“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Angel stared at the open box, disbelief and pleasure shining in his eyes.
“Check the label,” Asia said.
Angel scooped up the fedora and turned it over, ran his fingers over the soft satin lining until he found the tiny hand-stitched label in the back. “Tanner’s Row? However did you find it?”
“I have connections.” Asia smiled enigmatically.
The rest of the boys clustered around the table, faintly confused, but amused and pleased at their lieutenant’s happiness nonetheless.
Angel placed the fedora on his head, tipped it to a jaunty angle, and grinned. “I didn’t think you could find good haberdashery like this anymore.”
“I don’t think people use the word ‘haberdashery’ anymore,” Gabriel said drily.
“It looks good on you,” Tobias said. “You should throw on your zoot suit and come jitterbugging with me on Friday.”
“No, not on Friday,” Asia said. “Tonight. I rented out the old dance hall and found a twelve-piece band. If we’re going to party, we’re doing it in style.”
DJ arched an eyebrow. “Just the seven of us? That’s kind of a lame party.”
“I’m not that disorganized,” Asia said. “You remember your cover three missions ago?”
“The advertising designer?” DJ asked.
“The model,” Asia said. She waved a shiny Blackberry at him. “I still have all your coworkers’ phone numbers.”
Keith looked aggrieved. “You get Angel an antique hat and a room full of supermodels for his birthday, and all I get is a fuil-sgian?”
“I made that fuil-sgian myself,” Asia huffed. She prodded Christian in the shoulder. “Go, go, get dressed!”
(270 words)
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Mothers and Sons
“Happy birthday.”
Tobias looked up from where he was cleaning one of his guns and blinked. “Uh. Commander. Hi.” He froze, trying to decide whether he should jump up and salute or hit the floor and do push-ups for being caught unawares.
Asia leaned in the doorway, one hand outstretched, a box resting on her palm. The box was heavy padded velvet and tied with an intricate bow.
“None of the others remembered,” she said, “but then I doubt most of them remember their own birthdays.”
“I think, for some of them, their two birthdays get jumbled,” Tobias said.
“That’s funny,” Asia said, “since I doubt that most of them had proper first birthdays.” She thrust the box at him.
Tobias rose up and accepted it gingerly. He peered at it, then at her. “I, er, should I open it now?”
“It’s yours to do with as you like.”
“Well...thank you.” Tobias smiled at her.
She smiled back, though the emotion in her eyes was unreadable, and left the room. As soon as her footsteps were out of earshot and Tobias couldn’t hear her breathing - he shifted into panther temporarily to make sure her heat signature was gone too - he opened the box.
Inside were...photographs. Letters. Tied in neat bundles with a rhythm. The note on top was in Asia’s handwriting.
“I found these. I wasn’t sure if they matter anymore, but I thought you’d like to have them.”
Tobias fished the photos and letters out, untied them and leafed through them. Most of them featured a lovely young woman, pale-skinned and dark-haired, her eyes familiar. In one picture she was playing a violin, and in another she was holding a tiny baby. The letters were all addressed to ‘my son’ and signed ‘Lillian, your mother.’
It wasn’t until Tobias got to the bottom of the stack of letters and found the birth certificate that he realized Lillian was his mother. Then he picked up the first letter and read through it properly.
He was still reading when Keith got back from his mission three days later.
(352 words)
Tobias looked up from where he was cleaning one of his guns and blinked. “Uh. Commander. Hi.” He froze, trying to decide whether he should jump up and salute or hit the floor and do push-ups for being caught unawares.
Asia leaned in the doorway, one hand outstretched, a box resting on her palm. The box was heavy padded velvet and tied with an intricate bow.
“None of the others remembered,” she said, “but then I doubt most of them remember their own birthdays.”
“I think, for some of them, their two birthdays get jumbled,” Tobias said.
“That’s funny,” Asia said, “since I doubt that most of them had proper first birthdays.” She thrust the box at him.
Tobias rose up and accepted it gingerly. He peered at it, then at her. “I, er, should I open it now?”
“It’s yours to do with as you like.”
“Well...thank you.” Tobias smiled at her.
She smiled back, though the emotion in her eyes was unreadable, and left the room. As soon as her footsteps were out of earshot and Tobias couldn’t hear her breathing - he shifted into panther temporarily to make sure her heat signature was gone too - he opened the box.
Inside were...photographs. Letters. Tied in neat bundles with a rhythm. The note on top was in Asia’s handwriting.
“I found these. I wasn’t sure if they matter anymore, but I thought you’d like to have them.”
Tobias fished the photos and letters out, untied them and leafed through them. Most of them featured a lovely young woman, pale-skinned and dark-haired, her eyes familiar. In one picture she was playing a violin, and in another she was holding a tiny baby. The letters were all addressed to ‘my son’ and signed ‘Lillian, your mother.’
It wasn’t until Tobias got to the bottom of the stack of letters and found the birth certificate that he realized Lillian was his mother. Then he picked up the first letter and read through it properly.
He was still reading when Keith got back from his mission three days later.
(352 words)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Happy Anniversary
“...What is this?” Carolyn asked.
Bob nudged her shoulder playfully. “Surely even you remember the archaic notion of the mix tape.”
It was, indeed, an old-fashioned cassette. Bob had written on the label, in his girly cursive, ‘Anniversary Mix #1’. Carolyn turned it over in her hands, ran her fingertips over the familiar contours and corners of the tape. She smiled.
“Wherever did you find it?”
“I’ll admit, I had to call around to some of my friends down at the studio, but I did it. I know you love your cranky old car and it still has a tape player, but in the event that it doesn’t work, I have this.” Bob plopped an old boom box down on the kitchen table.
Carolyn laughed. “Wow. And if we weren’t celebrating our first anniversary, I’m guessing you’d stand outside my window and hold that over your head, mix tape going at full blast?”
Bob pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “You better believe it.” He nudged the boom box toward her. “Go ahead - give it a try.”
Carolyn reached out and pressed a button cautiously, and the tape deck popped open. She slid the tape in, had to pause and turn it around, and then she pressed ‘play’.
Music flooded the speakers, familiar voices. Carolyn’s eyes lit up.
“I haven’t heard this song in years! You sounded like chipmunks.”
Bob shrugged. “We were kids. But this song reminds me of you.”
Carolyn leaned back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“I love it,” she said.
“I love you.” Bob kissed her on the cheek. “Happy anniversary.”
(274 words)
Bob nudged her shoulder playfully. “Surely even you remember the archaic notion of the mix tape.”
It was, indeed, an old-fashioned cassette. Bob had written on the label, in his girly cursive, ‘Anniversary Mix #1’. Carolyn turned it over in her hands, ran her fingertips over the familiar contours and corners of the tape. She smiled.
“Wherever did you find it?”
“I’ll admit, I had to call around to some of my friends down at the studio, but I did it. I know you love your cranky old car and it still has a tape player, but in the event that it doesn’t work, I have this.” Bob plopped an old boom box down on the kitchen table.
Carolyn laughed. “Wow. And if we weren’t celebrating our first anniversary, I’m guessing you’d stand outside my window and hold that over your head, mix tape going at full blast?”
Bob pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “You better believe it.” He nudged the boom box toward her. “Go ahead - give it a try.”
Carolyn reached out and pressed a button cautiously, and the tape deck popped open. She slid the tape in, had to pause and turn it around, and then she pressed ‘play’.
Music flooded the speakers, familiar voices. Carolyn’s eyes lit up.
“I haven’t heard this song in years! You sounded like chipmunks.”
Bob shrugged. “We were kids. But this song reminds me of you.”
Carolyn leaned back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“I love it,” she said.
“I love you.” Bob kissed her on the cheek. “Happy anniversary.”
(274 words)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Lovely, Love You
“For Valentine’s Day? D’you think I’m a bloody girl?”
Holly slewed him a glance. “I wouldn’t be dating you if I was thinking you’re a girl, would I?”
Keith eyed her for a moment longer, took a deep drag off his cigarette. Then he dropped it, ground it out with the heel of his shoe, and accepted the clumsily wrapped package. “Could you have made a bigger mess of this? Are you sure you’re a lass?”
“You’d know best.” Holly’s golden eyes glittered.
Keith tore the newsprint off with awkward, hurried hands. He cast the paper aside - ignored Holly’s tuts about littering - and found a box. A shoe-box. Covered in duct tape. He lifted his head, confused.
“A lad needs to work for his gift.” Holly gestured for him to hurry up.
Keith reached into his pocket for a switchblade. He flicked it open and grinned at her, then proceeded to saw his way into the box. Holly rolled her eyes and took a drag off her own cigarette.
She smoked cloves, which Keith thought was pretentious, but he wouldn’t deny how good it tasted when they kissed.
Inside the shoebox was - more newsprint. Crumpled up and shoved in there to pad - something. Keith arched an eyebrow at his girlfriend and then fished around and came up with a lovely silver lighter. It was heart-shaped and filigreed and almost looked girly, but for the sinister eye engraved in one side.
He flipped it open and tested its flame.
“So you don’t need one of those cheap Bics you’re constantly losing,” Holly said.
Keith cupped his palm around the flame and tested it, working his gift over it. Holly stared pointedly at the horizon, pretending she couldn’t see.
Keith grinned. Then he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her in, kissed her thoroughly.
“’S lovely,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Love you,” she murmured back, and he laughed.
Flames danced on his fingertips.
(326 words)
Holly slewed him a glance. “I wouldn’t be dating you if I was thinking you’re a girl, would I?”
Keith eyed her for a moment longer, took a deep drag off his cigarette. Then he dropped it, ground it out with the heel of his shoe, and accepted the clumsily wrapped package. “Could you have made a bigger mess of this? Are you sure you’re a lass?”
“You’d know best.” Holly’s golden eyes glittered.
Keith tore the newsprint off with awkward, hurried hands. He cast the paper aside - ignored Holly’s tuts about littering - and found a box. A shoe-box. Covered in duct tape. He lifted his head, confused.
“A lad needs to work for his gift.” Holly gestured for him to hurry up.
Keith reached into his pocket for a switchblade. He flicked it open and grinned at her, then proceeded to saw his way into the box. Holly rolled her eyes and took a drag off her own cigarette.
She smoked cloves, which Keith thought was pretentious, but he wouldn’t deny how good it tasted when they kissed.
Inside the shoebox was - more newsprint. Crumpled up and shoved in there to pad - something. Keith arched an eyebrow at his girlfriend and then fished around and came up with a lovely silver lighter. It was heart-shaped and filigreed and almost looked girly, but for the sinister eye engraved in one side.
He flipped it open and tested its flame.
“So you don’t need one of those cheap Bics you’re constantly losing,” Holly said.
Keith cupped his palm around the flame and tested it, working his gift over it. Holly stared pointedly at the horizon, pretending she couldn’t see.
Keith grinned. Then he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her in, kissed her thoroughly.
“’S lovely,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Love you,” she murmured back, and he laughed.
Flames danced on his fingertips.
(326 words)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
So Different and so the Same
Mark and Bryan sat around the tree in their small apartment, completely disregarding what little furniture there was in the room. The tree was a little one that they had cut from the local forest plot. They figured that no one would miss a two foot sapling. The tree was strung about with strands of popcorn and construction paper chains, a single candle acted as the star on the top of the tree. Only two presents sat under the tree.
Both of the twins were bright eyed with anticipation as they handed each other their gifts, one wrapped in blue and one in green.
"Ready?" Bryan asked.
"Ready."
"GO!"
The twins tore into the simple paper quickly, pulling out the gift from the one that knew him best.
A brief look of confusion passed over each of their faces before they broke out in loud gales of laughter. Each of them held up an identical Ipods.
Both of the twins were bright eyed with anticipation as they handed each other their gifts, one wrapped in blue and one in green.
"Ready?" Bryan asked.
"Ready."
"GO!"
The twins tore into the simple paper quickly, pulling out the gift from the one that knew him best.
A brief look of confusion passed over each of their faces before they broke out in loud gales of laughter. Each of them held up an identical Ipods.
Use It or String It
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” DJ said.
“It’s your birthday. Of course I had to get you something.” Celia smiled and pressed the small wrapped package into his hands.
He didn’t dare say what he was thinking, that she was from that part of town and couldn’t afford to feed herself and her brothers if she kept spending money on him like this, but he accepted the tiny thing.
“You can open it now,” Celia said. “It’s not like I bought something viciously embarrassing.”
DJ took a deep breath. Then, with deliberate hands, he peeled back the wrapping paper, careful to preserve the edges and seams. Beneath the paper was a matchbox. He set the paper aside and then pushed the matchbox open.
Inside lay a guitar pick, gleaming metal. DJ turned the box and tipped the pick onto his palm. It turned over as it landed on his skin, cool, and he saw, engraved in delicate cursive on one side of the pick, two names.
Dylan and Celia.
Celia smiled at him. “You can use it to play me songs, or just string it on a necklace, or --”
He pulled her close and kissed her.
(198 words)
“It’s your birthday. Of course I had to get you something.” Celia smiled and pressed the small wrapped package into his hands.
He didn’t dare say what he was thinking, that she was from that part of town and couldn’t afford to feed herself and her brothers if she kept spending money on him like this, but he accepted the tiny thing.
“You can open it now,” Celia said. “It’s not like I bought something viciously embarrassing.”
DJ took a deep breath. Then, with deliberate hands, he peeled back the wrapping paper, careful to preserve the edges and seams. Beneath the paper was a matchbox. He set the paper aside and then pushed the matchbox open.
Inside lay a guitar pick, gleaming metal. DJ turned the box and tipped the pick onto his palm. It turned over as it landed on his skin, cool, and he saw, engraved in delicate cursive on one side of the pick, two names.
Dylan and Celia.
Celia smiled at him. “You can use it to play me songs, or just string it on a necklace, or --”
He pulled her close and kissed her.
(198 words)
Grooves and Teeth
“Merry Christmas,” Amy whispered. She reached out to shake Gabriel’s hand, and he paused, confused. Why would she shake his hand?
She thrust her hand at him insistently.
“Uh, Merry Christmas to you too, Amy,” Gabriel said, and ran over some times tables in his head. None of the other telepaths at the facility were as strong as him, but he could never be too cautious. He shook her hand.
And felt her slide cold metal against his palm. Grooves. Teeth. A key. She smiled at him and then walked away.
Later that night, when all of the other residents were sleeping and the only lights on were the Christmas lights strung haphazardly in the hallways by the clumsy telekinetics, Gabriel tried the key.
It opened the door to the stairwell.
Gabriel supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Amy, bundled in layers and layers of sweaters and scarves, was hiding on the second landing. She thrust a large coat at him, and then a pair of gloves.
“Where are we going?” Gabriel asked, but he followed her anyway.
“You said you wanted to find your mother’s grave,” Amy said. “I got access to some city planning records in the library and I found it.”
Gabriel’s feet slowed. “You - you did?”
Amy nodded. “Yeah. I figured - you know. We could go sing her Christmas carols or something.”
Warmth curled through Gabriel’s limbs for the first time since winter had fallen over the facility. “Okay. Let’s.”
(245 words)
She thrust her hand at him insistently.
“Uh, Merry Christmas to you too, Amy,” Gabriel said, and ran over some times tables in his head. None of the other telepaths at the facility were as strong as him, but he could never be too cautious. He shook her hand.
And felt her slide cold metal against his palm. Grooves. Teeth. A key. She smiled at him and then walked away.
Later that night, when all of the other residents were sleeping and the only lights on were the Christmas lights strung haphazardly in the hallways by the clumsy telekinetics, Gabriel tried the key.
It opened the door to the stairwell.
Gabriel supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Amy, bundled in layers and layers of sweaters and scarves, was hiding on the second landing. She thrust a large coat at him, and then a pair of gloves.
“Where are we going?” Gabriel asked, but he followed her anyway.
“You said you wanted to find your mother’s grave,” Amy said. “I got access to some city planning records in the library and I found it.”
Gabriel’s feet slowed. “You - you did?”
Amy nodded. “Yeah. I figured - you know. We could go sing her Christmas carols or something.”
Warmth curled through Gabriel’s limbs for the first time since winter had fallen over the facility. “Okay. Let’s.”
(245 words)
Monday, December 7, 2009
Cocoon
Ariana eagerly unwrapped the large soft object that David had placed in her lap. They were gathered around her families Christmas tree. Bright colored paper went flying as she tore through it with ease. After a few seconds she held up the big quilt. It was blue and green and white. It looked thick and warm.
"Oh, David. It's perfect!" she reached over and kissed him soundly before throwing the new quilt around David and herself, pulling him back against her so they could be cocooned away from everyone. Ariana giggled when David poked her in the side, the tepee that surrounded them shuddering with the movement of the laughter.
"Oh, David. It's perfect!" she reached over and kissed him soundly before throwing the new quilt around David and herself, pulling him back against her so they could be cocooned away from everyone. Ariana giggled when David poked her in the side, the tepee that surrounded them shuddering with the movement of the laughter.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Project #51: Gifts
It's the holiday season. So...what do your characters buy for each other for...Christmas? Birthdays? Valentine's Day? How do they choose. How well does David accept a new silencer for his gun? What does five-year-old Joe ask for in his letter to Santa? Since it's that time of the year, think about gifts, gifts, and more gifts. 100-400 words. Enjoy!
Overview #50: Dear Diary
First of all, woohoo! Fifty challenges delivered and answered! I was originally planning on doing this week's challenge as straight diary entries, and this would have been a serious exercise in voice and POV. I think I did that with the first entry, but after that it was a matter of creativity and seeing what I could do with a journal entry. I think Carolyn's journal was the one that mirrored most closely the effect I'd intended when I'd set out to write it. The monster Moffatts nostalgia run wasn't at all what I was expecting, and anyone looking very closely will see that the lyrics can't possibly match up with the timeline as I've established it, but it was a fun project. I felt a little lame for stealing lyrics left and right like I did, but I tried to make each character's sense of journaling different. Clay's made me smile. Bob's, of course, came the hardest, if only because I hadn't really pictured any of the brothers but Scott and Dan keeping journals.
Overall, however, it was a great experience and a learning one.
Overall, however, it was a great experience and a learning one.
Overview #50 - Dear Diary
okay so I all kinds of tanked this week. But i had a semi legitimate distraction. I could blame him, but I'm not going to. I did enjoy the posts that I made though. At least for the most part. I know David has a journal entry kicking around in my brain somewhere, but....
this weeks winner is Nagi. Pick your prize my friend.
this weeks winner is Nagi. Pick your prize my friend.
Sometimes, Sometimes
Dear Carolyn,
Another day, another dollar. Have I mentioned I hate high school? I keep my head down as much as I can, and having short hair helps, but some of the girls have recognized me, and I know that as soon as word gets out, some of the rugby players will have it out for me. I can see the way they look at me, betrayed and sad and a little star-struck. I’ve seen fans ask, on the internet, why my brothers and I don’t get back together.
They don’t know what betrayal is, do they? I spaced out in calculus today, wondering how much of what you told me was true. Is Carolyn even really your name? Were you really even from Nebraska? Obviously John wasn’t actually your foster-father, but...
It feels like my days pass in a haze of je m’en fiche and struggle. I just need to graduate, pass le bac, and go away. Do something. College, maybe? Who knows. I need to get out of this town, out of this life, find a place where no one will recognize me and where I’ll never hear your name.
Until then, homework calls.
Sometimes I still miss life on the road.
Bob closed his journal and shoved it into his bass drum, screwed the head back into place, and then headed downstairs to dinner.
Sometimes, in his dreams, Carolyn wrote back.
Another day, another dollar. Have I mentioned I hate high school? I keep my head down as much as I can, and having short hair helps, but some of the girls have recognized me, and I know that as soon as word gets out, some of the rugby players will have it out for me. I can see the way they look at me, betrayed and sad and a little star-struck. I’ve seen fans ask, on the internet, why my brothers and I don’t get back together.
They don’t know what betrayal is, do they? I spaced out in calculus today, wondering how much of what you told me was true. Is Carolyn even really your name? Were you really even from Nebraska? Obviously John wasn’t actually your foster-father, but...
It feels like my days pass in a haze of je m’en fiche and struggle. I just need to graduate, pass le bac, and go away. Do something. College, maybe? Who knows. I need to get out of this town, out of this life, find a place where no one will recognize me and where I’ll never hear your name.
Until then, homework calls.
Sometimes I still miss life on the road.
Bob closed his journal and shoved it into his bass drum, screwed the head back into place, and then headed downstairs to dinner.
Sometimes, in his dreams, Carolyn wrote back.
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