Original short:

Title: emo crap doodle
Note: too unfocused to find a title


I remember a time when I sat with a glass in my hand, the dim twilight becoming night around me. Bleak mood, bleak room. Eventually I'd switch on the lights and get on with the day.

I remember crisp, cold mornings, pulling the coat's collar higher up, fast steps down the road, hands deep in my pockets. Efficient, I functioned on. Inside my head I could hear the wind howling over the empty planes that were once emotion.

One more chance to show you that I love you, one more chance to bring you into my home. The empty bed waited for you. The apologies waited for you. I wasn't waiting.

I remember the night you appeared on my doorstep again, suitcase in hand, hair mussed from the winds. You had dark circles around your eyes. I had alcohol on my breath.

The next morning was a crisp, cold one, and I went to my first AA meeting, efficient, brisk, and with a song in my heart.

Original short: Fisherman's Wife

Title: Fisherman's Wife



She stands on the rocks and watches the boat in the distance. She thinks she can see them standing together on the deck.

The waves crash and spray her with salt water.

She stands alone and holds her hands together. She thinks she sees them close, so close. Like they are dancing on the small deck. Like they might be holding each other.

They could be kissing each other for all she knows. Far out there in the sea. Her husband's strong arms and two mouths crashing against each other when they think no one sees them.

They're probably just fishing. People need to stand close... It's a small boat.

She stands there all morning, goes home, and returns in the afternoon. The boat turns its nose back to shore when the sky's turning pink in the horizon. It's getting cold. She stares to sea for hours, almost every day.

Light on her feet she runs to the dock and greets them, a smile on her face to hide her suspicions, to hide her mistrust.

"Hello David," she says and kisses her husband's cheek. "Hey Tom," she adds with a friendly wave of her hand. Tomorrow they'll go out to sea again. Tomorrow, again, she'll stand there and watch as they stand too close.


[end]

On feminism

I Blame The Patriarchy. This might interest some of you.

Four Elements: Highlander

Title: Four Elements
Fandom: Highlander
Characters: Methos, Kronos
Prompt: highlander100 challenge #146; Elements: Fire, Water, Air and Earth.


# Fire #

Fire in his eyes, fire in his smile; fire he sets to the first hut, then the next. Fire is a deathly trap around the screaming people, their hair on fire, terror in their eyes. The flames are reflected in Kronos' eyes, bring shining heat to their cold surface. He does this for pleasure, he does this to taste their fear, nothing else. The horses are nervous; they're new ones. They want to turn away, run as far as their strong, long legs will take them. Within months they'll be used to the stench of smoke, indifferent to the flames.

[100][Q to Kronos]

# Water #

His hair is wet, plastered to his face. The lake is placid, green and blue, and he swims, letting the water part under his long strokes. Oasis in mid-desert, between dusty, dead mountains; far away from all dwellings of man. Here they can let the masks fall, let the water wash their faces of war paint. Methos closes his eyes and dives under.

When he rises back to the surface, shaking his head like a dog to drive the droplets out, he notices he's being watched. Kronos sits cross-legged on a patch of sand, observing with hawk-like eyes.

[100][Q to Methos]

# Air #

Hundreds of years may have passed, but still Methos wakes at night, on occasions few and far between, and expects Kronos to be there. He turns to his side, throws his arm around air.

It was his choice to leave, his many good reasons to escape that life which is long gone; still Methos sometimes looks in the mirror and it's Death's face there, and he can hear his brother's laughter.

He dreads the day he'll see Kronos again, fears for his lifestyle if not his life. He thinks he senses someone, turns quickly, and there's nothing there but air.

[100][Q to Caspian]

# Earth #

He digs, sweat on his brow. The shovel hits the hard ground insistently. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he thinks with bitter amusement. Flesh to flesh. Immortality to the grave.

Shallow graves, he thinks. Deep burials are designed to keep the dead as far from you as possible. He owes them at least this, the shallow. A few feet closer to sunlight. Sentimental? Maybe.

He's doing this alone. No help from MacLeod. He asked for it. Wonders if Kronos would've liked it better or worse this way. Decides it doesn't matter anymore. Leaning on the shovel, Methos silently grieves.

[100][Q to Silas]