(no subject)
WHO: [Janine Farehouse/Above], (azhdarchidae)
SENSES: [All five, a June 22 memory]
SUMMARY: [Janine attends her father's viewing.]
PERMISSIONS: [Negotiable]
---Above was tiny - felt tiny, anyway; everyone was taller than her - and wingless and on two legs and a little cold, and there was a weird sensation around her mouth and head that took a moment to register as smell. < What? > she tried to ask, but it was soon apparent that she hadn’t turned into a human again. This was a memory. She was swept along with it, and the how and why were set aside.
She was in a gathering of people, most of them black and in black. It was quiet here, all voices subdued. Someone was holding her hand loosely. Their skin was sweating and work-roughened, and their nails were short. After a moment she turned her head enough to see, out of the corner of her eye, that it belonged to a woman in a conservative black dress. There was black lace on it.
The woman was staring straight ahead, bright-eyed and with her lips pressed together as if struggling to keep her composure while a preacher with glasses asked if she was all right and told her that if there was any need...
Above looked down, studying the ornate carpet. It had the ruffled look of a carpet which had just been vacuumed, not yet trodden back into flatness. This was a nice place - open, tastefully elegant, way too air-conditioned, smelling of cleanness and lillies and perfume, and not ringing a lot of bells as far as recognition went. She felt strange. There was pressure in her sinuses, she was leaden and unhappy. Sometimes her eyes hurt or her vision blurred. And yet she wasn’t crying.
Her eyes followed the carpet pattern winding and repeating under the low heels and dress shoes of the guests - she found herself thinking of them as guests - around a pulpit, and under a low dais.
There was a closed coffin there, with flowers and a framed photograph on the lid.
Above didn’t want to look.
She didn’t. But her body shuffled miserably closer, and she climbed up on the dais, then sat on it, legs hanging off. She was wearing stockings, glossy black shoes with buttons, and a black lacy dress of her own.
But her head turned farther, and she had to look at the coffin as she laid one hand on the polished, glossy wood. It smelled like flowers here. Part of her wondered if that was to cover up the dead people smell, or if there was even a dead person here.
Her other hand reached out and adjusted the photo. It was a big one, with a neat, plain frame. A color picture of a smiling man with kind eyes. He was balding on top a little, and a few of his remaining densely curly hairs were going gray. She could see water behind him, lit orange by the sun rising or setting, depending on when it had been taken.
“Ja_, get off there!” someone snapped. “Show some respect!” She didn’t move, though, and the complainer was shushed.
She saw a big camera with a telephoto lens besides the picture, along with a watch and some keys. And unframed photographs of the dead man, most of them with either the woman who was in black lace now or a child. The woman in black lace was older than him, she saw. The child... well, she knew who that was.
Around the photos there were newspaper clippings. Some of them were kind of old, she saw. The angle wasn’t right, and she wasn’t looking directly at them, and her eyes were blurring again as she blinked fiercely and bit the inside of her cheek, but as she reached for and grabbed the keys, cool in her hand, she could just tell that the title of one was “Jack _ouse Nominated for Photos of”... something.
Jack.
His name was Jack.
She cupped the keys in her hands, letting them jingle off each other just a little. There were several of them, various colors and types, on a ring with a chain leading to a silver wolf’s head fob, bigger than her thumb. She grasped that and stroked it gently. It was cool and textured. When she put her nose to it and inhaled, it smelled like a palmful of loose change on a warm day.
The whole thing felt so unreal. It was like a dream.
Above closed her hands around the keys and turned, looking out at the people. There were more than a dozen, many of them writing in a big book or going to talk to the lace woman, but some were looking at her - mostly out of the corners of their eyes. She turned back and left the keys where they’d been, then slid back to the floor.
She came back to the lace woman, sliding her hand back into the lace woman’s limp grasp. The preacher had finished, and now there was a small, older woman with a big flowery hat whispering something Above couldn’t quite hear.
“Give it away,” the lace woman said dully. “We can’t use any of it. He... he never liked useless mementos. Just leave us the pictures. He took most of them himself... he was such an artist-” The dullness in her voice broke as it rose to a higher, agonized pitch - and Above squeezed her hand hard, tugging a little. The lace woman pressed her free hand to her mouth and shook. Above didn’t watch her face - she was looking across.
“Okay. Okay, honey,” the flowery hat woman said, just loud enough to hear. Her face was drawn with concern. “I’ll take care of everything.”
She started away. Above let go of the lace woman’s hand and followed after. “Wait,” she heard herself say, speaking for the first time. She sounded young. “Wait. I want his keychain.”----
SENSES: [All five, a June 22 memory]
SUMMARY: [Janine attends her father's viewing.]
PERMISSIONS: [Negotiable]
---Above was tiny - felt tiny, anyway; everyone was taller than her - and wingless and on two legs and a little cold, and there was a weird sensation around her mouth and head that took a moment to register as smell. < What? > she tried to ask, but it was soon apparent that she hadn’t turned into a human again. This was a memory. She was swept along with it, and the how and why were set aside.
She was in a gathering of people, most of them black and in black. It was quiet here, all voices subdued. Someone was holding her hand loosely. Their skin was sweating and work-roughened, and their nails were short. After a moment she turned her head enough to see, out of the corner of her eye, that it belonged to a woman in a conservative black dress. There was black lace on it.
The woman was staring straight ahead, bright-eyed and with her lips pressed together as if struggling to keep her composure while a preacher with glasses asked if she was all right and told her that if there was any need...
Above looked down, studying the ornate carpet. It had the ruffled look of a carpet which had just been vacuumed, not yet trodden back into flatness. This was a nice place - open, tastefully elegant, way too air-conditioned, smelling of cleanness and lillies and perfume, and not ringing a lot of bells as far as recognition went. She felt strange. There was pressure in her sinuses, she was leaden and unhappy. Sometimes her eyes hurt or her vision blurred. And yet she wasn’t crying.
Her eyes followed the carpet pattern winding and repeating under the low heels and dress shoes of the guests - she found herself thinking of them as guests - around a pulpit, and under a low dais.
There was a closed coffin there, with flowers and a framed photograph on the lid.
Above didn’t want to look.
She didn’t. But her body shuffled miserably closer, and she climbed up on the dais, then sat on it, legs hanging off. She was wearing stockings, glossy black shoes with buttons, and a black lacy dress of her own.
But her head turned farther, and she had to look at the coffin as she laid one hand on the polished, glossy wood. It smelled like flowers here. Part of her wondered if that was to cover up the dead people smell, or if there was even a dead person here.
Her other hand reached out and adjusted the photo. It was a big one, with a neat, plain frame. A color picture of a smiling man with kind eyes. He was balding on top a little, and a few of his remaining densely curly hairs were going gray. She could see water behind him, lit orange by the sun rising or setting, depending on when it had been taken.
“Ja_, get off there!” someone snapped. “Show some respect!” She didn’t move, though, and the complainer was shushed.
She saw a big camera with a telephoto lens besides the picture, along with a watch and some keys. And unframed photographs of the dead man, most of them with either the woman who was in black lace now or a child. The woman in black lace was older than him, she saw. The child... well, she knew who that was.
Around the photos there were newspaper clippings. Some of them were kind of old, she saw. The angle wasn’t right, and she wasn’t looking directly at them, and her eyes were blurring again as she blinked fiercely and bit the inside of her cheek, but as she reached for and grabbed the keys, cool in her hand, she could just tell that the title of one was “Jack _ouse Nominated for Photos of”... something.
Jack.
His name was Jack.
She cupped the keys in her hands, letting them jingle off each other just a little. There were several of them, various colors and types, on a ring with a chain leading to a silver wolf’s head fob, bigger than her thumb. She grasped that and stroked it gently. It was cool and textured. When she put her nose to it and inhaled, it smelled like a palmful of loose change on a warm day.
The whole thing felt so unreal. It was like a dream.
Above closed her hands around the keys and turned, looking out at the people. There were more than a dozen, many of them writing in a big book or going to talk to the lace woman, but some were looking at her - mostly out of the corners of their eyes. She turned back and left the keys where they’d been, then slid back to the floor.
She came back to the lace woman, sliding her hand back into the lace woman’s limp grasp. The preacher had finished, and now there was a small, older woman with a big flowery hat whispering something Above couldn’t quite hear.
“Give it away,” the lace woman said dully. “We can’t use any of it. He... he never liked useless mementos. Just leave us the pictures. He took most of them himself... he was such an artist-” The dullness in her voice broke as it rose to a higher, agonized pitch - and Above squeezed her hand hard, tugging a little. The lace woman pressed her free hand to her mouth and shook. Above didn’t watch her face - she was looking across.
“Okay. Okay, honey,” the flowery hat woman said, just loud enough to hear. Her face was drawn with concern. “I’ll take care of everything.”
She started away. Above let go of the lace woman’s hand and followed after. “Wait,” she heard herself say, speaking for the first time. She sounded young. “Wait. I want his keychain.”----