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in_the_blue) wrote2010-05-31 11:23 am
in_the_blue) wrote2010-05-31 11:23 am
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Keep a poor girl from smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo getting bored?
First eight people who comment with a prompt, I'll write you a ficlet. You know my interests and fandoms, so have at it.
Edited to add: YOU PEOPLE HAVE LOST ON THE BRAIN!Don't let the number of comments fool you. I have room for more.
First eight people who comment with a prompt, I'll write you a ficlet. You know my interests and fandoms, so have at it.
Edited to add: YOU PEOPLE HAVE LOST ON THE BRAIN!
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When her kids came by to collect her stuff, their you don't know how much this has meant to us, Mr. Ford rolling right off his shoulders like rain off a freshly-waxed Mercedes-Benz, the place was finally his. He'd never owned a house a day in his life although he'd lived in too damn many of them, and the first thing he did with this one -- after the cleaners were gone and the place was as spotless as a centuries-old farmhouse could be -- was lock the door on it and head down to the Caribbean for a spell. Place wasn't gonna feel right until he had it furnished island-style after all.
***
Legal fees were nothing trivial. Legal fees after breaking the terms of parole were even less trivial. Hiring the best lawyers, setting the scene for a sympathetic judge: those things all took money but what was the price of freedom? The answer to that question was all of it. Freedom cost everything, but it was so worth it. A motorcycle, a change of clothes, some hair dye, and a stack of brand-new bibles was all it took and the day she finally left California a free woman with a new identity, the breeze in her hair, the little remaining cash in her pocket, she wasn't worried. It was time to move on.
She took the southern route, intent on not unloading any of the bibles until she hit the actual Bible Belt. If she'd made it as far as Ray's farm in Australia without a penny to her name she could make it across this country the same way and she did, taking her time, weaving in and out of mountains and canyons, corn fields and ranches. The bike finally gave out on her somewhere in the wilds of Alabama and as if fate had it planned this way all along, she almost wasn't even surprised at who opened the door when she knocked.
***
"Heard you disappeared, Freckles." Old habits: the nickname slipped out, speaking to a different time and place, but he had no regrets about it.
"And I heard you bought the farm, James. I didn't think they meant it literally." Looking out at the setting sun from a pair of rocking chairs on the porch, sipping mint juleps, was both ridiculous and a comfort. "I feel like I stepped into the pages of a Flannery O'Connor story. You really live here?"
His outrage was all pretense; he laughed down into his bourbon. "Ain't nothin' wrong with Flannery O'Connor, woman. She's the quintessential southern author. She would've had a damn field day with our story."
Kate's nose wrinkled, a moment of self-effacement. "Quintessential. Did you just say quintessential?" Her laugh rang out over the rolling fields, attracting the sheepdog's attention. "I have a confession to make: I never read any Flannery O'Connor."
The words well hell, woman, come check out my library died on his tongue in favor of something a lot simpler, a lot less filled with innuendo, but a hell of a lot more enticing. "You just say the words I Never?" The smile was all in his eyes, every damn bit of it.
(The game lasted three years.)
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I especially love this part:
His outrage was all pretense; he laughed down into his bourbon. "Ain't nothin' wrong with Flannery O'Connor, woman. She's the quintessential southern author. She would've had a damn field day with our story."
It's just so Sawyer.
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