Smoke and Scribbles

TALES OF TERROR '09

2009-11-02T05:23:27Z

These range from unfinished to really really unfinished and are of many fandoms and types! In two parts because of length.

"You've been to Argentina, right?" Shell asked.

"Yes," Sarah said, a little unnerved by the rapid change of subject. "Why?"

"Because they found this massive fucking raptor there. It's called a dromaeosaur and it could totally fuck your shit up. It's sixteen feet long. They have blade-like teeth. It's a monster raptor with knife teeth and scythe claws. Tell me that isn't fucking awesome."

"That sounds awesome." Sarah agreed. "Is it real?"

"Of course it's real. It was in National Geographic."

"You-- " Sarah stared. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It was on Robin's coffee table."

Shell looked entirely unconcerned with this, which was funny, because Sarah had so many questions that she couldn't decide which one to ask. She finally managed to say, "He keeps magazines on his coffee table?"

"Of course he does," Shell snorted, "Have you met the guy?"

"So," Sarah said, trying and failing to sound casual, "Why were you, um, reading his magazines?"

"Look, science girl," Shell said, "I know you're not frothing at the mouth for a boyfriend. I'll tell you this, though, sometimes you have to read whatever the hell's on their coffee table."

"I mean, you're… Going to his apartment?"

"Well, yeah."

"Why?"

"It's kind of what you do. He makes a shitty casserole, though."

this is all your fault

I woke up that morning thinking that the day might not completely suck. Sure, I'd almost been blown up by a demon the size of a Hummer, but that had been nearly twenty hours ago. Besides, that demon was dead, and both my client and karma owed me some serious credit at this point. The way things were going, there should be a pack of beautiful women outside my front door just to even up my score with the universe. That's what I was thinking last week. As it turned out, there was a pack of women outside, and they were, for the five seconds that I saw them before I started screaming like a little girl, pretty beautiful. Unfortunately, as per my daily schedule, they were there to kill me.

this is all your fault

I stared out of the windshield, intent on the man passing. The sun was just setting, the shadows starting to stretch out against the ground, and I had been waiting for this mark for two hours already. Medium build, dark hair, deeply tanned skin, an olive jacket with jeans. A lot like my mark, except this guy was maybe three inches too short, and his hair wasn't the crew cut I'd seen earlier. You can make yourself taller, make your hair shorter, but it's hard to go the other way. I gotta ask, what are the odds these two guys live in the same apartment building? Not saying it happened just to piss me off, but come on, a lot of things happen just to piss me off, right? Like right then. My mother was calling me, and I was ninety percent sure the universe was doing it just to screw with me. Mom was always calling me. Constantly. It wasn't good for stakeout. Twice now it had gotten me made, and I wasn't about to let that happen again. I opened it on the second ring, still staring out my window. "Hi, mom."

"Terence," she said in that shaky voice she uses when she wants me to feel bad about picking up on the first ring, "It's your old mother, just calling to catch up with you."

"Mom, I'd love to talk, really I would, but I'm on my way to Peru, so I won't be able to get on the phone for the next eighteen hours, or the plane might fall out of the sky and explode," I said quickly before hanging up.

She called back. I picked up and dragged the phone across the seat, then banged the glovebox open and shut a few times, throwing in some faint screams for good measure. I heard an angry, "Terence? Terence?" Then she hung up, probably to call the airport and scream at someone until she got a travel voucher. It had worked in the past.

She didn't call back. Nobody came out of the apartment. I picked up the sweater I'd left on the passenger seat and continued unravelling it. It was kind of a point of pride for me that I had managed to find a sweater this completely hideous. Now, I've been known to wear white after labour day, but even I could tell this was bad. It was a scummy orange, with thin lines of pea-green, and electric yellow star accents. I had unravelled the left sleeve and was starting on the right. The left sleeve was a neat orange ball on the backseat.

The night wore on without so much as a whiff of my mark. He was up in his fourth floor apartment. I could see his kitchen light still on, but my view was mostly obscured by his ridiculous and impressive window box. He had marigolds the size of my forearm. I hadn't known that was possible.

Around midnight, the kitchen lights went out, but I wasn't being paid to assume he was asleep. I stuck around. When I was done unravelling the sweater, I got my crochet hook out of the glovebox and started the base row for my new pair of socks. Socks are damned hard to crochet, but it's a great way to keep your hands busy on stakeout. My dad always gives me shit for the crocheting thing, thinks my seat covers are hilarious, but I'm not the one who starts fidgeting fifteen minutes into a stakeout. And even though he knows he gets bored, he's always asking to tag along. He brings audiobooks. I mean, who listens to an audiobook on a stakeout? Invariably, he falls asleep. I was kind of hoping at the time that the Peru thing would get him to leave me be for a while. Ideally, both my parents would think I was floating facedown in the Pacific.

The kitchen lights flickered back on, surprising me so much I pulled my next row way too tight. I hadn't expected much from this mark. It had seemed like your garden-variety paranoid investigation. His co-worker, the guy in the cubicle next to him, was the one paying me. He'd said he had overheard all kinds of crazy stuff, nighttime meetings and underground rooms behind secret doors, the whole nine yards. I'd taken the case for the money, because it seemed like a nice job, the kind where I'd get paid for teaching myself to turn a heel. I squirmed a little lower in my seat. The last thing I wanted to do was be seen now. The mark, with his medium build and deep tan skin and short black hair, went out of his door in what was not an olive jacket. He was wearing an expensive-looking grey business suit. It looked nicer than what I'd seen him wear to work.

He got in his car and started to drive. I waited thirty long, painfully tense seconds before I started to follow him. This wasn't a normal investigation. If I got lucky, this would be way, way better than learning to turn a heel. Maybe a real PI case, some Tracer Bullet stuff with pretty girls and a flask. The job I had thought I was headed for when I was eight years old.

this is all your fault

"Thanks for coming out here," the brunette said apologetically. Dean was confused -- She'd sounded way hotter on the phone. Sure, she was cute in that hippie way, probably grew her own vegetables, but she also seemed way too sensible to sleep with him. Sam might get some for once.

"Are they here?" said the hot phone voice. Another woman poked her head out of the kitchen. She was drying her hands on a dishcloth. She looked about the same age as the brunette, fresh out of college, probably, but her hair was stark white. "Hey, guys."

"Hi," Dean said, charming smile at the ready. "I'm Dean, this is my brother, Sam. You called us about -- "

"Yeah, we have a 'ghost' here," the woman sighed. "I'm Anne, by the way. That's Con."

"Hi," said Con.

"A ghost? How do you know?" Sam asked. Usually their clients were a little less matter-of-fact. The other ones were frequently crazy.

"Scratching sounds, cold spots, voices, the whole fantastically cheesy nine yards. I told Connie not to worry about it, but she had me call you."

"Actually, she's the one who said there was a ghost in the first place," Con pointed out quietly.

"I may have claimed, in passing, that there was something resembling a spirit in this house," Anne said with dignity. "But I wasn't serious, sweetheart, couldn't you tell?"

"I know you think you were lying," Con said stubbornly, "But you were right."

"I'm always right," Anne said.

"Make up your mind," Con sounded cross. "Do you two want something? I made scones."

"We're f-" Sam began, before the elbow Dean planted in his ribs left him gasping.

"We would love scones," Dean said. He smiled. Anne smiled back.

"I like you," she said, "That's a good smile. Keep practicing, though, there's always room for improvement."

"Don't be rude," Con muttered.

"I'm not being rude, I respect him as a fellow artist."

this is all your fault

Anne tipped back her fedora and looked up at the three men. The smallest was almost a foot taller than her, and probably could have lifted her in one hand. "Is this a shakedown, boys?"

"It's a start," the leader rumbled.

"I don't sell my friends out," Anne said. "You've got nothing."

"Do you think it'd be all that hard for us to get something?" That was followed by a meaningful (And, Anne thought, unnecessary) glance at Con, who was cleaning glasses by the bar.

"You wouldn't dare," she said loftily. It was no concern of hers if they decided to do something to Con. Con could take care of herself. Mostly.

"I think we would."

Anne had a comeback for that, but they were already leaving. As soon as they were gone, Con sighed and dropped the gun she'd been holding beneath the counter onto its polished surface. "Who were they?"

"Some guys," Anne said, "Where'd you get the piece?"

"Some guys," Con sniped.

Anne put a hand to her heart. "Ouch."

"It was a present from Keith. I don't like touching them, though."

"Aww. Did you do it for me, doll?"

"Who were they?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "A couple of torpedos. Nothing to worry about."

"Sounds like something to worry about."

"Come on, Mrs. Grundy. Pour me something. Where're those boys?"

"Keith and Aiden? They're off with that moll again."

Anne flipped the fedora off. "What's her name? Devika, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they just better not fight over her," Anne said, "I need them to work together."

"It'll probably be fine," Con said, thinking that it wouldn't be. It was always ugly when best friends fell for the same girl. She'd seen it happen.

this is all your fault

I had just picked up her dry cleaning when the call came. "John?" she said. "Are you on your way back?"

I sighed. I still had to pick up Arabella's coffee. I was nowhere near the point where I could head back to the office. After coffee, there was still that massive pile of paperwork, a meeting to organize with the head of imports in Indochina, a body to get rid of, and I had to walk her dog.

I hated cleaning up Arabella's messes. She wasn't a very tidy person, which was strange, because during business meetings she conducted herself like one. She pulled her hair back in a perfect bun and smiled with her bright white teeth at everyone there, which made them generally nervous. I was probably the only one who knew the truth -- Arabella ended each and every day with an office that looked like a hurricane had just struck, and I was the one who had to clean it up. I lint-rolled her lapels; I found her barrettes when she lost them; I alphabetized her books. Arabella was not a neat and organized person. However, she was a genius, and people tolerate quirks for the sake of genius. The truth was, Arabella was a fantastic problem solver. That's her entire job, what it says on her business cards: Arabella Faire, Problems Solved. I'm her assistant, Jonathan LeGrange. I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing. I'm not as good as Arabella, but I'm glad to be able to help her. I'm not always sure if she'd get along without me. She's good with other people's problems. She's pretty bad with her own. That's why one of the piles of paperwork I'm filling out today is the documentation for her divorce with her third husband. Because there are things Arabella just can't do, and apparently one of them is be married.

I'm also pretty bad at being married, but it might be because I've never gotten a chance to try.

Arabella's dog is a Pekinese named Franklin Heights. I have no idea why she named him that. People tend to assume it's a band, but I honestly don't think it is. I think Arabella named him that so people would think he was named after a band, and maybe think that they knew which band it was. It seems like something she would do. She asks people if they know about the war in Desmofistan just so she can tell them there's no such country. She made buttons for a protest and everything. Arabella likes it when people try to act smart so that she can prove they are faking. She likes to show them that she's better than them. Some people think Arabella is kind of a bitch. I don't think so. I think Arabella is a genius.

So I walked Franklin Heights, who was sick all over a tree and tried to pee on my leg, and I realized that I did not want to do the paperwork at all, so I put it off by disposing of the body. I've only done it twice, and I didn't remember how to do it all that well, but Arabella left me clear instructions on my Blackberry, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. She even left a link to the Google Maps with all the hardware stores that stocked sulphuric acid. This time I remembered to go to more than one.

The body was a businessman. He was pretty fat; I think he'd let himself go. I knew him, or rather had met him once at a function. He had asked the kitchen to make him a steak specially. Maybe he should have laid off on the steak. Or the mistresses. I don't think he'd be dead if he hadn't had quite so many mistresses. Arabella says the absolute limit ought to be two for any reasonable person. Arabella is very smart about that kind of thing.

So as soon as I was done with that and had changed my shirt to a nice, crisp, blue one from Ralph Lauren, I went and filed for Arabella's divorce. I would have called the department in Indochina, but I get nervous when speaking over the phone to people with accents.

Arabella's latest ex-husband was named Richard. He was asking for a divorce because she had suggested he move his mother to a retirement home in Florida. Richard said Arabella was a frigid bitch with no sense of family. I know that isn't true. Arabella moved her mother and father to their own house in the Caribbean as soon as she had enough money. I talk to them on the phone every week when they call. Arabella is often too busy for personal time, so I pass their messages on to her.

The department in Indochina was actually very nice. The receptionist had hardly any accent and was extremely polite, which is more than you get when talking to desk clerks here in America, who generally don't so much as take the gum out of their mouths. Arabella doesn't approve of gum and is trying to find a way to fix it.

this is all your fault

Annemarie had always wanted to fly. She'd spent most of her childhood trying to figure out how to do it. There were, when you really thought about it, a ton of ways to fly. There were balloons, fake wings, kites, zooming around like an airplane, jumping off a roof -- The list went on and on. Annemarie had tried all of them (broken arm, dislocated wrist, black eye, broken leg) and they had universally failed her. The last thing she had tried was an umbrella, right after seeing Mary Poppins. It hadn't worked, of course. She had been disappointed once again, and after that had decided not to try and fly again. Clearly it wasn't working out. She got older, and settled for taking a lot of airplanes and parasailing when she was on vacation. She tried to get her pilot's license, but was too shortsighted to qualify. Annemarie was heartbroken, but she never told anyone. Instead, she married a nice man named Peter and had two children. Her children did not want to fly. Wendy was scared of heights. John shot at birds with his BB gun. Annemarie despaired.

One day, she was sitting outside, watching the clouds, when she saw the oddest thing up above her. There was a small black speck. She knew it wasn't a bird or an airplane. It was rounder than either of those, and the wrong size. It was very high up. Annemarie, who was in the habit of doing this sort of thing anyway, waved to it. The speck got larger and larger as she waved. Soon she was able to see that it wasn't a black speck, it was a red speck. And then she saw it was a red speck with blue jeans and blonde hair and big goggles. The boy, who was wearing a thick leather bomber jacket, touched down in front of her, closing his umbrella as he landed. "Hi!" he said brightly.

"Hi," Annemarie said.

"Why'd you flag me down? You don't look like air control," he asked. He didn't seem angry that she had called him down. He was smiling very nicely. He looked only slightly older than John, slightly younger than Wendy, possibly sixteen or so. He had a soft British accent and good boots.

"I'm not air control," Annemarie said, "I was just wondering what you were. I know for a fact people cannot use umbrellas to fly."

"They can, actually," the boy said.

"They cannot," Annemarie informed him. "I've tried it."

The boy puzzled over this. He scratched his head and walked around in a circle two times, then said, "Aha."

"What is it?"

"Well, this is just a guess," he said, "But the issue is most probably that you weren't using a golf umbrella. They're quite large, see?" He held up his own red umbrella for inspection. It was really quite large.

"You use that to fly?" Annemarie was amazed.

"Indeed I do," the boy said. "My name is Harold, by the way."

"Harold," Annemarie said. "Wow. How did you get here?"

"I was flying across the ocean with my friends, but I was caught by a gust," Harold said, slightly embarrassed. "I'm turned around. Do you know which was Disneyland is?"

"Well, the Disneyland in California or the one in Florida?"

"There's only one Disneyland," he said sternly. "The other one is Disneyworld."

"Right," Annemarie said. "It's probably in that direction."

"Thanks!" Harold said. He shook her by the hand. "You've been terribly helpful, I can't thank you enough."

"You could, actually," Annemarie said. "Do you think you could, um, show me how to fly?"

"It's very easy," Harold said. "Would you like to come to Disneyland with me?"

"You know," Annemarie said, "I really, really would."

"Then go fetch a golf umbrella. A nicely coloured one."

As it happened, she had bought her husband a bright yellow golf umbrella. He never used it. She went and got it out of the mudroom.

"What a wonderful colour," Harold beamed.

"Thank you," Annemarie said. "Peter doesn't think so."

"People on the ground are not always very nice," Harold said, "It's rather depressing."

"Like people in the air are any different?" Annemarie said doubtfully.

"They are," he said. "Wouldn't you be happier if you could fly? Not in an airplane, but up in the sky, feeling the wind? People in the air are much nicer than people on the ground, or people in airplanes. Well, geese aren't, but geese are never very polite."

"Do you see a lot of birds?"

"Yes, but they haven't got much to say."

"You can talk to them?"

"You'll get the hang of it. It's a very simple language, bird. Tiny brains, you see. Once you understand it you'll wish you didn't." Harold laughed. It was a pleasant sound. Then he unfolded his big red golf umbrella. "So, are you ready?"

"Yes," Annemarie said decisively, "Yes, I am." She opened her yellow umbrella, which looked like the sun, and the wind caught them both, and then they were flying.

this is all your fault

While Annemarie was delighted to finally be flying, there was one thing she was worried about. Annemarie had a tendency to compulsively check the weather, on the radio, the TV, or in the paper. It made her feel more like she knew what was going on in the sky. Hearing about cloudbursts and tornadoes nearby gave her thrills. She'd had those same exact thrills this morning. With a slow tremor growing stronger in her gut, Annemarie realized that they were heading into a storm. They had no protection. They were being carried by large umbrellas! It was going to be awful, they were going to be struck by lightning, and she was probably going to die.

When she told Harold all this, especially the part about the storm and dying. he laughed. "Don't worry, miss."

"Why not?" Annemarie asked, a note of panic in her voice. "Why wouldn't I worry? We could die!"

"Think about it for a second," Harold said. "What are we using to fly?"

"Golf umbrellas. We're going to be electrocuted."

"That's exactly it! We're using gold umbrellas. And what do you use umbrellas for?"

"To keep the rain off," Annemarie said, not comprehending.

"You're terribly smart," Harold said admiringly, I "I wish I were as smart as you."

"Well, what does the umbrella have to do with things?"

"We're not going to be hit by the storm. Our umbrellas will keep us toasty and dry, you see?" Harold said. There were thunderheads getting closer to them now, looming menacingly on the horizon. He pulled his goggles down.

"It's too bad you don't have eye protection, Annemarie, but it'll all be fine," he said. "Your shoes won't even get wet. There's no puddles up here."

"This is a terrible idea," Annemarie said, closing her eyes tight just as they sailed into the first thick, dark, ominous cloud.

Nothing changed.

"See?" Harold sounded slightly muffled. "Not a problem."

Annemarie opened her eyes. She was inside the cloud, surrounded by thick, wooly-looking, dark fog. It wasn't cold, though. The fog wasn't even touching her. The cloud stayed away, at the periphery of her bright sunny-yellow golf umbrella.

"Isn't this fun?" Harold asked as rain began sliding off both their umbrellas. Annemarie could hardly see him The rain was positively torrential, but Annemarie and Harold both stayed toasty and dry.

"Well... yes, actually," Annemarie admitted. "It is fun."

"See?" Harold said. "That's is why this is the best way to travel."

Annemarie looked around some more. She could see the rain that went off of her umbrella pouring down onto the ground below them. It was quite a drop, but Annemarie wasn't scared. She'd never been nervous about heights. You may be wondering why her arms didn't get tired, but it's not really worth worrying about.

"Isn't it beautiful up here?" Harold said gleefully. Annemarie had to agree. She was enjoying it even more than she had expected to. There was something cozy about just how the rain just fell around them and the way the light filtered through the top of her bright, cheerful umbrella. She wondered when she would learn bird-language.

"Look over there!" Harold cried out.

"What is it?" Annemarie said, just as she realized exactly what it was.

Lightning flashed not twenty feet away from her. Annemarie couldn't scream, not even as thunder rolled at almost exactly the same moment. All she could do was laugh, a little hysterically but mostly like a little girl, giving herself over to it, losing everything in her fear and exhilaration and how completely and utterly beautiful the storm was.

this is all your fault

Keith had been really excited about moving into a dorm. He got along with people, for one thing, so it was a fantastic opportunity to make friends. And this might be his chance to room with Aiden for real. If they were rooming together, they would have so much fun. It'd be like those sleepover from grade school and high school, but every night. He had big plans for it. They could have parties. They could meet girls. Aiden could help him with homework.

So when he found out he wasn't rooming with Aiden, it came as sort of a shock. Instead, he was rooming with someone named Jaktplan, which didn't sound like a real name. Still, Keith was looking forward to getting to know him. People with names that didn't sound real usually had really cool stories about things that had happened to them! So there was a chance his roommate was a spy or worked for the Mafia. That would be awesome. Less awesome than rooming with Aiden, but still. Awesome.

He got to his room and dropped his duffel onto the bed on the right. It actually took him a second to notice that his new roommate was already there. The guy was sitting on the bed on the left, reading. He looked even more serious than Aiden on a bad day, which was saying something, but maybe he'd be fun, too. Aiden was fun. Keith leaned across the bed and proferred a hand to shake. "Hey! I'm Keith. You're Jaktplan, right? Cool name."

"Hey." His hand was, briefly, shaken.

"I'm glad you chose your bed," he continued, undaunted, "I wasn't sure which one you would want, but I guess it's not a problem."

"No."

"So!" Keith said after a long silence. "What do you like to do for fun?"

"I like reading," Jaktplan said. "In the quiet."

"I have a friend like that. He's been my friend since -- Kindergarten, actually. I kind of thought I'd be rooming with him, but this is cool, too. This is like a whole new thing. It's an adventure."

"Why don't you go bother him?"

"Um," said Keith, who was not used to people being mean to him.

Jaktplan glanced up from the book. "No, really."

"Are you okay? Are you nervous about being at a new school and having a new home? I was nervous, kind of," Keith, who hadn't been nervous at all, said. "But don't look at it that way! Think of it as a new thing to explore!"

"I'm really not."

"Besides, it's great to make new friends. You've been here for just a few minutes and you already have a friend. I think my friends will like you, too. You should come out with us."

"I'm just going to read this."

"Don't be a stick in the mud," Keith said, "Socializing is important for your health. Aiden is basically going to be a doctor and he told me that."

"You're kind of unreal," Jakt commented. "Did you come here to learn or talk?"

"I learn best by talking. It lets me get involved in the material."

Jakt was absolutely not looking forward to this.
this is all your fault

"Con, are you coming?" Anne asked.

Constance had no idea what she was talking about. She had just met Anne White, who was dorming with her, and had immediately been nicknamed, darlin'd, and talked at to within an inch of her life. She was intimidated by the other girl, who looked like an art student with her long white hair, vintage shirt, and big, blue eyes. Anne had met Constance, tossed her bag into the closet, and then gone out of the room for about twenty minutes. She'd come back with two party invitations and a phone number. Constance had no idea what to make of her.

"Am I coming to what?"

"The party," Anne said. "The party I got invited to. It's for juniors and seniors only, but they said I could come and bring a friend if I wanted to. People are very nice, aren't they?"

"I don't really like parties," Con said.

"Have a drink there, loosen up! I'll buy."

"I don't drink," Con said.

"Well, then what DO you do?" Anne asked. She grabbed Con by the elbow and dragged her upright, then began rifling through her closet. "This is nice, wear this."

"That's my church dress," Con said nervously.

"Do people still have those? Just tug it down in front and don't wear the sweater, you'll look fantastic. If you wear stockings it'll be really librarian-chic."

Constance saw no other immediate mode of escape, and took the dress down off its hanger. "I'd really rather not go to this."

"Oh, stop," Anne said. "It's a party! It'll be fun. Think of all the people you'll meet!"

So that was how Constance ended up at the party, nonalcoholic lemonade in hand, standing on the outskirts and as close to the door as possible. She'd been there for twenty minutes, and was nearly ready to leave, when Anne emerged from the crowd. There was a boy with her. He didn't look like an upperclassman, either, and was almost radiating exhuberence.

"This is Julian," Anne said. "Julian, this is Con."

"Cool name," he said, grinning.

"It's Constance, actually," she said to the floor.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing near the wall?" Julian wanted to know. "Anne was looking for you. She wants you t -- "

"Dance," Anne cut in, "I want you to dance with me."

Con shook her head, turning pink. "I don't dance very well. At all, actually."

"It's easy," Anne said. "Come on."

Con sipped at her lemonade and thought, Well, maybe. She's nice. It won't kill me, except maybe I'll blush myself to death. She nodded.

Anne smiled hugely and tugged her away from the wall. The music was very, very loud and the room wasn't all that large. Con, who was getting way too hot, had some more lemonade. She realized she sort of COULD dance, if pressed, although she didn't really like how people were looking at her. She'd have been scared, except she wasn't, and she couldn't figure out why. Maybe because someone was there with her. Anne let off confidence in waves. It was hard to deny her anything, hard not to dance when she said dance, hard not to follow her like a planet in orbit.

Con pushed her way out of the crowd and went for some more lemonade. It was sweltering in the room. Julian was standing by the drinks table. He nodded at her. "Have fun with Anne?"

"Yes, actually," Con said. "It was very -- Um -- " It was good to have something to sip at in your hands when you couldn't think of quite what to say.

"You like that lemonade, huh?" he asked.

"I didn't at first."

Anne came after her, zeroed in on her and Julian, and bounced up to them. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Con was just telling me how she likes the lemonade," Julian said.

Con giggled.

Anne bit her lip, possibly suppressing a laugh. "Okay, darlin', let's get you home."

"D'you call everyone that, or just me?" Con asked. Anne didn't answer. She directed Con out of the room and got her across campus, back to their dorm. Then she held Con's hair back while she threw up in the toilet.

"Sorry, darlin'," she said, her hand soft and cupped agains the back of Con's neck. "Won't let it happen again."

this is all your fault

PART TWO

smokexscribbles @ 2009-11-02T00:19:00

2009-11-02T05:21:54Z

He can see, very clearly, the light over the hilltops as the town burns to the ground. He shudders when the smell hits him -- Acrid burning hair, skin, woodsmoke, hot metal, paint, melting glass. He's never in his life considered pyromania. He fears fire, does not feel he could control it. When he sees a candle he cannot help but imagine dragging his sleeve through it and going up like God's chosen bush. He's never had a real burn, only held onto matches for too long, but still. Fire, warm and flickering, looks too alive to him, like a beast to be unleashed onto everything flammable, to devour, to destroy, to eat itself to death. He'd never thought he'd need to set a fire. He feels sick, lightheaded, as though he can't breathe in as deeply as he'd like. It'd be like inhaling a crematorium. He thinks of that, specks of dead people inhabiting his body, building a new town inside of him, and he wants to stop breathing, possibly vomit up everything he has ever eaten. So maybe the town got to him a little more than he expected it to.

There are bits of dead people inside of him now. How is he supposed to do anything with them as an audience? How is he supposed to sleep ever again?

this is all your fault

Gregory wonders all the time about the town inside of him. He wonders when he's eating if everything is raining down on them, crushing them or maybe feeding them. He's really not comfortable with the town in his stomach, He's trying to figure out how to get it out of there. He thinks maybe he should see a doctor.

The doctor Gregory sees has an office full of books and promises to refer him to a specialist, a surgeon, but Gregory has to talk to her about the town first. He agrees, because why not? And she'll tell him everything, help him, he'll be able to sleep again when there's nobody watching him from the inside.

Gregory holds his stomach in his arms and leans forward in supplication, tilts his forehead towards the doctor's desk, says please, will she help him?

"Yes, Gregory, but you have to tell me what you did."

Gregory moans. He shivers, has the feeling that someone hidden is watching him. He has this feeling more and more lately. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Gregory," she says, iron hidden in her voice, "Please tell me. Otherwise I can't help you."

Gregory says okay, he'll tell, okay, but he has to whisper or write it down, because they'll listen, they'll hear him.

"That's okay," she says.

Gregory begins.

this is all your fault

I went to the town (Gregory writes) because I was traveling. I was just looking for a place to stay, that's all. I found an inn in this little town. I was in the middle of nowhere, I don't remember where I was at that point. There are some things I can't remember about that town. This, well, this isn't one of them.

I spent my first three days there in an inn called - I don't know. It was tiny. Anyway, this inn, this town, they were both really quiet. I saw people from time to time, but they weren't talkative. They talked to each other a whole lot, but never to me. I assumed it was one of those things with outsiders in small towns, where if you go somewhere new you're kind of an intruder. It happens, especially in a place like that. Everybody knew everybody.

This story, I, well, it happened how I'm going to write it down. It didn't happen another way, and I'm not confused or upset. I'm maybe a little crazy. I'm not an idiot; I can tell that. But I'm not stupid. Never stupid. I remember exactly how this part happened, even if I can't remember the inn.

I was walking through the town square. It was June, really bright and sunny, warm. I was just enjoying myself. I think I was going to get something. Stamps, maybe. Or bread, or juice, or a book. I don't remember. I was going to get something on the opposite side of the square, which my room at the inn looked out on. There was this pile in the middle of the town. A pile of wood. And I asked what it was for, and the man who was making the pile, he was a police officer, asked me to come back later. Move along, you know. So I left. And I went and bought my stamps or my juice, bread, book, whatever the hell I was buying that was so damnably important. It took half an hour, I guess. On my way back, they were finishing the pile up. It looked so familiar, but I thought there was a reason. Some town festival, like Guy Fawkes day. I don't know. Anything. It's the 21st century, you know? You leap to different conclusions.

I was at the inn, writing at my desk. I think I was writing a letter, so I must have gone to get stamps. That's probably what I got. I was writing my letter to someone back home. There was red light reflecting off my window, and outside I could hear, well, nothing. It was eeriely silent, even for that crazy little town, even for that town where nobody talked to me of their own volition, it was creepy how quiet it had gotten.

I still don't know why I went outside.

All the people from the town were standing in a big circle around the pile of wood. The stake. Circled around like they were watching something. I could smell smoke. There were the beginnings of a bonfire flickering up from within the circle. I walked into the ring of people. They parted so I could get through, which was scary in and of itself.

There was a girl. Tied to the stake in the middle of all those people, this girl, this fucking beautiful girl with long hair down past her waist and huge, terrified blue eyes. She was gagged, and wearing a long, shapeless dress. It didn't suit her. It wouldn't have suited anyone. She was crying, but not screaming. Her hands were clenching and unclenching behind her. At first, I was too shocked to say anything. The people around me kept watching, impassively, as she struggled and jerked. The smell was horrible. The only person showing any emotion was a boy beside me. He looked to be about the same age as the girl, and he was being held by two men twice his size. One of them had a hand over his mouth. He was crying, too, as hard as the girl was. I want to say I went to help her then. I want to have been the hero, but I wasn't. I was so scared. I hate fire. I knew that if I got closer to it, that I would die, melt away, flare up. That it would be painful and awful. That none of these people would help me. Instead I asked the boy, "Who is she? Why?"

He bit the man on the hand and got his mouth free. "She liked it when I called her Melody," he said, "And because she's -- "

That was only the first thing I saw there.

this is all your fault

They were encamped in the shadow of Captain's ship. Aiden was reading, Keith was trying to cook, Dev was actually cooking, Captain was cleaning her gun, and Anne was telling Constance about a gigantic, horrible monster that had lived in these very woods for hundreds of years. Con didn't buy a word of it, but was listening anyway.
They were five miles away from the nearest town and had been there for a few hours. Aiden didn't even look up from his book when he said "Someone's coming."

"Hey!" a girl's voice said. "Thought the ship looked familiar. Wonderful to see you again."

Anne say straight up and stared into the trees, looking more surprised than Con had ever seen her. "Is that -- "

The girl came out from behind a broad oak. She was, Con thought, extremely pretty. She felt significantly overshadowed, especially because the famously un-shockable Anne was sitting up ramrod-straight and looking like she'd seen a ghost.

The girl had brown hair in neat, loopy curls and bright green eyes that sparkled in a distinctly familiar way, a way that said: I'm having fun now, how about you? She had a round face and bow-shaped lips and a cute nose. Con couldn't even be jealous. She had to settle for humbly intimidated.

"Anne," the girl said. "How've you been?

Anne was, for once, silent. There was, however, the distinct, quiet sound of a gun being cocked. Captain looked more casual with her weapon than any reasonable fifteen year old should be able to. "Turn around, Clara."

"Cap! Wonderful to see you again."

"You've got to the count of zero," Captain threatened. "And use my damned title."

"Hold up," Anne said, finally emerging from her daze. "Put it down, Cap'n."

"What?" Captain sounded scandalized.

"Put it down. C'mon, Cap. Clara's not much danger, are you, Clare?"

"It's true," Clara said. "I'm about as dangerous as a rabbit. Mayfly, even."

"I don't want you here," Captain said brusquely. "For now, this is my crew, and Anne's not giving the orders."

"Cap, she's fine," Anne said. Captain glared at her, but lowered the gun.

"Thanks, Cap," Clara said, bouncing forward.

"I never said you could call me that," Captain growled. "I'm going to help with dinner."

She stalked off. "Hey, cutie," Clara said, standing over Anne and Constance. "Who're you?"

Con blinked. "I'm Constance."

"She's Con," Anne said. Her arm settled across Con's shoulder. "I made a friend."

Clara smiled warmly at Con. "That's wonderful."

"It is," Anne said.

"Isn't it funny, me passing through here?" Clara said. "I was thinking, we should catch up. Spent some time together, maybe."

Con said, "How do you two know each other?"

"Wouldn't you love to hear that story," Clara said. "I'll tell you, if you like."

"Yes, please."

"Wonderful. Do I smell soup?"

It was the middle of the night, chilly and pitch black, when Clara whispered, "Darlin', wake up, would you? Don't yell."

Con woke up, partly because of that and partly because there was something cold and sharp against her throat. Clara smiled warmly at her, eyes bright. Are we having fun yet?

"I'm awake," Con said.

"Wonderful."

Con tried to sit up and discovered her hands were tied. "What's going on?"

Clara stood up. "I'm catching up with an old friend. Anne, darlin', you're slipping. You didn't even think to be suspicious, did you?"

Con could barely make Anne out. The girl was in a heap on the ground, her hair obscuring her face, her body outlined by the dying fire behind her. She wasn't moving. Clara grabbed her hair in one hand and jerked her head up. Anne moaned quietly, Now that her head was off the ground, Con could see red in her hair, viciously bright against her scalp. Anne's eyes were half-closed and unfocused. "Anne," Clara said. "Darlin'. Tell me what you did with our haul."

Anne didn't respond. Clara released her, letting her head thump against the ground.

"Clara," Devika's voice said from somewhere in the darkness, "She's concussed. Let me -- "

"Don't make me gag you, too," Clara said. "I'm not unreasonable. I don't want you dead, or her. I just want to know where my treasure is."

"She could be really hurt, she could go into shock -- " Devika protested. Clara left the fireside and walked into the darkness until Con couldn't see either of them, could only hear their voices.

"Darlin'," Clara said, softly, nearly sweetly, "I told you to shut up." There was a loud crack. Devika whimpered. Con could hear Aiden cursing very quietly under his breath. "Look at this dedication!" Clara said. "Five minutes ago you were looking to negotiate. What'd you say? You're going to kill me? You didn't care this much when it was Anne's ass on the line, but one slap to this little lady and you completely lose it. Both you boys."

She returned to Anne. Con's eyes were glued to what little of Clara she could see. She knelt down and once again got a grip on Anne's hair, nearly pulling her into a sitting position. "Still doing the hair thing. You've got one hell of an ego, Miss White. You could be such a great thief, con artist, whatever, if you'd just be subtle, but no! You need them to write songs. You need the show. Always the greatest, always looking for adventure, aren't you?"

Anne blinked slowly. "I am."

"It's pathetic, you know?"

"It's not."

"Anyways, I'm not doing this with you. You love this part, where you get to be all witty and brave. We're skipping straight to the part where I say tell me where the treasure is or I'll get my cut from the reward when I turn you in."

"Clare, darlin', you wouldn't -- "

"Darlin'," Clara said contemptuously. "Clare. Don't you have anything that's just yours? Gotta take everything, even my pet names." She gestured at Con, who flinched. "You downgraded, darlin', really you did. Just look at her."

"Leave her alone," Anne said.

"You really do make friends fast," Clara said. She let go of Anne, who nearly fell again before managing to get up on her knees. Clara didn't so much as look back at her. She lifted Constance's chin, surveying her. "What's your story? How'd you two meet?"

"I-- I was running away from home," Con said. She felt that there was significantly less oxygen around her than she had started out with.

"Running away. Classic. That's wonderful."

"Clare," Anne said, her voice strangled and still slightly lost, "Please leave her out of this."

"Anne doesn't think I'll turn her in," Clara confided. "But she knows I'll hurt you. She should know she can't charm her way out of this."

Con couldn't find her voice anymore. The fire's embers were still stubbornly burning, and they turned Clara's knife orange-red, made shadows flicker across it. She couldn't stop looking at it.

"Clara, please," Anne said. "I'll tell you! But-- I have to tell you here."

"Why here?" Clara asked, eyes still fixed on Constance.

"I want my friends to hear. I don't want to keep secrets from them." Anne sounded so awful, so tiny. Con was slightly horrified.

"We're not playing this game," Clara turned around and walked back towards Anne, who was still on her knees. She leaned down to grab Anne by the shoulder.

Anne hit her over the head with a rock. "You're right," she said ruefully, "We're not." She stood up and very nearly ran to Constance. "You alright, darlin'?"

"Fine," Con squeaked. Anne was untying her hands in a quick, practiced fashion. "Anne, what she said -- "

"Oh, that," Anne said. She used the rope that had been on Con's wrists to tie and gag Clara. "She's a great thief, Clara is, but she's not much of a liar. All those things she said about me, you couldn't tell she was just trying to rile you? Con, really. I thought you were good at spotting that kind of thing."

Con said, "Did you hide the treasure?"

Anne rubbed at the heels of her hands. They were singed where she'd used the embers of the fire to burn the rope in two. "I gave it away, darlin'. I'm like that folktale guy with the feather in his hat. A real humanitarian."

this is all your fault

Back To School Day is the worst day of the year except for exams and my brother's birthday. The thing on Back To School Day is that you have to meet all these new people and remember their names and meet a ton of teachers and decide if they're so horrible they're going to ruin your year. Sometimes you get homework and it's just way too soon. The thing on my brother's birthday is I have to pretend to be happy when he gets presents. The thing on exams is: They're exams.

One year for my brother's birthday I ate three pieces of his cake and threw up green. At exams once I studied all night and had a nightmare that I was bleeding to death from papercuts. This Back To School Day, I got my locker assignment.

My locker number is 207, which is above 206 and between 205 and 209. The problem is the kid who uses 209. His name is Sammy Quark. Sammy Quark is a very strange young man, my mom says, and a little funny, my dad says, and my class mostly says Sammy Quark is fucking crazy but I don't think I should put that in an essay.

On the very first day after Back To School Day, Sammy Quark looked at me. I know you can look at people if you want to, but Sammy looked at me, and for the rest of the day, I kept thinking about Sammy looking at me. My friend Veronica, whose mom is learning how to heal people with the power of crystals, said Sammy Quark probably likes me, and the burning desire in his heart made his gaze memorable.

Two days after Back To School Day, I was late getting to my locker, and I walked behind Sammy while he had his locker open. He slammed it shut so fast I jumped. I wanted to ask him why he did that, and maybe say that he shouldn't slam his locker shut, because a teacher might hear it, but he looked at me and so I didn't say anything. When Sammy Quark looks at me, it's really hard to think of stuff to say.

A week after Back To School Day, or about a week, I guess, I was in science class and I heard someone who was probably Sammy Quark slam his locker shut. The teacher started to look pretty angry, so I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Sammy Quark was weird, but he shouldn't have to be yelled at by Dr. Geove. I went out in the hall and saw Sammy on his hands and knees, trying to reach into the space right below locker 206. "Sammy," I said, and he didn't look at me, so I kept going. "Sammy, don't slam your locker. Dr Geove is really mad."

"Shut up," Sammy said to me, which was pretty rude. I was trying to warn him. He stayed on his hands and knees, one of his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, with his arm underneath the locker. There's supposed to be metal there so we don't kick anything underneath, but it was gone, so there were about two inches of space down there.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Go away," he said, which was pretty rude for the second time that day.

I crouched down next to him and tried to look under the locker, because I wanted to see what he was looking for, but he jerked his arm out and grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. His hand was dirty from being under the locker. There was dust smeared all over it and stuff under his fingernails. He looked at me in that weird way, and up close I could see his eyes were really pale, and that there were dark circles under them, and the white line running down across his lip. That was when I realized I that I didn't care if Dr Geove yelled at him, as long as he let go of me. I was scared of Sammy Quark. I pulled on my arm as hard as I could and stood up, then went back to class super fast. I could tell he was still looking at me. When I got back to class, my friend Lainey gave me this weird look. That was when I saw the gigantic dust-grey handprint on the arm of my shirt. I couldn't brush it off, so I had to go around the rest of the day with this big ugly mess on my sleeve.

After school, I went to the office to see if I could change lockers. Ms Remy, who works in the office, frowned when I asked to change my locker assignment. She wanted to know why I was changing it.

"Beverly," Ms Remy said, "I hope a girl as fortunate as yourself can be kind to someone who is a little different."

"I'm not being mean to him," I said, "I just want to change lockers."

"Beverly," she said, so I left.

I don't know how many days it was after Back To School Day when I saw something coming out of Sammy Quark's locker. The locker usually smelled pretty bad, and there was sometimes this noise that came from inside it, a buzz that got louder when I opened my locker up. Anyway, that day I saw something coming out of the vents in his locker.He wasn't there, and I wanted to get a better look, so I just kind of peeked. I wasn't snooping. But there were these gross black bugs coming out of the vents, and when I saw them I kind of freaked out. I jumped back right when Sammy was coming around the corner, and I guess he saw me looking at his bugs, because he came right up to me. He got in my face and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Beverly," he said, which was weird, because he'd never said my name before, "Were you looking at my locker?"

I shook my head but ended up saying yes. He didn't look too angry. He was just doing that thing where he looked right at me and made it really hard to think about stuff. I didn't like it when he looked at me that way. It made me feel weird, but not weird like Veronica thought. It made me feel like I did when I had pneumonia and couldn't think. Like my head was full of something huge and heavy.

"Beverly," he said, "Do you want to come by my house to study today?"

this is all your fault

Rook could be good at dancing, perhaps, if he didn't grip Thom's hand like a battle, if maybe he didn't hold on so tight. He's got no tenderness in him, and even moments that look soft from the outside are, beneath the surface, just another fight. He cups the back of Thom's head in his hand and his fingers are secretly tugging at Thom's hair, pulling just hard enough that he can't move, not hard enough to make him really hurt. He runs a hand across Thom's back and there's poorly-contained energy in the movement, a quiet spring ready to uncoil, danger. Every time he kisses there are teeth.

Thom, for his part, is not a fainting flower, and mostly he pretends not to notice. When Rook claps him on the shoulder a bit too hard, he steps forward enough to soften it. Sometimes when Rook's grip on his hand is too tight, he simply shakes himself free. But there are also times when he reminds Rook that they grew up the same, and that he has teeth, too, and that when there was Havemercy he rode her as well, that even if it was just once, he stayed on.

this is all your fault

Julian said, "It's just a stage rehearsal," and almost sparkled as he said it, which somehow convinced Evan that it was a great idea to go. And anyway, it was important, wasn't it? Julian had said just a stage rehearsal, but really it was a stage rehearsal that a fairly important theatre owner was planning on attending. Julian, who really should be taking it all more seriously, was possibly even more upbeat and colorful than normal. Evan nearly snapped at him one day, because he was trying to fix a tiny gear and Julian had insisted on juggling one-handed, which was distracting to say the least. He smiled at the bright little rainbow-hued balls as they bounced back and forth in his left hand, did something complicated and bounced one off his shoulder, moved them behind his back. He had a practically reverential look on his face, like he was amazed that he could do this, like this was the most beautiful that life could get.

He did this again and again over the course of the next week, and Evan actually did lose his temper once, because Julian was juggling three small clocks (which was, he knew, very difficult, because they were different shapes and sizes, but still!) and that was simply unacceptable. Julian apologized laughingly three times and seriously once, and then Evan had to forgive him, because he looked kind of sad.

Five minutes before the stage rehearsal, with the big theatre owner sitting by himself right up front, Julian pulled Evan aside and said, "My assistant's sick."

Evan was taken aback. "What?"

"The girl who goes in the box," Julian said.

"Which box?"

"The vanishing box," Julian said like Evan was three.

"What are you going to do?"

Julian shrugged. "I don't have a lot of good, big, stage tricks. I might not get the spot."

"That's too bad," Evan offered. It was too bad. Julian loved this. He deserved it. It was hardly fair that a sick girl, whose only job was to wear a sparkly dress and go into a box, was going to stop him.

"Unless," Julian said, that spark entering his eyes.

"Unless what?" Evan asked, then figured it out two seconds too late. "No. No. Julian, no."

Julian was already shuttling him along behind the curtains. "Come on."

"I won't look good in a sparkly dress," Evan said, panicking.

"You would look fantastic in a sparkly dress, but my assistant was sick all over hers, so you don't get to show off your admirable assets," Julian said cheerfully, still forcing him closer to the stage. "Don't be nervous, just go in when I say to and smile real big."

Evan tried to smile. He felt like he was going to be sick, and was turning vaguely green. "That's good," Julian said, "It makes your teeth look whiter."

The incredulous look Evan gave him was both perfect and entirely ignored. Julian put on his cape with a little flick of his wrist. He made his wand appear in his hand. He produced a top hat. Then he went out on stage. It was hard to hear what he was saying from behind the thick curtains of the wings, but Evan knew what it was in a general sense. Julian loved this part. He loved talking to them, saying "Hello, ladies and gentlemen! What you are about to witness may shock and frighten you, but do not be alarmed!"

Evan had no idea how he did it.

After about fifteen minutes (which felt like both two seconds and fifty years simultaneously), during which time Evan's stomach twisted itself around his kidneys, Julian called out, "And now, with the help of my lovely assistant -- "

That was when Evan was supposed to go out, but his feet were fixed to the floor.

"Lovely assistant," Julian said, and added, "Sorry, he's not the usual lady, and he's a bit nervous. Let's see if a little applause will help things."

Evan kind of wanted to tell him that no, applause would not help things in the slightest, but instead he gritted his teeth and went out on stage. Julian bowed to him, pulling a rose out of the air and presenting him with it. "For you."

He knew it was for the lady assistant, that the magician was supposed to sort of flirt with her and tell the audience how pretty she was and just generally be a gentleman. That didn't mean it wasn't the unholy summit of embarrassment for him.

"This box," Julian was saying, "Is solid, as you can see. You may inspect it if you like. My assistant is going to step inside." He nodded at Evan and said, very quietly, "Go on."

Evan gave him a Look as he began to close the door of the box. Julian sighed and raked a hand through his hair, then made as if to touch the side of Evan's head. "Look," he whispered, "I found this in your ear."

It was a silk scarf, and Evan held onto it when the door had closed and everything was black.

this is all your fault

"We're lost," Susie said, slamming the map back down on the dashboard. "Lost lost lost."

"Nah, we're not lost," Calvin said. "This is another path to glorious adventure." He ducked quickly enough to avoid her fist, but hit his head against the window instead. She smirked at him, satisfied with that revenge.

"We ARE lost. And -- " She checked the dial on the dashboard "We're out of gas."

"This sucks."

"Any bright ideas, mister?"

"Of course," Calvin said, affronted. "We'll hitch."

She gritted her teeth, clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white, and let out a long, slow breath. "We can't hitch."

"Why not?"

"I like this car."

Calvin liked the car, too. It was a Mercury Cougar from 1989, a two-door coupe almost as old as he was. "We'll come back for it. Hitchhike to the next gas station and get them to come fix it. Sound good?"

Susie glared at him, but grabbed her stuffed-bunny-backpack from the backseat and got out of the car. Calvin grinned at her as he slung his own bag over his shoulder. "Don't forget to lock it."

"I'm not an idiot. You're the one who said we didn't have to stop at that last station."

"Sooz, are we really holding people accountable here? I mean, that's all in the past. Dust in the wind, as it were." Then, "Oof," when she threw their last bag directly into his stomach.

"I'm not carrying it. Let's go."

Calvin lifted it without (much) protest and together they began to walk back up towards the road. They had driven off the dirt road and into the trees, so hopefully the car wouldn't be visible from the road. The last thing they needed was for it to get stolen. Susie would blame him, for one thing. And they'd be stranded out here in the middle of… well, wherever they were. They'd been headed for Canada and had taken sort of a detour. It was possibly Wisconsin. "There are timberwolves in Wisconsin," he said. "Five hundred of them."

"I'm glad we're not in Wisconsin," Susie called back to him. "Catch up."

Calvin ran to catch up to her, although he slowed down every time she looked back.

They stood by the side of the road for almost an hour. Susie fumed for the first ten minutes, ignoring Calvin completely, but he kept talking regardless. "See this forest? There are dinosaur bones in here. There are gigantic snakes that can swallow you in ten seconds. Man-eating tigers."

Susie stared resolutely down the road.

"It's okay. You're safe from tigers. I'm a professional tiger wrangler."

There was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Calvin opened his bag up and pulled out the ancient toy tiger inside. He held onto its paws, making it creep across the ground towards her. "Look out, it's a vicious man-eating tiger! Run!" He jerked the toy back and started to wrestle with it, rolling across the dirt of the road. Susie watched in amusement. Finally he stood up again, breathing heavily. "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane."

Susie started laughing then. When the pickup truck that took them to the next town showed up, she was still laughing.

Later, in a motel room, when Susie was asleep, Calvin pulled the toy tiger out of his bag. "You doofus," it said. "You blew it."

"Well, what was I supposed to do, if you're so smart?"

"You should have kissed her," Hobbes said. "You've got the game of an antelope."

"She was really pissed," Calvin said.

"Look, old buddy," the tiger sighed, "Leave the women to me, and we'll do all right."
this is all your fault

When Mattie comes home, he finds Rhys on the floor of his living room again. He puts his briefcase down. Rhys is stretched out on his back. His eyes, which are usually pale blue and kind of spooky, are closed. His hair, which Mattie helped him dye blue, looks like a puddle around his head. His chest is behind pulled towards the sky, his body describing a neat arc across Mattie's floor. Rhys is having a fit. There's not much Mattie can do to stop it. "Rhys," he says, "Rhys?" but Rhys stays how he is, back bowed, muscles knotted, eyes flickering behind his eyelids. His mouth moves in something like words, if the words were on a record that got left out in the sun. He speaks in gibberish and long vowels and repeats himself over and over again, he screams like someone is hurting him, he moans. Sometimes he says a real word while he's in the middle of a fit, and Mattie hates that because it scares him so much.

Rhys drops fully to the ground, which is Mattie's cue to grab onto his wrists and hold them tight. He convulses violently for several seconds, almost hits Mattie's ear, kicks over a planter and scatters dirt across the floor. Then he falls asleep.

Mattie stands up and gets a pillow off the couch, which he puts under Rhys' head. He drapes his long coat across him, too, and then goes to the kitchen to get the broom. He sweeps up the planter. He makes linguini for dinner.

He comes back into the living room with two plates of linguini about half an hour later. Rhys is sitting cross-legged on the couch pillow, drawing in his sketchpad with a green crayon. There are deep, dark, exhausted circles under his eyes. When Mattie comes in, he says, "My pencils are gone."

"There's a pen on the desk," Mattie says.

"I don't like your desk."

"Okay," Mattie says. "I'll find your pencils. Eat at the table."

Rhys leans in towards his sketchpad and scratches at the crayon. "In a second."

"Did you eat today?"

"Before the thing happened I did."

"What did you eat?"

Rhys thinks about this. " . . . Soup."

Mattie thinks about Rhys heating soup up on the stove, collapsing backwards, jerking on the kitchen floor as the stove burner sets the apartment on fire, and tries not to wince too visibly. "Great. And the fit was -- "

"Bright," Rhys says, "Loud."

"How long?"

He thinks about this. "I can't tell time when I'm like that."

"Do you remember what you were doing when it happened?" Mattie prods. He sometimes has to do this. Rhys isn't at his brightest or his best right now.

"I was going to watch TV. That show I like."

It's Thursday, so the show he likes comes on at -- God. Mattie grabs his shoulders and looks into his eyes, checking the dilation of his pupils. No wonder Rhys couldn't find his pencils. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Rhys says. "My throat hurts."

"Open," Mattie says. He obediently opens his mouth. His throat is red. There are bite marks inside his cheeks. Mattie swears under his breath. "Show me your hands." Just as he expected, there are bright fingernail marks across his palms. Mattie pulls out his cell phone and uses one hand to hit two on his speed-dial. The other one he uses to (very gently) lift up Rhys' shirt.

"Hello?" the phone says. It's a girl, young and cute from the sound of her voice. When did the church start hiring secretaries?

"Hi, this is Mattie. I need to talk to John Ginora? It's about Rhys," he says as he pulls up the white cotton "I Gave Blood!" shirt. He sighs. Rhys' back is rug-burned, bruised, and scraped. There's purple spreading across his shoulders. That's got to hurt. He touches one shoulder and Rhys makes a small, strangled noise. "Sorry," Mattie whispers just as John Ginora gets on the phone.

"What are you apologizing for, my child?"

This man sets Mattie's teeth on edge. "I wasn't. I'm calling about -- "

"About our prophet, yes. He's doing well?"

"Not so well right now, sir. He had a seizure."

John Ginora chuckles. "That's what he does, you know. And please. Don't make his visions sound like a disease."

"With respect, Mr. Ginora, his visions are never four hours long," Mattie says, a little triumphantly, because there is no way this can't be taken seriously, no dismissive answer Ginora can give him.

Ginora is silent for a few seconds. "Four hours? Are you sure?"

"Fairly, sir."

"Well?"

This wasn't what Mattie was expecting. He was expecting: The church will pay the hospital bill, I hope the ambulances are on their way. "Well what?"

"What did he see, boy? It must have been important!"

"Sir, he needs medical treatment."

"What did he see?" Ginora insists. He sounds desperate. "What did he -- " Mattie hangs up.

"Rhys?" he says, lowering the shirt. "Can you walk?"

Rhys shrugs. It's tiny, like he can't move his shoulders much. He tries to get up and falls back onto his pillow. "Maybe not."

Mattie grabs his suit jacket off of the couch. "I can take you to the car or call an ambulance."

"The car," Rhys says. Mattie helps him up, gets an arm under him, and helps him walk out of the apartment, down the stairs, and across the crowded sidewalk. It must hurt, but Rhys isn't saying anything. His eyes are fixed on the sky. Mattie gets him into the passenger seat, buckles him in, and practically vaults the hood, Dukes of Hazzard style, to get to the driver's side. They break the speed limit on their way to the hospital. Rhys stares at the sky through the windshield. He seems distracted even as he's put on a stretcher and taken deep into the hospital. Mattie tries to follow him, but a nurse blocks his path.

"Sir," she says, "I assure you he will be fine."

Mattie sinks down into a chair and covers his face with his hands. The nurse patted him on the shoulder. "Sir," she said, "I do need to ask you a few questions."

Mattie doesn't say anything, so she presses on. "Your… friend? Brother? Partner?"

"I'm his caregiver."

"He was admitted with serious bruising. We don't know the full extent of the damage yet, but we may be looking at a torn ligament. He has," she hesitates, "Bruising on his wrists consistent with being held down. And it looks like he took quite a spill. Just as a matter of procedure, I have to ask -- "

"I don't hit him," Mattie says flatly. "I held him down. He was having a seizure."

She looks uncomfortable. "Not all the damage is consistent with a seizure. He's severely dehydrated, for one thing."

"I would not hit him," Mattie tells her. "He is my job, do you understand? If I could stop the seizures, I would, but I fucking can't. He's been on every medication under the sun and then some. Don't tell me I did this to him, get in there and fix him!"

He's ejected by hospital security, and is called back in the next day when they're ready to discharge Rhys. He needs to be there because Rhys doesn't know his own social security number. He's probably not going to be able to remember it for at least three days.

this is all your fault

Rhys is in Mattie's car, his feet on the seat, head resting on his knees. He's been out of the hospital for just a few hours. "Mattie," he says in a tiny voice, "I have to tell you something."

"It's fine," Mattie says. "It can wait. Let's get you home."

"In the vision, He said we should start a war," Rhys whispers. Mattie doesn't react. He keeps driving, staring out the windshield.

"I'll call Ginora when we're home," he says finally, still not looking at Rhys.

"Are you going to tell him?" Rhys asks.

"I'll call him when we're home," Mattie repeats, and all he thinks about is the road in front of him, asphalt, yellow lines, hardly any other cars, isn't it nice when things are this simple?

Rhys falls asleep within ten minutes of arriving home. Mattie, although he hasn't gotten sleep in the last twenty-eight hours, is awake for much longer. He keeps imagining the conversation with Ginora. Sometimes it goes one way, and Ginora says this is a total mistake, Rhys can't always tell what the visions mean, this is nothing to worry about. But mostly Ginora says that this is what God wants, that this is something beautiful. Mattie doesn't want a war. He doesn't want to lose his job, but it's not worth a war. That's all it boils down to, is he can't let them start a war. When he falls asleep, it's uncomfortable and restless and he's glad he can't remember his dreams.

He wakes up and Rhys is still asleep. He calls in sick to work. Mattie works a nine-to-five business job, doing accounting. It's boring, but stable. After he calls in, he makes eggs. Rhys wakes up around then. He wanders out of his bedroom in a loose t-shirt and boxers, his hair tied back in a bright blue ponytail. "You made eggs." He frowns and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm -- I'm trying to get it back, but it's confusing, everything is."

"Eat your eggs," Mattie says, "Don't worry about it. I need you to listen to me."

Rhys looks at him with the unerring full attention he can only give when he's at half-capacity, when he knows he has to pay attention or miss something. Mattie says, "Don't tell Ginora about your vision."

"Okay," Rhys says. That makes Mattie a little nervous, because usually Rhys has it more together by now. He frowns.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Rhys says again. "My back hurts."

"Promise not to tell," Mattie says, and Rhys promises, so Mattie goes and gets him three aspirin.

They're eating. "I missed church yesterday," Rhys says, "Will you take me?"

"Sure," Mattie says. "I won't stay."

"It's fine. I just don't, um."

He doesn't remember what street it's on, or how to get there. Mattie pretends not to notice. He drops their dishes in the sink. "Show me the picture you drew yesterday," he says. Rhys goes and gets his sketchpad. There's one big picture, with two (surprisingly detailed, for green crayon) armies at war. There are two shields, too, one on each side. One has the symbol of the Cilati on it. The other is the sun of the Edrinists, That's Rhys' church. The building has this sun on it, with the five rays twisting clockwise around it. Yeah, it was definitely a good idea, not telling anyone about this.

"Put your dress shirt on, if you're going to church," he tells Rhys, ripping the page off and tucking it into his pocket. Rhys goes off. "And brush your hair!" Mattie calls after him.

He drops Rhys off at church and goes to get a donut and some coffee. He had no appetite for the eggs and he has no appetite for his donut. Instead, he drinks coffee until his hands tremble.

Rhys is in church when it happens. There is light exploding in his mind, and he slams his neck into the back of the pew. He chokes out a moan and shudders as pain hits him in a wave, worse than any vision has ever felt before. He arches back and screams, not his usual muttering or broken-record babbling but a full-throated scream that echoes against the high ceiling, interrupting the sermon. "I'm sorry," Rhys says, but not to the priest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm so sorry." He shakes again, so hard the pew lurches backwards, and says in a voice unlike his own, "The Cilati have overstepped their bounds. Rally. Win. You must have faith." Then Rhys collapses, pain still screaming through every nerve, and slips off the pew. He falls to the ground, where he shakes and thrashes before falling still. Nobody makes a move to hold him down or stop him from hurting himself. They're all shocked, and the priest is just saying, again and again, that God has spoken.

Finally they pull him out into the central aisle, There's blood sticking his dress shirt to his chest. The priest opens it up, looking for where he's hurt, and finds the sun cut into his chest. It's already healing, the ugly beginning of scabs knitting across the raw cuts. He comes back to consciousness slowly, his eyes flickering open like someone coming back from the dead. He sits up slowly, although it looks like he is barely capable of that, and someone has to help him for part of it. There are fresh bruises on his neck, his tongue is bitten and bleeding, and he dislocated a pinky when he slammed his hand against the seat. He curls into himself and knots a hand into his hair. There are tears streaked down his face, disguised by sweat. He tugs on his hair and looks around like he has no idea where he is. He says, in a lost, tiny voice, "Where's Mattie?" like a small child, "I want Mattie," and finally, "I can't find my pencil."

It's his second hospitalization in as many days, and this time Mattie finds out that the head priest is Rhys' emergency contact when they refuse to let him into the room.

this is all your fault

smokexscribbles @ 2009-10-22T17:23:00

2009-10-22T21:24:39Z

INTERVENTION

Iambic, we are all here for you. You need to stop writing about gay carnies all the time. I have a letter here. There's one from all of us.

Also

Halflight, we are all here for you. You need to stop writing about gay world politics all the time. I have a letter here. There's one from all of us.

The Poet - Original Work

2009-10-14T22:00:30Z

I wrote this for my Craft of Writing class. We had to write something taking place in a diner. It had to include a poet, mistletoe, a waltz, and obsession. LJ has just deleted this entry for the second time so this note is more terse than it otherwise would have been. PG for nonviolent, nondescriptive death. I'd appreciate comments/crit because I'm turning this in tomorrow.

The Poet

The waitress poured the young man a cup of coffee and watched sympathetically as he ripped open five sugar packets, emptying them into his cup. “Tough day, sugar?”

“No thank you, I’ve got enough,” he sighed. “Oh, were you being colloquial? Yes, it was most trying.”

“I’m sorry, hon,” she said, patting him on the cheek. “Don’t look so down! Let me get you some pie. On the house.”

The young man brightened. “Pie? Would it, perhaps, be. . . cherry?”

“If you like, sugar.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a thick, flaking slice of hot cherry pie. The young man took a bite.

“Oh my!” he said, his mouth full. “This is positively exquisite!”

“I like making pie,” the waitress said agreeably.

“I must repay you for this heavenly repast,” said the young man, the fervor of tasty pie shining in his blue eyes.

“Well, you could tell me what a handsome young thing like you is doing here on Christmas eve,” the waitress suggested.

“A tale!” the young man said enthusiastically, spraying pie. “You must have felt my storyteller’s spirit, for as it happens, I have had quite the adventure!”

“Anything’s possible,” the waitress shrugged and sat down on the stool beside him, plunking her coffeepot onto the counter.

“It was,” the young man said, “My dearest love, Felicity.” He swallowed the last of his pie and looked hopefully around the diner. Seeing no-one else there, he turned back to the waitress. “This tale is for your ears alone,” he whispered darkly. “Listen closely – “ he paused to check her nametag “—Florence.”

Felicity
Felicity, my dearest love, was a girl of exquisite charm and utmost grace. She lived on her father’s estate, which was as decadent and rich as double fudge chocolate cake. Her father had arranged for her to be wed to the wealthiest of barons, but it was a marriage of mere convenience. She felt not one whit of love for him. Nevertheless, he was determined to have her.

“Where are you from, sugar?” Florence asked. “Cause last time I checked it was the twenty-first century.”

“The world of the rich is very different from our own,” the young man explained. “Archaic values are part of the aristocracy. It’s very romantic.”

“I see,” Flo said dubiously. “Keep going, then.”

The Baron
The Baron to whom Felicity was to be wed was a harsh, cruel man, crazed in the ferocity of his lust for my darling. I could not bear to see them together, and yet I was forced to endure it, for her father had sworn to take my head if he saw she and I together even once. There was only one way for our love to be. Felicity, my poor, brave, little dove, would promise herself the Baron officially. However, we would continue our clandestine meetings, and on the day of her wedding, we would flee together to France. I had not discussed these plans with Felicity, naturally, for even the idea of such duplicity would send her into a faint.

“Why France?”

“Florence, my dear, have you never visited Pairee? It is the most romantic of cities, a poet's and a lover’s paradise!”

Florence poured them both another cup of coffee. The young man snagged the nearest bowl of sugar packets.

The Wedding
The Baron, evil man that he was, learned of our love and our plans. He grew jealous, and requested that the wedding’s date be advanced! Felicity was to be married on Christmas Eve. I found myself, heartbroken, standing outside her balcony with no memory as to how I had gotten there. My feet had carried me to my love, although in my mind I knew I should not have gone. To see me would only further break her heart, which was already as delicate as the top of crème brulee. Indeed, I was as the silvery spoon, descending towards her sugary crust in search of the delicious interior.

“What are you talking about?” Flo asked.

“Florence, my dearest confidante,” the young man said, “Might I have another smidgeon of your ambrosial pie?”

The waitress eased herself off the stool. “I s’pose it can’t hurt.”

He waited until she was back, pie in hand, and then continued the story.

The Plot
Naturally, I could not attend Felicity’s wedding. I had thoughts of breaking in at the last moment and raising an objection, for surely she would be completely overwhelmed by adoration, but there were armed guards at every entrance, and a man of my disposition and talent cannot be expected to risk his life with such lowbrow thugs. Were I to die, who would tell the world the story of my lost love? Instead, I located the ballroom where the reception was to take place, and absconded with a puff pastry. I just wanted to see Felicity one last time before she was stolen from me forevermore. The heartbreak was more than my soul, which is the soul of a true lover, could bear, and I wept silently until the reception began. Then I saw, like a radiant angel in an ocean of black regrets, my Felicity. She was both resplendent and effulgent in her wedding gown. I watched her dance with her new husband and, though no-one else was perceptive enough to notice it, I could clearly see the hatred she had for him. It shone in her eyes as she danced slowly across the ballroom floor with him. Every kiss she shared with him was filled with poisonous vitriol. I knew, then, what I had to do for Felicity’s sake. She, my angelic, perfect darling, was far too pure to leave her new husband of her own accord. I would have to poison the Baron if Felicity were ever to be free.

“Are you serious?” Flo yelped.

“Florence, love is a serious matter. I would hardly joke about it,” the young man said. “This sort of thing is commonplace in romance. You really ought to consider reading some Shakespeare.”

The Twist
Ironically, it was to be the Baron’s moving of the wedding date that led to his death. I plotted to poison him with the mistletoe that decked the halls of his wedding reception. I sliced several leaves of it up and secreted them in a cucumber sandwich. I then exercised my powers of duplicity – all storytellers have such powers to some degree, and I am sure he was quite taken in – to convince a hapless servant that the baron had requested the cucumber sandwich! I watched from a vantage point behind a curtain as the servant approached the evil Baron and my poor, suffering Felicity. Unbeknownst to me, however, the Baron was exceedingly clever. While I could not hear his words, I knew that he was convincing Felicity to try the cucumber sandwich first! He knew of my trap and thought to use Felicity as bait, to draw me from my hiding place. I refused to let him get away with such a dastardly plan. Painful as it was, I remained shrouded by the curtain as Felicity bit down. I can only hope she was not in pain in her last moments. I know she must have been terribly confused, for she did not cry out my name as her breath left her, but maintained her charade of loving the Baron.

Flo scratched her head. “You’re saying you killed this girl?”

“It was awash with dramatic irony, Florence, no jury in the world would convict me.”

“Another thing,” Flo said, “How did you know she loved you?”

“Ah,” said the young man proudly, “I could see it in her eyes. Any true romantic would be able to, even from a distance.”

“But when you talked and that,” Flo said. “Then. Was she unhappy about marrying the Baron?”

“Well, we never talked in the traditional sense of the word,” the young man admitted. “We were forbidden, as I said, from meeting. But when I watched her in her chambers, I could tell that she pined for me.”

“Did she know you were there?”

“True love always knows, Florence,” the young man said sternly. “And if love isn’t true, well, we may as well all eat cucumber sandwiches. I’m writing a poem about it, you know.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Are you?”

“Yes. It goes, My dearest darling Felicity, she died so illicitly, a conspiracy by her husband cruel – “

“Yes?”

“That’s all,” he said, “Art takes time. May I have another slice of pie?”

“All right,” Flo said. He really was a handsome young man, she thought, if a bit strange. “There’s no need to be so sad,” she added. “It’s Christmas! Look up!”

He did, and saw the mistletoe above him. Florence kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll just go get you that pie, then.”
The End

I stole this meme, blatantly, from iambickilometer

2009-09-11T21:13:28Z

Give me the title of a story I've never written, and feedback telling me what you liked best about it, and I will tell you any of: the first sentence, the last sentence, the thing that made me want to write it, the biggest problem I had while writing it, why it almost never got posted, the scene that hit the cutting room floor but that I wish I'd been able to salvage, or something else that I want readers to know.

smokexscribbles @ 2009-09-02T22:45:00

2009-09-03T02:48:14Z

You see me in a police car. What would you think I got arrested for? Answer me, then repost this.

Uh while I'm here, fanfic I wrote a while ago for iambickilometer. Rated PG I guess. Real short. Check out more Evan and Julian stuff at Iambic's journal!

Evan is making a clock on commission. He's been making the clock for the last two weeks, and he only stops when Julian makes him or he passes out across his desk. Twice a day, three times if he's really persuasive and really lucky, he can pry Evan away from the desk. He pulls the clockmaker to the kitchen counter and stands over him while he eats. If he eats. Some days it's a cup of tea with more sugar than he's used to, and then back to the desk.

Julian tries to get a good look at the clock, which is a tiny pocket-watch. He doesn't know much about making them or what materials you're supposed to use, but he thinks it's odd that the gears are a pale white colour instead of the usual silver or gold. The springs are made of something fibrous and shining, unnatural-looking. And when the clock ticks, it's irregular. Ticktock, pause, ticktock. Julian knows how clocks sound, and it's not like that.

“Evan,” he says casually, leaning against the mantel, “Maybe you should take a break on that thing.”

Evan doesn't say anything, which is unsurprising, because Evan hasn't said anything for two weeks. He files down an edge on one of the gears. Julian realizes he doesn't really want to look at any part of the clock too closely. For all that Evan's engrossed in it, there's something about it that makes him want to throw it on the fire. By the light of day, there's a sick sheen to the thing. Julian considers leaving the room just so he doesn't have to see it anymore, but he can't. Evan's looking bonier than normal.

He's almost left a dozen times. It's too weird, he doesn't think he can help, there's no reason for him to stick around. This is what he tells himself. And he stays anyway. He doesn't even answer the door.

He hears a soft sigh, and Evan's shoulders lose their tense set. It's not because he's done. He's just fallen asleep again. Julian spreads a blanket over his back with a neat flick of his wrist. Evan's breathing hitches, then slows again. Julian feels silly, almost. But he's not blind. And when he runs a hand down Evan's back (smoothing the blanket, that's all) he frowns, because he feels bone.

He doesn't like to pry. He loves it. But he hasn't really had a chance to do it lately. So while Evan sleeps, hi s breathing shallow, raspy, and terrifying, Julian rummages through the drawers of the desk. He doesn't find anything there. But in the little box Evan keeps his more fiddly supplies in, he does find something. It's white, like the gears, and intact, and Julian knows it's a finger bone, possibly out of a pinkie. He drops it back into the box without ceremony. He's incredibly glad Evan hasn't finished the clock yet, and he doesn't know why, except that he doesn't want to see it completed.

In two days, when a man carrying something wrapped in black cloth comes to the door, Julian answers it. He shakes the man by the hand and notices he's missing his pinkie. And then, because Julian is a magician, when all's said and done, he makes a knife appear in his hand, hey-presto, closes the front door, and body-checks the customer into Evan's front hall closet.

“What did you do to him?” he asks in his best bubbly stage voice.

The customer is laughing. He says, “I will be invincible.”

“You're not invincible yet,” Julian points out, and lets him go.

“Idiot,” the man says, “All I have to do is give him this, and -- “ He raises his empty hand and stares at it dumbly, presumably shocked out of his gloating monologue.

Julian tosses the silk-wrapped disc into the air and catches it neatly, then unwraps it. It's a clock face, of course. It's glass, but strange glass that doesn't reflect anything, with a mesmerizing bevy of colours lurking just below the surface. “You can't have him, you know,” he says quite simply, and drops the clock face onto the floor. Maybe it would have been unbreakable once it was part of the watch, but at this point it is not part of the watch, and it is onion-skin thin. It shatters beautifully, and, to Julian's surprise but not really amazement, the customer drops dead on the spot. Which would be a pity if he, you know, cared at all.

He goes into Evan's workshop. Evan is sitting there, looking with bemusement (an expression he wears well) at the powdery remains of the watch. “What's this stuff?” he asks.

“Hell if I know,” Julian lies.

“Oh,” Evan says, “I'm kind of hungry.”

He gets even more mileage out of the bemused expression when Julian practically carries him to the kitchen.

I am having a suck day

2009-08-28T05:13:41Z

I have a ton of stories and prompts to do and I'm not doing any of them. My laziness is making me hate myself a whole lot. Also I want to be in fandom again because I love fandom, but I feel like I just can't do it. I like shows and stuff, but I am worried I will fuck the characters up or whatever, and that people will hate me, and even if I get over that, I just don't click with anything. I have no burning desire to fanfic what I'm watching or reading. And it sucks because it makes it hard for me to meet new people, and to enjoy shows and books with people, and nobody reads original fiction [/brat] and also I just feel like I can't fucking finish anything and I am really unmotivated and UGH. My life does not revolve around reviews, but I have trouble finishing things anyway. I feel like I am the only one who cares about the story(even though that's not really true). I have like three stories to do and a ton of prompts and while I love them I just can't finish. I guess I had deadlines and motivation while I was in fandom. Now that I don't, I'm a lazy fucking bum.

Basically how this makes me feel is: I am never going to be able to do this for a living because I apparently can't write without an audience. So that makes me feel like I don't do it for ~the love of the craft~ or whatever. I was not aware of this before and it makes me feel kind of like a trashy attention whore. I like writing, wouldn't be doing it if I hated it, but I dunno. I think you're supposed to just want to do it for the sake of doing it and it doesn't matter if anyone likes it? Or something.

Also my NaNo plot is tenuous and I'm never going to get into a good college and I don't have my senior year schedule yet so I'm worried I didn't get into creative writing. And I don't have a topic for my college essay.

I ran around the playground today pretending to be Sloth after dying and being transmuted to life by my friend. So the day wasn't like a total wash.

Also, feel free to tell me to get off my ass as opposed to providing sympathy.

meme from halflight007

2009-07-31T02:56:32Z

The "You Should Write..." Meme!
my thread here

I'm not entirely clear on what this is.

2009-07-29T07:13:14Z

Warning: This is three and a half pages of the worst kind of crack. Also, be aware of the rarepair: This is Iambic/Second person!

“It isn't forever,” Iambic said. “Just some time apart. To think about things.”

“You can't do this,” the second person sniffled, “You still care!”

“Of course I do,” Iambic told it. He sighed and loaded the second person's last suitcase into its car. “I mean, you're brilliant. It's just... well, you make things complicated. I need a break.”

“Your Twitter says you're over this,” the second person accused.

“I don't want to fight about it.” The second person had a nasty habit of projecting. Fights got ugly fast. But: “Why were you reading my Twitter?”

“You're the one who brought Twitter into this, you know. You started putting me on there, that's why this is happening. Of course I saw it, you were using me.”

Iambic winced a little at that. “You don't -- “

“Oh no you don't,” the second person huffed. “If you're really done with me, you can't say that kind of thing anymore. Go see first person, it'll be happy to help with your Twitter. Or that slut third person, I'm sure it'll be OVERJOYED to see you again.” The second person got into the car and slammed the door. “You can say goodbye now.”

“I didn't want it to go like this,” Iambic tried.

“You're a jerk,” the second person declared as it drove away.

Iambic watched the car roll up the driveway and away down the road. He stood outside for a while before going back in to make a cup of tea. Was it tacky to start writing in another point of view right after breaking up with one? Hadn't that been the whole purpose of this, well, call it time off? To get some clear, uncomplicated writing done? Maybe he should call up third person. But-- Well, all the ideas he'd had while second person had been around, the ideas it had been getting in the way of, looked different by the harsh light of breakup. Iambic didn't really want to write them at the moment.

It was definitely a dilemma.

The second person sat in a motel room. It had told Iambic it had a place to stay, but that wasn't true. The second person had some pride, after all. Now that it was alone, it buried its face in a pillow and tried not to cry. You're being so unfair, it thought angrily. You were always so good. You knew what to do and how to make it sound good, and other people don't do that, not the same way you do. You were pretty much the king of second person – how can you throw that away so easily?

Iambic tapped a pencil against his teeth. The idea was there. It was good. It just wouldn't flow the way it was supposed to. The first person wasn't working out. “Sorry,” he said, “Thank you for trying.”

“I'm more than happy to help out,” the first person said, “Anytime you're roleplaying, talking about your day, drop me a line.”

“Will do,” Iambic said dutifully.

Maybe third person was worth a try.

The second person went to a nearby bar in an attempt to drown some of its sorrows. “You don't understand,” it said to the bartender. “D'you have any idea how hard it is to be a point of view? Don't answer that. I know, see. You don't. See? That's how you write me. Kind of.”

“I see,” the bartender said. He was trying to be nice.

“No,” said the second person, “No, you're doing first right now.”

“You're drunk,” the bartender observed rather than reply to that.

“Yes. Yes, now you've got it.”

“Sorry,” the third person said, “I'm busy narrating this story.”

Iambic paused. “Wait, you're narrating? You must know who's writing it, then.”

“Yeah, it's Smoke,” the third person said.

Iambic covered the mouthpiece of the phone so the third person wouldn't hear him curse.

“There's no point in doing that. The narrator hears all,” the third person said as soon as he was back on the line.

Iambic repeated the curse, but into the mouthpiece and louder.

“You know she won't care, right?”

“Iambic glared at the author,” Iambic said.

A/N: You can't actually glare at me.

“I can do whatever I want.”

A/N: You're already OoC. This is my story. Be happy I don't have you wearing fuzzy bunny slippers.

“You wouldn't,” Iambic tried to say, but couldn't, because it was a statement in the second person and the author was getting sick of all this backtalk, anyway.

“Sorry,” the third person said, and hung up.

Iambic kicked off the fuzzy bunny slippers with a little more force than was necessary and went upstairs. The blank Word document stared out over the room accusingly.

“Oh, bugger this,” Iambic said in a very British way. “I can see where this is going.”

A/N: Can you? I'm not exactly being subtle, here.

“Stop writing yourself into the story. I saw that British comment, by the way.”

A/N: Write your own if you don't like it.

“I'm just going to get this over with,” Iambic sighed.

A/N: But I had such an awesome idea!

Iambic ignored the looming author's note and picked up the phone, dialing the second person's cell. He got voice mail.

“Look, second person, I'm sorry. I realize now that I need you. I can't write this story without your help. Please don't hold my bad choice against me. Come back,” he said, and hung up. “There. Was that good enough for you?”

A/N: Nearly. You shouldn't have ignored my looming author's note.

Iambic swore again in another really British way because he was such an utter limey. “You're just descending into personal attack and self-parody, now.”

A/N: Have you been reading up til now? I wouldn't call it descending. More like sidling into.

The second person was sitting beside the bartender, watching him type a letter to his girlfriend. It was supposed to be a romantic gesture, and he wouldn't really be able to do it without the second person, but it was still feeling slightly ill. The bartender clearly didn't know much about the complexities of writing in the second person. Iambic had --

No, the second person was absolutely not going to think about that. No way. Its cell phone buzzed to indicate a missed call, but it ignored the machine. It wasn't that desperate. There were thousands of people who would love it even more than Iambic had. Definitely.

“Third person,” it hissed out of the corner of its mouth.

Yes?

“Does this story end happily?”

Just then, a knock came at the door.

“You're an ass. Just tell me.”

Just then, a knock came at the door. The second person went to answer it. “Oh,” it gasped, “Iambic. How did you find me?”

“Smoke's a great believer in the theory of narrative casuality. I just went to the first motel I could find.”

“How are you?” the second person asked in an attempt to be casual.

“Not so well,” Iambic said in an attempt to get the story over with. “I need you, second person. I need you like – like this dialouge is cliché. I can't write like I usually do without you there. Please come back to me.”

“Don't you see?” the second person said, “You're speaking in you statements. I'm already back.”

A/N: Wow, even I am embarrassed by that. Make out! Make out! It's not a romcom unless you kiss at the end!

Iambic rolled his eyes at the author's obvious and slightly ridiculous ulterior motive, but then he totally made out with the second person anyway, because the third person isn't a common slut and did not appreciate that comment, thanks. So the second person can just suck it up and do what the story says.

~The End~

ORIGINAL WORK AGAIN AREN'T YOU EXCITED

2009-07-27T19:28:02Z

Title: Leak
Author: Smoke
Rating: PG-15 for swearing and nonexplicit sex.
A/N: I wrote this as a response to the BUCKETS AND BUCKETS OF RAIN WE'VE HAD. TAKE THAT, RAIN.

Leak

Angie rested her head on the steering wheel of her Ford and sighed. It was going to rain again. The sky was grey and seemed to extend far below the horizon. The clouds hung down, heavy-bellied and ready to spill.

She was so tired of the rain. It had been raining for weeks. Months. It wasn't even decent rain. A good hard rain would get this entire thing out of the weather's system and then it might be sunny again. But it was just gloomy all the time, and the sun came out once in a while, long enough to get Angie's hopes up. Then it would rain. She never had an umbrella. She always assumed it couldn't possibly rain anymore.

She leaned back in her seat and took a sip of her coffee. It tasted off, somehow, metallic or something. She took the lid off and it spilled across her lap. “Sugar,” she hissed, “Oh, I'm such a dolt.”

She mopped it up with paper towels from the glove compartment, wincing at the red splotches the hot coffee had left on her legs. The skirt was kind of ruined. Angie shifted it so the stains were at least on the side, where they were less noticeable. She dropped the coffee cup below the passenger seat. Then she grabbed her bag and got out of the car, squinting against the wind that had kicked up, crossing her arms to keep warm against the sudden icy rain. She slammed the car door shut with one foot and dashed across the parking lot. When she got inside the school, she leaned against the front doors, breathing heavily. I am definitely out of shape, she thought.

She was late, because the power in her house had gone out two days ago and she'd been using her cell phone as an alarm clock, but it had finally lost battery around two in the morning. According to her car clock, she had ten minutes, which wasn't nearly enough. Angie hurried into the classroom and flicked on the lights, used the tiny bathroom mirror to straighten out her hair, took all the chairs off the desks. She took a deep breath, sat down, and waited.

The classroom was too dark. None of the lights in the school seemed to be working properly, lately, but that was partially the budget they were on and partially the atmosphere. Endless rain had a way of making everything seem more muted. Everything was wet all the time. The carpet was perpetually muddy and smelled of mold. Even the crayon pictures she'd taped to the wall were bending and curling as the moisture got to them.

“Miss V?” someone said.

Angie looked at the door. “Sophie! Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sophie said quietly. Sophie was five. She had bright red hair in long curls. It was soaked. Angie helped her out of her raincoat (Which had frogs on it) and rain boots (which had frog faces on the toes).

“You're the first one here, so you get to feed the fish,” Angie told her. Sophie had never been the first one there before. The first person in the classroom got to feed the fish and be line leader for the day. Usually Aaron was line leader and fish feeder for the day. He was a small boy with dark hair and a winning smile, with that charisma that some people seem to be born with.

“Miss V,” Sophie said as other kids began to trail into the classroom, “The fish look kinda sick.”

Aaron pressed his nose against the fish tank. “Whoa.” And the other kids crowded around, looking at whatever was wrong. It was a big saltwater tank, a donation from a parent, in fact, and they had bake sales to keep it up and running. Angie shooed them away.

“Look,” Sophie said, the fish food still in one hand.

The fish were all grouped near the bottom of the tank, some of them lying on the gravel. They looked like they were gasping for air. Some of them looked dead.

“Sugar,” Angie swore, “Aaron, go get the janitor.”

The janitor and the first-grade teacher from down the hall helped her get the fish into plastic bags of new saltwater. “Must have been buildup in the water,” the first grade teacher said. Angie nodded slowly.

The tank smelled strange, somehow, like it was lacking something. Angie put her hand over her mouth, thinking, and realized that there was no salt residue on her palm. That was strange, because nobody could have replaced all the salt water with freshwater overnight. Could they have? It seemed ridiculous, outlandish. And too much work. And who would care that much? She went to get a drink from the water fountain, to clear her head. It tasted not-quite-right. It wasn't clear like it was supposed to be. Angie spat it out.

black wind blowing

It was still raining when she went home. The rain was lighter for the first mile of her drive, and then the clouds just sort of ripped holes in themselves and poured down water. It was the kind of rain where windshield wipers are useless. Angie gnawed on her lip and said quietly, quickly under her breath, “Sugar-sugar-sugar.”

Angie got home. She made pasta for dinner. The hot water tap seemed to be broken. “Fudge,” she whispered.

“Can't you just fucking swear?” her boyfriend, Chris, asked. Angie stiffened.

“I don't like it when you use that tone of voice,” she said.

“I can't wait for summer,” Chris said, and added, “Shit, Angie, this job is taking you over.”

“Stop it,” Angie said.

“Shit,” said her boyfriend, “Shit-fuck-damn.”

“That is not appropriate language,” she told him.

“Say it, Angie,” he said, “Shit. Shit. Say it. You'll feel better.”

“Fudge you,” Angie said. There was no bite to it. She was tired, and it was raining. “I'm taking a shower.”

“I'll wash your back,” Chris said, but she shook her head and locked the bathroom door. She needed a hot shower. She was cold and damp and her shoulders hurt. She turned the shower on. Steam clouded the bathroom mirror as Angie pulled off her blouse and let her skirt drop to the ground. She got into the shower and leaned against the chilly tiles for a few seconds, breathing in the thick, hot air. This was better, she thought, so much better than what it had been like outside for the last few days. This was just what she needed.

Then the water went suddenly icy cold. The showerhead groaned as the pressure on it increased. The water actually hurt, it was freezing, pelting against her skin at such a pressure that it felt more like hailstones. Angie yelped and grabbed the dial. The water refused to stop. The showerhead burst off, ringing against the tiles, and Angie was caught in a deluge of icy grey water. She screamed, screamed, screamed, trying to pull aside the glass door without opening her eyes. Chris was banging on the door. She slipped and fell, and her leg hurt a lot but the water was still coming down too hard, she couldn't stand up --

There was a loud crash, and the glass door opened. Chris lifted her out of the tub without paying any attention to the dial and carried her out of the bathroom, where he put her down on the couch. Angie
was sobbing. “Oh, god,” Chris said, “I'll get you a blanket, babe, just hang on -- “

Angie tried, but she couldn't seem to let go of his shirt. She couldn't seem to stop crying. Chris held her close to him and kissed her on the forehead, his hand tight in her hair. His shirt was getting soaked. “What happened?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Angie managed, “It just got really fuc-fudging cold, and then it was like someone hooked a fire hose up to the shower, I swear, it was -- “ and she started crying again. “I was so scared, oh, god, and y-you came and -- ”

Chris curled his shoulders around her, like they do in the movies before a bomb goes off. He said, “Shh, babe, it's okay, shh, I'll call someone to look at it, it's okay.”

Angie could hear the water still going in the next room. It was so absurdly loud, like thunder, crashing down and echoing on the walls. She covered her ears, closed her eyes, and felt Chris gently fold his hands over hers, blocking out every sound around them until all Angie could really hear was her own heartbeat, thudding hard and fast against her eardrums. Then she fell asleep.

black wind blowing

Chris and Angie were having sex and Chris said “Say it, babe, fuck, say it,” and Angie couldn't speak, she rode him, breathless, voiceless, she opened her mouth to say “I don't think I love you anymore,” but all that came out was rainwater, numbing her tongue, metallic, and it turned out that Chris was made of sugar, and he melted away into the pillows, which were soaking wet now, and Angie was crying, and then she woke up.

black wind blowing

Angie woke up on the couch. It was damp. “Chris?” she called out. She was almost surprised when her voice worked. There were tear tracks down her face. Her eyelashes had clumped together.

Chris didn't answer.

“Chris?” she said, “Chris, honey?”

black wind blowing

Angie drummed her palm against the steering wheel of her car as she turned the key over and over again. The engine refused to start. It growled and whined, stubbornly and repeatedly not turning over. She tried again, and could barely hear the engine over the sound of thunder and the rain bashing at her roof. Something was wrong with the car, clearly. She grabbed her umbrella, ran out, and opened the hood. The steam that came up was almost hot enough to burn. Angie yelped and slammed the hood closed again. The umbrella, it was becoming clear, had been a pointless gesture. She was getting soaked. She stared at her car. What had happened? She'd always taken care of it.

She realized that the gas cover was flapping open – she must have hit the button by accident – and went to close it. “Oh, for the love of Pete.”

She was fairly sure she had a full tank, but there was no reek of gasoline. She hated the smell, it always bothered her, she couldn't breathe when she was at the filling station. Usually she could smell it in her car, even with the gas cap on and the cover shut. But – the cap looked loose --

“Oh,” Angie said in a small voice, “Oh fudge.”

She'd found the problem, at least. She wasn't getting much of anywhere with a tank full of water. She sat in the car, hunched over the steering wheel, her legs curled up underneath her. She made tiny gasping, hiccuping noises as she tried not to cry. She was somehow worried it would flood the car.

Angie turned on the radio to drown out the sound of rain on the car's roof. She couldn't go back inside the house, not until she knew where Chris was. (He'd say, “Hey, babe, what were you so worried about?” and she would shrug and shake her head and Chris would laugh, “Did you think I got washed away?” and she would hug him, kiss him, take his breath away but make sure to give it back.)

“ -- storm continues, and we're seeing flooding up all the major highways. The airport is not allowing any departures or arrivals, so if you were planning a vacation, sorry, folks, looks like this is not your special week. We've got a government meteorologist coming on after these messages.”

Angie turned the radio off.

Okay.

So she wasn't leaving.

And then she did cry, too hard and too little-girl-scared for just a thunderstorm. She cried, not quite as hard as it was raining, but she did her best. Angie drummed her fists against the dashboard, flung herself back against the seat, and wailed until her face was red and she was breathless. She cried harder than she could remember doing, even harder than she cried when she was six and her gerbil died, even harder than when she realized she couldn't stand Chris anymore. Underneath the sobs she heard herself screaming, “Shit, shit, oh god -- “ and that made her cry, but she couldn't stop swearing and screaming and couldn't stop the tears coursing down her face, she couldn't stop the thunderstorm, she couldn't stop the fish from dying. Her tears didn't taste like salt when they ran into her mouth.

Eventually there was nothing left to cry. Angie fell asleep in the front seat of her car, her hair stuck to her face, eyes puffy and red.

black wind blowing

Angie and Chris were at a picnic like they went to on their second date and Chris said, “Wow, Ange, you look good,” and Angie blushed and pretended like she was pushing down the hem of her skirt but really she wasn't. There were heatwaves making the grass shimmer and dead ants all around them and at first Angie didn't noticed because she was looking at Chris and he was really handsome, wasn't he, but then he said, “Damn, I'm thirsty,” and Angie couldn't find the lemonade and there was dust everywhere, they were dust, and then she woke up.

black wind blowing

It wasn't raining when Angie woke up in the morning. The sun was out, actually, and she had to laugh at how worked up she'd been the night before. She went into the house. Someone was singing. Chris came out of the kitchen in folded-over white apron, smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I made pancakes, Ange, want some?”

“Yes,” Angie said. Chris made great pancakes.

She spilled the maple syrup and said, “Sugar!” fast. Chris laughed.

“It's cute how you do that,” he said, and started to sing again. Angie opened the newspaper.

“Look, Chris, hon,” she said, “It's going to be a beautiful week. Hot and sunny, not a cloud in the sky.”

The pancakes were delicious, but a little on the dry side. Chris was probably out of practice. It was fine by her. The rain had made Chris different, but now it was gone. Now it was sunny. Now, things were going to be better.

I am going to see Wilco in concert

2009-07-11T20:50:11Z

More Original Work Gaiz

2009-07-06T21:40:11Z

PG-13 for language and sexual references. Slash. Original work.

Wow this is like the longest oneshot of my life
Title:
Robbie is buying new sticks. He's in the music shop listening to Blue Oyster Cult, and this guy comes up to him. The guy is tall and has that unhealthy singer-guitarist body. Robbie can see his ribs through his wifebeater. He also has sleeves. One is a Japanese girl with a kimono sliding down across her back; the other is a koi fish. It's very nearly cliché.

“Hey,” he says. “You need anything?”

Robbie shrugs and shakes his head.

“What do you play?” the guy asks.

Robbie points to the drumsticks.

“Cool,” the guy says. “I see you in here a lot.”

Which begs the question of why he thinks Robbie doesn't know where the damn sticks are.

“What's your name?” he continues, which sort of answers the question.

“Robbie.”

“Robbie,” the guy repeats, and flashes him this crazy white Abercrombie smile, which is completely out of place on his skinny body and pierced face. “I'm Jamie.”

He nods.

Jamie doesn't say anything like 'Not a big talker, are you?' because he gets it, and in any case there are weirder drummers. He says, “Nice ink.”

Robbie looks down at his own arm. There's a red and white umbrella on his bicep. He always forgets it's there. “You play?” he asks.

“Hell yeah I do.”

Robbie is briefly surprised, then says, “Great.” And then he chooses some sticks, gets some new tape (Neon green just for the hell of it) and goes to checkout.

Jamie follows him and says, “Hey, you in a band?”

Nod.

“What're you called?”

“Ring me up,” Robbie says.

“Funny name,” Jamie says, then catches himself, laughs, and walks around the counter. “Sorry. What are you called, though?”

“We don't know,” Robbie admits.

“Oh,” Jamie says, “I bet you'll think of something great.”

This guy is crazy, Robbie thinks.

“You have any sets coming up?” Jamie asks.

“Wednesday at Paradise.”

“Cool,” Jamie says, “That's really cool.”

Robbie shrugs, because he's not sure yet. Jamie finally rings him up. He leaves. He doesn't know if he wants to go back there. Jamie is, from what he saw, capable of holding a complete conversation with himself. And he's a little crazy. Maybe it's worth it to go somewhere else.

alternating/direct

On Wednesday they play at Paradise and Robbie sees Jamie at one of the tables. There's almost no crowd. They play a pretty good set, even though it's short. When it's over, Jamie comes over and says, “That was great,” which it wasn't, and “Wanna get a beer?” which Robbie does.

They sit at the bar, and Jamie talks. Robbie eats some peanuts and drinks his beer. Jamie says, “My band's playing here on Sunday. We're Single With Alligators. I'll get you a ticket if you want.”

Robbie shrugs. And he nods. He goes to the bathroom (which is a shithole, literally and figuratively) and is really glad when Jamie doesn't follow him.

alternating/direct

On Sunday, Robbie's band has a meeting. Dave says, “We should be called Aluminum Ostrich,” and Harvey says, “What about Angry Angry Hippos?”

Robbie thinks maybe they should focus on not sucking anymore and then the name will come to them. But he doesn't really feel like talking right then. He pushes his notepad across the table and leans back.

“Robbie,” Dave says, “If you're not going to help out, just leave.”

Robbie just leaves. He goes to Paradise. Single With Alligators is better than Aluminum Angry Hippostriches/Hasn't Been Decided. Jamie can't quite moan like Iggy Pop, but neither can Dave. And Jamie is better than Dave on a good day.

So at the end Jamie hops off the stage and says, “Hey, you came.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Great set.”

“Thanks,” Jamie says, “That's really cool that you liked it.” He buys Robbie a drink.

After, he says, “I just got Resident Evil 5. Want to, uh?”

Robbie considers this as he finishes the beer. Ten minutes later, he says, “Sure.”

“Sure what?” Jamie is confused. When he's confused he opens his eyes wide and his eyebrow ring jerks up behind his bangs.

“Sure, I'd like to play the game,” Robbie says.

Jamie grins in that disbelieving Abercrombie white-tooth way. “I think that's the most I've ever heard you say.”

“You've only known me for a week,” Robbie points out, “Once you get me going I don't stop.”

Jamie gives him this weird look. “Was that a joke?”

Robbie shrugs. He smiles.

Jamie laughs.

alternating/direct

Jamie lives on the top floor of a tenement that should probably have been condemned about five years ago. The entire place smells rank, the wallpaper is peeling off, the stairs creak when Robbie steps on them. There's someone on floor five who is yelling at his dog, loudly and without stopping for breath. Robbie stops because he doesn't like it when people swear at animals, which can't swear back.

“It's okay,” Jamie assures him, “The dog's been dead for a month.”

That doesn't really sound okay to Robbie, but he goes upstairs anyway. Floor six has shattered glass all over the landing. Floor seven is where Jamie lives. He shares it with two other guys, one of whom is in his band. Robbie's not sure what his name is. Apparently people call him Change, as in loose, not as in fight for.

“This is Robbie,” Jamie says, “He's a drummer.”

Change nods, like that explains everything. He doesn't stick around after introductions are over.

They play co-op and Robbie saves Jamie's ass twice, but he also nearly screams during a cut-scene. Jamie realizes that Robbie talks more during the game. He says things like, “Watch out,” and “Oh, shit,” but at least he's talking.

Then it's 12:30 and Robbie says, kind of apologetically, “I'm taking the T.”

“Oh, damn, you'd better go.”

There's this tense moment where they just look at each other and Jamie bits his lip and furrows his brow (the eyebrow ring shifts a little) and Robbie can't quite meet his eye. But then it's 12:35. “Thanks,” Robbie says, and bolts out the door like Cinderella.

alternating/direct

He breaks another drumstick. He goes to get a new one and says, “You seen Sid and Nancy?”. Jamie says no, he hasn't.

Robbie smiles, really slow, and says, “Cool,” and gives him an address.

alternating/direct

Robbie lives with his band in a big house that's breaking down, which makes Jamie think he's probably inheriting the estate (unlikely) or squatting (very likely). He asks.

“I'm Little Lord Fauntleroy,” Robbie tells him.

Jamie can't stop cracking up.

The house is massive and winding. There's furniture that's falling in on itself. The carpet smells like dead old lady. Jamie listens too hard and realizes he can hear thumping, interspersed with moans, coming from upstairs. He looks at Robbie, who shrugs. “Laura.”

They go into the TV room, which is probably the only nice room in the place. Robbie keeps it clean, for the most part. The nice television and the game systems look out of place on the water-damaged Oriental rug. There are games and movies on two long shelves, a completely ridiculous collection of them. Jamie thinks maybe he'd be squatting too if this was what he spent his rent on. He looks through the games and realizes, “You don't have Rock Band.”

“Don't like it,” Robbie says.

Jamie thinks this is hilarious.

Sid and Nancy is not a happy movie, but nobody really expects it to be, so that's okay. Jamie is one of those people who can take up an entire couch by himself. Robbie is more okay with that than he planned to be. The movie ends and they stay there for a while. It's warm. Jamie notices things like the couch has little flowers on it, and Robbie has a hole for an earring but no earring.

A girl who's got to be Laura comes downstairs wearing a sheet and grabs two beers.

“Did you like it?” Jamie asks.

“It was okay,” Robbie says quietly. Laura drops a bottle.

“Holy shit,” she says, then yells upstairs, “Holy shit, Dave, Robbie can talk.”

“Let's leave,” Robbie suggests.

alternating/direct

They get coffee, which Jamie takes black and Robbie takes with cream, two sugars. Apparently Robbie knows the cashier, because he never says anything. Jamie tries to remember when Robbie has talked to anyone but him, and can't.

“Do you have, like, selective mutism?” he asks, thinking back to high school psych.

Robbie shakes his head. “Just a drummer,” he says, laughing a little. He laughs quietly, too, his shoulders shake and he smiles but he never really makes noise.

“Why'd you talk to me?” Jamie asks, and (oh, god) he holds his coffee cup with four fingers on the rim, he puts one hand in his bleached-out hair and rests his elbow on the table, he tilts his head to the side. It's so strange to notice these things. The koi fish stares at Robbie, who finds himself shrugging, even though there's something he wants to say.

The music in the coffee place is Rolling Stones, Gimme Shelter. Jamie wants to say, 'Thanks for talking to me,' but he doesn't, because he thinks he kind of gets it.

They waste time in the coffee shop. They realize maybe they should leave when the place is closing up for the night. It's eleven, and then twelve, and then one. “Oops,” Jamie says when they see the last train go by.

“Got a ride?” Robbie asks.

“No,” Jamie laughs, “Like we can afford a car.”

“Stay over.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, expecting his voice to be casual and offhand, hearing it come out a little strangled. “Cool.”

It's late and dark and not entirely safe and in any case Jamie lives clear across the city, so it makes sense for him to stay over. They could call a cab. But they don't.

They go back to the place where Robbie's staying. Dave is still up, his arm around a fully-clothed Laura. “Robbie, dude,” he says, “What the fuck.”

Robbie glances at Jamie and shrugs. Smiles. Waves. They go upstairs. Dave is still on the couch, and he yells after them, “Dude, what the fuck,” and Robbie never says anything.

Upstairs, Jamie says, “He's your singer, huh,” and Robbie says, “How could you tell?” with the barest hint of contempt in his voice.

Jamie's got the nicest goddamned laugh. But then, “Look,” he says, “Is it really okay for me to be here? I don't want to screw up your band or whatever, am I going to make shit weird?”

“Nah. Not weirder than usual.”

“Right,” Jamie says, laugh, grin, “I forgot you're the drummer.”

“Least I don't sing,” Robbie says.

“That, I'd love to see. You don't have the lung capacity. Your tongue might fall out.”

Jamie is sort of really close to him. Robbie's room is wallpapered with movie posters and band posters and game posters, because when he's not playing basically all he does is watch movies and game. Sarah Michelle Gellar is looking down from a signed poster of I Know What You Did Last Summer and judging them. Jamie's geisha is staring, too. Robbie doesn't care as much as he thought he would. He wants to do something, but Harvey knocks on his door. “Robbie, man, do you want to, uh, well, talk about it?”

“Do you?” Jamie whispers, and Robbie shakes his head. “Fuck off,” Jamie tells Harvey, who does, but the moment is kind of gone.

It's late, really late. They fall asleep on Robbie's floor, which might actually be more comfortable than his bed. Jamie wheezes when he sleeps, like a pug dog.

alternating/direct

Robbie's alarm clock wakes them up at eight by playing Thunderstruck. He doesn't move at first, because he's got the koi fish over his stomach. But then he says, “Work,” and Jamie yawns.

“Oh. Where do you work?”

“Part time at Staples,” Robbie says. Jamie laughs and laughs.

alternating/direct

Jamie doesn't see Robbie for two weeks. He goes to the big house and Robbie isn't there and Dave doesn't want to talk about it.

“Find him yourself, fag,” he says, and Jamie punches him in the jaw. Laura gasps. Dave is not as tough as he acts, and skulks off after Jamie hits him again. Dave can't punch for shit.

alternating/direct

Jamie sees Robbie at the Paradise three days after he punches Dave. He hurries up to him through the crowd. “Hey,” he says breathlessly. Robbie nods. Jamie asks, “Where have you been, man?” and Robbie just kind of shrugs. Then he leaves for the bathroom.

“Dude,” the bartender says, “Don't even joke about that.”

“What?” Jamie says.

“He can't talk.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Jamie says, and goes after him.

The bathroom window is open. Robbie isn't there.

alternating/direct

They meet again in the weirdest place, namely the tattoo parlor, because both of them are getting touch-ups at the same time.

“I'm sorry,” Jamie says.

“Why?” Robbie asks. His voice sounds disused, like it did the first day Jamie met him.

“I don't know. I guess I screwed up. I wanted to see you again, but -- ”

“Robbie,” the tattoo artist says, “Hey, I'm ready for you.”

Robbie gives Jamie this look he can't quite interpret, gets up, goes in. Jamie's getting a new piercing with his touch-up, which was big to start with, so by the time he's done, Robbie's been gone for a while.

“Dammit,” he says, and asks the artist, “Does he have a phone number?”

“That guy? He couldn't use a phone if he wanted one,” the artist says.

“Right,” Jamie growls, because good nature only goes so far. “Right, I always forget about that. Cool. Thanks.”

alternating/direct

He goes to Staples on Tuesday at eight and waits patiently, and when Robbie finally shows up, Jamie says, “Hi,” in this voice like he's fourteen again. He was kind of planning to hit Robbie, he really wants to pick a fight, but for some reason actually seeing him makes the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Robbie raises one hand in a kind of wave.

“What happened?” Jamie asks. “With your band.” Robbie doesn't say anything or even shrug, so he tries, “Did they kick you out?”

He nods.

“Because of me?”

Robbie makes a back-and-forth motion with his hands, to indicate that it is not entirely Jamie's fault.

“Why?”

“Because not talking is like lying,” Robbie says. “Well. Dave said that.”

“But that's not really why?”

He shrugs.

“Can't you just fucking talk to me?” Jamie says desperately, but Robbie goes to stack up loose leaf paper. Jamie grabs his shoulder. He's stronger than Robbie expected him to be.

“My phone number,” Jamie says quickly, nervously, “Is six-one-seven, eight-six-seven, five-three-oh-nine. “

“Lucky you,” Robbie says.

“Please,” Jamie says, and Robbie's gone.

alternating/direct

At three in the morning, Jamie's phone rings. He picks it up, still a little off-balance from the dream he'd been having, and hears nothing.

“Hello?” he says, “Hello?”

He thinks for a second it's a pervert or a wrong number, and is about to hang up, but then he remembers. “Robbie?”

The line stays silent for fifteen minutes, and then Robbie's voice says, “We were a terrible fucking band anyway.”

“You weren't that bad,” Jamie said.

“A terrible fucking band,” Robbie repeats.

“You weren't that bad.”

“Oh,” Robbie says.

“Yeah,” Jamie says.

“Coffee? Ten tomorrow.”

Jamie's heart is jumping up into his throat and he's suddenly vividly awake. “Yeah,” he says, “Cool. That'd be really cool.”

Robbie chuckles into the mouthpiece and hangs up. Jamie realizes there's no way he's getting back to sleep.

alternating/direct

They have coffee. Robbie pays.

Jamie says, “Look, I'm really sorry about you getting kicked out.”

“It's not you,” he points out. “It's Dave.”

“I punched him,” Jamie says, “Twice. So, uh, you might not be getting preferential treatment if you go back.”

“There are other bands,” Robbie says.

Jamie has to ask, because he thought he understood, and now he's not so sure. “Why do you talk to me and nobody else?”

Robbie doesn't say anything. Robbie smiles and shrugs, and then Robbie kisses him. It's shy, and softer than Jamie expected. “You're the weirdest drummer I've ever met,” he says.

“I like your sleeves,” Robbie says.

“Do you?” Jamie asks, and smiles. “You should see the one on my back.”

“I like your eyebrow, too,” Robbie says.

Jamie grins widely. “You should see what I got done when I went in for touchup.”

Robbie kisses him again, because the first one was nice. “Cool,” he says, whisper-soft. “That sounds cool.”

Kickass Music

2009-07-05T05:07:47Z

AC/DC --
TNT, You Shook Me All Night Long. These are both completely classic songs from this amazing Australian band. In School of Rock, Jack Black references them constantly. His outfit at the final show is what AC/DC's lead singer wears. Their song also parodies Highway To Hell.

Aerosmith--
Dream On, Walk this Way, Dude Looks Like a Lady. A local band! Also, one of the few bands with their own DISNEY RIDE.

Alice in Chains --
The Rooster. It was in Supernatural for a good reason, as in it is a fucking genius song.

Alice Cooper --
School's Out, Poison. Not as gothy as you think he is.

Black Sabbath --
Iron Man, War Pigs. Ozzy Osborne is the lead singer, and Ozzy rocks some hard face. The guitar is fucking legendary, too.

Bon Jovi --
Dead or Alive, Blaze of Glory. I don't care what anyone says, Bon Jovi rocks.

Boston --
Foreplay/Long Time, More Than A Feeling. I love Boston, and not just because they're named after my city. Foreplay/Long Time has some truly great guitar solos, and good luck going to a Sox game if you don't know the lyrics to More Than A Feeling.

Cream --
Sunshine of Your Love. They're not always hard rock, but they're worth it nonetheless.

Def Leppard --
What has nine arms and sucks? Def Leppard.

Guns 'n' Roses --
Welcome to the Jungle, Paradise City. This is one of those bands that everyone should just be forced to listen to. Hilariously, they spent ten years working on Chinese Democracy, only for it to be released this year and suck.

Jefferson Airplane --
White Rabbit. That's kind of it.

Judas Priest --
A Touch of Evil. Generally Judas Priest is a little heavy for me, but I enjoy this song.

Kansas--
Carry On My Wayward Son. The first few lyrics and the opening guitar are pure, inspired genius. It sort of goes downhill after that, but I still like it.

KISS--
Love Gun. I hardly think I need to explain myself here.

Led Zepplin --
Immigrant Song. I love the band, but I'd say this is my favorite song by them for sheer rock-out factor. If you want to talk about songs you can scream to, seriously.

Metallica –
Enter Sandman. I kind of hate this band. This song is genuinely good, though. Metallica shut down Napster, because apparently they weren't making quite enough money yet, and because they totally stood for rebellion as long as it made them money.

Pink Floyd --
Another Brick in the Wall, Comfortably Numb. Floyd is so good. And come on, we don't need no mind control. If you haven't yet, watch the music video for Another Brick in the Wall.

Ozzy Osbourne--
Crazy Train. He did this during his solo career.

Queen --
We Will Rock You. Queen is kind of all over the place, genre-wise, but you gotta have something.

Scorpions --
Rock You Like A Hurricane. I actually know next to nothing about this band.

Steppenwolf --
Born to be Wild. Another band I don't like, but that doesn't change the fact that this song is classic.

Styx--
Renegade. UM I JUST REALIZED THIS WAS ACTUALLY IN SUPERNATURAL. And I love it.

The Who --
Pinball Wizard, My Generation. I am judging you for not listening to them. You know who you are.

Feel free to suggest more bands, I'd really appreciate it. A lot of these have been on Supernatural, which is basically why I'm making the playlist.

smokexscribbles @ 2009-07-03T15:56:00

2009-07-03T20:04:13Z

ROLEPLAYME!

( my thread: here! )

smokexscribbles @ 2009-07-02T01:08:00

2009-07-02T05:32:21Z

Ldydragon has given me a list of words for this meme. Here are the rules :

Reply to this meme by yelling "Words!" and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then post them in your LJ and explain what they mean to you.

So here are the five words she gave me :

Yuuko
I think a lot of people just automatically have this association because I never change my default icon! I do really like her, though. She's such a great character, in general very powerful and fun and interesting without edging into Mary Sue territory. Recently I stopped reading xxxHoLiC (In a hiatus kind of way) specifically because of what happened to her. I'll pick it up again, of course, but it was just really awful and sad for me. She was my favorite in a lot of ways. I don't think I'm much like her, though.

1920s
I always think of the fanfic before the era, jeez. I spent so long writing it, and it was the first long, multichaptered thing I had ever written. Looking back at it, I'm kind of embarrassed by how terrible it is, but obviously not embarrassed enough to take it down. That's basically because I'm super vain and like that other people like it. The 1920s are my favorite part of American history. It's just the idea of this massive, kind of socially acceptable law-dodging and how widespread rebellion/fighting the law was at that time, it really appeals to me. Plus the slang is the bee's knees.

Cynicide
So many things I associate with this. Vacation, because that's when I thought it up. I'm still bewildered as to how I came up with this ridiculous idea and also as to how it WORKED. I really love all the characters, mostly it just makes me think how glad I am to have such awesome internet friends. Not only do you understand my insane babble, you make it work, and work WELL.

Boston
Boston makes me think of a TON of things, but I'll try to sort of sum it up. I know I talk about it constantly, but really it's such an amazing city. I'd like to live other places, of course, but Boston is just the greatest place, honestly. I wouldn't have wanted to grow up anywhere else. I also sometimes think I'm being a bit misleading -- I don't live in Boston proper, I live in Brookline. Brookline is not quite a suburb of Boston, it's more of what happens between suburbs and the city. I have a nice house but no lawn, kids can't play in the street but you can go out at night without getting mugged, etc. I can walk from here to Fenway in about ten minutes, though, so I tend to tell people I live in Boston because it's more accessible on a map, I spend all my time there anyway, and that way nobody asks me why I don't have a "Brooklyn" accent. I sometimes wish I had a Boston accent, but then I realize I like being comprehensible, and I don't wish that anymore. I do walk and talk quickly, like Dunkin Donuts and the Sox, and think everything past Pennsylvania sucks. No offense, people past Pennsylvania -- Pennsylvania kind of sucks, too.

Iambic
Um. Internet friends, honestly. Not 100% sure how to put this, but Iambic was basically the first friend I made online who I felt like I had an actual friendship with instead of just a shared fandom. So because we made friends I was like OMG WHAT IS THIS EMOTION YOU MORTALS CALL HAPPINESS and made a bunch of actual friends online who I can imagine meeting in person. And met one of them! Which was totally wicked!

Also, jsyk, ultimate crack fandom.

smokexscribbles @ 2009-06-29T13:12:00

2009-06-29T17:19:00Z

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARI!

Let's have a LiveJournal Party

Bitches, if you're not dancing, you know where the door is.

Zombies!

2009-06-26T13:30:04Z

My eyelids are swollen and allergic once more. I do not approve. Also, have a zombie excerpt. It won't be in the actual story because I wrote the climax/important decision the opposite way of how I planned to write it as an exercise. So this is like Bizarro-world Benny! Making the wrong choice. Warning: It squicked me, as I was writing it.

Juliet froze. There was a peculiar look on her face. She looked surprised and a little confused, like she had concussion again. She looked at Benny blankly, as if she didn't recognize him.

“Juliet?” he said, and she brought her handgun around in a sweeping motion to crack against the right temple of the zombie that had latched onto her leg. It fell backwards, and she emptied her clip into its head before dropping the gun. She still had that dazed look on her face. She focused for a few seconds on Benny, then began to stare past him, practically through him, in a way that was uncomfortably familiar. Oh, god, no. He looked down. There was a rip in Juliet's thick black cargo pants. Just inside, he could see blood welling in an oval made up of thirty-two neat little indentations.

“Jules,” he said, and swallowed very hard. She reached out for him. Her eyes were already glazed over. He could see the difference in the way she raised her arm. He could see his wedding ring, still bright on her ash-black fingers. “I'm sorry.”

She opened her mouth and leaned forward. Benny remembered what it had been like to kiss her as her jaw went wider than it should have been able to, when cracks appeared at the sides of her mouth, when the skin split in two to let her jaw go even wider. She showed him her thirty-one teeth – the missing molar still unfilled at the back, he remembered when she had lost that – and lunged forward.

He shot her, of course. When she moved forward he jerked his gun up and kept her jaws away with the barrel between her teeth. He aimed it slightly upwards and fired. She hardly twitched, just fell. He squatted beside her and said “I still love you,” and put her rings in his pocket. He made sure she was completely dead. He'd have kissed her, but that was a prime way to communicate the disease. Instead, he squeezed her hand once. He left then, mostly because he didn't want to keep looking at the hole in her head.

Ten minutes later he threw up. And then he may have cried a little. But it wasn't like there was anyone there to see it.

Also, I promise to start writing fanfiction again and to not force you guys to read quite so much original fic anymore, haha.

smokexscribbles @ 2009-06-14T22:07:00

2009-06-15T02:10:50Z

THE TESTIMONIALS OF AWESOME MEME! // ME!!

For posterity's sake

2009-06-12T21:36:55Z

❝who do you ship me with?❞

lulz

School

2009-06-01T21:37:03Z

So we had to write a satire for English class. This is mine. Uhh I have a day before I have to turn it in, so tell me what edits to make. I think that paragraphs four and five are kinda weak but I haven't the slightest idea as to what to do with 'em. The ending needs some work, too. There are a ton of italics and it's so annoying to edit them all in for LJ lol I'm just not going to do it. Imagine all the book titles are properly formatted, I'd really appreciate that.

Uhh what else? Oh, I'm pretty sure I'm doing the Dollhouse Summer Challenge. New fandoms are weird to get into and I am sort of hoping this will help me ~integrate~

Also, I am now making a concentrated effort to tag consistently. It will last for a week and then be over. Oh well. I might try to overhaul the tag system on my journal, but I am sooooooo lazy and the thing never deletes unused tags. Anyone know why that is? Should I just switch to cloud? ETA: NVM I GOT IT GUYS

Hello, PTO! It's so great that we're sitting down for another meeting, isn't it? And Sandy made such great brownies. Thanks, Sandy! Everyone thank Sandy. Wonderful. Now, as you know, the PTO comes together to discuss matters of importance in the school. These things are important to the lives and futures of our children, so I'd really appreciate your full attention. Yes, I know I don't have any children in the school, but I think being the mother of three honor-roll graduates makes me pretty gosh-darned knowledgeable about what's good for kids, doesn't it?

I'm so glad you all agree!

So, let's get down to business, shall we? Wonderful. I've called this meeting to discuss a distressing trend in the assigned reading: Bad role models.

Now I'm not one to judge, but I hardly think a man who killed his father and slept with his mother is an appropriate role model for our kids to be reading about. We don't want them thinking that kind of behavior is heroic, do we?

And killing yourself for love? Do we want to encourage that kind of unhealthy romance? Juliet was thirteen, by the way. Back off, Romeo, I think Chris Hansen wants to have a little chat with you!

But seriously, folks, the reading material we've got lined up is rife with bad behavior! It's downright irresponsible. What kind of parent lets their kids look up to people like this? I mean, I hardly think something like Death of a Salesman is giving our kids self-confidence. How are they supposed to succeed when we're constantly priming them for failure with dismal, gloomy books? Lord of the Flies? It's about children fighting and, I'm sorry I have to bring this up, killing each other. I haven't read the book myself, because I try to avoid things that seem like they would depress me, but I can only assume the main character takes control of bugs. That sounds disgusting.

I know some of you might think that your kids are smarter than that. You think they can make their own choices about right and wrong, and that all these fancy classic books are broadening their minds or making them think. You might even think that the main character of a book doesn't have to be good to encourage in-depth thought about personal morals!

Well, you're wrong, buster. An eminent child psychologist – No, don't worry, you probably wouldn't recognize the name in any case – has proven that children have no morality. That's right. None. Your newborn baby would kill you as soon as look at you! Some do! It's the truth!

So when you let your kids skip Wiggly the Worm, which is, in my opinion, a charming tale of camaraderie and fairness, and go straight on to Catcher in the Rye, you are letting in a whole new generation of John Wilkes Booth-s. You know what he did? He shot the president. You know what else he did? Read Catcher in the Rye. I don't know about you, but I want my kid to dream about being the president, not shooting the president!

Our kids read all kinds of dangerous books. Some great people have worked very hard to ban them, but scholars and philosophers are always pushing the envelope, trying to get this awful, immoral material to our precious children. Sometimes reading it can even cause them to start defying us! For example, 1984 is on the assigned reading list for this year. That book is one long tirade against authority. It makes kids think it's okay to break arbitrary, nonsensical rules!

Even books that you might think of as safe are full of the kind of nonsense that will set your children off onto the wrong path. The Harry Potter books seem safe at first glance. They look like a charming little story about friendship between a young boy and his cousin. If you delve a little deeper – You should be good at this, all you English teachers, I've heard this is the sort of thing you do at college – you learn that it's actually about a boy's journey into adolescence, during which he is moody and angry. He makes bad decisions and alienates his friends. Furthermore, he spends his time focusing not on his studies, but on defeating an ancient and evil power that has risen from the dead, all the while ignoring the authority figures that tell him this power does not exist. And I haven't even touched on the idealization of paganism – Oh, no offense, Holly – or that his single reliable role model is a homosexual. Not that there's anything wrong with that, Mr and Mr Nash.

So! For our next meeting, I'd really appreciate it if you'd all try and think of some appropriate, safe books. Don't make your lists too long, though. We still have to discuss rock and roll.

lol this post is for ldydragon

2009-05-26T02:49:16Z

lol I just realized I have been horrifically negligent. I have a ton of unfilled prompts and shit. I had crazy writer's block but that's hardly an excuse. So --

What did I tell you I'd write and abandon? Tell me, then guilt trip me until I finish it in the comments below. ~~no you cannot write Advent fifty times~~

haha I am fucking myself over, if you lie I am not going to remember

smokexscribbles @ 2009-05-21T22:17:00

2009-05-22T02:18:45Z

ANON REVIEW MEME

Crit me guys.

First Dollhouse fanfiction I have ever done

2009-05-19T21:15:13Z

Title: Ms. Shelley
Author: Smoke
Rating: PG
Summary: Introspective Topher gen. Tell me if it sucks too much to crosspost, thanks.

Late at night, Topher sits and swivels in his chair and punches in personalities. He makes doctors and teachers and lawyers and nymphomaniacs, sometimes two of them at the same time. Behind him, the computer bank hums reassuringly. The chair is shut down, and is not nearly so comforting. Since Dominic pushed him down into the chair, it's been making him nervous. No. Since he had the idea, it's been making him nervous. Topher is, as he'll readily admit, a genius. And, genius that he is, he knows better than anyone how quickly it could be taken away. It's a classic case of poetic irony, taken down by his own creation. The idea of it makes his brain stem itch. A juice box fails to distract him. Too much processing power, he thinks, amused despite himself.

When he notices that someone is standing outside his frosted-glass door, he gets nervous. More so than he was, that is. He jerks the door open and nearly snaps at Boyd, who has been waiting for him to open it for at least three minutes. “Oh,” he says. “Doing some head-of-security door-listening?” It comes out snippier than he intended.

Boyd looks at him like: That's hardly worth the energy a comeback would take. Which, Topher thinks, is probably true. “You startled me,” he amends.

“I wanted to see if Echo got up here without any trouble,” Boyd says. “She slipped her handler on the way up. Very resourceful personality you gave her.”

“She slipped – But she-- ,” Topher says, and falls silent. Then: “How?”

Boyd shrugs. “Maybe she doesn't like him.”

“That's not how it works. The part of her that knew you is gone. Vanished. No more.”

He shrugs again. He doesn't know how any of this works, doesn't know how erasable Echo is. People are not hard drives, or they weren't until Topher Brink got involved in the proceedings.

Topher jiggles nervously from foot to foot. “Juice box?” he offers. “I have apple and grape.”

“No thanks. I try not to drink on duty,” Boyd says.

He laughs. It's not sincere. Echo has slipped her handler. He is a raving, hysterical bundle of jangling nerves. “Ah, ah ha, that's, yes, funny. You're funny. Maybe if Echo goes Alpha on us, you can get a new job doing stand-up.”

As he says this, Echo herself slides in through the door. “Here for my treatment, boss-man.”

“Oh! Great. Sit down right there. We'll get you all fixed up.”

“Hello,” Boyd says to her, nodding courteously.

She looks him up and down. “You're the law around here, huh?” When he gives her a look, she says, “A girl can just tell. You seem pretty decent, though.”

She changes out of the black clothes she was wearing for the job and into her Active clothes (“These look like my kid sister's PJs,”) sits in the chair, and is emptied. Boyd leaves. Maybe he doesn't like to see her in the chair anymore.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while,” Topher says.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

She doesn't like. She stays. It gives Topher the creeping shivers. She says: “I want to help you.”

Eugh. Creepy.

But then Topher, with his big genius brain, gets a sort of idea. It'd be a simple personality to make. All of the memories he really needs are recorded on Wikipedia, after all. Historical personalities are hard to make with great accuracy, but if it's just to understand a little motivation, get some perspective on how or why they thought things... Well. It's all a case of looking at the nurture in their lives. You patch it together from other people's lives and add a patina of their era, and they function, as long as you don't press them on what year it is.

Echo plays with a Rubix cube as he programs it. Then she sits in the chair. He shouldn't be doing this on company time, but it's not like he's going to get fired. It's not like Echo is going to tell anyone.

“Where am I?” she asks, putting a hand to her forehead. “Percey?”

Topher says, “Hi.”

“You're not Percey. Where is he?”

“Consider this a miracle of modern science,” he says, “Or a dream. Whichever's more comfortable for you. Mrs -- “

“You may call me Mary,” she says.

“Mary. I'd sort of like to talk about your book.” Topher swallows the nervous feeling that's been inching up his throat, the urge to ask, 'Don't you want a treatment?' and not bother with any of this. Instead he settles in his chair and says, “If that's okay with you.”

“What about it?”

He clears his throat and looks at the ceiling. “How ignorant we are in our pride of wisdom! Or something like that. English Lit was a while ago.”

“Hm,” she says, tapping her chin. “What a nice ring that has to it. I ought to put it in my rewrite. Would you mind?”

“No,” Topher says, and then he rewrites her, again and again and again.

I have only one burning desire:

2009-05-18T00:23:16Z

Oh my God, I am crossposting from DREAMWIDTH. Add me?

I wrote another story with Cherry and Lisa. This is NSFW, much moreso than the other one. Also, not safe for weak stomachs. R for violence; PG-13 for a little death, heh heh.~~French jokes, I make them~~

Lisa sits, slouched, on the plushy couch. She sips at her drink from a pink straw. The drink is called a tequila sunrise, and she's never had one before. She is drinking it very slowly, because it's cold, and she can feel the iciness of it slipping down her throat, and she likes that. She pauses the movie and listens. From the next room, she hears: "Oh please no."

Lisa stands up. She hesitates, then walks towards the sound. She leans against the doorway, dangling her tequila sunrise between four fingers, and says, "It's your favorite part coming up."

“I don't want to watch it now."

The woman in the chair is blonde and not so pretty and too thin. Lisa wonders why Cherry chose her. Cherry claims she doesn't choose anyone, but that doesn't seem true. There are houses and forests that talk to Lisa. They say: Look at us. We're so boring, so cardboard, so ancient. Renew us. And she does. She doesn't understand how Cherry can just decide on someone who happens to be convenient.

The woman sobs, and says again, “Oh, please. Oh god, no, no.”

“Hushabye,” Cherry croons. “I'm sorry. Shh. Shh.” She clutches the woman to her breast like a child, her hand in the dirty blonde hair, stroking her back, soft and strong and reassuring. “I'm sorry,” she repeats. “I don't want to hurt you, understand?”

The woman nods as Cherry takes a step back. She is a rabbit in the highway, eyes wide, muscles tense, nose twitching. She has the scent of this, and the shape, she knows what it is going to be but she stands frozen in the headlights. “Anything you want,” she says.

“Nothing I want,” Cherry corrects her. “Everything I need, sugarplum, everything is here. I don't want to hurt you. I won't enjoy it.”

The woman screams and shakes, and Cherry glances at Lisa, who looks unnerved. She gags the woman and smiles. “You scared my friend. Shh...”

“I'm going to watch the movie,” Lisa says, and Cherry smiles knife-sharp at her as she leaves.

Lisa doesn't always like it when Cherry gets like this. Because most of the time Cherry is disconnected and a little lost in the world, but when she's got someone like this, she's so sharp. She's scary, a little, like the soft glowing parts of her are gone and all that's left is the steel and concrete. Her pupils dilate until the yellow part of them is gone, until it's just a band of freezing blue around solid, chilly black. Lisa hates that. She loves the yellow parts of Cherry's eyes.

Cherry says, “Oh, sweetheart, I'm gonna fuck you up sooo bad,” and Lisa turns up the movie as loud as she can. The skunk says: You can call me Flower.

Lisa loves the forest fire in Bambi. She thinks there was someone like her who animated it, maybe someone who was too scared to go and make things new. It's rendered so beautifully and so lovingly, and she can image this one person, working late into the night with watercolor and oil paint on glass frames, watching bright fire engulf everything, smelling sharp woodsmoke in their heads. She wants that now. It's been a while since the last real fire, and she misses it like, well, like burning. Yesterday she set a fire in the bathtub, a small one because Cherry said not to burn the house down. It licked up the porcelain sides and devoured the twigs she'd brought in and spat sparks at her. It had been so close to being right. It wasn't quite enough, though, it was tiny and scared and fragile. Not quite enough. But soon Cherry would be all done and they could burn this house to the ground, and oh, god, everything was going to feel so right.

The movie is loud, and Cherry wants to be heard. She closes the door and says with a dispassionate sigh, “Oh, baby, you shouldn't try and be all tough. People like me think people like you are so much more satisfying, you know?” And she presses the knife down, tip-first, until the woman's hand is pinned to the arm of the chair and she's gasping in pain, sweat ruining her hair and face and shirt.

Cherry moves close like she's going in for a kiss, pulls out the gag, and the woman hisses, “Crazy fucking dyke.” Cherry leans back to regard her curiously.

“Am not,” she rests the knife on the woman's lips. “How rude. Understandable, maybe. This must hurt, yes?” She drags the blade downwards, bisecting the lipstick-red with blood, dark and swollen, fat beads of it rolling down the woman's chin to drip on her shirt. They create black holes in the dark linen, stars gone supernova surrounded by galaxies of blood spray. “I'm sorry,” she says, “I wish I could do it so you wouldn't, oh, suffer.”

“I haven't met you,” the woman says in a voice that's thick with tears and blood and bile. “I never did anything to hurt you. I don't deserve - “

“Nobody deserves anything,” Cherry says. “Nobody ever hurt me or made me any which way. I came out like this. It's a percentage thing.”

“Let me go,” the woman begs. “I won't tell anyone.”

“So many people say that,” Cherry tells her, her head crooked to one side. She looks curious, nearly entertained. There is blood slick on her legs and sprayed pink across her white shirt. She looks like a goddess, head ablaze with hair like fire, blood sacrifice running down, the silver knife loose in one practiced hand. “Won't tell anyone. Like I'm doing it because I'm scared I'll get caught. I wouldn't bother doing it then. Sorry, honey, but this is how it is. For the rest of your life.”

“Oh god,” the woman says, and then she chokes on blood and loses her voice. But then Cherry cuts her finger off, and she finds it again.

Lisa is done with her tequila sunrise when Cherry comes out. She's like a baby out of the womb, all blood-slick and beautifully empty and renewed. She folds up onto the couch, exhausted, joyous, exhilarated. “It was so beautiful,” she tells Lisa. “Gorgeous.”

Lisa doesn't say anything. She thinks of embers and the screaming sound that stone makes when it gets too hot. That's how dying looks to her.

Cherry curls up close to her, the blood sticky and cold on her skin. Lisa gets a cup of water from the kitchen and gets some of the blood out of Cherry's hair. She doesn't want it to mat. “Are you done?” she asks. Cherry shakes her head and absentmindedly gulps some of the rusty-shaded water.

“I didn't want you to miss me is all,” she says. She leaves her bloody handprints, the shapes of her arms wrapped in red silhouette around Lisa's shirt when she hugs her. Lisa, who's been disapproving, relents.

“I'm fine,” she says, and points. “New movie.”

Notre Dame goes up in smoke.

Cherry gives her a sticky kiss on the cheek. She leaves behind a red smudge of not-lipstick.

“I think I'll take a nap,” Lisa tells her. “Wake me up when you're finished.”

“When she's finished,” Cherry jokes, and leaves.

Lisa keeps the movie paused until she hears the woman wake up. Probably the neighbors heard that. It hardly matters. She has discovered over time that people will ignore the most amazing things, will let their minds gloss over screaming fits and agony, will refuse to hear the sounds of fire alarms squeaking and feet scrambling and dogs howling. And then, later, when the television reporters have cameras pointed at their faces, they say: I had the TV on. The radio up. I was shopping, or doing laundry. I couldn't hear.

There's this thing. The Kitty Genovese effect. What it means is that Lisa and Cherry can go into an apartment building and do just about anything they want, and people can hear them or smell smoke or even see blood coming out from under the door, and they won't do anything. Someone else will take care of it. Someone often doesn't.

Cherry says, in a voice like syrup, slow and sweet and dark: “Don't you ever want to just end it all?”

The woman breathes in, out, in, pauses. Out. In. Slowly, glacier-slow.

“This is not a lesson,” Cherry says.

There is blood bubbling out of the woman's mouth and over her neck in a pale pink foam.

“This is not something I am trying to teach you.”

The holes in her hands like the Crucifiction severed tendons. She can't grip the arms of the chair properly.

“It's never been about a moral.”

Her shirt is stuck to her with caked black blood.

“I'm not,” Cherry says, and spits, “some sick Saw copycat.”

She's dying. Slowly.

“Saw tries and fails to be a morally defensible movie,” Cherry tells her, “And the premise is implausible. It's sensationalism. Ugly.”

They don't even know her name.

“This wasn't even about you. It was about me.”

Her eyes are glazing over. Her pulse is thumping in her ears.

“I am not morally defensible. I am, quite simply, very bad luck,” Cherry says, and kills her.

“I'm very tired of people trying to shake my hand,” she says to Lisa later. Lisa is half-asleep. She says, through a stifled yawn, that she's sure less people would try if Cherry threatened to cut it off.

“They wouldn't really,” Cherry says, but curls up beside her anyway.

The hotel room is nice and warm. They're curled tight together under the bedspread, both of them flushed pink and cool with sweat. They're clean again, too. There's still soot on the floor of the hotel bathroom, more on the walls. Those clothes probably aren't fit to wear again. Lisa thinks of the fire jumping up and consuming everything, the house, the body, the fingerprints, the Disney tapes. She thinks of all of it dissolving into acrid smoke, and it makes her wriggle with delight. She kisses Cherry awake again. The girl levers herself up on one elbow, pushing her gorgeous hair back, that perfect lovely amazing on-fire dyed hair. Lisa's hand slides up the pale smoothness of her back, feels the soft contours of her shoulderblades, toys with the hair at the back of her neck. Cherry smiles that certain way just one more time, knife-sharp, dangerous-bright.

Lisa is consumed by flames, deep in the heat of them, at home, safe, perfect, glorious, and she digs her fingers into the bedspread and moans.

It's not racist if it's funny

2009-05-15T03:02:41Z

There's some rule about that I think.

Here you go Ari, I drew this in like 20 minutes while IMing, pardon my shitty.