Ainas Arts and Craziness (Damenstorm)

Aina Jawlotter
"No, no." I say, shaking my head. "I just dont know you. I know alot of people that come here." I shake my head again and pull out my sketchbook, which I flip through and pull a pencil from my hair. Of course, one is always there, which I think is odd, by some means. But, its good, since Im always carrying my sketchbook with me. I decide to focus on my hand, a quick but relativley complicated sketch to do. You have the fingernails, which are relativley hard to do. Well, at least he isnt glaring at me anymore.

Aina Jawlotter
"Wait!" I say. "Sorry, im just stuck in my own little crazy world. That involves art and insanity." I try to compose myself, pulling my sketchbook, but the hot chocolate just goes flying into the air, landing on the ground in a spiral of milk and chocolate powder. My boot catches the puddle, and I start to slip, my boots providing no help whatsoever. Stupid slickered bottoms! I finally give into the pile of steaming goo and fall onto the ground, the styrofoam cup protecting the sketchbook from most of the foul mess. My hair falls down and the glasses that usually are perched on my nose slip off, landing in a catastrophe of glass, withered pieces of pages, styrofoam, my jacket and steamed milk. Ugh.

"Sure." I say, looking around. "As long as its three things: Close, warm and seriously dry." I pull my arms around myself, feeling relief of not being in the coffee shop, where I was sure Mr. Uterphobian was mopping up the sticky mess, mumbling obsenities to himself. He was a scruffy man, a rebel type. I was convinced he was a former runaway, even. I pulled myself tighter. "Thanks." I replied. The day was still raining, so with all the strength I could muster, I threw the umbrella up in dispair, leaving it half open, half closed. It could be my day, could not be. It all depended on if the umbrella opened, and I wasnt drenched with rain.

Aina Jawlotter
His house looked almost... not that lived in. The televison was new looking, even though it was an older model. The counters were wiped clean, and the couch was stiff. Gage came down the stairs, weilding some clothes in the palm of his hands. "Thanks," I say, looking at them. I take them, looking around. "Bathroom?" I ask, looking around the living room area. Its a neat house, from what I can tell. I especially liked the staircase, a twisting mahogany thing that has beautiful carvings in it. I fingered the sweater, the wooleness making my fingers instantly warmer. "Oh, I see it." I walk down the hall and go into the bathroom, a small one, natually. I observe my face, the oddness that it is. I guess everything is decently sized, in place and is the right color. But there was something missing. I guess it was the poetry that some people held. Like my sister. She looked noble, regal. Like she should be pampered in the capitol. I looked almost plain, if it wasnt for my hair. If it were a few shades darker, I would be considered plain jane. Normal, very normal looking. I slipped into the clothes and came out, walking towards the living room.

Aina Jawlotter.
I look around the living room. "Erm thanks again. Is there anyplace I can put my clothes to dry?" The TV is showing a district three news cast, which usually is pretty boring. It says in firm letters "Woman dies after smoke poisoning" This wasnt an uncommon fate. If you lived near a factory, which was usually the lower class, if you let your door open more than an hour, and your indoor air purifyer wasnt working, it killed you instantly. Of course, this could never happen for people with more money, the people who were able to afford a small house at least a quarter of a mile away from the factories. My Father, who worked at a firework one, designing and setting up them, was strictly middle class. But, I guess both me and Adena inherited some type of creative gene from him: I was with my hands, and Adena was with her setting up of fireworks.
I tapped my fingers on my knee, a bad habit I had aquired from when I was a small child, waiting for my stepmother to come home. My story was that my mother died in childbirth, most likely from Smoke poisoning. My Father remarried when I was three, and I accepted my stepmother as my real mother. And she died when I was eleven. I had a half brother, who had little creative ability, but he was able to crunch numbers like nobody else. I smelled bread on the coffee table.
"And Ill leave after everythings dry, if you need me to." I say, picking at my cuticles, a former habit that usually resuraces every time I see something about smoke poisoning. I make a little choking noise, one of distress and sadness, or of just pure horror. Even though the middle and higher class lived away from the large factories, it was still terryfying to think I could pass dead on a sofa of someone I just met. "Gage, do you ever wonder on smoke poisoning?"

Aina Jawlotter
"Aina." I reply. "Aina Jawlotter. Wait, Aina Desiree Jawlotter," I add for emphisis. "I know, completly wierd name. I think jawlotter is some old term, like for a bluetooth. I think they had a model called the jawbone, and I heard that my fathers great great great great grandmother, Hannah, won the lottery the day she turned eighteen. So the name gradually changed to Jawlotter. Coined that term, which I think is clever." I look at my cuticle, which is now beggining to bleed again. I decide to go back to tapping fingers, which isnt as bad as picking cuticles.
I can see wind throwing raindrops at the windows, and the wind rushing in the trees. "Ah, what a wonderful day," I chime in my most fake cheery voice possible. "Isnt the weather the most wonderful, perhaps?" I say, asking a very very fake question.