Potato in the Orchard - Chapter 3 /P

I'd read this much earlier but didn't get a chance to review it. I loved this one, I think this is my favorite so far. Especially the conversation about Nick's dream, I'm liking the way they're starting to relate to each other. Dylan is a very daring person whereas Nick, it seems, is just getting used to be looked so closely at. I like how he sort of feels the need to protect himself from Dylan's questions, secretly he actually cares what Dylan thinks about him. I only saw a few errors but they've already been mentioned. Good job! Can't wait for the next!

~Rieda

It's good. But why do you post the chapter in two halves instead of the whole thign at once?

The rest of the week passes us by without incident. Mother and Father found a way out of the weekend with Grandma, as expected, by way of a convenient convention.

"Narcissistic self-indulgence?" She shrugs. "Probably."

Dylan touches my shoulder as I blink, and in the half-second my eyes are closed, I feel everything shut down: post-synaptic inhibition of the motor neurons in the pons leads to decreased flow of melatonin and then there's no nerve depolarization, and now I can't move. His finger slowly traces along my collar bone and stops at the base of my neck as his other hand turns me towards him. He's looking down at me, eyes big and almost carefully examining my face for signs of anger. As much as I want to pull away, say no, hit him--I can't. I can't move at all. It's worse than a dream. "I'm sorry," he mouths, and his hand starts strumming my chest and stomach like guitar chords: soft but sharp, precise, calculated. I don't sing or make music, but that doesn't stop him--the fact that I'm not moving seems not to matter to him. I shouldn't be surprised, though; my inertia doesn't matter to anyone. The warmth of blood in his hand as it reaches the divide between my shirt and my jeans makes me feel even more uncomfortable than before, and if I could do anything, right now I would be squirming. He bends down over me until our faces are a few inches from each other, and I can tell he's about to kiss me. "Nick," he whispers, moving impossibly closer until I blink.

But they're different: they've lived, adapted. Talking is like showing off a dead dog in the Eukanuba competition.

"You know," he laughs from across the room. "I think this is the longest we've ever talked to each other."

**Completed**

I've heard 'come with' before lol, all too often in fact, it seemed natural in this case. I don't have anything constructive to add here unfortunately -- although I will say that its all to easy to believe the parents could not so much ignore, but justify their son's drug addiction - "free spirit".

I think the philosophical wanderings are actually good, but at the same time Amelia is right in saying their isolated. I don't think their easy to skip over but - in some ways, it reads like the narrator's monologue at the end of an episode of say, Desperate Housewives, or Scrubs.

Good stuff.

Chapter numbers? ridiculously confusing. All the zeros in the title here kinda look like potatoes...

I nod and notice the holes in his arm, probably from an IV. I've tried to discourage him from this before but he just blows me off, and Mother and Father feed his megalomania by refusing to deal with the fact that they failed so much as parents their thirteen year old kid is probably a drug addict.

I try to figure out why he kept asking about the dream, kept insisting on his part in it. Surely he doesn't think I desire him, and that my dreams are some kind of Freudian wish-fulfillment. If that were the case for any of us, no one would ever wake up. But topologically, dreams are weird things. Connectedness seems not to be an issue for them--to reality, to each other, to events within the same dream. They are, of course, by definition, piece-wise, like a wall with gaps that separates reality from fiction.

The axiom of regularity in mathematics says that the only thing in common between members and their collection is an empty set, emptiness itself. In that way, there's no overarching collection of all things; there's no such thing as a grand cosmos, a whole Nature, a Being of God. There's no One, no foundational identity to build things off of, and no matter how many Christians try to deny it, that's just how it is. Maybe dreams are just life's cruel way of showing that we're all schizophrenic: one identity by day, another by night. Neither of which can generally be sustained for any serious amount of time.

"Hey," Dylan calls from the couch, book almost concealing his eyes. "I'm going to go see a movie tonight--wanna come with?"

"Please." I put on sandals and walk to the door. "Get over yourself."

First of all I want to say that this story just keeps getting better and better. I'm really liking it so far.

I liked how he was dreaming in the previous chapter. It was so cool.

There is a tuft of carpet between my fingers. I force my eyes open and groan as I roll over. There's no pillow beneath my head, and the ceiling seems an impossibly far distance away. Stretching, I recognize the contours of the sleeping bag--but how? I glance over and see Dylan isn't in my bed--where I should be--and that sunlight is now pouring into the room from the uncovered window. I pull myself from the warm confines of flannel and walk into the foyer.

"Well hey there sleeping beauty," Dylan smiles and nods at me before looking back down intently.

I nod and notice the holes in his arm, probably from an IV. I've tried to discourage him from this before but he just blows me off, and Mother and Father feed his megalomania by refusing to deal with the fact that they failed so much as parents their thirteen year old kid is probably a drug addict. They say he's just expressing himself, a free-spirit. I try to act like it doesn't bother me. "So you went on a date? With whom?"

"No," i say, standing up, "it's not interesting."

I dump the bowl and spoon into the sink. "Did mom or dad say Grandma was coming this weekend?"

The axiom of regularity in mathematics says that the only thing in common between members and their collection is an empty set, emptiness itself. In that way, there's no overarching collection of all things; there's no such thing as a grand cosmos, a whole Nature, a Being of God. There's no One, no foundational identity to build things off of, and no matter how many Christians try to deny it, that's just how it is. Maybe dreams are just life's cruel way of showing that we're all schizophrenic: one identity by day, another by night. Neither of which can generally be sustained for any serious amount of time.

"Please." I put on sandals and walk to the door. "Get over yourself."