Bright White Hope And Blue Yonder Dreams - By Kate

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 15 Jan 2002 05:17:18 GMT

Note: Oh my...I can't believe this is the last entry for this round of the Pulp-fic-a-thon. Just to let you guys know, I'm going to be taking a bit of a break from writing the story. It's been a crazy ride up to this point and I need to take a few days to read what I've written, edit and see where the story is going. I'll probably post the edit installments the way I had originally intended, just to make for easier reading. Thanks so much to everyone who gave me feedback. Y'all rock. :)

* * *

Vivian caught up with her friend later, and they caught the subway to the Hammerstein Ballroom. Mid-morning, the train was only half-full, and they were able to get a seat across from each other on the lumbering silver bullet.

A young man with a pink Mohawk winked at her from behind his ghetto blaster, pressed up against his ear and playing acid jazz softly in the background. His female friend stirred from a catnap, licking at a bottom lip adorned with numerous piercings, along the delicate flesh. Vivian pretended that she didn't see the wink.

Behind them sat an elderly couple. The man, wearing a felt bolero hat and tweed overcoat, hugged his companion closer around the shoulders, pressing his lips against the woman's carefully coifed silver mane. The woman smiled at him like she had been smiling like that forever.

"Honey, come on. Please sit still just for a few minutes. We're almost there."

Vivian turned her attention to the mother, struggling with bags of groceries, keeping a tight grip on her little girl's hand. In one hand, the little girl held an orange lolly. In the other, a fistful of blue-black curls sourced from underneath the hood of her bright yellow slicker. She removed the sucker from her mouth with a loud pop, offering Viva the confection with outstretched arms. Viva smiled and shook her head no.

That was a big part of what she liked about the city.

"So, did you talk to him?" her friend asked across the car. Vivian wanted to laugh at the conspiracy behind her friend's voice.

"Nah?didn't get a chance to. He's always got those girls around him."

"Please," Her friend rolled her eyes. "Can we not insult our own gender today. Those?things?aren't 'girls.' They're silicone-implanted, tummy-tucked, bleach-head wannabes who are drawn to your boy by sheer animal instinct."

Vivian laughed out loud. "Right."

katiebae@yahoo.com — Mon, 14 Jan 2002 05:24:30 GMT

"Wait," her friend said.

Vivian released the breath she didn't even know she was holding. "What? Don't tell me you're going to back out on me now." She said the words with such biting urgency, her friend's eyes widened.

"Not for the world, chica," her friend said, laughing a little. "I just think it might look less suspicious if we didn't go in together."

"Right."

"Look. I'll go over to the powder room there and primp. You go in first."

Vivian nodded and watched her friend walk down the plush hallway. Vivian chuckled when she saw her friend spit her chewed gum onto her palm and stick it on the leaf of a potted plant.

When her friend disappeared into the ladies room, she turned back to the door. Taking a deep breath, Vivian opened it.

* * *

Her ears registered the excited chattering of the crowd around her, but her mind didn't. She had focused on him, sitting at a table in the corner of the room, looking more golden and alive than she thought possible. Vivian grabbed a plate from the buffet table and piled it with food - runny, yellow eggs, pancakes, bacon, and hash browns. She had no intention of eating it, just a ploy to look like she belonged there. She chose a table so she could watch, her view of him uninterrupted, save the gaggle of girly girls never more than a foot radius away from him.

Oblivious to everything and everyone else, she was close enough to hear their conversation - the delighted giggles and pleasantly sickening squeals. It didn't matter what Zac was talking about or doing, they seemed to approve of everything, regardless if he was talking about the last movie he saw or blowing bubbles into his orange juice or burping the alphabet. She cringed at the display of unabashed, undeserved adoration.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sun, 13 Jan 2002 07:36:48 GMT

Viva and her friend exchanged a look when they spotted the two-dozen girls already parked on the steps of the hotel. They stood behind them for a minute, and Vivian watched their open faces and excited chatter, so full of collective hope and promise. She was beyond hope and promise. She wanted more. She wanted contact. She wanted memory. She wanted action.

Jim, the doorman spotted them, and waved them up the steps, much to the shock and chagrin of the other girls around them.

"Hey, Jim."

"Hey-lo, Lady Viva. How are you this fine morning?" he asked, tipping his hat. Jim opened the door for them.

"Good, thanks. Yourself?"

"Not a bad day." Jim turned his eyes up to the gray sky, sniffing the air a little. "Smells like snow, though."

It had taken a while, probably twenty trips to the Trump and almost as many courtesy runs to Starbucks for them to earn Jim's trust. The fifty-dollar bill that Viva had snuck into Jim's pocket hadn't hurt either.

"You ladies need to head straight down to hall to the left of the front desk. The private breakfast room is the 4th door on the right," he said quietly, looking around to make sure no one heard save Vivian and her friend.

"Thanks a bunch. You're the best, buddy."

"My pleasure." He grinned, patting his front coat pocket.

Vivian walked through the lobby; head high, regal like a Nubian princess addressing her court. She had to make everyone believe she belonged there, even the front desk clerks and guests who threw her wary glances, ranging from mild surprise to overt mistrust. If they believed, maybe she would start believing it too.

Vivian and her friend arrived at the so-called "breakfast room," unmarked save a sign that read "PRIVATE" in threatening bold, black letters. Vivian put her hand on the knob.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sun, 13 Jan 2002 07:18:30 GMT

Vivian's boots clicked against the tiled subway stairs. She tugged off her sunglasses and hooked them on her shirt, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights for the friend she was supposed to meet at the station. She spotted her leaning up against the pole with labeled "2", circled in yellow.

"Hey."

"Hey, Viva. How's it?" her friend's greeting was cut off by the squealing roar of the train against the tracks.

"I'm cool. You?" she replied when the train came to a stop.

"Good. I can't believe we're finally going," her friend commented, voice dripping with the same warmth she was feeling in her gut.

"About time."

They didn't talk until the number 2 train pulled up to the station, the warmth of whooshing air lifting the hem of her duster. The moving air brought the dank and tepid smell rising to her nose, and she cringed. These dark tunnels held dirty secrets.

They got on the second car, narrowly missing getting caught in the closing doors. Vivian held her friend's arm and spread her legs, expertly balancing herself. The rush hour crowd pressed on all sides, each person keeping their heads down, trying to maintain some sense of personal space, regardless of being stuffed like sardines in this moving tin can.

They got off at Columbus Circle walked up the stairs to the Trump Tower. Vivian clutched at the collar of her duster, pulling it closed around her. She always felt hyper self-aware in these parts. The city was her stomping ground. She knew almost every corner like the back of her hand. It had been her glass and concrete playground since birth. Except on the West Side, where the animals were the briefcase carrying, suit-wearing, high-heel-clicking, cell-phone-talking variety, wandering this part of the urban jungle, with a greater purpose only they knew the importance of.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2002 23:33:35 GMT

The Groupie: Vivian Marie Mattera

Clank against the sink, echoing around the mildewed bathroom tile. Kohl eyeliner. Charcoal mascara. Fake lashes thick as raven's wings. Smooth, ruby red lipstick. Matching, crimson lip liner. White powder.

She colored her face every morning the same way. And she did it again this morning. But wasn't an ordinary morning.

She could feel it in her fragile, bird-like bones - a tingling, a warmth, a buzzing. It would happen today. She knew. She hoped.

Her mother always called her witchy - an old soul that could sense and know things beyond the mortal world. She wished for the thousandth time that she really was supernatural, super-sensed with the ability to predict the future. Maybe then, this buzzing anticipation, however sweet it felt, would be eased just a little.

She brought the mascara wand up to her eyes with shaking fingers. She bit her lower lip and grabbed her wrist, frustrated and struggling to focus on the simple task of applying makeup. The bristly wand glided across the lush black hairs of her lashes, some part of the falsies, the rest her own. The crown of ebony and the framed kohl eyeliner around her lids made the whites of her eyes stark, the gray of her pupils silvery.

She smiled at her reflection, but the smile faded quickly. Happiness didn't look right on that painted face, even the fake kind. The brooding, almost mysterious scowl she gave the mirror suited it better. Though that was fake too.

Satisfied, she grabbed her long, black duster from the chair in the corner, slipping her arms through the lacey sleeves, black combat boots thudding against the hardwood stairs. She could hear the TV on in the living room and the faint snorting of her stepfather sleeping on the couch. She heaved a heavy sigh of relief, ecstatic that she wouldn't have to deal with his suspicious looks and probing questions.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2002 05:00:22 GMT

"Please, just kiss me." He said the words with as much conviction as an incantation, like they would magically change her mind.

"Isaac..." He caught the slight, almost imperceptible jerk of her pretty head, shaking negative, the way her brows furrowed and straightened almost immediately.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing himself to squeeze affectionately, rather than shake the sense into her, like he really wanted to. "Please, Fi..."

She kissed him, cold, controlled, lips unmoving - not quivering with passion, not wet, soft and sensuous, not pressed lovingly, brimming with affection. He was already kissing a stranger.

He backed off, struggling not to recoil, to regain control of himself. He felt like he was falling, breaking apart, shattering into a million pieces. Her face changed. The straight line of her lips, the creases on her forehead, all softening and turning down. She tilted her head to the side, the conviction on her face slowly transforming to pity. He could read her thoughts. "I told you so," he heard in his head, full of contempt, completely empty of any love that he once heard in her voice. He turned away.

He placed his hands on the counter, studying the dingy, yellow patterns, watching them swim together, come apart and focus. The action steadied him a little, but not enough. He could see her reflection in the mirror, a blurry nebulous. But he focused on his own face, the high cheekbones, set jaw, trembling lower lip, the troubled slits of brown eyes. This is what he looked like without her.

He couldn't fathom this reality that had suddenly descended on him. This whole thing was planned, inevitable. His thoughts raced through the day, looking for signs in his memory. All the little touches, all the shared kisses, kind words, they had all inexorably led towards this - this reality where Fiona was dumping him. And he hadn't seen any of it.

She always did keep him guessing.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2002 04:59:50 GMT

Right before he was supposed to step on stage, he went to look for her. He wanted to see her, needed to hold her hand or kiss her candy lips before he appeared behind the curtain to give away a part of his soul.

He found her in the dressing room. She was sitting on one of her suitcases, the telltale bulge an indication that it was packed full of her hippie clothes and girly things. At her feet was her garment bag, the one passed down from her mother. Tattered and torn, bright sunflowers dirtied by age covering the thick fabric, Fi would've rescued that thing from a burning building.

"Hey, babe. I'm just about to go on." He breezed into the room, arms open wide, ready to take her up and drink her in.

"I know, but we have to talk."

He stopped, looked at her face. He didn't like the tone behind those words, the finality of them, the dread.

"You're leaving."

"I'm not going to Boston with you."

"Why?" He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded, not at all how his limbs or his head or his heart felt.

"It's...it's just time. I can't stay here."

"We're leaving right after the show."

"No, Isaac. I mean I can't stay with you. I'm staying in the city. You're going to Boston without me." She was talking to him like she would a child, explaining like she would explain why the sky is blue to his baby sister.

"But I love you." He said it so plainly, like it would be explanation and reason for everything. It should've been.

"I know, Isaac. And I care about you too."

"But you don't love me."

She ignored the last part. She wasn't brave enough to confirm or deny it, even though they both knew the truth. Saying the words would make it that much harder.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2002 04:59:19 GMT

* * *

His fingers glided over the fret board as easily as silk across smooth skin. Familiar, rhythmic notes filled the rehearsal room as Isaac played the usual set of scales and arpeggios to warm up his hands. Back to basics.

The door flew open, and Taylor breezed inside, taking off his coat and throwing it on a stool in the corner of the room. He ran his fingers over his flaxen locks, releasing a fall of glittering snowflakes onto his shoulders. His nose and ears were blushed from the wind; as if he'd run all the way back from where he came from.

"Where were you?"

"Just out having coffee." There was more to that answer, but Taylor wasn't talking.

"Well, you're late."

"I'm always late."

Isaac raised one eyebrow, quizzically. "Just out having coffee?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with having coffee?" Taylor replied, a little too innocently.

"Absolutely nothing." He pushed the lingering suspicion away and decided to concentrate on the show. Taylor would tell him. He always did.

Zac joined them a minute later, and they sat down to hash out the set list. Through it all, one lingering thought remained with him. With every song, he wondered what Fiona would think. For the acoustic set, 'Love Song' definitely has to be first. It's her favorite. And didn't she mention last night that she missed hearing 'I Don't Know'? Eh, we don't play that very often, but we should since she likes it. Yeah, we'll add that in for a nice treat for her and the fans.

It was an unconscious habit, the desire to please her ingrained, carved out a large chunk of his soul. He couldn't even remember a time when each waking desire didn't somehow involve her.

* * *

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2002 04:24:20 GMT

"Okay, girls. Ready to brave the crowd?" He gripped both of their hands tighter.

"The world for mint chocolate chip," Avery said, a determined look on her pixie face.

Isaac and Fiona laughed.

Jim the doorman smiled at them as he opened the glass doors. The reception was pretty calm, just an excited chattering and the fumbling for CD inserts, pens and cameras. "Mornin' folks. Need a cab this today?" Jim raised his voice over the clamor.

"Yes, Jim. Thank you."

He quickly hailed a taxi and held the door open for Fiona and then Avery to get in. Isaac closed the door and leaned into the window, patting his sister's hand. "I'm just going to talk to the fans for a second," he said and looked inside, waiting for Fiona's approval. She nodded solemnly.

He turned away from the taxi and smiled at the crowd, met with the flickering flashes of a half dozen cameras. The din heightened a little - excited and pleased noises.

"How are you guys doing? Cold out here?" he asked no one in particular.

"Hell yeah," one of the girls answered, handing him a pen and something to sign. They all laughed. No, giggled. Nervous schoolgirl giggling, their breaths billowing white against the chilled wind.

"Who's that with you, Isaac?" He was busy signing a CD insert and didn't see who asked the question. But when he looked up, he saw twenty expectant faces, all eagerly anticipating his answer.

"That's my sister Avery and our friend Fiona."

"Is Fiona your girlfriend?" The question seemed to resonate with all of them, holding it inside their mouths like a sweet confection.

"Fiona's my best friend." The absolute truth.

He handed back the last piece of paper and turned back to the taxi. Avery scooted over to let him in. He looked across his little sister's lap and found Fi's hand. "Ready?"

She smiled at him, but her eyes were sad, rippling like aqua water.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Mon, 07 Jan 2002 17:13:42 GMT

Her knees were drawn up to her chin, and she was staring out into nothing, or maybe watching a movie of memories in her mind's eye. She was startled when he touched her. Avery looked up at him, offering a small smile. "Hey, Ike," she said quietly.

"What's up, baby girl?" he asked, drawing her in for a hug. She wrapped her arms around his waist, tighter than usual.

"Nothing much," she whispered.

Fi looked on for a second, meeting Isaac's concerned expression. He frowned helplessly. Fiona sat down on the other side of the chair, rubbing Avery's back. "You know, I kind of feel like having some ice cream. What do you say, big brother Ike? You going to be nice and take out your girlfriend and favorite little sister for a treat?" Her eyes sparkled.

Avery brightened considerably, looking up at him with an expectant gaze. He smiled at both of them. He loved her. Loved that she knew exactly what to say when he didn't. Loved the she could complete him like that. Loved that she could care for his family with the same unabashed, unconditional love that he did. How could he ever deny either of their hearts' desires?

* * *

Bundled up and ready to battle the icy winds of the city outside, Isaac held Fiona's hand in his right and Avery's in his left. He laughed as Avery swung his arm up and down, just like she did when she was an energized little tyke. She stopped swinging when they approached the lobby doors.

"How are they out there, Fi?"

"They were alright. Seems like a calm crowd," she replied.

"Why can't they just stay at home for once?" Avery let out an exasperated sigh.

"It's because your brothers are so handsome and talented, Avie. They can't resist," Fiona said, squeezing Isaac's hand. Avery looked across her brother's body, raising her eyebrows and giving Fi a comically skeptical look. Isaac chuckled.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sun, 06 Jan 2002 06:00:49 GMT

She saw him sitting on the couch and smiled, just a little one, but enough to warm his insides. She approached him.

"Come here, angel," he said, a nickname appropriate on so many levels. He'd even found her in the city that was supposedly full of them.

He took her wrist and tugged her onto his lap. He always had to be touching her. Most of the time, holding her hand was enough. But sometimes, he wanted to melt into her, absorb her into him, wear her like a second skin.

She stiffened at first, whining to be released. He wouldn't let her go. She was all jittery and unsettled. He could never get her to stay in one place, like a fluttering butterfly eager to explore the next flower. She finally settled into him, shoulder against his chest, her hair tickling his neck.

"Hey, why so clingy today?" she asked, touching her nose to his, pale aqua eyes sparkling like water.

He shrugged. "No reason."

She frowned a little, but it disappeared quickly, replaced by that enigmatic little smile. Sometimes, he wanted to get into her thoughts too.

Fiona turned her attention away from him, distracted by the familiar din of the gathering. He followed her gaze and saw his little sister Avery quiet and sitting by herself, a highly unusual occurrence. The image of Avery as a little toddler came back to him, always smiling and giggling at his older brothers' silliest efforts to make her do so and never more than a foot away from her favorite older brother, Tay-bear. He turned back to Fiona and exchanged knowing glances.

Fiona untangled herself from him and cautiously crossed the room. He followed close behind.

Isaac balanced herself on the arm of Avery's chair, bravely venturing to touch his little sister's shoulder.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sun, 06 Jan 2002 05:10:08 GMT

NOTE: I did some rearranging of Isaac's part so that it makes more sense. Check back from Thursday's entry forward. That's where I made some changes. :) Posting new stuff in a bit.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sat, 05 Jan 2002 04:15:06 GMT

She had put her feet in the fountain, despite Isaac's worried glances and fervent protests. She had laughed, her pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners, because the jets tickled her toes. She had bent down and stolen the pennies from the bottom, the ends of her hair dipping into the water and coming up dripping.

He laughed, accusing her of stealing people's wishes. But later when she gave the pennies to a homeless man huddled on the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard, she gave him the curt reply, "He needs wishes more than those people throwing their money into a fountain."

That was the exact moment he had fallen in love with her.

It wasn't much later when he told her, in the quiet of her tiny townhouse in the Valley, the only sound save their voices and the distant wail of sirens in the city.

Tangled in an afghan, the carpet had been rough against his naked back, but the discomfort was small against the lingering buzz of pleasure in his limbs. She was draped over him, her breath tickling his collarbone, fingers dancing along the hairs of his upper arms, the shape of her fitted to him like a missing puzzle piece newly discovered and revered.

A slow smile had stretched across the straight lines of her face. She kissed him on the nose and said, "I love that you aren't afraid to tell me that."

* * *
Isaac watched his family and the crew milling around the break room - his youngest brother in the corner getting his daily reading lesson from Mom, Dad fiddling with at least parts of three different digital gadgets, Matt and Jason from the backup band grabbing some sandwiches for lunch, and Zac surrounded by half a dozen girls. The reality that Taylor was not anywhere in sight registered briefly in his brain but left, as fleeting as a breath, when she came into the room.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Fri, 04 Jan 2002 03:50:48 GMT

That day, she had worn it down, white waterfall glinting yellow in the stage lights.

He couldn't remember what poem she read or what it was about. All he could concentrate on was her soft lilting angel voice, how she read the poem, not just with her words, but with her expression, with the dance of her hands.

After the reading, she had laughed at him when he asked for autograph. He was perfectly serious. She was the star. She'd given him her phone number instead, and whispered her name in his ear. Fiona. He still carried that piece of paper in his wallet with him.

He remembered their first date. They met at Griffith Observatory on an ordinary Monday. Fiona had insisted on meeting at eleven in the evening because it didn't get completely dark until late into a summer night in southern California.

He remembered walking across the cool grass, the leaves tickling the sides of his feet, the balmy air, cooling the sweat on his neck. He remembered how she looked leaning against a burnt-out, oil black light post, staring up at the sky, oblivious of everything but the stars above.

They snuck into the building with the big silver telescope, Fiona climbing through a window in her long, floral print skirt. She had wanted to look through it because that cylindrical up-close glimpse at the sky made her feel like she was closer to heaven.

Afterwards, they went for a long walk in the park. At Mullholland Memorial Fountain, she sat on the edge, running her fingers through the water, tinted like weak red Kool-Aid from the lights on the bottom. Her hair had taken on the same blushing hue, pink light zipping through the white-blonde strands. She looked like a pink fairy, coming out of her woodland home to play. All she was missing was the wings.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Wed, 02 Jan 2002 16:57:25 GMT

They had been taking a break from recording. Just a couple of days off to regroup, refocus and reenergize. The tension had twisted taut to the point where Isaac had felt like he would snap. Recording brought out the best and the worse out of his relationship with his brothers. They all wanted that unattainable thing called the Perfect Song. Their opinions just differed in how they were going to get there. At that point, their arguing had become constant, an incessant string of bickering fights that was beginning to hinder the creative process.

Isaac had reluctantly agreed to meet Randy and Anita at Bookworm for a poetry reading. It wasn't something he would have done of his own free will, but Anita's eye bats and little-girl pout always seemed to make him say yes to whatever she asked of him.

He had entered the smoke-filled dive, an unlikely establishment to be hosting a poetry reading.

He had fully expected to be bored to tears. He kept reminding himself that he was there to spend quality time with two good friends. And it was like that for a little while.

Before long, Anita and Randy were turned towards each other, heads bent together, sharing secret looks and quiet whispers like only lovers do. He had begun to regret coming at all, wishing he could be home with his guitar or even in the studio again, fighting with Taylor.

Until she stepped on stage.

Flower child incarnate. Long, long blonde hair, whiter than Zac's when he was a baby, fringe of straight bangs across her forehead. She wore it different every day, parted in the middle, ponytail flipping in the wind, pleated braids or when she was feeling adventurous, a twisted up do that seemed to defy gravity. That's what he loved the most about her. She was unpredictable, and she always kept him guessing.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Wed, 02 Jan 2002 16:54:56 GMT

The Romantic: Clark Isaac Hanson
The fingering massage of water pelting on his back was soothing and refreshing enough to whisk away the last traces of sleep from his tired body. The water seemed to wash away the daily grind of sleeping little, then waking at the crack of dawn.

Was it worth it? The cycle of waking up in a strange bed, having to remember what city he was in and endless keys to different hotel rooms. Sometimes, he didn't think so. When the press asked the same broken record of questions, all with a fake smile. When he had to turn off the sibling relationship and his brothers become just band mates and business partners. For the good of the band. When he was so drained from the travel, from the monotony, he could barely move.

But he just had to remember the other part. The part that included playing his hopes and dreams on a guitar, living it all out with his two best friends and shaking the hands of the people that listened to them.

Isaac stepped out of the shower to dry off, renewed and rejuvenated in body and spirit. Dripping puddles onto the cold tile, he swiped a hand across the condensation, streaking the murk clear against the glass. He studied his reflection; blonde curls trickling onto golden-tan shoulders, clear-eyed and rested, slight shadow of overnight fuzz on his jaw.

He found his shaving kit and struggled to find an empty space on the counter, free of the plethora of girl stuff that had found temporary residence there. He liked seeing her things, smelling the scent of her lotions and body wash and shampoo, the glitter of eye shadow she wore, the frilly flowery things, reminders of her presence, the millions of reasons why he was so lucky to have found her.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Tue, 01 Jan 2002 01:15:50 GMT

"Hi," she said, quiet as a mouse.

Almost automatically, his demeanor changed. Robotic. He could put on the charm without blinking -survival at its best. He smiled at her, softening his face. "Hi there. Nice to meet you." He shook her hand. He hoped she wouldn't notice that it had started shaking again.

Screams tidaled from around the corner, and Taylor cringed. The girl was forgotten for a second, as he turned his attention to the sound, as the flashing of a hundred of cameras strobed in the fading light. The initial burst died down, and he came back into himself, sensing her eyes on him.

"You have no idea, do you?" she asked.

Confused, he turned back to her. She wasn't overly pretty. Chestnut brown hair draped over her shoulders. Small body. Plain face. But there was something behind the eyes, emerald green like Caribbean water.

"You don't know how much you mean to them. You touch them so deeply. And all you have to do it sing." He stared at her, marveled at her words, wondered if they were rehearsed somehow, the result of a thousand nights thinking of the right thing to say. She looked down at her shoes, looked up, blinked a green waterfall and titled her head to the side. No. Sincerity.

Taylor swallowed thickly. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Audrey."

"Audrey," he echoed. He liked it. He liked the way it curled on his tongue like honey. "Beautiful name."

His smile grew wider when she blushed. Women are so much more beautiful when they don't know they are.

"Thank you," she said.

It would be so easy to take her, to find out if that mouse-brown hair felt like it looked or if it was actually more like silk - thick ropes of smoothness draped across his chest. But he wouldn't.

"So, Audrey with the beautiful name. Do you want to get a coffee with me?"

She stared at him, bug-eyed, only a split-second hesitation though. "Sure. But don't you have a show to do?" She looked at the door like it was going to open and swallow him inside.

"The show can wait. They can't play without the keyboardist, you know?" He winked. The real world was more important.

Sitting at the non-descript coffee shop across the street, they watched the fans and made fun of them. They talked about other things too - about nothing and everything. One coffee and a thousand gentle words to remind him what he was doing, why this is supposed to be fun. And for half an hour, Taylor felt real. Not a product, not a concept, not a third of a whole, but just like him. Like a boy, almost a man, talking to a girl, almost a woman, whom he barely knew, but who knew him better than himself.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Mon, 31 Dec 2001 02:57:56 GMT

About two blocks away from the venue, they sat at the same intersection for about ten minutes before Taylor decided to get out. The traffic had been backed up by fans arriving - people looking for parking or worried moms and dads dropping of their beloved daughters to see the show. Trudging back to the venue, he was glad for the delay. It meant he could sneak in the back, rather than be dropped off amongst the throng of excited girls.

He started to run in the last block. He had started to feel that bubbling panic again. Running meant he'd get there faster, less time to think about ditching all obligation. He didn't wait for the light to turn when he crossed the street. A black BMV honked at him, barely missing his hip with the bumper as he flew past.

"Fucking asshole!" he yelled in true New York style.

He ducked his head down deeper into the collar of his wool coat. He hadn't meant to draw any attention to himself, and here he was cursing at the top of his lungs. Hurrying to the back of the building, he spotted the unmarked stage door that security had so kindly pointed out. He drew his hand out from inside his warm pocket and placed it on the knob. It began to shake. He took three cleansing breaths, but nothing could make him open the door to go inside. He turned around panting, pressing his back against the cool wood. He closed his eyes.

Just one. One won't hurt. One to ease the pain, to give him energy for the show. Yeah. That's it. Good justification.

Little square packet of white powder, hidden in his inside coat pocket. Razor, glinting against the pale waning light. The delicate action of forming three even rows - comet trails of white rush. Suck it back. Take it in. Feel it burn. His hands weren't shaking anymore.

Faint crush of paper. Too close. Too dangerously close.

He whirled around and swiped his sleeves against the three rows of fairy powder. He sucked in a ragged breath, trying not to think about the fifty-dollar hit that just disappeared into a cloud of fine, iridescent dust.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Sat, 29 Dec 2001 23:37:39 GMT

He ignored the strange, uncomfortable glances offered to him by the visitors passing by. He reverently stared up at the statue, unmoving and vigilant. As time passed, obligation began to rear its ugly head, and he knew he had to go back.

Resigned to his duty, he stood, brushing his jeans off with shaking fingers. He willed himself to calm, despite the bubbling panic returning to his chest. A million plausible excuses for not returning swirled in his mind, but none were justifiable. Not to those girls. Not to his brothers.

He stepped back out onto the granite steps, looking out at the city that never sleeps. He watched a small group of Japanese tourists, climbing the granite steps, chattering excitedly and looking up at the massive Corinthian columns. He spied a line of obedient fourth grade children, being led by their teacher, so ready and eager to learn, happy to be away from the routine of sitting at a desk. Where were the little things that made him happy?

He tugged his scarf closer around his neck, the fuzzy warmth delaying the chatter of his jaw. He hailed a cab. He wasn't sure how long he had been at the museum, but the thought of forcing his legs to walk the three miles back made him ill.

He climbed into the back seat, gave the driver his destination and rolled down the window, sending a blast of icy winter wind into the cabin. He ignored the huffing, annoyed noises from the man behind the wheel. He leaned his head out, breathing in deep gasps, letting the icy sting of wind whip the hair from his forehead. He forced his eyes open. Through watery, bleary vision, he looked up at the skyline and the empty space where twin towers used to break the expanse of gray-black sky, now shadowed by the faint outlines of the ghosts of 3000 lives lost there.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Fri, 28 Dec 2001 18:00:07 GMT

He climbed the granite steps with confident strides, two at a time. When he arrived at the entrance, his lungs burned, breath coming in little gasps. He calmed as he entered the hall, paid twice as much as the "suggested donation," barely acknowledging the friendly smile of the young man behind the counter. He headed straight for his favorite place.

His footsteps echoed in the second floor hallway. There were few visitors in that part of the museum, most of them gathering around the more popular Renaissance and American exhibits. He strolled past the hand-painted Japanese scrolls and colorful, gold-gilded screens, navigating the familiar walkways like he would his own home. The gallery was quiet, dimly lit and peaceful - an atmosphere he craved like water. There was a soft hush over the few visitors examining the artifact, the murmur of soft whispers and awed gasps that did little to cut through the reverence of the place.

It came upon him like a ghost, taking his breath away, even though his eyes had traveled its smooth curves dozen of times before. The statue was only three feet tall, but the mottled red sandstone, towered over him, set on a pedestal high above. The Buddha was all curving harmony, carved delicately and precisely into a beautifully aesthetic form. Every detail was meticulous - from the curls on its head to the drape of its translucent robe.

His favorite part was the face. Rounded cheeks, fleshy lips, almond-shaped eyes and high, gracefully arched eyebrows - put together to form a completely serene and comforting expression. No care in this world, only in the next. Such infinite wisdom. For the thousandth time, he marveled that all this could be captured in an inanimate object - stone carved from humanity's hands. He sat at the statue's feet, a disciple and eager follower. He stared at it, willing for it to speak to him, to transfer some of its essence.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Fri, 28 Dec 2001 04:47:36 GMT

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katiebae@yahoo.com — Fri, 28 Dec 2001 04:41:40 GMT

He felt their eyes on his back, a dozen pair of eyes, all with different feelings behind them - surprise, disappointment, and concern. The emotions stabbed at him like daggers, knifing into his back and wrenching his heart out. He ran, clutching his chest because he wanted to keep it. He didn't want to give anymore.

He ran.

* * *

The wintry air bit into his hair like little jagged teeth. He liked it, though. Wanted to feel something else other than the panic bubbling up his throat.

He'd felt a little calmer after taking to his manager. Chris always had a way of putting things in perspective, of giving him something to hold onto whenever the ground felt like it was falling out from under him. He had insisted that he leave the meet and greet. Go for a walk. Get yourself together. It felt good to have someone make the decision for him. Eased the weight.

After crossing a couple of streets, he found himself on Park Avenue, heading uptown. It wasn't a conscious decision, but his feet were leading him to a familiar final destination, a place he always went for solace, to remind him of how he should be.

He walked like he did when he didn't want to be noticed. Head down, shoulders up, slight frown on his face, walking as briskly as possible, like he belonged somewhere else, and he had to get there. They still noticed, though. Especially the women. Not really recognizing him as him, but seeing something that catches their attention, makes them do a double take and sneak a closer look. He usually liked it. Today, he didn't.

Each step felt like renewal, like he was coming back into himself. He looked at his suede shoes, pounding the cold asphalt, avoiding the cracks on the sidewalk and the frozen patches of ice. When he finally looked up, he had traveled over 3 miles.

Five dozen granite steps. Eight Corinthian columns, graying and stained with rain. A rainbow of flags adorning each.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Mon, 24 Dec 2001 00:27:42 GMT

Most of the time, he took this role as leader very seriously. He was the angel-faced front man, the one with the most passion, the most invested, and the most to lose. He wanted it more than any of them, and sometimes he wondered what he was doing now that he had it.

A dozen of them entered, all wide-eyed and shaking with excitement, holding thinly to the sense of decorum the situation demanded. They would not scream, but they would all smile nervously, shake with clammy hands, say a few excited words and remember the experience for a long time to come.

They were being herded like cattle, told to line up and be quiet, to keep the line moving because the group only had two minutes.

He knew they were real. He knew they each had bright white hopes and blue yonder dreams. And so he spoke to each girl like she was the only one in the room, not one of a dozen, not one of the hundreds more he'd meet that day.

They returned his attention, showered a thousand times more love on him than he showed them.

"I'm your biggest fan."

"You've really inspired me."

"You've changed my life."

Big words to carry on the shoulders of a boy, almost man.

He used to soak it up, absorb the love like a sponge craving water, breathe it in like a dying man's last breath, take it all until he was brimming with so much, he had to give it back.

Now, he was drowning in it.

He wanted to disappear, fade into the dingy yellow walls and the harsh fluorescent lighting. He wanted to be invisible, to walk out of the room without anyone noticing, to leave without people following after him.

And even though he knew that wouldn't happen, he did it anyway.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Mon, 24 Dec 2001 00:19:41 GMT

"Did you sleep well, darling?" She kissed his forehead.

"Yes," he lied.

Diana pulled away from him, her smile fading to be replaced with motherly concern. "You don't look rested. Do you want me to come back later? I can come get you when the kids are ready to go."

"No, no, it's okay. I'll just have a shower. I'll feel better afterwards."

"Okay, angel." She kissed him again, releasing him. He let his arms drop to his sides, even though they tingled with the need to cling to her. "Meet us downstairs for breakfast in an hour."

"Okay, Mama," he said, offering her a small smile.

* * *

They were holed up in a fortress room, door secured by two giant men, their amber brown faces unmoving and vigilant, like the Sumerian guardians in front of the emperor?s temple. The walls were white, but had taken on a yellowish tinge, further enhanced by the dull sunlight striping through the dingy plate glass windows, too small to provide much natural light. It was an unwelcoming environment inappropriate for its purpose ? to meet and greet the fans.

He wanted to be anywhere, anywhere else in the world - a mountaintop in Bali, an amusement park in the South, in a tree house in Tulsa - anywhere besides that room.

But the production assistant was already looking at his brother for confirmation, and with a nod from Isaac, the doors opened.

Taylor drew his shoulders up in preparation. His mouth curled into a shy, half smile, but his eyes, clear, bright and sparkling; bore a confidence and experience beyond his eighteen years. He became luminous, his presence filling the room with a light that drowned out (or maybe mingled with?) his brothers'. They didn't mind. It had always been that way.

katiebae@yahoo.com — Fri, 21 Dec 2001 05:46:04 GMT

The Heartthrob: Jordan Taylor Hanson

Ants. Like ants marching. That's exactly what they looked like.

He had been watching them for two hours now. The activity started a little bit after six am. The street had been silent, unmoving, shrouded in twilight and a blanket of faint, sparkling stars. Then, as pale light began to overtake the dark, the city stirred, shivered and awakened, the little people below his 82nd floor room moving at the light's signal, awakening with the rising sun.

He marveled at their purpose, wondering where they all belonged, whom they belonged to. He also mourned the certainty that those thousands of lives, adventures and philosophies would never touch him. But he could touch them. At least, he once thought he could.

He touched the glass, wide palms flat against the ice-cold windowpane. Bear paw hands - perfect for tickling ivory keys. They used to be enough. He rarely slept anymore, haunted by the loss of such innocent conviction.

He could already see the sun peeking behind the buildings when the knock sounded at his door.

"Taylor, sweetheart? Are you up yet?"

He opened it, greeted by the sight of his mother. She was dressed and ready for the day, smiling, glowing and beautiful like he always remembered her. He wondered why she never seemed to change, the crows feet around her striking blue eyes (only his rivaled the color of their intensity), the laugh lines around her pretty mouth, the streaks of gray along her cascade of yellow hair - they had always been there, hadn't they?

"Good morning, Mama," he said in his little boy voice.

She smiled at him, drawing him into her arms, holding him like she always did, even though he towered over her now. He rested his head against her shoulder, scrunching himself small against her. He wished desperately that he could still hide in her skirt like he used to.