View Message

<  >
Subject: The eyes
Author: klundtacular   (Authenticated as klundtacular)
Date: August 14, 2012 at 3:47:49 PM
Reply to: The Build-a-Story Game, Resurrected: ROUND ONE! by Viola Eponine
Once CherryFrog hosted a game and I came up with two characters. When I read the answers for my prompt on this game I decided to bring these back.

I stuff a few possessions into a bag—sweatshirt, jeans, underwear, lip-gloss and mascara—and glance at the window in my room. My orange eyes glow in it, broadcasting half my DNA. I hate those phosphorescent irises that make everyone think I’m not Plakkan. It doesn’t matter the other half of my DNA make me “normal.” Glittering eyes can get you killed.

When I entered Houssam’s deluxe apartment four Plakkan cycles ago, I knew even at five and nine cycles my presence couldn’t be broadcast. Houssam’s people, the Plakkan, had invited the Vechers to cohabitate Splandou. It had been genetically impossible for natural breeding between the two species. The Vechers had come from a dying world with superior technology which gave them the urgency and ability to betray Plakkan ignorance to survive. This all occurred before my birth while Houssam had had only one cycle.

Houssam rushes into my room with, “I told you to stay away from the window, Eleanor,” and closed the blinds. I jump as if caught with a hand in the kolach container. He always makes me feel like that, like I’m always doing something wrong. “They can see your eyes across the street! Put your covers in.” It has been four cycles of not being allowed to peer out my window without the curtains. I run because of his tone into the bathroom and wash my hands to stick the semi spheres over the glow. Houssam purchased my first pair of reflecting covers within my first two days at his house. He went to some shady man who specializes in covers for Vechers pretending to be Plakkan. They have to have plastic surgery too. I have none of the funny forehead or webbing between fingers that Vechers normally have because I’m only half Vecher, but I am not allowed to leave the house without my covers.

I cried for two days straight when the Covers Man put them in my eyes. Then I cried when I was alone. Now my eyes water a few times each season. I still hate my covers. I hate hiding and refuse to wear them in the house. Houssam hates it when I’m so willful. He tells me he would be happy to have reflective covers—mimicking the rarest Plakkan eyes. They make me look like I have mirrors instead of ‘repulsive’ flares for eyes.

“That’s better. Are you ready?” I twist my left hand right and then left to indicate that I am. I use this Plakkan gesture to make him happy. I’ve been trying to make him happy since I had five and nine years. I should explain that the first cycle count is for Plakkan revolutions around their sun. The second one counts how many cycles I have as a Vecher. Now I have nine and seventeen. I appear almost as old as an adult. I am supposed to go onto professional training to study genetics. I’m having doubts but that doesn’t matter.

Houssam sneaks a peak out the window his, “They’re here,” is defeated, almost broken. I know what that means and I am scared.

“To conquer fear, you must become fear,” I answer and attempt to pull out my covers.

He yells at me, “Wait!” and pulls my hands away. “Don’t ruin them. You may need them later.” I grab my bag and run to the door. Houssam doesn’t let me open it. He runs out to the elevator and runs back in. “They have the elevator. They will be going up the stairs too by the amount of vehicles they brought. Someone has betrayed us.” He yanks me by the arm to the garbage shoot and tosses my bad down. I look at him with big eyes. He wants me to follow my bag.

“Prima said I could not let you die.” I, with shaking limbs, pull myself into the shoot and hold onto the edge thinking webbing might have made this easier. Someone pounds on Houssam’s door. I stop breathing. He looks at me and whispers, “Why do we fall?” My hands let go of the edge and slide down the metal sides. Darkness comes when he shuts the door to the shoot. My shoes scrape the sides and it goes on for forever and then… I land.

“To pick ourselves up,” I finish is a voice so soft I’m not sure I actually said it.


~Raging and quivering female mass of hormones and tosser of Dark Side Cookies™ (trade marked by Etoile)

This message was edited by the author on August 14, 2012 at 3:50:06 PM

Because this message is archived you cannot respond to it.

Messages in this thread: