Regina: Well, I have had a bit of trouble with the next bit of A Way With Words, but it is here. I hate it when something like that happens. You get off to a great start, and then the second chapter you have no idea what to do. Luckily, I managed to beat the terrible writer's block, and give you this.
And as always, I own nothing mentioned in this chapter. Not even CSI.
A Way With Words
Chapter Two: Two of a Kind
"So, Amara, how was it?"
Amara looked up from her food. "Huh? How was what?"
"I think Scott was asking about your writing class," Jean explained. "How was it?"
"Not what I expected," Amara said truthfully.
"Any good writers there?" asked Kitty.
Again Amara was truthful. "A few. Nothing outstanding, I guess."
"How did you do?"
Amara shrugged her shoulders. "Okay. I think I'm gonna pass."
"That's good," said Scott. "Pass the potatoes." The potatoes floated down the table towards him. "Did you have fun?"
Amara smiled. "Yes." It was not a lie. She had had fun - at least, until she saw the way John was looking at her. By the time the session was over, she couldn't wait to leave.
"You going back next week?"
Amara nodded. "I have to, don't I?" She tried to look happy about it, but on the inside, she was dreading it already.
"That's good. Hey, did anyone see CSI last night? That was so cool how they. . ."
Glad that the conversation had been steered away from her, Amara mentally drowned out what everyone else was saying. She wanted to concentrate on two things: her dinner, and what to do about John.
X X X
By the time the next creative writing session rolled around, Amara had all but forgotten John and his strange behaviour.
She arrived there early this time. Only Poppy, the woman with the German shepherds, was there. Not disconcerted, Amara took the seat she had last time, the seat next to where she assumed Dot always sat. Prepared this time, Amara took out the book she had bought especially for this at the weekend, and a pen.
She was busy going over the lines of her name - she had written it in an elegant font copied from a calligraphy book she had borrowed off someone - when she felt a presence behind her. She knew instantly that it was not Dot, and her heart sank.
"You're back," said a voice.
"Look, John," replied Amara, spinning around in her chair to face him. "I'm only here because I have to be, and I would rather just get this over and done with. Then I'll be gone, and everything will be back the way it was."
Amara could not read whatever emotion it was that was on John's face. "Whatever. I was just gonna say hello."
Amara blinked. She had not expected that. "Oh. Okay, then," she said, her voice flat. "Hi, John."
"Hi, Amara." John continued to look down at her, and with a start she realised that he had the same strange look in his eyes that he had had the last time she had seen him. The look that she could have sworn burned with a hidden flame.
In an attempt to hide her own nervousness, Amara spun back around to face the front of the room. "Well, it was nice seeing you, John," she said, somehow managing to keep her voice level. "But class is gonna start soon. Perhaps you should go to your seat."
Behind her, John shrugged his shoulders, and went to the seat that he had been in the previous session.
And like the previous session, he did not take his eyes off of Amara. At all.
X X X
"Are you sure Harold and I can't give you a lift?"
Amara shook her head, smiling. "No, thank you, Dot. A friend's coming to pick me up. He'll be here soon. But thank you for the offer."
"No trouble, dear," replied Dot, sitting in the passenger seat of her husband's car. "But if you ever need a lift, you can always count on me."
Amara's smile widened. "Thank you, Dot. And it was nice meeting you, Harold."
"And it was nice meeting you," he replied. With that, he started up the car, and began to drive away.
As soon as the car was out of sight, Amara said, to what appeared to be no one in particular, "Are you stalking me or something?"
John stepped out from behind a tree a few metres away. "No."
"Then why are you following me?" Amara demanded, turning to face him.
John shrugged his shoulders. "You're. . . interesting."
"Interesting?"
His eyes focused intently on her face. "You're different from them."
"'From them'?" asked Amara skeptically. "You mean the others in the class?"
He nodded solemnly. "From everyone."
Amara swallowed. This was getting to be a bit too close for comfort. If he knew her secret. . . "What do you mean 'different'? How do you know?"
His gaze was hawk-like, intense. "I just know. The things you said the last time, they were different from everything else anyone has said. That's how I knew."
"And what do you mean, 'different'?" Amara challenged.
"You're like me. Different. Not like the others," John stated.
"And how are you different?" Amara's voice had taken on a slightly higher pitch. Even if John didn't notice, Amara sure did.
"The same way you are," he said, reaching into his pocket absently. "I just am. I have always been, even if I did not know it."
"Uh huh," Amara said, trying to sound unaffected by what he was saying. "You're crazy, did you know that?"
"Not crazy," John insisted, and a part of Amara noticed that his voice had a strange accent, unlike one she ever heard. He pulled out the object he had been holding onto in his pocket. It was a small silver lighter. Amara paid no attention to it. "Just different."
"Uh, huh," repeated Amara. "Whatever you say."
John held the lighter up in front of his face. "You spoke of the beauty of fire, of how it can both create and destroy. Do you want to know why it spoke to me?"
Amara said nothing.
"I'll show you." A flame appeared from the lighter, and John put his left hand above it. He seemed unaffected by the heat. "I think we're the same, you and I. We have an understanding. I think we're alike, and I am going to prove it."
Amara gasped as a ball of flame erupted from the lighter, enveloping John's hand. But he appeared to feel no pain. In fact, he smiled as tendrils of fire snaked around his hand, until it formed a glove made entirely from fire. "Now do you see?" asked John, extending the hand towards Amara. "We are the same."
"Stay away from me!" Amara recoiled with shock. She had not expected this.
John withdrew the hand. "Fine, then. If you're not ready to accept this, then I can't force you. But I know a way to remind you." John looked at the tree he was standing next to. "Do you always wait here?" Amara managed to nod. "Perfect." With that, he pressed his flaming palm into the trunk of the tree. Smoke made its way out from under his fingers, as for about a minute he held his hand against the bark.
Finally the fire vanished, leaving John's pale and unmarked hand pressed against the tree. After a moment's pause, John withdrew his hand, leaving a perfect handprint burned into the wood.
John examined his work. "That should do." He turned to Amara. "Now every time you come here, you will remember." Once more he extended his hand, an open invitation for Amara to take it.
She stared at it, but did not move. Both of them stood as still as statues.
Until the beeping of a car horn broke the silence.
Amara managed to smile. "Scott!" Noting the red sports car that was still a fair distance away, Amara looked back at John.
"John?"
He had vanished.
And as always, I own nothing mentioned in this chapter. Not even CSI.
A Way With Words
Chapter Two: Two of a Kind
"So, Amara, how was it?"
Amara looked up from her food. "Huh? How was what?"
"I think Scott was asking about your writing class," Jean explained. "How was it?"
"Not what I expected," Amara said truthfully.
"Any good writers there?" asked Kitty.
Again Amara was truthful. "A few. Nothing outstanding, I guess."
"How did you do?"
Amara shrugged her shoulders. "Okay. I think I'm gonna pass."
"That's good," said Scott. "Pass the potatoes." The potatoes floated down the table towards him. "Did you have fun?"
Amara smiled. "Yes." It was not a lie. She had had fun - at least, until she saw the way John was looking at her. By the time the session was over, she couldn't wait to leave.
"You going back next week?"
Amara nodded. "I have to, don't I?" She tried to look happy about it, but on the inside, she was dreading it already.
"That's good. Hey, did anyone see CSI last night? That was so cool how they. . ."
Glad that the conversation had been steered away from her, Amara mentally drowned out what everyone else was saying. She wanted to concentrate on two things: her dinner, and what to do about John.
X X X
By the time the next creative writing session rolled around, Amara had all but forgotten John and his strange behaviour.
She arrived there early this time. Only Poppy, the woman with the German shepherds, was there. Not disconcerted, Amara took the seat she had last time, the seat next to where she assumed Dot always sat. Prepared this time, Amara took out the book she had bought especially for this at the weekend, and a pen.
She was busy going over the lines of her name - she had written it in an elegant font copied from a calligraphy book she had borrowed off someone - when she felt a presence behind her. She knew instantly that it was not Dot, and her heart sank.
"You're back," said a voice.
"Look, John," replied Amara, spinning around in her chair to face him. "I'm only here because I have to be, and I would rather just get this over and done with. Then I'll be gone, and everything will be back the way it was."
Amara could not read whatever emotion it was that was on John's face. "Whatever. I was just gonna say hello."
Amara blinked. She had not expected that. "Oh. Okay, then," she said, her voice flat. "Hi, John."
"Hi, Amara." John continued to look down at her, and with a start she realised that he had the same strange look in his eyes that he had had the last time she had seen him. The look that she could have sworn burned with a hidden flame.
In an attempt to hide her own nervousness, Amara spun back around to face the front of the room. "Well, it was nice seeing you, John," she said, somehow managing to keep her voice level. "But class is gonna start soon. Perhaps you should go to your seat."
Behind her, John shrugged his shoulders, and went to the seat that he had been in the previous session.
And like the previous session, he did not take his eyes off of Amara. At all.
X X X
"Are you sure Harold and I can't give you a lift?"
Amara shook her head, smiling. "No, thank you, Dot. A friend's coming to pick me up. He'll be here soon. But thank you for the offer."
"No trouble, dear," replied Dot, sitting in the passenger seat of her husband's car. "But if you ever need a lift, you can always count on me."
Amara's smile widened. "Thank you, Dot. And it was nice meeting you, Harold."
"And it was nice meeting you," he replied. With that, he started up the car, and began to drive away.
As soon as the car was out of sight, Amara said, to what appeared to be no one in particular, "Are you stalking me or something?"
John stepped out from behind a tree a few metres away. "No."
"Then why are you following me?" Amara demanded, turning to face him.
John shrugged his shoulders. "You're. . . interesting."
"Interesting?"
His eyes focused intently on her face. "You're different from them."
"'From them'?" asked Amara skeptically. "You mean the others in the class?"
He nodded solemnly. "From everyone."
Amara swallowed. This was getting to be a bit too close for comfort. If he knew her secret. . . "What do you mean 'different'? How do you know?"
His gaze was hawk-like, intense. "I just know. The things you said the last time, they were different from everything else anyone has said. That's how I knew."
"And what do you mean, 'different'?" Amara challenged.
"You're like me. Different. Not like the others," John stated.
"And how are you different?" Amara's voice had taken on a slightly higher pitch. Even if John didn't notice, Amara sure did.
"The same way you are," he said, reaching into his pocket absently. "I just am. I have always been, even if I did not know it."
"Uh huh," Amara said, trying to sound unaffected by what he was saying. "You're crazy, did you know that?"
"Not crazy," John insisted, and a part of Amara noticed that his voice had a strange accent, unlike one she ever heard. He pulled out the object he had been holding onto in his pocket. It was a small silver lighter. Amara paid no attention to it. "Just different."
"Uh, huh," repeated Amara. "Whatever you say."
John held the lighter up in front of his face. "You spoke of the beauty of fire, of how it can both create and destroy. Do you want to know why it spoke to me?"
Amara said nothing.
"I'll show you." A flame appeared from the lighter, and John put his left hand above it. He seemed unaffected by the heat. "I think we're the same, you and I. We have an understanding. I think we're alike, and I am going to prove it."
Amara gasped as a ball of flame erupted from the lighter, enveloping John's hand. But he appeared to feel no pain. In fact, he smiled as tendrils of fire snaked around his hand, until it formed a glove made entirely from fire. "Now do you see?" asked John, extending the hand towards Amara. "We are the same."
"Stay away from me!" Amara recoiled with shock. She had not expected this.
John withdrew the hand. "Fine, then. If you're not ready to accept this, then I can't force you. But I know a way to remind you." John looked at the tree he was standing next to. "Do you always wait here?" Amara managed to nod. "Perfect." With that, he pressed his flaming palm into the trunk of the tree. Smoke made its way out from under his fingers, as for about a minute he held his hand against the bark.
Finally the fire vanished, leaving John's pale and unmarked hand pressed against the tree. After a moment's pause, John withdrew his hand, leaving a perfect handprint burned into the wood.
John examined his work. "That should do." He turned to Amara. "Now every time you come here, you will remember." Once more he extended his hand, an open invitation for Amara to take it.
She stared at it, but did not move. Both of them stood as still as statues.
Until the beeping of a car horn broke the silence.
Amara managed to smile. "Scott!" Noting the red sports car that was still a fair distance away, Amara looked back at John.
"John?"
He had vanished.
