invalid & W1L 026: Write one leaf about looking at the sky.

In case anyone was interested in my medical history, I had my Tdap vaccination today (the day I'm writing this, which should be like ten days ago now). The nurse told me my arm would be sore for the next few days.

Add this to the fact that several days straight of zealous friendship bracelet-making has left me with tendonitis in both hands/wrists/arms, and we have an uncomfortable technology hiatus. (Why is technology so dependent on fully functional fingers? I have never been less than able-bodied in my life, and I was afraid I'd developed carpal tunnel syndrome judging by the tingling and shooting pains up both my arms and was trying to imagine life less my hands. It made me feel like a child or a very old person.

I suppose we leave this world the same way we enter it.

This post has become unexpectedly somber.

Have an outfit nearly identical to this recent one.)

Jacket: mother's, H&M. Ron Weasley t-shirt: gift. Skirt: secondhand, gift. Tights: generic. Shoes: Keds.

P. S. Happy birthday, Harry.



W1L 026: Write one leaf about looking at the sky.

PERSONAL CHALLENGE #9: Write in the style of someone whose writing you abhor.

This is a page long if you take out all the line breaks. To be fair, this isn't actually in the style of a particular someone whose writing I abhor, which was what I had originally intended. It's more like a combination of ambitious papers I've had to read for peer-editing, which is kind of cruel if you think about it. Using them for this prompt, I mean, not peer-editing. Although that is cruel, too.

While I was writing this, it was really interesting to me to see all the Very Good possibilities that each sentence could have grown into. It was also really interesting to see how painful it was to reject all those good possibilities and purposefully take wrong turns down dark paths of no salvation, and how all those wrong turns added up to make something that my mind keeps snagging on upon rereading.

Delicate pale skin set off by a pair of skimpy black Speedos. Expensive Gucci aviator sunglasses floating beside him on his inflatable pool bed. Cristobal didn’t need to wear them; the sun was nowhere to be found in the gloomy, colorless sky. He gave a melancholy sigh as he ran his fingers through his fine blond hair and stretched his back.

“Geraldo!” he called toward the house.

There was no reply.

“Geraldo!” he tried again, louder this time.

A beautiful slender boy, or perhaps a man, emerged from within the white house. His rich hazel eyes were large and innocent as a fawn, and his deeply tanned skin was in contrast to his robin-egg blue uniform polo shirt that all the staff wore.

“Cristobal sir?” he inquired with a light accent.

“Mangotini and tanning oil,” ordered Cristobal carelessly, without sparing him a glance.

Geraldo soon returned with the requested items and stood at the edge of the pool, waiting for Cristobal to drift over.

“Cristobal sir?” he hazarded.

“Bring them here,” Cristobal commanded. When Geraldo didn’t move, he rolled onto his stomach and rested his chin in his hands, demanding, “What are you waiting for? I don’t have all day.”

Geraldo shrugged to himself, took off his shirt and pants, carefully lowered himself into the pool, which wasn’t very deep, and waded over to Cristobal’s float, holding the bottle of tanning oil and the mangotini safely above the water.

“Thank you,” said Cristobal, taking the drink. “Just what I need to drown my sorrows in alcohol.”

Geraldo smiled at him with uncertainty.

“It’s such a terrible shame,” he continued. “Geraldo, I need my tanning oil,” he added offhandedly. “Here we are, surrounded by such decadence and wealth,” he gestured to the direction of the house, as Geraldo opened the bottle, “yet I can’t help but find that none of it is beautiful,” he explained.

Geraldo frowned, squeezing the oil onto his palms while saying softly, “Everything is beautiful, Cristobal sir.” He began rubbing the tanning oil onto Cristobal’s back, causing Cristobal to squirm.

“You know how ticklish I am, Geraldo!” he exclaimed.

“Sorry, sir,” replied Geraldo with a shy grin. “I should have remembered.” He bit his lip in concentration as he focused on his task.

Dark hands, from so much sun. A worker’s hands. And then there was his superior, his beautiful alabaster skin like a statue, glistening with golden oil.

“You said everything is beautiful, Geraldo, but I can’t see it. There is nothing here for me. The villa, the sumptuous feasts, the pretty girls – none of it makes me feel anything. Ever since I was a child, I’ve seen such sights and tasted such foods that should be luxuries to any other man, but I don’t find joy in any of it. I feel chained by my upbringing, Geraldo. I need to go far, far away from here. To Paris, where everything is beautiful!” he finished wistfully.

“Oh Cristobal sir, you don’t need to go to Paris to find beauty,” said Geraldo, shaking his head sadly.

“But we could go together! Run away together, can’t you just imagine it? You and I, wandering the streets of Paris! Poor, without a shirt on our backs, no money but for our hope and quest for beauty!”

Geraldo smiled to himself and slapped Cristobal gently on his thigh. Cristobal set his drink by his sunglasses before rolling over and settling his hands behind his head, as Geraldo spread the oil over his chest and flat stomach, watching it drip down his side.

“That is an idea,” Geraldo admitted. “But do you know what my grandmother always said to me?” he asked gently. “She was a very wise old woman.”

“No,” admitted Cristobal, twitching as he watched Geraldo’s nimble hands dancing across his ribs. “What did she say to you?”

Geraldo paused, placing his hands firmly over the Cristobal’s now-slippery hips, rubbing his thumbs in small circles over the muscles there, which angled downward in a V-shape. He lowered his head, looked up into Cristobal’s eyes, and whispered, so that his lips ghosted over the skin, “Everything is beautiful when you have someone with whom to share it.”

An interminable moment of stopped time. Hazel eyes locked intensely with blue, searching the face. Breaths held in unison. Heartbeats pounding.

“Geraldo!” came a cry from the house.

Geraldo jerked away in surprise as if he had been burned. Cristobal sent his mangotini flying. A tall slender woman in a bikini emerged from the house.

“Geraldo!” she repeated angrily. “If you’re finished with my brother here, it would be nice if someone would make me my drinks,” she suggested loudly.

“Of course,” came Geraldo’s meek reply as he hurriedly climbed out of the pool.

Cristobal watched Geraldo’s back as he reentered the house, dripping all the way. Then he looked up at the sky, just as a shaft of sunlight broke through the layer of clouds.
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