drecms-blog

[drecms-blog]

     sandy nods in response, smile widening as he points at the sun and makes long sweeping gestures, an invisible paintbrush in hand. he likes capturing the sun in his portraits, it’s golden hand and long mane of yellow light turned orange and red at dawn and dusk. perhaps it’s because that’s the one thing that’s stayed the same through all these centuries ( that along with the moon, of course ). motions stop and he takes a silent sip of tea, before picking up his pen and scribbling out ‘sandy’ on a napkin already covered with tiny doodles of fish and trees. there’s a little flourish at the end of the ‘y’, and the word is accompanied by a thumb jabbing at his own chest.

“ thank you… “ replying with a nod, the girl took a seat across from him. being closer, it was as if her powers are amplified. though she fought her hardest not to intrude within his own mind. she took a sip of her coffee and in an attempt to get out of her own head she asked, “ so you are some sort of artist, yes?? i can tell by your shoes. “ smiling softly at the other, trying to make conversation the best that she can.

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     he is relieved when she passes the child to him ---relieved that trust still lives in the fracturing pieces of humanity, that she has decided to trust him enough with this human life ( she doesn’t know of other billion he has been entrusted with as well ). hands are gentle around the girl as he cradles her to his chest, eyes drifting closed for a second ( partly to focus, partly to hide the fact the irises of his eyes turn from brown to gold ). sleep. he thinks, weaving a dream of the simple pleasures child desire ---things like kittens and sunny days and dandelions growing in a lush lawn. ‘shhh’ is the shape his lips make as eyes open ( gold fading to flecks before disappearing altogether ), though no sound comes out, fingers brushing short tufts of hair from her sweet face as she falls into slumber. it’s no one’s fault that she screams so, lest of all her tired mother’s.

         – ☆     she was cautious as she watched his extended hand. almost subconsciously, her arms wrapped themselves tighter around her child. he showed no threat. in fact, considering the bumps, glares, and cold-shoulders she’s gotten in new york as of late, he might have been the kindest person to her so far - without even muttering a word. & in a place that seemed to lack compassion of any sort, especially one that she showed up to abruptly, that kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed. it was knowing that which convinced her to loosen the grip around her daughter’s frame. ❛ okay. ❜ if there were any possibility that SOMEONE had the ability to calm the younger one, she was going to take it. feeling nearly at her wit’s end, she angles her body downward, gently passing the sobbing child to him.

[drecms-blog]

     he’d been in central park for the better part of an hour, catching the last sunbeams of the day in smears of yellow and red across his canvas to clear his mind before the loud, exhausting night, when he stumbles across the young woman. there’s red on her body too, but not the kind found in paint tubes at craft stores ( and frankly, it’s a little frightening ). there’s her wants as well ( her desires and cravings and sensations that muddle together in a mass of tangled strings ), but they’re the kind of wishes made in anger and vengeance and fear. sandy pauses, before placing his supplies on the path, hands carefully outstretched towards the brunette ( there’s a barest almost invisible trail of gold as well ---not enough dreamsand to knock her out or even make her drowsy, but enough to take the edge off blinding panic ).

     a feral sounding snarl rips past laura’s lips as she hurries to her feet, eyes flashing a panicked red as teeth elongate into fangs. where is she? this isn’t the burnt out shell of the hale house and peter ( damned peter who she trusted ) is no where in sight. and she’s in one piece, body bloody and aching but not severed in two. the worst thing about being an alpha was that she was awake for so much of her death, body struggling to re-stitch itself every time peter hacked away at her with his claws. “where the fuck am i?”

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     ‘no, not at all’ says the toss of blonde hair as sandy shakes his head. the toe of a paint-splattered sneaker edges the chair opposite him out a little bit, hands wrapped serenely around his own mug of chamomile tea as he stares back at her. her eyes do not look so young this close ---like they’ve seen things and been through things that time may be able to heal skin over, but never obliterate. what these things are, sandy cannot tell, but it only serves to sharpen his desire to help the young woman.

there was something about him, an aura surrounding him that wanda could feel. so she happily waved back, before grabbing the coffee she had and started to walk in his direction. she stood next to the table he was at and smiled down at him. “ do you mind if i take a seat?? “ wanda asked politely with another smile. she could tell she was in the presence of a friend.

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     she’s seems young for a child ---like she’s still one of those that the guardians have vowed to protect--- but it’s no disgust that quirks deep in his stomach, only sympathy and prickling sand that yearns to break free in unicorns and manta rays ( and sandy realizes that he might not be here just for the child with loud lungs, but her mother as well ). he moves closer from his place just inside the door, slow and non-threatening, smile serene in the way sunsets over glassy lakes are. cities are weird, and strangers cannot be trusted --- such is the way society has been shaped by deceit, manipulation, and mistrust. calm, serenity, safety --- that’s what he projects onto the blonde mother, gaze flitting from her exhausted one to the babe on her hip. ‘may i?’ the words aren’t voiced as all his communications are silent, but it’s said again with an outstretched hand towards the wailing child, a gentle raise of brows, and a concerned glint in brown eyes.

       – ☆     his aura was calm. that’s what she noticed first. she didn’t always have a good read on people or situations but she could see that. sue was aware of how bad the scene might have looked. a child stuck in a play-pin screaming while their mother was in the bathroom. there’s a word for that: NEGLECT. ❛ come in. ❜ her obliged words were stated through a stressed sigh. shushing sounds blow through perked lips as she made her way toward her child, arms linking around the two year old’s small waist as she shifted the wight of her child on her hip. ❛ she’s usually not like this. ❜ yes she is. ❛ it’s a new place, new people. we’re trying to adapt. ❜ though ADAPTING seemed easier said than done as the cries continued.  ❛ right, toma? we’re trying to adapt. ❜

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     the things she calls for are more the kinds of figures that dwell in pitch’s domain of black sand and horrific images ( sandy is more candy canes and puppies and ice cream cones ) ---but is it really a nightmare if that is what she craves, what sweet dreams are to this child? either way, this blonde is the loudest thing around ---a mix of silver tiaras and sparkly dresses with an undertow of blood-drenched ambition--- and sandy has always taken to staring at the loudest thing around ( whether that’s on purpose or some uncontrollable reflex, is still to be determined ).

     breath shudders off of glossy lips in a semblance of a sigh. one sara berry is bored. there is no one who knows her here, and after prom night everything seems lame. she had won!!! she had won!!! and now nothing seems quite as exciting as the crunch-smash-scream of that night compacted into one sharp moment. she leans back against her palms and crosses her legs lazily. “i’m so boooored.” it’s a sing-song as her eyes roll towards the sky and she preens a pale strand away from her face.

[drecms-blog]

     he stares for a moment at the picture of a young woman, exhausted by things beyond her control and haunted by a past with too much blood and misunderstanding. it was the cries of the child that drew him here from his desk cluttered with half-used paint and scribble-doodles of fish and cupcakes, but not to give a reprimanding finger and an annoyed glare. ( sandy had never needed to sleep as the sandman, and now, it would seem that habit crossed into human flesh and blood ). no. it was the fact he could help, that he was still a guardian even if the man in the moon had squashed him into this human form, and guardians always looked over the children, the young and the weak. sandy gives a small shake of his head, corners of brown eyes crinkling kindly and an index finger crossing over sympathetically smiling lips in a shhh motion. ‘may i come in?’ asks the quirk of hands towards the doorway.

          – ☆    ;  her hands were pressed against the bathroom sink. her face moist with water as she attempted to strain her breathing. it was a panic attack she was climbing down from. waking up in a strange place filled with people she didn’t know had their effects. & to add on to it was the screeching cries of her daughter in the next room. her beautiful two year old daughter. the girl she’d give her soul to, if asked. the sound of someone approaching is what convinced her to finally open the door. ❛ i’m sorry. did she wake you? she’s just TIRED. i’m trying to get her to sleep but - ❜ i’m not sure how long i can handle this, i’m not doing anything right, how do you turn on the television? -none of it mattered. so she didn’t say any of it. ❛ i’m sorry. ❜

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     cafe’s are good hubs, good places to watch people ( to glean their desires to breath life into with golden sands and watch their movements to later translate them in paint and charcoal ). that’s why he’s staring at wanda, anyway ---because she’s still young and the loudest thing around, the brightest firefly in a dark night ( and there’s a darkness clinging to her, the kind that gives him shivers like pitch’s nightmares and clinging black sand ). there’s relief when she smiles back, and suddenly he has a hand quirking in a wave in her direction

@shesweiird ( x )

for a moment it is as if wanda is trapped within her own mind. then again, she usually is, if she is not trapped within those around her. she learned to not take these moments of peace for granted. for they were usually far and few between. though she feels the presence of someone else, and he is staring right at her. many people stared at her, that was a given after everything that had happened. though this wasn’t a judgmental or malicious stare. so, wanda happily smiled back

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     he nods because things get clearer still ---the muted way she seems to be a conduct for wishes, her odd statement and slightly off-kilter existence in the city that never sleeps. sandy doesn’t fully understand, but that’s what centuries of existing teaches one: you’ll never understand everything, and if you try, you’ll end up running in circles. brown eyes fix on her for a moment. she doesn’t ask questions about his still tongue, and sandy is thankful for that ( not that his muteness has ever made him speechless --- it’s a choice, and one that he lives by ). still, her accommodating hand --a pale, expanse almost parchment-white-- strikes him as a small surprise; most leave him hanging with pitiful stares as he inks out what he means to say. ‘sandy’ he writes on her palm in a rush of straight lines that run off into curly tails.

there’s a pause as she tries to decide what she can tell him, riley knows first hand how dangerous her situation is and there’s no way of knowing whether or not he’s trustworthy. though she wants to believe the best, he seems like someone she could trust. “i have some friends who live in america and i’ve talked to them about it.” it certainly wasn’t a lie, will and nomi both were american and her friends (although their relationship was definitely more complicated than that). there’s another pause as she quietly decides whether to tell him more-that she doesn’t even know how she got here but that’s decided to be a bad idea and suddenly she’s holding her hand out to him, palm up. “what’s your name?”

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     odd --- a knight from the middle ages would find the rice patties of china odd, a desert nomad could not even dream the oddity of a vast ocean, and anyone would find a time outside their own odd. but the way this girl calls to his dreamsand and teases it to conform into grins with no cats and top hats atop mad heads, makes sandy think she has seen odder thinks than an unexplained transportation. blonde head shakes in a slight ‘no,’ a finger coming to tap his temple.

“Quite a beautiful place, New York. Although, I can’t seem to remember how I ended up here. Isn’t that rather odd?”

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     it doesn’t necessarily get louder when pale fingertips touch the dark-inked words ( just letters nestled between red paint stains and a dozen other words too-faded by soap and water and doorknobs ), but maybe the mumblings of wishes and wants get a tad bit clearer. either way, his smile remains kind, head ducking in a manner of saying ‘your welcome.’ he wonders if anyone would have stopped had he not with his pen. it’s a pity, really, the way society has become this rush and go until the crash and burn; and it shows, in the dreams he gives, the paths made in sparkling dreamsand. it’s not that it’s a bad thing, just different. head cocks to one side, brows quirking in a questioning manner, perhaps asking where she is from or to elaborate on her vague, wishy-washy statement.

she tilts her head slightly when the boy pulls out the pen and watches as he scribbles the words on his palms. there’s a moment and she can’t really help herself as she reaches out and gently touches the words for just a moment before pulling her hand away from his and turning her grin to him. “i’ve never really been to america before.” there had been the visits with will but this was different and she knew that for sure. none of the other sensates were here, she was truly on her own for now. “thank you for stopping.”

[drecms-blog]

     she wants many things, sandy can feel them all drumming through his veins and urging dreamsand to prickle just under his skin ( ready to manifest into the things she wants ). but an image of a brother is not going to bring him back, not ever ( the fear, however...the fear is something that can be morphed like sand, and perhaps there is a kind dream to be bestowed on her in the future ). he’s been staring too long, brown eyes flecked with gold leveled at the brunette and her chipped nail-polish. he smiles --like that’s going to ease the creepiness level.

@shesweiird ( x )

[drecms-blog]

like for a small thing??? i’m probably, going to skedaddle now, but i’ll be up early to work on a thing for the paper i’m writing for!! so!!! give me things to do!! 

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     sandy looks up from where he’s been drawing out various zoo animals in golden ink, equally golden sand winding above his head like a halo of sorts. he doesn’t say anything --he never does in the most literal of senses-- but the sand lazily corrects itself into the form of a question mark, shoulders moving in a shrug.

“—how the hell am i supposed to conduct a private investigation business from my apartment if three other shitheads are living there? i don’t have enough whiskey for this.”

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     sandy’s not sure what makes him stop --- it’s not like the platinum-haired woman really fits with the adolescent thing, but she’s young and she’s loud in the way that resonates with the power inside him, golden sand and shimmering night air ( loud like the wishes and dreams that course through her veins are not solely her own ). he’s right, but he doesn’t know it yet. instead, it’s with a soft curl of lips and a hand fumbling in his pocket for a pen that he approaches the stranger bigger than her own body. ‘new york city’ he scribbles on the palm of his hand, the crowd parting around them like the river does a stubborn rock.

there’s definitely something wrong about being here. one moment she had been on the boat with will, trying to escape and the next she had been in this strange city. she spins in a slow circle as she looks for a glance of one of the other sensates, though it’s hard not to be distracted when she see’s how magnificent the city is. “it’s lovely.” there’s a small smile despite the pit of worry in her stomach. “what city is this?” she hopes one of the people rushing by will stop to answer her question.

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     he’d just wandered from the art studio, streaks of golds, reds, and oranges still pigmenting the tips of his fingers and collecting in his nailbeds. tea had been in order after that --- and a bagel too ( hunger was an odd thing that he hadn’t experienced in a long time ). brown eyes fix on the other, before lips quirk into a small smile and he slides into a seat.

“you’re allowed to sit with me, if you’d like… there aren’t that many chairs left. i promise i don’t  bite.”

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     the sandman is kind, especially when it comes to children ( it comes with the guardian job description, after all --- but sandy never needed any incentive to help those who wished ). but there isn’t much he can do here, daydreams are more fickle than the ones that dance through minds at slumber. the guardian still offers a kind smile, however, as he shakes his head in a gentle no, golden sand collecting in his palm in the form of an apple. you’re in new york city, that’s supposed to say.

“Um, h-have you seen anyone by the names Snot, Toshi, or Barry? I was just with them but I’m… not in Langley Falls anymore.” Steve said with a quivering voice. He had separation anxiety that kicked in when he wasn’t with his family or his friends. “I assume that I’m not even in Virginia.”