Date: Mon, 25 Aug 2003 13:46:46 -0700 From: Thomas Shaw Subject: Ian on the Roof --- Prologue Ian was on the roof again. Although his skin was as white as the inside of a freezer and the crystal night air sent swishes of sparkling powder up onto his face, he was not cold. He sat hunched, with slender hands thrust into the pockets of his fleece jacket and he gazed enchanted, frozen, lost, at the scintillating stars in the cloudless 2 am sky. His bare feet seemed to cling instinctually to the frosted shingles of the slanted roof, effortlessly at home in such high places. Ian never felt out of place up here. The wind was getting stronger and it played violin feverishly in Ian's long black hair, stroking it not unlovingly, with a kind of desperate music. Ian closed his eyes, lashes sparkling, crystalline. The ethereal hands that touched him were pleading, soothing, urging him to listen. They sent a slithering arm down the front of his jacket and almost convinced him to leave, to follow the currents that pulsed and flickered about him. Ian's eyes snapped open and they were alive with new senses. He saw the magnetic folds of the sky above him, he saw them sliding through the forest, glimmering amongst the hibernating hard wood there. He looked to his left over his shoulder, back at the secluded housing development and the lines snaked there too; one went directly through the second story window of his neighbor's house, through the house, and out the other side. The magnetic, crackling lines spread clear to the horizon and throbbed with the energy of a trillion lives, both of those living and those now gone. It was too much to bear. Ian cast his eyes back towards the silent forest behind his house. "Too many people.." he thought. A glow had appeared on the horizon now, and he knew he had been swept away, it was nearing dawn and he needed to come down, get back into his skin, put his head on a pillow and dream natural dreams. He stood without slipping, his footing sure, and began to slowly walk to the edge of the roof. Something moved in the forest. It was black, a shadow that melted into the crosshatch of the tangled tree branches like oil through a sieve. He was sure he hadn't seen anything, then suddenly, there! .an arm? .a leg? An animal was streaking through the forest from tree to tree, as if chasing something, but trying to remain unseen. Ian was enthralled. It flowed and swept so effortlessly through the tangle of underbrush and with such assuredness. Ian was helpless to move. The creature was nearly to the edge of the wood now, for the first time a tail could be seen, bushy fur. Was it just a dog playing in the moonlight? It burst from the sharp edge of the forest soundlessly and sprang and leapt in the fresh snow with an obvious, heart-rending, careless joy. In the unfiltered moonlight and the rising pink from the east, Ian could finally see the form that danced before him. It was a boy. But not a boy. Definitely human one moment. Positively animal the next. It flashed and whirled a few moments longer, snapping at the snow fairies it was kicking up, then slid effortlessly across the yard, up the side of the Browning's house next door, paused, to open a second floor window, and vanished into the dark hole. The curtains caught a gust of wind and billowed out just as human hands appeared inside and drew the window closed. The edge of the curtain hung impotently out the crack of the window, caught in it's escape. This night was too much. Ian rubbed his temples like a pianist coaxing a chord out of a dead instrument. The lines were fading as the light in the east intensified and despite the tingling electricity that danced and sparked over his body, Ian needed sleep. He turned to the frozen eaves at his feet and one, last time that night, imagined he was lighter than air, gently leaping the two stories to the ground below. He had left the back door unlocked and let himself in quietly, though he knew there was no one to awaken. The last remnants of force had left his frame and he was almost nodding off as he climbed the stairs to his room. As he passed the hall window, the first pink sunbeam of the day cast a finger of pink light into the once dark second story window of the Browning's house. The window where the wild, joyous creature had vanished now contained the vision of a nude boy sleeping soundly in a tight ball on a 4-post bed. It was, of course, Shea Browning, but Ian had never considered the possiblity that he was any different than rest of the growling gang of posturing boys in the neighborhood. Ian watched the sunlight lick at the boy's toes, crawl up his musclular calve and shimmer on the tiny hairs on his buttocks for a moment, then turned, smiling, back to his own bedroom door.