Belle's Domain
Fan Stuff

Joule's Diary by Tika

Dear Diary....  

I did it again. I know I said I wasnīt going to. I knew I said it wonīt ever happen again. Itīs too far below my level and if I ever get caught... I mean, Iīm no carriage. No stupid, lip-glossy, doll-eyed sissy relying on bouncy springs and soft cushions to make an impression. My life is not about the correct hairdo and if it matches with my nail polish. Damn, I donīt even use nail polish!! And if someone ever catches me, Iīll be so embarassed, Iīll die on the spot! Iīll rather die than live with them staring at me. I mean, maybe Electraīs going to kill me anyway. Or him.  

Okay. Calm down, babe. You just leave it and thatīs it. Very easy.... just as easy as forgetting about him. As impossible as claiming I never met him.  

The grandstands are always crowded when races are on, but even if there is no race, the carriages gather. To chat, to gossip, to exchange beauty advice... to watch the engines. To discuss the way they move, their shape and fitness and their chances at the next race. They bat their eyes and they giggle and smile if one of the guys winks at them. Or waves.... just yesterday Pearl arrived at the grandstand to enjoy Rusty do some rounds on the main circle. She called for him and blew him a kiss and he laughed and waved. Everyoneīs eyes were on them at once. Itīs disgusting, this oh-so-cute display of being hitched happly. I bet he took her for an ice cream afterwards. The perfect couple, if you ask me. The First-Class-Beautyqueen and the Winning-Engine-Next-Door... Heīs a boy, not a man! If you want a men, go for Greaseball. Join the big crowd up there staring at his very move, but donīt expect him to notice you. There are too many of you. I know why Dinah never shows up - I donīt know whether sheīs his coach or not at the moment. I really donīt care for keeping up with that silly "he loves me-he loves me not"-game.  

The engines out there know theyīre being watched. They like it. They all love being admired. And the carriages love to admire them. Childish competition of flirting and teasing. Buffy makes up with Bobo, while Ashley brakes up with him. Vice versa next day - same ladys, but Espresso. None of them minds. Itīs all about showing off. See and be seen. Thatīs why I shouldnīt be there. No oneīs supposed to see me. And I donīt want to participate, thank you very much.  

But I like watching him. I like watching him do these regular, easy moves that take him around the main circle. I like to see his muscles stretch and bend... he never moves full might. I see the power hidden behind his transaction, the power he never sets free, and I wonder how it would feel if he did. He doesnīt make a fuss, he does thing his way. He hardly ever talks to anyone. He doesnīt care for the giggly butterflies on the grandstand either. He never even looks at them. And he never looks at me hiding in the corner of the staircase. I donīt want him to see me, donīt want him to notice me looking at him. Enjoying the sight... We never talked. I donīt know how his voice sounds, but I imagine it deep and harsh, just like the sound of his motor. Sometimes, if I concentrate and listen closely, it feels as if hearing his breath when he passes the corner where I hide in the shadows. Feel his breath connect with my heartbeat...  

Is one of the pillow-princesses up on the grandstand there for him? I donīt know. And I mustnīt care. But I wonder - if he knew I come to watch him, and only him, would he care? Come over and treat me like a cutie-doll? Or treat me for what I am? Maybe heīd be scared, but I donīt think so. The dark eyes of his show his strength. Hell, heīs a diesel! Heīs not even bright enough to recognise danger, not if it was spitting in his face! Iīm too much for someone like him! Heīs not even worth looking at me!!  

But me... I continue watching him, though I know I shouldnīt. I just canīt resist it and this weakness I hate as much as I love to disobey the rules. Iīm one of Electraīs chosen, a component, his dynamit truck, hot enough to burn more than every minor engineīs fingers. Heīs far down below. Just a thick-headed, old-fashioned, oil-smelling Russian diesel engine - You know what? If heīd smiled at me once Iīd so no care for whatīs right.