Oct. 12th, 2010
[Lost] Slipping away
Oct. 12th, 2010 07:21 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
Moorcroft had told her she was a good person. He wasn’t the first. She knew how wrong he was as she crouched on her perch, high up on the slate roof, in the shadow of a chimney-stack, watching the argument ensue through the part-drawn curtains of the bedroom window. This wasn’t what she had intended. Stupid boy. He should have taken one look at those photos and realised what a complete idiot he was being, what risks he was taking, and how much she meant to him. Instead he took one look at them, knew the game was up, and decided he didn’t want to be held to ransom by anyone else’s standards. Nemoa had tried to be a good person. Instead, she was watching a heartbreak ensue, and she had been the catalyst. Ella wasn’t a patch on her, she thought, bitterly.
As the cries rose to shouts and thuds of footsteps on stairs sounded down through the house, the front door shot open flooding the darkened street with yellow light and out he stormed in a blinding rage. Lily stumbled, only steps behind him, wailing and pleading, and crumbled to her knees in the road, choking and crying, falling forward onto her palms as he strode onwards into the black. Nemoa glared after him and felt the hatred prickling in her gut, seeping into her system as the poison began to rise through her veins. She wanted to run after him and tear into him, rip his heart out so he would know what it felt like. Another tug at her insides made her want to creep down into the street to Lily’s side and stroke her auburn hair and tell her it would be okay. Or slap her hard and tell her to wake up and see him for what he really was. As if the photographs hadn’t said it all in raw, painful technicolour. Photos she was never meant to see.
She closed her eyes and pushed it back. She had worked hard to overcome her feelings. All feelings. To stay in control. Detachment was all she had to keep her from the edge. But who was she kidding? Here she was, getting involved, far from detached. As she watched her daughter fumble in her pocket with violently trembling hands and pull out a pill bottle and knock back a few little white pills, had she been in control, Nemoa would have had a painful choice to embrace: sorrow, or wrath. Feeling the venom rise through her throat, she realised, belatedly, the choice was never really hers. She had overstepped the mark, and somehow, she hadn’t even seen it coming.
As the cries rose to shouts and thuds of footsteps on stairs sounded down through the house, the front door shot open flooding the darkened street with yellow light and out he stormed in a blinding rage. Lily stumbled, only steps behind him, wailing and pleading, and crumbled to her knees in the road, choking and crying, falling forward onto her palms as he strode onwards into the black. Nemoa glared after him and felt the hatred prickling in her gut, seeping into her system as the poison began to rise through her veins. She wanted to run after him and tear into him, rip his heart out so he would know what it felt like. Another tug at her insides made her want to creep down into the street to Lily’s side and stroke her auburn hair and tell her it would be okay. Or slap her hard and tell her to wake up and see him for what he really was. As if the photographs hadn’t said it all in raw, painful technicolour. Photos she was never meant to see.
She closed her eyes and pushed it back. She had worked hard to overcome her feelings. All feelings. To stay in control. Detachment was all she had to keep her from the edge. But who was she kidding? Here she was, getting involved, far from detached. As she watched her daughter fumble in her pocket with violently trembling hands and pull out a pill bottle and knock back a few little white pills, had she been in control, Nemoa would have had a painful choice to embrace: sorrow, or wrath. Feeling the venom rise through her throat, she realised, belatedly, the choice was never really hers. She had overstepped the mark, and somehow, she hadn’t even seen it coming.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
It was late when she left the office - but then, it was always late. She preferred it that way, really; she got more done and there was less traffic. True, the sunshine that beat through her window during the day was gone, the sun now vanished below the horizon.
Still, her walk home was leisurely tonight; the storm clouds the weatherman had promised had never shown themselves, so no mad dash between drops was necessary.
Mike was back home, back to work, and back to being her friend. She had been concerned - afraid even, if she was honest to herself, and she was trying very hard to be more honest now - that he would have thought more during that time away and come to the conclusion that no, in fact he couldn't trust her, and didn't need her. But he had not. Instead he left adorably scatterbrained messages on her voicemail and greeted her cheerfully at the airport when she came to pick him up.
Things were the same, and weren't the same.
She was no longer afraid of excommunication from this life she'd so carefully made for herself. She was free. She was really free for the first time ever. Her life belonged to her.
Emma unlocked her door and stepped inside, flicking on the silver lamp.
Sage green eyes regarded her. She regarded them back.
"Hello, Trouble."
Still, her walk home was leisurely tonight; the storm clouds the weatherman had promised had never shown themselves, so no mad dash between drops was necessary.
Mike was back home, back to work, and back to being her friend. She had been concerned - afraid even, if she was honest to herself, and she was trying very hard to be more honest now - that he would have thought more during that time away and come to the conclusion that no, in fact he couldn't trust her, and didn't need her. But he had not. Instead he left adorably scatterbrained messages on her voicemail and greeted her cheerfully at the airport when she came to pick him up.
Things were the same, and weren't the same.
She was no longer afraid of excommunication from this life she'd so carefully made for herself. She was free. She was really free for the first time ever. Her life belonged to her.
Emma unlocked her door and stepped inside, flicking on the silver lamp.
Sage green eyes regarded her. She regarded them back.
"Hello, Trouble."
Inspired by ...
Oct. 12th, 2010 02:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
....
annwfyn (she did a piece a while ago about what they'd be doing if they weren't involved in the supernatural and this is my set cobbled together with more of a prayer I guess)
Dr Catriona Reid - Cat McKenzie - Forsaken
Amanda Taylor - Nyght-Star - Lost
Eliza Dankasto - Eliza - Forsaken
Lucy - Lucy - Requiem
Dawn - Dawn - Mage
Jessica - Jessica Mayhew - Dead Requiem
Melisande - Mel - Lost
And thanks in advance to Mr Clapton as I reference a tie that never really came out in play :P
( Where would they be..... )
![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
Dr Catriona Reid - Cat McKenzie - Forsaken
Amanda Taylor - Nyght-Star - Lost
Eliza Dankasto - Eliza - Forsaken
Lucy - Lucy - Requiem
Dawn - Dawn - Mage
Jessica - Jessica Mayhew - Dead Requiem
Melisande - Mel - Lost
And thanks in advance to Mr Clapton as I reference a tie that never really came out in play :P
( Where would they be..... )
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
Dave says druids weren't real, not the way people imagine them.
This is earlier, before I moved away from the village or town or whatever it was where I lived that was a cheap train ride from London while still being far enough for the Torch to weep at me because I was avoiding the bright lights of fame. I don't like it when she cries, I really don't. I don't like it when she gets her way, though, either.
This is after Dave moved away but before he started calling, trying to get the krewe together again. I like Dave. If I didn't like Dave, I wouldn't have signed on the first place, getting our souls joined in this weird way I still don't understand. I don't know a lot about this spiritual stuff, the mystical conjunction of...whatever it is that we're involved in.
What I do know is that we help people. We helped people before and we will again now that I'm settled in this seaside town or city or whatever it is. We help people. That's what I do now.
That's why I'm here, at this crossroads that's barely more than two dirt tracks at the edge of some farmer's property, and I don't even know who. I'm hoping he doesn't have a shotgun. Shotguns are allowed in this country, right? I mean, that farmer in Hot Fuzz had one. But then he did also have that big mine, and...
There it is. The druid. That's what the people who talked about it called it. It wasn't a monk, oh no, it was a druid. I can see why; the robe's not black or brown but green, softly luminous in the moonlight. Are there green monks? I bet there aren't. There you go. It's a druid.
It sees me too, I can tell. Its head turns toward me although I still can't see its face. I hope it has a face. Ghosts without faces make me nervous, and I know that's lame since the Torch doesn't really have one either. Maybe that's why they do.
It comes toward me, one of the ones that doesn't make noises - the kind that whisper their secret attachments or, worse, have to mime. I feel sorry for all of them, but I feel sorry for the ones who have to communicate in charades most of all. How can you be heard and understood by the people there to help you with no voice? With difficulty, that's the answer.
It comes right up to me and it touches me, giving me goosebumps like you-know-what happens. I look into her eyes - there's a face there, thank goodness - and she smiles sadly at me. Then she points.
I look to where she's pointing, and it's in the field. I knew it. I knew I'd have to dig. I'll have to dig a lot if she's some medieval person. Thankfully, because I had this feeling, I brought a shovel.
I open the trunk of my sporty little car - why do they call them boots over here? I don't get that - and get out the shovel. I kick off my shoes and I mince and hobble over to the spot where she's waiting for me now, and I start to dig.
It doesn't take me very long. She also hasn't been dead since the Dark Ages. I'd say she's been dead for about the five or six years she's been haunting this area.
She smiles and puts her hand on mine where I've rested them on top of the shovel, showing her thanks. Then she vanishes.
I look down at the body, and I can't help but sigh. Shot, poor thing. I guess they do have guns here after all.
I stick the shovel in the ground to mark where she is and go back to my car to phone the police.
I don't know how I'm going to explain this one.
This is earlier, before I moved away from the village or town or whatever it was where I lived that was a cheap train ride from London while still being far enough for the Torch to weep at me because I was avoiding the bright lights of fame. I don't like it when she cries, I really don't. I don't like it when she gets her way, though, either.
This is after Dave moved away but before he started calling, trying to get the krewe together again. I like Dave. If I didn't like Dave, I wouldn't have signed on the first place, getting our souls joined in this weird way I still don't understand. I don't know a lot about this spiritual stuff, the mystical conjunction of...whatever it is that we're involved in.
What I do know is that we help people. We helped people before and we will again now that I'm settled in this seaside town or city or whatever it is. We help people. That's what I do now.
That's why I'm here, at this crossroads that's barely more than two dirt tracks at the edge of some farmer's property, and I don't even know who. I'm hoping he doesn't have a shotgun. Shotguns are allowed in this country, right? I mean, that farmer in Hot Fuzz had one. But then he did also have that big mine, and...
There it is. The druid. That's what the people who talked about it called it. It wasn't a monk, oh no, it was a druid. I can see why; the robe's not black or brown but green, softly luminous in the moonlight. Are there green monks? I bet there aren't. There you go. It's a druid.
It sees me too, I can tell. Its head turns toward me although I still can't see its face. I hope it has a face. Ghosts without faces make me nervous, and I know that's lame since the Torch doesn't really have one either. Maybe that's why they do.
It comes toward me, one of the ones that doesn't make noises - the kind that whisper their secret attachments or, worse, have to mime. I feel sorry for all of them, but I feel sorry for the ones who have to communicate in charades most of all. How can you be heard and understood by the people there to help you with no voice? With difficulty, that's the answer.
It comes right up to me and it touches me, giving me goosebumps like you-know-what happens. I look into her eyes - there's a face there, thank goodness - and she smiles sadly at me. Then she points.
I look to where she's pointing, and it's in the field. I knew it. I knew I'd have to dig. I'll have to dig a lot if she's some medieval person. Thankfully, because I had this feeling, I brought a shovel.
I open the trunk of my sporty little car - why do they call them boots over here? I don't get that - and get out the shovel. I kick off my shoes and I mince and hobble over to the spot where she's waiting for me now, and I start to dig.
It doesn't take me very long. She also hasn't been dead since the Dark Ages. I'd say she's been dead for about the five or six years she's been haunting this area.
She smiles and puts her hand on mine where I've rested them on top of the shovel, showing her thanks. Then she vanishes.
I look down at the body, and I can't help but sigh. Shot, poor thing. I guess they do have guns here after all.
I stick the shovel in the ground to mark where she is and go back to my car to phone the police.
I don't know how I'm going to explain this one.
[Lost] Rhythm...
Oct. 12th, 2010 04:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
For
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
( (3 word fic) )
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP9UVaPL5SE
Going for a quiet stroll...
Oct. 12th, 2010 11:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
Getting through at least one of my small clutter of three-word meme pieces. I really need to write more, as I have a backlog of stories in my head, and it's a good way for people to see the stuff that I don't present during games.
Sorry for the quality- I'm not brilliant at the best of times, and I'm still having trouble getting it out of my head and onto (metaphorical) paper.
From
akonken
( clue, pride, trouble )
Sorry for the quality- I'm not brilliant at the best of times, and I'm still having trouble getting it out of my head and onto (metaphorical) paper.
From
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
( clue, pride, trouble )