I swim my way back to awareness, conscious of a pain in my arm, though dulled by the drugs that keep the worst of it at bay. I can feel my pulse increasing as I come half awake, my hand automatically searching for him, groping at the air. I sigh his name and he is here in an instant, hovering over me where I lay on his mother's couch.
I look up into his face, searching for a truth that I know is there. His gentle smile and soft caress assure me that I am safe. I can't remember how many times he's saved my life, and I, his.
As much as he drives me crazy, I love him, and I wouldn't want any other. As I lay there, vulnerable and worried of the future, he leans down and presses a brief kiss to my lips. I open my mouth to tell him how I feel and he places one finger over my lips, silencing me.
"It's okay," he said, "we're no good at this."
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Broken Mirror
Sometimes, while I’m sitting at my desk faced with a mountain of paperwork, I actually miss him. I close my eyes and sit back, remember what it was like to face him. It was like looking into broken mirror, seeing an unfamiliar face - his green eyes, my grey ones - but the same expression: determination. Sheer soldiering willpower.
And that scar, a mirror-twin to my own. Some days I think it might have been better for me to lose an eye; it’d stop the girls from cooing over me. And I’d never have ranked up for proper field training. Late at night, when I’ve worked too much and eaten too little, I come awake from an old memory, manacles around my wrists and ankles, electricity pouring through my body.
One day, after too much paperwork and not enough sanity, I leave my office. Walk out while the secretary is attempting to inform me of my schedule for the day. It’s rude, but no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. They’ll get mad at me and sulk, but when push comes to shove I’m the one with the weapons and the firepower, and they need me more than I need them.
I scoop up my weapon case and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors that he lives out on the water, fishing with his two sidekicks. I’ll bet he’s spoiling for a fight, too.
(237 words; post-canon)
And that scar, a mirror-twin to my own. Some days I think it might have been better for me to lose an eye; it’d stop the girls from cooing over me. And I’d never have ranked up for proper field training. Late at night, when I’ve worked too much and eaten too little, I come awake from an old memory, manacles around my wrists and ankles, electricity pouring through my body.
One day, after too much paperwork and not enough sanity, I leave my office. Walk out while the secretary is attempting to inform me of my schedule for the day. It’s rude, but no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. They’ll get mad at me and sulk, but when push comes to shove I’m the one with the weapons and the firepower, and they need me more than I need them.
I scoop up my weapon case and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors that he lives out on the water, fishing with his two sidekicks. I’ll bet he’s spoiling for a fight, too.
(237 words; post-canon)
Friday, October 16, 2009
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
That's right - today is the one year anniversary of the first Master & Madness fic to ever grace cyberspace. It's been a wild ride; we've built worlds, written poems, made each other laugh and cry. Thanks to all my sisters in literature for being there.
(feel free to leave a comment and share your love of our little green corner of cyberspace)
(feel free to leave a comment and share your love of our little green corner of cyberspace)
Be So Many Things
I want to be so many things for her that I feel like I’m tearing myself apart. The first time we met, I was half under a car in the garage, spattered with oil. She was lovely in a blouse and skirt, fresh home from another semester of medical school. She was eight years older than me and I knew then and there I wanted her to be my wife.
For the first time in a long time I was glad I saw the world in shades of red and black; it meant she couldn’t look into my eyes and know how desperately I wanted to kiss her. Sometimes I thought she could read my mind anyway.
We played chess by the fireplace; she drank wine and let me sneak a little Irish cream into my hot chocolate. I felt grown-up and charming until I realized she’d had me in checkmate for three rounds and I was ridiculously drunk.
She was done with medical school and off doing her residency when I started college. I spent those four years learning not to stutter, to carry myself like a man instead of a boy. I trained ruthlessly to become an efficient field leader and a competent math teacher.
The first time I saw her after graduation, I wanted to be that kid again, sitting up with her watching Saturday morning cartoons and trying to steal cheerios out of each other’s bowls. When we watched the Sunday evening news and saw more reports about the violence and hatred against our kind, I wanted to show her the man I had become.
The first time she kissed me, I realized she’d been reading my mind all along, and she only wanted me to be one thing: hers.
(295 words; not canon)
For the first time in a long time I was glad I saw the world in shades of red and black; it meant she couldn’t look into my eyes and know how desperately I wanted to kiss her. Sometimes I thought she could read my mind anyway.
We played chess by the fireplace; she drank wine and let me sneak a little Irish cream into my hot chocolate. I felt grown-up and charming until I realized she’d had me in checkmate for three rounds and I was ridiculously drunk.
She was done with medical school and off doing her residency when I started college. I spent those four years learning not to stutter, to carry myself like a man instead of a boy. I trained ruthlessly to become an efficient field leader and a competent math teacher.
The first time I saw her after graduation, I wanted to be that kid again, sitting up with her watching Saturday morning cartoons and trying to steal cheerios out of each other’s bowls. When we watched the Sunday evening news and saw more reports about the violence and hatred against our kind, I wanted to show her the man I had become.
The first time she kissed me, I realized she’d been reading my mind all along, and she only wanted me to be one thing: hers.
(295 words; not canon)
Knowing and not Telling
I never told him, but I remember everything from the time loops. Everything. I am so glad though that they figured it out, because to much more of it and I was going to go insane.
At least he did make it interesting some of the time. The golfing, the pottery, juggling, and by heavens that kiss was amazing. Everything that I ever imagined and hoped it would be. I wonder if I activate that machine again I can spend eternity with him. Just the two of us; locked forever into a time loop. I can't think of why I would want to leave. It would be pure heaven.
When he smiled at me, thinking that I didn't know what he was thinking about, I had a tough time hiding the fact that I knew.
At least he did make it interesting some of the time. The golfing, the pottery, juggling, and by heavens that kiss was amazing. Everything that I ever imagined and hoped it would be. I wonder if I activate that machine again I can spend eternity with him. Just the two of us; locked forever into a time loop. I can't think of why I would want to leave. It would be pure heaven.
When he smiled at me, thinking that I didn't know what he was thinking about, I had a tough time hiding the fact that I knew.
Blood and Control
I can't take my eyes off of his still form lying in the hospital bed. He's too still, though from the steady rise and fall of his chest, I know that he's alive. My hand itches to hold his, though that would be a breech of regulations, I reach out anyway and gently brush the back of his hand. I flinch when he twitches it away. I can't imagine what he has just been through. the doctor says it's a blessing that he is even alive, let alone that he will be just fine before long. He may be physically fine, but I worry about how he will be doing emotionally.
Even as I sit watching him, I can't help going over details in my mind, trying to peace together what happened and how this will affect him. Thinking back, I think that I knew that something was not right. I couldn't focus all day, something just seemed wrong. I know we were all tired from the last case, but still, something wasn't right.
That feeling stayed with me all day; after we go the call and we all went to work, and he never showed up. I was worried then, but there was nothing I could do about it. Finally it became to much for everyone to handle, so I went looking for him.
I didn't find him, but I found blood.
My world spun out of control.
(sorry this one should be backdated.)
Even as I sit watching him, I can't help going over details in my mind, trying to peace together what happened and how this will affect him. Thinking back, I think that I knew that something was not right. I couldn't focus all day, something just seemed wrong. I know we were all tired from the last case, but still, something wasn't right.
That feeling stayed with me all day; after we go the call and we all went to work, and he never showed up. I was worried then, but there was nothing I could do about it. Finally it became to much for everyone to handle, so I went looking for him.
I didn't find him, but I found blood.
My world spun out of control.
(sorry this one should be backdated.)
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Magical Vision
I have magical vision - I can always see the white elephant in the room, the one thing that no one else notices. For the longest time I thought that it was a simple matter of the other three ignoring what was going on, but one day, while I sat bound in the corner and contemplated the shininess of the buckles all down my chest, I realized that they really didn’t see what I saw. They were so busy hoping no one noticed them that they didn’t notice each other.
It made me want to laugh.
I laughed once, and it frightened the little one, who pretends he’s cruel and unafraid, who presses his face to the window and watches children laugh and scramble as they kick a soccer ball around a field. I can only assume his longing for the game was born in his childhood, the childhood he pretends he never had.
One morning, while I was hanging upside down in the corner waiting to be released from the latest round of punishment, I watched our leader shuffle into the kitchen, vulnerable in a thin cotton robe, tear tracks fresh on his face from where he wept in his sleep. After he showered and dressed, his eyes behind his glasses were golden-cruel, but I could still remember what he looked like after a night of memories unbound.
Maybe I would tell someone if I could, but they all think me mad and wouldn’t believe me. I’m not sure if I really am mad, but it’s fun to let people think it.
It was one of my rare moments of freedom in the kitchen that I learned the final sad secret of my third teammate. I was mashing potatoes by hand, because it was my turn to provide supper and I liked to do things the right way. He slipped in far later than he was supposed to, even if dinner wasn’t ready, and I watched him shrug off his hideous double-breasted green coat. He was rarely without a coat, mocking formality by assembling the most clashing pieces he could find.
I caught a brief flash the pale skin on the inside of his arm before he rolled down his sleeves with quick, smart motions.
He’d lost his mind so many times that he’d had to tattoo his real name on the inside of his wrist.
(398 words)
It made me want to laugh.
I laughed once, and it frightened the little one, who pretends he’s cruel and unafraid, who presses his face to the window and watches children laugh and scramble as they kick a soccer ball around a field. I can only assume his longing for the game was born in his childhood, the childhood he pretends he never had.
One morning, while I was hanging upside down in the corner waiting to be released from the latest round of punishment, I watched our leader shuffle into the kitchen, vulnerable in a thin cotton robe, tear tracks fresh on his face from where he wept in his sleep. After he showered and dressed, his eyes behind his glasses were golden-cruel, but I could still remember what he looked like after a night of memories unbound.
Maybe I would tell someone if I could, but they all think me mad and wouldn’t believe me. I’m not sure if I really am mad, but it’s fun to let people think it.
It was one of my rare moments of freedom in the kitchen that I learned the final sad secret of my third teammate. I was mashing potatoes by hand, because it was my turn to provide supper and I liked to do things the right way. He slipped in far later than he was supposed to, even if dinner wasn’t ready, and I watched him shrug off his hideous double-breasted green coat. He was rarely without a coat, mocking formality by assembling the most clashing pieces he could find.
I caught a brief flash the pale skin on the inside of his arm before he rolled down his sleeves with quick, smart motions.
He’d lost his mind so many times that he’d had to tattoo his real name on the inside of his wrist.
(398 words)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
All that I Offer
He looked up at me, and suddenly, he seemed to see me. Really and truly see me, and all that I had to offer him, all that I am and all the love that I posses was his for the asking. He finally looked up and saw what I was offering and reached out to me.
I don't know if he ever noticed the change in my patronus or not. Being a guy, as perceptive as he usually is, he probably didn't. He most likely attributed it, like that git, to the loss of my cousin.
No. It changed, though I never did, because I love him. I don't know how I manage to continue breathing without him around.
It doesn't really matter anymore, because he is here, and he's not going anywhere, and miracle of miracles, he says that he loves me.
I don't know if he ever noticed the change in my patronus or not. Being a guy, as perceptive as he usually is, he probably didn't. He most likely attributed it, like that git, to the loss of my cousin.
No. It changed, though I never did, because I love him. I don't know how I manage to continue breathing without him around.
It doesn't really matter anymore, because he is here, and he's not going anywhere, and miracle of miracles, he says that he loves me.
For Her
I do everything for her. No one knows, but I do.
I sit in the midst of a flowering meadow on a sunny day and read for her, white pigeons perched on my shoulder and punctuating Sun Tzu with soft coos; they're pretending to be doves.
I train in the rain for her, form upon form upon form, snake and tiger and mantis and crane. I end in dragon, always dragon, solitary dragon that I am. The name makes me smile; the others think I cannot hear what they say when I’m staring at a go board, playing against myself and pretending she’s sitting opposite me, taunting me for being such a scholar.
I fight for her and kill for her. Every time I climb into my machine and fire up the engines, I close my eyes and feel her presence seep into me, feel my instincts meld with the motherboard, and then we launch into space.
I would have died for her.
Every morning I wake up and put on my uniform and go to work, put out another fire, prevent another war, and I wake up for her. One day, when this is all over, I won’t wake up, but when I open my eyes, it’ll be to see her.
(212 words)
I sit in the midst of a flowering meadow on a sunny day and read for her, white pigeons perched on my shoulder and punctuating Sun Tzu with soft coos; they're pretending to be doves.
I train in the rain for her, form upon form upon form, snake and tiger and mantis and crane. I end in dragon, always dragon, solitary dragon that I am. The name makes me smile; the others think I cannot hear what they say when I’m staring at a go board, playing against myself and pretending she’s sitting opposite me, taunting me for being such a scholar.
I fight for her and kill for her. Every time I climb into my machine and fire up the engines, I close my eyes and feel her presence seep into me, feel my instincts meld with the motherboard, and then we launch into space.
I would have died for her.
Every morning I wake up and put on my uniform and go to work, put out another fire, prevent another war, and I wake up for her. One day, when this is all over, I won’t wake up, but when I open my eyes, it’ll be to see her.
(212 words)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Smiling
I smile at his stupid movie trivia, but inside I cringe. Chances are, when I'm not fully occupied, my eyes stray to his face. It's a handsome face, just a little bit boyish. I try to hide my smile as he picks on out teammate. Sometimes I get the colloquialisms wrong, just so that I can hear his voice correcting me. I would follow his voice even if it meant my death.
I just can't forget what he said in Africa. I knew that I could ask him anything then, and he would tell me the truth, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. I couldn't bear it if he had said it was duty and not love.
We will carry on as we are. It's comfortable, easy, routine. But not what I want.
I just can't forget what he said in Africa. I knew that I could ask him anything then, and he would tell me the truth, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. I couldn't bear it if he had said it was duty and not love.
We will carry on as we are. It's comfortable, easy, routine. But not what I want.
Six Photographs
The happiest moments moments of my life were captured in six photographs. I’d stolen Father’s rusty old Nikon, mixed the developer formula myself, and set the thing to just go. Whenever it wanted to.
The first was of the two of us sitting side-by-side on the grass studying, she with a textbook in one hand like it was a novel (she made it look so easy), me with the book propped open on my knees scribbling notes in the margins (me and my cramped handwriting). Every now and again we’d sneak glances at each other. She’d flick a flower at me (always the play on her namesake, cheerful with her where it was kitschy from anyone else), send the petals to march solemnly across my boot. I’d immolate them with a glare and send ants to scale up her (pretty, soft) red plait. It was a loop of action, inaction.
The second photo was escalation, petals circling my head while I studiously ignored them, her plait wavering in midair like a charmed cobra rising from a basket. By the third photo we were shooting sparks at each other, subtle jolts that were harmless but made us jump nonetheless and mock-glare at each other.
In the fourth picture, she’d drawn her wand on me and drenched me with a single spell. I looked like a drowned-rat, ill-fitting clothes clinging to my abused, underfed gaunt form, hair hanging in my face in limp tatters. I spluttered, spelled my book dry, and seized my own wand.
The fifth picture featured her thoroughly soused in green and silver paint (I did not stoop to glitter) and lunging at me with a cry, and a flock of (shockingly lovely, detailed) birds exploded at me.
The sixth picture was the aftermath. She was covered in paint, bat-bogeys, and multiple other horrid (potions ingredients) substances. I was liberally doused with glitter, garlands of flowers (again with the blossoms), and had hummingbirds perched in my hair. We were both laughing and smiling at each other (for the last time).
The best moments of my life in six photos. I wasn’t a kind or sentimental man, but I’d make sure her brat got them after I was gone.
(375 words)
The first was of the two of us sitting side-by-side on the grass studying, she with a textbook in one hand like it was a novel (she made it look so easy), me with the book propped open on my knees scribbling notes in the margins (me and my cramped handwriting). Every now and again we’d sneak glances at each other. She’d flick a flower at me (always the play on her namesake, cheerful with her where it was kitschy from anyone else), send the petals to march solemnly across my boot. I’d immolate them with a glare and send ants to scale up her (pretty, soft) red plait. It was a loop of action, inaction.
The second photo was escalation, petals circling my head while I studiously ignored them, her plait wavering in midair like a charmed cobra rising from a basket. By the third photo we were shooting sparks at each other, subtle jolts that were harmless but made us jump nonetheless and mock-glare at each other.
In the fourth picture, she’d drawn her wand on me and drenched me with a single spell. I looked like a drowned-rat, ill-fitting clothes clinging to my abused, underfed gaunt form, hair hanging in my face in limp tatters. I spluttered, spelled my book dry, and seized my own wand.
The fifth picture featured her thoroughly soused in green and silver paint (I did not stoop to glitter) and lunging at me with a cry, and a flock of (shockingly lovely, detailed) birds exploded at me.
The sixth picture was the aftermath. She was covered in paint, bat-bogeys, and multiple other horrid (potions ingredients) substances. I was liberally doused with glitter, garlands of flowers (again with the blossoms), and had hummingbirds perched in my hair. We were both laughing and smiling at each other (for the last time).
The best moments of my life in six photos. I wasn’t a kind or sentimental man, but I’d make sure her brat got them after I was gone.
(375 words)
Monday, October 12, 2009
Forever Seventeen
My father and my brother both agree, we can't be living because we can't die. I never saw it that way. It is true in a way what father says, we are like rocks, we just are, and I suppose we will always be this way. Not that my brother hasn't tried to kill himself on numerous occasions, all those wars that he fought in, trying to make it his last. It never worked. It never worked for him or for me; we just keep living as if there was no time at all.
I've seen everything this world has to offer, but there are still more things to be discovered. Not many things surprise me anymore. I've heard the music and I've read the books, BTW, I'm the original Edward Cullen. Forever seventeen, that's me. Personally I think I have it better than him. I don't have to drink blood, talk about gross, and I can go out in the sun whenever I want.
I guess the only time I ever tired of life, was when my love no longer there. I had always hoped that she would make that choice, the choice that would keep her here, frozen forever in youth. I had hoped that when I returned, that she would be waiting for me. But she wasn't. She lived her life, and then she died.
I can now understand my brothers forever grief over losing the one he loved; because now I feel it too.
(I know this one comes out of left field, but have fun reading anyway.)
I've seen everything this world has to offer, but there are still more things to be discovered. Not many things surprise me anymore. I've heard the music and I've read the books, BTW, I'm the original Edward Cullen. Forever seventeen, that's me. Personally I think I have it better than him. I don't have to drink blood, talk about gross, and I can go out in the sun whenever I want.
I guess the only time I ever tired of life, was when my love no longer there. I had always hoped that she would make that choice, the choice that would keep her here, frozen forever in youth. I had hoped that when I returned, that she would be waiting for me. But she wasn't. She lived her life, and then she died.
I can now understand my brothers forever grief over losing the one he loved; because now I feel it too.
(I know this one comes out of left field, but have fun reading anyway.)
Who I Really Am
I watch him out on the training ground with his knights, wielding his sword with easy confidence. The ring of steel on steel is a comforting counterpoint to the frustrated scrub, scrub of this blood-stained cloth at his stupid maille. Blood rusts metal, I know, but I don’t understand why he has to bleed on something every day. I imagine he does it just to spite me; the careless dismissal in his voice when he tells me to have all his armor polished for the next day makes me curl my hands into fists.
I know full well that every other knight at the castle sends their armor to the armory or has a miniature convoy of pages and squires to polish every piece of life-saving nonsense. I’m just one servant, and his royal pratliness knows it. It’s a wonder he hasn’t figured out what I am yet, given how many chores I manage to do in a day. Usually he’s too busy complaining at how terribly I do my job to realize that, really, one man alone couldn’t possibly do all I do in one day.
I tried to point that out once.
He sent me to the stocks.
I wonder if wielding a sword feels to him the same way using magic feels for me. On the first day we met, he informed me that he’d been trained to kill since birth. I’ve seen him disarmed before; he’s a natural leader and thinks quickly on his feet, but there’s always that flash of panic in his eyes when his sword flies from his grip. I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly found myself without my magic.
Assuming we weren’t in the middle of being attacked by something that usually only came from story books, I’d probably cry.
Not that I’d ever tell him that.
He thinks I’m a useless servant. I trip over my feet a lot, so in the middle of an important banquet, when I spill wine down a visiting princess’s dress, I might give him that.
But he has no idea who I really am.
I’m not sure I want him to.
(361 words)
I know full well that every other knight at the castle sends their armor to the armory or has a miniature convoy of pages and squires to polish every piece of life-saving nonsense. I’m just one servant, and his royal pratliness knows it. It’s a wonder he hasn’t figured out what I am yet, given how many chores I manage to do in a day. Usually he’s too busy complaining at how terribly I do my job to realize that, really, one man alone couldn’t possibly do all I do in one day.
I tried to point that out once.
He sent me to the stocks.
I wonder if wielding a sword feels to him the same way using magic feels for me. On the first day we met, he informed me that he’d been trained to kill since birth. I’ve seen him disarmed before; he’s a natural leader and thinks quickly on his feet, but there’s always that flash of panic in his eyes when his sword flies from his grip. I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly found myself without my magic.
Assuming we weren’t in the middle of being attacked by something that usually only came from story books, I’d probably cry.
Not that I’d ever tell him that.
He thinks I’m a useless servant. I trip over my feet a lot, so in the middle of an important banquet, when I spill wine down a visiting princess’s dress, I might give him that.
But he has no idea who I really am.
I’m not sure I want him to.
(361 words)
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Overview #45: Apologies
This week was really good for me. I really liked the work I accomplished. I just dug in there, and got down to business. Unfortunately, I didn't write on Friday or Saturday, so the story is still up in the air. I know. It's terrible.
However, I did ask for permission to finish it this week! O:
Let's hope I can keep this up...
(Yeah, this is backdated. Sigh.)
Project #46: Anniversary special!
This Thursday marks the one-year anniversary of Master & Madness. It's been a crazy ride, and we've had a lot of fun, changed the game and picked up new players. I figured, this week, we should be able to take a break. Stop fretting about canon, characterization, plot...and just have a party.
A huge, crazy fandom party. So...the challenge is this: pick characters from a fandom you love and write from their POV (first person, to be clear) so the rest of us can get to know them. But...don't tell us who they are! Try to leave as few clues as possible as to who they are and what fandom they come from (without being terribly vague and oblique), and at the end of the week, reflect on who of the other characters and fandoms you'd like to learn more about.
100-400 words. Party on!
ETA: I confess, this is backdated; I'm sorry it's late.
A huge, crazy fandom party. So...the challenge is this: pick characters from a fandom you love and write from their POV (first person, to be clear) so the rest of us can get to know them. But...don't tell us who they are! Try to leave as few clues as possible as to who they are and what fandom they come from (without being terribly vague and oblique), and at the end of the week, reflect on who of the other characters and fandoms you'd like to learn more about.
100-400 words. Party on!
ETA: I confess, this is backdated; I'm sorry it's late.
Overview #45: Apologies
I think Chaos totally won this one, but that's just me. Just...wow. Phenomenal writing from her.
I had a lot of fun with this week. I was worried about being a little too heavy-handed with the characters, having too much drama and not enough light-heartedness. Since Carolyn pretty much had the most apologies to give, I figured giving her one of the light-hearted ones would be good times. I tried to make sure a different person apologized each day. Kevin's apology, I think, was the best, and I hoped it would do something to round him out as a character rather than make him a two-dimensional villain. Clay's apology was pretty much a necessary part of the plot, as was Scott's - both stemmed off of previously-established issues. Bob's apology almost completely jacked up my canon even though I technically do have a canon basis for it. And Dan's apology was...a vehicle. At best. For more Joey.
Still...this prompt was full of awesome. I had all kinds of songs in my head for it, definitely including One Republic's "Apologize", as well as As Yet's "Hard To Say I'm Sorry," and Nirvana's "All Apologies". Heh. I like prompts that trigger songs.
Madness, the choice of winner is yours.
I had a lot of fun with this week. I was worried about being a little too heavy-handed with the characters, having too much drama and not enough light-heartedness. Since Carolyn pretty much had the most apologies to give, I figured giving her one of the light-hearted ones would be good times. I tried to make sure a different person apologized each day. Kevin's apology, I think, was the best, and I hoped it would do something to round him out as a character rather than make him a two-dimensional villain. Clay's apology was pretty much a necessary part of the plot, as was Scott's - both stemmed off of previously-established issues. Bob's apology almost completely jacked up my canon even though I technically do have a canon basis for it. And Dan's apology was...a vehicle. At best. For more Joey.
Still...this prompt was full of awesome. I had all kinds of songs in my head for it, definitely including One Republic's "Apologize", as well as As Yet's "Hard To Say I'm Sorry," and Nirvana's "All Apologies". Heh. I like prompts that trigger songs.
Madness, the choice of winner is yours.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Missing Curfew
It was late when the Bob finally crept into the hotel room. Dan and Clay had fallen asleep long ago, Clay ready to give his twin an earful about missing curfew, Dan fretting about Bob not finishing his homework.
Scott lay awake in the darkness and watched Bob dress for bed. He brushed his teeth as quietly as possible, squirmed into his pajamas. The moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the curtains revealed the fresh bruises marring his torso, the silver stains of tear-tracks on his face.
Scott’s hands curled into fists. He watched Bob crawl into bed beside Clay and curl up miserably on his half of the bed. Scott listened to Bob quietly sniffle himself to sleep. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and then Scott was the only one awake.
He stared at Bob’s thin shoulders, hunched beneath the sheets, and he wanted to scream.
Instead, he whispered, barely above a breath, “I’m sorry, Bobby.” And he closed his eyes.
(164 words)
Scott lay awake in the darkness and watched Bob dress for bed. He brushed his teeth as quietly as possible, squirmed into his pajamas. The moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the curtains revealed the fresh bruises marring his torso, the silver stains of tear-tracks on his face.
Scott’s hands curled into fists. He watched Bob crawl into bed beside Clay and curl up miserably on his half of the bed. Scott listened to Bob quietly sniffle himself to sleep. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and then Scott was the only one awake.
He stared at Bob’s thin shoulders, hunched beneath the sheets, and he wanted to scream.
Instead, he whispered, barely above a breath, “I’m sorry, Bobby.” And he closed his eyes.
(164 words)
Friday, October 9, 2009
Maria
(play it low)
Bob swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
Maria flung the picture at him. “Who the hell is she, Robert?”
“She’s an old family friend. Her dad was on the crew, so she rode with us when we were kids.” It took every ounce of self-control not to reach out and scoop up the faded photograph, cradle it gently in his hands.
“She doesn’t look like a kid in that picture.” Maria crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Bob bit his lip. “She and her dad ditched out on the crew when - when we were teenagers.”
Maria took a deep breath, dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, and Bob realized she was trying not to cry. Guilt wrenched in his chest.
“I’ve tried, Bobby, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t compete with a ghost.” She hiccuped, and Bob automatically moved forward to put his arms around her, but she shook her head and stepped back.
“Maria, I --” The words caught in his throat.
“Even now, you can’t say it.” Maria shook her head again, laughed, though the sound came out more like a sob. “Tell me one thing. Do you love her?”
“I’m sorry,” Bob said again.
Maria studied him for a long time. Then she nodded. “Right. I’ll come back for my things.” And she headed for the door.
Bob watched her walk away, sank against the door frame. Then he picked up the picture and smoothed it out with trembling fingers. After a moment, he slid the picture back into his wallet and closed the door. Then he sat down on his bed and cried.
(277 words)
Bob swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
Maria flung the picture at him. “Who the hell is she, Robert?”
“She’s an old family friend. Her dad was on the crew, so she rode with us when we were kids.” It took every ounce of self-control not to reach out and scoop up the faded photograph, cradle it gently in his hands.
“She doesn’t look like a kid in that picture.” Maria crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Bob bit his lip. “She and her dad ditched out on the crew when - when we were teenagers.”
Maria took a deep breath, dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, and Bob realized she was trying not to cry. Guilt wrenched in his chest.
“I’ve tried, Bobby, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t compete with a ghost.” She hiccuped, and Bob automatically moved forward to put his arms around her, but she shook her head and stepped back.
“Maria, I --” The words caught in his throat.
“Even now, you can’t say it.” Maria shook her head again, laughed, though the sound came out more like a sob. “Tell me one thing. Do you love her?”
“I’m sorry,” Bob said again.
Maria studied him for a long time. Then she nodded. “Right. I’ll come back for my things.” And she headed for the door.
Bob watched her walk away, sank against the door frame. Then he picked up the picture and smoothed it out with trembling fingers. After a moment, he slid the picture back into his wallet and closed the door. Then he sat down on his bed and cried.
(277 words)
Dead Before the Report
Grant Brenna was sitting behind his large desk when the lights flickered and went out. He was a naturally paranoid man and so he drew his gun without thinking. Brenna leaned slightly forward and pressed the button on the intercom to double check that the power was out.
He stood slowly and scanned the room, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness, the only light coming in from off the street ten floors below.
Fire cut a searing gouge in his leg before he even heard the sound of the shot or saw the flash of the muzzle. He yelled in pain as he dropped to the floor. The shot had come from the right side of the door, but he hadn't heard the door open or close.
"Who's there?" Brenna shouted into the darkness. The only answer was silence. Brenna grunted in pain as he tried to stand up, but only succeeded in falling over again. As he looked around the room he saw a shadow flit across the window. He Quickly aimed and pulled the trigger, the stillness of the room shattering with the shot.
A hollow laugh filled the room and made Brenna's blood run cold.
"Did you really think that you would not pay for what you have done?" a voice whispered out of the darkness somewhere to his right.
"And just what did I do?" Brenna asked, his voice quavering as he thought over all he had done.
Another chuckle echoed through the room, "I think the bigger question would be, what haven't you done."
"Well whatever you think that I did, I didn't do it. I'm a business man. Nothing more," Brenna said, trying to inject some force into his voice.
"Oh you did it alright," the voice said, this time it was closer, "I know everything about you. I have waited a long time for this."
"At least be a man and show yourself," Brenna said.
"A man huh?" the voice sounded amused, "well what if I'm not a man. What if I'm a monster? I am what I am thanks to you Brenna. And now you will die at the hands of your creation."
"Look I'm sure there is some way to work this out. Some way that I can make it up to you, what ever it was that I did."
"I don't think so Brenna. You are not going to get out of it just by apologizing. You killed her, and now, it is your turn." A gun cocked just next to Brenna's ear.
Brenna jumped a foot into the air and tried to scramble backwards, "look, I don't know who it was that was so special to you, but I'm sorry. I'll do anything."
"Sorry? Well I'm sorry, but your apology not only comes to late, it means nothing to me."
Brenna was dead before he could have even heard the report of the shot that took his life.
David stepped over the lifeless body and walked out of the room, his steps lighter for the first time in a long time.
He stood slowly and scanned the room, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness, the only light coming in from off the street ten floors below.
Fire cut a searing gouge in his leg before he even heard the sound of the shot or saw the flash of the muzzle. He yelled in pain as he dropped to the floor. The shot had come from the right side of the door, but he hadn't heard the door open or close.
"Who's there?" Brenna shouted into the darkness. The only answer was silence. Brenna grunted in pain as he tried to stand up, but only succeeded in falling over again. As he looked around the room he saw a shadow flit across the window. He Quickly aimed and pulled the trigger, the stillness of the room shattering with the shot.
A hollow laugh filled the room and made Brenna's blood run cold.
"Did you really think that you would not pay for what you have done?" a voice whispered out of the darkness somewhere to his right.
"And just what did I do?" Brenna asked, his voice quavering as he thought over all he had done.
Another chuckle echoed through the room, "I think the bigger question would be, what haven't you done."
"Well whatever you think that I did, I didn't do it. I'm a business man. Nothing more," Brenna said, trying to inject some force into his voice.
"Oh you did it alright," the voice said, this time it was closer, "I know everything about you. I have waited a long time for this."
"At least be a man and show yourself," Brenna said.
"A man huh?" the voice sounded amused, "well what if I'm not a man. What if I'm a monster? I am what I am thanks to you Brenna. And now you will die at the hands of your creation."
"Look I'm sure there is some way to work this out. Some way that I can make it up to you, what ever it was that I did."
"I don't think so Brenna. You are not going to get out of it just by apologizing. You killed her, and now, it is your turn." A gun cocked just next to Brenna's ear.
Brenna jumped a foot into the air and tried to scramble backwards, "look, I don't know who it was that was so special to you, but I'm sorry. I'll do anything."
"Sorry? Well I'm sorry, but your apology not only comes to late, it means nothing to me."
Brenna was dead before he could have even heard the report of the shot that took his life.
David stepped over the lifeless body and walked out of the room, his steps lighter for the first time in a long time.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Hope Is A Liar
Dear Sam,
I feel like all I’ve done in the past forty-eight hours is apologize.
Well, here’s another one to add to the list.
I know that the decision I’m making is probably the wrong one. It’s an immature thing to do and I’m only putting off even harder decisions.
I’m pretty sure you thought you knew what would happen. I guess I’m not as predictable as you thought I was. You thought that I was going to choose Layla, and things between us would never be the same. I don’t know if things between us can be the same, but only because I’m not certain just what it is I feel for you. I know that I care about you and that you are basically my best friend. I know that, without a doubt.
But that night, I kissed you because I felt something else. Something that I haven’t felt in a long time – need. You let everything go and told the truth, and that must have taken a lot of guts. Guts is something I am definitely lacking right now.
So, what am I trying to say? I’m leaving. I’m not sure where I’m going or when I’ll be back, but I promise I won’t be gone long. I hope it’s not too much to ask you to wait just a little longer. I’m asking Layla to do the same – hell, I’ve waited for her, I expect the same courtesy.
I’m sorry I’m leaving you like this. But please, don’t lose hope. I’m not.
See you soon,
Vince
The piece of paper shook in my hands as I read it. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night I apologized and his only response then was to kiss me. And now he’s left a mysterious letter on my doorstep and disappeared. I’m surprised Layla isn’t beating down my door wanting answers. If she was, I wouldn’t have any answers to give her. I’m just as lost in the dark as she is.
He wants me to wait. He wants me to hold on to some sort of hope. How can I? That’s all I’ve been doing for the past few years. I know what’s going to happen. I know he’s going to come back, apologize to me again, and then run back into Layla’s arms.
Unfortunately, hope is a hard thing to kill. And I’ll be here waiting for the final blow.
(404 words)
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