Never, Neverland {Neverland plot}

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Rosetta
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Never, Neverland {Neverland plot} Feb 22, 2012 22:47:57 GMT -5

Post by Rosetta on Feb 22, 2012 22:47:57 GMT -5

Peter Herne

{4C7D7E}{7C7D4B}{527D4B}{5F7628}

If he could look into the future, Peter Herne would find what had caused him to go into District Five and leave with a little more than a story would be the hair on his chin. Dark red and longer than the ones he usually found, Peter spied it as he was peering into the dusty cracked mirror he kept in his bag. Hair on the chin was a rather usual occurrence for one of Peter's age, but rather than cause the usual effect: a straightened back, a superior smile and a saunter in one's step, it caused Peter's breath to catch in his throat and his heart to skip a beat. Quickly, his hands flew to his face and his dirty fingernails groped at the hair until, with a sharp prick, it had been yanked from his chin. His back relaxed, but, yet, Peter was still not satisfied. This wasn't the first time he'd found a hair.

It had started with a hair. A single hair on his chin. He'd plucked it, but like some disease, the hair had spread to under his arms, his legs, his chest and places he didn't even realize were possible to grow hair on. His voice was soon to follow. A horror it was to realize one day that his voice was slightly lower than it was the day before. The changes in his voice had been so slight, he didn't even notice it until one day when he tried to mimic the singing of the birds and heard his too-low voice crack, scaring the birds away. There were other changes too, but Peter would always blame the hair.

And he'd just found another one, only days after plucking and plucking all those others, once more sending him reeling towards the painful truth: he was growing up.

[/i] Growing up. The words were much too hideous for him to even say out loud. What had happened to the days when he could cause mischief and no one would think much of it, saying it was his age? What about those times when he could talk for hours without end and people were listen and nod along, never wishing him to be quiet? What had happened to those days when his chin was smooth and his voice matched with that of the birds'? Peter cast his eyes away from the mirror propped up against the truck of the tree he'd climbed and down towards the ground where his friends were playing some kind of game of catch with a pinecone. All boys were the exception of a tiny girl who called herself Tinkerbell, Peter envied them for their youth, their ability to retain it. Or perhaps they were just as secretive about the changes as Peter, hence the reason he was hidden among the green leaves and branches. The air was still cool, but it was warming up. The wind, though biting at times, no longer seemed to both Peter as it blew through his bright red hair. In fact, it calmed him, spreading over his skin and slowing his heart rate. He had to calm down. The hair was gone. He'd plucked it out.

Eyes travelling back towards the ground, Peter watched the pinecone fly threw the air in the forest clearing. They'd stopped in yet another clearing for the day, hidden amongst the tall trees that formed a canopy above their heads. The sun was low in the sky, marking the late afternoon, dying the clouds a soft pink in the otherwise serene blue. The wind wasn't slowing or dying, just soothing Peter's skin, cooler than a blanket, but still effective. His mind, before racing for an answer, an idea, a cure, found itself dangling over one idea. Why didn't he go play with them? Stop hiding himself and reveal his now clear chin. The pink clouds drifted lazily over head. And...and...perhaps when night fell... Glancing around the trunk, towards the rest of the forest, the tree tops waving at him in the breeze, Peter couldn't see the fence, but he knew it was there. He knew that there was a hole in that fence and he knew that beyond that hole was a house and he knew that in that house were words. Special words. Certain kinds of words that could fill a child's heart up and possibly save him from his curse. Make him feel like a kid again. Just for a little while.

A shout arose from the game below, soon followed by more shouts, an argument. Peter turned his attention back to them. He'd take Tinkerbell, his most faithful companion. They'd go under that fence and to that house and listen for those words, let them fill their heads, soft, warm and golden. And then, and only then, he'll be a child again, with a smooth, hairless chin and a voice that matched the birds'...

Stars winked at them as they crept through the streets. Charles had always told him that the stars were just fairy dust, thrown into the sky. "Get ahold of some fairy dust," Charles told him, "and you'll be able to fly." Now, Peter turned his eyes towards the glittering fairy dust, paying his respects to his brother, before looking away, the memories of his lost brother sending painful jabs through his heart. Houses were silent, but lit up as the two went past. Inside, families would be preparing for bed, their bellies warm and full with dinner. With a jolt, Peter Herne saw the house up ahead and hurried towards it. It was a modest thing, but quaint nonetheless. It was the kind of house Peter would want to live in if the forest wasn't an option. It was just...comfortable.

"This way," Peter whispered to Tinkerbell, tip-toeing around the back of the house. There, he glanced up towards the upstairs window, which was aglow with golden light, spilling out into the dark-blue night. The window, just as he hoped, was slightly open, conveniently above a patch of ivy, just strong enough for Peter to climb. With hesitation, he dug his fingers into the ivy and began to climb, feet catching into holds in the plant before he reached the window. Glancing inside, he found the nursery empty. But, he knew not for long. Hastily, Peter climbed inside and ducked behind the large bookcase in the room, his usual hide out to await the stories.

Although he knew otherwise, Peter hoped that the journey into the fantasy world of fairies, dragons, distressed maidens, heroes and castles would transform him. That it would smooth his chin once and for all, raise the octaves of his voice just a little higher and make him the person he once was, the person he longed to be forevermore, the person he knew he was at heart even if his body disagreed. A child.[/color][/size][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Feb 22, 2012 23:03:34 GMT -5 by Rosetta

^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

Never, Neverland {Neverland plot} Feb 24, 2012 18:27:50 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Feb 24, 2012 18:27:50 GMT -5

Because my dreams are
bursting at the seams.
<><><><><><><><><><>

I will not tell lies.

Five hundred lines. It must be some sort of new school record. I could tell that even Mother and Father were a bit thrown by that one, though an instant later their faces became redder than I'd ever seen them; Father's burned with the rage of a volcano ready to burst, and Mother's with the delicate blush of a rose on a beautiful summer day. Even when she's upset and embarrassed, she still looks pretty. They must had realized that I had been punished enough, though, when they heard what the teacher made me do. Five hundred lines. And for what? It wasn't even my fault. It had been a slushy, bleak, damp day outside, filled to the very brim from sunrise to noontime with horrible boredom. The younger children get antsy then, and they begged me and tugged on my colorful scarf until I just had to give in and tell them a story. Not even a bad one, this time. There was no killing. It was about a different land from this one where there was no Capitol, no Hunger Games, and no school. A happy story. But then the teacher found us and yanked me up by my hair so hard that tears pricked at the back of my eyes.

One line for every word she heard, which was somewhere in the high four hundreds. She just rounded up, then. Made the number nice and even for me. I will not tell lies. And of course, I could nothing but sit there and scratch out line after line while she towered over me, swooping down every time I missed even a single letter and forcing me to repeat the sentence out loud as a fair consequence for being human and making a mistake. And for every line I made, I imagined up a more and more wicked version of her. Her crooked nose turned into a long beak, her broken yellow nails into claws of cold, that horrid black and dress dress into onyx feathers, and those slanting glasses into glowing eyes made of rubies. Because I could do nothing to her in real life, I forced her through five hundred agonies in my mind- one for each torturous line. It was sort of interesting, actually. I had no idea I knew that many ways to hurt.

Upon arriving home, I got yet another scolding from my father, filled with you're better than this and you have to grow up eventually. And, as usual, it ended with me stating that maybe I don't want to grow up and no one can make me and fleeing up the chestnut stairs before the argument could continue. Now, standing in the hallway and feeling a bit lost ~~but perhaps you're supposed to feel lost because feeling lost means feeling young~~, my eyes sweep around tiredly. It's been a long day. I brighten, though, when I hear the voices of my brothers, though, remembering that I have a whole never villain and five hundred new stories to tell them. With each step I take down the hall, I hear I will not tell lies echoing in my mind. Permanently seared into my brain, most likely. But it's of no matter to me now. Now, I only wish to bring my brothers' imaginations alive with stories of lands that never existed and creatures far more beautiful than the Capitol's most elegant mutation.

I will admit that one of my few talents is storytelling. Not one that would lead me anywhere, as my father constantly reminds me, but a talent all the same, for I can pull dreams right out of the cotton candy clouds at sunset and weave their silver threads into an entirely new design that can take breathes away. And the look on the face of a child when I take straw and spin it into golden words makes everything worth it, because then I feel like a child again and nothing pleases me more than that feeling. I'd pull the stars right out of the heavens hold onto their burning forms for as long as it would take in order to achieve eternal youth, but not for the reason that everyone else does. I've told enough stories about great sailors fighting against raging waves the size of mountains in their vain attempts to find the fountain of youth in order to look healthy and young always and forever, but appearance does not concern me. No, I want to stay young forever and ever and ever so that my life remains forever drifting on a sea of shimmering fantasies and I'll never have to find out that all those fantasies are really just twisted truths and broken dreams.

And it is with these thoughts that I greet my brothers with warm smiles that are real now but will fade into something plastic when I age, promising them a new story as I will not tell lies whispers in the background. Herding them into the nursery with assurances that this tale will be just as fantastical as the others, I frown when I hit a wall of icy air. The window is open- I usually leave it ajar to let in fresh air, so the wind today must have blown it open. Those winter conditions have long since died down, though, and so I do not close it completely. After all, midnight will need that slight crack if it is to enter into the room and then our dreams tonight. I then glide back into the center of the room, pulling a raven mask off one of the many shelves of oddities around the room and holding it up to my face. "The beast that will haunt our tale tonight it none other than the wicked Lavena, a woman cursed into the form of a bird with the lines of schoolchildren scratched into her skin. You'd see the ink staining her if you only plucked a small area, for it is everywhere, dripping into her footprints when she sneaks through the forest in the depths of nighttime."

I sweep one of my arms out for emphasis in an attempt to replicate Lavena's pattern of flight, and instead feel the back of my hand smack into something that feels very delicate and expensive. I spin around and stare in horror as the vase shatters into a thousand pieces on the floor, hands cupping around my face and the mask dropping to the floor with a soft thump. My eyes widen and I back up I step before closing my eyes and groaning. "Oh, Father's going to kill me..." I sigh, lowering onto my hands and knees and beginning to pluck shards of pottery out of the floorboards. It would seem that Lavena has won yet again, for even now, away from her glinting eyes, I am suffering the consequences of going back on my word.

I will not tell lies.

[/color][/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Feb 26, 2012 15:37:36 GMT -5 by Stare

Kyalee
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Never, Neverland {Neverland plot} Feb 24, 2012 23:14:37 GMT -5

Post by Kyalee on Feb 24, 2012 23:14:37 GMT -5

And they lifted off, into the depths of nighttime, away from the bellows of the pirates. They flew into the fluorescent beams of moonlight, toward the North Star.
"Mr. Darling? Mr. Darling?!"
The teacher's voice lifted him out of his day dreaming abruptly. John knew as soon as the rough ruler hit his desk he would find himself sitting in the worn chairs outside the principal’s office in a matter of minutes. Dread crept through him, making his eyes frown slightly as he looked up hopefully to his teacher. She too, was crossing her eyebrows. Except her frown was hideous, and filled with ire.
"Mr. Darling! What are these?!"
John watched with anguish as the teacher rounded up his mess of papers. His papers, which were filled with his dreams, and Wendy's stories. Wendy's magnificent adventures, which he loved and longed for every time he heard the tintinnabulation of the school bell.

Any normal-thinking, mature teen would beg for mercy, maybe even crawl on their knees and kiss her foul feet. The problem was, he wasn't very mature, and usually didn't think normally. So he didn't beg for her mercy. Instead, like always, he screwed things up.
"Um... A fearless pirate?"
Wrong
At first John was alarmed, but then he imagined the teacher's now steaming crimson face to have two sanguineous horns to match. Two horns that would be crowned atop her head like a devil's halo. An idiotic grin was slapped on his face in result of these absurd thoughts.

5 minutes later, John was sitting in a chair in front of the office, just like he'd imagined. His head was hanging, and chair was uncomfortable as ever.
Miserable.
That was the only way to describe how he felt, utterly miserable. And he had nothing to do, but wait in anticipation for the beige wood door to open, and the nice, stupid voice to call his name. Just had to wait for the evil witch to yank him from his annoying chair, and take him to his doom.
And down to the gingerbread house the children went, to their dooms. To where the sweet smell of cupcakes could turn into venom in the heart, and ensnare a lost child. So the witch would pull them in, and bake their li-
"Mr. Darling? You may come in."
John had been daydreaming once again, and as the witch called out for him with her just-too-nice tone.

The next hours were lucky for John. The principle let him go, mostly because this had been his 5th visit since Monday. And another reason was because his sister had gotten in trouble today too. Once again, John was totally insensible, and actually was excited by this. Wendy's stories always seemed more vivid when she got in trouble, much more exciting and well... violent. He liked her pirate stories the best, stories of sword fighting, adventure, and bloodthirsty sea monsters. After his visit with the principle, he tried to keep his imagination levels down. It was hard, but he managed not to get in trouble for the rest of the day.

Going home was frightening. John was very nervous about how Wendy's punishment would go. So much that his hands were shaking as he walked into his room, and collapsed on the bed. He loved his sister, and his brother. It hurt him just as much as it hurt her when she was punished. But it didn't seem that bad, except for the 500 I will not lies. He trembled at the thought of it. But soon those were stopped by the sound of Wendy starting a story. Like always they went into the nursery, and like always the door seemed like a portal to a whole new world.

John was right; her stories were more vivid when she got in trouble. It was most likely based off her horrid teacher, and he loved it. Except for when the vase fell, and so did her spell that kept his imagination flowing anew. It crashed to the ground violently.
Wendy's goanna be dead....
Oh yes, father would definitely be outraged. John immediately helped her pick up the jagged shards, pitying her exceedingly.
"Oh Wendy... Lavena has struck."
He shook his head.
"Do you want me to take the blame?"
He really thought poor Wendy had been cursed enough. More than Lavena even. 500 sentences.... That must be a record of some kind.

Last Edit: Feb 25, 2012 15:22:21 GMT -5 by Kyalee