These tragic faces often aid us in achieving our means.
Joined: Sept 2007 Gender: Male Posts: 177 Location: In your dreams. Karma: -1,000
A Word, If You Please (James) « Thread Started on Sept 23, 2007, 8:43pm »
Sometimes, we have words.
Even in this age of instant communication, we often place our most careful words on a piece of paper and write our feelings to our loved ones when they are far away from us. Maybe the other members of our family don't yet own a computer, or perhaps they are hard of hearing, old, and as a consequence dislike using a telephone.
For Brock Butschky, his grandmother saw no use for things like computers: she had butlers who answered her telephone calls and took messages; and she had hired a low-voiced, sensual-sounding young woman to be the one who returned them. His grandfather was much the same, only he used a young man to read e-mails and relay the important messages, as if he was too important to use such a common thing as a computer now that it was something even poor people were able to afford but understood the power and necessity of technology in today's world.
All of that was fair: even if either of them were remotely accessible, he wouldn't have contacted them.
For the inhabitants of the post office, he had become something of a regular. Every Monday afternoon, roughly two hours before the post office closed, he came directly to them with a letter or a package, each accompanied by a blinding politeness that must have come with the sort of gifts and letters he was sending. The attendants found it charming.
He wasn't aware of it, but during these times when he smiled, he was always clenching his teeth.
Today he sat beside one of the large, white pillars and leaned his back against it, an American notebook in his lap and a package of expensive, unopened letterhead sitting beside him. He wrote his words on the notebook in pencil -- and he wrote them lightly, because he needed to write over them in pen. Once he'd written over them in pen, he'd need to erase the evidence of pencil ever having been there.
Only when he glanced over the draft of the note and deemed the pen strokes worthy could he begin to write upon the expensive letterhead beside him.
He knew there was little importance in how pretty it all looked. The old woman swam through languages, and although she was fluent in German, English, Russian, Hebrew, and learned Gothic for the sole purpose of being one of the handful of people in the entire world who kept a language alive (that's not even counting the languages in which she maintained passing conversational skills), she would always look down upon him for being unable to construct eloquent sentences in German.
And yet that never stopped him.
He wrote in English. Sometimes she responded in German. When she must have been feeling particularly vicious, she returned his kindness by finding the time and translators to write a in Welsh Gaelic.
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #1 on Sept 23, 2007, 9:15pm »
Late. James would be late. The doors would close on him and he would stare through the glass, with his forehead streaking the metal in frustration. At least, being late was what he learned when it came to the occasional masses on Sunday morning. Compared to his family, he preferred to sleep in. That didn't make him evil, faithless but it did label him as selfish.
We did have words, except they were different, far too different.
Liam smirked at the words with Emily and hand it to her to read out-loud. He enjoyed the voice of his educated lover and always fussed with James' description of England: little of my effort goes to trying to understand the separated community, like a whirlwind-- and his father would stop and shake his head in disbelief. But his proud nature always forgave James for being verbose.
Thankfully, he arrived two hours from closing and threw himself into the walkway with victory. James' hair looked winded today and his coat was snug against his neck, except for the two top buttons were out of its ports. A lock of hair shifted over his right eye and he did nothing to pull it back. He was too excited to find his way around the area. Unconsciously, he wiped his shoes on the entrance mat and started toward the desk.
When he got there he found two woman organizing papers. There was no need to call out because immediately their heads lifted. James guessed they had their eyes open to their surroundings. Both of them exchanged looks, their brows furrowed as they looked towards white pillars and back again. Inching his head to glance over, he stopped, the woman asking if he needed help.
Polite as ever, he offered up his envelope with the letter to his parents. The woman closest to him took it and turned to drop it into a slot between the walls. With thanks, he turned and placed his hands into the pocket of his coat, knowing he would have to go back outside into the chilled wind. Summer ended too quickly. James rejoiced that he had this chance but he couldn't help but feel out of place, like he didn't belong. Since he had two hours to spare until the post office closed, he decided to wander.
Old, no doubt, he thought as the green floating as sea within the white got lost to a slight glaze. James wasn't really looking but he thought deeply. What if he let everyone down in the end? What if the Mysterious Boy never really been here? Clicking his tongue, he snapped out of his thoughts and turned to meet the white pillar area.
James stopped abruptly and his toes ached uncomfortably from the gravity still wanting him to go forward. He almost ran into someone. But it wasn't just someone he looked familiar and inhuman. No, he hallucinated too many of his own physical appearances into the boy writing a letter. Didn't he just get over that thought? Tricky eyes. He blinked but Brock's presence didn't shift or change.
"Oh my God," he said out loud, the accent burning his ears.
These tragic faces often aid us in achieving our means.
Joined: Sept 2007 Gender: Male Posts: 177 Location: In your dreams. Karma: -1,000
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #2 on Sept 23, 2007, 9:42pm »
Brock did not lift his eyes to look at the young man who almost ran clear into him, but continued his pencil strokes as flawlessly as if he was truly writing his final draft already. What kind of person could he possibly be writing to if he wrote the thing a collective three times -- a pencil layer for the notepad, a pen layer for the notepad, and a single time on a beautiful piece of letterhead?
When the boy had stopped, he thought nothing of it. It was typical of someone who was in a hurry or who was simply too clumsy to carry themselves properly. The boy could have been shy and could have been contemplating an apology, but finding none of the proper words.
The white sleeve of his left arm (he was left-handed) was rolled up to his elbow, displaying fading but blotchy spots of bruises that didn't make him ugly even athough it may have done so for anyone else. He didn't seem conscious of them and it could have appeared to anyone as if he had always had blotches and bruises on his skin and he had been born with them: they were as much a part of him as that limb itself and human beings who did not have similar markings were ugly and out of style.
When the words left James' mouth, Brock's eyelashes did not twitch; he did not smile, he did not do anything: the words he was writing were too serious to break his concentration.
Without so much as a quiver, he answered in flawless American-English, the sort you'd hear out of a big-screen movie star who spoke his part and acted perfectly, but likely had no clue what the pretty words in his script truly meant: "That is what some call me."
But even he couldn't keep hide the smile from his low-lidded, wicked, electric green eyes. Although he often kept his emotions out of them, sometimes his intentions could be read in them.
"Out with it, man," he added, once he realised James wasn't going away. "Do you need help -- did you lose something? If it's lost, I'm afraid you'll have to wait till I'm finished before I help you find it."
And yet his hand never stilled from his writing and his eyes never lifted.
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #3 on Sept 23, 2007, 10:02pm »
James stared at Brock but his face didn't shift into an expression of surprise. No, his lids were as natural as ever and his mouth flat after a moment of help. This stranger marked light cursive words on a notebook, with the sleeve rolled up. Under the dim lighting he could point out blotches. Bruises, none of the less. Most of his cousins came back with worse ones and did the same thing as Brock did: showing it off like a prize.
Wordlessly, James lifted his left hand (for he was left handed as well) and ran it through his hair, trying to fix up his appearance because Brock practically shined. He could see why Brock got called a God and nodded in agreement, even if his eyes never left the letter.
The American-English almost startled James but he already had his hands hidden back into his pockets. His fingernails scratched at the threading inside. Even the way Brock spoke seemed to come from the heavens. Sharp, gentle and smooth. James was absolutely awed by such a creature. Brock could inquire of James all he wanted but he was just staring, nervous, and speechless.
James didn't want to hear his own harsh words after Brock spoke. What did he expect? A hint of German or British? He wasn't entirely sure. Without a blink and his lips moving without creating a wrinkle, he answered, "No need for help, but if you don't mind me asking --"
Before he could get permission, he continued anyway, "Is your name Brock?"
Butschky. He saw the spelling once but heard the last name several times. "Brock Butschky?"
These tragic faces often aid us in achieving our means.
Joined: Sept 2007 Gender: Male Posts: 177 Location: In your dreams. Karma: -1,000
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #4 on Sept 23, 2007, 10:39pm »
"Oh?" he wondered, disinterested in the name in the manner of high class social parties that looked down and frowned upon simple things like family get-togethers and barbecues. "That isn't a name I hear unless they're nobles seeking noble blood; I haven't heard of any Irish nobles." This may have been an insult, but it may have just been something to say: Brock didn't keep up with noble blood and didn't care for it one way or the other.
When he finally did lift his eyes, away from the tail end of an elegant word and the fancy, curled loop of a 'y', and set them upon James, the gaze was first light in the manner of hellos and good afternoons. When he found the curve of the cheekbone and the nose to highly resemble his own, the stare became more appraising.
Runway judges have these eyes, because they aren't looking at the beauty of the women who model the clothes, they're looking for flaws in style and execution as if things like beauty didn't exist.
"If you are," he allowed, because if he found his features in a young man whose accent was like a train wreck, then certainly that young man must have been worth something. "I must caution you to avoid a man called Joseph Fay. He is a noble as well, but he isn't impressive enough for me to know beyond what he told me at a coffee shop, half of which I've already forgotten."
He did not say 'That is I,' or 'Yes, you're correct,' but on that end, he also didn't say, 'No, of course not. My name is Fletcher Heaton. If you're looking for Brock Butschky, you should pursue the lab on Monday, but make sure to get there around seven-thirty, or else you may miss him. He's roughly five-foot-nine, has blond hair, and beautiful, absolutely beautiful blue eyes...'
His gaze lowered back to the pad of paper and his hand began to move again. He hadn't even realised he'd stopped. "But it's rare anyone here knows my name, even though I stand out without any accent of which to speak. What is it you want?"
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #5 on Sept 23, 2007, 11:01pm »
Nobles? James' eyes looked straight at Brock's face. Perfect jaw line, full cheeks, a nice mouth and two emeralds for eyes. Sharing the same traits didn't mean he could match up to the crisp clothing or the neatly styled hair. Hell, he couldn't even pass off with straight to the point words like Brock did. Noble, the word sank like a sinking ship. Yes, this boy -- the Mysterious Boy -- was a noble. Every cell in Brock's skin glimmered with richness.
There weren't any Irish nobles that he heard of but he knew of a few well-off families that owned businesses. They were royalty in his area but it wasn't given a firm title. If he was a noble he wouldn't have been here but to all who knew, he was James Moss the first one in the family to actually strive for a degree.
James still did not move. Brock's stare had been an arrow and it shot straight through him. The boy spoke with authority, confidence and all James could maul over was:
I found him. I found him!! What do I do? What do I say? How do I say it? But I found him, I really did, and so soon! Since Brock looked away he couldn't see the life dripping into the wells of green ash. No one got this look in a long awhile mostly because it was well reserved. Brock going back to his letter didn't deter him from replying to the question.
"No, em, I didn't come here to ask of anything from you. True, I know you and I am definitely not a noble. Don't know any Joseph Fay, either. I'd like to say -- what I mean to say -- well, this is very hard for me to be honest. You see --" poor James Moss suffered with this burden for Uncle Donny. Why would he mention a family Brock probably didn't care about or knew existed? Would he be furious?
"-- maybe this isn't the right place or time. You're writing and all and it's important but it has waited for years. How old are you, twenties? Yeah, that's how long, but I can wait, sure."
« Last Edit: Sept 23, 2007, 11:10pm by James Moss »
These tragic faces often aid us in achieving our means.
Joined: Sept 2007 Gender: Male Posts: 177 Location: In your dreams. Karma: -1,000
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #6 on Sept 25, 2007, 6:51pm »
The pencil slipped.
The indent it left in the paper was deep and the expression on his face was one of someone who was not very impressed at all, looking at the dark mark it had made that would never be able to be erased no matter how hard he tried.
As if nothing had happened at all, Brock flipped two pages forward to a new blank sheet and began to compose his note all over again, as if an old crone with young hawk's eyes could sense that a mistake was made on the first draft that had nothing to do with a final draft written upon beautiful letterhead, deeming that one blemish imperfect and therefore nothing to respect.
James couldn't see it, but even though he had flipped the page and was not reading the letter he had written, he was repeating it word-for-word, not even pausing to gather a thought or try to remember something he had written that he might have forgotten now.
It must have been a letter he'd written in his head hundreds of times.
"Nonsense! This isn't important," he answered, writing letter after letter of light, elegant, spider-web thin words, polite as he could be. "This is a letter I'm writing to a woman I hate because she hates me." It wasn't that James said anything that annoyed him or even made him irritated: it was a strange thing to concentrate when someone in front of you was claiming they knew of you and they had something important they'd like to say.
This silly young man who had forgotten to introduce himself -- was he a stalker? As far as stalkers went, he supposed he could have come across worse ones.
James seemed like the type of man who couldn't shoot an elephant even if it was in point blank range, simply because he'd be squeezing his eyes shut the entire time, quaking like a frightened kitten. "You must be nervous -- with good reason, I suppose. I've never met a man who claimed he had a life-long secret involving me."
After a written sentence, he seemed to have remembered that James had asked a question. "Correct. Twenties." As for an exact age, he did not say and it would have been difficult to pin it on him: his face was such that it could have belonged to someone of twenty or twenty-nine. It had a timeless quality that would likely last him well into his forties, should he last that long.
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #7 on Sept 29, 2007, 12:48pm »
Wrong. Brock did not know James had the skills of a hunter. With his father and his brother, the only time the trio could be together, they went hunting to sit up in deer stands and talk about the hectic things going on in their life. Never had James pinched his eyes shut or flinch when equipped with a gun. However, if Brock referred to the moral of Shooting an Elephant, then he'd relate well.
James, seeing Brock start over the letter, was alarmed. Not only did Brock glamour with expensive heritage but he seem to have a strong control over his perfectionism. In High School there had never been a girl or boy who placed him under a spell. But with Brock he was absolutely smitten. Thankfully, Brock didn't look at his face. Why write a letter to someone you hated, unless it was to flame them? He didn't get closer to see. Why isn't it important? He just started over. That doesn't make sense.
After a brief thought he spoke up.
"I am very nervous," he confessed, yet he didn't have to, Brock already seemed to know. Did this older male have the ability to see behind his head or read telepathic waves? Like a determined photographer, James moved to step around the letterheads and watch Brock from a different angle. Gorgeous would be a term a woman used to describe Brock but James found a fitting word: God-like creature.
Clue number two, yes, Brock was in his twenties. "My name is James Moss and I really do not mind waiting...not at all," he sounded enthusiastic but restrained at the same time. He just said Moss but did Brock really know what that meant in his life? James doubted so.
« Last Edit: Sept 29, 2007, 12:49pm by James Moss »
These tragic faces often aid us in achieving our means.
Joined: Sept 2007 Gender: Male Posts: 177 Location: In your dreams. Karma: -1,000
Re: A Word, If You Please (James) « Reply #8 on Oct 19, 2007, 10:03pm »
'God-like' wasn't the only term which could be applied to Brock. There was another more common, less popular term that even he wouldn't contest: control freak. Every stroke was as perfect and pretty as the one before it, as if he truly was the type of boy whose signature was exactly alike no matter how many things he had to sign.
The surname was lost on Brock not out of ignorance, but through how common, simple, and frequently he'd heard it. The surprise and shock of the name began to wear off when he was eight, two days after he'd asked the butcher, 'Are you related to my dad?' the moment he'd learned the old man's last name.
Adele Klein, with patience and without an ounce of regret or sadness, explained that not everyone who had the same last name was related. Somewhere, she said, there is another Brock Butschky who shares your name, but who is nothing like you.
Back then, he had been deeply upset by the explanation, but had long since come to terms with the fact not everything about a human being is wholly unique. In a human, no matter how different all of them are, there will always be at least one common thing among them. Don't be silly, he'd teased to the sassy young woman he'd met at a café two weeks ago, who had insisted he was one of the most unique people she'd ever seen. I've got plenty in common with a lot of people: it's a shame they're all incarcerated. Even that hadn't put her off.
Brock's mouth curved slightly, but he still didn't look at James or still his hand. "You sound as if you're waiting for Godot: I promise you, I'm not that man."
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