ned ❧ the pie maker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onetouch) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-12-02 04:51 pm
onetouch) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-12-02 04:51 pm
Entry tags:
and then, there was one.
WHO: Ned and his thoughts
WHERE: Yellowstone National Park & around Park County, Wyoming
WHEN: December 1st
WARNINGS: if pretentiousness has a warning, here's your warning.
SUMMARY: Ned goes away for the weekend, to be alone with just him.
FORMAT: sololog prose for dicks
Ned thought back to what Randy Mann had told him. Not including this place, that had been six months, two days, 11 minutes and 54 seconds ago.
"You're no good to anybody else unless you're good with just you."
Those words reverberated down the back of his spine which then gave way to an involuntary shudder. Since Zatanna had left him here, as per his request, he had in fact felt alone. An aloneness so vast and cloying, for several moments he found himself unable to breathe. It was cold though not the usual, New England, cold-to-your-bones cold he was used to cold, no. This was barometric, and harsh, and weighed down every inch of him.
He drew his arms around himself in a hug and squeezed. As his eyes fluttered shut he imagined those arms first, as the arms of his mother, warm and comforting. But soon that vision melted and morphed into Charlotte Charles. The girl he called Chuck. Though he had never felt her arms around him without a plastic sheet of protection, he would still prefer a not-hug from her than a not-hug from this bleak, bleak December day.
The soft drumbeat rhythm of hoof-beats beating in the distance startled him out of his reverie and he blinked twice before his eyes stayed open, focused and alert. Bison. Ned remembered the pamphlet in his pocket and dug awkwardly with mittened hands to bring it up to his face as he read aloud, "The only place in America where the buffalo still roam free." It was breathtaking, quite literally earth-shattering as he felt the terrifying rumble in his throat as they galloped o'er the plane. He gulped and thought of all the things he was afraid of.
None of them ranked against just how much he feared being alone, and yet here he stood, shed of all his vestments, metaphorically this time. Alone and yet, thankful. He put the pamphlet back inside his jacket and looked to the sky at the exact moment it opened up, a single snowflake reaching out with icy fingers to graze his nose. He had always loved the snow, since long before his mother's death and his father's abandonment. It blanketed his world and made it new again. His lips twitched upwards, connecting that Chuck had done the same, wrapping him in a warm down comforter of love. He was a new man with a new life, and a new purpose to boot.
But how did that apply in this new world? This new world where he wasn't anything special, but just one among the thronging crowds of people with an extra talent, or gift. His Superman fit in better than his Clark Kent here, and he somehow felt more like a freak than ever before. He had promised Randy he would embrace his Superman, and while he had, now more than ever, there was still so far to climb as he hung limply from this precipice called indecision.
Ned revisited the times, each day, he had visited the chapel after school to pray. To pray for for whatever his father had found in him so offensive, so absolutely wrong that he had left to be no more so that they could be reunited once again. Because to young Ned it had always been simple: he was the defective one, and he alone was the reason his father had fled. In the present, Ned felt very differently, placing all the blame squarely on his father's shoulders, but it weighed on him, too. It was a lump fashioned out of lead and resentment that gathered in his chest and blocked his air passage. It remained in his heart and degraded, a festering wound that ate at him each day, even still. His hatred for a man he didn't even know wore holes in his resolve, leaving him open to enemy fire.
The last thing he wanted to do was forgive him. He could scarcely forgive himself for undeading his mother and leading to the tidal-wave chain of events that eventually brought Charlotte Charles back into his life, again, even after her own had come to its end. He had only been a child, he hadn't known what it would do, but still the facts remained as tried and true as Ned's unwavering refusal to let nothing of his father in. The few memories before his departure Ned had retained, he shunned, despite their pleasant nature. He could taste only bitterness and saw no joy in unearthing his own past.
So why was he here? He recalled now the words of a priest, kind Father Anderson. "You can have no future until you reconcile with your past." The Father had urged him to seek his own father, but here it wasn't even a matter of choice. He couldn't find his father on this world, even if he were to seek him. It was a comfort, in a way, that nothing he could do here would affect those he loved back at home. He had given up on his letters to Chuck. Some days he wasn't sure if he wanted to return.
Here he could revel in their happiness, and as alone as he might find himself, it would never have to change. If he went home it was only inevitable he would screw up or worse yet, he would do nothing wrong; and Chuck would leave, taking his heart on a string along for the ride. Now that she was here, he didn't know how to live without her. As he had told Abigail, his insides were indeed, jelly, but it was better than allowing Chuck no other out than away from him. He was ready to go back now. To Not New York, not home.
He still had work to do here, in the eyes of the Lord, if he even believed in Him anymore.
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.
Ecclesiastes 9:10
Ned wasn't sure how much might he might truthfully possess, but he had no other choice but to employ it somehow. Make pies, wake the dead, rinse, lather, rinse, repeat. He could do this if only he knew how to take his days each one-at-a-time. Instead his days came at him full-tilt on the galeforce winds inside this inescapable whirlwind tunnel. It was why he counted each precious moment before it could fly by him and be lost to the fray. As long a time as sixty seconds truly was, they were scarcely enough. Before Chuck had come along he had never even thought to ask the dead what their final wishes might have been. Then again, there was no way he could grant them, but perhaps it would give their murdered souls rest at long last.
His magic finger had sparked many an internal debate between the pie man and his own, more magic self. This place seemed to answer at least one question; Ned hadn't been the only one bestowed such a gift. The park had long dissolved from the forefront of his mind, and so maybe it had done its job. He was thinking, perhaps, too much, and not in any organized fashion. And for all the thinking he had thought, Ned was no closer to any answers. He had, however, plotted out the Pie Hole pie calendar for the year loosely in his head, as well as compiled the recipes for 9 new pies to grace the Pie Hole pie menu.
He sighed and after hours alone with his thoughts, decided a man who woke the dead should be among the living for a change. Every limb had frozen to the park bench, snow setting his bones like rigor mortis so that when he tried to stand Ned very nearly almost fell. The air in his lungs was so thick that when he blew it out, he coughed twice, his hot breath hitting the cold air creating a dense fog he could scarcely navigate. Still, he made it out in one piece.
Ned scanned the town for any sign of life, but it was almost five-o-clock on a Saturday and very little was still open. He managed to find a small cafe and drink tea by the window until they closed. He knew he could ask Zatanna to bring him back now, but he wouldn't; not when nothing was sorted. Not when the things he most enjoyed were still inaccessible to him. Not when everything still felt so hopeless.
When Chuck had moved across the hall, his heart had cried for her. He found himself a little impressed at its staying power, that it hadn't burst upon being away from her presence for so long. And in truth though he had been away from this world nearly a year, his week away had felt like far longer. He knew his survival was due in part to keeping Chuck alive again, in the City as well, a place she had never been. Her bees were still on his rooftop, her cup-pies on his menu, and it was her intensity that brought about his ultimate conclusion. If she had been the Alive Again Avenger then he would be the Derelict Dead-Waker. He didn't need Jack or the police, he already had all the makings of a vigilante inside him, just waiting to burst forth. And if there was one thing he knew above all else, it was how to assemble a recipe. Surely becoming a Superhero could be that easy, if he let it be.
But that was the hardest part.
WHERE: Yellowstone National Park & around Park County, Wyoming
WHEN: December 1st
WARNINGS: if pretentiousness has a warning, here's your warning.
SUMMARY: Ned goes away for the weekend, to be alone with just him.
FORMAT: sololog prose for dicks
Ned thought back to what Randy Mann had told him. Not including this place, that had been six months, two days, 11 minutes and 54 seconds ago.
"You're no good to anybody else unless you're good with just you."
Those words reverberated down the back of his spine which then gave way to an involuntary shudder. Since Zatanna had left him here, as per his request, he had in fact felt alone. An aloneness so vast and cloying, for several moments he found himself unable to breathe. It was cold though not the usual, New England, cold-to-your-bones cold he was used to cold, no. This was barometric, and harsh, and weighed down every inch of him.
He drew his arms around himself in a hug and squeezed. As his eyes fluttered shut he imagined those arms first, as the arms of his mother, warm and comforting. But soon that vision melted and morphed into Charlotte Charles. The girl he called Chuck. Though he had never felt her arms around him without a plastic sheet of protection, he would still prefer a not-hug from her than a not-hug from this bleak, bleak December day.
The soft drumbeat rhythm of hoof-beats beating in the distance startled him out of his reverie and he blinked twice before his eyes stayed open, focused and alert. Bison. Ned remembered the pamphlet in his pocket and dug awkwardly with mittened hands to bring it up to his face as he read aloud, "The only place in America where the buffalo still roam free." It was breathtaking, quite literally earth-shattering as he felt the terrifying rumble in his throat as they galloped o'er the plane. He gulped and thought of all the things he was afraid of.
None of them ranked against just how much he feared being alone, and yet here he stood, shed of all his vestments, metaphorically this time. Alone and yet, thankful. He put the pamphlet back inside his jacket and looked to the sky at the exact moment it opened up, a single snowflake reaching out with icy fingers to graze his nose. He had always loved the snow, since long before his mother's death and his father's abandonment. It blanketed his world and made it new again. His lips twitched upwards, connecting that Chuck had done the same, wrapping him in a warm down comforter of love. He was a new man with a new life, and a new purpose to boot.
But how did that apply in this new world? This new world where he wasn't anything special, but just one among the thronging crowds of people with an extra talent, or gift. His Superman fit in better than his Clark Kent here, and he somehow felt more like a freak than ever before. He had promised Randy he would embrace his Superman, and while he had, now more than ever, there was still so far to climb as he hung limply from this precipice called indecision.
Ned revisited the times, each day, he had visited the chapel after school to pray. To pray for for whatever his father had found in him so offensive, so absolutely wrong that he had left to be no more so that they could be reunited once again. Because to young Ned it had always been simple: he was the defective one, and he alone was the reason his father had fled. In the present, Ned felt very differently, placing all the blame squarely on his father's shoulders, but it weighed on him, too. It was a lump fashioned out of lead and resentment that gathered in his chest and blocked his air passage. It remained in his heart and degraded, a festering wound that ate at him each day, even still. His hatred for a man he didn't even know wore holes in his resolve, leaving him open to enemy fire.
The last thing he wanted to do was forgive him. He could scarcely forgive himself for undeading his mother and leading to the tidal-wave chain of events that eventually brought Charlotte Charles back into his life, again, even after her own had come to its end. He had only been a child, he hadn't known what it would do, but still the facts remained as tried and true as Ned's unwavering refusal to let nothing of his father in. The few memories before his departure Ned had retained, he shunned, despite their pleasant nature. He could taste only bitterness and saw no joy in unearthing his own past.
So why was he here? He recalled now the words of a priest, kind Father Anderson. "You can have no future until you reconcile with your past." The Father had urged him to seek his own father, but here it wasn't even a matter of choice. He couldn't find his father on this world, even if he were to seek him. It was a comfort, in a way, that nothing he could do here would affect those he loved back at home. He had given up on his letters to Chuck. Some days he wasn't sure if he wanted to return.
Here he could revel in their happiness, and as alone as he might find himself, it would never have to change. If he went home it was only inevitable he would screw up or worse yet, he would do nothing wrong; and Chuck would leave, taking his heart on a string along for the ride. Now that she was here, he didn't know how to live without her. As he had told Abigail, his insides were indeed, jelly, but it was better than allowing Chuck no other out than away from him. He was ready to go back now. To Not New York, not home.
He still had work to do here, in the eyes of the Lord, if he even believed in Him anymore.
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.
Ecclesiastes 9:10
Ned wasn't sure how much might he might truthfully possess, but he had no other choice but to employ it somehow. Make pies, wake the dead, rinse, lather, rinse, repeat. He could do this if only he knew how to take his days each one-at-a-time. Instead his days came at him full-tilt on the galeforce winds inside this inescapable whirlwind tunnel. It was why he counted each precious moment before it could fly by him and be lost to the fray. As long a time as sixty seconds truly was, they were scarcely enough. Before Chuck had come along he had never even thought to ask the dead what their final wishes might have been. Then again, there was no way he could grant them, but perhaps it would give their murdered souls rest at long last.
His magic finger had sparked many an internal debate between the pie man and his own, more magic self. This place seemed to answer at least one question; Ned hadn't been the only one bestowed such a gift. The park had long dissolved from the forefront of his mind, and so maybe it had done its job. He was thinking, perhaps, too much, and not in any organized fashion. And for all the thinking he had thought, Ned was no closer to any answers. He had, however, plotted out the Pie Hole pie calendar for the year loosely in his head, as well as compiled the recipes for 9 new pies to grace the Pie Hole pie menu.
He sighed and after hours alone with his thoughts, decided a man who woke the dead should be among the living for a change. Every limb had frozen to the park bench, snow setting his bones like rigor mortis so that when he tried to stand Ned very nearly almost fell. The air in his lungs was so thick that when he blew it out, he coughed twice, his hot breath hitting the cold air creating a dense fog he could scarcely navigate. Still, he made it out in one piece.
Ned scanned the town for any sign of life, but it was almost five-o-clock on a Saturday and very little was still open. He managed to find a small cafe and drink tea by the window until they closed. He knew he could ask Zatanna to bring him back now, but he wouldn't; not when nothing was sorted. Not when the things he most enjoyed were still inaccessible to him. Not when everything still felt so hopeless.
When Chuck had moved across the hall, his heart had cried for her. He found himself a little impressed at its staying power, that it hadn't burst upon being away from her presence for so long. And in truth though he had been away from this world nearly a year, his week away had felt like far longer. He knew his survival was due in part to keeping Chuck alive again, in the City as well, a place she had never been. Her bees were still on his rooftop, her cup-pies on his menu, and it was her intensity that brought about his ultimate conclusion. If she had been the Alive Again Avenger then he would be the Derelict Dead-Waker. He didn't need Jack or the police, he already had all the makings of a vigilante inside him, just waiting to burst forth. And if there was one thing he knew above all else, it was how to assemble a recipe. Surely becoming a Superhero could be that easy, if he let it be.
But that was the hardest part.