I have a crap tonne of writing, so I'm just going to use this thread to post all of it, piece by bloody piece. Share and enjoy.

 

Childhood Memory: Part the First

 

       I sigh, letting my fingers trail in the wake of my brush, through the soft, shining, pale gold hair. Eirian mimics the sound, though hers -soft, delicate, and elegant as the rest of her- makes me sound like the bellows of a forge. Everything about her makes me long to be better, a poor, misbegotten mortal fawning over a goddess. I giggle, and her head turns just so, one eye opening just enough to see me. That eye, bright as freshly poured gold, sends a shiver up my spine. It's a joy to be with her, to have her all to myself.
       "What's so funny, my little love?" Her little love. I smile, the slightest touch of heat rising to my cheeks. Eirian's voice is honey, and I eat it up.
       "I just thought, you're like that picture of Artemis with her... handmaidens, right?" I pause, waiting for her to nod, a signal that I used the right word, before continuing. "But I know you're not a goddess; you're Sidhe." I stumble over the word, it's pronunciation new to me. Shee. So simple, but so strange. I'm young still, and the words for what my secret friends are confuse me. I hear a mix between trickling water and bells, a sound that says happy. Eirian is laughing.
       "Yes, that is what I am. No goddess, am I." She tilts her head back a little, the slightest smile gracing her perfect peach lips as I continue brushing. This is our evening ritual, ever since I got used to having her around. She speaks as though sensing this thought, and again I strain to hear her. "You remember, don't you, that I've always been here with you?" I nod, then remind myself that she can't see me since she turned back around.
       "Uh huh. You and Letie. And Lleweloth." Again my tongue fumbles, reaching for the sound that his name starts with, some mix between 'l' and 'w'. "You three watched me and made sure I stayed safe, and helped protect me when Sis got mean." Eirian's head bobs, a nod. From my dresser I hear Letie scampering around, until in a flurry of wings she lands in Eirian's dress-clad lap. We both giggle at the tiny sprite, with her dragonfly wings, big black eyes and makeshift dress of flower petals. Her skin is as pale as cornflowers, translucent blue, so different from the moonlight white of Eirian's. I hold out my hand to her, taking a pause from the repetitive, soothing motion of the brush. She floats onto my palm, looking up at me with her toothy grin.
       "That's right. Letie is your friend forever. As long as we live." Warmth blossoms in my chest, lifting a feeling of heaviness that I hadn't known was there. I cuddle my itsy bitsy friend close to me, careful all the while not to crush her dragonfly wings.
       "Good. Because I'll always want you around, Letie-loo." From the perch of my hands -which she fills perfectly- she chirruped, then goes back to playing with shiny things on my dresser.
       The three of us, Letie, Eirian and I, spend a long time just chatting, as they ask me about my day and I ask them about theirs. The hope that Lleweloth, Llew to me, will join us soon dies away. This is usually girl time. I probably should been quieter, though, because my laughter soon brings Mommy up to see who I was talking to. She swings the door open, looking around at the room. "Who you talking to, honey?"
       I shrug, meeting her gaze with innocence. "Just myself, mommy."
       She takes in my relaxed position, a momentary look of worry crossing her face before she lets it go. All she sees is the empty space in front of me.

 

       Fast forward nine years. Eirian, Letie, and Lleweloth have continued visiting me, even at my totally sucktastic boarding school. They aren't the only ones I see, though. They aren't everywhere, but I see them. A few courtly Sidhe here, a Nix there. Of course, those freakish mermaid wannabes only show up around large bodies of water. That always made the school's annual Lake Day a lot more enjoyable. Eirian would never leave the shade, though, since she's always been really fair. The same couldn't be said Letie or Llew; we'd play in the sun for hours. It was their company that made that prison bearable.
      
       Now I smile away tears, luckily happy ones. Today is the first time I've seen any of my invisible friends in two months. Relief lifts from my chest, and I take in a breath. There, across the room, a pixie is making faces at Samantha, and hovering longinly around Mitchell when she isn't. She's a typical pixie in appearance, with grass green skin, oily black eyes with no pupil, and fiery red hair. I can't tell exactly from here, but she's maybe three and a half feet tall. Standard. The conversation of my lit group is getting weird, even for Logan, and they talk about hallucinations from drugs. For the first time in eighteen years, I feel like I can say something about Them. After all, this is a place of sharing, right? A judgement free zone.
      
       I don't tell them about the pixie in particular, just that I've always had these hallucinations of Irish folklore. Erin's smile is unfaltering, and Logan has that "Srsly, WTF?" look. I feel weird. Kat isn't staring, though. It's nice, to finally have said it. I resolve that when I get home, while I talk Nick through what will definitely be another round of depression mixed with his latest illness (anxiety attacks) I'll tell him, too.
      
       Bad idea.
      
       He freaks. "This isn't healthy." His breathing gets weird, like it usually sounds when he's thinking about killing himself. It's crazy that I've gotten to the point where I know what his breathing patterns mean. "What are you talking about, Nick? They've never hurt me, never threatened anyone I know. They were my friends when no one else would be." I can hear him struggle for control. "It's unhealthy that you treat them like friends. They're not real. They could be dangerous." I sigh, pinching the bridge between my nose. 'This coming from the guy who's on the brink of killing himself over his inability to accept change.' But I don't say it. Today's not a day to be mean; I'm supposed to be celebrating. My pixie friend -Elymara- is outside my window. I shoo her away as best as I can without letting Nick onto her.
      
       "Chill. I'm not worried about this, you shouldn't be either. They can't control me. I know they aren't real." Again his breathing becomes rough, voices rising almost imperceptibly in pitch. "You need medical help." The reaction is an automatic one. If I had hackles, I'd be raising them. My voice, in contrast to his, drops a little, taking on a harsh edge. "Never. I can't let those quacks take this from me. I don't want to lose a friend." It goes on like this for another twenty minutes, until we reach yet another supposed issue with my friends, my Visitors.
      
       "You sound like you need them." This time I try to soften, to sound reassuring. "I don't need them any more than I need any other friend." His tone becomes superior, even condescending. "Then why won't you consider medication?" I almost start crying with frustration, and settle for raising my voice. "They're my friends, Nick. Real or not, they support me when no one else can. They fight off nightmares and loneliness everyone else is gone. Just like I wouldn't let anyone take Katie from me, or You, or Chord, or Chey, I can't let them take away these friends. I can't and I won't. If you try to take them from me... I'll hate you forever." It's childish, but I mean it. My blood boils. He can hear the edge of tears, like anyone who knows me at all would be able to. "I know this seems scary for you, but if you would just talk to someone-"
      
      "No."
      
       It's a word of finality. Nick knows that there's no getting around it. He knows that I mean what I say. That anger calms down, and only then do I notice that Letie is watching now from my dresser, her buggy gold eyes wide with panic. I pat her head gently, then put a finger to my lips. He eventually accepts that this isn't going to change any time soon, and we hang up. He tells his schizo friend Holly about me. I end the day with not one, not two, but six new friends: Ely, Holly, and her four voices/alternate personalities. I guess I'll celebrate later.

Pennsic: A Sensory Experience, or Camping: It's In Tents

 

      For two weeks, I had a deep-set harmony of the soul. During those weeks, the hottest of the summer, I lived simply. Nothing but a stark pop-up tent and what garb I could fit into the long blue trundle labeled "Allison". Of course, that was only what was personally mine. The camp (of Holt Heroetes, may her banner fly forever) had its own refrigerator and microwave, set under one of our two main tents. These tents, also filled by plastic tables for counters and three picnic tables, was the designated kitchen. We even had our own shower stall and hot water heater. This was all I needed for survival.
       Then again, there were all the other things. Twelve thousand other people, a bathhouse (with no actual baths), a make-shift market place of pavilions, and even a food court with the same set-up. My feet were my only transportation, taking me five miles a day at the very least, exploring my temporary haven. At the end of each day I would walk into camp with dust caking my legs, despite the ankle-length dress or loose, Indian-style cotton pants. Other people's costumes were either more or less covering, ranging from full Tudor garb, complete with the ridiculously high collar, to those who wore nothing but loincloths and/or chain mail bikinis. I guess, in hindsight, that I was one of the lucky ones, neither burning up under layers, nor on the brink of exposing my genitalia to the general public.
       Every day there was something new to see or smell. There were the things that were routine, like the laughter and gossip of the camp's adults, my parents among them. For the first week they would gather at our North Gate (guarded by Buck, the singing stag's head, spray-painted white) and just talk. Some of them would repair armor and weapons as they sat, catching up on a year of missed time. Lamarack would use the microphone attached to our lifeless guardian and talk to passing children, singing and telling jokes. We youth (yurts, as my father called us) would bide our time, knowing it wasn't long before those chairs were ours. In the mean time, there were things to experience. All around us was the clamor of drums, fifes, lutes, sitars, hurdy-gurdy (which I can't figure how to make plural) and coins jingling against hips. The noise was incredible, as twelve thousand throats opened up in conversation, seemingly all at once. Incense burned, its potent, aromatic fumes drifting freely, uncaring of camp boundaries.  From every hearth and food stand scents wafted to our noses the aroma of foods of every culture, mingling with the acrid smoke of the fire, the strong smell of earth, and the nearly imperceptible perfume of the sun itself.
       Together, my siblings and the other under-thirties of the camp form the 'teenage amoeba', despite half of our number being between twenty and twenty-five. For us, the first week was under the shade of the 'dining room', playing such card games as Mau,  a card game which always left my thighs, hands, and arms stinging. Sometimes I would take a reprieve from my siblings, playing Munchkin, Dungeons and Dragons, or Magic the Gathering in the bathhouse, accepted warmly as one of the three girls among five times the number of boys. We were our own personal group, us females, basking in our power even as we complained about the stink from our less hygienic companions.
       The second week was busier, the very particular (though not unpleasant) odor of oiled leather filling the air. One word was on everyone's lips: hostilities. It was the reason we all gathered, aside from reminding ourselves that we weren't alone, that others share our special brand of insanity. All who had trained went out onto the field of battle, some for hours at a time. Most of my guy friends fought, so I volunteered as a water girl. At the time I claimed it was due to boredom, but now I know that it was for the looks from the boys (appreciative) and the girls (jealous) as I walked out to the parched young men in my boob-enhancing corset. The clang of weapons -pipe and floaty for the youth, wood for the adults, and metal foils for fencers- assaulted my ears. For a member of this organization, trained to it from birth, this is the percussion, a pulsing beat. Cries of pain and cries of real battle rage for a pretend battle are the melody swooping, rising, and falling in pitch. For the harmony, crowds of family and friends, the pregnant, infirm, and peace-minded cheered from the sidelines.
       This was the music of battle. Still, there was more than fighting to create the sound-track of my mind. There was literal music. Drum circles were nightly, accompanied by the rattle of coins and bells hanging from hips, ankles, and wrists. The Amphitheater was right across the 'road' from camp, where Wolgemut played. They were like like rock stars, only... medieval. Stairway to Heaven is a heck of a song to hear on the electric lyre. Even better is being snuggled into my sleeping bag at three o'clock in the morning, just on the verge of sleeping after an exhausting day of wandering, and being startled back into full alertness by drunken roars, followed by In the Jungle on bagpipes, all emanating from the Australian camp. I can catch a snippet of my dad's voice, with undertones of suppressed laughter. "Who in Hell gave the damn Aussies bagpipes?"
       After the business of the day I found rest in the Leonids, a meteor shower spanning a good portion of those two weeks, named for the fact that all the meteors seemed to fall from the Leo constellation. I would sit out, some nights till four in the morning (at which point even the Aussies would be asleep) and watch for shooting stars. I remember seeing eighteen in one night, each one carrying with it a different wish, and I know I didn't see all of them. But one stood out most in my mind, above the others. I think it was the second and last Thursday. As I laid out on the side of Runestone Hill, my stomach was working happily at the crepes made for me by Isabou (dressed as Xena, as is our tradition). The night was perfectly clear, though a little chillier than normal. I snuggled against Mark, my adopted brother, and huddled under my blanket. The scents of the day's excursions still clung to our clothes. My eyes were rapt, and I wasn't disappointed. It looked like God had just shot a fireball, and for a moment I was blinded. It had, for that split second, filled my vision. Then it was gone, leaving only the dim memory. I've never been able to recapture that burning light.
       I don't fret, though. For that time, I had harmony.