fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
I'm not even sure anyone reads this anymore, but...

Spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier!

Invocation )
fuzzybluemonkeys: winged fuzzy blue monkey (silly)
So, the Missoula Public Library has a writing contest with cash prizes that I would like to attempt to enter, but I need to get back into the writing swing of things, so prepare yourself for random writings between now and Feb. 22nd. Or don't prepare yourself, since random is how I roll.

I’m not sure where to start. The beginning would be obvious; the end less so. The middle gets us fancy in media res points but might be confusing. It’s all so confusing. That’s the problem. How did I get from there to here? First things first: I was a spider, of sorts. Second things second: I’m not one anymore. I’m not used to being part of the story. I weave (wove) the threads. Fate and destiny are all well and good, but if the threads tangle, if the stitch slips… this isn’t the sort of weaving where you can pick apart your mistakes and start over. What’s done cannot be undone by man or nature fair. Certainly not by me. What’s done cannot be undone, so take heed, take care. It was a knot that got me into trouble. They pop up from time to time to time to time (time doesn’t mean much after the first millennium), and I weave them in, make them part of the design. The tapestry of the universe isn’t meant for perfection. Life is not pretty, not in the human sense. There is no artfully picked color scheme, no beautifully depicted pattern. Life is messy: snarls and holes and broken threads all over the place. But at the end of the day (week, month, year, decade, century), it all winds up fitting together. Not in a pretty way, but in a practical way. The way that only the past can be pieced together to form a whole. The future is an entirely different matter. I never thought about mine. Never really had a future, beyond the weavings. That was my past and present, why not my future, as well? What else was (is) there? I suppose you could say I’ve served my time (there goes that meaningless word again). My sentence is complete, and I am out on parole. The problem is that I don’t remember what I was before I was a Weaver. I have woven. I am weaving. I will weave. I don’t remember choices. The threads make choices, not I, not I. The threads entangle and drift apart, the threads opt to be alone on solitary islands. The thread, the thread, when yours runs out, you’re dead. I am a thread now. Not a spider dancing on top of gossamer lives. I am being danced upon by another spider, the next, new Weaver. My replacement tucks me into the tapestry, and waits to see what I will do next.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Evil Hand (zombies)
So, I'm coming up with prompts to leave at [community profile] spn_bitesized's current theme of Death, and I'm about to put "Death dances" as a prompt when this happens:

Death dances, Death sings,
"Mortals kill all the things
that they hold dear
as they clutch them in fear
of the unknown that awaits
at the gates
of their inevitable fates.
For all mortals must die
and that's when I,
Oh I,
an eternal sleep I bring them
with the lullaby I sing them."
Death Sings, Death Dances
for all of the chances,
for the hours and minutes and days
that might have been spent in other ways.
Death dances to the beat
of endless defeat
for no one can escape,
not the highest power now the lowliest ape.
Every microbe and cell
one day ceases to dwell
on this Earth that we know
we are part of Death's show.
Death dances with us.

---

And then I didn't entirely like that, so I grabbed the last line and started over:

Death dances with us
Though we do not know the steps
[Death Knows]
So we balance our toes on his shoes
As he shuffles about
We cling to his waist
As he turns and bows
To each of us
We know the Dance is done
But there are always others
Death dances with them.

---

More modifications:

Death dances with us
Though we don't know the steps
[Death Knows]
So we balance our toes on the tops of his shoes
As he shuffles about
We cling to his waist
Till he pries off our embrace
And we are forced to return to solid ground
[Lost and now Found]
The Dance is over.

---

And I'm still not happy with it, so I think I'll leave the prompt after all and see what someone else comes up with (if anyone responds, anyway).
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (breakfast)
So there.

Also, I read some Halloween fics where Danny dresses up as Steve, but what I really want is Chin and Kono dressing up as Steve and Danny, respectively, and doing like, a dead on imitation of them, and then Steve and Danny being all, "Come on, we're not that bad!" and Chin and Kono being all, "No, you are so much worse."

FanPoetry?

Oct. 10th, 2010 01:37 pm
fuzzybluemonkeys: (highway)
PoFic?
Whatever it is called, I seem to write it (especially when responding to [community profile] spn_bitesized prompts).

Theme: Angels & Demons
Prompt: "Ruby prefers blondes. But she can make an exception." from [personal profile] morebutterflys
Title: Exception

Ruby's original meat-suit was blonde.
Way back when.
Before hell.
(And she got up off that Rack the first time they offered.)
But blonde is a bit too on the nose for Sam Winchester.
A bit too burned up on the ceiling.
Twice now.
So she goes dark.
And dead.
(In some ways it's almost better: no screaming, raging, crying, sobbing, "Let me out!")
(In some ways it's almost boring: no screaming, raging, crying, sobbing, "Let me out!")
Why be sentimental about an old meat-suit anyway?


Theme: Poetry (<-- I've got an excuse for this one)
Prompt: "any, 'It is a heart, this holocaust I walk in.
O Golden child, the world will kill and eat you'
-Mary's Song by Sylvia Plath" from [personal profile] later_tuesday
Title: Mary's Song

Golden hair meets golden flames
To lick and curl and turn to ash

Raised to kill by childish names
Hurled by fate into the clash

Made a choice she thought was free
Left behind the family trade

But the intervention of angels and destiny
Unmake the choices she might have made.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
Originally posted anonymously at the castlekink meme.

Prompt: Esposito/Ryan, domestic bliss )
fuzzybluemonkeys: (angry mutant squirrels)
and Cinderella was going to lose her foot instead of her shoe. But the dialogue was all "Uuuuungh" and "Aaaaaagh" and that got old fast.

As is, I'm inclined to blame Shoshana for this.

Ashes, a post-apocalyptic retelling of Cinderella )
fuzzybluemonkeys: (angry mutant squirrels)
Cuz I'm doing it anyway. The theme at [community profile] spn_bitesized is B-Movies, so I've been posting a lot of prompts (because I'm me). And then I wrote this in response to "Winchesters vs. Mad Cows":

moo. )
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (truth)
I'm seriously considering posting it to a Castle fanfic community anyway, in the hopes that someone will read it and think, "I can write better Esposito/Ryan than that," and then go ahead and do so because I need more Esposito/Ryan fic, dammit. *grumbles about small fandoms*

Title: That Way
Fandom: Castle
Pairing: Esposito/Ryan
Summary: Starts out angsty, an attempt at humor in the middle, then sappiness abounds.

That Way )
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (pretty)
The good news is that it's short, and half of the words aren't mine.


L is for the way you look at me,
G solemnly holds out his hand, "May I have this dance?"
O is for the only one I see,
Sam starts to laugh but catches the look on G's face and stops. "Seriously?"
V is very, very extraordinary,
"Seriously."
E is even more than anyone that you adore can,
Sam frowns as he places his larger hand in G's smaller one, "There's no music."
Love is all that I can give to you,
G grins in delight at Sam's crinkly-nosed confusion, "Who needs music?"
Love is more than just a game for two,
There's a moment of fumbling over who's going to lead before G acquiesces to Sam's growled, "I am so not the girl in this relationship."
Two in love can make it,
They sway to imaginary music.
Take my heart but please don't break it,
Sam finds himself wondering aloud, "Who are we supposed to be?"
Love was made for me and you.
"Right now? Just us."
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (gate)
[personal profile] gigglingkat and I had the following prompt conversation:
Kat: "Want a prompt to eat your brain too?"
Me: "Sure. Though to be honest, I might warp the prompt to go with an idea I've already had."
Kat: "oooo... OK then - your prompt is to make a TV Show out of the idea you have. GO!"

And away we go... )
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (snark)
From January, 2003. I don't remember why I wrote it, but it amuses me, so now it can amuse you too! Or, you know, bore you to death. Whichever.

Characters:
OSV (Off Stage Voice)
AUTHOR
GHOST
ALEX
AUDIENCE MEMBER

The AUTHOR sits at a table on stage right. It is messy and covered with papers, one of which the AUTHOR is writing on.

OSV: Whatcha doin?

AUTHOR: Writing a one act play. Go away.

OSV: Hey, that rhymes.

AUTHOR: Weren’t you leaving or something?

OSV: What’s it about?

AUTHOR: I don’t know yet. Sod off.

OSV: Fine.

AUTHOR: [glares at the audience] What are you looking at? You can all sod off too!

OSV: You’re not even British!

AUTHOR sighs with exaggerated exasperation then gets a look of inspiration and busily starts writing. ALEX enters from stage left.

ALEX: [speaking to someone who is quite obviously not there] You are the worst imaginary friend ever.
[pauses for imaginary response]
Please. I outgrew you a long time ago and yet you keep coming back.
[pause]
Oh, so that’s somehow my fault now? Why did I have to imagine you to be so incredibly needy?
[pause]
I heard that! You think I’m projecting, huh? Well project this! [attempts to punch imaginary friend who isn’t actually there and spins around off balance]

AUTHOR: [muttering to self] This sucks.

ALEX: Hey, you’re the one writing this crap, don’t take it out on me.

ALEX exits from whence he came. AUTHOR growls something incomprehensible and crumples up the piece of paper and chucks it offstage.

OSV: Hey! Watch it!

AUTHOR ignores this outburst and gets back to writing. GHOST enters from stage left.

GHOST: So, I’m dead, and being dead, I have no use for possessions and objects and comfort, and yet I find myself longing for a bed, or maybe just a really nice chair.

Long silence. GHOST shifts uncomfortably.

AUTHOR: Well?
GHOST: Well, don’t look at me. I just say the lines I’m given. You want me to keep talking, then you have to keep writing.

AUTHOR: I didn’t write what you just said.

GHOST: Yes, you did. [walks over to the table where AUTHOR has been sitting and writing and picks up the most recent piece of paper] See. Right here. [clears throat and reads in a bored tone of voice] “Well don’t look at me. I just say the lines I’m given. You want me to keep talking then you have to keep writing.”

GHOST smugly hands the paper back to AUTHOR who reads the lines and frowns.

OSV: Are you finished yet?

AUTHOR: [noticeably startled] Um.. no. [glances at GHOST nervously]

GHOST returns to his spot on stage left.

OSV: Well, what’s the hold-up? I’m ready to be entertained now.

AUDIENCE MEMBER: Yeah! Me too!

AUTHOR: I’m working on it.

AUTHOR writes some more. Meanwhile GHOST begins to speak.

GHOST: I could tell you about death. How deep and meaningful it is as the end to the journey of life. Because life is a rod.

GHOST makes a face of disgust and looks at AUTHOR skeptically. AUTHOR hastily scribbles out the last word and rewrites it. Then continues writing as GHOST continues speaking.

GHOST: Road. Because life is a road and eventually you’re going to get into an accident. I mean seriously, if you’re going to be driving on the damn road your entire life there’s no way you’re going to avoid it. Even if the accident isn’t your fault, have you seen some of the drivers out there? [shudders] Scary. Anyway, [while GHOST is speaking ALEX comes out from stage right and peers over AUTHOR’s shoulder] life is a road, blah blah blah philosophy, you get into a horrible accident and you thought you were invincible and didn’t need to wear a seatbelt, so you ended up using your skull to smash through the windshield and are now a dead and rather bloody and mangled corpse.

ALEX: And you thought my part of the play sucked? Mr. Fancypants could write better than you.

AUTHOR: Mr. who-what now?

GHOST snickers.

ALEX: [with exaggerated patience] Mr. Fancypants. [points] He’s standing right there in front of you.

AUTHOR: [trying not to laugh] You named your imaginary friend Mr. Fancypants?

ALEX: I didn’t name him. That’s just his name. And now he’s upset because you’re laughing at him.

GHOST: [seriously] I think you owe Mr. Fancypants an apology.

AUTHOR: [glares at GHOST] You were laughing too!

GHOST contrives to look innocent while ALEX storms offstage.

ALEX: [offended] We know when we’re not wanted. C’mon Mr. Fancypants.

AUTHOR: [holds head in hands] This is really just all kinds of sad.

GHOST: [cheerfully] Don’t forget pathetic!
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (who)
...that was interrupted by the joy of choking on the snot dripping down the back of my throat.
Anyway, Dead Guy apparently knew he was going to get killed, so he set things up to protect his boyfriend from being a suspect (I woke up before they* figured out how he did that). Despite this, they eventually wind up suspecting The Boyfriend anyway, but then when they interview his homophobic dad, who calls him Charlene instead of Charlie, something Homophobic Dad says makes them realize it was actually Dead Guy's maid/servant lady, who was jealous of The Boyfriend and worried about being cut out of the Will.


*It was a rather vague and ephemeral "they" doing the investigating. Apparently, my subconscious was unwilling to commit to a particular crime show.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (oh)
Sort of a character sketch poem... thingy.
Yeah, it's definitely a thingy.
And I've been vacillating between liking it and not liking it.
I guess I like it enough to post it because here it is.


And she danced. )
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
And it's due tomorrow, so...

Stargate: Atlantis, Teyla/Rodney: Dancing - 'The truest expression of a people is in its dances and its music. Bodies never lie.' -- Agnes De Mille )

Yeah, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how to end it.

Postscript

Jan. 16th, 2007 08:47 pm
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (gate)
There are no more kings; nor queens. No more presidents, parliaments, or prime ministers. There are no more dictators; no more tyrants. What use is there in order and rules, when the world is ending?
At the end of the world, there is only chaos. And death.

And maybe, just maybe, if you are very lucky, a little bit of hope.

Our hope was named Ann-Marie, after her mother's mother: the first child born after the end of the world.
She was so small and fragile, our hope, our Ann-Marie, and later, we would learn, so very, very stupid. All the children were- no matter who their parents or how we endeavored to teach them.

And so it was that our hopes were shattered.

Was this to be the end of our once proud race? To survive in form, but without intelligence-- without the very thing that had made us great?
And yet, our race would live on in these unworthy simpletons, or it would not survive at all.

There are no more years. No more months; nor days. Yet time passes still, after the world has ended.

And so it was that the eldest among us died, and those who were once young became eldest.

It was then that we decided to kill the children.

"How are we going to do it? Smother them in their sleep?"
"Why should we do anything at all? Once we're gone, they'll all die of starvation."
"Yes, they'll not survive without us to care for them."
"Which is why we must perform this act of mercy," this from the now silver-haired mother of Ann-Marie, "to let them die feeling safe, amongst family and friends, rather than terrified and alone."
"They might survive for a time; given adequate food stores…"
"Do we really want them to? Survive, that is? Our race ends with us, either way. Why leave behind substandard remnants?"
"The next generation--"
"Will be just as dumb."
"Supposing they can reproduce at all."
"Supposing they even want to-- tried explaining sex to my Jess, but it's just like everything else, he can't understand it."
"Shouldn't we give them a chance?"
"Let nature take its course, you mean?"
"If they survive, so be it-- if not… well, at least we won't have slaughtered our own children."

There were years yet, before those of us who had survived the end of the world survived no more.
Many of the children died in those years. No cause given. None asked for.
Ann-Marie was the first to be born and the first to go.

The death of hope.

When it came to the end, the true end, of all we had known, all we remembered-- the end of those who lived in the world before it ended-- there were five children left.
Though their bodies grew to be adults, they were forever children, forever in need of parenting.
Though the last of us could not countenance the killing of them, our once proud race does not survive.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (snark)
They gave him a name.
They gave him a name, and they killed him as good as dead.
It wouldn't have mattered what they told him after that: the same lies,
different ones,
the truth.
He was theirs when they named him.
No longer the anonymous Wraith soldier,
Michael.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
In which it has been three weeks without a new Supernatural and things get crappy.
We are lost my brother and I. Geographically, we know exactly where we are, but there are no maps to grief, loss, and pain. There is no compass that will aid our navigation when the sea of despair meets the rocky shores of death. Her touch lingers in my mind. The wind caresses my face through the open window of my brother's car, and I imagine it's her. Her hands, her voice, her face, they all haunt me. I wake up from deadly nightmares to sweat-soaked sheets and emptiness. Her warm body does not fill the space in the bed next to me. It is vacant, like the room before we occupied it, like my soul without her.
. . .

Dean sits on the bed for better leverage as he shoves his foot into its boot. He sees a crumpled-up piece of paper next to the wastebasket. He is picking it up to throw it away when he notices Sam's handwriting adorning the hotel stationary. He glances up at the still-closed door of the bathroom and carefully smoothes out the wrinkled sheet.
Dean has just finished reading the short paragraph when Sam exits the bathroom and stops short. The color drains from his face and then comes back full force.
"Didn't I throw that away?" he manages.
"You missed," Dean says dryly, "So are you practicing to write crappy romance novels, or what?"
"Uh," Sam seizes on the only thing he can think of to get out of this conversation: a distraction, "How would you know what a crappy romance novel is like?"
Dean shrugs, "Margie liked to read them."
"Margie? As in your first kiss Margie?"
"Margie wasn't my first kiss," Dean scoffs.
"She wasn't?"
"No way man, I got my first kiss from that chick we saved from that ghost in Houston. With the exploding toilets? She shoved her tongue down my throat and everything."
Sam gapes at his brother, "You were eleven!"
"So?"
"She was nineteen!"
"So?"
"That's... that's... statutory kissing!" Sam finally manages to sputter.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
In which the WB reruns the one episode I don't have on tape and things get mushy.
I've never been so lost,
I've never felt so much at home…
--Something Corporate


Sam closes his eyes and leans back. He lets his body fall to the mattress as he savors the taste of chocolate in his mouth. Something wet hits his forehead. A leak? He opens his eyes. And sees her. Bleeding. Burning. No!
He opens his eyes. And sees the dashboard of his brother's car. Through the windshield, he watches the blacktop roll underneath them. He sneaks a glance at his brother just in time to catch Dean sneaking a glance at him. Dean's eyes snap back to the road.
"You got a vision quest for us?"
"Nope."
They ride in silence for a while, until Dean reaches his hand to push the cassette tape back in and "Stairway to Heaven" gears up.
. . .

Sam lets his eyelids droop before he settles on the bed to wait for Jessica to finish her shower. He feels water drip on his forehead. He opens his eyes expecting to see her standing over him. Laughing as she wrings out her hair on his face. That is not what he sees. She is over him, but not laughing, dying. Obscenely defying gravity as the flames consume her. No!
Sam opens his eyes expecting to see Dean looking over at him from the driver's seat. That is what he sees. Dean turns the music back on.
"Have you ever loved a woman?" Sam asks before his brother can turn up the volume.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Dean smirks, "I love having sex with women."
"Would you stop being a macho ass for 5 seconds and answer the damn question!"
Now Dean spares his brother a glance, "Jeez man, what crawled up your butt?"
"Never mind," Sam huffs and turns to stare out the window.
. . .

He dozes in his bed. It's raining, but he's inside. This can't be right. He opens his eyes. It's raining blood and pain and death. Then the fire comes to take the rain away and- No!
He opens his eyes. It's raining plain, clean water. They're stuck in traffic.
"I'm serious about this Dean, have you ever," Sam searches for the right way to put it, "had something longer than a one-night stand?"
"Well there was this two-night stand-" Dean starts; then seems to think better of it, "I know where you're headed with this Sammy, and it's not your fault."
"But if this thing is after me--"
Dean cuts him off, "Then it's after you, but it's still not your fault. You were a baby when it took Mom, what could you have possibly done to make it your fault?"
Dean's words have that stubborn Dean finality in them, so Sam drops it.
. . .

His eyes are closed as he lies back onto the bed because on some level, he knows what's coming. When he feels the drips, he shakes his head as if to dislodge them. Finally, reluctantly, he opens his eyes. Jessica is sprawled out on the ceiling, as always. Her abdomen is sliced open, as always. And then the flames start, as always. And as always, his only thought is No!
He opens his eyes. It's only the dashboard, as always. Dean's concerned look returns to stoic calm when Sam looks at him, as always. And as always, Dean reaches over to start up the music, but this time Sam stops him.
"And Rockford?"
"What?" Dean is startled.
"Is Rockford my fault?"
Dean stares at the road like it's the most fascinating piece of pavement he has ever seen, but Sam prefers this to an instant change of subject or some wisecrack dismissal.
When Dean does speak, it's so quietly that Sam almost misses it.
"Do you really hate me that much?"
"No." Sam puts everything he has into that simple syllable. He wishes the word were longer, "Never." He doesn't dare look at his brother, until Dean does what Dean does best: makes Sammy feel safe.
"So Sammy," Dean drawls, "I called you 'Sammy' earlier and you didn’t correct me. Does this mean you're finally over the whole 'Sam' thing?"
"It's Sam, jackass." Maybe what Dean does best is make Sam feel like he's 12.
And Dean can't let his little brother have the last word, now can he? "'Jackass'? That's the best insult you can come up with? Did they teach you nothing in college?"
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
In which the WB deprives me of my Winchesters and things get silly.

"That doll is possessed," Dean announces as soon as Mr. Cadwallader closes the door behind them.
"Which doll?"
"You didn't see it?"
"There were, like, fifty dolls in there."
"It had red hair, green eyes, and oh, yeah, it was watching me!"
They reach the car, and Sam rests his elbows on the passenger side roof to look at his brother, "Ok, so a possessed doll put three 12-year-old girls into simultaneous, unexplained comas."
"They were all in Emmy's room when it happened."
Dean climbs into the car and Sam follows suit.
"So what do we do?"
"Wait 'til they leave, break in, grab the doll, and exorcise the demon."
"Are you sure-"
"Watching. Me."
"Right."
. . .

"How come I always have to pick the locks?" Sam asks as he kneels to get a better view of the doorknob.
"I seem to recall a certain someone having an all-out tantrum," Dean launches into his best 'Sammy' impression: "'Why can't I pick the lock? Dean got to pick locks when he was 8'-- Dad finally showed you how to pick the damn lock just to shut you up."
Sam stands and opens the door, "It wasn't a tantrum. And you did pick locks when you were 8."
"Whatever. Let's just get the doll."
"I can't believe we're breaking into someone's house to steal a doll."
"A demonically possessed doll."
"I know, I know, it was watching you!"
. . .

"Did you really have to burn the doll?"
"It was evil!"
"When Emmy gets home from the hospital this afternoon, she's going to wonder what happened to it."
"We did her a favor," Dean says as he pulls onto the interstate, "Once an object has been possessed, it's more likely to happen again."
"I still think you're overreacting about the doll."
"The girls woke up from their comas didn't they?"
. . .

"MOM!" Emmy shrieks.
Both of Emmy's parents come running, a lot faster than they would have had their daughter not just woken up from a coma.
"What is it?"
"Are you okay?"
Emmy whines: "My Felicity doll is missing."
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
There was a night. And on that night he died the most painful kind of death imaginable. The kind of pain that can only come from living to see tomorrow.
***
He'd like to think his sons are what keep him going. The day after. The next night. The next day. But most days revenge is the only thing that prevents him from putting a bullet in his brain. So he went to Missouri and learned the truth. Now, he doesn't think about shooting himself. He just pours each shot down his throat and lets it burn all the way down. Burning. Even with a mind numbed by alcohol and exhaustion, it always comes back to that. Burning.
***
He'd like to think justice is what keeps him going. The day after. The next night. The next day. But deep down he knows it's vengeance. The same thing his dad's been chasing all these years. For the first time in his life, he wants to hunt. But not these ghosts and legends that strangle him and toss him around until Dean burns all the right things with salt. Burning. Even with a mind numbed by fury and exhaustion, it always comes back to that. Burning.
***
He'd like to think his mother is what keeps him going. The day after. The next night. The next day. But instead it's a father who can barely keep going himself. And the mission he was given. The life that was placed in his arms and all the lives that came after. He loves his mother. He wants to find the thing that killed her and destroy it. And he wants to destroy every monster that ever took away a mommy or a daddy. A sister or a brother. He burns to destroy them all. Burning. Even with a mind numbed by duty and exhaustion, it always comes back to that. Burning.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
I mostly fiddled with the tenses as I read it out loud, but I also tried to make the werewolves less choppy. She's sort of suicidal for a Mary Sue.

The End.

The House.

Her grandfather built the house. He made it strong to withstand the elements. He made it stronger to withstand… other things. Runes and sigils are carved into every available surface. The windows and doors are masterpieces of warding. If a culture considers it a symbol of protection, he has carved it there in the wood. He's carved her name as well; in every alphabet he can find.
Her mother is dead, like the mother before her, and the one before that. But this time, Grandpa says, this time will be different.
Every November 2nd for as long as she can remember she has sat in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Great Uncle Dean is very fond of his full title. Something about being called great, he says.


The Chair.

She doesn't remember her mother, who burned up on the ceiling, but she remembers her father, who sat in the chair. Who came home late at night, if at all, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunpowder. And when she tells him she thinks there's a monster in her closet, the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes. He teaches her what he was taught by his father, who was taught by the father before that.
Her father sits in the chair while she props herself up in bed and fires six bullets into her closet.


The Car.

There wasn't a monster in her closet. The Winchesters buy salt by the bucketful and it's not for giving a '67 Impala traction in the snow. The old Chevy is unlike any other car she's seen. Its engine was replaced long ago, its axles and wheels updated, but the frame that is older than Great Uncle Dean is the same. Rusted and dented yet somehow still whole.
They put her father in the trunk the night he died. Grandpa holds her in the backseat, rocking her back and forth, telling her it's okay to cry as hot tears stream down his face and onto the top of her head. He doesn't even notice when Great Uncle Dean calls him Sammy.


The Guns.

She lost her father to a skinwalker. A pack of werewolves take Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Grandpa went down first. Great Uncle Dean's howl of rage sounded not unlike that of his foes. With a gun in each hand, he unerringly fires silver bullets into each heart. She picks off the few that go after her, but mostly they converge on Great Uncle Dean, ripping him up as he kills them all. Great Uncle Dean uses his last words to ask if Sammy is okay. He isn't.
For years she had begged to be allowed to go hunting on her own. When she realizes every hunt will be on her own, she throws up.


The Ceiling.

She sits in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by no one. She wonders if it will come when there's no one left to drip blood on as she scuffs the lines of the pentagram with her shoe and gets a broom to sweep up the salt.
All that night and into the day she stares at the ceiling wondering what it will be like to be pinned up there, burning.
She is exhausted from fear but afraid to sleep. Afraid she might miss it. She dozes in fits and starts until she wakes up in the early morning of November 3rd. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Years later she will fall in love with a man who will die burning on the ceiling.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (dean)
I like it but I'm not sure the format and tenses work outside my demented little mind:

The End.

The House.

Her grandfather built the house. He made it strong to withstand the elements. He made it stronger to withstand… other things. Runes and sigils are carved into every available surface. The windows and doors are masterpieces of warding. If a culture considers it a symbol of protection, he has carved it there in the wood. He's carved her name as well; in every alphabet he can find.
Her mother is dead, like the mother before her, and the one before that. But this time, Grandpa says, this time will be different.
Every November 2nd for as long as she can remember she has sat in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Great Uncle Dean is very fond of his full title. Something about being called great, he says.


The Chair.

She doesn't remember her mother, who burned up on the ceiling, but she remembers her father, who sat in the chair. Who came home late at night, if at all, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunpowder. And when she tells him she thinks there's a monster in her closet, the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes. He teaches her what he was taught by his father, who was taught by the father before that.
Her father sat in the chair while she propped herself up in bed and fired six bullets into her closet.


The Car.

There wasn't a monster in her closet. The Winchesters buy salt by the bucketful and it's not for giving a '67 Impala traction in the snow. The old Chevy is unlike any other car she's seen. Its engine was replaced long ago, its axles and wheels updated, but the frame that is older than Great Uncle Dean is the same. Rusted and dented yet somehow still whole.
They put her father in the trunk the night he died. Grandpa holds her in the backseat, rocking her back and forth, telling her it's okay to cry as hot tears stream down his face and onto the top of her head. He doesn't even notice when Great Uncle Dean calls him Sammy.


The Guns.

She lost her father to a skinwalker. A pack of werewolves took Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Grandpa went down first. Great Uncle Dean knocked her to the ground. With a gun in each hand, he unerringly fired silver bullets into each heart. She picked off the few that went after her, but mostly they'd converged on Great Uncle Dean, ripping him up as he killed them all. Great Uncle Dean uses his last words to ask if Sammy is okay. He isn't.
For years she had begged to be allowed to go hunting on her own. When she realizes every hunt will be on her own, she throws up.


The Ceiling.

She sits in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by no one. She wonders if it will come when there's no one left to drip blood on as she scuffs the lines of the pentagram with her shoe and gets a broom to sweep up the salt.
All that night and into the day she stares at the ceiling wondering what it will be like to be pinned up there, burning.
She is exhausted from fear but afraid to sleep. Afraid she might miss it. She dozes in fits and starts until she wakes up in the early morning of November 3rd. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Years later she will fall in love with a man who will die burning on the ceiling.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
Besides, it's not like the siren (Oops! Spoiler!) has to sound like me, it's just that I came up with the song in the context of the story and who the frell else was I supposed to get to sing it?

"Another One Bites the Dust" blares from the speakers in Dean's car as they speed down an unspecified highway. Sam grimaces as Dean starts to sing along in that quiet, slightly off-key way that had been annoying Sam since they were kids watching Sesame Street. Of course, Dad had put a stop to that right quick once he finally got around to noticing that monsters were the good guys on that show.
"Aaaaand another one gone and another one gone and another one bites the dust."
"How about this one?" Sam picks a random story off the webpage he's looking at in the hopes of getting his brother to shut the hell up already. "Three mysterious disappearances, all occurring during the most recent full moon."
Dean grunts.
"Could be our kind of problem?"
"Sure," Dean says, "how about the full moon before last?"
Sam checks. "Nothing," he sighs. Sam is already checking back as far as the online archive goes when Dean asks, "And the one before that?"
"Nothing similar for the past 5 years. Could be a new one?"
"Werewolves are old, not new," Dean points out a bit too smugly, "Try again, Sammy."
"It's Sam." Sam mutters, wondering why he'd expect Dean to be anything other than smug.
Dean is blessedly silent as Sam searches the local newspapers on his laptop.
"Here's something-- five fishermen drowned in the ocean."
"So their boat sunk."
Sam rolls his eyes. "They weren't in boats, and they didn't all drown at the same time. It's been happening over the past few years."
"This isn't gonna be like that dead kid in the lake is it?"
"I thought you liked kids."
"Yeah, when they're alive."
"I see, so you're prejudiced against dead people."
"Hell, yes."
"Well the dead fishermen would like you to know that they all visited the same bar the night that they died and that the same woman was performing there, each time."
"And this woman… is she hot?"
Sam ignores him. "And people in the area reported hearing 'eerie music' on the nights that each of the men died."
"Is this in a bunch of articles?"
"Just the one. The reporter is compiling all the commonalities between the cases after the latest, Marvin Jelevsky drowned about a week ago."
"The biggest commonality being that they're all fishermen who can, presumably, swim?"
"Yup."
"Alright, at the very least we'll get to interview the singing chick, who I'm thinking… is gonna be hot."

* * *


"I so called it." Dean says as they enter the bar, creatively named "Joe's". The woman is at the rear of the smoky, dimly lit room on a stage that would be more accurately described as a platform. The mic and stand appear to be mostly for show because when she sings no noise comes out of the small speakers by the door. Not that she needs amplification, because the sound of her voice travels across the room with no trouble at all.

Darlin' you're stealin' my eyes away,
And darlin' you're takin' my skys away,
And darlin', don't you know I'm yours?


A trip to the local newspaper that afternoon had yielded many a rave review for the tall, slender redhead who had arrived on the scene just two months before the first suspicious drowning. Agatha Lopé performed at Joe's every Saturday night like clockwork, but the majority of Saturday nights were free of drownings.
"Well, suppose you're a siren who wants to lure men to their deaths," Sam had said, "if you take one every week, people are going to notice."
"And what? Run you out of town with pitchforks? In the Greek legend, they lured sailors to their deaths. Maybe she only kills the guys who work on boats."

Saw you dancin' with the devil,
Under a hunter's moon,
Heard you singin' with Satan,
'Bout how the end couldn't come too soon.


"She's looking right at us," Sam murmurs.
Dean smirks, "Well, she's looking right at me, I think you just happen to be standing close by."
"Dude, if she's a siren…"
"Then she's not interested in us because we know jack about boats."

Darlin' I know what you'd do to me,
And darlin' ain't I what you've come to see,
And darlin' don't you know I'm yours?


And in that moment Dean meets her eyes and sees a bird? With a woman's head? And breasts? Her lips curl into a vicious smile.
"That song was for Dean and Sam," she coos to the appreciative audience, "Do you boys want to hear another?"
Dean wordlessly takes the proffered earplugs from Sam's hand.

ETA: Defunct GeoCities is defunct, so you have to download (and probably crank up the volume) if you want to hear the song, sorry.

pt2

Oct. 22nd, 2004 11:48 am
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
I noticed a prison guard heading our way and motioned for the others to be quiet. The prison guard came over with a smile plastered on her face. The guards always smiled about everything. It was unnerving, which was probably their intent. They were always looking concerned about things too. Pretending to care if you hurt yourself. Now she was pretending to care that we eat. Now she was pretending to care that we go to dinner. We exchanged looks of digust but attempted to look enthused at the prospect of dinner, knowing all the while how terrible the food would be. They fed us some sort of porridge, day in and day out. Jaws had to drink hers with a straw and Owl was wheeled into the dining area and force-fed by one of the guards.
It made for difficulty in continuing to plan over dinner. Jaws, Dancer, and even Wizard always seemed a little disgusted by Owl's prescence, but I like having him around. As much as I hated that they were forcing him to eat against his weill, I didn't want him to starve himself to death either. He never told me so, but I think he was ready to die. He couldn't handle being imprisoned. It's what reduced him to blinking, always blinking. So he gave up. The only thing keeping him alive was the prison guards and their overseers. They wanted him to suffer for some reason. They wanted us all to suffer though we could never figure out why. They wanted us all to be miserable for some reason, but what that reason was is a mystery to us, even Wizard.
Owl's been here the longest. Then Dancer, then Wizard, then Jaws. I'm the newest and the most hopeful. Dancer says it's because I haven't gotten my guts ripped out often enough to be disillusioned yet. He and Wizard have tried to escape before and gotten their guts ripped out as a result. Of course they were patched up afterwards. The overseers don't want us to leave. Not even through death. Owl frustrates them because he's almost gone. He's found a way around the guards and around death. He gearing up to just let go of his physical form and fly free. I keep hoping that if we escape soon enough, he'll be able to recover.
I spoon my porridge mechanically. The guard force-feeding Owl mockingly asks me if I'm enjoying me chicken stew. I'm angry. "If this is chicken stew, I'm a screaming howler monkey from outerspace." Dancer cringes and looks nervously at the guard. he tells her it's good chicken stew and nudge me under the table. He give me a nudge under the table and accompanies it with a warning glare.

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