the wall that was off to their left, looking like a child poised to jump or to sit calmly, but she was anything but a child. Everything about her scream danger, perfection, and eroticism. Everything from the painted on leather pants and loose white shirt that barely covered, to the danger blue eyes, in the milky smooth face.
"It'll never be just a building, Casse. Not even if you wished it so."
The woman bristled under her writer's tongue, especially at her name, but only scowled in response now. Perhaps she didn't want to speak ill of the writer for fear of what she might do in the next post now that she was being cruel or perhaps it was because the words were true, but that they'd never know as she looked off in the distance. Always more comfortable with the look at, than the being in or around.
Kitty squinted to one side and then finally said with a sound of disbelief in her tone. "H-hey! Is that what I think it is?"
There was more squinting, one "ah", one "uck", and a general feeling suddenly that this wouldn't be ending very soon now.
"Yes. I do believe it is." The writer was smiling faintly, neither happy nor sad, just simply smiling softly looking at it. "It's the van."
"Do we have to do this mopey thing about our stupid beginnings?"
Kitty glared at the woman suddenly, fierce were her brown eyes. "Well, you could stay on that wall. It wouldn't bother me in the slightest if you stayed right there. I personally had enough of you the first time we sat in the van. No wonder she doesn't put you with people. The more your away the better."
With that Katherine started on her way toward the open garage and the van parked about twenty feet from it down the path. The van was chipped of its paint in large in places, and looked dented in others. Their writer seemed to falter staring at it, but was stopped by the hands of the red head beside her.
"Don't stop now," she said softly, and for a moment the writer stared at her and then nodded. Then she stood and looked at Casse silently. A completely silent conversation, just a simple exchange of expressions. Neither mean nor nice, simply accepting, and Jean wasn't sure she caught it or it was the sunlight reflected on her writer, but for a moment she thought she saw her smile before turning to walk after Kitty.
It wasn't a lonely walk, walking with the one woman who she felt she fit perfectly into the skin of. She could almost laugh and point to one of those stupid quizzes she'd taken saying they were so alike. But she didn't. There was no need for speech, or drawl, no need to explain or conversate. Between the two there was something none of the other characters had with the writer. A simple being.
By the time they'd got there, Kitty had slung open the door of the van and was standing there staring in, but not doing anything. An audible shiver ran through her spin that they could see, and she tightened her hold on the door handle.
"Something wrong?" The writer called out, and she missed the fact that even Jean hesitated to step forward in the same steps. That the writer didn't know what this was, was a touch unnerving. For both women.
"No--" Kitty said slowly, like she wasn't saying everything at all. "Not wrong."
Except it still wasn't everything. Her tone was a little off, confused, appalled, trembling. As the writer approached, Kitty moved aside for her, and when she stepped up, Kitty stepped back. She stared forward for a long while before saying anything. She'd never considered this before. When had this all happened? What had happened to all of them?
The center of her heart hurt.
"Are they-- ?" she gasped. "Dead?"
"No. Not dead." Kitty swallowed and said, reaching out to touch her writer, who waved her hand off without seeing her reach out, and glancing over as if demanding an answer. "Their...ah...kind of asleep."
She looked back, peering in. The back corner held a small long haired blonde curled up with a white blanket, a soft glow around her, looking like she might wake any second. Next to her was another blonde child with her hair in braids who looked like she'd half faded away in the darkness that kept the light from the outside from reaching inside the van.
A seat up from them, a man with sunglasses and a black trench coat was slumbering across the entire seat. He had the entire seat to himself, except the very edge where a woman with curves, small daisy dukes and a maroon play boy bunny shirt was curled out of the seat, her head on her arm on the top of the seat. The front row held far against the window a woman in white robes, and another child in her lap with soft brown hair.
How interesting and terrifying and how shocking all at once.
"Well, not all of us."
The writers head snapped to the voice. On the floor beside where the man on the seat laying across was laying, was a woman on the floor. A lab top was laying open on the floor in front of her. She closed it slowly, and the light from the screen that had illuminated her face quickly brought her shadows in the darkness of the bus. How could she have not looked for this one after seeing the man on the seat?
How could this have happened? What was wrong with them all?
"Nothin," Kylie said softly. Her writer jumped slightly, and Kylie tapped her forehead slightly. "It's not mine...but when he's around and not using his shields, when he's down, sometimes thought from around me slip in. Give me some interesting dream scene's."
She almost pouted then. The writer hadn't smiled and she'd been going for just that something to smile for. She could tell their writer had never been here, never thought about this place. Never considered what happened to them when....Kylie moved to sit up and scoot toward the door, but no light came in so she didn't illuminate at all.
"Don't worry. None of us are hurting. It doesn't hurt at all. It's like being asleep, except it's not sleep." Watching her creator begin to look more confused as she nodded acting like she did understand, her emotions reading panic and fear and confusion still.
"It's what happens to us. We go back to the beginning. When...." Kylie stammered slightly and looked at the other two over the creators shoulders. She didn't doubt their stepping back. She'd do it, too, this close to here. "We come here when you don't have time for us anymore."
"But I always-"
Kylie shook her head and interrupted the sudden outburst from the girl at the door, who was younger than her, and nevertheless, more powerful without powers. "It's not a bad thing. It just is. You have school, friends, a life. Your own burdens. They are good things, too. We go...to sleep and wait for you to call on us when you need us again."
"But I need you guys always," the writer said, shuddering a bite. "-and I love you guys."
"And we love you, too." The small brunette replied from the darkness as she raised a hand to cover a yawn that opened her mouth now. "You come back when you miss us. We'll be here for you. Only a thought away. Remember?"
The writer nodded slowly, feeling such an urge to cry at these peaceful faces and their complete silence in here, even from those written to snore. It was a lot more than she been prepared to see just looking back at her beginnings. She thought it was about the two moderators, and the fight, and the betraying. She didn't think it meant taking all the newer pains, too.
"I 'member," she whispered softly.
"What do you remember?"
"Her. From before."
The Californian angel suddenly burst into a soft laughter, that startled her writer and she stopped and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. You mean you think she's gone? She's not gone. She can't ever leave you. She's a piece of you and she's not the one out there now."
"What do you mean?"
Kylie pointed to the seat beside the drivers seat. It had once been taken by Baby Jane in her first appearance to the Mutant Mansion, but it seemed fitting to see who was sitting there, and some how it comforted her heart to see it, too. Curled in to her seat, her legs in the center between the drivers seat and the passenger seat, was a woman who seemed best separate and alone. She had a creme suite on, with white heels, and perfectly cultured hair.
The writer smiled sadly moving her gaze from Emma to the twin moving for her brother slowly, yawning deeper now. She moved his arm and curled up, with her head on his chest, still facing this direction. "Remember every once in a while, okay?"
"I promise, Kylie." She said with a small nod.
"Mmm." The smaller Summer's girl murmured, as her eyes clouded and she closed them slowly. Her writer took a step backwards and started to close the door slowly. She didn't want the sunshine to touch them right now. Let them rest peacefully. Let them have peace for a while.
Turning to look at those behind her, she was surprised to see all three of them regarding her with almost matching expressions. That in its self should shock the entire world. The three of them couldn't have been more different in every way, from their looks to their personalities. They were all staring at her with things varying between confusion and worry all in one expression.
She thought she understood at least. They didn't know if she'd brought one of them here to stay. They hadn't known what this place was either, except they understood it on sight, they way she couldn't. She opened her mouth and almost laughed when she was cut off again.
"What'd you see?" That was Casse, acting brave though she was cared. How she could ever think she might be sacrificed, was beyond her writer, but not commented on. "I mean, when you look...in there."
The writer looked a little confused and looked back at the closed van and then at the people gathered around her, fictives written by others and by her imagination. "Peace. Quiet. Relaxation." She looked at all of them not at ease at all and nodded toward the building as she saw Jean relax finally in a light degree before she spoke. "We should be getting back. They'll be missing us."
As she took off, she heard sighs of relief, held breaths released and felt a weight drop from each of their shoulders. There was no talking. None of them, not even Casse, had something to say now. They'd all stared their own abyss in the face, straight on and lived to tell the tall, they'd walked away unscathed, but with the knowledge it would always be there.
The writer though was in other thoughts. Of those she had loved and would miss. Was that all she had to remember? Was that all that lie behind her in her beginning till now? Was it only a blank slate for when she didn't have time? Why wasn't there some warning about this when she'd first drive in? Why hadn't someone thought about this?
"Have you forgotten me already?"
The writer was startled by the voice she heard, and felt a spasm of denial held within her chest as she looked up at the woman before her. A yellow uniform, full body, with a brown jacket over it. Bright eyes and corn colored hair. Her words said in jest had twisted her lips into a smile and her body was relaxed and she radiated joy. And for what seemed like minutes her writer just stared at her.
And then tears began to fall down form her eyes and Crystal's eyes went wide. She hadn't meant to make her cry. She came down the stairs, as the others moved a little closer into her, too, all of them not sure what had happened. All, but Crystal, who hadn't been there, blaming the van. It seemed good enough. They had their own daemons in that van now.
But it was Crystal who their writer hugged, who looked startled and then hugged her back at the soft whisper. "Not sad. Happy. You've made me happy. You made me remember."
Crystal who was her fresh start. Her unknown element in a game she knew like th back of her hand from so many of her years. Crystal who symbolized everything. The new moderators. The new rules. The new players. Tentative, flowing with joy and concern. That excitement in the first post from a new writer. Those nights getting to know people you never knew before. Finding out you had something in common that linked you.
And she remembered those words. They had gained, too.
She took a step back and looked at those people near, still half in Crystal arms and looked at those so close to her, filled with concern, relief and flowing with love. She reached up and wiped her tears away, as they fled like the clouds from the sunny sky when her shy smile came.
"Well, we're still here."
"That we are," Jean replied softly.
At her side, the red head took her open side, and as all five of them turned and started walking up the stares the writer looked over her shoulder for a moment to the van that was vanishing again from being visible as they crossed the threshold. Sounds filled echoes in the long hallway that marched only from Monday to Tuesday, and some moved from discussion to fight to tears to laugh, and off of a list to back, and still stayed the same, in which fictives laughed and told jokes, and others groused about meaningless trivialness.
