(no subject)
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_________|
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">There's nostalgia in the air, and you're counting clouds as they pass unhurriedly by. It's a wonderful thing to be doing.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">You laugh slower now, a bit more guarded, but your smile is as ready as ever and it makes your face light up. It's good to see you smile, he says. You should smile more, he says.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">So you do.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">Daytime, you test your hand in pictures made of sugar and color, memories melting in your mouth. Simple patterns to start off with; flowers with petals open to the sun, shy vines creeping up pillars. The knowledge that you have done this before makes it easier. Familiarity is something you value above all else.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">-excerpted from ‘Where the Chalk-White Arrows Go’, a short story from the collection Clean Down to the Bone.Copyright © Jared Padalecki. First published by Little, Brown company in 2009. All Rights Reserved.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)
Jensen walks him through the life that the dicks in charge planned for him. He shows Jared around the house, gesturing around the mostly-glass walls. There are flowers here too, long graceful stalks and white petals. It’s wide and spacious, echoing like a ghost that doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Jared fucking hates the place.
Jensen seems to catch on, and smiles slightly. "You get used to it."
Jared raises his eyebrows skeptically. "Oh yeah? The same way amputees get used to feeling phantom aches in limbs they don't even have anymore?"
Jensen's smile becomes a full-tilt grin as Jared paces around the living room. "Dude. Whoever designed this place obviously had serious exhibitionist tendencies. I mean, it's a fucking glass house. Normal people don't live in glass houses. Fugly, poisonous-looking orchids live in glass houses."
Jensen smirks. "Fugly and poisonous-looking? Honey, don't sell yourself so short."
"Fuck you," Jared replies automatically. He gives a dramatic sigh, fighting the warmth in his chest just to be contrary. "What about food?"
"Indira will be coming in every morning. She lives nearby, and she's used to cooking and cleaning around."
Jared nods. "What about you?"
"My house is over there," Jensen points down the garden and sure enough, Jared glimpses a red roof just beyond the pool. "I'll be around. I have to take care of the garden and stuff. There's a cafe down the street in case you get bored."
"How does your job work, anyway?" Jared asks. "Because I can't say I've met a pro gardener who actually looks like a garden statue of a Greek god before. What do you do, go over when folks have garden parties and look pretty?"
Jensen chuckles, tossing him a beer from the fridge. "For a guy who gets paid to write about sociopaths, you're pretty judgmental."
Jared swats this away. It takes him the longest time to realize that the crackle of electricity under his skin that makes him smash glass and break hearts has been almost entirely wiped away for the time being.
-1-1-1-1-1
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">Jared Padalecki is one of the bare handful of novelists today who can pull off the blood, sex and rock’n’roll cliché without being too unconvincing. His characters form a kaleidoscope of insanity, each of them riveting in their own way. Despite a streak of genius that runs through his prose and a breathtakingly beautiful debut novel, Padalecki has stonewalled himself into the niche of horror writer and is unlikely to ever emerge.
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">-Sandra McCoy, on a post made on the 29th of July, 2009 on newreleases.nationalbookcritics.com
-1-1-1-1-1
Jensen appears at midday through the blinding sunlight and Jared sees where purple prose rises from; Jensen’s hair blazes in a halo of gold and his green eyes make the richly depressing foliage seem specifically designed to accentuate them. Jensen is the sum of all the clichés that make Jared break out laughing when he reads them; Jensen is nothing short of celestial.
Jared bares his teeth at him in a grin meant to fool no one. He’s just got off the phone with Chad, and can feel the scrape of knives at the back of his throat, feels vicious sharp at the edges, serrated and painful. The sun is a physical force pushing him down, peeling off the first few layers of skin and exposing the blackened veins beneath.
Jensen steps out of the light and becomes mortal once more. He’s tucking a pair of sunglasses away with one hand and carries a six pack of beer with the other. He wears a green T-shirt with the Greenfire logo on it, and khaki shorts. His legs are tanned the same gold as his arms, and are unreasonably long, tapering off into his sneakers.
Jared cocks his eyebrows. “Was there a subclause in your babysitting contract that said you could get me drunk and pour my heart out to you? Because if so, Kripke needs to work on his moves.”
Jensen snickers, apparently unfazed. Jared almost misses Misha then, who is all uneasy smiles and flinches and panicked blue eyes every time Jared is in a mood as vindictive as this. Give it time, he thinks. Enough of it, and Jared will find the fault lines in Jensen and break and Jensen will dread the sight of him.
“Eric mentioned you were a light drinker, that it helped you write.” He shrugs. “Even if it doesn’t, it helps complete the household, so win-win.”
He tosses a bottle at Jared, who catches it, reaching out and plucking it out of the air. Jared’s shaking his head in disbelief by the time Jensen suggests a movie -Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, son of a gun- because Jensen’s good. “You’re a pro, aren’t you, lovely?”
Jensen’s on his way into the house, and his shoulders tense briefly. “Gardener, yeah.”
Jared smiles with all his teeth. “That’s your day job. Your shrink alter ego is equally fascinating.”
Jensen turns around. His lips are obscenely perfect, and he draws attention to his mouth with the tense line he forms it into. “Maybe you’re right.”
Jared waits attentively. He can hear in Jensen’s voice that the subject’s not closed.
“Why sparrows?”
Jared stares at him for the longest time. “Sparrows,” he repeats with no inflection.
“In Giving up the Gun,” Jensen elaborates, though they both know there’s no need to. “Why is Six Thirty Two afraid of sparrows?”
Jared shrugs, and without pausing for breath, without even thinking about it, he does Humphrey Bogart. The accent envelopes his skin like a safety blanket and Jared’s always been so good at this. “It’s just one more of the mysteries of the writer’s mind, darling. Now, I believe you mentioned a movie?”
Jensen huffs out a laugh, not quite as exasperated as he pretends to be. “Yeah, I did, so get your punk ass in here.”
Jared carries the rest of the six pack inside, away from the relentless sunlight of the back porch to the skeleton of the living room. Jensen catches his eye and smirks, and Jared rolls his eyes.
*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*(*)
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">They opened their eyes and all they wanted to do was go back. Back to where they came from, where the concept of innocence was preserved for as long as one didn’t probe too hard. Of course now they knew that innocence was more than hideous knowledge suppressed by some built-in mechanism for defense.
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">You’re born knowing everything. You spend your life trying to forget.
mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">-from the journal of LJ user nematoda. Posted on the 16th June, 2008
*(*)*(*)*(*)
Towards Part Two
_________|
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">There's nostalgia in the air, and you're counting clouds as they pass unhurriedly by. It's a wonderful thing to be doing.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">You laugh slower now, a bit more guarded, but your smile is as ready as ever and it makes your face light up. It's good to see you smile, he says. You should smile more, he says.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">So you do.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">Daytime, you test your hand in pictures made of sugar and color, memories melting in your mouth. Simple patterns to start off with; flowers with petals open to the sun, shy vines creeping up pillars. The knowledge that you have done this before makes it easier. Familiarity is something you value above all else.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">-excerpted from ‘Where the Chalk-White Arrows Go’, a short story from the collection Clean Down to the Bone.Copyright © Jared Padalecki. First published by Little, Brown company in 2009. All Rights Reserved.
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">
mso-fareast-font-family:Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond;color:black;
background:white">*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)
Jensen walks him through the life that the dicks in charge planned for him. He shows Jared around the house, gesturing around the mostly-glass walls. There are flowers here too, long graceful stalks and white petals. It’s wide and spacious, echoing like a ghost that doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Jared fucking hates the place.
Jensen seems to catch on, and smiles slightly. "You get used to it."
Jared raises his eyebrows skeptically. "Oh yeah? The same way amputees get used to feeling phantom aches in limbs they don't even have anymore?"
Jensen's smile becomes a full-tilt grin as Jared paces around the living room. "Dude. Whoever designed this place obviously had serious exhibitionist tendencies. I mean, it's a fucking glass house. Normal people don't live in glass houses. Fugly, poisonous-looking orchids live in glass houses."
Jensen smirks. "Fugly and poisonous-looking? Honey, don't sell yourself so short."
"Fuck you," Jared replies automatically. He gives a dramatic sigh, fighting the warmth in his chest just to be contrary. "What about food?"
"Indira will be coming in every morning. She lives nearby, and she's used to cooking and cleaning around."
Jared nods. "What about you?"
"My house is over there," Jensen points down the garden and sure enough, Jared glimpses a red roof just beyond the pool. "I'll be around. I have to take care of the garden and stuff. There's a cafe down the street in case you get bored."
"How does your job work, anyway?" Jared asks. "Because I can't say I've met a pro gardener who actually looks like a garden statue of a Greek god before. What do you do, go over when folks have garden parties and look pretty?"
Jensen chuckles, tossing him a beer from the fridge. "For a guy who gets paid to write about sociopaths, you're pretty judgmental."
Jared swats this away. It takes him the longest time to realize that the crackle of electricity under his skin that makes him smash glass and break hearts has been almost entirely wiped away for the time being.
-1-1-1-1-1
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">Jared Padalecki is one of the bare handful of novelists today who can pull off the blood, sex and rock’n’roll cliché without being too unconvincing. His characters form a kaleidoscope of insanity, each of them riveting in their own way. Despite a streak of genius that runs through his prose and a breathtakingly beautiful debut novel, Padalecki has stonewalled himself into the niche of horror writer and is unlikely to ever emerge.
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">-Sandra McCoy, on a post made on the 29th of July, 2009 on newreleases.nationalbookcritics.com
-1-1-1-1-1
Jensen appears at midday through the blinding sunlight and Jared sees where purple prose rises from; Jensen’s hair blazes in a halo of gold and his green eyes make the richly depressing foliage seem specifically designed to accentuate them. Jensen is the sum of all the clichés that make Jared break out laughing when he reads them; Jensen is nothing short of celestial.
Jared bares his teeth at him in a grin meant to fool no one. He’s just got off the phone with Chad, and can feel the scrape of knives at the back of his throat, feels vicious sharp at the edges, serrated and painful. The sun is a physical force pushing him down, peeling off the first few layers of skin and exposing the blackened veins beneath.
Jensen steps out of the light and becomes mortal once more. He’s tucking a pair of sunglasses away with one hand and carries a six pack of beer with the other. He wears a green T-shirt with the Greenfire logo on it, and khaki shorts. His legs are tanned the same gold as his arms, and are unreasonably long, tapering off into his sneakers.
Jared cocks his eyebrows. “Was there a subclause in your babysitting contract that said you could get me drunk and pour my heart out to you? Because if so, Kripke needs to work on his moves.”
Jensen snickers, apparently unfazed. Jared almost misses Misha then, who is all uneasy smiles and flinches and panicked blue eyes every time Jared is in a mood as vindictive as this. Give it time, he thinks. Enough of it, and Jared will find the fault lines in Jensen and break and Jensen will dread the sight of him.
“Eric mentioned you were a light drinker, that it helped you write.” He shrugs. “Even if it doesn’t, it helps complete the household, so win-win.”
He tosses a bottle at Jared, who catches it, reaching out and plucking it out of the air. Jared’s shaking his head in disbelief by the time Jensen suggests a movie -Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, son of a gun- because Jensen’s good. “You’re a pro, aren’t you, lovely?”
Jensen’s on his way into the house, and his shoulders tense briefly. “Gardener, yeah.”
Jared smiles with all his teeth. “That’s your day job. Your shrink alter ego is equally fascinating.”
Jensen turns around. His lips are obscenely perfect, and he draws attention to his mouth with the tense line he forms it into. “Maybe you’re right.”
Jared waits attentively. He can hear in Jensen’s voice that the subject’s not closed.
“Why sparrows?”
Jared stares at him for the longest time. “Sparrows,” he repeats with no inflection.
“In Giving up the Gun,” Jensen elaborates, though they both know there’s no need to. “Why is Six Thirty Two afraid of sparrows?”
Jared shrugs, and without pausing for breath, without even thinking about it, he does Humphrey Bogart. The accent envelopes his skin like a safety blanket and Jared’s always been so good at this. “It’s just one more of the mysteries of the writer’s mind, darling. Now, I believe you mentioned a movie?”
Jensen huffs out a laugh, not quite as exasperated as he pretends to be. “Yeah, I did, so get your punk ass in here.”
Jared carries the rest of the six pack inside, away from the relentless sunlight of the back porch to the skeleton of the living room. Jensen catches his eye and smirks, and Jared rolls his eyes.
*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*(*)
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">They opened their eyes and all they wanted to do was go back. Back to where they came from, where the concept of innocence was preserved for as long as one didn’t probe too hard. Of course now they knew that innocence was more than hideous knowledge suppressed by some built-in mechanism for defense.
Garamond;mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">You’re born knowing everything. You spend your life trying to forget.
mso-bidi-font-family:Garamond">-from the journal of LJ user nematoda. Posted on the 16th June, 2008
*(*)*(*)*(*)
Towards Part Two