CashlinSnow

Isolena flashed a small, shimmering gold card between two fingers in front of Dylan and tilted her head, a smirk on the edges of her lips, "A chao race is starting soon, and you didn't invite me to spectate?" "You wanted to watch?" Dylan blurted in surprise, then freezing up in horror that he'd, again, made a mistake—the mistake of overlooking her. She straightened up from leaning over the couch at him and dropped the little notice in his lap, "No blasted meetings today." Which was her way of answering him that, yes, she wanted to observe a bunch of whining, cooing, screeching chao run awkwardly down strips of dirt, attempt not to drown in shallow water, fall on their faces at random intervals, pant to climb up short stretches of rock, and strain their little wings to hover through five seconds of air. All to win the much-coveted prize of some cheap, plastic thing or another that they'd most likely break within the hour of receiving. Isolena questioned to herself if pushing a chao

Tails skipped again and twirled to peer back, up at the old fighter plane suspended by thick cords from the ceiling. With mouth agape, he stopped and admired the old metal plating and the bullet-ridden wounds on the exterior. Dylan glanced upward and shared the feeling for a few seconds, and then he looked around, while waiting for the fox to finish his visual examination. The expansive, open hall was bustling with mobians and humans who were setting up booths and carrying odd pieces, parts, and mechanical somethings he had no idea about. A few tiny robots rolled past him, flashing with blinking red lights. Dylan stepped back, pulling Tails with him to avoid being run over by three men carrying a massive, heavy box. "Isn't this amazing?" Tails sort of meant to chuckle, but it caught in his nose and he snorted instead, fists in front of him in delight. "The Station Square Inventor's Exploratory Hall is always hosting way cool events! I'm so happy I got in this one, and that you

Tails gave a pause, a cool wind fluttering by him full of sakura blossoms from spring. The clouds broke and the sun beamed down nearly where he stood on the short, narrow strip of private airport. Some steps back, the Tornado stood still in a hanger, with a few other small planes resting about. This had been the perfect Saturday to come see Dylan, and show him a couple amazing new things! Sonic and Amy were off on some friend thing. Shadow was, well, who knew? Same for Rouge. Cream was still posting selfies, by the off-and-on rumbling of his phone. With a broadening smile, Tails skipped a few steps, then remembered a thing called dignity and let off, but kept a hastened step to record his plane's hanger entry at the office and then make a rush out of the airport. "Okay. It'll just take me a few minutes," he dropped his Extreme Gear and hopped atop it, strapping his shoes in. "That way, I think," mumbled he, reviewing the GPS instructions. Behind, overhead, a massive shadow cast over

Just, what was happening? Dylan brought his eyes up and, for perhaps a sixth time, attempted to take in everything buzzing around him. The thick, cornflower blue, folded cardstock invitation sat in his lap. A blonde dog makeup artist leaned down before him once more, smearing some sort of cold makeup on his face. Dylan slid his thumb between the folded crease, lifting his neck a slight and closing his eyes. Watching someone smear foundation on his cheeks wasn't appealing. The stuff felt thick. Why did he have to endure this, again? Something about looking proper for the cameras? After a minute, the woman stepped away to review her makeup palettes. Dylan brought the card up to examine it again: bold, swirled lettering of, "Invitation," spread across the front. Inside, medium, scripted text cordially invited him as the guest of honor as a royal thanks for his courage to cast his desires aside in saving a fellow student, and in so doing, placing himself on display as a hope in bringing

Lurid red and gold burst like blobs of paint, sizzling, with more falling from some confusing angle—up? The hissing of their heating and evaporating burned through his body, over and over. There was sound in the place, but he couldn't make any of his own. His mouth opened in pain, yet, still, not even an exhale came out with enough force to be heard. The heat rose first in his chest, then spread to every limb, and the red and gold shapes of circles that fell on top of him tortured him. Dylan writhed in the white void of nothing except the red and gold and the pain, unable to clearly feel his own limbs. He cried up and shot his head up, abruptly slamming his feet to the ground and rising, hands flat on his desk. The teacher and all the eyes of students in the room whirled to him, with a grand silence of utter embarrassment rising out of Dylan. He'd nodded off and had a nightmare, then yelled awake from it and was now standing, mortified at his outburst. "Dylan?" The English teacher

Slush. That was how his brain felt that morning, but, alas, as if Dylan had a choice not to attend school. Winter was on the wane. Sunshine broke through a bland gray blanket overhead. Dylan peered up at the golden, hazing beams of light and sighed. March was nearly passed, but it was still cold enough that he slung a white jacket around his body and buttoned up, munching on a granola bar as he hopped up into the car. There, closing his eyes, he listened to the gravel grinding underneath the tires and only allowed himself to think about that day's test in his mother's volcanology class. She'd grilled him on the material several times. That wasn't what he dreaded. Flicka was still avoiding him. He assumed her time to think about the revelation he'd dropped on her days ago had either meant she really did need time to roll his words around in her disbelieving mind, or she was just so unsettled by his account, that she couldn't bring herself to approach him anymore. Her reaction could

Isolena gave Dylan two days of silence and quietude to himself. On day three, knowing depression was only fueled by isolation, she slid her hand along his door to open it and examined the room and the lump of a hedgehog under the blanket. This was entirely her fault. Yet, still, her sin harshly lingered; only the impact of it had seemed to have transferred from herself to her son. That couldn't be. She wouldn't allow it. Sadly, however, reading up on how to treat depression was one thing. Acting on ways to reduce it was another. She was not the proper person to do so, as she was the most hypocritical one in this situation. Another shortcoming of her abilities as a mother. She pressed her lips tight in self-critical review. Regardless, Dylan couldn't lay in bed any longer. As of today, was now three days behind on his school work. A growing stack of homework sat on his nearby desk. Isolena passed it an uncaring glance, sitting down at the side of the little lump. "Dylan," she ran

Dylan almost choked on his tea, "You—you what?" "I invited Flicka over this evening to eat dinner with us." "Why?" Her son slammed his feet to the floor, rising from his chair at the same time. "She—she can't come here!" "Why not?" Oh, she was just sitting there, slowly sipping her own green tea like nothing was amiss, as if there were nothing at all to find concern over regarding Flicka in their house! Just pictures of him as a human littered about the rooms in plain view. Just remembrances and trinkets tucked away of that time, such as his old human clothing neither of them had yet tossed out. Albums of memories. Even his baby book! Dylan flung his arms out to his sides, "Mom! Me—me! No one knows I was human before! And—what if I bleed, too, when she's here?" He groaned. "How could you do this?" "She's not going to know about any of that," Isolena slowly turned her glass about on the table. "Just put the pictures away and don't let her into your room." The mention of a girl

One of those rare relatively warm days for winter peaked shortly before Dylan stepped out of school—with a sigh. For late February, melting snow was a rarity. He exhaled white and adjusted his straps. His mother, once again, had to stay behind, which gave him the extremely rare freedom to run home. This time, she'd graciously informed him of her permission should doing so catch his fancy. But Dylan tilted his head, considering what kind of mood he was in. He'd been left alone most of the day so far. The outing with Jameson was still on his mind, having happened just two days ago. Flicka had been prowling at the perimeters of his vision, but she'd not attempted to ingratiate herself in his space since the tea outing. Students hurried past, a tempestuous mixture of laughing and complaining. But Dylan kept his footing at the top of the stairs, absently gazing out at the expanse of empty, frozen grass of a football field situated behind the parking lot before him. "Might as well go

Upon the doorstep the previous evening had arrived, mysteriously, a small, pale-pink and green box wrapped up with a lacy bold, pink bow. Rather effeminate, stereotypically, and as Dylan peered around and caught sight of no possible person who'd brought it, the box had just seemed to materialize there of its own accord. A tad suspicious, he picked it up and stepped back inside. Carefully, Dylan opened the box and rather curiously peered inside. A couple dozen packets of green tea with a hint of jasmine and roasted rice stood neatly side-by-side. Further suspicious, the boy ripped the layer of plastic wrap off, loosened the box, and popped the lid off. Not just tea packets, but also a strainer greeted him, and a waft of the intermingled delight of the jasmine enticed his nostrils. Usually, Dylan wasn't one for tea, but he felt just at that snow-laden, frosty moment, that's just what he wanted. His mother was, again, at school tending to dull administrative affairs. He'd finished his