W:tF - Mental Snapshot

[maakeff.livejournal.com]

       My family is dead.

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(Lost) Cremation before celebration (September/October challenges)

[akonken.livejournal.com]

(sl4irl did his take, and hopefully now castorlion will too. But this is mine.)

It was such a lovely evening, the summer heat fading as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Lorica - a modern Shakespeare, she thought suddenly, and wondered why she'd never considered him that before; it was such an apt description - would be able to say something about the colours, the breeze, the scent of the flowers. He was so good at these things; far better than her clumsy attempts. But with him she never felt inadequate. He filled her soul instead of taking from it, and for that she was ever grateful.

She should tell him she loved him, now that she knew.

Rose adjusted a tablecloth, smiling happily. It was so nice being able to work to make his party special. She felt honoured to contribute. She was excited and nervous. Everyone had worked so hard. Would someone start a fight? Would someone attack Lorica?

The thought barely had time to run through her head when he came through the door with Snaggle in his arms. Both were badly burned and Snaggle was bleeding heavily. Her heart stopped, she was sure of it.

Time stopped.

It started again.

Snaggle was pushed toward her, Lorica breathlessly asking for her help. She felt rooted to the spot, but reached a hand out, Spring flowing through her, strengthening her and using that strength to heal.

Snaggle smiled. What was he smiling for? How could he smile when Lorica was hurt? Rose reached out to the man she loved too, clutching at him desperately, but the Contract didn't work. His wounds were too grievous. He stood there stoically as he smouldered, his mouth a grim line. Rose wanted to scream at him, at Snaggle, at the world. Not again. Not again.

Not again.

Instead she gave them each an amaranthine, as if that would put an end to the whole matter - healing the event, not just the injury - and got a rag to mop up the blood. By the time everything was clean, Snaggle and Lorica were giving each other grim looks, as if they wanted to talk but couldn't with her there.

If that's what they wanted, she would go.

She would wait.

Next time she would be there. She would be there. If he was going to have to die, it would be with her by his side.

No more being left alone.

It wasn't until the next day that she realised she hadn't told him she loved him.

(Lost) Defenestrate, perspective, purgatory (new 3 words challenge!)

[akonken.livejournal.com]

Now, now. Let's put this in perspective, shall we?

This is not hell. Hell was that holiday. Hell was having no respite from the hardness. Hell was being pried, crab-like, from the hardness that was my shell from the world. This analogy amuses me, so I'll follow it to the bitter end. Hell was being exposed to the buffeting of the tide, to the grit under my - is it feet, with crabs? I don't know very much about crustaceans. They creep me out, with their black eyes and their odd joints. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes, my shell in my hell. Hell was crawling back into that shell and finding it no longer fit properly, that it was spikier and it chafed and it didn't hide me as well. That was hell.

Yes, that will do.

This is not hell. This is...purgatory. Purgatory is a department meeting that was supposed to be half an hour but is now approaching two, which started at 3pm when you just want to get out and go to the zoo with your new boyfriend. Purgatory is cold coffee. Purgatory is knowing all five completely different ad ideas you've been sweating over for weeks are going to be discarded but being stuck in this endless meeting anyway.

Heaven is this weekend and the experiment with Cormac. Right now they're looking equally unattainable for the likes of me.

"I had a vision of you on the battlefield. You died there." I'd laughed through my chills, mocked him for the very idea.

"What nonsense," I'd said. "I'll be nowhere near the battlefield."

I know - I knew - I can't stay away. I'll die (if I don't before then, of course). It's glaringly obvious.

I know I'll be mourned, at least briefly, by a handful of people. Their fault for getting so attached, really. I'm not going to feel sorry for them.

Tom coughs next to me. Good lord, was I just wallowing in self-pity? Shame on me.

Although I deserve pity because this meeting is still going on. It's five fifteen on a Friday! What are you people, sadists?

I consider defenestrating myself and making a run for it, but they'd probably take the window repair out of my paycheque, and I still have a shameful number things to buy for the Freehold.

Ah well. Life is suffering, isn't it?

Last Will and Testament

[seph-hazard.livejournal.com]

(In a chest in Katarina's bedroom in her Cambridge property there is a large parchment envelope, sealed with Katarina's wax seal. It contains four documents: the original copy of this will handwritten in Russian, this typed and translated copy (the translation being in all respects as close to the original as possible), a piece of paper detailing to the best of Katarina's knowledge the full names and last known addresses of all who are mentioned in this will, and a further sealed envelope bearing the words “For Thomas” in Katarina's flowing script.)

( Being the last will and testament of Madame Katarina Svetlana Petrova, formerly Mademoiselle Katarina Pavelovna Eltsina of the Mariinsky Ballet, St Petersburg. I declare myself to be of sound mind and body at the time of writing. )