I'll take the other thing.

[in_the_blue]

I miss the days when I used to host writing challenges right here in this very journal.

So. Now that the seventh Harry Potter book has been written... I think it's time for a different kind of writing challenge. I used to host the short-short ficlets, 300 words or less, open fandom.

Today, I'm going OC. And that doesn't stand for Orange County: it stands for original character.

Ready? 3, 2, 1, let's... get inspired to write original fiction, folks. The theme for the challenge is change: take 500 words to introduce an original character and demonstrate some measure of change for him, for her, for it.

---

Rules:

• Fandom: original only


• Word count: 500 or less


• Main theme: change


• Ratings: No restrictions.


• Duration: Challenge opens now (August 30) and closes at 11:59 p.m. in whatever time zone you inhabit on Wednesday, September 5.

Post your ficlets as comments to this entry. Feel free to do as few or as many as you want, and if you see one you really like, be sure to leave a review or a comment. Remember, original fic only. I'll crack my knuckles and get going as soon as I get a few hours' sleep.

---

NOTE: All ficlets in comments here are the property of their respective writers. Consider them copywritten with all rights reserved. If you want to quote, copy, or redistribute, please get the author's permission first. Otherwise, I'll have to lock this down. Thanks.

Comments

[govcampbell.livejournal.com]

Do you use the MS word count, or the old-fashioned count where you don't count the articles? ;)

(I didn't run over or anything, no, no, not at all...:)

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Hahahahahaha.

I should have been all Captain Barbossa and told you that the rules were more like guidelines. It's a loose 500 words. Now personally, I use the MS word count, but you can use whatever you want. I'm not going to measure or anything. It's just to get creative juices flowing, so whatever works for you.

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

*jumps, falsl over* ouch. ooh! yay! a kick i nthe butt! right-o sir, jsut what the docctor ordered.

in other words nota nentry but jstu a note to say thank yo ubecause yes. i have TWO DIFFERENT NOVEL DIEAS OEN OF WHICH MIGHT TUR NINTO A SERIES I MEAN STRIKE. THEYR'E BOTH SERIES HA!!!)
SORRY. JSUT..YAY. WHOA. PHIEW. WOW. AMPPARENTLY I AM SO. READY. TO DO THIS FINALLY.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Excellent! I'm kind of excited about this one. And going to work on my own.

Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[slaversbane.livejournal.com]

This first part anyway (I botched the word count but not by much):

“Forget it, V. No. I’ll not, thanks”
“Come on Jack!”

Her long hair is smooth against her body. Colored terra cotta and shinier than summer. That is how V likes to dress when she invades: my jeans and her hair. She searches the books on the wall, rooting for a midnight snack in the cupboard of information. One hand on a belt loop the other fumbling bindings and dust covers.

“You have books that suck. Kirkegaarde is a shithead who hates women. You should read Havel, now that was a gentleman.”

Ignored, she throws a volume to the floor. The petulant childish action floor snaps me to attention. The cover bears a girl with a rose in an arbor of stone.

“Jack!”

She drops the belt loop, grabs onto the bookshelf for support and droops into a twisted crouch. V just lets my eyes drown in the image of her. Her curves meet at the edge of her hips and she smoulders a profile eyelash glance over her shoulder. Pink cheeks inviting without guile. Her rear is barely off the ground and pebbly with the excitement of letting go gripping her tightly.

“Please.”

Not a question. Not pleading or demanding. Just a simple request meant to draw a simple response. And I give one.

“No, V.”
“Jack, why not?”

She doesn’t face me fully, just holds her pose like an actress waiting for the right cue.
A smirk curves her face to match the line of her backside. The bare edge of her left breast forms the same curve against her arm. It is hopeless. I wish she wouldn’t do this.

“You are deceased. Victoria you are dead.”

Victoria slides through the couch and my mid section and pretends to sit on my coffee table. You don’t know shrinkage until you have lost an erection due to a spectre passing through your flesh.

“Have you found him yet, Jack?”
“No. He is proving difficult to locate. I am sorry V, but I might have to scrap the whole thing.”

I waited. I expected the windows to shatter or the impossible chill to tear into my flesh again, or the walls to bleed. Like last time, and the time before that. She fooled me, this time she just sat on the edge of the couch and sobbed.
This was different.

“Jack, I really don’t care you know. I was just curious. A little. A bit.”

She lit a cigarette and the odorless ethereal smoke made a play for the ceiling.

“I am not crying you know, because I don’t care. I don’t. I just wanted to see him again. Just one more time.” She broke down into a writhing mess of snaking tears soaking the floor.

I stand up and walk to the kitchen for a beer. When I shut the fridge she is a sobbing naked mess hugging her knees on my kitchen table. I pass the Corona through her knees to chill it even further. She didn’t even notice. Usually she asked for money.

“Jack. Couldn’t you try again. Could you for me? I have to see him I must. I just must see Henri! I love him!”

Before that last ‘him!’ I pound as much of the beer as I can and toss the bottle into the sink. Just in time. Every glass object in the house splinters at once. Maybe this is just like last time and the time before.

“V. How many times must I try and fail for you to realize, I can’t find him? He isn’t even on Long Island any more. I know I have searched the whole fucking thing. So have you.

“Go to his website, Jack. I know there is a clue there.”

She was fidgety. Running her hands up and down the inside of her thighs and bouncing on her heels. I just don’t get it. Henri was an abusive prick who loaned her out to his friends like a weedwhacker.

“Alright. I will. I don’t expect to find anything.” She hunches over my shoulder sending a splinter of ice through my spine as I tenderly skirt the caltropped floor. Dammit. The monitor is shattered

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

This is... so different from the pieces I usually read and I'm fascinated. I had to read it twice to be sure I'd read it correctly the first time. There are some beautiful turns of phrase in here that are as haunting as Victoria seems to be. I particularly like rooting for a midnight snack in the cupboard of information and the odorless ethereal smoke made a play for the ceiling. I also like that I'm not sure what Victoria's request is until the end, if then, and yes, of course the monitor would be shattered. It makes me curious to know what went before and how many times this has happened and how many times it will happen and if poor deceased Victoria will ever learn or if she's stuck.

At the risk of sounding trite and sixteen, this is pretty damn cool.

Re: Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[govcampbell.livejournal.com]

This is very good. Disturbing, in a creepy, one of the characters is dead, kind of way, but very good. :)

Re: Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[proudofthefish.livejournal.com]

Really intruiging and a bit creepy

Re: Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[arasnaem.livejournal.com]

This is an interesting piece that begs some questions that I'd love to have answered. I found myself feeling impatient with and sympathetic toward Jack at the same time. Well done.

Re: Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

holy crap!!!

i am sososososoglad you quitwriting hp fiction. yo uare in for so much more than that. yeeesh i want to read more ofthis.
by the way you're great with the putting much info in less words without having us overwhelmed by the amoutn of info and untold backstory.
i don't knowwhy buti remember you once said somethign about negative space? about seeign a drawignand the most important part of it was what you coudln't see because it was there anyway? either that or i jsut wantto give this thing a name that makes me so much more drawn to what isn't told and still the reader gets to know it. wow.

Re: Well , here goes nothing, I just finished this last night!

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

holy crap!!!

auuuuuugh. i neglected looking at usernames and assumed i was reading in_the_blue's stuff. everything stillstands except the 'quit writing hp fic' bit. which was to G andals ostill stands. *facepalm*

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

This snippet (c)2007 Gwynne L. Jackson, all rights reserved. Please do not reproduce, redistribute, steal, quote without permission. You know all the good stuff, that's why you're here.
Untitled, 500 words. Previously unwritten backstory to a work in progress.

---

"This whole idea is crazy enough. I'm not going to risk my neck for a dog." The set to his jaw was grim; he shook his head and tried not to roll his eyes. As fond as he was of Takeo, there was a lot about the guy he didn't understand. Even though they'd been partners for years -- Takeo was the single best mentor on staff -- there was a side to him Ray could never quite figure out. He ran hot; he ran cold. He was sentimental; he could be so cruel. He worked his students like a traditionalist, but he was always good with kind advice or comfort when he worked them too hard.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Takeo shrugging and smiling that annoyingly smug smile Ray knew only too well. It meant his partner had a secret edge and was going to win at all cost.

"I'm not stopping for a dog." Momentarily, he was tempted to offer up the standard disclaimer: you're the one who has to feed it and walk it and take care of it. You'll have to find a vet when it's sick and board it when we're busy. But he shook his head and took the controls. "No pets."

Takeo conjured a toothpick out of some pocket or other, sliding it between his straight white teeth. His hands, strong and competent, leafed through the pages of the file on his lap as the ship took off. "Dog was a thirteenth-birthday present, boss. He never goes anywhere without it." One page turned, then another, then a third and the whole time the toothpick never left its resting spot between Takeo's teeth. How the guy could talk with that thing in his mouth, Ray never knew but he was a captive audience with no choice but to listen. "He ran away six times, but never without the dog. You think you can separate them now? Think again, boss: it's not going to happen. We'll lose him."

"I'm half tempted to turn this ship around and forget about the whole goddamn deal right now. This is..." Crazy was the only word for this mission they were on and the both of them knew it. Still, the stakes were high and it wouldn't be the first and only time he'd operated outside the law. But to risk it all over a dog?

"Go ahead." Now the toothpick came out; Takeo rolled it between thumb and forefinger in a move that wasn't as idle as it seemed because nothing about him was idle or random. "Then Wei and his guys will get him. But... you're the boss."

Fuck. What was the point of being in charge if everyone below you was always right? Then again, wasn't the mark of good management listening to advisors? He set the ship on cruise control, turned to Takeo, and laughed.

"Fine. The dog comes along too."

Takeo's pleasure was betrayed only by the very smallest of smiles.

Delicous, but wee...like a French dessert.

[slaversbane.livejournal.com]

I have this problem, see. I love me some instant gratification. You have hooked me. Now I WANT MORE!

I can see this type of situation happening between Ray and Takeo on a regular basis, with Takeo rarely the loser.

I am intrigued as to the boy and his dog as being strong catalysts to cause this conversation and the inevitable clusterfuck to follow.

A yummy snack, now I hungry for more!!!

[govcampbell.livejournal.com]

Intrigueing! I want to know more of what's going on, the five w's, if you will. Nicely done!

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

This is really intriguing! Even though I don't know what the situation is exactly, you've characterized them so well that I can tell what their relationship must be like just from this bit. That's impressive!

I ran over...sue me.

[govcampbell.livejournal.com]

Characters created by Bernie orginally for RP at D*, but readapted for original cannon.

-------

There was faded Dr. Pepper sign on the side of the general store, and a lone hound dog panting in the heat on the store’s front porch. Across the dusty square was a white Baptist church. Next to the church, a squat wooden shack with a crooked sign said “Hector’s Junction Post Office, Town Hall, Police Station”. An ancient, dusty Ford Crown Victoria police car was parked out front. The whole place seemed asleep. It was like something out of a movie set.

Beth Newburg got out of her rental car and walked up to the general store. The hound dog just kind of raised its head and watched her as she crossed the porch and let the screen door slam shut behind her. There was a man sitting behind the counter, tobacco stains on his shirt and a Faulkner novel in his hand.

Flags in the Dust. How appropriate, she thought. “Excuse me?”

“Yessem?” the man said, sitting up. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for AJ Dawson,” she said. “Can you help me?” she asked.

“I think you found him,” a familiar voice said behind her. “But I’m not expecting anyone…”

She turned around, and there he was, wearing his white oxford shirt, kahki slacks and suspenders, just as she remembered him. His mouth dropped open an inch or two when he saw her.

“Jesus Christ and Gen’rl Jackson,” he breathed. “Beth.”

--

AJ came out of the store, the screen door slamming shut behind him, and handed her a glass bottle of coke, settling into the rocking chair next to her.

“Jesus, Beth, I never expected to see you here. What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“Looking for you, what the hell do you think I was doing here?” she retorted back at him. Damnit, I’m not going to cry, she told her self. “Why did you think I came all the way out here, to the middle of bloody no where?” she asked him. “I wanted to see you for myself.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t quite sure what to believe anymore.”

“You could have called,” AJ pointed out. “Saved you the trip. We’ve got phones now. Telephone lines and everything,” AJ pointed at the poles out by the street, the aww shucks earnestness a joke in itself, floating across his tone of voice like the notes of a half forgotten song.

“Really now,” she said. “Come a long way then, haven’t you?”

AJ nodded, grinning. “Come a long way since the days when my great-great-great granpappy held off Grant’s damn bluebellies with a handful of local militia.”

“Are you people ever going to let that one go?” Beth asked. “The war’s been over for what…a hundred and fifty years?”

“A hundr’n n’forty, give’r’take,” AJ corrected.

“Fine. A hundred and forty years then.” She was annoyed now. He did that to her.

“Nothing ever changes, here, Beth,” AJ said, gently now, softly conciliating, as he always did.

“Nothing?” she asked, looking at him, searching those damn perfect blue eyes. “Does anything ever change?”

He looked back at her, this idiot man, who’d dropped out of her life nearly four years ago, and then dropped of the face of the world for a full year – everyone thought he’d died! – the man that she still loved, despite it all.

“Sometimes,” he said, finally, reaching out between the rockers and taking her hand. “Sometimes, we get big changes.”

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Ahahahaha, AJ and Beth! I should have known! They're so sweetly mismatched for one another in so many ways, but in other ways they're just perfect.

So here's my question: are you as curmudgeonly as AJ in real life, and Sara as sharp-tongued as Beth?

On another note, this reads like a poetic little scene out of some lazy slice-of-life sothren novella, and what kind of coke d'you want with your sweet potato pie, Mistah Dawson? I'll be curious to see what people who don't know these characters think of this piece.

506 words: Original.

[shellebelle93.livejournal.com]

“Please?” she asked, every day of their stay in Maine.

And each day, he just shook his head and made plans to do something else. Something that would take them off of the small island and into the park, onto the mainland, on the ocean, at the shops in Freeport, even.

He’d do it just to distract her. He was a doctor, a successful doctor with an over-busy practice and not nearly enough time to breathe, much less take this vacation. He’d pay for it later in overbooking, days and days of fifteen-minute-or-less appointments. To relocate here?

That would be career suicide.

Still, he did have to admit that he loved it here. Every time they came on vacation, he toyed with the idea, never voicing it aloud, of staying. His wife did more than toy with the idea, openly talking about how nice it would be to raise children here, how quiet and peaceful it was. She was an artist, and he knew that she got most of her inspiration for the entire year on their month-long stays in the small island community.

She often ended these speeches with a single word. “Please?”

And he couldn’t tell her no, but he could dismiss the idea as impractical, too impractical to merit more than an incredulous shake of his head. She’d sigh, and that would be the end of it for another day.

Even if he did feel guilty for it, even if he did ask himself each day why he wanted to go back to the practice so badly. He didn’t even know most of his patients’ names, couldn’t name more than one or two when he was away from the office.

As the end of the month approached, along with their departure date, he felt more and more depressed. Why didn’t he stay? he asked himself. Why couldn’t he?

He couldn’t answer those two questions. Money wasn’t really an issue. It wasn’t like there was much time to make a life back where he had his practice. They’d put off having children time and time again, and they’d been married ten years. He always had to work.

Why couldn’t he try it here?

His wife came out and sat on the chair beside him on the shoreline, and together they gazed out over the stormy blue sea. “It would be so nice to live here,” she sighed.

“Mmmhmm,” he said, noncommittally.

She sighed again, and didn’t speak. He wondered if she’d finally given up, if the heart had gone out of her speeches after a month of trying. He looked over at her.

“You know,” he began, “they don’t have a doctor at all over here in the winter months.”

“That’s so.”

“It’s got to be hard trying to get over to the main island when someone’s sick. And it’s got to be scary for parents with children.”

Silence. He heard nothing but his wife’s steady breathing and the lap of waves against the shore.

Then: “Please?” Her voice was trembling a little.

“Yes.”

Re: 506 words: Original.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

See? Shelle (no "seashell" pun intended), you are so good at this kind of thing. It's only 506 words and you already gave us a past and an uncertain present -- what is this relationship like? what's the marriage like? do they have anything at all in common? -- and a future. I don't care that there aren't names and I don't care that we don't know more than we do about the circumstances of their lives. Write it. Write more of it.

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is a cool challenge! I will take you up on it.

Must charge brain.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

I can't wait to see what you come up with. You're so blasted CREATIVE.

[arasnaem.livejournal.com]

Jeremiah didn't know what he had expected, but this certainly wasn't it. I guess evil intentions don't necessarily translate to villain's lair after all, he thought wryly as the henchmen shoved him roughly forward. The room, far from looking overtly sinister, in fact looked more like a country kitchen (though there was no stove in sight). It was warm and inviting, but Jeremiah dreaded the confrontation that was to come.



She appeared before him, and suddenly, inexplicably, he was reminded of June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver. Surely this couldn't be a woman intent on taking over the world. But she is, he reminded himself, looking up for strength. You have to stay firm, stick to the plan.



A laugh filled his ears, and his eyes were drawn back to her. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a braid, and her deep blue eyes seemed like bottomless pools. She laughed again. "I can tell what you're thinking, Jeremiah, and it won't work."



He panicked. "You…can read minds?" he asked warily, trying to think of anything but the plan.



A third laugh. "No, you silly boy, but I can read people. You have come here today," she said slowly, looking into his eyes as she spoke, "to try to…shall we say, persuade me to give up."



He shook his head. "No, you're wrong. I don't just want to persuade you. I want to change your mind. To help you see that what you're doing is all wrong, and it's just going to hurt people!"



The fourth laugh washed over him, and he felt fear course through him like a bolt of lighting.



***



"Change?" she asked, her calm smooth voice belying the fire that flashed in her eyes. "My dear, dear girl, that simply is not possible."



"But why not?" Abby asked defiantly. "You've seen, you know! Nothing is truly impossible."



The woman strode around her desk and grabbed Abby before her movement even registered. If she had thought the woman's eyes were fiery before, Abby had been wrong. Now they were an inferno.



"You don't know the meaning of the words possible and impossible," she said, hissing practically spitting out the last word. She took Abby's face in her hand, her long, red fingernails feeling sharp against Abby's cheek. "You are nothing but an impertinent child. If you knew what I have been through, if you had faced the same situation, you would understand why I am doing what I do." She dragged her index finger down Abby's cheek before pushing the girl's face aside. "But of course, you are one of them, so you're here trying to change me." Abby was nursing her cheek, but the sneer was evident in her voice. "Don't talk to me of change, for I have already changed more than you could ever know."



Abby dared to look up, and was stricken by what she saw. Underneath the enraged, calculating exterior, Abby could have sworn there was a glimmer of a wounded child, but then it was gone. Perhaps she had just imagined it, and perhaps she hadn't. Either way, the woman was right. Asking her to change her mind had been a futile attempt, the hope of a child. Asking wouldn't change anything. It was up to her, to her and to Jeremiah, to find a way out of this situation.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Wow. Talk about intriguing. This is like looking in through a hole in the fence and only getting to see the little overt bits and pieces. It makes me wonder what's going on here, who's who, what's what. And I have to say that the long red fingernail imagery is so classically bad-girl that it works really well in a short piece. Now I'd like to see more, get the scenario spelled out or illustrated, and try to sort out the various relationships these three people have.

(Also, I miss writing with you.)

[acusa-dora.livejournal.com]

This is a little longer than 50 words:

Greg Weber couldn’t have seemed any odder to me at the moment. Was he actually trying to tease me or flirt? “Of course I pump my own gas. Where have you been for the last twenty years? There aren’t any full-service gas stations in this part of town.”

He grabbed the hose from me. “Let me do it. You’re going to get it all over your shoes,” he said as he accidentally pushed the lever and some gasoline squirted onto his loafers. I tried not to laugh, coughing instead.

“Dude, I hope you don’t smoke.” I took the hose back and started filling my tank. “Never mind, I’ve done it plenty of times myself.” I rolled my eyes as I faced the gas pump. What a maroon!

“I’m not a moron,” he yelped.

“I didn’t say anything.” I was trying to keep from laughing out loud. I knew that once I started, I’d never stop.

“But you were thinking it.”

“Grow up, will you? So where do I need to drop you off?”

“Just down on Oak Street. Do you want to eat lunch first, Allison?”

In the absence of a better offer . . . “Sure. What do you feel like having?”

“What about the tea room on the square? I heard you tell Laura that you’ve been craving the food there.”

“That’s a chick restaurant. I won’t make you do something that girly just because I’m giving you a ride. There’s a barbeque place a few streets down. I really like the smoked turkey and the sausage, but I don’t eat them very often. You know, at my age you can’t just eat barbeque whenever you want it.”

He nodded gravely. “Yes, I believe at your age a female can be in as much risk of heart disease as a male.” There’s a good pick-up line.

“Maybe we should go to the tea room after all.” I said, punching the remaining information into the gas pump keyboard. No, I didn’t want a receipt. That way I could remain in blissful denial over the fact that I’d just paid 2.75 a gallon for gas.

“You’re driving. You decide where we go. I don’t have anything to do this afternoon.”
“That makes one of us,” I said, climbing into the car, careful to avoid flashing any thigh. After all someone my age probably shouldn’t. “I’ve got a butt-load of cases waiting for me back at the office.”

I pulled onto the street and stopped at the light. “Are you happy with your car, Allison?” Greg asked running his hand along the wood on the door.

“I guess so. I really wanted a Prius, but there was no way I would let myself spend $33,000 on a car, not when I paid less for this one than I did ten years ago for my Camry.” He was quiet for a minute, looking out the window at the Victorian houses we were passing.

“Why don’t you ever let yourself do what you want?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“What?” I whispered, not really wanting him to repeat his question. Thank God the restaurant was just around the corner. The gasoline he’s spilled on his shoes was making me feel a little light-headed.

“Well, I distinctly heard you say that you wanted to eat at the tea room and now you aren’t because you have some strange idea that I would consider it unmanly to be seen there. You didn’t buy the car you say you wanted because you can’t seem to let yourself spend the money that you and I both know you have, and you’ll probably go back to the office and put in more work than most of your co-workers, even though you’d rather do something else.”

I had pulled into a parking space at the back of the parking lot. “So I guess you think you know what I want to do with my afternoon, Greg?” I turned to face him.

A smile came over his face—not the usual goofy smile, but something a little flirtier. “You want to come with me.”

“What?”

“After we eat lunch, of course,” he said touching my arm. “You want me to take you somewhere different—maybe that other planet you think I came from?”

I laughed. “You’re nuts, dude. Come on, let’s eat. I need to talk to you about your newest client anyway.” I started to open the door.

“Only if you promise to do what you really want.” He raised an eyebrow.

I wasn’t really afraid of him. His eyes seemed kind enough. “I have personal time I can take this afternoon,” I heard myself say, although it felt like someone else was talking.

[acusa-dora.livejournal.com]

Oops! I meant it's longer than 500 words!

I really should get back to my pile of Child Lit books....

[proudofthefish.livejournal.com]

He watched the water rush past below him and felt rather then saw the change in wind. The string in his hand was rough against a rough palm as he tightened the sail and leaned with his boat as it dipped low on the one side and he watched the ripples in the water. His brown curls were damp from the spray but his wet suit was dry. It was warm enough without the suit now at the end of August, but he had become so used to wearing it in March and April that his mother had taken to calling it his second skin. The wind was gentle and he never tipped on purpose. Tipping on purpose was stupid. If you were going to sail why waste time making yourself fall, making yourself fail?

He never did anything without precision, but when he sailed he flew, the wind in the sail his wings. But what he was about to do was still crazy. A suburban boy in a fast paced city, a city that could be at its most brutal when you tried to stand for something and he had been taught to always stand. He wasn’t sure if he could do it, if he could leave this place. The water he loved so much was giving back his own distorted reflection. Blue eyes staring back at a face that showed resignation. He wasn’t sure he could stand in such an environment because he had never tried and there would be no one to lean on, to turn to.

He steered the boat back to the shore relishing in the systematic way he took it apart and lifted the pieces into the trailer hitched to the back of his beat up old truck. It didn’t mater if he wanted to leave or not. He had made that choice. Made it before he had really realized what he was doing and there was no going back now. There were people and some unknown future awaiting him. There were people who thought he wouldn’t make it to prove wrong. He slammed the door of his truck and started the engine. But he refused to believe that there would be any adventure worth having because despite the bravado, he still felt that he was leaving the best of things behind him, and he knew if he came back they would never be the same.

Re: I really should get back to my pile of Child Lit books....

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Wow, Ally. That's all melancholy and everything. I keep getting these glimpses of you and your boat, and leaving it behind last year. But this one's really nicely done. That whole sense of resigned destiny when one leaves home plays out very effectively here.

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

I don't know where this came from, but here it is:

Footsteps on the stairs meant someone was heading for their office. There was nothing else in the basement but the snack machine, and no one had used that since rats had moved into it last winter. The rats were gone now – like half the staff, they hadn’t stayed after Sierra had been named division chief – but nobody wanted to eat from a formerly-rat-infested vending machine. Gabriel said they shouldn’t tell the new staff. Clara would argue with him, but it was pointless. There wasn’t any new staff. And there wasn’t likely to be any. No one would send more people to an office that didn’t do anything. Clara had knit three pairs of cabled socks since July. Her feet would be warm this fall, if it ever got cold.

“The vending machine had rats last winter,” she yelled out the door, but the footsteps continued.

“What?” said a voice, and a man stood in the doorway. “Is that a code?”

Clara dropped her yarn. “Um, no. It’s rats.” He was wearing a badge. He had red hair and freckles and looked like that actor, the one who wore armor in all his movies. “I thought you were coming downstairs to get food because you didn’t know any better.”

“I was coming to find Captain Sierra,” he said. “I need to give him my transfer paperwork.” He held up a sheaf of papers and then looked around the office. He didn’t say, “What the hell?” but Clara could tell he was thinking it.

Clara looked guiltily around the room. It was large, but it was also where everyone in the building had put things they didn’t know what to do with for at least four decades. There was a manual typewriter on one of the desks. Gabriel freely scavenged everything that people left alone for more than half an hour, but that didn’t make the office look any neater. What with Gabriel’s tinkering and the general lack of any real work, it looked like a cross between a machine shop and a yarn store.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Clara Lindgren. Gabriel went to get pizza. The Captain won’t be in until later.”

“Pizza,” he said, with the air of someone grasping at the one thing that made sense. “Because the vending machine had rats.”

“Right,” Clara said. “I’ll call him and tell him to get extra.”

“I’m Kieran,” he said. “Cavanaugh. Are you really Clara Lindgren? The Clara Lindgren?”

She was blushing, she knew it. She wished she could hide, but the only door besides the one he was standing in was the door to Sierra’s office. “Probably,” she said. “But whatever you heard probably isn’t true.”

He looked at her seriously. “I heard you destroyed an army of gargoyles single-handedly, refused promotion and ended up in, you’ll excuse me, some backwater dump.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s true. Gargoyles have smaller armies than you would think, though. Their generals aren’t good at keeping them loyal. It was only about sixty-five.”

He was staring openly now, and only looked away when he seemed to realize he was being rude. He examined a wall calendar with an array of take-out coupons stapled to it. Clara pushed her bangs to the right, making sure they still hid the scar on her forehead.

They both turned at the sound of someone coming down the hall. Clara expected Gabriel, but it was Sierra. He grinned at her – he knew she was embarrassed, drat him – and then shook hands with Cavanaugh. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “If Gabriel ever gets back from stuffing his face, I need to talk to you all.” He looked at Clara. “You’ve got a case.”

[arasnaem.livejournal.com]

Hee! The gargoyles were a great twist! I love the disreputable feel of the department, and would love to know more about Clara. How cool is she!

[govcampbell.livejournal.com]

ooh, interesting! Where do they work, is it army or police? I love the 500 word guideline, because there's just enough here to whet our appeties for more!

Very nice!

[siriusstar.livejournal.com]

I really have to thank you for posting this challenge. I had a good idea for it, but it is now over 1,000 words and growing. Anyway, the reason I have to thank you is it turns out my recent dissatisfaction with my prologue stemmed from starting it too late in my chronology. The idea I had for this challenge turned out to be the perfect place to begin my prologue! lol.

I'm not sure if I'll have anything fitting to put here, but the challenge was very inspirational!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. See, I know a lot of fanfic writers. I think writing fanfiction is a fine and noble tradition; I cut my teeth on and got much better with fanfiction. But there came a point where I wanted to get rid of the crutch of someone else's environment, and I've always written my own fiction... though not always particularly well. With all the post-DH stories floating around out there, I thought it was time for something completely different and I know a lot of people who bemoaned needing a kick in the pants for their original stuff. So if I've inspired anything for anyone, then I feel like this little post did its job and did it very nicely.

I'm really glad you're having such success with your own stuff! Congratulations.

leaving home

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

augh. i'm not sure how man ywords this is...
from my irleand story whic hissupposed to become a fatnas yseries but it's very much under construction now...
It was a wonderful feast. I had to admit that much, though I hated myself for it. Father had

passed away last week. I couldn't send my brother a note while he was still at sea. It

wasn't the right time for aparty. Everyone had decided to keep it as calm as possible,

to play slow airs and sing dad's favourite ballads. Of course, once we start making music we

feel the need for a change at some point, and one of my cousins got enough courage and

picked up the fiddle.
Now we were dancing and singing along, some of us laughing and crying at the same time. It

felt weird to know that this was arranged for me. It was hard to get used to the thoughtt of

leaving home. Still here I was, pulled into a circle of people, dancing along and listening

to their farewell song. From the steps of the house my aunt smiled at me. She was the only

person who knew where I was going. Everyone else was spreading the wildest rumours, but

no-one would ever guess the truth. As for me, i hardly believed it myself. I had to start

believing though, had to accept that my aunt was right. "She must be right," I thought,

looking at the house in the distance.

Re: leaving home

[slaversbane.livejournal.com]

This reminds me of Mercedes Lackey, and put me right in the Rennaissance Faire I used to work at. That sense of "home" and "not home" is evident! There is an old tune:

Here's a health to this company, and one to my lass, let us drink and be merry all out of one glass, let us drink and be merry all grief to refrain...for this company might never all meet here again.

Develop this! Don't stop!