Apr. 21st, 2015

ariad: (btvs // why does a man do what he mustn')
I'm in a classroom. Three or four brown-haired students sit one in front of the other in a row of desks. They're characters from The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater. I haven't read The Raven Cycle, but my friends have, so I know their names.

"That one's Blue," I say, indicating the second student, "because she's wearing a blue dress."

"So is that girl," somebody says. The girl behind Blue has braided hair, glasses, and a plaid blue dress.

"That's Gansey. She becomes a dude later in the series."

I deduce that the boy in the very front is Noah. I don't know enough characters from The Raven Cycle to identify the fourth.


I'm outside a chapel, holding a wooden rod from which is suspended several unhewn crystals of varying size. A believer has just come out of the chapel and asks the attending priest, "Why won't God speak to me?"

I feel like an impostor, with my gossamer cloak and veil—a weird goth hoping to summon a dragon in a house of God. But it's my turn, so I enter.

The chapel is small, decorated with clay pots and a single roughly crafted wooden cross. The windows run from ceiling to floor, but there's little to see besides clouds and blue; we're very high up, in a tower or a skycraft.

I stand before the cross and shake my prayer crystals. I don't think the dragon will come, but then it does.

It's huge—and beautiful, all white scales and orange accents. It bumps its face against the windows, and I stand frozen, whether by fear or by faith, keenly aware that if those windows should break, there is nothing between me and either the dragon or a very long fall. I use my height to estimate the size of its head. Five feet?


I'm in Gerard Way's apartment with Gerard Way. He's sitting on the couch, enthusing about social media, namely Instagram or Vine. I think to myself, "I should have taken an Instagram video of the dragon." Clint Eastwood is somewhere behind Gerard. I take a photo of them and joke about Clint Eastwood being a dragon. It's funny.

Gerard has a second bedroom filled with toys. Some are the kinds of tabletop models people painstakingly paint, kept in a glass case behind a twin bed. There may be toy trucks as well. I comment on the room. "IF YOU HAD A SPARE BEDROOM," says Gerard, "YOU WOULD FILL IT WITH TOYS, TOO." I inquire about the bed, and he offers it to me.

I'm holding a half-lemon and half-lime, both squeezed dry. I would like to throw them away, but I can't find Gerard's trash can. He waves vaguely toward the kitchen island. "It's right there somewhere." I'm already at the kitchen island, and I can't find it. Gerard is so unhelpful. I eventually throw the lemon and lime away in a bag that I'm not sure was for trash.


There's a comic convention at my house. A small one, like Image Expo or Alternative Press Expo. Creators and fans are gathered downstairs. I believe Gail Simone is in attendance. Some comics are announced, including one drawn by an artist group called ENGAGE. "Oh, I wanted to read that," I say, not really interested. As the announcements continue, I go upstairs to my bedroom. The great thing about conventions taking place in my house, I think, is that whenever I'm tired I can just go to my room. After recuperating on my bed awhile, I leave my room and run into some weird goths who've made it upstairs. One of them is possibly Tharja from Fire Emblem: Awakening. I close my bedroom door and hope they don't go inside.


ariad: (Default)
fred fred

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