100 Days Fan Fiction Contest

Second Runner-Up:

"Sweet Bodhisattva."

By Wader.

Page 1 of 2.

"Sweet Bodhisattva - more blood! Damn it, why am I wasting time on these callouses, when they only care about my boobs, anyway? (sigh) - my labours -"

Of course, Shen Li loves her feet more intimately than even her most hormonally-challenged fans would suspect (except when dreamt in fan-fiction, perhaps), which is reason enough for keeping up their appearance. Small secrets enable illusions of fenced privacy, however unveiled we become. Confucion proverb, or Hollywood hope? An extraordinarily unnecessary boob job, erogenous legging designs which lead the eye here and *there*, uninhibited intimate relations with the bawdiest young Wildstorm men and women, the power to soar and destroy at will: Shen emobodies the Western societal ideal that consumption = enjoyment more than she feels comfortable to STOP - and admit, to herself.

Certainly, she craves to maintain some innate sense of inner balance, in light of her ingrained Buddhist history. This is accepted by the populace - yet, what she sees in her winsome mirrored reflection is a young woman still - of tremendous means, with few understandable meanings. She feels without full understanding, yet comprehends it all, with gnawing regret; rationalizing the inner swelling of minor shame as her youthful perspectives, she senses that there is much time in life to make amends for any lack of manifested substance. Through an innate knowledge of the spiritual purpose which defines her being, this Tibetan wonder was to "usher in a Golden Age of love and peace"! Her remote conscience pines that these miracles have occured solely on the surface of her own life in Stormwatch and the Authority, her billboard sign of daily recognition supresses such recognition.

Poorly.

"Scrape one heel, while the other heals - hey, that sounds swift, Swift.", she muses, dutifully examining the results of rabidly abrasive strokes on her left sole. Has she lost touch with her soul somewhere in the process of becoming so special, and - NO - she concentrates on her foot, carefully holding those practical toes. She accepts her toes as wonderfully versatile: not too bony, clear nails, still esoterically related to her feet as part of a fetishistically pleasing whole (fortunately, this remains the case - though, she half-worries about splaying in her future decades without shoes, each landing subconsciously becoming softer than the one prior). Shen loves to hold her toes and feel their clear, oval definition after a fresh filing - firmly grasping the soft metatarsal pads, she playful flexes their joints in her hands and experiences a subtle sensation of naughtiness. An fuzzy electricity of hopeful fulfilment moves up her inner thighs, as when she distantly feels them spread to all lengths in an naively convincing expression of that welling rush from a warm, impending climax. Flashes of the subtle intrigue and the unknown, which she cutely manifests while curling them thoughtfully in group meetings, and -

"Oh man, I'm so jacked up - should've put on one of those tight new uniforms, 'cause they seem to deaden some of the crotch and bum rubbing from that new material Jack bargained from Monsanto", she abruptly half-worries. "Bum" - a meaningful memory she picked up from Jenny, who used it to gleefully point out Shen's happily pert bottom when they first went embraced, below the ocean waves. Sparks. She misses Jenny in mixed ways: clinging to her like a big sister, she also appreciated the Spirit of the 20th Century like an adoptive, sensual mother. "A female Oedipal complex, and I'm probably the only one, fucked up me -", she despairs. More an expression of her loss for the guiding, caring, experienced hand which was Jenny, she has recently felt some related connections to Baby Quantum at a similar level, which still confuses her sense of expectation. Shen doesn't grasp how to handle her unlatched longings: she wants Jenny Q to be sometime else when they're alone, and often feels like a combination of plotting pedophile and overly-ambitious foster parent. Subduing her understanding of the unacceptable answers to come, she concentrates more deliberately on scraping her sole - renewing her toe grip to include the entire top of her foot.

"These capable, petite hands can only manage so much", she muses in naughty-girl delight, allowing her more frustrating thoughts to fall away in obscurity for the banal. Oh, what those hands have grasped: sometimes, it boggles her mind to think that those battle-worn digits have remained so freshly amber-tan and delicately soft in appearance - despite the killings, scrapings, rubbings, talon transformations and all manner of bodily fluids. Certain fluids, especially - which never seem to wash away in her mind's eye. As if she really wants them to. Why does she see explosions of bloody Chinese executions whenever semen is shot in her face? Who is the gun, which is the man? None of us can distance feelings of materialistic reality from what we want to emotionally gain by the experience, but it seems so - perverse at times, to Shen Li. Not the act itself, but our intentions - the ones we secretly long to enact or relive. She struggles to feel alive, yet grounds her existence in a dead past.

Switch feet. Swift is both fascinated and intimidated by her sexual purposefulness at times: if it isn't her bristling delite to suckle Grunge's moist, hairy sack skin between her teeth and tongue, it's her innately deft stroking of Jenny's swollen clitoral ridge (through an ever-bristly, moist and untrimmed nether-region, she fondly pictures). These are almost common occurrences to her sensibilities, actions which she learned as naturally wonderful aspects of personal relations in Western society - things her lost homeland culture and surrounding urban regions would never have allowed to be expressed as part of acceptable public persona. This subdued realization offers terrible guilt to her heart as she lies awake, bare and musty on some mornings - on artificially tepid sheets which mark the origin of recent battles made real. This is why she strives for more action than contemplation: to lose herself in the event, rather than consider why she cannot endure the objective reality when reflected by superficial emotions.