Sinspirations

Xmas Present

2009-12-20T07:58:53Z

Title: Prophet
Setting: Germany, Two months before the twins' birth
Words: 2291

A Christmas present for roaringirish because he commissioned a lovely picture of Anne and Marco.

I woke up to the smell of smoke and the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest. Everything was black. Even the man laying in the bed beside me had lost his glow.

I roughly shook his shoulder. "Marco! Marco, wake up! Wake up!"

He sputtered and cursed, and grumbled something in a language I didn't understand. Rolling over, I saw his eyes glowing like two emeralds, and light sprang back into his skin.

"What, lass? What is it?" he asked, sitting up and looking around.

"I..."

What indeed? That smell was gone. There was no smoke. No flames. Nothing. I looked down at my stomach, bulging seven months now with my children whom I loved dearly, but whom I was ready to carry in my arms instead of my belly. They were still deeply asleep, completely unaware of my panic.

I looked sheepishly over at my Irelander, expecting a look of annoyance for jerking him out of one of those rare nights of sleep. The VGS weren't as active now as they had been last autumn, but sometimes he still went out with Lukas to take care of a few things. I was strictly forbidden by everyone for even thinking of going.

But Marco, Gott bless him, only took me by the shoulders and looked over my face, searching for whatever it was that had scared me. "Are you okay, dove? Babes all right?"

I nodded. "Yes, yes they're fine...it was a dream, I suppose."

A dream.

He relaxed a little, clearly relieved that I wasn't going into labor or anything. Still keeping his hands on me, he laid me down and turned me on my side, then pressed his body against me and put one hand over my stomach. I could feel his breath on my neck. "What did you dream about?" Marco asked, sleep creeping back into his voice.

I tried to remember. I recalled seeing faces in my dream, male and female, some familiar, some not. "Frijjo was in it," I said, realizing it as soon as the words left my mouth. "We were walking in a garden somewhere. Behind a house. Not a German house though. A big gray stone one."

Marco tensed against me. "A gray house?"

I nodded. I could almost see it. "Yes, I'm sure of it. It was a bit dark...I think it was going to rain. Or it just had rained. But it was cold. To cold for anything to be in bloom. But I remember it was green. Everything was green."

"Clovers?"

Yes, now that he mentioned it. There had been clovers. Millions of them. "You're right. It must have been Ireland. But..." I rolled over a little bit, looking at him from over my shoulder. "I've never been to Ireland. How would I know what it looks like?"

"I don't know, lass," he said quietly, squeezing me a little. "Then what?"

I focused, willing the dream to play itself out again in front of my eyes. "I saw a man. At least...I think it was a man. It was strange."

"How?"

"I think...I think he was made of stone. Like a golem, but not so huge. And his eyes...black. Like black holes." A shiver ran down my back. "There was blood on his hands, Marco. And I think...I think he'd torn off someone's head." I shut my eyes. "I don't know how I know that. I didn't see a head. I didn't see a headless body. But still..."

"Shhh, baby," Marco murmured, stroking my hair. "What did you see after him?"

I thought a moment. "I was afraid, so Frijjo told me to go inside. I walked into the house, and I saw a woman. A woman with a baby. And...Hayes."

"Hayes?" he said incredulously. "Was it Della?"

"No."

A moment of silence passed between us. We weren't sure how things stood between them right now, and honestly, I don't think Marco gave a shit. Ever since Vegas what fragile trust he'd had in my cousin had completely vanished, and I doubted it would ever come back again. As for me, I couldn't forget the kindness Hayes had showed me, and my family had already accepted him as one of us. Even if I wanted to reject him, I couldn't.

And Della...I always feared for Della.

"Was Della even in the dream?" Marco asked.

I tried to think, and found myself drawing a blank. Had she been in the dream? Had I forgotten some important scrap of information? It all felt fuzzy around the edges already.

"I don't think so. I don't remember. I just know Hayes looked younger and happier than I'd ever seen him, and whoever he was with...well, she was very beautiful. But their baby was quiet. I thought it was dead at first, but it was moving, and normal and everything. Just...completely silent."

"That's not normal."

"You know what I mean," I said. "Then...I heard you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Calling my name. From somewhere above." I could remember the sound of him, so distant and soft. Like he was calling to me from another planet. A shiver ran down my back even just laying there in bed with him, and he squeezed me.

"I went up this staircase trying to find you, but there were these women in my way. Three. One of them...Marco, one of them was Isabella." Again, I wasn't sure how I knew this. I had only ever seen a photo of her. I never laid eyes on the girl herself, even though I watched her die from several blocks away.

Now it was his turn to freeze. How long had it been since that day back in Cyllus when he ceased to be human? We weren't lovers then, even though I was secretly in love with him to the point I myself wasn't even aware until I watched him dissolve into scraps of flesh and bone. Marco and I never spoke about that day; we never spoke about any of his siblings. They were dead and gone, either through his efforts or his failure. That, or they wanted him dead and gone, and I realized then that after our children were born and healthy he would have to face them.

I looked over my shoulder at him again, but his face was completely blank. "Who were the others?" he asked.

I thought back to the dream. "I'm not sure...but I think one of them might have been Sonja. All grown up, but Sonja." I gave him a small smile in hopes of comforting him. "She looked like Lukas, but she was smiling. Kristi's smile."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And the third?"

I shrugged a little and rolled back over. "I don't know. But she was the one who let me pass. She told me I should turn back, but she knew I wouldn't. She...she smiled at me."

"Kristi's?"

I shook my head. "No. Her own." I don't know what that meant. "But it made me feel safe. It was the only good part there was in the dream."

Marco's hand had moved back to my stomach, and he was rubbing it slowly. "Did it end there?"

"No. I kept going up the stairs. There were more faces, but like...ghosts. And I heard voices."

"Did you know them?"

"Some." I remembered the voice of Tori, the girl who'd helped me find the others on the day of the bombing. And Maria, who I'd met during my captivity at the Flamingo. There were IRA voices too, Collins and O'Rourke and to her horror, Billy Gray. But these were chased away boy German voices, my grandparents and school friends and my first boyfriend.

I couldn't actually hear any words in the commotion, however. It was just chaos, building like a storm until it threatened to drown me completely. "I started running," I said. "And finally I got to the top."

"What did you see?" Marco asked. His voice was quiet, enraptured, almost.

"The roof. A graveyard. Both. It's hard to explain. I know I was on top of the house, but there was ground under my feet. Dead grass. And there were headstones everywhere."

"Was I there?"

I nodded. "You were, but you didn't see me. Or maybe you couldn't see me. Really, the only people in the dream who seemed to acknowledge me were Frijjo and the woman on the stairs who let me pass. No one else."

I could tell Marco was trying to picture the dream along with me, but I don't think he could feel it. I wouldn't realize until that morning that I could have saved him the trouble by letting him into my mind and showing him myself.

"What was I doing?" he asked quietly.

"Fighting." My heart began to race even as we lay there, and I could almost hear the storm and the voices and the wind.

Marco took me into his arms and rolled me over until I was facing him. "Who was I fighting, Anne? Please, try to remember."

I did. I shut my eyes and saw the image again. "Magne," I said. "Legion. Q. David."

"All of them against me?" Marco asked.

I opened my eyes and looked back at him. "They were all the same, Marco. They were all one person. Every time you'd land a punch or make a lightning bolt hit them or make them explode, they'd just become someone else," I explained.

He was quiet a moment. "Did I win?"

I almost didn't hear the question. "There was someone else too. After he stopped being Magne, he became...this other person. An old man, but...not." I suddenly felt an urge to touch Marco's face, and reached out and laid a hand aside his cheek. Clearly he was taken aback by this, and was even more so when I found myself kissing him almost desperately.

"Easy there, love," he murmured, pushing me back after a few moments. "What is it?"

I wasn't sure. "He was just...so full of hate, Marco. Like nothing I'd ever seen. And there was something familiar about him. I've seen him before, I'm sure of it. But I don't know where." I tried to think when I would have crossed paths with such an awful being. For a moment, I touched again on that fogginess, a smear over my memory that I knew was from that week after Jean died.

Had I met him then? I didn't know.

Marco tiled my chin, and forced me to look him in the eyes. "Anne, this is important," he said. "Did I win?"

I took a shuddery breath. "There was fire." Yes, fire and smoke. So much that it woke me up and sent me into a blind panic, sure the house was burning down. "I couldn't see, Marco." Tears were pricking at my eyes. "I couldn't see. There was so much smoke, and it got hot...I couldn't see..."

"Shhhh," he murmured again, pulling me close. "I'm sorry, lass, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed it. Don't cry, baby, please." One of his rough fingers brushed the tear from my eye, and he kissed the top of my head.

I knew he felt bad for upsetting me, but I also knew that he was still wondering whether or not he did win in my dream. I couldn't blame him. I wanted to know too.

I don't and never have had precognitive powers; just the intuition all the Mauer women were blessed with. There's no reason my dream should predict the future. I'd never had a dream like that in my life. But Marco was right when he said this was important. There just too much in this dream. Too many details, too many things I didn't understand. And it was too real. Frighteningly real.

"Marco?" I asked softly, breathing on his chest.

"Yes?"

"Do you know who he was?" I didn't need to tell him who I meant.

He was quiet a moment. "I think so, love. And if he is, I promise you," he looked at me again. "I promise you and our children, I will never lose to him."

He smiled at me, that beautiful Irish grin that charmed me from the very moment we met. "I'm Marco McCalister. I'm a fucking god. Dream or no dream, I don't lose. So don't you worry any more about this, all right?" Marco pulled the sheets, which had gotten a bit twisted and disheveled, up over my belly and breasts, tucking me in safely before brushing a stray strand of hair out of my face.

"Go to sleep, Anne," he whispered. I felt a comforting heat fill the room. Not fire, something gentler. The glow beside me faded slightly, but remained constant.

"Marco?" I murmured, closing my eyes.

"Mm?" I think his eyes were closed too now.

"I love you."

His arms tightened around me, and I heard his promise again in my mind. "I love you too, lass. Now go to sleep."

I did.

Merry Different-mas!

2009-12-18T18:07:57Z

Thema 11: Weinen
Zeitraum: Rory and Fiona's childhood
Wörter: 2146

My sister Fiona doesn't cry. I almost hate her for that.

I try not to cry too. McCalister men don't cry. If I do feel like I'm going to cry about something (usually because I miss my father, or because my mother unfairly grounds me for putting a frog in the teacher's desk), I always wait until I'm safely in my room and alone. I guess it's possible that Fiona does the same thing, but if she does she does it quietly, and washes her face afterward so it doesn't look like she's been crying at all.

But even though I'm jealous she can hide her tears, sometimes it scares me too. Last spring, right after we turned eight, we were playing in Ma's garden and we found a stray cat. Our parents don't have anything against animals; in fact we'd even had a cat for a short time back when we were three or four. But as it had turned out Ma was allergic, so we had to get rid of him. And I knew from the moment I saw the scraggly yellow tom near the the lilac bush our mother would take pity on the animal, and take him out of our care and place him into that of someone very far away.

So Fiona and I decided to hide the cat in the shed and smuggle it milk and scraps from the house. We cared for it an entire month without getting caught, and the animal thrived under our care. But when we came home from school one day and rushed to the shed, we saw with horror the door was open. Of course, being a stray the cat was gone, and we looked frantically for him, all around the house and as far back on our land as the river. No sign. Finally, I told Fiona to go look in the road, specifically so I wouldn't have to see the body if he'd lost a fight with a passing car.

She came back carrying his bloody body in her arms. Her face was slightly sad, but bone-dry.

I cried. I couldn't help myself. Fiona tried to hand him to me, but I shoved her away, not wanting to touch this dead thing I had sort of loved. I told her to fix it. With her powers, she should have been able to. Surely a cat wouldn't require as much life as a human? And if she needed strength, I would have been happy to give it to her, just to fix him...

She refused to even try, and when I still wouldn't take the cat, she dumped him on the ground and started walking towards the house. There was mud and dirt on her shirt, and Ma would be furious when she saw the stains.

I sat there staring at the bent lump of fur and flesh and bones, a lump which that morning had been warm and moving and rubbed itself against my ankles. We hadn't even named it yet; we couldn't agree on one. Fiona wanted to call him Degas, I wanted to call him Rogue. Now he was dead, and didn't need a name.

Eventually, I turned and ran into the house, leaving the cat's body in the grass near the iron fence that went all around our property. I didn't sleep for two days, thinking about it and wondering if cats had ghosts that would haunt you. I tried talking to Fiona about it, but she'd just shrug and say, "Cats die," before going back to her studies or her art or her chores.

Only when my father came home and I told him what had happened and showed him the cat (which was starting to decompose) did I start to feel better. He helped me bury the cat under the apple tree by the shed, and I didn't cry or worry about ghosts any more.

Fiona didn't seem to care one way or another.

The autumn after Dah and I buried the cat was the closest I ever came to seeing my sister in tears. It was recess and had been raining all morning. I was hanging around near the school wall with my mates when I looked over towards the playground and saw an older boy, Matt, I think his name was, leaning over Fiona's shoulder while she hugged her sketchpad to herself.

Because she was my twin and we'd spent our entire lives together, I already knew that what Matt was doing was the one way to get my sister angry. Fiona has always been a private person; not shy, just private. If she decides she likes a person (which happens only rarely), she's happy to spend time with them, but never under any circumstances should he or she try to look at any of her many sketchbooks or go into her room without her permission.

"Come on, I want to see!" I could hear Matt yelling now. He was starting to attract attention to my sister, which is fine when it's attention coming from a teacher or an adult she's hoping to impress, but not so much when it's more kids wanting to tease and make fun of her for her peculiar ways.

"Go away," Fiona's voice was soft, but I knew that tone. She wasn't kidding.

Mat wasn't about to quit though. Thinking back on the whole thing now, I suspect he might have had a crush on my sister with the way he constantly picked on her and tried to get her attention. Unfortunately for him, Fiona was not the least bit interested.

"I'll give it right back, promise!" he grinned, then reached out and grabbed a handful of her long black hair and jerked firmly on it. She let out a shriek of pain and loosened her grip on the book. Instantly, Matt let go of her hair and snatched it out of her hands.

"Ooooh, what's this, Fifi?" he teased, flipping through the pages. I couldn't see what it was my sister had drawn, but the other kids who'd gathered to watch were laughing at whatever it was. Fiona herself had grown very pale, and I thought I could see a faint glow around her.

"Give it back to me. Right. Now."

"Oh, you want it, Fifi? Come get it then!" Matt said, holding the book out of her reach. "Come on, jump! You can get it!"

Fiona did no such thing. She only took a step forward. "Give. It. Back!" she repeated, her voice surprisingly loud and sounding more enraged than any of us could have guessed.

Matt faltered a minute, and almost looked like he was going to hand it back to her. But something made him steel himself, and he gave her a wicked smile. "Fine, go get it!" he yelled, throwing the sketchbook as hard as he could. It landed in a two inch deep puddle of water across the playground, dirty brown water soaking the drawings my sister had worked so hard on.

Matt and his friends began to laugh and walk away. I looked at Fiona, sure she would cry now. There was a look of grief and shock on her face when she looked across the playground and saw her work drowning in rainwater. I started to walk over to her, wanting to comfort her, but I never got the chance. There was an animalistic screech and a flash of black hair, and the next thing any of us knew my sister had tackled Matt to the ground.

The old familiar chant of "Fight! Fight!" had broken out amongst the others, but they weren't fighting. Matt didn't have a chance. Fiona had her hands on his face and the glowing aura around her was growing brighter with every second, and with every second he struggled less and less.

"FIONA!" I yelled, the only one who could have realized what it was she was doing. When we started school, our parents told us we didn't have to keep our powers a secret per se, but we should use them unless we were going to use them to help people. I'll admit I did show my own powers to some of my closest friends on a couple of occasions, but made them swear not to tell anyone because I didn't want people to call me a freak. As far as I know, Fiona never showed anyone hers, but people thought she was a freak anyways.

I tried pulling her off, taking care not to touch her skin. But she was holding onto Matt with a vice-like grip, and all I managed to do was tear her jacket. He was growing paler and paler, I had to do something. So I made a fist, and all of the flesh suddenly became gray and opaque. Drawing my arm back, I punched Fiona as hard as I could in the shoulder with my stone fist. It made her loosen up, so I hit her again, softer this time, but in the head. She was knocked clear off.

By this time, the playground monitors had come over and pulled us all apart. Matt was unconscious, but breathing. Fiona had managed not to kill him, and that was a miracle. The monitors quickly called an ambulance and sent my sister and me to the principal's office.

We had to wait outside for a half hour before he would see us, and when we did go in, our mother was sitting in front of his desk looking angrier than I had ever seen her. She looked eerily like Fiona had on the playground, just before she attacked Matt.

"I hope you two are proud of yourselves!" she hissed to us. "Do you have any idea what your father is going to say when he comes home?"

I paled a little at the thought of that, but Fiona just rolled her eyes. "Ich mache mir nichts daraus," she grumbled, taking advantage of the fact that the principal didn't speak our mother's language.

Ma wasn't amused at her attitude. "Do not start, young lady." She looked back at the principal. "Sir, I am very, very sorry for everything that has happened today. Fiona's always been so good..."

The principal, a fat bald man who was actually kind of nice when he got to know you (and I was in here so often we were practically friends), gave an approving look to my sister. "Aye, Mrs. McCalister. It's lucky the faculty loves her so much. The boy's family is already demanding she be removed from the school, but I assure you, Fiona has our full support. Provided this incident is never repeated again." He looked pointedly at my sister.

She looked just as pointedly back. "If he doesn't start anything again, it won't be."

The principal didn't say anything to that, but looked at me. "As for you, lad...you did the right thing."

This surprised me. You didn't tend to get congratulated for punching your sister and giving her a goose egg near her right temple (no doubt she would pay me back later by snitching to our parents or the principal). But I guess now that I think about it, I did save Matt's life. Fiona probably wouldn't have stopped if I hadn't hit her, and she'd be in jail instead of the principal's office.

We got our things afterward, and Ma took us home. I would be allowed to come back tomorrow, but Fiona was suspended for the rest of the week. It was the first and only suspension she would ever get, whereas I'd already had three and was due for at least five more by the time I got to high school. We were both grounded, me for the night, Fiona until our father came back.

Ma sent us upstairs to our rooms while she got dinner started. We walked up side by side up the stairs, and were about to go into our separate rooms when I felt the need to grab my sister's shoulder.

"Hey...I'm sorry I hit you. Did I hurt you bad?"

She looked at me suspiciously, then shook her head. "No, I'm fine." Indeed, she'd already started to heal. Fiona had put Matt's life to good use, repairing her own wounds.

"Why did you do it?" I asked, honestly curious about the answer. "You could have killed him."

She stared right back at me. "Why didn't you help me? I saw you watching."

I froze. Why hadn't I helped her? Matt was older, but I had more friends, and obviously, I was stronger. I could have stopped it all.

Something sparkled in my sister's eye. I thought it was a tear, but she blinked and it was gone before I could be sure. Fiona didn't say a word, just whirled around and disappeared into her room, locking the door behind her.

I stood there listening for a good five minutes, sure I would hear the sound of sobbing if I just waited long enough. But I never heard a thing, and eventually, I just gave up.

So...Yeah...Again...

2009-12-14T00:01:13Z

So it's been an entire semester, but hey, why not have a theme for Xmas?

Thema 10: Writer's Choice - Kristi's Song: O Death
Zeitraum: After Kristi gets knocked out during the fight at Jean's
Wörter: 582
Notes: "O Death" is an American folk song. This piece was inspired by Jen Titus' version

~*~*~

o death
o death
o death
won't you spare me over til another year

~*~*~

Kill him, Marco. Kill him before he hurts Ann--

Where am I?

It's dark. So dark. Did the power go out? Why is it quiet? No, it's not quiet. I can hear a voice...my voice?

"Marco...be careful."

Fuck, what is going on? And what is touching me?

Kristina.

Who's there? Who's that laughing?

~*~*~

but what is this, that i can't see
with ice cold hands taking hold of me

~*~*~

It doesn't hurt anymore. How is that possible? Marco threw me against a wall and smashed my face.

Lukas, where's Lukas? He's going to panic when he sees me. Someone has to keep him away from Marco. Tell him it's not his fault, he didn't know what he was doing. He thought I was Legion.

It doesn't hurt. What the fuck? I can stand.

Marco? Marco, where are you? Did you do this? Did you save me?

He's gone, Kristina. It's just you and me.

WHO IS THAT?!?!

~*~*~

when god is gone and the devil takes hold
who'll have mercy on your soul

~*~*~

I can feel you. Stop touching me. Get your hands off before--

Before what?

Before...before...damn it, stop laughing! What is going on? Who are you?

You know who I am, Kristina. You know why I'm here.

I don't even know where "here" is. I don't know what's going on. One minute Marco is beating the shit out of me, and the second...

Oh God. Oh. God. No...you can't be...this can't be.

Yes, Kristina. It is.

No! He fixed it! I could feel Marco fixing things! He healed me! He saved my life!

He didn't do it fast enough.

God...no, please. Please, I can't do this yet. I have a daughter. I have a husband.

God isn't here.

~*~*~

no wealth no ruin no silver no gold
nothing satisfies me but your soul

~*~*~

Someone needs to go back and stop this. Don't you understand? If it ends like this, it'll start a war. The Waldgeister will go after Marco, and either he or the VGS will slaughter them. Then they'll go against each other. People will die. So many people will die!

You don't really think that's a deterrent to me, do you?

I need to go back...please, you have to let me go back! Lukas needs me. Sonja needs me. She's just a baby, she needs her mother.

She won't remember you.

All the more reason! For God's sake show some mercy on me! I'm only thirty. I want to watch my little girl grow up. I want to have another baby. I want to see Anne and Marco get married and start their own family. It can't be my time yet, it can't!

That isn't for you to decide, Kristina.

PLEASE! I am begging you! I can't go yet! I have so much left to do! The fight is only beginning, I can't die now! I CAN'T DIE NOW!

~*~*~

well i am death none can excel
i'll open the door to heaven or hell

~*~*~

The blond man stood alone in the hospital room, his wife unconscious in the bed and imprisoned by wires and meters. Severe brain damage, they said. It was unlikely she'd ever fully function again, provided she ever came out of the coma. The beautiful BND agent was faced with a future in a wheelchair, likely unable to speak, unable to care for herself. She would never speak her daughter's name again.

Tears ran down Lukas Geist's face, and he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. It was smooth there; Marco hadn't marred her too badly. Her skin was so pale. So pale.

"Kristi...komm zurück. Ich liebe dich."

She said nothing.

~*~*~

my name is death and the end is here

~*~*~

God Sort Of Hates Annemarie Geist

2009-08-27T03:03:06Z

Thema 9: Tränen
Zeitraum: After Marco throws Anne out of the Rio.
Wörter: 1784

Why are you crying, Anne? Surely not over him?

Well, what did he do this time? Oh? He finally threw you away? Well, that's a blessing, my girl! Since you're clearly too stupid to walk away from him on your own, he's doing the work for you. After all, dear, let's face it: you should have turned your back on him the day you two met. You never should have followed him down the street to that liquor store. But no, you were too scared to be alone, and I suppose the big strong drunkard made you feel safe. If memory serves, you were crying then too, weren't you?

Honestly, Anne, you handle your emotions so childishly. Stop crying. It doesn't accomplish anything. No, it doesn't make you feel better. When has it ever made you feel better? When you collapsed in the street, shaking with fear after the explosion in Cyllus, did you feel better? When you were crouched beside the toilet puking up your emotions, did you feel better? When you fell to your knees on the Strip an hour ago, did you feel better?

Well, maybe you did feel better on the rare occasion when he wiped those tears away. But he's not here now, is he? No. Do you know why, Anne? Because Marco McCalister is a heartless snake of a creature. He tempted you into tasting the apple, and now you've been cast out of Eden, pregnant and alone. If it's not his, then you can grow up hating that child because you know it's the product of rape. Rape, might I add, at the hands of one of your beloved Marco's friends. And if you are carrying his child, well then, prepare to spend the rest of your life cowering in fear of an otherwordly monster. That is, if you survive the birth. For all you know, that creature in your belly will be born with two heads, green skin, and spikes all over its body.

Oh don't look at me like that, girl. You can say whatever you like about that baby. You can say you'll love it no matter what, and raise it as best as you can, but the fact of the matter is you're going to cry yourself to sleep every night because there is no one who is going to help you raise it. Your friends are either dead, or siding with your traitorous lover. Your family has no interest in a daughter who's killed countless men and gotten pregnant by an Irish mobster. And good luck ever finding another man to love you. Who would want a sobbing pathetic mess like you?

This is your fault, you know. It's not like you never had opportunities to escape. After all, Marco already left you once. When he died, a door practically opened up for you to leave. You didn't have to go with Collins. Remember when that man in the diner gave you the number of a women's shelter? Or when that German tourist tried to speak to you? You could have gone. Nothing kept you in that awful place except your own ridiculous feelings. Indeed, you could have taken what little money you made and just left; you weren't important to them enough to follow. Not until you killed Billy Gray, that is. But by all rights, you should have been gone long before then.

Still, I can respect the fact that you rarely cried during those weeks. Moped, yes. Stared into space, very much so. But even after Gray did what he did, you didn't shed a single tear. That was brave of you.

So what the hell happened?

McCalister came back, that's what happened. He came back, and you went to pieces. Honestly, that man brings out the worst in you, Anne. You seem to think he makes you stronger, and kinder, and more selfless. But the fact of the matter is that when you're around him, you shatter like glass. One word from him sends you flying through the air, or crashing to the ground, or breaking into a thousand pieces. Your soul, always so free, becomes a slave to him. After all, why did you kill those men, Anne? Who were you helping?

I thought so. Doesn't sound very kind or selfless to me.

You don't care though. Because you love him. Oh, well then. That makes everything all right, doesn't it? Your love for him will bring those men back to life. It'll gloss over the fact that you betrayed your best friend and threw yourself at the man she loved. It makes the shame of having to raise a child alone all the better, doesn't it?

You may not believe this, my girl, but I sympathize with you on that front. Do you know why? Because even though you may be blinded by love for him, willing to lay everything, including your life, down for him, he doesn't feel the same way for you. If he did, would he have thrown you and your baby away just because he found out he might not be the father? It wasn't as though you cheated on him. Or that you even knew. But he's the one who got angry. He threw you out of a hotel and left you on the street to die.

For God's sake, Anne! He is not worth this! He isn't worth your tears!

But you're still crying. I cannot believe you. What kind of life did you envision with him? Really? Were you planning on bringing him back to Germany to meet your parents? "Hallo, Mama. Hallo, Papa. This is my husband, the glowing Irish thug, and our half-breed abomination of a child. May we come in?" Don't make me laugh, girl. They would slam the door as soon as they saw your face, let alone his.

Or maybe you were going to go to Ireland for him. After all, you handled America fine, surely it couldn't be any worse? Why, of course his family and friends will accept you! It doesn't matter that you're not Irish! All you need to do is forget your language and culture, and you'll fit in fine. Give your baby an Irish name, never mention your homeland, cease to be German. Of course, you'll probably never lose that accent, and you have that lovely tattoo on your chest of words that make no sense in Ireland, but everything will be just fine. Maybe they'll even call you Annie, just like Billy Gray did.

Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Anne? I would be kinder, really, I would. Maybe you don't deserve to be in the place you are now, crying alone in a hotel room, but all the reasons you are here can either be traced to your own bad decisions, or else his callous judgments. And you just won't learn. You're curled up on a bed with tears streaming down your face, wishing you could go back in time and change things so that you would still be with him. You want to be with a man who doesn't and never has loved you. That is why I can't have more pity for you. You don't want to make things better for yourself or your child. You just want to go around the masochistic carousel again.

I don't want to watch it anymore. It hurts me just as much.

So, you are going to stop crying? Good. Wipe those tears from your eyes; you're prettier when they're brown, not red. No, I'm not just saying that; men find you attractive. Maybe if you're lucky, and if you grow up a bit, another one will cross your path. One who treats you better than Marco McCalister did. One who will love you and your child regardless of paternity. One who will respond with sympathy when you tell him about what happened during your time with the IRA. There are good men out there, Anne, I promise. You just gave your heart to a bad one. Eventually, you'll get it back, if everything goes well.

But you need to walk away. Don't stay in this city, there's too much pain here. Too many memories. It hurts as bad when you think about laying in bed with him as it does when you think about Hegre moving through your head, forcing you to remember what happened during your time with the IRA. Remembering the lie of Marco saying "I love you" is as bitter as his throwing you out of the hotel.

If there is a memory to hold onto, hold onto this; Las Vegas was where you learned for sure that you were pregnant. If nothing else, you have a great capacity for love within you. And if you are going to give it recklessly, give it to that baby. At least it will love you back.

So get on a plane. Get out of this city, maybe even out of the country. Why not go back to Germany? You don't have to go home, just go back to a place you love. Someplace where you can heal and forget. Where Marco McCalister will never find you. Raise your child how you want, and don't talk about its Papa. As far as you need to be concerned, it has no Papa. Only a Mama who loves it very, very much.

And if, by some unimaginable curse, Marco should ever show up on your doorstep, slam the door on his face. Don't forget what he did to you or your child. Remember how much you've cried over him, how much pain he's caused. He doesn't love you, and he never did. He just used your loved and wasted it all on his own selfishness. He isn't worthy of you, your baby, or your tears. He is a mistake to be left in the past.

Once you learn this, Anne, and once you stop crying, you'll be happy again. You'll find your way. I promise.

No more tears.

Holy shit this is a long one

2009-08-18T00:23:53Z

Thema 8: Glück
Zeitraum: The future?
Wörter: 3548

"Daaaaaaaad...how much longer?" the ten-year-old whined, tugging on his father's wrist. Marco sighed, then looked across the aisle to where Anne was sitting and chatting quietly with their daughter. Not that he didn't love both his children equally, but there were times when Marco wished his son had inherited Anne's calm just as their other child had.

"Lad, Santa doesn't bring presents to whiners," he answered with a smile, patting the boy on his dark head. The boy huffed, then sat back in the seat and stared out the window. It was a relatively short flight from Dublin to Nuremberg, at least compared with those between Europe and the US, but it was Christmas Eve, and the McCalisters were on their way to Nana and Opa Geist's house for the holidays. To a ten-year-old, they might have been going to the moon.

Sensing his son's impatience, Marco smiled and pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket, along with a handful of change. "What do you say to a quick game to pass the time, lad?" he smiled, folding down his son's tray table and shuffling the cards.

The boy's eyes lit up. "Okay!" he said, grabbing at some of the coins.

Meanwhile, across the aisle, the other McCalister twin was bent over a sketchbook, making careful lines with a pencil that resolved themselves into the shape of a surprisingly detailed Christmas tree. Glancing over from her novel, Annemarie let out a little gasp of surprise at her daughter's work. "Ach, schön, Liebling!"

The girl brushed a chunk of long black hair over her shoulder, but didn't look up from her work. "Ich werde es zu Nana für Weinachten schenken," she explained, then turned back to some other drawings, all with a Christmas theme. A fat Santa, a somewhat canine reindeer, a snowman, and a few other Christmas trees. Each drawing had a name on it, either "Tante Kristi," "Onkel Lukas," "Opa," or one of the twins' several cousins.

"Aber nichts fur Papa oder mich?" Anne pouted, feigning hurt that none of the drawings had her or Marco's names on them

The girl rolled her eyes. Her brother had inherited good humor from their father and grandfather, but she was the spitting image of Anne's mother Anneliese, right down to her no-nonsense attitude. Indeed, while the male twin was content to speak English and use the slang of their Irish homeland (though he was equally fluent in his mother's tongue), the girl clung stubbornly to her German heritage, speaking the language to her mother whenever she got the chance, much to her father's annoyance. "Mamaaaaaa...ich kann dass nicht sagen!" she said, going back to her work.

Anne smiled and shook her head, not taking it personally. Her daughter's seriousness amused her now just as it did when she was a toddler, setting about whatever task it was, whether learning to walk or saying a word, with utmost determination, while the boy tended to laugh and fool around. Such tendencies made him popular with his schoolmates and an exhaustion to his teachers, while with his sister it was the exact opposite.

Perhaps after the holiday Anne would speak to Marco again about sending her to a different school, one that would better meet her accelerated standards. She'd suggested sending the girl to the same gymnasium she'd attended in Germany and allowing her to live with her grandparents, but Marco wasn't keen on the idea of splitting up their family, so she'd dropped it. Still, there was plenty of time to discuss; maybe she could change his mind.

The rest of the flight passed rather uneventfully, and the next thing the family knew, they were walking down the corridor to the main gate at the Nuremberg Airport, where a blond man with thinning hair and two children stood waiting. The older of the kids, a girl with white-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, let out a yelp and ran towards them. "Tante Anne! Onkel Marco!"

Marco grinned at the girl, then dropped to one knee to give her a hug. "Who's this lass then? Not my Sonja! You're supposed to be this big!" he held his hand about a foot off the ground, and the girl pouted.

"Not funny!" she remarked, poking him on the nose before wriggling free to hug her aunt and cousins.

The boy approached shyly with his father. "Hallo, Tante Anne," he said quietly. Anne grinned.

"Hallo, Peter," she smiled, bending over to give the nine-year-old a tight embrace. While Lukas' first child looked like him and took after her Kristi, Peter was the exact opposite. Dark hair and eyes, and a quiet demeanor about him. As a result, he was particularly close to his lone female cousin, and indeed a single moment passed before the two had linked arms and where whispering quietly to each other. In comparison, Sonja and the boy had set about chattering so loudly in a mix of German and English that Anne had to remind them to use their indoor voices.

Marco looked over at his brother-in-law, smiled, then held out a hand. The bad blood of ten years ago was dead and buried, and there was a mutual respect, possibly even a little bit of familial love, between them.

Lukas smiled back and shook his hand firmly. "Good flight then?" the German asked as they headed towards the baggage claim.

"Just fine. Where's Kristi and the others?" he asked, looking around for Lukas' wife and other three children.

"With my parents, getting dinner ready. Tina and Thomas threw a fit about not being able to come. Thomas threatened to walk here by himself," Lukas answered.

"And how's the baby?" Anne piped up.

Her brother grinned. "Just said her first word the other day. Sonja, tell Anne what it was."

"Santa!" the blond girl cried. "We were watching TV, and he came on, and I said, 'Lise, wer ist das?' And Tina said, 'Santa!' Then I yelled at her, because I was asking Lise, but then Lise said it too! She said 'Santa!'"

"That's a lass," Marco grinned, patting her on the head. "Just don't teach her any dirty words."

"Marco!" Anne snapped, whacking him on the shoulder but smiling playfully. "Stop giving them ideas!"

They managed to pick up the bags without trouble, then piled into Lukas' navy van and headed into the heart of the city. There was a thin layer of snow on the ground, and lights everywhere. Later that night they would go out to the Christkindlmarkt near the Frauenkirche, where the children would each pick a name from a hat and go off with a parent or grandparent to pick a gift for a cousin or sibling. Anne smiled at the thought of it. The market was one of the highlights of the holidays.

The van pulled up in front of the familiar old cross-timbered house, still standing on the corner of Brunnengasse, with the letters in the first floor window beginning to fade. While the adults gathered the luggage, the children raced up the stairs into the apartment, the McCalister twins letting out joyous cries of "Nana!" and "Opa!"

It was Sebastian who stood up first, setting aside his paper and opening up his arms to his grandchildren. "Hallo Kinder!" he grinned, squeezing them to the point that they laughed and told him to stop. Releasing them, he stood up straight, his body strong as ever, although his hair had faded from gold to silver, and he wore glasses all the time now. "Wo sind seine Eltern?"

"Hier, Papa!" Anne cried as they walked through the door. Setting down her suitcases, she ran to the old man and all but threw herself into his arms. Although she loved Ireland and the life she had there with her husband and children, there was something wonderful about coming home to Germany and her parents, and it showed in the desperate hug she gave her father.

When Sebastian finally let go of his daughter, he turned to face his son-in-law with a grin on his face. Marco held out his hand to shake, as he always did, and the German man knocked it aside, as he always did, in favor of a painful bear hug. Just as Lukas had forgiven Marco for the mess of a previous decade, so had Sebastian, who now referred to Marco rather pridefully as his other son and always complained about how he never visited. "Ach, Marco! So good to see you again!"

Marco tried not to wince in pain as he patted the old man on the back. The same arms that had delivered a painful punch to his jaw when he announced his relationship with Anne hadn't lost any of their strength. "Good to see you too, Sebastian. Frohliches Weinachten," he said, repeating the phrase Anne pounded into his head every December, seeing as he always forgot it once January rolled around.

"Ach! Dein Deutsch ist sehr gut, Mein Sohn!" Sebastian laughed, releasing the man and taking the bags from him. "I'll get you and Anne set up in her room. The Kinder can sleep out here and wait for Santa Claus, ja?"

"Ja!" the four chorused, just as two more children, a boy and girl around seven and four, respectively, wandered out into the room, followed by a handsome woman holding a baby.

"Tina! Thomas!" Anne grinned, scooping the pair into her arms. The boy allowed this for a few moments, then squirmed uncomfortably out of her arms. A stubborn, prideful creature, Thomas considered himself far too distinguished to be hugged by his aunt, and quickly went over to join his older brother and cousin by the TV. But Anne-Kristina, feeling out of place ever since her baby sister's birth, was content to be lifted up and hugged by Tante Anne.

Meanwhile, Marco put an arm around his sister-in-law and kissed her cheek. "Merry Christmas, Kristi. Santa bring you a present early?" he asked, gesturing to the child in her arms.

She giggled, then handed him the baby. Although Anne had brought the children to Munich during their spring break to see the newborn, he'd been unable to join them do to work commitments. This was his first time meeting his youngest niece, Elise Annette Geist. "Hello there," he smiled, tapping her on the nose and sending a tiny burst of green light out of his finger. The child's eyes widened, and she looked fearfully towards her mother. Marco just laughed, then performed the trick again. After watching the miniature fireworks show for a few minutes, Lise finally broke into giggles and relaxed in his arms.

"Well, I got what I came for," Marco announced, turning as if to walk off with the baby. "The rest of you have a happy holiday..."

"Ah ah ah!" Kristi laughed, taking the baby from him. "This one's mine, ask Santa for your own!" she teased, then cocked her head towards the kitchen. "Come on, Anneliese's making dinner."

Following the brunette into the kitchen, Marco smiled at the woman at the stove, then tapped her on the shoulder. "Don't tell me your kids have you slaving away over a hot stove on Christmas Eve!" he remarked.

His mother-in-law raised her head, then smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. "Hello, Marco," she greeted, embracing him warmly and giving him a quick kiss on the lips. "How was the flight?"

"Just fine. Glad to be here though," he remarked, observing her closely. Although Anneliese was still a striking and arguably beautiful woman, like Sebastian, her age was starting to show. There were streaks of gray around her face, though her hair was thick as ever, and deep lines were visible around her mouth.

"We're glad to have you here, Schatzi. Why don't you help yourself to a beer? I had Sebastian pick up your favorite," she replied, just as her daughter and grandchildren came bounding into the kitchen.

"Nana!" the boy cried, throwing his arms around her waist. "Hast du Lebkuchen gebackt?" he asked eagerly, looking around for plates of his grandmother's famous gingerbread.

His sister delivered a sharp elbow to his stomach. "Rude!" she hissed, then gave her grandmother a polite smile and a light hug. "Frohliches Weinachten, Nana."

Anneliese smiled at the twins, then bent over and kissed each on the forehead. "Frohliches Weinachten, Lieben. Es gibt's Lebkuchen auf dem Tisch. Aber frag eurer Mama erst!"

The boy looked towards Anne with pleading eyes. "Can I, Mom? Please?" he begged. The girl politely shook her head in declination.

Anne held up a finger. "You may have one. I don't want you to spoil your dinner," she said, then gave her mother a quick hug and kiss. "Hallo, Mama. Brauchst du hilfe?"

"Nein, nein. You and Marco relax. There's a bottle of wine on the counter for you," she smiled, patting her daughter's cheek before going back to work.

The next hour or so was spent with the adults gathered in the kitchen, catching up and taking turns holding the new baby (and occasionally Tina, who'd gotten fed up with being left out of the older children's games and came to curl up in her father's lap). Then came one of Anneliese's famous feasts, complete with rouladen, homemade dumplings, potatoes, and all the dishes Marco never did learn to pronounce, but which he'd acquired a taste for anyways.

After the meal, Anne and Lukas put their children to work helping with the dishes, while Kristi put Lise and Tina down for a nap. Yawning, Anne joined her husband on the couch, snuggling against him and closing her eyes. "I could use a rest too. Especially if we're going to be out all night."

Smiling, the Irishman slid his arms around his wife. "Don't tell me you're getting too old to get through the day without a nap," he teased.

She gave him a light rap on the forearm, then sat up. "Shut up, du verrückter Irlander," she chided, grabbing his hand and pulling him up after her. "Come on, lay down with me."

He certainly wasn't going to argue as she led him down the hall to her old bedroom. Since they'd been married, most of her belongings had been moved to their house outside of Dublin, and the room lacked the distinct personality he'd noticed the first time he'd stepped into the room ten years earlier. The hole Connel had blown in the wall was long-since repaired, and the furniture had been replaced with simpler, modern pieces. But Marco still remembered what it felt like to make love to the German girl in midair, and were the exhaustion of the flight not so evident on her face, he would have been tempted to create another barrier and do it again.

Sebastian had set their bags at the foot of the bed, and they had to step around them in order to lay down on the soft mattress. As his wife let out a contented sigh, Marco pulled her close and shut his eyes, breathing softly into her hair. It didn't matter whether they were in Ireland or Germany, whether it was Christmas or July. He was always happiest with Anne in his arms, and she felt the same. Taking one of his hands, Anne pressed the palm to her lips. "Ich liebe dich, Marco," she murmured.

"I love you too, lass," he responded, moving his head and brushing his lips against her neck.

A thought hit him. "Anne?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you want your present early?"

She opened her eyes, then rolled over and looked at him. "Present?"

"You know, your Christmas present? Christmas? The reason we're here?" he teased, tapping her nose.

Anne narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, then giggled. "I don't know, have I been good enough?" she asked.

He answered her with a long, surprisingly tender kiss on the lips, running his fingers through her hair. When he pulled away, his smile was much gentler than before, and his gaze softer. "You've been wonderful, Anne. Far more than I ever deserved."

She touched his cheek, then leaned forward to kiss him again, but he pulled back. "So do you want it?"

The German woman smiled. "Sure," she answered. "Give it to me."

Sitting up, Marco crawled to the edge of the bed, then reached into his suitcase. "Close your eyes," he instructed. His wife obeyed, then felt him place something hard and cold in her hands. She frowned a little.

"What--"

"Open them."

She did so, and cast her gaze downwards. It was a gun, but not just anyone. A worn, slightly beaten Glock. Her heart began to pound. Anne knew this gun. She'd found it behind the counter of a burned out convenience store in Cyllus, along with the remnants of its owner. She'd carried it and three clips back to the intersection where Marco McCalister, a stranger with an awful past, would show her how to use it. It would be her companion for the rest of that summer, until the tragedy that happened in Vegas.

"Where...where did you get this, Marco?" she asked, looking up and staring at her husband incredulously.

"It doesn't matter," he answered, carefully taking the gun from her. It began to glow in his hands, and then unbelievably, it melted into a gob of bright white liquid metal. Marco smiled. "Watch," he instructed, then began to squeeze and mold the blob as though it were modeling clay. As he did so, the light coming from the mass that had been the Glock began to fade. Pinching a bit of the mass between his thumb and forefinger, Marco pulled on the melted metal, creating a long gray string that Anne realized was not a string at all, but a thin, strong chain that connected to the other side of the blob.

"All right. Close your eyes again," Marco said. Although Anne wanted to see just what it was he was doing to the gun, she did as she was told. The chain slid around her neck, and she could feel something warm, heavy, and solid resting against her chest. To her surprise, it also seemed to vibrate a bit, and there was a soft humming noise in her ears.

"Okay," her husband said, and she opened her eyes. Tears instantly filled them. From the gun that had taken so many lives and represented so much pain, Marco had created a heart. There was a cutaway section on the front panel in the shape of a star, and inside, Anne could see tiny gears whirling and spinning.

Marco put his arms around her. "It'll keep spinning forever, Anne. That's how long I'm going to live, and that's how long I'm going to love you."

She squeezed him tightly. "Thank you, Liebling. Thank you so much. It's beautiful."

For a long while, they just sat on the bed, holding each other with no sounds other than the near-silent whir of the gears. Then, just as Marco was about to suggest they go back out and get the kids ready for the market, Anne raised her head.

"I want to give you your present now too," she said.

Marco smiled. "All right," he replied, but to his surprise, Anne didn't move. A puzzled look crossed his face.

Anne's gaze softened. "I want to give you your present now...but I can't," she said, taking his hands and putting them on her stomach. "You're going to have to wait about eight more months."

The Irishman's eyes widened. "Anne? Are you...?"

She smiled up at him. "Nummer drei, Liebling. And this time, you can pick the name, I promise."

Marco let out a shout of joy, then stood up and lifted Anne clear off the bed, both of them hovering in the middle of the room a good foot and a half off the bed. "Thank you, Anne. Thank you so much," he whispered in her ear, kissing her soundly.

"No, Marco. Thank you."

*****

Anne sat up straight in bed, breathing hard and looking around. Had she been dreaming? Where was she? Oh yes...the woman from earlier, Anneliese had shown her into this room and told her she could rest here. Anneliese...had she been in that dream? What about the men from outside? And Marco...

A shiver ran down her back. Dreams about Marco were nightmares. Yet, she couldn't help but feel she'd come close to touching something while she slept. Some kind of memory.

Laying back down, the girl tried to ignore it all. She needed rest. Her head was killing her.

Please forget about the travesty I posted yesterday

2009-08-12T20:44:59Z

Thema 7: Mondschein
Zeitraum: Marco and Anne's first (only?) night together in Germany
Wörter: 1032

Was she asleep yet? Marco estimated it had been a good twenty minutes since she'd said anything, and her breathing sounded regular. With extreme caution, the superhuman opened one eye just enough to look over at the woman beside him.

She was laying on her side with her back to him, her body gently moving up and down with every breath. The sheets had slipped down to her hip, and the moonlight shining on her silvery negligee and white skin almost made her seem to glow. Her short black hair was somewhat mussed from rolling over, but with one careful, gentle hand, Marco smoothed it back down.

"Anne?" he whispered. She didn't say anything. Good, she was definitely asleep.

Very carefully, he slipped one arm beneath the curve of her waist, and the other under the swell of her breasts. Taking care not to wake her up, Marco pulled her petite body towards him until he felt the silky fabric of her negligee against his chest, and the tickle of her hair under his chin. The German girl let out a soft sigh, but made no other sign of waking.

The Irishman closed his eyes and squeezed her gently. She felt soft and warm in his arms, and although her small frame made her resemble an oversized porcelain doll, there was something very solid and real about her.

Was it the children she carried? Marco moved one hand over the bump on her stomach. On the ultrasound, his offspring resembled tadpoles, one just a little larger than the other. Anne thought that might be the one who communicated with them, because his brain was likely more developed.

Marco smiled. "His." Were she awake, surely the German would have a retort for the assumption that their more vocal child would be a son. And while Marco would be happy even if Anne gave birth to twin girls, he couldn't hide the fact that he truly did want a boy of his own. Or maybe even two. One could have a proper Irish name, and Anne could name the other Helmut for all he cared.

He squeezed her again. His family, all together, right there. His wife (well, eventually his wife), and children, safe and sound, their unconditional love radiating out like the glow beneath his own skin and their bodies guarded by the moonlight shining through the window.

For one brief, painful moment, he wondered if his own father had ever held his mother like this while she was pregnant. Had he ever put a hand on her stomach and silently told his unborn son that he loved him? Not likely. Indeed, the girl laying in Marco's arms was one of the few people ever to say those three words to him.

Closing his eyes, Marco buried his his face in Anne's hair. The perfume he'd seen in her room at her parents' house had the word "edelweiss" on the bottle, so he assumed that was what the sweet, light scent about her was. It was comforting in a way he hadn't expected, and he held her closer, as if he expected someone, Magne or Legion, to step out of the shadows into the safety of their moonlight and steal her away. And after everything he'd lost in life, the German and the children he shared with her were all he had left. The thought of losing them now terrified Marco more than anything he'd ever faced. He would stand before the lynch mobs a thousand times to keep them safe.

Anne breathed out another sigh. Still out. Marco smiled slightly. At least she had found some peace, after being shot, fighting with her father, nearly getting blown to kingdom come twice, and allowing the father of her children back into her life.

Pulling the sheets up over her, he brushed his lips against her cheek. "I love you," he added in a whisper, and was just about to lay back down when one of the girl's dark brown eyes opened.

"Marco? What are you doing?"

He paused. Shit. Although Anne certainly never expressed any issues about personal space, it was clear she remembered falling asleep a good four inches away from her lover. And here she was, pulled against him tight, his arms holding her in an almost desperate embrace.

A small, wry grin crossed the German girl's face. "Are you cuddling me, Marco McCalister?"

Instantly, he released her. "No," he insisted. "I was just making sure you had enough blankets. I didn't want you to get cold."

"It's September." She sat up, one of the thin straps of her moon-silver negligee slipping down over her shoulder. There was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as a smile crossed her face. "Du warst mich als einen Teddybär kuscheln!" she teased, poking him in the chest.

"What? Stop it, you know I hate when you--"

Anne shut him up with a kiss, then slid her arms around him. Very gently, she laid him back down on the bed, guiding his own arms around her and holding his head to her breast. "It's all right, Liebling." Her voice was gentler now, and the Irishman relaxed a bit.

She was quiet for several moments, and when Marco glanced up at her, he saw her eyes were closed. At least, they were until she felt him looking at her. Then she opened one and gave him another playful smile. "I won't tell anyone. I promise," she remarked, ruffling his hair. "Now go to sleep."

He didn't, of course. He needed sleep now like he needed a bicycle for his pet unicorn. But as Anne's breathing became slow and regulator, he did allow himself to shut his eyes eyes and just enjoy the feeling and the safety of her. Although he never technically lost consciousness, dreams of their future life together moved through his head.

Outside, the moon moved away from the window, and left the room dark.

A drabble, because this theme was really hard

2009-08-10T20:03:25Z

Thema 6: Kirche
Zeitraum: Three years before the RP; Lukas and Kristi's wedding
Wörter: 692
Notes: I really hate this piece. I worked on it for a week, and tried about three different stories with it. None of them worked out though, so I finally settled on this one. But it kept feeling either too long, or too short. So feel free to skip this piece of nonsense if you wish.

"Ach, Anne! You look beautiful!" Kristi remarked as her soon-to-be sister-in-law stepped into the bride's vestibule. The girl blushed, and smoothed down the skirt of her dark purple dress. The other members of the bridal party, both friends of Kristi who were helping with her hair and makeup, smiled and nodded in approval.

"Danke, Kristi. But you're the bride. No one here could be prettier than you," she replied, reaching into her bag and snapping a picture of the woman in white. With her sleek, athletic body, Kristi had opted for a mermaid-style dress that emphasized her curves and height, and she'd switched out her usual dark makeup for a lighter look that made her appear both younger and more sophisticated. Anne smiled. How indeed could she compete with this woman?

Kristi turned her gaze back to the mirror, but the reflection of her large brown eyes kept Anne engaged. "So have you seen Lukas yet?"

Anne nodded, then sat down on a chair by the wall. "Don't worry, he's not planning to leave you at the altar," she remarked, taking a bottle of water from the dressing table and twisting off the cap.

"Oh, Anne! Don't even joke about that!" Sabine, the maid-of-honor remarked.

The bride waved her hand. "Pfui. Nothing to worry about. Lukas wouldn't leave me at the alter. I know where he lives," she grinned.

"Besides, he's really anxious to see you," Anne added, capping the bottle. "I don't think he slept at all last night. I could hear him next door in his room all night. He was trying to calm himself with Bach. Then when that didn't work, I think he switched to Beethoven out of defeat."

"Poor Lukas. He won't get much sleep tonight either," Brigitte, the giggled.

The youngest of the women winced. "Please! That's my brother you're talking about!"

When they'd finally finished with the finishing touches Kristi's hair and makeup, Sabine and Gitte got up to check on proceedings in the church. Anne was about to go with them, but the bride caught her hand and pulled her back. "Anne, wait."

Turning around, Anne tilted her head. "Ja?"

A serious look came across the older woman's face, a rare thing considering her usual playful and cheerful demeanor. "I just wanted to say thank you. For always being a friend to me."

Anne smiled. "Of course, Kristi. You make my brother happy."

"Yes, but it's not just that. You and your parents...you're the family I never had. After my parents died, I thought I would never feel that sense of warmth and belonging again. But you gave that to me." Kristi smiled, then pulled the smaller girl close, taking care not to crush either of their dresses. She couldn't put into words how it felt to see her parents gunned down while trying to cross to the West, or all the loneliness she felt spending the next eleven years in an orphanage in East Berlin. But she could pass on the immense love she felt when Lukas asked her to marry him, and the joy his family had shown when they announced their engagement last Christmas.

This she showed in a single, tight embrace, and a kiss on the black-haired girl's forehead.

"So, thank you for letting me be your sister. If you ever need anything from me, Anne, just ask. I can't repay you for everything you've done, but I can still express my gratitude."

Tears filled the younger girl's eyes, and she hugged her sister-in-law back. "Thank you for being my sister, Kristi. We love you. So much..."

The bride pushed her away, then wiped her bridesmaid's eyes. "Then stop crying at my wedding!" she teased, handing the girl a tissue before dabbing at her own eyes. She helped herself to a drink from Anne's water bottle, then took a deep breath.

"All right, meine kleine Schwester. Time for me to become a part of the family."

God Hates Marco McCalister

2009-08-05T02:38:40Z

Thema 5: Glas
Zeitraum: Unspecified
Wörter: 1944

God gave you a doll, and she was made of glass.

You were too drunk to notice her at first. She was just one of two figures, both short, both dressed in ragged clothes with haunted looks on their faces. Her body was curvier than her companion's, her skin paler, her hair darker. She spoke with an accent and recognized you as a foreigner, then proceeded to tease you about how well you handle your liquor.

You'll fall in love with that fire eventually, but it's still too early. All you can notice is her pretty face and her reserved demeanor and the pride she managed to hold onto despite her fear and hesitation. She doesn't seem to like you much, and that shows she's got more than half a brain. This is the girl you are never supposed to have. This is the girl from a rich family, with a clear-cut path in front of her, who is living the life you might have wanted but you'll never have now.

And because you are drunk, and you are reckless, and every other thing she will ever call you between the moment you meet and the day she finally leaves, you invite her into your mind. Did you forget your memories all of a sudden? Didn't it occur to you that you were throwing a glass doll off the back of a speeding truck onto a gravel road?

No, du verrückter Irlander, you invite her in, and you nearly shatter her. You have never been good at first impressions, after all. When you should have started by talking about your tastes in movies and music, possibly with a light anecdote about your childhood, you instead thrust a handful of your sins at her. You let her see all the blood you've spilled, all of the dignity you threw away, all of the shame you've acquired since you put your feet down on the road and started walking.

You idiot. What the hell were you thinking?

God gave you a friend, and she was made of glass.

Somehow, she survives the trauma of your past. Be grateful for that at least, Scheisskopf. How would you have lived with the guilt of killing an innocent girl just trying to help, especially when you were the one to insist upon the risk? She could have said no, you know. You were too drunk to do anything, and certainly too drunk to care, but she didn't know that. She almost died for nothing.

But lucky you (and aren't you always lucky?), it was nothing alcohol and cigarettes couldn't fix. She's not even mad at you. In fact, despite everything she saw, despite all the reasons you gave her to hate you, she shows kindness and sympathy. How does your pride stomach such pity? Is it because you already feel guilty for scarring her so badly? Or is it because you are already hoping that she will offer you something more in the future? Something sweeter and richer and more fulfilling than a truce and some pity?

It's still too early.

It wasn't enough to throw that doll off the truck. Her dress is torn, her hair is mussed, her face a bit scratched, but she's still in one piece. Not broken yet. So you forge on in your stupidity, knowing and not knowing that she will follow you, because she is that scared and smart enough to recognize your strength as a means of survival. And maybe you can survive gunshots and explosions and shocks and death, but it's not so simple for her. She loses blood, innocence, hope, and identity for you.

But at least you managed to say thank you.

Fat lot of good that does her when you up and die. You left that doll on the side of the road, and the crows came and picked out her glass eyes, and a fox chewed her body for a bit, and her smile began to wash away with the rain that fell on her day after day. And she's not pretty anymore. She's not precious to anyone.

She's a piece of junk by the side of the road.

God gave you an angel, and she was made of glass.

Oh, you decided to come back, did you? How very kind. Tying up loose ends and what not? Perhaps you'd like to pick up that bit of litter you left by the side of the road then? She doesn't look much like a doll anymore, but when you touch her again, there's new life in her. And strangely enough, there's life in you too.

And you start fixing her. You paint the smile back on, smooth her hair, find her a new dress. And you realize she's even more beautiful than you remembered. And what you at first thought was kindness and pity turns out to be something much nicer, and when she finally offers herself to you, you don't hesitate to accept.

But you make the mistake of both being drunk, and the next morning, she's furious, and you're furious. It pierces your heart to see the regret in her eyes, because what you can remember of the night before astounds and awes you, because how long has it been since you slept with a girl you actually cared about? However, you hate yourself as well, because you know you don't deserve something as incredible as the woman hastily throwing on a waitress uniform in the corner.

And the guilt eats at you. What have you done to earn the love of an angel? Nothing. You're a killer and a freak of nature. If it weren't for the fact she gunned down a dozen men trying to protect you, she wouldn't even be here now. She would have gone back to her normal life on the other side of the world and you would have never seen her again. But she can't do that now. She's trapped here, with you, because of you, and every minute the resentment grows.

So what do you think? Will you be able to bear the thought of her hating you? Or would it be easier to send her away? Can you bring yourself to throw away the doll again, after you just fixed her? Because after all, something broken once is likely to break again. And who knows if you'll be able to fix it again?

God gave you Anne, and she was made of glass.

Well, now you're really fucked. She's pregnant. Yes it's yours, whose else would it be? You're the only man she was stupid enough to sleep with since the blast. And being the virile young buck you are, you managed to knock her up with something that'll likely turn out as alien and unnatural as yourself. How are you going to deal with it? Are you going to abandon her again? Leave her to deal with it on her own?

Or are you going to be a man, and look past your feelings, look past your mistakes, look past your hesitations and your fears and your doubts that you could ever break the cycle of abuse and pain that you grew up with and stay with her?

Good choice.

And besides, now you have an excuse. You're with her because of the baby. No other reason. You don't have to ever admit how you feel about her, and you don't have to risk rejection. She herself even said it. You're just two friends who happen to have a child together. Nothing else. You're both free to see other people if you want (even though you don't), to live separate lives that happen to have a small overlapping factor (even though you'd rather share a life with her), to continue being the people you always were (even though she's made you something better than you could've ever hoped to be).

But then along comes the school bully, and he snatches your glass doll away and gets ready to smash her against a brick wall. How do you handle it now? Do you admit she's worth more to you than life itself, and risk having your heart broken even if you get her back?

Yes, because in the end, it all pays off.

She loves you, you lucky bastard. You mean every bit as much to her as she does to you. All the questions you asked yourself, all of the fear and doubt; she shared it. Does it make you laugh when you think about her pacing her room, wondering if you'll ever return her feelings? Not really. That's the way things usually work out for you. But it doesn't matter now, because you have your beautiful German and your beautiful children (yes, she saw fit to bless you with two), and you will finally have a family of your own that will show you how families are supposed to be.

God gave you a heart, and it was made of glass.

It won't all be easy. Pride runs strong in both her blood and yours, and you both always think you know what is right. You'll lord your power over her, and she'll stubbornly cling to her common sense and practicality. You'll fight. Oh yes, you'll fight. And there will come a time when you find yourself so angry at her that you want to smash that doll yourself.

But don't you dare do it.

Because the moment her fragile body shatters, you'll instantly remember the way she smiled at you. The high, sharp way she said your name when trying to get your attention. The exact color of her hair and eyes. The smell of her perfume. The way she clung to you in bed after you'd made frantic love, each fearing this would be the last time you would see each other. And all that will be lost to you, and you'll find yourself asking, "How? How could I have been so stupid as to destroy all of that?"

And besides, you'll lose her soon enough as it is. Isn't immortality sweet? You'll stay as young and strong as you ever were, while she grows paler and frailer year after year. It's possible your children will share your gift, but there's also every chance they'll take after their mother, and you'll get to watch them die as well. Same with your grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and so on and so forth until even your own family has forgotten how you are connected to them. Everyone you mattered to will end up dead in the ground, their spirits gone to a place you will never touch them.

She'll never say your name again. You'll never see her smile. If you're lucky, you'll get one muddled stare on her deathbed, as her dementia-riddled brain tries to recall just who you are, and just when it is. If you're unlucky, she'll be taken away too quickly, be it through a heart attack, a car accident, or a fall down the stairs, and you won't get to say goodbye. You won't get to say anything.

We'll see how you handle yourself then, Marco McCalister. You may be a man of steel, but in the end, you too will shatter.

Like glass.

Don't ask me what this has to do with sand...

2009-08-04T04:10:32Z

Thema 4: Sand
Zeitraum: The first night in Vegas, after Marco and Anne declare their feelings for each other.
Wörter: 1383
Notes: Pretty much all sex. Sand doesn't have much to do with it. Contains Adult Content.

My heart is pounding as I follow Marco into his room. The last time I did this, I ended up making the biggest mistake of my life. But I also forged a bond between myself and this crazy Irishman, one that outlasts love, hate, friendship, and indifference. The last time I slept in the same bed as Marco McCalister, we conceived a child together.

The master bedroom is much more lavish than either Della's or my guestroom. I saw more of the Bellagio's opulence earlier on my run around the building, but this was different. It felt so much more real than the rest of the hotel, while at the same time it seems the entire universe is in this room. A king-sized bed with black and sand-colored coverings, a patio overlooking the strip, and a light, cool breeze coming in off of the desert.

And then there's the faintly-glowing Irishman standing in front of the windows.

Marco smiles at me, and my heart skips a beat. It has all come to this. I have killed for this man, and he has done the same for me. I fought and fought and fought against enemies both physical and mental, and finally, when I woke up in his arms by the fountain, I gave up. Faced with his feelings, I couldn't fend off my own anymore.

But my fears were for nothing. Della accepts us, and the child we're going to have together. Our families, in a sad but helpful stroke of luck, are a non-issue. There is no one left to hurt, and now that I'm pregnant, no worse consequences that can come of sleeping together.

He puts a hand on my hip. "How do you feel, lass?" he asks gently. I can see a spark of green in his eyes, both beautiful and unnerving, and I can't help but shiver a little at his touch. I found Marco attractive even when we first met, but there's something magnetic about him now. He came back from the dead with more power than any of us could have imagined, and even if I wanted to, I know there would be no way for me to resist him now.

"I'm fine," I say, moving a little closer to him until I'm pressed up against his body, feeling his hard muscles beneath his clothes and the pulsating heat radiating out with his glow.

Marco smiled back down at me. "Good," he remarks, before lowering his face to mine and kissing me with surprising gentleness. But sweet as it is, his kiss is not enough for me, and when he slips his tongue into my mouth, I catch it between my teeth and bite down, just hard enough to express my own need. I push him backwards a bit, then force him to sit on the edge of the bed. We are almost the same height now, and now that I'm no longer faced with a glowing man a foot taller than me, I grow a little braver. My mouth moves to his neck, biting him and leaving a mark that claims him as mine, and when I pull off his shirt, I place my hand over the mark someone else used to try and claim him. The letters M and C, as well as a small four-leafed clover. Did he leave Patrick and the mafia in his past life, or would this too come back to haunt him just as Alex had?

He senses my question, and in response, touches the ugly scar on my left shoulder, a souvenir from the day we met and one of his enemies had shredded my flesh with a shotgun shell. Marco healed me that day, and as I think back to it, I realize I loved him even then. The scar tissue registers his fingertips, and I suddenly feel self-conscious about the disfigurement.

Leaning forward, he brushes his lips over the uneven skin. "You are so beautiful," he whispers, trailing a line of kisses up my own neck and tugging on my ear with his teeth. His breath is as hot as the desert wind.

I can hear music playing from the fountain outside. The same song from before. A jazz singer wanting to go to the moon. I consider pausing to ask Marco the name and artist, but the room is getting warmer and the next thing I know, I'm unbuttoning his pants and dropping to my knees.

He looks down at me with surprise. "Anne, love, you don't have to--"

"Please. Let me."

He responds strongly to my mouth and hands, and when I glance up from my task I see a light glowing so brightly that I cannot help but wonder how I ever thought this man might be human. He is too beautiful, too miraculous. A mirage of an oasis in the Sahara. There is no reason for him to love me, to give himself over to me. And yet, when he can no longer help himself, he eases my head back, lifts me clear off the floor, and throws me onto the bed. This is no mirage. He is real, he is male, and there is a hunger about him that echoes my own desires.

"We'll do it right this time," he says, pulling off my tank top and running his tongue along the curve of my tattoo. I cry out softly as he takes my nipple into his mouth, and my body twists like a sidewinder on the sand dunes. We're both sober, but we've both lost blood tonight, and everything takes on a haze as he teases and strokes me.

When neither of us can resist any longer, he removes my bottoms (or does he will them away), then with a grunt and a cut off breath, enters me. For one brief moment, everything seems to stop. Was it like this last time? I can't remember, and disappointment fills me, because every move we make, every whispered word is something I want to hold onto. How could I let this become buried under the alcohol and denial?

Marco tries to be gentle at first, but the truth is neither of us want that. I only need to say his name and lightly claw at his back in order to coax him further. Heat and light engulf me, and I have to shut my eyes to keep from being blinded by his skin. But I can still see his eyes, green as ivy and emeralds, and they pierce me to the core, exposing every last inch of me.

It doesn't take long for me to climax. When I feel myself about to come, I open my eyes and stared up at a sky filled with stars the brightest of them being the man above me. "I love you," I whisper, before I feel myself falling back down to the sandy floor of the desert, my body ready to shatter in a thousand pieces like glass.

He follows me shortly, and it seems as though my entire body is filled with a burning heat. I know that if I were not pregnant already, we would be conceiving another child at that very moment. With all the energy in Marco's body, and the potential for life in my own, how could we not? As he lays his body on top of mine, his glow slowly fading, I try to imagine just what it is I have created with this man, and I wonder if it could ever be as beautiful and miraculous as its father, with my own mortal blood tainting it.

Marco kisses my lips briefly, puts his face into the crook of my neck. He mumbles something against my skin, and while my ears can't make sense of it, my heart knows exactly what it is he said. I love you too.

We fall asleep just as the sun begins to rise over the desert, and the last thing I can remember is the smell of sweet clovers, and clean, dry sand.

Having a bad day, so read a scene

2009-07-30T19:26:09Z

Thema 3: Schmerz
Zeitraum: The night after the first explosion; the raid on Marco's safehouse
Wörter: 2420
Notes: 100% of Marco's dialogue and actions were originally written by Devils Wingman (though some lines have been cut for time :P)

The worst pain Anne could recall before the moment the man fired the shotgun into her shoulder was falling off the stage at school. It had been a rehearsal for the eighth grade play, and she'd been walking along the edge when someone called her name, jerking her out of her thoughts and causing her to lose her balance. Anne had been so surprised at the misstep that she hadn't landed correctly after the fall, and came down hard on her ankle, snapping it with an audible crack that made the other students and the teacher running the rehearsal all look around to see what had broken. The young girl's screams soon informed them that it was not a music stand or bit of plywood, but human bone.

For hours, it seemed that hot burning would last for eternity, a miniature hell concentrated just above her left foot. But in all reality, Anne only lasted perhaps a minute before fleeing from her body. It wasn't that she blacked out, but that she literally flew upwards, shedding all weight, all feeling, all pain. From somewhere near the ceiling, she watched as paramedics were called, her body carted off to the ER where first her father, then her mother came to her side.

But no one came to her there on the street. Marco was holed up inside his safe house, hurt or dead. Tori was nowhere to be found. And all the others were likely back in the parking lot where she'd first seen them. What was it that had possessed her to fire the Glock on the men in the street? Did she think she would actually be able to accomplish something? All she'd gotten was a shredding pain in her shoulder, and then a bubbling panic that sent her rocketing out of her body and into the body of one of the mobsters, forcing him to turn his gun on his comrades until he too succumbed to the bullet. Anne jumped again, and again, until she held the last living attacker in her control and went to the door, carrying her own limp, soulless shell, desperate to make sure the Irishman was all right.

Then the damn kid had shot her host, and here she was, back in her own body and slumped in the street with the blood soaking her jacket and the feeling of the shotgun pellets embedded between the fibers of her chewed and torn muscles. The gangster she'd possessed lay dead beside her, his face a bloody pulp of flesh and cartilage. So much for a thank you and apology to him.

She couldn't lay there forever. She needed to find out if Marco was all right. She'd be damned if she went through all of this only to have the verrückter Irlander die on her. Anne took a deep, slow breath, then shifted onto her knees. Even the slightest movement in her arm threatened to send her reeling, but no. She had to stay in her body, and get into the building. Taking her hand away from the wound, she pushed herself up, leaving a bloody hand print against the pavement. Once standing, she continued holding the wounded arm, if only to apply enough pressure to keep from bleeding to death.

Anne stumbled to the door of the building, which had been either pulled or blown open. It was eerily quiet inside. She opened her mouth to call Marco's name, but her voice seemed to be caught in her throat. But it was a good thing she hadn't spoken, because someone was speaking in the other room. Her mother's intuition urged her to hide, and the growing dizziness urged her to sit down. An overturned table near the wall served both purposes. She crouched behind it, listening to the muted words, slipping away.

The girl felt like she was moving through a dream. She heard voices, some familiar, some not. For a moment, she thought she saw her brother, telling her it would be all right, she was on her way to the hospital. She thought she was in eighth grade, and had fallen off the stage again. But the pain was higher this time, so much closer to her heart.

Then she came back, by some miracle. Her arm ached rather than burned now, and looking at her arm, she saw the blood had clotted, making a sticky mess of her jacket. There were more voices on the other side of the table, but these were familiar. Marco, and a girl. Very carefully, she glanced over the edge, seeing the Irlander looking perfectly fine, talking and watching TV with a woman her own age with a shock of orange hair on her head.

For a moment, she forgot the ache in her shoulder, relieved that the man she'd fought for out in the street had actually come out the other side relatively unscathed. She would have stepped out from her hiding spot, but watching him with the girl sent a strange mix of emotions through her stomach. Was she his girlfriend? They made a cute couple. And if that was the case, she would only be causing trouble by appearing out of nowhere in his apartment.

So she waited, watching for an opportunity to escape. Finally, it came when they moved into the other room. Anne stood up quickly, then stumbled against the wall. A mixture of numbness and fire moved through her body, making her feel sick and disoriented. How much blood had she actually lost? She had no idea, but a hospital seemed like the best plan right now.

She made it up the stairs, and about halfway down the street, barely aware of the bodies and weapons on the ground until one of her ballet flats nudged against her Glock, looking sad and abandoned where she'd dropped it at the beginning of the fight. Anne reached for it, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back. She collapsed to the ground, twitching in pain as hot tears pricked at her eyes. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She had survived that morning's bombing only to die on the street after a gunfight she had no business fighting in.

Anne expected things to go black and quiet, but if anything, they got louder. Someone was shouting her name, coming closer to her.

"Anne! Annemarie, lass, wake up!"

She tried to focus her vision. A handsome man with strong features and dark hair looming over her. "Marco...?"

"Everythin' is gonna sail, Anne! Don't you dare go into that light!" There was panic in his voice as he gathered her into his arms. She let out a cry as he jostled her slightly, and her grip tightened around the Glock in reflex.

"Scheisse...es schmerzt...fuck..." Her voice sounded rusty to her, and it hurt to speak. So she shut her eyes and her mouth and let him carry her back to his safe house, down into the room she'd just escaped and laying her on the couch. There was no sign of the orange-haired girl.

Marco had grabbed a first aid kit from somewhere, and knelt beside her. He had calmed down a bit from outside, and seemed dedicated to the task of healing the wounded German. "All right, lass, what in the hell knocked you sideways?"

She took a breath, forcing her mouth to work. "It was...outside. I tried to draw them off but, I am a bad shot. And I am bad at dodging, it seems." A joke? Had humor managed to penetrate the thick fence of agony? It seemed so, and gave her strength. Anne even managed a smile before a too-quick movement tore a hole in the clot over her shoulder, sending a trickle of fresh blood over her skin. "Ach, Marco. It hurts." She could feel herself about to cry again, and couldn't hold the tears back.

But there wasn't any shame in crying in front of the Irlander. He only smiled and stroked her hair with a gentleness she hadn't thought imaginable. Anne stared at him through the tears. This man, this killer...she had watched his past unfold before her in a matter of minutes, watched him both commit horrible acts and undergo them. Yet he had shown genuine concern for her in the street. He was comforting her through the pain. No one else had done that. Ever since the explosion, Anne had been alone and terrified. And although her body was still in pain, she felt comforted, even safe.

A strange feeling crept into her heart. She felt more than grateful to this man for his kindness, and more than sympathetic to his own pain. But before she could explore whatever it was that was taking root within her, he levitated a set of shiny, sharp medical tools above her.

"'Ere's what's about to happen," he said, his voice still gentle, but also very matter-of-fact. Doctor-like, even. "You got snapped with ah' slug. Meaning? You got 'ha'bout forty little balls of lead in yeh. Ain't a bullet." So that explained why her entire shoulder looked as though it had been sent through a meat grinder. "I'm gonna pull em' out all at once. It's gonna be the most painful thing in the world, but I'll keep the blood loss down. You'll be just fine, I swear to it."

One of his strong hands took her small, long-fingered one. "Squeeze lass," he commanded, and she did.

"I wish I had a bier," she said softly, just before all hell broke loose.

All of the pain that had been tormenting her up until that moment suddenly became a Swedish massage accompanied by Swiss chocolate and a good French wine. The little balls of lead Marco had described shot out of her flesh, tearing and biting the tissue still tender from their initial entrance. Whatever steps Marco had taken to remain hidden suddenly became moot, because the scream that issued from Anne's lips could be heard as far as the next block. Her nails dug deep into the flesh of his hand, creating little crescents of blood.

And through it all, the idea of fleeing her body didn't occur once. The agony had driven her to madness. She couldn't think of anything, let alone escape, when the pain was so bad. It was like being trapped in Marco's mind all over again.

Then, it stopped. Her shoulder felt cold and numb, as though an invisible ice pack were pressed against the wound. Surely Marco's doing. Her body was trembling and her heart racing, and she struggled to control her breathing that had, up until that point, been choking sobs. Anne opened her eyes, unaware that she had closed them, and stared up into Marco's dark eyes.

"Are you...are you finished?" she managed to ask, relaxing her grip on his hand but not letting go just yet.

He nodded, then began to tape up her arm. "Basic's done. Tried me best not to slice anythin' vital; it'all just hurt when ya move fer a while. At least ya ain't number one." Marco pointed to a bullet wound he'd taken, whether in today's fight or earlier, she wasn't sure. "Yer just gonna need to not be runnin' 'round an' climbing stuff. Ain't not a bit but a scratch."

She blushed slightly, realizing Marco had probably endured much worse wounds than hers with a lot less screaming. "Yes, you're right. But as I've told you before, I am a coward. I don't handle pain well. But I am grateful to you for helping me." She paused. "Very grateful. If you hadn't found me, I don't know what would have happened out there..."

He laughed, a sound that, for some reason, made her think of a fox barking. "Lass, I'm a fucking Irishman. We call days where somebody shoots us down and tries to kill our friends Mondays. Don't even get a mate started on Tuesdays."

Even Anne had to laugh at that.

Marco's smile grew a little gentler. "Don't fret, Miss I could'na missed yer movements. You were always safe," he said, making color rise again in the German woman's face.

She laughed again, this time sounding a bit forced and awkward in order to cover her embarrassment. Shifting her body, she finally let go of the Glock, which had remained clutched in her other hand ever since she'd collapsed on the pavement. Setting it on the end table, she looked back over at the Irishman. "Ach, Marco," she sighed. "Du bist verrückt. Crazy. But all the same, I am glad you weren't hurt. If I am going to be shot so many times in one day. I would rather it not be for nothing."

Anne reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She slid one of the long white cylinders between her lips, then passed the package over to Marco. "Here, you've earned it. And I owed you a smoke anyways," she remarked, slighting up and taking a long drag.

"Aye, a bit ah' smoke would do me good," he answered, following suit.

The old ritual of the cigarette was enough to drive the last of the pain and panic from Anne's heart. She was safe now. Marco had saved her, healed her, and caused a strange twist of emotion to coil itself within her. Surely this was because she was grateful to him, right? Combined with prior sympathy and admiration, overlooking the heavy things she'd felt while seeing him with the other girl (it was not jealousy, it could not be jealousy), Anne told herself this things were signs of friendship. There was a lovely opportunity to be friends with Marco McCalister presenting itself, and the German girl had a feeling she would take it.

She didn't feel any pain.

Yeah...hi...

2009-07-23T15:51:23Z

So I didn't expect to go nearly a year without posting anything. Really, I didn't. I've been writing, but considering that a lot of it isn't half-bad, I'm keeping it offline in hopes of copyright protection. A few stories have been shipped off to magazines, none actually published. But to quote Pixar: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming swimming swimming..."

XD

During the spring, I wrote up a few short fantasy scenes with prompts from 50scenes. I may post them up in a while, but probably not.

Anywhoos, I've been doing this RP on Gaia lately, and weirdly enough, it's very, very good. I'm with an AWESOME group of people, we've got a story line that's been going strong for almost two months now, and there's no signs of stopping. So, because I've been kind of slacking on the writing department lately, I decided to keep things fresh by doing some short little pieces based on my character's (a German 20 something who can astral project and is currently pregnant possibly with the main protagonist's children) POV. I'm working through the first table of themes on 50scenes, and if I can, I'd like to get through all of them by the time I have to go back to school.

NOTE: These pieces are quick and dirty, with no planning and only a little revision. Mostly just practice and a way to keep up the "write every day" resolution. Also, any readers NOT in the RP will probably be very confused as to what's going on. ^^;;

Thema 1: Schlafen
Zeitraum: Takes place in the month between the IRA raid and Vegas
Wörter: 1054

The alcohol helps me fall asleep. I lay awake at night sometimes thinking about the woman I have become since that day when the city was bombed. I slept well before then; I was still drunk, but it was a night of partying with friends and potential lovers that made me that way. I had margaritas and martinis at nightclubs in the company of a raucous throng and loud music. Now I drink alone, helping myself to beers from the mini bar and alternating sips with cigarettes on the balcony.

Hotel management finally approached me about that, but I don't really care anymore. If I don't smoke, I'll just drink more. Originally I had decided to swear off alcohol, because I didn't want to risk making the mistake I made with Marco twice. But what started with a glass of wine with Della turned into a beer before bed, and then two beers. If I couldn't have my cigarette as well, it might be three. Who knows what kind of dreams I would have then?

It's hard to distinguish wakefulness from dreams sometimes. For example, there are times when I believe I am home in Germany, or back at school. I should be home in Germany. I should be at school, studying for exams, or flirting with my neighbor downstairs. But these are dreams.

I am living in a hotel. I have killed a man. I have killed several men. I have betrayed my friend and slept with an Irishman who makes my heart want to throw up with nervousness. This is what I am when I am awake.

The beds at the St. Charles are soft as anything back home. Softer, perhaps. I spent the first night in Marco's, and although I don't remember what happened between us, I remember waking up in that heavenly bed, my body cushioned on airy sea foam, rather than harsh springs or stretched canvas. The sheets felt cool on my skin, crisp but not rough. I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to lay there, to sleep forever. Or at the very least, until my prince kissed me and carried me off to a place where there wouldn't be anymore killing, or running, or crying.

But the prince turned out to be a hit man, and there wasn't any kiss, save for that one precious, forbidden moment before everything when black. After that, we woke up and we were in that same damn city, hiding from the same people, ready to do more killing. And afterwards, I cried my eyes out.

If death is like sleep, then I don't think I would be afraid to die. I don't think there would be any dreams, so I won't be confused about what life I'm living and what life is an illusion. There won't be any soft beds of course, but there wouldn't be any pain. I wouldn't wake up to find myself in bed with a man I have no business being in bed with, I wouldn't break anyone's heart, I wouldn't have to get dressed and force a man to put a gun to his head.

I wake up to the sound of the others moving around in the apartment, but it takes coffee and a cigarette for me to fully emerge from sleep. Until the caffeine and nicotine hit and sever the threads of unconsciousness, there is always a chance I will be tugged back into that other world where I'm still normal and still innocent. In that world, I always woke up to the sound of my father's voice and the smell of breakfast. I had coffee because Papa always made it so well. Cigarettes are verboten in his house.

But this is not that world. That is sleep, this is wakefulness.

I'm not sure how well the others sleep. I think Della handles it all right. I hear her tossing and turning now and then, but she never seems to be up in the night. The kid sleeps well too; I don't think he fully realizes everything that goes on with the rest of us. He's just along for the ride, to prove himself to Marco and the rest of us.

And Marco...I stay away from him after dark. Though if he doesn't sleep either, it truly doesn't surprise me. He has far more demons than I do.

Even when I do fall asleep, it's never for very long. More often than not these days, I wake up in the small hours of the morning with my stomach twisting and turning in ways that are almost painful. But I fall on my knees in the bathroom and purge whatever alcohol and supper I've had, sit there shaking for a while, then somehow manage to feel better.

It is nerves, I tell myself. Only nerves, grown tense from too little sleep at night. I get to my feet, gargle and brush my teeth, then crawl back to bed. It doesn't take much effort to fall asleep now, even though I know I will wake up in a couple of hours. But those two hours are dreamless and empty, and that is why I love them. I don't forget that I am in America with blood on my hands and guilt in my heart, and I don't have to think about what I have done, and just how far from grace I have fallen. I am removed from everything, unthinking, unfeeling, unknowing.

Someday when this is all over, I might be able to sleep like that every night. I will get a job, I tell myself. I will find a man who I love and who loves me back, who will give me children and help me raise them. We will live in a nice house in a nice village, maybe in America, maybe not, and I will do everything I can to be a good mother. I will work my arsch off so that I will be too exhausted to think about the things I did in America.

And my sleep will be black.

At long last

2008-09-23T03:56:02Z

Title: The Calm Before The Storm
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2134
Prompts: Apple Pie 2 - Patriotism, Blueberry Yogurt 9 - Better Off, French Vanilla 11 - Laissez-Faire, Rainbow Sprinkles
Characters: Arindax
Summary: The Kolorans are having a secret meeting that could change the fate of the world...
AN: With this piece, we're taking a small vacation from Teen Drama Territory and heading to Alien Invasion Island :D Also note; I may not be updating for a few days. My wireless network was hacked, someone downloaded some music, the RIAA is out to get me, and my campus has banned my computer from the internet. T_T I apologize for any inconvenience this causes anyone.

Kolorans, as a rule, don't show a lot of emotion. Their facial structures simply don't allow it. There are only enough muscles around the mouth to allow it to open and shut, resulting in clear speech but disallowing smiles and frowns. Additionally, they lack eyebrows and eyelids, and their solid black eyes only respond to light, their shiny surface turning matte and blank when exposed to too much light.

Arindax, however, was able to communicate his current anxiety through body language, as all others of his race do. His hands were shaking furiously, and his movements were stiff and forced. This was his standard response whenever he entered the Darwin-Kissenger base, and today it was particularly bad. Because he wasn't just going to the DK.

He was going to Meeting Room 000.

The humans didn't know about it, even though they were the ones who built the base and, in their own eyes, managed it. Arindax himself had helped with the construction of the meeting area beneath the Koloran Craft hangers. It was accessed by entering a service elevator in the building, at which point the elevator buttons would be pressed in a particular sequence, opening the door to a subspace pocket similar to the wormholes used to travel between Earth and Kolora in the first place.

It was forbidden to tell the humans about the area, and offenders could be punished by Recall. That only made it all the more difficult for the researcher when he entered the elevator. He wished Kelly could be there with him. It was times like this he needed her calm reassurance that things would work out for the best. But by the time the elevator doors opened, Kelly was in an entirely different dimension.

The room was very...unspecific in size. Some perceived the place as small and stifling, others as huge and sprawling. Shadows hid the walls and ceiling, creating a terror for anyone afraid of the dark, but a relief for the light-sensitive eyes of the meeting's attendees. The sunglasses most of them wore were quickly removed, and the dim light that came down from the glowing orb in the ceiling reflected off their eyes, making them shine and sparkle. Arindax guessed there to be about twenty of them in the room, many he knew personally, others only by name.

To his relief, Ksoltar, his one good friend in the new world, was there and beckoning him to the empty chair beside his own at the round table, where Arindax gratefully seated himself. Ksoltar was quite possibly the only Koloran present who didn't think the retired researcher entirely mad, what with his love for the humans and concern for the planet. Like Arindax, he had also found love with an Earth woman, but he had refrained from marrying her and forgone the bioengineering that would have allowed him to mate with her. And although he lived with the woman, Ksoltar was still a member of the Koloran Exploration Corps., and was currently doing studies on the climate of the desert around Ripley.

The two scientists nodded a silent greeting to each other, then began gesturing their hands under the table, speaking in the sign language they used with each other when under the observation of their superiors.

"Do you know what this is about?" Arindax asked, hands flying but eyes gazing about the table.

Ksoltar was following suit. "I'm not sure, but Etalla is here."

Both fixed their eyes on the Koloran seated across the table from them, who had affected a stern and rather intimidating posture. It was that unusual Etalla, a political official, well known on Kolora but unaffiliated with the Corps., should be present. Even more unusual was the fact that his hands were obscured, and he kept glancing over at Sirob, the Mission Head. They couldn't be sure, but Arindax and Ksoltar guess the pair might be conversing just as they themselves were.

Besides the researchers, Etalla, and Sirob, quite a spectrum of Kolorans had gathered in Mission Room 000. To most human eyes, all Kolorans look the same, but the differences were visible around the table. The notoriously liberal ones, like Arindax and Ksoltar, wore human clothes, either to immerse themselves in human culture or, like Arindax, to cover the genitalia that had been implanted for mating purposes. Others wore traditional Koloran garb, but wore wigs or had implants to hide their hairlessness and make themselves less obvious to others on the base. Then there were the Virgins, so called because they were virtually untouched by human influence; they remained hairless creatures with featureless bodies clothed in the form-fitting suits of their home planet, or else they went naked to stay cool in the desert's soaring temperatures.

Sirob had refused clothing from the first time he stepped foot on the planet, and even now wore nothing as he rose to his feet. "Gentlemen," he spoke aloud, clearly finished with his conversation with Etalla. "I thank you all for agreeing to meet here today. As you can see, Representative Etalla has joined us to discuss a very important matter. I will let him explain."

It was almost amusing to see Sirob, a proud and dominating force amongst them, step down with what could almost be described as eagerness when Etalla rose to his feet.

"Hozsh Nizom," he began in the traditional Koloran greeting. "I would like to express how impressed I am with all of the work I have seen from this planet. It has been fifty years since our initial team--Sirob, Ksoltar, Arindax, Jirozsh--landed here. Since then, we have deployed other research teams all over this planet and sent over a dozen additional scientists to this base. And the information gathered has helped us draw some astounding conclusions."

Etalla began to pace around the table. "Of course, we can all agree that the most interesting thing about this planet is its dominant species, the homo sapiens. From the beginning we determined them to be the highest form of intelligence on this planet, many of them on par with our own levels of society. Although we do physically differ, it is astounding to see just how similar our societies are, despite our isolated developments. Many of us have embraced this fact, and reached out to the humans in peace and brotherhood."

Here his eyes fell directly on Arindax for a moment, before he moved on. "However, many of us are concerned. Research and personal experience have shown that the humans do not welcome us as we had hoped. Even on this very base, in this very town, we are looked upon with distrust. Were that not the case, they would be present at this meeting, and this room would not be a secret."

Arindax could feel his heart picking up. He had dreaded this. There had always been rumors of conflict, that action would be taken against the humans. He wanted to believe that meant specific humans, that the aggressive ones would be dealt with peacefully. But he couldn't help but wonder...

"What's more, is that the humans have shown themselves to be dangerous, if not outright destructive, to this planet. Our studies show that if action is not taken, they could end up destroying themselves and ruining the conditions of Earth that allowed them to rise up in the first place." By now, Etalla had returned to his seat. "The reason we have invested so much time, money, and energy into this planet is because we see worth in its resources, as well as profit in a peaceful relationship with the humans. Gentlemen, we cannot afford to lose all of that now."

"So what do you propose?" Ytol, a fairly moderate Koloran who specialized in human sociology, seemed unimpressed by the speech.

Etalla shot him a hard look. "Sirob and I agree, the time of hands-off observation is over. If we wish to save this planet and its people, action must be taken. We are in the process of creating a proposal for colonization of this planet. It is our intention to implant our own government in order to better manage the affairs of Earth."

"And would this be a temporary measure?" Ksoltar asked.

The representative was silent for a long time. "That remains to be seen. If they respond well to our actions, then we can begin teaching them the best way to handle their current situation. If they resist, we will have no choice but to seize control for ourselves."

Arindax clenched his fists. "So you mean to conquer this planet, is that it?"

"Not at all. It is in everyone's best interests--"

"You'll exploit it then."

"Arindax! That is enough!" Sirob glared. "You were invited to this meeting out of respect for your work. If you would like to leave, you are free to."

"I am no longer a member of this program, Mareez." The term was used as an address of respect, but coming from Arindax it almost sounded like an insult. "I am no longer under your command. And if you're going to be so kind as to invite me to a war council, you could at least grant me my word."

"War coucil?" Sirob would have rolled his eyes if he could. "You're blowing this out of proportion, Arindax. This is a discussion, nothing more. A discussion about the possibility of an intervention. And I see no one stopping you from speaking, only keeping you respectful."

"Fine then. Etalla Mareez, I would like it known that I am entirely against an intervention of any sort. We have only been here for fifty years. The humans have been here for millenia. I have faith that they know what they're doing. And I would also like to point out that when I became a part of this mission, I was informed it was to gather knowledge, not for our planet's personal gain."

"Arindax, be sensible. We could have studied any other of the thousands of planets we discovered this extensively, but what would be the point?" Etalla said. "Earth is our future. Earth is where we stand to gain the most. As a Koloran, you should support your homeland in this matter. Or...is it possible that you've 'gone native,' as the humans say?" His voice grew tighter, more suspicious. "It's common knowledge that you've married and mated amongst them. And I hear your wife isn't even a pure human. 'Kachina' or some such nonsense. A superhuman, yes?" He shot a glance at Sirob. "That's another matter, those above-average human races. Make a note for a future meeting on that topic. They'll have to be dealt with in a slightly different matter."

"'Dealt with?'" Arindax leapt to his feet. "That is my wife you're talking about! She is not some matter to be 'dealt with'! Kolora cannot do this! This is not our planet, Etalla!"

"And it is not yours either, Arindax!" Sirob yelled. "You are Koloran! If you do not halt this impudence, you will be Recalled there before you even know what has happened! Now take your seat."

That threat was enough to silence the belligerent researcher. Only three Kolorans had ever been Recalled from Earth back to Kolora. Two of them had been all right with it, but the third had been like Arindax. He'd had a wife, and made it possible to mate with her. She was pregnant when he was called back, and both she and the baby had been lost during delivery. Arindax shuddered at the thought of being separated from his family, the thought of never seeing their faces or hearing their voices or holding them in his arms.

It would kill him.

Etalla cleared his throat and regained his composure. "Well, as I was saying, nothing is finalized yet. We are merely opening up discussions for the possibility of an intervention. There is no need to get worked up." His words drilled into Arindax's skull. "I will be visiting our other bases on this planet to survey the others stationed here. If the response is satisfactory, I will return to Kolora and begin drawing up the proposal."

Sirob again rose to his feet. "Does anyone have any additional questions or statements?"

A few people did, but Arindax wasn't listening anymore. Two conflicting visions were fighting in his head: him, back on Kolora and alone, and Earth, ruled by Kolorans. Both made him feel sick to his stomach.

Eventually, the meeting dismissed, and the meeting room emptied. Arindax walked like a zombie to the elevator, where Ksoltar was waiting.

"Are you all right?"

Honest as ever, Arindax shook his head. Ksoltar took his shoulders firmly.

"You have to stay strong. For your family's sake. And you must not go against the home planet, do you understand? If you do not support them, you will be Recalled, I guarantee it. And if I were in your place, I would prefer an Earth ruled by Kolora, with my family at my side, to an empty life without them."

"...I suppose you're right."

But Arindax was not sure. Not sure at all.

OMG CLASS!

2008-09-19T06:25:21Z

So it occurred to me I haven't really posted any alien-free work in a while. Or vampire-free work. Or non-fandom work. Yeah, that whole goal about writing straight fic? Kind of not working lately.

Thank god for English 311 though. And thank god for Loomie, who, as far as I know, has not raped my grades or given me slightly-less-than-honest feedback about my work (unlike SOME professors at this school *coughgarlandcough*). Then again, she's only read one. A small excercise, and a not very interesting one.

Still, I figured I'd just put these out there. The first is the "facade" exercise, in which a character is telling a story and lying. The second is the "juggling" exercise, in which a character is doing A, thinking about B, and listening to someone else prattle on about C (and no, A,B, and C are not *people*). Just exercises, that's all they are. Hopefully they'll help me think of something straight to write for my short story, since Nano's pretty much going to be another fantasy novel this year (damn the boyfriend and his allowing me to watch LOTR).

"Do I wish I had joined the circus? Heavens no! Can you imagine, me, a sensible woman with a husband and family, flouncing around on the trapeze or risking my neck on the high wire? Preposterous!

"Though, that's not to say I couldn't do such a thing. I assure you, in my younger days, I was quite capable of such physical feats. When I was fifteen, I once crossed Chiltee Creek on a fifteen--no, twenty foot rope. But that should come as no surprise. Father always told us that being girls was no excuse for not being fit. If he couldn't have strong boys to join the army, he was going to have strong girls, real general's daughters. Both my sister and I took gymnastics and followed a very strict exercise and nutrition regimen, which I still follow to this very day.

"Of course, he never meant for me to use my strength in such frivolous manners, he made that very clear. Father put my good nerves and strong constitution to work in his office, writing letters and taking calls at all hours of the night, keeping his personal operations running smoothly. It was a good, honest job, I'll never deny that. Father could have given it to my sister, and he should have, she'd always been far more orderly and organized than I ever was. But I was the one he chose, the one he picked to keep bound to his desk, the one whose character needed building. It would have been selfish of me to say, 'Oh no, Father, thank you for the offer, but I would much rather be an acrobat.'

"Besides, the pay wouldn't have been nearly as good with the circus, and I would never have met my husband either. Well, I suppose that part would be no big loss, I could have lived a very complete life without Arthur, I think, but after he got his promotion, we did just as much traveling as any circus performer. A few years in Baltimore, a few in California, and even six months in Britain. That was quite enough, thank you. Any other place I should have liked to go, France, for example, or China, or Egypt, or Moscow, or Rio, all of those I could read about in National Geographic on my cigarette break in my father's office, or during those few precious hours I had to myself when the babies weren't crying or fighting or getting into mischief.

"Well, perhaps when I was a girl I might have thought differently. But of course you know what young people are like at that age. I had dreams of marrying the lion tamer I saw when the Ringling Brothers came to town. He was so handsome. Gerard LeCreuset, his name was. Around that time, I had a good friend named Elsie. We met in ballet class, and she was almost as good at gymnastics as I was at that age. Lucky girl, she worked for the Ringlings, a little of this and a little of that, you know, and she was good friends Gerard. The kind of friends who share tents, if you know what I mean.

"That's what made me the most jealous of Elsie. Her parents allowed her to go right up to the manager one day and demand a job with the circus. It wasn't fair; I was a far more talented than she ever was, but sure enough, a year later she had changed her name to Ilsa LeCreuset and was sending me letters from all over the world. Not that I cared, of course. Only a little after that, I was married to Captain Arthur James Parks and was pregnant with our first baby. Elsie never married, she just used Gerard's last name for her nom de plume, and she had to raise her children in a literal circus. I think one of them is with the Cirque du Soleil show in Las Vegas now. Nevada is too hot for me and mine.

"No, I have had quite a full life here on my own, sans high wires, thank you very much. As my father always said, there's nothing wrong with a simple life and good honest work. And there's really no point in dwelling on it any more. After all, have you ever heard of a seventy-two-year-old acrobat? One with arthritis in her hands from too many years of typing letters, no less? No, my dear, the time for circuses and such nonsense is in the far distant past. My children are all very grateful that I gave them such a stable upbringing, even if they don't know it yet, and Arthur can rest easily in his grave knowing that he married a hardworking secretary and a general’s daughter, rather than a dolled-up trinket on a trapeze.

"Father made a very good decision indeed, planting my feet firmly on the ground for me. Though...I do wonder where I'd be today if he hadn't."

**********

Andrew can hear the blank screen in front of him, mocking the creative retardation that descended upon him as soon as he decided he'd had enough World of Warcraft and that it really was time to get to work on the poem that was due for English in approximately six hours. No sweat though, Andrew likes writing, he really does. Writing about elves and wizards and castles and women in chainmail bikinis wielding swords longer than their entire bodies. But poetry, he is finding, is a bit more challenging.

He doesn't like to share his emotions, let alone his personal life so the most obvious starting points appear to be off-limits. Andrew tries for something lighter, simpler, and picks the first thing he sees: the computer itself. Glowing screen, window to the digital world...no, not at all. It was as though Shakespeare--no, not that good, maybe Kerouac or Ginsberg then--was stuck in the Matrix. Nothing to do but try again. 3 AM, it's all i can see...

This is stupid. The computer idea isn't working, and no one’s going to buy his E.E. Cummings impersonation. Besides, with such an obvious subject, Mrs. Doore is sure to know he wrote the poem at the last minute. Of course, she'd probably assume that either way. Andrew is that sort of person. He always waits until the last possible moment to act, but even then, it may be too late. Even now, as he considers this character fault under the accusing light of the monitor, it occurs to him that yet another day has passed without speaking to Amanda, his girlfriend, about Emily, his other girlfriend.

He damns himself in whispers, calls himself an idiot and a coward. He and Emily have slept together three times over the past month, all on weekends when he has driven to the next town to visit her (he tells everyone he is visiting his cousin who goes to school there, and who, in reality, wants nothing to do with him). Amanda doesn't know; at least, Andrew doesn't think she knows, and Emily doesn't particularly seem to care. That keeps him from falling in love with Emily, but it doesn't stop him from from getting in her pants, or stabbing Amanda in the back.

A series of rapid taps on the DELETE key and the screen is blank again. Andrew doesn't want to write about Emily and Amanda, but at the moment it's the only inspiration he has. Every time you turn your back, she runs her nails down mine. Every time we...the cursor flashes. It's painful to type. But it's a good first line; he can't stop now. Every time we...lay in bed, I thank God that you are blind...

The words come, slowly but surely. Even though they're on a screen, it feels like they're written in blood. He can't last much longer, he can't bear to write more. If either of them ever read...

YOU HAVE A NEW INSTANT MESSAGE FROM Packerman88!

Andrew groans audibly, and wants to close the alert box. Instant messaging at 3:30 AM is never a good idea, especially not when one is trying to write a poem. But Paul is his friend, and he's never up this late unless there is a catastrophe, which are common in Paul World, yet each manages to be more dramatic than the last. Ignoring Paul is like ignoring strep throat; it will only worsen without treatment.

After accepting the message, Andrew types the standard I-don't-really-want-to-talk-to-you greeting of the World Wide Web. "hey." No capitalization, and with a period that states it really should stop there.

Of course it doesn't. "Dude, Kallie is a fucking bitch."

"What did she do?" There's no stopping Paul now. His profanity-laden complaints about women stretch for miles. Andrew decides to resume his grammar; if he's going to get locked into a conversation, it might as well be a literate one, for his own sake if not that of his entire chatspeaking generation.

"She dresses like a ho, but if you say anything to her, she just bitches you out. We were at this party tonight, and she looked so fuckin' hot, man, so I went over to her and told her and she comes at me with all this attitude. Fuck, if she doesn't want the attention, why dress like that?"

"I don't know." Andrew is trying to return to his poem, he's got to finish it and try to get some sleep, otherwise he'll never make it through the day. But he's lost his hold on the words, the emotions are slipping out. Looking back, he sees empty angst in the window of Microsoft Word. No substance, no feeling. Something thrown together at the last minute.

If this is a poem, what will it be like when he finally tells Amanda?

"Christ, all the girls at this school are teases. They don't want us to have them. Even if they flirt with you, just when you go in for the kill, they fucking turn on you," Paul types. "You know what I mean?"

"I have a girlfriend, Paul." Too many of them, actually.

"No kidding. That girl's got you whipped, man. You never hang out with us anymore. You're either with her or doing that weekend family shit. But at least you're getting some regular action, right?"

It takes Andrew a full minute to respond. "Yeah."

"And at least Amanda's hot. If you were ditching us for some ugly fat chick, I'd have to come beat some sense into you." Andrew is about to type a retort, but Paul has already moved on. "Do you know if Amanda's got any hot friends? Single ones, preferably?"

"Single? Why?" His friend isn't exactly known for being picky about relationship status when it comes to one-night stands.

"I dunno."

"Looking for a relationship?"

"Well fuck. You've got a girlfriend, the others are getting them, if I don't find something to fill the time I'm gonna end up spending my weekends on my computer. Then I'll really have trouble getting laid." Now it is Paul's turn to pause. "Just kind of looking for someone to hang out with. And make out with."

It's heartbreakingly sweet, and Andrew feels even more guilty. How is it fair to mess around with two girls, when his buddy can't even get one? For a moment, he almost grins, thinking of what it would be like to simply give Amanda or Emily to Paul. Just like when women could be owned. "Here man, I got an extra, you take her." Paul is right, Amanda is hot. So is Emily. He'd be satisfied with either of them.

The only thing that keeps Andrew from smiling outright was the fact that he honestly can't decide which one he would offer.

"I'll ask Amanda next time I see her. But I won't tell her you're looking around. Don't want to scare her friends off."

"Fuck you, man."

That makes Andrew smile. "Oh, she will, dude. That's not a problem for me."

"Ouch. Way to throw salt in the wound. I think that's my cue to go to bed."

Bed. It sounds nice. Unfortunately, there is a half-completed God-awful poem still in Andrew's Word window, and there would be no sleep until he had a fully-completed God-awful poem. "I gotta finish this poem for English before I turn in."

"When's it due?"

"First period."

"Ha ha, sucks to be you."

"Go to hell."

"Bed sounds better. See you tomorrow, asshole."

"Don't call me asshole if you want me to ask Amanda to get you a girlfriend."

Paul misses that last message, which disappoints Andrew immensely, but encourages him to get to business. He's got thirteen decent lines, three more and he'll call it square. Hell, maybe he can even use the first two lines for the last two. Throw in some random shit about saying sorry, then reiterate those first lines, make it really ironic. Make it something that feels bitter cold and biting until he stops thinking about it and puts it away for later. Every time you turn your back, she runs her nails down mine. Every time we lay in bed, I thank God that you are blind.

Andrew forces himself not to think about the words. They're just words, nothing more. He can tell everyone they're not real, he wrote them at 3 AM. He could probably even show the poem to Amanda without her guessing the real meaning. And then he'd ask her if she had any cute, single friends.

And then he would tell her about Emily.

But first he has to finish the poem, and get some sleep. "Just write a line of apology, make it really ironic."

Words don't come. 4 AM arrives. Then 5 AM. The monitor continues to glare at him. Class starts at 8:30. If he gets up at 8, that'll give him enough time to write that one last line, print the poem, then run the three blocks to school. He can get three hours of sleep.

Andrew sets the alarm on his phone, then gets up and lies down on his bed.

He'll finish it in the morning.

I like this one better

2008-09-17T05:36:24Z

Title: Kool-Aid
Author: Nyneve
Rating: G
Word Count: 222
Prompts: Apple Pie 7 - Simplicity, Blueberry Yogurt 13 - A Helping Hand, French Vanilla 8 - En Garde
Characters: Tyler Cortez, Ray Cortez
Summary: Sometimes you just want a cold drink...
AN: This is the alternate piece written for my latest runaway_tales challenge. If I had posted it there (which I didn't due to the advice of my betas), I might have been able to squeeze some butterscotch and/or whipped cream (and certainly a Pocky) out of it, but since I'm posting it here, that's a bit irrelevant.

"I want strawberry Kool-Aid!"

"No! Blue!"

"Blue isn't a flavor, stupid!"

"Tyler! That is not how we talk to each other!"

"Well it's not! It's blue raspberry."

"Is that what you want then?"

"No! Strawberry!"

"Blue! Wazzbewwy!"

"Tell you what. One of you can pick the flavor, the other one can help me stir, how does that sound? Fair?"

"Fine. I wanna stir then!"

"Ray? Is that okay with you?"

"I want blue."

"All right then. Blue it is. Ty, would you hand me that packet please?"

"Here. Now we add the sugar..."

"Yep. Here's the cup. Can you pour it? Good, just like that...careful!"

"You spiiiiilled."

"Shut up Ray!"

"Tyler Armando Cortez! If you don't start being nice you can spend the rest of the afternoon in your room! Now apologize to your brother!"

"Sorry."

"Give him a hug."

"Do I have to?"

"If you want any Kool-Aid, you do."

"Fine."

"There we go. There's my good boys. Now Ty, why don't you get the big spoon and help stir it up."

"I wanna ice cube."

"Ah, what do we say when we want something, Ray?"

"Peez?"

"Why yes, you may have an ice cube."

"Is this good, Mom?"

"Let me see...yep, that's pretty well stirred. Can you get the glasses and the ice, Tyler?"

"Uh-huh."

"Novver ice cube."

"You can have more ice in your drink, Ray. Set those glasses on the table, Tyler. Thank you. All right guys, here you go. A job well done."

"Thank you, Mom."

"Fank you."

"You're welcome boys."

Possibly not a good post

2008-09-17T05:26:02Z

Title: Awkward Moments
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1211
Prompts: Apple Pie 7 - Simplicity, Blueberry Yogurt 13 - A Helping Hand, French Vanilla 8 - En Garde
Characters: Tyler Cortez, Sienna Sullivan, Ray Cortez
Summary: Tyler's meets his brother's new girl.
AN: Yet again, I pulled crap for themes. T_T I actually wrote two separate pieces for this combo, then ran them by my betas (the lovely mwestbelle and my fanboy). Both agree this one was the better (I still actually prefer the alternate story, which I'll post on my own blog), so this is the one I decided to focus on. I'm still not 100% on this one, so advice is quite welcome.

In other news, it turns out there actually is a Ripley, Nevada. ^^;; Weirdly enough, it's kind of like I described it, except in the wrong part of Nevada. You can see it here (though you can get a picture through Google Earth).

I wasn't sure who the girl on our couch was at first. I'd seen her around school a couple times; a sophomore who'd just moved to town at the end of summer. Usually she hung around with Ophelia Simon and Johnny, which was even more confusing because neither of them ever came over to our house (Ophelia because she hated Ray's guts at the time, and Johnny because he's smart enough to stay away from my territory). It took me a minute or two to remember her name, but I got it: Sienna Sullivan. Which clicked into place a bit more because her grandmother is our next-door-neighbor and the old man's would-be paramour.

She was just sitting there alone, doing needlepoint, of all things. It looked so out of place. Her thick black hair was pulled away from her face with a glittery yellow butterfly clip that matched her short-sleeved tunic top, and she was wearing the short shorts that were popular in Vegas and L.A. at this time of year. Granted, by her face she looked like any other girl from one of the reservations down south of here, but the rest of her came right out of Seventeen magazine.

It took her a moment to notice me, at which point she set the ring aside and stood up. "Oh, hey...I'm a friend of Ray's."

"He's at work."

"Yeah...he said I should just come in and wait. He said he'd be back by four."

I glanced at the clock. Quarter to. Fun. Nothing better than hanging out with my brother's skank du jour. I suppose I could have told to her beat it and come back later, but for Christ's sake someone in this house had to be a gentleman. Pops was practically stalking Dr. Sullivan next door, and Ray collected girls like I used to collect baseball cards. "Well...I'm his brother. Tyler."

"I know. I heard about you from John--" She stopped instantly. I think I smirked at that point. So, already the new girl knew how Ripley society worked, and no doubt she'd been informed on the feud between me and the greenie. One side, of it anyways. I supposed I could waste my breath trying to convince her that whatever shit that kid spewed about me was exactly that, but why bother? There didn't seem to be much of a point in trying to win over Ray's girl when he'd have a new one next week.

So I shrugged and sat down at the other end of the couch. "You mind if I turn on the TV?" I asked. She shook her head, and I grabbed the remote and turned to ESPN, fully intent on tuning the girl out until Ray could get back, take her upstairs, and have his (hopefully quiet) way with her.

Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky. "Well, anyways, I'm Sienna. I'm kind of new here. I just came from--"

"Anchorage. I've heard." I didn't even look at her, and tried my best to send her "Leave Me Alone" vibes.

To my surprise, she actually seemed to get it, and picked up her needlepoint again. She didn't say another word to me until I heard Ray come in the door right on cue fifteen minutes later. But during the commercial breaks, I couldn't help but glance her way, making sure she was still there and alive.

Also, I kept thinking it was my mom sitting over there. She never used to do needlepoint, but she knitted. I remember being a little kid, watching football or baseball with Pops after dinner while Ray played with his trucks in front of the TV, talking about school, sports, guy stuff. Mom just sat there on her own, knitting and quietly waiting until she was needed. It didn't seem like she was unhappy at the time. Little kids don't really think about stuff like that. But I guess she must have finally gotten sick of being the accessory in the corner, because by the time my seventh birthday rolled around she was living in California with some guy named Brad to whom she was not married.

Sienna didn't look unhappy, sitting there with her needlepoint, but I still wondered. A couple times I considered talking to her, asking her how she liked Ripley, real generic stuff. But I think she might have been as guarded as I was. After all, she had Johnny Coltraine telling her I was the scum of the Earth on a daily basis. So by the time Ray showed up, I'd pretty much decided the whole thing was pointless.

My brother came barreling in with all his usual subtlety, dropping his duffel by the door and grinning like a devil before throwing himself at the girl on the couch. I heard a yelp from her, and it wasn't one of joy, but pain. Ray stared stupidly at her, but Sienna pushed him off with surprising strength, then got to her feet. She was holding her right index finger in her left hand and glaring daggers at him. "Jesus Ray, what are you trying to do, skewer me?"

"What, did you prick yourself?" he asked, observant as ever to the blood I could see seeping from between the cracks in her fingers even from the end of the couch.

I stood up and moved over to her. "Let me see." Taking her injured hand, I could see the puncture wound the needle must have caused when Ray tackled her. It looked pretty deep, even if it was small, and while it wasn't squirting blood, it still looked pretty nasty. "Okay, come on." Taking her by the good wrist, I led her into the kitchen and turned on the cold tap.

"You don't have to--"

"What, do you want it to get infected?" I think my voice was sharper than I meant it to be, but I was annoyed at Ray's lack of judgement, walking out on the game in the other room, and my having ignored Sienna after our initial conversation (if you could call it that). So I rinsed off her finger, then sprayed it with Neosporin and handed her a Bandaid. "There, you should be fine."

She looked a bit bewildered, and to be honest, I couldn't blame her. Playing nurse wasn't exactly in character for me, but it was highly unlikely Ray was going to do anything about the situation. She could have stumbled in with her head cracked open and he'd be wondering why she didn't want to make out. Someone had to keep her from bleeding all over the place. "Uh...thanks..." Sienna said.

"Yeah, sure."

Ray, who had been standing in the doorway looking dramatically sheepish, scuttled over and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sowwy sweetie. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Oh God, was she actually buying this? An eyeroll said no, but she smiled anyways. Humoring him then. Not the best of ideas, but better than falling for his acts. "I'm fine."

"Come on then, let's go upstairs."

He took her by the injured hand, and she winced slightly. He didn't see, but I did. I considered calling him out on it, but a small smile from her made me think twice.

"Thanks," she mouthed, a little more certain and sincere than the first time. I nodded to her, and she disappeared.

She wasn't the worst.

Brutally beaten

2008-09-10T02:22:23Z

Title: Reprise
Author: Nyneve
Rating: R - Nonexplicit Sex
Word Count: 2091
Prompts: Apple Pie 23 - Hearth, Blueberry Yogurt 27 - A Misunderstanding, French Vanilla 10 - Encore
Characters: Ophelia Simon, Johnny Coltraine
Summary: Breaking up is hard to do...
AN: So the themes I picked pretty much decided to corner me in a dark alley and beat me with blunt instruments. That's how *hard* it was to write this piece. The themes just didn't fit together, I couldn't find the right characters, just...ugh. Again, big thanks to mwestbelle for being my idea trampoline and helping me find my way to a decent story. I really hope all the sweat, blood, and tears paid off.

"We need to talk."

How cliche. I expected better of him. Johnny doesn't have the best of imaginations (apparently there's no such thing as art or romance on Kolora), but you'd think he'd be able to come up with a better break-up line than that. "It's not you, it's me." "We're just going in different directions." Or, perhaps, most honestly, "There's someone else."

But then again, "We need to talk" isn't a breakup in itself. That was just the start of it. The rest would take place tonight, when I went over to his house. His father would be out at the DK doing God knew what, his sister would be out doing Tyler Cortez, and his mom would be out in the middle of the desert praying to a rock (or maybe it was a tree). We'd be all alone, prime conditions for a no-drama break-up. Johnny hates drama.

I have to admit, I'm not a fan either.

Still, it didn't help that Johnny delivered this telegram of suck just after sixth period, with the post script that I should come over around eight. That left me with seven hours in which to dread a breakup, avoid Johnny, and assure Sienna and Cyrus that yes, I was indeed fine.

Total bullshit of course. They knew that. Sienna didn't even want to leave it at that, but Cyrus made her back off. Thank God for that. Cy and I have known each other long enough that he can judge when's a good time to help and when's a good time to just leave me alone. Right then, I wanted to just lock myself in the screening room of my mind and watch that Ripley classic, "The History of Johnny and Ophelia."

In a small town like ours, you know pretty much everyone, and you definitely know everyone in your school (unless they drop in from Planet Kolora or Anchorage, Alaska, that is). Johnny and I played together when we were kids, along with Cyrus, Ray and Tyler, hell, even Julie, up until she became a total bitch and decided she was better than everyone else in the school, including members of her own family. She was the first to drop out of our group, then Tyler, then Ray, until it was just me, Johnny, and Cy. And when middle school rolled around...well, three is a crowd.

I really don't think Cyrus minded though. He was a little brother to both of us, and I think we were the big siblings he always wanted. Neither Johnny nor I sensed any resentment from him when I asked Johnny to be my date to the Winter Dance in seventh grade.

Seventh grade. That's when we became "Johnny and Ophelia." It's not that long ago, I know that. Only three years. But that's a fifth of my life. One fifth that I shared with the boy I loved.

With the boy I still love.

After school, I just sat in my room on my bed, staring out the window. Our house is up on a hill on the south side of the highway, and my room faces even further south, so I don't even see the town. All I see is a vast expanse of desert, Death Valley way off in the distance, Mexico beyond the borders of the horizon and my sight.

From his bedroom window, Johnny can see my house. That afternoon, I wondered if he looked at it at all.

My grandmother didn't bother me once the whole time, except around five to ask if I'd like any supper. I told her no, and she gracefully departed. Olivia's good like that. Not very grandmotherly perhaps (Olivia herself isn't very grandmotherly), but supportive. I imagine she has her own business to worry about anyways. She usually does, and we've always had the understanding that, barring safety concerns, we'll stay out of each other's way. Sienna called my cell a few times, but I didn't answer. I just waited for the time to pass.

At five to eight, I left the house and started down the road that split off from the main highway that runs through Ripley. Not many people seemed to be out tonight, which was understandable. It was chilly, windy, and a Friday night. Anyone looking for entertainment either stayed home and found it on TV or hopped in a car and went into Vegas for the weekend. This really is a nothing town.

I cut through the Coltraine's back yard and knocked on their patio. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bill, Johnny's brown Coydog, peering at me from around the corner of the house. That made me smile. I love Bill to death, even if no one else does. He's an outdoor dog, and has been ever since he chewed the leg off the Coltraine's dining room table. Now he spends his days wandering around Ripley, hunting rabbits and mice and the like, and comes home to sleep in his doghouse beside the Coltraine's porch. Because he's half-coyote, he doesn't like people very much, and usually runs away from them. Johnny and I are the only ones he's not scared of, and as such, I used to call him "our" baby.

"Hey Billy..." I whistled a little, and he came closer. "That's a good boy, come to Mama." Getting down on one knee, I welcomed him into my arms and gave him an affectionate scratch behind the ears. "Did you miss me?" He must have, as he went so far as to lick my fingers.

But when the patio door opened, he instantly leapt away, then bounded off up the hill. I got to my feet, and saw Johnny standing on the porch, shirtless, wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and the black wool cap that covered his head even into the burning depths of summer. His black hair was messier than usual, and his eyes, green as his skin, were glowing slightly as they reflected the moonlight overhead. Hands jammed in his pockets, posture kind of slumped and huddled, he looked every bit as scared as Bill, but stopped short of running.

"Hey," he mumbled.

"Hey," I repeated. We paused, allowing an awkward silence to slip between us and push us to opposite ends of the Earth. "I was just...talking to Bill." As if he couldn't tell.

"I saw."

God, I wanted this to be over. I think Johnny did too. "Do you want to come inside? I built a fire...it's cozy."

It was at that point I was first caught off guard. A fire? Cozy? Hadn't Johnny ever broken up with anyone before? Creating a comfortable atmosphere is certainly not part of the itinerary. I almost called him out on it, but then thought better of it. What good would it do? After all this, he and I would still have to see each other; it couldn't be avoided in a town this small. Best to go along with him and make things painless as possible.

So I nodded and followed him inside. We cut through the designer kitchen, but instead of veering left into the living room, which was where we usually hung out, we went into the den. I've always liked Johnny's den, but it feels too old for me. There's hardwood floors and paneling, bookshelves all around, a woven rug on the floor, and a pair of leather couches. And sure enough, just as promised, there was a roaring fire in the hearth, illuminating the whole room and chasing out the chill of the night.

Johnny sat on the couch, but I sat down on the rug and simply stared at the flames. I love watching them move. It's so random, so unpredictable...the perfect way to distract myself from what's about to come next. Plus if I focused on the fire, that gave me an excuse not to face Johnny.

I thought that if I had to look him in the eyes, I would probably break down and cry.

"So..." he began, unsure of where to go next. It sounded like he was waiting for me to talk. What, did he expect me to take the wheel? He invited me here, damn it. He's breaking up with me.

"You said you wanted to talk." My voice was sharper than I meant it to be. Whenever I get sad or scared about something, I always come off as angry. It's one of the reasons I'm not very popular at school, but luckily Johnny can tell the difference.

"Yeah...about Sienna."

Of course. Always Sienna. You'd think in a town with aliens and elves, some random girl would be of less interest. But no. Ever since she showed up and threw herself in the middle of our lives, we haven't been able to escape her gravity. She pulls a little of all of us away, closer to her, away from what we were before she came. I guess if she was Jesus that would be a good thing, but Jesus Sienna is not.

If it weren't for the fact that she isn't afraid of me, that she actually went out of her way to be my friend, that she even tried to comfort me this very day, I would probably hate her guts. Even despite all of that, I think a small, mean, ugly part of me does. But is it her fault Johnny likes her better? No. She keeps her distance from him, firmly asserting friendship and nothing beyond that.

It makes me hate her more.

"Ophelia?"

I focused on the flames. They danced around, consuming everything. Hot and deadly and uncaring. "Yeah?"

"Are you scared of her?"

The wood popped, and I saw a log shift. It was going to fall, sooner or later, possibly showering me with sparks. I wondered how it would feel, those little flakes of torture scattering over my bare arms and legs. Would they leave scars that looked like a permanent case of chicken pox?

"Ophelia...answer me."

"I..." Down went the log, and the burning ashes flew forward towards me. I shut my eyes.

"O!" Johnny grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me back, dragging me across the floor a good foot or so until my back was against the bottom of the couch. "Jesus, you shouldn't sit so close to that...what if you'd caught on fire?"

What if indeed. I tried to smile at him. "Sorry...I just...I dunno. I'm sorry." Oh fuck. My eyes were stinging, and I felt the old familiar hitch at the back of my throat. No no no no...not here. Not now. Don't you dare cry in front of him, Ophelia Jane Simon, don't you dare...

Doesn't it suck when your body disobeys you?

I tried to turn my gaze away and stare at the fire again. I needed to focus, to ground myself. Meanwhile, I lied, told him I had gotten a spark in my eye, it itched like crazy.

Just like Sienna, Johnny has never believed my lies.

Instead, he gathered me into his arms and held me against his chest. He was hard and cold, but I was used to that. It has to do with his biology, his lacking human body fat and having tougher muscles or something. But the familiarity was painful. How many times had he held me like this? How many times had he kissed my neck and my shoulders just the way I liked? And now, this would surely be the last time.

"I'm not going anywhere, Ophelia," he whispered in my ear. "She's not going to take me from you. I'm not going to leave you for her."

I couldn't speak. He didn't mind.

"I love you. I have always loved you. That's what I needed to say to you tonight. Don't be afraid. We will always be together, O. Forever and ever."

"Johnny..." It was all I could do to say his name, but I think that was enough. I kissed his mouth, then his chest, and roved my hands over his hairless skin. He was twining his own hands in my hair, kissing me harder now, biting at my neck. We worked off each other's clothes and made love on the couch before the fire, then lay naked together afterwards, sweat evaporating off our skin and vanishing into the dry desert night.

It wasn't the first sex we'd ever had, but looking back now, I can definitely say it was the best. It was the last time we'd been able to look at each other with total honesty, with unguarded love, without jealousy or anger or grief. It was the reprise showing of "The History of Johnny and Ophelia," performed with the original cast, at the original theater.

After that, everything changed.

Not too drunk to write

2008-09-07T21:09:53Z

Title: Been There, Done That
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 1006
Prompts: Apple Pie 8 - Comfort, Blueberry Yogurt 15 - Just Out of Reach, French Vanilla 10 - Naivete
Characters: Ophelia Simon, Johnny Coltraine, Sienna Sullivan, Ray Cortez
Summary: It's movie night at Johnny's house.

We were watching movies at Johnny's house. Julie was out kicking puppies or taking ice cream from three-year-olds or something like that, so we figured we should take advantage of her absence. The Coltraine's have the nicest house in town, except for maybe the Weiss castle, which everyone's too scared to go near anyways, but because Julie's always around picking fights we don't usually hang out there.

So, Sienna and I showed up around six-thirty; Cy couldn't come with us because he needed to study or something. I had assumed it would just be the three of us; but no. Who should be sitting on Johnny's couch but Ripley's own man whore, Ray Cortez? I could have killed Johnny right there. I mean, who the hell invites his girlfriend's ex over to watch movies when he knows his girlfriend is going to be there?

Johnny has a problem with being too nice. After all, he and Ray are still friends, despite everything that happened between him and me. And I guess I'm okay with that. Johnny's not a social guy by nature, so he holds on to whatever friends he's got. I think it's because of all the shit he had to go through as a kid. I remember when we were in elementary school, kids called him "Kermit the Frog," "Oscar the Grouch," "E.T.," "Marvin the Martian," stuff like that. But Ray was always pretty decent to him (my theory is that he did it just to piss of Tyler, who to this day probably wants to see Johnny's head on a fencepost just because he isn't human).

Still, couldn't they just hang out some other time?

"I'm doing him a favor," Johnny told me. He'd pulled me into the kitchen so we could talk in private, away from the others. Still, he was peeking at them through the cutaway over the granite countertops. "He's got a thing for Sienna, and asked if I could help him out. So I invited him over."

"Are you fucking CRAZY?"

He shushed me and gave me a look, but that wasn't enough to shut me up. "Johnny, you let him get his claws in her, he'll do exactly what he did to me and every other girl in this town. Christ, I thought you liked Sienna."

Johnny looked uncomfortable, and I knew I'd made a mistake. We don't talk about Sienna very often. I think we're both too scared to, because let's face it. She's the first girl to come to Ripley who isn't a total bitch or an idiotic bimbo, and she and I actually get along. I would even count her as my friend. But at the same time, I've seen how Johnny looks at her. And I can't blame him. She's pretty, and she's nice, and hell, she's already got Cy and apparently Ray wrapped around her little finger. But dammit...she can't just have anyone she wants.

I was thinking, "Maybe I should leave her to Ray. Maybe that's what Johnny wants. Just get the temptation out of the way so we can all get on with our lives."

It made me a shitty friend, I know. But hopefully Sienna knew how to keep things casual with guys. Because I finally nodded and said, "Okay. But if he breaks her heart, it's going to be your fault, Johnny."

"I know," he said.

So we went back out into the living room, and already there they were, cuddling together on the couch and giggling about something. Ray was running his fingers through her hair and whispering something in her ear, and she was all "Shut up! You're not funny!" even though there was a smile this big on her face.

Seeing them like that made me sick. Like watching a deer in the sight of a hunter, but being tied to a tree and gagged, unable to warn it. Unable to scream, unable to move, unable to save her.

Johnny tried to pull me into his lap when the movie started, but I might as well have been sitting on pins and needles. I tried not to stare at them, and I tried to be happy it was Ray she was cuddling with instead of Johnny. But nonetheless, halfway through the movie I got up and told them I didn't feel good, and was going home.

To my surprise, Sienna got home too, offering to walk me home. I told her it was okay, she didn't need to, but she wouldn't listen. So we said goodbye to the guys, and started down along the road.

"So what's with you?" she asked me once we were far enough away from the house.

"Stomach. I think I ate something bad."

"I'm not stupid, you know. You're upset about something, so tell me."

I considered lying. But she had a point; she wasn't stupid. We'd only known each other for maybe a month or two, and already she could pick out my lies. Already she was willing to walk me home when she saw I was upset.

So maybe she wasn't as naive as I thought.

"I'm just worried," I told her. "I told you about Ray and me, right?"

"Yeah...did I cross a line tonight? I'm sorry if I did. If you're not cool with me and him..."

"No, it's not that." Oh man. Me and him. Maybe I spoke to soon. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Johnny trusts him."

"Johnny's got a different kind of relationship. He's not putting his feelings on the line. Or his dignity."

She rolled her eyes. "Look, O. I appreciate this, but it's not like Ray's the first iffy guy I've been involved with. Back in Anchorage..."

I started zoning out at this point. Sienna's got a tendency to tell stories about Anchorage that really don't have any relevance here. It's cold, it's got a mall, and there's a lot of Canadians who go on vacation there. It does, however, lack Ray Cortez.

"Trust me, O. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself," seems to be the bottom line of Sienna's schtick.

I hope to God she's right.

Another Shorty

2008-09-06T22:30:17Z

Title: State 86
Author: Nyneve
Rating: G
Word Count: 721
Prompts: Apple Pie 1 - Home Sweet Home; Blueberry Yogurt 10 - Across the Miles; French Vanilla 15 - Voila
Characters: Sienna and Cole Sullivan
Summary: It's a long way from Anchorage to Ripley.
AN: This is another shorty, but I'm trying to see if I can get in the habit of not writing 1300-1400 word pieces every time. ^^;;

"We're lost."

"We are not lost."

"We're lost."

"Sienna Elaine Sullivan! For the last time, I know exactly where we are!" Cole snapped. "I have driven us almost three thousand miles without getting us lost once, so it'd be nice if you could show a little faith in me!"

Sienna rolled her eyes, then stared out the window at the desert. She had determined that the farther they drove, the less interesting the scenery became. The Alaska Marine highway had been breathtaking, particularly since, once parked on the ferries, Sienna didn't have to stay in the cab of the pickup, and was free to walk around the decks of the boats as she pleased. After the ferries came the provincial highways of Canada that were bordered by mountains and overlooked the Pacific at certain points. When they'd finally entered the states, they spent the night in Seattle (which Sienna was now convinced was the coolest city in North America). Oregon and California had also been lovely, and even when they'd first crossed the Nevada border, she'd been impressed by the mesas and cacti. But that morning they'd left the freeway for a skinny, desolate road that led straight into the heart of the Amargosa Desert.

Pulling out the atlas, the girl opened to the map of the western US. "I don't even think this is a real highway," she commented. "Looks more like a fire route or something. Do they have fires out here?"

Cole shrugged. "Not really. Nothing to burn. And it's a state highway. Go to the Nevada page. It should be State 86."

Flipping ahead, Sienna placed a skinny finger on the highway. "How long has it been since we left Reno?"

"About six hours. It won't be long now."

"If we're not lost, that is." Sienna shut the atlas, then shoved it into the pocket behind the passenger's seat. Adjusting her sunglasses (was it always this damn bright in the desert?), she leaned back against the seat that had come to feel like a two-by-four over the course of the ride. Part of her wanted to stop and stretch her legs, but the idea of leaving the air-conditioned cab for the smoldering heat outside made her cringe. "I don't know about this, Mom..."

"Sienna, if you say one more word about being lost..."

"I don't mean that." The girl smiled slightly as she looked over at her mother. "I'm just not sure about living in the middle of nowhere like this." Flipping open her cell phone, she waited as it searched for service. One bar appeared, then vanished as though it had never been. "Being so cut off from civilization...I mean, I know I complained about Anchorage a lot, but at least there were people there."

"There's people in Ripley," Cole replied. "Not a lot, granted. But it's a nothing drive to Vegas, and only like, five hours to L.A. We can even go to San Francisco if we get really ambitious." Reaching over, she put a hand on her daughter's bare knee (she'd had to trade in the jeans and sweaters of Anchorage for the shorts and tank tops of Nevada). "Come on, baby. Have I ever let you down?"

Her daughter smiled. Not once. Not when they moved to Vegas when she was a baby, not when they moved to Denver when she was in elementary school, and not when they drove the long way to Anchorage five years ago. "No. But if you get us lost..." Sienna's remark was met with a sharp slap to her knee, and she burst out laughing.

"I'm not listening to you anymore," Cole sulked, then turned up the CD player, blaring Bob Seger's "Mainstreet."

"Oh come on, Mom. I...hey! Look! Look!"

Just at the pickup was cresting a hill, off in the distance a cluster of buildings could be seen. A green sign by the road announced that it was "RIPLEY, UNINCORPORATED," the result of a week of driving, border crossing, and the emotional turmoil included with the whole package.

Cole exploded. "You see? See? I told you we weren't lost! This is why I'm the mom, girly!"

Reaching out, she began pointing at the buildings that were steadily growing larger. "That's the school, and the doctor's office, and the gas station...and that house there? That's where the Kings live." She calmed slightly, then glanced at her daughter. "That's our new home, Sienna."

"Yeah..."

Home sweet home.

A Shorty

2008-09-06T01:14:40Z

Title: Happy Face
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG
Word Count: 401
Prompts: Apple Pie 14 - Patter of Little Feet; Blueberry Yogurt 14 - Homecoming; French Vanilla 13 - Facade, with Butterscotch and Rainbow Sprinkles
Characters: Rosanna Sullivan
Summary: It's hard to be a grandma.
AN: I can't say for sure if I'll be writing in first person again, so I'm going to forgo the cherry on top bit.

I can see her coming down the street now. She's thin again; all that weight she gained is now held against her chest and wrapped in a yellow blanket. I don't want to see it. I don't want to see her. I'm considering locking my doors and pretending I'm not home. She wouldn't expect any different.

Didn't I lock her out when she told me she was pregnant?

Ella tells me I should be happy Nicole is coming home. That I should be happy to be a grandma. After all, haven't I been after her for years to have a baby?

"Yes Ella," I want to tell her. "But you're an adult. You have a job. You know how to get by in the world, and you know how to stay out of trouble. All you need to do is find a good man, and then you can become the mother you've always wanted to be, and give me a proper grandchild."

Not a fatherless whelp whose life depends on a little girl who can't keep her clothing on.

Thankfully, Nicole is not going to stay. She's gotten a job in the city, she tells me. She's going to dance at a club. A friend of a friend from Albuquerque needs a roommate, and would be happy to help take care of the baby. As if anyone in that city of filth is capable of such a thing. But first, she wants to show her big sister and her mother the results of her idiocy.

She's nearly at the gate now. Ella comes around the house and greets her. I can't see the child's face. Does it look like Nicole? That boy from the Weiss house? I'm afraid to look. What if I see my husband? What if, God forbid? I see myself?

Now they're both coming. Ella is holding the blanket, Nicole looking strangely nervous as she does so. I almost see something maternal there. Even more strangely, Ella is holding the child particularly close. For a moment, I almost see envy, and all of a sudden, my girls are small again, fighting over a baby doll.

The door opens, and I hear Ella calling for me. "Come see your granddaughter!"

She sounds happy. I have no choice. For her sake, I have to go. It is her reward, for being a daughter who does not disappoint.

With a smile on my face, I go to meet the child.

Victory!

2008-09-05T23:03:12Z

So this most recent prompt totally kicked my ass. Like, seriously. Me and the lovely mwestbelle were both up late last night trying to figure out just what we didn't like about it, and i was up even later trying to figure out how to fix it. However, after much wrangling and looking up the actual definition for "touche," I feel like it turned out pretty decent :3.

Title: Missed Opportunity
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG-13 for some language and implied sluttiness
Word Count: 1310
Prompts: Apple Pie 6 - Backyard; Blueberry Yogurt 14 - Miracle; French Vanilla 13 - Touche, with hot fudge
Characters: Vera and Reva Branchard
Summary: Always have your camera ready.
AN: Big thanks to mwestbelle for this one. I'm trying to get her to join RaT, but so far no luck.

"Do you think we should go downstairs?" Vera glanced sideways to look at her sister. Both stood in the kitchen, staring out the window at the storm. There wasn't any rain, of course, but the winds were strong, creating whirling ogres of sand swirls, and every few seconds spears of lightning leapt from the thick black clouds overhead to stab at the cacti, the joshua trees, and the hard-packed ground that had been exposed when the sand was snatched by the wind. Flashes of white light illuminated the twins' faces and made their pale green skin and black eyes look even eerier than usual. Reva in particular, with her choppy black hair that was wilder than usual with static, looked like some kind of gremlin or imp (or, a bit less shocking, a creature from another world).

The expression on the younger twin's face, fearless and arrogant, was also a counter to Vera's concerned visage. Though she was thankful their father agreed to stay at his shop until it was safe to walk home (the engine from his old Bronco had gone out over a year ago, and he was more concerned with fixing other people's cars than his own), she couldn't shake the feeling of dread grew stronger with every blow of thunder. Reva, ever the bold one, was pressed right up against the glass, staring out at the backyard, with its pair of joshua trees that created a canopy over the iron park bench between them, just waiting for the hunk of metal to be hit. Meanwhile, Vera was standing across the room, a good ten or twelve feet from the window, with her hand on the basement door.

"What, scared?" Reva smirked back at her sister, perfectly aware of her anxiety. "You know...we haven't had a good storm like this in months." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and flipped it open, then walked to the patio doors and unlatched them.

"Are you crazy? You're going to get yourself killed!" Vera cried.

Rolling her eyes, her sister merely stepped outside and raised up the phone. Hitting to the camera button, she waited for a bolt of lightning to strike Colson Hill, a small rise a mile off in the desert, then snapped a photo before stepping back inside. But a look of disappointment crossed her face as she examined her work, a tiny, pixelated white swirl in a square of black. "Damn it. I hate this phone." Tossing it on the table, she turned and looked at her sister. "Go get your camera."

"What? Are you crazy? There's no way in hell I am letting you take my eighteen-hundred dollar camera outside in this weather!"

"Well then, you do it. After all, you're the 'semi-professional' photographer. That's what I heard you tell Ray Cortez anyways. Don't you need practice for his senior pictures?"

Vera blushed a bright red, recalling the conversation she'd had with the upperclassman the week before. She'd assumed no one had been listening to their conversation under the bleachers in the gym. Now she hoped Reva had only listened, and hadn't noticed her crooked clothing or mussed braid afterwards. "That's...different! This is a lightning storm!"

"And you're a pussy."

"Oh my god, Reva, you are the biggest bitch. I can't believe you'd be so selfish as to make me--"

A loud crack of thunder, right outside the window cut her off, and both girls screamed. The sound was so loud it rattled the house, and the lights inside flickered before going out. Vera herself was shaking, and had the basement door open and one foot on the stairs, but Reva was quick to regain her composure. "It hit the bench, it totally did! Look! I...Oh. My. God. Look."

So shocked was her twin's voice that Vera couldn't help but pause. Part of her was still urging her to go downstairs to the safety of the basement, but her body disobeyed, and brought her to the upstairs window.

The bench hadn't been hit, but one of the joshua trees that sheltered it had. And straight out of the bible, it burned. The spiky leaves were swallowed in orange tongues that licked the sky, an image so profound and beautiful that both girls momentarily forgot there even was a storm. Then came the sound of a thousand snakes hissing, and rain poured down onto the sand and the burning tree, which quickly began to smolder and char.

"Vera! Get it! Quick!" Reva cried out, but her sister was ahead of her. Racing up the stairs to her bedroom, Vera threw open her closet door and pulled out the box where she housed the camera her grandmother had given her last Christmas. But it was too late. By the time she came back downstairs and had the camera ready, the burning glory of the tree had been reduced to a sad black skeleton, and the fury of the storm had been reduced to a sulky rain.

"God damn it. You're so fucking slow! If you'd moved your fat ass..." Reva snarled, turning around and shoving her sister. "Listen to me next time!" Still glaring, she grabbed her phone and stomped up the stairs to her own room. Even after she'd slammed the door, Vera could already hear her calling Julie to complain.

Going to the window, Vera watched the rain with a throbbing disappointment. It had been like a vision from the bible. A photo could have gotten her an A in her art class, been a key addition to her portfolio, even made a gorgeous piece for her wall. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one she'd missed by a mile. If only she hadn't been such a coward; it would have been the picture of a lifetime. Raising up the camera to the window, Vera set the scene, trying to visualize what she had seen only minutes ago. But all she saw were two joshua trees, one charred and black, the other wet and and drooping over the stern iron bench that had sat through it all with no complaints. If only she'd caught it in time.

Sighing a little, Vera put the camera down tapped the power button, but the sound of a series of beeps informed her that she had missed her mark and set off the timer. Watching the numbers tick back, she decided not to waste a picture, and raised it up again.

Just as 1 changed to 0, another crack of thunder, louder than any others, erupted through the house. Blinded by the light, Vera stumbled backwards against the wall, and would have dropped the camera if it weren't for the wrist strap. Hugging it to her chest, she gasped a little, then blinked.

"What the hell?"

Maybe the storm wasn't over? Vera waited five more minutes, but the only thunder she heard now were distant rumbles off in the distance. The rain had slowed to a stop as well, a fifteen minute shower, likely all they'd see for the next three or four months. The joshua tree that had been hit was still smoldering and was now bald of leaves, but still standing.

Shaking her head, Vera set the camera down. It was a shame, really. Such an old tree...

After getting a drink of water and calling her father's shop to make sure he was all right, the girl picked up her camera again. Out of curiosity, she hit the play button, and for the second time that night, nearly dropped the camera.

The photo was crooked, and a bit blurry to do the sudden jerk that had come with the sound of the thunder. Only half the bench was still visible, and the unharmed tree was completely gone. But the charred one was still there, it's lightning-blackened branches reaching out to the sky, embracing the dying storm, embracing perhaps God himself, and embracing the second bolt it had touched that night.

Missed opportunity indeed.

Moar Storeh!

2008-09-05T00:56:56Z

Another one for runaway_tales.

Title: The Law of Inertia
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word Count: 1427
Prompts: Apple Pie 4 - Heritage; Blueberry Yogurt 12 - Chain Reaction; French Vanilla 2 - Rendezvous, with sprinkles and butterscotch
Characters: Cole and Sienna Sullivan
Summary: It's easy to get distracted from physics homework.
AN: The sprinkles and butterscotch may be a stretch, but since the focus is on Cole (a minor character) and the past (even if it's only in a story), I still think they should count.

"Fucking hate physics..." Sienna mumbled, the sound of her pencil scratching against the lines of the notebook as her eyes pored over the textbook pages.

"Don't curse," Cole scolded, rapping her daughter on the forehead with her knuckles. The girl winced, but her mother paid no attention, only continued picking up the room, which had managed to become a disaster zone over the past three days. She had to admit that cleaning wasn't high on her own agenda, let alone that of a fifteen-year-old's, but this was ridiculous. Sienna could at least put her clothes in the dresser. After all, there wasn't much to the apartment. A small bathroom and a nineteen by fifteen foot space that served as their bedroom, living room, and kitchen. Failure to keep such a simple space in decent condition (especially since the Kings kept their main house spotless with minimal effort and a teenage boy living under their roof) had put Cole in a very disagreeable mood indeed.

"Don't complain either, Sienna. If you had studied over the weekend, you wouldn't be in this position. Sleeping in class and not doing homework probably weren't the best ideas either. So if you want to get that grade back up--" she tapped the surface of the book. "Keep reading."

Cole believed she was being nice. She could remember her own mother lecturing her for hours about academic priorities, three hours minimum of studying per night, more on the weekend. Sienna, solid B student, usually didn't need to be pressured so much, but as a result, when she did have troubles, her pride kept her from seeking the help she so desperately required.

"Ugh...it's so boring though. Maybe if I studied with Cy...?"

"Ah, no. Not happening. He's got his own work to take care of. You two start hanging out and neither of you will get anything done." Cole folded the afghan on the couch, then moved to sit across the table from her daughter. "But if you really need help, I'd be happy to quiz you." Ignoring Sienna's protests, she grabbed the book and turned it around. After scanning down the page for a few moments, Cole raised her eyes and hugged the book to her chest.

"Okay, tell me...Newton's first law of motion."

Sienna raised her eyebrow, eerily mimicking the "you-can't-be-serious" look invented and perfected by Cole's own mother. "You do know we were on Chapter Five, right? I mean...Newton's laws..."

"Just answer the question, Madame Curie. I got an A in physics, so we're gonna do things my way. I'll give you a hint: define 'inertia'." Cole sat back in the chair, an image of serenity and patience that only managed to annoy Sienna further.

She let out an exasperated sigh, then gathered up her energy in order to produce the most bored voice possible. "An object in motion will stay in motion, or an object at rest will stay at rest, until acted upon by an outside force."

"Good," Cole replied. "Now, without the attitude, give me an example."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Jesus...I don't know. Um...a guy...falls out of a tree...and will keep falling until he hits the ground. There, happy?" Sienna tried to stare down her mother, hoping to scare her into going away, but it was difficult. She kept imagining a guy (Cyrus, to be specific) falling out of a tree a la Wile E. Coyote, holding up a "Yipe!" sign and crashing with a cloud of dust. And when Cole burst out laughing a moment after her daughter, it became obvious they were, yet again, on the same wavelength.

"Ooookay...well, um, yes, that would be an example. Actually, that reminds me of something." Shutting the book and setting it off to the side on the table, Cole leaned forward and rested on her elbows. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I laid eyes on your dad?"

Sienna thought a moment. She'd heard several stories about her father over the years, all set right there in Ripley, where he and Cole had first met as teenagers, sixteen years ago. But this one didn't sound familiar. "No, why?"

"Well, okay. So I told you how, back when my mom, Ella, and I first moved here, I used to babysit for Christy and Loren Weiss, right? Just after they'd had the twins?" Sienna nodded before Cole continued. "Your dad was their handyman. And the first time I saw him, he was up on the roof of their house--you know which one is theirs, right? The one across from Mom's and up on the hill?"

"Yeah, the place is fuc...fricken' huge." Sienna caught herself. "It looks like a castle or something."

"I know, right? Now imagine me, fourteen, brand new in town, walking all alone up to this big scary house overlooking the town for a meeting with Christy and Loren, possibly the two most frightening people on the planet. But at the same time, there's your dad up on the roof, shirt off, covered with sweat, putting down new shingles or something. He must have heard me coming up the driveway or something, because he turned around to take a look. At this point, I can tell he's totally checking me out, and I've told you how cute your dad was, so I waved to him. He waved back, and something must have made him lose his balance, because next thing I know he's slipped off the roof and heading for the ground."

A giggle slipped through her lips, followed by a few more. "I...I don't know what I was trying to do..." Cole was clearly having trouble keeping a straight face. "But I start running towards him, yelling 'I've got you! I've got you!' And he falls...right on top of me!"

Mother and daughter erupted in another fit of laughter. "You're totally lying!" Sienna gasped between bouts. "You're making it up!"

"I swear to God! I am not!" Cole protested mirthfully. "But wait, there's more. One sec..." Getting to her feet, she went into the bathroom and pulled out two Dixie cups from the dispenser by the mirror. Filling both with water from the sink, she came back out into the main room and set one before her still-giggling daughter before taking a drink of her own. When they had both calmed down, she retook her seat.

"All right then, so your dad, who was not a light guy, is on top of me, and just everything is hurting. My ankle most of all. Turns out later, I sprained it when all my weight came down on it. Anyways, he was pretty much okay from the fall, so he gets up and starts apologizing left and right for falling on me. He felt so bad he actually picked me up and carried me inside. Just like something out of a romance novel. Of course, once we get inside there's Christy, looking every bit the Dr. Bitch she is today, complaining about bleeding on the granite tile and being late to work and damage to the roof and whatever. I was terrified, almost in tears. But your dad...he just stared her down and asked if she had an ice pack for my ankle."

Cole's eyes had closed, and it was clear she was lost in a cloud of nostalgia. Sienna watched her almost jealously, trying to imagine what it had been like. She always tried to imagine her father at times like this, though to no avail. Cole had no pictures of him, and not a soul had heard from the man since before Sienna herself was even born. If he was still out there, the chances he would know about the daughter he'd had with his employers' former babysitter were slim. "Was that when you knew you were in love?" the girl asked softly.

Her mother shook her head, then opened her eyes. "No. But Loren talked Christy into giving me the job, probably because they were afraid of lawsuits or something. Then again, he's always been an okay guy." Cole let out a wistful sigh. "So anyways, after I'd been working for them for a good month or two, I was babysitting the twins for the weekend when Christy and Loren were out of town at some convention or something. Your dad claimed to be working there late, and when I'd put the babies to bed, he took me up on the roof, to that same spot where he'd been standing before he fell, and we watched the stars. That was when I knew I was in love. And by the time the following August rolled around..."

"You had me."

"Yes."

"And Dad..."

"Was gone."

Both fell silent

New story!!!

2008-09-03T21:19:06Z

So I joined runaway_tales in hopes of getting my ass in gear with writing. If you can't tell by the lack of posting here, I kind of slacked off again, due to a ~~boy~~ new job. :D And it's freaking awesome, ~~dating a sci-fi writer~~ working at Spencer's. But I'm back at school, with new projects galore.

So, I suggest you check out this post for what the 'verse is like.

Title: A for Effort
Author: Nyneve
Rating: PG for some language and racial awkwardness
Word Count: 1423
Prompts: Apple Pie 17 - Neighbors; Blueberry Yogurt 23 - Building; French Vanilla 2 - Faux Pas
Characters: Cyrus King and Sienna Sullivan
Summary: He should've done just a little more research...

Two weeks. That's how long it took Cyrus to build the scale model Arapaho tipi out of sticks and a rabbit skin Ray had stolen from his old brother (Tyler wouldn't miss it; he'd been shooting rabbits with BB guns since he was eight and only kept the pelts about half the time). A piece of black cotton handkerchief made the doorflap, and he'd used some pebbles to create a fire ring on the inside. The finishing touches were some crudely painted deer and triangle patterns around the bottom of the outside of the skin, where the tipi was fastened to the grass-covered board meant to represent the plains of eastern Colorado or Wyoming.

On top of creating the tipi, he'd also had to write an extensive paper on life for the Arapaho tribe and put together a PowerPoint presentation for his sixth period social studies. The paper was well-written, checked by his parents and Ophelia (who, being one to correct grammar in internet chatrooms as well as the middle of AP English, Cyrus believed to be more qualified to proofread than anyone else in town), and the class had looked only mildly bored at the presentation. All in all, it turned out well. A solid A+ for the project.

But the grade wasn't what mattered.

Cyrus could have chosen any Native American tribe for the project, any one at all. He'd almost chosen Lakota, so he could have done extensive research on Crazy Horse (actually, the actor in him had been dying to dress up and deliever an in-character speech). But interesting as it would have been, it wouldn't have impressed Sienna at all. And ever since she and her mom had moved into the apartment above his garage, Cyrus' goal in life was to show that he was more than just the redheaded boy-next-door with the pointy ears and crooked teeth. Sienna herself was one-quarter Arapaho (he could tell by her looks; the thick black hair and warm brown skintone were the key features he'd noticed when he first saw her three months ago), so what better way to show interest in her than to show interest in her culture?

But was it enough? He tried to reassure himself as he stood on the back deck, staring across the yard at the windows over the garage, tipi carefully balanced on the board in his hands. It was getting dark out, and getting colder as well. Cyrus shivered, then considered going back inside to get a jacket.

No, he told himself. If you go back, you'll just chicken out and not do it. You'll start watching TV or something, and that'll be the end. You'll just end up throwing the stupid thing away. It was true. Oh, the tipi might sit in his room for a month or so, but once the next project rolled around, that would be the end of it. He'd salvage the board and chuck the rest, and it would all have been for nothing. After all, what other project provided such a good opportunity to connect with his dream girl? No way would Sienna want a baking soda volcano or a poster showing voting trends.

The lights were on above the garage. She'd come home maybe an hour ago from studying at Ophelia's house. Her mom wasn't home yet, so she was alone up there, probably on her computer, or maybe sewing and watching Gossip Girl. Just waiting for him...

Cyrus took a deep breath, then walked across the yard and into the garage. He managed to climb around his mom's old Camry and ascend the rickety stairs to the apartment with little trouble, but knocking on the door at the top of the steps was a bit precarious. The display was on the bulkier side, and it was a miracle he didn't drop the thing when he balanced it on his left forearm to allow himself to rap his knuckles on the door.

"It's open!"

Oh come on... He was about to ask Sienna to get the door for him, but if she opened it, what would she see? Him looking like a complete dork trying to balance a tipi on his arm and not fall down the stairs. So very quickly he turned the knob and pushed in the door, a bit too roughly. It banged against the opposite wall, eliciting a shriek both from his own mouth and from the girl sitting across the room on the couch, who quickly turned her head around to see what the ruckus was.

Sienna let out a sigh of relief as she heard Cyrus unleash a rapid stream of apologies. "Oh my God, Cy...just break the door, why don't you?" There was a note of annoyance in her voice, but good humor as well, as she turned around to face the TV again. Meanwhile, her friend had managed to stumble in and set the tipi down on the floor, relieved both that she hadn't seen the surprise before it was ready, and that he hadn't dropped the thing and shattered it into a million pieces. Carefully closing the door behind him, he again lifted the display and carried it to the card table where Sienna usually did her homework, and where she and her mom ate dinner. Cyrus set it down, then carefully positioned himself in front of it. She was still completely oblivious, absorbed in the fact that some blond girl on the thirty-inch was sleeping with some guy who she probably wasn't supposed to be sleeping with.

Heart pounding like Arapaho horses' hooves on the plains of Wyoming, Cyrus cleared his throat. Showtime. "Sienna...there's something I want to show you."

Sensing the seriousness in his voice, the girl turned around slowly. Fixing her gaze on the boy's slight figure trying to hide something on the table, a look of curiosity crossed her face as she got to her feet. "Sure, what is it?"

He had placed his hands behind his back in an effort to look more confident and classy, but in fact Cyrus was digging his nails into his palms with anxiety. "Sienna...you know, how, I've never really been able to, uh, share my culture with you, right?" She nodded. It was understandable. His father was from a race that wasn't supposed to exist outside of Lord of the Rings and Dungeons and Dragons (and which preferred it that way; elves like his father, who revealed their presence to humans, were exiled and placed on constant watch), and his mom was a middle-class white woman from Seattle. "Well...I thought if I couldn't share mine, I'd really like to learn more about yours. Remember that Native American project I told you about? The one for social studies?"

"Yeah..."

"Well...this is it." With what he hoped was a dramatic flourish, he stepped aside to reveal the masterpiece.

Delight illuminated her face. "Oh wow...Cy that's so cool!"

She might as well have declared her neverending love for him right then and there. He doubted he could have been happier. Watching her examine the work, question the building process, and absorbing her praise at everything made Cyrus feel like he could fly to the moon and back. At first, he thought she might have been exaggerating, humoring him. But no, Sienna wasn't like that. If she didn't like something, she usually made clumsy comments that weren't all-out insults, but were still a million miles from complimentary. No, the look in her pretty brown eyes said it all: he had, with his own two hands and his own hard work, made something that moved her, that inspired her, that brought her closer to him.

"You know...Sienna..."

"Mmhmm?"

"I made this for you." Cyrus felt the color rise in his face at the words. "You were the reason I picked the Arapaho tribe. So...I want you to have this."

A puzzled look crossed the girl's face. "You picked the Arapaho tribe...for me?"

He nodded solemnly. She blinked again, then opened her mouth as if to say something, but shut it. Lost for words, most likely. But soon they would arrive: blocky remarks about how much she appreciated his friendship, how nice the tipi would look in her closet, or under the work table in the garage, or buried in the back yard, how she was seriously considering about moving back to Anchorage...

Oh God, this was such a bad idea. She probably thinks I'm a stalker. "You were the reason I picked the Arapaho." How WEIRD can you GET? She probably hates me now. God, I'm so stupid...

"Um...Cy?"

The red in his face grew even darker. Here it comes... "Yeah?"

"I'm Apache."

...Damn it.

One more meme

2008-06-04T06:30:15Z

Jot down the names of twelve characters before viewing the questions. Then answer them and share the hilarity that results!

1. Chibiusa (Sailor Moon)
2. Jet (Cowboy Bebop)
3. Batou (Ghost in the Shell)
4. Tomoyo (Cardcaptor Sakura)
5. Hige (Wolf's Rain)
6. Yui (Fushigi Yugi)
7. Suzuka (Outlaw Star)
8. Orphen (Orphen)
9. Clef (Magic Knights Rayearth)
10. Alice (Alice 19th)
11. Treize (Gundam Wing)
12. Washu (Tenchi)

1. Have you read a Six/Eleven fic? Do you want to?

No, and yes!!! I can just see it now...Yui gets transported to the GW-verse, where Treize takes her under his wing and meanwhile makes his female companion super jealous...

2. Do you think Four is hot? How hot?

Not very hot. ^^;; Cute though.

3. What would happen if Twelve got Eight pregnant?

Knowing Washu, it would probably be possible. -_-;; That would be one messed up Mpreg baby though.

4. Can you rec any fic(s) about Nine?

There was a pretty good Clef/Umi on FF.net if I recall correctly, but I don't remember the title...

5. Would Two and Six make a good couple?

If Yui likes older guys, yes. Jet's already show he's partial to the short hair and girls in trouble. :P

6. Five/Nine or Five/Ten? Why?

Hige/Alice, mostly since I prefer het over slash, plus Alice likes animals. ^_^

7. What would happen if Seven walked in on Two and Twelve having sex?

She'd probably turn around and walk right out again. That's something no one wants to see. >.<

8. Make up a summary for a Three/Ten fic.

While tracking down a mysterious killer, Batou comes across a young girl looking for her sister. Sensing a connection between the events, he agrees to help her, only to find that Alice might have more power than first imagined...

9. Is there any such thing as One/Eight fluff?

No, BUT THERE SHOULD BE!!!

10. Suggest a title for a Seven/Twelve hurt/comfort fic.

"Don't Look Back"

11. What kind of plot device would you use if you wanted Four to deflower One?

Playing doctor...? >.< BAD THOUGHTS!!!

12. Does anyone on your friends list read Seven slash?

Nope

13. Does anyone on your friends list read Three het?

Definite nope.

14.Does anyone on your friends list write or draw Eleven?

Maybe?

15. Would anyone on your friends list write Two/Four/Five?

No, but I totally would!!!

16. What might Ten scream at a moment of great passion?

What's the Lotus word for passion? LOL

17. If you wrote a song-fic about Eight, which song would you choose?

"Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty

18. If you wrote a One/Six/Twelve fic, what would the warnings be?

Contains femslash, tentacles, light bondage, pedophilia, and sex toys.

19. What might be a good pick-up line for Two to use on Ten?

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

20. When was the last time you read a fic about Five?

Today :D

21. What is Six's super-secret kink?

She's a dom. ;)

22. Would Eleven shag Nine? Drunk or Sober?

Drunk yes, sober no.

23. If Three and Seven get together, who tops?

Oooh, good question. They probably take turns.

Dramatic Crossover Meme

2008-06-04T05:55:15Z

Choose 12 characters and put them in a numbered list. Once you've chosen, go behind the cut and grab these questions to answer them. No peeking until your list is complete!

1. Quatre Raberba Winner (Gundam Wing)
2. Trowa Barton (Gundam Wing)
3. Spike Spiegel (Cowboy Bebop)
4. Scar (Full Metal Alchemist)
5. Tamahome (Fushigi Yugi)
6. Rei Hino (Sailor Moon)
7. Roy Mustang (Full Metal Alchemist)
8. Son Goku (Saiyuki)
9. Genjyo Sanzo (Saiyuki)
10. Faye Valentine (Cowboy Bebop)
11. Tasuki (Fushigi Yugi)
12. Setsuna Meioh (Sailor Moon)

1) If Eight (Goku) was involved with both Seven (Mustang) and Four (Scar) how would Seven and Four react when they found out about one another?

Probably try to kill each other. What else is new?

2) Two (Trowa) and Five (Tamahome) are saying their vows when the doors are thrown open and Eleven marches in demanding that the ceremony stop because Eleven (Tasuki) is in love with Five and cannot let them marry Two. Does Five go back to Eleven or stay with Two?

He'd go back to Tasuki, no doubt. Besides, Trowa has Quatre :P

3) Seven (Mustang) has a phobia that involves One (Quatre). What is the phobia?

He's afraid of flying. But since Quatre lives in space, he can't go up and see him. :(

4) Nine (Sanzo) and Twelve (Setsuna) are having a movie marathon night. What movie does Nine pick and what movie does Twelve pick? Is twelve happy with Nine's pick and vice versa?

Sanzo probably wants to watch something like "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," while Setsuna wants to watch a film noir flick. They'd probably both be willing to watch the other, but Sanzo would want to watch his movie first. Setsuna'd probably let him, though.

5) Ten (Faye) is in an unhappy relationship with Four (Scar) and realizes that he/she should be with Two (Trowa) instead.

She would totally leave Scar for Trowa. Scar is *psycho*

6) Three (Spike) is pregnant with Nine's (Sanzo) baby. How does Five (Tamahome) react?

He would be all, "WTF? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!"

7) Does Number Three (Spike) handle commitments well?

Um, that'd be a *no*

8) If Number Twelve (Setsuna) suffered from a mental disorder what would that disorder be?

Schizoid personality disorder.

9) One (Quatre) sees Four (Scar) with Eight (Goku) and knows that Eight is involved with Six (Rei). Does One tell Six that Eight is cheating or does Six deserve to find out on their own?

He wouldn't want to hurt her, but he'd want to be honest, so he'd probably tell her as gently as he could.

10) Eleven (Tasuki) is set up, by Ten (Faye), on a blind date with Seven (Mustang). Does the date go smoothly, and has Eleven decided that he/she wants to kill Ten before the date has ended?

Yeah, Faye would probably be dead as soon as Tasuki saw she'd set him up with a guy.

11) Two (Trowa) and Three (Spike) have been dating for a year. Where does Two choose to pop the question?

Probably just at a bar or something. They'd be drinking, then suddenly he'd say, "So, do you want to get married, or anything?" Presented that way, Spike would probably say yes, too.

12) Nine (Sanzo) wants to end their relationship with Five (Tamahome). How does Nine choose to do so? Heartbroken Five has a one night stand with Three (Spike).

Sanzo would be very direct. A blunt "It's over" would suffice. That's okay though. Spike's a good rebound guy. :)

13) Eleven (Tasuki) and Twelve (Setsuna) married. How does Twelve handle Eleven's death?

She would probably become very numb and even more quiet and withdrawn.

14) If there was one thing Seven (Mustang) could change about their life what would it be?

A higher rank, no doubt. -_-

15) If Five (Tamahome) could say anything to Ten (Faye) what would they say?

"You bitch! You ripped me off!"

16) A drunken Eight (Goku) comes home and finds One (Quatre) in bed with Eleven (Tasuki). How does Eight react?

Probably start giggling helplessly, provided he's not in a relationship with either of them. If he is...probably a demonic temper tantrum.

17) Is a sweet love scene between Six (Rei) and Nine (Sanzo) possible?

"Sweet"? Probably not. Probably lots of blunt comments and denial of feelings for one another, followed by hot, angry sex.

18) Seven and Four are bitter rivals. What made them rivals?

The fact that Scar keeps killing Mustang's men and generally being a bastard about things. Oh, and they both want Goku. :P

19) Is a happily ever after possible for One (Quatre) and Twelve (Setsuna)?

I think so. :)

20) Four (Scar) undergoes a gender-swap. Who would he/she sleep with first? Six (Rei) or Five (Tamahome)?

Probably Rei. Gender doesn't make you any less of a badass, and he'd probably want a tough girl instead of a somewhat annoying boy.

21) If Seven (Mustang) had to be stuck on a island with Two (Trowa) or Three (Spike) which would Seven choose? Why?

Probably Trowa. I don't think Roy'd trust Spike any farther than he could throw him, and besides, Trowa used to be a soldier anyways, so he's used to taking orders. SEXUAL ORDERS. XD

22) One (Quatre) and Two (Trowa) are romantically involved when One's original love, Eleven (Tasuki) returns from the dead. How does One handle the person's return?

Freak out at the breaking of natural laws, and stay with Trowa regardless.

23) Nine (Sanzo) is forced to choose who will live between Three (Spike) and Six (Rei). Which one does Nine choose to live?

Well, because he enjoyed the earlier angrysex with Rei and Spike steals his cigarettes, he would probably save Rei.

24) Seven (Mustang) falls in love with Eight (Goku). When Seven gets the opportunity to be with Eight he/she is happy... until he/she finds out that Eight is only using him/her to get close to Two (Trowa).

Mustang has had enough of Goku's cheating shenanigans, and sets him on fire. Revenge is sweet. :3

Another Crossover Meme

2008-06-04T05:50:58Z

List twelve characters without looking at the questions. Then answer the questions by replacing the corresponding number with the character.

1. Wicked Lady (Sailor Moon)
2. Trowa (Gundam Wing)
3. Aya (Ayashi no Ceres)
4. Tenchi (Tenchi Muyo)
5. Lady Une (Gundam Wing)
6. Sanzo (Saiyuki)
7. Motoko (Ghost in the Shell)
8. Ed (Full Metal Alchemist)
9. Umi (Magic Knights Rayearth)
10. Spike (Cowboy Bebop)
11. Layla (Kaleido Star)
12. Kiba (Wolf's Rain)

1. Who would make a better college professor, 6 or 11?

Probably Layla. Except she'd be a total bitch and fail everyone. -_-;;

2. Do you think 4 is hot? How hot?

Mildly hot. The kind of hot where you'll sleep with them if you're drunk or if you feel bad for them, but you're not about to throw yourself at them any given day of the week.

3. 12 sends 8 on a mission. What is it, and does it succeed?

He probably wants him to either A) Find paradise, or B) Make a new Cheza using alchemy.

4. What is or would be 9's favorite book?

"The Devil Wears Prada"

5. Would it make more sense for 2 to swear fealty to 6, or the other way around?

I doubt either would swear fealty to either. They'd probably want to view each other as equals.

6. For some reason, 5 is looking for a roommate. Should s/he share a studio apartment with 9 or with 10?

Layla. They would get along just marvelously, bitching then suddenly being super nice to each other.

7. 2, 7 and 12 have dinner together. Where do they go, and what do they discuss?

Some relatively nice place, a steakhouse or something. They'd probably talk politics the whole night.

8. 3 challenges 10 to a duel. What happens?

Spike spends the whole time hitting on her, then Ceres pops out and beats the shit out of him.

9. If 1 stole 8's most precious possession, how would s/he get it back?

Go find her parents and get her to turn good again.

10. Suggest a title for a story in which 7 and 12 both attain what they most desire.

"Saving Paradise"

11. What kind of plot device would you use if you wanted 4 and 1 to work together?

Kidnapping their loved ones.

12. If 7 visited you for the weekend, how would you get along?

I would geek out like a total fangirl and probably annoy the crap out of her, but I don't care because I <3 the Major

13. If you could command 3 to perform any one task or service for you, what would it be?

Pimp out Toya. To me. Please.

14. Does anyone on your friends list write or draw 11?

Don't think so.

15. If 2 had to choose sides between 4 and 5, which would it be?

Lady Une. Sorry Tenchi. She's just so much *cooler*.

16. What might 10 shout while charging into battle?

He's not the shouting type. Maybe something along the lines of "Here we go."

17. If you chose a song to represent 8, which song would you choose?

"Short People Got No Reason To Live" by Randy Newman. XD

18. 1, 6 and 12 are having dim sum at a Chinese restaurant. There is only one scallion pancake left, and they all reach for it at the same time. Who gets to eat it?

Wicked Lady. A little blast from the kittyball will teach those greedy boys. :3

19. What might be a good pick-up line for 2 to use on 10?

".........."

20. What would 5 most likely be arrested for?

Blowing up civilian living areas.

21. What is 6's secret?

He smokes Virginia Slims. XD

22. If 11 and 9 were racing to a destination, who would get there first?

Layla. She could charter a private jet to wherever they were going. Unless they were going to Cephiro. Cuz then Umi would win for sure.

23. 3 and 7 tell conflicting versions of events. Which is more reliable?

Motoko. I'll believe the cyborg cop before I'll believe the hormonal teenager.

24. "1 and 9 reluctantly team up to save the world from the threat posed by 4’s sinister secret organization. 11 volunteers to help them, but it is later discovered that 11 is actually a spy for 4. Meanwhile, 4 has kidnapped 12, in an attempt to force their surrender. Following the wise advice of 5, they seek out 3, who gives them what they need to complete their quest." What title would you give this fic?

"Wicked Nights on Jurai"

25. If you had to walk home through a bad neighbourhood late at night, would you feel safer in the company of 7 or 8?

MOTOKO. What part of CYBORG COP *don't* you understand?!?!