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Aug. 3rd, 2007 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsOh man, remind me that leaving things to the last minute is a bad thing next time I go away. I have a 1002 things to do and a day to do them. Doable I know, but still. Bad me! Which of course means I must meme.
I was tagged by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vaudevilles for the music meme.
List seven songs you are into right now. no matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying now, shaping your winter. Post these instructions in your LJ along with your 7 songs. I was tagged by vaudevilles, but am too lazy to tag in response - if you feel like it, consider yourself tagged!
Mika: Big Girl (You are beautiful) I like Mika a lot and think this song is really catchy. I do get a little weird listening sometimes though, the big girl you're beautiful. I always imagine people seeing and thinking, yeah right. But I still love the song.
Ladies Choice I could have easily uploaded all of the Hairspray soundtrack for this meme. Man, I adore this song. It makes me want to dance when I hear it.
You Can't Stop the Beat Ditto to the comment above. It's just an amazing feel good song. I'm burning the soundtrack today for the journey tomorrow. I'll be the one waving my arms when no one is looking *g*
Take That: ShineI was so thrilled when Take That reformed. This song is so happy! And the boys carry Mark over a piano in the video. A piano Glee!
The Fray: How to Save a LifeI was just talking about this song incastalie's journal. When Moffet died we were taking her to be cremated. Neither James or me wanted to listen to the radio and the mix cd we had in the player was mostly upbeat songs, apart from this. We must have listened to it over 30 times and when I hear it now I remember Moffet. In fact we call it Moffet's song now. One of the lines is Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend. It says it all.
MCR: Teenagers I listen to the Kerrang music channel at home, when this song comes on I always have to stop what I'm doing to watch.
FOB: thnks fr th mmrs this is the first song on the mix CD we're listening to in the car. It reminds me of drives with my boys.
Another meme Gakked from everyone on my flist: When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
From the cheerleader comment fic.
“Jesus, Justin. Did you find him at Dorks R Us?” Chris takes a bite of the candy bar that JC shoves into his hand, and watches as Lance walks into the gym. “He’s wearing plaid.
“He can wear a pink tutu and stockings as long as he can cheer,” Justin says jabbing Chris in the side with his elbow.
“I once wore…”
“Don’t.” Justin looks past Chris to JC. “I don’t care how visually effective it would be. I don’t want to know.”
“Chicken.”
Chris grins, his teeth coated with chocolate, and right now Justin hates them both. Contending himself with a scornful look, Justin stands, ready to meet the new member of his team. He has to admit, Lance isn’t what he expected. He’s skinny and kind of awkward looking, but when Justin jumps down onto the court Lance immediately walks forward.
“Justin.”
“Lance.” There’s an uncomfortable moment when Lance holds out his hand and Justin goes for the manly back pat greeting, but eventually they’re smiling at one another and Justin can sincerely say, “I’m glad you could come.”
“Me too.” Lance smiles, and waves a greeting at the others who’ve remained sprawled on the bleachers.
Reminded of his manners, Justin introduces them with a wave of his hand. “Joey, JC, Chris. They’re all freaks.”
“Guess I’ve come to the right place then.” Lance suddenly flips forward into a hand spring, landing with arms outstretched and a wide smile.
The next is something I was writing for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sparklydarkboys. I actually forgot all about it until I searched my WIP file.
As soon as he reads the story he knows things have gone too far. It’s impossible not to when the headlines scream Vicious Killer Strikes Again.
The stories are damning, word after word devoted to bloody remains and a city terrorised by a savage beast. A werewolf who slinks through the dark city streets, crazy with blood lust and attacking at will. No one is safe. Crazy. Insane. A monster. Protect yourself at all costs but never approach it. Never; for this were is a killer and will rip you apart.
Except it won’t, he won’t and JC knows that, the same as he knows the stories lie. Shadowing the truth with words carefully weighted to scare and inflame. The problem is how can the public know that? They can’t; and that knowledge is heavy in JC’s chest as he screws up the newspaper and throws it to the floor.
It doesn’t help. He can still remember every word and fear claws at his skin, digging in with a million tiny hooks as he jumps to his feet and grabs his coat. Things have gone too far, now he has to act before they can get any worse.
~*~*~*~
“JC,” Chris announces loudly, and for a moment everyone in the coffee shop looks up to see who’s come inside.
JC smiles briefly, weaving through the room with a quick conversation here and a slap of hands there, acknowledging the people that he sees everyday. Regulars who sit sipping huge coffees and picking at pastries as they work on laptops, read or talk in groups, their chatter mingling with the soft music that fills the air.
Chris is in his usual place, slouched on the sofa that dominates the corner of the room. Cross legged, his foot moves in time to the music as he drinks his coffee before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Hey, JC. Get me another will you?”
Chris looks up at him, expression innocent with a smile that threatens to break out at any moment and JC can’t help smiling in return. Then he remembers why he’s here and shakes his head.
“I need to talk to you first,” JC says and he pulls his wallet from his pocket. “Justin can get the drinks in.” JC throws his wallet toward Justin who’s sprawled across the rest of the sofa, feet resting on Chris’ lap where each foot wears a napkin made hat decorated with obscene pictures that scream Chris’ touch. “Get me a weak milky coffee, okay?”
This is part of Boxes prequal story. The one that freaked me out because damn, it'll be one depressing story.
Rain falls into Chris’ eyes as he walks; and he impatiently swipes his coat sleeve across his face, not that it does much good when his coat is soaked through too. He’s heading to the garage, where he hopes he can beg a ride with someone. It’s part of the plan, bus then hitch. Get as far away from the memories as possible.
It seemed like the perfect plan when he was stuffing clothes in his bag, Chris is resourceful, can talk and bullshit with the best of them, but that was then. Now all he feels is frightened, alone, and younger than he’s done for years. All he wants is to be with his family and he wipes at his eyes again, mixing hot tears with cold rain.
The garage is closer now, and he hurries, looking at the set up and wondering where the best place is to hitch. There’s a slip-road in front of him, and he looks to either side then runs across the road, heart thumping as a truck thunders past. For a moment Chris thinks about staying there, sticking out a thumb and hoping someone will stop and let him in. But he soon sees how unlikely that is. It’s far too dangerous, for the driver and him, so he keeps walking, deciding it’ll be easier to ask for a lift when things aren’t moving.
The problem is when he finally reaches the parking lot there’s no one around to ask. Chris heads between huge trucks that tower above him, looking up at cabs that are blurry against the rain. They make him feel extra small and he hurries toward open space, the only sound the steady beat of rain and the slap of his shoes against the wet ground. It’s better in the open, and he starts to run toward what looks like a small restaurant, then stops half way.
Chris is suddenly unsure, thoughts of being sent back home filling his mind, so he backs up then keeps going until he bumps against a truck. Kneeling he crawls underneath, shivering more as his knees and hands hit the ground then turns so he’s sitting against a huge tyre. It’s a dangerous place to be, he knows that, as well as being uncomfortable and cold, but at least he’s sheltered from the rain as he thinks about what to do. Chris is realising that his hastily made plan has huge flaws, and he bites at his nails as he tries to make decisions that make his head ache.
I found this in my WIP file, and yet I have no idea where the heck I was going with it. This is all I have and while it feels like something I'd write, I don't remember doing so. If it's someone elses and got in my file by accident, sorry!
You see him first at a concert, a tall man as out of place it’s possible to be. Standing against the barriers he’s a black spot amongst the glitter, a frozen figure surrounded by an ocean of swaying bodies as he watches the stage, never smiling or indicating he likes the show in any way.
You mention him at a costume change, panting and pulling at sweat soaked clothes, the time always ticking to get back onstage. You’re puzzled at they reply they haven’t seen him, because he’s there, has been from the first number. Except when you run back he’s not there at all.
~*~*~*~
“You must have seen him. He was right at the front on the left.” Chris said, and he turned to Justin who sat in the seat behind. “You were singing right in front of him, when that girl in the pink halter top grabbed your hand he was next to her. There’s no way you couldn’t have seen.”
“Except I didn’t because he wasn’t there.” Justin said, and he frowned, leaning forward. “Have you lost your contacts again, or need some stronger ones, because I can ask mom to find an optician.”
“My eyes are fine, and even if they weren’t things get fuzzy, I don’t see strange men standing watching us sing.” Chris poked Justin in the forehead, jabbing him on the crease of his brow. “So none of you saw a guy dressed in black in the front row?”
“Was he cute? Because man, conjuring up your own fans is a little desperate.” Joey’s voice was muffled, his body folded over as he rummaged in his bag on the floor but Chris could easily hear his amusement and frowned, ready to counteract Joey’s grin with a scowl. “He was watching you right? This imaginary man.”
“He was watching us all and I’m not desperate.” Chris gave Joey his best scowl and settled back in his seat. They were all blind or idiots or most probably both, unable to see what was obviously there.
“Chris.” JC said suddenly, and he looked from Chris to the window on his side of the bus and back again. “That guy, you said he was wearing black and was tall right? Slicked back hair and an earring. Because there’s someone that looks just like that outside.
“Where?” Chris slid out of his seat and across the aisle. Squashing into the space between the back of Lance’s seat and JC’s legs he looked out the window, surprised to see the same man standing on the sidewalk, watching as the bus slowed down at a red light . “That’s him.”
It feels good to be vindicated, to know he wasn’t going insane, but any celebration is cut off when the man smiles, catching Chris’ eye.
This is my prison AU that's so close to being finished I can taste it.
“That’s because I am, I didn’t sleep well.” JC yawns wide, rubbing his hand across his face. He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t have to. After months of living side by side they know one another well, talking their only entertainment. Sometimes JC thinks if it wasn’t for words he’d go insane, slip quietly into the storm of his own thoughts and drown under their weight. Instead he clings to the words, listening day after day to tales of Joey’s family and Lance’s rants about the justice system that failed them all. He knows all about Justin’s momma and how she’ll be waiting for him, campaigning for his release and sometimes he even talks himself. Stories that bore even him but he tells them anyway as the others sit and listen, pretending they haven’t heard them a thousand times before.
He stretches, quickly bring down his hands when his fingertips trail across the low ceiling, hating the physical reminders of how closed in they are. How the walls crowd in, endless expanses of dull metal that presses down on them, echoing the sound of footsteps and the constant buzz that seems etched into JC’s mind.
The guard on the door stares at them as they walk into the shower room but doesn’t speak; they never do. Not that he needs to; the gun held in one hand speaks for him as JC quickly strips, dropping his pants and shirt against the wall. Justin and Lance do the same, any embarrassment forced from them long ago as they step under the water that sprays from the over head pipes that criss-cross half the room.
The only sound is the splash of water hitting the floor, dripping from the bodies of the men that crowd together and wash in quick efficient movements, aware at all time of those waiting. No one speaks or looks at one another; because that’s what they do, an unspoken rule creating a veil of privacy in the most basic way.
JC tips back his head, letting the water soak his hair and run down his back. As usual it’s bordering on cold but he revels in it anyway, the grime and sweat of the last two days washing down the drains at his feet as he rubs at his skin, washing as best he can without soap. As soon as he’s clean he reluctantly steps out of the water as the next person takes his place. Then takes a towel from the pile, quickly drying himself and redressing in the clothes he’d thrown to the floor minutes before.
As he pulls on the shirt JC remembers when he wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean. When the thought of dirt against his skin made him cringe, unlike now, when the dirt is simply there. All he can do is remember that person, holding onto the memories any way he can, but always knowing that they’re slowly slipping away. Chipping away day by day until the person he used to be is no more.
“JC, are you ready?”
JC looks up then, nodding at Justin who’s waiting to leave. His hair is a mass of damp curls that drip water down his back and JC knows when it finally dries it’ll surround his head like a halo making Justin bitch as he forces his fingers through the snarls.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” JC says, and he gives his own hair a last squeeze before following Lance and Justin out of the door. The walk to the kitchen is silent and JC can’t help looking down and listening to the sound of their feet, matching the damp footsteps against the beat they create, a kind of crude music scrawled on the floor.
And what I'm working on right now. Boxes 2
“Is something wrong?” Chris stares down at Lance then sits so he’s sitting by his side, their knees just touching.
“Things are fine,” Lance protests, voice muffled from inside his hands. “I mean it, Chris. They’re fine.” He looks up, dropping his clasped hands to his lap. “I love Justin and I know he loves me, and we’re fine. It’s just….” He hesitates then, silence stretching. “He’s different I guess. Not always, mostly he’s the Justin that I’ve always known. Confident, cocky, so damn talented it should make me sick if it wasn’t him. But sometimes the things he’s trying to hide bleed through. He’s got so much trapped inside, I’m afraid for him when it all comes out.”
“Is he talking to anyone?”
“It depends what you mean talk. He’s been seeing a shrink for months now. Goes after school once a week. He says they talk, but what do I know?”
“Are you okay?” Chris takes the time to study Lance, noting the changes after months away. He’s bulkier, clean and tidy, glowing with health, but there’s something not right. A sadness that wasn’t there before.
“We’re not talking about me.” Lance looks up then, meeting Chris’ gaze.
“Humour me, okay?”
“I have my own place, a job, which sure is crappy but it pays at least. My family’s safe and I know they love me. I have Justin, and things are good. Like, really good.”
“But,” Chris prompts, when it looks like Lance isn’t going to say more.
“But. I guess I didn’t think it would be so hard.” Lance looks away, looking at the shelter and memories that Chris can’t see. “It was supposed to be easy. I was out, I was safe. I had someone I loved and a house of my own. It’s what I dreamed of you know? Well, maybe not the ice cream selling part, but everything else. I’ve got everything I wanted, and all I can do is fixate on the fact it can be taken away. I wake up in the morning, and for a moment everything feels great. I’m warm, Justin’s cuddled close. Then I think about stupid stuff. Missing the rent, Justin getting into trouble at school, little things that’ll add up until we’re back to where we were before, and it’s not like I can tell Justin. He’s got his own problems, so I put on my uniform and smile at the customers, then go home and smile at J.” Lance hesitates, his mouth twisting into a smile. “I’m good at smiling.”
“Don’t.” Chris reaches out and rests his fingers against Lance cheek. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”
“I don’t know if I can stop,” Lance says softly, but the fake smile eases into something softer, a slight curve of his lips as he briefly rests his hands against Chris’. “We’d better finish cleaning up, they’ll be here soon.”
This is a Mutant X story, one that's got quite a lot done but will never be finished.
Abruptly ending the transmission, Adam allowed himself a moment, frantically gathering his thoughts. The news that he’d been given hadn’t been unexpected, just arriving sooner than he’d thought. Preparations had been in place for just this situation for years, preparations that would begin as soon as he imputed a series of codes into the main computer. After that, ‘Operation Ghost’ would begin in earnest.
Aware of passing time, Adam brought up the programme he needed, entering the strings of numbers, names and letters that he’d hoped would never be needed -- a hope that had been destroyed thirty minutes before. Now, as the last number was accepted and locked he pressed the button that would change everything. Operation Ghost was operational, and he had sixty minutes to find his team, gather essentials and vacate Sanctuary. After that time, the whole place would be destroyed by a devastating explosion that would annihilate any evidence of them ever being there.
It was the hardest thing that Adam had ever done. Telling his team would be the next.
The next lot are The Sentinel stories. Chances of being finished? Not good. Which is bad as both have a lot written. The first is story three in 'The End' series.
Tension was thick in the air as the group moved on. After a quick meeting it had been decided to keep moving north, and they’d set off as Jim took his usual driving seat and Daryl squeezed into the boot, his long legs tangled with Jamie’s. Abigail sprawled across both of them.
Squashed in the backseat, Blair shifted, moving his leg slightly where it rested across the laps of Samuel and Jill. He was hot, dirty and emotionally numb. Simon’s death not really real yet. It was callous but to Blair, Simon was only one of a multitude, one more death to add to the growing list. Emma, Simon, his students and friends. They all blended together, but for now it was the only way that Blair could cope. He’d grieve for Simon later, the crash from numbness to all too painful grief hard. But not yet, not when Daryl veered from rage to despair, and Jim looked carved in stone.
It was almost overwhelming, knowing that somehow he’d have to break through the barrier that Jim had created. Blair was no fool; he knew that of them all he was the only one that had a chance of getting close. But the thought of the energy that he’d have to use was almost too much. Blair was running on his last reserves, he felt brittle, like one touch would shatter his body into tiny shards. His eyes were hot, skin tight and dry, he felt light headed and his vision swam a little as he watched the ruined buildings flash by. Blair felt unclean, tainted by the horror he was forced to live in. He could feel his hair matted to his neck, dirty and slick with sweat and grease. He felt disgusting, looked worse and would have sold his soul for a shower. That wasn’t an option. He knew that, just as he knew that he’d have to talk to Jim soon, before the ill feeling that clung to the group solidified into something that would destroy them. Simon’s death had been a tragedy, but it would be a disaster if it caused the fragile group of survivors to splinter. Blair wasn’t going to let that happen -- not now. But first he’d sleep a little, rest his aching head on Samuel’s shoulder and try to shore up his shifting energy reserves. The talk would have to wait -- for now anyway.
And this one is a TA case file that's so close to being done. Will it get done? I'd say no.
If looking like a crap was a college course Blair Sandburg would have gained an A that day.
Sitting at his desk, he was the representation of the phrase "Soldiering on" in the flesh. Hair normally neatly tied back while working escaped from a leather tie in all directions, more down than up. Wire rimmed glasses perched precariously at the end of a reddened nose, while eyes shimmered with that unique mixture of drugs and exhaustion. The mouth that usually cracked a million smiles held no hint of happiness. Instead, the end of a pen was being chewed into submission as yet another essay was read, marked, then put aside.
The aside in this instance was a nearby chair. No way could another paper find a place on the over flowing desk. Used tissues lay on top of books, empty coffee cups marked the boundary of the desk edge while small items such a paracetamol packets and pens lay under huge drifts of paper. To the untrained eye it was chaos, but to Blair it was normal, he knew where things were, eventually.
In the last hour he'd marked twenty-seven essays, sneezed fifty times (he knew, he counted them all) used half a box of man sized tissues and cursed his partner exactly sixty times. He knew that as well, it was part of his rhythm. Pick up an essay, curse his partner, read, curse his partner, mark said essay, curse his partner. It was an easy rhythm and one that he took great delight in creating. The curses had started relatively tame but as the hour wore on he found that he was cursing Jim after every movement.
Grab an essay.
"Bastard."
Blearily focus bloodshot eyes on paper and read what counted as wisdom from his freshman class.
"Fuckin idiot."
Scrawl some illegible comment. Hell, they hadn't bothered to be legible, why should he?
"Unreasonable, unloosening, anal retentive cop."
Place marked essay on pile.
"Brain dead throwback."
"That's Detective Throwback to you, Chief."
Man, I write a lot of AUs. I really need to write more canon based stuff.
I was tagged by
vaudevilles for the music meme.List seven songs you are into right now. no matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying now, shaping your winter. Post these instructions in your LJ along with your 7 songs. I was tagged by vaudevilles, but am too lazy to tag in response - if you feel like it, consider yourself tagged!
Mika: Big Girl (You are beautiful) I like Mika a lot and think this song is really catchy. I do get a little weird listening sometimes though, the big girl you're beautiful. I always imagine people seeing and thinking, yeah right. But I still love the song.
Ladies Choice I could have easily uploaded all of the Hairspray soundtrack for this meme. Man, I adore this song. It makes me want to dance when I hear it.
You Can't Stop the Beat Ditto to the comment above. It's just an amazing feel good song. I'm burning the soundtrack today for the journey tomorrow. I'll be the one waving my arms when no one is looking *g*
Take That: ShineI was so thrilled when Take That reformed. This song is so happy! And the boys carry Mark over a piano in the video. A piano Glee!
The Fray: How to Save a LifeI was just talking about this song in
castalie's journal. When Moffet died we were taking her to be cremated. Neither James or me wanted to listen to the radio and the mix cd we had in the player was mostly upbeat songs, apart from this. We must have listened to it over 30 times and when I hear it now I remember Moffet. In fact we call it Moffet's song now. One of the lines is Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend. It says it all.MCR: Teenagers I listen to the Kerrang music channel at home, when this song comes on I always have to stop what I'm doing to watch.
FOB: thnks fr th mmrs this is the first song on the mix CD we're listening to in the car. It reminds me of drives with my boys.
Another meme Gakked from everyone on my flist: When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
From the cheerleader comment fic.
“Jesus, Justin. Did you find him at Dorks R Us?” Chris takes a bite of the candy bar that JC shoves into his hand, and watches as Lance walks into the gym. “He’s wearing plaid.
“He can wear a pink tutu and stockings as long as he can cheer,” Justin says jabbing Chris in the side with his elbow.
“I once wore…”
“Don’t.” Justin looks past Chris to JC. “I don’t care how visually effective it would be. I don’t want to know.”
“Chicken.”
Chris grins, his teeth coated with chocolate, and right now Justin hates them both. Contending himself with a scornful look, Justin stands, ready to meet the new member of his team. He has to admit, Lance isn’t what he expected. He’s skinny and kind of awkward looking, but when Justin jumps down onto the court Lance immediately walks forward.
“Justin.”
“Lance.” There’s an uncomfortable moment when Lance holds out his hand and Justin goes for the manly back pat greeting, but eventually they’re smiling at one another and Justin can sincerely say, “I’m glad you could come.”
“Me too.” Lance smiles, and waves a greeting at the others who’ve remained sprawled on the bleachers.
Reminded of his manners, Justin introduces them with a wave of his hand. “Joey, JC, Chris. They’re all freaks.”
“Guess I’ve come to the right place then.” Lance suddenly flips forward into a hand spring, landing with arms outstretched and a wide smile.
The next is something I was writing for
sparklydarkboys. I actually forgot all about it until I searched my WIP file.As soon as he reads the story he knows things have gone too far. It’s impossible not to when the headlines scream Vicious Killer Strikes Again.
The stories are damning, word after word devoted to bloody remains and a city terrorised by a savage beast. A werewolf who slinks through the dark city streets, crazy with blood lust and attacking at will. No one is safe. Crazy. Insane. A monster. Protect yourself at all costs but never approach it. Never; for this were is a killer and will rip you apart.
Except it won’t, he won’t and JC knows that, the same as he knows the stories lie. Shadowing the truth with words carefully weighted to scare and inflame. The problem is how can the public know that? They can’t; and that knowledge is heavy in JC’s chest as he screws up the newspaper and throws it to the floor.
It doesn’t help. He can still remember every word and fear claws at his skin, digging in with a million tiny hooks as he jumps to his feet and grabs his coat. Things have gone too far, now he has to act before they can get any worse.
~*~*~*~
“JC,” Chris announces loudly, and for a moment everyone in the coffee shop looks up to see who’s come inside.
JC smiles briefly, weaving through the room with a quick conversation here and a slap of hands there, acknowledging the people that he sees everyday. Regulars who sit sipping huge coffees and picking at pastries as they work on laptops, read or talk in groups, their chatter mingling with the soft music that fills the air.
Chris is in his usual place, slouched on the sofa that dominates the corner of the room. Cross legged, his foot moves in time to the music as he drinks his coffee before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Hey, JC. Get me another will you?”
Chris looks up at him, expression innocent with a smile that threatens to break out at any moment and JC can’t help smiling in return. Then he remembers why he’s here and shakes his head.
“I need to talk to you first,” JC says and he pulls his wallet from his pocket. “Justin can get the drinks in.” JC throws his wallet toward Justin who’s sprawled across the rest of the sofa, feet resting on Chris’ lap where each foot wears a napkin made hat decorated with obscene pictures that scream Chris’ touch. “Get me a weak milky coffee, okay?”
This is part of Boxes prequal story. The one that freaked me out because damn, it'll be one depressing story.
Rain falls into Chris’ eyes as he walks; and he impatiently swipes his coat sleeve across his face, not that it does much good when his coat is soaked through too. He’s heading to the garage, where he hopes he can beg a ride with someone. It’s part of the plan, bus then hitch. Get as far away from the memories as possible.
It seemed like the perfect plan when he was stuffing clothes in his bag, Chris is resourceful, can talk and bullshit with the best of them, but that was then. Now all he feels is frightened, alone, and younger than he’s done for years. All he wants is to be with his family and he wipes at his eyes again, mixing hot tears with cold rain.
The garage is closer now, and he hurries, looking at the set up and wondering where the best place is to hitch. There’s a slip-road in front of him, and he looks to either side then runs across the road, heart thumping as a truck thunders past. For a moment Chris thinks about staying there, sticking out a thumb and hoping someone will stop and let him in. But he soon sees how unlikely that is. It’s far too dangerous, for the driver and him, so he keeps walking, deciding it’ll be easier to ask for a lift when things aren’t moving.
The problem is when he finally reaches the parking lot there’s no one around to ask. Chris heads between huge trucks that tower above him, looking up at cabs that are blurry against the rain. They make him feel extra small and he hurries toward open space, the only sound the steady beat of rain and the slap of his shoes against the wet ground. It’s better in the open, and he starts to run toward what looks like a small restaurant, then stops half way.
Chris is suddenly unsure, thoughts of being sent back home filling his mind, so he backs up then keeps going until he bumps against a truck. Kneeling he crawls underneath, shivering more as his knees and hands hit the ground then turns so he’s sitting against a huge tyre. It’s a dangerous place to be, he knows that, as well as being uncomfortable and cold, but at least he’s sheltered from the rain as he thinks about what to do. Chris is realising that his hastily made plan has huge flaws, and he bites at his nails as he tries to make decisions that make his head ache.
I found this in my WIP file, and yet I have no idea where the heck I was going with it. This is all I have and while it feels like something I'd write, I don't remember doing so. If it's someone elses and got in my file by accident, sorry!
You see him first at a concert, a tall man as out of place it’s possible to be. Standing against the barriers he’s a black spot amongst the glitter, a frozen figure surrounded by an ocean of swaying bodies as he watches the stage, never smiling or indicating he likes the show in any way.
You mention him at a costume change, panting and pulling at sweat soaked clothes, the time always ticking to get back onstage. You’re puzzled at they reply they haven’t seen him, because he’s there, has been from the first number. Except when you run back he’s not there at all.
~*~*~*~
“You must have seen him. He was right at the front on the left.” Chris said, and he turned to Justin who sat in the seat behind. “You were singing right in front of him, when that girl in the pink halter top grabbed your hand he was next to her. There’s no way you couldn’t have seen.”
“Except I didn’t because he wasn’t there.” Justin said, and he frowned, leaning forward. “Have you lost your contacts again, or need some stronger ones, because I can ask mom to find an optician.”
“My eyes are fine, and even if they weren’t things get fuzzy, I don’t see strange men standing watching us sing.” Chris poked Justin in the forehead, jabbing him on the crease of his brow. “So none of you saw a guy dressed in black in the front row?”
“Was he cute? Because man, conjuring up your own fans is a little desperate.” Joey’s voice was muffled, his body folded over as he rummaged in his bag on the floor but Chris could easily hear his amusement and frowned, ready to counteract Joey’s grin with a scowl. “He was watching you right? This imaginary man.”
“He was watching us all and I’m not desperate.” Chris gave Joey his best scowl and settled back in his seat. They were all blind or idiots or most probably both, unable to see what was obviously there.
“Chris.” JC said suddenly, and he looked from Chris to the window on his side of the bus and back again. “That guy, you said he was wearing black and was tall right? Slicked back hair and an earring. Because there’s someone that looks just like that outside.
“Where?” Chris slid out of his seat and across the aisle. Squashing into the space between the back of Lance’s seat and JC’s legs he looked out the window, surprised to see the same man standing on the sidewalk, watching as the bus slowed down at a red light . “That’s him.”
It feels good to be vindicated, to know he wasn’t going insane, but any celebration is cut off when the man smiles, catching Chris’ eye.
This is my prison AU that's so close to being finished I can taste it.
“That’s because I am, I didn’t sleep well.” JC yawns wide, rubbing his hand across his face. He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t have to. After months of living side by side they know one another well, talking their only entertainment. Sometimes JC thinks if it wasn’t for words he’d go insane, slip quietly into the storm of his own thoughts and drown under their weight. Instead he clings to the words, listening day after day to tales of Joey’s family and Lance’s rants about the justice system that failed them all. He knows all about Justin’s momma and how she’ll be waiting for him, campaigning for his release and sometimes he even talks himself. Stories that bore even him but he tells them anyway as the others sit and listen, pretending they haven’t heard them a thousand times before.
He stretches, quickly bring down his hands when his fingertips trail across the low ceiling, hating the physical reminders of how closed in they are. How the walls crowd in, endless expanses of dull metal that presses down on them, echoing the sound of footsteps and the constant buzz that seems etched into JC’s mind.
The guard on the door stares at them as they walk into the shower room but doesn’t speak; they never do. Not that he needs to; the gun held in one hand speaks for him as JC quickly strips, dropping his pants and shirt against the wall. Justin and Lance do the same, any embarrassment forced from them long ago as they step under the water that sprays from the over head pipes that criss-cross half the room.
The only sound is the splash of water hitting the floor, dripping from the bodies of the men that crowd together and wash in quick efficient movements, aware at all time of those waiting. No one speaks or looks at one another; because that’s what they do, an unspoken rule creating a veil of privacy in the most basic way.
JC tips back his head, letting the water soak his hair and run down his back. As usual it’s bordering on cold but he revels in it anyway, the grime and sweat of the last two days washing down the drains at his feet as he rubs at his skin, washing as best he can without soap. As soon as he’s clean he reluctantly steps out of the water as the next person takes his place. Then takes a towel from the pile, quickly drying himself and redressing in the clothes he’d thrown to the floor minutes before.
As he pulls on the shirt JC remembers when he wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean. When the thought of dirt against his skin made him cringe, unlike now, when the dirt is simply there. All he can do is remember that person, holding onto the memories any way he can, but always knowing that they’re slowly slipping away. Chipping away day by day until the person he used to be is no more.
“JC, are you ready?”
JC looks up then, nodding at Justin who’s waiting to leave. His hair is a mass of damp curls that drip water down his back and JC knows when it finally dries it’ll surround his head like a halo making Justin bitch as he forces his fingers through the snarls.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” JC says, and he gives his own hair a last squeeze before following Lance and Justin out of the door. The walk to the kitchen is silent and JC can’t help looking down and listening to the sound of their feet, matching the damp footsteps against the beat they create, a kind of crude music scrawled on the floor.
And what I'm working on right now. Boxes 2
“Is something wrong?” Chris stares down at Lance then sits so he’s sitting by his side, their knees just touching.
“Things are fine,” Lance protests, voice muffled from inside his hands. “I mean it, Chris. They’re fine.” He looks up, dropping his clasped hands to his lap. “I love Justin and I know he loves me, and we’re fine. It’s just….” He hesitates then, silence stretching. “He’s different I guess. Not always, mostly he’s the Justin that I’ve always known. Confident, cocky, so damn talented it should make me sick if it wasn’t him. But sometimes the things he’s trying to hide bleed through. He’s got so much trapped inside, I’m afraid for him when it all comes out.”
“Is he talking to anyone?”
“It depends what you mean talk. He’s been seeing a shrink for months now. Goes after school once a week. He says they talk, but what do I know?”
“Are you okay?” Chris takes the time to study Lance, noting the changes after months away. He’s bulkier, clean and tidy, glowing with health, but there’s something not right. A sadness that wasn’t there before.
“We’re not talking about me.” Lance looks up then, meeting Chris’ gaze.
“Humour me, okay?”
“I have my own place, a job, which sure is crappy but it pays at least. My family’s safe and I know they love me. I have Justin, and things are good. Like, really good.”
“But,” Chris prompts, when it looks like Lance isn’t going to say more.
“But. I guess I didn’t think it would be so hard.” Lance looks away, looking at the shelter and memories that Chris can’t see. “It was supposed to be easy. I was out, I was safe. I had someone I loved and a house of my own. It’s what I dreamed of you know? Well, maybe not the ice cream selling part, but everything else. I’ve got everything I wanted, and all I can do is fixate on the fact it can be taken away. I wake up in the morning, and for a moment everything feels great. I’m warm, Justin’s cuddled close. Then I think about stupid stuff. Missing the rent, Justin getting into trouble at school, little things that’ll add up until we’re back to where we were before, and it’s not like I can tell Justin. He’s got his own problems, so I put on my uniform and smile at the customers, then go home and smile at J.” Lance hesitates, his mouth twisting into a smile. “I’m good at smiling.”
“Don’t.” Chris reaches out and rests his fingers against Lance cheek. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”
“I don’t know if I can stop,” Lance says softly, but the fake smile eases into something softer, a slight curve of his lips as he briefly rests his hands against Chris’. “We’d better finish cleaning up, they’ll be here soon.”
This is a Mutant X story, one that's got quite a lot done but will never be finished.
Abruptly ending the transmission, Adam allowed himself a moment, frantically gathering his thoughts. The news that he’d been given hadn’t been unexpected, just arriving sooner than he’d thought. Preparations had been in place for just this situation for years, preparations that would begin as soon as he imputed a series of codes into the main computer. After that, ‘Operation Ghost’ would begin in earnest.
Aware of passing time, Adam brought up the programme he needed, entering the strings of numbers, names and letters that he’d hoped would never be needed -- a hope that had been destroyed thirty minutes before. Now, as the last number was accepted and locked he pressed the button that would change everything. Operation Ghost was operational, and he had sixty minutes to find his team, gather essentials and vacate Sanctuary. After that time, the whole place would be destroyed by a devastating explosion that would annihilate any evidence of them ever being there.
It was the hardest thing that Adam had ever done. Telling his team would be the next.
The next lot are The Sentinel stories. Chances of being finished? Not good. Which is bad as both have a lot written. The first is story three in 'The End' series.
Tension was thick in the air as the group moved on. After a quick meeting it had been decided to keep moving north, and they’d set off as Jim took his usual driving seat and Daryl squeezed into the boot, his long legs tangled with Jamie’s. Abigail sprawled across both of them.
Squashed in the backseat, Blair shifted, moving his leg slightly where it rested across the laps of Samuel and Jill. He was hot, dirty and emotionally numb. Simon’s death not really real yet. It was callous but to Blair, Simon was only one of a multitude, one more death to add to the growing list. Emma, Simon, his students and friends. They all blended together, but for now it was the only way that Blair could cope. He’d grieve for Simon later, the crash from numbness to all too painful grief hard. But not yet, not when Daryl veered from rage to despair, and Jim looked carved in stone.
It was almost overwhelming, knowing that somehow he’d have to break through the barrier that Jim had created. Blair was no fool; he knew that of them all he was the only one that had a chance of getting close. But the thought of the energy that he’d have to use was almost too much. Blair was running on his last reserves, he felt brittle, like one touch would shatter his body into tiny shards. His eyes were hot, skin tight and dry, he felt light headed and his vision swam a little as he watched the ruined buildings flash by. Blair felt unclean, tainted by the horror he was forced to live in. He could feel his hair matted to his neck, dirty and slick with sweat and grease. He felt disgusting, looked worse and would have sold his soul for a shower. That wasn’t an option. He knew that, just as he knew that he’d have to talk to Jim soon, before the ill feeling that clung to the group solidified into something that would destroy them. Simon’s death had been a tragedy, but it would be a disaster if it caused the fragile group of survivors to splinter. Blair wasn’t going to let that happen -- not now. But first he’d sleep a little, rest his aching head on Samuel’s shoulder and try to shore up his shifting energy reserves. The talk would have to wait -- for now anyway.
And this one is a TA case file that's so close to being done. Will it get done? I'd say no.
If looking like a crap was a college course Blair Sandburg would have gained an A that day.
Sitting at his desk, he was the representation of the phrase "Soldiering on" in the flesh. Hair normally neatly tied back while working escaped from a leather tie in all directions, more down than up. Wire rimmed glasses perched precariously at the end of a reddened nose, while eyes shimmered with that unique mixture of drugs and exhaustion. The mouth that usually cracked a million smiles held no hint of happiness. Instead, the end of a pen was being chewed into submission as yet another essay was read, marked, then put aside.
The aside in this instance was a nearby chair. No way could another paper find a place on the over flowing desk. Used tissues lay on top of books, empty coffee cups marked the boundary of the desk edge while small items such a paracetamol packets and pens lay under huge drifts of paper. To the untrained eye it was chaos, but to Blair it was normal, he knew where things were, eventually.
In the last hour he'd marked twenty-seven essays, sneezed fifty times (he knew, he counted them all) used half a box of man sized tissues and cursed his partner exactly sixty times. He knew that as well, it was part of his rhythm. Pick up an essay, curse his partner, read, curse his partner, mark said essay, curse his partner. It was an easy rhythm and one that he took great delight in creating. The curses had started relatively tame but as the hour wore on he found that he was cursing Jim after every movement.
Grab an essay.
"Bastard."
Blearily focus bloodshot eyes on paper and read what counted as wisdom from his freshman class.
"Fuckin idiot."
Scrawl some illegible comment. Hell, they hadn't bothered to be legible, why should he?
"Unreasonable, unloosening, anal retentive cop."
Place marked essay on pile.
"Brain dead throwback."
"That's Detective Throwback to you, Chief."
Man, I write a lot of AUs. I really need to write more canon based stuff.
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:23 am (UTC)And the Boxes sequel is gonna be gorgeous on the basis of this.
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:28 am (UTC)I'm so relieved that Boxes 2 is working again. It was stalled for so long, and now I'm in that Boxes mood again. It'll need a heck of a lot of editing when I'm done, but I think it'll be good.
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:33 am (UTC)And my editing mojo is at your command. Now if only my writing mojo would come back and I could figure out the #*&!@#!!! dialogue for All That Stuff's A Sideshow.
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:38 am (UTC)Support Boybands! Because now they need us more than ever. *g*
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 10:51 am (UTC)*sends you good writing vibes* Because that story is one of awesomeness!
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Date: 2007-08-03 10:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 11:04 am (UTC)http://www.sendspace.com/file/lt017q
It's a zip so I hope that's okay.
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Date: 2007-08-03 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 03:37 pm (UTC)truly fabulousnon-murderous and possibly decent time! And wheeee... BOXES! Mwah!no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 09:59 pm (UTC)It's a story that I love myself. Just need to get it done now *g*
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Date: 2007-08-04 02:30 am (UTC)Boxes is definitely on my to read list. I always see people raving about it. I was actually just reading some of your fic earlier today!
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Date: 2007-08-04 06:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-27 11:45 am (UTC)