I wasn't going to do NaNoWriMo, this year...but now it looks like I am. Since I worked up a treatment for the script, the story has been pounding on my psyche and today I let it in. And found the voice. And started with this...
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On winter mornings, as snow drifted soft against our bedroom window, I would sing Dair awake.
"Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes would squint a bit tighter and my arms he would wrap closer to him, and sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other; other times, he would breathe in deep and content and murmur, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as mine or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven.
When I said he was strong, it was because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass. And he is brilliant with it. Dear God, how he could use pieces and slivers of translucent and transparent colors to tell stories as great as a novel by Tolstoy. No paint allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their final beauty. There were so many times I would see his latest piece completed and feel my heart swell with joy at how I was his and he was mine. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else. Had I known what would happen after I was taken from him I would never have let him come near me.
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"Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes would squint a bit tighter and my arms he would wrap closer to him, and sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other; other times, he would breathe in deep and content and murmur, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as mine or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven.
He was two years short of becoming thirty, but his face had creases brought about by years of smiles and laughter. I often told him they made him better-looking than I, and he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace, and I would know peace. Know he was my home. My world. My life. For the short time we were together nothing could have come between us.
When I said he was strong, it was because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass. And he is brilliant with it. Dear God, how he could use pieces and slivers of translucent and transparent colors to tell stories as great as a novel by Tolstoy. No paint allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their final beauty. There were so many times I would see his latest piece completed and feel my heart swell with joy at how I was his and he was mine. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else. Had I known what would happen after I was taken from him I would never have let him come near me.
My name was Adam Ferrier, once of Terrebonne by Montreal, living in Fairview, Washington at the time of my death. I was just past the age of twenty-six and working as a ski instructor at the winter resort owned by Dair’s mother, Marion, when I was caught by an avalanche. I remember not feeling fear as it crashed in upon me, only irritation. I did not know what had happened until I was dead.
You may wonder how it is possible for me to speak, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have found a conduit who has opened his will to me and lets me tell my story. It is nothing unusual; many writers talk of how their works find them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
You may wonder how it is possible for me to speak, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have found a conduit who has opened his will to me and lets me tell my story. It is nothing unusual; many writers talk of how their works find them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
And so ends my story...and is the beginning of Dair's...
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