I prefer to think of it as enterprising.

[in_the_blue]

Because I have a cold -- or maybe that's not why -- I feel like doing something creative.

To the first five people who comment: I'll look at your LJ interests list and write you something based on one or more of those interests (my choice). How's that sound?

ETA: All full!
1. vivien529
2. silveraspen
3. lostinapapercup
4. kit_the_brave
5. sotto_voice

P.S. If you haven't seen Lost in Translation, you might want to skip the comments.

Comments

[vivien]

OOOH, that sounds like fun!!!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

I first heard about Chelsea Quinn Yarbro when I was much younger: a very young teen, in fact. My older sister and I got our hands on a copy of Messages from Michael and it didn't take long before we both absolutely devoured the book. One thing I really like about it -- even though a lot of the book has been debunked by its detractors -- is the message of kindness. I'm not so sure that the a Ouija board is a very good way of passing along the word, but there are still things about the book that resonate with me. I have a copy somewhere, although it's been a long time since I reread it.

What I always liked most was the whole concept of soul levels: old souls, young souls, infant souls. When we were teenagers, we used all our wisdom to try to identify the different overleaves for our friends and family members (we all wanted to be old souls and when we were mad at our parents, they were definitely infant or baby souls). I'm sure we didn't get it right, but it was a fun and valid exercise.

There's a lot of Zen-ness in those teachings, so even if someone made the whole thing up, it's not a bad philosophy to go by: everything is our own experience, and we learn from every action and every choice. Everything is a choice, and therefore, life is what we make of it. Know one's self, and you can know others: they're sensible, kindly teachings.

Are they really channeled? I have no idea. Does it matter? No, not really. It is what it is, and the people who find strength from it find strength from it regardless of its source.

[vivien]

Oooh, interesting. I haven't actually read Messages from Michael, since I really prefer the St. Germain series she writes, but I will put it on my "to read" list now.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

It's different! I haven't read any of her fiction, and when I made this little offer I wasn't really thinking of writing a nonfiction treatise on stuff but look, you inspired me to do it. Now when I unpack my books (which I really ought to do, since we're done painting the hallway and the bookshelves are back where they belong), I'm going to reread.

[sff-corgi.livejournal.com]

Wow, I remember selling that book - but not that it was by CQY.

[silveraspen]

It sounds wonderful. :) *adds self to list, hopefully*

Also, name me a prompt if you like, and I'll write you something in return.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Disclaimer: I am in no way knowledgeable about The X-Files. I haven't watched it in years and years and I'm anything but a Mulder/Scully shipper. I'm not claiming this is remotely feasible, remotely canon, or any of that stuff. With that stated... I chose two interests off your list: Tolkien and Dana Scully.

---

"Scully."

The way she sets her book down and looks over at me is vintage Scully: she's got that whole what do you want now, Mulder? You're wasting my time look on her face. It's enough to turn a troll to stone at thirty paces or something like that. I never bothered to stop and measure distance with trolls, though: at least not until after the fact. They're too big and ugly and they hit really hard.

"What, Mulder?"

She's got that whole I'm too busy for your bullshit attitude down pat.

There's this thing about Scully that I'm never sure she knows, and it's that the line of her neck when she wears those silk shirts looks like some kind of swan's neck. It's worth bothering her just to check that out. From the safety of my desk where I can duck if she decides to throw something at me, I make a little bit of a show of rifling through the papers in my file folder, the ones about the chupacabra sighting last week in downtown Phoenix.

"What are you reading?"

It's late and she's got just as much right to spend her time with a book as I do with my files, but she already thinks I'm a little bit obsessed with work. Sighing, she closes the book and holds it up for me to see.

"The Two Towers. That'll come in handy if we ever have to go investigate random Ent attacks."

The way she lobs the book at me from across the room is entirely out of line, but it's worth it just to see her make that little disgusted expression. It's worth every bit of it.

[silveraspen]

Oh, that's PERFECT. I can so very easily see Mulder winding her up just to do it, and her sheer exasperation with it.

Thank you so much!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Heh! Thank you. That was fun.

I forgot to give you a prompt. So here goes, if this one does anything for you: I'd love to see something about what, if anything, Moiraine thinks about Spike's extended absence from Milliways.

[silveraspen]

Got it! And that's intriguing. Let me mull it over a bit, and watch this space for a return ficlet tomorrow today, as I have dragged my writing notes along with me to work now, after the onslaught of Unexpected Revised Deadline that landed on me full force yesterday and sapped my energy.

[lostinapapercup.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm probably not too difficult, and I'll take some writing from you any time at all. ♥

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

There's something about little brothers that's just so annoying, and especially this pathetic runt of a brother. He's eight and he still cries? Isn't he ever going to grow up? Well, she'll teach him.

"Hey, Yorick. Come with me. Come on, put on your sneakers and let's go. There's this place I want to show you." Queen Victoria won't mind; she says it's okay to bring...

---

...wait. This isn't the story I was going to tell. Give me that remote! *SKIP*

---

One thing this humble bounty hunter's always been interested in is birth control. Like he ever wanted some little green-haired clone of himself running around in diapers? Yeah, right: he was enough of a damn handful himself when he was a little shit, emphasis on the shit part, literally. He used to hear the stories all the time when he was growing up about how difficult, how stubborn, how all those things he was. How he made life so difficult for his saint of a mom and for his dad. Especially for his dad, who never took to parenting... ever. He always figured if by some twist of fate he ended up in that role, he'd be just as horrible at it as his own father was. Hell of a role model and all. But when he looks at Beth Junior taking those first halting steps, his heart fills with...

---

...wait. This isn't the story either. *SKIP*

---

(to be continued...)

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Japan is one of the weirdest places Bob Harris has ever been but... he likes it. He likes it more than he thought he would and even though he spent the whole time trying to break out of the country -- with or without an accomplice -- in the end he sits in the back seat of the limo not filled with regret, but tinged by it. Like he told Charlotte, he'd already been thinking about the Porsche, but who wants to grow up to be a cliché? Even (or especially) after twenty-five years of marriage to someone he used to love like crazy, but who he's now relegated to the role of his own personal interior decorator and nanny to his kids? That's not fair: it's not Lydia's fault they grew apart after the kids came along. He was an actor; she was a stay-at-home mom. He traveled; she took care of the kids. He got paid stupid amounts of money for saying things like for relaxing times, make it Suntory time and she got to reap that financial bounty, even if he can't give her the emotional one any more.

She only ever seems to complain about it when he's out of town anyway. And here he is, on his way to the airport. Bittersweet: that's how he classifies the whole visit. And sure, Charlotte sets off some little fireworks for him, but she's just a kid. A beautiful kid, an enjoyable kid, but a married kid: that's what he felt like around her too. A married kid. A wrongly-married kid and he's never had a lot of scruples but the ones that stick with him stick strong when he's around her. She's got an innocence that's beguiling.

Apparently he had no scruples at all when it came to the lounge singer, the redhead. But she isn't the one on his mind as the car winds slowly through Tokyo's crowded streets, the signs still as incomprehensible to him as they were when he arrived; he casts an idle glance at the crowds. This place is backwards, that's the problem with it: it's day when it should be night, crowded when it should be empty, noisy when it should be quiet, confusing when it should be straightforward. If it hadn't been for Charlotte, he...

"Can you pull over a second?" The driver isn't about to say no, not to the American movie star, and the door... sticks. Stupid automatic doors! Finally, it opens and he leaps out (kind of like that scene he filmed when he was 28 and in great shape) and makes his way past all the diminutive Japanese people with their umbrellas held up against the misty sunshine and...

"Charlotte!"

She can't hear him, though, not until he's right there, right by her side. Her eyes, puffy and red, stream with tears.

"Why are you crying?" No hello, comrade, let's bust out of this joint or any other fooling around: just the question.

"I'll miss you." Her voice is heavy.

It's so simple, so poignant, so... sad. His wish is coming true: he gets to go home, where he can... eat more like Japanese people do than he's done his whole time here. But Charlotte gets to stay with her photographer husband, the one who leaves her behind to go off gallivanting around the countryside. They say that like attracts like and he knows even if the age difference were smaller, he's no better than that. It's exactly what he's done to Lydia.

That doesn't change the attraction. "I know, I'm going to miss you, too."

Maybe it's unfair but now that he's leaving -- really leaving, as in the limo is waiting, Mister Harris -- he caves and gives Charlotte that kiss he's been aching to deliver this whole time, ever since she smiled at him from across the bar. And he hugs her too, holds her close, whispers that thing that always makes girls laugh right into her ear before letting go.

She's not crying any more.

When he makes it back to the car where the doors open on cue this time (all it took was the one rehearsal), she's smiling.

And then she's lost to the crowd, and the doors automatically lock, and when he leans back in the seat and nods to the white glove-clad driver, he only looks back once but Charlotte's nowhere to be seen.

[lostinapapercup.livejournal.com]

Heh, reading this made me so happy. It's so sweet and unexpected and kind of perfect. I'm just completely delighted.

(And now I want nothing more than to read some Y and thread Milliways Beth and Spike (plus Junior) and watch Lost in Translation all at once.)

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Let's shall! ♥

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

"Mum?" The boy's eyes opened slowly, blinking away a fetid crust of pain but before he could move to wipe the dryness out of his eyes, his mother's hand met the corner of his eye with a soft new tissue.

"There, there, my darling boy. Let me do it for you." Carefully, with more kindness and gentle attention than she'd shown to anyone else in a long time, she daubed at the corners of his eyes. "You've been asleep for a long time. But the sun is out now and it's a beautiful day. As soon as you're so inclined, I'll take you out to the meadow. The sun is warm and lovely."

"Okay." He only had the vaguest memories of having fallen asleep the night before, and all his dreams had been disturbing and violent. "I think I had my nightmares again last night."

For a six-year-old, he was rather astute. He even noticed the way his mother's eyes filled with tears and that she blinked them away, although he didn't really understand why his dreams made her cry, and so he reached out and patted her hand. "Mum, mum, it's okay. They're just dreams, and you and Dad have always told me bad dreams don't come real. They go away."

At that, the woman stifled a quick sob and for her son's sake, had to pretend it was nothing more than an everyday hiccup. "Oh! Excuse me." She giggled then, as if it was a secret only the two of them could share. Forcing a smile, she smoothed back the hair on her son's forehead. "It must have been the sugar I put in the tea. Would you like a cup?"

"All right. Mum, was I sick again last night?"

"Yes, darling. But the fever's broken now." Helping him to sit up, she fluffed the pillows she'd borrowed from her own bed and set them behind her son's back. "You'll be feeling better in no time. Now for that tea."

There were no house-elves in this home and even if there were, she and her husband would have dismissed them five months ago when the unthinkable happened to their precious and only son. Since then, the two of them had been at odds: tell him or not? For the moment they'd grudgingly decided on telling their boy that he'd been sick. It only happened once monthly and he was so young and would he even understand that this was not a limited event but rather a lifetime affliction and one he would simply have to learn to live with? She couldn't bear the thought of her only son -- her darling Remus -- as a social outcast simply because he'd had the misfortune of having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was an accident, not cause for registration, for being poked and prodded like some... experiment. No, when he was older, it would be time to tell him exactly what had happened when the "dog" bit him.

For now, she simply couldn't bear it. And so she brought Remus his tea, sweetened with two cubes of sugar and laden with heavy cream, just as he preferred. Personally, she thought he deserved every last bit of goodness she could squeeze out of the world for him. A mother's prerogative: take away the pain for her child.

Would that she had received the bite that night months ago instead of him. But fate hadn't been quite that kind and again, her eyes filled with tears as she stood over the pot of tea. They'd have to tell him the truth soon enough, but for now, let him labor under the illusion of an everyday illness.

It was better than the alternative.

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

Oh, that's WONDERFUL! So sad, but very much what a mom would think and do. When she wishes she had been bitten instead of him... *snif*

Thank you for writing it!

*spinhugs*

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

You're entirely welcome! I was going to write a Good Eats ficlet but I kind of can't stand Alton Brown, so there went that. :)

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

you? are agenius. this is just....{snuggles you}
*chokes slightly* sorry. *gulp*. Man thsi was real.wow!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Aww, thank you. It was just a... *shrug* concept. Glad you liked it!

[wakeupnew]

Yes please! :D

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

You have some good ones!

Here you go, from Season One of Heroes:

---

"Mr. Isaac? Mr. Isaac?"

I think my friend Hiro is crazy. Whether he saw the future and drew him in New York or not, his "friend" Mr. Isaac is never going to answer the phone. One time near the bus stop he made that same phone call and someone standing nearby said to her friend "why is he asking for Mister I Suck?" and they laughed and moved away. Sometimes I can't tell if Hiro's English is better than mine, but even I understood that one.

When he disappeared for so long, I thought he was never coming back. And then there he was, back at work, pretending nothing had happened... if you discount his whole theory on teleportation. What I'd like to do is teleport into the dressing room of some of those Las Vegas showgirls but... invisibly, so they wouldn't know we were there. Now that would be a useful superpower.

Some days I ask myself: Ando, what are you doing in America? You always wanted to visit here, and while it's true Hiro is your best friend, do you really want to follow him following Mr. Isaac all over the place? How's that going to score you social points? It isn't getting you any closer to any girls, that's a certainty.

But still, Hiro is my best friend and like it or not, I'm starting to believe him. And that frightens me more than anything I've seen him do or claim to do. The only thing that will scare me more is when Mr. Isaac really does answer the phone and talk to him.

[wakeupnew]

... Gwynne? I love you. Forever. I adore Hiro and Ando; they were my favorite bit of season 1, and they're basically the only reason I'm even considering catching up on season 2. You write such a charming, lovely Ando voice; so much more socially aware and practical than Hiro -- and still thinking about the Vegas showgirls. (And I love seeing Hiro through Ando's eyes.)

I actually said 'oh Ando' out loud while reading this. Thank you!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Here's my secret: I've only seen the first season of Heroes; I've only seen it once; Ando is by far my favorite character. Screw the cheerleader, screw the world: I want the slice of life pieces about the real people. I love how Ando grew up out of necessity and how crestfallen he was to be told he was normal. It was beautiful.

So anyway, I was going to write you something about the Red Sox but then this little word Heroes caught my eye and pushed Papelbon & Co. right out of the picture. I'm so glad this snippet worked for you.

(Trivia: the "Mister I Suck" bit was a contribution from my daughter!)

[jules1278.livejournal.com]

Alas, number six. :(

*loves you bunches anyhow*

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

*feels that it's mutual*

[sff-corgi.livejournal.com]

Aw, DRAT. Missed it.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Oh well! Gotta get up pretty early in the day to... aw, never mind. I might do it again some day.