you're too young & eager to love

I have this male teacher character, and he's supposed to correlate with Sasha's student character. (I'm excited for summer break, because then I'll have more of a chance to sit down and work with all these ideas. Including: Anne Rice's Cleopatra, Tom Riddle's parents, etc.). Anyway, I apparently had attempted working on a piece with this teacher character at one point. I didn't get very far, but the introduction I was working with made me snicker.


"You don’t like Brokeback Mountain. To be honest, you’re more of a Christian Bale fan. You have, however, punched a man in his jaw – although he wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat and, to your knowledge, wasn’t jadedly in love with Jake Gyllenhaal."

Also, it's 84 degrees today. Hello, sunshine.

More Fab and Zombie apocalypse goodness. Even though this is oldish.

Although this is less about zombies and more about what it would be like to cope in that situation. Reference to Sasha's character, that's supposed to eventually gallivant along with Fab.

( 74th Street )

This is what happens when you read correlating journal entries.

I'm pretty sure my tenses jump all over the place here, but whatever.

--



It’s one of those flawless afternoons. The weather, after months of winter, has just started to warm. You keep the windows in your room open, the heat lingering around the length of your legs, across the discarded comforter. Nothing stirs. Even the wind is hushed. You have done nothing but lay, as motionless as possible, on top of your bed and let the sweat collect. Sheening between the shallow dip of your breasts, collecting behind your neck at the nape of your hairline.

Denny is by the door, leaning. You get the impression that she rarely tires of standing, but she seems out of place. Distorted.

It’s hot and your eyelids are heavy and there’s the buzzing of flies.

Louder now, and you want to tell Denny to close the windows. To turn on the AC. But your tongue is a stone in your desert mouth. Too many flies, and you can’t imagine how they are here, suddenly, invading. Rotten fruit somewhere, and they keep landing on it.

Except this didn’t really happen, and you wake up with a start. You don’t remember having fallen asleep at all, but that’s typical now. Denny is sitting with her back to you, watching the window, watching the door, listening. You’ve closed yourself up in another abandoned home. You tried on the pearls of the woman who used to live here earlier, feeling their coolness against your throat.

The two of you have been trying to get as far away from the city as possible. For days now. You were never claustrophobic, but you have reason to be now. The first few weeks were so bad so quickly that you were running through the limbs of grocery store clerks and door-to-door bible salesmen. Your last pair of shoes were still stained red. Made sense to move, especially since the heat has come back, and it used to be bad before but now there’s the smell. Decay and shit and blood and so many bodies. It gets a little better each day, so that you were barely noticing it until this afternoon. Denny had sprayed air freshener – the aerosol kind that used to be in every woman’s kitchen. Fresh apples and cinnamon. You were delighted for five full seconds before the scent faded, replaced with the renewed force of decomposing corpses and you promptly vomited.

Denny didn’t offer to hold your hair back, but she threw you a bottle of water when you were finished.