I look at your broad back. Your deep breathing expanding the ribcage and muscle with every breath. The deep rift down your spine, like a river flowing somewhere deep down in a canyon of rolling muscle. Major and minor tresses muscles on the sides, bulging and swaying along with your rhythmic breathing. Traps flaring out and relaxing. Tapering down to the small muscular hips and the adjacent powerful gluteus like two perfectly formed melons. The satin panty caught between the gorgeous cheeks of your gluteus muscles. Small veins scurrying underneath the beautiful skin trying to feed the massive muscle of the back and legs.
How did you transform from the cute little girl on the photograph you showed me later that day to this muscled nemesis of awesome power and beauty?
And more important…why?
What happened in your life to turn such a sweet little girl into this anomaly lying in my bed? For an anomaly you certainly are, Michelle.
Sometimes I’m not sure if I should admire you or just fear you? Like Medusa one can’t resist staring at your incredible physique but at the same time looking at you makes me feel like I’m looking at the deep dark abyss of some weird fantastic being’s soul. Staring long enough at you might turn me to cold stone of fear – for I’ve seen what your muscles can do and just how powerful your body is. You are like a beautiful siren of myth, one can’t resist coming closer, want to touch, feel…but what if you decided that touching then was not what you wanted…what if that strange look came over your eyes and you decided that it didn’t please you?
I’ve always wondered if muscles like yours are just for show?
“Plastic” muscles, as that guy called them that evening I saw you lose your cool for the first time in my life. There was nothing plastic about those muscles. Believe me… women built like this are strong, lethally strong. Don’t fool yourself for one moment to try and ease your own mind about whether your male body can beat those powerful muscle – hours, days, years of lifting weights of 40 kg and more, over and over, day after day … well, you do the math...
My mind drifts back to that afternoon in your cozy little apartment when you unfolded a tale to me that I though only was possible in a work of fiction. Did things like that really happen to people, to beautiful little girls like you and happy families?
Monsters are alive and well on this earth, and they have nothing to do with vampires and werewolves. Nothing.
Those things are fantasy metaphors for the real monsters amongst us. Just look in a mirror. One might be staring back at you, right there. William Golding’s novel, Lord of the Flies, flitted through my mind.
This exquisite girl with the emerald eyes and angelic face has stared into the face of the dead pig’s head on a stick and did not faint, but decided to take the battle to it.
She discovered early in her life, just like a young innocent Ralph on that island, that the real monsters weren’t under your bed or in the closet in your room. No, the real monsters was living in the house with you, they were your next door neighbours, your own family, your best friend…it could be anybody with a heartbeat. The real monster was inside all of us...
I looked at you...
You are so different from the other men I have come to encounter in my life. So gentle and polite. You make me smile.
"Martin", a normal name, nothing special about it, but I liked the name anyway.
I felt comfortable around you, from that very first day I met you in the studio and you came crawling in on all fours after your lens cap. That was so funny!
I was so nervous. I have never done anything like that before, posing for photographs in a studio or any place else for that matter. My body was different from the normal girls around me, and I knew that. I have been forced in life to exhibit myself a few times under dire circumstances and did not like showing myself in public at all, if I could help it, it brought back dark memories, memories I'd rather forget, but couldn't. But here in this studio, here with you, it was different; you made it different.
I felt safe and calm around you. I found myself wanting to show you my physique and didn't mind your admiration and the interest you showed in me. I found myself craving more of your attention, and for the first time in a long while, I found my muscularity a blessing and not a curse.
You never tried to impress me or ever gave an indication that you felt intimidated by my muscular physique. You were comfortable with me and with yourself as a man. You didn't see me as some female freak who wanted to become a man, or any such nonsense. You looked beyond the muscle and saw the woman inside.
Men think because I look this way that I would only look at another man that are as muscular as I am. Would I prefer a guy with huge muscles? Yes I would, just as I would not like to be assaulted by a fat blob of blubber. But a normal guy would be just as fine, what counts more is his character and personality, and if he happens to be muscular, well,so be it, I wouldn't mind. But it is not the only criteria, as some would think.
Your words of praise and admiration burned into my soul and send shivers of emotional bliss through my skin and body. Just as much as you probably enjoyed looking at me, I craved your admiration and words.
I wanted to perform for you, I wanted to be more muscular for you... see your eyes as you watch me grow, expand and developed but at the same time I was afraid you might find me a freak and abomination or feel intimidated by me. I didn't know you that long, but there was this rapport with you that I could not explain.
Your beautiful photographs captured my image so perfectly, I sometimes wondered if that was really me on those images, but every picture you took also captured a part of my soul, and I didn't mind, I wanted you to own a part of me.
My encounter with you changed my life in so many ways. You once told me that I have changed your whole way of thinking about women. I wonder what you would think if I told you how much you changed in my life? And I don't just mean financially, but also the way I see myself through your eyes and art.
That is how you saw me..a work of art. For so many years I felt like Frankenstein's monster, a freak of nature with a soul and not just a body that could be used and abused, a piece of meat to be butchered and bargained with.
And here you sit now, in my little apartment and we are talking like old friends.
Yes I can call you that. You are my friend. The only friend I had in a long time, except for Li-May... who saved my life and helped me escape from a terrible fate a few years back.
You want to know my story...?
Are you sure you want to go there?
And yes, in a strange, awkward way I had the terrible urged to reveal my life to you. I wanted you to know about me...my past...and be there for my future, to help me with what I had to do.
I needed a friend, a real friend, who will understand and not judge. Who will support me and be willing to turn a blind eye when I had to do what must be done. Somebody who could handle my metamorphosis, accept me as I am.
And so, on that fateful afternoon as the sun was slanting in through the windows, I told you my story...
I was half American Indian and half French Canadian. My mother was from Cheyenne descent and my father was a Canadian scientist. Her mother’s Indian name was Kuwanyauma, which means “Butterfly showing beautiful wings”.
They called her Auma for short, as nobody could pronounce the Indian name correctly. She was very proud of her Indian blood and ancestry.
My mother was a woman with exceptional beauty.
She met my father through the Harvard Native American Programme at the University of Western Ohio, where he lectured in bio-chemical engineering and genetics. He was a brilliant young scientist and she was one of his most promising students. He was about ten years older than my mother, but the attraction was mutual and they dated and saw each other in secret and very discretely for a number of years at university.
Shortly after my mother finally graduated, they got married and moved to Canada where both of them were offered a very lucrative employment opportunity at a pharmaceutical company called Quantum Technologies.
“I still have a photograph taken in front of the building,” I said.” Wait let me get it for you; it’s one of the few pictures I have left of my mom and dad that helps me to not forget them. ”
I got up and walked to the small bedroom and returned with an old book, that looked like a make- shift photo album. It looked like an old note book that was turned into a photo album. I took my place on the couch next to you, and curled my legs under me again. The calves flared. I caught your gaze as you looked at my legs. It made me feel warm inside for a moment.
“This is all I have of them… This, a necklace my mom gave me before her death and the traditional Indian outfit she used to wear.”
I opened the “album”. It was old and contained a number of photos from my past. There was also a brown envelope in the album which was marked “Records”.
The first photo I showed you, was a beach scene. A man a beautiful dark-haired woman and a little girl on a beach somewhere. The woman was leaning back and looking at the man, so her face was in profile and somewhat obscured by her long, thick hair. She had a very short beach skirt on and her legs were very well formed and athletic. Her torso was covered with what looked like a black top.
My mother was sitting on the sand. Next to her was a little blonde girl with pinkish purple ribbons in her pony-tails, large eyes and a broad smile looking at her parents. Me.
My dad was behind my mom on his knees and his arms around her middle just below her ample breasts. Even though one could not see my mother’s face that clearly on that photo, I could tell that she was a beautiful woman. (“Kuwanyauma”, “butterfly showing beautiful wings”) Very fitting name.
The thing that actually caught your attention the most was my dad. He was looking at the camera, like somebody would look at a camera that was set on a timer to makes sure the photo was taken and to see if it did its job. You could see his face very clearly in the picture. My heart skipped a beat. I wondered if you noticed it as well as I realized it for the first time!
It was like I was staring at your face!
You did not look like my dad exactly, you were taller, but there was a resemblance, a very strong one.
Is that why I felt attracted to you? To you… Mr. Plain- Joe- and- coffee.
Have you seen the connection like I just did? Or did you not realize yet that I might be seeing my dad in you? is that why I have this weird attraction to you?
They say girls look for qualities of their fathers in men they date or feel attracted to.
Is this what’s happening here? Have I unconsciously being comparing you to my father?
The photo was old and worn, the colour was faded. I swallowed.
I turned the page to the next picture. It was a picture of the same beach scene. Both my parents was standing upright now, close together holding hands.
I was at my mother’s feet, playing happily in the sand. Nobody was actually looking at the camera. A happy family scene, there was love. That was clear.
Here you could also see my mother’s face clearly now. You could see where I got my looks from. My mother was shortish and beautiful. Raven black hair framed a face that would make any man go weak in the joints. She was unmistakably from American Indian descent, but she had Western features which made her really beautiful. And she was built. She didn’t have an inch of fat on her body anywhere. Her legs were very athletic for a woman, back then.
This photo had a bit more colour to it. You could now see my dad’s hair, it was a reddish brown colour like yours. Another similarity.
On the page opposite was another beach scene, taken during the same session. My mother was kneeling on the sand at my father’s feet and I was still to the left, playing in the sand. You could see us all clearly now, a beautiful, happy family.
“Reddish brown, a lot like yours,” I replied, smiling, ” and you do look a bit like him…did you notice?”
"I noticed, yes." You smiled back.
(So, he was aware of the resemblance.)“That first day when I met you at the studio…” I looked down. “ It took me a few minutes to get my balance back. I’ve look at these pictures so many times, and my memories of my parents started fading over the years, but I try my best to keep them alive and in my mind. Then to suddenly look into a face that is not on a photograph looking back at me and one that looks like the familiar face in the photo. It was a bit bizarre.”
“I wondered if you noticed,” he said, “when you opened the album it jumped at me immediately. One can’t miss it. I didn’t. I was wondering if...”
“…and you are wondering if I’m interested in a friendship with you because of that?” I completed his thoughts for him. “ I would lie if I denied that there is that attraction, but I can assure you that I’m interested in you as an individual, as a person in your own right, Martin.” I smiled my best smile at you.
“Your mother was a beautiful woman,” was all you could get out at that stage. “I can see where you got your looks from. One can see the Indian in her but she is very Western as well. And your dad was not too bad looking either.”
I laughed at that. “Yep she was. You see my grandmother, whom I can vaguely remember, also married outside the reservation. My grandfather was from Wyoning. My mom said my honey coloured hair was from him.
I still imagine sometimes I can smell her perfume. She was so alive and active. She jogged a lot, could run for miles and miles without breaking a sweat.
My dad on the other hand was an academic. He was tall and lanky, not fat or anything, but exercise was not his thing.
My mom could not sit still for a minute. I think I got my restlessness and active genes from her. I remember her legs. She had strong muscular legs, very athletic. Not very lady-like for those times I suppose but she didn’t care. I remember her stretching and warming up before she went running and exercising on the lawn when she got back from her run. She ran every day. Got up early in the morning and ran some miles before returning home, showering, making breakfast and get everybody ready for work.”
I turned another page. “Here, that’s the photo I was telling you about.”
I pointed at a black and white photo of my mom and dad standing in front of a building dressed in lab coats. They both wore protective glasses. They looked very “official” and this time there was no smiling or happy faces. They both looked like they had a lot on their minds in that photo.
Your eyes drifted to my mom again. The lab coat was very loose around her body and the area below her breasts looked very distended. Gone was the slim shapely figure of the beach we looked at just now. Her breasts were enlarged and not even the large lab coat could hide the fact that she was very pregnant.
You voiced your thoughts to me.
“Yes. I discovered that later, when I realized what I was looking at,” I said.” A brother or a sister that I will never know now. That was the last photograph taken of them.”
“You mean the accident?”
“Yes.” That was all I could say to you. You didn’t press me for more as you could see that my throat was trying hard to swallow, and my eyes were avoiding contact.
“How old were you on those photos taken at the beach?” you tried to steer the conversation away from the last picture.
“I was five or six I think.” I said softly.”
“We don’t have to do this, Michelle. If it’s too difficult…” you said.
“No, it’s ok, forgive me, I want to tell you…I have to tell somebody. I need to tell you all of this.” I blinked away the tears and then got up to blow my nose. “Be back in a sec.”
In her absence I picked up the album. Three photos that were lose inside the covers fell onto the table. Her father and mother standing in what looked like a forest clearing. Michelle’s mom was holding her on her hip, cradling her arm beneath her. Her mother was dressed in a traditional Native American dress with accessories. She looked beautiful. The dress had slipped open and a muscular, tanned brown leg was just visible.
The other two pictures was of Michelle, definitely a couple of years older than in the other photos, dancing in a dance studio and another of her doing gymnastics. If she was about five or six in those other photos, I estimated her here to be about nine or ten years old. She has changed a lot in four to five years.
Posing in a fantasy dance costume was a beautiful young girl with thick mop of honey coloured hair.
Gone were the thin childlike body of the beach photos, instead there was an athletically build young girl with finely muscled legs and body. Five years of gymnastics and dance training has shaped her body into that of a beautiful athletically molded young girl.
I could see her mother all over her face and physique. I turned the dance studio photo over. In a very dainty handwriting on the back of the photo somebody has written:
“Magaskawee at the dance.”
When Michelle returned, she had a large Tupperware bowl with her and a fork.
“I’m sorry, time for one of my six meals I have during the day,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind if I talk through the eating for a moment.”
If only she knew that I didn’t mind anything, as long as she just sat there and let me sit here and allow me to watch her just do whatever it is that she does. Breathing, eating, sleeping, talking, moving, my God anything she does is a revelation to me. I suddenly felt myself wishing this afternoon would never end.
“What are you having? I asked.
“Salad. You want a taste?”
Before I could protest, the fork was in front of my mouth.
“Open wide.” She was enjoying herself.
I took a bite.
It was actually very tasty. Tuna and noodles, pine apple pieces and chicken, and a very tasty salad dressing.
“Very tasty.” I said.
“Want more?” She was up and came back with another fork.
And there we sat on her couch with a large bowl of high protein salad between us, eating and talking the afternoon away.
“Who is Magaskawee?” I asked. I pointed at the photo that fell from the album. “That is you in the picture, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” she smiled. “That’s the Indian name my mother gave me.”
“What does it mean?”
“Swan maiden” or “graceful”.
"Like my mother I was very active as a child. Still am. I think you’ve noticed.” She smiled. “When I was six she enrolled me at a dancing school and also had me join a gymnastics club. I went for dancing lessons twice a week and three days a week I had gymnastics. I enjoyed both tremendously and couldn’t wait to go there each day after school. I especially enjoyed the competitions and exercise. Dancing made me feel like floating and flying. Gymnastics made me feel invincible. I mostly enjoyed the working out with weights at the school’s gym to build strength for gymnastics. I also did track and field during our school’s annual athletics meet. Very active child. My mom always said she got tired from just watching me go.”
Her eyes sparkled with the memories. The smile again.
She picked up the picture that fell out and showed it to me.
Once again I was amazed at the beautiful young girl with the athletic body staring back at me. She was dressed in a black leotard with white stars all over it. She was striking a typical gymnastic pose in front of a “horse” I think they call it. She was standing on tiptoe and her arms were raised above her head. She had typical powerful and shapely gymnasts legs.
“I was so good at both. The dancing and the gymnastics. Everything was so good... so good.”
She finished the last of her tuna and chicken salad. ( My God she just ate a meal big enough for 4 people – I gave up after fork and mouthful number 5 – where does she put it all?)
“ I waited outside the school on that fateful day for my mom to come pick me up as she always did. She never came. I never saw her face again or my dad’s. That afternoon a policeman came to fetch me from school. I knew that something was horribly wrong. I was ten at the time and old enough to understand death.”
“What happened?” I ask.
She took a deep breath. The pectoral muscle moved.
“They were killed in a car crash. I never saw the car or them. My last memories of my mom and dad were from that morning when we left for work and school. It was a day like every other day. Or so it started out, at least. They told me that there was an accident. I knew what that meant. I wanted to ask the policeman if both were dead. But from the look on their faces I knew the answer already.
I later learned that they went over a cliff in the nearby pass, after swerving to try and avoid a collision with a deer in the road. My dad or mom must have lost control over the car and went over the cliff, a sheer drop of hundreds of feet of mountain.
They said they were sorry. Sorry? I felt nothing. I remember thinking, “ why would you be sorry, you didn’t kill them did you?”
I was floating in a deep watery river. Reality was receding around me. I remember hearing voice of people around me. I was lead to a police car and my satchel was taken from me. I moved along and did what they said without really thinking about it. It was all mechanical. I couldn’t feel the earth beneath my feet as I moved. It was all so unreal. My mom and dad were still there. I was sure it was a mistake, I will go home and open the door and they will be there as always. And tonight they shall tug me into bed and bring me my glass of warm milk and cookies as they did every night. Like clockwork, always, they would both come into my room and wish me a good night. Always with the glass of warm milk and cookies.”
She looked at her hands.
“ But the nightmare continued unabated. My mom had no family from her side still alive. I vaguely remembered and old Indian woman whom we visited a few times in a reservation village, but she passed away a longtime ago. There’s a photograph in the album we had taken during one of our visits to the reservation during a Heritage Day celebration. I think you saw it just now.”
She opened the album and took out the photo I saw earlier where she was seated on her mother’s arm.
“ My mother always dressed up for that in the traditional clothing she kept at home. That dress and accessories is one of the few things I kept from that life.”
She stretched her beautiful legs and turned to her other side facing me.
“My father had a brother. I knew about him, because he talked about him some time. Not in any kind terms, however.
That was the only living family I had, as far as I knew. I have never seen my uncle. He was a myth to me, a name I heard now and then.
My father didn’t say much about him, but what I knew as a child was that he was a bad man. My dad was Dr. Jekyll to my uncle’s Mr. Hyde it seemed.
My father went into academics and science; my uncle went into the underworld of crime and corruption. He was in and out of juvenile detention centers and prisons his entire live. He was the dark side of my father’s family; my dad seldom talked about him.
I just remember that he once said that my uncle was responsible for sending both my grandfather and mother – whom I never met or knew- to an early grave.
Where he was or even if he was alive I didn’t know.
Even if he was alive somewhere, to me he was a total stranger. The family I knew was ripped from me forever. It was over. My life as I knew it was over. I was ten years old and had nowhere to go.”
“I was taken home to get some personal things and to pack a suitcase. I woman from welfare accompanied us to the house and helped me get some stuff into a suitcase. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Bleezedale, came to help and assured me that everything will be ok. I had to go along with the welfare lady and spend the night at a local government facility, while they sorted out all the things that had to be done. I could not stay in the house alone. I wanted to, but they refused.
There was a locksmith that had to open the door of the house. There were people from my dad’s company, newspaper people and people I didn’t know at all.
Never seen most of them, ever. I was pushed and dragged by the arm. I took my photo album, some clothes and the necklace my mother gave me and the Indian dress she had in her cupboard and bundled that into the suitcase.
I couldn’t think straight. I think the welfare lady and the police woman packed some other clothing, toothbrush, tooth paste and things I would need into the case as well. All I could think about was this album, the photos, the necklace and my mom’s dress.
The rest was numb.”
I tried to imagine what a ten- year -old girl must have gone through in a situation like that. To have your whole world turned upside –down in an instant. Little did I know that this was just the tip of the iceberg.
“I asked if I could see my mom and dad. In the back of my mind they were still alive and well. But I never saw them again. I was bundled into a car and taken to a government facility for orphaned children and that night I slept in a strange room under a strange roof with strangers I’ve never seen.
I stared at a strange wall for hours, without seeing anything. Somewhere during that first night at the orphanage I drifted off into sleep. I didn’t cry.
In my dreams people with unknown faces were passing by me, telling me to “be brave” and “all will be fine”.
I didn’t go to school the next three days. Mercifully, they put me in a room by myself in that first week. Three days later I was taken to a funeral home where a short ceremony was held. I was surrounded by strangers whom I did not know or cared to know.
The only person I recognized was our neighbor, Mrs. Bleezedale, who sat next to me and held my hand. There were no caskets. Somebody told me that it was better for me not to see my parents. There wasn’t much to see, the car burnt out somewhere down in the ravine where it ended up. People said things, sympathized, took my hand, hugged me and left.
Mrs. Bleezedale said she’ll come and take me out for the weekend. That she’ll try and arrange for me to come and stay with her.
A man with thick glasses came to me and told me that he was my dad’s solicitor and was taking care of the house, finances and everything. I didn’t have to worry about anything. He’ll contact me soon, for the will and testament. Apparently my dad had his final will and testament re-done shortly before the accident.”
I didn’t say a word, just sat there and listened as her life story unfolded before me. The more she spoke the less I wanted to say anything at all. She’s been through things that a beautiful girl at that age should not have to cope with at all.
But what doesn’t kill you…you know the saying.
I looked at some of those babies that were abandoned by their parents and counted myself lucky that I at least had the privileged to have known my parents for as long as I did, and that I was loved.
It was only now that the reality of what happened was starting to dawn on me.
For the first time in nearly a week, I started crying. It goes without saying that my days and nights were spend crying mostly. The slightest thought of my mom and dad, my home, my room or anything of what I was used to drove me into tears.
Most of the other kids respected my feelings and steered clear of me. I hugged my pillow on my bed and slept, or I went and sat outside in the garden.
The days went by in a haze. My schoolwork, which I always excelled and loved to do, deteriorated. I was moved to a new school as my old school was too expensive to continue with.
I’ve always loved reading and gaining knowledge. I was an obsessive reader from the moment I discovered how to read.
Now I could not concentrate on anything.
The few friends I had at my old school drifted away and I could not blame them. I would not have been friends with myself.
“When I got home from school one afternoon, a large black car was waiting for me and I was taken to the city Centre by a chauffeur in a fancy suit and cap. I was met by the man with thick glasses who introduced himself to me at the funeral service.
Mrs. Bleezdale was there as well. I was so glad to see a friendly, familiar face. I ran to her and clung to her for several minutes before I let go.
We were taken into an office and the man introduced us to some other people that were already waiting there. There was a lot of formalities and red tape that had to be waded through and finally they got to my dad’s will and testament. I didn’t know much about anything. These were all words and phrases that meant absolutely nothing to me at all. It was explained to me that basically what was going on and what was about to happen was the following:
1. My dad has left a substantial amount of money. (There were also life policies that was about to pay out large amounts on his life and that of my mother’s.) The will stated that it should be kept in a trust for me and my brother/ sister and equally divided. All assets and property to be sold and added to the trust to look after me and any siblings that survived them after death.
2. That whoever took up the responsibility to look after us, was to receive a substantial amount of money every year to look out for us. That person will also receive a handsome yearly honorarium for doing so.
3. If no living family or anybody sees fit to take care of me, (we) were to be remanded into the custody of the state and looked after financially until the age of 21. The money would be controlled and governed by the firm of lawyers my dad appointed to do so. There after I (we) should have full control over whatever was left to do with as we saw fit.
“Large amounts were mentioned. It made no sense to me. I’ve never worked with a lot of money. My parents did all that. But I was old enough to realize that my parents were not poor people, that there was money in abundance. Whatever they were working on for Quantum Tech, must have been important research.”
“And then the sharks set in…” I thought to myself. If her parents left all that for her, where did it all go? What happened to all that money? How did she end up here in a back-alley part of town struggling to survive?
“Do you know what they were working on?” I asked.
“Not at that stage, no. It was only much later that I found out what they were working on.
The night before the accident I heard my parents fighting in the living room. Something they very seldom did. They never raised their voices to each other. I could not hear what it was about. It scared me when they did that.
The next morning they were friendly as usual, but there was tension all around. We went through all the normal motions of breakfast and getting ready for school and work.
Just another day.
And that was the last time I saw them.
Whatever they were arguing about was important. I only discovered what that argument was about a year ago, Martin.
But I’ll tell you about that next. All I can say at this stage is that my parents’ death also turned out to be no accident at all…”
My head was spinning. No accident? Things were getting more intriguing by the minute. I’ve only had contact with this girl a few times so far, so I can’t expect her to just throw it all on the table. But I could sense that there was a lot more to her and her story than what I realized before. And every word that came from her mouth now, made me a part of it.
The afternoon was moving on. Outside, the buildings were beginning to throw long shadows. I found myself unwilling to leave her side. I wanted to stay, just sit there and drink in her image, voice and life story. I’ll be just happy to sit and look at her all day long. Just these few moments with her thus far has revealed so much to me. I wanted to know more, I wanted to know all about her.
She got up in her slinky graceful way.
“Coffee?” she asked and smiled.
“Yep, sure, would be nice.”I looked at the place where she was seated just now. Her body left an indent on the material. I tried to guess in my mind what she weighed. She was about 5.5. Sixty, maybe seventy kilos? Mostly muscle? I reached out and put my hand on the place where she sat. It was warm. I could smell her. I closed my eyes. She was really there…this is really happening?
“Martin?” she called from the kitchen.
I nearly jumped. Did she see me touch her seat?
“Sugar and milk?”
“Three sugar, and milk please,” I said. (Come on snap out of it!)
She smiled back at me. God, I think she did see me touch the material where she sat! She’s got that look on her face, that one that says, “I saw you doing that… I can read your thoughts.”
No way could she have seen me do that, she had her back to me. Am sure she had.
“Here you go!” She curled up on the sofa again. She sat a lot closer to me than before. The green eyes that looked at me over the rim of the cup was full of little devils.
(“Shit she did see me…!” I wanted to melt away in the floor.)
“Shall I continue?”
“Yes, please do.”
“The orphanage became my home for the next five years, while my father’s lawyers tried to locate my only family, my uncle, whom I didn’t know from any which way.
I begged old Mrs. Bleezedale to take me in, she was more family to me than any I might have had out there. But she was an old lady and not up to looking after a young girl like me.
I told her I would be no problem to her what so ever and she would be well awarded. But she refused. Back then I didn’t understand why she would refuse me and it hurt me, but today, looking back, if it was me, I probably also wouldn’t have taken on the responsibility of raising another person’s child, no matter how good we know each other.
Her visits to the orphanage also diminished in time. Her health was going and finally I heard the news that she passed on as well. I was now truly alone in this world.
Apart from the people at the orphanage there was nobody from my previous existence that was left for me. All I had left was a suitcase and the few things I gathered from our home.”
“I took a day off at school to attend Mrs. Bleezedale’s funeral. Seemed to be doing that a lot in those last couple of years. Attending funerals, that is.
Then a strange thing happened.
Her housekeeper came to me after the funeral and handed me a box. She told me that Mrs. Bleezedale got it from my father (!) and has kept it under wraps all this time at her house.
The box was given to her by my parents. Apparently they both visited her and entrusted it to her care in case anything ever happened to them and made her promise that she would give it to me on my 21st birthday and not before.
My head was spinning. I had no idea what this was all about.
The housekeeper then handed me a letter written by Mrs. Bleezedale. It simply stated that which the housekeeper has already told me and she said that her health was failing fast and she will not be able to keep her promise to my parents and wait until I was 21. She gave it to her housekeeper who had to promise she would see to it that I got it.
It was simply a fancy looking box. It was sealed with a little lead twisted wire. I couldn’t wait to get back to the orphanage to open it. I thought that there might be a letter or something in from my parents. Somehow I hoped that opening the box would somehow reverse the last years and like a magical gene from the bottle grant me a wish. I would only have one wish: That this nightmare should come to an end. That this was all a mistake. That my parents was alive and well.
“But when I opened the box in my room, I discovered inside a photograph and a weird looking necklace, which I later realized was no necklace but a key of some sort. A key I had no idea what it opened.
The photo is the one I showed you in my album, the one where they stood in front of the Quantum Tech building.
I had no idea what it meant or what I was supposed to do with that or why they even left this for me. Instead of giving me closure it just deepened my confusion even more.
I put the photo in my old album and the box in my suitcase where it stayed for the next eight years.
In the year I came off age, the strange looking key came back to haunt me again.
But more about that later.”
“Continue,” I said. This was getting very interesting.
“I was sixteen then. The orphanage had been my home for a number of years now.”
“And that was then when they found him… my uncle…” Michelle said.
The story of Anna fox chapter 3: crushing on a fox,love and a date?
It had been several weeks since anna was taken out of storage the fun loving fox had at least made friends with the others a little bit but freddy didn't seem to like her no matter how hard she tried.
so in the end she gave up she was getting closer and closer to foxy now and as the months drawled on she had grown to love him but she didn't want him to know she was crushing on him.
so she kept to herself occasionally she'd blush lightly whenever she saw him a certain way,she stared at him as he ran down the hall way.
sometimes she'd join him but she'd run the opposite hallway to him tapping on the glass and laughing revealing herself though she'd never attack even when she just stood there waiting. glowing eerily in the darkness playing her pirate theme slowly and creepily.
It had scared the security guard multiple times and she'd sometimes whisper to him,"hey..matey...how's..it..going.." over and over before she would disappear.
-present day about 3 months since she was taken out of storage and christmas was drawing closer-
'should I tell.. him..oh..foxy..if you only knew..' she thought watching him silently.
what she didn't know was foxy was staring at her from the corner of his eye it may have looked like he was staring ahead, but he kept an eye on her over the past few months he too had felt something but in all honesty he wasn't that sure.
soon in grew dark as the security guard showed up anna was powered down and wouldn't be active until at least 2am foxy however was awake watching her occasionally he'd touch her face with his paw not that she'd feel it anyway.
foxy sighed to himself,"anna.." he whispered softly sighing "if only you knew.." he was paying attention to the time but at the moment he wasn't the clock had struck 2am when foxy uttered the next words. "how..much I..I..love..you" he said softly his eyes where closed so he didn't see annas light up a small trickle of a happy tear rolled down her face.
"I love you too.." said anna shyly,foxy's eyes widened "uh..how..when did you" spurted foxy.
"when you said how much i love you..and..I..feel..even when I'm powered down I..feel when I power up..so..I felt the touches to my face..um..foxy.." said anna stepping forwards metal peg leg clinking. "I.." she said softly before just moving forwards capturing foxy's robotic lips in a quick kiss before pulling back blushing.
"um..I..uh.." said anna stuttering a little as foxy approached her he gently cupped her face before bringing it closer and kissing her gently.
anna wrapped her arms around him kissing back after they both pulled back blushing. "um..how about..a..date.." asked foxy. "..sure..but not here..how about..oh I know my ship..in storage..I think I can open the door now" suggested anna. foxy nodded.
"but not now..for now..uh..we..uh can we cuddle.." asked foxy anna smiled sitting down on the fake sand "yeah..come here then" she said foxy sat next to her pulling her close.
anna let out a soft robotic like purr resting her head on his battered chest.
they stayed like that until the both fell asleep.
(A/n oh god.. I feel bad but Hey at least I did not totally go into the naughty stuff yet hell they haven't even had the first date before you go ask no.. not happening.. on that chapter there spoiler for you ha that's all your going to get. :'D )
Connaissance et technique provenant de l’Egypte ancienne et, en même temps, une culture.
Débutant comme une pratique Égyptienne, mélangée avec la philosophie et la tradition grecque, puis passée à travers l'Arabie et lentement infiltrée en Europe à la Renaissance.
Cette pratique se résume en général à changer les métaux bon marché en or pur, ou encore à créé la vie sans l’aide de la main de Dieu. Mais son but ultime est d’obtenir la vie éternelle… Non, même cela ne compte pas comme «ultime». Ce que les alchimistes recherchent est illimité. Ils se seraient plongés jusqu'à la fin de leurs jours dans la tache de changer l’impossible en possible. Mais s’il en était ainsi, la chose deviendrait « possible », et le but ultime s’estomperait. Jusque-là, ils sont susceptibles de continuer à poursuivre l'impossible, de se noyer dans l'espoir et la connaissance, ou dans une autre façon de se perdre dans leurs quête.
Les temps changent constamment. Dans le chaos du monde réel, les alchimistes pourraient profondément apprécier les qualités nécessaires à un héros, parfois, ils furent entravés par des obstacles de tous les côtés, et d'autres fois furent la cible de l'envie des autres; Ils devaient repousser constamment les limites de leur art. Mais pas en vain ... l'alchimiste Newton a bien découvert la gravité... Les scientifiques modernes ont toutes sortes de contributions à la société.
Alchimie n'est certainement pas une science fausse.
Mais parfois ---- l'alchimie est appelée « compétence magique » ou « miracle divin », et certains essayèrent de brouiller la frontière entre l'alchimie et la science, de fusionner les deux pratiques en une seule entité.
En général, il est facile pour les gens ordinaires de confondre l'alchimie et la magie, mais en réalité, ce sont deux choses complètement différentes. Parmi les alchimistes, il y a ceux qui s’en remettent à des "puissances extérieures qui ne peuvent pas être expliqués par la science", et se reposent sur la magie et la prière comme un lien... mais bien sûr, il y a ceux qui se souillent en la pratiquant comme expérience.
Que ce soit les arts magiques ou démoniaques, si son existence peut être confirmée, alors il est également possible de transformer « l’impossible » en «possible» - c'est juste une question d'ouvrir "l’impossible".
Le navire était plongé une nuit noire.
Dans l'obscurité ... ils écoutaient la «voix».
Ils étaient alchimistes, loin de chez eux, à la recherche des terres inexplorées.
Ce fut eux qui eurent finalement réussi à invoquer le «démon» dans le monde des humains, à bord de ce navire.
« m'avez-Vous appelés « démon »? Ah, je comprends. Est-ce que l’un d'entre vous a déjà vu Dieu ou un ange? Un mot comme «mal» existe uniquement par le contraste de cette comparaison. Eh bien, peu importe. 103 années se sont écoulées depuis que j'ai été ma dernière invocation. Cela aurait été merveilleux si cela s’était passé 3 ans plus tôt, mais ... peu importe. « Peu importe » est mon expression favorite. N’y faites pas attention... je transmets directement ma voix dans votre cerveau, de sorte que cette expression est un peu étrange. Eh bien, peu importe ».
Ce « démon » prolixe tenu sa promesse, et convenu d'un contrat d’apprentissage des « connaissances interdites » pour les alchimistes qui étaient directement responsables de son invocation.
Les Alchimistes prononcèrent la phrase suivante:
« Nous voulons tous savoir sur l’immortalité »
« Cette requête ... n'est-ce pas suggérer que vous souhaitez être immortel? Eh bien, peu importe ».
Sur le pont du navire ... un récipient débordant de liquide fut placé au milieu du groupe d’Alchimistes.
« Vous n'avez qu'à boire ceci pour devenir immortel. Tout ce qui arrivera ensuite c’est à vous d'en décider. Je suis peux être immortel, mais mes pensées à ce sujet sont tout à fait différentes des vôtres ... Attendez, attendez, calmez-vous et écoutez bien ... je suis généreux, cet élixir est plus que suffisant pour tous les membres présents. Cessez de vous chamailler.
...... Maintenant, si jamais vous vous lassez de l'immortalité et désirez vraiment la mort ...
Le «démon» commença à expliquer aux alchimistes comment les immortels peuvent mourir.
« ... cette personne devra trouver d'autres personnes qui ont aussi bu l'élixir d'immortalité. Après avoir été trouvé par un pareil homme, placez votre main sur la tête de celui qui veut mourir et pensez «Je veux manger». Eh bien, pensez le fort, cela suffira. De cette façon, l'homme qui cherche la mort sera aspiré dans votre main droite et sa vie s’achèvera. «Manger» est juste un moyen de réception de toutes les connaissances et capacités de l'autre personne. Le dernier qui aura accumulé toutes les connaissances et expériences des trente autres personnes présententes ici même... Si cette dernière personne se lasse de l'immortalité alors elle devra m’invoquer. À ce moment-là, je la «mangerai». Ainsi, j’obtiendrais la connaissance de 30 personnes ... Bien, un mot d'avertissement ... il y a des risques. ... Ceux qui ont bu l'élixir perdront la possibilité d'utiliser de «faux noms». Ce sera une contrainte mentale ... Si c'est juste une présentation temporaire à des gens ordinaires, alors il n'y a pas de problème. Mais si vous venez à utiliser votre vrai nom lors d'une conversation avec d'autres immortels, votre corps va rejeter cette fausse identité. ... Si je ne fais pas cela, vous ne serez jamais en mesure de vous retrouver les un les autres ... »
Les alchimistes réfléchirent, puis tout le monde partagea l'élixir d'immortalité et bu. L'élixir sentait l'alcool.
« Hm, c'est ça ... Nous avons encore le contrat de l'enseignement à « tout le monde »... Même si je ne suis pas sûr de ce que vous entendez par « tout le monde », de toute façon, je vais vous apprendre la recette de l'élixir. Mais je ne vais pas la donner à touts, mais seulement l'alchimiste qui m'a invoqué. Si les autres veulent savoir, alors qu’ils lui demandent par la suite. »
Une fois que le «démon» les eut informés, il leur donna la «connaissance» à l'alchimiste qui l’avait invoqué. L’homme ne savait pas ce qui s'était passé. Il avait la «connaissance», il ne savait pas d’où elle venait mais elle était encrée dans sa mémoire.
La voit du démon s’évanouit.
L’homme qui avait reçu la connaissance passa toute la nuit à méditer.
Il décida de confier le secret de l’immortalité à son frère cadet, qui était également à bord du navire.
Il était au milieu de son résonnement lorsque soudaine pensée s’imposa à lui.
Et le lendemain, il déclarât :
« J’ai un plan pour occulter ce savoir à tout jamais »
Mal grès l’opposition de tous les autres alchimistes, sa décision était prise.
Et cette nuit-là, cela arriva.
L'homme à la connaissance resta. Au beau milieu de la nuit, il sentit la présence d'une personne et ouvrit les yeux ............ Debout au centre de la chambre était un de ses amis.
La main de cet ami était posée sur la tête de son frère, Gretto, qui dormait en face de lui …
En un instant, il fut tout à fait réveillé, mais il était trop tard. Son propre frère était, son ami ...
Non, ce fut à ce moment, comme par magie, que son propre frère fut aspiré dans la main droite de son camarade.
"... Impossible, je ne m'attendais pas que cela se passe si rapidement."
Tout en regardant la scène, le «démon» murmura seul, quelque part dans l'obscurité.
«Je suis celui qui a attisé les flammes, mais ... voilà pourquoi les humains sont une race avide. Regarder est agréable, mais ... »
L'existence désignée comme le «démon» continua d'une voix un peu mélancolique,
"Cette fois-ci, aucun doute, cela arrivera."
La voix du «démon» ne pouvait déjà plus être entendue. Il ne restait rien d'autre que le vide sombre, comme si le démon n'avait jamais été là.
Et alors, le temps passa.
01 - Baccano! VF - The Rolling BootlegsÉpilogue - Partie 1
Pourquoi ça m'arrive à moi?
« Face au mur! »
« Feisu » était le visage ... « wo-ru » devait donc vouloir dire mur... ah ah, et le « TU », que pouvait-il bien signifier? * Mais ces gars-là n'avaient pas vraiment l'air de s'occuper de si j'avais bien compris l'anglais ou pas. Mais qu'est que je disais? ...
Avant leur mise en garde (ou du moins je pensais que c'en était une), ma tête était déjà contre le mur de pierre.
*Le narrateur est Japonais, ne parlant pas l’anglais couramment il essaye donc de traduire l’expression « face to wall » (face-à-mur en français).
Tout a commencé par un tirage au sort sur une rue commercial