Summer Coma on Cascade Hall

Solomon Asa Davies

November 09, 2011 3:35 PM

Summer Coma by Solomon Asa Davies

Summer had been one big nap. The breezes sifting through leaves gently highlighted by either a descending sun or a rising one. It hadn’t mattered. Solomon had spent all day, all night, every day, every night on his back, lids fluttering open, fluttering closed, his dark skin clothed in heat and gentle winds. Sometimes a passing bird above in the distant blue sky was reflected in his own blue pools for eyes. Staring into the hot Cajun sun, tears would form in his eyes, dripping happily down his cheeks. His little brother would sometimes lay over his stomach, or a cousin would play with his dreads, all asking if he’d like to do something, play a game with them. In his identical southern slur he’d tell them each no thank you. School had been hard, there had been work, he’d spent every day tired from the strenuous work of having to get up out of bed, go to class, eat on a schedule, and then back to sleep again. Sometimes there had been Quidditch practice.

Summer had been restful. Good for him. His mother would pass him every now and then, her long elegant fingers clasping bits of food that pressed through his lips, feeding him. He couldn’t see her face, the sun’s rays streaking her equally dark skin, but he could see her white smile, and feel her breath just before she kissed his cheek where the his skin was painted in salt from the tears he and the sun bred together. Rested, refreshed, the pleasant summer coma over, Solomon was glad to be back at school. He could continue to work on his many writings; plays, novels, memoirs, poems, whatever struck him in the moment. Blank parchment, an inkbottle, and a quill was set up just a little beside him now on the table. The day was early, but he didn’t mind waking early on Saturdays. A bowl of farina coated in honey, raisons, and a droplet of hot sauce (hot sauce worked with everything as long as there was moderation) sat directly before him. Solomon smiled sleepily, blue eyes closing and opening with every mouthful consumed.

He was unsure at the moment what to write. It was hard to concentrate beyond the good food. Cascade Hall was filled with a few people but Solomon heard no noise beyond his own chewing, gulping, and swallowing. Though always polite, he had spent last year consumed with his own cast of characters that he was creating on paper. There had been no need for anything more than pleasant amicable and shallow interaction. As if the universe was following his train of though and disapproved, someone was suddenly approaching his table. Solomon’s tongue gently roamed around the corners of his lips, seeking that tiny flick of Farina that escaped him. Someone sat down and Solomon looked up, swallowing his mouthful, and smiling with his lips pressed together. “Good mornin’ tuhday.” Despite the Universe’s obvious wishes, Solomon was a master of the pleasant and amicable and shallow and would probably see this interaction through the same way as he saw all the others.

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Angel Shield

November 09, 2011 8:30 PM

... by Angel Shield

The bitter unpleasant taste of the nutrient potion he took before leaving his room lingered on his tongue and sat heavily in his stomach. It was a familiar feeling, and Angel ignored it with ease as he padded silently into the Hall. A quick glance around the room showed a number of open tables, and Angel headed towards one near the far wall.

He was half way to the empty table (he always attempted to find a place to sit alone) when another subtle glance up locked on a darkly shaded student. Almost against his will his feet shifted from their destined path as a small thread of curiosity drew him to the other boy. Before he could change his mind and let the curiosity go unstated Angel took the seat across from the dark student. For breakfast he’d chosen a small bowl of plain oatmeal, and an equally small glass of milk.

Ash white hair partially hid his crimson gaze as Angel studied the boy without looking directly at him. He’d never seen someone so darkly shaded before, such a contrast to his unnatural whiteness. His hair was also different, and Angel’s fingertips itched to reach out and touch, to explore the texture of it. To keep his hands occupied he grabbed the tooth dented old pencil and his sketch pad. A few dark lines had been laid down when the dark boy spoke “Good mornin’ tuday.” The thick southern flavor caused the albino to glance up in statement before dropping his gaze back to the pad.

“Good morning tuday.” Angel replied, his own Georgian flair much lighter than the other’s. In the short time he’d been at Sonora he’d learned that people often said meaningless things to each other to start conversations and he’d begun to mimic the practice in an attempt to seem less different.

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Solomon

November 12, 2011 2:48 PM

Creature from the Black Bayou by Solomon

Solomon's blue eyes, usually half lidded, flared up, staring fully at the boy, his dark hand suddenly gripping his quill, pressing the ink stained tip hard onto the parchment, a permanent dot of surprise. There were creatures in the bayou, the old people with their heads shielded in cigar smoke, their voices husky from spice and drink, told all the children, warning them to stay away, to always be careful. Even the muggle children and the old knew about these creatures. Skin white as the moon, but their eyes like rats; crimson, full of cold fire that burned without physical touch. There was a subtle southern flavor to the boy's words. 'He's followed me.' There was an initial spark of fear. The kind of fear a child had, gripping his sheets, pulling them in a panic over his head as shadows blended with shadows in every corner of his room. It wasn't really in Solomon's nature to feel fear, unless he was writing about it. Quickly, seamlessly, a touch of flattery calmed him down. 'This creature followed me all the way from the bayou.' He hadn't before realized he was worth that much focus and determination. If this creature wanted to kill him, Solomon couldn't very well refuse him with all that work the creature had put into his demise.

Staying quiet, Solomon pushed his bowl of Farina off to the side, pulling his stack of parchment paper, ink bottle, and quill to the center and began to write: The demon followed Roberto Del Cavalier from Paris, seeking to return him to the din of fire and ash, where Roberto, of course, secretly belonged though no one would have suspected it. Roberto was still tall, dark, and handsome. But yet he belonged less with the aristocratic company he kept - everyone in his group equally beautiful and seemingly flushed with life - than the demon. The demon was an old creature, though it had the body of a child. Skin white as the moon, eyes as red as the subtle squint of a rat's, the kind of red that burned. The particular shade of which could only be fashioned by the King of Demons himself. Solomon paused, letting the feather of his quill lean against his inclined wrist, softly tickling the skin. The boy's eyes stared into his, as they shamelessly studied one another, though the boy's gaze was partially hidden.

"Wus yuh name?" Solomon smiled a little, needing to name this character, and confident that this creature wasn't intent on harming him just yet. He seemed to eat human food, so at least Solomon could be thankful that he wouldn't be devoured; his bones crushed, pulled from every crevice in his body like the old people had told him in haunted whispers. Blood slipping in gushing torrents, caught on the flicking tongue of the Bayou beasts. As long as that didn't happen, Solomon could always be grateful that this demon had followed him, simply because he'd been struggling on how to continue this chapter for his hero, Roberto. This was exactly the frightening inspiration he needed.

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Angel

November 12, 2011 5:06 PM

... by Angel

The dark boy’s eyes widened when he saw Angel, and some unknown emotion passed over his features. Instantly Angel’s crimson eyes dropped, assuming that it was his gaze that bothered the other boy, as it bothered everyone he’d ever known. Silence where words were expected to be caused Angel to glance up again. The other’s breakfast had been pushed to the side in favor of parchment and quill.

Momentary envy flared in Angel’s chest at the sight of how easily words flowed from dark skinned hand though the quill and onto the parchment as he remembered his own bitter labors to produce just a handful of slurred letters. It wasn’t as difficult now as it once had been but his own words weren’t nearly as smooth, still having that partially drawn look of a child who’d learned to write in the not so distant past. Not quite childlike, but not quite how everyone else wrote either.

Letting his eyes drop once more Angel took a small bite of oatmeal. The sharp bright color of spice danced over his tongue, almost overwhelming to his plait accustomed as it was to the blandest of foods. He shuttered slightly as he swallowed what should have been plain oatmeal that some elf probably decided could use a bit of flavor. Two more bites was all the albino could tolerate with out the risk of being ill. A large swallow of milk washed the unaccustomed flavor from his lips as he risked another glance up at the dark boy.

His ghostly hued hair covered most of the ruby gaze, but still caught onto the lightly colored eyes of the boy sitting across from him who’d also glanced up. Shouldn’t they be dark too? Forgetting to drop his gaze he studied the lightly shaded eyes in the dark face. Then the other spoke and the strange moment was lost, his eyes fell again as the quiet words slipped from his pale pink lips “Angel Shield.”

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Solomon

November 15, 2011 1:59 AM

Angels and Demons by Solomon

"Angel." Solomon repeated the name, tasting it, testing it, the syllables teasing his mouth, rippling through the last traces of hot sauce on his tongue, the honey that had coated the farina now dulling the spice of the demon's name. "Angel Shield." He bent his head briefly, the long dark dreads brushing his shoulders, his quill scratching against the parchment. "Ah like it. It's unexpected."

Roberto whirled around, a torch held high in his hand, casting shadows through the already shadowed catacombs, his wand outstretched in his other hand. The fire's light struck the demon, and it shielded its face, startled. "Who are you, monster?" Roberto called out in anger, a terrible expression of both rage and fear twisting his face. "What is your name?"

The demon replied, "I am called Angel."'

What Roberto Del Cavalier did next, Solomon was unsure. What did heroes do when met with monsters who claimed heavenly names? 'Introduce themselves.' Solomon let his hand relax, the quill placed lightly on the table next to the parchment, the ink dried from the tip. "Ah'm Solomon Asa Davies." He extended a hand halfway across the table. "Mos' jus' call me Asa. But, ah guess yuh knew that already." He was unsure if Angel had picked him out of his own devilish will, or he was sent after him because of a darker, lower power wanted Solomon captured or dead or worse. Perhaps if Angel was simply hunting out of crude animalistic instinct and need, he wouldn't have known Solomon's name. But if he was sent by someone, then he probably had Solomon's whole profile memorized.

Solomon's eyes wandered over to the bowl of discarded oatmeal, pushed away by Angel Shield in distaste. A twinge of fear, tightening his chest, but he borrowed courage from his hero, imagining his next words a torch, though his tone was calmer, smoother than the fire. "Ah, it wusn't to yuh taste?" He indicated the bowl. "Yuh new here, right? Yuh can always ask fo' something else." Anything else. Anything but Solomon. Another student walked on by, past their table. 'A seventh year. So much tastier, you'd love them better.' Instantly he realized what Roberto would do. Smiling a little at Angel, bright white striking the dark skin, Solomon picked up his quill again and began writing, the scratch scratch scratch rising in volume and tempo, a fury of thought and description, sweeping Solomon away, into a better world of ink and paper.

"Back away, back away, there are other souls to find, other souls to capture. I am still living! I am still alive and so you may not take me." Roberto turned to run, his feet striking the shallow pools of water, his raised torch highlighting the passing skulls stacked up all around him. The cold wind of the tunnels pressed through him, lifting his dark cape and twisted through his long dark hair. He ran fast, with breath and soon without. But still, heels striking the same shallow pools, the same cobble stones, the demon - Angel, Angel, an Angel - kept up right behind.

Solomon was breathless as he too ran, his feet kicking a little as they dangled over his seat beneath the table. His wrist flicked left and right as he continued the stream of words, slipping from his head faster than he had time to draw them out from the water, and lay them on the paper to dry. The End... of Chapter Three. He scribbled that quickly on the bottom of the parchment paper, sighing and letting his quill fall, some ink running off the tip, staining the table. "Done wit dat." He murmured happily, for a moment his face illuminated, his back straight, his body as if pulled by an invisible force above him, and he'd been made to smile too. Then, as if simply let go, he collapsed, arms gently rubbing against the table, head lowering to burrow into his new habitat. It might not have been the smartest thing to lower his guard in such away; snuggling into his own body and the table, blue eyes closing, when an enemy was so close. But, now that Solomon thought about - or didn't - death was nothing more than prolonged sleep. As long as there was no pain, Angel Shield: Demon Child was free to do as he liked.

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Angel

November 15, 2011 11:18 AM

... by Angel

The implications of his name went unnoticed by the dark child as he focused instead on Angel’s first name, ignoring, or unaware of the history surrounding his surname. Some of the harp wire tension eased from the pale boy’s slender shoulders at the lack of reaction. No one had reacted poorly to his name yet, but Lady Cynthia’s insistence of the hate he would face still lingered like a stain across the sky waiting for a moment of inattention to come crashing down upon him.

Again his breakfast partner turned his focus on the parchment before him, and Angel’s gaze returned to the sketch. More lines, some dark hard pressure against the page, others feather light, the softest hint of shading were carefully coaxed from the page. Brief flashes of crimson leapt periodically from the page to trace the contrasts of the boy across from him before returning to the unfinished piece.

He’d gotten the texture just right for the quill that even stationary had an air of frantic movement about it when his attention was pulled from the task by the sudden introduction. Another glance showed a shadow dark hand held out between them. Curiosity touched Angel’s features at the peculiar offer and he set aside his pencil for a moment to reach out. Instead of shaking it, Angel grabbed it in a light grasp before turning it palm up. Pale fingertips explored the dark skin as he admired the extreme contrast between his own deathly white shade and Asa’s rich dark tones. The albino’s hand was soft, free of calluses and after half a minute of detailed exploration where he turned Asa’s hand this way and that he let go with out a word.

“Not hungry.” Angel replied absently as he returned to the sketch. The words were a sharp contrast to the half starved look of the boy, his cheek bones were like blades pressing against his pale skin. Overly large robes hid his too skinny frame, but his hollow face, and the pointed angles of wrist bones bore testament to the fact that while the nutrient potions kept him alive, they didn’t do much beyond that. He wasn’t quite emaciated, but he would never be able to maintain a healthy weight.

The whisper of lead over sketch paper was drowned out by the louder scratching of quill over parchment at such a swift tempo Angel was forced to glance up again. Asa appeared to be in a trance, quill flying wildly over the parchment as if unable to keep up with the words flowing from it. As suddenly as it began the frantic activity came to an abrupt end and Angel’s eyes widened slightly as he stared at the other boy in that moment. One pale hand reached forward almost against his will and tore the current sketch from the pad crumpled it and let it slip from his grasp as his own inspiration took hold. Lines were laid down with abandon, rougher than his normal work but the better for it as he captured that one shining moment, the dark child sitting straight up face blazing with some unnamed force as startling whiteness marked his smile.

Minutes passed as his world narrowed down to the now memory, the paper, and the pencil that would join the two. Only his hand moved as it shaped the image colored in endless shades of darkness and light. Angel wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he felt satisfied with his progress. The need to capture the momentary vision faded back to a reasonable level and Angel blinked stretching his now slightly cramped hand he looked up and saw Asa slumped on the table head cradled on his arms.

Crimson eyes studied the now stationary form, all the pulsing life that had animated the dark boy while he wrote now gone as if it had never been. His gaze lingered on the hair that held such fascination for the albino. Curiosity overwhelmed caution as Angel remembered how Asa let him touch his hand, surly this too would be permitted? A single ghostly hand reached out, slender finger tips brushed hesitantly over a single dreadlock.

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Solomon

November 18, 2011 3:53 AM

Inception by Solomon

It didn't take very long for Solomon to slip into the dreamworld. Simply existing and walking through reality was exhausting, he was nearly always ready to fall asleep. In his dreams, his imagination wasn't limited to ink and feather quills, crinkled pieces of parchment. He dreamed of the sun; his palm pumping as if the blood in his body rushed excitedly through the veins of just that one right hand, caught in the light of the dream sun, and it began to burn where in reality Angel had touched him. The burn felt nice, pleasant and amicable, the stern warnings of a friend. Solomon's blue eyes gazed into the rays of hot white light streaming through the clouds he laid down on, their creamy wisps of heaven cradling him, covering his naked body. He was never shackled with clothes in his dreams.

'What does it mean?' His head rolled to the side, staring curiously at the palm of his right hand. 'Why does it burn?' He couldn't remember where he had been before, how he had gotten to where he was now. Suddenly, there was a touch on his scalp. A subtle stroke. Solomon's other hand rose to gently brush invisible disturbances from his head. His dreads were absent from his dreams as well. Just deep shades of brown playing over his skin, melding with the heat of the sun's light pressing over him, sinking him in clouds. As easily, however, as it was for Solomon to fall into dreams, it was just as easily to pull him back. Brushing another invisible disturbance from his scalp, the skin smooth, rubbing with little friction against his long fingers, Solomon blinked, seeing sun... seeing sun... the bright white hot light of...

The table. Blue eyes blinked once more, adjusting to the surface he was looking at, buried against, his dark arms surrounding him, providing apparent little protection against the demon above him. Solomon felt the shifts of air, the creature's finger exploring restricted terrain. His body stiffening with slight surprise, Solomon relaxed again, easing in his seat, and let his eyes close again. "Jus' don' cut it, yeah?" His voice slipped through his thick lips, spilling with resumed fatigue. "An' don' eat it. Muh father wud have me punished fo' dat." The dreads were a symbol of respect for the body; letting them grow honored the ancestors before him, and his current family members. Solomon, like his father, was first born, and so was required to wear dreads as walking monuments to the Davies family, and the families that had come before them. If ever Solomon accomplished brave deeds, beads and other jeweled tokens would be woven into his hair.

He didn't question the need for the demon to explore his hair. Though his palm still held that oddly pleasant burn from the demon's touch, Solomon still believed that at the moment, Angel's magic was not so very great, or his current purpose was not to harm Solomon. Maybe once he left Cascade, away from the safety of everyone watching, Angel would attack, carry him away to the King of Demons, drag him deep inside the Bayou. But for now, right at this moment, Angel's attentions were harmless. Solomon again began to slip back into the dreamworld.

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Angel

November 18, 2011 8:20 PM

... by Angel

“Won’t” the soft agreement drifted like a single downy feather from his lips, the quiet promise floating on a gentle puff of breath. Is it common to eat people’s hair? Angel wondered as he rested his pale pointed chin on the palm of his hand. The hovering fingertips had stilled when Solomon spoke now resumed their delicate exploration. I hope not, I doubt it would agree with me.

The dark boy stilled once more, and Angel watched as his eyes slipped closed hiding the lightly shaded orbs. Finally free to do so Angel’s gaze rested fully on the motionless form. His crimson gaze traced along the lines and angles as his fingertips carefully continued their quest for knowledge. Gently, as if what he touched might shatter at the least provocation Angel touched. From the night dark scalp outward he indulged his curiosity.

Minutes drifted away unnoticed as the dull roar of the other students, so easily mistaken for the sound the cascading water should have made, slowed to a trickle. A subtle glance showed most of the students had finished eating, leaving he and Solomon behind. We should stay The thought was almost painfully tempting, to just say here in the acceptable silence where no one asked questions that required far too many words to answer. It really would be better to just stay.

A low reluctant sigh slipped from his slightly parted lips as Angel detangled his fingers from the fascinating hair. Angel’s ghostly finger tips ran lightly over the sketch he’d finished before becoming distracted. Grabbing on edge he carefully tore it from the pad, the sound of crumpling paper was like leaves crunching under bare feet in the fall. As the ball of paper fell to the floor, joining the first Angel reached forward again, one last gentle stroke though the dreads before coming to one slumped shoulder. Angel nudged the sleeping boy. “Class.” He said, regret flavoring the word.

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