justforspite: (Cate- Solitude)

Part One | Two | Three

It took a few days to set up the meeting with, who he was told, was the second most influential mob boss in Metropolis. Someone who, he was also told, hated Morgan Edge with every bone in his body. Bruno Mannheim. Lex wasn’t sure what to expect when he pulled into the Metropolis neighborhood of Suicide Slums. He’d never seen a tenement in his life much less driven through a neighborhood made up of them.
Phoenix Chapter 4 )

justforspite: (Cate- Solitude)

Part One | Two

Morgan didn’t come to shoot him. That was a good thing, right? He didn’t come at all before Clark closed his eyes that night so he really didn’t get an answer one way or another, but that was only a technicality he figured. He was still alive when Carmichael told him ‘goodnight’. That was enough to know that Lionel had struck up a lucrative deal with Morgan Edge; lucrative enough that Clark was now worth more alive than he was worth dead. That news should have made him happy. He considered that any other normal kid his age would be happy about knowing they weren’t going to be killed any time soon, but he wasn’t happy. Not at all. All this now meant was that he would be locked in this room for days, weeks, longer still, leaving only to go to the bathroom. He was a prisoner now and though the prison was five-star, it was still, undeniably, a prison.
Phoenix Chapter 3 )

justforspite: (Cate- Solitude)

Part One |

His dreams that night were loose, confused and distorted. He was holding onto his dad and then, somehow, they were soaring through the air. The atmosphere was damp and cool, wet splashes of a low flying cloud sprinkled his face. He flew so high with his father in his arms that he thought they would and could touch the moon. He took a chance and stared up to it. It was full, round and looked as if it were throbbing with a hidden unseen energy. The light coming from it was no longer reflected but projected, emanating from within the rocky and craggy holes of the dull grey surface to streak beacons across the sky in a multitude of directions. Then he heard a voice in the inky darkness . . .

“Morning Kal.” He recognized the speaker but the face was eluding his mind’s eye. He searched the sky and saw nothing. He looked into Jonathan’s eyes and shockingly, scarily, also saw absolutely nothing. Just a blank shroud of peach and suntanned skin. Faceless. No identity, no soul to see behind eyes that weren’t there. His father was a void and then suddenly his father vanished.

Then, he fell.

He was falling so hard and so fast that his fear gripped his heart and then let go.

Phoenix )
justforspite: (Cate- Solitude)

The Poem is “Sleepers” by Walt Whitman
Rated R


I wander all night in my vision,
Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping,
Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,
Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,
Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.

How solemn they look there, stretch'd and still,
How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.

He closes his eyes at night but cannot sleep. Does not. Will not. The nightmares seem more real than the pillow under his head. It is the pillow he distrusts. It’s the end of a journey that seemed to have no end. Can it be real that he’s here? Will he drift off only to wake in that place he left? A million thoughts pass through and a million things fade away. Soon the insomnia will become exhaustion and rest will steal him away to Tír na nÓg. Morgan told him of that place. It was a bedtime story. As if, strangely as if he cared. In the end he truly did believe the man cared. But only in the end. It was easy to trust Morgan. He didn’t have any other choice.

Their lives together, life together, was unusual. For Clark, most of everything in his life was unusual.

The wretched features of ennui’s, the white features of corpses,
     the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists,
The gash'd bodies on battle-fields, the insane in their strong-door'd rooms,
     the sacred idiots, the new-born emerging from gates,
     and the dying emerging from gates,
The night pervades them and infolds them.

He wakes, always, before the sun rises. His exhaustion can’t hold him under for very long. He sits up and looks around his dark room, his lids heavy over his eyes. The room had a magical ability to remain the same after so long. Nothing had changed. His parents had made sure of that. They’d held onto desperate irrational desires that proved true in the end. But only at the end. He pushes off the comforter and shivers. The room is icy cold. It’s the only way he can sleep anymore. The window is wide open and the cusp of Pisces looms near. He walks to the window, his feet bare, the chill biting at his toes. He leans over the edge of the worn wooden sill and looks over the blackish depths of his home, of his land. He has a piece of this earth that is his home. He has a piece, it’s his and he belongs here. It is these thoughts that keep him from total despair. Sinking his fingers in the snow keeps him from becoming overwhelmed. Even feeling the cold in his feet and the cough his nights like these are starting to produce helps. It’s not just his blood that makes him belong now. It’s the little things that keep him grounded. The cold, the cough, the shiver. All these things but most of all, the blood pumping from and to his heart was the main thing keeping him safe and sane and normal and unwanted. Who could have figured being unwanted was the one thing Clark Kent would ever deeply and sincerely desire?

Chapter 1 )

June 2009

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